Loads of Fun

So I live in an apartment complex that isn’t in the worst part of town.  It’s not even the next to worst.  It’s not ghetto adjacent even.  For some reason, however, while the rent goes up, so does the crime.  Or maybe I am just noticing it more. 

I was trying to do my laundry the other day.  Although it was 10am on a Tuesday and there are five machines (well, currently four since one was broken),  I had to make three attempts to get an empty machine.  I often have as many as 4-8 loads come Laundry Day (who knew my daughter and I could generate so much laundry???) and not a lot of full days off, so, like all residents with a mission to finish their laundry quickly, I usually prefer to use as many of the machines as possible.  Keep in mind it’s also $2/wash and $1.75/dry, so Laundry Day is pursuant to when I have the money to actually do the laundry as well. 

My neighbor (a brassy, but seemingly cool woman in her mid-40s or so) was in the laundry room on my first attempt to get a load in the wash.  She had just finished filling the four working washers, so I returned to my apartment to wait the 30 minutes until she was through.  At 30 minutes I tried again.  The washers had just been re-started.  Damn!  Someone had snuck in while I was watching an episode of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  Back to the couch. 

Another 30 minutes went by.  I tried again.  This time there were three washers free.  Success!  I loaded them up and returned to hang out with Mrs. Maisel. 

When my wash was ready to transfer to the dryer, I returned to the laundry room.  Another older woman was in there, transferring her clothes to the dryers.  She was talking to a younger man about the hike in rent (mine has been raised $150 in two years).  He was pulling clothes out of one of the dryers.  Upon indicating that I could use the one he’d freed,  I started to load my soggy garments into it.  The man offhandedly mentioned something about how he was supposed to have clothes in two separate dryers, but returned to his upstairs apartment.

Which is when all hell broke loose.  As I was loading my clothes, the brassy neighbor came screaming down the stairs.  Well, not screaming because she had laryngitis, but whispering furiously. 

“WHAT THE FUCK?”  She looked in two of the dryers (one of which I was currently filling).  My neighbor slammed the other dryer door shut.  “Someone took my fucking laundry!!!”  She opened it again in disbelief.  Still no laundry.  “Seriously, where are my fucking clothes?”

So let me explain something here.  In spite of liking to use all the machines at once, I am a super courteous resident when it comes to laundry room usage.  If someone comes to the laundry room at the same time, I will relinquish use of one (some) of the machines.  I set a timer so that I can be sure to clear my machines in a timely manner.  I clean out my lint screens.  I hold the laundry room door open for other residents.  And I absolutely cannot, for the life of me, understand why someone would be motivated to steal another person’s laundry. 

Yes, I have heard stories of a woman who will throw people’s laundry in the trash if they leave it in the washer for too long.  I’ve even walked into the laundry room when it smelled like shit (literally) because someone disposed of their dog’s feces in the same trashcan.  I have even found vomit-covered clothing strewn about outside of the laundry room (not sure what happened there).  Apparently, though, this laundry theft is a semi-common occurrence.  The older woman confirmed it with her own story of having recently found a note in the laundry room that was written by another resident pleading for the return of her newly cleaned clothes. 

This, my friends, is fucking bullshit.  I mean, seriously?  This is where we’re headed?  Is it really necessary to go out of one’s way to enter the laundry room (with a key no less) and steal from one’s neighbors?  To clarify, no one here is wealthy.  We ain’t washing couture in the laundry room.  My own laundry is only a veritable cornucopia of Walmart T-Shirts and Thrift Store Cardigans.  Some of my underwear is so filled with holes, I don’t know that I should even wear them as period panties.    What on earth would someone want with another person’s laundry?  I get freaked out just finding someone else’s sock mixed in with mine.  I don’t care if it’s been washed.  It’s not my fucking sock. 

So I went to the office to complain.  I told them I would happily write up a formal complaint.  Of course they did nothing.  They can’t (won’t) do anything, “management” said.  We’re supposed to stay with our laundry, I was told. So I responded (jokingly?), “Then don’t be surprised if you hear of a lavender-haired women in Laundry Room #5 beating up one of the other residents.” 

And so I went to sit in the fucking laundry room to babysit my clothes, writing this blog entry and throwing shade at anyone walking past.  It wasn’t even my laundry that was stolen, but now it’s my mission to make sure that it won’t be.  No one is to be trusted. 

What a waste of time.  Sigh. 

Until next time, my lovelies….

The Perils of Adulthood

(OR:  It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Gets Bashed in the Eye)

I used to be fearless.  Sometime in the last few years, however, I realized this wasn’t the case anymore.  Perhaps fear set in because of garnered experience or from knowing too much about the dangers of this world—or because I have my own child and therefore must think about my mortality as it would affect her.  Whatever the reason, I think this fearlessness is what I miss most about my childhood. 

In 2010, I went to France with my now ex-husband.  We were on a tour of a quaint little church/clock tower in Northern France.  Part of the tour included a walk around the outside of the steeple, allowing a 360-degree view of the city below.  Normally, this wouldn’t have bothered me, but as we made our way around the very narrow walkway, separated from certain death by only a chest high glass partition (I’m 5’2”), the wind whipping violently past, I discovered my very real fear of heights.  I shamefully admit that I freaked out.  Clutching the side of the building in terror, I scuttled sideways like a crab, my heart thudding and my breathing shallow, barely making it back inside to safety.  I couldn’t even fully enjoy the glorious view. 

I honestly don’t know where this fear of heights came from.  I’d been dealing with some bouts of vertigo (perhaps brought on by and preventing further skating of roller derby), but had never quite experienced the panic I’d had that afternoon. 

I have since challenged this fear of heights multiple times in the last few years:  exploring the rain-soaked Cliffs of Moher, kissing the Blarney Stone (which one must hang both backward and upside down to reach), zip-lining, a trapeze lesson…

Each time, I experienced heart-pounding terror, self-doubt and a tarnished self-image.  In most cases, however, I managed to escape without physical injury. 

Until an obstacle course at a trampoline park recently got the better of me. 

Let me set the scene:  I was at my daughter’s twelfth birthday party.  Already awkward because I do not particularly care to be in the same room as the ex-husband, I am also not overly fond of bounce houses or trampolines (due to an ill-fated special event in which I got trapped in one while dressed as a chipmunk…but that’s a story for another time).  In an effort to join in on the festivities, I decided I would attempt the obstacle course.  Because it was positioned along the ceiling, all the obstacles were to be completed over an open net (under which the other patrons and the employees could walk). 

I will spare you most of the details, but suffice it to say, I only made it a quarter of the way through.  After climbing between platforms almost too far apart for my stubby legs, balancing on a tightrope and moving across a staggered, moving balance beam, I was faced with four Wooden Swings of Doom.  Made up of large square posts (8” x 8” and about 5’ long I think?) fastened to the ceiling with large eye screws, the swings had wooden pegs as footholds.  The goal was to clutch onto the post (think monkey style) and swing to the next, using the footholds for balance.  Already panicked from the height, I could not figure out how to get past this part of the course.  I watched as countless kids (including my daughter) did it, but I just couldn’t get my body to do what it needed to do.  Finally, I pulled the post toward me and grabbed on.  As I was reaching for the second post, however, I fell into the net below—at which point the post swung back and bashed me in the face, right above my brow. 

I could feel the goose egg forming immediately.  Lying face down in the net, sobbing, I saw my daughter walking under me.  I called out to her, telling her that I had fallen and that I needed some ice.  She (in her typical 12-year-old way) argued with me about where to get the ice.  I told her, “I don’t care where you get it.  Just get me some ice.”

I then had to figure out how to get out of the obstacle course.  Because it was suspended from the ceiling, there was no way out except to complete the course or to go back.  There was no way in hell I was completing it.  With my eyebrow swollen and tears streaming down my face, I had to go back to the beginning, still terrified and now injured.  I made it to the start (joking with the people I passed, “Watch out for the swings.  They’re doozies!”), where my daughter was waiting with the ice.

I spent the rest of the birthday party sitting at the table with an ice pack on my head.  My eye didn’t start to blacken until later that night.  I hadn’t had a black eye since I was six years old (obtained from an equally clumsy incident with playground equipment), not even while playing roller derby.    

Sadly, my lack of physical prowess and ability to participate in birthday parties are not the only indications that I am no longer fearless.  As I sat bemoaning my idiocy, I started thinking about how fear has affected me.  Often plagued with indecision, it is much harder for me to jump into anything without worrying it to death. I sometimes find it difficult to plan, because my brain immediately goes to several contingency plans—even though they rarely work out.  I am frequently exhausted before I even begin anything.  Although I try to trust that everything will be as it is “should”, I also know that my failures, emotional and otherwise, are often more difficult to handle.  It takes me longer to heal.  I am not as resilient.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t keep trying.  I am nothing, if not stubborn.  Although I doubt I’ll be back on that obstacle course any time soon.  I’ve already told my daughter her next birthday party is going to be a tea party.  Unless I suddenly develop an aversion to cucumber sandwiches and teacups, that is.  Ha ha. 

Until next time, my Lovelies….

To Misogyny and Beyond

I recently attended a local bar crawl.  Not really a frequent bar-goer, I have attended very few crawls.  Although I like dressing up in costumes, I generally find the huge crowds and extreme drunkenness too over-bearing for me to ever fully enjoy myself.  Unfortunately, this latest crawl was no different, with the exception that I came away from it with another reason to dislike them:  all the rampant misogyny!

Lest you write me off a man-hating, bra-burning, militant feminist, trust me, that is so not the case.    Oh no, I love men (much to my detriment sometimes).  I even love wearing bras, torturous though they can sometimes be.  While I am absolutely pro-woman (duh, I am one), I am certainly not militant about it.  I do not, however, understand when it became acceptable for anyone to think that just because a woman is wearing a costume she is inviting sexual advances?  Yes, it is true that many women wear next to nothing (a practice I have yet to understand due more to the potentially inclement weather than judgment) or very revealing garments.  Does this mean that they should be subjected to groping or lewd comments?  Hell, I wasn’t even wearing anything revealing (because I know how to dress for the weather) and a group of men surrounded me like jackals as I tried to get a drink at what is usually a pretty laid back bar.  Without even saying hi first, one of them asked if he could come home with me.  I responded, “You gonna clean my house?”  Alas, no "date" for me. 

When I later recounted this story to one of my coworkers (a very feisty, older woman), she said, “Well, what did you expect, honey?  Look at our Presidential Candidate.  Where do you think they’re learning it?”

Fast forward to what is now the day after the 2016 election.  Donald Trump, a man known for his belittling, homophobic, anti-feminist (etc., etc., etc.) remarks has just been elected the new president.

Not surprisingly, I have never been a Donald Trump supporter (as either a candidate or even a human), finding him to be arrogant, ego-maniacal and temperamental.  I do get that we’re all entitled to our opinions (or vote in this case).  But I’m not going to lie.  I am f*cking terrified that we have just set the progress of our country back so many years we can’t even count.  Never have I been so upset about the future of this country.  Never have I been at a loss as to what to tell my child that will help assuage her fears, because I don't know what to tell myself.  It may sound histrionic, but no, I can’t say to her with all certainty that Trump won’t start the first annual Hunger Games.  Or that we’re not headed down a post-apocalyptic path.  Or even that everything will be all right.  What the f*ck, America? 

We have all seen and heard so much hatred, especially during this last year, much of it from the President Elect’s own mouth.  How can we as citizens of this nation continue to work progressively toward unity and harmony—or hell, just for functionality’s sake—when this is what we will most likely see and hear on a regular basis?  It’s gonna take a whole hell of a lot of Strength, Love and Hope.  And maybe some pixie dust. Either way, we will need to continue to fight for our rights, to fly brave in the face of adversity and to demand a better world, perhaps even more now than ever.

Holy hell, it's going to be a long 4 years.  But hey, a lot can happen in 4 years... Guess I'll get back to wearing non-revealing costumes and fending off unwanted, lecherous advances in the meantime.  Sigh.  

Life in the Land of Meh

I recently came to the realization that I have lived in Reno now for nearly 10 years.  Although I made the choice to move here for the betterment of our family, I have been divorced for almost half that time.  This is, not surprisingly, an idea that sticks in my craw on many levels.

I often wish that I could say that my divorce doesn't affect me anymore, but I'd be lying.  Of course it does.  Even now, five years after the breakup, as I still deal with the frustration of inefficient communication with and limited cooperation from the ex, I am disappointed.  Regardless of how much I think I have emotionally moved on, it all still bugs me.  He still bugs me.

Add to that, of course, the constant struggle of making ends meet, the living in the same messy apartment, the insurance hassles and the single momhood (with so few romantic prospects I may as well be a nun), it is perhaps understandable that during this time of year in particular is when I often feel my divorce the most.  While certainly not the only time of year that I deal with the effects, after quasi-recuperating from the busyness of summer employment and costume making in my Halloween Sweatshop of One, November and December seem to be particularly challenging.  Maybe it's because November is the anniversary of the divorce or because of the holidays, but I often feel just so, well, meh.

As a means of alleviating or even simply understanding the doldrums, I decided to go through my older posts (and half posts yet to be finished).  Perhaps there was some clue among my previously written missives as to how to self-motivate, instigate change or, more importantly, recognize my path? What I discovered instead is that although the tone may be slightly different (less angry or overtly cheerful), the underlying themes of most of my posts are so much the same--especially those in the later part of the year (Now is the Winter of our discontent...ha ha).  This is, of course, partially the problem.

Over and over again, I have listed my wishes and goals.  I have pushed myself to try new things.  I have worked to be open to possibilities and grateful for what I have.  Perhaps because I believe that I am on the verge of Something Great, however, I find myself taking stock in how far I've come throughout the year--or haven't come as the case may be. I cannot help but feel impatient that there seems to be so little progress in my life since the divorce.  Internally, leaps and bounds perhaps.   Externally, not so much.  It's hard not to be disheartened.

In a recent discussion about this with my little sister from another mister, I know I am not alone in feeling this way.  Although she is in her twenties (I am nearly twice her age!) and newly married, we each are battling a similar malaise, this sense of wanting to be something more...but not quite getting there.  We are each at a crossroads, each feeling that the path to even get to the fork in the road is winding and meandering.  Although she is just starting on her journey, while I feel like I am RE-starting, we are each craving change, preferably of a positive nature.  We have already been living in a quagmire.  We don't want to be stuck there, but, dear God, how do we get out of it?

As with anything, there is no easy answer, no quick-fix or miracle cure, no matter how much I wish there could be. I know that this is just a phase of my life, but, seriously, five years is more than enough time to be feeling like this, thanks.  It's getting to the point that I don't even know what other lesson I can glean from this experience.  Malaise and Apathy need not be permanent residents.  This ain't no pity party.  I refuse to believe that this is all there is to my life.

Gah.  Time to go travel or dye my hair or move or, well, something.  I hope I can break out of my chrysalis and spread my wings soon.  I'll keep you posted.

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep....

Until next time, my Lovelies....

Oh Mammy, Part 2

As with the previous post about my mammogram, if you don't want to know, don't read on.  

****

A few weeks after my initial mammogram, I received a letter from the doctor’s office that there were some findings of potential concern.  The letter claimed that I had signs of “increased breast density” and needed to schedule both another mammogram and an ultrasound to verify their findings.  The original mammo tech had warned me that this could happen as there was no previous mammogram to treat as a baseline for “normal”.  What she didn’t warn me about was that the letter (only five paragraphs in length) would also go on to state that women with dense breast tissue had a higher chance of getting breast cancer.  The remaining four paragraphs of the letter were then all about breast cancer.  I also received a phone call from my OB-GYN telling me that any results from the second mammogram would be sent to a breast cancer specialist. Way to freak out the semi-hypochondriac!

Let’s be honest here, cancer is one of those things that has always scared the hell out of me.  I wasn’t raised with the knowledge that cancer ran in my family, but in talking to my mother about the second appointment, I discovered that several female relatives have in fact had (or are in the throes of) cancer.  No one seems to have had breast cancer, but there have been other types.  Well, shit. 

When I went to the doctor for my second appointment, they decided that only an ultrasound was necessary.  The radiology tech (a sort of brusque, no-nonsense blond named Wendy) slathered the heated gel on my breast and began the exam.  A few minutes into it, she muttered, “Ah, there it is!”  She proceeded to rapidly press various keys on the keyboard, all the while moving the ultrasound wand into different positions for better views of whatever she had just seen.  What the f*ck?  I tried not to panic.

It turned out that I apparently have a 1.5 cm growth under my nipple. The doctor did not seem to think it was of immediate concern, so he offered me the choice between a “wait and see” approach or a needle biopsy.  I told him there was no way I was going to wait and see (semi-hypochondriac, remember?).  I’d rather know.  He did caution me that because of the position of the growth, it could be a) painful and b) difficult to get to with a biopsy needle.  I may still have to get a follow up surgery to remove the growth if the biopsy is inconclusive or impossible.  I made a joke equating the biopsy to being like a nipple piercing without the jewelry.  Laugh or you cry, right? 

Sometimes the hardest part is just the waiting…Waiting to make the biopsy appointment…waiting for the results….waiting to know.  I am not necessarily, as you may already be aware, a patient person. I try to be positive, and to hope for the best, but I am a worrier.  I am often plagued by all manner of thoughts from the practical to the inane:  “What will happen to my daughter if I get sick?” or “I guess we’ll see how good my insurance is!” and  “But I really like my breasts!”

But then, it could just be nothing.  The doctor seemed to think it was nothing.  Perhaps it really is nothing.  Oh man, I hope it’s nothing. 

Sigh.  Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Singin' the Imperfection Blues

I am having a day of feeling my imperfections.  I have these occasionally, generally whilst in a fit of boredom, loneliness or extended solitude.  I find myself filled with self doubt about my actions, words, emotions…and sometimes even my sense of self.  It is not a fun place to be. Because I am a woman, however, I can usually blame it on hormones or PMS.  This may or may not be the case, but it feels good to have something tangible that most people understand.

The truth is, however, I just get inside my own head.  Sometimes it is all sunshine and light and fluffy bunnies…then the bunnies grow and multiply and start looking like Gremlins.  There are so many of them, that they choke out the light, forcing me to seek shelter in an abandoned house.  This house is dark and spooky.  The floors are weak and the walls crumbling.  There are noises in this house that cause me unrest, the sounds of incessant scratching and howling.  This house is not safe.  I do not like spending time there.   

I have been told in the past that I have the capability of appearing aloof or distant, even cold.  I have always found this interesting as I have also been described as warm, friendly and approachable.  The truth is, though, I am neither one nor the other.  I am both.  I am both out of necessity and in the best interest of self-preservation.  This is for the very simple reason that, no matter my exterior, I feel things intensely.  When those feelings get overwhelming, I have to work that much harder to lock them down.  I grin and bear it as best I can during the day—and end up spending an angst-filled night (week/month/year) in the ol’ mental House of Horrors. 

I used to think that feeling this intensely was the hallmark of a creative person.  You know, suffering for one’s art and all that.  Perhaps that is part of it, but isn’t that giving creativity a bad rap?  Just because creative people can visualize 50 million different scenarios and re-live them over and over (occasionally through positive outlets such as theater, writing, painting, music, etc.) doesn’t mean they are all plagued by overwhelming emotion—does it?  This seems to be more of a societal assumption in regard to creativity.  Like, to create art one needs passion.  Whatever the hell that means. 

I am working to live my life to the fullest, emotionally, physically and mentally, but have to do so with the knowledge that not everyone is along for the same ride.  Passion can be a scary thing for those who do not have enough of their own—and for those who have too much and cannot handle more.  I, myself, have fallen victim to tremendous passion on numerous occasions.  I gave so much of myself.  I felt so powerfully.  What I got in return was less than satisfying:  Misguided affection and trust, rejection (imagined or otherwise), strained relationships, exhaustion, expectations, harsh realizations, moments of weakness, regret….

At the end of it all, however, I also get something very important.  Understanding. 

My journey is my own, and sometimes, life experiences are just that, experiences.  They may be a catalyst for something more…or they may be something that just happened.  Something to make me say, “Well, that was cool.  Next.”  They don’t have to be Events (with a capital “E”).  The problem is, of course, that I occasionally want so much more than just “an experience”.  I want to get caught up in the emotion…just not consumed by it.   

But then, I am a woman.  I feel things deeply.  And, you know, PMS.  Lol.

Until my next entry, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 34)

WORRISOME HABIT

With a faint air of melancholy still lingering from the previous day, I was, not surprisingly, again at a loss as to what to write.  I received support and kudos from unexpected places today (even, amusingly, a fortune cookie) and so I found myself emboldened and supported as I work toward the future.  

Today, I went to meetings for future (and current) projects.  Despite whatever else I may seem, I am a dreamer, if not a planner.  Perhaps the applications of my plans seem spontaneous, but believe me, most of my plans are thought over and through and then over and through again.  I am a worrier. 

In the last few years, my worrying has caused me greater angst than necessary.  In the last few months, however, I have been attempting to stop worrying quite so much.  I am not always successful.  Worrying, however, never accomplishes anything—except bringing me more worry.  And what really is worry, but fear?

So what is it I worry about?  I am sure they are the usual fears that most people have:  loneliness, boredom, inaction, parenthood, money (or lack thereof). Admittedly, last year was a rough one for me.  I felt like my worries drew me into a black hole, sucking out my joy until all I wanted to do was just stay in bed, aimlessly watching television.  I am sure you can understand the difficulty this causes for a relatively happy-go-lucky person.

Which reminds me of a conversation I recently had with a friend of mine about happiness.  This friend is, almost as a rule, the person I go to when I have questions that require an incisive, laser-sharp clarity and rationality.  We were discussing a book called The How of Happiness, which takes a scientific approach to determine one’s level of happiness.  I asked her whether she thought I was “happy”—a bizarre question, as perception is always a finicky little beast.  She responded that for the most part, yes.  I’d just had to deal with a lot of sh*t lately.  Ain’t that the truth?

How best, then, to deal with all of that sh*t?  It is clearly not by worrying about it.  While I cannot yet stop worrying entirely, I am trying to not focus so much time or energy on worrying.  Actions bring about positivity and change more than worry ever could, right?  Right?!  Gah.

Now if only I weren’t so d*mned tired…Ha. 

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

*For 2/6/14.  Of course, I worried if you even noticed that I didn't post it for two days.  Lol.

40 Days Till 40 (Day 32)

SET ME FREE, WHY DON'T YOU, BABE?

My daughter asked me today when I am planning to move to California.  She claimed that she wants to live there because “They have swimming pools, the beach and Disneyland there.  Plus I can get a dog.”

At first, this may seem like a relatively innocuous conversation.  What you may not realize is that this conversation comes at the beginning of what I fear may become an ugly custody battle.  The ex-husband (the one who brought me to Reno in the first place) has accepted a job back in Southern California.  His company is allegedly allowing him to telecommute for the next couple of months after which time he will move there.  I am not even sure when he will move as he has not communicated any concrete information (other than maybe in March).  Oh, and that he would like to go to mediation to figure out what is happening with the move.

There are so many things that are bothering me about this potential move.  For the sake of my sanity (and yours!), I will not list them all here.  I will only suffice it to say, no, he will not be able to take my daughter without my approval; no, I do not currently want to move back to Southern California (and not just because he thinks it is best); and no, I do not look forward to having to make at least twice as much money just to afford what I currently have (and frankly, I live pretty damn frugally) if I were to move there. I have therefore suggested that with his recent employment record (unemployed for a year then quitting a seemingly good job after only 5 months, but telling me he was laid off) that it would be best if he were to live there alone for at least a year to establish whether he even liked (or could keep) his job and we would discuss it then.  Of course, he would still have visitation for breaks and holidays.  

I cannot help but wonder what would happen if the situation were reversed?  I, too, have applied for jobs in other states, but not without the realization that there would have to be a lot of compromise regarding child custody.  I knew that I would have to make a change, accommodation or sacrifice.  I don’t know that he has had the same forethought.

Currently, we share joint custody with a week on/week off visitation—which, by the way, if your divorce is particularly emotional or difficult, I do NOT recommend.  If you’re like me and you prefer a clean break, you will never be able to get peace from your ex since you will have to see him/her every single damned week.

So maybe that is one positive I can pull from this situation:  If the ex moves, I wouldn’t have to see him all of the time.  Yes, I am also aware of what this means for my daughter.  Frankly, though, I cannot say with all certainty that she wouldn’t be better off for the separation.  Every week she is subjected to a different parenting style.  I don’t doubt that my ex loves her, but I do doubt that he considers my contributions valid or important.  His disrespect was apparent at the end of the marriage; it is wholly apparent with this move and lack of communication.  We are not “co-parents”, as I’d always hoped.  I doubt we ever will be. 

I just keep telling myself it will work out as it’s supposed to.  Whatever that means.  

Sigh.  

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….