Oooh, I got work to do, baby…

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What does it mean to be “retired”? For my husband, it means looking for work, every day. He gets up, makes his list, plans his day around volunteer gigs, hobbies, chores. He belongs to a number of environmental groups, surveying street trees and pulling up invasive plants. He acted as a docent at a local museum hosting an Anne Frank exhibit, leads little kids on naturalist tours in parks and middle and high school students through the court system in the Classroom Law Project. He’s taking guitar lessons and practices every day. A retired teacher, he tries to sub a day or two each week. He rarely drives, and riding the bus takes up a lot of his time. Every day he goes to the gym, and he spends hours walking our dogs in the hills around our Portland, Oregon home. When he pauses a moment, he dreams up travel destinations. All good things, right?

But there is something he doesn’t do. He doesn’t relax. An intellectual sort, you’d think he’d be reading all the time. Nope. Maybe the paper, and some occasional non-fiction related to his myriad interests. But sit down with a good old-fashioned novel? No sir. This sounds like I’m complaining, but I’m actually very proud of him. He’s become the retired person he envisioned for himself when he hung up his public school teacher hat two years ago.

But here’s the trouble: I am not fully retired yet, and when I am, my days will likely look very different. I’ll read lots of novels. I’ll sleep in whenever I can. I’ll sit around in the morning reading the paper, drinking coffee, writing in my journal. I’ll call friends for coffee, lunch or happy hour. I’ll go shopping. I’ll see matinees, both movies and plays. I’ll pour over recipes and make new foods. Oh, there will be industry too. I’ll plant flowers in pots, and keep my kitchen and bathrooms clean, do sewing projects and knit a little. I’ll volunteer more regularly than I do now, and I’ll exercise and walk the dogs. But it will be easy to fit all these things in, because my days will stretch ahead of me in an open, leisurely fashion. I rarely make lists now, so why start when I retire?

Really, it’s no wonder my husband and I find ourselves eyeing each other suspiciously these days. He can’t believe he never noticed how lazy I am. I can’t believe he’s so driven to fill every waking moment with activity. I keep urging him to slow down, take a load off, enjoy his retirement. He tries not to nag, but I can tell he disapproves of my rather laissez faire style.

I think marriage is a lot like contract negotiations. Every once in a while, both sides to sit down at the bargaining table in a good faith effort to come up with a working compromise. Here’s my first offer, written on a piece of paper, folded and shoved across the table: I’ll pick up the pace a bit and occasionally jump on his retirement train with a smile on my face…if he’ll put his feet up regularly and just read a book for fun — with a smile on his face. Both sides will agree to respect the other’s needs and desires, with no judgement.

I haven’t received his counter offer yet, and I hope we can avert a strike. Although, come to think of it, a work slowdown doesn’t sound too bad.

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For the first time in many years, I find myself avoiding the news. It upsets me. It’s hard to feel hopeful about the world when people kill each other because they have different visions of God or different religious rituals. As a result of this avoidance, I missed the story about the Afghan woman who was murdered in Kabul after admonishing a man in a market stall who sells amulets to childless women. In case you missed it too, the angry man shouted into the crowd that the woman had burned the Koran. A mob, including a number of policemen, descended on the woman and beat her to death. They also threw her body off a building and ran over it with a vehicle. People recorded it on their cell phones. It reminded me of another story a few years ago where an Afghan girl was stoned to death by her brothers after marrying a boy that her parents had not chosen for her.

When I see things like this, I deflate. I get a similar feeling when I hear of an animal that’s been abused or see a violent movie. My mother used to say, “Oh, you can’t get upset about it; it’s always been this way.” Yeah. But has it always been so relentless, so visual? No. So how are we to process this steady stream of ugliness? I think this is something we must face, and we must face it as a planet. If people in Kabul have cell phones that could record that woman’s murder, then there’s really no place too remote. And let’s face it: people are drawn to the sensational. If it’s out there, they will tune in. Our kids will tune in. What’s to be done about this? I’d really love to know.

Just after I posted this, I opened up a magazine and found this poem, by Lisel Mueller:

I sat on a gray stone bench

ringed with the ingenue faces

of pink and white impatiens

and placed my grief

in the mouth of language,

the only thing that would grieve with me.

If you’re patient, the Universe sometimes provides an answer, doesn’t it?

It’s time to break the chain…

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When I was a young woman in the 70s and 80s, I did a number of stupid things…with men. Oh, I don’t mean I sold myself or regularly picked up guys in bars or did things that would be considered deviant. And I don’t mean this was a regular occurrence. I mean that more than once I allowed men to talk me into having sex when I really didn’t want to. Or, maybe it would be more accurate to say, I allowed men to talk me into having sex for the wrong reasons. I know I am far from alone in this. In fact, most women I know could tell stories of having sex and regretting it later.

Today I read an article about Monica Lewinsky. In it she speaks of the horror of being “the most humiliated person in the world.” My God. How would that feel? Everybody already knows this, but it bears repeating: Monica was 22 years old when she had “sexual relations” with President Clinton. I’m not sure she’s ever shared the exact circumstances of the encounter(s), but I can easily imagine how it happened. When a man, especially a man with money or power or charisma (and who had more than Bill Clinton in those days?) pays special attention to a woman who is far from certain of her own power, popularity or worthiness, it is a heady feeling. Hard to resist, in fact.

Just before my 19th birthday, after my freshman year in college, I came home for the summer. It was the day before I was to get my tonsils out and my mother and I were shopping. There was a very cute guy working in the store, and he asked me on a date. My mother was thrilled. I think she worried that I had never had a real boyfriend. And she knew I had never had sex. So that night, the boy picked me up in his minivan and we went out to eat or went to a movie or something, I don’t remember. But I do remember vividly what happened afterward. When he parked in front of my house, he kissed me and we started making out. (That’s what we called it in 1972. What is is called now?) Before long, he began to get more aggressive. I was afraid to say no and did what he asked (which, by the way, did not involve actual intercourse.) Nonetheless, what in the world was I thinking? I had barely even seen a naked guy, yet I submitted to somebody I hardly knew. I was mortified. Ashamed. The next day I got my tonsils out (which is symbolic, don’t you think?) and the boy came to see me in the hospital. I could barely look at him. Maybe he felt guilty, I don’t know. He did bring me a book, a biography of Edgar Cacey, of all things. Anyway, I never saw him again. I’ve often wondered: if I had stood up for myself and said no, would we have developed a real relationship? And after the way he acted, why would I have wanted one?

What was Monica thinking when she submitted to Bill Clinton? I bet she wasn’t thinking at all. Did she suspect, deep down, that she wasn’t that special; that she wasn’t that pretty; that her body wasn’t perfect? Maybe she (or am I talking about myself here?) wondered if any man could really love her.  Maybe she was embarrassed by her voluptuous body, but had no one to help her find an identity that wasn’t tied to sex. I think about these things when I talk to the young women in my life. I’ve pointed this out before, but if I had a daughter, I would let her know over and over again how I admired her brain, her creativity, her humor, her ability to run or dance or play basketball; whatever made her, well, herself.

My parents were really young when they had us in the early 1950s. My mom got married two weeks after her 18th birthday, for God’s sake. What did she know? She loved her daughters, but she wasn’t able to nurture our spirits very well. My older sister carries a lot of baggage from my mother’s high expectations. She was beautiful, so she was expected to dazzle the world and reflect the glory back on my mother. Boy did she rebel against that! I was less physically gifted, so my mother married me off at 21 to an abusive air force fighter pilot. I didn’t rebel at all. Ah well, that’s a story for another time.

So now Monica is 41 years old. She’s got an advanced degree in economics. She recently gave a TED talk. Most importantly though, after being thrown under the bus by the handlers of the most powerful person in the world, and being the butt of countless jokes, she’s survived.  And I, for one, think we owe her a heartfelt apology.

I’ll start:  I’m so sorry, honey. I hope you’ve at last found self-respect and healing. You have a lot to teach us.  Don’t be afraid any more. Love, Sandy

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Today I have to face something I truly dread: deciding whether to continue medical treatment for my 10 1/2-year-old dog, who is not actively dying of a serious disease. My feelings are so complicated, and I’m not totally sure why.

For nearly 20 years, I’ve worked with the OHSU Center for Ethics in Healthcare on end-of-life issues. I’ve produced at least a dozen videos for professional and public education on Oregon’s POLST program, which stands for Physician Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment. I feel strongly that people have the right to determine how they want to spend their final years on this planet, and this program makes that possible. A physician signs a medical order for a patient or their legal representative, and that order outlines what the patient does and does not want at the end of life. It deals with things like CPR, feeding tubes, a person’s desire to die at home. The POLST program began here in Oregon and is now being used and/or developed in a couple of dozen states. It works, and I’m proud to have helped get the word out.

When my mother died eight years ago, she had a POLST form, which told us that she wished to be allowed to die naturally if it should come to that. She did not want heroic measures taken if her quality of life would be seriously compromised. She was head injured, and even though we knew what her wishes were, it was still hard to decline treatment and allow her to die. But we did what she told us she wanted. It took her a week in hospice to pass away.

So today I am so conflicted. Bertie the Cairn terrier is nearly 11 years old. He suffers from severe allergies, so he’s had a lot of medical care over the years, naturopathic and specialty care. He’s cost thousands of dollars, has to have weekly shots, and has become increasing cantankerous in his dotage. But he’s a strong little sucker, and he just keeps plugging along. Just last year, we had to shell out $1000 to remove ten of his teeth. And it didn’t help his horrendous breath one bit.

Now Bertie is suffering from persistent diarrhea. He’s lost a couple of pounds — and he’s a small dog — and the vet isn’t sure what’s going on with him. Now they want to do a series of tests, ultrasounds and lab work, that sort of thing. Hundreds of dollars, for certain. Today I told the vet that I did not feel we could sink a bunch more money into treatment for Bertie. I have done my utmost for 10 years to take good care of this little dog. I loved him like crazy when he was a pup, and I’ve tried to overlook his faults. He is independent — not affectionate — barks like a fiend, gets in fights with other dogs, is ravenously hungry all the time (he will grab a sandwich out of your hand if you’re not careful, I swear) and is just generally a difficult dog. I’ve long said Bert is a problem I just can’t solve. I can’t give him away; nobody wants a testy little terrier with serious allergies. When he was diagnosed, he was only three — just too young to put down. I couldn’t do it, period.

And now I find this so painful. I imagine people think it should be easy, right? Just put him down. Take him to a shelter. Refuse treatment, and let him waste away. When I tell the vet I don’t want to spend more money on this dog, I start to cry, every time. I’m supposed to be quite practical about these things. I know that at end of life, it’s a time to be grateful for the time you’ve had and understand that quality of life it just so much more important than length of life. But I feel so bad that I can’t fight for Bertie like I fought for my last dog, who had cancer at six years old. I feel so guilty that I don’t love him enough to continue to do everything possible to keep him going. I know I should be practical here, but I just didn’t think it would be so sad.

“The bubble-headed bleach blonde comes on at 5…

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What does it mean to be a news reporter these days? At the risk of sounding hopelessly old-fashioned, I think the fourth estate really may be losing its way. I know what you’re thinking: people have forever despaired over journalism practices as town criers made way for broadsheets, newspapers for on-air broadcasts, and now for wikipedia, podcasts and blogs.
No matter the medium, though, many of my concerns over news reporting are the same as they’ve always been. I believe that the number one rule is to leave yourself the hell out of the story. (see Brian Williams and Bill O’Reilly.) Unless you are a central figure, you have no business placing yourself in it. When I was a TV news reporter, I sometimes appeared in the story in a stand-up to sum up or make a point for which there were no visuals. But I never would have said what I’ve been hearing lately: “I reached out to the Governor’s office, but they didn’t call me back,” or “I’m the only reporter who got the interview.” Don’t care. And why do news anchors feel they have to make inane comments following a story, such as “Gee, that’s so sad,” or “Wow, that’s really scary.” For God’s sake, thank the reporter if you must, but I don’t want your opinion!
But this is nitpicking, isn’t it? What’s really got me thinking today is the 24-hour news cycle phenomenon and what that has come to mean. When your programming appetite is never satisfied, you’ll put anything down your throat. Or more accurately, down our throats.
So it all comes down to the question of what’s news and what’s commentary? There’s Rush and Rachel and Keith and Sean. There’s the Daily Show and CNN and the entire Fox News operation. Or Slate or the Skimm or Huffington Post and whatever right-wing so-called news feeds there are on the internet. Today I heard Rachel Maddow skewer O’Reilly and Fox for supposedly threatening reporters who called old Bill out for exaggerating his role in covering the Falklands War and the murder of nuns in El Salvador. But whether or not I agree with her, I’m not sure I really see her as the reporter she purports herself to be. She’s a commentator, as are John Stewart and O’Reilly and Limbaugh. They can be brilliant of course. They can make us think and they can make us laugh. But when I want the facts — the reality — I don’t go to them. I go to NPR or the New York Times, and even sometimes the network news (gasp.) Why? Because to this aging news reporter, those institutions are still held to a high standard of accuracy (Brian Williams notwithstanding. See? He got in the way of the story he was reporting.) When they screw up, they print retractions and publicly apologize and try to make it right. Too many people are watching and don’t hesitate to call them out. I find that of some comfort. There’s an awful lot of anonymity on the internet. You can say anything, whether it’s true or not. And if you’re only watching MSNBC or Fox, you are not getting just the facts.
Tell me, who do you trust when you need to know what’s real?

Channeling Miss Grammar

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I can’t imagine I am the only one who notices a disturbing trend among news reporters and anchors. In an effort to make their copy sound active, they add “ing” to all the verbs. I’ll give you an example from my own life. Here goes:

“Tough night for Sandy last night, lying awake with a stuffy nose and body aches, her husband hoping to sleep through the snoring, their dog getting away from all the coughing at the end of the bed. Sandy still feeling crappy this morning, complaining that she might not get to go out tonight for Valentine’s Day. Jim, hoping she’s feeling well enough to cook him something to eat.”

You get the picture. Next time you watch ABC World News Tonight, listen to the way they talk. It is a whole new vernacular. As many of you know, I used to be a TV news reporter, and I assure you we didn’t used to talk like this. Though I’m not certain what grammatical abomination they’re committing, I do know it makes my teeth clench every time I hear it. If you know how to describe this phenomenon in grammatical terms, let me know. I can’t actually write them to complain unless I know exactly what they’re doing. William Safire I obviously am not.

Beauty’s only skin deep, yeah yeah yeah…

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When I was 19 years old, I met a woman from Paris named Francoise. She was a movie editor for Orson Welles, which is obviously cool enough. But what I remember about her was not what she did for a living. It was her attitude: She exuded confidence, something I sorely lacked. Francoise was tall — I’m guessing 5’10” — and she probably weighed at least 150. She was large boned, small breasted and wide hipped. She was about 30 I suppose, and her face was pretty enough. But there was something about the way she walked, a sort of womanly swagger. She knew she was fabulous, and she figured everyone else could see it, too. It was riveting.
I have always wondered about people who are comfortable in their own skins. You’ve met them, right? Even if their looks don’t conform to the standard set by the media, they see themselves as worthy and desirable. People like that are astounding to me. Francoise blew my mind.
I grew up with an older sister who was a ballerina. She was beautiful, tiny, long-legged and graceful. Here I was, short and sturdy, large breasted and round shouldered, funny. There are photos of us where she is in her dance outfit striking a ballet position. I’m standing next to her in my corduroy romper trying to copy her, and failing. Around this time my mother laughingly told me that my sister’s ballet teacher suggested I try music, since I obviously didn’t have the right stuff for dance. Not to put too fine a point on it all these years later, but my mother should never have told me that.
I’ve spent my whole life wishing I had a different body. Instead of appreciating the miracles of a healthy immune system and my ability to think and love and laugh, I focus on the physical imperfections. It’s shameful, really, how much time I’ve wasted comparing myself to models and movie stars. I wish I could tell you I’ve stopped doing it, since I recognize the how superficial and ungrateful it makes me. But I still struggle to love my “meat suit” as my friend, Spencer, calls it.
I don’t have a daughter, but many of my friends do, and I have nieces. I have made it a point to befriend all the young women in my life. I always tell them the same things: You are beautiful just the way you are, and you must always believe in yourself. You deserve to be loved, cherished, respected, and if somebody doesn’t treat you that way, head for the door and don’t look back. I so wish somebody had told me those things. Maybe I would have believed them.
The last time I saw Francoise, she was swimming in a hotel pool in Phoenix on a hot afternoon with her top off. I don’t remember for certain, but I don’t think anybody had the guts to tell her to put it back on. She might not have looked like Beyonce, but she was definitely fabulous.

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pens and Pencils.”

I first learned to type in the TV newsroom on an Adler manual. I really had no business working there; I had been plucked from a community college classroom where I was a radio and TV student and thrust into a temporary job at a Portland, Oregon ABC affiliate station. I had no idea what I was doing. When I put my fingers on the typewriter keyboard, that fact was obvious.

The year was 1979, and I was 26 years old. Already divorced. No college degree. And, as I mentioned, I couldn’t type. I initially started at the station as a production assistant for a morning show. I was “hired” for two months to take over for a woman who was having surgery. Miraculously, I ended up staying at that station, in various capacities, for 10 years.

When my two month stint was up, some kind soul at the station found me another temporary gig in the traffic department. Now this isn’t what it sounds like; the traffic department kept track of every show and ad that was aired. Everything was entered on a big, clunky computer. My job was to do data entry on what was called the “log.” That way, if somebody wanted to go back and see what was on TV, they could look it up. Supposedly this was to keep things fair. Advertisers could be sure their commercials were run, the station could keep a record of public service programming, that sort of thing. This was one of my first experiences with data entry, and it didn’t help that I couldn’t type.

Not long after this, a permanent job came up in the newsroom. It was as assistant to the newsroom secretary, whose job was to answer the phones (which were always ringing) and to generally babysit the producers and reporters and camera people and editors. The assistant needed to type letters for the news director and oversee the scheduling. A perfect job for someone who couldn’t type! I was hired. The only reason I can think of that I got that job is that I happened to be at the right place at the right time. Oh, also because of my winning personality. As I recall it, nobody even asked me about my educational background. Can you imagine this happening now?

God, how I remember trying to type mistake-free letters for the news director. Bless him, he was so patient with me. I was absolutely terrified those first few months. Talk about a hotbed of intellects and egos and tempers! It was loud and busy and scary. I loved it.

After a few months, I had made a few friends, and one of them began to teach me to write news stories. I’d come in on the weekends and she’d give me some wire copy to rewrite. By this time, I’d begun to do a little more than hunt-and-peck at the typewriter, but I was still slow. My hands are relatively small, so that pesky “a” key was a tough one on a manual. But I kept at it, and eventually I could write a story. We used eight-ply carbon paper in those days, and the scripts would have to be typed in a narrow column in the middle of the page so the words could be read from a teleprompter. I shudder to think of how much of that paper I wasted with typos. I learned to neatly black out some of the mistakes so the anchor could still read the copy.

Gradually I got better. Writing and typing. We graduated to electric typewriters. I graduated to the assignment desk and became a part-time news writer. That job had the steepest learning curve I’ve ever experienced, and consequently, it was the most rewarding of jobs. After a couple of years, the editors began sending me out on stories, and the final seven years of my stint at the station I was an on-air news reporter. Looking back, it still amazes me that I was able to accomplish that. It was like getting a college degree from a newsroom.

Now I’m actually a really fast typist, and I can’t write a word if it’s not from a keyboard. I have a memory of sitting at the old Adler at my desk, cigarette between my fingers. I’d lean back in my chair, take a puff, think of the next line of the news story, set the cigarette down in the ashtray and type. Then I’d pick up the butt again and do the same thing over again. A few years after I became a news writer/reporter, they banned smoking in the newsroom. I couldn’t write a news story without a cigarette in my hand, so I’d join the old guys in the smoker’s room under the stairs by Studio A and write my story longhand. Then I’d go back to my desk and type it up. I’m amazed my co-workers didn’t complain about how much of a time suck that was. Well, maybe they did. I haven’t had a cigarette since 1988, so I can’t imagine it now.

Recently I took a writing workshop, and one of our assignments was to write three pages a day by hand. No computer keyboards. Cartoonist Linda Barry claims that’s the best way to be creative; to use your hand-to-brain connection with an actual pen on actual paper. I guess there’s something to that, maybe more so for visual artists like Linda Barry. But for me, thumb joints stiffening with arthritis, gliding my fingers along a keyboard is a pain-free and powerful connection. I don’t need a cigarette to make it happen, either.

Damn, this traffic jam…

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An editorial in our local paper this morning claims that most Oregonians don’t want to adopt a low-carbon fuel standard proposed by the Governor because it would make gas prices higher. It also claims that, since Oregon’s contribution to carbon dioxide levels is relatively low, there’s no reason to work at getting it even lower. Oh, the feeling of despair that stirs in me! To make it worse, the paper reported today that auto, motorcycle, pedestrian and bicycle accidents are all up in Oregon. Why? Because, the paper says, since gas prices have dropped, more people are driving. As simple as that. So, knowing this, the editorial staff actually advised its readers to contact their representatives to tell them not to support the low-carbon initiative. What planet are they living on? Not mine.

My husband is one of the few people I know who really, truly tries to drive as little as he can. We do not live right on a bus line, but he walks a mile or so to catch the bus pretty much whenever he goes out. I’m not as dedicated, but I do ride the bus quite often. Almost none of my friends ever do. In their defense, it is very time consuming and not always very convenient. Still.

So here’s my question: What ever happened to doing the right thing? Not because it is cheaper, but because it is just the right thing do to? I always get annoyed when people talk about getting solar panels or driving a hybrid just to save money. We have solar panels and drive a hybrid and recycle and compost because we are trying to lower our carbon footprint. Why do we feel so alone in doing this?

I bet some of you reading this think I’m being self-righteous, right? OK. Fair enough. But consider this: the other day I looked into a dumpster sitting in front of my neighbor’s house (it was one of those low-sided ones, so I wasn’t snooping) and was dismayed to see the thing full of cardboard boxes and other recyclables. These are 30-something professionals with small children who moved up to Oregon from California. I can’t believe they know better; it makes me think they just don’t care. I want you to know I did not put a note on their dumpster, which by the way, was the third one they’ve had this year. I shudder to think of what went in the landfill from the other ones.

I realize that this issue raises the hackles of people on both sides. But whether you believe in climate change or not, doesn’t it just make sense to use less fossil fuel? If not to lower carbon emissions, then just to ease traffic? (which is terrible and getting worse in Portland) Or just to keep the number of accidents down? All of these are reasons to drive less, but really, self-righteous or not, we need to do it because it is the right thing to do.

I’d like to thank Jamie Fraser…

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Oasis.”

Once I had a dog named Lucy who I loved. She was a 100-pound cattle-herding dog known as a Bouvier des Flanders. Not only was she spectacular looking, but you could take her anywhere and she would good-naturedly allow the hands of strangers to stroke her magnificent head. Wow, was she a head-turner! Everybody would stop to ask about her. I was as proud as if I had given birth to her myself! Tragically though, Lucy was also doomed. At six years old, she was diagnosed with lymphoma, cancer of the lymph nodes. Our choices were chemo or death within a few short weeks. I simply couldn’t deal with the speed at which this thing was progressing, so we opted for chemotherapy. Lucy was stoic about the whole thing, of course; I was an absolute wreck. I swear I cried more during the next few months than I have ever cried in my life. More than for some people I know. Shameful yes, but how I grieved for that dog. Despite the vet’s best efforts and way too much of our hard-earned cash, she was gone in three months.

Here’s how I coped: I re-read the Outlander series of books by Diana Gabaldon. Within those pages I found sanctuary, far away in space and time from my own life and sorrow. While Lucy lay panting at my feet hour after hour, shedding her wooly coat in great clumps, I’d  travel to 18th century Scotland, where heroic Jamie Fraser lived among the Highlander clans. I’d immerse myself in what I maintain is the greatest literary romance of the century: Claire Beauchamp Randall and James Malcolm Alexander MacKenzie Fraser. I followed these people as they struggled to prevent a war with England that would destroy the Highland clans and their way of life. I followed them into pre-revolutionary war America. I followed these people as if they were real.

I know some people turn up their noses at the Outlander books, thinking they are romance novels; I’ve seen them shelved that way in bookstores. But they are actually historical fiction with a bit of science fiction/fantasy thrown in. There is something about the way Gabaldon writes these characters that speaks to me (and millions of others like me, I might add — mostly women). If I could conjure up people like that in the pages of books, I would in a heartbeat and die happy. Gabaldon says she started writing the first book more than 25 years ago by posting chapters on a ListServe late at night while her kids were sleeping. I guess that was the earliest blog; a place where you could post your writing and talk to people online and share ideas. Now there are eight or so of those books, and when it’s 3 am and I’m lying in bed worrying about something, I can still join Jamie and Claire’s world and get away from mine. How marvelous is that?