Things that make you go: Hmmmm...

Be kinder than necessary because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.

You just can't see it sometimes.

A sharp tongue can cut your own throat. Take the time to think before you speak, for words cannot be taken back once said.

Of all the things you wear, your expression is the most important. Not clothes, nor makeup or jewellery. A smile will set you apart and give you a unique beauty others will envy.

The best vitamin for
making friends: B1.

All it takes is a simple
"hello, how's your day?"

The heaviest thing you can carry is a grudge... Do you really want to?

One thing you can give and still keep...is your word. Your word is your reputation - once broken it is difficult to repair.

You lie the loudest when you lie to yourself.

If you lack the courage to start, you have already finished.

Your mind is like a parachute...it functions only when open.

It is never too late to become what you might have been.

Life is too short to wake up with regrets...

 Love the people who treat you right.

Forget about the ones who don't.

Believe everything happens for a reason.

If you get a second chance, grab it with both hands. If it changes your life, let it.

Nobody said life would be easy,
they just promised it would be worth it.

Friends are like balloons. Once you let them go, you might not get them back.

Sometimes we get so busy with our own lives and problems that we may not even notice that we've let them fly away. Sometimes we are so caught up in who is right and who's wrong that we forget what is right and wrong... Sometimes we just don't realize what real friendship means until it is too late. Be a true friend, and others will to you. The ones who don't are not worth a second thought or a single tear. All they deserve is pity.

Memoir Monday - Roo Bouncing.

An Aussie list on a couple of other blogs has stirred the dusty old memory banks once more. Item number whatever... Have you ever hit a roo?

I have. Two of them in fact. But this Memoir on Monday is about the first. So buckle up that seatbelt and hang on tight. Grip the old JC bar if it helps.

A Roolly You Beaut True Blue Roo Rant.

I'm taking you back... Back into the dim dark days of my once wild youth. Back to a time when fun was easy, all you needed was a mate by your side and the hot blood of invincible teenage years. Oh, and a car with a bit of grunt.

Nooooo - not that one ->

<- This one!

It is early evening. Me, aged seventeen, and my BFF are meant to be studying for an HSC exam. No idea now which one it was. We had done some study, honest. But the brains were feeling foggy so we decided to go for a quick burn in my little blue Mazda. Now my BFF lived on a farm in the boondocks. Lots of deserted roads to take for a short drive and some fun. We head onto the beach road. No lights, dark starless night, thick bush either side of bichumen, no other traffic.

Smart arse BFF dares me to see how my little car flies. The hoon in me happily accepts the challenge. Please note: I am only a P plater.

Foot hits the floor, car easily glides up to 100 k's, then 120. We fly along through the black night, over hills, around curves. Common sense kicks back in, I slow down. Sitting at around a safe 70 k's on a straight stretch, BFF grins over at me in the dim interior and says: "Jeez, we would have been mincemeat if you had hit a roo!"

Next instant  -

BANG

You guessed it. Out of the bush a lone roo with suicidal tendencies leaps in front of the car. Slam brakes on, roo bounds away seemingly unharmed. BFF looks at me, we both crack up. Still laughing, we get out of car to survey what we think will be minimal damage from the light impact. We stop laughing. It was not minimal. It really was not minimal. We were both very quiet on the return trip. And I had to think up an excuse for being in the middle of nowhere when I should have been studying.

Bloody roos. Well, maybe it was just a big wallaby. But it was large enough to cause some mighty expensive extensive damage.  *mutter*mutter*curse*curse*

Flog Yo... Book?

Yes, you read it right. I'm not really here, I am working on my *ahem* novel. Really. I am. Honestly. Cross my... okay. So I haven't really done any further development work past deciding which of my old ideas to buff up for this writing course. Yes w-r-i-t-i-n-g
c-o-u-r-s-e. Express Year of The Novel at QWC. You may well ask whose dumb idea was it to take on more mental stress in this pressure cooker life? Yep. Mine. Mea Culpa. Well as Yee-ha Grandma always said:

"If you want something done, give it to a busy woman!"

Actually, I think the original was person, but I'm running with Grandma here.

And of course it is FlogYoBlog Friday. And here I am. NOT working on the great Australian Novel. Shhhhh, don't tell anyone. I will get to it. Honest.

Memoir Monday: The Fighting Spirit.

The events over the last few days have had me looking deeply into myself and my principles. When the facebook group I was a member of accepted a mere token gesture, which did not address the true issue at hand, and in my eyes, the whole point of why the group was formed in the first place, I was disappointed. When I was accused of having agendas, and being a trouble-maker because I voiced said disappointment and disillusionment, I was seriously unimpressed and began to question the reasons behind the group, and what hidden machinations may have been causing such a strong knee-jerk reaction to myself several others, disagreeing with the admin. Once censorship entered the picture I deleted myself from the group.

Yes, I am referring to the link I posted in my last thread. The group once called PRUE MACSWEEN AND CHANNEL 7 SHOULD APOLOGISE which is now called PRUE MACSWEEN and CHANNEL 7 HAVE APOLOGISED....FINALLY!!! Which is sad considering all Prue Macsween apologised for was her use of the word retard in relation to boys. Not for her comments on segregation, not for her antiquated views on locking away the little disabled kiddies as not fit for human eyes, not for recommending we train them before allowing them out like a bunch of circus animals for the latest exhibit, oh no, NOT A WORD ON ANY OF THAT! But to each their own. If they choose to believe this is a win and not patronising at all, so be it. I just want no part of it, them, or their own agendas for fifteen minutes in the spotlight. Just my take on things after messages sent with accusations, deleted comments, censorship, and little tanty's erupted yesterday.

It did make me sit and look at my own ideals, actions and motivation however. I am further along in this journey than some of the organisers, and would have thought my fighting spirit would be jaded, less driven, and more tired than theirs. A little more rational and accepting, less raw.  I guess I assumed they would have more fight in them than I do nowadays. I was wrong.

Now, you're probably wondering what this has to do with a Memoir Monday? Well this sense of right and wrong, this belief in fighting until you win (or receive an apology), I think it came from here. Just maybe.

Memoir Monday: Don't Mess with Grandma.

Yes, yee-ha Grandma once more. As you probably have gathered over the other two posts about her, this woman had a very large role in shaping who I am today. I have been incredibly lucky to have had such a wonderful person to inspire me, and teach me by example. And now I'm going to tell you a little story. Yes, another one.

Yee-ha Grandma, as some of you know, was a Real Estate Agent but she also owned a number of investment properties of her own. One of these properties is the centre of today's story.

We lived in a largish rural town, and one day a beeg company decided this town needed a shopping centre. The shopping centre was to take up all bar a small section of a large country town block. Yee-ha Grandma's property was dead centre of the main arm of the retail centre. 

Now being a private development resumption laws did not apply. Which meant the beeg company had been quietly buying up a lot of properties prior to the announcement being made, and then grabbing the rest as quickly and cheaply as they could. Until they hit Grandma's place.

Ever notice how people underestimate the older generation? Well, the local agent representing this company was known to Yee-ha Grandma. As a small boy he was found to be deceptive and sly, not trustworthy at all. As he grew his reputation remained unchanged. Having dealt with him on a business level for many years, Yee-ha Grandma had NO respect for him whatsoever. And when he knocked on her door, flashy tie and smarmy smile in place she opened it, and promptly shut it again in his face. He rang, he cajoled, and finally, desperate and with masses of pressure bearing down on him, he came around to canvas her dear family to make her see sense. The offer had been increased again and again by this stage.

I can clearly remember the conversation on our front verandah (I was around sixteen at the time). Freddie, yes that was his name, stupid name for a forty-something year old, initially tried to flatter Wise Woman. He had somehow learnt of the loss of the flame-haired hellraiser, and offered to put a monument in her honour at the front of the shopping centre. The look of disdain which showed on all our faces at his tacky suggestion and inappropriateness quickly had him switching tactics to hint that Yee-ha Grandma was hitting senility and should have control of her financial matters taken from her. I think it was at this ridiculous point my gentile, refined mother told him to go peddle his wares off our property or else she would set the dogs on him. (Mind you, we were lucky he didn't call our bluff or else the geriatric miniature silky terrior would have had his work cut out for him.)

Wise Woman went inside and rang Yee-ha Grandma to dob him in inform her of the latest development, after which Grandma rang the property development company directors and told them if they wished to ever come to an arrangement with her the board needed to fly to country town to meet with her directly. Oh, and if Freddie ever contacted her or any family member again, said property would be put into a perpetual trust NEVER to be sold.

They arrived the following week. And paid her triple the market value of the property. I still remember the awe and admiration this earnt her within the community. Also the respect shown to her by this bunch of powerful businessmen who were in charge of a mult-million dollar company. Never condescending nor patronising, they knew she had them by the short and curly's, and were impressed by her negotiation skills in that face to face meeting. I don't think they nor Freddie ever again disparaged the wisdom and experience age brings.


I guess the lesson here is she always stuck to her guns, and fought for what she believed in. I was brought up with the conviction if you feel strongly about something then you fight for it. You do not capitulate, you do not censor those who disagree, and you do not become some egotistical buffoon who bullies those they are meant to be working with for change.

Sometimes in battle the truly brave and honourable are those you never imagined, and the black knight turns out to be someone you never expected. Sad, really, when adversity reveals true colours.

HELP!

Once again I am crying out to the blogosphere for your assistance. You probably read my UGLY rant a couple of weeks back, but it gets worse.

If you haven't already joined the Facebook page: PRUE MACSWEEN AND CHANNEL 7 SHOULD APOLOGISE then please do. And then you need to read this (her lovely note - oh, and Ms MacSween, you are the one who is in the wrong here, and YET you still do not get it, do you?). Oh, and she does not give anyone the right of reply! Ignorant, ignorant, ignorant! And her apology on Sunrise this morning? What apology? SHE said SORRY for using the word retard, but not once did she apologise for advocating our children be put somewhere and trained like monkeys, or dogs! She is unrepentant, arrogant, and blindly bigoted! She thinks ALL children should be nice little robots all conforming to HER social guidelines.

A lot of blogs I follow have the same feelings on this issue - disgust, disbelief, anger and frustration. PURE DISBELIEF AND ANGER THAT SHE IS ALLOWED TO CONTINUE TO CARRY ON LIKE THIS WITH NO REPERCUSSIONS!

What I am asking of you is to e-mail the Parliamentary Secretary for Disabilities and Children's Services, Bill Shorten, to voice your opinion and demand action.

Bill Shorten

This woman is setting back standards for our children with special needs DECADES! What she advocates is tantamount to locking them away until they are acceptable! By whose standards I ask? Because I tell you right now THIS thing (for I cannot bring myself to class her as human) is NOT ACCEPTABLE to me!

Ugly, ugly, ugly.

Big News!

I'm sorry to inform all my lovely followers and readers that I will not be posting daily for a while.

I am about to begin a masterclass at our state writers' centre which runs for six months. It is the Express Year of the Novel course, and the aim is to take your novel and either complete it or get you on the path to completion. Now, as I do not have a novel (don't worry, I checked, and this is okay so long as the idea(s) are there), this means I will have to write my rather rubenesque arse off to try and produce something credible. Which is why I will be tearing my hair out, sobbing in a corner all alone, and screaming at myself in anger over the next few weeks prior to the course commencing, and then deteriorating even further as the pressure gets to me.

So forgive me if my blogging is sporadic, I will come in and update, vent, and beg for help at various times I am sure. Just not making any promises about frequency, lol.

And yes, I'll probably be looking like this a lot.

P.S. I have an honours degree in procratination so this course may well have the opposite effect, and you'll end up with a deluge of posts.

Throbbing Thursday - Tales of A Toyboy Part II *Warning* *Graphic Erotica*

Thank you for your patience, but here at last:

Tales of a Toyboy: The Climax

Part 1 HERE

The heat rose, starting low and rapidly racing up her body like wild fire. As her pulse rate increased so too did her undulations beneath him. He quickly responded by grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head to still the rapid movement. "It will be over before we even begin if you continue that."

Gently keeping both arms crossed high in a single-handed strong grip, he slowly undid the first button on her blouse. Then the next, and the next. A trail of light, grazing kisses followed his fingertips' path as he revealed pale skin. She quivered under his soft touch, and moaned as he raised himself up to pull the shirt off his own torso. A tiny smirk was suppressed, as the term fresh meat flashed through her mind upon gazing at his sculptured, youthful body. The thought soon fled as his lips possessed hers once more. This time his kisses were hard and demanding, his tongue invaded her supplicant mouth thrusting in rhythm with her once more moving hips. He let go of her wrists and she allowed herself a moment as her hands roamed over the bare skin of his strong, firm back.

Again he went to slow her movement, and take control. MM was unused to being the submissive one and as quickly as she thought "Bugger this", with a quick flip threw him over onto the edge of the bed and straddled his dangling legs. "Now it is my turn."

The boyishly charming grin flashed across his face once more, and he lay back, happy to surrender control to this captivatingly naughty older woman. She slowly trailed her fingernails over his bare, bald chest. Pink furrows rose up around his nipples leaving a map of passion where she scoured slightly deeper. Her fingers dropped to his belt and she deftly undid it and the fly of his suit pants. With one swift movement she pulled them around his ankles, taking his designer briefs with them. On her knees she gazed up onto the clearly aroused evidence of his need. Smiling wickedly, she licked her dry lips. the Toy Boy  gasped audibly. She removed her unbuttoned shirt, deftly undid her bra, dropping both to the floor, and then she stood, slowly unbuttoning the fastening of her own pants. She slid them and her underwear off, and kicked them aside and standing with legs spread, high heels, belt and stockings enticingly intact, she surveyed the look of unbound lust on his face and grinned. "Like what you see?" she wolfishly asked. Leaving his pants secured around his ankles she ran her hands up the side of his legs and then threw one silk-clad leg over his hip.

Her body hovered inches from his groin, tormentingly close, but not yet touching. The Toy Boy moaned and thrust the evidence of his arousal towards the apex of her suspender-clad thighs. She lingered, tantalisingly out of reach, relishing the upper hand in this game of procreation. Her warm moist hand grasped him, and MM allowed her dextrous fingers to slide up and down the throbbing shaft, she hesitated a moment to take the time to visually devour this more than satisfactory example of youthful male virility. A clear drop of fluid oozed over the tip and slid down the side into the loosely clenched palm enclosing him. Another groan escaped his parched lips. Like a man dying of thirst he licked them and arched upwards to drink of her. She leant forward to allow him the briefest of tastes before resuming her close perusal of his shaft.



Okay - now the question is, do you want me to go on or is it becoming a bit too personal for most? Come back and comment, and I'll edit and finish it if you wish. Comment, people, let me know your desires...

I'm also adding the Flog Yo Blog link. Might as well. Oh, pssst... I did start this on Thursday but then got caught up at work and forgot to post it. Whoops.

Political Correctness, or How to Walk on Tenterhooks All Your Life.

I am posting Throbbing Thursday later today, but a couple of posts on blogs I follow have made me drag out the soapbox again. Now bear with me, I am still ill, and probably quite short on tolerance at the moment. And I will add, I think it is a good thing when people's blogs make you sit and analyse and look deeper than you usually would.

The first one which provoked a reaction was a hot potato topic. One of my favourites, Trav, over at I Like to Fish...  posted a letter to a certain type of parent, one which I have never put myself into. The can of worms he was opening was the issue of fertility - or as what I see on a lot of parenting websites I visit as :  infertiles versus fertiles. Now I will add, that is the terminology used on those sites, not my choice of phrase. Obviously, a highly sensitive topic at anytime or anywhere.

Now, I have no issue with the majority of the letter, (though I must admit I felt a little ill at the early use of one the most abhored words in our world, retarded, even if it was used in the correct context here) and no personal experience of our own with infertility but some of it raised points which I would like to reply to.

It was the second section of the letter, where Trav complains about people who think because he does not have a child, he cannot help or hold a child or baby in this case. Now, I can only base this on our experiences with the people close to us who struggled with infertility. When we had our first son, close friends were following the path of ferility treatments. Now I won't go into details, it is personal, but let me tell you it had been a good few years of pain and disappointment. And it was not just one couple, it was two. After being good friends for over a decade, my child became the catalyst for destroying these friendships. It was a case of damned if you do, damned if you don't...

Trav, I'm going to respond to you as I would a mate, as it is the only way I know how to answer your letter. I knew all four of these people really well. We had laughed, cried, suffered loss together (one was the main reason I made it through the loss of my Grandma), I thought I could read them like a book. I was wrong. By the time my son was twelve months old and I was pregnant with our second, both couples had distanced themselves from us. And I was a nervous wreck every social gathering where they were included.

If I involved them in anything to do with my son I could never judge the reaction from either couple. At various times I was accused of doing exactly what you complained of: excluding them. But only weeks before they had thrown reactions at us about "rubbing it in"  that we had a child and neither of them did. I got to the point where I was on tenterhooks, trying desperately to read the signals before even opening my mouth, crying to Big Boy when I made the wrong choice. It was impossible a call to make, if I mentioned anything about his development, or the new pregnancy I was a demon bitch, and if I didn't I was a self-centred cow shutting them out.

Of course, it didn't help that neither couple discussed what was happening in their lives anymore. We had no idea what the week had brought them, no inkling of hormone injections and mood swings to be considerate of. We were the pariahs because we HAD a child and could not conceive of the pain they felt.

To be honest my feelings were that it was exactly why we could conceive of the pain they felt...

Years passed, friendships evolved, rotated, died, were re-born. I wish I could say things recovered. One link did, the other did not. But that is not the point. The point here Trav is that it is REALLY hard to know what to do sometimes, no matter how much you care and trust someone. I wish they had written me a letter, or spoken to me truthfully. All I received were bitter accusations which changed from one direction to another. I tried, I really did, but the wall was too high to scale, and I was a sleep-deprived first time Mum.

Go talk to 'em Trav.  Really, seriously worth it.

Now the second post which provoked a reaction, and a comment which I am wondering if it will be approved to appear on the blog... This one is from Psych Babbler at Over Cups of Coffee. Co-sleeping. Attachment parenting. Another parenting website hot potato topic.
Now, I have had statistics and outcomes quoted at me for the last decade since Boy 1 was diagnosed. The ones who tend to quote at me, usually whilst telling me what a terrible parent I am and how much I am lacking, are most times THE ONES WHO DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN OF THEIR OWN. Sleep deprivation can be crippling, and there are times when co-sleeping is the perfect alternative.

When Boy 1 was born we went straight into a wonderful sleep/feed pattern. Seriously. Then at four months old he developed Bronchialitis. Luckily for us, unlike a lot of babies during this 1990's epidemic, instead of refusing to feed he went into a feeding frenzy. Hourly. And because of this did not develop dehydration which was the cause of a great number of hospitalisations at that time.

But it was mind crippling for me. No sleep, for as I began to doze he would wake. And so we moved him (in his foam sleep thingy) into the queen bed with me. Now he recovered from this and with a little controlled crying (mainly mine), settled back into a routine. Then we had a friend move in with us. Who complained at the noise. Yep, ended up with him back in my bed. Once more, when she moved, we went back to routine. Then the horrific hail and wind storms hit, taking our roof with them. Terrified now a little older boy, back in my bed. And this time he refused to go back to his. As we were about to move we didn't push it.

Life threw so much more at us and our sleep-ideals, but I won't bore you with it all. Suffice to say our beloved, much-experienced Early Childhood Nurse gave us the best advice:
"Do whatever works for you. Go with your gut instinct. And worry about it if it is still an issue when he is eighteen!"

With the many complexs issues, the anxiety, the nightmares, the sleep-walking, and so on, some weeks it just does not work with him in his own bed. And so we co-sleep. For the first nine - yes NINE years of his life, he and I mainly co-slept. Big Boy slept in the spare double bed, Boy 2 slept in his bed, but Boy 1 and I blissfully dreamt on in the queen bed.

Since then it is a bit of an off and on thing. For both boys (Boy 2 hated sleeping in the big bed until the last year or so). And it works. For all of us.

So come and talk to me post children. Then maybe I'll take your statistics a little more seriously. Or maybe not.

Wordless Wednesday - Blurgh...

Memoir Monday - A Slap in Time

Short and sweet, this Memoir Monday on a Tuesday.

Trav evoked a faded memory with this week's post about being slapped. Now, you may think because I am outspoken (loud), opinionated (loud), and downright ornery (very loud) sometimes that I would have a lot of slap receiving history in my jaded past. Not true. Maybe people are scared of me (hah, if only they knew), or perhaps I am not quite as controversial as I like to think? But the only slapping history I have is this one.

Picture this, I am in my late twenties, a professional career woman, a responsible adult. I am reversing MY car out of my parents' driveway. Some moron, thinking he is invisible, comes flying round the corner and up the street, which is in the centre of town, doing about 80 clicks. Nearly wipes out rear of my car, gives me the finger. I snarl in retaliation "Fucking idiot!"

WHACK.

My very petite, refined, elegant mother, Wise Woman, belts me across the top of my left arm. And then repeats motion again. Glaring intimidatingly from the passenger seat she utters: "I do not care how old you are, you are still my daughter and I WILL NOT tolerate such language from you." 

Ouch. For someone so little she sure packed a punch. My arm is throbbing just thinking about it.

Thanks Trav. Really needed to re-live this moment, right? Right.

Do I Dare? Huh, Do I, Do I?

Yeah, I do.


Complete with wig:

By night's end, post-wig hair...

Ah, Bollywood on the Gold Coast... And yes, I am still recovering! But worth it - fantastic night out with wonderful friends. Goat curry, anyone?

The Brink

He stands on the edge of manhood, no longer a child, not yet a man, but when he lays sleeping beside me in the big bed he is once more my baby. At twelve going on thirteen he is really a little old to be climbing into my bed, yet how do you refuse in the wee hours of the morning as he stands softly crying in fear after a bad nightmare? His mind never stops. The good nights are when the endlessly working brain conjurs up images of magic and joy, heroes and fun. The bad nights are terrifying as that boundless imagination produces unheard of terrors. But when he lays sleeping, his nose snuggled into my neck as it has since he was tiny, the trackmarks of his tears and the look of unbridled fear vanish. And he sleeps the sleep of the pure of heart.

Awake he looks like a teenager. Asleep he still retains the innocence of a little boy. It is in these dark hours of the night that I often allow myself to look deeper. I question how much of who he is and his behaviours tie into the Asperger Syndrome, and what portion is that of any pre-teen hitting the puberty era? He is my first born, and so I have no precident to follow, no level to compare. It is in the dim light before dawn that I worry, and wonder about the future, his future, and the battles we may face tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after...

But then he'll stir, and half asleep he'll murmer contentedly "I love you Mum." And I know we will get through whatever the new day brings. There is no choice.

The Good Bit, Though the Bad is still Creeping In...

I know, I know - missed a day, and also didn't post Throbbing Thursday for the second week in a row! But the BAD is really still BAAAAAAAAAAD. Car still dead, which means I drive Big Boy the hour to work, come back to pick up kids, drag them back down to pick up BB... Well, you get the drift.

But, enough on that, today's post is the high point of the last three posts:

The Good:

• Boy 1 made it through the week back at school without major meltdowns. Ooh- and survived PE with the teacher who makes his life, ah, not pleasant.
• My car went in for a service and they lent me a nearly NEW Lexus IS250. Black, lush, handles like a dream. Up I drove to pick up kids from school, flying up the winding mountain roads as she cornered like a dream (yes, I am the frustrated rev head in the family). And you should have seen some of the looks I received at the school . Bwahahahahahahahahaha!
• My gorgeous friend and I have bitten the bullet and signed up for a master class one Saturday a month with the Queensland Writers Centre. It is the Express Year of the Novel Class with a renowned writer. Have juggled kids and committments and finally done something for ME. And I get to enjoy it with a great friend. Woohoo. I think. Okay, a bit daunted and scared, but doing little happy dance. Alright, am tapping one foot. Not sure if that is in fear or excitement but it is rhythmic, sorta. Okay, a little *woopee* escaping my lips now.
• I am smelly. How is this good, you ask? I am fake tan smelly (Boy 1 hates it - "You don't smell like YOU, Mum...") and getting browner by the minute. We are off to a Bollywood party tomorrow night, first time invited to the social event of the season. I have Bolly-outfit, black wig, gold and more gold jewellry and a party mood all ready to roll. Woot-Woot. May even post photos if I am game. After this week we are really needing a good night out, so great timing.
• Wise Woman is really well. That damn leg ulcer has healed beautifully in a little over a month. She truly is living up to the miracle woman title.
• I have been blogging each day (see Brenda, I can do it). Even yesterday when I didn't post here I did post on another blog site I write for. So ner.

• And the latest on The Ugly... apparently Sunrise is doing a special segment this weekend and will apologise. Still no mention of the social mouth menstrator offering her explanation, but hell, didn't expect it. But it may be turned into a positive in the education and advocating stakes for these oh, so, special kids. Reserving judgement until seen.

Phew. Done. Now for that lightly chilled glass of white...