• Motherhood
  • Love & Marriage
  • Roots
  • Writing
  • Best of Lance
  • Pregnancy
  • Photography

While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

To chase a career or a kid?

April 13, 2013 by heidi 10 Comments

Before I had Henry I was impatient with the world, critical of myself and sometimes of others.

I thought stay-at-home moms had it easy. Worse yet, I thought they were devoid of interests beyond the confines of motherhood. I pictured them schlepping kids from Gymboree class to play dates, dressed in yoga pants and a pained smile. I pictured them chained to the kitchen, the SUV, the laundry basket and the obligatory spin class. I pictured them dutifully scheduling time for mommy pep rallies that celebrate the pleasantries of breastfeeding, cloth diapering, baby wearing and holistic nutrition. (Dear Earth Mamas: I see nothing wrong with these things. As topics of discussion, however, I find them boring.)

I thought I’d lose my identity as a stay-at-home-mom. I thought I’d compromise my self-worth and freedom. I thought I’d be resentful of my husband and pissed at myself for having failed at being a working mother: the ultimate wonder woman. I thought I’d be considered a disgrace to the radical feminists who came before me and a quitter to the overachieving, have-it-all multitaskers of my generation.

Leaving my job at the newspaper would mean I’d dropped a significant ball in the heroic juggling act that is regularly executed by the modern working mother. I’d be forced to rethink everything I thought I’d do or wouldn’t do as a parent, as if you really know these things before you bring a tiny, demanding, Bambi-eyed being into this world.

I was wrong about working mothers AND stay-at-home mothers. (As an aside, I was right about yoga pants.)

[Read more…]

Beach Shoot :: Hayden Reis

August 30, 2012 by heidi 8 Comments

Thought I’d share some images from last month’s Hayden Reis beach shoot.

Hayden Reis is a line of mega bright sailcloth bags. The company was hatched by a former pharmaceutical sales rep from Sarasota, whom I profiled for the paper shortly before packing up my bags to pursue freelance magazine and photography work.

It was one of my biggest shoots yet: six beautiful women + four adorable kids + a gorgeous location (Hyatt Siesta Key Beach) = so many pictures I maxed out an eight-gig card.

Special thanks to the designer for letting me borrow her camera card. I never expected to fill mine in two hours. I guess I got carried away — as usual.

[Read more…]

S.O.S for expectant mothers

May 17, 2011 by heidi 5 Comments

I’m writing this in response to emails I’ve received from first-time expectant mothers.

How to avoid becoming Pregzilla:

10 tips to help you keep your wits during nine months of beautiful freakishness.*

…..

1. Don’t stuff your face the second you see a plus sign.

I get it. You’re pregnant. You’ve been granted a one-way ticket to weight-gainsville, so why wouldn’t you overindulge? After all, everyone around you keeps telling you that you’re eating for two — even women who’ve had children. You have the world’s blessing to pig out. At no other point in your life will people smile at you cutely as you order two double cheeseburgers and a bucket of french fries. Oh, she’s pregnant. Look at the pregnant woman eat. If I had a quarter pounder for every time someone told me that I should “take advantage” of being pregnant, I’d look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Seriously. For your well-being and your baby’s well-being, eat smart. That doesn’t mean you should sweat every pound. (See Pregnancy Confession No. 7.) Nor does it mean you should deny yourself every milkshake. (See my obsession with Reese’s Cups.) It just means you’ll likely feel better, look better and be happier if you at least AIM for the recommended 35-pound weight gain. BTW: The average preggo needs an extra 300 calories a day. That’s one Hershey’s bar. My advice for newly knocked-up mamas: eat small healthy meals and/or snacks all day. And by snacks I mean, fruits, vegetables, crackers, cheese, whole wheat toast and cereal. My favorite staple: peanut butter. The sooner you cut out junk food and processed crap, the sooner your body stops craving it. It’s easy to forget that every morsel of food you ingest travels down a pipeline that runs straight into your baby’s stomach. That’s a lot of f#@%ing responsibility. But so is motherhood, so get used to it. Look at being pregnant as going on a nine-month health food kick. Take “advantage” of it in that way.

TRY keeping frozen fruit bars in your freezer. They combat nausea, chocolate cravings and they’re low-cal.

[Read more…]

Pregnancy Confession No. 7

May 5, 2011 by heidi 20 Comments

[I'm vain.]

This confession has been eating at me for some time now.
In true-confession style, it fills me with tremendous guilt.

It makes me feel weak
and superficial.

And to those of you who don't share
my neurosis,
 I apologize.

Because in admitting this hang-up
I'm letting go of it.

Truth is
I wasn't cool about gaining weight.

Why?
Because as much as I enjoy eating.
(And believe me. I enjoy eating.)

I also enjoy exercising.

And I've taken pleasure in the fact that
I've been able to maintain my weight for many years
by eating healthy
and staying physically active.

It's in no way an obsessive thing.

It is,
I admit,
a control thing.

And very little has compromised that control
until now.

For obvious reasons. 

I'm now 36 weeks pregnant.

A rounder, bustier version of myself.
A baby apartment
with a tenant whose lease is up in four weeks.

[Read more…]

The one about my sister’s fake toe nails

February 1, 2011 by heidi 10 Comments

lips.

This is a true story, as are all stories on The Lance.

It’s short, unsettling and involves my hapless sister PK and her flawless toe nails.

Over the summer, our favorite Bristol Palin lookalike began adhering fake toe nails to her piggies.

She was covert about her new weird beauty habit, choosing short white nails with french tips, which she refrained from revealing were artificial, until one day I said, “Jesus PK. Those nails looks so perfect they could almost be fake.”

She started giggling.

“That’s because they are fake. I got ’em from the Dollar Store,” she said.

“Well I’ll be damned,” I replied, half-disgusted and half-impressed with her ingenuity.

I’ve not seen her real toe nails since June. It would appear that the regime has (pardon the pun) stuck.

A couple weeks ago, she shared with me this story while we were heading to a chocolate festival in Tampa. (Yes, I said chocolate festival. I’m a pregnant chocoholic. My primal instincts kicked in.)

The story goes:

PK runs to the Dollar Store to pick up a new pack of falsies and a bottle of nail glue.

She returns to her apartment with the goods and begins her routine of replacing the old acrylics with the new acrylics.

She’s in a hurry.

To expedite the process, she decides to bite open the nail glue rather than fetch a pair of scissors.

With a firm grip on the cap, she begins to gnaw. At this point, she’s thinking it would have been easier to retrieve the scissors from the kitchen.

She gnaws too much.

She successfully loosens the plastic tip. In a matter of seconds, nail glue begins to ooze into her mouth. By the time she realizes the severity of the situation, it’s too late. Her lips are glued to the cap. Her tongue is glued to her teeth.

She lives alone so there’s no one around to a.) help her and b.) mock her.

“It tasted disgusting,” she said. “It took me like 30 minutes to pry my lips apart.”

“I hope it doesn’t interfere with the taste of the chocolate,” I said.

“I don’t know,” she muttered. “I’ve still got glue stuck to the back of my teeth.”

—

PS. Photo by Anthony Kelly.

The joys of being a post office groupie

December 26, 2010 by heidi 14 Comments

I’m sitting on a futon in my living room.The pug is curled up beside me, snoring. He woke up about five minutes ago and burrowed out from under the covers of the bed, where Joe is currently (still) sleeping (in).

By June we’ll have a baby in this house, which means I now regard my husband’s sleeping habits with bitter sweetness.

The pug and I are on a futon because I sold our brown couch Thursday for $80 on Craigslist. (Yes, the brown couch my men are asleep on in the photo to your left.)

Over the course of nine months, I managed to save $1,092 in a mason jar to purchase a plush new sofa with an enormous seat and an equally enormous ottoman.

I told Joe it was important that I have a soft place to land as I get fatter and more pregnant. So, Merry Christmas to me.

But that’s not the point of this post.

As evidenced by the title, I’m here to espouse the pleasures of penpalship.

That’s right. PEN PALS.

Do you have one?

Chances are you had one many moons ago. It used to be that teachers encouraged the old-fashioned art of letter writing by hooking students up with pen pals in cities far from yours. Of course this was prior to email, which I’m also a fan of but for reasons completely separate from why I adore ACTUAL HANDWRITTEN MAIL.

[Read more…]

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Bras

November 20, 2010 by heidi 4 Comments

Two summers ago my mother got a breast reduction.

It was a long time coming.

All my life it seemed her boobs functioned simultaneously as a source of humor and disgust. Growing up we invented songs about them. Actually, my mom invented songs about them. She’s goofy like that. She’s never taken herself too seriously. It’s her greatest character strength.

When my sister PK was in kindergarten and the teacher led the class in a rendition of “Do Your Ears Hang Low?” my five-year-old sister sang, “Do your boobs hang low?”

Followed by, “Do they wobble to and fro? Can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow?”

The kindergarten teacher was aghast. When she broached the subject with my mother, my mom sheepishly admitted to teaching us the song. It was something she used to sing as a kid. She was merely passing down the tradition.

She made light of her knockers, though there was nothing light about her knockers.

My mom used to remove her bra at night and sigh at the relief of freeing her shoulders from the weight of her sandbags. Her bra straps cut permanent red grooves in her shoulders the width of my fingers.

At 48 she finally got the reduction she had talked about for YEARS. It was the largest breast reduction the surgeon had ever done. And in the end my mom had C cups for my wedding day.

I got permission from her to write this post after she shared with me a story about what happened to her vast collection of F and G cup boulder holders.

“They’re traveling all over the world,” she said casually.

“Wait, what? Traveling bras?” I asked.

“Yeah. I didn’t tell you?”

“No, you most certainly did not.”

That’s when the Mothership told me that she had given all her old brassieres away to a large-breasted girlfriend.

“I had enough to fill a garbage bag,” she said. “And you know those things were expensive. Bras that size aren’t cheap.”

(I’m familiar. She used to order them from the JCPenny catalog.)

Apparently the large-breasted girlfriend has large-breasted sisters, among whom she spread my mother’s bras.

As my mother began to rattle off the different cities in which these women live, I couldn’t help but picture her bras with their thick supportive straps and cavernous cups physically flying from city to city, parachuting into new bedrooms and new lingerie drawers.

My mother’s bras were as much a part of her as were her boobs. On more than one occasion she’d strap one to her head like a hat and gallop into the kitchen to make my sisters and I laugh for no reason. Now they were gone. Passed on to worthy women.

My mom felt good about the fact that they hadn’t gone to waste. She’s a pragmatic woman. Other women might have set fire to their bras and danced wildly around the burning satin, content in the symbolism.

Instead my mother said this:

“One of my bras is in Jamaica right now! Jamaica! I think it’s great. I’ve never seen the world, but my bras are!”

—-

PS. Photo by Broken Piggy Bank via Flickr. In case you’re curious, there exits a rural fence in the Middle of Nowhere, New Zealand that’s lined with bras. For obvious reasons, The Bra Fence had become somewhat of a tourist attraction and due to predictable controversy caused by nagging, uptight government officials, the fence was reportedly rid of the undergarments in 2006. Locals guess the fence began accumulating bras some time in 1999. At one point it held more than 7,400 brassieres. And yes, it has a Facebook page.

Over the meadow and through kitchens

November 14, 2010 by heidi 10 Comments

Phantom truck on road in the Redwoods

I had what I call a dreamer’s dream Friday night.

When I woke up I felt younger and lighter. I woke up with twitchy toes and messy hair. I woke up craving apple pie and hot chocolate with small marshmallows.

I tried to dream it again last night. I closed my eyes and breathed as deep as the ocean. I remembered giant falling leaves and twisting roads, green hills and amber sunsets. I remembered the way the wind felt, the smell of strangers’ kitchens. I remembered plaid curtains and blue tiled countertops. I willed these things back into my head thinking I could create a sequel last night.

But dreams don’t work that way, which is what makes them so seductive and intoxicating.

You can’t buy your dreams on iTunes. You can’t press repeat, or burn ’em on a disc and listen to ’em on your way to work. They happen and then they’re gone.

Like a fire in my head, they spark and sizzle and pop and crackle.

Usually, I wake up feeling like a film reel is burning in my brain. Pictures and people start vanishing. Scenes start unfurling and disintegrating. Feelings I felt so intensely in the dream linger like an ember and then flicker out.

Regarding this, I say, appreciate your subconscious. It’s a fascinating galaxy. For some of us it’s the only place where we lose control. I’m addicted to dreaming, in particular lucid dreams, of which I have many.

Like a sinner who becomes a born-again Christian, I was an insomniac before I became a lucid dreamer.

I’m not sure if Friday night’s dream was lucid. I don’t recall directing it or realizing (as I often do) that I was dreaming. I only recall the wild ride, the hills and the kitchens.

I was on a bicycle.

I was riding with a a group of unidentifiable girlfriends. I feel like two of them were my sisters and one was my best friend, but I’m not sure. I know they were all women I was comfortable with and that we were all on bicycles. The bicycles were connected. Picture a freakishly long tandem bicycle. A bicycle for eight.

We were riding in what appeared to be Upstate New York. The leaves were changing. We were in the country. The sun was an hour away from setting, casting everything in a warm red glow. The wind was at our backs. The terrain was rolling and looked insurmountable, but we rode it effortlessly as if uphills were downhills.

We were all laughing.

The road was twisty and topsy-turvy, endless in its curves and lined with the tallest trees you’ve ever seen.

Maybe we were in Oregon.

As we continued on, storybook houses began to crop up on hilltops.

The houses were perfect triangles with red brick chimneys billowing smoke that smelled like pine logs. They had cobblestone driveways and well-tended gardens. They had bird feeders and painted mailboxes.

Some houses were white with blue shutters and others were blue with white shutters.

Upon approaching each house, the front door would swing open and we’d ride straight into the house, right into the kitchen.

The kitchens would smell like cakes and cookies and pies. Plump women in aprons would feed us as we pedaled past as if there were no obstacles at all, as if the road cut a path clear through the kitchen and out through the back door.

We never got off our bicycles and we never stopped moving. And as quickly as we entered the house, we just as quickly departed, our wheels hitting the pavement outside, sending us into a valley and up another hill, where we would enter another house, the front door flying open on its hinge.

Each house would smell better than the last.

Sometimes we’d come across children dancing, or a couple sitting at a table talking, or a woman bent over a sewing machine or a man adjusting his tie in the reflection of his microwave. Sometimes the house would be empty.

We were welcomed like old friends in each house we entered, as if the homeowners had been waiting for us. We were spoon fed sweet potato yams and wrapped in knitted scarves. If there was music on, we boogied on our bikes. If we interrupted a game of Trivial Pursuit, we played and always won.

Yet we never stayed for very long. After we’d taken in all we could take in, the back door would swing open, our bikes would jolt forward and we’d heartily wave goodbye.

Even though it was pointless, we never stopped pedaling. There was no tension on our bike chains. We were powered by some otherworldly force, as if we we were airborne, like Elliot riding with E.T. in our basket, flying by the light of the moon.

I wish I could tell you when we stopped moving, but I don’t think we ever did.

I don’t think our bikes had brakes.

—

PS. Photo by Howard Ignatius.

The pitfalls of downhill roller skating

October 12, 2010 by heidi 13 Comments

The summer I turned 14, I went camping with my mother, my sisters, my friends June and Ann and their mother Wilma.

It was a girls-only kind of weekend. The dads stayed home.

We rented a cabin in the Pennsylvania woods, all of us girls, piled into one two-story bungalow.

Within five minutes of driving into camp I had surveyed the outlying trails for roller skating routes. And yes, I mean roller skate not roller blade. For years I skated on a pair of hand-me-down quads with bright blue wheels. For some reason I never crossed over to inline skates.

June, however, had a slick pair of roller blades — the newest hottest ones on the market.

As we puttered through the campground in Wilma’s minivan, the two of us peered out the windows, our noses pressed to the glass. When we spotted our Everest, we gasped.

It was the granddaddy of all downhill trails. Paved with crumbling black top, riddled with potholes and ending in a sharp plummet, it was the most treacherous trail we’d ever laid eyes on. If it had been any steeper, it would have been a cliff.

As Wilma’s van rounded the corner, June and I implicitly settled on our first skating route. We were fearless.

As soon as the last sleeping bag had been dragged from the van and carried up to our loft, June and I strapped on our skates and announced that we were hitting the trails.

“Don’t go down that hill by the front gate,” my mother said.

June and I exchanged eye rolls.

“I’m serious,” she continued. “DO NOT go down that hill.”

“You’ll kill yourself,” Wilma said.

“Don’t worry,” I lied. “We wont.”

And off we went. June in her roller blades, me in my skates.

Unconcerned for our safety, we blatantly defied our mothers’ warnings to steer clear of the Everest trail. We made a beeline for the summit.

I was leading the way in my clumsy quads, stumbling over potholes, flying through the campground like a jacked up roller derby girl. June was on my heels, gliding in her neon blades.

We rolled to the top of the hill and paused only briefly to take in the free-fall, before howling with glee and pushing ourselves down the incline.

We began hurtling downhill faster than we imagined. Within seconds, the rush turned to terror. We were on a suicide mission.

Using the back brakes on her blades, June managed to stop herself with remarkable ease.

I was not so lucky.

I was flying down a hill on roller skates at 30 mph and unlike June’s brakes, mine were located on the front of my skates. The toe stop.

The longer I thought about braking, the more out of control I became. I was picking up speed faster than Picabo Street, except instead of snow-plowing my way to a halt, I fell knee-first into the pavement and slid for 10 feet, my shin skidding across the concrete.

The resulting road rash ran from my knee to my ankle.

June started to cry.

I pulled off my skates. Pulled off my socks. As June tiptoed to my side, bawling over my fall, I asked her to give me her socks.

“Wh-wh-why do you need my s-s-s-socks?” She whimpered. “You’re totally b-b-b-bleeding.”

“To stop the bleeding,” I replied.

[Read more…]

Best. Mag. Ever.

September 15, 2010 by heidi 6 Comments

Say hello to Jane.

If you’ve not met, let me properly introduce you:

Jane was the BEST magazine ever. This issue –– the PREMIERE issue –– was (and still is) my favorite issue of any magazine ever.

Jane is why I became a journalist.

Jane and Mark Twain and a couple of other things.

But mostly Jane.

And Sassy.

Jane was the brainchild of Sassy Magazine’s founding editor Jane Pratt.

Jane Pratt was my idol.

The magazine premiered in my favorite month (September) in 1997, with my girl Drew Barrymore on the cover.

I’ve had a girl crush on Drew for a long time. Turns out so did Jane. The two dated in the early 1990s.

This issue has moved with me six times over the course of 13 years. That’s my copy up there. I scanned it. It remains in pristine condition, except for a few pages I foolishly cut up in 1999 to decorate the cork board in my bedroom.

My sophomore year of college, I tore out the best first-person essay ever written from the pages of this premiere issue. It was penned by Powder actor Sean Patrick Flanery and it was a beautiful sun-drenched piece of writing. One of my journalism professors had asked us to bring in a prized possession. I brought in this story, shoved in a manila folder. When my classmates looked at me cross-eyed, like how can your most prized possession be a magazine story? I replied that it wasn’t the ink and paper I was attached to, it was the story that wouldn’t leave my head.

I could have brought in any number of possessions, but this one seemed the most worthy. At the time nothing filled me with more passion than writing. I wasn’t cherishing a trinket. I was cherishing a dream.

I’ve still got the story. It’s stuffed in the same Rubbermaid bin that contains the above issue of Jane.

When Jane ceased publication in August 2007, it’s readership was devastated, but not surprised. By 2006, the magazine was an emaciated version of its former self. Jane Pratt had resigned as editor-in-chief and issues had become increasingly difficult to find.

The magazine business is as much a cutthroat corporate beast as is any creative mass market industry.

I understand why Jane folded. She was too smart for her own good.

She was wicked, misunderstood, goofy, open-minded, cutting when need be and flowery when the topic warranted it. She was snarky before I even knew what snarky meant. She cared about fashion enough to pass as hip, but not so much that she snubbed the joys of thrift store shopping.

I recall Jane stories the way Joe recalls movie lines.

I remember in one issue, the magazine ran a scathingly honest profile of country diva Faith Hill and a back-of-the-book essay on why it’s far more interesting to wear a giant pink rabbit costume for Halloween than it is to dress up as a slutty nurse.

Every so often I come across a Jane writer’s byline in some other magazine and I run to Joe with the book flung open like I’ve just unearthed a diamond from the crusty earth.

It’s no secret that most magazines for women are dumbed down, fluffed-up, prissy, neutered wastes of paper. The puffy, always-glowing celebrity profiles make me gag. The writing is banal and packed with cliches.

If I had an older sister like Jane, we’d start fires with the pages torn from dim-witted women’s magazines.

We’d have a freakin blast.

—

PS. In 2002, Adweek Magazine named Jane Pratt “Editor of the Year.”

  • 1
  • 2
  • Next Page »

Why do I even blogger?

If you really want to know why I continue to write here, read this post.

Lance lately

  • Old School Values
  • Land of Hives and Honey
  • The Happy Camper
  • Truth Bombs with Henry [No. 2]
  • Truth Bombs with Henry [No. 1]
  • By now I’d have two kids

Social commentary

  • Crystal on Pug worries, or what to do when your dog starts having seizures
  • heidi on Land of Hives and Honey
  • Roberta Kendall on Land of Hives and Honey
  • Jane on Pug worries, or what to do when your dog starts having seizures
  • reb on The Happy Camper

Back in the day

  • December 2017 (1)
  • September 2017 (1)
  • May 2017 (1)
  • June 2015 (2)
  • May 2015 (1)
  • February 2015 (1)
  • September 2014 (1)
  • February 2014 (1)
  • January 2014 (1)
  • December 2013 (6)
  • November 2013 (3)
  • October 2013 (5)
  • September 2013 (7)
  • August 2013 (2)
  • July 2013 (3)
  • June 2013 (2)
  • May 2013 (5)
  • April 2013 (2)
  • March 2013 (6)
  • February 2013 (6)
  • January 2013 (4)
  • December 2012 (1)
  • November 2012 (3)
  • October 2012 (3)
  • September 2012 (3)
  • August 2012 (5)
  • June 2012 (5)
  • May 2012 (1)
  • April 2012 (4)
  • March 2012 (5)
  • February 2012 (6)
  • January 2012 (3)
  • December 2011 (1)
  • November 2011 (2)
  • October 2011 (6)
  • September 2011 (6)
  • August 2011 (5)
  • July 2011 (3)
  • June 2011 (4)
  • May 2011 (7)
  • April 2011 (7)
  • March 2011 (6)
  • February 2011 (6)
  • January 2011 (5)
  • December 2010 (7)
  • November 2010 (4)
  • October 2010 (4)
  • September 2010 (11)
  • August 2010 (6)
  • July 2010 (4)
  • June 2010 (6)
  • May 2010 (7)
  • April 2010 (8)
  • March 2010 (5)
  • February 2010 (6)
  • January 2010 (6)
  • December 2009 (10)
  • November 2009 (6)
  • October 2009 (8)
  • September 2009 (4)
  • August 2009 (4)
  • July 2009 (8)
  • June 2009 (8)
  • May 2009 (11)
  • April 2009 (5)
  • March 2009 (14)
  • February 2009 (7)
  • January 2009 (6)
  • December 2008 (3)
  • November 2008 (3)
  • October 2008 (3)
  • September 2008 (5)
  • August 2008 (11)
  • July 2008 (10)
  • June 2008 (13)
  • May 2008 (9)
  • April 2008 (4)

Oddities

Reading material

Wild by Cheryl Strayed Travels with Charley Home Game bossypants just kids the time travelers wife Boys Life The-Liars-Club My Uncle Oswald Stephen King On Writing

Me.

Heidi K

Joe.

Joe on guitar

Henry.

henry as werewolf

Chip.

Chippy in a cupboard

Buzzy.

Buzzy

Why Lance?

This blog is named after my old friend Sarah's manifestation of a dreamy Wyoming cowboy named Lance, because the word blog sounds like something that comes out of a person's nose.

About me

I'm a journalist who spends my Mondays through Fridays writing other people's stories, a chronic procrastinator who needs structure. I once quit my job to write a book and like most writers, I made up excuses why I couldn't keep at it.

My boyfriend fiancé husband Joe likes to sleep in late on the weekends, but since we have a kid now that happens less than he'd like.

Before Henry and Chip, I used to spend my mornings browsing celebrity tabloid websites while our dog snored under the covers. Now I hide my computer in spots my feral children can't reach because everything I own is now broken, stained or peed on.

I created Lance in an attempt to better spend my free time. I thought it might jump start a second attempt at writing a novel.

It hasn't. And my free time is gone.

But I'm still here writing.

I'm 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 and I've yet to get caught up in something else, which is kind of a big deal for a chronic procrastinator.

How I met Joe

If you're new here and looking for nirvana, read this post.

And if that’s not enough…

heidikurpiela.com

Join the fan club

Subscribe

Copyright © 2022 · Magazine Pro Theme on Genesis Framework · WordPress · Log in