jewish mother syndrome

Why is it that, while in a crisis, all roads lead to mother?

Yeah, I just did that creepy thing where I call her "mother" instead of "my mother". Like a Norman Bates/Principal Skinner-type thing. Even if you don't pick up on the signifacance just trust me - it's creepy.

Nearly eight hours of blissful journey with my girls and little man, who's ill, and the dogs that my mother most emphatically does not want at her house under any circumstances. (Side note - hey, mom? The dogs are coming with.)

It used to skeeve me out knowing that my family looked in on my blog but it's saved me an awful lot on my phone bill.

Anyway, I get to take the kids down and leave them there, then return without them to finish up getting the house thrown away packed up. Unpleasantness abounds.

As a side-note, the kids spoke with Andy the other day - they seem to be taking his absence well. I was nervous until I heard Zoe tattle on Nico for eating the last donut. I chuckled, then passed the phone to Nico...who proceeded to tattle on Zoe for eating the last donut. It was a trans-Atlantic tattle-tale!

I think they're adjusting quite well.

See ya Monday!

wonder where she gets it from...

We were driving home from Taco Bell tonight (dinner for the second night in a row...I'll take that "mother of the year" award now, thanks) when I happened to look in the rear view mirror and noticed Zoe had unbuckled her seat belt. Frantic, I yelled, "You buckle that back up right now!" As she hastily relocked the belt into place I said, "You know you have to wear your seatbelt. Just who do you think you are, missy?"

She replied, "Who, me? ...a goddess."

Children learn what they live, I suppose.

something i forgot to mention...

If you do have my work email, don't send me anything there. (note: the email to the right is the one you should use.) Because I'm not there, see. My last day is supposed to be tomorrow but I've been "working from home" all week. Last night I noticed that I can no longer access my email account or the website's file manager. Looks like they've deemed me a menace and figured out (read: hired a computer consultant) how to change the passwords. Interesting.

I feel like I'm walking underwater today. Throw out a bag of crap, then sit for twenty minutes. Clear a counter, then take a nap. At this rate it will take me roughly fourteen years to get the house finished. If I drop a couple of grand on the asking price of the house I wonder if I can get away with selling it "as is" with all of this junk still in here?

I think that half of my problem is that I always work best when I have music playing, but I can't find much in the old library that doesn't result in a lump in my throat. Even Bauhaus is making me weepy. Sisters of Mercy? Fuggadabout it. Cure? Not gonna happen. Even when it's something that I have no Andy connection to, per se, it still gets me. sniff "I remember how the sound of Mike Doughty's voice used to grate on Andy's nerves so badly that he used my Soul Coughing cds as coasters."

I may have to just fire up Sims 2 and listen to the salsa station or something, otherwise I'll have to take a match to the whole house, which would make it remarkably hard to sell.

Okay, I'm done procrastinating now. Right after this one last diet coke. And maybe I'll read a few blogs. Or google hexes I can put on this crap to make it throw itself away.

Sweet.

when you're weary

The first night is the hardest, right? It gets easier from here, right? RIGHT?!?

Oh lawdy, how I hope I'm right. When did I become such a wuss? To quote BNL, "This sentimentality doesn't look good on me." Makes my butt look big, it does.

I let myself be miserable from the moment we hit the airport until just now when I got off the phone with Andy so from here on out I'm not going to let myself be miserable any more. A little bit sad here and there, probably, but no more misery. There's been too much of that in my life lately as it is.

The hardest part is the kids. When we were leaving the airport yesterday I stopped at a kiosk to get the kids a little snack because, as Zoe informed me, they "haven't eaten in twenty million years! The last thing we ate was a dinosaur hamburger!" where Nico spied another toddler in a stroller. He walked over to the kid and gave him a monster hug and said, "My daddy bye-bye." Later on, when we got back to the truck, he got pissed at me and said, "You no daddy bye-bye. Where's daddy?" That's the first sign I've had that the kids might blame me for Andy's departure. Sammy replied to Nico, "Mommy just drove him here; she didn't drive him to it." I'm pretty proud of how astute her understanding of the situation is.

At any rate, Andy sounds to be in okay spirits. I think the utter lack of household stress has already made a significant impact on his general well-being. His first doctor's appointment is Monday, which is amazing for the NHS, and we'll go from there.

I'm feeling a bit better about the whole situation, so hopefully, soon, I'll be able to lighten the fuck up a bit.

Thanks so much to everyone who has gotten in touch and offered their well-wishes and support. It's really touching...again, when did I become such a wuss? Since when is shit "touching" to me?

Gah, I'm such a girl.

wow

That really, really...really sucked.

I want a do-over.

you're throwing your life away!

He, she and I just finished completely filling a 20 cubic yard roll-off dumpster with many of our wordly worthless possessions.

It felt g-o-o-o-o-o-o-d. Very Zen. Very Thoreau. Very "where the fuck did all this crap come from?"

I highly recommend a move like this. Not under these circumstances, of course; rather, just chuck it all and start new. Expensive, yes, but it's good for your soul.

I've been pretty quiet about the Shit Storm That Is My Life™ lately, and for good reason. I couldn't really get my head around things.

As some of you know, Andy was laid off around a year and a half ago and fell into a massive depression. Plus, he turned into a total prick and I utterly hated the very air he breathed. Everything he said, everything he did, everything he thought was a major annoyance to me. We were constantly bickering and I generally did not want to be around him. I told his mother, "You're taking back this train-wreck of a son of yours" a long time ago. I told Andy, "You're back to England - we're getting a divorce!" And I meant it. Oh lawdy how I meant it.

That he was sick was only a marginal part of it all. I spent over a year being a stellar care-giver, as Andy will tell you. The number of times that I dashed away from work in a panic of worry over him are too numerous to mention. The sleepless nights, the doctoring, the constant concern to the point where I didn't even have the energy to take care of myself was par for the course for a very long time. As a person who's battled bipolar disorder practically my whole life, I had eternal springs of empathy.

The trouble came from the things that he could fix and do but didn't. I felt like I was giving too much - there is a limit to how selfless a person can become without being mired in resentment. And I enjoyed my resentment like one enjoys pushing on a bruise. His flight couldn't be booked fast enough.

And then it was, and here we are. Once the flight was booked it was like a cloud was lifted. Gone was the mutual...well, hatred, that we'd come to use as a crutch against boredom. It was like magic.

We were hopeful.

It would seem that, for as miserable as he was making me, he was equally - if not moreso - as miserable with himself. And that's no way to be. We both knew that this was going to fix him and, as pessimistic as we both are, we knew that we'd be better for this kick in the ass.

We were finally unburdened of the threat of infinite years making each other crazy and, instead, could look to a time when we would be how we were. You know, we were together for three years before we had a fight. That's not an exaggeration. And even then it was a stupid "I'm drunker than you are so that must mean I'm smarter" fight. It's weird, but there never seemed to be a reason to fight. We were completely and totally best friends, and just oozed respect for one another.

Somewhere along the way, the respect fell out of the equation. I never felt less respect for Andy because he was laid off - this stuff happens, ya know? - but I didn't respect how he let himself get sucked into himself.

I have a weird thing with my emotions - other bipolars or depressives who have been in treatment will understand what I mean by this analogy. When things feel too big or heavy for me deal with, I will mentally slice it into pieces and stick bits of the drama into little drawers in my mind, like deli meat. It was total self-preservation because dealing with the whole slab all at once would destroy me. I've know this for years and I know it now.

This makes me very emotionally unhealthy, and one of these days all of my little drawers are going to come flying open and I'm going to have to deal with the emotions that I've repressed for, literally in some cases, decades. This will not be a pretty picture.

Andy, on the other hand, seemed to press the ball of emotions to his chest like an infant. He seemed to nurture them and care for them and watch them grow into the monster they eventually became. I hated that. Why couldn't he be like me? I fell into the trap that a lot of non-depressive people fall into when trying to be a care giver for a depressed person. And I knew better. But I was pissed off that so much was being asked of me and I was slicing up more and more of my emotions and, frankly, I was running out of damn space to put it all.

Then he got really sick. I won't describe what life has been like around here lately but it's been very, very painful. It's the stuff that makes you realize just how much you love a person. That almost makes it worse.

When I say he's my best friend I don't mean it in any glib manner. I mean that, should he decide to leave me tomorrow (pun not intended) that he'd have a hard time getting rid of me. I know this more strongly now than I've ever known anything in my life. Everything else can fall away, but at the end of the day, The Shit Storm That Is My Life™ just wouldn't be the same without him.

It's a painful thing to go through, and I would give damn near everything to not have to be doing all of this crap, but part of me is glad because I know we'll come back from it, stronger than ever. He'll go back to England tomorrow and I'll start up a new life just ready for his return. And it'll be awesome.

If only he can stop being such a monumental prick.

how do you fit seven years of crap into thirty small boxes?

Man, do I hate the thought of packing. I still haven't done any of it yet. I have the boxes, I have the crap, but I have not the motivation.

You know you're a real, live grown-up when you have a box of miscellaneous power supply cords that you have no use for, but will take them to the new house anyway.

I have two such boxes of miscellaneous power supply cords. Go me!

I'm sore from having to unload twenty tons of rice by myself yesterday. Technically I wasn't by myself, but the two 75-year-old men weren't much help. One of the men proudly told me that he was actually 75 and a half. Only very small children and the elderly measure their lives by half-years. For good reason, really.

Like that Eddie Izzard gag where he comments on how only very small girls and huge fuck-off boxers ever jump rope. Yeah, kinda like that.

I don't wanna pack. I want to stomp my feet and throw a temper tantrum like the cute girls do. But I'm way too dude for that.

My friend John told me, "You're prettier than most of the guys I know."

The interesting part of that statement is his inclusion of the word "most".

i'm just gonna give up now and start living vicariously through my children

Samantha's blog just plain cracks me up.

I haven't really done a post about my siblings, have I? Well ok I'll do that then. Let's start with my little sister. Let's just say she watches too much TV, and has a wide vocab for a 4 year old. A conversation with Zoe. "I would be honored to turn the television (television? Who says television? It's TV) off for you."
Or "The monks cheat at that game"
Yes, the monks do cheat at that game.
Then there's my little bro. He's two and fascinated with pink, and shoes, and spoons. He fits in well with this family.

They grow up so quickly, don't they?

sniff

i am so not mature enough to be turning 28 in two weeks

It's been so long since I've been around stoned teenagers that I don't know how to handle myself. I had one come into my office just now and it was a scream. Seeing it from the outside makes me wonder how it is that I was never arrested when I was younger because you simply cannot fake being sober if you're stoned.

Dude was all fidgety and didn't want to make eye contact with me, lest I spot his totally blood-shot peepers. He could barely form a coherent sentence and I wasn't sure how to best respond to this. "Now Kurt, I don't think it's appropriate to come here in this state. I won't tolerate it. I simply will not stand for this obvious intoxication. I'm very disappointed."

That would have been a good answer.

"Kurt, you seem like such a smart young man. Why do you want to destroy your brain with that stuff? It steals your motivation, robs you of dignity, money and self-respect...son, that stuff will ruin your life."

That might have worked, too.

"Dude, maintain, alright? If you don't mellow, someone's going to get wise to your sketchin', bro. Let's hit White Castle - I'll buy you a slider."

Not appropriate!

But I did score a bag at a pretty sweet price.

Just kidding!

Keep it clean and sober, kids. Auntie Picklejuice is on to you.

it's my name - i'll write it in the snow if i want to!

This is dedicated to you, Jack, and all of the little things you're missing out on during our loverly Minnesota winters.

Write your name in the snow.

Somehow, "write your name in the sand" doesn't have quite the same oomph to it...does it, Texas Boy?

Thought not.

instead, he uses it as a chance to put his testicles all over me

My brain was feeling mushy because of all of the infomercials I'd consumed tonight (note - the "magic bullet" vibrator people should have trademarked the name, because now there's a really killer mixer with the same monkier that I so totally want) so I turned on the education channel. Have you ever watched this shit? It was a still-shot of the NASA logo with Chopin playing in the background. That's it!

Gee, I feel smarter already. Why, that's not propaganda at all!

Okay, NASA dudes - you're smart. We get it. Can we please move on now?

Then I watched Animal Planet and learned a whole lot about the octopus. Do you know their mating ritual? The male hands the female a packet of sperm and she tucks it away until she can make a nest. Could you imagine? "Honey, I got you a little gift!" "13 million sperm? But how did you know?" So yeah, that was pretty romantic.

What sucks, though, is that the female will nest and not move for six months - not to eat, not to shower, not even for a Star Wars prequel - until the eggs hatch. Then she dies and starfish eat her.

Makes me feel kinda bad about complaining when I was pregnant. If my life mimicked an octopus I don't think I'd be signing on for that whole "motherhood" gig. Propagation of the species? Nah, I think I'll pass - it's the "eaten by starfish" thing. Kinda squicks me out.

The dude who was diving with the octopus was like, "Yeah, if they grip you with their front tentacles and they're holding onto the rocks with the others, you're toast. You can't get away, no matter how strong you are." Which is a pretty neat trick seeing as how an octopus, as far as I can tell, is made of scrotum.

They change colors, which I didn't know. Like, really quickly - none of this sitting around waiting for ten minutes like you do with freaking chameleons. It was pretty cool to watch that part. When an octopus is afraid it will turn totally white, which doesn't strike me as being particularly helpful in an aggressive situation, but I suppose that's what they get for taking lessons in evolution from Scooby Doo cartoons.

So there ya go. More than you ever wanted to know about the octopus.

My next post will be an education-channel-worthy point-by-point deconstruction of the myriad merits and delights of the Ronco food dehydrator, and why I so totally want one of those, too.

i caught you a delicious bass

Smegnacious totally came through.

From here on out, it's all Napoleon, all the time.

Freakin' idiot!

     

How much you wanna bet I can throw a football over them mountains?

But my lips hurt real bad!

Get your own tots.

(I could do this all freaking day.)

Sorry I'm late. I just got done taming a wild honeymoon stallion for you guys.

(Okay, that's the last one.)

Wow. Look at that fella go. I could sit here forever.

Sweet.

random like sunday morning

Nico likes to jack with me. "What does a cow say?" "Cow."

Ah yes - that's why we call them that.

"What does a duck say?" "Hat."

I've got nuthin.

When I told my friend John about the CEDOO thinking that "Sunami" was a country he replied, "Yeah, I'm not very good at geology, either."

A couple of weeks ago some dude totally hit on me, which hasn't happened in a while - how can you get hit on if you don't go anywhere - and I, in shock, told John and Other Friend. Other Friend said, "Don't be so surprised. You've still got a few 'cute' years left in ya yet." John looked at him, horrified, and said, "Did you just get out of prison or something? Where are your standards!?!"

When I told him about Andy going back to England he said, "Well, if you're going to start dating again you'd better hit the gym."

sniff I'm gonna miss that guy. I've decided to bequest him the giant pink Clint Eastwood picture that's currently hanging in my bathroom to remember me by.

Andy's flight is tentatively booked for the 26th. It's odd how disposable everything suddenly becomes the moment you have to think about moving and storing it. I'm only keeping a small handful of things, and I'm sure that "handful" will become smaller the closer to moving day it gets. The kids are being a big help in that they're willingly throwing away any and all toys that are missing even a single piece. So that takes care of pretty much everything apart from the PS2, a dump truck and a Blues Clues chair. So that's nice.

Can you tell I'm procrastinating on the packing? Yeah, I am.

If anyone comes across an animated .gif of Napoleon Dynamite dancing in moon boots would you please let me know? That would totally make my year.

Gosh!

life's too fucking short

Tonight I was talking with my mother and she absentmindendly mentioned that she'd been at a funeral. A funeral for whom? I ask. A funeral for none other than my favorite uncle, Uncle Bill.

But what? When did he die? November. I had no idea. I cried harder than I've cried in a great long while, and that's saying something because I cry an awful lot these days.

Uncle Bill, whom I'd been meaning to email for weeks, is gone. The dude that I felt guilty about not sending a Christmas card to, is gone.

The last email I'd gotten from him was from October where he said, and I quote, "When you gonna send me some more funny titty pictures, bitch?"

Such was our relationship.

I can't believe he's gone. He was 48. He was only 48.

This is what happens when you let your pride stand in the way of your family. You lose people and don't even know you've lost them.

I've been so fucking stupid.

Bill asked my mom, "Why doesn't Natalie email me anymore?" The truth was that I didn't have the time.

What bullshit. What total bullshit.

I would give damn near anything to go back to October and email him some titty pictures.

You know, he was the one who instilled in me the desire to see an odd-number of breasts each day. He started me on that whole thing.

So in honor of you, Bill, I give you these photos. I'd sent them to you, lo those many ages ago, and you enjoyed them. I hope you enjoy them still.

My homage to Bill.





Three breasts for you, my son. An odd number, just as you'd always recommended. I hope your Mormon wife let you have last rites.

I love you Bill. I say this despite being fairly sure there are no blogs in heaven.

where did you find the spawn? i found the spawn on my lawn.

So my daughter Sam has a blog, apparently. I was unaware of this because my CEDOO did not pay the internet bill in time so we were without access all freaking day. Which meant calling people on the phone, which I loathe, but I couldn't call Andy because I did not pay my cell phone bill in time.

Oh the complexities of life, and check books!

Anyway, you should check out Sam. She's a scream. Her punctuation and grammar leave a lot to be desired, and I only mention that because it offends her, but she's eleven so what do you expect?

I shall call her Mini-Me.

In unrelated news, I am as yet unfired, which is really freaking bizarre. I don't even know how to handle myself. I did allow myself to go a little bit ape-shit today and slam a filing cabinet drawer closed.

It's called "testing my boundaries".

you wish you were this good

So I went into work today - late, because...well, screw 'em, right?

It seems that some people read my earlier post and got the impression that I'd quit. Oh no - not I. That would make things far too easy. I'm the George Costanza of the non-profit world. And I'm enjoying every minute.

They read it and were less than pleased but helpfully suggested that "next time any of us finds something lacking in one another, we should be more of a team and help one another out instead of pointing out flaws" because that is, apparently, anti-social and destructive. Ya know - to the team.

And I'm nothing if not a team player, am I right?

It was funny on Friday when I was relating the CEDOO story to Smegnacious. He's my Lester Litmus test for funny posts - if it makes the fat bearded man laugh, then it's a go. Needless to say (in my humble opinion) he was howling and said, "Ah, it's too bad you can't blog that in case they read it!" I said, "Dude, fuck that noise. I'm gonna get dooced up in this bitch."

Turns out that I am, how you say, utterly fucking indispensable. I'm indispensable to the point that my boss offered me an all expenses paid trip to Honduras for two weeks on a fact-finding mission. And to Liberia if I wanted it.

Can we say swish? Cuz I think we can.

CEDOO was displeased, but then again, CEDOO doesn't know half of what I do so CEDOO can just suck on it. Cuz my ass is going to Tegucigalpa, yo.

Nah, not really. But I am tempted. Instead, I'm quite happy to let CEDOO go in my place so she can learn a little something about the world and the suffering people who have had a hold of my heart from the word "go". Because that's really what this is about. It's about the loss of everything that once drove me and how badly things have become.

So yeah - I guess I still have a few emotions tied up in this job of mine and part of me will be sorry to see it go. Especially if I'm the guy who has to end it.

Still.

She's fucking stupid.

i use my dream dictionary to prop up the short leg of my table

I dreamed I was being interviewed by Larry King. I was in Asia helping the relief efforts and I said to him, "Larry, I think we can all agree that, in order to heal this region, we clearly need more television shows that feature Jude Law's naked ass."

After that coverage I was then featured in a newspaper article where I was photographed with not one, but two potato peelers.

I had no idea that I have such a firm belief in the healing powers of Jude Law's ass. Also, I had no idea that losing my favorite potato peeler affected me to this extent.

Now I'm going back to sleep to see if Jude Law got my message.

Wish me luck.

in which i seem to be trying to get fired...

Man, is my new "CEO" a fucking idiot or what?!?

I mean, everyone says that about their CEOs but mine? Oh man. The only reason for her appointment into that post is that my boss is, quite clearly, utterly senile.

Enumerate and elucidate, my good man! I hear you say.

And I shall.

But first, I have to say to my good friend John - I know you told me to not burn any bridges but you know, I'm feeling a bit pyro today. A little bit reckless, let's say.

Firstly, this CEO in question has never had, as far as I can tell, a professional job prior to this. She walked in off the street asking for work. Turns out, God made her do it so I guess it was fate. Oh, and she's in her forties, thereabouts.

So she gets this title and...wait, before I go on I just want to point out the fact that I honestly couldn't care less who my CEO is. I don't want that position - I've been offered that position a number of times and always turned it down for reasons I shan't elaborate upon. This isn't jealousy or bitterness or whatever.

No, do you know what this is? Okay, it's like back in high school. It's like knowing that one really geeky dude that you knew would go out with you in a heartbeat. You feel nothing at all for this guy and, at times, you're downright rude to him to make him get away. Then another girl goes out with him and not only thinks he's a really great catch but also tries to rub your nose in it. Even when you say, "Dude, I wouldn't touch him with a barge pole" she still thinks that it's jealousy that's made you said that.

You with me? Good.

So Ms. CEO (who, in a rare moment when she was able to extract herself from Bossman's ass) writes this letter to the president of mumble mumble company. I read this letter in absolute horror - she's illiterate at the best of times, but this one took the freaking cake. You might want to sit down for this one.

"We're very interested in helping the poor people of Sunami and are looking for an NGO in that country to partner with."

The poor people of "Sunami". That were hit by a tsunami.

Oh, the irony!

Did I happen to mention that I work for an international relief agency? It's kinda helpful to know where Sunami is located on the map, I suppose. And what do we call these people? Sunamese?

I guess I have a lot left to learn.

The poor people of Sunami. Oh for the freaking love of all things holy.

And she's my CEO.

But wait! There's more.

I was still groaning and dying a little from that line when I saw how she signed the letter:

"Chief Executive Director of Offices and Operations"

Pick a lane and stick with it, toots. How about we throw the word "engineer" in there somewhere, too? That'd round it out nicely.

The thing that kills me is that she thinks "CEO" stands for "Chief Executive OFFICES".

Offices. Oh, and operations.

What the fuck is up with this Jackson Pollock of a title?

But I bit my tongue, lest I seem "bitter" or "jealous". Until I saw she had a purchase order for business cards with this title.

I said, "You know, if I saw that on someone's business card, I'd bust a gut laughing. All that does is scream 'I'VE NEVER HAD A PROFESSIONAL JOB BEFORE'!"

She wasn't amused, but I suppose that CEDOOs rarely are.

(This post is dedicated to my brand-spanking new CEO whom I know reads this blog. And has all weekend to stew on it. Don't worry - I cleared out my desk the moment I read that atrocity of a letter you wrote. Have fun not knowing what the fuck you're doing!)

ear porn

Oh dear. What to say?

Last night I was on the phone to the lovely Ms. Luminous on her spiffy new cell phone. At three a.m. I was talking to a girl who just the other day said this about said phone: But the flip side of this is that now people might feel entitled to be able to reach me at any time, any where.

Yep. I sure did.

I've never heard any sound as sweet as her voice. (I'm going to gush again, like I did last night.) It really is shockingly lovely. At one point I had to ask her if she was an animation - I had Disney in mind and believe I referred to her not only as Snow White, but Bambi and Thumper as well.

And what did I talk about with this sweet, sweet young lady? (Apart from running away to Missouri with her because "they'll never find us in Missouri".) I gave her relationship advice that consisted of me loudly saying, "Dude, fuck that shit, yo. You should tell her that you saw her girlfriend making out with a dude. Oh, the girlfriend lives far away? Then get all up on that shit and be, like, a caring friend. Then you can ask to hold her to your bosom. What, is 'bosom' a gay red flag or something?"

I could have improved on that advice by reminding her that all gay people are unfaithful and promiscuous. That would have rounded it out nicely, wouldn't you agree?

I would like to make a recording of Luminous saying random potty words, throw down a pumping bass line, and marketing it to German night clubs. We'd get rich fast, Lumie. (Yes, I just gave her a pet nickname - but that's what love does to ya, yo.)

The only potty word she said was "asshole". So in honor of you, Ms. Luminous, I dedicate the rest of this post (and the top part of the post, too) to you.

From Mike (the asshole) - which is a different guy than Mike the Asshole (who doesn't have a blog but I wouldn't link to him anyway because he's an asshole!) - we have Questions O' Thrice. Remember how I said Mike started...wait, sorry, I mean Mike (the asshole)...don't want you to get confused. Anyway, remember when I said Mike (the asshole) had rekindled the whole thing for me? Well, I sent him my questions and he hasn't answered them. That's the back-story here.

1. Why haven't I answered your questions to me yet?

Because you're an asshole!

2. Why do you keep referring to me as an asshole?

Because you're an asshole!

3. Why are all of these questions about me?

Because you're an...wait for it...asshole!

(Meet me in St. Louis, Lumie. They'll never find us. I don't know who is "they" in this equation, but damn it if it ain't romantic.)