Happy Whatever From CITC

I'm midway through my holiday wine cleanse. And by that, I mean I'm with my family, mostly only ingesting wine. I'll allow coffee, certain hor d'oeuvres, and the other night after dinner, there was a truly fantastic Portuguese port flight.  Fine, I mean YOLO, you know? Then, last night happened.

Sitting around a very formal xmas eve dinner table, we got in a screaming fight over whether or not Facebook is revolutionary. It somehow escalated to what was a genuinely mean iteration of Festivus airing of the grievances. Clearly, there are wine cleanse amateurs among us. Anyhow, after that little episode, I'm not exactly in the holiday spirit over here. I  would, however, like to pour some holiday spirits into this orange juice I have with me.

As I was scrolling through the Facebook, the very thing that ripped our table apart last night, and yet  brings together everyone's lovely holidays for all to see today (you breeders have pretty cute kids) I came across the following someecards and thought, yes, this, very much this.

So yeah, merry day. I've got to go keep up with my cleanse, but in an effort to not be a total scrooge, I'll leave you with my favorite holiday song.   But really, if I'm being honest, my feelings are more in line with Flula.  Kbye.  

If You Build It... Up Too Much

The carbface-ridden weeks from Thanksgiving to Christmas seemed like a natural opening to start dating again.  Long hours at the office coupled with a diet of high-calorie dinners and enough booze to kill a lesser functioning alcoholic, I’m living life at the top of my game. I joined Tinder and Hinge, the latter of which had to look up on my phone as I wrote this in order to get the name correct. Again, all in over here.  All. in. 

Why wouldn’t I be? Almost immediately, someone contacted me and asked if I would pick a red or blue balloon given the choice?  I suggested option C: dying alone with cats because now I remember why I stopped doing this. Actually, I didn’t say that. I said, blue if we’re at an election party, otherwise, grey, given the option of more colors. He told me grey means I’m sophisticated, classy, a little aloof and added, “in general, colors are somewhat reliable because we’re all primitive inside.” What? Please stop. 

On the flip side, another early, interested party, this time hailing from Hoboken, showed promise. For starters, I trusted our mutual friend to generally not keep the company of psychopaths. We quickly bonded over a shared hatred of all things Jerry Jones as well as both of us incorporating Aaron Hernandez into our fantasy team’s name. When two people find enough humor in an athlete who has likely killed about seven people that they make him their team’s namesake, relentless flirtation is the customary progression. Right? It totally is.

Not only was he nice, but very funny. He’s a Giants fan, wine lover, drinks Jameson by the pint and didn’t seem to mind the fact I am unapologetically ridiculous. We got along swimmingly, so well, in fact, when he twice suggested skipping the bullshit and simply meeting him at the alter, the joke didn’t make me vomit. He was also extremely generous when it came to spontaneous praises, something I normally find nervous-twitch-inducing. It actually made me smile, not cringe, but I did grow concerned all this chatter and built-up expectations would only lead to disappointment upon finally getting together.

Saturday was the first mutually available date we could find in three weeks to do so. The plan was to belly up to the bar at L’Artusi. Walking half a block in the snow in 5” heels made it very apparent I would likely fall and injure myself if I didn’t go back and change into boots. I forgot an umbrella and failed to remember to grab one while I was back inside. This ultimately made me 30 minutes late and by the time I got there, the snow had melted into all my hair products, forming a sort of mullet product helmet on my head. It dried out, but it was a far cry from how I originally walked out the door. Not my best look and a catalyst to a near crippling feeling of hyper self-consciousness. 

We sat there for three hours, shared food and even an after dinner drink. When relaying that info to my dear friend and her sister at brunch Sunday, they both echoed the sentiment that you don’t sit somewhere for three hours with someone you hate.  However, if I’ve learned anything from a certain self-help book the most important television show of our time, it’s that sometimes, he’s just not that into you.  And I don’t think he is, but he did pay the bill and held an umbrella over me until I got into a cab. It’s more likely he’s just nice than the chance I’ll hear from him again.

I got a little choked up on the way home, possibly aided by Bulleit consumption. However to be wholly forthcoming, it bummed me out. It’s not so much because of one, unsuccessful date with a man I hardly know, but just the whole exhausting, soul-sucking process. Sometimes it just feels like life is trying to cuntpunt you and you can’t seem to do yourself any favors. I think that makes it ok to have a quick cry, threaten the cab driver who doesn't want to drive you back to Brooklyn with physical violence, pour another drink and move on. And that, ladies and germs, is exactly what I'm doing. 

Why I Finally Started Entering Guys' Names Into My Phone

Based on nothing, I tend to not enter a guy's name into my phone until the 3rd or 4th date. My feeling is why bother if this person is not going to be a part of my life. If I have a million extra names in this phone, it's just going to take even longer for AT&T to transfer my contacts next time I drop and shatter my phone at Yankee Stadium, subsequently signing up for yet another two-year contract in order to continue communicating with these weirdos who, for the most part, I don't even like. We've all been there; it's not the good service keeping us around. Wait, what was I even talking about?

About a month or so ago, I was texting with this guy who I thought last minute canceled on me midway through my own "but I don't wanna go out with anyone right now" tantrum. Again, I thought it was this same gentleman with whom I later rescheduled to meet after work on some Thursday. In my head, this was all building up to a first date. Early in the afternoon that Thursday, this guy I thought was Chris, the management consultant, texted me saying he would be stuck at work and would I be up for meeting around 10:00 instead of 8:00? I mostly prefer to go to bed by the time the Daily Show comes on and get up a little after 5:00am, so in addition to being way too much work for what I thought was a first date, I had no interest in being out late. I suggested we day drink bloodys at some point over the weekend instead. He agreed.

Saturday rolled around and I was the first one to arrive at Sarabeth's in Tribeca. You could find me awkwardly standing around the bar, texting with my friends who were down the street, asserting no, they cannot come spy on my date, but I'll see them in an hour.  While I was staring out the window for management consultant Chris, in walks Napa Kevin, a guy I'd been out with a couple times, but hadn't heard from in a while. Or so I thought.

While I bolted over to the corner and cowered in the middle of a group of strangers waiting on their table, my inner monologue went something like this: "OH MY GOD HOLY FUCK WHY WHY WHY WHY IS THIS HAPPENING OH MY GOD I KNOW HE AND HIS DATE ARE GOING TO BE SITTING DIRECTLY NEXT TO ME OH MY GOD FUCK FUCK I'M JUST GOING TO HAVE TO RUN OUT OF THIS PLACE AND NEVER SEE EITHER OF THEM AGAIN OH MY GOD... OH... MY... GOD... WHY... IS... HE... COMING... OVER... HERE?!??!?!?!"

Napa Kevin walked over to get me, asked how I was doing, inquired as to what exactly I was doing and apologized for being late. Now, at this point, though I didn't particularly understand why considering what he just said/did, I still thought I was about to sit down to brunch with the wrong date. So, as he lead me over to the table, I stopped and looked out the door, I suppose as some sort of last ditch effort to see if management consultant Chris was walking in? I didn't really have an action plan beyond that. Kevin asked me if I was OK. I said I needed a mimosa.

Napa Kevin played football in college and is still built like a linebacker. He finished his brunch in about 43 seconds while I nervously picked at mine, waiting for some disaster to unfold and ordered more mimosas. He asked me if I was sure I didn't mind having a few drinks in the middle of the day on a Saturday. Internally, I thought, well, I guess I'm happy I don't come off as a boozebag? Anyhow, I assured Napa a little sparkling wine and OJ had nothing on the lunacy waiting down the street for me at MaryAnn's. In the end, it was sort of a lovely date; we walked around the waterfront in Battery Park and back over to PaulandJanicePalooza where, taking another year off my life, he kissed me goodbye in front of the bar where all my friends were already celebrating birthdays and babies.

Napa was a potential good egg. We'd do fun things like start off with fancy drinks (I'm forever a sucker for a $20 glass of wine) and then go shoot darts at a pool hall all dressed up. Being that he was a good time and seemingly normal, it didn't work out. His suggestions morphed into "want to meet at the bar downstairs from my apartment?" and "want to just come over and watch the NBA playoffs over at my place?" Oh, Napa Kevin, I might not have gone to Harvard Law like you, but I wasn't born yesterday either. Womp womp. Oh well.  I'll be forever grateful that next time I show up to the bar first, I know the guy who walks in after telling me, "Almost there! Sorry I'm late!" is actually the gentleman I'm there to meet.

Stay tuned for Ice Capades, Part: 2.

Vennifer

PS - if you find this funny, entertaining or just plain sad, please feel free to pass it along to everyone you know and their brother... and sister... and first grade teacher. I'd like to eventually leave the cube life. More eyeballs here can't be a bad step in the direction of turning this into something which might unbind these fluorescent-lit chains. 

Ice Capades - Part 1

I'm someone who is rarely, if ever, at a loss of words. I am so confounded by the gentleman I'm going to tell you about, I don't even know how or where to start. As always, he seemed perfectly normal on paper: 34, well-dressed, works at ING, wants to start his own hedge fund, etc... but that all quickly unraveled. Imagine a slot machine game that kept spinning 3 red flags in a row and just kept ringing and ringing and ringing. Every conversation topic with this one was another "winning" combination of weird.

I can't even believe I'm going to admit this, but I suppose we're in the trust tree here. The first time I see him, he has me meet him at Caliente Cab Co - ding ding ding ding - and not even the slightly more acceptable one on Seventh Ave South; it was the one in Murray Hill. Now, I've been putting a moderately half-assed effort behind not being a neighborhood snob anymore, and there's not a section of town out there without its own great, hidden gems, but Caliente Cab is just not a destination. It's somewhere you maybe go to if you live across the street or your office is upstairs. It's loud, gross and there were hooligans screaming at the next table over.

This is an accurate representation of how I felt throughout most of the evening.

Early on, he tells me he went to a meditation camp. On the surface, I can dig it. Some people are really into that sort of thing. However, this one was in central Florida. ding ding ding My own prejudice against the state time and sanity forgot aside, how can you meditate if you're getting bitten by 5209486203458 mosquitoes while sitting in a 300 degree rain-forest of humidity? He then tells me he'll teach me how to meditate.  I told him, let me just stop you right there and help you to understand my utter lack of interest in mediation. Trust me, brother, a cold glass of wine and a full DVR delivers me straight to nirvana.

Speaking of the Sunshine State, after telling him about my job/industry, he asked me if I've ever been to Disney on Ice because he finds it very creative. ding ding ding I nearly fell out of my seat. I hate Disney and amusement parks in general. Hate. Once again, I found myself saying something along the lines of, please understand I will never ever be the type of person to attend Disney on Ice. Never. Even if I have children, that is not an on-the-table option for my life.  We chat some more and he asked me if I believe in destiny. I say I absolutely do not, on any level, believe in destiny beyond stopping in a random wine store and finding a great deal on one of my favs. A few minutes later he says he wants to get married. While the grand conversation here is clearly spiraling, and fast, on the surface, fine, you're on a dating website, so it makes sense that marriage is your end game. He immediately follows up by saying HE HOPES I AM THE ONE. ding ding ding ding ding ding What. The. What. do you even say to that? It's our first date and only 2nd margarita. Sitting there stunned as I was scared, he told me, "You will see. Our Creator has a plan," to which I countered, "Jay, I have to tell you that I wholly and fundamentally don't agree with that. I'm atheist."

When I told my friend Liz what we discussed on the first date, she turned to me and said, "Jennifer, I think you might have inadvertently taken crystal meth and hallucinated this whole date. That is the only logical explanation... like maybe there was a loose acid tab in your sock from the laundry. I don't know." I don't know either, but in situations like that, I sort of wish I was on drugs.

As he walked me out, he turned to me and asked if I liked karaoke. Before I could answer, he said he would book a karaoke room for our second date. I told him there is not a chance in hell of that happening and if he wants to see me again, he had better come up with a place that has a truly impressive wine and/or cocktail list. Again, I can't believe that I'm admitting this, but I went out with him again... twice. Stay tuned for Ice Capades, Part: 2.  It's a doozie.

Until the next dating disaster,

Vennifer.

I'm Sure We Shared a Meaningful Connection...

But could you maybe remind me of how it went down?

The thing is, even after my BS "stuck at the office" bait, I still had NO idea who this Adam person was, but I seriously questioned his use of like twice in one text.  I don't even text like that when purposefully using my most sorority girl tone with my best sorostitute bitches.

If I received a message like the last one I sent him, I'd never ever text that person back.  How is it not glaringly obvious to anyone in this situation that not only are you not in this person's phone, but they've made absolutely no effort in to even think twice about your shared existence in the universe.  Like I've said many times before, it's never the ones you want to text you back.  So, of course ole Adam answered, reinforcing that rule and reminding me of the horrible time we shared over heavenly burgers at Shake Shack.

I've now re-deleted Adam from my phone.  I sincerely hope he's done the same, but I'm not holding my breath.

Sigh,

Vennifer

Experiential Birth Control

Easter Sunday always brings a lot of excitement and I'm not just talking about pretend Jesus taking the form of a swan or however that story goes.  For example, recent history's high, holy holiday includes creepy staring across a table of traditional Easter sushi, marveling at Taylor Momsen's ability to wear an entire brick of black eye shadow until she asked to be moved to another table.  Last year was all about kransekake and a traditional murder among friends. Easter 2013 on a northeast-bound Amtrak train was no exception.

Disclaimer: I can't imagine how hard it is to raise a tiny human.  Literally, I have no concept of it. Sometimes I even forget to feed my cat.  I do not mean to offend anyone who may be in the very noble process of bringing up bebés.  To my readers, friends, family, coworkers, industry friends and other people I know with kids, well those kids are awesome.  I sincerely love them and any of the their potential, future siblings. And possibly their little friends. Everyone else choosing to further overpopulate the world with miniature vanity projects?  Those kids are monsters about whom I unequivocally do not care.  And probably dislike.  

It doesn't take much for a regular Amtrak rider to boast about just how much they love to travel that way. It's quick, it's easy, it's generally very quiet, there's outlets and wifi and you need only show up to the train station 10 or 15 minutes before you're scheduled to depart.  Sure, holidays are going to be more crowded and as such, we weren't able to upgrade to business class, but the selling points I just mentioned apply to coach class too...  that is until ill-behaved children and their self-involved mothers come barreling down the aisle as if they've just barely made it to Platform 9¾ at King's Cross and Hogwarts Express is pulling out of the station. (canigetachocolatefrog?) They seemed to have enough crap for an entire semester, anyhow.  

With that, a rain cloud moved into place dimming the afterglow of a glorious weekend in a 4-star hotel in Georgetown, where I slept in a pillow fort I built in the bathtub because the person with whom I was sharing a room snored so loudly it kept me awake through both the xanax and ambien I'd taken as a combative measure.  What I'm trying to say is the kids, who I soon came to think of as an immortal child from Twilight and the kid from Problem Child, immediately started screeching at a deafening volume and their mother, who, moving forward, will be known as BMOTY for bitch mother of the year, immediately made it clear that discipline was not part of her child rearing process. These were not the sweet kids who peacefully coexist with you on a plane and you don't ever notice them because they're mesmerized by an iPad or their moms have slipped them benadryl and they're zonked out.  I know it sounds harsh, but just stay with me here for a minute and trust that these kids were way too old to get away with the shit they pulled.

By the time we got to Baltimore, completely demoralized by the fact that the Gators clearly decided they were not going to show up and play basketball, Immortal Child's incessant screaming casused me to develop my most serious case of nervous twitch to date.  Enter holier than thou mom - she was like one of those UES mommies you read about who birth chemical babies at the age of 60 or something - with her "easy child,"  both trying to cram into the seat next to John, who was working on a presentation he was giving next week.  For clarification, here's my memory of the seating chart:

HTTM (holier than thou mom) pulls out a stack of children's books.  Debbie turns to me and says, "oh. my. god. she. better. not. start. reading. those. out. loud. That is not acceptable in a space like this."  Of course she started reading the books.  I debated reading some of the more steamy sex scenes from 50 Shades aloud to counter. Immortal Child was screaming NO over and over and over while Problem Child was, for all I know, rigging a molotov cocktail with her juice box that she planned to throw at me and blow up the train.  I'd already heard enough rounds of The Pet Goat for 10 lifetimes, so I did what any mature 31-year old would do and mocked the kids by loudly saying, "noooooo noooooo I get it, I don't want to hear it anymore either!" to Aunt Debbie.  I no longer cared.

This sets B'moty into a something of a tailspin.  Though I have to say, if this was the real life 'momma grisly' reaction Tina Sarah Palin has been brilliantly satirizing squawking about for the past six years, the punch it packs has been vastly over-exaggerated.

B'moty:       Excuse me, I don't have to listen to this!

Me:             Well, we've all had to listen to your kid screaming for the past two hours.

B'moty:       I'm a single mother trying to take care of my kids and do something nice for them like take them to the White House!  I’m a lawyer!

Then, by all means, take care of them.  For fuck's sake, maybe take action other than yelling at me.  Also, if you think that's justification to shut the three of us up now, you've got another thing coming.

John:           Great, I’m the president of a consulting firm, she (Debbie) is a managing partner there and she (me) is an advertising executive.* Now that we've all established our professions, Debbie why don’t you talk about raising two kids as a single mother.

BOOM, motherfucka!

* Also, while the word director is in my title, I wouldn't call myself an advertising executive.  This wasn't the time for technicalities. 

Debbie:        I raised two boys as a single mother and frequently traveled with them both domestically and abroad; I can assure you I never allowed them to act like this. 

B’moty:       I don’t have to listen to you! I’m just trying to do something nice for my kids!

Me:             And I'm trying to stream this basketball game and ride back to New York without blowing out my ear drums trying to tune you out.

B’moty:       Well, I’m sorry I ruined that luxury for you!

Me:             Thanks for the finally apologizing.  And guess what? The expectation that I ride back to New York in relative peace and quiet is completely reasonable and commonly anticipated. 

HTTM:        You know, every child is different.  I have a really easy child.  Every one is different.  It’s not her fault.

As Louis CK would say, no one cares about your shitty kid. 

B’moty:       My children are wonderful!

Would we say that?

HTTM:        I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply your kids are, um, difficult.

B’moty:       You all are so disrespectful.

Me:             You are.

Debbie:        I feel sorry for you.  You’re going to have a lot of problems. 

Annnnd, SCENE.

I always pegged lawyers as the type to keep up with current events.  Perhaps she's the exception to that rule.  So, letting go of her flawed argument about a White House visit - currently canceled because of the sequester -  being the nice thing she was doing for her kids, let me just quickly catalogue for you all the nice things I remember my parents doing for me when I was three.......... Long list, right?  I'm surprised any of you actually made it through and are still with me.  Listen, if this had been a $2.50 subway ride, I would have never said a word.  With that, you totally get what you pay for.  However, this little one-way journey back to NY literally cost more than half of my last round-trip fare to LAX.

Soon after the dust settled there, I had to get up and go to the bathroom.  B'moty was walking Immortal Child up and down the aisle to try and get him (her? I couldn't tell) to calm down.  I quickly stepped aside giving her more than enough room to pass by.  She looked at me and barked, "Excuuuuuse me is what you say!" I couldn't help but think, lady, there are a lot of things I'd like to say to you and I can assure you 'excuse me' doesn't make my top 100.  However, my momma always told me, if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all, so I gave B'moty one last "this stare absolutely means GFY" eye-roll and moved on.

I do not pretend for even a minute that it's easy to travel with kids.  When I see my friends jokingly post on Facebook about the apprehension that accompanies taking their kids on a plane/train/extended car ride - especially doing so solo - it's not hard to read through the lines and see they are slightly terrified by the myriad of things that could go awry.  I don't envy that.  However, at the same time, it's not my problem and I should not be expected to gladly accept the three hour tantrum your child is throwing at a deafening volume.  If you can't control it, get it a babysitter and just take the older kid, who might actually get something out of the experience.  In the end, I was mostly happy my less than tolerant attitude didn't leave me like this:

The point of this rant story, which clearly wasn't about dating, is that I'm never dating again and I'm going to see about getting my ovaries taken out.  I never ever want to be saddled with this sort of responsibility.  Like I said earlier, I sometimes forget to feed my cat.  I never forget to buy Chardonnay.  OK, I have to go.

Kisses,

Vennifer 

Ego Boost

Here's a little hump-day evening pick-me-up for you.  I went out with a guy last night who, while absolutely a perfect gentleman, was about as interesting as talking to my cat while watching paint dry.  He seemed nervous about everything from ordering wine to thinking about what he was going to say next to, I don't know, existing. I also think he lied about being 32 because he mentioned something about all of his friends who, "have been in the city for 20 or 30 years." Even if you happen to have gone to college here in Nuevo York, that time span isn't really realistic.

The best part of my night was getting back to Dumbo and seeing that the pizza place downstairs was still open and willing to serve up some super healthy carbs and cheese.  I digress.  The point is I'd already deleted his number out of my phone and forgotten about him until:

Is that normal?  Is this something people generally do? I can't stop laughing.  I was fine just pretending it never happened. Anyhow, to all of you, good luck, you know, with the things.

Vennifer.

Crazy Sauce

I was working on something about all the ridiculous back and forth in the world of online dating.  And while I do believe that one will ultimately be funny, as it directly involves both Alvin and the Chipmunks AND Harry Potter, something has come up which needs immediately attention.  It's this:

I'm sorry, what?  I don't even know what to do with this one.  I mean, I obviously want to go out with him for the story, but I think it's going to have to be my final story.  I think it's going to be my final story because this lunatic is obviously going to make a skin blanket out of me.  And while Casey is always prepared to order a champagne tower and mardi gras Indians for my memorial should I happen to meet an unfortunate end, I don't yet have a working will that will legally bind my parents to bury me in New York and donate all my remaining assets to Hillary's future superPAC.  Stay tuned, though.  It can't take too long.  

K, enjoy the weekend, yall.  

Vennifer.

Crowdsourcing Bullsh*t

And then there was the time I was on the way to our nation's Capitol, writing this post and texting with a gentleman, who is actually in some of the older stories, while he was reading this blog for the first time. So meta.

A couple of months ago, I needed (read: wanted) to get out of a date.  I'm normally on board with giving someone more than one chance to see if there's a connection, but the one time I’d been out with this guy caused me to develop a nervous twitch at the thought of seeing him again.  Or maybe that was just the chardonnay shakes.  I can’t be too sure.  Anyhow, he didn’t make it terribly appealing to get together for round two when he texted me, “Seafood? Is 6:30 or 7:00 good?  How about we meet in Midtown?” Just what every 31-year old New Yorker wants to sacrifice her Friday night to: seafood in Midtown at the 75+ crowd seating.  

I happened to run into my friend Tara in the lobby soon after seeing his suggestion and immediately started to whine to her how I needed out.  I told her, “I’m just going to be direct and say, ‘how about we don’t.’”  She told me that was too mean, so I made up some BS about working on a new biz pitch which sounded totally plausible and came to me disturbingly fast. The thing is I’m honest, sometimes to a fault, but I feel like certain situations just call for it.  This is one of them - notice the date range:

If you ever happen to locate your dignity again, please grab ahold of it tightly.

I've since used the new biz pitch excuse on at least two separate occasions. It's a good one. However, in order to keep it fresh, I decided the best thing to do would be to build up an arsenal of excuses to use right off the bat and never again find myself with a looming Midtown seafood predicament.  

The most reasonable way to do this seemed to be crowdsourcing on Facebook. What I learned is that most of you are quick to channel your inner 11-year old and make poop jokes. And it's not that I don't find Oops I Crapped My Pants funny, I do, but it's not something you're realistically going to tell someone. Even if your'e me. Here are some of my other favorites coming out of that request:

• I have to petition the White House
• I have to feed my cat
• I have to get more cats; the farm isn't going to populate itself
• Spastic colon
• Sudden onset of crabs and lesbianism
• Needed to wait for a good excuse from one of my Facebook friends telling me how to get out of a date last minute. Er, wait a minute...
• Maybe just show him my Facebook wall
• Whine about my day blaming various other racial groups. If he doesn't cancel on me, call him a racist and cancel on him.  

And of course, more diarrhea, emergency diarrhea and STDs. Thanks, everyone. It's been a real pleasure. Maybe one day, if any of this ever works out, I'll get you all to weigh in on my vows. They may not be the most sincere, and surely won't give Shakespeare a run for his money, but it will certainly be entertaining when I promise to love and honor someone through every imaginable digestive ailment.  

A couple of people suggested I give this guy a chance, saying he's clearly interested. He is undoubtedly persistent; I'll give him that. However, once again faced with the prospect of spending an evening with him, the only thing I could think to say was, "how about we don't."

Until the next catastrophic engagement, 

Vennifer.

This Happened Yesterday

Just in case anyone didn't believe I actually did it.  I did.  And he is still talking to me.  It's never the ones you want who still talk to you.  It's the ones who text you pictures of a peach rose.  What. is. that.

OK bye.