Sweet Fantasy (Mariah Carey)

When I was a kid, I had the biggest crush on a guy I called “Senor Hotness.” It was because in my 16 year old opinionation he was hot and spicy. He had hair that was either dyed blood red or icy blue. He was tall, thin, and wiry with several piercings. Senor Hotness got his name because the first time I laid eyes on the most perfect man on the planet I was leaving Spanish class. When he walked by I thought, “Heaven Walks on Earth!”

When you have a teen crush, it means planning a massive future with a stranger you don’t have the guts to talk to. This meant I was marrying Senor Hotness, having his 2.5 children, and putting my future on hold to be the future Mrs. Hotness. What could possibly go wrong?

The man I created in my mind was utterly perfect. He loved history as much as I did, and didn’t think my dreams of being onstage with puppets and creating my own work were stupid. Like the characters in Felicity we would be in New York together making it happen, me with my writing and performing and him with a skill he would later discover.

Sweet, sweet fantasy baby.

I would feed my addiction to this stud muffin by walking past his lunch table just to hear him laugh with his friends. I would walk past his locker to see him socializing with his friends just to hear his voice. There was a shorter way I could have gone to class and the detour always made me just get in the door when the bell rang, but any time with Senor Hotness was worth it.

Then he got a girlfriend. That mutherfucker! He broke my heart. She had jet black hair, a nose ring, pale skin, and a banging perfect little body. They were always holding hands and sucking face by his locker. I prayed for her to be hit by a bus or taken out tragically. Or he would find out she was the tawdry tramp we always knew she was and Senor Hotness would come running into my arms. Then we could begin our love affair.

Each time I saw her, and I will call her Skankola McFee, I looked to see if there was anything wrong with her and painfully measured myself up against my perceived competition. I was blonde and gentlemen prefer blondes, right? Her skin was pale and made her look dead, but flawless. I had bouts with cystic acne. Her nose ring was probably a nuisance when she got a cold but she was cooler than me. And she had the perfect body and I struggled with my weight. I had heard Skankola McFee wasn’t on the advanced track like I was. So at least I was smarter than the tramp. But guys don’t care about that. They want it now and they want it easy and she was entrapping him with her feminine wows.

They say God does for us what we cannot do for ourselves. Senor Hotness was spending so much time socializing and was consumed by the face sucking going on by his locker that I guess he forgot to get his books because he was failing all of his classes and wasn’t set to graduate on time. And he got fired from his after school job, and this meant his ladyship had to pay for everything. That got real old real quick and she dumped him. And to top it off, I heard from other people that he had been a controlling shithead to her and that she was actually a sweet person. And the worst part was, when I finally talked to Senor Hotness was the biggest dufus ever. I had fallen out of love as quickly as I had fallen in.

After high school I forgot about all of them. I went to college, had actual relationships with losers that I sadly did not make up, and moved towards happy destiny in a life I carved for myself. However, facebook makes us all curious about parts of our past that we unearth at our own risk. So I decided to see what Senor Hotness and his old flame were up to.

His old flame was married with two kids and working as a legal assistant. She looked happy but strange without the jet black hair or nose ring, but I suppose motherhood will make you grow up. I felt bad about hating her with no basis for my hate, and regretted calling her Skankola McFee. We had been kids. We were all stupid. She grew up. The guy in the center of this struggle I had in my mind was no prize anyway. I was glad life seemed to be working out for her.

Then I went to the page of Senor Hotness. He is now living in Texas and is a member of a white separatist group. In one singular facebook post that began with, “White pride worldwide,” he used slurs against lgbtq people, immigrants, and blacks. And he even misspelled them too. What a charmer and a mind. Trump should give him a job. I also want to add that he had gained about 100 pounds and had a ZZ Top beard. Back in the day I could justify this idiot because he was Senor Hotness, but now he was as ugly on the outside as he clearly was within. 

He had two kids because as he explained, “I need to keep the white race going.” They were dressed in camo and looked like future school shooters. His wife was nondescript and you could tell she spoke only when spoken to and perhaps had a suggestion box when she needed to express grievances against her husband. Behind them the family had their Confederate flag as their father proclaimed liberals, “LOSERS!”

Well Sir, if you would have taken your books out of your locker you would have known Robert E. Lee had to surrender. And you would also know how to spell. Sigh, all of this could have been mine.

It always blows my mind when a young person cries about a crush or love affair that doesn’t work out. I know it feels like the end of the world, but it isn’t. If there could be a crystal ball to show the future and they could see stuff like this, they would not only embrace it not working out but they would celebrate. Alas, it does get better. But you got to go through it to get through it I suppose.

Love Stinks (J. Giles Band)

I haven't put my fingers to the keyboard in a while. Partially because my jet setting has left me too drained to write, although blogs about my jet setting would be more exciting than the crap I am about to spew. It's been a good year. I have met some wonderful people who really believe in me. I know I am blessed, yet at the same time I feel as if a meat cleaver is going to land on my head at any minute.

Two weeks ago I was in West Hollywood in an important office with some people. I was scared. It's kind of funny. A year ago I was dating a psychotic Iraq War Vet and had a landlord who was tormenting me with the legal system. My relationship went south after my ex lied, and then my landlord began hassling me in court every other week. His male lawyers stood too close, and put their hands on my shoulders without my permission. It's a man thing in order to make women feel small. Or rather it's the gateway to rape culture. He's a man, this is his world, now it's time to let you know who's boss, bitch.

These guys weren't successful, as I showed them I wasn't afraid. Needless to say, they weren't prepared for that. Granted, I was in a relationship with a dude who was seeing snipers who weren't there. That's scary. These idiots probably couldn't seal the deal with their wives. I googled the one for fun. He's been married 3 times. He parades his current wife around like a trophy. Please, she's a participation ribbon. A guy I delivered a telegram to three months ago was 50 and had a 25 year old wifie who had jugs out to the wazoo. That's a trophy.

However, these goons were tying me up in court as my landlord was trying to burn my apartment down. Needless to say, I had to move and then there was the cancer scare.....

In between, I had my ex's former girlfriend.....a crackhead who claims to be a drug counselor (while still smoking crack) hassling me online. The breeding lump has 5 kids to 4 different men and is the poster girl for welfare abuse. His psycho sister also stirred the pot. Basically, what wasn't happening to me.

After all this, I was still scared to meet those peeps in LA. Now that's the funniest joke I have ever written. No, the stuff I walked out of was scary. Waking up and seeing your boyfriend taking canned goods out of the cabinets because he believes Isis is coming. That's scary. Not being able to breathe in your apartment. That's scary. The possibility you might have cancer. Really fucking scary. Not a bunch of dudes at a table. Especially men. Not scary.

The older I get the more I believe men could not possibly respect women fully. They will always look at you as a sex object or some form of stupid. Or some form of sex slave. Or a possible substitute for a blow up doll with a pulse. But as an intellectual.....never. This is why we need a woman president.

I also believe men are sex crazed goons who only think with their penis and are never fully capable of loving a woman. Maybe it's because my last relationship was the final nail in the coffin of a heart that was already dead, or maybe because I have stumbled upon the truth. Most people are selfish and are incapable of being true partners. That is yet another reason the divorce rate is so high.

I always knew men were a bunch of selfish cretins, but after the ending of my last relationship I knew it for sure. My ex is a fucking liar and still continues to spread shit about me, none of it which is even remotely true. And then when he left the picture, his idiot friends all tried to slide right into his place. I hate myself.........but not enough to be your whore fuck you very much.

As if that wasn't enough, when any dude I encountered heard about why I ended things he did everything he could to smear my ex and assure me that I was better off with him. Yes, he who was trying to stealth his way into my life. He who was secretly, covertly interviewing for the job opening in between my legs. Yes he who was qualified simply because he had a penis. It was disgusting.

There was a part of me that wanted to strip myself naked, paint "FUCK ME" on my chest, and let them all take a turn just to get them to go away. Not only could they take a turn, but we could all be disappointed at the same time. And I would make them feel as trashy as they made me feel. But then I figured their company already disappointed me, my job was half done. Alas.......

My experience with men has taught me they all hate when you talk about an ex but they can talk about the last place they stuck their dick all they want. There can only be one and it's them. One set of rules for them and another for you, sweetness. They all believe they are sex Gods......to give you a second of satisfaction. They all have a motive and that's to get you in bed and basically ruin your life. They are all self-centered in this motive. They all have larceny in their hearts. ALL. If a dude was honest about this when he met me I would give him a whirl. When I tell the truth I am bitter. Eh, bitter is a buzz word for honest.

Did I mention they all also want to secretly use you to make an old wife/girlfriend jealous and they all LIE!!!!!!!! Oh and in between they are looking for a hooker and a mother in the same body.

Lest we not forget they LOOOOOOOVVVVVVVEEEEE it when a woman gets jealous. And they say they don't care, they just wanna mess around. Yet they become all possessive like a boyfriend and then when you find someone you care about, they become a bigger twat than you could ever be.

I dunno. I worked on an exciting project yesterday. It was awesome. It's for kids and will allow me to do a lot of good in the world. I should be blogging about that but instead had to get this bile out of my system.

My sister also got married and I went to the RNC. I should be blogging about that but the thing about adventures is they leave you tired.

My next blog will be about my adventures.

This blog is about my manhate. God does it feel good to be back, internet.

52 Lines About 26 Men

Inspired by 88 lines about 44 women by the nails, I had to. It's the alphabet with the names of the men I dated. While I tend to roast my exes, they were all actually special in their own way. The truth is, we all make this journey into the continuum of life, and we never know what the next stop is because we aren't supposed to go until we get there. So why not laugh a little.

A is for Anthony, I fell for you bad. I cried when it ended, because I missed your Park Avenue Pad.

B is for Brandon, my 8^th grade crush. Who turned out to be a used car salesman and a great big lush.

C is for Craig, the European history buff that I met at the library one night. You weren’t a great kisser, but you were incredibly bright.

D is for Derek, who I met in the park. On the first date you confessed, you became a werewolf after dark.

E is for Evan, the one I almost missed. You were unremarkable and boring, so you almost got left off the list. 

F is for Frank, I would have given you my heart and soul for sale. The relationship ended when you didn’t tell me you were going to jail.

G is for George Washington, my lawyer ex with the president’s name. Unlike your honest namesake you constantly lied, but weren’t very good at keeping up your game.

H is for Harry, you were always so much fun. That is, until you decided to go to the bank and slipped them a note stating you had a gun.

I is for Igor, the name says it all. He was from Moldova, and was 7 feet fall.

J is for the man I thought I loved so named Joe. When we broke up, I wrote a country song telling him Hell No.

K is for Kevin, the arrogant bad tipper who invented a weird kind of sprocket. Made millions but lost it, during the pop of the stock market.

L is for Larry, you said we would be soul mates for life. The whole realization was shattered, when I got a call from your wife.

M is for Mike, he was handsome, Harvard educated, and perfect, so the story goes. Third date he confessed he got abducted by UFOs

N is for Nelson, a handsome man with quite a situation. He had a plan to overthrow the government, and one for world domination.

O is for Omar, I fell for him hard. Until I discovered he was homeless and needed a green card.

P is for Paul, who was a lot of fun. Things ended unfortunately, because he was a fugitive on the run.

Q is for Quince, who pursued me then went all ghost. Well he married a controlling wench, got fat, and shows that God and I hate the same things most.

R is for Rueben, my freshmen fling from my floor. When the school year ended and you moved, I didn’t see you anymore.

S is for Sean, my former fiancé oh gee. He kind of gave me an ultimatum, “Your puppets or me.”

T is for Travis, with the sparkling blue eyes. The date ended weird when he said, “Hitler was one of the good guys.”

U is for Ucal, who’s parents named him that in hopes he would be great. Turned out he had no job, and made me pay for the date.

V is for Vince, the sexy activist who wanted to find a solution. Thought he stood me up, but turns out he was jailed for starting the revolution.

W is for William, who was also a writer. When I made him cry after a disagreement, it was revealed he wasn’t a fighter.

X is for Xander, a man I met at 14 in AOL chat. If you’ve experienced the internet, you know nothing good comes of that.

Y is for Yahweh, he legally changed it, not my fault. It was a little interesting dating a man who wanted to form his own cult.

Z is for Zach, who wanted to legally change his name to Zach attack. He ended up homeless, because unfortunately drugs are whack. 

Crazy.....

I hate the word crazy. Not because it is an adjective. I like adjectives as a writer. It's because of the way the word boxes people in. It's because of the stigma it carries. It's because it puts a bad spin on something that might not be a person's fault.

Sunday would have been my friend Joe's 34th birthday. To give you some background, Joe was an artist and celebrity personal shopper. Always having a box of cigarettes and a Starbucks, he joked that now that he quit slamming crystal meth he might stop smoking. He never succeeded in his goal. Nonetheless, he was extremely gifted and walking down the street with him could be an adventure. When there was a film shooting he would know the people working in wardrobe and we would stop and talk. Joe kind of taught me how to be a better networker. I was twenty five when we were friends. While I had escaped the demon of an abusive fiance that terrorized while we were together and after we broke up, Joe knew I was floating around. He got me to write again, and pushed me to ultimately write my book. Joe was also bipolar I, the hardest to medicate. After relapsing and some other events that I will not detail, Joe took his own life. Yes, he was "crazy." Yes he "took pills." But I don't remember a friend who was in a straight jacket. I remember a kind soul who encouraged me with my comedy and to write again. I know he made a choice and I respect it. It's the scarlet letter the word carries, that's all.

Fast forward to last night. Being an artist I always have colorful friends. One friend in particular suffers with severe bipolar. When he is good to go he is a talented director, makeup artist, and stylist. He has even done my hair on a few occasions. On the other hand, when he is off his meds he hallucinates and believes people are following him. Shit show is the understatement of the year. Anyway, he was having a manic fit and had meds. As we were over our other friends house he was wandering back and fourth and just couldn't keep still. We told him it was okay, we are kind of used to him like this. Plus he is kind of entertaining when he is manic. On the train ride home he started to break and asked my friend Smithie and I if we would take him to the hospital. We agreed.

When we got to the emergency psych center they took him in. He had been there two weeks ago under duress so the security dog remembered him. To give you an idea, my buddy loves his dog Amelia a lot and they admitted him and he couldn't walk her so he went ape shit on the guard. Well yes, the guard remembered him. Smithie and I kind of made jokes the entire time because the evening was so weird. First Mo is having a manic fit. Then there is a full moon. After that some weirdo street performer broke out his sax and just played in our ears. Now we were at a psych hospital. Mo was admitted and gave Smithie some instructions on how to care for his dog. And then we were off.

Smithie said when he went into see Mo for the instructions on how to care for his dog everything was white. The bed was attached to the wall. There were chairs but not really. There were guards everywhere. You couldnt bring even a pen to write with back. Everything was super safe. At the same time, we were both proud of our friend for having the insight to admit himself into the hospital. It was also amazing how gentle and nonjudging some of these staffers were. I was also relieved to know we were leaving our friend in good hands. For as much as Mo can wear on my last nerve sometimes, I also felt tremendous compassion for him and how he literally has to struggle with the bipolar demon. Then I thought of Joe.

I know suicide carries a stigma. I know people have a long way to go before they even begin to understand mental illness. I had a lover once who was bipolar who also struggled with addiction. I had to let him go after a short time because he wasn't going to take his meds and had no intention of staying clean. But the thing was, Mo, Joe, and Holden didn't use drugs because it made them feel good. They used drugs because at the end of the run they knew how they would feel. Bipolar people never know how they are going to feel. I heard from Holden not too long ago. He swears he is clean but his behavior indicates otherwise. Maybe my actions last night were a little codependent. But not many people understand how truly sick people with mental illness are sometimes. People think depression, they need to get some sunshine. Snap out of it. Stop doing this for attention. If only the solution were that easy.

We don't joke about cancer or AIDS but it's okay to joke about bipolar, schizophrenia, drug addiction and eating disorders. Cancer and AIDS kill people but so do the untreated affects of those diseases. We say someone with mental illness is being selfish by not getting treatment, when meanwhile they have a disease that tells them they are not ill. We think they take their meds they will feel alright when all they feel is flat, unattached, and different. I don't know what the solution is. Maybe more compassion. Maybe more education.

Or maybe it is to take the word crazy out of our collective vocab as a way to label people who are bearing a cross that we still struggle to understand.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com

Showing Up

Lately things have been busy with the career. I have had a lot of opportunities thrust my way. Many have to do with both the telegram job and the book, and some with the ventriloquism. A few even have to do with the straight up standup. It has been insane, rewarding, and stressful.

I will admit I am a born control freak. I have worked long and hard for everything I have in my career. For years I had the door shut violently on my finger tips for being different. I was too alt for alt. I was too female for female. I was too this or too that. Setbacks, closed doors, sexism, and whatever in the works. I suffered long and hard. Now that I have it, I want it to go perfectly. Translated, it has my claw marks. There is probably a head of development or two that thinks I am just insane. It happens, whatever.

I was never one of the fair haired favorites in the comedy scene who had the carpet rolled out for me. There is still a bit of a chip on my shoulder about that. I have been trying to get rid of the chip but it is something that as hard as you try never goes away. I know I am kind of one of the cool kids but not really. I don't know. I just hate the cliquish bullshit. Just like high school. On the other hand, I am getting farther than the idiots in the cliques and on occasion they have been forced to admit defeat to me after treating me like the fat, ugly outsider. I like doing my own thing. It rocks.

I talk to my old high school in a few days about writing a book. My whole time there I had big dreams and planned to conquer the world. I still have big dreams and am planning to conquer the world. I am closer than I was before. Some of my dreams have been realized, and I am closer than I have ever been to conquering the world. I am just hoping they don't look at me and think I am old and boring. They say don't trust anyone over thirty. I am getting closer and closer to that don't trust mark. I am talking to the class of one of my sister's former track teammates. This is crazy I know.

Time passes. Time is cool. Time is our friend. Part of me is scared I will never get where I need to go. That I will chase dreams forever that will never come true. That I will always be a creepy girl with a bunch of dolls. That for as much TV time as I get, for as much as I publish, for as many followers I have, I will always be an outsider. I will always just get an A for effort like the retarded kid that eats paint chips and wears a fanny pack.

Part of me is unsure and wants to know the five year plan. I want to throw my money away at some psychic who tells me I am not where I need to get because I have an evil spirit attached to my soul. I want to drink some liquid and hold some stupid rock to make the evil spirit go away. It is foolishness, but whatever. It's all fear.

Where will I be in five years? I thought ten years ago I would be somewhere different. If I would have gotten what I wanted I would have short changed myself. I would have never written my book, been on the shows I was, or did the things I did. I don't know. I thought I would be doing a shitload of theatre. Whatever. I like the TV time I have gotten. I like my book.

Part of me is excited to see what is next. I am showing up too hard to fail. It is just the way it is. I need to stop being scared. It is hard. I need to be excited, not scared. I know, this is crazy. Time for more coffee.

Love
April
www.aprilbrucker.com
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

Messy Hair....

Yesterday morning started with a temporary crown on my tooth. Yes, me going to the dentist and him sticking a needle in my palate, actually two. Then they tried to ply my other temporary thingie off with pliers and when that didnt work they drilled. Despite the numbing it still hurt because it is your freaking nerve. Anyway, they also made me put this thing in my mouth for five minutes. YUCK! After that I went to the rest room because mind you it wasnt even nine in the morning yet when they were doing this. I looked in my mouth and my toof was gone!!!!! I say toof because I feel like the Jamie Foxx character from In Loving Color, the boxer who's name slips my mind. I freaked the hell out! Needless to say they assured me I was getting a temporary crown. So my toof looks almost normal. I just can't chew anything sticky or chew iced cubes. Well they didnt tell me how limited my diet would be. Yesterday was spent living on chili.

Where are Jack and Diane with their chili dogs when you need them under the shady tree? Oops, I wasnt able to eat hot dogs.

My book talk was scheduled last night and it seemed I had all the elements working against me. The day before there was a giant snow storm and the whole town looked like a winter wonderland. A winter wonderland is fun to look at and sled in, but you forget it is a bitch to shovel. Not to mention Mema Ralph had chest pains and had to go to the hospital.

In the end it all worked out. My book talk had a good turn out. I had twenty six people there. Some had read the book and were asking all sorts of questions. Some had not. It was nice to see Becky Sedlock again. It had been a while since I had seen her. She seems to be doing well, about ready to buy her first house. Becky was all grown up. Her brother got married too, and both her siblings were doing adult things. I was like wow, all these years later it is so cool to see her. Plus it was cool to see the Bulger Bruckers, the Bethel Bruckers, and my Godmama. Did I mention it was awesome to see Baldini?

The talk was a success, and it was nice to be back at Bethel Park Library after all these years. I entered through the door. During my days at the access station I used to enter through the basement, next door to the courthouse and adjacent to the police as well. I was happy with the turn out despite the weather, and we had some press which was mondo McAwesome. Plus May Wilson had a few minutes to shine.

Woman is hard to control. She told Richard Crawdaddy to get well. Baldini was there to record.

Well after the book talk I was dropped back to reality. When I got home the pain set in from the dental work I had done that morning. It was time for Advil and time to eat the chili that would most likely run down my face. Plus I had to pack for an early flight. Then off to La La Land.....

That's when I woke up and things really started to get cray cray. Mema Ralph had been admitted into the ICU that morning and they said they she had flat lined. So we had to wake my dad up to go to the hospital because one of my aunts believed my Mema to possibly be near death or dead. To make matters worse, my dad is not a morning person. So my aunts were asking my sister Skipper who is in medical school what was going on and she was filling them in and mind you this is all before five in the morning.

So we are pretty sad and it is a question of whether we should go back to our cities: me to New York and Skipper to Providence when we receive a phone call from one of my aunts that my Mema Ralph is in fact breathing and she is doing okay. However, this forty-eight hours will be critical. Still, that is a big step up from dead which was good. But Skipper, my mom, and I all just were like, "WOW!!!!" I will be keeping my Mema in my prayers. She is eighty-eight, she hates being in the nursing home, and she just wants to go back to her house. I can understand that. Still this morning was intense, scary, draining, and made me feel like I ran a marathon before 5:30 am.

Skipper of course felt a little sad because this summer she had a patient who seemed fine, an older woman, and her vitals even checked out. As a physician in training, Skipper had told the family the woman was fine and other doctors on the floor had too. Within minutes the woman however, unexpectedly had a complication and died. Skipper who's capacity to feel and care surpasses anyone I have ever met to the point of being slightly codependent was having a flashback of sorts and crying in the airport, overflowing with empathy. I had to give Dr. Sco a hug. Poor little thing.

I found myself wanting to cry myself and then bang my head against the wall. Cry because I am terrified for my Mema Ralph but bang my head against the wall because it is so much at once so early in the morning. Then it occurred to me, my temporary crown may fall out.

Just when I think my morning is over, I get to my gate. The show is over now, right?

Oh no.

A few summers ago I worked retail before graduating from college. There was this horrid woman who worked on display. Her hair was blood red and it looked like it was cut by your local weed whacker. Anyway, she was always trying to get me fired because she was insane. Her husband apparently had just "disappeared." Some say he ran off, I think she killed him. She accused me of wrecking her displays on ten different occasions when I was innocent. Finally one day I just got sick of her and decided I would give McCray Cray something real to cry about. I did by giving her display a huge shove. They fired me.

Well there she was. Her hair was no longer blood red but some disaster combination of highlights and low lights. She had the same crazy eye makeup, and a husband who wore a pink shirt which was too much for me to comprehend that early.

I thought of bitchy things to say. They went as follows:

1. "Remember the time I wrecked your shiteous display? Well I wrote about it in MY BOOK!"

2. It's been a long time. I didnt recognize you with that passable hair. Did they change your meds?

3. Are you still doing display? My friends design displays in New York City. But then again, it actually requires talent to work in that market.

4. I remember when your last husband just disappeared. I am so glad to see that you have moved on.

5. Are you going to Fashion Week? I have been twice. Once with Alex Wang and once with Betsey Johnson. Ooops, you have to be invited.

As I brainstormed bitchy things to say it occurred to me that this woman was not worth my time and energy. While it would be great to get the best of her, the better revenge was living well. She looked like she was painted, a nobody trying to be somebody.

That's when one of Chacho's best quotes popped in my head, "A nobody trying to be somebody is the worst kind of nobody there is."

And that's when another Chacho maneuver came to mind. If this woman were to engage me I would use the, "Excuse me, who are you again? I don't believe I know you." Chacho explained it was the gay beings shady way of dealing with crazy people once.

I didnt need to do it. Instead we met eyes once and she just had this pissed off look in her face, as if she couldnt face me. Or she wanted to chew me out for wrecking her display but knew in her mind she got her medicine and I could serve it up again. Still, it was wild to see someone I rightfully smeared in my book on the flight.

Oye vey. I am back in my city and it is cold as one of the layers of hell in Dante's Inferno.

Traffic was a mess.

I need a day off and it hasn't even started yet.

One more cup of coffee, a bagel, and a brush.

Cause I have messy hair.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
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Portion of the proceeds go to Sandy Hook Elementary School until January 7, 2013.