I had a bad start to life – I was born into good family. I am firmly convinced that those of us who are in the gender fluid and trans space have a major hurdle to get over when it comes to talking to our families. Sometimes the effort of getting them to understand the issue of something as simple as pronouns is such a monument task. In my case it’s like trying to have a conversation with the walking dead.
My intent today is really not to upset any who are Christian. So, bare with me for a moment. The fact is trousers were not commonly worn in Jerusalem until well into the seventh century.
In researching this subject however I did come across an interesting bible reference. Deuteronomy 22 verse 5 says: “Women are not to wear men’s clothing, and men are not to wear women’s clothing; the Lord your God hates people who do such things.”
While I am a bit concerned with the presumption that God ‘hates’ anything, there’s nothing there about trans people wearing trans clothes. It seems more concerned with whose clothing you wear, rather than what clothing you wear. And as I always say, don’t steal your mother’s/sister’s/wife’s clothing, so we’re all in agreement there. The clothing I wear belongs to me, so no problem.
I wonder though, if one dedicated one’s life to helping the needy, serving God and healing the sick, while wearing a nice pink blouse and strappy sandles, would this mark you for a place burning eternally in hell next to a murderer who didn’t crossdress? Perhaps there’s just a little bit of an overreaction here. There’s got to be room here for a joke about, ‘Is that a fire extinguisher in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”, but we’ll move on I think.
In the end one has to come the conclusion that our task is not really to educate the rest of the world. We are who we are. Frankly, I couldn’t care less what anyone uses as a pronoun for me, or what they think about gender. That’s their problem. It’s disrespectful for them to be unkind, but I remain who I am regardless. I’m just not that bothered about how people around me deal with it.
I was recently chatting with Kara, a young member online. She was telling me how her family – a conservative Christian family – were quite unkind to her as they considered Kara to be doing something outside their faith.
I did mention to her that as far as I was aware Jesus didn’t wear trousers one day in his life, and that a principle value in the Christian faith is not to judge others, but it’s sometimes a little optimistic to hope that some who profess Christianity would themselves live by sincere Christian values.
Whether one agrees with the doctrine or not, most faiths are based on the idea that love and understanding are good things, and being a prize asshole is not. So, when we look about us and see all the division and discord it’s fair to say that those who are the engineers and vocal proponents of such hateful divisiveness are anything but godly. People like Marjory Taylor Greene, who are so fond of sowing division, and Gym Jordan, who steadfastly refused to acknowledge abuse when it was right in front of their own eyes, live by values that are so at odds with our own we can do little but stand back and watch as they march with grim determination toward their own demise. History does show that these people generally get what they deserve.
I have to say there is something horribly cynical about the way that many politicians pick up and drop Christian values to suit their own needs. However, we’re not really here to judge them either. Ultimately we have to live as well as we can, being as kind as possible to others, regardless of their prejudices. It’s up to us to be the better person.
I did mention to Kara that they may wish to trot out a phrase like “My relationship with God is something between myself and her.” Standing back and watching the ensuing fireworks might be entertaining, if nothing else.
And with that I will step down from this soap box, into these panties and go back to my work of the moment.
As I continue to manage the roll over out of Patreon, I would like to say how very grateful I am for those of you who have joined my Good Gurls $1 a month membership (you can do so here). This is most appreciated and as I continue to develop some new content it does help the work I do enormously.
All this month I am featuring the work of Mollie Blake on the website. You can follow her on Twitter here. Be sure to check out her series, The Dating Game. She’s got some lovely content there. I have new material on the site virtually every day at present, so checking in at http://FionaDobson.com daily is a great idea. There’s always something there that’s sure to grab your interest. Have a delightful week.
I had just disconnected from a Zoom meeting with a client who was looking at rebranding his chain of laundries when Ali, my Syrian gardener, arrived for his English lesson. I have been concerned about his use of English and offered to help him as best I could. The Trimark Laundry Company would have to wait for their report about renaming their stores.
As a busy advertising account executive I find I do have to prioritise my private life. If Mr. Skid of the Trimark Laundry Company expected to be prioritized over my own personal interests he was very much mistaken.
I spend a half hour each day helping Ali to advance his use of English.
“So you see, Ali,” I explained, “using capitalization properly can completely change the meaning of a sentence. For example, ‘I was helping my cousin Jack off his horse…”
At that very moment the door swung open and Bernard bustled into the kitchen.
“Goodness,” I said. “You gave me a start, Bernard. What on earth’s the matter?”
“I’ve got a leak,” he said hurriedly.
“Well, you know where the bathroom is,” I replied.
“No. It’s the boat. I need to go and pump it out. It seems to be taking on water.”
I should explain. Bernard keeps a small sloop in the mariner near Huckleberry Close.
“Well, can I help with anything? Biscuits perhaps?” I got up to put the kettle on.
“No. We have to get down there right away. I wondered if you and Ali could help out,” he said.
“Of course,” I replied reaching for my new London Look lipstick. I wouldn’t want to be caught out in a sinking boat without a nice shade, and went to find a nice pale pink sweater.
“It’s just that I need someone to help pump it out.”
I remembered the hours I’d spent onboard pumping my arm up and down seemingly for hours on a previous occasion. Anyone who’s been around boats will know this feeling. Up down, up down, and up down. And all to drain the scuppers.
“Oh, I’m sure I can help with that.”
“Can I come too,” piped up Ali.
“Of course,” said Bernard. “The more the merrier!”
What a fun morning we had. And all because Bernard’s worm gear clamp had not been properly adjusted. I admit this does sound rather more like something in Mistress Meg’s realm than mine. Which brings you to the main reason I’m writing today. I put out a lovely story for my all my members this week – The Long Game. And true to form Mistress Meg has released one of her great self hypnosis files. You can find Mistress Meg’s Denial self hypnosis here. You’ll need to be a Seahorse member to access it and if you’ve not already done so you can do so here.
Now, I have to go and massage my bicep. All that pumping is quite exhausting. However, at least Bernard’s boat is all shipshape now.
With the fine weather comes the chance to wear more exciting clothes. I love to get into a mini skirt in the summer. And equally the sun brings out the more eccentric dressing styles.
Not least among these are my friends that cycle. Seeing Sebastian cycling up the road to my quiet house in Huckleberry Close is both a curious and disturbing sight. While my bicycle has a very pretty wicker basket and I added a few pink tassels for style to the handlebars, Sebastian prefers a more sporty style. Crouched over the handle bars he looks like nothing so much as he’s being prepared for a very sporty mobile enema.
“You look so athletic,” I mentioned to Sebastian as he dismounted. “But where do you put your shopping?”
He looked a little disdainfully at me and then said, “I cycle for my body, not my shopping.”
I felt a little as though I had been put in my place, but replied, “Well, those pants look as though you pushed your vegetable order down them.”
I feel strangely liberated commenting on others clothing, as I glide across the grass wearing a bright lemon pleated skirt and pale blue tee shirt. I should try not to be unkind to Sebastian. And it has to be said that his vegetable order is nothing if not plentiful.
He shifted awkwardly as I chatted. But that does rather neatly bring the subject onto food and soon it will be time for the Huckleberry Close summer party. We usually each bring a dish, and everybody shares in the wide diversity of food often from our own cultures. This year I am preparing boerewors, a lovely South African sausage dish with Sebastian’s help. Now there really is a man who knows his way around a sausage. Auntie Kittie is making a lovely Pavlova, and so I asked Ali what he would be making.
“I was thinking of a Syrian soup, Shakriya. It’s lamb with yoghurt,” he said.
“That does sound delightful,” I said excited to try some new dishes.
Have a delightful week. I know Mistress Meg will be posting some hypnosis files this week, so we have that to look forward to, and I think the next episode of Clothes Maketh The Man should land in the next few days.
It’s almost June, and I made a foray into the office, something I rarely do these days. To be quite honest, and between you and I, I’ve avoided going into the office since Sylvester crashed the virtual office Christmas party, pulled the pockets out of his pants and did his impression of an elephant. One just never knows when a mark may have been overstepped.
To make things still more unpredictable, we have a new human resources director. Colin, the last HR director was rather eccentric. He had tattoos all over his body, including a Canadian flag over his heart and a map of Canada on his face. He may have been a little odd, but at least with Colin you always knew where you were.
I was intercepted by the new HR director, Debra, as I entered the deserted reception area. A large woman, she approached me and asked who I was, not having been introduced to me before. She wore a ski jacket, which seemed a little odd in late May here in Vancouver. I also noticed she seemed to be well acquainted with my personnel file, which did not inspire confidence. Personally I prefer to keep a low profile when it comes to HR people.
I glanced around the reception area, noticing that the walls were adorned with new paintings.
“Geoff’s drawn up a corporate revitalization plan,” she said, referring to the CEO, while noticing I was looking around at the artwork on the office walls.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Oh, we’re going to be brightening up the office and moving toward a greener profile,” replied Debra. “He says we have to pay more attention to our green footprint.”
I glanced at my shoes. I decided that while in town I should stop by that Italian shoe shop.
“What does that really mean,” I asked.
“It means he’s turned off the heating,” came her reply. Well, at least that explained the ski jacket. I immediately noticed that the office was a lot cooler than it used to be.
“I see,” I replied trying not to show my disappointment.
“And that we have this,” and at this moment she paused, “… this art on the walls.”
“Oh,” I said, “that’s what it is.”
She smirked at me. I felt a little more encouraged. Could Debra be an ally? She looked at a large piece positioned behind where our receptionist would generally sit.
“What does it say to you, Fiona?” she asked.
“It says to me that the artist has a pet cat with severe gastric distress,” I replied.
“Yes,” she agreed doubtfully. “You obviously have a keen eye. Actually, it says that Geoff’s daughter is out of rehab again and he’s bought a load of her art to put a few dollars in her pocket.”
“Our receptionist may need counselling if she’s exposed to these for too long,” I replied.
That however is not the main reason I’m writing to you today. As we get into summer it’s time to reach for that miniskirt and get into it. If you don’t have one, either finding one in a store, or even going to a good quality thrift store and hunting down a bargain is a great idea. If you’re on my Patreon why not post a pic in the community section. There’s a challenge for you Daphanie! Daphanie is one of my favorite members and very active on our Whatsapp Group. To help you along the way try this little self hypnosis file. It may encourage you.
I had the strangest experience this week on the way to work. I was on my way into he office and stopped at my favorite sandwich maker to pick up a something light for lunch.
I love to wear a hat on sunny days like the ones we’ve been enjoying in Vancouver recently. As a result I had on my nice new black fedora. It’s a wide brimmed hat and really quite lovely. I’d done my morning yoga with Sebastian, and then enjoyed a warm shower. I had not managed to dry my hair, being in a rush to get to the office for a meeting. As I’d left the house I knew I had wet hair tumbling over my shoulders, and I put on my nice new black hat.
I was really quite pleased by the look of it, and with my black coat and white blouse I felt I looked rather sharp. The nice young man behind the counter at the store seemed quite happy to chat to me as he made my sandwich, and I felt quite coy, I must say. I think I was even playing with my hair a little, twisting it around my finger as I do when I’m a little nervous. It was therefore a surprise when, after he’d handed me my nicely made Reuben sandwich ( https://natashaskitchen.com/reuben-sandwich/ ), just as I was leaving the store the nice young man behind the counter gave me the sweetest of smiles, which I returned, and then he said “Shalom.”
It wasn’t until I was half way down the street, passing a synagogue, that I caught sight of my reflection and realised, my chatty young friend at the sandwich store must have mistaken me for someone in the Hasidic Jewish community. I was torn between rushing back to explain that I’m not of that particular spiritual persuasion and getting to my meeting. After a moment’s thought I decided I’d wait till next time I passed the sandwich place, and then I’d order some ham sandwiches. I’m sure he’ll work it out in the end.
In the office I loaded up on coffee, in my “You don’t have to be a crossdressing account executive to work here, but it helps!” coffee mug, and then went into my meeting. I was so pleased when after the meeting I got a call from Rainbow, who is visiting on leave from her job at the lighthouse – you may remember she got a job after a little mix up – and we decided to go to the nail salon together. I recommend this to all my members, and it’s also a great way to connect with a girl friend. What could be nicer than going out to get your nails done together. I decided to go to Rainbow’s usual nail salon, rather than my own, as she supports a business which has a policy of employing seniors. How very thoughtful, I thought.
Now, as you know I am most sensitive to the feelings of those around me. I connect with people, you see. I suppose it’s just my own natural empathy. A gift. How it was that I managed to find myself having my nails painted with the only nail tech I’ve ever met who I swear had Parkinson’s disease, I don’t know. Either that or they were suffering withdrawal symptoms from something. Maybe it’s the fumes from all those chemicals.
“They’re going to look lovely,” she croaked in a broad southern drawl as she shakily painted another toe.
So, tonight I am removing the nail polish from my toes. That lovely shade of scarlet looks more like a nasty accident involving a chainsaw and a particularly slippery hand grip. Of course, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. Anyway, if you’ve not painted your toes lately perhaps it’s time. Feel free to send me a pic to post on the site.
As you know, I am a very sensitive person. I like to think others come to me because of my gentle nature and empathy. For this very reason I was very concerned about a conversation I recently had with Ali, my gardener and Bernard, my photographer. Things are a little quiet at the advertising agency at present, so Bernard has been out getting his boat ready for the season. He does so love his sailing.
Ali and I were enjoying a very nice German Riesling in the garden, talking about plans I have for the arboretum, or scrub land as Sylvester rather ignorantly refers to the more unkempt section at the bottom of my garden.
“The Germans really are talented wine makers,” I said as I surveyed the wild flowers.
“Indeed,” said Ali, in his heavily accented Syrian English. “This is a very ‘Hände hoch’.”
“Ali, I don’t think you can say that. We’re all on the same side now! Is it racist? I don’t know. Besides,” I added, “you drive a smart car. Isn’t that made by Mercedes?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s my English, you know,” mumbled Ali. I am concerned about his language skills, but I some times suspect he may be trying to pull the wool over my eyes.
At that very moment Bernard appeared at my Garden gate looking most concerned. I invited him in and sat him at the garden table and asked what on earth could be the matter.
“Well,” he started, looking very downcast, “I think I may have upset someone down at the sailing club.”
“How on earth did you do that,” I asked, eager to help, as ever.
“I was trying to be helpful,” said Bernard. “It was the Commodore. He was moving his boat, and I offered to lend him a hand.”
“Bernard, that sounds very kind of you,” I observed.
“You obviously don’t remember I introduced you to Andrew a couple of years ago at the year end dinner. You remember, he was the guy with only one arm,” replied Bernard awkwardly.
“Only one arm,” I said slowly. “Ah, yes. I remember now. And you offered to lend him a hand?”
“Yes. It just, sort of, came out,” he continued. “And things got a little chilly after that.”
“Are you sure he took offence,” I asked. “It might be that you’re imagining this. He’s probably just fine.”
At this point Ali chimed in, “You offered to help the fellow. Where’s the ‘arm in that?”
I fixed Ali with a cold stare.
“Ali, that’s not funny,” I said.
You can see the sort of dreadful thing I have to put up with. However, on a brighter note, I am thrilled to say my Premium Program for women is going very nicely. If you know anyone that would benefit from this great program, be sure to suggest they visit my Patreon and look for the $5 a month Package, which is especially for them.
Bernard is full of the joys of spring at this time of year. He’s doing all sorts of maintenance on his little boat, cleaning his fishing gear until it’s spotlessly clean, and also polishing up his weapon. He’s a very keen outdoor sportsman.
We’ve had many good times in the past when we’ve travelled together for the advertising agency, although there’s been no travel happening for a while. As I see him stripping his gun I am reminded of a lovely trip we had in the highlands of Scotland some years ago. We’d been invited to shoot grouse on the moors. The beauty of the landscape in that fresh northern light is quite breathtaking. Northern Scotland must be one of the most evocative places on earth, with it’s wild wind swept landscape, lightly brushed with heather.
We’d walked for miles over the moor and seen ptarmigan and quail at a distance, but it looked like Bernard was going to come back empty handed. I was simply enjoying a lovely day out in the fresh air, and then Bernard got terribly excited, and the next thing I knew he shot a load over my head. It was quite exhilarating. Perhaps you can imagine.
At work I have been surprised by the emergence of a number of committee’s within the advertising agency. We have one for racial awareness, one for staff empowerment and of course one for gender issues, and others being formed all the time. The job of these task forces is to make sure staff are aware of issues and to maintain a high standard of awareness of contentious issues, for both our clients and our staff. I must say, I think it’s high time awareness of some of these issues was brought to the fore. It’s a pleasure to see several new faces on these committees, and I’ve been asked to sit on several of them already.
Sebastian was in my kitchen this morning drinking a freshly squeezed orange juice as I stretched in preparation for our yoga class. I must say I do love the yoga wear. Nice leggings and a sports bra are a wonderful look for any gurl.
“I am getting a few more clients,” said Sebastian. “I think people want to get in shape for the summer.”
“Well, now that we’re getting past this damned virus,” I replied, “I’m sure more people are focusing on their health. It’s a precious gift and needs to be nurtured.”
“Speaking of nurturing,” said Sebastian, “I’ve started a self help group for people who do self-harm.”
“Sebastian, that’s so thoughtful of you. What on earth made you think of such a thing?”
“Well, Rainbow struggled with it,” He told me. “So, I figured I’d create a support group. I have to say it’s a hard slog though. Like banging your head against a brick wall.”
“How very public spirited of you,” I replied.
I have included a post on my website about Sebastian’s suggestions for yoga wear for my members. He’s been very helpful and put some great ideas up there. You can find it HERE.
Don’t forget, you can join my Patreon for as little as $1 a month HERE. It’s the most fun dollar you’ll spend this month, I guarantee it!
Have a lovely week, and be sure to let me know how you’re getting along.
I have a dear friend who is lesbian. She grew up in a conservative place where being ‘different’ would earn you a good kicking from kids of her age, and likely from some adults too. She did however have a supportive mother and she found her way.
I have another friend who ran away from their home when it became obvious that she was trans. I say, ‘it became obvious’ because their body was so obviously feminine, though through a convention of biology and naming she was assigned male gender at birth. She’s as feminine as any woman I know but for a minor anatomical quirk.
And of course I know a host of people who as they understood themselves better realised there was an enormous part of themselves that they had suppressed, doing their best to conform to societal norms and denying much of their nature. The fear of being outcasts is a powerful thing, even in the 21st century.
My lesbian friend has phrased it very well. She says, “We don’t raise our own young.” It’s not far fetched to say that the archetypal emo teen that flees an abusive home, misunderstood by their family and hometown, who ends up on the street in a big city – often homeless and friendless – is far from a meaningless trope. It’s practically a template for how some of us have rejected and been rejected by society. It all sounds painfully tragic.
But wait… As my friend points out, eventually – with a little luck – those ‘outsiders’ gravitate to others, and by some miracle find people who are like themselves. It can look a little odd to others, but somehow they find their people, or what we used to call ‘our tribe’. Whether it’s the ‘gaybourhood’ or friends within the ‘queerspace’, there are ways to connect with others. We find our way. And we grow.
As we do so we learn to support others like ourselves in whatever way we can. And suddenly there is something akin to family. Perhaps we don’t raise our own young, but they do find us and we can nurture them everyday in ways both direct and indirect.
Today we lost one of our own. Sophie was an amazing artist. A creative soul any family should treasure, even one so diverse and dispersed as our own. Let’s take a moment today to appreciate our sister.
Sophie died at 4 a.m. local time on 30 January 2021 at home in Athens, Greece.] According to their UK label, Transgressive, Sophie’s death was caused by slipping and falling while climbing to watch the full moon.
As the New Year kicks into gear I am pleased to see Ali getting to grips with my garden. As you know, Ali is my Syrian gardener, and a recent immigrant to Canada. He is a diligent worker and has thrown himself into the task of managing my garden.
A university professor of botany in his home country, he has come to build a new life here in our country, along with his lovely wife and two delightful daughters. Here in Canada we welcome new friends from around the world, and embrace the chance to add to the deep culture of this diverse and remarkable country.
“We don’t have an equivalent of your ‘Santa Claus’,” he recently explained while we were working at preparing the greenhouse for this years plants. “Besides, anything flying over our airspace at low altitude stands a good chance of being shot down. And… well, reindeer meat… I think he’s well advised to respect the no-fly zone.”
“Be that as it may, Ali,” I said. “I’m most concerned about Amanda and Marjory. All through the Christmas season I barely saw them. I know it’s been harder this Christmas with the whole Covid thing, but you’d think she’d say hello over the garden fence.
“Fiona, they’ve been very busy. Amanda’s been there all week. And you know what they’re like,” replied Ali.
I don’t think Ali really approves of the nature of Amanda’s relationship with Marjory. Same sex partnerships are not exactly common place in Syria, on account of people not wanting to be stoned to death in the public square.
“All the noise and fuss they make,” said Ali. “It’s very disruptive.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, it must be nice to be in love.”
“They were making an Italian dish yesterday with the left over turkey,” he mused, while cleaning one of the planting beds in the greenhouse.
“That sounds lovely. One of the things I enjoy about Christmas is getting creative with all those meals using turkey in the days that follow. I had turkey curry yesterday, myself.”
“If I over heard it correctly, Amanda got her finger stuck in the pasta maker. It was quite disturbing,” said Ali.
“Oh,” I said surprised. “I thought Marjory made the pasta.”
“Yes,” replied Ali. “She does.”
But that’s not the main reason I am writing to you today, as we go into what I think we are all hoping is a more hopeful year than last. I understand many of us are finding it harder to dress during the lockdowns that we must inevitably endure. I also realise that this increases the stress for all of us, and I want to make a suggestion that I find has helped many of my members.
While it would be wonderful to be able to dress everyday, all day, many of my members are simply unable to do this. When it is impossible to dress, for whatever reason, there’s still the middle ground, of becoming more androgynous. This is a way to start shifting what you wear to something somewhat more feminine, though without being entirely crossdressed. If you get creative you’ll find ways to do this, and enjoy that middle ground in the gender spectrum.
It could be as simple as shifting the colors you wear. Pastel colors and moving away from hard contrast color patterns is somewhat more feminine and gentle. Equally, going for the lambswool sweater and softer fabrics is always more enjoyable.
For others it will be engaging a more feminine clothing style, without crossing the line. Nice jeans can bring out the shape of your legs, and if all you need to do is add heels to shift over the line, then you’re always just moments from being able to crossdress. Sometimes the only difference between dressing straight or crossdressed is the presence of eye makeup.
Let’s make 2021 a wonderful year. Don’t let Covid get you down. This is where we learn patience – a good lesson for anyone who is trans. If you’re struggling and haven’t done so already, remember my Whatsapp Group is a great way to connect with others and see yourself through this challenging time. Alternatively, remember there’s a host of entertaining stories right here. Be sure to enjoy the video below.
I have an affinity to beautiful birds. I like that the males have such extravagant plumage. And yet there is more that draws me to them.
Consider this. The cage, for most of us a symbol of constrained freedom, for birds is something more. I have opened the door of a cage and watched as they escape and find freedom. Can you imagine that moment, a loved pet fleeing to freedom through the opened cage door. A moment of panic, and then they are gone through an open window. All that fondness and happy memories gone in a flutter of wings.
And two hours later, as I look at the cage, there he is once more. Silently returning to his captivity. A warm sensation of relief in my tummy. Yet, it’s more than relief. It’s a sense of rewarded trust, for I left that door open quite willingly.
I trusted. And aren’t all good relationships based on trust?
Well, this is a story of trust. I think you will enjoy it. Perhaps so much so that you will play along with me. I will ask you to make this an interactive story.
That’s right, you can join in. I wonder if you dare. Well, there’s the opportunity for me to trust you… Let’s see how you do. Are you ready to play? I hope you’ll feel inclined to use the comments section in this post to let me know.
Mistress Katia Thornwood.
The Lovers – By Katia Thornwood.
Those of you who have been following me for a while know about Paulo, the sentimental poet, who got a little too lost in the compelling world of his Mistress. I am, as you know, all about balancing extremes, and so you can imagine my delight when the sorry little fellow finally got himself a girlfriend – Fern. An actual woman.
And it wasn’t his usual thing. Worshiping some completely unattainable woman from afar, and languishing in his own pathetically amusing pain. Such a typical poet. It’s a pity he has so much of the poet’s nature and so little of the poet’s talent. Not to worry though, his role is to suffer. Regardless, Fern is a real flesh and blood woman.
Many years ago… well, three years ago, I started writing the Fiona Dobson newsletters and blog. In the early ones I would embed a Youtube video now and then, that often touched in to the themes of the newsletters. That’s how the Fiona Dobson Playlist came in to being.
I add to it from time to time, even though I rarely include them in the mailings these days. Even so, it’s a fun addition and one I’m not likely to drop anytime soon. So, if you need a little lift, have some fun with this. I hope you enjoy it.