A brief recap through your eyes, dear Google:

AJ McMath Ft. Worth, TX: Useless search engine. How am I expected to cyber stalk the love of my life unless you give me some results! His match.com profile was a little too perfect, so I wiggled my way into a facebook friendship. More evidence of perfection. I was hoping you would reveal a little more than several pages about Mrs. AJ McMath, owner of the famous racing horse Mid Summer Lark. It’s a good thing I met him for myself…my Mr. Perfect.

Almost 6 months later you’ve seen me search for everything from El Chico Reservations to Driving Directions. You’ve led me to Melting Pot coupons and Texas Rangers fireworks nights, Third Day concert tickets and creative nerd gifts. And even the occasional search for August wedding flowers and Victorian moi et toi engagement rings. Any hints on how I erase that from my search history?

Owasso Public Schools Employment Opportunities: No results. Check again. No results. Check again. After 4 months of hitting the Refresh button: 7th Grade Language Arts. Two interviews and a phone call later…I HAVE A JOB! Now, Google, show me How to Teach 7th Grade Drama!

Glottal stops of the Yuchi tribe of Oklahoma All in vain. Apparently I’m the only one in the field of Sociolinguistics who internet researches this almost extinct language group. I had to look beyond your infinite response of irrelevant websites and step foot in the sweetest sanctuary of a library—the archives. If only every room in my house could smell like old books! Hmmm, next google search: Book Scented Candle.

What to wear to a late afternoon March Wedding in Denver, CO: You’ll remember this was, of course, followed by searches like Affordable Pearl Accessories and Red Peep Toe Pump. My thanks to Hannah and Jon for the opportunity to find a fitting ensemble for their blissful occasion.

Professional Traveler for Hire: Some might have used you to get information about White House tours or the best seats for Broadway’s Wicked. Others might have hit you up for tips on packing for Paris in May or malaria meds to take before going to Mali. Those were the least of my worries. I was busy doing the math: Washington DC + New York City + Denver + DFW + Houston + Paris + Bamako = I’M BROKE. Sadly the closest I’ll get to receiving a paycheck for my city-hopping is the $20 my grandma slips into my purse when I say my goodbyes before a trip.

accut: Just after I get to the fifth letter, you know that I’m again searching for something related to Accutane: side effects, spf moisturizer, drinking alcohol/liver function, skipped a dose, Owasso Regional Medical Laboratory, long-term scaring, and best relief for lips drier than the Sahara. You’ve seen me through a grueling 6 months, but we finally made it! Three cheers for my favorite miracle drug and the search engine that told me everything the box didn’t.

Just as Facebook scrapbooks my life through its pictures and updates, you catalog all my gaps that need filling in, the names on the tip of my tongue, the unknowns ahead of me, the answers to my curiosities, the googles of pages holding the happenings of my life from January to July.

Thank you times a million google,

A

You complete me.  Break out those mirrors because it’s time for some healthy reflection.

12:00am–Date with 007
All I needed was a stomach full of Taco Bueno and my four favorite guy friends to truly enjoy Bond.  Ah, magical!  I melt in the presence of tuxedos, fast cars, and British accents.  And I progress to full-on swooning when they include Daniel Craig.

7:15am—Apply new hair products
Christmas come early for my newly cut locks.  Paul Mitchell is a genius.  My friend Sydney is an artist disguised as a hair stylist.  And wholesale hair products are forever to be praised.  Here’s what I’m lovin: Paul Mitchell Extra-Body daily boost, Super Skinny Serum, Spray Wax, and Extra-Body Firm Finishing Spray.

7:45am—Realize that the new jeans I’m wearing would be perfect for someone 0.8cm shorter than me.
On my latest Gap splurge, I bought 2 pairs of jeans that I thought I looked amazingly hot in.  DENIED.  My highwater status gave me flashbacks of my Wal-Mart tapered leg Chic jeans from elementary school.  I consulted with my 7th grade fashionista students who said they were indeed too short.  They may not know how to solve two-step equations, but they know jeans.

8:00-2:20—Work at my real job
Substituting is a real job.  Some people argue that it isn’t.  They clearly have never subbed before.  No time for a soapbox, moving on.

9:45—Build hometown appreciation by scanning Police Beat of Owasso Reporter.
What we don’t put in the Welcome to Owasso brochure:
•    Follow Up – reported at PD. She did a report of ID theft, someone bought a diamond ring on Ebay with her information and she just got the ring in the mail. Report.
•    Theft Report – Other, Hibbet Sport. Advised she just interviewed an employee who admitted to embezzling money. Handled
•    Check Person – Lady at door who seems disoriented and lost, white female with brown hair, white shirt, has bible in hand. Handled.

12:18—Discuss future job opportunities with principal. Walk on clouds dreaming of what my first bulletin board will look like and how I’ll arrange the desks in my room.  Return to reality when I realize I’m not yet certified in this state and currently wearing a Substitute badge.

12:23-12:35—Establish life-saving peace treaty and resolve all conflict in Girl World. Big surprise, it was about a boy.

2:45—Finalize Fantasy Football lineup and convince myself that I’ll start my homework in 5 minutes. This has pretty much been the trend since Week 1 when I had my first taste of victory and fell in love with my team.  Homework is meaningless when I’ve got a trade pending and a wide receiver with a bum shoulder.  Priorities people.  Get them straight.

3:00-5:00—Naptime!

5:30—Super Suppers pickup. My temporarily homebound grandparents are now big fans of this handy meals-to-go business that makes you feel like you cooked dinner, but didn’t.  It’s also perfect for someone who’s too good for TV dinners but not Betty Crocker enough to make their own meals.

7:00-9:30—Friday Night Football, brought to you by Round 1 of the OSSAA 6A Playoffs. Ugh, I could dedicate an entire blog to football.  Friday night I dedicated two and a half hours to the 6-4 Owasso Rams.  Wrapped in a blanket and frozen to a metal bench, I watched my last high school football game of the season.  Sorry, football makes me emotional.  And a regrettably loud fan.

9:50—Role Models…Take 2
The only thing better than seeing Role Models is seeing it the second time with my brother.  Here’s a sample for all the Starbucks snobs.

Danny: Can I get a large black coffee?
Barista: A what?
Danny: Large black coffee.
Barista: Do you mean a venti?
Danny: No, I mean a large.
Barista: Venti is large.
Danny: No venti is twenty. Large is large. In fact tall is large and grande is Spanish for large. Venti is the    only one that doesn’t mean large. It’s also the only one that’s Italian. Congratulations you’re stupid in three languages.
Barista: A venti is a large coffee.
Danny: Really says who, Fellini? Do you accept lira or is it all euros now?

If only every day were Friday.  Gratefully,
A

QUOTES: brought to you by the JBU Denver Reunion, starring some witty girls who desperately needed to laugh for 72 hours straight

“If her kids are dogs, what does that say about her husband?” –Sara

“They look like crosses with the tops chopped off or like sideways Tetris pieces.”
“Sooo…a T?”
“I’m retarded.”
–Me describing the very strange shapes painted on the road and Sara simplifying the solution

“I take your picture.”
–Pedicurist who proceeded to take at least 20 pictures of us having our toes done.

“I have speaker phone!?”
–Me on this grand revelation unveiled by Sara (referring to the phone I’ve had for 2 years)

“8 ketchups.”
–Jenny on the amount of condiments she needed for her French fries

“Did you tell him that you loved him?”
–Sara to me on my feelings for the Chic-fil-a cashier

“WHAT?” (accompanied by dropped jaw and wide eyes)

–Jenny after I showed her this picture and told her W was the one on the right.

To all of those who made these quotes possible (especially the cute redhead who very flirtatiously asked me which sauce I wanted with my chicken nuggets),

Thanks.

Forever in your debt,

A

DEMOCRACY: Only Johnny Carson could explain it better than my 8th grade textbook: “Democracy is buying a big house you can’t afford with money you don’t have to impress people you wish were dead…It means that with proper timing and scrupulous bookkeeping, anyone can die owing the government a huge amount of money…Democracy means free television, not good television, but free…And finally, democracy is the eagle on the back of a dollar bill, with 13 arrows in one claw, 13 leaves on a branch, 13 tail feathers, and 13 stars over its head — this signifies that when the white man came to this country, it was bad luck for the Indians, bad luck for the trees, bad luck for the wildlife, and lights out for the American eagle.”

Dear Oklahoma State Election Board,
You know that little card you sent me a few months ago?  It pretty much rocks.  I’ve used it twice this summer.  The nice veterans with the spiffy hats and official ballots assured me that identification was not required, but I kept it handy because you just never know who will need officially official verification of my very official voting authority.

And I take that authority quite seriously.  For some people it’s about the issues.  For others it’s the person.  For me, it’s the English.  The grammar, the punctuation, the correct pronoun usage in speeches.  If a candidate can manage to pay attention in middle school English, they are probably capable of holding a political office.   Which is why I made the following voting decisions this summer:
•    This candidate running for the position of US Representative for my district doesn’t have a website.  She has a blog.  And an addiction to the CAPS LOCK button.
•    The hotel tax increase was a simple yes or no vote.  I was forced to vote yes.  Because while pumping my gas on Election Day, I saw the following sign: “VOTE NO FOR HIGHER TAX’S!”  Don’t worry, Apostrophe Abuse has been notified.

Can’t wait for our Big Day coming up!  So far my red pen attack of the candidates has been in vain.  I’m sure they have a team of English teachers on hand for those pesky questions…Is it the affects or effects of global warming? If Americans is plural possessive and it’s followed by a word that begins with an s, does the apostrophe go before or after the s?

As long as they’re keeping their priorities straight.  And possibly giving some very lucky English teachers a supplemental income.

Thanks again for that card.  It’s the only one in my wallet that doesn’t come with interest rates or past due notices…darn library.

Patriotically yours,
A

DRESSING ROOM: a superb spot for female bonding.  Because when they asked how many, we assumed they meant people—not items.

Dear Sara and Jenny,

Sunglasses are never a good idea.  Take them away next time.

Oh Sara, who knew how funny leopard print was?  And I want my $5 back.

Jenny, I’d like my bridesmaid’s dress in magenta.

And who did that Macy’s attendant think she was?  Really, I feel sorry for her.  She has obviously never accompanied two of her best friends into a dressing room to try on hideous gowns that none of them intended on buying.  Poor thing.

Here’s to cheap satin and department store boredom,

A

BILLBOARDS: intended—a marketing tool to draw patrons to use various roadside services or visit attractions; actual—the chief form of entertainment for weary travelers

Dear potential I-70 drivers,
Are you dreading that long stretch of pavement from Kansas City to Denver?  Wondering how you’ll pass the 9 hours of absolute boredom?  Maybe you foresee the inevitable monotony that is the Midwest and prepare yourself accordingly, armed with books on tape read by sexy British men and CD compilations of obscure bands your carmates haven’t heard of and your 6-in-1 travel size magnetic game board with the impossible to handle tiny pieces.

Heed my warning: this will not be enough.  What, you ask, could lift the fog of dreariness?

Billboards.  Beautifully crafted billboards for your entertainment.

And here are a few that helped us laugh our way through Dullsville, Kansas.

Question Mark Catastrophe
Country Club Drive Motel in Colby, KS
“NICE” with a Christian fish underneath it
This punctuation/vague-adjective calamity is not limited to a billboard.  Check out the website for proof of how “NICE” it really is.

Beware of Bucking Sheep
Hand painted sign for church event that said “Fall Festival—Mutton bustin too!”
And how exactly does one bust a mutton?  Cue Wikipedia…
1.    Catch a sheep and hold it firmly
2.    Place a child on top in a riding position
3.    Let go of the sheep
4.    Watch sheep attempt to get the child off
5.    Award a ribbon/prize to the child who can stay on the longest
I don’t even want to know how much therapy they’ll need when they’re older.  And the children, too.

For the Humble Crafter
Second Friendliest Yarn Store in the Universe in Salina, KS
Yeah, that’s pretty much what the billboard says.  You might want to know where the Universe’s FIRST friendliest yarn store is.  That’s a good question.  But I think we should really be focusing on what the people of Salina are doing to make their store the #1 friendliest.  We shouldn’t rest until I-70 can lawfully claim the title of Friendliest Yarn Store in the Universe.  The people of Kansas deserve that much.

Two Very Different Birds with One Messed Up Stone
Wyldewood Cellars in Topeka, KS sign reads “Gas!  Free wine tasting!”
Of course!  Who isn’t pumping their gas and craving a little sip of wine?  I’m sure their employees are trained to recommend just the right wine to complement their fine selection of Little Debbies, Cheez-its, and moldy breakfast sandwiches.

You Can’t Miss It…Literally
World’s Largest Prairie Dog in Oakley, KS
The signs start 50 miles out and broadcast the many attractions every 10 miles.  It’s not just the world’s largest prairie dog! They also boast the following animals: a 5-legged steer, rattlesnake, baby pigs, buffalo, pheasants, quail, raccoons, coyotes, badgers, skunks, peacocks, and a fox (singular).  So, I don’t think there’s anything I can add to this, except to strongly encourage everyone to visit this site which has a picture of it from space.

You probably won’t see any of these listed in your Official Tourist’s Guide to the Land of Flat.  So mark them on your map and make them a part of your next I-70 adventure.

You won’t regret it,
A

CHURCH, NEW: Visiting a new church is many times refreshing, sometimes a little scary, possibly a mistake, but always eye-opening.  And this summer for the first time in a long time I went to a new church.

Dear LifeChurch,
Thank you for having comfortable chairs.
Thank you for having two Saturday night services.
Thank you for singing songs I’ve never heard.
Thank you for playing music so loud that I didn’t have to hear my own voice or that of the person next to me.
Thank you for not calling it a bulletin.
Thank you for making it really dark.
Thank you for having a very sociable lobby.  If I were to choose to be sociable.
Thank you for not trying to be relevant, but for just being.
Thank you for telling me what your church is doing around the world with the money people put in the bucket.
Thank you for allowing food and drink during the message.
Thank you for having a very accessible website with downloadable sermons.

But most of all, thank you for not knowing my name and not caring about what I was wearing and not asking me about my trip to Africa and not assuming you have me all figured out and not expecting me to be someone who I’m not.

That’s why I come back.  Don’t tell my home church.  They, too, have comfortable chairs.  And I love them to death!  Not the chairs, the people, the church.  They’re amazing!  But they know who I am.  And they still call me the missionary.  And that’s ok for now.  But I need something else.

I’ll continue to worship at you both.  Because even a born-and-raised-Southern-Baptist-African-missionary-daughter-of-a-pastor needs a place where she feels at home and everyone knows her name….and a place where she can just be someone in a comfy chair loudly singing songs and drinking McAlister’s tea purchased from the lobby.

Basically, Thanks,
A

Praise God from whom all blessings flow for the heavenly goodness in your every bite. Who can warm my heart like you do? Macaroni and cheese, food above all foods. I say your name as if I’m reading a book to a group of Kindergarteners and I’ve just gotten to the most exciting part. Big smile, raised eyebrows, sparkle in my eyes.

But why you? Why now? Why the insane (but flattering) obsession?

It seems that my arch nemesis Evil Change is making yet another appearance in the comic book of my life. You remember Evil Change. He wears that crazy super-villain costume with the sequence tornado (No Capes!). He’s the party pooper usually lingering around graduations, weddings, going away festivities.

He enjoys small-scale attacks on children and the elderly, but is most commonly found besieging adultish Type A personalities. He can easily recognize them with his super-human radar that hones in on people who have more Excel spreadsheets than iTunes songs. People who are more likely to show off their PALM tx’s (which I’m sooo getting when I return to The Land of Plenty) than their own children.

Well, he must have pinpointed an inordinate number of lists, labels, and color-coded calendar items coming from my residence because he has flown in and caused quite a stir.

He has single-handedly transformed Fun!Cool! Amber into Crazy Amber. Fun!Cool! Amber is ok with change. She is superb at packing and organizing. She loves to check-off items on her To Do list, and she creates the perfect “Nine Hours on a Plane” playlist for her listening pleasure. She accepts change. She sometimes even delights in it—like adding corn to her salad or rearranging the furniture.

Meet Crazy Amber. She is not ok with change. When Evil Change crashes into her world, she transforms into a schizo compilation of all seven dwarfs. You never know when sublimely-Happy will turn into get-out-of-my-life-Grumpy or when ignorant-Dopey will become all-knowing-Doc. She does not accept change. She abruptly shifts between denial-anger-elation-shock-depression-bliss-lather-rinse-repeat. It’s not a pretty cycle.

Instead of the traditional therapies one might seek—journaling, shopping, meditating—I, Crazy Amber, have chosen you. Macaroni and Cheese. You never let me down. You are my constant. Joy in a bowl, smothered in processed cheese.

Comfort foods can be so cliché. Aww, you’re sick = chicken noodle soup. That fool broke up with you?! = One gallon of Double Fudge Brownie ice cream. Got some bad news about Grandpa = a cup of coffee. First time spending the night away from Mommy and Daddy = Oreos and milk. The team lost the big game = lots and lots of pizza and beer.

Macaroni and cheese has always been the answer for me. You’ve always been there. Elementary school every Thursday with two little smokies (Yeah, just two! Rip. Off. (P.S. Thank you Samantha Watts for thinking they were too greasy and always giving me yours)). At least once a week my mother made a big pot of it for dinner–with cut up hotdogs because we are cultured like that. It was a necessary nutrient on my plate every Sunday at Luby’s All-You-Can-Eat Cafeteria. One time Xboyfriend had his grandma make it from scratch just for me. And a definite college survival food…God Bless Sam’s Club for carrying it in bulk.

Remembering my first few hours in Mali when I was FreakedOut Amber, I vividly recall warm sensations of home coming from a packet of Easy Mac. When my friend Jenny arrived here without a clue–as most missionaries do–I pulled out the Kraft. On my brother’s first night here, we both cried over a hot bowl of cheesy noodly deliciousness.

And now, as our cupboards are nearly bare after giving it all away, I see 2 boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. I see comfort. I see hope for Crazy Amber. I will defeat Evil Change. One bowl at a time.

99 to 1. The percentages are daunting.

But here you are–the powerful minority gathered in intercession for the lost majority.

And your 3,000 voices lifting up the nations looks like this…

Truly the most beautiful moment in all my time with you,

Amber

You’re just an amateur. Don’t get too excited that a little group of bloggers chose one of your little letters for one of their little online collections. But take this moment of recognition to remember where you came from.

You were never a novelist. Or a poet. Or a playwright. You have no nostalgic reminiscence of hiding under the covers flashlight in hand to write just a few more lines of your short story The Magic Oyster. You couldn’t even manage to keep a diary for more than a month.

You were, however, a letter writer. “List Frank Stationery and Stickers” appeared somewhere on your Birthday Wish List from ages 5-15.

You have a brimming shoe box full of notes to prove your middle school years were fruitful in your development as a letter writer.

Then, all of a sudden—1998 and Hello E-mail. Your exchanged a real name and address for Cheer4BA and your AOL Inbox. You prided yourself on never using ridiculous fonts and colors or cheapening your words with acronyms or smiley faces.

College also found you frequenting the post office and even working for DaySpring who offered a sizable discount on frilly stationery supplies.

Your letter love affair runs deep. Rejoice that you finally found an outlet for it. Give thanks that someone took note of it. And go ahead, do a little dance that your Blog Stats are up 700% from yesterday (You have the line graph to prove it).

Hey, your 24th birthday is next week. Remember your roots add this to your wish list.

Humbly,

Amber

If my week were a comic strip, you are the word bubbles everyone would read aloud to their friends.

“He says he hasn’t seen any boobs.”
Crossing the New Bridge on the way home from school, Cory has his second Bamako sighting of a shirt that says BOOBS. Assuming my brother secretly desires one of his own, I ask our all-knowing taxi driver if he has ever seen a boobs shirt. He responds in French with “No, I see B-O-B and B-O-S-S. But I haven’t seen any boobs.” I mentally translate and then without thinking give Cory the memorable line that triggers uncontrollable giggles and snickers. You’d think working with middle schoolers I could have seen it coming.

“Miss Flindt, you’re going to Superlative Prison!”
Merciless 6th graders! Unforgiving even when I was clearly reading the INCORRECT version of a sentence during our lesson on comparing adverbs. Their tests show they don’t hear 99% of what I say, but today’s 1% proved incriminating.

“Michael Jackson’s money is finished.”
Another gem from our dear friend and taxi driver Armee. Even thousands of miles away, news of Michael Jackson still makes the papers! I was also updated on the happenings of American Idol and BarakO. Despite how annoying it is to talk about Barak everyday on the way home, I’m am very pleased that at least Malians are learning the names of states other than New York, Texas, and Washington. (But will I ever be able to explain the difference between Washington the state and Washington D.C.?)

“Ne kuro muso a fato”
The proud moment came when my brother said his first Bambara sentence to me. After paying for countless language lessons and encouraging him through the frustrations of living in a culture where he can’t communicate clearly, this is what I got: My older sister has a mental illness.

“Miss Flindt, Is it true if you don’t know which guy you like, you should sit between them and see which one you cross your legs toward.”
Absolutely. This prompted a 10-minute discussion in American Literature (a class of only 3 girls) about other methods of deciphering which guy you like. Educational references included the game Phoebe uses on Friends where a series of pairs is given and you must respond immediately with the one you favor. I also introduced them to the popular pool game Categories where you get points by quickly answering questions. You jump in on 3 and someone shouts a category like “Boy’s Name,” wherein you must say a boy’s name before going underwater. Pretty sure that’s not in the curriculum.

“You are not fat now! You can wear the pants! But I fix the zipper.”
Happy Skinny Pants Day! My tailor Mustafa (no relation to Simba’s arch enemy) exclaimed with delight today as I brought him the two pairs of pants he had made in December but sadly have been sitting in my drawer waiting for Skinny Pants Day to come. The busted zipper incident was enough motivation to slim down. Thanks Mustafa! I don’t have a scale here, but I know I can count on you.

And finally, an honest and serious conversation with a struggling friend:
j.gray777: girls make my heart quake in fear
me: Glad it’s working. I’ll tell them at our next meeting what a great job they’re doing.
j.gray777: oh…awesome…you have meetings…it all makes sense now…it seemed so coordinated
me: We are a very organized gender, complete with pamphlets, seminars, and mentor programs
j.gray777: mentor programs…as if you all weren’t already genetically engineered for it?
me: Some girls are a little slow and need direction…you know the ones who are normal? We’re working on that.
j.gray777: lol ooooh. You all do a good job…I rarely run into normal ones anymore.
me: Can I quote you on that? We’re needing some promotional materials for our big campaign. I’d love to get your picture and put you on the cover of our next brochure.
j.gray777: yeah sure. any publicity i can get. i can do a pretty good confused face…will that work?
me: Yes, confused with a little pathetic and desperate mixed in. That’s our three-fold mission.

Thanks for the laughs,
Amber

What am I saying? It’s not just an arrival, it’s a sweet welcome home celebration! You’re finally here! Our prodigal precipitation has returned at last! Bring robes and rings! Kill the fatted calf and let’s feast! For tonight it rained!

Far down the road we could see you coming. Oh yes, I had my suspicions when the humidity reached 80% this morning. Then the overcast skies, a dead giveaway. Plus, it’s all in the name: M-A-N-G-O rains. I’ve been enjoying about a mango a day, so I guess you just knew it was time.

Good to see you, old friend. Six months is far too long to be apart.

Right now watching your fresh drops dust off cars and trees and my dog, I can’t help but reflect on our extended absence from each other. In October I was in denial about your departure, December distracted me with its chilly 60-degree temps, and by March I was so consumed with sheer heat that dreaming of your return only made it worse. I forgot what you sound like pounding on the metal porch, your smell that covers the African stink, and how it feels to play with you “like a slippery wet toy” as my 6th grader Cole once wrote.

Inevitably all of this reminds me of AMERICA and how today’s reunion is one giant metaphor for all that awaits me in June. The mental list of Stuff I Miss has shrunk over the past 2 years. So much of it I’ve simply forgotten. The feel of carpet, driving, greasy Sonic, life sans mosquitoes, English, cushioned church pews, bookstores, Oreos and milk.

Thinking of those familiar images leads me to ask, When I finally return home and America wraps me in her arms, spins me around, and says to begin the feasting because what once was lost is now found, will I grab a fork and dig in? Or will I scan the table and realize that it’s not so appetizing anymore. What used to cause insatiable hunger is now unsatisfying? Will I discover my true thirsts are camel rides in the desert, afternoon tea, crossing the Niger each morning, and of course mango rains?

I’ll be expected to slide right back into my culture, just like I expect you to hang around for a while longer. But you understand, mango rains, because that’s not what you do. It’s your nature to come only once or twice before rainy season begins in June; you don’t belong here right now. You are just passing through to offer what you can—relief from the heat, nourishment for the ground, and a delightful afternoon of play. You won’t come back until next April when the mangoes are ripe. Then from across the ocean, I’ll think of you for the first time, all over again.

Soaking it in while I can,
Amber