Many Happy Returns

…Why do people say that about birthdays? What is one returning?

I am taking advantage of this being my birthday to…do something, I guess.

SODA WARS

…as I grew up calling it. Not “pop.” Or “soft drink,” which was just what the companies called it. Anyway, one of the things that always intrigued me about the Drumpf (Trump’s father changed the original family name, I suppose to sound less Germanic) presidency (OK, the Drumpf hanging-around-the-White-House interval) was the red button on his desk to summon Diet Coke. If I win the presidency, I will summon Pepsi Zero, but I will summon it by just mentioning that to anyone who happens to stop by. They don’t have to make me a red button AS IF IT WERE A NUCLEAR LAUNCH. Anyway, if you thought someone just brought him a can of Diet Coke, you would be wrong. They had to pour it into a glass in front of him, and then hand him the glass on a silver tray. (Why not a gold tray?) This was continuing the ancient Mar-a-Lago practice, in which servers had to do the same. They also had to bring him a fresh bottle of ketchup each time, and open it in front of him so he could hear it go “pop.” It is also Mar-a-Lago practice for other diners to stand and applaud when he walks in. It makes me wish I could go there, just so I could remain seated, and use some old bottle of ketchup that hadn’t been opened in front of me. I don’t even care for ketchup much, but I would use it, on principle. However, I would like other people to stand and applaud when I walk in. I haven’t done anything to deserve it, but neither has he.

My birthday weather fit the definition of my happy place–gray, with red roses blooming nearby. When I came up with my Happy Place, I realized, You know, you’re just describing your own front porch. It’s like on The Office, when Dwight told Jim that his dream was to be assistant regional manager to the Devil in Hell. And run a bed & breakfast on the side, but that’s too much work for me.

Ooh, I just noticed I can change the type or background color on this. Intoxicating! But how will I decide? It’s not like when I was still working, and changed A Certain Person’s type color to red when she was out of the room, so the screen looked like a bloodshot eyeball, and she had to pretend she didn’t care. Or the time they left Nick 2000 messages, and he thought he had to delete each individually, not knowing he could delete them all at once. A memory I cherish, even though I wasn’t there.

See how I can’t handle even a small amount of power? Vote for me!

Nick’s Audience of Two

You may have been wondering what Nick has been up to.

He came over and encountered my two new cats. (They still seem new, even though we’ve had them for over a year. I think it’s because we’re still waiting for Carson to stop being “the feral one.”)

“Ooh, that one’s nice and plump!” he said about Jessie. They were sitting, one on either side of me, like lions by an old-timey Biblical-era throne. (Disclaimer: You know I am making all this up by the fact that they are sitting on either side of me. Carson would be under the bed if any stranger came over, much less one with scales and wings.) He extended his neck toward Jessie, who promptly swatted him on the sensitive snout. “Ow! Well, what about this one?’ He extended his neck toward Carson, who responded with a resounding hiss. “Hey, I could take this one! It only has three fangs!” (One of Carson’s teeth was knocked out, we don’t know how or by whom.) He looked up at me hopefully, while being regarded with eyes of bright bronze and bright green, respectively.

“Stop acting like you’re Alf in that old TV show I never watched,” I tell him, and he looks at me quizzically. “I called you over because I’m thinking about changing the angle of my presidential campaign.”

“Oh.” He sits down and tries to look wise. “Do you need me to kill anyone?” (Disclaimer: I don’t think he has, in fact, ever killed anyone.)

“Well…let’s just say I’m thinking about going over to the dark side.”

“Cool! I can do death threats and stuff.”

“Yes, that seems to be standard practice nowadays.”

“I’m ready! I–” He turns and glares at Jessie, who has decided to settle between his wings. “Can you get this thing off me?”

“I’m sorry,” I say serenely. “She has armor-piercing claws.” (Disclaimer: This is a plain old lie.)

He twists his snaky neck around to glare at her.

“Watch out,” I say, equally serenely. “They’re a bonded pair, so her sister might defend her.” (Disclaimer:This is a–well, I’m not sure what to call it. The Humane Society said they were a bonded pair, because they tried to separate them, and they both did very poorly. But now they have realized they have dissimilar personalities and interests, so I’m not sure what to call them now. Other than sisters.)

“Who cares? She’s–“

“–under-supplied with fangs? But she has even more armor-piercing claws.” (Another good old-fashioned lie.)

“So I just have to put up with this until she decides to leave?”

“Why not? It’s what I do.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

ADVERTISING i DON’T LIKE

“The best way to summer.” NOT A VERB.

“Do you have old, drafty windows? You could be losing money all year long.” Not in spring and fall. It’s like those ASPCA commercials–“An animal is suffering in the heat/cold.” What do they do in spring and fall? “An animal is in…well, pleasant temperatures.”

DEAR YAHOO NEWS, DO NOT THINK YOU WILL ENCOURAGE ME TO CLICK WITH THE HEADLINE, “RARE FOOTAGE OF A CROCODILE EATING A BABY HIPPO WITH UMBILICAL CORD STILL ATTACHED.” How about “RARE FOOTAGE OF A CAT EATING A BABY BIRD WITH YOLK SAC STILL ATTACHED?’

Thanks to my FanBase for recent positive comments on FaceBook. Y’all (disclaimer: that’s something I never say) are the best.

Nick’s Belated Birthday Present Post

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Disclaimer: I promised Nick I would do this, but a fire somehow erupted on my property and I found that too distracting to do it in a timely manner. So let’s see what kind of a story I come up with now.

Another disclaimer: It’s hard to find a picture of a dragon in the Free Photo Library, apparently because they don’t actually exist. So I had to settle for fire instead. I picked the one with blue in it!

I was sitting at home the other day, doing my heroic patriotic part by remaining on the couch (I am but a humble foot soldier against the Invisible Enemy, but I’m doing my part), when I heard a snuffling at the door.

“Hey! Are you home?” I heard Nick say.

“No,” I replied.

“OK,” he said, then, “Wait a minute. I know better than that!”

“Not much better, obviously.”

“Let me in!”

“I can’t. Governor’s orders. No beasts allowed.” This isn’t, strictly speaking, true, but Nick can’t read anyway, so it’s worth a try.

“They said I can’t get the disease. I’m cold-blooded.” He snorted. “Just because I can’t breathe fire.”

“Why do you want to come in anyway?”

“I’m bored.”

“Well, you’re out of luck here. I’m boring.”

He digests this silently, then, at a loss for a clever comeback, spreads his wings and takes off. Not, unfortunately, to fly away home. I hear a thud as he lands on the roof–like an oversized squirrel–then a mad scrabbling as he starts to slide down it. Then another thud as he lands on the ground, not having gotten his wings spread again in time.

I hear my neighbor yell–“Hey, that thing’s in the yard next door again!” His wife answers, “What thing?” and he says, “You know! The one with wings and a tail!”

“Go away, you’re annoying my neighbors,” I say. Without deigning to reply, and having failed at his aerial attack–and a good thing, too, since his attempts over the years are making my ceiling crack–he begins digging vigorously at the foundations of the house.

“Stop that!” I yell. Momentarily forgetting what he was there for, he begins rolling in the dirt he’s rucked up, which is quite a sight, I assure you.

“Look at that–is that thing in heat or something?” I hear my neighbor yell. Nick leaps to his feet, and a moment later I see his snaky tongue darting under the front door. My cat Glamour leaps on it.

“Hey, quit it!” Nick squawks. Laughing, I pick up the purring cat and open the door.

Nick is self-righteous and sullen. “Why do you keep those things, anyway?”

“To keep you away, obviously.”

“It won’t work forever,” he says darkly.

“It’s worked so far,” I point out. Glamour looks very pleased with herself.

“That one looks mighty meaty,” he observes. “Where’s the little skinny one?”

“Esmerelda? She…died last November.”

“She never liked me anyway,” he says dismissively, heading for the kitchen, where he begins crunching on Glamour’s food.

“Stop that! It’s…not a balanced diet for you.”

“You never want me to have fun.” He turns. “Hey, you have a new couch.” He pads over. “I can fit under this one–like this–” He squirms under it until the rump and tail stick out one end, and a wing tip out the side.  This gives me the opportunity to tickle the wing as he squirms and squawks, almost dumping me off the couch before he manages to scramble out.

“Are you still bored?”

“I–I’m existentially bored,” he answers loftily. I can always tell when he’s discovered a new word. “Anyway, you owe me a birthday present.”

“Do I now? And how old are you, exactly?”

“I..I–I’m existentially old. I’ve existed for eons.” That was his word of the week last week.

“I see,” I say, nodding wisely. “So you hatched from the egg–when, exactly?”

“I don’t know! Give me a present!” He lashes his tail frantically.

“So that’s what this is all about,” I muse. “I’m sorry, I’m kind of short on presents at the moment.”

“Not even candy? Candy is cheap!”

“Especially not candy.”

He looks at me grievously. “Not even one jelly bean?”

“Certainly not. Jelly beans are gross.”

“Not even…a single chocolate chip?” Drat. He must remember that I always have those on hand.

“Only…only if you sit up for it!”

“I suppose that’s OK,” he says glumly. Groaning as if with immense effort, he sits up on his back legs, bracing himself with his powerful tail and spreading out his wings for balance. Thanks to his snaky neck, he snatches it out of my hand with lightning speed, then drops down to all fours again. Then…”Hey! I shouldn’t have to sit up on my birthday!! No fair!”

“Life isn’t fair,” I observe.

“You’re…existential,” he growls, slinking away down my front walk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alcohol Is Writing For Me

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And why not? It has for many before me. And I want to know what’s the problem with the unicorn in the background here.

THIS JUST IN

Fiona & Archer are now 8. She gave Rom a “note from the Cersive {sp} Fairy–I can write cersive!” and signed her name. Rom said the fairy hadn’t spelled “cursive” correctly, and Fiona said, “Well, she’s only 5!” She then admitted that there is, in fact, no cursive fairy. I see a career in politics in her future. Archer somehow managed to restrain himself from questioning belief in said fairy. If he had done so, it would have been in a sentence beginning, “Actually…”

ANOTHER DAY, NO ALCOHOL THIS TIME

See, I’m versatile.

My brother-in-law told me a story that reminded me of the old days of talking to the reality-challenged on 911. A neighbor in his apartment building came to him and informed him that:

1. The out-of-state license plates on the apartment building’s lot belonged to people who were here to spy on him,
2. These people hacked into his mother’s phone in an attempt to get at him,
3. What appear to be stars in the sky are actually drones spying on him.

He must be very important indeed.

COMING UP ON THEATER OF CRUELTY

Well, eventually. An account of Nick at the Fall Festival, although he’s now claiming he will attempt to avoid me. Probably because I’ve avoided posting about him at the festival a couple of previous years. And also because I had the barbs removed from his tail.

CAMPAIGN UPDATE

Vote for me! I know no one in foreign countries, so I can’t sell out the U.S. for political gain! Although, if I did, I would echo the guy I overheard at McDonald’s who said, “That whistleblower is the one they should go after!”

Also vote for me if you’re tired of politicians waving their arms around.

MY TRUE SUPERPOWER

On Friday the 13th Eve this month (namely, Thursday the 12th), I had finished my lunch at McD’s and took my tray to the trash can. Having dumped it, I turned and somehow got my foot caught in the legs of a baby chair, which somehow pulled my foot out from under me, and I fell–luckily on a well-padded area (of me, not the floor, although maybe the floor should be padded).. Sure, the baby chairs were lined up neatly against the wall, but hey, they were gray and the wall was brown, so…I was amused to note the following day that they’d put a yellow CAUTION cone next to them. The following day, it had been removed. How soon we forget.

I clicked on frequently-used words to tag this post with. I wanted “politics,” but they kept giving me “apologies” instead. Hmm.

Nick Gets a Tune-up

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I got a letter today from the Police Department addressed to “Handler of Beast #1307.” “Don’t they know I’m retired?” I grumbled.

“It has come to our attention that the said beast still bears the official colors of the Police Department. Since this animal has been decommissioned, we request that you remove said colors.”

I called Nick in from the kitchen, where he was stealing cat food.

“Do you know anything about this?”

“About what?! You know I can’t read. Well, read well. I can’t read well.” He turned his undeniably navy-blue back on me.

“You’re not supposed to have police coloration anymore. People might get confused and expect you to do police work.”

“Well, suppose I just refuse to do it, and we’ll see how that goes.”

“I am responsible for you, and–why have you been scratching so much?”

“Dunno. Allergic to responsibility, probably.”

“No, it’s just that one spot. Let me see–”

“Can’t I even itch in peace?!”

One of his scales was slightly raised. I pried up as much as I dared. “Just what I thought. You’ve got a tick under there.” His armor-plating repels most pests, but makes them hard to remove if they do burrow in. “You’re going to the vet.”

“We are, you mean. I’m not going there alone.”

“Of course not. You can’t pay the bill.”

Since we can’t use the Police Department vet anymore, I took him to my own, who was impressed to behold him.

“We don’t see many of these. This is a fine specimen.” Nick preened. “Have you bred him?”

“Well, he…he sort of breeds himself.” Nick preened even more.

“Yes, since they mate for life, initial mate selection is extremely important. So what seems to be the problem?” I pointed the bad spot out.

“Ah, yes. I can remove that. It should cause minimal discomfort–

Nick immediately became agitated. “Then why mention the possibility?”

“–but of course he’ll have to be sedated.”

“No, I’m not going to let you–” Nick began, but I immediately grabbed him by the ears. It’s a risky move, since I have to bypass the terrible teeth, but his ears are sensitive, and it makes him disinclined to struggle further.

The vet started preparing the injection. “He’s going to stick a needle in me!” Nick said, sounding uncharacteristically squeaky.

“Don’t move or I’ll rip your ears off,” I murmured, so the vet couldn’t hear. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” he answered between his teeth, likewise under his breath. These pleasantries kept us occupied until the vet could slide the needle beneath a scale on his throat, and we both eased him down as he collapsed.

It was short work for the vet to remove the affected scale, pry the tick out, daub the wound with ointment, and reattach the scale. Since Nick was still snoring–OK, more like gentle hissing–the vet said, “I assume you want me to readjust his colors?”

“Can you do that?”

“Oh, yes. It’s actually a simple procedure, but you need the right tools. Then he’ll revert to his original color.”

“Which is…?”

He shrugged. “We’ll just have to find out.”

The “special tool” appeared to be a simple pair of pliers. The vet began tugging on the barbs at the end of Nick’s tail.

“Are you actually going to pull those spines out?”

“Oh, yes. It’s just a minor adjustment. They’re mostly decorative, anyway.”

He pulled–hard–causing the patient to whimper in his sleep. I stroked his ear soothingly, and he quieted. Some half-dozen spines were removed in this way.

“Now, we wait…” the vet said. So we did, until the dark blue slowly faded, and became the dull green of one of those army-green grasshoppers.

Nick started to stir. “Why is my tail sore–What?!” He looked at himself with dismay, then turned to me. “You planted that tick on me so you could get me in here to do this. I just know it.”

“No, the tick was there before I got the letter, remember?”

“And good thing it’s only a tick,” the vet said. “Sometimes they get infested with weevils, and then their scales fall off.”

“You know,” Nick said musingly, “I think I like this green better anyway.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Rage for Incremental Change

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I am tired of the above guy and his smirk, but there’s a paucity of photos available when you type in “army backpack” (mostly boring people hiking), so you’ll just have to put up with him.

THE STUFF YOU SEE ON THE BUS

…which is beginning to be what this blog seems to be about, but AT ANY RATE….

There was a guy in front of me on the bus whose giant army backpack (camo, bedroll on the top, aluminum pots and pans clattering on the sides) bore a patch that said:

“U.S. SPECIAL FORCES

TERRORIST HUNTING PERMIT  NO. 911-01–T.M.

NO BAG LIMIT, TAGGING NOT NECESSARY

2001-2050”

Let’s just analyze this, because that’s what we do.

1. I bet every one of these patches sold said “Permit # 911-01.” Because, 9/11, September 11, 2001, get it?
2. So it expires in 2050? Good thing we got that terrorist thing knocked down by then.
3. Oddly, I felt not safer because this guy was on the bus, but less safe.
4. The fact that it said T.M. (trademark) led me to believe this was not, in fact, actual Army issue, a fact my actual Army source confirmed by his disdain.

My thanks, as always, to the people who keep checking to see if I’m still posting. Am I? It’s so hard to tell. (I hear Rom’s voice saying, “You have an obligation to your readers.”)

Oh, and the title is Stephen Colbert’s comment on the moderate Democratic candidates. VOTE FOR ME, I’M NON-THREATENING! Right, Nick? “I thought you were going to write a story about me,” he says pitifully.

P.S. I am eagerly awaiting the appearance of pumpkin pie at McDonald’s. It can’t be long now! McDonald’s–another thing I share with Trump.

 

 

Tyranny, Mutation, and Stuff

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The above picture was chosen for its superficial resemblance to the cover of a favorite Blue Oyster Cult album, Tyranny and Mutation.

And speaking of which, let’s add to the Radical Centrist Manifesto:

–You are not entitled to free healthcare.

–You are, however, entitled to affordable healthcare.

“Radical Centrism–Our Motto: ‘See How Easy That Was?'”

VOTE FOR ME! I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING, BUT NEITHER DOES ANYONE ELSE!

SOCIAL PAGE: PARTY AT NICK’S PLACE

Nick had a birthday party for his two youngest cubs, who turned six and one respectively, on adjacent days. It featured the usual elements:

–Me Bringing My Own medication, a can of which will make me actually engage in conversation eventually,

–two palatial inflatable structures, with your choice of Water or Not

–a child getting on top of one structure, endangering his companions within

–a small child refusing to get out of the bottom of the water slide, annoying his companions at the top who now can’t slide down

–Nick engaging in reckless adrenaline-fueled activity in spite of a recent injury

–me going inside to decompress, only to be cornered by a dog and a small child

–adults discussing whatever surgery they’ve recently received

–Nick and his mate wrestling on the ground, trying to smear cake on each other. I was told this courtship ritual occurs at every birthday party, but I had not been privileged to see it previously. Actually, I didn’t see it this time, either, since the table was in the way. I only witnessed the combatants arising, duly covered with cake. I think Nick ended up taking several showers that day, for one reason or another.

–Cheetos! And cake, which I cut the frosting off of. I ate too much of both. But it was my first meal of the day, after all.

Speaking of Cheetos (that should have been my post title right there), I’ve noticed a cultural oddity: In my youth, the standard Cheeto type was those puffy styrofoam-like cylinders. Then they introduced an option: “Baked to a delicate crunch, or quick-fried to a crackly crunch!” (Or “indelicate crunch,” if you will.) It took a long time for the latter to catch on–my preference for them was considered a bit eccentric–but now they are the default Cheeto. (Disclaimer: My market research for this consists mainly in noting which kind is the standard-issue at Subway, which may not be a representative sampling, but probably is.)

Good thing I didn’t become a college professor (which I considered becoming until my Great American Novel was published), or the world would have been treated to “Cultural Shifts in Cheeto Consumption Over Time.” Publish or perish!

 

 

 

 

 

Impossible Advertising

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–“Coors Light–the official beer of drinking in the shower.” At bottom of screen depicting this–“Do Not Attempt.”

On base of scented candle–“Do not breathe candle fumes.”

On educational TV show: “Archaeology has only discovered 10% of civilizations.” Rom: “How can they know that?”

I did not whine in a timely manner about Halloween candy appearing on the shelves at CVS, but it’s there, and has been for about a week.

Someday I hope to discover which employee at Walgreen’s drives a black Cadillac, since it’s on the lot every day.

GOD SAVE US FROM THEOLOGY ON THE BUS

I have reached a stage in life where I can’t be sure, if a guy lets me get on the bus ahead of him, if it’s because I’m a woman or because I have some gray hair (although I got my first gray hair when I was 27). But I can be sure if it’s a man my own age. He was wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt. Because it’s m-m-my generation. (Apologies to both bands.)

A woman got on who works at Taco Bell on Lloyd, and started telling the bus driver and her friend about this weird sect she’d just heard of, who believe only 130,000 people will be saved. (It’s actually 144,000–it’s from Revelation, the 12 tribes of Israel times twelve, BUT WE WON’T GET INTO THAT HERE). She said, “I’m Christian myself, but I’m Catholic.” When she got off the bus, she said she was going to pray for the two women she’d been talking to, and the bus driver’s friend said, “Don’t pray for me–I know who you’ll be praying to!” The Taco Bell lady got off the bus, and the bus driver’s friend said, “She’ll be praying to the wrong person!” The bus driver said, “Yes. That is idolatry.” For the record, Catholics do not, in fact, pray to the devil.

I went to get stamps, and intended to get T. Rex stamps in honor of Trexa, but they had none, so I had to settle for dragon stamps, in dubious honor of Nick.

 

 

 

Making the World a Better Place

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…one bus stop at a time. And I hope I never get stuck at the bus stop in this picture. It looks like a criminal mastermind stuck it out in the creepy woods, but when you sit down, it whisks you away to their arctic headquarters. Or something. It’s just too new for such a remote area, you know? Plus that creepy blue light. And is that snow or rocks piled up by the side of the road? WELL?

Anyway, I have made it my mission (and a modest one it is) to clean up any trash I find at the bus stop near my house. Especially since this only involves taking it across the $ General lot and throwing it in the trash can there.

I tell you this not to give myself a Good Citizen award, but to note a weird facet of human psychology I’ve observed in the course of doing this.

Once, back when it was still cold, I saw a blanket and a sack of clothes on the bench. I thought surely someone must have forgotten these items, so I left them undisturbed so the person could come back and get them. But they remained undisturbed, blocking access to the bench. But the Real Problem was that, as the days passed, more  trash got piled up on top of them–more and faster than I’d usually observed. Apparently the presence of a significant pile over several days convinced people that this was a Designated Drop-Off Site and it was OK to leave their trash there as well. So I gingerly picked up everything and carted it to the Dollar General Dump, and trash deposit returned to its former occasional occurrence. Although if I ever share the stop with the person who keeps leaving gallon containers partially-filled with pink fluid (some sort of “juice drink”–the flavors vary, but it’s always pink), I may have to address them directly.  (“And get your finger dislocated again,” Nick says, in his capacity as my Life Coach.)

THERE GOES THE NEIGHBORHOOD, PT. II

Which is worse:

–a sidewalk overgrown with weeds, because the homeowner thinks that A.) the City sends somebody by to take care of it, or B.) no one actually uses the sidewalk, right?

or

–a sidewalk overgrown with weeds which the homeowner has dealt with by means of chemical spray, which leaves them dead and brown, BUT STILL STANDING THERE??

Write! Write! Write!

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Yeah, and guess who couldn’t tell from the tiny sample picture that the person in this photo was writing music, and then I couldn’t figure out how to remove a picture, or if it’s even possible. At any rate, there’s a button in the corner of this page that says “Write,” so that’s what I’m doing. No, I can’t write music, either.

I’M TRASH AND I’M TROUBLE

There is, at the present time, a board with a nail in it on the ground down the street from my house, just waiting for some hillbilly to grab it and use it in a fight. And don’t think that wouldn’t happen around here. There is also an old couch in my back yard. (The people who brought the new couch wouldn’t haul the old one away, so Nick had to haul it out of our living room with his powerful jaws. Rom then beat it half to death with a sledgehammer.)  But we have been outdone by our neighbors down the street, who have an old mattress on their front porch. They thought the Heavy Trash people would pick it up. They were wrong, so there it stays.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?

Almost back-to-school time, because everyone’s forgotten that back-to-school should be in September. I still like looking at school supplies, and found myself wondering if I could still find a use for construction paper. Is there a use for construction paper by anyone other than elementary-school children? The same question could be asked of papier-mache.

THE PERFECT FINAL TOUCH

–Vultures circling at Franklin St./St Joe Ave. No, I’m not dead yet, in spite of this fiendish heat, which is, of course, not caused by climate change, because climate change would mean we shouldn’t be driving quite so much, which is, of course, unacceptable.) SEE HOW I MADE A PARENTHESIS HERE, EVEN THOUGH I HADN’T STARTED ONE, BECAUSE I AM PARENTHESIS-ADDICTED. I am also drunk. Because a guy on the TV said we shouldn’t drink during the heat wave, so of course I had to do it. We boomers are irrepressible.

KUDOS WHERE DESERVED

Whatever “kudos” may be, I issue them to my former co-worker 911SK, who (having left 911 for less-stressful climes at the Water Dept.) said she wanted to stuff ice cubes down her pants in this heat, because “it’s a clam bake down there.” Now I will think of that whenever I go out in the heat. We need more clever sayings by women.

But it’s back-to-school season, so it’s bound to cool off soon, right? RIGHT? Oh, that’s right, we don’t go back to school in September anymore. We know better somehow.