A Really Smart Person is Interested in Your Thoughts


I got an interesting question from a gentleman we all love who is interested in your, my fluffy readers, thoughts! After my last entry “Dear Slushkitten” and I’m afraid my next entry coming soon “Dear Rubbuh Fox”, this blog can really use some class – the class, maturity, and curiosity (without necessarily being “solemn or earnest”)  that Bhaskar carries in his pocket and in his heart wherever he goes, I am sure, and certainly to every meeting…. Here’s Bhaskar’s question….

Dear Cara,

The question, “Is a serious question prohibited?” is not the question I actually want to ask.

My question is simpler: How can I use my sobriety to persuade newcomers that:

  1. their recovery is valuable and important; 
  2. that they should take themselves seriously; 
  3. that it’s worthwhile to be ambitious; 
  4. and that ambition and dreams are not at odds with humility and being “another bozo on the bus”

A clarification: I don’t think that to accept these things means that one has to be solemn or earnest.  I don’t think that this means that one’s ambitions have to be discussed with all and sundry, in meetings or even with one’s sponsor. In AA, as in the rest of the world, one chooses one’s confidants carefully. It’s better to miss out on a really good confidant than to make the mistake of choosing one who’s imprudent or indiscreet.  

But I do think that one’s sobriety has to be taken seriously.  (If you’re a step person, steps six and seven are relevant.  They are non-trivial and they are tough — they have to be taken as complex, and taking those steps is a process that should take years, not days.)

I’m expressing an opinion as though I were asking a question, of course. But there is a question?  How do even the newly sober (say 6+ months and greater) recognize this in their friends?  Does being part of the fellowship mean encouraging people to explore all their abilities, or it does stop with “mere sobriety,” whatever that is?

I also write this question because I am interested in the answers of the people on this forum — they are the people by whom I would like to be influenced, not necessarily in the other direction.

Finally, although “Is a serious question prohibited?” is not the actual question, I do get excited by sentences like the truth or falsehood of sentences like “This sentence is false.”  And I’m always delighted to discuss those types of statements — rather than sobriety, for example.

I do like the blog, its lightness and its comfort, its implicit but relaxed assurance of friendship and support.



We’re looking forward to your comments!




Dear Slushkitten

Dearest Slush:

What the hell am I gonna do about the cob webs that are gonna grow in my lady parts while I can no longer sleep with people who don’t respect me? I can tell right now, they are expanding, wrapping their every so fibrous web of around the scar tissue of my fragile fertile womb!! Oh the horror the horror!

Dear Slushkitten (love love love the name, btw),

Thank you for your question! I love you because we are both in love with love and have simply divine taste in the men we fall in love with. I’m not being a smart ass – I mean it. We pick suuuuuper cute shells of dudes, fill them up with make-believe and squishy-bunny-baby-face heavenly qualities, and then get brutally wounded when they can, and/or choose, not to meet our nonsensical and hysterically romantic expectations. The expectations are of the nonsensical sort because, I’ll speak for myself, I have absolutely no idea what reasonable expectations are. Unless dude is flagrantly repellant (and oooooh I have met many repellants), they pretty much call the shots and I morph to their needs. I’m no challenge.. I’m all “whatever”. I hear dudes like the chase and I’m all “whatever. I’m tired. And bored.” I didn’t especially care for any of the sweet angels from heaven I’ve met over the past 7 years – there were some exceptions, but not many – so my heart was not always broken. Hell, it was barely beating.  The expectations are of the hysterically romantic sort because in sobriety, everything should be different, and everything IS different, but now what? I know what NOT to do, but what am I TO do? In my first (and only) sober relationship, I did what I am good at – threw the ball in his court and waited to see what happened. And what happened? I was left standing alone, longing for that disappointing, pissed off, turned off, cute shell, while said shell was longing for someone more bland… I guess. More boring and detached – stable maybe? Is that what stable is? Who the hell knows what he wants. You, sweet Slushkitten, and I are more than they (CM and TP-FFB, respectively) could handle. They are not to blame for anything, really. OK – I didn’t type that with a straight face. But as far as giving me, or not giving me, what I needed, he is really not to blame. How can he live up to my expectations when I don’t know what my expectations are? How can he give me what I need when I have no idea what I need? I guess that’s what recovery is about – putting the kibosh on my desperate need for instant gratification – I want to be recovered NOW. I want to be adored NOW. So, instead of being bothered wondering what not to do, or what to do, the answer is to do nothing (hi-five, Nelissa! I listen). All in good time. Calm the fuck down. We have the rest of our lives to live! And I sort of think we’ll never have the answers, so may as well have fun with the imaginary partners because sooner or later we’ll be loved to death. So, I hope I’ve answered your question, kitty kitty Slushkitten kitty! What was your question anyway? Hmm. Well, enough of this love blather.. let’s talk about sex!

I totally understand the question of what to do about those cobwebs in your lady parts! You are a Virgo, so it is easy for me to change the subject in my brain when I start thinking about your lady parts because you, Miss Virgo, are as pure as the driven snow… and I’m only thinking about your lady parts because YOU brought them up! Anyway, a sage sober lady once gave me a little advice about sharing in meetings of the horror! the horror! of the horrible days in my previous life when I was sleeping indiscriminately with people who didn’t respect me, and I didn’t care about (nor remember). The advice? Don’t do it. Don’t have meaningless exploits anymore, and don’t share about past ones in meetings of mixed company. I would never go into detail, of course, (well, except that once, but I’m pretty sure it was appropriate) but she said that once you mention promiscuity as part of your story, the fellas stop listening to you and can only think of… your lady parts!!! Makes sense. Unfortunately, I got the heads-up too late. For me, hearing other gals’ stories of shame helped me hugely in earlier sobriety. Like sooooo many other shameful and disturbing behaviors, I honestly thought I was the only one ever to have done them! Hearing that a beautiful and seemingly well-adjusted woman did the same things and survived, was like another invitation to join the club, that I belonged. One time after I shared and was feeling mortified about having over-shared (as always), a lovely and wise friend told me I didn’t over-share, it was OK, and that 75% of the women in the room could probably relate. It’s like everyone’s pain and shame, including mine, collectively bring comfort. Go, AA! But anyway, my dilemma is this: how do I nonchalantly let FH and all my other imaginary boyfriends know I don’t have VD? Seriously! If sage sober lady is correct, then all FH and my other IBs do is think about my lady parts! Because, you know, recovering alcoholics don’t have anything better than my lady parts to think about. This is ridiculous. I can’t in the same sentence sing the praises of AA for teaching me that I am not, nor was I ever, a skank, but then admit that I spend a considerable amount of time thinking about how I can work “I don’t have any STDs” into a share. I could just raise my hand in front of dozens of people and say, “My name is Slushkitty and I am a grateful STD-free alcoholic”. Or I could say something like, “I know I talked about my sexual indiscretions in the past, but did I mention I was smart enough to buy stock in Trojan, and God knows that was good thinking, right?”. The best way to erase the ideas FH and IBs may have in their heads of my lady parts and impure prowess is to mention sex at every turn. “How are you, SK?”. “I’m fantastic! I’m learning to forgive myself for sleeping with half of the Eastern Seaboard! Thank God I didn’t get any STDs!”. Or I could casually mention it in my blog and hope the word gets around, you know, juuuust in case. Speaking of subtle….

And speaking of inappropriately putting everyone’s STD worries at ease (everyone including those who really didn’t want to know one way or the other), I once went out on a second date! I didn’t really have many of those, hence the exclamation point. Lots of burnt rubber in front of my house. I partook of the online dating nightmare a few years ago – it still really embarrasses me to admit that – and met this one particular fella who brought new meaning to the word “confident”. We went out for lunch in Harvard Square one day, and it was ok, he was nice. Now, I am a fairly small person, and I was like a towering, hulking sasquatch next to this guy, we’ll call him “Karl”. I felt so huge and so unsexy, and I was sooo numb to the world, I was practically dead, but poor Karl didn’t seem to mind… or notice. We went out a second time. Yackedy yackedy yack yack yack he went on non-stop on our at least five-mile walk yackedy-yacking about his supermodel ex and how much money he has, and I so didn’t care and was just happy to hear a voice other than the mean ones in my head. We decided to come back to my place – I had to meet my couch and TV quota. Looking back, that was screaming the wrong message. But then, I had no idea what he was thinking. I’m sure I was pleasant enough but I’m pretty sure I gave him no reason to think I wanted a piece of that. So, we’re on the couch, I am showing no more sexual interest in him than I am showing my cats, and he casually hands me this envelope from Quest Diagnostics. After our first date, Karl went and got himself tested for STDs, and gave me the results and the phone numbers I could call if I needed verification!!! WTF!!! I appreciate his cleanliness and all, but what did he think my reaction would be? What did he want it to be? Should I have rolled over and assumed the position? Is the official paper bearing negative results for genital warts considered foreplay in online dating? Depressing. Again, I’m sure I was pleasant enough but I’m pretty sure I gave him no indication that I would ever consider having him touch me until my test results came back from Quest Diagnostics, which could take a few months. At least.

So, Slushkitten, I hope this has been helpful! My advice – keep your cobwebs to yourself. No one needs to know anything until they need to know something, and at that time, Quest Diagnostics can help you with everything you need to know! Hang in there, buttercup! I love you.


Dear Cassie


Here’s my first response to your “Dear Slushkitty/Alkie” questions! More to follow…, so stay tuned!

From Cassie:

Should I have yogurt + granola or apples + peanut butter for dinner tonight? Also, what do I want to do with my life? Because I have no idea.

Dear Cassie,
I trust you have eaten since you asked this question. Sorry it took me so long to respond – this place expects me to work sometimes, which is complete bullshit. Anyway, thank you for your question! Apples and peanut butter. Definitely. And it’s funny you should ask this! I actually have some noteworthy feelings about peanuts! You’re probably too young to remember the world before everyone was all irrational and alarmist about nuts and nut dust (heh heh, nut dust). Presently, I don’t know ANYONE who has ever even once been killed by Darth Peanut and his nut dust. (I imagine Darth Peanut looks like Darth Vader dressed up in a top hat and monocle). Anyway, bee sting allergies I totally understand because you can’t really do anything about that. No one deliberately eats bees, not one with a bee sting allergy anyway. I know people who have bee sting allergies and have survived childhood and many a summer outdoors by doing two simple things – wearing a bracelet and telling the camp counselor. There were never any dramatic warnings of impending doom, certain death. Now we apparently live in a toxic invisible cloud of nut dust that didn’t exist in the later decades of the 20th century. I worked with one of those nut cases (sorry – couldn’t resist) with the Fear of the Nut and she had to let evvvvvvverybody know, like it made her exotic or interesting or something. Seriously! She was actually my boss, let’s call her “C U Next Tuesday”, and she is pretty lucky she fired me when she did. She was one of th… sigh… I am already getting bored thinking about her. I could complain about her for weeks – I actually have complained about her for weeks to anyone who’d listen and I haven’t even worked there in six years! A pretty common theme amongst the kind people in AA is that, pre-sobriety, every boss they ever had was an asshole. My experience was no different. C.U.N.T. was a total asshole. She truly was. C.U.N.T. made fun of the way I dressed – she used to sing circus music when I walked by – yeah, ha ha clever, funny unless you’re me – and she pounded her fists in rage on my desk on more than one occasion. Grown woman! God, that was a miserable place! But moving along… at least for as long as I have been back in Boston, which is seven years, all my bosses have been colossal assholes, but my present boss’s assholeness has been shrinking! Why, just the other day, I was so excited to tell Nelissa of a professional breakthrough! My boss came into my office all pissed off because I didn’t do something he was waiting for me to do, and when he whined that sniveling whine, instead of blushing or jumping out of my skin or crying or getting all defensive or making excuses (lying) or feeling overwhelmed with the chronic fear of losing my livelihood, I just told him I didn’t do it, that I’d do it right away – I didn’t even give him a reason or an apology! He was fine with that and just left and carried on in his sniveling way, and I just resumed writing my blog and ignoring his emails. Such progress I am making!!! Really, it was so encouraging to realize a few minutes after that happened that I had experienced and reacted appropriately to what the situation actually was – a minor, and pretty inconsequential bump in his (low) expectation of me. It was an uncompleted task, not the end of my life as I knew it because I was going to get justifiably fired because I am a huge, brainless, incompetent failure (yes, I know, I should be working, not dicking around, but even if I was working, I’d have had the same reaction. I’ve only started being brazenly apathetic in the past 4 years). Yay! The weight of the world is slowly being lifted off my shoulders! It’s marvelous, as in, I MARVEL!!!, when I notice that life is so much less complicated and serious and stressful than it has always been simply because I am sober. It’s fun to recognize it! It’s like a Scoobie Snack for my soul, and I know there are more in Shaggy’s pocket. Now, back to peanuts! There was a lot of downtime when I worked for C.U.N.T. so, naturally, I would spend this time plotting her death. Anaphylactic Shock had a nice ring to it. She was an annoying coffee-drinker, very dramatic, had to let evvvvvvverybody know how she can’t function without her coffee blah blah, “Gotta go to Bucky’s! It soothes the beast!”. So, I figured, since she was gravely allergic to peanuts and annoyingly addicted to coffee, I’d casually offer to make coffee one day and then grind some peanuts in with the coffee beans. Sociopathic, but brilliant! Right? Don’t judge – I didn’t do it. I don’t know how to make coffee. So, sweet Cassie, the short answer is apples and peanut butter, unless you have the Fear of the Nut, and then yogurt and granola. The lesson in this story is: if you decide to make a personality 180, suddenly develop a peanut allergy, and find yourself managing sociopathic alcoholics for a living, you might want to keep that nut secret to yourself. 

As far as what you want to do with your life? Easy! You are as gorgeous as you are brilliant, and it’s about time you get recognized for both. So I think it’d be purrfect if you could invent a machine or a procedure that would safely and conveniently allow you to remove your brain from your skull. You can then take out your brain, dress it up in a sexy swimsuit, and start making your millions as a supermodel!

The Hysteric Minding the Klutz.


I swear, I promise I’ll get to the “Dear Slushkitty” advice chunk o’ blog, but first…

Image Maurice Sendak died on Tuesday and I am heartbroken about it. A lovely little chapter of my childhood gone gone gone…sigh… big big sigh. Sigh. For the past few days, all I’ve done is watch “Really Rosie” (circa 1975) on youtube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9Y3mWDkB6o&feature=relmfu and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsuJOwSJ7e4&feature=relmfu), all weepy and sentimental. Oh Rosie, Really Rosie! “I am a star! I’m famous and wonderful and everybody loves me and wants to be me! Who can blame them?”. And Alligator standing behind Rosie, making fun of her by holding up signs that say “Horrible” and “Nuts” – this was definitely the part of her story I identified with most. “You better believe me! I’m a great big deal! BELIEVE ME! BELIEEEEEEEEEVE ME!”. The heels! The hat! The feather! Allll the feathers! The confidence! The imagination! Carole King! Oh Rosie Rosie! I love you so much! If Rosie was alive today, I think she’d be in her early 40s, like me. “The enchanted one – that’s me!”. I bet she’d still be enchanted. I bet she wouldn’t be selling dial-up modems. I wonder if she ever had a drug problem. I bet she did. A lot of off-beat personalities with their kooky imaginations do. And then they get better. And then they resume Life with their off-beat personalities with their kooky imaginations, but now they have real friends, not just imaginary ones, and not just convenient ones. It happens, we all get better if we really try, and isn’t that just tops, just the grooviest? Wheeeeeeee! Finding an outlet for said imagination is another story – a girl can get only so much mileage out of pretty dresses and pretty make-up…

I don’t remember playing Dress-Up as a child. I also don’t remember having an opinion either way on clothes, which makes absolutely no sense – you’d know why I say this if you saw my closet(s). Now, make-up? Now we’re talking! Kids are quite the orangutangs, and I was no different. I don’t know if my mother just kept her make-up and nail polish on the very top shelf of her closet or if that’s just where she hid it from me, but I wanted it, so I came, I saw, I climbed, I conquered. I managed one time to shatter a nail polish bottle with my bare hands. My mom was a hero for running like hell to me when she heard my blood-curdling screams from her bedroom, and saving me from blindness from the toxic “Cha-Ching Cherry” goo and glass that were splattered on my eyes, face, and hands – the horror! The heroics! Actually, I just broke the top of the bottle by turning the cap the wrong way, and probably got one drop on my Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt – I have always been a hysterical, nervous wreck, even at age, like, 5. My mother wasn’t angry, she was just awed that I managed to break the bottle with my bare (and tiny!) hands. But soon enough, I would become known as “The Kiss of Death” because I managed to break everything I touched. This hasn’t changed. Back then it was Christmas presents (it was Glo-Worm one year – ripped the zipper right off the back, then it wouldn’t light up when I hugged it. I’d have to hug it with one arm and squeeze the glow stick with the other. Sad, right?), now I break electronics, which is another valuable skill I bring to the electronics company I work for.

Anyhooters, back to Rosie. In the past couple of days, I’ve been consumed by some funny, some disturbing memories that “Really Rosie” sparked. There was an animated special made of the book (links above – watch!!! It’s brilliant! Carole King!), and it was showing at the library. My sister “Bachel” and I went one rainy summer afternoon – I remember it was rainy because the rainwater at the bottom of the hill didn’t drain properly, so there was an ocean of a puddle by the back entrance of the library. Bachel, on two separate occasions, tried jumping over the puddle for fun but landed instead with a big splash on all fours, face-first in the middle of the puddle – soaked, crying. Did I mention that she did this on two separate occasions? I don’t think I thought it was funny at the time – but now it is. (Payback is a bitch, eh Bach? Cheers to telling our entire high school that I spent a few hours in the ER getting a shampoo bottle cut off my finger. So there!!! How does it feel??). At the time of the splash, I was a hysterical nervous wreck (as per usual) over how much trouble I was going to get in because Bachel fell in a puddle. This was a pattern. Bachel slid down the banister once, fell off sideways half-way down, and landed face-first onto the first floor. Always calm and rational in a crisis, I ran upstairs and hid in my room. I got in trouble. One time, Bachel was riding her bike and skid on some sand on the road, and fell face-first onto the pavement. Always calm and rational in a crisis, I ran home and hid in my room. I got in trouble. Now that I think about it, I don’t even know what “trouble” meant! My mother has an award-winning hairy eyeball – maybe that was all the “trouble” I got in (suffering the hairy eyeball) and all it took for me to be remorseful, so very remorseful for things my sister did. The hysteric minding the klutz. Oh dear.

Ummm – this might all sound kinda depressing, but I’ve been delighting all day! I haven’t thought about this stuff in 30+ years! So fun! It’s funny that I always thought of myself as uncoordinated and clumsy – getting stitches in my head three times doing the same thing and all. But Bachel? What a mess! Always soaked, bleeding. One summer she broke both wrists. She was a failed orangutang and flew off the monkey bars and broke her wrist, got her cast off, then two weeks later (2 days later?) broke the other wrist falling while roller-skating. I guess I wasn’t around for those accidents because I would have been in BIG trouble. Haaa. I must have been hiding in my closet, blossoming into a hysterical nervous wreck. Haaa! I was probably hiding in the closet, yes, but only to apply the forbidden nail polish. “I am a star! I’m famous and wonderful and everybody loves me and wants to be me!” but for the love of God, don’t ask me to babysit.

I thank you so so so much for Really Rosie, Mr. Sendak! She got this girl through some tough times. Rest in Peace. Sigh… big big sigh. Sigh.



Crackin’, recoverin’, workin’!

Hi! Remember me? 

First, I’m so flattered that anyone would be interested in my advice for “Dear Alkie/Slushkitty”! I’m also glad that most of you got the joke of maladjusted me being an advice columnist. I hope you realize that the advice you’re going to get (one of these days) is from the same girl that thought it was a good idea to demand that the Marin County Police send a helicopter to rescue her when she got caught three sheets to the wind in the middle of a trail while hiking Mount Tam one night. “Mount” as in “mountain”, nowhere to go but down, straight down, 2572 ft down. Goddamn Germans and their Oktoberfests. And their rope swings. *Cringe*. But yes, thank you for all of your questions! I am giddy to answer them! How about this – I answer them within the week (or so)? I need to get ya’ll current on my life before I can thoughtfully answer them. For now, let’s talk procrastination and paralysis! Wheeee!!!!

But first… Second, I am so touched that some of you have been wondering where I have been! Yay! I have friends! Or as my therapist (hi, John!) calls you, my “adoring fans”! In a lifetime of lonely, he asked where all my adoring fans were. I have finally found them, the modest term being “friends”. Love love love love love you guys. Anyway, I’m still here. I have had so much shit going on in Reality, in Recovery, and in this constant Romance and Psychosis Soup in which I float, I don’t know where to start, therefore, I start nothing. Historically speaking, I crack under pressure. Historically, “cracking” meant chemically inconveniencing myself to the point of paralysis. Presently, “cracking” means suffering a menagerie of unnerving emotions simultaneously without imploding. I crack, like the walnuts on West Broadway (the nuts who sit on that wall on West Broadway), I laugh, I cry, I catch myself arguing with myself emphatically with these half-Italian hands, I whimper, my heart – it sings, it breaks, all to the point of paralysis. Oooooooooooo feel those sweet sweet emotions, my friends! It hurts! It hurts! It feels so good! My sponsor says that experiencing more than one emotion at the same time is a milestone in recovery. If this is true, I am now the President of AA (sorry, Rubbah Fox! I plagiarize and I usurp!). But really, NB asked if she would ever get out of her own way. NB, back at ya’, pretty lady! I ask you the same – will I? The distraction of work is distracting me from my blog which is distracting me from housework which is distracting me from my blog which is distracting me from work! I can’t start or finish anything! Ever! I have a work invoice that is 28 months overdue! I’m not kidding! I’ve been distracting the republican boob in finance with cat chat every Monday-Friday for the past 28 months, so she won’t ask me about it! I had to hire a cleaning person to come over and pick up frosting off the rug from when Penny knocked a cupcake off the coffee table! It was there for like two weeks and all I could do was stare at it and wring my hands, paralyzed! This is pathological! This is madness! I talked to my shrink about it, and he suggested that I either start Adderall or look for a new job. Being an adroit speed freak, I was all “ADDERALL! ADDERALL! ADDERALL!”. I nonchalantly chose the Adderall option last year, had a manageable attack of psychosis, threw the bottle at The King of Hell I was dating, and pleasantly realized that maybe the speed ship really had sailed. I hope anyway. I talked to my therapist about my behavior, and he suggested that I perhaps try to do some work to clear my conscience and also to look for a new job. I talked to my AA friends and they unanimously offered to come over and help me clean, unanimously suggested I look for a new job, and unanimously chirped, “Welcome to Sobriety”. I need a new job….

In recovery, I’ve noticed a troubling change in my work productivity – being, it doesn’t exist. Since getting my first grown-up job in 1996 (which coincidentally is the same year crystal meth stormed my scene), I have been a wreck, a spaz about holding onto my jobs. I don’t know if it was guilt, moxie, necessity, or all of them – I needed the providence of a paycheck and self-reliance to ensure I’d never have to go back toBoston. FAIL! So, now that I am here, I’m all, “Whatever. Like I care”. Haaaaaa. In the past, I identified myself as my jobs – Flower Girl, Fashion Plate. Now, I don’t have that burden of identifying myself as my job, which is really easy to do right now if you’re me – I’m a socially awkward technophobe with a crippling fear of rejection, so fittingly, I am a sales manager for a technology company – needless to say, baby don’t get no commission. In the past, all I had to do was get through the work day without barfing, do a marginally acceptable job so I could fly under the radar, then fly under that radar so that no one would notice that I looked like hell, smelled like a brewery, was cross-eyed, trembled, stuttered, sweat, blah blah. There were varying degrees of my morning/afternoon/early evening misery, but I was never non-toxic, and I was certainly never happy. The paralysis part is that now, everything is secondary to my recovery, including work. Some “sweet angel from heaven” once said that my only job in my first year of sobriety is to not drink, and that I should say that to my boss if he gives me any shit about slacking. Ha! What’s my job in Year 2? Does anyone know? Anyway, work really should indeed be secondary to my recovery, except maybe during regular business hours, when maybe I really should be working… booooooooring…. instead of Gmail chatting with “Bambie” all day about boys, love, career, money, recovery, clothes, pets, in no particular order, but boys are usually first. Bambie and my other lovelies in the fellowship keep me sober, keep me hopeful, and keep me happy, and as history dictates, if Slushkitty’s not happy, no one is happy. I see to that. Ha! But really, I’m useless to everyone if I am not sober. So really my boss and the company should be supporting me in the ways in which I decide to prioritize and manage my responsibilities. And what’s the rush anyway? I sell dial-up modems for a living!! If they can wait seven and a half hours to get an internet connection, they can wait a few days for me to get around to answering them. Chatting with Bambie and writing in my blog keep me sober, so really it’s in everyone’s best interest that this is what I continue to do all day. (Did I say I need a new job? Did I say why?).