Hole Digging

The floods have returned, much later this time, but with their usual ferocity; perhaps even more so than usual. But the floods came in June this time, which is very abnormal; at least, it’s abnormal for the three long, arduous years that we’ve roosted here at Jackson Acre. Normally we flood in March, which is an annual rite of passage here at Jackson Acre, much like the spring breaking of the pack ice in the Arctic or the annual return of the buzzards to Hinckley, Ohio (Carrion Capital of the World!).

But the monsoon rains came in June. Four and a half inches in less than twelve hours, to be exact. We awoke to the gurgling sounds of the sump pump going off every eight seconds. Waking up to this sound is normally NOT a good sign, no matter how you look at it. Although I suppose you could say that waking up to an absence of that sound would probably be a worse sign, indicating a complete failure of the pumps, backup pumps, backup to the backup pumps, and various alarms that we have established within and around our sump pump pit. Our sump pump has better hazard monitoring than some Russian nuclear reactors!

Ripping open the blinds confirmed the return of Lake Jackson.

It was a short-lived body of water and by five o’clock that afternoon half the back yard had drained out, leaving Jackson Swamp in Jackson Lake’s wake. Coming home from work that evening, the first thing I noticed upon exiting my car, besides the lower water levels, was the unmistakable stench of something dead. It was a road kill smell, the kind that wafts briefly into your open car window on a warm July afternoon as you pass a long dead and bloated raccoon rotting on the berm. And my first thought is, hmmm, there must be a dead raccoon drowned under one of my pine trees around here.

So I walked around the yard and surveyed the flood damage, fully expecting to find a dead raccoon wedged under a tree somewhere. Instead, I was surprised to find an extraordinary number of dead worms all around the yard. I’m talking hundreds of worms, everywhere! I can only assume that the water levels rose so high so fast that the poor worms had nowhere to go and couldn’t escape drowning.

The dead animal smell hung around for a few more days, but no dead animals turned up. So now I’m wondering if the dead body smell might be coming not from a single dead body, but rather from the hundreds of tiny dead bodies rotting about my yard.

Wait til I tell you about the “tadpoles” we discovered in our vernal pools here at Jackson Acre.

Wondering Where To Find More Worms?!

Mockery Mock-Up

Summertime!

The First Day Of Summer just passed us by here recently. Was anybody paying attention? Did anyone do anything special to commemorate it’s passing?

Yeah, me neither. Summer’s these days are less of a big deal than when I was a kid.

Do you still remember summers when you were a kid? Three months of endless days to do whatever you darn well pleased, as long as you weren’t caught by the neighbors and you didn’t burn anything major down (”major” defined as anything someone lives in or keeps their stuff in). Those summer days found us hanging out at the pool, riding bikes, camping in the woods, stealing produce from the neighbor’s garden - you know, good old-fashioned wholesome fun stuff!

We were constantly being yelled at to go outside and play. And we always did, mainly because we didn’t have central air and the house was a frickin’ oven in August, just as hot inside as out, but at least outside you could ride your bike up and down the street, pretending to race motorcycles and creating your own breeze to cool you off as you pedaled as fast as you could. This was in the days before every bike had gear shifts, when you actually had to pedal faster to go faster.

Rarely did we hang out watching TV. This was mainly because there were only three TV channels back then and all they showed during the day was “The Price Is Right” and yucky soap operas. There were no weekday cartoons! The only time we watched cartoons was on Saturday morning, and then it was usually only Bugs Bunny or Tom & Jerry. In fact, the only people who had more then three channels were the rich people down the street who had cable TV AND central air conditioning. And all cable TV did was give them better reruns to watch!

You know, come to think of it, there weren’t as many mosquitoes or ticks back then, either. And the bugs back then didn’t carry any deadly diseases like they do now - there was no West Nile Virus, no Lyme disease or Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. In fact, many a night we stayed out playing hide-and-seek until well past sunset, waiting for our parents to holler for us to come home, and never did we have any more than a few random bites. Mosquitoes were a pest back then, but nobody was actually afraid of them.

Nowadays I yell at my kids to go outside and play. Mainly because if I don’t, they’ll sit around and watch stupid cartoons all day, never actively using their minds or imagination. I sound just like my parents! And now I’m living in the rich house, with air conditioning and satellite TV (even better than cable!) and a fridge that dispenses water and ice cubes.

But my kids have to be in before dark, before the mosquitoes come out, because we don’t want our children to die. And now they have to slather on the sunscreen when they’re going outside during the day, because we don’t to get skin cancer. And we make them wear helmets when they ride their bikes, not because they’re pretending to be Vikings, but because we don’t want them to suffer brain trauma when they crash. Did you wear a helmet when you rode your bike as a kid? Yeah, me neither.

And what about the registered sex offenders living in the area?! Now we have to worry that some predator might drive by and snatch our children. Nobody knew what a sexual predator was thirty years ago! At worst, there might be a few neighborhood perverts, but they never really bothered the kids (unless you went to a Catholic church).

Wow, everything really was better back when we were kids.

Feelin’ Rebellious and Ridin’ My Bicycle Without A Helmet!

Ten Fingers

So we’ve entered the realm of lousy summer television viewing. Some of you may be familiar with this extremely parched part of summer, when the pickin’s are slim and it’s well nigh impossible to find anything on network television to satiate your thirst for thoughtful entertainment.

So last night I was watching “America’s Got Talent” and noticing my brain quietly slip away. I hope to high heaven this show doesn’t get televised beyond America’s borders, because it does NOT paint a good picture of America and the average American. Watching this in Iran, one might think all Americans are burlesque dancing, yodeling, ping-pong paddling, Britney Spears impersonating, attention-starved freaks (we’re not, right?). Talent?!

And with that picture of America firmly in their jihadist minds, is it any wonder that they want The Bomb! Hell, I want to drop The Bomb on America after watching this summer television dreg!

Now the best part of the show (and I use the term “best” rather loosely) was watching the seventeen-year-old boy whose talent involved baton twirling. No, I don’t know if the boy is gay; does it matter? This poor boy has already suffered a multitude of jeers and teasing over the years because he stuck determinedly with this dream of his, a dream to twirl in majestic and fancy ways. And despite those over whelming odds and insurmountable opposition to male-twirling, the boy has soldiered on, spinning his stick like a drum major on crack.

The boy thinks he has talent. And he’s determined to show us.

So he gets out on stage with his baton, lights the ends of it on fire, and proceeds to twirl the sh!t out it! He’s twirling it around his neck; he’s twirling it over his shoulders; he’s twirling it between his legs. Never once does he appear to burn himself or drop the baton. Then suddenly there are three burning batons and the boy’s doing leaps and flips and throwing the things up in the air as he leaps and flips, catching them every time, spinning those things like no girls business!

And when he finished, he knew he’d nailed it.

Hell, everyone knew he’d nailed it! The place went nuts with clapping and whistling and cheering. The boy’s mother was crying, and Jerry Springer was beaming, and The Hoff looked amazed and slightly aroused. Then the boy’s mother sobbingly told us about all the parades her son was in over the years and how he had to cope with all the snide remarks and rude comments the crowds uttered as he strode past, leading the procession with his steady twirling.

It was touching. And out of the corner of my eye I saw the wife wipe a tear away from her eye.

“It’s okay, honey. They put him through to the next round. He might even win the million bucks,” I said, trying to reassure my heart-touched spouse.

“Huh?” she replied.

Confused, I actually looked over at my wife, something that does not often happen whilst watching television (often times, when sitting with the couch recliner kicked out, I’m not even aware that she’s in the room with me). Looking over, I noticed that my wife had NOT been wiping a tear away. She had actually been scratching her forehead in some contemplative fashion as she read her book.

“What are you talking about?” she said, looking at me like I was some brain-addled ninety-year-old man trying to discuss the physics behind cold fusion and getting it confused with cold oatmeal.

That’s when I realized that she wasn’t even paying attention to the show and had no idea what the heck I was talking about. And then I realized how pathetic it was that I was the only one of us actually watching the stupid show, and I suddenly felt manipulated and used by the show’s producers. All that heartfelt sobbing and baton twirling suddenly made me feel dirty and a little effeminate.

“Nothing, honey,” I said, trying desperately to regain my masculinity.

Then I asked myself why we were even watching this crap when we have thirty hours of other, more entertaining shows sitting quietly in our DVR, patiently waiting for us to enjoy. Or maybe I should follow the wife’s example and try reading a book for once.

Now where’d I put that Spiderman comic book I was reading a few months ago?

Strutting Like A Drum Major On Crack!!

Gov’t 2.0

The Latest News From Jackson Press -

Man, has it been a wet spring here at Jackson Acre!

How do I know that, you ask? I know this because the sump pump continually reminds me of this. And the latest way it informed me of our wet spring was by dying on me.

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. I have other, non-Jackson Acre, flooding news to share.

Thursday evening saw torrential downpours visited upon Grandview, Ohio, about the same time I was enjoying a beer with friends at a favorite pub of mine. And as I was sipping my beer, admiring the tumultuous rainfall and watching the street fill up like a swimming pool, I noticed the water slowly rising around my car.

Ten minutes later the water peaked and within thirty minutes the streets were relatively clear. My car, however, had about a half inch of water sloshing about the floor on the passenger side of the car.

After shop-vaccing out what water I could (approximately one quart), the next three days found my car parked in the garage with the windows, doors, and sunroof open as I tried to dry the carpet. The sloshing noise and musty smells are rather annoying.

The rain gauge at Jackson Acre has recorded about four inches of rain over the last six days. The swamp in the back yard has returned and the mosquitoes are quietly gathering forces. The sump pump’s been pretty steady, going off every minute for the last three weeks.

In fact, the sump pump’s not slowed down at all yet this spring. Typically not a good sign. An even worse sign is when your sump pump decides to die when it’s been going off every minute. This happened last night.

The backup sump pump kept up with the flow of water long enough for me to pull the dead pump out of the pit and put the old pump (the one that was here when we bought Jackson Acre! Who knows how old that thing is?!) back in. I tightened all the hose clamps and we were back in business.

Fortunately, my sump pump has a lifetime warranty, and this is the second pump that will be replaced under that warranty. But I can’t return it to Home Depot (blatant plug!) until tomorrow, so here’s hoping the old pump can keep up. Late last night (or early this morning, depending on your perspective) I thought maybe the old pump had died, too.

It was about 2:30 (AM!) when the neighbor’s Great Dane began barking hysterically, waking me up out of my usual fitful sleep. I laid there for a moment, waiting to hear the sump pump, to make sure all was still well, when I heard a strange gurgling noise as the pump went off.

Strange. It’s never sounded like that before.

I kept listening, waiting to see if it still sounded like that when it went off again. I waited, waited, waited, and … more gurgling.

Not good. Especially at 2:30 in the morning.

So I ran downstairs, expecting the worst, and almost found it.

Water was spraying like a geyser out of the sump pit, drenching the basement floor and everything else nearby. I looked down into the pit of Hell and saw that a hose clamp had broken off the pipe coming out of the pump. And every time the pump went off, half the water sprayed around the pipe, not up the pipe.

And it sprayed all over my legs, in addition to everything else nearby.

Ten soggy minutes and one new hose clamp later, the problem was solved.

The neighbor’s Great Dane, however, was still barking hysterically.

So not only does my own puppy wake me up at all kinds of ungodly hours, so does the neighbor’s dog!

Wondering when I’ll ever get a good night’s sleep!

Mugs 4 Ideas!

Light news from Jackson Press tonight.

I do believe a general lack of sleep is beginning to catch up with us, here at Jackson Acre.

Lack of sleep, you ask? Always poking your nose into things, aren’t you?

Yes, we’ve found it a bit hard to actually find a good night’s sleep around here lately. New sleep patterns and all, partially because of the new puppy, partially because it’s summer, and partially because the universe is secretly screwing with me.

You see, the first reason for our general tiredness (not quite tired enough to call it exhaustion) is due to our new Bowflex. We’ve started our Bowflex exercise routine, striving to reach that Bowflex body we’ve seen in all those commercials. Now we’re already probably in the best shape we’ve ever been in, even better than when we were twenty years younger, primarily because of all the drinking, smoking, and carousing done in our misspent youth. There’s a whole lot less carousing going on these days.

And there are several other factors contributing to our general lack of energy. Let me paint a picture of a typical night. First, we finally get to bed about midnight, after making sure the puppy has gone out for a final night-night potty. We usually lie awake for about twelve minutes, filled with dread over the thought of going in to work the next day.

About 3:30, the backup sump pump alarm will go off, always for no apparent reason and always loudly. It goes off so often around here that it’s a little like the boy who cried wolf. I don’t think the wife even hears it anymore. Last night the sump pump took the night off, so it’s role was covered by the dead batteries in the carbon monoxide detector, chirping to inform me of their impending death.

By 4:30, the puppy has to pee again. Usually the wife takes her out, since I have to get up to go to work in two hours and need as much uninterrupted sleep as possible. Puppy always comes back a little frisky after draining her bladder, so it take another twenty minutes before she finally settles down to sleep.

At 5:30, the birds all around the house here on Jackson Acre all start chirping, singing, calling, cawing, and crowing. I’m quite amazed that they all start up at the same time. And they’re quite loud, so they wake me up and I have to groggily reach up and shut the window, so I can get another hour of uninterrupted sleep.

At 6:30, my alarm clock goes off and the first waves of dread start washing over me, followed quickly by my brain choosing some inane song to play over and over in my head. See our essay on “Fake Plastic Trees” from last year.

I’ve also found that eating something after 10PM tends to disturb my sleeping capabilities. It’s about 10:30 and I’m munching on Cheez-Its. I wonder what we’ll dream about tonight?

Cheez-It! Cheez-It!

Hammer and Nail

The Latest News From Jackson Press -

Well, severe weather is moving thru central Ohio as I write this, which means that all the local news channels are going “LIVE” as they preempt normal programming to deliver real-time, up-to-the-minute weather reports to everyone in Ohio.

They’re LIVE, people! LIVE!! It’s got to be important if they’re LIVE!!! Right?!

Well, what this really means is that the weathered talking heads will continue to tell us the same thing over and over, in only a handful of different ways, for the next three hours as we watch bad flashing graphics depicting actual weather conditions everywhere in the state! They’ve evidently forgotten that old and proven journalistic advice – tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them, then tell them what you told them. Then be done!

And I was so looking forward to that rerun of “Law & Order: SVU”!

Note – yes, I’m being facetious here. I’ve never suffered through an entire episode of Law& Order, as I’d rather watch something funny and slightly more uplifting on my television, instead of something “ripped straight from today’s headlines!” Today’s headlines are full of depressing tales about the sick and twisted deviants lurking in our populous. And until castration and public hangings are once again considered viable punishments, the deviants numbers will probably continue to grow. And, yes, I think the castrations should be public, too. And we could call for volunteers to perform the castrations! That’d bring out the deviants, wouldn’t it?

However, I digress. Back to the weather nutjobs.

Now the anchor for our local Fox news station is reporting on the weather, relieving the over-stimulated weatherman. Evidently it’s been a slow news day. He’s now telling me what to do if a tornado approaches, as if I never attended elementary school and practiced many, many tornado drills in my day. Hell, we still have tornado drills at work. And I find they are a great time to sneak out a fart or two amidst the cowering crowd, just to keep things entertaining!

Oh, and he’s advised me to leave my house trailer, should I be sitting in such a residence as I watch him prattle on. You know, house trailers as tornado magnets and all.

Thank God for Tivo, or at least for my Direct TV’s crappy equivalent. I’ve decided to take advantage of this lull in normal television programming to catch up on some motorcycle races stashed on my DVR (digital video recorder – the modern version of a VCR – video cassette recorder for those of you who might be a couple technology generations behind).

Well, I hear thunder in the distance and the talking heads are still excitedly chattering away about storm cells and rotations. Probably time to grab the weather radio, wind-up flashlight, some power bars, and the family, and head down to the basement to weather out the storm. I do believe the talking heads are advising us to huddle under the stairway, amongst all the dust bunnies and wolf spiders.

Or I could just let the kids and dogs stay asleep and step outside to enjoy Mother Nature’s light show.

Oh, and June 5th marks our second anniversary here at Jackson Press! Civil Servitude has entered the Terrible Twos!! Can we live up to the reputation?

Trying to not get struck by lightning whilst enjoying the lightning strikes!

Dirty Laundry

The Latest News From Jackson Press -

Well, we’re into June already! Where’d May go? Oh, that’s right - I turned 40 in May … the memory’s already starting to go.

Jackson Acre plans for June include completing our drainage project. I’m very excited! This should be the final step to our complete domination of drainage problems in Jackson Acre! And this should fix the bloody persistent sump pump!

I knew it was time to proceed with Phase 2 when I noticed how little water was now draining into the sump pit, maybe a drop every minute or so. This means the water table at Jackson Acre has finally dropped below the level of the sump drain pipes. It was finally time to excavate!

So today we dug! Or I should say, today I dug! This obsession with poor drainage at Jackson Acre is my folly and I will not subject my family members to helping me in this cause.

After an hour of digging I found the other pipe in our yard. And then the hole promptly filled up with water from the pipe. But now we know where the other source of the water saturating Jackson Acre is. All we need to do now is reroute the new pipe to the old pipe and - voila, problem solved.

Or so we’ll hope. We won’t really know until November when the winter rains start back up. But I have hope, that thing which causes we humans to march onward in the face of superior adversarial numbers, boldly making our way to certain doom.

On the puppy news front, I must report that I slipped up in my duties and the house is no longer poo/pee free. I wasn’t watching Daisy the other day when she sniffed her way into the family room and tinkled on the carpet. I managed to catch her before she saturated the carpet, but now she wanders over to that same spot whenever she has to potty and tries to go there first.

Actually, I’ve been thinking about doing the same thing myself.

On a related note, Ginger’s taken to vomiting first thing in the morning, usually around 5:00 AM. You know, a perfect hour when no one in the house is awake or even conscious. And then, out of a dead sleep, you hear the “hornking” noise, that unmistakable sound of a dog (or maybe a cat) trying hard to regurgitate whatever it is they still have in their stomach. Probably to eat again.

The act of Hornking sounds something like this - “hornk, gork, hornk, gork, hornk” and then the beast lets loose with a wet gagging sound as something sloppy hits the floor.

Fortunately, as soon as my subconscious mind hears the first hornk and jolts me awake, I know I have another three or four hornks before the vomit erupts. So far that’s been enough time to grab Ginger and carry her over to the tile floor in the bathroom.

And then she hornks up a vile looking concoction, thinks about licking it up again, then she goes back to bed. Oh the joys of having two dogs!

Hornking my way through life!

Forgotten Skills

The Latest News From Jackson Press -

Well, reality has officially changed at Jackson Acre.

We have now completely given our lives over to the puppy. Daisy’s existence here has restructured our entire schedules around her wakings and sleepings. We live to serve and entertain this amber little beast hiccupping her way around the house.

Daisy’s first night at home was relatively (and thankfully) uneventful, no accidental bowel movements (or BMs) or pee-pee in the bed (yes, both dogs are now sleeping in the bed with us). Daisy and the missus stepped out about 4:30AM for a little tinkle, which is to be expected, since Daisy’s bladder is about the size of a walnut, but no accidents in the house yet. Woo-hoo!!

One important thing I’d forgotten about newly minted puppies is how sharp their little needle teeth can be. Yesterday I noticed several fresh scratches and puncture marks on my left forearm. Looking like a right-handed heroin junkie who shoots up more often than breathes, I spent at least a minute trying to figure out what had happened to me and my arm.

I studied the haphazard array of track marks up and down my arm and considered the possibility that maybe I’d stumbled through some unfriendly shrub while doing yard work at Jackson Acre. Trying to determine which shrub was the likely culprit so I could hack it to the ground this weekend, my train of thought was rudely interrupted when young Daisy bounded up to me and promptly bit my big toe.

Mystery solved!

Having an eight-week-old puppy in one’s house is a perfect reminder (or practice) of what it’s like to take care of a new baby. Forget living your own life in your own house at your own pace; you’re now a slave to when the little one wants to eat, wants to sleep, needs to poo or go potty, wants to play. Human or canine, they’re all the same basic needs. And while neither infant nor puppy can speak, both do lots of whining in between BMs.

In fact, safeguarding the house for a puppy is a lot like safeguarding for a baby. I would challenge anyone to tell the difference. For example, one must make sure the basement door stays shut so the baby doesn’t fall down the steps. One must be careful not to step on the baby. One must keep the baby from chewing on the laptop cord and electrocuting itself. One must keep the baby from pooping on the floor. One must keep the baby from rolling in the poop on the floor. One must keep the baby from eating the poop on the floor. I’m sure you’ll agree the similarities are uncanny!

Right now the amber blur is resting in momma’s lap, on the couch next to big sister Ginger. We’ll see how long that lasts.

Rolling in life’s poo and lovin’ it!

Mayoral Spectacles

The Latest News From Jackson Press -

Very busy weekend here at Jackson Acre!  Four days of extended excitement!!  Where to start?

Well, I took Friday off and that morning the missus and I went to pick out our new puppy.  More on that in a second.  Friday afternoon I helped my fifth-grade daughter’s class dissect squids.  Trust me when I tell you that cephalopods smell pretty bad on the inside.  However, that did not deter the fifth-graders from chopping and slicing away.  A great time was had by most!

Saturday was jammed packed.  First, I picked up a used Bowflex that I bought off a gentlemen on Craig’s List.  After six weeks I have no doubt that I will look like that one guy in the Bowflex commercial who’s 49, in the best shape of his life, and playing in a rock band!  I just need to start looking for my rock band!

Saturday afternoon was the family reunion at the in-laws that was fun and entertaining.  We then dashed from that to go spend a family evening at the movies.  We decided to make it a double-feature and see both “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” and “The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian”.  Four-and-a-half hours of Hollywood entertainment!  Indiana Jones was entertaining.  I’d give it three out of five stars.  I still think the first and third movies were better.  Prince Caspian was the better of two, with a slightly more developed storyline.

Sunday we rested.  At least until our poker game started in the early afternoon.  I tried to cut the grass, but my stupid tractor tire was flat again.  That’s all we did on Sunday.

On Monday we brought puppy home.  Very much like bringing a new baby home!  Make sure she doesn’t chew on the lamp cords, clean up the poo, and feed them every three hours.  The new baby’s name is Daisy (her official name is Jazzan Fandango Daisy) and she appears to be settling in nicely.  Ginger (Jazzan Ginger On My Mind) has been very good with the puppy so far, with no apparent jealousy.  We’ll see what happens tonight when we all go to bed.

I suspect I’ll be sleeping on the floor!

Wondering if it’s quieter in the doghouse?

Bidding for Vision

The Latest News From Jackson Press - Mediocrity in government.

Isn’t mediocrity the norm? Is there a such thing as excellence in government? Personally, I think excellence in government is a myth. And mediocrity in government has been the inspiration for Civil Servitude for these last few years, so I can’t treat it too badly. It has served me well.

The longer I work for the “gubmint”, the more I believe in my theory that government attracts mediocrity. My theory goes like this: government tends to not have the best pay or benefits, and the work is generally not overly rewarding, often thankless. And in government, the usual reward for a job well done is often more work. This quickly becomes an excellent disincentive to excel in any way within government.

That said, I firmly believe that many people working in “gubmint”, who have both talent and ambition, eventually leave government once they’ve had enough of government’s BS. The thinking behind this theory goes something like this – those who can leave, who have the ability to leave for greener pastures and better opportunities, will leave. Capability leaves; mediocrity remains.

And eventually even the middling stragglers working for “gubmint”, the ones not quite good enough to get away, the ones too slow to escape the net or too dumb to avoid the trap, they, too, eventually get discouraged and aggravated at the whole mediocre system. And so the entire system then devolves to a lower overall level of quality. So we muddle onward, delivering lackluster service, wasting money, skirting ethics and otherwise upholding the grand stereotype that is your impression of “gubmint.”

Now to those of you working for “gubmint”, like me, I wish to apologize for possibly offending your capability and/or ambitions. I do not wish to disparage your reasons for working for government, whether you’ve worked there a year or thirty years. All I can speak to is my own experience here and that is what I’m poking fun at. I’d like to think that, at one time, I actually had both talent and some small measure of ambition.

But I’m basically lazy, so “gubmint” work is the right pace for me – unhurried, relatively low stress, long deadlines. Laziness fits well into “gubmint” work, so I’m right at home there. In fact, I think laziness could play a major role in my mediocrity theory. Laziness could be considered a lack of ambition, but I’m not ambitious enough to bother following this train of thought.

In fact, we’ll conclude this discussion later. I’ve put in enough effort for one day. Plus, I’m going to be dissecting squids with my fifth-grade daughter’s class on Friday, so I need to go sharpen my knife!  Mmmmm, calamari! 

Mediocre and sort of proud of it!