Where's my damn trophy?

It's after 10PM SMT (Standard Maven Time. Duh.) and the kids have all been fast asleep for two hours. They got their baths, a nutritious snack, some warm milk and their favourite bedtime stories. We followed the exact same schedule we always do, give or take five minutes. I have that strong of a commitment to my children. It breeds security, you know.

...

....

Right.

Let's take it back to reality for a minute, shall we?

It's just after 10PM. I got home at 9:30 from an AA meeting. The kids were in their pajamas thanks to my husband, who was learning AC/DC songs on his electric guitar. Spawnling was throwing a football repeatedly and shouting 'Boom!' as it hit the floor. Gutsy and Intrepid had made 'ninja training dummies' with some of their clothing and pillows and stood them up with both my mops (yes, I have two. No, they are not used regularly). They were fighting them and making loud sounds no self-respecting ninja would be caught making.

Geekster left to meet a friend for coffee as I got home. The bedtime torch was passed to me. This is when I would have loved to do all the things I mentioned above in Imaginary Village.

Instead I ordered tooth brushing and couch lounging and put The Simpsons Movie on. I am not proud to say that at almost 10:30PM, only 1/3 of the Torrential Trio is asleep.

I'm still waiting for them to give me my Mother of the Year trophy, but I guess the mail's been slow what with Christmas and all.

Frankly, I don't have it in me tonight to fight with bedtime. It's Friday. We have no plans tomorrow. Everyone can sleep in, right?

I spent part of this evening letting go off an old friend. Bad Choice Girl used to be my best friend. It's so strange to think about that now. She's taken a turn in life that I just don't understand. I kept waiting for her to smarten up and be herself again. Apparently who I knew wasn't who she really is, because it's been over two years and she's still making life decisions I can't respect or condone. And this is me. The Maven. The one in a 12 step program that thrives on acceptance of others. Live and Let Live, the program says. I try. I'm not always successful but I try. I guess that's what I'm doing though. I'm living and I'm letting her live. We're not not living in the same social circle anymore. We haven't in years, but now it's official.

It was like writing a breakup letter. It was awful. I was nervous and sad and wishing it didn't have to come to this; that I didn't have to finally accept that she's never coming back. But I need to weed out the anxiety-producing situations in my life that I have control over. This fits neatly in that category because I don't have to be her friend and I don't have to watch her self-destruct. And thankfully I can still see her beautiful children and lend support to their dad, because he doesn't have a choice in dealing with that situation like I do.

Stupid drama. I hate drama. It really sucks. I avoid it like the plague, you know. It used to be kind of interesting and even secretly fun, but now it just blows sleazy goats and fills my limited brain power to the max with things other than what I should be focusing on, like my kids.

Speaking of my kids, we nearly have 2/3 of them asleep now. Mother of the year I am not, but I did do one thing right today: I let go of an unhealthy situation that was causing resentment and taking the focus off of what really matters in my life. My tired, going-to-be-a-menace-tomorrow-and-it's-all-my-fault gremlins.

I think I might need to 'run some errands' tomorrow. Yeah. Without the kids.

So I don't get a trophy for parenting or friendship, but I should get one for being real and honest. Well, if you ignore the first paragraph of this post, anyway. Pipe dreams don't count.

Meat-tastic Maven

While Geekster is shuffling his way through the crawlspace to figure out where the cold water pipe for the washer hookup is broken, Gutsy and Intrepid have adopted toddler Spawnling into their Harry-Potter-meets-ninja-training-school game upstairs in their bedrooms.

I should feel guilty that I'm sitting at my computer, but I don't. What else am I supposed to do? Well, other than clean up and possibly plan dinner.

Urge to feel guilty is slowly rising.

Slight problem with the dinner making thing: Geekster has recently decided to take up his old hobby of vegetarianism again. Why is this a problem? Because my children sort of don't really kinda like most vegetables. It makes planning meals a bitch.

**(Resuming this post now that dinner is long over with and I have some actual computer time again)**

Planning meals is already a bitch, ok? If I were organized and used my crock pot more often this wouldn't be as much of a problem, but I'm lazy and forgetful. I cook at the last possible minute by throwing ingredients at a cutting board and hoping the multiple perishable explosions will create something along the lines of cosmic perfection, like the Big Bang theory. Milky Way Casserole or what have you.

My secret ingredient to curb the yawn factor of these less-than-wonderful meals? Meat. Tasty, tender meat. Flu-drenched chicken, mad cowed beef, slop-fed pork... There's always something slaughtered waiting in the butcher's aisle to make my disaster somewhat less disastrous. Now Geekster had to get all green on me and want to save the planet, one veggie burger at a time. No more guilt over what Bessy's last thought was before she was turned into last night's roast. He's going meatless, baby.

But you know what? I'm not.

Oh, sure. I see his points and I admire them and I respect them. I just love bacon too much to completely give it up. Besides, he has two meals per day where he only has to worry about what he's going to eat. I have hungry gremlins for all three meals. Hungry gremlins with a hate-on for faux hotdogs and lentils. I keep trying and they keep ending up in the dog. There's only so much tofu a 10 pound canine can eat in her lifetime before she starts pooping sprouts.

Also, I appear to have low iron. Now is not the time for me to give up meat. Now is the time for me to eat more meat. A juicy steak, for example, prepared for me on one of my weekly child-free outings to a steakhouse, where I can ask for my regular and enjoy laughs with my girlfriends after a lengthly shop-a-thon.

Oh, sorry. Daydreaming a bit.

I've decided that if I am to survive his sudden return to the meatless masses (he was a vegetarian when we met) then we must reach some type of compromise. After several pouting and whining sessions, I received the following allowances:

• I can cook guilt-free meaty meals whenever I choose. He will eat the side dishes and make himself something protein-rich in replacement of the Roasted Babe.
• He will eat eggs and PCB-filled fish.
• I will sometimes make the kids a meaty meal (as I did tonight) and us a meat-free meal (well, we had veggie omelettes)
• Whenever possible, he will cook because he's much better at it and then I can watch Oprah. I say 'watch' because there's no way I'll be able to hear her over the fighting/screaming/chaos that inevitably goes on at dinnertime.

I accept those compromises and am really enjoying a lot of the food we're making. Although I somehow don't think cooking squash with butter and maple syrup will make my heart any happier.

There's always pilates.

Put this in your paper and smoke it

Ah, PMS week.

What I love best about being on the Baby-Free Pill is that I can detect with incredible accuracy when my most despised monthly visitor will arrive. Take today, for example:

I've been tired and guzzling down caffeine today. PMS.

I've been eating chocolate. PMS.

I can't believe the amount of acne on my forehead. You got it: PMS.

I'm feeling very opinionated today. PMS.

Well, maybe I can't entirely blame that one on hormones...

I was talking to a good friend of mine today, as I do virtually every day. Said friend and I have differences of opinion regularly. For example, she thinks spanking is an acceptable parenting tool. I think spanking can be an acceptable bedroom tool. She used the cry-it-out method with great success. I would be the one crying it out because I am a big wuss, which is one reason why I've never used that tool (and still have a toddler who wakes up virtually every evening, I might add *sigh*). She sometimes drinks her coffee cold and I consider that a mortal sin. You get where I'm going here.

And yet we've managed to great friends for years and years because we're both mature enough to agree to disagree.

Scrap that thought, actually. It's because she lets me rant on about my side of things and then politely changes the subject when I'm done and think I might actually have changed her mind, which I haven't but she's nice to let me believe that, even for a second.

She's mature. I'm The Maven. I'm funny when I get flustered and she's caught on to that, I think.

Anyway, today's topic really got me hot under the collar. Let me put it this way: You'd have a better chance convincing me that the earth is flat than convincing me that smoking pot with your teenager is a smart thing to do.

No. No. Freaking. Way.

And let me just state that my friend didn't do that with her imaginary teenager, she just thought there were advantages to doing it this way. "They're going to do it anyway, so why not where you can see them? Better than sneaking off somewhere doing God-knows-what witht heir friends."

Go ahead and agree with her. Go ahead. I know you very well might. I might even be a bit biased because I don't drink or use drugs at all, leaving the subject looking very black and white in my eyes.

But that's where you're wrong, too. It has nothing to do with that. Pot isn't the devil's grass burning a highway to hell for all who do it. Alcohol consumption does not always equal a trip to 12 step land. I get that, ok? But marijuana is illegal. And when you're rolling a fat one for your thirteen-year-old, you're telling them it's ok to break the law. You're telling them not to respect authority, as you sure as hell don't because look at what you're doing. Buying alcohol for minors is illegal. Getting minors intoxicated is illegal. You're breaking the law. You're pumping your child's young liver and kidneys full of toxins.

That's classy behaviour if I've ever seen it.

Forgive my opinion... ness.. But you might as well just take Junior out shoplifting. Because, you know, he's going to do it anyway. All kids try it. You might as well watch him and make sure he doesn't get caught. And hey, maybe he can swipe you something shiny for Mother's Day.

I don't want to be "cool" to my children or their friends. I don't want to be that "awesome" mom who lets them drink beer during the hockey games. I don't want to be their friend right now. That can come later. They have lots of friends. I need to be their mom. They only have one of those. And my job as a mom is to teach my little gremlins right from wrong. They might try drugs or underage drinking, but they'll try it knowing that it's not something I approve of. They will also know, however, that I will be the first there at 3Am to pick them up from a party so they don't get behind the wheel intoxicated. I'll be the first to talk to them about sex and drugs and all that stuff. To talk about condoms, but also about how teenage pregnancy can really put a damper on the tail end of childhood and how AIDS is the suck.

I have another friend who is not so sound of mind. In the last couple of years she's gone from someone I was the best of friends with to someone I don't even recognize anymore. She's lost in a world of drugs and parties and controlling boyfriends and really bad life choices. She's a mom who I never thought would get high in a house with her teenager, but she recently proved me wrong and that's what sparked the debate with my first friend. Poor, poor first friend.

It's incredible how parenting can really bring out the best and the worst in us. I royally suck as a parent sometimes. I yell too much and I eat too much chocolate and I don't take my kids outside as much as I should when there's two feet of snow outside. But at least I'm behaving like a mom. A sometimes PMSing mom, but one who has her priorities all set:

1. Intrepid, Gutsy, Spawnling.
2. Geekster (he's only here a few hours a day)
3. Chocolate
4. Housework

Now isn't that simple? Why can't everyone be more like me? The world would be a far better place.

Out with the old and in with the new, and blue!

Happy New Year, 0.3 readers who still read my blog!

Allow me to re-introduce myself. I am The Maven. I'm 31. Not only am I 31 but I have white hair that I have to dye on a regular basis so that I don't look 51. The reason I have white hair and have physically and emotionally aged decades beyond my years is because of the following things:

1. We have three children. Two were surprises (Shock! Grey hair!) and one took five years to conceive and carry to term (Stressful! Grey hair!)

2. I'm married to Geekster and as he's mellowed with age, I've become a stressball. I guess he completes me like Tom Cruise completed Renee Zellweger. I can't stand either of those celebrities so that stresses me out even more that I would have to compare my marriage to them.

3. I have a pretty much broken dryer (it takes about three hours to dry a load) and a family of five to do laundry for.

4. I have a new washer and dryer set that is arriving on Thursday. Why does this stress me out? Because today is Tuesday, that's why.

5. I have a cat who has taken to urinating on a dirty clothes pile in my room.

6. Sometimes I want to kick my cat. I don't, but I want to. That's guilt-inducing and it leads to more stress and bottles of hair dye.

7. I have a blog that I think about posting in every day but I don't because I'm a perfectionist and therefore want to make perfect posts on my perfect blog. So I just don't write anything at all and then everyone bugs me about why I'm not blogging. So now I've decided I'm just going to blog all the time, even when I know my post will have some serious suckage because...

8. As of tomorrow I actually truly for really real start my career as a writer. If I can, you know, find some contracts. And um... time. That time stuff I never seem to have enough of.

9. I'm an alcoholic. A sober one. I haven't had a drink in 16 years. I do, however, love food a little too much. So now I'm seeing a therapist and doing pilates. Stress.

10. I suppose I should stop at ten because it's a nice number to stop at. Also, it allows me to go get some apple and raspberry crisp. Second helping. Hey, I'm hungry after doing pilates, ok?

I have so much to catch the world up on now that I'm blogging again. What on earth did everyone talk about while I was keeping quiet?

Oh, right. Britney...

Happy New Year!

Let it snow! (Just not on my driveway, please)

Today is a snow day.

For the first time in years, the school board around here has wised up to the fact that 30-40cm of snow in a 24 hour period does not make for a solid educational day. It makes for snow-filled boots and whiny, cold children and their even whinier parents who have to brush (or on a day like today, practically shovel) the snow off their cars in their fashionable, non-practical outerwear in order to drive their otherwise bus-stranded kids to school where said kids will be taught by half the teaching staff and thus make crafts for most of the day anyway.

Today, the first day in at least three or four years, the school board decided to call a snow day. Not two minutes after seeing it announced on a local channel ("This just in," the anchorman said) I received a call from Intrepid's resource teacher, whom I am doing the brief babysitting stint for. She said she needed time to do a celebratory dance before calling to inform me that I needn't expect her daughter today.

I needn't expect her daughter, but I doth expect some coffee. And coffee I had, as my Higher Power gifted me with a husband who thinks along the same lines and brewed some for our stay-at-home asses. I'm staying at home and doing laundry and watching kids and blogging. He's staying home to work from the office, as it just so happens that I have my second appointment with Theramistress today. I shall pick up coffee from the disgruntled Tim Hortons employees who had to go in despite the weather so they can serve spoiled people like me who don't have to leave the house until early afternoon and then only so someone can listen to them complain.

This just in: Spawnling is still hosting a party of snot in his nose. Nice.

Not really.

It's disgusting and it needs to stop now. We're on day 10 now. Aren't these things only supposed to last about ten days? Why is this one lasting longer? Why am I being cursed with snot-encrusted shirts? Why must I change three times a day? Once, twice, three times a lady? Is that why? Am I a lady? I thought that was proven by the three children expelled from my ying-yong. I also wear lip gloss. This should be enough proof without the snot.

Maybe there needs to be more proof because I, The Maven, the only female person in this household, has to shovel a mountain of snow from my driveway in a few minutes. Why? Because my husband hurt his pectoral muscle a few days ago and it hasn't gotten any better. What a jerk to do that to me.

Good thing he's a jerk who makes coffee.

So as much as I'd love to continue my snow day tirade, I must go shovel now. I had better lose five pounds doing this.

The new things in my life

What to write... What to write... How long has it been? Over a month. I've broken my own record when it comes to time between posts. Go big or go home, I always say.

But comments keep dribbling in, and people have even been asking me on Facebook if all is well, since I haven't written much here as of late. Things have been alright, folks. I mean, not wonderful, not great, but alright. It's been so busy that the thought of typing it all out just sounded like an overwhelming pile of work. Since I'm a professional bon-bon eater, I find work rather appalling. That's why I had kids. That was the theory, anyway. So far I've been the only one scrubbing floors.
Cinderella left me with high hopes.

Anyway, let's start with some long-overdue news: I am finished English 211. I wrote a three-hour exam last Thursday after braving traffic in a snowstorm for over an hour for the privilege of paying someone $40 to supervise the writing of it. At first I told myself that I was done if I passed. After a week of not having to analyze every word in every sentence of every piece of writing I read, I honestly don't care if I pass or fail anymore. I. Am. Done. Passing is a bonus. That was 10 months of my life I'll never get back.

Meawhile, Gutsy turned five on November 13th. The miracle baby who arrived after five years of secondary infertility celebrated with pizza, friends and family. It was a great time. I have pictures, but uploading them requires work that I don't feel like doing right now. They shall stay on my camera for the time being. I have coffee to drink and blog entries to write. The Maven is a busy girl.

I'm doing daycare. I know, I know. This is something I swore I'd never do again. But before you get your proverbial panties in a bunch (I hope, for your sake, that they're cute panties with very little fabric, for less discomfort while bunching), it is

A) Temporary,
B) For a friend, and
C) Very, very part-time

I signed up for five half-days (mornings), two of which I did this week. The victim is an adorable three-year-old girl who loves to hold my hand and make crafts and read books. She's sweet and quiet and eats anything I put in front of her. She gets along with everybody and is very non-threatening to even Gutsy, the anti-daycare child. While he used to pummel every unfortunate kid who showed up for the day, he is now smitten with this new estrogen-filled entity. She is foreign in that she likes to play with things instead of break them. She wants to play games with him and finds him fascinating. In return, he lets her play with highly coveted toys like his Webkinz and build forts on his bunkbed.

I believe this is love.

I have her for three more days and I do think I will miss her when she's gone. I would normally stuff my face to cope with loss, but I don't think I'll be doing that anymore because....

*drumroll*

I am in therapy.

Not just 12 steppin' anymore, peeps. I'm actually paying someone to spend time with me (my friends are now asking themselves why I don't pay them. You never asked, that's why). She's a a doctor of psychology and she listens to me talk for 50 minutes. You know how sometimes a therapist really has to push someone to open up? I'm the exact opposite. I think she's going to have to push me to shut the hell up.

All day I do things for people. I make lunches, I wipe bums, I fold laundry, I drop gremlins off, I pick gremlins up, I do dishes, I volunteer at schools, I listen to people complain about how they do too much for other people, I buy gifts for kids I barely know who's party someone is attending, I run after gremlins with facecloths, I frown when Intrepid won't touch his vegetables and scare him with the evils of scuuuurvy. Yar.

Once every week, I now get to leave the house, go into the Tim Hortons and get a coffee and not have to go through the drive-through because I have a sleeping Spawnling in the van or a grumpy Gutsy who has a high flip-out potential, walk into an office wearing clothes that aren't sporting sick toddler snot and sit and read a magazine. There are only grownups around. Sure, they're messed up grownups, but they're not messed-up, loud grownups. You know that old addage 'it's always the quiet ones?' I think that has been proven to me now.

Then, someone in nice clothes with more years of education under her belt than... well, I don't even own a belt... comes to get me. She smiles, she walks me into a beautiful office with big windows that has never seen a person under the age of 14. She grabs a pen and sits opposite me. For 50 minutes - 50 incredibly selfish, satisfying minutes - we talk about me.

Me. The Maven. ME.

I get to tell her about my life. She asks me questions. She frowns. She smiles. She laughs. She gives me that 'go on' look.

Having a therapist is so much better than having an affair. I mean, I wouldn't know that firsthand, but it must be. For one, it's way cheaper. Sure, it's an expensive hour, but insurance covers it and I don't have to take her out to dinner. Also, I never have to tell her that I'll call her later and that she's really special, even if I won't break up my marriage for her. It's a great time.

I also started on THE PILL. You know - THE PILL. That thing that makes you not have babies. I'd like to say that I started taking it because we don't plan on having any more babies, but that's only a happy side-effect. The real reason is because I have PCOS, and this particular pill has been known to kick, or at least partially kick, PCOS' ass. I've only been on it for just over a week, but I'm already feeling less bloated and have a lot more energy. I am not caffeine's bitch anymore. I use it when I want to, not the other way around, and it feels damn good.

In January, Geekster and I go to the doc's to discuss his acquisition of the big V. That will mean no more babies. I do believe three is enough. He also believes this. We believe together. That shows strength in our marriage. Great. One less thing to complain about during my weekly bitchfests with my Theramistress.

Finally, I have not been able to see my grandma yet. I hope to next week. She's doing okay right now, but for a while she didn't want any company. I had lined up babysitters, had healthy children who hadn't passed on germs that I could pass on to her, everything was set... But I had to respect her wishes. Now, I hear, she would like to see me. So see me she shall. I can't wait to hug her.

Oh, wait. This isn't therapy. This is my blog! Blogapy? That's a stupid word.

I'll update more soon. Probably tomorrow, as it will be Intrepid's 11th birthday. Yikes.

Also, I've been tagged and I must adhere to the rules of the game. Plus, it will give me something to write about and maybe I'll get back into this blogging thing. For now, however, coffee awaits. Peace out.

Pictures, good updates, bad updates, bitching. You get it all in here.

Oh lawdy! But it has been a long couple of weeks.

Before I say anything else, I must wish The Madre a very happy birthday. She's 23. Again! How does she do it?

Now for some bad news. Let's tackle that first, shall we? Always good to get that out of the way. My grandmother - Good Grandma - has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Go big or go home, Good Grandma. For those unfamiliar with this most excellent diagnosis, the prognosis is nearly 100% extremely bad. Meaning that fewer than 2% are alive five years after being diagnose, and that the average life expectancy is somewhere between 3 and 6 months.

Pretty fan-freaking-tastic. One of my favourite people in the world is going to die in a few months, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Not even me. ME! The Maven.

So, I've decided to make the best of our time together. She loves sweets. Love them more than I do, even, and that says something. I am going to bake her the sweetest, butteriest, tastiest, most-calories-from-fat-EVER. Every week I'm going to make her something new. If there's one great thing about dying, it's the lack of guilt over daily activities, such as indulging in deliciously bad foods. I shall live vicariously through my GG.

Well, maybe not entirely vicariously. A girl has to sample her goods, you know.

In other, better news, I am finally done my essays for school. The last one involved - check out the irony on this one - writing about the book The Stone Angel, which is about an elderly woman dying of cancer. Great book. Awful timing. One depressing novel that is far too close to reality for my own comfort with a side of cry my eyes out, please.

Also, the Spawn's birthday was great. I shall post some pictures:
















When The Maven posts pictures, she posts pictures. I stopped myself at eleven of them. I'm attempting to tackle the steep you-are-not-as-interesting-as-you-think-you-are mountain. It's a challenge.

However, forgetting for a second that I am not the center of the universe, I must point out my cake decorating skills. Sure, it took me 3 1/2 hours to do both. Sure, I was up until 1:30AM, wired on coffee and giggling like a mad woman at how sore my hands were from pumping out the icing. Sure, I had to point out to absolutely everyone that they were the first cakes I had ever decorated and proudly accepted any and all compliments. But hey, losing one's cake decorating virginity is difficult and it needs to be celebrated. It's even blog-worthy, I tell you. I shall be procuring my very own decorating tools for future endeavors.

Speaking of which, I was thrilled with myself for renting the lion cakepan at $1.99. What a steal! It was originally $15 and I got it for $2 and a $20 deposit. I was feeling rather proud of myself on the day of the party, until my friend gently pointed out that it was $1.99/day.

Let's do some math:

$2/day x 11 days = $22.

1 cake pan purchased for life = $15

Cake pan: 1.

Maven: 0

I'm keeping the damn cake pan and they can keep my damn $22. And everyone is getting a damn lion cake for every damn festivity for at least the next 10 damn years. Seriously. I'm going to put bunny ears on it for Easter and make a green and red mane for Christmas and draw damn hearts for eyes for Valentines Day. I'm going to get my money's worth, I tell you.

I should learn to read the damn rental agreements more carefully. Stupid Maven.

Also, I've managed to make about two meetings in about five weeks. Recovering alcoholics without their 12 step meetings is not a good scene. I'm surprisingly calm, though, unless someone brings up the damn cake pan.

I could keep writing. I have so much more to say. Instead, I'm going to go to bed. It's nearly 1AM and I've made three meals, unleashed two gremlins in a museum, picked up another gremlin from school and corralled them all into the grocery store, went on a power walk with a friend of mine, her baby and my newbie toddler spawn, cleaned most of my house and, finally, blogged.

I'm so awesome that it must be painful to others just to be around me.

Maybe I should make a damn lion cake to celebrate that fact.

The Spawn turns 1

He woke up at 11:45PM and smiled at me.

I picked him up and walked him into the kitchen. We quietly danced until the clock struck 12. I cradled him in my arms and cried a little bit. He looked at me like I was nuts.

We had a nice feast of chips and water, then went back to bed at 1AM.

I am a complete sap. I even made a slide show dotday, despite the millions of other things I have to do (that are still not done).

Happy birthday, baby boy. I love you so very much.

Click to play | Make your own Smilebox

I have a problem.

A very big problem.

Enormous, even.

In just under 45 minutes, my littlest, my tiniest, my teeniest, my shortest... my BABY...

Turns one.

I don't know if I'm really happy or really sad about this. All I know is that he has a new LeapStart Learning Table and some really cute clothes, size 18 months.

And he's walking, and talking, and climbing onto chairs in order to get onto tables. And when I yelp and run to him before he falls off, he dances on the table and laughs at me.

He has lived up to his Spawnling name.

I have about 60% of his massive birthday party planned. I haven't even done a headcount yet, but it's on Saturday and it's far more elaborate than is worth it, as he's not going to remember a stitch of it anyway.

I'm painting a giraffe. He's really cute. I'm making spots for the kids to pin (read: sticky tack, because there's no way I'm giving a dozen kids pins at a toddler birthday party) on his cartoonishly short neck. He kind of looks like a camel with antennae. Not cool.

I can't believe he's turning one tomorrow.

I also can't believe he's up, AGAIN. Stupid teeth.