Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 CINDI'S GUIDE TO JUNIOR VARSITY WRESTLING

   by Cindi Barton, B.S.  with help from her colleague, Holly Rennick, B.A.

   AUTHOR'S NOTES

   Okay, maybe I don't know a lot about varsity sports, so feel free to
help Holly with a re-write.  I'm more into the more popular kind of
wrestling.  Holly, on the other hand, doesn't get pinned too often, but
she's Googling the subject.

   Googled fact: "The lowering of shoulder straps while on the mat is
considered an act of unsportsmanlike conduct." Unsportswomenlike girls such
as Jessica Thomas who teaches PE at our school regularly lower their straps
before getting on the mattress.

   CINDI'S GUIDE TO JUNIOR VARSITY WRESTLING

   I thought it great when Tom made the junior varsity squad at 119 pounds.
I'd never seen as a negative that he wasn't as big as his father, but maybe
that's because I'm his father's sister.  As we know from science, DNA comes
from two directions -- it's a double helix, after all -- and my
sister-in-law's a size 6.  There actually aren't that many Toms these days
-- at least where I teach, anyway -- but the name's in the family and my
brother's big on tradition.

   As I'd not been to a match for decades, my obliging nephew agreed to
remind me how wrestling works.  He'd not want his Aunt Cindi yelling
something like, "Run, Tom, run!" from the bleachers, like what you might
say if it were football.

   "But you gotta' try the moves, Aunt Cindi.  If I just tell you, you'll
miss how."

   "Me?  I'm a girl!"

   "I'll let you win sometimes."

   "Should I wear a hair band?"

   At 119 -- that's what the coach decided anyway, but they fudge downward
-- Tom had no weight advantage over me, though I was working on it.  Nutra
Slim doesn't do it by itself, however.  Height-wise, pretty even.  As for
muscles, well, we females just have a different mix of tissues, according
to Dr.  Janie on PBS.  Dr.  Janie doesn't have any adipose tissue, though.

   Anyway, I wasn't planning to wrestle JV.  On the other hand, I wasn't
about to forfeit, even if he was my relative.  I'd not be a pushover if for
no other reason than -- as Dr.  Janie pointed out just before the pledge
break -- that we females can maximize our multifold capabilities.

   My friend Holly who teaches English pledged $60 and got Dr.  Janie's
"Sister, Sister, Claim Your Worth!" DVD featuring a spectrum of intent
women nodding to such wisdom as, "Listen to your inner self." Dr.  Janie's
"Dr." is an Ed.D.  And yes, she said "multifold."

   "If I'm going to learn how," I noted to my coach-to-be, "I can't wear
this," referring my Coldwater Creek outfit.  They'd had a sale and I'd
decided to go with greens for their mix-and-match possibilities.

   It's not that I couldn't wrestle in natural cottons, I suppose, but I
didn't care to look like a wrestler.  I'd no idea if Tom noticed my new
blouse, but maybe he did, even though I was related.

   "That's okay, Aunt Cindi," eying my neckline as I tidied up the coffee
table.

   "No, I'm serious.  Maybe one of those singulars," casually dropping a
name I'd picked up by listening.  Dr.  Janie says that listening's one of
our strengths.  Maybe, I decided, I should restack the magazines by size.
It would look nicer.

   "You mean singlets?"

   "Right.  Do you wear anything underneath?"

   He looked at me oddly.  "Well, maybe a..." uncomfortable with how to
finish.

   Everybody can see your penises, I could have told him, even with a jock
strap.  Wrestling's sort of a straight-ahead sport, one might say.  Or
angled to the side, sometimes.

   "I think the Greeks wrestled naked," I volunteered.  Aunts can be
outrageous and at Tom's age, he'd never tell his folks.

   As he was still taken by the openness of my collar, I restacked the
magazines by date of publication.

   The Takedown

   The playroom was the best place for the lesson, we figured.  Not as much
to break.

   I'd found my tennis shorts and he had a pair of gym ones.  He should
wear his singulars, I told him, to get ready for tournaments.

   "Singlets, Aunt Cindi.  Maybe not, I guess," probably thinking that
aunts are a bit old fashioned about penises.  I'm sure we were, I'd have
told him, in old fashioned times.

   A sports bra would have concealed what it's supposed to conceal, but
then again, it would have concealed everything I have.  With my Led
Zeppelin t-shirt -- never actually saw them, but once had their records --
a regular bra would be better.  I doubt he'd even heard of the band, but
didn't want to look old.

   Like Led Zeppelin plus a bra, Tom's gym shorts plus undershorts didn't
totally disguise their contents.  Maybe more than singulars -- or whatever
they're called -- of course, but I'd get to see him wearing those at real
matches.  Not that I noticed, of course, him being my nephew and all, but
at the same time, it wasn't as if he were still my baby nephew.

   And anyway, I'd seen him naked a million times when he was little and
this wasn't naked.

   He had me stand on the middle of the rug -- it wasn't a real mat, of
course, but it beat the linoleum -- to begin my lesson.

   "We kinda' circle around to start, Aunt Cindi," showing me how.  "Shake
yourself down to stay loose," showing me that as well.

   "Kind of loosey-goosey?" I suggested, but he missed it.  Kids these days
don't think ahead like they did when I was a girl.

   "So here's a 'takedown,' because that's what you do, take the other
person down."

   "I see."

   "It's worth two points."

   "That's not very many."

   "Well it's what you get.  Points only matter if nobody gets pinned."

   That I could remember.

   "So take me down, Hulk Hogan," not the type of challenge I regularly
make, but this was for practice.  Tom might be impressed that his ancient
aunt knows the name of a famous wrestler.

   The next thing I knew, however, I was tumbling backwards, my elbows on
the rug, my left leg I knew not where.

   "Called a 'single leg sweep,'" boasted Tom the Sweeper.  "It's easy,
once you know how."

   "You should have warned me."

   "Coach says that if you get the first takedown, the odds are 85 percent
that you'll get the pin," somewhat smugly, considering that I was his
elder.

   "We'll see."

   "Or there's the 'fireman's carry,'" proposed the now-fireman.  "Go stand
in the middle."

   "Fire!  Fire!  Oh, save me!" I contributed, something you'd say in a
melodrama.  It's easy to joke around with a nephew because you pretty-much
know each other.

   He turned me sideways and managed to hoist me across his shoulders like
a fireman bearing a swooned damsel.  Thus the name.  He wasn't as good with
this so-called takedown (which to me seemed more like a take-up) but he did
manage to spin me around.

   Significant from a girl's perspective, your breast is all over his
shoulder.  Not that there's anything wrong with your breast, of course, but
it's an instance in which you might want your sports bra.  With Tom,
though, the breast thing hardly mattered, as we'd roughhoused in the leaf
pile when he raked my lawn in November.  A nephew-and-aunt sort of
roughhousing, the kind you can keep doing because you've always done it.

   Also from a girl's perspective, in this type of takedown he holds the
inside of your thigh.  Tom seemed careful not to hold too far up, but it's
a good thing we were related.

   "Want another spin, Aunt Cindi?" his grasp no more than three inches
from my cuff.

   "Better not drop me!"

   "Okay," now an inch and a half.

   "I'm slipping!"

   "Is this better?" now zero.

   "Fire!  Fire!  Save me!  Save me!" Given that tennis shorts aren't
designed for gymnastics exhibitions, thank goodness I'd worn straight-leg
panties.

   The Escape

   "So, Aunt Cindi, what you do is get like this," parking himself on all
fours.  "The referee's position."

   "I'm the referee?"

   "No.  You try to escape."

   "From what?"

   "From me.  I'm sort of like this," kneeling beside me, one hand on my
elbow, the other around my ribs.  "If you do, you get a point."

   "Like this?" scooting sideways unimpeded.

   "Perfect."

   "Don't you try to stop me?"

   "I'd sort of have to start more underneath."

   "Like how?"

   "Sort of like this, I guess," reaching far enough around to touch my
stomach.

   I promptly sucked in; just because I'm an aunt doesn't mean I'm out of
shape.  My escape turned out to be as easy as before.

   "You're supposed to stop me."

   This time he leaned a bit more over my back, his hand edging a little
higher on Led Zeppelin.

   "Go!"

   I again got away, but not without additional twisting, a full moment of
which his wrist went yet higher.  Escaping isn't easy.

   "I'm a Raven," I announced, the mascot of his school's rival.  "Chirp.
Chirp."

   Once more I slipped free, but not without him going over my cup.

   "How'm I doing?" my pulse internally audible.

   "Pretty good for a girl."

   "I'm a woman, thank you."

   "Sorry."

   "This girl's getting lots of points, right?"

   This time, he perched above me with his palm firmly on the underside of
my breast.

   You want your sports bra when he's firemanning you, but when you're
hands and knees in the referee's position, you hardly need one of any type.

   "Do you get any points for stopping me?" not moving a muscle.

   "Not when I'm already in control."

   "Doesn't seem fair," waiting him out.

   "It's the rule," minutely bettering his control.

   Out of sight, out of mind, but I doubted it.  "How come?"

   "It's how it works," underhandedly advancing to the seam where the lace
begins.

   "You sure?  If I were the coach, I'd..." babbling onward as would a
clueless older relative.

   A fingertip crossed the boundary.

   "You're trying to tell when I'm getting ready to escape, right?"

   "Exactly," junior varsity chicanery.  "Coach says wrestling's half
mental."

   "No problem, then," I agreed.  "I'm wearing a bra," as if he didn't
know. I'd of course blown his covertness, but it seemed a risk worth
taking. He'd probably never before heard me say the word, "bra," as aunts
don't generally mention that sort of thing.  Dr.  Janie says we can take
risks.

   "I wasn't..." drawing away even as he spoke.

   "So what's this move called again?" inviting him back to his instructor
role.  "Who says, 'Go?'" waiting for him to again reach the lace.

   "I will," this time not so furtive with his hand.

   "Okay," feeling him at last find my nipple.

   The rule, as I understood it, is that you can't grab your opponent's
clothing.  If you couldn't rub against it, however, the sport wouldn't
work.

   "Ready, Aunt Cindi?" sizing me up like a fruit inspector might judge a
pear.

   "Ready as I can be," a self-assessment.

   "Go!"

   Escapes require lots of practice.  Each time while the voice above me
spoke of strategy, the hand underneath would claim its spot.

   "Is this what they call 'free style?'" an honest question, as his reach
seemed to have that nature.

   "Free style isn't how it sounds; it just has different rules," free
styling enough to reach my other cup.

   He'd no athletic trainer's license, of course, but he did seem to have a
knack for massage.

   Rules, rules.  If your shirt pulls up a little, he can hold your
stomach, but can't reach upward.  Not that Tom explained it, of course, but
he seemed careful in complying.  Maybe it was just a JV rule or maybe it
was a rule for aunts.  It seemed silly to me -- okay on your shirt's
outside, but not on its inside -- but I suppose that if the latter were
allowed, then they'd need a rule about inside your bra.  At least the
referee can see his hands.

   "You want to say, 'Go' this time, Aunt Cindi?" his knuckle measuring the
distance between nipple and edge of bra.  The breasts may be just Aunt
Cindi's, I could hear him thinking, but Aunt Cindi's so easy to fool.  Just
like in the leaf pile.

   "I think maybe it's your turn," I decided.  No way was he going to pop
me out, not from tugging on the outside, anyway.

   "Ready?"

   "You bet!" No way was he going to pop me out, but that's not to say he
couldn't have eased me out if he'd first worked my bra strap over my
shoulder.  It could have almost seemed accidental.

   Afterwards we exchanged positions and he demonstrated such techniques as
a "sit-out turn-in" and "sit-out turn-out" and I don't know what.  I think
he liked how I climbed over him for each start.  Another type of escape was
called a "stand-up," but I didn't plan on doing that.

   An escape requires subterfuge -- him being clandestine and you assisting
with the cover-up.  It's an ability most of us develop at about Tom's age.
Dr.  Janie says to leave dangerous situations, but she also says to take
charge.

   The Reversal

   "What you really want to do when you're down, Aunt Cindi," advised my
coach-of-the-day, "is pull a switch-a-roo.  Bingo!  Two match points."

   "Gotcha," I agreed.  All of us like to switch-a-roo, a tit for tat, so
to speak, if he's the tat,

   "Hop up," returning himself to all fours, me on top.  "Now watch this."

   Wham-o!  as he pulled my arm underneath, rocked on his elbow -- or
something along that line, too fast to tell -- and spun me over his back.
From on top to spread-eagled under him in not a second!

   If he were older, one might think we'd assumed the missionary position.

   "Two points, huh?" I managed, concerned that he might wonder why I was
heel-hooking his calves.

   "Two big ones," in no hurry to relinquish his missionary superiority. 
As he was staring downward at Led Zeppelin, though, I'm not sure to what he
was referring.

   "Ever hear of 'Stairway to Heaven?'" I asked as we both gazed.  When
it's obvious that your bra's not a sports one is a good time for chit-chat.

   "Stairway to what?"

   "A song they did.  I'll bet you know it," trying to hum a few bars, but
I'm not that musical.

   We rested for a few moments, neither of us initiating further missionary
activity, but then again, neither of us initiating a missionary pullback.

   "What if we just roll over and over?" I wondered.

   "Wanna' try?"

   I wasn't clear if we each kept earning two points or they cancelled as
we tumbled one over the other to the edge of the rug, back to the other
side and then back to the center.  The odd thing was how roll after roll we
always managed to end up a missionaries.

   "If we keep meeting like this," I told him, breathing heavily, "I should
bring a pillow."

   He didn't get it, but then again, I'm his aunt.

   As our rolls left him winded as well, we paused in place to
re-cooperate, but even then I could feel an outcome of our reversals
pressing my shorts.

   "I could get you one, though," he offered, though I suspected only in
deference to my age.

   "After the buzzer," I agreed, unhooking my heels, but letting him linger
a bit longer on the two big ones, and for that matter, letting him linger a
bit longer against my lower part.

   "It kind of gets your pulse going, though" I reported after his
dismount. "Think mine's too fast?"

   He took my wrist, probably worrying his elderly aunt was going to have a
heart attack.

   "My ticker's here," I corrected, drawing his hand to my breastbone. 
"You count the beats and I'll watch the clock."

   It's more accurate to go 30 seconds and multiply by 2 than to go 15
seconds and multiply by 4.  "Seems high," after I did the calculation. 
"Better do it for longer," moving his hand a bit to the left.

   The scientific fact that when you measure something, you change it,
applies to your pulse as well.  After reversing over and over with your
nephew, anyway.

   "They were super famous," I said of the band, as that's where I'd
indicated he could count.

   The Near Fall

   This one was more complicated -- two or three match points depending on
how long he does it to you.  Come to think of it, extra points for longer
duration applies elsewhere.

   What's important in wrestling, though, is that a "fall" actually means a
pin.

   "You for sure fall," the way Tom explained it, "but you only get nearly
pinned."

   "Got it."

   What's interesting here is the use of the word "fall." My friend Holly
who teaches English says there's a story behind each and every word.

   So let's take this four-letter f one.  The Fall (capital F) caused by
Eve eating the apple was why the world's population's now more than two. 
"Don't eat that apple, Eve, or you'll learn about sex!" I may be a
Catholic, but I still think the point's screwy.  My nephew, however,
wouldn't be interested in biblical literature.

   Then, of course, it was that same word, "fall," when we'd buried one
another in the leaf pile and I'd pretended not to recognize the hand hidden
within the foliage.  Such stealth, that boy!  Old Aunt Cindi's just going
to think it's an oak leaf that's copping a quick feel.

   It took some time afterwards to brush myself free of the leaf crumbs,
but our situation being more public, I thought it unwise to ask his help.
In ridding myself of the remnants, however, I lifted the bottom of my
blouse enough to show my stomach.

   Last fall, I wasn't supposed to know what he was getting away with.  Now
I'm supposed to think it's just an aspect of wrestling.  Nothing personal,
of course, just what a nephew does to an aunt as part of the lesson.

   But back to "near falls," the wrestling topic.  A "cradle" isn't really
a cradle; it's more of what I'd call a "fold-up." When you're nearly folded
is another time you're glad for straight-leg panties.  Eyeballs are fast.

   We'd always gotten along super -- aunts are spared the role of
disciplinarian, especially in leaf piles, -- so it wasn't that I needed to
be shy about my legs.

   Besides, they were nice panties.

   "Sorry," he apologized after a particularly contortional cradle.

   "No hard feelings," the total truth.

   As the cradle had indeed been rather Karma Sutra-like, however, his
glance down his waist suggested another interpretation.  I acted dumb as he
fluffed out his shirt to mask any evidence.

   "Bridging" means using your neck to hold up your back and thus
accentuate your nipples.

   "Keep bridging, Aunt Cindi," as he reached under to secretly attack my
bra strap.  Out-of-sight, out-of mind, maybe his theory.  Not that I'd have
let him undo it, but if he succeeded, I'd still have my shirt.

   "Equipment malfunction," I'd protest as the cups slipped upward.

   "Wrestle on," Tom would rule as referee, lifting my feet until Led
Zeppelin tumbled to my shoulders.

   No success, though, as he apparently didn't know how to squeeze with
just one hand.

   Legal Holds

   There's no way I didn't catch every time he snuck a feel.  Probably all
legitimate holds, I suppose, but so noticeable.  Maybe he figured I'd
agreed to it -- much as football players can't complain about getting
knocked down.  I hadn't agreed to it, of course, just not disagreed.

   "Don't worry, Aunt Cindi," I imagined him justifying as he teased out my
nipple.  "I'm not paying attention."

   "No problem, Tom," I'd respond as I lay back.  "We're team members."

   No, not just that!  My bra strap would have opportunely come undone.

   "Can't have you injured by a loose hook," I'd volunteer, "so let's just
ditch the thing.  Promise not to peek at your old auntie, though."

   "Oh, Aunt Cindi!  You're not old at all."

   But again back to reality.  Below the belt -- though of course we didn't
have belts -- he'd been more cautious.  Not cautious with my backside, of
course, but with my backside's backside.

   It was rarely more than the heel of a hand or a swipe of a wrist. 
Nothing that persisted.  Nothing you'd call a full goose.  Nothing that
pinched.  Brushes, not rakes.  Touches, not pokes.  Sometimes lower below
the waist or higher inside the thigh than what I'd allow early on a first
date, but nothing an aunt can't allow a nephew.  It's a scientific fact
that we're touchy-feely in that particular place.

   "Try kicking back," he suggested at one time.

   "Like this?" aware of how my lap would slide across his palm.

   "Not bad," releasing me after a moment of close palming.

   "What say we switch?"

   "No need," perhaps realizing the equivalent cost to him.  "You've got it
pat."

   "Once more, then, just to nail it."

   When I was inverted - when gravity was working against the legs of my
shorts, that is -- I could have updated my comment about my bra to, "No
problem, Tom.  I'm wearing panties," but saw no need to announce the
obvious.

   I could have even added, "And they're white," to make him wonder why his
aunt's telling him this.  A confused male is easier to out-fox.  Dr.  Janie
didn't say it exactly this way on PBS, but we know that's what she means.

   The fact was that he good-and-well knew the color and cut of my panties.
Probably just as well I didn't know what else he'd noted, but it wasn't my
fault.

   There was no way he didn't sense my fondles in return.  A male's
corresponding part is likewise touchy-feely, another scientific fact. 
Maybe he thought some of my holds accidental or some of their whereabouts
unrecognized, but he surely realized that some were otherwise, especially
those increasingly less disguised.

   My ventures, quick and light like a smart recipe from "Working Woman",
made me think "burrito," which goes to show how multicultural we've become.
A generation ago, we'd have thought "sausage." Someday maybe we'll think
"spring roll." Aunts sometimes have surprising thoughts.

   Given the contact, you'd grope your opponent even if you weren't trying.
I'd bet that wrestlers in the locker room talk a lot about girls.  If you
act gay, nobody would practice with you and a gay wrestler wins even when
he loses.

   But back to Tom, not gay, though there's nothing wrong with being gay.

   "Uncle!" he laughed, struggling a bit for form's sake, but not enough to
escape my knee.

   "No, you have to say 'Aunt,'" I insisted, wiggling to encourage the
bulge in his shorts.  Earlier I mentioned the physics law about how
measuring something changes that very something.  So does wiggling.

   "Hormiga," he offered.  "That's 'ant' in Spanish," the bulge nuzzling
the juncture of my legs.  Our symmetry may have been roughed out by how my
knees now bracketed him, but it took the both of us to fine tune our
precise alignment.

   "Wrong kind of aunt, buster," I corrected, all the time keeping myself
on target.  I'd studied the language in my own schooldays and somehow
remembered that it's "Tia." Why we carried on this banter when our minds
were surely elsewhere, I've no idea other than chatting provides a bit of
cover-up.

   "Just call me, 'Tia Cindita,'" deciding it might be best for him to
cease thinking of me as a family member.

   For a lot more seconds than it takes to achieve a real pin we worked on
points, tennis shorts scoring downward and gym shorts scoring upward.

   "Want a pillow?" I whispered in reference to an earlier exchange.  Sort
of a joke, sort of not.  Whispering when unnecessary is a good way to guide
conversation.

   "We're wrestling, right?" arching to meet me in search of an easy score,
but likewise dropping his voice.

   "You betcha'," deriving a few points myself from his move.

   "Maybe, though..." in what seemed a suddenly-hesitant tone.

   "Can matches sometimes have overtimes?" I interrupted, an honest
question from an aunt who didn't know, but understands the rewards of
lasting.

   "I don't think...  Well, maybe," again competitively lifting.

   "Can we share points?" Some things are better shared, especially things
that require two people.  Tom hadn't mentioned anything about earning
points together, but it seemed so silly not to work together.  Dr.  Janie
talks lots about mutuality, so the co-operative approach to wrestling made
sense to me.

   "In practice, I guess," catching my logic and allowing me a down-and-up
slide.

   There'd be no points for escapes, however.

   The Pin

   I'd pancaked him and slapped the rug twice to make the pin official.  It
was true that he'd let me, but it was fair.

   The tell-tale sign -- my interpretation, anyway -- was that Tom never
said my holds were illegal.  One may do unkind things on an actual mat, but
they must be legal unkind things.  On the playroom rug, however, one tries
to do friendly things.  Even when I slid my forefinger up the center of his
gym shorts, he kept arching.

   Well, maybe he even arched higher, but he resumed evasion after I'd
finished.  If I'd have been penalized some points -- or if I'd earned them,
for that matter -- he didn't say how many.

   What he also didn't say was, "No problem, Aunt Cindi.  I'm wearing
underwear." Nephews aren't going to say as much to aunts as aunts can say
to nephews.  That's how extended families work.  Dr.  Janie says that we're
all one family, if that helps.

   It must be so unsettling for a junior varsity wrestler when his aunt
draws her finger along the length of his penis.  He can pretend like she's
not there, he can act like it's accidental, he can wonder if it's his
fault, but all the time he's getting harder and all the time he knows she's
feeling the development.

   Dr.  Janie says that managing our time is managing our lives, so maybe
now was the time for Aunt Cindi to promote her little nephew to varsity.

   Dr.  Janie speaks of seizing opportunities and those gym shorts were
never going to be easier to access.

   Go for it!  I told myself.

   He gave a start when I slipped under the elastic.  I'd probably violated
some JV rule, but not everything gets enforced.

   "Ten points," I ruled, caution to the wind.  I didn't want to do
anything he didn't want, but at the same time, I wanted whatever I'd be
allowed.

   It took him a few seconds to decide.  "Five."

   I knew him better than that.  I could have said twenty.

   "Secret points," I promised in my best whisper.

   It actually took a while to get him the way I wanted, but I preferred
not to hasten the count.  Wrestling's also about endurance.

   While the referee's supposed to raise the arm of the winner, in our
case, it was the loser and it wasn't his arm.  Being but junior varsity,
I'm not even sure if he knew what I had in mind until I pushed down his
shorts and took off mine.

   Because he was the one who got pinned, I fucked him from on top.

   Wrestling Record

   Many of the moves Tom taught me were the same as those his father taught
me twenty-odd years ago.  As my brother was a heavyweight, however, for our
first pin I'd been flat on my back.

   THE END

   For varsity wrestlers, here are some Karma Sutra pins where the male's
pinned.

   Hansabandha (the Swan) -- "She sits upright upon you, her head thrown
back like a rearing mare, bringing her feet together on the bed to one side
of your body."

   Hansa-lila (Swan Sport) -- "She strides you, facing your feet, brings
both her feet up to your thighs, and works her hips frantically."

   Upavitika (the Sacred Thread) -- "The woman has one foot on your heart
and the other on the bed.  Bold, saucy women adore this posture."

   Lilasana (Seat of Sport) -- "Enthroned on your penis, she places both
hands on the bed and makes love, while you press your two hands to her
thudding heart."

   Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My
problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As
literary errors (or just lame word usages) are made known, I'll repair that
which is salvageable on /~Holly_Rennick.  If you take
the time to read me, don't wade through an early version.

   You can contact me via the site's message form.
   Holly