Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Our Silicone Comfort breast form interacts with you-even while you're golfing or swimming, it hugs you for 100% confidence and comfort. Finest silicone gel in a skin-like casing. Feels and looks natural. Undetectable even in sheer, lacy bras. Interchangeable left or right. 2-year warranty.
Sure, if your breasts are a little uneven or if you lost a can to cancer, these doo-hickeys can help you. But a faux boob so big, you could play rugby with it? Advice: If you've only got one titty and it's a 52DD? A rubber watermelon for your empty bra cup is tough to pack on a trip and it ain't foolin' nobody. Get yourself a chainsaw and a friend who will help you take care of business. What's one huge titty gonna do for you? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Man, that cry just came out of nowhere. This movie does it to me every time. That poor John Candy, lumbering around in that big blue puffy coat, sleeping in the charred car with the snow falling on him? His wife Marie? Died years ago. That sad sack curtain ring salesman, sitting in the bus station all my himself and Steve Martin comes back in to get him? Man, a good cry can really sneak up on you. Netflix that shit or catch it on t.v. if you haven't seen it in awhile, kids. It's a good one.
You know what else makes me cry? And it's not a good cry? Commuting with crowds can make me cry. On the inside, mainly. I consider myself to be a Type B personality, but sometimes I have a low tolerance for shit and bug out. I'm accutely aware of stuff, thus quite sensitive. And I haven't had to take the subway everyday in awhile because my work over the past few years has been within walking distance of my apartment. But these days? The subway is the only decent way to get to work, and I'm headed at rush hour down to Wall Street with a million of my closest friends. People I don't know, all smushed up next to me, stepping on my toes, and breathing their gross morning breath in my face, and...well, the adjustment to the sardine-packed express trains has been more challenging than I had expected it to be. People continue to bum me out. Here's a conversation I wanted to have with someone I had the misfortune of commuting with this evening:
What I wanted to say:
"Hey, how's the gum? It sounds like you really like it. Smells good. Bubble gum flavor? Yeah, I could tell. Mmmm. So, you like it? The gum? You must really love it. Oh you do? I knew you did! Oh, why do I ask? Who the fuck am I? Well, no need to be so rude, it's just that it sounds like you're CHEWING THE FUCK OUT OF IT, is all, and you're TOTALLY GETTING INTO IT WITH THE NOISES AND SUCH and the way you're biting it and smacking it and whipping your head around back and forth like...like... LIKE A GOLDFISH, A GOLDFISH CHOMPING IT'S HEAD OFF ON A PIECE OF FUCKING BUBBLE GUM, and well, I'm curious...How do you know when you're done?"
What I said:
Nothing. I said it with my eyes. My deadly evil eyes. Deliberate and excessive, the looks I shot her said all that and more. Including (but not limited to) "Who raised you, you dirty urchin? Stop it at once! You'll break your jaw! You disgust me! I'm going to kill you!"
So yeah, that's a different kind of cry. I got off a stop early to get away from that skank. I've got problems. So? I say she's got problems. Whatevs.
The 2007 nominees are:
- baby monkeys and baby tigers
- 100 year old turtle and baby hippo
- snake and mouse
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
NYC has the highest taxes anywhere in the nation. Ok, I'm not backing that up with real information or anything, because I don't really roll that way (I'm more intuitive), but I can tell you that my paycheck suffers bigtime. New York State takes a long savory taste, and then NYC takes a bite, and just like your boyfriend who says he doesn't like what you're eating and takes another bite just to make sure: "Yes, wow, gross, I knew I didn't like this." It's terrible, alright.
Sure, our tax dollars pay for important things like public school education, and for those dudes to go around with those guns and powerspray all those bubble gum wads off of the sidewalk, but is it necessary to pay the Snow Brigade to shovel up concrete? In a NYC "blizzard," the Mayor tells us that it costs a million dollars a day to salt and plow the streets of this fair city. But we didn't have a blizzard recently. At the very most, we got two inches of slush.
"NO MATTER!" cries the salt and plow brigade, following orders from the Mayor's office, which must simply fear law suits which may cost the city more? What else could justify the sound of bulldozer hitting pavement at 1 a.m.? Is it the mob? Someone's greasing the hands of city employees so they can pay for their houses in the Hamptons, because how else can I explain what I saw up close, live and in person (admittedly a little to late with the camera was I, perhaps too frozen with shock to whip it out in time) which is a snowplowing of the pavement on 35th Street last night. Here's what I have for you:
And what do we have here?
The snowplow that just "plowed the snow" is on the right, having just passed me, and what is that on the left? But another snowplow? Jockeying for position? TWO SNOWPLOWS! Fighting for snow territory! "Hey, I was gonna plow that snowball. Get off of my turf, man!" DOES ANYONE SEE ANY SNOW IN THIS PICTURE? Granted, it's a crappy picture, but come on, unless you're blind and someone is reading you my blog, there ain't no snow to be seen here.
Perhaps it's my cold-blooded roots, having been raised in New England and endured the blizzard of '78, gone to college in the snowbelt of New York State, and loving a winter wonderland, but this stuff really pisses me off. How lame is it to send out the plows and spend money like this for no reason unless you're a plow driver making double time after 35 hours? And when it comes down to it, what really makes me angry is the lack of snow. The fact that they're wasting my tax dollars carving the curbs all in the "name of snow" just adds insult to injury. How about come up to my apartment with that bulldozer snowplow and get rid of some of that dust on my T.V.? Plow that crap I've been saving for no reason out to the curb. Do something productive for cryin' out loud.
There are some nice things to say about the ladies' room at my new job. One is the nice foyer, or vestibule/lounge area which contains a shelf (to put papers or coffee or other things you don't want to take into the john with you), a large full-length mirror (so you can check out your ass and whatnot), and a bench for sitting, waiting on a friend, or to place your coat and bag.
Once you leave the lounge and enter the toilet/sink area, if you will, there is a nice number of stalls, approximately 8-10, which is about what you'd find at a place like Yankee Stadium, and it's a refreshing change from most buildings in which I've worked. It's just enough stalls for a lady to have her privacy when she needs it. No lines, no waiting, no hovering. Very nice. I like.
I encouter a problem once I'm in the stall, however, in the form of a 8x11 piece of paper printed in color on the computer and taped up on the back of the door which reads,
This is perplexing, and sort of takes the glow off of the thrill of so many stalls, as it's behind the door of every stall. This is a company-specific ladies' room, not a floor-wide, key required type of joint. It implicates a woman (or women) at this company specifically. Who's not flushing? And why not?
I sit and wonder that when I'm on the john and panic that I may not remember to flush before I leave. I flush. Sometimes twice to make sure. As I do, I notice that the handle is slow to operate. Could someone be implicated in a "not flushing scheme" simply because she doesn't wait long enough for things to complete? Because of the sign, I'm paranoid. Feeling admnonished, I go to wash my hands. There's no sign telling me to do that, and that's more of a germ, e-coli threat to the population kind of problem. As opposed to an unsightly surprise when you open a stall door.
And on my way out? Another sign, on the back of the lounge door which reads,
That's ten question marks. Unlike the number of stalls, I made sure to count these exactly. Excessive punctuation bugs me. If I had forgotten to flush, would I remember? And if I remembered, would I go back? There's 8-10 stalls! Would I remember which stall I was in?
So I'm contemplating not flushing, on principle alone. It's bad enough being told what to do when you're in the ladies room. There already are plentiful signs in restrooms: "Dont' Smoke" & "Don't flush anything other than toilet paper down the toilet" & "Use the recepticle provided for sanitary blah blah blah" and all that jazz. But to be told to flush?
And I'm convinced that signs don't work anyway. If you don't have good toilet manners, you don't have good manners, and it all goes back to your mother. If you don't wash your hands after you leave the john, then that woman you affectionately call Mom, the one who shot you out of her cooter? Well, she's a bad mother. Trust me: What's a "Please remember to flush" sign gonna do for the broad who craps on the floor?
Not to be confused with the person that* did deserve it, mind you. 'Cause there's someone running around out there who does deserve a jewel-encrusted cell phone thrown at them.
And only Naomi knows who, when and why that will happen. So stay tuned.
Naomi, Naomi, Naomi.
*I'm quite sure Naomi meant to say "who didn't deserve it", but she's too remorseful right now to remember the proper grammar and all.
Monday, February 26, 2007
On my way home from the show, I thought to myself three things:
- Get in touch with my childhood BFF
- Why do I always feel that the Koreans in the deli are just making up prices (even though they refer to the price chart thingie on the register)?
- When did 9-5 become 9-6?
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
If you've got nothing on the calendar today, and want to see a rat circus, come on down to 6th Avenue and Third Street and watch the show at Taco Bell! Kind of like Sea Monkeys but wicked grosser. Would you look at that tail on Mary Lou Ratton for cryin' out loud? Bllllliiiicccccchhhhk!
Friday, February 23, 2007
What's the spider thinking?
You guessed it...
Wow, has this blog changed my life or what? Can't believe it's one year old already. (Yes, I can.)
Here's Ms. CKC introducing the video with some freestyle, accompanied by Shockwave
And here is Mr. Paul Case, Ms. CKC, me and Matt Sears:
a picture of me and Mr. Matt Sears, re-enacting a groping incident that happened a few years ago to me on my very own block. Did I mention that today, February 23 is Matt Sears' birthday? Well, this was his gratuitous birthday grope! Happy Birthday, Matt! You and my blog, Two Can Anne share the same damn birthday! Happy Damn Birthday!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
D.J. dead? My favorite and freckly little DJ, fun-lovin', ball handlin' guard whom I looked up to when I played hoops because like he, I was short but unlike he, I was a crappy ball handler? For those of you who aren't familiar with Dennis Johnson, he played with Larry Bird on a dynasty of a basketball team: The Celtics in the 1980's. Man was it good to be a Celtic fan in the 1980's. Back when pro basketball was good (old lady voice).
D.J. dead at 52? Man.
RIP, Dennis Johnson.
Indeed. It appears also that their liquor store is profitable, and so they go on (and photograph) their fabulous vacations, snazzy outfits, and new furniture like curio cabinets and living room suites. It's weird to think they're probably in the ground now, but they're probably most definitely in the ground now.
- If you have a Verizon cell phone account, and you speak to another Verizon customer on said cellphone, it's FREE! All day, all night, uptown, downtown, all around!
- ER, the nighttime hospital drama that secured George Clooney's career and may have paid for his Italian villa, is still on the air! I'm not talking re-runs, I'm talking new seasons and episodes and all that crap. Who knew?
I wrote this in the bathroom at Mo's last night whilst I was first picking and then biting the cuticle off of the side of my right thumb. It's brilliant, isn't it? You know, sort of a nervous bloody habit take on ye olde baseballe favorite, Field of Dreams? Who am I kidding. It's probably already an out-of-print ironic T-shirt by now. There are no new ideas. Other than blowganza, a word I made up on Monday. Or was it Tuesday?
Alright, alright: New Punched Up Version of If You Pick It, It Will Bleed Which Hipsters Ain't Got a Hold Of Yet:
This guy claims it's his favorite wedding picture. Perhaps because it showcases his wife's athleticism: she's got to play some serious offense to get photographed, moving around that pick he's set with his gut.
You suck. You tricked me into signing in to you, and now my photos won't load properly, automatically knowing whether to be horizontal or vertical. Sure, I can categorize posts under such labels as "gross" and whatevs, but we all know that's pointless because my entire blog is gross and that folder will explode in no time. Clearly this conversion from The Old Blogger was more about you, The New Blogger, than me, so please don't insult me by trying to act otherwise, ayite? Great.
Thanks for the frustration,
PS I much prefer The Old Blogger
Matt McCarthy, my favorite fire crotch, hosting MAX at Mo Pitkin's. Lineup of comics included sweet peeps Jack Kukoda and Laura Mannino. Good stuff.
What? Veniero's so close by? So close by, and I'm not going to get some cannolis? Please.
Stop yelling at me.
I'm in line, number 88, getting some cannolis, alright. The mini ones. 4 regular, 2 chocolate. And gimme a few of them there mini blueberry tarts too, would ya? Great. And a small coffee. Thanks. What, I'm opening the box you so beautifully wrapped with string and I haven't even left the place yet? You must not know me. One cannoli eaten before I reach the door.
Walking home tonight? Don't mind if I have one more.
Would you look at this, a blueberry tart done got crushed on the long walk home. I can't exactly just leave it there, a lonely smushed blueberry tart, I mean the thing doesn't even match. One of these things is not like the other and I certainly can't just leave it. That'd be cruel to food. Just think of how embarrassed that little tart in the corner is looking like that, all messed up and stuff...
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
What the fuck is going on here?
Another suit has been filed against singer and television star Brandy for the fatal car crash she allegedly caused back in December. I'm next to jump on the litigious bandwagon. Why not? The more Brandy is in the news, the more I have to endure witnessing the massive chasm between her eyes on her dome piece, and this unspecified injury will cause permanent disability to me.
Dear JetBlue Customers,
We are sorry and embarrassed. But most of all, we are deeply sorry.
Last week was the worst operational week in JetBlue's seven year history. Following the severe winter ice storm in the Northeast, we subjected our customers to unacceptable delays, flight cancellations, lost baggage, and other major inconveniences. The storm disrupted the movement of aircraft, and, more importantly, disrupted the movement of JetBlue's pilot and inflight crewmembers who were depending on those planes to get them to the airports where they were scheduled to serve you. With the busy President's Day weekend upon us, rebooking opportunities were scarce and hold times at 1-800-JETBLUE were unacceptably long or not even available, further hindering our recovery efforts.
Words cannot express how truly sorry we are for the anxiety, frustration and inconvenience that we caused. This is especially saddening because JetBlue was founded on the promise of bringing humanity back to air travel and making the experience of flying happier and easier for everyone who chooses to fly with us. We know we failed to deliver on this promise last week.
We are committed to you, our valued customers, and are taking immediate corrective steps to regain your confidence in us. We have begun putting a comprehensive plan in place to provide better and more timely information to you, more tools and resources for our crewmembers and improved procedures for handling operational difficulties in the future. We are confident, as a result of these actions, that JetBlue will emerge as a more reliable and even more customer responsive airline than ever before.
Most importantly, we have published the JetBlue Airways Customer Bill of Rights—our official commitment to you of how we will handle operational interruptions going forward—including details of compensation. I have a video message to share with you about this industry leading action.
You deserved better—a lot better—from us last week. Nothing is more important than regaining your trust and all of us here hope you will give us the opportunity to welcome you onboard again soon and provide you the positive JetBlue Experience you have come to expect from us.
Founder and CEO
Paul McCartney's ex, Heather Mills, will be one of the contestants on ABC's Dancing with the Stars.
Funny, when I think Heather Mills McCartney, I think stripper, gold digger, husband beater.
But I never pegged her as a dancer.
NASA's got a lot of interesting things on their website. For example, this color wheel above.
They also have activities:
- Make a space shuttle out of a hot dog
- Play the space shuttle in a game of tic-tac-toe
- Color the space shuttle
- After your space shuttle landing, learn how to make your own diaper so you may drive from Houston to Orlando without stopping to kill a romantic rival.
Here's Part Two of Bobby's Beautiful Bed N' Breakfast
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
In the meantime, let's revisit what I said last year at this time about Ash Wednesday, as it's still quite current. Sure, this is the first day of Lent, but we've only two days before Two Can Anne's One Year Anniversary Blowganza. That's right: BLOWGANZA. And a blowganza's surely got to liven up the 40 days of Lenten Friday Fish Fry to follow, no?
What: Le Incident with a Power Tool
Where: Verlaine on the Lower East Side
When: Saturday Night
How: Words Were Exhanged, and I Held My Ground
Why: I Had British Power Tool to Crush and an Empty Table To Absorb
My peeps and I were rolled in 11 deep to this lounge called Verlaine on the Lower East Side. Not particularly my type of place because it's considered "hip" and I hate anything that attracts a huge crowd on this basis. Why? Because I simply have a low tolerance for people. Particularly, people who are tools. It was cold out, and a little bit inside by the door, and as a personal protest against the idea of beautiful people wanting to be seen, I left on my hideous fleece blue Old Navy ski hat with pon pom on top (I say pom pom but the word is technically "pon pom" whatevs). It's a stupid hat and I look dumb in it.
Our party of eleven had to stand around for awhile waiting for a place to land, as Verlaine was quite crowded at the tables and the bar. With the exception of the large space in the front that had a few "beautiful people" and less people than signs on the table with "Reserved" on them. Since it was close to impossible to get close enough to the bar to order a drink, we figured we'd hover next to the tables, glancing like vultures do at a dying man in the desert, waiting to pounce. Five of us snagged a table for four along the wall which had a banquette (not to be confused with "baguette" which is a piece of bread. I did have a man ask to be seated at the "baguette" one time when I worked in a restaurant), and we sat down.
My friend is cozy with the owner of this joint, and since the table to our left appeared to be paying their check, she asked if we could have that table, to seat another portion of our party. The waitress agreed; she could tell we weren't teetotalers. As this two top (two men, two glasses of red) was dealing with their check, a woman was doing the Vulture Hover behind the man who was sitting in the chair with his back to her. They had a conversation about the table. I overheard her ask him if she could have it, as she was waiting on a friend. Our table began to panic.
"Tell her she can't have it," my friends said, "It's our table. The waitress said so. We're taking it." I'm not one for conflict, but I took a deep breath, and got involved.
Mr. Check Payer, aka British Power Tool, was now signing his tab. He looked up to the woman behind him and said a few words about how he'd let her sit. From the banquette, I said to the two of them, "Hi, yeah, um, I'm sorry, but that's our table."
British Power Tool: Excuse me?
Anne: We have a large party and the waitress told us we could have your table. Sorry. (I gave a sorry impish glance up to the woman with no seat)
British Power Tool: No, (in a phony British accent), I'm sorry, but you can't have this table.
Anne: But you don't work here.
British Power Tool: Well, maybe I don't, but it's still my seat, and I'm not giving it to you. I'm giving it to her.
Anne: But it's not yours to give. The waitress wants to make money, and her (gesturing to the woman) party hasn't even arrived yet. Sorry. (another impish glance with big sad eyes. pretty fake, however.)
British Power Tool: Then I'll stay until her guest arrives.
Anne: Knock yourself out. (at that point, his guest leaves my side of the banquette, and I slid over, facing Mr. British Power Tool, leaving no room for his new friend, whose honor and prospective table he was determined to defend.
Then he got up. We moved in. He left the building.
End of story.
They say that when you're a mother with a child who has somehow slipped under the tire of a parked car, you'll gather enough strength to flip over the car with your bare hands. I guess I found this deep down strength to battle the Britsh Power Tool to secure a table for eleven. I wonder if I gathered the strength for the love of my friends or because of the hate for this stranger. Probably a combination. Who the hell knows why he picked this fight on his end. Tool.
Post script: Incidentally, minutes later, the table for two at the end got up, and the broad sat down there. As soon as she did, her friend arrived.
- Doodle takes a dump every other day. Judging by the running around the house and meowing that's going on at present, today is her day. As most of you know, she is toilet trained, so I just locked her in the can for a few minutes of privacy for us both.
- I always dent my cans of beer or soda right under the opening as a sort of grip/no slip "handle." I surmise why is because I've dropped a heavy, slick with condensation can at one time in my hydration career. I can't help but dent them. It's automatic. It also comes in handy when the question of "Which one's my beer?" comes up. "Oh, there it is."
- I was driving the family car well before I was sixteen, but rarely in the light of day. Usually between 3 and 4 am with my friend "Brenda" who would meet me at my house or hers. We'd tool around the streets of town at 6-12 miles an hour, after having donned hats and sunglasses, put the car in neutral and pushed the car silently out of the driveway. There was that time we took Brenda's Dad's Subaru and couldn't break 20 going up Seaview Avenue. The burning smell revealed itself to be this new term called "parking brake." Ok, so there was this one time another friend and I drove down the main drag in town during the afternoon, and since I was babysitting, we strapped my little sis in the car seat. After all, I couldn't endanger her by leaving her alone at home, could I?
- Doodle likes the taste of white chocolate but not asparagus.
- I like the taste of water siphoned from ancient metallic pipes via an old green garden hose, preferably one that's been sitting in the summer sun for awhile.
- Bonus Thing: I have never played "Spin the Bottle." I can't speak for Doodle.
Shrove Tuesday is the day after Collop Monday and the day before Ash Wednesday. It's also known in Irish communities as Pancake Tuesday, and in Polish communities, Paczki day. So eat your pancakes while you can, people, and confess to what a jerk you were all year, or the Easter Bunny is going to blow you off. Because after today, you've got 40 days of no fun, and no fun is literally translated into liturgical fasting where only the "plainest foodstuffs can be eaten." So says Jesus and everybody, anyway. What are you gonna give up? Is bologna a plain foodstuff?
Speaking of bologna (and I'm so happy you brought it up), I witnessed a strange "bologna incident" on Sunday. I've seen other incidents surrounding bologna in the past, but this one took the processed meat cake for sure. There were a gaggle of gals in town this holiday weekend, and on Sunday we decided to go to Beso for brunch in Brooklyn. There was (and always is) a long wait, because the food is good and they have pitchers of interesting mimosas (none containing bologna).
While my peeps waited inside to escape the chilly weather, I went out front to make a phone call. As I was chatting, I was fixated on this couple, a white mother-daughter couple who were ambling down the sidewalk, the mother with a small pushcart. They were both dressed in sweatpants, and flannels, and bed head--stuff common to Sunday attire, and it was obvious that they didn't have much money, but I couldn't tell if they were homeless. Mother was in her sixties, daughter was in her late twenties, tall and on the obese side. Walked with a gait that is lead by the belly. She appeared a little "touched" and perhaps Ma, who was biting the end off of an enormous baguette--wider than a French baguette but just as long--was the caregiver.
As Ma made her way over to the bus stop shelter with the baguette and her pushcart, she handed the baguette to her daughter. The daughter then took a piece off the end the size of an average sandwich, and with her arm outstretched, shouted, "Ma! Ma! Ma! Take this!" and motioned for Ma to take the piece and put it into the cart. Daughter kept the footlong-sized piece. It reminded me of the old gag when a wife asks her husband for money, and he takes out his wallet, puts a bill or two in his hand to give to her and she takes the wallet instead.
Anyway, daughter starts chewing on the end of the bread when Ma hands her some bologna she had in her pocket.
Let me repeat: In her pocket.
Sure, it was in the 99 cents plastic off-brand traditional processed meat container, but it was in her pocket.
Daughter walks around to the interior of the bus stop to accept the fistful of bologna. In one hand she held the bologna pieces, and with the other, rips the baguette down the middle. She then smoothed about a piece of bologna on her hand and licked it from top to bottom. Stuck it on the bread, and removed it again to lick it. Again. Then stuck it back down. Again with the second and third pieces. Lick. Stick. Lick. Stick. I didn't notice any condiments being handed over, so perhaps the saliva was the trick.
Once the sandwich was assembled, Ma got up off the bench with her cart, moved out onto the sidewalk and walked away. Daughter was to follow. She held the sammich with two hands up to her face and munched and walked. Munch. Walk. Munch.
The next time I see you in person and you would like me to act out this scenario, I will do it, but only if you ask. Now I will repent for being such a jerk*.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
I went to the bagel joint this morning with my sister, Whipcreamy. She ordered a poppy seed with tuna salad, muenster cheese and tomato. As the guy was assembling the sandwich, I couldn't help but notice that the owner's annoying 9-year old kid was running around back behind the counter, getting underfoot of the three men hustling during Saturday afternoon bagel and coffee mayhem. The kid had a long mullet, glasses, and he was counter height, shaking his hairdo a lot, putting his hands all over every surface imaginable, doing nothing but being a nuisance. "Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad! Excuse me," he'd say as he manuevered the narrow one man-width space between his Dad and the toaster.
As "Dad," the owner, counted money by the register, the sandwich guy was folding the sandwich in the white paper, and the kid was watching him with his face a few inches from the preparation of it all when--unbeknownst to my sister-- he sneezed a gross slobby sneeze which he then wiped off his face with the back of his hand. Luckily the sandwich was already encased in two layers of white paper, but still. Gross. Get that kid outta there, you know?
The sandwich plus a whole wheat plain bagel came to about 8 dollars. My sister handed sandwich guy a twenty. Unbeknownst to me, he gave her $22 dollars in change, thinking that the twenty he had handed her was a ten. We walked out of the store. Safely a block away, my sister told me about the $2 profit she made on our free lunch at the bagel store. Then I told her not to feel guilty, as the owner's kid sneezed on her sandwich. Were we justified in not alerting the cashier of the mixup?
-Anne and Whipcreamy, NYC
Dear Anne and Whipcreamy,