the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Life with Sophia (Page 22 of 27)

One Month of Waiting

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During the last month, I haven’t been very good at commenting on blogs, answering emails, or returning calls.  After I wrote a post about accompanying Sophia to her mammogram, nothing was found on the mammogram or the ultra-sound.  We were ecstatic.  However, she also had an MRI done.  Sophia’s surgeon called with some bad news: they saw “something” in her right breast on the MRI.   This was especially scary because a year and a half ago, the same doctor removed a cancer tumor from her left breast.   This could signify something more serious.   Sophia and I both freaked out.

The surgeon, a well-known doctor at Cedars-Sinai, said that because this “something” could only be seen on the MRI, a regular biopsy could not be performed, and that the only way to go was to do a full invasive surgical biopsy, general anaesthesia and all.

Now, this doctor already knew that Sophia wasn’t just going to follow orders.  If there ever existed an organization called Proactive Patients of America, Sophia would be the poster child.   A year and a half ago, Sophia convinced her doctor to do a new radiation procedure, Mammosite, an intense twice-daily five day therapy available for those with early-stage breast cancer.  The treatment is used instead of the typical seven weeks of whole breast external beam radiation therapy   This required Sophia to have an additional small surgery, and to walk around with a “balloon” inserted in her breast for ten days.  The procedure works by delivering radiation from inside the breast directly to the tissue where cancer is most likely to recur.  It was painful and uncomfortable, but it seemed to have worked, and this technique is supposed to be much more concentrated than regular radiation, and therefore protect the heart and lungs from extensive radiation damage.

Sophia bravely made it through the treatment.

This time, after this latest discovery, Sophia went back into action, doing her own research.  She was wary of getting invasive surgery on her other breast.  Her healing after the original surgery has been difficult.  She went home and Googled every cancer site in the world.  She learned about another relatively new treatment,  a non-invasive biopsy called the MRI-Guided Vacuum Assisted Breast Biopsy that could be used in certain circumstances.  Rather than surgery, the patient is put into a MRI machine, and then, with an assistance of a new apparatus, a special needle is used which “vacuums” the samples out.

Sophia asked her surgeon about the procedure.  He said it was a theoretical possibility, but there was one big problem.  Cedars-Sinai did not have the equipment. 

Here is where most of us would give up.  I told Sophia to forget it.  Did she listen to me?  Of course not.  She went ahead and convinced the hospital to RENT the equipment for her.   This way they could learn the new technique better and eventually buy the system for the hospital to use.

While this was a giant step forward, there was still a lot of fear in the air:

1)  Sophia was giving herself up as a guinea pig.
2)  What happens if they do find cancer?

For two weeks, we waited for the big day.   Tensions grew between us.   It was hard to concentrate on anything other than the wait.   At night, rather than talk about any issues, we spent our time watching TV shows about Texas Hold-em. 

A few days before the hospital appointment, Sophia got a small cut on her finger and it got infected.  It seemed like a big nothing, but when the doctor heard about it, he said they must postpone the appointment because the procedure could cause a severe infection.  We wouldn’t be able to do the biopsy for another ten days.  Sophia was put on two super-strong antibiotics they give people with a most serious Staph infection.

Ten more days!!  Let’s just say that during those ten days, Sophia and I became professional Texas Hold-em players by watching TV every night.  We would talk about players like Daniel Negreanu and Doyle Brunson over dinner, like they were family.

Eventually, the day came.  I was not in the hospital room during the procedure.  I was in the waiting room leafing through a Golf Magazine.  Why does the hospital put these magazines out?  Are they for the patients or the doctors?  

As I sat there, Sophia was slipped in and out of the MRI machine at least 10 times, while they were mapping, positioning, re-positioning, checking, putting the needle in, etc. .  I’ve never been in an MRI machine, but I hear it is pretty unpleasant; you wear earplugs because it’s as loud as sitting in the engine of a fighter jet, your hands are tied, you have to keep perfectly still, and you feel like you’re trapped inside a barrel.

Despite it all, it was still better than invasive surgery.  The procedure took about an hour and a half, plus time in recovery.  We went home and waited again, this time for the results.

More watching poker shows for a few days.

Today, there was good news:  it was benign.   No cancer.

Sophia and I can stop watching poker and go back to fighting with each other again.  Back to normal.

I know a lot of you go on those Revlon breast cancer walks or contribute to the cause.  Thank you.

Throughout this whole ordeal, I’ve been amazed at how Sophia has handled it all — from the way she took medical matters into her own hands, to her willingness to be a guinea pig, to the way she kept her sense of humor.  

Of course, things aren’t really “over” yet.  That is one terrible thing about cancer.  You can never fully say it is over.  There is a five year “period” where you have to keep a watchful eye for any recurrance. 

Yes, Sophia and I are still separated and all that.  Nothing has changed.  But during the past month, I certainly was reminded about why I married Sophia in the first place — her beauty, brains, and grit.

If you haven’t heard my song to Sophia yet — which I put out there on the eve of her procedure — you can find it here.   Feel free to send her a message — or write a better song!

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Sophia: The Song

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I know you’ve been waiting patiently since I wrote the lyrics to the song. 

Sophia, are you ready to ROCK?  I can’t hear you!  Are you READY TO ROCK?!

LISTEN TO “SOPHIA”

Sophia: The Lyrics

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Yes, we all had fun last week, sitting around the campfire and singing such favorites as “Melissa,” “Michelle,” and “Allison.”   On Thursday, May 4th, as promised, will be the World Premiere of what is sure to be this summer’s hottest and most rockin’ song with a woman’s name as a title, “Sophia.”  The lyrics have been written and tomorrow I’m going into the studio with one of LA’ s hippest indie bands, “Citizen and the Months.”  So, come back Thursday and BE READY TO ROCK!  I will sing the song LIVE!

“SOPHIA”

They say no man should be alone
That’s why I called you on the phone.
Cause no one loves you like I do.

I know I’ve gone and done you wrong
That’s why  I’m writing you this song
To tell you that my heart belongs to you.

chorus

Oh Sophia
I think of you all day
Oh Sophia
You rock me every way
Oh Sophia
Sweetest of them all
Oh baby
Why y’not answering my call?

Let’s put behind us all that stuff
Cause ‘without you’ is not enough
I’m waiting by the phone all night and day

I’m like a ship that’s lost at sea
So c’mon, baby, rescue me
You gotta listen to what I have to say

chorus

Oh Sophia
I think of you all day
Oh Sophia
You rock me every way
Oh Sophia
Sweetest of them all
Oh baby
Why y’not answering my call?

The Singing Blogger

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I fall in love very easily. 

"What draws you to another person, Neilochka?" you might ask.  "Is it beauty?  Intelligence?  A sense of humor?"

No, as a writer of words, I am first attracted by the person's name.  

I have no idea if blogging-gal Fitena is a nice person or a grouch, but I was immediately smitten by the name.  Fi-te-na.

When I read one of her comments, I always speak to myself, saying something like, "Oh look, it's a comment from Fi-te-na!" 

Things get worse.  I sing when I blog, especially when I encounter a blogger whose first name is the same as a famous old song.  These bloggers hold a special place in my heart. 

I know… I know… chances are the bloggers' names are not even the real names (wimps), but I still like to imagine that Melissa from Texas is the exact same Melissa that the Allman Brothers were thinking about when they sang:

Crossroads, seem to come and go, yeah.
The gypsy flies from coast to coast

Knowing many, loving none,
Bearing sorrow havin’ fun,
But back home he’ll always run
To sweet melissa… mmm…

("Melissa," Allman Brothers)

I have two blogging-pals named Michelle, each mysterious in her own way.  I'm always singing this:

Michelle, ma belle.
These are words that go together well,
My Michelle.

Michelle, ma belle.
Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,
Très bien ensemble.

("Michelle," The Beatles)

There's Amanda:

I’m gonna take you by surprise and make you realize,
Amanda
I’m gonna tell you right away, I can’t wait another day,
Amanda
I’m gonna say it like a man and make you understand
Amanda

("Amanda," Boston)

And Beth:

Beth, I hear you callin’
But I can’t come home right now
Me and the boys are playin’
And we just can’t find the sound
Just a few more hours
And I’ll be right home to you
I think I hear them callin’
Oh, beth what can I do
Beth what can I do

("Beth," KISS)

And Alison:

Oh it's so funny to be seeing you after so long, girl.
And with the way you look I understand
that you were not impressed.
But I heard you let that little friend of mine
take off your party dress.
I'm not going to get too sentimental
like those other sticky valentines,
'cause I don't know if you are loving somebody.
I only know it isn't mine.

Alison, I know this world is killing you.
Oh, Alison, my aim is true.

("Alison," Elvis Costello)

There's also songs for Helena, Jenny, Nancy, Mysterygirl, Brandy, Jill, Elizabeth, Lisa, Sarah, Amy.   Did I forget any?

Men bloggers, don't worry.  I didn't forget you.   I'm not embarrassed to fall in love with a man's name.  Everyday, I take a break at noon from whatever freelance project I'm working on,  make myself a sandwich, click onto Danny's site, and grab my bagpipes:

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

("Danny Boy," Irish Classic)

Now, despite our separation, the main love of my life remains, of course, Sophia.   And I was positive that there weren't any "Sophia" songs in existence.   But Google proved me wrong:

Sophia by Bif Naked
Sophia by The Rasmus
Sophia by Enter My Silence
Sophia by X-Ray Spex
Nude Sophia by Lux Occulta
Hagia Sophia by Secret Chiefs 3
Aetheosophia by Thor's Hammer
Song of Sophia by Dead Can Dance
Sophia On The Stereo by The Benjamins
Messages from Sophia by Lisa Germano
Disciples Of Sophia (The Templars) by Necromantia
All For You Sophia by Franz Ferdinand

I spent all tonight downloading these songs.   Most of these tunes were just awful.  None of them captured any of Sophia's real qualities.

My assignment for later this week:  write a song called "Sophia." 

(to be continued)

Is Your Wife an Imposter?

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After four long years, Tad and Dixie Martin finally encountered each other on yesterday’s episode of "All My Children."  Tad could not believe his eyes.  He thought that Dixie was dead.  Was she really Dixie?  Or an imposter?  Perhaps she was some actress given plastic surgery by Tad’s nemesis, world-renowned cardiologist (but immoral) Doctor David Hayward?

"I am Dixie.  I know things only we could know." said Dixie.

"You could have been fed that information from David Hayward."

"But would he know this…?"

She mentioned some obscure reference to "Ozzie and Harriet" that only the two of them would know  — from an episode twenty years ago, way before the actors had all their real-life plastic surgery.

Tad instantly knew this was the real Dixie.

I turned to Sophia, who was sitting on the couch with me, eating leftover matzoh.

"Make believe I disappeared for five years…"

"Where are you going to go?"

"It doesn’t matter.  I go to find myself… in Tibet.  By climbing the mountains."

"Yeah right.  You in the mountains."

"Just imagine it."

"You’d be calling me within two days, saying you lost your backpack and you need me to send you bagels."

"OK, let’s imagine you leave for five years to go climbing in Tibet.  And then you come back.  And I don’t know if you’re an imposter or not."

"Why would an imposter bother coming to you?"

"Just imagine it!  Now, what are you going to say to me to prove that it is really you?"

"I’m confused.  Who am I?   Me or the imposter?"

"You’re you.  Sophia.   And I want you to prove that assertion."

"I don’t know."

"C’mon, something only we would know.  Like with Tad and Dixie — and "Ozzie and Harriet."

"How about "bouqerones?""  (anchovies we ate during our honeymoon in Spain)

"I actually wrote about them in some comments to Ashbloem.  How do I know you just didn’t read that on her blog during your research?"

"Excuse me.  How the hell am I supposed to know you wrote about bouquerones on someone else’s blog?  How about if I just say, "Neilochka?""

"Neilochka?  Are you serious?  That’s my yahoo email address.  You could have just read the blog.  There are people in other countries that know the story behind Neilochka.  That wouldn’t prove you’re not an imposter"

"I can’t think right now.  Let’s just finish the soap."

"So, are you saying that after all this time together, you can’t come up with one thing that can prove that it is you and not an imposter when you come back after five years in Tibet?"

"Maybe if you would stop writing about everything on your blog, I would have something to say when I come back from Tibet?"

"I don’t write about everything.  C’mon, think.  Prove to me that you are who you say you are."

"I’m pretty sure that you’re never going to write on your blog about the time you xxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx."

"Holy shit, I forgot about that.  Welcome home, Sophia?!"

"Can we go back to watching TV now?"

Crime and Punishment

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For every crime, there is a punishment. 

All has been resolved.  The post that "mysteriously disappeared" is back up. 

But the punishment was severe and costly, and required me to spend my entire Saturday standing around shoe stores and nodding about how "nice they look."

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In the Doghouse

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Because of the last two posts, which contain elements of real events and private conversations that I was not supposed to uh, blab about online, I am temporarily living in the doghouse.  Unfortunately, my doghouse does not have internet access, so this will probably be my last post of the day.   Thank you to all who commented on the earlier post, which has mysteriously disappeared from the blogosphere.

It was great having lunch with you today, Liz.

And Happy Easter to all.

I’m going back into the doghouse.   Please send blankets.

Never Trust a Female Blogger

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The recent discovery of the Gospel of Judas after 1700 years shows "Judas Iscariot not as a betrayer of Jesus, but as his most favored disciple and willing collaborator."

So, it probably time to stop using the word "Judas" as synonymous with "betrayer." 

May I suggest a new term — "Megan."

Yes, cute and lovable Megan, the blogger who befriended my wife despite my concerns that this friendship will only means trouble. 

Men, do not let this happen to you.  Keep your girlfriends and wives locked away when meeting fellow female bloggers.  Women will always betray you.  It’s like they have a secret sisterhood.

What happened?  Why am I so up in arms today?  

Well, yesterday, I was in a very happy mood.  I got all my passive-aggressiveness out in my blog post and I was pure positive energy.  I even thought I’d surprise Sophia when she came home by opening the door wearing nothing but my boxer-briefs.  But as I opened the door, all I noticed was a scowl on Sophia’s face.

"I hear you wrote about me on the blog today." she said.   "And you portrayed me in a unflattering light."

"Uh… no, I portrayed you as nice.  How did you know what I wrote about today?"

"Because Megan called me.  She didn’t like how you wrote about me.  She said I need to bop you on the head when I get home.  And if she could, she’d beat you up, too."

"Megan… called you up… about my blog post?"

This was utterly shocking to me.  My Megan… the blogger I used to flirt with in emails.. can she be turning into a fink rat informer?    If she did this, she just broke one of the major rules in the blogger’s handbook.  "Do Not Rat Out Blogger to Wife."

"You are so TAKING that post down now.  You promised that you would ask me first before writing about me."

"I can’t take the post down.  I’m getting tons of comments on it.  And you’re the good one in the post.  Really.  It’s all about how I’m the passive-aggressive one."

"Did you tell them how you bought the exact cake that I told you NOT to buy."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, sure… I made you look good and me bad."

"And I’ll say it again.  I’m not like my mother."

"Of course not." (add appropriate emoticon for sarcastic effect)

(Editor’s note:  The last two lines were never really exchanged, but were added for "humorous effect.")

Sophia is really wonderful.  Eventually, she said it was OK to keep the post (after making a few minor adjustments to the story).  I see it as a victory for male bloggers everywhere.  Like Woodward and Bernstein, I stood true to my story.   I didn’t let the woman call the shots.  

For once, I roared like a Belgian tiger!

Later that afternoon, we got ready to attend our second Passover Seder.  No cake debacles here.  Our second seder was one of the nicest I’ve ever been to.  Sophia and I were invited to the home of blogger Danny Miller, who not only writes his own terrific blog, but contributes to the Huffington Post.  So going to his big-wig seder is the blogger’s equivalent of going to the celebrity seder of Leonard Nimoy.  Danny and his wife, Kendall, have an amazing historic home, the brisket was perfect, the guests were interesting, Sophia sang wonderfully, and Danny’s daughter, Leah, impressed us all with a puppet reenactment of the Ten Plagues.

But perhaps the highlight of the evening was when Kendall served me the matzoh ball soup with two giant matzohs balls.

"I hear you like big boobs."

Obviously, Danny told this bit of information to his wife.  But that’s OK. I don’t mind Danny imparting that type of information to the world.  I know Danny would NEVER rat me out to my OWN Wife. 

Eh tu, Megan?

Passive-Aggressive

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On any given day, I receive hundreds of emails from women who either want to marry me or see photos of my Adonis-like naked body.  The truth of the matter is that I’m not a perfect specimen of manliness, despite what you think.   I have one fatal flaw, my Achilles heel:

I am passive-aggressive.

I’m not a very combative person in general.  But if I feel that I’m wronged, I have a habit of storing that information in the back cages of my mind, where it waits, like a Belgian tiger in heat, ready to leap out and attack at the most opportune time.

Forget what I just said.   That was literary bullshit that doesn’t convey me at all.  My passive-aggressive nature is nothing like a Belgian tiger in heat.   That is way too aggressive for Neilochka.  My approach would be more like the sneaky snake, slowly trapping my prey in a devious manner.

Or as Sophia likes to say to me on more than one occasion:

"Neil, you’re such a woman."

Hey, it’s not me stereotyping women as devious sneaky snakes.  Blame Sophia.  But when you tell her this, just beware that she is like the Belgian tiger.

Last night, we went to Sophia’s parents house for Passover.   As we’re driving, Sophia wanted to see the cake I bought.  She wasn’t happy with the choice I made and told me so.  This irritated me, because I thought Sophia was acting too picky, but I let it slide, mostly because I know Sophia gets nervous when visiting her mother.

The meal was delicious until it was time for dessert.  Sophia’s mother didn’t like the cake and told this to Sophia.   Sophia said that her mother was too picky and defended my choice of cake, even though the cake really was bad.

Now imagine we’re driving home afterwards.  Would it be stupid of me to bring up to Sophia that she had acted before JUST LIKE HER MOTHER?   Do most women really want to hear this? 

Or was I being passive-aggressive?

I have this bad habit of remembering hurts from as long as ten years ago.  Maybe I should take a lesson from blogging:

  1. You write a post. 
  2. You get your comments. 
  3. And then you put that post in the archives. 

Have you noticed that hardly anyone ever reads you old posts once they’re done.  Sure, you get some spammers and some crazy people still talking about Lindsay Lohan, but mostly the past is past.  It used to bother me that I would write a cool post and then after a day or so, no one would care anymore.   But maybe this is a good approach for real life. 

How can you be passive-aggressive when you put all your old issues into your archives and never again look at them?

Double Entendres and Croissants

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I had the cold first.  Then, I went over to Sophia to get some TLC, and got her sick.  So, by the end of the week, we were both miserable.

Friday, I took some pills and ventured out, mostly because I was excited to meet two bloggers coming to town from San Francisco — Kristy of She Just Walks Around With It and Ish of The Original Pawns of Comedy.  I really enjoyed meeting them and talking about blogging, writing, comedy, and all sorts of things.  We had lunch in Hermosa Beach and then took a walk on the beach right up to the waves. 

Being with people new to the area helped me look at LA in a new way.  I complain about living in Los Angeles a lot, but there is something to be said for living right by the beach, even if I sometimes feel like a fish-out-of-water in the beach culture — with the surfer dudes, the professional volleyball girls, and the ubiquitous fish tacos.

On Saturday, Sophia and I, still under the weather, spent most of the day inside, watching TV.  We especially enjoyed watching old game shows on the Game Show Network.  The highlight of the day was "The Newlywed Game," especially when Bob Eubanks asked the "wives" this question:

"Which of the following game show titles best describes your husband’s behavior lately in the whoopie department?"

A)  Concentration
B)  Make Me Laugh
C)  Beat the Clock

I thought I would have some fun with Sophia and ask her to play along.

"So, what’s your answer?"

"Whoopie meaning sex, right?"

"Yes.  So, which game show title best describes your husband’s behavior?  Concentration?  Make Me Laugh? Or Beat the Clock?"

"I never heard of any of those shows."

"They’re old shows.  Just pick one."

"I don’t know them.  Can I pick one I do know?"

"Sure."

"Wheel of Fortune."

"Wheel of Fortune doesn’t make sense."

"Who Wants to be a Millionaire?"

"Millionaire doesn’t really work either.  It only works if it’s a double entendre."

"Millionaire could be a double entendre.  Like "My husband is worth a million bucks in the sack, or should I phone a friend?.""

"But it’s supposed to be funny.  It should be something making fun of the man’s inadequacy."

"Ok, if you insist.  How about, "My husband’s lovemaking is so blah, that every time we make whoopie, there’s a "Family Feud.""  That’s not bad.  Or my husband is so boring in the bedroom, he’s the ultimate "Hollywood Square."  Or "Let’s just say that when I make whoopie with my husband, the words "Weakest Link" always come to mind."   Better now?"

"OK, OK, I get it.  Let’s watch something else."

On Sunday, Sophia and I spent most of the day like Saturday — watching TV.

At some point, I got lustful feelings and tried to get flirty with the sniffling Sophia, who responded by hitting me in the head with a tissue box.  Sophia promptly fell asleep and I started watching one of those poker shows on TV. 

It was a high-stakes tournament going on at the Aviation Club in Paris.  There was a lot of excitement in the air.  As the players battled each other with their cards and chips, some ordered drinks from an attractive waitress.   Not that this was unusual for a casino.  But I was very surprised when one player asked to be brought a croissant.

A croissant!

How French I thought!  He’s playing for a million dollars, but still has time for a croissant!  I’ve always been fascinated by the French.  Their culture.  Their art.  Their wine.  Their beautiful woman.  My all-time favorite movie director is Frenchman Eric Rohmer.   One of my greatest joys with this blog is that I actually have readers in France.  I’m not sure how they found me, but I’m glad they did.  Like a lot of Americans, I was pissed at the French government’s siding with the Iraqis a couple of years ago, but I never went so far as to change the name of my French toast to Freedom toast. 

And what is more French than a croissant? 

Suddenly, my lustful feelings became focused on French baked goods.  I had a deep yearning for a croissant that just had to be satisfied.  I threw on my clothes and headed for the supermarket. 

But Vons Supermarket proved to be a big disappointment.   Their store brand of croissants looked awful.   A true croissant is much like a perfect bagel — there must be a perfectly modulated juxtaposition between the toughness of the exterior and the softness of the interior.   Vons Supermarket’s croissants looked like cut pieces of cardboard.

But now I had a problem?  Where the hell am I going to find a good croissant in Redondo Beach — where Tito’s Taco Shack is considered fine cuisine?  Luckily, I was able to find a foodie friend at home, who directed me to a bakery in Hermosa Beach.

An hour later, I returned home, holding a bag with two croissants, one for me and one for Sophia.   I thought about the intense pleasure that eating this croissant would give me — like a night of passion in Paris with the most beautiful French woman.

"Why do you go out for croissants?" asked Sophia.

"It was like inspiration.  I heard player in a poker tournament in Paris ask to be brought a croissant."

"No one asks for a croissant in the middle of a poker tournament."

"In France, they do.  You just don’t understand the French.  They have a lust for life.  When they want a croissant, they get a croissant."

"Let me see."

The game was still on Sophia’s Tivo.  She zoomed back to the exact moment I was talking about.   She started laughing.

"He didn’t say "croissant!"" said Sophia, who happens to speak French.   "He said "troi cents!"  He was asking another player if he had "troi cents" — three hundred [thousand] in chips."

"Oh," I said, feeling like an idiot.

We ate the croissants anyway.  Sophia loved hers, but it just wasn’t the same for me.

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