Feisty Repartee

Knock! Knock!

A little while ago the front doorbell rang and I caught a glimpse of nicely tanned and muscled male legs in brown shorts running back toward his big brown truck. In his wake was a fabulous little package:

Yay! Someone special sent me a birthday cake!

As I was waiting for best friend Susan to arrive so we could enjoy a ladies' lunch, I heard a knock at the door.

Thinking Susan was early, I ran to the front of the house.

No Susan.

It was God knocking.

At least it was his messengers in the form of Jehovah's Witnesses.

Oh, yeah.

How lucky can a girl get?

*sigh*

Hey Theresa...Care to Finish THIS?!

If anyone cares to, continue the story in the comments, a couple paragraphs at a time.

Holy Crap!

Shaking her head and catching her breath from the impact, her wits slowly returned. As she looked up she could see the front of her Mustang wedged under the bumper of the black 4 x 4 in front of her.

Bending down she removed the offending stiletto from her right foot. The pencil thin heel had caught in the carpeted floor board and prevented her from braking in time.

Opening her car door, she uneasily stepped out, one foot bare, the other still clad.

"Mom always told me these damn things would be the death of me," she murmured as she bent over to remove the other shoe.

"Damn, Kate Spade!" she declared and with a heave tried to toss them both across the interstate and into a ditch.

"Well," a smooth richly handsome voice began, "I was going to ask if you were all right, but it appears I should be more concerned about your shoes."

Turning toward the voice she was taken back by the sheer virility of the hunk of male flesh which stood before her.

Body Swap? Nah. Forget It!

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to swap bodies with a man for a day? You know, men get to see what being a woman is like, and women get to see how it feels to inhabit the bodies of neanderthals the weaker sex men? Don't tell me I am the only woman who wonders what it feels like to be a guy. I can picture it, you know...

No boobs...you men may love the things, but you try wearing a bra all day long, or having men talk to your chest, or not breathing while some technician squishes your boobs to the thickness of a flap jack. Yes, boobs are handy. They are instruments of enticement, they feed babies...but they should be detachable, or deflatable, or at least come with a warranty!

Not having to worry about your hair...you guys just wash and go. Doesn't matter if you're going gray, or have a huge honking bald spot on the top of your head. Women have moisturizing shampoo, conditioner, gels, mousses, sprays, de-frizz serums, hair dryers, curling irons, flat irons, pony tail bands, headbands, barrettes, clips, and in case of emergencies, the baseball cap. We perm, straighten, bleach, dye, highlight, foil, glaze and deep condition. And we still have 'bad hair days'.

Touching your crotch in public...You men manipulate, rotate, readjust, scratch, grab, tug and shift in public, and no one says a word. Why is that? Is it some secret language or code we ladies have yet to break? A bonding ritual? Do you just buy bad-fitting underwear? If a woman dares to attempt any movement with her hands within two inches of her groin, it's like a spotlight shines upon her, and everyone is watching and wondering if she's got six-legged critters in there. Can't we just have an itch dammit?

Peeing whilst standing...or sitting, or lying down, or in a boat, a car, a field, an alley, behind a dumpster, next to a tree, you get the point. We require a toilet, or a tall shrub and very strong thigh muscles. We can only hope we have access to some sort of absorbent material. You men just shake and go. That, fellas, is so not fair!

I'm sure you guys are thinking how lucky you are to be a man, right? You don't give birth, or suffer PMS...you can walk around topless without getting thrown in jail for indecent exposure (although some men...ew.), and nobody seems to give a crap if you have a muffin top above your waistband. Or worse.

Actually, you men ARE incredibly lucky! You have us!

A Warm Welcome

My good friend Theresa has agreed to come over and co-blog with me for a while.

I have to say, I am not only excited, by thrilled to bits to have her here.

She is a fantastic writer and one of the funniest humans I know.

Welcome, Theresa, please make yourself home and stay as long as you like, my dear.

Her first post is immediately below.

Married, But Not Dead

Summer in my state is always marked by the appearance of the state flower - the orange barrel. Yes, I know that orange construction barrels are not technically flowers, but they pop up along every major road this time of year, providing sunny color to a sea of concrete and steel. Hush. I have learned to try to see the good in the bad.

And while they are annoying as hell when you are trying to get from point A to point B within a reasonable amount of time and in one piece, they do have a bonus - construction workers. What? Did you think I was going to write about pothole-free roads? This is Michigan. The words 'pothole-free roads' is an oxymoron.

Anyways, I may be a happily married woman, but there is something about a lean, sinewy, sun-kissed man in faded jeans and a hard hat that is absolute candy for the eyes. I find myself reduced to the female Tim 'The Toolman' Taylor simian grunt. Until I hear this sound coming from the seat next to me...

What can I say? A mile or so up the road will be a female construction worker holding a stop sign and working on her tan. Eye candy is equal opportunity.

Ummm...pudding

The other night we had a pot luck dinner. The theme was old fashioned home cooking and I was slated to bring dessert.

Typically, I usually bake a cake or put together a trifle to take; however, I wanted to do something a little different.

Banana Pudding came to mind.

Here's my super simple version:

1 (14 oz) can sweetened condensed milk
1 1/2 cups cold water
1 (3.4 oz) package instant vanilla pudding
3 sliced bananas
1 tub Cool Whip
1 box vanilla wafers

In a bowl, stir together condensed milk and water. Beat in pudding mix until smooth.

After the pudding mixture chills and sets for about five minutes, fold in container of Cool Whip.

In a trifle bowl, cover bottom with wafers and row along the side at the bottom. spoon in one layer (1/3 of mixture) of pudding and cover with bananas and another layer of wafers. Spoon in another layer of pudding, followed by bananas and wafers. Spoon in final layer of pudding and top with wafers.

Refrigerate overnight to soften the wafers and serve.

Psychevella Chapter II

Last week we started off with Bob's Bitter Herbs.

Next week, this lady is in the driver's seat.

Followed by:

June 30 - Chapter Four: Amelie

July 7 - Chapter Five: CalTechGirl

July 14 - Chapter Six: El Capitan

Here we go.

RING! RING!

No longer startled by calls in the night, the burly man merely rolled over, checked the bedside clock, released his grip on the Walther, and reached for the phone.

“Cahill,” he answered.

“William?”

Groaning inwardly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, flicked the light on, and sat up straight. William was his first name, but since the age of five, he preferred his middle name of Mitch. After he joined the force most everyone he knew called him by his surname, everyone except his mother and her close friends.

“Mrs. Romano?”

“Sorry to wake you, my dear, but I have this neighbor…” she began.

“Are you okay? Is Ma okay?” His mother and Mrs. Romano had lived across the street from one another for forty years.

“Oh, my, yes, of course, William, your mother is fine, we played bridge yesterday afternoon. I was referring, son, to the neighbor to my right, that is as you are facing my house, to that right.”

Scanning his mind he knew the house. Johnny McFarland’s family had lived there. He and Johnny had been boyhood buddies. Mr. McFarland died in ‘Nam. Mrs. McFarland passed away six years ago. He knew an older woman and her grown son had moved into that house.

“Yeah, I know the house. Did you hear something?” Cahill tried to inquire gently, but he knew these old birds, his mother included, tended to get jumpy over their own shadows. He also knew the neighborhood wasn’t as safe as it had been when he was growing up, but it was still pretty decent. No drive-bys or gangsta crap haunting every corner.

“Well, no; however, Martha McCuddahey from next door is terribly concerned about her George.”

McCuddahey, that’s right. he thought to himself. The son was not much of a boy. At least ten years older than Cahill’s own thirty-eight, he called to mind an image of a short, fat, and balding egg-head-type who had relegated his mother to a small apartment attached behind the garage. According to Ma, it had been completely updated and remodeled as George had not wanted his mother in the house because there were three steps leading up to the front and back doors. Georgie-boy had been afraid she would fall. Instead, he had moved himself into the house.

“What about George, Mrs. Romano, if I remember correctly, he’s a grown man.”

“Martha says she hasn’t seen him since last night and it is very unlike him. They have dinner together every night, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know; however, if he’s been gone for more than twenty-four hours, she can file a missing person’s report with the department. Sgt. Harris is the one she’ll need to ask for. Did she check with his employer or his friends?” He offered.

“Well, that’s just it. George didn’t have any friends. When she called that big accounting firm where he worked, no one there had ever heard of him, but when she described him to the receptionist, the girl told her it reminded her of a guy there called Lenny Markowitz. When Martha asked to speak to Mr. Markowitz, the girl told her he had not been in all day.” She explained.

“Mrs. Romano, why me, why 2:00 a.m.?”

“I’m so sorry William, really I am. It was your mother’s idea. Martha came over earlier this evening and we have been trying to comfort her. We thought she was okay, but a little while ago she called and said she thought someone was in George’s house.”

“George?” he asked.

“Martha didn’t think so because whoever it was was creeping about with a flashlight.”

“Are you at Ma’s?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be over in a few.”

Twenty minutes later the grizzled detective approached one of the suburban enclaves surrounding the big city. For a moment he felt like a teenager again coming in after curfew. As he turned onto his old street, he cut the lights, killed the motor, and coasted to a stop. Easing out of his Blazer, he looked over his shoulder and noted the lights were on in his mother’s living room. Sticking strictly to the shadows he edged his way completely around the old McFarland home. He knew it well.

Checking the perimeter, he noted nothing amiss and absolutely no noticeable movement within. Easing up the steps he leaned against the frame of the front door and tried the knob, fully expecting resistance; however, it turned easily in his grasp and without a sound opened wide.

Glancing in he was immediately taken aback from the sudden opening of the door, as well as the slight shock of black slanted eyes eerily glowing at him in the darkness. The eyes belonged to a multiple armed gold-leafed figurine resting prominently in a niche in the foyer where Mrs. McFarland’s prized Roseville vase full of fresh flowers once stood.

Turning to his right, Cahill quickly scanned an immaculate formal dining room. Different table and chairs than he remembered and a menorah stood proudly on the buffet.

Stepping to the left of the entry, he walked into a sparsely furnished living room. A pair of high-backed wooden pews faced one another with a bench between them. Atop the bench sat an intricately carved marble figure holding a lifeless form. Pietà he whispered to himself.

Over the mantle hung a graphic rendering of the crucifixion. To the left of the painting was an elaborate gilded and bejeweled cross.

Cripes, he thought to himself, whoever lives here must be one hell of a confused religious zealot.

Slowly he made his way down the hall and into the kitchen when he felt his shoes sticking to the floor. In the moonlit darkness it appeared something was leaking from the fridge. Quietly he reached out and eased the door open when an object fell out and rolled onto the floor.

Bending over to investigate it more closely, he commented gravely “Georgie-boy, what the hell happened to you?”

Care to share?

Wee One saved a chocolate bar from an excursion to buy groceries earlier in the week. As she finished her meal this evening, I placed the bar next to her plate.

A few minutes later, as I watched her devour the last morsel, I stated: "Thank you, but no, I do not care for chocolate this evening."

Wee: "I didn't offer you any."

Me: "Believe me, I know."

Wee: "Sorry, I forgot."

Cranky

After the trip this weekend, I woke very tired this morning. It did not take long to decide to call the office and let them know I was taking a day off.

Wee One and I ran several errands and ended up in the grocery store.

On the bread aisle I picked up a loaf of Honey Wheat, then scoured the mass of shelves for low carb wheat tortillas. Around here, there are just as many shelves with bread as there are with tortillas. As I was searching, an older Hispanic gentlemen smiled at me and said: "No one makes tortillas at home any more, I have to buy them here."

I just smiled in return.

He then leaned over and asked: "Did your mother teach you to make tortillas?"

"No, sir," I responded, "my mother is Asian."

Surpised, he stepped back and looked me up and down.

"You are so big to be Chinese."

Gracias, Señor, you've done wonders for my self-esteem.

Checking in

A little while ago I called to check in on the wee child and her father.

Wee: "Hello."

Me: "Hi Sweetie!"

Wee: *Delightful squeal* "Hi, Momma!"

Me: "What are you doing?"

Wee: "I'm waiting for Daddy to come back home."

Me: "Ummmm. Are you home alone?"

Wee: "Yes, Ma'am. Daddy is outside meeting the new neighbors. He told me to stay inside and listen for the phone. He said you were going to call (insert another *squeal*) and you did!"

Hmmmm.

Wee One home alone...

Hmmmm.

The Psychevella Begins

Today begins a new novella.

The rules are simple, each participant is to write a one thousand word chapter (including the title) to carry the story along.

In this instance, frequent commentor and novella newcomer Bob knew he was going to be traveling throughout June and requested the first chapter. The only instructions he was given was to adhere to the thousand word guideline.

The remainder of the lineup includes:

June 16 - Chapter Two: Me

June 23 - Chapter Three: Leslie

June 30 - Chapter Four: Amelie

July 7 - Chapter Five: CalTechGirl

July 14 - Chapter Six: El Capitan

I think we are all in for an excellent adventure full of twists and psychic surprises.

Hang on to your monitors, here we go.

Chapter One by Bob:

Bitter Herbs

"Why is this night different from all other nights?" Of course, Papa replied with the words handed down through the ages. But I knew with terrifying certainty that the full answer was actually something far worse than Papa (or, for that matter, even the High Priest) could imagine. Even as a mere 13-year-old boy from Pergamum on his first Pesach pilgrimage, I could sense that something was seriously wrong about this Passover. Yes, everything had been done according to Law and tradition – from the selection of our lamb four days prior, to purging leaven from the house – but it was wrong. Jerusalem was brooding, and the holiday celebration only highlighted the fear on every face.

Just months ago the Zealots had been assuring everyone that Vespasian's withdrawal was only their first victory in the campaign to end Roman domination of Judaea. Oddly, they now seemed pleased with the return of an even larger Roman army, led by the new Emperor's son Titus. The Zealots now boasted: "Hashem will save us from Rome just as He delivered us from Egypt."

But as we huddled around our Passover table, all the Zealots' trumpeting was silenced. Instead, from the north we heard the vulgar laughter of Roman soldiers, mocking our solemn prayers of thanks. From the east we felt the throbbing drums of the Tenth Roman Legion on the march, muttering their backbeat to Papa's recount of the Exodus. From the west came the roast pork stench of campfires, tainting the smell of our Passover lamb. On this dread-filled night every soul within Jerusalem had but one thought: Would the angel of death pass over us once more?

But while everyone else had misgivings, I had no doubt about Jerusalem's fate. True, as a mere boy I knew nothing of geopolitics. Yet, as that same old Lenny Markowitz I've always been (schlumpy, thin-haired, four-eyed, middle-aged accountant who commutes daily from his home in Queens to his office in Manhattan), I knew it all. I'm a bookkeeper, not a historian – but every child who's ever seen the shank bone on a Seder plate knows the outcome of this siege.

So when I asked Papa, "Why on this night do we eat unleavened bread only?" I already knew that eating unleavened bread on this night was different because after this night we would eat stray dogs, rats, mice, bugs, leather, and (if Josephus be believed) babies. I knew (with horrifying certainty) that the blood shed on the Day of Atonement this year, would be that of priests, not bulls. This I knew, but this Papa also intuitively understood. So at the end of the meal, Papa (though very strict about tradition) abruptly stood, removed his kippah and announced, "We dare not pass the night within the walls of the city."

Mama protested, "Surely you joke. You've hardly finished telling the story of the death angel and now you want to dash into the streets to greet him?"

But Papa stood firm, "So stay then, but I will not wait for the Romans to kick down the door."

I rose to my feet, "Papa, I'm with you!" Momma wept. But even if she'd had the courage to join us, I don't think her brothers would have let her go.

The week before, when we arrived in Jerusalem, we'd seen soldiers encamped to the north and west. So Papa and I ran to the east. From atop the city's wall, north of the Temple, we could see torches across the Kidron Valley, moving southward. Papa said we'd wait until after midnight when the full moon had passed zenith and the eastern wall would be in shadow. He'd lower me down by rope and climb down after me. We'd dash for the grove below the Mount of Olives and then creep southward, down the Kidron to the Valley of Hinnom. If by dawn we weren't clear of the city, we'd bury ourselves in the city dung heap until after dark tomorrow.

It was a good plan; it might have even worked. But when the clouds moved in, Papa suddenly said, "Now's the time." And securing the rope, he all but pushed me off the ledge. I was halfway down the wall when the clouds parted and the moon silhouetted me against the limestone blocks. A Roman archer pierced my pounding heart. Once again, the angel of death had claimed the first-born.

And that's how it is every night. No, I'm not always escaping Jerusalem, but I am always another Jew, dying a horrific death. I've entertained blood-thirsty crowds at the Roman Coliseum. I've studied Torquemada's greasy face; cleaned furnaces at Auschwitz; battled on the streets of Warsaw.

I know what you're thinking: These nightmares are manifestations of repressed feelings about your Jewish upbringing . Wrong! My family wasn't very "Jewish" – for Yom Kippur we "fasted" on bacon cheeseburgers. (Okay, so Miss "Shiksa Psychiatrist" doesn't get the joke. Trust me, religious I'm not.) But that's beside the point.

Doc, the grim reaper's nightly visitations may be nightmarish, but they aren't nightmares. When I fall asleep, I actually become another doomed Jew. And when I (as that tormented person) exhale my last breath, I don't awaken – I'm simply awake, back in my bed. But far worse: I remember – not just the horrible events that transpired during the night – but I remember that person's entire life. I've shed his tears, voiced his laughter. I've felt his fear, his joy, his hunger, his rapture, his torment. I've been kissed on the head by his – no, by my momma; I've kissed my children goodnight; and I've kissed my wife wherever she pleased. I've heard every erotic moan, every lullaby, every whimper, every death rattle – yes, every death rattle of mine.

Just one nagging question. For you? No, for God I suppose. Just this, "Why me?" Why have I (of all people) been chosen to bear every sin ever committed against the Jewish people? Jesus Christ! How much suffering can one man endure?

Gall

Do you get the feeling I am not particularly enamored of the people with whom I work?

There are probably three in the office of eighty-five that I really give a damn about and am blessed to call friend. The rest...well, the rest are the rest.

Over the weekend one of the ladies (B) in the office died after a protracted illness. She was only forty-four-years-old. In addition to having a longitudinal history of diabetes, she was morbidly obese.

Now, I am not picking on her at all.

I could stand to drop a stone or two myself; however, if someone could lose 100 pounds and still be considered obese, that is generally referred to medically as morbidly obese.

B was young, unmarried, and from a good family.

She had friends in the office and I have no doubt will be mourned by many.

I honestly did not know her that well, despite mentoring her when she was promoted to paralegal. I found her to be bright and quite capable in that position; however, over the past five years since that promotion, I watched from afar as she abused the system and did next to nothing work-wise.

My preference is not to dwell on work-related issues and as I was not directly responsible for her, she was not my problem. I have learned to be that way, the hard way.

Our office, as a whole, has issues.

Instead of the haves and the have-nots, the lines are drawn between those who do and those who abuse.

It has been my observation that those who do walk around with targets on their backs as those who abuse attempt to drag them down and assault their credibility because, apparently, competence is threatening.

For a myriad of reasons management's hands are tied and I have yet to see one person fired in the ten years I have been around.

At the rosary for B last night several members of management were in attendence to pay their respects, as well as several individuals from the those who abuse group who have retired or moved on, employment-wise, in recent years.

One of those former employees stepped up to speak a few words of remembrance: "[B] would be here today if management had not pushed her so..."

It deteriorated from there.

Those in management have thankless jobs. It is not a job I would ever want, but someone has to do it. I may not agree with everything they do; however, I am not privy to all the information they have.

Several years ago another employee died in her sleep from uncontrolled hypertension. She knew she had high blood pressure, but refused to take her medications.

The day after she died I walked into the break room and B made the statement: "Management killed [Y]."

At the time I asked her what on earth she meant by that.

She explained management put too much pressure on the employees to produce and drove Y to her grave.

Astonished, I replied: "There are probably only five people in this office who could survive in a private law firm. The only people who are stressed out over their jobs are those who are either completely lazy or totally incompetent."

That did not endear to me that other group that day.

I am sorry B died. I really am.

While not her doctor, I find it very hard to believe this job had anything to do with it.

Do people go to hell for speaking ill of the dead?

Cue Richard Dawson...

The survey says...

Undergraduate college students would much rather spend their money on iPods than beer.

Okay, but what happens after they acquire that iPod?

Jaded

It is painfully obvious, but most people do not appreciate being taken advantage of. Count that as a major pet peeve of mine.

There is this a woman in my office. In addition to being a colleague, she was my boss for a while. While a very nice human, she drove me bonkers because she was unable to do anything for herself. She constantly threw herself on the goodwill of those around her and managed to get by quite well.

In addition to getting upset when I allow others to take advantage of me, I absolutely despise that helplessness when others refuse to do for themselves. I have no patience with it. I am far more willing to assist those who are trying to do for themselves.

Several weeks ago this same woman came to me and told me she had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. While not a medical health care profession, all my research seemed to indicate that kind of diagnosis was pretty much a death sentence with ninety percent of those diagnosed not making it the first year.

She told me her doctor recommended surgery, chemotherapy, then radiation. In that order.

This woman lives, as most of us do, paycheck to paycheck. She's sixty-two, has very little leave (i.e., vacation and sick time) left, is divorced, and has really no one in town.

Another friend and I rallied on this woman's behalf and set up plans to make sure she was well fed and cared for, as best we could, in addition to soliticiting leave donations from the office.

The woman said she did not believe the diagnosis and wanted a second and third opinion. However, she waited almost three weeks to even schedule that second opinion.

She ended up returning to her hometown in Kansas to see doctors there. She called me last week and told me the doctors there determined she has nothing other than calcium deposits in her pancreas.

What a huge relief. I would not wish pancreatic cancer on my worst enemy, whoever that person may be.

When I asked if the Kansas doctor had spoken with the oncologist in Texas, she responded: "He (Kansas) wanted to speak with him (Texas), but I could not remember his (Texas) name."

Odd.

I think I would most certainly remember the man, as well as his name, who told me I had less than a year to live.

From the time she first told me of the cancer diagnosis and last week, different people in the office have come to me expressing their skepticism regarding any cancer. It appears, she has made a practice of going to one person, then another over the last couple of years crying wolf with medical health care concerns.

The jury is still out for me.

I have had carcinoma in situ of the cervix diagnosed before and it threw me for a loop. In fact, I had just about convinced myself I was going to die and never see either of my children grow up. I had the biopsy, conization, and laser to remove, hopefully, all of the malignant cells. I did the pap smears every ninety days and know what it feels like to have that hanging over my head.

Even now, I am ever cognizant that since I have had it once, I am at greater likelihood for it to return and those pap smears are only as accurate as the sample taken and it is entirely possible for those swabs to miss a spot.

To me, cancer is scary stuff. I watched my father die by inches for the more than two years it took to take him.

With my father and my uncle there is now a family history of it before me.

I would hate to think someone I know and work with is capable of yanking all of our chains that way; however, it is certainly beginning to look that way.

You want me to do WHAT?!

It is summer vacation and Sweet One is holding down the fort this week before she leaves for her college program on Friday.

On my way into work this morning she rang me on the phone: "Momma, guess what?"

Me: "What?"

Sweet: "Your cat threw up in the dining room."

Me: "Did you clean it up?"

Sweet: "Oh, Momma, it's nasty."

Me: "Sorry. Clean it up."

Five minutes later she phoned again: "Momma, I cleaned the floor, but you know what?"

Me, with a heaving sigh: "No, what?"

Sweet: "Guess what I saw when I walked into the kitchen?"

Me: "Oh, crap, don't tell me he threw up in there, too! He must be sick, he never throws up!"

Sweet: "No, not that. Your cat was in the kitchen playing with a scorpion!"

Me: "Ewww. That's the first one this year. We'll have to tell your dad to put the dust out. Good for Voodoo, at least he alerted you to its presence."

Sweet: "Yeah, but what am I supposed to do with it?"

Me: "Pop the little sucker with your shoe, then wipe up the mess."

Sweet: "Not MY shoe!"

Me: "Oh, please..."

Sweet: "I'll use one of Daddy's shoes, they are bigger anyway."

Me: "Whatever works..."

Seriously Strange

In all honesty, I never thought I would walk the empty rooms of this place again. It is much like walking through that starter home we abandoned long ago.

As I look around, distant memories have come flooding back. So many things I had completely forgotten about.

They are good memories. I am quite proud of the work I did over here.

With the 1000 word fiction novellas ongoing once again, I am thinking this is not a bad thing, after all, this was not only the home, but the birthplace of those adventures in creative, inteactive writing.

Would you believe?

I am even feeling a bit feisty.

Ha!

Hello Again!

Well, I did not exactly think I would ever be back over here posting again, but there is a server issue with the new place and I really don't like being out of the blog-loop, so to speak!

So, as soon as all is well in ALL of Munuviana, I will be back posting as usual.

Hope everyone is well and fine.