Life Explained

On the first day, God created the dog and said:
'Sit all day by the door of your house and bark atanyone who comes in or walks past. For this, I will give you a life span of twenty years.'
The dog said: 'That's a long time to be barking. How about only ten years and I'll give you back the other ten?' So God agreed.

On the second day, God created the monkey and said: 'Entertain people, do tricks, and make them laugh. For this, I'll give you a twenty-year life span.'
The monkey said: 'Monkey tricks for twenty years? That's a pretty long time to perform. How about I give you back ten like the Dog did?' And God agreed.

On the third day, God created the cow and said: 'You must go into the field with the farmer all day long and suffer under the sun, have calves and give milk to support the farmer's family. For this, I will give you a life span of sixty years.'
The cow said: 'That's kind of a tough life you want me to live for sixty years. How about twenty and I'll give back the other forty?' And God agreed again.

On the fourth day, God created man and said: 'Eat, sleep, play, marry and enjoy your life. For this,I'll give you twenty years.'
But man said: 'Only twenty years? Could you possibly give me my twenty, the forty the cow gave back, the ten the monkey gave back, and the ten the dog gave back; that makes eighty, okay?' 'Okay,' said God, 'You asked for it.'

So that is why for our first twenty years we eat, sleep,play and enjoy ourselves. For the next forty years we slave in the sun to support our family. For the next ten years we do monkey tricks to entertain the grandchildren. And for the last ten years we sit on the front porch and bark at everyone. Life has now been explained to you. There is no need to thank me for this valuable information. I'm doing it as a public service.

Oh The Indignity Of It All!

This is Sally Ann. She is a dolly that I gave to my daughter for her 1st birthday, nearly 21 years ago. This was THE dolly, and she lugged her around for years and loved her dearly. Sally Ann had many outfits that I sewed for her, including this one made from leftover fabric from my sister's prom dress, and she has had many roles in my daughter's life. At one point, she was one of the "children of England" in her fantasy playland. She never slept without her, and in the mornings would come shuffling out of bed in her pyjamas, Sally Ann tucked under one arm, and then chuck her up on the table beside her to eat breakfast. She travelled with us wherever we went, and it was a bit of a drama the once time we forgot her on our way to the cabin for the weekend.

My daughter has since outgrown her many years ago, now that she's nearly 22 years old. I've been lugging her around with me through my manh moves, not wanting to part with her myself, as she reminds me of the innocence of my daughter's childhood. Her current place was sitting in the rocking chair I rocked my daughter in all those years, which now sits in the spare room.

I happened to go into the spare room this morning and found her in this condition. Poor Sally Ann has been brutalized, and the culprit is Henry VIII, feline. He ripped her dress off her and there are several teeth marks in her dress, and on her body. I've since moved her to a shelf in my closet for safety reasons.

Oh, the indignity of it all.

Sigh...Call Centres

Ok. I hate calling call centres to begin with, but they are a necessary evil. Who else will deal with complaints. GAWD knows no one is available in person. I hate going through the plethora of automated menus - press one, press two, press pound, BLAH BLAH BLAH! And then you get put on hold forever, if anyone even bothers to pick up the phone. And can someone please explain to me why call centres continue to hire people who can't SPEAK ENGLISH!!! I get SO DAMNED IRRITATED when I call and have to keep explaining myself because the idiot at the other end of the line can't understand English. I live in Canada. We have two official languages...English is one of them. I am not in Quebec, so therefore I should be able to receive service in English without having to repeat what I am saying a dozen times.

Today was no exception. I have been having issues with my phone jack in the living room. I've fried three phones now by touching it and getting zapped with static electricity. The phones have died, mid-ring, never to work again. So after the third phone fried, I decided to call the phone company. The first call, three menus later, I get a ringing phone...that no one answered...WTF? So I hung up after about 20 rings, and tried again. This time I got a person, English speaking...groovy...we're in the zone. I explain the problem to her and she agrees to put in a "service ticket" and someone will call me tomorrow. I provide her with numbers to reach me at, and the call is over...great.

About 30 minutes later the phone rings. My phone rarely rings, so I dash off into the bedroom to answer it (I refuse to plug yet another phone into the jack in the living room, only to fry). It was the phone company and I was not in the zone. Some foreigner was calling to tell me that he received my service ticket. I explained the problem and he told me someone would call me tomorrow. So I asked him what the purpose of his call today was, considering the person I spoke to just 30 minutes ago told me exactly the same thing. He didn't understand the question...so I explained it to him again, in plain ENGLISH. So then he said someone would come out to check it out tomorrow. I asked him when, because I work tomorrow in the afternoon, but am home in the morning. He said someone will come out tomorrow. Um, listen idiot, I know that, but when tomorrow...there are 24 hours in the day...can you at least pick one of them? So I clarified again what I meant, in plain ENGLISH. He doesn't respond and tells me there will be a charge. WTF? Why do I have to pay for an unsafe jack in my apartment? He tells me that the phone company doesn't repair anything inside of a building...oh for fuck's sake...you have GOT to be kidding me. I am not talking about a god damn Radio Shack jack, I am calling about a builder installed wall jack. Sorry, ma'am...there will be a charge. So I tell him to forget it, I am not paying to have someone else's equipment fixed. He tells me my landlord must fix it...WTF? They don't have phone technicians...they have Tony the handyman...

Sigh...so then I tell him not to send anyone because I am not paying for it. He repeats what I said and informs me he is writing a note on the file that I will not pay for anyone to come and that someone will call me tomorrow. Um, what? So I ask him why is someone going to call me when you aren't going to fix the jack without charging me for it, and I told you I am not going to pay for anyone to come? He says "he will come tomorrow". Sigh...so then I got pissy and hollered something rude like "why can't I speak to someone who speaks English???" and hung up the phone. I wonder if someone will phone me or come...

I hate call centres...

St. Valentine Was a Sadist

Valentine's day is for lovers. When you don't have one, it is nothing but a horrible reminder that you are alone while others celebrate their love for each other. Boo. Love sucks. The only good thing about Valentine's day is the sweet treats...pass the chocolates, I'll have a double.

I don't recall it being any less miserable as a child either. We made those stupid valentine boxes/folders/bags and spent the whole day before decorating them with construction paper hearts, paper lace doilies, glitter, ribbon, whatever you could find in the classroom. And then you diligently made out your 30 valentines at home the night before, trying not to give the wrong person the wrong idea - don't want to give too cute of a one to the gross guy who makes armpit farts with his hand...he might think you like him. And hoped like hell the guy you had a crush on gave you a nice one, if at all. And if he wasn't in your class, it likely didn't happen, and hearts were broken again...sob!

So, if you have someone to kiss tomorrow - lucky you. I'll be eating chocolate at home with the only boys in my life...Stormy and Henry.

My Flaky Cat

Stormy is big and black, and has dandruff...or at the very least, dry skin. It's quite dry in the north, and his skin is flaking off all over the place. I'm sure it's driving him nuts, though I haven't seen him scratching much. The remedy is to either add moisture (near impossible...it gets SUCKED into the air and evaporates quicker than I could add it) or to add fish oil to his diet. Via didn't like fish, so I hadn't been in the habit of buying any fish flavored cat food, but in light of his flaky skin, I thought I might try it. He practically inhaled it...and Henry turned his nose up at it. His loss...

The irony is, I am allergic to animal dander, and this dry skin of Stormy's is exactly the portion I am allergic to...sneeze, snort, sniff...good thing I love that boy...he still gets his snuggles regardless of the level of flakiness...

Aging

It ain't pretty. It also hurts like a bitch. I've been told I likely have bursitis in my hip and knee. I'm just 41 years old. I feel much older...thank goodness my heating pad has been giving me some relief, as meds did nothing for it.

All I can hear in my head though is my aging mother saying "oh, me hip"...

Short Break - I'm Getting Old

So I have the net at home tonight after all...the Freezone is up and running again, lol...

I am also getting old...or I am getting old people's issues...hip and knee pain sent me to the outpatient clinic at the hospital and after hours there last night, and a shot of toradol (no relief), I was sent home and requested to come back this morning for an x-ray. Back to the hospital this morning, x-rays and 3 hours later, they tell me they are not quite sure what is wrong but they know what isn't wrong. Their best guess was bursitis...yes...bursitis...something I typically would associate with my grandmother...not me. I am just 41 years young...how can I have bursitis???

I think I shall hobble off to bed now, taking my aging joints with me...

Break Time

I posted similar on my other blog...have lost my "freezone" wireless internet at home (GASP!) because the network I was camping out on either figured out how to secure it, or they moved out...either way, I am without access until this weekend when I can get my own up and running. Not much choice of ISP's up here, so have to take what I can get. Stay tuned...

My Boys This Weekend

Here's some recent shots of the boys. Henry has his nail caps on...pink ones! I had bought them for poor little Via, but they arrived after she was put down. He doesn't seem to mind them much, and it has certainly curbed his scratching on my bed and wicker trunk. Stormy is "in the bag" in his photo...loves getting into paper bags, gift bags, plastic bags, you name it.

Grief & Loss: What To Do?

I can hardly write this without balling my eyes out. What do you do when there has been an accumulation of loss and you don't want any more? I know what the social worker inside me says - deal with it, and move on when you're ready.

No one has died recently (other than the talented Heath Ledger) but everywhere I look there has been loss - death, change, deterioration, and loss of a way of life. I thought I had been dealing with things well enough, but I think the final straw was knowing that the one community I had been able to call home is facing significant change, and possibly closure at some point. It wasn't like I didn't see it coming. I'd been hearing about the possibility for decades, long before I chose to live there for 12 years.

The losses vary:

• loss of so many family members to cancer - 3 sister-in-laws, all under age 50; all of my grandparents, and two uncles, not to mention several distant relatives, and family friends; and others coping with cancer right now. I hate cancer...


• pets - lost my feline friend Via in April after nearly 10 years with her - she came from that tiny community I call home; and then last fall I lost my canine friend, Penny, who lived in that community with my parents after I moved away. She was nearly 14 years old.


• my father has had some significant health issues that have affected his whole way of life and needs more care than he expected, and making changes in my parents lives they weren't really counting on.


• the potential closure of this small community.

I think back of all the memories, and how most everything relates to this small community - it has been the anchor for so much of my life. No matter where I have lived all over this country, this community has been there for me, a constant. I am now in my 30th home in 41 years, and every chance I got in those 41 years, I went to visit that community. I lived there for 12, had grandparents there for decades, and my parents retired there for more than a decade. I still have a house there (co-owned with the ex) on my family's land, granted to my great-grandfather near the turn of the century. I was married there; I raised my only daughter there; I built my house with my own hands there (with the ex) from the ground up.

The fondest of memories flood me, and I know many of my faithful readers will share in them - if they weren't there, they have similar memories:

• swimming up in Big Pond, jumping off diving point into the chilly waters. We numbed up after the first few jumps, and swam sometimes twice or three times a day (counting those late night dips in our undergarments!)


• walking in across the many frozen ponds in winter, sliding down the hills on our bums, happiest when there was a thick crust of snow and "glitter" (ice rain)...moonlit or the brilliant sun, made no difference to us - it was so good to go out, even if the CRACK! of the ice made us all screech out loud!


• the sound of outboard motor boats heading out to traps and nets in the early morning, and then returning in the afternoons; on calm days, you could hear the fishermen (and women!) talking to one another, clanging their gear around


• the blow of the "steamer" (coastal ferry) when she came into the harbour, boats like the Tavener, the Bonavista, the Coaster, the Runner...


• the sweet smell of Mayflowers on Mother's Day, picked on the hills surrounding the harbour


• the sight of an older gentleman, sitting on the counter of a local store, looking out the window, greeting all who entered the store. He used to run that store, wrapping sliced bologna in brown paper and string that my grandmother saved up in a paper bag


• going out in the boat on Sundays for a picnic on some island beach, or shoreline cove, exploring what we could, having a boil-up for supper


• parties at my house - many knew how they went...usually started with playing cards well into the night, generous amounts of alcohol, loud music, food fights, dancing on the coffee table, and the notorious "pool party" and "lipstick caper"...I can still picture S.B. with my ex's shorts on, and fuzzy slippers, doing his impression of Superman...


• picking berries on the hills, hoping the bears didn't come along and catch you - blueberries, partridgeberries, marshberries (most called them meshberries), and the elusive and much coveted bakeapples - God help you if you trampled any of those and were caught by the serious berrypickers!


• stomping the night away at the Cramalott Inn (local gathering place, for drinks, cooking up a scoff, jokes, stories, music, cards, and more). How many nights did folks fall asleep to the sound of shoes thumping the floor late into the night as things really got rocking...and how many packs of cards, radios, tables, and who knows what else got thrown over the cliff in the heat of an argument or frustration. SOOO many memories for that place - dancing in the dark, jugs of water thrown into a surprised face, my sister writing in "the book" and taking roll call, mussel boils, the "outhouse" (a funnel connected to a pipe that ran to the ocean), the stacks of beer bottles that paid for the place's expenses, the many colors of the Cramalott Inn walls...J.B. holding his beer bottle to the light to check for fingers...


• card games at the school, and getting the "booby prize"; dart games at the school and the sour looks from others when you scored well or finished a game!


• weddings at the Orangemen's Lodge, and then later at the school - another host of memories...live bands, djs, the bending floor when the crowds were up to stomp out a good jig, arguing over what music to play when there was no dj, waiting for your turn in the one toilet per gender, standing around outside with the smokers for a bit of "fresh" air, and trying not to fall into the ditch on the way home


• the two-room school where my daughter went from K-5 before we moved away. She spent all those years in a grade by herself, as did many others over the years, and their Christmas concerts - the kids were so good to remember so much, even if you couldn't understand much of it (well, I couldn't, with my "outsider ears")


• going house to house on Christmas night, for a drink, a snack, and a barrel of laughs - like when J.B. bounced his way across somene's bridge (deck) on Moon Shoes...


• walking "over around" to get the mail on mail days, and standing around while it was called out while you waited for each coveted piece of mail, parcel card, Sears catalog, or store flyer


• meeting the ferry when it arrived in the harbour and tied up at the wharf - didn't matter if you didn't have anyone coming on the ferry - you went just to see who else did, or what freight came on the boat, or just for something to do; it was often the highlight of the day, unless you were going on it, and you were ready to hurl your guts out before you even boarded, smelling the stench of diesel fumes...


• huge fires up in the "arm" on Bonfire Night in November - the kids would work for weeks prior, dragging off all the old deadwood they could find, taking down old hen houses, shacks, fish flakes, you name it, keeping the harbour tidy of old relics


• going for walks around the harbour, lap after lap, across the breakwater - you didn't dare not take it to the very end and touch the ground before turning around


• seeing O.B. out walking, day after day, making his rounds, so used to going to the power house in the days before we were hooked into the main power grid.
• playing over on "the head" and hiding amongst the rocks, climbing down "the devil's slide" or crossing "the bar" at low tide, hoping you made it back before it began to rise
• walking down to Sandbanks, where they used to keep the sheep

I could go on, and on, and on...and you know what...I feel better already, having revisited memory lane. At least the crying has stopped...for now...

Missing Heath

Heath Ledger was found dead in his apartment today. I am shocked and saddened. I loved his acting, particularly in The Four Feathers, The Patriot, and A Knight's Tale. He was 28 years old.

Oh The Idiocy Of It All

I thought I might attempt to put up the last of what I have to go on the walls tonight, which are some 4 inch tall painted wooden letters that spell out words I wanted on the walls. Off I go with measuring tape and pencil in hand to make sure they end up on straight, and well spaced on the chosen wall. I'm not real tall at 5'4" so took my trusty plastic Rubbermaid stool with me, thinking I would not need the height of a chair. After some initial measurements, I shuffled around on the stool, and before I knew it, BAM CRASH BANG OH FUCK THE PAIN! My foot had managed to bust its way through the centre of the stool. I think it was because I generally don't centre my weight on the weakest part (the centre), usually choosing to hover at the edges where the weight bearing legs are. Tonight I did not. My foot went through the stool to the floor. Given that the stools are not that wide, and my foot is an average size 8, my toes did not wish to go with the rest of the foot. Instead they chose to hang up on the jagged edges of plastic created by the foot.

After the howling, whimpering and whining stopped, I checked out the damage and noticed blood was pouring from 4 places...two spots between my middle and next smallest toes (one was a rather deep gash) a spot on the outer edge of my baby toe, and a spot on the back of my ankle, on the achilles tendon, along with a scrape on the outer edge of my ankle. Three bandaids later, and I was back to work, standing on a wooden chair instead. The stool is toast...

And oh the irony of it all...the letters for the wall? They spell PEACE, HOPE, and LOVE...

Why Does It Take So LONG???

(sent to me by my friend K. this morning)

When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied.

Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mom, no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there was one, but there isn't - so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck,(Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!),yank down your pants, and assume " The Stance."

In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance. "To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!"

Your thighs shake more. You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your purse.(Oh yeah, the purse around your neck, that now, you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time).That would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet."Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT.

It is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear,"You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get."

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl that sprays a fine mist of water that covers your butt and runs down your legs and into your shoes. The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.

At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting.

You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe.(Where was that when you NEEDED it??) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this."

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used, and left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?"

This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with public restrooms (rest??? you've GOT to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked questions about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the door!

The Socializing and Training of Young Henry

Well, I was beginning to get quite frustrated with young Henry VIII, as he wasn't listening and was defiant as an insolent child, but in the past few weeks he has come a long way. He still has his stubborn moments, but now he responds to my voice, as long as it is short sharp commands. If my neighbors can hear me, they are probably wondering what the hell is going on..."STOP!" "NO!" "GET DOWN!" "DON'T TOUCH!" "LEAVE IT ALONE!" "GET OUT OF THERE!" and so on...

He has certainly come a long way from the defiant feline he was while we bunked in with my friend C. She would come after him with the spray bottle and he would run through it like a sprinkler...

he's come a long way from that fuzzy little kitten he was pictured here...

Da Boyz

This was the scene here tonight...the boys cuddled into one another on the sofa in their bed, and then later Henry got up and curled up on the table. With all the soft surfaces around, couches, chairs, beds, ottomans, etc, he chooses the table to curl up on...what a weirdo...but they sure look cute don't they?

Ah The Joys Of Apartment Living

or not. I turned my stereo on this afternoon and played James Blunt's 1973, which is quite heavy on bass guitar. It wasn't long before I got to meet my upstairs neighbor. I think she was hearing someone else play loud music though as she said it had been going on for a while, and my cd was still on the first track. She told me that my neighbors to the left also play music quite loud sometimes, but I haven't really heard much...haven't been here to hear much. All I know is I rather enjoy playing my music loud sometimes when I am doing household chores, so I can hear it through the house and sing along (awfully I might add, but who cares?). I also have not been in an apartment since 1999 when I moved off campus, so I haven't had to turn down the music since then. Sigh...I might have to do chores with my mp3 player on instead. If they complain about THAT, we shall have words.

It's only 4:30PM in the afternoon after all...

Diced Ham Cookies

You have got to be kidding...I pulled this from an ad next to the news...

How Much Is That Kitty In The Window?

CHEAP. For one buck in Monopoly money, he's yours. Sure, he looks cute and all, but at 6am in the morning when he wants to play...nothing is cute. His favorite form of early morning torture (there are several) is to get up on the windowsill and rattle the metal mini-blind...endlessly. I get up, I yell at him, I take him off and tell him a sharp NO! and put him on the floor again. He goes directly BACK to the windowsill. We play this game for a few rounds before I am no longer saying just NO, I am also cursing and swearing and calling him names. Then he decides he is going to bring a toy mouse into my bedroom and chase it around. Fine if he could just play quietly but not Henry. He needs to jam it in behind something so he can scratch and paw at it endlessly until I get up and turn the lights on so I can find the fucking toy and TAKE it from him. So then he goes back to the blinds again. More of that game, and he gets the message about the window. Then he decides to sharpen his claws on my boxspring and mattress. More cursing and swear and I pound on the mattress to distract him. Then it's time to get into the trashbin beside my bed, and he hits the jackpot - there is a plastic crinkly bag in there to rustle. SO I get up once again, take the trash bin and put it on top of the dresser where he can't reach it. Then it's back to the blinds. Sigh. I pull out my MP3 player and give up, listen to music to drown the little fucker out and try to get back to sleep again. He only does these things in my bedroom, early morning and late night.

I may actually pay someone to take him.

Going Home

Well, my Christmas vacation is nearly over. I fly home this afternoon and while I will miss my girl dearly, I am glad to be going home, to my own bed, my own kitties, my own mess...I can just imagine the sniff fest that will occur upon my arrival at home as I have been around about 8 kitties, 5 dogs and countless people. They will know that I have cheated on them...

It has been a great vacation, with plenty of down time to relax and veg on the sofa, which is just what was needed after such a busy fall. I didn't open my books for my new course once, actually didn't take them out of the suitcase! However that will need to change next week as the course began this month...time to spit out my gum and pay attention...

Now I'm just hoping the damn flight leaves on time, and we don't have to deal with YET another broken plane.

Christmas When Your Mother Visits

This time I was the mother spending Christmas with her daughter in her own place she shares with her boyfriend. I have nearly bitten my tongue off so many times, wanting to keep my mouth shut...hearing my own mother's voice (and Thumper's, from Bambi) "if you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all"...and realizing I did not want to be a meddling mother who visits. However, as anyone who knows me, that isn't easy and things slipped out...and I was swiftly reminded that it's her house...heh heh.

Not wanting to having people over for dinner tomorrow in a messy place, I shut my face and got to work, hearing someone else's voice "if you're not part of the solution, then you're part of the problem". I cleaned the floors, did my laundry(and some of theirs), cleaned the kitchen, bathroom, vacuumed and tidied up the rooms of junk, Christmas stocking stuff that has spread all over, bits of trash like candy wrappings, wrapping paper, gift tags, ribbon, or twist ties from some random gift...you know, the usual, bagging it up with the emptied wastebins from all the rooms. And I started packing my suitcase. Not because I am ready to leave, but because I am going to be busy over the remaining days so thought I should get a little organized.

Now I can relax and dive back into Stephen King's Lisey's Story while waiting for my darling daughter to come home from work and head out grocery shopping with her and the other.