I am sick. I don't do sick well. In fact, I am the worst sick person I know. I whine a lot, I writhe around in my covers because I am too hot/too cold/too sick to even continue breathing - it's all very dramatic.
I have been drinking orange juice, which I detest, but I need all the vitamins I can get. This sucks.
On the plus side, my homoplatonic life partner is back from Mexico, so I was totally happy to see her, even if she is disgustingly tan (which my forehead tan just cannot compete with) and because she is the bringer of the dog, everyone is exponentially happier to see her than they are me. Or maybe being sick is just affecting my self-esteem to a ridiculous level.
I have to go to the newspaper in a few hours. Do they really need me? Methinks they do, especially since the design team has misspelled "thief" on more than one occasion. Bleh.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Friday, March 17, 2006
A wheezy asthmatic, a Polish girl, and an Italian mama go on a vacation...
I just got back from a weeklong vacation in San Diego with Sarah and Gosia. Aside from having no money, a peeling hairline (sunburns suck) and a horrible pain in the back which I think is from the 40 minutes we sat in the Sharper Image massage chairs yesterday (Or maybe it was the laser beams shooting out of the Sharper Image employees eyes trying to get us out of the chairs, hmm...) we had a great time.
Trip Highlights:
.Gosia mis-reading a sign and instead of Mcacques (which are monkeys) she called them mycocks. You can see the discrepancy here.
.Having sand in all my crevices, for the second Spring Break in a row. Not really a highlight, but, you know.
.Thinking that Marie Curie invented chemistry...
.Having a bum at a trolley station perform a whole stand-up routine, which involved jokes about lesbians (he has nothing against them, after all, they both want the same thing!) and a bad joke ending with the punch line "Obi-Juan's Kenobi." These jokes shall never be repeated in polite company, this I can assure you.
.Polish lessons while waiting in line for the Matterhorn. I can now say "I am still sunburned", "I love you" and "I have to pee. No, really." in Polish - my parents would be so proud.
.Standing on Main Street in Disneyland under a sky lit up by fireworks, surrounded by two of my best friends, wearing a pink t-shirt, a tiara, and holding an ice-cream cone. As much as I am anticipating my wedding day, I don't think it really gets any better than that.
Unless I get married at Disneyland, and then it's ice-cream and tiaras for everyone!
Trip Highlights:
.Gosia mis-reading a sign and instead of Mcacques (which are monkeys) she called them mycocks. You can see the discrepancy here.
.Having sand in all my crevices, for the second Spring Break in a row. Not really a highlight, but, you know.
.Thinking that Marie Curie invented chemistry...
.Having a bum at a trolley station perform a whole stand-up routine, which involved jokes about lesbians (he has nothing against them, after all, they both want the same thing!) and a bad joke ending with the punch line "Obi-Juan's Kenobi." These jokes shall never be repeated in polite company, this I can assure you.
.Polish lessons while waiting in line for the Matterhorn. I can now say "I am still sunburned", "I love you" and "I have to pee. No, really." in Polish - my parents would be so proud.
.Standing on Main Street in Disneyland under a sky lit up by fireworks, surrounded by two of my best friends, wearing a pink t-shirt, a tiara, and holding an ice-cream cone. As much as I am anticipating my wedding day, I don't think it really gets any better than that.
Unless I get married at Disneyland, and then it's ice-cream and tiaras for everyone!
Peeping Mom
When I got home from vacation last night, there was a box of Peeps on my desk with a note, "These can be sacrificed to the microwave, just for fun! Love, Mom"
My mom is awesome.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Also, you can blow them up in the microwave
I saw something interesting on campus today. A young woman was wearing pink sunglasses, a pink Juicy Couture velour track suit with the hood up, pink crocs (a separate offense altogether) and carrying a pink bag.
I couldn't decide if she was a pink Telletubbie or a large marshmallow Peep. After long deliberation, I decided she was a Peep - how festive.
Now, I like pink as much as the next girl, but I think this girl missed the memo. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." How true that is. But part two of that old adage, the part you never hear about, is that "all pink and nothing else makes Marge a very ugly marshmallow."
Someone should really tell her.
I couldn't decide if she was a pink Telletubbie or a large marshmallow Peep. After long deliberation, I decided she was a Peep - how festive.
Now, I like pink as much as the next girl, but I think this girl missed the memo. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." How true that is. But part two of that old adage, the part you never hear about, is that "all pink and nothing else makes Marge a very ugly marshmallow."
Someone should really tell her.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Save the pandas! (and Noam Chomsky)
"Human beings like to rescue cute, fuzzy little things - like baby pandas. They're very charismatic, the pandas."
I quote directly from one of my professors. This is also the same man who refers to Noam Chomsky as "The Noamster."
Make of it what you will.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Mullet Tales: part 2
Because I was the (not so) proud owner of a mullet from the ages of 4 to 6, I have spent a majority of my life devoted to a study of this strange phenomenon in hair. There are so many varieties, it's difficult to cover them all, but in my exhaustive research, I think I've found the Big Three:
The Standard
Business in the front, party in the back - what a classic. The clipped man-bangs, the closely cropped feathers, and the long locks that range from shoulder length to (eww) longer. The permed back portion was also a popular variation on a traditional favorite. Hip from 1988 until approximately 1993, this style of mullet will never die.
The Fe-mullet
Mullets aren't just for men anymore! While similar to the male mullet, the fe-mullet differs in a few ways. For one, the height requirement is often more stringent; fe-mullets are usually at least 6 inches from the scalp, especially if that scalp is partying like it's 1991. Often teased, usually hairsprayed to death, and with wings that rival Farrah Fawcett's (except all the way around!) the fe-mullet is often popular with older moms, people who work at Jo-Anne Fabric, and those who still think that Zack Morris and snap bracelets are hot.
The Euro Mullet
I have saved the best for last. The Euro Mullet is my personal favorite, mainly because I've had such close encounters with it. Por exemple, I went to a wedding this past summer. The wedding took place in the backwoods of Virginia (a place deserving of a post all its own) and the bride's four Swedish cousins were flying in. The fact that the Swedish cousins did not know any English was ancillary, because once I saw their hair, their words were the furthest thing from my mind. That's right, the Euro mullet. On all of them. It was a sight to behold: mother, father, sister, brother all had shaggy on top, tapered at the bottom, flipped out at the ends mullets that would do Sweden proud. With their blue suits and loafers they were like the second coming of ABBA, or perhaps half a Brady Bunch. But with mullets, which was the best part. The second best part was when they got lost and missed the entire wedding. I guess that language barrier was a problem after all...!
What's the best mullet you've ever seen? Or, more importantly, do you still wear one? (If the answer to the second question is "yes" I want pictures, and I also want you to again think about why you don't have a girlfriend...)
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Mullet Tales: part 1
I am officially coming out. It's my deepest, darkest secret, and it's one that only a few select people know about me. But I am coming out to you, Internet, please don't judge: When I was four, I had a mullet. Before you laugh and point, it wasn't my fault! I requested bangs and shoulder length hair, in sharp contrast to the 'fro that I was sporting at that time. I didn't really have any style icons - I was four! I still watched Mister Rogers and wore Micky Mouse sunglasses - but I knew enough to know that I wanted nice, shiny hair that could go in a ponytail. A simple request, no?
Tragically, a lack of style icons was also directly linked to a lack of salon finess, so when we went to my GRANDMOTHER'S hairdresser (there's a red flag for you) it seemed like any other place that one would go to get a haircut, if one went to a place owned by a woman who sported a silvery white beehive, black sunglasses indoors (which may account for all the bad hair that came out of that place) and loud, chunky necklaces that clanked against her heaving chest when she walked about in the smoke from her long, French cigarettes. Her name was Doris. There are no words.
Now, before I tell the rest of this story, I just want you to know that my mother still has guilt about this day. Well, we're Lutheran, so she has guilt about more things than this, but this particular day will always be in the forefront of her mind. And if I ever find it's made its way to the backfront, or even the mediumfront, well you can bet I will remind her of this awful, awful day.
I remember sitting down in the chair, olive green and sticky, and listening while my mom told Doris what I wanted. To her credit, nowhere in that chat did my mother ever say "And yeah, if you could give my 4-year-old a mullet, that would be great, too." Knowing this is probably what saves my mother from wandering in purgatory, if Lutherans believed in that sort of thing. Or from a lifetime of always volunteering to make the Jell-O salad, which Lutherans embrace as the third sacrament.
Then, and this is the part where I always want to rewind and pause to stay forever four so that I never have to face the indignity of public mulletation, after I was wrapped up and shampooed, MY MOTHER LEFT THE SALON. THAT'S RIGHT, LEFT. I WILL SAY IT IN ALL CAPS AGAIN SO THAT YOU UNDERSTAND THE MAGNITUDE OF THIS STATEMENT: MY MOTHER. LEFT. ME. WITH A SCISSORS-WEILDING CHAIN SMOKER WHO DISTRACTED PEOPLE WITH NECKLACES SO THEY WOULDN'T NOTICE HOW BAD THEIR HAIR WAS. OH. GOD.
I believe she went to a craft store just down the way. While my hair and sense of self literally fell to the floor, my mother was examining fabric samples and looking at vases or something. Needless to say, Hobby Lobby has never held any charm for her.
Contrary to how assertive I am now, the presence of a big Doris above me with choppers was too intimidating at age four, so I just sat there while more and more of my hair was lovingly feathered about my head, making me look not unlike a small Billy Ray Cyrus. I let her do it to me, but I maintain that no 4-year-old should have to defend her own hair against a Doris - it's just too much to ask.
Well, as you can imagine, the aftermath was catastrophic. My mom was yelling, I was crying (I was the one with the mullet, after all) and my grandma was trying to convice everyone that it was "very cute and trendy" because, after all, it was her Doris that screwed everything up. And remember that part when I said I had a 'fro? Try mixing hair that naturally 'fros, with a mullet. There isn't a hairstyle called the Frullet for no reason, kids: it's ugly.
There was, understandably, no Doris in my life after this. We left the salon that day, never to return. While I missed the time I spent trying to figure out just how DID her hair stay up in that alarming fashion?! I did not miss the creepy necklaces and bug-eye glasses. And to this day, I get a little shiver of fear when I go get a haircut, because there's always a moment when something could go wrong, and I could end up with another mullet. Because if that happened, I would be eating Jell-O salad for the rest of my life.
Tragically, a lack of style icons was also directly linked to a lack of salon finess, so when we went to my GRANDMOTHER'S hairdresser (there's a red flag for you) it seemed like any other place that one would go to get a haircut, if one went to a place owned by a woman who sported a silvery white beehive, black sunglasses indoors (which may account for all the bad hair that came out of that place) and loud, chunky necklaces that clanked against her heaving chest when she walked about in the smoke from her long, French cigarettes. Her name was Doris. There are no words.
Now, before I tell the rest of this story, I just want you to know that my mother still has guilt about this day. Well, we're Lutheran, so she has guilt about more things than this, but this particular day will always be in the forefront of her mind. And if I ever find it's made its way to the backfront, or even the mediumfront, well you can bet I will remind her of this awful, awful day.
I remember sitting down in the chair, olive green and sticky, and listening while my mom told Doris what I wanted. To her credit, nowhere in that chat did my mother ever say "And yeah, if you could give my 4-year-old a mullet, that would be great, too." Knowing this is probably what saves my mother from wandering in purgatory, if Lutherans believed in that sort of thing. Or from a lifetime of always volunteering to make the Jell-O salad, which Lutherans embrace as the third sacrament.
Then, and this is the part where I always want to rewind and pause to stay forever four so that I never have to face the indignity of public mulletation, after I was wrapped up and shampooed, MY MOTHER LEFT THE SALON. THAT'S RIGHT, LEFT. I WILL SAY IT IN ALL CAPS AGAIN SO THAT YOU UNDERSTAND THE MAGNITUDE OF THIS STATEMENT: MY MOTHER. LEFT. ME. WITH A SCISSORS-WEILDING CHAIN SMOKER WHO DISTRACTED PEOPLE WITH NECKLACES SO THEY WOULDN'T NOTICE HOW BAD THEIR HAIR WAS. OH. GOD.
I believe she went to a craft store just down the way. While my hair and sense of self literally fell to the floor, my mother was examining fabric samples and looking at vases or something. Needless to say, Hobby Lobby has never held any charm for her.
Contrary to how assertive I am now, the presence of a big Doris above me with choppers was too intimidating at age four, so I just sat there while more and more of my hair was lovingly feathered about my head, making me look not unlike a small Billy Ray Cyrus. I let her do it to me, but I maintain that no 4-year-old should have to defend her own hair against a Doris - it's just too much to ask.
Well, as you can imagine, the aftermath was catastrophic. My mom was yelling, I was crying (I was the one with the mullet, after all) and my grandma was trying to convice everyone that it was "very cute and trendy" because, after all, it was her Doris that screwed everything up. And remember that part when I said I had a 'fro? Try mixing hair that naturally 'fros, with a mullet. There isn't a hairstyle called the Frullet for no reason, kids: it's ugly.
There was, understandably, no Doris in my life after this. We left the salon that day, never to return. While I missed the time I spent trying to figure out just how DID her hair stay up in that alarming fashion?! I did not miss the creepy necklaces and bug-eye glasses. And to this day, I get a little shiver of fear when I go get a haircut, because there's always a moment when something could go wrong, and I could end up with another mullet. Because if that happened, I would be eating Jell-O salad for the rest of my life.
Friday, March 03, 2006
The Update
I haven't posted for an entire week! This last week has been one of the busiest since my semester started, so everything that wasn't on top of the Important Things totem pole got pushed to the sidelines.
SO, here is the quick version of my week:
Monday
7:15 a.m. Armed with the best of intentions, I get up bright and early to work out! Sadly, the best intentions guns were out of bullets after this morning, as I did not go to the gym anymore after this.
10:00 a.m. School.
1:00 p.m. Go to work, and by that I mean don't really do that much work. But someone has to implement that hook, and I guess it's got to be me.
2:00 p.m. Hang out with Bohemian-esque lab partner and work on story package about emergency conraception, surprise interview people who have no idea that we're coming, bully them into talking to us as we eat all their office cookies, leave.
6:00 p.m. Eat the fastest dinner of my life, which involves more air intake than when I eat at a normal pace. Oddly unsettling...
6:02 p.m. More school. Dear God, when will it end?
8:00 p.m. Go to the newspaper, forget to tape "The Bachelor" and then be so sad, but not admit it to people because, who really wants to admit that they watch (and secretly LOVE) "The Bachelor"? NOT ME!
Tuesday
9:30 a.m. Class.
11:00 a.m. More hooking at work.
1:00 p.m. Go to pregnancy resource center to discuss emergency contraception story. Everyone assumes we are pregnant, which is a new feeling. Interview the crazy lady at the conservative Christian pregnancy resource center, have Bohemian-esque lab partner hold me back as I say liberal, cutting things to said crazy lady. Also, have horrible driving on the way home. I fear this phase will never end, because, well, I'M A HORRIBLE DRIVER.
2:00 p.m. Enjoy the afternoon with my little sis. Thank God someone else likes to lounge around as much as I do...
Wednesday
9:00 a.m. Go to Planned Parenthood to interview someone. Everyone immediately thinks I'm pregnant for the second time this week, which feels weird, however I like all the attention I'm getting. Perhaps someone will throw me a shower?
9:03 a.m. Fumble around and NOT impress the PP man in any way, which is fine because he was a royal arse. I decide on the spot that I do not like men named Daniel (who don't go by Dan) and who wear stupid glasses. Stupid glasses-wearing Daniel man.
10:00 a.m. Class AGAIN. Don't these people know I'm tired of it?
6:00 p.m. Class is cancelled. God, thanks for listening.
7:00 p.m. Dinner with a fraternity. The theme was 70s, but since nobody really has a polyester prom dress (we all wish) there was a mix of hippies, Farrah Fawcetts, and afros. I, on the other hand, looked as though I belonged on "Three's Company" and so spent the entire evening looking for a flexible blonde and a slightly flamboyant straight man with bad hair and flared pants to go roller skating with, and maybe sing that catchy song.
Thursday
5:45 a.m. The time I wake up. This should have been a sign that everything would go wrong today... what day can really end well when you have to get up that early?
6:45 a.m. Go to get gas and have the Amoco lady tell me that my card has been used too much already today. After briefly wondering if Stella borrowed it to go out shopping again, I think it's identity theft, and thus, freak out.
6:46 a.m. Go to another gas station, just to be sure, card works fine. Dear God. Also, I now hate gas station workers who make me worry about identity theft when IT'S ALREADY HAPPENED TO ME.
7:00 a.m. Pick up Bohemian-esque lab partner and head down to the Capitol in Denver. Sometimes when I drive, I get the rage, and I am not especially chatty in the morning anyway, as the people I live with can attest, therefore this drive has moments bordering on slightly awkward.
8:30 a.m. Arrive at the Capitol. The essence of the day is that we wander around, do some tap dancing, chase down senators (no really, we waited for one outside her meeting and followed her back to her office - we are such badasses) go to lunch, talk to everyone, somewhere in there I may or may not have lost my glasses (to which I say "Oh shit!") etc.
1:45 p.m. We leave the Capitol. I also may or may not have backed into a parked car. Does anyone know how to fix a really fast blinker?
3:00 p.m. Arrive home from the Capitol and feel zero compunction at all about the nap I am about to take.
8:00 p.m. Get ready for the annual Office Party that a fraternity has invited us to. Put on fishnet tights, a red bra and a mini-skirt. I do my hair to look as though I have just had sex on the copy machine. I am ready for action.
9:30 p.m. Board a bus with 50 hot frat guys. I am one of ten girls that they requested to be on the bus with them. Life is good. So is whiskey.
10:00 p.m. Pull up to a bar at the top of Poudre Canyon, make eye contact with a guy, then make out with him intermittantly for the rest of the night. I told you, I was ready for action!
1:00 a.m. Get off the bus, all while assuring make-out boy that as much as he wanted to wake up next to me the next morning, that is how much I did NOT want to wake up next to him, so we cancel each other out, and I would just go home. I don't think the logic was hitting him at that point. It was also to spare him the description of just how not-fabulous I am in the mornings. Plus, I would be taking the fishnets off, so he would just end up disappointed.
Friday
10:00 a.m. In a turn of events that makes me wonder if I was a axe murderer in a former life, I discover that I have class with make-out boy However, this turns out not to be such a bad thing as we went on a date and had fun. Do I smell a Spring Formal date? Still though, why must my nights come back to haunt me?
12:00 p.m. Go to University Singers, and sit next to the girl who wears really strong perfume, smokes the pot, (I can tell) has a nasty tattoo, and coughs all over me. It's not fun.
1:00 p.m. Buy a falafel wrap, take three bites, and am again reminded why I am no longer a vegetarian.
3:00 p.m. Think about taking a nap. Maybe I do, maybe I don't - you don't know.
6:00 p.m. Dinner with still more fraternity guys. We are introduced to the "Awkward Turtle" which I will tell you about later. No, Internet, it's not a dirty as it sounds.
9:00 p.m. Forgo the hi-liter party and go see "Brokeback Mountain" with Michelle and Shannon instead.
1:00 a.m. In bed already, yess.
SO, here is the quick version of my week:
Monday
7:15 a.m. Armed with the best of intentions, I get up bright and early to work out! Sadly, the best intentions guns were out of bullets after this morning, as I did not go to the gym anymore after this.
10:00 a.m. School.
1:00 p.m. Go to work, and by that I mean don't really do that much work. But someone has to implement that hook, and I guess it's got to be me.
2:00 p.m. Hang out with Bohemian-esque lab partner and work on story package about emergency conraception, surprise interview people who have no idea that we're coming, bully them into talking to us as we eat all their office cookies, leave.
6:00 p.m. Eat the fastest dinner of my life, which involves more air intake than when I eat at a normal pace. Oddly unsettling...
6:02 p.m. More school. Dear God, when will it end?
8:00 p.m. Go to the newspaper, forget to tape "The Bachelor" and then be so sad, but not admit it to people because, who really wants to admit that they watch (and secretly LOVE) "The Bachelor"? NOT ME!
Tuesday
9:30 a.m. Class.
11:00 a.m. More hooking at work.
1:00 p.m. Go to pregnancy resource center to discuss emergency contraception story. Everyone assumes we are pregnant, which is a new feeling. Interview the crazy lady at the conservative Christian pregnancy resource center, have Bohemian-esque lab partner hold me back as I say liberal, cutting things to said crazy lady. Also, have horrible driving on the way home. I fear this phase will never end, because, well, I'M A HORRIBLE DRIVER.
2:00 p.m. Enjoy the afternoon with my little sis. Thank God someone else likes to lounge around as much as I do...
Wednesday
9:00 a.m. Go to Planned Parenthood to interview someone. Everyone immediately thinks I'm pregnant for the second time this week, which feels weird, however I like all the attention I'm getting. Perhaps someone will throw me a shower?
9:03 a.m. Fumble around and NOT impress the PP man in any way, which is fine because he was a royal arse. I decide on the spot that I do not like men named Daniel (who don't go by Dan) and who wear stupid glasses. Stupid glasses-wearing Daniel man.
10:00 a.m. Class AGAIN. Don't these people know I'm tired of it?
6:00 p.m. Class is cancelled. God, thanks for listening.
7:00 p.m. Dinner with a fraternity. The theme was 70s, but since nobody really has a polyester prom dress (we all wish) there was a mix of hippies, Farrah Fawcetts, and afros. I, on the other hand, looked as though I belonged on "Three's Company" and so spent the entire evening looking for a flexible blonde and a slightly flamboyant straight man with bad hair and flared pants to go roller skating with, and maybe sing that catchy song.
Thursday
5:45 a.m. The time I wake up. This should have been a sign that everything would go wrong today... what day can really end well when you have to get up that early?
6:45 a.m. Go to get gas and have the Amoco lady tell me that my card has been used too much already today. After briefly wondering if Stella borrowed it to go out shopping again, I think it's identity theft, and thus, freak out.
6:46 a.m. Go to another gas station, just to be sure, card works fine. Dear God. Also, I now hate gas station workers who make me worry about identity theft when IT'S ALREADY HAPPENED TO ME.
7:00 a.m. Pick up Bohemian-esque lab partner and head down to the Capitol in Denver. Sometimes when I drive, I get the rage, and I am not especially chatty in the morning anyway, as the people I live with can attest, therefore this drive has moments bordering on slightly awkward.
8:30 a.m. Arrive at the Capitol. The essence of the day is that we wander around, do some tap dancing, chase down senators (no really, we waited for one outside her meeting and followed her back to her office - we are such badasses) go to lunch, talk to everyone, somewhere in there I may or may not have lost my glasses (to which I say "Oh shit!") etc.
1:45 p.m. We leave the Capitol. I also may or may not have backed into a parked car. Does anyone know how to fix a really fast blinker?
3:00 p.m. Arrive home from the Capitol and feel zero compunction at all about the nap I am about to take.
8:00 p.m. Get ready for the annual Office Party that a fraternity has invited us to. Put on fishnet tights, a red bra and a mini-skirt. I do my hair to look as though I have just had sex on the copy machine. I am ready for action.
9:30 p.m. Board a bus with 50 hot frat guys. I am one of ten girls that they requested to be on the bus with them. Life is good. So is whiskey.
10:00 p.m. Pull up to a bar at the top of Poudre Canyon, make eye contact with a guy, then make out with him intermittantly for the rest of the night. I told you, I was ready for action!
1:00 a.m. Get off the bus, all while assuring make-out boy that as much as he wanted to wake up next to me the next morning, that is how much I did NOT want to wake up next to him, so we cancel each other out, and I would just go home. I don't think the logic was hitting him at that point. It was also to spare him the description of just how not-fabulous I am in the mornings. Plus, I would be taking the fishnets off, so he would just end up disappointed.
Friday
10:00 a.m. In a turn of events that makes me wonder if I was a axe murderer in a former life, I discover that I have class with make-out boy However, this turns out not to be such a bad thing as we went on a date and had fun. Do I smell a Spring Formal date? Still though, why must my nights come back to haunt me?
12:00 p.m. Go to University Singers, and sit next to the girl who wears really strong perfume, smokes the pot, (I can tell) has a nasty tattoo, and coughs all over me. It's not fun.
1:00 p.m. Buy a falafel wrap, take three bites, and am again reminded why I am no longer a vegetarian.
3:00 p.m. Think about taking a nap. Maybe I do, maybe I don't - you don't know.
6:00 p.m. Dinner with still more fraternity guys. We are introduced to the "Awkward Turtle" which I will tell you about later. No, Internet, it's not a dirty as it sounds.
9:00 p.m. Forgo the hi-liter party and go see "Brokeback Mountain" with Michelle and Shannon instead.
1:00 a.m. In bed already, yess.
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