Mark Myers's Blog, page 26

What Not to Say When There is Nothing to Say

Recently, I was asked for advice about how to respond to the parents of a child diagnosed with cancer. Let me say from the outset that I am a dubious source whose council typically causes some manner of regret. However, since I have stood on the receiving end of some pretty stupid comments over the past year, I do have a fair amount of expertise in this particular area.

First, THERE��ARE NO MAGIC WORDS, so don���t try to find them. When one is standing at the outset of a long, twisted road that includes the potential mortality of their child, words simply cannot soothe.��They can, however, aggravate.��So I thought it might be helpful to look at some things that struck us the wrong way when we were facing our crisis.

1. Do not equate anything you���ve gone through (or had a third cousin go through) with their situation. This is an immediate conversation ender. We once had someone compare a month-long sinus infection to Kylie���s cancer.

2. One of the most frequent things we heard was, ���What can I do?��� No matter how sincere the offer, this can add stress to an already stressful situation. The parent of a recently diagnosed child has no idea what day it is or if they remembered to change their underwear for the past two weeks, so they will most likely have trouble assigning tasks to the three dozen people who have asked. Vague offers of help only muddle already murky waters.

3. By far the worst statement I got was, ���I know how you feel.��� Uh, no you don���t. Get back to me when you watch the rise and fall of your child���s chest wondering if it will stop during the night. And even if you have been there, your feelings and mine are totally different things.

4. Watch your quantity of words. Parents in this situation have a maximum amount they can absorb before they shut down. Docs usually fill that bucket daily.

5. Persistence can be irritating. There were weeks that passed when we just couldn���t answer texts and emails. It didn���t mean anything other than we were focused on greater issues. A second or third text reminding us of the original only made us feel bad for our inability to balance everything.

6. Don���t expect to assume a role that you didn���t have before diagnosis. If we haven���t spoken in years, I likely have someone else to bare my soul to. It is fine to offer especially if you have dealt with similar issues, but don���t expect it.

7. Don���t badger for information. We would have loved to have known specifics, time frames, and end dates. Unfortunately, these often don’t exist in the cancer game and constant demands for information only serve to remind a parent of their helplessness.

8. If you made an offer that wasn���t accepted, please understand it may be wanted or needed and simply came at the wrong time. Don���t be offended or press for an answer. If the parent needs it, they will most likely return to it eventually.

9. “No” is a perfectly valid answer that people must be prepared to accept without justification or hurt feelings. The parents do not need added drama in their life and shouldn���t be forced to manage the emotions of others.

10. With all of the fears and doubts of such a diagnosis swirling in the parent’s mind, a mention of God’s Will can be a very slippery slope. While we are believers, religious platitudes were not extremely helpful and I can only imagine how such words would be perceived by someone who isn’t a believer.

This list is not exhaustive and I can only speak for my family. I think you will find it interesting that while we experienced all of the above, not a single cancer family ever did any of them. Never.

I would guess that this list could apply for other health or traumatic situations, but I can���t speak to those since I have only navigated the pediatric cancer waters. (Look at me, trying to follow my own advice!)

Next week I will give some suggestions of things to say when there is nothing to say.

Filed under: Kylie

Why I Turned Right

This was not the ideal day to run a marathon nor was I in shape to run one. A constant rain fell on us from the time we started, leaving me the choice to pull a race-day decision of shortening the run by half. No one would blame me.

 

*****

When I had signed up, we thought Kylie���s treatment was going well. Running the marathon to raise money for pediatric cancer research seemed to be a great thing to do for other children who would follow us. Her decline came so quickly. One of the most minor consequences of her passing was that I no longer cared about training. When��the date came close, although not ready I decided to run ��� well, walk and run. I knew it would be a long day. Of my two running-mates, only Krish was prepared. Randy���s knee had prevented his training.

*****

 

We talked beforehand and I espoused my belief that there would be no shame in turning left at mile six and completing the half-marathon. No shame at all. It seemed the logical choice.

We lost Krish in the crowd early on and we wounded two ambled toward the split not knowing what the rest of the day would hold. After running four miles, my back began to ache. It wasn���t debilitating, but we still had twenty-two miles of pavement to pound��� or possibly a wiser nine.

When we got close to the split, I wanted to go left. Already hurting and unprepared, the thought of the full scared me. Decision time had come.

���What do you want to do?��� I asked.

“I kinda want to finish the drill,” Randy replied. “Just think of the accomplishment!”

I didn���t want to do it. I thought he was probably crazy enough to finish it alone. My back cried out that it was a bad choice. I hurt. I ached and I was about to move left and send him on his way when I thought of Kylie.

So many times during chemo, Kylie hurt. So many times, she ached and cried out that it was too hard ��� she couldn���t do it. She wanted to stop every day, but she kept on going. She persevered even though she didn���t know when it would stop. When she was throwing up from chemo, she couldn���t count down from twenty-six to one knowing the nausea would subside with the numbers. It just went on and on for her. I knew the exact end. There was a palpable finish line waiting for me. The end of the misery called ���treatment��� for cancer never came for her. She died before her treatments ended.

The thought of her triggered emotions for me, mixing tears with the rain on my face. I knew there was only one choice. I turned right. I turned right for Kylie. How could I not finish this race when she pushed so bravely through hers?

We trudged on for twenty more miles. It wasn���t pretty. The rain never stopped and the pain persisted to the end. We walked a good bit, but ran at the finish as if we���d been running the entire time. It was finally over.

I bent to receive a medal that I wish I could put around her neck, but I can���t. I can���t because we don���t have safe and adequate treatment for childhood cancer, which is the very reason I ran in the first place. The medal will always be hers, though. And someday, I���ll tell her about it and how I thought of her and turned right.

 

Filed under: Kylie

The Marathon I Won

I���ll be running my eighth marathon on Sunday. This one is for��charity, not time – I���m no speedster anyway. No, my training got derailed for obvious reasons and my waistline has expanded with all the cookies that have been delivered of late ��� not a good combination for running success.

I stood on the scale in horror yesterday as the digital readout spoke lies to me. I want to go back to the days of the rolling number wheel that looked so cheap and inaccurate you could truly rationalize it being off by 5-7 pounds. Modern scales reflect the downside of the affordability of precision electronics.

The situation brought to mind the first time I ran the Georgia Marathon in 2007.

I won it!

You heard that right, I broke the tape for the marathon.

In late 2005, I reached a plateau. It wasn���t a good plateau, it was a large one. I���ve always been a big lug, but the responsibilities of a father with four young children had led to an unhealthy weight. When the children (who caused the problem) see pictures of that time period, they call me ���Fat Daddy���. Yes, my size 40 pants got tight and I made the decision that I wasn���t going to buy size 42���s. So I joined a gym, dieted, and found that I really enjoyed running.

After losing some weight, I saw an announcement of the inaugural Georgia Marathon and decided to set my sights on running the half-marathon. I got my training plan, ran four days a week, and bought all of the necessary paraphernalia including some snazzy running belts (fanny packs) that my children adore. By the time March 2007 rolled around, I was ready. My goal: 2 hours.

I lined up in coral G and watched in excitement as the flares went up and the gun sounded the beginning of the race. It took a little while to get into my stride, but I soon found my pace and settled in. Noting the split at mile 6, I made sure to turn left with the other half-marathoners, laughing at the few lonely souls going straight for twenty more miles. Through ten miles, I ran well until hitting a rather stout hill on mile 11. Once that was behind me, some mental calculations told me that I had a shot at��my goal time.

I gave it my all. I pushed, grunted, and strained toward the finish. Finally, I saw it ��� the finish line. Just when it came into view, a roar came over the crowd. I looked around and didn���t see other runners around me.

This is really nice, I thought. They���re cheering for me!

I heard the announcer say something garbled – I guessed it was my name.

How’d they know my name? Must be the bib number.

I saw two people in official garb run a tape across the road.

Wow, that���s cool. A tape for me. Do they know it���s my first time?

Being the subject of such adoration was slightly embarrassing. Still, I lifted my arms to the crowd���s delight.

This is amazing! I wonder if they do this for everyone!

The same two officials who had run the tape across were now flailing wildly and seemed to be waving me off. Just after I broke the tape, I turned to see a group of very thin, insanely fit men barreling towards me. ��Yes, at the exact time I finished my 13.1 miles, the professions finished their 26.2. I got a haughty look from the guy who rightfully should have broken the tape. Jealous, I suppose.

Although I might have been in the wrong place, I can forever say that I got to the finish line first!

Caption This

 

 

Filed under: It Made Me Laugh

How Are We Now?

Another Friday the 13th. Is it truly possible that it has been a month? It seems so long ago sometimes and sometimes it seems like yesterday. Then there are brief interludes of fantasy when I dream it never happened and life is normal. My rational brain won���t allow those glorious moments to last nearly long enough.

The last Friday the 13th ��� the bad one. I carried her. I had carried her frail body so often over the past ten months, it seemed only natural. Only this time, she didn���t wrap her arms around my neck or tell me where to go. This time, our destination wasn���t the couch or the kitchen table. On that dark evening, I carried her to the Hearse waiting in my driveway. I did it because I didn���t want anyone to see her loaded onto a stretcher inside my house. How could we ever recover from that sight?

It was the longest walk I���ve ever made.

The visitation and funeral are a blur. Pictures and video tell me they happened. I remember seeing so many friends. There were times I was almost happy except for the specter of grief that always pulled me back into its dark bosom. We spent another ten days with very little activity and a great many tissues. The void created by the passing of a relatively small child is disproportionately large.

So how are we doing?

I asked Robin that very question and was given��what I thought was an incredibly��simple yet insightful answer.

���Everything feels wrong, all the time.���

Wrong.��Off. Askew.��Like staying��together in a hotel where a��home used to be.��Wrong like when I had to��drive my truck after it had been broken into a few years ago. Wrong. Stolen from. Unsettled.

Yes, we have played games, shared laughs, and had fun, but everything always settles back into this amissness. The tears come and go. None of us try to force��an end to them, we just huddle��and wait them out.��Nothing specific triggers them�������just a Kylie-sized hole.

Sleep is a game that Robin and I play differently. She can’t find it, I can’t keep it. So she stays up and reads or hangs out with our night-owl teens until she gets exhausted. I fall out at my usual time. But when my eyes open at 3 or 4 am, I am awake for the day. As time has moved on, the rules of the game have relaxed for both of us. She gets to bed sooner and I rise later. Still not normal, but better.

We have thought about getting away for a weekend, just the two of us. Maybe it would be good to reconnect. Funny thing is, we���ve been connected throughout this horrible experience. We���ve been on the same page the entire time��and are hesitant to give up a moment with the girls. Jenna is nearing the end of her freshman year and from experience we know that the rest of high school will fly by.��Kendall��will be a senior next year�������we will be empty-nesters soon enough. Then she will have nothing but��my mug to look at and my guess is that she will feel way too connected with me then.��I know, it���s only a weekend, but we���ve learned just how precious a few hours can be.

If I haven���t said it enough, my wife is incredible. She gets out of bed every day and pours love over��the four of us. Taking care of her girls is what gets her up��and she is laser-focused. After��a year of being somewhat��on their own, they are over-loved, over-conversed, and over-mothered right now. They might not admit it, but I think they are enjoying it. Robin gets out of the house a little now – not a ton, but more. She doesn’t like long trips or long visits. Short is good, short doesn’t require a lot of preparation or conversation.

For me, I have loved seeing pictures and videos of Kylie from before cancer came to stay.��I don���t want to forget the��past��year, we had some great times of joy amidst the suffering. I would, however like to minimize the final couple of days. I��feel the shift happening, but not nearly fast enough. As a father, my principle job is to protect. While my head knows cancer was out of my control, my paternal instinct��at times whispers accusations.

I still lack focus. Things seem to happen around me and sometimes I can��almost detach from a conversation and watch myself participating in life like an eerie third party. It is so weird. A year ago, I prided myself in being able to keep a dozen balls in the air without dropping any. My first few days back to work I dropped��everything like an amateur juggler. I might be up to four now.

So, how are we?

It’s still a pretty dumb question. We are parents living in the aftermath of the loss of their daughter.��We are about as good as you���d expect. We miss her every minute.

Still, we have hope and faith��that we will see her again.

We have each other, and we have you friends who have read this far.

If you want an honest answer, we aren’t doing well but we are better than we were a week ago and certainly better than the last Friday, the 13th.

 

I am not sure how, but I think we���re going��to make it.

 

���

Filed under: Kylie

A Bastion of Good Advice

It’s a word! And not to be confused with another of similar sound (most of the time).

Late in my daughter’s senior year, I was given the task of sharing advice as she headed to college. I believe I offered sound, excellent advice that is good for anyone who is forced into a new situation.

I humbly submit my advice:

 

 

The��best��way��to deal with��the problems of��life after high school by sharing��them��with intimate friends.�� Making friends who��won���t

a)��drag you down, ��or

b) be a complete time and emotional drain.

This can be hard.

Your mother isn���t good at these things, so I���m going to give you��some advice that has helped me through��many��new beginnings.����First,��you have to identify a friend target.����Look for someone with whom you��may��have things in common and approach cautiously.�� Once within range, start��a��generic��conversation.����If��you get those��initial, warm��feelings��that they might be suitable��as a friend, loosen up and fart.�� It doesn���t have to be a chair-rattler�������just a little shooter.�� If they act startled and remove themselves from your company, they weren���t meant for you.�� If they are unfazed��or better yet, laugh with you, you might have the makings of a friend.

The next step to��further��test��your friendship��is to��pick a conspicuous moment about a week later and up the ante with another fart, building some resonance and duration to the effort.�� (It would be best to have some broccoli or chili the evening prior to the second salvo to add smell,��really testing��their resolve.)�� If at this point, you haven���t run the poor kid off, you may��just��have the��beginnings��of a wonderful friendship�������the kind��you���ll need to weather the storms of life.

Of course,��farting��is an allegory��for��sharing feelings of fear, doubt,��uncertainty, homesickness, loneliness, and/or angst.��Either will work��for this exercise, but farting is by far funnier and more memorable.��Think about the stories you���ll have looking back on your very first encounter.��Good luck.

Remember we are always here for you, but��we��know the face you make when you���re gassy.

 

 

Now you may consider the other word…

Filed under: Dad stuff

A Slightly Odd Obsession

I have an admission to make. It is slightly embarrassing, this thing. I had an inkling that something lay festering beneath the surface. Year upon year of building desire should have been a clue. Until last weekend, I had no idea it had become as prolific as recent evidence has shown it to be. I have an obsession – nothing that should hold legal ramifications or moral apprehension, but an obsession nonetheless.

It started innocently enough, as most obsessions do. A look��� a secret longing��� a caress that eventually leads to some form of grip and holding. A yearning – it forces me to spend hard-earned money to acquire the object of my desire. Hot, steamy, satisfying! I have to have them. I am not tied to one body style, I love all shapes and sizes. I love them for what is inside and the shallow portion of me loves them for their outward appearance as well.

Travel mugs. I love them nearly as much as the coffee they contain. I confess that I can���t have just one. I need many. My lovely wife discovered this in cleaning out the pantry. My collection seems to have grown wildly over the years. They were stuffed in every nook and cranny of the little closet, taking up too much room.

Something had to give, so she said.

But what do I do? Do I let go of some? Donate or dispose? Is there a place to recycle crazy obsessions? Does anyone else have a stupid collection like this or is it just me? I would be lying if I said they all served a purpose. Actually, some have never been used ��� a few just looked appealing in the store but were either impractical or not functionally optimal.

 

 

For instance, why would any company make a travel mug that doesn���t fit in a standard size cup holder? It���s the cruelest of jokes because the consumer brings it home, fills it lovingly with the finest java only to have it spill all over the floorboard of the car when rounding the corner a block from home.

What do you do with the one so poorly designed that my nose gets in the way of taking a full drink? I’m no Cyrano De��de Bergerac, either. Normal nose – yet after the third sip, I have to crane my neck so far back just to get a drink��that I am no longer able to see the road.��I’m too old for that kind of exercise.

Note the big tankard in back left. Yes, I Like Big Mugs and I Cannot Lie. But seriously, it holds so much coffee that it is cold by the time you get halfway through.

LW said some of them had to go. I think she was jealous of my obsession ��� she didn���t like the thought of me holding so many other things in high regard. I begged for a little corner of the pantry to hold my collection, but she pointed to the Mickey Mouse waffle iron, popcorn machine, coffee grinder, and a couple of other little-used appliances I have bought on a whim that take up valuable storage space.

And so, I reluctantly pared down my coffee mug collection. I threw out a couple��and donated the others in the hopes that someone else would appreciate them.

 

 

The irony of this whole situation is that I have an extremely short commute.

 

Filed under: It Made Me Laugh

A Cat’s Divine Appointment

Did you ever believe in a divine appointment? I mean, something that worked together so perfectly that it had to be orchestrated by God in order to unfold properly. Something that, if man touched, would fall apart like a house of cards built on a rickety three-legged table.

It happened to me recently. Actually, it happened to a cat I now own. If you���ve been to my house or been reading my blog for any length of time, you know our pet burden is already far too high. All rescues, we have Winston, the huge, stupid, lovable lab. Toby Flenderson, the dog with a personality deficit. Kitty, a barn cat who came to live with us two years ago. Stanley the Chemo Cat, a sweet fatboy who was chosen by Kylie to sit with her during treatment.

In the last weeks, our little patient wanted a baby kitty. Actually, she has wanted one for some time and I was able to say no. At one point, I bought a bottle, put Stanley in a diaper and tried to pass him off for a kitten. He was pretty cute, but a 14 lb. cat doesn���t pose well as a baby.

So when we got the terrible news that her disease had progressed, I could no longer say no to anything she wanted. I called a friend who knew a pet rescue organization and in a few hours, a kind lady from Angels Among Us delivered a baby kitty who had gotten off to a rough start in life. We had every intention of returning the cat in a few days.

This is where the divine appointment came in. We brought the kitten to Kylie who sat up for the very last time to welcome her. She gave us her last smiles and loved on that little cat as long as her energy would allow. When she laid back to rest, that little kitten curled up in the crook of her arm and never moved. Never! If one of us moved her, she walked right back into the crook of Kylie���s arm and laid back down. Eliza didn���t move from that spot until Kylie breathed her last.

You might think we got a mellow, lazy kitten. You would be wrong. She is rambunctious, curious, and now runs and jumps all over the house. She is an amazing leaper who rules the roost. She won���t even take crap from Winston who feels a perpetual need to sniff her backside until he gets a claw on the nose.

The mere fact that she laid so still for a day lets me know that she had a job to do ��� a divine appointment. She did it perfectly and now we will spend the rest of her life rewarding Eliza��for her job performance. She is our baby now even though the last thing we need is another pet.

We all believe Winston is too stupid to realize this is a new cat because he hasn���t seen all three of them in the same room together. He probably just thinks one shrunk.

I wonder if we all have divine appointments at some time in our lives, but don’t sit still long enough to realize they are happening?

 

Filed under: From the Writer

Missing Kylie

I have been absent from posting for a few weeks. The reason is that Kylie took a sudden turn for the worse and left her battered body on February 13th. I miss her every day.

There are so many questions and very few answers. My lovely wife and I had to plan out her funeral, which was truly heartbreaking. During the discussion, I felt compelled to speak at the memorial because I knew that Kylie would never want anyone to waiver in their faith because of her passing. So I did. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but I made it through.

I would like to share the video with you. If you would rather read the text, it is at the bottom of the blog’s Kylie page.

There is no formula to recovering from this type of thing, but I think we are doing as well as can be expected. We intend to grieve well and then get on with the two charges our little girl gave us – Mommy has to take care of her kitten and I got the easy one: cure childhood cancer. Her social media sites are exploding so she is handing us a platform��for it, which we intend to use. Right now, we have no idea how… But we will figure it out because Kylie told us to.

 

 

Filed under: Christianity

The Poison Pickle

I am about finished being the lunch-packer for my two high school daughters. They will be most pleased when mother is again putting her loving touch on things.

One is extremely analytical. She lifts her lunch box before leaving home for a weight check and can tell if I shorted her one Dorito. I have no idea how she does it.

The other? Well, she���s a target.

Let me explain. My eldest went to��college and left a void. While incredibly intelligent, she is a trusting and gullible soul, which leaves lots of room for good-natured hazing. And I always say, ���If you can���t haze your own kids, who can you haze?��� Our youngest is going through enough and the analytical child is dubious of everything; which leaves our little freshman hypochondriac to fill the void.

Enter the stray pickle.

I started putting a pickle in a baggie and adding it to her lunch the other day. She loves pickles. After a couple of pickle surprises, I got this text, ���Are you sure those pickles are good? I checked the date and they expired in August.���

My response, ���Sure they���re good. That���s what pickling does. Those things will be good for fifty years.���

Then, an idea began fermenting like that old jar in the back of the fridge. It���s time for some fun! I carefully planned my ruse, waited a couple of hours to set up my trap, and fired this off, ���You didn���t eat that pickle did you?���

Nothing. I could picture her sitting in English Lit wondering what that could mean. Five minutes passed and I sent another.

���I read something about pickle poisoning that scares me������

���WHAT????��� along with several wide-eyed emojis. ������������������������

���Sorry, gotta go into a meeting. Back in an hour.���

 

An hour. What would she do in an hour? I giggled at my desk wondering if she would look up pickle poisoning on the internet, the ultimate source of truth. That���s been covered! I had already entered a finely crafted Wikipedia article detailing diagnosis, treatment, and prognosis. I even created a Facebook support group that garnered two sad members almost immediately. Yes, I could visualize my third-born wandering aimlessly into the woods where I waited to pull the net that would lift her into my trap. This was going to be awesome!

After the hour expired, I sent this one, ���You okay? No swelling or tingling in your hands or feet?���

A long lapse made me wonder if there really was something wrong with the lunch I���d packed. There is nothing worse than sitting beside a baited trap while no unsuspecting quarry wanders past. It seemed like forever before she replied.

���You gonna drive me to ballet?��� she finally asked.

���Yes��� if you are still okay by then.���

���Oh, I texted Meredith and she told me not to believe anything you said.��� ����������������

Crap! All that work for nothing. I forgot to cover that base and left a gaping hole in my plan. I should be pleased that she went to her sister for support unlike the two souls I left groping in the dark��when I shut down their Facebook page. I should be. But I���m not. Freddie Mercury might have wanted someone to love ��� I just want someone to haze and I���m running out of victims.

Filed under: Dad stuff

The Key to Relationship Bliss

It���s an odd thing to accept that your daughter���s boyfriend isn���t going away. No, we even got him a Christmas present this year. He���s a fixture. Don���t get me wrong, he���s a good kid and treats her very well. It���s just that I used to be a part of her profile picture and now it���s the two of them. Instead of Daddy the Great, I���m the old guy who barks at them to keep it down at midnight. The transition was sudden.

I knew it had to happen, and I���m actually glad it did. I want all of my girls to grow up and be independent. After all, I have big plans for their rooms when they go. Each will be a strategic part of what I have deemed The Naked Corridor. I figure I will be able to shift locations for weeks without the Crazy Pants Lady trying to cover me up. But I digress.

Odder than her having the boyfriend is that I have now actually given him relationship advice on how to keep my daughter happy. All 20 year-old boys are clueless sometimes (Heck, so are 47 year-olds). He often reminds me of another boy who dipped his toe into several very short relationship pools until he figured out that one must consider how his actions affect the other swimmer before he acts.

That���s the key isn���t it? If you want to have a healthy relationship of any kind, you have to consider how every nuance of what you are doing or intend to do will affect the other participant until at some point, that consideration becomes automatic.��Oh, I���m not perfect. Just ask LW ��� she would laugh and tell you many stories of times I have subverted and nearly destroyed our relationship. Twenty-two years of marriage is a testament to her patience, not my consideration. Still, I try.

And so, I gave the young pup my number one tip on making a relationship work. Gather round boys and listen. Here it is. A Pearl of Wisdom sought after by lonely sailors and bachelors for centuries. You all ready? ��Put the toilet seat down.

That���s it. It���s so easy, but it is the absolute key to happiness.

You scoff, but think about it. We men navigate life with barely a rational thought in our mind. We get accustomed to routine and tend to expect the world to mold into our flow. As stated before and confirmed by years of experimentation in selfishness, that type of thinking doesn���t work in a relationship with the fairer sex. Sick of cleaning up our mess, our mothers drilled into our heads for years the need to lift the lid until it became routine. We even did it in our sleep (most of the time). When we learn to put the seat back down for the lady who may follow us into the bathroom, we have ceased being senseless drones and started thinking about someone else.

I submit that putting the toilet seat down is the first step toward a life of consideration.

So I told him. Not in a mean way, just in a ���You���ll be better off��� kind of way. I don���t know if he is permanent. Only time will tell. I like him enough to invest a little bit here and there. He���ll do better with my daughter or future women when he takes to heart this lesson I���ve so graciously bestowed. Plus, if my butt gets wet one more time, I just might have to wring his neck!

Filed under: Learned Along the Way