…

I don’t remember taking hallucinogenics this morning, but somewhere in my teeny tiny brain, a genius plot started.

I’m applying for a “job” at the Northern Iowan – the newspaper on campus at UNI.

And wouldn’t you know it, I’m applying to become an Opinion Columnist.

Instead of giving them all sorts of reasons why I should get the job, I’m submitting what WAS going to be a hilarious and brilliant post about my parking lot stalking that I’ve been committing.  Allegedly.

You’ll have to wait to hear the verdict, as will I, I guess, but until then, I hope to be back a little more often with updates on school, the peter patters and 4-square hippies now that Hazing Week is over.

(Hazing Week is what I call the first week of classes… the professors make you read those hideous first chapters. Here’s what we’re going to teach you this semester.  Oh, we won’t teach you any of that NOW, we’re just warning you that that’s what we’re going to teach you.  All while wading through the bullshit in the syllabus and class schedule just to figure out what’s due and when.  But seriously.  I started fantasizing about margaritas on the 3rd day of classes.  I may be on the verge of a breakdown.)

*Sigh.*

Time to go round up the kids and get the husband awake after his nap (insert curse words here) so we can go to a SUPER FUN BASEBALL GAME.

At least they serve beer.

I was living some kind of metaphor for life

A foot was all it took.  The tire just missed whatever it was, and at the very last moment, I realized it was a Monarch butterfly.

I hate seeing dead butterflies, but it seems to be the price that is paid to have an interstate moving at 70mph.  Even though he was already dead, I would’ve felt worse running him over.

Like adding insult to fatal injury.

I checked my rear view mirror and saw the orange wings tumble, tumble, tumble toward the grassy median.

Suddenly, the wings opened up… it fluttered up through the air and flew back to the fields.

It was alive!

For the next few minutes, I marveled at what had just happened.

Because of a small gesture to respect life, even if it only meant moving 12 inches into the next lane, the world has one more butterfly floating through it.

Amazing.  I was positively giddy over it.

Two seconds later, another huge Monarch rammed head-first into the grill of my Suburban.

Splat.

Here comes the vomit!

I made Mike feel my forehead today before leaving for work.  I’m truly not a hoarker, but I think this week was just too much for me.

I’ve been nearly vomitose every day since Monday.

Blech.

In fact, it makes me realize just how desperate I was for any kind of outside interaction when the kids were toddlers… I can’t believe I went back to school when they were 18 months old and did this, NO SWEAT.

Now, I’m sweating.  Like the sick sweats.

It might have something to with the stress… OR the sudden increase in caffeine coursing through my veins.

I’m pretty sure I was high today.

Wow, I wish I was kidding.

The first indicator was when I couldn’t stop giggling in class.  My professor has an interesting look and looks at the ceiling tiles instead of the class as she lectures.

It took me a while, but this afternoon it dawned on me what she is: she’s the frankencombo of Danny DeVito’s body, Gilda Radner’s hair, Madeline Kahn’s Mrs White voice with Stevie Wonder’s aversion to eye contact.

And no matter how many people I relayed this epiphany to, no one found it as amusing as I did.

That, plus my inability to stop shaking or talking or aimlessly moving from room-to-room made me reevaluate my caffeine-only school diet.

The only bright spot today was that Emma came home in a much better mood from her second day of school than her first.

Everyone had been so excited to go to school during the Meet N Greet.  They chattered about who had what animals on their class walls, and what they wanted to tell or show their friends on the first day.

The first day came and went, and on the trip home, only two girls bubbled over with recaps of the momentous occasion.

Emma sat quietly, even when I questioned her.

She wouldn’t look at me in the rear view mirror.

When we got home, Mike rocked her in the rocking chair for a few minutes, then tickled her into a laughing fit.

It was at that point I interrogated her.

She sits next to a little boy who has a profound lack of respect for authority – I knew this going into the year and saw he’s at her table – and he spent the day trying to rip apart her frog backpack and harassing her in between not listening to the teacher.  This report is from a 6-year-old, mind you, so this testimony is not intended to be used in a court of law.

But I knew there was something else.  I urged her to tell me.  She could hardly talk about it.

She’d gotten punched in the cheek on the playground by a girl who was her BFF last year, and she had a small dark bruise forming under her cheekbone.

At first I was pissed off for her.

That same girl had been BFFs previously with a little girl who acted, well, like a little bitch.  I’m sorry, it has to be said.  She was a “mean girl.” She tormented Emma last year out of jealousy of the blossoming friendship between the other girls.  Unfortunately, Emma hasn’t seen her all Summer, and Ball Buster got to spend every day with her at daycare.  I wondered how things would pan out once they were all together again, and I feared the worst.  It seemed like the worst had happened.

But I stayed calm and found out that they had actually been playing together at the time of the hit.  It sounded like an accident, but Emma was upset because it had hurt and didn’t know how to deal with what happened.

Phew.

Today was much different.  She came home from school chattering up a storm.

Isn’t school fun?

How did any of us come out of it alive?

If anyone messes with that child anymore this week, I’m going to march into that school and vomit on them, just for fun.

I may as well use this stress to my advantage.

I drank the Jesus juice

I promised myself that if I finished my homework, cleaned up the dining room and kitchen, then switched out the laundry, I could blog tonight.

After changing the cat litter.

And packing the girls’ backpacks.

Hey, this crap doesn’t finish itself.

So I think we can all pretty much agree that I am way too far in over my fucking noggin’, but that’s pretty much my lifelong mission AND I believe those words were voted by my husband as: Words Most Likely to be Engraved on Loren’s Tombstone.

My first day went well on Tuesday.

Class. Call Mike for a classroom number (and building… that’s important). Buy $5 agenda just to have a map of campus before getting lost again.  More Class.  Another Class in another building across Campus.

Then came The Lines.

Parking Permits.  Who ARE these old people and why do they need permits?  Are they teachers?  Or just people like me and my sister who are setting the Guinness World Record for most consecutive years of not working and not graduating.

And my favorite: Campus Wi-Fi.

I liked the Wi-Fi crowd so much more because at least I could laugh (quietly. to myself. while I wished my boobs would perk up so I’d get some assistance.) at the mid-30s guy who couldn’t help but smile and ogle all the young hot 18-year-olds in shorts with words printed across the ass.

I’d get a pair for myself, but by law, they’d have to read: WIDE LOAD and be followed by a pilot car with flashing beacons.

I made sure to call Mike immediately afterward to complain about my poor, old aching hips – from the WALKING – and he ignored my whining and opted to inform me: I’m gonna tell everyone I’m banging a college chick.

Yeah, but you need to tell them that this college chick is gonna need a hip replacement in the next decade.

As I headed toward the general vicinity where I was pretty sure my Suburban was parked and most likely receiving a parking fine, I passed what appeared to be a Red Cross stand with a water pitcher.

The girl was kind enough to fill up a little red cup and hand me some brochures – none of which I looked at but figured would be rude to turn away – and I stumbled off to my truck, realizing that this was only Day 1 in the last year before my Edu-geddon.  (read: Graduation)

I came home to see Mike, on the floor, in his underpants, watching Angels & Demons.

No WONDER that’s what he thinks I do all day.

I wasn’t feeling the greatest, as I hadn’t been for a few days.  I’d been waking up on the verge of vomiting, and for anyone who knows me, I only vomit once a decade and it usually involves Jager.  I lounged on the couch, then had a sickening thought.

I wandered off to the bathroom, where I unpacked a tiny little pink and white strip – a gift from Misti a few months earlier during my prior pregnancy freak-out.  I looked around for something to, ahem, “hold a sample.”  I saw the red cup from campus and thought Eureka!

I put the test strip in and set it on the counter.

That’s when I noticed that the red cup was NOT a Red Cross container… but a Jesus Club Cup.

I laughed.

Then I looked at the strip.

TWO PINK LINES.

That can’t be right.  I dipped another one in Jesus’s crunk cup, and it came back with…

TWO PINK LINES.

Excuse me, but at that point, I scream-hollered at Mike to get his “college girl” boinkin’ ass into the bathroom.

We stared at them until we decided it was an error.  (Weren’t we just discussing this on Facebook?)  The pink line was in the wrong spot and was from the dye pooling there.

I immediately threw that cup away and vowed never to pee on Jesus again.

And that was just the FIRST day of class…

Our marriage: A short

Mike hit me in the head with a pillow.

Hey!

Just remember, you married this.

I gestured to my body.

Just remember, YOU married THIS.

Touche’.

But at least I work hard…

We burst out laughing.

I must’ve married you for your humor.

Mill-sponsored date night

Get over here, I wanna get a picture of us.

*click*

Oh wait, that was terrible.  Just turrrible*.  Let me try that again.

*click*

I blinked, try it again.

You blinked in your own picture???

Shush and get over here.

*click*

I’m really digging that shadow across your face…

Shut it.  Hold on a sec.

*click*

Is it still there?

Yep.

*click*

Ohmygod, it delayed.  I just took a picture of the cart.

*click*

*click*

*click*

By the end of it, we were both practically in tears.

I’m not sure if it was because of the complete FAIL on my part in trying to take a picture, or if it was out of relief that we were – for the first time in a long while – doing something FUN without children.

And it was FREE.

Mike’s work is awesome.  Have I mentioned that lately???

They are not only treated well, paid well, and given great benefits, but the company loves attaboys.  Safety. Holidays. Production bonuses.  And on, and on, and on.

And even though I’m generally a liberal, I’d like to point out: this mill that makes linerboard and treats their employees like movie stars?  It’s NOT UNION.

Anyway, this particular outing was part of the funds they give the mill and each team for team-building activities.  It can be spent however the team members want, usually by renting out a movie theater, going to a pumpkin farm, or doing an Easter Egg hunt.

They also do golf outings.

When Mike mentioned the mill-wide outing, I asked if I could tag along this time.

Mind you, I haven’t been golfing in several YEARS.  In fact, I have never golfed using women’s clubs before, so I finally had a chance to test out the clubs I’d bought from Stephie for 25 buckeroos.  They still have the Demo sticker taped to the shaft from nearly a decade ago.

Of course, Mike neglected to fill in my name on the sign-up sheet, so I was the only person there whose cart was labeled “Guest.”

Mike claims that he wasn’t sure which of his mistresses he was going to bring.  I made sure to change it so people knew who I was…

Mistress #7.

Which became my nickname for the rest of the afternoon.

Your butt’s hungry, honey.  Nyom, nyom, nyom.

It was Best Shot, and wouldn’t you know it?  We WON.

Thanks to the men who drove the ball, and to moi who sank several back to back to back to back uh-MAY-zing putts on the front 9.  One was from around 30 feet away. I was more shocked than THEY were that the putts sank.

Mike is now claiming that Mistress #7 is his golfing mistress.

I told them to thank my father for all the hours we spent at Cup’N’Cone in Merrill as kids.  I was like Happy Gilmore with boobs.

Eighteen holes later, we sat in the clubhouse and ate catered food and laughed at the “Longest Putt” winner on the 18th which was a foot from the hole and clearly not the real longest putt, but not a single person dared move the marker. Then they announced the team winners.

Scott and Steve and Mike V and… Mike V’s… guest?  Championship Flight.

I was so excited to be on the winning team that I didn’t realize we won MONEY until they handed the prizes out.  They were whippin’ those gift cards out like cars on the Oprah show.  And YOU get a card!  And YOU get a card!  You ALL GET A CARD!

We walked away with $100… money ahead on date night.

We continued on later to Wally World and used the gift cards to buy a bunch of crap we didn’t need, like the Godfather trilogy (I’ve never seen it – a wrong Mike’s been dying to right) and Lego Harry Potter for Wii.

So much fun.

So so so much fun.

I’m glad I took those pictures so I can remember that day ten years from now on our next real date.

*That’s my turrrible Charles Barkley impersonation.

Addicted to code

Remember when I first announced that I would be working on our city’s train wreck of a website because it hadn’t been updated in over 11 years and it irritated the ever-loving crap out of my anal retentive self?

And I had grand aspirations of how it could serve as a great jumping off point in my resume for a communications job?

And even though I’ve never built a real, non-blog website before (let’s face it… Blogger is a godsend) nor taken any kind of computer classes, I figured How hard could it be because I have such an over-inflated sense of ego that I think I can do anything?

And someone – one of you kind, kind readers who happens to build websites for a living – told me sweetly to RUN? RUN far far away?

Remember all that?

I’m thinking maybe I should’a listened.

Here’s where I’m at so far.

I have so much respect for web designers now.

Every bit of data on that page, I either added manually using code, or placed there through a picture I created in Paint. Every godblessedpixel was dropped there by me.

And I’m only about 2/3 finished… with the home page.

Have I mentioned that I want to get this done by the 19th for the Sweet Corn Festival? Pahahaha!!!

Between the divs and the ps and the tds and the buffers or whatever the hell you call the crap-space in between the border and the content... I'm losing my mind. I throw numbers in until it looks right then go back to figure out exactly why it worked. For the record, if anyone at City Hall tells me to change ANYTHING, my head will spontaneously combust.

I’m so incredibly happy that I’ve figured out just that much (like the scroll table? amazing!) that I feel like this has been all worthwhile if I ran screaming walked away now.

But I won’t. Because of that whole OCD, perfectionist thing.

That same “thing” that has made me change the overall design of the site at least a dozen times.

That “thing” that has made Mike scold me at 3AM to put the computer down and step away from the goddamned Microsoft Paint.

One more button before bed, Mikey. Just ONE MORE…

The long week

A week from today, I will be entering my final year as a college student.

Which is why I was a little stressed to find out that one of my classes had been cancelled due to “low enrollment numbers.”  Like TWO.  Two people wanted to take Geopolitics.  Totally understandable, except that it’s a required course for my degree.  Oh, and the fact that I’d spent hours and hours meticulously combing the campus site, looking for five classes to fit together perfectly like a jigsaw puzzle.

Thankfully, I take good notes.

Next to History & Systems of Some Boring Bullshit, I’d written: (same time as Geopol).

Ding ding ding!  We have a winner.  Who cares that every Tuesday and Thursday is going to be a lunchtime snoozefest?  You KNOW it’s a boring class when people drop out of it before it even begins.  Lucky for me, two people decided they had more important things to do two days a week like flat iron their knuckles.  In other words: there’s still one spot open if anyone is interested.

To add to my excitement, a week from tomorrow, my children will be first graders.

I don’t even get a single day to enjoy freedom from children.

In fact, I need to con someone into watching my children that day.

Dear Auntie Stephie…

I’m so sad that having days to clean and *gasp* watch TV (!) and cook supper by 3PM are over.  Now it’ll be all could you please be quiet so Mommy doesn’t blow a grand on this class by failing the test?

Anyway, Mike said to me tonight:  I really hope this is your last year.  So you can start focusing, on…  on….

…Getting a job?

Yeah, getting a JOB.

Is THAT why I’m going to school?  Silly me.  I thought it was just to have an excuse in order to delay the inevitable employment questions.

Damn it anyway.

Note to self: Doctorate programs.

That should buy me a few more years.

The changing Tide. And Downy.

Sometimes you’ve gotta learn to just let it go.

Those years of my mother making me sort dirty clothes into piles of whites, darks, brights, heavy darks, jeans, towels, and on, and on…  they are engrained in my soul.

Do you know that laundry has been my #1 sore spot for the last seven years?

It was almost guaranteed that – if you showed up at my house between the hours of 7AM and 10PM – I would have at least one if not two small mountains of clean yet not-folded laundry on my livingroom floor.

And then my cat would sleep on it.

So I would hurry and fold it, but occasionally forget to put away something like a stack of towels.

And then my cat would sleep on that.

(Thank god she doesn’t shed much.  Just ignore the cat hair mustache after you dry off your face.)

I gave up.

I’m pretty sure I’m disappointing her, what with all the brainwashing and repetition, but she’ll get over it.  Just like she got over the disappointment when I told her I was agnostic.

Dear Mom, Agnostic doesn’t mean I’m an Atheist, which I’m pretty sure is what you think and now you’re panicked that I’m going to piss Jesus off.  I’m not.  Just think of me as Pre-American Idol Clay Aiken: confused and willing to ride the fence.

Back to the laundry.

Now that I sort nothing, and I MEAN nothing, the turnaround time on laundry is ridiculous.

Mike could undress at night and I’ll have his clothes back in his closet by morning.  No more waiting for enough white socks to make a load.  Which, by the way, is less than our entire stock of socks.  We end up going sockless a lot around here…

I’m going to have to start rotating underwear like stock boys rotate produce.  I wouldn’t want them to go bad.

And guess what, Mom.  Everything comes clean.

Please ignore the one white shirt that is now a denim-y hue.

Whole lotta nothin’

Children

Every time I think, I’m gonna post every OTHER day,a ton of stuff happens that makes me have a completely disjointed and rambling entry to this blog.

Here goes a whole lot of mess…

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The last few days, Kristin has been begging for two things.  The first: that I make “salty chicken” – aka Chicken Adobo – for supper (of course, she didn’t touch it once I made it).  The second: short hair.

The girls seem to have a weird understanding, albeit an annoyance, that no one knows who they are.  Or I should say: which one they are.

At first, Emma had long hair and the others had short.

Then, they all had long hair but Kristin got her ears pierced.

I sent two girls over to the neighbor’s house a couple days ago and another neighbor referred to one of them as Kristin.  I nonchalantly corrected her – Emma – and she protested: But she has her EARS pierced!

Emma had insisted just the week before that she get her ears done, so we took her to Coralville when we visited Mike and Al on RAGBRAI.

The neighbor chucked her water bottle and guffawed at the injustice until she realized that she now knew that the third would always be Alison.  (Alison confirmed that she was never, EVER going to get her ears pierced… or at least until she was an adult or “tall like Mommy.”)  Crisis averted.

But Kristin has always seemed more conscientious about being different from her sisters, even if she’s never talked about it.

Mike and I have decided she takes after me.  Mike thinks so because she’s neurotic.  I think so because she’s a genius.

So when I told Alison we should grow her bangs out, Kristin piped in: And I can cut my hair short!

I can feel my mother cringing as I type this.

Yes, we cut her hair tonight.  So now we have chin-length-haired Kristin.  She looks flippin’ adorable.  We had to try on her fedora to make sure it looked just right, and as I was staring at her and smiling at how much her hair makes her look like a wise old soul, I glanced over at Alison.

She had her mouth agape as she thoroughly scratched her stuffed Pigeon’s armpit with a Mr. Potato Head arm.

(That one’s yours, Mike.)

---

Yesterday was Tax Free Weekend here in Iowa Land.

I’m not sure why, but my neighbor and I decided to trek around town with our four children.  I returned a pair of $115 jeans that Mike bought me while on a Chef’s-coat-esque shopping spree and spent the money on a bunch of clearance and sale kids’ clothes, books, and three animal-shaped lunch packs (thanks, China!)

It was fun and absolutely my style of shopping.  In.  Out.  In. Out.  In… wait, a minute….

But to get to the high point of the day, we need to rewind.

We started out by taking the kids to McDonald’s.  I confessed – while sitting in PlayLand – that it was only the second time I’ve taken the kids to the play area.  I’m no germaphobe, but I consider McD’s PlayLand to be the eighth circle of hell.

From time to time, we did the obligatory head count.  One.  Two.  Green shorts must be her son.  Pink flower must be Emma.  Four.

We chatted about the time I took the kids to a birthday party at The Playstation which is a four-story labyrinth of tubes and dark corners.  I ended up losing my child – pretty sure it was Emma – when she got lost and hunkered down into a corner.  Even the employees couldn’t find her.

It was just about then that a very large man quietly made his way across the McDonald’s PlayLand to interrupt our conversation: Excuse me, but is SHE one of YOURS? and pointed to the tubes across from us.

As I looked up, I heard the muffled wailing.

Emma had her palms face-out on a huge plastic window, and her face was completely pink and sobbing hysterically.

It took about three minutes to talk her down the fifteen feet from the exit.  Go to the window, Emma, honey, listen to me… see that window right here?  Go to that.  I’ll help you down.  Okay, now go to the next window right here…  Hi!  Okay, stop crying, you’ll be fine if you calm down and go through the purple slide.

The purple slide only amplified her wailing like a giant megaphone as all the parents watched the horrific scene unfold.

I picked the sobbing child off the end of the slide and waited for applause like I’d just freed an infant from a well.  (It never came, damnit.)

My neighbor said, I think that’s probably a good point for us to leave.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

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When it comes to gardens, the only thing worse than a plague of locusts is a hoard of 6-year-olds.

I went out tonight to pick green beans so the kids would have something to ignore on their plates along with the “salty chicken” they so desperately asked for, and I couldn’t find a single one.

The girls have been picking me clean.  Beans and peas.  I have to DIG to find any longer than an inch.  At least now I’ve got them leaving the babies alone because they WERE eating those, too.

The tomatoes are in full swing, but they’re falling off the bushes before I even get to them.

I told Mike tonight, Next year, I’m not planting any weird crap.  None of that eggplant, no swiss chard, WAAAY less cayenne pepper.  We’re doing beans and more beans and peas and corn and tomatoes and only the stuff the kids are eating on me.

Even the green peppers haven’t been sacred.  Alison picks them as soon as they’re as big as a golf ball.  And because I refuse to waste them, I de-seed them and chop the little tiny peppers up in stirfry.

While watching Rio for the eleventh time in the last 24 hours, I set a plate out with the handful of peas I did find – not enough for a meal – and she maliciously ripped the tips off and crunched them until they were gone.

And before you think I’m some kind of health nut, she chased them down with a handful of Mike’s Sterzings chips.  (If you’ve never had Sterzings, think potato chips, remove the flavor and dip them in vegetable oil.  They’re absolutely revolting and vomit-worthy delicious, I’m sure.  If you don’t mind the grease enema.

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I’m finishing up a few things this week.

For one, the girls’ bedspread.  It was a cheap Bed in a Bag from Target, and the threads finally gave out.  The girls would make their bed every day, and the gaping hole grew larger and larger until it had torn a third of the length of the blanket.

I laid it out on the livingroom floor, tamping it flat and making sure the stuffing was correct before cutting 18” off the entire length.  (The girls sleep sideways on a queen-sized mattress, so the blanket now fits perfectly at the shortened length.)

I had to go search for pins, but after those were found, it went smoothly and surprisingly quickly.

I held up the finished product with a big smile on my face.  I was so happy I’d bitten the bullet and fixed it but ohWAITwhatisTHIS?!?  It seemed as though, when I’d left the room, Alison has shoved what appeared to be a Cootie leg in between the layers of fabric, and it was now a permanent fixture inside the bedspread.

After collecting a confession, I excused the girls to a safe spot, far, far away from me while I contemplated how large of a hole was necessary for the extraction.

I decided I didn’t care enough for a pretty fix, so I chopped off a corner, fetched what turned out to be a Mr. Potato Head arm (later used for an armpit scratcher, mentioned above) and sewed the corner inward.

But BOY does that bedspread look nice, now…

The way things are

I've been so distracted that, this morning, when I got out of the shower, I reached for my towel and instead grabbed about ten squares of toilet paper and wiped my face.

So distracted that I found myself sitting on the end of my bed yesterday, contemplating for ten minutes why my mother buys me dress socks on every holiday, and why it took me so long to figure out she’s sending me a message to wear less athletic socks.

But they’re so comfortable!

I’ve also let the days blow past me without realizing I haven’t posted anything to my blog.

While I don’t need to go into details, it’s been a not-so-fantastic week on the marriage front, and I guess it sucked all the fun out of my soul. I only had enough joking to fulfill my Facebook status quota.  Har. Har.

(In case you’re wondering: yes, I love my husband.  As with any marriage – as far as I can tell – that can be great and at times unfortunate.  We’re going on eight years of marriage this month and thirteen years together next January.  Let’s hope we can last a few more without bringing in the rat poison.)

Like I’ve always said, this blog is therapy.  And I think people have noticed that I haven’t blogged was having a crappy week because I got no less than four messages on my phone, a status (thanks B!) asking if everything was okay, and my neighbors mowed my lawn twice for me since Monday.

Anyway, I’m back on the horse today.  I’ve been at this since 2006… why quit now?

(Don’t answer that.)

I peered into Project Land to see where I left off and decided that all those projects suck the big donkey bologna.

Instead of working on any of THAT mess, I pulled out Mike’s RAGBRAI shirt squares that I started last year and laid them out on the floor to figure out how many more I needed to make a quilt.  Eighteen.  I’m excited.  Then Mike dug out a few more RAGBRAI shirts from storage and it makes – you guessed it – exactly eighteen more squares.

This quilt – a future Father’sDay / Christmas / Hanukkah / NearestHolidayWhenIt’sFinished present – has both of us excited.  Or at least he pretends to be, and that’s fine with me, too.  He’s such a good sport.

In honor of his good sportsmanlike conduct, I’m making a lovely meal for him when he gets home, just in time so I can bolt out the door, leaving Mike to vacuum out his new-ish truck while I hang out with the neighbor girls and drink wine and whine.

You know I’m feeling better if I’m scheduling time to piss and moan…