The recent case of Xiao Xu Wu, the mother accused of leaving her 5-year-old alone in a casino hotel room while she casually gambled away a Tuesday afternoon has stoked the great fires of parenting wrath. Almost simultaneously, newspapers and the blogosphere have been banging on about a new book, ‘Bringing up Bébé: One American Woman Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting’ and the head-turning pronouncement, at least in its Wall Street Journal adaptation, that French parents are superior and their little Jacques and Amélies altogether more polite, compliant, and well-mannered. To be fair, the book’s premise actually focuses on the expectations of French parenting, not the superiority of French parents themselves, (surely every society produces its fair share of deadbeat parents, even la belle France), but it probably didn’t sound as catchy. It’s been a little less than a year since Amy Chua’s Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother sent jaws dropping, lips flapping, and online forums into overdrive both for and against hypercompetitive helicopter parenting. We must be due for round two.
The case of Xiao Xu Wu caught my attention because we had a similar experience at a friend’s wedding in Providence, Rhode Island. After the rehearsal dinner, which included several young children, most of the group settled in at the hotel bar. While our baby zonked out at our feet in an infant car seat, another couple retired upstairs with their two young children, only to return empty-handed having left their offspring alone in the room. They didn’t have a baby monitor but, as they pointed out, the children were asleep upstairs just as they would be at home, and couldn’t exactly leave. Perhaps they needn’t have worried about attempts to escape. In Xiao Xu Wu’s case, it was her clever little five year old that telephoned the police to let them know he was all alone watching television in a casino hotel room.
My admission of bringing our baby into a bar, (albeit the open-plan hotel variety and not a dodgy, testosterone-soaked sports bar), could, by itself drive some to frothing apoplexy. Those three words - “baby in bar” - have a startlingly polarizing effect. I’ve seen heated Facebook threads pouring contempt on the glossy Brooklyn mums who show up for happy hour, attempt to park strollers between bar stools and juggle babies and bottles while nursing their solitary glass of Zin. And now The New York Times is reporting on the trend for some apartment dwelling city parents to have drinks at their neighbours' or head downstairs to a bar or restaurant below, baby monitor in hand.
Back to the French and their superior parenting, Pamela Druckerman, an ex-pat American, does make a good point. While American families are packing into “family-friendly” restaurants at 5pm, frenetically ordering off children’s menus (where, incidentally, all food options, except ketchup, are yellow) and entertaining their charges with crayons and iPad apps, French families are dining out leisurely and often at an adult-friendly hour. From pleasant dinners to hassle-free bedtimes, the French simply expect their children to be part of their world rather than begging, cajoling, and shoehorning them in.
I hoped the online remixes of Druckerman’s French parenting observations would reveal critical clues that I could employ to preset our children with an instinctive desire to sit patiently at the table and listen intently to our adult conversations without asking on a loop whether they can pee/have ice cream/go home. The trouble is Ms. Druckerman’s epiphany over the serenity of French mothers and the expert power of “Non!” doesn’t come with advice on what to do when your two year old hasn’t napped and is alternately sobbing and falling asleep in his dinner plate at 5:30pm. Nor does it offer a blue print for handling a child who burns her hand on a roasting hot plate, cries hysterically, spies the restaurant’s pet cat, and spends the rest of the evening under the table.
The reality is every book of parenting advice offers the promise of the golden ticket. And for those of us muddling through the parenting minefield and its ever-evolving ages and stages, we’re willing to hang up our hats, clasp our hands, and look for the Holy Grail of parenting perfection. Huffington Post blogger, Josette Crosby Plank, puts her tongue firmly in cheek in her take on the parenting inferiority complex and manages to brainstorm a list of 104 parent types that are unequivocally doing a better job of parenting than we are. Because, after all, whatever method we’ve been cobbling together couldn’t possibly be just fine. Could it?
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
S.W.A.L.K.
At the end of a grubby day emptying the basement, Brodart-covering close to sixty books for the school library, making birdseed pretzels with our two year old, and handling a minor flood emergency with the Department of Public Works after our plumber cracked the mains pipe, I hit the hay. Mostly I thudded into bed grateful to be spared any angst or expectations over the bulk production of Valentine’s cards for pre-school classmates. While other mothers were busily assisting in the glittery creation of thirty personalized love messages for their child to ‘deliver’ at school, I had already put the kabosh on any such notion. Valentine’s Day, I promised my children – Hallmark be damned – is exclusively Cupid’s game.
In the US, Valentine’s Day is fundamentally different. It’s for just about everyone, except perhaps bosses and staff. In the UK, it’s still exclusively the showpiece for amorous love, mutual, unrequited or simply hopeful. Not to mention the eminent domain of really strung out crushes played out by hormonally tormented teens. (Remember the painful, undying pangs of love you felt in high school?) The best part is that Valentine’s Day cards, whether store bought or painstakingly crafted, are sent anonymously, fueling the fires of Valentine love with secrecy and intrigue.
In fact, the hallmark of the day (not Hallmark’s re-interpretation) hinges on this notion of a secret admirer, a throwback to the tradition’s chaste Victorian origins. Whether you know perfectly well who’s behind the heartfelt declaration of love, or are left deciphering fluffy statements of romantic interest – “I think you’re cute!” “I have a crush on you!” -- the cards are left unsigned, save only for a cryptic question mark, a desirous (or less desirably illiterate) “X”, or a pouty lip print to prove it was S.W.A.L.K. (sealed with a loving kiss). Your name may be pieced together out of hastily snipped newspaper letters leaving you to guess whether you now have a serial killer or a lovelorn suitor. Or both.
Envelopes may be written shakily with the sender’s non-writing hand or foot, letting you ponder whether your admirer is a gummy ninety-year-old looking for a nursemaid. Cleverer and cleverer, the romantic games play on. And for those determined to truly snow their love object, the card is then carted off to be posted, no doubt with a good deal of effort, from some random town to really throw them off the scent. After all, having gone to all that trouble, what could be more mortifying than being exposed?
In the states, the lucrative greetings card market has been filling the card aisles with pink and red hues and bubblegum love hearts before the sparkle was off the New Year bubbly. You can buy Valentine’s cards in boxes of twelve or twenty-four like Christmas cards, and most of the shops have had them on sale for half-price for two weeks or more, giving value for money and new meaning to cheap date. Not content with encouraging impressionable progeny to send insincere declarations of love to everyone they know, (even that weird kid who constantly picks his nose and the girl that won’t let my daughter sit next to her at lunch), our children are also supposed to send Valentine’s cards to their parents, siblings, even Nan and Gramps. Worse yet, we’re all supposed to jump onboard and send some back like a postal love scrum.
Unfortunately, if your family is from another country, the chances are they will not be sending love letters to your children. Or so one can only hope. With this conviction firmly in hand, I instead decided we would make Valentine’s crafts with no particular recipient in mind, just for the pleasure of creating and sharing art.
Believing, presumably like some real-life Fancy Nancy, that all things sound better in French, my five year old asked if she might decorate her Valentine craft with French letters. After ten minutes I was able to regain my composure and create curly letters that looked remarkably frothy and French. I am fairly certain the yummy mummies at school would not have been impressed had she turned up with a doily heart beautifully decorated with prophylactics.
Finally, with everyone tucked up in bed and my feet on the stairs ready to turn in, I had a tiny pang of guilt. Two glitter and crayon Valentine’s cards later, I set up a little breakfast table for the children complete with a single red rose and chocolate ladybirds on heart shaped plates. In for a penny, in for a pound: I even signed the cards.
In the US, Valentine’s Day is fundamentally different. It’s for just about everyone, except perhaps bosses and staff. In the UK, it’s still exclusively the showpiece for amorous love, mutual, unrequited or simply hopeful. Not to mention the eminent domain of really strung out crushes played out by hormonally tormented teens. (Remember the painful, undying pangs of love you felt in high school?) The best part is that Valentine’s Day cards, whether store bought or painstakingly crafted, are sent anonymously, fueling the fires of Valentine love with secrecy and intrigue.
In fact, the hallmark of the day (not Hallmark’s re-interpretation) hinges on this notion of a secret admirer, a throwback to the tradition’s chaste Victorian origins. Whether you know perfectly well who’s behind the heartfelt declaration of love, or are left deciphering fluffy statements of romantic interest – “I think you’re cute!” “I have a crush on you!” -- the cards are left unsigned, save only for a cryptic question mark, a desirous (or less desirably illiterate) “X”, or a pouty lip print to prove it was S.W.A.L.K. (sealed with a loving kiss). Your name may be pieced together out of hastily snipped newspaper letters leaving you to guess whether you now have a serial killer or a lovelorn suitor. Or both.
Envelopes may be written shakily with the sender’s non-writing hand or foot, letting you ponder whether your admirer is a gummy ninety-year-old looking for a nursemaid. Cleverer and cleverer, the romantic games play on. And for those determined to truly snow their love object, the card is then carted off to be posted, no doubt with a good deal of effort, from some random town to really throw them off the scent. After all, having gone to all that trouble, what could be more mortifying than being exposed?
In the states, the lucrative greetings card market has been filling the card aisles with pink and red hues and bubblegum love hearts before the sparkle was off the New Year bubbly. You can buy Valentine’s cards in boxes of twelve or twenty-four like Christmas cards, and most of the shops have had them on sale for half-price for two weeks or more, giving value for money and new meaning to cheap date. Not content with encouraging impressionable progeny to send insincere declarations of love to everyone they know, (even that weird kid who constantly picks his nose and the girl that won’t let my daughter sit next to her at lunch), our children are also supposed to send Valentine’s cards to their parents, siblings, even Nan and Gramps. Worse yet, we’re all supposed to jump onboard and send some back like a postal love scrum.
Unfortunately, if your family is from another country, the chances are they will not be sending love letters to your children. Or so one can only hope. With this conviction firmly in hand, I instead decided we would make Valentine’s crafts with no particular recipient in mind, just for the pleasure of creating and sharing art.
Believing, presumably like some real-life Fancy Nancy, that all things sound better in French, my five year old asked if she might decorate her Valentine craft with French letters. After ten minutes I was able to regain my composure and create curly letters that looked remarkably frothy and French. I am fairly certain the yummy mummies at school would not have been impressed had she turned up with a doily heart beautifully decorated with prophylactics.
Finally, with everyone tucked up in bed and my feet on the stairs ready to turn in, I had a tiny pang of guilt. Two glitter and crayon Valentine’s cards later, I set up a little breakfast table for the children complete with a single red rose and chocolate ladybirds on heart shaped plates. In for a penny, in for a pound: I even signed the cards.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Supercheesebowl
It’s not too late to talk about the Superbowl, is it? Where should we start? Perhaps with Gisele Bundchen’s fierce Tiger-Mother support of her man, Tom Brady, while throwing his teammates under the bus? Or the commercials that gave us every inch of David Beckham’s body to flog his new range of underwear and the steamy Teleflora ad assuring men that Valentine’s flowers are a sure-fire way to score?
After fifteen years in New York, I can get pretty excited about baseball but the whole American football thing still goes over my head. From what I see, a team of men in body-hugging Lycra, huddle, charge, body slam and fall down. My ignorance of the finer points of the game may be of my own doing, but let’s not quibble over the obvious similarities with sumo wrestling which, strangely enough, hasn’t spawned a national following.
This year, with the Giants in the Superbowl, instead of my perfectly planned Sunday evening idyll, (read: wine, sofa and Downtown Abbey), I was thrust into a real Superbowl party, my first since January 1996 when the Steelers played the Cowboys. And there it was, flutterings in my chest, the first stirrings of pride as the NY Giants emerged victorious. I may be rehabilitated yet.
When Beckham was purchased to spice up LA-Galaxy, an American sports commentator bravely explained the American apathy towards soccer. ‘The beautiful game’, football by any other name, couldn’t hold American audiences because of the low scores. Since soccer games can end nil-nil or be won with a single goal, it doesn’t ignite the fires of a North American audience, even while it drives the rest of the world into passionate histrionics.
I have another theory. It seems the breaks in American football are as important as the game itself. Not only do they provide the outrageously expensive commercial spots designed to keep the audience glued to the box, they provide ample opportunity to graze. Nothing says time to grab another beer like a first down at the fifty-yard line. And at the end of the day, what would the Superbowl be without cold beer and buffalo wings?
Coccadotts, a local bakery in Colonie, NY obviously worried that cakes might not be an automatic go-to item when attending a Superbowl party. Inspired by the game and the national obsession with abundantly iced cupcakes, (who is buying these anyway?) they came up with six packs of cornbread cupcakes, iced with blue cheese frosting, and jauntily topped off with a saucy chicken wing. Heaven save us all. Cakes merged with chicken limbs? Sacré bleu!
Half time brings the other great sideline sport, the half-time show. A delicacy we love to pick apart with the same care given to those lip smacking wings. After the oldies cried foul over Janet Jackson’s Nipplegate, and the youngsters cried, “Who?” to The Who, the powers-that-be came up with a cross-generation act. No, not Lady Gaga, but Madonna. Madonna’s entrance bedecked in Givenchy Couture and Bulgari jewels had about as much pomp and circumstance as the royal wedding, something Madonna and her faux-British accent no doubt enjoyed. The medley of eighties and nineties hits was a fun little reminder that the writhing woman before us is actually in her mid-fifties. Alas, the stiffness in her dance moves suggested all the Botox may have migrated from her face to the rest of her moving parts.
Luckily for the censors, Madonna pulled off a near-perfect Madonna and Child performance without even kissing sassy Nicki Minaj, even if the other enfant terrible, M.I.A., did raise eyebrows by flipping the bird. No doubt she’ll be suitably chastised. In case you think the only scandal was in the post-game potty-mouthed tirade of Ms. Bundchen, we can thank some New England Patriots fans for bringing a little old school hooliganism to the streets of UMass Amherst. And lastly, a website named Hollywoodilluminati.com claims Madonna managed to disguise a Satanic ritual in her NFL half-time show. If she did, I have to believe the utterly sinful Coccodotts Bakery was in on the act.
After fifteen years in New York, I can get pretty excited about baseball but the whole American football thing still goes over my head. From what I see, a team of men in body-hugging Lycra, huddle, charge, body slam and fall down. My ignorance of the finer points of the game may be of my own doing, but let’s not quibble over the obvious similarities with sumo wrestling which, strangely enough, hasn’t spawned a national following.
This year, with the Giants in the Superbowl, instead of my perfectly planned Sunday evening idyll, (read: wine, sofa and Downtown Abbey), I was thrust into a real Superbowl party, my first since January 1996 when the Steelers played the Cowboys. And there it was, flutterings in my chest, the first stirrings of pride as the NY Giants emerged victorious. I may be rehabilitated yet.
When Beckham was purchased to spice up LA-Galaxy, an American sports commentator bravely explained the American apathy towards soccer. ‘The beautiful game’, football by any other name, couldn’t hold American audiences because of the low scores. Since soccer games can end nil-nil or be won with a single goal, it doesn’t ignite the fires of a North American audience, even while it drives the rest of the world into passionate histrionics.
I have another theory. It seems the breaks in American football are as important as the game itself. Not only do they provide the outrageously expensive commercial spots designed to keep the audience glued to the box, they provide ample opportunity to graze. Nothing says time to grab another beer like a first down at the fifty-yard line. And at the end of the day, what would the Superbowl be without cold beer and buffalo wings?
Coccadotts, a local bakery in Colonie, NY obviously worried that cakes might not be an automatic go-to item when attending a Superbowl party. Inspired by the game and the national obsession with abundantly iced cupcakes, (who is buying these anyway?) they came up with six packs of cornbread cupcakes, iced with blue cheese frosting, and jauntily topped off with a saucy chicken wing. Heaven save us all. Cakes merged with chicken limbs? Sacré bleu!
Half time brings the other great sideline sport, the half-time show. A delicacy we love to pick apart with the same care given to those lip smacking wings. After the oldies cried foul over Janet Jackson’s Nipplegate, and the youngsters cried, “Who?” to The Who, the powers-that-be came up with a cross-generation act. No, not Lady Gaga, but Madonna. Madonna’s entrance bedecked in Givenchy Couture and Bulgari jewels had about as much pomp and circumstance as the royal wedding, something Madonna and her faux-British accent no doubt enjoyed. The medley of eighties and nineties hits was a fun little reminder that the writhing woman before us is actually in her mid-fifties. Alas, the stiffness in her dance moves suggested all the Botox may have migrated from her face to the rest of her moving parts.
Luckily for the censors, Madonna pulled off a near-perfect Madonna and Child performance without even kissing sassy Nicki Minaj, even if the other enfant terrible, M.I.A., did raise eyebrows by flipping the bird. No doubt she’ll be suitably chastised. In case you think the only scandal was in the post-game potty-mouthed tirade of Ms. Bundchen, we can thank some New England Patriots fans for bringing a little old school hooliganism to the streets of UMass Amherst. And lastly, a website named Hollywoodilluminati.com claims Madonna managed to disguise a Satanic ritual in her NFL half-time show. If she did, I have to believe the utterly sinful Coccodotts Bakery was in on the act.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Lost in Transit
After a restorative solo visit to Miami, I was scandalized to find my knickers missing from my luggage. Not exactly my undies, but my bikini bottoms nonetheless. And not only missing, but stolen.
I didn't leave them at my dear friend's house nor did I find them sometime later crumpled in the side pocket of my carry-on. My very last act in sunny FLA had been a few laps of the kidney-shaped pool soaking up the last drops of golden sunshine (his jammy, impossibly glamorous South Beach condominium, a topic for the future). I had only time to change, wring out my bikini and stash it inside a large sunhat neatly compressed as the top layer in my suitcase before he dragged me kicking and screaming back to the airport and the chilly real world.
By the time I arrived home in New York, my luggage had been rifled through with the expertise of a trained TSA agent, an art I believe requires hours of specialized training, so they can poke and prod neatly folded clothes with a technique akin to salad tossing. It ensures maximum disturbance of any master plan to limit creases and spills. Perversely, like a serial killer, they will leave you a complimentary calling card letting know you’ve just been had by the TSA. In the confines of my perfectly innocent case, the hairdryer and oversized bottle of conditioner were left alone, but the striped bikini bottoms vanished.
Luggage handlers have been getting a pretty bad rap recently. Justifiably so, it seems. An entire racket was operating within the belly of American Airlines, with a posse of enterprising baggage handlers only pilfering Rolexes, cameras, and designer clothes as a side habit to their cocaine import business cleverly concealed in the walls of the plane fuselage. When Homeland Security scheduled luggage searches, the clever baggage pit bosses would simply leave the contraband in the walls and send the plane on its way until the next inspection-free landing. Any YouTube search turns up reams of CCTV airport footage from Luton to Joahnnesburg with baggage handlers rampantly plundering carousel-bound bags.
It's true, the Missoni label may have caught someone’s eye and been mistaken for something fancy, but that would overlook the magical week when a Missoni ready-to-wear line for Target was ever so briefly in stock. Anyone with sticky fingers only had to read the small print on the label. Even so, it doesn't explain theft of the bottoms, leaving the rather cute flower-embellished top behind.
I still rely on the post-9/11 directive that forbade travelers to lock checked luggage. My parents, on the other hand, arrived stateside with nifty TSA-approved locks that can only be opened by agents armed with a universal key. Unfortunately, the locks they traveled with were not the same locks placed back on their bags on either the outbound or return legs. How difficult can it be to procure a spare universal key when you are an airport employee? Or perhaps there’s a lucrative trade in luggage locks.
Flying is so devoid of any niceties these days we’re conditioned to practically stripping at security screenings and staring at the ceiling during pat downs with the sort of ho-hum ambivalence normally reserved for annual health check-ups. We could probably pass ourselves off as skilled extras in a remake of The Wall.
Dogged fastidiousness among security personnel seems greatest in small hubs, Albany (nearly-) International among them. In the safe hands of Albany's TSA I have been required to break the seal, taste, and submit for fume testing, three unopened bottles of Pediasure while traveling with a toddler. Liquid medicine has gone through without a hitch, but I've nearly come to fisticuffs when the freezer pack keeping it cold was about to be confiscated. Nail clippers, razors, and lipgloss have all met their maker, though a friend once made it through with a full-size hammer. My laptop has been swabbed for traces of explosives too many times to mention. And breaking all laws of probability, I’m invariably on the extra-screening list. If only my luck was as good at the craps table.
On this trip I caused great excitement by blowing up the body scanner. Albany, rather surprisingly, has one of the high-tech full-body scanners, something like a 360 degree changing room with mirrors designed to give you body dysmorphic disorder. Despite the 6am hour, a flight without car seats, snack bags and pooping children drastically increased my chances for a frequent flier upgrade so on went the heels and a sequin-speckled top. Unfortunately, the sequins dazzle and confuse these body scanners – in my mind it’s like an x-ray machine encountering a disco ball – so alarms sound and the next thing you’re having the most thorough pat down of your adult life.
I’d like to thank the TSA’s finest for keeping us safe (except when my friends travel with hammers) but if we’re going to get meticulous treatment when it comes to security operations, please take better care of my swimwear or I’m really going to get my knickers in a twist.
I didn't leave them at my dear friend's house nor did I find them sometime later crumpled in the side pocket of my carry-on. My very last act in sunny FLA had been a few laps of the kidney-shaped pool soaking up the last drops of golden sunshine (his jammy, impossibly glamorous South Beach condominium, a topic for the future). I had only time to change, wring out my bikini and stash it inside a large sunhat neatly compressed as the top layer in my suitcase before he dragged me kicking and screaming back to the airport and the chilly real world.
By the time I arrived home in New York, my luggage had been rifled through with the expertise of a trained TSA agent, an art I believe requires hours of specialized training, so they can poke and prod neatly folded clothes with a technique akin to salad tossing. It ensures maximum disturbance of any master plan to limit creases and spills. Perversely, like a serial killer, they will leave you a complimentary calling card letting know you’ve just been had by the TSA. In the confines of my perfectly innocent case, the hairdryer and oversized bottle of conditioner were left alone, but the striped bikini bottoms vanished.
Luggage handlers have been getting a pretty bad rap recently. Justifiably so, it seems. An entire racket was operating within the belly of American Airlines, with a posse of enterprising baggage handlers only pilfering Rolexes, cameras, and designer clothes as a side habit to their cocaine import business cleverly concealed in the walls of the plane fuselage. When Homeland Security scheduled luggage searches, the clever baggage pit bosses would simply leave the contraband in the walls and send the plane on its way until the next inspection-free landing. Any YouTube search turns up reams of CCTV airport footage from Luton to Joahnnesburg with baggage handlers rampantly plundering carousel-bound bags.
It's true, the Missoni label may have caught someone’s eye and been mistaken for something fancy, but that would overlook the magical week when a Missoni ready-to-wear line for Target was ever so briefly in stock. Anyone with sticky fingers only had to read the small print on the label. Even so, it doesn't explain theft of the bottoms, leaving the rather cute flower-embellished top behind.
I still rely on the post-9/11 directive that forbade travelers to lock checked luggage. My parents, on the other hand, arrived stateside with nifty TSA-approved locks that can only be opened by agents armed with a universal key. Unfortunately, the locks they traveled with were not the same locks placed back on their bags on either the outbound or return legs. How difficult can it be to procure a spare universal key when you are an airport employee? Or perhaps there’s a lucrative trade in luggage locks.
Flying is so devoid of any niceties these days we’re conditioned to practically stripping at security screenings and staring at the ceiling during pat downs with the sort of ho-hum ambivalence normally reserved for annual health check-ups. We could probably pass ourselves off as skilled extras in a remake of The Wall.
Dogged fastidiousness among security personnel seems greatest in small hubs, Albany (nearly-) International among them. In the safe hands of Albany's TSA I have been required to break the seal, taste, and submit for fume testing, three unopened bottles of Pediasure while traveling with a toddler. Liquid medicine has gone through without a hitch, but I've nearly come to fisticuffs when the freezer pack keeping it cold was about to be confiscated. Nail clippers, razors, and lipgloss have all met their maker, though a friend once made it through with a full-size hammer. My laptop has been swabbed for traces of explosives too many times to mention. And breaking all laws of probability, I’m invariably on the extra-screening list. If only my luck was as good at the craps table.
On this trip I caused great excitement by blowing up the body scanner. Albany, rather surprisingly, has one of the high-tech full-body scanners, something like a 360 degree changing room with mirrors designed to give you body dysmorphic disorder. Despite the 6am hour, a flight without car seats, snack bags and pooping children drastically increased my chances for a frequent flier upgrade so on went the heels and a sequin-speckled top. Unfortunately, the sequins dazzle and confuse these body scanners – in my mind it’s like an x-ray machine encountering a disco ball – so alarms sound and the next thing you’re having the most thorough pat down of your adult life.
I’d like to thank the TSA’s finest for keeping us safe (except when my friends travel with hammers) but if we’re going to get meticulous treatment when it comes to security operations, please take better care of my swimwear or I’m really going to get my knickers in a twist.
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