I saved a worm today.

We'd had a hard rain yesterday, and a few worms that had been flooded out of the ground were still wandering around on pavement a little dazed today.
I was walking across campus minding my own business when I spotted one of these dudes on the sidewalk in front of me.  My intent was to side-step it, but then it moved. It was still alive, but not by much.

And this small boy voice in my head begged, "Save it, momma."

The sticky cold thing was between my fingers before I even realized I was going to pick it up.
"Here you go, buddy."  I actually said it out loud as I dropped the worm into the grass.

I saved a worm today.
Not because I necessarily wanted to or even intended to.

It's the person my children turned me into, and that person saves worms.
No questions asked.

When I got home, I hugged both of my adult children and thanked them for giving me such lovely memories of being their mom.

The Most Frightening Radio Trivia Contest Ever

I have friends who do not understand why working in radio has made me a paranoid freak and overly protective of my private life and on-line privacy.  It's okay.  There are times I think I'm a bit over the top about it myself.

But then I remember stories like this one, and I understand that even when I might be at fault for revealing more about myself than I realize, listeners behave like scary creepers way more often than they realize.

***

It was the late 1990's, and I was sent to Morning Show Boot Camp with my co-host.
We met lots of other radio morning show hosts and their producers.  One fellow we met was interesting, but I remember only two things about him:
1)  He liked to introduce himself to young women using the name of another, more famous, radio DJ.  And way too many women believed him and then slept with him.
2)  He told us the story of the most frightening radio trivia contest ever.

He started the story by describing a woman who identified herself as his biggest fan. This woman showed up at every remote broadcast this guy hosted. She smelled of alcohol from across the room, he told us, the kind of smell that seeps out of a person's pores after days of imbibing.
His biggest fan, she was.

One night, she showed up at the radio station. He didn't want to let her in, but he also didn't want to be rude. Also, he was in the middle of an air shift and couldn't afford to spend much time finessing a polite dismissal. She had never acted inappropriately; she was just a drunk lady who probably had no real friends aside from the people she listened to on the radio. She said she had something to give to him. 

"That should have been a sign," he told us, "But I let her in anyway."
He led her to the studio, because he had to segue the next song. The whole time he was thinking that now he was trapped, and he was alone, and she would probably never take a hint that she'd need to leave as soon as he'd like her to.
The gift she had for him was a stack of paper. She had written questions for a trivia contest.

The entire list of questions were about him.
One of the questions was "What color is the wastebasket in (this radio dj)'s bathroom?"

He was horrified!  This woman had never been in his house.
Or, had she?

She explained.
It had taken her most of a year of listening to his show, but she felt she'd done a good job.  If anyone else had been paying attention as closely as she had, they'd all know the answers because the questions were all based on things he had mentioned on the air at one point or another.
And he realized that, yes, he had talked about buying a bathroom wastebasket on the air months earlier because he had made a big fuss over how many places he had to look to find a basket in a color that matched his bathroom... green.

So, it had not been the creepy encounter that it had at first appeared to be, but he never ever invited anyone into the radio station after hours after that, no matter how big of a fan they might have been.

Fancy Feast

This is not my story, but it is one of my favorites.

***

Pat was the morning man at one of the radio stations where I worked in the early 1990's.  He had a cat named Buddah.  Buddah had a diet of mainly Fancy Feast canned cat food.  At dinnertime, Pat would ask, "Buddah, Feast?" In response, Buddah would meow like crazy.

One day Buddah got out of Pat's apartment and disappeared.  Pat alerted the local humane societies and police departments in case someone reported or brought in a stray.
And he waited.
A day or two later, the humane society called Pat to let him know they had a cat that fit his description of Buddah.  Could he come in and identify this cat?  Pat said no.
"Just go in front of the cage and say, 'Feast'.  Then tell me what happens."

Even from the phone, Pat heard his beloved Buddah hollering from the cage half a building away.

***

Both Buddah and Pat have passed from this world.
But I remember them fondly every time I feed my own cat a can of Fancy Feast.
(Of course, he doesn't understand why I hold up the can and say, "Buddah, feast?")

Mow

I was out for a walk with The Husband when he remarked that a neighborlady mowing her lawn with a push mower was probably doing it for the exercise.  This prompted me to share a story:

Whenever my dad saw women walking past the farm for exercise, he would mutter about what a waste of time it was to walk for health when there were so many productive things available to do.  He often remarked how he'd be happy to set them up with his push mower.
"They can walk all they want to around the yard for a workout!  I won't even charge them for the service.  Well, maybe for gas..."

The Husband chuckled.  "That is funny."
"He never made the gas comment. I added that."
"Still funny."
"That's what makes it a true story... only funnier."
"I know."

The Zombie Burn Victim

You mean I haven't told you the Zombie Burn Victim story, yet?
You're gonna love this...

It gets dark early in these parts, and in Wisconsin this time of year, it sometimes gets very cold.
On one of these very dark, very cold evenings, I left my place of employment and walked through the parking lot on my way to my vehicle.  It was after most everyone else had left, and my car was the only one in the middle of nowhere.  Sitting there all by itself.

Several businesses use this parking lot.  In fact, one company parks their trucks in the corner, and that is where I looked first when I heard the noise.  Not so much a noise as an unusual sound.  Out of the shadows of the trucks I saw a human figure emerge.  Well, it was upright, it seemed to have a head, and it shuffled along on two legs.

This human-like being was bundled up in shapeless bulky clothing, hood over its head, its face was wrapped in a scarf-like cloth, and its hands were... its hands were...
What was it doing with its hands?
Its hands were oddly formless, and he/she held them out in front of its featureless face in an almost-praying gesture.  As if the person had never seen hands before and could not stop looking at them in fascination.

I'm taking this in as I walk toward my island of a car.
All the while, this creature continues to shuffle away from the cover of the trucks. 
Directly toward me.
Shuffling.

My first impression is that something is not right here.  (Hello?)
People walk.
People in their right mind... walk.

Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.

People swing their arms when they walk.
They don't hold their hands up in front of their faces.

Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.

What is this?
With the wrapped face and formless hands, the shuffling, the bizarre hand thing... my mind searched frantically for an explanation and came up with... burn victim!
It would explain all the facial and hand wrapping.  It might explain the painful attempt at walking. And if your hands are burned, you certainly hold them in a manor that would prevent you from accidentally touching them against something.

Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.

Its pace was steady.
Its tragectory never waivered. 
It was coming directly toward me.  Still.

I compared its pace to mine, and if nothing changed, it seemed we both would arrive at my car at the same time.  If I hurried a bit, I could beat it easily.
I hurried a bit.

Shuf-fle. Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.

I needed to decide soon if I was in danger.
What if it sudden sprinted?

Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.

Good god!  What IS this?  I'm not living in a Stephen King novel!
It didn't change its pace.  It didn't change its direction.

It didn't make a sound.

Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.

Never taking my eyes away from this bizarre... thing... I unlocked my car, threw my bags into it, threw myself in the driver's seat, and locked the door.

Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.  Shuf-fle.

It continued to come. 
It shuffled up to my rear bumper.
It shuffled up toward the driver's side door.
It shuffled past me.
And that's when I saw...

The glow of a smartphone.
Cupped in her hands.
Held up in front of her face.

Cold night.  Bundled up.  Simply traveling through a parking lot. 
Texting.

I don't think she even knew I was there.
If I had rolled down my window and said, "Hey!", she'd have probably died of a heart attack.

(don't think I wasn't tempted)

Hiking Devil's Lake

The family camped at Devil's Lake Resort in Sauk County, Wisconsin recently.
We hiked up the West Bluff Trail.

You should know that the trails up in the Devil's Lake bluffs have no handrailings, no safety railings, and no warning signs.  As you swim at your own risk in the lake with no lifeguard, you also hike at your own risk.  There are points along the trail where the ground drops away from the century-old pavement that makes up the path.
Every year, someone dies from a fall from the bluffs.
Still, no safety measures.  And no lawsuits.

We hiked the same trail about five or seven years ago when the boys were 8 to 12 years old.  That trail horrified me as a mother.  I made The Husband lead the family, and I pulled up the rear so I could keep an eye on my children.  At every potential danger, The Husband pointed it out and hollered out a warning.

Along the way, the boys wanted to look over the edge to see how high we were.
We were very high.
We were looking down on flying hawks.
There was a huge flat rock that we allowed the boys to snake out onto.
They were flat on their stomaches and too afraid of heights themselves to try anything foolish, yet I was a nervous wreck until they snaked back and were on ground far from the edge again.

I think just about everyone can understand where I'm coming from, right?

That hike ended uneventfully... except for when we were nearly at the end of the trek walking along the edge of the lake and gave in to Elder Son's desire to leap along the lake's edge boulders, and he lost his footing and bashed his shin bloody on the rocks.

This year, we make the same hike along the same trail.
Again, The Husband leads and I pull up the rear.
This time, Younger Son points out the potential dangers and hollers them back to me specifically.

You see, in the past five to seven years, the boys have both grown taller than their mother, grown stronger than their mother, and grown more protective of their mother.
More protective partly because they are taller and stronger, of course, but I suspect mostly because their 45-year-old mother says things like, "I am a dainty flower," and "I'm old and feeble."

So, here we are hiking this trail peppered with life-ending potholes, Younger Son now as worried for me as I used to be worried for him.
Somewhere along the way, we stop to admire the view.  The Husband gestures to Devil's Lake from our lofty perch and points out how the colors of the water designate the lake's depth.
"I can't see it," Younger Son says.
"Here," I step aside so he can stand in my place where the view is better. 

But I catch my heel on a tree root and start to fall backward.
I am pretty sure I am not about to tumble down the bluff because I'm falling the wrong direction, however, I have no idea what I'm about to fall on.
Flat land?  A jagged tree stump?  Rock?
And I don't know which part of my body will hit it. 
Rear end?  Small of my back?  Skull?

All I know is it is going to be something.
And I'm going to hit it hard.

It is a frightening moment, and I shout outloud which startles the three men of my life.
But, they can see there's nothing terribly dangerous behind me.
And, they're too far away to catch me, so there I fall.
On my butt.
On a flat rock.

I sit there for a moment confirming to myself that I am fine and unhurt.

It is then that Younger Son and I both see it at the same time.
"Mother!  Are you okay?!?" he shouts.  "Are you okay!?!"
"Huh," I reply.  "Look at that."

My shoe is pointed the wrong way.

Younger Son's mind immediately shifts into emergency mode. 
What is the first aid for a twisted ankle or (oh god) a broken leg?  Do our phones get reception up here?  How soon could an ambulance get here?  How could an ambulance get up here?  Shouldn't there be blood?  How come she's not bleeding?  Can the three of us carry Mother down the trail, and how do we navigate the narrow areas that drop off down the bluff?  Oh god, her foot is on backwards!

Meanwhile, I calmly reach for my shoe, pull it off the tip of my perfectly fine foot, and say, "Look at that.  I pulled my shoe clean off when I fell."

Younger Son falls silent.  Then he drops to his knees and hugs me.
"Oh, Mother... it looked like... I thought..."
When I realize how that backward shoe must have looked to him and what he was trying to say, I scramble to hug him back.  "No, no, I'm fine! I'm perfectly fine!  You were worried I'd broken my ankle?"
"Yeah."
"Wow.  That must've looked scary."
Uncomfortable chuckle.  "Yeah."
"I'm fine.  I'm okay."

He helps me stand, assesses for himself that I truly am okay, and breathes a sigh of relief.
We all take a moment to debrief about the incident, laugh about it, then continue on our hike. 
All is well.

And Younger Son continues to point out steep drops off the side of the trail.

The Magic Milk Case

While working in the grocery store decades ago, I passed by the dairy case during my lunch break.
And, I had a wicked idea…

Preface:
If you pay attention in your own grocery store, you will notice that the shelves of milk are not so much in a refrigerated case as much as they are in a giant refrigerator. Look beyond the shelves of milk. It’s a walk-in refrigerator so large that it can contain not just entire shelves of milk but also several more racks of milk jugs behind those.
Your access to the milk from the shopping side of this walk-in refrigerator is actually a big, gaping hole in the wall covered by either sheets of clear plastic or a series of glass doors.


This setup allows employees to walk through the refrigerator between the shelving units you see in front and the storage racks in the back. The employees can restock the display shelving units from the back without ever taking any milk out of cold storage.

Are you following me?

Okay, then.  Back to the story…
As I strolled past the grocery store dairy case, a jug of milk caught my attention as it slid from the back of the case forward… almost magically. It was unnerving to see at first, but I quickly realized someone was inside the refrigerated room restocking the shelf one jug at a time.

Heh.
The game is afoot.
I pushed the jug back. And quickly stepped aside.

A moment later, the jug slid forward again and was joined by a second.

I pushed them both back.
And stepped aside.

It was a longer while before either jug slid forward again. And when one finally did, it moved s.l.o.w.l.y.  I could see two more jugs placed behind these two.

Quickly, I removed the front two jugs intending to hide them completely, and was in the process of pulling on the back two when a face peered through the shelf.  It was Don, a classmate of mine who'd been hired the same week as me.

“YOU!" he shouted.  "Don't move!!”


I put the milk back in the case where it belonged as my co-worker exited the rear of the fridge and came out to the store side.

"I gotta tell you a story," Don said....

Stock boys are supposed to stay busy at all times.  Bagging groceries is a good way to stay busy, but when there aren't many customers, the guys are expected to tidy and restock shelves and sweep the floors.  If they can't find anything to do, they're supposed to ask a department manager for ideas.
No one wants to ask department managers for ideas.
Because they have ideas.

Somewhere along the line, Don discovered the beauty of the dairy case.  There was always something to do in there.
His favorite thing to do was sit on an upside down milk crate and restock the milk jugs one at a time.  If he went slow enough, customers would take jugs, and he could keep refilling the case.  Wearing a jacket and a pair of gloves, he could comfortably hide in that dairy case for a long time without anyone coming to look for him and assign "ideas".

That's what he was doing when I'd wandered by.
He had waited while customers took enough product off the shelf so that he could shuffle the jugs around to clear out an entire display shelf.  While sitting on the upside-down milk crate, he'd grab a gallon of milk off the rack in the rear of the refrigerator, pivot to the side that made up the display, and shove the milk toward the front. Then, turn back to the rack for another jug.

It was a simple, mundane chore where no one bothered him until the one time he pivoted back to the front to find the milk he’d just loaded wasn't where he'd put it. He thought this was curious, but he convinced himself he must not have pushed it all the way forward. So, he pushed it up where it belonged, and added the second.
By the time he retrieved the next two jugs from the back and pivoted, the milk wasn't where he'd put it.
Again.
Once was odd, he thought. Perhaps he’d only imagined it. But twice? That was freaky.

The third time, when two whole gallons were missing, and he saw my hands reaching for the other two, it all made perfect sense.

“That,” he said to me, “was brilliant!”

He may have even applauded a little with his refrigerator gloves.

"It makes a difference for this one." - A Single Starfish, by Loren Eiseley

While this story stands pretty strong on its own, the short story, "A Single Starfish" by Loren Eiseley may add to your appreciation of what this story means to me.


One year ago, when I was still reeling after the loss of my sister, and still raging at the cancer that robbed her of a good and purposeful life, the local paper did a story on a retired couple who started up a cancer support group.  This all-volunteer support group raises funds to help cancer patients with their bills and medical expenses.  All the money they raise ends up in the hands of these clients in the form of vouchers or a check made out directly to the utility company or to a landlord for rent.  No one gets cash.  They get whatever it is that they need.
Most important, I know my five dollar donation is going to end up in the hands of someone fighting cancer.  No administrative suit is going to peel off his percent and send it on down the line.

I fell in love with them immediately.  I wanted to help.  I wanted to give them money.
You guys, I wanted to crochet them something.  (You know me.  That means it's special.)

So I called them up out of the blue.
I introduced myself as Roses from the radio station.  In case they'd heard of me. 
Said I wanted to help, but I didn't know how.  I didn't have the kind of schedule that would allow me to volunteer at events or anything.
We talked for a good long time on the phone.  They talked mostly, I nodded a lot and kept saying, "That's what I like about you guys.  I've been looking for you."

After attending one of their meetings, I asked if they'd mind if I wrote a PSA (public service announcement) for their group. 
Mind?  You can do that?  Yes, please!
So, I did.  Wrote a script, voiced the commercial, got my boss's permission to run it on the station free of charge, and I put it in the stack to rotate with the other PSAs.  I e-mailed copies to other area radio stations, so there wasn't even any cash spent on postage. 
It's what I could do.  It cost me nothing.  It cost the radio station nothing because with everything digital, no additional materials were consumed, and it would run where there weren't any other commercials scheduled; it would fill time that would have been unpaid anyway.

Some people bake cookies.  I produce radio announcements.

That's where my contribution ended.  It took a couple days, and it was done.

That was last summer.
I feel odd still attending their meetings while having nothing more to offer.  I like to go because they share stories about the people they help.
Like the woman who couldn't work through the summer while taking chemo treatments, needed just one month's rent before she would be able to go back to work.  Done.
And the mother of two who had to choose between a prescription for herself or food for her children.  Didn't have to choose anymore.
The family of the 4-year-old boy with brain cancer who didn't have to worry about gas money to see specialists half a state away.

Every month, they have new stories to tell.
And I cry each time because I know this group has made a difference for each one of these people.

***

This past Tuesday, there was a message for me at work from this retired couple.  Could I please call them as soon as I could?
I figured it was something about the logo we'd discussed at the last meeting or maybe something I'd posted on Facebook.  Whatever.
Instead, it was a client story they wanted to share.  It goes something like this:

Monday afternoon, they'd gotten a call from a man living in his van.  He had once beaten stage 4 lymphoma, but it was back.  His cash was gone because he'd spent the last of it on a major van repair.  (He had to live somewhere, right?)  On the 5th of the month, he'd get a few hundred dollars from government assistance, but before he could receive it, he was required to meet with a case worker in the next town. The problem was he wouldn't be able to make the appointment because he was almost out of gas. The guy had nothing.  He just needed to hang on for a few more days before some cash came in.  But he wasn't going to make it. And... he even spent the last minutes left on his TracPhone to call the cancer organization.

Within hours, this couple verified his last known address, his medical condition, his story.
They met him at a gas station and filled his tank with gas, bought him minutes for his phone, then drove with him to the grocery store to buy him decent food... fresh fruit, a salad... and out of their own pocket paid for a bucket of chicken from the deli and potato wedges.
"This is the first hot meal I've had in a long time," the man told them.
He also said that as soon as his check came on the 5th, he'd pay it all back.
"No.  You won't.  We won't let you."

So, why did they feel the need tell me this story before the regular meeting when they'd share it with everyone?
"We wanted to call you right away because this guy had nothing, had nowhere to turn.  But he heard your PSA on the radio yesterday.  That's why he called us."

***

The one lousy PSA that I thought wasn't enough.
Was everything to this man.

***

They waited on the phone while I wept.
"I have to tell you something," I said between sobs.  "Your PSA rotates with a couple dozen other PSAs.  Meaning once every 24 times or so that a PSA plays, it's gonna be yours.  Yesterday, your PSA came up a lot.  I thought that was really odd.  But now I know why."
"So he could hear it."
"Because he needed to hear it."

It made a difference... for this one.

Someday, this will come back around to me...

We set up the stage Sunday night.  (When I say "we", I mean I held things while other people screwed them together.) 

Last night was final dress rehearsal.
While waiting for my cue backstage alone in the dark, I had a very special moment...

***

One or two weeks earlier during an exhausting rehearsal, I sat off to the side trying to stay out of everyone's way. I leaned my head on some boards to rest.

Let me explain that a little better...
This particular theater group has a workshop in an old municipal building where they paint and store scenery, props, and costumes.  The entire place is a storage room.  Furniture is shoved into every corner leaving nothing more than a walkway through rooms.  Props are balanced on all available flat surfaces.  Costumes have their own room; maneuvering through it is like experiencing birth.  In the stage area, scrap wood and planks are stacked to the ceiling along one wall, and rows of flats (tall sections of scenery that get painted and assembled as background) lean up along the length of another wall.
For Harry Potter fans, imagine the Room of Requirement when Harry needed to hide things in it.

So, for me to find a place to sit was amazing in itself.
And, this is why, when I rested my weary head, it ended up leaned up against the 2x4 of a flat.

As I sat there with my eyes closed, I very clearly felt my mother leaning her head back against mine.
It was nice.
And very odd.
Because there was no reason for her to be there.

She had no connection to this theater group.
None to this building.
She had never been a "stage mom".  Never painted scenery.  Had never sewn a costume for me.
While I know she had come to all my grade school performances (because I needed a ride), the only show I remember her attending was the one she and Lily came to in high school.

There was no reason for me to feel her presence there at the workshop.
But, I did.

I sat up and took a good look at the boards I'd been leaning on.
There was nothing special about them.
Someone had written, "Jennifer was here".
Another had made a dark X above the words "marks the spot".

It made me think of how I once had scribbled my name on a shelf at college and wondered if anyone would find it.
These two theater people probably wondered the same thing when they'd left their marks.
I pulled out my pen and etched Mom's initials into the wood where my forehead had been.  It was just above a seam where two boards were nailed together.
And then, just so she wouldn't feel left out, I added Lily's initials, too.
I imagined whoever found them long in the future might think the six box letters were assembly instructions.
And I thought, "Someday, this will come back around to me..."

***

Last night during dress rehearsal, I stood backstage alone in the dark waiting for my cue.
We have a small cast of nine people, and I am the last one to go onstage. One by one they go until it's just me backstage.
(For you Harry Potter fans, it's very much like the Goblet of Fire when Harry is alone in the tent waiting to face his dragon.)

Staring at the door through which I would enter, I noticed off to the side of it a dark X on the 2x4 frame.
Really.

A little below it, I could just make out a scribble that could have been Jennifer's note.

And just above the seam where two boards were nailed together, six box letters.

There they were.
Waiting with me.

I had not expected it to come back around to me so soon.

Possibilité de photos

Half a life ago, I worked as a waitress at a very large restaurant in a Michigan tourist town.  Because our uniforms were inspired by German styles, it was common to be asked to pose with folks while wearing our waitress uniforms. They always wanted the male waiters in the pictures, too, since they had to wear lederhosen.


Just look at us.  We're adorable!  Who wouldn't want a pic of this?
(No, that's not really me.)

One afternoon after my shift, I observed a family trying to take a scenic picture outside the restaurant. They'd pose, snap a picture, the photographer would hand the camera to someone else, they'd shift around some, and take another shot. It didn't take long to realize they were trying to get everyone in the scene with one picture or the other.
I walked over and addressed the man holding the camera. "Would you like me to take a picture for you so you all can be in the picture together?"
He gave me a blank look. Too late, I realized they'd all been speaking French.
"I don't suppose you speak English?"
No. None of them did.
But, now I had their full attention. They were very curious what the girl in the dirndl had come over to tell them.
I could not think of a way to make them understand, "Nevermind. It's not important."  So I continued with Plan A and figure out how communicate I wanted to take their group photo.

Have you ever tried to convince a total stranger to hand over their very expensive camera to you? Try doing it without using words.
After a great deal of pointing (your camera, me) and gesturing (you go there, me clicky clicky), they finally understood what I was offering. There were some squeals of delight, lots of laughter, and THE biggest smiles you ever saw in a family photo.

***

In a scrapbook somewhere in France today, there's a beautiful family photo that was taken in Frankenmuth, Michigan. And everytime it is shown, there's mention of the girl in a dirndl who took it

The good man

About six months after Elder Son son was born, I was still hopped up on post-partum hormones and suffering from massive sleep deprivation.
Pile on heaps of self-doubt about how to be a good parent, and you have a rather ugly picture.

One particular day, I was upstairs changing a diaper when the doorbell rang.
The Husband went to answer it.
I heard him greet our visitor, at first with a question in his voice, and then with a hardy welcome.

"Hey, woman!" the husband called up the stairs to me. "Do we know someone named Peter Rabbit?"

I can't imagine the look my infant son saw come over my face.
Peter Rabbit had been the name of my high school boyfriend.

We had parted ways badly.
Had bumped into each other occasionally... and awkwardly.
And hadn't seen each other in about a decade.

I still sent his parents Christmas cards, but I didn't think Pete even knew what state I was living in.

And yet.
He was... here?

"Well," I called back slowly to the husband. "I know a Peter Rabbit. (pause) Whyyyyy?"
"Because they're here!"
"They? You mean there's more than one Peter Rabbit down there?"

With a chuckle, I heard Peter's voice quip, "She hasn't changed at all!"

The husband invited Peter and his wife into our home.
I don't remember her name, but we will call her Pamela.
As in Pamela Anderson.
The original Baywatch babe.

Because Pete's wife was gorgeous.
Pete's wife had been a life guard when they'd met.

Did I mention she was gorgeous?

It turned out they were on vacation (relaxed and refreshed), traveling around a state or two, and just happened to pass through our town.
They thought they'd look us up.

And there I was, elbow deep in diapers, strung out on bad, bad, bad post-baby emotions, and dying for a nap.

Great.  Yeah.  Come on in!

We did have a nice visit.
Pete found The Husband charming (because he is), we found Pete's wife to be lovely (because she truly was), and I didn't feel nearly as uncomfortable as I thought I should... probably because I was so dang tired I didn't care at the time.

After a delightful conversation full of laughter, we finally said our goodbyes.
The Husband and I waved goodbye from our crooked porch as the two of them drove away in their shiny, new SUV.
Of course.

Then I turned back to our toy-littered livingroom with its decades-old shag carpeting...
And caught a reflection of myself in a glass-covered wall hanging.

Baggy eyes.
Frizzy hair.
What the heck am I wearing?

Oh good lord.

I crumbled into a teary-eyed pile while The Husband patted my head.

"First of all," he said, "I think you look wonderful. And you were very charming and funny."
Sniff. "Really?"
"Really. And second?  If he thought you were anything less than the beautiful woman I know you are, then you at the very least made him feel really, really good that the two of you broke up."

In the end, I apparently picked a darn good man.

That's all I can say.

Happy Anniversary, my darling!

The Broken Windows

I think we were the first ones in the neighborhood it happened to.

It sounded like something fell down in the middle of the night.
And broke.
Something glass.

Crash!Crash!Crash!

It woke me up, of course.  The only glass I could think of that might have fallen were bottles from my Coca Cola collection in the dining room.  They were all on a shelf that ran along the length of the room one foot from the ceiling.
So, I went there.  In the dark.

With the nightlight shining in the kitchen, I could not see anything out of place on the Coca Cola shelf.  But, there was an odd shimmer on the diningroom table. It covered the entire table, a nice even glaze.  In the dark, I figured it was soda.  It looked a lot like the time one of my Coke cans burst and sprayed all over the place. 

When I stepped toward the light switch, I nearly stepped on a cat toy.  We have light colored carpeting (who puts carpeting in a diningroom, I ask you?  Really.  This was going to be swell to get cola out of) so I saw the dark toy before taking a step.  Even with the lights out, it looked wrong enough to catch my attention.
"What the..." I bent over to see it closer. 
Then, I gasped loud enough to alarm The Husband a whole house away.
"It's a ROCK!"

I snapped on the light.
The table was not covered with soda.  It was covered with broken glass.
It was then I noticed the slats of two window shades were hanging askew.
Two.

I yanked them open to find three holes in two windows.
(Crash!Crash!Crash!)

I went back and looked at the rock again.
Wasn't there supposed to be a note tied to it?  Where's the note?

We found three rocks altogether. 
One in the diningroom.  It accompanied a pock in the wall opposite the windows.
One in the kitchen that left a ding in the refrigerator.
And, one in the livingroom where it had rolled having bounced off of nothing.

The police came.  Filed a report that would lead nowhere.
We had witnessed nothing.  Seen no one running or driving away.
Why would we?  We thought something had fallen.
We also had no leads.  The boys had not been threatened at school.

The next morning we found a couple more dents in our siding where rocks had hit the house but missed the windows.
In the following days, several neighbors' houses were hit.  Big windows like ours.  No one injured. 
No one having any clues.  No one knew why they'd been targeted.

Rumors pointed to a family up the street whose father had been transferred out of state and left his teenaged children to finish out the school year.  But, incidents continued even after the house emptied and the For Sale went up in the yard.

::shrug::

That was two years ago.

I never did get to the point where I felt comfortable walking through the diningroom in the middle of the night.  It didn't matter that there was no reason to believe we'd be hit again; there'd been no reason for us to be hit period.
You wonder why.
You wonder who.
But mostly, you wonder why.

***

So, why do I bring up a two-year-old, unsolved, vandalism incident now?
Mainly, because Elder Son saw a car drive past our house today that looked similar to a car that used to park often in the house up the street where the unsupervised teens lived.  He wasn't sure about the car, he didn't recognize any of the occupants of the car, but he did know that he did not like the looks of them.  They looked sinister. 
On it's own, this means nothing.

Until you take into account what happened two months ago on the night Lily died.
The reason I didn't blog about this when it happened is because I just didn't want you to feel any worse for me than you already did then.  This part has nothing to do with Lily.  It was just bad timing.

I'd been sleeping when Army Sister called to tell me Lily was gone January 9th.  Our conversation had been short.
And though I could have fallen back asleep, it felt wrong to.  You just find out your sister died, and you roll over and go back to sleep?  That's wrong, right?
I got up and watched TV.
Younger Son, who is a light sleeper, heard me moving around.  After I told him why I was up, he asked if I wanted him to stay up with me.  I told him I would enjoy his company.
We were engrossed in the suspenseful conclusion of a movie when we hear the pops.
Pop!Pop!
I turned toward Younger Son, just about to say, "Someone's shooting off firecrackers," when a thunderous bang seemed to shake the house.  We both jumped.
And then the diningroom windows shattered.

I hit the floor.  I was aware of Younger Son also on the floor across from me.
Because Lily had just died, I had carried my cell phone out to the livingroom with me in case any other family members called.  Any other night, it would have been at my bedside and not on the coffee table.
I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.
"I think someone is shooting at my house!"
When Younger Son moved to stand, I shouted at him to stay down.  "I don't feel safe here," he explained.  He crawled to the hallway.

The 911 operator wanted to know what we saw.  Are you kidding?  We saw nothing.  We were on the floor.  No way was I going to run to the window to look for someone running away.  I thought we were being shot at.  In fact, it was several moments before I realized the shooting had stopped.

I was still on the phone with 911 when The Husband turned on the kitchen light and announced, "I found a rock."
"Are you kidding me!!?"

The 911 operator immediately reported to responding police to relax, it wasn't gunshots.

Instantly, my fear hardened into cold blooded anger.
I wanted to hurt someone.
I would tell Younger Son later that had I realized someone was throwing rocks, I'd have run outside stocking-footed in my pajamas and chased the bugger down and beat him bloody.  Even now, I can taste the satisfaction that would have given me.  "Do you know (punch!) what kind of day (punch!) I have had!!??" (punch!punch!punch!)

Three more rocks had come through our windows.  Same as last time.
One rock punched a full hole through the drywall next to the refrigerator this time.
Outside we found two new pocks in the siding (Pop!Pop!), a big dent in the window frame (the house-shaking bang), and another rock that came to rest on top of the snow.

They will never find out who did it this time, either.

***

I will be the first to admit that I have some anger issues.
I also believe I have some good reasons.

Sssssmokin'!

Quiet evening.
I'm watching TV in the livingroom.

Suddenly, there's a flash outside!
Like lightning.
But it's not storming.

Odd.
But I keep watching TV since nothing else happens.

Moments later, I hear voices outside.
Two neighbors across the street are on the sidewalk talking. Pointing. Gesturing.
I figure they're talking about the flash, so I go outside to join them.

They tell me they've lost electricity.
But, at our house across the street, we haven't.
Curious...

"Let me check something," says one man. And he walks through the yard of the house directly across the street from me and into the backyard. When he returns, he is grinning.
"Just as I thought!" he announces. "A squirrel got into the transformer."

"How do you know?"

"I found the squirrel on the ground. And it's still smoking."

Three guys and a gal

I thought it was a funny story, so, frankly, I was stunned when it stopped all conversation dead:

While lunching with my boss, the chief engineer, and the new guy, it occurs to me that I am the only girl in this foursome.  We are enjoying Friday fish fry at the corner bar... which reminds me of a similar situation a couple decades ago.  So, I tell the guys this story:

"I go to this bar with three guys from work.  We're all about 20 years old.  We find a table, and while we're sitting there drinking sodas, this 30-year-old guy comes over from the bar and asks me to dance.
I say sure.
We go dance, and when I get back to the table, all three guys are all sulky.  All like, 'Dude, this guy just came over and stole the only girl we brought to dance with.'  Pout, pout."
And then I deliver the punch line:  "I never did tell them that guy was my brother."

When I stop laughing about it, I realize no one is laughing with me.
"Well," I announce, "that was a real conversation stopper."
More silence.
"What?  Did I bring up bad memories?"
"Well, Roses..."

And each one of them names a girl who'd ditched them for some other guy at a dance.

"But..." I try, "but... maybe it was her brother!"
"Ah, no."
"SO not brother and sister."
"No."

The Blue Hoodie Miracle

I apologize.  I promised not to beat you over the head with Mom's death.  However, I had not planned on miraculous things happening.  I did not count on... this.
But, I think you will appreciate this story, if I can tell it right.

Over July 4th weekend, Army Sister, Lily and I planned to go home to Michigan.  Have a "Sisters' Weekend".  Sort through Mom's things.  Attend Mom's family reunion with Dad.

Only, at the last minute, Lily couldn't come.

Going through Mom's clothes was hard.  Maybe I mentioned it.
We missed Mom.  And now we missed Lily, too.
After trying on one of Mom's jackets, I burst into tears.  There was no way I could ever wear it without crying.  Ever.  All it would take is one kind, "That's a nice jacket. Where'd you get it?" and I'd be worthless.
Army Sister and I realized that we could not keep any of Mom's clothes.  It would be too hard.

The packing went quickly after that.
Mom wanted any clothes we didn't keep to be donated to a charity where she often volunteered. We packed up nine boxes of clothes.

Eventually, Army Sister decided to keep some pairs of socks.
I managed to wrap my head around taking a pair of jeans.  For some reason, they were impersonal enough.

And as I emptied Mom's coat closet, I found some sweatshirt jackets.
A pink one hugged me as I removed it from its hanger.
"I will wrap my arms around you in the winter," it told me.  "I'll never have to leave the house.  No one will see you if you need to cry.  Please... take me home with you."

There were two other jackets like it.
I asked Army Sister if she wanted one.
"No," she said.  "I don't think so."
"Do you think Lily would want one?"
"I don't know."
"I'm going to take this pink one for myself.  Is that okay?"
"Sure."

We moved the nine boxes over to Barnless Brother's house where Sister and I were sleeping for the weekend.  We stacked them in the bedroom where my things were.

I cried every night.
"I'm sorry, Mom.  I just can't take anything.  I don't want to give all your clothes away, but it makes me so sad.  I'm so sorry."

The night before I drove back to Michigan, I could not sleep.
I kept thinking of those sweatshirt jackets.
There was a blue one with a hood.  I almost thought I knew which box it was in.
But I definitely knew it had to go to Lily.
I don't know why.  But I knew.

Turns out I didn't know which box it was in.
It was at the bottom of the ninth box I pawed through.
At one o'clock in the morning.

I hung it on a hanger, hugged it, cried on it.
The next day, I took it to Wisconsin along with a crocheted shawl we thought Lily had made for Mom and some scarves we figured she could wear on her chemo-bald head.

On Lily's birthday, I wrote a note to explain why she was receiving each of the items in the box.
I wasn't sure how much I should say about the blue hoodie.  It seemed important to me, but would it mean anything to Lily?
::shrug::
I typed almost the same thing you just read... only without all the weeping.

I signed the note:
I don't know how you feel about the blue jacket.
But I think it wanted you.
I hope that's okay.

***

She called me Monday.
The box had arrived.

She hadn't made the shawl.  But she was happy to have it.
The scarves were perfect.  Just right for wearing in the summer.

And the blue hooded jacket?
"Did you know," she asked me, "that I bought that jacket for Mom?"
"You did?"
"I did.  It's the most perfect thing you could have sent.  I couldn't think of anything of Mom's I could've wanted, but this is good.  This is perfect."
"I didn't know.  I had no idea."

It had called me from the bottom of that box.
It woke me up.  It wouldn't let me sleep.
I had no idea.
How do you explain that?
Was it Mom?  Was she telling me what to do?

All I know is I sent my sister a hug.  And it fit perfectly.

Thank You for Your Service

I was waiting for my flight out of Nashville International Airport at a gate that seemed to have previously been a storage room until someone knocked out a wall and installed two rows of seating. I had just pulled out a ball of yarn (marveling at how the airlines allow items such as crochet hooks and knitting needles on board a plane and thinking how, in my hands, my crochet hook is useless as a weapon, but if I could identify one of those undercover sky marshals and get a hook to him, it'd be better than nothing... but he'd probably have his own gun anyway) when the couple sat down across from me. They glanced quickly at the bare walls of the area as they settled in.

I gestured, “They really need to put up a TV in here.”
They nodded and chuckled. “At least some pictures,” offered the woman.

Between the two of them, they had one big carry-on. Only one of them was leaving. The other had come to say goodbye.
“Is Chicago your final destination?” I asked them both, knowing the answer would tell me who was going and who was staying. “Or, is it just one stop to somewhere else?”
The man spoke, “I’m headed to Saudi Arabia.”
“Oh! Very not Chicago, then.”

I focused again on my handful of yarn.
A soldier leaving his wife, I thought to myself. How terribly sad they must be right now.
I made a decision: If there is any trouble on this flight, I definitely slip this guy my crochet hook for a weapon.

A crazy thought to have, maybe. But, when we boarded our flight and he took the assigned seat next to me, I was grateful. Moments later, as an off-duty flight attendant settled into the emergency exit row directly in front of us, I leaned over and whispered to this man, “Excellent! Someone who knows how to work the door!”

With all these precautions around me, I felt very safe on this airplane. As if to prove how protected I was, the entire flight was uneventful.

SoldierMan and I engaged in small talk during our 90 minute flight. I learned the woman at the airport was his second wife, and that he was very happy to finally be stationed in Nashville near his teen-aged son. He was returning to Saudi Arabia to finish up his year-long tour after a 30-day leave. He was going to miss his younger son’s entire little league season.

Our flight landed early in Chicago. My bus home was leaving in half an hour. If I could find the bus terminal and purchase a ticket in time, I’d be with my family in two hours. This man, in the same amount of time, would be on an eight-hour flight headed an entire world away from his family.

For the past five years, I’ve been the producer for a radio host who happens to be a Vietnam veteran. He tells me how one day he was dodging bullets, and the next day he was home drinking lemonade.
This radio host speaks fondly of once meeting John McCain. Senator McCain shook his hand, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Thank you for your service.” It was the first time anyone had thanked him for the sacrifices he had made and the things he had endured in Vietnam. For this, the host will always respect Mr. McCain.
Today, this host makes a point to thank every military member he interviews. I hear the sincerity in his voice. I hear the gratitude in return.

And this is why, as our plane taxied to the O’Hare gate, I turned to this man next to me and said, “Good luck with your last few months. Thank you for your service.”

He nodded. And we said nothing more.

I never learned his name. I’ll never know when he returns home to Tennessee.
But I know there’s a desert full of men like him. And I pray for them everyday.

Today is Memorial Day.
Say thank you to a serviceman. You just might be the first one ever to do so.

My Mom Rocks

This is not really a sad post. Even though my mother died one week ago today, this is more of an “Oh Roses, you have an awesome family” post.
And at the end, you will feel a great desire to send me a rock. But, please don’t.   :-)

It began with a niece. She questioned why Barnless Brother had a pile of rocks arranged on his property near the road.
“He sells them,” was the answer.  True story; people pay him a dollar per rock, sometimes more for bigger ones, and use them for yard decoration.
“Who would pay money for a rock?” she then asked.
“You’d be surprised.”

Of course, all of us aunts and uncles regaled her with stories about growing up on the farm, picking up rocks from the fields, chucking them onto a flatbed wagon, then dumping the wagonload of rocks into a remote spot in the woods.

“Can you believe we just threw them away?” Barnless Brother remarked in disbelief. “All that money we could’ve had…”

The niece simply shook her head.

***

When I arrived at the farm last Sunday, my oldest sister (who I will call Army Sister since her husband is an Army chaplain, currently in Afghanistan) told me the pastor had met with the family earlier to hear stories about Mom that he could use during her funeral sermon.

“We told him he needed to talk with you," she said to me. "You got to be home with Mom all by yourself while we were in school. We thought you would have some stories.”

So, the pastor asked me at visitation if I had anything to share.
“Well,” I began as my two sisters listened in, “we didn’t do anything special really. But after everyone left for school, Mom and I would jump on the beds…”
"You did?" asked Army Sister with a wistful look in her eyes.  “Did you really?”
“… and then we’d go into Roofless and Barnless Brothers' bedroom and eat the candy they had hidden…”
“What? No, you didn’t,” my two sisters began to chuckle.
“… and at naptime, Mom would read me to sleep with selections from my sisters’ diaries.”
“Oh! She did not! You’re making that all up!”

Then, I told Pastor this story.
(Well, look there.  It's a rock.)
Apparently, my siblings had never heard this story.  Barnless Brother, who I found out had been in charge of replacing that window, had never known how it had gotten broken nor how dangerous the incident had been.

Pastor gasped at all the right places as I told the story, but his only response was, “Wow. So, you didn’t jump on the beds? That’s too bad, because I could totally see your mom doing that.”

***

Several of my best friends drove in for visitation. One high school friend asked to see my dad.
As Dad shook his hand, my friend declared, “You nearly killed me working on your farm!”
“I did?” Dad smiled. “Did we have you out hoeing beans?”
“No, picking up rocks!”
Dad was tickled pink.
(Look! More rocks!)

***

The church was filled. Immediate family waited in the church narthex for the procession. It was hot, and it was sad. Hearts were hanging heavy. Trying to be strong for each other.

Across from me, Pastor was taking deep breaths, preparing to enter the church. I spied a stray thread poking up from the tassel hanging down his back. A small thing, really. The longer I stared at that thread, though, the more I realized I had to fix it.
Because we'd be looking at it through most of the service.
So, in front of Dad and my siblings and The Husband and boys and nearly a dozen aunts and uncles, I stepped forward to lay it flat. A quick flick was all it would take.
But as I smoothed it, it unraveled!
“Oh no!” I whispered to no one in particular, “I made it worse!”
I hurried back into place as Pastor turned around and smirked at me. Then he came over and made like he was adjusting my ponytail.
(He thanked me later for lifting some of the tension.)

***

The service was beautiful.
My mother’s seven grandsons, dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and black ties were her pallbearers. They were handsome.
Pastor, who lived next door to my parents, choked as he spoke about how Mom played with his own children. He preached on how we are never forgotten, never forsaken.
He said, “She was not forsaken the day she was washing dishes and… dare I say which child it was?”
I smiled and quietly nodded once my consent.
“… the day Roses was mowing the lawn…” and told the whole story about the lawn mower and the rock.

We wondered later if he had decided to tell that particular anecdote only after I'd tugged on his tassel.
It was an uplifting sermon. We smiled, we laughed, we cried.
Every time he turned his back to the congregation during prayers, we all saw that long stray thread pointing off to the side.
And sometime in the middle of the service, one of my aunts pulled my ponytail.  (I strongly suspect it was one of these.)
It was perfect.

***

That evening, Dad, us five kids, and the grandkids all walked into town for ice cream cones. On the way home, we stopped at Mom’s grave. Flowers from the funeral blanketed the fresh earth.
Army Sister sank her fingers into the patch of dirt and pulled up a small stone. “Hey, Dad, is this about the size of the hole Roses put in the window?”
“No,” I answered for him, “it was bigger.”
And suddenly, we all were searching the ground for a fist-sized rock.

By the time we walked away from Mom's gravestone, there was, placed among the flowers, a small pile of five stones. One for each of Mom’s children.

Mom rocks.

The Light of my Life

My cousin woke up early with me that morning.
We had several errands to run.
We had to have our hair done, pick up the flowers, and have our dresses fitted for the final time before driving two hours to the church.

My cousin was my maid of honor, you see.

It was a grand morning. The sun was shining, the birds were singing.
And I couldn't eat a thing.
Oh, I was hungry enough, but I just could not eat.

I eventually dumped most of my bowl of Life Cereal into the trash.
We stopped at Taco Bell later, and after a bite or two, I discarded that, as well.
Three hours later, up the street from the church, a delicious A&W burger suffered the same fate.
Just nerves.
Excitement.

My cousin was patient, supportive, and very amused.

Eventually, everything turned out just fine.
Here we are 18 years later, after all.

But I'll never forget the epiphany I had in the car with my new husband (how very odd that word sounded at the time!) as we drove to DisneyWorld on our honeymoon. I recounted to him the hours leading up to our wedding ceremony starting with my bowl of cereal.

"There I sat," I told him. "with my Life before me, and I just couldn't swallow it."

Hi-tech Training

My folks purchased our first microwave oven when I was in high school.  Microwave ovens were the newest fangled thing there was.  So, the appliance store that sold the unit to my parents held an hour-long training session for customers who'd bought one.  I went with my mom to this training session, and I still remember a few things.

But first, this aside...

When ATMs first came around, I was afraid to use them much in the way I am still uncomfortable using my credit card to shop online.  But, the restaurant where I worked at the time had one installed in their lobby, and they encouraged employees to use it to deposit our paychecks.  I don't know what benefits an ATM host gets, but this restaurant wanted us so badly to use their machine that they paid a woman to stand by the machine for a whole day to show everyone how to use it.  Any restaurant employee who used the machine that day got five dollars deposited to their bank account.  Five bucks.
You bet I took my paycheck to that machine.  And today, I don't know how I'd live without ATMs.  The same goes for microwave ovens.
So, how come no one offers to train me on all this new stuff coming out?  Really, maybe I'd buy more of the gadgets if a company offered me a free one-hour training session along with my purchase.
I don't have an iPod, iPhone, Kindle, or a phone that does anything but make phone calls.
But, if I wasn't abandoned to figure it out on my own, maybe I'd be more likely to try them.  Put someone out there to help me use it the first time.  You don't even have to pay me five bucks to try it.

Okay.  Back to the microwave training...

The first thing we were told was that you could cook/bake anything in a microwave oven.  But what Mom and I learned right away is that nothing browns in a microwave.  If you want brown meat or brown bread, you have to also purchase this handy-dandy browning tray (for 29.95 plus tax).  There sure are a lot of extra thingys you need in order for your microwave to actually cook/bake everything.

My favorite part of the evening was when the training lady boasted how food will heat quickly in your microwave but not the container in which it is heating.  To prove it, she filled a two-cup glass measuring cup with water and set it in the microwave to boil.  As it heated, she told us some other stuff and pretty much ignored the water.  When the timer pinged, she was still explaining something else, so the appliance sales manager walked over and pulled out the water.
"YOW!" he dropped the container, tucked his hand under his arm and hopped away howling.
"What happened?" the trainer called after him.
"I stuck my hand in the water to see if it was hot!" he shouted back.
Everyone chuckled and figured that's what you get when you don't pay attention.
Mom and I called bullspit.  We didn't say anything at the time, but on the way home we both admitted we'd seen the guy grab the measuring cup.  He didn't stick his finger in the water.  The sides of the glass container burned him.  The same glass container the woman had told us wasn't going to be hot.
And the sales manager was so afraid of losing a sale that he lied about it.  Thought about it that quick.  Came up with a believable deception that fast.  Microwave quick, you might say.

That was impressive.

I don't know if Mom and Dad bought anything else from that appliance store, but Mom and I never went to another of their training sessions.

Janice

Way back in the 80's, I decided I needed a bar name, not because I hung out in bars all that much, but because I'm a lousy judge of character.  Too often I'd blab too much information about myself and too late realize that the guy I'd blabbed to was of the sort that I'd rather be free of sooner than later.

I also realized that a bar name would do me no good if I hesitated at all in giving it.  So, I picked a name in the safety and security of my own home and practiced saying it until it sounded natural.

"My name is Janice."

No idea why I chose Janice.  If I had a reason then, I can't remember it now.

Came a night when I was out with three girlfriends.  We weren't looking for anything but a couple drinks and some good music. 
We'd settled into a booth at a nice place and ordered our drinks.  Soon, a man staggered over from the bar and introduced himself.

"I know you ladies are way out of my league, but I am very drunk, therefore, very harmless, and I would just like to sit and talk with some pretty women for a few minutes."  He gestured toward a nearby chair.  "May I?"
Well, there were four of us, we were in a public place, and besides being drunk, he seemed to at least be honest.  Plus, he said we were pretty.  So, we said yes, please pull up a chair.

Once he was seated, he remarked how, since we all knew his name, it was only fair we tell him ours.

I was ready! Around the table, names were shared.  I was last.
And I was prepared.

"My name is Janice."

Perfect!  Delivered with confident perfection!  No one could have suspected my name was anything other than Janice!

It was then I learned that saying your bar name with conviction is only half of being convincing. 

The other (very important) half that I had not considered at all is warning your girlfriends that you have a bar name so they don't burst out laughing when you say it.
Because that's what they did.

"Well!" declared our drunken suitor.  "We all know that name is fake!"
"Thanks, you guys.  Thanks a lot."