Falling sky things

by Lorin Michel Thursday, June 23, 2011 11:02 PM

I was in the kitchen last night, minding my own business, probably cooking or at least preparing to cook. Kevin was in the bathroom, just finishing a shower. Maguire was in the living room in his usual position, splayed on the floor, snoring and drooling.

I raised my glass of wine for a sip, since in my kitchen and in my house, evening food doesn’t happen without wine; it’s not civilized. Suddenly, something somewhere in the house crashed and crashed hard. I turned, curious. And called out to my husband: Honey?

No response. I put my glass down and walked to the doorway, expecting to see him sitting at the foot of the stairs tying his shoes. He wasn’t there. Maguire, however, was where he was supposed to be.

Kev? A little concerned now. He came strolling out of the bedroom; he had heard the crash, too, though didn’t seem terribly concerned. We could find nothing downstairs where the majority of the house spreads, so Kevin trucked upstairs since whatever had fallen from the sky seemed to resonate from on high. Nothing in the loft office, he reported. I sipped my wine, doing my due diligence. Silence from above. Anything, I asked?

“Looks like the showerhead broke off.” The bathroom upstairs, off of Justin’s old room now known as the guest room and the guest bath, has been under gradual renovation. We’re redoing the floor, we redid the vanity; replaced the showerhead.


This is not the first time we’ve had things fall unexpectedly from the sky inside the house. There was that one day many years ago when I was on the phone, luckily with Bobbi, and there was a huge crash in the house, I hung up quickly and dashed out of my office to find that the 1948 Roadmaster bicycle that we have suspended up above the foyer, on the bridge that holds the duct work from the A/C and more, had broken free of its moorings to land with a loud bang on the marble floor below. I was just happy that Maguire, who often lays directly under that bridge in the foyer because that’s where his kennel once resided, was out in the backyard, sleeping.

Then there was the time that Kevin was on the ladder in the great room on a Thanksgiving morning, the top of the extension resting against the high beam, when the ladder slipped and my husband crashed down, hitting the wine table, destroying his ankle ligaments and rendering him nearly crippled for life.

Shortly there after, in January, as we were watching the series finale of Sex and the City, sitting opposite one another, Kevin on the couch, me on the love seat, the coffee table between us, there was a loud crack. Both of us looked toward the fireplace, and the huge mirror that was on the wall reaching from the mantle to the ceiling. We both watched in horror as it peeled away from the top of the wall, at the ceiling, as if in slow motion, finally pulling away in total to crash between us onto the coffee table, splintering into a million pieces of glass that flew across the room, destroying the couches, demolishing a potter’s bowl purchased in an art gallery and a clock shaped like an electronic ice-cream cone. Once again and luckily, Maguire was outside.

When anything crashes these days, my first thought is: Where’s the dog? He doesn’t hear anything anymore so he wouldn’t hear anything falling from the sky; he’d just feel it if it landed on him. It’s one of my biggest fears, and I celebrate the fact that he has not been harmed by any of these things falling from the sky.

Last night, the only thing that fell from our internal sky was an inconsequential showerhead, easily replaced with a trip to Home Depot.

And undoubtedly a star or a thousand, somewhere, someplace in the world and the universe. 

Tags: , , , , ,

live out loud

Walkin' after midnight: A vintage puppy tale

by Lorin Michel Monday, June 20, 2011 10:35 PM

It happens nearly every night. As darkness descends and all the day creatures snuggle down into nests, dens and beds, the night warrior emerges. Fearless and possessed of a vision not known to mere mortals, this warrior roams the hallowed halls and walkways, searching for predators, searching for prey, searching for the meaning of it all. Searching for the perfect tail.

I speak of course, of the supreme vintage puppy, the commanding dog squire known as Maguire Michel.

Every night, as Kevin and I get into bed, Maguire rambles through the house into the kitchen were he has a little snack followed by much slurping of water, most of which is dispersed onto the tile floor. He then saunters back into the bedroom, rams his bed with his head a few times, wipes his whispers on the sides of said bed and settles down in front of the open window to feel the breeze and the night ruffle through his fur. He is content. For about three and a half hours.

At about 3 am, he begins making slurping and munching sounds in his sleep. This apparently wakes him – as well as his parents – up. He then rises, shakes everything back into place, including his dog tags which sound like the equivalent of a marching band at that hour, and proceeds to leave the bedroom on patrol. We have never quite been able to figure out what he’s looking for, if he’s in fact searching for anything. Kevin is convinced that Maguire is actually the reincarnation of my beloved Tori Lynn, my beautiful gray tortoise cat whom I lost to cancer in 1995 when she was just 10. She stayed with me through my divorce, and through my subsequent dating years before I met Kevin. I like to think that she stayed until she knew it was OK for her to go.

Kevin didn’t want to get another cat, and since we both loved dogs, we decided to get a slightly older female, adopted from the local animal shelter. We ended up with an eight-week-old male puppy. From the beginning he had nocturnal tendencies, cat-like grace and night vision. Hence the Maguire-as-Tori scenario.

Last night he rose just before 3, and with his nimble cat feet, he proceeded to prance about the house. He pranced to the kitchen for a bite and a slop, then back into the bedroom, then once again out into the living room where he began pacing back and forth, huffing and puffing. Eventually Kevin got up at around 3:10, thinking that maybe if he took Maguire outside, it would calm him down.

It didn’t.

He proceeded to prance and huff and grunt and puff. He came into the bedroom and started into the bathroom. He came back out, did a turn or two around the bedroom again, then went back into the bathroom before backing out one more time. Kevin and I were awake the whole time, waiting for him to settle down and go back to sleep. The minutes became a half hour. Maguire went into the bathroom again and stood there in the dark, in front of the mirror, something obviously on his mind.

Then, out of the night came my husband’s voice, speaking as Maguire: “Does this fur make me look fat?”


I’m celebrating a rollicking laugh at 3:33 am, and the fact that, after being assured he was still his svelte self, Maguire finally settled down and went back to sleep. For another three hours anyway.

Dog twins

by Lorin Michel Sunday, June 5, 2011 10:24 PM

I’m a big dog lover as anyone who knows me or reads this blog knows. I find canines to be the purest of creatures, with focused hearts and minds that track cookies and other dogs with unwavering purpose. I think that dogs should be family members and treated with love and respect (for you cat lovers, I think the same; I just don’t happen to have a cat at the moment, largely because of my husband. Subject for another post). I think dogs are the good children who never grow up to ask for money, stay out past curfew, or demand a new computer or another car.

Dogs, in short, rule, with my Maguire leading the pack.

In addition to loving dogs, I also do some writing for a dog rescue organization up in Washington called Second Chance Dogs. I’ve written many stories about abused, abandoned and neglected dogs; dogs that people treat like something less than garbage. Starving them, refusing to get medical treatment when required, beating them. It breaks my heart but I write the stories because it helps to bring attention to their plights and helps to get good people to adopt them. In the case of Second Chance Dogs, to give them a second chance at a good life, with a loving family, something they all deserve. Once the new website is up – which we’re working on – I’ll talk more about this inspirational organization and what they accomplish on a daily basis.

Puppy, a Second Chance Dogs rescue, and Maguire's twin

But tonight, I’m going to write about one dog that they’ve recently rescued, a nearly starved little guy they’re currently calling Puppy. Hopefully he’ll get a better name soon, something a bit more majestic and deserving. When they sent me a photo, I literally gasped. I was in my office, in the loft, and I had to stand up and go to the stairs to make sure my own dog was still splayed out on the rug in the great room.

Puppy could be Maguire’s double, his twin, his brother. He looks so much like Maguire, both when he was younger and blonder and now that he’s grayer and wiser. I’d think they were separated at birth if it wasn’t for the fact that Maguire is older.

Maguire when he was younger, blonder

Puppy was so starved when he was rescued that he couldn’t eat. He was hand fed and given water with a bottle. Now he’s more or less able to eat on his own, scarfing down kibble, eggs, beef and cottage cheese. He’s filling out, he’s happy and he’s getting better with age. Just like his dog-twin, Maguire.

Tags: , , , ,

live out loud

Saturday night's alright: Vintage puppy version

by Lorin Michel Saturday, May 21, 2011 11:07 PM

Maguire is on patrol. He ventured out into the backyard a short time ago, stood with his nose in the air to get a good sniff of something and then stepped off the patio and away from the tiny white lights that line the patio cover, illuminating the darkness. Into that darkness he disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again. At least for a few minutes.

I can hear him now, mixing it up with Kobe, the wire terrier mix next door. I know the routine because I've spied: Maguire walks to the side of the yard, up against the wall. He pushes his nose through some of the brush, rattling it up a bit, just enough to get Kobe’s attention. Then he starts down the side of the house into the bluish black of the evening. When he was younger, he’d run down the side and Kobe would run along with him, albeit on his own side of the wall. They couldn’t see each other but they could hear and they’d bark back and forth.

Now Maguire simply strolls, breathing heavily. At his age, simply rising from the floor can cause him to pant. His patrols elicit much the same. I fear he has congestive heart failure; I hope I’m incorrect.

On this night, he huffs along, puffing, stopping occasionally to snort. Kobe, who's several years younger, paces on the other side of the wall, worried that the big dog, the self-proclaimed dog-mayor of the OP, will pass some sort of judgment. What that judgment could possibly be, no one knows, but it would obviously be bad.

Now a bark. Then another. A shaking of the fur; a jingling of the tags. The vintage puppy has completed his survey of the property and his terrorizing of his neighbor; Kobe is left pacing. On this Saturday night, all is well.

And Maguire rejoices.

I’m rejoicing in my Saturday, too. A day spent having coffee, then going for a bike ride, cleaning, working, shopping, cooking. Cajun shrimp with garlic and green peppers, and cauliflower with garlic/mushroom/blue cheese butter toasted with a lovely Rutherford BV Cabernet Sauvignon from 2007.  Kevin worked most of the day, and Maguire prepared for his nighttime walk around the back yard by sleeping.

It wasn’t a typical Saturday but it was still a Saturday, and there’s little to complain about and much to celebrate. Saturday night’s alright.

Tags: , ,

live out loud

Feeling rapturous

by Lorin Michel Friday, May 20, 2011 6:47 PM

To experience ecstatic joy and delight, complete abandon, and generally so happy you can hardly stand yourself. That’s what it means to be rapturous. It’s positive, influential, wondrous; a true celebration. I don’t feel completely rapturous often. I don’t think it’s normal, but it does happen, and mostly on Friday afternoons like today.

The reason for my rapturous feeling is easy to define. It means I’ll have a couple days of playtime, finishing up some projects, doing some writing, cooking and enjoying some very fine wine.

Rapturous is the adjective form of rapture, which means extreme pleasure, happiness or excitement. It’s from the Latin word rapere, meaning to take away or snatch out. Which leads me to the end of the world, scheduled for tomorrow. Actually, the rapture is scheduled for tomorrow; the end of the world, or as my friends have been referring to it “EOTW,” isn’t until sometime in October. I don’t think I’ve seen an actual date though October 2 comes to mind.

As anyone who has read past blog entries knows, I don’t subscribe to organized religion. I was raised catholic but consider myself recovering. I prefer to think of myself as spiritual, though have both friends and family who are churchgoers and somewhat religious.

Jan Luyken’s etching illustrating The Rapture in Matthew 24:40

The Rapture is an event where hundreds of thousands if not millions of true believers will suddenly be taken up to Heaven. It will precede the Second Coming of Christ and the EOTW. This isn’t the first time the Rapture has been predicted, and it will not be the last. We already have one to look forward to in 2012, as predicted by the Mayans. Biblical scholars initially discovered the concept sometime in the 18th century. It’s in 1 Thessalonians 4:15-17, and references appear in the 1395 Wycliffe Bible, the 1525 Tyndale New Testament, the 1568 Bishop’s Bible, 1587 Geneva Bible, 1611 King James bible and the New English Bible, translated from its original Greek text. The first rapture, to occur on October 22, 1844, was predicted by William Miller. There’s also one predicted for 2060, by Sir Isaac Newton, in case the one for tomorrow, or the one in 2012, doesn’t happen.

There have been countless books and films devoted to this concept, including the highly disturbing The Rapture starring Mimi Rogers. Episode 354 of The Simpsons, entitled Thank God, It’s Doomsday, has Homer miscalculating his rapture prediction and ending up being the only one taken. When he vandalizes Heaven, he is immediately returned.

I don’t expect anything out of the ordinary to happen tomorrow, largely because I don’t understand why God is so mad at everyone. I can understand wrath being directed at really bad people and politicians, but am I really that awful just because I’m not a rapt believer? I work hard, love my husband, son and family, consider myself a fairly decent friend, adore my dog. I love good food, good wine, good times, none of which are considered illegal, harmful to anyone or bad. In general I’m feeling rapturous about life. I hope to be celebrating that feeling for quite some time.

Of course, if I’m wrong, I want to thank you all for reading and commenting. And God bless. 


Tags: , , , ,

live out loud

A vintage pod-puppy story

by Lorin Michel Monday, May 9, 2011 6:53 PM

A couple of weeks ago, we trimmed the palm trees on the side of the house, cutting down the dead fronds. There was a tree-trimming crew in the neighborhood and we had hoped to pay them to either feed everything through their wood chipper or to throw the branches on top of the load they were taking to the dump. But because the limbs were dead they were no longer “green,” which means they can't be "dumped" in the environmental section.

Who knew?

So we stacked everything on the back patio, right outside of our bedroom slider, and we’re slowly making use of our trash pickup every Friday morning. Last week, we managed to get all of the dead fronds into one can. But the hard pods are taking longer. They’re inflexible so we can only stuff a few into each barrel at a time. We still have quite the little pile on the patio.

Maguire didn’t seem to care much about the pile when it was bigger but now that it’s smaller and more manageable, he has decided that he must don his Super Dog cape and protect us from whatever it is that is obviously hell-bent on invading the house. These pods could lead to our destruction. Worse, they could lead to us being replaced by pod-people and pod-dog. I suspect his biggest concern is that should these pod-people materialize, his access to cookies and treats might be restricted. And what if they’re here, what if they’re already here! Mom! Dad!


Each evening he decides to venture out around the time we’re sitting down to dinner, which is usually around 9 pm. Standing at the back slider, gazing into the darkness, his head tilted slightly to the left in order to see the pods lying to his right, he stares first, then growls. He then looks to Kevin. Dad? I need to get out there. NOW! Kevin, good vintage-puppy dad that he is, rises from the couch, leaving his food to cool, and slides open the door. Maguire pushes his head out, keeping his body safely in the house. Then, after some prodding, he quietly eases into the inky blue of night, straight out into the yard his eyes never leaving the threatening palm pods.

Barking ensues. Eventually he gets up the nerve to walk right up to that nasty, mean pile of dead palm parts, sticks his nose inside and barks some more. Muffled, like a mute muffling a trombone or tuba. He paws at it, then decides that it’s good and scared and probably most definitely dead. Crisis averted.

Back to the door, and one bark for re-entry. This one’s for me. It says: Mom? I need to get in there. NOW!

And so we celebrate being safe from the palm pods until the same time tomorrow.

Maguire. The vintage pod-puppy. 

Tags: , , ,

live out loud

All things being equal the simplest answer is simple

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, May 4, 2011 10:38 PM

Albert Einstein once said that “everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.” It’s a concept that I embrace, or at least I think I do. If I could figure out exactly what it means.

Simple has so many meanings. It can be easy, stupid, boring, ordinary. But I think it means appreciation for the smallest things in life. To watch a butterfly alight and a squirrel clinging to a tree; to watch the jet trails thirty-five thousand feet above the earth and a dog lazing on his back in the sun; to listen to the silence of the air, its crackling energy, and the trucks far off on the freeway, miles away and yet the sound carried easily across the distance.

Simple is without clutter, natural and comfortable. It means not having all the latest gadgets and too much furniture; it means not traveling to far off lands and maxing the credit cards but instead, dining with friends or family, at home, with home-crafted food and good wine.

Simple is a concept that’s starting to gain traction, at least with many of the people I know. We’ve all had the newest clothes and iPods, iPads; now we want the comfortable clothes that make us feel good and the music of nature. With a little bit of internet radio thrown in for atmosphere.

I’ve begun to subscribe to this philosophy myself, especially lately. Simple for me is about joy, about a glass of phenomenal syrah and a plate of pasta drenched in spicy pesto. It’s about laughing with my husband and staying in bed on a rainy day watching old episodes of The Twilight Zone. It’s lying on the floor next to my vintage puppy and feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, of smelling his fur. It’s a hot day with sunshine streaming in the windows followed by a cool night and equally cool air flowing through open windows.

It’s an old sports car, long paid for, a text from my sister, cleaning out the garage, and the closet, taking old paperbacks to the library or donating them to a kid working on a project, driving less and biking more, running less and walking more, cooking more and dining out less, drinking more water and less coffee, eating more fruit, taking more vitamins, smiling at the neighbors, being more patient and understanding, getting rid of furniture no longer liked without replacing it, streamlining phone services, weekend overnights instead of week-long trips, welcoming best friends and embracing the best of family. This is simplifying. It’s being more than content. It’s living without burden.

Occam’s razor, a theory first postulated by the 14th century logician and Franciscan friar William of Ockham, states: When you have two competing theories that make exactly the same predictions, the simpler one is better. If you have two equally likely solutions to a problem, choose the simplest.

In other words, all things being equal, simple is better.

Or in its simplest form, keep it simple.

And celebrate.

Tags: , , ,

live out loud

You need me on that wall: Vintage puppy edition

by Lorin Michel Friday, April 22, 2011 8:58 PM

Lately, Maguire has developed an interesting routine. Every night, when it gets dark, he rises, a bit painfully, from wherever he’s been sleeping, often on the hard wood floor, shakes his fur into place as he arranges his legs in order, and marches stiffly – good little soldier – into the bedroom. Which is dark. And evidently populated with all manner of evil just waiting to reign down on our heads. Only Maguire Michel can save the day.

He stands in the dark room and barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And just about the time we can’t stand it anymore, he stops. Then he starts again until finally one of us braves the evidently bad, bad, bad men or boys or girls or animals or ghosts and walks to the door way. He’ll inevitably be in one of three places. At the back slider, his head nudged between the vertical blinds, barking toward the neighbor’s yard and the fig tree silhouetted in the evening sky.


Or he’s standing next to my side of the bed, his big bear head mere inches away from where my much more delicate head would be nestled into the pillow, were I there.


Or he’s facing into the master bath, the impossibly long tiled entry leading toward the sunken tub, miles and miles away. Wait! Is that something in the mirror?

Oh. My. God.

We tell him to knock it off and he looks at us innocently before turning to follow us back out into the family room. Within moments, though, he’s on high alert. He looks to Kevin first – Dad! Did you hear that!? – and when Kevin didn’t hear anything worth worrying about, the gaze switches to me. Mom?

And then he decides that the only way to protect the house and his parents is to go back in. The routine begins again. A dog soldier at his post.

Because we need him on that wall. We WANT him on that wall. And deep down in places we don’t talk about at parties, he is the great defender.

I salute you, my vintage puppy. Thanks for keeping us safe.


Tags: , , ,

live out loud

Being Maguire

by Lorin Michel Saturday, March 26, 2011 3:45 PM

I'm celebrating my 14-year-old puppy, the love of my puppy life, the best puppy on the planet. 

Everyday he brings joy, when he's playing, prancing, begging for cookies, especially when he's in his favorite position, sprawled on the floor, relaxing, napping, just being ... Maguire.


live out loud

Vintage Puppies

by Lorin Michel Monday, February 28, 2011 7:44 PM

We adopted Maguire on February 17, 1997. He was a smelly little bag of fur, the cutest thing we’d ever seen, eight weeks old and in a cage at the Agoura Animal Shelter. He had two full-size roommates but it didn’t seem to bother him. He slept on his back, four short legs in the air, completely confident that he wouldn’t be attacked.

Kevin found him on a Saturday morning. He and Justin had gone to the shelter without me. I have a hard time going to shelters; I want to bring all the dogs home. The boys had been going for weeks, searching for “our” dog. I had entertained the idea that we would get a female, perhaps three years old or so. Then Kevin came home and announced that he had found the one. And “he” was a puppy. We went back that afternoon so I could meet him, and the little guy came bounding out from the back of the cage, bouncing as puppies do, and proceeded to bark at us, yip really, three times. So ferocious. And so incredibly adorable that I was smitten.

Because he had been turned in the day before and the shelter had a policy of holding the dogs for at least three-days before adopting them out, we had to wait until Monday morning before we could take him home. Kevin and I were there at 7 am on that Monday in February. By 8 am, we were home with our stinky boy.

We named him Maguire because on the way home from the shelter he thrust his head into the center console of the car and pulled out a dollar bill. We had just seen Jerry Maguire. “Show me the money.” It seemed to fit.

We bathed him, trained him, fell head over heels in love, and grew as a family.

He was supposed to be a medium dog. He grew to be 85 pounds and every pound is pure joy. We still have no idea what his mix is but we’ve settled on Golden Retriever, Australian Shepherd, and a few other ingredients thrown in for flavor.

He’s 14 now, an old man by big-dog standards. But he’s healthy and happy. He doesn’t run anymore, can no longer jump on the bed like he did for years to cuddle with me in the morning. But he loves his nightly walks; still chews on his toys. A current favorite, called Rope, is a tennis ball wrapped in thick string. He can’t penetrate it and it is an ongoing challenge. He still barks in threes, though his bark is now a deep baritone.

When he was little, he had a bit of white on his face, but his fur was mostly black. Then he went through what we called his surfer-puppy phase, when he became blonde. Now he’s back to mostly black fur, with an all white face. Even his eyelashes are white.

Our boy is old.

We’ve developed a true appreciation and love for older dogs, for their mannerisms, for their defiance. They’re so sure of themselves, so confident in who they are. That’s our boy.

Maguire sleeps most days, and his walks are shorter than they used to be. He’s almost completely deaf so he rarely goes into the backyard for longer than a short tour of the property, which isn’t very big. He goes into the bedroom now when it’s dark and barks at nothing. He loves to huff and puff, standing at the window in the kitchen, staring out at the world going by, and assert his big-dog status when another dog dares to walk within eyesight.

He dreams more now than he used to, his front and back feet both furiously galloping to somewhere. Occasionally he has nightmares and those are scary. He moans and cries in his sleep; sometimes he pees. It breaks my heart.

Each morning he gets up between 6:30 and 7, shakes his fur into place and walks out, stiffly, onto the hard wood floor of the living room. His nails announce that he’s ready to go out. Jazz puppy, we call it. Chhhh ch-ch-chhhh ch-ch-chhhh  ch-ch-chhhh.

He eats his cookies, takes his glucosamine and chondroitin, and then settles down for the first of his many naps.

We pet him, kiss his nose, rub on him, and love him.

He has at least 20 names. Maguire, Magu, Maguski, Honey Bear, Bear, Boo, Boo Boo, Puppy Feet, Sparky, Sparklet, Twinkle Toes and more. He’s always been our puppy. We recently dubbed him our vintage puppy.

He may be old, but he’s still got it going on. And we celebrate him every minute of every day.


live out loud

christian louboutin online discount christian louboutin wholesale jerseys from china replica oakleys wholesale jerseys cheap michael kors cheap replica oakleys oakley sunglasses sales cheap jerseys free shopping michael kors handbags nike nhl jerseys cheap nhl jerseys cheap replica oakleys oakleys sale cheap jerseys from china christian louboutin outlet 2016 cheap fake oakleys WHOLESALE AUTHENTIC JERSEYS fake ray bans fake cheap oakleys cheap christian louboutin cheap christian louboutin online cheap jerseys cheap oakleys cheap jerseys from china cheap michael kors wholesale mlb jerseys replica oakleys store cheap jerseys china fake oakleys authentic nhl jerseys cheap wholesale nfl jerseys discount oakleys cheap oakleys fake oakley sunglasses replica christian louboutin cheap oakley sunglasses authentic jerseys cheap cheap oakleys outlet wholesale oakleys christian louboutin online wholesale cheap jerseys wholesale nfl jerseys fake cheap oakleys discount jerseys sale cheap ray bans fake cheap oakleys michael kors outlet cheap wholesale jerseys replica ray bans wholesale jerseys outlet wholesale nba jerseys fake cheap oakleys fake cheap oakleys outlet ray bans sale christian louboutin outlet oakleys sunglasses wholesale authentic jerseys discount ray bans fake cheap oakleys cheap christian louboutin online nhl jerseys cheap nfl jerseys discount ray bans wholesale jerseys cheap ray bans michael kors handbags outlet replica michael kors wholesale oakley sunglasses ray bans outlet cheap jerseys china cheap nba jerseys fake cheap oakleys cheap oakleys cheap ray bans cheap christian louboutin discount oakleys wholesale nfl jerseys cheap michael kors handbags fake cheap oakleys discount christian louboutin wholesale nhl jerseys michael kors on sale discount ray bans cheap jerseys wholesale cheap michael kors cheap replica oakleys cheap michael kors bags replica ray bans cheap sunglasses ray bans authentic jerseys authentic jerseys from china cheap oakleys outlet replica oakley sale red bottoms shoes on sale wholesale oakleys cheap nfl jerseys cheap replica oakleys wholesale oakleys cheap christian louboutin outlet cheap oakleys store cheap michael kors cheap ray bans cheap authentic nfl jerseys paypal cheap fake oakleys cheap oakleys cheap michael kors outlet fake ray bans fake ray bans cheap authentic nike jerseys cheap authentic jerseys fake cheap oakleys fake oakleys store replica oakleys cheap christian louboutin fake oakley cheap cheap jerseys wholesale cheap replica oakleys cheap michael kors outlet wholesale jerseys china cheap oakleys online replica michael kors cheap ray bans jerseys wholesale cheap fake oakleys discount ray bans cheap michael kors store cheap ray bans ray bans sunglasses jerseys wholesale wholesale china jerseys cheap mlb jerseys oakley sunglasses wholesale nba jerseys christian louboutin outlet wholesale oakleys wholesale authentic jerseys wholesale mlb jerseys cheap michael kors outlet cheap jerseys online shopping cheap ncaa jerseys michael kors bags cheap fake oakleys cheap jerseys wholesale cheap fake oakleys cheap replica oakleys cheap michael kors cheap discount ray bans ray bans sunglasses cheap jerseys free shopping cheap nba wholesale jerseys fake oakleys replica oakleys cheap nhl jerseys cheap christian louboutin cheap oakleys official jerseys replica ray bans cheap michael kors outlet wholesale jerseys cheap cheap authentic ncaa jerseys michael kors on sale cheap fake oakleys cheap elite jerseys discount oakleys cheap replica oakleys cheap michael kors online wholesale and retail oakleys fake ray bans cheap wholesale jerseys
Filter by APML