FISHEYED FRIENDS

Back in November, Hurricane Sandy, Internet Jessica, Rabidrunner, and I went to NYC. Traveling with those two way more funner than, well, pretty much anything. 

Rabid is a taker of pictures, and she went all fisheye and snapped this one of me trying to open an inoperable door while Jess looked on. 

If I like you, I wish for you friends that are half as cool as mine are. I'd wish that they be equally as cool, but you wouldn't be able to handle it. I can barely handle their coolness, and I'm superhuman. 

A RABID BIRTHDAY

The whole thing started with an internet post--
A comment, an email, and I was engrossed.
Wrapped and entangled in what had to be love,
I made one of those friends folks only dream of

When I think about Rabid, a very first thought
Is how she grins when she runs (more than one ought)
Each confident stride, practiced and strong
Grants her mug a wide smile (it's a little bit wrong)

But it's a good illustration of Rabid's M.O.
To enjoy what she's doing and where it will go
It's there in her mothering and in things that she stitches
Even when life delivers mean-spirited glitches

Chief among those might be her mate's heels--
A trial beyond measure, a things that reveals,
But when she speaks of that year, one rife with distress
What she'll actually tell you is that they were blessed

And that has to do with the way that she see things
A series of choices and what each one brings--
She doesn't sit back and wait for others to do stuff
She rolls up sleeves and goes through what's tough

It's one of those things that makes her a dream buddy.
She's an actual example, someone I study.
Having her as a friend teaches me more
Than I'd learn on my own or from someone next door

But all of that stuff is somber and therefore askew
For without a bit more, I'd be not all the way true
See something else special about Rabid that's grand
Is her kick-ass sense of humor and wit on demand

Sure, her funnies can be silly, but what's truly great
Is how her intellects feeds her humor in a way that's innate:
You can't buy her punnery or alliterative grasp
I swear I read her blog and literally gasp

And that's where we started, with the intangible word
Snorting and rereading 'til vision was blurred
I've enjoyed her blog archives 'til way past midnight
Cackling and admiring with unabash-ed delight

She's a friend that I cherish beyond what I can say
My gratitude's heavy in a tear-jerking way
And as dumb as that sounds, it is a fact.
She's had a true and unfading, damned good impact

•••

Happy, happy birthday, my dear, dear friend. I honest-to-goodness love you.

Rainbows and butterflies,

Meg

MOMENTOUS GENIUS

Go read this. Or I'll hate you.

AS I AM

Here.

Keep Tahoe Blue.

PLEASE PERUSE POST, PEEPS

Speaking of Rabidwriter, go read this perfect post she just proffered.

It's perfection in post form.

And whilst your there, do write her some hate mail, would you? And if you're a good soul, you'll make it hate mail alight with alliteration; she digs that stuff.

RABID HABIT

Is there a blog that you’re continually taken with? One that never fails to please or ignite you? One you wish all would read? And that you don’t know why everyone doesn’t already?

Is there a blog about which you think, How has everyone else not discovered and subscribed to this URL? Is it my job to alert them? Did they look once without arousal and not return for another chance? They need to go back! They need to try again! We all have our off days; maybe when they visited it was an off day for the author or the reader.

I have a blog like that. It’s Rabid’s

Go ahead, roll your eyes. You already know about my crush on that blogger. When will I just shut up and write about something actually interesting?

Why would I put together a post like this? Why would I go on and on about a blog you already know I read, about a gal you already know I like just a little too much? Why patronize you with broken-record posting? Well, sometimes you just gotta yell and scream. You know: sometimes it’s the only thing to do. So I’m just gonna open up and get the crowd’s attention turned to . . . who? A blogger with spice enough to make a dull day toothsome.

Be not fooled by her address, Rabidrunner’s blog is not one of only footfall anecdotes. There’s more—and even her tales from the pavement can enrapture.

Oft times I read a post she crafted and I don’t know how to respond. I want to reply with cleverness equal to her sentiments and their indicators, but I just don’t have it. I can’t give the post its due.

Is this just part of an online push-me-pull-you? An relationship where she plugs me and I plug her? A friendly quid pro quo? No. If that’s what you think, you and I haven’t met. I don’t do that kind of shallow facetiousness. I do sincerity. I do stuff with substantiation. The blog itself is the substantiation. And to send you where I believe you belong, I have highlighted a few posts I considered noteworthy. I’m doing the leg work for you. Should you expect each post in the archive shines as brightly as these? I hope not, for then what are your unreasonable expectations of me?

• Big Decisions
• Bowl Cut
• Something's Gotta Go!• Carbo Diem
• (Girl)Friends who Run
• Food Blog
• My Problem with Fairy Tales

(I have specific reasons for liking these posts. Because I've been especially verbose lately, I'll let you guess what those reasons are instead of writing 'em out.)

Of course it makes sense that my friendship with this online someone would be nourished by her blog, but I think that I shouldn’t be the only one who benefits.

Go there. If you’ve got the chops, paw through the archives. If you keep wit and irony in your pocket you won’t be disappointed. Your response to the posts I’m sending you to will say things about you. Let’s hope it says the right things.

Her blog is the blog my innards respond to.

I just gave you a gift—encouragement to enjoy something that speaks to me. Return the favor. Whose blog often has posts that you simply must read to your significant other? Which blog is your mental manna?

KNOWING RAVIS

I don't need people. I've never needed them. I have to live on this planet with people, so I do. And I interact with them. I smile. I laugh. I mock. I chat. I stare. I respond. But need? Of course not. I don't need people.

But Rabid isn't a people. And I needed her today.

Did I know I needed her? Nope. Hadn't a clue.

It was a bad day. It's been a series of bad days. They come. They are. They're a part of life. And they're where I've been.

While doing my day, I called The Husband and confessed to him the Hell I was stuck in. Poor man. Husbands have a hard go of it--listening to the prattle of their wives while they react to the advances of that sonofabitch named Depression. I told the mister that a single bright spot in my life is anticipating a visit from my Rabid friend in a month. I very much look forward to it. I finished my bitching and we hung up.

A few hours later, as I was muddling through the Valley of the Shadow of Me, my phone received an email. In the email was a song. The song was a gift. It was from my Rabid friend. It was a Brandi Carlile song. That dame has a voice for the ages. My phone also received a voice message. It too was from the Rabid friend.

It was a friendly message. It was my first phone contact from this pal. Until now we've only done Internet and in-person. We're sort of backward.

A friendly song. A friendly message.

Aw, damn. I'm gonna kill that bastard.

I put a message and a song together and came up with a scenario: The Husband, worried that I was actually off my rocker this time, ferreted out the Rabid's email and contacted her. Those two talked on the phone before she and I ever did.

He told. Told her that she had a friend in some kind of need.

And--even though if I were her I'd shy away from me--in a fashion like lightening does, she responded.

I was embarrassed.

No one needs to know when you're out of your mind. Least of all people.

But Rabid isn't a people.

I didn't know I needed her.

But I surely did.

I called her back and she let me ramble. She let me spew my innards into her ear. She let me spill my poison. And she didn't try to fix it. She didn't tell me what to do. She listened. She let me. Let me. Let me be, well, Me. I'd rather not have to be Me today, but I'm stuck with this head. And she let me pop that head off, dump it out, and ram its contents into her ear canal.

It was, well, cathartic.

Why?

Because I knew. I knew she knew. Even if I wasn't making sense, this online dear one somehow knew what I was saying. And without too much clarification, I knew that she knew.

I needed her.

He knew. He knew I needed her. And she made herself available.

I don't need people.

But I do need a husband and a Rabid.

Good thing I've got both.

May you have one. The other. Or something akin to the two.

And may my tomorrow be better than my today.

MY AVIS

Excerpt from an email to Rabid dated 8.9.09 . . .

Greetings from a Chinese food-scented hotel room filled with the sounds of the Food Network, situated in nastily humid New Jersey. What a delight.

I, of course, don't know about you, but my day has been a total waste of life. I got up late, ate some cereal, was bummed that it was vanilla instead of plain soymilk, ate some hummus, turned on the Food Network, surfed the Internet, talked with [The Husband], ate some more hummus, crunched some radishes, spent some quality time on the treadmill, felt guilty that I ran on a Sunday, was annoyed that the soundtrack on my Shuffle is a bunch of lame slow stuff, got ready for the day, changed my shirt four times, audibly bitched over my fat ass when I slithered into my jeans, surfed eBay for some new jeans, tidied up my rooms, threw out all the chocolate wrappers in my purse from the clandestine snacking I'd done in class last week, packed up my laptop, went downstairs for my study group, put together Advanced Interviewing questions for a [drug] workshop tomorrow, took a counterpart with me to go looking for a Chinese food place, got lost while looking, had a hard time figuring out the windshield wipers on the rental car, found the Chinese, ate a bunch of their jelly beans while waiting for the food, took the food back to my room, discovered that it was gross Chinese food, snuck out by the elevator to toss it in the garbage can there so that my room wouldn't stink, came back to more Food Network, watched the Iron Chef, went back down to the treadmill to repent for the gross Chinese I shouldn't have eaten, hit my noggin on the corner of the wall-hung TV while shaking my head at how fat my gut is, again felt guilty for working out on a Sunday, justified it because I'm out of town and couldn't go to church, came back to my room, practiced handstands against the wall, changed into pajamas, and opened up my computer to write you back. No kidding. That was my waste of a day. Hopefully writing you back will be a bit redemptive.

After seeing the Julie & Julia flick with The Husband for his birthday (no kidding, his choice--must have something to do with the red and white checkered apron he was wearing in the photo I posted yesterday), as we were driving home, engaged in our post-picture-show commentary, I stated, That Avis was adorable.

Who was Avis? he asked. (How could he not remember? The movie ended 8 minutes ago.)

The pen pal. She was adorable.

Yeah . . . (Poor fellow doesn't care but doesn't want to shut me down altogether.)

She is like Rabid. I was excited to meet her like Julia was to meet Avis. Only we didn't write for 8 years. Rabid is my Avis.

May you all find an Avis. May each and every one of you discover a friend with whom you feel comfortable saying just about anything. Or anything, rather, as I've yet to find something I wouldn't feel comfortable writing or uttering to my Avis.

FOAMING FRIENDSHIP, PART 5 OF 5

• THE REAL RABID •

So entrenched in the meaning I’d assigned it, the lunch date arrived.

I walked into California Pizza Kitchen to, for the first time, meet in-person someone who's already very good friend.

This encounter was unique for me, for it’s the only instance of my sitting down for a first-time meeting and, after clarifying a few details, picking up where we left off. Have you ever met someone for the first time that you already knew? Of course I didn’t know everything, there were and are and will always be blanks to fill, but I had the basic structure of this woman, and I was eager to glean more. For I’d come to know someone intriguing. And when you meet an interesting person, or at least when I do, you want to hear and know more. It’s why I was there.

When I’ve spoken about this friend to my husband or my sisters I always call her by the name she uses online, rabidrunner, or Rabid (because I feel that by now it’s okay to be on a first-name basis). Thing is, I lied to you earlier; "Rabid" is not actually her name. (You're disappointed, I know.) I’ve known her name, first last and middle, for a while now, but have never felt comfortable using it. Thus far to me, she’s Rabid.

Thing is, it’s a little awkward to call someone “Rabid” in person. The eavesdroppers every restaurant has might think I was name calling or that Swine flu isn’t the only thing they should be needlessly worrying about. She encouraged me to use her first name. I rolled it around in my mouth once or twice, and then I discarded it. For now. It will take a turn or two for me to be comfortable with the change. For the last year she’s been Rabid. Since it's much prettier and less insulting, I’d much rather use her given name, it’s just a little alien right now.

So how did it go? you must be wondering, this encounter on whose behalf you elevated your heart rate?

Good(?). I think so. Maybe. I'm not sure enough of myself to say so definitively. I regret a little over 50% of what I said (the Talker's Remorse being part of my standard, the difference here being that generally I only regret 25-30% of my utterings). I have no doubt that I said too much and revealed a thought or two that she found distasteful (and if she didn’t is actually a really bad person and even more of a kindred soul than I initially thought). I especially regret the part where I scared her into thinking I stalk her.

And I’m quite sure that for the last hour and a half (it was a 3 hour lunch--near the end we were bumping against snack and nap time, two things adult society is too often without) she was looking around the restaurant for a gag or an escape hatch. That being my fear, why in the world would I postulate that the encounter went well? Well, because I enjoyed myself. And don’t regret doing it. And would do it again. And want to hear more. And want to discuss more things. And hear opinions. And throw around ideas. And postulate. Theorize. Agree. Disagree. Converse.

My world, our world, needs more people whose intellect can facilitate thrilling conversations and to whom I feel an deep emotional appreciation. People who I like for more reasons than one or two surface spots. For my part I think this maiden encounter went well because I left the restaurant, garlic breath and all, liking this Rabid just as much, if not more, as I did before I stepped through CPK's revolving door.

And when I invited her to Sparks for a visit, were she self-loathing enough to want a nine hour drive, strangely enough, I—a person who values her home as a sanctuary, a private place—really meant it.

FOAMING FRIENDSHIP, PART 4 OF 5

• PREPPING FOR THE REAL RABID •
Good grief, now I’m really nervous, for this gal I like so well knows the real me, sure, but it is the edited me. It is the me of intention. It is the me of On Purpose. It is the me that gets to backspace and rewrite and revise. Unscripted, tangible interactions don’t work like that. Terrific. I’m sure I’m going to be a giant disappointment. She’s going to wonder who the heck she’s been writing to for the last year. And she’ll wish that the face she’d matched with the blog was the turquoise image to the right and no more.

Darn it, my hair is a disaster. I’m in Utah to have it done for heaven’s sake, and it won’t be fixed before our lunch. It’s damaged from the stripping last time. And too light. This isn’t how I actually look! Never mind that my lunch date has seen photos of me on my blog. This is the real thing! And my eyebrows! They’re in desperate need of waxing and that’s not going to be handled until the day after we meet! So I couldn’t possibly meet this friend in worse shape that I’m in. I’m pallid. Currently fat. And oh, great—what should I wear?

Never mind—forget all about—the fact that she’s not pretentious and I suspect that all of the above doesn’t seem to matter to her.

In the end, I shrugged my shoulders in response to my hair and brows and color and skin and shape and wore the first thing I grabbed out of my suitcase, figuring that WYSIWYG was going to have to do, for I’ve never been adept at maintaining airs (though I can slip ‘em on like a pair of flip flops).

Well here we go, I thought, if this Rabid ends up seeing that she can’t possibly be the friend of someone so sloppy . . . Oh well, I’ll never have to see her again. I can just get on with getting over it.

But the nonchalance my Oh well was dressed in was a silly disguise, for I’ve come to value this relationship such that I’d mourn its demise. Some things just dress themselves in significance. This thing is one of those.

FOAMING FRIENDSHIP, PART 3 OF 5

• THE RABID ENCOUNTER •
If you’re a steady reader you know that I have a friend named Rabid. No kidding, that’s what is actually printed on her birth certificate.

Maybe you’ve picked up on the fact that though we’re bona fide friends, we’ve never met in person. We have a relationship I truly value, yet this person, this Rabid, only exists in the glow of my screen.

She found my blog a little over a year ago, and over the course of the last year I’ve subscribed to and read hers. I've even rifled through her archives. She’s read mine. We’ve commented and responded to comments. And through these bits of back and forth I’ve discovered a someone that I’m fond of. She’s thoughtful. As honest as they come. Cynical with a lighthearted streak. Intelligent. Bright. (Intelligent and bright are different things, you know.) Witty as all hell. And pretty. (Which I suppose is more annoying than great, but I’ve heard it said that you shouldn’t try to change people, so we’ll leave her as she is.)

We’ve joked (or maybe it was just me joking and she was serious) about meeting up offline. We’ve mentioned the things we should review when we find ourselves face to face. I was kidding of course, because meeting someone—fleshing them out—I fear can lead to disappointment (not for me but for the other party). And because I would like to exist as the Me I present on Remarks from Sparks, I merely played with the idea of a face-to-face with this cruelly-named person I legitimately consider my friend.

But then, last week, a wave of the atypical came over me and I behaved as I usually don’t. I toed outside my unadventurous norm and asked this friendly flicker of my monitor out to lunch.

At the end of an email so long that an average person wouldn’t be able to make it all the way through in one reading, I hesitated a moment and, with the kind of deep breath usually reserved for forays deep under water, I typed out, Got lunch plans on Friday? Smacked Enter, tapped out Meg and sent it off before I could reconsider.

Though I come off online as pretty brash and often inconsiderate, I' m actually mortified of inconveniencing anyone; so after I gave the letter to the courier, I promptly descended into freak-out mode . . . I so should not have asked her to lunch! What if she doesn’t actually want to go and feels obligated since we’ve thrown together this online relationship? What if she thinks I’m just annoying and presumptuous and says No? Why in the world did I send that?! I just put an innocent person in an awkward position! And for the next few hours, as I slogged through the nine hour drive to Elk Ridge, each time that my phone whistled with a new email, my heart lept a little. Was it her response? Was she completely creeped out by my invitation? Does she wonder why she’s wasted so many taps grasping letters making words in emails directed at me?

When her response did come I was a tad nervous to open and read, for I deal poorly with rejection and I was confident that this person would manufacture a really terrific, even altruistic, reason that she wasn’t free, kindly rescuing me from embarrassment and keeping her safe distance. Or that if she did say Yes, she was doing it just to be sweet, not because she thought it was any kind of good idea to hear my sayings as they actually fell from my lips and discover the shade of grey my eyes command. The brain in this head was in fretful overdrive although I really did have better things lined up to keep it occupied. Really.

Turns out what she wrote back was an acceptance of my invitation.

Oh my friggin’ gosh, I thought, I’ve got a date.

FOAMING FRIENDSHIP, PART 2 OF 5

• ENCOUNTERS •
Though the instances are rare, there have been a few cases when the stars have lined up just right, and, of the treasures that stay, one or two morph from reader to friend.

I find it happens like this: the reader finds my blog, they don't find it overly offputting, they leave a comment, I follow their comment back to the blog they keep and make a comment myself, this tells them that I might be attentive, they appreciate that and return to Remarks. Maybe they make another comment. And I see that comment as necessitating a private email response. And once I’ve emailed, they email back. And the volley begins.

We start a relationship online offline (tell me you understood that). Much like conversation when first meeting a person in person, the initial emails are made of just the surface material. But because I’m so enamored with the truth of people and profundity, I share a bit more of my interworkings than they'd find on the blog (believe it or not, there is actually more). And then they do the same. And I do. And then they do. And I discover a that the fingers behind the emails are attached to a body with a like mind, and that it's also one that I can appreciate, respect, be stimulated by--in essence: fall for. And before anyone realizes it, there’s the bud of friendship built with bricks of honest-to-goodness honesty. A relationship that has substance and value.

I'm good at being civil when I feel civility's merited, but I am not skilled at making friends. I think it's because I don't do Casual Acquaintance well. The friendships I value are those in which delving conversations are the standard not the exception. Those interactions provide the growth and benefits that I believe substantial human relationships are for. A quality relationship is one wherein both parties leave conversations feeling as if they received more than they gave. I have a just few of these, and I will go far out of my way to do for and help the people attached to those kinships; for because of their rarity, I understand their value.

My blog has facilitated the lengthy process of igniting or rekindling of a few of this type of relationship. But although I reap great gain from these scarce friendships--the old and new--for the most part they remain online in the intangible.

Until one takes the leap to make 'em tangible.

FOAMING FRIENDSHIP, PART 1 OF 5

• SETTING THE STAGE FOR ENCOUNTERS •
The Husband has never liked that I blog. He’s less than enthused that I craft paragraphs built of my details and recklessly leave them on the internet for every-flavor freaks to lap up and utilize. He’s more cautious than that, preferring to keep his ideas, opinions, experiences, and embarrassments in the private realm.

He’s also a bit paranoid.

For he isn’t okay with me using his name on my blog. (Which is a little strange, because though I appreciate the notion of using nicknames for your kids online as protection, I am convinced that should a stranger with candy approach The Husband and call him by name (having learned it from my blog), my spouse is not going to follow the sweets into the stranger's car, later prompting the first-ever Amber Alert for a 32-year-old man.) So I recently went through the mind-numbing hassle of removing all mentions of his first name. I sure do love the guy.

For myself, as a general rule in the past, I was protective of my particulars, but I’ve discovered that the hefty personal payback of my blog deftly outweighs its risks. What I’ve fashioned here serves as the journal I’ve never been any good at keeping—a store of reminders, rememberings, and so very many revisions. My beloved vomitorium.

To the chagrin of my spouse, I’ve embraced blogging with the voracity I award most things I do, not being a halfway kind of gal. I post frequently. I post very honestly. I have given the world a reasonably accurate portrait if this Sparkler. When a visitor lands at remarksfromsparks.com, who they find isn’t a contrived caricature of a someone in Sparks; it’s the authentic her, made up of what she thinks, likes, feels, sees, and says.

Throughout the nascent existence of my online persona (a darn good reflection of the offline one), cohabitants of the Blogosphere have stumbled into this space, and some of them have stayed, becoming a part of the community that we’ve made.

Being the curious, analytical thing that I am, I use a tracker to see who comes from where, how long they stayed, and where the went when they left. Most of the time I forget the tracker's there, but if I’m making one of my enthusiastic efforts at avoiding devoting attention to the truly vital stuff of my life, I find it’s easy to fall into my SiteMeter, getting lost in the dig. I find thrills in implementing the tools of information for what they’re for: gathering up data of all sorts, the whatnot itching to be mined.

So because of this, I know that most folks who come across this blog don’t stick around, instead moving on. Sometimes they even tell me why. (I’m offensive.) (And I use parentheses too often.) (Okay, no one has accused me employing parentheses too much; but I think that someone should, for they’d be right.) (Have I yet told you that I’m one who sees words when listening and speaking? I see the actual letters. But I also see the punctuation. So there are times that I see parts of my paragraphs in parenthesis. And those are the times when you’ll hear my voice change to match the in-between-nature of the parenthetical pause.) But the readers who do stay, despite offense and parentheses, are treasures.

(Yes, of course, I do mean you.)

FROM KEYBOARD TO PEN

Wow. I just took a relationship from the blogosphere to the land of the hand-written world.

And I must confess that as I scrawled my return address my brain uttered some kind of prayer that RabidRunner is the pretty lady I've seen a photo of and not some creepy freak who will come and kill me in my sleep. (The Husband has made efforts to instill a hearty paranoia in me and I've taken to it nicely.)

And Rabid, if you are some psycho who doesn't run marathons, have a husband whose heels hurt, or have a couple Yahoos to rear, I refer you to my gun photos posted last week. Break into my house and try to off or harm me and I'll leave a hole where your head used to be. It's within my rights. I researched this.

Anyhow, as I sat at my desk, favorite Wellbutrin XL gel pen in hand and nifty Night Owl card ready for tattooing, to write out a thank-you note to my online friend for her musical celebration of my birthday, I stopped to consider which handwriting to use.

See, I have four different handwriting "fonts" of my own. Similarly to how we alter our register by circumstance when speaking/writing, I put into play my appropriate penmanship per situation/recipient.

• Do I use the distinctive caps mixed with lowercase letters and capital As and Hs that often confuse the heck out of readers? (Is that the Greek letter Delta? Is that a U?)

• As this is a traditional thank-you note, do I use my swirly formal font that takes so much longer to write out than any handwriting should?

• Do I go with my version of Cursive, my day-to-day font: a mix of cursive letters, print letters, desperate swooshes, furious loops and illegibility that is often a hindrance in my own efforts at what-the-heck-does-that-say?

• Or do I use my precise grade-school-esque handwriting which is juvenile yet easy to decipher?

Each font reveals a bit of me and my feelings about my relationship to what I'm writing and who is receiving it:

• The Caps font is hip but precise, and it says that I'm putting the time into this note, but, for your enjoyment, I'm also leaving the stamp of my terribly unique personality.

• The Swirly Formal font is stuffy and pretty, and it tells the recipient that I am taking this note seriously and am issuing a very formal thanks for your kindness. It's the one I use the least often, and to me, when I use it it says that I am treating this particular circumstance as a unique event.

• The Everyday Cursive is grown up in its illegibility and maintains a lot of personality in it's untidiness and flagrant Ys, Ts, and Gs. It states that I dashed off this note pretty quickly, but I felt comfortable enough with you to give you my day-to-day self, letter-dropping scratch and all.

• The Grade School font is a mix of adult/child aesthetics. It reveals that I carefully carved out each letter in the note, encouraging the reader to see me as organized, academic, yet maintaining a sense of humor about myself.

So when writing RabidRunner my first tangible communication, which font did I employ?

Guess, if you wish. Or she can read this and tell you outright. (That is, if Rabid still reads my blog, has received the note (assuming The Husband actually did toss it in the mail as I think he did rather than my other suspicion that I wrote the note, addressed it, and then promptly misplaced it) and I did a good job delineating the unique features of each style so the woman's able to discern which one she ended up with.)

Cheers.