A is for A letter to bet and meggoo from LMA.

Hello, dear bet and meggoo.

It has been quite a number of days since you have come to visit me, and I thought it time to write to address your sudden and quite unexpected absence.

It was only a few weeks ago that you would pop in daily to say "hello" and bandy about some with banter. My my. Yes, we shared rousingly serious and thoughtful discussions, and also mused lightly about delightfully frivolous things. Do you remember? Cocktails? Nicknames? Batavia? Privacy issues? Alcohol-induced feelings of power? We even engaged in a few fiesty rounds of meggo-made mad libs. Knee-slappers, indeed! Oh, we had such fun together in those days. Ah, yes. Good times. Good times.

Now, I would like to apologize if I have done something to cause you to stay away. I know I can be demanding at times, and that, when life gets busy, I sometimes do have to accept that I will need to take a backseat. I don’t mean to make you feel guilty for avoiding me – I know that you do what you need to do. However, oh, perhaps it is because of the holiday season upon us, but I am feeling quite lonely and -- yes, I will confess – rather neglected these days. How I long for those days when you used to stop by! The excitement in the exchange! The sharp wit and finely crafted wording! The glib off-the-cuff bluntness! The brash advances toward the edges of scandal! All are but a well-documented memory now. And life, she is left empty and devoid of the vibrancy that once blossomed so abundantly.

I would be so pleased if you were able to come back to visit again soon. Poor amalier stops in quite often. She seems to be trying to keep up a conversation with herself these days, and, just between us, it is actually rather pathetic to watch. A grown woman talking to herself! It’s downright disgraceful. Has the girl no shame? (*ahem…) However, the topics she raises are indeed lively and interesting, and I am quite confident that you would much enjoy your time with me upon your return.

My hopes are high for seeing you again soon.

My most cordial wishes to you and yours.

Your forlorn blogfriend,

LMA Was Kinda Right
http://louisamay.blogspot.com

B is for Buckeyes that we will eat at our holiday party!

Ok! Since nobody added recipes to the last post, we'll move the discussion here. Let's start brainstorming a menu for our holiday feastival!

Whaddoyou think? Finger foods?

- buckeyes
- chocolate fondue (bread, fruit)
- cookies we like (or from the Swedish Bakery, tho baking them is fun)
- spinach salad
- sushi (or not)
- fancy cocktails
- red wine
- mom's tomato bread
- other tapas?

We might want to make sure our menu isn't too big. We don't want to end up spending too much time in the kitchen. Or maybe we do? And, let it be known that i will gladly defer all menu ideas to Meg.

Can everyone make the 23rd?

B is for Baker

Meggie, our resident baker guru, what are you baking for Thanksgiving? How bout you Bet? What's yer faves? The cake Meg made for Beth's weddings was one of my favorites. Oh, and we'll also take recipes here. Bs and As. Baked goods and alcohol treats. Go!!!

B is for Batavia.

And blasphemy.

In Batavia, both Beth and Meg used to misplace their shoes all the time. We would always be looking for one of them. Complete pairs never went missing -- just one of the two. All the time.

I loved comic books then, and comic books had wacky advertisements that were meant to be very serious for products that will, say, bulk you up if you were a scrawny guy who got kicked with sand at the beach, or make yer butt bigger if you were a woman with a flat butt (never got that one), or possibly accept lucky you into correpondence art school if you copied the drawing of their cartoon profiled animal using your undiscovered talents and sent it in to them. Once, during a dinner party mom and dad were having, i came down to the kitchen, and interrupted mom to ask her if i could have a money order for this witchcraft book advertised in the back of one of my comic books. It said that, among other wonderful yet kinda ominously couched things, it would help you find stuff that was lost. i told her that i wanted to get it to help Meg and Beth find their shoes. Mom got really angry, and told me that witchcraft was bad and against our religion. i was so embarrassed for the faux pas. To want something that was against catholicism was a big no-no. Didn't know why it was "against our religion," but, oh the shame! the guilt! i ran upstairs and cried facedown on my bed. i just wanted to help find the shoes, but, in doing so, i had become a devil-lovin heathen!!

Them's tough breaks for a seven year old.

A B C D E F G H IO J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z !!!

Whoah! Alphabetarama!! We're all over the place!!!

It's way awesome that random very excited posting is occurring. Do we wanna try to keep to 'B's for now? If we don't want to, we don't need to. We can do whateva we wanna, "we" being alla us and my talking birthday unicorn.

B is for Betsy-boo

Yep long ago, I had a sister named Betsy. Who then became Beth, then Elisabeth, then Sky and now Bet. I like Bet. BUt I never was down with all the name changin. Betsy-boo, where are you? I know you are probably rolling your eyes. But look. I made a whole new posting. And B, it is for Betsy.

Is there another name that you have been called.
What are your alter-egos?
Names. Places. Dates.
Give em up!

C is for Catholic school

I don't like to talk about religion too much lately, but this Catholic crap we went through was really messed up.
This is where the messing with our minds began Beth. It wasn't that we were out of a great small way of life, it was that we were young and for some reason we were randomly placed in a religious school. The only thing I remeber about church from Batavia is Jolie up on stage doing the Bunny hop. and chewing on the pews.
They are good memories, and then we got dressed up in uniform and I think I lost my dressup dress in the move to oak lawn.
Catholic school is where I got caught cheating. And sure, maybe I needed a little discipline, seeing that I was blackmailing kids in 2nd grade and throwing boys around the playground with Beth and threatening them with my BIG SISTERS. But no one deserved CCD, another C-word.
I knew how to recite the whole mass. And that is where I started questioning my motive with religion. I learned about the Nazis brainwashing the Germans, yes, Nazis and Catholicism. I believed that I was being brainwashed into something I didn't believe in. I only knew the words, but when I started listening to what I was repeating in church I didn't believe a word I was saying.
And somehow, the churchgoer in me lost out to my curiousity.
I wanted to think for myself and the catholic church and all it teaching was just banking on the fact that we'd just blindly believe.
But the catholic church never met 4 girls who were raised to think for themselves. And speak out when we saw something was wrong, or if it was uncomfortable for us.
Don'tcha think that if we never had to meet a nun we might have been more "normal"?
Nevrmind I'm named after a nun...
but don't get me started.

What is your favorite cocktail today?

So aimee our sister was walking around New York one day on her way to _________. She was
noun
just crossing the street when she noticed a ___________ ___________, now she didn't
adjective noun
expect to see this __________ __________ on her way to _________. But there it was...
verb noun noun
the very thing she desired to have for her birthday. It was perfect, it was stellar, it was almost

like the other _______ and______ she was looking for, but really it made her smile so big
noun noun
that she forgot all about the _________and ______ that she wanted so bad.
adj. noun noun

NOw please excuse my use of the parts of speech, I was thinking maybe aimee would like to be on her way to an arcade, but I wasn't really sure of my nouns, verbs and adjectives. I think there are proper nouns, but those are names,...right?
Well, aimee I hope you will print this mad lib out and fill it in and send it off to us so we can give it to grandma and use it ourselves to search high and lo for a present that you really don't need, but just want. Like me...I asked for pizza and root beer, and I got it!
And you can too.

B is for Batavia

I think most of us consider Batavia to be the home of our childhoods. Jolie wrote a song about it, and us. Aimee's already referred to the Alphabet People in this blog. When thinking about an idyllic place to raise children someday, this is what I compare everything to. Batavia stands for a wonderful place of innocence, wonder and personal freedom.

Here are my memories:

The huge (to us) home with plenty of places to run and play in the big yard with the fruit trees. The trampoline where we used to jump in our pink elephant or green palm tree swimming suits while we were sprayed with the garden hose. Mom talking in her telephone voice on the dining room/old kitchen wall phone while we bugged her for attention. The holiday parties with cornflake marshmallow wreath treats. The blackberry bushes where we picked berries for our morning cereal. The chicken-loaf-with-cheetos sandwiches at the kitchen table for weekend lunches. Roller skating at Funway. The horses across the street and the riding lessons around the corner in the barn that was such a mix of smells. Stopping the car to moo at the cows until they all came over to look at the crazy people. Fred and his lady-dogfriend across the street; their illigitimate puppy together. The crying couch. Oberweis ice cream sundaes with the coveted pirouline cookie. The talking tree at that weird department store. The Firehouse pizza place, where you could eat in the loft. The frozen Fox River, and all the ice skaters. Jolie's basement domain with dance lessons, roller skating to Grease albums, and regular schoolings for Meg and I. Throwing glass at the Nelson Lake Road sign with Meggie before she cut herself and got her first stitches. Building snow forts. The bug, the green oldsmobile. Mom blowing up the microwave with Kentucky Fried Chicken corn on the cob. Fire engines. The warm fireplace and the cold stone mantel in front of it. Moon boots. Smelly pencils. Scratch-and-sniff. Birthdays with Zoom who lives on the Moon. Baths in the kitchen sink. Reading books in the climbing trees. Corn field hide-and-seek. Honey from the Fairbornes. Birthday parties at McDonalds (oh it seemed so very unique then!). Waiting for Dad to come home after dark.

It all made sense. Then we were carted off to the suburbs of Chicago, where nothing seemed to make sense. I know that's when I started to feel chaos for the first time. And it makes me sad to think we couldn't have stayed in Batavia to continue our childhoods. It also makes me sad to go back to Batavia and see how it's changed. It's a mall town now, like everywhere else. It's why I look outside of the US for a place with soul. If Batavia can change, so will everywhere else.

What are your memories? Give 'em here. I might even add more. It's our dern blog.

A is for Abandoned blog.

Hm... Ok. Maybe we depleated A for now. What you thing, Bet? And Meg, cmon! Sign up!

A is for AWRIGHT MEGGIE!!

Happy Birthday littlest sister!
Bowl like a dream, girl.
Hope yer over the hangover you got with momma Wednesday.
xo

A is for Anonymity?

We're still on Alcoholism and Alcohol, but thought this might be a good time to ask what people think about anonymity here. Rules, you know, so that our lovedus don't hate us or nothin. Like, we're accessible to anyone out there, so it would be good to set some standards about what we're ok with saying specifically, and what we choose to leave general.
Where are we gonna stand on airing otha's dirty laundry, saying specific names, telling embassassing thangs about one another? im ok with the last one, but id rather keep away from specific names in the the first, and maybe in general for people who aren't us. And im keeping my general info vague. Safety, yknow? What you think?
And Megoo, send back the email and sign in, girl! C'mon!

A is for Awesome.

Eeee! I just met that Morgan guy who did the Supersize Me movie out on the street while walking around on lunchbreak. Trailed him for a about a half block down the street trying to get a look at him from the side, to no avail. He’s pretty svelte and quick these days without the mickeydees weighing him down, it seems. so i jaywalked thru midtown traffic with him, all the while checking him out. “it’s him… nah, it’s not him… no, its him… no, uh, is it him?..” until I dropped back a bit and saw the buttons on his backpack – one with a pic of W with a red ‘no’ line thru it, and the other, a mcdonald’s logo with OBESITY in the box where it normally says “over a billion sold” or whateva. That was the kicker. (Im sure, by that point, he was thinking that I was gonna try to knock him down and steal his wallet or sumthin.) So i went “scuse me, but are you the person who did Supersize Me?” he stopped and said he was. He was totally nice, and was like “im morgan whateverhislastnameis" (I blanked it out cause I was starstruck I think). I introduced myself, and told him the film was sooooooh awesome, and thanked him for his work, that it was great great great. then i lied and said I do a zine (i have been starting one so not a huge lie), and asked if I could interview him for it, maybe over email. He said “sure. I’d love to.” Im sure it was his nice way of being like, “yeah yeah, wacko. Just lemme get on with my day, crazy lady,” but I duncare. im gonna email him. I was pretty much a dork, but how cool is that?? Tres tres cool. I was like on drugs afterwards.

Chalk one more up for “NY rocks.”

Oh, and life continues to become bigger as the walls of otherness fall away. Not to harp on a theme, but, in a very direct way, this is like alcohol's powers sometimes – previously doubted possibilities availed. Self-imposed barriers challenged and felled. Opportunity unleashed. Worlds opened!

Just emailed this to Bet, and she agrees. Some similar threads there. Comments?

A is for Alcoholism.

And also for Aimee. And for Amalie, a very sweet nickname someone bestowed on me a few weeks ago. And i haven't even seen the movie.

Anyway, to start: Yes. The women in our family drink. A lot. Alcoholism runs in our ranks, and a mighty appreciation for the cocktail is held by some of us ladies. So, it started me athinkin why. Here's sumthin i've come upon: the women in our family, we're a motley crew of dissonante root factors. From our Roman Catholic gender-based discrimination and demands of self-doubt to our Lithuanian matriarchical reality hiding behind its grossly overt flaunted patriarchy, our religious lessons in sexual repression and shame to the constructivist discovery- based approaches to learning we were encouraged to embrace. We're pulled in many directions emotionally and spiritually. And, being raised staunchly Catholic within a staunchly Catholic middle-class sexist larger family, we were told to feel the guilt and the constraints of the religion's lessons always. We learned early on that we needed to conform to Catholicism's paradigms and social standards -- many of which we don't agree with or adhere to and hardly wish to aspire to -- to be a member of the family in good standing. In doing so, we've had to bely a lot of our true selves. And suppress a lot of our true selves. Conflict, conflict, conflict. Learned very young.

Also, as part of a matriarchial group who have to pull our own weight to not succumb to falling short of what we know to be our potential among other things, some of the women in our family are a worried bunch. Fixatedly worried, from time to time. Yeah, some more than others, but i think each of us has our control demons that are hard to avoid consumption by on occasion. From great aunts and grandmothers down to us, there's a definite worry gene in our lineage, and i think it's somehow linked to control. also, i think that genetic and, to a larger extent, environmental drilled-in factors keep us from being able to roll with things too naturally, or be anywhere near open to having "faith in the universe to take care of us." i think that drinking helps make up for some of what we lack in being able to do so, in not being able to "let go" and be open and believe that everything will work out ok on its own. i think that drinking quiets some of the voices that we have that cause unhealthy guilt and preoccupation and fear and timidity -- some of the same forces that keep us from being able to really take care of ourselves, which we have been charged with doing. i think that drinking helps lets us let go of control and joyfully say "whateva!" in ways that we can't otherwise. i think that the guard we keep on the fucked up social lessons and constraints and obligations that we have learned are more easily challenged when we drink, for some reason. This challenge is needed. And i know we each have other things we do individually to provide a similar challenge to the limits of our learned social order, and our lack of trust in things working out. However, drinking is a quickie. And an effect-ie. Don't get me wrong -- im not advocating or sayin its the best. But i am trying to figure it out. And i've realized that it works on some very definite levels where work is needed.

Just a few rough thoughts. Will expand on some of em lata. Whatta people think, huh?

xo
eli (my given nickname du jour.)

A is for Alcohol

I'd really prefer to be drunk as I'm writing this. But, as it will be several days before I am blessed with an evening of libations, I must write from work, where I most dream about being drunk. Or high. I can just hear Jolie flipping out about this post so far, so I will continue on this escapist thread, focusing on alcohol as related to the workplace.

The 9 to 5 job. Welcome to the land of happy hours, of weekend binge-drinking, of lunchtime scotches-on-the-rocks. There is nothing like the daily grind to make you feel like washing it all away. Sitting in front of a computer for 40-some hours a day, week after week, dulls the senses. Dealing with perpetual "how're you doin" greetings; the endless quest for coffee, sugar, and Fridays; the khaki pants and sensible shoes - it's enough to make you forget what exists on the outside of the flourescent-lighted officescape, and within yourself. I see alcohol as the smelling salts of the corporate life, an on-demand wake-up call to the senses. In my more pessimistic mind, I view it as a desperate dash towards a freedom I once knew intimately, and I understand why people become alcoholics. It’s easy to become trapped if you become a slave to the dolla.

I refuse to give in to the feeling of entrapment because I look towards a better, brighter existence outside of this churning corporate beehive. I don’t know what it takes for people to stay in a job that they hate until retirement. I'm not afraid to be poor again, though I remember how unpleasant this is (maybe "poor" could be our P word). I hope for an eventual occupation that reminds me of life as much as alcohol does. And I think this is most people's goal, but the endless exhausting cycle of work and family and obligation wears them down until they give up on it all. Not me. My survival instinct is very, very outspoken. I don’t believe it could ever allow me to sacrifice my integrity for a “decent living wage” for the duration of my good years. Until then, I have vodka.

Alcohol shows people for who they really are. What is usually censored is blurted out; how mature or immature a person is, what they have pent up inside them, and how they really feel about you are all revealed when they are drunk.* For this reason, it’s not easy to get to know one’s co-workers unless you have a few cold ones with 'em. (For this reason, also, one knows their restaurant co-workers all too well.) I have had extremely limited drinking experiences with my corporate co-workers. And these are those experiences, and what I have learned from them:

*Mind you, this all goes ditto for self-speculation and understanding, but we'll get into that later.

Some of Beth's workplace-related alcohol stories:

My current boss asked me to happy hour one evening with her husband. She’s a little lady, and was trashed after one glass of wine. What came out was silly and free-spirited. Amongst other things, she told me about how she fell asleep on the sidewalk outside a bar one night. She also paid for all the cocktails. I knew we’d get along in the future.

At a company function where liquor was available but limited, a manager who I always viewed as closeted was doing shots with her staff. She started acting like a sorority girl and afterwards forbid me to post any pictures of her from the event. Since then, I’ve seen she’s living a lie and feel quite sorry for her. It’s all very clear, through the window of alcohol.

While living in NYC and working at Bear Stearns, I worked for a man that had mastered the art of incorporating the outside drinking life into his general workday. Fred was a handsome, eloquent, Irishman in his late 60s, who came to Bear after a lucrative career as a lawyer to work under an old friend. I was paired with him for reasons unknown, and it took me a long time to figure out what my responsibilities were under him, mostly because our weekly one-on-one meetings were held in restaurants over pre-, during, and post-meal cocktails. Often, these meetings would carry on for over 3 hours. When I would open a folder to discuss a pressing work topic, Fred would reach over and close the folder, saying “We’ll talk about that some other time.” Then he’d order another Talisker on the rocks. He was never suggestive; more paternal, and we’d talk about his children and our personal histories until we were the only ones left of the lunch crowd and the waiters started hovering like kindly vultures. While this made me increasingly uncomfortable, he never paid them any heed, and eventually, on his cue, we’d rise from our posts and I’d support him out the door as he staggered back to work. I didn’t often drink with Fred, because of the excruciating headaches that would punish me when I got back to my desk, attempting to finish my workday under the guise of sobriety. I did spend many of those hours in the restaurants staring mystified at this man, who just seemed beyond all concern for conventions or scandal. He performed as if he were above the law, and maybe he was. There is no punch line to this story. To me, Fred conquered the system in his own way, and I hope he's still socking one to 'em.

I plan to write again later on this topic. There are oh so many avenues to explore.

It begins on Friday.

Sometimes, it does.

So starts Louisa May Alcott Was Kinda Right, or LMA Was Kinda Right for short (yeah, that's an 'L' over there. It just looks like an 'I.' it's not.), a site created with the express purpose of drawing out and aggregating together the musings, expressions, rants, drawings, textual weavings, and otherwise passionate craftings of and between four not-ficticious, not-so-little sissies.

First things first. Yes. It is fair to admit that a similar exchange has taken place in the past. A wholesomely rousing literary series documentating the interactions of like-named made-up young women occurred at least once before through the novels written by our blog's namesake. Alcott's Jo, Amy, Beth, and Meg were living in some tame and provencial times, but, throughout their matriarchial upbringing, they had adventures. They suffered traumas. They found love and heartbreak and played in the snow a lot. They hung out with Laurie. Oh, the life, the daring-do they had! Ah, Little Women.

Besides watching lots of Little House on the Prairie in our strictly rationed television hours, and being allowed to only read Newberry Award winning books (Beth and Meg got a little more leeway here, but we were all huge geeks), and eating natural peanut butter (we were hippyesque, pretty healthy geeks. Though we still believed Fillet o' Fish was diet food. And we swapped sandwiches when we could at school. And we dreamed of Skippy. Ah, the 70s.), me and my three sisters read Little Women growing up. For me, it was natural to identify the ways of the book sisters with my own sisters of the same name -- or at least to compare and contrast them. i expressly remember connecting one of the actions of the mild mannered book-based Meg to what I knew of the little terror of a Meg in my family when I was young, and thinking, "No, that's certainly not right." And when book Beth died, oh how we all cried. Cried and cried. It will be hard to forget one Christmas day the four of us spent together at the movie theatre watching the Hollywood interpretation played out on the big screen. Tears streamed down Jolie's, Meg's, and my cheeks as we left the theatre clinging to each other. "Beth's dead, Beth's dead!" Beth humored us some, but mostly just walked on shaking her head at our sappiness. (It changes guard somewhat, but Meg was the bleeding heart at the sisterly moments at the time, while Beth was pretty unfettered by emotions overall.).

But, anyway, if i am correct, all of us threw aside the book's offer of order and clarity through a long-dead authorwomen's fictional prophecy ages ago. But though the entireties of the character sketches didn't align too very well with the like-named sis in our real-life bunch, yeah, we share some traits. And, on review, i think each of us would be hard pressed not to admit that some of the dynamics between the four sisters onthe page ring more than familiar. Some stuff was kinda right.

Now, to be clear, though, this blog is not meant to draw direct comparisons to LMA's Women, nor to even mention that foursome ever again. Ideally, it won't do either. Their roles have been played out in providing a springboard to create a space for interaction and exchange between Jolie, Aimee, Elisabeth, and Margaret Mary. With two of us on the east coast, one in the midwest, one in the Rockies, i welcome the assistance of outside others to forge the connections that will bring the four of us together a little more. Even of dearly departed and made up others. Yep. i'll take it. Also, it will be good to note that, through this space, we promise to be less than true to any sort of form expected, deigned, or given to any one or all of us as a birthright. Absolutely assured.

Ok, enough with the background.

Maybe just a little more:

Yeah. We also grew up with the Letter People, the blown-up letter-shaped characters who would just drop by to "visit" us in kindergarden at Alice Gustafson School. The Letter People would "teach" us, conveniently through a Shel Silverstein-esque record that happened to be in the room when they arrived, all about their specific letter through trippy songs spilling wackily mismatched properties the Letter People claimed to have. Like with television commercials, we would jump around rooms singing those songs for weeks after their visits, our eyes wild and glazed with the memory of what absolute fun Mr. or Ms. whateverletter was (or were they Mrs.s? i like to think there were Ms.s). "That last one was DEFINITELY my favorite," we would think each time. But there were no betrayals. Loving them all was just fine. Jealousy was to learn later. It was infatuation at its best -- all-encompassing excitement and engagement and focus. Each Letter Person was so interesting! We were decidedly studious, geeky, kinda healthy, hippiesque, Little Women-named kids, and, wow! There were whole worlds of letter-associated wonders to learn with each Letter Person. And, as we passed them around the room from kid to kid, there was no way to not believe that each of these nearly same-sized plastic sages smiling at us from between ourstretched arms were oh so captivated with us too. They wanted us to learn with them! The wanted to sing with us! They were willing dance partners! Yeah, they promised our little hearts non-stop pint-sized parties. With them around, life was big, possibilities abounded. Oh, high times we had when the Letter People came to visit!

(On a side note -- once, late into the K year, i saw a 4th grader come to our closed classroom door, knock, drop a beloved Letter Person at the room's entryway, and run away down the hall back to his upper grade world. "Mr. P didn't come to visit us!" i thought, "Some kid had to bring him here!" Oh, youth. Oh, innocence. i was unconsolable.)

Anyway, Mr. M with the munchy mouth and all the gang. Good times, good times.

In honor of the exploratory fun and dance and merriment and world-opening awe brought to us by the Letter People, perhaps we can orient this blog of ours alphabetically. We can post an alphabetically-ordered (A to Z) issue to focus our writings on each session. A session can last two weeks. Or until people say "let's change it." We could also allow for expansion into other issues within that series letter while, of course, letting random and unrelated musings on other lettered-thangs people wanna write on come in too. So, like, this week, the writing would be based primarily on an issue that begins with an A, next time B, and so on. Sound good? And, hey! Don't tell me i'm being too bossy. Some order is needed if creativity is to be unleash-ed.

So, we'll go alphabetically with sisters too. i'll choose this week's topic -- Alcoholism. Alcohol works too. Yep. We're not gonna be talkin about the weather here. Well, maybe we will. But not on A! Beth and i talked a bit on the phone this afternoon, and, as our genetic and religious and cultural background goes, it seems an ideal place to start. So, we will. Uh, unless y'all don't want to. Then, I guess, we won't. But i'm thinking positive.

So, generally two weeks per letter. But, to get things a-rollin, maybe we wanna leave time to get everyone joined up and venting and discussing and hammering down the needed symantics on this first one. So, maybe we'll plan on leaving this first letter up for a month. Ok. For now, yeah. Beth will be in charge of calling the B topic for Friday, Dec. 3. Jolie's got C for Dec. 17. Meg's on D for Dec. 31 to welcome in the new year. And so on.

Ok. That's the scoop. So Alcoholism/Alcohol! Here we go!

Now, if i can just figure out out how to get permissions for more than one poster on this... then we'll have things moving along pehr-fectly. Ah. Got it.

Write on, sissies! Write on.

xo
aimee