This is My Body, This is My Blood

Keeping In Touch

Oh give it to me, give it to me
I don't want to know much about much
Give it to me, give it to me
I need, I need, I need the human touch

~~Elvis Costello, "Human Touch" from the album, Get Happy.

You'd think a massage therapist would never take for granted the power of human touch but you know, sometimes I do. Sometimes I get so caught up in the day to day demands of heading a household and housing and holding all those dreamy heads I lose my place at the table.

Massage therapists will often claim they're not healers, they are merely vessels for healing. The downside to this belief is that in order to let that big of a love to flow through one's body she must, to a degree, get out of her own way. This dichotomy of receiving and re-gifting while simultaneously being accountable for the transfusion of touch is a tricky thing. When you get it right, when every moment feels like a dance between you and the gods and one of their precious children, it's better than any dopamine-induced trip you'll ever take.

But like most highs, in order to reach nirvana you sometimes take leave of your own body. And occasionally, you forget to come back. For me, all it takes is a tender reach, a simple hand on my back or a squeezed shoulder to send me keening toward home--that place within my body where the marriage of cell and soul feels complete. Somewhere inside these moments I remember why I do what I do,  why I need the same thing in order to continue doing it, and why, if I'm starved for touch, I simply cannot give to others from an empty well.

On my 48th birthday a dear friend offered to help me with a staggering list of neglected chores around my house and yard. We replanted shrubs, worked on the bike shed I'm building, took down old rotted shutters, patched stucco, and lastly, re-lit the pilot on my tenant's space heater. As we lay splayed out on the apartment floor--me with the lighter and M with the flashlight-- he looked at me and said, "Happy Birthday." I mumbled a thanks and continued to fumble with the knob. He rested his hand on my arm and said again, "Happy Birthday, Ellie," and this time I heard him.

Later that afternoon M rubbed my feet while we caught up on our lives, and I felt myself gradually return to the physical container that supports this delicious life. After dinner he massaged me for what I guess was probably hours, but time lost any linear quality as soon as I surrendered to the receiving end of tenderness, knowing there were no expectations, no strings, no need for reciprocity. According to M I fell asleep audibly purring.

In the days that followed, I felt strangely awkward on my feet, as if I were breaking in new shoes. Eventually I recognized that newness as a much-needed reunion with my touch-starved body. In an effort to sustain that feeling of wholeness, I immediately booked a massage for the following Friday with my current assistant, D. Next week I have another massage scheduled with a new gal I'm contemplating hiring for the day spa we're opening in Avila.

Today when the phone rings and I once again find myself standing at the head of my massage table, I will be steady on these bare feet, my hands will carry the memory of recent touch, and I'll be able to reach deeply into a well now overflowing with gratitude and good intentions. With one hand cradling her heavy head, one slipping beneath the sheet to cup her weary sacrum, the dance will begin again. One, two, three, breathe, one, two, three, breathe, one, two, three...

This post is dedicated to M, for the Best. Birthday. Ever. Thank you for mapping the way back home with your strong yet gentle hands. I really, really, needed that.

Second Time Around

"Once we accept our limits, we go beyond them." Albert Einstein.

The other day on our way to classes, I asked J to read a short essay I'd done on The Truman Show for my eng comp class because he had the same prof last semester and I figured he knew what the instructor was looking for. J read through the two pages then threw it on the dashboard with a snarky "overachiever!" under his breath. It was meant as an insult but having been an under-achiever throughout high school and a history of people in my past who accused me of being "intellectually lazy" J  had no idea how well his intended slur was received.

In the past, I'd have turned in papers that were "good enough" but not great. Last semester I really struggled with my history and political science courses and it would have been a lot easier to spend less time studying and just accept a B. But this time it's different. I want to learn these things. I want to challenge myself, feel my achy brain cells pushing themselves to absorb input.

One of the biggest challenges at this time in my life is to recognize my limits. The 4.0 last term was a great shot of confidence, but I need to transcend old tapes that remind me of my ambitious limits while forgiving myself if I don't excel in every realm of the required curriculum. I'm only taking one course this semester because I can foresee the homework load in a 4-credit research class. No matter how much effort I put into the work, it still boils down to a matter of good enough, but the bar for enough is measured by me rather than some outside force.

I have never been a perfectionist. I'm more of a  "good enough" type person. This is evident in all the almost-finished projects around the house like the towel bar I replaced, but haven't yet filled the old holes and painted over. Or the cute little opening I had cut into my bedroom door for the cats to come and go but haven't yet finished framing. Or the bike shed that's 3/4 built while the bicycles sit in the rain. And the dog door I still haven't caulked.  And on and on ad nauseum.

Time, like energy, has it's limits as well. Like how I really meant this post to be more profound after all these weeks time since the last, but I have to go give a massage and an elderly client needs a ride to visit her husband in the hospital and my oil needs changing (3000 miles ago) so I guess this is just going to have to be good enough.

Photo: This is the group of students in my history class last semester who I laughed and studied with, and who made me forget I'm not 20 years old with my whole life ahead of me.

Round Trip

Did it take long to find me? I asked the faithful light.
Did it take long to find me? and are you gonna stay the night?
Cat Stevens, Moon Shadow

The moon hung like a broken pendulum from an abandoned grandfather clock outside my window last night. I tried pulling the covers over my head but the white noise crawled under the sheets and played a busy highway against the mattress. I closed my eyes and tried to turn the roar into waves the way I do when I stay at a cheap roadside motel, but it didn't help any more than when I stay in an oceanfront inn and the pounding waves turn into cars on a phantom freeway. It's all the same, isn't it? Coming and going. Going and coming.

So I got up. I got up and yanked the blinds, let the light all the way in. Stood there naked in front of the window, daring the moon to drown me in his bluewhite rain. I know it's been coming just as sure as I know winter's buried beneath my feet and one of these days it's gonna burst forth and turn Cerro San Luis green again, so why not welcome it? Yeah. Why not.

Because I'm tired of this swinging door of seasons. I'm tired of saving daylight and holding onto mornings when the evening is inevitable. I'm tired of the goodbyes and laters and maybes. I've had it with watching my life unfold in a rear-view mirror, one hand waving as he shrinks in the distance. The sun does its best to shield me, burn the memories into a smile, but with the darkness comes oblivion--a million pieces of me scattered in the sky like so much nothing.

I stood there anyway. Let the lump of sad fill my lungs then wind its way up my throat, where the soft tones of denial turned into a howl that shook me to the core. I became the highway, the ocean, the nothing and the everything.

I don't know how long it lasted, don't remember the walk back to bed where the cats curled themselves around my legs like bookends. The only fragment that has stayed with me this morning is the last arc of curved light as it rose above the window, leaving behind a soft dent in the sky where I suspect that howl must have landed. I woke feeling hollow, quiet, strangely stoic against the weaving of heart and head as they rally for tactical positions.

I give myself over to my feet instead. They take me to the kitchen, back to bed, to the window, back to bed. Coming and going. Going and coming.

Technorati Tags: relationships, perimenopause, menopause, cat stevens,  essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, endings

Writing Out the Storm

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.  ~Ray Bradbury

Every once in a while I tiptoe down the halls of my mind and pause before the closed door of prolificity, where rotting poems and decaying narratives lie naked and forgotten.  A darkened room where creativity once flourished in the fertility of Free Time.

Sometimes I actually touch the cold handle, daring myself to turn it clockwise. By the time I get up the nerve, the tiny morsel of oppurtunity has passed and the pulse of an idea begins to whither. Eventually it slithers beneath the door to join the others.

It's 5:53 A.M. I woke to the dog licking my foot, let her outside, and in my foggy state accidentally opened the wrong door on my way back to bed. Now here I stand among the putrified remains of a story, wondering if I still own the gift of words or if it has been taken from me due to neglect. I'm nervous and afraid--discomfited by my own derelict. I want to run.

As I back toward the door I stumble and land ass-first in the Hundred Dollar Chair. An unseen hand--my own, I think--sets a raspberry latte on the side table. The keyboard lands in my lap, and my sleepy fingers find home. One by one, the first couple words choke and sputter, resurrected from the tombs of tragic sacrifice. Light finds its way into the room as I lift first one, then the other hand. I take a deep breath and push.

Every once in a while I tiptoe down the halls...

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, writer's block, relationships, body image, depression,  essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage

Eerie Canal

A couple weeks ago I ended up with an outer ear infection--commonly known as swimmers ear-- most likely a result of soaking for long periods my new bathtub. Not one to immediately seek Western medical attention, I tried a few homeopathic remedies--the first being to fill an old sock with heated table salt and lay it under my right ear. My mother swore the hot salt would draw out  infection  I don't know about the method's curative qualities but the warmth did ease the pain and removed one mateless sock from the pile of renegades in my bottom drawer.

When the pain worsened my friend J suggested I let her pour a little warm olive oil down my eaustatchian tube. She'd read somewhere that  coating the inner ear with oil will heal  the infection and the warmth soothes the pain. That might be true, but I should have checked the temperature before letting her pour the scalding "remedy" into my ear as I lay with my head on her dining room table. Screaming ensued, followed by endless apologies from my well-intenioned friend.

My grandfather used to inhale from his curvy pipe and expel the tobacco smoke into my ear when we were kids and as much as I abhor cigarette smoke, I still love the smell of pipe tobacco thanks to the memory of his gentle earache treatments. S tried hotboxing my ear after taking a pull on his tiny pipe, but it just wasn't the same. Memories of my towering seven-fingered grandfather were replaced by memories of smokey basements filled with  bad poets and stoned dropouts. And my ear still hurt.

Eventually I took myself to the ER and got fixed up with an antibiotic and  some Vicodin. Yeah, well, I tried all the natural stuff and it didn't work, so shoot me. And when my son, J, ended up with an outer ear infection the following week, I trotted him right down to the health cllinic where they were nice enough to squeeze him between scheduled patients. Unfortunately the only available space was a gyno-room and when I tracked him down after filling out paperwork, found him wide-eyed--surrounded by cross-sectioned vaginas, diagramed penises, and godforsaken photographs of horrible venerial diseases in various stages of digress. Adding to his horror were the speculum and swabs neatly laid out on the counter.

"You need to move to the table so the doctor can examine you," I said.

He pointed to the stirrups with knitted socks dangling from the ends. "I'm not sitting there. I know what happens on that table."

"They change the sheeting between patients, dummy."

He stayed fastened to the doctor's stool. "I don't care. I'm not going to sit there."

When the doctor finally entered, she poked a light in his ears and tsked. "You put any bubbles in your bath?"

J nodded.

"You know," she said, "The ear canal isn't all unlike the vaginal canal."

J physically jerked, made a face at me that said, She did not just compare part of my face to a twat and promptly pulled his head away from the doctor. The comic in my brain contain the urge to blurt out, "Eusatchia is the new vagina!"

"It's true," she continued. "Lot's of girls and women get infections from soaps, perfumes, bubblles, bath salts, etc. It messus up the Ph balance."

Eventually my trauatized son and I left with a prescription for an antibiotic (no Vicodin) which I promptly filled. Two days later my own ear infection returned. I wasn't about to take more antibiotics so I made for Rite Aid to find an OTC medication.  Passing by an aisle towering with pads and tampons for which I no longer have use, I headed for the ear treatments. As I stood stdying wax removal sytems and various swimmer's ear remedies, I remembered the kind doctor's words.

Are you getting ahead of me yet?  Yes, I returned to the "feminine" aisle and yes, I did purchase MonoStat and I indeed did squirt the stuff in my ear and no, Roz, I cannot hear people coming. In fact, I can't hear a damn thing with this crap in my head but I'm glad the doctor didn't compare ears to anuses because if I'd used Preparation H  I wouldn't be able to hear for shit. Har de Har.

Technorati Tags: ear infection, swimmer's ear>,aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, getting older, libido, body image, depression, essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, incontinence

Aged Whine

The years teach much which the days never knew.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

is this how it starts--
this sliding away of brain cells
like change down the sofa cushions
hidden away in dusty recesses--unseen
but not unmissed?

Take this morning, for instance
reaching for massage oil
you pump liquid soap instead
an easy mistake, maybe
but later you're making a point
--or trying to--about famous people
in politics,when suddenly the name of that actor 
(you can see his face) turns to vapor
before reaching your tongue

you squint real hard as if
you might squeeze the name
from behind your eyelids
well, you know who I mean, you say

it's not just the memory, no
it's the body, this body
once lean and strong and sexy, my god
how it thrilled you to own it
before you began waking during the night
right arm aching, fingers numb
the wood floor like gravel
beneath your bare feet each morning

as you stumble to the kitchen
groaning--ow, ow, ow
no one hears you complain, though
because the bed is empty
no lover waiting for your return
no coffee delivered by gentle hands
no dent left by his body
in the crumpled sheets

and you're okay with it, really
measured it all very carefully
the weight of love against
this solitary life, their neediness
against your need to mold each day
with your own hands, hands that remind you
of your mother's now, folded
across your chest, listening to your own breath
as you wade through a hot flash t
hen bolt upright, eyes wide
Martin Sheen!
   
Technorati Tags: aging, growing older, memory loss,second half of life,aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, essay, blog, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage,martin sheen,

Breast of Times

This post is in honor of my Breast Friend, Sue Richards, of Calendar Girl for all her dedicated work and hard-fought battles to promote breast health to men and women everywhere.  I made a vow as a Breast Ambassador to spread the gospel of breast health, so please click on over to her blog and buy a lovely Breast of Canada Calendar for as many people as you can think to endow with this gorgeous and informative gift. Thank you.

Up until my youngest brother pushed his way into our already-crowded house of six girls plus  two parents, I hadn't taken much notice of the difference between my chest and my mother's--or even my oldest sisters' developing bosoms.  In fact, at a mere five years of age I assumed the matching bulges that filled my mother's dresses were God's way of gifting warm pillows to sleepy heads as they nodded off on soft laps.

This all changed the day my grandmother stood over our kitchen table sprinkling starch-water on white sheets and pillow cases while my mom rocked D in her arms. To my utter amazement, she unbuttoned her blouse and  pulled the swaddled lump that was my baby brother against her bare chest. I watched in awe as D  latched onto her nipple like a Kindergarten painting onto a fridge door and suckled for all his 13-pound worth (yes, that was his birth weight!).  My mother and grandmother continued chatting as if neither considered the fat-cheeked new person gumming my mother's breast to his heart's content, was worthy of wide-eyed staring.

Dumbfounded by the extraordinary event taking place in our kitchen, I moved closer to my mother in an attempt to get a better look, but the edge of her blouse concealed both her boob and my brother's face. Undaunted, I planted myself in the adjacent chair, then matter-of-factly reclined until my head was in my mother's lap, under the arm that supported the slurping baby where I had a dead-on view of this most curious happening.  Sure as Sunday, D was sucking on the end of my mother's breast, and as if that weren't impressive enough, my mother suddenly pulled the nipple out of his mouth and flopped him over her shoulder, leaving the pendulous pillow dangling above my face where I-shit-you-not warm, bluish-white fluid sprayed my face.

I jumped to my feet and wiped my cheek with my sleeve as my grandmother cackled in the memorable way that is forever etched into my bones.

"Whatsa matter, Ellie? You want some?"

I shook my head furiously.

"Sure you do. Give her a taste, Aussie." That laugh again.

I felt a warm heat travel up my neck and over my face. In a moment more surreal than I'd yet to experience, my mother pulled me closer and placed my small hand on her bare breast.

"There's milk inside. It's how D gets his food. Same way you and all your sisters were fed."

Still recovering from the blasphemy of bodily fluids that had just coated my face, I was now completely blown away by all this new information, along with the sensory input of my mother's breast under my palm.

As if sensing my thoughts, my mother smiled. "Go ahead," she said. "Squeeze."

I looked down at the hand that no longer registered as part of my own body and curled my fingers around her flesh. Milk bubbled out from the big brown nipple and onto my mother's aproned knee. I remember thinking this was the warmest, softest thing I'd ever touched in my life.

My brother belted a burp that broke the suspended silence.

"Atta boy!" my grandmother said. "Let that air go, it ain't payin' rent."

My mother tucked her breast back into her blouse and dropped the other before shifting my brother to the opposite side while her mother moved a basket of damp linens to the mangle in the corner of the kitchen. I left a room filled with hissing and suckling and my mother's low hum changed by the extraordinary events I'd just witnessed. As I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, I carried with me a new understanding of how much my mother loved us, and her mother, her.

That night I lay in bed with my hand on my smooth chest not yet knowing the magic I would experience upon nursing my own three children, nor the words a lover would one day whisper upon first caress of my nubile young breasts.

These are the warmest, softest things I've ever touched in my life...

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, breastfeeding, nursing, mothers, Breast of Canada, Calendar Girl, essay, blog, breasts, breast health, writing, writers, mothering, daughters, women, massage

Photo by Lauren Cruickshank for 2007 Breast of Canada Calendar
 

La Casa De Ellie

“Community cannot for long feed on itself; it can only flourish with the coming of others from beyond, their unknown and undiscovered brothers.” Howard Thurman

It wasn't without some trepidation that I once again posted an ad on Craigslist, offering up a room with shared housing privileges. My reasons are not only financial--I just can't in good conscience sit on an empty room when such a terrible housing shortage exists in this college town. Besides, I'm a firm believer in community, and that I'm not only offering a safe haven for these kids as they pass through the halls of Casa De Ellie, but an exchange of experiences and ideas.

During their brief stays, I try to teach my roomies a thing or two about cooking, respect for other's privacy & property, and how to live a little more lightly on the planet (and budget) in terms of recycling, using less water, and turning off lights. In return, they help keep my aging fingers on the pulse of today's youth, provide inspiration from their short lives and adventures, and keep the windows of my mind open and breezy as they sweep through the winters of my life.

As I typed that last line, my newest roommate passed by my room on his way down the hall toward our only bathroom, sleep still trailing from his bare footsteps. The handyman was supposed to come this morning to finish plumbing the new tub, but called to say he's a day behind. T was planning to get a shower in ahead of the work---hence the early wake-up. T really likes his showers and despite my directives with regard to water-saving, takes 2-3 a day. Because he rides his bike everywhere,  I don't balk at the water usage so long as he keeps showers brief. Besides, he looks so damn cute with that orange towel wrapped around his waist, wet curls falling over his Hawaain eyes as he stands in the kitchen while I'm sweeping the floor, telling me about how he went line-dancing with his girlfriend the night before even though he can't stand country music. How she helps him with math and he helps her with physics (they're both aerospace engineer majors). That he thinks I'd like this book called, "American Gods," after reflecting upon our philosophical conversation over yesterday's breakfast together. Then he freely tells me about his friend, L, who he has loved since they were children, that he falls in love easily and genitalia are not an obstacle to his heart.

Winter before last, S landed on my doorstep and blew through these rooms like a Tasmanian Devil on crack. She stayed out late, sqeauled like a child at the smallest joys or disappointments, burned my good pans, and left a head-shaped dent in my shoulder from the endless litany of drama spilled there as I held her close and listened. Over time, she learned to use low heat on stainless steel,  quit her job as an exotic dancer, and began planning her path back to school. She still comes by once in a while to take the dogs for a walk or just to say hi and fill me in on her life.

Recently S showed up at J's Central Coast Idol performance carrying the bright pink sign her kids from an after-school care center had made to cheer on her "brother". Although I can't take credit for the successful changes in her life, I like to think this temporary rest-stop offered a vessel in which to contain all that energy before she made the choice to channel it in a new direction. I like to think she-- and those who follow her shadow through these doors today and tomorrow-- will forever be changed by their experience as much as they help to shape the me I am constantly becoming

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, going back to college, new roommate, mothers, Cal Poly, adult student, essay, blog, school, cuesta college, writing, writers, studying, mfa, women, massage

Where's Waldo's Mom?

Education is not preparation for life; education is life itself. John Dewey

On my first day of school, I figured I'd stand out like a banana in a bowl of grapes, but surprisingly, nobody seemed to notice (or care) that a 47 year-old student was in line behind them in the cafeteria, walking past the row of them in the bathroom without stopping to check her mascara, taking furious notes as if she were actually interested in the lecture. In fact, I've since learned from a few classmates (and one prof) that although they figured I was an older student, they had no idea how old.

Huh. I thought it was obvious. Just in case you're unsure, I came up with a few clues to spot middle-aged female students who are young enough to fit in, yet old enough to be your mother. She's the only one who:

...drives a minivan

...drops her kid on the frontage road before parking in the lot so he doesn't bear the shame of peers knowing his Mom goes to the same college.

...watches that kid walk up the sidewalk, rooting for him, hoping he's happy.

...has a few gray hairs in her blond pigtails.

...isn't bouncing her knees all during class after having consumed candy bars and soda for breakfast.

...wants to smack the kids who don't hold the door open for others, always come in late, act as if they're doing the world a favor by their mere presence.

...fans herself while all the other students wear sweaters and complain about the air conditioning.

...walks into the wrong classroom during the third week of school, shrugs and leaves, as though not mortified by such a nerdy faux pas

...asks the prof how big the type is on today's test because she forgot her reading glasses.

...waves the A on her history test in front of the kid, as if waiting for a raise in allowance or keys to the family car

...nods knowlingly as the prof talks about the Nixon years and the Viet Nam war without having read the text.

...has the urge to hug everyone in the room just because they're all so damn fresh and on the verge of their young lives.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, going back to college, integrated studies, mothers, Cal Poly, adult student, essay, blog, school, cuesta college, writing, writers, studying, mfa, women, massage

Whistler's Mother

The singer has everything within him. The notes come out from his very life. They are not materials gathered from outside.  Rabindranath Tagore

A couple of hours from now, I'l lie in bed with the lights out, but I won't sleep. Not until I hear those few clear notes as he whistles his way up the street on his way home from Subway will I fully relax. It's been a rough year for us. For him. I'm always relieved when I hear his melodic preamble even before I hear his bike roll up the gravel driveway.

From the time he was a toddler, I knew when J was up by the singing that drifted from his bedroom upon awaking. He still sings in his room sometimes but mostly now, he whistles. It's a reassuring sound, proof that he's survived another night of fighting off video game warriors, haggling with the two dogs for the biggest share of covers, and the miracle that keeps all his parts working in synchronistic perfection despite how many Dr. Peppers, Pizzas, and french fries he eats to fuel those melodic lungs.

A few weeks ago we walked through Farmer's Market as our local Fox station was setting up a booth for the third and final set of Central Coast Idol auditions. Earlier that afternoon I had dared him to try out--even printed out the lyrics to one of his favorite oldies songs, but he refused. "I'm not a singer," he said. But as we woofed down our BBQ sandwiches that evening, I double-dared him.

"Oh go on. It'll be fun."

He took a long pull on his soda before answering. "Ok. But if I do it, you have to turn the cable TV back on."

Ugh. I hate TV. But I really wanted to see him get up there and sing. "I'll make the appointment but you have to pay for it."

He made me shake on it before shuffling up the sidewalk to fill out an audition form and choosing "Mack the Knife" from a list of available karaoke songs. We waited  through a couple dozen of MariahCareyCelineDionAliciaKeyes wannabe's with a few country music idols thrown in for good measure. A couple contestants were fairly good, if not over the top on the runs and vibratto. Most of them were kinda bad. A few were embarassingly awful.

J was the next-to-last singer, right after they announced the karaoke machine quit working.

"Sorry, Mom. Can't do it."

I pulled a CD from my purse. "Wait! I still have "Happy Together" by the Turtles that I recorded earlier." I handed it to him along with the printed lyrics.

He looked at the CD, then at the DJ, then back at the CD before handing the disc to me. "I am officially a TV whore," he said, before queing his place on the steps to the stage.

The crowd loved the goofy kid with the crazy afro and mis-buttoned shirt. (Scroll down and click on Jacob's initial audition) They sang along with him, some of them swaying shoulder-to-shoulder with the familiar tune. And they clapped like crazy when he finished.

We walked home smiling--me with pride and him with the knowledge that he'd soon be getting his TV back. He never expected them to call to say he'd made the Top Ten--the only one without voice lessons and training. That a bunch of his friends would show up at The Clark Center to cheer him on during his performance of Mack the Knife. (click on Jacob's perfomance in the Final Ten box) That he'd make his mom smile like a jack-o-lantern on crack for a week running.

Thanks, kid. You made my day. You make my life.

Love,

Mom

NOTE: You have to listen to a commercial before the performance. Also, some people have had trouble viewing the videos.

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