Terms of Endearment ?

You folks are in for a treat! I now have in my possession the 3rd edition of Blogging For Dummies. Go ahead, laugh if you must, but there is much more to this web logging venture than melodically tip-tapping away on a keyboard. For instance; I'm supposed to "understand my audience." Well, if you are reading this now; you are either related to me, in my email address book, a facebook junkie or a hapless stranger who likes to roam the web & read nonsense. Come to think of it, not understanding/knowing my audience makes creating this page more enjoyable for me. I would probably be less candid & conversational if I knew who was reading. Its a sort of thrill composing to a dark room...like an actor or a musician on a well-lit stage who can't see the eyeballs of the people watching them. The dummy book also managed to burst my blog bubble. Chapter One:

"With millions of blogs in the world...it's obvious that blogging is a popular and successful format for publishing a Web site. But just what are people doing with blogs? They can't all be talking about their cats!"

Gasp! They're on to me!

Let's get down to business. There's been something on my mind (that's a good sign, right?). A few months back there was a man traveling on the ferry boat that I work on. His image is burned onto my brain (hopefully temporarily). He was slightly shorter than the average male, had a receding hairline & sported a 70's a-la-Burt-Reynolds mustache. He was chewing gum & wearing a bright yellow t-shirt that read: "La Te F@#*ing Da." He wanted to purchase a beer with the breakfast buffet at 8am. What a charmer. Later in the afternoon I had the pleasure of interacting with this man while serving him Budweisers. He looked at me with a crooked smile, chewing his cud, and asked me: 

"Are you a bad girl?" 

Now, I was not about to entertain this nutbar by answering his question, so I rolled my eyes and handed him his change. Unfortunately, he continued speaking:

"Oh no! You're not a good girl that goes after bad boys? The kind of boys that work in construction & ride motorcycles? I'm a Private Investigator. I see it ALL of the time."  

Huh?! Seriously, is it THAT obvious?! Do I have it tattooed on my forehead? Wait a second...he said he's a Private Investigator...has this wacko been following me?!? He must have noticed that his last comment poked me in the ribs because he ended the conversation by saying:

"Ah-ha! Pegged ya', didn't I?" 

Pegged? Surely not. But the dialogue that day sounded a little alarm inside of my head: A complete stranger blatantly suggested that dating a construction worker is a bad idea. I must have skipped that page in the Dating Handbook. Perhaps because it screams of stereotyping; a practice that I attempt to avoid (yet am guilty of nonetheless). Stereotypes aside, I began to wonder: Did I miss some of the warning signs along this winding road of courtship? Why yes, yes I did. There have been some red flags. Maybe even a few crossing guards standing in the middle of the road wearing reflective safety vests and holding 8-foot stop signs. This ponderance prompted me to make mental notes on the blinking red "bad ideas" I failed to notice in the past. I've decided to document a handful of them now...as entertainment for my nondescript audience of course. Below are a few signs that you & I should NOT be dating:

If you live in your mother's basement. And you're 35. 

If I find another woman's wallet on your nightstand.

If, while sitting in a parked car, you tell me that you Love me...and I immediately open up the driver's door and throw up all over the pavement of the parking lot. (For the record, I was really drunk).

If your favorite movie is The Adventures of Pricilla, Queen of the Desert.

If you incessantly critique my driving skills (or lack there of) from the passenger's seat. And you refuse obtain a driver's license. 

If, in a futile attempt to prevent you from acting like an even bigger jackass than you already are, I take your shots of whiskey sitting on the bar before you notice them.

If I get chastised for buying you Natural Light instead of Natural Ice.

If you insist upon drinking your nasty beer (see above) warm because you can guzzle it faster.

If you can't come to grips with your financial status. It doesn't matter if you're a pauper or a billionaire. We all have bills to pay. If you're in such distress about it, go buy a lotto ticket & say a prayer to Ed McMahon.

If, on multiple occasions, you tell me that on my 35th Birthday I'm going to wake up and want to have a baby. My uterus is not a ticking time bomb. And the fact that you think you can predict the future of my reproductivity is slightly unsettling.  

  

If you read Wayne Dyer while taking a shit.

If making simple plans, i.e. going to see a movie or coming over to chow down on a pot of homemade chili, is too much commitment for you.

If you avoid meeting my family. So what if we've only been together for a few months? I don't expect you to ask my dad for my hand in marriage or have coffee talk with my mom every morning. But I DO expect you to be the least bit interested in where I came from...just as I am of you.

If you whisper sweet nothings to me such as: You can come over to watch a movie but no sleepovers. Or - You're my Volkswagen, low maintenance & reliable.

If, during every third conversation between us, you make mention of your ex-wife. And is that your wedding picture that just appeared hanging above the stairwell in your house? For real?! Get over her. Or get back with her.

And lastly...

If you don't have the balls to end things in person when you're done with me.  Unless you're climbing Mt Everest and at 29,000ft you sever a limb. In such an instance I MIGHT accept a Nepali Sherpa on my doorstep with a note scrawled in blood.

Blogging for Dummies also informed me that: "Frequency of blog posts is a big deal." Hmm...define "frequency?" Apparently many-a-blogger in the sphere type a post at least three times per week to keep readers tuned in. I promise you, there will be no such frequency here. My goal is to write two times/month. So La Te F@#*ing Da. I hope that after reading some of the above dating missteps a few of you will be in touch with examples of the warning signs you missed...or ignored. Maybe that way I'll gain a clue as to what may be lurking around the next bend.

"You can never make the same mistake twice...because the second time you make it, its not a mistake, its a choice."

Richie

I love hearing my mother tell stories about some of the experiences she had when she "was my age." Over the years, comparing her past to my present, has become a silly game that I play while daydreaming. It goes something like this: When my mom was my age, she - watched the Beatles perform at Shea Stadium. When my mom was my age, she - babysat Van Morrison's kids. When my mom was my age, she - met my dad while walking her dog. Today, however, as my 30th birthday looms on the next calender page, the novelty of the game has worn off. When my mom was my age, she - changed my diapers ???  Well, THAT doesn't sound like very much fun. But thanks for having me Mom.   She turned 60 a few weeks ago. On the morning of her birthday we took a two-hour boat tour off the coast of northeastern Florida and watched wild horses graze on the beaches of Cumberland Island. I should probably be a truly stellar daughter and type something special about our recent trip together...but instead, I am going to re-type (a 2nd edition if you will) something I wrote a few years ago. Its the story of an experience Mom & I shared with a musician. Now come, and step into a storytelling-time-warp with me...

Newmarket, NH

June 2008

I met Richie Havens a week ago. 

For those of you unfamiliar with his music; think of the opening act from Woodstock 69' ("Freedom! Freedom!). Last week's show meant a lot to me because I was raised on Havens' music, along with the songs of many other folkies from his generation. The first live show I vaguely remember seeing was Arlo Guthrie. I was 4-ish and sat on my mom's lap.

My mother is somewhat of a reformed Hippie. She was one of the 500,000+ attendees of the epic festival in 69'. Today it takes her a few cocktails to cough up Woodstock stories at dinner parties with my friends (but I'm certain she revels in the nostalgia). When I was a kid she would rent the documentary made of the spectacle and scrutinize the TV screen searching for herself. I've tried to make her confess to the drug induced naked mud frolicking, but she consistently denies such behavior. 

As a child I would sometimes snoop through Mom's old keepsake boxes. In one of them, I found a red, grease spotted dinner napkin autographed by Richie Havens. She would tell me about all of the times she'd "almost" met the musician throughout the years. Eventually, a friend of hers bumped into Havens on a NYC sidewalk and had the napkin autographed to her.

When I moved into the New Hampshire apartment a month ago, I discovered the Stone Church, a funky nonprofit coffee-house-sized venue literally steps away from my place. While scrolling through their schedule of summer shows online, not only did I see a list of local performers, but I was surprised to find many well known artists too, including: Richie Havens. Naturally, I called my mum and purchased tickets.

The show was euphoric...one to keep on tap in the memory lobe(s) of my brain. It was mesmerizing to witness Havens play guitar with hands the size of a basketball player's. He was a captivating storyteller and it was surreal to see him perform in such an intimate setting. Because of its microscopic square footage, one of the supreme benefits of seeing a performance at the Stone Church is the opportunity to meet the artists after the show. Mom brought along one of Havens' LPs just in case the occasion for a signature should arise. After patiently waiting for over thirty years, my mother finally met Richie Havens! She whispered in his ear that she saw him at Woodstock and he chuckled. She told him that she brought her daughter this time. I shook his HUGE hand and got an autograph too. I assumed he would scribble on my concert poster and promptly move on to the next fan. I was a tad starstruck when he initiated a conversation. What does one say to a legendary musician? I said: 

"I'm here with my mom."   

Photo by: Mom's best friend, MaryLou Smith, aka Mom#2

Playing Goalie

I recently found inspiration from a gentleman named Randy Pausch. Maybe some of you have heard of him. He was a Computer Science professor at Carnegie Mellon University whose life was cut short due to pancreatic cancer. (Don't worry, this post isn't loaded with melancholy undertones. It's upbeat...keep reading). When doctors informed Mr Pausch that he only had a few months to live, he wrote & delivered a speech entitled: "The Last Lecture - Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams." I've posted the YouTube link to the lecture, but don't click on it now (it's over an hour long). Someone recommended I listen to it for it's powerful & positive message. And now that's why I'm recommending it to you.

Randy Pausch's Last Lecture - Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams

The lecture made me acknowledge some of the goals I've been harboring, which in turn, led me to construct yet another to-do-list. I prefer not to call it a "bucket list." It seems to me that bucket lists are created when we are older; when we look back upon our lives ponderously and think of all of the things we wanted to do, but didn't. I'm trying to be preemptive with my list of goals by establishing them before I reach the last inning of the game. So let's get on with it...(in no particular order)...

Set foot on all 7 continents. 

Travel to / work / volunteer on a coffee plantation (preferably in a far away land, i.e. Columbia, Sumatra etc).

Learn how to blow glass.

Eat (mostly) all raw & organic foods.  

Be independent from the medical & pharmaceutical world.

Participate in a distance bike ride, such as the SMART Ride (Miami to Key West).

Get a dog.

Get a toned physique. Aka: More muscles, less jiggle.

Get a full sleeve of tattoos (sorry Mom & Dad).

Always be able to support myself: Physically, emotionally & financially.

See a blue whale (the largest mammal on the face of the planet!!!). Chile's Tantauco Park might be the place.

Ensure that all of the above goals are achieved, and continuing (numbers 4, 5, & 10), by age 50.

And there you have it. Adding to this list is allowed but no deleting!

...'My Left Foot'...Continued

Just a head's up, if you didn't read the last entry...this one may not make a whole lot of sense to you. Cutting to the chase ( & in referendum to the previous post) this is what I have learned thus far:

Remedies: When one starts to suffer from an obscure ailment (i.e. Drug Induced Lupus), it is sometimes humorous what one does in an attempt to feel better. For example, 'Icy Hot.' Its available in all sorts of consistencies; a lotion, a patch, a vapor gel (isn't that an oxymoron?). I went for the balm. I rubbed 'Icy Hot' balm on every joint - shoulders to ankles. It felt a little warm at first and I thought, "This is bull shit!" Within ten minutes I was convulsively spasmodic with chills. Henceforth, the 'Icy Hot' went into the trash can. Then there was the electrocution. Upon a Neurologist's urging, I underwent an Electromyogram (EMG) test. My legs were hooked up to electrodes and pulsated with little waves of electrical current. It wasn't as bad as it sounds and as a result the doctor was able to see actual damage to both the outer & inner parts of the nerves in my two feet. And lest I forget to mention the current pain reliever of choice: Paraffin wax. A friend let me borrow her "ParaSpa Plus," a small plastic tub that plugs into the wall & heats up. It can be used as a spa treatment or as a soother for sore joints. Who hasn't dripped wax on themselves or stuck their finger in a mushy burning candle? I know you have. It feels good.

Doctors: Suddenly I'm that person....who's contact list under "D" is dominated by "Dr." The kind of person that can start of a sentence by saying, "My Neurologist said..." The days of yore consisted of visiting a clinic when I had a cold that I couldn't kick. Now I travel to see specialists & the local lab technician called me a "frequent-flyer." I've entered a whole new world that is made up of abbreviated conversations, clear apothecary jars and waiting rooms with uncomfortable chairs & outdated 'People' magazines. By the way, when a doctor's office says; "We'll have your records faxed to Dr.So&So for your upcoming appointment" they are telling a bold-faced lie. And when you limp out of the examination room with bags under your eyes that sink halfway down your cheeks from sleep deprivation, only to whip out your checkbook while the receptionist says: "Have a nice day!" You should vehemently respond by saying: "Really?!" Also, sometimes doctors ask incredibly incendiary questions, such as: "Are you still taking the Minocycline?" I suppose if I was dumb enough to take it for ten years, I could be dumb enough to still be taking it.

Prescriptions: If I were presently ingesting all of the prescriptions that were given and/or suggested to me by doctors; I would be a poster child for the pharmaceutical industry. I'd also more than likely have dribbles of drool dropping from my chin & be falling asleep in public restrooms. In reference to some of those drunken moments of denouncing society, i.e. when you pound your fist down on a table and proclaim things like: "Its a pill for every ill!" Or, "Doctors & pharmaceutical reps are in bed together!" They are true.

While on the subject of the 'ole Rx, there are a couple of instances from the past two months that stick out like a sore thumb. One occurred at work. I stepped outside of the office to chat with a doctor on the phone. After reviewing some blood work, he concluded that he did not have a diagnosis for me and it was suggested that I try Cymbalta. My immediate response was: "Why should I take something if you can't tell me what's wrong with me?" He told me that Cymbalta was generally prescribed for an assortment of aches & pains - most people benefit from it. He attempted to ease my hesitations by saying that I'd probably seen the commercials for the drug on TV....(Not everyone watches TV. And how is mass marketing supposed to LESSEN my concern?). Upon re-entering the office, I did a web search and discovered that Cymbalta is "generally" prescribed for people with depression & anxiety disorders. I then proceeded to have an unbecoming breakdown in front of my coworker. I held my head in my hands and mumbled something along the lines of: "These doctors think I'm crazy!" She very politely conceded that I'm not crazy. She may not be 100% accurate with that assessment, but I will take my small sliver of sanity and run. The Cymbalta outcome? Denied. Thanks anyway.

 And lastly, Perspective: In order to get an accurate perspective on my current state, all I simply have to do is look around. While the core of my nerves may not be accessible, the rabbit ears to my mental state are.  - The Norway tragedy - Across an ocean & countries apart, I catch a glimpse of the anguish on a survivor's face in a photograph and realize that there are tiers of pain that I will never, ever be able to fathom.  Or, I can gain perspective closer to home. In the Neurologist's office. Where I sit, an active young woman, getting my toes pricked by a needle, while I listen to the doctor tell me she thinks I'm getting better....that soon it should all go away. I think of the girl that might enter her office after me. Maybe she's younger. Maybe her nerves won't allow her to walk at all. What would the doctor say to her? You might find this sense of relativity slightly off kilter, perhaps a little morbid. The "what if" approach to life often causes people to lose sight of the present moment...but sometimes it helps keep one foot on the ground too...so we don't float away alone in a hot air balloon with nothing but our own sympathy for company.

I can take one tingly step forward at a time, allowing the occasional electrocution and a few scatterbrained doctors to assist me along the way ("Assist?" Perhaps not. But at least they can provide me with a source of entertainment while I gather my bearings). Now please excuse me while I pick the paraffin wax out from between my toes.

'My Left Foot'

Since the title of this post is My Left Foot, a Daniel Day Lewis flick from 1989, I feel it fitting to give the film a brief plug. The movie & I have a history. As an assignment for a Sociology course I took in college we had to choose a film about disability & write a discussion essay to follow. My mother recommended My Left Foot so that was my pick. Based on a true story, Daniel Day Lewis plays Christy Brown, a man born with Cerebral Palsy. His left foot is his only controllable limb. Need I say more. Its a great movie...with the inspiring premise of overcoming adversities. Plus it stars Daniel Day Lewis. He's the kind of actor that appears in a movie & people pay attention. He doesn't mess around. C'mon, Last of the Mohicans?! There Will Be Blood ("I drink your milkshake!"). Now that I think of it, I should update my "queue."

So, how is it that I digress? In the opening paragraph? Here we go...I'm going to talk about my health issue. I don't particularly want to at the moment but writing is proving to be somewhat of a therapy, so I'll click on "Publish Post"  & when all is said & done: We'll call it a session. I can't feel my left foot. Nor the toes on my right foot. The cats give the tootisies a good tickle every now & again...and I get nothin'. Not even a trace of one fur follicle.

Yes, I will find a way to insert the felines into EVERY entry. Don't dare me.

Numb extremities isn't where it all begins (but hopefully it's where it ends!). Six months ago I found myself sleeping on a cheap-o air mattress on my kitchen floor when I had company. I kept waking up with a stiff neck. Understandable. Excusable. Then, after the company left, when I was back in my own delightful & heavenly bed...the real trouble began. I couldn't rollover without being in pain. Do you remember when you were a child & you would play that game at birthday parties where you would relay a raw egg on top of a teaspoon? That's what I felt like sliding out of bed in the morning. Stiff as a board & fragile. Evaluating every physical movement before it was made. I couldn't lift my arms above my shoulders. I had to run my fingers under scalding water in order to semi-straighten them. Taking a shower & getting dressed are two of the most painstaking processes I've ever experienced. I started half-jokingly/half-seriously making comments about having Rheumatoid Arthritis. I started to get scared.

It took me awhile to visit a doctor, but once I did, my Rheumatoid Arthritis theory was quickly negated.  I was given anti-inflammatory pills to take & sent on my merry way while the doc put a red question mark on my file & used it as a coaster. The joint pain is currently subdued due to the afore mentioned pills. I can put on a shirt without having to prop my elbows up on the dresser & precariously weave my head through the neck hole. I can open water bottles by myself. Turn the page however, & the next chapter begins by my feet going numb one at a time. It happened quite quickly. As I went to bed one evening my right toes were tingly...pins&needles like. During the night the nerve elves must of paid a visit because when I woke up my foot was numb entirely . Repeat process a week later with left foot. Walking around with two senseless feet isn't so bad. You just kind of feel like a tharumping (the beauty of writing a blog is getting to make words up) elephant with every step you take. After almost getting used to the fact that my feet were inexplicably dumb-struck...I felt the first lightening bolt of nerve pain shoot through a foot. Unless you've experienced it yourself; there isn't a way to accurately describe nerve pain. On a recent medical questionnaire (those horrid forms you have to fill out in doctor's waiting rooms....how is circling Y or N next to "Drymouth" really going to help you treat me?)...I was asked to circle a number 1 through 10 to define my level of pain. Screw it I thought, & circled the number 10. It was time to take a stand (figuratively) & stop being conservative. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, I'm not a 10. But in my world, its at least a 9 since I don't have much to compare it to. When the doctor asked me what the pain felt like: Imagine placing the balls of your feet in between vice grips and cranking down on the handle at random while someone simultaneously rips your toes off one by one.

Currently, my debatable diagnosis is Drug Induced Lupus (DIL). For the record: The frustration of NOT knowing exactly what's wrong with you, is worse than having an actual diagnosis. I think. Trust me, if my walls were padded I'd be banging my head against them right now. To offer a bit of an explanation to the confused: Drug Induced Lupus is not as severe and incapacitating as the real kind of Lupus, Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (SLE), a chronic autoimmune disorder. However, the symptoms of DIL often mimic those of the real Lupus. Now, to address this "Drug Induced" bit - no, I don't have track marks on the inside of my arms - & no I don't have a crack dealer. As of late, there is a list of approximately 40 medications on the market that cause DIL as a reaction. On that list is Minocycline, which is an antibiotic prescribed for, of all things: A pretty face. Mild acne. Dermatologist recommended. Foolishly, it took me ten years to type "Minocycline" into Google...and when I finally did...the results are jaw dropping & disturbing. The drug has wreaked horrendous havoc on people's lives. The good news: Once the offending agent (Minocycline) is removed, the symptoms of DIL should slowly disappear.

To be continued...

And by "To be continued..." I mean I'll be posting within a day or two what was originally the second half of this entry. It's already written. It dawned on me that the loquacious length of my ramblings/life's problems might actually deter people from reading them. God forbid. So consider yourself spared for the time being.

The Crying Game

June was the pits. Yep. Worst month on record. So, what have I decided to do? Start a blog of course! "Blog" is in the dictionary now. Everybody's doing it. Therefore; I must create my own online journal of self loathing for the world to see. How does it go? Something like: Other people's dysfunctions make us feel better about ourselves? Well, maybe some of what I put on here will accomplish that. Plus writing makes me happy. And happy is in short supply these days. 

The first task at hand when constructing a blog apparently; is to name it. How are you supposed to title something that you haven't written yet? I don't know about you, but I always had to write the essay first, then come up with the clever title. So I had to wing it on here. "Confessions Of A Crazy Cat Lady" seemed too long. Then I found myself looking up the word "crazy" in a thesaurus which is where "Bats In The Belfry" appeared. Its got a nice ring to it. Sounds easy to remember.

I've been crying a lot lately (okay, maybe everyday...multiple times). It makes me feel less submissive, less like hiding, if I admit it. I've been pretty good over the phone & in public. My voice cracks sometimes, and tears well up in my eyes beneath my sunglasses, but I'm usually able to stop it before it becomes perceptible. At home, alone, in my apartment however, its a whole different ball game. My apartment feels like a prison (though Al Capone would like it here, its very bright & sunny with high ceilings & decent square footage). My last waterfall session occurred just a couple of hours ago, when I ended up punching a throw pillow & clutching a quilt mumbling: "Wh-wh-whyyy can't I st-st-stop crrrying...I j-j-just want it to st-st-stop!!!" Now I'm just getting pissed that I can't control the affliction. One day, ONE tearless day is all I ask for right now! 

I've learned a couple of lessons from the crying game though. First of all: It IS possible for cats to roll their eyes. I witness it on a regular basis..."Oh gawd. Here she goes again..." is what they must think in their little pea brains as they perch on the love seat across from me, rolling their eyes & twitching their whiskers. Either that, or they spring on top of me & sniff my face getting their fur stuck to my salty cheeks & inside my nostrils. Phhlet...yuck. Another lesson I've learned: Tissues with aloe injected into them make a HUGE difference. Trust me, 'Scott' toilet tissue is my brand of choice (1,000 sheets per roll!) & it is not 'Charmin' soft. The t.p. is harsh on the under-eye area & causes a lot of dryness. Its a nightmare. Oh yes, & the waterproof 'Lancome' mascara I recently purchased: Two thumbs up! So far its only rubbed off on the quilt.

I've plugged two brands of toilet paper & a cosmetics empire. Maybe I can get sponsors on here?

So. Why all of this crying??? Well, I assure you it is justified. At 29yrs of age I'm suddenly facing some serious health problems...which is a discussion reserved for a future blog entry...but don't worry, I'm not dieing & I should get better. But, for the first time really, I'm experiencing debilitating physical pain. It causes a tear to drop from time to time. And it causes me to be scared & anxious about what's going on inside of my body. I am also sad because a guy broke up with me. The decoupling event only occurred a few days ago. Yay! A fresh host for tears! I am adamant with myself that the breakup tears are merely superficial; that they will subside after about a week, at which point...I'll pick myself up, brush myself off, think of all of the fond memories...smile&wave...while I pass him on a regular basis as he comes & goes from his office...located directly UNDERNEATH my apartment (yet another attribute to the apartment:prison cell analogy).

Alas, that's it??? Some unfortunate, hopefully temporary, health issues...& a boy...is causing all of this distress? Yes. Its really not that bad after all. The way I've been carrying on, one could suspect I had just suffered some incomprehensible tragedy. Fortunately, and frankly, that is not the case. As far as my health is concerned: If I dose myself with memories from some of my past travels to third world countries (& in this country!)...I consider myself blessed to have access to amenities such as insurance & basic health care. The hardest part about not feeling well is the emotion of self-pity that leeches on as well. With some reluctance I've come to realize that feeling sorry for oneself is an instinct (though I will always feel guilty for it). There's a threshold between having an informative conversation when discussing personal health problems, and whining.  Hopefully I'll keep from crossing into the latter category. And as far as the boy is concerned: Getting a little of something good was holding me back from getting all of what I deserve. At least that's what my family told me. And I believe it.

"Periods of good fortune naturally alternate with periods of adversity, just as sunny days are interspersed with rainy ones."  -Eric Weiner, NPR Corespondent/Author

It seems a little absurd & narcissistic "blogging" about such personal affairs. Its not for everyone. But one thing I can tell you is: If there's anything that can make pain & sadness subside...it's humility. 


ps: It takes at least three cats to classify as a crazy-cat-lady. I only have two. I may have just made that up. But I make the rules on here!