Day 04 – What you ate today, in great detail

or, How I Confirmed I'm Still Rebelling After All This Time.

I finally summoned the strength and courage to return to the Den of Iniquity kitchen. The blueberry jam sessions and subsequent jelly sessions went a long way toward boosting my confidence that I can, in fact, handle cooking while pregnant. At least this trimester. Then I also washed, par-boiled, and froze 20 bags of pink-eyed, purple-hull peas. And I want to make and can many pints of the base for butternut squash soup.

I clambered into bed Sunday night with a glimmer of a plan to make breakfast for Burgundy on her first day of school. Let me explain something to the world about having an independent, easy-going, joy-filled teenager. Sometimes, it's too easy. I have never, ever been the get-up-and-make-breakfast mom. Ever. And she has never complained. Just asked me to buy another box of cereal.

Monday morning the alarm went off at 5:30, and I clambered out of the bed, caught a quick shower, and made my way to the kitchen. I threw five strips of bacon into one of my skillets and two slices of bread into the decrepit little toaster I've had for at least a decade. While I waited for the bacon sizzle to start, I found a pancake recipe online and started mixing the batter.

Halfway through the batter, I flipped the bacon and set aside the last three eggs in the refrigerator to be fried and scrambled. I added the melted butter to the batter, beat it in with a fork, the thick sludge oozing around the fork while I smashed flour lumps against the side of the bowl until I had a nice, consistent goop.

I flipped the bacon again and gathered my salt and pepper. I folded a paper towel in half and scooped the bacon into it, setting it onto a plate on the opposite counter and hoping enough grease would drain to assuage my guilt. I cracked the first egg into the still-spattering bacon grease and quickly sprinkled a smidge of salt over the top. I ground a little pepper over that and let it fry while I washed out the eggshell and threw it into the oatmeal box I converted into a holder for eggshells (Mark likes to spread them in the garden).

I flipped the egg, grabbed another paper towel and folded it, then slipped the egg onto it and laid it next to the bacon to drain. I did the same for the second egg and breathed a little easier knowing I still had 30 minutes to clean the skillet of bacon grease, melt some butter, and scramble an egg for my vegetarian daughter's breakfast.

While the second egg fried on side one, I broke the third egg into a bowl, added salt and pepper, and I beat it frenetically. I hate half-beaten scrambled eggs. Gross. Flipped the second egg, whipped the pancake batter, set egg number 2 to drain with number 1 and the bacon, and poured the bacon grease into a dirty pot to cool for the trash. Used yet another paper towel to wipe out the skillet, threw in a dollop of butter, and after a final quick thrashing, poured in the final egg. It took about 32 seconds to cook.

After that I spent what felt like hours at the tedious task of pouring, flipping, and scooping out pancakes. By 6:15, we all were seated at the kitchen table for one of our few real breakfast meals ever as a family. I said a prayer, and we dove into our food with the reckless abandon of a family that eats out too often.

The pancakes lasted through Tuesday, and I made more bacon and eggs to go with them.

Please excuse the crappy, cell-phone
quality photo. I wanted to eat, not take
photos, so this was my compromise.

Oh, the quiche. I don't know how to tell you what a lovely, wonderful cook and writer is Julia Child. Her quiche "base" recipe is so perfectly simple and elegant; it cooks perfectly every single time I've ever made it. Tuesday evening I also undertook to make her pie crust for the first time. If it's possible, I didn't keep it cold enough. Next time I will freeze the butter, flour and shortening for a little while before I make it, and I'll use ice water instead of just the cold refrigerator water.  I had a hard time getting the dough rolled out to a consistent, thin thickness. Anyway, the quiche rose high and serene from the gorgeous pie crust, standing like a tower of princess eggs over her realm. We ate half for dinner Tuesday night, and I forbade Mark to touch it again before morning, when we shared the remainders for breakfast with bacon and toast liberally smeared with butter and homemade blueberry jelly.

Inspired by my incredibly repeatable success with her quiche recipe, I decided to try her recipe for fish poached in white wine and baked in a sauce mornay made with swiss cheese. I served it with bow-tie pasta served with very slightly wilted spinach all mixed up with the liberal amount of leftover sauce mornay from the fish.

Today I served breakfast for the fourth day in a row, bacon, eggs and toast - an English muffin each for me and Burgundy - and Burgundy tentatively remarked that she felt so much better at school for having eaten a good breakfast. Normally I will take a grateful, loving remark like that and turn it into a reason to beat myself up for the 14 years of breakfast opportunities lost. Not today, though. Today I will use it to say, "Well done, Mel. You're a good mom Right Now." Even though I employ random capitalization for emphasis, unnecessarily provoking the wrath of the Minor God of Anal Grammarians.

Tonight the main dish is spaghetti and meatballs so I can focus on doing something evil and delicious with the box of fresh brussels sprouts in my refrigerator. I'm pretty sure it will involve the last of the white wine from yesterday's adventure, some garlic, and a number of fresh herbs from Mark's garden. I feel such delight and joy to be back in the kitchen.

So you wonder what this has to do me being rebellious? It's this: I took one look at today's topic and thought, "What? Food. That's dumb. I don't want to write about what I ate. I want to write about what I've been doing in the kitchen." *headdesk*

Day 03 – Your parents, in great detail

Is anything ever just about one's parents? I could tell stories about my grandparents that would tell you more about my mother than anything I ever wrote about her. I'll take the bait though, and we'll see what I come up with.

Mama
I think no relationship is so complex, contradictory or bizarre as a girl's relationship to her mom.

Mom has brown hair, curly and short, and she suffers from terminal self-loathing. No matter where she is or how she's doing, she knows she could improve something. She could exercise more. Make the house prettier. Cook better. Look better. Be better. I think sometimes that keeps her from being just as awesome as she already is. At the same time, I understand through my own experience that it's the same drive that allows her to be brutally honest with herself, to take responsibility for her failings, and to be deeply connected to the people she loves.

Mom has brown eyes, I think. But now that I try to conjure her image in my mind, I can't see her eyes. Maybe they're kind of green? I know that they're striking and clear. She's dark-complected, almost olive-skinned, and I always envied her easy, crispy tans. I go from milk-white to lobster in half the time she turns native brown.

Mama loves me. She taught me to sew, to crochet, and to write. I remember picking vegetables with her as a very little girl. Okra, purple-hull peas, corn and butterbeans. We picked them every year. She taught me not to fear the fat, happy caterpillars we found hiding in the corn husks. She canned spaghetti sauce, cut-off, creamed and froze corn, and for some unholy reason cooked a lot of summer squash. To this day, the smell of summer squash turns my stomach. No amount of butter can render it edible. That stuff is nasty. Word to my mother: NAS. TEE.

I remember baking bread with her. Drinking buttermilk for the first time at her urging. Learning to make perfect southern biscuits (the secret is lard and buttermilk). Once I spilled hot coffee down my 9-year-old chest. I remember the skin peeling up. Mama raced me to Mrs. Janice's house. I don't remember how we treated it, just that Mama let me cry and held me.

I hate this entry. It's boring ME.

Day 02 – Your first love, in great detail

Noone said I had to do all these back to back, right?

I put this off for a couple of days because I am a master procrastinator didn't know quite what to write about my first love. My first boyfriend can barely even qualify as a first like based on what I know of love at the ripe old age of 35. Even my first few lusts don't qualify for any kind of love label.

So rather than talk about my first love in great detail, I think I'll write about my first kiss. I hope that's not a topic for a future day. I'll warn you, this could get . . . raunchy. Or not, but I love that word and want to use it. See? It's even in a tag now.

Before I go there, you should know about my first boyfriend, too.

The Boyfriend I Had When I Was 8 from Mize, Mississippi

I don't remember his name. I don't remember what he looked like. This was an arranged marriage. Mom never quite noticed that I preferred reading a good book by myself to playing with other kids. And she certainly never accepted that I had no interest in boys. She came to me one day and told me that her co-worker's son wanted me to be his girlfriend. "Isn't that cool?" she asked.

"Why?" I answered. I'd never met him. He didn't know me. I wondered whether he liked books. I wondered if I'd have to kiss him. Ew. "What does he look like? Where does he live?" I wondered whether the ubiquitous "other kids" at school would torment me for having a boyfriend. Would it be worth it? In retrospect, I think I was an anxious kid.

Mom took me to visit him one day during the summer, and we rode around on his go-cart. I wanted to read, but he didn't. So I rode the go-cart and was surprised to discover I enjoyed it.

Stephen - First Kiss

Five years later, thirteen-year-old me lived with Mom and Charles the Stepfather in a decrepit, converted travel trailer parked outside Mamaw's house in her large, circular driveway. We called my step-grandmother Mamaw. She made me nervous, looming over me tall and thin with a halo of iron-gray frizzy curls and her bulbous, beaky nose. Her belly bulged oddly out, permanently seven months pregnant. A cousin told me that her last child, my stepfather's baby brother, died in utero, but she never went into labor, and they never had the money for the operation to clean her out. I understand enough biology now to know this could not have been true. I did not understand that then.

We lived down the road from Missy Walters, who lived with her grandmother in a wood-frame white house.  Missy was a bad girl with bad-girl hair, heavy makeup, and a little bit of a reputation. Missy's cousin, Stephen, enjoyed a bad-boy reputation. All the bad girls thought him perfectly dreamy. I didn't know he existed until Missy told me about him. Again with the books. She offered to set me up with him, telling me he was an amazing kisser. At 13, I at least had an awareness that I should be into guys, so I agreed. It would be a little longer before I found out that Missy should not have known whether her cousin was a good kisser. Yuck.

I don't remember much about him. He was tall, thin, and dark-haired with big blue eyes. We went to a school dance together; he had a Band of Merry Metalheads. They trailed him everywhere. I don't remember feeling particularly in love with him, although I doubtless had, "I <3 Stephen" scrawled all over my books and notebooks.

The dance, held in the gymnasium, I remember in shades of brown and gray. I'm sure they decorated the gym somehow, probably with black and orange streamers. I don't remember any food being there. We danced once. Someone turned on a slow song by Poison or Ratt or Motley Crue or some other suitably horrible hair band, and Stephen grabbed my hand, dragging me to the floor.

Slow dancing consisted of him arranging our arms around each other and swaying back and forth to the music. I concentrated on not stepping on his feet, farting, or swaying out of time. These are all pretty engrossing mental and physical challenges, so imagine my surprise when I found my face tilted toward his. All my attention was focused on my feet and my tightly clenched buttcheeks when Stephen opened his mouth and came at my face like a gaping, surpised catfish.

I didn't have time to draw back and barely registered an, "OHMYGODHE'SGOINGTOKISSME," before I found the lower half of my face engulfed in slobber and a thick, fat, wet something plopped lazily into my mouth. The something sat on my tongue, resting against the teeth on the right side of my jaw for what felt like an eternity while I tried to figure several things at once:

1. What had he put in my mouth, and why was he keeping it in his, and how hadn't I noticed it when we went out to dance?
2. What in the world should I be doing? And what if I farted now?
3. When would it ever end?

I couldn't maintain focus at both ends of my body. I'm still not sure whether I ever farted. I know that after at least ten minutes (probably about 20 seconds), I realized the something still sitting in my mouth like a dead sardine had to be his tongue. His tongue, y'all. Imagine my thirteen-year-old horror as I came to grips with the notion, buttcheeks still clenched, that I had this boy's tongue sitting in my mouth.

I gave up the notion that I wouldn't step on his feet. I also gave up on keeping time in any way. I focused on not biting his tongue (what if I bit it off?) and not farting. Eventually, a lifetime later, he came up for air. I smiled weakly at him, hoping he'd been pleased with my performance. The song ended, and I excused myself to repair my lipstick.  A week later, he dumped me. I correctly pinpointed our lackluster kiss as the source of his fading interest, and I set about correcting my perceived deficiency in kissing.

I did figure it out eventually, and I came to understand that Missy Walters was wrong. That boy definitely could not kiss.

Whoa!

I just finished watching The Godfather with Mark and Burgundy. Somehow, I made it 35 years without ever watching this amazing movie.

I think the biggest surprise is the rating. It's rated R, but if this movie came out now, it would be PG-13 at most, and that because of one scene featuring breasts. After the couple is married. Criminy. You can see that in a strip bar on a PG-rated film now.

Anyway, it was an awesome movie. We all really enjoyed it.

Day 1: Introduction

Okay, seriously? I have to introduce myself?

What if I just take this meme and say, "The topic for today looks lame and silly. It isn't worth the effort. Instead, I'll write about the impact of flatulence in weather patterns over the US and the relationship of said flatulence to fast food consumption rates." I think that's what I'll do. Today, I'll introduce my family.

Me!
I'm 35, currently working for NASA's Constellation Program on the Mission Operations Project and trying hard to go home. At the same time I want desparately to be at home most of the time to serve my family, I also feel a bit conflicted about keeping my identity (I am competent. I am sane.) and continuing to participate with rational adults. I'm contemplating a couple of different ministry/volunteer options that I might work through our church, and I'm planning to teach Generation Change to our youth in the fall semester. Generation Change is the youth/teen-targeted version of Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University.

I'm 5 months pregnant now, and I still haven't quite gotten my head around the idea. It's been a difficult one so far, and while I'm thrilled to have a baby, I am less-than-jazzed about this particular pregnancy experience. I do not feel like a goddess-earth-mother-bringer-of-life. I feel like a nauseated, overheated, fat, old, wet dog who, if kicked one. more. time. will hork everything from her toenails upward onto your favorite carpet.

I have not been eating well because it matters not how well or badly I eat, I still feel like microwaved cat crap. I think I need to stop eating out of the trash can, though, because the indigestion and nausea have continued to improve in spite of the garbage I'm eating. I bet if I just ate reasonably healthy food, I'd feel even better now. Not a month ago, though.

Mark
My beloved husband. How do I describe him? Imagine Ichabod Crane. Now imagine young Ichabod with bizarre, lustrous corkscrew curls falling around his face like the most adorable little (six-foot tall string-bean) hobbit ever. Add a really bizarre sense of humor with timing that will make you shoot orange juice from your nostrils, and you have my husband.

Maybe that doesn't tell you so much after all.

Mark works for NASA's International Space Station Program; he manages repairs for Boeing, but he isn't employed by them (grumble grumble). He's a very intense, very personal man who has the biggest, gentlest heart God made. Unless he's hungry or over-tired, in which case, I stock up the house with dark chocolate and take extended visits with friends.

Mark wants to name our baby Gallifrey for God's sake. Why do I need to explain anything else about him?

Burgundy
Burgundy is not just my child. In that peculiar way that we do, my daughter defines her mother. I defined mine, too. I rearranged my life when I found out she would be joining me, and I'm still shocked (a little) that she's here. What a perfect gift.

When I held infant Burgundy, I sang Brahm's lullaby to her. I rocked her, and when I came to "Little [insert baby name here] is sleepy. And she's tired, and she's sleepy, and she wants to go to sleep!" I thought those the most idiotic, uninspired lame bunch of words ever fitted together to make a rhyme. So I cooed, "Little Burgundy is lovely. And she's gracious, and she's generous, and she wants to go to sleep!" At the time, I thought it couldn't hurt to sing to her all her possibilities in life. All her best qualities.

Fourteen years later, we finished her Girl Scout Silver Award today. Burgundy volunteered over 52 hours during the last 3 weeks to organize and run a food drive for a local homeless service. She collected 208 cans, boxes, and bags of food, and we drove them to the shelter this morning. She came up with the idea after riding the bus and rail system in Houston this summer and seeing the homeless everywhere rooting through trash for a sandwich scrap. She packed extra bags of Cheerios with her lunch and handed them out at the stops. Yes, she's gracious and generous. Lovely.

Back Flips

Our parasite hates the jeans I'm wearing today, which sucks because they're not too tight, not too baggy, not falling down, and not giving me indigestion. Also not buttoned (yay belly sleeves).

I know he hates them because he is one laid-back, calm, cool, and collected little dude. He's so much like his dad already. Content just to be, he only moves when I'm uncomfortable. *TMI WARNING* The other day, I got all constipated, and he literally kicked the crap out of me until things got moving again. Hilarious. *OKAY, YOU'RE SAFE*

He goes mad after a long day on my feet when I lay down and put them up and the blood starts to rush back into the rest of my body. As my heartrate speeds up with the sheer pleasure of feeling the pain drain out of my feet, he rolls and squirms and pokes and wiggles like wild. When I sit for too long at work, he sticks and kicks and yanks (God he has a grip) until I get up and walk.

For the most part though, he just enjoys being there. As long as I'm happy, he's happy. However, today we are at odds. In spite of these wonderful, lovely, comfortable maternity jeans that aren't even buttoned, he's having little hissy fits. Does. Not. Want. Tough cookies, kiddo. Your big sister will tell you in a heartbeat: you just lucked out to get stuck into the least sympathetic mother ever. I like the jeans, and I will wear them again. Partially because I love to feel you moving.

August is half-over, and contrary to my dire predictions, I have not yet expired of heat exposure. I'm certain I will; I mean, God still has two more months of Houston summer with which to assault me. So hang in there. I'm not dead yet . . . [but I'll] be stone dead in a moment.*

Meanwhile, one of my favorite bloggers ever (I mean, GOD, she's so funny and real and raw [and wriggling]), grammardog at livejournal (y'all, I miss the old livejournal so much!), decided to do this meme. And given that I can't stick with the same topic for more than 15 minutes either way, I figured I'd announce my intention to do the same so that you'll all know that in fact, I will not do more than 1-2 posts. Then I'll see something shiny and chase it down and come back in two weeks blogging about Russian organized crime and its impact on the environment of Saturn or something.

Anyway, it's a 30-day thing with a different topic each day:

Day 01 - Introduction
Day 02 – Your first love, in great detail
Day 03 – Your parents, in great detail
Day 04 – What you ate today, in great detail
Day 05 – Your definition of love, in great detail
Day 06 – Your day, in great detail
Day 07 – Your best friend, in great detail
Day 08 – A moment, in great detail
Day 09 – Your beliefs, in great detail
Day 10 – What you wore today, in great detail
Day 11 – Your siblings, in great detail
Day 12 – What’s in your bag, in great detail
Day 13 – This week, in great detail
Day 14 – What you wore today, in great detail
Day 15 – Your dreams, in great detail
Day 16 – Your first kiss, in great detail
Day 17 – Your favourite memory, in great detail
Day 18 – Your favourite birthday, in great detail
Day 19 – Something you regret, in great detail
Day 20 – This month, in great detail
Day 21 – Another moment, in great detail
Day 22 – Something that upsets you, in great detail
Day 23 – Something that makes you feel better, in great detail
Day 24 – Something that makes you cry, in great detail
Day 25 – A first, in great detail
Day 26 – Your fears, in great detail
Day 27 – Your favourite place, in great detail
Day 28 – Something that you miss, in great detail
Day 29 – Your aspirations, in great detail
Day 30 – One last moment, in great detail

I suppose that's it for today. I and The Parasite have a lot of work to do, so I suppose it's time to put my nose to the grindstone.
* Anyone want to identify the quote source for minor geek points?

Please Forgive

I need to post a couple of photos on the internet and need them hosted somewhere, so I'm going to post them here. Please to ignore, will explain more later.

Big Night Tonight

I still have at least 15 pounds of blueberries from last weekend. I plan to make two batches of jam, one batch of jelly, and if there's enough left, a few pints of blueberry pie filling. Those will have to be frozen.

I probably could stretch this project out over the weekend, but I found a source of pink-eyed, purple-hull peas. They've been picked this weekend, and I can buy a bushel for $30. That will work out to somewhere between $3 and $3.75 / pound of shelled peas. If I come out on the $3 end, then it was worth it. If I come out on the high end, I'll just buy $30 worth of shelled peas at the farmers' market during the week for $3.50/pound.

Anyway, I'm driving 90 minutes to Conroe tomorrow morning to buy a bushel of peas, and they really need to be processed the same day. So tonight, I need to finish up my jam, jelly, and pie filling. There's no room in our kitchen for two projects to run simultaneously.

I just dropped Burgundy at the house this afternoon to spend time on her Silver Award project and to clean the kitchen. I hate that her summer is winding down. I hate that I'm not there with her right now.

Much Ado About Nothing

Mark had his interview with the new company yesterday, and they're having an open house tonight. I still don't know whether the open house is for employees only, so I'm planning to stay home and get dinner ready.

Meanwhile, we're going to see Much Ado About Nothing at Miller Outdoor Theater tonight. The Houston Shakespeare Festival celebrates its 36th anniversary this year, and Dr. Sidney Berger is directing it. Dr. Berger founded the festival and directed all the plays for years, and his really is the major name associated with the festival. I had heard he was retiring, so I'm thrilled to learn he's still directing for the festival.

Much Ado About Nothing is one of my all-time favorite pieces of work. It ranks behind Othello because of its profound treatment of women. Now don't get me going too much about Othello, but I will tell you that from my perspective, the whole play seems to be constructed as an opportunity for Emilia to blossom and grow from a cardboard cutout (in the beginning, she describes herself as "Iago's wife" who is there only to do his will) to a fully developed, self-referential woman capable not only of independent action and decision but also of self-recognition and self-sacrifice in the interest of truth and in the face of her abusive husband's threats.

Um, sorry. Much Ado About Nothing. One of my favorite pieces of work. It actually is Burgundy's favorite, and will continue to be until she's old enough to understand why Emilia merits a higher ranking for Oth- Oh, sorry. There I go again. We're going with my mom for certain and possibly with a couple of Burgundy's friends. As soon as I leave work today, we're driving downtown to pick up free tickets for the covered seating, fan-cooled area.

Houston Shakespeare Festival is something we look forward to every year. Through this program, we've seen world-class performances of Othello, MacBeth, Hamlet, Measure for Measure, The Taming of the Shrew, Twelfth Night, Pericles . . . I could go on and on. This year I refused to attend any other outdoor events on the grounds that I am pregnant and saving my pittance of heat tolerance for the Shakespeare Festival. In addition to Much Ado, they're also performing A Midsummer Night's Dream. We're slated to see that Saturday night.

Burgundy spent last week at Spurs camp with the Girl Scouts. In the end, she felt really good about going, but she faced two challenges.

First, she went to Spurs late in the game. All the other girls in camp were 11-13 and entering 8th grade. One young lady was 14 and entering 9th grade, and Burgundy is 14 and entering 10th grade. One of her good friends from school was a camp assistant! She said it felt awkward and disappointing at first, but when she realized that all the other girls looked up to her and thought she was cool, the experience improved. When we picked her up, the camp nurse told me that Burgundy, "is just the coolest kid. She really loves the other girls, and that is so wonderful. The other girls all called her Mama." I really appreciate that Burgundy took a potentially negative experience and used it as an opportunity to lead other young people by example without the "carrot" of recognition in front of her.

Second, she had a bad time with one of the camp counselors. I found Burgundy's way of telling the story had a fascinating subtext; I'm pretty sure she was unaware of it. Throughout her descriptions of the counselors' behavior (there were several episodes she told us about), she referred to the counselors as women, ladies, or counselors. Each time she mentioned the one she had trouble with, Burgundy took great pains to be clear that she was a counselor, in charge, and in authority. But she talked about her as she does her peers, referring to her as a girl more often than not.

Apparently, the "girl" acted as though Burgundy was a threat. She went out of her way to compete with Burgundy about music, and she tried several times to exclude Burgundy from social interactions with anyone else Burgundy's age.

Asked how she decided to handle it, Burgundy said, "Well, after the first conversation I could tell that she didn't like me, and I had no reason to like her, so I just worked hard to stay out of her way. And whenever she got really out of line, one of the other counselors would step in and redirect her. She was just really immature."

Aw, shucks. My kid . . .

Man, there's so much I want to say. At least three times a day lately I notice something I want to blog about. And I still want to write another "installment" on the homebirthing stuff. I am working full time right now through the month of August, and it's exhausting even though it's actually not 40 hours a week. Right now I have about 5 minutes for a quick update, so I thought I'd post a super-quick update and thought.

Saturday we picked blueberries; Saturday afternoon we cleaned house a little bit, and Saturday night we made blueberry-lime jam. Heaven in jars, I tell you. I still have 14-15 pounds of blueberries to do something with. I have in mind blueberry pie filling, blueberry compote, another batch of jam (I have 1.5 dz right now), some berry jelly (with strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries from my freezer), and maybe I'll just leave a few in the freezer for later in the year.

Yesterday Burgundy started band camp. When I dropped her off for the second half in the afternoon, I used the girls' room. On the wall of the handicapped stall, I saw this:

Yes, I did snap a photo in the bathroom with my cell phone. And?

It says, "'I have found that the harder I work, the more luck I get.' -Jefferson, Thomas" Beneath it, in blue, someone wrote, "Leave it to the orchestra kids to write graffiti like this."

I think you'll all understand that I could not help but giggle that this is what passes for depravity in our school's band hall. I love music nerds.

And time's up! Off to get myself some luck, yo!