Bump and Grind

Sometimes, a wife is caught off guard by amorous feelings from her husband at bedtime, and before the evening's festivities can continue she must say, "Thust a thecond honey," and pull out her precious tooth grinding preventer.

There is no way to do this and be sexy about it. But, he's still sleeping next to me and even reminds me to put in my 'squeaker' before we go to bed. I guess that the squeaking sound it makes is better than the sound of me grinding my teeth. Either that, or he loves me so much he doesn't want me to have to get another root canal!

I suppose that's just another one of those things that is marriage.

And, for real, if you grind your teeth at night; this little guard I bought at the grocery store kicks ass. It's waaaaaaay less expensive than the ones you get from the dentist. I think it was $30 bucks or something. And no one even paid me anything to tell you that.

From Behind

Ring-Ring

Nate: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hey, are you behind me?

Nate: Only in your wildest dreams.

Z-Girl: Heh. No, seriously. There's this guy behind me in a red truck with sunglasses that look like yours, and he's following me really close, so I thought maybe it was you.

Nate: Nope, I'm at work digging a hole.

Z-Girl: Okay, well then that fucker needs to quit riding my ass. Later.

Nate: Bye.

Out of Tune, or Touch...Something Like That

Zack and I were hangin' out today. Sharing the living room, as families tend to do. Suddenly, he went into fervent Lick and Gnaw Hineyhole mode. This is when I broke into song. It's one of my favorites, and I call it the "Hiney Licker" song.

It goes something like this, though the lyrics vary from time to time:

Hineylicker, hineylicker, hiney, hiney, hineylicker...

Is my little hineylicker hungry for something other than hiney...

Hiney, hiney, hiney licker...

And so on...

This time, though, I proceeded to sing and let the dog out at the same time. Two teenagers happened to be walking by, and witnessed my acapella performance.

I am so not cool anymore.

Big Foot Is My Man

Z-Boy: Honey?

Z-Girl: Yeah?

Z-Boy: The doctor said you should give me massages throughout the day to help me get better.

Z-Girl: Hmmmm...

***********************************************************

Z-Boy: Honey?

Z-Girl: Uh huh?

Z-Boy: The doctor told me that my only hope for recovery would be if my wife would make me cookies.

Z-Girl: Ahhhh...

***********************************************************

Man, oh man, oh man. This whole sickness and health thing is hard fucking work! And, the disrobing of the foot turned my stomach. Fucking ewwwwwwww and owwwwww, which I guess would be pronounced something like eowwwwww! They believe he's torn some tendons that, you know, hold his bones together. I've got some photos that don't even do it justice. Just know that where his foot looks yellow? Yeah. That is no malfunction of the camera.





We're probably looking at surgery, but we'll find out for sure on Monday when the doctor looks at the MRI. This is gonna be one long fucking haul.

Why I Speak Up...

I’ve had something on my mind lately, and I've been remiss to post it because, well, I don’t know really. Sometimes I feel like folks come here to get a good laugh, and when I throw in a serious post I worry that I'll fuck up the ambiance or whatever the hell I’ve got going on here.

Thing is, my twisted sense of humor arose as a coping mechanism. If I hadn’t been able to say, “Ah, fuck it. I’ll stick around and see what else could possibly go wrong,” I might’ve ingested that bottle of pills oh so many years ago. But I didn’t. Okay, so it also had a little to do with envisioning my family at my funeral and realizing it would tear them apart, but I digress...

I’ve been active with Planned Parenthood lately, in particular supporting the cause of mandating hospitals to inform rape victims of the availability of Emergency Contraception. I’ve spoken at a rally, a press conference that was aired on the news, and to a few reporters here and there about my experience of being raped, impregnated by the rapist, and having an abortion ten years ago. I think it is incredibly important to share my story for several reasons, but here are just a couple.

Firstly, I want any other woman who might be in the throes of a similar experience to know that they are going to be okay. Really, really, really. That’s most important to me. Maybe a little crazy, but okay. I'm a little crazy and a little okay, and it's cool. It's cool, too, to cry a lot or a little. Just do what feels right. That's about all you can do. You are not alone, though it may feel that way.

Which leads me to...

Secondly, rape survivors are left largely on their own to deal with the repercussions of their assault. It’s fucking sad and shouldn't be that way. I remember spending much of my energy worrying what people would think of me if I told them. It’s not like breaking your leg. When you break your leg, you ring up your family, friends, and work and say, “Hey, I broke my fucking leg,” and people send you flowers and cards and you get days or weeks off of work.

When you're raped, at least in my experience, it doesn't go down like that. Especially if it's not 'Stranger Jumping Out of the Bushes' rape. I went to class the next day, and work after that. Everyone thought it best if I carried on as usual. So I did, wanting to make them feel better. I proved that I could still tie my shoes, and take notes about algorithms. Truthfully, though, it would’ve been nice if I could have taken some time to recuperate from a broken spirit. Just because you can't see it or slap a cast on it, doesn't mean it can't be broken or injured, ya know?

Rape is something many survivors suffer in silence because it involves sex, which people feel icky talking about it. But, people need to talk about it to make the stigma go away, and since I feel pretty damn okay most days, I do. I’ve got to honor my funny bone by giving appropriate recognition to just where it came from. Being tough as nails, and knowing that each time I laugh, it proves that the mother fucker who raped me couldn’t take that away. Not forever, anyway.

I have noticed that my serious posts go largely uncommented on. And you know what? That’s okay. Seriously you guys. One of the hardest parts about going public for me has been the response from other women who’ve told me how brave I am and relayed their stories. I usually say, “First of all, I’m no braver than you and second of all, it happened to me, and I still don’t know what to say to you except that it sucks and I’m sorry.” I feel like if I'm standing up in front of 200 people telling my story, I should know the perfect response, but I don't.

I'm only human. As are you all. Well, except for the one or two aliens that might read this, which makes me hope that I'm not a case study for earthling normalcy. If so, we're all fucked. But, to the humans, it's okay to be human, and not know what to say.

So, it's off my chest now. Thank you. I feel better. Hopefully, you are no worse for the wear, which would be the best case scenario for both of us.

Not Just Your Average Brown-Noser

I was working in a restaurant when I first moved to Colorado and having waitressed for six years prior I managed to impress the managers and assimilate fairly quickly. On a Saturday night my third week there, I arrived at work to find that I'd been given the best section. Whee!

This was wonderful for me, because I'd finally found myself an apartment and needed some moolah. The restaurant filled up fairly quickly, and I was busy, well, waitressing. Which is fucking hard work people. Tip your servers.

Anyway, I happened to be cruising by the hostess stand where some of the employees who'd been there longer than me were whining to the server manager. This is what I heard:

Them: But why does she get that section!

Server Manager: Because she's good. Now get back to work.

Them: But, she's only been here for three weeks. WAAAAAAAH! Why'd you give her the best section.

Not having time to stand around listening, because I was fucking busy working, I picked up a serving tray, careened by the hostess stand and said, "Because I suck a mean dick."

The server manager was left stuttering, "No, but, no," and my whiney coworkers were speechless. I cackled evilly all the way to the kitchen to pick up some ketcup for table 11 and salads for table 12.

Heh. We all became fast friends after that. I guess a good sense of humah overrides the pissing match that is working in a restaurant.

It's About Love. Moooooooore Or Less.

Dear Bessie,

I opened an e-mail today and was greeted by your precious little, erm, big mug blowing me a kiss. Nevermind all of the crap you said about refinancing and interest rates, I can only presume from the kiss blowing that you are in love with me. And, you know, I can't really blame you. I'm quite a catch if you ask me.

The problem is, I'm married. Well, actually it's not a problem for me, but it does pose a bit of a dilemma for you. I guess some might find it sad that my premarital sexual forays lacked any girl on girl cow action, but I'm okay with it.

As fun as it would be to prance around the pasture with you, I think we should maybe just be friends. Don't get me wrong, you're real pretty and I bet you're super sweet, but I'm just not that into cows. In that way. You know what I mean? And besides, I'm a carnivore, which probably wouldn't sit well with you.

Anywho, thanks for the love note and maybe next time you send a love letter to some other lucky gal, you may want to say what you mean instead of going on about that refinancing bullshit. I almost didn't notice you were trying to tell me you loved me.

Your Friend,
Zube Girl

You Learn Something New Every Day

I rather enjoy sharing with you all the things I learn, so I’m going for another round of it.

-While taking a shower, I noticed an odd looking design steamed onto the shower curtain. I said to myself, “Huh. That kind of looks like Pokemon.” Then, I said, “Wow. I didn’t know I knew what Pokemon was.” I learned that I do indeed know at least what Pokemon looks like.

-I learned that I can haul ass uphill, if I believe someone I love might be injured or dead.

-I learned that after your husband has feared imminent death, he might wanna hold your hand a lot. He might also say, “Honey, all I could think was that I was going to die on your birthday and you would have to remember that for the rest of your life. I hated that I might do that to you.” And you will want to melt. Because you can’t believe that while your husband was rolling over in a jeep, all he could think about was you. This love thang is some crazy shit. For real.

-I learned that cocktail weenies are actually pretty good.

-I learned that your hair can grow from long to way longer without you hardly even noticing if you stick it up in a bun as soon as you get out of the shower every day.

-I learned that cutting my hair is an emotionally charged subject for me. I have not, however, learned why yet. I just can't seem to let it go for some reason.

-I learned that I will probably always giggle when a tampon commercial comes on and Zube Boy says, "Honey, shoosh. I like this commercial!" Tee hee.

Bitches, Hos, and Hose(s)...

At the store...

Z-Girl: Honey, do you need anything?

Z-Boy: No, I'm okay.

Z-Girl: Are you sure? I got a pretty nice tip today from that wedding party. Get something.

Z-Boy: Well...

Z-Girl: What do you want, honey? Get it.

Z-Boy: Could I get a hose? I really kind of want a hose.

Z-Girl: Yeah, sure.

Z-Boy: Sweet.


Later that evening...

Z-Girl: What are you doing?

Z-Boy: I'm going to use my hose...

Z-Girl: Heh heh.

Z-Boy: Shut up!

Z-Girl: Go clean something with your hose, hose-nose.

Z-Boy: I got the hose for us, you know.

Z-Girl: Really?

Z-Boy: Yeah. Now we can hold hands and garden together.

Z-Girl: And don't forget sing 'Koombaya'.

Z-Boy: Exactly.

Mmmmmmkay!

If you haven't yet, you may want to read yesterday's post before this one.

Ding-ding-ding! Aaaaaand, the winner is...TJ. It's Zooby. Rhymes with Booby. And Dooby. Though, I did figure most of y'all would pronounce it like 'Tube'. Let's just say, if you were calling my house and asked for 'Zube' (rhymes with tube) I would say, "Oh, she died a penniless lonely bitch." Telemarketers. Damn them.

But, you may pronounce it however you like! Just don't call and try to sell me shit.

Which leads me to Anduin Andorian's question:

Where did you get the name Zube from?

It's my maiden name. Actually, most of my friends and Z-Boy call me Zube (Zooby) or some variation thereof. Zoobles, Zoobs, Z. I hated it growing up because I was always last in line, and it rhymed with booby. Which I didn't have much in the way of. Despite the fact that I could write a book with all of the rhymes my clever punkass classmates came up with, once high school hit and the kids started calling me Zube, I grew to love it.

Zube Boy is so named in my blog because I figger if I go by his last name in real life, he can fucking take mine on the internets. Damn patriarchal bullshit that I bought into. Anyway...

Courtney's question:

How many pairs of flip flops do you have?

Well, well, well. Funny you should ask because Z-Boy and I get in fights about this. Come the month of May, I buy myself an assload of flip flops in, like, fifty different colors because I usually throw them away when they get dirty. Which takes about, oh, a week maybe. As we have learned, Z-Boy is none too fond of the plan I devised for cleaning them so I've thrown in the towel on that battle.

I braved my closet, which is a feat in and of itself. The grand total is seven and a half, but I believe that's actually eight. I only delved into the top 12 layers of shit in my closet and I'll have to call in an archeologist to get through the rest. Or at least borrow a front end loader and a crew of about twelve burly men with hard hats.

Heh. And now...

I saved Blog Ho's question for last:

Did you get nice things?

I'll show you what I got for my birthday...



That's what the inside of someone's foot looks like. Whose foot, you ask? Well, I'll show you that, too...



But, I'm out of time for now, so I'll save that story for another post. Oh, and we can safely assume that I did not, in fact, get knocked up on my birthday! We're all okay now, though.

20 Questions...

Or 1, or 3, or 12. Don't matter to me.

Since I'm being nice to my brain on my birthday, giving it a rest and whatnot, I'm going to make you do all the work. Now, don't run away screaming. It'll be easy and painless. I promise.

Firstly, I'm going to ask you a question. How, my dear readers, do you all pronounce 'Zube' in your heads? I realize that I never told anyone how it is pronounced, and I'm curious to know what you've come up with. I have a theory about it, too, so humor me, pretty please!

Secondly, you get to ask me a question. I am the knower of all things Zube, so whatever you are just dying to know, or couldn't care less about but would like to ask anyway, I'll answer to the best of my ability. I promise not to lie. (You have no way of knowing, though, if that promise was a lie or not, do you?)

I will say that if ANYONE asks me if I wore Zube Boy's holey socks to work today, I'm going to plead the fifth. Fucking laundry.

Pffbt...Who Wants to Be in Their 20's Anyway?

Tomorrow I’ll be one decade closer to bopping youngins’ over the head with my flowery handbag while berating them for not knowing anything about the Good Ole Days. Well, I could actually do that today, but I think it’s reasonable to wait until I’m about sixty. Sixty seems a more appropriate age for that stuff, and besides, I’ve got to save some fun for later. Maybe by the time I'm sixty I'll even grow to like handbags.

So, the Big 3-0. I’m having lots of feelings about it which I’ll dump on you, ‘cause you all fucking rock with the listening thing. Thanks.

I feel like it’s time to put away my crayons and be a big girl. But, you know what? I’m not gonna. I think I’m going to start writing my checks in crayon and putting smiley faces in the zeros. That’ll show ‘em.

I really, really, really had hoped I’d have my first kid before thirty. I changed that several months ago to at least being pregnant by the time I was thirty. But, it’s not happening. Meh. We’re still on the Not Trying Not to Conceive, But Not Really Trying to Conceive path, so I’ll just go with it.

30. Huh. I’m going to embrace it. Half of my 20’s sucked hardcore anyway. I think I’ve got a lovely decade looming ahead of me.

On that note, here is what my birthday has me wishing for:

-To get knocked up. Hmm. Maybe after my birthday party! That could be fun…

-A new look for my blog. OH WAIT! I’ve got that thanks to Daria with Web Divas. Did I ever mention that she kicks righteous ass? No? Well, she does.

-A kiss from my honey.

-A fucking screen house for my pop-up that my husband will erect while I point imperiously and give direction. That last part, the part about pointing imperiously and giving direction…That would be the reason I’m not getting a screen house for my birthday.

-You know, life is pretty good right now. I’m not going to push it.

The Moon

Z-Girl: Look at how big the moon looks!

Z-Boy: I'll show you a big moon...

Z-Girl: Heh.

Z-Boy: One with a big brown star in it...

Z-Girl: Ewww. Enough with the brown star. You had me at 'big moon'.

A Scary Hairy Thingy

I left this little note for a good friend of mine...

My Dear Friend Whose Cats I Checked on While You Were Away,

I hope you had a wonderful time in Florida! The kitties seem to be fine, excepting one little dilemma poor Sonny experienced whilst you were gone. I wanted to leave you a note so you would understand if he seemed a little traumatized, and just in case you happened upon any evidence that I might have missed.

When I got to the house today to feed the felines, I noticed something dangling from Sonny’s bum. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a piece of poo hanging from a long human hair that apparently he had decided to ingest. I think it was mine, ‘cause it was long and blond, so I'm sorry for shedding in your house. Anyway, to his dismay, it failed to entirely exit the anal canal, and had decided to hold a little terd there with it.

The odd dingleberry must’ve been fairly annoying, because Sonny looked frazzled when I arrived. In an attempt to dislodge the offending hair-held poo, I think he tried dragging his ass across the carpet. Obviously, this served no other purpose than to smear the carpet with, well, you know. Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that I pulled the hair out of his ass (god, I’ve always wanted to write a sentence such as that one) and cleaned up some spots on the carpet. I think I got them all.

It was a little above and beyond, but please don’t feel bad. I tried to stifle my hysterical laughter, since Sonny seemed embarrassed enough already, and the sheer hilarity of the scenario overrode the cleaning up part of the deal.

Well, I’ll see you at work tomorrow!

Zube Girl

Things That Blow

Z-Boy: Honey, mwah?!

Z-Girl: No.

Z-Boy: But, mwah?!

Z-Girl: No. Stop blowing kisses at me.

Z-Boy: Why, my honey?

Z-Girl: Because I don't blow kisses when I'm pissed off.

Z-Boy: What do you blow?

Z-Girl: Chunks.

Z-Boy: Damn. I was hoping it was something else.

Z-Girl: Watch your step, ass monkey. You're on thin ice as it is.

Drinking in the Face of Death

I remember my Dad telling me the story of how his Dad almost killed him. We were all crowded in a restaurant, drinking some adult beverages, telling wild stories about family. We’re all a little crazy. We can’t help it; it’s in our genes.

Dad was visiting his sister in North Carolina, and after a long day of job hunting, hopped in the shower. Once finished, he opened the bathroom door only to find he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Behind that gun was his Dad, who promptly muttered something to the effect of, “Well, son of a bitch, I forgot you were staying here.” Nevermind the fact that what burglar in their right mind would stop mid-theft and take a shower, Poppop was beginning to forget a lot of things at that time,including the difference between my sisters and me.

He died a little over two years ago. Had a heart attack mowing his lawn. It was for the best that it happened so quickly and unexpectedly, really, because I can’t imagine that guy sick and hospitalized. He valued his independence more than anything else.

Being 2000 miles away, I wasn’t able to attend his funeral services. Actually, I would have been able to afford it if I’d skipped paying some bills, but I was not allowed to attend. I called my Dad, and began to tell him that I’d found a last minute flight for only $700. His reply is etched in my memory so clearly, it’s as though it happened just yesterday:

“Zube Girl, you know your grandfather would chew your ass if you paid $700 to go to his damn funeral. Grab yourself $20, go to the bar, tell funny stories about him, do shots in his honor, and I promise you he is more likely to be there with you than he is to be at some stupid funeral. Even his own.”

Thing is, Dad was right, and just hearing him say that made me smile remembering the crazy old bastard I was so sad about losing. On the day of the funeral, I grabbed a $20 and headed to my favorite local bar. The one saving grace of living in a town with 3,000 or so other transplants is that everyone is so willing to stand in as family in the event of a memorial at a bar. Most folks ventured out here on their own, and they all know it could just as easily be them mourning the death of a loved one over the watering hole. It was actually not the first time I’d done shots for a grandfather, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

And, I wouldn't have it any other way. You know, I'm pretty sure he was there, too. I think I heard him say, "For godsfreakin' sake, these fucking wings itch. Hey, Zube Girl, what are you, a pansy ass? What's with the lemon and sugar with yer vodka? Girly girl. Love ya."

Or, maybe I was just drunk. Who knows? Who cares? Not me.

Kismet

So, I’m pinching an idea from Zazzafooky’s blog, and I hope she doesn’t mind. TJ is awesomeness. Check her out. She posted the story of how she and her husband met and married, and it has me waxing nostalgic about when Zube Boy and I first crossed paths. And, since I love reading stories such as this, I’m posting my own.

It was December of 2000, and I was living with three other roommates. One of the guys I lived with, we’ll call him Wag, had just moved to Colorado and had spent the first month living at Zube Boy’s house getting himself established. He moved into my place after that month, because I had a bedroom to offer, and not just a couch.

Wag had a couple of friends visiting from Denver for the weekend, and on Sunday morning, his friends realized that their car wasn’t working. Wag had learned while living with Zube Boy, that he was a genius of a car mechanic, and decided to ring him up to see if he’d be willing to help out. This is how the conversation went, from what I’ve managed to piece together.

Wag: Hey, what’s up?

Z-Boy: Nothin’.

Wag: Uh, I was wondering if you’d be able to stop by here and check out my friend’s car. They’re about to head back to Denver and it won’t start.

Z-Boy: What’s in it for me?

Wag: Hmmm…Well, we’ve got a little beer in the keg left over from last night and I’ve got a good-lookin' roommate you should check out.

Z-Boy: Eh. Okay.

Zube Boy came over, fixed the car, and had a beer while I giggled and sashayed about, working my sexy flannel pajamas. Because what single, childless 25-year-old in her right mind isn’t flouncing around in pajamas at noon on Sunday?

We hit it off pretty instantly. We were both sarcastic chuckling fools. That’s one of the first things I remember loving about him. Most men guffaw. Zube Boy chuckles. It’s excellent.

But, that’s not necessarily all she wrote. I visited Jersey for Christmas the two weeks following our first encounter, and returned with my little sister in tow who visited me for another week after that.

On January 6, 2001 my friend, Mel, and I were preening in the mirror, about to paint the town red, when my phone rang. It was Zube Boy. He sounded sooooooo nervous and cute. I had been told by Wag that he was extremely shy, and Wag was having a hell of a time getting him to call me and ask me out. I didn't call him because, ironically enough, I'd written off men for an indefinite amount of time two months prior to having met him. On this evening, he invited me to the Big Air snowboarding competition. Unfortunately, I already had plans. I told him I would call him the next day, to which he replied, "Okay," but I’m sure he thought, “Yeah, right.”

Anyway, I did call, not the next day, but two days later. Yeah, I played by 'The Rules' at first, and didn't want him to think I was desperate. Our first date was at my place. My roommates kindly hid upstairs while I made dinner for this quiet mystery of a man. We were supposed to watch a movie, but actually ended up arguing politics. I eventually got fed up with his Republican ass and said, “Oh my god, would you just shut up?!” That’s when I kissed him. We got caught making out on the couch by my roommate.

And THAT, my friends, is all she wrote. We moved into our own place two months later and married three years after that.

Believe It Or Not...

Zube Boy is an atheist, and I guess you'd call me an agnostic. He believes that when we die, we die and that's that. No afterlife. No spirit world. I believe in something, but I don't think it's possible to know exactly what in the hell it is. I'm just sure there is an afterlife, and I try to be a good person so I won't go to a room filled with spiders forever and ever, amen, after I die. 'Cause that's possible. Anything's possible according to me.

Thing is, I think it's better to be an agnostic. Now, hear me out. If Zube Boy is right, and we just die and that's it, he doesn't get to rub it in. We'll just be all dead and shit. "The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out" kind of dead. He doesn't get to say, "Ha! You stupid agnostic fool! I win!"

On the other hand, if I'm right, you can bet your ass that I'm going to be dancing circles around the dumbass singing, "I was ri-ight! Hah! I won our last earthly fight sucka! Hey, is that a spider on your shoulder?" Hee.

Mud Butt

Z-Boy: Zack's got a really bad case of mud butt.

Z-Girl: Whaddya mean?

Z-Boy: Whaddya mean, whaddo I mean?

Z-Girl: I mean, does he have a bad case of diarrhea, or what? What the hell is mud butt.

Z-Boy: Oh. I mean, he has mud on his butt. Check it out.

Z-Girl: Oh. We've got to give him a bath.

Z-Boy: Yeah.

But, It's an Emergenceeeee...WAH!!!

(555) 555-5555

Ring-Ring

Zube Girl: Come on, Mom…

Ring-Ring

Girl: Please be home…

Ring-Ring

Girl: Please…

Hello…You have reached…

Girl- Dammit...I’ll try her cell phone.

(123) 456-7890

Ring-Ring

Girl: She’s gotta answer her cell...

Ring-Ring

Girl: What in the hell is she doing?

Ring-Ring

Girl: Grr…

Hi! This is Mom's cell phone…

Girl: Well, what in the hell am I supposed to do now?


An hour later…

Ring-Ring

Girl: Hello?

Mom: Hey, were you trying to call me?

Girl: Yes!

Mom: What’s up?

Girl: Well, I was in the grocery store which was crowded as all get out, and I didn’t know where to find corn starch. I figured that’s the kind of thing Moms know.

Mom: Why didn't you ask one of the people who work there?

Girl: Did you hear me say 'crowded as all get out'? And besides, you know how much I hate asking people questions.

Mom: Except for me.

Girl: Aw, you love it Mom.

Mom: Yeah, I know. Did you find it?

Girl: Yup. Baking aisle.

Mom: You know gravy is better when you make it with corn starch instead of flour?

Girl: Huh, I didn’t know that.

Mom: Okay, well, sorry I didn't answer.

Girl: S'allright. Love ya.

Mom: Love you, too.

Girl: Bye.

Mom: Bye.