Donna Ison's Blog, page 8

The Day I Met Bobby Gene - In Memoriam

We crossed the bridge and stepped onto the wobbling walkway that lead to Royalty’s Fishing Camp. Splinters and renegade spikes plagued each step.

“They should call this Tetanus Way,” I said.

“Actually, they call it Durham Row. For years, it’s been occupied by members of the Durham family. Old Man Durham, his son and then their sons and some uncles and cousins. I swear there were so many Durhams that you couldn’t swing your dick around without hitting one.”

“I’ve seen your dick. There must have been a bunch.” I flicked the crotch of his shorts for emphasis.

“Smart ass.”

“Are any of them still here?”

“Yeah, I think Bobby Gene is.”

As if on cue, a voice with a tenor twang cut through the warm June air, “Well, bless my soul and call me Etta James, is that Frank Rose?”

The question came from a man sitting on the front of a small houseboat with white wicker patio furniture and a rainbow flag waving in the breeze. Tied next to it was a deck with an array of terracotta pots in all sizes and shapes sprouting with herbs, vegetables, and flowers. Bobby Gene was a tall man of about sixty with a hawkish nose and close-cropped, gray goatee. His blue eyes sparkled with welcome and wisdom, but most of all mischief. He wore swim trunks and a matching polo shirt, both the color of lemon curd.

“I’ll be damned.” He stood, put his hands on his hips, and took a longer look. “It sure is Frank ‘Flaming Ankles’ Rose.”

Frank stuck out one foot to show off a ring of yellow-orange flames that shot up from his calves. “Hell, yeah, dude. I’m back.”

“Get your ass over here.”

Frank took off across the walkway. His dog, Rufus ambled after.

“Let’s go say ‘hello,’ baby,” he called back over his shoulder.

“Come on, Grizzle, let’s go.” I reached down expecting Doc to be at my side. He was what some referred to as a Velcro pet and never strayed more than two or three feet from me. “Doc…Doc Grizzly…Doc Grizzly?”

I looked back. He was flattened out halfway across the bridge like a giant, fur starfish.

“Doc, come. Come on, Grizzly, you can do it.” I tried to sound calm and comforting.

He whined and inched forward, then pancaked out again.

In the end, the only way to get him to proceed was by getting down on my hands and knees and crawling with him along the ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­pier.

Bobby Gene and Frank took turns seeing who could laugh louder.

When we finally arrived at Bobby Gene’s floating abode, Frank was reclining on a chaise lounge and Rufus was pacing the edge of the slip, barking at the water in anticipation of a swim. Bobby Gene had moved to his garden and was fussing with a tomato plant.

“Man,” Frank said, looking around. “Everything has changed since I was here last.”

“Everything but the people. Same old queers.”

“So, Don and Darryl are still here?”

“Yeah, they’ll never leave.”

 “Who exactly are this Don and Darryl?” I asked, and perched on an Igloo cooler.

“They’re a couple. They’ve been together since the seventies and have had a boat here since the early eighties. I think they might have met at The Bar back when it was Johnny Angels,” Frank explained. “They’re not your typical homosexuals. They both love Nascar and bass fishing—“

“And, Bonanza reruns,” Bobby Gene jumped in.

“So, does Michael still have that boat?” Frank asked, gesturing to an impeccably kept white Stardust Cruiser with orange trim and ornate tapestry curtains visible through the front sliding glass doors. As an aside to me, he added, “He’s gay, too. He used to date my friend Jamie.”

“Really? He’s gay, too?”

“Gayer than a Key West tea party.” Bobby Gene moved to a pot of cilantro and began picking off the stems that had already begun to flower. “The seeds produce coriander. It’s a wonderful spice. I use it in a lot of my Indian and Thai dishes.”

“Who else is down here, now?” Frank inquired.

“The two boats next to Michael are owned by these really, pleasant lesbian couples.”

“Cool. This dock needed some skillet lickers.”

“Skillet lickers?” Bobby Gene asked, obviously unfamiliar with the term.

I leapt into the conversation. “Why would you refer to a vagina as a skillet? It makes no sense. Plus, it’s just downright offensive.”

“Honey, have you met Frank? His middle name is offensive.” Bobby Gene waltzed over to a container overflowing with dill.

He pulled a sprig and held it beneath his nose giving him the appearance of having a bushy, green mustache. He breathed in deeply, savoring the scent. “Mmmmmm…”

He handed it to me. I rubbed it between my hands so it would release its oils. The fragrance of freshness wafted up.

“Dill is the secret ingredient in my deviled eggs. It’s also heavenly in fried potatoes. Have you ever tried it?” Bobby Gene asked, then added, “It is damn tasty.”

I took on my most lascivious voice and pumped my eyebrows. “Tasty enough to make you want to lick the skillet?”

“Honey,” he said with a snap, “ain’t nothing that tasty.”

Long Overdue Letter to an Estranged Mother

Dear Mom,

I know our relationship has not been a close one for a very long time. I realized we have only seen each other three times in the last twenty-five years. I’m not entirely certain why this is, but it is not your fault. After the pain and difficulty of my childhood, I just wanted to leave it all behind and, unfortunately, I think that in the process I left you behind as well. The physical distance between us made it hard to reconnect. When you add in our very different views on the world and religion and right and wrong, it felt impossible. But with all of that being said, I just wanted to take this letter to thank you. 

Thank you for nurturing my love of words and buying me all the books I could read. That reading led to my becoming a writer. Thank you for the multitude of opportunities you gave me growing up in the form of dance, piano, riding, gymnastics and other lessons. Thank you for always taking an interest in my education and making sure I had the supplies and support I needed to learn and complete all my school projects like: my wonderful costumes for “I Love to Read” Day and plays; art supplies for poster and pumpkin decorating contests; and gifts for favorite teachers. Thank you for pushing me to be better and believing that I could accomplish great things. Thank you for taking time to drive me to my many activities even when they were miles away from Mt. Sterling. Thank you for putting together scrapbooks and saving my memories. Thank you for getting me involved in Girl Scouts and sending me to summer camps where I gained independence, met new people, and learned new skills. Thank you for always attending my pageants, performances, and programs. 

Thank you for dressing me up and putting me on the church bus every Sunday. The faith I found in Sunday school as a child is still with me. And though my spirituality is not traditional, my relationship with God is strong and alive. Thank you for the research and hours you spent helping me fill out college applications, scholarship forms, and financial aid so I could attend a university. Thank you for making certain I always had stylish, clean clothes and a comfortable bedroom. Thank you for the beautiful birthday cakes you had decorated for me each year. Thank you for exposing me to music and filling our house with your song. Thank you for making me use good grammar and not use “at” to end a sentence. Most of all, thank you for loving me even when I was difficult and distant. 

In closing, I just want to say that although we don’t speak often, you are in my thoughts and prayers. And I will always love you and be ever so grateful for all of the things you did back then to make my life as wonderful as it is now. I hope each day of the rest of your life is filled with peace, prosperity, health, and joy. Happy Mother's Day.

Your Daughter, 
Donna

Having a Ball with Beth Walker...a Moonshiner's Ball.

Welcome to Tête-à-Tête Thursday with songtress extraordinaire, Beth Walker, who along with her band, the Blind Corn Liquor Pickers, will be hosting the inaugural Moonshiner's Ball music festival at Homegrown Hideaways in Berea, KY. The band's goal is to have "a party for all our incredible fans. Moonshiner's Ball is about having everyone we love out in one field, camping under the same sky, dancing in the same dirt, sipping from the same jar."

Bourbonista: Let's get started, if you could be any animal on the planet, including those of the cryptozoological variety, what would you be?   
Beth: I would be my dog Leroy Brown who is a Rhodesian Ridgeback/Pit mix. He lives an extremely good life with lots of love and treats, and he is also a completely badass that nobody fucks with.

Bourbonista: Yeah, my dog, Doc Grizzly has it pretty damn good too...he just eats, sleeps, and plays. Wait, if you added drinking and writing, I already kind of live his life. What is the best thing you ever ate? 
Beth: My fish tacos are the best thing I've ever eaten. I'm lucky that I eat them whenever I get the urge. You have to come to dinner some time and I will make them for you!

Bourbonista: I would love to come to your place and eat your fish taco...that came out all wrong. What six people, they can either be alive or dead or a combination, would you invite to your perfect dinner party?
Beth: This one is too tough to answer. I would probably stick to the same people I have over almost every week for dinner, because I love them and they make me comfortable. Really "cool" people make me nervous.

Bourbonista: Thanks, ask me over and then tell me you don't invite "cool" people because they make you nervous. Guess I know who's not cool, now. If your life had a theme song, what would it be?
Beth: "Whiskey River" by Willie Nelson fits me pretty well.

Bourbonista: Yeah, you and I could drift down that one together with giant straws. Or, I've got a float for two with a cooler in the middle that would be perfect. Better yet, why don't you write your own version called "Bourbon Lake." You can film the video at the boat...yes? Come on, say yes?  Describe yourself in three words all beginning with the letter “B.”
Beth:  Beautiful, Blue-Eyed, Brunette?

Bourbonista:  I don't know about Brunette, but I think Brilliant fits the bill...and Bold...Bohemian...and...Bawdy.  You are all the good B's. What would you do if you won the lottery?
Beth:  Buy a farm with a swimming hole and probably travel a lot!

Bourbonista: Skinny dipping! Write a short “Thank You” letter to your future self for all the cool shit you’ve done twenty years from now.
Beth:  Dear Beth, I'm just thankful that your liver still works. Carry on. Love, Beth

Bourbonista: I'm banking on the fact that they'll have those liver-growing rats available in pet stores by then. If you were a booze, which would you be and who would you want to drink you?
Beth: This answer is clearly bourbon, and I'm not at all picky about the brand. I would love for everyone to enjoy the buzz I offer!

Bourbonista:  Well, I can't wait until next weekend to be part of that buzz. Moonshiner's Ball is going to be fan-fucking-tabulous! I will see you there with bells on. Bells and a caftan...and nothing else. 

ABOUT MOONSHINER'S BALL :

Picture yourself kicking back on the soft grass on a warm, sunny May afternoon, low-rolling hills all around you. Old friends and new camping together under a clear Appalachian sky, throwing frisbee, splashing in the creek, ranting and raving into large powered speakers, imbibing freely, huddling over massive bonfires, catching up on old times and scheming up new ones.

These great bands will perform:
Vandaveer
J.D. Wilkes & The Dirt Daubers
MojoFlo
Bawn in the Mash
Ben Lacy
Coralee & the Townies
Solid Rock'it Boosters
Tonight's Noise
Quiet Hollers
Driftwood Gypsy
Bluegrass Collective
Tribe Called Lex featuring Sheisty Khrist
Murals
Baja Yetis
The Ronnie King Band
Gideon's Rifle
and your host, of course, The Blind Corn Liquor Pickers
And these great writers will read:
Ed McClanahan
Eric Scott Sutherland
Maurice Manning
Bianca Spriggs
You can bring your own food or booze, although there will be food trucks rolling in to serve you.
Gate price is $65 per person, regardless of how long you stay, and it includes camping for both nights. For the moment, you can still buy tickets online for the discounted price of $50 per person, but this won't last long.

Q is for Quitter

As in, I QUIT. I am tired of writing a blog a day. You are tired of reading a blog a day, so let's just wrap this up and eat some Easter candy. 

R is for Rapture. My mother-in-law is so certain that Frank and I are going to be left behind that she has stockpiled bottled water and Vienna sausages in her garage, so we'll have supplies. True story. 

S is for Sasquatch. I believe. 

T is for Trifle. I have decided that the Bourbon Krispy Kreme White Chocolate Raspberry Trifle is going to be my signature summer dish for potlucks and such.

U is for Ukulele, which has replaced chickens as the latest hipster obsession. 

V is for Visible Varicose Veins.  I hope I never get them...or a goiter.  

W is for Werebear. Werewolves are so 2013. Werebears are totally WERE it's at. 

X is for Xerophagy. I did not participate in this fast which takes place on the week leading up to Easter and involves eating only bread, salt, water, and vegetables. No meat, fish, milk, cheese, butter, oil, wine, seasonings or spices are allowed. A life without cheese and wine is not a life worth living...even for a week. 

Y is for Yeti. I just want to reiterate, I believe. 

Z is for Zymurgy, thank God for this branch of chemistry dealing with brewing and distilling...


which reminds me, nothing goes better with Peeps that bourbon. And there you have it...Blogging from A to Z. Fin. 

P is for Penis - Contains Adult Content

Just because you don't live in Japan, where each spring they hold the Kanamara Matsuri, a festival dedicated to all things penis, doesn't mean you can't get in on the celebration. I offer a poem in honor. 

The Penis Preference Poem
So condemn me, if it’s a sin,
But I do not like a penis too thin,
Pencils were meant for writing cursive,
And though what I say next may be subversive,
I like the girth to be worth,
My time and effort,

I like a thick dick.
Thick and straight…

And not just in its sexual orientation.
I do not like a penis that hooks,
I do not like a penis that looks,
Like it is looking around for something better,
Curving away in fear,
When it draws near.

As far as length,

Seven is heaven,
Eight is great.
Nine is fine,
Six is divine,
Even five is a source of for joy.                        
Anything less just serves to annoy.

On one thing I can comprise,
Whether or not it is circumcised.

Most of all, when it comes to penis'…
I do not like surprises.

Like the night, I decided to open my thighs,
To, who I swear, was one of the nicest guys,
I have met to this day. 

He was always smiling and corduroy-clad
The kind of man who’d make a perfect Dad,
A third year student at Fordham Law School,
We drank imported ales and played darts and pool,

After, he’d haul me cross town on the subway,
Make me 3 am breakfast and then let me stay,
In his bed,
while he slept on the love seat in the living room.

After doing this night after night,
I felt he’d finally earned the right,
To sleep in his own bed with me.

One thing lead to another and we wound up nude,
This next part get a little lewd…
I reached over to stroke his throttle,
It was the size of a two-liter bottle.

I couldn’t help but blurt…
Where’d you get that dick, Burt?
It could cause a girl a world of hurt…
Or a lifetime of eternal bliss,
But tonight is not going down like this.
Pardon the pun.

And though it could be fun…
I just don’t think I’m up for it,

Though you obviously are.

And besides I have appointment that just slipped my mind,
Yes, now at midnight…an audition for A Chorus Line.
Love ya’, mean it, call you, bye, gotta’ go!

I never saw Burt again…
He’s not even my Facebook friend.

Though I will admit, I breathe a sigh of relief,
When I find what’s beneath the boxer briefs,
Meets my quirky requirements.

But when all is said and done,
You can’t measure the pleasure,
In inches.

It’s the level of the trust,
The intensity of the lust,
The placement and the thrust,
The commitment and the confidence,
The education and experience,
That define the penis.

O is for Olfactory

This morning I ran out of Secret and had to use my husband's Old Spice "Bearglove" deodorant. Every time I catch a whiff of myself, I turn around, automatically happy, and expect to see him. Then, with disappointment, I realize it's just me, not my sexy man. According to Sarah Dowdy's article How Smell Works , "Because the olfactory bulb is part of the brain's limbic system, an area so closely associated with memory and feeling it's sometimes called the "emotional brain," smell can call up memories and powerful responses almost instantaneously."

Here are a few of my favorite smells:

1) That first whiff of sea salt when you're nearing the ocean.
2) Puppy breath.
3) A steak sizzling on the grill.
4) Skunk, from a distance. 
5) The pine and peppermint melange given off by a live Christmas tree decorated with candy canes. 
6) Frank's hair when it holds that musky odor of a hard day's work
7) Perfume de Country: the combination of fresh mown grass, manure, diesel fuel, and a lingering hint of honeysuckles.
8) The cedar logs in our Fairy Forest that we're using to mark the trail down to the lake.  
9) Just delivered New York-style cheese pizza.
10) Victory.

Which special scents set your nose atingle? 

N is for Nylons

I am fairly certain that the man who invented pantyhose--or nylons as they were called in the good old days--also killed his mother with a shovel and then kept her propped up in a wingback chair in the attic. He simply would have to be that warped when it came to women to create them. I swore off of nylons back in the early nineties, it was perhaps the only good decision I made during that period. Besides being maddening to put on, and horribly uncomfortable, they are downright dangerous. Because of their proximity to the privates and lack of breathabilty, by wearing them you are just inviting bacteria and fungus to grow. But, if you have drawer full, never fear. They don't have to go to waste. 

Here are six interesting ways to use nylons that won't run you the risk of getting a yeast infection. 

1) Temporary Tattoo- Find a pair of nylons that match your skin. Cut a section from the leg, decorate it with magic markers, then slide it on your arm to create the illusion of having a sleeve of tattoos. 

2) Save Soap- Cut off one leg and use it to store all the little soap nubbins, then keep it by the sink to wash your hands. 

3) Find Lost Earrings - Put a layer of nylons over the end of the hose and then run it across the floor. It will suck up and save your tiny, lost objects. 

4) Pack Like a Pro - It's now common knowledge that in order to save space when packing, you should roll, not fold your clothes. But to save even more, cut sections from your nylons and slip the rolled item of clothing inside to keep it compact. 

5) Get Gauzy - To give photos that old-fashioned, filtered look, just secure a square of nylons over the camera lens with a rubber band. 

6) Potpourri Pouches - Keep your drawers and closets smelling sweet by cutting off the feet of your nylons, filling them with potpourri, and the tying them off at the end. 

M is for Myrtle

I am Myrtle, twin sister of Mary, 
Mother of the savior of mankind. 
Yes, that makes me Jesus’ aunt,
Jesus’ favorite aunt, you'll find. 

I was midwife at the manger,
In the swaddle, I put the swa,
Then with Magi had a menage a trois. 
For those of you doing the mathmatics, 
The dude who brought the Frankincense wasn't into chicks. 
I knew John the Baptist when he was afraid of H2O. 
I can even claim Jesus' first miracle, cause you know...
I’m the reason they ran out of wine at the wedding. 



I was the original Auntie Mame. 
When Jesus was missing from the Bible for those years, 
He was traveling the world with me, learning to conquer his fears.
We went to India and Persia and Ethiopia and Tibet, 
Feasting and dancing and drumming and shit. 
Learning to reject dogma and embrace karma, 
And say “Screw you” to the Sadducees, 
“I’ll find the truth inside of me”, 

Basically living life according to the Gospel of Myrtle. 
I say the path to enlightenment is pleasure…
Just make the journey at your leisure,
And even if you never reach that higher plane, 
You'll have enjoyed the trip just the same. 

That teaching got me my own cult for a century or more,
My followers were Stevie Nicks groupie hard-core…
The Pharisees called them the Myrtle Maniacs. 
They built me a temple inlaid with gold 
And followed me all over the globe. 
So, if I’m so fricking fabulous why have you never heard my name? 

Baby, the story is always the same. 
Because I wasn’t a virgin and I wasn’t a whore. 
So, men didn't know just what to use me for. 
See, I was somewhere between a chastity belt and crotchless panties.  
I refused to be in the kitchen barefoot or in the bedroom bare-assed. 
But I did ran bare-breasted down beaches from Conde' Nast. 

I did not fit neatly into verse or book, 
That is why no matter how hard you look, 
You won't find me. 
Those Bible-writing bastards left me out. 

But I am back, and ready to shout. 
Tonight, I am stepping into the spotlight to reclaim my rightful place…

I am Myrtle…protector of pleasure and procurer of good times,
Patron saint to gypsies, tramps, and thieves, and mimes,
To rock stars, surfers, poets, prophets, 
Drag queens, dreamers, schemers, 
And George Hamilton. 

I am the voice that whispers, “Follow your bliss.” 
I am disco and pink champagne and your first kiss, 
Indeed, I am good weed. 
I am butterflies and blue skies and a brand new pair of roller skates.
I am multiple orgasms. 
I am the force that drives you to follow that dream. 
If you're feeling me now, let out a scream. 

I am Myrtle. 
Did you know that the Virgin Mary had an evil twin? Neither did the outrageous residents of Steadfast, Kentucky until she showed up to sabotage their annual Ham Happening--a three-day celebration of all things pork. But before the opening Ham Ball even gets rolling, Myrtle swoops in and embarks upon a mission involving performing pigs, a sadistic soap star, the Miss Ham Honey pageant, same sex marriage, big hair, and genetic engineering. The fate of the town is left to young festival president Tancy Sloane, a rebel in her own right, who must decide whether to stop the renegade saint...or to join her. 

The Miracle of Myrtle: Saint Gone Wild is sweet tea with a big shot of bourbon and a juicy slice of the supernatural. Prepare for a party on every page.

Available here on Kindle or in Paperback . 

L is for Lake Life

Now, that the cold, cruel winter is finally over, it is back to the boat. And though Lexington is only 35 miles our dock, it seems a million worlds away. For example, yesterday, Frank helped one of our neighbors with a project. He was paid in peanut brittle and a jug of moonshine. We’ve also been paid in bags of frozen Bluegill, a set of sliding glass doors, a pair of orange life vests, and a taxidermy squirrel.

Aside from the bizarre bartering, lake life is different in other ways, as well. There are certain items that you cannot live without if you're a Bourbonista on a boat. They are:

1) Zip ties- with a little elbow grease and a zip tie you can fix or affix almost anything, including loose skirting, leaky pipes, party streamers, electrical wiring, a patio umbrella prone to escape, an herb garden to a rocking vessel, and sunglasses. I once even turned a pair of palazzo pants into harem pants. 

2) Styrofoam noodles- if you don't want a possession to wind up at the bottom of Herrington, you attach a noodle to it with...what else...a zip tie. There is even a man that wraps his prosthetic leg in a noodle when he water skis to ensure it won't sink. 

3) Back-up propane tanks- on a boat, propane fuels everything--grill, heater, toilet, stove, water heater. Hell, I even have a propane-powered vibrator.

4) LED lights- the best things in life are not free. They are $14.99 and found in the “As Seen on TV" aisle. The Brooklyn Lantern was my best purchase to date. At least once a week, I forget to unplug the microwave while running the hair dryer and blow a breaker. Without the Brooklyn Lantern, my overactive imagination would turn the dock into the set of "Friday the 13th" and I'd give myself a heart attack.

5) Plastic jugs- During the winter, they turn off the water from the dock so it doesn’t freeze. For three months, you have to transport your water from the shore. The more jugs you have, the fewer trips you have to make, therefore sturdy containers with a handle, like the ones Hawaiian Punch comes in, are more valuable than gold. 
 
Here are also a few Lake Lessons that I've learned along the way that also apply to life:

If you’re not catching anything, maybe you need to change lures.

You always want to be in a “No Wake” zone.

Sometimes in order to become self-sufficient, you first have to ask for help.

You can’t launch with one foot on the shore.

Don't kayak in a kaftan. 

K is for K.I.S.S.

I'm having a hell of a time writing today’s blog. It’s 75°. I am at the lake. This is the view from my desk. I just went on a pontoon ride with three amazing women. I discovered a new favorite bourbon (Benchmark from Buffalo Trace), which I’m drinking as I type. Layne, in his floating house across the way, is blaring Carlos Santana from his porch speakers. And, I'm fully immersed in the beauty of just being.

Today’s blog is all about K.I.S.S., not the band, though I LOVE them. They were the first album I asked for as a child, which was very disconcerting to my God-fearing mother. By eight, I knew every word to “Detroit Rock City” and “Love Gun.”  But, alas, the K.I.S.S. I am referring to is Keep It Simple Stupid.

For years I prided myself on being a gypsy who owned blow-up furniture from Spencer’s Gifts, milk crates, and plasticware. Then, one day I turned around and had three houses, three cars, and two boats…all of which needed work and I owed money on. And, I had a career, where I was underpaid and underappreciated, but with a title that made me sound important. I realized that in my single-minded attempt to become somebody, I had lost myself. Instead of feeling like an artist, I felt like a prostitute with a pen that would write anything for anyone as long as it paid. I was creatively tapped, exhausted, twenty pounds overweight, and ready for a major change. Throughout my twenties and thirties, the questions I most often asked myself were, “What am I going to wear?,” “What are we doing this weekend?,” and “What will people think?” At forty-three, those had been replaced by “Who am I?,” “Why am I here?,” and “What is my purpose?”  I knew I wasn’t going to find the answers on the middle of a dance floor, in a boutique dressing room, or at the bottom of an overpriced cocktail in a fancy glass. But, where did one go to solve a midlife, self-discovery dilemma?

For me, Herrington Lake and a pair of houseboats named Lakematized and The Muse. So, we sold 75% of our “stuff” and moved to the water. Now, my focus is on minimalism for maximum result. Get rid of the extraneous, keep the extraordinary. Eliminate bills and social obligations so you can illuminate the people and issues that really matter. Never own an object more important than the person who could break it. Love everything in your closet. Keep real food in your refrigerator. Give away anything that is not both beautiful and utilitarian (other than art and books, there is always room for art and books). Fill your space with laughter and love , instead of possessions. Leave enough open area so your mind can roam. Breathe. Seriously, just breathe. K.I.S.S. Keep It Simple Stupid.