An Open Letter to My Students

Dear Students,

I hope you are doing well right now. That’s how everyone has been starting stuff like emails and phone calls, isn’t it? Maybe I should start this letter to you how I always greet you in the morning. I’ll start over.

Hi [state your name]! I’m so glad you’re here today. Did you have a good breakfast? Pop tarts? Chocolate fudge pop tarts? My favorite! Where’s mine? Bring me one tomorrow. What was your favorite thing about the weekend? Sleeping and video games– yes, sounds like my kids too. I’ve heard all about Animal Crossing. Why do they talk like that?

Late slip? No worries. Just put it on my desk. You know where it goes. I’m so glad you’re here today. Of course you can eat breakfast at the back table. Hurry though because I don’t want you to miss too much. Awesome, thanks! Of course you can save anything you want for snack or lunch but put it away though and not on top of your desk.

Okay, kids. This is what we’re doing today. The agenda is on the board and put your homework on your desk. I’m coming to check now… thank you for doing your homework. And where is–? Right, you know to finish your homework at recess. Let me know if you have any questions.

So kids, I have an announcement.

You know that I absolutely love being a teacher and not just any teacher… YOUR teacher. I tell everyone how amazing you are. That’s why our principal, vice principal, teachers from this school, and teachers from other schools want to visit us see how much you’re learning every day. In fact, you really have impressed them by how much you’ve improved your study habits since the beginning of the year. Remember how I had you look through your writing from the beginning of the year and compare it to what you’re writing now? It’s crazy, right?

What’s the announcement? Oh yes, I have started telling my stories again and ha ha, you’re that much closer to recess. My announcement is that I won’t have the privilege of teaching you in person for the rest of the year.

(I know I’m not saying anything right now. I’m taking a big breath and yes, I know it looks like I’m about to cry.)

This virus has made it impossible to teach you in person and for this, I’m so so sorry.

But look, I’m going to always be your teacher. Even when you’re in fifth grade, in sixth grade, and on and on. I’m still going to be your teacher.

I know you’re going to miss me dressing up in my Hogwarts robe, my unicorn head, my rainbow poop hat. You’re going to miss the smell of creamer in the morning and the pictures from comic cons I share and the silly stories I tell, all so I can make the time in our classroom a little more fun than I remember my own fourth grade classroom was when I was your age. You’re going to miss when I do weird voices and read in a southern or English accent. You’re going to miss when I randomly talk in character voices like Tina Belcher during math. I was working on a few other voices too but don’t worry. You’ll hear them in our daily Zoom meetings. Yes, I know some of you can’t log on or can’t get your computer to work or your older sibling gets the computer first. Just tell your parents to email me and we’ll figure it out, okay?

You’re going to miss me because I’m so awesome– duh– but I’ll miss you more. You really don’t know how much I miss you now. Dudes, I’m worried about you! I wonder what you’re eating for breakfast, what your favorite weekend activity was. I worry about your families and want so much to tell them that they are doing such a great job helping you at home. I want them to not worry about how much you learning you might be missing out on. I want to remind them that students all around the world are exactly where you are right now.

We’re scared. And that’s okay. We’re worried and tired and sad and confused.

And that’s okay too.

Tell your families that’s how your teacher feels too.

And that’s okay.

It’s so exciting to see how much you have grown up, not just in height, but in understanding the expanding world around you. You don’t let it bother you that you can’t do something. Yet. You’ve made friends in our class. You’ve made mistakes and learned from them. You keep trying mostly because I make you but I see that you’re beginning to see what I see: an outstanding kid who knows that I’ll always have your back.

No, please don’t cry. Okay, I know. I started it. I’m not crying though. Okay, I am but I’m not sad anymore. I’m crying because you’ve made me so proud to be your teacher.

You do the best you can the rest of the year and I’ll see you soon.


Ms. G

Hello, Old Friend

I cannot recall the last time I opened the app for this little blog I faithfully loved and nourished to the point where it had a life on its own so perhaps I’ll start at the beginning.

It has been twelve years since my husband R retired from the Navy in which time he has unsuccessfully worked retail but successfully earned his Bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. He enjoys painting when the creative bug burrows in the depths of his imagination but less so since the virus hit, that deadly and complex virus that has managed to touch every corner of humanity.

His pursuit of the college degree was not without struggle and struggle he did. He drove and sailed, pardon the pun but he really did use the ferry, and walked a couple dozen hours a week to San Francisco and then spent several dozen more on homework. I’m so very proud of him as he pushed himself far more than he ever thought he could. Even when he thought he wanted to quit, he didn’t. The stubborn ones are always more stubborn than they care to admit.

Living with someone who has PTSD and high anxiety is not as difficult as one would think if it weren’t for these two factors:

1. He’s always managed to hide these things very well, almost to the point where I forget he has them and

2. As you recall, I suffer from bipolar disorder so summarizing Alice in Wonderland, “We’re all mad here.”

I am grateful to mention that our immediate families do not have the virus but several family members have been seriously ill, including our oldest. Cross your fingers that we either have had it without knowing and without becoming ill or that we never catch this damn virus at all.

I’m not sure if you remember our oldest son who used to dress in mini dress blues just like his father. He is now a senior in high school. Just like that.

It wasn’t that long ago when it was just the two of us wandering around Augusta, Georgia. I can’t think of any two who would stick out more in that little old town. It was such a culture shock to live there having spent my entire life in California. I miss being there– no, I miss the newness of it all. Seeing the south as the movies and tv shows portray it with its cuisine, greenery, tiny flying and/or crawling creatures, all with a side of uncomfortable race relations. Southern charm and hospitality are real and so are the stares from not fitting in.

But I digress.

The boy won’t be finishing his last year of K-12 schooling in the classroom but virtually as with rest of the world. I am not as upset as I thought I’d be from not seeing him at his graduation. I suppose I’ve learned to take my cues from my children. What is that saying? “You’re only as happy as your saddest child.” Which, if you think about it, is hilarious but not if you think about too long because the truth hurts and bruises far longer than we want to acknowledge. No, he is not bothered in the least. In fact, he’s trying to find a job. Ah, good luck in this economy.

My family has taken to gardening, a hobby that I did not seeing coming at all. You see, my husband has always been a conspiracy theorist. He has not reached the point of living as a hermit in the mountains somewhere to which I honestly don’t mind if he wanted to one day retire. I have made it crystal clear though that he should send me postcards once he gets there as I have no intention of leaving suburbia, family, friends, buying groceries, my career.

He has always talked about needing to survive off the land in case of a zombie apocalypse. Did he say actually say “zombie”? I cannot recall but he definitely wanted to put what small piles of dirt that add up to a backyard to good use so he and the kids are gardening now with a lot of input from my mother who is doing well also, thank you for asking. She grows a marvelous garden every year and wants to help them yet doesn’t want to impose yet it’s okay for her to tell me everything I’m doing wrong. Don’t worry, if you have met her or me or watched Fresh Off the Boat, you’ll find that this is all done with love. And yes, I’m pretty sure she likes my husband more than me.

My husband, who I thought would be a wreck during this time, actually is not. He’s taken the role of Protector and Scavenger quite seriously in that he insists on being the one that gets exposed to the elements and going to the grocery stores mostly on his own. The girls have been sheltered in all of this and I’m hearing from friends and family who are essential retail that people are becoming rude and at times violent.

This is only month one of less or no money for most families all over the world. This is only month one of not going to work, not going to school, cutting out luxuries like beauty services, dining out. This is only month one of sheltering in place.

This is only month one of restaurants and small businesses of losing money. This is month one of families who were previously struggling to pay bills will feel the struggle exponentially. This is month one of wondering every aspect of this virus: origin, history, related viruses, inoculation, testing, reinfection, cases, deaths, cities, countries, borders, and lies.

In a matter of weeks, we have had so many freedoms that we took for granted taken away all in the name of public safety. Remember we said it was okay for us not to have privacy to stop terrorism? If we have nothing to hide, it shouldn’t matter who knows about our personal business, right? We cannot fly with extreme, mandated measures. We cannot cross borders. We cannot worship as we choose. We cannot gather to fight against a common cause. We cannot convene about matters that are important to us, not in groups larger than 10, that is. We cannot visit the ones who need us the most. We cannot connect with those outside our household with a simple touch. No hugs. No pats on the shoulder. No handshakes. No. None. Nothing. We cannot infect each other if we cannot see each other, if we cannot touch each other, if we cannot even make eye contact with each other. This is only month one.

This is only month one.

Who’s the conspiracy theorist now?

Yes, this is only month one. May God have mercy on us all.

Used To Know or The Used to Know Valuation

This morning I’m in San Francisco again while R is in class. As we walked together down a familiar road, I had the sudden realization that I had been here before and not just in the previous weeks but back in the time that I didn’t have a wedding band. Back before I had stretch marks from losing weight quickly because of dancing all weekend, not because of housing babies in this now tired albeit chunky body. Back before when the outfit du jour allowed special privileges of cutting lines into the clubs and free flowing drinks once in the VIP lounge.

That was exactly what I was doing about two decades before on that very street.

This was a street I used to know.

I’m wandering the city I used to know. It was– and still is– full of energy and promise.

I spent a lot of time here, at the Fulton 5 stop on Market. Is it even still called that? Almost every weekend I’d take the bus downtown to window shop, to enjoy the sun, and people watch. To go from a sheltered upbringing to being set loose in a big city was almost too much to bear at once and trust me, I have a couple of academic probation semesters to show for it, but it was a necessary step to realize that I’m in college for an education, not just a pit stop to aimless adulthood.

I watched so many Broadway shows here

and I enjoyed every moment. The youngest and I will come back in the fall to see Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. A lot has changed since getting balcony seats for a day’s pay as an undergrad. It feels busier even though the box office is closed. The energy from past shows still linger on a quiet Saturday morning.

I walked down these streets I used to know as a young student, anxious to buy the latest styles to party at the hottest nightclubs.

Instead I see brand names, tourists, and the homeless they ignore.

I spent so much time taking in the city that I never let the city take me in.

This morning I wander without my children yet with a curfew since my mother will be annoyed if we are gone too long. I wander to listen to the traffic and frustrated drivers sitting on their horns. I wander to catch up to tourists speaking another language so I can listen to the melody of their conversation. I wander to peer through the windows of museums I never knew existed.

I wandered down streets I barely remember to be delivered to galleries that house works by Dalí, Picasso, and other painters who’s art carries a five or six digit price.

I wander the streets like a tourist, taking in scenery with a lifespan and not knowing if I’ll ever see this moment, this store, this statue ever again.

With middle age looming, our visits to this city become less frequent. Time and cost are fleeting but for whatever reason, I’ll be back to retrace my footsteps that will soon be erased by time that I used to know.

The Contemplative Corollary

As I sit here alone in Yerba Buena Gardens, I realize that these moments are rare. My children have opted not to accompany me as we drove to San Francisco for R’s class. I warned them, the middle in particular, that we wouldn’t have a repeat of last weekend. We wouldn’t wander around our favorite stores, we wouldn’t dine at our favorite ramen place, and we certainly wouldn’t be wandering around the touristy parts of the city.

We would simply sit. Read. Write. People watch.

To which the middle said, NO THANK YOU.

Not that I blame her. Last night’s Target rum turned into a quick side trip to PetCo, the middle’s new favorite store. As the new and proud owner of a pair of guinea pigs, A’s frequent visits to the store allows her to be an informed “mom”. There was also a side trip to L&L Hawaiian Barbecue, a much needed comfort food for me after an emotional week.

Buddy, our fierce protector and loyal companion especially while R was stationed in Virginia, was diagnosed with end stage cancer and died all within two hours. I was his human and he was my dog.

I failed my kids and did not bring back our dog after that trip to the vet that turned into a side trip to the ER of a vet in Sacramento.

We are all still broken. It looks like we’re better but really, we’re just getting used to being broken.

Since having children, there haven’t been a plethora of moments where I have sat in silence and alone.

And as a mother, I knew that. I knew that I wouldn’t have a lot of time to myself.

I had a lot of time to myself as a newlywed. Too much time. R was deployed longer than he was home. Still, I am not afraid of being alone.

Now that the kids are 17, 14, and 11, I still don’t have a lot of time alone and that’s okay. Moments with them I am now realizing are finite and will begin to taper off as the boy begins college next year and now high school and middle school for the girls. I savor them even if they sometimes drive me nuts. In all honesty, if my biggest complaint about them is how they flaunt improper grammar knowing it hurts my teacher ears, then we’re alright.

It feels like the universe has delivered my life to me right here and right now. Listening to older Asian women walking by with their metal canes and speaking their native language that I don’t understand yet sounds like a melody with their hushed voices. The church bells have been playing Vivaldi and other songs for the past ten minutes. The sun is awakening the park slowly, taking its time for the Saint Patrick’s Day parade that begins in an hour. Sometimes I’ll hear the piercing sounds of bagpipes rehearsing in the background but they are no match for the persistent bells. As the shadows retreat, more people appear in the park. Dogs are walking their humans. Rolling luggage are being walked by their tourists. The bells play Auld Lang Syne plays and all is well.

The Conscious Unfriending Hypothesis

For the past few months, I’ve been grappling with the notion of “not being enough”. I suppose everyone goes through this at one point, or even several, but this one was different. I overcompensate by overdoing everything.


Do I want to plan an event for the PTA? Sure, but let me make sure we go overboard with decorations by getting hundreds of them and a full set of cardboard movie cut-outs for our theme!

No problem!

Let me put on a superhero outfit to promote the next movie fundraiser!

No problem!

See? Overcompensating.

However, I have come to accept over time that friendships change. Sometimes people drift apart, sometimes someone does another wrong… whatever the case may be it is totally and one hundred percent normal.

But in the past year, it hasn’t felt normal. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got my friends who are family, with whom I completely trust my kids. I’ve got my ride-or-die peeps and a few trustworthy coworkers. A couple of those coworkers are ride-or-die peeps too.

As the circle of friends expands, it also retracts. Although I do love making plans and going to dinner or concerts, there are some people I know who I’ll never be able to have a deeper connection with whether it’s because our plans never go beyond just having the occasional dinner or I don’t feel that I could confide in them past the normal, day-to-day level.

And that’s okay.

But now I realize that I will never be the kind of friend to some people that I thought I was.

Believe me, I beat myself up over it for a while. Things that they would text or even say to my face were quickly dismissed by me because friends are supposed to joke around with each other, right?

Until they aren’t.

Until those jokes become mean-spirited, condescending, and downright selfish.

Until you realize you’re only contacted when they need something.

Still, I believed in this group of friends.

Until I didn’t.

Until I realized that I was spending more time justifying random things they would do and say like, “Oh, I’ve known her a long time and that’s just how she is!” or “That’s just what she does when she’s drunk!”

Until all I was doing was justifying.

Justifying their actions. Justifying their words. Letting their actions and words slowly crush me.

My husband had been saying for several years that I didn’t seem as close to this particular bunch as say, my neighbor who I rarely see yet when we find the time to talk, we will talk on her porch for an hour.

To my husband, I would always reply, “No, but they’re nice and we just hang out.”

It’s taken me years to finally figure this one out.

Over the weekend, I carpooled with a friend to bring our daughters to an overnight church retreat. We listened to 80s music and drank Starbucks. We joked with our daughters about wanting to show them the horror flick, “The Nun”, before their weekend away. During a quiet moment when our girls were preoccupied, I asked my friend (who is a ride-or-die friend btw) for advice. Without naming names, I told her some of the things being said and texted to me. She asked me why I would put up with such a cunt.

You know the music of the opening sequence of “The Simpsons” where the clouds begin to fade away? That’s what my moment of clarity sounded like.

All at once, every time I had to explain or smooth over their behavior to someone rushed into my head. Every time one would insult me in one breath, yet ask for a huge favor in the next. Every time someone would say something negative about them. Every time someone had an extremely horrifying anecdote about them.

Every time.

Every time came into my head like a montage.

And while it stings a little to know that these friendships have ended, especially now that I see a lot clearer, I’m actually quite glad and quite relieved. No more obsessing about what I did wrong or what I should’ve said. No more feeling disappointed because I thought I should’ve done more.

No more.

This in no way makes me the expert in friendships by any means. This doesn’t even mean I’m right and they’re wrong.

This just means that I’m in charge of my own happiness and consciously retracting those friendships is enough.

And also that they’re cunts.

The Shake It Off Realignment

I spent the last nineteen years thinking about what I would do if my husband died that I never had a second thought about my own.

I took our daughters to a Taylor Swift concert the other night despite being in the ER just a week before. Ear pain in my right ear was complicated by ear pain in the left and numbness on the left side of my face sent me to the ER. While tests showed no signs of stroke or heart attack, I remember thinking: “I don’t want to die. I’m not done yet.”

As a parent, I always drilled the kids about what to do in an emergency, who to call, which neighbors to trust. Not to the point where I freaked them out, of course, but I wanted them to be able to think on their feet. Would they know what to do in case of an emergency?

Case in point: I was still at work when the middle accidentally cut herself with a butter knife. Her older brother walked her directly to a trusted neighbor who put a band aid on her and sent them on their way. Our neighbor promptly called me as soon as they left and I was grateful to have this network, this village, these neighbors to help me with the children.

Before every deployment, we quietly talked about the what ifs. This would happen a few days before he had to leave and always when the kids were asleep.

He’d tell me, “My friend J– would probably come to the door if… you know…”

I’d say, “Well, I’d look out the window and not answer the door!”

A little humor in a tense situation is not appropriate but needed. I didn’t want to fucking think about a world that he wasn’t in. I didn’t want to fucking think about being a widow. I didn’t want to fucking think about telling the kids that their father wasn’t coming home.

And I almost did. I almost had to do those goddamned things in 2010.

Now we find ourselves in the situation again but I’m experiencing it from the other side. What if it was me? What if I had a stroke? What if I died?

Yep, this side fucking sucks too.

After my doctor said she’d put it the referral for further tests for ENT and prescribed an anti inflammatory medication, R and I breathed a sigh of relief and enjoyed a morning at the bookstore followed by a definitely inflammatory lunch. (I did follow up with a cart full of fruits and veggies and a new blender!)

It’s time.

We’re in our mid-forties and are making small changes to improve our diet. Luckily the kids are not picky and eat pretty clean. However, I am digging my heels because (1) I’m a butthead and a brat and (2) change is fucking hard. Necessary but hard.

Since the ER visit, I went back to having a green smoothie for breakfast and lentils and greens for lunch. I feel good but I also like to complain, even though I lost seven pounds and my blood pressure decreased by ten points above and below. This evening I made green tea but added moscato to improve the taste. Rookie move, I know, but maybe I could decrease the amount of alcohol everyday until I like the damn green tea. I could happen. There’s leftover chocolate mousse leftover from Mother’s Day yesterday and I haven’t touched it. Small steps.

Welcome to Day Zero. I’M HAVING A FUCKING BLAST.

The Angel Anomaly

Yesterday I attended the funeral of a coworker whom I’ve known for almost a decade but yet did not know very well. Teaching is already an isolating job where you could literally go hours without seeing another adult, let alone an adult that worked in another building on campus.

I listened to my coworker’s friends and family speak and realized that his man I worked with never lost his temper, never raised his voice. Trust me, that is an angelic feat if you work with children. Not once had I heard my own children speak ill of him. Not once had I heard a student say that he yelled at them. Even in the past three years that I’ve worked with him despite my countless errors with lunch count, he took it in stride, always assured me, and never blamed me.

And that’s when I realized how much my life was richer for knowing him. How much more joy would I have had in my life if I had known him better? I began to feel disappointed in myself for not recognizing this earlier, for listening to and participating in gossip, for allowing the stress of this wonderful yet all-consuming job eat away at my core when someone tapped me on the shoulder at the end of the funeral.

It was a family friend offering me a Vietnamese sandwich and I almost cried. Here it was, my coworker fed my own children and my students for years and now he was feeding me. Even during a brief moment when I beating myself up in my head, he still managed to get me out of mine and feed me when I needed it the most.

Rest In Peace, my friend. Peace be with you. And with your spirit.

The Thanksgiving Solution

Every year around this time the world feels a little off. I️ don’t know if it’s the time change, weather, or season but it seems like everyone around me is more on edge.

And I️ feel on edge along with everyone else.

Work and school obligations and kids’ extracurricular activities are tantamount to all but when you add the emotional and financial stress of another passing year, even the most mundane chores and expectations of daily life can be exhausting and overwhelming.

I️ believe in gratitude. I️ am thankful for this life I️ lead, for this second chance at being a military family of five and a partner with whom I️ can finally live under the same roof.

Sometimes gratitude isn’t enough.

I️ walked around Target this evening looking for a cheap box of hair dye in an attempt to cover my gray roots and was overwhelmed but not for the reasons you may think.

The commercialization of Christmas used to really bother me until I️ learned to look and listen past it.

I️ heard a preschooler asking his father a million questions about the different animals in the Christmas displays. I️ wanted to tell him my oldest was ten years old and I️ missed that curiosity stage of all three of my children dearly.

But I️ didn’t.

I️ met a grandmother asking me for help because, despite holding her reading glasses in her hand, she could not see the price of the giant doll in a striped pink box. I wanted to tell her that when my middle child was one and a half, Santa brought her a baby doll and a crib for the doll but in that Christmas morning, she picked up the doll and put it on the floor so she could into the crib herself. Even then as a toddler she did whatever she wanted to do.

But I️ didn’t tell her that either.

I️ heard traditional Christmas songs playing faintly from one of the aisles and remembered how my mom and dad played their favorite AM stations on a dusty old portable radio all the time. I️ always assumed they were too cheap or too poor to buy whatever everyone else had like microwaves or cable only to find out quite recently that they put everything they had at the end of the month toward next month’s mortgage payment, paying it off in eight years rather than the full thirty.

When I️ heard that, I️ was speechless. All those nights of making ramen noodles fancy with fresh shrimp, eating Vienna sausages from a can with leftover rice, and freshly caught fish from my dad’s fishing trips to Moss Landing weren’t because we couldn’t afford it? Even now thinking about it, I️ chuckle because they did not waste a single penny and for that I’m grateful.

While I️ can still take a page (or a hundred) from their example, I️ wonder if back then was a simpler and better time. I️ don’t know if materialism wasn’t as rampant but I️ feel like I️ wanted less than my kids. But I️ wanted less because my parents said NO and I️ knew better than to ask. I️ have honest conversations with my kids and tell them that these extras that we provide are extras– if they want those things when they’re older, they aren’t free. I️ hope we are telling them NO often enough because I️ don’t want my kids to have what I️ couldn’t have. My thinking is, “If I️ didn’t have it, they don’t need it.” I️ am grateful to be in this situation where we can provide them with their needs because Lord knows that isn’t always the case.

Maybe that’s why this time of year brings anxiety. All of this change seems sudden as if the weight of the entire year hangs in this delicate balance. This season of rejoice has become a season of stress and financial burden.

We can change this. Every year like the bad moms in “Bad Moms”, I️ begin to take things back. I️ reject what was once expected of myself (because we all know that there is no pressure quite like the pressure we put on ourselves) and I️ decide to do things my way. Or not.

One year I️ decided not to do a Christmas letter to include in cards because I️ didn’t think anyone read ours. Another year, I️ completely forgot to do them. Inevitably I️ always have at least a Christmas dozen cards still sitting on my piano come Valentine’s Day.

There was one year where we did not throw any parties. Nothing. Not a birthday party, not a Halloween party, not a Christmas party.

It felt amazing.

That isn’t to say I️ didn’t miss spending time with friends and family but to be rid of the stress that comes with planning was well worth it. You all can just text me, bitches!

I️ don’t know how or what I’ll take back this year but I️ know it will feel amazing.

The Transportation Triangulation

I never think about how great I have it until something goes wrong. You see, my husband has a habit of collecting lemons… and not the citrus kind.

Even writing this now, that phrase sounds so familiar that I’m pretty sure I’ve written about my husband’s love for buying used cars. Oh, he’s no auto aficionado. 

He’s cheap.

On his fourth car (which carried a rollover balance with four digits from the third), the check engine light came on. Come to find out that he hadn’t changed the oil in a year!

Why? Why?! WHY???

My dear husband didn’t want to spend the forty dollars or so three times a year for regular oil changes; opting instead of a two grand bill that we grudgingly faced this week.

Today he brought the car for its smog check and it passed.

Today my check engine light came on and I sit in fear at the local garage awaiting a bill. 

The New Kids on the Block Effect

It was not cool to be a New Kids fan back in the 80s but fans didn’t care. Decades later we still don’t care!

I’ve been to their concert when I was in high school. When they announced their reunion tour a few years ago, I bought a ticket and was sent down memory lane back to a time when everything was so much simpler, when I could pour my angst, my anxiety, my fears into being completely obsessed with five boys from Boston. 

I’ve since been another time. It’s the same each time.

This past weekend a friend bought tickets to their concert in Sacramento but won an additional pair whom she was kind enough to pass on to other Blockheads she knew from work– we screamed like teenagers when she gifted them to us and continued to scream well into the concert. 

There’s nothing better than being a huge fan than sharing this excitement with other fans! 

While it would have been cool to be in the “pit” right next to the stage, tickets were pricey and I didn’t want to pay hundreds of dollars– I have comic conventions to save for! We did the next best thing and snuck our way down to fourth row! That seems to be a trend with me and my friends and I don’t mind at all…

I’ll be loving you forever, Joey, Jordan, Jonathon, Danny, and Donnie!