It doesn’t happen often, but when it rains in LA it’s wonderful. The air clears, my dog goes frantic over all of the different smells in the air, I get to wear a scarf and there’s just a feeling of relief and exhale.

Which is exactly what looking at something beautiful does for me, or hopefully what happens when someone gets a bouquet of flowers. It’s that feeling of softening and relaxing, of opening yourself more that I love.

And it’s exactly how I feel when I look at the photo of J and his daughter M, who got the flowers on this rainy day in Los Angeles over the holidays. Apparently M loves flowers, plants them with her grandmother, and got very excited when she saw the randomblooms bouquet with her babysitter.

I love this photo because she herself, seems like such a little flower. There’s nothing like that unabashed openess with which kids hug you. Kids and or your pets. They love you in this complete way and as a result you get to open and let your guard down. There’s nothing like it. Besides maybe, a nice rainy day.

I love these flowers! I did these August 1st with my sister-in-law and somehow this post just slipped through the cracks. One bouquet went to my friend, C, who was tired of calling people who didn’t want to talk to her in her telemarketing job, another bouquet went to our neighbor, R, who was feeling particularly down and unappreciated by people in her job and the third bouquet went to a woman in Koreatown who gives foot massages and was very happy to accept the bouquet once she realized she didn’t have to pay anything.

Another one that slipped through the cracks is this woman below. My husband randombly dropped these flowers off at a medical center on his way to work one morning. While the woman’s face lit up at the prospect of the flowers being for her and she happily posed for the photo, she also kept asking my husband if he was sure that he didn’t want her to deliver them to someone else. He reassured her they were for her.

Hey There….  I was feeling low when I did these flowers. They were for our two close friends, Jen & Lightning, who were getting married before November 4th. I was excited to be doing the flowers for their civil ceremony but I had been working til’ 2am in the morning the night before and was about to be running back and forth across town to cat sit for my parents, not to mention a firedance performance I had the next weekend. I was just feeling run down that Saturday morning as I woke up at 5:30am, exactly a month ago on October 4th, and went downtown to the flower mart.

The funny thing is I’d been anticipating their wedding since they announced their engagement oh, six years ago. This wedding was six years of anticipation and two weeks notice. And it could not have been at a busier time. You know when you wake up feeling low and you think “I’m getting sick.” That was me that morning, going downtown at 5am in the morning. I was walking around picking the flowers thinking, “This day could not have come at a busier time, please let me find what I need, please don’t let me get sick.” Once I got back home with the flowers I also felt some mild panic in that I’d never really done bouquets before. I didn’t know if I could pull it off. But looking at the photos, I feel like a contestant on Project Runway, gushing at seeing their creations take form down the catwalk. They make me happy.

And that entire day made me happy. It was a civil ceremony in a park in West Hollywood that lasted maybe all of ten minutes which was then followed by dinner in Malibu that lasted throughout the evening. The big joke about the flowers is that the ceremony was so quick and to the point, I think Jen & Lightning held their bouquets for all of 40 seconds before needing their hands free to do the vows and the exchanging of the rings. But they did add to the day. They felt like a part of a very lavish, traditional wedding but it was the simplicity and clarity of love in their ceremony I found so beautiful.

In fact, their wedding was one of the best I’ve experienced and it was the best for me because I got to be as open and loving as I wanted to be and felt for them. I didn’t hold back, I didn’t feel self-conscious, I just felt present, joyful and honored to be celebrating their union. I hadn’t realized until that day unfolded, how excited I was about them getting married. There was toast after toast at dinner, shared by story after story of their moments together. And as if orchestrated perfectly (I think maybe by Lightning’s Grandparents who both passed away this year) after dinner as we were all driving down PCH, there was the most amazing fireworks display we’d ever seen. Why fireworks were going off on the coastline in Malibu on October 4th I have no idea, but they were incredible. There were Harry Potter-like, magical creatures coming out of those fireworks.

Driving back home, down the coast that evening, I basked in the day. For the whole wedding industry that churns on months of planning, thousands of dollars, tears and anxiety (while we had a great wedding, stress wiggled its way under the covers; my husband’s dream that compelled us to push our wedding date back? We were underwater, going deeper and deeper, and he relayed how the pressure was crushing our skulls) Jen and Lightning had captured the perfect wedding in a matter of weeks. And in terms of my overloaded commitments, what commitments? I was in the expansion of the moment. Life was great food, laughter, watching the sunset over the ocean and catching fireworks.

I woke up the next morning feeling completely refreshed. And I thought how perfect. Their last minute wedding, the thing that seemed so crammed into my schedule, so on overload, sure to bring on illness, was exactly what I needed to take me out of all of that craziness. The stress of work and obligations faded away as I was just in the moment of love, the moment of celebration and joy. To Jen and Lightning!

It’s been almost a month since my last drop off. Tooling around rural Pennsylvania for an entire week and then kicking it in Asheville with my younger sister, C, for several days, I would have thought that my languid days of freedom would keep their imprint once I returned back to Los Angeles. However, upon landing my LA life picked me back up into its arms, spinning me around like a whirling dervish. The amazing moments of my trip fell from my present grasp and filled my mind as memory, like distant stars in a summer sky.

I’ve looked at those stars a lot since I’ve been back. I think on my nephew who was born as I was flying back from Asheville. The daily calls to my other sister, M, on pregnant pins and needles for weeks waiting for this kid to come into the world. The plane literally landed, I checked my cell phone and the little guy had arrived.

Three wonderful days with my sister in Asheville, NC where each day had an amazing flow of serendipity and adventure. Touring the Biltmore just as it was closing and having the largest private estate to ourselves. Meeting a charming Southern man who grew up with Sally Mann, one of my sister’s favorite photographers. Accidentally hushing the crowd at our Bed and Breakfast after pondering what it would have been like to have been gay during the Biltmore times. Happening upon Asheville’s antique section and decorating a beautiful bell for my sister to hang in her bedroom based on my hunch of her past lives. And yes, a randomblooms drop-off, deep in the woods of rural Pennsylvania.

Given the liquid languor of the country vs. the condensed hectic feel of Los Angeles, I knew that randomblooms needed a slight adjustment. Dropping off in the country demanded a different approach than I’ve done in Los Angeles. I wanted to do a drop off but I wasn’t sure how. It came to me through supporting my father. And to understand that support, we need to jump back a tiny bit.

My father has a brother and a sister both of whom don’t speak to him. And I say that because he would love to speak to them but really they just don’t speak to him. And I think that’s because my Aunt J, who’s in her 70′s, has dementia that comes out as complete rage against my father. The brother not speaking to my Dad isn’t quite as uncomfortable as the sister not speaking to my dad and that’s because Uncle J lives in Manhattan while Aunt J lives up the road from where we were.

Aunt J is a character. Take any film that has eccentric, rural characters in them and you’ll find her. She lives out in the woods, in a cabin she built years ago with her ex husband. A cabin with a double seated outhouse, and for many years, no water or electricity. She used to raise, kill and eat her own rabbits. She almost died from a ruptured esophagus, due to alcohol, has a sloping left eyelid, and a great raspy voice like Kathleen Turner or Sylvia Browne. I’m sure she owns guns. She will never relinquish the cigarettes that gave her that great, raspy voice. And she’s determined to bring my dad down. So lifted, is the veil on this quaint rural village.

And in front of every veil is the mask of something idyllic. Next August marks the 200 year anniversary celebration of this small village. A celebration filled with anticipation and preparation. Preparation in the form of local meetings. My dad was excited to be in town for such a meeting and I was just dropping him off on my way to watch my favorite show, So You Think You Can Dance, when we both spotted Aunt J’s car. Sh**! She was at the meeting. Given the vitriol she has for my dad, we were convinced she would be a no show. And yet, there she was. What to do?, as Jack Kornfield always muses. Well, you go to the meeting so your father doesn’t feel like he’ll be eaten alive by his older sister. Okay here comes the good part.

In going to the meeting, I sat next to the nicest man. Nice isn’t the right word, I instantly liked him. Loved talking to him, loved his energy, spirit, everything. Was so glad to have met him. And what I found out in talking to him was that he had been battling cancer for the past year. I was amazed that this bright, spirit before me was undergoing chemo treatments. Walking into the room with a sun kissed, summer tan and an “I love life” energy, didn’t compute with the stories of chemo he shared. He talked about days in the winter where he would wake up, read the paper for ten minutes and exhausted, go back to sleep until 10pm that night. He talked about his friends; friends he’s known since they were five, who came by every day to visit, or took him out for a drive and how that kept him going. He was inspiring. He was the next drop off.

It was muggy and June, so I planted flowers in a pot rather than delivering cut ones. I did it on my last day there. The night before I got a call from my good friend, K2, who told me her grandmother, nicknamed Who Who, had been in the hospital for 12 days due to a stroke. It wasn’t perfect of course that she’d had a stroke, but in basking in Denny’s stories of friendship and love, it was perfect to have heard from K2 since her family is one that runs on such friendship and love. You lift the veil on that family and all you see is more love.

K2′s mother, a cowgirl and horse lover at heart is incredibly close to her mother, Who Who. One of my favorite stories about K2′s mother is when she noticed that her hen wouldn’t budge from an egg she had laid. Feeling that the hen wanted to hatch a little baby, K2′s mother went out and bought a fertilized egg. Out came Patch and the hen got her chick. The two happily cluck around the backyard, inseparable. That’s the kind of love, creativity and warmth that runs through their family.

The drop off was for Denny and Who Who. My father watched me as I was planting the pots. As they rested in the shade he commented “They’re pretty but no one’s going to be here to water them.” I walked into the house replying “That’s okay, we’re going to give them away.”

Denny gave me his warm smile when he saw the potted flowers. I took his photo and he joked “You gonna show us country bumpkins back home?” I was surprised by his comment but not as surprised as I was to hear that he and his two sons had just started shooting at chipmunks before we arrived. I gave him the flowers and my parting wish “Please don’t kill too many chipmunks!” Who Who’s pot went to a woman down the road, who owns a farm and just lost her 42 year old daughter to a heart attack.

That night, my dad and I shared a bottle of wine over a dinner of fresh talapia and steamed broccoli. Tipsy, maybe drunk for us, we went to the cemetery to check on the flowers we’d planted earlier at his parents’ grave site. It was a beautiful, warm summer night. The morning doves were cooing as the sun dipped behind the hills like a gold medallion. We were intoxicated. Not just from the wine but the entire trip.

I’m back in LA; Who Who has made a full recovery and is back home, Denny is hopefully laying off the chipmunk population and my dad just received a letter from his sister. Apparently, she saw us planting flowers in the cemetery and is convinced that I am headed to Brazil (where my Grandfather lived with his 3rd wife until he died) to exhume my Grandfather’s remains, so that I may take what’s left of his decomposed body from 1989 and bring it back to rural Pennsylvania. My father, very disturbed by the letter, asked my advice.

The ideas in the letter were so absurd I found it funny. Really funny. But the accusations hurt my father. We want people to think the best of us and often they don’t. Others can’t feel our deepest desires. I sometimes look at things in my life and I think “but I feel bigger than that”. To doing things that make your spirit feel bigger and focusing on the friends who will come and visit you every day or go out and get that fertilized egg. Those are the moments that become the stars in our sky of memory.

Drop offs started yesterday with my sister-in-law. The one I haven’t spoken to in ten years. It’s safe to say that my oldest brother and his wife are somewhat estranged from the rest of the family. I don’t dream about them often but when I do, there’s always a tundra landscape with lots of snow that I’m going through in order to find them. And although they technically live very close to us, under a mile away (which for LA standards is practically next door), I never see them. They have two houses and don’t stay long in Los Angeles. Aside from a rare, bumping into them at Runyan park, they could be in town or on Mars and I wouldn’t know the difference. In terms of what’s been going on in their lives for the past twelve years I know very little. But because of a family get together a couple of weeks ago, I did know that their dog was dying.

And as observant and intuitive as I like to credit myself being, it doesn’t take much to observe with a couple in their forties, who have no children (don’t know the details), that losing one of their dogs is a big deal. So I did a drop-off.

I left our home, got to theirs in about 1 minute and sat with my sister-in-law in their bedroom with their two other dogs for about 15 minutes before I had to go to work. Aside from the surreal and stark contrast of having been shut out of two people’s lives for over ten years and then finding myself in the intimate setting of their bedroom, petting their dogs, I have to say it was pleasant. Pleasant in that I don’t take their distance personally any more. Pleasant in that I’ve forgotten about what all the drama was about so long ago or more importantly, I don’t care to remember. Yesterday we stood on common ground; the loss of a pet when that pet is your family. And it was wonderful to reach out and let them know our hearts were with them.

Did I drive away up to my old tricks fantasizing about my sister-in-law and I becoming close friends? Of course. Did I imagine our young, healthy dogs having play dates together? Of course. I hadn’t gone but a mile and I’d already had visions of the two of us, sharing a passion for design and beauty, deciding to flip a house together and having tremendous fun and profit while doing it.

This morning there were three drop-offs. One to a guy who introduced himself in a fairly recognizable Indian accent as “Joe”. I’ve been wanting to do a drop off at this particular place for a while now. There have been many early mornings gassing up and exchanging pleasantries with the guy who works here. A guy who’s not Joe. And Joe isn’t really Joe either but Juuraj. “Would you like to wait for him? He’ll be here in 15 minutes” Juuraj offers. But in talking to Joe/Juuraj who has moved with his family to LA against his deepest desires, spending the past 5 years getting an MB in Canada, and now managing this particular Chevron station, and asking him if there were any dreams he had (his eyes lit up immediately with a yes) it was perfect to give this bouquet to him.

Not wanting to be late for work propelled me to leave yet another bouquet at Runyan, on yet another Prius parked under the shade. I just hope I’m not leaving these bouquets on the same damn Prius. Believe me, with LA’s air quality I’m deliriously happy to see them all over town. I just wish these Prius drivers would check in with the randomblooms gang! They might be too busy enjoying all the money they’re saving on gas.

Last but not least, was a drop off to my friend, P, who was mentioned in the very first post and who has always been excited and supportive of randomblooms. The first time I told her what I was doing she grabbed her purse and started to rifle through her wallet. It took me a while to figure out that she was funding a random drop off. Her love and support has always felt motherly in the best way and I was surprised to hear that her own mother passed away this week. I gave her the bouquet I had made while thinking about the two of them.

When I gave her the flowers, she shared with me that she had been with her mother for several days before she passed. Her mother could not respond verbally but P just sat with her, telling her mother how much she loved and appreciated her. As I write this now, I think on when my dog was dying. I held him, singing to him, telling him how much he had meant to me, how much I loved him. I never regret expressing my love and although there’s ten years and an entire tundra landscape between me and my brother and sister-in-law, I was able to find them yesterday in that space between grief and love.

 It seems ironic that the most beautiful palette of flowers I’ve worked with yet, came yesterday with one of the hardest days I’ve dealt with yet. So hard in fact, that I was sobbing all last night. Not just teary eyed, but Eat, Pray, Love sobbing (the book my friend, K2, says “Every American woman is reading”). I think she’s right. I just read it last week on a flight back from Anchorage. While we were waiting to board, an adorable, white-haired woman saw the book in my lap and said “That’s a good book.” Sobbing, not because of my marriage, but centered around what this whole experience is about – keeping your spirit with the day job. Let’s just say I capsized yesterday, big time.

I had to wait for the tears to stop until I could start arranging, which put me at around 4:30am. I got out of bed, my beloved dog padding after me. He slept right by me as I got to play with my “palette” as I always think of the flowers. As I sat in the dark arranging, my dog sacked out, a moth the size of a humming bird banging at the light above and my mind banging around with my latest capsizing.

There’s something very peaceful about being awake while most people are sleeping. It feels sacred in a way. So as I arranged, enjoying the color and form of each individual arrangement, my mind began to calm down with my body. The moon was a beautiful sliver bright in the dark morning sky. Several hours later, as the sun came up over the mountains, my trusty co-pilot and I were ready for the first delivery.

Driving to Studio City, I thought of the beauty and power of simply exhaling. Jack Kornfield does great exhales during his lectures and tapes. I feel relief just listening to him exhale. And then there’s Joan Darling, my former acting coach who always had us do deep exhaling and releasing before going up on stage. Just being in nature is relaxing. And I thought “Even if that’s all these flowers give someone today; just an excuse to breathe easier, it’s worth it.”

This first drop off is actually at the request of a friend. I’ve met two of my closest friends through walking my dog. As K and I were walking in Studio City the other day she turned to me and said “You should do a balloon for that house.” Now, I knew what she meant when she said “Do a balloon” and that tickled me to no end that her brain, filled with everything going on in an incredibly busy time, found ”balloon” to be the best word to put forward. I knew what she meant. She continued “There’s so gracious about all of the dogs walking along in this area.”

So to the family or person who found a bunch of flowers right next to their morning paper today, thank you for everything you do in welcoming dogs and people who walk along your path.

And to the other people who got their bouquets today, half of whom were delivered by my supportive and very loving husband; to the woman sitting on her porch who my kept telling my husband ”You must have the wrong address!”, to the woman working security at Kaiser Permanente, and to the woman walking out on her brick steps this morning, may you all breathe easier, exhale and enjoy your balloons.

Beauty. Inhale. Relax.

One bouquet this morning. One drop off. A navy blue Jetta parked in the shade at Runyan Park. Leopard covered seats and a gate in the back for their dog draws me in as I leave the arrangement on the hood of their car.

Uploading this photo, I’m reminded of the most ephemeral dream I had years ago. I was newly in love and we had just gotten back from a trip up to San Francisco. Exhausted from the drive home and staying up all weekend, I collapsed on my bed. The afternoon sun rocked me to sleep and my dreams said hello.

I saw my eye very clearly but it looked bright and washed out, like an image from a Man Ray film. Then I heard the words “Come play with me.” There’s the difference between someone speaking in your dream vs. a strong internal voice that speaks. The latter is always startling. And as someone who was just startled, I woke up. The summer sun had set, taking with it the warmth from my bed and I lay in shadow, my new love beside me, thinking of those words.

Years later, in a completely different context, my mind draws those words to me again. “Come play with me.” I think that’s part of what I’m doing everytime I leave a bouquet of flowers for some unknowing soul. It’s a siren call for bliss, a rally cry to turn everything we know about the work week up on its head and say to one another “Forget about what we’re told about all this. What’s our highest joy today? Come play with me and let’s find out.”

Drops offs this morning were fun and ran very smoothly. Two things played a huge role in deciding where to leave said bouquets; was there shade and did it look like anyone was home to take in these little waiting orphans? Yes, yes and yes. Although the third drop off actually had a different criteria.

Since the first bouquet, that went out yesterday, went to a house that reminds me of my grandfather on my father’s side, it seemed right for the last bouquet to go to a house that reminds of my grandmother on my mother’s side. And so it was.

Dropping off to houses is fun. As I drive away, I’m like someone wrapped up in a horror film where they’re going down in the basement alone, or about to take a shower unaware and you’re like “No, no, no!!”. Only in this case I’m like “Open the door! Open the door! Open the door!”

Grandmother from Michigan vs. Grandfather from Pennsylvania can best be summed up as polar opposites. Stories about my dad’s side of the family included farm life, quilting, little or no formal education, working in the coal mines, walking to school with holes in your shoes and eatting lard sandwiches (the poor man’s version of a BLT?). Stories from my mom’s side of the family included houses in Nantucket, knowing where the Ford family lived, multiple memberships to country clubs and debutante parties. Alcoholism ran through both sides. And as a child, both sides were my absolute favorite places to be.

Memories from being in rural Pennsylvania included; picking fresh corn on the nearby farm, passing out Hershey’s candy after dinner to adults from a wheelbarrow after touring the factory, and going to see the dog tied up at the dog house out back (which I would offer to adopt today, if he was still there). Memories from being in wealthy area of Michigan included; getting lost in my grandmother’s house, riding with my grandmother in her Cadillac to get her nails done, taking cookies from the ceramic lamb cookie jar in the huge kitchen and listening to the sound of ships honking their horns as they passed one another on the lake during the night. To this day, some of the happiest moments of my life.

Suffice it to say, the house that reminds me of my grandmother’s house is huge. Every day, when I pass it on my way to work I always notice it and I always think of my grandmother. There are never any cars in the driveway or out in front and I always wonder if anyone actually lives there. Well, upon closer inspection, people do live there. In fact, people work there, it’s just that all of the activity is happening behind big, iron gates.

Perhaps this was a bad idea. I push the button to the intercom system, hear the phone ring and hope for a voice. “Hello?” asks the voice. My best response becomes “Do you live here?” which is immediately followed with a somewhat deadpan and slightly illuminating “I work here?” I reply in a way with which he can’t argue “I have a delivery.”  The deadpan voice replies “I’ll be right down.”

Despite the deadpan nature in his voice, this man is very nice. I explain what I’m doing, that I chose this house because it reminds me of my grandmother and does he think the people who live there might enjoy that gesture or roll their eyes after glancing his way and nod to the trash? He shrugs, says he’ll tell them, agrees it’s a nice gesture and admits that flowers do get delivered there on a weekly basis. He then walks away.

I’m left wanting more. I should have gotten his name. Maybe I should go back and get a photo of him for this site? I should have told him to please take the flowers if they don’t want them. I wanted more time with him and I wanted to have more moments with him. But then again, that’s how I feel about both of my grandparents.

I was in therapy but my therapist changed from psychotherapy to hair. She now owns a salon and does hair extensions. It was an odd time a couple of years ago when I was phasing out my therapy and she was starting up her hair business. We had my sessions at the salon. I sat in the chair. Not the wide, sinking couch I had sat on in her living room, but the chair where she could have come over, pumped several times with her foot, and it would have raised or lowered three inches. That chair.

Anyway, that’s neither here nor chair in describing this morning’s drop off. There was only one because that’s all I had time for but it was perfect and sweet and left me, once again, smiling all the way to work.

There are a cluster of houses right by our home that have always intrigued me. They intrigue me because a) they look like they belong in the country and b) because of that, they remind me of my grandfather’s house in rural Pennsylvania. My grandfather passed away many years ago but the house remains and my father actually owns a house close to the one my grandfather had owned. When Southern writers like Faulkner or Flannery O’Conner talk about a character’s connection to the land I always think “I understand that”, because that’s how I feel with the house and land in Pennsylvania. I go there once a year. And for the past two years my father and I have gone there together. We didn’t really plan it that way, it just somehow happened.

I will tell you two things about my father. One, he doesn’t fly and two, he’s kind of a hero/rock star to seven children. Children who are married and have children. One on one time in our big family is a rare bird. So trust me, when I reaassure you how incredible this time together in Pennsylvania has become. And we’re planning on going there again in June. Anyway, this little cluster of houses in Los Angeles reminds me of this favorite place. I knew that’s where I wanted to leave the bouquet.

The only way to get to these cluster of houses it to enter a collective driveway. Once I turned off the main road and entered their property, I felt very conspicuous. I wanted to leave the flowers at the first house but there were some DWP looking workers in front and I didn’t want it to be confusing. So I kept driving. It’s a fairly small space so driving forward felt like I was doing donuts on their front lawn. Again, very conspicuous. While there were cars at the first house where the work was being done, there didn’t seem to be anyone home at the other houses. That was, until the black Prius rolled up. I stopped the donuts, rolled down my window and casually asked “Do you live here?”

A brunette woman with a Juliette Binoche, elegance about her said “yes”. I should have mentioned that one of these houses had a gorgeous garden. Stunning. It was hers. She loved the gesture, told me her name and invited me to come back and visit sometime. When I explained what I was doing she got very excited about leaving them on her neighbor’s back door (the first house with the workers). Apparently, as she was on her way home, her husband called her to say that the woman’s husband had just gone in the hospital. So she lead me to her neighbor’s back door. I got another flashback to Pennsylvania and left the flowers there.

By about two o’clock with deadlines, crises, and nonstop work, the drop off seemed further and further away. But when I thought about it the feeling of the experience was always there. And the feeling I liked most was that by turning left into that driveway this morning, I felt my world expand.

  Well, It’s Friday, and eventhough the next drop off isn’t until next week, I’m itching to get back on here. And will the person driving the white, Yukon with the Nevada plates, who was parked at Fryman Canyon last Friday morning around 9am please check in???

Does anyone else feel like they could go home from work at around 2pm in the afternoon? I’m still convinced we would be more productive on a 4 day work week. I also think it should be a widely accepted practice to stay home when it’s raining. You’d have your sick days, vacation days and ample rain days to enjoy the sound of the rain while reading a book, taking a bath or doing a number of cozy, home activities.

Of course, my real vision of the work week is ala Timothy Ferriss, current hero and superstar. His vision of personal freedom, streams of income and enjoying a life that gives you time to enjoy things now as opposed to waiting for retirement with a big fat 401k at age 65 seems ideal. Which means that at 2pm you’re not feeling like you’re slipping into a coma in the office but potentially following a passion such as firedancing, playing with your niece (who loves the color green and her blue cookie monster shirt), or walking -slash -running with your dog at Runyan Park. 

Alright, well, I’m back from the coma and ready to light out for the territories. Be well, be free and we’ll be back at it again on Monday.