Slummin' It... Camping at Detroit Lake

In the second installment of the newest internet sensation, the Slummin' It series, our heroine discusses more aspects of a life without sophistication. This week, I elucidate on the experiences at Detroit Lake, from the second half of my week long camping trip. The first part of the week is here: Slummin' It... Camping at Silver Falls State Park.

Booooooorrrrrriiiinnnnggg.

There aren't very many pictures from my time at Detroit Lake, as except for the couple of occasions I went floating in the actual reservoir or took quick sprints to the restroom*, I spent most of my time hiding in the tent. This was not due to to the fact it was breezy, or the squirrels too friendly, or the gravel making it hard to walk in heels. It was because I was certain at least one of the campers around me was a serial killer. Maybe all of them. I'm not sure. But this tranquil location is certainly an accomplice to disaster as it lulls you into a calm, false sense of security and then, BAM! Your throat is flapping open in the wrong place and you're gurgling like a bathtub drain. I thought camping was supposed to be a relaxing experience. I was supposed to be out connecting to nature to decrease my anxiety, not increase it in the fear of waking up without a face.

My refuge. If I had been staying in a cabin by the lake, I'd be dead already.

I couldn't take any chances with my safety. All of the signs of impending doom were there: a campsite in H Loop had a full size refrigerator plugged in on the driveway, there were a lot of massive red trucks covered in Romney stickers, and a bird shat all over my publicist's chair. Even the campsite of frat dude bros was not likely to be a safe haven, for although they were fortifying themselves with plenty of Vitamin R, I knew that the killers in our midst would likely search out the bros first as they were listening to Bruno Mars and Justin Bieber for some reason full blast on a boombox. The inside of my tent with its half-deflated mattress and sandy sheets was far more of a safe and secure location. I even had chemical warfare devices at my disposal: the new issues of Elle and Marie Claire were loaded with perfume ads.
 
The suspects:

Screaming Grandma, Screaming Mom, Barking Dog, Sad Children: This site housed a woman that looked like Large Marge, her even larger and louder daughter, all five of the daughter's kids, a trailer, and about 70 tents. The children ranged in age from an approximately 14-year-old boy, who was expected to act like the man of the house, all the way down to a three-year-old girl. The eight-year-old girl was screamed at constantly by her mother, for various reasons such as not keeping the three-year-old's dress from getting dirty, not rinsing the dishes fast enough, and for not sweeping out the trailer. The large dog was apparently named Shut Up, as all day long that's the only phrase anyone ever said toward it. Screaming Mom really likes her coffee and snack cakes and if you get in her way you might not live to see the sunrise. Perhaps Shut Up could escape and gnaw through your stomach to fill his emotional hunger inside that can't be sated by food. Or maybe little 8-year-old Cinderella would beat you with a broom as she screamed, "Why does her dress need to be clean? We're camping at a lake, stupid!" So many possibilities here.

Rastafarian Knicks Fan and Little Dude: The stoner group arrived after dark, turned on their headlights to set up the campsite, and cranked up the Bob Marley. The laughing never stopped, except to shout at Little Dude, "Hey, Little Dude, don't walk on the tent poles." "Little Dude, don't get in the fire pit." "Little Dude, don't release the emergency brake and run us all over in retribution for when we used to blow smoke in your face when you were in your crib." At some point around two a.m., the gentleman in the Knicks jersey with the Jamaican flag colors on it stumbled over to the frat dude bro site and crawled into one of their tents. One of them wholeheartedly protested, and Knicks Fan merely replied, "Whoa, I've never slept on an air mattress before!" Will Little Dude stab you with a broken bong? Perhaps the Knicks Fan smothers you in your sleep and then eats all of Screaming Mom's snack cakes? Will the ghost of Peter Tosh wail at you endlessly because you only listen to Bob Marley?

The Quietest Family I've Ever Seen: Dad about 55, pregnant mom about 38, one boy ten, other boy nine. They were SILENT. The campsite was immaculately kept, the folding chairs were never moved, everything that was dirtied was immediately wiped or washed, but all was done so SILENTLY. I was self-conscious every time I opened or closed the car doors because it seemed so extremely loud in comparison. Every once in awhile the family would head out with the parents walking and boys on bikes, but there was no sound. They would come out of their tent and I would have no idea that they had even come back. This proves that they could have gotten behind me with a piano wire at any moment, just to feel the intoxicating power over my insignificant existence, and then slip away again to chuckle at how close I was to death, any time they wanted. Oh, there was the one time the dad spoke to the ten-year-old, hissing, "YOU SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU," but I'm sure that has nothing to do with anything at all.

Glow Stick Juggalos: Um, they were Juggalos with glow sticks. Isn't that enough?

Although I managed to survive, situations like this could happen again anytime, anywhere. Discussion is always welcome on the Do-Nothing Blog (anyone can comment without registering), but it is even more appropriate today. Please tell me which of these people you think would be more likely to drag you out of your cabin and into the woods, and hang you in a tree by your entrails. Perhaps there are some scary folks you remember from a camping trip of your own. Education and vigilance just might save someone's life. Maybe mine, which is the most important.

*I didn't have to worry about counter space here to put in my contacts as unlike at Silver Falls, no one at Detroit Lake washed their hands after going to the bathroom.

Slummin' It... Camping at Silver Falls State Park

Welcome to the first installment of my wildly popular new series, Slummin' It. This series will detail my attempts to ironically enjoy activities I used to do as a youth, before I became the gorgeous, sophisticated socialite I am today.

Yes, that's vodka in my bottle.

The first location I thought of while trying to come up with a regression to simpler times was that of Silver Falls State Park, right here in Oregon. Although this site is cursed with many exhausting and sweat-inducing trails, freezing cold waterfalls, and thousands of varieties of stinging and biting wildlife, I remember this place mainly because this is where my mom found a poop in the shower and where I lost a quarter inch off my little toe when a boulder trapped my foot.

My handler and I imagined that a return to this nightmarish vacation spot would provide a slight bit of needed aversion therapy. If I faced my fears here, I might be able to face other fears later, such as talking to dirty-looking people or having to drink house label champagne. We packed up everything in the house, Tetrised it all into the car, and then unpacked it into a much less sturdy version of the house, where I slept on the floor in a mix of blankets and dirt. To blend in with the local population I wore some clothes I found on the MAX and rubbed soot in my hair.

Yes, majorly disconcerting about this trip was the fact I wouldn't be able to wear my typical dress or cake my face in its customary beautifying sludge. I didn't even pack any exfoliant. Imagine my surprise, then, the first morning I entered the ladies' loo to find three fabulous women taking up the entire sink counter with their own cosmetics and various hair burning devices. My jealousy overwhelmed me when I realized they were expertly applying enough mascara, eyeliner and shadow to successfully avoid a raccoon attack (if you do up your face to look like them, they invite you into their family). I knew that my needing to put contacts in my eyes was not as important as their blowouts, so I gratefully waited for 30 minutes to have counter space. I was additionally happy at realizing how kind these ladies were to prevent me from putting in my contacts for that much longer, as any amount of time I could spend not being able to see my imperfect reflection was truly a gift. The bitches that kept trying to cut in to wash their hands had better check themselves next time, too.

I can still hear the chattering.

The smell of propane hurts my delicate senses so I sipped at a fine vintage bottle of MD 20/20 to gather up enough courage to conduct all cooking over the wood fire pit. This can often be time consuming, so after trapping the young squirrels I would just place the traps directly on the grate. Fortunately, the smell of their roasting brethren kept the rest of the furred menaces away from our site, leaving my just-woven basket of fresh croissants and beignets untouched.

The main objective of this trip was to find the exact waterfall--there are ten in this park-- where I lost part of my toe as a child. In my more studious and responsible youth, I broke away from my character for a moment and decided to climb under one of the waterfalls. It was a inviting scene: a waterfall of reasonable volume, a smallish pool, and direct access that allowed me to wade into the water and directly under the falls. The pool came up to my chest and the refreshing and exciting falls cascaded over me. I was greatly enjoying myself until the boulder I was on shifted slightly, and caught my foot in between itself and the adjacent rocks. I attempted to dislodge my foot, but it was tightly wedged, and I couldn't simply pull it out of my shoe, because I had already removed my shoes on the shore.

It took approximately ten minutes of focusing away my panic and shifting all of the boulders with a rocking motion until I was able to yank my foot out of the water. I made my way back to shore, thoroughly frozen by now and shaken from the experience. I jammed my feet back into my shoes and started back down the trail with my family. Approximately fifteen minutes later I was feeling a strange dull pain in my right foot. I looked down and saw my white canvas shoe was now bright red, and leaving even more liquid redness on the trail. Upon removing the shoe I discovered that my little toe on my right foot was shorter than it had been before and had no nail; I hadn't felt the injury due to the cold water. My nail actually grew back six years later, strangely, but the toe is still slightly stubbier.

Anyway, my publicist and I traveled the entire system of trails until we found the devil falls. I was disappointed to not find my toe piece, as I know a really good plastic surgeon that could have certainly reattached it the next time I went in for a forehead sandblasting. Returning unsuccessful to the campsite, I desired some level of productivity so I again visited the restroom. This time, I found the sinks available, yet the outlet still was not. A teenage girl stood next to the wall with her iPhone plugged in, despite the fact there was no signal remotely near the park. I admired her devotion to her cause as she stood in that bathroom and watched her phone charge for the next four hours. Oh, the sights, sounds and smells she must have witnessed, that brave girl. Perhaps in 20 years she will return to the park and reenact her trauma, as well.

This installment is merely the first half of the camping trip. The second installment will outline the second half of the week, which was endured at Detroit Lake. I'll upload that adventure for my fans soon enough.

The scene of the tragedy.

What I Learned Over Summer Vacation

I've learned such a great deal about myself and the universe I live in over the last few weeks. As I do not have the time today to compose a truly eloquent treatise on the subject, I shall elucidate my experiences using the classiest of forms, the bullet point. Enjoy.

• My name is Jennifer, and I'm an adrenalholic. It's quite frustrating when beginning your new life of leisure to realize you're not healthy enough yet to be incredibly self indulgent. Apparently living on lots of work and little sleep, loads of caffeine, occasional sugar binges, too much exercise and too little food (especially protein) can make these tiny things called "adrenal glands" implode in on themselves; mine nearly created a quantum singularity. And seriously, there's nothing like a good, old fashioned panic attack every day to get the heart racing like you've just done the Ironman but without all of the silly Power Bars stuck to your bicycle. I should be able to enjoy the fear of death on a relaxed, fun, casual basis, not with endless blinding hysteria. Now I have to amend my secret plans to include schemes in restoring my adrenals before I can set about destroying my liver. This involves nutrition, meditation and lighter exercise. I have already begun eating four times a day at regular intervals with measured portions of actual foods. It's so exhausting, but I have already ceased experiencing my rampant anxiety. This means I can do shots this evening, right?

Hot glue burns never felt so good.

• My scarf still didn't have enough bling. I fixed that.

What do you mean I don't need the stirrups today?

• Never attempt to break one's toe merely to fit a foot into a pointy toed shoe. Perhaps I could mention that I broke my little toe slamming it into a box spring that was sitting on the floor as I exited the bathroom whilst half-asleep, but that's not glamorous at all, dear fans. In order for my devotion to fashion to sound more impressive, I will claim the first story as truth and add that I subconsciously did it on purpose since I was bored. 

• I don't know anything about soccer. Silly me, I thought you were supposed to hold onto your best players and build from the back, but have good service from your midfield that connects with your strikers, and then you actually score goals while keeping out your opponents'. I have this thing all wrong, apparently. Good. I actually have no need to be smart at anything anymore.
• Michael Phelps was the only person at the Olympics. Wait a minute, I'm wrong. Costas and Seacrest were there, too.
• Feral cats like to abandon their runts in my yard. One precious mama had six children on my covered patio, and only took four of them with her when she moved house. The other two were left behind and by my observation she did not attend to them. She returned at one point and watched them cry, but left again without them. They became increasingly sad and lethargic, and had been neglected for 24 hours when I finally went to retrieve them; I believed they couldn't wait any longer. I now have the most wonderfully erratic sleep schedule and the constant pleasant aroma of kitten milk replacer about me, but it's all worth it knowing that I can eventually provide a couple of chic accessories for someone. I raised my own dear grey boy Broots by bottle 13 years ago when his mother left him in the front garden and was then hit by a car. He is currently too big to fit in a bag smaller than a rolling duffel so I need to put him on Atkins or The Zone. Right now, the new ones could fit in a clutch.

Manipulative attention whores.

Week in Review: Favorite Naps Countdown

After a few weeks of starting my new, fabulous lifestyle, I began to experience a strange phenomenon that at first deeply concerned me. During the day, I found myself becoming drowsy, with my eyes urging me to allow them to close for longer than their regular casual blink, and I was losing control of other assorted motor functions. This would seem to occur most often in a comfortably warm location, with soft surfaces on which I could choose to repose. It came to me one gray, misty afternoon, as I slowly began to recall a long-forgotten luxury I used to enjoy on occasion in my youth: sleeping during the day. I believe you people call it a nap.

During this last week, I endeavored to take as many naps as possible, considering I had nothing better to do, and that I really had no choice as my adrenal glands are 4000X overstimulated after living go!go!go! for 24/7/365/17. The following is a ranked order of my day sleeps with scandalous details and valuable tips for optimizing your own nap experience.

DISQUALIFIED: CAT NAP

Jerks.

Unfortunately, this nap was over before it began. I had noticed that a couple of my furry accessories quite prefer this basket as a location for their frequent respite periods. I mistakenly believed they might allow me to share the comfort of their fur-covered blankets and faintly urine-scented pillows, but no, these greedy little bastards had no room for their weary guardian.


NUMBER 3 FAVORITE NAP: COUCH

Face into the couch for maximum skin creases.

This slumber fete occurred on the shredded brown leather couch, which is now surrounded by a splendidly fur-enhanced Sure-Fit cover, so it is the closest possible experience to that of the cat nap that I could manage. I should also mention that the State of Oregon throw blanket is also completely covered in cat remnant, providing maximum warmth and odor potential.

I decided to forgo a pillow and merely placed my head against the rock-hard armrest, resulting in a very uncomfortable yet sassy head tilt for the remainder of the day. For a better sleep interval, I would recommend ear plugs so that you don't hear the ambiance of your neighborhood. Although, that means you may miss out on such wonderfully soothing sounds such as leaf blowers, the loudspeaker at the fruit outlet you can hear a block away, the extra intense car stereos, and the couple across the way at the apartments having their biweekly shouting match about money and leaving them kids alone.

RUNNER-UP FAVORITE NAP: WINERY

Stabilize yourself with pointed toes as to not roll down the hill.

Last Sunday, I spent a fine evening at a gathering for my husband's football team. This gathering happened to be at a winery, which is a perfect location for a posh WAG like myself. My footballer husband plays for an over-40 squad, a designation that means each player scores over 40 goals per season. As you can surmise, this makes me quite famous already. I will further develop this WAG identity as part of my new life.

My red vintage purse was surprisingly comfortable as a head rest for my impromptu slumber. Make certain to choose a soft portion of grass for your nap, as upon my inspection, the ground between the rows of vines themselves are dusty and that can dull even the shiniest of lip glosses. Be ware.

FAVORITE NAP: BED

A high thread count is essential.

I could immediately tell this was my favorite nap of the week, because although it had lasted a mere 30 minutes, it provided an overwhelming sign of enjoyment. Any physical activity that results in a fluid release immediately goes down as a winner in my book, I dare say. Stay hydrated, my friends.

Becks, I'm Afraid We're Through

I could have been doing many important things over the last couple of weeks, such as visiting my best friend and her newly-expelled infant, cleaning up the aftermath of what seems like a tornado's destructive path through my home, or attempting to tame the savage overgrowth surrounding my abode, but no, I had something much more significant to attend to: preparing for the arrival of my true pookie poo, David Beckham.

I'm certain Becks can sense me when I wear this.

There was just so much to do in the days leading up to when the LA Galaxy were coming to play footsie with the Portland Timbers. My Manchester United shrine with my 2002-03 kit hadn't been dusted in a whole day and the candles had to be replaced. I needed to practice my endless shrieking, knowing I'd have to compete with so many other females uttering the common mating call. My headband collection had been stolen in a previous burglary, so I had to go shopping for some more to bring for him. I also needed more glitter spray because I only had six bottles remaining and that simply wouldn't do since I was sure to use all of it when I painting my stomach with the Burger King logo.

On a serious note, my relationship with David began in 2002, when I moved to England to teach in an elementary school. This was when I was still doing things of consequence and attempting to change the world. My classroom had experienced many troubles before I arrived and I endeavored to find a way to gain their trust. The bonding began after I asked the dear little ones about what they enjoyed most in the world. The top two answers were West Ham United and Manchester United, with David Beckham himself mentioned due to his play for Man U and being captain of the England national squad.

I soon found myself enjoying far too many hours sitting in front of televisions at home and in pubs, and racing back to school to talk to the children about the magic of football. The fact that on match days, seemingly everyone I saw was wearing a kit or scarf, only made the world of football more inviting and exciting. When I moved back to Portland, I spent nearly every weekend watching matches at the Horse Brass. Unfortunately, West Ham was spending one of their many spells in Championship level play and they weren't on television here, and Beckham had moved to Real Madrid, so my only outlet was watching Manchester United with Ruud van Nistelrooy and trying to focus on his legs so I wouldn't have to be scared by his face.

This very moment defined my entire life.

One day at work at one of my many jobs in 2004, the UPS guy told me about the Timbers, and that I should go to a match. I immediately knew in my heart that if I went to a Timbers match, that some day they would move from USL to MLS, and that Beckham would also someday come play in MLS, so all I had to do was wait. I also knew I had to get with someone who would write for a news organization, so then I could get press credentials, and then I could be on the pitch with Becks.

Of course, all of this occurred according to plan and I first got to breathe the same air as my dreamboat last year when he took a corner kick right next to me. Our minds became as one and I suddenly felt inadequate as a devotee. I just wasn't shrieking enough to get his attention. I should have fainted. I should have asked him to sign my chest. I know he was disappointed that I wasted our time together. I then plotted that when he came back, things would be different.

The couple of weeks prior to the match were the most strenuous and agonizing. What would I say? What would he say? Would I have prepared amply to attract his attention? Have I watched those Burger King commercials sufficiently? Have I practiced not smiling enough, since he seems to find that alluring? Despite hours of practice, my duck face look still seemed flawed and not suitably off-putting.

Game day arrived and I threw up even more than I usually did. I arrived at the park and took my regular position on the pitch in the North End. I had done my hair and makeup even better than their ordinary brilliance, with Sharpies and everything. This was about to be epic. But guess what? It turned out to be the biggest letdown of my life. Sure, he looked in my direction a couple of times, but did he ever come over and say, "Keep screaming, I love it." or "I'm leaving my wife for you." or "I made sure my hair was extra greasy the way you like it." or even, "Hey Jen, you don't look as fat as last year."? NO! I guess I lost those 40 pounds for no reason, then, huh? Did you even see the duck face I was doing? It was freaking hot! Your loss, pal. I'm done. Have fun with your new best pal Landon. You guys totally deserve each other.

I didn't think it was all over. It is now.

Happy Birthday, 'Murrica... Gresham Style!

Pickup trucks, BBQ, blowin' shit up: welcome to Gresham

Although I usually like to party in exotic faraway places, I decided to go bestow the charming, hardworking 'Murricans in my East County neighborhood with appearances at their festivities. Of course, to fit in, I was going to have to go with something a little more simple for the evening: little black dress and pearls!

The first gathering I dropped in to left me with quite a puzzled impression of my area's youth. Numerous young lads on bicycles seemed to have a major problem with my manner of dress and the fact I had brought along my cat, Mingette (it's French), to mingle at their function. Assorted adults also appeared to disapprove of the shaker of martinis I brought along to enhance the evening.

Martinis and Mingette

As I reluctantly departed from the first event, I encountered a darling little old lady, who slowly walked down the street with her stylish bamboo cane and scrunchy, angry face. I greeted her in my customary way of inquiring if she wanted an autograph, and she responded with a compliment for our community.

"Damn idiot fools!" she said, wobbling in fury, "They're going to burn everything down!" How charming, my new friend, you dear sweet lady. Truly, what a treat that would be for us all. Mingette meowed sadly that her buzz was wearing off and I gave her a sip of the martinis.

A quick stop at the ATM

The shaker was soon depleted as I sojourned from house to house, watching the residents of my area set fire to everything in sight. I was pleased to see fathers handing their nine-year-olds lighters, educating them in the delightful tradition of explosive digit removal. This value of this type of bonding and education must never be underestimated.

I admit, I had been somewhat dismayed at society's current propensity for downplaying the importance of a father figure in a youth's life, but what I witnessed repeatedly this evening gave me a renewed sense of hope. The influence of my own father essentially assured that I would someday be on my current path to righteous do-nothingness. Filled with pride and optimism for the future, I headed off to find some more money for the next round of martinis.

The regular fireworks social hotspot, the middle school track, was a strangely desolate place. This was disappointing as I so looked forward to tripping over the endless spent fireworks all over the running surface the next day during my laps; it's become a special annual tradition. Fortunately, a family poured out of their minivan and started dancing with Roman candles in the parking lot, so all was not lost.

Light meal for my purse pal

On the way back from the middle school I joined up with a jovial group of my neighbors that choose to perform their incendiary arts in the driveway of their apartment building along the high street. I was surprised that unlike the last 10 years, the smoke cloud did not envelop the entire block.

Further disappointment began to taint my celebratory mood, until I noticed that a kind resident had left a scattered meal of a piece of juicy steak, a half-eaten corn cob, some delectable BBQ chicken, and fine utensils and a platter on the ground for little Mingette. I helped her out of my handbag so she could take advantage of the bounty. Tempted to join her, I then recalled the handful of Special K I had dined upon earlier, so my kitty had to feast alone.

I arrived back to my posh abode to spend the evening listening to the outrageously loud explosions, the resulting car alarms, and the assorted other bangs and gunshots. In total, this year seemed far noisier with a great deal many more rockets exploding in the sky than years past. Let's hope the trend continues and my assistant remembers to buy glow sticks for me. I also need to get started on planning my outfit and signature cocktail for next year. Kisses, everyone!

My handler says my nap "Looks like a Hollywood crime scene."
It certainly is a crime I'm not in Hollywood. Seriously.

Title Change and Weekend in Review

Changes...

I've had to make the decision to change the blog title. Although I had been writing under the title of A Jenny for your Thoughts in some way since 1996 or so, there are simply too many other people with my name, diluting my impact. Some dear thing even bought the .com. How rude, indeed. My own .com will be appearing soon.

In response, I've renamed my project with the term bestowed upon me right after I graduated college. In celebration of all my hard work, family hosted a swanky soiree at the fabulous Village Inn, where I devoured a top notch breakfast skillet and was referred to as "Do-Nothing" by dearest Grandmother. Although I was greatly insulted at the time, I must have been blind to not recognize the universe was revealing my destiny. I will stop wasting time and willingly accept your challenge to in fact, do nothing.

Weekend in Review

Saturday, June 30 was a day filled with sleep, style and social engagements. In the afternoon, I awoke refreshed and even more beautiful than the day before. As a rare treat, I enjoyed an exquisite bowl of Chocolate Chex. I vividly recall the bag whispering its blessings to me as I peeled it apart to reveal the delectable treasure within. The morsels dropped into the bowl, creating a symphony not unlike a classical pianist's masterpiece for a just departed lover. A quick splash of Silk soymilk completed the feast and provided me with my complete caloric needs for the day.

That evening, I was to attend a private viewing affair, that of the Portland Timbers at Colorado Rapids. Although I am somewhat aware of this whole "soccer" phenomenon, I had accepted the invitation mainly to keep up my stellar public profile.

Paparazzi follow me everywhere.

After a beauty regimen involving an obscene amount of glitter that would do any girl dancing her way through a pre-med program proud, I pre-funked at the most exclusive ultra lounge in town. The owners, knowing full well how my frequenting of their establishment provides them with such advantage in the realm of publicity, ensured that the champagne was flowing.

My driver kept me reasonably on schedule and assured that I arrived to the main destination a punctual one hour late.

I don't remember much of the actual Timbers match as the goals started happening in the wrong net again and I found solace with some crisp Viognier.

Living it up in the VIP section at Rock Band Beatles show.

After the carnage had subsided, I was treated to an excellent performance by the Rock Band Beatles. They played all of their famous ones like that one song... na na na and such... and the other one, too. It was marvelous. The band seemed so enthusiastic to perform with such a distinguished guest as me in their midst. I am slightly confused as to why their guitars had brightly colored buttons instead of strings on them, but I'm sure it's all Ringo's fault as usual.

My white vintage clutch served as an ideal accompaniment to my navy blue dress and red heels; it was also a perfect location to store the assorted nuts and sweets I found in quaint little dishes on the bar.

All in all, the evening proved to be quite a success and I always love meeting new fans. Who knows, perhaps sometime you will see me grace your festivities. Until next time, my lovelies.

I was merely getting a start on my beauty sleep.