Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: Dispatch

The Enemy of Everyone, To Be Considered Sarcastic and Dangerous

English: My hazel eyes

English: My hazel eyes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

How about that ornate title? I quite like it. Of course, I’m determined to be a flat-out failure where writing is concerned, but my motto here is, “It’s not your job, don’t deal with it.”

And you gotta love a job where you answer the phone, and the first thing she says is, “Are you gonna help me, or do I hafta file charges on you?” It occurred to me that filing charges on myself would make for an interesting run card: “Be on the lookout for a white female, brown hair and hazel eyes, cobra tattoo on left forearm, wearing glasses, blue top, black pants. Alert: has been known to make hostile remarks toward police officers.” Suppressing the immediate urge to hang up on her (now there’s a different kind of 911 hangup), I inquired about the nature of her problem. She was being held against her will at the hospital. Turns out that this was because she had warrants in an adjoining county. Now, I believe that being held against your will is the very essence of being arrested. I’ve never been arrested myself, but I believe that’s how it works. (“I could demonstrate it for you,” says Nick, with seeming nonchalance.) (For the record, the closest I’ve come to having a Run-In with the Law was the current Sgt. but then Officer W.W. yelling, “I should write you a ticket!” as I sauntered in front of his squad car in the middle of the block once. I guess that counts as a verbal warning. {You know, it’s starting to sound like I jaywalk all the time, particularly in front of the police.} Said W.W. also, when Dispatch was downtown, stopped by the Radio window and asked me to make a phone call for him, when I was already on the phone to someone else. I silently handed him the phone book, and he yelled, “You’re supposed to be a support service!” and stormed off down the hall. And he should know, because he started out as a dispatcher. One of the radio speakers downtown had a dent in it where he’d lost his temper once and punched it. Or so I was told–that was before my time. {I actually got along pretty well with W.W., in spite of these occasional spats.} Is there a pattern of emotional immaturity among officers who used to be dispatchers?)

Speaking of which, note to self: When working city dispatch, be sure to keep Nick out of the rain, or his finish will corrode.

–Just remember: If you need help, call 911, “…and please yell at me while I’m trying to solve your problems.”–the Tragically-Hip One

Happy belated birthday wishes to L.L. (I actually wished her a happy birthday in a timely manner, but it’s belated here.) I’m guessing it was the coolest birthday (temperature-wise) you’ve ever experienced.

Let’s Get Serious: Wrong

Small Consumer Firework on the 4th of July

Small Consumer Firework on the 4th of July (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When exactly did it become a constitutional right to shoot off fireworks? Is there some amendment I missed? Last night, Foxy’s husband, who is a police officer and a gentleman in the best sense of both words, was assaulted while directing traffic after the 4th of July festivities by some people who thought they had a right to block said traffic, and a right to throw fireworks at those who objected, and that the police had no right to stop them. And, to add insult to injury (literally), the sizable crowd witnessing this did nothing to stop it. So, freedom’s just another word for doing whatever the hell you want, and the hell with everyone else.

OK, enough of that, because thinking about it just makes me angry. Let us speculate on something somewhat lighter, but also having to do with rights and obligations. Namely: how are Dispatch call-ins affected by the rise of cell phones? (By the way, I plan on dealing with the effects of cell phones at greater length in a future post. “Thanks for the warning,” they say, sensing another lecture approaching.)

Some years back, the question came up in contract negotiations–Are we obligated to give Them our cell phone numbers for the purpose of overtime call-ins, in addition to our home numbers? At that time, the union said this was the equivalent of being on call, and would require additional compensation (a/k/a “more money”). The current rule is that we only have to give Them our cell # if that’s our only phone, which happens to be true in my case. (I knew it was time to get rid of the land line when I saw Rom get out his cell to call for pizza, ALTHOUGH HE WAS SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO OUR LAND LINE PHONE AT THE TIME.) This raises a question…

I was at Thornton’s this afternoon when I received a voice mail. Seeing that it was from work, and that it was shortly after 3pm, and that I was (I thought) on vacation, I had a moment of panic. When exactly did my vacation end? Not today, surely? I’d checked it last night, but I am, after all, fallible. There was no problem, it turned out, just a routine question, but it got me wondering. Suppose it had been an overtime call-in. Since the only phone I have enables Them to reach me anywhere, am I required to respond, no matter where I am when I get the call? Formerly, they could only reach me at home. If I wasn’t home, too bad. They do attempt to follow up by sending the officer working that beat to your house, to knock on the door and see if you’ll answer. (“Open up! This is the police!” is a great conversation starter.) In the Age of the Almighty Cell Phone, would they send the car in my beat (a certain Nick, with whom you may be familiar) to attempt to track me down at the places I regularly haunt? I could imagine a really awkward conversation taking place at Thornton’s. No, Nick, you are not authorized to take me into custody under those circumstances, although a ride to work would be appreciated.

All Trouble, All the Time: I Invent the Blog

PBCFR Dispatch

PBCFR Dispatch (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

WARNING: THIS POST IS VERY LENGTHY, AND NOT ALWAYS FUNNY. In fact, if you’re not particularly interested in Central Dispatch stuff, you might wish to skip it.

I promised, or threatened, to continue the story of the founding of Central Dispatch, so here goes, ready or not. I’m not sure that I’m ready.

That link, which I hope works correctly (you wouldn’t think I regularly work with four or more computer screens in front of me, would you?) is a cleaned-up version of the transition, appearing almost 22 years after the fact. Note the tone of the headline, implying that everything would be great if it weren’t for those craven resisters of change. Now I will give you the dirtied-up version. Let’s see if I can still get myself in trouble, all these years after the fact.

Disclaimer: At various points in this narrative, I will be sounding all compassionate and sympathetic and stuff. I was not that way at the time. I was a young hotshot, and scornful of those who were not.

First, I apologize for giving you a distorted view of my professional background. It is true that my first couple jobs involved writing, and an assortment of odd (and in some cases very odd) jobs followed them. But my “adult” career has always been in the public sector, starting with the Recorder of Deeds office in St Louis County, followed by the court clerk’s office in Boone County, Missouri. (Both of those are worthy of their own blog entries, which they may in due time receive–government work is weirder than most people imagine.) So, when I settled down in my current location with Rom, it was natural to apply at the Civic Center. I had trepidations about signing on with Police Records, but it promised to be more interesting than your usual clerical job, and so it proved to be. When the opening in Radio came up (replacing someone who’d, well, fled the state to avoid paying her debts, if I remember correctly), I gathered my courage–the job seemed cool (and it is!), it paid more (especially since it includes all the overtime you can eat), and, most importantly, the union would hold my old job open for the few weeks it would hopefully take to see if I would work out. (It really took about a year before I felt I knew what I was doing, but I quickly learned how to bluff my way through situations, which is actually an important skill for this job.)

{Quit writing your autobiography and get to the point! they mutter.}

ANYWAY, pretty much from the time I started, they were talking about combining the various dispatch departments, but I was by now familiar with the pace of change in local governments, and figured they’d eventually lose interest and wander away. Instead, they started by removing most of the officers, because, hey, civilians can be paid less! (There is, by the way, nothing like that rationale for cultivating good morale and professionalism in the group of paid-less people.) (Of course, to be reasonable, it does allow police officers to be used to best advantage, doing, y’know, police work.) Thereby I acquired a great deal of seniority all of a sudden. I then promptly lost it again when they combined us with the fire department dispatchers, since the fire department figured out the money-saving civilian strategy before the police department did. This combining supposedly took place in the name of the great god Efficiency, which, however, is often a cover-up for the more questionable strategy of Computers Allow Us To Do Something, Therefore We Should Do It. This is what gives us alarm company call centers in India, who have no common-sense experience of where things are located in Indiana. And lest we think, We work for the city/county, at least they can’t outsource our jobs–it has been mentioned, in the questionable spirit referred to above, Why not a single 911 center for the entire state? (And if anyone is wanting to edge me out–hey, everyone is, since I’m at the top of the seniority heap now–that’s all they need to do. Say all 911 personnel have to transfer to the new center in the state capital, and I’ll retire first and figure out if I can afford it later. Maybe I’ll take up writing for a living.)

{Do you plan on being entertaining anytime soon? they say.}

ANNNYWAYYYY, there was a lot of unsettled resentment floating around. The fire dispatchers were dismayed at being forced into a job with a much bigger workload than they were accustomed to, because no matter how you slice it (or who you consider slicing to get around it), there are lots more police runs than fire runs. And there are more city police runs than county ones, so the sheriff’s department felt left out in the planning. And the police officers felt like we were deserting them by moving out of HQ to our own new building, and some of them thought we had wanted this change, and they got kind of resentful (OK, not just “kind of”) until we were able to corner them (and it’s hard to corner a cop) and tell them otherwise.

So. As if to prove that it really is all about me, the department got its first computers on my birthday in 1990. And I discovered the wonder of email. I can complain to my colleagues when they’re not even here! Or even when they are here, without being told by a supervisor that there’s no use complaining, because it won’t change anything! I took to complaining regularly and at length to some half-dozen companions, and since I am an observer of absurdity, and there was plenty of it in evidence, I was often humorous {Really? Do tell, they say, squirming and looking at the clock}, and these missives became popular. (And all too frequently printed up for later use and then left on the printer for possible discovery by management, which would have led me to nail-biting if I weren’t so vain about my hands.)

I called it Crisis in Progress, after a sentiment on a refrigerator magnet I found at a truck stop on the way to IDACS certification that year. And it was an accurate title, because the director they hired for the new consolidated department (I’ll call him CKC, lest he sue me–although truth is defense against libel, isn’t it? Anyone?) was, shall we say, not good with people, and he drenched an already-flammable situation with gasoline, and then aimed a blowtorch at it.

It wasn’t that CKC was anti-union, although he was that. But he thought that he could simply ignore the union and deal with us however he chose. No crackbrained scheme was too absurd to hand down, prefaced with “By the authority vested in me as Director of Central Dispatch…” We got so used to seeing this on department memos that “By the authority vested in me” became a surreptitious catchphrase. Pretty much everything was surreptitious in those days. I felt like I was leading a resistance movement, or at least giving voice to one.

By The Authority Vested In Him…

–No one was allowed to leave the property on breaks, lest we be needed suddenly. (I used to sit across the street defiantly. Childish, yeah.)

–Uniforms would be required. (Until the union pointed out the city would be required to pay for them.) Supervisors wouldn’t have to wear uniforms. And speaking of which,

–A new non-union supervisory staff was instituted. (Which remains with us to this day. I’m not sure if this turned out to be a plus or a minus in the long run. Weirdly, our original system was that the dispatcher with the most seniority working was the supervisor on that shift that day, which led, you guessed it, to Your Humble Narrator being in charge on occasion.)

–Peons had to wear headsets, supervisors did not. (Our phone system at the time could be used either way, and, you guessed it, I refused to wear a headset. I’m sure supervisors used to wish beating me was allowed. All things considered, I’m kind of surprised CKC didn’t suggest it.)

–Experimental schedules!–the bane of many dispatch departments. How about half the employees working Sun-Mon-Tue-Wed, and the other half working Wed-Thur-Fri-Sat? Since the week can’t be neatly divided in half, you can imagine what a joke Wednesdays were. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone.

–No one was allowed to get drunk on their days off, in case we were needed suddenly. I am not making that up. (I probably drank more at this time in my life than at any time since my first attempt at college, and I wasn’t the only one.) The union pointed out that this was equivalent to being on call, and would require additional compensation, so it was quietly dropped. Especially when it was pointed out that the Director took other Important People out for nights on the town regularly.

–It was not their responsibility to call and tell us we were needed for overtime; it was our responsibility to call in and see if we were needed. And how does that work out, exactly? “Hi, do you need me for overtime now?” Thirty seconds later…”How about now?” Similarly, we were supposed to call in sick to our own supervisor, not the one working when we called in. This was before cell phones, remember.

Most of these proposals were discarded when they proved unworkable, but there were always more where those came from.


…I’m pretty sure that was the title of a Crisis in Progress post. Actually, CIP was usually referred to simply as The Newsletter. Our email program only allowed 10 names in the address field, and people kept asking to be added to my list, putting me in the Very Weird Indeed position of seeming to be deciding who the cool people were, since I couldn’t include everyone. (A plain-spoken former co-worker who returned at this time–why? one has to wonder–said, “I come back and you’re popular?”) A supervisor asked, “Would you like us to make a group list for you?” which I nervously refused, since I wouldn’t know who They might choose to include. (This was not unbounded paranoia, as it turned out. The office manager was mistakenly included in the union employee mail list, and then somehow never got removed.) I got a lot more nervous when CKC himself approached me, smiling, and said, “Your newsletter has quite a following! Why not send it to the entire staff?” Why not, indeed? I can’t remember what stammering response I must have come up with, but I bet the look on my face was priceless.

So how was this situation resolved? He made the Wrong People mad. (Hint: The dispatchers were not the Wrong People.) One of the new policies was that, on every 911 hangup, we had to send a police car, a fire truck, and an ambulance, just in case, instead of just a police car to investigate. The police chief heard all this apparatus being dispatched on the radio one day, and said, “Whose policy is this?” (This may have been the only rhetorical question ever asked on the air.) I think more critical attention was paid to the situation after that. The actual cause of CKC’s dismissal was that he said a bad word on the air, but others have done that (Not me! Not me!) and not gotten fired, so….

I kept a scrapbook of all the newspaper articles reporting on our problems. This led to my being sort-of-appointed to keep the “official” scrapbook of our congratulatory publicity (appointed by someone who didn’t know why I’d chosen the articles I already had). I wish I had both sets of articles still, but I don’t know what happened to them. Surely I wouldn’t have discarded them, but I don’t remember giving them to someone else. Maybe the Baby Corn took them.

FanBase, please forgive me. I knew this would be long, but I had no idea how long.

Mildly Amusing Adventures of the Purest Ray Serene

Rain days

Rain days (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

First of all, my most humble thanks to the lovely Lynbob, who is doing for me what I cannot do for myself. I can haz publicist? I would never call myself “the poet laureate of Dispatch,” (though I would post it here for you all to see) but, well…OK, I don’t know what to say!

Enough blushing and stammering. On to adventure! My companions on this day’s bus ride were a young woman with a bright pink Mohawk, pink rain poncho, turquoise pants, and a purple backpack with pink and turquoise trim–and a nun. I suppose Your Humble Narrator, as a tattooed Catholic, was the bridge between the two.

Sign on a bus stop bench: “Suicide is real.” Well, I didn’t think it was mythical. Not to make light of a serious topic, but…OK. Yes, I am making light of a serious topic.

Moral Dilemma of the Day: What to do with my large soft drink in the confessional? It seemed somehow presumptuous to bring it in with me (though I sure could have used it–was it hot in there, or was it just me?). I ended up leaving it on the floor in the pews, hopefully out of the way of being kicked by someone. By the way, you gotta admire a church (St Boniface) with a stained-glass window in the restroom.

Moral Failing of the Day: Ironically, on the way to confession, I jaywalked. In front of a police car. I normally don’t jaywalk unless no traffic is coming, but my depth perception is none too good, and I swear, Your Honor, that squad car just appeared out of nowhere! The officer recognized me and waved, but gave me a long-suffering look, as if to say, Must you? In front of me and everything? Compounding matters, I forgot to mention it in confession.

But I am running wild in the streets, because Nick is out of town playing Army for two weeks, instead of guarding my house like he normally gets paid to do (even though he is the main thing it needs to be guarded from). I shudder to think what he would have done if I had jaywalked in front of his squad car. Hopefully, the Army is keeping him too busy to keep up with these posts. I think my admitting breaking the law here doesn’t legally constitute a confession, since, for all anyone knows, I could be making it up.

Speaking of made-up stuff, doesn’t “Foxy Lady and Conspiracy Cat vs. the Union Suit and the Baby Corn” have graphic novel written all over it? Bad graphic novel, maybe, but still.

Games Without Frontiers

CIA seal

CIA seal (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Conspiracy Cat here, welcoming you to Games Without Frontiers–all the news you need to know, and none I don’t want you to know.

Remember the news item I said yesterday was not connected to The Conspiracy? Well, turns out–IT IS! RaBecca has indicated that from now on, she would like to be called Foxy Lady. And so she shall! Because nothing is too good for Our Founder, don’t you agree? And if you don’t agree–Nick, you know what to do. I’m picturing her at our rallies in a T-shirt that has “Foxy Lady” in, of course, scratchy glitter lettering, plus, of course, oversize sunglasses. Hair-flipping is optional, but encouraged.

However, this raises the troubling question–was the Foxy Lady whose phone dialed 911 none other than the Foxy Lady herself? It would be quite a blow if the person who collaborated with me on the lyrics to “Lock Your Keypad” (to the tune of “Rock the Casbah”) had, in fact, failed to lock her own keypad. I’m not angry, just disappointed. And, occasionally, dissipated. But not very often.

A game to play on the parking lot of a business–try to figure out which person inside the business belongs to which vehicle on the lot. Who has the gold Mustang convertible? Who has the pickup truck with the bumper sticker “Powered by Haters”? Who has the decal of Calvin urinating on something, and will I get in trouble if I go inside and smack them?

A traffic game Rom and I like to play–notice which business names sound like front organizations for the CIA–the ones that are so generic, you can’t figure out what the business actually does, so it has to be a spy organization. “Johnson Controls.” (What do they control?) “Research Systems.” (Again, what is being researched? Interrogation techniques?) “American Corrugated” is fairly obvious–meeting all your corrugation needs, whether sheet metal or cardboard–but “Panther Expedited Services” sounds like the kind of services Nick provides, which could indeed be expedited if necessary. Hmm, there is something panther-like in the way he prowls around a room.

A game to enliven a slow shift at Dispatch (non-slow shifts have a way of enlivening themselves)–Word of the Day. Pick an unlikely word, and everyone try to work it into a phone call or air transmission. I remember 3rd shift had “Christmas spirit” one December night (technically two words, but a single concept, so I’ll allow it).

In other news,  former dispatcher and current FanBase member Brigette Renee (did I remember it correctly? or, for that matter, spell it correctly?) had cause to call 911 recently, having observed a drunk fall off his scooter numerous times. (Apparently he knew he was going to, because he wore a high-visibility orange T-shirt–always good when you’re going to be spending time lying in the road.) She recognized my voice, although I did not recognize hers (and I was negligent in my duties and didn’t ask for her name), and later posted that she would have said, “I’m a fan of the blog!” but was afraid it would freak me out. Hey, if I suspected anyone who doesn’t know me personally was a fan of the blog, I would freak out, although I’m not sure what form freaking out takes in my case. I can see it now–in a trailer park or an underground military installation, the statement is uttered–“There’s an insane person on the Internet!” (This blog was actually looked at once by someone in Australia and once by someone in Belgium. Presumably they’d thought “Scratchy Glitter” had something to do with crafts, since they never returned.)

I will leave you now (at last, they sigh) with two Thoughts for the Day:

–“Duct tape is silver, and silence is golden.” (You see the cause-and-effect sequence here.) –courtesy of Kat whose-middle-name-I-don’t-know-or-I-would-use-it-here

–“You need to know the rules before you can shirk them effectively.” –courtesy of someone whose name I won’t reveal, lest he get in trouble.

Odds & Ends

conspiracy  or coincidence?

conspiracy or coincidence? (Photo credit: Loving Earth)

…but mostly odd.

First of all, apropos of my previous post, just remember that I was hired before the @ss-covering era of psychological testing, so you can draw your own conclusions. And I won’t allow you to draw your own conclusions very often, so enjoy it while you can.

Second of all, while we’re on the subject of The Conspiracy, I withheld a bit of information from you yesterday. It was excusable to withhold it from most of you, since it was a lot of data to absorb anyway, and I wanted to keep things simple. It was not, however, the sort of thing one should withhold from one’s Director of Security, so Nick, listen up. I KNOW WHO TAPED THE BABY CORN TO RABECCA’S DOOR HANDLE. He is nominally employed by the Sheriff’s Department, in the detective office. I will not mention his name, except to say that he could be referred to as the King of the Hill. Beware of him! He is the only person who has ever beaten my time taking the IDACS certification test. He has an infinitely devious mind. He is a follower of chaos out of control. AND HE UNDERSTANDS WHERE I GOT THAT LAST REFERENCE! It will require all your skills and vigilance to deal with him.

You should also know that, as I walked to work today, I saw white curly ribbon tied around the fire hydrant near Dispatch. This can only mean that we have been targeted for arson! Extra patrol is called for.

In non-Conspiracy-related news (or is it? Can one ever be sure?), someone’s voice mail that I called back said, “Foxy Lady is unavailable to take your call.” I missed my chance to say, “Foxy–or should I say Ms. Lady?–your cell phone dialed 911, so lock your foxy keypad, kthxbye!”

And, a guy told me, “I want to talk to an officer, since I’m not getting anywhere with you.” This was because I told him the police couldn’t arrest a guy just because our caller overheard him threatening someone on the phone, and our caller proudly said, “Yes, they can! I was arrested for that once!” Nick summed up the run with, “He wasn’t impressed with you.” Yeah, I get that a lot.

FanBase, have I told you lately that I love you?

Maycation Day 4: The Concert

Tom Petty performing at Nissan Pavilion in Bri...

Tom Petty performing at Nissan Pavilion in Bristow, VA – June 10, 2006. Photo taken by Marion S. Rights have been specifically given by the photographer for the images’ use on Wikipedia. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Working title #1: Oh My My, Oh Hell Yes

Working title #2: Sitcher Drunk @ss Down!

I could write a music review (and have, in fact, done so in the past), but what I want to do instead is review everything about this event but the music. And since this blog is my personal stroke-fest, I’m going to do just that.

I haven’t been to a concert for awhile, because most of the acts I want to see are A.) broken up (R.E.M.), B.) past their prime (too many to count), or C.) dead. So let me just say that Tom Petty puts on a great show, go see him if you get the chance.

I was snazzily attired in striped pants and purple shirt, and Rom was even snazzier in a multicolored shirt he got for $2 at a yard sale. (Trust me, it looks better than it sounds.)

I agree with Rom that the Ford Center looks like an upside-down aluminum saucepan, but I thought the inside has a cool aircraft-hangar sort of look. And, most importantly, the restrooms are near the door. This was important because I’ve never seen so much beer in one place in my life. There were wandering beer vendors everywhere. I resisted the temptation, because drinking beer would guarantee I’d need to find the bathroom at some point during the show. Many people lacked this awareness of cause and effect, so there was a constant roiling of people between the beer and the bathrooms. If I wanted to do that, I could just go to Hagedorn’s. I could sing “Free Fallin'” there, too. And have.

I would be willing to pay extra not to have a tall guy sit in front of me, but one  did.  And I’d pay even more not to have the guy next to him, who was a size 3X guy, wearing a t-shirt that was a size 2X extra-short. And tight low-slung pants. And every time he got up, we would see, as they said in olden times, more than was convenient. And have to turn our faces away, lest we turn to stone. And he got up a lot. (Refer to beer/bathroom link, above.)

(Insert concert here.)

I prudently sought out said restroom before the bus ride home. Ladies, the floor was awash in spilled beer. At least I think that’s what it was. The alternative explanation would be even worse. And the sinks are a major design fail–the automatic faucets give you a dribble of water for a second and a half. Everyone was giving up on actually washing their hands, because they had to get on with their lives.

The bus went past Dispatch at one point–I waved at 3rd shift, toiling away in obscurity. And this was appropriate, because–what is with me overhearing 911 customers on the bus? It’s like a curse (especially since in this case I’m not being paid to listen to it.) This time it was a woman carrying a tote bag that had Bella and Edward (or whatever those Twilight people’s names are) on one side, and Kiss on the other. Where do you even get a bag like that? Her cell phone rings and–

…transcript of conversation follows:

“I’m not going to answer that.” {Answers it anyway, like we couldn’t see that coming.} “I’m upset with you! You got my daughter upset. My daughter isn’t speaking to me. You got my daughter upset, and now she’ll never speak to me again. And you got my mother upset. You got my daughter upset. She won’t even talk to me. I’m going to hit you over the head with a pizza when I get home! {She was carrying a pizza box.} Because you got my daughter upset!” {Hangs up.} “Men are pigs.” {Realizes there’s a man, namely my husband, sitting right next to her.} “Well, not all men. Just the one I live with.” I thought, let me guess. You bought a car with him, but you don’t trust him with the keys?

Well, I’m up too late, considering I have an appointment with the vet tomorrow. Well, I don’t have it, the cat does. I just go along to lend moral support.

Rom said, “When I first get up in the morning, I can’t read your post, because my eyes aren’t used to the light yet.” Because it’s so brilliant!

P.S. I chose this picture of Tom Petty because I wore the same outfit for my wedding!

P.P.S. I do have to live like a refugee.



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