Hotel Stories: Sing, sing a song, sing out loud...

Lest you all think that all I do is find things wrong with our hotel living conditions: au contraire. Even in this miserable economy, the housing crisis, and the return to, some say, a great depression there are bright spots. OK, we can’t really get to the upside without explaining a bit of the down. So, let me tell you something about depression!

The romance of living in our one room kind of wore off around month four. I can, without equivocation, assure you that month 13 has definitely evoked some not-so-lovely characteristics in both Jay and me. Well, to be fair, mostly in Jay, but we won’t dwell on that.

A year of: 1) not having a garage for tinkering, 2) not having a motorcycle to build, 3) not having a motorcycle to ride, and 4) not having a way to escape from one room, has most definitely taken its toll on his psyche.

This has led him to look for alternative means of de-stressing activities to handle both the day-to-day job stuff and the night to night lack of diversion. TV gets really old. I am sure we have seen every NCIS and House episode four times. This led to the desire to purchase an electric guitar, which of course led to the discussion about amps and decibels, hearing loss (remember, one room), and the fact that our walls aren’t that thick, and our neighbors are present--which we can prove by the pounding on our ceiling from the penthouse above, and the noise on the stairway, usually after 11 p.m. Also, there was the discussion about practice, and how one must be a good steward of one’s purchases, especially in these hard times.

Now, don’t get the impression that I am one bit negative about Jay getting an electric guitar, even though he has a perfectly good acoustic gem sitting idle in Illinois. Nooooo. I am quite excited that he has a moment to switch from gas leaks in the garage and oil stains trekked onto the carpet to catchy tunes and rhythms. I might add here, that when doing a resume for a client, years ago, I received from him an unsolicited analysis of my handwriting, and he confirmed that I have within me NOT ONE negative bone. I am not sure that it is really the bones that determine outlook, but on a non-humid day, I might agree. Anyway, after gaining all but a written affidavit from my dear hubby that he would indeed watch his amps and decibels, and would promise to maintain, as well as possible, the hearing he has left, and that he would dutifully practice and become worthy of the amazing de-stress enabling instrument he was imagining, we were off to Guitar World, where we found the most magnificent Epiphone hollow-body, which Jay says is pretty darn close to the Gibson 330 (or was it the 335?)--which sounds impressive.

Since I promised to turn positive, I’m happy to report that music has brought back some romance to hotel life. Well, actually, that’s what it’s done for me. Jay still sorely misses his garage, a project bike and a ride. Yet, as he valiantly strums away, more than an hour each night, I’m quite amazed at his talent and grit. Plus, listening to his melodic tenor makes my spirit soar and makes me love him even more than I already do. He doesn’t like to admit it, but it’s made him feel better too.

Still, as the sun begins to shine into summer, that ride is awfully alluring, and we will have to see how long mere music in a fairly dim room will soothe my sun-loving, wind-in-his face craving, somewhat, but not entirely, domesticated mate.

HOTEL Stories: Food Update

With all my ranting and raving about hotel food, it appears I may actually have had some influence on positive changes in, at least, the dinner offerings guests enjoy Monday through Wednesday. For one thing, my crack about Romaine lettuce brought forth immediate results. Our Hospitality Director began by serving, just me, a large plate of Romaine, while iceberg remained the token green for everyone else. This evolved to mixing in some Romaine for the other folks, and eventually graduated to an actual salad bowl, piled high with the dark green stuff. Amazing.

Then one night last week, armed with my own concoction of Romaine, beet greens, lovely Italian lupini beans, cooked asparagus, red onion, roasted red pepper, marinated mushrooms and plum tomatoes, imagine my shock when I discovered the hotel’s Romaine bowl had sprouted its own slices of cucumber, squash, and carrots, with a few tomatoes and even some broccoli heads! I barely knew what to do: 1) abandon my own plastic bowl of goodies and save for later, or 2) mix in my stuff with their good stuff--which is, of course, what I did.

Our Hospitality Director keeps saying her goal is to provide some variety, to which I keep saying that it is far more important than that--it is life and death. I mean veggies are what our bodies use to create interferons, and interferons are what we need to build our immune system, not the least of which provide strong strands of RNA, or something like that, to keep out dreaded foreigners, like cancer cells.

You don’t think I’ve become such a militant nut for no reason, do you? I can’t go a day without my interferons--and neither can you. So when you notice a plate of white, brown and pale green, think of all the health soldiers you are missing and get busy on the drafting of purple, orange, red, and deep green ones. It is more than a whim. It is life itself.

I do notice the staff reflecting looks of anticipation as I enter the Gate House each evening a meal is served. They look at me as if I were about to give a thumbs up or down, and they were the toreador awaiting their fate of approval or disapproval. Of course, I try to be sensitive to them. I don’t want them to think I am unappreciative of the great effort they have gone to to please me. Really it is only the white bread and too frequent hot dog dinner that remain the big problems. Even on cheese and cracker night, there are veggies. And, the cheeses are good--brie and horseradish cheddar, and Jarlsberg. These are cheeses I would buy, and I have to admit to lopping off some extra chunks and carrying them back to the room for lunch the next day.

My recent visit to Valley Fish Company in Granby produced more amazing goodness. I learned that several of our favorite local restaurants use this vendor, and therefore, we can be confident that ordering clam chowder, or even the occasional fried strips will assure us the freshness we used to believe was only available on the coast. Not so. Valley serves our new favorite town of Southwick, Mass. and the-on-the-way to Southwick town of Granby. Good news indeed.

My dilemma with counter space has diminished, mostly because we humans are indefatigably adaptive, and I have learned to forget the toaster all together and chop to my heart’s content on tiny counter space. And, since it appears I may not have to cart my plastic bowl of produce up to the Gate House, I can certainly find time and space for the other three days I need to chop.

Breakfast remains the biggest challenge, avoiding good-looking stuff like waffles with strawberry mush and crispy potatoes and sausage. I have resigned to only indulging in the eggs with salsa and the twice weekly croissants, which remind me of Italy; if only we had the steaming cups of cappuccino with the foam swirls atop to go with the cornucopia-shaped pastries, like our daily fare in Rome. Alas, no. And, these croissants are packaged, not the freshly baked, peach infused delights at our boutique hotel on the east side of Rome. It must be the memory that makes it okay, like the event my husband witnessed when he took me to Maine Fish Market Restaurant on the east side of Windsor, Conn. I wouldn’t have realized what happened that evening, had I not tuned into "No Reservations," where my favorite travel host, Anthony Bourdain, explained it all.

On this Friday night in East Windsor, Jay ordered his usual fish dinner, baked, not fried, in his token effort to convince me that he cares about his cholesterol, when I know he really doesn’t. I, on the other hand, uncharacteristically ordered the fried Fisherman’s Platter. When it arrived, piled high with fried clams, crab cakes, fried flounder and fried shrimp, I was met with stares of disbelief.

“What are you doing?” my dear husband inquired, thinking, I am sure, that I must have lost a few brain cells on the drive over.

“I don’t really know,” I confessed. “It must be some childhood memory kicking in.”

This didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, as I said, until I was back in Illinois, enjoying Tony’s travelogue to New Jersey--which if you know his show, was a hoot, and a real departure from his usual exotic locations. This one began with a bus tour of The Sopranos territory. The bus tour narrator bragged that New Jersey had the highest record for toxic waste in the U.S. in the same proud tones other tour narrators would have reported on something like beautiful gardens or famous historical figures.

Then Tony wandered to Asbury Park, where he revealed such amazing facts such as that the Gypsy Teller in Springsteen’s song was still practicing her fortunetelling on the beach. He visited a near-abandoned diner for lunch, and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, knowing it would be white bread and the un-cheese, American cheese. I actually stopped the recording and typed up his paragraph about how he felt safe eating this utterly disgusting meal, because he was quite sure that it was so void of any possible nutritional value that even the bugs would reject it--a comfort in a place with almost no customer traffic, which would mean food lying ‘round the place for weeks. It was hilarious narrative.

But, it was dinnertime at Howard Johnson’s that filled in my memory gap for me. Tony sat down at HoJo’s and ordered the Fisherman’s Platter, muttering something like, “I know this is counter-intuitive in today’s health-crazed climate, but it’s something about a childhood memory.” That isn’t an exact quote, but it was exactly what I said to my hubby in East Windsor. On the one or two occasions that my family could afford a dinner in a seafood place, when I was growing up, the Fisherman’s Platter was the delight I looked forward to. This was way before any talk of fiber, cholesterol, fat or even the detriments of fried things. This was not daily, weekly or monthly food. This was once-a-year, twice at the most! So forgive me if I remain tied to this meal, which, really, I can’t completely dis. It is, indeed, for me, as for Tony, a cherished childhood memory, which I believe I will celebrate, now that I live in New England, at least three or four times a year. So there! Does that prove that I’m human or what!

I try, I really do. I am just not one of those individuals who knows how to enjoy being human. I think it has something to do with being born in July, and though I do NOT practice any sort of astrological mumbo-jumbo, because it is against my faith, I will concede that being born under a water sign has made my mystical propensities dominant, and also has made me cleave to my earth-bound husband for respite that just occasionally, I might know how to abandon myself to the “bad-for-you-stuff,” and just relax and enjoy it.

I always remind myself of that Smothers Brothers’ song (does that date me?) called, “I Remember Suzie,” about a girl born in the city, who went out to the country for a holiday, breathed in air with no pollution for the first time in her life, and died of health. So I try to indulge in some bad stuff once-in-awhile, just to keep up my immunities to the things that can kill you, since, opposite to Suzie, I don’t think I have enough exposure to these substances (I meant fried food--what were you thinking?) to protect me if I should happen upon a time, like a year in a hotel, for instance, when I am deluged with non-health-oriented life and food. Everything in moderation. That’s what my daddy taught me. And, he knew everything.

Hotel Stories: Larger than life

When someone tells you that you are larger than life, you hope they mean you live boldly and embrace life. In my case, I imagine they are thinking more in terms of blimps, tent-sized clothing, and less than self-control during table experiences.

Actually, it's the hotel living at fault. I mean, I have already told you that eating out and cooking are a problem. But it is worse than that. I think it might be change of climate, not selling our house, not having a permanent headquarters for life, or any one of those. Someone told me that moving is one of the high stressors of our life--on a scale with things like divorce and death.

I tried to tell myself I am not stressed. I like hotels. But, my body seems to disagree. In any case, I have literally gained 10 pounds. That is not the direction I was heading. I was thinking more like The Big Loser--except, I meant the weight, NOT the description of my status. Oh my.

So, I decided that I cannot really wait to begin a regular exercise program. Somehow, I foolishly thought I would put off the heavy-duty exercise program until we got into a house. That was when I was under the illusion that such an event would occur sometime before 2019. Since it has been a year in the hotel by the end of May, 2009, I have clearly concluded that exercise is a must, not an option--and, of course, for more reasons than weight loss. I need to maintain some sort of routine, some attempt at health, and to unload some of this stress I must have, whether I "feel" it or not.

My first order of affairs was to buy one of those exercise balls. My large one is in IL, so I bought a smaller one. It came with a video, and I thought that would help. It is still in the box on top of the pile of DVD's and CD's. But, I will get to it, as soon as I get Jay to inflate it.

Next, I put on my list to bring my stretch bands from IL, and I now find myself happily stretching and pulling in various directions, at various lengths, in the hope that one day my upper body strength will magically appear. I will keep you posted on how I'm doing with that.

The front desk informed me one day that as a resident of the hotel, I was permitted to use Gold's Gym as a guest. This was good news. I made it the two miles to the gym about a month later, and sure enough, I was allowed to use the gym. What the front desk did not know, was that I would only be permitted to do this if I were an occasional guest--not a permanent resident. They did allow me to use the gym for the entire week, and i had some interesting adventures on the day I began. The woman on the treadmill next to me worked at the local prison as a guard, and we had a great chat as we did our miles on the machines. The next time I tried to do the gym, it was dark out when I finished my exercise, and it was raining. I do not drive at night, and i definitely don't do rainy night. My return trip to the hotel was fraught with me holding up lines of honking traffic, and this was so shattering, I lost my motivation to return during the rain-snow season--which is every season. I determined to find another solution.

I did hear a rumor that some of the carpenters on-site at the hotel were there to build an exercise room. Haven't heard another word about that in the six months since the rumor started, so I have given up on that one too.

After becoming a dedicated Macbook Pro user, I discovered this amazing thing called Garage Band. Once I figured out how to play the pre-recorded background music bits, I was delighted to find that the Latin beat was the perfect background for moving around our one room and stopping at the mirror to do The Twist, or whatever other dance steps I can remember that go well with Latin. The microwave timer allows me to continue the dance for many minutes (usually 17), when I switch to the stretch bands for the final 8 minutes of repetitions, which I am more in the mood for after dancing to Latin music for 17 minutes.

I also walk. I was doing laps around the hotel, but was discouraged that I didn't know how many laps it would take to do the two miles I was aiming for, at first, and three eventually. So one night, I had Jay drive me around the hotel, to clock how many rounds were needed to do a mile. This particular night, Guru, one of the hotel guests from India, was out by the dumpster, smoking. Guru, a wonderful name for a computer nerd from India, is about 31, and here for a short software engineering project. We had gotten to know him on the occasions we had breakfast at the Gate House.

Anyway, this evening, as we circled the first time, Guru waved, glad to see us on an evening, I am sure. On our second round, Guru timidly waved again. By the third time, he had developed a strange look, and didn't wave. Round number four produced such a look of bewilderment that we stopped a moment and rolled down my window.

Guru asked if we were having problems finding a parking place--even though he knew that was a foolish question, since there were many on all sides of the complex. We, of course, said no, and that we were circling to count how many laps I had to make to walk two miles. With that, Guru broke into gales of laughter, slapping his thigh, and proclaiming, "Oh, that is a good one, that is a good one." I was glad to bring such joy to his dismal hotel evening, which was obvious if smoking at the dumpster was his idea of a good time.

Since that evening, I have faithfully walked my 3 3/4 laps for one mile, and have often accomplished 7 and a half for the two. At first I tried using my new headphones and listening to my 6 gigs of music on my IPod Nano. But the headphones are heavy, and the lighter ones fall out of my ear and distract me. I do miss the Latin music a little, but I am sure there will be rainy days when I will need it. I have decided this walking time should be for prayer, and I really love the time to concentrate on praise, thanksgiving, interceding for others, and asking for various things on my heart.

But, I was getting a little humdrum about it all, and just as I was wishing for some variety, Jay came in one evening from work and announced that we can both use the company health center to exercise with equipment. I can't believe it. I can even hire a personal trainer--which my children all think I should do. The only holdup is getting the forms filled out and getting the required physicals involved. This is more complicated than it sounds, since finding health care providers was not yet at the top of my list. Well, now it is. So, all I have to do now is decide: 1) what town to find providers in when we do not know where we will be living, 2) whether to enroll in Medicare before my birthday, which will be this summer or try to continue on our HSA plan if possible, 3) get appointments made after 4PM for Jay and anytime for me. Then, since the company health center rules say I, a guest, must be accompanied by an employee (who I imagine should be Jay), I simply have to convince my husband that we NEED to do this THREE times a WEEK. That, my friends, will not be easy. Will keep you posted on that also.

So, there we have it: exercise, hotel style. I welcome your suggestions and comments. After all, if you follow this journey, we are in this together,

TTFN (Winnie)

Hotel Stories: Food

By about our third month of living in our hotel room, I realized that food was to become a big issue. Of course, in our family, food has always been a big issue. It's more than just eating to live. I have contemplated the "live to eat" alternative we have chosen, and wonder if the sin of gluttony will be a problem--hoping that gluttony is about over eating and not over-thinking about eating! One of my daughter's friends said to us, "You're the kind of people I can feel comfortable talking with about, um, anti-oxidants!" I considered that a compliment.

Anyway, as hotel life deepens, so does the necessity for eating in restaurants. That means we get to eat all the high-fat, high-salt, high-calorie food our little hearts desire. We try to be conservative because: (1) we are somewhat on an expense account, and we care about our company, (2) we know restaurant food has all the "bad stuff" we just mentioned, and (3) we don't want health issues and weight gain, which is already happening.

Worse than eating in restaurants are the hotel offerings--which are mostly (maybe all) pre-packaged foods. Breakfast has a wide variety of choices like waffles, eggs, sausage, cereal, bagels, with all fixings like cream cheese, salsa, and that excuse for cheese that comes out of a machine and covers nachos and hot dogs at baseball games, as well as pretend maple syrup, which is really high fructose, and peanut butter, which is really who knows what! The flour is white, the sugar is white, the food is highly processed, and, frankly, although we hate to be complainers, it is just plain not good for us--or anybody, in fact. But, we don't see most people caring about that. In fact, my request for Romaine lettuce was met with curious expressions, as if I were making some sort of alien demand.

The hotel used to provide dinners four times a week. It has been reduced to three, and one includes menu descriptions like cookies and milk! Although that may be enjoyable, it is NOT dinner. The other choices are potato bar, crackers, cheese and wine, and sometimes mac and cheese, chicken tenders, barbecue or stuffed peppers.

We cozied up to the hospitality director and actually talked her into chicken and broccoli once. That brought out a crowd. They seemed to know that broccoli had been missing from their diets too. But that director has mysteriously disappeared. Hmm. Needless to say, we won't be losing weight or winning any nutrition contests at these dinnertimes.

Not showing up for this generous hotel hospitality also has its pitfalls. The staff has come to know us, and they appear to even like us. When we disappear for days from these meal times, they ask if we are all right. Once they asked Jay whether I was being unsociable not coming to breakfast. I told him to tell them that I was in my room eating my Kashi. The response was that I could at least come down and say hello.

Oh my! Now I have a family here expecting me to be connecting on a regular basis. Ten months here has removed the anonymity one usually finds in a hotel stay.

Cooking too has its problems. Yes, we have a small kitchen. We shop for groceries, trying to cut down on the restaurant and the hotel dinners. But, my cooking style requires more than heating up packaged and pre-prepared food. We don't microwave anything but coffee, and the counter space is dwindling. Storage of groceries is less than adequate for what I consider a necessary pantry stock.

For instance, I chop--fresh veggies and herbs mostly. I also make bread and pizza and other things requiring counter space. That means I need herbs and spices and a place to chop. My space at the hotel consists of a few inches in front of the coffee pot--if the toaster is not sitting there. The other small counter is loaded with packages of nuts, dried fruit, bread and bags of granola, and our box of supplements. I still do chop, but it is not motivating to do this around all of the groceries. Plus, getting in more pantry provisions only takes up the remaining space, so I resist shopping for an entire stock of herbs and spices, veggie and chicken stocks, rice, pasta , flour, sugar, honey, and other pantry items, but I find myself missing them terribly.

I won't even go into how much I miss my cast iron skillet, my stock pot, and my equipment--zesters, garlic press, micro-planes, graters, steamer, blender, and food processor. This isn't whimsical! I need to cook. I love to cook. We must have vegetables! What choices do we have if I don't cook? Restaurant and hotel veggies are smothered in butter and grease, and we just cannot do that for months at a time, and don't want castor oil to become a regular pantry stock.

What vegetables do average Americans eat? It appears to be corn, potatoes, and those little carrots you buy in a bag, and, of course, iceberg lettuce drenched in high fructose corn syrup and partially-hydrogenated oil. Those, my friends, are NOT vegetables! And white breads are not substitutes for whole grains. I need fresh kale, and spinach, and Romaine, and beets, and Swiss chard, green beans and broccoli and cabbage, parsley and watercress and arugula and...well, all of the real foods God made for us to eat. I need crushed tomatoes, garlic, curry and balsamic vinegar and EVOO (if you need me to explain that, stop reading NOW), and basil with fresh mozzerlla, and garden tomatoes, and olives and peppers, red onion and capers, cinnamon and ginger. I need coarse-milled whole grain breads, to be found commercially only at Great Harvest Bread Company. That molasses-colored stuff they pass off for whole wheat bread at the supermarket is NOT really as whole as they pretend.

And, I haven't even started on fresh fish. Yes, I can get wonderful New England clam chowder and clam and lobster rolls. But grilled salmon and ahi, and really fresh ocean fish like perch and cod are hard to find prepared at restaurants without lots of fat, even in Connecticut. That means I have to find a purveyor of fresh fish, which you would think would be easy in New England. I have my eye on one possibility in East Granby--Valley Fish Company. After talking with the owner, Frank Pericolosi, I am hopeful that this will be a find. But, my daughter informs me that "poor people do not buy ahi." That conjured up images of Marie Antoinette and cake. I think she means she is making some sort of sacrifice since leaving the nest, and I am sure she means that the price of grocery shopping these days has brought most of us back to basics, even sacrificial choices. Well, I am basic. I use whatever is left in the pantry and fridge to create something out of nothing--a talent which brings me joy. But first you have to have a pantry. Note: I heard John Tesh report that the farm-raised tilapia is loaded with BAD Omega-6's and raises cholesterol, and should not be eaten by people prone to asthma, arthritis and other inflammatory problems. Check it out on his site.

Here's a good fish story to illustrate what I am talking about: During my month at our IL home, while I was doing taxes, I created a new dish for my daughter and me. I had to use up the stuff in the freezer and fridge so it wouldn't spoil before my return in April. I found frozen perch, a bag of coconut, and milk and cooked pasta (spaghetti), and I still have all my good spices in the cupboard. I poached the fish in the milk, added coconut, then topped it with the pasta and added cumin and curry. The fish flaked into the milk and then combined with the pasta and spices. Served in our shrimp-red deep Italian pottery bowls (which I miss so much), this became a new treat. My daughter said, "Wow, if they served this at Red Lobster, I would never order anything else." Now, that's a vote of confidence.

Anyway, back in the hotel, I do not have curry and cumin, or coconut to be used up, or even frozen perch. And, we have no Italian pottery, which again sounds snobbish, and like I am complaining, but really, hotel dishes are not inviting, and dishes matter in good eating. I can buy the spices, but the bottles will have to be stored next to the pots in the cupboard or beside the toaster, which has to be put back in the cupboard to make room for the chopping.

Okay, I know it sounds ungrateful! We are eating well, but not healthfully. Something has to change. Unless we decide to eat out six nights a week, I have to resolve the cooking supply and space problems. Oh, and expense. Have any of you been grocery shopping lately? I haven't, at least on trips intended for really eating at home. A trip to Big Y, Whole Foods and Trader Joe's was shocking. Two people have a hard time buying real food for under $200 a shopping trip. I am not talking about caviar and champagne. I am merely talking produce, whole grains, olive oil ($24 all by itself) and fresh fish. Ugh. This is unreal. Have food prices really doubled in the past year? I do not have $800 to $1000 a month for a food budget. I can't imagine having these prices with growing children in the house.

These exorbitant prices bring us to the temptation to settle for the cheese and crackers up at the hotel's Gate House. But, I just can't. I'm not a snob. Okay, I AM a snob. But I cannot allow my weight to push up any more.

Exercise! That is part of the solution. That will be my next hotel story.

Until then, ta ta.

Marjorie

Hotel Stories: Life in a Hotel

We are entering our 13th month at our CT hotel, waiting for our home in IL to sell. It is an interesting season. You could look at it that temp living is no fun--one room, life suspended, no roots, no visible sign that the housing market will improve anytime soon.

I choose to see this as a season for reflection. Besides, my daughter reminded me that I have always said I wanted to live in a hotel. Of course, what I had in mind was the Waldorf, or maybe the Hilton. I remember my monthly stays at the Millennium Hilton in NYC. I loved that I would have dinner in the hotel cafe, and they would allow me to take my teapot and cup to my room, only asking that I put it outside my door in the morning. The room was spacious, the toiletries posh, and the linens fine on a mattress that was as comfy as home.

Our hotel is not the Waldorf or the Hilton, but it is reasonably comfortable, and although not fancy, it has its perks: daily maid service, full breakfast (which I can't eat daily or I gain weight), and sometimes even an evening meal (not on the low-glycemic index).

And, since my husband says I compulsively interview everyone--only a slight exaggeration--where better could I find such an endless stream of interesting people to talk with?

You probably assume that most people in a hotel are there on business or vacation. Actually, I haven't found that to be so.

Everyone has a story. That is the premise for my Lunch with Marjorie column and also for this blog. I hope some of the stories will inspire you. I plan to find as many as I can before this season ends and I am forced to accost people in coffee shops and other places to find subjects for my interviews.

So stay tuned. In the meantime, you can find Lunch with Marjorie at

www.rockrivertimes.com (There is a LIVE LINK below)

type in Lunch with Marjorie in the search (upper right). And NOW you can leave comments there TOO. TY

You can read the first of the hotel stories in the 3-parter, entitled: Living Life Now and Enjoying Every Minute about John Gompper from Kentucky.

If you will take the time to read a couple of the stories already there, I would so appreciate your comments and reactions. You can email me at: stradingerm@gmail.com

Well, I await your responses. Please follow my blog for some good stories, now and in the future. Who knows? The next one could be about you!

Thanks for visiting. Don't forgot to post a message for me after you read some stuff.

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