The password to my soul!!

I recently found a piece of paper taped to my front door, which asked my daughter to introduce one of the incoming Beehives at New Beginnings. A list of questions was provided to help my daughter get to know the girl better.

I did a double take at question number six:

What are her five worst qualities?

Como say what?

My daughter and I brainstormed about the possible objectives of revealing each new Beehive's worst qualities.

"Maybe it's so we can all help them strengthen their weaknesses," my daughter suggested.

"I'm sure that's it," I replied. I mean what better way to motivate improvement than give a bunch of teenage girls and their parents the password to your soul?

"Maybe it's one of those trick questions!" I said. "Like they ask at job interviews."

Everyone knows that if you want a job you must disguise your best qualities as your worst qualities, right? It's an easy skill to learn. Alls you have to do is take one of your strengths and add the word "too" in front of it. I'm too organized, too dedicated, too efficient and I work too hard. I give compliments too easily and I care too much about customer satisfaction.

Those kind of weaknesses will land you a job every time.

I taught my hub this during the early days of our marriage by laying awake at night asking him to list things I could improve on in order to make him love me more.

"I don't know," he'd say. "Maybe, stop picking me up late from work. Or get me a drink of water while you're up. Or maybe peel the potatoes before you mash them."

He soon discovered that if he wanted to fall asleep any time soon, alls he had to say was, "you are too pretty, it's distracting. And you keep the house too clean. Plus you're too frugal. I'd love you more if you spent more money."

See what I mean?

I just read through my college journals over the weekend and if you asked the guy I was kinda dating to introduce me at New Beginnings he would have said:

1. She's a stubborn little cus.

2. She can't read my mind worth beans.

3. She overreacts when I burp at the dinner table.

4. She thinks her opinion trumps my opinion.

5. She's in love with a missionary.

I had totally forgotten that he was the one who revealed these particular weaknesses to me. (You have no idea how close I was to sending him a thank you note on Facebook.)

While we're on the subject of my 1987 weaknesses, after reading my journals, I could reveal more.

May I?

1. She's dumb.

2. Her eyeballs sweat A LOT!

3. She abuses the exclamation point MAJOR!! Not to mention the underline and the Capital.

4. She uses the words Marvelous and Neat out of context.

5. She has Alzheimer's.

I could also reveal the trick answers:

She's too gutsy, too determined, too curious and too optimistic. Her testimony is too strong. She has too many friends and too many dreams. She worries too much about her family, and is too in love with her missionary.

I speak in the third person because I don't know this girl from Adam.

I did see the seeds of the Crash Test Dummy in her, however. For example one night I went into New York City with four friends to watch an Air Supply concert at Radio City Music Hall. On the way home we got silly and started singing Even the Nights are Better at the top of our lungs down Broadway. My comment in my journal?

"I'm surprised we didn't get Raped or Shot!!"

Can you see the headlines now?

Small town girls get Raped and Shot while singing Air Supply down the streets of New York City!! Shoulda known bettah girls! Fo' Reals!!

In another entry I was at Hanes Point in Washington D.C. expressing my desire to be a person of color: (Btw, the following is an exact translation, word for word, capital for capital, exclamation point for exclamation point)

"Sometimes I wish I was black. It would be so fun!! They have so much style. They just Jive and groove!! They have personality. They have Soul!!"

Like I said before, I don't know this girl from Adam.

I do however know her from Adam-ondi-Ahmen. This girl was into church history MAJOR!! And during a trip to Palmyra she was quite star struck to be walking where Joseph smith had walked:

"Wow!! I couldn't believe I was actually standing in the home where Joseph Smith received revelation from the Angel Moroni, and where he translated the Golden Plates, and where he ate breakfast even!! WOW!!"

As you can see, my comedic timing was quite well developed, even at the tender age of 20.

Okay, now that I've spilled my guts I can see the benefits of publicly disclosing your worst qualities. It actually feels kinda . . . liberating exposing my weaknesses.

Okay, you now have the password to my soul. Go easy.

I mean, Go easy!!

P.S. I just found out that question six was a typo. Oops. Never mind. You can forget that password now.

Only God Can Make a Tree

It's Sunday again and I am finally going to take an opportunity to wax religical.

Remember a few posts ago when I talked about how I can read sign language from the Universe? And then I interpreted that sign for you about how you shouldn't remove trees from the frisbee golf course because "This course was DESIGNED with the OBSTACLES in mind."

Well I had conflicting feelings about that advice. I mean, should you, or should you not remove obstacles in your path? On the one hand doesn't that show a certain amount of strength and courage and determination to remove the things that trip you up? Like say for instance addictions, indulgences, temptations . . .

You get me?

Like Devil-made-me-do-it kinda obstacles?

But then the Universe spoke to me again last Saturday. It was pouring rain and my family was hunkered down around the fire eating homemade rolls and watching Groundhog Day.

And . . . And . . . And . . .

At the very end when Bill Murray is reading Joyce Kilmer poetry to Andie MacDowell as she drifts off to sleep, he suddenly paused and looked right through the camera at me before he spoke the last line, ". . . but only God can make a tree."

But only God can make a tree . . .

Aha!

I get it now.

There are obstacles, and then there are OBSTACLES.

There are traps and the landmines set out by the dark side to keep us from ever finishing the course, but only God can make a TREE . . . and deliberately put it in your way . . . for his own mysterious purposes . . .

You follow?

I bet I'm somebody's tree.

Call a spade a spade!

I was going to post on Sunday so l could wax religical, but instead I'll just tell you about my life.

My daughter got asked to the Winter Waltz on Thursday--four weeks early! It used to be called the Sweethearts Ball, but the students were complaining that they felt pressure to ask someone they actually liked, so the administration changed the rhetoric.

In my day we went to dances with people we were attracted to. And we liked it like that. Nowadays if you get asked to a dance, you can rest assured your date doesn't like you. And if you get asked four weeks early, there's a good chance he hates your guts.

The guy who asked her . . . let's just say she once threw a pie in his face. That might be why he hates her guts. She has high dating standards like that. If she can throw a drumstick or a tennis ball or cake batter at you, you are worthy to ask her out.

She's not the only one with high dating standards around here either. Everyone's got 'em. I once teased my Laurel's president that she needed a boyfriend and she scolded me for going against the proper authorities and trying to lead her down a path of destruction.

That's when I realized how much she really did need a boyfriend.

But we can't blame the teenagers. They're just doing what we say, and not what we did. And I think they're just saying what we say too.

On the bright side, we are teaching them how to wear the necessary masks and use the necessary rhetoric to face what lies ahead of them. Or should I say, to dodge what lies ahead of them.

Anyways, my 15-year-old has a girlfriend. But not the kind that goes against the proper authorities because he never actually uses the word girlfriend--he can't call a spade a spade. (Neither can my 13-year-old.)

His friends call her his "chica"--at least that's how they introduced me to her behind his back and against his will and without his consent while he was in the locker room after a recent basketball game.

I like her. She's nice. And cute. And she calls me Debbie. I'm not sure how to break it to her that my name is Dummy, but usually people figure that out on their own.


Over the weekend my son mentioned to us that he told his "chica" we are weird. Sooo weird is the way he phrased it, I believe.


"That's great," said my hub to me later as I was climbing into bed trying to pinpoint what evidence our son has against us. "I'm glad he told her."

That's all my hub could say. As if it was a compliment! As if he was genuinely thrilled that we are out of the closet.


My hub has no energy for masks. And rhetoric shmetoric. To him a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

(Granted, he doesn't have the most developed sense of smell. I mean to him weird smells the same as cool. As does odd, peculiar and strange.)

I tried to take my hub's approach, but I eventually got up enough gumption to tiptoe into my son's room while he was sleeping and confront him.

"Why do you think I'm weird? Huh? Huh? Huh?" I said. "I mean, I get why you might mistake your dad for a looney toon, but what about me? Is it because I don't read your texts or stalk you on Facebook? Is it because I don't give you a curfew? Just tell me if it is because I can give you a curfew. Don't think I can't. It's just that you're always home before midnight and . . ."

"Let him be," called my hub from the other room. "It's great he thinks we're weird."

"Is it because I carried you around inside me for 9 months then gave you life? That was a little strange, I confess. Or is it because I spend several hours a day cleaning your house and cooking your food and doing your laundry and driving you around and watching your basketball games and filming your basketball games? Or is it because I buy my own sweaters back from D.I. so I'll have enough money to buy your Nike socks? Is it? Is it? Is it? Huh? Huh? Huh?"

The more I talked, the clearer it became that he was right. I am off my rocker.

"No," he finally grunted. "It's because you leave the cap off the toothpaste."

{{{pregnant pause}}}

"That's not weird," I told him. "That's gross." And then I loosened his neck from the headlock and went back to bed.

See what I mean? Kids these days don't know how to call a spade a spade.

Another message brought to you by The Universe

You know how I told you that I have the power to attract sweaters into my life that didn't work for me the first time? Well as it turns out that sweater is working nicely for me the 2nd time.

I guess sometimes you have to give something away, then buy it back, before you can fully appreciate it.

It's called second chances, peeps! Even sweaters need them.

I have other powers too. The ability to read sign language, for instance. From the universe.

I can also speak in code, and am fluent in Code Red.

Signs and code from the universe usually come in the form of fortune cookies, pop music, or spaghetti noodles on the ceiling, but they can also be delivered through everyday events. Take last Saturday, for instance; I called my mom while driving to the Provo Library to hear Haven Kimmel speak. We were just talk talk talking when suddenly she said, "Where are you?" and I said, "I'm right behind Provo High," and she said, "Oh my gosh, so am I."

We were both sitting at the same light, but going in opposite directions! What are the chances?

I took it as a friendly reminder that when it comes to relationships, sometimes you're like two ships passing in the night, and other times you're like two cars passing in the day.

That wasn't the only message I received last week. Check out this sign I came across in the weed fields where I take Lulu for her run: (located next to a Frisbee golf course)

Tree and obstacle removal is not only illegal; it defeats the purpose of disc golf.

Okay, so The Universe doesn't have a perfect command of the semi-colon, but the message rings true.

Trees are a bit of a mystery--how they offer us oxygen and shade and shelter and fruit and flowers and paper. Plus they smell sweet and they're fun to climb on and look at and carve your initials into. But then sometimes they can really cramp your style, you know. Especially when you're trying to chuck a frisbee around them.

Sometimes you don't want their shade or their shelter, you just want them to get out of your way and stop making a mess on your lawn.

You get me?

But removing a tree just because it's hard to get around? I confess I've entertained the notion myself from time to time, but I have found that just because a tree is gone doesn't mean it's gone.

Ever heard of phantom trees?

Me neither, but I've heard of a haunted forrest.

So next time you get the urge to go all George Washington on your cherry tree, remember that this course was designed with the obstacles in mind.

That's code for: Can't get over it. Can't get under it. Gotsta go through it, baby.

Gotsta go through it.

P.S. If you leave your credit card # in my comment box I'll send you my Crash Test Dummy secret decoder ring.

Wow! Just Wow!

So I washed my hair and now I'm just regular ol' me again.

My Haven Kimmel daze ain't as much fun with curly hair and sweats, (especially when I'm doing dishes and laundry) but I'm still basking in the afterglow of meeting the author of A Girl Named Zippy.

In fact I've been inspired. To write a book. A Girl Named Dummy. What do you think?

I haven't been this inspired since I read Julie and Julia and started my cooking blog called Dumb and Dumber. Remember that? Unfortunately I threw in the towel after two weeks because my kids thought everything I made tasted like air freshener.

So guess what I finally did today? Saw Breaking Dawn. If I were a Brit I would say that movie is a bloody mess, but I'm an American and we like our romance messy in America--give or take a few pints of blood.

Honestly? Can I tell you honestly what I thought? Honestly, honestly, honestly? I was honestly shocked! Stephanie Myer shocked my socks off. Stephanie Myer, you spin my head round, baby. Like a record.

I was prepared for the predictable. Even though I haven't read the books, I wasn't born yesterday and I don't live under a rock and I'm not fresh off the boat. I knew there would be vows and after vows. (And how!) I knew the consequences of those after vows--first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage. And I knew Edward was going to bite and Bella was going to sparkle.

But HOW in the WORLD did I MISS the memo that Jacob was going to hook up with Edward and Bella's baby daughter, Renesmee? !?! Holy friggin' snap!

First of all, COMO SAY WHAT?????

Second of all, Renesmee? Really? Seriously? Really? Steph, remember Spiderman? With great power comes great responsibility? Ring a bell? Do you not realize how many Renesmee's will be born in in 2012 in the state of Utah alone?

But whatever! The point is Jacob put his imprint on Renesmee.


Four words: Whatchu talkin' bout Phyllis!?

I didn't see that one coming. Granted I wasn't looking, but I really didn't see that one coming!

Hats off to Stephanie Myer. Bravo, girlfriend. I bow to your brilliance.

And hats off to you peeps--and to the rest of the world--for keeping that cat in the bag for me. Did you guys do that on purpose? Because WOW! Just WOW! I feel like I've been punked. Or flash-mobbed. Or Truman-showed. I mean, that was the greatest dramatic irony ever.

High Five.

Down low.

Too slow.

(HA! Gotcha!)

(But seriously, I'm kinda hurt that no one told me.)

My Haven Kimmel Daze (and have you seen my hair?)

You know how you're just going along, ho-dee-do, la-dee-da, and all of a sudden, BAM, you get to rub shoulders with one of your favorite authors?

Well that happened to me today.

Haven Kimmel, baby! At the Provo Public library.

As soon as I got wind that she was going to be the keynote speaker of their literacy symposium I rushed to the library to get me a golden ticket.

Unfortunately they wouldn't give me one because I don't live in Provo.

"But I was raised in Provo!" I told the librarian.

She shook her head.

"But I'm a Bulldog, I promise! I can prove it!" I said as I pulled my pom pons from my purse and started stomp/clapping, We are the bulldogs! We are the best! And WE. WILL. CON. QUER!

"You won't be conquering today because these tickets are for Provo. Residents. Only." she replied.

"But, but, but, I used to skip classes all the time to hide out in your bathroom and read Nancy Drew. Please, please, pretty please,"

"Do you STILL have your library card?" said the librarian.

Sometimes your fate depends on something as simple as a library card. Ever notice that? But I wasn't about to let fate box me out. It's true I no longer have a Provo library card, but I know someone who does. My MIL. It expired in 1971, but they gave her a golden ticket anyway after she explained that she hadn't been to the library since then on account of her freezer being full of romance novels she's trying to finish.

I knew she would come in handy one day.

All due credit to my MIL for getting me in to the symposium, and to Jana Parkin for telling me about it, and to DeNae Handy for coming along.

But mostly all hail to one of my very first blog buddies, I am LoW for turning me on to Haven Kimmel with this darling memior:

LoW, to show my appreciation, I got you a signed copy of the sequel:

Here is Haven Kimmel herself signing it:

Eeeeeeeeee! That's me next to her.

(And gee, does my hair look terrific or what?) (Seriously, it could almost pass for a wig.) (Mahalo to Andrea at Dyson Studio in American Fork.)

The best part of the day, besides DeNae getting into a fist fight with Haven Kimmel over the future of Kindle, oh, and besides the artichoke dip, was this little family I adopted. The whole famdamily came out to meet Haven because they had all listened to her books on tape together.

Is that the coolest thing you've ever heard? (And how about my hair?) (Mahalo Andrea!)

They could quote Zippy almost as well as they could quote Nacho Libre.

That's my kind of famdamily.

As if the day wasn't exciting enough, I ran into my creative writing teacher from back and back and back.

For the record, he was also Melanie J's teacher (although I think he preferred me). Sorry MJ. You may have great shoes, but have you seen my hair?

My Mental Breakthrough

My hub and I grew up in the same town, went to the same schools, had the same skin color, and wore the same religion under our sleeves.

Enough to form a more perfect union? Ya think?

Except when we don't speak the same love language--his being, "Are you sure you don't want to do something that makes more money?" and mine being, "Are you positive you want to wear that Red Raider t-shirt AGAIN?"

It's a good thing we both speak sign language so we can let our fingers do the talking once in a while.

Luckily our attitudes and platitudes about little things like religion, politics, money, education, and family have been in harmony throughout our marriage. But the big things have tripped us up from time to time.

Like food.

We both pretty much like the same foods, it's just that our families don't agree on the amount of time we should spend eating them.

A few days ago, for instance, I met some of my family members for lunch at Sizzler. I was 20 minutes late. It works to my advantage to be 20 minutes late when meeting my in-laws for lunch because they will still be nursing their salads, but arriving 20 minutes late when meeting my family means I'm just in time for dessert.

Our families don't agree on the pomp and circumstance surrounding food either. In my family the rules are simple and straight forward: when you want to eat, you eat, and when you don't want to eat, you don't. No one notices or comments one way or the other.

In my hub's family, you eat at appropriated times, and when you get permission, and when there is enough for everyone. If you don't conform to these protocols, or if you eat too much of one thing and not enough of another, it is observed and noted and you can expect a write-up about it in the family newsletter.

Same breed, yet I be raised in the jungle and he be raised in the zoo.

See how tricky perfect unions can be?

When my family gets together, no one asks, "where do you want to eat?" because the answer will inevitably be, "I already ate," or "I'm not hungry." When my hub's family gets together, asking where we should eat is a given and results in a two hour discussion about each restaurant suggestion with its accompanying coupon options. In rare instances they have even been known to drive to various locations to check out various buffets before deciding on Burger King.

Some people have longer food foreplay than others.

Not being rude, just sayin'.

In my family when we are done eating, we are done, which sends a signal to our brains that it's time to move on to the next activity. In my hub's family, the next activity is waiting. For everyone else. To finish eating. The person who finishes eating last holds the most power in the family.

In my family the person who finishes eating first holds the most power. That person is free to get up from the table and leave if they so desire. They don't even have to excuse themselves or say goodbye, which is exactly what my Gigi did at Sizzler. She bolted. As quickly as any 90-year-old wearing skinny jeans can bolt with a walker.

And I thought 40 was liberating!

Watching my Gigi get up from the table and leave simply because she was finished eating and ready to go home made me long for the day when I am 90 and rude is the new cute.

It's not as cute when I do it at Chuck-a-Rama, or Golden Corral, or Magelby's.

Oh, who am I kidding. I never get up and bolt. Instead I watch my MIL take a dainty bite from one of her three pieces of cake, put her fork down, and begin telling a story from her childhood.

"When I was a little girl, Mother made me pick strawberries to pay for my Jantzen sweaters," she might say," or "I bet you never heard about the time I stole my neighbors red wagon."

Without fail, after I begin beating my head against the table, she will add, "No really, it's true! It's the only thing I ever stole in my life!"

"Besides my sanity, you mean?" Reply my eyeballs.

Point is, I had a mental breakthrough while watching my Gigi bolt across Sizzler. Maybe eating patterns are genetic. Maybe I'm not rude, after all. Maybe my family is rude. And maybe my hub's not annoying either. Maybe his family is annoying.

Can't wait to tell my hub!

Arise . . . sniff . . . Arise

OMGOSH! My ex-door neighbor Martha just sent me the link to the 2012 Strength of Youth theme song. I must share it because it features all my homies from da hood in da kine Laie.

(Dang! Is it just me or does my pidgin sound kinda rusty?)





And in case you were wondering, NO, this video did not make me homesick AT all!




(Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!)


But it did make me sad that I'm no longer YW Prez because now I have no one to show it off to while pointing and shouting, "oooh! I know her!" ooooh! oooooh! oooooh! I know him. oooh! been there. oooh done that!"

Gigi

Remember a year ago when I started crying at JoAnn Fabrics because they have so many company policies?

It was that same day that my Gigi had that severe stroke? The very same Gigi who, no lie, was struck by lightening three times during her childhood.

Remember how I started seeing my tub as half empty for a while after that?

Well, after several miserable months of not being able to do puzzles or watch Jeopardy, she kinda recovered and then she fell and broke her ankle so she went into rehab for several more miserable months, where she couldn't even eat Burger King, and then she had surgery to install a pace maker . . .

And then . . .

And then . . .

And then . . .

She magically recovered. All the back to normal. Plus.

She's even better than before, peeps. Sharper. Wittier. Cleverer. And she does puzzles again. And goes out for Whoppers on Wednesdays.

And she just turned 90 years old!

Doesn't look a day over 80, does she!

Must be all that electricity running through her veins.

Happy Birthday Gigi!

LY!

P.S. I'm trying to talk my hub into giving me permission to exploit him with that viral video. Fingers crossed!

Special Gifts

I wonder if Thomas Kinkade ever felt bloated? You know, sitting in one of his cozy cottages eating figgy pudding in front of a roaring fire?



Do you think he ever thought to himself, dang my life would be pert near perfect if only I wasn't so bloated.

And if only I hadn't accidentally bought my son Madden 12 for the Wii instead of for the Xbox 360.

And if only I hadn't grabbed two left shoes when I bought him his new Vans.

And don't even get me started about the briefs instead of boxers.

In my last post I told you that this year I was going to wrap up the things my kids didn't do and put them under the tree, like bags of leaves they didn't rake, and boxes of dirty dishes they didn't put away, etc, etc, etc, but what goes around comes around, you know. I ended up wrapping a few of the things I didn't do as well, like check to make sure the Madden 12 was for the Xbox 360 and the Vans had one of each foot, and the briefs were actually boxers instead of briefs.

Do you think Thomas Kinkade ever forgot to do things like that while he was roasting his chestnuts on his open fire?

Prob not, because these are the things that can threaten an otherwise happy cottage on Christmas morning.

But they are also the things that can teach our children important lessons about life.

If you think about it, we all come into this world with gifts, right? Special gifts. Maybe they aren't exactly what we asked for, like the wrong gaming system, or two left feet, or briefs instead of boxers, but it's what we do with our special gifts that counts.

At least that's what I told my son before I told him DEAL WITH IT, dude!

I'm pretty sure that's what the big guy upstairs would have told me if I was pouting over my special gifts. You don't see me whining because I'm dumb. No, I embrace it. I celebrate it. Just the other day I bought a sweater at D.I. that happened to be the same sweater I donated to D.I. two months ago. Did I cry? Of course not. No sense crying over recycled sweaters. That's what I always say. Even if you have to pay for them. Twice.


I look at my gift as a mutation. Some mutants can read minds, or spit fire, or walk through walls. I attract sweaters into my life that didn't work for me the first time. And I pay for them.


What my son decided to do with his special gifts was have me return them, which just goes to show that some people would rather wear boxers than learn about life.


Other than that my Christmas was great. My favorite special gift of the season was from my neighbor, Myken who brought me this clock:

I loved it so much that I making it my Dummy Blog Motto.

I know I made a New Years resolution that this year I am going to change my personal word from Whatever to Improve, but I haven't started improving yet. Mostly because I've been so busy not improving. But I will start improving . . . tomorrow.

I promise I will start improving tomorrow.

If you look at my blog it kinda looks like I've been improving, but this little makeover is just the tip of the iceburg, peeps. I haven't even started scratching the surface of labeling and organizing all 925 posts, and describing myself in a nutshell.

Get it? Nutshell. (no pun intended.)


It's just that I can't believe how much you can get done when you're not improving. The amount of addictions you can pick up over the holidays alone is breathtaking. Sleeping in, for instance. And watching movies. And eating leftovers. And not doing laundry. Not doing laundry is like the crack cocaine of domestic don't do's.


It's too bad they don't make paper clothes like they make paper plates.


Thanks to my children I'm also addicted to American Pickers and Storage Wars and Pawn Stars and Finding Bigfoot and Gold Rush and, of course, Celebrity Ghost Stories.


Btw, have you ever noticed that celebrities have better ghost stories than the rest of us? Why is that? Ghosts seem to reveal themselves to celebrities, while the rest of us have to settle for a cold chill and a case of the heebie jeebies. Celebrities, they get choked by their ghosts or levitated. Their ghosts text them and play their pianos. But the only attention we get from our ghosts is an occasional bout of nausea or a footstep across a creaky stair.

Not that I blame them, but I resent the fact that celebs always have it so much better. Not only do they get better jobs and better cars and better body parts, but they also get better ghosts!?

And they have better Nightmares too. Ever watched Celebrity Nightmares? And better rehab. Ever watch Celebrity Rehab? And whaddaya bet that after watching Celebrity Wife Swap tomorrow they'll have better spouses too.

But that's neither here nor there.

My latest and greatest addiction of the season is Just Dance 3 on the Kinnect. Not the dancing part, but the watching my hub dancing part. Let's just say I've lost control of at least one bodily function while ROTFLMHeadO.


He could go viral peeps. I'm telling you, HE. COULD. GO. VIRAL. And I have the video to prove it. If I didn't respect his dignity and privacy so darn much I would upload it faster than you could say ex. ploy. tation.

Or ex. hus. band.


Too bad I respect his dignity and privacy so darn much.


(Told ya I was dumb.)