The Skirt

It was a summer skirt, full and swirly,
Colorful flowers in a random array
On a pale but bright background,
The kind we used to wear in high school.
"I'd like the skirt," she said to me,
To me, who had somehow been entrusted
To watch over her things.
At first, my mind in tumult, I tried to dissuade her,
Saying it was out of fashion.
But she persisted, and I agreed: of course, the skirt.
And what else?
"I'll need some of my blouses," she said,
Adding, with a laugh:
"What, did you think I wasn't coming back?"
Again, with splinters in my mind, I could only offer
That I thought she had wanted a new start.
For months now, all has been dedicated to
Clearing up all evidence of a life once lived
With the universal regrets and debris
That only a brand new start can erase.
Today I'll seal the contract for a new start,
But we can't all start over, can we?

Naughty bits

It just seemed so incongruous. I was waiting in the pediatrician's office leafing through a copy of "The New Yorker" when I came across a cartoon where a woman was confiding to another that her husband took only enough Viagra to get enough lift so he wouldn't pee on his shoes. Looking around and seeing young children in the waiting room, and lo and behold, Dr. Grattan in the office, I felt so dirty. Bad magazine!

Non-hoodie

For the first time in the history of reporting, I heard a suspect described as "wearing a blue sweatshirt without a hood." The report didn't mention what else he wasn't wearing, such as a tiara, a wristwatch, sandals, an overcoat, or pair of gloves. We are warned, rather, to be on the lookout for someone who is hoodless. That narrows the search down quite a bit. Reminiscent of Cliff Clavin's Jeopardy response: "Who are 3 people who have never visited my kitchen?"

Candy

There is candy in my house. The jar in the living room keeps getting refilled with jelly beans, the good kind--Jelly Bellies. There is some chocolate left over from Valentine's Day, and a new unopened bag of Snickers bars. I have not eaten a single jelly bean or a bite of candy since Lent began. Like the young lawyer in Chekhov's story who bet he could stay locked in a room for 15 years, I sort of bet myself that I would not eat candy for 40 days. No one knows, or cares, though, and there are no millions wagered. Every once in a while I pass by the candy jar, and almost take one, but then I remember my solitary vow and leave the lid on the jar. However, that sets in motion the thought process that made me pledge myself to candy abstinence, and I come to realize how futile, senseless, and hollow are all the promises and oaths and rules and restrictions we adhere to in our society, when in the end they mean nothing at all. I may well, on the 39th day, follow the Chekhov character's lead, break a window, and escape into the night, leaving not a trace of my former self. I could just eat a jelly bean on Holy Saturday, but that seems like such an existentialist thing to do.

IF

With apologies to Rudyard Kipling:
If I had another house, it would look like a mansion.
If I had a new car, it would look like a Prius.
If I had another husband, he would look like John Hamm.
If I had another son, he might look dead
If he were wearing a hoodie in a gated community.
If I had a gun, I'd probably shoot it.

OMG

Those politicians who are sporting hoodies---I don't know their names but I know they are idiots.

Semantics

Let's not confuse aggravated pimping with aggravated primping, though I understand you can get a nasy rash from either.

Trivial Travel

I was just thinking about embarking on a long voyage---wait, make that a short trip. Regardless, it was enough to cause me to have one of those dreams: I entered the train/plane/bus ahead of the people I was traveling with. Most of the seats were unoccupied, both sides of the aisle. I chose one, but no, it was taken, I was told. Another, and another, same story. I'm walking further down the aisle, and the remaining passengers started putting their coats, purses, packages into the empty seats and telling me they were taken. My traveling companions had evidently found seats as they were nowhere to be seen. I was alone, standing in the aisle. So pathetic, just like the cafeteria table in high school. That was ages and ages ago, a memory out of time, one would think. But again, wait, didn't I just attend a 95th or so high school reunion, only to find no seats at my class table. Such a solitary loner---isn't that the type to beware of?

Speculation

I wonder how President Obama knows what a hypothetical son of his would look like? Maybe it would look like one of his Caucasian ancestors. That can happen, I understand. And so what if the imaginary Obama son did look like Trayvon, would that have made his death any worse?

Withdrawal

Dietary restrictions: How can I live without pink slime?

Osiris

I wonder why sneakers have the name of the Egyptian god of the dead. Of course as god of the afterlife, he's also king of the living because he controls all souls. Wait----Souls? Soles? Nah, too simplistic.

Intervention

It was a Saturday, Danny was a baby, and I had left him at home with his father and the other kids while I walked down to my mother's house. As I rounded the curve leading to the village, I saw to my left, the first house, and the dog on the front lawn. It was a German Shepherd, and not too many years before, a dog like that had viciously attacked my two-year-old in broad daylight on public property, so I decided to exercise caution and got myself behind the guard rails which were on the opposite side of the road. I figured, just to be on the safe side, not to intrude on his territory. I also knew to avoid eye contact with the dog, and to keep my pace steady. Both of which I did---until the dog charged across the road, at first barking and then snarling and growling. I had to stop as he was directly in front of me, with just two thin wire guardrails separating us. The teeth were what I remember. I tried talking to him; he probably couldn't even hear above the noises he was making; then I tried calling to someone in the house, but no one responded. I tried taking a step back in the direction I'd come from, but the dog followed me. I tried to walk forward, toward the village, but the dog went that way also, cornering me no matter what move I made. I was hoping a car would come along and see my plight and help me, or at least crash into the dog, but that didn't happen. I think a car or two passed by, but evidently nothing registered. I felt hopeless, and completely helpless. All at once, out of the misty morning, a glimmer of hope. Kathleen appeared, riding her bike down the sidewalk. She must have been nine years old at the time, and probably on her way to a friend's house. I called to her to please tell the dog's owner to come get him away from me, but instead she called the dog. I think his name might have been Morgan.* He went right to her: talk about the dog whisperer.
I continued on my way to my mother's, but felt shaken, and wanted to go back home. Dave had the three kids, and I had no car, so I called the dog's owner, told him what happened, and asked him to keep his dog inside so I could safely walk back home. To my surprise, he refused. He said he didn't believe in restraining animals, and vehemently stated that his dog would never cross the road. When I told him the dog had, he refused to believe it. I finally called Dave, who had to pack everybody up to drive me back home.
POSTSCRIPT: Not very long after that incident, the dog's owner came to my door, soliciting, ironically enough, for some religious organization. I politely declined, and afterwards regretted that I hadn't reminded him of the dog incident. But not too long after that, it seems now, I was glad I hadn't said anything, because the man died, rather suddenly and prematurely, I recall.
* Reading back, Morgan was another, and friendlier, German Shepherd. I don't know the name of the bad animal, but I'm thinking that little savior on the bicycle might recall the name.

Eons ago

The news announcer remarked that a sports star had achieved the height of his career "way back in 1990." That young whippersnapper. Kill me now.

1990

Say it isn't so, Chipper.

A.I. Aaiiee!

Where have you gone, Adam Lambert? And Dancing with the Stars has the dance stars partnered with who the hell are/were they? I got lost in The Voice after a few shows, before I could get why the judges competed to get talent in their camp, and then pitted a pair of their best and allowed the other judges to rate them, while Christina Aguillera wears a flattened raisin on her head. But, most horrible of the horrible is Betty White's new show where young people patronize the whims and actions of old people, but guess what? The joke's on those young people after all because those old folks, close to the grave as they may be, are actually playing with the minds of the young people. Example: an old man hands his camera to a young man and asks him to take a picture of him and his wife at the railing where they met 47 years ago. Young man obliges, with a condescending smile of course, because old people are invariably cute. While getting into posing position,the "old" wife falls backward over the railing. So damn hilarious.

Full Array

Bright flowers blooming in front of the house: daffodils in full array, hyacinths and whatever those little blue flowers are, crocuses first to bloom and already gone. And outblooming them all is a large pair of red socks emblazoned on the recent replacement outdoor grill cover. Go, Red Sox. Yay.

Reading 101

Could it be me? I'm reading a Groupon ad for Vaughan Vision in Saratoga Springs. It seems legitimate until "....Wielding high tech equipment...meticulously inspects eyes for ailments and paint-color ideas during comprehensive examination." I never would have thought that.

Russian Lit

Those reading bugs again. I remember reading a short story in which a man, for some reason I can't recall, vowed not to leave his bedroom for 20 years; no one thought he could or would do it, but he persevered, impressing those who knew him with his strong will. The day before the end of his self-imposed imprisonment, he walked out of the room, with no explanation or reason for his actions. I think it must have been a Russian work; they were known to engage in such behavior. Another such story featured a Russian man and his wife, he of course harsh and phlegmatic, she lonely and alone with no consideration from her boorish husband. Torn from what had been her home and transplanted to a vast, bleak, and deserted countryside, her only solace was a row of trees planted on the side of the house, probably as a windbreaker, maybe cypress trees. She took comfort in their presence, the only source of contentment for her. One day, in a black mood, her husband, for no reason, cut all the trees down, and broke her heart. No other point to that tale either.
POSTSCRIPT: I had to look up the first story above. It is Anton Chekhov's "The Bet." Turns out I didn't have such great recall---the self-imposed prisoner, in a debate over life in prison or the death sentence, said he thought the life term was preferable, and made a bet with a millionaire banker that if he would be locked in a sealed cottage for 15 years, the banker would pay him 2 million dollars. He did a lot of reading in his solitary time, and in the Russian mindset, came to despise all that living life entails. So 5 hours before his sentence was up, he rejected everything and left via a broken window. Good thing too, because the banker had suffered a reversal of fortune and paying the bet would have completely ruined him, so he had made plans to kill the guy on that last day. Those Russians! Now I have to see if I can find that other story, even though it was too much reading that ruined the mind of the prisoner.

Being Irish

When I was a ittle kid, I had long dark curly hair, blue eyes, and freckles. People, invariably men, would tell my mother, and later me, that I had the map of Ireland on my face. I used to think it meant I was unattractive----a face like a map? Who would want to look like one of those dull and boring pages in our schoolbooks? In retrospect, I suppose it was meant to be complimentary, but it's too late to appreciate that now. A face like a map---those damn idioms.

Q and U and W and T and ?

His mother was the bride in a Tom Thumb Wedding when she was 8 years old, so I guess it doesn't seem so strange that her youngest son would be a participant in a pretend wedding. But what the heck? The wedding of Q and U? He was happy; he wore the tux from when he was in a real wedding last May, so maybe he thinks he's married to the girl from his preschool. I was afraid to ask if he was Q or U. They brought in wedding gifts and I assume there was a wedding march: "Here comes the Q and here comes the U."

Misspelled

When I was in second grade, we used to have weekly spelling tests. My mother was good at spelling, and she used to go over the word list with me. I had no confidence and was always afraid I would fail the test, though I always got all the words right until--------the hard words. We all walked to school then, and I can remember as if it were yesterday that walk to school repeating over and over the two hardest words I'd ever been challenged to spell. The words were "store" and "white." Mrs. Flynn would dictate the words and then come to our desks, one by one, to correct our papers armed with THE RED PENCIL. I used to quake, she seemed about 9 feet tall, and severe. My feeling then was that if I missed a word, I would fail the test and almost certainly the entire grade, thereby disgracing my family and being doomed to repeat the second grade. At the time I couldn't think of anything worse: reading class itself would have been a horror. I could read well, but back then there was one pace for the whole class, and we all had to sit and wait for the slowest of the non-readers to struggle through the page. It was agonizing, and woe to anybody who tried to read ahead. Mrs. Flynn used to abruptly stop the slow reader to pounce on anyone she suspected of going ahead in the story. If you had "lost your place," you were in trouble. So I did not want to repeat the grade: I did not want to fail the spelling test over those 2 words. I tried my best and waited for The Correction. Here she came, red weapon in hand, from behind my seat. It seems she always appeared, stealthily, from behind. Down the list of words, sometimes her pencil would leave a little red dot on the page as she checked the word, but not the dreaded check mark. She glided past "store," Whew, got that one right, but her pencil stopped at my feeble attempt at "white." I knew I'd missed it, and thought the worst possible scenario would be that red check. But no, instead she demanded, out loud, so the whole class could hear, "What's this supposed to be?" I mumbled the word, she gave it a big red checkmark, and the world didn't end. It had only stopped for a part of eternity.

Inside my head

No, I don't have the sensation of actual bugs running around inside my head, but in a way they might as well be. They are little bugs of memory from all those books I read in my past, and which, unbidden, appear in my mind when it's not involved with actual thought. I think it might be a coping mechanism to keep thoughts of reality away: I'm not sure. One memory from long ago reading is from one of Thomas Wolfe's home-titled books, either "Look Homeward Angel" or "You can't Go Home Again." I'm not certain which, and I'm pretty sure I'll never look it up, so I'm operating from distant recall. One of the characters, from a first-person viewpoint, narrates how he witnessed a man jump from a multi-story building. I think the person who saw the fall was a policeman or fireman because he ran to the scene where the jumper lay on the sidewalk, mortally injured but still alive. The dying man desperately tells the narrator that as soon as he jumped, he wished he hadn't, that it was only a few seconds ago, and he wants to go back those few seconds to before he jumped. He asked the witness to tell his mother he didn't mean to do it. I recall it as a very powerful passage about regret and the inability to take back what we've done. When I started teaching, at age 22, I used to read this passage to my class to illustrate some moral or literary technique: I taught then English 7, 8, and 9, so I'm hoping I read it to the older kids. Back then, suicide was a pretty dramatic subject, and I was probably too young to consider its impact. But I don't think any of those student ever committed suicide either.

Way off-color

The first dirty joke I remember was told to my sister and me by a girl a year or so younger. She was, also, a good girl, but one who had the advantage of parents who ran a business where a group called "The Birdwatchers" met on a regular basis. They would tell stories, one of which was: The young couple checks into a hotel for their honeymoon, and decides to consummate their marriage by coming together in an exciting way. (Remember when even the characters in risque jokes waited for the wedding.) "You stand on one side of the room," instructs the groom to his bride, and I'll stand on the other. Then we'll run toward each other and meet in the middle." His bride agrees, but in their excited states they miss each other and he falls out the window into the bushes below. He is not hurt but stark naked, so he spies the doorman, and from the cover of the bushes he asks the doorman for help getting back into his room without being seen. "Oh," says the doorman, "You can walk right in. No one will notice you. Everybody's upstairs trying to get your wife off the doorknob." I knew it was an off-color story, but I wondered for years of my childhood if the scenario was believable or not. Still not quite sure.

Speaking of fish....

Today for lunch I had shrimp with a creamy cheese sauce in a puff pastry shaped like a fish. I'm not kidding: it looked like a giant Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Cracker. Who knew there were such things?

Death and a fish

Re-reading American literature can be deleterious to sleeping at night. You could become afraid that when you die, one of your children might drill a hole in your coffin to give you some air, and end up drilling right into your face. Can't happen, you say. Check out William Faulkner's "As I Lay Dying." Of course, that child did confuse his mother with a fish. Must be something about the gene pool in Mississippi.

Decor

I'm not much of an interior decorator, but the Feng Shui goes awry for me when I see a room (1) where the drapes are puddled on the floor, on purpose, or (2) where lamps are arranged on top of a stack of books, again on purpose. It just seems so wrong.

ESP?

I did the heretofore unthinkable---filled out a survey for a chance to win, oh, some great prize, cash I think. I also think my chance of winning is so infinitesimal that the odds are the same if I enter or not. The store was Price Chopper, my shopping event was brief and satisfactory (except they still don't carry the pineapple/ Canadian bacon pizza) , so when I entered the survey on the store receipt I gave very good grades on the shopping categories. At the end, the survey asked for general comments, so I referred to the question that asks if I as a customer was sincerely thanked by the cashier as I checked out. That question is impossible to answer; of course the employees are told to thank each customer, but how can the customer be a judge of how sincere the thanker is. I suggested the question be re-phrased, so the survey would ask if we were politely thanked. Why put the onus of judgment on the customer: how are we to know what lies in the heart and mind of a Price Chopper cashier?

You don't say!

It seems that the twitching girls in Leroy NY are recovering. Erin Brockovich has backed off on her earlier tirade, probably after seeing the Munchausen mothers. Some of the girls were given antibotics to treat the PANDA diagnosis, others a placebo. Just wait it out: I imagine sustained twitching is tiring to say the least. But Dr. Drew still cares--- a little.

Oxymoronic read

I am absolutely intrigued by the concept of "The Professor and the Madman," though it was quite a boring book to read. Granted, there was already a dictionary of sorts, but to think that only less than 200 years ago, a person actually made the decision to define the usage of all the words in the English language and compile them into a volume titled the Oxford English Dictionary seems beyond comprehension. With the limits of the age he lived in, he, Professor Murray, had to rely on others to gather together all the words, and as they were found to be used. One of his most faithful assistants in this endeavor was the Madman, a Dr. Minor, driven insane, maybe because of his experiences in war. Every finding had to be handwritten, and mailed to England. I think there had to be at least 3 examples of a word found in writing before it would be approved for inclusion in the OED. I also seem to remember, a break from the pedantic in the book, that the Madman cut off his own penis in a fit of self loathing. Dealing with a lot of words can do that to a person, but he was a surgeon, so he was at least qualified.

The Light

March 9, 1905-----October 30, 1983

When we moved into our house in 1969 with a new baby, my mother was pleased, and given what our previous housing had been, I'm sure somewhat relieved. Looking out her front window, she could see the light on the back of our house. She said it was as bright as a star. Those days are gone.

Candy Land Ho!

When I was a kid, I used to give up candy for Lent, because I thought God would appreciate my sacrifice. This year, for the first time in ages, I thought I would repeat my pledge, for more self-centered reasons, not the least of which was to see if I had any self discipline left. I have so far been true to my promise, and have gained about 5 pounds. Turns out if I eat a few jelly beans or a handful of miniature Mr. Goodbars, I evidently satisfy my desire for sweets, and don't need to gorge. But candy-less, in the last few weeks, I have up to now eaten: (1) ninety percent of a carrot cake the Thompson's won at a school function: it had cream cheese frosting, (2) an entire box of Girl Scout cookies: they were peanut butter, (3) all six of a box of Hot Cross Buns: they had the fruit in them. And (4) yesterday on the way home from Albany, a giant soft ice cream cone from Bubbles. This was a little weird though, because I ordered the chocolate and vanilla swirl, and the chocolate tasted tart, like limes. I told the server, and she replaced it with an even more generous sized plain vanilla cone, not my first choice but I ate it all anyway. Oh well, I'll start my candy diet when Easter arives.

Strange food

I made a now rare stop at Mechanicville Price Chopper. Saw a bag of CLEMENTE ORIGINAL SUGAR TARALLI. Never heard of it before but it seemed lowcal enough to keep my weight from burgeoning even further, so I bought it. My guess would be that it's compressed sawdust sprinkled with a little powdered sugar; taken with water, it kind of expands in your stomach and it evidently seeks to regain its former shape as a piece of lumber. I'm sure the feeling will pass.

Non-believer in...

food addiction, which is recently being purported as a medical condition. That's just stupid. But....I just found out that Entennman's Hot Cross Buns have been reduced in price at our local store from $6.49 per box to $2.99. At the former price, I didn't consider even buying them, but at the current price, I can't stop myself from eating them. So that's not addiction, just gluttony combined with stinginess, right?

Eat this?

I don't really understand Red Velvet Cake.

Faking it

I believe most mondegreens are contrived, deliberately.

HCA

Hans Christian Andersen suffered fom depression which he attributed to his being beaten in school so as to improve his character. He came to hate school. During his lifetime he was drawn to unattainable women and later non-reciprocating men. He died from complications attributed to his falling out of bed. While in the dying process, he asked that his funeral march be composed of short beats because he figured his mourners would be children and they could keep in step. I think his life, and death, similar to that of Michael Jackson. Pine trees, Wonderland---all the same.

Order in the Court

Well, obviously the order is not Pepsi. I don't know: if I were a juror on a trial where it seems impossible to arrive at a decision because everyone has lied, inveigled, played silly games, double crossed their "friends," wrapped ballots, or were they ballot applications, in newspapers, inquired if anyone was wired, licked envelopes, forgot everything but their names, canvassed housing projects, and in general acted as if in a Grade B crime movie, and lives in a city where this type of activity has been going on "since Christ was a carpenter," and where the Prosecutor has agreed to grant immunity to six or so confessed bad actors in order to prosecute another two, although all seem equally guilty: I think if I were sequestered in a room trying to make sense out of all this garbage, and I craved a Pepsi to help me navigate the mass of lies, plea bargains, and deals, and if the judge refused to give me a Pepsi,even if I said please, I think I would be a little affronted and would be tempted to render a very hasty judgment. Let's see what happens tomorrow when the jurors file back into that room, carrying their bottles of Pepsi brought from home. Runaway Jury!

Terms of enragement

I turned the TV on early this morning while I was still in bed. Two anchorwomen were talking about how many times they and other women they knew had been called sluts by Conservative media members. They were outraged, but it seemed almost a badge of honor to be labeled such by the likes of Limbaugh and Savage. It reminded me of several campaigns ago when all the candidates seemed to be vying for the honor of having grown up using an outhouse. I didn't see this morning's anchors because I wasn't ready for that so early so I don't know their names, but one of them signed off by telling the slut-word users to "shut their cake-holes." We're all so classy now.

A.I. Deja Vu Overload Redux, et al.

I wonder how far into the competition we'll get before someone sings Hallelujah. What is it with the guys singing falsetto? How annoying can a whip your hair Jason Castro wanna-be get? And they've dredged up a baritone, no less. My father admired Vaughan Monroe 100 years ago. After the guy sings "Old Man River," what else is there for him to do? I'm already weary of counting how many times Randy says "Yo" and how can anybody say Jennifer Lopez has class? It was so ironic when she detected a nasal quality in a singer's voice when she sounds as if she talks through her nose all the time. And, really, what is Steven Tyler anyway? I know, I know, I should just turn off the channel..

Segue this!

Why were segues developed? To form a smooth transition from one topic to another without jarring the audience. In other words, to allow a natural extension of the discussion. The media has a one-size-fits-all, standard, all-purpose segue, and that is: "And now, on a brighter note.." They could have just finished reporting a grisly murder where a son bashed his parents to death, then shot them and set them on fire, and to make the transition to a topic where a cat signs to its owner, they rely on the good old segue, "And now, on a brighter note..." Okay, I'm not jarred, that was smooth.

Jackie and me---White House Tour

It seems hard to believe now, but way back when, I was quite frequently told I looked like Jackie Kennedy. What's even harder to believe is that I wasn't particularly flattered by the comparison. I thought she looked okay, but her looks weren't a cult favorite then, and she was about a decade older than I was, but I took the comparison as the compliment it was intended to be. That is, until my encounter with my college freshman speech teacher. She was an older woman, and also a drama teacher and involved in professional and semi-professional theater.
And she was a forceful, strong woman for her time, outspoken in her analyses and critiques. Needless to say, I was intimidated just by walking into her classroom, not to mention having to actually deliver speeches. During that time, Jackie Kennedy, as the young First Lady, conducted her widely televised Tour of the White House. Our speech teacher, Miss Futterer (actual name), used Jackie K's tour speech as a terrible example of how not to talk. She said it was dreadful, she hated her delivery, her breathy voice, and in essence everything about it. I don't recall having any particular opinion about Jackie's performance. I had so much else taking up my time then that I hadn't really paid much attention to a historical documentary show anyway. That is, until the next time I had to deliver a speech before the class. After each student speech, the formidible Miss Futterer would critique the performance, right there in the classroom before the whole class. (Precursor of American Idol judges.) That was when Miss F. took apart everything I had done wrong, point by point, and ended by saying I and my voice reminded her of Jackie Kennedy. Oh, the horror! Since she had announced the week before how much she despised her , I knew this comparison was not meant to be complimentary. And to add insult to injury, she referred me to Speech Therapy before she would even release my grade for the course. I had to commute to college, and was so strapped for time, and overscheduled, that one more session of anything was a hardship, but that paled compared to the demoralization and humiliation I felt at the prospect of having to go to Speech Therapy. I was sadly lacking in confidence, but I thought I knew how to talk, at least. So I found my way to the Speech Clinic, where before my initial session, I had to wait while the student ahead of me finished his remedial class. He had red hair and was completely unable to pronounce the letter "L," among other problems. I remember thinking his speech was way worse even than Coach Furlong's. So I was next, after the red-headed boy "we-scheduwed" his next appointment. The speech therapist, a young man named Mr. Leonard, handed me a passage to read, which I did. He looked confused, and asked me why I was there. I must have answered something brilliant, like because Miss Futterer had sent me there. He told me to speak a little louder, and to come back in a week. I returned the following week, spoke a little louder, and that was it. I think I finally got a "C" in Speech Class and felt lucky to get it. (Later Ruthie and I would laugh at the memory of "before I was loud." Miss Futterer had told me that my voice was "precious." That was NOT a compliment. We tried to look up what that meant, but at the time we weren't really sure. Like so many other things, I never really understood what was happening until later on---maybe.