The 5 I's

As Dan and I folded ourselves into my car last night, I looked into the back and pleaded, “Please get that friggin mat outta here. It’s been rolling around for a week driving me absolutely insane.”
Dan looked back and said, “Ah crap I forgot about it. It’s 25 feet of rubber mat, shit’s heavy. I’m gonna need help that’s why I didn’t get it sooner, but I did forget about it… sorry, my bad.”
We started on our way and with the 1st slight deviation from straight the mat rolled, hit the ice scrapper and made that god awful noise I’ve come to loathe. Dan, already having forgotten our chat 37 seconds behind us, looked in the rearview mirror wondering what was happening. He grinned and gave me the ok-I-can-see-how-that-might-be-irritating grin and went about the business of driving.
A minute or so later I heard ‘msssttsa‘.
I glanced around but didn’t see anything.
Seconds later…. ‘msssttsa‘
me looking
‘msssttsa‘
visually searching all around
‘msssttsa‘
it was coming from the driver’s area
‘mssssttsa‘
“What.the.hell IS THAT????”
Dan looked over to see me squinting at him, craning my neck to see what was going on in his mouth; “it’th a mint. I’m thucking on a mint.”
“Well… here’s hoping the line is long at the funeral home and you have a few more of those sonsdabitches to suck on… that oughta push me right over the edge.”
I sat back, wondering how I’d gotten this far without losing my ever-loving mind.
‘msssttsa‘
“Whats say you just go ahead and chew that little fucker, huh?”
Dan was about to say something when the mat rolled and made that blood curdling noise; he grinned and ‘msssttsa‘…
I closed my eyes and sucked enough air through my nose to calm a TRex…
[laughing his arse off]: “it’th no wonder you walk around pithed all the time….”

Ok… back to the Abbers and her idiosyncrosies.  She’s such a little sprite of a thing but I’m pretty sure her personality was responsible for the last eclipse.

I do get awfully concerned about her penchant for talking to herself.  Happy, sad, mad…  doesn’t matter; the more upset she is about something, though – the more she paces and talks (I don’t know if it’s more unsettling  when she frets and walks or when she’s happily chattering about everyday stuff). It’s part creepy, part endearing… nah, scratch that – it’s flat out creepy.  The most worrisome part is how the conversations play out as if she’s actually conversing with a second party.  I’ve asked on many occasions with whom she’s chatting, she brushes me off.

Luckily for me – I have Annie – I don’t mean as my living, breathing, actual “second party” (although she is that); I mean after she made me promise to stay away from the computer… she googled it for me.  It seems this is normal?  Oh my gosh, it never occurred to me until just this minute that Annie might be lying to spare me the knowledge my daughter is whacko.   NO! No, no,no we have a symptom-googling code, forget I even mentioned a cover-up of any sort.

As a side note to the Abby-talking-to-herself issue;  I do believe she talks with my mom from time to time.  I’ve asked if she talks with Lalee, she usually just shrugs and walks away.  One day I was folding clothes while Abby sat next to me drawing; I casually asked if she ever spoke with Lalee then pretended to not really care about her reply (it’s me – this reaction to a conversation with my kids is not out of the question).  Anyway, she continued to give her artwork the bulk of her attention and said, “yeah, I talk to Lalee some.”  My outward composure was surely not an accurate reflection of my racing heart; my question of what they talk about was met with a shrug.  I casually asked, “Is she happy there, where she is?” Abby said, “Yeah, she is.  But she says she was happy here with us, too and she misses us;” all nonchalant like – as if she hadn’t just unknowingly, turned my entire world on its ass.

So, anyway, this bit of her talking to herself is not new and for the most part just provides me with something to worry about when I’ve exhausted all of my other ‘real’ options.  Then, of course, there’s Alex’s, “I mean I talk out loud to myself, too; I just make sure nobody can hear me.” What the hell is going on here???????

“Yes, I’d like to order 2 white jackets with the sleeves that tie in the back….”

Usually I stand outside the Abs’ bedroom door – or whichever door she’s  chosen as a barrier to us normal folk – and listen to her air her frustrations, thoughts, plans – always ready to move, to make it appear as if I’m simply passing by (ok… this might actually be what’s making the entire situation so over-the-top creepy, I see that now).   This morning, however, I was in my bedroom minding my own business, when Abby walked out of the bathroom saying, “…well, ’cause it’s supposed to be a little chilly today.  That’s what momma says anyway…”

I was running a little behind schedule but my intrigue got the best of me so I started toward her room for a little eaves dropping.  I could hear her but couldn’t make out what she was saying; as I inched closer it sounded more like singing.  The rhythm was familiar but I couldn’t quite place the song.  It was like a Stephen King novel – my eyes focused on her doorknob, creeping along so as not to be noticed, my senses on high alert – straining to hear her yet acutely aware of my surroundings…   closer, closer, rapid-breathingly closer…  I could see a sliver of room between the door and door jamb; how could she not hear my heart pounding? (Edgar Allen Poe anybody?). I leaned in just as she sang “Hey bartender…. what I’m really needing now is a double shot of Crown… hey bartender…”

Yesterday Dan and I set out for Home Depot; it turned into an impromptu date because nothing keeps kids outta your hair like a trip to a home improvement store. With almost everything on our list now safely stowed in our car, our optimism was bubbling over like… like… well, like we’d never met our-nonproductive-selves before.  The Friday plan for the weekend was to have all the trim installed in our sun room; by Sunday afternoon I was just hoping for a light in the new closet, the bar hung in said closet and the hooks installed on the new hockey lockers.

It’s now Monday evening and we’ve read the installation instructions for the light and packed it back into the box, we decided to build a shoe shelf in the closet before hanging the bar and, to that end, have marked where the studs are in the wall and we have about 67% of the locker hooks out of the packaging laying on the lockers. Reeeeaaaal go-getters.

Alternatively, I’d hoped to make Monday my bitch…. The best laid plans, right?

I cleaned the bathrooms. Eight hours… 2 bathrooms – my level of motivation truly knows no bounds.  The downstairs bathroom did, however, involve a seat change; I can’t even describe the weird seat that came with this toilet. (Neither seat compares to the Dinnocenti’s – now THAT, my friends, is a toilet seat).  Now… I’m not saying I have a great ass, I’m not saying I have a bad ass but I will say this: the ass that fit comfortably on that stock seat is not of the homo sapien variety.  I wanna meet the people who decided the design of that seat was a good concept – they gotta be stretch-cotton-pants wearers, no way their asses slide into jeans or khakis.

The odd design did not stop at discomfort, it was a bitch to clean. I won’t go into detail just know – as a potential visitor to my home – you, too, wanted me to change that seat.

As I  promised to play catch with Cal once he did his chores and I finished the bathroom (his reaction to this proposition made me feel guilty that I don’t make the time more often), he was quick to help with the seat swap.  I sent him for a twisty wrench – I have no idea what the real name is, my dad’s been calling them ‘twisty wrench’ since I first said it circa 1977.  Anyway, the only such wrench we could find is probably better suited for removing dump truck tires – I seriously felt like Alice in fucking Wonderland… and, while we’re on the subject,  why are toilets wedged into such small damned places?

Alas… it was not my shining mom moment; I hated on the small space and I hated on Dan in absentia (for not having better tools readily available, for not doing the seat swap, for asking me to marry him, etc.).

Fast forward to dinner and our discussion about pant leg length.  Abby has no preference, Alex and I enjoy extra length, the boys like the cuff to just scrape their shoes – this length makes me irrationally angry, I mean to the point of name calling.  As I was telling Dan how dumb his pants are he glanced under the table at my cleaning attire and retorted (with a dangerous air of self-confidence), “as opposed to your elastic gathered pant legs of fleece? I mean… have you just given up on life or what?”

I chuckled and said, “you have no idea how much I loathe you right now…”.  Cal almost spit out his food he was laughing so hard, “Not as much as you hated him in the bathroom earlier, mom. You were all ‘I hate your bleeping father! Bleep da bleep bleeping toilet seat that your bleep father would take 6 bleeped weeks to install !’ hahaha she was so mad Dad!  She was callin’ you some names in there today!”

“Uhhhhh sometimes buddy, we just keep stuff between us…”

 

 

Oiy… I’m not one for airing my issues on social media…  hahaha whaddabuncha bull – I’m a naked selfie away from being Kim Kardashian.  I guess I’m not really accustom to sharing heartfelt stuff. More than the people who pour their hearts out on these sites though, I loathe the enablers; the  people who fall for the ‘woes me’ stuff.  So, for your own sake, read this post and move on… wordlessly.

I don’t even know where to start so I’ll just dive in… I think I’ve made the wrong career choice.  To be fair – pharmacy was never really my passion, I enjoy it and I think I’m fairly good at it but I don’t LOVE it; Dan LOVES it and he’s just BETTER at it because of that.   I love my customers and I am eternally grateful for the connections I’ve made, but I am in NO way a nurturer and I truly feel like healthcare people should have a smidge of nurture in their souls.

Please understand that I treat every customer like family; that’s my motto – ‘treat every customer as if they were family’… it’s just that I treat my family like shit.  I would give the Duggars a run for their money if I could start with 9 month old kids, keep them for 4 months then pick them up again at say… age 8.  I  have literally zero desire to be needed. When my own children are sick I have compassion for about 17 seconds then Dan takes over (for the record I’d prefer nobody give a hang about me when I’m sick either).  Dan would probably say I’m way more nurturing than I give myself credit for, but I think he’s just trying to convince himself that I’ll be diligent when changing his diapers later in life…

Anyway… I’ve really been struggling lately; REALLY been struggling.  Like… I-could-sell-the-store-if-I-wouldn’t-be-thought-a-failure kind of struggling.  This week has been especially difficult with serious patient health issues, people asking for favors and an unusual 57 hour work week.  My dead, black heart has been pushed to its limit the last 9 or so days.

And let’s not forget – one mistake and I could kill a person – why would somebody with my personality get a job in which killing people is an option (er, I mean possible, accidental consequence).

I don’t want to be needed, I don’t want to grant favors, I have no desire to be counted on… I don’t want the late night calls,  the weekends spent researching for a friend in Kentucky who doesn’t have faith in his pharmacist or the 30 people everyday who call and “need to speak to Karen”.  I want to sit around and be the selfish asshole that I was intended to be…

I’m a jerk (enablers: beware! this statement will draw you in — stand.strong.). I’m ok with my jerkdom, Dan has grown accustom to my jerkiness and soon my kids will quit expecting more…

My struggle is real.  It’s so real I actually, finally, mentioned it to Claudette today (who’s Claudette? She’s me, only she shares Dan’s blood line and more pleasant disposition).  Yes… I mentioned to her that perhaps… just maybe… I’m second guessing my career choice.

Ya know what happened only minutes after sending that text?

I looked up and saw the wife of a favorite customer and she was crying; she asked to talk to me.  I went to the counter and listened as she said, while choking back sobs, “Karen, my husband is very ill.  He probably will not make it, the doctors say there’s not much hope; so I felt the need to come here and tell you how very special you are to him.  He adores you.  He would come home from his trips to the pharmacy and just talk about you and how wonderful you are.  You are extremely important to him and he values your opinion over most doctor’s opinions.  I’m still holding out hope that he will beat this but, if he doesn’t, you need to know that he thinks the world of you.”

I grabbed her hand and squeezed it, unable to talk for a few moments and then I  excused myself and went to the bathroom to cry.  I cried for him, for her, for their 60 years together, for all of those chats we shared that were important but seemed insignificant if you know what I mean; and I cried for myself because now I’m more confused than ever…………………..

I’ve always felt a connection to St. Patrick’s Day – maybe it’s the red hair (which I do believe is actually attributed to a Scottish heritage – but whiskey gives me heartburn so I’ve latched on to the beer-drinking Irish), or maybe it’s because I love the color green and have enough clothing to do it up on March 17th, or perhaps it’s because my mom’s favorite joke is a St. Patrick’s Day joke (what’s green and stays out all night?  Paddy O’Furniture.  I can still see her trying for hours in vain to tell us the punch line…).

No matter the reason behind my love of the day – I usually dress the part, to the point of being ridiculous (’cause nothing says, ‘hi I’m a licensed professional in charge of your healthcare’ like a shamrock headband and green, glitter bow tie).  Today was no different.

I had my outfit all ready: black boots, shamrock knee socks to poke out over the boots, green leggings, white top, shamrock scarf and blinking shamrock necklace.

I started with the leggings and noticed the waistband seemed not at all what I’d expect of a ‘one size’ article of clothing, but I thought maybe something magical would happen as they were pulled up (I don’t what I expected – who expects something like that?).  I got them to my knees and noticed the waistband was already leaving a mark; I started sweating – immediately, then my heart started pounding and I kept thinking, “how fat am I???  Why has Dan not told me?”  I reached back for the tag and sure enough ‘one size’ was taunting me; I whimpered then continued to force them higher – at mid thigh I blacked out.

Ok… black leggings it is…  now for the socks.

You ever been so bad off you required a tourniquet?  I guess if faced with losing my foot or something I’d say bring on the tourniquet but.. just sitting on my bed looking down my leg at this design that was just moments ago a perfectly shaped shamrock and now resembled nothing I’d ever seen in nature or anywhere else for that matter – I didn’t like the way my blood was pooling above the sock.

Scratch the socks and subsequently the boots.

At this point the only thing left from the original outfit was the blinking necklace.  I couldn’t believe Abby didn’t wear hers – she LOVED it last night.  I guess it’s a good thing; the blinking lights are so obnoxious I can’t believe more people don’t have seizures.  I grabbed it off her dresser, hit the button and ran through the different blinking options;  I turned it off for the drive to work so as not to cause accidents and draped it over my head.  I hit the button once I got to work and…….. nothin’!  I have zero light action.

I’d like to crack open a Guinness but I’m pretty sure the bottle would be empty.

No… the luck O’ the Irish sure is not with me today (oh that Scottish blood o’ mine).  Did I mention I started my morning by stepping in dog poop with my bare foot?  Clearly tiny waistbands, thick calves and a weird electromagnetic field are the least of my worries…

 

 

I stood beside our bed last night pointing the remote at our tv, pressing the buttons harder… (you ever see those old comedy sketches with the comedian talking louder and louder to foreign speaking people? that was me and the remote).

“As far as I’m concerned DirecTV can come and get all of their shit. I don’t give a fuck about NFL Sunday Ticket, I’ll find another way to watch the Packers.  We’ve never been able to just turn on the fucking tv and get to whatever fucking station we want without enormous fucking effort.”

Now… in my defense; this statement is 100% true (with the exception of not caring about NFL Sunday Ticket).  Our receiver in our room has given us trouble since day 1 – they sent us a new receiver last year and with it came a whole new set of problems.  We just can’t seem to get a smooth working remote/receiver in our bedroom.  It takes easily 3 to 7 minutes to get the station I want; the current situation makes me think the batteries are dead in the remote but they are not.  I’ve missed many a climax because of this – a plot climax you weirdos.

With ‘Friends’ happily playing in the background I went to turn on my alarm.  Dan has been making comments about my music choice – or should I say “choices”?  It sounds as if 2 country stations are playing when my alarm goes off in the morning.  I’ve mentioned his early, quick-to-get-out-of-bed rising of late only to hear, “well your dueling country stations are a great driving force.”

I’m not a country music lover (not a hater either but I’m sure I wouldn’t choose 1 country station, let alone 2, as my wake up call) so I’m not sure how this came about.  Last night I decided to fix the problem.  I hit the on/off button then turned the massive knob on the front of the radio – the station I wanted was quite a way from the station currently playing, so I gave the knob a good spin.  Apparently that is the volume control and of course, the station I wanted was volume up (:/)…

I looked at this man who has done nothing but give me the best life a woman could imagine and said, “I don’t know why the fuck you hafta buy me shit like this.  Are you trying to fucking kill me?  Is there a reason a fucking clock radio has to look like it came from NASA?  volume, tuner, and alarms – 3 maybe 4 God Damn buttons and I’ve got everything I need – this thing is fuckin’ ridiculous.  I don’t even know how to change the son of a bitchin’ station….”

Now, this statement (if you filter through the swearing) is about 80% true.  I do NOT like technology AT ALL.  I begged for a Jitterbug phone; I’ve since embraced the smart phone technology.  Things like an alarm clock however, should be fairly straightforward – this thing has an MP3 option… I’m not even sure what the hell an MP3 is…

I climbed into bed as he walked over to make my world right again; then I mumbled under my breath about him sitting on my covers and not being able to hear the tv with him dicking with my radio.  He wordlessly walked back over to his side of the bed, climbed in and gave me a quick peck on the lips.

As he started to roll toward his own (even more involved, if you can believe it) alarm clock I said, “oh good.  Now I get to listen to you hit the same 3 fucking buttons you hit EVERY FUCKING NIGHT.  What changes?  I can’t stand that 2 seconds of music you play; why do you do that shit?  It’s always the same – same music, same alarm time, same 2 second sound check.  Geezus you drive me fucking nuts…”

And then… he snapped.

Without changing his course he started laughing and said, “Holy shit you’re a mean mother fu…….”

And then we curled into each other and laughed ourselves to sleep.

 

Ya know what seems so easy to me?

Not getting yelled at… that seems easy to me.

Let’s say a person comes home every evening and bitches about the mess (ok – this will get confusing unless I assign names; just for the sake of clarity we’ll say the bitch is me….). So let’s say *I* come home every evening, survey the room and start spouting off…

And — solely for the sake of clarity — let’s say the bitchees are my children… just to keep it straight, ya know?

“Are you kids comfy there on the couch? wrapped up in blankets. watching stupid, mind-numbing shows. while blankets are lying unfolded everywhere.  bookbags strewn about.  how many shoes can be worn in a day? you know what flotsam means? it means I’m alive and well in our house…”

Day. After day. After day.

I get home at 7:04 every evening.  You’d think these kids would hop up at 6:45 and just straighten up a little if only to avoid the inevitable tirade; hell, I wouldn’t even give a hang if they mumbled under their respective breaths about me… it’s a trade off.

This evening, as with every other before it, I walked in to the 3 of them curled up on the couch, losing IQ points.  I  started my rant about the general disarray of the room, carried on for a 2 minute, breathless, streak and rounded it out with, “Calvin… is your sweatshirt serving any real purpose here, draped over 2 sections of couch?”

He had already jumped to action (he abhors strife of any kind). With zero mal-intent and the innocence of a truly good hearted kid Cal said, “Here ya go momma, I  grabbed your sweatshirt from this morning… it was on the floor over there.”

little fucker….

 

So Dan Iseminger had the day off today…
Lemme say this about that – I fucking love Dan-at-home days!!! I could work 10, 12, 27 hours a day if I knew he was home. He doesn’t even have to do anything; I can’t explain it – I just feel so derned relieved when he’s here manning the conn. Now, that’s not to say my life eases up much; I can’t tell you how many texts I’ve sent him asking what exactly his purpose in the home is, if I’m still getting multiple phone calls from Moe, Moe and Shirley.
“Dad’s out working on his car…. we didn’t want to bother him.” Never mind the fact I’ve just put a doctor on hold because I assumed only a death would lead to them calling me. Nope, they want to know if gum really hangs out in the stomach for 7 years.
Anyway… Dan had the day off and if memory serves, he promised some ridiculous changes around here. His optimism is both endearing and irritating; the only way 10 hours will result in sweeping changes around here is if unchecked flames are involved.
I did, however, get home to an empty dining room table… this, my friends, knocks on the door of revolutionary.
I emptied our pantry onto that table for the new floor installation 23 days ago, the floor was installed 21 days ago. We went on vacation, got back and decided we needed acryllic shelf protectors; I ordered the stuff then Dan had to cut it (we know our roles here people – I dream up stuff, Dan makes it happen). So anyway, for 3 weeks we’ve had no dining room table. Tonight everybody got to sit during dinner – epic.
Initially Dan feared the power of organizing the pantry… ok, ok, ok he feared me bitching about the way he organized the pantry (fair enough). He did a fine job (baking stuff up top, completely out of reach – and most likely expired) and was so proud to explain his process; I was enraptured (he had even alphabetized the spices… dear God my eyes rolled back in my head) and then… then he tapped an eye-level, front and center shelf and said, “…this is the pickled food shelf…”
“Wha…? We need an entire shelf devoted to pickled foods? Where the fuck am I?”
“…and this shelf is for my odd vegetables and weird canned meats…”
Dammiiiiiiiittttt – this is the very shit I was gonna toss when I organized the pantry. What the hell? Does he not have a job? Why was he not at work today?

…nothing much going on today so I thought I’d ramble.
I was walking out to pick up Alex this evening as Dan was walking in from work; I gave him a quick peck on the lips then apologized for not getting much accomplished on my day off…
While waiting for Alex I mentally recapped my “unproductive” day. I did 8 loads of laundry including shower curtains from both bathrooms, cleaned the kitchen, scrubbed both bathrooms, ran a little over 2 miles, drove Abby to school for Math24, took Alex’s softball bag to her at 3:30, took the Abbers to Walmart to spend some Christmas moola (which required 2 bank stops beforehand to turn a can full of change into $39.76 of cold hard cash), stopped at the grocery store, put the groceries away, prepared dinner so Dan could pop it in the oven while I picked up Alex from school practice and dropped her at travel ball practice; after unloading Alex at travel ball I drove to the wrong location to register Abby for gymnastics (after a few texts I got to the correct registration sight), stopped at home to chat with Dan for 15 minutes then headed back out to pick up Alex….
The sad part is – I truly feel guilty for not getting more done.
At my last stop picking up Alex from travel ball practice she asked if I’d buy her a team sweatshirt (she saw the checkbook and struck – I was, at the time, writing a check for her travel ball fees), I told her ‘no’. She, in turn, did not speak to me during the ride home. Finally I said, “Ya know Alex… it’s a load of crap that you’re mad at me because I wouldn’t buy you a sweatshirt… how ’bout you use your own damn money? Today I paid $80 to get your sister back into gymnastics and I just wrote a check for $300 so that you can play travel ball…”
“It’s fine. I’m not mad.” followed by staring-out-the-passenger-side-window silence.
While eating dinner – chicken, rice, veggies – Abby said she didn’t like the rice… We got into a family discussion about how she seems to no longer be Dan’s kindred spirit rice lover; this was clearly unappreciated. She dropped her head, raised her eyebrows and muttered something under her breath about ‘not liking THIS rice, not ALL rice’!
I looked around and said, “Well…. that’s 2! I just need to get to Cal for the trifecta; what’s it gonna take for me to tick you off? Come on!!!! I want the hat trick!!”
After assuring me he would never be mad at me… he dropped some barbecue-laden chicken on the floor. He was still “Team Mom” while picking up the food; it wasn’t until I mentioned a wet paper towel that things went south.
Throw your hats onto the ice ladies and gentleman…
We rounded out the day watching our beloved Sabres come up just short again… they needed the hat trick way more than I did :/

I had the pleasure of spending a portion of my weekend with some amazing women, (I had the displeasure of spending the other hours of my weekend watching Cal and Co. get their arses kicked on the basketball court – one experience was decidedly more enjoyable than the other…)
Back in the days of 80’s BIG hair, pegging my pants legs and thinking cigarettes wouldn’t hurt me I spent every moment with these ladies; sharing an address, sharing clothes, sharing laughs and worries…
Nothing much has changed since our sorority days at York College (perhaps our alcohol tolerance has taken a bit of a hit – although we gave it the ol’ college try this weekend).  The sisters of Sigma Delta Sigma still make me laugh so hard I almost pissed myself (this might not actually be all that impressive what with the 3 kids and the decades of aging); they still make me feel like I belong and mostly they let me know that for the rest of my life they will be my sisters.
This group of 9 Delta sisters ran the gamut – liberal, conservative, stay-at-home, professional, vegetarians, vegans, pescetarianist, carnivoures, makeup free, lash curling, beer drinking and wine loving women. The “responsible” (for lack of a better word) foodies took quite a beating from us bacon lovers and they did so with a smile on their faces, all while preparing delicious eats that met all of our needs. I do believe we were 100% united in our disdain for those mini corn on the cobs found in Chinese food….
I see some of these ladies more often than others but I selfishly cherish one aspect of my time with them more than any other: they knew me before I was Karen Iseminger. The years seem to melt away the minute I hear, “hey Reedie…” or “Karen Reed…”.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m very proud and happy to carry my husband’s last name (the fact I can’t write a cursive capital ‘I’ notwithstanding) but after almost 19 years of lugging that mouthful around – its nice to regain my identity, if only for a weekend. This weekend I wasn’t Dan’s wife or Alex’s, Cal’s or Abby’s mom or Dan’s daughter. I was Karen Reed…
It seems such a simple thing – to hear my maiden name – but it’s oddly cathartic and I don’t know why. Maybe it reminds me of simpler times or perhaps just younger times; whatever the reason it is ridiculously comforting and heartwarming and I’m so very thankful we take these opportunities to look back 25 years while catching up on everybody’s today.
Delta sisters: we’ve still got the balls, ladies and I adore you!