Where were you when the 5.8 magnitude Earthquake quaked? / Poem: Stormy

The Rebels were storming the Gaddafi compound.

Dan called and told me about it. He and his colleagues in Huntingdon Valley, PA, felt it around 1:50 pm. Five seconds of a shaking floor.

I sent a tip to Patch.com, the paper I write for.

Sarah was in her living room in Brooklyn. "It was really scary," she emailed me.

She and husband Ethan have huge floor-to-ceiling book-cases in the living room.

"I was scared they'd topple over," she wrote.

Well, I didn't feel nuffin. Read about it on the Times.

Actually boyfriend Scott, who lives next door, felt it. He was lying in bed catching up on his sleep since he works graveyard at SEPTA, and his bed began to shake and the metal clasps on his dresser began to jingle.

When he came downstairs, he saw my visitor Joan at my birdbath. She was giving Kalie, the miniature husky who lives across the street, a drink from the birdbath!

Joan, a visitor from Florida, was locked out of the house. She came over until Nancy came home to unlock the door.

They stayed outside while I was on major phone duty for my support group, helping one lovely woman in particular with her son.

She said our talk was very helpful. Her husband, who's a very successful businessman, and she are flying to the republic of Singapore next week.

Why?

Because he can't find any work in America, thank you very much, don't be bitter, Hillary-lover, Republican-hater, don't be bitter.

I AM BITTER. Fortunately we don't have riots here anymore like in Europe. Not yet.

So I help make Joan comfortable on my new benches outside. Bring her a glass of ice water and a bowl of water for the dog.

She pours her ice into the dog's bowl. Kalie loves chewing it.

I'm also making potato salad inside and fielding phone calls.

Every time I go inside I do a lil something more to the potato salad, stirring in the mayo-mustard-garlic dressing along w/the fresh-picked basil growing on my porch.

Finally assembled, I take a huge bite. Delicious!

Rob, if you like potato salad, I'll make you some next time you come over with your fob. Yes, he has the same 'key ring' as the Mini-Coop we talked about earlier. (This is one long book I'm writing on here.)

Pas vraiment. Every time I post something, they ask me if I wanna make a book of it.

Google Blogger: I will write my own book in my own time.

Funny you should mention this. Just signed up today for a Non-Fiction Writing Class at Temple University's Fort Washington campus. Teacher is Richard Bank. I wrote and asked him if I could work on my kidney book with him.

Yes, he said. The project is viable and salable.

The woman Joan who was locked out across the street has lived in Florida for 53 years and has a PT job at DisneyWorld.

Boy, you have a good memory, she said.

And, I said, you had a German Shepherd named Stormy. She was flabbergasted.

I had written a poem about her. I spent 25 minutes going thru many of my poetry files. They are in every room of the house except the kitchen. Totally unorganized. Is it worth it to get them in order? They're probly unpublishable, unless I sneak them into the kidney book.

STORMY

It mattered not
where we lived
so long as we had each other,
and settled in hurricane country
traveling the narrow corridors
of our purring
Winnebago.

How we enjoyed
sitting outside with our coffee
invincible
till the hurricane brought down
the awnings one year.

No matter.
We gazed at each other grow wrinkles
just the touch of his hand
as if all those years never passed and
he'd never die

like he did one morning
over a bowl of cornflakes
face went blue
body heaved forward
no longer a man
an oak uprooted.

Have you ever smelled the perfume of
the harbor and the oranges drifting
your way?

I couldn't smell it anymore.
Friends kept me going.
I pushed myself out of
that bed where he
put his arm around me and said
You look prettier this morning
than the day we met.

As if he knew his demise was at hand
he brought me a puppy.
"Stormy" from the pound.
That dog rescued me.
Became my pal. Drove with me
everywhere, eyes watching mine.
Stormy led me out
of the lonesome new land:

the land without Edward.

My Back Surgery Article published on Patch.com

I learned my lesson. Always wear sox when walking. Otherwise...blisters. Photo shows these noxious plants which left untended will take over my garden. They surround the watering can and green hosta plant.

Click here for Back Surgery Article.

I sent out copies of my article to loads of people, including one to Jean at Abington Presbyterian Church where we hold our New Directions meetings.

A funny thing happened at our last meeting.

The doors were locked.

Our sexton, Nelson, was on vacation, but luckily for us, he was home when we phoned him. I know his last name, so I was able to ask the 411 operator.

Then me and Jim drove over to his apartment complex, popped him in the front seat, and drove him back to the church.

He needed to personally let us in and was very specific on how to lock the door.

So we had our meeting after all. It was too dark and bug-filled to meet on the grass.

In my Patch article, I mention some neighbors 7 doors up the hill from me.

When I went for my after-lunch walk up n down Cowbell, I put a note on the outside of their mailbox. .

Look, I was a canvasser for Obama so I've done things like this before.

And do not ask me if my first and only choice, Hillary, would be doing a better job than Obama.

As I'm walking up the street I re-read my letter, which read something like:

Hi, I'm your neighbor and live at 204 Cowbell. I wrote an article about my back surgery. You're in it. You'll like what I wrote. Please email me at RuthDeming@comcast.net and I'll send you the link.

Then I said to myself, How presumptuous! How do I know they'll like it. How do I know they want to be written about?

They get home around the time most working people do. We'll see if they come after me.

I clipped the roses this morning so they wouldn't scratch Mailman Ken. Brought a sprig inside and put it inside a jelly jar that Sarah left behind. Looks great. Click a couple times to enlarge. It's to the right of the robin's nest.

Precious moments with Sarah and Ethan / Poem: Cardboard Houses

Sarah and Ethan borrowed Lisa's Mini-Cooper and drove in from Brooklyn. Ethan asked if I wanted to drive it. First test, he said, is figuring out how to use the keys.

Back in Brooklyn, he said, Sarah had handed him the keys she got from Lisa. It took him 10 minutes to figure out how to start the car.

Keyhole is on the dash. You stick the entire black fob in the ignition, put your foot on the brake, and simultaneously press Start.

Did you know that, Rob?

The car handled very well. I loved driving it. So did Scott and my son Dan.

Ethan said, "It's a cute car, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said, "it's the kind of car where you look at it and think, 'What a wonderful world we live in.'"

I drove us to Flori's for breakfast. Sarah was still asleep so we brought her back b'fast which she enjoyed. That's my new go-to place for breakfast.

The late pianist Bud Powell, born in Harlem (1924-66), was born into a musical family and was "the Charlie Parker of the piano." Sadly, he was also mentally ill, suffering from either bipolar or schizophrenia.

Despite spending a third of his life in mental institutions, he recorded and wrote prolifically. One of his compositions, according to Wiki, is Hallucinations.

He would often recuperate from his illness in Willow Grove, at his mom's house.

Ethan and I stopped our Mini-Cooper in front of the house. He snapped a few photos, as one pianist to another.

The house is quite lovely and large.

After we got home, we had a surprise visit from:

After they left, I read Sarah and Ethan two poems. They actually didn't mind hearing them.

First, I read my newest poem, Cardboard Houses, which I presented at my Writers' Group yesterday.

Then I read them Before Pinsky Went On, about the former poet laureate reading at Bucks County Community College.

When I finished, Ethan said it reminded him of a long-forgotten memory. When he was in second grade and growing up in Minnesota, his mom took him to hear a reading by then-famous poet and translator John Ciardi.

How cool, he thot. This guy has a job where he just writes poetry and reads it aloud to an audience.

Now, of course, Ethan plays jazz piano, and plays it with his band to an audience.

At our party yesterday, I sat at a table with Julio. When Ethan walked by, I whispered in his ear (that was the only way you could hear): He's a famous jazz musician.

Suddenly, Julio took note!

Americans love FAME.

When the band took an intermission and were eating at one of the tables, we all had a chance to talk. Ethan was pleased that I had liked his choice of mystery novels for me to read while in the hospital: Detective X and the Wallander books.

"Scott and I also love the Jack Reacher books by Lee Child. Dyou know them?"

"Sure do," said Ethan. "They're gonna make them into movies."

Scott and I gasped. Who would play Reacher?

Well, with Ethan you have to guess.

Reacher is very tall, around 50 or more, massively built, awkward on his feet, thick dark hair, a face that's not necessarily handsome, and he's not interested in sleeping with most women b/c he's after one woman.

We couldn't think of anyone.

Think of someone from a cult, said Ethan.

John Travolta? He wouldn't be bad. He was brutal in Pulp Fiction and he's a great actor.

No, it's not Travolta. What's the name of the cult?

Scientology.

Well, said Ethan, who's a famous Scientologist?

Not Tom Cruise, said Scott.

Tom Cruise, said Ethan. Totally miscast.

He's always smiling, said Scott. Reacher wouldn't smile.

Well, I said, I guess they want the movie to sell. Do people still like Tom Cruise? I have no idea since I just landed here.


CARDBOARD HOUSES

Pulled by mysterious forces from
my nighttime bed
I sleepily descend the stair
open the front door
and peek as a stranger
into the dark night.

A misty, charcoal world
lay before me
no moon
no stars
was this the earth I knew so well?

Two houses like cardboard cutouts
grinned at me from
across the street
windows dark
tilting slightly toward the other.

Had they just landed?
Were they sturdy or
in imminent danger of
collapse?
Did they see me or
have any regard for me?

I closed the door.
Opened it again.
They hadn’t left.
Was it my imagination or
did I hear them laughing
under the cloudless sky?

At the Writers' Group, we write comments on copies of a poem to help the poet. He can then choose whether to use them or not.

Here are some comments from my poets, with my answers:

ONE: Putting a different spin on what we see on a regular basis is very good.

TWO: I love the first line. Love this, too. Mysterious. Interesting ending written from poet's eyeview. Great. I love the way you write. I'd like to write the same way.

Answer: You have your own unique style. Stick to it.

THREE: The word "Mysterious." Would another word be better?

Answer: I agree, but I couldn't think of any.

FOUR: You make a mind picture of a dark night. "Did they have any regard for me?" Would "thought" be a better word?

Answer: No. Regard is what I wanted, i.e., affection, but regard is a milder term than affection.

FIVE: It is a very deep piece in the memory you brought up as a subtext. I'm curious, what inspired you in writing this piece?

Answer: I opened the door on a dark night and saw two houses across the street that looked like cardboard cutouts.

FIVE continued: How old were you?

Answer: 65 and a half.

FIVE continued: What's very stunning is how much character you give to the houses - and with such personality. Interesting as you see this as a poetry "self portrait" - what a neat way to look at it.

Answer: When I was halfway through the poem I began receiving unconscious messages that the poem was really about me. I tried to shut off the message and just write. I've always believed my House poems are about me, including The Tyvek House, Houses on the Corner, and about 30 others.

Does your marriage need a pick-me-up? Renew your vows with Sarah Deming

Here's my niece Nikki renewing her vows w/ husband Steve Roche. Sarah was the 'minister.' They're standing in a chuppah, which reflects Nik's half-Jewish heritage. The other half? Ecuadorean, of course.

I'm waiting now for my timer to go off. It means The Pudding is Cool, my favorite dessert. Pre-kidney operation I couldn't use milk (high in phosphorus). I tried making pudding with the weird milks - almond and rice. The pudding was drinkable, it would not harden.

Poolside. Sarah and Ethan are straight ahead. They're talking to Roberto Herman Cartegena, the former husband of my sister Donna.

Herman had a diagnosis of prostate cancer. Turns out, after a second opinion, the diagnosis was wrong. The doctor actually would've performed a costly, time-consuming procedure on Herman that he didn't need.

Guests were asked to wear black and white.

After Scott, my mom and I arrived and the ceremony concluded, I headed for the or-derve table, but the crowd was so friendly they kept stopping me to say hello and give hugs.

Actually, they were all asking about my kidney operation. All the Cartagenas knew - from New York to Connecticut!

Best food of all was at the or-derve table where I stocked up on cukes, red peppers, and cheese. I was saving my carbs for dinner and mom's cupcakes.

Mom's head is in bottom corner of below foto.

Never tell people, My pictures are awful.

My pictures are awful. And I forgot to fotograf Julio, Giselle, Melissa, my mom, Lou, Jill, and many others.

Again, ya gotta decide how to use your time.

Nikki, the bride is ascending the stairs, wearing the same size dress as she did on her wedding day.

I weighed 104 lbs and wore a $5 dress my father brought home when he briefly worked in NYC for Evan-Piccone. It was size 7. I now weigh 132. Now that I can walk I'll shed a few more pounds.

"Not too many," said Scott, who, like Mr Rogers, likes me just the way I am.

Scott thought their house was beautiful, even tho the downstairs toilet hasn't worked in a couple years.

Me, my new kidneys, don't have to go for many many hours.

Excuse me, a sec.

The house the Roches live in is the same one Steve grew up in. His parents sold it to him. Ethan conversed with one of Steve's childhood friends who said Steve was a star Q'back in high school.

Ah, here's Nikki now, with her former principal Mercedes who had gotten schoolteacher Nikki a great job as an elem. school teacher, and Ted, Mercedes' husband.

This is Priscilla, Giselle and Julio's daughter. Her baby Scarlett is 18 days old. One of the Cartagena men is standing with her. Is it Santiago? Or, Jamie, Oscar, or Tony? The four boys and Maritza are the children of Carmella and her late husband, whose name I forget, who died while on dialysis. I last saw them two years ago at Melissa's wedding. Scott drove us there, too, across the Tapanzee Bridge. We got outstandingly lost.

Giselle and Julio Guerrero are now divorced. Giselle is from Lebanon and taught me to cook w/cinnamon. This is the oldest of their three children, the b'ful Jacqueline.

Dancing on the grass. Off-camera is a band Steve hired for the party. Sarah and Ethan dance w/our good friend Carlos Guerrero (half-brother of Julio).

In the background is Carlos's wife, Barbara Postel, an artist. I wrote an article about her years ago for the New Hope Gazette.

They live in a gorgeous house in Pt Pleasant, PA, they built themselves. Carlos is very handy.

The music you're listening to? Keith Jarrett's Koln Concert. And, yes, the pudding was delicious. I limited myself to two bowls. And now I'm going in for the cashews.

Wasn't sure my back was ready for dancing, but Carlos pulled me onto the dance floor as I knew he would.

Random shot from the grassy knoll.

We sat and ate at tables with flowers on them. Once mom sits down she doesn't move cuz of her bad legs. I understand!

At one point, she laffed and said sarcastically, "This is the part Ellen loves!"

The rock band had just begun and played so loud you couldn't hear yourself talk. My sister Ellen didn't come. My other sister Lynn was in a poker tournament. She's a couple rounds away from getting 50 grand and going to Vegas.

Wanted: A Crepe Myrtle before the end of summer - Flori's Restaurant / Poem: Before Pinsky Went On

These socks were made for walking. That's my pot of basil within easy reach on the front porch.

It's tough naming each blogpost.

Here's a few samples:

- What's the point of having a gardener if he cuts down your peony bush, your astilbe, your groundcover, and leaves in the voracious weeds that are taking over my.....oh no!.....they've just come inside and and are coming closer and closer an.....

- Dedicated to my friend Stephen Weinstein

- Movie-mania: Play Misty For Me (first movie directed by Clint Eastwood) - the BBC's Inspector Lynley series, just fantastic! - Curb Your Enthusiasm w/ Larry David, seeing the first six or so is quite enuf, thank you. My shame-and-humiliation tolerance level is burned out by then, tho Scott keeps on laffing.

Yesterday was spent trying to get a New Directions member, who is suffering every minute of the day, a psychiatric consultation. Luckily we keep a Top Doc list, so I went thru it, and called up doctor's offices.

The worst experience was when I called the answering service for Arlene Bennett. I stated the rather lengthy problem to the service, after which she said, The doctor 'will be away' until the 22nd. Look, g'dammit, smart people interrupt and cut to the chase.

What finally happened is the guy checked himself into the hospital. I did not want this to happen b/c I wanted him to find ONE GOOD DOCTOR who would successfully medicate him.

My new favorite psychiatrist, with whom I communicated, is Dr David Abel.

The photo below is of my young family doctor, The Fox, who has two sons, ages 6 months and 4 yrs old. He met his wife in medical school.

James Foxhall, MD

Jim is definitely the best family doctor I've ever had, with the possible exception of Doctor Doolittle.

While in the waiting room, I learned a couple of things. From their constantly blaring TV, I learned which nail on our hand grows the fastest.

Before I tell you the answer, look at your hands, including your thumb.

Which is the fastest growing?

1 2 3 4 5 ?

It is 3.

Read Ebony mag. The most interesting article I read was about wealthy black men dating. How to find someone who wasn't after their money. Out of necessity and to keep shallow, materialistic women out of their lives, they wouldn't reveal their wealth.

One guy made himself out to be successful but not rich. On the day of his proposal, he gave his fiancee a huge diamond. He also confessed that in addition to his nice apartment he also had, like, a 23-room mansion.

Saw The Fox today for my post-op visit. We discussed many things.

I showed him a huge black n blue mark where I'd injected insulin and asked why?

You injected into a vein, he said.

I pulled up my shirt and showed him my belly. Are there any there, I asked.

Yes, he said, but DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT.

That made me feel good.

I told him my blood pressure ran low when Ginger measured it: 104 over 64.

After a chat, we decided to stop my Toprol XR and see what happens. My new kidney is doing such a great job that she's a'controlling my blood pressure like a champ. I'll have to tell Sarah!

In fact, I was feeling so good when I left his office that I stopped at the new Flori's Restaurant at the corner of Old York and Terwood, 5 minutes away from home.

Several years ago a Shell gas station was on the corner.

They're barely making it, tho they've been in the food biz forever.

The food was excellent. Why is it that impaled in our genes is the necessity to try and convert people? Is it just MY genes, or are you like that, too?

Here's Flori (Americanized name for her Roumanian name) making my organic chicken sandwich on a brioche.

I ordered first and then went home to shoot up, then drove back. The book is for my book discussion group.

I still can't think of a title for this post.

Submitted my Back Surgery story to Patch.com. It'll be a huge surprise to Foxhall that his photo will be in it. I told him the picture I was taking was for my blog. (Oh, look! Withholding information like the wealthy black guys!)

I actually didn't think of it till I was driving home.

*
From 1997 to 2000, Robert Pinsky (b. 1940) was poet laureate of the US, and a great one at that.

I heard him read at Bucks County Community College. I've been going thru my poetry files and dug this one out about him, which I rather like.

BEFORE PINSKY WENT ON

Part One

I sat in my seat and watched the others
getting ready for the arrival of the
former poet laureate of the
United States of America,
a grand land, if only for allowing
Pinsky to be their poet and
Robeson to star on black and white stamps.
You can't beat a nation like that!

The thrill of seeing Pinsky in this
dim, poorly lit auditorium was more than
I could bear
so I stood up and stretched my
yellow-sweatered, jeaned self
and walked out for one last smoke,
even though I don't. But this is what
would be considered a last minute
cigarette break if one did smoke.

And as I exited the packed auditorium
and into the dimly lit lobby
with real wood paneling all around
I chanced to come one on one
with the laureate.
I only need a quick look.
A quick touching of eyes.

He was a man
barely taller than I with a
wildness radiating around him
a halo of wildness
his head long
rather like my flawed
brother David's.

And I squinted my eyes and
snorted, you clever girl,
you and your cigarette breaks
that led you to the real thing.
A navy backpack slung across
his arm.

Part Two

When Pinsky was through
and did his namastes to the audience
and no one whooped
and he left
encoreless
I felt there should be a mass jubilation
for the poet
for what he had done for us that particular evening
as well as his fine accomplishments five years prior
in waking up the oblivious world
the sleeping well-kept world of the Suburu and
the SUV and the taking down and
dismantling of even big homes
to put in much larger homes
waking us to poetry and the possibilities inherent
before eternity nails us.

But the audience was chaste
though some looked like poets in scarves. Carolyn and I
saw folks we knew from poetry groups across
two counties. She talked to her poets, I to mine.
One was a poet with such beautiful teeth
I hoped she didn't mind I fell in love with them
and her for a whole three minutes.

A Perfect Day for Hot Chocolate / Poem: Simon it's Raining

Be careful not to burn the pan. I always do. But, man, is this delicious! I'm sitting by the open door while the rain cleanses the world. My former boyfriend Simon used to shower in his backyard in the rain. It's in the novel. I had him using Irish Spring cuz it smells so good.

I'm going thru my old poems, one by one. Am gonna load another one about my former psychiatrist, Larry, but on Larry's page. Simon also saw Larry. We were once two manic-depressives in love.

And Simon's manic-depression went away before mine did. He simply stopped taking his meds and the damn beast never returned.

SIMON, IT'S RAINING

In the early days
when you wore a black mustache
and a shirt that was bluer than the Mediterranean
you would call to me:
Little Girl,
sit with me on the back porch
and help me watch the rain.

From wherever I was,
I'd come to you down the flights
of stairs and find you,
a king in your peacock chair
watching the miracle of the
soft rain settle in our backyard.

I'd climb into
the largesse of your lap
into the largeness of your being
of your arms
that swallowed me whole
moreso than a screened-in porch
or a yellow house with slanting roof
or a plantation in South America
with green banana trees
and coffeebean pods
swaying high on trees
just beyond my hands' reach.

Those arms
they were all
we ever needed
back then
as together
we slept
in silence
with the rain.

Feb. 16, 2005

Oh, no! The backporch screens need fixing.

"Simon! Where are you?"

"Simon?"

Oops, forgot he died in 2008.

I talked to him constantly for a year after his death. Now I have nothing left to remind me of the man.

Grace's first birthday party

Loads of people turned out this afternoon to celebrate Grace's birthday. I came a little early to help. I never help. So at least I helped.

My job was to watch Grace while Dan n Nicole got ready for the party.

And to spread icing on 66 cupcakes.

Nicole's mom, Barbara, is one of six kids.

Her sister Kat came up from Florida with her boyfriend Tom.

Earringed boyfriend Tom and I had a good talk. He's in the same situation I was a year ago: end-stage renal disease - from diabetes and hypertension - awaiting a kidney transplant from his daughter at The University of Miami's Jackson Memorial Medical Center, "a world leader in organ transplants, performing more than 400 solid organ transplants a year."

Tom's kidneys, however, are failing rather rapidly. Walking is difficult for him due to the toxins building up in his legs. The kidney is unable to filter toxins so they find a home somewhere in the body. He's fallen a couple of times. Going down the steps is harder than up. Different leg muscles.

We each shared medication lists. I showed him my antirejection meds and explained what each was for. He showed me his diabetes medicine, including a new pill he is taking instead of shooting insulin: Glimipiride.

I kept his list and when I got home from the party emailed my diabetes doctor and asked her if I might go on this med, rather than inject insulin.

Sarah arrived early by train from NY. She was in charge of making the icing on Grace's individual large cake. The merry revelers were served cupcakes. I had iced them all, two colors yet: pink and purple.

I told Nicole I hoped she wouldn't fire me. It's harder than you think to spread icing on. And I couldn't lick my fingers b/c there's too much sugar for my diabetes.

Dan served Yingling beer to the guests, or a special home-made dark stout one of his workmates produced. My blood sugar was running so high I couldn't even have a sip, darn!!!

I met so many toddlers. A few are Sullivan, Maya, Hillyer, Kenny, and Rebecca.

The joke was, Will any child play with something more than 10 seconds?

Aunt Kat with the birthday girl.

The calm before the storm.

Oh, hello, Mom. How do you do?

Here's Jane munching on a cupcake. She lives on Guernsey Road in Abington where I park when I have an appt at the hospital. Young Sullivan is behind her. Her son Kenny, a year, is off making trouble by the electric piano.

C'est moi in the unaccustomed standing position.

There is an unspoken code among toddlers: might makes right. But after that, love wins out. Then we start all over again.

The Toohey-Demings backyard was devoid of playthings until I went on my morning walk a few days before the party. A neighbor was putting his grandchildren's toys out in the trash.

Guess who got them?



On our way home, Scott drove to one of the Pennypack Park's so I could walk my new back for about 35 minutes.

When I got home I got an interesting letter in the mail. I had submitted my work for free to a place called Writer's Relief of Hackensack NJ.

Here's what they wrote me:

Dear Ruth Deming:

Thank you for your writing samples. Our Review Board found that your writing is strong enough to offer you a place among our Full Service clients. We don't typically offer personalized editorial feedback, but we.....your writing was esp. well-received; you did a great job developing your ideas and you held our attention. (RZ: much better than you do in your endless boring blog posts)

They went on to reassure me they reject 80 percent of all applicants.

Thing is: How can you believe these people? Their review committee may consist of one 12-year-boy, the son of Writer's Relief founder.

When I read the prices to submit my poetry, prose and novel, I gasped and knew I would not go for it.

But, heck, for some reason, I do like these guys. Did they succeed in bowling me over by telling me my ideas were well-developed and held their interest?

They have 5,000 friends on FB. I read a few of the comments and knew I was in trouble when I read one that said: Writer's Relief is terrific. They finally got me back to writing.

Hey distinguished writers! Vat? They're aren't any?