random universe

So there I was, having breakfast at Francis Xavier in Gresham with a group of professional women. In the entry they always have paintings by local artists. Today, there was a 6x6 foot painting of an old man's face. At first glance, I thought it might be Jerry Garcia only with all white hair, but looking closer I thought, hey! That looks like my old buddy Warren. I looked down at the title and it read: Warren Goines.

I didn't know what to say to my colleagues. It was a little too random for strangers, and really, how do you explain that the madman on the wall is an old acquaintence, really he is. They think I'm crazy enough as it is.

Rosi Oldenburg was the artist. I called her. If you want to see it, Francis Xavier is at the corner of 181st and Halsey in Portland/Gresham. I guess she's taking him to Ashland for the fourth of July if you want to see him there.

clamfest 09

Kurt and Sid walk down the beach in search of the elusive Razor Clam.

After a long day of clamming we went out to a crappy Italian dinner with bad service and small portions. A Taste of Tuscany is right. Then, out to see Sunshine Cleaning. I didn't figure Seaside for a large moviegoing community, but we actually had the entire theatre to ourselves. I could speak out loud and we danced through the credits to "Spirit in the Sky" by somebody from Portland, I forget who.

A walk around the promenade, the dead town, overbuilt for the money times, seemed to hold its breath in dread of a bleak summer season, hoodlums on streetcorners, waiting for opportunity instead of inspiration.

This is the morning rush of clammers.

fifth

Fabulous Sea Captain Art in our motel room.

We are in Seaside, catching clams and celebrating five years of marriage. Five years. I am so proud of us. We have beat the odds, sticking together through the learning curve and now, settling into a comfy groove. I'm sure there is much more to come. I was talking to the wife of one of my patients and when I told her of our anniversary, she said to her husband, "They don't even know what its about yet." And I'm sure she's right. She's been married 63 years. All I know is that I married the right guy after all those many years.

We are moving a bit slower this morning after an evening of harvesting 30 clams and cleaning them one by one. My knees feel like I imagine an eighty year old's feels. Sid is even injured by unlimited exercise. Unlike me, he doesn't know when to stop. Kurt says he has the heart of a hummingbird and will burn himself out early.

Later same morning: my hands are raw from digging barehanded in freezing surf, wind whipping my hoodie ties in my face. I skillfully captured my limit and headed up to the motel which overlooks the beach and the parking lot of mad clammers. They began arriving at 5:30 this morning. I know this because we were up, as usual. Guys in camo, which begs the question: who are they hiding from?

75 clams, 8:00 am

We have cleaned 75 freakin' clams between yesterday and today, and Kurt is cleaning ten more. We took more than our fair share. Everyone does. Does that make it right? No, but you can come over for clam chowder any time.

This evening, Saturday, we went down for more, but it was raining and nasty and there was a mentally ill guy following us around with a turquoise PVC clam gun, kicking over the plugs of sand pulled with great effort by me not by him. It was irritating because I am not at work and I believe I do my time with crazy people all week. Poor me.

So, we did laundry at the laundramat which was predictably reminiscent of days gone by at many other laundramats in Ruch and Central Point and Coosbay and Red Bluff and Jacksonville next to the Jubilee Club which always made for a confusing folding stage because by then I was usually hammered. And the machines used to cost a dime. But at least I finally washed my double-sized Coleman sleeping bag even if it did cost five bucks.

And, we took a drive down to Wheeler where I would happily live out my life staring out over the marshland.

hotline

Full sun all day at long, long last. We rode bikes up to Hawthorne to get coffee and a paper, then home to plant more stuff, a quick nap, and now, coasting into the afternoon. Ah, Sunday blessed Sunday. No wonder God wanted it all to himself.


Yesterday I was looking for my cell phone--not very hard because I hate my cell phone, but found that I feel pretty disconnected without it. I couldn't find it anywhere and when I called, it went straight to voice mail--a very bad sign. I was almost anxious while driving to asia's baby shower. I mean, what if something bad or unforseen happened and I needed help? I couldn't, for example, speak to another human being and request their assistance, right? I couldn't walk up to someone's front door and knock, unannounced, and say, "May I please use your phone? I seem to be in a jam." They would never let me in the house because I could be a stalker lunatic ax murderer child eater. I could be. However, I managed to get through the day without incident and decided several times that I don't need a cell phone, but by the time I left the shower (which was nice and the food was most excellent and I won baby gift bingo --who made that pizza?) I knew it would be ludicrous to live without one. Its like a car, once you have one, there's just no going back. I had to find my phone.

When I arrived at home, I was drawn to the back yard and my many as-yet-unplanted-plants, and there it was, not quite floating in about an inch of water in one of the starter boxes. I vaguely remembered tucking it in among the plants as I carried tray after tray from the car to the house the day before. Needless to say (and yet I say it) it was not only dead, but dissolving--the batterly leaking blue shit like fly guts, tiny metal parts decomposing in my hand. So that was that. I decided to truck on up to the AT&T store which is never closed and buy me a new red phone. My own hotline.

Now, you could find the search bar and type in "one good line" and find the story of how I acquired the present/previous phone. Its pretty funny. Anyway, I arrived at the store and there were probably ten unoccupied employees glomming onto me for my business.

Recall that I am very easy to sell things to. First of all, I like to spend money, have some to spare, and don't care all that much about anything. So, the guy didn't have to work nearly as hard as he did. Even so, it started out badly.

He says, "Oh, I see you're not an authorized user on this account."
"Yes I am," I countered.
"Actually you're not," he returned, smiling.
"...am too." I hate it when they say "actually" as though I am not living in reality. Pshaw.
Smiling still, indulging my obvious sense of entitlement which is rooted in years of history, he said, "You're just a user. The laws have changed. Now you have to be an authorized user. And you're not."

I'm just a user. Right.

"So call my husband," I suggested, ever so succinctly.
"He has to call 611 from his cell phone himself," he said.
"Well," I began, "Funny thing is, I don't seem to have a phone right now which is pretty much why I'm here so why don't you go ahead and call my fucking husband please. That way, He'll know he has to call 611 to authorize me. Otherwise, I'd have to drive out to Sauvie Island where he is salmon fishing, and that would delay this pending deal indefinitely. You do work on commission, right?"

I didn't really say fuck.

So, I bought a phone and an ear thing, which is called a blue tooth although I can't imagine why. It looks nothing like a tooth, but comes with its own little sticky pieces of wallpaper and I can customize it with leopard or splatted paint or six other slick little things that will roll up and fall in my ear when they get old. Why someone would need to customize something half an inch wide and an inch long, I don't know. I also don't know how to use one, and I'm sure if you know how, it makes talking on a cell phone while driving ever so much safer. But for me, the techno-impaired, its just one more fucking thing. But the phone has a HUGE display when you're dialing which was a quick sell for this blind woman. If I can see it, I'll take it. I don't care how tiny and sexy a cell phone is if I can't see shit.

Time for a motorcycle ride.

arrival

Sun is up early, which, in Portland, usually waits until noonish. Like lazy garage-sailors, they don't really get going until around ten. So an 8:00 showing is impressive, bodes well for the day. I will drop smoked salmon off for a potluck, off to a baby shower, then back to my garden for an evening at home and hopefully fresh salmon for dinner.

Husband tried to hang, to do the potluck-as-a-couple thing, but the call of the wild loon is strong in him, and he had to hit the beach one more time before fishing on the Columbia is over for this spring season. It will open again, later, but the run has been good for him -- 3 Chinook so far-- and he wants two more to equal his record in a spring season. I just want dinner.

frenzy

Spring is here. You can see it from out my front door. The orange runucculus is so beautiful. I'll try to get a picture of it loaded just for you. The camelia tree hangs heavy with flat pink blooms that will carpet the narrow sidewalk and be smashed into slick mush within a week. If I rake the petals daily, this won't happen, but you'll have to remember that maintenance never was my strong suit. Planting? Absolutely. I'm a great starter.

So far I've planted:
burgundy sunflowers
morning glory
nasturtium
yellow clover
aster
crystal palace lobelia
pansies
impatiens
a red shamrock-looking plant
creeping charlie
small cascading petunia
runnucculus
25 fuschia
bulbs
beans
lemon cucumber
yellow crookneck squash

...and my yard is tiny. I'm claiming eminent domain and taking over the sidewalk. No one will care, so long as a stroller and a wagon can pass in front of my house.

I am feeling better today. I have learned to value the days that I feel strong and healthy, and today was one.

The sun is streaming through the bay window, green and gold through the rhody, the sky beyond it bruised and brooding. Maybe it has rained for the last time.

posies for msb

I'm not much good at placing the photographs yet. I guess you'll have to just enjoy the pictures and try to follow the bouncing ball. Barb, these are for you.

There is nothing like the center of a poppy. When I was growing up, after my father died we lived with my Grandmother and my Uncle Alan. He was off by a few degrees and took great pleasure in his poppies. I was always fascinated by the circus-tent centers, knowing nothing of heroin at the time. Tissue blossoms of deep red, half of our front yard was knee deep in them. He'd stand out in the yard every evening, the hose spraying a fine mist, and he'd rock back and forth, back and forth, for an hour at a time. I admired his ability to be still.

When I found pink poppies, I was instantly charmed. I'm not usually a fan of pink, but this shade is perfect.

springtime in the northland

I couldn't wait. Sue me. Last week it was fuschia saturday at Freddy's and I got 24 fuschias for six pots. Then, I toured the beds around my unloved yard, determined to fill all of the empty spots for a riot of spring color. I bought
Runucculus
Trailing Lobelia
blue Columbine
Day lilies
yellow clover
two kinds of trailing purple stuff
geraniums
and there are still places for tons of stuff.

Sick or not, I planted. Last year I held my breath waiting for the Canby Master Gardner's Faire and ended up disappointed. Anything called a "Faire" is usually overrated. But they do have some fun stuff, and I'll go again, dragging my husband along for the heavy lifting, but I'm mostly looking for an Azalea for the front yard. I spent some time cutting back ferns in the rose beds. I think they do best with a good haircut just as the new fronds are unfurling their fuzzy little coils. I broke off two lilies I didnt' see. I need permanent markers for those guys, little sticks reminding me that something is being born again, just beneath the autumn detrius. They are so fragile.

Speaking of fragile... I am so fucking sick. I'm nearly through the zpack and still ill. Still very ill. Still as ill as I've been in months, and for those of you who follow this bouncing ball, I've been damn sick.

I tried visualizing wellness and abundance and all that, and I haven't abandoned the hope that positive thought has a role, but damn. I'm exhausted.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. We are staying home because I am sick. I don't get to see my son because I am sick. I miss Easter Baskets and hiding the eggs and always having one that never gets found until the heat of summer gives it away.

sunnyday

Like everyone else, I am happy to see the sun --happy to put my sunglasses on to drive, happy to press nasturtium seeds into the soil with my bare hands, happy to barbeque pork chops on the deck. It is Sunday, after all.

Sunday, which by rights, should be a lazy day at home. But I worked today. I was the manager of the day or MOD, a corporate decision that we should take turns hanging around on weekends to make sure everybody is in uniform instead of the weekend comefuckme clothes. So, I earned my keep. And now, my viable public, you have proof that I am capable of taking turns. And they said it couldn't be done.............. I am just happy to have a job. I've done worse things for money, you know.

But I do remember when the only control I had in my small life was not wearing the fucking uniform. It was all I could do about anything.

And my life is still small, but I live comfortably in it. Its all one uniform or another. I told them I'd love to wear a uniform just so I wouldn't have to shop for thousands of dollars worth of shit and still have nothing to wear.

Be careful what you ask for.

I've been connecting with folks on Facebook. I had to, and there are alot of people there, but the threads confuse me. I'm not sure where I am in it, or who can see it. I think I like email better, and blogging the best. There's none of that pesky back and forth. Just me blabbering away. What is the sound of one hand typing? I'm just not clever enough to keep up.

I've decided not to tell anyone I have a cold. I am into visualizing perfect health and may be just the teensiest bit nearsighted. I am dripping on the keyboards, coughing, running a fever of 101 and there it is: the negative. I live in perfect health I live in perfect health I live in perfect health.

lula

She follows me around, pushes my hair out of my face, certain I am the other half of her, the part she has lost, her memory. She clings and frets and tidies up the place -- our place now -- tsk tsk tsking over the mess. She doesn't know what all those other people are doing here.

Each morning it is like this, as this new little chick imprints on the first kind face of the day and follows it until sleep breaks the spell and everything is new again and she must find, once again, all she has lost.

I have a note behind my desk posted on the file cabinet. It says, "You can't have everything. Where would you put it?" Lula kept reading it, and finally, yesterday, she got it. She smiled and the words that came out were nonsense, but I could see it in her eyes. Kindred. And common ground appeared between us, fleeting and ethereal, disappearing as quickly as it had come. But in that single moment she knew who she was.

pompeii

Okay. So we're going to Alaska instead of Maine. It is, first and foremost, remarkable to me that I have this dilemma. Maine? Alaska? Alaska? Maine? Oh the luxury problems of my perfect life.

At any rate, we've settled on Alaska because I love Alaska and have never seen the southern part and my husband can kill something there. We could probably get a lobster in Maine, but in Alaska, ther are fish. Big Alaskan king salmon and halibut. I will also fish and send them home in great frozen crates to a freezer that I am emptying out as fast as I can.

So he books us for this cabin slash charter boat thing, four nights, three days of fishing and there it is. Done deal. Then... drumroll....

Our sweet little cabin is across Cook Inlet from Mt. Redoubt. We can sit on our porch and watch

A FUCKING VOLCANO ERUPT???
I DON'T THINK SO.

Now I'm as open minded as any neurotic, but don't you think its ever so slightly, just maybe a tiny bit, ABSURD to think: Oh, it probably won't blow while we're sitting in the boat in the shadow of the mountain. Chances are we'll get out alive. Here's the view from the porch>

I've voiced my concerns, and truth be told, the volcano is just kind of puffing away today. But I'm not as brave as I used to be.

Am I?

townies

I wish, and so should you, that I had a better memory. If I did, I'd remember to bring the camera with me when embarking on each new adventure. I've always used words to tell the tale, and I guess that's good, but I'd love to have been able to show you the steel grid canopy, the rusted pillars of the forest surrounding our new fishing spot beneath the Burnside Bridge.

Now, for the non-Portlanders, Burnside is known for derelicts and danger, the Mission district, Chinatown, places you don't go after dark unless you want some heroin, which I don't anymore so I don't go. Driving up Burnside in the early morning is a study in consequences. Later in the day, driving by on my way to one assesssment or another, it can look like freedom. Street people don't have much overhead, and when I'm buzzing by in my car payment and a five hundred dollar professional costume, it sometimes looks easier.

But I know better. I've lived on the roads.

Ah, digression.

The Eastside Esplanade is the brainchild of a former mayor, who took the east Willamette riverbank and turned it into a walkingbikingskating, and now, fishing, area that winds beneath the bridges, through homeless camps, up and over bridges and down the west bank through Waterfront Park. My husband has never fished it, but each time we go for a bike ride or a walk around the esplanade, he comments that he should try it. So he has for the past couple of weeks.

Turns out there is a sturgeon nursery under that water. Yesterday he caught four shakers (too young to keep, who shake the line, thus the name) and two adult fish, one too thin, one too short to keep. I guess pictures wouldn't matter so much here. You've seen one sturgeon, you've pretty much seen them all. See previous post.

I rode my bike five minutes down there, first ride of the season, and sat around for fish after fish. He threw away a skinny keeper, an act he is certain has changed his luck. I tried to tell him he makes his own luck by his words and thoughts, but he wasn't having it. He took me home, went back and stayed til dark in pennance for dissing the fishing gods.

It was a coldish day, standing under the bridge, industrial city-scape before us. I love Portland.

ides

This day always seems an appropriate nod to negativity or whatever it is I am once again or maybe for the first time attempting to outrun. I used to believe I was subject to the Hemingway curse, and now, even further, that my writing will lack substance if divorced from the beautiful beautiful darkness.

We'll see.

and better still

I feel like I am emerging from a dark cave. This morning, when a woman asked me how I've been, I looked at her wide native face and couldn't lie. "I've been sick for a really long time and I'm not talking about it anymore." Its a process, this getting well. I self-identify as a sick person these days. If I look back, which I am prone to do, I've been sick off and on forever. But that is the view through these eyes right now. I, like most adults who do not always make great health choices, have long periods of wellness punctuated by episodes of unwellness. But after a string of episodes, coupled with/caused by an untenable situation at home (read: stepmothering), it can look pretty dim in the rearveiw mirror.

Kari says: Birkram yoga.
Gwen says: Get sugar out of the mix
Lorretta says: the Secret
Sharon says: come with me to Mexico.

I'm willing to try anything at this point. Anything but Birkram yoga. But room temperature yoga? Yes. I'd love to give myself yoga.

We drove out to Newberg last evening. I tell my honey I like to drive out there because it reminds me of the early days of our time together, when each of us was a mystery to the other, but the truth for both of us is that we go to see brother Martin.. We go to see if he's still there, still at 84, because he knows God. Now, I think I'd be like him if I had 16 hours a day to spend contemplating the shape of the sun. Truth be told, I don't know if I could ever be that undistractable. I admire people who are able to shut it down and meditate, but I think also, sometimes, that they are into self-abuse. Denial and suffering isn't the path for me.

But neither is the treadmill of illness.

So, its kind of crunch time in my world. My home is quiet, but I still live here.

better

Alright. A bit lighter today. I finished the last of the poison I was forced to take or die, and as it clears my system, I am clearer and feel my feet on the ground. It would help that the sun is out if it wasn't so fucking cold. Will spring ever come?

Will it? I've always been willing to wait on the tiny green buds -- happy to see them, but still, willing to pass the winter with relative acceptance -- but this year, this year is different. It has been too cold, with too few false starts, too little warmth day in and day out and too much snow. With the blog, you could, if you cared, look back and see if I've bitched my way to the spring thaw, but I don't think I'm lying. I'd tell you if I were.

I have, as usual, enormous plans for my tiny yard. One, according to my honey, is further limiting the shit-space for Sid. He sees it that way. I see it otherwise: returning the front yard to its former shimmer. I can't stand dog-trodden grass, all piss-burnt and muddy. You get the picture. Ozarkian. So, I'm making a chickenwire fence to enclose the part that needs to heal, and sending the darling little dog to the middle of the yard, back behind the flower bed. That my husband would live in a mud hut as long as he could fish is one point of view. We live in a walking neighborhood and it matters. People look. 'nuff said. I will mend the yard. Sid will understand.

I am three days into seven days off. I had to take some time off to heal up: heal my heart and my head. I've always despised women who need to do self care, but here I am, caring for the self. So far it includes alot of sleeping, new vitamins and supplements, and quiet. I'd be off to the sanitarium were it not for liberal vacation policies.

downtown sturgeon

Life in Portland has its upside. Perhaps not for this dead fish, but for my happy husband, who gets to stroll a few blocks, drop a line in the water under the Burnside bridge and bring home a dinosaur for dinner. Life on the river...

I went online to learn how to skin and filet the monster, and assisted in the process of removing armour, strip by strip and taking the irridescent flesh to the sink. Eating things that feed off the bottom of the Willamette? A bit scary.

bart

This past week was a busy one at work. Not only did we lose Lulu--rare treasure-- but the cook walked out. The chef. So I had to make pancakes for one hundred people. One hundred twenty-five, including the staff. Also, we are having a Mardi Gras celebration on Fat Tuesday, and in our exuberance, decided we would make papier mache floats. Oh god.

My own very special design was to be the head of a joker. I always say yes to creative projects. Always. Yes is the answer. Do you know how to make papier mache? Sure I do. Do you know how to bartend? Sure. This is how I've gotten through life, one lie at a time. I did cover part of a balloon with newspaper and glue in the 5th grade to make a pinata, and I have poured beer from a keg, so where is the big fat friggin lie? Huh?

The trick is scale.

I said, in my wisdom and experience: "You just get some chicken wire and make a form. Its a snap." And I'm sure it is for someone with leather hands. So there we were, unrolling wire that much preferred to remain rolled. I needed fencing pliars and a cowboy in the worst way. I needed help. But I was the expert. I WAS the help.

I managed to created a sort of cylinder with the unweildy wire, about four feet high and three feet in diameter. I gathered one end of the cylinder together so it looked something like the bottom of a two liter plastic bottle, and formed a nose out of baloons and paper, a pointy chin out of cardboard and more paper. To create the jester hat of flopping points, I cut segments along the top edge. Over a three day period, I painstakingly covered the entire object with miles of newspaper strips and gallons of glue. I stood back and smiled:

I had created Bart Simpson.

I'll get a few pictures of him before he goes into the dumpster.

signs

There is a new sign, or a sign heretofore unnoticed by me, on Powell Blvd. at about 33rd. It says:

Restaurant

Husky

Maltese or Whatever

I had to drive around the block and make sure I'd read it right. I'm crazy for bad signs, and this, in my studied opinion, is among the top ten. Its a legitimate sign, backlit, acrylic, set high on a pole between other real signs in a small shopping complex. I wonder what kind of food they serve. Or if they serve food to dogs. I'll have to do some sleuthing to figure out this mystery. I don't think I want to eat there, but I'll try to get a look at the menu. Stay tuned.

Lost another one today. Lulu went to heaven. She was great -- from my neighborhood. Her "family home" was on Division, and is now one of the many trendy thai restaurants in the area. She told me that a streetcar used to run up and down Clinton Street back in the day, and she knew everyone in the neighborhood. She was a great lady, dignified, wealthy. This past year I had to print paper money for her because she thought she should have alot of it laying around. Thank god for the internet. You can download damn good money. Now I have a drawer full of it at work and nobody is interested. But Ernie is moving in next week. Maybe he needs some. Its one-sided, but Lulu never seemed to mind. They found Ernie sleeping in the laundry room and wandering in the parking lot, so sounds like his time has come. Heaven knows we have a vacancy.

the take

The last few weeks have been akin to carrying mud uphill in a bucket, but today is Valentine's day, and I am happy to be home, feet up, husband out shopping for flowers which are all I need. Flowers and a card. Did I say flowers? I meant white flowers. Nice white cut flowers, impermanent as snow. And the card: thoughtful but not mushy. My favorite Valentine so far showed a small dog sitting on a red pillow. Inside, it simply said, "Sit. Stay. Be mine." My husband is an uncomplicated man.

The clam trip did not go off as planned. Gwen, my sweet but unprepared friend, came along for the first lesson. She said it best: "If I am going to be standing in the ocean, I will probably get wet." I should have insisted she have waders. I love mine. Nothing like chest waders to give a false sense of security. There we were, wading out with the lessening tide, further and further still, in search of the elusive razor clam, when WHOOSH in comes a three foot wave. I'd call it a sneaker wave, but I don't think it was being sneaky. I think I just wasn't paying very close attention. I grabbed Gwen and we stood fast against the pull of the outgoing water, butt-high, and waited while her knee-hi boots filled with icy saltwater. Truth be told, we went out too early and the sea was rough. When it is like that, wave after wave pounding the sand, the clams pretty much stay down. We got a few nice ones, and I'm not sure what she did with hers, but we've had chiopino and fried clams. Chowder for Haley's birthday tomorrow.

I feel like I should make a blanket apology to the few who read this about my tone lately. I need a week off to remember that life is life and death is death. It is hard to take anything seriously when it is all so fucking serious. Sometimes I wish I worked at the coffee shop, complaining about customers and coworkers, blissfully unaware of gravity.

will and the living

February in the dementia unit and they drop like flies in August. Only not so fast. They live and live and live and live, hanging onto each breath like spoonfuls of honey. We say things like, "Here's your purse, you can go now." And, "Mike isn't coming from Alaska, you can go now." and we sing and strum harps and some who didn't know her very well will pray at her bedside and I can see her shushing them, sending them to holier beds. We mutter just beyond her hearing, whispering things like, "I hate to see her linger like this." But this lingering, this thinly tethered life, is all there is for her. It is the only thing. Lyla was born on Friday the 13th. One of her boys was born on her birthday, on Friday the 13th. Her sons expect she will die tomorrow. I think they've known this all along but didn't have the heart to tell me because they think I think I know what I'm doing. Lyla knows when to die. She'll go when she's good and ready.

On the other hand, Etta's children won't leave. She is two weeks dead and they are hanging around, retelling the story of her passing to anyone who will listen for the third fourth fifth time. It is as though Etta's ghost, and the ghost of her husband so recently passed, are still here. I saw them coming toward me this morning -- not the ghosts, the children-- arms flung in grief, tears still rolling, ready for a great big hug and the retelling of the retelling of how precious it all was... and it isn't that it wasn't precious, its just that for me, it wasn't. Little is.

"Its hard to leave, isn't it?" I asked. They stared at me as though I'd given voice to a secret. "When you go," I continued, "it will become real and you can get on with things." I wanted to say, "They're not here." That's what they needed. But I had said enough.

I'm tired. Survivor starts tonight. Time to lighten up a tiny little bit.