“Stay Humble and Be Hungry.”

Herm Edwards

I am an Arizona State University (ASU) Sun Devil inside and out! I bleed maroon and gold. You may have read recently that knowrivalry.com named ASU vs UofA playing for the Territorial Cup as the best football rivalry game in the nation. While that may or may not be true,  I know that I wouldn’t date a Wildcat if he were the last breathing man on earth. The man for me will find joy and excitement in my cheering on the fearless Sun Devils. He will understand that a Sun Devil keeps fighting till the very end and, regardless, of the score, remains focused on mayhem until the last second.

I have been going to ASU football games since I was in my mother’s belly. I went to the Rose bowl in 1987 and, reportedly,  kicked up a storm like my mother had never felt before as the Devils trounced the Michigan Wolverines.  To this day, I have celebrated 219 Sun Devil victories with my family. My dad and I are roving season ticket holders. Every year we change our seat locations as we search for just the right spot. Two years ago we sat in the wrong seats for three games until the rightful owners came and we realized that our assigned seats were significantly better. We have left very few games feeling that we didn’t get our money’s worth. Last week’s home game against Washington State was no exception.

While surveying the stadium seating charts my dad and I found two seats, row 7 from the field and on about the 10 yard line. They were the same price as the nose bleed section on the home team side of the field. We thought it would be a good idea to spread the ASU love to the visitors side for this year’s games. For this particular game we were 2 gold dots in a sea of Wassu red. We were surrounded by a couple who just got married and part of their wedding party of 30 who flew in from Washington. During most of the first half of the game they were feeling on top of the world, drinking like fish, getting burnt to a crisp and talking trash. The Devils scored 10 points in the last few minutes to end the half tied at 17-17. All my dad and I could do was laugh because we know that Coach Herm likes to keep the game close. Hope and ferociousness are two of ASU’s biggest traits.

Late in the game with the score tied at 31, the Cougars were on the opposite end of the stadium trying a field goal to take the lead. Our view from 7 rows up was a missed to the right field goal. The Wassu fans were devastated. Dad and I were slapping hands and laughing. The party of 30 were talking about how their team “sucked.” After a brief lull we turned back in disbelief to see WSU kicking and making a field goal. We had no idea a time out had been called just before the kick. The tables had turned. The sea of red was all puffed out with the 34-31 score and a little over 2 minutes to play. I tried to tell them, “This is where ASU lives. We love close games. You will soon see it is far from over.” They started chanting – “nanana na, nanana na, Goodbye.” After three quick passes to Benji and a nice throw to Aiyuk the chants ended. The Devils were on the move. My hands were shaking and I could barely breath. (Can you have a panic attack at a football game?) It was the next pass to Aiyuk that got the ball in field goal range that our male friends in red were screaming, “Defense, Defense” while the women prayed in silence. All of the action was right in front of us just 7 rows away. My dad wanted a high five for picking these seats which I gave him after our freshman quarterback ran the final 15 yards and helicoptered over the goal line. The stadium erupted in a deafening roar, dad and I, the two gold dots did as well. Our enemy in red crumbled like a cheap suit. The Devils were up by 4 with 30 seconds to go. Score a touchdown or go home. They settled for the latter.

The final score 38-34. I noticed some Washington State fans with tears in their eyes, some yelling at each other to just move so they could leave their misery behind and one guy near me just sitting with his head in his hands. We congratulated them on a good game as we continued to stand on our seats and smile as they schlepped past. I tried to console the inconsolable but he would not have it. The difference between him and I – I’m the Pride of the Southwest and he’s the pride of Pullman. I take pride in being a gold dot where ever I am. GO DEVILS!

Moral: 1) Every second counts, use every one of them. 2) Be yourself no matter where you are or who are with. 

Feel free to share your sports memories in the comments or email zsmisadventures@gmail.com and it could be used in a future blog.

“We Can’t help everyone, but everyone can help someone.”

Ronald Reagan

On my way from work this week, I witnessed a motorcyclist slam into the side of a car that turned across traffic in front of him. It is a sight that gets etched into you mind. The motorcycle was in the lane to my right and about 2 car lengths in front of me. When the car suddenly turned across my lane I could see the inevitable. My reaction was to scream, “NOOOOO” as the bike’s front brakes grabbed the asphalt and lifted the back end up perpendicular to the roadway launching the cyclist headfirst into the passenger’s window. The motorcycle bounced to a stop. A blur of cars and trucks moved toward the curb and stopped. I called 911 and joined the dozen or more people running to help the accident victim.

The rider’s face was a bloody mess. His front teeth were dangling through his upper lip. He was asking what had happened. He didn’t remember riding the motorcycle. He stated that he was unaware of how the helmet or the bike got there. When he was told by the group of people around him that help was coming, he dissociated. When asked about family or friends to call, he didn’t seem to know of any despite having his cell phone on him. He did say his name was Will. He sat oblivious to the commotion and strangers surrounding him. It took several minutes before I realized my heart beat and adrenaline levels were returning to normal. I really feared he might have died.

It took the police and ambulances about 15 minutes to get to the scene. It really seemed like forever. People comforted him while others pulled the motorcycle off of him, helped remove his bloodied helmet and backpack. Thankfully, Will was wearing a helmet, or this may have been a different blog. It was nice to see that there was a semblance of order to the help of these strangers in a chaotic commotion.

I listened to the cyclist say he didn’t know what happened, the driver say the motorcycle sped out of nowhere and hit the car, and everyone else seeing what I saw.  It is important to fill out witness statements because everyone may see the same accident, but everyone picks up on something a little different. It is fifteen minutes of paying it forward.

I often wondered if something were to happen to me when I am on the light rail or driving around town, would someone contact my loved ones or call 911. Today showed that the answer is, yes. There may be times when I feel as though I am just another stranger in the crowd, but today showed that there is a community of compassion and concern.

Moral: 1) Always make sure to take in everything around you because you never know when you may need to take a witness statement. 2) Always wear a helmet on a bike or motorbike. 3) Always watch for motorcyclist. 

If you have any misadventures or acts of kindness you would like to share feel free to write about it in the comments or email zsmisadventures@gmail.com for it to be possibly mentioned in a future blog post.

“Life is either daring adventure or nothing at all.”

Helen Keller

Being a diabetic has not always made life easy, but it certainty has made life interesting. I have had to deal with the ever changing insurance policy restrictions, medical supply hurdles, and medical treatment improvements from needles to pumps and finger pricks to continuous glucose monitoring. There is also a need to share this medical history with employers, supervisors, colleagues and friends so that, if blood sugar levels sink dangerously low and I appear incoherent or intoxicated, they will know to get me to drink some sugary juice that I carry in my purse and keep in my desk. Airport security is more extensive than entering an event since they always have me hold the insulin pump and then wipe my hands for bomb residue.  You would be surprised at the number of lay experts who know someone who is a diabetic. More than once they have told me that if I just didn’t eat foods with sugar I would no longer be diabetic. I was even told that I needed to use a treadmill for 30 minutes a day in order to wake up my pancreas to start producing insulin once more. While I do find some advice that people give is coming from a place of caring, I am more inclined to listen to my endocrinologist.

I have had to overcome plenty of obstacles since a virus disabled my pancreas and resulted in my body not being able to process sugars, hence, diabetes at the age of 7. When first diagnosed, I spent a week in the hospital to learn:  how to give myself shots; how to count carbohydrates in the foods I was going to eat; and how to figure out the amount of long term and short term insulin to mix into each shot that would account for the intake of those carbohydrates. Count your carbs wrong and take too much insulin and you go a little wacky and possibly die. No problem there intimidating a seven year old. The next week I moved to Aruba where treatment was quite different. In Aruba I was given an insulin pen that I just dialed in  the exact number of units my carb math indicated that I needed to take for each meal. Much easier that than a needle marked in 5 unit increments. A few years later I was introduced to a one shot a day product which didn’t work well for an athletic youngster who burned sugars at widely various rates throughout the day. When I moved back to the states for high school, doctors put me on the newest treatment, the insulin pump. This looked like a “pager” and contained a vial of insulin that injected very small amounts of insulin through a small plastic tube 24/7. I only had to change twice weekly the small needle inserted in my stomach that the tube hooked into. Easy-peasy. I used to wear sweatshirts or baggy shirts to hide the pump and tubing that made me feel “part human and part machine”. For diabetics the insulin pump is a real game changer that will add healthier years to our lives. As a young adult now, I am still adjusting to buying clothes that will work with my pump and injection site. I am still self-conscious when wearing a bathing suit since you can see this floppy plastic tubing stuck in my stomach or thigh. I have been asked more than once if it is a feeding tube. LOL.

While working for Department of Child Safety in Northern Arizona, I had to testify about some guardianship issues. During the cross examination, the parent’s attorney asked me what expertise I had with dealing with childhood diabetes. I stated that I have been diabetic since I was 7 years old, but was in no means a medical expert. He would ask other routine questions, then came back to my being diabetic and stating that because I am diabetic, I am unfit to be on the case and should not even be a caseworker …. period. I paused a second to wait for the state attorney to object, but as he seemed more interested in cleaning his ear with a paperclip, I stood up and declared, “Objection your honor. Badgering the witness.” The judge chuckled and politely reminded me that only lawyers can object. After the hearing I went to the parent’s lawyer, who I had worked with on multiple cases over the years, and asked why he was so insistent that being diabetic meant I should not be a case worker. He just smiled and said, “You are good at everything else, that was the only thing I could pick on.”

While I have often felt self-conscious that testimony reminded me that I have no choice but to move with the cheese as there will always be someone trying to use your insecurities against you.

Moral: 1) You are worth it. 2) When the going gets tough, learn to move with the cheese.

You can’t help getting older. But you don’t have to get old.”

George Burns

In honor of my grandmother, Eleanor, who was 96 when she passed. This is one of her famous stories. Enjoy.

My grandma was the one of four sisters who did not become a nun. She and her sisters were strong and independent women. Their inspiration may have been their mother, Anna, who was 13 years old when she came to America from Lithuania in the late 1800s. She walked alone over 800 miles thru unfriendly territories, slept in heavy grasses along the dirt roads, and begged for food along the way. She sailed on a steam ship to the Statue of Liberty and landed at Ellis Island with thousands of European immigrants. Without the instantaneous communication of email, her brother in Chicago would not get the letter that she was coming to America until two months after she arrived. With no one to meet her at the Immigration Station, she would have been sent back were it not for the Lithuanian Catholic nuns that vouched for her care and took her in. By the time her brother arrive several months later, she had a job as a maid and donated her earnings to the convent. Thus my grandma, despite, not becoming a nun, has always instilled the ethics of being a kind and generous person whenever possible to whomever may need help.

Sister Mary Elizabeth, a few years older than, Grams, ran an orphanage in Alton, Illinois and later the Catholic Charities Adoption agency.  I became a social worker involved with neglected children, foster families, and adoptions as a result of the lovely and fascinating stories I heard growing up about the strong, educated, and loving women in my family.

Grams, as the story goes, was a bit of a rebel rouser and not afraid to speak her mind when needed. My favorite story occurred when she was 92 years old and went to Walmart with a friend to purchase a couple of bottles of wine for a little party celebrating her winning  the women’s pool championship at her retirement community. My grandma may only have been able to see with any clarity across the room which meant a pool table was well within her visual parameters. She was skilled with a pool stick from her early 20s when bowling and pool were a small community evening out. A little arthritis and an aching back would never let anything stop her from doing something that she loved. Her strength and determination lead to trouncing her opponents and saving her smiles until popping the celebration cork.

Back to Walmart and checking out. While my grandma and her friend were reliving the highlights of the big game, the cashier asked my grandma to see her ID. Thinking the cashier was just being silly, she handed over her driver’s license. The Cashier looking up from card said, “I’m sorry your card is expired.”

My grandma without missing beat let the cashier know, “It may be expired, but I am not.” Grams and her friend laughed.

The cashier didn’t. She explained to my grandma, “that may be the case, but per policy, Walmart has to check everyone’s ID regardless of age and can’t sell liquor if the card is expired.” My grandma tried to explain that she only has the card for ID purposes as she no longer drives due to her poor eyesight. However, the cashier repeated again, that policy is policy and because of that, her friend was not able to buy her wine either. My grandma had the head cashier come over, but he confirmed what the cashier had already told her. My grandma not easily flustered decided that she would let it go for the night. When she returned the next morning with the intention to speak to the store manager, she was pointed instead toward the regional manager. Grandma cut loose with her charm. “Sonny,” she began, “would you do me the favor of selling me a bottle of wine to celebrate me winning the neighboring community’s pool championship.”

“Of, course, “ he answered, “it would be my pleasure.” He took her bottle of wine and lead her to a register. She held out her driver’s license. He looked at it and at her and said, “Mam, that’s not necessary.”

“Well it was yesterday,” she began. She ended with her credo, “It may be expired, but I’m not.” He apologized profusely. They talked as he walked her to her friend’s car. The next day a case of her favorite wine was delivered to her door with a note, “You’re an inspiration.”

Moral: 1) Age does not have to define you, you do. 2) We live and grow through family stories, so always share them when you can.

If you have any family stories you would like to share, feel free to do so in the comments or email, zsmisadventures@gmail.com to possibly have your story featured in a future blog. 

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing it is stupid.”

Albert Einstein

One of my summer jobs while pursuing an undergraduate degree at Humboldt State was at a 5000 home HOA (Home Owner’s Association). I mention the size because with ten thousand or more residences there are usually a variety of activities available for the homeowners.  I was in charge of checking in guests to use one of the 3 pools and registering for various classes, such as yoga, zumba, and children’s youth club activities, etc. Not difficult work but an introduction to customer service and complaint resolution. One of my first get-out-from-behind-the-counter assignments was to help out at the Sleepy Dog Saloon and Brewery tasting event. It was a try-the-local-craft-beer event that included games and dancing under the stars to Pandora’s greatest hits.

One of the new games was the Gold Fish Race. I was put in charge of recruiting attendees to participate in the races, as well as, setting up the race brackets so that we could crown a Nemo and Aerial of the Sea winner. I was somewhat ecstatic to be trusted with such a task while, at the same time, somewhat leery that this would be a spectacularly exciting event. The race course was a 10 foot gutter sealed at both ends, filled with water and painted with a start and finish line 6 inches inside both ends. Since this was a one and done match race, I set up two gutters on extra-long rectangular tables that gave the crowd of spectators plenty of room to cheer on their favorites. Each fish trainer/competitor was given a little squirt gun and allowed to net their fish racer from a bowl containing 6 freshly purchased gold fish. I made sure the gutters had enough water for the goldfish to feel at home. After explaining the rules to the racers that they must stay at the Start-Line end of the table and could coax their fish to swim to the other end with directional reminders using their squirt gun, I indicated that I was told that goldfish wanted to compete and that swimming was a healthy exercise for a long and productive life.

While trying to recruit participants, I found quite a few people voicing animal rights concerns. If goldfish died during this cruel exhibit of human dominance, their demise was on my shoulders. The races began about three craft beers into the night and when the auditorium loud speakers were turned to broadcasting the race action, an overwhelming crowd gathered around my little event. Some of the loudest cheers and rowdiest contestants were the animal activists.  When the ‘Golden Flash’ was inches from the finish then turned around and sped off to the start line, the laughs drowned out the cheers. It was a great experience to see the community come together and cheer and laugh each other on. At the end of the night everyone was smiling and thanking me for bringing some excitement to the night. After crowning the Nemo and Ariel winners, Nemo’s daughter asked if she could keep ‘Tuna of the Sea’ her dad’s winning fish. I am proud to announce the entire school found a loving home.

Morals: 1) Fish Races are a fun way to bring people together. 2) Step out of your comfort zone, you may have a memorable time. 

Without music, life would be a mistake”

Friedrich Nietzche

Riding the light rail for the past three years has been an awe-inspiring experience at times. The most recent incident involved a man in his mid-twenties dressed in a sparkling grey beanie, sweatpants appropriately adjusted on his hips, a fire engine red t-shirt, and Adidas slip on sandals with socks nodding and saying, “Hello,” to everyone as he worked his way to a seat on the light rail. Outside of looking to be more dressed for winter than Arizona’s 109 degree weather, he, also, drew attention by carrying 2 bright orange Home Depot plastic buckets with him. This bucket carrying man caused quite a stir with the two children sitting with their mother in the seat in front of him.

The children, were I a State Fair age guru guesser, were 3 and 8 years old. Leaning over the back of their seats, they asked the man what the buckets were for. He told them they were his drums. The children’s faces light up. The little girls told him that she wanted to be a singer when she grew up and the younger boy said he didn’t care what he did as long as he learned to play music. The young man continued his inquiry for several minutes about their dreams and their love of music. Eventually they told him that his buckets didn’t look like drums.

He took the drum sticks out of the bucket and began playing various beats and rhythms. The children, all smiles, bobbed their heads in unison. After a few minutes he stopped and the youngsters, clapping and laughing, pleaded with him to play some more. He would drum a different beat for a few seconds and stop. The kids on cue would ask him to play some more and he would. This enjoyable exchange went on for several stops. At one point he asked if one of them wanted to play his drums, but thankfully they decided they enjoyed listening to him more.

When their mother stood and indicated that it was time to exit the train, the children asked if they could go to just one more stop. The young drummer told them that he uses the train to travel and he would probably see them again soon. The children relented and gave our friend a high-five. He said he hoped to hear a song from the little girl the next time. She blushed and gave him a thumbs up. The man nodded to their mother and said, “Your kids weren’t kidding, they really do love music.”

As a former member of Humboldt State University’s marching band, who advanced from an egg shaker to a bass drummer, I had smile of contentment on my face while I watched this interaction. I appreciated the ease at which the young man was able to bond with the children over their shared love for music.

Moral: 1) Music is important in uniting people. 2) Anything can be a drum. 

“Being happy doesn’t mean that everything is perfect, it means that you’ve decided to look beyond the imperfections.”

Gerard Way

Thank you Da7387 for the following submission. If anyone else has any adventures they would like to share feel free to do so in the comment section below or by emailing zsmisadventures@gmail.com. Enjoy.

What could be better than playing 9 holes of golf every morning before the daily meeting at work? What could be better than playing golf every morning on a Caribbean island with ocean views of paradise at every turn? What could be better than playing with a great group of friends where laughs and good nature kidding followed every shot? And to top it off, you get to play for free.

Well, almost free. After 5 years, I developed a double callus on my right big toe
from the twisting and turning. It wasn’t until five years later that that callus split and became infected.

I was sitting with my leg out stretched on a hospital bed. The doctor’s back blocked my view of his poking and prodding.  It wasn’t until he turned and said,  “I’ll be right back. I need a drain tube,” that I could see the results of his fiddling.

So I sat for half an hour with this pair of scissors jabbed through my great toe. I had enough time to call my wife and daughter.

“The podiatrist sent me over to the ER,” I began. “The doctor here said he was going to insert a drain tube. I’m going to need a ride home.  Bring the camera,” I said hanging up.

Emergency rooms are pretty wide open. Doctors, nurses, interns and an assortment of the sick and wounded mill about. My great toe was a magnet for rubber necks. Most were curious as to how I managed to plunge a pair of scissors into it. Some, I could tell, wanted a closer look. “Yeah,” I would say to them, “it goes all the way through.”

The most memorable line was from the doctor, himself. When he finally returned, he moved around the tools in the tray next to the bed and, finally, said, “Has anybody seen my scissors?”

Moral 1) Don’t be afraid to laugh in the face of despair. 2) Doctors are our friends. 3) Seek medical attention at first signs of abnormalities.

“I am so hot, even my sweat is sweating.”

unknown

Born in Arizona and growing up in Aruba, I am no stranger to living in desert like conditions. While you may fry an egg on the sidewalk in Arizona, Aruba’s average temperature is 88 degrees and, also, quite dry. In other words, I have survived to this day in air conditioned environments.  From house to car and train to office the past few years, is the limit of my expose to death by solar ultraviolet radiation.An exception to my survival routine occurred recently,  when I had a training for work that was an hour drive from home. Leaving my home at 7 AM to attend the training at 8 was an enjoyable temperate time of day. I appreciated the breeze from the AC blowing in my face, as it reminded me of the refreshing Aruban trade winds. I forgot for a second that it was already 100 degrees as I entered the parking lot at 8 that day.

As I walked toward the training office exit doors, I could see a sign out by the street advertising the time at 4 pm and the temperature at 115. The first bead of sweat stained my blouse as I opened my car door. When the door slams shut, your first impression is being enclosed in a preheated oven. The routine is to set the AC fan on high and crack the windows. It’s actually 10 degrees cooler outside so that first blast of 125 degree air is like standing in front of blow torch. If your body can just endure the burning blast of hot air for three minutes, it will slowly become bearable. Within five minutes, you will be back to the comfort of the Aruban trade winds.

I waited for 10 miserable minutes before I called my dad. “My car needs coolant,” I stated forcefully and as a matter of fact. “I’m cooking. My sunglasses are covered in sweat. I cannot see through the rivers running across the lenses,” I cried.

My dad, sitting in the air conditioned comfort of his office and probably enjoying a sip of iced tea said, “Your car is only a year old. I doubt that it needs coolant but I will take a look tonight.”

I began to tell him about the sweat dripping into my eyes and feeling like I had done 2 hours of cardio and then sat in a sauna for a half hour. I could hear the ice cubes clanking in his glass as he said, “Okay. Okay. I’ll check.”

“I’m driving through the winds of hell and you are going to get in and join me for a test ride if I make it,” I cried as I ended the call.

I continued to drive and fiddle with the AC and fan buttons and intermittently rolling up and down the windows. While sitting in my mobile oven at a stop light, I pulled on my wet blouse stuck to my skin and began rolling up my slacks to the knees. It took an instant for me to realize that the air blasting my bare legs was hot and not an indirectly circulated breeze. I was getting killed by a tornado of vent air not coolant lacking AC. In my flurry of button pushing moments upon entering my mobile oven, I accidently turned the AC off and vent air on. I called my mom and we shared a laugh about melting me. I have yet to tell my smarty-pants dad.

Moral:1) Always check the AC. 2) Don’t be afraid to laugh at yourself. 3) You don’t have to share with ‘everyone’.

Feel free to share you stories in the comments below or email to zsmisadventures@gmail.com to possibly be used in later blogs. Happy Labor Day. Stay Whimsical.

“A simple smile. That is the start of opening you heart and being compassionate to others.”

Dalai Lama

In 2004, when I was thinking about which college would fit both my personality and professional goals, I decided to visit my brother, Todd, in Oregon for a break from the real world. I had a few colleges in Oregon that I wanted to check out and he was the perfect person to show me the reasons why Oregon was a great place to live. 

 One of his first ‘must haves’ was great snow during the winter. Just a few hours from Corvallis there is always enough snow for awesome snowboarding days on Mt Hood and around Bend. So he set us up to enjoy the splendors of Mt. Hood. When we arrived the slopes were covered with 10 ft. of packed snow, 18 inches of powder and the sun warmed the pine scented air. I was a little intimidated when he told me we were standing on an active composite volcano, but Todd assured me it would not erupt. He is an active snowboarder and a has a season pass for Timberline, therefore, I thought his judgment must be sound.

Needing to rent equipment, I decided it was a great time to hit the slopes on a board instead of skis. I signed up for an introductory snowboarding class while Todd, the expert, confronted the Black Diamond heavily wooded slopes and jumps. After class, I was trying to decide whether I should call Todd and head up the lift into the great unknown or spend some time on the bunny slope. I finally chose the bunny hill and the challenge of going down facing forward rather than backwards. It is a phenomenon that skiers rarely confront. I found that stopping was easy. Rather than whipping the board around sideways and putting pressure on the uphill edge and, possibly, planting my face in the powder, I could just sit down and eventually stop. After a few error free runs, I was feeling as though I could take on Shawn White, so I went for it. The Terminator, an intermediate hill, was relatively flat except for the last 100 yards that came out of the trees and crossed a steep incline into the lift area. I was surprised how quickly I picked up speed as I came out into the opening in the trees. I was leaving a plume of powder like a jet contrail as I flew toward the lift area. I started to panic as I closed in on the line of people waiting to move up hill. I was going to have to whip the board around and plant the up-hill edge like I refused to practice. If practice makes perfect, then not practicing makes for a disaster. I yelled as I put my hands out to cushion the dreaded face plant but instead, slammed into the arms of a handsome young man totally unprepared for the speed at which we would meet. I landed on top and we slid cuddled together another 10 to 20 yards down the hill. I was so embarrassed, but didn’t want to seem as though I was a beginner unable to stop, so I did what any real professional  would do, I smiled as I lifted my head off his chest and said, “Hi, my name is Linzie. What’s yours?”

We laughed and eventually shared hot coco at the lodge. I insisted I did it to get his attention, not admitting that that’s how I roll.

 Moral: 1) Being a beginner can be a great asset to meeting people.

Please share your stories of trying out new activities either in the comment section below or by emailing zsmisadventures@gmail.com. Have a whimsical day.