A Letter to Men

Dear Men,

Hi. How are you doing? I’m okay. I’m fine, really. Okay, maybe I’m not.

A friend of mine posted this article on Facebook the other day: http://www.cnn.com/2011/10/04/opinion/bennett-men-in-trouble/index.html

Go ahead and read it, then come back. I’ll wait.

You back, Men? Cool. Well my first reaction to this was pretty predictable: “See! See what I have to deal with?” I wrote in an email to my step-mom with the link. It got me all riled up to read the facts that as a single woman I’ve so lamented about the opposite sex.

But then I realized something. I am doing nothing to help you guys. It is easy to complain about the state of manhood. It’s easy to create unattainably high standards and get frustrated when you fall short. It’s hard to care and it’s hard to do something to help. And let's face it, women are far from perfect. FAR.

So I wanted to tell you something, Men. I believe in you. I believe that you can step up and do amazing things. I know that failure is hard, but not trying guarantees failure. I know that trying to figure out what you want to do in life is hard, but it is time well spent. And guys, friends, I’ll be here for you. I will give you a hug and rejoice in your successes, and I will give you a hug and mourn in your defeats.

And Men, I’m praying for you. If I’ve seen you in person in the past couple of weeks, I’m probably even praying for you by name. You are my brothers, my friends, and frankly, I hope to marry one of you one day. So in the meantime, I will pray.

If you want me to pray for you by name, let me know. If you don’t want me to pray for you, you can let me know too, but be warned that it will just make me pray for you more. I love you guys, you Men, more than I can say.

Love,

Kaylee

Here are a couple of good things, for your reading and listening time:

http://www.relevantmagazine.com/life/career-money/features/26969-slacker-for-jesus

http://marshill.com/media/trial/marriage-and-men

What an adventure!

My friend/sister Kira couldn't smell. I know this because I made the mistake more than once of asking her if I smell okay (confession: I have a paranoia of smelling bad. I don't want to be THAT KID. You know who I'm talking about.). Anyways, Kira posted this the other day on facebook, and as she is a phenomenal writer I am just going to repost it. No one can tell this story better. And what makes this story great is that it's TRUE.

The Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these

by Kira

It was stink bombs and passed gas that revealed it. When the middle school halls emptied and I was left wondering why, it became clear that I couldn’t smell. Or rather, that my brain has difficulty perceiving smell. Years later, when my doctor was concerned that the anosmia might be a sign of a brain tumor, a CT scan revealed that there were no tumors and my nose was fine, but probably a childhood bump to the head or a high fever had damaged the olfactory bulb. The subsequent tests indicated that there was a small percentage of smell ability, but not enough to be significant, which made sense of the strange fact that I could occasionally smell potent things like gasoline. The doctor suggested I take shots of a certain steroid if an occasion like a trip to Italy arose as they had had some success with temporary smell returning, but that there was no cure and that I would probably have limited taste and also struggle with remembering since the limbic system as a whole was compromised.

Being limited in smell hasn’t been all bad as far as disabilities go. I have been spared skunks and trash cans and all manner of foul odors, but there have been near misses and losses too. There was the time I nearly offed myself closing the door to our small bathroom and spraying every surface with bleach cleaners. And my babies have incurred unnecessary diaper rash because I forgot to check. I don’t get the nostalgia from smelling baked goods and I’ve never enjoyed that “new baby” smell that all mother’s rave over. Once in a while, like during my last pregnancy, a smell will wash over me out of nowhere, but it has almost always been an overwhelming experience and distasteful to my senses—something I wanted very badly to escape from and was grateful to have depart quickly.

But tonight this all changed.

This evening Amelie, Cosette and I made banana bread with the collection of overripe bananas I’d stored in the freezer. While it baked, I sat out on the porch and worked on my Community Bible Study on John. Coestte ran around the yard, but Amelie asked if she could help me. In my usual mode of task-orientation, I was actually a little bugged. The night air was so perfect, the porch chair nice for just one, and the Pharisee in me was so thrilled at the chance to make progress on this week’s long study. The mother in me won and I read aloud from John chapter 9 while she perched next to me with her own pen and spiral notebook. When we finished the section, we both answered the study question. “What impressed you most…” Amelie wrote,

“Do you know what impressed me [?] that Jesus heled [healed] the blind with mud and water. It is amazing how he can do those cind mericals [kind of miracles]. To me it seems cool to be able to do those thing[s] like Jesus. But how does he do them?”

Back inside, the bread was nearly done. We headed in and Amelie commented, “I wish you could smell the bread, Mom. If Jesus were here, He could put mud on your nose!” I laughed. Absently, I told her that Jesus said we would do miracles even greater than him by his empowerment. Amelie is 8. Her brain fires faster than any lightning I’ve witnessed. Instantly, with stars in her eyes, she asked, “Can I do it, Mom?”

Oh, the shock of a moment of truth. I had walked right into it, and I could see there was no way back out. I realized with terrible clarity that I wanted to protect God from looking like a fool in front of my children. How would they deal with the disappointment I was sure was coming full speed ahead. Coinciding fear and doubt and awe made mincemeat of my brain and I answered, “Yes,” before I really knew myself. Amelie ran back outside, and after I pulled the bread from the oven, I found she and Cosette making mud of the pumpkin planter boxes. We went to the kitchen where Amelie smeared my nose and there, on the linoleum, my two daughters prayed very simple prayers to God. “We believe You can do it, Jesus,” they each told Him, and their faith called out to my faith. Like the possessed boy’s father, in the quiet of my heart I confessed my own belief and asked Him to “overcome my unbelief” (Mark 9:24). Little hands were pushing me to the kitchen sink, our own little Pool of Siloam, where I washed the potting soil from my nose and turned to their questioning. A scented candle was brought for the test. A birthday gift for my house more than me since I have never enjoyed the fragrance of a candle, but there it was, a sweet smell like the taste of orange, and sure enough, the label read, “Citrus.” I was smelling citrus and Cosette was screaming with delight. Never before has Amelie cried for anything but sorrow and pain, but tears of joy were literally coursing down her face and she was saying, “Thank you, Jesus!” She was a ball of true delight, running from the kitchen to the porch as if looking for someone to whom she could bear witness, and when she returned, she asked if we could tell, “Everyone!” She called our dearest friends and family, and to each, she told of God’s goodness with audible adoration, praise, joy and wonder.

Yes, friends, I was healed. I can smell. And it pains me to confess that even still I am afraid and doubtful. Will it last? Is it all psychosomatic? Am I setting up my children to be persecutes or at least ostracized? Is it real? Amelie is not wrestling tonight. Before bed, I asked if she would write in her journal about this miracle of God. “Oh, I already did!” she exclaimed. She brought it to me, and read, “Today my mom started to smell just becase I beleved [because I believed] and prayed! And it was not just the mud that helped. It was faith. Jesus to[o].”

Others will struggle like me. I am fairly certain I will be misunderstood by some who think I am pulling some sort of Tooth Fairy shtick—trying to encourage belief with false pretences. I am sure others will ask lots of the questioning sort of questions that have more ridicule than honest inquiry to them. I already sense that much like my mud-speckled friend of old, I will be as befuddled as I am tonight. Like him (John 9:25), I imagine I will answer, “I don’t know. One thing I do know. I was Anosmic but now I smell!” I smell geraniums. I smell pizza sauce and balloon, and because of the faith of my beautiful children, tonight I smell banana bread.

I've been missing the ship a lot lately, so . . .

It has been a while since I've been able to write something, so I thought in the meantime I would repost an entry from my Mercy Ships blog. So enjoy!

It's something unpredictable . . .

A crack rang out just before the bed collapsed. Everyone started laughing. Except for me. I was busy trying to get my foot out from where it had been crushed under the weight of the bed and three twenty-something girls. . .



12 hours earlier:



We all gathered in reception, bags in hand, excited to start our long weekend. Then we looked outside. It looked like we were being blessed with a small hurricane. None of us had seen it rain like this since we arrived. Most of us ran down to get rain gear, and then we waited for our taxi. And waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally something that looked like it could potentially be a taxi drove up. "Are you Michelle?" Dorothea called down to the driver.

"Yes!" he replied.

So we seven girls gathered our things and made our way down the gangway, getting soaked in the process. As we threw our stuff in the back of his vehicle, it became apparent that this was not our cab and he was not, in fact, Michelle. So we went back up the gangway, getting more soaked by the minute.



two hours later



Michelle, who had been claiming to be on his way, finally admitted that he hadn't left yet. "It's raining!" he said. "I can't walk to my car in the rain!"

A cab driver who claimed to be a friend of Michelle's came up and told us he was Michelle, and that his friends would take us to Possotome. I had driven with this guy the weekend before, so I knew that even though he was not Michelle, he was an okay guy. We loaded our stuff into two rather decrepit cars with leaky windows and cracked windshields, and headed out.

We arrived about two and a half hours later. The whole time our driver was listening to what I can only describe as African PBR. It was very repetitive and very boring. They delivered us to a lovely hotel. It absolutely made up for our extremely late start. Until they said that this was not our hotel and they didn't have room for us. Eventually a fellow showed up to take us to where we were staying, which turned out to be a dirt lot with some huts. Slight dismay. Then the cab fellows told us that we weren't paying enough. They claimed that since we took two cars we should pay twice as much as the agreed upon price. All this took place to the odd sound of a child's hysterical laughter (it was one of the driver's cell phone rings). In the end, we didn't have to pay more, but we were unsure if the guys were coming back to get us the next day.

The huts weren't so bad on the inside. We were feeling good about life as we headed out to relax by the beach. At the beach there were a lot of chickens. One of them decided the beads dangling from Annemarie's swimsuit looked nice. A scream from Annemarie's side of the lounge chairs informed us that she had been pecked. Shortly thereafter, Dinante became the target for some bird poop. The menu's were delivered, and we discovered that the food looked really nasty, and we couldn't figure out where they cooked it. Some older Mercy Shippers came along and had a drink where we were. They said we should probably eat with them at their hotel, so after we bought some Youki's (BEST SODA EVER!) we headed over. Their hotel was a slice of paradise. We took pictures, relaxed, and ordered a tasty meal.

We then learned that the ladies didn't speak French. God bless Dorothea. She translated their extremely complicated dinner order without irritation on her part. As the night fell, we realized that it was way too dark to walk home alone. We hired a guy from the hotel to accompany us.

We arrived back at the huts and went in our separate rooms to change before meeting in the biggest room to eat cookies and peanut butter. Mid-changing session, the power went out. Dinante had her ipod and phone, so we started eating. The other girls joined us shortly thereafter, and Dorothea had a torch (flashlight). We laughed at how hot it was, and how much stuff had gone wrong. We wondered what would happen next.

A crack rang out just before the bed collapsed. Everyone started laughing. Except for me. I was busy trying to get my foot out from where it had been crushed under the weight of the bed and three twenty-something girls. It was about a minute before anyone realized that something was the matter with me. At this point I was crying and had freed myself, but I wasn't sure what to do next. Dorothea, who is a nurse, and Dinante, who is a med student, took charge of my situation. They had people get towels and wet them because we didn't have ice. They had me lift my foot and wrapped it in the towels. Dorothea happened to have a wrap, so she got that. The girls examined my foot. Then Dorothea suggested that we pray. It was really nice, amidst all that hurt and darkness and weirdness, to pray. Annemarie stayed by my head to pat my hair and give me hugs when I needed it. Everyone was really sweet.

Somewhere after that point the power came back on. We cheered (I think I smiled through tears), and they examined my foot in the light. It was bruising. They wrapped it nicely and gave me ibuprofen. We discussed returning to the ship that night, but ultimately it seemed like it would be too much effort. After making sure I was okay, everyone went to bed.

The next day the men who owned our hotel were horrified to discover what happened to me. They immediately went about arranging a massage for me, which Dorothea (God bless her) stopped. They did take time to poke my foot very hard for several minutes, which was very uncomfortable especially since I didn't know how to tell them to stop. They had their friend give me a ride down to the beach on his motorbike as I couldn't walk well.

I spent the day with Dorothea and Michelle relaxing on the beach. The other four girls went on a fishing expedition with the guy who enjoyed poking my injured foot. A different friend of our hotel owners gave me a ride back. We packed and ate lunch, all the while praying that our cab drivers would actually show up today. One of the drivers did. We found ourselves with no choice but to seat seven girls in a car that would comfortable seat four people besides the driver. There were two of us in the front seat, four in the back, and one in the trunk area. The driver played one tape pretty much the whole time. It was one song too. I'm pretty sure I didn't hear any breaks at all in the tape. Just when we thought it would drive us insane, it finally ended (but how could he tell?) and he put in something at the same extremely high volume, but not quite as annoying.

The ship has never looked more beautiful than it did when we pulled up to it. We were relieved and exhausted that our crazy adventure was over. I had my foot checked out, and the nurse said it was probably just a sprain. I spent some time with my roommates, and ate about half a bag of candied nuts. I went to bed feeling a little sick, but relieved to be done with the crazy part of the weekend.

Somewhere around three in the morning I got up and puked. I ended up throwing up about ten times. I still didn't feel good, so I switched most of my bedding to the bottom bunk as Katie was out of town, and slept next to a trash can. By the next morning, my illness had moved more southerly. I was sick all morning, and I slept a lot. Dinante, as one of my roommates, knew all about my intestinal issues, so it was fitting that she was around when I woke up from a nap with a giant sty under my right eye! I walked out to where she was talking in Dutch on the phone, pointed to my eye, and said, "Seriously? What the heck?" She was so taken aback that she started responding to me in Dutch. She took a second to reorient herself, and then said, "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?"

The sty was taken care of through benedryl. The stomach issues are subsiding. I can walk well enough. But I'm pretty sure I'm not going to wonder what will happen next. I don't think I want to know!

Yet another toilet incident

This summer I am in the middle of a fieldwork for OT school that involves a lot of traveling. It’s great, and part of why I chose this site. It has been a great time to get a good and close look at my lovely home state, and to bond with my educator and my fellow OT fieldwork student. It’s also a good time to do stupid things.

As was established in my last post, I have issues with toilets. Well, we were staying at a nice little hotel in Steamboat Springs that was probably pretty swank in 1977 or so. I decided to shower before my fieldwork buddy in the morning, so I grabbed my shower supplies and my clothing for the day and went into the bathroom. I took care of my showering business, and then I tried to get situated in the tiny bathroom. I decided to put on my pants first (It’s just how I roll) so I picked up my shirt and tank top, which were on the floor on top of my pants, and threw them behind me onto the toilet seat. Almost instantly, I had a bad feeling about that move. I put on my pants and slowly turned around, afraid of what I’d see.

What I saw was exactly what I was expecting to: my shirt and tank top floating serenely in the pot, bobbing ever so slightly as though they were in a tiny ocean. My mind went blank for a moment, then two thoughts crystallized: 1) I would have to reach into the toilet to get out my clothes, and 2) How should I play this? I decided to not mention my little incident to the fieldwork buddy for the time being. I smuggled the soggy clothing out of the bathroom wrapped in my towel and the “bathmat” towel that hotels provide. When the fieldwork buddy was taking her turn in the bathroom, I squeezed out the excess water from the shirts and smuggled them out in the bag the hotel provided for ice.

Eventually I told fieldwork buddy, and she was a little sad I had not mentioned it at the time.

It may not be a good story, but I like it . . .

I never considered myself to be clumsy. I probably should have. One time before school in 2^nd grade (grade 2 if you’re Canadian) I was talking to my sister in the bathroom. I was mid-sentence and I decided to put my foot up on the toilet lid. Well, it wasn’t closed, and my foot (in my awesome red tennis shoes!) plunged into the icy depths. Pretty sure that turned me off to that particular pair of red shoes forever.

Anyways, I was getting ready for the first day of orientation to OT school when I washed a contact down the drain. This would have been less memorable but for two facts: 1) I have hard contacts, which cost about $125 an eye to replace; and 2) I had up till that point never lost a contact in the 14 years I had been wearing them.

I had a nice pair of glasses that were only about a year old at the time that I got to wear for a couple of weeks of school until my new contacts came in. I had purchased those glasses to have a nice pair to wear while traveling to Africa, where the dust and whatnot made contact wearing less than desirable much of the time. I had pretty decent vision insurance at the time, so I got some nice spendy options on the glasses too, like bifocals (I’ve got horrid vision) and an anti-glare coating that the lady made seem really cool. Those glasses accompanied me to Europe, Africa, the ship, and back again. They served me well during the first couple of weeks in OT school when I was sans contacts.

I had two days off during the week that first semester. On one of those wonderful days, I was taking my time getting ready for the day. I had placed my glasses on the back of the toilet while I showered. After my shower, I used the toilet, flushed (because I’m a good roommate and all), and as the toilet flushed I grabbed my glasses off the back. My finger flexors chose that moment to stop working, and I dropped my glasses into the flushing toilet. I thought “Oh dang it, I’ll have to reach in and grab them! But I will wait till the toilet is done flushing.” As this thought was flitting through my head, I realized that my glasses were GONE. Completely. Flushed to the great beyond, which I can only assume is the ocean, as all drains lead there. I stared in disbelief for a few moments, then decided I should probably call my dad. I had no idea what to do. I am pretty sure the conversation started in this way: (imagine me crying. Because I was.) "Dad, this is going to be really funny one day, but right now I'm really upset . . . "

I ended up calling the plumber, who offered to break the toilet to get out the glasses. I figured that was probably a terrible idea, so he said that that the toilet snake would probably get them out really easily, but not in one piece. He had so much trouble though. He snaked that darn toilet at least 15 times before pulling out one mangled earpiece from my glasses. The toilet was flushing more easily, so we knew that my glasses had made it beyond our toilet. They were probably rejoicing at finding their glasses father, who is apparently aquatic and probably named Marlin.

It was towards the end of the year, so frames were on sale. This was great news to me because I no longer had that helpful vision insurance. And that is the story of how I got D&G frames.

In other news, I look fabulous with a handlebar mustache:

Seriously, I might have to become the sort of villain who wears all black and ties damsels to train tracks.

Let me help you by telling you what you did wrong

In my online search for Magango Man, I have encountered some interesting applicants for that role. Interesting as in weird. These are selected points from an email from an online dating admirer, with my commentary. All personal information of his has been changed. This email was the second I received from him. This might explain why the guy is still single.

I get alone great with my parents. I moved back home for 6 months last year as I was looking to switch jobs and did not want to resign the lease that I had. I am moved back out now to an apartment.(at least there is that) I generally visit my parents a couple times a month. My dad and I share financial thoughts and I have a large role in consulting my dad on his retirement/other finances. When you talk to my mom (Um . . . when? Excuse me?)... you will get a ear full of how much she loves and appreciates me for numerous reasons (Hmm . . . would she join us on dates too?).

So what is your living situation? When do you graduate from your program? Do you have any issues (assuming all goes well) moving to the [city name] area? (Holy freaking crap this is moving fast! And yes, for the record, I do) How is your health and mental health? (say what now? I'll tell you what, my blood pressure is going up currently.) Hope you don't mind me asking... no offense is intended.(I will not be having your babies, so I don’t think you have to worry about my health and mental health. But I’m starting to wonder about yours . . . ) I am a big fan of girls having long hair (shoulder length or more) what are your thoughts on that? (At this point I walked away from my computer because I was so shocked that I didn’t know how to respond. I have never wanted a pixie cut more in my life!) What is your weekly schedule like? When are you available? for chats? for travel? for being visited? (SECOND EMAIL!) Just trying to get a handle on the logistics. My career and training also causes me to ask a lot of questions. (Okay, but at this point the questions should be like, "What sort of books do you read?" and "Do you like dogs?"). They help me formulate how best to create solutions to all sorts of questions. What questions do you have for me? Happy to answer anything that you would like to know. (Why haven’t you been snapped up yet? You’re not intense and pushy at all!)

This isn’t meant to be mean. I could have put down a lot more if that was my goal. My point here is this guy came across as desperate and intense. At this point in the communication process, it was roughly the first date.

Here is the plain and honest truth (and a helpful hint for this guy): if people like each other, they will make things work. They will not let distance or careers or anything like that get in the way of them being together. However, if you try to figure out distance and careers and whatever else before it is determined whether you two like each other or not, it more often than not will freak one of the two of you out. Figuring out the logistics of a relationship should be entered into only AFTER people determine that they like each other enough to be in a relationship.

Dating on the internets

After much debate, I decided to join a popular online dating site. I had always determined that I would wait until I was 30, and if I was still single, then I would join. But my best friend suggested that I join. I was initially offended. “I still have it going on! I’ve not yet lost ‘it!’” I thought. But then I realized that I literally knew no single guys who were my age. Plus, the club scene isn’t so much my thing. It’s sweaty and gross and if I’m going to be sweaty and gross I want to be doing something interesting like hiking or frolicking through a meadow rather than dancing while trying to keep my butt and boobs away from grabby drunk undergrad guys. Ultimately, I decided I had nothing to lose. When I saw a commercial for a free communication month while watching TV alone one weekend night, I decided to take the plunge.

I set up my whole profile, all the while believing that I would never get matched with anyone. The next morning I was shocked to see I had 6 matches. Two had asked to start communicating with me. It sort of snowballed since then. I was a little embarrassed at first to admit that I had joined the internet dating scene, but after a time, I realized I didn’t care. As I started to communicate I started to learn that there are some great guys out there. Also, some really weird ones, which I will discuss at a later time.

Overall though, I have found the experience to be valuable. I have learned to talk to boys, and have even rejected a couple outright without being excessively cruel. I’ve been on dates and discovered that I’m not so desperate as to throw myself at the first guy who comes along. And I’ve discovered that I would be willing to date a guy if I really like him, thus disproving my theory that I have a crippling fear of commitment.

I’m not going to renew my subscription at this point, but I’ve been glad for this experience.

Oh, T

I’m an OT student. For a long time I didn’t think this would happen. I didn’t think anything would happen. I was stuck in the mire of uncertainty that has claimed so many of my fellow millennials. I wanted a career, but more than that, I wanted a calling. Yet in this age of entertainment at my fingertips I never bothered to take the time to explore what that might mean. I filled up my undergraduate years with church events, homework, playing with friends, and basically not doing any real thinking about what I’d do after graduating.

So then I graduated and discovered that contrary to what I’d been led to believe in high school, you don’t just get a job when you have a bachelor’s degree. (Where are the lines of prospective employers? You mean those aren't real?) I applied and applied to places, but during that whole process I realized that I didn’t really want any of those jobs. My roommate at the time was working at a preschool, and she got me an application. I put off filling it out because I had specialized in gerontology in school and I wanted to get a job in that. But finally, per my sister’s prompting, I turned in the application. When I got the interview, I was ecstatic. It went well, but I doubted I got the job. I did, and it became one of the weirdest years of my life.

I could fill pages with the things that made that year weird and horrible in many ways. But all the craziness brought to the surface the fact that I was miserable in my life, I didn’t know what I wanted to do with it, and I didn’t know how to figure that out. I wanted to live be living out a calling, and instead, I felt like I was trying to swim upstream. Due to some drama at work, I quit after about a year and moved back into my parents’ basement. I told people it was because my dad had a really invasive surgery and my parents needed my help maintaining the yard. This was true. However, the real reason was that I couldn’t stay in Fort Collins, in my job, in my life. I felt like I was dying inside.

I started working at Starbucks, going to therapy, and living without intense expectations from other people and life. And slowly, surely, things started to make sense. I realized that I wanted to celebrate the image of God in people. I wanted to affirm people’s worth, especially in times where they might not feel like they have much. That’s why I chose occupational therapy. The way OT helps people to do what they want and need to be able to do is so affirming to their worth. Plus, it is a creative, yet scientifically based career, and that's pretty awesome. I wrote a song about it. I may post it if I ever figure out how.

The Adventures of what now?

When I was little, I really wanted to be a boy. I wasn’t as strong of a tomboy as some little girls are, but I dreamed of doing big things and having adventures, and it seemed like boys got to do that more than girls. I wanted to be an astronaut- pilot- cowboy- explorer- tornado chaser- paleontologist- archeologist, and so much more. In fact, I used to tell my mother that I wanted to be everything in the world except a mommy. I was scared of what childbirth entailed. I have now discovered many, many careers that I wouldn’t care to do, and I do want to become a mommy, so that’s all good news.

I was also very imaginative, so I really WAS an astronaut- pilot- cowboy- explorer- tornado chaser- paleontologist- archeologist at many points throughout my childhood. But my most memorable persona came to me one night in the bath. I had never seen any of the Indiana Jones films, but I came up with a very Indiana Jones-like character named Magango Man. Magango Man lived in the jungle and fought injustice and such things. After my bath, I assembled Magango Man’s ensemble, because frankly, everything is better if you have an outfit. I wore my dad’s fedora-like cowboy hat, the trench coat I had acquired in order to more accurately pretend to be a detective, and the lasso I had gotten at family camp. I don’t recall playing Magango Man very often, but I did do a little Magango Man show for my sister when she was sick, so Magango Man remained in our hearts and minds forever.

Since then, I have discovered that being a woman is actually quite nice, and I’m happy with how God made me. I still love having adventures, so there will always be a little Magango in me. I actually discovered that I didn’t make up the word Magango also, so that was exciting: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Magango . It makes me happy that this battle occurred in Africa. Anyway, there you have it.