Scattered Thoughts: New York and AWP Conference

• I honestly can't get comfortable in this city. I feel like everyone knows the moves to an intricate ballet and I happened to miss the particular dance class that taught balance and self-awareness. New Yorkers seem to have an extra sense-- a sense of movement, speed, and intuition. I try not to do the typical "stare-blindly-up" neck crane that is the international sign of the tourist (though I had to do it at the Rockefeller Center-- sorry), but I still stick out.

• One thing that I will say about New York is that it's Jewapalooza here. My father and I were cramming down cold fried plantains at the 53rd Street Deli when this older couple sat beside us, excusing themselves in perfect New York accents. They then launched into a conversation to themselves-- in Hebrew. We stumbled into the Diamond District, running into Israelis and black-frocked men in a stunning array of wide-brimmed hats. Ah, my people!

• I attended two seminars today. One was on blogging and its affects on writing and the teaching of writing. I found it interesting that many older people wished to set up their own blogs as a self-marketing scheme, but had little to no idea on how to go about it. It's a strange feeling knowing more than some of these venerable gray hairs, especially those who can afford AWP memberships. Exciting, actually. The second seminar was about historical fiction, which I love to read. I now have four more books that I have to buy.

• My parents decided that I should have business cards for this event, but promptly forgot to make them. So while I was being lectured at, my father was searching for a printing service to make up some simple ones. I don't know when I'm going to use them, but it feels professional in a way.

• The Hilton has really odd-looking chairs. I suppose that it's meant to be classy, but it would be a lot classier if the gold roping was actually attached to the chair, not suspended in a plastic sheath. It rather looks like those cheap strings of light bulbs you can find in college dorm rooms. Very distracting.

• Unfortunately, the Hilton has a really awkward elevator system. I'm sure it works for them, but it's awful for me. So many people are waiting and the elevators are never there when you want them. When I was trying to get to the lobby, I pressed the 'down' button and waited. And waited. And waited... until finally, an elevator arrived. An older woman got out, but then proceeded to stand in the doorway, talking to someone still in the elevator. Politely, I waited for her to get by, but as soon as she moved, the doors began to close. With an undignified yelp, I tried to launch my arm between the closing doors, but they didn't bounce back like I expected. So the elevator I had waited so patiently for slid through my grasp. The lady must have heard my irritated sigh, because she apologized and beat a hasty retreat. She's lucky that I was in a bit of a stunned stupor; I might have popped her one otherwise.

• Going to see John Irving speak tonight. E.L. Doctorow tomorrow afternoon. Will be missing Frank McCourt on Saturday, which is sad.

• Time to pass out now.

K.

Does Going to the AWP Conference Make Me That Much More Awesome?

Yes. Yes, I think it does.

Anyone else in New York?

K.

My Travel Horror Story: Some Serious Schadenfreude

(The bloggers over at Sass Attack, And the Pursuit of Happiness, and The Hotfessional, in their infinite wisdom, have decided to sponsor a contest dealing with travel horror stories. Great, a chance to relive my nightmares.

Naw, it's awesome. Thanks guys!)

After five months studying abroad, I have racked up an unsettling amount of character-building travel stories. Whether it’s sinking calf-deep in a peat bog on the isle of Skye or spending eight hours dozing straight up in a hard seat in a Bucharest airport, my misadventures have not only given some talking points that none of my friends can match, but the confidence to know that nothing can break the girl that survived months of Scottish food. However, there is one experience that stands out, scenes of which still haunt my dreams. This is my story.

Spring was beginning to spread over Europe, its fingers just creeping into the University of Stirling, my home away from home. But I wasn’t there. No, I was roving the Continent. After a few days of reveling in the sunshine and giggling shyly at the strangely attractive young priest of Rome, my friends and I were wrapping up a rather lackluster visit to Berlin. Germany, while not possessing the manically happy national personality of Italy, had treated us well. Still, Scotland was calling us back—my two friends had finals to complete and I had lodgings to find before I was kicked out of my flat.

Our flight was leaving that evening from Frankfurt, which was a relatively short train ride from Berlin and a mere hop-skip-and-jump for three world travelers. Our confidence was such that we leisurely enjoyed our breakfast at our hostel, packed up, and wandered over to the local internet café to check on train times. J, who organized the trip, hopped on one of the computers and began tapping away as N and I lounged over our bags.

“Oh, [expletive]!” J breathed.

And that’s when we knew the [expletive] hit the fan.

It turns out that there are two Frankfurt airports in Germany—the close one and one that was seven driving hours away from Berlin. Guess which one our flight left from.

By now, it was eleven o’clock in the morning. The flight left at seven-thirty in the evening. We were, quite possibly, screwed.

We held a quick conference, J in tears over her airport mix-up. After assuring her that it was a mistake that any ignorant American could have made, we researched planes, trains, and automobiles. Finally, we figured that the surest way to reach the Frankfurt-Hahn airport was by renting a car and racing across the country. Germany had the autobahn, right? We were sure to fly.

Oh, the naiveté of youth.

We quickly reserved possibly the only automatic car in Berlin and ran about two miles into the city to claim it. After waiting for a painful half an hour for the rental office to process our order, we began our journey across a foreign country, our entire fate resting on a questionable paper map.

Though I spent most of the drive asleep (bladder issues force me either to sleep or stop every half an hour), I woke up every few hours to observe our progress. We had indeed made it to the autobahn and it was beautiful. I don’t think I had ever pictured Germany like this: rolling green hills and wee villages stapled to the countryside by a steepled church. Gray clouds brought a delicate mist and fat droplets of rain to blanket the highway. It was all beautiful in its own way—but it was less beautiful for J, the only one of us who brought her driver’s license on this trip. Every so often, I would open my eyes in response an anguished cry as J reached the upper limits of her willingness to speed down the highway, perturbed German motorists sullenly sitting on her tail. Her cries would subside to a whimper and, harmonizing with the dulcet sounds of the Phil Collins songs that seemed to be eternally on the radio, I would slumber on.

My friends decided that I might like a picture
of me sleeping. What you aren't seeing is the drool.

When we pulled into a gas station/diner a few hours later, we admitted to ourselves that we would never be able to make our flight. Discussing it over subpar pasta, we decided that we would continue our drive, then spend the night in the airport. Most airlines are required to put you on the next flight if you miss your scheduled take-off. Surely it would work the same here.

We arrived at Frankfurt-Hahn around 11 PM and returned the rental car, now affectionately referred to as “Otto.” A quick check at the airline desk proved that the entire airport was beginning to shut down for the night.

N and me, loaded down with luggage, standing in front of Otto
in the Frankfurt-Hahn Airport.

And it wasn’t a pretty picture.

For those of you who have never had the privilege of spending any time in this airport, please, let me give you a brief description. Picture, if you will, possibly the hardest, coldest floor known to man. Also, please brace yourself for the most exorbitant prices for food and entertainment (I bought a coloring book for $8 dollars) you can imagine. Finally, imagine a nice draft blasting around floor level as you try to get some sleep. Put it all together, it creates one hellish night.

About 4:30 AM, I was shaken awake from my doze by J, tears streaming down her face. The airline (let’s call it Flyin’ Air) desk had just opened and J, planner that she is, decided that she was going to get a head start on organizing our flight home. The first slap in the face was the ticket lady, the only rude German we met on our trip. At J’s inquiry, the Ticket Bitch (TB from now on—it’s only right that I nickname her after a disgusting disease) snapped that Flyin’ Air does not replace tickets on missed flights. Not only that, a ticket to Glasgow was €200, about €193 more than we had previously paid and way above our budget. Finally, TB proceeded to metaphorically kick J in the ovaries by inferring that the three of us were complete asshats for missing our flight. J slunk away, broken, bleeding, and humiliated.

It took me a few minutes to understand what was going on, but once I understood, I immediately became enraged. Who the hell did TB think she was anyway? N, J, and I all stomped over to the ticket booth, ready to unleash the full fury of three girls who had just driven cross country and had slept on the cold ground.

Lucky for her (and maybe for me), another ticket lady had joined TB and that is who I confronted. This woman was totally unlike her compatriot. With a quiet and pitying smile, she confirmed that we did in fact have to pay €200 for a ticket, but also broke it to us that there were only two tickets for the only Glasgow flight that day. Stunned and quiet, we shuffled away to regroup.

A few calls to neighboring airports proved fruitless. Any other flight would cost a hardy €600 and an interminable bus ride. Finally, with much internal wailing, I offered to potentially stay behind, hoping and praying that a ticket would become available before the flight left. After all, my friends had a final the next day; I didn't.

So let’s step back and look at what we had gone through in less than 24 hours:

• A leisurely breakfast in sweet, sweet innocence of what was to come
• An overwhelming panic when that innocence was shattered
• The renting of a car and a harrowing ride on the autobahn
• Getting fleeced out of $8 for a damn coloring book
• A less than peaceful night’s doze on a drafty floor
• Being reamed by TB
• The reemergence of that old familiar panic courtesy of the nice ticket lady
• Surrendering to possibly another hellish night in the Airport That Civilization Forgot
  
  

A pretty bleak day. For the next 15 hours, I sweated it out, quietly crying in the women’s bathroom. These were the most painful 15 hours of my life, but I was ultimately given a ticket for €240, which I snapped up immediately. I finally made it home, stomping past my confused flatmates and collapse, unconscious, for a full 24 hours.

What did I learn from this? Well, I don’t think I came away with a true lesson. I did realize a few things about myself, however. I realized that I would shell out any amount of money for childish entertainment if pushed hard enough. I realized that I would sacrifice myself to another night of agony for friends. I realized that sometimes I just need a good cry, but am too embarrassed to do so in front of a bunch of German tourists.

Good for me.

Wake Up Call

I've been seeing this meme everywhere, so I wanted to see how I came out:

1. Father went to college
2. Father finished college
3. Mother went to college
4. Mother finished college
5. Have any relative who is an attorney, physician, or professor
6. Were the same or higher class than your high school teachers.
7. Had more than 50 books in your childhood home.
8. Had more than 500 books in your childhood home.
9. Were read children’s books by a parent
10. Had lessons of any kind before you turned 18
11. Had more than two kinds of lessons before you turned 18
12. The people in the media who dress and talk like me are portrayed
13. Had a credit card with your name on it before you turned 18
14. Your parents (or a trust) paid for the majority of your college costs
15. Your parents (or a trust) paid for all of your college costs
16. Went to a private high school
17. Went to summer camp
18. Had a private tutor before you turned 18
19. Family vacations involved staying at hotels
20. Your clothing was all bought new before you turned 18
21. Your parents bought you a car that was not a hand-me-down from them
22. There was original art in your house when you were a child
23. You and your family lived in a single-family house
24. Your parent(s) owned their own house or apartment before you left home
25. You had your own room as a child
27. Participated in a SAT/ACT prep course
28. Had your own TV in your room in high school
29. Owned a mutual fund or IRA in high school or college
30. Flew anywhere on a commercial airline before you turned 16
31. Went on a cruise with your family
32. Went on more than one cruise with your family
33. Your parents took you to museums and art galleries as you grew up
34. You were unaware of how much heating bills were for your family

Well, it appears that I had a very privileged upbringing. I'm not terribly surprised, but I have to suppress a smile when I remember that many people in my high school were better off than me. Granted, my parents chose not to spend their money on outward symbols of wealth. Right now, we have three cars: a Toyota minivan, a Subaru Outback, and pretty crappy Fiat Spider cowering quietly in the garage. None of these are the Jaguars and Lexuses that were often parked outside of my temple. Our house is larger than many of my friends' houses, but nowhere near as big as those in the richest part of town. I guess that, in comparison, it was reasonable for me to have believed myself to be relatively lower middle class.

Of course, it's now reasonable for me to believe that I had been rather naive.

I now go to a pretty working-class school-- your basic state school near a big city. There are so many that don't have what I have that I feel kind of ashamed for my earlier opinions of my economic well-being. But what am I going to do? I just have to accept the fact that I was a bit of an idiot back in the day and just get on with appreciating what I have now.

Starting with finding out how much my parents pay for heat.

K.

PS. On a totally different tack, I just saw Anthony Bourdain spit on the little heart (where people were executed) outside of St. Giles Cathedral in Edinburgh. I love that nasty heart!

Snail Mail Sunday #5

Dear refrigerator,

Hey there. Now, I know that went shopping not that long ago. I have the receipts to prove it.

So where the hell did my food go?

You had better be a portal to hell or something, or else I'm going to dismantle you to see what you did with my cheese.

Don't tempt me.

Yours,

K.

Crossing One Off

Back in 2007, I mentioned that I would be taking part in the BSF 2008 challenge in an attempt to, as my tai chi instructor tells it, "honor myself." In reality, I just need impetus to get shit done.

Here is the list again:

• Actually attempt NaNoWriMo 2008, not just sign up for it and lose courage before writing a single word.
• Learn enough Hebrew to puttering around in Israel this summer and be conversational by year's end.
• Save money for a Scotland spring break. If I don't actually get to Scotland, then at least I have some money.
• Graduate college.
• Get a temporary job-- preferably with health insurance.
• Send something to get published. Poem, short story, essay, anything.
  
• Lose 10 pounds. Any more would be icing on the cake that I won't be allowing myself to have. :)

As you can see, I've crossed something off. Happily, I did in fact send two things in for submission. One of those is "To the Fruitflies in My Drain" to my university journal. Whether I get in or not isn't important-- I've already begun my Big Wall o' Rejection (Thanks, Image). The point is that I actually got off my butt and sent something. Nothing gets published if nobody sees it.

Wish me luck.

K.

PS. Just a note: You should check out Rachel's blog over at that night. She's been nominated for a 2008 Bloggie Award! So go, read, and vote!

Ani Lo Mehveena Evrit. Boo.

I was watching BBC America today and realized that I was terribly behind on one of my resolutions.

"Coupling" was on and one of the terribly inept guys was trying to pull a gorgeous girl at the bar. Typically, he was tripping over his tongue, telling her that he collects women's ears in an "ear bucket," ultimately making a fool of himself. She sits there silently, then says this:

"Blah blah blah blah slicha."

My first reaction: "Oh, she doesn't speak English."

My second reaction: "Wait, did she say 'slicha'?"

My final reaction: "Holy crap, that's Hebrew. And all I understood was 'excuse me'."

Yep, she was Israeli. And yep, I've been failing miserably in my quest to become conversational in Hebrew by the summer.

Granted, later on, I caught "Ani lo mehveena" (I don't understand), "Ani yoda'at." (I know), and a couple other phrases. And I did figure out that she entirely misunderstood the conversation. And I did find the humor of the guy running up and down the El Al terminal yelling "Shadai'im! Shadai'im!*" But I didn't get nearly enough of the conversation that I should have.

My father, on the other hand, is busy learning the ninth unit of the Pimsleur lessons. He told me that the couple is having some relationship troubles (I knew there was a story there), but won't let me in on the details. I just have to learn them for myself.

I've been taking 18 credits, with three of those credits including a load of 12 textbooks. My eyelids can barely stay open for two minutes. I just can't sit a listen to those two people natter on and on with the random interruptions by the English instructor.

Oh well, I guess I just have to soldier on.

Shalom,

K.

PS. I can't spell transliterated Hebrew. Sorry.

*"Breasts! Breasts!" He thought that was her name. Aha hah.

Oh, Heath.

Probably the last thing I expected to hear.

My sympathies to his family.

K.

Some of There Are Surprisingly True...

Yep.

clipped from www.ubersite.com Visiting Scotland? 10 Things You Have to Know! (147554 hits)

Snail Mail Sunday (You Guessed It) #4

Dear cleaning faeries,

This is just a notice to alerting you to your termination in apartment 8 of this complex. The tenant of said apartment complained of your absence upon her return from winter break. Her apartment was just as disgusting as when she left it, leading us to believe that you are not doing your job.

You can pick up your severance pay in the main office.

Sincerely,

Management

Boys, Boys, Boys

When I watch television at night, I watch the Discovery Channel.

When I watch television in the morning, I watch the Maury Show.

I suppose this channel dichotomy is because I just have more synapses firing when the sun goes down. It's when I write all my best papers, my favorite blog posts (this is being written at 11AM, so it's not looking good for this one), and most creative ideas. I'm lucky to put two words together in the morning.

So I watch something mindless-- hence, the Maury Show.

Anyone who is familiar with this show knows that it's most famous segments are DNA testing and "Who's the Daddy" controversies. Frankly, I find those rather boring. My favorite episodes involve out of control teen girls and their sexcapades. It makes me feel better when I look around my messy apartment and my swindling bank account to know that I really don't have it that bad.

But something has always interested me about these segments. There are never out of control teen boys. Now, certainly there are guys sleeping around, doing drugs, and beating people up. So where are they?

I suppose that it's the traditional player vs. slut mindset that keeps the girls in the harsh spotlight and the boys still on the streets. And that's sad, really. Sure, the baby-daddy episodes casts some light into the shadows, but it isn't proactive. There's already a baby and a teenage girl's childhood is over. The man may have to pay child support, but there's nothing to stop him running around, spreading the goods around.

In reality, these out of control boys participate in the same behaviors as the girls-- promiscuous sex, gangs, and general violence towards family and others. They will end up suffering the same consequences-- STDs, jail, and death. So why don't we have guys on the show?

Curiouser and curiouser.

K.

My Lady Bits Hurt

Currently, I'm watching a program about a family who has 13 children and the 14th on the way (I'm not sure if it's that famous family with the 17 kids or not) and, frankly, I'm kind of sickened. If you really think that you're family is "incomplete," adopt some damn kids!

There are so many children out there on the streets in our own country. How can you possibly add to the world's population so drastically when there are kids that are starving or left to rot in orphanages?

Frankly, I think that having children is an addiction to this couple, as much as drugs and alcohol are addictions to other people. I'm not saying that they don't care for their kids, but come on! Fourteen times is really pushing it.

...

I don't know why I care so much about this. Honestly, these people can do what they want and it will never affect me. The kids seem healthy, polite, and very well-loved. But all I can think about are the kids who will never have parents-- and couples who can never have kids.

Burr.

K.

Things That Make This Blogger Speechless

I don't check all of the major blogs everyday, but I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention when this entry was written.

Bestweekever.tv, one of the many sites I go to in order to indulge in my secret pop culture and celebrity gossip obsession, presented me with this little gem. Click it; I'll wait.

For those of you who clicked, you hopefully read the article. For those who decided to stay in the soothing presence of my blog instead of the flashiness that is BTW.tv, allow me to show you something:



Excuse me while I express my own feelings towards this movie trailor: WHAT?! WHAT?! WHAT?!

Aside from absolute shock, I'm not sure how I feel about this. I'm all for spoofing serious issues, but I have to wonder whether this is absolutely necessary.

Jewish comedians/writers, you know I often let you get away with this sort of thing. I hold that hypocritical view that Jewish/Israeli stereotypes are typically our domain and anyone else stepping into it earns my righteous wrath. But seriously guys, you're making the Ghetto Jew crawl out of her hole-- the Jew that wishes that other Jews wouldn't make such a big scene because it's sure to affect everyone else in some horrible way. Ghetto Jew has been out way too often; she would much rather stay curled deep in my gut than make another appearance.

On the other hand... that Hezbullah Hotline thing was kind of funny.

So I echo the BTW.tv people-- I don't know how I feel about this.

Any other opinions?

K.

PS. They mention "Sabra Price Is Right" in that post. For those of you (like me) who aren't aware of this video, I have provided a link. I think I met a couple of these people in Jerusalem.

Happy De-Lurking Week!

Apparently, it's National De-Lurking Week! If there are any of you lurking out there, speak up!

K.

Just a "Tweet" Transvestite

As some of you know, I am the proud owner of a parakeet. Tookie holds a firm place in my heart, if only because of his incredibly skilled attempts at taking apart his cage. If he had been born a human, he would have easily achieved a Master's in Engineering.

Having said that, I ask you to take a look at the picture above. After a good long study, read over the paragraph below. Notice the discrepancies?

Anyone with the least amount of parakeet experience can tell that I've been using the wrong pronoun here. Judging by Tookie's cere (the bit of flesh right above the beak), "he" is actually a "she."

However, I just can't change the pronoun so quickly. Tookie has been a "he" for about six months now and just because he decided to change "his" cere color now doesn't mean I can suddenly get comfortable with a lady bird.

Mom, in some part to humor me, has termed the bird a transvestite.

And that I can live with.

K.

PS. The Simpsons had a wonderful episode about the idiocy of the primaries. Geez, if Ralph was really in the race, he would totally have my vote. (Keep an eye out for a Jon Stewart cameo. Sigh.)

??????? in '08!

It seems that the only thing that NPR can talk about these days is the New Hampshire primary results, which results in a bad headache for me. All this does is rub in that my vote in Pennsylvania primaries might actually matter this time around and that I have to re-register.

Because PA can't have open primaries, oh no. No, they make us choose a party, guaranteeing another few years of propaganda and door-to-door visits from local candidates with that particular frozen perma-smile. I'm still getting slick campaign ads from the time I turned Republican for a primary, even though I was trying to make sure a candidate that I don't mind was going to get the nomination over a royal douchebag. The Santorum mail was unbelievable.

But it's not just that I have to pick a party-- I have to pick a candidate. My uterus is telling me to vote for Clinton, my heart for Obama, and my brain for McCain. It's unfortunate that to have my body parts take sides, especially since my crush John Edwards is trying to elbow in on Obama territory. Obama/Edwards-- what a delicious ticket that would be.

Sometimes it's hard to be more moderately inclined. Here I am, the pro-choice, anti-war, pro-gay marriage feminist liberal, awkwardly trying to balance my hawkish pro-Israel stance, plus the uneasy feeling about pulling out of Iraq too soon and leaving a vacuum of power. When I travel, I easily express my disappointment in the current government, but fly into a quiet and private rage when a non-American puts down my country too vigorously. All I want to do is to fit in somewhere-- and the proposed visions of American coming from the candidates don't seem to come complete with a Kate-shaped hole.

As much as I'm tired of hearing about the New Hampshire primaries, I am gratified to hear that McCain won the on the Republican side; his victory knocks Huckabee from the top-runner slot. If the GOP nominates Huckabee, then I will be forced to vote for whoever the Democrats put up, even if it's someone who I'm not particularly comfortable with. A salted slug for president would be better than an uber-religious politician.

The primaries would be so much easier if someone put out a version of the Star Wars Guide to the Candidates, which would be language I can understand. Oh, wait. Somebody has. The Ron Paul entry is particularly apt.

K.

PS. Well, at least The Daily Show and The Colbert Report are back. Sort of.

Taping My Glasses As We Speak

Are you? Click that button and take the test. Embrace your inner geekiness!

K.

Snail Mail Sunday (Done on a Monday... again) #3

Dear blog,

I know that after NaBloPoMo you thought our relationship was going to be different. You felt loved and warm while I was posting everyday and there were occasional comments to snuggle into. And I guess it was a rough awakening into to the cruel, cold world when I promptly resumed my old habits of maybe one post per week... on good weeks. It must have hurt.

I'm sorry for my absence, but you knew what this relationship was from the beginning. Sometimes I'm too busy/tired/lazy to post anything for days at a time, leaving you so alone. You're probably wondering if I have more than one blog, little topic-specific hoochies on the side. Well, I did, for a little. Honestly, they meant nothing to me. I haven't even posted in them since the semester ended. I only did it because people (ie. my class) expected me to have something of a trophy blog, something to present in social situations. I'm afraid that you just weren't up to par for that sort of thing.

The worst part for you is that I only seem to come back when I need comfort or to vent. I never buy you new things; I rarely update you sidebar widgets. But when I don't have anyone else to talk to, you're there. And I appreciate that. You don't hear about the good things, my triumphs, but you always listen and I guess that's what makes you such a good blog.

All I can ask is that you stick with me for a little while longer... at least until I get my life in order. I'll try my best to be the best poster you ever did see and to treat you with the respect you deserve. You know I love you, baby.

Hugs and kisses,

K.

Goodbye

I heard that my great-aunt died today-- of a stroke, apparently. I hadn't seen her in more than a year, but I was still disturbed by how little I was affected when told. I was like stone.

My great-aunt was a classy lady. My parents commented today that they found her cold... nice, but distant. I don't think I ever saw that side. Perhaps she seemed a little stand-offish with her pantsuits and her perfected coiffed hair, but I guess I never saw it. I never knew life without her, so I just accepted her for what she was-- a member of my grandparents' generation and therefore deserving of a respectful distance.

I don't think a cold woman would have told me about her experiences at the same Jewish camp that I went to, sans the pool and indoor plumbing. I think she would have hidden her fear of spiders and the dark corners of bath houses if she had a front to maintain. When I mentioned to her about a possible visit to camp, she smiled. I guess it's too late for that now.

There are times when I would rather not have the grown up relationship with my parents that I have now. If I was still a child, they would have broken the news to me gently and just let me have my own uninformed opinions of the dead.

And if I was a child, I would have cried.

K.

PS. I miss you. I should have visited more. I should be able to cry. I'm sorry.