In Irons

I did a thing today, something that I am unsure about. You see…

 

            For years people in my life have been calling me smart, intelligent and that I should seek out a higher education. When I left the Navy oh so many years ago, I tried to get some sort of education. However, I ran out of money. Quickly. Education costs money. Money, I do not have even though I am more financially sound today than when I was over thirty years ago.

            However, after being pushed and prodded by my brother Brian, his wife, my pal Nicole, Dan, Tim, Sue, Goose and way too many other people in my life I have signed up and paid for one course at the local community college.

            College Composition 1 is the class I chose, it was the writing course or the math course. As of this writing, I am more comfortable with the writing aspect and its influence in my life. After all, for most math these days, there is an app for solving simple mathematical problems as well as the even more abstract equations.

            So, I looked up what the course entails, primarily what are the expectations of a student. The information I learned was a bit overwhelming but not in the least bit off putting. My concern is I will lose interest or just plain get frustrated out of sheer ignorance and walk away.

            After all, I am fifty-four years old, I am twenty-six years into my career and I am not used to being on the receiving end of information by others. Normally when I want more information about something I just pick up a book or find reliable sources of information on the internet and never just one source.

            I am always trying to learn something that piques my interest. Well, interests to be truthful.

            So yeah, I am nervous, not excited, not fretful. Just nervous.

            “It is only one class” I keep telling myself. It has become a mantra really.

            My family is happy for me and fully supportive. Even proud of me you could say. Total support it seems. This also makes me uncomfortable. After all, what if I fail. They all say I won’t, but… I am just unsure of myself and my ability to be taught in a professional manner.

            Also, did I mention this is the accelerated eight-week course instead of the normal sixteen-week course? Yeah, I chose it for a reason, to try and get this behind me as quickly as possible in case I fail. However, if I don’t fail, if I actually succeed then I will take the math course. If I succeed at math, then the next course and the course after that.

            I mean, I do have an ultimate plan with a degree or two as my reward, yet my life has always been a bit hectic, chaotic and unpredictable. If this occurs, how will this affect my education? If taking courses becomes a financial burden, which I know it will, how will I be able to move forward? Will I even have the resolve to complete one class? One semester of classes over the course of my life? Hell, even the determination to get one or more degrees?

            I do not know.

            I seem to have wandered willingly into an unknown aspect of my life. I am on new ground here for myself. I do not like this feeling.

            Yes, I want to learn, but I am unsure of my ability to actually absorb and apply the knowledge I am being taught.

            There is a saying amongst sailors “Getting stuck in the irons”. I do not expect you, my dear readers, to understand that metaphor. The gist of it is that you are stuck in one spot until the wind comes up or you get assistance.

            I am in the irons as of this writing.

            I am going to wrap this up because I feel like I have done nothing but complain about my truly first world problems.

            My name is Skip and I am a fifty-four-year-old college freshman.

 

Have a great week.

 

A Past of Lies and What we tell ourselves

          After twenty-three years I finally succumbed to going home and attempting to see my father, step-mother and step-brothers. For the record, I have two step-brothers. In preparing for the trip I was not as enthusiastic as I believe most people are when they get to go home to see family.

 

          No, I suppose you could say I traveled halfway across the continent to see if I could be the good son, the good brother, the caring man a person of my middle age is supposed to be. You see, it is no secret to anyone I know that my relationship with my family, on both sides, is one of tentative convenience.  For all parties involved.

 

          I mean, after all, we are all adults in our 50’s which is my step-brothers and sisters, well, all but my youngest sister. But we won’t focus on my sisters, after all, they were not part of this trip. However, I digress, my Wisconsin family is primarily made up of my father, Al, step-mother, Marlene, my step-brother, Brian and my other step-brother who I found out is now my step-sister, Patty. So, just your basic modern blended and mixed immediate family.

 

          Brian, a great guy who has traveled the world, adopted a great boy with some amazing talents and gifts and has a loving wife with her own two sons, were gracious enough to open their house to me for five days. I am sure there is some sort of proper protocol I broke by staying there that long. But, hey, it is me, how often do you think I listen to Emily Post?

 

          The day I arrived we went to see my ailing father and his wife. They were in good spirits and we had some nice conversation over a fine dinner and several hours. I remember remarking to Brian on the way to his home at how frail they both looked. Much different from the last time I had seen them. Yet my father still had his corny dad jokes to tell and my brother and I. No new jokes, just the same tired ones I have heard most of my life from him. They were corny and comforting at the same time, and to be honest, just a little sad. My step-mom, was warm, charming and sweet all at the same time. Like a hot fudge sundae, you just can’t be upset when you are eating one.

 

          As the trip grew longer, so did my brothers and my conversations. Stories of our shared childhoods, of our solo adventures into the world and the discovery of the loves of our lives echoed through the car and around the campfires. In an odd way, our bonding as brothers grew deeper. We both expressed regrets and fears from when we were kids. Frustrations with each other born out of misunderstanding motives and even how quick and when our survival instinct would kick in. It was very enlightening and wonderful to be around him and his family.

 

          The second visit to my father did not go so well. After a few hours I was getting frustrated and angry. So much so I was begging for an excuse to get out of the house for a while. Which is funny to me because I had a built in excuse.

 

          I had reached out to a high school friend and she had agreed to reach out to others of our class and we were to meet up. When time came for me to say goodbye to my family for a few hours I was relieved and happy to get away for a while.

 

          I got to spend ninety lovely minutes reconnecting with a few of my classmates. Classmates I had not spoken with in years, well, with the exception of social media. However, having the chance to sit down, talk, laugh and just tell stories from our lives was an opportunity to not be wasted. We didn’t. That meeting was truly one of the high points of the trip and I have to say well worth the frustration of traveling in this era of facemasks and impromptu body searches at the airports.

 

          I missed them as soon as I started to walk away from them and the absence of them in my life is a bittersweet sadness filled with wonderful memories and hours of laughter.

 

          The feeling of elation was as short lived as the drive back to my fathers. The reality of his and his wife’s situation is an ever present brick wall I seem to face daily. The issues they have, are going through and will go through will only get worse. And my brother is there doing all the dirty work. Alone.

 

          I can’t help, I am a half a continent away with a life and family of my own. Our sister Patty can’t help. So Brian has taken this responsibility of becoming a parent to our parents. Mad respect for him. I have seen how hard he works in his professional life and how hard he works on his family life and now he has added elder-care to his portfolio of responsibilities. Where most people would hire a nurse, a housecleaner, a cook, a yard keeper, he has taken on those tasks and performs them as if he were standing in the shade on a warm Wisconsin day and sipping a cold glass of lemonade. He makes it look easy. We all know it is not. He knows it is not. To be honest, I am sure not many folks outside the immediate family know what he is dealing with.

 

          He has truly become a great parent to his family and his parents.

 

          I don’t know if I could do it.

 

          I have my own issues to deal with when it concerns my father. No time to get into that here.

 

          On one hand, I have kept a working communication with all of my family. The terms of the communication are simple, if you want to talk to me, call, I will answer my phone for family. If I want to talk with your, I will call and if you answer we will talk. If I am in town I am always willing to see you. If you are in town, I am always willing to see you.

 

          Simple, just express a desire to see me or talk with me. That rule is not always understood or even conveyed back to me. That is okay. We are who we are and we are all going through some emotional, physical and sometimes mental pain.

 

          Sometimes, it is self-inflicted, sometimes it is not. Sometimes you get one or two types of pain and the world is dark. On rare occasions, you get all three and if it received at the hands of the same person, you shut down. You move on, you go into survival mode and you leave your town, your state, your country.

 

          You move forward, you lie to yourself, you build a new life with a new family. You don’t look back. On rare occasions you ask yourself “I wonder what ever happened to so-and-so” but you don’t dwell on those thoughts.

 

          You lie to yourself that you are okay.

          You lie to yourself that your past is dead.

          You lie to yourself that it wasn’t as bad as your brain makes it.

 

          Then you go home and realize you have been lying all your life.

Back at it and living Anti-Fa.

Hello, I know it has been a long time since I’ve dusted off my blog and talked to you all. However; in my defense I thought I was done writing this. Apparently I am not.

Lately, in the news, there has been a mess of finger-pointing, blame assigning and outright troublesome behavior across the spectrum of this United States of ours. 

So I’m going to address a one of many points that have disturbed me over the course of this year. Today’s topic, Fascism vs. AntiFascism (AntiFa) for short.

Here are three definitions of Fascism from various sources just in case you do not know what Fascism is.

Merriam-Webster

Fascism:

1often capitalized : a political philosophy, movement, or regime (such as that of the Fascisti) that exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression of opposition

2: a tendency toward or actual exercise of strong autocratic or dictatorial control

Dictionary.com

Fascism:

noun

(sometimes initial capital letter) a governmental system led by a dictator having complete power, forcibly suppressing opposition and criticism, regimenting all industry, commerce, etc., and emphasizing an aggressive nationalism and often racism.

(sometimes initial capital letter) the philosophy, principles, or methods of fascism.

(initial capital letter) a political movement that employs the principles and methods of fascism, especially the one established by Mussolini in Italy 1922–43.

Wikipedia

Fascism (/ˈfæʃɪzəm/) is a form of far-right, authoritarian ultranationalism^[1][2] characterized by dictatorial power, forcible suppression of opposition, as well as strong regimentation of society and of the economy^[3] which came to prominence in early 20th-century Europe.^[4] The first fascist movements emerged in Italy during World War I, before spreading to other European countries.^[4] Opposed to liberalism, Marxism, and anarchism, fascism is placed on the far right within the traditional left–right spectrum.

Did you read all three? One? Maybe two of the definitions? I hope you did. At least one that is.

Now that we know and understand the meaning of the word Fascism we can elaborate that to be AntiFa to mean people who are against Fascism. I know, I know… it’s common sense. Or it should be.

Our country, the good ol’ US of A, fought against Fascism and defeated Fascism in Europe in the 1940’s. The Greatest Generation did this. Men and Women from across this great land of ours fought against totalitarian governments bent on subjecting the populace by lies and propaganda to doing the will of the elected and appointed leaders. 

Between 70 and 85 million people were killed around the globe because of this war. This is all the casualties from all the countries involved. Fifty-eight percent of that number was civilians. I hope you understand what that means. I’ll spell it out for you… MORE CIVILIANS DIED THAN COMBATANTS. All because the Democratic countries and the USSR despised Japan, Germany and Italy politics and treatment of their citizens and hunger for world power.

I am speaking in broad strokes here, so please let us not get into the minutia of the details. Let us all just agree, Germany, Japan and Italy’s policies towards their people and neighboring countries were bad. 

So bad in fact John Wayne, who never served in the military, made a great name for himself in acting in military movies along with a never-ending list of westerns. He became a hero of screen and WW2 and for the longest time was the epitome of manhood in America.

In all his movies, whether Western or Military, he always stood for truth and justice. He took the fight to the enemy or the black hats. He was a good guy. It didn’t matter if he was an Ace pilot Marine or an Army Lt. Colonel storming the beaches of Normandy or even some sort of sailor making a life after the Navy at a small place called Donovan’s Reef. 

He despised the fascist regime of any country and watching him in action still makes me smile.

Today however, I see people who are against Anti-Fascism, or in other words, Anti-Anti-Fascism. (Which I read as Pro-Fascism). This makes no sense to me.

After all, how could it.

I grew up watching John Wayne movies. Along with other great war movies that portrayed the sacrifices the men and women of this country gave to overcome the tyranny of dictators around the globe.

Take Patton, not necessarily the movie but the great and flawed General he was. He didn’t want to stop moving tanks once he got to Berlin, he wanted to continue all the way to Moscow. He was told to stand down. 

Historians marvel at Patton’s leadership and his men feared, loved and respected him. Even as controversial as he may have been for all of his flaws, he was a military and strategical genius. And he hated Fascists. 

Understand, I grew up in the 1970’s. I was spoon fed mistrust of anything non-democratic. Supped on heroes of World War 2 in movies and books, and was taught to love and honor the soldiers and sailors of Vietnam on the television and magazines which eventually led to some amazing movies. 

What did I take from all this education; never trust a totalitarian government, never trust a dictator, never believe that left is right, that wrong is correct, that hate is love and that the word of politicians yearning for power will tell you the truth.

I am proud to be Anti-Fascist and stand against any and all Fascist thoughts and actions. I cannot idly stand by and see my brothers and sisters of our country of, no matter what side of the political spectrum they stand on, see them give up their unalienable rights our founding fathers fought so dearly against the British Empire.

If you are one of my brothers or sisters and you believe that being Anti-Anti-Fascist, which makes you Pro-Fascist, you need to re-evaluate your thoughts and beliefs in what it means to be part of a free country. You also need to review who your heroes are. 

Heroes, like Patton, McArthur, U.S. Grant, Eisenhower, John Paul Jones, Chester Nimitz, John Barry, Oliver Hazard Perry and so many more that fought for our country were all Anti-Fascist. Those are just some of the military men. I could go on but I wont.

I write this blog for you, my good friend and fellow patriot. Whether we agree or not, I love you and I will fight for you. What I will not abide is any non-democratic-republic philosophies or acts that go against our way of life as spelled out in the Declaration of Independence and then extrapolated with the Constitution of the United States.

There is just too much at stake. 

So, to wrap this all up succinctly, being American means by the blood of our ancestor’s we are naturally opposed to fascism. Which is a good thing. To support fascism means you are Anti-American.

In other words:

Anti-Fa = American

Fascist = Un-American

I love you all, have a great week.

07/23/2020

End of Year

Well, It’s December 31st and I’ve managed to somehow ignore my blog for longer than I’ve wanted. For this I apologize and I promise to make a more concerted effort in the coming year to be more attentive.

For me, like all end of the years, the past few months have been a flurry of activity of holiday exhibits and work and, while I’ve made promises to myself over the years that I would slow down, I have not. Well, not to the level that some people close to me are happy with. This however has changed as of this past weekend.

You see, nineteen and a half years ago, when my wife was about to go on unpaid maternity leave I took on a part time job. This was supposed to be a temporary job, maybe a year or two. You know, something that would help us with the loss of her income while she was out of work. Maybe help pay for any unexpected medical bills or even help us save for a vacation. 

And this job did all that. 

Then, it paid for more vacations. And more food. And cars. And a motorcycle and a house. Then when my wife suffered a five strokes within a week, it became necessary again. It didn’t cover everything but it helped. We are just now getting out of that hole.

My body just can’t take working two jobs anymore. I’m physically worn out. I’m mentally exhausted and I can’t say that I’ve been fully rested in years. So I hung up my apron. No more waiting tables. It feels good. I can’t say we won’t miss the money but I can say my mental and physical state will be in a much better place.

Also, this past year, 2018, has been the least sucky year in almost a decade for me. I saw my daughter graduate from high school, move out of the house and into a dorm room at a college she chose and is putting herself through. I got to spend an amazing day with my mother at a wonderful museum after having a great breakfast and a nice motorcycle ride with her. I got to travel to Martha’s Vineyard and Point Reye’s California and work on two amazing Fresnel lenses with some amazing men and learn a lot from all three of them.

I also lost good people in my life. Which is always sad, but it helps a person grow. I’m still waiting on the growing part.

I’m doing a podcast with a great guy who is as funny and talented as anyone could ask for in a creative partner. I got to see my brother-from-another-mother not once but twice this year and we laughed and bonded like we hadn’t been away from each other for a minute. I wrote some blogs, I wrote some fiction. I edited works for other authors, all who I believe are more talented than I will ever be. I hosted a great horror reading in October with some wonderful local up and coming writers who have amazing voices and I hope to hear more of in the future. I also got to spend not enough time with some close friends during all of this. Friends I don’t get to see enough of, friends who I usually end up texting with or chatting with on the phone more than seeing in person. Friends who live only twenty minutes away but our schedules always seem conflicting so our only source of communication is through social media or phones. I hope now, with all my free time this will change.

Don’t get me wrong, this year has not been perfect. I’ve had my fair share of set backs and daily frustrations, but you know what, looking back now, on this tepid southern new years eve, none of that seems to matter. My daughter is home from college. My wife is enjoying her Christmas gifts and an early anniversary gift, our house is filled with the warmth of contentment that only happiness can bring.

Tonight my dear reader, I thank you for taking your time to read my blogs throughout the year and tonight especially and I hope you have the merriest and safest of New Years and that this coming New Year brings you all the happiness and warmth you can handle.

Have a great week.

Warmth in Cool

The cool air is sweeping down from the north and here in the south we are turning up our thermostats in an attempt to chase away the chills of the inevitable. If you’re like me, your fridge is as stuffed as you are and you’re quite happy.

This year, like most years in my household, we celebrated Thanksgiving in our own peaceful and tranquil way. A tradition we implemented years ago. A tradition I have strive to keep. A tradition I attribute to a youth spent either traveling to cities and towns to visit relatives and friends with all the stress and hectic craziness a family of six can inflict upon one another. Then in later years, after the divorce, celebrating separately under stress with people I didn’t know, didn’t want to know with even more stress. Later, the fights started amongst the adults, with us kids hiding in the basements of whatever house we were in or if it was nice outside, we’d wander off and try and find a safe place to wait for everything to blow over. Even later still, celebrating alone, in a junkyard with nothing but a campfire and some purloined cans of food from a local grocery store all the while swearing to myself that if I ever had my own family, I’d never allow them to go through what I went through.

Which brings me to today…

My daughter came home from college. Only for a day and a half. Enough time for two sleeps and a few good meals. Enough time to fill my heart with her love again. We talked, I made her food. We talked more. Watched television. I made breakfast. We talked. I made Thanksgiving dinner and she helped. We ate and talked and watched more television. We hugged and I lied to myself she would never leave home again.

The next day, we took her back to college and went home.

But she was still there.

At least the memory of her is. Her laughter still resounds off the walls. Her footfalls still echo on the stairs. Her perfume still lingers on the couch cushions. There is still the warmth of my only child filling the home I live in. 

In years past I felt that the spirit of Christmas had left me. And it truly had. However, after my daughters brief visit and the feeling of love, care and joy I had for her. Of how wonderful she has made our lives, well, I just can’t let that slip by. It has truly been a precursor of what I have overlooked in my life. Of how lucky I have been. 

My daughter, who made me a father, and made my family. Made my house a home. Made me thankful this Thanksgiving and has filled my empty tank of Christmas spirit to overflowing.

My daughter who brought warmth to my cool.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Happy Birthday Goose

         My daughters birthday was this past weekend. I was unable to spend the day with her. However, I was able to spend some time with her on the day after her birthday with her. We went for a ride on my motorcycle. First we went for lunch. Then she took me to visit her new job. Which was awesome. A custom popcorn place, where I bought a mega-size bag of super sharp cheddar cheese flavored bag of popcorn! Then we went to a mall where we walked around and visited a lot of stores and went to a book store and spent gobs of cash on books and movies. 

I spent most of the money. As a father should. Then I offered to make her and her college roommate dinner. So we stopped at a store for groceries. Perused the aisles and then a quick jaunt back to the dorms and I was cooking.

Forty minutes later, chicken parmesan, and fettuccini alfredo was served to some grateful and starving college kids. 

I was sitting on a futon making up stories for Emo Porgs and stuffed unicorns and wishing my daughter was still living at home. 

Which got me thinking to a time when I was first re-introduced to my mother after ten years of separation.

We were at a mall, she wanted to buy me some clothes and I was in a dressing room and she was handing me clothes over the dressing room door. I’d been trying on the clothes she’d been tossing me for ten, maybe fifteen minutes and I was getting tired, nervous and uncomfortable. Finally, I’d had enough and put on the clothes I’d been wearing and just walked out and said I’d had enough and didn’t like anything and there was nothing I wanted.

We all walked out of the place in silence.

I didn’t know then what was going on and I’m sure she didn’t either.

Now I do.

It was a feeling of loss and longing.

A feeling of wanting to show love and not knowing how to do it.

A feeling that a simple hug would fill. A feeling that the words “I Love and Miss you” would suffice. But those words are simply lost in the simplicity of the moment because that moment is so huge. So overwhelming.

It’s like looking into the Grand Canyon and not knowing what to do. But all you have to do is accept it. Just reach out and feel it. Hug it. Accept it and know that it exists. Then it will be alright.

My daughter has moved on from my life. Her life is her own now. I have to accept that. It hurts. But I will be able to enjoy our days together, our hours together and I will always be able to cook for her and she will always be able to enjoy my food that I cook for her and know that it is made with love from me and will be a part of her.

Have a great week.

The RMS Chimichangas

I should be flying to California right now. Or at least in San Fransisco as I write this. I should be getting ready for phase two of the Point Reyes Lens project. But I’m not. No matter the reason. Instead, I’m home… maybe for the best. After all, I did just wake up from a twenty-four hour nap. That is if you can call twenty-four hours of slumber a nap.

I’m fighting a cold. At least I believe it’s a cold. I don’t have a fever. I feel achy and I’ve a pesky cough and when I get hungry… I get hungry… like starvation hungry. Then I sleep again. The reason for all this? My daughter. Yes, I’m accusing her.

You see, last Sunday, her and her college room-mate and one of their classmates came up to me and said “Do you know how to build a boat?” 

I smiled and said “Sure. Why?”

Now, to be honest, I’ve never built a boat before. However; I am familiar with the principles and practices of boat building, water tight integrity, buoyancy, weight displacement and fabrication with assorted materials so manufacturing a boat for three college kids shouldn’t be a problem. “How much time do we have?”

“Well,” my daughter said…”It can’t be out of wood, it has to be done by Friday, and we can only spend twenty dollars and we don’t have a place to build it. Oh, and we don’t have a plan. Can  you help?”

“Let me see if I can use our work shop first. Also, do you ladies know anything about water-tight integrity? Buoyancy? Weight displacement? Or construction materials?” I asked as I sent a text to my supervisor asking if I could use our work shop and scrap foam and wood.

When I looked up from my phone the answer to my questions was written all over their depressed faces. “Okay…okay… look, don’t worry about any of that right now. First you need to come up with a plan for the boat. You need to find out how much you all weigh. That will tell you how much weight the boat needs to hold without sinking. Don’t lie. Now is not the time for being shy with your weight. Unless you want to sink. Then, you need to have a boat design. Come up with a construction timeline, working backwards from the launch date. 

My phone buzzed. It was my supervisor. His text read “No problem.”

“Ladies, we have a work space and materials. When do you want to get started?”

“4:00 this afternoon.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”

That evening started the birth of what became known as the RMS Chimichangas. It took four nights and days of dedication on all of their behalf. Sawing, screwing, cutting, gluing, caulking, laying plastic and learning how to use the equipment. Table saws, ban saws, chop saws, drill guns and caulk guns. They were eager to learn and listen. No question was scoffed at and all questions were welcomed. I only had to show them once how to do something and then I would stand back and make sure they followed proper safety procedures so they wouldn’t do any harm to themselves or bystanders.

At the start of the project, like most people my age, I questioned their commitment to their project, but by day two, when they drug themselves in with only a few hours of sleep, sipping on coffee, no food in their stomach, doing homework on the car ride over from the college and doing homework during breaks in the building of the boat, I was starting to get convinced. 

By the end of the second work session, when we were cleaning up, the girls were looking at our progress, which didn’t look like much. Just the bottom of a boat with a large sheet of plastic that was curing to the bottom of the boat. “Look ladies, it doesn’t look like much now, we still have a long way to go, but, we’ve got the sides of the boat cut, the pontoons cut, and the plans are sound. If you want we can secure the stern gunnel on tonight and be that much further along tomorrow.”

The frowns of their didn’t quite disappear but they weren’t as prevalent as before. And, ten minutes later, the boat that just looked like a table before, looked much more like a boat. Excitement rose and we all left feeling better.

By Thursday, the outer hull was assembled, the interior plastic liner was glued in place and the inner hull was secured and holding the plastic liner to the out hull. Also, the three section watertight floor was in place and the exterior pontoons. The boat which was initially designed to hold 450 pounds of teenage college students was now designed to hold 800 pounds of humanity and not sink. Yes, they had over-engineered it. And I was quit proud of them. 

They spent the last work session painting the hull, the flag and making sure their home-made oars were in good order. They had their name, their costumes and all that was left was the race. We didn’t have time to test the boat for water tight integrity, but I was positive it wouldn’t leak, after all, in all my Naval training I’d never had a single water patch ever leak on me and I am not about to start now especially with my daughters reputation at stake. 

So we took some time and went over some boating basics, how to row with three people in a boat, stroke count, how to load the boat from land, from a dock, weight distribution, how to turn, how to get out of the boat, how not to be an asshole… okay, we didn’t cover that last one. 

In the end, I sent them on their way with my best wishes and the hopes that they would not drown.

They didn’t drown. They didn’t win. But they did win best engineered boat. 

They gave me the certificate. It’s hanging on my wall in my office.

I love those girls.

Have a great week. I just did.