End of the month

Got to talk to our son this evening. He and his two traveling companions were back in Yuma, Arizona, after spending some pleasant days in Baja, Mexico - at least until a passle of four-wheel drive vehicles showed up for drag-racing on the beach, and they left in disgust. They got hassled by Homeland Security boys and their dogs returning to America, despite being very careful not to have any herbal products on board. It sounds as if their next destination might be southwestern Utah, maybe the Indian Creek area for some crack climbing. He sounded pretty good, although perhaps a bit restless and ready to get on the rock again.

Week's end

After tending to physical exercise requirements, I had a bit of reading time to continue with Saramago's "Journey to Portugal." It's similar in some ways to Gees Nooteboom's "Roads to Santiago," which was set in Spain, in that the author seems intent upon combing every square kilometer of his respective country, with an apparent focus on old Catholic churches and other structures of architectural interest. Saramago, however, seems less dry to me, injecting a wry sense of humor and a strange whimsical flavor to his narrative.

Mamacita's 87th birthday

We started out the day with a walk to Hiroki's patisserie a little before noon, and picked up a birthday brownie. Many felicitations from the owner, who seems to like Mother. I got out for a nice jaunt up in the Woodland Park hills, around the outside border of the Zoo, and back along the northwest corner of Green Lake.
Another walk for my mom, then phone calls and singing of Happy Birthday by my brother and his daughters. The afternoon sped away, and we went out to take her to dinner. The Afghan restaurant proved to be overflowing, so we wandered along 45th until we passed a new little place called Clara's. The owner is from Hawaii, so has a bit of that island diner thing going on.
We went to one of our neighbors' house to have a glass of wine and conversation with another set of neighbors. All in all a pleasant evening.

Rally time

This morning started poorly, after a frequently interrupted night of sleep. Just dragged through the hours, until we went out for a walk. It was foggy and chilly, and served to revive me. So I went over to the gym to remove a route, and set a new one in its place. This activity pepped me up further, to the point of trying out a few new routes two of the guys who work there had just set. One of them was there, and was still enjoying his role as a new "papa" for a very adorable 7 week old chihuahua, a teeny black and white creature they have named Enzo Ferrari. He was so worried about leaving the pup home by itself, and was talking about how he'd left him food, water and toys. I told him it sounded like a rehearsal for having a human baby, but he hurried to assure me that wasn't the case at all! This puppy weighs about a pound, and really is one of the cutest little things I've ever seen. Every other chihuahua I've ever met has been yappy, snappy, and generally ill-tempered, but Enzo just looks up with cartoon-sized eyes and ears and licks the nearest nose. It's very interesting to see this macho young guy melting as he snuggles the critter in his sweatshirt front; and just about all the other guys who work there seem to be smitten with this puppy. It was very sweet, and unlooked for form my perspective.

All this lovely weather scares me...

Hmm, the most gorgeous day so far and I have no idea where it went. A couple of walks with my mom, a run in the hills and weight workout for me, household chores, errands run, several trips outside to admire the new retaining wall - and it was gone.
Mother and I had a home visit session this afternoon with a woman who runs an in home healthcare service. They got along well; the woman was very personable, and one of the tidbits she told us was that their oldest client is 103, living at home and having caretakers visit three times a day to help her with meals and chores. Her mother lived to 112. Her son is 85, lives in California, and drives up to see her by himself. (THAT I find scary!) I'm hopeful this service will give us some respite, a bit of back up when no one else is available to keep Mother company and get her meals, as well as keeping an eye on her health.
Am following Senor Saramago on his winding travels through the top of Portugal. One thing I find disturbing about reading accounts of past travels is realizing how much the appealing areas described have changed, or been completely destroyed. Saramago gives a caveat regarding just that issue in his introduction. It's very strange, but with almost every work I've read in this vein, even if I've never been to the places the writers are describing, I have felt an intense sadness or nostalgia at the loss of an environment, atmosphere or just a mood; maybe a feeling of regret at having never been there and experiencing what the did, mixed with the varying degrees of success the authors have had in conveying the sense of place.

Better than I expected

How'd all these cat hairs get in my keyboard? Like the lady said in "Who's afraid of Virginia Woolfe?", "What a dump!" Too much sun is revealing, mercilessly, the numerous cracks, crannies and corners of our house that need what they call "deep cleaning." Deep!!! This place needs Journey to the Center of the Earth cleaning, and I have only myself, really, to blame.
Got an unexpected call this morning from a friend I see infrequently, who had the day off from her job as an anesthesiologist and wanted to take her two daughters and one of their friends to the climbing gym. I hadn't seen her since her last Halloween party, and agreed to meet them there, although I wasn't feeling very good. We had a good time catching up, belaying the girls, and talking about possible outdoor trips we could take together this spring.
When I got home, I got my mother out on her second 8 block long walk of the day, in lovely low 60's sunshine. Her 87th birthday is on Saturday, and I've been trying to get an idea of where she'd like to go for dinner. She claims all she wants is a chocolate cupcake and a stiff drink, but we'll come up with something a bit more festive...
Just started Jose Saramago's A Journey to Portugal, a non-fiction account of his exploration of his native country. It is wonderful, with photos he took himself back in 1979, when he made this journey. I've enver read any of his fiction, but since I am loving his strange quirky observations, I plan to try Blindness, a novel recommended by some reading acquaintances.

Sigh. More sun.

This unbroken string of gorgeous dry days is becoming ominous. It's giving all the landscapers and yard maintenance folks early work, but if it continues, all the greenery will be naught but husks by early May.
Got my mother out for her Hairdo Day. We had a nice 8 block walk, but she started getting a bit woozy-seeming near the end of it. She observed that she'd had an exciting morning, and just wanted to sit down and read for a bit. We made it out again later in the afternoon, and she got winded, but rallied for another 8 blocks.
So, if Dr. Gonzo is gone, it's crucial for the myriad of us who know who the real enemies of our country are to keep our anger burning. What HST said years ago about Nixon is revisiting us via Bush and his crew like Jason, the axe murderer, apparantly unkillable and unstoppable. To hell with them, and they're not taking me along. Maybe the Greens need reinforcements...
Weird. I bought what I thought was a new book to me, but as I read it, I'm getting a strong impression that I read it before, long ago...isn't it too early for me to be experiencing this sort of thing?!

...and yet another perfectly chilled day in paradise

When I came down this morning to get my espresso fix, I heard a rather loud emphatic voice outside. Peering through the front blinds, I saw the fellow who took on our wall repair in what seemed to be heated explication before his crew of hombres. I thought I heard the word "fucking" uttered a few times, but I decided I really didn't want to know what he was saying to them, and wandered back to the kitchen to get my coffee. Maybe he was just speaking loudly so they'd understand...
Had a bit of a climbing session at the gym, then a nice walk with my husband. We've been wondering what precipitated Hunter S. Thompson's self-destruction. The friend I climbed with this afternoon had never heard of him, which surprised me, since she's old enough to have done so. Another climbing associate there who's not yet 30 had read some of his books, and showed appreciation for Dr. Gonzo. "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" was so insane that I remember laughing until I hurt. "The Curse of Lono", while less frantic than "Fear," etc, was nutty, purporting to depict a family vacation Thompson and his longtime collaborator, Ralph Steadman, took on a godforsaken stretch of Hawaiian coast. According to one source, Thompson was in a fair amount of pain from various bodily ailments. Still, 67 seems young - well, young-ish - to me.
And off again to the race to the end of the book.

Oh wall...

Our magnificent newly rebuilt retaining wall, all thirty-some feet of it, appears to be done. Two of the crew worked today to put back some of the dirt they had taken out to put a drainage area behind the wall, as well as to remove the dirt they have to haul away. I've been examining it from different angles, and from across the street, where I noticed that one of the smaller stones near the top middle portion of the wall resembles a roughly drawn heart. It looks lovely to me.
Galloped through a bunch more of "Shadow of the Wind." No surprises, had it all figured out, but it's still kind of fun. It has a strange bunch of characters. Not sure what the author really had in mind, but he's got a pile of stuff to tie up before the end.

Sunny Saturday

Lots of walking today, for my mom and for me. I went down to a neighborhood called Fremont, to a used bookstore called Twice Sold Tales. Scored some great choices: Margaret Atwood's
"Negotiating with the Dead"; Elizabeth Bowen's "The Last September"; Murray Bail's "Homesickness"; and "Journey to Portugal" by Jose Saramago. I was looking for more titles by Thea Astley, a highly-esteemed Australian writer, but had no luck.
The "tres hombres" worked steadily until after 9:00 tonight, finishing off the grout in the retaining wall. The head guy remarked that they'd "bitten off a bit too much," and had to get it all smoothed down and textured before it set up. There were power issues regarding their halogen work lights, and I had to run down into the basement several times to reset a breaker; but at least it wasn't after midnight, when I always hope to be successfully sound asleep.
Read more of "Shadow of the Wind;" it has actually improved farther along, showing signs of a twisted kind of humor and hyperbole. I'd still classify it as lightweight, but it isn't annoying me
anymore.
Mi esposo returned late, past midnight, and tumbled immediately into restorative slumber. The cats and I were most joyful at his return.

End of the week

So... after the usual mama maintenance this morning, I hied me to the climbing gym to set a route that I had planned to work on yesterday, only I had been feeling unwell. The process went relatively quickly - 2 1/2 hours to strip a route and put up a new one. A few of my buddies arrived as I was finishing the route, climbed it, and the two guys claimed it was much easier than I rated it. My female friend tried it, and thought it was fine for 5.9, which had been my estimate. We decided their male egos worked upon them to lower it. Well, duh. That's called "sandbagging" in climbing.
When I got home, the wall-building guys were just about done. One of them told me that it would be finished manana, that tres hombres were going to be working on it. It has been miraculous to watch them transform what was in fact a pile of collapsed rubble into this beautiful straight wall, marching down the sidewalk. Muy bueno!

I hate being sick when it's so nice outside...

If this stupid bug would just manifest itself, make itself heard, instead of making me drag my ass around all day! I mean, if you're sick enough to stay in bed, and have no appetite, and do something dramatic like barf or not be able to leave the bathroom for long, then you're legitimately sick! I hate this wishy-washy half-hobbling germ that keeps me from doing what I want to do. Hmmm, anger: first step to recovery?
Well, at least I got my mom out for two 8 block long walks, plenty of chicken-communing time, and direct sunlight; she once again greeted the wall builders with her high school Spanish from
the mid 1930's, and they sweetly acknowledged her.
Off to bed early with the next book group pick, Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Even the title is striking me as oozing cliches; even the author's NAME is grating, it sounds like one of his thin yet overwritten characters. Now, maybe it's a result of its being a translation from Spanish, but this book is annoying me. Instead of dogs barking in the distance, there are dank, decaying interiors with intermittent dripping in the background. Muy estupido!

Hablamos Espanol y Ingles?

When my mother and I came back from her morning walk, she decided she was going to greet the guys who are repairing our retaining wall in the little bit of Spanish dialog she remembers.
So she waved to them and asked, "Como esta usted?" One of the men grinned and asked her how she was. There followed a confused exchange, reminescent of something out of Through the Looking Glass, but he finally said, in both tongues,"I speak a little English, she speaks a little Spanish, we understand." Generous of him, but it thrilled my mom.
A little workout at the climbing gym this afternoon. My throat is pretty sore, and I'm achy, but I figure I should try to sweat some of this disease out. Warmed up with a mouthy teenager I've known for about four years. She was an actual Romanian baby, parodied on "Absolutely Fabulous", but Elena was adopted by US parents, and has had kind of a rough growing up time. We just get silly together, and work on our routes.
Off to bed. Got to sleep off this illness.

Clear skies

How odd. I was called away momentarily from the keyboard, and this post published itself. I hadn't saved it, had only given it a temporary title, and...this thing is glitchin'...
I managed to get in touch with our wandering son, who's been on a rock-climbing quest for several weeks. He spent most of his time in Joshua Tree National Park, but about the time he and his fellow clibers were getting booted out, for no really solid reason other than faschist ranger impulses, he left with a freind who has a 40-foot sailboat moored in Marina Del Rey in L.A. He's been pondering his motivation for his road trip, and walking foot-blistering miles around the City of Luxury Autos, having left his car here with us. He said he's been reading Dostoyevsky's "The Double," which I recall as a particularly bleak and disturbing story, but he's appreciating it. We talked a while about the staggering consumerism he's observing down there, and about artistic intentions and urges. It was wonderful to hear his voice, since I keep missing his calls home; he sounds as if he's figured a few things out about himself.
Of to bed early to try to fight off an incipient cold or something. I was sorry to finish Number 9 Dream, and am finding the next bookgroup pick, Shadow of the Wind, to be unchallenging and chock full o' cliches. Pat Barker's Regeneration is under discussion now; at least it is intelligently executed.

VD

It's only good as an excuse to buy chocolate, which I do anyway, regardless of the season. I always have an emergency supply secreted - somewhere - for easy access. Usually during climbing sessions. Had a nice day, until late this afternoon at the climbing gym, where suddenly I was afflicted with visual migraines that badly impeded my vision. Had to hunker down in the bouldering area until they cleared up enough for me to drive home. They weren't triggered by chocolate, I hadn't eaten any...hey, that's the key! Chocolate deficiency!

Sunday zone out

Just wanted to mark my place here for the day. So little happened in reality or in my mind that it's difficult to put anything down. I'll sleep on it.
I'm very nearly finished with Number 9 Dream. It's been an interesting ride.

Birthday fun

This evening we attended a get-together celebrating a friend's 40th birthday. Interesting venue: a former mortuary, high-ceilinged and dimly lit, renamed "The Chapel." Undermanned as far as servers went, but they were cheerful fellows and eventually we all were well-oiled and sufficiently fed. The birthday girl seemed to enjoy herself, despite her tendency to griping, and a few of us even devised a secret plan to celebrate again on her actual birthday, Valentine's Day.
Not an easy date for someone continually looking for a date, but we hope to distract her.
One couple there tonight admitted to having met on the internet; they are definitely a success story out of what has sounded to me a most dismal medium for human connection. He observed that you learn not to believe anyone's depictions of themselves - "no truth in advertising!"; she remarked that she had been honest about hers, and he said,"Oh, yours was an understatement!" Very sweet.
In connection with Valentine's Day, the newspapers and radio stations have been full of articles and call in shows about the chilliness of Seattle's social climate. When we moved here over 30 years ago, it did seem to take a while to get to know people, but after we got involved with bicycling clubs we started to make more friends. Parenthood shifted our friend base from people who never wanted children to fellow school and sports team parents, and it has shifted again as our interests change. Of course, we came here as a married couple; people who are single can have a more difficult time connecting. I've always thought being active in some sport, and having a variety of interests and passions could contribute to making friends, but it doesn't guarantee anything. I have several friends in their 30's to 50's who are looking for people to date, and they seem discouraged lately. I do think a couple of them have "requirement" lists that are too demanding, but they aren't people to whom I can suggest relaxing and being more open. Getting pretty set in their ways far too young, I think, but then I haven't been in their situation; I know they don't want to spend time on relationships which don't seem to be going the way they'd hoped. Not that they should "settle," but maybe a bit more tolerance is in order.

Two for one

I was so intent on getting enough sleep last night that upon diving into bed with my book, I neglected to make an entry. Yesterday was mostly forgettable, despite its springlike appearance. Once more I had to trundle my old mom with her crumbling teeth downtown to our dentist for an emergency patching up. My mom really dislikes having to go in for dental work; it might have something to do with the fact one of her ears sustained radiation burns when as a child she was left too long under an x-ray by an unbelievably inept dentist. Think of the liability that would incur these days! ( And the fucking Looting and Pillaging GOP Neobarbarians will have us back to that level of malpractice with no consequences in short order here... hey, it's my blog and I'll rant if I want to!!!)
Number 9 Dream took an extremely violent and nightmarish turn, which didn't exactly make for the sweet dreams. There was a scene so horrible that I think I have successfully numbed myself to recalling it. There are so many fantasy sidetrips in the novel that I will simply consign this section to that category, emphasis on the "gory." There is a horrible dank little gallery somewhere in my brain in which vividly disturbing images repose. This scene will join the one from Fowles' "The Magus," which depicted the aftermath of Nazi torture; as well as the Blob slowly ingesting an old man, starting with his hand. There are audio clips in this gallery, too, which include most any country and western music, and political speeches and pronouncements
from the current regime. Quelle horreur!

Too tired to do this

Number 9 Dream by David Mitchell is growing on me. I woke up early this morning and read more of this novel. Someone compared him to William Gibson, but I think it's primarily due to the setting in Japan, much of it in Tokyo. Mitchell doesn't have the edge on his writing that Gibson does. he does have a bit more humor, however.
The afternoon climbing gym session wound up being exhausting, as I was drawn to throw myself on the hardest problems I could possibly do. That's the pleasure of it, in its twisted way.
Maybe it will be useful if I ever have to escape a tsunami.

What can I say?

Dreams so strange last night that they're unrelatable. Probably owing to the fuckwitted cat which kept poking at me and mewing plaintively every few hours. He may need to be relocated to a soundproof location on an unnamed island in the Sound...
Just started reading David Mitchell's second novel, Number 9 Dream, which came before Cloud Atlas. Number 9 Dream seems, even in the first couple of chapters, looser, less disciplined than Cloud Atlas. More self-indulgent. But still enjoyable. I'll have to see how it develops.
More chicken drama and herding this morning. Merely by our presence, we seem to inspire one hen in particular to levitate over her enclosure's bit of fencing, causing consternation and disarry while we attempt to get her back into the yard. But dang, they do produce delicious, surrealistically yellow-yolked eggs which make a trippy egg salad. Maybe Freckles will survive to continue her production.

Monday Monday

So I'm looking ahead to being prepared for a series of lead climbing competitions. It's very strange, I truly don't like competing against other people, since often my friends are involved, but I do get a charge of beating myself up. Last year, I had my own category: Intermediate Adult Women over 50. I was the only one in it, so I had no one to thrash except my estimable self. This year, however, they've messed about with the categories, and I am in a group who lead climb 10a-11a difficulty, anyone over 18. I'm not sure just what will come from this particular situation, but there will be more of us, I'm sure, and many younger than I. Dang - I was hoping to get a prize or two out of it!
I'll proceed with the training, regardless. Three days a week, warming up on moderate routes, hoping to have enough energy to try a few harder ones, then even harder toprope routes. So much depends on enough sleep the night before, and for various reasons, not all of them clear to me, I don't always score a full night's repose. Demons, dreams, frettings.

Stupor Bowl Sunday, AKA "The Tidy Bowl"

I'm the only one in the household not watching It. My elderly mom has been glued to it since 3:30 this afternoon, and my husband's been checking in on its progress periodically. The halftime show, consisting of a hoary ex-Beatle, Paul, the "cute Beatle," trotting out equally hoary tunes from his past incarnations, seemed odd. I suppose it was considered safe, inoffensive, not likely to set off alarums among all those good ole Christians who want their football nice and violent, unadulterated by anything.... DIRTY! Reminds them of the olden days of the coliseums, wherein their forebears were fed to lions.
Running to the gym this afternoon was miserably cold, thudding along in an icy downpour. Going through the machines was a pleasure, as it got me warm again. It's been so grim outside that the usually argumentative cats were forced to cuddle up with one another on a front porch chair to survive.

Reconnecting

This evening we went to an open house at some friends' house, people we used to spend a fair amount of time with when our sons were in elementary school together and on the same sports teams for several years running. They had one last year, too, after they'd taken a two week hiking trek through Chile, and had wonderful photos to share of the trip. This year, it was a "tiny appetizers and desserts" potluck, for which they provided ample and generous beverages.
It was enjoyable to talk to them again, as well as to meet people they know from kayaking and elsewhere. Their son has committed to writing in a serious way, is in an MFA program back in Boston and working on producing works of fiction. Ours is out on a climbing quest. I wonder if he'll also write, having also taken a major in creative writing. I think he'd do a good job writing along the lines of Aldo Leopold and Wallace Stegner, who were so passionate about the wilderness. No, maybe more like Edward Abbey, who was angrily passionate. Hard to know - he still has a broad horizon before him, despite his pessimistic musings. My dad used to talk about how as you got older, the horizon narrowed gradually, until you didn't have so many choices left open to you. I can't remember what the context was, it wasn't any sort of advisory theme directed at me... more like a reflection upon his experience, as a self-professed "short-term optimist, long-term pessimist." Oddly enough, as opinionated as he was, and as hard as he tried to control, manage and protect us all, he was open to whatever we kids chose to do with our educations and lives. Maybe it was because he really never had such choices open to him in his youth, and once he opted to get married and have a family, he had even fewer options.
I'm just getting traction on a novel by an Australian writer named Thea Astley; the book is entitled The Multiple Effects of Rainshadow, published in 1996. From the first page I was taken by the voice, style and intelligence behind the writing. I am thrilled to discover, thanks to a Bookgroup friend Downunder, a whole new body of work to savor.

Weekend wondering

It's strange to live in a world of Saturdays. You'd think it would be the ultimate fantasy. It's what I'm sharing with my mother, whose mind is sojourning in a temporal zone not completely fixed in everyday experience. She observes now and then that every day seems like Saturday, or maybe Sunday; she stays up until 10 or 11; she sleeps late - bless her heart! - she is tending more and more not to know what day it is. I've been trying to accentuate the positive in this regard, as in, it doesn't really matter if you can't remember what day it is, we'll look at the newspaper or the calendar, or just ask and I'll tell you. She's drifting more and more, but at least she's remaining the sweet positive person at her core. Lately she's reading murder mysteries written by an Australian writer, Arthur W. Upfield, published in the 1940's. They proceed at a statelier pace than more current fiction, and she can keep track of the plot more readily.
Today was a climbing gym day, but I was still tired from yesterday's route-setting, running and workout; or maybe coming down with something. Hard to get fired up about trying anything difficult, so my buddy Candi and I kept it moderate. Some women about my age who are just learning to lead tried my new route, and said they liked it. Interesting to be on the other side of the equation.

Setting a lead

Somehow the whole day sped by, after spending from a little before 10 this morning to around 1:30 this afternoon stripping a route and creating a new one to go up in its place. I committed to putting up a lead, which proved harder than I'd envisioned. Oh, I knew it would be a bit trickier than the simpler toprope routes I'd done, particularly on the slightly overhanging wall I chose, but once again, I got humbled by the process. Much pondering of what holds to use, and then what sequence to put them in, taking into consideration clipping stances, body movement, foot placements; much clambering up and down, trying and re-trying the flow from clip to clip; much tiredness of brain and arms, after all the hauling of myself up and down on the gri-gri. Ultimately the little route passed muster from the head route-setter, and I hurried home to give my mother her lunch.
She and I went out on a walk later than usual, but the weather was good and she'd had her lunch and extra electrolyte-enhanced water. When we reached the house of our friend and neighbor who keeps a few chickens, my mother went up to speak to the birds, as is her wont. One of the blasted things suddenly flapped its wings and cleared the little fence which keeps them in the side yard. I tried to push it back with my foot, but the damned bird hunkered down and clung to the grass and was surprisingly immovable. It got up and ran towards the driveway. Somehow my mother got it headed back to the sideyard, speaking some kind of juju
chicken talk. I quickly closed the fence, and urged my mother to get out of there, so we wouldn't be responsible for lost chickens. The rest of the walk was uneventful, and when we got back, I dragged my ass out for a short run and a weight workout at the Nautilus gym.
I am now officially worn out, and am retiring with a book.

... and yet another lovely day

The whole day my energy was pointed toward the afternoon climbing session, which turned out to be not as wonderful as I'd hoped it would be. I've been stalled on a plateau just for this indoor exercise, which seems kind of pathetic, but I'm past 50, so I ought to be thankful that I can do anything approaching what I do. I suppose I have fantasies of transcending my expectations, and when the reality doesn't approach them, I feel I'm not doing very well. How nice that I have the luxury to do so! I appreciate that.
Tomorrow I'm going to try to set my first lead route, which perhaps will be rewarding. I have to take down a route that I've really enjoyed over the months it's been up, so I hope I can match its creativity. I'm tired and sore, so I'm getting out of here...

Such a nice day

The weather was fabulous today, portending disaster for our summer water supply if we don't have at least two straight months of miserably cold rain at sea level, to get at least a modicum of snowpack in the Cascades. So I walk and run in lovely sunshine in February and fret about what's going to happen in July and August. My neighbor told me it was my Midwestern pessimistic upbringing that wouldn't allow me to revel in the beautiful moment and only worry about how we will pay later. (He should know, he was growing up in Michigan while I was growing up in Ohio.) Big water bill, or dead lawn? I'm the type that tries to conserve; I want things to last, I don't go for the flashy new items, the "consumer rush." Yet every time I find things that last, like shoes, clothes, whatever - they are discontinued. My dear old dad called this phenomenon being "snake bit." Must be a family tradition. Thus far it hasn't happened to the people I care most about.
Talk about sounding like Grandpa Simpson! Enough.