michelleangus-deactivated201201 asked: What are the three things you can't live without (children & pets don't count)?

I am not attached to objects, I never have been.  I have gotten a lot of stuff stolen from me, or lost, things that I cared about somewhat, and I really didn’t lose much sleep over them being gone. I even got really meaningful paintings and artwork and old jewelry taken, and I just didn’t care.  If my house burned down and every object in it turned to ashes, I would feel sad and angry at first, but knowing myself, I would probably feel excited that I got to start over fresh.  I like starting over, and I get bored fast.

So in terms of actual stuff I can’t live without, I would choose activities not objects:

Running.  I am a run forrest run type.  I just like to run and run and run until my mind goes blank. I have way too much going on in it all the time, and I find that running is the only healthy way to mute the buzzing and worries I constantly think about.  I got a shot of morphine once, and running long distance almost feels similar to that, minus the wooziness.  i love it.

Writing/Art/Creativity.  I need to constantly be creating something, or else I feel lost in the world. Whether it is a painting, book, or something as simple as a tweet, I just feel I need to do it.  I want to get my point of view out there into the world and off of me.  I sometimes feel like my feelings are little bugs crawling on my skin and I need to get them off of me as fast as possible.  I guess that is why I blog so honestly. I don’t want pain to eat away at me, and it feels as if I am exorcising my demons when I free them.  Some occasionally haunt me, even after getting it out, but I enjoy trying my best at turning pain into creativity and hoping I bitch slapped it so hard that I won the battle over depression. And if that doesn’t work, I drink. : )

Any thing water related.  If baths, the ocean, pools, rivers, streams, or even puddles suddenly vanished, I would have to off myself.  I need water.  My Dad called me “part mermaid” growing up because I swam all day long.  I really feel peaceful and still in water, and peace is something I yearn to gain every moment of every day, but barely achieve.  So with water, I know that it is a reliable source of comfort and freedom.  Especially swimming in the still ocean around 6 am when no one else is on the beach.  I am in Texas right now, and miss the ocean so bad, but we are moving soon, thank god.

And if I got to choose a fourth, I would have to say drinking alcohol. Gotta have me a drink, being irish and all. ; )

Thanks for asking!  This is the first one of these question thingys I have answered.  It was fun. Hope I didn’t break the rules too much.

Baby-boomers are emotionally challenged.  They can only handle so much.  Throw too many feelings, problems, expectations, or tears into the pot, and we have a problem.  Take the average American set of baby-boomer parents.  They did their best, they provided what they could, they attempted to be open and “cool” and available.  They learned over the years that no matter how many times they straightened your hair back against your forehead with their coffee-breath loogie, or helped to let you know that your shirt needed to be starched and ironed before dressing, these efforts would prove to be meaningless to their roster as their children grew and expected answers, demanded respect, and craved emotional stability from their baby-boomer parents.  They think to themselves, “Norman Rockwell did not say this was going to happen”, as they scratch their heads in confusion while they watch their children checking into rehab, becoming voluntarily committed, suffer through crumbling relationships, and have to learn the hard way that credit cards do in fact need to be paid back in full, or their will be consequences.  These are all areas that the Baby-boomer generation failed in as Parents, simply because of ignorance.  

Lets discuss in detail, where the baby-boomers fell short:

Sex Education

They did not know that their children had fully operating sexual organs that would invoke animal-like desires in them just as theirs did.  They figured that their children were born with body parts similar to a dolly; when you lift the skirt up, or pull the pants down, the organs are just full of cotton.  Therefore they cannot feel pleasure, therefore, why would they need a sexual education?  This would explain the frequency of Baby-boomer parents swiftly entering through their teenagers bedroom door, to find them fornicating with the Robert’s child from down the street, or worse, masturbating.  Their best attempt at addressing the gruesome discovery, that in fact, their child’s organs were not full of cotton, was to do one of two things.  Either have the baby-boomer father whip the devil out of the out of control child, or have a fun-loving, John Travolta family movie night over some popcorn.  After choosing one of the two conflict resolution options, they move along as if nothing had happened.  

And this leads us to our next deficiency,

Open Communication

Open communication is a baby-boomers Achilles’ heel.  Well, lets face it, they have more than one Achilles’ heel, they suffer with more of a Achilles’ being.  Where was I?  If you try to approach a baby boomer with a sticky subject, you will be met with a defense mechanism rather than a human.  You may want to know what I mean by “sticky subject”, so that you can avoid trying to bring these topics up.  Sticky subjects: Sex, love, money, religion, life, dreams, desires, hopes, regrets, doubts, questions, memories, feelings, and insecurities.  Before you get too depressed on seeing how many topics are off limits, lets look at the bright side and see what we can discuss with our baby-boomer relative.  Green light subjects:  Religion, politics, physical health, local news (particularly the weather), Regis Philbin, late night shows (except for Conan), and confirmed promotions at work (important note: don’t try to bring up potential promotions, only discuss the confirmed promotion), and last but certainly not least, children (as long as you have them and as long as they are under the age of 12). 

Now if I know my generation well, the spawn of the baby-boomers, and I believe I do, then you will find yourself tempted to bring up the sticky subjects.  We are a spirited bunch, I don’t blame you for your enthusiasm or for your silly, destructive tendency to give them the benefit of the doubt.  I would like however, to inform you on the danger of journeying down this dark, windy, dangerous path.

Lets say, for instance, you say this to your baby-boomer, “Mom, I am having a hard time in my relationships because of how I was molested as a kid.  I don’t know how to trust anyone.  I feel stunted emotionally, because I can only go so far with another human being before I run away.”

The typical baby-boomer reaction would be to freeze, malfunction, and continue to offer you more lemonade and homemade muffins.  Reminiscent of a robot getting sprayed with a super soaker water gun, the baby-boomer is just not built or programmed to handle this type of confusing data.   

Or lets say you have a less serious issue, “Dad, I have decided to quit business school to pursue my true passion!  Ventriloquism!  I have wanted to do it ever since I was a kid, and I am so excited that my life is truly about to begin.  What do you think?”

One again, this data would confuse the baby-boomer.  He would feel as if he needs his batteries replaced, and it would lead him to wonder if he is suffering from yet another physical ailment.  He may wonder if he has contracted Alzheimer’s from the poppyseeds in Mom’s muffins.  He has forgotten what you said before you even finished. 

Expecting anything more from the baby-boomers when bringing up a red-light subject is like expecting a squirrel to engage in a stimulating conversation with you about global warming while you wait for the bus.  You will be left feeling cheated.  So it is better not to try at all.  Those darn spirits of ours will rear their determined heads, and have a hard time throwing in the towel.  If you find you are struggling with keeping things in the green light zone, expect a battle.  Things will either get physical, or emotionally psychotic.  Punches may be thrown, and words will definitely be hurtful.  In the case of the denial-addict, the baby-boomer may cut off ties with you altogether.  What did you expect?  You crossed the line.  You wouldn’t try to insert a video tape into a dvd player and expect it to function, would you?  But that is essentially what you have done.  

In conclusion, when dealing with baby-boomers, try to keep the imagery of a Norman Rockwell painting alive and well at every and all engagements, and you will be A-okay.  If they are coming over for a visit, throw a roast in the stove. Have your husband put on a clean, white shirt, and for god’s sake, make sure everyone’s hair is freshly combed.  This guide will help you and your family maintain stability for the baby-boomer.  Bring up the safe topics.  Smile often.  Shake hands firmly.  Cross your legs.  Husband, roll around with the kids, but don’t get rubbish on your shirt.  Gaze lovingly at your children.  Have Good Housekeeping magazines on hand.  Don’t forget to get into a lengthy discussion about the Weather.   This inspires a peaceful, “everything is going to be alright” attitude out of them.  And after all, that is all the baby-boomer is really looking for in life.  

For everything to be alright. 

I get excited about tragedies, initially.  Like when I wake up in the morning, turn on the TV and discover that some horrible National tragedy took place.  It feels like Christmas for my emotions.  My emotions really enjoy being used, and they get bored when things are going along too evenly.  When I woke up on the morning of September 11 to my roommates crying and covering their mouths in shock watching the television, my heart was like, “Yes!  What is this?  What do I get to feel today?  Lots of emotion, lots of pain, lots of anger, lots of sadness! Yes!  I was so bored!  Now, look!  My schedule is packed!”  Of course, after the initial shock high wore off, I became very depressed and cried for days anytime I thought about the victims.  But at the same time, I was kinda excited that I got to feel sadness.  I felt this same way when family members have died, during health scares, in present danger, while being robbed, when my bones were broken, etc.  All of these bad things give me a rush of excitement. 

I’m not glad that people have to suffer, die, struggle, cry, scream in agony, lose family members, etc., but my first instinct upon hearing about these things, is pleasure, that I get to experience extreme emotions.  I am pretty sure this is just human, and everyone feels like this to some degree.  I’m getting a rush just typing knowing that I may be bothering someone out there reading this.  I don’t feel dead inside, but rather very alive and happy despite postpartum hormonal issues.  I think it’s pretty rare for people to be open about their negative qualities, especially those that make you vulnerable.  Being perceived as a “bad person” makes most people feel this way.  The tendency is to draw as much attention as possible away from their *true* dark side, hoping to win over peoples’ affection and acceptance.  

I guess that is why I am so drawn to dark funny people who are uninterested in protecting their opinions from public knowledge and ridicule.  My best friends are some of the most thoughtful people on the planet with things that truly matter, like having basic manners, helping out others even when it is inconvenient, and having empathy for others.  But when it comes to pissing people off with their harmless, but brutally honest opinions and judgements, they will take your praise or leave it.  I love that.  I am so drawn to it.  I married a man that is an expert at being so honest it makes you cringe.  There is an art to it though.  If you are bad at it, then you are just another run of the mill bully who thrives on hurting other’s feelings.  But when you are an asshole artist, you say the truth and only hurt the ones who are too afraid to face it.  I am surprised I wasn’t a goth girl in high school.  This blog post is very gothy. 

As we were leaving Target today, I scanned the checkout counter lanes to see who I wanted to check out our purchases.  I saw an old black woman, and a bunch of teenagers.  I went straight to the old black woman, because her line was short and she seemed like she would be sweet to Griffith and ask about Savannah.  Besides getting along with my kids, she seemed like she would be the fastest at checking us out.  Not because she was old, but because she had a smart, confident way about her.  Seemed like the most logical choice.  As I turned the corner into her lane, Nathan said, “Hey, lets go over here, her lane is shorter.”  I said, “um, okay.”  immediately, and went exactly where I was told.  I had a sinking, sick feeling in my stomach as I neared her lane.

 She was a very short, blonde teenager in glasses.  I cannot read auras, but I can sense mental illness, and sometimes I see mental illness illuminating off of a person in different shades and colors.  Hers was grey and red and screamed, “I am a cutter”.  I could tell from just a glance that she had severe emotional problems.  I actually figured this out from just seeing the back of her head.  In a split second, I knew exactly what would happen, we would be in that line for the rest of our lives (or at least, for 15 minutes longer than we should have).  But, just like a faithful dog running to its owner, I went where I was told.  As we got into the lane, a number of things went wrong.  A woman with a giant 3 ring binder for her checks and financial information, was scribbling away in it and asking for the teenage cutter checkout girl to clear up some miscalculations with her.  By the time the efficient psycho with the giant binder got completely checked out, my son was getting a talking to for hitting my husband, and I was in the line trying to keep my infant from crying louder.  The teenage cutter apologized for the wait, and began checking out our groceries as if she was a Geisha performing a poetic dance that involved uber-slow scanning of each product.  Her hand moved like it was underwater.  I watched sadly, in awe, and glanced enviously over at the old black woman with her jolly guttural laugh, checking out customers at the speed of light.  Just when I thought things couldn’t be more grim, she held up our jalapenos and said, “what are these?”  This is an unacceptable question for someone who lives in the State of Texas.  The jalapeno is practically the state bird here.  Then she held up a lime and asked, “what is this?” as she was trembling and planning her next self-sacrificial cutting session.  How could you not know what a lime is?  She looked well nourished, well clothed, educated, and probably from a rich family.  The only people who should not know what a lime is are blind people that confuse them with lemons or tangerines.  By this point I began glaring at my Husband.  But I quickly realized it is not his fault that I did not insist that we stay in the old black woman’s line.  That is my fault, and it has been an issue of mine my whole life. I let people make decisions for me, even when I am not at all okay with it.  Not all the time, not with everyone, but I do do it a lot, and it is definitely holding me back and making me angsty.  I am going to experiment with being a forceful bitch from now on.  I will let you know how that goes.

I just want to take a minute to thank my readers out there.  According to google analytics, I have a lot of dedicated fans mixed with a smattering of serial page-scanners across the USA, with one faithful reader from The Netherlands.  I appreciate all of you, but I give an extra pat on the back with a closed mouth grin, and aggreeable nod to the 7-30 minute on-the-site-people.  Especially you there, in Iowa, your stats are through the roof.  That takes a lot of effort and dedication in this day and age. Personally, when I go to read the nytimes online, or a blog, I scan the page in a desperate, fleeting search for death, destruction, controversy, and misery.  If I come across an image of a malnourished child screaming, pointing, barely clothed with tears streaming down a mud-covered face, I click.  If I come across an image of a balding politician pathetically holding his head down while standing next to his dissapointed wife, with the headline “Disgraced Senator”, I click.  If I see an image of a tractor trailor split in half with what looks like a deadly substance streaming out of it and over a bridge into the ocean, while dozens of ambulences and police try to control the disaster, I click.  If there is no image, and it is just a text link or worse…it is just a blog with mainly text and little imagery, I mostly scan the page searching for the words, “depressed” “sex” “confession” ”zombies” “motherfucker” “cunt” “poison” “death”, or “mom”. If I am so unlucky to have navigated to a site or a page that is missing these stimulating words, the amuse-bouche words of literature, then I am left feeling uninterested, and quite skeptical that anything I am about to take precious time out of my day to read, is actually going to be worth a damn.  And even when I have discovered a true work of genius, or at least, an extremely entertaining taboo blog, I still struggle to not navigate back to my twitter, or one of my 4 email accounts to scan for new updates.  So, as you can see, I have a deep understanding and appreciation for the struggles that a person born in the 80’s or after faces when trying to combat ADD with patience and self-control.  So the fact that there are people out there that are actually controling their devious desires to click back to facebook to see what their old classmate’s are eating for dinner tonight, to stay on my site and read my nonsensical, unreasonable rants; is truly impressive, and downright moving.  If I could give all of you a medal, I would.  Thanks again, and I will try to continue making my problems entertaining for you.  I know you would do the same if you, too were missing the part of your brain that attempts to keep things in your life private and sacred. 

ps.  i will add an image to this post later.  I realize how painful this is for you.  I mean, how could i post this kind of a post without pretty pictures?  I promise you, it is just as painful for me.  I am at the library, because my hard drive is still broken (see below).  And for some sick, twisted, hateful plot against humanity, the public library does not allow for you to save images to their computers, or copy image links from one site to the next.  Don’t they realize that bans on such basic rights as these can cause world wars?  But your patience will be greatly awarded.  I will find something on google images that has utilizes cmyk, and some hipsterish illustrative qualities, which I will post at a later date.  It is the least I can do.

mis·take   (m-stk)n.

1. An error or fault resulting from defective judgment, deficient knowledge, or carelessness.2. A misconception or misunderstanding.

I think I am pretty reasonable.  I am really, really nice and patient to customer service reps, and I married a guy who was living in a van and gave me a plastic bubble ring for our engagement, so I think this proves that I am not a high-maintenance bitch.  But I have a hard time with the broadness of the use of the word “mistake”.  This is really an American problem mostly, because I know in many other countries, it is common for their languages to have more names than just one to define something.  Like the word “Love” in English, is used to describe romantic love, when saying “I love you, darling” as well as unromantic love, when saying something like, “I love you, my son”, and it is also used for when we really like something, like “I love this chili dog”.  But in European languages, they often have many different words for love.  One love-word for romance, one for children, one for the hot dog, etc..  That makes more sense.  I do not know any of this for a fact, I just overheard someone saying this once, and I paraphrased what they said for you.  Plus, I cannot fluently speak any other languages besides english, so I really have no idea if any of this has any validity.  But we will go with it, and say it does.  So anyways, we are screwed here and stuck with one choice for lots of emotions.  In the case of the word “mistake”, I don’t like how a toddler drawing with crayons on your wall is a mistake, while a grown man or woman cheating on their partner can and often is, called a mistake.  WTF!?  The reason this bugs me so much, is because the word “mistake” often makes people feel sympathetic, because it sounds like you were not in control of the occurrence.  It the case of a child, of course they are not really in control of what they do.  I mean, they are, but they aren’t.  You know what I mean.  But an adult, unless they are physically forced to do something, or they are certifiable, they are pretty much to blame and responsible.  Let me break this down for you:

Current definitions for knocking over a vase and breaking it.

scenario one:  a child knocks over a vase at grandma’s house while playing: mistake

scenario two:  an adult who is pissed off because they just found out his/her best friend deceived her, knocks over a vase while flailing arms and yelling in their apt. : mistake

scenario three: an adult male knocks over a vase while cheering on his favorite football team:  mistake

scenario four:  an adult who is overtired because they work a lot of hours, have insomnia, are a doctor, are a new parent, etc. clumsily knocks over a vase:  mistake

scenario five:  an elderly person knocks over a vase while trying to maneuver through a curvy home full of too many home furnishings:  mistake

scenario six: a well-rested, otherwise intelligent adult knocks over a vase because they were not paying attention/not being respectful to their surroundings: mistake

scenario seven:  an adult knocks over a vase while they are drunk and acting a fool: mistake

scenario eight:  while screwing, two people knock over a vase : mistake

here are my current revisions to these “mistake” scenarios:

scenario one:  mistake

scenario two: bitchstake

scenario three:  funstake

scenario four:  sleepstake

scenario five:  mistake

scenario six:  dumbstake

scenario seven:  drunkstake

scenario eight:  slutstake

Obviously, these are MUCH more accurate names.  This should be very helpful for English-speaking persons.  It will also help avoid the annoying occurrence of one who commits, lets say, a slutstake, and it being confused as a mistake.  These words will help clear up this issue.  If you notice, children and the elderly are the only people who are capable of merely making mistakes,  Everyone in between has to take responsibility for their action with my more defined labels.  

If you are wondering what prompted this revision to Webster’s dictionary, it was my husband clumsily putting my beloved laptop on the edge of a table, which proceeded to crash to the floor like a bowling ball sliding off of a bench, thus disrespecting my possession, and as an outcome, my laptop needs a new harddrive, which he cannot afford.  I heard the tune of “humpty dumpty”, as I saw my egg fall off the wall, and all the Macintosh horses and men couldn’t put laptop together again…cheaply.  And he called this occurrence a mere “mistake”.  But as you can see, no no.  This was clearly a “dumbstake”.  I am pleased I could help him, and you understand the distinction between the two words.  I am only here to help. 

Luckily, we have a friend who can probably fix the dumbstake that was committed against my darling laptop, at half the cost of the Apple quote.  Which is a big relief, because being out of commission is very painful for me.  By “commission”, I am referring to writing on this blog, and tweeting.  Because lately, writing like this has been a huge source of comfort and relief.  I mean, who wouldn’t feel relieved airing their dirty laundry about their sex life, their marriage, their rocky relationship with their mother, and their prejudice for rednecks on the world wide web?  Not many.  You see what I mean.  I just can’t be without this luxury, this supreme and utterly enjoyable form of therapy and self expression. 

Tell your friends about the new mistakes. 

The usual sounds in my house while I am trying to take a shower:

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.  ”stop that, sir.”  BANG BANG BANG BANG.  ”griiifffitth, stop, please”.  ”MOMMY??  Where are you Mommy?  WAAAAH.  Mommmmmmyyy”  ”Mommy is in the shower, Griffith.  Come here and help me with baby sister.”  CRASH! BANG! CRASH!  ”Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh wah wah wah wah wah WAAAAAAAHHH!”  ”GRIFFITH!  WHAT HAPPENED??!”  ”Ouch, Daddy, OOUCH!”  ”Oh, NO Griffith, Don’t do that.  That’s a No-No-no!  You have to be more careful.  Here, now it is all better”  WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAAAAAAhhhh.  ”Baby girl, its gonna be okay.  Its okay girl.  NO GRIFFITH!  NO SIR! NOOO SIR!  Baby girl, its okay.  Griffith, put that down and lets play with Savannah.  Come here, lets make her laugh.”  ”Okay, Daddy.  Juck a minute!….OWWWW!  OUCH!  WAH WAH, Mommy kiss it!  Mommy Kiss it!”  ”No, Mommy is in the shower, Griff.  Just come here and help me make baby sister laugh.”  ”No!  Playground!  Lets Go on a special trip.”  ”We will in just a minute, Griff.  Be patient. We have to wait for Mommy to finish her shower.”  Mommy!?  Mommy?  Mooommmmmyyyy???  Wheerrreee arrrreee yooouuuuu??”  BANG BANG BANG BANG.

Basically it sounds like a war zone outside the door.

By this point I am usually leaning against the shower wall letting the water run over my head, and trying to hum the background sounds away.  Reminiscent of a scene from any movie that involves a mental hospital or a mental patient or a woman in mourning.  

I yell out, “I will be right there, Griff”.  I get out of the shower.  It is suddenly eerily quiet.  I get out of the bathroom to see all three of my family members quietly giggling on the couch, calm, having a blast together.  The calm after the storm.  Seems like the storm is just more convenient to take place at the exact time that Mommy is trying to relax in the shower, or bath, or when I am trying to get work done, or trying to take a nap.  Its just the way it is.  

Weird thing is, if it went away, I would miss it terribly.  If the house was totally quiet while I was in the shower, I would probably be depressed.  Strange how I have grown to really love chaos.   

Your body is weird right after having a baby.  At least mine is.  You have lots of giant blood balls coming out of your vagina for the first 6 weeks, all day.  They look like you are giving birth to a miniature, bloody alien.  Your boobs are enormous boulders leaking and spraying dairy product all over everyone.  You are a homicidal maniac who wants to divorce your husband if he even looks at you wrong or coughs too loud.  And your shitting routine is all over the place for a while.  Right when I left the hospital, I was not shitting at all.  Then it turned into light shitting every two hours for a month.  Now I am, as we like to say in my house, “Filling The Bowl”.  Which means exactly what it sounds like, the shit is coming out ferociously like thick throw up out of my asshole, and it is filling up the toilet so much that it has surpassed the water line.  I am very excited that I am now in the enema stage, because my figure is getting back to normal pretty fast.  

But the problem is, this type of pooping is a bit stressful, because it is pretty much like giving birth through your butt.  And just like when you are in labor, you don’t want to be touched, you want silence, and you are overall in an agitated state.  So the beginning of the enema pooping began Saturday night.  Luckily my newborn was asleep, but my 2.5 year old just finished his dinner and was ready for his nighttime routine.  He was pretty pissed that we hadn’t gotten the bubble bath started, so while I was giving butt-birth, I had to turn the bath on and get the bubbles going.  Then he became impatient with seeing the fun bath there, and not being able to get in.  It didn’t matter that I was in ass labor,  I had to undress him, take his shoes off, etc. and put him in the bath.  Now remember, this is all DURING me sitting on the toilet, sweating profusely, feeling faint, and throwing up out of my butt.  After about 5 minutes in the bath, my son got bored, and demanded I get in there with him.  Which, I do every night.  That’s right.  I bathe with my son. Naked. Every night.  I really look forward to it too.  And I will miss it when he gets to the age where it is too weird, like around 13.  (j/k).  Anyways, I felt bad that I could not get in there with him yet, and he began to whine, “Mooommmy, Get In!!”, so I told him to grab one of the bathy books we have in the toy corner of the bath.  I proceeded to read him an Elmo book, a counting numbers book, and a color naming book, during the birthing shit process.  I was moaning in between sentences, grunting, wiping the sweat off, hanging my head down in pain, frantically bearing down on the shit baby, and talking in an Elmo voice for my son.  Elmo has never sounded more pitiful and horrifying.  After the books got boring, he wanted me to play with the toys and make a toy baby pretend to dive into a toy boat.  That got boring, so we had to give his froggie a bath by shampooing his plastic froggie head. This went on for 15 more minutes.  At the end of the laboring and delivery process, I estimate I gave birth to 10 pound quadruplet shit babies.  After using half the toilet paper roll, I got off the toilet feeling slightly faint and sick like I had just finished running a marathon.  I was glad I could help my son have fun throughout the process, but I was really just looking out for myself. Because if he had cried and yelled in anger from me ignoring him, it would have woken up the infant in the other room, and who the hell knows what would have happened then.  I probably would have ended up tracking shit all through the house trying to calm everyone down.  But the real person to feel bad for in this situation is my son, Griffith; I sat in the bathtub, naked, with him after I was done.