Yin and Yang – the glue of marriage

Yin YangAfter 28 years of marriage, I think I might just have finally started to begin to think I maybe kinda understand a tiny bit about my lovely bride.  I think she had me down on day 2.

I don’t mean to suggest that I’ve been completely assimilated to her thinking though.  My clay isn’t quiet as malleable as she’d like it to be.

It’s amazing how we ever ‘hooked up’ as the kids say (or do they say that any more?).  I was a city boy, and she was a country girl.  We met in college which, I guess by default, was the great equalizer.  Nothing drives people together faster than hunger and loneliness.

I think there’s real truth to the adage that ‘opposites attract’.  Maybe it’s a core desire to coax the other to your way of thinking, or if I was a romantic, I might say it’s the different way they gaze at the moon, but I think our differences might be more basic than that.  I think we’re just intrigued by a different lens through which they see the world.

I love surprises – the good kind at least.  No one likes the surprises you get in a hospital…”Surprise, we’re gonna have to go ahead and remove that digit after all”.  Not a balloon and cheer kind of surprise.

No, I like birthday surprises.  I really like surprising people!  Maybe it’s a morbid fascination of watching the confusion and disbelief on their unsuspecting faces, but surprising people gives me great joy.

My wife?  Not so much.  In fact, since we first started dating, she regularly reminded me how much she doesn’t like surprises.  She wants to see what’s coming, buster! There was and never will be any confusion about this.  DO NOT SURPRISE HER!

But like those two bumbling guards in Monty Python’s The Holy Grail, simple instructions are completely lost on me, since surprises are fun…..for me.  So, what did I do?

swamp castle

 

 

 

 

For my wife’s 40th birthday, I organized, with the help of a team of scheming friends, the most elaborate ruse ever concocted.  It involved multiple levels of deception, fake parties, hotel bookings, real ‘parties’ to throw her off the scent, even included pseudo-friends that may have never existed, all in the name of….’SURPRISE’!

I’ll save you the gory details – the shock, the tears.  It wasn’t a ‘happy surprise’.

But that’s the stuff of relationships.  Our differences keep it exciting.  Admittedly, sometimes horrible and regrettable differences, but exciting none the less.

We can even watch the exact same program and have totally divergent responses.  Take ‘The Biggest Loser’ for example.  We sit and watch the show.  My lovely suggests we need to take out the bikes and get into shape.  I watch the same show and think ‘Gee, I’m in awesome shape compared to these guys – I’m gonna make some popcorn to celebrate my superb health’.

I’m a glass half-full kind of guy, I guess – fun first!  If we have a busy day lined up, and the weather is nice, I’ll always say ‘fun first’! Lets get outside and enjoy the beautiful day – the work can wait.

While this sounds very ‘in the moment’ and cheery, there’s a big downside to always eating the dessert first.  It means that nothing important really gets done.  Housework; laundry, cleaning, getting groceries, etc., get pushed back, and you end up living in a crazy, chaotic world that just might end up on a TLC show.hoardersSo, me being the ‘surprise me’ guy, needs an adult around to remind me to pay the bills, change the dryer lint trap, and put my clothes away.  That’s my wife’s role, and she’s good at it.

It’s a terrible job to have – at least it seems like it to me – always being the voice of reason.  The practical one. The huge payoff of practicality is almost never fully appreciated, is it?  Our house is mostly tidy, we can find stuff like wallets, keys, and phones, and there’s usually enough food in the fridge to make a meal with.

You don’t notice if your keys are where you left them, but you sure do if they’re not!

Lists! My sweet bride makes lists.  Grocery lists, ‘honey-do’ lists, reminder lists.  For big upcoming events, I’ve even seen her make lists of lists.  Sometimes they’re disguised as sweet notes, but they’re still lists:  ‘Kids, don’t forget to walk the dog, put on your laundry, and put your dirty dishes in the sink.  Love, Mommy – xoxo’.

I’m big enough to acknowledge that those lists are helpful – they keep us on track. And I have to admit, they help me to figure out what needs to be done so I can go and play…a touch of order in my chaos.

It’s those opposing forces that create this weird and beautiful balance in our marriage.  Mix a little salt in the chocolate milk and you get an unexpectedly great taste. Those contrasting flavours bring out something more delicious than the ingredients would be on their own.

Now, don’t misunderstand me.  My darling loves having fun, too!  She can party and laugh with the best of them.  Few things please her more than relaxing by the pool with a glass of wine. It just needs to be prioritized amongst the ‘must do’s’, or it won’t be enjoyable for her.  I get that.

And that’s exactly what this goofball needs.  The Yang to my Yin.

Maybe trying to figure each other out is part of the joy and mystery of our marriage. Maybe we aren’t supposed to be able to correctly predict what the other is thinking.  We should, at least, love and respect our partner for what they bring to this dance we call marriage. We should thank God for giving us the strength to bare our souls in trust to another human being, even if that other human being doesn’t understand us.

My Yang is exactly what this Yin needs.  And that surprise party?  Well, in the end, we had an awesome time with our friends.  I also had to swear on my life never to pull a stunt like that again!  Sweet Yang!

…’With a little help from my friends’…

min·ion
ˈminyən/
noun
plural noun: minions
1.
a follower or underling of a powerful person, esp. a servile or unimportant one.
synonyms: underling, henchman, flunky, lackey, hanger-on, follower, servant, hireling, vassal, stooge, toady, sycophant;

I wish I’d thought of it years ago, but hindsight is 20/20 as they say.  I need some minions.  I need unquestioning followers who will do my bidding without reservation, complaint, or hesitation.

Imagine a world where all you had to do was ask, and whatever you requested would be granted; where obedient subjects blindly take all orders and execute them without delay.

Oh sure, I had kids who I could order around for a while, but eventually you see that look in their suspicious little faces, questioning simple requests;

“Go get Daddy another beer.”

“Hold this while I start up the chainsaw”

“Don’t tell Mom I broke it.  It’ll be our little secret.”

You know, the usual stuff. That’s when you know that they know something isn’t quite right with this symbiotic relationship, and your hope of having a permanent underling to do your dirty work is done.  They’re so ungrateful, those kids!

I have lots of friends…well, a few friends, but they’re all too smart to go along with any wild world domination plans I might have.  I need to wear dark sunglasses when I ask them to get me the necessary parts to make a death-ray.  They can see the crazy in my eyes which is a giveaway that I might not be quite right.

I’m too broke to hire a personal assistant, like they do in Hollywood.  That looks like a pretty sweet gig!  Imagine having someone walk the dog, pick up laundry, cook supper, clean the pool and massage your tired feet after a long day of shouting ridiculous orders at them.

I have a dog, who I guess would be a good minion since she has unwavering loyalty to me, except that it kind of works in reverse for us.  I feed her, carry her down the stairs, walk her, pick up after her, brush her fur….hmmm.

I might have looked at interns, but big business has ruined that sweet little free labour pool for the common man.

Even Dr. Frankenstein had Igor, but you could tell that the poor hunchback would shiv the bad doctor at his first chance, given the way he was treated.

The only thing left for guys like me are ‘minions’, but where do you start?  Is there a ‘Minion Mail Order’ website?  Where do these minions come from anyway?  How do you know that they’ll stupidly accommodate every insane request you make without hesitation?  Is there a vetting or interview process?

There’s lots I need to research, to be sure.

How many do I need?  Do I start with a half-dozen and see how things are going?  Do I have to give them names?  Maybe they all get the same name and somehow can just figure out who I’m talking to, kind of like George Foreman did.

What about feeding?  Do they need a special minion diet, and if so, do I get a minion to serve it to himself?

I know they’re all ‘him’s’ because no girl minion would be dumb enough to blindly follow me around all day.

What if they unionize? I’d hate for them to be carrying me over to the treadmill then stopping halfway because of a negotiated coffee break.  I’d be stuck there for 15 minutes!

Where do they sleep?  Do they sleep?

If one gets away, do I go after it like a lost sheep, or just call up my minion supplier and order a replacement?

Wow.  This is getting to be a lot of work!  Maybe this whole minion thing needs a rethink.  Maybe I should just depend on me to do my dastardly deeds.  At least I know I would do things exactly the way I wanted them done.

Maybe that’s the fatal flaw with minions.  The movies prove it.  Every time a super villain (not suggesting I want to be one) has minions do his dirty work, something goes wrong and they end up failing in their bid to blow up the moon or detach California from the rest of the continent.

I think villains should aim a little lower, at least to start.  Pretty sure that if you want to vaporize a planet, a lot of people are going to try to stop you, but if you wanted to take a shopping cart past the store parking lot, you might go unnoticed.

That’s a job even the simplest of minions could handle.

My insidious little plan?  Why do I really need minions?  I haven’t figured that one out yet, and it would spoil the surprise, but you have know that being the master of a bunch of mindless followers has it’s appeal.

Regardless, I’d start out small, maybe washing the car if the weather gets above freezing.

I won’t work them up to continental annihilation until I’m sure they can follow basic direction.  There’s nothing worse than commandeering every television station in the world to give the nations notice that if they don’t comply with my demands, I’ll blow up Iceland, only to find out that the minions forgot to plug in my death ray.

Or, maybe I just need to stop watching sci-fi reruns and go outside…it’s been a loooong winter!

Yeah, forget the minions.  I’m the only one who can do things my way.  I’ll be my own master, and serve my dog mindlessly.

P.S. – I tried to warn you about winter in my last blog, but nooo!  You all thought my little petition was a hoax, and now we’re stuck digging out of another lousy storm.  Well, you can’t complain if you didn’t vote.

The Junk Drawer

Every home has one – maybe even more than one.  The humble ‘junk drawer’.

You know the drawer; paper clips, old keys that you don’t know what they open but you don’t dare get rid of, broken pens, 5 cent stamps, batteries that might still be good, loose coins from another country, expired coupons.  Probably a good dose of dust bunnies and lint, too.  Maybe it’s not even a drawer – it could be a basket, or bin, a box, or a shelf.

In my last job, when people would ask what I did, I’d say, “You know that drawer in your house where you keep all the random stuff that you need, but don’t know where else to put it? That’s my job.  I’m that drawer – when people don’t know where to look for help with something, they come to me, the junk drawer “.

Maybe it wasn’t a very good analogy, and probably a worse political decision to say out loud, since they did decide that they didn’t need ‘that drawer’ any more, but that’s a blog for a later date, when I’m finished therapy.

You can learn a lot about people by looking at what they keep in their junk drawers.  Of course, snooping isn’t very socially acceptable, so it’s not too likely you’ll ever understand the anthropology of what is held in those secret compartments.

I suppose no drawer ever starts off as a ‘junk drawer’.  Maybe it had dreams of being the utensil drawer or the important paperwork drawer or something, but somewhere along the line, maybe during a frenzied ’10 second tidy’ before the in-laws showed up, things just got scooped into it, and it’s fate was sealed.

We have a few junk drawers in our house, which I would argue, shows some semblance of organization.  For example, in the kitchen, we have one that houses twist ties, elastic bands, plastic forks, and other miscellaneous kitchen-type items.  I would dig through the loose items – straws, plastic bread clips, and half-burned birthday candles looking for stuff, but recently, my wife did a full-on tidy, and now everything is organized and easy to find.  Maybe that disqualifies it from the ‘junk’ categorization now.

We have another one, that isn’t a drawer, but a box that sits in the living room.  In it, we keep address books, stamps, pens, tape, paper clips, at least 2 calculators – I guess in case we don’t believe the answer from the first one, and some other office type items.  There are a few weird coins from countries I know I’ve never visited. I don’t know how they got there.

I have one in my bedroom.  It’s mostly a loose change collector – at one point it was so heavy with small change that it was actually hard to open.  I also keep broken watches, old eye-glasses, some shopping receipts, Canadian Tire money, and of course, some paper clips.  No junk drawer is complete unless you have some paper clips in it, and maybe a couple finishing nails.  It’s kind of like a fridge – it’s not a family fridge unless there’s a half-eaten jar of Cheese-Whiz in the back of it and it’s covered in fridge magnets.

For the sake of family unity, I’m not going to confirm or deny the existence of any possible junk drawers that my wife or kids have, other than to say that you could classify my kids bedrooms as very large junk drawers.

Junk drawers are often looked at as dirty little secrets in an otherwise orderly environment.  Maybe people view them as a precursor to a mild hording obsession, or that they shine a light on a disorganization problem.

Oh, sure, I bet Martha Stewart doesn’t have one, but she has a team of anal-retentive employees who ensure her home is magazine-shoot ready at all times.  I bet if we all had that kind of resource at our disposal, there would be no ‘junk drawers’ in our houses either.

I’m not so sure that’s a healthy sign, though.  A space in your home for all the little things that show us that we live there has a comforting feel about it.  It may be disorganized and is mixed with things that aren’t related in any way, but it represents the living parts of our existence, and we hang on to them like ancient relics.

Having a junk drawer is as normal as having your kids’ artwork scattered all over the fridge.  I was chatting with my neighbour who’s daughter just started pre-school.  We joked that they would need another fridge just for all the artwork that came home. Its about living in the moment, and embracing the joy of life without feeling like everything has to be hidden away, or compartmentalized in water-tight, sterile containers somewhere out of sight.

I’ve always found something very comfortable about those disorganized, overstuffed drawers.  Looking for something in it is a bit like a mini treasure hunt, where you went in looking for a glue stick or some push-pins, and while searching for them, you came across an old swimming lesson badge for one of the kids,  or a school picture that was sent to you by a relative that sparks a warm memory.

In all of the cluttered chaos, there’s a sense of life and belonging that exists inside that small, humble compartment.

In the end, I think that in its own way, the junk drawer is more important than any other drawer in the house, not just in what it holds, but in what it represents as a memory capsule for the family.

Of course, maybe it could be that we just really do have minor hording and disorganization tendencies, but I ask you this;  Would you rather be friends with someone with a junk drawer, or someone who has everything sorted, itemized, and stored in alphabetical order?

I rest my case.

Obsessing over my OCD

Here’s a quick test:  Can you tell why the person who lined up the M & M’s in the above picture does not have OCD?  Answer is at the bottom of this blog.

I think I’m pretty normal.  Now, don’t roll your eyes – I bet you think you’re normal too.  Sometimes, though, I wonder if I’m a bit off-center with some rituals and habits.  Of course, keeping things in order brings, well, order to what would otherwise be chaos.

So, why is it considered a ‘disorder’ if someone tries to keep things in order?  To me, that’s backwards.  The experts say it becomes a disorder when something becomes obsessive, unhealthy, or consumes an unreasonable amount of time or effort.  Come on people!  How can we keep order without diligence? Sounds like a conspiracy by the anarchists.

I started to notice a while ago, that I like some things kept, sorted, organized, or conducted in a specific way.  If not, I rationalized, some unknown chaos would ensue.  I like paperwork piled neatly with no stray corners. and in line or perpendicular to the desk. I think that’s called ‘right-angling’ or something…and the boards on my back deck aren’t completely perpendicular to the house.  I try not to look at it.  Other than that, any type of obsession I may have is just practical.

Case in point:  The dishwasher.

Lets get this argument out of the way right off the bat.  Tines DOWN!  It’s the only way that makes sense.  If the tines are up, you have to grab the eating part of the fork with your dirty fingers to unload the dishwasher, thus making the whole washing part irrelevant.  I don’t want to hear about the utensils getting a better cleaning if the tines are up – if your dishwasher can’t clean them the other way around, get rid of it.  Besides, if the tines are up, no matter how clean your dishwasher gets them, they are dirty the second you touch them.

We have a new dishwasher, and the utensil tray forces you to ‘hang’ the cutlery with the tines up…stupid, stupid, stupid!  If you come to our house to eat, you should probably bring your own utensils.

Its also very important to ensure efficiency with your loads by putting dishes, glasses, and whatever else in the dishwasher correctly.  There is an order to things, people!  I’ve been known to sneak into the kitchen after everyone has left and reorganize the entire thing.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love it when the kids actually put their dirty dishes in the dishwasher.  I just wish they could do it right.  I’ll open it up to see mayhem – various sizes and shapes just lumped together with no thought about efficiency or logic.   Filling the glass rack from the front?  Come on!  How are you supposed to fill the dishwasher if you put all your dirty glasses at the front of the rack? Start at the back and move forward…basic in and out principles.  I can’t believe I’m the only one who feels this way, right?

See?  No OCD here – just ensuring the proper order of things.

Okay,  grocery shopping.  My wife and I get the groceries together.  If I go alone, I make the mistake of getting what’s on the list, then leaving.  Apparently I’m doing it wrong, so we go together – I push the cart, load the belt, and pay.  My wife is in charge of filling the cart, and bagging the groceries.  Here’s where it gets a little complicated.

Unless you’re at Costco, the shopping carts aren’t all that big, so it’s critically important to load them properly.  The carts where we shop have a main basket level and a smaller upper basket level to them.  We start with vegetables and fruit – simple enough.  It all goes in the upper basket where the grapes won’t get squished.  Then we move on to bread – same deal.  Top rack.

As long as we move through the store in a logical order, and I place things where they belong, such as putting all the frozen food together (so they have a better chance of staying frozen longer), dairy together, and dry goods in their own sections, I’m good.  If, however, I’m asked to walk back to another aisle and pick up something we forgot (that wasn’t on the list to begin with), I come back to chaos!  It’s like the dishwasher.  OMG!  There’s frozen dinners mixed in with the dairy products!  And who put the dog treats in the top rack with the fruit and bread?  Now I’m breaking out in a cold sweat!

And what about those people who don’t pull over when they stop to read the label on a box of cookies?  What is wrong with them?  Move your cart fully to the right side!  On an angle?  Are you nuts?  The entire flow of the store is off balance now.  I only hope they didn’t park near me! Then, when they finally notice that they’ve blocked an entire aisle, they move the cart and offer a weak ‘sorry’.  And what do I do?  Like the stupid, polite Canadian that I am, I say ‘no problem’.  No problem?  The veins in my head are about to explode……gotta breathe.

I dare you to tell me this doesn’t make you even a little crazy!

You might think this is all a little OCD, but you’d be wrong.  Its all about order.  The aisles need to allow for fluid movement.  I deliberately put items in the cart a specific way for a specific reason – the loading of the belt at the cash register.  Again, start with dry goods – they go on first, so that they get packed first in the bags – makes sense, right?  Heavy cans at the bottom, lighter, perishable stuff at the top.  The last things that are loaded are the breakables (or squishables) – bread, eggs, and potato chips.  Somehow, though, despite my ritualistic effort, I’ll sometimes find an item that my lovely wife slipped in that I hadn’t noticed, like a large can of tomatoes that she grabbed on the way to the cashier.  Major stresser!  Now what? The dry goods are all loaded! Where the heck is the can of tomatoes supposed to go?  With the bread?  It’ll be a slaughter!  The bread doesn’t stand a chance with the canned tomatoes.  Crazy?  I think not.

Here’s an acid test to prove that I don’t have OCD, so before you send me replies with recommendations to 1-800-GET-SHRUNK, hear me out.

My garage – total disaster!  I have half-finished projects, tools laying around, broken household items not fixed, and dirt on the floor.  That makes me normal, right?  Especially if you knew how mad my father would be if he saw it.  Now that was an OCD tool guy if I ever saw one.  His tools were hung individually on pegboard hooks.  Each spot was outlined with the tool that belonged there, then the tool was colour-coded  with spray paint so that the tools in the garage didn’t co-mingle with the tools from the workshop, or the cottage, or his car (yes, he kept tools in the car, too).

Clearly, this obsession missed a generation.

Not convinced? Okay, how about my sock drawer?  Again – nothing in order.  Mismatched socks, missing socks, socks with holes in them that I should have thrown out, even things that don’t belong there – suspenders!  Who wears suspenders any more?  Larry King totally rocked them, but that’s about it.  They should go, but nope.  Still there.  Shoe laces!  What the heck are shoe laces doing in my sock drawer?   And I have no intention on tidying it up.  Obviously, no OCD here, so no need to worry.

Now, if I could only get my neighbour to straighten his fence boards, everything would be just right.   Maybe I’ll wander over one night…

ANSWERThe person who lined up the M & M’s does NOT have OCD, because although they are organized by color, the letters on the candy are not consistently straight on each one.  In the picture, they are randomly set.  Some sideways, some upside down.  Did you get it without peeking?  Maybe we need to chat…

Life Lessons from Street Hockey

street hockey
If you grew up in Canada in the ’60’s or ’70’s, it’s likely you spent a lot of time outside.  Those were the days when the big rules at home had to do with being within ‘ear-shot’, meaning your mother could yell your name from the front door and you could hear her…naturally, if you were playing hide and seek, you couldn’t give up your location, so you had to weigh the odds between being caught or being in trouble with Mom.

The other rule that got better as the summer months progressed, was the ‘street-light’ rule, which meant you could stay out until the street lights came on, then you’d better be heading home or else!  That one was a total rip off in the winter.  In Canada, the sun goes down around 4:30 in the cold months, so outdoor playtime was precious indeed.  Most of the time, though, it wasn’t all that bad on account that it was Canada and it was winter.

When we could, we would stay outside all day if possible.  Going in the house usually meant being ‘caught’ by Mom, and having to clean your room, or God forbid, vacuum the living room. Nothing was worse than that.

Because of this, we got pretty good at surviving outdoors for long periods of time.  Fluids came from a garden hose behind someones house – no bottled water for us, and nourishment was found in fruit trees growing around the neighbourhood – the trick was not getting caught.   Outdoor plumbing was never an issue…I’ll leave it at that.  Even injuries were managed outside, as long as they weren’t too serious.  There was one time playing street hockey, a kid got the butt of a stick in his mouth, which knocked out most of his teeth.  Because he was wearing a brand new set of braces though, they just kind of hung there on the metal tracks.  Needless to say, his father, who just finished paying for them, was not at all happy with us.

We loved playing street hockey.  It was a great way to live out the skills of your favourite NHL player.  Mine was Bobby Orr – the great number 4 from the Boston Bruins.  Most of the kids didn’t choose Lanny McDonald, not because he wasn’t a great hockey hero, but because none of us could grow thick mustaches.01f74-lanny

Mom liked us being outside because we burned off a ton of energy and we couldn’t break anything.

There were a lot of kids on our street, so getting a game going was pretty easy.  We didn’t have much in the way of fancy equipment like nets, or pads or anything.  We often used rocks as goal posts, and marked center ice with our hats or something else that we probably should have been wearing.  The puck was a tennis ball.  Tennis balls were as precious as gold back then.  Having one was like holding the conch in Lord Of The Flies…but of course, no one got killed.

We didn’t have blue lines on the road, so kids could stand pretty much anywhere on the ‘rink’.  There wasn’t an off-side rule but we did have the ‘Cherry Picker’ rule, which wasn’t so much of a rule as it was an insult.  A Cherry Picker was someone who would wait near the opposing goal area, hoping that the ball would make it down to them, and they’d have  a clear chance to score.  If you were brave enough or thick-skinned enough, you could be a Cherry Picker, but the other kids would yell out ‘Cherry Picker‘, like it was a terrible insult.

The most important rule in the game was the ‘car’ rule.  Because we were playing in the middle of the street, we had to always watch for cars.  If one came by, someone would yell, ‘CAR!‘.  Whatever play was going on, it would have to stop immediately, and get off the street – this was a great rule if the other team had possession of the ‘puck’.

Games kind of just happened if enough kids were around, and pretty much everyone could play as long as they had a stick.  Teams were organized in one of two ways, mostly.  The way I liked was that all the sticks would get piled up in the middle, and one of the kids, usually the oldest or most respected, would randomly throw sticks, alternating towards each net until they were evenly separated.  The other way was to have 2 captains choose their teams in alternating turns.  This wasn’t much fun if you weren’t very good, because you really didn’t want to be the last kid to get picked…’I guess I’ll have to take Troy…‘.  Either way, it was about the most fair, democratic process I’ve seen, even as an adult.

The interesting thing about street hockey was that although we were kids, and clearly unorganized, the rules of the game were strictly adhered to.  Any kid who refused to follow the rules, either spoken or assumed, was pretty much banished from all social games for a long time – kids could really hold a grudge.

We didn’t know it at the time, but street hockey was teaching us a lot of important lessons about life.  Besides being great exercise, we learned about the order of things.  We learned about leadership and hierarchy.  We knew that rules were important and needed to be followed.  We learned about teamwork and about knowing that we had to respect that we were on the street and it belonged to the cars.  It created the framework of morals and ethics for adulthood, and about hard work.

We had hero’s back then.  People we looked up to, and they rarely disappointed us.  Bobby Orr and Lanny McDonald are still stand up guys.  I don’t know if the same could be said about most sports stars today.

I’m seeing more kids in my neighbourhood playing street hockey again.  I’m glad for this, since they will learn the same important life lessons for future generations.  This gives me hope for the future.  They’ll learn about the importance of order, leadership and teamwork.  They’ll learn about not only how to follow rules, but to respect others.

They’ll probably never learn how to vacuum, though.