I am a work in progress

I was recently talking to a group of people I had never met before (hello, Jury Duty) and the topic of career came up.  Someone asked asked someone else what they did/who they were and inevitably they  said something like, “Oh I’m a nurse” or “I am a customer service representative”.  I find the question difficult to answer myself, because I don’t define myself by my career.  I have had a variety of careers over the years, and I am glad for each one because it has taught me so much.  I have, over the course of 30+ years, been:  a parks and recreation clerk, a hospice intake representative (one of the saddest jobs I’ve ever had), a court clerk, an office manager for executive offices, a receptionist, a secretary, a tech support rep, a corporate travel agent, a collector, a trainer, a registrar, a claims adjuster, a police dispatcher, a sales rep, and an appointment specialist.  I’ve also cleaned greenware, done craft shows, and assisted in my mom’s ceramics business as a teen.

I have enjoyed and hated all of these jobs at some point.  I have excelled at some of them, and a few (sales… I suck at sales) I have been less than stellar at. I have met tons of people in my various endeavors and some have become longtime friends.  I do not regret my job choices and feel that I’ve learned so much about life from them.  However, I know that many people think I’m impulsive or worse because I’ve switched jobs (and career fields) more often than most people.  I, on the other hand, feel that my haphazard career has taught me so many things I wouldn’t have known if I had worked in one profession my entire life.  I often wish I had more years left in my career because there are so many things I still want to learn and see and do.  There are so many things left to try.  So many new people to meet.  So many careers to try on.

I find it sad that we define ourselves by the career/job that we have and not by the people we are.  I know that I’m supposed to answer “I’m an appointment specialist” when someone asks me what I do, but what I really want to answer is:  “I’m Barbara and I can be anything I want to be.  I’m friendly.  I can be funny or quirky.  I’m sometimes a bit of an introvert.  I love to read and am a fan of horror movies.  I am creative and would like to spend more of my time doing art, but never find the time to do it.  I have a love/hate relationship with my body.  I strive to be a good friend, but I fail at it often.  I am a work in progress.”  I will never be satisfied with one career.  It’s just not who I am.  I will likely change careers again before I retire, though I hope maybe I can stay with the same company.  I, unlike many, seem to relish change.  I enjoy seeing how businesses work and getting to be a part of something, even if I don’t always stay long.  Someday, I may be less of a career nomad, but I will never regret my past.  I am who I am because of those jobs, and I wouldn’t change that.  Until then, if you ask me what I do be prepared for a very different sort of answer.


Wine, women and wheelchairs – part 3

We got up the next morning and dressed for a day of drinking wine.  What does one wear to drink wine?  Pretty much anything they choose.  It was cool there, bordering on cold, and I’ve lived in Arizona for so long I am confident my blood is about the consistency of tap water.  So for awhile I thought I might die.  Also, because in Arizona it’s already summer, I had only brought sleeveless or short sleeved things and one very sad, very well worn sweater.  That sweater got a lot of use during this trip.  Note to self:  take warmer clothes next time.

I had searched for a wheelchair accessible tour for us for quite awhile.  I had called several places only to be told that they didn’t have any accessible vehicles but they’d be happy to store my wheelchair for me if I could manage the stairs to the bus.  No can do.  I don’t walk on flat surfaces, I certainly can’t walk on stairs.  So, the search was on.  Right before I found the amazing tour that we went on, I came across a tour on a train through the wine country.  It said it was wheelchair accessible (or as wheelchair accessible as an ancient historic train can be).  It even had a wheelchair lift.  I was stoked.  Then I read the fine print that said basically – yep, we’ll get you on the train and you can sit very still and go for a ride but you can’t get off at the wineries.  Umm, huh?  I am going on a tasting tour but I can’t get off the train to taste?  No thank you.  Luckily enough, I came across Grapeline Tours.  They didn’t have an accessible vehicle but assured me they could get one.  I talked and emailed with them several times and decided this one at least wanted to help us.  So, the five of us booked the tour with them.

I wasn’t sure what to expect.  Quite honestly, I was wondering if a van with a plywood board masquerading as a ramp was what was going to pick us up.  I had checked in with them right before we left just to make sure all was still on with the accessible vehicle and they assured me it was all set.  That morning we were sitting having breakfast at the Hampton Inn’s complimentary breakfast room when this gorgeous white bus drove up and parked.  We weren’t sure it was for us, but I went out to check and lo and behold it was our bus.  And there wasn’t a plywood board ramp!  Off we went to drink copious amounts of wine.

Our first winery was Kunde Family Winery which is over 1800 acres of awesomeness.  The vineyard itself is kind of awe-inspiring.  And to my surprise it’s not just field of flat land with grapes growing on it.  It’s hilly and has lots of trees and roses everywhere.  If you haven’t been there, I highly recommend it.  Our tasting host was named Kat, and she was amazing.  She took us on a tour of the cave (which I honestly expected would not be accessible to me – I was wrong) and showed us the barrels where the wines were aged.  Then we got to taste the wines.  I honestly don’t know how many wines we tasted.  I think we were supposed to get five.  I think we actually got much closer to 12.  Kat seemed to really enjoy doing the tastings, and the more you talked with her the more she wanted to share different wines with you.  I happened to talk to her a lot.  I may or may not have been a bit buzzed by the end of this tour.

Fortunately, the next stop was St. Anne’s Crossing Winery which was where we would have food.  Food to soak up the copious amounts of wine.  There we sat on this gorgeous patio and had wine and a really nice box lunch from The Girl and the Fig.  St. Anne’s Crossing is known for their Zinfandels – no not that pink wine that you buy in the “BIG” bottle with the screw top lid.  This Zinfandel is red and fruity with just enough tannin to make your mouth say “why thank you sir, I’ll have another” every time you finish a glass.  After we left St. Anne’s we headed to Deerfield Ranch Winery which makes low sulfite wines.  Nothing really stood out for me at this tasting.  I don’t know if maybe by this point I was getting a little “wined” out, which seems shocking because I love wine and maybe after the gorgeous patio of the last place and the amazing scenery of Kunde, this one just didn’t stand out that much for me.  I don’t remember not liking any of the wines which likely means by the end of this tour I was witty and jovial and more than a tiny bit buzzed.

The last stop for the day was Ledson Winery and Vineyards which is absolutely beautiful from the outside.  It’s built into a castle that is just spectacular to look at from the road.  Inside, the castle is also very pretty but in my opinion, this tour was confusing and disorganized.  I don’t blame our host from the tour, it seemed like she thought we’d be going to one room in the castle and instead they kind of shooed us into the bar area where we were greeted by a really disinterested guy who seemed to have drawn the short straw to be our wine steward.  He obviously didn’t want to be doing it, and I stopped even attempting to learn anything about the wines about five minutes in.  Were the wines good?  Sure.  But nothing about him made me want to buy any and isn’t that the whole point of a wine tour?

By this point, I know I was pretty much drunk.  Not sloppy fall down drunk, but definitely feeling good and having fun.  The tour was amazing, I would do it again in a heartbeat, and the company of good friends is absolutely the best part of the entire adventure.


Norene, Fran, Me, Kathy and Julie at Kunde Family Winery


Wine, women and wheelchairs – part 2

I was on the plane!  My adventure was just beginning.  Because I am the first to board and the last to leave, I prefer the window seat to the aisle (and let’s be honest, NO ONE likes the middle seat).  My reasons for liking the window seat go far beyond just the fact that there is a window to the great beyond there.  It’s because when you sit in the aisle seat you wind up getting beaned in the head by luggage as everyone boards and then again when everyone leaves.  So, because I prefer not starting my trip with a concussion or covered in bruises, I gravitate towards the window seat.  This flight I was lucky and got the window.  So my row consisted of me, a young guy on his way to propose to his girlfriend and a guy who looked like a construction worker, but spent the entire trip reading a Powerpoint about the Ice Age.  And we were off.

Flying when you use a wheelchair is no different than anyone else.  Except for the bathroom issue.  I know that there is some way for people who use wheelchairs to be hauled into the bathroom – I mean, the bathroom had an actual disability symbol on it, but I haven’t attempted it.  I know it would involve another exciting excursion on the aisle chair, and honestly twice per flight is plenty for me.  So I just try desperately not to think about the restroom and limit my beverage intake.  This was a short flight (only 1.5 hours), but on a previous flight to Spain, I was pretty sure at some point I was actually going to explode in fiery bladder bomb.  So at some point I probably am going to be forced to attempt this but, on this trip I was fine.

We landed without excitement.  Excitement on a plane just doesn’t ever seem like a good idea.  I prefer my flights to be boring and without any good stories to tell.  Much like this blog post. 🙂  Not much to tell about the airport except that the staff was really nice at San Francisco Airport, and it’s almost all tile and nothing uphill that I could find.  Phoenix, take a lesson from your sister airport, San Francisco, purge the carpet and the never ending hills.  I met up with my friends and we were headed towards the rental car area.

If you’ve never flown into San Francisco, I highly recommend it.  It seems like it’s almost right on the water and it’s a pretty amazing sight when the planes come in to land.  The rental car area was quite a ways from the terminals and was connected by a sky train.  The train was very accessible with a couple of seats designated for the disabled right by the doors.  I don’t like to sit in my wheelchair when the trains take off, so I gave my trademarked evil stare at the guy who was sitting in the seat until he moved, then scampered onto one of the seats and off we were to the rental car pickup.

We rented a car from Enterprise which I had never done before.  I’ve rented cars, but never from Enterprise so I was surprised when I found out that they didn’t really have cars with hand controls.  I didn’t argue about it, it gave me an excuse not to have to drive.  More wine consumption was in my future.  We checked in, got our car – a black Dodge Challenger – and were off to Sonoma wine country.  The car was large, we were able to fit five pieces of luggage and my wheelchair along with four adults.  I found the front seat to be surprisingly tall and that made it a bit awkward to get in from my wheelchair (the awkward level increased incrementally with the volume of wine consumed) but it was doable.  I have to admit, I’m very short so a lot of vehicles are “tall” to me.  I’m not sure if the vehicle was actually that much taller than my Kia Optima, but it definitely felt a little different.

The drive to the wine country is actually quite awesome.  You get a view of San Francisco with all the steep hills and amazing buildings.  Then you cross the Golden Gate Bridge and head into vineyard country.  It’s kind of a dichotomy – the bustling city of San Francisco and the peaceful towns that make up the Sonoma Valley.  Only two hours later, we pulled into our hotel in Windsor.

We stayed at the Hampton Inn and Suites – Sonoma Wine Country.  It was the only hotel I could find that slept five adults AND was wheelchair accessible.  When making the arrangements, I was really surprised (and a bit disappointed) in how few hotels have accessible rooms for more than four people.  And actually, rooms that slept four were even fairly scarce.  It’s like hotels seem to think that disabled people only travel with their partner and need only a room with one king bed.  The Hampton Inn put us in a room with two queen beds and a sofa bed.  It was huge, like I could have performed a dance routine in the room even with the sofa bed extended.  And the bathroom was large enough to have a party in.  Though having a party in the bathroom would be a bit weird and likely frowned upon by the hotel staff.  The shower was a roll in style with a fold down seat that actually wasn’t slippery.  I’ve been in showers with the fold down seat that is like the staff waxed it just for fun.  This shower was nice – it had an overhead shower as well as a handheld sprayer.  The floor was a little slick after it got wet, and my chair attempted to skate sideways to escape my clutches, but all in all it was a nice room and not a bad price.

The fifth member of our party was waiting for us at the room and our wine tasting adventure was about to begin.

To be continued…


Wine, women and wheelchairs – part 1

Travelling with a wheelchair is one of those things not for the faint of heart.  It’s a challenge.  It’s annoying at times.  But in the end, it’s still travel and you get to leave your home and go see something new.  So, while sometimes a true pain in the ass, traveling is something I believe everyone should do – including those who use wheelchairs or other mobility devices.

This past weekend I left my home in Phoenix to go on a wine touring adventure with four women I went to high school with.  Yes, you heard me – we not only graduated together and still keep in touch – but we actually get together once in awhile to travel to some really cool places.  I wouldn’t trade these women for anything.  We’ve been there for each other for weddings, births, deaths, job changes, moves, you name it.  So while going anywhere is fun, going anywhere with these women in just plain awesome.

We chose to spend our trip in Sonoma wine country.  That meant flying to San Francisco, renting a car and driving for two hours to get to some of the most drop dead gorgeous scenery you will ever see.  But, first you have to get to the freaking plane.  I chose (wisely, I might add) to carry my small wheeled suitcase on the plane.   I say that was a wise choice because the day I left sunny Phoenix, the baggage system basically self destructed leaving pretty much everyone who checked bags naked in their next city.  For days the bags sat in a parking lot in Phoenix sun until the situation resolved itself and the luggage (and likely some melted cosmetics) found itself back in the hands of the owners who missed it so.  I had no idea that was happening (or did I?  Perhaps I am psychic after all) but I carried my bag on anyways.

Now for most people, carrying on a bag is a bit of a pain.  You have to drag the bag through the airport, take it through security, remove all your liquid belongings in their sad little ziploc bag and then get x-rayed (you and your bag) to prove that the only thing you have that could be construed as a weapon is a faulty eyelash curler that occasionally attempts to blind you.  For a person in a wheelchair it’s a bit more… exciting.  For example, where most people pull those wheeled suitcases like a wheelbarrow behind them, I instead push mine with one hand while I propel the chair with the other.  Sometimes I go straight.  Other times I start spinning in a circle as my suitcase/dowsing rod is held out at arms length making me look a bit like crazed one-seat merry-go-round.  Pushing a wheelchair with one arm is doable but spinning in a circle is always a possibility, and sometimes a welcome option.

Then, once I have managed to shuttle myself and my bag (and don’t forget your personal item – which for me is a large purse that holds everything I hold dear – except my husband who refuses to try to fit in that purse no matter how nicely I ask him) to the security area the next step of the travelling circus begins.  Now, I get to hoist (sometimes more like throw) my suitcase onto the conveyor belt, remove my shoes, and wait patiently until some poor female TSA agent loses a game of Rock/Paper/Scissors and is forced to be my “pat down buddy”.  TSA is where, should I ever be single again and decide that I’d like to try out my skills as a lesbian, I am going to start looking for dates.  Screw eHarmony and Match.com.  After a pat down by a TSA agent, all that’s missing is a candlelight dinner, a glass of wine and a cigarette.  The TSA amour in Phoenix was no different.  She may have actually been a bit more zealous in her attempts to find dangerous items on my person.  This wasn’t mere patting.  This was exploring.  Fortunately, after the groin search and the hair follicle test (I may or may not be joking about that) I was sent on my way to hurtle towards the gate with my dowsing rod suitcase and a nagging feeling that I would forget the TSA agents name.  (I did.  I apologize for forgetting your name little lady with the faint mustache and the smell of garlic on your hands.  We had developed quite a relationship and though I won’t be able to find you on Facebook, you will live forever in my heart.)

The gate is less exciting.  By that point I am so tired from pushing my bag down the ALWAYS uphill incline to get to the gate (who builds airports with hills in it? What is the point?  Is it to provide a kind of amusement park environment as people careen into each other with their bags rolling at high speed down hill?  Nothing else is built with all these uphill inclines, so I’m not sure why the Phoenix airport has them) that I am practically dripping with sweat and simultaneously thanking all the deities who look out for stubborn women in wheelchairs for not allowing me to die on the trek to the gate.  This is my cardio exercise for the weekend.  Maybe for the week.  Or the month.  Once I recover I’ll let you know.  Now I get to gate check my chair which is basically just giving someone that I don’t know my legs and saying “ummm… please don’t lose these” as luggage is being tossed like frisbees into the belly of the plane.  I then move from my wheelchair onto the torture device known as an “aisle chair”.  Now, lets just think about the concept of a chair that fits in a plane aisle for a moment.  When people are corralled like cattle down the aisle into coach class like the dregs of humanity that we are, people actually walk sideways.  Watch them.  The aisle is too small for people’s knees to be able to walk comfortably down the aisle.  Sure there are some tiny women who I am certain have only eaten one lima bean since January who can fit down this tiny funnel into hell, but normal people don’t fit in the aisle.  Now, put a person’s ass in a chair and drag them down the aisle.  It’s awkward, it’s bruising and… well, it reminds you that dieting is probably in your future.  Once I finally make it to the seat, I am so happy to sit in that tiny little child size plane seat that I practically launch myself from the aisle “chair” to the seat.  And now… we are off.

To be continued…

Disability – Don’t Hide Us in the Attic Anymore

Insomnia gives me many chances to catch up on shows that I have recorded on my DVR.  Last night I was watching one of those when I spotted a commercial that stopped me in my fast-forwarding tracks.  It was a a Target commercial that includes a child in a wheelchair as part of the cast.  The child is portrayed as “normal” he’s playing and pushing the chair and just being a kid.  He is not a victim.  He is not “disabled”.  He just is.  And it is wonderful.

The thing that concerns me most about this ad, however, isn’t the fact that this child is in it.  It’s the fact that it surprised me at all.  This is 2015.  We have sent people into space.  We created cell phones that basically do everything except cook you dinner (which they would do if only they had thumbs).  We have created vaccines that have virtually eradicated certain diseases.  We are an advanced society and yet, in today’s day and age, it is still a surprise to see a disabled person portrayed by the media.

Per the 2010 US Census, nearly 1 in 5 Americans have some sort of disability.  That works out to a whopping 56.7 MILLION people who consider themselves at least somewhat disabled, and more than half – so approximately 28.36 MILLION people – reported to the Census that their disability was severe.  This is a lot of people.  And yet, this population is virtually invisible in media.  And sure, there are movies that show the “plucky girl in a wheelchair who overcomes adversity to graduate from Harvard” but those movies aren’t who we are as a population.   So many of these types of movies portray us as victims or as saints.  I am not a victim.  I am certainly not a saint.  I am, however, a best friend, a snarky coworker, a romantic lead, a hero, and an enemy.  I am a patron at the table next to you at a local restaurant.  I am a student in school.  I am the lady in front of you at the grocery store.  I am all around you, and yet, I am invisible.

Maybe I am overly sensitive to this because it hasn’t been all that long ago when school districts could simply say “nope, not interested” when confronted with a disabled student enrolling in their school.  Yes.  This happened.  Yes.  In public schools.  I know.  It happened to me.  I was lucky – a neighboring school district agreed to take me as a student and though it was difficult to make friends when you don’t live in the area where everyone else lives, I was able to go to the schools in that district all the way from Kindergarten until graduation.  My mother wasn’t so lucky.  She had the same bone disease I have and was turned down by all schools in her area.  She was home schooled by my grandmother (long before home schooling was trendy) until eighth grade when a nearby Catholic school agreed to take her (we weren’t Catholic).

I remember studying about the Eugenics movement and how in 1927 the Supreme Court sided with Virginia regarding their forced sterilization of the disabled.  In school, when we studied World War II and the Holocaust, only passing mention was given to the fact that more than 200,000 mentally and physically disabled people were killed during Hitler’s Euthanasia program, and prior to that over 300,000 disabled were sterilized under Hitler’s regime.

We have come so far as a society.  Today, I do not fear being sterilized or euthanized against my wishes.  It is no longer legal to disciminate against me for a job, or keep me locked in an attic so I don’t harm the public’s sensitivities with my unsightly wheelchair (you laugh, but there were laws on the books to that effect up through the 1950’s… perhaps even longer).  I am free to marry and to drive a car.  Children no longer need to fear being turned away from public schools.  But it’s time that the media gets on board with 2015.  The disabled population is not shrinking.  Instead, it is growing as our population ages and injured veterans return from overseas.   We deserve to be portrayed as who we are – a large diverse population who wants the same things from life as anyone else – to be accepted, loved and respected.

Angelina is a cranky bitch

There was a time in my life when sleep was not something I even thought about.  I went to work, came home, relaxed and then went to bed.  That’s when this amazing thing called sleep came.  It was like like your best childhood friend.  You think you will be friends forever.  You share secrets with her.  She is funny and you have an amazing time together.  And then one day she decides she’d rather be friends with the cheerleaders than the would-be goth girl and – poof – you are alone.  Sleep is that fickle friend for me these days.  Sleep is a bitch.

A little over a year and a half ago, I left my normal nine to five life and took on a job as a police dispatcher.  It’s a cool job, but the hours are murder.  Currently I work an overnight shift and though it started out okay – sleep was still my friend at that time – things have taken a turn for the worse.  Well, sleep and I simply have stopped talking.  Sleep – let’s call her Angelina because I feel that any friend named Angelina would be fun for awhile but then turn on you like a 45 record.  Angelina is a cruel friend.  She allowed me to trust her and then when things got tough she simply bailed.

I have tried tea, benadryl, meditation, a hot shower, a cold shower, copious amounts of wine, no wine, eating before bed, not eating for hours before bed, listening to music, watching tv, reading horribly boring books, doing nothing, reading interesting books, sex, no sex, and simply begging someone to hit me with a frying pan and knock me out.  But alas, Angelina is evil and I am once again sleep free.

Someday I hope to befriend the aloof and moody Angelina again.  Until then, blogging is a good way to pass the sleep-free hours.

Happy Thursday to all.

Tale of terror or travel? It’s both.

When I was about thirteen years old or so, my mother took me and my grandmother on a trip out west to Yellowstone.  We spent hours in the car trying desperately not to kill one another while driving around all major cities.  No, we weren’t driving around IN the cities.  We were quite literally driving around them.  My mother, who grew up learning to drive around suburban Detroit, refused to drive in any other city.  Which meant that we didn’t stay in any large chain hotel/motels.  Oh no.  That would be too tame.  No, we stayed on the “outskirts” of towns.  We stayed “off the beaten track”.  We stayed in places no one has ever heard of.  We stayed in places that were likely used as inspiration for the Bates Motel.  Heck, we may have stayed IN the Bates Motel, but any psychopathic motel clerk knew better than to attempt to visit, let alone murder, three females who have been trapped together in a car for fifteen hours.  Even psychopaths get scared.

Now lets be real here.  I was thirteen.  Thirteen is not a good age for anyone, and I was not the exception to this rule.  I was cranky.  I was ornery.  I didn’t want to admit to having a mother let alone having to ride in the car for two weeks with her.  I often wonder if babies acted like thirteen year old girls if the human race would have died out by now.  I mean seriously, if you gave birth to a sulking, hormonal teenager would you actually do it again?  If the pushing a bowling ball out of your nostril wasn’t exciting enough, here’s your acne riddled bundle of anger.  It’s for the best that babies are cute and by the time they become adolescent balls of rage the parents have likely had their fill of baby raising and are now wondering if it’s illegal to sell their newly minted teenager to the Samoans.  Why Samoans?  Who knows?  It’s far away and visitation would be difficult.  Plus there’s always the chance that the child could become a world famous sumo wrestler.  And what parent doesn’t dream of that?

Anyways, we spent countless hours driving through what I now know was beautiful scenery.  However, as the angsty thirteen year old girl that I was, I was less than impressed.  I spent most of that trip reading horror novels and fantasizing that when we got to the next “no tell motel” that my teenage crush flavor of the month would be waiting to save me from the woe of cross country travel.  To no one’s surprise, I was never greeted by the smiling faces of Duran Duran waiting to whisk me away.   I was however, once greeted by a roach the size of small dachshund in one of those motels.

There is something to be said for large chain hotels.  They are generally kept to a higher standard of cleanliness.  Their beds are usually parallel to the floor and not angling as if to fling it’s inhabitants across the room for the slightest movement.  They usually don’t smell as if an unwashed 27 year old drug addict is sleeping in the closet.  And generally they don’t have roaches that could double as pets in the rooms.  I’m pretty sure that the roach of my nightmares went by the name “Fifi” and actually wore a small rhinestone encrusted collar.  But perhaps that’s all in my head.

As is the case with most tales of horror, this one happened in the shower.  I was happily – okay, that’s too much of an exaggeration even for me – I was begrudgingly taking a shower before the motel’s 10 gallon hot water tank was depleted – when I felt something scurry across my foot.  Having learned that NOTHING good ever comes from something scurrying across my naked wet feet, I glanced down with trepidation and fear in my heart.  And that’s when I saw it.  The biggest, bravest insect in the world.  Okay, it may not have been the bravest or the biggest.  But it certainly seemed that way at the time.  And it was also wet.  And fast.  Screaming ensued.  Hysteria reigned supreme and I barely escaped the insectile clutches of Fifi.  And that’s when I realized I couldn’t find her/him/it.  Telling myself I had washed it down the drain in my fit of seizure like thrashing, I got dressed and we prepared to leave.  And as I checked one last time to make sure we hadn’t left anything in the bathroom I saw one tiny roach antenna moving around in the shower drain.  Fifi was waiting.  Waiting for the next unsuspecting naked showering inhabitant.

So do yourself a favor – if you find yourself looking for a motel on the outskirts of town, and you find yourself staring at a motel sign where only three of the five letters actually still light and the “Vacancy” sign is flashing like a strobe light on acid – bring a large can of bug spray.  You’ll thank me later.