You My Friend, Are a Hot Mess.

It’s a new year and perhaps now is the time to start embracing our horrible relationship with effort and comfort. Let’s all agree that there is no need to incorporate running in to our daily lives, unless we are being chased. Nor do we need to give in to the notion we fail at parenthood if we feed our children things we can actually pronounce, not grown in organic poo.

We’re not getting any younger, our metabolism slowed down at least 12 (Ok, 15) years ago and the demons in our closets will only manifest in uglier and unhealthier ways at this point.

It’s been reported that our brains are mimicking that of a gold fish, meaning on average we can focus for no more than a solid eight seconds. How in the hell are we suppose to make healthy food choices, absorb the joys of parenthood, excersice, maintain self-care and ponder life’s profound fucked-upness when we are constantly distracted by Pings and shiny objects?

I suppose we should at least try to get out of our own way. Think of the following suggestions as good-intentioned, half-ass commitments. Some of which you can even do sitting down!

1. Can you see your toes? Yes? That’s awesome. Now bend yourself over and reach for those little fuckers. Stretch that beautiful skin as far as you can. Don’t like to look at your feet? Look up instead. Reach as far as you can above your head until you get that fuzzy, slightly high feeling all over. Who doesn’t like a free buzz?? Take full advantage.
2. You can walk, right? So stick with that. Just try to do more of it. It takes just as much time to park further out and walk to the entrance of Target as it does to drive around waiting for rock star parking. Yes, it’s cold outside. Jack Frost nibbling on that ass you keep complaining about is working to your advantage. Now suck it up and hustle. I want to see knees to chest, knees to chest.
3. Just eat half of that deliciously horrible lunch you just purchased. Don’t deny yourself the joy of deep-fried happiness or cheese and pepperoni triangle shaped love. Moderation betches. Have one slice instead of two and chew slower. Savor that shit.
4. Quit trying to fix everyone else and pay attention to the hot mess you are. Enlisting a therapist to help you process and resolve some shit doesn’t mean you are crazy or weak. We completely underestimate the power of purging our shit in the company of a professional. Plus, your grown-up insurance plan will help you pay for it.
5. If you do something you’re proud of, smile or maybe break out your best I Just Woke Up Like This moves in the middle of the grocery store aisle. But stop posting everything on Facebook. Likes and comments do not validate your accomplishments. and if you continue to believe that shit you will keep finding yourself in the corner, ugly crying about what is “wrong” with you. Knock that shit off.
6. Don’t cross something off your ‘To Do’ list, and watch the world not fall apart.
7. If you want to start and finish something, get the fuck off social media for longer than ten minute intervals. It sucks the life out of creativity and kills brain cells you could be using to bust out something fabulous. There will be moments in your attempt to be awesome where you are stuck. Do not believe you will just check your newsfeed “real quick.” No one has the power to stop at a scroll or two, and you will land knee deep in infectious cat videos.
8. Got lungs? Fill them bitches up with free oxygen, as often as you can. Deep breathing has been proven to ward off road rage and keep young children alive.
9. The next time you feel like shit, do something for a stranger. And I don’t mean buying the person behind you in the Dunkin Donuts drive-through a coffee. They obviously have the means to enjoy life’s little pleasures. Get off your ass and walk over to the homeless person you pass by almost daily. Make eye contact with him. And if the scarf or gloves you are wearing isn’t of much value to you, hand it over.
10. Quit bailing your kids out every time they fuck up. Stop convincing yourself that you need to give up your life to ensure your children are entertained and stimulated every part of every day. Let the little bastards fall down and be bored. You’ll both live. And you’ll have a lot more fun doing it.
11. Set goals with grace periods. Remember, we share attention spans with gold fish.
12. Think of something you hate…a place, a behavior, a person, a personal flaw. Now ask yourself why. Start working on that shit.
13. Think of something you love…a place, a sound, an activity, a natural talent. When was the last time you experienced that? Work on that shit too.
14. Quit acting like your broke-ass can afford whatever your impulsive-ass wants. Cut up the credit cards. All but one, because life is unpredictable and fucked up. We all need to be bailed out at some point.
15. It won’t kill you to start drinking more water. Even if it comes from a faucet. Ok. That may be relative to where you live but still. You’ll have less headaches and your pee will no longer resemble florescent toxins. Both very important.

So what do you think? Can you commit to at least three, maybe four? I dare say if not, you need to put down the 400 calories of mocha love, take a social media sabbatical and run (Ha! ok, speed walk) to your most beloved happy place. You my friend…are a hot mess.

 

 

Women Everywhere Are Fed Up With Their Awesome Husbands.

Being in a relationship with a level headed, Windex-ing superhero isn’t easy.

He’s the guy who rarely walks by you without a gentle touch to your shoulder or a feisty slap on the ass. The one who makes you coffee every morning. You get to wake up to Folgers in your cup and his selflessness wafting all over the damn place.

He’s that father who can distract a toddler in the midst of a straight-jacket worthy episode. His mac n’ cheese just tastes better. He manages to squash the sass pouring out of the older child’s mouth like some kind of parent whisperer.

Sound familiar? Yeah, I’m married to one of those men, too. How I got so lucky I’ll never know. But if I’m being honest, sometimes his commitment to being awesome is irritating as hell.

So excited to have a post on Sammiches and Psych Meds today. They feature some of the funniest stuff on the internet and I am incredibly grateful to be included as a contributor!

Click the link below to read the article in it’s entirety. And tell me, is your partner one of those annoyingly awesome people??

Women Everywhere Are Fed Up With Their Awesome Husbands.

No Nap…Yada, Yada, Yada and Now Eyes Roll When I Walk Into My Kid’s Doctor’s Office.

As I feared, full on meltdown when I asked him to please not bang the cars into the walls. There goes a car across the room, missing someone’s grandmother by six inches. Now cue flopping fish-out-of-water syndrome. I should have listened to my Momma survival instincts, grabbed the volatile little hulk and his sister and gotten the hell out of there. But no.

I have a post up on Today Parenting team today that might have you re-thinking skipping nap time, even if it means you have to re-schedule appointments or forego necessary errands. Hoping you’ll head over and have a laugh on me (perhaps a little pity as well). If you enjoy reading my post, consider hitting the ‘vote up’ button and I may get a chance to have my essay featured on the Today Show. 😉

Click the link to read my post in it’s entirety. “He’s fine, I swear. He just missed his nap today.”

Has your child ever made a scene (or two) in public, because you were foolish enough to believe that a quick trip to fill in the blank  without a nap would work?? I’d love to hear about it. 😉 Come on, I need a good laugh today.

10 Realistic Ways Kids Can Make Mother’s Day Rock!

1. A full days worth of not wearing boogers would be just fabulous. Nothing ruins a sweet hug like the dragging of a child’s nose across your shoulder like a dog dragging his ass on the carpet.

2. The silent treatment. If the kids could just pretend to be enlightened little monks all day that would be fan-freakin’-tastic.

3. I promise to still feed you without the usual “I’m huuunngryyyy” every 20 minutes… mmmkay. So if you could encourage your tape worm to hibernate for just this one day, that’d be great.

4. Don’t ask me for anything. Nothing. Not food, the exiled toys on top of the fridge, where the shoes are that sit right in front of you, or if your friend (that you just saw less than 24 hrs ago) can come over. This shall be known as “fend for yourself” day.

5. Eat your own food and don’t drink out of my cup. I don’t want to share today. The food on your plate and the milk in your cup taste exactly like mine. Eat your own!

6. Don’t sass your mother. Please help me at least feel like I have some control over your behavior today. Don’t talk back, no floppy-fish syndrome on the floor when you’re told no and for the love of motherhood, please believe me when I say crying and whining will not change my mind.

7. Remember you have two parents. Please take full advantage of your father’s awesome parenting skills today. Trust that he too can fill a cup with juice, answer your 20 trick questions and watch you perform acrobatic stunts at least 46 times in a row.

8. Don’t fart on me. Don’t burp in my face. Don’t call me in to the bathroom to discuss something “urgent” as you are taking a dump. Don’t poop in your diaper and then play with every single sit/ride/bouncy toy, forcing the toxic poo to exit the diaper from every angle, before you tell me you need to be changed. And if you are old enough to actually use the toilet, FLUSH THE DAMN THING!

9. No fighting. Be warned. If you decide to pick fights with one another, you better work it out or duke it out. Momma will be sipping wine in the sunshine, not refereeing today.

10. Do give me hugs just because you love me. Do remind me that I don’t totally suck at this motherhood gig. But more than anything, do know that even though I sometimes crave distance, my love for you is unconditional. You little people have given me a gift that can’t be held and admired, but carried in my heart–every day.

PMDD: Psychotic Menstruating Diva Disorder

I’m so excited!! HuffPost Comedy picked up my most recent humor post about that dreaded week before Aunt Flow comes to town. Here’s a glimpse…

I’m constantly trying to keep the hormonal psycho on my shoulder in check. She’s a nasty bitch that encourages my insane urges to bunt babies and flip off strangers. Isn’t it ironic that as our bodies are naturally preparing to brew beautiful life, we’re feeling like setting off an A-bomb on at least half the population?

Click here to read the post in its entirety.

Woman Goes Premenstrual Postal. Flees Home With Hershey’s Bar and Samaria Sword.

Moody doesn’t quite cover it. Volatile would better describe the way some of us are lucky enough to feel, the week before our period. I’m considering starting a support group for those of us that suffer from what they call in the medical community, PMDD. I’m guessing that stands for Psychotic Menstruating Diva Disorder.

Should we just disappear the week before our period? Between a terrible case of the ‘fuck it’s’ and my vicious tongue, I feel like I would be doing my family and the general public a favor. Perhaps we could seek out demolition jobs for this time every month, and just beat the hell out of some shit. Then watch Steel Magnolia on repeat for a few days and we should be good.

I know I’m constantly trying to keep the hormonal psycho on my shoulder in check. She’s a nasty bitch that encourages my insane urges to bunt babies and flip off strangers. Isn’t it ironic that as our bodies are naturally preparing to brew beautiful life, we’re feeling like setting off an A-bomb on at least half the population.

The edginess is unbearable at times. Like when you drop something and it takes a good thirty seconds to bend down and get it, because you’re talking yourself out of throwing whatever it is right through the freakin’ window. Or when you hear your children fighting and suddenly feel your lips curving upwards in that freaky Stepford Wife kind of way. You have to whisper to them to stop fighting, because you know if you raise your voice and lose your fake-ass composure, the demons that will crack out of you will no doubt leave scars. Sorry kids, you can’t go to college. We needed the money to cover your shock therapy.

It’s that step on a toy and suddenly your entire life just fucking sucks kind of few days. It’s half pity party, half just plain sick of shit. It’s not that we really want bad things to happen, but the warm, fuzzies in life can bring out the “go fuck yourself” attitude more than anything. All the feel-good, blah, blah coming through your Facebook feed leaves your eyeballs practically bleeding, from banging against the back of your head so hard. I know I have absolute zero tolerance for things that I normally enjoy, like birds chirping outside or the sound of my children breathing.

Pissy. I’m just plain pissy.

There is no humor in Murphy and his stupid law taking over your life at this particular time, every damn month. (Cue pity party.) Getting stuck behind someone driving 10 mph under the speed limit, when you are one frayed nerve away from bunking with Charles Manson is not funny. Landing in the check out aisle with the coupon queen having a meltdown over not getting an eighth pack of razors for free is a sick joke. That shit will one day land me on an episode of Snapped. Just. Can’t. Handle it.

Every single irritant has the potential for a full on freak out. You know the ones. Your arms start flailing, head falls completely back and you’re uncontrollably kicking innocent air while screaming in tongues. Grown men shudder, small children burst in to fits of fear and old ladies just start praying for your crazy-ass. Or is that just me?

In addition to all this displaced aggression, it seems to take only mere seconds to fall in to a puddle of hot mess. For that reason, I’d highly recommend wearing my favorite mascara this time of month. It only comes in one color–Blat-ass Black. It resists running down your face as you ugly-cry over stupid shit and will even brighten up your resting bitch face. It’s really the perfect accessory for those pre-menstruating moments when you need that extra oomph to tame your crazy.

You know it’s bad when you are begging Aunt Flow to just please hurry her ass up, because you’d rather deal with your uterus screaming at you, cooter corks and zero energy than feel like you’re the living sequel to Cybil. Seriously, this PMDD crap is cramping my easy goin’ style.

As fun as it is to laugh at the hormonal high jacking that is PMS, there is really nothing more frustrating then feeling out of control. Even when we can remind ourselves that there is a reason for feeling the irrational rage and emotional overload, it can feel next to impossible to keep our shit together. I say do yourself a favor, and try not to be too hard on yourself when the crazy seeps out. You’re not alone. And I’m sure shock therapy for the kids won’t be that bad.

“What Does His Daddy Think About That Hat?”

It’s just a hat. So why does my son get so much attention for it? It doesn’t have spikes coming out of it or flashing lights like his Spider Man boots. It’s just a boring winter hat. Oh, and it’s pink.

When I first started hearing the comments– “Well, isn’t he cute in that pink hat.”, “Were they all out of boy hats?”, “Poor thing, your mom putting you in a pink hat!” (Yes, swear to God all three of those were said to me…in public)– I considered writing about it but convinced myself  I was making more out of this than was really there. Well, if you have ever raised a two year old, you know that phases of “favorites” can last weeks. The little guy is well in to his third or fourth week of wearing this pink hat every time we go out in public. I can’t not notice how often and what kind of attention he gets for the damn thing. It was the question I placed in the title that pushed me over the edge, and drove my fingers to tap out this snarky, frustrated rant.

Little Man and I were in a local convenient store, splurging on a chocolate milk and a hot cup of coffee to go. I was snapping the white, plastic lid tightly on the paper cup when I heard it…”What does his daddy think about that hat?” It was followed by a half-ass, ingenuous laugh oozing with sarcasm and homophobic tones. As if to imply he would never tolerate his son walking out in public wearing a pink hat. No boy of his would be seen as “girly”, or in other words, weak. Something in me just snapped. I had had it with the comments. I ripped the lid off the coffee and drenched the asshole in caramel macchiato flavored brew.

Ok. So maybe I didn’t actually throw the coffee at him but I seriously wanted to. I mean I saw the scene playing out in my head but decided I would rather enjoy the coffee I just spent $3 on rather than waste it on someone who would never understand why I threw it in the first place. Instead, I didn’t acknowledge his “joke” at all and headed out of there before I went all Gloria Steinman on his ass.

Let me honestly tell you what my husband thinks about that pink hat. He fucking loves it. He will choose it before my son sometimes, because it’s not a fight to put it on his big, beautiful head when it’s -10 outside. He sees it for what it is. The hubs may have face palmed the first time he saw the little dude twirling around in his sister’s princess dresses, but he isn’t scared that the pink will sink in and turn his son gay. He’s a little more evolved than that, thank you — you chauvinistic, homophobic douchbag.

I don’t usually get so loud and go on the attack over this sort of stuff but that asshat’s question left a bad taste in my mouth. In eight little words, he managed to shame my baby boy for wearing a specific color and assumed my husband should be ashamed of his son because of it. Had I called him out (like I honestly wish I had), I know he would have acted as if it was just a joke…no big deal small talk. He would not have been able to see how offensive his question was because his closed off little brain is just stuck on stupid. To him, boys will be boys, girls should be pretty and homosexuality is something that needs to be “fixed”.

That shit is dangerous and it needs to stop. That man is my age–thirtysomething. I went to school with him. It’s not like he stems from a generation where homosexuality was accepted as a mental health disorder and women “belonged” in the kitchen. He’s actually an intelligent guy, but he chooses to hold on to damaging prejudices. He’s too “manly” to consider for even a minute why seeing a boy in a pink hat bothers him enough to bully a two year old. It makes me sad for his children… and mine.

If I seem a little over the top on this one–good. If you want to call me an angry feminist and tell me to calm down–go ahead. Because I am and I won’t. Do I realize that sometimes a compliment on a hat is just that–yes. But I am pretty intuitive and the sarcastic tone in which “Oh I looove his pink hat” has so often been said this winter has just irritated the shit right out of me. And I just have no more fucks to give if I offend someone by speaking my mind on this. I’m tired of smiling politely and laughing it off to keep the peace. Momma has bit her tongue long enough.

I truly believe we have come along way in combating gender stereotyping, in allowing men to be emotional beings and in accepting that a person’s sexuality is not a personality trait, but we’re not quite there yet. Witnessing the attention my son has received over this ridiculous hat is proof of that. It’s made me realize how important it is to combat that kind of mentality in the only way I know how. Calling it out and raising confident, compassionate children that won’t stand for it either.

Dance Party For One Please.

It was 10 am and I was heading out to the dreaded grocery store. Before I got out of the driveway, I put together a play list that would wrap itself around my rather spunky mood at the time. I backed out of the driveway and hit play. Suddenly, my truck transformed in to my very own one woman show. I became that person.

Ben Howard had me contemplating the constraints of fear. Eminem and Sia had me fist pumping the idea of guts over glory. Iggy Azalea turned me in to the most bad-ass rappin’ momma you’ve ever seen. I was a black widow baby. Oh yeah, I was in the zone.

The road became my stage and I owned the floor. I didn’t care that the car behind me probably thought I was having some sort of freak attack, as the back end of my truck mimicked my own hind end. When I got stuck at a four way, waiting for adequate space between cars so that I could make a left hand turned, I turned the music up. I didn’t care the cars behind me, beside me and in front of me could see my ridiculous ass, as I bopped my head, sang like I was double-fisting margheritas, got my duck face on and dropped it like it was hot, as much as one can while in a vehicle.

As I finally got the chance to make that turn, I made eye contact with a car full of women that appeared to be around my age. They were laughing out loud. One shot me a thumbs up and another was swooping the air with her fist in that Arsenio Hall kind of way. I threw my head back and laughed and waved. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I knew how they were feeling, as they caught me gettin’ my dance on underneath that traffic light. It’s that kind of thing where you hear a complete stranger belly laugh and you can’t help but laugh yourself. Joy is contangious like that.

That 20 minute ride left me more refreshed than I have felt in a while.

There is magic in those moments when you don’t give a shit about what people think. Those rare minutes we are lucky enough to sometimes have, when joy wins and life allows you to drink it right up. It’s that spunk that we all seem to lose a bit of as we get older. As we fall in to the role of adult, we unfortunately worry too much about what other people think. It gets in the way of spontaneous fun. We go looking for that elusive bullshit called a “happy life” and forget that happiness is only mere moments that we have to let happen.

“Take time for yourself.” We women hear that all the damn time. What does that even mean? Ain’t nobody got time for that! On the daily, I am a SAHM with financial and emotional stress that hangs heavy on every thought I own. I don’t have the ability to take time. What I had that day was the awareness that I could have a moment.

That’s what we should be reminding each other. Own the fleeting moments when you are in a good mood and go with it. Turn on some tunage and drop it like it’s hot mommas! Turn the spatuala into a diamond studded microphone and let your inner tone def Mariah Carey out. Our kids and husbands are going to laugh at us anyway, right?

I wish I could bottle that exuberant, I-don’t-give-a-frick attitude I had yesterday. I wish that shit was pixie dust I could just cover myself in when a funk sets in. Truth be told, life wears me down. More than I would like to admit. Depression is a monster under my bed and I don’t let loose nearly enough. I’m not 20-something anymore and liquid encouragement isn’t something I can depend on to help me feel alive. “Good times” aren’t readily available when adulthood meets parenthood and collides with the stressful reality we all live in.

The music is still in all of us. We just have to let it out. We have to allow ourselves to tap in to that childlike joy, that silliness, that inner rock star we all have lying dormant in side of us. What I know for sure is happiness is fleeting. It will slip right through your fingers if you don’t nurture it in the rare moments it’s begging to make an appearance. Ladies, when our ever swinging moods hit a high note, we need to take full advantage! Put the real world on hold…and just dance people!

Who Knew So Many Parents ‘Get’ Me.

Since posting my most recent article, Can I Get A ‘Hell Yeah’ For Mediocre Parenting, I have become humorously aware of how much alike us parents are, instead of different and caddy, as the media portrays us to be.

Today, my article is being featured on an Australian parenting online magazine called Kidspot. Those Aussies are funny mums and pops. I’ve spent the morning reading comments and I think I even converted a few to become red wine drinkers. Yesterday, the article was published on Huff Post Parents. Pretty awesome!

I already knew how humor can bring us all together, but I didn’t realize until now how being able to laugh at ourselves as parents could make us all calm down the mommy guilt we all carry.

My favorite comments are the ones where women are recommending the article to their girlfriends. I see a lot of “So us!” I think this post resonates with so many because I’ve said out loud what I normally only say to my closest girlfriends. It really just goes to show we are all doing the best we can and no one really has this gig totally figured out.

So cheers to being down right normal! May we all understand that losing our shit once in a while does not, in fact, mean we aren’t loving, awesome parents. 😉 ~Dawn

~Dawn

Can I Get A ‘Hell Yeah’ For Mediocre Parenting?!

Wine or coffee…you be the judge.

I admit it. I was one of those moms that said, “my kid will never …” I thought I had a say in how my kid’s personalities would form. I ridiculously assumed that because I am their mother, that would be enough to make them obey. Well, karma has raised her hand and bitch slapped my righteous ass.

I’ve written before about my sassy baby girl. I’ve told you how she speaks her mind and is too smart for her own good. It’s true what they say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. Oh my Lawd that child has an attitude I hate to recognize. Most days I feel like I am dealing with a PMSing five year old. Her refusal to simply do as she is told makes my blood boil to a temperature hot enough to fry an egg on my tired ass.

My beautifully spirited daughter will go far in life, I have no doubt. I’m just not sure we’ll both survive to see it happen. I’m old school people, with southern roots. I don’t take kindly to talking back. I have that “look” that scares children and grown ass men, but my daughter is rarely affected by it. She sees it as a challenge and her fighter’s heart will not back down. She will argue her point, even when she knows I know she’s wrong. The sassy one is the most passionate being I know. She has fierce blood but a tender soul. I love her for that but my God it makes it difficult to parent her.

And my son…he’s the most handsome little ball of insanity you’ll ever meet. The boy has mad skills. He could convince Judge Judy that he needs a third cheese stick, and then like the diva he is, will decide it isn’t quite the flavor he was going for. He will then throw the wrapper at his feet and refuse to pick it up. I’ve left said wrapper on the floor for an entire day and have even withheld food until he decides to pick it up. I cave every time because the terrible two year old would rather go on a hunger strike than do something he just simply doesn’t feel like doing. He doesn’t win every time, but the score card is currently in his favor.

I never understood why parents let their child stay up past a reasonable bed time. I’d say dumb shit like, “I just wouldn’t tolerate it.” Enter kid number two and I have learned my tolerance level means absolutely squat to a little dude who needs less sleep than his momma on a writer’s high. I was spoiled with my first child. She has always been asleep by 8 at the latest. My little guy, at two, seems to think he should remain the center of the universe at 10pm. It isn’t a matter of not putting him to bed at a reasonable hour, it’s a matter of keeping his cute little butt in his bed. That little sucker will continuously come down the stairs, no matter what. He has even gone as far as perfecting the art of holding in a poop until an ungodly hour so he has a valid excuse to get up. Well played, little man, well played.

I’m telling you, my children are the reason I had to switch to red wine. White just no longer offered the kind of mind-numbing, patience-aiding effects necessary to make it through cranky hour. Ya know, that time between 4pm and whenever their precious bodies finally decide to give out. How in the hell do people survivor more than two children??? Oh God, that was not a challenge, please sweet Jesus do not take that as a lesson I need to learn!

I love my babies, I really do. And I know I am not the first mother to feel like a total failure because her children don’t listen to her and things don’t go the way she thinks they should. I’m just in that moment where scratching my eyes out and cutting off my arms at the elbows seems reasonable. That way I won’t have to point out the remote they can’t find that is right freakin’ next to them, or make one more freakin’ snack because they never. stop. eating.

Christmas break ends tomorrow and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t ecstatic. If I have to listen to one more ridiculous fight or bake one more set of cookies, I may just strap on the straight jacket and call it a day. I’m seriously considering looking the other way and letting Darwin’s theory play itself out, as they fight over the cheapest, dumbest toy in the house. More than once over the past two weeks I have clicked my heels, hoping to find myself sitting in a CEO worthy leather chair, wearing the most bitchin’ pink power suit you’ve ever seen, staring over the skyline of a city that never sleeps. Yes, I admit it, I have dreamed about what it would be like to be childless.

So on the eve of this way too long of a break in our daily routines, I say cheers! Simply because we have survived it. To all the mothers and fathers that have lost their shit more than once recently, I high five your normal ass. Now I need to go pour myself a big ‘ol glass of red wine and put the straight jacket on reserve. I promised the sassy one and her wild little brother they could help me make some cookies with the last of the M&Ms that crazy, fat bastard put in their stockings. Someone call the funny farm and let them know I’d like a room with a view please.