My Cat Peed On My Digital Camera

Sometimes the miscellaneous misfortunes of everyday are more terrifying than any ghost story or guy with a chain saw—at least that the maxim I’m clinging to since my cat peed on my digital camera and broke it last night.

Since Halloween is on a Friday this year, I decided to take it off and make a long weekend. I officially retired from the hardcore Halloween life in 2012, so I planned on spending the day not being embarrassed by other people wearing over the top costumes to work and eating candy while wearing a headband witch hat. Halloween also happens to top off a super busy, skip-lunch-and-do-a-little-work-at-home type of week at work. So last night I was exhausted in that wonderful, cathartic way that you can only feel when you get a brief pardon from your normal stress for a day. I even had my hair up in a messy bun on the very top of my head.

My big plan for the evening was taking pictures of the pets in their Halloween costumes. I know costumes and clothing on pets is a polarizing topic, but the Halloween costumes were 50% off, and who among us cat owners wouldn’t jump at the chance to see our kitty dressed up as a frog, a sundae, Piglet, or Tigger? What dog owner doesn’t have some inclination to see their pooch dressed as Winnie the Pooh?

Mike started preparing Rory’s wardrobe for the photoshoot (which involves opening the Velcro on all the costumes, because Rory hates the sound of the Velcro almost as much as being made to wear costumes), and I went to get my camera from the reusable tote bag I’d tossed on the chair in the living room. When I reached in to grab my camera, everything was wet. I was taken aback, because a tote bag carrying my digital camera and clean gym clothes has no reason to even be damp, let alone wet. Yet, this is the same bag I use to bring dinner over to my boyfriend’s house, so I thought I packed a bottle of milk and didn’t realize it had leaked. I found my camera, and it was covered in so much liquid, I don’t think it would’ve retained that much fluid if I had intentionally poured a glass of water on it.

Then I smelled it—the overpowering, oppressive odor of cat urine. The wetness in my bag was not skim milk, but cat pee.

I couldn’t help but swallow up one of those insulted, over-the-top gasps you take in whenever you discover any kind of animal void where it doesn’t belong. Mike rushed in from the other room assuming I’d been stabbed, because after two years he still can’t accurately gage my startled intakes of breath.

“WHAT HAPPENED?”

There’s cat pee all over my right hand and coating the camera in my left. This is news I never anticipated delivering in my life.

“Well, I don’t know how to say this, but the cat peed on my digital camera.”

I’ve read about this phenomenon before: cats peeing in shoes or purses, but I’ve been bringing this same tote and leaving it in various places around my boyfriend’s house for approximately a year, and up until now it’s never been used a litter box. Speaking of litter boxes, Rory’s had not been neglected, and I don’t think he has a urinary tract infection.

You may think I’m crazy, but I think he knew what was going to happen that evening. He knew we were going to exploit him, and after putting up with two costumed Halloweens, he’d finally had enough. I’ve mentioned his Black Cat Stress Disorder before, and despite some minor flare-ups here and there with destroying the window clings that spell out “Happy Halloween,” Rory’s BCSD has been pretty well under control. Until this.

I should’ve immediately taken out the battery and dumped the camera into a bowl of rice to let it dry out. Instead, I turned it on to see if it would work. And it did! It turned on! The lens came out and everything! What a relief. Sure, I’m a girl with a digital camera that smells like cat piss, but at least I’m still a girl with a digital camera. I walked confidently into the room ready to assume the hybrid role of creepy cat lady/amateur photograph. Rory was in his first look, a frog costume, and I tried to shoot a picture while he was mid-disgruntled meow. Nothing happened. The camera labored and lagged. I tried to change the mode using the wheel at the top, but the flash bulb went off in a miniature explosion, the viewfinder went black with the lens still out, and the sorrowful smell of burned electronics filled the room.

Cat pee had killed my digital camera.

RIP

This year, I face Halloween fearlessly, because no zombie, little girl dressed as Elsa from Frozen, or neighbor giving out dimes instead of candy will be enough to startle me. I’ve officially seen it all. Do your worst, horror flicks, because until you can replicate the trepidation of a person sticking their hand in what should be a dry tote bag, and discovering an animal has peed inside it, you’re not doing your job.

Pees in tote bags

PS: Yes, I did pout and do that thing where you give your pet the cold shoulder after it did something rude.

PSS: The photo shoot was postponed to Halloween night, when I will capture Rory’s infinite disdain using my phone. Between then and now, I’m keeping my phone in a Ziploc bag. Just in case…

Feeling Feelings About Fall

During the past few years, fall stopped being the detested thoroughfare to winter and has established itself as a cult favorite in the arena of seasons. While some longtime fall fans lament that loving fall has become a shallow seasonal pastime marked by predictable Instagram posts of riding boots and mostly empty Starbucks cups that once contained a pumpkin spice latte with extra whipped cream, I’m not so quick to judge. I think that maybe we all reach a point in our lives when we connect with fall—its mutability and its melancholy—in a way that’s different than the other seasons. As someone who’s always felt inspired by fall, I’ll forever be of the opinion that a little autumnal appreciation never hurt anybody, even if the availability of an overpriced seasonal beverage is what prompts it.

Allegedly “I” wouldn’t fit, which is strange because it’s the thinnest letter in the alphabet. Can we also talk about how I was a weird looking baby?

In our younger years, we spent so much time discussing arbitrary favorites: our favorite number, favorite color, or favorite animal. Growing up in the Chicago suburbs, discussing the pros and cons of all four seasons in elementary school was practically a prerequisite for survival. What I remember most about those lessons about the seasons was how unabashedly biased the illustrations were. Winter looked like the inside of an enchanted snowglobe that you’d shake and wind the bottom of until your fingers were sore. Spring featured a cluster of jovial rainclouds watering a patch of thankful tulips. A beaming sun wearing sunglasses and an expertly engineered sandcastle characterized summer. Meanwhile, fall was illustrated by a bunch of dead trees and a scary jack-o’-lantern. Even the images seemed to say, “If you like the season where everything dies, there must be something wrong with you.”

It seems masochistic to connect with something as transient as a season, but fall might have been my first love, and it wasn’t just because candy corn satisfies my sweet tooth in a way that chocolate ice cream never will. Nostalgia always seems so convenient during fall, like it’s the ideal time to squeeze in a little wistfulness while your tan lines fade. Home sweet home is at its truest in autumn. You can stay in with a quilt and good book and not feel like you’re missing out on the sand between your toes and the sun freckling your shoulders. The days get shorter and sweeter like the honey that oozes into the teacup that’s warming your cold hands. Earl grey and argyle. Chamomile and cashmere.

You see the trees dipped in their gold and bronze, and it’s hard to imagine who voted green the official color of envy. After running on the humidity heavy fumes of sunscreen and charcoal, the autumn air sets your lungs ablaze as much as the foliage. It’s sacramental in a way that could bring you to your knees—the way it once did when you landed in piles of leaves that were bigger than you were.

Maybe loving fall isn’t a trend so much as it’s a rite of passage. At certain points in the seasons of our lives, fall just feels the most honest. If fall becomes our truth, summer feels naïve—a season of sunshine and whims that feels disingenuous to us. Fall makes us contemplative. We want to learn something from fall. We see how easily everything around us can change, and we see our own lives. We want autumn to be a metaphor for our existence, signifying that parts of us can die for a little while only to come alive again more beautiful and more resilient than they were before. We want to pretend we’re phoenixes that can survive the inferno and rise from the ashes.

And maybe sometimes buying those pumpkin spice lattes or wearing those brown leather riding boots or placing an unnecessary emphasis on having fun at the pumpkin patch is the nervous way we forget everything fall makes us feel for a little while, because it’s real and it’s galvanizing, but it’s still a little scary.

So, I Stepped in Dog Poop This Morning

My alarm went off like any other morning, and even though silencing my phone and staying in bed for the foreseeable future was a much more attractive prospect than leaving my drool-bedazzled pillow, my furry, fail-safe alarm hopped onto my pillow mid-purr, forcing me to rise if not shine.

When I wake up in the morning my first thought is not,

What a wonderful day to be alive!

It’s closer to,

OMG I HAVE TO PEE SO BADLY. How did I manage not to wet the bed?

I ambled to the bathroom in the dark with my hair a mess, retainer still in place, and bags accessorizing the sleepies at the corners of my eyes. In the morning, I delay turning a light on until the very last minute. The minute you turn a light on at home, responsibilities begin.

Alas, on this morning I learned the horrors that can come of walking around barefoot in the dark as a pet owner.

I took two steps into the bathroom—the first one was routine, but something went horribly wrong with the second. When I shifted my weight to my right foot, I sunk down into something chilled to room temperature. It was mushy, and I could tell whatever it was had flattened and affixed itself the bottom of my foot. In my heart of hearts, I knew I had just stepped in poo barefooted.

Wait a second, how could you not smell it as soon as you got in the bathroom?

Um, maybe because I was in the bathroom? It always smells bad in there! With the things that come out of my boyfriend, it’s a wonder the entire apartment doesn’t smell like a colon (as in, part of the anatomy–I imagine grammatical colons smell like Fig Newtons).

I’m perched in front of the toilet with one leg up like a feces-ridden flamingo contemplating what just happened. Because it’s early in the morning, and because stepping in poo without so much as a sock or a slipper barrier takes you to a dark place, these are some of the thoughts I entertained:

1.) Did my boyfriend, Mike, wake up for a midnight mutiny and miss the toilet?

2.) I’m going to drop an anvil on the dog’s head.

3.) Maybe I’ll just buy the dog a one-way bus ticket. To Crimea.

4.) MAYBE THIS ISN’T POOP! Maybe Mike woke up for a late night snack and he made some oatmeal. He decided to eat in the bathroom in the dark, because he didn’t want to wake me up! But he spilled a little on the floor, and that’s what I just stepped in. Room temperature oatmeal!

I turned the bathroom light on and saw with my own two eyes a thick, brown layer of poop pressed into the ball of my foot.

The only relatively good news was the poo didn’t get between my toes. When you have poop on your bare foot, you take any silver lining you can get.

Now that I’d ascertained, beyond all reasonable doubt, that there was indeed poo on my foot, I was pissed. I’m no stranger to the crushing woe that comes of stepping in poop in one of my favorite pairs of shoes, but what I’d just endured was beyond compare. Should I fall head over heels in love at this very moment, poop would metaphorically be inches from my face. I angrily did four one-footed hops (angry one-footed hops are probably reserved for amputees, but, heat of the moment and all that) to the paper towel dispenser in the kitchen—

Hang on, why wouldn’t you just use toilet paper? You were in the bathroom! Your hopping transferred your poop foot to the room where food is prepared!

YES, I AM AWARE OF THAT! While toilet paper is the ideal width for cleaning a butt crack, when you have dung on your foot, you want a full size, regulation paper towel, not a collection of tiny squares prone to tearing (Charmin wasn’t on sale the last time we bought TP, okay?).

I turned on the light and start cleaning off my foot, and I hear Mike is still peacefully sawing logs in the other room despite there being two lights on and an angry, dung-footed woman hop stomping around.

Am I the only person who only resents her significant other’s ability to sleep through anything whenever something goes wrong? I know I wake up before him, and I don’t want to trouble him with something that isn’t his fault, and rock-a-bye baby etc., but when something unusual happens, I want everyone to be awake to take stock of it, even if it’s too late to do anything to stop this unusual event/probable mess from happening.

So once my foot is cleaned, I did this really dramatic thing where I charged into the bedroom where both my boyfriend and Blu, the dog, were sleeping, and I confronted the dog about her despotic dump. It’s 4:10 a.m., and I’m antagonizing a dog about pooping in the house, mostly because I want my boyfriend to wake up on his own (but as a result of the commotion I’m creating) so I can tell him about the ordeal I’ve suffered and maybe even reap a little sympathy. I grabbed both sides of Blu’s head and spluttered,

“You are lucky I don’t ship you off to Crimea!!!!!!”

I glanced over to find Mike dead to the world, blissfully ignorant of Blu’s inside-the-house poop and my unfortunate misstep. I gave up. Clearly, this would have to wait until a more appropriate hour.

Now that I was fully awake, a pressing inquiry crossed my mind:

When Mike woke up in the middle of the night to pee, did he manage to avoid the poop in the dark simply by chance? Has the dog been monitoring my bathroom walking path so she could poop strategically and sabotage me?

Suffice it to say, I don’t know whom to trust anymore, I’ll be using my iPhone as a lantern from now on, and I’m not holding out much hope for a week that’s off to such a crappy start already.

Have you ever stepped in it barefoot? Do you ever try dramatically to wake people up? Is anyone interested in adopting a dog? Crimeans?

In the Au Gratin Closet

The wishbone rivalry, the giving of thanks, and the unfortunate task of rescuing grandma’s teeth from the gooey clutches of the cranberry sauce—these are Thanksgiving traditions you’re probably familiar with, but I’ve got my own enduring ritual that trumps them all: deception. From my unassuming place setting at the table, I’ve been lying for over 10 years.

As younger, finicky lass, I was an even pickier eater than I am now. While many of the nose scrunch-inducing foods of my youth still inspire repugnance (peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and mac ‘n cheese, I’m lookin’ at you) some of my culinary censures have been recanted. After all, I’ve gotten older and developed my palette to appreciate pleasing flavors in foods other than Lunchables and Chips Ahoy!

At every family Thanksgiving and Christmas, my mom has contributed one dish to the bounty: au gratin potatoes. 

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Hearty, scalloped potatoes drowned in cheese… The simplicity of this humble accoutrement only adds to its mouthwatering charm. As a kid, I was wholly unimpressed by this mound of starch. I was of the steadfast opinion potatoes should only be boiled, mashed, or wrapped in a salty cocoon, deep-fried, and metamorphosed into hot french fries.

Without fail, that steaming bowl of au grain potatoes would make its clockwise rotation to my 3 o’clock spot at the table, and each time I would turn it down. It wasn’t long before I aligned with one of my older cousins. She felt the same way about the putrid potatoes, cleverly nicknaming them “au rotten” potatoes. From that moment on, we unofficially became Team Au Rotten. When the cursed fusion of the states of Idaho and Wisconsin would make it around to both of us, other family members would tease, “Are you going to have some au gratin potatoes???” We’d glance and each other and proudly declare our anti-au gratin sentiments with all the indignance of a vegan being offered a glass of milk.

I had no idea my premature allegiance to this anti-gratin gang would haunt my taste buds for years to come.

A few years passed in this fashion, but I became restless, enmeshed in the confusing struggle of my preferred potato orientation. After some deliberation, I decided to give au gratin potatoes another chance. On Thanksgiving, when my mom finished her beloved dish, she fixed a small bowl for me to sample once more. With a few years of food wisdom under my belt (and also making my belt tight), I approached these familiar dairy-infused potatoes with an open-mind and a growling stomach.

They were delicious. The potatoes were cooked to a perfect al dente, and the cheese melted my stubborn heart. With every bite I took, I knew my days of “au rotten” were behind me. I finished my bowl and licked it clean, demanding seconds.

We took the remaining pot of au gratin potatoes to Thanksgiving dinner. When we entered, I could feel the sweat appearing on my brow. It felt like everyone was looking at me differently, as if, “I ACTUALLY LIKE AU GRATIN POTATOES NOW!” was written on my forehead. I checked my chin and shirt for any molten cheese shrapnel that may have missed the target, but I found none. Only my conscience was stained.

My troubled, pounding heart and me joined the rest of my family at the table. I guzzled my glass of water, and wondered if I was truly ready to come out as an au gratin lover. I should have pulled my like-minded cousin to the side before we sat down—this news was sure to wound her most of all! Perhaps she feels the same way, too… We could present a united front!

The passing ritual began with the mashed potatoes, then the corn. I skipped the Jell-O mold because no food should readily include the word “mold” in its description. I helped myself to turkey, and then the moment of truth came. The au gratin bowl made it into my shaking hands, and I saw all the expectant eyes of my relatives focused on me. They light-heartedly sneered, “Katie! Your favorite!” I looked down at the bowl. One simple spoonful would set me free! I would no longer be bound by the foolish condemnations of my childhood! I scanned the faces of my loved ones around the table. They looked like vultures, eager to pick my bones clean with “I told you so!”s.

I am a woman of few pretentions, and I typically maintain a healthy level of vanity, but faced with admitting I had changed my mind about the au gratin potatoes, all that went into the trash with the leftover sweet potatoes. Pride has a funny way of surfacing when you least expect it.

Like I’d been doing it for years, I imagined how Meryl Strip would behave if she were playing the role of a young girl who lies about liking one style of potatoes. I sighed overdramatically while looking down my nose with disgust at the bowl of au grain potatoes.

“Gross. I am not eating those au rotten potatoes!”

I looked up at my partner in crime beseechingly with the frantic hope my performance had been believable. She nodded approvingly, and I forfeited custody of the potatoes to the relative next to me. I watched wistfully when she spooned an extra large helping onto her plate consisting of her portion and my surrendered one.

In that painful moment, I knew I had chosen my fate.

Every Thanksgiving since then has carried on this way. My mom keeps my secret, and I show up to each Thanksgiving dinner with the imperceptible hint of au gratin on my breath. It might cause more inner-turmoil than most other Thanksgiving traditions, but I’m not a wishbone-pulling kinda gal anyway.

One Tuxedo Cat Avenges Black Cats Everywhere

Every October 1st, the maligning of black cats begins. The Halloween flags with black cats arching their backs in the moonlight appear on front porches. Gel window clings of witches flying with their loyal ebony felines at the end of their brooms are affixed to windows. Insulting figurines depicting black cats in all manner of annoyance come out of storage and appear on bookshelves. Insensitive people look out to ensure no black cats intersect with their paths perpendicularly.

Black cat Halloween decor is a multi-million dollar business, and ever year the coal-colored kitty community fights to end the stereotypes that have tarnished their reputation for too long. You may be familiar with some of their acts of defiance: refusing to go in their carrier to go to the vet, not letting you rub their belly for more than two seconds, and attacking every dangling piece of fabric or hair in a ten-foot radius.

My cat Rorscach is a tuxedo cat, though he only wears his tie and top hat on special occasions. I knew when we adopted Rory that he came with some emotional baggage from his dark side. He would struggle every Halloween because the plight of black cats is a part of his monochromatic heritage.

Last year, his very first Halloween, Rory stayed strong and handled this difficult holiday with the temperament of the a tabby cat. The giant bowl of candy, carved pumpkins, and gravestone decorations didn’t trigger any of his BCSD: Black Cat Stress Disorder.  He had one outburst, but that might have had more to do with his Halloween costume than his anger over the wrongs committed against his ancestors:

Even though Halloween is still several weeks away, Rory is struggling to contain his Halloween rage this year, and I think I may have been the one who set him over the edge. We didn’t watch many Halloween movies last year, just The Nightmare Before Christmas and The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown, but earlier this week I made the reckless decision to turn on Hocus Pocus. I may have noticed a slight shift for the worse in Rory’s demeanor, but who doesn’t when Bette Midler and Sarah Jessica Parker are sharing the screen? I didn’t realize this Halloween cult classic would bring Rory’s deep-seated wrath to the surface.

Despite his struggle to come to terms with his mixed background, seeing that black-flamed candle get the respect it deserves made the heartbreak of the black cat’s Halloween condition all too tragic for poor Rory, and he snapped…

Now I know that witches are what triggers Rory, I have some concerns about how I’m going to watch American Horror Story: Coven next week. I’m hoping it was just Sarah Jessica Parker’s acting that made him want to ruin fake pumpkins and demolish sheer curtains.

If you or someone you love owns a black or partially black cat, please be sensitive to their needs during the month of October. Only you can prevent the perpetuation of superstitions and BCSD.

ABC Family is Ruining My Life.

Hi, my name is Katie, and I’ve been watching programming on ABC Family for about six years now. I know there’s a stigma about being a self-respecting woman who watches completely unrealistic teen programming, but I wanted to share the story of my shame spiral for all those out there who may be grappling with the same struggle.

My last exposure was few nights ago, when the season finale of the series Pretty Little Liars left me shaking on the couch desperate for another hour-long fix of foreboding music and pained glances between characters that last just a few moments longer than necessary. I know that I’m causing people who appreciate meaningful television a lot of pain, but I just can’t find the strength to change the channel. I’m hooked.

The best Pretty Little Liars tumblr there ever was, Emotionally Conflicted Emily

I should have heeded the warnings about exposure to ABC Family…

• TRY ONE ORIGINAL MOVIE AND YOU’LL BE HELPLESSLY DEPENDENT! Mean Girls 2? That doesn’t sound horribly awful…
• The farfetched story lines will start to seem plausible. A federal agent eating lunch with some high school girls while questioning them about a homicide without their parents present? Could totes happen in real life…
• Beware 13 Nights of Halloween and 25 Days of Christmas. Go to a Halloween party? But Matilda is going to be on tonight… Mistletoe? Not now–Home Alone is on.
• If you start watching Harry Potter weekend, you will not be able to stop before it’s too late. On my most recent wizardry bender, I snapped out of it 10 hours later, and all I remembered was deciding  my half empty bag of Doritos could be one of my Horcruxes…

♦♦♦

It all started with The Secret Life of the American Teenager. Considering my high school life consisted of a brief stint as an Ecology Club member, dressing up in Civil War-era clothing for AP U.S. History, and forging service hours for National Honors Society, I was curious about this so-called “secret life” I no doubt missed out on. I found out that ABC Family’s idea of teenager’s “secret life” consists of pregnancy, marriage (and divorce), being the heir to a sausage empire, and most unbelievably, genuinely loving to play the French horn. …I was just hoping to learn how to play beer pong.

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I had my moments of doubt, like when the “sausage king” married the same prostitute who another character propositioned in a previous episode–but there were glimpses of hope, too! Molly Ringwald was okay in the 80s. The show’s producer was the genius behind 7th Heaven! Shailene Woodley was nominated for a Golden Globe! So what the show was in development for ten years before ABC Family finally decided adding it to their roster couldn’t do any harm–that just means they had a decade to make it perfect!

What was I thinking?

During every commercial, when I came this close to salvaging what’s left of my dignity and swearing off that insultingly unbelievable network, I’d see a commercial for the latest and greatest ABC Family series.

Pretty Little Liars enticed me with its girl crush-inducing cast and the swoon-worthy Ezra Fitz. Switched at Birth features an actress who isn’t deaf playing a character who is, and somehow that’s been enough to manipulate me into suspending my sense of logic enough to believe two families whose daughters were switched at birth could decide to move in together. Then there was Huge—a show about a fat camp starring Nikki Blonksy; need I elaborate? I watched a few episodes of Melissa & Joey in a desperate attempt to rekindle a love for Melissa Joan Hart that started in the Sabrina the Teenage Witch era (but even with his hair, Joey Lawrence is no Salem).

It was a slippery slope to a DVR full of shows and movies whose only critical acclaim would come only from the Teen Choice Awards.

Even though I know I have a problem, I don’t think I’m ready to change. I need to find out just what is going on in Pretty Little Liars, first. I’ve never once watched an episode of Bunheads, which should show you I’m totally in control of this habit.

Besides, ABC Family has this new show starting soon called Ravenswood, and maybe this is going to be the series that gives Mad Men a run for its money! Judging by the commercial, something mysterious is going on!

I mean. I’ll probably just watch an episode or two to see if I like it…

You’re from the 70s, But I’m a 90s Chick

We’re brought up on fairy tales and later, romantic comedy depictions about finding your significant other. While tossing your split ends out the window in the vain hope that prince charming will roll up in his white Mustang to rescue you, you probably had the “Would You Ever Date a Guy That/Who’s _________” conversation with your besties.

“Would you ever date a guy that has kids?”

“Would you date a guy who’s bald? …What if it’s from a disease?”

“Would you ever date a guy who’s 10 years older than you?”

My answer to the last question was a fervent no. In my personal fantasy world, the acceptable age difference between a man and woman was rigidly set at five (maaaaybe seven) years. What could I possibly have in common with someone more than five years older than me? If he’s that much older, why isn’t he married yet? Any man who dates a much younger woman is a creepy cradle robber. It’s just gross. Imagine the subsequent hypocrisy of me dating someone who’s 17 years my senior.

I was born in 1990; he was born in 1973. I’m 23; he just turned 40. Ours is a whirlwind May-Mesozoic Era romance if ever there was one. I can write about it, and more importantly, laugh about it now, but that wasn’t always the case. In the beginning of our relationship I was insecure, embarrassed, and ashamed—not of my beau and his rapidly approaching senior citizen discount eligibility–but of myself, because I was worried that everyone we came across as a couple would be every bit as narrow-minded and judgmental about our significant age difference as I once was.

What if people think I’m a gold digger? What does it say about me that I’m not dating a fellow 20-something? What if my mom disowns me? Does this mean I have daddy issues? All these stereotypes, stigmas, and opinions we see and read in the media–perpetuated by pop culture—most of which are formed by people who have never once been in a relationship with someone particularly older or younger than they are. We internalize these assumptions and accusations as facts—at least I did.

Good, ’cause I’m totally not.
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I know that I’m independent, so why, when I first started dating my boyfriend, did hearing “Gold Digger” on the radio make me squirm in the driver’s seat of my car? I know that quality men come in all different ages, so why did I initially question my boyfriend’s single status, especially when prior to us dating, I was one of those “single people” myself? Why did I assume a woman who has supported every decision I’ve made would suddenly turn her back on me because of who I’m in love with? Despite never feeling like I missed out on having a dad when I was growing up with a single parent, why did I fear this relationship was some latent expression of “issues” I didn’t even know I had?

When we first started dating, I was so overwhelmed by my fear of how people might perceive me that I was noncommittal, standoffish, and even mean. In the beginning, I didn’t even tell my friends I was seeing anyone after we had been on several dates. When he introduced me to his friends, I was shy; I’d keep to myself and imagine all the things running through their minds about me. When our relationship became Facebook official, I waited a long time before introducing him to any of my own friends and my mother. When I finally did let our relationship into my militantly guarded world, my friends and mom were surprised, but they accepted our relationship in a way I sincerely wish I had from the start. I may always feel guilty about how selfish I was then, putting my superficial concerns above what really mattered: how happy I was (and am) with him.

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I let it get to me—this imaginary nonsense about how things ought to be when you’re in a serious relationship. We romanticize these happily ever afters, and in the process we perpetuate the notion that anything that deviates from the same old high school/college sweethearts bit is something that should be frowned upon. Sometimes the stereotypes ring true: there are women out there who have “earning potential” at the top of their must-have list; there are dishonorable men with bad intentions and those who treat their girlfriends and wives like trophies; there are women who manifest issues they had with their father (or lack thereof) into their romantic relationships—there’s plenty of truth to all of that, but sometimes, a couple with an age difference is just a couple.

Allow me to expose the lurid details of dating an older man. There are a lot of references to movies that go over my head. There are old photos that make my childhood 90s attire look like haute couture. When we tell stories about things that happened in high school, the other does the math, and we marvel at how old he was or how young I was then. When “Father Figure” by George Michael plays on the radio or at any business establishment, we have a good laugh. He introduces me to the classics old stuff that sucks, and I teach him how to use hashtags. We deal with each other’s quirks, watch TV, and have fun like any other “regular” couple.

Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart
Source

At the risk of this sounding like a writing sample for Hallmark–we should be accepting relationships for what they are: a couple of people who are together because they like/love each other for whatever reason. Race, gender, age, religion—the way I see it, if you’re not one of the people in the relationship, you’re in no position to judge. I admit I still have my moments, usually at parties surrounded by married people his age with their kids. It’s not always easy, and by no means do I advocate giving up hanging out at bars for volunteering at the nursing home cafeteria to find Mr. Right, but if you do happen to find yourself interested in someone a little older or (legally) younger than you, it can work, and it can be every bit as loving, fulfilling, and life-changing as being with someone from your generation. Look at Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart (23 years difference) or Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones (25 years difference).

Don’t get swept away by the fantasy. I may have never daydreamed about dating someone 17 years older than me, but I did daydream about what I have with him: a loving relationship filled with laughter with a respectful man who’s kind, thoughtful, and genuine. At the end of the day, I’m glad I realized there was a lot more potential for “happily ever after” in my relationship with him than with my preconceived notions.

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Something Grand

It begins as a possibility—remote and abstract—a thing of maybes and what ifs, distinguished by its fairy tale mutability. It’s shaped through a series of events, a set of circumstances whose cause and effect can shift the sails of your life. Sending a shy email in response to a story that inspired crippling laughter and expecting nothing in return. Letting the subsequent exchange fizzle out partly in fear of the unknown and partly in petulant annoyance at being called “Kate.” A month later, coming across a different, equally uproarious story completely by chance and recognizing him through his words, and making the choice to throw caution to the wind and acknowledge once and for all this fateful coincidence. Suddenly, this “possibility” gets a promotion to being something.

Every vibration of your phone catapults your somersaulting heart into your throat. Each new email notification has you frantically leaning in earnest toward your computer screen like a moth to radiant heat. Phone calls dialed and answered are handled with shaky hands and butterflies fluttering madly in your stomach. This is the frivolous, wonderful euphoria of the beginning of a something.

This something is a mosaic built of many little things. A first trip to the petting zoo consorting with wee goats whose infancy perfectly mirrored the early stages of this something. Solving the curious case of the mysterious chimney and its triumphant resolution as a displaced dollhouse fixture. The idle trips to grocery store filled with people-mocking and you’re-too-old-for-that cart skipping. Hosting a Halloween party with cupcakes, creepy characters, and the uniquely potent diet cranberry and vodkas. The times spent watching, and more often sleeping through, science fiction movies. The recurring bad habit of providing tickles and driving feedback without solicitation (and with protest). The experience of sharing custody of a kitty that was sneakily named for a character in Watchmen. The use of the word “icky” and the unusual accents and phrases whose peculiarity is protected by privacy.

Pretty soon you’re sharing more than just a couch cushion or a meal; you start trading “someday I’d like to…” statements in the dark. You experience the strange phenomenon that is being made to laugh when you want nothing more than to be stubborn and annoyed. You find yourself in the habit of dangerous daydreaming and being overcome by the tremendous potential of this fledgling little something.

Gone are the days of the foreign apartment in which you were once a visitor, carefully keeping your feet off of the coffee table and timidly finding your way around. Now you have a key, you know which cabinet the glasses are in and which door reveals the linen closet. Your belongings begin to litter the space like a trail of breadcrumbs: a pair of earrings here and a hair tie (or three dozen) there. You stop feeling like an uncomfortable tourist, and you start feeling like you belong in this place where you were once a guest. The word “home” slips from your lips in a Freudian fashion.

You realize this sly something has changed you. The comfort zone where you wasted entirely too much time is a place where you merely send postcards now. You’re faced with the awe-inspiring realization that another person can make you hopelessly happy, and you let them do so without a second thought. They bring into the spotlight all the wonderful things in you that have always been there, but have been hidden in the shadows of your own self-doubt. They frustrate you one second and take care of you the next. They complement you while complimenting you. They fit seamlessly into your life like the corner puzzle piece that fell behind the sofa among the crumbs and dust and was found months after the puzzle had already been finished.

All these seemingly inconsequential, isolated, random, silly, little things turned that something into something grand right under your initially upturned nose. …Or was it? Because these little things, these trifles perfect for onlookers to scoff at, were always consuming, significant, and beautiful to you, even before you knew why.

365 days isn’t a long time to turn a possibility into something and into something grand, but it’s long enough.

Annihairlation 2013: Much Ado about a New ‘Do

Not long ago, I arrived at the heartbreaking, gut-wrenching decision to cut my hair short. After months of inner (and outer) hair turmoil, I decided it was time to throw in the comb. This isn’t a matter I take lightly, so I planned to bring about my hair’s demise in style and opulence. I was going to pop champagne at seven in the morning the day of my appointment! I was going roll up to the overpriced salon in a stretch limousine! I was going to treat myself to an entire cheesecake after the whole ordeal was over to console and reward myself! In all reality, the only one of those I accomplished was going to an upscale salon. …Though the cheesecake option is still (always) on the table. I was calling this entire ordeal Annihairlation 2013.

For all your overpriced hair needs: Mario Tricoci.
Image from Google

Preparing for Annihairlation 2013

I decided to go to Mario Tricoci, which as I’m sure you might’ve gathered by the name, is a significantly overpriced, fancy salon and spa, filled with fellow customers and employees that would be sure to look down upon me with my chipped nail polish and lack of designer handbag. I’ve been to this place before for an eyebrow wax long ago, and it’s also where I got my makeup and hair done for prom senior year of high school. It’s a great place–don’t get me wrong. But translated into English, Tricoci means, “this is a rip off.”

I knew going there was worth it for this occasion, though. This was my hair’s swan song for crying out loud, I would spare no expense!

The time came to make the dreaded appointment. I hate verbally asking for appointments equally, if not more, than I hate talking on the phone. These are two necessary evil components of life that I despise rolled into one. I find that if you’re making an appointment at a new salon, or one you only go to every once in a while, when you don’t have the name of a particular stylist that you want, the person making your appointment judges you. It goes something like this:

“Hi, I wanted to make an appointment for a hair cut next Saturday around 9 a.m.?”
“Okay! Saturday… 9 a.m., with which stylist?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Whoever’s available.”
Silence. “O-kay… Well then.. Um. Would you like Chloe, Jamie, Paolo, Raven, Jose, Taryn, Ivetta, or Quinn.”

…Needless to say, I went to Mario Tricoci’s website to make the appointment to avoid this entire process.

“Reservation” for One, Please

Once on their website, I searched for where I go to make my appointment. I saw a link that read, “Book a Reservation,” but nothing about appointments. Can I not make an appointment online, I wondered. I noticed the “Book a Reservation” again, and I started thinking to myself, does “book a reservation” really mean make an appointment?

Seriously?

Look, I’m not staying overnight, and this isn’t a hotel room. I’m not going on a ridiculously priced peyote hair retreat for the weekend–I just need to set up the time for a damn haircut. An appointment. …Sure enough, this salon is apparently so highfalutin it can’t call an appointment what it is, an appointment. Soon I was well on my way to booking my haircut “reservation.”

I chose my time, location, and then it came time to pick my stylist. I decided to look through the list of females, because frankly, I don’t know that I’ll ever trust a man with scissors near my beloved hair. As I scanned through the list of names, I began to wonder if having an unusual, exotic, or Eastern European-sounding name was requirement to work at Mario Tricoci. Sobya. Nonya. Papaya. What were the odds of multiple women with these kinds of names all deciding their calling in life was to be a hair stylist and then ending up at this one salon?

It was from this lineup of names that I came up with a theory: at expensive salons, everyone comes up with a fake name much in the way the way they do in the exotic dancing world. For strippers, it’s to protect their identity somehow, but in the cut-throat salon industry, hair stylists with unique names translates to better tips, and it gives the whole establishment they work in an added level of class and trendiness.

From this list of names, I tried to pick the one that was the least ridiculous and gave me the least-bitchy vibe of the bunch: Charlotte. 

I continued the process of “booking my reservation,” and I got to a section of the form where I was asked to “secure” my reservation with my credit card. It appears there are some people that get off on making appointments at fancy salons and not showing up. …I could see the appeal. Just imagine the look on the face of some poor stylist named “Shoshanna” when her 10 o’clock doesn’t show up, and she has to sit in her own chair, scissors in hand, dejected and alone. What could be more fun than making that happen?

Before I submitted the reservation form, I noticed one more section I had overlooked entitled, “Invite your friends to join you?” Do what? Invite.. my friends? For the moral support I so desperately need? …Where would they sit? Is this something people do nowadays? In the salons I usually go to, if you bring a friend, they sit in the waiting area by the door flipping through magazines from 1991 among all the kids crying for their mothers who are busy getting highlights and gossiping. At Mario Tricoci, apparently your friends need to be on the guest list. How posh! And totally ridiculous.

I finalized my request for this “reservation” and to my disgust, I immediately got an email with my “itinerary.” …Mario’s really taking this vacation metaphor pretty seriously. It’s a haircut–not a weeklong stay in St. Tropez. I verified my appointment time was correct and began the countdown to Annihairlation Day.

What have you done to us, Miley?
Image from Google

I’ve noticed something about hair appointments: in the days leading up to your appointment, you find yourself getting more and more bold in your haircut plans. Let’s call this the Miley Cyrus Effect. As you contemplate your hair future more seriously as the day of reckoning draws near, you start vowing to make drastic changes. “You know what? I’m going to get choppy layers.” “Forget it, I’m getting bangs!” Even though I already knew I was going to go short, I started considering my options–namely, an asymmetrical bob. 

…I won’t be getting the Rihanna anytime soon.

I became so possessed by this notion that I even downloaded one of those apps that lets you try on different hairstyles. I’ve never had a really “trendy” haircut. I don’t really think I’ve ever felt cool enough to pull one off, because let’s face it, I have all the edginess of a koala bear. But I figured, I have to get my luxurious locks chopped anyway, what do I have to lose at this point? Is now the time to be brave? I know I’m going to be miserable with any short ‘do, so how much miserable could I be if I took a risk!? I became determined. I was going to do it!

Annihairlation Day 2013

The day of my reservation came. As I walked up to the revolving door (really?), I recited the pertinent details of my appointment in my head, “Charlotte. 9:15. Charlotte. 9:15.” …I have a weird paranoia about forgetting my stylist’s name and inadvertently stealing someone else’s appointment, so this is a standard ritual for me before every hair appointment. I waited in line at the front desk to announce my arrival, and I overheard something that shouldn’t have surprised me. The lingo you use to let the employees know you’ve arrived: you’re checking in. Just when you thought the vacation references had ended, there they were again. I “checked in” for my “reservation,” humiliated I had to participate in the perpetuation of such a convoluted metaphor. Still in my gym clothes with my sweaty ponytail, I sat down in the waiting area among the well-to-do moms and stuck-up bitches with their Michael Kors bags.

While I waited to be called, I scanned the salon. It’s amazing how little had changed in the five years since I’d last been there. The stylists were all still wearing clothing that was entirely too formal to be anywhere near hair dye. I saw a man in a full suit with a pink tie, several women in five inch heels, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if somewhere on the premises there was a massage therapist wearing a full taffeta evening gown. …Does this really impress people? All I was thinking while I was sitting there was, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a cute pair of heeled boots around someone’s hair clippings. What did impress me though was the magazine selection that was splayed out on the two trendy glass coffee tables in front of me. They actually had magazines you wanted to read from this calendar year!

Still taking in the atmosphere, I heard a baby voice from behind me say, “Katie?” This was it, the moment of truth. This is the woman that’s going to kill my hair. I did a dramatic, slow motion turnaround to see this Charlotte. Who stood before me was a short woman with natural auburn hair that was styled so perfectly it looked effortless. Her makeup was flawless, and she was clearly one of those chicks that men and women took notice of every time she walked by–men, because she’s gorgeous, women, with jealousy because she’s gorgeous and that makes her a total bitch. I offered a huge grin and said, “Hi!” in my trademarked, fake enthusiastic voice reserved for strangers that don’t know any better. “I’m Charlotte,” she said, and offered her hand. I grasped her hand and said, “Nice to meet you! I’m Katie.” and she led to my the coat room. …A coat room, too? Jeez Louise.

Digging My Hair Grave

I followed Charlotte to her chair. It’s now or never–this is my last chance to back out. Before I could change my mind, I pulled out my phone and showed her a picture that was serving as inspiration for this asymmetrical bob I had quickly become obsessed with having. She took a look at it, asked a few questions, and then we were off to wash my hair. As I took that long walk I let the full implications of my request sink in–it’s done. I’ve given the order. In between cursing and being proud of myself for having the guts to stick to my hair convictions, I racked my brain to come up with which celebrity Charlotte reminded me of.

Do I trust a Rose McGowan look alike with my hair?
Image from Google

I hate getting my hair washed in salons for the same reason I hate getting my teeth cleaned: should my eyes be opened or closed? I don’t want to look creepy that I keep my eyes open, but I also don’t want to look like I’m enjoying it too much (though I totally am, who doesn’t love getting their hair washed by another human being?). I decided to close my eyes, and then I got it! Charlotte looks like Rose McGowan! As she continued massaging my head, I thought, how do I feel about someone that looks like Rose McGowan cutting my hair? Remember that chain dress she wore to the VMAs when she was dating Marilyn Manson?

What have I done?!
Image from Google

We went back to her chair and it started. I stared at myself in the mirror and thought about how unflattering those capes are that you wear for a haircut. It just goes to show how ugly we’d all look if we just were heads and necks–it’s not a cute look. All these crazy thoughts running through my head were the only thing keeping me from hyperventilating. My hair hasn’t been this short since infancy. She clipped up half of my hair and started making the first cuts. Oh no. That’s a lot of hair. I watched it fall to the floor, and I was stunned at what little remained on my head. I tried not to look horrified when she sometimes made eye contact with me in the mirror, but inwardly, I was feeling like Natalie Portman’s character in V for Vendetta when she gets her head shaved.

I had a psychological breakdown in my mind. WHAT WAS I THINKING?! Snip. I’M GOING TO LOOK LIKE KATE GOSSELIN. Snip, snip.

When your hair is wet, it’s really hard to envision what a haircut will look like, and let me tell you, what I was seeing in the mirror, was making me certain I was going to have to book another future appointment at Mario Tricoci to get extensions put in. She finished her last snips, put a bunch of products in my hair, and took out her round brush and hair dryer.

Annihairlation didn’t turn out like this!!! SUCCESS.
Image from Google

I don’t think hair dressers get enough praise for the magic they can work with just one round brush and a hair dryer. It’s seriously incredible. The coordination, the arm strength, the dexterity–their talents are underrated. As she started the process of drying and styling, something strange happened. I started to think, hey, this doesn’t look that bad… I watched in the mirror anxiously as she made her way around my head counterclockwise drying my hair, eager for her to finish so I could make my final verdict. She blow dried the last section, and I was actually amazed. I didn’t look at all like Friar Tuck as I had feared!

A Shocking albeit Happy Conclusion

I was thrilled. My hair surrounded me, shriveled on the floor, but I made it out alive and unscathed! Charlotte, you amazing little Rose McGowan look-alike you! The terror was over, and it was time to settle up and compensate Charlotte for her efforts. I was pretty impressed with how my hair looked, so I decided to buy the three products she put in my hair before styling–because goodness knows, I could totally recreate this look at home as long as I have the products! …Yeah, right.

She put the products up at the front desk for me, and I got my coat and went to pay. I prepared myself for the worst. The chick behind the counter informed me, “The haircut was $35…” Hold the phone, $35? That’s not at all unreasonable! Mario, I’m so sorry. I’ve wrongly slandered you. $35 really isn’t half bad! I reached into my wallet and half-offered her my credit card, “…And with the products that brings your total to $113.65.” WHAT THE HECK.

I tried (and probably failed) to keep my composure. What just happened here!? Those products cost… I tried to compute the difference, but in my shock my mathematical abilities failed me (yeah, we’ll blame the shock). What had started out as a surprisingly reasonable trip to the salon quickly became the screwing over that I had originally anticipated. I swallowed grimly. I was not going to be one of those people that freaks out and says, “That’s how much!? Take that off!” …So instead of being that person, I surrendered my dignity as a human being along with $113.65 of my hard-earned dollars.

It’s VERY different for me, but I like it.

I spun through the revolving door, trying to rationalize the events of the past five minutes. I got into my car and flipped down the visor to look at my hair in the mirror, an act that’s becoming something of a ritual for me after every haircut. Well, I thought, I really do like the haircut. A lot actually. I’m still disgusted that I paid that much for a haircut and a measly three products, but it looks like everything that I expected to happen came true. Except for one part: hating my short hair. 

So you see, the moral of the story is this: when you go into a salon expecting to be charged too much, come hell or high water, you will spend too much money–only sometimes, it’ll be your own doing. But more importantly, sometimes you need to step outside of your hair comfort zone, because you might be missing out.

…But more often than not, stay inside your comfort zone. You’re not missing anything–I just got lucky this time around.

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Halloween Nostalgia

Halloweek is finally upon us! In just a few short days trick-or-treaters everywhere will descend upon the streets in the rampant pursuit of free candy (and whatever other shit those weird houses try to get kids to take). Even though I’m not a kid anymore, there are certain aspects of this holiday that always make me nostalgic for the childhood Halloweens of old. So sit back, relax, reminisce, and take a haunting trip with me down Halloween memory lane.

Witch Fingers
When I was a kid, getting a witch finger as a Halloween party favor was probably the equivalent of someone handing me a 100 dollar bill as an adult. I don’t know what it was about having one of these witch fingers that made me feel like I was suddenly in possession of some coveted Halloween artifact. Whenever you’d get one of these witch fingers you’d put it on and insist on showing everyone your finger. They always had this long, red, thin rubber nail that you’d delight in poking people with. When you weren’t annoyingly poking people with your witch finger, you could be seen dragging across your own skin in the creepiest manner possible. The other distinct aspect of the witch finger? The smell. To this day I can imagine what that smell was like. These things might have been out of some radioactive material or something, because whenever you’d put one of these on your finger the smell would stay on your hand for roughly two weeks from the moment you took it off. I was at a Halloween store the other day and I saw them hanging there, in all their stinky, witch-fingery glory. I had to buy a pack. Try not to judge me too harshly. Do you know how hard it is to type with these things?

Smartees
With all the varieties of candy there are out there, it’s hard to imagine that one could reign supreme among all the Halloween candy options–but one does. Let me introduce you to Smartees. I’m pretty sure these little candies only exist for Halloween. Whenever I’d go trick-or-treating, and I’d get home and dump out my bag, I’d always be looking for these amidst all that chocolate. They come in this long roll and when you’re a kid, half of the fun of eating Smartees is unrolling it just enough so that they don’t all spill out, but you’re still able to pick a piece out one at a time. I literally never see Smartees anywhere in the store except around Halloween. Without Smartees, it’s just not Halloween.

It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown
I’ll be probably still be watching It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown when I’m 72 years old and in my rocking chair bitching about whippersnappers. You’re seriously never too old for this special. Out of all the Charlie Brown TV specials out there, this one is my personal favorite. I promise you it’s adorable, and if you’re still skeptical, watch it because Snoopy’s in it. …Who doesn’t love Snoopy? (By the way, it’s on ABC Halloween night at 7 p.m. central.)

The 90s Movies
Growing up in the 90s, I think my generation had the privilege of some of the best (and most adorable) Halloween movies there are. We got to enjoy instant classics like Hocus Pocus, Practical Magic, and Sabrina the Teenage Witch. With so many good ones to pick from, my personal top three must-sees are the following:

The Witches: For some reason every year I struggle to remember the name of this adorable movie… it’s title really couldn’t be much easier to remember. It’s about a boy, Luke, and his grandma who go on vacation in England and find themselves staying at the same hotel where The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children is holding their annual conference. Luke quickly finds out that all the stories his grandmother has told him over the years about witches are actually true.

Casper: In this one Christina Ricci, I mean Kat, and her paranormal therapist dad move into an old house that they soon find out is haunted by four ghosts: Casper (the friendly ghost) and his three uncles Fatso, Stinkie, and Stretch. Casper quickly falls in love with Kat, and despite being ghostiality being a bit taboo, it’ll make your heart melt. When Casper whispers, “Can I keep you?” I all but jump up and scream “YES!” That little ghost is a charmer, I tell ya.

The Nightmare Before Christmas: I could sing you every song in this movie. For me, the mark of a truly great, cute movie is frequent spontaneous episodes of singing. In this movie the well-renowned and jaded Jack Skellington of Halloween Town accidentally discovers Christmas Town, and instantly falls in love with all that Christmas has to offer. He attempts to host his own Christmas in Halloween Town, but things quickly go awry. …It’s by Tim Burton, so you know it’s going to be amazing. Plus, this movie can double as both a Halloween and a Christmas movie.

The Costumes
I’ve saved the best for last: the costumes. Everyone knows the best part of Halloween when you’re a kid was rushing over to Party City to look at that giant wall of pictured costumes and pick out what you were going to be. When you’re young, Halloween is basically a free day at school. You get to show up in your costume and make the other kids with shittier costumes jealous, and if you had a cool teacher they would always distribute some candy. Where I went to grammar school we actually had a parade in the middle of the day. The entire school lined up, the teachers and staff would come outside, and we’d all prance around the outside of the school so everyone could see us in our adorable kid costumes. Seriously, how does life get any better than that?

Unless your costume is this clever (and you’re as adorable as Jim from the office) don’t wear a costume to work.

Now that I’m older wearing a costume just isn’t the same. When you’re a kid you can always pick out something adorable, but now that I’m an adult woman my costume options range from slutty to straight-up skanky. That’s not always bad, but hey, at least when I was a kid I wasn’t faced the tough decision of whether I want to be an occupational-costumed slut or a Disney princess whore. Plus, when you’re adult you can’t really wear a costume in your daily life like you can when you’re a kid. Maybe you get a pair of Halloween earrings or a Halloween tie if you’re a man, but you can’t go in full costume to work–correction–you SHOULDN’T go in full costume to work. When a middle-aged adult goes to the office in their Halloween costume, there’s an unintentional Diane Arbus connotation that really should be avoided at all costs. Keep the costumes for a Halloween party or at home for the kids. ♦

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll dig into my Smartees stockpile, try to avoid smelling my fingers for 48 hours, and embark on a Halloween movie marathon. Tis the season!