Everybody Knows... but Me

So, I got sent home from work yesterday. The "Administrator" (non-academic equivalent of the Dean) sent me home personally. I was in the lunch room, quilting, and she came to peek at my work, then took one look at me and sent me home.

She suspected the flu - THE flu, H1N1, that's been in the news for the past six months, and which she personally had about a month ago.

Now, I'm the LAST person to complain about getting a few days off. And I do have SOMETHING... I'm just pretty sure it's not H1N1. Because I'm able to do things. If you really have H1N1, you are either dying, or you want to.

I figured I'd do something I'd been putting off. Something that involves sitting down comfortably for hours on end and doesn't tax the body.

Figured I'd tackle my business accounting.

After all, if I DID have H1N1, I'd be dead soon anyway - so what's the harm in making myself WANT to die? And if I DIDN'T have it, I'd be one step further away from debtor's prison. What's not to love?

So, I dug out all my papers, found the "calculator" app on my computer, sharpened my pencil...

Recently, my "Beloved Future Son-In-Law" (hereinafter to be known as "B") offered to help me figure out where some of the numbers in my financial statements come from.

For those of you not in-the-know about the accounting aspect of business, it's a bit like leaning to do Calculus in Grade 2. The page looks so CLEAN, so CLEAR... Lovely numbers in a column, clearly labelled "Assets" and "Liabilities"... it looks so simple. It looks, in fact, too good to be true. And you know what they say about things that look too good to be true!

Except that all the numbers seem to come out of nowhere. What in the heck is "Due to Shareholder", and why is it a different amount than "Retained Earnings"? Oh, and wait till you discover the wild and wooly world of "Change in Non-Cash Operating Items." That one takes a whole day to figure out! "Cost of Sales", okay, that's what the shipping and customs duties cost me... hmm, maybe it's also the sales tax I paid... I wonder, does that include my guild membership fees, since I have to be a member of the guild in order to sell there, and don't forget I contribute 5% of the value of the sales to the guild... Ok, let's try it all three ways...

It took me about four hours to get through all the numbers that were supposed to appear on the financial statements and begin to tot them up. Of course, none of the numbers made any sense at all, and none of them balanced...In the nick of time, I remembered that I had given last year's papers to B, and realized I was working with starting figures from two years ago...

(And a darned good thing I remembered that, too, because I was just about to pick up the phone and hit the speed dial "S" for Satan, ready to sell ANYTHING in order to get SOMEONE, ANYONE, to take this off my hands!)

As mentioned in previous blogs, I do not possess the gene for understanding accounting. If I had enough money, I would ever so happily pay someone to do this stuff for me. Alas, I have champagne taste, but I'm on a beer income.

Accounting will never make sense to me. B has explained which numbers to add and subtract from each other in order to plug a new number into the financial statements, but it is seriously a "monkey-see, monkey-do" arrangement with me. I don't know WHY any of these numbers exist, I only know that I have to complete a Financial Statement before I can get anywhere near doing my business income taxes, and hopefully avoid jail time.

I figure (no pun intended) that accountants are an evil breed (perhaps related to the aforementioned Satan). They take something perfectly simple and turn it inside-out and wring it and shred it and reassemble it till NO ONE in their RIGHT mind could POSSIBLY understand where all these blessed numbers came from!

Job security, that's what it is! A clever plot on their part to compel us mere mortals to pay them what's left of our hard-earned cash to make the government go away.

Well, after I eat supper I'm going to give it another go, now that I have the correct numbers to start from. I have actually learned something relatively useful from this process, astonishingly enough! When I've finished it, I'm going to set up my books the way the financial statements are set up, so I don't have to think next time I make a sale or order something. I'll just write down the number and fill in the calculation. Next year, when I go through this, I won't have to think. I'll have done it all now.

Yeah.

An (apparently) heavy load...

WARNING: Contains scatalogical content. Most normal people would probably find this offensive - I know I do!

I have an affliction. A "thorn in my side." A particular difficulty that I don't know how to overcome... or indeed, if it even can be overcome!

I have problem poo.

(No - it is NOT funny!)

See, I keep plugging the toilet. (And no, I do not mean with paper.)

Invariably, the first "load" I deliver is of sufficient diameter to... well, I don't know if it would choke a horse - I'm pretty sure horses have more sense than to go for that shit - oh! no pun intended! - even though dogs do go for horse-shit...

Anyway, it doesn't seem to matter what the, ahem, "texture" is, be it hard or soft, it just goes straight for the opening and plugs it solid.

There's something in there about specific gravity. If it would float around a bit, maybe it would get pointed in the right direction, break in half, I don't know!

And yes, I have, in fact, tried modifying my diet and exercising. The results are the same.

It used to be worse. I used to... (oh god, the things I blog about!)

I used to save it up.

NOT, I assure you, intentionally! But on a day where I'm rushing around, nothing of that sort would emerge. If I had several busy days in a row, tough luck, I'd just carry it around, until I arrived at a day when I could relax and stay home.

Then the miracle would finally happen - and believe me, it was QUITE a relief by that time!

But it would plug the hole. Back when I was with Hubby, the standard Saturday-morning-greeting was "it's plugged again."

See, I am of the firm opinion that UN-plugging such devices is a job for a MALE.

(I am positive the gene is on the Y chromosome. It's in the contract. Gotta be there somewhere...)

Hell, THEY'RE the ones the designed the thing! The plumbing STACK is always a 4-inch pipe. What in the WORLD possessed them to make the pipes from the toilet only two inches in diameter? Job security? As Red Green used to say, "If the women don't find you handsome, at least they should find you handy!"

Hubby, of course, predicatably, finds my situation hilarious. Boys usually do: dirt, mess, smelly things, gross stuff - I've never met a man who was grossed out by much that has to do with... with the things humans produce.

"Your just full of it, Dear," he would say, if he could get the words out, for laughing so hard.

Harrumph. He should talk!

But nowdays, now that my life is slightly LESS stressed than when I was back there, I'm more... regular. Even on workdays!

But it still plugs the hole.

And no, I am not going to run outside in my nightie looking for a stick to poke it with. Neither am I going to use the item which should be used to clean the bowl to poke it with - let's get one thing straight: I AM NOT GOING TO POKE IT WITH ANYTHING. Point finale.

I do not own a plunger. As I indicated earlier, those are things BOYS play with. And POKING such stuff is definitely something boys do!

So, it has occurred to me that perhaps, inside, I am... different. Differently-shaped. Perhaps it's not my stomach that has grown large over the years. Perhaps it is my "large intestine."

Maybe it stretched, over the years, packing all that stuff and carrying it around for days on end?

Maybe I need a - do they even DO these? - a colon tuck.

Sort of like taking it out, wrapping the whole thing in duct tape so it's narrower, and putting it back in. The "Red Green" solution.

(I quite expect now that nobody will EVER invite me over to their homes again. If I haven't grossed out my very last friend or relative by now, I am sure that, at the very least, they will not want me gumming up THEIR works, so to speak.)

This is a serious affliction!

I want an outhouse.

Getting Over It

I know I'm not handling this latest "crisis" well. It seems that whenever I get a shock, I go shopping. Somehow that eases the pain, helps me connect to something... I understand it's origins, but not why it works.

The origin is the mythological tale of The Red Shoes. A poor girl and her mother eke out a subsistence living, the mother is a dressmaker or somesuch. The little girl saves scraps of cloth, and eventually makes herself a pair of red shoes out of the bits she has saved. But the mother dies, and the little girl must go begging. A silver carriage stops in front of her, and a kindly old woman offers to take care of her, feed and clothe her, give her an education, etc. The little girl is very thankful to be taken in. But she is a bit shocked to find out that all her clothes, including her shoes, must be burnt, for fear they've been infested by vermin.

She grows into a lovely young lady, and then an event comes along. In some versions it's her first communion, in others it's some other rite of passage. But the old lady, who is quite blind by now, wants her to have a new white dress and shoes to match. They go to the shoemaker's and the girl is told to find a pair of white shoes. But high on a shelf she spies a pair of shiny red shoes that gleam with unearthly beauty, and once she has seen them, her heart is full of longing, and nothing will do but she must have those shoes. So she tells the old woman that they are white, and hides them from the servants, and can't wait to be alone so she can put them on and dance around her room.

One difficulty - she finds that she can't stop dancing once the shoes are on her feet. Some versions of the story have her crying out for help, she gets rescued, they manage to pry the shoes off her feet, she confesses and promises to be good in future, and goes through the rite of passage with a new pair of white shoes. And then another rite of passage happens, and she goes through the same problem.

Eventually, the shoes simply will not come off. In a drastic attempt to save the girl's life, her feet are cut off at the ankles, and the shoes, her feet still in them, go dancing away across the moor all by themselves.

It is a story of capture, of living someone else's life, living by someone else's rules. Try as we might, eventually our inner selves catch up with us, or catch us up, and no matter how hard we try to fit into the life that's been set for us, we rebel, and go lunging toward our own particular doom.

In my case, I simply have to spend money. I was brought up very frugally, to say the least, and my Grandma would get quite angry with me if I managed to incur unexpected expenses. In fact, I always thought we were poor. Money, the wise use of it, the keeping of it, the management of it, was like a lens through which everything was filtered. It colored everything about my life that I can remember. I did indeed feel like I was locked up in a prison for a great deal of my early life, and when I got out - WOW! Stand back everybody - woman with credit card comin' through!

I am not alone in this particular weakness, and it is exhibited in other ways which are perhaps a bit more subtle. I remember a Friend commenting something to the effect, "Why is it that the moment a woman invites someone over for a special occasion, the house must be redecorated?" And it's so true! Every "state visit" is usually preceeded by frantic painting, re-arranging of furniture, new drapes... you name it.

Some people frantically clean their homes when stressed. Some redecorate. Some cook. Some go on vacations. But an awful lot of us go shopping. Whenever I have had a shock, or a fight with a loved one, or a nasty surprise, or suffered a loss, I am simply incapable of doing anything at all until I have made it into a store and bought something. Only then am I purged of my sense of panic, only then does the adrenaline stop coursing through my veins, only then can I finally make it home and collapse into a chair and rest. And the bigger the stressor, the bigger the bills.

Yes, it's counterproductive, to say the least! But let he or she among you who has never scarfed a box of chocolates cast the first stone! We all have our dark secrets... I'm talking about mine in an attempt to gain some sort of control over it. Now, the last thing I need is more criticism, by the way, lest you be tempted to "tut-tut" me and tell me I shouldn't do this. I already know that - telling me off only reinforces the feeling of being trapped, helpless, and frantic.

I have several Girlfriends who have trouble with food. Specifically, they restrict their food intake to the point where it is unhealthy. As any of you who have seen my physique know, that has never been my problem! I have other girlfriends who not only restrict their intake, but who exercise and work their bodies beyond reason (in my opinion). Interestingly, they are all good with money. As if it's either/or: in fact, if I could only develop their particular neuroses, my life would theoretically take on a healthy glow! I'd lose weight, I'd be in shape, and I'd pinch my pennies along with the best of them! Until, that is, I ended up in the hospital being force-fed...

Actually, the past couple of days I have not had an appetite. I've made myself eat because I knew I should, but for no other reason.

I've not had much energy, either. Home all day today, basically went from bed to kitchen chair to couch. Put nothing away. Did no quilting. Cleaned nothing. Cooked nothing. Didn't listen to music. Had the tv on but wasn't watching. Didn't even have enough determination to have a nap. No thrills, no excitement, no interest in doing anything. Basically, one of the worst days I've ever had. But quietly bad. No sobbing or theatrics. Just nothing.

I made myself go out after suppertime, did quite a lot of walking... but unfortunately brought my wallet with me...

And the rest is history.

Epigenetics

Say whaa....?!

Oh yes, there's more to DNA than genes, and more to genes than we ever guessed!

"Nova" is still on, but I'm cutting to the chase here and summing it up.

Nurture AFFECTS Nature.

The way you are brought up, the environment around you, the amount of stress inflicted on your during your developing years, actually CHANGES your GENES.

OMG - it's way too complicated for me to understand... But there are things called "markers", and they can be re-arranged... and it just blows my mind, but the basic truth is:

Moms, hug and kiss and tickle and sing to and sniff your babies. And rub their skin and kiss them again and again and again.

Anyway, that word, "epigenetics" is gonna be big in the next decade.

You heard it here first, folks.

Baseball Blues

Or, "I Remember Mama."

My Mom used to hate this time of year. I'd get a phone call sometime around the end of September or the earliest days of October, and she'd say:

"One hundred and eighty-three days, Deborah."

"I beg your pardon, Mom?" I would say, totally confused.

"That's how long I have to wait till the Blue Jays play again. For the next one hundred and eighty-three days, I have NOTHING to look forward to."

Mom was a Blue Jays fan. And I became one, simply because if I wanted to see my Mom between April and October, I had to watch the games with her.

Because NOTHING and NO-ONE came between Mom and her Blue Jays when they were on!

At first, when I started watching the games at my own home, I had an overpowering urge to iron and smoke, since that's what Mom used to do while watching the games. She's be ironing Stepdad's shirts, and smoking like a chimney. She'd pause sometimes, to watch a play, and it usually ended with "Good for you, Wells!" or "Christ!" when a play was missed. Then she'd light up another smoke, inhale, blow it out, and with it would come another expletive.

It was from my Mom that I learned the phrase "Built like a brick shithouse!"

And when Roy Halliday took the mound, she'd say, "Yes, Deb. That's how I know I'm not dead yet." Actually, that phrase came up more frequently than just Roy, but she and I agreed on Roy! Yep. Not dead yet.

Once I began to take up the cause, she gave me the book "The Official Rules of Baseball" for my birthday. It was a tough slog, and I didn't understand the half of it. But I did make the attempt. I should try to find it again, now that I have an inkling as to what's happening on the field! It might mean more to me now...

Mom had a Blue Jays lawn chair, a Blue Jays sweater, and several Blue Jays pins. She knew the names of all the players, even the ones on the other teams.

And she really had it in for Derek Jeter. He plays for the Yankees. His salary alone would do the entire Jays payroll. And man, does he EVER love to see himself on camera.

"Yes, Jeter, we see you, you little f***r! Now stop admiring yourself and strike out, for chrissake!"

(Except he doesn't do that very often... Usually only when Roy is pitching.)

Mom also knew the coaches, trainers, and umpires. Hell, she probably knew the names of the bat-boys! She knew the standings - something I can still only guess at.

By the time I twigged on to the idea of getting her tickets for her birthday though, she was too fragile and ill to go. "Maybe next year," she sighed, always hoping that she'd get better, always looking for a better day tomorrow.

It boggles my mind how I could not see her death coming. Looking back over all the events of the two years prior to the stroke that finally took her from us forever, all the markers are there. The special meds to slow down her heart. The fact that they couldn't stabilize her blood - it was always swinging from too thick to too thin. Her rapid weight gain because of the now slow heart. The fact that she now took naps in the middle of the day. And some days just went back to bed.

I should have seen it coming. I should have known we were on borrowed time, but I'm naive about that, or in denial. I missed out on countless opportunities when she was healthy, opportunities to go see her, play cards with her, yak with her. I only twigged on at the very, very end...

Like the announcers often say, "Caught him looking..." In baseballs terms, that means the batter was fooled by the pitcher and didn't try to hit the ball, but just watched it sail by. The batter was expecting a different pitch, and didn't swing. Hence, "caught him looking."

Well, this season is just about over for the Jays this year. I took a look at next year's calendar, and it is indeed exactly one hundred and eighty-three days from the 4th of October this year till the season begins again on April 5th next year. The Jays are not going to be playing any post-season games this year. Maybe next year.

Meanwhile, we can "kiss this one good-bye."

Walking the Dog

My puppy-dog, Kira, is visiting me this weekend.

Well, by "puppy-dog", I mean my 13.5 year old dog. People ask what breed she is. She looks like a shepherd, but is the size of a mini collie. Well, a very well-fed miniature collie...

Let's just say, Kira and I both love our food, and leave it there!

When I left Hubby and his alien-DNA-replicants last February, I had to leave Kira there, since I was not permitted to have a dog in my apartment. She did come for one overnight stay, and after that she seemed slightly less depressed.

Kira was MY doggy, you see. She would pace the floor if I was not home, preferring to stare out the window rather than lie in bed with Hubby. I was her Mommy, her pack leader. And she has been heartbroken since I left.

And I decided to ask to have her with me this weekend. The landlord and his wife is away, till October sometime. Kira doesn't bark unless somebody comes to the door, and there is precious little chance of that happening this weekend. My best efforts to scare up some company have fallen flat, as usual.

For my state of mind, it's a darned good thing she could be with me this weekend!

It's different here than in a house. For one thing, the landlady made it so clear that dogs were not allowed in the yard, that I don't even let her pee on this lawn. We walk across the street before I give her permission to let go.

And that means that I have to get dressed for the outside a minimum of four times a day, and physically get up those stairs, and walk at least a couple of hundred yards with her, and scoop all her poops...

I regret to say, I've walked more in the past two days than I did the past two weeks. Ouch!

We walked to the "beauty salon" today - I got her washed and had her nails clipped. It's about twenty blocks away. Twenty big-city blocks. When we finally got home, we both badly needed a nap! And no doubt we'll both be stiff as boards the next time we go outside... two very old dogs!

Bijou is beginning to be able to ignore her - especially now that the sun has gone in. "It's too cold to stay out, therefore, the best must be made of it, that is all."

And Kira has finally relaxed enough to fall asleep across the room from me. At first, she sat ON my feet, to make sure I couldn't go anywhere without her. Now she merely looks up from time to time, to make sure I haven't disappeared.

Yes, we both needed to be close to each other.

Kitteh Kitteh

My precious, precocious Bijou has been supplementing the healthy home-made food I give her.

For three days in a row, I have heard her sweet voice calling me to the kitchen window, where she has presented me with a tiny mouse.

A different mouse each day, you understand.

She is giving me the only thing she can give me. She is presenting me with a treasure beyond price.

And I make all the right cooing sounds and praise the mighty hunter, and set a bowl of cream out for her so she can be rewarded with something she absolutely cannot turn away from...

But alas - I haven't been fast enough to get the mousies away from her, and they have each been ingested in turn, right in front of me. She bites off the heads, crunch crunch crunch, then goes back to the cream to wash it down...

a Pal suggested to me that I mustn't let this continue, because one never knows if these are true field mice, or if they've been walking around somebody's house and eaten something nasty, like poison, for example.

Well, so far, Lady Luck has been with us, and there have been no ill effects. And, today being both a work day AND a quilting guild meeting night, I've decided to keep her inside. All day and all evening.

You would think, from her response, that she'd been imprisoned in Alcatraz itself for a hundred years... First it was 'thump!" from the counter to the floor, then up her tree/post, then "thump" back to the floor, then back to the kitchen window, then "thump" and another and another...

She's now sulkily coiled in her basket, ignoring me, planning her revenge.

And, just for today, the wee mice have a chance to change lodgings...

Living Color

I got into making "Thread Scarves" last fall, after watching an episode of "Fons 'n Porter's Love of Quilting." A guest had shown how to use water-soluble stabilizer as a base upon which you sewed a grid. Then you added embellishments, in the form of beautifully-colored threads and wools, put another layer of water-soluble stabilizer on top, and sewed randomly all over the piece to get everything locked together with stitching. Wash it, and Presto! You have a work of art that's soft, original, costs pennies, and looks terrific!

A number of my friends got these as Christmas presents. Including my little niece and nephew.

But when I telephoned my Brother on Christmas day, he said that he wasn't going to let little Nephew wear his scarf.

Seems it had a bit of mauve on it.

"It's too girly," said Brother, flatly.

"Aw, c'mon!" I said. "He's just a little boy! He's not even four years old!"

No dice. No son of my brother was going to wear mauve.

I have never understood my society's attitude towards color. I've seen men - REAL men, mind you! - who look absolutely to-DIE-for in pink. They're not gay. And besides, even if they were, they'd still look fabulous!

And a boy is not going to become gay if you put bright and soft colors on a scarf he wears.

People look at me when I ride the bus or walk down the street. It's hard to hide me - I'm taller than 98% of the population here. That's right - only two people in 100 are as tall as I am.

But I dress in color. Everywhere around me, it looks like the population is in mourning. Blacks are omnipresent. Beige has infected the world. Tans, browns, off-whites, greys - maybe this is one reason we're all glued to our color tv's in the evenings! It's just too drab out there!

I wear oranges and yellows and blues and greens and reds and purples... That's why people look at me. I'm a bright spot of color in an otherwise dull landscape.

A line from "The Lion in Winter" goes: "... dull as Plainsong. La-la-la, always on one note."

(For those of you who've never been to a Catholic church, "plainsong" is what the priest sings during bits of the service of mass. It is, indeed, always on one note. That way, guys who are tone deaf still have a crack at being priests, but I digress...)

This modern trend towards "neutrals" is bad for the soul. It started because people don't know how to decorate their homes. They don't know that their wood furniture would look fabulous against a dark green. No, they painted their homes white. Off-white. Eggshell. "White's a very complicated color," asserts one advertisement.

Everywhere we go over here in North America, people are terrified of color. What, they don't want to stand out? Be looked at when walking down the street? How the heck do any of these people get dates, for crying out loud?

Yo - Bro! Chicks DIG color! You want your boy swarmed by lovely ladies? Dress him in pink. I guarantee they'll come running!

Well, this attitude was recently relived by my Boyfriend. He's a Team Lead in his job, and part of his responsibilites involves making sure his guys have the tools they need. Since they're often away in foreign lands, he got them all cameras, to help them when they have difficulty describing wiring or equipment setup to support techs back home.

The cameras are mauve.

They were on sale. They had the right features. And, unlike most guys, Boyfriend isn't afraid of colors.

His team all stood around the box when he brought them into work. Apparently, there was a moment of silence. Then one of the guys said,

"Well... nobody'll steal them, that's for sure."

Boyfriend laughed. I find these guys completely and utterly and TOTALLY RIDICULOUS!!!!!

For crying out loud - if your performance in bed is threatened by the color of your camera, man, you have got a MUCH BIGGER PROBLEM than the color of your camera!

Not for me, the drab colors of winter, burying myself back in the crowd. I talk to people, I make friends, I laugh, and I wear color. Men look fantastic in bright colors. And pastels. It brings out their eye color! It makes their skin look good!

I don't want any dull-as-dishwater guys in my life! I want friends around me who love life, in all it's variety and spectacular color. People who aren't afraid to be noticed. To be original. To be unique.

Work: The Curse of the Drinking Class

I live, technically, alone. I have a cat, lots of friends, and a Boyfriend. And you will usually find me moaning that I don't like being alone, that I want some company.

But not tonight. Tonight is one of those times when I'm relieved that there is nobody here to care for but me, and Bijou. She's easy - splorp her food onto a dish and set it down outside, so she can dine al fresco this evening. After all, she was stuck inside this whole fine day while I was at work.

Me, I'm having crackers, cheese, and some antipasto out of a jar while I watch the Blue Jays... and water to drink.

Today, you see, is the proverbial "morning-after-the-night-before."

Yesterday I had my pal Mr. P over for the evening. Mr. P picked up dinner and a bottle of wine while I had a quick shower, dressed in my jeans, and dragged my open bottle of wine with me outside while I waited for his return. When he did come back, food and more wine in hand, we proceeded to down the wine with dinner. I am not known for my, er, moderation...

We watched an episode of Star Trek: Enterprise, then I made tea and we had, unfortunately, cake.

Queen Elizabeth cake, for those of you in the know.

For those you not in the know, the batter is made with dates - lots of 'em. They're sweet, they're heavy, they're scrumptious. And the icing is a brown sugar and coconut affair.

It's r e a l l y sweet, perfect for a couple of Brit-twits like P and me.

And one good piece deserved another.

So, we sat and watched a second episode of Enterprise, and ate our two pieces of cake apiece, and downed our tea. By 9:15 we'd seen our two episodes and felt like two beached whales. We "chatted" a bit: namely, moaned and groaned our way through our stuffed throats, till suddenly I heard Mr. P say "Are you snoring?" I denied it. But the next thing I knew, Mr. P was letting himself out. At some point in the middle of the night I got up and brushed my teeth and removed some of the more uncomfortable items of my clothing. At some later point I walked the floor for about an hour, desperately trying not to begin a session of worship at the foot of the Great White Throne. The worst finally subsided and I was able to lie down again, using two pillows, mind you, and that was it till 6:40 a.m. this morning.

Oddly, (or not) I wasn't very hungry today...

Sugar and alcohol, it seems, is a very nasty combination. That being said, it was pretty dumb of me to have a bottle and a half, even with a friend helping me out. Alcohol is a depressant - the LAST thing I need! Especially in that kind of quantity.

So, while tonight's dinner isn't quite "bread and water", it's water, anyway. And no sugar. And a very small quantity of food. Less, in fact, than is sitting on Bijou's plate.

A nice early night, and I ought to be back in fine running order tomorrow. Tough-as-nails, jokes flying, poking fun at the world once more. Relieved to be alive.