Secret Life

There are things about our children that we cherish, things that Those Without Children will never understand – the way they call out when you come home from work, the cards they make for no reason at all, chocolate coated grins. This is why we have kids. We don’t realize it at the time, but they’re the things that make all of the other stuff, the hard stuff, bearable. It’s also what we have in mind when we tell Those Without Children why children are so wonderful and why we tell our own kids, when the time comes, that they will love being parents, too.

These things about our children that we cherish, however, are also what makes the other thing we cherish about them seem contradictory. Because what we may cherish the most about them is when they’re asleep for the night. Because that can truly be the only time for ourselves. It’s our secret life. We’re like Batman, but instead of bothering with crime fighting, we’re bothering with ice cream or a glass of wine, rated R movies, books and, of course, the internet. It’s the chance to relax, not answer any questions and wrap our minds around more than what damn clue Blue is looking for now or where the rest of the Silly Putty went. There is no Bat Cave, but there is a couch that I can now stretch out on and the TV remote that is mine, all mine. And sometimes, if I want it, there’s just silence. Nothing more. Just sweet, sweet silence. But TWC don't get this. Free time is something that becomes taken for granted and they walk around at all hours with their Batman costume on - a Saturday afternoon or Tuesday evening about 6 p.m. - with the utility belt all cinched up nicely and cape in place, sipping their white wine spritzers, or whatever cocktail is currently de rigueur these days. We know better, though. We know that Batman's secret identity shouldn't be flaunted, it should be protected at all costs.

As much as we love our kids, hearing their laughter, their squeals of joy, sometimes the steady rhythm of their breathing during sleep is the best sound of all.

EP

Will the list of things these kids need to learn never end? Just when I think I’ve got a grasp of it all – how to walk, use a toilet, talking, using a fork – something new, something seemingly simple, pops up. Tonight, S said, “Who is Elvis?” Who is Elvis? I never thought about that. I guess I just assumed people were born with the knowledge of Elvis Presley, that it was as innate as breathing or blinking or, in our family, talking. She even lives in Memphis. I’m 36 and have never known life without EP. I suppose it’s time to ramp up the teaching to cover all of the basics before they’re out of the house, and on their own for good, so they don’t embarrass their mother and me in social situations. What’s next? What is that movie The Godfather about?

Hot Lava

I feel I need to warn you people of something in case I ever invite you over to my house. I probably won’t, but I would like to keep up the illusion that you are all just that close to me. Be warned, anyway, that the floors of our house are hot lava. The Quartet has proclaimed it so. You’re perfectly safe on the couch or a chair, beds and kitchen countertops, but the floors, most definitely, are hot lava. Sometimes, if your shoes are declared “hot lava boots” then you are safe. But if not, then I wouldn’t dare it.

This, obviously, is all part of the kids’ imagination, there's no way there could be something as useful as lava on our floors to burn up all the dust bunnies, partially eaten Halloween candy and odd, dirty socks that get left behind. No, this is the same imagination that fuels JP’s writing, video gaming and all of their treasure hunting. But this corner of their imagination is a little darker what with the burning flesh and smell of sulfur. I just wish there was some sort of warning. I mean, I’ll be sitting there reading or even up walking around and all of a sudden the alarm is sounded, “The ground is hot lava!” and I’m either stuck on the couch needing to get up and pee or I’m already up, melting now in lava! This is insanity! Today at Peabody Park, C announced that the ground was hot lava and half a dozen kids disappeared. It was sad.

Does this happen in anyone else’s household? Are there hidden dangers? I know about the obvious, the household cleaners as toxins and hair dryers in the bathtubs and the evil little electric holes in all the walls. But I’m talking about floors that erupt or closets that suddenly turn into iron maidens or a carrot that transmogrifies into dynamite with little or no warning. Is The Quartet just weird? Is it too much Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote?

Perhaps they should embrace their creativity the way Alfred Hitchcock or Stephen King embraced theirs. Perhaps it will translate into untold riches with celebrity and independence in their future or, conceivably, incoherent ramblings and scribblings along with a lengthy stay in Bedlam. Either way, be wary and keep your feet up, because it’s getting warm in here and something is bubbling just below the surface, I fear.

GK & Me

Three On The Town

We went out to the opening reception for my sister’s art show last night and had a big time. We had the chance to hang out with all the cool people – Shannon and Stacey, Christa, Toby, Heather plus one, the infamous Mary Cashiola and the inquisitive Michael Erskine. All good people, all fun to be around. We were able to do this because we farmed most of our children out to their grandparents and to Stacey, who was at the show, but whose husband graciously agreed to watch JP along with Satchel and Jiro. So we had only GK with us, her first foray into the patchwork quilt of the Memphis art world. One kid? Are you kidding me? Having only one kid is like having no kids, especially when that one kid is five-months-old and can’t demand a cookie or to go someplace private to pee or wonder aloud When can we go? When can we go? When can we go? This is that blessed time when she has to do what we say because she doesn’t know any better, or what we’re even saying.

It was somewhat like being a first-time parent again, with people congratulating me and oohing and aahing and even looking at us like we don’t know what’s in store once this little bundle of joy discovers free will. They had no idea that there were three others out there, lurking, waiting to pounce with demands and questions and sticky fingers as soon as our over-burdened, hunched backs were turned. That in our home, under our sofa, there is a whole world that is as-yet undiscovered, where The Others live – the other shoe, the other Stegosaurus, the other cookie I was going to eat last week. Or even that we had been up since six that morning, preparing waffles and lunches and backpacks. But it was nice, too, to just show off one of what we’ve made. Like any good collector, the impressiveness is in the collection itself, the group that you’ve amassed which tells people you’ve got what it takes and that you lack the willpower to say no. But it’s also good, every once in a while, to single out one piece and say to the person next to you, “Look what I have. It’s one of a set, but no less spectacular by itself. Gaze upon it, make a face at it and smell it, does it smell like it pooped to you?”

Dinner at Los Compadres after the show was fun as well, though eventually cut short by the irascible GK. We did manage, though, to eat and to converse like adults with our friends, and after a couple of beers we even stopped worrying about wiping off the pacifier that had fallen to the floor for the 48th time before sticking it back into her mouth.

These are the things you do to be normal again, to be an adult with more to say than Eat your dinner! Pick that up! Let go of your sister’s foot! Every so often we need to get out and spend time with our friends. Sometimes you can’t shake all the kids and, sometimes, there’s nothing at all wrong with that.

Painting and Such

Tonight, The Quartet's Aunt Elizabeth has an art opening at Perry Nicole Fine Art. The kids are very excited and proud of her, they find her colors to be interesting. You can see more of her work here and read an interview with her here. C is especially captivated by her paintings as he's quite the artist himself. He doesn't have his own showing coming up any time soon, but with years of practice ahead and some careful guidance from his aunt, I believe we may be attending one some day. Anyway, stop by the gallery tonight if you get the chance, it's sure to be a great show.


Perry Nicole Fine Art
Friday, November 3, 2006
6:00 to 8:00 PM
3092 Poplar Ave Suite 16
(next door to La Baguette)

Goodnight Moon

This is something I've wanted to get down solely for posterity's sake. Consider this just a bit of journaling, if journal were, in fact, a verb. Each night, when it's bedtime, the three older kids each picks out a book for me to read to them. Afterwards, the light is turned out and this is how it goes:

C says
Goodnight, S, I love you
Goodnight, JP, I love you
Goodnight, Daddy, I love you

JP says
Goodnight, S, I love you
Goodnight, C, I love you
Goodnight, Daddy, I love you

S says
Goodnight, JP, I love you
Goodnight, C, I love you
Goodnight, Daddy, I love you

I say
Goodnight, S, I love you
Goodnight, JP, I love you
Goodnight, C, I love you

We all say together
Goodnight, Mommy, we love you
Goodnight, GK, we love you
Goodnight, Maduro*, we love you

This is how I end every day, and no matter how crappy my day was, this makes it better and makes it all worth it.

*Maduro is the dog

NaBloPoMo

Fussy has proclaimed November National Blog Posting Month and I have signed up to participate. What this means is that I will be writing a post a day for the next 30 days (why couldn’t February be NaBloPoMo?). Can I do it? Looking back, I see I wrote 32 posts in April, but I was a younger man then. In reality, the onus is on The Quartet. They are required to significantly amuse me 30 times this month. Can they do it? They better, their dinner will depend on it every night. Nobody eats for free during November.

Another aspect to NaBloPoMo is directed at the reader, both of mine, as well as all of the others out there who, for some strange reason, have yet to start your own blog. You are asked to de-lurk, that is, to read as many posts as you can (a list of participating bloggers can be found at fussy.org) and to comment. Come out from behind the protective veil of World Wide Web Anonymity and say something nice about what these people are writing.

When I began Urf!, I never planned to write as much as I have. I only wanted to write when I had something specific to say, usually when The Quartet did something funny or amazing, but mostly funny. I vowed not to be one of those writers who writes what I ate for breakfast or simply lists what I’m listening to on my iPod, if I had one (is NaBloPoMo a gift-giving event?) just to be writing something. There are those blogs out there – many, many of them. NaBloPoMo won’t push me to that. I signed up for it as a challenge, but I won’t continue with it if I don’t have anything to say. You have my word on that, both of you.

Now, back to my omelet and Elvis Costello …

Happy Halloween

Today is Halloween, which means in less than 24 hours Halloween will be over, thankfully. I'm not a fan of this holiday. If there were a Grinch associated with Halloween, I would be him. I don't think I cared much for it even as a kid. I remember looking forward to it and planning, for hours on end, costumes and trick-or-treating routes, but when it came down to the night of the festivities I could take it or leave it. Maybe I'm wrong about that, maybe I was thrilled all through Halloween and hated to see it go, and this morose feeling I have is just a part of my curmudgeonly, though lovable, character. That's why I have a fact checker, though, and if I'm wrong my mother will let me know.

October 31 is for the kids and I will let them have their day. I was excited for them just last July when they picked out their costumes - C is a werewolf, JP is Spider Man, S is a ballerina and GK will be a little lump of drooling matter - and I was thrilled when they colored scraps of paper orange and black, cut them out and taped them to the front of the house with black electrical tape because it was the only tape they could find. These scraps of paper complemented nicely the toilet paper ghosts hanging in the trees. I even carved a pumpkin for them, the older three all huddled as close to me as they could get while I summoned every last bit of enthusiasm for that gourd as I could, though only giving fleeting attention to where that butcher knife made purchase.

It's not just the kids, though. It's 5:38 a.m. as I write this and I know I've got a full day of customers, grown-up people, asking me what I'm going to "be" for Halloween and asking me where my costume is. And I'll have to make conversation regarding the bit of make-up they decided to don or the funny wig and hat they wore to their office for an entire day.

Perhaps I'm a crotchety 85-year-old man for Halloween. Perhaps I'm a mean old man every day of my life. But I'll try to put on a smile this evening as we walk the kids around the neighborhood, begging for candy from strangers, and oohing and ahhing over whatever costumes show up at the front door to collect treats. But come November 1, bright and early, I'm collecting the trash hanging in the trees and taped to my front door.



Here, the kids show the camera what digits they want removed when I'm finished with the pumpkin.

J. Puke

JP eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cheese pizza and bacon. He drinks chocolate (Ovaltine) milk. This is his diet no matter how much we push. Last night, however, he stepped out of line a bit and had steak. Of course it would be steak when he finally decided to eat something out of the ordinary. We were grilling out at a friend’s house and he said he wanted some. He ate quite a bit, actually.

This morning he drank chocolate milk, and on the way into school he threw that chocolate milk up all over his jacket, shoes and the ground in front of him. When I set GK down in her car seat/carrier thing to help him, he almost vomited on her, too. And when he was finished voiding his belly, he said, “It was the steak!” So I fear that any shot we had at getting a normal diet into JP may be on hold for a while. For a long while.

I don’t like to vomit. I know no one does, but there are a lot of people who willingly do so when they feel nauseous in order to feel better immediately. I am not one of those people. I will fight the urge with all of my being, hoping that it passes. This purge-phobia has carried over into a neuroses of simply being in the vicinity of anyone else vomiting, and it’s taken me almost nine years of parenting to get used to the fluids that come out of my children. For the first few years I could handle a diaper, but had to call in Kristy for anything that didn’t go directly into a receptacle. I still don’t look forward to it, obviously, but this morning I was able to maintain my composure as I snatched GK's blanket off of her to wipe his mouth and nose, and help JP through his ordeal. I realize this doesn’t make me parent of the year, not to any of you other parents out there, but maybe it does to him, and to the rest of The Quartet who looked on in horror as all of that brown erupted from his mouth and nose. Parent of the morning, anyway.

When C was born in 1998, I was overwhelmed by the desire to protect him. This feeling only intensified as numbers two thru four came along. Thankfully, I’ve never had to protect them from any overt, violent harm, though I read the paper every day, watch the news and surf the interweb, so I know the possibilities are out there. There are all sorts of unspeakable dangers lurking, but for today, at least, the danger was comprised solely of chocolate milk, stomach acid and a bit of steak. And I rose to the challenge.

Memphis Rock-n-Romp

Not That There's Anything Wrong With That

The mornings really work best when GK sleeps up unitl it's time to walk out the door. She must have gotten wind of this because she's been waking up earlier and earlier lately. This morning she decided 6:30 was good for her, so I did something I've gotten away with not doing for the entire eight years and 10 months of parenthood that have been thrust upon me. I wore a sling. This may not be a big deal in your household, but, believe me, it is in ours. That's Kristy's product there at that link. And yet, somehow, over the years I have never carried a baby in one. But this morning I just needed a full set of hands to get breakfast and clothes and backpacks together, so I let Kristy put one on me. It felt as though I were being fitted for a bra. Once she got it situated and GK was in place, she stepped back and looked and seemed to like what she saw. She assured me that men everywhere wear slings, and then she went into the living room to tell the other kids, "Daddy's wearing a sling," as though it was the funniest thing she'd seen in a long time.

I managed to get everything done as GK drifted off to sleep - I made some waffles and even brushed my teeth, which was difficult to do, but GK should be minty fresh today. I suppose the sling could make a reappearance some future morning, especially if she insists on waking up while it's still dark out. I'm not sure my ruptured disk surgeon would approve of it, however, because I could feel it in my lower back by the time it was time to go. Oh, and I also felt the effects on my machismo as S danced around the house chanting, "Daddy is a lady! Daddy is a lady!"

Sam Walton & Albert Einstein

I took The Quartet to the Sam's Club tonight, God help me. I have a certain disdain for the big box retailers, as I feel they've done a number on the Mom & Pops of the country. Do not misunderstand me, I'm all for capitalism and the freedom to choose where you want to shop, and I believe if one store is better than another then it deserves to prosper. And I don't begrudge Sam Walton anything, he made it to the mountaintop of retail. I am a small retailer. I'm the Pop in Mom & Pop, and I know from experience that the quickest way to make a dollar in retail is to start with three dollars. But as a small retailer, I also cannot deny the low, low prices of Sam's Club.

I also cannot deny that Sam's Club may have the power to make you smarter. Case in point, we were wandering down one humongous aisle full of bushels and passels of stuff people need when this little nugget of a conversation took place:

C: E equals MC. Did you know that?
S: No.
C: Well it does, doesn't it Dad?
Me: It actually equals MC squared.
JP (jumping and twisting): MC squared! MC squared! MC squared!

Once we discerned that E=mc(squared) is the Theory of Relativity and Bulk Shopping, I pointed out the 36-count box of Twix for S to grab and we headed to the checkout lane.

Schoolhouse Rock

C likes to ease into the school day, so on the way downtown in the mornings he usually has some questions prepared. He also has questions prepared for after school, at dinner, while I'm watching TV or reading, during bathtime and as he's drifting off to sleep, but that's beside the point now.

This morning he asked if there was a president named John Kennedy. I told him there was. "The only presidents I know are Calvin Coolidge, Abraham Lincoln, George Washington and George Bush," he said.

The Smiling Sickness

Tonight, C asked me if there was a disease some people are born with that makes you always frown or makes you look sad when you're happy. Not that I know of, I said. Why? He said they had a new student teacher start today and she never smiles.

How nice it would be to be eight-years-old again and not know of the pressure and stress of adulthood. To think that if someone isn't smiling, that there must be something wrong with her.

The Quotable Quartet

GK: (looking into the live lobster tank at Kroger) Look, daddy, hamsters!

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GK: JP, when you go to school, do your teachers and friends laugh at your hair?

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GK: When I'm sleepy, everything feels greasy like chicken on fingers.

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S: C could be the new Jerkinator 3000.

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S: What is deja´ vu? It sounds like a foot disease.

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S: Don't push me.

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S: I beat C down to the ground at recess yesterday. All his friends came to watch.

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C: The only thing I don't get about superhero costumes is why they wear their underwear on the outside.

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C: You know those small buses? They have seat belts on them!

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C, JP, S: Are we having cocktail hour tonight?

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JP: French is the opposite of Italian.

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JP: Only hippies wear ponchos.

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C: I love the way Home Depot smells.

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GK: My toes are tiny!

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JP: I wonder if that stretchy whale is still stuck to the ceiling at Kroger.

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JP: Do you even know who Donkey Kong is?

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S: What's a hoe?

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S: I've been playing Mancala since Pre-K.

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GK: Me a French fry!

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C: I've eaten 50% of my waffle.

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S: Daddy put mayonnaise in his hair!

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GK: Daddy pretty.

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C: Nobody ever died on Dora.

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JP: Since it's snowing, I hope we get dismissalled early!

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S: I thought it was called a china!

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JP: Two things I don't understand about Robin. One, he doesn't wear any pants and, two, he wears high heels.

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JP: Magic doesn't even exist. It's extinct!

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C: I'm the only man around here!

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S: So ... who all is coming to pigtail hour?

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S: Reading books stanks!

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C: Why does Jerry hate Newman?

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C: City kids know our way around because we have maps and TV.

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S: It would be cool if GK and me were triplets.

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C (on history): I wonder if there were bullies in his class that called him "Hernando Dodo?"

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JP: Is "Finders Keepers" really the rule?

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JP: What the hell is a deer?

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S: Who is Elvis?

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C: I've got toast in my backpack.

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JP: It's a bacon celebration.

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JP: Food looks so delicious on TV.

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JP: How do people melt?

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C: Everything Dad says is funny.

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Happy Birthday, K

Today is Kristy’s birthday. It means another year older, obviously, but I’m no fool so I won’t discuss that. Today is also the day, 13 years ago, that I proposed to her. We met 19 years ago in Mrs. Boyle’s drama class at Kirby High School and I can still, to this day, tell you what she was wearing and that she had a look on her face like she smelled something rotten. She probably did, she usually does. But we talked and it turned out she lived around the corner from me, so I visited, and we became somewhat inseparable after that. I said on that first day I saw her that I was going to marry her - I know a lot of people say that, but prove me wrong if you don’t believe it.

For part of 1993, we were on a break. That’s right, we were on a break long before the Friends were on a break. We still saw each other, however, and we finally got back together for good on October 20 of that year. I’m not sure when it dawned on me to ask her to marry me, sometime a month or so before I suppose, so I went to The Occasion Shop, a small antique store that was on Poplar across from Burke’s Bookstore. The ancient woman who owned the store showed me a thin, platinum band with a few tiny diamonds on top. I knew it wasn’t impressive in its own right, but it had an inscription from 1929 and I knew Kristy would appreciate it, so I put it in layaway and paid on it over the next month. I had made reservations for us at Giovanni’s, which was on Cleveland at the time and was what an Italian restaurant should be. It was dark, cozy and had Sinatra and Martin on the sound system. We’d never been there before but had always talked of going. Our table was perfect – a little two-top in the back – and the food, I hear, was very good, though I was too nervous to remember it, or even recall later what I’d ordered. When the time was near I went to the bathroom because the ring didn’t fit in the box so well so I knew it would just be rattling around in there and need to be set right. In retrospect, this means that I must have practiced with the ring and the box sometime beforehand, which seems very geeky. But all went well and the ring stayed in its little slot, though it was difficult to see in the dim light. She was very surprised, as I think all future brides should be. We weren’t even technically dating at the time, though, so it was probably all the more shocking. Afterwards, I think, we went to the Peabody Hotel lobby bar to celebrate and then started the rounds of where our friends hung out to tell them the news.

When I called family members over the next few days to tell them what I’d done, they all asked the same thing, “What did she say?” Well, she said yes, and I’m glad she did. I’m glad every day that she did. I promised some things that night, one of them being adventure, though I’m not sure that has come to fruition as she’d intended. There was our time in Florida and a short stint in New Mexico. There was that awful, awful night in 1996, new careers, a couple of businesses and, finally, four kids. And they are the real adventure now. It may not be sailing the world as we’d talked about, or living in a beach hut, but every day I look at my kids and see Kristy in them I’m glad I did what I did 13 years ago. Happy Birthday, Kristy. I love you.

Virtually Virtual

Last week I inadvertently put my cell phone through the washer. Don't do this. Though your phone will come out smelling springtime fresh, it won't work anymore. So I went to the Cingular store and was shown all of the phones that I could Google with and listen to U2 on and one that would, ironically, do my laundry for me. The saleslady looked at me derisively when I finally decided on one that would simply make and receive telephone calls. I gave my old phone, the clean one, to the kids to play with. I thought they would think this was a neat and unexpected toy, and I was right.

The Quartet's mother is anti-video games. She never played them, has never understood why people may want to play them and has forbidden them in the house. I used to play some games, not a lot, I wasn't one of those kids who spent hours and hours playing day in and day out, but I enjoyed a little Pitfall, Mario Brothers and, eventually, Bionic Commando. So JP doesn't really know the first thing about video games. He's seen some friends and cousins play and seems to enjoy watching other kids play more than actually playing himself. But he's been walking around with the dead phone pretending to play video games and I don't know if this is imaginitive, sad or incredibly manipulative. He wanders around with the thing flipped open saying, enthusiastically, "I'm pretending to play Sonic." It's not as though we deny these kids bicycles or soccer balls or even a TV in their room with loads of DVDs to destroy at will. It's just video games. And real, working cell phones.

Her Left Foot

GK, at only four months, has many friends. There is Satchel and Jiro, Minnesota, and her running buddy, H.S., not to mention her three siblings and a cousin. She has a big time with them and, as far as she knows, they’re all family. As much as she feels for these people, however, none of these relationships comes close to the affaire de coeur she carries on with her own left foot. She holds it, she looks at it, she can fit it in her mouth. She’s named it Lucretia, which means something to Kristy and me, but we’re not sure where she came across it. She even carries on conversations with the foot and this, I believe, is how they go:

GK: How are my piggies today?
Left Foot (Lucretia): You know I don’t like it when you call them that.
GK: What’s your problem today?
Lucretia: Your daddy put one of those things on us this morning.
GK: A sock?
Lucretia: It didn’t match the other one. Again.
GK: Sorry, he’s not very bright.
Lucretia: No. He’s not.
GK: Well, come here and I’ll give you a big ol’ smooch!

Some time ago we broke down and sought out a pacifier for GK. And when I say “we” broke down, I mean “Kristy,” because I would give my children a rawhide bone to suck on if it would keep them quiet and tone down the fussy. But they didn’t sell these at the Main Parenting Store, so we went to the Other Parenting Store, Ike’s, for sweet, sweet relief from the crankiness. She loves her pacifiers, but not on the level of her left foot. The pacifier, I imagine, doesn’t have the saltiness, the meaty feel on the gums, of a left foot. There’s no danger of dropping the foot on the disgusting floor while being held and conveyed from room to room. The foot is always with her and that must be comforting on some level, to have that security so readily available, so dependable, so very edible.

One day that left foot will be ready to perform for her, to be placed in front of the other just as the song says, and Lucretia will find her way into a shoe. It will be a stylish shoe, to be sure, and will probably, more than likely, be one half of many, many pairs of shoes. Until then, though, she can hold it and gum it and, late at night, whisper to it, When you fall asleep, I’m going to eat you up. You and your little piggies.

Inside Joke

We had our grown-up evening last night with dinner at Dish and post-dinner drinks and revelry at Celtic Crossing. I won't bore you with the details, mainly because I have little memory of most of the details, and what details do come back to me paint a sordid picture. Not a picture so much as a Saturday Night Live skit. One of those rare funny ones from recent years, written by Tina Fey with a recurring character of Will Ferrel's, hosted by Steve Martin or, perhaps, Peter O'Toole. The musical guest would have been Billy Joel or some techno group I've never heard of. Anyway, it wasn't the usual Norman Rockwell picture I normally paint for you here, so I'll just keep it to myself.

However, there was an announcement made that turned the evening into a celebration of sorts. It seems there will be an addition to our little family. Yes, someone has been working on this for a while and the fruits, so to speak, of labor have been realized. She gushed and shared and even the proud papa beamed because he actually has something to do with this one. I'm talking, of course, about yet another blog from Stacey. She already has this one and this one and now, Chop Fayn, which is all about Warren's cooking. No pressure, Warren, but now not only do you have to feed your family, but you have to feed the internet, and keep me entertained and amused. So welcome to the family, Chop Fayn, you make three. Jeez, doesn't she know what causes this? I know she does, actually, it's all she talked about last night.