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Rachel de Blanc 's Entries

105 blogs
  • 06 Nov 2014
    My son - approaching five years old, has expressed a desire to own the dress from Disney's 'Frozen'. I listen to my wife explain this to me, and she discourages me from reacting insensitively to his request. I feign indifference but inwardly recoil, not because of some macho reaction to my son's current proclivity towards Princess dresses, but in fear that this might be more than a child-like intrigue. I would not wish him to be as troubled as me. I too am frozen for the moment but warmly loving.
    1325 Posted by Rachel de Blanc
  • My son - approaching five years old, has expressed a desire to own the dress from Disney's 'Frozen'. I listen to my wife explain this to me, and she discourages me from reacting insensitively to his request. I feign indifference but inwardly recoil, not because of some macho reaction to my son's current proclivity towards Princess dresses, but in fear that this might be more than a child-like intrigue. I would not wish him to be as troubled as me. I too am frozen for the moment but warmly loving.
    Nov 06, 2014 1325
  • 08 Aug 2014
    I am having a moment. It's between birth and death and it's called life, and the period that I am specifically writing about is so present that it's frequently referred to as now - at least it was a moment ago. I found myself at the verge, the verge of booking an appointment with a local therapist and finally holding a conversation in the present tense (sometime in the future) about who I am, where I maybe going and where I have been. I had completed the email and even reflected within it that my fingers were hovering over delete, before my digits ultimately undid the message. I am having a moment because I have dressed, relaxed in privacy and eaten breakfast en-femme after supper en-femme and a sleepless night the same. I have worked day long with the whisps of a blonde wig etched into my retina (has this happened to you?) as a ghostly aparition and reminder of a lighter self. I had a good day but was tired, and the vulnerability that tiredness brings has made me a little melancholic, or perhaps particularly open, and so I am typing here, wanting to communicate, but perhaps really in need of collapsing into a sobbing comforting hug of understanding. That therapist doesn't perhaps appreciate how close her escape was.. Moments return of course, and this one doesn't feel like its going way too soon. Sleep will assist, and I'm seeking that comfort soon. I repeated another favourite trick of mine, probably recorded in some medical almanac as the act of a disturbed mind this, but try it yourself, it's entertaining enough on a quiet night in. Stand in front of a mirror (clothed or not) and stare deeply into your eyes. Hold the stare and let the eye muscles relax a bit so that everything once sharp becomes engagingly blurry. Then go on a journey with your stare and watch your physique change, morph and shimmer. You can take a quick journey to a different place - get the lighting wrong you'll scare yourself to death because your skeltal construction can loom large. Stop breathing and you'll faint (I suspect) so keep hard surfaces at a distance. Think optimistically and you'll see what you've always perceived. Smiling when you recognise the reflection has a habit of bringing everything back to focus, and if that doesn't occur guess the next calls to an Optometrist. Go on, have a moment to yourself too. Rachel x
    954 Posted by Rachel de Blanc
  • I am having a moment. It's between birth and death and it's called life, and the period that I am specifically writing about is so present that it's frequently referred to as now - at least it was a moment ago. I found myself at the verge, the verge of booking an appointment with a local therapist and finally holding a conversation in the present tense (sometime in the future) about who I am, where I maybe going and where I have been. I had completed the email and even reflected within it that my fingers were hovering over delete, before my digits ultimately undid the message. I am having a moment because I have dressed, relaxed in privacy and eaten breakfast en-femme after supper en-femme and a sleepless night the same. I have worked day long with the whisps of a blonde wig etched into my retina (has this happened to you?) as a ghostly aparition and reminder of a lighter self. I had a good day but was tired, and the vulnerability that tiredness brings has made me a little melancholic, or perhaps particularly open, and so I am typing here, wanting to communicate, but perhaps really in need of collapsing into a sobbing comforting hug of understanding. That therapist doesn't perhaps appreciate how close her escape was.. Moments return of course, and this one doesn't feel like its going way too soon. Sleep will assist, and I'm seeking that comfort soon. I repeated another favourite trick of mine, probably recorded in some medical almanac as the act of a disturbed mind this, but try it yourself, it's entertaining enough on a quiet night in. Stand in front of a mirror (clothed or not) and stare deeply into your eyes. Hold the stare and let the eye muscles relax a bit so that everything once sharp becomes engagingly blurry. Then go on a journey with your stare and watch your physique change, morph and shimmer. You can take a quick journey to a different place - get the lighting wrong you'll scare yourself to death because your skeltal construction can loom large. Stop breathing and you'll faint (I suspect) so keep hard surfaces at a distance. Think optimistically and you'll see what you've always perceived. Smiling when you recognise the reflection has a habit of bringing everything back to focus, and if that doesn't occur guess the next calls to an Optometrist. Go on, have a moment to yourself too. Rachel x
    Aug 08, 2014 954
  • 25 Apr 2014
    Hello.   On Wednesday night, awake alone and playful, I wrote a new entry that was far more explicit and revealing than any predecessor. I was careful not to slip into poor pornography and keen to avoid the 'Bad Written Sex of the year Award' (?) as I'm happy that Alan Titchmarsh retains that crown. I actually attempted to written an honest, sensual and open note about the physical untapped sexuality that resides within.   It was supposed to be visible only to friends, so when it popped up available to all, I shuddered a little and read it again. It was a bit too descriptive in the cold light of dawn, and perhaps crossed a line. This site isn't about salaciousness or shadowy inter-play upon the margins of acceptibility, it's a nice place. So I'm sorry all if I lowered the tone.   I received a response from a few (thank you) and an almost immediate reponse from one person that  rocked me to the core. I haven't previously experienced direct, invitational male advances. Yippee or Yikes..?! I faltered, flustered and fleetingly enjoyed the moment and then ultimately froze only to delete the response. Sorry to him.    So that's taught me a lesson. Next time I'll either go for all out pornographic arousing gratuitous sexual inneundo and await the advances in a semi-drunken come-hither brace, or I'll write an oh so pleasant ditty that distributes pastel-coloured fairies in a pretty haze around my fanciful dreamy head. I've learned a valuable lesson. Words don't necessarily come easy but boy, a woman can put them to very good use if she chooses them carefully.   Be careful what you write, you may get what you wished for.   Rachel x  
    1560 Posted by Rachel de Blanc
  • Hello.   On Wednesday night, awake alone and playful, I wrote a new entry that was far more explicit and revealing than any predecessor. I was careful not to slip into poor pornography and keen to avoid the 'Bad Written Sex of the year Award' (?) as I'm happy that Alan Titchmarsh retains that crown. I actually attempted to written an honest, sensual and open note about the physical untapped sexuality that resides within.   It was supposed to be visible only to friends, so when it popped up available to all, I shuddered a little and read it again. It was a bit too descriptive in the cold light of dawn, and perhaps crossed a line. This site isn't about salaciousness or shadowy inter-play upon the margins of acceptibility, it's a nice place. So I'm sorry all if I lowered the tone.   I received a response from a few (thank you) and an almost immediate reponse from one person that  rocked me to the core. I haven't previously experienced direct, invitational male advances. Yippee or Yikes..?! I faltered, flustered and fleetingly enjoyed the moment and then ultimately froze only to delete the response. Sorry to him.    So that's taught me a lesson. Next time I'll either go for all out pornographic arousing gratuitous sexual inneundo and await the advances in a semi-drunken come-hither brace, or I'll write an oh so pleasant ditty that distributes pastel-coloured fairies in a pretty haze around my fanciful dreamy head. I've learned a valuable lesson. Words don't necessarily come easy but boy, a woman can put them to very good use if she chooses them carefully.   Be careful what you write, you may get what you wished for.   Rachel x  
    Apr 25, 2014 1560
  • 19 Jan 2014
    As I sit here the house is full of the debris of illusion. My feet are aching a little from the pointed-toed kitten heels that are holding them in. A belt, clasped tight around my waist - which is actually dimunitive already, is present and curiously comforting. No bra because I have no breasts. Generously applied perfume tingles my senses and is gently heady. I've taken time today with my make-up and I've got it right I think. Let's be honest, that's not always the case is it? A new wig, purchased with brazen subterfuge ("I've been invited to a Hen Party..") albeit cheap, synthetic and end-of-line from a fashion from 2008, sits comfortably upon my head and I love it. Actually, I love everything about tonight and I take photographs in order to capture my happiness. Do share it with me. So I'm a transvestive then, dressing for a few hours relaxation and escape? No, I'm certain that I'm not, I'm a transexual and I so wish that this were not a moment in time, but a real period of life. I have no desire to take this stuff off, no desire for the night to end. In the mirror to my right I see the reflection of a woman (OK, I know that narcassistic but you got to take every advantage) and she seems happy, confident and at ease. She's not beautiful because her face shows signs of age in good light, but she's happy, and anyway smiles define us more than crevices. Within less than 18 hours life will return to normal when the family return, and within the bathroom the armoury that has taken her from drabness to solace lies strewn across the floor. A half-empty glass of Chardonnay has travelled from the bathroom to the desk at where she writes but that's the only thing that's been put away. The debris remains. It remains in her head. She's a woman in a man's body. She's a man within a world that accepts her as such but is undermined by her presence. She's too loving to undermine the faith and affection that she provides her wife and child and so she chooses to remain effeminately covert. Scratch the surface and she bleeds, cries and collapses because of the effort to sustain the carapace and to prevent the truth from becoming the body real. Oh how I enjoyed this evening, oh how happy I feel, how creatively and naturally free I sense I could become. I wish that my life were not a traipse over the debris that genetics have delivered. I wish that I had known then what I know now, and that prior to commitment and comformity that I had been informed and had been made real when life remained to be fully lived. I'll tidy up the debris eventually, but if you don't mind I might just stay here for a few hours and let the night become my suitor.  Sleep tight. x
    1013 Posted by Rachel de Blanc
  • As I sit here the house is full of the debris of illusion. My feet are aching a little from the pointed-toed kitten heels that are holding them in. A belt, clasped tight around my waist - which is actually dimunitive already, is present and curiously comforting. No bra because I have no breasts. Generously applied perfume tingles my senses and is gently heady. I've taken time today with my make-up and I've got it right I think. Let's be honest, that's not always the case is it? A new wig, purchased with brazen subterfuge ("I've been invited to a Hen Party..") albeit cheap, synthetic and end-of-line from a fashion from 2008, sits comfortably upon my head and I love it. Actually, I love everything about tonight and I take photographs in order to capture my happiness. Do share it with me. So I'm a transvestive then, dressing for a few hours relaxation and escape? No, I'm certain that I'm not, I'm a transexual and I so wish that this were not a moment in time, but a real period of life. I have no desire to take this stuff off, no desire for the night to end. In the mirror to my right I see the reflection of a woman (OK, I know that narcassistic but you got to take every advantage) and she seems happy, confident and at ease. She's not beautiful because her face shows signs of age in good light, but she's happy, and anyway smiles define us more than crevices. Within less than 18 hours life will return to normal when the family return, and within the bathroom the armoury that has taken her from drabness to solace lies strewn across the floor. A half-empty glass of Chardonnay has travelled from the bathroom to the desk at where she writes but that's the only thing that's been put away. The debris remains. It remains in her head. She's a woman in a man's body. She's a man within a world that accepts her as such but is undermined by her presence. She's too loving to undermine the faith and affection that she provides her wife and child and so she chooses to remain effeminately covert. Scratch the surface and she bleeds, cries and collapses because of the effort to sustain the carapace and to prevent the truth from becoming the body real. Oh how I enjoyed this evening, oh how happy I feel, how creatively and naturally free I sense I could become. I wish that my life were not a traipse over the debris that genetics have delivered. I wish that I had known then what I know now, and that prior to commitment and comformity that I had been informed and had been made real when life remained to be fully lived. I'll tidy up the debris eventually, but if you don't mind I might just stay here for a few hours and let the night become my suitor.  Sleep tight. x
    Jan 19, 2014 1013
  • 08 Oct 2013
    So I find myself on gardening leave, during consultation about my prospective redundancy. It was coming and it happened. The initiative has been taken away from me, and so I must pursue a new position with a clock ticking in the background. Ultimately it's good news I tell myself, because a change was necessary.    Change of course is always on my mind, and I have a track history (perhaps tran-history is better) of not taking the initiative. But I now have time on my hands and an opportunity to return to a default setting, and I want to spend the days dressed, made-up and at peace. I have spent valuable 'professional' time on here, researching Gender Therapists, looking at clothes, bathing and fussing, falling into myself.    To secure a new job I will need to be focused, clear-headed and convincing. If Rachel becomes ever more present my ability to do that may diminish significantly. I suspect that Rachel may have already contributed to my current situation though, she's perhaps taken the edge of, softening, opened and made me a more considerate 'male'.   This is turning into a blog isn't it? (so ultimately that's where I decide to locate it..)   So my gardening time is a predicament. With each glance out of the window another errant leaf drifts onto a previously tidy plot. I need to focus upon the bigger picture for a moment and secure an income for the future, but that's a big challenge when another pull towards a change is so strong.    The desire to prune, rake and present is very, very strong indeed. But if I am to maintain my masculine professional facade, I'm afraid that I have to leave it this Autumn.   Wrap up. It's forecast to be getting cooler.   Rachel x
    1095 Posted by Rachel de Blanc
  • So I find myself on gardening leave, during consultation about my prospective redundancy. It was coming and it happened. The initiative has been taken away from me, and so I must pursue a new position with a clock ticking in the background. Ultimately it's good news I tell myself, because a change was necessary.    Change of course is always on my mind, and I have a track history (perhaps tran-history is better) of not taking the initiative. But I now have time on my hands and an opportunity to return to a default setting, and I want to spend the days dressed, made-up and at peace. I have spent valuable 'professional' time on here, researching Gender Therapists, looking at clothes, bathing and fussing, falling into myself.    To secure a new job I will need to be focused, clear-headed and convincing. If Rachel becomes ever more present my ability to do that may diminish significantly. I suspect that Rachel may have already contributed to my current situation though, she's perhaps taken the edge of, softening, opened and made me a more considerate 'male'.   This is turning into a blog isn't it? (so ultimately that's where I decide to locate it..)   So my gardening time is a predicament. With each glance out of the window another errant leaf drifts onto a previously tidy plot. I need to focus upon the bigger picture for a moment and secure an income for the future, but that's a big challenge when another pull towards a change is so strong.    The desire to prune, rake and present is very, very strong indeed. But if I am to maintain my masculine professional facade, I'm afraid that I have to leave it this Autumn.   Wrap up. It's forecast to be getting cooler.   Rachel x
    Oct 08, 2013 1095
  • 25 Nov 2012
    The alternative title for this could be 'Boxed In' This is a quick relfection upon the life of a closet dweller. I'm not going to pass any judgement here upon people in this situation, but for those who are not, or may have once passed through this gateway (sorry, bit of a clunky managament consultant term) it might serve to qualify where you are now in your own journey. My family have been away and so I have time to emerge for a while. At least between going to work. So on Thursday evening a long, luxuriant shower is taken. More aromatic than the masculine norm and heavenly as a result. Foam can become abundant and cloaking. I dare to shave my legs a little, small patches but a sensory indication of what the total loss might be like. I stop. Too difficult to explain that turkey. I towel dry and moisturise, slightly scented. Lovely. I'm disturbed by the prospect of aromatic bed-linen being discovered. I shower with rigour the following morning. Men's toiletries in abundance. Familiar clean odour for work. I plan the weekend between meetings and toil and curse the previous disposal of my wig. It'd be nice to take some new photographs, to allow hair length to obscure reality for a while. But that's a purchase that is too late to rectify. Home, another luxuriant shower. I watch the BBC Three documentary upon the 18 year transsexual beauty queen prior to sleeping. Sweet. Dreams don't transport me anywhere impractical. I go shopping on Saturday with specific aims and unspecific aspirations. I skirt the lingerie sections but decide not to purchase a new bra & knickers set because a secluded pile of clothes doesn't really represent sensible spending in a time of austerity. Whilst looking for shoes (mens) I flicker at christmas party heels and statement pieces. Once home I change. More care now. I imitate breasts and hips, I beg steal and borrow a look, and with great care make-up. I think I've become adept at make-up after all these years and tonight I think I get the balance right. My hair though is short and to the point. It reminds me of my failings and limitations. I take a few photographs but they resemble someone in trouble. A vulnerable person, attention seeking and anxious. She's also a little older now than she once was or dreams of being. A glass of wine (or two) and the X-Factor doesn't change this fact. Sunday morning is the return to the rational. To double-checking that secret activities remain so. That the make-up is clearly off. Did I mention that I'd trimmed my eye-brows last night? I anxious and wonder whether they are now too shapely - and my eyes look a little puffy from cleanser and sponges. Experience suggests that they will calm down during the day. I visit Gender Society again and hope for messages, contact or something to grasp. But you've got to give to get, and I don't give enough. So I write this. Self-imposed boundaries is a tricky title. I didn't choose to be what I am and I could of course remove the boundary entirely by revealing the truth. But some of us, many of us I suspect, are unable to do that because of existing commitments, fear or lack of self-conviction. There's no time to be down-beat. The sun is out my son is coming home too and I've worked to do. I must remember to change out of these leggings and navy-blue wrap over cardigan before I collect them, otherwise the next blog will be very different in deed. With hugs to all types. Rachel x 
    1516 Posted by Rachel de Blanc
  • The alternative title for this could be 'Boxed In' This is a quick relfection upon the life of a closet dweller. I'm not going to pass any judgement here upon people in this situation, but for those who are not, or may have once passed through this gateway (sorry, bit of a clunky managament consultant term) it might serve to qualify where you are now in your own journey. My family have been away and so I have time to emerge for a while. At least between going to work. So on Thursday evening a long, luxuriant shower is taken. More aromatic than the masculine norm and heavenly as a result. Foam can become abundant and cloaking. I dare to shave my legs a little, small patches but a sensory indication of what the total loss might be like. I stop. Too difficult to explain that turkey. I towel dry and moisturise, slightly scented. Lovely. I'm disturbed by the prospect of aromatic bed-linen being discovered. I shower with rigour the following morning. Men's toiletries in abundance. Familiar clean odour for work. I plan the weekend between meetings and toil and curse the previous disposal of my wig. It'd be nice to take some new photographs, to allow hair length to obscure reality for a while. But that's a purchase that is too late to rectify. Home, another luxuriant shower. I watch the BBC Three documentary upon the 18 year transsexual beauty queen prior to sleeping. Sweet. Dreams don't transport me anywhere impractical. I go shopping on Saturday with specific aims and unspecific aspirations. I skirt the lingerie sections but decide not to purchase a new bra & knickers set because a secluded pile of clothes doesn't really represent sensible spending in a time of austerity. Whilst looking for shoes (mens) I flicker at christmas party heels and statement pieces. Once home I change. More care now. I imitate breasts and hips, I beg steal and borrow a look, and with great care make-up. I think I've become adept at make-up after all these years and tonight I think I get the balance right. My hair though is short and to the point. It reminds me of my failings and limitations. I take a few photographs but they resemble someone in trouble. A vulnerable person, attention seeking and anxious. She's also a little older now than she once was or dreams of being. A glass of wine (or two) and the X-Factor doesn't change this fact. Sunday morning is the return to the rational. To double-checking that secret activities remain so. That the make-up is clearly off. Did I mention that I'd trimmed my eye-brows last night? I anxious and wonder whether they are now too shapely - and my eyes look a little puffy from cleanser and sponges. Experience suggests that they will calm down during the day. I visit Gender Society again and hope for messages, contact or something to grasp. But you've got to give to get, and I don't give enough. So I write this. Self-imposed boundaries is a tricky title. I didn't choose to be what I am and I could of course remove the boundary entirely by revealing the truth. But some of us, many of us I suspect, are unable to do that because of existing commitments, fear or lack of self-conviction. There's no time to be down-beat. The sun is out my son is coming home too and I've worked to do. I must remember to change out of these leggings and navy-blue wrap over cardigan before I collect them, otherwise the next blog will be very different in deed. With hugs to all types. Rachel x 
    Nov 25, 2012 1516
  • 15 Apr 2012
    So you might be wondering, 'What's she all about, nothing for months then three days of frequent visits..?" Well it's not difficult, simply my wife's been away and so Rachel has been able to relax for a bit. The three days have confirmed that: My hair isn't long enough, my wardrobe lacks most things, I daren't not do a full body shave, I love my family and miss them, I love being Rachel.  It's reminded me that I'm a messed-up bitch (sorry, that reads a bit strong but it's accurate) and that I need help. It's reminded me that GS is home to some lovely people and that I too frequently watch and fail to contribute. It's reminded me that I must seek help from a Gender Therapist. It's reminded me that Americans do express themselves slightly differently but that that doesn't matter. It's reminded me that my typing skills are awful. I recall how time flies when you're having fun and the names of a number of previous GS members who no longer visit. I realise that I'd like to speak to some of you and so have been practicising my female voice and so I now know that being a hoarse isn't pleasant. I'm encouraged that I can buy female clothes in daylight in a public place and not be distrurbed, I'm sorry that I didn't buy better clothes. I wish my nails were more slender and that my fingers were equally refined. I see that Bloggers still exist and wonder why Blogs do too.    I notice that people visit GS and just say hello to them all. Feeling brave, I offer a Hug x.  
    814 Posted by Rachel de Blanc
  • So you might be wondering, 'What's she all about, nothing for months then three days of frequent visits..?" Well it's not difficult, simply my wife's been away and so Rachel has been able to relax for a bit. The three days have confirmed that: My hair isn't long enough, my wardrobe lacks most things, I daren't not do a full body shave, I love my family and miss them, I love being Rachel.  It's reminded me that I'm a messed-up bitch (sorry, that reads a bit strong but it's accurate) and that I need help. It's reminded me that GS is home to some lovely people and that I too frequently watch and fail to contribute. It's reminded me that I must seek help from a Gender Therapist. It's reminded me that Americans do express themselves slightly differently but that that doesn't matter. It's reminded me that my typing skills are awful. I recall how time flies when you're having fun and the names of a number of previous GS members who no longer visit. I realise that I'd like to speak to some of you and so have been practicising my female voice and so I now know that being a hoarse isn't pleasant. I'm encouraged that I can buy female clothes in daylight in a public place and not be distrurbed, I'm sorry that I didn't buy better clothes. I wish my nails were more slender and that my fingers were equally refined. I see that Bloggers still exist and wonder why Blogs do too.    I notice that people visit GS and just say hello to them all. Feeling brave, I offer a Hug x.  
    Apr 15, 2012 814
  • 13 Apr 2012
    The radio informs me that Edward Munch's The Scream is on display in London this week, for a single week. I think a lot of us might be able to emphasise with the main character. He's obviously just changed, grabbed his male clothing and walked back to normal everyday life, and exclaims his frustration. He's screaming because she's not the woman she knows she is. I'd like to commence Hormones and enable my body to travel, naturally, to a location closer to where my brain resides. I scream with Munch's figure - we are both stuck, but at least little Munch is of to New York next week. Good shops, that'll cheer her up.
    821 Posted by Rachel de Blanc
  • The radio informs me that Edward Munch's The Scream is on display in London this week, for a single week. I think a lot of us might be able to emphasise with the main character. He's obviously just changed, grabbed his male clothing and walked back to normal everyday life, and exclaims his frustration. He's screaming because she's not the woman she knows she is. I'd like to commence Hormones and enable my body to travel, naturally, to a location closer to where my brain resides. I scream with Munch's figure - we are both stuck, but at least little Munch is of to New York next week. Good shops, that'll cheer her up.
    Apr 13, 2012 821
  • 10 Sep 2011
    A quiet night in so I re-visit some old blogs - to give me encouragement to contribute something new. What am I like..?! Most the the self-centred stuff that I've contributed here has been complete tosh. So sorry all for the delusional utterings. Would be lovely to talk of nights out clubbing, of polished nails, treatments, shopping and meeting friends to shop, natter and hug. Problem is, I haven't done any of that, so it'd all be fibs. This is true enough though. A private engagement with a dress and breast-forms, styled back-combed hair and a flaunty lipstick. But it's not really living is it? Can I say sorry to those in the chat room that I failed to speak to earlier. I couldn't think of anything silent enough to contribute to the silence with. I'm not drunk. I'm OK. Hope you are too. Rachel x
    956 Posted by Rachel de Blanc
  • A quiet night in so I re-visit some old blogs - to give me encouragement to contribute something new. What am I like..?! Most the the self-centred stuff that I've contributed here has been complete tosh. So sorry all for the delusional utterings. Would be lovely to talk of nights out clubbing, of polished nails, treatments, shopping and meeting friends to shop, natter and hug. Problem is, I haven't done any of that, so it'd all be fibs. This is true enough though. A private engagement with a dress and breast-forms, styled back-combed hair and a flaunty lipstick. But it's not really living is it? Can I say sorry to those in the chat room that I failed to speak to earlier. I couldn't think of anything silent enough to contribute to the silence with. I'm not drunk. I'm OK. Hope you are too. Rachel x
    Sep 10, 2011 956