Some sisterly...

... hell today.  I think I've mentioned that I'm a middle child.  Older sister, who is 41 and younger brother who is 38.  I've told you about my brother.  That was easy.  Strangely, telling you about my sister has been harder.  I'm not sure why.  It's not really for any negative reason, but I can see where it might be a little hurtful for me to have left her out.

The relationships sisters have are generally very complicated, to say the least.  I think that is because often a sister is like a funhouse mirror.  We see glimpses of ourselves in it, but it isn't wholly us.  Often a sister, when no one else will, reflects back to us things we don't want to look at about ourselves. 

My sister, Stacie, was the first grandchild on my mom's side.  My Uncle Don used her to get girls.  She was a traveling buddy for my Uncle Harry.  She was my mom's perfectly behaved, well-mannered daughter.  And she was my dad's favorite.  She was an absolute Daddy's girl.  That never changed.  He's gone and she still is his girl.

Then came me.  I'd imagine my arrival was a bit like a never-ending thunderstorm to Stac.  Babies need and Stacie was used to being the only.  We're told she babied me and tried to carry me around.  She called me "Lucy" because she thought that should be my name.  She loved me while at the same time wished she could send me back to wherever the hell I came from.

Stacie and I are, in a lot of ways, mirror images of each other.  She's inside and I'm outside.  She's stubborn in a different way than I am.  She will speak up for herself, and I'll get quiet.  She'll pick a fight when she sees an injustice, while I'll fret until there is peace.  She's "this is me, love me or leave me."  I'm frequently, "like me like me like me." She'll push and I'll withdraw.  She was the good girl, the easy child.  I was the break some rules and do a lousy job covering my tracks.

Here's the amazing thing about my big sister, all those things she does, she'll do for me.  She'll pick a fight, she'll speak up, she'll push and sometimes she'll even help me cover my tracks.  She'll do my dishes and clean out my refrigerator just because it needs done.  She'll roll her eyes at me when I've had a bit too much vodka.  She'll be the one to ask me what the hell I think I'm doing when my judgement is flawed.  She's also a big "I told you so" when I don't listen.

She will absolutely tell me if my butt looks big in something.  She'll tell me when she doesn't like my hair or if I have too much cleavage showing.   She'll say, "I like those shoes on you, but they'd look ridiculous on anyone else."  (That's my favorite thing she says.)  There are things only sisters will tell you.  You know, stuff your friends will white lie to you about and men fear telling you, that's the stuff about which Stacie will be brutally honest.

Sometimes, because I am passive and want to just go along to get along, I end up in situations that are unpleasant or uncomfortable and I have to find a way to get myself out of.  I worry I'll hurt someone's feelings or piss someone off or someone won't like me.  Stacie, always always, will help me find a way out.  Because as my big sister, she feels that's her responsibility.

We fight. Damn do we fight.  We say things that hurt each other in ways only sisters can.  We're jealous and pissy and catty.  But we're sisters, always.  There are times I do wonder if she even likes me at all.  One thing I know, she must love me a hell of a lot to put up with me.  Now, that's one thing reflected in the sister mirror that's the same.

Stacie, 3 & me, 1

I bet I talked her into doing this.

Tell me...

... how in the heck he went from this:

... to this in 365 days.  (He's only one, I really shouldn't say hell around him, you know.)

Magic and good parents, would be my guess. Today, our little guy, my Godson, my youngest nephew, the one who shares my initials, is 1.  Wow.  He's loud and funny and silly and oh so happy.  He's curious and stubborn. I just watched his mommy tell him NO when he was trying to put his fingers in the DVD player over and over again.  He made the saddest face, then stuck his finger back into the DVD player just one more time before getting into some other sort of mischief.

His favorite toy is this:

Landon's first word was "mama".  Shannon earned that for sure.  He scared us when he came into this world.  We'd been used to Randy's babies coming into our lives in a relatively calm way.  (Easy for me to say!)  Landon was in the wrong position to be born the usual path.  After about 8 hours of labor for Shannon, the nurse figured it out and Landon was born by c-section.  He didn't breathe immediately.  I remember getting a text from my 6'5" manly-man of a brother saying "Holy $hit!" when they found out there needed to be an emergency c-section.  And then a text saying "I wish you were here.  He's going to be ok, right?"  I was watching Gavin and Sydnee.  Waiting.  Scared.  Helpless.  I can't begin to imagine what Shan and Randy were feeling.

Randy and Shannon didn't get to touch him until Landon was 7 hours old.  Aside from the bruise on his back, he was pink and perfect.  Big hands and big eyes.

Now, he's big and bright.  He's constantly on the move.  He kisses and hugs.  He bangs on things and pushes things over.  He's a boy.

Like the day I told you about his birth, no hell today folks.  Just a little heck.  My life is bigger now than a year ago... funny how it grew the exact amount to fit a 1 year old.

Elsie

... had a hell of a dramatic streak. Imagine that, my grandmother, dramatic. What’s that old saying about the apple not falling far from the tree? It will be three years this Saturday since she died. She read somewhere once that when an old person dies, a library is burned. Their stories go with them. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to save a bit of her library here.

My Grammies was a study in contrasts. She was funny and feisty and fearless. She was as quick to laugh as she was to bitch. She always, always thought girls had to be tough… tougher than boys. She felt the world was always harder on women. She was a force of nature, always doing... sewing her own clothes, making her own soap. There were always sheets drying on the line and something simmering on the stove. She was constant motion and irritation and unexpected laughter. To me, she was my center, my peace, my home.

Some of my younger cousins didn't have the same grandmother I did. She was a different person with them. Harder, dare I say at times mean. I'm sorry like you can't imagine for those younger cousins, because my grammies was a hoot. My grandma was a smoocher. Kiss and hug before leaving. Always say ‘love you’ when saying good-bye. Just in case you didn't get a chance to say it again. Even when she was pissed at you...even when she was hanging up on you, she managed the love you. She used to tell me when I was little to save the big kisses for her. In my little girl head, I imagined kisses shaped like gum wrappers (who the hell knows why). The Juicy Fruit sized wrappers were all for Grandma... the Dentyne sized were for everyone else.

She had a serious trash mouth. There's that apple and tree thing again. She's the first place I heard the 'f' word. She did not discriminate and would swear at anyone or anything within earshot. Cats in particular were on the receiving end. So were the mailman and Republicans. I heard my fair share of "Damn it Leasie", usually immediately followed by 'well, honey, what were you thinking?!" Grandma was also fond of the middle finger. She used it frequently and with vigor.

I always thought my grandma was a lousy cook. My mother is a ridiculously good cook as is my Auntie Ruby, so I'm not quite sure how that happened. Grandma was good at homemade mac and cheese. You could actually feel it clogging your arteries. And the woman could fry a chicken. Of course, I couldn't eat it, because I had the visual of her removing said chicken's head burned into my memory. But if she could screw up a recipe, she would and with gusto. She'd forget the salt or the sugar or some other main ingredient. Once, when I was in second grade, she made pumpkin pie so heinous that my friend Julie M. couldn't eat pumpkin pie again until she was an adult. I still can't. But Grandma tried; she could make a meal out of nothing, because she had to when she was young.

She wasted nothing. Our grandparents were the original recyclers, you realize. She'd wash out a Ziploc bag and reuse it until the zipper stopped working. One year we decided to use disposable plastic plates for a holiday dinner. After dinner, she made us dig them out of the trash and wash them. We could use them again next year, you know. She saved drinking straws and pill bottles. She always knew the exact right size of bowl needed for leftovers. It was a gift. Auntie Ruby has it too. No sense in wasting space in the fridge with too big a damn bowl.

Grandma had all these crazy saying and home remedies. Shoes upside down under a bed cured foot cramps. If you put an article of clothing on wrong-side out in the morning, it had to stay that way until the sun went down. Girls shouldn’t wear underwear to bed… you needed to “let your stuff air out”. (We girl cousins still laugh about that!) Someone was "crazy as a cat in a bag". Sex before marriage caused one to have a flat rear-end (I'm evidence of that, I think!). If someone's man got out of line she'd always suggest sewing him up in a bed sheet and beating the hell out of him with a baseball bat...that would fix him. PMS was a myth created by Tylenol. If you made a child eat raisins before going to sleep, they wouldn't wet the bed. I hate raisins to this day because of that one. And baking soda and homemade lye soap were all you needed to cure whatever you had.

Grandma was perpetually sick. She was the exception to the baking soda and lye soap rule. She was ‘allergic' to everything. That's what she'd say, "I'm allergic to that and that and that..." She kept a little list in her wallet so she could remember exactly what she was allergic to. When she got older and sicker her children and I carried a copy of that long list, so we could tell the nurse paper tape only, no latex gloves.

She lived briefly in an assisted living facility. Briefly as in three months. She hated it and constantly worked her family's guilt to get her "the hell out of this place." She didn't need to be there; she had a home of her own. After she died we found a note she wrote the administrators of the facility explaining that while they were "all decent people" she simply didn't belong there. I would almost daily stop by to see her on my way home from work. And she would almost daily pout and be pissy about us "sticking me here in this hell." She'd behave if she went home. She'd hire someone to drive her and help her clean, but she needed to be in her house where her husband died. See, she was really good with the guilt. Luckily, when she did go home, we were able to hire 24-hour care for her, so she was safe and taken care of. She was pissed about these women being in her house, but it was better than the alternative.

About a month into her living at this lovely facility (she hated) where she had her own apartment ("a goddamn cracker box"), she called me at work and said she needed me to come by because there was something very important she needed me to do. I was used to this and assumed it meant moving her chair for the hundredth time or taking her to get a loaf of oat bran bread. Wrong, I was.  She had devised a master scheme she believed would create the queen mother of all guilt trips for me and finally get her home.  She needed my help writing her eulogy. Seriously. Gotta love the old girl’s aplomb.

She had seen something on Oprah ("That's how damn BORED I am here, Leasie, I'm watching that old Oprah!!") about a woman writing letters to her family to be read at her death. She liked that idea, but thought it would be much more impactful if it were her own eulogy she wrote, to be read at her funeral. More ‘impactful’ meant more dramatic. I love her for that. She also thought that I'd start thinking about her dying, feel guilty and find a way to get her home. That's how it started out. Then it became real to her; a chance to maybe explain herself, to leave each of us with something that carried us through the grief and perhaps made up for some of the things she did while she was alive. Something to remind us of the funny, zany Elsie, not just the angry one.  My grandma wasn't good with apologies. I'm reasonably sure every single one of my cousins can hear in their heads how she said I'm sorry. "Well... I'm sorrYY if you're upset."

Her thinking, regarding the eulogy, was that she would talk about each of her children, how she felt about them, some things she regretted, and some of the things she loved. She’d talk about each of her grandchildren and how they had changed her life and how she'd impacted them, sometimes negative and sometimes positive. She wanted me to take notes and ‘clean it up and make it sound right.’ It took almost a year to write. She’d add and take away. She’d remember something she wanted to say and then change her mind a few months later. The more she talked and the more I wrote for her the more I saw her. Not just as my grammies, but as someone's sister and aunt and wife and mother. As someone else's grandmother. She believed the best of each of us, even when we didn't. None of us was a lost cause, even at the times we were.

Sometimes she was downright mean to her family. She could cut us in two with her tongue. And she did. She would humiliate and break your heart. I can't tell you it came from a place of love, because I don't think it did. She wasn't trying to make us stronger or teach us a lesson, she was trying to work out her own personal demons and at times family was the line of fire. Who knows what deep hurt caused that. She couldn't think of any reason for it. She wished she didn't do it. She'd have taken it back. But she couldn't. Her eulogy, she felt, was a place where she could finally say she was sorry. The very last thing she could say.

But my grandma was good to me. She took me to pick berries every summer; taught me to make jelly and jam. She teased that she took me because, then and now, I will not eat anything ending in erry. For that reason, she found a plum tree to make a little jelly just for me. She sang "Bicycle Built for Two" to me when she saw me in my Prom dress. She hugged us and kissed us and called us sweet pea. She cut up apples and froze bananas so we'd eat them and made chocolate pudding without that yucky skin on the top. She thought ice cream cured homesickness, which she called Grandma’s House Stomach Ache. She made me laugh a million times more than she made me cry. She held me when my dad died and said "Honey, you know he was crazy about you." She was my center, my peace and my home.

She didn't get to go home because of the eulogy.  Her dementia made that happen.  The eulogy was read, word for word, at her funeral.  She wanted no prayers, no scripture, just what she had to say.  As I listened to the funeral director, Tina, read it I knew what was coming.  I knew which member of Elsie's family would be the next touched and moved and gifted by words directly from her heart to theirs.  Last words.  I could hear her voice in my head talking about her kids and grandkids.  I heard the love; I heard the regret; I heard the hope of forgiveness and the hope that we'd remember the good and soften the bad.  It broke my heart.  I count myself lucky though, to have been given that gift, to have felt that love as she created what was her final message to us.  Dramatic, no?

I don’t miss the 6 am Sunday phone calls telling me to “get your ass out of bed, you’re wasting the day.” Actually, I’d even take one more of those. Just one more, “Well, hello Leasie” “I love you sweet pea.” “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” Just one more wobbly-voiced “You’d look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two.” If you're lucky enough to have a grandmother, ask her to give you a book from her library; I promise you won't regret it.  I'd take one more story, even if it was one I heard a million times before.

I miss her like hell. The sun and the moon, Grammies.

Snips and snails...

.. and puppy dog tails. That's what boys are made of? There's a hell of a lot more to it than that.

Today, Gavin James Huber turns 8. I had no idea how different this first nephew would be than the two nieces I already had. He is my first little guy, so there was a learning curve. For example, I'm not allowed to hug or kiss him in public. He'd actually prefer I not do it anywhere people might see, including his house. I need to ASK before hugging in case it might mess with his macho image. But when he says yes or hugs and cuddles with me, you know it's magic. It usually only happens when he's tired or when he's in trouble with the parents, but it still makes me feel like a pretty big deal to him ... it also helps me to think of THAT Gavin when he's head butting me. I baby him. I can't help it. It's what the women in my family do with our boys.

I wasn't exactly sure how to handle this boy child. I had two nieces and most of my friends had girl babies, so eight years ago things got interesting. I learned the fundamentals... point it DOWN in the diaper, shield his face from the stream while giving him a bath... shield my face from the stream while giving him a bath.


Gavin was just interested in totally different stuff than his older sisters. We made roads out of jelly beans on my living room floor so we could drive our little matchbox cars around. Or rather, he could drive them because he never seemed to think I got it right. We chased birds. That was one of his things. He'd try to catch birds and then stomp his feet when he couldn't. We'd check under rocks for roly-poly’s. And we'd dig in the dirt for no apparent reason besides there was dirt and it needed to be dug.

Gavin also loved hair when he was little. I could lay him on the floor and tickle his face with my hair and he would go crazy. He particularly liked a good pony tail. He'd get so excited and pull it and squeal. I cut my hair off once when he was about two, and he would just stare at me with such a sad little face and then feel the back of my head for my hair and shrug at me when he couldn't find it.


He is also quite the lady's man. His best and most beloved girlfriend is Ashtan... one of his 15 year old sister's best friends. She usually has a pretty great ponytail.

Gav is one of those kids who just seems naturally good at most things. I know I'm biased, but it's true. He certainly gets none of that from me. He's right handed, but bats right AND left (don't think his dad isn't loving THAT). He's even a left-handed golfer (yes, dad digs that, too). He's pretty tall (again, not Auntie Lisa, more like 6'5" daddy and 5'9" mommy) and naturally agile. The kid can run and throw and hit and dribble. He's also so damn smart that he's easily bored.

And he's disgusting. I honestly think he does things intentionally to shock and gross me out. He's rough and aggressive and competitive. He doesn't want to sit and read a book with me. He doesn't want tea parties like Sydnee does. To be honest, I'm pretty thankful I don't have to change Barbie's dress for him, doing that for the three girls has been plenty.

The poor guy is growing up with 3 sisters and he's crazy protective of them. I pity any dude who thinks he's going to date one of Gav's women. But I really feel sorry for any girls who think she is going to break Gav's heart. Hell hath no fury like Maddy, Delaney and Sydnee when someone messes with their brothers. Nevermind his mom, grandma, and aunts.

Gavin has a huge heart and can't stand for anyone being left out. He worries that I live alone and has offered several times for me to move into his basement. He fights at a maddening rate with Sydnee and then five minutes later is helping her get a glass of milk. He holds and feeds and loves Landon. He'll follow Delaney around, although he won't admit that's what he's doing. He loves just sitting by Maddy on the couch and watching TV or playing a video game. He's an all around good guy with just enough mischievousness to keep him interesting.

He's too big for me to carry... too tall... too smart... too Gavin. Almost perfect with a tiny streak of hell.






 
 
 
 

Cancer...

... is from hell. Plain and simple.

This time of year makes me think of my dad. He really was a spring kind of guy. He worked with farmers almost his entire life, so spring meant being busy and he loved busy. He loved to be outdoors but didn't love the cold, so when spring began, it was as if something in him was bursting to be out...perhaps it was being trapped in a very small house with a wife and three kids that made him love spring even more.


Dad had lots of "isms"... things he would subtly pass to his kids. I didn't realize I'd taken them in until he was gone. He would say that sunsets were sure pretty but sunrise was better because you had to earn a sunrise. And, "Don't talk and cry at the same time." He was a crazy fast runner, especially considering he would run with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He could fix almost anything, a trait he passed on to his son. He adored my sister, his first born... thought my brother, quite simply, could do anything... and could draw me into a debate about nothing quicker than anyone. We all got his wicked sense of humor, thankfully. He was more than his ending. That's what I need most for you to see.


My dad's cancer diagnosis came April 19. He loved irony, so the fact that a death sentence was delivered in the season of new life wasn't lost on him. It's crazy how one day he's him and the next he has colon cancer of the liver. And everything is nothing. I've heard people say that when something like this happens, time stands still. For me, it didn't. It was as if someone pulled the days of his life out from under me like a rug. I was forever facing backward at that day, before the diagnosis. To that simple few hours before we knew we would lose him.


I spent several weeks, in my head, fighting the inevitable. This isn't happening... It's DAD, he's going to be o.k. But, like walking up the down escalator, eventually your strength and resolve falter and you are stuck with the facts. He's dying. No cure. Treatment to potentially prolong his life 2-6 months, but he'll spend that time in bed or in the bathroom. Surgery... removal of the GODDAMNED tumor that started it, but images of a liver covered in dark spots... I'm sorry. No hope. No chance. Eventually, hoping is harder than the acceptance. It doesn't happen all at once, it just slowly leaks out. And when it becomes too hard, you have to let go. You want it to be over. He wants it to be over. Then when you realize what that truly means, you are so sorry you even thought it for a second.


During the time from April to September he was dying. To this very moment I've called it the time he was sick. But the heartbreaking fact is, he was dying. He was funny and silly and angry and bossy. He would frequently say, "let's get the show on the road", because he knew he didn't have time to waste. The morphine would make him hallucinate and then he'd realize that's what was happening and find it infinitely amusing. There were days when he wouldn't say much. I know he was inside himself preparing to leave. Wrapping his mind around the thought that every day could be THE day. I know he was scared. I know he was worried about his wife and kids. I know he wanted it all to just stop.


My dad was in Vietnam. For real Vietnam. Kill or be killed. Here he was... 50 years old and it was just be killed. Defenseless. He was alone in his dying, as we are in our births. As we all are at our deaths. As those who love him stood around helpless and very much alone in his death. He would say, "I get to be dead. You have to live through the hurt. Mine's easier."


During the months he was {gulp} dying, there were many beautiful moments of absolute clarity where Dad's voice and mind and heart bore through all other things and found a way to tell us he loved us. You can feel that kind of love. I'm writing this and I can feel it now. There are funny things that happening during that time. There are heartbreaking things and horrible things. There are things that are so beautiful I can't look directly at them. Those are my things. I can't give them to you even here, even now, because I'm afraid it would somehow make them smaller in my head and soul. I believe in a soul, because I can feel mine when I think of that time in our lives.


The kind of love you form with those closest to you when you have a sick family member is as hard as diamonds. It's ferocious and mad love. My mom, Grandma, Aunts, Uncles and dear, dear friends who were with me if only in spirit are forces to be reckoned with within my very being now. Mostly, my brother and my sister and I have melded into a mass of what was my dad. My brother's voice and face and patience... my sister's stubbornness and memory, my humor and spunk are all him. I'm thankful to him for giving that to us and to my siblings for holding onto those things.


When he died, I remember feeling like everything that was inside me was suddenly on the surface. My eyelids felt wrong-side out. My throat felt like it started just behind my teeth. My hands and feet felt as if they weren’t my own. Doing and walking and moving without my willing them to. The filter between my mouth and brain dissolved, often leaving well-meaning folks who had tried to offer solace speechless as I told them to PLEASE, PLEASE just don’t say anything else, because you aren’t helping me.  Those things have mostly righted themselves.  Except maybe the filter.  Even still, my sense of normal is off.  When you lose part of your 'true north'... say a parent or a partner... you never really are fully back to center.


I say all that for this... cancer is a bitch. Be vigilant. Take care of yourself. Get the tests that can save your life, no matter how uncomfortable or embarrassing they are. Walk, run, give, help and support in whatever way you can. However, keep in mind this ‘cause’ has very real people in it. People who are more than a diagnosis… more than their fight… more than cancer.  They are Kelly and Lisa... John and David... you or me.


And for you, you know who you are, who are going through your own personal hell caused by cancer, squeeze tight until you have to let go. When you need to open your hands, you'll know, because it will feel more right than wrong. I promise you will see pinholes of beauty even in the midst of all this. Hold onto those, because they are, impossibly yet perfectly, shining through the hell.

Stuck in the middle...

with her makes the middle just right.

Today Delaney is 12!  D is a middle child, as am I. Now, in a blended family, everyone seems to be a middle child. Delaney isn't the oldest of either family, or the youngest. Nor is she the oldest or youngest girl on either side. She's squarely, wonderfully a middle child. And she makes it look good. Being in the middle means you're never too far ahead or too far behind. You're also never alone.

Delaney is at the age where everything about her seems to be changing. She's grown so much in the past year, she's almost as tall as I am. She's, of course, beautiful and funny and bright. When she was little, she was our big headed baby. She was plump and soft and quick to laugh. When she was two, she'd wake in the middle of the night and make rooster noises... "doodle doooo!". The first word she said with us, besides the normal "dada" "mama" was "Stacie", her aunt's name. The girl could empty an entire cabinet in seconds. She was under and over and on all the time.

She's an animal lover and has always been somewhat fearless. She will try any food, but prefers spaghetti to most things. She will absolutely do anything for you. She's the kid that, if you ask her to find something, will look until it's found. If you need her to do something, you can ask her and there's no argument or whining. She will just do it. She thinks ahead about what she can do to help and how she can make things easier for us. At age 12, "thoughtful" isn't a word you usually associate with girls, but our girl just is.

Delaney is part tom-boy, part cheerleader. She splashes through mud puddles and loves to compete.  She has started to worry about whether this goes with that. She's starting to be less pony-tail and more "Shannon will you do my hair?"  However, she's still basically a jeans and t-shirt girl.

She will be the one making up games for the little kids or telling stories or leading an adventure through the backyard. She's patient beyond her years with her little brothers and sister.  She somehow seems to know everything that is going on at all times. I tease that she's either going to be a lawyer or a gossip columnist. She forgets nothing, but holds nothing against you. She's forgiving and a peacemaker. She's kind and can make friends quickly. She's slightly jealous and somewhat nosey. She's cuddly and loving. She's a hugger and an eye-roller. When she sets her mouth a certain way, you know something is up. The good thing is, she doesn't keep secrets well and you'll know quickly what that something is.

Delaney doesn't disappoint. You always can count on her to act a certain way and do certain things. That's refreshing and terrifying all at once. When she's headed for trouble, you can't stop her. The flip side of that is, when she's doing the right things, you can't stop that either. She's is daring and brave and funny and silly and trying and striving. She's is exactly what a 12 year old girl should be. A lot of sugar and just enough spice.

One more year until we slap the word 'teen' on her. I believe that as she approaches those years, Delaney's big soft heart, her easy-going attitude and her kindness will make those years not quite heaven or hell... perhaps she'll be somewhere in the middle.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I do...
but don't get excited, I love monkeys, too.

Now for something...

... fresh!

Landon David Huber

Son of Shannon & Randy (Goob)

Brother to Maddy, Delaney, Gavin & Sydnee

Grandson of Jeanne & Jim Ordner and

Rena (& Duane) Clark and the late David Huber

Born:  March 17, 2010 at 2:22 a.m.

7 lbs, 3 ozs; 21" long

Gavin, Landon & Sydnee

Delaney & Landon                                                                          

Maddy & Landon

Landon David

I'm sure you can understand why I'll save the hell for next time.