7 QT Friday #20 Poop of Fame edition + Writing Insecurities + Desperate Fashion Designing

It’s Friday! Hooray! I am SO excited to… be sick. Deflating balloon sound.
7 Quick Takes here with Jen at Conversiondiary.


Tonsilitis. S’what I’ve got. I’ve never had’er before. I took a gander at my throat a few nights ago and, mmm! Charming.


As a child, getting sick would be a vacation of movies, books, and Sprite, while laying in bed for a few days, while Mom brought me soup, meds, and a cool washcloth for my head.
Now I have kids.
No pity.
This is one of the reasons why being a mom is the hardest and most sanctifying job in the world. A mom is required, even in her sickness, to serve.  As my sister cried out to the heavens one day as we were commiserating  delighting in the joys of motherhood over coffee, “Moms do not have the immense pleasure of being sick!”
But, for a cause for sainthood, I’ll wipe another rear-end (or three) while my head throbs.
Bigger picture, there, yawl.


Along with feeling like I’ve been hit by a musician’s tour bus and then run over by the caravan of groupies, we had an out-of-diaper experience, similar to Mandi’s poop excursion earlier this week. Read: THE ULTIMATE CAUSE FOR SAINTHOOD.

There I was, clumsily slicing an apple for my two apparently starving boys (who both polished off pb&js not ten minutes before), and I catch a familiar whiff of soiled diaper.

The weathered mother learns to be able to determine the catastrophic magnitude of this natural disaster simply by the varying degrees and notes of the aroma that impact the olfactory bulb. …perhaps I should be working as un nez in a parfumerie…

I knew it was bad before I even looked at the boy.
The X factor I’m leaving out?
Nothing too bad, I was only wearing a light-sleeping 9 month old across my front in a baby carrier.
As I gingerly laid Sir Poopsalot upon the carpet to face the music -boy, WHAT a symphony-, I realized too late that the poo had defied gravity (as these phenomenons always do), snuck up his back, and was now smashed into the carpet.

Combatting rising anxiety levels and proceeding to scrape the first, most dangerous layer  of poop from my toddler’s rear so that I could carry him to the bath tub, the slumbering 9 month old snapped awake, throwing his head and arms back, wailing in frustration of being suspended in such a way: his pacifier flung from his mouth and landed in the poopy coated carpet.
Don’t leave that there.

I couldn’t remove Collin from the carrier because wise mommies know: what can go wrong, most absolutely WILL go wrong.
What more tempting than a moist patch of poopy coated carpet to play about? Ooooh! A new texture!

So Collin continued to squirm as I labored to scrub my Poo-year-old.
Rattling tonsillitis breath, sweat dropping from my brow, I single-handedly seized my now clean toddler from the tub, patted him dry, and released him so that I might tackle cleaning the dirty carpet, baby still wailing in the carrier.
As I’m filling a bowl with hot water, I look up in just enough time to catch a streak of Emmett fully inaugurating himself into the Poo of Fame as he picks up the poopy pacifier and pops it into his mouth.
Collin renewed his wailing-in-my-face efforts.


Does that story top last week’s discovery of Collin proudly standing at the toilet (in which my oldest had just relieved himself), happily sucking on some pee-soaked toilet paper?
I don’t know, I’ll let you decide.


What in the world were you DOING, Carolyn, while your baby was feeding himself from the toilet bowl?
Heck, I don’t know. Maybe trying to not let the house sink further into a state of derelict,

A microcosm is all I have the courage to give you.

A microcosm is all I have the courage to give you.

maybe feed the other two human food inhalers, or bark at them to GET OFF THE TABLE, or maybe just simply feed myself…


OR, maybe I was hacking away on my oldest pair of jeans in desperate attempts to acquire a pair of long-enough shorts. I don’t like the feeling of my legs -which are as likely to be freshly shaved as the laundry in my house is to be folded- chafing together throughout the day.
I saw Princess Sister-in-law last weekend and she let me try on her designer light-wash, slightly torn (I guess that’s coming back?), long boyfriend shorts and I WANTED THEM NOW.
But I’m a nappy-haired momma whose children roll in the deep, while I hack away at high school grade jeans. Jealous of Princess Sis-in-law, much? Nah.  … .. .

knees. ew. Definitely cut off my sick upper-half for this photo.

 Definitely cut off my sickly, nappy-haired upper-half for this photo.

They turned out well, no? –really, someone tell me, “CAROLYN. STOP.” if necessary. I’m blind (as you’ll see in Take 7).
For the record: the poopy/pee incidents occurred separately from my fashion designing attempt. DO note, however, the unfolded laundry in the back. That’s as close to my legs as you’re getting, so don’t ask.


Fine Linen and Purple featured a blog post written by moi. My vey first guest post!

I literally felt like a 13 year old. After I submitted it, I kept having thoughts like:
“Why did you just contribute to a fashion-y blog?!
You are not a fashion-anything.
My writing style is too spastic for a blog like this.
I’m too abrasive.
It’s not going to get posted.
Your writing style confuses people.
Maybe no one gets Frenchy humor.
Maybe no one likes having to work out how to read dialect.
Your writing style is elementary.
Why are you even writing right now?
And then I had a 6th grade flashback: My very first school dance. As the oldest sibling in the house and one of the oldest cousins in the family, I’d had no prior instruction on how to dance. No cool, older sister or cousin who I could mimic.

God, bless us. That's my cousin, Steph, with the rapunzle hair. Doesn't she look adorable, and completely prophetic to 2013!?

God, bless us. That’s my cousin, Steph, with the rapunzle hair. Doesn’t she look adorable, and completely hip to 2013!?

So insert me, in my Kohl’s overalls, carefully chosen shiny black shirt underneath and brown clogs: a 6th grader, dancing in a way that I thought was acceptable to everyone else, bewildered by the macarena, hoping to get asked by my crush to SLOW dance along to a Backstreet Boys ballad and—- “CAROLYN. stop. STOP. IT.”
My best friend had grabbed my hands (which were doing something similar to Seinfield’s Elaine dance), and she was staring me in the face most seriously.


Then it got posted. At 9pm.
And the next morning, a new, different post was up already.


There you have it. My writing insecurities, la.  Though, in all seriousness, it was fun to do!  If you’re interested in something that’s a little bristly compared to the other very moving and inspirational contributions, go take a gander. Do pause to read Katie’s entry about accepting the mom body after giving birth. I struggled with my body image from start to… Ehh. Well. I need to work out, some day. Her words are compassionate and so loving. Go. Get thee yonder!

Have a beautiful summer weekend, everyone!  Come back and see me in a few days for a quick tuto on DIY coffee face scrub. READ: Flattering photos of me with a beard. Yes.


Woah Woah Woah–

HAY GURL, HAYY! I guest blogged for the very first time!

I couldn’t be more excited to contribute to such a lovely, wholesome blog. Fine Linen & Purple: a blog dedicated to inspiring your every day woman (young, old, married, single, mother, working or work at home) to value and embrace her feminine dignity through fashion and healthy body image.  Here’s an excerpt from my entry about my ridiculous fashion prejudices:

When I was six years old, I detested buttons.

Buttons on shirts, buttons on pants, buttons on coats.
It didn’t matter which shape or what color they were, I loathed them.
Not for the reason one might think (that buttons can be difficult for little, impatient fingers),  I thought they looked stupid, but mostly, that they would look stupid on me.

Oversized sweatshirts, and leggings with the stirrups were what lots of girls were wearing (90′s chick here) so you can bet your buttons I was quite enthusiastic about the stirrups as opposed to jeans.  Ah, yes, I fondly recall the uncomfortable yet inevitable annoyance of feeling the stirrup slowly inching its way off of my heel underneath my socks and shoes as I ran across the playground.

So here we are today. I’m 28, button abhorrence forgotten (until this moment). However, I’ve realized I have prejudices about other kinds of clothes– wait, wait, wait…

To read more, get thee to Fine Linen & Purple!

Fashion History of the Bikini, and the Power it Gives to Women.

Captive The Heart shared this excellent video on Facebook today.  I watched it, and having written about the bikini myself, I want to repost my blog from last year, and include this video.  Fashion designer and actress Jessica Rey talks about what we are doing as women when we think nothing of bearing “everything but our mother’s maiden name”.  The bikini gave women power… but what kind of power?  Please take the 9&1/2 minutes to listen to this beautiful, modest woman speak.

Here is Jessica Rey’s website.

And here’s my bikini post from last year (I definitely would have used the “Bathing Machine” Rey talks about, when I was wearing bikinis.  But I wasn’t afraid for the reason she describes.  I was afraid because the power she explains we as women hold when dressed in a bikini, I innately knew I did not enjoy emitting.  The wrong kind of power) Enjoy!:


May 8, 2012

The link at the bottom of this entry is wonderful. It’s actually titled “5 Reasons to Keep Bikini Pictures Off Facebook”

In typical Carolyn-type blogging fashion, I’ma gonna piggy-back off of her entry and expound upon my own thoughts.  It adds wonderfully to my previous post about 5 things I’d like to say to women.

This site offers retro, modest-ish suits... to help start anyone in their search...

Number 3 alone from the Bikini blog is sufficient enough for me to have turned away from the bikini days.
Waltzing around in my underwear in front of the general public- let alone freely POSTING photos of myself in nothing but on Facebook is something I would never do.
So why would I think wearing a bikini is any different? Cause it’s brightly colored, or has frill or a print on it?  sure….

Hey I’m a mom. Yes. Yes I am.

But that doesn’t mean I’m fat and covered in cellulite. This is my third pregnancy, but that doesn’t mean my body is gone to shambles. I am an athlete. My body is blessed with the privilege of muscle memory and rapid recovery. My stretch marks faded to the same color of the rest of my skin. I also don’t over-eat. I’m a tall girl and weighed 123lbs before I became prego with my current little sugar.

So one may assume that I too -mom of three that I am- could wear a bikini if I wanted to.
But I don’t want to.

The truth is, I’ve never found bikinis comfortable in the slightest.
I’ve never enjoyed the feeling of eyes following me around the swimming pool.
I’ve especially detested catching men I don’t know and/or don’t like taking enjoyment out of watching me tiptoe around in my bikini, hoping no one would notice- knowing by their shifting eyes that they indeed have.

I wore a bikini because …um that’s what girls are expected to wear. That’s how I felt anyway.  I -much like the vast majority of young women, I’d like to believe- just did what was “normal” without questioning it …until very recently.  What a blessing and an eye-opener it is to become a mother. It’s made me question my ignorances and strive to be better.  Heaven forbid.  (I see the nazi-fem in the corner tsk-ing and shaking her head in disbelief of my welcomed “oppression”)

I always thought the more modest swimsuits were just plain ugly. …or maybe i just didn’t seek out those other options. I am GLAD to be able to use being a mom as an excuse to wear a bathing suit that covers all of my top and all of my bottom.

Secondly, I feel SO MUCH better about myself wearing a swimsuit that I think is cute AND comfortable.

I remember that literally EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. I arrived at the pool, I dreaded taking my clothes off to reveal my body-in-bikini.

I hated it. (but I wouldn’t let anyone know THAT.)

I would sit as long as I could until maybe there was a chance that no one was looking and I could snatch my shirt and shorts off real quick and hop into the water for cover.

Wearing something that covers the parts of me that I think should only be for the viewing privilege of my husband eases me. I can actually enjoy being at the pool. I can also enjoy a compliment on my swimsuit because I know it must be genuinely given and not in total distraction of the parts of my body that it is NOT covering.

Also, I feel more confident. I remember shopping for a new bikini, expecting to look like the Victoria’s Secret model wearing it in the advertisement. How disappointing it was when I didn’t look like her. Then, upon arriving at the pool, I’d notice other girls who look more like the VS models in their teeny weeny bikinis, and I’d feel even more insecure.
“WHY WONT MY BODY LOOK LIKE THAT?” I would wonder in depression.

It all ties into the lie that women are telling one another: that we are, in fact, an object and are free to flaunt and use it for sex if we so deem. And that we should consider ourselves “liberated” by being such. (yet today there are daily news articles over the anger that women feel over being objectified by their body, pressured by societal expectations and photoshop-izing of it, and “WHY IT MUST STOP!”)

Cover up that stuff and -BY JOE!- I can have a conversation with someone who will actually look me in the eyes and not 12 inches below. (it’s about 12 inches, right?)

I also integrate this thinking into how I wish to present my children.
ESPECIALLY my daughter, if I am ever blessed with one.  By allowing her to, at the earliest of ages, bare her midriff and exhibit her yet-to-be matured bosom, I am teaching her that it’s no different than a boy’s mid section or chest.  (“WOMEN ARE EQUAL!” that nazi-fem shouts from the back.)

And that couldn’t be farther from the truth!

Exposing a woman’s stomach exposes her womb:  The most sacred of places on a human body is the one that bears new life.  And allowing her to frame her chest like turkey on a platter, reduces it to just that.  Women are given a chest for one reason: to nourish the new, unique life within her womb.

If I were to teach my daughter to dismiss those crucial facts about her body, she then reduces her understanding of her sexuality to a mere object solely for lustful purposes, misinterpreting the value of the human body which will also lead to a distortion of how she perceives (or ignores) the dignity of a new human life and ultimately perverting her understanding of true L.O.V.E: God’s love.  And these warped perceptions will radiate into all facets of her life.

If I were to teach my daughter to “flaunt it”, to “work it”, that’s all she’ll ever know about the value of her body.  And it will confuse her when after “flaunting it” I tell her that beauty is deeper than skin, and that she needs to be a “good person” too in order to find a good man.

She’ll be further confused when she stumbles through multiple relationships that hurt her because she thought by giving the boy her body, that she would be loved.  Yet, she isn’t.  She’s been used for it.  And she’ll search her whole life, unhappy, filling it with the material things that only amplify her physical appearance.  Unless by God, some sort of wisdom befalls her and she reads a few books that make her question all that she understood about herself up until that point- and that she doesn’t angrily and obstinately throw it aside!

By allowing my daughter to dress this way, it opens doors to child predators who flood Disney World/Land, the pools she swims at, the schools she attends, the sports she plays, and all other public events she attends.

Read just a hair of a fraction into how to be aware of child predators and all the articles will tell you they infiltrate kid-friendly environments, watching and waiting.  Perhaps for the ones wearing that innocent “Fairy” costume I thought was so cute when she wanted to wear it to the park. They also infiltrate blogs and Facebook pages, looking for the mother who posts “cute” photos of her daughters wearing “big girl clothes” all over without regard to privacy settings.  (It’s why I barely post photos of my own children on this blog.)

Now that’s sort of cynical for me to go that deep of a route of thinking for my daughter that I’ve yet to bear.  But shouldn’t I???  Shouldn’t I, as the guardian of a human soul, be aware of the possibilities of what may befall that person if I don’t scratch the surface of even my intentions for dressing her the way I do, as innocently as they are formed?  Wouldn’t I be an irresponsible parent indeed if I didn’t think about how she will be formed to view her body?  Forget thinking that by being a responsible parent I must have been PLANNING financially… what about planning spiritually, emotionally, logically?

I can give my child money, but if she doesn’t know what can happen when she uses it to buy and wear a lacy bikini, I’ve hurt her far worse than not having saved the cash for her to buy it.
No, no.  No more bikinis for this momma.  Thank you!

Cute swimsuits that cover are out there, it just takes a little more effort to find them.
A fellow Cathsorority sister ads The Shabby Apple on her blog (http://caffeinatedcatholicmama.com/  she’s awesome!) and I was delighted by all the collections on the site.  Hopefully, it will give any one who is in need of a boost to find classy clothes some hope.  

I found swim bottoms (on sale!) at Lands End last year that I paired with a tankini top from JC Penny and it worked out perfectly.  Here’s the link:



5 Reasons to Keep Bikini Pictures Off Facebook.

On Cursing & Vulgarity

Welp, prepare yourself, Jack, I’m back.  Back and posting something other than 7 Quick Takes (in which I take great enjoyment in participating).

[So, hopefully some feathers will be ruffled, but none shall be plucked… right?  I simply wish to address a certain subject.  Please, don’t feel targeted.  I have received a handful of messages over the last few years from individuals who feel personally wronged by some of my past writings.  That is not my goal! My goal is to open a dialogue, not start a battle.  I am on your side!  I promise. On to it then!]

img source: NPR.org: Muny’sGirl/Flickr / Creative Commons

*&%$#@!!!!!  <this.  These kinds of words.

Foul language, to me, is not merely defined by a select handful of shocking words. It is those words, in combination with a whole way of thinking, a train of thoughts, which are outwardly expressed without care, which do not inject love and peace into society.  Rather, this foul language brings negativity, filth and base thinking amongst each other, and does nothing to elevate the profound and crucial worth of the human being and our earth we inhabit.  It is possible to speak foully without using a curse word at all.  …but less likely.

In a very quick snap of realization (oh could I but realize other things as quickly), I came to be revolted by vulgar, crass language from women and men.  The assumptions I’d made previously about using curse words I now know are incorrect.  However, before I continue:

Let’s just get the hoity-toity thoughts out of the way:  One might believe that I must be prudish, or that I probably think myself above others who choose to curse.  I’ve actually heard this before: “I just can’t trust people who don’t cuss!” …because they must not be real, and are probably fake, self righteous & snotty…


I view cursing/swearing/vulgarity as ugliness by choice.  Yes, there is ugliness in the world, and that is a reality.  But we don’t have to choose to use verbal ugliness in order to make it real.

When given the opportunity to either give beauty to the world, or ugliness, which do you choose to give?
Without spinning off topic, I align beauty with goodness; with God’s goodness.  By way of verbal, physical, mental, spiritual, compassionate, authentic expression; externally, but mostly internally, when considering human relationships.

If wanting to give beauty to the world and to people around me is considered to be hoity-toity, then I confess I am.  However, I don’t see it that way. I invite you to look at language through my eyes:


  •  Swearing is funny when used sparingly.
    I can agree to an extent here. A swear word, standing by itself, isn’t wholly bad. The problem with this argument is the definition of the word “sparingly”.  I tend to view swearing as a kind of a verbal gateway drug. I started allowing a few of the lighter swear words into my usual language, but I noticed the way I spoke started to shift.  Then, I noticed the way I thought took a turn for the more insensitive, the more base, and the more ignorantly simplistic.
  • Swearing is liberating.
    The fact about this is that it isn’t.  It’s actually shackling. Yeah, we live in a free country and are entitled to speak our mind, but it doesn’t follow that we should blabber the most shocking, obnoxious word that we can think while it takes greater effort to think of rephrasing.  That doesn’t make us free.  What is liberating is expanding my vocabulary, my literacy, so that I can more completely express myself.
  • Swearing is how I express myself.
    That’s fine. Freedom of self-expression, right?  But consider this: “Smoking is how I relax.”  That’s fine too, no? It may damage my health, but I have the freedom to do that, right? …until smoking starts affecting people who are more health conscious (that’s called second-hand smoke).  So ummm… am I saying that if I choose to cuss, I’m pushing second-hand cussing onto others?
    Well, kind of. I’m injecting foul language into someone’s mind, and it cannot be unheard or unread.  I can write whatever I want to write on this page in order to express myself. But as a reader, I tend not to revisit authors who cavalierly sling vulgar language around.  I don’t want it in my head.  I also obnoxiously swerve away from smoking pedestrians when out in public.  I don’t want their choice in my lungs.
  • It’s in music, and everyone does it anyway.
    It is. I mean, do I really have to address this? Do I really have to say, “just because everyone is jumping off a bridge doesn’t mean we should do it too…”?  Are we really still of the mental logic of a 12 year old?  (No offense, 12 year olds, I know a few who are better than that.) A while back I stopped listening to the music with language about the same time I stopped using the same language. So, no.  Not “everyone cusses anyway.” I for one, don’t. When I hear that language, it repulses me more than a nest of maggots feeding on the entrails of roadkill.  And no, I don’t even think those words unless someone else puts them there.  And that doesn’t make me untrustworthy. I tend not to trust people who, proclaim that they are wanting to be better, but do not show it in the way they express themselves; by the choices they make and the way they speak.


  • I’m hanging onto my twenties with one hand still (oy, I’ll be 29 in Nov.), yet I have some hindsight about the cool kids club.
    When I was 18, it seemed like the cool, confident kids cussed. I’m 10 years older and now, I see the 18 year old kids in the cool club and when they cuss, it speaks volumes of their insecurity, of their ignorance. I listen to them swear and it serves as a large shield to cover up who they are, in all their uncertainty of the world and how they should fit in, and what they think they want to be.  Instead, I hear an outcry for help.  I hear a desire to have deeper personal relationships with others, but they’re doing it wrong.
  • After a year or so of allowing swear words into my normal speech,
    things that I would have never dreamed to say years previous rolled out of my mouth before I even had a chance to think about how they would make others feel.  I thought with angry, barking swear words all the time.  My thoughts had been transformed to bark out:  “I DON’T CARE!” as I slammed the door of compassion in anyone’s face who might’ve felt offended by my word choice. Not that I was constantly insulting people, but one day it occurred to me, through my mother’s nudging, that perhaps it made others uncomfortable to hear suggestive words/language. The notion that my personal choice didn’t affect anyone started to fizzle out as I noticed a recoil reaction from people who I admired and respected.
  • This shield of cursing weighs us down, hampering our ability to have deeper relationships with others.
    I say this particularly when in an argument or debate with someone.  I have heard countless people, when confronted with a question which causes them to suddenly feel accountable for their own actions, feel uncomfortable, or angry, respond with a two-word offensive expletive, or similar.
    These words do nothing in helping us to understand each other.
    This choice exposes the speaker of his ignorance and lack of consideration.
    They are ugliness.
    They hurt the person on the receiving end.
    They shut out intelligence and common sense.
    They shut down the conversation.
    Worse still, they hurt the person who says it.
    The person who chooses to use this two-word expletive (or anything similar) from the inside of himself out, when given the chance to explain himself, strips his own integrity by:
    1. denying the other person the ability to understand him deeper
    2. refusing to think an inch deeper about his own actions
    3. boiling his thoughts down to mere insults, using them as defense mechanisms, which don’t work anyway, and effectively surrender himself without having to even admit it.
    4. exposing himself as someone who cannot think of anything more rational to say
  • Man or Woman, foul language detracts from our dignity as a human being.
    It sells us short of our ability to be so much more.  We are so much more than cheap talk. Knowing that regardless of my gender, I choose to speak in a way that adds wholesome conviction to society in lieu of parading-ly exercising my freedom or my hard fought equality to speak any other way, that empowers me.  It empowers me as a woman: equal in dignity, differently made, for an invaluable reason.  Just because a man is a man or the faulty logic of “boys will be boys”, does not follow that he should be expected or allowed to be vulgar in order to announce his masculinity. I consider a man who regularly swears and uses graphic, vulgar language to communicate as akin to a cave man or a Sasquatch, void of intellect, common sense, or reason.  Apologies to the cavemen and Sasquatch(es?) who don’t swear.

This isn’t an appeal to be puritanical and speak with words like “thy”, “thou” or “thine.” It is an appeal to question what we are allowing to reside within our own subconscious and what we project of ourself onto the minds of our loved ones.  We cannot stop others from injecting those words into our mind, but we can stop the continuation of that ugliness by choosing not to repeat it.  My favorite present-day philosopher, Peter Kreeft, says this:

“[…]That is why it is not important whether temptations come to me, but it is important whether I consent to them. “Not what goes into the mouth defiles a man, but what comes out of the mouth, this defiles a man” (Mt 15:11). This is true not only of the mouth or the body, but also the soul. What comes into my soul is not necessarily what I will, but what comes out of my soul is precisely what I will.”  –from The Importance of Free Choice

That’s why I don’t curse.

Someone asked me to address how we can interact with loved ones who are fluent in pot-mouthery. Hearts are changed by love and compassion (rarely do grown adults lay down and submit to being corrected, especially by a young spring chicken who cannot possibly be wiser), or perhaps by sharing this post on Facebook. *wink*

I read this post by Fr. Longenecker, which reveals what we are allowing to  happen spiritually to our interior when we use gratuitous language. He calls it Irrational Rage.  Have you ever had crossfire with someone who didn’t just disagree with you, but blew up in your face with every expletive in the most creative vulgarity possible?  If you haven’t, take a look at some of the comments left under certain blogs or news articles today.  It can come from the left or the right of moral and political spectrums.  Fr. Longenecker concludes of these people:

“The phenomenon we are seeing is something worse than anger and hatred. It is rage. Rage is irrational. You cannot argue with rage. Rage is cruel and violent for its own sake. Rage is anarchical and demonic in its absurdity and irrationality. When I say it is demonic, I am not exaggerating or being symbolical. The spirit of hatred has overtaken people, and I fear what we are seeing is only the beginning. Are the people so filled with rage demon possessed? I am not an authority on the subject, but I venture the diagnosis that if they are not literally demon possessed, then their personalities have been oppressed by evil to such an extent that they are out of their minds.”

And I’ll leave it at that.  Please comment with your thoughts.  …and leave the rage at the door.  Glory Be to God.