Patricia Volonakis Davis's Blog

       

Once upon a time, a man died and went up to Heaven, where Saint Peter was waiting for him at the Holy Gates.

“I’m very sorry,” said Saint Pete, “but I can’t let you in.”

The man was shocked and very disappointed.  “Why not, Saint Peter?” he asked. “Wasn’t I a good man on Earth?”

“You were a very good man, indeed,” replied Saint Pete.“But here’s what your problem was – you could not stop yourself from telling other people how to lead their lives. If they were making a mistake of some kind, you felt compelled to point it out to them.”

Once again, the man was shocked by Saint Peter’s words. “But I don’t understand, Saint Peter. Why was this a bad thing? I was just trying to help them. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do on Earth -  help people?”

“Not in this instance,” replied Saint Peter sternly. “You never learned to mind your own business. And for that reason, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to Hell.”

The man pleaded with Saint Pete. “Please, Saint Peter, I didn’t mean any harm. I was just trying to help, that’s all. I didn’t know I was doing a bad thing. Please, please, give me another chance?”

Saint Peter looked at the man and could see that he honestly hadn’t meant any harm. Because that was so, he thought that perhaps he might bend the rules…just this once.  However, before he did, he would test the man’s sincerity. Unbeknownst to the man, of course.

“All right,” decided Saint Pete. “I’ll go to the Higher Ups and see what I can do. In the meantime, you wait in that room over there. Just go in, and close the door behind you.”

The room to which the man had been directed was large and empty, save for a bench. As directed, he closed the door as he went in, and sat on the bench, waiting for his verdict. And as he sat, he noticed there was a narrow, open archway which led to an anteroom at the far side, opposite to where he was sitting.

As he was pondering what might be in the anteroom, the door he’d closed opened, and an angel came in. He was carrying a very tall ladder.

“Hello,” said the angel. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do you mind if I come through? I’ve just got to take this ladder and leave it in that anteroom over there.”

“Please, go right ahead,” said the man. “You don’t need my permission.”

And then, an odd thing happened. The man watched as the angel walked across the room towards the anteroom, turned his ladder horizontally in his arms,  and attempted to walk through the narrow archway with it. Naturally, he was unable to get through, as the ladder held horizontally was now much too wide.

The man observed with incredulity as the angel made attempt after attempt to get through the archway while holding the ladder thusly. Each time, the ends of the ladder banged against the wall on either side of the opening, propelling the angel backwards, and making quite a mess of the walls it kept hitting, in the process.

Naturally, after about fifteen minutes of this, the angel was winded and perspiring.

“Whew!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t realize this was going to be so difficult.”

The man couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you serious?” he blurted. “If you want to get through, hold the damn ladder vertically!”

The angel shook his head and looked at the man regretfully. “My friend," he said, “this ladder’s not damned, but you are.”

And the next thing the man knew, he was in Hell.

_______________________

I can’t remember how old I was when my father told

 me the story above, but I was still young enough that

my questions were only just starting to become

annoying to him.  Those questions were on every

subject from “Why do you support the war in Vietnam?”

to “Why don’t you ever do anything to stop all the

terrible things going on in this house?”

 

Since he couldn’t seem to come up with any reasonable

answers for me, the parable above was an attempt to

stave off the inevitable, which was that my

questioning of him would eventually go

from annoying to unbearable… for both of us.

 

Even my response to this story was not what he’d

hoped. He thought I’d feel forewarned that my quixotic

nature was taking me closer to Hades every day.  But

ironically, all it prompted was another litany of

questions: “What kind of angel is stupid enough to

behave like a human?” and “What kind of God would

send a man to Hell for questioning human stupidity?”

 

It wasn’t until many, many years later that I recognized

that my father had a point, though perhaps not in the

way he’d believed. Anyone at all, with an average

human intelligence, understands very well which

way one needs to hold a ladder in order to get it

through a narrow archway. But pretending that he

doesn’t, he accomplishes one thing – he can tell himself

he tried to get through with everything he had and

just couldn’t succeed.

The fact is, he doesn’t want to succeed. He says

he has to get through a door and deposit a ladder in

an anteroom, but he doesn’t truly want to.

 

He just wants to pretend to himself and everyone

else, that he really, really tried.

 

And because this is actually what he wants – that

illusion of the attempt of a completion of a 'task', which is

another word for a ‘change’ – rather than the actual

change – he doesn’t want anyone to point out to him

that his ‘attempt’ is in actuality no attempt at all.

 

He doesn’t need anyone getting in the way of
his self-deception. Like my father, it will more  
than irritate him,  because by pointing it out, making him aware that you are aware that he’s lying to himself, you will make him hate himself and, as a result, (especially if your own attempts at change are real, and your desire to help him  is motivated out of genuine caring, rather than smug superiority) – he will hate you, too.

 

A fast way to hell, indeed.

Remember that the next time you

(metaphorically) observe an intelligent adult holding a ladder horizontally, trying to get through an archway.
 

Say nothing. Wish him “good luck,” and get out of his way.

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I'm sorry I can't answer comments here. They are not possible to answer due to a software glitch on my page, which has now even begun to affect the appearance of my blogs. It's degenerative, I swear.And very irritating.

 If you'd like to leave me a message, please visit patriciavolonakisdavis.wordpress.com. Thank you very much.

Kzinti and Baria - thank you for your comments over at my wordpress blog. They meant a lot. I miss you.

Hello Vox Neighbours!

Remember me? I sort of live here still... when VOX gives me permission to post, and when I'm not working endless hours on Lord-only-knows-what. (In fact, right now, VOX is not letting me change font sizes. I have come to loathe this software)

One of the things I've been up to, is the epic-making of this four minute vid, badly shot by me, using my computer, (a first) with my intern's help. It took all day, believe it or not, and it's still awful. I take full responsibility. It's through no fault of my intern, honestly. She showed me how to work all the buttons, how to "redirect the folder" (which I know I won't remember a second time), and she was cheering me on from off-camera. She shall remain publicly unnamed however, because - as you will see - she's amazingly publicity-shy.

Anyway, this is the Drawing Result for the contest we held on the Harlot's Sauce Facebook Fan Page and which I posted here, also, a while back. I know some of you were entered, and I was super-stoked when I realized that the winner is someone we all know and love. It took about thirty seconds to make the connection between her real name and her VOX name. 

I admit that of all the things we've been doing lately to promote my book, running this contest was one of the fun ones. But discovering who the winner was really put it over the top on the enjoyment scale for me.

Congratulations to one very special human being.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-fEArRxYYQ

Also, for those who might be  interested - (though my guess is by now, you're probably not, since I'm getting pretty sick of all this stuff, so I can imagine how you feel  - here is my just-about-ready  new book cover. I know the designers worked very hard on it, and I think it's a lovely work and a job well-done. The interior however, remains pretty much the same,  except for the routing out of a few more typos; credit for the detection of which goes to my old pal, SNOWY.  ('Sidney' indeed. I never spelled it like that - that was some sort of copyediting software, I swear!)

And now, back to work!   : )

I have been receiving a lot of emails from readers ever since my book, Harlot's Sauce, was published. The emails have ranged from "good book, but change the cover" (more than one person has said that, and finally the publisher has listened, but more about that later...) to an outpouring of admiration and assignations to me of wisdom and expertise, as in, "You're SO wise when it comes to relationships. I wish I were more like you."

And this feels... weird. Because, first of all, a letter filled with adoration received from a person who doesn't know me is, to paraphrase Amy Alkon,  a bit like having a stranger come up to you and give you a foot massage- it feels good, maybe even a little exciting, but at the same time, it's unnerving. It's too intimate, too fast. And I haven't really earned that intimacy with some of the people who write to me.  If anyone who doesn't know me wants to trust me on anything,  trust me on this- no one should be wishing to be more like me.

And the part about me being wise? Ha ha. That's funny. The only thing I'm an expert on- a REAL expert - is FAILED relationships. I have failed so many times at love- whether it's romantic, sexual, filial, maternal, daughterly, or comradely, that I guess those who send me emails are right- I probably could predict for anyone when they're headed for tragedy in any of those relationships. But only because I've BEEN there- in a big way. So let's say then that not only do I have that Ph.d in Patrichism, I have also earned my DFR- Doctorate in Failed Relationships. I'm an expert, alright - at breaking my own heart.

My first serious romantic relationship was with a man who used me and my naive virginity, along with my marked lack of self-confidence as his beard for sexual picadilloes I will never repeat, unless they are tortured out of me. I followed that up by worshiping at an altar I created for a man who for decades, considered my dedication to him his 'money card'. He withdrew on that card, and withdrew, and withdrew, with no re-investment, until finally there was no balance left to extract.

During that same time, I had a 'best friend' to whom I was also devoted, and she dropped me not too long after I finally dropped this man. That hurt almost more than the failure of my romantic relationships did, when it finally dawned on me that we'd been 'friends' only because my psyche was in worse shape than hers, and my discontent made her feel better about her own.

And there is so much more, with father and mother and siblings and an extended family group on one side that was less a 'family' and more a 'coven', blood-sworn in their dedication to dysfunction and maliciousness. A cult which cannot admit people who try to be, or are, happy or whole, because somehow that slackens their dark, powerful clutch on one another. I'm talking about the kind of people Anthony Hopkins in some film would warn you to stay away from, unless you were covered in garlic and Crosses.

I developed a terror of getting too close to people generated by all of the above. Why? It was pure self-protection - I only had so much blood in my veins and I'd let those I cared about suck on it for way too long.

As a result of that fear, I screwed up yet again, and almost lost the one man who truly loves me, who is my best friend, as well as my husband and lover. Fear was never going to allow me to make the honest and true friends I do have now, if it hadn't have been for the intervention of some seed of good sense that managed somehow to grow into the great, sturdy tree it's become inside me, despite the soil deprived of minerals in which it's had to blossom. Or maybe it grew because of that, who knows?

And this is me- the real me, without the cleverly written descriptions of my life that make you laugh, the anecdotes which on some days are so tricky to get down on paper - after all, how easy is it, really, to find 'the funny side' of your own foolishness and pain?

Why am I confessing all of this now, and in this unusually maudlin way? Simple. I want you to know who exactly it is you're writing to, asking for advice, and venerating for her 'wisdom.' I want you to know that sometimes the only way to become wise, is to make your own mistakes and live through the agony of them, so that the lesson sticks.

Remember this the next time you come across someone who sounds like an 'expert.' Because they may have become experts the same way I have - not through success after success, but through disaster.

And you know what? It's not nearly as bad as one might think, to learn to be wise that way.

------
Note: As is necessary these days due to VOX malfunctions, if you would like to leave a comment about this post, please go to http://patriciavolonakisdavis.wordpress.com

Note: I don't know how many VOXERS might be interested in this promo, but I thought I'd post it because some of you are already in this new contest and don't even know it yet, and also because it's just plain FUN and I am blessed to have a publicist/friend who comes up with this terrific stuff.  

For those who don’t know him, please let me introduce my VOX neighbor, Tommy Hames.

Tom and I disagree on almost every current issue, I’ve noticed. And when we disagree politically, socially, economically and spiritually, well…I won’t sugarcoat this ─ I think he’s wrong. Dead wrong.  And I think that I’m right.  And my guess would be Tom thinks I’m wrong, dead wrong (can you imagine?) and he’s right.
 
And yet, it’s a funny thing…I still like Tom. And he likes me. Based on replies to my posts, comments he’s made on his, I know he thinks about my perspective, even if he will never agree with me. And I do the same about his.

In fact, sometimes, at dinner, I will tell my husband some of the things about which Tom and I disagree, and my husband almost always says I’m right and Tom is wrong. (He’d be a madman not to, wouldn’t he? After all, Tom doesn’t cook  dinner for him.)
 
But, my husband and I talk about what Tom thinks and writes. And not once have we ever thought that Tom didn’t have a right to his beliefs, or perspectives. Not once have I ever thought him a person unworthy of my  regard. Not once have I ever called Tom a bad name.

“What about Tom?” you might ask. Since he’s so wrong, he must get angry at me for being so right, right?

Wrong.
 
In fact, the one and only time Tom displayed public annoyance over something I wrote on my blog was because it personally involved him.
 
That one time, Tom was right and I was…well…wrong. And I apologized.

But guess what? Tom felt I didn’t have to apologize, and also felt I had a right to my thoughts. And then, he forgave me and forgot about it. Gracious and right, that was Tom, all in one day.

It was a bit hard to swallow.

Nonetheless, though I didn’t enjoy the taste of crow, I am so glad Tom disagrees with me and I with him, because he makes me think. He helps me remember that there are many sides to an issue, and that just as it’s happened in the past, someone will come along with a fact - a perspective- a news flash- that just might make me revisit my stance. Or at least, understand another stance more.

(Oh- it’s happened and I’m not ashamed to admit it.)
 
The fact that Tom and I are often diametrically opposed also teaches me to deal with my frustration over those oppositions in the same way that Tom does- with civility.

Here’s another thing. We’re friends. Yes indeed, Tom and I have become friends.

Here are some of the things Tom has done to show his friendship that in fact, some others who agree with me have not:

1)    He has sent me emails congratulating me on the success of my book. He not only ‘friended’ my book fan page on Facebook, he got his daughter to do it, also.( Who also sent me a very nice note.)
 
2)    He has asked my advice on his writing (which is very good, by the way) and thanked me for all of my help.
 
3)    He compliments often on my work and thanks me for my friendship.
 
So from these, I also learned that just because someone disagrees with me, it doesn’t mean s/he can’t be my friend and wish me well, and just because someone does agree with me, it doesn’t necessarily mean s/he will be my friend or wishes me well.
 
Yeah- Tom and I are very odd, apparently, because we don’t hate each other’s guts and say disgusting things to each other. Because we believe that we live in a country where it is our constitutional right to disagree,  and where that very disagreement keeps a balance against the zealots and fanatics on either side of Tom’s perspective and mine.
 
And, because, despite the fact that we disagree, we share a love for ourselves, that spreads out to our fellow human beings.
 
And that, I think, is the root of it. People who hate and spread that hate, whether they are on the right side of any issue (mine, of course) or the wrong side of an issue, hate themselves first. Their reason for vehement, violent and nasty disagreement is not really fueled by frustration, but by a terrible fear that they are not respected, or worthy of respect.

Do I sound smug about all this? Well, maybe that's because I am. And a little disturbed, too, by some of the things I've been reading in my VOX neighborhood lately.
 
So thanks, Tom, for respecting yourself enough that you don’t have to be mean to me when you’re always wrong and I’m always right.  You and the family should come over for a barbecue at our place sometime.
 
You do eat meat, of course, Tom – right?

25 Clues the Man of Your Dreams Will Become the Man Your Children Only See on Weekends

Are you engaged to be married, but none of your friends or family seem as rapturous about it as you are? Perhaps they see something to which love has made you blind? The following are two dozen and one indicators that guarantee you and your perfect love will end up in divorce court. (And please don’t ask me how I know):

1.    If he has a neck tattoo he got in prison
2.    If he always calls your private parts by a four-letter word
3.    If he’s already complaining about your mother
4.    If he lies to his friends about the fact that you are a year older than he is
5.    If his family’s religious rituals are too complex for you to understand
6.    If he owns both Gucci socks and Gucci ties in seven shades of blue, and insists they must absolutely match  before going off to work
7.    If, even when just out for a casual car ride, he swears at other drivers
8.    If he reports to you that his mother is upset about something you said or did
9.    If he cheated on someone to go out with you
10.   If he forgets the name of your child from your previous marriage
11.    If he asks you to sign a prenup
12.    If his first sexual experience was with a prostitute that an older male family member ‘treated’ him to on his fourteenth birthday
13.    If he laughs when someone compliments your outfit
14.    If he thinks homosexuality is “learned.”
15.    If he refuses to run out and buy you emergency tampons
16.    If female airline pilots make him “nervous”
17.    If he tells your sister he wonders what would have happened if he had met her first
18.    If you find a stash of fetish magazines he’s kept hidden from you
19.    If he consistently goes into another room to take phone calls
20.    If he snorts when you voice your political views
21.    If you cook his favorite dish as a surprise, and his response is that it’s not the way his mother makes it
22.    If he complains it takes you too long to reach orgasm
23.    If he knows the difference between your salary and his to the penny, and he makes a lot more or a lot less than you do.
24.    If he mentions that if he were gay, he’d sleep with your best friend’s husband
25.    If he has a neck tattoo he got in prison

Summer is upon us, and though many of us see this season as our opportunity to get frisky in the sun, it’s also the season for bug bites and… other nature-induced itches. The handy guide below will help you decide when, or even if you should “scratch”:

Poison Oak

If you’ve got a poison oak rash, it means you’ve been crawling around in a wild place you shouldn’t have, with your naked limbs exposed, and shame on you. Poison oak rash is oozy and scaly, just like that bloke you almost let pick you up at that sleazy bar your friends dragged you to last week. It’s a contamination that will spread over your entire being the more you touch it. Definitely, definitely do not scratch that tickle. Even if you have had too many shots of watered-down Jack.

Flea Bites

A flea bite is a prickling, burning bite that hurts longer than a lover’s betrayal. And just like a Cheater, fleas are hard to spot, so you really can’t do much to avoid getting bit. Do not scratch this tickle either, once it happens; you’ll only exacerbate the intensity. The only thing to do is let that flea bite burn, until the toxins dissipate and you no longer feel the pain. But it will always leave a little red mark on you which remains pretty much forever.

Mosquitoes

Any woman who believes “size matters” has never had a mosquito in her bed. These little guys have egos bigger than Rod Blagojevich, and they make even more noise than he does, too. Their incessant drone is the only foreplay that you get before they finally settle down for a nibble. And when they do, they catch you by surprise. Yet, their prick doesn’t sting much, nor last long. It can be fun to scratch their itch once or twice, but not too hard, or you’ll swell up with infection. By the time that happens, the mosquito responsible is long gone.

Prickly Heat

Prickly heat is a little red rash that shows up on your skin when you get too hot. It’s suddenly just there, like that new man you find so intriguing. Where did it come from? Will it last long? And most important, will it harm you if you rub? It’s usually pretty safe to scratch this tickle...for as long as the heat rash lasts.

Now that you have your newly-edited manuscript down to 143,122 words, (not including the 36,310 words of the ‘Back Section’ which includes recipes, a guide to additional reading, a history lesson, a wine list, and other information you deemed pertinent to your readers as addendums to your manuscript), you start looking for a book publisher. The only problem there is that you have no idea how to find a book publisher. Someone wiser than you, or maybe someone who just overheard someone else talking to another someone about this, suggests you get a “literary agent”. But you’ve no idea how to find one of those, either.  So:

1)     You go into your husband’s office and ask him, “Have you any thoughts on how I can get an agent for my women’s empowerment memoir?”

 

Your husband, a stockbroker who reads the financial pages, baseball biographies, and P.G. Wodehouse, and is at that very moment trying to make an important stock trade, replies (quite flippantly, you think), “None whatsoever.”

 

2)     Unreasonably irritated, you leave his office, go back into your own, and type, “How to Get A Literary Agent” into the search engine on your computer. This is when you discover that Google has approximately 818,000 articles on how to find a literary agent, and amazon.com sells more than 50 books on the subject.

 

Surely you don’t need to read a whole book and all those articles? After all, how hard can it be to get an agent? Aren’t they like realtors? Don’t they want to sell your work? That’s how they make their money, after all, isn’t it?  

 

Thus, assuming that selling a work of literature is like selling a house, you choose to follow the directives in a concise, one-page article you find on ehow.com.

 

3)     The ehow.com article says that you need to first write a ‘query letter’ to an agent. Again, you are clueless. So again, you rely on Google, typing in, ‘what is a query letter?’ to find out on Wikipedia, another of your ‘unfailing’ information sources, that “a query letter is a formal letter sent to magazine editors, literary agents, to propose writing ideas.” 

 

This seems simple enough, so you sit down and write your first ‘formal’ query letter, which goes something like this:

 

Dear ____________:

 

My name is Patricia Volonakis Davis, and I have written a women’s empowerment memoir called, “Amerikanaki”, which is my story about being raised first generation Italian-American, marrying a Greek national, and moving to Greece with him.

 

I hope you will be interested in reading my manuscript. I look forward to hearing from you.

 

Sincerely yours,

 

Patricia Volonakis Davis

 

Address

telephone number

email

 

4. After formulating your concise query letter to match the concise instructions which you followed to write it, you make a list of the top ten agents in the United States, finding their names through Google, too, of course.

 

You go to the agents’ individual websites and discover the particularized instructions on each. Some want you to post your query letter, along with a stamped, self-addressed envelope. Others will only accept queries submitted by email. Some ask you send the first 30 pages of your manuscript, to also be included in email, pasted, not attached, in “WORD format only”, or “RTF format” (a format you assume is an anachronism for RUT the F*ck?!). Some want you to include any three random chapters, to be sent along with your SAE. And yet others ask that along with your query letter, you send the x-rays of your teeth your dentist took during your last exam.

 

Following all these instructions diligently (you were a teacher, after all) you send out your ten query letters/emails to your ten top choices of agents, and expect to hear from them all within a week or two at the most.

 

5. Three months later, you’ve written and emailed over fifty literary agents and received two replies detailing further instructions, and after having complied with those, you never hear from those two again. You now have six of those fifty available books sitting on your desk, with one more on order from amazon.com, and have taken five writing courses. One of those includes a three-day class given by a literary agent, (who shows no interest in your manuscript at all, by the way), simple titled, “How to Write a Query Letter”.

 

It was during this class that you learned how pathetically inadequate your first query letter was,  and you rewrote it so many times that it actually took longer to complete than the manuscript itself.  You also learn that apart from your manuscript and your query letter, you need to write something called a “book proposal”, and you have a new list of books written down and ready to order on how to write one of those.

 

You’ve spent hundreds of dollars on postage, photocopies, books, and classes. Additionally, you suspect your husband is seriously considering moving his office from home, so that you can’t barge in every day to cry over the latest rejection or out-and-out disregard from literary agents. You know these suspicions are well-founded when he suggests that you go to a writers’ conference where you can meet agents in person.

 

“But, writers’ conferences are very expensive,” you point out to your beleaguered husband.

“True, but a lot less expensive than my having to move my office,” he replies.

 

(You see? You were right.)

 

6. And so, you register for BEA (Book Expo America) in New York. You need to pay the conference fees, flight, hotel, meals, and transport to and from BEA, so that once there, you, along with hundreds of other hopeful writers, will have two hours to meet with as many agents as you can, who will give you three minutes each to pitch your manuscript to them. You have no idea who any of these agents are, you only read a short blurb description of them, and of whether they are looking for ‘fiction’ or ‘non-fiction,’ ‘children’s’ or ‘adults.’ You can also clearly see, as you stand on a queue waiting to speak to them, that all of the ones you’ve chosen are already annoyed at and/or bored with the writer who’s talking to them at the moment. And you’re up next.

 

7. You’ve spent thousands of dollars and another three months up to now, but guess what? ─ you walk away from the conference with seven business cards from agents who have told you to send them your manuscript! A month later, of the seven, two actually offer you a contract! Once again, you have no clue which of the two you should choose, so you go with the one who shows the most enthusiasm for your work. She turns out to be the less experienced of the two; as a matter of fact, you learn that you are her very first client, but no matter. You have an agent! You’ve done it!

 

8. You run into your husband’s office again, this time with excitement, kiss him and thank him for his brilliant suggestion.  You then ring your best friend joyously, informing her that you finally have a literary agent! You will be published within weeks!

 

Or so you think.

 

                                               (To be Continued.)

 

Note: Please remember that comments and replies are now at http://patriciavolonakisdavis.wordpress.com.  I am really sorry for this inconvenience. I hope VOX fixes the bug on my blog someday.

 

     

Hello VOX neighbours:

Today, I'm looking for your creative opinions. A friend of mine produced a short 'book trailer' for my book, including the music. I was very pleased with the gift. 

For those who don't know, a 'book trailer' is like a movie trailer, except for books, not movies, obviously. I'd love to hear your critiques and comments.

You can still reach me at my email address patricia@patriciavdavis.com
even just to say "hello", (which would be very nice, indeed) and I'm also on Facebook now. I hope I get to see some more of you there.

Harlot's Sauce the book also has a FACE BOOK FAN PAGE, and we just ran a contest where one VOX neighbour won a $100 dollar American Express Card, a Harlots' Sauce Radio t-shirt, and an autographed copy of the book. There willbe more contests, so if you are on Facebook, and happen to like contests, come join the fan page. (It would probably also help if you actually liked the book, but I don't think they make you sign an affidavit to that effect! ; D )

Okay, so here is the video. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts! You can post them, if you wish, at http://patriciavolonakisdavis.wordpress.com

(By the way, I can't believe how far I've come with my tech skills. Though still a newbie, I remember how Foxsy Dee and Paxton had to give me lessons on even the simplest things. Now I can actually post a vid!