As if any visit to see my parents isn't colorful enough, today's visit included two of my sisters to draw even further outside the lines.
Mom had already asked me to come down today and do their taxes for them when I got a last minute email yesterday alerting me that two of the clan would be coming down for lunch, or, as she phrased it, "A veritable covey of daughters!"
In case you can't tell by that exclamatory sentence, she was thrilled at the prospect of having half her brood in house, while my main concern was who was making the trek so I could gird my loins depending on which two were involved.
Turns out it was going to be a favorite sister and a difficult sister, so I didn't reschedule and deny Mom her covey. Instead, I tried to arrive early enough to get taxes out of the way before the guests arrived. But life on the Northern Neck means the world's slowest wi-fi, so I was still at the computer when they sailed in bearing lunch.
One aspect new to the tax process this year was another layer of identification - driver's license ID number, expiration and issue dates - to thwart identity theft, so I called to Mom that I needed her driver's license as well as Dad's.
Now, you have to picture this: it's a gorgeous day on the river and my father is comfortably ensconced in his favorite chair on the screened porch, crossword puzzle in hand, engrossed in a conversation about sports (something about you don't get to make those kind of mistakes when you're being paid that much money) with Sister #5 when Mom goes out to retrieve his driver's license.
Mom: Karen needs your driver's license for the taxes.
Dad, sighing at the interruption: Okay, let me get my wallet.
Mom: Stay where you are. I'll get it for you.
Dad, with a leer in his voice: Please do. It's in my shorts pocket.
What, everyone's octogenarian parents don't make suggestive statements in front of their grown daughters?
Their taxes were filed and accepted by the IRS before we even sat down on the porch for a lunch that included chicken salad, a huge favorite of Mom's when it's made right, which prompted a story I'd heard but the sisters hadn't.
Back in the dark ages, Mom had taught us to make chicken salad using large irregular hunks of chicken meat, not diced or shredded, not minced or finely chopped chicken, but chunks. One day at a coffee shop in a nearby town, she ordered chicken salad, only to be served, according to her, texture-less chicken salad. Soupy and without so much as a hint of a hunk, my usually mild-mannered mother marched up to the manager and complained about the lack of discernible chicken.
My sisters were agog at the mental image of Mom trying to educate a stranger in a restaurant about the right way to make chicken salad. I visit her often enough to know that she abandoned mild manners shortly after passing the 3/4 of a century mark and not a moment too soon, if you ask me.
After eating, Mom had a project for us: dyeing Easter eggs for her bridge luncheon tomorrow at the Women's Club. I can't even recall the last time I dyed eggs, much less a dozen and a half of them, but here I was with my sisters filling mugs with vinegar and water to activate the coloring tablets.
I know, I know, it's morally wrong for a card-carrying heathen to be doing something even remotely connected to a crazy Christian holiday I have no use for, but Mom seemed to delight in doing something with us that dated back to childhood and, besides, she's still the boss of us.
Or, as we used to tell each other to signify importance when we were kids, "Mom said." Mom said we had to dye eggs today, so we dyed eggs.
Resurrections aside, we couldn't have asked for a more exquisite April day to be on the porch with a view of the Rappahannock's myriad shades of blue, feeling the soft, humid air around us and inhaling the perfume of the bouquet - tiny narcissus, tulips, pink lilacs, columbine, pussy willows, money plant - I'd plucked from the yard before starting taxes.
The three sisters drove the conversational bus with near constant laughter, with Mom and Dad adding context or claiming not to remember things that were etched in our minds decades ago.
"How come Karen got all the memory and the rest of us can't remember anything?" Sister #5 asked rhetorically. Why does the sun go on shining? How can women who've known each other for so long still have so much to talk about?
By the time I got home, it was with the certainty that I needed no further conversation, or at least only the incidental type (a fellow culture geek's opinions are always welcome), so I walked over to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque's screening of "Russian Ark," memorable for the unexpected line, "Writers always have good hair."
Actually, what made the film notable was that all 96 minutes of metaphoric Russian history played out in the art and architectural magnificence of the Winter Palace of the Hermitage and were shot in one continuous take, one action or conversation immediately leading into the next one.
There it was: life had foreshadowed art, echoing my continuous take afternoon at the river, with a covey of sisters standing in for Russian royalty in period costumes.
Writers and good hair made appearances in both.
Showing posts with label sisters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sisters. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Look It Up
This was the week I learned a new word: sororicide.
You might think that since I only existed for a year and 18 days before being presented with the first of my five sisters that the thought might have crossed my mind previously, but you'd be wrong. You might assume that some time in the past 16 years of getting together for an annual long weekend with those five women, the weekend's events might have sent me scurrying to the closest dictionary.
But, alas, you'd be wrong there, too.
No, it was this year, a year in which it was my responsibility to choose the house and location for our get-together and do my best to make it as enjoyable a 48 hours as we are capable of having together, that I felt compelled to seek out the word that describes what surely has a precedent: sororicide.
Now that I think of it, perhaps the better application is the adjective: sororicidal. Why? Because apparently I have a sister who fights that urge when she's with me.
I'm not sure what, but something about me so annoys her on these trips that she begins throwing invective every chance she gets. The kind of person who when, in the course of a conversational game, is asked what the hardest part of the Sistertrip is and responds, "Not killing Karen."
Sets a bad tone, if you know what I'm saying. And I knew there had to be a word for it.
The good news it that the house I'd spent so much time choosing was wonderful. Set on 11 acres along Nomini Creek, with the Potomac River in the distance, it was a handsome, century-old house perched on a high bluff, with breathtaking water and island views and a dock.
The festivities got a delayed start when the only sister left to arrive called and said, "We've got a jumper." Sadly, just before she was going to cross the Potomac River, a person had decided to jump off the Nice Bridge. It was a bit of a bummer to start the weekend.
Besides the waterfront location, the thing that had sold me on the property had been the enormous screened porch, which had a fine brick floor and stretched the length of the house. On it was a table for ten at one end - it'd be an ideal crab-picking location - and a grouping of four chairs and tables at the end closest to the water.
It was there that we began the annual rite of drinking, talking, laughing, reminiscing and arguing that fills the days and nights when we're together. This is where things can get dicey.
No one knows me quite like my sisters do - as my mother reminds us all too often - but since I've lived in another state from them longer than I lived with or near them, they really don't know much about me or my life at all.
Sometimes this becomes a problem, like when a sister slanders me with a less-than-factual story about me in high school. Come on, it's my life and I like to think I know what happened better than she ever could. Unfortunately, she states it as fact to the group, leaving me no choice but to correct her, which in turn causes her to act like the aggrieved party.
That kind of sister.
As children, Mom always said that the beauty of having a big gaggle of sisters was that there was always somebody to play with. As adults, the great thing is that one bad apple doesn't spoil the whole bunch. When one sister is a pain in the butt on a sistertrip, there are plenty of others to bond with.
Or walk down Memory Lane with.
This house came stocked with every game from our childhood: Twister, Go to the Head of the Class, Yahtzee, Monopoly, Life, but we didn't use any of them because we bring our own games.
Each sister conceives of a game or two, usually based on the family or traditions, that sort of thing. One sister did a matching game with images of places from our childhood like the library, the community pool and the building where we went to Girl Scout meetings.
Sometimes the game inspiration is more tangential, such as the sister who created a game where the objective was to identify the board game by its objective.
The objective is to be the first player to get all four of their color pawns from their start location to their home space.
If you weren't raised in a board game-playing family like ours, you might not know that describes the game of "Sorry." But most of us did.
What we don't always remember is the importance of using that word - "sorry" - when we're less than kind to those closest to us.
But after 16 years, I've learned such is the nature of sistertrips. Heaven help me.
You might think that since I only existed for a year and 18 days before being presented with the first of my five sisters that the thought might have crossed my mind previously, but you'd be wrong. You might assume that some time in the past 16 years of getting together for an annual long weekend with those five women, the weekend's events might have sent me scurrying to the closest dictionary.
But, alas, you'd be wrong there, too.
No, it was this year, a year in which it was my responsibility to choose the house and location for our get-together and do my best to make it as enjoyable a 48 hours as we are capable of having together, that I felt compelled to seek out the word that describes what surely has a precedent: sororicide.
Now that I think of it, perhaps the better application is the adjective: sororicidal. Why? Because apparently I have a sister who fights that urge when she's with me.
I'm not sure what, but something about me so annoys her on these trips that she begins throwing invective every chance she gets. The kind of person who when, in the course of a conversational game, is asked what the hardest part of the Sistertrip is and responds, "Not killing Karen."
Sets a bad tone, if you know what I'm saying. And I knew there had to be a word for it.
The good news it that the house I'd spent so much time choosing was wonderful. Set on 11 acres along Nomini Creek, with the Potomac River in the distance, it was a handsome, century-old house perched on a high bluff, with breathtaking water and island views and a dock.
The festivities got a delayed start when the only sister left to arrive called and said, "We've got a jumper." Sadly, just before she was going to cross the Potomac River, a person had decided to jump off the Nice Bridge. It was a bit of a bummer to start the weekend.
Besides the waterfront location, the thing that had sold me on the property had been the enormous screened porch, which had a fine brick floor and stretched the length of the house. On it was a table for ten at one end - it'd be an ideal crab-picking location - and a grouping of four chairs and tables at the end closest to the water.
It was there that we began the annual rite of drinking, talking, laughing, reminiscing and arguing that fills the days and nights when we're together. This is where things can get dicey.
No one knows me quite like my sisters do - as my mother reminds us all too often - but since I've lived in another state from them longer than I lived with or near them, they really don't know much about me or my life at all.
Sometimes this becomes a problem, like when a sister slanders me with a less-than-factual story about me in high school. Come on, it's my life and I like to think I know what happened better than she ever could. Unfortunately, she states it as fact to the group, leaving me no choice but to correct her, which in turn causes her to act like the aggrieved party.
That kind of sister.
As children, Mom always said that the beauty of having a big gaggle of sisters was that there was always somebody to play with. As adults, the great thing is that one bad apple doesn't spoil the whole bunch. When one sister is a pain in the butt on a sistertrip, there are plenty of others to bond with.
Or walk down Memory Lane with.
This house came stocked with every game from our childhood: Twister, Go to the Head of the Class, Yahtzee, Monopoly, Life, but we didn't use any of them because we bring our own games.
Each sister conceives of a game or two, usually based on the family or traditions, that sort of thing. One sister did a matching game with images of places from our childhood like the library, the community pool and the building where we went to Girl Scout meetings.
Sometimes the game inspiration is more tangential, such as the sister who created a game where the objective was to identify the board game by its objective.
The objective is to be the first player to get all four of their color pawns from their start location to their home space.
If you weren't raised in a board game-playing family like ours, you might not know that describes the game of "Sorry." But most of us did.
What we don't always remember is the importance of using that word - "sorry" - when we're less than kind to those closest to us.
But after 16 years, I've learned such is the nature of sistertrips. Heaven help me.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Have a Vacation
First rule of summer: never ever turn down an invitation to the beach.
This particular opportunity to spend a night in South Nags Head came courtesy of my #2 and #4 sisters who are down there for a couple of weeks. "It'll be like a mini sister trip," #4 said, referring to our annual gathering of all six of us.
To round out the group, #2 had her 34-year old son there and #4 had her 17-year old daughter. The two of them represent the oldest and youngest of the nieces and nephews in the family.
But talk about an odd quintet! At no point in our lives had this group of five ever spent time together.
The nephew and I bonded over old school beach pleasures. We were the ones who insisted that all the cottage windows be opened (gratified when later Sister #5 walked through the house inhaling the salty air from outside saying, "It smells like a beach house!"), that we spend time socializing on the deck together, that outdoor showers are the way to go (although this one had no wooden floor, just two differently-sized boards to stand on, making showering a bit of a balancing act).
My first order of business was getting in the ocean and the 17-year old joined me. There, we bonded over her recent decision to graduate high school a year early, something I had also done.
We did not bond over her shock at the explicit language on the first few pages of "The Color Purple," one of her summer reading book requirements, and one I have no problem with.
The ocean was rough when I arrived Monday around noon, the rip currents so strong that the ocean patrol had pulled three people out of the water just that morning, all people who'd gotten out too far and couldn't get back in.
One guy was a 17-year old from Nebraska and goodness knows, it may have been his first time at the ocean, but I'll never understand what makes people think they can do whatever they want in something as massive and strong as the ocean.
Of course I went in the water, just not too far out.
Most of the afternoon was spent with my two sisters catching up and talking a blue streak and occasionally one of the other two interjecting.
During a discussion of men, the nephew piped up, saying, "We don't mature," and then went back to his music, never having so much as looked up.
Sister #2 is a hypochondriac, and because we don't see each other that often, I'd forgotten how every little ache or pain is suddenly a Big Deal with her.
She's a smoker and she likes to eat salty food, so when her tongue began bleeding mid-afternoon, she was convinced it was fatal.
When no one would get as worked up as she was about it, she shrugged and said, "Okay, I guess I'll just Google "bloody tongue" and then make dinner."
Google reassured her that the top two causes for bleeding tongue were cigarette smoking and salty foods, but she still saw tongue cancer in her future.
We got a mess of seafood for dinner from a local fish shop and sat down to shrimp and clams with hot cornbread and the bounty of a beach vegetable stand: corn on the cob, sliced tomatoes and sauteed squash and zucchini.
Best line from dinner: "You don't bring up uteruses at the table, Karen. You just don't."
Now I know.
The catch phrase quickly became, "Have a vacation, Mom!" as the niece and nephew kept reminding their mothers that they didn't need looking after at their ages.
I was having no problem having a mini-vacation, even deciding to stay an extra day and night when it was offered.
Because I usually stay about sixteen miles north of South Nags Head, the area was new to me. We were next to the Outer Banks Pier, which I hadn't even known existed, and the beach was extremely wide there with giant tidal pools and a huge sand bar.
The variable weather made for a day of clouds Tuesday, not a problem for me and the nephew, but the others mourned the absent sun.
Frankly, as long as it's not raining hard or thunder storming, I've got no problem being on the beach on a cloudy day. Every time a sprinkle came up, we just moved under the umbrellas and waited it out.
The ocean was 75 degrees either way, so what do I care if it's not a postcard-worthy sky?
During happy hour, the nephew interrupted out girl talk by saying, "I need a dude!" referring to the absence of his people. Have we been that bad, Sister #4 asked. "It has been pretty catty," he said with typical male understatement.
Wednesday dawned hot and sunny, making everyone happy except me because I had only a few hours before hitting the road.
Make no mistake, we had a big breakfast, then I took a walk with Sister #2 (and eventually #4 joined us) before we all took our chairs out on the sandbar for some morning chatter in the ocean.
While the nephew was lamenting how calm the ocean was, it was ideal for our purposes, a fitting ending to my mini-sistertrip.
Sweaty, sandy and sticky, I threw my beach supplies in the car and headed north, letting the beach radio station provide the final soundtrack to my getaway.
Driving up 158, it was Tears for Fears "Everybody Wants to Rule the World."
Help me make the most
of freedom and of pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever
Apropos. Further up, the Beatles' "A Day in the Life" came on just as I passed signs warning me, "Inmates Working."
Let's just say I like a day in my life better than a day in theirs.
Then it was Johnnyswim, the husband/wife duo (she's Donna Summers' daughter) I saw a few months back doing "Don't Keep Heaven Busy."
Skies changing, tides raising, ain't good enough
World spinning, all heaven is watching us
Don't keep heaven busy without me
When time comes, I move on, don't turn and weep
I'll catch up soon enough, wait and see
It was a terrific going home soundtrack.
For the first time on 168, I saw a sign saying, "Welcome to the Hampton Roads Wine Region." Who knew they had one?
Then there was a Tractor Supply store, with a sign announcing, "Chicken swap this Sunday!" I'll admit I had no idea people swapped chickens. I was learning a lot on my drive today.
The e-mail waiting for me from Sister #4 when I got home made me smile. "Kare, you were such a fun houseguest!"
I can't think of a better vacation compliment.
This particular opportunity to spend a night in South Nags Head came courtesy of my #2 and #4 sisters who are down there for a couple of weeks. "It'll be like a mini sister trip," #4 said, referring to our annual gathering of all six of us.
To round out the group, #2 had her 34-year old son there and #4 had her 17-year old daughter. The two of them represent the oldest and youngest of the nieces and nephews in the family.
But talk about an odd quintet! At no point in our lives had this group of five ever spent time together.
The nephew and I bonded over old school beach pleasures. We were the ones who insisted that all the cottage windows be opened (gratified when later Sister #5 walked through the house inhaling the salty air from outside saying, "It smells like a beach house!"), that we spend time socializing on the deck together, that outdoor showers are the way to go (although this one had no wooden floor, just two differently-sized boards to stand on, making showering a bit of a balancing act).
My first order of business was getting in the ocean and the 17-year old joined me. There, we bonded over her recent decision to graduate high school a year early, something I had also done.
We did not bond over her shock at the explicit language on the first few pages of "The Color Purple," one of her summer reading book requirements, and one I have no problem with.
The ocean was rough when I arrived Monday around noon, the rip currents so strong that the ocean patrol had pulled three people out of the water just that morning, all people who'd gotten out too far and couldn't get back in.
One guy was a 17-year old from Nebraska and goodness knows, it may have been his first time at the ocean, but I'll never understand what makes people think they can do whatever they want in something as massive and strong as the ocean.
Of course I went in the water, just not too far out.
Most of the afternoon was spent with my two sisters catching up and talking a blue streak and occasionally one of the other two interjecting.
During a discussion of men, the nephew piped up, saying, "We don't mature," and then went back to his music, never having so much as looked up.
Sister #2 is a hypochondriac, and because we don't see each other that often, I'd forgotten how every little ache or pain is suddenly a Big Deal with her.
She's a smoker and she likes to eat salty food, so when her tongue began bleeding mid-afternoon, she was convinced it was fatal.
When no one would get as worked up as she was about it, she shrugged and said, "Okay, I guess I'll just Google "bloody tongue" and then make dinner."
Google reassured her that the top two causes for bleeding tongue were cigarette smoking and salty foods, but she still saw tongue cancer in her future.
We got a mess of seafood for dinner from a local fish shop and sat down to shrimp and clams with hot cornbread and the bounty of a beach vegetable stand: corn on the cob, sliced tomatoes and sauteed squash and zucchini.
Best line from dinner: "You don't bring up uteruses at the table, Karen. You just don't."
Now I know.
The catch phrase quickly became, "Have a vacation, Mom!" as the niece and nephew kept reminding their mothers that they didn't need looking after at their ages.
I was having no problem having a mini-vacation, even deciding to stay an extra day and night when it was offered.
Because I usually stay about sixteen miles north of South Nags Head, the area was new to me. We were next to the Outer Banks Pier, which I hadn't even known existed, and the beach was extremely wide there with giant tidal pools and a huge sand bar.
The variable weather made for a day of clouds Tuesday, not a problem for me and the nephew, but the others mourned the absent sun.
Frankly, as long as it's not raining hard or thunder storming, I've got no problem being on the beach on a cloudy day. Every time a sprinkle came up, we just moved under the umbrellas and waited it out.
The ocean was 75 degrees either way, so what do I care if it's not a postcard-worthy sky?
During happy hour, the nephew interrupted out girl talk by saying, "I need a dude!" referring to the absence of his people. Have we been that bad, Sister #4 asked. "It has been pretty catty," he said with typical male understatement.
Wednesday dawned hot and sunny, making everyone happy except me because I had only a few hours before hitting the road.
Make no mistake, we had a big breakfast, then I took a walk with Sister #2 (and eventually #4 joined us) before we all took our chairs out on the sandbar for some morning chatter in the ocean.
While the nephew was lamenting how calm the ocean was, it was ideal for our purposes, a fitting ending to my mini-sistertrip.
Sweaty, sandy and sticky, I threw my beach supplies in the car and headed north, letting the beach radio station provide the final soundtrack to my getaway.
Driving up 158, it was Tears for Fears "Everybody Wants to Rule the World."
Help me make the most
of freedom and of pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever
Apropos. Further up, the Beatles' "A Day in the Life" came on just as I passed signs warning me, "Inmates Working."
Let's just say I like a day in my life better than a day in theirs.
Then it was Johnnyswim, the husband/wife duo (she's Donna Summers' daughter) I saw a few months back doing "Don't Keep Heaven Busy."
Skies changing, tides raising, ain't good enough
World spinning, all heaven is watching us
Don't keep heaven busy without me
When time comes, I move on, don't turn and weep
I'll catch up soon enough, wait and see
It was a terrific going home soundtrack.
For the first time on 168, I saw a sign saying, "Welcome to the Hampton Roads Wine Region." Who knew they had one?
Then there was a Tractor Supply store, with a sign announcing, "Chicken swap this Sunday!" I'll admit I had no idea people swapped chickens. I was learning a lot on my drive today.
The e-mail waiting for me from Sister #4 when I got home made me smile. "Kare, you were such a fun houseguest!"
I can't think of a better vacation compliment.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
A Road Trip into the Past
The things you don't know about your parents.
About five years ago, my five sisters and I found out that my Dad had been married before he met my Mom.
Surprise, surprise, surprise.
And not just married, but had had two daughters.
Clearly he shoots only X chromosomes.
When this tidbit was revealed to my sisters and me, there was much hair-tearing and chest-pounding by the other five
Most of them were appalled to learn about my Dad's former life.
I just thought it was interesting that I suddenly had two half sisters. And after years of my Dad referring to me as #1 daughter, I now knew I was really his third.
And then today I unexpectedly got to meet one of them during a routine visit to my parents' house.
She walked into the room and looked at me wide-eyed, like she'd seen the second coming.
I introduced myself and she hugged me. Hard. She told me how excited she was to finally meet me.
Naturally,I looked at her for signs of similarity. After all,we have the same father so surely there would be some resemblance.
After all, my five sisters and I are all variations on a theme.
Not really. She's blond and blue-eyed liked my dad, where I'm brown eyed and haired like my Mom. She was very slender where my sisters and I are curvy.
She asked me a million questions about my life, where I lived and, most surprisingly, kept referencing my Richmond grandmother, the queen of the biscuits and the fried chicken.
It had never occurred to me that, of course, she would have known or heard about her father's mother.
I talked to her, trying to sense what we might have in common. First off, I discovered, we both live in Richmond.
Conversation and a walk ruled out commonalities in politics, lifestyle, temperament or just about everything.
Still, I had the pleasure of meeting a half-sister after a lifetime of not even knowing she existed.
Because goodness knows, five sisters wasn't enough and I needed one more.
Kidding.
The most striking part of the day was hearing (essentially) a stranger call my Dad "Dad," just like I do.
And I'm fine with that. My Dad taught me a love of books, writing and conversation.
He once referred to me as "a work of art born of love" and I realize how lucky I am to have been raised by a man like that.
Unlike my half sister.
She more than deserves to call him Dad. We both do.
About five years ago, my five sisters and I found out that my Dad had been married before he met my Mom.
Surprise, surprise, surprise.
And not just married, but had had two daughters.
Clearly he shoots only X chromosomes.
When this tidbit was revealed to my sisters and me, there was much hair-tearing and chest-pounding by the other five
Most of them were appalled to learn about my Dad's former life.
I just thought it was interesting that I suddenly had two half sisters. And after years of my Dad referring to me as #1 daughter, I now knew I was really his third.
And then today I unexpectedly got to meet one of them during a routine visit to my parents' house.
She walked into the room and looked at me wide-eyed, like she'd seen the second coming.
I introduced myself and she hugged me. Hard. She told me how excited she was to finally meet me.
Naturally,I looked at her for signs of similarity. After all,we have the same father so surely there would be some resemblance.
After all, my five sisters and I are all variations on a theme.
Not really. She's blond and blue-eyed liked my dad, where I'm brown eyed and haired like my Mom. She was very slender where my sisters and I are curvy.
She asked me a million questions about my life, where I lived and, most surprisingly, kept referencing my Richmond grandmother, the queen of the biscuits and the fried chicken.
It had never occurred to me that, of course, she would have known or heard about her father's mother.
I talked to her, trying to sense what we might have in common. First off, I discovered, we both live in Richmond.
Conversation and a walk ruled out commonalities in politics, lifestyle, temperament or just about everything.
Still, I had the pleasure of meeting a half-sister after a lifetime of not even knowing she existed.
Because goodness knows, five sisters wasn't enough and I needed one more.
Kidding.
The most striking part of the day was hearing (essentially) a stranger call my Dad "Dad," just like I do.
And I'm fine with that. My Dad taught me a love of books, writing and conversation.
He once referred to me as "a work of art born of love" and I realize how lucky I am to have been raised by a man like that.
Unlike my half sister.
She more than deserves to call him Dad. We both do.
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