Month: July 2025

There’s a little-known rite of passage in the world of Boy Scouts that separates the boys from the dehydrated boys hunched over a questionable latrine—it’s called Merit Badge University. It’s a magical gathering of hopeful young scouts, clipboard-wielding adult leaders, and a buffet of overly ambitious merit badge opportunities, all crammed into one Saturday with cafeteria pizza and the scent of Axe body spray hanging in the air, if your lucky. More likely, its just 12 year old BO!

It’s the kind of place where dreams are made and gastrointestinal systems are ruined.

If you cannot see where I am heading today, its going to deal with gross food challenges.

I went in with the wide-eyed optimism of a 12-year-old ready to conquer obscure badges like Nuclear Chemistry, Architecture, or Bugling (which, let’s be honest, nobody actually earns). But instead of filling my sash with hard-to-get accolades, I found myself in an unaccredited extracurricular program—”Advanced Dumb Dares 101,” led by my fellow middle school masterminds.

The curriculum was simple: “Do something dumb and see who lasts the longest.” And like the proper geniuses we were, we decided to create our own badge: Soda Resilience.

The challenge? Chugging the Dr. Pepper we purchased at the Food Lion during lunch break.

Now let me pause here and say, at the time, I loved Dr. Pepper. We were besties. I drank it like water (because actual water was for suckers). But by hour three of Merit Badge U, someone brought in a two-liter bottle… and someone else doubled down. Before I knew it, I had four liters lined up like bad decisions at a frat party for 13-year-olds.

You know that scene in action movies when the hero realizes they’ve made a grave mistake, but it’s too late? That was me, halfway through bottle number three, surrounded by a gaggle of cheering tween idiots, one of whom had already thrown up in the fake tree after his own horrendous badge… Taco Bell Hot Sauce over load, A delightful game of putting somewhere around 45 of the hottest taco bell sauce packets into your stomach.

I don’t remember much of the following hours, just that I spent a full two hours doing my best impression of a Civil War cannon. Every five minutes, a staffer would poke his head into the bathroom to make sure I hadn’t gone to meet Lord Baden-Powell in person.

To this day, when I see a can of Dr. Pepper, my body shudders. My brain flashes back to that sticky, over-syruped taste and my stomach contracts in a PTSD spasm of teenage regret. It’s like Pavlov’s dogs—but instead of a bell, it’s carbonation.

The moral of the story is this: Pre-teens need adult supervision at all times. Not sometimes. Not just when they’re near sharp objects or matches. At. All. Times. Because whatever part of the brain says, “Hey buddy, maybe don’t drink a gallon of liquid sugar in a hot school gymnasium?”—yeah, that part doesn’t form until like 25 or 37.

So next time you hand your kid a soda, just remember: you might be holding the first ingredient in a very stupid science experiment. Only you can prevent another Dr Pepper incident… and I suggest you do.

Hope today’s a fizzy one,
austininva

There are a lot of things in life that I look back on and think, “Well, that was a choice.” Chief among them is the time I went to scout camp in Tennessee, and, in a moment of both optimism and utter disregard for my own epidermis, decided that every single water-based activity offered was a good idea.

Now, scout camp is one of those places where parents drop off their children, wave lovingly, and drive away laughing because they know what’s coming. It’s seven days of dirt, heat, questionable food, and rites of passage that usually involve rope burns and regret. But I was young and foolish, and water seemed like a great way to beat the heat. Which, sure — until you run out of sunscreen on day one and still have six days of full sun ahead of you.

Swimming? Check.

Canoeing? You bet.

Mile swim? Because apparently I thought I was a Navy SEAL.

Lifesaving merit badge? Oh yes, because what screams “I want to survive” more than volunteering to wrestle a panicked 12-year-old in deep water while your back is actively blistering?

Let me describe the Tennessee sun for those who have never experienced it: Imagine a hairdryer set to “lava” pointed directly at your soul. Now toss in 90% humidity and the sweet, tangy scent of bug spray mixed with boy sweat. That’s the setting. And there I was, floating through it like a rotisserie chicken on a lazy Susan.

By midweek, I no longer looked like a child, I looked like a medical diagram in a warning poster. Red, cracked, flaking. My friends, to their credit (and with mild horror), would sit on either side of me in the backseat of the van on the ride home, gently peeling my skin like overcooked wallpaper. One had a bottle of aloe vera he referred to only as “The Green Savior.” The other offered scratch support. My shirt had fused to my back. I’m pretty sure I left a full imprint on the seat upholstery that summer.

The best part? I had the audacity to complain. As if it wasn’t entirely my fault for choosing every aquatic option in the hottest part of the South with SPF Nothing. I remember groaning in pain and turning to my dad and saying, “I think I need a doctor.” And he, ever the loving and supportive father, responded, “You need a brain.”

Looking back, I learned two important life lessons that week:

There’s no such thing as too much sunscreen. Don’t trust your 13-year-old self with medical decisions.

I could’ve taken pottery. I could’ve taken archery or wood carving. I could’ve done literally anything under a tree. But no, I went with “sautéed like shrimp on the bow of a canoe” as my summer memory. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Except maybe for a gallon more aloe.

Hope today’s a sunny one,

austininva

They say deployment builds character. I say it builds trauma—and back muscles, from clenching everything you’ve eaten for six to eight months straight.

This day marked the halfway point of my last deployment, which means I’d been sweating in the Arabian Gulf, just long enough to be cooked medium-rare. The heat index hit 153 degrees this day. That’s not a typo. I sat in what they call the “air-conditioned” section of the ship (which is just a slightly less angry oven), and wrote this in my diary, while trying to rotate my body like a rotisserie chicken. Half-baked, all I got to do is flip once an hour and I’m done.

Now life on a Navy ship is… rhythmic. Loudspeakers tell you what to do. You line up for food like it’s Black Friday at Best Buy. And most important of all, you listen when someone tells you not to go into the head (that’s the bathroom for all you land lubbers). Because the head… the head holds secrets. Horrible, squishy secrets.

This particular memory, permanently seared into my mind like overcooked Navy meatloaf, started like any other day: with a blood-curdling whistle and a man whose dream job must’ve been fairground loudspeaker yelling “REVEILLE! REVEILLE!” into the 1MC, or PA system, like he was paying us back for some ill conceived prank. This is your cue to wake up and pretend to function like a normal person.

I shuffled to the head to attempt what we call “morning hygiene.” The shower had all the water pressure of a dying camel’s sneeze, and by “water,” I mean steam so thick it could braise a pot roast. Brushing my teeth? No dice. The sinks were as dry as my humor. So I thought, hey, at least I can pee. That’s the one thing the Navy can’t take away from me. Right?

Wrong.

As I neared the toilets, I noticed a… rumble. A slight shudder in the deck beneath my feet. This happens all the time. The ship’s always creaking and groaning like your Grandpa getting out of a recliner. But then it happened again. This time, from the toilets themselves. That’s when my gut whispered, “Son… don’t do this.”

First stall: out of order. Second: occupied. Third: no door on the hinges. Of course. So I stood there waiting, while the ship gave one final Jurassic Park-style tremble… and that’s when it happened.

Stalls one and three exploded.

Not with fire. Not with gas. No, friend. With the fury of Old Faithful after Taco Tuesday.

Now, if your stomach’s weak, skip this part. Seriously.

Imagine cake batter. Now imagine it’s been left out in the sun, mixed with expired seafood, and then fired from a pressure cannon. That’s what erupted from those toilets. With a sound that defied God and physics, waste water (a term that doesn’t do justice to the actual horror) shot out of stall two like a demon had been exorcised through the plumbing.

And out of stall #2? A man. A hero. A victim. He stumbled out, soaked, dazed, bare-legged and broken. Covered in… well, let’s just say it wasn’t conditioner or lotion. He staggered past us, eyes hollow, straight into the “shower,” which, of course, offered only steam. I think he’s still in there. Still scrubbing. Still crying, maybe.

As for me? I turned right around and waddled back to my rack. Ain’t no way I was risking my backside in that warzone. I’ve seen combat, but I ain’t built for whatever that was.

So yes, I was halfway done with that deployment. Halfway fried, halfway roasted, and now… halfway traumatized.

So now, I hover over the toilet. You never forget the first time you almost became Old Faithful’s next geyser victim.

Hope today’s a clean one.

— Austin in the Gulf
(See what I did there?)

Have you ever seen someone get clotheslined? You know, like in the movies, where a poor soul is mid-sprint and runs chest-first into a rope or wire and proceeds to somersault backwards into a pile of regret? I’ve never actually witnessed that in real life… until last night. And let me tell you, it wasn’t a WWE wrestler taking the hit, it was my beautiful, well-intentioned, highly accident-prone wife.

It started innocently enough. I was stationed in one room, doing very important man-things (read: not moving), when my phone started buzzing in the next room over. Now, I could have gotten up to grab it, but why risk throwing off the delicate balance of my laziness? So I called out to Jo, my darling wife, and asked if she could grab it for me.

And bless her soul, she did what any loving partner would do, she hopped to action, dashed into the room like a multitasking ninja mom, and snatched up the buzzing iPhone to deliver it to her helpless husband.

Then… it happened.

Two sounds. First: KABANG-KA-CRASH. That sound a person makes when their life choices collide with gravity and extension cords. Second: a sharp gasp, followed by a groan that told me we were somewhere between “stubbed toe” and “full-body reset.”

I bolted from my seat and rushed in to find the carnage.

There she was. Flat on the ground. One hand holding her knee. The other still gripping the phone like she was the final relay runner at the Olympics. Determined. Resilient. Furious.

At her feet, the war zone: my PC tower laying sideways like a defeated AT-AT walker, the extension cord yanked halfway across the room, and a look on her face that said I will burn this entire house down if one more thing touches me.

Apparently, when she went to deliver the phone, she forgot it was still plugged in. Not just lightly tethered—hardwired. The iPhone cord was connected to my desktop, and like the world’s most loyal guard dog, it wasn’t about to let that phone go quietly. It snapped tight as Jo passed the halfway point across the living room, jerking her to a dead halt mid-stride. The cord ripped the computer off the desk, and Jo, in turn, went airborne in what I can only describe as an “accidental backflip without the flip.”

I burst out laughing. Not at the pain—no, no, I’m not a monster, but at the pure absurdity of it all. She had just been clotheslined by a charging cable. I checked the phone. Still intact. Still charging. Apple: 1, Humanity: 0.

Through it all, she didn’t drop the phone. Didn’t even let go. I praised her. “You’re lucky I only own an iPhone,” I said. “If it were a MacBook, that thing might’ve dragged you all the way into the garage.”

Jo didn’t laugh. She looked at me, dead serious, and hissed through gritted teeth:

“If I ever die tripping over your charging cable, I expect a Viking funeral and AppleCare to pay for it.”

Moral of the story? Never underestimate the tensile strength of a Lightning cord. And always marry someone who’ll take a literal fall for your 12% battery alert.

Hope today’s a graceful one.
— austininva

There’s a rule in our house: don’t pray for patience unless you want to spend the next 48 hours stuck in traffic with screaming kids, a flat tire, and the kind of soul-refining humility that only comes after using a gas station bathroom in August.

But one Sunday, I got clever, I thought I had found a way to get some easy points.

I raised my hand when the Pastor asked, who would pray for stress in their lives? Up went my hand… bold as brass, and said, “Lord, give me something to grow through. Something to stretch me. A little… stress. You know—refine me.”

And God, in His infinite wisdom, and what I now believe was a very cheeky mood, said:

“Bet.”

Because within 48 hours, my life was stretched to infinity… and beyond. You see my shed was not just a shed, it was Shedzilla!

Ok, shedzilla is a stretch… IT WAS WORSE.

It was a nesting ground for literal thousands of black widows.

Thousands. Not dozens. Not “a concerning amount.” THOUSANDS. I opened the shed door and it looked like Shelob’s lair. There were webs on webs. Spider eggs. Suspicious scuttling. One of them made direct eye contact with me like I owed her child support.

I screamed. I am not ashamed. i screamed like a baby who had its last piece of candy took by a bully.

Jo screamed, too, but hers was more of a banshee shriek that scared the family of raccons clean out of the neighbor’s tree. the Possum in the attic fled too! Slayden came running in with a water gun, like he was gonna help. Kara told us calmly that the female black widow eats her mate, then eyed me down for a little too long.

So, naturally, we did the only rational thing a God-fearing suburban family can do.

I declared war.

I drove to the hardware store and asked the man behind the counter what I needed to “cleanse evil.” A regular demon removal. He handed me something with a label that said: “Warning: Not for indoor use unless you have made peace with your God.”

I smiled, and like the grinch, my heart grew three sizes that day. It was perfect.

I fumed that shed like it was a rice paddy in ’68. Hazmat suits. Full masks. Chemical smoke so thick it formed its own weather system. For three days, it looked like we were filming an instalment of a horror movie in the backyard. The dog refused to go near it. Birds detoured around our property. The FAA shut down airspace! (I’m pretty sure.)

And after the fog cleared… silence.

Not a single web. Not a twitch. Just the faint scent of victory and carcinogens.

I’ve never prayed for stress again.

Nowadays I stick with safe prayers like “help me be more thankful” or “please let this Chick-fil-A line move faster.”

Because apparently, when I ask God to stretch me…
He sends spiders.

hope todays a spider free one!
-austininva

If anyone ever asks you to pee on an electric fence, just say no. It will shock you, and you’ll feel dumb and numb for doing it. I speak from experience, but that’s a story for another day.

Today, I want to tell you about a dog.

When my wife and I got married, we agreed: every proper family has a dog. It’s just what’s done. So, we decided to adopt one from a shelter. On our way to visit my family that weekend, we stopped at a few shelters. No luck. All bulldogs and pit bulls—which, let’s be honest, make up most of the population in any given shelter.

Finally, at our fourth and final stop, we pulled into the Norfolk SPCA. Just when we were about to give up, we saw him. The last kennel had a mutt who had mastered the full Sarah McLachlan “In the Arms of an Angel” face. I mean, this dog worked it.

We took him out to the run yard to see how he behaved. He played, responded when called, even kind of sat. And more importantly, he genuinely seemed to like us.

We were sold. We paid the fee, loaded him up in the Subaru, and took him home. We named him Oliver—yes, because of the orphan from the book. We spent the weekend showing him off like proud new parents.

It lasted two weeks.

That’s when Oliver decided he’d had enough of the “good dog” phase. He turned into a break-out artist. A door rusher. A canine blur powered by Golden Retriever legs and a rocket engine. Once loose, he was gone for hours unless he decided to come back.

After the third wild goose chase across the neighborhood, we made the adult decision: we bought an electric training collar. Not because we wanted to be cruel, but because the remote would let us correct him before he disappeared over the horizon.

I tested it with the little tester strip it came with. Zap! It worked. We fitted it on him, and when we beeped, he gave a little ear flick. The manual said that was a good sign—meant we probably wouldn’t even need the shock.

That would’ve been great. But Oliver had other plans.

While Jo and I were cleaning up the packaging, Oliver went straight for Jo’s dinner plate on the table. We called him. Nothing. Beeped him. Ignored us. Just kept eating faster.

So I hit the shock button. On max setting.

Oliver yelped and shot across the room like a missile… straight at me. He leapt onto my lap in a full panic. And here’s the important part—he landed on my hand. The one holding the remote. The one still pressing the button.

I was yelling, he was yelping, and Jo was laughing so hard I’m surprised she didn’t pee herself.

It took almost a full minute for me to wrestle him off and let go of the shock button. The poor guy was just trying to crawl into my skin to escape the invisible pain, not realizing he was the cause of it.

But it worked. After that, Oliver never ran again. If he slipped out the door, he’d go about ten feet until the collar beeped—then he froze, statue-still, waiting for me to carry him home like a guilt-ridden toddler.

So yeah, $80 for the collar, one free electrocution for me, and a permanent lesson for both of us. Not bad.

Hope today’s a good one,
austininva

Once upon a time, a little boy named Logan began to potty train. He used pull-ups and underwear and he learned very quickly what he needed to do. It was funny when, in the middle of a conversation, he would run in to exclaim to all present, “ME POOP, ME POOP, now yummy?” And obliging, I would hand over a small handful of jelly beans.

While we are on that, someday, I wish for a life, where I drop my pants, do my business, and get food for free. I feel someone needs to make a form of government where the basis of power is based on this principle.

Now, for all the humorous events that occurred during potty training my 3-year-old, this short post isn’t about that. Rather, it’s about the terror that every parent should have with a little boy who is freed from the shackles of his diaper.

My wife and I were in the kitchen, busy moving some furniture during my quarterly re-arrangement of the house, when Logan came rushing in with a loud shout of, “PEE PEE PEE PEE!”

This usually means one thing. It’s his way of telling me:
“PULL THIS CAR OVER RIGHT NOW FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, BEFORE I PEE OVER EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE YOU HOLD DEAR!”

To which I have responded by flying across four lanes of traffic to exit the interstate in 0.018 of a mile. (Yes, I’m that good.)

So Jo ran out of the kitchen, wondering why Logan couldn’t get into the bathroom. She found the door was open, there was toilet paper, but yet Logan yelled more emphatically than before: “PEE!”

I began to worry that he had leaked in his underwear, but as Jo checked, that option was removed from the list. She began asking 20 Questions—a 3-year-old’s favorite game.

1. Did you pee?
    A: Yes
2. Did you pee your pants?
    A: No
3. Did the dogs pee?
    A: Yes, um… no
4. Did the pee in the toilet get flushed?
    A: No
5. Where’s the pee!?!?
    A: Here, Mama. Right here.

Around that question, I heard the conversation shift into something more frantic:

“Oh no… wait… oh no, please no… NOOOOOOO!!!!!!”

6. DID YOU PEE ON THE FLOOR!?
    A: Um…. Yes

My wife then came into the kitchen, sat dejectedly in a chair, and said that I was needed in the living room.

I walked in, and Logan looked at me, grabbed his rear end, and said,
“I Sorry, Dada. Sorry, Dada. No spank.” His remorse fell on deaf ears, as my eyes beheld the newly formed lake in the living room floor. He picked up a single paper towel and tossed it onto the lake he had just created in front of the couch. It floated, for a moment, the unstoppable rush of the yellow liquid swallowing it up like the Atlantic did the Titanic.

Needless to say, it was explained in very specific directions, that we don’t pee on the floor.
I don’t, however, think he bought my reasoning—because he kept referring to the dogs’ favorite indoor accident spot.

Today is Friday. And then it’s the weekend…
16 more years. You can do it. Just 16 more years.

hope your days a good one
-austininva

by austininva

When a woman is pregnant, I’m sure it’s supposed to be a wonderful time. I mean, the commercials portray this time of life as blissful and magical—a time when humanity takes a breath, smiles more, and is generally nicer to one another.

As anyone who has been pregnant—or known someone who has been pregnant—can tell you, that is the furthest thing from the truth.

Your nights are spent aching, tossing and turning, searching for that one centimeter of bed that’s actually comfortable. And wouldn’t you know it? That one centimeter just happens to be in the last four-inch strip of the bed your husband is clinging to for dear life.

Heat and cold take on new and miserable meanings. You will never be comfortable again while the baby is growing. It’s always either too hot or too cold—sometimes both at once.

And your appetite? It transforms into that of an alien. Pickles, peanut butter, anchovies, and chocolate… the cravings defy belief. Even moms-to-be shudder once they realize what they’re actually eating. All the while, the food can’t be eaten fast enough.

If you haven’t guessed yet, my wife and I are expecting baby #2, and the pregnancy has hit full force… at just 6 weeks in. I love my wife, and it was at her behest that I write this post. Let’s be honest: this stuff is just too funny not to share.

We had a long day of errands, and the sun was finally setting. In our house, after a full day out, it’s just easier to grab dinner on the way home. This particular day, we decided to get food so that Logan the Terrible could be locked in the dungeon—I mean, lovingly tucked into bed.

Chores: done. Shopping: done. Ice cream melting in the trunk: check. A good day, overall.

Throughout the day, Jo had been commenting—over and over and over—how much she really wanted some fried chicken.

Which is pregnancy code for:
“We better go get fried chicken now or someone will suffer a slow and painful death, and they will never find the body. And if they do, it won’t be recognizable as human.”

So I did what any survival-minded husband would do: I stepped on the gas and hunted down the nearest chicken place.

Suddenly, Jo lurched forward in her seat and yelled, “THERE! POPEYES!”

I swerved hard into the parking lot—possibly sending a nearby car off the road—but in times of war, sacrifices must be made. I zipped around the building and hit the brakes hard… only to reveal, to Jo’s horror, a line.

To be fair, it was a long line. About five cars deep.

I glanced over, preparing to apologize for the delay—but stopped short. Jo’s upper lip was trembling. Tears welled in her eyes. And then? The floodgates opened.

She knew it was nothing, but she couldn’t help herself. That line of four cars (yes, one pulled away) was the last straw.

Through the sobs, she tried to explain—as only a pregnant, hungry woman can—that life was unfair, that this was too much, that surely not all these people wanted fried chicken.

As the line inched forward and we hit two cars left, she turned to comfort our son, who—watching his mother collapse into tears for no reason—began crying too.

Next in line, the tears started to dry. Jo wiped her face and turned to the menu, scanning with intense focus.

I considered telling her the menu hadn’t changed…
They sold chicken.
And chicken.
And, oh look—more chicken.

But the look on her face as she read that menu said it all:
“Now is not the time.”

We got our food. We drove home. We ate. We put Logan to bed.

Later that night, Jo snuggled up beside me and whispered sweetly into my ear:
“If you ever tell anyone I cried in the Popeyes drive-thru, I’ll have to kill you.”

But I’m lucky. My wife can laugh at life’s funny moments. If she couldn’t, I wouldn’t last very long, because I lead a very funny life.

And not too long after that night, she recanted and suggested I write the story down.

I love my wife. I love my life. And let me tell you—there is a never-ending stream of humor in both.

Hope today’s a good one,
austininva

Ah, the Fourth of July. That magical American holiday where we celebrate our independence by feeding our kids enough sugar to give a hummingbird heart palpitations and then hand them flaming sticks and tiny explosives to chase each other around the yard. God bless the USA.

Now, every family has their own traditions. Some go to parades. Some have cookouts. Some set off fireworks responsibly, at a safe distance, while everyone wears eye protection and a smug expression of adult competency.

We are not that family.

We are the family where things always start off wholesome and picturesque—flag cupcakes, patriotic playlists, Jo handing out watermelon slices like she’s hosting a lifestyle segment on Good Morning America—and then somewhere around dusk, things take a hard left turn into Lord of the Flies: Stars & Stripes Edition.

This particular year, we had gathered the family in the In-Laws driveway for a traditional fireworks display—which is really just a collaborative dad effort lighting things on fire while yelling “BACK UP!” at children who have zero concept of personal safety or common sense. Among our arsenal were a few dozen boxes of sparklers, because those feel just safe enough for kids. You know, like swords, but with the added bonus of flame and molten metal flakes that shoot out at you!

Now enter Logan. Sweet, sneaky, future demolition expert Logan. At the time, maybe six or seven. Old enough to understand instructions. Young enough to pretend he forgot them the second chaos presented itself.

I handed him a lit sparkler and gave the usual dad lecture: “Buddy, this is fun, but you don’t point it at people. No swinging. No dueling. This is a light show, not a lightsaber. Understand?”

He nodded seriously, the way kids do when they absolutely do not understand but are just trying to get the grown-up to stop talking. Then he looked at the sparkler. And then—oh, I saw it. That look. The one every parent knows. The slow, creeping grin that starts in the corner of their mouth like a villain about to monologue. The gleam in the eye. The shift in posture from trustworthy child to goblin with a mission.

Before I could utter a single word of protest, Logan whipped the sparkler in a wide arc like Excalibur itself and took off screaming “FREEDOM!” while charging Jo and her sister like a tiny, fire-wielding revolutionary war hero.

Jo let out a scream that could peel paint off a battleship and took off across the yard, sandals flopping, sister screaming right behind her. Logan was cackling, sparkler raised like he was leading a cavalry charge. Every time Jo looked back, he’d wave the sparkler a little and shout something vaguely patriotic. I am pretty sure I heard him yell, “’MERICA!” at one point.

I tried to run after him… (you believe me, right?) But I was doubled over laughing, and also slightly worried that if I intervened, I might get sparkler’d myself. The good news is, he eventually ran out of sparkler juice. The bad news is, now he knows where we keep the lighters.

Later that night, as the real fireworks boomed in the sky and the kids collapsed into sticky, sunburned heaps of giggles, I looked at Jo—still slightly singed, soul frizzed out from the trauma—and said, “Hey, at least no one ended up in the ER.”

She just narrowed her eyes and said, “Next year, we’re only giving him a glow stick.”

Happy Fourth of July from the Olde Dominion. May your watermelon be cold, your sparklers properly aimed, and your children only moderately unhinged.

hope todays a good one,
-austininva