Holding hands with someone else recently, I remembered you. Remember that time I'd been reading some article in some magazine? It was surely something overdone, like "Little Ways Couples Show They Care." Amazingly, it didn't involve retail or sexual positions. Real couples supposedly contributed their own little tips, which ranged from breakfast in bed (I filed that under "Never gonna happen.") to scrapbooking ("Cool, but next!").

The one I liked was the squeeze when holding hands. It's reassuring and quiet. To two real people out there - who may or may not even exist, may or may not even employ it anymore - it means "I love you" without words. This, I thought we could do. I never thought either of us was perfect or easy to care for. But you meant a lot to me, and I tried to show you that.

We incorporated the hand squeeze into our relationship. Sometimes if one of us put extra pressure on the fingers and it went unreturned, the other spoke up: "Hey, I squeezed. Did you feel it? What's going on?" What conversations! Usually, though, it was pretty foolproof.

Then you stopped telling me you loved me.

Interestingly enough, I didn't notice until I really needed to hear it and never did. Who can remember each fleeting exchange of affection in real time? I went over our emails and found the three words hidden in mid-March, where they froze in some final snowfall.

When I asked you about it weeks later, you told me you didn't think you loved me anymore. Casually. "I don't think we love each other, because if we did... Well, things would be different," you said. It was so matter-of-fact that it didn't register as a complete kick in the heart and other feeling parts until much, much later.

Somehow I thought you'd realize that no, people can fight and still care for each other in a very special way. That love is visible pores and sometimes a bruise or harsh word. But you never did. With me, anyway.

I stayed with you for months after you said the three words topped with "I don't." Hand in hand, I'd sometimes feel something slight - a phantom squeeze maybe - and startle. I'd look at you, and you'd be staring straight ahead. You weren't trying to tell me anything other than exactly what you were saying.

Not long ago, someone else squeezed my hand with no special intent. I remembered your denial and thought back to your unexpected phone call. You said you're having a hard time accepting that I'm dating again. That you realize it'll be very hard to find someone else as special as me.

I agree with you.

But I hope you do someday, and maybe, in the decade or however long that takes, I hope you also figure out that love is not perfect. I suppose it's better to have squeezed and lost than to never have squeezed at all.

If I could, I'd remember how you passionately, crampingly clutched me before everything fuzzed into doubt. But now I'm not sure you ever did.

My efforts have been scattershot these last few days with work, personal growth, and getting my hair reworked. Sadly, I haven't had time to sit down and blog self-importantly about how I'm fretting about my new hair color instead of the plight of endangered plankton.

I want to address the adorable notes I've had on recent posts. First of all, whoever you are, please keep 'em coming. I love feedback. Especially when I'm not sure exactly what it means. "Hmmm... So this person thinks I'm totally trite and selfish, but I can slap sentences together real purty? Well, that's something."

Imagine my shock when informed that I am just another one of those bloggers who moved to NYC from Hicktown, USA and annoyingly blogs about it. I was sure I was the only one. I didn't pioneer that niche?

Also, I thought I was the only blogger who transcribed conversations that are often only funny to the people who were having them in living (sometimes off-) color. And the ironic pictures? I don't even want to think about all the competition out there.

I enjoy writing; I really do. This blog is a wave to some distant audience - I use it to exercise some muscles, but mostly to let people know I'm still here. Thinking about stuff...and stuff. It helps me keep in touch with myself and a few other people.

In the future, I intend to have varied experiences in all sorts of places. It will probably lead to writing. But for now, well, I never promised anyone Amanda's TOTALLY NOVEL AND SELFLESS MsAdventures.

And it doesn't look like I'm moving anytime soon.

One time I was at a winebar, and I referred to my wooden purse from the 1970's as "vintage."

The bartender slapped his hand to his head and rolled his eyes. "You kids," he scoffed. But he was very understanding when I started losing my accessories and dignity.

I talked to Jing yesterday, and she told me something that made me feel really old - creaky "When I was your age..." stories old.

Apparently, kids at her school write newfangled graffiti on bathroom stalls. Graffiti that involves IM screennames, like, "For a good time, IM babyrayrayXO!"

Back in my day, we used phone numbers...

Those kids.

I went to a fancy-schmancy dinner Saturday night. Kangaroo was on the menu.

I can't say that I ever thought I'd have the option of eating a marsupial for dinner. O, New York, land of opportunity.

I was walking along Central Park North yesterday when I did a double take.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Dodging livery cabs and a garbage truck, I brazenly dashed across the street.

"Ohmigod! It is!"

The man with the leash was walking a cat.

I asked if I could take a picture. He happily obliged and told Frisky to sit. She did.

Man and cat took off a few minutes later, walking side by side. It made my day.

HORNS UP:

*I love these shoes in nautical red. I have a feeling they would tackle slippery stuff at the subway station with much panache.

*After being on my "to watch" list for four years, I finally saw The Way We Were. If you ever wondered what it's like to date someone with insensitive friends who make offensive comments about race, class, and politics, watch this movie. Or just ask me.

*A former tutee of mine has been accepted to every elite boarding/day school on her list. Now she just has to visit each campus and figure out exactly what she wants her high school experience to be. I can't take credit for this victory, but I did help her conquer analogies. Yay for Janet!

*A few weeks ago, I was asked to take on more writing tasks at work, instead of just editing. I'm calling it a promotion.

*I tend to shun the mainstream, and Kanye and I had some problems back in 2005, but man, I love Graduation. The samples are brilliant and the beats stick in your head. I play this album from the time I get home to the time I go to bed. Talk about "The Good Life."

HORNS DOWN:

*I've been feeling really tired for a few days. It's because I'm busy professionally and socially. Going to bed has never been more fun.

*My dad had some tests done and has begun more low-dose chemotherapy. After knowing how incapacitated his first rounds made him, I wasn't looking forward to this. Still, I know it's important. At least he has a positive outlook. It helps.

*Flaky people. I can be one, I know. But I'm thinking of a particular flaky person who flakes for reasons that aren't good enough. (I'm not talking about you, A.L.). I don't like to finagle someone into hanging out only to suspect the entire time that he or she is thinking, "I have other people to hang out with soon." It's this whole more popular than thou issue, and I'm not having it. I have other important engagements anyway. And a lot of microwave popcorn.

*Rainy morning commutes on express trains. If I have to hear one more dopey guy threaten to shove another dopey guy (which I doubt he'd actually do), I'ma whack someone with my umbrella. Calm down, people, and move over.

*Yet another family wants me to tutor their little boy. I'm pleased with the success of my tutoring business, but I'm not sure I can take another student right now. I'm worried about overextending myself, but also hesitant to turn down new business opportunities. I do have other goals, you know. They say you can sleep when you're dead, but what about maintain close friendships and go to book signings? I'm pretty sure I can only do that when I'm alive.

I'm looking out the window of my office building, wondering if I should wear my scarf when I go out to grab lunch.

Me: Is it chilly out there?

Phil: No, it's more of a bisque.

There was this really beautiful Friday. Then a beautiful Sunday. On Monday, he told me, "Not to jinx things, but you kind of rock my world." I wryly responded, "All right. This is the part in the movie where one of us gets cancer." (I recently watched Love Story).

I'm not in love, not even close. But I thought I was in like or near-like. And then he brought me flowers.

How do you explain your face falling at the sight of a dozen roses? Many girls would flush and gush on the spot.

But I'm not that girl. I wondered why they had to be so Valentine-y, why they weren't more original. Not that I'd mentioned it to him, but I prefer lilies. How about a "grow your own amaryllis" kit?

He could tell I was weirded out and grew quiet. Immediately, I hated myself for silencing this person who'd spent most of the weekend making me laugh, listening closely, and walking on the right side of the street.

"Look, it's just that-" I stuttered. "Guys don't give flowers until they screw up...or know the girl better and it's a special occasion."

He'd eaten dinner without me and seen them. He'd thought of me and romantic gestures. To admit this kind of weakened him in my eyes. He'd been so suave up until that point, aware of all the places to go and sights to see. Now he was just another bumbling guy with flowers and good intentions.

My ticker tape of self-loathing frantically scrolled: WHY AM I SO CYNICAL? WHAT ON EARTH HAS SOMEONE REPLACED MY HEART WITH? WHAT AM I DOING TO THIS POOR GUY?

When my gentleman casualty shrugged in feigned casualness, I didn't believe it. "Throw 'em out, if you want. It's not a big deal. I didn't think you'd feel weird about it," he said.

Cue ticker tape: A GUY JUST APOLOGIZED TO YOU FOR BRINGING YOU FLOWERS! THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD YOU IS PISSED AND ABOUT TO SLAP UPSIDE YOUR EMPTY HEAD.

Actually, I don't think it's empty. I think it's too full. I am thinking too much. And falling in like cannot be all about thinking.

The next day, I sent him the poem below. I'd been thinking about it since I trimmed stems and noticed just how fragrant the roses are.

Flowers
By: Wendy Cope

Some men never think of it.
You did. You'd come along
And say you'd nearly brought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.

The shop was closed. Or you had doubts -
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly. You thought
I might not want your flowers.

It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But, look, the flowers you nearly bought
Have lasted all this while.

It's your birthday. You're 23. We're getting old.

I've remembered your bedroom's constellations of clutter long since you packed away the dolls, chose solids over patterns, and began closing your bedroom door at night.

The best and worst of me lies somewhere in that body that never quite caught up to meet mine. In your mind, under the hair that's always been thicker somehow. It's so dark and exotic in comparison, I convinced you that you'd been adopted.

You took a lot of lies with trust; you'd believe in what no one else saw. I don't even think it makes you gullible anymore. Just special. A sister, if not a good friend.

Each year, I'm so much happier that somehow we grew up together. That you never mentioned when I enjoyed playing Barbies. That you didn't hold grudges too long. That you give my dreams another home, my memories a greater aperture, my life more meaning.

Can I be you when I grow up?

A few weeks ago, I read the book One Hundred Young Americans, which profiles a diverse group of very photogenic teens. Every demographic is covered - skaters, cheerleaders, druggies, cutters, immigrants, young parents, cult members, etc. It's quite fascinating and the photographs are great.

I type this in trepidation, for what if the retail gods smite me? But you see, the reason I read this book is that it's at my apartment. And it's at my apartment, because I accidentally shoplifted it.

You might be wondering how that sort of thing happens to a person over five years old who's not hopped up on drugs. Lemme tell ya, it's actually quite easy.

Post-breakup, my mind was in a shambles. Lots of crying, Ani DiFranco listening, and stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and trying to figure out where I was supposed to be going. And I'll be real, this sometimes happens when I'm not heartbroken, but not often. I tried to maintain the routines that give me comfort, like going to Barnes & Noble on Sunday and reading magazines for free.

A lot of other people really like to do the same thing, so there's never any place to sit. I usually park myself in the gay and lesbian studies aisle. On this particular Sunday, though, I sat in Cultural Studies. I pulled the copy of The New Kings of Non-fiction I was reading out of my bag and put in with all the magazines I wanted to read. Then One Hundred Young Americans caught my eye from across the way. I skimmed the foreword and decided to give it a look. Then the latest Post Secret book beckoned, and I grabbed that, too.

After reviewing the magazines, I moved on to the Post Secret book. I've read them all for free, so I figured I'd quickly maintain the legacy. I was almost finished, when this man came into the aisle and stood next to me to browse titles. Shifting a bit to the left, I continued reading. The man was rooted to my side. I felt like he was looking at me, but I'd already moved and hey, I was here first. Didn't he see I was busy reading other people's secrets?

The man picked out a book and started to read it. I was three pages away from the end. Then the guy moved a few inches over and was standing right over me. If I sat up straight and looked up, I'd have hit him in the testicles, which sounded pretty good to me, because I began to realize...

THIS GUY MAY BE A PERVERT! HE'S PRACTICALLY TEABAGGING ME AT BARNES & NOBLE! (If you don't know what that is, save yourself some grief, and do not look it up. Seriously, forget I mentioned it).

My mind was reeling. "Maybe he's just a close talker or close reader, whatever," I thought. Was he really trying to violate me?

One thing I do know: I'm stubborn. I finished reading the last few postcards and quickly left the aisle. I left the magazines there, grabbed my book, and avoided eye contact. I should have confronted him, but I was in a kind of shock.

I didn't exactly do the Lifetime movie thing and go to the bathroom to try and wash away the shame. Instead, I hit up the bargain section and found a critically acclaimed book for 99 cents. I bought it using my Barnes & Noble discount. "Hey, take a discount on a discount - no problem," the Jewish cashier assured me.

Later on the subway, I decided to spend the commute with The New Kings of Non-Fiction. And then I reached into my bag and found One Hundred Young Americans. I can't believe I got it through the security system, but believe me, I'm so grateful. I'd have had a complete meltdown if I'd been nearly molested and caught shoplifting on the same day at the same bookstore.

Luckily, One Hundred Young Americans chronicles such experiences. I don't feel so alone. If fact I'm almost proud of my ability to multi-task.

I'm helping Borun revise an imagist poem for his seventh grade poetry project. Together, we ponder how to show and not tell.

Me: So what's going on here?

Borun: I'm a bird flying in the jungle.

Me: Okay, so this is looking better. But can you think of another way of writing that you flew in the direction of the sun? Another thing to call the sun or a way to describe it?

Borun: Uh...

Me: Like in "All Summer in a Day," Ray Bradbury says it's a coin and a lemon.

Borun: Hmmm... What about "the golden ball of gas"?

Me: I dunno. Sounds like a fart.

Borun eventually decides on "the golden orb."

Diane Keaton in Annie Hall inspired me to wear ties.

Avril Lavigne didn't.

When a distant co-worker in sales complimented my tie this morning (a yellow silk Ferragamo with birds), I quickly thanked him. I haven't heard anything but compliments about my elegant forays into menswear.

"I like it. It's so...Paula Poundstone," he continued.

I felt like I'd been slapped.

I'm wearing a skirt tomorrow.

"An abridged history of American-centric warfare, from WWII to present day, told through the foods of the countries in conflict."

This is brilliant.

I'm disappointed in someone who is not me, for a change. It's kind of refreshing.

A college friend is in town. He and I met up last night and bummed around while catching up. Then we had margaritas. It got late, and we abandoned dinner plans. He needed to meet back up with his traveling partner and eventually go to bed. His feet were tired from all the walking. That, and he woke early.

But still, I had to do the Creepy Drunk Friend thing. The Clingy Creepy Drunk Friend thing. He even walked me back to my apartment and everything, but I still wanted to sit on his feet and squeal, "Don't go! I never see you!" Maybe I would have, but tequila makes me sleepy. He'd have made a cute hostage.

Part of me wants to call him tonight, his last night here, and demand he insert me into his plans somehow. This is the guy who patiently witnessed me bluster on and on about going to law school and saving the children. He observed my growing collection of closeted crushes with minimal judgement and fag hag jokes.

Okay. So I am disappointed in myself, too. Partly because I shouldn't be so selfish and demanding of a friend I haven't seen in almost three years - it's not like I made a lot of effort to visit him in that time - and also? I should have just sat on his feet. He's cool enough to have forgiven me.

I'm all aboout lists. If a goal is written down and can be crossed out with a colored marker, it's worth doing. I keep a weekly written list on a large index card, make small daily lists on Post-its, and keep long-term lists on the computer.

The Breville Ikon Multi-Speed Juice Fountain was on my wish list for six months or so. Sunday, I finally bought it. Well, not it. Its mama. The model I wanted wasn't available in the Beyond section of Bed Bath and Beyond or Williams Sonoma or at Breville's website. I had to suck it up and get upgraded.

"This thing is going to be one of my most expensive possessions," I thought with a gulp. On the surface, you'd never know I was mentally comparing it to my TV. I casually ate lemon bread samples at the counter and made small talk with the cashier. But I was thinking, "I'm pretty sure this thing doesn't show America's Next Top Model reruns. Maybe I should just go to Jamba Juice?"

I swiped my plastic anyway - the third piece of lemon bread made it a little easier. Then I wrangled the 10+ pounds of machinery to the uptown C train without killing anyone. The box was huge; my biceps whimpered. Buying kitchen appliances might be the new yoga.

Once I was home, I opened my expensive new friend. The frantic thoughts began to flow: It's The Juicer That Ate Manhattan! Where am I going to keep this thing? Where can I use it? Is the one I originally wanted this freakin' big?

Until I buy a workstation for the kitchen, I'm using the juicer on a cuttingboard on the stove, because there are no counters in New York City. Not in my experience anyway. I bought some parsley, tomatoes, apples, celery, bananas, and carrots after resting and heating up some empanadas from Trader Joe's.

Maybe it's because I've never bought a tomato - honestly, I don't know if I ever thought I would - but wow, veggies are quite affordable. Who knew? And you can buy carrots with the green still on them and lug them around like Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh. How cool is that?! Check that off my list.

So I read the directions and made my first juice with an apple, two carrots, and two stalks of celery. It tasted fine to me, but I added some lemon juice for a bit more flavor. I should be getting a juice recipe book from the library soon. Maybe I'll eventually become a juice artist, but until then, I'm trying to emulate the Naked drinks I so adore.

My fancypants juicer so far lives up to its reputation and dare I say, pricetag. It doesn't broadcast Nick at Nite, but it's easy to clean and prissily gleams on my cutting board. I've named it Gaston.

Last week, this Yahoo! headline made me laugh:

Cheerleader, 11, returns home after 118th brain surgery

Ann Patchett in the afterword of Lucy Grealy's Autobiography of a Face:

"In the right hands, a memoir is the flecks of gold panned out of a great, muddy river. A memoir is those flecks melted down into a shapable liquid that can then be molded and hammered into a single bright band to be worn on a finger, something you could point to and say, 'This? Oh, this is my life.' Everyone has a muddy river, but very few have the vision, patience, and talent to turn it into something so beautiful. This is why the writer matters, so that we can not only learn from her experience but find a way to shape our own. I'm not talking about shaping every life into a work of art, I'm talking about making our life into something we can understand, a portable object that contains the weight and power of an entire terrain."

My sister, Megan, and I are discussing our high school classmates. Turns out, almost everyone is married and/or has kids. Except us.

Megan: Even Crystal is engaged.

Me: Crystal?! No.

Megan: C'mon, Man, she's a catch.

Me: Yeah, like you'll catch something if you sleep with her.

Megan: [pretending to recite a wedding vow] "I promise to always share my topical ointments with you, as long as we both shall live."

Me: "With this genital wart, I thee wed."

Megan: No, no! "With this genital wart, I thee spread."

Me: Niiiice.

I knew the fruit stand man and I had something special. Last week, when I ordered my daily small fruit salad (hold the cantaloupe, honeydew, and papaya) he held up his hand with a smile.

"I know you now," he said as he scooped and overstuffed the plastic container. He put extra mango, just like I like it.

A few days later, I went for my regular. "Watermelon, too," I insisted when I noticed he'd passed it up on the way to the strawberries. "Oh no, is no good for you," he protested. "The cold turns it bad." He promised he'd give me watermelon when it was good again.

When I returned to the office, my co-worker Jim was complaining about the slimy texture of the watermelon in the fruit salad he'd bought half an hour earlier from the same place. I laughed and explained how fortunately, the fruit stand man had my back.

I forgot I had no cash yesterday and attentively watched my fruit salad being assembled. The realization struck, and I asked if fruit stand man could hang on to my order until I went to the bank a few streets away.

"No, no. You take it now. You pay me another time." He waved me off and smiled.

So I knew we had something special, but I had no idea he felt that way about me. A good fruit stand man is hard to find, but I won't be looking anymore.

I just told some co-workers all about my subway injury. Phil decides to start what becomes a long pun-off that lasts until I leave work.

Phil: So you're saying that when you fell you didn't curry any favor?

Amanda: No. Naan.

Phil: So you [pointing between his eyes] dot wrong?

Amanda: Yeah, I thought someone would at least say something, but no. I was Bali-ing. Well, not really.

Phil: I'm so sari to hear that.

Amanda: Yeah. Everyone on the subway was looking, but didn't say anything when I walked through the subway tandooris.

When I posted my outfit last week, I mentioned that I slipped in those darling black and white polka dot flats. No big deal. Any reader could have missed that detail, for it was ever so slight.

I wore the same shoes on Wednesday. (They were paired with a favorite vintage wool skirt with just the right amount of swing to it, but that's beside the point). I donned those black and white polka dot flats fully confident that I looked adorable. The problem is, experience should have taught me that my adorable ass was going to slip in those shoes again if I wasn't careful.

Alas, it didn't.

I got through the entire Wednesday workday unscathed. Footloose - but not too loose - and fancy free, if you will. I went to Washington Heights and tutored Deedee. After a great lesson involving "The Highwayman," I decided to get some Indian food to take home. Interestingly enough, I almost always go out rather than eat in, because I don't like leftovers or food smells in the apartment. That night, however, was different. And later, I'd regret that difference.

Eventually, I walked down the stairs to the nearest subway station with no problem. I was walking to the C platform downhill when I slipped on something, probably steamy saliva or slick slime. Most definitely something alliterative and gross.

Gravity took hold and I fell on one knee and kept one foot firmly on the ground. My skirt was fine, but my knee was another story. I'd slipped in the same position on the opposite knee two days earlier, but this pain was much worse. I actually made a wincing noise, because my brain was too shocked to curse.

Many people were exiting the uptown C platform as I fell. Unlike my accident on Wall Street, no one stopped to help or ask if I was okay. It's not that I expect someone to bow and scrape at my every mishap, but have some empathy, people!

I figured my subway home would pull into the station any minute, so I managed to stand up and hobble down the stairs to the C. I painfully sunk onto the seat and watched the other passengers take in the sight: a young woman in a devastatingly smart wool skirt and banged up shoes, tights with one leg torn and bleeding and the other caked in a line of dirt, and a leaking bag of the #3 special. What an ensemble!

The whole car started to smell like curry, and I had no qualms about the dribbling bits of dinner on the subway. "It's the least I could do while all these bastards are just looking at me and not saying anything!" I thought.

I looked like I'd been dragged through a park by a rapist with a craving for blood and tikka masala. Part of me wanted to remove my nasty, DNA-ridden tights right there in front of everyone. I'd flick them on some silent stranger or just leave them behind for someone else to enjoy.

But I didn't. Instead, I limped off the subway with as much dignity as I could muster while trying not to get sauce on my white sweater. I tucked those adorable flats into the adorable back of my closet, where I am hoping they will be forgotten. Idiotically, I just can't throw them away right now.

I still struggle to climb stairs and have perfected a nasty look when people on the train accidentally bump my knee during rush hour.

*I may as well show you how bad my knee looked yesterday, four days after the fall. Mind you, it looks much better than it did, but it's still not for the weak of stomach.

And yes, my legs are hairy because it's winter and I'm single. The fuzz on my scab, however, is from my fleece sheets. I'm too squeamish to pull it off.

I have a yearly goal of reading 52 books, and the single life most certainly does not get in the way of it. Last night, I slept with Harvey Pekar beside me.

Weeks ago, I read Modern Love, a collection of 50 essays from The New York Times column of the same name. The essays run the gamut - from marriage to dating to the death of a spouse. Lots of good breakup stuff, too.

I was truly sad when my brief affair with Modern Love was over, but I'm looking for a rebound. Here are some excerpts:

"I wanted her back so bad it gave me a stomachache. But I remembered with distress the times she had accused me of whining. I struggled over the last line for twenty minutes. I decided on 'Write back if you want, but you don't need to feel obliged.'

She didn't feel obliged. Which made me want to call her. Which made me want to have sex with her. Which made me want to wake up next to her, to grow old with her. Or to see her age and grow fat and ugly very quickly.

'She's dead to me,' I told my friends. 'I was mentally ill to have dated her,' I told my friends. 'Obviously a borderline personality,' I told my friends.

'Why did I throw away the best thing I ever had?' I wrote in my journal. 'Please, God, bring her back.'"
-Steve Friedman

*

"Sometimes, lying here, I think of this divorce business as something like the flu. The feverish beginnings, as miserable and sweaty as they are, are somehow easier to get through (they are a blur, really) than the many half-well, half-sick days that follow, days when you're not sure what to do. You're too well to lie in bed watching TV but too sick to go out and do all the things well people are expected to do."
-Theo Pauline Nestor

*

"Me, I like to look at things once, twice, again and again. When I was a little girl, my father, a chemical engineer, told me if you chew a piece of bland bread over and over, holding it in your mouth, it eventually becomes sweet. He was trying to explain to me about the breakdown of the molecules into glucose and such.

But what sticks in my mind is the deeper meaning I saw in what he'd said: how anything, any experience, conversation, scene observed, or moment reflected upon, is like that piece of bland bread. Look at it a while, chew it, hold it, and it becomes sweet and satisfying. There are hidden surprises and hidden flavors residing in everything and everybody."
-Renee Watabe