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Perspective

A lot has gone on since I last posted and I don’t think most would be of much help to another person, so I haven’t bothered sharing any, since I’ve always wanted this blog to inspire or help others. However, I learned a very valuable lesson in the past week.

L surprised me with an amazing trip when Branson, MO started their Old Time Christmas season, which I’ll write about and share amazing photos of later. We knew that my being around people and being active (there’s a special old time, craftsman type of theme park there, where they keep old talents like blowing glass and blacksmithing alive, plus I believe the award for the most Christmas lights in the world), would be hard on me. This was kind of my goodbye trip to going as a “normal” person, so to speak.

We’ve gone there off and on through the years since we honeymooned there, fifteen years ago. One can never predict the course of an illness though and mine is stealthily taking away my ability to walk much, even with my cane, so on my list of “before I’m wheelchair bound” bucket list I had down Branson. Since I’ve progressed so dramatically within the past 15 or so months, he secretly planned to fulfill one of my biggest hopes. We knew I’d catch a cold being around sick people, since for some reason as a society we do not believe in staying home when sick, and that it would be physically difficult on me, despite the luxury accommodations that he splurged for to help me. Shortly upon coming home though, as my body was gearing up to get really mad about the trip, we met our neighbor’s litter of accidental puppies.

They’re noisy, but they are the cutest puppies and so darn sweet underneath it all. We developed puppy fever and wanted to expand our family again, knowing that we will never try to adopt a human again, so the more fur the more love in our home. *smile* As I was partway through my after trip symptoms we fell for two puppies out of the group and decided to go for it.

We went through that whole new puppy craziness of buying tons of things to take care of them, since everything of Bo’s was donated when he passed, and real life set in. The little girl and boy had neither been truly housebroken, as we thought he had implied, so it was puppy pads, paper towels with Lysol, and blocking off the kitchen or crating, believing a few days and we could move to the next stage, like we did with Bo. These little ones have so little interaction that they have massive separation anxiety though, so I had to literally be in sight and usually within their reach or there would be crying. We tried the whole “ignore and they’ll cry themselves to sleep” technique, especially with crating for brief periods, but the noise! Instant migraine and when the boy would hit top pitch, somehow it made both elder cats toss their cookies immediately. Triple the fun!

Long story short I ended up living in the sectioned off kitchen, taking tiny naps when they would nap (but as every sick person knows, it takes forevvvver to fall asleep, so more than an hour was mind blowing), and becoming very hurt by their playful nips and puppy claws, plus not being able to relax in my “accommodation” spots, which are set up to minimize pain and help my body rest. For the first time ever I looked in the mirror in the bathroom (a bathtub makes a great playpen for pups, let me tell you, especially in a tiny bathroom) and I actually saw my illness begin to physically manifest. There are tons of supportive memes that Spoonies share of how we would look if our illnesses weren’t invisible, with a body covered in bruises, sores, etc. I saw two black eyes, skin that just looked…wrong, and bruises. My glands along my throat had swollen and I ended up coughing up some interesting stuff, while most of the rest of my body started shutting down until I was in such low-spoon usage that I didn’t change clothes for days and ended up laying on kitchen mats because my body couldn’t take sitting upright anymore. My veins are growing less prominent under the surface of my skin thankfully, but it was kind of creepy to see the bluish lines running along my entire body.

Add to it that housebreaking never caught on well, although I made a tiny dent, and the cats went into a tail spin of bad behaviors, including trying to beat the muzzles if a pup got close enough. To be fair, with the bite force these little babies have, I was scared of what would happen if one got hold of one of the cats, too. At least the cats swatted without front claws when the pups got in reach (done for medical reasons, not without considering their health and the research behind it, trust me).

It became a nightmare situation made all the harder because I spent nearly every minute with them, except when L kept himself up when he got home from work, to take care of them so that I could get undisturbed sleep. I fell in love with the wiggling bundles of wee and wild tongues. But the hard decision had to be made to either return them or find care while he worked and slept, because I was going to be hospitalized. The returning was a disaster within itself, even though it was less than a week later, and the only thing that tipped the scale was me actually showing an outsider just how sick I looked.

The worst is that the neighbor still hasn’t taken the litter where he said he was and every day they get put in their pen periodically, crying away with the parents, especially since it’s so dang cold. And if either of us are outside, the two remember who we are and want us, because they knew love for that little bit of time with us. Which makes it hard to stay strong, but being terrified of the alternative helps dampen it, admittedly.

So, there’s the back story to this change in perspective that I developed. When the war (puppy) zone got picked up, cats realized they could roam freely again and had access to Mom, and I went on bed rest, suddenly nothing ornery that the twins did, or the squabbling between the older and younger generations, bothered me. I’ve actually found myself laughing at the feisty antics of Zane stealing little things and taking them around the house to beat around (and try to shove under the oven like everything else lol). I separate squabbles, but I understand where they stem from and do it calmly without anyone getting in trouble. The “Trouble Twins” aren’t so bad when the perspective has been tweaked.

I’m hoping to cling to this lesson and learn to apply a change in my perception to that bucket list I’ve made. I still want to do as many things on there with L that I can before I’m permanently bed bound, but it’s not before I’m in a wheel chair. That’s just my pride and fear of considering myself “less than”, when it’ll actually enable me to continue trying to live my life to the fullest. I’m going to try to challenge my perspective on a lot of things and see what I can improve; in my life, in my character, and hopefully my relationships. Seeing the world through the eyes of a chronically ill person can be a little tinted, or jaded, so I’m hoping to do better about how those I care about perceive my actions and being a lot more understanding of how difficult it is for them to understand such a bizarre condition.

I once read and didn’t really grasp the saying until now: “Instead of asking why me, ask what can this teach me”.

Sierra’s Anniversary

A few hours ago, 20 years ago today, my daughter Sierra became an angel. Although there is no expiration date on grief, we’ve learned to be thankful to have a bit of Heaven in our home and in our hearts.

There will be another angel
Around the throne tonight
Your love lives on inside of me, 
And I will hold on tight
It’s not my place to question, 
Only God knows why
I’m just jealous of the angels
Around the throne tonight

Jealous of the Angels, Songwriters: Zachary N. Runquist / Jennifer Bostic / Jimmy Fortune / Barrett Yeretsian

Jealous of the Angels lyrics © Fortune Publishing, LLC, BMG Rights Management

Value

When I became disabled at such a young age I was still at the point of life where I measured my value by my salary, my career position, my good impact and service to the community, and even my housekeeping skills in trying to balance being a working wife.  I’m not sure if that would have ever changed if I hadn’t become disabled, but I’ve struggled a lot with self worth, because I didn’t change my criteria for value even when my life and abilities changed so dramatically.  I’ve carried so much guilt for so long over things that are completely out of my control, all the way down to being unable to do housework or even change my clothes sometimes.

 

Instead of viewing my bath and body products as a creative outlet that also meant that I could help others, I measured it as a ruler for success.  If I couldn’t have my career, then I should make a success out of a home-based business, especially one that allowed me to be creative.  However, it has never been successful enough to even turn a profit (partially because I was always experimenting with new ingredients that were thought to be helpful for various ailments, or buying new scents to see if they might fit in, or whatever else caught my eye, so my supply purchasing kept me well in the red *laugh*), and I judged myself a failure.

 

I failed at keeping my health, at being the wife I expected to be, at becoming a mother, keeping house, cooking, and even making my own business at least break even.  More health issues have been draining me, I’ve been on bedrest a lot lately, and we’ve changed up my treatment plan to see if the new plan will help improve things (3-4 months before we know…seriously.  You tell someone who has no idea what tomorrow will be like that it’ll be 3-4 months before we know if this works; that’s an eternity!  Silver lining time – I get to hope that things will improve around Christmas!).  With everything I became extremely angry.  I became mad that my illness has taken so much from me, that the adoption didn’t work out, that our basement flooded when we had a big storm and lost power for an extended time so our pump couldn’t get the water out, that I felt I couldn’t make any extended plans (even flexible ones) because I have that stupid mortality clock ticking in my head, and super angry that I felt like a waste of tax payer money that was just waiting to die.  That’s the brutal truth.

 

Thankfully I saw my amazing disability therapist a couple of weeks ago and not only did she have my blog posts to be able to gauge my emotional state, but she really got to the heart of my angers.  Fear.  That mortality clock is ticking because I’m afraid of what awaits me when my condition worsens, but she pointed out that healthy people die every single day, so my clock isn’t any louder than even hers is.  And I, and those close to me, have learned how to make accommodations for how my illness has changed my abilities, so we’ll just change a bit more for anything that comes my way.  My greatest fear though, it turns out, is my lack of being able to contribute and be of service; having absolutely no value anymore.  It’s going to be a long work-in-progress to change my definition of what makes me valuable, but being of service has always been my top priority, and she said something so unexpected and profound that I’m still reeling, honestly.  She wanted to know what I’ve been doing for a creative outlet since I haven’t been able to make products, because being creative is a huge part of my therapy and massively beneficial for my mental health, and I had trouble explaining my twist on digital photography (my photography on Second Life), so I showed her my Flickr photostream.

 

I had just posted a series playing on the movie theme of Gidget©, plus pictures of my little SL family, a scene recreated from the latest version of A Star is Born©, and my random ones with learning how to experiment with a special lighting program and editing.  She looked through them with this beautiful look of awe, as if she was in a museum, and asked me if I realized just how much I contributed with my photography.  She said they were like paintings that were hung up for tons of people to see (since it’s a digital forum) and I get to evoke feelings in the viewers, just like regular artists do, such as nostalgia, joy, and amusement.  I literally got teary eyed over the concept, since I could equate that to how it was when I competed with my poetry and had people thank me for what I wrote about.

 

She went on then about looking at the value of what I give to the others in my life and even in my blog; how I work to help or enrich lives, no matter what my illness is currently playing.  She said I also need to work at seeing myself through the eyes of others and seeing the value that they place on me (yet another one that’ll take me awhile *grin*).  I have felt a huge shift in my internal attitude and a big, nasty, pile of guilt has fallen off of my shoulders.  I may not be able to contribute in the ways that I want to, or deemed that I should, but I’m developing a creative talent that has the ability to provide joy and comfort to others.  I was so angry at what was taken away that I didn’t see this blessing that God had given me to replace the vacuum.  I didn’t see that even with my old criteria for value, I have value.  I may not volunteer or do big acts of service, but I can still contribute and be of service to God by helping others.  It’s a huge honor to me to think that my fun little Gidget© photo shoot on SL is just as meaningful a work of art in a gallery or museum.  It’s quite an honor to be disabled with a chronic invisible illness and find at least some of my value again.

I hope this helps someone out there

At the start of the week I had a very frightening incident. L had to go to work and after seeing him off, I grabbed a bite of food to nibble on to keep my meds from making my stomach upset. I could still see the reflection of the headlights through the driveway facing window as he waited at the end of the drive to pull out. That’s when things went wrong. I’m not sure if the food just turned wrong as I swallowed or if my throat pulled one of its lovely episodes of making it difficult to swallow, but I ended up choking. Thankfully, as I prepared to try to use a chair to do the Heimlich the food mushed enough and my throat relaxed enough, so I was able to swallow. It left my throat so raw and sore that today was the first day I spoke fully, although I was careful to not speak a lot. I even got to eat real food again! *happy dance* I still have the side effects of it inflaming other parts of my sinuses and my ear canals, but Hallelujah!

Anyway, while quiet, L gone or asleep most of the time, and my trying to distract myself, I went down the medical rabbit hole. I started out with learning how my throat could cause my ears to have a crinkling noise and all my other symptoms, then about six subjects in I ended up with a YouTube recommendation to watch Spaulding Decon, under the Crime Scene Cleaning website. (Hey, I admitted I went down that rabbit hole. Never know where I’ll end up with my curious mind! Lol) One of this year’s videos, where they started to record and air lengthier and informative episodes about biohazard cases that they handle, came up and I ended up watching them all, and I suddenly had a whole new POV that helps me with my suicidal ideation. They clean up from regular unattended deaths, hoarding, accidents, etc., but also suicides. There is no judgement over the person’s choice or what the client has chosen for the level of cleanup once the biohazards have been dealt with, either. The thing is, it’s unflinchingly up front and shows everything after the body has been removed. You see what the family member that discovers the body would face and how the family isn’t just coping with their grief and possibly shock, but also the physical scene that is left behind.

Police and emergency personnel don’t clean up the scene when they remove a body. They’re there for the emergency (or removal) situation and possibly an investigation. They don’t clean the blood splatter from a gunshot wound or remove decomp. There are specialized companies that do this; not only for safety, but to help the people and families in need of their cleaning services. They’re heroes who don’t wear capes, just like law enforcement and emergency personnel.

Seeing the gore that a grieving family member or friend, most likely L or my mother, would see and deal with if I committed suicide, really helped me create a step back, so to speak, for my mind to walk through if my thoughts turn dark. I basically do a mental crime scene walkthrough, to see it as they would, and see how the different choices would affect them. Somehow having the intense, graphic visuals in my mind are a great way to make my mind shift focus a bit and end up completely stopping. (Ask people with ideation – it’s super hard to quiet those thoughts and take a step back from the thoughts, no matter how much you don’t want to have them or feel that way. I certainly don’t want the sudden feelings of desolation and worthlessness!)

If you suffer from ideation or know someone that does, please consider this unconventional method or talk to your mental health professionals if you are the sufferer. As my awesome psychiatrist says, you can’t have too many tools in your belt when it comes to mental health. The visuals and the meaning behind them are honestly very haunting. They’re a hell of a lot stronger right now for me than when the dark thoughts creep in. So, I hope (yet another brutally honest and odd post) will help either open dialogue if you know someone who is struggling or if you suffer and want to try another method to see if this is the one that works better for you than the ones that have barely worked for you before.

If you know someone who has troubles with ideation, please consider trying to stomach a bit of the show enough to watch “Crime scene cleanup job questions answered”. The owner has some incredible statements about judgement that are worth a listen and to take at least a few minutes to consider. It might just give you another way to look at situations.

I truly hope that any sufferer receives the same empathy and lack of judgement that this company gives, and I hope that you are able to find that one tool that works really well for you, even if it takes going down a weird YT rabbit hole to find yours.

The Clock

I’ve avoided writing for a bit, because I haven’t been in the best mental space. I try and sometimes I manage to fake it pretty well, but I made a promise to myself when my friend suggested I start blogging. I’ll always be honest, vulnerable, and tell all about those messy moments, regardless if it’s when I’m ruining a batch of soap or writing about life. So I avoided writing and hid away within myself, and hid away from my own fear as much as I could. I don’t want to take a pill to make me stop feeling this right now and to stop myself from writing. And I don’t want to hide right now.

Two Fibro sufferers (that I know of) stopped their fight. They couldn’t take this invisible disease robbing them of just one more thing, take the pain that nearly drives you insane sometimes, or take another medication that will hopefully make some invisible disease that is barely understood a little bit better. Or maybe they couldn’t stand the thought of being even more of a burden on someone they love – needing help to even wash their hair when there are only five spoons for the whole day, needing someone to make something for them to eat that their body might tolerate, and then needing that person to be their waiter and housekeeper. Maybe they couldn’t handle their messed up minds sending wrong signals and whispering horrible ideas, until one horrible idea isn’t so horrible. For whatever reason, they found their own version of dignity in death.

Another invisible disease sufferer, who has a laundry list of conditions like most of us do, is really struggling. He started out a lot healthier and stronger than I did when it hit, it has made life much harder for him than for me, and he’s younger than me. We exchange comments online sometimes, so we’re not close friends, but there’s a deep connection to other sufferers that is so different than a friend or acquaintance, that there is a strong empathy and sympathy.

I’m weeks away from turning forty and two connections are gone, while one struggles even harder, and all three are or were younger. It’s honestly messed with my mind and feelings a bit. I suddenly exchanged the biological clock of motherhood for the very loud clock of mortality. And trust me, I know how melodramatic that sounds, and even how morbid it seems, but I’m being honest. When my big relapse started, I truly thought that as long as I was careful while sick, I’d be mostly in remission by forty. I’d miss those milestones most people hit during their thirties and just delay them closer to my forties instead. That very loud ticking in the back of my mind has made me realize that those possibilities are pretty much beyond my reach now. And I’m trying to learn to be okay with that.

My jacked up mind gave me suicidal ideation most of my life (welcome to another symptom that they’re just starting to associate with us realizing there’s something wrong with our bodies before the doctors do). With the adoption journey, the breakdown, and all the work on my PTSD, I finally broke free of most of that and want to live as much as I can. I then realized that I’ve been living for remission while being afraid of the normal aspects of life, because they might make me sicker, and that would ruin my chances of remission by forty. And I wonder if those women who committed suicide gave up when they realized that they were afraid of getting sicker, too.

I wonder what “dignity in death” is to me.

I want to live. I want to live MY life, with my husband, family, and friends. I want to make and capture as many memories as I can before that clock consumes me. For a while now I’ve felt like I was so lucky to have such an eccentric and diverse life between the first onset as a child into my late twenties. I lived and experienced more than a lot of people do in their whole lives, and I’m so thankful for that.

I’m totally glad for those people that feel like their career completes them; happily, yet still a little jealous I admit, for those people who celebrate all of those beautiful moments their children experience as they grow up; and find it beautiful when a couple has weathered all life threw at them and now shuffle hand in hand down the sidewalk in the park, to their favorite bench, where they feed the birds every day that they feel well enough.

Probably deep down most of us want at least a taste of all of that. And we all mourn when terminally ill teenagers fall in love, knowing that they can’t even allow themselves to dream of wanting even a little bit of any of those lives. How many shed a tear for people who just can’t fight their hardships anymore? When did we start to judge them for not trying harder, when it’s really not so different than those terminally ill teenagers, in the end? Those people tried to live, but they were robbed of a lot of their lives and dreams, too. Some people never get to grow up, some never get to experience the easier lifestyle of first-world living, and some slowly lose every bit of themselves that they took pride in or used to do that brought them so much joy. And it sounds horrible to anyone that isn’t suffering or having to be a caregiver, but sufferers are sometimes jealous of dementia. Sometimes we long to forget what it was like to be independent, to truly live in the moment without worrying about how it’ll affect the next week, or to stop hearing the tick of that clock once it starts. It seems selfish and morbid, but there’s the glaring truth, making me want to hide from being someone who could seem so horrible, especially after working for a neurologist and watching family members succumb to the illness. I have a hard time facing that every day brings at least 15 pills into my body and brings me closer to the likelihood that I’ll be hooked up to tubes to administer my meds, not to mention to feed me, since it’s getting hard to eat, and that the bed we hoped would be Kiddo’s will probably be given away some day to make room for the rolling hospital bed that I may have to live in at some point. All while that damn clock ticks without any alarms to warn us of how much longer we have before the next step in the battle starts.

So I put a swirling pearls design scrapbook sticker around the shaft of my cane. I got an Echo Show for myself and my nieces, so I can truly see and hear them grow up until I’m too sick to want them to see me this way, started planning happy moments that I can experience with my husband while I can, and made myself be brave enough to write this. It’s one of the few times that I’m brave enough to try to explain, to leave my thoughts and feelings of my experience for those I love, and maybe even dare to hope it helps someone else in some small way.

I don’t know when that clock will tick too loud for me or where the line in the sand is for me to find my dignity in death. And I can’t say if dying naturally with all sorts of bodily failure, with my husband as my caregiver, will be my version of dignity. Or if my dignity will be a quiet moment wrapped in towels and one of his flannels, so I can envelope myself in his scent one last time, with a bottle of pills and a last conversation with God, trying to keep from being any more of a burden. It’s the one thing my illness can’t decide for me and one thing that I don’t give a fig about being judged by others about. It’s the one thing that is 100% mine. And while I can, I’ll muffle the ticking of that clock and try to live. I owe it to the part of me that keeps fighting this illness, and I owe it to every moment I get to steal despite all that has been stolen from me, and want to honor those extra moments for those that couldn’t fight anymore.

Progress

I’ve had a bit of a sidetrack on my recovery journey, due to some health stuff, but I’m proud to say that at my psychiatry appointment on Friday I surpassed her expectations and the goals set at my last session. *happy dance*

Last time she helped me look at the failed adoption as a miscarriage and the goals were to grieve and let go of the grief that I will never have the life I had planned for since I was a child. It hit me one day that I’ve had to adapt almost all expectations of my life all ready, due to my illness, so realistically not having children in our life together is just one more expectation to change. He and I still make a family, with the relatives and friends that support and love us as the bubble of family around us. A child isn’t a requirement to be a family. It still hurts at times to be missing out on the special moments and to not have the parenting aspect to share, but this different path gives us other opportunities we wouldn’t otherwise have, such as traveling and exploring other educational avenues.

Another goal that tied in to everything was to learn to value myself. To stand up for my needs, demand respect, and let go of toxic influences. One huge lesson was to stop trying to obtain verbal praise and validation from others for what I had done/achieved or for my personal growth. I realized that I have sought that my entire life, especially from male figures, and is also probably part of what made me an easy target for my ex. It also held me back in a lot of ways. So I’m learning to embrace my inner badass, which is a comment that my psych loved hearing. I’m a complex, flawed person, but I’m a survivor and I’m stronger for that. So yeah, I won’t use a more polite term. I’m embracing my inner badass. *grin*

In realizing that I value myself and my personal journey, it was an epiphany to me that I have sought L’s verbal validation for about 20 years, yet he’s always shown me that he values me. It’s just not his style and not an empowering way to show me that he values me, so I felt like I was lacking for years because I was so lost in trying to find that validation of value. He became friends with, admired, and married a strong woman; there isn’t a higher vote of confidence than that, really.

That realization made me feel even stronger and a few days ago I actually unpacked the adoption tote. In my immediate grief I boxed everything I possibly could that we didn’t send to Kid via the social worker. I hid that tote under a pile in the back of a closet. Last week I took the label off, threw out some of the items that can’t be donated or are too personal to share, and sorted the rest. I then packed a box for my friend to give to a couple that she knows is adopting. I even sent along my adoption tee and all of my adoption necklaces, which I wore instead of my cross throughout most of the adoption journey. It wasn’t as hard as I expected, honestly. It mostly was bittersweet to see and touch all of these tokens of hope. I seriously love that I’m able to share these with others that are holding that hope inside as well and that the items might help them through the tough times during their journey.

While sitting next to the box I realized that I was staring at the joint bookcase for Kid and I, which I had filled with some of the keepsakes I had always planned to pass down, along with my literature keepsakes. It dawned on me that I don’t have a child to pass my little treasures to, but I have loved ones that I can, so after checking with their mom that it would be okay, I also boxed up some of my book collections, like the Anne of Green Gables and Emily sets. I have three large mailing boxes to send all ready. LOL I know that my nieces will find as much joy and wonder in the books as I did, and my friend knows how much these books mean to me (they’re some of the few possessions that I truly value and wanted to pass on), so it makes me so incredibly happy to be passing my beloved books on to them. I don’t have to throw out or donate them for a library fundraiser, and know that they’ll still find life, so to speak, in the hands of much loved avid readers.

I also wrote an addendum to my will, which I’ll need to get witnessed, for the remaining treasures like fossils and collector items to be passed on to them and other kids/young adults. I’m not sure when my illness will overtake me and it is utterly heart lifting to realize that I can still pass on the few material things I treasure. I’ve always thought that passing down those little things are an incredibly meaningful way of saying “I love you”, especially if receiving gifts is part of their love language, so this all was a huge step in processing and leaving the other fork in the road behind. This progress left both my psych and I with red eyes after discussing all of it. I didn’t need that validation anymore, but the joy and hug meant a lot. So I straightened my imaginary superhero cape and walked out to L with a huge smile on my face, followed by a big thank you for showing me all of this time how much he values and supports me.

I hope this vulnerable post, and blogging this difficult journey, helps you find and celebrate your value, too, especially if you find yourself on a wildly different path than you ever wanted or dreamed of.

My New Business Flickr

Hi there!  Long time, no write.  😀  I haven’t really had anything new to post, since I’ve mostly just been focusing on my health and PTSD therapy, especially since I separated out my gaming into an individual blog.  I have, however, finally had the light bulb moment that I could create another Flickr account to work as a visual portfolio of products I have made.  Once I am ever able to start working on products again and then update the website accordingly, I’ll be able to display examples of other products that I have made that I am not featuring on the website.  This allows customers to get an idea of ideas, options, and skills I have for custom orders.  I added a convenient little widget (display link) in my sidebar, but wanted to post it in an actual blog post for your convenience, in case you’d like to follow the portfolio.  I’ll include work-in-progress concepts there (WIPs), so you’ll get a little bit more of a behind-the-scenes look than I typically post on the site and often don’t blog.  (I tend to prefer to blog when something is actually done or I’ve fully fleshed out an idea.)  If you’d like to check it out or follow my business Flickr, it is https://www.flickr.com/gp/157936082@N04/jV9q0y.  I made it a hyperlink that opens on a new page and you have the option to copy/paste instead, if you prefer.

Until I next have something interesting to write about, happy pampering and best wishes! 🙂

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