KISSING FROGS

I recall my childhood annoyance with the insipid princesses in the fairy tales that languished about waiting for men to rescue them. My sister loved to read the stories to me, but I would interrupt her with questions like, “Why didn’t she just climb out of the tower herself?”. My ribbons and bows older sister would shake her head at me, barely moving her perfect black drindles and patiently try to explain the concept of passive femininity to me. One look at my unkempt braids and tomboy attire should have been enough to make her realize she was out of her depth, but she was patient, and sweet, the perfect princess. As soon as I could escape, I would head out the door to go run wild with the boys, leaving her there to play with her dolls and tea set. The little cul-de-sac we lived on was home to a higher population of boys than girls, and I was younger than all of them. They gave no deference to my age or sex and I asked for none. I was the first up for any rough and tumble game, but I refused to play the victim like they thought little girls should.

I did eventually learn that there were some advantages to being a girl, but that came later. Even in High School while all the other sweet young things were talking about what color they wanted their bridesmaids dresses to be, and conferring on china and crystal patterns, I would fain polite interest, but was totally clueless as to why these things were important. At the start of sophomore year a new boy appeared in my English class. He was considerable older looking than the other guys, and I soon found out it was because he had been held back, twice actually. He was a just a good old country boy, not in his element in school, but cute and funny with a habit of winking at girls. I was trying to ignore him, but I began to notice on a semiconscious level that he smelled really good. I quite sure they had not taught us anything about pheromones in biology, but I do know they were getting to me. He actually got up the nerve to ask me out, but was so overwhelmed by my parent’s money and my sweet innocence, he couldn’t even get up the nerve to try and kiss me. He just spent the entire evening repeating that he couldn’t believe I accepted. That’s the day I realized that as cute as he was, I really didn’t get turned on by dumb guys, but I definitely did get turned on by guys.

As the years went by I tried my luck at kissing frogs, but all that happened was that I began to develop a deep suspicion as to the intelligence of princes. All that racing about on horses and foolhardy bravado left me cold, not to mention the fact that they were infuriated when they found I had already killed or even tamed the dragon while they were sharpening up their swords. After the first disastrous marriage, I was certain I didn’t want to get tangled up with another man, but still, they smelled so good. Evidently I did too, because when I started playing the game with the boys, doors were flung open in my path. Of course I got into trouble when I started playing by their rules. I was always puzzled and amazed that a man would take a cavalier attitude with me in the morning after a night of passion, like what I did with him was different than what he did with me. The men I liked best were the smart ones who figured me out and still decided I was worth the effort. I can play the games with the best of them, but how tiresome that becomes after a very short time. I know I am an anomaly in the world of women and I am at a loss to describe my attitude, but I suppose the closest I could come would be to say I think like a man. The analogy is limited because no one meeting me would ever question my decidedly feminine qualities.

There was also a complication in the form of the real love of my life, the little spring lamb that changed all my previous theories about what was important in the world. For a little girl whose dolls were all given bad haircuts, stripped of their clothing, and tossed into the back of the closet, while she went off to swing from the hayloft and get into her brother’s chemistry set, I took amazingly well to motherhood. With twenty-twenty hindsight I realize that the leap I took back into marriage was driven in large part by biological imperative. Being a mother suited me well, and while my first husband grumbled to my expanding belly about the world being overpopulated, my second had the same nurturing instinct as myself, despite all his other issues. He was also financially stable, very smart, and had a great sense of humor. It’s really not as simple as saying I compromised after a calculating the odds of the hand, but it did go down something like that.

I pride myself on my logic, and while I have made a great number of decisions on the basis of cool-headed calculation of the odds, I have made an equal number on intuition, often driven by passion. I have made mistakes both ways. I think graceful exits are the most satisfying and I have always tried to make them with style. Many men have left my door wanting more, but still believing it was all their idea to go. I don’t know how this one is going to play out, but I’m working very hard to keep it clean and painless. 

From Heaven to Hell

Right before one of our many road trips to Kentucky, my then 12 year old daughter took a rushed visit to the doctor to obtain medication for pain and coughing. The doctor gave her a prescription containing codeine, and told me it would make her sleep. Instead, we spent 12 hours in a small car with the equivalent of a monkey on speed. I remember the Doctor’s calm collected scientific explanation of what he considered an interesting phenomenon, the paradoxical reaction. I realized today that it is also the perfect term to describe what I’m been feeling this week. I know I should be grateful that my husband has cut back on his drinking, that he is going about the house lucid, and even being helpful, but it seems to be having the opposite effect on me. I am madder than I have been in years, and I’m feeling like the perfect bitch because of my reaction. I need to own my feeling in this place where I have declared I will always be honest.

I know I am capable of deep love, the kind where my life is of no importance, only that of the beloved. That is the overwhelming love I have for my children. Perhaps it is a selfish love for flesh of my flesh, but it is tangible, perfect, and unrelenting. I know I am capable of great passion too, in varying degrees between yearning and outright lust. If I am honest, and I swear I am working very hard on that, I have no regrets for the things I have done out of passion, although I am still trying to stop a knee jerk apology for some of the those passions disapproved by current moral code. I have told myself for many years that I stayed in this marriage because of love, but reading between the lines of my life, I know that if romantic love ever existed between us, it has been dead for at least a decade. Stupidly, I still sit Shiva with other mourners fled, the corpse long buried and consigned to the consuming worm.

I pulled out my marriage certificate today, looking for a loophole. The most glaring one is the fact that there are two similar pieces of paper in my file cabinet, neatly tucked into a folder labeled “Marriage”. Both of them declare, “till death do us part” to be the extent of the contract, but it is obvious that these words didn’t hold me the first time. I also looked through the folder labeled “Divorce”, and found the handwritten note from my mother congratulating me on the dissolution of my first marriage. What a damn nice little touch of incongruity that was. Anger was not allowed in my parent’s home, no slamming of doors, no raised voices, no bickering children. I learned very early to turn my rage inward and chastise myself for being unable to control my emotions. So here I sit, seething that he is doing this to hold me, to bind me back before I have loosened all the cords. I know if I accept this compromise of self, it will seem like progress, but the pathway will loop and turn and bring me back to this exact spot again. I will hold very tightly to this anger for the weeks and months ahead, and I will gather it inside, but not in that destructive way I was taught. That fury will be my last secret, and should suffice as a weapon to gain freedom on my own terms. I will close the door quietly when I leave.

Angel

He was only 21, a bit awkward around an older married woman, and perhaps lonely for his home far away in Wyoming. We had met accidentally in the laundry room of the apartment house that was our temporary resting spot for the summer. Perhaps the thought of me had colored his dreams, but I was guileless up to the moment his lips touched mine. He saw no other way to stop my crying than by covering my mouth with his own, so our first kiss tasted of the salt of my tears. None of our previous innocent evenings together had prepared us for the startling and unexpected passion the kiss invoked. I hesitated only briefly when he suggested we move from my shabby rented room to his slightly shabbier one upstairs, in the interest of privacy and discretion. His narrow bed proved more than adequate for our needs as he proceeded slowly and gently through the lovemaking, kissing the bruises left by my abuser, making me believe in tenderness again. His body was an unexpected treasure; for free from the confines of his Clark Kent disguise he had a slim but muscular build, a chest and back covered with silky black hair, and legs and arms that were strong and well formed. He seemed equally delighted to discover my own body, and for one so young he processed amazing control, taking time to touch, kiss, and adore every inch of my skin.

His gentle firm hands ignited my yearning, and though I was the older woman, I gave in blissfully to his pace, his command. When his hand finally slid between my legs, my back arched reflexively to meet his exploration. He had been fully engorged for some time as I could attest to with my own hand as I rubbed the pre ejaculate in teasing circles around his swollen head. We rolled from our side by side position in one fluid motion, and as he rose and knelt between my spread legs, I smiled up at the beauty of his perfect young body. Sliding forward till my breast were crushed against his chest, he put one finger inside of me, and seconds later his cock took its place. I gasped sharply at the sudden insertion and he slowed, fearful of hurting me. My hands moved immediately to his buttocks to pull him more deeply inside, because I was wet and ready, and wanted nothing more than for him to press forcefully on, despite the moment of pain. My world narrowed to the ecstasy of our movements and I let the waves of pleasure move me past the trauma of past days and months. I don’t remember closing my eyes, but I recall vividly opening them to see him watching the joy he had given me play across my face. I wrapped my legs around him and paced the rhythm of his thrusts until he collapsed in shuttering spent rapture.

We lay together soaked in sweat with no desire to disengage, no urgency to ever leave his tiny room. Finally he rolled me gently with him back to side by side and I made a soft sigh in my throat as he slipped out of me. He pulled my face to his and kissed me again. I discovered I could still talk when he let me go and I asked a lover’s question, “Who taught you?”

“You did” came his unexpected reply.

I lay there speechless, holding him, feeling a pang of guilt that I had been a corrupting influence. After a very short time he took my hand and placed it on his newly risen member. Well, the deed was already done and he seemed eager for more corruption. There have been devils in my life before and since, but I will always remember his angel face as he pulled my long hair away from his stomach in order to watch my mouth at work. Long after the window filled with darkness, we were still delightfully entwined.

And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. John 8:32

My son told me that if there were no guilt in my immediate reach, I would scoop it from the air with a butterfly net. I’m trying to give it up like I gave up religion, but it’s as hard to dislodge as the blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands, and just as imaginary. All those Catholics and Jews out there who think they have the guilt thing roped and tied could take a lesson from the Southern Baptist. I had a mother whose mantra was “let them be children as long as they can” which evidently meant to keep them ignorant of anything happening in the world, and at the same time to terrify them into believing they are going to hell because they breath in and out. When I finally realized I couldn’t meet the ever retreating standard required for heaven, I decided since I was going down there anyway, I might as well have a good reason to burn. On my way to Gahanna fire, I got sucked into the possibility of redemption in the form of a God and Mom approved marriage, which ended up being more like martyrdom than salvation. When Mom died, I finally admitted to myself that I just didn’t swallow the whole concept of Judeo-Christian philosophy. I mean, it’s a set up all the way, but as sales tactic it’s brilliant. You create a need, you make a product, and you convince people if they don’t buy what you’re selling really bad things will happen to them. It works equally well whether you’re peddling toothpaste or eternal salvation. Since Dad died I let go of the last of something that was binding me to guilt thing, but it left a big empty place in my personality that I have been struggling to fill. Gradually, oh so gradually, I am filling that void with truth. The closer I come to being totally honest, the happier I have become. I would say I had an epiphany, but it seems inappropriate under the circumstances.

I tend to walk with purposeful strides toward every goal, usually leaving friends or family trailing well behind. People often follow me because I look like I know where I’m going. Sometimes I lead them into brick walls, or glass windows. I am briefly embarrassed and bruised, but I always get back up, make a course correction, and head out again with equal determination. I just checked my compass and I am disappointed with myself for getting sucked into the undertow of denial again by pretending that I might be able to fix the fatal flaws in my marriage. Maybe it was just the hangover speaking, which certainly feels like God’s own punishment, but is scientifically explainable in much simpler terms; you play, you pay. As far as casual sex, I don’t think I’m capable of that anymore, but I will not preclude the possibility of something discrete and less casual. Of course, it's ultimately not about sex at all, but sex is one of the important readings on the marriage meter, and my gauge is still stuck on empty. The fact that I’m reading the gauge with a flickering torch in the middle of a hurricane should be my more immediate concern. I get it. Did I mention that I found my wedding ring and put it in my jewelry box?

No way to hold my head that doesn't hurt

After the talk we had, my husband has been mostly sober for several days now, so I used this opportunity to bring balance back into the universe by getting totally wasted at a party Saturday, including doing a bit of weed with my son and some 40 year old who would have been perfectly delighted to break my long dry spell of forced celibacy. He did violate my first rule for sexual encounters however; don’t sleep with anyone crazier than yourself. He might have been a bit restrained by the presence of my son and husband too. I did get home with my pants still on, but misplaced my wedding ring somewhere. I’m sure it will turn up eventually. I called my hostess this morning and apologized for flirting with all her friends, then I told her the truth about the whys. She’s known me for many years and has never seen me have more than a glass or two before. I didn’t feel any guilt, but I am glad that this all happened in a controlled atmosphere. I know now that I’m not really up for casual sex and I will be much more careful about the drinking in the future. I think I just wanted to make sure I still knew how, and the fact is that casual sex isn’t too difficult to find.

So the good news is that today I opened a dialog with my husband that scared the hell out of him, but also gives me some glimmer of hope. I don’t know if that’s good or bad at this point. He’s going to have to be willing to put a lot more work into this marriage than he ever has before, and I’m not sure he can. I wasn’t going to make a move until after Christmas anyway, so what do I have to lose? As exciting as it was to have men paying attention to me, it made me remember the down side of being single too. I have a feeling there are going to many stops and starts in this process. Regardless, the big secret is no more and I have plans to get together with a few girlfriends this week who now know and want to help. I think I'll skip ordering drinks when we go out.

Ahaa, the cold gray light of dawn, my favorite time of day

When everyone tells you the same thing, chances are there may be some truth in what they’re saying. I told all three children that I had officially given my husband notice of my plans to leave, and they are all solidly behind me. My brilliant middle child said, without prompting, “Don’t let him talk you out of it again.” We sat over coffee at 5 AM and he talked me down from the tower of guilt I had climbed like some victim in a low budget horror film. My feet are back on the ground now and I am determined to make my escape in a more dignified manner.

Noisy Reflection

It was that awkward time of day between strong black coffee and dry red wine and I sat contemplating if I should warm the half cup in front of me, or go find a glass and start on the half bottle left from last night. Life’s jumbled with negotiation, so I go out for a drive. I’ve quit using the air conditioner altogether because I find it so confining. I am yearning for freedom, escape, but I am still directionless. I think about the options while I listen to a CD given to me by one of my older son’s former girl friends when she and her husband visited us last Christmas. I love her wicked little sense of humor. Trac 2 on Tangos & Tantrums is “all his exes” and seems to be written especially for my unconventional elder son. I laugh and wonder if the singer, Sylvia Lewis, had been a guest at her club in Charlotte NC, or if she had especially picked the CD for my enjoyment. The timing of my excursion coincides nicely with the 2 pm awakening of my husband, someone I really don’t want to see until he shakes off his hangover. I also don’t want to talk to him about the fact that my middle son went to a party and didn’t come home last night. He’s way overdue for some fun.

I talked to my girl this morning and although it was 11 am in London, she was slightly drunk, still coming down from a hen party for a coworker the night before. I love how our conversations unfold, like some surreal children’s storybook. She said she had to be at work in an hour and she hadn’t been to bed. I suggested a shower and black coffee before hopping on the tube. She said she would have to get her blond wig and cheerleading costume off first. Before I could ask she said,” You know, crazy American.” We both laughed, because we understand one another perfectly. She said maybe the tub would be good because of all the bruises from the roller derby thing. I didn’t ask, it just made sense somehow. I suggested she get a pot of coffee on right away, and take a cup to the tub, and by the way, how’s your love life. She told me she had a date with a really great man in a few days, then mentioned that he was 20 years her senior, but really interesting, and incidentally, rich. It can’t hurt, as she just pulled $400 off my debit card this week, for which she apologized. I told her poverty wasn’t a prerequisite for love, but just be cautious. I know she will try, but I also know caution has never had an opportunity to take root in her soul. I think of the silly little poem I wrote for her right after she headed off for college. She has to run, so I tell her I love her, that I want to get on a plane today to see her, and that I’m doing great. We laugh, and then suddenly she's gone and the light in my heart flickers for a second, aching for her happiness. I recite the silliness of the poem again and know that she was worth whatever price I paid.

Once I had a little girl whose hair was dark as night
And later green, maroon, or blue, or accidentally, white.
I wrung my hands and cried my tears,
But nothing helped, except the years
So quickly flown, I caught my breath,
And she was gone, and I was left.
So here’s to her, my darling girl
I gave her words to fight the war
And pushed her through a veil of tears,
Away from home, despite my fears.
There is no safety in the world and yet she runs, her heart unfurled
To fight the fight, to right the wrongs, to live the life, to sing the songs.

WHAT'S SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR LIVING ROOM?

My oldest son told me he really laughed when I started adding elephants to the family room décor. I protested that they actually fit in nicely with the sort of international, warm, cozy theme I had going in there. He told me that I was lying to myself again. I told him I had always liked elephants and they were very popular right now. He told me again, very gently, that I was lying to myself again. I strolled into the formal living room a few days ago, and noticed the large white ceramic elephant I picked up from my grandmother’s house about 15 years ago. It was sitting there giving me the evil eye, stuffed with magazines I had no interest in rereading. Yesterday I moved the grey elephant from the corner where it was sitting, and placed it in on the coffee table right in front of the sofa. My husband protested that it interfered with his view of the TV. “Well”, I said, as I moved it slightly to the right, “It makes a good conversation piece.” 

RAINCOATS HIDE A MULTITUDE OF SINS -A Story of Life Before Liberation

The most hysterical thing about the Baptist College that I attended was that they wouldn’t let women wear pants or shorts. When we asked why, the Dean of Women said, “Because they divide the legs.” They didn’t plan on the fact that mini skirts were going to come into fashion and I was going to single handedly bring them into vogue at the little backwater we liked to call Jesus Tech. Every morning when I came downstairs, I was greeted by a grim grey haired (and getting greyer each day) housemother. She would make me stop for skirt length appraise.” There doesn’t seem to be enough hem to let out in this one,” she would say, shaking her head and tut-tutting. I would act concerned, tell her I had tried to find one with a hem, but all the time not mentioning that I had personally put the stitches in them myself after cutting them off. Now there are a few things not so great about short skirts. One is sitting on plastic chairs in the heat of summer, and another is, no, actually, that’s the only problem.

Now a lot of girls just wore shorts with a raincoat over the top when they went out for picnics and such, but I was nervous about getting caught at first, which is how I ended up lying in the bluegrass of Elmendorf horse farm with a KA frat boy named “Sunshine”, in a green corduroy skirt that barely covered my ass. We had been out together a few times before and he had paid for the obligatory dinner and movie, and I had backed off from a first date kiss, just like good girls were suppose to. We had shared a pretty hot first kiss on our second date, and made out a bit on our third. Taking me to the frat boy picnic was part of his carefully staged seduction. Blankets were scattered about in front of the only remaining structure at Elmendorf, a set of broad steps that let up to majestic columns, then dropped off to green fields again. The owner had destroyed the house in 1929 rather than pay the taxes that were due. The frat boys identified with his defiance, but did not emulate it. In fact they all shopped at the same stores, drove the same expensive cars, and evidently all bathed in the same bottle of English Leather Cologne. To this day I hate the smell of the stuff.

Sunshine was busy trying to relieve me of my panties, the only barrier he could envision between his bulging jeans and a quick score. I didn’t mind the kissing, which he did with great talent and enthusiasm, tongue deep down my throat and his warm soft lips going for a marathon on my own willing mouth. I guess it was real confusing for him to have my mouth saying, yes, yes, and my hands saying, no, no. I have to give him credit, he was very persistent, but after a half hour with his fingers no closer to his target, he got desperate. I heard the earthquake loud noise of his zipper being pulled down and I jumped up like I had been shot from a cannon. Several of the other couples that had been busily engaged around us turned to see me tugging at my skirt and tucking in my blouse. I realized none of them had been putting out, just engaged in some above the waist groping, but then, they were all wearing those tight little Bermuda shorts. Sunshine had collapsed on the blanket exasperated, because he knew the gig was up. I had humiliated him in front of his crew and I felt a little sorry for him, but not enough to do it in front of the entire fraternity in an open field in broad daylight.

I will say he took it like a man, never berating me for being a tease, and taking me back to the dorm, opening my car door, and walking me back to the front steps like a gentleman. He didn’t call however, and I had let him pass out of my thoughts until a few weeks later when I was doing solitary laps in the indoor pool in the G-town field house. I heard a splash and realized someone had joined me, so I paused at the end of my next lap. His strong overhand brought him to my side a few seconds later. He stopped and said, “Nice suit.” I had on as little as I could get by with at Georgetown, a white two piece with hip hugger bottoms that came down below my belly button, and dipped pretty well in the front too. I had never seen him with his shirt off before, and I found him very impressive. He pulled me in for a kiss, for which I gave only token resistance. With so much skin together, there was no question that I had his attention. I backed away from him at the end of the clinch and started swimming, but when I got to the shallow end he was already there. I slid out of his arms and dived underwater, but when I came up for air, he was there laughing. He took me quite firmly in hand this time and gave me one of those mind-blowing kisses, and I began to melt a bit. Maybe it was because the water had washed off all the heavy cologne, but he smelled much better to me than he had in the green grass. He did a bit of messing around with my boobs, but the top of the suit was pretty tight, so he headed to the small bit of cloth that was covering his real interest, pulling me close to his body. He already knew I was a novice, so he took my hand and put it inside his trunks and guided me briefly through the basics of hand job 101. I came to college to learn, after all. When he saw I had the idea, he slid his hand back inside my suit for a bit more exploration. He came long before I was ready, but he surprised me by staying with the task until it was finished, and bringing me to orgasm, the first one I ever had with someone else’s fingers other than my own.

He called me a few days later, but I had a date and turned him down. Funny thing, I believe he might have been a decent guy if he had pulled away from the pack. I knew that was never going to happen, but I cheered him on at the football games the next year, and he always gave me the smile that earned him his name when we saw each other on campus. I hope he still smiles when he thinks of me, just like I do when thinking of him.

Great day!

I love Saturdays when I don’t have to work. I get to set in front of the computer during my most productive time of day and write. Around seven AM I made myself spent a bit of time on the treadmill, and did some of the crunches I hate, then off to the shower. When I started to get dressed I found most of my clothes were a bit loose. I headed to the guest room closet and found something to wear from my previously too tight collection. Feeing pleased with myself, I headed out to the grocery, but somehow bypassed it and went to the Barnes and Nobel instead. I was strolling through the aisles, searching for books, and my lord, actually checking out the male population. I have had myself in housewife mode for far too long, but I think I remember how to flirt. Just like riding a bicycle, it’s all coming back to me. It’s sort of cool. You look at guys appreciatively and smile, and they look back and do the same. Magic, huh? I floated out of there with a few books, a new CD, and a quantum shift in attitude. The grocery was crowed with couples and women alone, so I got to the serious business of organic produce, wild salmon filets, and lump crabmeat on sale. I played my new CD way too loud on the drive home, windows down, because the hurricane’s aftermath has settled a wave of blessed coolness across our previously parched and scorching latitude. The sound system in my car is to die for, vibrating down my thighs and making the whole music experience semi-erotic.

I carried the three bags up the basement steps all at once, puffing only slightly at the load, still singing the music from the car. Mr. Gloom and Doom was up, pacing the kitchen with the news that we had no water. I was shocked to see him there so early, and then realized it was two o’clock. How long had I spent in that bookstore? I told him the power was off in a lot of areas and probably out at the pumping station for the community well, besides there was water, it was just coming out of the tap in a thin stream. I found him the number for the water company and put away the groceries. I was headed back to the computer when I realized I was a little hungry. Taking stock, I suddenly remembered that I had not eaten anything so far today. I was running strictly on caffeine and endorphins. I got a carton of luscious organic blackberry yogurt and started the electric kettle for a cup of tea. My British son in law got me hooked on the good stuff, with milk, no sugar, and I do enjoy it in the afternoon. I continued my earlier writing, but find myself bogged down in the story. I diverted to the damage that Peabody Coal Mine did to the pristine countryside of my native state and got on a rant. I sat down to read the books I purchased, The Lottery, by Shirley Jackson, and only pulled my head out of the book at seven with half of it already read. The water was back at full blast, so I ran the dishwasher, started the laundry, and decided I might need to have some food, although I still wasn’t hungry. I whipped up dinner and offered my husband a great piece of pan broiled wild salmon, stuffed with lump crab, on a salad loaded with fresh herbs and a fiery fruit salsa. He decided he would rather have frozen pizza. Pearls before swine, I thought, and called my son up for dinner.

Jason, my bright beautiful middle child, had spent the day getting ready for his date on Sunday. I am so excited for him. I actually introduced him to the 19-year-old daughter of a friend, a very shy, pretty little thing who is bringing out all of his protective instincts. The man is making her a picnic lunch and planning on taking her out to a park tomorrow! She had never been out on a date before last week when he took her to dinner and a movie, Japanese steak house and Snakes on a Plane. He asked my guidance on when to phone her again, then called his sister in London to ask the same. We both gave him identical advice, call the next day and thank her for a great evening, then suggest another get together later in the week. She is so very inexperienced and insecure, his relative lack of dating skills was not apparent to her. We chatted happily about his love life and I felt so blessed to have this precious time with my wonderful son.

So, life is good. Unfortunately, I spent the last hour reading the postings on my “family” blog and am very disappointed with myself for all the lies I told to protect the guilty. Man, I am so easy to deceive I can even fool myself. Do you hear the sound of the balls I have been juggling dropping to the ground? That’s all folks, the show is over. If I can’t say it straight, I’m just not going to say it anymore. Any questions? I didn’t think so.