Well, good morning, Autumn. I see Mother Nature has released you from your cage and allowed you to bless us with your presence. Has she finally forgiven us for whatever transgressions we unknowingly committed against her? Or has someone at last taken my advise and supplied her with an endless stream of chocolate?
I bet it was the chocolate. That always fixes what ails me. I suppose in the grand scheme of things, the reason for her reversal of favor doesn’t matter much, just that you have finally arrived.
And so here we find ourselves in mid-October, in the Lone Star State, with our first noticeable cold front of the season, sweeping down from the Rockies. The air is cool, crisp and refreshing – the endless brutality of the scorching summer just a distant bad memory. Everywhere you look, fall festivities are in full swing – haunted houses, pumpkin patches, the State Fair. It is truly the best time of the year.
Now, I must admit that I’m not real big on the fair. I understand the draw for people who like that sort of thing, but I don’t find it overly enjoyable. It’s crowded, expensive and well – did I mention expensive? The pumpkin patch, on the other hand, is something that I thoroughly enjoy. The price is right, there’s always fresh kettle corn and who doesn’t dig a good old fashion hay ride? The homey, festive feel of these little tracts of land covered in endless rows of pumpkins, hay bales and corn husks never fail to fill me with the spirit of the season.
The year is filled with lots of holidays – Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, the Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, the New Year. I don’t get excited about any of them. My least favorite – Christmas. I’ve been told that I am a bit of a Scrooge McDuck. I’ll own it. I would rather spend Christmas on a remote tropical island sipping fruity, frozen cocktails and watching dolphins frolic in the surf.
Don’t you judge me.
I’m not the first person to think Christmas is a royal pain in the ass. There I said it. Christmas is painful – from the blood baths at the mall, to the marathon baking, to the cluttered tree trimming, to the infuriating debate over the origins of the holiday. By New Year’s Day, the overwhelming pressure of it all turns me into a twitchy basket case, in desperate need of a very big glass of tequila.
In spite of my holiday loathing, I love Halloween.
In stark contrast, Halloween is carefree and simple. It’s all about fantasy and fun. Caramel apples and pumpkin spiced lattes. Jack-o-lanterns and spooky stories of headless horsemen. Costumes and pillowcases full of sweet treats. The best part – no one demands a damn thing from me.
What’s not to love about that?
Unfortunately, fall will give way to winter. All too soon I will be consumed with hustle and bustle of the Christmas season, elbow deep in cookie dough and gift wrap. I will curse the traffic, the shoppers, and anyone else who gets in my way and dream of a beach far, far away. One with fruity, frozen drinks and frolicking dolphins.
For now, though, in the calm before the storm, I am going sit here in my favorite sweatshirt, sipping a warm pumpkin spice latte, and just relish in the feel of fall.
Nutritional health is something very near and dear to my heart. As anyone who knows me can attest, I am very particular about what I deem worthy of ingestion. I can give you a ballpark estimate of the caloric content of just about anything – within reason, of course. I wasn’t always this way. I used to feast unabashedly on anything and everything that caught my fancy. Of course, one cannot overindulged for any length of time without suffering devastating consequences. It’s that whole cause and effect thing. It will bite you in the ass every time. It certainly bit me in the ass. Hard. At my heaviest, I tipped the scales at 170 lbs. That may not seem like much to some, but put that much weight on my frame and, well, let’s just agree that it wasn’t necessarily my most attractive moment. I’ve talked about my awakening before and the journey to meet my weight loss goals. It wasn’t easy. It took discipline, committment, lots of exercise, and constant calorie counting. This may sound burdensome, but after a while the counting became second nature and part of my everyday life. A true lifestyle change. My new normal.
Losing the weight, however, was just one step in the journey. The moment of truth would come in maintaining it. It is something I am still doing and will until I take my last breath. Hopefully, I’ve staved off the end by a few years with my due diligence. Or maybe it will all be in vain. There is always the possibility that I will get hit by a bus crossing the street, but the way I choose to look at it is like this: I will not have to worry about looking fat on the medical examiner’s table when he’s cutting open my chest in search of which blunt force trauma did me in. I say that alone is worth the sacrifice.
This bit of rambling nonsense brings to me to what prodded me into writing this blog entry instead of working on the next Man vs. Beast offering that my husband would rather be reading right now. I am on the campus of a community college twice a week. I come early in order to enjoy a bit of quiet time and finish up any straggling assignments I may have or work on some of my other writing endeavors. Unfortunately, all this exertion of brain power makes me hungry. Sometimes, I have the forethought to stick a couple of things in my bag to nosh on, as I run out the door in the mornings. Sometimes I don’t. Today was one of the days I didn’t. By midmorning my stomach was gnawing at my spine, and I was forced to wander over to the poor excuse for a dining establishment this campus offers.
My husband would say that my disdain for this place is my elitist personality rearing its ugly head. That I am spoiled and am expecting far too much. I would say that I pay good money (cash, paid in full at the beginning of each semester) to attend this school, the least they could do is offer me a decent place to eat with some healthy, nutritional food choices.
How bad could it be, you ask?
Well, I’ll tell you.
My first semester on campus during the lunch time hour was last fall. I naively went in search of a turkey sandwich. I like my turkey sandwich – and every other sandwich, for that matter – simple. Meat, wheat bread, a little lettuce, a tomato or two. No condiments, no added fuss. Easy peasy. I gave my order to the unpleasant lady manning the counter and was horrified by what happened next. She plopped some mystery meat down on a greasy griddle, slathered two pieces of white bread with an equally mystifying oil substance, and then promptly slapped them down on the griddle next to the meat. This was the conversation that followed:
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You ordered a turkey sandwich. This is a turkey sandwich,” she said giving me a look I can only describe as demonic.
“No it isn’t. I just want a plain turkey sandwich.”
“You know, a sandwich. I don’t want anything grilled.”
“We don’t have that today.”
It turns out that this very nasty woman was right. There was no plain Jane turkey sandwich on wheat anywhere in that place. Every sandwich listed on the “menu” is prepared in this fashion. That’s when I took a good look around and realized that anything that could be remotely considered healthy was relegated to a tiny area next to the cash register. The pickings were slim. Yoplait yogurt – not the fat-free kind (insert eye roll here) – a pre-packaged container of a handful of grapes, a few slices of apple and a couple of crackers, those little single serving cereal things, and some unidentifiable muffins. Though muffins cannot really be considered healthy once you factor in their overall calorie and sugar content.
I left and vowed to never return.
The problem with making vows like that is that you often have to break them out of necessity or desperation. Desperation lead me back into that diner from dietary hell today. I perused the “menu” tacked just outside the door and decided that I would sacrifice some carbs and allow myself the pleasure of a bagel. I took my place in line behind a young man who ordered a hot dog. Not my first choice for breakfast fare, but you have to remember that these are young people who have yet to grow any common sense. I have faith he will learn the error in his way one day. As I stood waiting my turn, I watched the gentleman manning the counter pull a hot dog out of a refrigerated unit, slice it down the middle, opening it up butterfly style, and plop it face down on the greasy griddle. He reached into a bread bag, pulled out a bun, slathered the inside with mystery oil, and slapped it down next to the hot dog.
“Can I help you?”
I realize that this question is directed at me.
“I’d like a bagel, please.”
He gives me the look.
He turns to consult with his co-worker. After a few seconds of whispering, they both turn to me and inform me that they are out of bagels.
“An English muffin?” I saw that on the menu, too. No better or worse for my waistline. The substitution was acceptable.
They shake their heads in unison.
Are you kidding me?
“I don’t want anything then, ” I said in a voice that was probably a lot bitchier than it should have been, but really. Out of bagels AND English muffins, but the guy in front of me can get his fill of fried hot dogs?
Out of pure desperation, I settled on a cranberry muffin and a full fat yogurt. More calories than I wanted to ingestion for breakfast, but I suppose that was my penance for not leaving the house fully prepared for the day.
I cannot help but wonder why, in this day and age of increased awareness in health and wellness, that this diner, or campus for that matter, would choose to provide sub-par food that lacks any significant nutritional value. I understand that this is a public education establishment and there has been quite a lot of fiscal belt-tightening needed to keep up the level of services provided to the growing student body. I also understand that a good number of my fellow students are young people who largely have no idea that the candy bar and soda they are consuming for breakfast every morning will cause them catastrophic health problems down the road. Health problems that you and I and every other taxpayer in America will end up footing the bill for in higher insurance premiums.
Youthful ignorance is a wonderous thing.
However, these young people who throw dietary caution to the wind do not make up the whole of the student body. There are plenty of people like me. People who understand that they are what they eat, and who want a healthy alternative to a fried hot dog and greasy grilled sandwiches and fries. I’m not saying that they have to get rid of this junk food. I would certainly never want to deprive anyone of their sodium and fat fix, but why should this be the only thing available. Why can I not get a salad? A plain turkey on wheat? A fat-free yogurt cup. I’m not even asking for the healthier Greek yogurt. Yoplait is sufficient. I will even pay a premium price for these choices. As would a large number of my fellow students, I’m sure, if they were given the choice.
I understand that with healthy food choices, the mantra “If you build it, they will come”, does not always apply. There are many who are satisfied filling their bodies with junk. However, I’d like to think that with the obesity epidemic that is plaguing our country today and the health issues contributed to such, that more and more people are increasingly conscience of what they ingest and are seeking healthier alternatives. I believe this school’s dining facility is operating way behind the curve and has a lot of catching up to do.
So I’ve identified the problem. What to do about it? Simply bitching about the lack of choices will not bring about change. I think a protest is in order. A picket line? Crudely made signs spelling out our grievances? A sit in? Perhaps we can chain ourselves to the legs of the pool table that sits right outside of the little cafe.
That all sounds very reasonable to me. But then again, as I sit here in the library and scan the room, I see my fellow students drinking Big Gulps, chomping on chips, and snarfing candy bars. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps no one in this school wants to eat a salad but me.
Perhaps my husband is right and I am indeed an elitist snob who expects for too much from society as a whole.
…that my daughter has kicked “Georgie” to the curb. She took exception to his giving out her phone number without her permission. “I gave him two chances, Mom. He’s not getting a third.” Good girl. Of course, it came out during casual dinner conversation that his offenses were far greater than just mishandling her private telephone number. He was two timing her with a 13-year-old. “I saw them together, Mom.” Little bastard. Good riddance.
…that I am getting the hang of this whole elliptical thing. 45 minutes/4.8 miles total. Lots of calories burned. I love it when I burn calories and sweat – a lot. I think my loyalties are waning.
…that speaking of loyalties – I have been a Roger Federer fan for years. Seriously, since he burst onto the scene and became a nagging thorn in Pete Sampras’ side. However, during the last couple of tennis seasons, I’ve watched while my champion has slowly lost his mojo. I am disturbed by this because, if he is on his way out, who will be worth of my unwavering devotion? Nadal? Egads, no. There is just something about him that makes me want to box his ears and tell him to stop digging his undies out of his butt crack before every serve. It’s so….ew. I didn’t get to watch much of the US Open this year, but I did catch the semis and of course, both the men’s and women’s finals. I watched the men’s final – well, in two parts. I was glued to the first two sets, but was forced to drag myself away from it to take Megan to gymnastics. When I returned an hour or so later, they were still battling it out. It was a fierce game – almost as exciting as the 2009 Federer/Roddick epic Wimbledon final. Almost. In the end, Djorkovic dominated Nadal. I think I may have found my new champion.
…that I was right about Mother Nature’s vindictive side. Just when we thought we were making a clean break into fall, she zapped us with a few more days of scorching temperature. I think we’ve been properly chastised, don’t you? I mean, who are we to think that we are anything more than mere pawns on the board of whatever sick game she is playing? Let’s hope that the 107* record high on Tuesday was her last little jab at us. I think it’s time for her to move on and torture someone else for a while. Perhaps our neighbors to the far north? I think they are due for a little snow right about now.
…that two people died as the result of a fire on board a cruise ship off the coast of Norway. First, let me say: What the heck is going on in Norway? They seem to be in the headlines a lot lately, and not in a good way. Second: This is one of those “I told you so” moments. I have come a long way in conquering my fear of boats, but I have steadfastly maintained that nothing – and I mean nothing – would ever possess me to step one foot on board a cruise ship. Ever. Not even in the pursuit of personal growth. I have to draw the line in the sand somewhere. If you would like to read more about this story, you can do so [here].
…that even after ten years and numerous remembrance ceremonies, the footage of 9/11 still breaks my heart and makes me cry. In a very unpatriotic move, I didn’t watch anything but tennis this past weekend. I just couldn’t do it. I feel selfish.
…that the Iliad was not as difficult or as boring as I remember. Who knew? Oedipus Rex is wonderfully tragic and chock full of irony. I love irony.
…that caterpillars possess a gene that makes them vulnerable to a certain virus. What makes this interesting enough for the old Friday blog, you ask? This virus takes over of the caterpillar’s brain and turns it into a freaking zombie! Under the control of this virus, the caterpillar climbs to the top branches of a tree, where it is then liquified. As the oozy remains of the caterpillar rain down from the tree tops, the virus is spread, thereby ensuring its longevity. Ingenius…but what I want to know is, if it is this evolved now, how long before it mutates and we find ourselves with a real life zombie crisis on our hands? Quick! Somebody send me the rules for surviving a zombie attack. You can read about these caterpillars [here].
…that there are people out there who think Do-it-Yourself botox is a good deal. And a good idea. Okay, I can’t even wax my upper lip without taking off my chunks of skin and breaking out in a nasty rash. Why would anyone attempt to paralyze the muscles of their face with an injectable toxin all by themselves. Is this stupidity at work or the desperation of a society dying to be what the media and Hollywood have defined as youthful and beautiful.
…and this weeks awww moment:
Tell me, how on earth could any mother walk away from that face?
Well, it’s Wednesday. I wasn’t very optimistic about getting enough material to post a second “Man vs. Beast” blog entry. I was wrong. Granted there have not been that many attacks since last week, and I was forced to broaden my search, but I do think I found some interesting ones. Ones that give credence to the notion that the animals of the world are coming together, in some sort of organized uprising. Their motives are still unclear to me, for I know not what they hope to accomplish.
I guess time will tell.
Here’s what I found:
In Tulla, County Clare, Ireland, a farmer was attacked by an otter. Yes, you heard me right. An otter. You know, those furry little river rat looking things we see at the zoo. In a small Irish village, a farmer filling his vehicle with diesel spotted the creature struggling to remove a “crisp bag” from its head. Being the good Samaritan that his mother raised him to be, he came to the animal’s rescue only to be bitten for his trouble. In addition, the ungrateful otter took his bad attitude out on the poor man’s truck. And if that weren’t enough, once the farmer was able to release the “fanged fish-gobbler” onto the shores of a nearby river, it had to be rescued, yet again, because it nearly drown from exhaustion. I was unable repost all of the photographs as they are copyright protected, so please take a minute, and click [here] to view the calamity for yourself. It is well worth it. I got quite the laugh out of it. On an a side note, “fanged fish-gobbler” is now my new favorite animal description.
In Lincoln County, Wisconsin, a man out hunting with his buddies shot and wounded a bear. The bear then attacked the man, injuring him. Of course, the bear lost in the end when he was hunted down and killed by the man’s buddies, in what can only be described as a revenge killing. Again, I’m no bear advocate, but I think this is a clear-cut case of what’s good for the goose…
A kite-surfer (yeah, I don’t know the heck this is) in Papua, New Guinea was attacked by a tiger shark on Sunday. While wave-running (again…no idea), the man was bitten and knocked off his board by the shark. This was a strategic attack on the part of the shark, for the man states that it catapulted out of the water and aimed right for his leg. When I read this story, I couldn’t help but think of that video they play over and over again on America’s Funniest Home Videos – the one where the toddler is just walking along, minding his own business, and along comes a frisky kitty who launches himself at the boy, knocking him to the ground (looked – could not find it for the life of me). I wonder in this case, if the shark had ill intentions or if this was simply a case of “I have an uncontrollable urge…”. You can read more about this story [here].
I may not be a bear advocate, but I am a big cat lover. Of course, I’m not going to go around camping where they make their home. That would be stupid, but I do enjoy looking at them and have a healthy respect for their prowess. Sadly, in a case of guilt by association, on Vancouver Island, two cougars were killed when they were spotted near popular campgrounds. These killings were in response to an attack on an 18 month old boy by a different cougar at a different campground. This one sorta pisses me off and I have nothing real snarky to say about it. If you would like to read more about this one, you can do so [here].
At the El Paso Zoo, a Malaysian tiger on loan from the San Diego Zoo, killed her mate over the weekend in an apparent love triangle gone bad. To quote Chicago’s Velma Kelly and the other ladies of murderess’ row, “he had it coming”. The male showered an older female with attention. This, in any relationship – man or beast, is not to be borne. She did what any self-respecting female would have done in her position. She took him by the neck and squeezed until he was dead.
“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, No hell a fury like a woman scorned.” William Congreve, The Mourning Bride
So, with everyone throwing around words like remake, reboot, prequel, and sequel, my head is spinning. I’m so confused by it all and it makes me wonder if the creativity well in Hollywood has finally run dry? Do the powers that be think the viewing public so incapable of espousing something new and fresh that they must look to the past for the next great flick? Or maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s us. Are our imaginations so stunted that we are truly inept at embracing anything other than storylines and characters we already find intimately familiar? Frankly, I find it all exhausting and a bit of a blow to my intelligence. That’s not to say I’m immune to it all. I loved the Star Trek reboot. What self-respecting, closet geek didn’t? Tron Legacy, anyone? Bond? Well, it did take me a while to get on board that reboot. Though, my issue was more in the casting than the direction of the franchise. I eventually did come around to the idea of Daniel Craig filling the Bond shoes – even if Quantum of Solace did suck ever so slightly. Okay. A lot.
Then there’s the Footloose remake. It’s a remake and not a reboot, right? Again, I have no idea but I do know that there can be absolutely no logical reason to futz around with that flick. Kevin Bacon = Ren McCormack. Period. End of story. Any remake, reboot, sequel, prequel – whatever – is doomed to failure and will likely tarnish the good name of a perfectly wonderful 80’s classic – again. Do Hollywood executives not remember the debacle that was Fame circa 2009? Or that monstrosity that was 2004’s Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights? The next thing you know, they’ll be remaking Flashdance and Top Gun. Oops…too late. Top Gun is slated for 2013. Excuse me while I beat my head against my desk. Pure blasphemy. But wait – there’s more. At a theater near you this summer, you will have your choice of remakes and reboots (define them how you will – I’m tired of trying). You will be treated to fresh offerings of Fright Night, Conan the Barbarian 3D (because 3D makes everything better – not), Spy Kids 4 in 4D (oh goody – the added bonus of seeing a sucky movie AND getting wet), Final Destination 5 (they haven’t gotten there yet?), Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark, and The Smurfs (also in 3D – *sigh*). Next year you can expect to be dazzled with remakes/reboots of Spiderman, Superman (entitled Man of Steel), the next Dark Knight film (Batman) and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (because as Americans, we have to do things our way). And of course, for all you stoners out there – Bill & Ted 3 appears to be a go. Again, I ask: Has Hollywood run out of ideas? Or have we lost our willingness to embrace new ideas; thereby, giving writers no choice but to give us what we already know?
In one month, I will turn 39. Egads! 39. Seriously? How the hell did that happen? I mean, I can see the whites of 40’s eyes glaring at me from the not so distant shadows. It’s the beginning of a whole new decade of my life and that much closer to middle-age. Oh wait, am I middle-aged now? Oh God, now I’ve scared myself. I suppose it’s safe to say that I am not really taking this whole 39th birthday thing too well. I never do and really, who does? I remember a time when I couldn’t wait for that next birthday to come. Age 10 meant I could ride my bike on the street; age 16 – driver’s license; age 18 – emancipation; age 21- legal liquor. Then it all just sort of fizzled out. After a while birthday excitement got harder and harder to muster until one day the very thought of another birthday left me curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, murmuring unintelligible nonsense over and over. What? Never happened to you? Hmmmm…strange. Happens to me every year.
As the days tick by, edging closer and closer to June 16, I find myself feeling reflective. When I turned 29, my beautiful daughter was not yet one and my son was still under the false impression that I was, if not cool, a least a little bit fun. But for all this happiness and promise of what my 30s would bring, I didn’t start the decade off on the right foot. Indeed, I squandered almost half of it by feeling afraid. Afraid of the future; afraid of change; afraid of finding out who I really was as a person – or perhaps rather, who I wanted to be as a person. It wasn’t a good time for me. I retreated into myself, alienated friends and got myself good and fat. I could snarf down an entire bag of Oreos without coming up for air. It was actually quite an impressive feat, if I do say so myself. I stumbled my way through my early 30s this way until I saw the family Christmas photo in 2004.
I was excited about that photo. It was the first photo of all us in years. I picked it up and opened the envelope with much anticipation. It was going to be great, I just knew it. Wrong. Sure, my family looked amazing. Megan with her chubby little cheeks and Brendan with his dazzling smile and Nolan looking every bit the part of a proud husband and father – then there was me. Double chin, round face, sunken eyes, frizzy hair, sausage arms accentuated by the festive red sweater I’d stupidly chosen instead of my usual black. My gasp of horror was irrepressible and was surely heard by everyone in the photo studio. I don’t think I have ever laid eyes on a worse photo – not even my senior pictures which were mind-blowingly bad to say the least, was that bad. I’ve alway wondered how I made it out of that place without disgracing myself but I made it safely back to my car before I dissolved into a sobbing pile of goo.
That terrible, awful, disgusting, repulsive – I could go on forever – picture changed my life. It was like someone flipped a switch in me. I didn’t want to be the person I saw in this picture staring back at me with dead eyes. I wanted to be something more. First thing I did was lose the weight. Wasn’t easy – it never is. One of life’s little ironies is that it’s always so much easier and a lot more fun to get fat than it is to get un-fat. I did it though – me, my stationary bike and reruns of Alias (only the greatest show on television – EVER). Once I did that, it opened up a whole new realm of possibilities for me. I mean, if I could lose 50 lbs, what else could I do? What did I want to do? I wanted to write. Writing was something I’d dabbled in since childhood but never had the confidence to pursue.
I took a basic novel writing class at Collin County Community College. Best thing I ever did for myself – well besides loosing weight and getting healthy. I learned several things about myself during this class – 1) I am quite capable of carrying on conversations with complete strangers without making too much of a fool of myself 2) I sweat and shake profusely when I am nervous – I am talking sopping wet pits 3) Letting others read and critique my work doesn’t make the heavens come crashing down around my ears. 4) Change isn’t all that scary.
In my mid-thirties, I learned that the universe has a sick sense of humor. I was taking baby steps in my endeavor to be more open to change and find myself. I was more than happy with the pace of things. Apparently, the universe didn’t quite see things my way. In the span of just a few months, I lost my house to a fire, my father to cancer, my mother came to live with us and then was diagnosed with cancer herself. Like it or not, I was going to have to deal with some serious change – quickly – like right now. If it had been five years early, I might have crawled into my bed, pulled the covers over my head and waited for the storm to pass but it never crossed my mind. Instead, I dealt with it, bit by bit and I let myself grow from the experience. I signed up for another writing class (the one I had to drop because my father passed away) and I met the most amazing people. (Funny how the universe worked there – I never would have met them if I had stayed in the first class.) They read my work – I had to stand up in front of them and watch while they did it. As before, it didn’t kill me. I did sweat like a pig and shake like a leaf but I survived. I discovered I liked sharing my work, I liked the honest feedback and I learned that I wasn’t a terrible writer but I had a lot of room for improvement. I found that I liked them. Everyone different with their own thoughts and creative ideas. And every one of them just as quirky as me. I felt a kinship with these people. I found my group.
As I make the climb up these steep steps toward 40, I am not happy about it. I hate the new wrinkles around my eyes, the laugh lines that frame my mouth and the saggy little skin I’ve just discovered under my chin that no amount of miracle cream can seem to tighten. I hate that no matter how much I exercise, I will never get rid of that bit of fat that is threatening to overtake my knees. My feet hurt, my knees ache a little and I can’t fall off a ladder anymore without really hurting myself. I’m still scared of losing the tight grip I keep on my life – I will forever be a control freak but I am learning to be more laid back and maybe even the tiniest bit spontaneous. I understand now the importance of nurturing good relationships, cutting out the bad and not being afraid to step off the ledge without looking – well maybe just a peek before I leap. I am getting older. I can’t stop it, I don’t like it anymore now than I did ten years ago but the difference now is that I can accept it and feel almost a little bit of excitement about what I might be able to accomplish in the coming years. I am a 38-year-old college student, after all. Right now the possibilities seem endless.