oh thanks, and next could you tell me the motions i’d use to actually wipe the counter down with it?

Received today via email newsletter from a “natural” parenting publication:

Green Kitchen Tip: Always on the go this summer? Pack cloth napkins with lunch for a homey touch. Use this green tip when packing kids off to summer activities where a snack is required, when going on that long awaited family picnic, or just putting together a lunch for that all–day car trip. Cloth is better for the earth and adds atmosphere to any meal. Plus, you can even make your own fun summer napkins out of scrap cloth from around the house!

Kind of inane, kind of harmless.

Kind of really silly and then the more I think about it, really silly.

First off, I am OG cloth. We use cloth everything here – napkins, cleanup, lady pads, even hankies. The only paper products we use are, well, paper, and toilet paper (don’t laugh at the thought of doing otherwise when it comes to the latter – actually we do have some personal cloth and a link search reminds me that this is a great option).

I have two problems with this little “tip” or “tiplet” or “really stupid paragraph that was a waste of time to write and to read”.  This little nugget is featured as a valuable tip in a magazine. So, raise your hand if you don’t know that cloth is usually a more green option than paper.*  Hands up? No one? Oh, OK. But did you think of the radical idea of actually using cloth napkins, for say, lunches?  Lunches that you pack for a car trip?  Whoa!  That is the sound of my MIND BEING BLOWN.  So, thanks, glossy parenting mag at $4 per issue, for something my cat’s ass could have written.

But the true gem of our abovelisted “tip” is as follows:  “You can even make your own fun summer napkins out of scrap cloth from around the house!”

OK. What?  Scrap cloth?  Are we all milliners here?  A show of hands again: who has scrap cloth LYING around the house?  (I actually do have yardage folded up in my living room and on some shelves – but I am a very serious seamstress who sews daily – which might be one reason I am irritated at the breezy, just-whip-this-up-on-the-sewing machine crap I seem to see everywhere.) In general people don’t just have cloth, you know, lying around the house.

In fact, if you do have enough cloth lying around the house to make a house-set worth of fun, coordinated summer napkins, I would suggest you might be a hoarder.  In fact, I’m going to go out on a limb here: this is the sort of “idea” that sounds kind of cute, kind of kicky – and merely encourages people to buy (“Oooh, that fabric was on sale! Maybe I’ll make napkins some time, I’ve always wanted to!”), collect, plan projects they never in fact do, and cram stuff in their closets with projects of noble intentions but no fruition.

Now that doesn’t sound very green after all, does it?

I’m thinking of a new tag to add to my writings, a new category to bitch about:  Homemaking idiocy? Sewing snark? Shortcuts for the, oh-they-actually-help-no-one-but-pad-our-publication/product?  I’m open to suggestions.  I’m also open to hearing why I would ever, ever want to pay for a subscription to a glossy magazine full of this inane dribble.

* If you’re interested in the subject of cloth at home and it’s measuring up to paper products, I thought this was a decent article.  FWIW I worked for years in, and enjoyed, a career in the paper industry.

facet number #417 of my little anger ball

Friday my mother returned from her vacation in Cabo and came right to our house to pick up her little dog. She brought my aunt and my aunt’s three dogs (who piss and yap like you wouldn’t believe – the dogs, I mean), my grandfather, and my new Mercedes, a lemon-yellow beauty I cannot wait to get my claws on (she will have it until next Saturday, when she and the kids and I Amtrak to PDX to pick up her car, and bring it back). My mom also brought t-shirts for my children and a lovely embroidered dress for Sophie – I had one very similar at Sophie’s age from a family visit to Mexico.

We had potluck dinner at my mother’s last night. It’s a different kind of meal at my mom’s: usually some kind of meat as centerpiece, only one vegetable dish, and lots of booze.

My grandfather is a difficult figure for me. This is almost entirely due to resentments I carry about my mother’s side of the family, which I will try not to go on at length. Patriarchy, in a nutshell. My grandfather was worshiped my entire childhood (which means for a long time I adopted a similar attitude) and to an extent, still is. He is, believe it or not, seen as raising his brood of five although my grandmother was the one in the house changing diapers and dealing with it all while my grandfather was off at war and later, an hours-intensive job driving a Mobil truck. My grandmother (dead now for six years) is given little credit for being an influence, a maternal presence. She is seen as the bad one, the silly one, the poor housekeeper, the one that was harsh and often late to her children’s activities, the one who slept late and loved to be pampered.

My uncles may love my grandmother warts and all, or give her more credit for her life’s work; but I have heard little on the subject from them. Mostly, I see the way my aunts and my mother have carried forth the family mythology. My eldest and youngest aunt have devoted a great measure of time in caring for him in almost every way a person could hope to be. My own mother, when he visits, is distracted and completely devoted – to my view, trying to impress him, cater to him – and mostly supports or at least does not object to the irritating sexist crap that leaves his mouth. It’s thought that because we all know he loves us that these things are “harmless” or – and this always bugs me – unchangeable. You hear this about our elders – sure they’re a bit racist, or rude or a belligerent alcoholic, but that’s just how they are and they will never change, so don’t make a fuss. I loathe this concept.

A primary difficulty for me is I didn’t start seeing this unfairness towards my grandmother and unmediated adoration of my grandfather until after my grandmother was gone and, perhaps more importantly, I had spent some time in her role of mother and wife (I was, with my husband and new baby of four months, able to be there for my grandmother’s death, which I appreciate so much now). I can’t speak to my grandmother about her experiences, and I desperately wish I could now. I know I would have been able to pay more attention to her as a mother with children, than I did as a girl growing up. I loved her very much but did not take her seriously as a person – much like the impression my mother’s family leaves me with.

I don’t want to dislike my grandfather for a family legacy that bothers me. Yet I feel that instinct when he’s around. I do my best, which is to be loving (I made a pasta fazool last night and was pleased he had several helpings) but also be myself, meaning I speak up if I disagree. I walk that line of not wanting to upset a beloved elder (and I do love him), but also not wanting to give someone a blank check for bad behavior. My grandfather is A. old, very old, and B. on a tackle-box sized plethora of pills. He has an amazing brain and a forcible sense of right and wrong (which we all have benefitted from, and do respect deeply). But his mental acuity comes and goes: last night, he asked me what artichokes were. A minute later he remembered in detail an article he’d read – one that pertained to a book I was talking about.

My grandparents’ influences have likely benefitted me in larger ways than I sometimes acknowledge. On her second marriage, my mother married my father, a man who was very intelligent, had a strong sense of personal right and wrong, and respected my mother’s autonomy. To this day my father’s influence within me runs very strong, and I am grateful for both of my parents and who they are; which I must further credit to who raised them up and loved them.

The truth is I do love him, and I should not allow myself to dislike him. I have other living relatives I can talk to about the family mythology: and I do, especially my eldest aunt and my own mother. These conversations are interesting to me and bear much fruit; I hope for my family they experience the same.

a violent streak

This weekend included an incredible amount of activity: volunteer work, a bit of waitressing, a four-day visit from company, a birthday party, gardening, cooking like mad, a sleepover guest, and lots of garden work. I was too busy to even blog some of the witty and urbane observations running through my mind (observations like, “Good damn I need another cup of coffee to cope”).

Tonight Nels drags his feet along a DVD against our hardwood floor – an annoying habit of his I cannot seem to talk him out of. My solution lately has been to, as much as possible, keep this kind of media away from him. Tonight he has one in his possession again, somehow, and he’s abusing it. I warn him if he puts it on the floor I will remove and discard the DVD. A few minutes later and he’s spinning on it with one foot. Half judiciously as a parent, half in irritation, I remove the DVD and – instead of merely removing it, as I should – snap it in half. Or rather, attempt to – it’s rather difficult to do as it turns out. It bends, irrevocably (although it was scratched beyond repair as it is), and now rocks on the desk, a sad and wonky proof of my failure. Nels is unhinged and cries – of course. I am not even mad enough to feel remorse; I realize the split-second after I did this that I should not have done it. My son races downstairs to cry injustice to his father, who of course is an amazing and sympathetic listener.

After a while the boy is back. He runs about the room half-crying and I’m half-listening. In a couple minutes I finish my email and turn to apologize to him. He collapses, ready to accept my love, and puts his tear-stained face against my chest. He is in mourning more than angry with me; he knows I was wrong and that I am sorry. He starts crying and clutching at me and yammering and I hear something about a jump rope and tripping. I realize that behind my computer chair he had placed a “booby trap” of a stretched-out jump rope – to trip and murder me, no doubt. Half there to forgiveness, now, he tells me when I succumb that he’ll protect my head with his hands, so only my body gets hurt. “I don’t really like you but I don’t want you to fall down the stairs”, he says, the look in his eyes showing me even this isn’t true, and he no longer wishes me any harm at all, and that he likes me very much. As I hold him and wipe away his tears his words lose their violence and become only tender expressions of love and howls of sadness. His movement through hurt, anger, unconditional love and sadness could not be expressed more clearly.

I can’t be angry or shocked that he would set up a vicious trap because I am only too familiar with my own murderous nature. I should be a better mom, it’s true. But I am glad in this moment, for at least tonight, that I’m smart enough to know when I’ve made a mistake, that my son can express his feelings so clearly, and that I can minister to him and give him comfort when he hurts. The goal tomorrow will be not to cause him undue distress – to offer him gentleness only and instead.


The very lovely young mother who’s been sitting next to me during our twice-weekly swim lessons kept the chit-chat lighter than normal: having invited us twice previously to her church programs on Sundays, perhaps our repeated non-attendance sank in as some kind of snub. Perhaps she was snubbing us out of judgment or boredom. Or perhaps there is nothing to speculate – she was merely quieter than weeks past. Typically a woman in my position makes sure to make extra-nice in the scenario – as if to say, “I’m not going to attend your church but I want you to know it was so nice you invited me, and I still want everything to be okay between us.” That’s the way most ladies are. It’s not that I don’t care to be polite. I’m just so damned tired right now.

A tendency to anemia during my menstrual period, hormonal fluctuations, the abstention from drink, or the rainy, dismal weather: I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been in a dangerous mood. It paints my perception of the world into something utterly different than how I usually experience it. The children I spend time with are rude, horrid, or slow; adults are clueless, irritating. My mental state is like shark cruising, waiting for the scent of blood to distract me, edgy, keyed up and ready to strike. I haven’t yet crossed the threshold into Full-Blooded Bitchdom where my husband is concerned, but my kids have certainly been on the receiving end of my precipitate hostilities.

On my Pandora station Band of Horses’ “The Great Salt Lake” begins playing. Coincidentally this is Sophie’s current favorite song. She’s sitting next to me reading (and thus so enthralled she can’t “hear” it), but my mind is full of memories of her precise duck-voiced singing, which makes me smile.

Another day, another night to get through; maybe things will look or feel better in the morning.

wrong as rain

This morning a girlfriend told me it wasn’t until just now that the weather here started getting to her. “Last night I was listening to the storm and thinking, ‘I shouldn’t be hearing this!'”

I feel the same. I’m ready for sun or at least – I’d settle for warmth with an absence of rain. First of all, the fact I bike most everywheres means that rain really sucks. I don’t have to just rainproof myself but my children and my groceries and my paperwork or whatever else I’m transporting. And then I have to go inside buildings soaking wet in vain hopes to hang eight layers of clothing up to dry before I go again.

Let’s put it this way: If I was to look at the weather, I’d give it this face:

"You know, I cried when I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. And then I laughed…really hard."

Today dawned hopeful, cold and clear – and plopped down on stuffy, whored-out and pissy. I am having a terribly discouraging time with aspects of Nels’ preschool environment. I am having a lot of difficultly lately interacting with my son and expecting respect while getting along (when did he turn into a messy-headed wolf cub?). I am having an annoying time with the local printery. But mostly, I’m having the worst time overcoming my residual head cold and my poor attitude.

So, it’s time for a little gratitude. Here are some great things that have come out of the last few days:

  • Helping my children learn more chores (they are surprisingly adroit!)
  • Explaining money-saving to them both (Nels’ goal: a squeaky duck; Sophie’s, winter boots)
  • Explaining “flashing” to them both (thank you, John Waters cameo!)
  • Sophie’s term for a productive cough: “hork ball”
  • Nels’ kisses and cuddles (when he’s not directly defying me at every turn)
  • New sewing patterns in the mail – Victorian garments (ooh, practical!)
  • New laser printer (zine approaches self-sufficiency)
  • Ralph’s support (very well-rendered this week)
  • Friends either helping or offering to help
  • Ladies’ Night at deli tonight
  • Brown sugar ham sandwich. ‘Nuff said.

I feel a lot better typing that out.

In other news: Sophie is getting a new loft bed in her room now shared with Nels (P.S. I like sewing or the possibility of sewing more than a potential for my own children’s coddled existence!). I was recently re-reminded of why we are glad to live our lives more simply (and no, I’m not referring to our phone and DSL services’ disconnection for non-payment, which has now been remedied). We’re considering going to one car although I will have to draft up my last will and testament now that I’m biking in Grays Harbor. Harris and Blackie have to go to the vet under false premises to have things cut off them (nuts, cancerous growth resp.). My brother never writes nor calls from Portland, the ass. And we are actually very sad here at Casa Del Hogaboom over Heath Ledger’s recent demise (rare pop-culture reference, here).

"thou shalt not covet"

Today I had a wonderful conversation, and then a great visit, with a friend and her children. Besides having a good time relaxing in someone else’s home with cookies and coffee and a new diversion (in this case, a new pair of super-adorable pygmy goats). It was one of those times where you have a few conversations that happen to provide good mental work and make life seem easier. Where you are grateful for a friend and for life’s circumstances that brought you together.

On another issue I am just feeling so congested and horrible. My mother recently bought a smoking new sewing machine. It was about $1000 and she walked into the dealership and wrote a check for the whole thing. I was with her; I helped her pick it out (I’d been scoping machines myself, more in the “wishful thinking” category). I went with her to her first class tonight. I sat there and watched as she messed with one million functions and sewed strong, stable seams and I thought about how sewing is a part of my life – more than hers – and here I am having something cherry dangled in front of me, just enough to see but not to have. Her Twin Demon of a high-end serger, bought as a present from her father for half again as much, sits in her closet almost entirely unused. In fact it was her serger example that led me to push for her to take the class and for me to attend with her; she reported to me she’d been feeling guilty about not using such a developed, specialized tool. I wanted her to, if she was going to buy it, use her new machine to its potential and love it. After all she herself has used mostly low-end machines for her sewing career as well. Still, despite knowing this was a good thing for her, it felt wretched for me.

This isn’t about a sewing machine. It’s part of a larger feeling of falling behind in some way, never to have what I want, never to catch up. It’s a shameful feeling of not being able to deal with going without unless I really put effort into it (effort I’m effecting now, I hope). It’s about getting lost in the mental wheel-spinning of envy, or getting caught up in other people’s plans and pursuits and reverse-projecting them into one’s own life. I know it isn’t wrong to want something nice, or well-made, for one of my life’s strongest passions. It’s soul-shrinking, however, to allow my feelings to prevent me from enjoying someone else’s experience of something lovely. For their sake, and because I’m their friend.

The fact is, obviously, her resources and her spending have nothing to do with me. Me, some day, it will come. If and when something (materially) fabulous like this machine is mine (examples of my treasured posessions spring to my mind: my wool pants, my Mac), I will cherish it, use it, and take good care of it. If I’m a talented and “deserving” seamstress I will find a way to make sewing work for me (nevermind the last 10 months of broken and inadequate machines and tons of bobbin case jams and busted seams… okay, deep, cleansing breath…) even when obstacles make it seem like a wasted effort.

Another fact is, I am strong enough to handle “going without” – whatever that means. Not buying something I can’t really afford, or struggling for groceries, or occasionally getting my gas shut off. Besides, lately life seems a little easier (financially) than it has been.* Or is it just that my husband and I seem to be on the same page more often these days? Whatever the reasons are, when I think about my own life and what I have to be grateful for, I feel humbled and contrite – and grateful, and, finally, finally! – joyful for my mother and her new purchase.

Today has been a good day but also draining. It is time once again to return to the family, to domestic chores – and tomorrow, painstakingly remove and re-do another crappy seam and try to patch it up again.

* Abbi – “Things are looking up for the Hogabooms!” as we said a few New Years’ ago.

of bussing, rain, and pungent leavings

Today after a memorably annoying lunch date (kids were not on best behavior) Sophie and I rode the bus back from Aberdeen while Ralph and Nels took to Top Foods for groceries. Sophie and I waited a long time for our bus into Hoquiam, and it was cold even in the bus shelter. Then there was a twenty-five minute wait at the HQX station – Saturdays and Sundays the bus routes are nearly dead – and by then the cold was in our bones so we took my last $2 to the 7th Street Sweet Shoppe to split a cocoa. Here’s what’s funny: the proprietors of this little cafe ply my children with more sweets and extra helpings than a grandma on love-crack. Today I didn’t escape without double cocoa portions, extra whip cream, and a giant cake mix cookie to take home to give my kids after dinner (this last excuse was used when I claimed my children had had enough sweets for the afternoon). Jennifer, the patroness of the shop, especially wanted my son to get his part of the decadent cookie. He is her biggest fan in an almost stalky way, which by the way is kind of cute on a three year old.

The leg of bus route that gets us closest to our house runs through the more run-down or low income area of town known as North Hoquiam – my girlfriend who grew up there affectionately calls it “the hood”. This is also the most active part of the Hoquiam bus route since those that take the bus in Hoquiam and Aberdeen are usually poor, carless, or both. Today as we passed the Lincoln Commons we let out a man and he winked and smiled sexily at the driver as he crossed behind the bus. He was one of those men that retains a certain handsomeness and dangerousness – a Daniel Desario or Danny Zuko – keeping his lothario charm despite years of bars, pulltabs, smoking cheap non-brand cigarettes and living a life of, well, low-income apartments I guess. In any case I got a kick out of his optimism as the driver in question was a big-boned toothsome woman with Barbie highlights at least fifteen years his junior. She didn’t look interested in flirting in any way, her kohl-rimmed eyes weary and irritable from working on a Saturday in the rain.

We passed by the apartments again on my way back from the Perry Ave. loop and I found myself wondering about the families and citizens in my [hometown] / new burg. Who where these people and what were their lives like? How does it feel if you ride the bus because it’s your only way to get around? Why do some people live with their family, even a large family, stacked up in these tiny apartments on the edge of town? Why do those who can and do own a spacious home all to themselves pretend these others don’t exist or flat out decide they don’t exist for all practical purposes? Why am I hearing so much about “the hills” and “the flats” these days – more than I ever heard of the haves and have-nots when I was growing up? Why am I puzzling over remedial “injustice of the world” questions as if I was a thirteen year old just discovering them?

Hey, you know what’s awesome? People that let their dogs crap on our sidewalks and yards and lawns without cleaning it up. Today was really great because just a few minutes ago I was helping Sophie remove her boots when my hand, gripping the heel, came into contact with the slimy, rancid horrible backend vomit of some neighborhood pooch. Although this is the first time I have mashed my hand into dogshit, the weird thing is my body had a preternatural awareness of what this substance was, right upon contact. After my revulsion and anger I washed her boot and scrubbed scrubbed scrubbed my hands and I can still smell shit. You know, there’s almost no point to this tirade – I don’t really feel any differently on the subject than I did almost two years ago.

My brother is moving to Portland in two days. Wish him luck! We’ve been feeding him a lot. I think he is kind of lonely yet overworked and stressed lately.

the circus has not left town

Today I was trying to think of a way to do a weighted list for the front page of my zine (I am biting my tongue to keep from further discussing this publication right now). And I had another in a string of sad, disappointing realizations about my current reality. See when I used to work outside the home I could actually decide to figure some technical project like this out and have the time to do it in a linear troubleshooting fashion. Sure, maybe I didn’t get the whole 30 minutes straight to mess about formatting something on the computer (although that was usually easy enough to arrange) but at least if I started it and was called away no one got on my workstation and messed with it or opened an IM client or shoved a CD in the drive or dragged the kitten’s ass across my desk. I can’t count on any of these things not happening – or even something worse (Nels darted across the street today before Ralph could stop him; later exploits in the day included handling the dirty kitty litter box into the cat’s water dish; there’s more, I’ll stop now). I have a lot of control over my schedule (as the House Boss) but very, very little over how much peace, decency vs. chaos or drama ensues from my two semi-retarded simian coworkers.

Yesterday a friend told me that “if someone didn’t know [me] better, they’d think they needed to call CPS on [me]!” alluding to, I think, the darkness of my writings and my unedited Mama sentiments. I just want to point out I’m perfectly capable of warm and fuzzy feelings and I post those often. I’m actually slightly too bummed out and overwhelmed to list a few other things that suck that are going on. For now it’s getting by day to day, enjoying the little things (Sophie found a snake on the trail today and dedicated it to me; I visited my mom who’s sick and made her tea), and trying to ask Ralph for what I need (and hoping he can help provide it).

Today I am planning on making bagels for dinner and cleaning the kitchen whilst listening to my first-ever audiobook (Rex Pickett’s Sideways). If I can’t get a full day off I can at least get an hour or so plugged into an iPod while I do chores.

love, light, and dancing

Just lately I have struggled with not being harsh with regard to my progeny. I had been on a rather zen, non-harsh Mama roll for months – even during our move and some not getting along with husband! – but lately it’s been a struggle. One can say it was the kid doing this-or-that but I believe real harshness resides within the parent and each of us knows if we have it in us or not. My body is flirting with anger right now; it’s residing within.

Today seemed to not go well from the get-go. Ralph and I are having a disagreement (ah… how much I’d like to vent, but I won’t). This is aggravation that stays with me, even though mostly I have put it on hold. This morning after busting my ass at home I got the kids et all loaded into bike trailer: shit! tire is flat. OK. I can deal. Drive to the Farmer’s Market for eggs (2 dozen fresh), then I’m going to take the kids to split a steamed milk, then to the park. The kids have been borderline; Nels has been a little naughty. It’s nothing I can’t handle when I’m at my “normal” self but right now I’m at my harsh-on-everybody-mostly-including-myself self.

While at the Market my kids are just looking at the pies – no touching – and an employee I’ve observed before (always, every time I’ve seen her, complaining about or gossiping to someone) with the kind of wrinkles around her mouth that indicate she maintains her puss at a sphincter factor of about 8, 24/7 – passes us by and in a bored, aggressive tone drones, “Don’t touch the pies please!” to my children who are looking at the saran-covered pies with their (clean, as it happens) mitts a full eighteen inches away from said pastry.

Well, she actually corrected the wrong kids today – or the kids of the wrong Mama. Instead of ignoring her rudeness and saying a prayer for her day (my gentlest self), or perhaps saying, “I’m sorry, but I’m watching the children. Don’t worry, they won’t be permitted.” (my more assertive form), I say flatly, “They weren’t. touching. the pies.” At my tone the [ hag ] woman snaps to attention and her attitude becomes more conciliatory to the point where she tries to “friendly”-like interrupt the conversation I’m having the cashier. Get how bitchy I am – I don’t even respond to this implicated olive branch. Fuck her. I continue talking to the cashier, pay for my eggs, and prepare to leave.

Sadly, my children take this exact moment to misbehave. My daughter starts wheedling that I’d pulled her hair (actually the clasp of my purse had snagged it) and my son, oddly, grabs a penny from the penny jar and (more oddly still) won’t put it back! By this time there are three employees sort of watching my scene. My scene isn’t that bad but I want to leave. I am so frustrated and in that moment I am *only* frustrated at the kids (who I know, even in my mind at that moment, aren’t being that bad).

I am outwardly calm and nice to my kids, prying the penny out of Nels’ hand and guiding Sophie out the door verbally. But inside I am so angry. I walk to the van, holding Nels very firmly by the hand and I’m making plans at “disciplining” them in the most assholian sense of the word. I envision putting them in their carseats and delivering each one a slap. Then I will tell them what they did wasn’t cool and why (p.s. – “what they did” includes a bit of other, earlier non-cooperation I haven’t written about). If you haven’t contemplated slapping your kids before, it’s quite a trip. Your rational mind knows, “Not a good plan”. Your body and your emotions say, “Do it! Goddamnit!”

By the time I get to the car, my knowing self has given it up. I am tired and sad, not angry. I put them in their seats. I tell them I won’t take them to the park and get the milk after all. They start crying (predictably), but not hysterically so. Sophie reasons with me, “I’d like one more chance!” she says. I say OK. I outline what this “one chance” will be – namely, they do A, B, and C in the library. If they do, we will go on the rest of our outings as planned. We are all clear-eyed and only slightly weary as we leave the parking lot.

We go to the library and they follow instructions perfectly; I take them for their milk and park visit. Our relating improves and I read to them – our afternoon turns sweetly.

Obviously, I am glad I didn’t slap them or raise my voice or be mean. I am not so sure I shouldn’t have slapped the market lady. Sure, it would have been unwarranted, inappropriate, and wrong. But in that moment it would have felt kind of good, don’t you think?