Dear Friends,
I have some very sad news to share with you: my mother died yesterday. She had battled breast cancer for two and a half years and finally her frail body succumbed to the disease. She was 70.
My sister had called me on Wednesday to tell me to fly out because my mom had taken a turn for the worse. I flew out to California immediately. Thank God I was able to be with her for her last five days on this planet.
My brother, sister, and I were extremely blessed and privileged to be in the room with our mom and holding her hands as she took her last breaths after a tough few days with round-the-clock Hospice care.
I doubt I will be writing in this space for a few weeks. I hope to be back writing before Christmas. Thank you for your thoughts and well wishes.
Julie (MOV)
ps-- if you feel so inclined, it would be lovely of you to make a small donation to Hospice or Cancer Society.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
868. Hop On Over
Monday, October 22, 2012
867. Deep Thoughts and Profound Observations
Is it really necessary to clean the soap dish? Why?
MOV
Sunday, October 21, 2012
866. I don't even have a title for this one
So I was
driving Short to go watch Tall’s football game and we were waiting in traffic
over by Giant, you know the one? The one
on the corner by the new bank near the high school? Yeah,
that one. So anyway, there was this
woman dressed in full Indian garb, I mean like she is from India, not Native
American. You know that I am not
prejudiced, I don’t care what country you come from or how you’re dressed, but
it is a tiny bit relevant to my story so I didn’t want to leave it out.
She was
standing there on the sidewalk with her back to the line of cars, we were
stopped at the signal light and about three cars back from the intersection. Where the construction was last week? That is the spot. Remember how there are all those rose bushes
right there? The miniature red
ones? Yeah, those. This woman was doing something to them, not
sure what, but Short and I were beyond curious.
I stared at her, trying to figure out what exactly she was doing. She had two white plastic bags with her, like
grocery bags, that kind. She was putting
something into the bags. At first, I
willed myself into thinking that she was picking up trash to make the roses
look better, getting rid of any abandoned cigarette butts or stray gum
wrappers. I kept watching. I knew what she was really doing, of course I
knew at this point, but I willed myself to believe that she was not doing what
I suspected.
Oh, you
still don’t know? Really? Well, here is a hint, and this is what cemented
it for me: she had scissors in her
hand.
Yep, she was
cutting the roses.
Does she
work for the City? Is that what you just
said? Are you kidding me? Ha!
No.
So of course
Short was seeing this whole thing play out and he was mesmerized because he had
no idea that people were allowed to just help themselves to public property
like that. He said, his tone full of
wonder, “Mommy, what is that lady doing?”
And I had to
tell the truth, there was no getting around it.
I said, “She is stealing the flowers.”
The car got
very quiet, well it was already pretty quiet, but it got even more quiet and I
could tell that Short was waiting for me to take action, to be a role
model. He was waiting for me to do
something. I was also waiting for myself
to do something. I was wondering what I
would do. And all the while in the back
recesses of my brain, I was realizing that the signal light could turn green at
any second and I would have to drive.
What should I do?
I rolled
down the passenger window. I heard a loud
firm voice, which turned out to be my own, yell out, “Hey! Why are you cutting those flowers?”
She heard
me, how could she not, and she froze.
Then she turned around and for the first time, I could see her
face. She was young, about 22. She was beautiful, too.
She flashed
me a gorgeous cover-model magazine grin, and before she even said what she said,
which she had obviously rehearsed just in case some busy-body nosy person like
me, or perhaps a policeman, stopped her, it was painfully clear to me that she
uses that awesome smile to get whatever she wants in life, including free
roses.
She said in
perfect English with no trace of an accent …
Wait for it …
“They’re for
Buddha.”
This, as you
can imagine, did throw me off for about two seconds, it was not really the explanation
that I was anticipating. Actually, I
have no idea what I had expected her to say, but it wasn’t that.
I spoke
again: “I don’t care who they’re for,
that is stealing! Stop stealing! Those flowers are for everyone to enjoy. That is public property. You should go buy your own flowers.”
I knew in
this moment that she thought I was some ignorant person who does not know who
Buddha is, her God. The way I said I don’t care who they’re for was as if
she had told me a random person’s name, like the name of her brother or her ill
grandmother.
She considered
this for a moment, and then she replied, “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”
Her words had a sliver of sincerity to them.
I continued
my rant anyway, because I am never satisfied even when someone admits they're
wrong. “You know you are wrong! You know
you are! Stop stealing!” I yelled out
again.
She walked
in the opposite direction, back toward the gas station on the other corner, and
for a moment I thought she might be brazen enough to keep clipping some roses
or at least write down my license plate number and try to stab my tires later
with her sharp scissors.
I put Short
on patrol. “Can you see her still?” I asked him.
“Is she cutting more flowers?”
“No, Mommy,
she’s walking away now.”
So the light
finally clicked green, it is a long light, isn’t it? And then we drove on. The instant replay section of my brain showed
the cutting roses scene over and over and over again. I was second-guessing myself, writing a new
script. What should I have said differently?
“Buddha does
not want you to steal!”
“Buddha made
those flowers for everyone, not just you!”
“Buddha
hates thieves!”
I know, you’re
right, I guess I handled it relatively well after all. If I had done nothing, I would be kicking
myself later. Oh, and guess what? When we got to the game and Short and I were
walking out to the field where The Husband and Tall were already practicing,
Short looked right up at me and said with confidence,
“Mommy, when we see
somebody stealing, we tell them to stop.”
MOV
Friday, October 19, 2012
865. Target Loves Me
Today is a
happy day, the day I have been waiting for.
No, I am not getting married today nor giving birth: a new Target just opened by my house.
I went over
there and gawked at New Target. Where
have you been all my life, you in your pristine red and white Targety goodness
and splendor with your lovely double circle logo? The counters were unsullied. The lamp supply was endless. The staff was sincerely happy. It was exactly like my normal Target, but with
free kittens and mint-chip sundaes and glitter.
I should
have been tipped off right when I walked in and the girl handed me a map. A map!
To Target! What a Virgo thing to
do: I am in love.
I studied
the map and realized that something in my DNA already knew where everything
was. It was as if I had drawn the map
myself.
At this point,
you might expect that I woke up from a dream, but it was actually real
life.
I figured
out a way to buy less, because my wallet likes to spend $300 every time I am
within a three mile radius of Target:
don’t get a cart. Or basket. Or take a list. Instead, just wander aimlessly.
I meandered up
and down the rows, looking at Christmas items that I don’t need, all the while
whispering, I love you, New Target.
I only
bought one lamp this time.
MOV
Labels:
Nate Berkus Target,
nice Target lamp,
Target coupons
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
864. Tsunami of Sleep
All growing
up, I was a night owl. I adored staying
up until 1 AM, and then sleeping in late the next day. I could feel the creative part of my brain
click into high gear right around midnight, and that was always when I wrote my
best term papers.
As a flight
attendant, my schedule was around the world and around the clock. I could work a red-eye to London or have an o’-dark-thirty
flight to Boston. I rarely knew in
advance, and the mystery and suspense kept my work life exciting. I rationalized that I could always take a
quick cat nap to refresh myself when I got to my destination. Sleep was never the priority.
So it should
come as somewhat of a surprise that I now go to bed every night at 8:30.
I have no
choice in the matter. After the boys get
home from school and we do homework and eat dinner and take baths and get ready
for bed, a wild tsunami of sleep punches me in the face. I am overwhelmed with a need to lie down right now. I glance at the clock: 8:30.
I don’t know
how this happened.
The Husband
asks me if I want to watch the Presidential Debate with him tonight—of course I
do! But (realistically) he’d better TiVo
it so I can watch it tomorrow afternoon instead. A neighbor invites us to a Halloween party, which
sounds very appealing … until I find out it is from 7 – 10 PM. It might be considered rude to take a nap
under their dining room table in the middle of the party.
I see a vision
of my former self—you know, the awake one?—and she is but a shadowy black
figure in the distance. She wants to put
on a red flamenco dress and dance all night … but only if “all night” conveniently
ends at 8 PM.
That might still
give her time to brush her teeth.
MOV
******
trifecta writing challenge: 333-word essay, the challenge word is "black"-- the 3rd definition, which is "dressed in black"
Sunday, October 14, 2012
863. Déjà New
So you are
at the bookstore and you see a book by one of your favorite authors. Aha, you think, this author rocks! You impulsively grab the book off the shelf
and start flipping through it. How is it
that you have never seen this book? Is
it new? You decide to look at the copyright:
2003.
The smart part of your brain says that you have most likely read this book. The part of your brain that really really wants to buy a new book ignores the smart part.
2003.
The smart part of your brain says that you have most likely read this book. The part of your brain that really really wants to buy a new book ignores the smart part.
It is
possible that you might not have read it already as you had a lot going on in
2003, for example your oldest son was just an infant.
Nah, you’ve
never read it!
You ignore
the fact that it is in paperback, which again emphasizes how long the book has
been out. You stand in line with your
new old book, and you think it might be good to read a page or two just to
verify that none of it sounds familiar.
Your older
son is pulling on you and tells you it is your turn. You pay for his book and your book, and you
are very excited to go home and start reading.
You get
about halfway through the book and the very smart part of your brain that you completely
ignored today in the bookstore (and most times and places, to be honest) starts
predicting plot developments.
Smart brain
is right.
Smart brain
not only predicts very specific plot developments, but now predicts the names of new
characters yet to be introduced.
Bingo.
You have
read the book before. It is still a good
book the second time around, but it is no longer deniable that you have already
read it back in 2003. You hate to read
books twice, especially when there are so many new books in the world that you have not read yet.
You are now
mad at yourself for wasting $12 and three hours on a book that the smart part
of your brain warned you not to buy. You
briefly wonder if it is ethical to return the book, seeing as how you bought it
(and read it in its entirety) by mistake.
You decide it is not ethical (there is a place to return books, and it is called the library), but you put it back in its plastic
bookstore bag and find the receipt and go back to the bookstore anyway.
Once in the
bookstore, the ethical part of your brain (directly adjacent to the smart part)
reminds you that it is not actually ethical to return the book, so the guilty
part of your brain (below the ethical part) decides to keep the book after
all.
You walk
over to the magazine display while you are here, you might as well, to look at a few design and décor
magazines. You have subscriptions to
some of them, but not all. You notice a
lovely magazine called House Beautiful with a blue couch on the cover. You would like to read the article about the
blue couch. You pick up the magazine and
take it to the counter to pay.
You hand
over your $5 while the smart part of your brain is screaming: THAT MAGAZINE LOOKS FAMILIAR!
MOV
Monday, October 8, 2012
862. Mirror, Mirror, Off the Wall
I’m not a
vain person. I don’t obsess about my appearance. Sure, I briefly cared for just a few years (ages 14
to 36). But once I became a mom, time I
might’ve formerly wasted curling my hair or applying eye shadow seemed better spent
napping.
However,
when we went to Disney World last week, the slightly narcissistic 25-year-old
buried deep within me surfaced. She
whispered, “Check your lipstick.” Who am
I to argue with my former self?
Imagine my dismay
upon walking into the ladies’ room and discovering mirrors were conspicuously
absent.
No mirrors? What?
Was Walt Disney secretly Amish?
After
noticing the lack of mirrors in five bathrooms in a row, I mustered the courage
to confront a janitor.
“Excuse me? Why
are there no mirrors in the restrooms?”
She
laughed. “We used to have them, years
ago. But in summer, the sinks were congested
so we took them down. There’s one mirror
on the wall by the door.”
I glanced where
she was pointing and saw the tiny mirror.
What was Disney so worried about?
It’s not as if I planned to set-up hot rollers and a cosmetics station to
embark on a two-hour make-over. I merely
wanted to know if I had lettuce in my teeth or if my hair was sticking up funny. You’d think The Husband would notify me of such
visual defects. Here you would be
wrong.
I was
silently outraged. How could Disney not have mirrors by the sinks? Wasn’t Disney the one who had professional
photographers lurking everywhere throughout the park?
I did what I
always do when upset: complained to The
Husband. “Don’t you miss the mirrors?”
“What are
you talking about?”
I filled him
in on my extensive research.
He
shrugged. “MOV, the men’s room has
mirrors.”
He was
painfully oblivious to the implications for the other 50% of the population. Vanity was dead. Death swooped in to scare us, not at the
Haunted House like promised, but in the ladies’ room.
MOV
****
trifecta writing challenge: 333 word essay, the word is "Death"
Labels:
trifecta writing challenge
861. Travel Pics from Disney
Today I thought I would post a few photos from our trip. Hope you like them!
MOV
getting ready for take-off |
view from seat 18B |
that famous castle |
view from restaurant California Grill |
Disney Hollywood Studios restaurant called Sci-Fi Drive In (we ate here) |
view from our hotel room at Port Orleans French Quarter |
stunning mosaic at EPCOT |
World Showcase |
me playing around with my camera and photographing the sky and palm tree |
also went to Legoland for one day |
this city is all made of Legos! |
last day of trip-- at Animal Kingdom |
we got to pet an elephant! (no, not really) |
this is the "mouth" of the waterslide at the hotel pool-- fun! |
at the airport getting ready to fly home |
flight back |
MOV
Labels:
Disney World trip
Friday, October 5, 2012
860. Southern Fried Children
I read mom
blogs because I am a mom. Sometimes I
read design blogs because I like anything having to do with design. But mostly I read funny blogs because I like
to laugh.
Every once
in a while, I stumble across a blog post that is so poetic, so effortless, so beautiful,
that I feel utterly ashamed to call myself a writer. If she is a writer, than I am just a sorry impostor, I think to myself. Today was one of those days: I read my friend Kelly’s blog.
Go see how it's done: read Southern Fried Children today. Then follow her. She is awesome.
MOV
Labels:
Southern Fried Children
Thursday, October 4, 2012
859. Disney World Is Virgo
We walk into
Disney World and are instantly engulfed in a very strong smell, a smell that we
are not used to in our everyday lives.
That smell is: soap.
No gum on
the ground. No muddy footprints, even
after rain. We notice that the trashcans
gleam in their own freshly-Windexed splendor.
I turn to
The Husband—it is obvious from the look on his face that he is thinking the
same exact thing I am.
He exclaims,
“We could move here! We could work at
Disney World and everything will be clean and shiny forever!”
Actually, I
was thinking of getting the name and phone number for their cleaning service,
but his idea might be a lot easier.
Walking
around Disney makes us want to be neater and cleaner, too. We see someone drop their receipt on the
ground, and instead of handing it back to them or stopping to examine it and
try to memorize their credit card number like I might normally do, I throw it
in the trashcan. When my younger son “accidentally”
kicks mulch onto the sidewalk, we make him put it back in a neatly patterned
formation, the way God and Disney intended.
When I feel beads of sweat threaten to drip down my face from the
nuclear-melting powers of the Florida sun, I reach to wipe them off with a
tissue before they can get on anything, anything that might make Disney World
less than perfect.
Because that
is what Disney is, right? Perfect? The workers are friendly to a fault, and just
when we think it is all fiction, one of them will say that he is also from San
Diego and where did I go to high school, or another will say that her oldest
son is also named Tall. These people
want to be our friends, and I suddenly feel compelled to invite them over for dinner
next week.
But that
would require cleaning the house …
Mosaics at EPCOT that I saw a worker scrubbing with a toothbrush ... I can't compete with that |
MOV
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
858. The Cult of Mickey
I wasn’t originally
planning to write about this, but … there is some hero worship going on at
Disney World, and Walt is not the focal point.
I am talking, of course, about Mickey.
Next thing you know, he stops and points out a few hidden Mickeys of his own.
When I arrive
at Disney World, everyone immediately starts pointing out the “hidden” Mickeys
that are, apparently, everywhere. Oh,
look, there is one in the bottom of the aquarium at the Finding Nemo observation
deck. Did I catch a glimpse of the three
Mickeys painted into the background of the skyline outside the Backstage
Hollywood Tour? No? What about the one in the table arrangement
at the Haunted Mansion ghost dance scene?
After the
hundredth time in a half hour span that someone wants to show me a
hidden Mickey, I begin to see them where none exist. Like the cracks in the cement sidewalk. The water fountain drain. Shadows.
Pretty soon, the cloud formations in the sky are all about Mickey, as if
God Himself is on the Disney payroll.
And the
t-shirts! Every family (except for mine)
seems to be in matching Mickey t-shirts.
I finally get my nerve up to ask a random mom what the deal is. I frame my question in the form of a compliment,
a technique that always works when used on me:
“Excuse me,
ma’am? I love how your family is all coordinated! What inspired you to do that?”
The woman
looks at me as if I have, well, a hidden Mickey growing out of my nose.
“Safety reasons,
obviously!” she squeals. “If someone in
my group gets distracted and separated from us at a gift shop, all we have to
do is look for the fluorescent orange shirt with the Mickey logo.”
Now it was
all beginning to make sense. I have had
this same difficulty finding members of my group in gift shops. There are expansive gift shops everywhere I look,
so it is easy to get lost in one. Right
when you step off a ride, still basking in the adrenalin and exhilaration of
the special effects, there is a conveniently located gift shop! Sometimes I am even the person that gets lost
in the gift shop.
The gift
shops have all manner of t-shirts, key chains, hats, and refrigerator magnets.
Suspiciously absent are the postcards that were familiar from my youth (much to
my dismay, a teen-aged cashier tells me that “Postcards don’t sell well here,
everyone just texts nowadays”). The gift
shop also stocks cheaply-made rain ponchos with a giant Mickey logo on the
back.
The Husband
and I scoff at the over-priced plastic ponchos.
Twenty bucks! Ha! What a waste of money. We congratulate ourselves on our blatant
superiority for not falling for a marketing gimmick such as this … until the
sky opens and it rains for one hour straight.
We decide that $80 (we are a family of four) is actually an “investment
in our health and wellbeing” (my words) and that “the exorbitant profits are
most likely going to Wildlife funding” (The Husband’s new hopeful theory). We buy the ponchos (no lay-away plan is
mentioned or offered). The ponchos keep
us bone dry for approximately 22 seconds.
No, they do not leak … the storm passes and the bright sun returns. We fold up our ponchos and carry them in a
plastic bag with Mickey on the side. The
bag is considerably heavier than those four 20s that used to be in my wallet
mere moments ago.
My
eight-year-old son, Tall, and I decide to ride the cars in Tomorrowland. He starts driving and I start taking
photos. Next thing you know, he stops and points out a few hidden Mickeys of his own.
MOV
Labels:
Disney World hidden Mickeys
857. Mickey Likes Pictures
You have been
planning and saving for your Disney vacation for months. Books are purchased. Websites are researched. Reservations are made. Then, the day finally comes: the day the American Express bill arrives in
the mail (oh, yes, you have selected a package that you have to pay for in
advance). After a stiff drink or three, you
write the check that is approximately equivalent to what you paid for your first
car. Or house.
MOV
You thoughtfully
and strategically pack your suitcases the night before your departure. Okay, who are you kidding? You go around like a crazy person the morning
of the flight throwing clothes in a pile on the bed, saying “This shirt looks clean!”
You may be
new to Disney World (one visit at age 11, and another as a flight attendant for
a brief layover), but you grew up going to Disneyland. Your parents were
divorced, and your dad lived in Anaheim.
The Disneyland map is permanently encrypted in a special part of your brain
called “Need to know forever.” Matterhorn
is to the right, New Orleans Square is to the left, eat lunch at the Blue Bayou.
Except that
Disney World’s Main Street is the mirror image of Disneyland, and the park has
several completely different rides and is somehow missing others (like The Indiana
Jones Adventure). You walk into Magic
Kingdom with your family and are completely disoriented.
One critical
difference that you notice right away is the professional photographers lurking
everywhere. Of course! Why had you not thought to bring your own
personal photographer along on the trip?
Obviously, these other vacationers are very smart. And photogenic. And rich.
Then you realize that the uniformed photographers are actually Disney
employees and that anyone can have their picture taken. The photographer scans your special photo
pass (looks like a credit card), takes your family’s photo, and then you can
look at it on your computer when you get home from your vacation. Genius!
Gone are the days of handing your fragile camera to a French-speaking stranger
and praying he doesn’t stick his thumb over the lens.
You vaguely
remember that Disney had sent you your own personalized photo card along with your
itinerary several weeks ago. But you left
it in a very secure place in your hotel room:
next to your return airline tickets in the wall safe—there are sure to
be lots of photo opportunities in there.
Not to fear, though, you ask the photographer if there is anything that
can be done (short of returning to the hotel room to retrieve it), and he
assures you that you can combine a new photo card with your preregistered card. You are good to go! You can now have photos taken in front of the
castle, like your own personal backdrop.
You decide to
make the photographer work hard. You posing
on the left, okay now The Husband on the left.
You in front, The Husband with his arm around you. Oops, you blinked, please take another
one. And maybe you should probably get at
least one photo with the kids in it.
After about one
thousand photos, give or take, you decide to go on your first ride: Splash Mountain. And guess what: since it is hard to take a picture of yourself
screaming in terror as you barrel down a water track at a physically impossible
90 degree angle, the thoughtful folks at Disney take on for you. At the scariest moment of the ride when you
need your wits about you most, a neon-bright flashbulb goes off in your face,
and then when you get off the ride, you get to see how silly you look. Some people even buy the photo. Others stand there with their iPhones taking
a photo of the photo.
And you stand
in lines to go on more rides. You eat
ice-cream sandwiches shaped like Mickey Mouse.
You find a great spot on the bridge to watch fireworks. You overhear your younger son say to the
older one, “I love this day.” And you
realize that you are permanently encrypting memories in the section of their
brains called “Need to know forever.”
You don’t
need a camera for that.
Labels:
Disney World castle
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
856. Confessions of a Disney World Neophyte
I have a
confession to make: I just spent the
past seven days at Disney World. Wowza,
go there with a child or two, and you see Disney in a whole new light (or, in
the case of blistering 95 degree so-called “fall” days in Florida, a whole new
neon strobe light the temperature of the sun).
MOV
So, the
point is: I have lots of new blog material. LOTS. Oh,
yes, just you wait. MOV, the writer (as
opposed to MOV, the ice-cream eater), is overjoyed to have at least one whole
week’s worth of essays about Disney. I
made sure to pack the fancy leather journal my brother gave me, and instead scribbled my
notes on gift shop receipts like I always do.
Disney
Mania, Day 1, starts tomorrow. Fasten your seatbelt, give a tug on the yellow safety strap, and hold on tight! See you then.MOV
Labels:
Disney World vacation
855. Let's Talk About the Weather
I live in a
part of the country that is famous for its long hot summers and its equally
brutal winters. In fact, The Husband and
I have noted that there are only two seasons here: hot and cold.
Where fall should be is an extension of summer, and where spring should
be is a continuation of winter.
So it should
come as somewhat of a surprise that I notice the leaves are turning a gorgeous
orange color.
“Sweetie,” I
say to The Husband, “we might actually get a fall this year!”
Of course, I
have jinxed it. The next day, the sky
has a tantrum and spits rain at us for hours.
But it is
better than snow.
MOV
Monday, October 1, 2012
854. There Is No Substitute
Lately I
have been a tad bit depressed because both of my sons have eight-months
pregnant teachers. Yes, I am thrilled
for these young, beautiful teachers and I am ecstatic for their happy
families. But to be perfectly honest, I
am not fully embracing the idea of long-term substitute teachers for my
sons.
MOV
They just
got into their routines. They just got
acclimated to the teacher’s systems.
They just figured out where the water fountain was.
And now
everything is about to change (probably not the water fountain location
though). A new teacher is going to come
in and meet my sons for the first time and try to make sense of
everything. And then in three or four
months, the original teacher will be back.
My sons
thrive on consistency. They love knowing
that Monday is macaroni and cheese, Tuesday is soccer practice, and Friday is
go out to dinner. They expect the
expected.
I started to
think if we (as adults) suddenly had substitutes in our lives. What if you went to Starbucks just like you
do every day, and instead of Starbucks there was some sort of juice bar
inside. The guy would say, “Yeah, we’re
gonna sub out coffee and have orange juice smoothies. Hope you don’t mind too much, it is just for
today and tomorrow, then your regular Starbucks will be back.”
Or if you
walked into work and some random guy in a suit was sitting at your boss’s desk,
looking at his watch. “Hi, you must be
MOV. Your boss will be back the Tuesday
after next, but she did leave me this giant folder of new assignments for
you. She said she might need you to work
some overtime. Oh, yeah, she also said
no more coming in to work late.”
Or, you go
to call your sister and some other woman answers. “Sorry, Oakley is going to be off for a few
days, my name is Stephanie and I will be filling in for her. Did you want to jump right in with emotional
issues from childhood, or would you prefer to fight over money?”
I don’t want
to think about it anymore, it is making me mad.
I grab my purse and zip out to my local sandwich place. I walk up to the counter and place my order:
“One sub,
please.”MOV
Labels:
substitute teacher requirements
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