It’s been a while since my last post. I’ve been, granted, pretty busy - working, mostly, extra shifts, extra hours… And on my days off, I’ve been busy, too. You see, we [meaning, my parents, really] have a buyer for our farm on the line, and he’s very interested. But he wants my house, too - and of course, if that’s what it takes to sell the farm, by god, we’re selling my house with it. The farm’s been on the market for 4 years and hasn’t sold yet. Now it’s very nearly a completed deal.

But. (There’s always a catch, isn’t there?) The deal hinges upon an appraisal meeting the value of the offer. This guy who wants it? He’s kind of… odd. Richer than sin, 65, wanted to farm all his life, already purchased a farm neighboring ours, just sold a 1.2 million dollar house… And he says if the appraisal doesn’t meet his offer, he’s walking away. No renegotiating, no lowering his offer. He’s just walking away.

Hello pins, hello needles, let’s sit down for a while.

My future rests largely on this sale - if we sell the farm, we can probably buy a place in Billings for me to live, and I may not have to take up begging for alms on the street corners and making friends with the local soup kitchens, you know? Because rent for a single person is expensive. And I’m looking at a thin budget. Too thin, with the price of food, gas, and energy these days. Much too thin. Having a rent-free place would do a lot for me - even with the super expensive utility bills a good sized house would bring, it still won’t cost as much as renting an apartment and paying utility bills. Besides, rentals have one other problem - my cats. I now have three of them, through no fault of my own (I’ll fess up, though, and admit that if I hadn’t inherited my Persian, I may well have picked up another cat somewhere anyway.), and you just can’t find rentals that allow three cats. I’m having trouble finding more than 2 or 3 places that allow ANY pets. And I’m of the belief that you don’t just discard your animals when it’s inconvenient - there are responsibilities that come with owning pets, and looking after them for life is one of them.

The chickens are another matter - they’re not pets, they’re not attached, hell, I’d like to eat some of them. Well, probably not. The ones I’d like to “eat” are the small ones that wouldn’t make for good eating, so nevermind. But livestock is different. Though I’d like to take a few chickens with me, too. Or at least continue to raise chickens. But that is likely not gonna be possible. Still, they might go with the farm, so that problem is taken care of, too! Evidently, the potential buyer’s wife likes chickens! At least, she likes them enough to have a chicken-themed kitchen. Who knows if she’d actually like the real monsters?

So. Anyway. The point of all this rambling is that I am Stressed Out. And if there was ever a time to need a little magic, to need a good energy push for things to end up in the right direction, now is it. I got the basics of the ritual from a book called Grimoire for the Green Witch by Ann Moura, which is one of my favorite references. It’s not Wiccan, exactly, but it’s Wiccan inspired - but I still like it. I like her style. I don’t remember which ritual inspired me, but it was one of the money spells. And of course, it involved a green candle.

Let me just say that I love candle magic. There is nothing more magical to me than candles, except perhaps a waterfall, or an ocean, or the moon. Okay, well, nature itself. But fire. Fire is magic to me. I chose a green candle - a slender chime candle, not a big green one like I pictured. I don’t have a big green one, even a green votive right now, or I would’ve used that. I anointed it in the Blue Moon Water I created last October. It’s the most powerful holy water I have, and I needed a good boost of power. I carved runes in it for prosperity and success. I mixed herbs together, herbs with the same properties - prosperity, success. I burned patchouli incense [as an aside, I didn’t know how much I liked that until I burned it!] for prosperity as well, and set my green candle in a small cauldron.

I lit the candles - my working altar candle, bit and white and fat and symbolizing the divine, and a couple small tea lights for illumination. I laid out a couple oracle cards indicating my intent - security and prosperity and business success. And I visualized what I wanted - the sale of the farm, the deal going through, the purchase of the properties we wanted to buy. When I could see exactly what I wanted, I lit the green candle, and watched it burn. I sprinkled the herbs into the cauldron with it, over the flame. A little reckless, but I liked seeing the sparks. [I didn’t like accidentally melting an herb to my thumb, which was sort of painful, and will be remembered in the future as something Not To Do.]

Then… I walked away. That’s the beauty of candle magic - once that image and intent and power is fused in the candle, your work is done. The candle does the rest. With chime candles, I just let it burn down to a stub. It took an hour, about, perhaps a little more or less. I went on with my morning (it was dawn by then), listened to good celtic music and danced off all the excess energy, and greeted the day. When the candle was just a stub, I blew it out - god forbid I catch all the herbs on fire, haha, wouldn’t that make for an exciting morning? - and let the remaining wax cool. To finish up, I took the wax and herbs and the remains of my incense outside and buried it in my garden.

It was a good ritual.

But I still had an emotional breakdown two days later, and tonight, if I can manage it, I’m going to do another ritual - one to let go of all these doubts and fears of mine so I can move on when the time comes. I’m not normally so terrified of change, but this is a big step, like selling off a piece of my childhood, a symbol of home and security. Who wouldn’t need a little grounding, a little healing, after that?

[As a side note: I got my blocking wires from KnitPicks, so I can block my Loopy Ewe swap partner’s gift at LAST and get pictures soon! And I finished R’s socks. And I’m making a dishcloth for a coworker! Yay, knitting!]

The last month has been a blur. A severe cold turned to severe allergies turned to a terrible cough (or perhaps it was the allergies that started it all?) and I wound up on every over-the-counter cold and allergy medication on the market the week before Easter. I was sick throughout my week-long vacation, but it was fun anyway, and I purchased yarn and quilting supplies - what could be better? However, only in the last few days has the coughing started to wear down, and that’s only because I dove into the bottle of Singulair I had from the last time I had these bronchial spasms. The inhaler the doctor prescribed me this time just didn’t do the trick. Neither did the Mucinex, Robatussin, or codeine syrup (which also, amazingly, did not knock me out like I wanted). Sleep has finally found me again, though I still nap far too much and do a whole lot of staring blankly into space instead of something more productive - say, knitting.

While I’m bitching, let me just say that I’d been suffering some odd hand aches, but that, too, is disappearing, thank the gods. So, with life finally getting back on track, I’ve started to knit again (that was generally on hold due to the severe craptasticness I felt - knitting while feeling tired, crappy, sniffly, and/or achy is nothing but a recipe for disaster over here) and finished a new kitty hat and the first of my bright daffodil colored entrelac socks (pictures coming soon).

All going well, right?

Not so fast, cowgirl. My brother, 23, is depressed - suicidally so - and my mother is stressed out beyond stressed out. My cat had urinary tract infection and requires a second trip to the vet sometime soonish so they can check his urine again to see how the disgusting and horribly expensive special food they put him on is working. A close friend is having a personal crisis (to say the least!) and we were just hit by a sudden snowstorm - the *only* such snowstorm to hit this winter, really, except for a small one that hit while I was away.

On top of all that, in the last seven days, I have broken three dishes, destroyed a perfectly good breakfast, and had some delicious hot cocoa that was (much to my horror, as I spit out something odd feeling during those first few sips) INFESTED WITH BUGS.

Nothing like a little insect larvae in your mouth to fucking ruin your day already. And there’s a photo, for ye who told me you’d never seen these horrendous things. It’s a large photo - the real thing is much smaller, but no less disgusting to eat.

Now tell me… who the hell have I pissed off, and how many chickens should I sacrifice to get rid of this curse?

There’s been lots of holes being put into things lately around here. Like this.

And this.

Yep, that’s the mystery stole - or chart A plus a few rows! Woohoo! It’s a lovely knit. This yarn is thinner than the Knitpicks Shadow I used last year, and I feel like I’m going to rip/hurt it with every stitch, but hopefully that feeling will fade the more I knit! The beading was difficult at first, but I’m getting the hang of how to do it without it being a huge hassle.

Here’s another hole.

That one’s in my garden. In the middle of what’s left of my rabbit-eaten lettuce, and… a bunch of weeds. Gophers are thick this year. Like flies. Seriously. For a while, you couldn’t get two feet down the highway for 60 miles without running into yet another dead one killed off by traffic. I wish something would get this bastard….

And here’s one last deliberate hole for you this week:

Weren’t expecting that, now, were you? Yes, it’s a bullet-hole - in the window at work, where some lunatic fired at A.’s head [she’s okay, wasn’t hurt at all, save a healthy, heart-pounding dose of mind-numbing terror] as she covered a shift for me.

Actually, said lunatic also fired shots at 8 other businesses (that we know of) in town, including my parents’ bar. Eight businesses, plus the freaking sheriff’s office. A. was the only real live witness or victim, though at my house, I heard shots being fired. A. handled being shot at like a champ, after the initial dive for cover on the floor, and did everything right, from locking the front door to crawling to the back office to use the phone were it was likely to be safer. Since, you know, our freaking desk is right there in front of the freaking WINDOW. Who knew working in a small town sheriff’s office could be so bloody dangerous?

Evidently, A. called up the deputy on duty, shaking, and in a very calm, subdued voice (if you knew A., you would’ve known right then that something was terribly wrong, because A. is not calm… or subdued… EVER) said that someone had shot at her (or at the windows, whatever). And our bright and shining hero asks: “With bullets?”

Way to win the Dumbass Question of the Year Award, pal! That said, he and our undersheriff spent all night looking for the guy and collecting evidence, and after daylight, all the reports of damage around town flooded in, and the Giant Rumor & Gossip Machine that fuels this town roared to life.

Wanna see some more?

Above is the window right by our desk in the dispatch center, where A. was sitting when she was shot at.

This window is on the other side of the counter - only a few feet to the east.

This is what happened to that second window.

Here’s a window at The Roadhouse Bar - which my parents own. The door was also shattered completely, but it was replaced within hours, so the damage isn’t visible in this photograph.

And here’s another window at the bar. I’d have taken pics of the other businesses, but I didn’t want to sneak all around town at 6am snapping photos like a bloody tourist, you know?

For anyone wondering… no, we didn’t have bulletproof glass, and yes, we are getting some, though the fucking moron county commissioners are still balking at getting bulletproof glass over the counter in our reception area. WHY? That’s where I’d be most concerned! We have psychos IN the office all the freaking time! Drive-by lunatics are rare! So it looks like I’m going to have to write up some sort of petition. I’m pretty sure most everyone in town will sign it. Clearly, the emergency dispatchers need to be safe, you know, in case of emergencies.

Anyway, we caught the guy within 48 hours. [Note: The media got everything wrong… There were 9 shots fired AT THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE ALONE - and more fired at all the other businesses, for example, and the windows at the bar were not shattered, just shot, and the doorw as shattered - there was no hole in it…] He’s in jail now. But we’re all still a bit jumpy down at the office. I mean, the windows are still all riddled with holes and shit. This is the first time any such thing has ever happend in our county. Deliberate attempted homicide just isn’t a common hobby around here. Of course, everyone’s saying, of the culprit: “Gosh, that’s just so out of character for him!” Don’t they always say things like that about psychos?

Now I’m off to make some more holes with my knitting, and maybe look into personal handgun prices. For protection.

Or more likely, that gods-be-damned gopher.

My mother’s telling everyone she can about my pitiful state of physical health, because alas, it became overly clear to her a couple weeks ago that I, a spiffy 25 year old in the ‘prime’ of life, am more out of shape than she - a fifty-some year old with the ‘excess baggage’ that comes with having two children, an ice cream and candy obsession, bursitis, and very likely fibromyalgia. Yes, you heard me right.

This sorry truth came to light when we were out gardening in my garden. I’ve never planted cucumbers in hills before, so she snatched up the hoe and proceeded to show me how she’d always done - scraping a circle about 3 feet big, and then… hoeing up all the dirt into a mound about 7-8 inches tall. Inspired by the ease, I did the next one.

Sort of.

I got halfway through my circle and was ready to pass out cold in the ant-ridden dirt, heaving for air, my lazy and far underworked muscles quivering and begging for relief. She took one look at me and about peed her pants laughing. Thank you mother, I knew I could count on you for support.

I finished, but it took me several minutes longer, and the result was almost as pathetic as my attempt, looking more like a pile of dirt than a nicely formed hill for my cukes. She straightened it up for me. Because clearly, I was an incompetent imbecile when it came to any sort of physical challenge.

This is not exactly a new condition (who won last on place in every single “track and field day” event I was forced to attend (sobbing and protesting the whole way) as a child in elementary school? that’s right, good ol’ me! who was the very last person to finish two measly laps in gym class all through high school? yep! who could not advance past intermediate swimming lessons because I simply was not fast enough? yeehaw!), but suffice to say, I’ve never been this out of shape. Even a six year old could do better than that, I’m sorry to report. Hell, my cats can do better than that.

(Maybe not. They don’t even bother to attempt the whole ‘dig’ thing in the litterbox anymore. Wtf is up with that, anyway?)

That said, A found out through Mom (and me, because I figured I may as well tell the tale myself once she’d started), and tried to rope me into walking with her. Let me say this: I. Hate. Walking. Always have, always will. Something about it just seems pointless to me. Pointless. Boring. Numbing. Feet-hurting. Knee-hurting. Forever-taking. I hate it. I walk two and a half blocks to work every day, and I hate every step of it. I should walk three and a half blocks to the post office every day to get my mail, but I don’t. I drive. Just to avoid the dreaded walk.

Why do I hate it so? No idea, but I suspect genetics and upbringing has something to do with it. After all, my mother drove one block to work for several years. One block. I’ve never seen my father walk anywhere he couldn’t drive. We lived 5 blocks from school (maybe six?) and I recall riding my bike there twice. Every other time, I either got a ride, or drove myself. Genetics and upbringing, I tell you. And I have a hard time overcoming that.

Anyway, A then complained that I turned down bike riding, which is easier. All right, I give. It’s easier… if you’re in any shape at all, and if at least half your ass fits on the seat. When it gets down to like, a quarter of your ass, it’s more like sitting on an apple, and believe me, that’s even less comfy than walking. I used my stationary bike for a few days. Then I quit on that shit. I mean, when your inner asscheeks hurt from the strain several days later… it’s time to find a new exercise. Seriously.

I’ve lost two pounds in the last couple weeks. Some of it was ‘that time of the month’ weight, I think, or maybe not… but some of it was from my gardening activities. If I keep it up all this summer, maybe I’ll actually develop, like, a muscle somewhere! Wouldn’t that be neat?

I’m counting down the hours and minutes until the chickens arrive. I don’t know when that will be, but I’m hoping today, in which case… anytime within the next two or three hours! Otherwise, it’s tomorrow morning. I really hope it’s not… because I want to see their little peeping heads! On the other hand, if it is tomorrow, I can not worry about how they’re holding up in their somewhat chilly brooder pool while I rush to the next town early this morning to fetch more lamps.

I’m feeling better about everything today! Hurrah.

For one, I got grandma’s gift done! But… I took it to show mom, and Grandma was there, and she asked if it was done… Well, Mom said “Yes, do you want it now?” and… that was that. So no pictures.

Yet. I will get them. *stealthily sneaks into Grandma’s house to get pictures of bag*

It is gorgeous, though a bit dirty. I didn’t even get a chance to wash it up. Oh well. It’s still pretty!

But I’m not gonna make one for mom. I’ve decided to do a couple (or just one) sachet out of her hank of yarn and stuff it with lavender. Something different. With a tight stitch pattern, it should be nice!

I’m now knitting a very bland knit-every-row square out of green merino wool on big size 11 needles. I’ll felt it up and make it into a potholder. Why? I don’t know. I needed something to knit while all the relatives were around that I didn’t have to worry about. Nice and easy. And dull.

But that’s the way she blows.

I have said very little in the last few days. I’ve been stressed with real life issues, and frankly, haven’t felt up to saying a word about it on here. My grandmother, who I’m very close to, has a terminal condition that will probably end her life within the month - a tear in her aorta that could… just rip open like a zipper, or burst like an aneurysm at any time. It’s been a depressing three weeks. First she was in the hospital for gall bladder surgery - they thought that was causing her chest pain. Then, a week later, she was back… and that’s when they discovered the real problem. She’s been having the pain since late January - it’s a miracle she’s lived this long.

I’ve been busy talking to my mother (Grandma is her mother) and visiting and just trying to keep busy in general.

I’ve also been working on the chicken brooder, and watching my herbs grow (that aerogarden really works wonders!) and shopping online for my secret pal, and for me, of course, and working an extra day this week, and an extra half-shift last week, and dealing with the fact that I am basically on my own for Easter due to my work schedule, despite the fact that the entire family (all my mother’s siblings) are coming up to visit Grandma, and dealing with the fact that I virtually had no birthday celebration, and certainly had no weeklong vacation/trip to the Big City to shop with Mom as planned, and not even a trip up to Canada to have Joey’s Only Seafood, as desired. And more, there’s been deaths in the families of two co-workers (hence the overtime) and with Grandma’s health the way it is, there will soon be a death in mine, and there is no way I can plan to get out of town anytime in April for a week (since my first plans at the end of March were cancelled due to the gallbladder surgery), and I’ve just got the feeling that I won’t be doing anything in May, either.

And dammit, I’m /stressed/.

Beyond measure.

And the chicks are coming Monday, and I had a crisis about the feed that I have to try to resolve in a couple hours when the hatchery opens up so I can call and have them change my order slightly. And I still have no coop, though at least I have the brooder part - hopefully - figured out, but I have to get cracking on it that this morning, and tonight. And tomorrow. And I have to clean my house because it’s driving me nuts, and god forbid some uncle want to stop by (I doubt it, I’m sure everyone will be busy, but one never knows, of course) and I really wanted to dye eggs - both for Ostara and Easter, but I just don’t think I have time…

I’m running out of breath here, and all I’m doing as typing. Please. Remember to breathe while you read this.

Everything just seems overwhelming at this point, and I really need to sit down and take a long bubble bath, and chant quietly to mysef: And this too shall pass.

In the midst of my upset-ness two days ago, I shuffled the tarot deck and drew a card about the situation with Grandma. The first one I drew was the nine of wands, and it really impacted what I /wanted/ to do - fight. Fight on. Do something - anything - to keep Grandma going. And then I asked myself what I /needed/ to do in this situation. And I drew the eight of cups. Let go.

I don’t want to. But all things must come to an end. All of us will one day pass on, and the only thing those left living can do is let go, and move on.

I just wish it was so easy as all that.

Anyway. If I am still more absent… this is why. Busy with chicks - and gods, how I need a symbol for renewal and life right now - and busy with family, making the most of what time we have left, wishing that I could go back and change the past and visit her more often than I did.

But we all have lives to live, paths to walk. I have many, many good memories, and will always have them. And I have time now to make up for what I may have lost.

Light overturns darkness today, and I’m glad for it. We now have twelve hours of darkness, twelve hours of daylight, and it’s growning lighter every day. I’m feeling it in my bones, feel life returning to the earth with every passing day. I’ve been growing restless, wanting to do something, wanting to create, wanting to grow, wanting ot change, wanting to live and laugh and breathe fresh air and see the sunshine again.

Spring is here, though where I’m at, it’s still in its early stages - freezing hard at night, but drifting slowly into warmer days. This time next month, I’ll have a brood of chickens and will be planting potatos and lettuce and chives, and a month later, all my seeds will be in the garden, hopefully beginning to sprout.

A month after that, and I’ll be regretting it all as I struggle through hot days and the drone of the air conditioner and a scant few hours of good sleep every day as I try to keep the house cool enough that my body doesn’t mind sleeping through the sunshine.

But until then, I’m soaking it up.

Did a tarot reading. Celtic cross, the new deck A gave me for Christmas. I gifted oats and milk (okay, okay, half and half… even better!) to the garden plot, and dug up a bit of dirt for the altar. It’s still pretty frozen, so I’ve gotta let it thaw before I can do anything with it.

The sun’s just coming up, and I’ve gotta go to bed now, get a few hours of sleep, and drive to the big city to keep my mother company. Grandma goes into surgery today, and I’m gonna be there for a night to keep her company. Must remember to bring my knitting - and lots of it.

Thirteen Things About My Family

1. My great-grandparents on my father’s side were homesteaders in Montana in the early 1900s. My grandfather went to school in this same town. My father grew up in the same house I lived in all through my schooling years. I used to live in the same apartment everyone else in my family has lived in once upon a time.
2. They used to own a dairy. We still have a lot of old milkcaps that say: Phone 10, from back when telephone numbers were two digits long.
3. It’s written in one of the town history journals/books/things that my great grandmother was noted for having had a cure for ear infection: just a few drops of urine in the ear will do the trick. Um, no thanks. I’ll suffer.
4. My father was a rebel who ran off to new york as a teenager to see his biological father (okay, so he was a stepchild - my grandmother divorced dad’s real father because he was a drunk who slept around on her all the time) and came back with long hippie hair and did a lot of pot.
5. This town has never forgotten that. And never will.
6. My mother grew up 10 miles away and was a cheerleader and the class salutatorian. Of course, she fell for the bad boy with the motorcycle and the long hippie hair.
7. My father wore his hair long until I was a teenager.
8. And he still does pot. *palmface* But I never knew about it until just recently. Because, like a smart guy, he didn’t do it in the house… until recently.
9. But hey, gotta give the man snaps - he hasn’t had a cigarette since mid-February! And he’s generally stopped drinking. Not that it’s helped his demeanor much.
10. In case you didn’t realize it, he and I… don’t particularly get along. But I have a fantastic relationship with my long-suffering mother.
11. I fear my brother is a bum. He’s 3 years younger than me and his only job is a part time gig working for my parents, even though he has a welding/car fabrication/some mechanical bullshit degree that can get him a job paying like, $38 an hour to start with.
12. My mother wanted to be an accountant. But instead, she became a farmer’s wife, then a mother, then a bookkeeper for a couple years, then… a bartender/bar owner. Thanks to my father, we now own the coolest bar in town, which isn’t really saying much, but it is a pretty cool bar. Unfortunately, we can’t seem to get rid of it… wanna buy?
13. I missed one! Thanks for bringing it to my attention. Let’s see, one more fact… Both of my grandfathers have died, but my grandmothers are still alive and kicking… They’ve both moved into the local Assisted Living center, and we’re hoping they don’t resort to kicking each other.

And that’s all, folks!

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My grandmother’s birthday is coming up on March 17th - St. Patty’s Day - so I picked up some of this:

and have begun to knit this:

Come closer?

Pretty, ne? I think so. I’m one ball down, working on the next, and still unsure if I’m going to make a fairly short scarf with just two balls or tack on my third skein. I think that perhaps she’d find three excessively long, since she’ll likely just be wearing it indoors anyway. If she wears it at all.

I know, I know, you’re thinking: What? It’s a /beautiful/ scarf, and soft, too! Why wouldn’t she wear it? And if she hates scarves/knitted things, why are you knitting them for her? But it’s not like that. I swear. See, the woman is… difficult. She’d love a scarf that I made her. But this is a woman who loved the dishcloth I made her so much that she refused to use it, and just… puts it away for safekeeping. If a dishcloth (and nothing special at that) is too precious to touch, a scarf would be even more so.

Anyway, it’s coming along nicely, and I’m really wanting to keep it for myself, but I need a birthday present, and darnit, this is green. And it’s knitted. Insta-gift.

So my father tells me this story one evening over dinner. A man’s name had come up, and when it was mentioned, my father recalls a story attached to this name. For privacy’s sake - and because, I’ll admit it, I don’t remember the name anyway - we’ll just call him Kenny. Keny was a troublemaker in school back in father’s day. Think the sixties, when my father was in… I dunno, junior high, maybe? Maybe a little earlier, maybe a little later. He didn’t say.

Anyway, Dad went to school with this kid. Same class, maybe, maybe a little older, maybe a little younger. Didn’t matter. It was a small, small town. In fact, it was this town, in the same school I went to, in the same building, and the story takes place in the same auditorium, a small stage with heavy blue curtains and a couple hundred aging wooden fold-up seats. Back in the sixties, they went to school here.

And Kenny was a troublemaker. Well, so was my father, but I didn’t get the impression that they’d been close. Or maybe they had, once. I have no idea. Whatever. But Kenny liked to, uh… blow shit up.

He came to school once with dynamite and stuffed it in his locker. He wasn’t planning on hurting anybody with it - he’d just had to bring it to town on the bus because he lived so far out in the country, and after school, they were gonna go blow up an old car. But somebody ratted him out, and he got caught, and I don’t know if the car ever got blown up or not.

But later, Kenny was accused of planting a bomb in the auditorium. They had guys searching all over the place, in the rafters above the stage, everywhere, and some unlucky soul fell off in the midst of this search, which amused the kids to no end.

The kids, you ask?

Yes, the kids. Because while they were searching for this bomb, some bright-eyed administrator thought a good place to put all the kids was in the auditorium until the chaos was over.

The auditorium… where the bomb was supposed to be.

…

Bright, eh?

There was no bomb, by the way, but it amused the hell out of my father. I’m sure. It’d amuse the hell out of me - “Come on kids, let’s go! We need to keep you somewhere all together now for the bomb threat… I know! Let’s go sit in the auditorium and watch them search!”

Can we all agree that somebody was smokin’ crack that day, or what?