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I have been a Gestational Diabetic with all of my babies…but this time, even though older and heavier when I got pregnant….I had an easier time maintaining tight control over my glucose levels.  Some of it was determination, some of it was the help and support of my midwife instead of being “threatened” by an OB/GYN with what could happen (as if that helps), and some of it, I believe, was the peace I felt with who was caring for my unborn child and me, and just being more relaxed with the coming birth.  I was less stressed over most of this pregnancy than I had been with any of my other pregnancies, and this was in spite of losing both my grandmother and my dad in the months just prior to the birth of my baby.  Nancy’s support, spiritually, emotionally and physically, was a definite gift from God.  The only time my glucose levels were “out of control” (and even then they were in the ‘safe zone’) was the week of my dad’s death and funeral.

Kerwin has recently come full circle from his first real acting job by joining the cast of the daytime serial One Life to Live opposite the incomparable Erika Slezak. And, after less than six months, has garnered a Daytime Emmy best-supporting actor nomination for his role as Charlie Banks, a recovering alcoholic on a mission to set things straight with his estranged son. "I thought I would never do a soap again. I had a very bad experience working on Young and The Restless and I certainly stayed away from soaps for the longest time based on that." This time around he enthuses, "It's everything I want in a job. I like all the people I'm working with and they seem to be accepting of me. We're all just a mutual admiration society -- so it's working out!"

Following this verse, in response to the main vocal's repetition of the song title, Harrison devised a choral line singing the Hebrew word of praise, "hallelujah", common in the Christian and Jewish religions. [20] Later in the song, after an instrumental break, these voices return, now chanting the first twelve words of the Hare Krishna mantra, known more reverentially as the Maha mantra: [11] [20]

I don't know why I'm going to bother to say this since no one will believe it anyway – I probably wouldn't – but the basic facts in the following story are true; they didn't happen to me but I have either witnessed them or have them from a reliable source. The names and details have been changed to protect the guilty.


When Vickie Winston said "I do" to me, Brian Martin, when we were both twenty one I looked forward to a great marriage that would last until "death do us part." Vickie was exactly "my type" (whatever that means), a big buxom natural blond who really enjoyed sex. She was also very fertile, as we quickly determined when first one, then two, and finally a third kid popped out by the time that we were twenty eight, at which point Vickie had her tubes tied.

Despite having a family quickly, we were able to maintain a loving sexual relationship, one that wasn't completely dominated by kids' activities. When our first child was born – since both Vickie and I had professions that paid well – we moved to a new neighborhood of young families in small houses with a great community center and pool. We developed many good friendships, and had a great time, plus there were always neighbors willing to watch the kids if Vickie and I wanted a romantic getaway, and we reciprocated.

Looking back on that time, I am now amazed that there were as many good looking women in the 'hood as there were. Most were friendly and even "flirty," as was Vickie, but this wasn't a Peyton Place and as far as I knew there was no cheating or swapping – at least within our community.

One woman particularly stood out in my mind. Her name was Gail Preston. She and her husband Jeremy were both a year older than Vickie and I and they had two kids the entire time they were in the neighborhood. Despite the fact that Gail was not "my type" she really intrigued me. She was short, thin, anything but big breasted, and brunette. She was, however, exceedingly cute with thighs that every single male, regardless of age, appreciated when she was in a swimsuit at the community pool. Plus there was something about her, impossible for me to put my finger on, that made any male happy to be in her company.

Shortly after our third kid was born we – reluctantly, because we really enjoyed our neighbors – moved from the neighborhood of small houses with young families to a more established neighborhood with larger homes, one that could accommodate our family of five, and Vickie quit work to stay home with the kids. It wasn't more than a year or so after we moved into that neighborhood when my married life took a turn for the worse.

While Vickie was still friendly and upbeat around me, and sometimes even cuddly, she stopped enjoying sex – at least with me. Not only did she stop enjoying sex, she stopped wanting it. We had a number of tiffs about it, but because sometimes I'm too easy going I never pushed it to an ultimatum situation. After about a year her attitude had moved from indifference to reluctance to refusal; I was one unhappy camper. Looking back on the previous fourteen months after her latest refusal, I could remember having had sex only five times, and only one was the type of toe-curling fuck fest that characterized our first eight years of marriage.

Not being the sharpest tool in the shed, I was totally clueless as to what the source of the problem could be. I thought maybe a hormone imbalance, something having to do with her having her tubes tied, changes she might have experienced since she no longer worked outside the home, or things that I wasn't doing for her that I had in the past. After carefully examining everything that I could think of, consulting with physicians, doing Internet searches, and honestly examining my behavior and even ramping up my attempts to make her life easier in every way, I came up with nada.


I guess that one thing that I was too unobservant to latch onto when evaluating my no-sex problem was the other people in our new community. There were a few young families, but they were not as interesting or as fun as in our first neighborhood. There were also some sourpusses and some stand-offish types. In particular there was a childless couple across the street that seemed to tolerate Vickie but had no use for me or the kids, and then there was Darla.

Darla was one of our next door neighbors. Darla was about five years older than Vickie and me, a bitter divorcee with two kids, one a year older than our oldest and the other a year younger, and with a mercurial disposition. I don't want to say "personality" because to me it was unclear if she had one. Darla's only redeeming quality – besides her two kids – was that she was good looking, in a haughty way.

For some reason – although I was never anything but pleasant to Darla – she made it quite clear that she didn't like me. However she seemed to really like Vickie, and even our kids, and she and Vickie spent a significant amount of time together. Sometimes Vickie talked me into babysitting Darla's kids, as well as staying with my own (it's not "babysitting" when it's your kids), while they went various places usually during weekend days, but twice even at night. Darla never asked me to do that directly – she always had Vickie ask me in a very nice way, and normally with bribes of my favorite meals, a back rub, or tickets to sporting events for me and a male friend. Sex was never the inducement, however.

Looking back on it I shouldn't have been such a pushover, but at the time I was trying hard to make sure that it wasn't anything about my actions that was leading to my sexual ice age; and besides, Darla's kids were actually fun. They were nothing like her at all, were polite, active, interesting, and obedient, and were up for doing anything that I and my kids wanted to do. We played outdoor games, board games, went to the playground, went swimming and boating, rode rides at the local amusement park, went bowling, and went to plays that kids would enjoy. The five kids sometimes had their own productions of plays that they made up, which they performed for the moms when they returned from their outings.

My tolerance for Darla ended one day, however, shortly after Vickie and Darla came back from an afternoon outing. In front of four of the five kids, Darla said something really nasty to me – exactly what it was isn't important. What is important is my reaction. I asked Vickie to take the kids in the back yard. She was reluctant but when I whispered to her "Get the kids in the back yard and don't give me any fucking shit about it or you'll have the sorriest day or our relationship," language that I don't normally use when talking to her, she turned white and did as ordered.

As soon as Vickie and the kids were gone I lit into Darla.

"You fucking bitch; I watch your kids at least once every two weeks, you never even say thank you to me, you take my wife away from family time, and you have the fucking nerve to criticize me? I've never been anything but nice to you and you've never been anything but cold and disrespectful to me. Where the fuck do you get off?"

While slightly startled at first Darla quickly regained her composure and crossed her arms while leveling a defiant stare at me. "You're not watching my kids for me, you're doing it for Vickie. I can't help feeling the way that I do about you."

"I can't fucking believe that a rotten cunt like you is the mother of those two wonderful children. They can't really be related to you – you must have adopted them," I shot back with fire in my eyes.

"How dare you talk to me like that?" she protested, sticking out her lower lip.

"What I said isn't nearly as bad as what you just said – in front of our kids! Let me make this clear bitch – you will either apologize to me in front of the kids and Vickie or I'll never watch your kids again, and you'll never be in this house again while I'm here."

"I'll apologize over your dead body, asshole."

Apparently our voices were louder than I thought because Vickie, sans kids, came back in the house. "What are you two arguing about, and can you keep it down?"

"The argument is over, Vickie, and this cunt is now leaving," I snarled.

"I'll do nothing of the sort unless Vickie asks me to," Darla snarled back.

I walked up to the front door, opened it, walked back to Darla, picked her up by her belt at her ass and her collar (fortunately she was wearing jeans and a sturdy shirt) and carried her out the door. I then gently placed her on her feet on the front walk and turned to walk back in. She hit me in the back of the head with her fist. For reasons that will become clear later, despite the fact that the blow was inconsequential I pretended that it caused me to fall on the front stoop and I then crawled into the house. I locked the door.

"Why did you do that?" Vickie shrieked.

"Because Darla punched me in the head and knocked me down," I smugly replied.

"No – why did you carry her outside?" Vickie shrieked again.

"Thanks for your concern for my well-being," I snidely replied. Then I continued "Because your bitch friend insulted me in front of the kids, is always nasty to me, and I'm not taking it any more. She is never to come into this house again while I'm here or there will be the biggest blowup you've ever encountered in your life – and I'm never, ever, ever, watching her kids again, got it?"

With that I stormed into the back yard, but calmed down enough to gently tell Darla's kids that it was time to go home.

"Thank you so much for the great time Mr. Martin," they both yelled simultaneously as they each squeezed a leg and then rushed home with smiles on their faces.

I ignored Vickie and played with our kids until there was a knock on the door about an hour later. When I answered it I found two cops standing there. I immediately surreptitiously turned on the record app of the iPhone in my pocket.

"Can I help you officers?" I asked.

"Are you Brian Martin?" the larger cop asked.

"Yes I am," I proudly replied.

"Ms. Darla Robinson has filed a complaint against you for assault. She says that you threw her out of your house onto the ground hurting her hands and back, and then kicked her in the ribs."

"And you believe her?" I laughed.

Apparently laughing didn't sit well with the cops.

"We saw the bruise on her side and the scrape marks on her palms," the smaller cop snarled. "You're under arrest."

As they put cuffs on me I smilingly said "I don't think that you should arrest me until you look at the video."

"Don't get cute, Ms. Robinson assured us that there was no video," the larger cop said.

By then we were on the front stoop of the house. I turned my head around and said "You need to tell my wife where you're taking me," I fake pleaded.

"She'll figure it out," the smaller cop said and then gave me a gentle push.

I made the gentle push look like a horrible one as I fell to the ground. Since my hands were cuffed behind my back I hit face first – somehow (ha, ha) I had fallen on mulch, not the concrete walkway.

I pretended to be hurt badly as I lay on the ground and moaned. The cops did not treat me gently as the picked me up and ignored my pleas to get medical attention. I smiled to myself in the back of the patrol car.


I was able to turn off my iPhone record app before I emptied my pockets at the police station. "I want to file a complaint for police brutality," I told the desk sergeant, in front of one of the arresting cops.

"That's bullshit," the arresting cop said. The sergeant ignored me. They made the mistake of taking my mugshot before the mulch was swept off my face; also I'm allergic to pine bark, so I had developed a rash that could easily be mistaken for a scrape.

As I cooled my heels in a cell after about an hour the jailer came and said "You have a visitor."

The jailer took me to a room with several chairs with a transparent barrier between them and chairs on the other side of the barrier. Vickie was there.

"What do you want?" I snarled.

"Don't be hostile. I'm here to bail you out and to tell you that if you apologize to Darla and agree to watch her kids when she and I are on outings that she'll drop the charges."

"Why don't you tell the cops that her charges are false and trumped up; you know that I didn't throw her on the ground or kick her."

"It's not that simple..." she stuttered. "I'll bail you out then we can talk about it more."

"Fuck you and fuck her," I screamed as I got up and walked away. The jailer was non-plussed by my loud voice but when he saw that I wasn't getting violent he just lead me back to my cell.

I stayed in the cell overnight Saturday and Sunday night too. I got to make one phone call and called my attorney, Susan Law (a good name for an attorney, don't you think?). She bailed me out after a short court appearance early Monday morning. I told her the story, she smiled, and said "I'll get an appointment with the prosecutor – someone I went to law school with – this afternoon. Be there with your evidence – I'll call with the time."

"Have the cops question Vickie at her office to get her story of record before we meet with the prosecutor, OK?" I told/asked Susan.

"Will do," she smiled.


Although I had told Vickie about it when we first moved into our house, she was always unconcerned with "functional" things; only aesthetics rang her chimes. Therefore I'm sure that she never focused on it, or forgot about it, but the previous owners had a sophisticated camera system for recording things at the front door of the house, at the garage, and at the back door. The cameras were high-definition, but innocuous, and recorded onto DVDs and didn't record over a DVD for two weeks. Even though I had never had use for the DVDs before, I always kept the cameras and recorder running. I was now glad that I did.

When Susan Law and I met with prosecutor James Washington at 3 p. m. we first reviewed the police reports, which included Darla's sworn statement, Vickie's statement (in which she lied and said that she wasn't in the house when things happened and didn't see anything), and the arresting cops statements. Darla's and the cops' statements were complete lies.

After reviewing the police reports, on a portable DVD player that I brought with me I played the DVD of the Darla incident, and then the one of the arrest. After that I played the recorded conversation with the cops. The prosecutor James Washington tried to keep a straight face, but his jaw dropped, and I know for sure he would have turned ashen if he wasn't black.

"We want charges against Mr. Martin dropped in court first thing tomorrow morning, we want Darla Robinson arrested today for assault and filing a false police report, and we want Internal Affairs provided with the information about how Mr. Martin was treated by Officers Jenkins and Jones," Susan said with a determined no-nonsense look on her face.

Washington didn't say anything for a while so Susan continued.

"Come on, James, you know that you're one of the good guys. Do what's right!"

Washington thought for a few more seconds. "OK, Susan, you're right. Leave copies of your evidence with me, I'll have Ms. Robinson arrested today, and I'll initiate the IA investigation as soon as I formally dismiss the charges against Mr. Martin tomorrow morning."

Anticipating his reaction, Susan already had a copy of the DVD and audio from my iPhone. "Here they are," she said with a smile, handing them over from her briefcase to Washington, "and we need copies of the police reports for our civil suit," she continued with an even wider smile.


Vickie was distraught when I went home that night. "Brian, you've got to do something – they arrested Darla and put her kids with Child Protective Services."

"You're right, Vickie. First thing tomorrow I'll try and get CPS to release the kids to us."

"No...I mean that too...but you've got to get Darla out of jail?"

"Why would I get that lying sack of shit out of jail right after I had her put in there for filing a false police report and for assault?"

Vickie started to say something else, as tears formed in her eyes. "Before you say anything more, dear faithful wife, I read your interview with the police where you lied to them about not being around when Darla hit me and about not seeing that I didn't throw her down or kick her. So shut the fuck up or I'll have the police arrest you too for lying to them – and get your shit out of our room and into the guest room while I take the kids for dinner, because if you don't it's all going in the trash!"

With that I called out to the kids, who came running, gave me big hugs, and then jumped for joy when they heard that we were going out for dinner.

I ignored Vickie the next two days except when I went with her to CPS on Wednesday to try and get Darla's kids released to us. Darla had not yet made bail, but told CPS that it was OK, so we took the kids home with us Wednesday night and had a big slumber party until Darla would be out on bail Friday.

As luck would have it, I was going to a weekend conference Friday at noon, through Sunday afternoon, about one hundred miles away, too far to return each night. I didn't want to be around the two lying bitches until I thought more about what to do. The conference changed my life.


When I got to the hotel that the conference was at, literally the first person that I saw there was Gail Preston. We noticed each other about the same time. Her smile was as big as mine as we approached each other and exchanged big hugs.

"It's so good to see you, Brian," she gushed. She looked better than ever – so goddamn sexy that... Well, let's leave it that she was the epitome of hot.

"Gail, you're looking great. Why are you here?"

"For the same reason as you are – for the conference."

"Have you checked in at the hotel and registered for the conference yet?"

"I was about to do that when I saw you – let's go up together."

We got rooms next to each other, signed up for the same sessions at the conference, and were inseparable (except that we didn't sleep together) for the next fifty two hours and sixteen minutes (not that I was keeping track). This included eating every meal together, dancing both Friday and Saturday nights, swimming on Sunday morning, and going out on a jet ski together Saturday afternoon after our last conference session that day.

The swimming and jet skiing were great because I got to see Gail in a bikini – her thighs were as spectacular as ever, and the rest of her darn near perfect too. Jet skiing was even more fun because she sat behind me on a two person unit and held on tight, occasionally resting her head on my shoulder as peals of laughter came out of her mouth when I accelerated or did donuts.

Not all of our conversations were light hearted, however – she was having trouble in her marriage of the same type that I was – no sex. When she told me that she suspected that her husband was gay and always had been a light bulb lit in my head.

After the last conference session on Sunday we checked out and then sat in my car.

"Brian – I've always liked you, and lusted after you – at least a little bit," she said with a demure smile, only occasionally making eye contact. "After this weekend – well – I – I probably shouldn't say this, but..."

She was having a hard time getting the last thought out. I knew what it was because I had exactly the same thought, so I put her out of her misery. "I want to fuck you more than anything else in my life – except maybe to make love to you," I interjected, staring at her big blue eyes.

She smiled and we then clutched each other and passionately kissed. It was the most zealous kiss of my life, like I was kissing her soul, not just her lips. When we broke she got right to the point.

Without instrumental accompaniment, Wilson sang "You Are So Beautiful" as an encore at Beach Boys shows intermittently from 1975 until his death in 1983. [ citation needed ] A live rendition, circa 1978, and an edited 1983 live rendition both appear in the 1985 film The Beach Boys: An American Band . A live rendition was released on the group's live album Good Timin': Live at Knebworth England 1980 in 2002.