Waiting for the Other Balloon to Pop…

Today I had an experience that summed up 2023 for me…it involved my son and the quest for an imaginary balloon. Please accept this story in lieu of a holiday letter that I haven’t written or sent yet. 

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My son wanted this for Christmas:

EXHIBIT A:

For a long time, it was unavailable on the Walmart.com website. Then, finally, I saw there was a link to order said balloon–about two weeks before Christmas. I gladly paid over $11.00 for the dumb thing and, when the package arrived, I stored it in the closet where all things are locked safely away from my kid. (It’s like the Room of Requirements at Hogwarts, only much smaller and I have to stock it.)

The Day before Christmas came along (which to most people means December 24th but because I suffer from a failure to look at a calendar turned out to be December 23rd this year, sigh) and I opened the delivery package to discover I had been sent this balloon instead:

EXHIBIT B:

BALLOON TRAGEDY OF MEGA PROPORTIONS

It’s still a Poppy Trolls Themed Balloon, so no big problem, right?

!!WRONG!!

He wants the round one. He is autistic. He just wants the head of the troll doll, not the entire inflatable corpse! These things matter, people!

So, I immediately went to the email confirming receipt of my product to file an angry, pre-Christmas rant about how the evil Walmart goons had ruined my child’s Christmas. (It hadn’t, but it did panic me about what I was going to give him despite having all the other things he wanted. Mostly.)

I held onto the wrong balloon and waited for the reply. The Walmart-affiliated distributor apologized and gave us a full refund within 24-hours. They even said we could keep the balloon. Alexei was perfectly happy when he got it on the actual Christmas Day celebration on the 25th–which was only one of two presents he got that day because of my calendar-math related issue mentioned earlier.

Fast forward to today: Alexei got a Walmart gift card from Grandma Mary for Christmas. He has been a good boy and he’s been asking for an “Emoji Balloon” repeatedly the last couple of days. He’d seen the picture on the Walmart website. [I bet you are sensing what happens next.]

EXHIBIT C:

I decided it was an easy way to make him happy. We drive to the store and…no such balloon exists. They are selling Valentine’s balloons not to mention a Valentine Spaghetti Sauce and Noodle basket–when did that become a romantic gesture?–and it’s still only December!! What the actual H*LL?

The kid buys a stuffed Paw Patrol toy that he immediately wants when he sees it–despite having various versions of the same toy already–because it is dressed in the costume from the most-recent Paw Patrol Mighty Pups’ movie merchandise.

[Sidebar: we watched Mighty Pups last night. My absolute favorite line in the movie comes from a television reporter who is commenting on the franchise toys marketing the upgraded uniforms for the super-powered Paw Patrol team: “To all the parents out there, I’m sorry.” ]

Most parents would give up at this point. Not me. [Insert cackle of madness here.] We drive to our local Party City store.

There is an entire wall of balloons available, but, alas, no Emoji Balloon. There is also a line of customers getting balloons. Apparently people want to celebrate the New Year in style?

I get the clerk’s attention as she fills and ties balloons.

Me: “Hey, do you have any emoji balloons?”

Clerk #1: “No. I’m sorry. You know, a lot of people ask for them. We really should carry them! I’m sorry we don’t have them.”

I look up at the hundreds of options of mylar balloons overhead and try to convince the kid to pick something else.

Me: [encouraging flexibility] “Hey, would you like a Trolls balloon instead?”

Kid: [inflexibly]”Emoji balloon.”

The clerk is listening and when asked, pulls out a trolls balloon.

Clerk #1: “We have this one!”

If you can believe it, it’s the same darned balloon I tried to order for Christmas!! [See Exhibit A above.]

Me: “Hooray! We’ll take it!”

This will make the kid happy! The clerk blows it up–even asking what color string she should tie it with. She hands it to me. I hand it to the kid. He responds:

Kid: “Emoji balloon.”

He’s nothing if not consistent.

Clerk #1: “We have yellow balloons if you want one of those!?”

This one is trained very well, I can tell.

I sigh and tell her yes. As she finishes tying it off she makes a brilliant offer:

Clerk #1: “You know, I have a marker. I could draw a smiley face on it, if you like?”

Me: “OMG–yes! Thank you. You are a genius!”

When we are checking out. I mention to the cashier how nice the young lady who helped us was.

Me: “Is there anyway I can tell someone what a good job she’s doing?”

The young lady points to a QR Code that says:

“Highly Satisfied today? Scan below to give us your feedback for $5 off on your purchase.”

I take a picture of it, saying,

Me: “I’ll do my best, but I have a hard time filling these things out.”

Clerk #2: “Oh, I can help you with that.”

Within less than the time it takes to blow up and tie two balloons, she walks me through the process. I even ask for her name and add it to the customer satisfaction survey.

Clerk #2: “There you go. Now you can use the discount!”

She finishes ringing me up and wishes us a Happy New Year. I sincerely hope that Mariana and Delaney at Store 431 get a Happy New Year bonus for their exceptional help.

Because, as it turns out, 2023 wasn’t finished with us yet.

EXHIBIT D:

ALL THAT’S LEFT IS PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE

When we got home, I stopped to take a picture of my giggling, happy child before opening the door to let him in. Then, I turned, remembering I’d seen there was mail in the box as I was driving up. I let go of the door too soon…and I hear the worst sound:

!!POP!!

One of the balloons did not make it into the house. It got killed on the doorstep. Sigh.

Fortunately, my son enjoys deflating balloons, so he wasn’t as broken up about it as I was.

So if all 2023 does is to deflate your joy by half, I guess, that’s about as good as it gets!

Reading While Driving

You might think reading books on tape is a safer alternative to reading them the old-fashioned way. That depends on the book.

I was running errands the other day and, because my son wasn’t in the car at the time, I could enjoy a slightly more adult content behind the wheel.

I was listening to The Things We Leave Unfinished by Rebecca Yarros and I got up to Chapters 21 and 22.

These were two very hot and heavy chapters. A lot of unresolved sexual tension finally was released. In the book, people! I had both hands on the wheel! Unfortunately, I also had a lead foot on the accelerator. I looked down after the climax to see that my car does indeed reach into the 90 mile an hour part of the dial. Who knew?

I’m lucky that I didn’t get pulled over. Can you imagine trying to explain to the officer what had happened?

Police: “License and registration, Ma’am.”

Me: “Uh, yeah. Sure. Here you go.”

Police: “Are you aware that you were going 95 miles an hour–in rush hour traffic!?”

Me: “Eep. Um. No, I’m sorry, Officer…but in my defense, it was a really good book!”

Read responsibly, people.

And preferably in bed where that kind of delicious smut belongs!

Bonus:

And if you thought this was a ridiculous post, here is a link I found while searching for an image to steal about an accident reported in the UK citing an Audiobook Accident via the High Point Police.

Sadly, they do not include the name of the book that caused the wreck. I could use another audiobook as I have a trip coming up this weekend.

Potty Training for Adults

Aging sucks. In particular, it sucks that aging creeps up on you your whole life, you feel fine, relatively healthy, nothing’s worrying you. You’re just going about your life as if nothing was ever going to change.

Until it does. In mortifying ways.

This is that story.

*****

I have been living with an embarrassing secret. Well, maybe not so secret to many of the people around me who have heard me calculate how far I have to go before I find a bathroom and deciding whether I can have a caffeinated beverage before I leave.

I have an overactive bladder. It’s a common condition. According to an interview with Dr. Kirtly Parker Jones posted on the University of Utah website, “Thirty percent of women ages 40-50 have an overactive bladder.” So, basically, I’m not special.

The weird thing is, you can have this condition but it just creeps up on you over the years until you suddenly realize, you are peeing all the time. A lot of times, I’m peeing preemptively. I’ve gone to the bathroom recently, but am about to the leave the house–maybe take a walk with the kid–so I make a calculated decision to go again to be safe. And it seems like the right thing to do…the smart thing to do. You figure, this is normal. It’s just what happens when you get older. While that may be true, my inexact approach to dealing with increasing bladder issues was kind of back-assward, as it turns out.

I mentioned to my V.A. doctor the bladder urgency, the waking in the nighttime, that while I’m on a medication called Solifenacin that helps a bit, I’m just not getting good sleep.

VA Doc: “I’ll refer you to physical therapy appointment for bladder training. (My word for it. I think they called it something professional like Pelvic Floor Exercises. Which, now that I think of it, sounds like a weird event at the Olympics.)

Me: “I…I’m going to go through potty training again?”

VA Doc: “It’s more like retraining, if that helps.”

Me: “Yeah. No.” I swear this is the universe getting revenge on the Potty Training on the Spectrum article I wrote about my son’s issues.

I meet a nice young lady who gets the most embarrassing part over with first: the pelvic exam. It’s a necessary step to make sure that there isn’t a physical cause to my problem. There is, but again, it is a very common one.

“You have prolapse.” She declares after letting me sit back up.

“Yeah, I know.” I say. But honestly, I’ve never asked whether there’s anything I can do about it. So I do now.

She gives me a brief explanation.

“Basically, the muscles that support the reproductive organs are weak to the point they no longer supports the uterus and it slips out of place.”

She goes on to explain how this contributes to incontinence. There is a somewhat complicated explanation of the bladder as an expanding balloon that has muscles surrounding it and below it. That the balloon learns to work in a certain way based on how frequently I take it to the bathroom and how much strength the muscles supporting it have.

“So how do we fix this?” I ask. “I’m already using a taco to keep things up in place.”

[Sidebar: the folded taco was the first effort to try and keep the uterus from making a break for the border. It’s technically called a pessary and it actually looks a lot more like a donut or a sombrero. But, you fold it like a taco to insert it. Hence my cool nickname for it.]

“We are going to work on some exercises to improve your bladder control.” She says.

“Oh, you mean Kegels!” I feel somewhat discouraged. “I’ve done those exercises–though not with any real consistency. You know, stopping the pee flow two to three times as you urinate.”

She shakes her head at this.

“Yeah. No. That’s the opposite of what we want you to do. Your bladder gets confused when you start and stop the stream. It has to tighten a band that you’ve just relaxed, so all you are doing is tiring out the muscles when what you need to do is relax them. You are also signaling the bladder to pee more frequently in small amounts. Which is the opposite of what you want.”

She describes a lot more about the process. I am not sure I can adequately relate everything here, so bear with me.

“First, you need to track when you are going–you can write it in a notebook or use an App to track where, when and how much you are going.”

“I…they have an APP for that?” I ask incredulously.

“Yep. I think it’s call something ‘you flow’ but any urine tracking app should work.”

Then she hands me some materials to read, saying, “These should help you to identify some common foods or drinks that exacerbate urinary incontinence.”

I scan the list.

“Caffeine, Chocolate, and SUGAR–even FAKE SUGAR? What’s left to live for?” I say this with a laugh, but honestly, I want to cry.

“This is to help you recognize things that may be making it harder for you to control your bladder. You don’t have to eliminate everything. As you keep track of your urination for the next few weeks, you can assess how the effects of multiple irritants may relate to your output and the frequency of your urges.”

I take my handouts, with muttered ‘thanks.’ It is daunting to imagine eliminating or minimizing favorites–the list of irritants is long–and includes spicy foods. The thought of never having Thai food again is just tragic. But the thought of getting up to pee all night long is also terrible to comprehend.

I go home. I do my best to follow her instructions. But my bladder isn’t the only thing confused.

The pattern of kegels done outside of just being in a bathroom is alien. Who sits and clenches their pelvic muscles throughout the day? But, I try.

I find it is hard to concentrate on doing it while standing. So, I decide to do it whenever I am engaged in a mostly mindless tasks and sitting down–like playing games on my phone or watching tv. It works, a bit. I’m on my phone most mornings as a wake up method and watch tv for at least an hour most nights.

But, it is weird. And hard to concentrate on doing two things at the same time. But sitting and just doing kegels is just as weird.

I have an appointment every week to learn new ways to improve my urinary challenges. I also report on the successes or failures.

“I Kegel, but I’m not sure it’s helping that much. Probably because it seems harder to do it after a while.” I admit.

“That’s because you are tiring those muscles out. Repetition will help increase the stamina.” She assures me.

What she tells me next, is less appealing than doing Kegels.

“Now that you know what triggers increased urination, we are going to try to train your bladder to wait longer between bathroom visits. When you get your first ‘signal’ that you need to pee, I want you to do a Kegel and hold it for about 10 seconds. And then relax the muscle and see whether the urge is still there. If it is repeat the Kegel until you no longer feel the urge to pee. We want you to teach it not to want to go so often–extend the length you can hold it by.” She says matter-of-factly.

“You mean, that by going to the bathroom at every opportunity I could, I taught my bladder that it couldn’t hold as much?” I’m flabbergasted, but not in a good way.

She is kind when she confirms my suspicions.

“Yes, in so many words. But the good thing is, we can retrain the bladder to a more normal schedule. We are going to help you–by strengthening your pelvic muscles with exercises; reducing your frequency during the day by stopping the urge using Kegels, for however long you can hold it off, and then, after that, we can work next on night training.”

“Night training?” I say with some small dread that I know what she’s going to say next.

“Yes. After you’ve been practicing during the day for a few weeks, we are going to put off going to the bathroom as frequently at night.”

“How?” I croak.

“Whenever you wake with the urge to pee and it isn’t time to get up, you’ll do Kegels to stop the first signal urge until you can fall back to sleep again. Do not get up and go to the bathroom until the urge is so overwhelming you can’t ignore it any more. It may take a few nights practice, possibly a week, but most women I’ve worked with see improvement within a few days.”

“And…what if I can’t hold it and I pee my bed?” I say, utterly picturing this exact thing happening.

“That’s why they invented Depends products. Wear them for protection–either at night or during the day when you think you may struggle to stay dry.”

Armed with information and a plan, I leave my therapist who assures me we will have a few appointments to check-in after I’ve tried the training.

It is awkward. For years, I became a blood hound for public bathrooms. I always needed to know where one was close by. I used any opportunity to pee, regardless of an actual need to go, thinking that emptying my bladder more often was the way to prevent accidents. But finding it is nearly the opposite of true was enlightening.

But, I did have accidents. A lot of them at first. Especially if I was working in my office for more than an hour, drinking tea, and then suppressed the urge to pee until it became more urgent. (Hey…root word of urgent is urge! How had I missed that before?) After the klaxon signaling my bladder would do any time I suppressed the first or second urge, I had to climb the stairs to my bathroom. That rarely turned out to be a good idea. For whatever reason, it is very hard to hold one’s water while lifting your legs and pulling your weight up over and over while clomping up flight of stairs.

I did a lot of laundry those first few weeks. I had accidents in public. And because I was too self-conscious to wear anything besides a pantyliner–I occasionally drove home in a puddle of my own making. But, with time, they were fewer and fewer. I even mastered the art of getting a plastic hat in place in the toilet and getting my pants down before wetting myself to measure the amount of urine and record it in my phone APP. I even succeeded with night training. (I only needed three nights–and three Depends lady panties to do it. )

It was the weirdest summer I’ve ever had. I’m glad I didn’t have to write a school report about What I did over summer vacation. Or, maybe I have written it here.

It took me years to realize I had a problem. The solution, while embarrassing to discuss with a doctor, was treatable. It hasn’t been perfect. I still love tea and that has it’s resultant effects on my bladder. As does Thai food. But, prepared for such exigencies one can always Depend on sanitary products to keep you dry if you absolutely must have Pad Thai.

So, don’t be too embarrassed to seek help. Ask your doctor about ‘Bladder Training.’ Be proud that you are looking for solutions instead of hiding and suffering in silence.

The internet is full of much better sources than my story. I found one here at UCSF Bladder Training. Enjoy!

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(Final note: I wrote this blog post about a year ago. But, it wasn’t until now that I was brave enough to post this. I don’t want any woman or man with incontinence to live with the condition for as long as I did. Also, this isn’t a particularly funny post. So, I find those harder to write and feel they are ‘done.’ I hope you can agree, peeing against your will is never something to laugh at!)

Passive Aggressive Cookies for Open Door Policies.

I am baking cookies. The smell of freshly ground cardamom is overpowering at first, but then melds with the warmth and smells of baking in the oven.

I am an American and I do not possess a good sense of what a 3 mm thickness looks like, nor do I have a ruler, so I have to open and shut the oven door repeatedly trying to figure how long it will be before my already brown cookies are ‘browned’ at the edges. I guess wrong with the first batch, so after figuring out they need at least 15 minutes, I pop that batch in again until I fear burning the pistachios.

“Pistachios?” You might ask.

“Yes,” I say, “Because of my son.”

“Oh, he likes them then?” You presume.

“No. He doesn’t. These cookies are for me. He doesn’t get any!”

I stand in my kitchen guarding both the baking cookies and my son from accessing my bedroom.

I currently have a most reluctant and unexpected open door policy.

Answering the question: What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

I’m am very good at holding onto my mad. This happened yesterday and in response, I took all of his stuffies until the door is fixed. I made him write sentences based on how much the guy estimated it would cost to fix the door jam. (Hint it took about 8 pages of tiny print to write them all.) And today he’s cleaned and vacuumed most of the house and swept half the garage.

He doesn’t get any trips or treats until the door is fixed. Subsequently, I get to listen to a litany of requests to “Fix door.”

He’s even insisting on an exact time of repair.

“10 a.m. tomorrow, fix door.” He is standing next to me as I type this.

This is the parenting paradox. Anything you do to “punish” a child’s misbehavior rebounds on you. He can’t go on trips to Burger King–so I can’t go there either. He isn’t allowed to get the highly desired items from my room, so I have to guard him at all times.

It’s going to be a very annoying end to our summer.

At least I have cookies!

A Heart for Haiti…

It’s not every day that you stumble across a human heart on a shelf in a second-hand shop.

Tucked between a glass nut bowl and a vintage torch–the find of the day!

It was only a few weeks ago I learned that the charity I work for–Haitian Assets for Peace International–is fundraising to build a cardiac hospital in Haiti. The Haiti Heart Institute’s noble mission is to bring specialist around the world to train Haitian doctors and nurses in clinical cardiology so they help patients who otherwise would die of treatable hypertension or heart conditions that could be corrected at birth. And like most noble missions, it sounds totally impossible.

“How in the world are we going to build a hospital?” I think incredulously.

I don’t have a lot of faith of a spiritual nature or of universal forces beyond myself steering the stars to align in any way that makes a difference to my fate. But…

Today, I walked into Changing Thymes in Grandville, Michigan and I saw a heart for sale for $25.00.

I texted my boss.

Me: “I have found a heart. Can Gedeon use one?” (Don’t worry, I sent pictures so she wouldn’t panic that I had become some kind of black market organ procurer.)

She texted the doctor in Haiti. A short while later…after I’ve shopped for groceries…I get a reply:

Boss: “I would say go ahead. [Dr. Gelin] used to draw a diagram like this on the board when teaching EKG.”

Just imagine that…a doctor who has to use an overhead projector to teach students how to do an EKG.

The dashing Dr. Gelin in action!

I can’t build a hospital…but I can send a heart to Haiti. And maybe, if you want to make a difference, you’ll want to send a little heart to Haiti too!

* * * * *

If you wish to contribute to the shipping costs for the heart or help fund the Haiti Heart Institute you can find a link to my Facebook fundraiser until August 31, 2023 here:

Facebook Link to Donate to Shipping Costs

After that, you can give via the HAPI website which details the plans to build the first cardiac hospital in Haiti:

Donate to HAPI & Haiti Heart Institute

You can read more about the HAPI & Haiti Heart Institute plans on our website:

Haitian Assets for Peace International

And should the universe be speaking to me via secondhand store shelves–I’m going to keep my eye out for a hospital the next time I go wandering the aisles.

Wiling Away the Days…

I’m just making my way through the summer days

In a summer haze

Throwing my money at my garden like I can actually grow the stuff if I buy enough manure.

There might be a metaphor in there, but I’m not sure I want to look for it.

I think of writing posts…I had an idea a day or so ago. It was a good one.

I can’t remember now what it was I was going to say though…because weeds don’t only grow in rows with cockleshells and silver bells…they also germinate in minds contrary and forgetful.

And I have a garden to complete before I have a tea party.

And before I have a tea party, I have to send invitations.

We will just have to wait and see which happens first.

Enjoy the summer people!

Graduated Expectations

May 24th is the anniversary of my husband’s death, but this year I am in such a manic-panic over getting my son ready to graduate school, I barely remember until afterward. When the hullabaloo dies down, I am emotionally wrung out. I am a moldy, gray dishrag of a human being. But, I am also very relieved it hasn’t gone worse than expected. It did go about as bad as I thought it might, but no worse. And in my son’s world, that is a good outcome.

Scripted Speech and Emotional Hostage Taking

After getting back from taking my son to his favorite place on Earth–sorry, Disney, it’s not you–I stop him at the door to the house and say,“Mommy wants a kiss for taking you to Millenium Park!”

The grudging peck on the cheek I get is accompanied by a shove to get the door open.

Not entirely feeling the love, I ask my son “Who’s the best mom in the world?”

His reply?

“Thank you!” (As if I just complimented him!!)

Having a non-verbal child means he doubles-down on the incommunicative teenager stereotype big time. Scripted speech, like ‘Please’ and ‘Thank-you’ which he practices repeatedly, usually suffice for daily living. But, every once in a while, a mom wants a little validation.

“Who’s the best mom in the world?” I repeat as I unlock the door. And then I answer my own question, “Mommy is!”

My son ignores me, brushes past and demands “Laundry” so we can wash his toy Lightning McQueen stuffies and blanket.

Sigh. Ignored again.

It’s just another day in autism paradise.

The Struggle is Real

Why do we make the choices that we make?

I ask myself this after I fell into a blackhole this week watching a marathon of Chinese Soap Opera–56 hours later I’m still trying to figure it out.

How can you watch this many hours and not remember the plot at the end? It’s a mystery.

*****

Life has calmed down–as much as it ever does. I have moments of time available–between loads of laundry, shopping, cooking, cleaning, boy-child wrangling and working. I should be using that time wisely. I tell myself, “You should be writing.”

But it is so hard to get myself focused. There is something fractured about being me that has worsened over the years.

Have you ever lived your life expecting that ‘someday’ you’d figure things out. You’d wake up and–BAM–you’d have your act together. Life wouldn’t be so hard then? You’d definitely have a handle on being who you are!

I’m fifty-five and it hasn’t happened yet. It is dawning on me that I’m not going to have that life-altering shift of perception–the epiphany that opens wide my mind, steers me toward a better version of myself. Someone who is capable. A real go getter.

And each day I wake up and find I am still just me…it’s hard. Really, really hard.

It is somewhat disappointing to reach this realization. I’m not only not getting any better at life, I may actually be getting incrementally worse. Mostly it feels like I am floundering. I’m a human placeholder in a game I can’t win, playing against formidable forces I can’t see against insurmountable odds…and I think I’m facing the wrong way on the board and possibly missing a few pieces. (This analogy may have gone astray.) What I’m saying is, it is exhausting facing life like this. Some days, I want to give up.

Life can be discouraging that way–if you forget to look for the positives. If you don’t count the sunshine that follows the storm. If you don’t take pleasure in the small victories–like matching all the socks in the laundry. (Throwing out the single ones is just good mental health, in my opinion.) Or watching the fuzzy-butted squirrels outside the kitchen window as they stuff their face with just one more peanut. The smell of clean laundry warm right out of the dryer. Snifffff…ahhhh! (What? It can’t be only me who does this!)

Depression filters the world grayer. Drains the energies. Zaps the mind’s ability to combat the inner demons that tell you “Give up. You can’t beat this.” This inner critic chants in a hateful, hurtful voice spewing a litany of failures on repeat just waiting to bring you down. It is a broken mirror that reflects how much you are not like the person you thought you would be by now. It drowns good intentions in bile and self-loathing.

But, it only wins if you listen. If you believe its lies. It’s false protestations. If you don’t take into account the good you do. The people who love you and the people who you love in return. The worth in facing a day despite every instinct that would have you crawl back into a hole to sleep or fall into a Netflix coma to escape the daily grind.

I struggle to beat back these feelings. To see my worth. To feel it. But, I am still trying. Every day. I try to make good choices–even if that means that having tofu and stir fried vegetables for lunch is my crowning achievement in a day full of suck. That, and I got a shower. And I sat down to my computer to put my feelings into words.

Being who I am hasn’t been easy. I struggle. I fail. But I get back up again.

And maybe, at the end of the day, that is something to be proud of.

If anyone else has hit the doldrums of winter and is in need of encouragement–spring will come. Eventually. And I will join you in a little sun worshiping when it does. Until then, hold on. And remember, you are not alone.

*

You’ve read this far bonus:

I’ve just learned that February First is National Dark Chocolate Day. Dark chocolate is nature’s way of saying, “Yeah, life can be bitter…but it can be a little sweet too. Have a truffle today! You deserve it!”

And, for anyone needing help, please consider talking to someone. The Lifeline number to call for suicide prevention is now 988 or you can use the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255) it is a toll-free hotline in the US. You can check out the webpage at 988Lifeline.org.

Angry Birds – Swan Lake Edition

The story I am about to relate is entirely true. I have no proof beyond a few still photos and a panicked ‘before’ video. Now that I am home and pond scum-free, I’m not even sure I believe it happened. You be the judge.

🦢🦢🦢🦢🦢🦢🦢