The Calendar

It's the last day of April.

The calendar in our bathroom has a butterfly on it.  I can't figure this butterfly out.

Why does its head look so weird?  Is that its eye?  It's like a huge bird eye.  Or is that part of its body?  Why does it have two bodies?  Is there a second butterfly in this picture?   What, exactly, is going on?

It's kind-of driving me nuts.

I cannot wait to turn the page on this calendar.

I don't know if it's the calendar, or just life in a bathroom, but for some reason I'm very anxious for time to get moving.

It's this strange phenomenon.  Every morning, when I look at that calendar, I start thinking: "I cannot wait for this month to be over."

And then I stop myself and think, "Why in the world am I thinking that?"

It happened last month too.  There was a giant tulip on the page.  It's a beautiful picture -- but I just got tired of the whole thing.


There are moments in life when you want time to hurry up.  Events you can hardly wait to finally arrive --
       proposals and weddings
                pregnancies and babies
                         vacations and celebrations
                                 graduations and anniversaries
                                         holidays and birthdays
             seeing a friend or a loved one after a long time apart . . .

Sometimes we want time to hurry up so that moments can end and come to a close --
         a long school year,
                           tiring events that take up too much time and energy,
                    bouts with illness,
                                      too-tight schedules,
                                                  a day of cleaning,
                                                                               a year of waiting,
                                              "I just can't wait for this to finally be over . . ."

And there are the bittersweet  waitings . . .
    when we don't know if we want time to hurry up or come to a stop . . .

for a loved one's pain to finally end . . .
                     
     for a child to leave home and venture out into the world . . .

for a long awaited homecoming that we're not sure what will happen . .
           
            for a job to end -- or begin . . .
                           
                   for a move or  relocation . . .

                                for beginnings and ends . . .

                                                          for answers . . .


And time marches on -- carefully plodding along at 24 hours per day.


I'm not waiting for any big event at the moment . . . either to begin or end . . . no complicated waitings or wonderings . . .

So why am I so anxious to turn that calendar page?

Why can't I wait to get to the next month?

Could it really be all wrapped up in that confusing butterfly?

Or is it something more?


Tomorrow we shall see.


(I peeked.  It's a duck.)   Here we go again . . .

I think I need a new calendar.

Cherry Pie Jubilee

How to Bake a Cherry Pie Jubilee 

(or: How to Bake a Sixty-five Dollar Pie)

Find a girl named Jubilee (middle names will do)

Crumble up some crust

Make a huge mess

Check to make sure the oven is preheated

Slide the pie in the oven

Watch it bake  (this part takes awhile)

Give your pie a fancy name. 

Make a sign that makes it sound a lot better than it probably actually is.

(but you never know . . . I've made some pretty fabulous pies.)

Take your pie to a pie auction.  It will sell for $65.  Maybe more.

At said auction, have the aforementioned Miss Jubilee taste test pies.

She's really good at it.

Jelly Bean Kids

Adventures of the Jelly Bean Kids. 

Oooh.  Sounds like the characters for a children's book series. 

Unless that exists already ...  Hmmm... Let me check. 

Oh goodness, looks like there's clothing and crafts and games and boutiques and hair design and whatnot all associated with jelly bean kids.  There's books for kids about jelly beans ... but no Jelly Bean Kids books!

Awesome!  I'm on it!

Let the Jelly Bean Kids Adventures begin!

One Girl Flash Mob at the Mall

Check out this video:

One Girl Flash Mob at the Mall

It's adorable.

It's a girl.  Just one girl.  In a red sweater.

She's dancing.

In the middle of a mall.

I don't know why, but there's something addicting about this video.  It's been viewed quite a few times in our house the past few days.

Finley points to the computer to request it.  She dances along with it.

The boys know how to find it on the computer all by themselves.

Ryan bought the CD.


The best part is when Red Sweater Dancing Girl skips by an oblivious shopper and flicks her hair.

You just can't help but smile.

It's such a spontaneous, unplanned moment of the whole thing -- like a flick of joy.  (watch for it after she dances with the boys.)

A sunshine video for a sunshine day.


(And just kidding about the CD.  It is 2012 you know.)

Pink

I was feeling pink today.

Throwing bids around at our MOPS Spring Auction.

Handmade by some amazing mamas.

New accessories for Finley n' me.

The Page

I love to write.

It's almost like a necessity for me.

Hmmm . . . I could probably take out the words almost and like in that sentence.


Writing is part of who I am.


I enjoy different types of writing.  I like to write for different audiences and purposes.


I've always been a journaler.  Nowadays, I save journaling for trips, events, and big thoughts I need to sort through.  Favorite journaling memories are camping trips, my trips to El Salvador and Costa Rica and when I first became a mom.

I started keeping a daily diary in 2002.  I'd keep one off and on before that, but I wasn't consistent until 2002.  Just think -- I have every day recorded for over ten years.  Huh.

These days, I write in five diaries every night.  That is ridiculous.  But the idea came from a friend and I couldn't pass it up.  She has index cards, one for every day of the year.  On each card, she writes the year and a word or phrase to tell about the day.  As the years pass, there will eventually be 12-15 years worth on each card.  Such a cool idea!  (Check it out here!)  But I was too lazy to make all those index cards.  So I bought little diaries instead.  And I couldn't hold myself back to one word or phrase.  So there's usually a sentence or two.  And, of course, I couldn't just keep one about my day.  I wanted to keep one about each of my three kids' day.  So one for me, one for each of them, plus my regular diary for a grand total of five.  I'd like to try and discipline myself to the one word or phrase exercise.  But that would mean keeping six diaries at night.  And I just can't see myself squeezing it in.  (but I also wouldn't put it past me.)  I'm hilarious.

Sidenote: Dash calls his diary his "diarrhea"  It is the cutest thing.  "Mommy, I want to write in my diarrhea."  Ok baby, you can.


And then blogging!  Oh, I just love it.  What a fabulous medium!  I love the style, the feel, the design, the opportunity to add pictures and photos and links and such.  I love writing for an audience of people I know and people I don't know . . . for people in the neighborhood and people across the world.  It is serious fun.  It's quite different from a journal or diary, whose only audience is an older version of yourself -- or perhaps grown children or grandchildren or greats . . . those close to you who may someday pick it up and read it.  (hopefully long after it's written . . .)  Or who may throw it away.


Then there's poetry.  Poems usually pour out in times of grief or longing -- hopefulness and joy.  I've written quite a few in the days after loved ones have passed away.  However, I don't really write poems, so much as I catch them . . . words and images flood my heart until they spill out onto the page. It is a humbling and honored experience.


Sermons are humbling and honored experiences too.  Crafting a sermon is a mixture of divine listening and radiant storytelling.  It's hard to actually write a sermon down.  I think it loses something.  It has to be more of a conversation than a term paper . . . more spinning a tale than reading some words . . . it has to come deep from . . . somewhere . . .  God's own hand, perhaps?  His whisper?  It is an exhausting yet beautiful privilege to preach a sermon.  I am no expert -- I have no actual training -- but I do enjoy the process . . . and I love that moment -- that moment when you pour yourself out and you can see the Holy Spirit bobbing and weaving through the faces of those listening.  Remarkable.



It is a gift and a joy to write -- and to share -- with others.



It is a gift to share a piece of myself with you.

Four

At one time, I came to the realization that I wanted to have four children.

Or not so much wanted as was destined to have four children.

And I use the word destined in a vocational/called/listening-to-God's-voice sort of way.

Though there could be heavy debate whether it all works that way or not.  I am always reminded of those who feel called to something and then it doesn't happen.  Or happens in a completely unexpected surprising way.

But that's God for you.


Scene:
I am brushing my teeth in the bathroom of a college dorm at the University of Idaho.  I am a youth director.  I have a handful of high school youth in my charge.  We are learning about leadership.  I am around three months pregnant with my first, but I haven't told the kids or anyone at church yet.  It is 2005.  A high school girl named Tewsdey (which, isn't that a pretty sweet name?) runs up to me and excitedly tells me about her dream, which I was in.  I had four boys.

Uh oh.


But that number four has stuck with me.  And (conveniently) my husband too.  That helps.


There are days when three kids feel like three too many.

And there are many, many moments when I feel like I'm missing someone.  I'll think, "Oh, one of them is in their room"  or  "one is in their crib" or "I need to go get one of them."

And then I look around and realize all three are already in the room with me.

It's like a phantom pain, or something.  This missing, unfulfilled person.


We already have a name, for goodness sakes.


Of course, life is full of twists and turns and what-nots.  We don't get to choose in matters such as this.  Child number four may never exist at all.  Or may come in unexpected, surprising ways.  Who knows.  Not me.  Not any of us.

It is a lovely number though.

Today is Monday

Disclaimer: To enjoy this post fully, listen to the song Today is Monday from the book by Eric Carle.  Here's the link:  Today is Monday.  You can just watch it long enough to get the gist of the song.  But it's so uber-adorable, you may catch yourself watching the whole thing.  

So . . . I like to run on schedules.

Not only do I like schedules -- they have become a necessity.

This whole schedule-thing started when I was pregnant with #3.  It took me that long to finally get it.  I feel like I have arrived.

My schedules have changed and adapted with the times.  That's important.

These days, it sounds something like this: (here is where the tune I mentioned above becomes important.  I took some liberties with the song, but you get the idea:

Today is Monday.
Today is Monday.
Monday, clean house.
All you messy children, come and clean it up.

Today is Tuesday.
Today is Tuesday.
Tuesday, grocery shopping.
All you hungry children, come and eat it up.

Today is Wednesday.
Today is Wednesday.
Wednesday, pay bills.
All you savvy children, come and add it up.

Today is Thursday.
Today is Thursday.
Thursday, wait a second, where did the day go?
All you tired children, come and work it up. (line by Blazer)

Today is Friday.
Today is Friday.
Friday, family night.
All you lonely children, come and watch a movie. (also by Blazer)

Today is Saturday.
Today is Saturday.
Saturday, soccer games.
All you playing children, come and kick it up.

Today is Sunday.
Today is Sunday.
Sunday, rest.
All you tired children, come and rest it up.


Now in reality, I have this pie-in-the-sky schedule that goes something like this:
Work in the morning (which counts for the schedule above too)
Afternoon: blog, exercise, centering prayer, go through the mail, read the paper, tidy the house, make meals, care for my children, laundry, go through emails and the pile on my desk, spend an hour on church stuff, attend various meetings, worship services and soccer/choir practices and then (this part relates to the above song) spend one+ hour(s) on the following:
Monday: clean house
Tuesday: grocery shop
Wednesday: pay bills
Thursday: caring day (send cards/letters)
Friday: spend one hour organizing an area of the house
Saturday: spend an hour on a project of choice
Sunday: rest

I had to move house cleaning to Monday, because my week always starts off with a bang.  I'd say I actually clean the house 98% of Mondays.  It goes downhill from there.
Grocery shop on Tuesdays 40% of the time
Pay bills on Wednesday 80% of the time
Caring Thursdays 20-25% of the time
Organizing Fridays: 10% of the time
Project Saturdays: 3% of the time
Rest?

That's a good one.



Anyway, today is Monday.  The house is clean.  (side note: a clean house is a super fabulous feeling for me -- since my mind reflects my surroundings)

And (as these types of things invariably happen on a Monday evening), Dash walks into Finley's bedroom as I'm reading her bedtime stories and tells me:

"I just stepped in dog poop outside.  Both feet."

Great.

Luckily I'll be cleaning again next Monday . . .

Sunday Morning

Sweet Finley.

Superhero Dash.  Exasperated Blazer.

Let's go to worship!

Soccer Game The Second

Running through the tunnel, giving high fives.

Game time.

Cheetah on the loose.

Toe to toe.

Kick.

Uh oh!  Who got the ball?!  And an iphone?!

That girl's got moves.

Blue Palm

2:30 pm.

No one has had their nap.

Blazer is lying on a blanket, in the middle of a grass field, basking in the sun, worn out from just finishing his soccer game.

Dash can't decide if he wants to snuggle or if he wants to chase kids around the field.

Finley is dribbling a soccer ball through a group of soccer players.  She needs her diaper changed.  Again.

And guess what we decide to do . . . ?

Hey!  Let's head over to Blue Palm for some frozen yogurt!


Does this sound like a good idea to you?


Answer:

It is not.


Take three cranky, worn out kids

          and a warm day

                   minus some naps

                           give them giant cups of frozen yogurt

topped with jelly beans and cereal and goodness knows what else,

              shake them all up
                                 and stick them on some couches in the corner of a busy hot spot.

And Voilá:

Disaster.

Like Houdini, Blazer has his shoes off and he's running around the restaurant barefoot;
Finley is screaming (and screaming) and fighting to get bites of the good stuff from four different cups;
Dash is running around (laughing sinisterly), dragging and pushing his sister around until she falls down and 12 jelly beans come spewing out of her mouth.  Did I mention she was screaming?

Ryan and I look at each other and wonder:

Why are we here?


And then, during the ride home, three crazies magically transform into three angels

                 sweetly asleep

                              peaceful

                                       quiet

                        all is right with the world.


Ryan and I look at each and smile:

Aren't they wonderful?


. . . but watch out.  Finley's awake and screaming again.

Here we go.

Come Lord Jesus

There is nothing quite so precious as watching young children pray.

Unless they are your children.

Then it's even more precious.

Tiny, chubby hands folded, eyes in great anticipation, smiles, and sweet words in sweet little voices saying,

Come Lord Jesus, be our guest.  Let these gifts to us be blessed.  Amen.

Dash usually leads us, Blazer joins in, and sweet little Finley clasps her hands and smiles wide.

Precious.


I've been playing with the word "come" lately -- in preparation for a sermon I'm preaching at an ecumenical worship service next Wednesday.

Have you noticed?

In the past few days I've written about:

Jesus saying, "Come and have breakfast."
Jesus saying, "Come to me you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest."
When Jesus told Peter, "Come." and he stepped out of the boat onto the water.
And God's call (through the prophet Isaiah) to: "Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price."

And today I hear those words resonating --

         those words we pray every night before dinner,

                those words that tie up the end of Revelation,

                        the exclamation point at the close of the Bible:

Amen.  Come, Lord Jesus!

Come.

Ho!

Ho! everyone who thirsts,
     come to the waters;
and you that have no money,
     come, buy and eat!
Come buy wine and milk
     without money and without price.
                                                          --Isaiah 55:1


Jr. High kids think the beginning of this verse is pretty hilarious.

But I love the theatrics of it.  When read well, the flow and power of this verse come alive through that first word:


           Ho!


Try it out.  It's fun.

Come, buy wine and milk
                              without money and without price.

On special occasions -- high holiday meals and celebratory events -- I love to savor a glass of red wine.  It is rich and deep and heady.  It has a spark that heightens and deepens a meal out from the ordinary.

Isn't it fun that Jesus' first miracle of turning water into wine took something ordinary and made it extraordinary? (perhaps a foretaste of Jesus' transformative power in our ordinary lives . . . )

But here we are -- offered extra-ordinance without money and without price.

And milk!  I only recently discovered the richness of hot chocolate made with whole milk.  I had to resort to using my daughter's milk one afternoon . . . and could not believe the depth I had been missing all these years!


Come, buy wine and milk

      richness, depth, spark

              celebratory, savory, extraordinary

                          without money and without price.


           A gift!             


A gift of extravagance from our extravagant God.


Come.

Come

The thing about working in a church is . . . sometimes you don't get anything done.  I have piles and piles and lists upon lists of things that need my attention.  Things I need to do and things I have to do and things I'd like to do and things I hope to do . . .

And I can walk across the grass, step inside my front door and put down my bag full of things I didn't even touch.

Because something (or should I say someone) more important walked through the door.

More often than not, my mornings at church are spent in conversation.

Now, conversation doesn't seem to answer emails or plan Vacation Bible School or prepare high school youth group . . .  doesn't seem to at first . . .

But when you really get down to it -- conversation -- relationship -- is the most important part of my job.


Today I had the privilege to hear part of a life journey story.  It was awesome.  And I look forward to the book he will someday pen.

But my favorite part is when he tied it to faith --

He described his journey as walking across a sea -- on stepping stones.  And at every juncture, when he looked out, there was just wild open sea, but suddenly, when he looked down, there was the next stepping stone.

                                     Out of nowhere.

So he took the step. . .  

                      . . . and he waits for the next stone.

What a beautiful picture of faith.


It reminds me of Peter -- stark naked on a boat in the middle of a storm.  Peter says, "Lord, if it is you" (and not a ghost like they first thought), "command me to come to you on the water."

Command me to step out into the chaos.

And Jesus says, "Come."

So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus.  But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, "Lord, save me!"


Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?"


When they got into the boat, the wind ceased.  And those in the boat worshiped him, saying "Truly you are the Son of God."
                                                              --Matthew 14:28-33




We peep over the side of our boat and see

                chaos

                            darkness

          destruction

                                        hopelessness

                                                            despair

                                               the great ugliness of it all


And Jesus says, "Come"


Come.


"Take heart, it is I;


                       do not be afraid."

Come.

Peace

Peace has to be something different than you think it is.

Peace should be, you know, peaceful.

Like having it all together. Never feeling like you're falling behind. Always being caught up and on top of things and in control.

But it isn't like that at all.

And why do I always forget?
 
              Why do I keep having to be reminded?

                                                        Shouldn't I know?

 Peace is something totally different.

 Peace is resting in the middle of the storm -- not even that -- it's leaning on God in the midst of the storm. It's living through the storm in faith. Maybe even throwing your hands up and letting God direct your steps through the overwhelmingness.

Again and again and again I need that reminder.

 
           And Jesus says:

Come to me you who are weary and burdened.

                                                          And I will give you rest.

                                                                                           Matthew 11:28


Come.

Breakfast

When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. . . Jesus said to them, "Come and have breakfast."

Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, "Who are you?" because they knew it was the Lord.  --John 21: 9, 12

Breakfast campfire with Jesus?

Count me in!

The crucified, risen Jesus?

Even better.

I love breakfast campfires.  There is just something about the cool morning air, being wrapped in a sweatshirt, smoke lazily rising, fire crackling, breakfast sizzling, sleep fading from your eyes, a new day dawning with freshness and possibility.

Campfires are intimate places.

Stories, memories, hopes and dreams curl into the air like smoke.

But breakfast campfires are different from late night campfires.  The cloak of darkness that allows you to share those deepest thoughts has turned to dawn.  

At breakfast time you look forward into the day, the week, the year.  Your sense of hope is warmed by cheerful flames.  You are filled with newness and possibility.  Over breakfast you ponder the "what next?"

And Jesus says, "Come."

Let's eat.

(Ryan took this picture of a beach campfire at Camp Lutherhaven.  Jesus may or may not have been cooking fish at the time.)

The Soccer Game Part Two

Blazer plays soccer like his mama did -- loves the power of running fast and being in the action, but is timid around the ball. Granted, it was only the first game of his entire life, but I think you're either naturally aggressive or you're not.  Not that his soccer career is over before it starts -- he just has lots of room to grow.

But, my oh my, he is a beautiful runner. Simply gorgeous. Impeccable form, effortless stride, smooth and fast and beautiful.  He runs with grace and joy and ease. He's always had amazing form -- even as a one year old he had great form. No kid-running for this one, no siree.  

It was so fun watching him soar around that soccer field yesterday. With a smile on his face and mine. 

It was fun watching him cheer on his teammates -- and jump up and down in joy and disappointment.  

His first soccer game was a grand success. 

I'm not exactly sure who won. Kids were scoring goals in both their home and opponents' nets, so I'm not quite sure how that all adds up.  But it was all pretty adorable, for sure. 

Another thing I learned -- I'm exactly the kind-of soccer mom I predicted I would be. I don't make a lot of noise from the sidelines.  And I smile a lot. And I cheer for both teams.  And I love watching these kids be who they are.  (And loud yelly parents are still loud and yelly -- even when they're yelling encouragements along with ... what?  Direction?  Disappointment?  Guidance?)  

So, seven games to go. Seven chances to watch my boy run and cheer and kick and try. Seven chances to smile wide at this gift. This gift of life. 

Go Cheetahs!  

(and that other team too.)

Fast asleep after the game.

The Soccer Game

Blazer's first soccer game is tonight at 5:30 pm.  

Got that?

Tonight.

At five thirty.

He has been dressed and ready for his game since 8 pm last night.  That's nearly a twenty-four hour preparation time.  He slept in his uniform and socks.  He went to a birthday party this morning in his uniform and socks.  He has not taken them off all day.

We've still got 3 1/2 hours til' game time.  

And this boy is ready.

Game on! 

The Special Note

It says:  "For my special Mommy. Thanks for being my Mommy.
By, Blazer"


Oh be still my heart.

Mothers of Preschoolers -- That's Us!

"This has been one of the best ones ever!" I thought, as MOPS moms were gathering their things and heading out the door. . .

                   just as I've thought countless times this year.  There have been so many best-evers.

It's exhilarating -- thrilling, really -- to be filled and nourished at a gathering with moms like me and not like me.

To learn and grow
                        to share laughs and tears
                                                              to be connected
to have a tableful (a roomful) of seat mates at this crazy-lovely circus of motherhood.


Today we shared Mommy Testimonies -- how our faith and mothering are tied together -- where we see Jesus in our mothering -- how we pass on the faith to our children.

      There were fabulous testimonies from mothers with young children, older children, grandmothers and great-grandmothers.  They shared from the heart -- stories, thoughts, Bible verses that inspire and comfort.  And then, five tablefuls of moms shared their hearts too.

                                                   I wish I could have sat at every table.
I didn't want to miss a word.

It was
            simply lovely.


MOPS is such a strange beast.  It's an amazing organization with so much -- so much -- so much potential.  Do you know how many ultra-cool things we could do with unlimited hours in the day?  The only problem with MOPS is that it's run by women who have small children -- sometimes lots of them --  and women who are pregnant and are nursing and who just gave birth and have preschool field trips and older kids in school and have, basically, the opposite of unlimited hours in a day.

That's tough.

I know, for myself, I am so blessed by these moms and our gatherings.  And I have so many good intentions -- Oh!  I want to get together with this person and that person.  I want to be friends with her!  I want to make amazing things for our auction!  Oh, look at this idea and that idea and that one over there.  We really should do this . . .   And how cool would that be . . . . ?  But I procrastinate and let things slip through the cracks and (I hate to admit this) am not perfect.  I can't do it all.

Wait a second.  Did I just say that?

I can't do it all.

And guess what?  MOPS not only survives, it thrives!  It is a blessing for so many mamas, even if it's not perfect and we can't do everything we dream and imagine.

And even in our imperfection, at the close of the day, I think back and smile and say,


"Yup.  That was definitely one of the best ones ever."


Now, where's my to-do list for next time?

(Speaking of . . . I need to bring my camera next time.  I don't have any MOPS pictures from this year!  Here's cupcake extravaganza last year.)

The Call

I have called you by name.

You are mine.

Life Lessons from a Transformer

Lesson #1: If it's all coming together except for one little piece, sometimes you have to take it all apart to get it back together.

Lesson #2:  Try, try, try again.

Lesson #3:  Little boys give you giant smiles when you finally figure it out. Victory!  (Plus, you feel like dancing.)

Predictably Wonderful

I love when holidays are predictable.

                    I guess that'd be called tradition.

Easter:

1. Dress fancy.
2. Find Easter baskets hidden by the bunny.
3. Easter Worship Service
4. Church Easter Egg Hunt
5. Brunch
6. Rest
7. Easter Dinner
8. Backyard Easter egg hunt at Grammie's

   Don't forget the jellybeans.


There are always slight variations . . . the order can shift or switch, brunch may be at church or out . . . but the traditions of the day are strong and cherished and unmissable.


Some traditions pass away . . . but are still fondly remembered:

Childhood memories of Easter sunrise services on Cemetery Hill, breakfast at the Methodist church, and the flower cross at church.

And sometimes unique events are included in the celebration -- like two years ago when we passed out plastic eggs to our whole family each holding a little message about the new little Luiten hopping our way. . . that was a good one.  Or the two Easters our boys each wore Grandpa Doug's little blue wool coat and hat from when he was a small child.


I love holidays.

I love the predictableness . . . the traditions . . . the ebb and flow and certainty of it all.

I don't need change to make them special . . . I find the specialness in the sameness.

And I relish every fragile minute of these precious holidays with my young children . . . because I know, too soon, they will be wisps of memory in the wind.


And then we'll just have to hide more Easter eggs.

Easter

Jesus Christ is risen today.

Alleluia.

Easter Worship

Dressed in their Easter Best

Matching with Grandpa

Throwing eggs at the Easter Egg Hunt

Going nowhere fast.

P.S.  I wore the dress.