Tuesday, March 5, 2013


I'm obsessed with beauty. I love anything and everything that promises to transform me from fugly to fab, and I fall for pretty much any gimmick I see.

It's not a problem though, loveys. I love that I walk into Sephora and they know me by name; kinda like Norm on "Cheers," except my name's mispronounced 9 out of 10 times.

Sure, I had to get a 2nd job to afford my frivolous Sephora sprees. But who doesn't want to spend all their free time in cosmetic paradise? Even the employees are gorgeous. It's pretty much the law there.
Being paid to be hot.
By the way, it's totally socially acceptable to photograph complete strangers while they're working, yes? I don't think he minded me taking his picture though. I mean, at first, I was a little unsure. But then he even called Security and asked them to make sure I made it out to my car okay. So we're cool.

I truly do appreciate the artist's touch when it comes to makeup. The patience and expert application that goes into all the shading, blending, brushing, plucking, swiping, wiping and dusting is beyond fascinating to me.

Makeup, when done correctly, is an incredibly powerful artform. One that I haven't by any means mastered, but I remain hopeful. I love watching YouTube tutorials on contouring facial features. I have no fewer than 6 books by geniuses such as Scott Barnes and my personal all-time fave, Kevyn Aucoin (R.I.P., lovey).

I find myself staring at photographs of techniques I admire, but could never pull off myself, like this:

"Two snaps and twist around the world!"
 I'm infatuated with the color blue right now. I think it makes my brown eyes stand out even more, but I just can't seem to get it quite right. I've tried 4 different eye shadow palettes, 2 blue liquid eyeliners and 3 pencil eyeliners. I know I just don't have the talent to make it work the way I'd like, but that's just one of my mistakes. The biggest problem is that I fell in love with the look on one of the hottest chicks in existence:
That's beauty defined.
I get it that Rihanna is an 11 on a scale of 1 to 10, while I'm probably at the higher end of a solid 3. Fine. But I've seen the miracles the right makeup artist can do, so I refuse to give up on myself.

I have to believe that I too can rock this insanely gorgeous, eye-popping look. If I can't create it by my own hand, then I'll just ask the right artist to help me. I already tried asking my boyfriend beauty expert at Sephora, but the security guard keeps interrupting me every time I'm there begging him to do me.

Finally my daughter offered her services. She's young, but I'm all about girl-power, and I highly encourage support of our girls' dreams. Not to mention, she's a pretty kick-ass artist in her own right. She's mature for her age, in the gifted program, and has a super-steady hand.

"Fine," I told her. "Make me look like Rihanna."

She took the photo I'd torn from my magazine and carefully studied it. She noted the blend of blue on the top lid and gray on the bottom, and complemented the way they intensified her eye color. I knew in that moment that I'd found my artist.

I plopped down on the couch, closed my eyes, and sat in silence while she thoughtfully chose shades and expertly blended them with the variety of brushes on hand. And in no time, loveys, no time at all, I was transformed:
Behold the swan!
Remember what I said, loveys. Support our nation's children! They are our future!

So if anyone else wants to look like this on purpose, my 6 year-old is giving makeovers for 25 cents. The line forms on the left. And feel free to tip generously. 'Cause we're headed to Sephora!

Monday, March 4, 2013


Hello, and happy March, loveys! I do hope the last half of February treated you well. Please do pardon my absence. I sometimes struggle to balance work, family and blogging while still finding time to eat, sleep and breathe.

I was thinking of you guys, however, today when I miscalculated a step and nearly broke my butt bone in two. I've come to realize there is an ever-widening distance between me and that jackass called Gravity. It's not even because I'm old; nor because I'm probably legally blind.

Typically I'm just walking along, minding my own biz, when out of nowhere, the freaking floor jumps up and bitch-slaps me in the face! It happens to the best of us, though. Same thing happened to Nicole Richie recently.

That ground came out of nowhere!
The only thing you can do when it's your turn, besties, is laugh. You may as well laugh, because if I'm around, I'm sure as hell going to. (Unless you're legit injured. In that case, I'll likely have already started laughing before I realize you're hurt, but I swear I'll stop ASAP. Or at the very least, I'll walk away and not laugh where you can see me.)

I mean, even Justin Bieber can laugh at himself:

Who the hell put see-through glass on this door?!

It's all good if the hair's still okay.
 So I guess I'm not the only one who has floors and doors coming out of nowhere. It seems none of us are immune, loveys. Please do use extreme caution when going about your daily routine. I realize there are times that no amount of vigilance will protect us from the evils of gravitational pull though. Even royalty can succumb.

I mean, just look at Lady Gaga; Minding her own biz, swaggin' it through the airport and rocking a super-sensible and appropriate travel look,

Same look you or I might rock to the laundromat. No biggie.
 when out of nowhere the freaking floor gets all up in her face:

It's funny, and it's entertaining. I get that. But loveys, when is enough going to be enough?

Leave our national treasures alone!
*shakes fist at gravity*
I don't go down without a fight though, loveys. Believe that. Just like you see in the above fists of Bieber, and the smack of Gaga's palm, and the karate-chop of Snooki's tiny li'l hand, I always do my best to fight back. Like all the cool kids do:

"Hi-yah! Take that, concrete!"

And I don't know about you, but I personally like to windmill my arms on the way down, for maximum embarrassment. Like this chick:

In case your fall was too discreet, flail
your arms like you're on fire, like we do.
Even supermodels have been known to momentarily ditch being better than everyone else, in order to eat the ground.
"Oh, bollocks-pish-posh-and-fiddlesticks!"
(That's how I imagine an English model cursing.)
We're all in this together, loveys. Don't let your guard down and keep your eyes open for poles, doors and floors that come out of nowhere. Because as ridiculous as these people look, chances are we'll still manage to look even worse. Vigilance is key!

Yours in clumsiness,

Thursday, February 14, 2013


Well, hello there, besties. May I be the first to wish you a Happy Meaningless Valentine's Day.

Big plans for this V-Day? Pehaps you'll join the crowds in some snazzy restaurant? Purchase flowers  for 5 times what they'd have cost you this time last week? Offer chocolates, cards, or stuffed animals?

None of that for me, loveys. No siree. I'm just not that gal.

Bah, luvbug!

It's just that I believe every day should be treated like Valentine's Day. Don't let me go. Most people forget that love has to be nourished, on the daily, or it wilts and dies. Kinda like those overpriced flowers you got.

It's just not cool to forget I even exist on most days, then around mid-February shower me with heart-shaped candies and a card you got at the gas station on the way home, and think That'll do, pig.

Suck it, Cupid!

I shall stay home alone in protest, nuke my sodium-rich dinner for one, and possibly indulge in a boink-fest once the kids are asleep, if I'm still awake when my Valentine gets home.

Don't get me wrong. I love the idea of romance. I love the idea of real love. I mean, thinking someone out there could look at me and see me - I mean, really see me - and still love me in spite of my nerdiness, and embarrassing laugh, and huge sweatpants collection...Yeah, I want that. But I want it - no, I actually need it - every single day.

And it doesn't take much to please me, loveys. I'm super-simple.

I absolutely adore a man who will surprise me with flowers, not because the calendar told him to, but because he wants to make me smile. They don't even have to be store-bought; hand-picked is a-ok for me.
A random text just to say "I'm thinking of you." melts my heart.

A dude who truly loves my babies, and would protect them without a second thought is irreplaceable to me.

I need a man who doesn't need to spend a single dollar to have fun. We can sit at the kitchen table playing cards, or duke it out in the living room on Wii boxing (better let me win though), or we could just turn the tv off and talk and laugh and joke around.

The simple things are what makes a Valentine for me, loveys.

And you know what? I think I have that dude. He takes care of me and supports my far-fetched dreams. And for whatever reason, he loves me. I don't know what tomorrow brings, guys. But I do know that for me it will still be, in some way or another, just another Valentine's Day.

xoxo, loveys!

Tuesday, February 12, 2013


So I'm sitting here minding my own business, pretending to write but actually bouncing around the internet, when I came across this story of a man who built up his own comfy retirement in just 20 short years. He cut up his 13 credit cards, lived modestly and paid all his debts off extremely fast.


My entire retirement fund at this point consists of the trash bag of empty soda cans in my trunk and the $20 in birthday money my mom will send me this year.


I've still got plenty of time though, right? It's like my bestie Buzz Lightyear says, "This is no time to panic."

All I have to do is come up with a few cash-grab ideas, then simply not spend the cash I grab. Easy-peezy.

Fund-raising ideas are all around us, if you look hard enough. Let's see here...
  • Wishing wells/or fountains - hold your nose, dive in, grab the coins and Voila!
  • Cash in your gold! Teeth or fillings, that is. Face it, lovey. Nobody looks cute with a grill. Not even you, Nelly. Gold teeth are so 5 years ago. Trade your teeth! (It's not as hillbilly as it sounds, I swear.)
  • Donate plasma - I can't do needles though, loveys. So donate some for me while you're there and we'll split it 50/50.
  • Turn snitch! I saw a billboard yesterday offering "Cash for tips" from Crimestoppers. I blinked twice to make sure it wasn't a money-mirage of some sort, but it was indeed real. Just make sure the money you get is enough to get your ass outta town afterward, 'cause "You in danger, girl!"
  • Beg online! Post a pathetic Facebook picture of yourself holding a sign. Something like "My grandpa said if I can get 1 million Likes, he'll pad my savings account."
  • Become a model! I'm about 5 inches too short and 50 pounds too fat for the high-fashion stuff, but I could totally pose for something realistic, like store-bought movie theater snacks. Is that a thing? I'll go ahead and start on my portfolio, just in case:

Supermodel Step 1: Work it and twerk it.

Supermodel Step 2: Sell that shit!

Supermodel Step 3: Sign a contract for mills.
Refuse to sign autographs, marry a musician
and have an affair with my personal plastic surgeon.

Wow. I think I've just mapped out my own plan for a cushy retirement. I should be ready in about 5 years, by my math. Well, as long as I don't keep spending it like crazy.

And that's where my FAIL ALERT starts blaring.

Confession: Spending is my weakness. In fact, I braved a thunderstorm just to be at Target when they opened, in order to snatch up some of Prabal Gurung's collection on last Sunday's debut.

Clearly, they surpassed the "Want" category
and fell into the "Need" category. Loves it!
It's totally okay though. I mean, I was extra-smart about it and only bought what I needed. (What I need may be topic for debate, but there's no time for that right now, loveys-we're too busy saving money!) Anyhoo, I was also careful to buy it in a size too small, because that's the practical way to lose weight, duh. I also only bought a couple of items so they could easily be stashed in my closet, carefully hidden among all the other dresses I've collected over the years that I still can't squeeze into.
Not spending is the tricky part, loveys.

So now what?

*taps foot*

Well don't look at me! I came up with all the ideas for bringing home the moolah so it's only fair that you come up with the ideas for saving our coinage.

Just let me know when you've got some good ideas. I'll be over here on Zappos.com until then.

Monday, February 11, 2013


Hello and happy Monday, loveys!

Weekend treated you well?

Mine was fabulous, thanks. I had the chance to watch my current pretend-girlfriend, Melissa McCarthy, in her latest film, IDENTITY THIEF.

Funniest-ever story of someone ruining another's life.

Oh. My. Gosh. If you haven't seen it yet, I highly recommend that you do. I laughed my mascara off.

And I learned so much! For example, my pretend-girlfriend is actually a runner. For serious. She could very likely kick our asses in a 50 meter sprint. Check out this action shot of my girl:

"Breathe in through the nose; out through the  nose."
Also, a pretty good part of the movie is set right here, in St. Louis.
Score 1 for the Lou!

Treat me in St. Louis.

Eric Stonestreet has a small, yet hysterical part in the flick, which causes the whole thing to overflow with awesomesauce.

"Foxhole is the safety word!"

This entire cast is amazing.

*winks at the screen*

"What's up, T.I.?"

*crouches down to blow his short self a kiss*

But still nobody holds a candle to my girl Melissa. And can I just tell you how I'm absolutely infatuated with dimpled cheeks? (Sidebar: You ever notice how dimples can make even the biggest asshole project a sweetheart vibe? Super-smart con by all the dimpled assholes out there, by the way.)
Anyhoo, that doesn't apply to my gal. She rules. I love her curls, her blue eyeshadow, and even her voice. Adoration alert!
What's not to love?
Now that you have a clear picture of just how much I heart her, you'll understand the degree of seriousness when I confess to you there's one person in this film I loved just a teensy-weensy-smidge more.

It wasn't my fault though. I had no idea my future ex-boyfriend was in this movie. None. (Otherwise, I'd have worn an extra pantyliner and not gone to see the movie with my freaking brother.)

**DISCLAIMER: I must give fair warning to the atheists reading this, because what I'm about to show you will probably be all the proof you'll need to realize that yes, there is most definitely a God.

Behold, Morris Chestnut:

Oh, sweet Jesus!
Enjoy your week, loveys. And if you need a laugh, go check this movie out. You're welcome.
Helena Chestnut

Tuesday, February 5, 2013


Today I was thinking about my old teenage days. Days when I literally counted down till I'd be grown-up enough to move outta my parents' house and finally - finally - be on my own. I was a senior in high school, ready to take on the world, and naturally, I knew pretty much everything. What could possibly go wrong?

Ah, the sweet feel of independence was mine!

I planned to live life to the fullest.

Party time!

Independence rules!

So out I went.

Didn't take me too long to realize that independence can be a tad scary. I mean, it's kind of nice being totally on your own, but at the same time...Dude, you're totally on your own.

I'm eating Ramen noodles like it's my job.

Getting out there and doing things for yourself can be a scary thing, loveys. It takes guts and will and heart. That's why I so love our independent musicians, artists, and, my personal fave, authors. It's an extremely tough gig, spending months (or even years) writing one book, only to shop it around and have it rejected by agents or publishers.

"What do you mean you don't like my book?"

It sucks cactus.

But our independent authors have taken their work's fate into their own hands, by investing their own money (which can be thousands of dollars, by the way) in order to self-publish. They write, edit, format, find a cover artist or design their own cover art and build up their social networks. And then they have the arduous task of getting the word out and hopefully getting enough people to buy it to cover their costs. Something I'd never have the nads to try myself.

I can't tell you how many independent gems I've found through networking on Twitter or searching Amazon, but there are loads. Authors whose work I'd have otherwise never found if I only relied on the bestseller lists or some retail store. Just to name one, there's this chick, G.P. Ching. My fave of hers is The Soulkeepers:

Crazy-good read right there. You should check it out.

Today another author I know celebrates her release day. I haven't had the chance to read it yet, but I am still super-happy to share in her excitement. After all the hard work, all the time and money she's invested, I invite you to check out Kizzy Johnson's book, Coffee Shop Therapist.

Whenever you can, loveys, I encourage you to support our independent peeps. It means all the difference to them, I promise you.

Some days I wonder if my books will ever get out there. I still remain hopeful, but most times that hope is smothered out by doubt. So I have to bow down and give major props to my author and artist friends who put themselves out there, claiming their own independence.

*extends hands* *offers major props*

Monday, February 4, 2013


Well, hello there, lovey. Weekend treated you well?

I don't know about you, but my February has been super-duper busy. And to think we're only a few days in! Please excuse me while I try to catch my breath.


Ah, that's better, thank you.

I've even been fortunate enough to hire an assistant this month, but I'm still always in a constant state of breathlessness. What gives?

And don't get me wrong; this guy's been awesome. Always here, fussing over me and nurturing my every whim and fake heart attack. Offering CPR when I complain of not being able to catch my breath.

He's a total sweetie and I hate to be the bad gal here, but I think I'm gonna have to let him go, loveys.

I'll never get anything done if I keep this guy around:

"What can I do for you, boss?"
You see? There it goes again. Back to being breathless.

Have a great week, besties.

Thursday, January 31, 2013


I don't mean to brag, but I'm kind of awesome at games. I crush my opponents at Scrabble, checkers, and spades. And Battleship? Psh! Don't even try me.

(I do suck at mind games though. Please don't try those on me, 'cause I will totes lose.)

But if you, lovey, would like to challenge me to a friendly game of skee-ball or perhaps we could have a dance fight on the Xbox, I gladly accept.

I will warn you, however, that I am a Black-belt gamer:

All's fair in love and Wii.
It's totally okay to cover your opponent's eyes, according to the rules I make up when it suits me. As long as you only do it sometimes, and as long as you don't do it to me. Then it's perfectly fine.

No worries, lovebugs. My kids are used to my competitive side. Actually our entire family consists of champion fun-havers. Nothing like chillaxin' with a game after a long, hard day at daycare. Am I right, guys?

A family that plays together, stays together.
My favorite games are the specialty ones, like the Monopoly-St. Louis version, or the chess game using Lord of the Rings pieces, or like this:
But please don't let the sweet jewels fool ya, besties. And let's not twist my love for you when I tell you that I will thrash a challenger with my super-cute Dominoes. Believe that.

I've learned a lot on my path to being self-proclaimed Game Champion. You know what's an invaluable part of kicking someone's butt in a game? The art of the bluff. Sometimes you can shake someone's confidence just by convincing them you've already won. They've half given up before it's even started. Winning!

And the face is essential. Anyone who's ever watched a poker tournament will tell you that. If you're not good at bluffing with the eyes, follow the pro's lead and rock sunglasses. Hide half your face with a baseball cap or hoodie. Just whatever you do, you've gotta master the face. When you get ready to play, you need to have your poker face on, or your game face on, or maybe even your "O" face on. Whatever it takes. Never let 'em see you sweat. No matter how hot it gets in that hoodie.

Exhibit A:
Poker face.

You see? I could probably kick ass on one of those bore-me-to-death poker shows on ESPN. In fact, I think I will go ahead and enter myself. Right after I learn to play poker.

Exhibit B:
Tic-tac-toe face.
You see what I did there? Because my game face is right on point, my opponent had no clue I was beating him and calling him a "ho," all at once. Mad skills.

Exhibit C:
Memory face.
And that, my friends, is how it's done. Give good face. Play like a pro. Win repeatedly, and then send me a commission on any gambling earnings.

Play on, playa!

*Does the Sammy Sosa finger kiss, chest touch, peace sign* 
*struts out*

Wednesday, January 30, 2013


You know what I love? Bad ass chicks, that's what.

Chicks rule!

What's not to love?

Michelle Rodrigez, Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes, Ugly Betty, Betty White, and Betty Boop? I heart all of those chicks. They're all hardcore, they're all hot, and they could all whoop Chris Brown one-on-one.

You know, I remember the very first lady who really made me realize girls are indeed way better than boys.
Picture it: I'm a mature 9 year-old, taking time out of my busy summer Atari-playing to dream up a grown-up job that wouldn't take too much time away from my future career as a model/actress/wife-of-Michael Jackson. That's when my insta-fave new show, "Hunter," came on, and I saw her. Dee Dee McCall.

*heavenly choir sounds here*

I've never been in roll call, but I'm sure it goes down like this:
80's hair? Check.
Extra eyeliner and lipstick? Check.
Dangly earrings and gold headband? Check.
Alright, McCall, you're totes ready for badass chick patrol.
From the very first time I watched that show, I quickly made up my mind to abandon my future life as a Hollywood glamazon. That super-gorgeous police chick made me do an about-face, and I had my mind dead-set, for about the entire next decade, on being a police chick also. For all of my young life, I never wavered from that goal.

Well, until I went off to college as a Criminal Justice major and realized being a cop isn't as glam as I'd thought. Turns out, it's actually a wee bit dangerous.


That's when I turned to a life of crime. And by "crime," I mean moving back in with my parents in order to spend Saturday nights playing Scrabble with my mom. But it was still a life of crime, if you think about it. Being such a devout word-nerd is kinda criminal.

Spelling is sexy!
(Can someone get me a shirt with that on there?)

Speaking of sexy spellers, my reigning badass girl I still crush on is this chick:

You guys know of my love for Jennifer Weiner. In fact, I just started re-reading "Then Came You" again last night. I can't think of any other author whose words yank me in like hers. And the way she champions for girls non-stop, no matter who the Goliath may be, is purely inspiring. I would never, ever have the guts, courage, or wit to stand up for women the way she does. I heart her so hard, if I was still in school, I'd graffiti all my notebooks with Helena Weiner. (I still do graffiti, but usually I just trace "Helena luvs weiners" in the dirt on my car.)
But you know what, loveys? I'll tell you about the chick that rocked my face all-the-way off. That lady was the gem I had the pleasure of calling my very own Grammy.

Today would have been her birthday, and she would've likely cooked up some vile concoction nobody except my brother Jeff would eat. Ah, my Grammy.
She was famous for her love of all things purple, for always having the best candies on hand, and for always making her best effort to look amazeballs, even through a tough fight with an asshole opponent named Cancer.

"Does this breathing tube make my butt look big?"

It's funny, the things you remember about people.
Impressions are everything.
For me, the impression was that she embodied badassness. One example? At the start of one of her many chemo rounds, Grammy took a quick therapy detour from the hospital to the beauty salon and had them dye her hair purple. Ha! That's a chick with moxie!

If it were me, I'd sob myself into a stupor over knowing my hair would fall out. What a complete time-suck over something so stupid, right?

Not this gal. She, (in her own sweet way), was kinda flipping cancer the bird and yelling "YOLO!" That's my homegirl.

Purple hair, way before Kelly Osbourne. Trend-setter!
Impressions are everything, loveys. I hope I have made one on you. I won't be here forever, obvs, and I ain't leaving you jack, so that impression is all you'll have of me.

I hope you will remember me as a girl who would do anything to make you smile, a girl who would do anything to offer needed comfort, and a girl who will go down in the books as being a bad ass chick.

What impression will you leave?

R.I.P. Helen Inside-Out.
Love never dies.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013


I've been feeling a little down lately, loveys. And not in the cool, "Girl, I'm down for whatevah!" kinda way. I mean the "I miss parts of my old Pacific Coast life" kinda down.

I miss la familia I moved away from:

It's okay. We're all family here.
I miss the friends I never see anymore. Those chicks are my family. I sometimes wonder if I'll ever have a pack of friends like that again in my life, then I realize hell no, I won't, then I go eat my feelings.

What? A boob grab is like a handshake in our funky bunch.


I never really know what to do about the bluey-blues, so I went back to bed. Just as I was pulling the covers over my head and screaming a promise to never come out, a photo on my nightstand caught my eye.

A pic that reminded me my Missouri life isn't exactly Misery.

This was taken last month with a couple of friends, one of whom I've known for about 20 years. (So I can only say nice stuff about her, 'cause she knows my whole rap sheet.)

Party over here!
Not my smartest idea to wedge myself between the two models on either end, but nevertheless, that party was a blast. I had so much fun, it was only after I'd arrived home around 4:00 in the morning, that I realized I'd danced my feet into temporary paralysis.

Score 1 for the Lou!

You know what else? We also have great food here in St. Louis. Gus's Pretzels, Sweetie Pies and Ted Drewe's are legendary here.

My personal fave, though, is this place, MILE 277:

Don't go, unless you're ready for them to rock your face off.

Not just because I have personally pranked every one of the kitchen and management staff there. Allegedly.

And not just because I worked there.

Best waitress ever. No, for serious.
My mom told me so.

But this place is just fun waiting to happen. The incredible food is just a bonus, really. I mean, they've got dancing, live bands, DJ battles, model searches, and Bike Night. Yes, please! 

Also a little reality TV show action going on at Mile 277.

Plus, they've got the best Jager-bombs, Irish car-bombs and even the best photobombs:

Maybe the professional dance crew won't notice me ruining their
show for this shot if I blend in with a super-slick move of my own.

*chuckles at her own buffoonery*

I feel my spirits lifting at this point. Shall I proceed? Yes, I shall.

So now I'm remembering why I came back home, to St. Louis, after all those years in Los Angeles. I have friends, I have fun, and most importantly, I have lots and lots of family. I even have my own makeshift fam of co-workers, people I just met, and childhood buds.

And also the random stray I snatched, claimed as my own, and hid under my bed:

My precious...

Just kidding. That's my bud. My brother from another mother. And father. We're totes not related. But I seriously couldn't love him more if I'd created him myself.

And can we talk about our local talent? Nelly, Cedric the Entertainer, the Cardinals...Duh. But we're also overflowing with talent you might not have ever heard of, like this kid, L.Frost:
Kid to the left, in the air. Bam! That's talent.

Just a little billboard he graced.

You may have seen him in magazines, or on a billboard, or dancing with Chris Brown. Or if you stake out his house long enough, you can get a nice candid like this before you're arrested:

(Or if you're not as hardcore as me, you can just follow him here on Twitter, or in my sexy-time dreams or here on Facebook.)
Seriously, the kid's going places. Keep your eyes on the Lou, loveys. Artists galore here, I promise. 

Okay, okay, okay. Pity party of the past is officially over. I'm glad and grateful to be right here, right now. :)

My heart lives here.

Thanks, loveys.
You know who you are.
Your sweet words, nice texts, and loving emails are really, really what keep me cheesin'.