Living Happily Ever After
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Celebration of Life

Date: April 7, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

One day I found the book, “The Barber’s Shop,” by K. Douglas Bassett (published by Cedar Fort books in 2005) on my nightstand.

In the book the author shared an experience he had getting his hair trimmed by an elderly Utah barber when he was a young married man and father. He shared something special that happened with every hair cut—and it had nothing to do with cutting hair.

“As this old gentlemen trimmed our hair, he would sing the songs of his youth. Occasionally as he would sing, he would weep ever so slightly and sometimes even chuckle but never enough to interrupt his singing. As he sang I thought: ‘When I grow old, I want to feel as deeply about my life as he does about his. I don’t ever want to forget the events that have touched and shaped me. But most of all, I always want to feel a passion toward life that supplies the very kind of depth that gives joy and hope, even admidst adversity and pain.’ I didn’t want to devalue my life with the passing of time by forgetting the intensity of life’s moments. My old barber friend had felt the pain and tragedies of life, which accompany anyone who has lived a long time. Yet, his was not the expression of regret or remorse…but a celebration of life.”

Feel deeply.

Remember the events that shape you.

And celebrate all of it.

“The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate.” Oprah Winfrey

My Librarian

Date: April 6, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

“A good book should leave you… slightly exhausted at the end.  You live several lives while reading it.” (William Styron)

My husband does many thoughtful things, many small acts of service for me, every day. For example, he keeps me supplied with books. He knows I like to read (and I do read quite a lot, especially considering that I work full-time) so he goes to the effort to stop by to the public library, looks for books he thinks I’ll like, picks them up for me and places them on my nightstand for me to read. Even nicer? He keeps track of the due date and makes sure he gets them back on time, too! I guess you could say he is my personal librarian and literary valet service in addition to many other wonderful things.

Thanks to his efforts, I’ve read things I probably would otherwise never have read—like his favorite author and his favorite book (from Spain, by the way.) I’ve read some books I have absolutely loved and have almost gotten lost in. I’ve read some books I finished out of sheer dedication to finishing a task, like slowly working my way through a very long history of John Adams. And I’ve even read some self-help books. (I mentioned wanting to learn more about financial management to see if we could improve our finances in any way, and before I new it, there was a money management book on my nightstand. He’s a wonderful “listener.”)

Recently he picked up a book for me that had two great thoughts about life I wanted to share. After all, “The worth of a book is to be measured by what you can carry away from it.” (James Bryce) So get ready tomorrow for a life perspective gleaned from…a book.

And in the meantime, have you read any good books lately? Has a book ever changed your life or your life perspective? I’d love to hear what you’re reading. I need something good to read. My husband is out of town on an adventure…and the space on my nightstand is empty. Oops!

A Move, A Proof

Date: April 5, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

Two words describe the most recent developments at our house: Moving. Again. (Or should I more accurately describe it as U-Haul? Or you, haul? Sometimes I think I ought to go into business for myself.) Here’s the update.

We gave it a good run (two months.) However, in that time my husband’s daughter made some good choices (again)  and some seriously poor choices (again)…so she moved in with her mother. I’d assumed  we’d let her experience the consequences of her choices and try it again, but before I even knew there was a plan, the new plan was implemented and she’d made arrangements to live somewhere else. Had I had any say in the matter, had it been up to me, I would have insisted my husband’s daughter stay with us; I would have allowed her to experience the consequences of her choices and we would have given things another shot. But, I’m not in charge; I’m just my husband’s wife.

From my perspective, that’s one thing that makes divorce and the stepparent role so difficult: watching kids you like and care about make choice after choice that complicate their lives and put their futures at risk; you’re ready and willing as their friend to assist their parent in helping them learn self-control, honesty, personal responsibility, fiscal responsibility, family values and other important lessons you know they’re going to need to be successful adults—and not only are they not interested in those things, they have another option, another parent, another “culture,” an entirely different and opposite set of values and lifestyle they can turn to. On top of that, the additional challenge (and biggest concern from my perspective) is the effect the poor choices and lives the children of one family choose to lead can have on the children of the other family.

Honestly, sometimes that aspect of remarriage is almost overwhelming. But one unexpected part the situation has reminded me of again, however, is that everything has an upside. You just have to look for it and find it.

Here’s one. When I divorced and my children’s father went to prison to serve his 12 year sentence, I thought that was a hard and terrible thing for my children to experience. And it has been, to some degree, at least it started out that way, but it has also been a blessing too. For instance, my children don’t have to deal with two parents leading two different lives, fear of showing “loyalty” to one versus the other, the disruption in routine of moving between different parents and different rules, etc…It has also turned out to be good for me in an unexpected way—in my ability to parent my children as I see fit. While I believe my ex-husband would support my role, my philosophy and my efforts in raising our children were he near us, the “upside” or bright side to their father’s incarceration is that his absence guarantees it.

It gives my children no other option. I’m it. If they don’t like my rules, parenting philosophies or what I’m raising them to be, if they make a wrong choice, they still have to stay with me, experience the consequences of their choices and learn from their mistakes. There’s nowhere else for them to go. There’s no one they can run to, no one who will pity them or enable them to continue their wrong choices and inappropriate behaviors. And given the many divorce situations I’ve been exposed to since the demise of my original family, I now see that prison has actually been a blessing for my children and their growth and learning.

Who EVER would have thought? Certainly not me! When I think back to that dark day in 2009 when my world crumbled in one moment, one conversation, and I thought prison was the most incomprehensible thing in my world, I never saw it coming, I didn’t see an upside, if you will. But it is what it is: ”What seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise.” (Oscar Wilde)

It reminds me again that if you’ve got a challenge, even a very bitter one; if you’re enduring your worst nightmare, even something so terrible you never could have imagined it would ever be your nightmare; hang in there! And I know that in time (if you can’t already) you’ll see a bright side. You’ll be able to recognize something good that came out of it, even if it’s a very minuscule good thing.  Eventually you’ll see a blessing in even the worst situations. That’s the unexpected life. And I’ll say it again: I’m living proof.

“A proof is a proof. What kind of a proof? It’s a proof. A proof is a proof. And when you have a good proof, it’s because it’s proven.” (Jean Chretien)

Multiples “Personalities,” One Man

Date: April 4, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

“I have so many different personalities in me and I still feel lonely.” (Tori Amos)

My marriage has an interesting aspect to it. Different from anything I never expected. Brought to me courtesy of my husband, of course.

My husband is a full-time businessman and a part-time actor. (Need I say more?) To a small degree, it’s like living with several different people, or at the very least, someone with more than one personality—although in my husband’s case, thank goodness, it’s always the same kind, patient, loving, fun man and great father underneath whatever the outside happens to look like on any given day!

The other day he left for work an “ordinary” businessman (but with a strong resemblance to Mitt Romney, if comments from family, friends, strangers and Facebook are to be believed!) and before he returned home, again an ordinary businessman, he’d been an airplane pilot for a few hours for a video shoot and a rancher for a commercial audition.

Lederhosen aside, it makes for some exciting experiences, unique adventures and memorable days…as well as for some unforgettable memories. Like the night we stood together, at our bathroom sink, both of us removing our make-up! Or the night I was struck by how great his tan legs legs looked, assumed he’d hit the tanning bed he occasionally visits, only to discover no, it was leg makeup from a Youtube video he’d appeared in wearing a tunic earlier that day (don’t ask! haha.) Although it does take a certain degree of confidence, as a woman, to be married to a man who seems to know more about and to be better at applying the fine art of…makeup!

It certainly keeps life interesting. My thanks to Mr. Ramsey for the many entertaining moments that are now mine.

“Of course life is bizarre, the more bizarre it gets, the more interesting it is. The only way to approach it is to make yourself some popcorn and enjoy the show.” (Unknown)

Beautiful

Date: April 3, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

“Beauty, to me, is about being comfortable in your own skin.  That, or a [striking] red lipstick.” (Gwyneth Paltrow)

When my sister and I were young, we went through our own unique awkward stages. My sister’s was a particular challenge given her poor eyesight and her good fortune to land the position as my dad’s chief orthodontic experiment on a new appliance, the Frankel. (Don’t ask. Lets just say it was a giant box-like, retainer-type contraption with wires and pink material galore that when worn, made my sister’s lips and cheeks bulge out to contain her mouthful!) Thankfully, her natural beauty and her great personality saw her through those times because she always seemed to have boy friends, and boys with crushes on her, way more than I ever did and even using those “awkward” years.

They led to some pretty romantic moments. For example, once, while riding from Denver to Grand Jct., Colorado in the late 1970s, with their moms chatting in the front seat, a boy serenaded her with, “You Are So Beautiful” by Joe Cocker. Picture it: two kids in the backseat of a car on a road trip with their moms, and the boy sings his devotion along the Colorado highways! I was pretty uncomfortable with romantic gestures at that point of my life, so when she got home and told me about it, we had such a laugh over that one! I’ve never been able to hear that song again without thinking of my sister’s romantic experience, her first serenade.

Then I married #5, my husband Mike, a self-described “crooner.” I’ve already documented my experience when he first sang me a song—it turned out MUCH better than anticipated, for me! Lol. And then one night, while sitting at the piano and singing, he started that song, “You Are So Beautiful.” I cringed, bracing myself for a song that had never been my favorite, particularly after my sister’s experience with it…but something unexpected happened. (As usual. I ought to be getting used to that by now, huh?) Turns out, it was a VERY different experience than my sister’s romantic rendition of the 1970s.

There I sat watching and listening to the man I love sing it to me, smile at me as he sang, raise his eyebrows at me during key passages in the lyrics, and with his own voice (which I love—it’s my favorite!) rather than Joe Cocker’s hoarse, grunting style (my apologies to any Joe Cocker fans out there), made me feel like he meant every word. It was quite a moment. Unexpectedly romantic. And guess who actually likes that song now? Me. After more than three decades of abhorring it!

“You Are So Beautiful.” (Kind of him to sing, especially after 44 years of wear and tear and four children resulting in wrinkles, sags, bags, and everything else that blesses your life in middle age. He’s either blind or, as I suspect, the kindest and nicest man on the planet.)

But while we’re on the subject or beauty, here’s a tip from Audrey Hepburn (who knew what she was talking about!): “For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone.”

Remember that, and you’re beautiful. No matter who sings it.

Hand Squeeze

Date: April 2, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman
“The spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly.” (Owl City, Vanilla Twilight)
I remember my papa’s hands; the tan, weathered hands of a rancher. His hands held mine, steadied one side of the steering wheel to keep us on the road as he “let me drive” the dirt roads to the farm long before I was 16. His hands lifted hay bales, fed baby sheep bottles, lifted me onto his horse, Old Yeller, so I could have a ride, and scooped water from the trough for us to drink out of the old tin cup in the water shed. How I loved my Papa and his hands.
My nana’s hands made her famous chocolate cake, brownies, sausage, creamed beans, mashed potatoes and gravy and every other edible delight (she was known for her good cooking.) They taught me to embroider, they ironed the red velvet dress of the doll she bought for me and the other granddaughters to play with at her house, they played pat-a-cake with my babies and children, they knitted me a beautiful afghan. One of my most poignant memories of Nana and her hands is that of her standing by Papa’s casket, her hand on his folded hands, and never letting go of those hands she’d held for close to 60 years’s she greeted the town who had come to pay their respects and honor a good man who had lived an exemplary life.
I have similar feelings and memories about my dad’s hands and my mom’s hands, though gnarled and twisted my mom’s arthritic hands became in the year’s before her death. I can’t believe it has been almost 26 years since I’ve seen or felt my dad’s hands; almost six year’s since I’ve held my mom’s. How I love and miss those hands.

 

I remember noticing my husband’s hands the moment I met him.  (That should have been a clue to me that something was up—I’ve never been a “hands” person or noticed hands, I guess there was something different about him!) My husband’s hands are good and kind hands. Hands that feel so right when they hold mine. Hands that squeeze mine during songs, movies or conversations, every time, in just the “right” and most romantic, places. (I must be a joy to be romantically involved with. Not! I’m so clueless; all of the time, it seems. For the longest time in our relationship when he squeezed my hand I’d think it was a mistake; a twitch or a reflex, but never on purpose! However, I’ve finally gotten that it’s intentional Romantic, even.)

When I think about my husband’s hands, I remember my youngest walking up to him the first time he spent any time with him at all, and how he put his tiny hand right into my husband’s hand and didn’t let go the entire day. I think of my husband’s hands working to provide for our family; tirelessly serving all eight children (even the grown, adult ones and their children); doing dishes; unloading the dishwasher; sweeping the floor; helping with homework; playing ball with the kids; doing yard work (despite the fact he’d joyfully retired from it and bought a condo prior to our marriage); planting a garden with my younger children every year; cooking Japanese food for our family; cooking breakfast every morning before work; playing the piano; opening doors for me and so many other things. I think of his hands wearing a wedding ring (my dad didn’t wear a wedding ring, and I’ve never been married to a man who wore a wedding ring, so it’s a new thing for me—but I like it!) And I’ll never forget my husband’s hand, clasping mine, on the day we married.

I guess I’m a hand person after all.

“Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two, who had never seen each other until that day, between whom no word or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have marveled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I would go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection. So we stood hand in hand like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.” (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels and Stories, Volume 1″)

Unexpected Wife

Date: April 1, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

This is not a joke or a test of the emergency broadcast system. For anyone who logged on today for a word from me, my apologies. I thought I’d switch things up in honor of April 1st, April Fools and to accommodate the requests from readers who have asked for a formal introduction to my husband. I figured after six months of dating, a 10 month engagement, one year of marriage and everything else…it’s about time! This is no April Fool’s joke. Ladies and gentlemen, here he is: Mr. Mike Ramsey. (Formerly known as #5.)

“Do you ever hear a song that immediately transports you back to another time in your life?  Not to just a small memory of the first time you heard it, but it literally takes you to where you would swear you were, in that place and in that time?  It happened to me a few months ago.

I can’t remember the song (and that’s a good thing) but it took me back to the first few months after my separation. When I was living in the basement of my best friend’s home.  The song reminded me of waking up that first morning, on a mattress on the floor, and looking up at the unfinished ceiling thinking, ‘This nightmare was not a dream.’ Once again I felt that sinking feeling in my chest that my whole world had fallen apart and was never going to be the same.  What a horrible feeling!  (Now you know why I don’t want to remember the song.)

Thankfully, these days I’m singing a different tune.

You’ve read how Andrea and I met—the whole Spaghetti Factory thing—after we found each other on the internet. I am so thankful we did! You’ve read of the awful things that she and the kids had gone through: after she told me her father’s unexpected death when she was a teen and about the Ponzi scheme that led to her divorce, I asked her why she wasn’t on medication! (Ha!) What you may not know is how genuine Andrea really is. And that the way she comes across on the blog is the way she really is in life: an amazing, down-to-earth woman who knows who she is. Each day she tries her best to reach her God-given potential. I love her for that, and for many other things. One of my best friends summed it up so succinctly when she said, “Andrea is good for you, Mike!” I agree.

I’m sure in five years, although there may not be one song in particular I remember from our dating time (she kept me too busy dancing to too many tunes to have just one memory!) I know that every time I hear a song from our dating I will be whisked back to those great memories and feelings and remember what a lucky fellow I am.

Yes, when you are Bachelor #5 you definitely need someone “good” for you.  And I got the best there is. My “unexpected wife.”

No Sissy

Date: March 31, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

I would like to make an announcement. To the fans packed in the stands of the BYU versus University of Utah hockey game February 2012. To all of the yahoos who stood there cheering and jeering, taunting my son as he lay injured on the ice and who led me to demonstrate my finest moment. (Not!)

Here it is: My son is no sissy.

He skated off the ice (with help from his teammates) that night…and three days later had surgery requiring the permanent installation of two metal plates and 13 screws to repair his BROKEN LEG…in addition to two pins to repair his BROKEN ANKLE!

“I didn’t want to be the sissy figure skater, you know.” (Scott Hamilton)

Trust me, he’s not.

“Usually when I wielded a hockey stick, it meant somebody was going to get hurt…” (Stan Mikita)

No kidding.

Accident

Date: March 30, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

“Accidents will happen in the best regulated families.” (John Dos Passos)

So we finally knew where my son was headed for the next two years. I even made the mistake of thinking that was all the excitement we were going to have for at least the next…oh I don’t know…two to three months until my son departed for his mission. But it turns out, I was wrong. The unexpected life!

Not three days later, at the final BYU hockey game of the season, in the last six minutes of the game, my son went down. And he didn’t get up. I KNEW instantly something was wrong. But it seemed like everyone else was operating in slow motion! WARNING: Here comes the part where I look like the lunatic hockey mom that, apparently, I am.

I ran down to the box where his coach was standing. I tapped him on the shoulder, he calmly looked at me and I said, “My son is hurt! You need to send someone to help him, now! He’s not up because he can’t get up!” Slowly some teammates and the refs began heading over. (Meanwhile, I am in total panic mode. Trying every which way to figure out how to get down to the ice. I was such a maniac, I probably would have gone right on to the ice if I’d been able to figure out how—or if I’d thought I had the strength to climb over the glass wall dividing the crowd from the players!)

I finally saw a door that led to the ice but the opposing team’s fans were in the way. And they wouldn’t move. They couldn’t, they were too busy taunting my son, yelling things like, “What’s a matter, sissy? Get up off the ice, you big baby!” and other lovely comments to a college athlete, injured. (By the way, WHO does that? WHO EVER sees someone hurt and stands there and taunts them?) So there I am, in a total panic over a son who rises up after everything; I knew something was really wrong for him to lay there, unmoving. I knew he was supposed to be heading to Spain in a few months but was now hurt. I see a door and I can’t get to it. People are yelling terrible things to the young man down. And I lost it.

I’ve never been the type of person to confront people, especially strangers. I can think of two times in my entire life I’ve said something: once in the wake of the Ponzi scheme revelations, to a neighbor I caught photographing my three year old as he played outside as well as whatever he could capture on film through our open garage door and I asked, “What are you doing?” (I tell you, I don’t confront people!) And another time when someone was rude to my oldest son when he was a boy scout.

I was like a completely different person that night. I don’t know what happened! Total Jekyll and Hyde. Not my finest moment! I turned to the most vocal, nastiest of the group blocking my path and said something like, “Shut your mouth! (I’ve never told someone to shut up, I don’t allow my children to either. It’s the “s” word at our house!) Hockey is rough and players DO occasionally get hurt! If you had half the guts or any of the talent that player has, you’d be out there on the ice playing, yourself, rather than standing there like an idiot, ridiculing an injured human being! Shut up!” And with that, I pushed my way through the crowd and got to the door that led to the ice.

Only the door was blocked by six college men, student fans of the opposing team, who were calling their share of taunts and jeers as well. I looked behind me and saw my two youngest sons, both standing there with tears streaming down their faces, worried to death about their brother who still hadn’t gotten up from the ice. I wanted to deck someone. For a brief instant, I may have even considered it—but quickly decided a mother in jail for assault and a father in prison for a Ponzi scheme would not be a good thing for my younger children. Lol. So, instead, I lost it (verbally) again. I turned to the student standing closest to me and said, “Shut up! (I can’t believe it! The dreaded “s” word again!) What do you think you are doing? Do you see those two little boys standing there with tears streaming down their checks because of the things you and others are saying about their brother? And while you’re at it, you better tell your friends to quiet down, too, or I will!”

That poor young man. He looked at me, stunned, and stammered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say anything,” and he turned to his group of friends, told them all to stop yelling and they did! I was ready to pounce (although I refrained!) but maybe they could see that; I felt like a lion in a cage, pacing, every instinct on high alert. I have to give those young men credit. Not only did they quiet down, when my son came off the ice through the door next to them, that group of young men clapped for him, offered words of encouragement and acted completely differently than they had prior to our little conversation!

My son looked at me and said, “My ankle’s broken.” Never good words to hear, especially on a holiday weekend; when you’re a college student traipsing around on a big college campus; and when you’re supposed to be leaving the country for two years in just a few months. I followed him in to the locker room. My son had played ice hockey almost his entire childhood without a single injury, despite the fact that many teammates broke legs and other bones every year. I guess it was our turn, but it couldn’t have happened at a more inconvenient time. (But really, is there ever a convenient time for an injury?)

“What’s done is done.” (William Shakespeare)

Sounding Like Antonio Banderas

Date: March 29, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

“I like going everywhere. And I love starting new things.” (Antonio Banderas)

I arrived home, fighting traffic all the way, having left work later than usual and during the drive discovering not only was a crowd arriving at my house in less than 2 hours (and it was a mess) but that my husband had invited all of his children for dinner to celebrate—I hadn’t even planned on cooking or eating dinner that night due to the new developments taking place in just over one hour. Lets just say I was suddenly a LITTLE stressed out!

Thankfully, my husband took care of dinner. I straightened the house, casting a few anxious stares in the direction of THE envelope on my bed (placed there for safekeeping, we have a busy kindergartener who gets into all kinds of things unexpectedly.) I couldn’t quit sneaking glances at the envelope that contained my son’s mission call. I wasn’t in the mood for anything but opening that envelope. But mostly I tried to figure out where the past almost 19 years have gone. It seems like I alternated between laying on my bed and crying in my bathroom. I NEVER expected to be doing that relative to a mission call!

But all I could see or think about was the moment my son had been born, the moment the doctor had placed him on my chest, the moment that he had looked into my eyes and stopped fussing as I caressed his fuzzy, blonde head, and smiled at him for the first time. I felt like all of my dreams had come true in that 1993 moment. I have absolutely loved being his mother. He is a great kid and I get such a kick out of him and enjoy him, a part of me (unexpectedly) suddenly didn’t want him to go on a mission! (Well, I wanted him to go, I guess. I just didn’t know how I’d bear his absence for two long years!) I just kept thinking, “Where did the years go? How did this moment arrive so fast?”

I heard activity downstairs. My son had arrived, the house was filled with company, the only person missing from the activity was the mother. My husband came up and announced, “You’ve got to at least come down and PRETEND to be a hostess, act happy and talk to a few people.” (I hadn’t even told him anything about how I was feeling and what I was thinking and feeling, but maybe he knew. Like I said, he “gets” me.) My only problem? I felt like someone was ripping that little 6 pound 3 ounce baby out of my arms 18 years too soon! But I went downstairs and attempted what my husband suggested.

And then my son picked up the envelope and opened it.

I remember thinking as he tore through the paper that within seconds, I’d know everything: I’d know where he was assigned, when he would be departing to fulfill that assignment and where he would be living, experiencing life (including rejection) and growing for the next two years. (By the way, I had NO idea what to expect. My son had been told to expect a United States assignment, so I was thinking New Jersey or somewhere on the east coast.) And then he read the words aloud that he had been called to serve in…the Spain Madrid mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints!

I certainly never expected his mission call to be to Spain! And despite my worries, the stress I’d felt and everything else, all I remember thinking as I heard those words was, “That is the perfect assignment for him!” I was filled with joy and such a sense of how right Spain was for my son; I was excited for him. And thankfully, I was instantly calm and back to my normal self again.

I hugged my son in celebration. But as soon as I grabbed him, I was suddenly overwhelmed by all that led to that moment—including all of the hard stuff he endured, all that he has risen above, everything our family as been through, how different our life is now compared to what Id always expected our family would be when my son received his mission call, and unexpectedly…the tears began to flow. I hugged him, I cried, and with a house full of people I didn’t dare let go because everyone would know what I was doing and what a crazy mother my son has!

My poor son.

My good son.

I’m sure our hug lasted much longer than he probably wanted it to but he was gracious enough to allow me time to attempt to pull myself together and relish the moment with my almost-grown son…before peeling me off him. Then we had ice cream with the crowd. My son returned to his BYU dorm. And we’re all about Madrid, Spain and the Canary Islands now. Even my kindergartener requests, “Lets watch the movie about Spain again, Mom!”

Just think. In two years, my son is going to return home a man, not to mention sounding like…Antonio Banderas!

Chevere!