the life-changing magic of cluttering up

Or: All I Really Need to Know (About Housekeeping) I learned in Kindergarten (From My Hoarding Grandmother)

This is a companion post to last week’s blog.  Based on the lovely pile of electronic advice I received both on Facebook and on my website, there are MANY of you out there basking in the glory of an uncluttered life.  Good for you.  But just in case the austerity and asceticism ever start to get you down, I’ve compiled a list of tips to help you clutter right back up.

I call it Kon-Marooning.  Soon you, too, can be marooned on your island of debris, happily shoving your piles around.

My paternal grandmother was an expert clutterer.  Since apples fall close to trees, I called my dad to see if he had any advice to contribute.  Turns out he missed my call – couldn’t find his cell phone.

1)    Be the only child from parents who have many childless siblings.  You’ll be able to feed the masses with your four sets of hand-wash-only china, three sets of hand-wash-only silverplate, and too-many-to-count hand-wash-only starglass cups.

2)    Don’t ever move.  Stay thoroughly put.  Stuff your stuff into every nook and cranny of your domicile until the very idea of moving gives you flaming red blistery hives.

3)    Send multiple family members out to do the shopping but don’t let them communicate beforehand.  This is a particularly great strategy for accumulating toilet paper, Kleenex, paper towels, and, in our house, toothbrushes.

4)    Sort your stuff frequently and then keep all of it.  Pushing the piles around will make you feel virtuous and organized.  I call this the “clutter shuffle.”  It’s most effective when performed to music while multitasking several other household chores.

5)    Horizontal surfaces are your friend.  Tables, counters, even the floor.  All are wonderful places for piling, sorting, accumulating, strewing, and dumping.

6)    If you’re having a hard time cluttering up, start with one simple step: Stop sorting the mail.  Let it pile up in the front entry.  And be sure to stay on every single mailing list.

7)    Check social media constantly.  Facebook is a great distraction when you’re on the verge of tidying up.  Resist the temptation!

8)    Books are wonderful.  No one looks at you askance when they find out you have a wall of books.  A wall of velvet Jesus paintings might raise an eyebrow or two.  (I won’t tell you about my whisker collection.)

9)    One of the many health benefits of clutter is that it’s literally impossible to keep clean.  Dust?  Awesome!  Stimulate that immune system!

10)   If folks seem leery of your cluttering up, simply say “I’m an artist.”  “Ah,” they’ll reply.  “You must be extremely creative.”

11)   Keep all financial documents in paper form forever into perpetuity.  It’s best not to organize, either, like at all.  Banker’s boxes are okay provided you don’t stack things neatly inside.  Never ever go paperless.  Paper is your BFF.  If all else fails, you’ll have something to burn after the apocalypse of Hellfire and Trumpnation.

12)   Develop many thing-based interests.  The Big E and I went a little crazy on miniature gardening this past winter.  We turned the upstairs bathroom into our potting shed, a fabulous strategy for cluttering up.

13)   Never finish a project.  Truly.  It’s okay to start.  Just don’t get too close to completion.  And be sure to leave everything you need for the project lying about, but spread it over a couple floors of the house.  Power tools and tiny sharp hardware are a plus.

14)   Children and pets will get you further along on your path to the cluttered life than just about anything else.  Baby children require an ungodly amount of gear.  Larger children collect strange things (sticks, rocks, Nerf weaponry, cardboard swords, Pokemon & Magic cards, stuffed animals, taxidermied animals, plants, more rocks, fossils, fedora hats, Legos, books, etc.).  If you really don’t see kids or pets in your future, consider borrowing from a friend or neighbor.  Even an hour or two can really ramp up that clutter.

15)   Volunteer at a thrift store.  I cannot stress this enough.  In order to maintain and enhance the volume of clutter in your home, you need unbridled access to STUFF at irresistible prices.

16)   Leave things in unpredictable places.  Keys are a great place to start.  Next time you arrive home, leave your keys in a kitchen drawer.  Or in the refrigerator.  Infuse a little excitement into your cluttered home life!

17)   Diamonds are cute but plastic is 4-ever.  Diamonds are way too pricey and petite to be an effective cluttering tool.  Plastic, on the other hand, is cheap and readily available.  And it can be HUGE!  Clear plastic tubs (get the largest, most ungainly ones you can find) can provide that false sense of organization while keeping reassuring clutter in the sightlines.

18)   Marie Kondo suggests taking everything out of your closet and then deciding what to keep.  “Do I love it?” is her tool for making decisions.  I suggest taking everything out of your closet.  “I love all of it!” is my tool for cluttering up.  Now that everything is out of your closet, you might as well leave it out.  The cat needs a new shelf (see #14).  In fact, get rid of the closet door so you can watch Whiskers play.

19)   Attach sentimental meaning to all objects.  This enables you to keep virtually anything, from the tags off the sweater your grandma gave you the week before she died, to the Kleenex your child sneezed into during the last complete solar eclipse.

20)   See the possibility in everything.  My grandma trashed four houses.  She was locked out of her last home on Christmas Eve by the Wisconsin Department of Health.  My dad made the mistake of tossing an aluminum Jello mold in the dumpster when he was trying to help Grandma make her house livable.  She fished the Jello mold out of the trash, proclaiming, “If you put a stake in the middle of it, a dog could drink out of it.”

I hope you find these tips helpful as you renew your commitment to clutter!  Feel free to chime in with your best strategies for disorganization.

 

Musical Moment

 

 

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Communal Clutter Cutting

Hey All!

I need your help.  This is an interactive post.  Please share your tips for cutting clutter at home.

1) How do you deal with the 8096 tons of mail/paper?

2) What do you do when your (packrat) child takes after his (packrat) parents?

3) Any thoughts on menu organization/food prep/school lunches?

4) What about boots/shoes?

Seriously – anything would be useful, to me and everyone else.

xoxo – Anne

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The Limits on Freedom of Speech

I figured dinnertime was a good time.  We all sat in the kitchen with our bowls of leftover chili.  “I’ve been thinking a lot about Freedom of Speech,” I said.

What followed was a very brief discussion, mostly between the parents, about the incredible right and responsibility that is Freedom of Speech.  We probably sounded preachy.  The Big E lost interest quickly.  Ace chimed in with, “But there are limits.”  A perfect segue.

“Yes!  What are the limits on Freedom of Speech?” I asked.

E munched blue corn chips, studiously avoiding the beans in the bowl.

“You can’t yell ‘Fire!’ in a theater when there isn’t a fire,” said Ace.

“Unless you think there’s a fire,” said The Big E.

“And you can’t threaten to kill someone.”

“So Freedom of Speech means you can say mean things about a person’s nationality?” I said.

“Yep.”

“And their race?”

“Yep.”

“And their ethnicity?”  (brief digression into the meaning of ethnicity)

“Yep.”

“And their sexuality?”

“Yep.”

“And their gender?”

“Yep.”

As it turns out, just because you can say offensive things, doesn’t mean you should.  In the current election cycle, He-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless provides a stunning example of Freedom of Speech run amok.  Sometimes I wonder whether H-W-S-R-N is simply bringing out the worst in people, the worst that was carefully tucked away, the worst that, in the past, would only be cautiously displayed in private conversation with one’s closest confidante.

People seemed nicer before social media.

Oberlin College, my beloved alma mater, is once again getting a lot of press, this time for distressing reasons.  An assistant professor posted several statements on Facebook that appear to most people to be blatantly anti-Semitic.  Once I picked my jaw up off the floor (How in the world did she make it through the hiring process?), I tried to weed through some of the thoughtful responses examining the meaning of Academic Freedom.  In this case, there seem to be two issues: 1) Does Academic Freedom allow professors to say things that are offensive?  2) Does Academic Freedom allow professors to say things that aren’t true?  (Curiously, Academic Freedom seems to provide more protection when professors spout un-truths outside of their realm of expertise.)

Oberlin’s President Krislov, himself a practicing Jew, defended the professor’s Academic Freedom while questioning her statements.  The Chair of the Board of Trustees issued a far more censorious statement: Anti-Semitism has no place at Oberlin.

The ultimate irony is that the professor teaches in the Rhetoric and Composition department; She understands exactly the power and influence of words.  I’d like to hear from her.  What’s going on?  What did you hope to accomplish with these posts?  Is this some sort of twisted social media experiment to be used for instruction?  She’s currently keeping her own counsel, claiming that anything she says now may influence tenure decisions.  I’ve got news: That horse already left the barn.

During my time at Oberlin, I didn’t engage many of my professors in extra-academic conversation.  Perhaps this was my loss.  Even in my “Medical Ethics, Religion, and Law” course, I had no idea what my professor believed personally.  I was shocked to learn much later that he was staunchly anti-choice.  He did not metaphorically tweet his views.  He did not proselytize on Facebook.  He didn’t try to sway our naïve minds in one direction or the other.

In his class, I studied the distinction between a profession and a job.  Profess-ors are held to a different standard.  I came away believing that in a profession, a person must use her influence carefully, in a manner that respects the profess-ee and the discipline itself.

I’m watching with interest as the Oberlin story unfolds.  President Krislov, to his credit, is not taking hasty, careless action.

And in our household, we will continue our discussion of Freedom of Speech, and how to temper it with love, empathy, and compassion.

 

Musical Moment 

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The Elephant in the Room

I have a confession.  Some of you know that I play percussion at my alma mater, South High School, in the South High Community Band.  What you may not realize is that I am the, ahem, President, of the South High Community Band.

You can call me POTSHCB.  It’s much easier for me to pronounce this when I channel the energy of my Russian ancestors from the Ukraine.

I wouldn’t call it a democracy.  I was appointed President with pretty much no opportunity to turn down the appointment.  Each year I offer up the presidency to all the other Board members.  Each year they all smile and say, pretty much, no thanks.  And I go back to the delightful task of making music with a bunch of lovely people while trying to raise enough cash to keep the group in the black.

We meet at 7 pm Tuesday nights in the band room at South High.  That’s 3131 19th Ave S, Mpls, MN, for those of you who are Band-curious.

Over the years, we’ve learned that STUFF happens on Tuesday nights.  Other stuff.  Non-musical stuff.  In particular WEATHER happens on Tuesday nights.  Snowstorms and windstorms and thunderstorms.  We once performed at the Como Pavillion when it was 104 degrees.  (Fahrenheit.  We were only metaphorically boiling.)

The other STUFF that happens on Tuesdays is political stuff.  (When I started blogging a couple years back, many people warned me to steer clear of two topics: religion and politics.  Oops.)  At least once a year (okay, maybe only once a year) a clarinet or a trombone or a saxophone would sidle up and remind me (fine, inform me) that caucuses would be held the following Tuesday and count them out of rehearsal.  They were all Democrats.

To me, caucuses were Junk-That-Interferes-With-Band.  I inwardly rolled my eyes the tiniest bit.  I mean, come on.  How important could they be?  Isn’t voting in the general election enough to fulfill my civic duty?

Mapquest convinced me to get a little more involved.

“Where are you starting?”  St. Paul, MN

“Where are you going?”  Canada

Mapquest goes into a tailspin.  No, not Canada, NC, or Canada, KS.  Just plain Canada.  That big old country to the North with the cutey PM with the pinchable cheeks?  You know?  Mapquest, don’t fail me now.  What if, hypothetically speaking, something unimaginable, horrendous, unbelievable, improbable, and terrifying happens in November?  And I and the other reasonable, rational Americans (who seem to be inadequately represented on social media) feel compelled to flee?  Oh Mapquest, your “I’m thinking” circle is still spinning!  Ack!

Mapquest forced me to be more proactive.  Instead of waiting around for the reasonable, rational Americans (WHO I KNOW STILL EXIST SOMEWHERE) to do reasonable, rational things on my behalf, I decided to go out and do some reasonable, rational things on my own behalf.

Like attending caucus tomorrow night.  A Tuesday.  So I cancelled band.  One must occasionally take drastic measures when one is POTSHCB.  I’m not entirely sure what happens at a caucus, but I can’t wait to find out.  And neither should you.  Here is a helpful tutorial if you’re a Minnesotan.  Green Party info here.  Libertarians here.  Independents here.

If you’re not a Minnesotan, you might consider a move, eh?  The rumor on the street, unconfirmed as of yet, is that we’re real close to Canada.  Yep.

Musical Moment

 

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Curiosity

Curiosity didn’t kill the cat.  Curiosity sensitized her whiskers, perked up her ears to sounds she’d never heard before.  Old tunes rang new as curiosity fine-tuned the hertz for a different perspective.

Curiosity led the cat into unexpected friendships, spontaneous meals, and the opportunity for love.  Love not only with her people, but with any people regardless of gender identity, race, religion, gluten status, sexual orientation, or nationality.

Curiosity is the vaccine for apathy, the antidote to loneliness, the cure for ignorance and fear.

Musical Moment

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NaNoWriMo Merriment

As many of you know, November is National Novel Writing Month.  This is the month that friends and coworkers look particularly underslept as they toil into the wee hours, mining their experience for perfect words, fifty thousand perfect words!

Chuck Wendig, author/blogger/swearer, requested today that his loyal followers post 1000 words from their works in progress.  When Chuck asks, Chuck receives.

Hence, I’ve come out of blog hibernation to deliver 1000 words from my YA novel-in-progress.

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On Thursday morning, two days after my fifteenth birthday, I got boobs. I woke up with a wicked neckache, wondering how the pillow got wedged under my chest. It wasn’t a pillow. What the? I rolled over and peeked down the neck of my Andy Warhol Marilyn tee. Two towers had arisen in a previously vacant lot, like the fairy frickin’ Godmother of Mammaries had flown over our house and dumped her whole toxic load of sparkly magic dust. Lucky me.

I’ve read all the books – at the onset of puberty, girls develop breast buds, blah blah blah. Who comes up with these names? It’s not like we’re growing chrysanthemums or something. Supposedly development follows a logical, slow progression, with height topping out around a year after the first period. All I have to show for my puberty is a shiny T-zone and fuzzy apricot hair. And now boobs.

I sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders sagging under the new baggage. Seriously, I must’ve gained twenty percent of my body weight overnight. At five foot two and (previously) ninety pounds, no one ever mistakes me for an actual student at my high school.

One look in the bathroom mirror and I about fainted. There is no way that I can carry these things around for the next seven decades! Do personal trainers have programs for breast management? Showering required two minutes and four ounces of body wash more than usual. I pulled the idiotic “training bra” out of my dresser. My mom bought it for me in a fit of wishful thinking when I turned twelve. The two tiny triangles of virginal white fabric seemed to shrink in horror from the abominations on my chest.

“Aurélie!” I yelled down the hall. “Mother person!” Nothing. I yanked on a pair of undies, purple leggings, and my sleepshirt and went in search of maternal guidance. Not that Aurélie ever has anything useful to offer in the way of parental wisdom. With a name like that, people assume she’s really only qualified to give candid opinions about Bordeaux wines, the latest wife of French ex-president Sarkozy, and Nicolas Ghesquiere’s summer line. Big mistake. She’s wicked smart, just not that practical when it comes to parenting.

I plodded into her bedroom. Aurélie’s massive four poster king-sized monstrosity of gold satin with a filmy aquamarine silk flourish stood empty in the middle of the room, the fluffy comforter exactly in place. One click and you’d have the cover of a decorating magazine. I opened the french doors to her house-sized closet. My mom and I are not cut from the same cloth. She spends the average annual income of a farmer in Sierra Lione on a pair of shoes that she might wear twice.

I rifled through her lingerie chest – seriously, a piece of furniture dedicated solely to undergarments! The bras lay in precise piles, smooth puddles of scarlet satin, fuchsia lace, cerulean charmeuse. I grabbed the least lacy of the bunch and threaded the elastic around my rib cage. Way too big. The cups were too big, too. Please tell me I won’t get this huge. Please.

Aurélie doesn’t look ridiculously large chested. She’s proportional. Perfectly proportional according to every man who’s ever laid eyes on her, gay, straight, priest, married, partnered, whatever. Don’t ask me how a 5’10” voluptuous goddess with dove grey eyes, a thick mane of luminous cobalt waves, and flawless alabaster skin spawned me. I mean I know red hair is like dominant genetically and everything, but mine is DOMINANT, ridiculously curly, eye-scorchingly orange, and completely impossible. I flipped my braid like an irritated filly and sprawled across Aurélie’s bed. What to do. Eat.

Her text came through after I inhaled two burritos with a side of baked beans:

“Charlotte-” Is it so hard to call me Charlie? “I’m in NY for the weekend. Brit will be over. Let the moms know if you need anything. Please feed the fish.”

You might think a mother would discuss upcoming travel plans with her only offspring. And she might leave a mushy handwritten note, all xoxo and curlicues. That’s not the way she rolls. She steamrolls. I guess I’m used to it.

I sighed heavily. If I’d known I had to feed the fish this morning I would’ve gotten up fifteen minutes earlier. Now with the boob thing, I’d really be pushing it to be ready by the time Lev pulled up out front. So unfair that Lev, a boy, gets two awesome moms and I’m stuck with a model-perfect workaholic replicant with a distinct lack of maternal instinct. Maybe Lev wished he had a dad when his voice changed four years ago.

The moms would know what to do. Normally, I’d just pop next door and ask. Due to the sensitive nature of my questions I called.

“Hello?” Rachel answered.

“Hey, it’s Charlie.”

“What’s up, girl?”

Houston, we have a problem. Two big problems. “Could you come over for a sec?”

“Are you okay, honey?”

“Uh. Yeah. I have kind of an embarrassing situation.”

“Did you get your period finally?!” When did Becca get on the line? Sheesh!

“No,” I grunted. Of course not. I’m only FIFTEEN!!!!

“Then what is it?”

“Bec, relax. I’ll go over.” Rachel hung up.

“See you in a minute, Charlie.” Becca hung up.

Great. I hit the mother lode.

Becca and Rachel let themselves in the side door. They’ve never felt comfortable coming to the front. Our house is a little over the top, like twenty perfect rooms in a pristinely preserved 1930s Spanish Colonial mansion on the lovely Lake of the Isles with immaculately tended gardens and an aquarium for a living room.

The moms stared at my chest, immediately identifying the reason for my distress.

“Jesus,” Becca said. “Did they spring up since yesterday?”

“Bec, sweetie. A little sensitivity.”

“Yeah,” I frowned. “Like two virulent tumors.”

“Your mom’s at work?” Becca asked. I nodded.

Rachel put her arm around my shoulders. “Breasts are miraculous organs –“

“- beautifully designed to provide complete nutrition,” Becca cut in. “We know, Rach. The girl needs some pragmatic assistance, first-day-with-real-boobs assistance.”

“I looked in Aurélie’s drawer. She doesn’t have anything that’ll work.”

“Gee,” Becca said. “What a shock.”

“Bec,” Rachel warned with subtle shake of her head.

“What’s your goal, Charlie,” Becca continued. “Are you looking to minimize, maximize, tether, dangle, or what?”

“Minimize and support,” I said. “My shoulders are hurting and I only got up twenty minutes ago.”

“Give her one of your exercise bras, Rach. Mine are too big. I’m outta here, have to get to the shop. Have a great day babe.” She kissed Rachel deep and fast on the mouth. “Later Charlie.”

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This Bird Has Flown

I spent the weekend at NerdCon Stories.  Met a young woman named Silje.  No, it’s not Sill-gee.  When she says it, it rolls off her tongue like caramel and sounds a bit like Celia.

What nationality is your name? I ask.

Turns out she’s Norwegian, like from Norway.

I tell her I have a story in my head (since I’m at NerdCon STORIES) about Norway, that everyone has a place to live and enough food to eat.  And all the people have access to healthcare and education.

And she’s like, yeah, that’s pretty much true.

She tells me the story she has in her head of the US and it’s all violence – shootings and rape and muggings.

She’s afraid to walk alone.

(There are two separate school shootings in the United States that very day.)

Where does the truth lie in our culture of fear?

Musical Moment

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This is the Moment

No yesterday.

No tomorrow.

Only NOW.

Is your NOW consistent with your YOU?

Musical Moment

 

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Korean Angelica – my official FAVORITE PLANT

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Looking Dull.

I obtained my first Korean Angelica (Angelica gigas) plants from the Friends School Plant Sale (neonicotinoid free) several years ago.  I didn’t know quite what to expect.  That first year, the plants were somewhat dull.  They just sat there and photosynthesized.

The plants made it through the winter and I waited in breathless anticipation.  Round about mid-July, a purplish stalk shot up and erupted into the craziest flowers I’d ever seen.    IMG_9021

Korean Angelica is the plant that would inhabit the nightmares of folks who are afraid of bees.

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Pollinator Smorgasbord.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The third year the plants were gone; they’re biennials.  I just buy them every year so I have some in the boring phase and some in the phantasmagical stage.

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Chester sitting next to Korean Angelica to help with perspective.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My plants self-seeded last year. Here are the adorable babies.

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The News

I hang up the phone.  Aunt Loretta is dead.  The Queen of Ice Hockey now sits on her celestial throne, with empty chairs to her left and right awaiting Jayna Hefford and Wayne Gretzky.  From thence she shall come to judge the quick and the quicker.

I find Ace in the kitchen and pull him into a hug.  “Aunt Loretta is dead,” I whisper in his ear.  This is the way we deliver unexpected bad news.  This is how we begin to figure out how to tell The Big E.

Aunt Loretta isn’t really my aunt, though I’d be happy to share genetic material.  Her husband, Uncle John (coincidentally not my real uncle), introduced my parents.  To each other.  Technically I owe my entire existence to Aunt Loretta and Uncle John.  We spent at least a week each summer at my fake relatives’ cabin.  My dad helped run the wiring and plumbing for the place.

Fly swatters: Uncle John’s “first line of defense.”

Noxzema – look for it in the dark blue tub: “Take a tablespoon of Noxzema to fix what ails you.”

Boiling water: Into which we dip the dishes and occasionally our bare fingers.

The creak of the huge metal hinge as I open the door to the cellar.  And the humid air tinged with pungent gasoline as I creep around in search of the styrofoam worm bucket.

Aunt Loretta oils herself hairline to toes, a ritual basting in preparation for ultraviolet treatment.  She wears a modest two-piece, maybe turquoise, and funny plastic anti-goggles that lay over the orbits, blocking all light, black smiley faces where the irises would be.

Ace tells me he already told the children, The Big E and our borrowed Wisconsin child, a girl of six.  He overheard bits and pieces of my side of the conversation.  The girl, let’s call her Rapunzel, says her grandpa is very old and she hopes he doesn’t die soon.  Ace murmurs something helpful about the Circle of Life and how all people die eventually.  Rapunzel agrees, yes, all people die.  She says even a  child could die but it isn’t very likely.

I freak out a little as Ace relays the conversation.

Aunt Loretta is never in a bad mood.  She smiles and laughs freely.  She calls me Anniedoodle and teaches me crazy stories about a burping mountain lion.  An eight-foot stuffed swordfish guards over her midcentury living room.  She starts playing hockey in her forties and continues into her ninth decade.  Aunt Loretta gives me a stuffed animal (fiberfill, not taxidermy) every single year at Christmastime, fully ignoring my transition into adulthood.

Busy the Beaver.  A toucan.  Ginger the Fox.  Timothy the Turtle.  And more recently Antlers the Moose and Whaley the Killer Whale, both of whom are immediately appropriated by The Big E.

Bon voyage Aunt Loretta.  May your skate blades be ever sharp, your limericks perpetually clever, and the sun’s rays eternal.  I will continue to claim you as my own blood.  As you know, the Lippins make a habit of turning good people into relatives.

Goodbye, dear Aunt.

Musical Moment

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