WINTER WARMTH

It must've been dang cold for a few days when a temperature in the high-thirties feels like a heat wave.  

Everybody was outside this past weekend.  People were sledding on hills that had lost all the snow from their mounts due to the recent high winds and frigidly dry conditions.  They didn't care; they simply started further down the slope.  People were out walking their dogs, and the pups were leisurely lolling along, obviously enjoying the fresh, warm air.  People were walking and jogging and running, wearing sweatshirts as their heaviest outer-clothing.  The shops were enjoying brisk business as people left the safety of their homes, their cars, and the local coffee shops to venture out into the January air that felt more like April.  

People smiled and waved and engaged in conversations that showed they were beyond tolerating one another and the elements.  Even though a passing flurry left Sunday morning freshly dusted, people here in the Northeast joked that it was picnic weather, beach weather, shorts weather.  I actually saw people wearing shorts, and I saw more gloveless hands out over the weekend than I saw people wearing coats.

I know it's going to get bad before it gets good again.  There are many reasons that I should hate the winter (biting winds, havoc with my skin, hair static, heavy clothes, scraping car windows, shoveling snow), but I don't.  Not yet, anyway.  Would I love to live on a warm beach?  Sure.  Would I miss the snow falling and the silence it brings?  You bet.  Would I miss the thrill of a nasty blizzard?  Most certainly.

Do I wish the sun didn't set before 4:30 every day?  Admittedly, winter would be infinitely more enjoyable if it stayed light outside until 8 o'clock like it does in the summer.  But there is something spectacular about the pink-violet skies of winter sunrises on my way to work and sunsets on my way home, and the visible dark gray wall of an impending storm front that cuts across the icy sky like a fortress wall.

When it snows, everything looks clean.  Until the plows and the sanders make dirty edges along the pristine snow banks, even the alleys of the city and crusted roofs of tenements look sparkly and fresh.  When the sun shines, the world is blindingly white, right up to the snow that adheres to the bare branches, dropping like errant puffed missiles as the slight winter warmth sets in.

We're lucky in New England.  Rarely do the cold snaps, the truly severe and brutally cold wind chills, last more than a few days.  And the treacherously cold days are always memorable.  I recall one day when I was young, maybe ten, that the temperature never reached higher than -5, and the wind chills and darkness of early evening drove the temperatures much lower still.  I remember looking out the window through the frost and seeing the most beautiful full moon; I remember it now as if it's happening all over again.

Winter is like that.  For all the times it is different, it is still so much the same; for all its fury, there is also its timidity.  I hear next weekend may be nearing the fifties.  Sounds like perfect weather for a long walk and drinks on the patio.  I'm quite certain my Southern friends think I'm insane (perhaps for more reasons than just this), but there's a part of me, as excited as I am for the winter respite, that wishes there were a huge, honking snowstorm headed our way because in addition to being exceptionally beautiful, there's nothing like a forced slow-down of activity, Mother Nature's version of "sending us to our rooms," to remind us just how fortunate we are not only to be living in New England but also just to be alive.

Okay, okay, so I'm sentimental.  But I'll also admit I'm a little chilly.  Bring on the heat wave, but don't bring spring on; not just yet, anyway.  We're still a few flakes short of a New England winter, and I'm not ready to give up or give in just yet.

THE GREAT AND POWERFUL DR. OZ

Facebook is a wonderful thing.  Without it I would never know the 100 foods that The Great and Powerful Dr. Oz wants in my shopping cart.  Never mind that he isn't paying for my grocery bill, but, like every other whacko out there, he feels the incessant need to tell me what I'm doing wrong and how to make it right per his agenda.

First I peruse the list to see what it is he thinks I'm doing correctly.  For fruits, I'm doing reasonably well.  I don't have these in my cart every week, but I'm doing okay by way of apples, oranges, strawberries, and watermelon.  I also throw in an occasional pomegranate and some Bing cherries.  Grapes have tasted bitter to me over the last few years, and I have gone from being a green-grapes-only gal to a red-grapes-only gal.  Not really sure what this turn of events means, but I'm certain The Great and Powerful Dr. Oz would make some kind of decree and demand I bring back the vine of green grapes or something equally uselessly time-consuming.

Baby carrots and potatoes are staples in my diet, and I've branched out a lot recently to include sweet potatoes whenever possible.  But the greens thing, I only hit iceberg lettuce on that.  I'm not a collard-greens kind of person.  But this is where his list of fresh produce ends.  Oh sure, there's an asterisk that says I can buy any other fruit and veggie my heart desires, but that gets me to wondering: Spinach is a pretty important veggie, and even though I mentioned strawberries, those aren't on the fruit/veggie list, nor are tomatoes, corn, onions, broccoli, or beans.  Yet Swiss chard should be in my cart all the time.  Is that just for roughage purposes?  Because I've found that excesses of peanut butter will accomplish the same result.

So where do I find my favorite fresh fruits and vegetables?  Why, under TG&P Dr. Oz's list of frozen foods.  Frozen.  Froooooooozennnnn.  Ice-cube-omundo, frigidioso, ala snowflake, frosted al dente.  Sure, sure, you'll tell me that the food is frozen "fresh."  Sure, as "fresh" as it can be frozen in a food processing factory and packaged into plastic bags seared shut with hot glue and decorated with ink.  Now, I'm no doctor, Oz, but it stands to reason that fresh foods from the store or a farm stand certainly outweigh benefits of food frozen and processed in an industrial plant (as opposed to a real plant).   

When I check out TG&P Dr. Oz's list of meats, I must admit to not buying bison meat.  I also admit to rarely buying pre-cooked meat that has been packaged by an outside corporation.  In other words, I don't buy the pre-cooked Perdue chicken pieces.  I'm sure they're probably fine, but I have a hard enough time seeing how fresh the meat is when I buy it; not knowing what the meat looked like raw makes me a little uncomfortable.  And really, Dr. Oz - no nitrate ham?  Is there really such a thing, or are you being one silly old doc?  Inquiring minds want to know.  Quite frankly, sir, meat should moo (or cluck or oink) when I pick up a package from the store - it should be that fresh and pure.

Canned foods crack me up because here is where I find tomatoes.  Honestly, I would eat a fresh, raw tomato over a processed, canned one any day of the week, but that's just me, apparently.  By the way, Doc Oz, why bother with the low-sodium stuff if you also expect us to be eating dill pickles, sardines, and anchovies?  So, I stay off the sodium in my chicken broth but pile it on with the canned mini-fish.  Hmmmmm.  Sounds almost like a bait-and-switch, and by bait I mean sardines are for fishing not eating.

When I get to the deli/cheese part of the list, I notice hummus.  Hummus, which is made from garbanzo beans, spices, and oil.  There isn't a single frigging dairy nor cheese product in hummus, and it isn't sold by the pound at the deli counter, at least not in the Northeast corridor.  Maybe we're just smarter than the rest of America, or maybe it's because tahini/hummus is manufactured by the tons up here.  I beg to differ and believe this is a vegetable product.  TG&P Dr. Oz and his staff of experts effed this one up, and I'm not backing down.  This list of his officially sucks, and he has no one to blame but hummus.

There's a whole gamut of other shit on this list, too, including pastas, grains, cereals, soy, condiments, herbs, beverages, and desserts.  As I look the list over, I need to be so bold as to admit that I don't know what the freak some of this crap is:  Edamame, polenta, agave nectar, and vegan mayo?  And what's with the chia seeds?  If I eat those, will I suddenly start growing bean sprouts for hair and run around singing, "Cha-cha-cha-chia"?

Seriously, dude, have you any idea what will happen to the ozone layer if we all start eating high fiber bars all day long?  Cows' flatulence will no longer be the number one pollution problem.  The question will no longer be "What's that smell," but rather "Who's that smell."  Pheromones won't be the odor of attraction anymore; it will be all about whose flatulence smells the most pleasant.  If we live by Dr. Oz's list, we're all going to turn into butt-sniffing pooches.

As I sit here drinking a pre-packaged, plant-processed pomegranate margarita, I truly believe that my eating habits are not that terrible.  Could they be better?  Absolutely.  Am I suddenly going to become addicted to quinoa?  Kids, I don't even know what the hell that is.  You're as likely to find bananas and yogurt in my cart as you are tonic water and Oreos, but it's relatively balanced and entirely eaten in moderation.  I swear to God, I'm trying, Doc Oz, I really am. 

If I'm doing too terrible a job, though, feel free to beat me with some of your fruit leather.  It's so versatile, according to your list, that you can actually eat the evidence after you're done.  Certainly there have to be some long-term anti-incarceration benefits in that.  After all, if there's no evidence, you walk, and I've heard walking has some health benefits, too.

SAFE AND SOUND IS A STATE OF MIND

Friday morning before homeroom started, a parent with a head full of steam came careening through the sea of children, blew right by those of us trying to stop her, and proceeded through the wing and up the stairs.  She was not wearing a required visitor pass nor was she adhering even to the rules of common manners as she shoved her way through the throng of people while on her personal mission.

I didn't know if she might be mad at her child, angry with a teacher, or just harried because whatever errand she felt needed doing might be making her late doing everything else.  Perhaps she was suffering from the domino effect on her own morning.

However, she was a loose parent, unsupervised, undocumented, and unwelcome in our school.  After the Newtown massacre, no intelligent person would knowingly scare children (nor adults, for that matter) by entering a school, especially entering with attitude and ignoring staff.

I immediately called the office to find out if any parent had permission to enter the occupied portion of the school (beyond the front hallway and office) and was told no one had registered with the front desk.  That sent the vice principal scrambling to locate the parent and escort her out.

The few students who overheard me report the incident to the switchboard were curious but quiet.  After the VP came in and gave me the all-clear, the rest of the students, who had since trickled to their desks, questioned why I was so concerned.  Now, I know these kids are only thirteen, but they're not stupid, and when I'm in charge of them, I'll protect them and treat them like my own, so I was honest with them.  I explained without any melodrama that "No adult has the right to enter without a visitor pass.  This is a secure building.  After what happened in Connecticut, nobody walks these halls but us.  We will keep everyone safe."

I didn't want to scare them, at least not intentionally, and they seemed satisfied with my answer.  Then I took attendance, we pledged the flag, had our morning announcements, and went about our business of Greek and Latin roots. 

I wish I could say that was the end of my security concerns for the day, but I have to be honest, that's just not the case.  You see, construction started Thursday outside of my window.  The construction is less than a football field away, and workers in hard hats and regular construction gear walk along my windows most of the day.  Right along, so if I were to open the window when one walks by, I could reach out and box his ears if I so choose as the workers and I are at eye level throughout the day.  It suddenly dawned on me that I don't know these people.  Anybody with an orange highway department vest and standard yellow hardhat can enter the area and would have access to the side of the building and all the windows.  Just beyond their vehicles, the woods start, deep and thick and intricately smattered with boulders and branches and pathways and escape routes.

As the kids were working in groups, I started to lose my grip about security concerns.  I wondered why we didn't go into shelter in place while the errant adult was escorted from the building.  I wondered why we have merely taped the lockdown procedures to our doors and not had an actual drill yet this year.  I know we're incredibly good at it and have a wonderful system in place (that I double-checked and reworked for my new room the same afternoon of the Newtown massacre when I read about it while checking my school email account), but we also have new staff and many of us are now in different rooms, different hallways, different wings.

The first school day after Newtown, I covered the window that's in the class door.  I taught in the modular classrooms for a year, the only area of our building that has windowless doors.  At first having no window in the door scared me; now I'm so used to it that having a clear view in from and out to the hallway unnerves me.  I moved bookshelves and boxes and made sure I could get the shades all the way down within seconds.  I decided where I will huddle the children that might provide the best cover and least likely target spot.  And now I'm watching the hallways, the bathrooms, the stairwells, and the construction site like a sentinel.

I worry that I've missed something, that something will slip so obviously by me.  I also worry that my mind is too preoccupied with everything else going on around my classroom, both inside and out, that I might lose sight of the main objective - educating the children - for the more righteous goal of simply keeping them safe.

But more than worry, I feel tinges of anger.  I am angry over a world gone amok.  I am angry at mentally deranged whackos who think killing people by whatever means is simply acceptable and ultimately reasonable.  I am angry with the media and politicians and activists who have made the security of children at schools into various rallying cries for their agendas.  And I am furiously angry with the family and lawyer who filed that outrageously self-serving lawsuit trying to gain money from their child's and the neighbors' trauma - the suit may be dropped, but the damage is done; grave-robbing at its lowest form.

Up until Friday morning, I had been angry at myself for splitting my brain in two.  Educating the students no longer held the number one spot on my priority list; security shared that spot evenly where before it had always been a priority but priority number two. 

Then I saw that parent weeding through the masses of students, eye on whatever prize she was going for, completely unaware of the multiple adults trying to stop her.  It terrified me, it angered me, and it empowered me because I realized in that moment that whatever happens, whatever or whoever might walk through the front door of my school, I will react and I will protect at least to the best of my ability.

It has to be enough, and I must accept that it has to be enough.  Safe and Sound is merely a state of mind; I must trust that my mind will be quick and strong enough to do what needs to be done.

WHY TISSUES SMELL - A MODERN FABLE

I've been sick since Thanksgiving. 

First I had that roaring, skull-ripping head cold.  At one point, my nose got all greenish-yellowish, so I self-medicated with some antibiotics that were leftover in the house.  Don't tell me there aren't supposed to be antibiotics left over because they weren't mine, but I was damn glad to find them right before Christmas. I felt better in two days.

Then I caught round two, which is what ails me now.  This is also a head cold, but it's not the same one.  The first one involved terrible pain and massive migraines and sinus headaches that lasted off and on for days.  Weeks, even.  This new head cold is The Sneezer.  It's marked by random, explosive sneezes that have no warning and often no cease-fire.  Even while the sneezing is going on, the nostrils are draining, and not with a leaking kind of draining but more of a full-on faucet kind.  The kind of waterworks that make me go through two boxes of tissues in no time, leaving my poor nose raw. 

So I head to the local pharmacy, which is one of the giant chain stores.  I figure they must have tissues, and indeed they do.  The problem is I can't find the soft ones with lotion in them, and my nose is far beyond having its outer few layers of derma.  I know a lot of the staff in that store because my daughter worked there for years.  One of the regulars directs me to the end cap nearby.

As she gestures for me to look, I swear to you that the skies part, the sun shines, and birds start singing because there on display are several sizes and versions of the exact tissues for which I have been searching.  I don't even bother to put my glasses on to be sure.  I fill my arms with four boxes of tissues and head to the main counter.  After paying for these snot-rags from Heaven, I barely make it to my car before ripping open a box to wipe my runny, exhausted, aching nostrils.

Lo and behold, I discover what I hadn't seen in the store sans glasses:  These tissues have Vicks Vapor Rub in them.  Honest to God, these little white disposable snot rags are even better sniffing from them than blowing into them.

I take a box of these Vicks tissues to work with me and am practically mauled by other sickly co-workers who discover that I am in possession of these wondrous, soft, medicated paper cloths.  We all rave and coo and gush (in many ways) that these tissues are the greatest thing ever invented, and I truly believe they probably are.

I also believe a woman invented them.  I can picture it now: 

Snotty, Sickly Husband:  (weakly)  Honey?  …  Hoooonnnnnneeeeeeeeey!!!!!

Mom/Wife/Partner:  (under breath) Oh, Jesus Christalmighty, what the frig is it … (loudly into other room) Yes, my loving husband dear, how may I serve you?

Snotty, Sickly Husband:  (almost crying because surely he must be oh-so-close to meeting St. Peter since he has a wee cold)  My nose is all stuffy, and it's runny, and I don't feel good, and I need a  tissue.

Mom/Wife/Partner:  Again?  I just brought you the last box of tissues.  And emptied the trash can you filled with used ones since you obviously broke your flippin' legs, too.

Snotty, Sickly Husband:  But, honeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, I'm siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick.  I'm all snotty.  Honeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey.  Come on.  (makes whimpering noises and attempts to make puppy dog eyes but just ends up looking functionally retarded)

Mom/Wife/Partner:  Okay, okay, okay.  I'll bring you some … (under her breath) goddamn … (loudly again) tissues, DEAR.  (She goes to the cabinet, grabs a spray bottle of Vicks Vapor Rub for the humidifier, grabs a handful of tissues, then sprays the crapola out of the paper with the oily mist.  She enters the living room where hubby is sprawled out on the couch in his boxers with his legs spread open leaving very little to the imagination and a lot to Pepto Bismol.)  Here.  Here are your tissues… darling.  (evil laughter as she knows the tissues will knock hubby clear off the couch)

Snotty, Sickly Husband:  (takes a huge breath in through tissue, eyes open wide, mouth drops open, then cracks a huge smile)  Oh, honey!  These tissues are GREAT!  Where did you get them?  I love you, honey!  Take my wallet, my car keys, anything you want, just bring me more of these tissues! 

(end of scene)

It doesn't matter that she invented the Vicks-infused tissues by accident or the she did so malevolently.  All that matters is that she invented them, and we're all better cold sufferers because of it.

Of course, it probably didn't happen like that at all, but it sure as shit should've.  Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a tissue box.

WHEEL OF HEMORRHAGE (warning: TMI)

So far 2013 has not been stellar. 

You may want to stop reading here.  If you're male, you really may want to stop reading here.  (A couple of you men are still reading.  I know who you are.  I'm waving, and you've been warned.)

Here's how January first went:  I woke up still sick with The Great Winter Head Cold Round Two (which is merely an extension of the same cold I've been fighting since Thanksgiving), and by "woke up" I mean "pieced together four hours of dozing patches while struggling to mouth-breathe as my sinuses were impersonating the waterworks." 

In addition to being sick again, I awoke and discovered that I still have no working furnace, and by "still" I mean "repeatedly breaking down over the years and sometimes temporarily restarting much to my consternation, my landlords' bewilderment, and the puzzlement of multiple plumbers and contractors hired to fix it."  (To be clear here, I do not believe this is anyone's fault, and my landlords have been great about getting people here even on holidays, but the damn thing done died, and it may well be time to admit defeat on our part.)

The icing on this whole thing, though, was that I woke up with my period.  Oh yeah, like this is a big deal, you're saying.  She's a grown-up, you're saying.  She's a woman, you're saying.  Suck it up, you're saying.

Well, screw you.

Do you not remember the cheetah dress debacle mere months ago?  The doctor is trying to medicate me to keep me from bleeding out every month, but the truth of it is that I have a fibroid the size of a softball (that's not an exaggeration - the damn alien thing really is that large).  Every few weeks it's another round of Wheel of Hemorrhage!

PAT:  Hey, everybody, it's time for your favorite menopausal game show, Wheel of Hemorrhage.  Welcome to the show, Heliand.

ME:  Thanks, Pat.  Totally sucks to be here.

PAT:  I hear ya!

ME:  No you don't, fuckhead, you're a man.

PAT:  Well, that IS true, but I do HEAR ya!  (chuckles to himself, smiles at the camera, holds pose for a screen shot)  So why don't you spin the tampon, Heliand, and let's see what you're playing for.

(Heliand grabs giant tampon wheel, gives it a spin, and steps back with hands clasped in nervous anticipation.  Tampon wheel makes strange gurgling sounds as it sluggishly moves in a lazy circle.  Suddenly it stops on a space.)

PAT:  Oooooooooh, so sorry.  Medication isn't working today!  You lose half a pint of blood in twenty minutes, totally ruin your clothing, embarrass yourself in a team meeting when you have to crawl to the staff bathroom, and get sent home in shame.  (Turns to the camera and flashes that million-dollar smile.)  Vanna!  Tell Heliand what she's won!

ME:  But … wait … I don't--

VANNA:  You've won a case of ultra-super-dee-duper tampons, a gross of super-absorbency pads, and another month of attempting to medicate your problems away!  BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME, SUCKER!

ME:  I don't wanna win!  I don't wanna play!  FUCK MY LIFE!

PAT:  Well, Heliand, we'll see ya again next time, and we'll see which piece of furniture you wreck and who you'll scar for life when you bleed out in public right here on…

PAT, VANNA, AND AUDIENCE:  WHEEL … OF … HEMORRGHAGE!        

(Cue applause and music.)

Anyway,  a day has passed, and today I'm driving to work, I don't feel well, my car is almost as cold as the inside of my house, and I start getting the tell-tale cramping on the right side that indicates a vein has just let go.  As I am tooling along, I start mumbling to myself, "Damnation.  You had better not."  Then I get louder and progressively louder until I am careening along, fisted hands gripping the wheel in white-hot anger, screaming in near-tongues:

"Oh no you don't!  I will have you removed.  I will go to the doctor and have you cut right out and put in the trash like the piece of garbage that you are.  If you want to keep residing where you are, I suggest you just learn to behave yourself in there.  I can take you down, and I'll do it, too.  I'll get rid of you faster than yesterday's lunch.  You piece of shit alien life form.  You interloper!  Just behave your damn self in there!"

At this point I realize I am driving along route 28 and pretty much anyone and everyone on the road can see me ranting and gesturing wildly as if I am having an actual altercation with someone in my car.  I imagine for a brief moment what I will do if I get pulled over.

Then I smile because I know exactly what I will do.  I will drift to the shoulder of the road, put the car in park, roll down my window, look directly at the cop, and then the top of my head will split open like the dog in that movie The Thing, and in a voice rivaled only by Mercedes McCambridge's overdubbing of Linda Blair in The Exorcist, I will hiss loudly:

"Get back in your cruiser!  If you know what's good for you, you'll walk away right now before somebody gets hurt.  Trust me, officer, I'm menopausal, and you're not nearly armed well enough to tangle with my mood.  Just … walk … away."

To be honest, because every once in a while I feel that I probably should tell at least a fraction of the truth, my mood has more to do with the fact that it's the first day back to school after a vacation, I feel like my head is full of semi-gelatinous goop, and I've had no heat for days during the coldest snap we've had yet this winter.  Menopause truly has very little, if anything at all, to do with today's a-hole mood. 

But it's a helluva lot easier to poke fun of my softball-sized uterine fibroid than it is to admit I'm having a crappy day of my own volition.  It's easier to blame an alien life form that has no business residing in my body.  Besides, making fun of my snotty, raw nostrils is for tomorrow's fodder. 

That is, if I don't bleed out first.  Damn game show.

PHANTOM TRAIN

A friend said something very interesting to me.  She said, "When I cross the train tracks now, I don't even slow down or look.  Let it happen.  At least it'll be quick."

Obviously, this only means when the gates are up.

Lest you think my friend has a death wish, let me assure you, she does not.  She's just middle-aged.  The context of the conversation was not so much about taking unnecessary risks as it was about the relieving of responsibility.  

For instance, when we used to cart our kids around in soccer-mom vans, we would stop at every crossing, at every light, entering every rotary, even at yield signs.  We were extraordinarily cautious.  We looked a dozen times before backing out of parking spaces.  We supervised any games involving darts, jarts, or sharp objects that might accidentally cause impalement.  We also checked food labels, made sure no one was allergic to peanut butter (because the PB stayed in the house -- the allergic children did not), called to check if parents were home at the parties, and made sure everybody (even the pets) flossed.

Now that the kids have grown and mostly moved out, we're not the taxi drivers anymore.  We're not piloting the parental bus that needs to stop at every crossing in case a phantom train should come barreling through.  There are no phantom trains, never were, and should there ever be, it will be quick and hopefully painless.

Old folks don’t get reckless.  We just don't give a flying flap anymore.  We live life by the seats of our pants, do not understand the meaning of the word caution, and really aren't concerned about who might be judging us (as if).

In other words, we've turned into eighteen year olds with full paychecks, reliable automobiles, and our rooms have expanded into entire structures.

And we're sticking our tongues out at you young'uns who think you've got the whole world in front of you.  Yeah, you may, but you've also got diapers and chicken pox, mortgage payments and roof replacements, and the shock of those first gray hairs and wrinkles all waiting around the corner for you.  We're already past that corner, and it's not so bad.  Not nearly so bad at all.

Unless, of course, there really is a phantom train on the tracks.  That would totally suck.  But it would suck quickly, and I'm okay with it.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2013

I'm not making any resolutions, at least none that I haven't been working on for a long time.

I have the usual ones - Try to eat healthier, get to the gym more, not get sick so damn often, not get thrown out of any sporting events at any level (kids to pros)

I have special ones - Not have major bat wings on my arms in my kids' wedding pictures, find two dresses for two weddings that hide my middle-aged belly-bulge, and not choke any co-workers into unconsciousness.

But I'm not holding myself nor anyone else to any major life-changing contracts.  At least not today.

Today it's just nice to wake up in 2013.  Frankly, it's just nice to wake up at all.

I guess that's my resolution: To see you all here, same time, same place, January 1, 2014.

Have a great year, all.