Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Indoor Waterfalls And How They Charge The Vibe Of Your House

     I pride myself in the beautiful backyard garden that I have, rich with native foliage and beautiful fountains. But I've always been interested in bringing some of that serenity inside my home. What better way than placing a tranquil fountain inside my house, where I can hear it at all times?

     Please welcome my guest blogger, Costea Lestoc, to my site today with advice on sprucing up your home with an indoor waterfall.

Indoor waterfalls and how they can completely change the vibe of your house
It’s safe to say that a lot of people start to feel a little bit bored of their house.  They don’t resent living there, but they’ve been seeing the same environment and walking past the same décor ideas for a very long time and it can stop being interesting after a while. If you’re looking for something that can freshen up the vibe of your apartment or home, we have the perfect suggestion for you. Have you considered getting an indoor waterfall? If not, here are some of the perks that recommend it as a great décor and aesthetic boost for your home. It’s more than that however as it also does a lot for how a home feels. You can turn your old, boring-looking décor into something modern and fresh with just a small tweak.
It looks stunning
One of the reasons why you should look for cool indoor waterfall ideas for your home is that they just look amazing. Depending on what kind you get, an indoor waterfall can be an absolute delight to look like. There are multiple styles for this type of waterfall, but mostly feature a beautiful texture wall behind the stream of water which tricks or downright pours in a control environment. It’s literally like having nature in a box. Now, you don’t have to go deep into the wilds to admire the peaceful visuals of a waterfall.
It’s very relaxing
When you have to cook and clean all day, every day, not to mention take care of the kids, life can get really stressful really fast. It’s important to have a distraction, something peaceful that you can use to get away from the mundane stress of your life. An indoor waterfall is perfect for that as it’s a great source of relaxation. Not just in a visual sense but also through the sounds it makes. The trickling of water can be one of the most relaxing things people are able to hear in their lifetime. Having that in your living room, hallway, kitchen or wherever you want to put it can do wonders for your state of mind and your inner calm. 
Breathe a better air
Just like you don’t have to go out in the wild to admire a waterfall, you can also avoid having to climb a mountain to get the equivalent of fresh air. Often times, indoors air can get very unhealthy not to mention unpleasant. A waterfall can do wonders as it produces negative ions which attract dust and other air pollutants. Removing such factors leaves behind a much cleaner air to breathe and improves your health indirectly. 
When you’re alone
Sometimes the house might be full of activity with kids and guests and your partner making a lot of noise, laughing and yelling. However, what happens when nobody’s home and you have to clean, cook, or otherwise do some kind of work? It can get quite depressing but a waterfall would be extremely soothing in that situation. Being able to enjoy that white noise might be the release you were looking for that will help you concentrate on what you have to accomplish. You might even find that you are able to finish a lot faster once your mind is preoccupied with something, allowing your body to perform the robotic task you struggle with on a regular basis.

That being said, these are some of the things that recommend interior waterfalls as great aesthetic accessories but also as all around atmosphere improvers. From a health perspective to a mood perspective, a waterfall can be of great help in how you enjoy your day both in someone’s company as well as by yourself.

Author Bio:
Costea Lestoc

I began writing as a professional on my personal blog and then discovered my true calling, which is writing about technology and news in general. I am a technical writer, author and blogger since 2005. An industry watcher that stays on top of the latest features, extremely passionate about juicy tech news and everything related to gadgets. For tech tips, my email address is neneacostea at gmail.

Friday, July 7, 2017

The Great Termite Invasion Of 2017

     It's the words no homeowner ever wants to hear: "Your home has termites." Just like the five stages of grief, after hearing this news, there is denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. How do I know this? Because I just survived The Great Termite Invasion Of 2017.

     My journey into termite hell began shortly after my contractor started demo work on my bathroom remodel. I've known this man for many years, well enough that when he called my name by extending the "a", as in, "Marciaaaaaaaa...."  I knew that I had a problem. A BIG one.

     He pointed to an exposed wood beam that resembled a chunk of Swiss cheese. "And that, my Dear," he said, pointing to the holes, "is termite damage."

     NO. Just NO. Total denial. So what if I lived in a wood frame home? I hadn''t seen any termite droppings in fifteen years. No one in the neighborhood had had them recently, either.  I set an appointment with the pest control people just to confirm that it WASN'T termites.

     It was termites.

     Summer is swarming season, and my home had become a banquet of wood delicacies for those nasty bugs. I was beyond anger. I was ready to burn down the house, because everyone knows that termites in a house are akin to head lice on your kid.

     TORCH IT.

     The bargaining began with the pest control company. "Are you SURE it's termites? What if the damaged wood is just remnants from the last invasion? Can we skip the whole tenting process and just drill some toxic chemicals into the ground to kill them?"

     When I realized there was no way to avoid the miserable tenting process, I went into a depressive state. I'd ridden that rodeo before, and I knew what loomed ahead: removing all food from the refrigerator, emptying out the pantry, finding pet lodging for three dogs and weekend lodging for ourselves, shelling out tons of money to pump poison into my house, and spending a small fortune to replace all the shrubs and flowers the would be destroyed by the toxic gases.

     Acceptance finally sank in the night I found thirty-some termites swarming around my windowsills. IN MY BEDROOM, FOR GOD'S SAKE. And there were more----a handful of dead ones near my laptop and dozens of discarded, iridescent Tinker Bell-type wings scattered across the front porch floor. It looked like a drunken fairy convention gone wrong.


     My husband and I frantically packed up our belongings, emptied half the contents of our house, grabbed the dogs, and moved out for three days. There was arguing. There was yelling. And there were tears.

     Yes, tears. We argued with the pest control people. We yelled at each other over the enormity of crap that had to be moved. And I cried when I learned that I might lose a few of my beloved trees in the gaseous tenting process.

     I was also extremely annoyed by the the fact that I had to cancel my seven day vacation to Tallahassee in order to afford the termite eradication. So I did the next best thing. I moved into my daughter's luxurious condo and spent my entire time lazing by her pool, sipping margaritas in the sun.

     After the three day termite vacation, my husband and I returned home. The flowers in our garden looked like they'd been singed with a flat iron, and the inside of our house felt like a landing strip on Mercury. It was ninety-two degrees inside, and while sweat pooled in our sneakers, we unpacked our suitcases, restocked the kitchen, disinfected the countertops, swept up the dead termites, and mopped all the floors.

     Home, sweet home.

     The tricky thing is that the termites are still swarming, somewhere, in search of another home to invade. It could be in the house next door. Or in the attic at the middle school down the street. They might even feast on the wooden dog house behind the fence in my neighbor's yard. Or they may decide the wood at my house truly is a delicacy and return to munch on more beams.

     At least for now, we are termite-free. And somewhere near a sunny pool, there is a celebratory margarita with my name on it, and a t-shirt that reads, I SURVIVED THE GREAT TERMITE INVASION OF 2017!

***WANT MORE MENO MAMA? I am THRILLED to have my first article on The Fix! This is a serious one, folks. It's all about the hidden dangers of Nootropic addiction/substance abuse. You can read it here: https://www.thefix.com/hidden-dangers-nootropics

Friday, June 23, 2017

Fly On The Wall In A Text Message

     Welcome to another edition of Fly On The Wall group blog postings, hosted by Karen of Baking In A Tornado. Today, seven bloggers are opening their homes to you so that you may be a fly in the wall and see what goes on behind closed doors.

     One day last week when it rained like crazy, I texted Hubs to let him know that I decided not to drive to the gym in the storm. I also mentioned that the dogs refused to go out in the rain and that they would most likely poop in the house. Our text convo went something like this:

     Last week while I was cleaning the house, I spotted a huge cockroach near the ceiling. As most of you know, I am deathly afraid of these machinations of the devil. I texted a photo of it and sent it to my daughter, who is also terrified by these horrid bugs. Because I'm a good mom like that. Her response:

     Hubs and I love to drive each other crazy with musical ear worms---the most annoying songs we can think of. The theme song to "Born Free" (yeah, I'm THAT old...I saw the movie in the theatre when it debuted in 1966) popped into my head the other day, and of course, I just HAD to share it with Hubs while he was out running errands (because I'm also a good wife like that):

     And then there was just some stupid stuff being said randomly around the house recently:

"Honey, we're so old, we come from the days when salad spinners were considered high tech."

"Why did the kids drop off their dogs here? We already have three of our own. Now there's five. What are we, the Doggie Depot?"
"My God, my feet hurt from work today. Wish I could just chop 'em off."
"Is that why you ordered that chain saw for Father's Day?"

"I picked up the broccoli spears from the store. They were in the aisle next to Britney....Britney Spears."

"What's this weird soap you bought called, Grandpa's Soap?"
"It's homemade soap with a little bit of Grandpa in it to get you clean every day."
"That's a gross concept. I'm not lathering up with anything that has been made out of human bits. "

"Remember the days when we were romantic and you would point to me and say, 'You, Me, Bed, NOW.'?"
"Yeah, but we're old farts now, so, it's more like, 'You, Me, Bed, Nap'."
"At least you have your priorities straight."

***WANT MORE MENO MAMA? It has been a successful week! First let me give you the latest news: I JUST HAD MY FIRST ARTICLE ACCEPTED FOR FUTURE PUBLICATION ON THE WASHINGTON POST!!!! Stay tuned for details! Today, you can catch my NEW articles on HELLO GIGGLES ("I Didn't Think I wanted Children Until I Met My Husband--And Now I Have Four") and RAVISHLY ("The Trials And Tribulations Of Raising Teens")

Buzz around, see what you think, then click on these links for a peek into some other homes:
Baking In A Tornado                  http://www.BakingInATornado. com
Menopausal Mother                     http://www.menopausalmom.com/
Searching for Sanity                    http://singlemumplusone. blogspot.com
Spatulas on Parade                       http://spatulasonparade. blogspot.com/
A Little Piece of Peace                    http://little-piece-of- peace.blogspot.com
Never Ever Give Up Hope               http://batteredhope.blogspot. com
Bookworm in the Kitchen                http://www. bookwormkitchen.com/  

Friday, June 16, 2017

The Three Stages Of A High School Reunion.

     It starts the moment you receive an email that your classmates are organizing another high school reunion. Your knee-jerk response is complete and utter denial: THERE'S NO WAY TEN YEARS HAVE ALREADY PASSED SINCE THE LAST REUNION. Once this little fact registers in your brain, panic sets in....and all hell breaks loose as you prepare to spend a weekend with people you probably haven't seen since Boyz II Men were on their first tour and everyone was wearing Hammertime pants.

     There are three stages to every high school reunion that follow the initial days of denial: The Preparation, The Event, and The Party Afterglow (Alas, for some, this is also known as the "Relief Stage"....because it's finally over and they can go back to wearing their comfy stretch pants and arch support sandals).


The first thing you do is check out the photos from the LAST reunion to see how much you've changed. This is followed by a close inspection of your reflection in the mirror. HOLY CRAP, WHEN DID I PUT ON ALL OF THIS WEIGHT?? This is when the real panic sets in. You dust off that gym membership and survive on rabbit food for weeks in an earnest attempt to drop two clothes sizes before the big day. When that doesn't work, you buy something in black that will at least make you LOOK ten pounds lighter (or prove that you're in mourning from the loss of your youthful appearance). And then you cry in the parking lot at Dunkin' Donuts while you scarf down two French Crullers and a Boston Kreme donut.

It's not just the weight gain that bothers you. It's the elephant skin around your eyes, the thinning grey hair at your temples, and those pesky age spots along your droopy jawline that disturb you the most. Like a soldier preparing for battle, you line up your defenses. Hair appointment, check. Facial, mani and pedi, check. Teeth whitening, eyebrow shaping, nose hair plucking, leg waxing....check, check, and double check. You've spent a small fortune on all of these things, but desperation kicks in when you notice your pasty white thighs, and you have no problem shelling out an additional $75 for a tanning booth to give your skin that natural, sun-kissed glow.....which will have faded by the time you pay your final bar tab at the reunion.


You wake up the day of the event as jittery as a prepubescent teen embarking on her first date....or a sacrificial virgin preparing to be thrown into a live volcano. The reunion could go either way.

To calm your nerves, you soak in a warm tub and wonder if it's too early to have a cocktail. As the hour of departure draws near, you decide to be bold and wear the pink tunic instead of the black dress.

Once you arrive, you make a beeline to the bar to bolster your courage and suddenly catch a glimpse of yourself in the foyer mirror. It's at that moment you realize that wearing the tunic was a mistake. You look like a lumpy potato wrapped in pink Saran, ready for the microwave. Better make that martini a double.

Three cocktails later, you're on the dance floor with your friends, busting a move from the 1980's and praying that both your knee caps and the Spandex that fits you like a sausage casing will hold up under the strain.

People are hugging and reminiscing about prom and homecoming and bonfires, all of which you were never a part of since you were incredibly awkward in high school. But none of this matters, because the martinis have sufficiently numbed you to the point that you've forgotten that you look like a potato. No one else notices either----they're too busy having fun with you, chowing down on a platter of elf-size quiches and photobombing your selfies.

Even though you were never accepted as a "cool kid" in high school, by the end of the evening you've become one, because at this stage in life, you're all members of the popular clique known as the "Old Farts Club."


The morning after the reunion, you bask in the afterglow of renewed friendships and chuckle over the barrage of tagged photos on social media as you contemplate the best way to cure your martini hangover. You're also incredibly grateful that many of the photos have been doctored to make you look ten years younger.

Once the aspirin kicks in, you realize what a damn good time you had and how proud you are to be part of such an inspiring group of classmates. They've reminded you that even though you've aged on the outside, you're still just as fun and youthful on the inside. And for this, you love them. You've gained a new tribe of friends and you can't wait to see them again at the next reunion in ten years.  Even if you still look like a potato.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

College Grad Moving Back Home? 5 Tips To Make It Work

Friday, June 2, 2017

Did You Steal My Spandex....Again?

     Do you need a little humor to boost your mood after watching all the junk on the news lately? Are you looking for a fun, poolside read? I have the perfect solution to kickstart your summer with some much needed laughter. For a limited time, you can STEAL MY SPANDEX at the low price of just .99 cents for the ebook version, which is available on Amazon and on Barnes & Noble.

     Just so you know that you're spending that .99 cent wisely (instead of hitting up the Dollar Store for a seashell soap dish), I'm sharing one of my favorite chapters from the book as a sneak preview to help convince you that your money will be well spent on a few hours of humor:

                         SLEEPUS INTERRUPTUS

I love my quiet weekends. They give me license to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes—napping. When the lunch dishes are cleared and my schedule is free, I retire to my private little paradise under a stack of blankets and pillows. Once I close my bedroom door, the family KNOWS not to disturb me. They understand all too well that if my beauty rest is interrupted, they'll be dealing with a haggard ogre, and the consequences for waking me will be swift and painful.
Most weekends I can steal a little shut-eye by midafternoon. I'm a firm believer in a three-hour siesta. But lately, uncontrollable outside forces have been messing with the sweet slumber I so desperately crave. No, I’m not referring to young children screeching or running through the house. What I’m referring to are things like the obnoxious neighborhood ice cream truck that takes sadistic pleasure in blaring “Pop Goes the Weasel” from massive speakers as it drives repeatedly past my home. The driver’s timing is always precise—just as I am in the throes of a deliciously sexy dream, about to lock lips with George Clooney: POP GOES THE WEASEL!
At times like this, I grit my teeth against the sudden urge for an orange Creamsicle, burrow deeper under the covers, and wait for the offending truck to pass. Just when I start to slip back into the land of Nod, the doorbell rings and the dogs go insane. Over their incessant barking, a salesman tries to convince me that I need to switch cable companies and add an additional 500 channels to the existing 700 I already have. Hey, I never get the chance to sleep, so why not have even more opportunities to live vicariously through the people testing out Tempur-Pedic mattresses on late-night infomercials? 
The salesman leaves, and I finally get the chance to drift back into the slumber I have been looking forward to all week. I never know how much time passes—it could be two hours or two minutes—but inevitably, the next-door neighbor who won last year's Curb Appeal Award will decide to do a little creative landscaping. As he trims the base of his perfectly squared hedge with a weed-whacker, small stones ricochet loudly off my bedroom window. It sounds like a woodpecker on steroids. I'd rather sleep in a room filled with chocolate-wasted toddlers than listen to the torturous cacophony of flying debris from my neighbor's new lawn toy.
I decide to give napping one more shot when suddenly I find myself baking in a four hundred and seventy-five degree oven. Who invited the freaking sun into my bedroom? Within seconds, I'm bathed in a puddle of sweat and riding out the aftershocks of a merciless hot flash.
Giving up on the fantasy of a three-hour nap, I stagger into the kitchen for a jolt of caffeine to push me through the rest of the day. Peering around the corner, I see my husband sleeping peacefully on the couch, his lips puffing out with each whistling exhale. I hear the TV in the background—a testosterone-infused program on cage fighting—and marvel at his ability to sleep through doorbells, barking dogs, and men locked in combat. Actually, I'm a wee bit jealous. Okay, a LOT jealous. 
Deciding that it really wouldn't be fair for my well-rested husband to be stuck with a wife who resembles a troll, I wake him from sleep. He opens one eye, peers up at me, and smiles. I hand him a cup of coffee and flop down beside him on the couch. He channel surfs like a kid with severe ADD before settling on the Discovery Channel. Grinning, he wraps his arms around me, and I snuggle against his warmth. Within minutes, I drift into blessed slumber.
I can't think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than nodding off during a television documentary about the sleeping habits of wombats, while curled in the arms of the man I love.

Don't you feel better now after laughing? I thought so. What are you waiting for? Buy the book while it's still on sale. THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT! **Sale ends June 8, 2017**


Friday, May 26, 2017

Author Spotlight: Vikki Claflin "Chin Hairs & Back Fat"

     I'm so excited to announce that my dear friend Vikki Claflin just published her THIRD book!! And it has already hit #1 in Kindle sales in two humor categories! I laughed my way through her last two, Shake Rattle & Roll With It  , Who Left The Cork Out Of My Lunch, and her newest book, Chin Hairs & Back Fat,  is just as hilarious. I can relate to pretty much everything Vikki writes about, so what's not to love? I was honored that she asked for a review of her book, and this is what I wrote:

     "Vikki Claflin has done it again with her latest collection of witty tales from midlife and beyond. She has the uncanny ability to find the extraordinary in the ordinary by casting a humorous spin on everyday situations. From empty nesting to fashion faux pas, tacky Valentine gifts and the art of martial seduction, this book has it all. Vikki is the BFF we all wish we had because she tells it like it is and leaves us laughing until our bellies hurt. Grab a glass of wine and settle in for an enjoyable read. You won't be able to put this one down." 

   I'm thrilled to share a chapter of her book on my site today, because I'm certain many of you will relate to her midlife humor. I love this book, and so will you. Order your copy today!!

I’m 60. How the Hell Did That Happen?

This year, I’m turning sixty. 6-0. As in “years old.”
How is this possible? Yesterday, I swear I was forty. I’ll always be forty. I liked forty. But I woke up this morning, and I’m twenty (count ’em…twenty) years older than I feel. That’s a whole lifetime for a college student. So I’m an entire lifetime older than the average undergraduate. Awesome.
Turning twenty was fun. You’re officially an adult, but you’re young enough to have your mistakes forgiven because you’re still a puppy to the rest of the world. Thirty was great. You’re more sophisticated now, and have started making “life decisions.” Marriage? Kids? A mortgage? A beagle or a dachshund? And forty is sexy. You’re a woman, not a girl. You’re interesting. You have things to say, and people actually want to hear them. At fifty, you’ve run smack into midlife. I’ll admit, fifty was a little tough for me. All that push to get an AARP card, remembering to ask for the Honor Menu at every restaurant, and deciding whether or not to go gray now that you’re a “senior.”
Sixty leaves me somewhat stymied. I have no precise words to express exactly how I feel about it. It’s clearly not “middle age”(unless we’re planning to live to be 120). We’ve been seniors for ten years already. So what are we now?
I recently attended my 42nd high school reunion. It was a wonderful evening of wine and laughter, with much to-do about getting older. Many of us expressed the same observation. Everybody looked great, but somehow older than we remembered them. Then when we saw the photos on Facebook the next day, we noticed that we all look exactly the same age as everyone else else. Boom.
The publishing world is full of books, articles, and websites about the frustrations and seemingly inevitable downfalls of aging. Whether we see it from a humorous perspective or something to approach from a fetal position on the bed, sobbing into an oversize decanter of Cabernet, there’s nary a woman alive who can’t recount tales of aging woes.
By sixty, our body parts have shifted downward, our skin has lost elasticity, we still experience occasional menopausal flashbacks that make us human space heaters, and our weight has moved into our bellies and hips like squatters on the Back 40 of the Ponderosa.
But I’ve decided that I’m giving myself a birthday present this year. I’m giving myself a break about the aging thing. Yes, I’m aware that my boobs haven’t been within howdy-neighbor proximity to my clavicles for at least two decades and that my butt jiggles like a Jello mold, even when I’m standing still. But maybe sixty is finally time to embrace the journey. Youth may come with smooth skin and perky behinds, but often in exchange for angst and uncertainty. (Honestly, would you be 25 again??) Middle age (and beyond) brings with it a certain peace. A letting go of the anxieties and often limited perspectives of youth. It’s liberating.
And so, for my birthday, to balance the scales of publishing, I’ve decided to write down my Most Fabulous Things About Turning Sixty.
1.      We’ve learned to accept our bodies. Gone are the days of puking, pills, eating nothing but grapefruit and chewing gum, full-body Spanx under everything, and workouts that leave us shaky and exhausted instead of energized, futilely trying to beat our ancestoral gene pool into submission to create a body we were never designed to have. I’m short and curvy, and I’ve given birth (although my son is now 27, and says I really must stop blaming my jelly belly on him. Ungrateful brat).

2.      The world is less black and white. We’re less quick to judge. By now, we know that every story has three sides: yours, mine, and what really happened. When we hear that Aunt Bebe ran off with Uncle Stu’s Krav Maga instructor, we’re less likely to assume Aunt Bebe is simply a tramp who likes martial arts, and more likely to reply, “There are probably pieces of this story we don’t know.”

3.      We get to wear whatever we want. At this age, fashion, which tends to target the young and the anorexic, is more about what we know works for us than what’s on Project Runway. Love leather moto jackets? We wear ours with everything we own. Hate trendy, low-rise jeans that give you Texas-size muffin top? We get to skip this one.

4.      There’s less drama. After six decades, we begin to realize that not everything is worth fighting over. As my grandma used to say, “In 50 years, we’ll all be dead and none of this will matter.”

5.      We get grandchildren. We’ve had the responsibility of raising tiny humans into socially acceptable adults. Now we get to simply love the crap out of our offspring’s mini-me’s, with our primary role being somewhere between Obi Wan Kenobi and Santa Clause.

6.      We learn to cherish our girlfriends. We’ve attended Sally’s four weddings, got Missy through three stints in rehab, and lived through Susie’s douchy husband’s affair. We’ve supported Jenny’s new career as a nude art model, bailed Karen’s son out of jail (again), and cried together when Linda got cancer. We have history.

7.      Our marriages are stronger. There’s no way two people can spend several decades together and have every day be a lust-filled day of mutual wonder and adoration. Not. Possible. We’ve had rough times, disappointments, and days when we’d unhesitatingly sell each other for a frosted margarita from the local taco wagon. But we’re still together. It’s that kind of love.

8.      We laugh more. We see the silliness in things more easily. We’re not as easily offended. Simply put, we’ve lightened up.

9.      We’ve discovered new passions. Boomers are being called “The Reinvented Generation.” We’re going back to school, learning new languages, traveling to new places, running marathons, and writing novels. We’re not retiring. We’re living longer than ever, and we’re doing it in a red convertible.

So as I kiss my fifties goodbye and face a new decade, I feel…well…good. In fact, I feel better than good. I feel like getting out there and kicking some jiggly ass.

Vikki Claflin is an international best-selling author, humor blogger, and inspirational public speaker. She lives in Hood River, OR, where she writes the award-winning humor blog Laugh Lines: Humorous Thoughts and Advice on How to Live Young When You're...well...Not, where she doles out irreverent advice on marriage, offers humorous how-to lists galore, and shares her most embarrassing midlife moments. 
Vikki has been featured on the Michael J. Fox Foundation website, Erma Bombeck's Writer's Workshop, The Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, Midlife Boulevard, Better After 50, and Funny Times Magazine. She received a BlogHer14 "Voices of the Year" Humor award, and has been a featured guest on over 40 radio programs throughout the US and Canada.

Chin Hairs & Back Fat is Vikki's third book. Shake, Rattle & Roll With It: Living & Laughing with Parkinson's, and Who Left the Cork Out of My Lunch? Middle Age, Modern Marriage & Other Complications are all available at amazon.com. You can find more of Vikki’s writing at laugh-lines.net 


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