Haven’t talked much about Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) lately. I’m in denial. For sure. But excited. Any recent newbies reading my blog, Landon is my 18 year old grandson. His middle name is Andrew. When he was 4, Landon decided he’d rather be known as Drew. Sigh. I like the name Drew, but I love the name Landon. To me, he’ll always be Landon, but I’m in a very small minority of 1.

Although he wasn’t born on a basketball court, if I hadn’t been there myself, I would have sworn Landon came out spinning a basketball on his index finger. He’s the epitome of slang speak, ‘Gym Rat.’ Landon’s dad Tracey was Jackson High’s basketball coach at the time, so by the time L was 2, (and still in diapers), he was a regular on the team. Landon didn’t see himself as a 34 inch mascot, he was just one of the guys. It took several serious talks, over & over to convince Landon he could not run out onto the court during games. If he wanted to sit on the bench and stand in the circle during time outs he absolutely had to stay off the court. There is no doubt in my mind, these formative years with daddy and his high school team on the court have shaped Landon into the player he is today.

There’s no denying Landon’s got talent up the wazoo. But there’s so much more. By junior high, he’d somehow magically acquired (and was utilizing) this uncanny ability to “see or read” the court during a game. Didn’t always end well because Landon’s picture perfect, threaded passes through 4 different players were not always anticipated by the rest of the team. Still most of his teammates eventually caught on and were ready when he zip lined the ball to them. Since he hit his teens, Landon’s been in the gym by 5 am. Everyday of his life. Not just basketball season. He has played and practiced year round since middle school. He practices before practice, lifts weights, strength training, shooting copious amounts of free throws and 3 pointers, over and over. Watches hours of basketball films. Although he makes everything look easy, Landon’s certainly clocked in the hours. He’s wildly talented, smart, good looking, sure of himself, likable, charismatic plus kinda cocky. (Occasionally prone to talk trash).

Deciding which college basketball scholarship to accept is every parent’s dream. Landon had several college offers and after visiting various campuses, chose Holy Cross, near Boston. The college is run by Jesuit priests. Goodness & mercy abounds. Shannon, Tracey and Landon were all impressed with every aspect about Holy Cross. Famous, successful alumni from all walks of life, everything from CEO’s, to a Supreme Court justice. (And the alumni wholeheartedly support their alma mater, making Holy Cross one of the highest endowment donating colleges in the country) You can pretty much go anywhere, write your own ticket, do anything after graduation. Get this. His freshman year at Holy Cross is the equivalent (approximately) of what we paid for our little HUD home before extensive renovations 3 years ago. One year of education, including basketball. Oh. My. Word.

While I’m a little bummed Holy Cross is 800 miles away, I’m happy with Landon’s choice. I’m all about playing time. Minutes matter. Is it more advantageous to play for a bigger school, sit the bench for a couple years and get minimal time on the floor? Or play for a smaller school and get the chance as a freshman to make a huge difference, be a star with some serious playing time? I think Landon’s gonna own that Patriot league.

I’m here to offer helpful suggestions for the rest of his college life. (Yeah, that’s what his gram is for). I’ve no doubt he’ll be an enormous asset and very successful on the court, but my hope is for him to be as equally successful off the court. I don’t see classes posing a problem. (Holy Cross does not recruit players with a gpa under 3.2). So we’re good on basketball and studies. I hope. Dude, study. Seriously, though in this day and age, you must remember this one thing at all times. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, rest assured someone is recording you or snapping pictures. Of you. Every time. Every. Single. Time.

Now I’m gonna advise him on charisma and cockiness. Landon draws people in. Which is great, as long as you’re attracting good people. But I hope he’s not only drawn to athletes. That’s a mighty small circle. Just be nice. To everyone. It’s really that simple. Acknowledge the kid (and mean it) from South Dakota, who at 5’5” might not know (or care) you’re a jock, but is literally studying to become a rocket scientist. Smile, say ‘hi’ and be sincere to gals and guys who aren’t in your social circles. Just be nice. Be polite. Be courteous. Being a nice guy doesn’t hurt you. It gives you enormous mass appeal. You want to leave your mark on your college years? This is how it’s done. You’ll be a rock star. Remembered fondly by everyone, from all walks of life. That’s how you’re gonna leave a mark on Holy Cross, besides on the basketball court.

So Landon’s senior year of basketball starts Monday night. How can this be? I’m not ready. Three years ago, as a freshman, Shannon forwarded me a letter to Landon from his coach saying, congratulations, he’d made the Varsity team. (Including the sentence, ‘don’t get too cocky. You’re making great strides offensively, but you have to work harder defensively’). Which he has made a priority since. I was disappointed but not with Rex’s insight. I thought Landon would sit the bench the whole season, instead of getting some serious playing time starting on JV. While he didn’t ‘start’ his freshman year, he did get adequate minutes right off the bat. The first time Landon went into the game it was mid-way through the first half. Landon immediately nailed a 3-pointer against one of Ann Arbor Pioneer’s city rivals. The whole student section erupted with, “he’s a freshman, he’s a freshman!” (I cried). How about the time he scored 29 points, 9 three-pointers and a jumper, in the first HALF of a tournament game? (I bawled). Or winning a three point shooting contest against some of the best high school players in his age group? Landon walked off the court and handed me his trophy. (I sobbed all the way back to the hotel). These are a fraction of his high school standout moments. I truly hope and believe he’s not done making highlights (on the baskeball court and off) for this gram just yet…

Have you ever had a fleeting thought, problem or solution for a split second-then just as suddenly it disappears? You’re not really troubled by this and it might be years before it pops up in your head again. Sort of like you’re waiting for that second shoe to hit the floor, but never realized the first one smacked the floor boards a long time ago.

Adam, late fall 1979. No apparent ill effects from his traumatic beginning…

It began in the early 80’s. I’ve talked about it before but let me recap for a minute. Adam. Our unplanned, amazing youngest child. Who was darn near impossible to get borned. (I don’t think borned’s a word, yet somehow it works here perfectly). Shannon was 8, Josh was 4 and I was going through a difficult pregnancy. My due date was September 7. At the tail end of a long, hot, humid Iowa summer. (Not many women plan for a late August or September birth-unless they’re sadistic). The only thing that felt good-was nothing. Nothing felt good. Literally. I was humongous. And swollen. With about a month to go I was in for my 8th month check up, which included a pelvic exam to see how things were progressing. 

Yikes, late August, 1979. A couple weeks before the addition of Adam…

Doc was frowning and muttering to himself. Said something like, “something’s not right. His head seems too small and you’re huge. Let’s take an X-ray, and see how this baby’s doing.” Came back in the room after he had studied the X-rays wearing a bigger frown. “It’s not your baby’s head that’s so small, those are his little feet. His head is under your right breast. But I believe something’s not right with this baby.” (Well why not scare the living shit out of me while you figure out exactly what’s wrong with my child)? “His head should be tucked down, with his chin on his chest. Instead he’s looking straight up your throat, head tilted way back. First, I’m gonna try and get him out of that breech position. He’s not too big to freely move about, yet seems determined to stay feet first.” 

Gently Doc placed his hands under my right boob where you could clearly make out the outline of Adam’s round (and normal sized) head. Working his fingers clockwise he slowly moved Adam’s (we did not know at this point he was a boy, that fun fact became clear a bit later) head until it was snugly in my groin. Hustled me to X-ray, then I waited. All the while, lying on the table, watching Adam’s little head move slowly counterclockwise until he was all comfy again under my right boob. Oh. My. Word. Doc waltzed in, proud of himself because Adam’s little head was clearly down in my groin on the X-ray minutes ago. Placed his hand on my abdomen and spotted Adam’s little head tucked neatly under my boob. Hmmmm. Doc went through the whole procedure again, including another X-ray. (For the love of God, please stop with the X-rays). This time Doc watched in amazement and disbelief at Adam’s steady progress. Returning to where he was most comfortable. Little stinker. 

Honest the doctor encouraged a small glass of wine for milk production. At Elly’s house for Christmas, 1979…

Doc conceded. “Denise, looks like you’re gonna have this baby breech. It’s your third pregnancy, I don’t see this as a big issue. He still has plenty of room to move in the right position before you go into labor. Don’t worry about this. You’ll be fine.” 

Long story-short, (long version is called, Party of 5, September, 2014) both of us (Adam and me-though John almost killed the doctor afterwards, so maybe I should say all 3 of us) nearly died during (or after) the delivery. They couldn’t get Adam’s head out which was the last part of the little guy coming down that worn out path. Scary and terrifying time. Hubs was extremely upset that I didn’t see a specialist in Sioux Falls or Sioux City after we learned he was breech or insist on a C-section. 

Those rubber pants! Adam about a year old, 1980…

Anyway, everything was eventually fine and dandy and I’m veering away from my storyline. The point I’m trying to make was the huge traumatic impact this pregnancy had on me. Physically and emotionally. I did not feel well for about a year after I had Adam. Plus walking on eggshells around Hubs because he was still furious with the doc and me. Safe to say from August of ‘79 through December of 1980 took a huge toll on me. 

Besides not feeling well, parts of me seemed to age decades overnight during the 14 months before I hit the big 30. It was like one day I stood in front of the mirror and noticed for the first time half my hair was gray. WTH. When did that happen? After I picked myself off the floor I called for an appointment with my hairdresser. “Holy smokes Joan, help.” She suggested a non peroxide rinse which would last 6 or 8 weeks. Covered the gray and just slowly washed out with shampoos. Well that worked for a couple years, but the grayer I got, the more stubborn the gray hair became. My gray hair seemed royally pissed for using shellac on a regular basis and picked up the slogan, “resist.” Yes folks I made up that now infamous slogan-it’s really all about my hair follicles-not politics. Thieves stole my line. 

Salt & pepper by 1981. And looking like a complete dipshit to boot…

So in the year of our Lord 1983 I started dyeing my hair with permanent hair color. Since I was young (33) and still supposed to have brown hair, my first choice was L’Oréal (remember Cybil Shepherd sitting in a chair, looking absolutely stunning, advertising the use of L’Oréal-because you’re worth it) medium brown. As I aged, when the color suddenly seemed too harsh, I’d move to a lighter shade. (I’m now close to running out of lighter shades-ha-ha) From that very first time I never gave one thought to, “what am I gonna do when I’m done dyeing my hair?” I assumed one day, more than likely a milestone in my mundane life I would simply say, “OK, I’ve had just about enough of that hair dye crap.” 

Never happened. The “when am I gonna stop using L’Oréal” thought might pop into my head close to each biggie in the life of Neese. My 40th, my 50th, my 60th. Zip-nada-zilch. Lasted maybe 5 seconds and I just knew I wasn’t done having fake brown hair or ready to go gray-yet. 

The lovely Esther after 6 months of wearing hats…

I visited this wonderful lady named Esther for several years. She had an Asian background and was getting close to 80. With jet black hair. She’d been dyeing her hair over 40 years. (Not as absurd as you might think. It’s almost been 35 years for me). She had a minor skin issue and had to see a dermatologist. Asked the doctor about the length of time she’d been using peroxide based hair products and should she stop? He said, yes it was time. So she did (unbeknownst to me at the time). I dropped in for a visit a few weeks later (we always had a cup of tea together) and Esther answers the door, wearing a hat. In her house. Told me the tale of her encounter with the dermatologist. To which she added, ”I’m staying in the house and I’m going to wear a hat until my natural color has grown out. I won’t be coming to church this winter.” I chuckled. Oops, sorry. Not really a laughing matter. 

It probably felt like forever to Esther, even though she wore her hair quite short. Several months later on a Sunday, she walks down the center aisle of church, meandering to her usual ‘reserved’ pew with exquisite snow white hair. She looked like a million bucks. Her hair was beautiful. At the time I thought the whole notion of hiding, covering her head up was kind of silly. Not anymore.

I was in the bathroom about a month ago when it hit me. I’m done. Right now. D. O. N. E. Not going to color my hair again. Never realized in the back of my mind, this had been simmering for at least 20 years. Maybe more. You know what a quantities shopper I am. It’s a rare occasion if I run out of anything. Well, if I’m not gonna use any more hair color, I wonder how many boxes of L’Oréal I have stashed  in the cupboard? Goodness there’s 7. Ugh. There’s 60 bucks I’ll never get back.

One time where buying ahead has not saved me money. Oy vey…

My hairdresser said hair grows about a half inch a month. I wear it short, still it’s going to take 6 to 8 months, which now feels like an eternity. Oh Esther, I apologize. Right now is the time I should be getting out one of those L’Oréal boxes. If I tilt my head an inch forward there’s quite a bit of gray in my part line. Looks gross. Yesterday I was shopping and walking behind a gal quite a few years my junior. She had shoulder length auburn hair with about 2 inches of gray roots. I wanted to give her a hug in shared sisterhood of solidarity and mortification, but she seemed quite unconcerned with what was going on with her hair. Good for her. I flip-flop somewhere in between admiration and revulsion. 

I am aware how long (and hard) this winter is going to be. On the inside and outside of my head. I haven’t faltered or changed my mind however. Although I never realized it, this decision has been something akin to having a weight lifted off my shoulders. When I told Hubs I was ‘going gray’ and needed to shop for various beanies and hats, he laughed. After spotting the flying daggers aimed at his heart, he suggested a 6 month stint in witness protection, far from everyone I care about, I laughed. No, I can’t hide out while my natural hair color emerges. Landon’s senior season of basketball starts in a couple weeks. I’m not going to miss any part of it. But I will be sporting an Ann Arbor Pioneer stocking cap to games this year. 

So done with brown hair. If I hate my gray, I’ll go back to my evil ways…

Truth be told, I’ve seriously been hat shopping. Thanks for that Esther. I wonder what color my hair will be when given the chance to be free and naked?  I’m hoping for striking white, but feel strongly, given my root situation, it’s gonna be just plain salt & pepper-gray with white. Not too drab I hope. There is some concern for the inside and outside of my head. Gray matters abound…

One of my favorite movies has this great quote (memorized by one crazy fan). The movie is “What about Bob,” starring Bill Murray (as a guy with lots of mental health issues) and Richard Dreyfuss (as his frustrated therapist). Dr. Leo Marvin is asking Bob about his background.

Oh yeah, Neal’s still got it, 2016…

Leo: Are you married?

Bob: I’m divorced.

Leo: Would you like to talk about that?

Bob: There are 2 types of people in the world. Those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t. My ex-wife loves him.

Leo: So you’re saying that even though you are an almost paralyzed, multi-phobic personality, who’s in a constant state of panic, your wife did not leave you. You left her because she loves Neil Diamond?

Our first home purchase, Sioux City, 1973…

I think these 2 types of people (lovers of everything Neil and the few odd freaks who don’t) have similar aspects in our libes. At least one.

In nearly 50 years of marriage we have bought 5 homes which account for about 38 years of wedded bliss. (Altogether I think the total is 16 moves to homes in varying degrees of niceness. About a dozen of those years, the broke, busted, agents can’t be trusted early ones were renting places because our stay wasn’t long or we didn’t have 2 nickels to rub together, let alone a hefty down payment). Except for a couple of questionable rentals, one house in Spencer, one in Worthington, most just became our home after we lived there a few months.

Spencer rental 1981, Josh, 6, Adam, 2. Home was made from cement blocks. Brrrrrr….

How come as a teen I detested being home with a passion but once I got married, ‘home’ (shitty rentals, humble first, or very nice lake home) became my sanctuary? I’ve never suffered from anxiety issues (at least it’s not a phrase I’ve ever coined when describing myself) but about as close as I come hits me with this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach a couple days before we leave on vacation. I simply don’t want to leave. My house. Not a feeling of impending doom like we’re going to be in an accident, or meet with some disaster. More like heading out of my comfort zone where I don’t have as much control. I would rather stay home, protect my little crib, (ha, that’s kinda funny when I type it out. I’m about the least likely person to protect anything) cook my food, sleep in my own bed and use my bathroom with Little Nemo swimming happily through my tile wall.

Davenport stucco, neat home, it was huge, 1985…

There are 2 ways this feeling usually goes away. Once it’s a done deal and I actually leave. Most often my vacation ends up being a fantastic experience. Or if Hubs or someone else stays behind in the house while I’m gone. I don’t know why I abhor leaving my hovel unattended. But I feel loads better when someone stays behind to watch my little pad. I feel like I need to ‘mark my territory’ or wrap the house in bubble wrap. It’s not like we have much inside or out, but this strange feeling seems to follow me wherever I hang my hat.

Rambling ranch and best neighbors ever, Jackson the first time, 1989…

There are probably some of you who are furrowing your brow and thinking, what is wrong with this crazy old broad? It’s a dang house, easily replaceable, get over it. Nothing’s going to happen and if it does, deal with it. Although it’s not fear of something happening to the joint, but more how much better I feel when I’m in it. Are you thinking, Holy Hanna, anytime I can stay in a nice, clean, fancy hotel, eat out at great restaurants, go sight seeing and have no day to day monotonous responsibilities? I’m in. Their home may be exquisite but to a wanderlust it’s just a house. Somewhere to eat, sleep and shower when they need time to plan their next adventure. There are places they wanna go, things they gotta see. Can’t do that from a Lazy Boy. (But I like the Lazy Boy).

Yes, much like Big Bird, I too have a nest…

I want to see those places too. I’ve stated my whole life, I have no desire to cross the big pond, there’s too many exciting places in the US I’ve not visited. And no, I’ve not forgotten my trips to Europe-2 years in a row. Think of it, twice! (Thanks so much Shannon, both trips were beyond amazing. Something I’ll never forget or regret). But I never went through life, jotting down place after place on my plastic pail list either. I didn’t long to see Italy, France or Germany, it just sort of happened, although it was unbelievable. Plus, Hubs stayed behind and stood guard over my tiny dwelling so I could rest easy while I was gone.

Only home by a lake, North Muskegon, 1998…

So how come I can’t be carefree, leave at a moments notice and not fret about my little homestead (and being here) while I’m gone? What in my DNA causes me angst unless I’m in this exact spot doing my regular routine? (I might need therapy-if I only knew someone). I don’t think it’s age related because I’ve been like this my whole adult life, but I do fear it is getting worse as I age. I enjoy being here. I long to stay home. I’m hypnotically drawn back here after short stints elsewhere. After work, I simply can’t wait to get to my little crib. I don’t want to stop 5 different places running errands. Or go out to eat. This is my sanctuary. I’m comfortable here and safe. Sweat apparel is approved by management, makeup’s not required.

Our present dwelling place right after we landscaped, 2016…

It’s not that I don’t get cabin fever. After 2 days on the inside, there is a sense of urgency to go somewhere-anywhere. Drive the Jeep, stop a few places, interact with some other humans gracing our earth. But after a couple hours, that need has been filled and the urge to drift homeward is strong. I want to be home. Does anyone else feel this way about their little residence? Are these feelings unhealthy? Do I care if they are? While envious when I read of friends traveling around the country, there haven’t been many times when I wished it was me instead of them. I like being home. No, I love being home. I’m ok with that, just wish the longing and needing part to always be here would be a little less annoying and intense…

If you’ve been following my blog during the past 4 years, you pretty much know there’s not many subjects I won’t talk about. Besides politics. Politics are fiercely personal. Most of us STRONGLY believe one way or the other, but as a rule tend to hold these beliefs close to our vests. I try not to argue with friends who have views different than mine, because it just causes hurt or hard feelings. Who wants that? Besides, I’m not gonna change their mind and they’re sure not gonna change mine. For the most part, I have no trouble baring my soul, faults, aspirations (a haphazard attempt to make you think I aspire to anything) misgivings, shortcomings and sins in front of others.

My favorite spot-Niagara Falls, on my way to Paris, 2017…

This is different though cause it’s more of an uncomfortable or embarrassing story. It’s about our house. Can you believe we’ve been here 3 years already? I pretty much included you guys with our remodel, taking you along through the purchases, frustrations, decisions, lost furniture. Deciding to take out a wall to enlarge our bedroom. Remember when I couldn’t find the shelves to a couple of my antique china closets for months? So all of my Delft and Waterford sat in boxes while I searched every nook & cranny. Recall where I finally found them? In the bottom of those long, narrow boxes with our framed pictures. Goodness. I wasn’t ready to hang stuff up until the glassware boxes were empty, but couldn’t find the shelves. Pretty funny now, but at the time, very aggravating.

Our house turned out great. Small, but we’re comfortable here, it suits our needs. New appliances, floor coverings, paint and more paint. New driveway, sidewalk, plus an addition on the garage. Hubs is somewhat satisfied with our yard thus far. We had no grass to speak of which drove him crazy. One huge hollow tree, only shrubs on the east and north sides, which were as tall as the house. We tore out the east side, had the hollow tree removed, and left the privacy shrubs in the back. Planted new shrubs, a couple of gorgeous trees added 6 tons of river rock and edging.

All of our new cute, little shrubs. Wow, everything has really grown…

The room that needed the most work was also the smallest. Our bathroom was HIDEOUS. No lie. Window was moldy, tub was indescribable. We kept the toilet. That’s it. Had the room tore down to the 2 x 4’s and started over. Eliminated the tub (caught some flack for that, “it’s gonna hurt your resale not having a tub.” Don’t care, we’re not gonna use the tub and we sure don’t want to step over it for the rest of our lives) tiled the floor, walls and step in shower. It’s the nicest room in our house. Truth. Nothing fancy but very nice. Couldn’t do anything about the size-it’s small with an abnormally big-ass window smack-dab in the shower. I hate it but we didn’t want to buy new siding (the siding and furnace were the only 2 things we didn’t have to spend money on). So far. 

My bathroom buddy, Nemo…

We didn’t start on the bathroom for 6 months. There was a shower stall downstairs, plus the questionable/but usable sink and toilet upstairs, so we made do. After picking out everything for the rest of the house, we just needed a little break. When our contractor was ready to tackle the bathroom during the spring it was actually fun again to decide on cabinets and fixtures. Tile pattern, size, color was a tough one. I loved the one I chose, a mixture of grays/blues and khaki. But when Duke started tiling the walls it didn’t look anything like the pattern I picked out. Lovely but predominantly shades of grays/blues, missing khaki. Didn’t really matter but we picked out shower door trim, faucets, handles with a khaki base in mind, so chose oil rubbed bronze. Had we realized the tile colors were more grays/blues we definitely would have gone with brushed nickel. Our bathroom is fabulous and I’m happy with the results. 

The “real” Nemo….

Now this might get a tad uncomfortable. Shouldn’t be, but having a conversation about doing anything in the bathroom constitutes TMI don’t ‘ya think? Me too. No matter, that’s never stopped me before, so here goes. 
I’m anal (oh boy, here we go with the butt jokes) about my phone. A 3 year old iPhone (dropped 3 times, starting in Italy, 2016) which I treat with kid gloves. In every room of our house, I set my phone in exactly the same place. Why? Because I’m very deaf and have a lot of trouble figuring out which direction sound is coming from. Although it rings infrequently, for my peace of mind, I need to know where to look when it starts ringing. Placing it in a familiar place let’s me locate it quickly. 

Look carefully, here lives Nemo, Jesus & Tinkerbell….

I don’t like bringing my phone in the bathroom. Who wants to fetch it out of the toilet should it take tumble number 4? Kind of a double edged sword. For safety’s sake I should have it in case I fall. So for the most part my phone does tag along in the bathroom when I shower, but I don’t fart around (a feeble attempt at potty humor) with it. My phone sits safely on the back of the toilet while I-well you know. Which is a complete waste of time. Why would God design us this way? Seems strange. Needing to flush (that’s 3 and counting) our bodily wastes frequently, day and night. I hate using the bathroom. But since my bathroom is totally awesome, my reactions remain mixed. 

Oh good Lord, it’s Jesus…

Who knew as I sat on the pot, my tiled walls are as eager to tell stories as I am? Indeed. Not long after my beautiful bathroom was completed I spotted a perfect Clownfish on a tile. Little Nemo-swimming happily at eye level from the pooper. I know it’s cute and disgusting all at the same time. Other creatures have since randomly appeared-only to disappear the next time I’m using the facility. But not Nemo. And he brought with him an unusual variety of characters to happily live together. Jesus and Tinkerbell. On the same tile. Oh my word. You do have to use your imagination however.

Several times daily I search for more recognizable friends imbedded in my line of vision to keep us company. But most have been reluctant to join our little soirée. Marlin (Nemo’s daddy) has been a no show and I’ve heard Dory is making laps with the blue wave. Nemo’s joined the swimming group from the red wave. Politically, they are are now sworn anemones. Hope someday they again see eye to eye on such matters.

Tinkerbell is a bit harder to envision. Use your imagination….

John just walked past and asked what I was doing? When I didn’t answer immediately, he ventured, “you’re blogging, you know I’m gonna read it when you’re done.” While it’s no big secret, I didn’t know how to describe my strange star studded tile bathroom blog attempt. After hem-hawing around, I told him of Nemo’s existence. Nonplussed he quips, “have you spotted the uniformed Star Trek soldier with Deanna Troi, hovering over him, touching his face yet?” WTH? Pray for me, Hubs has gone Looney Tunes…