Revamped Lodging

I am currently extending my mortgage by the cost of one remodel. It's a pretty big remodel and I think it would have been cheaper to just buy Bill Gate's house and donate my current domicile to mortgagemasters.com. It would cost about half as much to go that route I think. I called NASA for help in calculating of how many more months I have to pay on my mortgage after I add the remodel mortgage to the first three mortgages that I own and they said as soon as they hire some more math guys, they will spin up another super computer to figure it out. In the meantime, I stumbled on a new diet plan. It's called the “remodel diet.” Put all the food you like in a pile and stack the paint and hammers and new kitchen sink on top of it. You get to eat the food when the work is done. It's working pretty well but it stinks like a hog trough full of rotten dairy products in the basement.

We are tearing out rooms and walls, replacing what we can with better materials, better floors and doors and prettier things. We bought new wall paper and complementary pastel wall paint. That's great and I am thinking it's going pretty well, but I was looking through the receipts for the kitchen cabinets and I see we bought a special cabinet to store the tupperware. Yup. A dedicated tupperware storage cabinet is what we have chosen for our personal magnum opus. It goes next to the sink. I wanted to put a gun rack there, but the better half explained how it would more efficient to have a tupperware organizer since the favorite shotgun and deer rifle were pawned while I was on a five hour bike ride last June.

I like tupperware as a concept, but giving it a home of it's own just doesn't make sense now. It seems a wee bit over the top.   However, the kitchen sales gal was really persuasive and I was conveniently sent to look at the nail guns when that decision was made.

The remodel is great and we are happy that we are doing it but, its just stuff. Should we pick this lamp shade or that? How many place settings at the dining table, eight or ten? Do we paint the walls tan or taupe? It really doesn't matter.  These things are small things.

Money is easily won if you are willing to sacrifice all.  Possessions are gathered up against some perceived need, some temporary want or desire; In the end, things wear out and fall away.  If you think about it, the only things we can't live without are  a good toothbrush and a comfortable bike seat.

The skeleton of our lives is in truth not adjoining bones but adjoining choices. We follow what path we will. We choose wrongly only if we choose to stop, to cease, to end.

Post #99

Six months ago, completely without warning or consultation with the author, my overpaid, unqualified management group broke faith with my loyal quintet of readers and moved the blog to a large sports conglomerate network that shall go nameless here.  That unidentified group said if I mentioned their name, they would sue me senseless and I think they might.  Ruthless corporate shills.  For the purposes of this article, I shall refer to them as greedy corporation E.

As an enticement to my management group, stock options were promised by greedy corporation E but didn't materialize, truckloads of cash were loaded up by greedy corporation E but got lost en-route.  Or so I was told.  I know somebody got paid and you can rest assured, it wasn't me.  If I don't get the money, I hope Ashley Fox got it.  She lost her job too.

While the blog languished under corporate oppression, very little content of worth was published.  I tried but I couldn't deal with the tiny, gray cubicle and piped in Barry Manilow music.  Freakin' Barry music.

Anyway, after unsuccessfully chasing the pot of corporate gold, I return the blog to these environs like a North Korean dissident crossing the DMZ.  The blog is once again free of corporate oppression, but no promises are made or implied regarding the creative inspiration.  You get what you get.  

When I was a kid, perhaps ten or twelve years old, my family sometimes shopped in an old, rundown country store. As I think back on that store now, I remember wandering the isles, walking on the worn-through linoleum tiles, looking at the different packages and boxes and things for sale, reading the magazines and waiting for my parents to finish their shopping. I picked items off of  racks just to touch, turning each over to look at what was written on the back, then put it back on the hook backwards, for no reason other than I just had to do it. I didn't break anything, but I must have touched everything. I think I was the inspiration for the original 'No Loitering' sign.

I loved that store because you could get lost in there for hours. If you got hungry, the candy was in the center isle between the comic books and the cigarettes and I have to admit, I borrowed the odd candy bar over the years. Camping supplies, jeans and t-shirts were in the back, next to the beer and the ammunition. Christmas gifts and toys were available twelve months a year on a rack in the front. It was the only store in the world where you could buy a Santa hat in July.

On the wall behind the cash register was a stuffed deer head that I swear looked right at me no matter where I was in the store. If I stood by the fried chicken rack, that deer stared right at me. It was like he was daring me to reach around the glass display case and snag a chicken wing. If I stood over by the O-Boy-Oberto sausage rack, the deer watched me there, waiting for me to graduate from misdemeanor chicken-wing borrowing to full blown O-Boy-Oberto felony.  That deer head was supernatural.  Watching.  Waiting.  Judging.  

Next to the deer was a dusty, stuffed buffalo head. The buffalo head was so old it looked like it came west with the original pioneers. Or, maybe they found a dead buffalo and built the store around it.  That thing was huge.  I guess I am not sure how that buffalo got there and I don't remember much more about it other than it was old and I always wanted to get one of those feather dusters and a ladder to give it a good scrubbing.

Perched by the dusty buff was a nasty looking stuffed jack-a-lope.  Even though he had a sour expression, I really liked that little jack-a-lope.  It was only a quarter as large as the deer head and the deer head was half the size of the buff head but I imagined that he was the leader of the three, if such a leadership role existed.  The jack-a-lope just looked like he had seen a thing or two.  He looked capable, and maybe if you got locked in the store at night and were alone and scared, you would go straight to the jack-a-lope for help. 

In case you don't know, a jack-a-lope is an extremely elusive and rare creature that looks remarkably like a really big jackrabbit with a pair of antelope horns strapped onto it's head. How they shot a live jack-a-lope is beyond me and the question haunts me still, “How does one kill a jack-a-lope?” I wondered if they used the ammunition from the rack in the back of the store or did they need to order some special jack-a-lope bullets. No idea.

The store was rebuilt shortly after the arson investigation and subsequent insurance claim and as luck would have it, the jack-a-lope didn't survive. The fire and gasoline fumes must have been too much for his aged pelt and he succumbed. So sad.

We all hold something back to protect ourselves. It's not a big deal like Spiderman wearing a mask to protect his true identity.  I mean really, everybody gets that, right?  Spiderman can't just wear a Peter Parker nametag around and expect to go home to a safe apartment at night. 

I am not talking about Spiderman here, I am talking about the difference between the person we are and who we want the world to know.  That difference between those two identities might be something big or small, and maybe you think you are completely honest with how you deal with the world but I am saying you aren't.  We show the world a face, and in truth, we hide who we are and we all wear a mask.

So I thought about that for a while and figured out that there are three masks that we show the world. Here are our human masks, described in stages.

1. Stage One – This is what we show the general public. We all put a bunch of BS into this one. It's stuff you tell your co-workers like “You should meet my Mother-in-Law. She's great!” and “I would love to help you move. Oh, wait, did you say Saturday?  Saturday is the day I work at the food bank. Sorry.” Basically, this mask is where we are all liars.
2. Stage Two – This stuff has substantially more truth in it, but is generally disseminated on a limited distribution list. We only reveal this crap after we have known and trusted someone for a long time. This is what you tell your spouse after fifteen years of marriage and five glasses of wine. It generally goes like this; “Darling, do you remember when the police came by the house last spring and asked if I owned a .38 magnum and I told them no? Well...”. You have to trust a lot to let this stuff out of the bag. 
3. Stage Three – Do you remember in second grade where every second Tuesday was sharing day? You could bring a toy and tell the class about your toy, or if you had lice in your hair, you could bring your half used bottle of industrial delousing toxin and show the class that. It was sharing day and you were encouraged to share. Well, Stage Three is the opposite of that. Stage Three is stuff we should never tell anybody. Just shut up and bury it away.  Bury it deep.  This is the way-weird things you do when nobody is looking. Of course, I don't do any of that, but for you other folks that do indulge those weird, freaky, fantasy events, this is where you should keep your mouth shut. No good will ever come of it. Confession might be good for the soul, but only your dog should hear this stuff and even then, you tell him after he is at the end of his travels and you pre-dig the hole in the back yard.

I have a Stage Three confession. I don't want to talk about it, I just feel I must. I know I shouldn't say anything, but nobody reads this blog anyway so what the heck.  Here it is. Last night, I dreamed. I dreamed about...It's hard to write down. I dreamed about...please don't tell...I dreamed about... about...Idreamedaboutwinningmyagegroup. There, its out. I feel a lot better, but I don't want anybody to know. I am pretty sure my dog is the only one who reads this, so my secret is safe and I already dug the hole in the back yard.   

I sent in my money for Whistler, or I should say, I sent in somebody's money. My roommate's Christmas present is half of a Whistler slot.  It's the gift that just keeps on giving.

The Rebirth of Enron

Encyclopedia Britannica describes the events of Monday, April 17, 1961 as the "unlikely, simultaneous occurrence of two unrelated but equally significant events in American history". Both events started small but soon snowballed into catastrophes that took on lives of their own, seemingly rolling downhill, faster and faster, extracting the requisite pound of flesh from those unlucky enough to be standing too close, laying waste to friend and foe alike, pitting brother against brother, family against family and country against country.

The first event, and the better known of those two events started when the US backed Cuban Exile Brigade invaded Cuba to promote a revolution against Castro and his revolutionary government. Today, we call it 'The Bay of Pigs'. That aptly named day started a chain of events that culminated in a standoff between superpowers and nearly ended in thermonuclear war. It didn't, but not because we didn't try. Basically, we got lucky.

The other event of note that happened on that day is they began construction of my house. It started small, but snowballed into a cataclysmic disaster for all owners of my house, past and present. This house is a nightmare from a safety point of view, a fecal pile from an aesthetic point of view and Enron reborn, from a financial point of view. Nobody who lives in this house emerges unscathed.  An entire banking conglomerate was put out of business just by reading over my loan application.

Last July fourth, the deck stairs finally buckled, the rotten supports giving way, the only injury was to my son, who found himself freefalling to doom, only saving his own life by an act of superhuman strength and agility. Well, not really.  Basically, he got lucky.

A friend of a friend came to my house yesterday to give us a bid on a remodel job. We showed him around, we told him we want this done, we want that done, don't fix this thing but we have to get that thing fixed etc. It took two hours and ten minutes from the time he pulled his car into the driveway until he left.  I timed him. It took ten minutes to show him what we wanted fixed, and then he stole two hours of my life telling stories about other remodel jobs he did over the years.  I had to listen to inane stories about his childhood, which was bad enough, but then he amped up the pain with an un-amusing anecdote about his ex-wife and her strange affinity for Robert Goulet music and baby oil. I was at the end of my rope. How  long do I have to listen to this yap yap garbage? It went on forever. I finally showed him to the door and told him we didn't have any money to pay him. He left pretty quickly after that. That's how I get rid of salesmen. I admit I have no money. You know what they say; “And you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”

Speaking of the truth, it's time I faced my own truth. My foot isn't getting any better. In fact, its worse. Everyday, from the time I get up until about noon, I limp like a leper, then from noon to three, I limp a bit less, then after three I limp like an actor on 'The Walking Dead'. The pain wanders up and down the Richter scale like an oil well pumping up and down in the drylands of West Texas. I think I need to pull the plug and participate in the Lake Stevens Ironman from the bleachers. If I don't, I think I might have my own Bay of Pigs right here. My house can't take any more trouble.

Lost

Ironman participants or triathlon participants have been observed to be an odd group. By odd, I don't mean the opposite of even, as in “I was riding on an even number of tires, then I ran over a broken beer bottle and got a flat and then I was on an odd number of tires.” What I mean by odd is “He is so odd. If he keeps doing that, I think he will break at least one leg.” That is what I mean by odd. Triathletes are odd. Another description of triathletes is that we are Flagellants. Wikipedia describes Flagellants as:

Flagellants  Flagellants are practitioners of an extreme form of mortification of their own flesh by whipping it with various instruments.

So there.  That's good to know.

I am not going to bore you with a ride report from yesterday, although I could. Lots of stuff happened. And, I am not going to give you a blow by blow of the truck and twenty four foot boat combo that tried to run my daughter and I off the road, although I could. It was pretty exciting. What I am going to tell you about is getting lost. I got lost at least three times yesterday. My daughter was riding with me so technically she was lost too, but if you asked her at the time, she would have said “I'm not lost, I'm with Dad.” It's hard to find a flaw in that logic train.

Anyway, I had a map and I got lost and I sort of feel bad about it. What kind of an idiot gets lost with a map? Guilty. 

In case you didn't know, getting lost isn't a binary solution set, with the 'lost' or 'not lost' attribute potentially applied accurately based on your location. It isn't that at all. Getting lost or being lost is really just a shade of gray in how we perceive ourselves. Getting lost is an emotion. Getting lost is a state of mind.

One end of the getting lost gray-scale goes like this: You are in the middle of a bad dream where a talking bear asks you where you are and you say “I don't know” because you are trapped in a windowless box and you don't know where you are or how you got there. That happens to me a lot and trust me, that is as lost as you can get. I hate bears.

The other end of the lost gray-scale is this: The realization that getting lost is a state of mind. Everybody has been lost, or claims they have been lost, but I submit for your consideration that if you are reading this, then at some point after you declared yourself 'lost' you must have become 'unlost', thereby proving that your claim of being 'lost' was a temporary state of mind. Becoming 'unlost' proves you weren't really 'lost' at all, you just thought you were.

Yesterday, I think I was dead-smack in the middle of the lost gray-scale. Three times. One time, I had to ride up and down a two mile long climb to become unlost.

I want to thank the young lady who ran the SAG wagon for yesterdays ride. She is a true angel of mercy, offering sustenance to those in need. Hey, what does SAG stand for?  I asked a couple people yesterday, nobody knew.   

I was going to run a couple miles after yesterdays ride, but my foot has abandoned my triathlon dream of victory, so I went to the “Chicken Drive-Inn” and got a milkshake after the ride. I swear, I didn't make that name up. The Chicken Drive-Inn has good milkshakes, although their pricing structure is baffling.

I asked the gal at the Chicken Drive-Inn ordering counter what SAG stands for.  She stared at me, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and asked what I wanted. I said “I want a plain strawberry milkshake please” and I handed over some money. She took my money, counted it and held her hand out for more money.  “Do you want real strawberries in your strawberry milkshake?” 

I thought it was sort of understood that when you order a six dollar strawberry milkshake, you get some ice cream, milk and strawberries all mixed up, and I said so.  “For six bucks, I want real strawberries.”

Apparently, she didn't like my counter-productive attitude. “Real strawberries make it a premium. You want a premium milkshake. Those are two dollars extra.” I was going to argue with her, but I really wanted that milkshake, so I dug through my loose change and gave her the money while I mumbled that this was still America and real strawberries should be part of the price of milkshake.

Then she hit me with the zinger. “You are so odd. Are you a triathlete?”

How do you spell Podiater, Podriatrist, Podiatrcianer ...Foot Doctor?

History books have entire chapters filled with nothing but lists of noteworthy men and women, each line defining in short summary the contributions of those individuals, some small or large thing they had done, each event leading the human race to a brighter future, each act blazing a path for rest of us to follow. Some were scientists, some were artists and some wrote works of literature. As a small gesture to honor a true American, a poet, a leader among leaders, a tremendous individual, here is a quote from the towering visionary himself;

Lookit here son, I say son, did ya see that hawk after those hens? He scared 'em! That Rhode Island Red turned white. Then blue. Rhode Island. Red, white, and blue. That's a joke, son. A flag waver. You're built too low. The fast ones go over your head. Ya got a hole in your glove. I keep pitchin' 'em and you keep missin' 'em. Ya gotta keep your eye on the ball. Eye. Ball. I almost had a gag, son. Joke, that is. 

Of course, you recognize those famous words, spoken over a half century ago by the great Foghorn Leghorn. I think a moment of silence is in order.

…

…

...

Last week, I was trying to get a bit of training in that didn't involve running, so I decided to knock out some core work. I really need core work, but its kind of uncomfortable so I generally skip the core workout in favor of a couple cookies. Unfortunately, I was out of cookies because I ate them all the day before, so I was stuck with the core workout.

Instead of crunches and planks and the other crap that hurts, I got the standup paddleboard out for my core workout. I put the paddleboard in the lake, stood on the edge of the bulkhead, then I made a poor decision. I make few decisions in my life. If you don't make a decision, then you can't be wrong; That's my motto. I think Foghorn Leghorn would like that. Refuse to decide. I am pretty sure he would agree with that logic. Anyway, I made a decision and it almost worked out.

The thing is, when you go paddleboarding, you have to get on the thing, so you follow the mounting process, as agreed to and published by the International Association of Standup Paddleboard Association. This process should be your first choice and is in fact the most common choice to mount a Paddleboard. Basically, you get in the water next to the paddleboard, flop your belly up on the paddleboard, grunt out loud, wiggle up until you have your weight balanced in the middle of the paddleboard, grunt again, then you get on your knees, then stand up. That's what most people do and it involves a minimum of two grunts. If the aesthetic of that procedure eludes you, know this; You are not alone. I find that method dissatisfying from both a visual perspective and from an efficiency perspective.  And, I find it repugnant due to the severe lack of originality. So, I engineered the 'new and improved' method.

This new and improved method, now referred to by most professional paddleboarders as the 'Terminator' is quite simple. You position the paddleboard in the lake, six inches from the bulkhead, hold your paddle in one hand, then jump aboard. The lure of 'The Terminator' is the simplicity, the elegance, the massively improved athletic grace involved in getting on a paddleboard. Admittedly, it's just a shade more difficult to pull off.

My dog must have moved the paddleboard between the time I jumped and when I landed. I think that is the case because right after I deployed my 'Terminator', my left shoulder hit the dog when I fell. He must have been a bit groggy from when I landed on him because he didn't recognize me for about ten seconds. I mean, why else would he bite me? That dog loves me. My shoulder where I landed on the dog only hurt for a while. Maybe a couple days, tops. Not a big deal. The bleeding from the dog bite stopped right away, so that worked out too.

See, when you are training for a triathlon, something always hurts. Some of the pain is superficial and you need to ignore it. It's not a big deal. It's the other stuff that causes the most trouble. The real injuries are a concern and need a little attention. In this case, the bigger problem was my left foot. Its been four days and the foot is a dark blue color, sort of the same color as the LA Lakers away jerseys. The Lakers home jerseys are yellow. My foot is definitely an away jersey color.

Now, I can barely walk without whining like a schoolgirl. I don't know what happened, but the left foot must have been caught under a rock or something between the time when I fell on the dog and he bit me. I don't want to go to a doctor because that would lead to a full leg cast, which might slow me down in Ironman Lake Stevens, fifteen days hence.

If the human imperative is the first and best purpose of our lives, what ancillary function do our our other pursuits serve? What value do we realize by training for a triathlon? Notice, I didn't say 'competing' in a triathlon. The numerical probability of me participating in Lake Stevens is in the single digits right now. Yesterday, I think I was somewhere around a six percent chance of hearing the starters cannon. Today, maybe eight percent, but that extra two percent isn't due to a great improvement in my podiatrianic health. I watched an Ironman training video so I will feel guilty if I don't show up.

It sucks. It Sucks Bigtime. I don't face my troubles. I never have. Ignore them and half of them just fade away. I am hoping I can walk sometime in the next two weeks.

Lemon Drops

The Discovery Channel narrator with the Australian accent said something like 'the hapless seal tried in vain to flee from the great white shark.' It isn't an accurate quote, but it's close. It got me thinking that great white sharks must be a recent invention since you never used to hear about great white sharks, but now you hear about them every day. You hear about great white sharks at work, you hear about great white sharks on the radio, you read about great white sharks in vacation brochures, those toothy fish are in the news everywhere. But think about this; Did you ever hear about some sixteenth century explorer mixing it up with a great white? No. We have an extensive written history of the oceans compiled by very detailed note takers over the past five hundred years and nowhere in there do they mention great whites. The first mention of great whites is in about 1980. It's like they just appeared when Carter jacked up interest rates. Coincidence? You be the judge.

When I was in third grade, we had to learn about the different explorers and what they discovered and how their discoveries changed history and impacted our lives. I don't remember all the details, there were a lot of guys in leaky boats wandering around, sans great whites, and who actually did what got pretty confusing. Somebody tried to find the Northwest passage (and got lost), somebody drove from France to China (and got lost), somebody else found Atlantis or Atlanta or something (and lost it); Like I said, it's pretty confusing.

I was running today and after thirty minutes, I got pretty bored so I started to sort out which explorer did what and I thought I better put it down in electronic format, lest I forget again. Here is all I can remember about who discovered what:

name                    discovery                                     when

Magellan               Circumnavigated the earth           A long time ago

de Soto                 Mississippi River                          A long time ago

Ponce de Leon      Puerto Rico                                 A long time ago

Raine                    Apathy                                         1974

Capt. Cook           Pretty much everything else         No idea, probably A long time ago

I think its a pretty good list. Its pretty complete.

Like I said, I was running today with my daughter, we knocked out nine miles. I was thinking about reporting a pace of between five-thirty or maybe six minute miles, but that would be inaccurate and I would feel bad falsifying run times here in the cauldron of truth Ironman blog. I think it would be more accurate, and I would feel quite comfortable to report a six-thirty pace. That's pretty accurate. Six minutes, thirty seconds per mile. The guy with fur hanging out of his nose like a walrus ran past us doing six-thirty miles. He was flying. His nose toupee was flapping.

I wasn't going quite that fast, I limp at a more leisurely pace, and because of it, my knee can now be qualified as a carbuncle. Most people don't know what a carbuncle is, but if you show up at my house and give me a dollar, I will show you a carbuncle.

Saturday, I rode with my old gang of riders, chatting while we rode along. We discussed the various charities we support, healthy recipes we might try out and books we liked on Oprah's book list. I think it was a wholesome ride. We didn't use foul language or shoot snot rockets at each other or generally do any of the disgusting stuff that other triathletes do.  It's beneath us.  

Then at some point, my saintly gang felt the pace I was setting wasn't sufficient and peeled off. It was fun while we were together, but I haven't seen them since and I am a bit worried.  If you see some older gentlemen wearing spandex, looking lost and shooting snot rockets, let me know and I will cancel the missing persons report.

Today, I ran. Tomorrow, assuming my knee unlocks, I go to an early spin class at O'dark thirty, followed by a trip to starbucks for a recovery smoothie. Speaking of a recovery drink, try this out the next time you run in ninety degree heat.

Lemon Drop

½ cup freshly squozed lemon juice

1 cup freshly poured vodka

add simple syrup to taste (sugar mixed with water)

Pour it over ice in four glasses.  Drink each in turn.  Whatever pain you are feeling will just melt away.  Promise.

Stinkenstein

A couple days ago, I was walking from one end to the house to the other looking for a finger nail clipper when this tsunami wave of nasty gag-reflex inducing smell hit me in the face. It smelled like old diapers. My chest locked up tight and I couldn't breath. My first thought was that the dog found another dead critter and brought it in for show-and-tell. He does that once in a while. Come to think of it, the dog isn't the only treasure hunter living with me. Sometimes a sparrow with a broken wing falls into the cat's jaws then gets tucked in between the top sheet and the bedspread. Once in a while, a newly hatched duckling decides to play russian roulette with the cat.

The dog brings in bigger stuff. He brings in deer or elk bones, bags of food he pilfers out of the garbage can or whatever forest animal slow enough for him to kill.  Once in a while we find squirrels without their heads in the living room and figure the dog had another busy afternoon thinning the local squirrel herd. If he tucks his treasure in under the couch, we don't see it right away and after a few days it gets to smelling like holy hell.

The smell that hit me this time was different. This one smelled like an ammonia factory explosion, so I got down on my hands and knees and started to crawl around with my nose to the carpet, looking for where the cat pee was. I spent forty five minutes on all fours smelling the carpet. Nothin.

I tried again the next day. Same deal, hands and knees, sniffing the carpet. Nothin. I gave up. Then about three days go by and the smell hits me again. It made my eyes water. I wandered around doing the hotter/colder thing until I was able to triangulate the smell down to the laundry room.

My running shoes live in the laundry room between runs. They get wet and muddy and I don't want to track mud into the living room so I jamb them under the leaky sink in the laundry room when they aren't in use. My yard shoes go in there too. After my recent bout of aroma sleuthing, I realized that both pairs of shoes could have been launched as primary weapons in the WWI mustard gas attacks. The garbage guy comes on Monday, but I don't think I can wait that long, so I might make a special shoe disposal trip to the dump tomorrow.

My dog stinks too. He gets in the lake twenty to thirty times a day, so he never dries out. He is wet twenty four hours a day. I think he has a yeast infection. I called and booked an appointment this afternoon with an OBGYN to get my dog the right meds.

Since my race is less than thirty days away, I need to order up my shoes today. I have to plan my shoe purchases a couple weeks ahead because my size thirteen double E can only be found online or at the local feed store between the shovels and the garden gnomes.

I took a farewell run today in my smelly shoes, four miles with the dog. Felt good, no knee pain. Tomorrow I bike to the stump. The new shoes should be here next week.