Shooting Lessons #1

The eternally shirtless Jacob, I mean Tim, shows me how to shoot a big gun and I don't enjoy it much.

Shooting Lesson 1

Farmer vs. Non-farmer

This straw farmer's hat has the ability to discern the natural farmer in a person. I tried a variety of different angles and accessories and was hard pressed to find my inner farmer. Tim looked like a natural however, even in those Valentino glasses that he stole from me.

Hay Ya!

After enduring months of fields of grass so high that it was, quite frankly, scary to walk around in them, our new friend Wesley the Farmer came by and finally mowed them down. Something interesting that I've learned since buying this property is that if you actually farm the land in some manner- in this instance harvesting it for hay- you get a farm assessment and withit, a tax break. I hope that Tim doesn't yell at me for sharing that but I don't know why he would. It's government 101 but alas, I didn't know...

This is Wesley and his tractor.

Wesley is a character to say the least.

Really nice guy but could possibly be a contender for Chattiest Man in the World. You better pencil in at least an hour before seeing Wesley, even if it's just to have him sign a simple document.

The good thing about that is in three (not so brief) encounters with Wesley we learned about:

1. Kingwood Township: Old vs. New

2. Farmer Steve's Suicide and Moldy $$$

3. You might get a touch of the Lyme's

4. Deer are rats

1. Kingwood Township: Old vs. New

We are the "new Kingwood" according to Wesley which means we're the city folk who recently discovered this sleepy little farm town and have thus begun infiltrating. It's

sort of like rural gentrification I suppose. The good news is that even though we are part of the "new" faction, Wesley said we seem like good people and that he's okay with us. He explained that it's probably because, despite the fact that we live in Manhattan most of the week, it's because we're from small towns and we "get it."

2. Farmer Steve's Suicide and Moldy $$$

We have heard many a rumor about Steve the Farmer who owned the property before us. We knew he hung himself and that he was having some sort of personal/ financial issues, but Wesley's version of the story was different than most of the others. He (and his father who came by with him one day) told us that Steve DEFINITELY buried money on the property and that all the locals have gone rooting around the farm looking for it. Alle

gedly his ex-wife knew where most of it was and found 100K in moldy bills from the eighties in the barn under the o

ld front loader tractor but there is still more to be found. I really hope that rumor is true.

3. You might get a touch of the Lyme's

Speaking of the barn with the front loader in it, we have spring buck living in there. Initially it was just this guy:

But apparently he found a girlfriend. And then his girlfriend brought some of her extended family along and then they reproduced, all of them, and now there is a giant deer family living in there. This ties into topic #4. Deer are rats because when I was like, aww, that is so cute, Wesley was like "just you wait. You live out here for a few more years, you're gonna want them all dead." Naturally, I was appalled but then Wesley's father told us this awful story of how his daughter was on track to become a veterinarian when suddenly,

in her junior year of college, she started showing symptoms of Lyme's disease and eventually completely lost her faculties and had to drop out of school. Apparently, Lyme's is so common around these parts that people throw it around as the explanation for everything. And you have to throw "the" in before you say it.

Example: "I saw Wesley down at the market in his bath robe"

"Oh my, he must have the Lyme's"

Naturally, Tim and I have been throwing that around for an explanation for everything now. Like when we were putting a tarp over the scissor lift and I inexplicably (and in painful slow motion) fell off the side of the building into a pile of mud, Tim was like "I think you might have a touch of the Lyme's." Speaking of a touch of the Lyme's...

Back to deer as rats. As I was saying tha

t I thought they were cute and I would never want to kill them, Wesley assured me that they carry more ticks and diseases than rats in the city and that in due time, I would consider them vermin. I still doubt that, but I guess only time will tell.

So, these are the bullet points of some of the finer things we learned from Farmer Wes. I didn't go into his belief that he is a ladies man who stole his neighbor's wife away or some of the other fun stuff because quite frankly, I don't have all day and it's 10am and we didn't even drive to the farm yet. Slackers!

hay, ya!

Steel Erection Video

Better late than never, here is a link to a panoramic 360 of the steel while I was riding on the tractor. Tim's Dad was obviously lovin it

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=427610678696

P.s. I should not quit my day job and become a cinematographer

Stung, Steel, and swimming

Sunday started out as one of those days. I woke up early, went downstairs to play with the puppy, was sort of enjoying throwing the ball around, and then squish. Stepped right in a pile of dog poop. A freshie, at that. Couldn't have been more than five minutes old. Smelled great. I washed off my foot and my shoe, found my spirit somehow, and then got in the car with Tim, headed for another fun-filled day of moving steel. And then a bee flew in the window, landed on my upper thigh, and stung me. We were driving and I was confused about what just happened until the searing pain began and I realized that wow, that was a bee. And it just stung me. And it hurts really bad. (I'd like you to know that yes, the stinger is still lodged deep in my upper thigh, despite all my attempts to remove it. And yes, it is Tuesday.)

Later that day. The stinging was only mild but the fact that it was 98 degrees and humid coupled by the fact that we were standing right in the light of the sun put me in a miserable mood. I admit it. I was hating life. Oh yeah, I should probably also mention that we were lifting these giant steel beams off the ground and loading them onto that blue machine and then drilling them into the cross beams of the roof.

And by lifting, I am semi-proud to say that I actually was lifting those giant beams over my head to put them on the blue machine. With each lift, I inadvertently let out a tennis player-like grunt but I was still proud of myself anyway. Unfortunately, these little triumphs weren't enough to occupy my speedy little mind and as I was lifting and grunting and watching Tim drill those bolts into steel (which is LOUD), I went into some dark places....

DREAMY WAYNE'S WORLD DISSOLVE DOODILY DOOT, DOODILY DOOT, DOODILY DOOT....

What am I doing here? Why am I lifting steel on a scorching hot summer's day? This isn't me. I don't belong here. I am a thinker, not a construction worker. Not that there is anything wrong with being a construction worker, but look at me! That's not me. I'm a weak girl with soft legs and a bad back. When God or whatever you believe in created me, he did not say "this one is going to be a laborer." No, he did not. He or she put some sort of sticker on my head along the lines of "writer", "artist", or "girly girl". "Manly lifting machine" didn't even get a second glance from ol' G.O.D.....

panic!!!! I can't do this for the rest of my life. How do I tell Tim? He will be so disappointed in me and my laziness. He works so hard and here I am, complaining in my head when it gets a little bit hard. He does this stuff all the time and never complains. He is a saint. That's it, plain and simple. And I am just a mere mortal, resigned to bitterness and anger at the sun and the humidity. Did I learn nothing in all those yoga classes? Ommm, find your zen. Om, live in the moment. Enjoy the moment. Ohmygod, that is just not working. I fucking hate you, yoga and zen and Buddha and wind chimes and dreamcatchers. I will never be able to enjoy this torture. It's torture. That is the only apt word to describe this horror. TORTURE.

DOODILY DOOT, DOODILY DOOT, DOODILY DOOT

And then there is Tim, gruffly yelling at me to move the P-9 beams out of the way. And yep, I admit it, I lost it and had to walk away. I finally collected my nerve and admitted that I was having a horrible, horrible time. He was like, yeah, it's really hot. Why don't we call it a day and go swimming? The greatest feeling of relief I have ever felt washed over me in that moment. But then I felt guilty because it would put us behind schedule but he said, look. It's not worth killing yourself. Let's just call it a day. So we set his father, the other indentured servant, free and we went swimming with the dog in the Delaware River. Even though we cut our work day short, I had much more fun swimming and I think that maybe it was necessary. This project may never get finished and it is possibly my fault, but I think we need to take a swim every once in a while.

Instructional Video: How to Drink Wine on the Farm

CLICK HERE to watch a professional video on how to properly drink a bottle of wine on the farm. 

Refresher: Is Tim Jacob or Edward

Hard Labor is Seriously Ruining my Manicure: Status as Jacob: Confirmed by 9-year-old

Status as Jacob: Confirmed by 9-year-old

Tim and I were just walking the dog when a cute little boy approached us to pet her. He told us all about how he wants to get a German Shepherd as soon as he turns 10. And then he happened to notice Tim's shoulder (since he was wearing his legendary cut off shirt) and with it, his tattoo. And he said " You're a Jacob? Yeah, me too."

This blog just writes itself sometimes...

Only YOU could pull that off

As I was applying my eye makeup this morning at my too-fancy-for-its-own-good gym, I was wearing the gray dress pictured below when an older woman came up to me and said "Oh, I love your dress." I turned to her and said "why, thank you" with genuine enthusiasm as it's extremely rare that anyone says anything nice at my gym or even acknowledges my existence at all (I'm not rich or old enough for the Regulars). Then she lingered on my face for an awkwardly long moment until I almost started losing my smile and she finally broke the prolonged silence by adding "but only YOU could pull it off" and then walked away. I stood there, very confused for a few minutes. Was she saying that because only someone as gorgeous and fantastic as me could pull it off? Please. You know that is not what I thought! I was immediatly like, what the hell does that mean? Does she mean only someone so tall and oafy could pull off something so flowy and awkward lengthed? Or does she mean that I'm weird and freaky-deaky and that it works because I'm a young Cat Lady in the making? Or maybe it's because I have a big butt and small boobs and this cut is flattering because it minimizes my maximus and enhances my tiny tee tas? Oh, the thoughts rambled on and on and on and on...

all morning and into tonight actually- I just went to the bathroom and looked at my dress and said aloud "only YOU could pull it off" and wondered again what she meant. The tone was unreadable but that prolonged stare really threw me off. It was delivered like a witch's curse. Only YOU could pull it off, my pretty, cackle cackle cackle cut to the future and I'm 78 years old and still wearing the same dress, cursed to wear it every day for the rest of my life.

And to think that I really and genuinely liked it, not 10 hours ago. That witch lady really shattered my confidence.

Check it out below. I honestly don't think it's that weird but what do I know. And whatever you do, don't try to wear it yourself

Luxurious Towel Spreads

As I was just laying me down to sleep, I looked at our bed in shame. We are so behind in everything right now and have completely lost all interest/ focus on our apartment that this is our bed spread.

No, that is not an illusion. That is what it looks like. And I'm not just talking about the terribly mismatched pillowcases. We really have been using hand towels as a blanket(s). Let me explain--although there is really no decent explanation-- all of our laundry is stuck at the cleaners because they are only open from 7:30am-7pm and neither of us has been home during those hours for the past two weeks. To add insult to injury, this morning, I woke up for a minute at like 5 to go pee and when I came back, Tim had stolen my own personal hand towel to use on his feet with his personal towel spread across his midriff. This is a clear and obvious violation of the towel pact- we each get one hand towel. I had to steal it back and what followed became a pathetic, tired people's battle over a piece of cloth that is maybe, at best, 8 " by 8". We really need a few days to collect ourselves. This whole farm ordeal is truly killing us. And our civility.

* stay tuned for back pain stories tomorrow

The Magical Baking Thingee

I don't want to call it a pot, but it's also not a pan. It's a ceramic pie baking thingee that can withstand high heats. I am such a non-baker and abuser of New York restaurants and take out, that I just had to google "pie baking" to learn that I think it's called a pie pan. But it's ceramic so I don't think that is a pan, is it? Who cares?! That is not the point. The point is that this magical pot (as I shall call it) provided two of the best meals I've ever had on Saturday when we used it on the grill. Weird combo, right? Correct, if by weird you actually mean "fucking amazing." Because that is how our food turned out thanks to the magical baking thingee.

Saturday morning, we woke up at the buttcrack in order to hit the road by 7:30a and were driving on 78 when all of a sudden the sky changed and we started driving into some very dark clouds. They quickly turned into drizzle and as we ventured further west, turned into rain, then even further west into full on pouring rain. As I was cranky at having to wake up early on yet another g.d. Saturday, I started to get really mad when I realized that we could

have slept in due to the downpour. I checked the radar on Tim's iphone and sure enough, the forecast called for showers until 2pm and thunderstorms until 8pm which means we would not be able to do anything on the farm. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Witness anger levels skyrocket. I must have said "we really need to check the weather forecast before we wake up early to drive down next time" more than once or twice because Tim finally turned to me and said, "enough. Okay. We'll check the forecast next time." And then I sunk into more darkness and anger because he forced me to eat a banana that tasted like garbage and now I had absolutely no way of working off those excess, unsavory calories. So there I sat, feeling fat and miserable until we got to town.

When we arrived in downtown Frenchtown, it was pouring. Our initial plan had been to get a coffee at the local coffeeshop, Maria's, and then wait out the rain while reading the paper or something like that. But the rain was beyond ridiculous and I didn't feel like even walking 20 feet in it. So back to the farm we headed and Tim was like let's hit the local farm store. I miserably replied "why?" but shut up and went in anyway. He said "let's grill some breakfast" and I grumbled something like "okay" and wandered around, picking up some bacon, eggs, zucchini and bread, without a real plan of what to do with the

m. That's when we saw it. ahhhh. The lights from the heavens shone down on the magical baking thingee and we agreed that it might work to cook eggs on the grill. Oh did it ever!

We took shelter in the barn and lit the grill and cooked the zucchini whole. Then we whisked some eggs in the magical pot, cooked the bacon and then added it altogether into the magical backing thingee in a sort of souffle/ frittata. As soon as the eggs were golden and the bacon a perfect juicy brown, we scooped it onto a piece of olive bread (since we have no plates) and had the most delicious breakfast ever.

After we finished our meal, it was still pouring and since we didn't have anywhere else to be, we just decided to take a nap in the back of the van. We laid down a few mattress pads and dozed for a little while the rain pittered and pattered loudly on the roof. It was very romantic and dreamy. For a minute. Until the flies came. Tim coined them World Class in their ability to annoy. I have to agree. If even an eyelash was exposed, they would hover around it and land on it. We finally outsmarted those little shits by covering ourselves, faces included, with blankets. Ah. Back to the pitter pattering of rain and cozy sleepiness. When we woke up, the rain had stopped and it was back to work. I can't tell you how excited I was to lift those giant steel beams. *more on that later with the special Sunday Recap*

Once the whistle blew, we were both hungry again and thought we'd press our luck and test the magic of the baking thingee one more time. We sliced up a vidalia onion (with a box cutter since we have no knives) and put it in the magical baking thingee with some malbec and some salt and pepper while grilling some steak and asparagus. Probably doesn't sound that exciting does it? I know. But you just have to take my word for it when I say those onions were sprinkled with magic fairy dust or something because they were g.d. delicious. The steak was undeniably good but it wouldn't have been anything without the onion chasers. Damn, that was some good eatin. Thank you, magical baking thingee.

Thank God I'm a Country Girl

It was with a huge sigh of relief that I haphazardly packed my weekend bag this morning after last week's two hour stressfest that was induced by packing for the Hamptons. No need for the silk jumpsuits and white dresses, the jewelry, the self-tanner, or multiple pairs of high heels, platforms, and gladiators. Nope. Down on the farm you just need your sneaks, some old flip-flops and some grubby old clothes. Definitely do NOT bring jewelry or high heels. I wouldn't even recommend nice workout clothes as they will get very dirty and possibly destroyed. Save the Lululemons for the Upper East Side Yogaworks.

We drove out to Southampton on a last minute whim very early last Saturday morning. We have friends that recently bought a house out there- another fixer upper like ours although not even close to as overgrown and decrepit- and they invited us out when they heard we had no plans for the 4th. We stayed until Monday afternoon which was right about the same time that I fully admitted to myself that I do not like the Hamptons and I am SOOOO glad that we bought a farm in New Jersey instead. I honestly never thought in a million years that I would ever say that I prefer dirty Jersey to the Hamptons but I honestly really hate the Hamptons. THERE! I SAID IT! Huge weight off my chest. I know that I am possibly offending many people when I say that, but before anyone gets mad, let me explain. It goes far beyond the complications of packing my weekend bag.

First of all, I hate traffic. I especially hate it on the weekends when trying to detox from the stress of the week. Getting to the Hamptons is a bitch. Getting home from the Hamptons is a bitch. In the Hamptons, you cannot drive to the beach without sitting in traffic. To top it all off, you have to deal with a ridiculous amount of parking stress. Even though my friends are residents of Southampton and have passes, we still had to pay $25 to park at Cooper's Beach and then were fined (erroneously) $500 for parking in the wrong spot. $500!!! That's a roundtrip flight to Costa Rica for God's sake.

I also detest "scenes". If I want to go to a club that Lindsay Lohan might get arrested at, I will do that in Hollywood or The Meatpacking District. I do not want to do it while on vacation. Quite frankly, I don't want to do it ever but if the urge were to strike me for some bizarre reason, I would not want it to be at a cheesy crowded club with second rate deejays after a long day of hiking and laying out on the beach.

Even more than I hate scenes, I hate people who are mean and rude. While this probably seems like a universal notion, you'd be surprised at the number of people who seem to enjoy being around other rude people. I experienced this in full force at the Golden Pear on Main Street where purchasing a simple iced coffee became a pushing and shoving fight akin to a UFC bout between featherweight old tan women dripping in diamonds. Even though I was able to pretty successfully zen out the elbowing and snide comments to the poor staff, it was harder to ignore the snooty looks I got because my Balenciaga sunglasses are last year's model and I was carrying my cash in my hand rather than in a designer bag. I forgot that going into the Golden Pear in casual attire is like going into that store on Rodeo Drive in your hooker dress a la Pretty Woman.

Sadly the Golden Pear rudeness was also experienced at the beach where I had a man yell at me because my dog ran after his frisbee. We were walking on the shore together (on the beach that dogs are allowed, mind you) and this guy was playing frisbee with his friend. Zelda LOVES frisbee and ran after it as soon as she saw it because she thought they were playing with her. They weren't. And the one guy was quick to point out and yelled at me "get that fucking dog away from me". I was taken aback as you can probably imagine, and quite embarrassed as I tried to grab her by the collar and pull her away. But as she was off-leash and fixated on that frisbee, I could not grab her for the life of me. The most frustrating part was that the guys continued to throw the frisbee back and forth over Zelda's head, which, if you have ever even seen a dog or been around one before, ever, is probably the stupidest thing you can do if you want the dog to go away. This continued on with the guy yelling at me to get rid of her and I finally had to state the obvious and said "she is not going to go away if you keep throwing your frisbee back and forth." He didn't bother listening and so it went on for a painfully long time before I was able to catch Zelda while he continuously yelled at me. That guy was such a dick. Another woman came over later, while we were just laying there on our blanket, and yelled at us "I hate dogs! Do not let that thing anywhere near me." I was taken aback by this anger. I mean, I understand if you don't want dogs around you on the beach, but maybe you should go to the beach where dogs aren't allowed (there are many of them) and maybe you should also just FUCKING CHILL OUT. It's a harmless, sweet dog who is not going to bother you unless you play frisbee and then, she only wants to play. I can say all of this as a person who only recently got a dog and who, not long ago, really wasn't into dogs. I know that even at that point in my life, however, I never would have gotten mad at the mere existence of dogs. I mean, come on. I hate dogs? Who says that? Who hates dogs? I mean, sure, maybe you don't want one as a pet, but hate them? wow.

So yeah, those were a few of the encounters of rude people that I experienced that soured my take on the Hamptons. There were countless others in this short weekend that I won't go into but you get it. It is shocking to me that people can be so unhappy when they are at the beach and presumably away for the weekend to enjoy themselves. And the worst part is that most, if not all, of these people are rich and living the dream. No need for anger! You made it! Congratulations! Now please, just enjoy it! For the sake of us all...

While there are obviously great things about the Hamptons like the beaches and the beautiful homes and the NYC quality food, I am SO glad to be going to NJ this weekend to get away from it all. While it's true that I will not actually be relaxing, seeing as though we still have millions of hours of hard labor on our hands, I will at least not be elbowed in the back at the Golden Pear.

Is Tim Edward or Jacob?

Much like Bella Swan, I have been totally into Edward since the beginning, hands down, without question. His brooding eyes, those sexy lamb chops, and icy soulessness have definitely done it for me. Even in the last one where they tried to introduce a little tension, I was like that little Lautner kid has some impressive ab definition and all but he is a little boy. Plus we all know that a personal trainer in Hollywood can make anyone's abs look good and I walked out totally confident that Bella's decision to become a vampire was the right one.

Then the third installment rolled around and as Tim and I were heading to the theater, I started to wonder... is Tim more Edward or is he more Jacob? I was always certain he was Edward, probably because I liked Edward more, but then I started thinking about it more and I looked at his cut off sleeves and his tribal tatt and I suddenly found myself faced with a huge moral conundrum: is Tim actually Jacob when all along I thought he was Edward? The more I pondered this intensely important question, the clearer it became.Tim is a Jacob. Let's just review the facts because I think you will agree.

1. He rolls with a large pack of brothers and his dad a lot

2. While he's not actually part wolf, he has a dog that looks a lot like a wolf.

Although I've never actually seen them together at the same time, so maybe he is part wolf!

(Okay, no, that is a lie. I have seen them together. But how awesome is this Zelda Death Shot?)

3. He never wears a shirt anymore and poses a lot which is quite frankly, a little weird. The only rational explanation is, once again, that he is a Jacob.

4. He is part Native American

5. He rides a motorcycle

6. He is also charmingly semi- hickish and has a lot of cars and dirt bikes and stuff and hangs out in sheds and repairs them a lot

7. Finally, and perhaps most alarmingly, he has a tribal tattoo in EXACTLY the same place as everyone in Jacob's pack. I think it is actually the same tattoo in fact.

I guess I just have to admit that I, too, have switched teams. It definitely caught me by surprise much like it did young Bella.

Greg

On my flight home from Prague yesterday, I had the good fortune of meeting Greg. Greg is a musician with long blonde hair and a beard who hails from North Carolina and loved Prague so much that he is considering moving there. He does have his house in NC to consider, but heck, he might be able to rent it out while he tests out the Czech lifestyle for six months or so. They really love music there. I didn’t ask Greg to share any of this information- he’s just one of those people who enjoys making small talk on planes. I am not one of those people so after I humored Greg just enough to be polite by asking about the cost of living in Prague (cheap) and what instrument he plays (guitar), I went back to my original plan of sleeping for the entire flight and got all my preparations under way. I popped half of a Sominex, I put my ear plugs in, I took my contacts out and I put on my eye mask. I did it all pretty openly so Greg would understand that the small talk was over and it was time for Annie to settle in for a long plane ride’s nap. Imagine my surprise then when Greg said “did you just take a sleeping pill?” I had to remove my left earplug and eye mask to say “what?” and he said “are you going to sleep?” I was like, yes, Greg, yes I am. I’m not sure what gave that away but yes, I am going to sleep. He just smiled his dopey smile and was like “okay. You wear contacts?” I had to remove my earplug again to say “what?” “You wear contacts?” Yes, Greg, I do. Good night.

I dozed off for a few hours but since half of an over the counter sleeping pill is essentially the same as a glass of wine, I couldn’t make it through the entire flight unfortunately. The very second that I opened my eyes, Greg turned right in my face and smiled and started talking. I pulled the ol’ I’m actually still asleep trick and closed my eyes and then started panicking. I wasn’t tired any more but did not want to hear Greg’s lame stories. So I pretended I was asleep for a while until I actually did fall back asleep again but since it was a forced sleep, it didn’t last very long and I unfortunately woke up a few minutes later. I was awake with my eyes closed for quite some time because after a few tests , Greg consistently turned, ready to chat, every single time my eyes fluttered. I shut those fuckers tight for a few minutes as a laid out a plan. How could I be awake and yet make it clear that I’m not interested in chatting? I couldn’t watch the in flight movie because it was Dear John and that was painful enough the first time around. The only other choice was to read a script on my Kindle. I honestly wasn’t in the mood to read a script but God knows the worst script in the world would be better than Gregtalk. So I quickly took off my sleep gear and grabbed my purse. Greg was naturally right on top of me, smiling, and pointing at my Kindle. He said “is that a Kindle?” and I said “yes” without an ounce of sarcasm despite the fact that it says KINDLE right across the top. So I started reading it, or trying to, but Greg was watching me read. It is very hard to read when someone is watching you read. After a few minutes, he said “wow, can you really read that? The font is so small” and I was like, yes, I can. I was about to kill him. I won't go into any more of the lame Greg interrogation but I will say that I seriously considered taking the remaining Sominex in my purse, despite the obvious risks of overdose, simply so that I could tune him out. Possibly forever.

When we finally arrived at JFK, after Greg asked me several thousand more inane questions (i.e. "are you getting off the plane?" "Did you fill out your customs form?" "is that a pen?"), I ran far, far away from him and hid at baggage claim. All I can say is that I wish Greg the best in his musical pursuits and that I highly encourage him to move to Prague or possibly somewhere even further away like Australia. God help the person he sits next to on that flight.

Greg kind of looked like Greg Allman btw

Czech it out

Look at these cute, weird Czech items

This is a sign to not open your window. i love the bug drawings

This is a tampon. It's cute!

Even the box is super cute
It has a strawberry on it.

Not sure what that has to do with tampons but it sure is cute.

aww, Prague, you are the cutest