Tag Archives: humor

Beware of Grandmas Wielding Reddi-Wip.

This one is tough for me to write. While finding the irony in the situation, the neurotic part of me still gets a pit thinking about it. My children had a sleep over at my Father and Step Mother’s house this weekend. Like any overly anxious mom, I am not capable of total relaxation when they are away because I am unapprised of their minute to minute safety status and whereabouts.

To make matters worse a sleepover at their house is like a carnival. They go from arcades to movies to the beach to the boat to Dunkin’ Donuts often in a 4hr span. Getting in touch with them in near impossible and guessing which activity they are doing, even harder. What if my parents make a bad decision? What if they feed them food that is not cut small enough or let them ride the escalator at the mall alone…in their flip-flops!? What if they don’t account for the beach’s undertow? What if they lose them, step on them, dehydrate them, don’t apply enough sunblock?! These types of things worry me, actually all types of things worry me, down to the pillow placement on their beds and if my son, who sleeps in my antiquated brass bed, will get a limb or worse, his head stuck in the unregulation sized slats.That being said, I had a lovely dinner with my husband and a glass of champagne, or two, or a bottle lessens the concerns. The next day we went to pick up the kids and stayed for a BBQ. It was at said BBQ that the offense occurred. We were having desert, fresh fruit and Redi whip. Like butter, cheese or chocolate, whipped cream makes anything edible. My children, having control of the whipped cream can, joyfully and excessively sprayed it in heaping mounds, masking the fruit below. Squirt, squirt…air.

My step mother grabbed the can walked towards the trash then stopped as if a light bulb went off above her head. “Who wants to suck out the air and talk funny?” she said with the enthusiasm of an eight year old.

“Um the preteens that hang out by the dumpsters in the grocery store parking lots, maybe.”

“Huh?”

“That’s not helium in there, that’s a whippet.”;”>Whippet: Slang term for the inhalant drug “Nitrous Oxide.” Use causes a momentary lightheadedness due to a depletion of oxygen to the brain. In worst cases can lead to brain damage, and SSD (Sudden Sniffing Death). People also risk falling and getting a concussion.

“I’ve never done it, I just remember hearing something about it.”

“I remember hearing something about hypodermic needles on the beach, but I’m not going to play Doctor with them.”

I was trying to play it off, but my heart was pounding. In my minimal experience with whippets, I remember falling on my dorm room bed, giggling and most likely killing enough brain cells to forget the SAT words I had spent the previous year trying so desperately to drill into my head.

I have no idea what that rush would do to a 4 and 7 year old, and THANK G-D no one was finding out! Ahhh, something new to add to the list… fear of grandparents offering my children recreational drugs. A new concern, a fear I would have never imagined and I imagine some far fetched scenarios.

In all seriousness, I will use this as a warning. Take a moment to make sure your parents know that sucking the air out of whipped cream cans, computer dusting cans (Dusting), and air-horns is very dangerous and should never be used as a game. It seems so obvious to us, but intelligent people who were not teenagers beyond the 80’s may have no idea.

New How-to Vlog “How to Sit on a Chair”

New Vlog!  I started doing how to videos for some of the Mommy sites I write for.  Though not totally serious, the concept of explaining even the simplest thing, gave me quite a giggle.  So, I taped this video on “How to sit on a chair.”  In it I explain in layman’s terms the delicate artform that is “sitting on a chair.”  You may want to use a spotter your first couple attempts.  I assure you, with my expert guidance, you will be sitting on chairs in no time!

watch?v=KEIUdYqvqlo

If you know anyone that could use this kind of instruction, please pass the link on -so they can take a load off!: mom demonstrates important skill “how to sit on a chair

Good Luck!

My Dog is a Genius Mastermind

Matermind

This morning I woke up to a gift, the kind of gift that makes pet owners want to just  hug their pets super tight and not let go until they pass out…I mean, gently fall asleep. No, it was not a poop or a pee.There was pee, but that’s like walking out to find my children playing Wii, no big surprise.

No, this was a doozy and what’s worse, I think he planned the whole thing. I was asleep, as I often am on Saturday mornings, while my daughter was watching Strawberry Shortcake. I woke, only to find dark stains, smudges, and ink blots all over my oh so pretty white coverlet, and white sheets. Sheets that are like a gazillion thread count (or whatever they said to make me buy them). Only me and Paris sleep on sheets of such extraordinary comfort.

The dark blotches looked as if my dog had found an indelible marker, packaged some TNT around it, and then plunged down the detonator. There were spots on the sheets where he bit through with such fervor, and the ink was distributed so evenly, it looked like a professional job.Like any good detective, I screamed at the suspect and let him out in the yard, mainly for his own safety.Then I searched for clues.There was no pen, no evidence.I had a new book on the bed and I was certain the black cover was defective and the ink was smearing off, but I rarely rub books so feverishly over my bedding.My dog would also need opposable thumbs for such a task.

Then I found it. On some of the ink splotches, there was a greasy chunky residue.I picked up a chunk and mushed it between my fingers, like a melted crayon.Wait, there’s a splinter of wood in that chunk on the pillow. This is not a crayon.This was my new retro navy blue metallic eyeliner. There was no evidence because the rest of said pencil was Tanner’s breakfast.

Listen, I’m a pretty realistic person who is rarely paranoid, but I am quite sure this was premeditated. This is how I think it went down: I wore the eyeliner yesterday in an 80’s tribute to the late Michael Jackson, an occurrence I was freaking out over. He was the only suspected child molester that I truly enjoyed and forgave, because of his insanely awesome talent. Talent and wealth make up for a lot of misgivings in America, even sharing your bed with Emmanuel Lewis.

Back on track, my dog is vehemently anti anything retro. I have heard him say on more than one occasion, “I don’t want this crappy rubber burger or fake New York Times newspaper. Go get me some Nylabone made from space-age webbed plastic cells, or some Kong industrial NASA rubber, and a chicken pot pie…bitch!” Of course, when a dog calls you “bitch,” it’s a compliment.

His distaste for celebrating decades of yore, and his taste for greasy pencils made from toxins and whale blubber made this a crime worth committing. He must have grabbed his Nylabone, which he routinely shreds, and brought it onto the bed.This allowed me to sleep longer knowing I could pick up the 1000 pieces later. The chewing coaxed me to sleep like a lullaby.

When he was sure I was out, he whined until my daughter followed him to the kitchen. There she found the new eyeliner and decided to play with it, as Tanner knew she would. When she was finished getting ready for Studio 54, she put it on the dining room table. Then Tanner chased Coco, my cat, over to said table. Coco saw the pencil, and started one of those soccer games cats do, and batted it around till she went for the goal. She eyed Tanner with a smirk and whacked it high into the air. He readied himself, did a twisting jump,and gracefully caught the evidence … brought it back to the bed, and started chewing his Nylabone to make sure I would not wake and Ryan would not look away from the television screen.

Then he went to town, with the two of us none the wiser. I have to give him credit. He pulled off a brilliant plan  and ate the evidence to boot. But no crime is “perfect,” and it was his sloppiness that got him in the end. Oh, he will go behind bars. I guarantee his crate awaits.

Do You Have A Minute To Talk About My Thighs? -Vlog 3

Are your thighs oddly attracted to each other and trying desperately to fill the space between them?  Do you try to put on your go to jeans and they don’t fit, but your post pregnancy/period jeans do?

Father’s Day Greetings

Being that I am a writer, you would probably assume I give my husband a beautiful heartfelt card on every holiday.  The truth is, I am like most of you, going at the last minute to look at slim pickins and buy some cheesy cards that cost $3 bucks a pop and do little more than add to deforestation.

First of all, unless your husband likes fishing or fixing things you’re SOL from the get go. The funny cards are too queer, though the Far Side always gives me a giggle, I try to find something with a little more sentiment. I have noticed that my husband and I have this weird tendency to rebuy the same card for each other on our respective holidays year after year.

The Father’s day card has a cat couple and it goes something like this:

“Sometimes I’m stubborn when I don’t get my way,

Sometimes I’m bossy and have too much to say.

Blah blah blah, buuuuut I really love you! Have a great Father’s day.”

That’s the general gist anyway. It’s basically an apology for being a sucky annoying wife 364 days a year. The card might as well say:

“Sometimes I’m a big fat wench, when you look at me the wrong way.

Other times I’m a bratty bitch, when I don’t like what you say.

Often I’m an evil nag, I’m so frustrated I could spit.

I don’t listen when you speak because I’m daydreaming of Brad Pitt.

I pretty much act like I hate you almost every day of the year,

Buuut I really totally Love You, though I rarely make it clear.”

The mother’s day version is similar, two cats start out fighting and the guy cat’s like, “I’m sorry I’m so stubborn, but we always find our way.” Then the cats are driving and he’s lost and he won’t ask for directions and she’s looking back at the kitties shrugging her shoulders.

Then they are watching a sports game and the mom cat is running in circles around the house with the kitties, and the dad cat is ignoring her and he’s all, “Sometimes I get wrapped up in other things, but I always spend the commercials with you guys.”

Then the dad cat is looking at the price tag of a really expensive pair of Jimmy Choo’s that the mom cat is at the register paying for, because she feels she’s earned them. The dad cat hisses, “We don’t always see eye to eye, but we always compensate.” In the next picture he is cutting up her credit card and throwing the pieces in the air like confetti.

Then the mom cat is taking the kitties to live with some calico she met in the alley. The dad cat shows his claws, but since he is domesticated and therefore declawed he just feels like a pussy (cat I mean).

Then the dad cat is paying off some thug mafia cat and says, “We always work it out, ‘cause making up is the best part!”

Or something like that. Mother’s day was a few months ago so I may have embellished the finer details, but you get the picture. It’s an apology for being a crappy, inattentive, stubborn, annoying husband, buuut it’s okay cause we get to make up after I have your calico trash cat castrated.

So this year, I picked up one of those cards and was about to buy it.  Then I thought, I don’t need to apologize for arguing or nagging, that’s what couples do... even one’s who are in love. Yes, my husband is stubborn and I am a nag, but we love each other. I don’t want to make light of my annoying ways through a rhyming apology that is only cute because of cat personification. We’ve been married a decade, he knows I am a bitch and he is thankful I’m cute.

So, I got a card that was perfect. Yes, it had cats. It said, that he’s the one I go to if I need a hug, or a sympathetic ear, or a pep talk, or to kill a bug, or to move something heavy. Basically, he’s there when I need him.

Does he do things that are annoying? Daily. Frustrating? Hourly. Does he snore and fart in his sleep? Yep. Does he leave crumbs on the counter and forget to change lightbulbs? Uh ha. Is he a fabulous dad?  Absolutely.

Is he there for me when I need him? Always.

That might not have been a quality I dreamed my husband would have on my wedding day, but a decade in, it’s the one I am most thankful for.

So to my husband, I hope you enjoyed your day. I love you! To all the other Dad’s, mine especially, I hope you had a fabulous Father’s day and that there are spouses and children out there that appreciate all you do.

PS vlog 2 is up if you are interested Conversations With Your Selfish Friend.  If you watch the vlogs, please take the poll and if you like them, please send to friends!

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Twilight Obsession or Mid-Life Crisis?

I was at my neighbor’s house the other day and her nine year old daughter sat down at the table with me. “Soooo, who’s your favorite character?” she asked, in the way one would while sharing tea and crumpets. I was not having tea, however, I was having coffee, one of the few things that still separates me from nine year olds. Well, most of them anyway.

My favorite character of what? Disney movies? Are we talkin’ Hannah Montana, or like Monsters vs. Aliens?

“No, my mom said you love Twilight, and OMG, me too! I am so in love with Jacob. How about you?” she squeaked eagerly, awaiting my answer.

Okay, as most of you know, I have a very unhealthy obsession with the Twilight series and the main character, Edward. I also believe, after giving the subject way too much thought, that this is either a sign of total immaturity or a mid-life crisis. So, either I’m mentally stuck in high school, or wishing I was.

“Are we having this conversation? Aren’t you nine?” Hello, clearly the fact that you love Jacob is a sign of your immaturity. “Everyone knows Edward is like the ultimate hottie,” I continued, drawing a line in the sand between me and the child that stood before me, who was excitedly bouncing to hear my answer.

“Yeah, he’s cute but I like werewolves better than vampires,” she replied, shrugging off my belligerent tone.

“What?! You’d rather date a werewolf than a vampire?” I argued.  Jenny, don’t get yourself all worked up. What does she know anyway, she’s nine? While talking myself down, I noticed her Jonas Brothers concert tee. I realized that we may have the same taste in literature, and as it appears, nail polish, but I was the adult.

In fact, one of my readers had just sent me a very racy version of what supposedly happened on Edward and Bella’s honeymoon. A night that the author skimmed over to keep the books appropriate for her teen audience. Of course, in my suburb where the kids rule, “teen” means nine.

I reminded myself that I had a nugget of Twilight information that she would not be able to read for at least 2 years… at the rate she was going. I told her when her mom said it was okay, she could see my special chapter. You might be thinking that I got great joy in dangling that carrot, but nay I say. It was when I gave her a raspberry that I got the most joy.

She ran to her room and returned with a picture, the fold out kind that you pull from Tiger Beat Magazine, or One Day I Will Be a Know-It-All Magazine or whatever the teenie boppers are reading these days. You know, the ones that show young girls who are famous and rich, and handsome boys that are out of reach, and in turn, set their readers up for future disappointment and body dysmorphia.

She handed it to me, and I opened it up to find a picture of Robert Pattinson, the actor that plays Edward Cullin, who is also 13 years my junior. Don’t think it’s odd that I know that. I’m no stalker, but I do admittedly frequent the website: RobPatzStalkers.com

I think her poster was a peace offering, and in hindsight, a very mature response to my childish behavior. I looked at her, and then the picture. Then as I went to leave, I said, “By the way, the Jonas Brothers Suck! Yeah, they’re for babies and you love them.”

So who’s the most mature one in the room now?

 

PS- don’t forget to take today’s poll, and as always, make sure you have my RSS, or email subscription!

Coffee and Flogging -Vlog attempt 1

Here is my first vlog (video log).  For many of you this will be your first time seeing me, which I know is weirdly like watching the movie after reading the book (it’s all in the casting).  I think I’m perfectly cast in the role of “me,” as I find myself to be the epitome of me.  If you don’t agree, talk to my agent.

If you enjoy it, please pass it on.

If you hate it, keep it to yourself, you obnoxious person with nothing better to do than sneer at other people’s attempts at branding themselves and living out the dream… the American dream.  But know, I will get better and I will continue to blog if you prefer the blogging.


Most importantly, thanks as always for your support!

I hope you guys enjoy!  Sorry you have to click the link, I am too technologically challenged to get it directly on the site.

CLICK HERE:  VLog-1

Yours,

Jenny From the Blog

Mothering By The Seat Of Our Pants

Figuring out that your parents knew as little about raising children as you do is a mind altering experience.

I spend much of my time in disbelief that I am the mom of two amazing kids, because I often feel like a kid myself. How did this happen? When did this happen? Just yesterday I was getting my license, graduating college, moving to my first apartment… and somehow I am an adult with a home and children. Children that come to me in the middle of the night with growing pains, and nightmares — looking to be comforted. I’m mothering by the seat of my pants.

How is it that I am winging it and my mother seemed to know everything? I walk around sputtering a slew of medical advice I got from this woman who was so thoroughly competent and mature at 35, they may have even let her practice medicine in some states, like West Virginia.

Was Dr. Mom wrong? Was she all knowing or just a teenager, stuck in a “mommy” body, spouting the information imparted by her mother before her? If your tongue has a green tint, do you not need to make a BM? If you get stung by a bee does toothpaste not soothe the sting? It all made perfect sense when I was 8.

I took these practices as gospel, logging the protocol in my “future motherhood file,” for safekeeping. I filled my arsenal with pertinent and sometimes even magical remedies, only to find myself at 35 in a CPR and safety class being jeered by the instructor, the “movie star” hot instructor.

Because I am mentally no more than 21, I was secretly praying he was a stripper, hoping his snug manly fireman’s uniform would Velcro straight off to the sound of some cheesy disco accompaniment.Don’t think I didn’t whisper, “bow chicka bow wow,” to get the ball rolling.

I attempted to impress him with the vast medical knowledge I had learned from the omnipotent Dr. Mom.

“Butter for burns?” He laughed. “Coke Syrup? for a belly ache?“

“Who taught you this stuff?” He prodded and not in a flirty teasing way.

Apparently, my medical knowledge was archaic. Not only did it make me seem old, it made me seem Amish.

I was about as sexy to this strapping buck as the Snapple Lady. There it is, that four letter word that is so hideous so heinous… L-A-D-Y. To this stud I was just some “lady.” My mom was just like me… some kid who was a “lady” to everyone else.Some of those brilliant treatments she made up on the fly and the others she just relayed as I did, hoping to sound as if she knew what she was talking about.She believed what she was told as a child, because her mom, another “Lady,” of maybe 25, told her it was so.

My entire foundation crumbled in 3 hours and a snack break. Realizing your mother was no more prepared or mature than you are is a shocking and mind altering epiphany. It’s like trying to figure out what was here before the world. If you think about it too much your head may spontaneously combust.

My mind was swimming. I tuned out the sexy EMT, well muted him, to think this through. Have I found the key to motherhood? Is it not in the actual knowledge but in the belief? My ultimate goal as a parent is for my children to be safe and secure. Is that not what my mother, the witch doctor, did for me? Having trust and faith in her knowledge was a necessary part of making me feel safe and secure.

Maybe we don’t need to know everything or be ultra mature to be good parents. Maybe the answers we have are enough.

My epiphany was making me hyperventilate .I considered throwing myself to the ground, grabbing my throat and kicking resuscitation Annie out of the way. Look, sometimes you take it any way you can get it.

Because I’m five like that

Today, I was leaving a birthday lunch for my friend Tracey. I pulled out of the parking lot with her pulling out behind me. I got to the light waiting for her to pull next to me. Spontaneously, my face contorted into some stupid face, because I’m 5 like that. While looking straight ahead, I gave her the finger as her car inched to my side. Keeping my head toward the traffic light, I shoved said finger up my nose, way up my nose…because I’m 5 like that. I made some weird bucky beaver face while snorting and slowly turned to look at Tracey, HOLY SHIT THAT’S NOT TRACEY. The elderly woman staring me dead in the eye with a look of total and utter disgust is someone I have never seen before.

She turned quickly as if caught eaves dropping, but not before an eye roll. I stopped snorting, removed my finger from my nose, and gave her a meek smile. This is why I should not be allowed out of the house.

How To Make People Hiss At You

I considered not posting this because so many people witnessed it happening. I wasn’t sure if there was anyone left to read about it. Because there is some pertinent information, I decided it was worth sharing. I have discovered the quickest way to make people despise and hiss at you. If this is something you may be interested in… read on.

Bring a cranky child with less than five hours sleep under her belt, to the grocery store. It’s a brilliant plan for anyone with too many friends or any kind of social interaction disorder.

She began our trip like a giddy drunk: a little unstable, but cheerful and capricious. I may have even gotten an, “I love you man… I mean Mom,” accompanied by a hearty chest bump. Well, her chest, my knee. But, like most drunks, the second you shove them in to the seat of the shopping cart they get belligerent.

Cindy our favorite check out girl made the tragic mistake of saying, “Hello my sweet Ryan,” When we arrived. Her “Sweet Ryan” responded with bared teeth and an ominous growl.

“How could you Cindy?” I snarled. I should have done a 180 then and there, but I selfishly decided that it was more important that my family have their precious food than maintain any good will towards neighbors.

By the meat counter Ryan lost it when I pulled the number out of the number machine. When I felt her eyes bore a chasm through my forehead, I succumbed and allowed her to pull out 10 more numbers…much to the dismay of the deli staff.

By the time we hit produce she had spiraled out of control. I said something so horrifying, it left her no choice but to unleash an Earth shattering scream of disapproval. The grapes looked old, but I now realize, I should have kept that scary tidbit to myself.

I also affronted her by pushing the cart too slowly. When I sped up she hit her back on the cart which was adding insult to injury, actually injury to insult. Semantics aside, it was unforgivable and ohhh, did I feel her justifiable fury.

As I waited for her head to stop spinning, I decided to spare the customers the migraines they were acquiring and spare myself the gossip that was developing. I grabbed a few essentials and made a beeline for the checkout line. Cindy’s line was the shortest. I reluctantly got in it and shot her a scowl, letting her know I had not forgotten the cruel injustice she showed my child when we arrived. Ryan continued to sulk, which  triggered the woman in front of me to say, “Aww, Poor thing. She’s so cute.”

I took one look at her blood shot eyes as she was rolling them at me for some unknown wrongdoing and simply said, “She can be cuter.”

As I approached the end of the belt, Cindy looked at me with the sad pouty face adults make when imitating crying children.

“Hello Jenny,” she said in a not your day, kind of way

“Don’t even go there Cindy, you chipper woman or I will knock that annoying pout clean off your face,” I barked in a stint of misplaced frustration. Okay, I didn’t say that, but I did give her the, “talk to the hand” gesture. No, I didn’t do that either. I said, “hello Cindy,” but I said it in an Indian accent, so she would be oddly confused.

Next time I choose feeding my family over my daughter’s surly mood, I will remind myself that, there is a reason Mc Donald’s is making the youth of America fat.  Then I will head to the nearest drive-thru.

Gag me with a…

This story is like a bad episode of Three’s Company… not that there ever was one,  I love you Jack!

I went into the vitamin store today where a lovely couple owns the shop. They know me, my concerns, my usual products, etc… My biggest issue is that I cannot swallow pills. I have forced myself to swallow some pretty disgusting stuff (I know, that’s what she said.) in avoidance of those monster vitamins they make. I’m sure the purveyors of vitamins have dealt with this issue before. It seems I have mentioned this once or twice, as the owners always consider it before helping me find a new pill.

Today, it was just the husband in the store with his brother. I think I said something like, “I need to look at the size to see if I can get it down.” Bob eyed his brother and the brother walked away. I had no idea why, and I walked over to look at a sample. Then I said something like, “Come on Bob, you know I can’t swallow.” Still completely oblivious, I turned around and the two of them were in absolute hysterics. What did I just say? Then it hit me. Oh…that was bad. I had to start with the familiar, “Come on Bob,” no less?
“You know what I mean.” I said flushed with embarrassment.
“Yes I know, you always remind me.” snicker snicker.

Then I realized, this was not a one time accidental sexual innuendo. How many times had I said things like, “I have trouble swallowing,” or “That will make me gag, it’s so big?” I could tell by the way the laughter came out like a floodgate exploding, that this was an ongoing joke, an ongoing joke that I was the ongoing butt of.

That kills me for so many reasons, as I am usually the first to get the double entendre, the pun, the sarcasm, the “that’s what she said,” moment. I can imagine him and his wife calling each other every time I walk out the door.

“Oh Lisa, Jenny said she, ‘can’t swallow’ like 5 times today. I think that’s a record.”

“Noooo Bob, that’s not the record. Don’t you remember when she was looking for calcium supplements?”

“Of course, Lisa. She said she had tried the liquid, but it was soooo thick and chalky she spat it all over the sink.”

In Unison: “That day will go down in infamy. I think we closed early.”

I know you’re thinking they wouldn’t really say that in unison, but it was either that or to write the song I imagined they spontaneously broke into.

“I cannot swallow.”
“Your throats not hollow?”
“That’s too immense”
“You are so dense.”
See not a great song.

Dangerously Lazy

I am no stranger to laziness, but this is extreme, even for me.  I went to get refill blades for the Gillette Fusion, Mach 91, turbo, hydraulics razors that Mark and I use, but they were out.  So I got the Mach 90 version instead.  Being that the blades were a number off, our razor handles did not fit, but luckily, Mark had one from the last time Gillette came out with the “most powerful razor on the planet.”

We only had one handle between the two of us and since Mark shaves 5 times more often me, (I did the math) Mark got dibs.  Therefore, I had to remember to take his handle into the shower and put in my blade that waited on the shelf, anytime I needed to shave.

Today. It wasn’t until I got in the shower that I realized how badly I needed to shave.   Rather then open the shower door, walk all the way to his sink, and get the floor wet along the way, I decided the smarter call would be to hold the blade gently allowing it to pivot in my finger tips. Well , another brilliant idea borne by laziness.  I mean look at Benjamin Franklin; sure, kite flying isn’t lazy, but it certainly isn’t a grand endeavor.

I had finished one leg, when shampoo dripped perilously into my eye.  Rather than stop, turn around, and grab the towel hanging two inches from my face, I trudged on.  I mean, what could be the harm in pivoting a razor in my finger-tips, while precariously balancing, with only one eye?

Actually, I got a fabulous shave minus one nick and what I might have to term a divot. I am often amazed by the things I will do to avoid doing other things.

PS The kicker is that my wireless mouse just ran out of batteries, and I had to empty yet another remote to fill it  All, so that I could write this particular post about laziness… Oh, the irony.

I’d love to know if anyone has done other comparably lazy things.