1000 ferris wheels

I once read that about people who make and fold 1000 origami paper cranes.  Some do it for luck or longevity or luck or wishes or hope.  Some do it for love.  Some do it for peace.  I assume some do it for the same reason I make ferris wheels.

I make them over and over again, from tiny kits that arrive in small envelopes whenever things get difficult.

bloggesswheel

I turn the small metal tabs in.  I fit the speck-like tabs into the delicate, almost invisible slots.  I place 100 tiny metal pieces -like forgotten shavings- together to make each car, each strut.  It’s comforting to me when I need comfort most.  When life gets too large.  When the world is too loud.  When my skin is to raw and sensitive to be touched.  It’s then that I go into this tiny world I have perfect control over.

The work is both challenging and mindless.  I close a tiny door.  I add a hanging car.  I straighten a spindle.  I imagine myself in this little world, an invisible guest on this fragile and exquisitely imperfect wheel.  It does not spin exactly but the cars gently sway.  One car breaks loose and plummets to the floor.  I find it, a minute later, hidden in the seam of the tile and I rescue it and return it to it’s place, giving the metal tab an extra twist with my tweezers and holding my mouth just so as if I am casting a spell.

Stay put, I command in my head.  You are where you belong.  To everything there is a place.

And I line the pieces up into their places.  I make them right.  I make them fit.  I put things the way they are meant to be, even if only in a tiny world that rests in the palm of my hand.

In the morning I show my daughter the shiny metal ferris wheel.  She oohs and ahs and rocks the small cars, probably imagining real ferris wheels she will ride one day when she is grown.

I lay the tiny wheel down, my invisible anxieties and worries sitting calmly on each seat.  I say a prayer to keep each worry in its place.  To glue it there.  One for “fear of going under water.”  One for “one day she’ll leave me”.  One for “I’ve forgotten something important that I can’t remember”.  One for “paralyzed with doubts”.  One for “broken”.  And those small passengers all sit in silence, quieted at last, as I place the wheel with all the others.  And there it will stay while I take up life again.  Until, that is, the next week when I can’t think for all the worries and anxieties and angry voices screaming in my head.  And then I will place last week’s empty ferris wheel on a sidewalk  or tree branch for a small child to find, and I will open the thin envelope in my desk drawer and slip out the new metal sheets waiting to be cut and folded and pinned and pressed into life.  Into fear.  Into both.

And the wheel comes around again.

ferris bloggess

Note: I know many of you have noticed I’m not quite myself this month.  I’m fine…just crawling out of a depression that has taken more out of me than usual.  I’m coming back, but slowly.  Thank you for being patient.  Thank you for being you.

 

Jesus, Siri.

Victor and I were having an argument about why we say that a pig says “oink” when really they make that piggy snorting noise.  I said it’s because the pigs snorty noise is impossible to spell but Victor disagreed so I turned to Siri and asked her for help:

jesus siri bloggess

Jesus, Siri.  

You need to get some help.

*******

And now, the weekly wrap-up…

Usually I use one of my weekly graphics here but I’m mixing it up today because my friend Natalie made me this and it makes me smile:

bloggess life is expensive

Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

Shit-you-may-or-may-not-want-to-see:

Shit you should buy or steal because it’s awesome:  

  • Nimona: A graphic novel.  (Nemisis!  Dragons!  Science! Symbolism!)  I finished it last night.  Hailey is devouring it now.

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by Jethro Collins, author of Love in The Time of Contracts.  (Which is on sale now for only $2.99)  A little taste: Would you live a sparkling, glamorous lie for a few million dollars?
Hollywood action movie superstar John Hamilton has a secret, and he needs the perfect trophy wife to cover it up. Xanax-popping has-been actress Jenna Wells needs a miracle.  John’s double life is meticulously planned and concealed by the Association, a cult-like religious group made up of the Hollywood elite. The Association has the ability to make and break careers, forcing Jenna to play the part of the perfect fiancée.  Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul. Will Jenna take the money? Or will she follow her heart?  Click here to find out.

This is my house.

The greatest gift in the world is to grant a kindness to another. The amazing thing though is that the aforementioned gift is one you give yourself. It may be a small thing. Leaving a flower for the tired woman at the coffee shop. Telling a stranger that they have such kind eyes. Listening happily to a story told by an elderly friend or relative who has told you the same story a million times. Nodding in solidarity even when you don’t completely understand. Letting a friend or a stranger yell hurtful things at you because you hope it will help them let go of a small part of that anger…that it will open up room in them for the greater things that they deserve.

This is the way the world goes. Small, mean acts affect the next person who in turn amplify that anger or sadness and take it out on others who suffer as well. Then small, kind acts of grace work their magic and pull the world back into balance. Those acts echo into the world. They reverberate long after we are gone. And sometimes? Sometimes they bounce back to us in unexpected ways.

I’ve been writing for years and it’s only in the last year that I’ve let myself feel bad about what I write. Well, not about what I write exactly. I write about my life. I write funny stories that I hope make people smile. I write books that I hope make others laugh loudly and inappropriately in airplanes. I write honestly about difficult things I’m haunted with, like depression or self-harm. And occasionally I veer off into strange waters where I don’t quite know if I’m the best person to say something, but I know that I’m the best person to say the things that I think. You sometimes get small glimpses of those things but in such light amounts you could be forgiven for missing them. If you look closely you probably know that I’m a feminist. That I’m a big supporter of gay rights.  That I don’t believe in church but do believe in God. That I believe racism is institutional and exists far deeper than we see. That I don’t deal well with authority. That I have eternal hope in goodness. That I am quick to anger and quicker to forgive and that I don’t believe in picking sides because the world is flexible and moving and ever changing. The only side I pick is the one with less assholes, but even that is fluid because people change. Sometimes the assholes are later the people who have come so far, and who we revere for their ability to change. Sometimes we find that our heroes were undercover assholes, hiding amongst us until they let down their guard. Sometimes the assholes are us. In fact, if you aren’t prepared to recognize that occasionally you will look back at your life and think, “Wow. That was a real dick move. What the shit, me?” then you are the most dangerous of all the assholes.

This is a long post but in my defense I’ve been very quiet for the last week while I sorted this out.  I do have a point and I’m coming to it.

In the time I’ve been writing I’ve had thousands of people send me emails or links or tweets asking if I would weigh in on something, or support their cause, or ask everyone I know to donate to their personal fund or charity. I’ve read other blog posts by friends who tell me if I don’t write about their personal beliefs then it means I don’t care. Then I remind myself that if someone would potentially not know where I stand if I’m not screaming it on my blog then perhaps they aren’t as good a friend as I thought. I’m asked to stand up for people being bullied. I’m asked to stand up for the other people who are being censored and being called bullies. I hear:

“How can you not go to our Gay Pride parade when you yourself are bisexual?”

“Today is International Suicide Awareness day. Why aren’t you promoting it?  Don’t you care?”

“You’ve spent time in wheelchairs and hospital beds from your autoimmune disease so why aren’t you promoting our walkathon for chronic pain awareness?”

“If you don’t publicly take a stand against racism on every platform you have then you are a racist.”

“If you don’t write about 9/11 every year the terrorist win”.

“If you don’t write a post explaining that most Muslims are peaceful and lovely then their blood will be on your hands if they are killed.”

“If you don’t write about my personal version Jesus Christ then you’re sentencing your readers to everlasting hell.”

“If you don’t promote my kickstarter about my journey to adopt 56 Chinese orphans then all orange kittens will spontaneously lose all their legs.”

These are all real things said to me in the last year, except for the last one which I suspect is probably just stuck in my spam filter.

Here’s the deal.  I just can’t. I can’t use this blog to tell you that testing makeup on animals is bad or that if we don’t reduce our carbon footprint our children will suffer the consequences. I don’t have the stamina or willpower to denounce every shitty thing in the world that I assume everyone else here already agrees with. I don’t have the strength to write about ISIS and kidnappings and poverty and children starving and bombs and other terrible things because I know I will become fixated and depressed and unable to function.  I know my limits and I know that without self-care I will fall into those dark holes of depression where I’m no help to anyone.

And I’m okay with that because I don’t have to tell you that Nazis are bad and mass murderers are fuckheads and that racism is bullshit and suicide should be avoided and rape is shitty and water is wet and cats will scratch you if given enough time. This is all common sense. If I have to say this out loud for you to get those things then you are in the wrong place. Mostly because I’m typing and so I can’t say anything out loud, but also because if you know me, you already know these things. We may disagree on the finer points. I may have a looser definition of what it means to be a feminist. I’m in the middle ground when it comes to gun control so if I ever decide I’m educated enough to have a salient point of view worth sharing out loud we may disagree. I suspect I view racism as being more of a problem than the average American (or average white Southerner at least) and occasionally I’ll say something about it and lose followers…both those who are angry that I believe racism is systemic and deep-seated, and those who agree but who are mad that I don’t say even more. And that’s okay. Sometimes they come back, later, with open minds and less fear or anger. Sometimes they are replaced by others who are here to laugh and smile at the ridiculousness that comes out of my head. Sometimes (mostly) it’s read and then forgotten. Just one tiny voice in a world that won’t shut up. In a world so busy speaking that it can’t hear.

I had a point and I’ve strayed from it a bit but this is it: I appreciate the links and suggestions and tweets and probably half the time my posts come from something one of you has sent me because you know me and you know what fuels me. I read what you’ve sent me and laugh or cry or learn. Sometimes I write about it.  Sometimes I keep it for myself.  Sometimes there isn’t a better way to say it so I’ll just retweet it, or forward it to others who I think might need it or be inspired to write more about it. But I will never tell those people that it is their responsibility to write about what I want to read. And that is the difference.

Please keep sending me links. Tweet things you think I’ll want to see. Email me your thoughts, or posts. Or share them here. But there are two things you should know: One– I almost never share fundraisers because if I do one then a million people will ask why I don’t share their equally valid fundraiser and then I’d suddenly turn from a writer to a very annoying PR person who only tweets fundraisers.  No one wants that.  And two: I will never write about something because someone else is trying to shame me into it. I have plenty of my own shame and guilt over here myself, thankyouverymuch, so I don’t need you dropping yours on me. Not only is it shitty, but it also makes me question everyone else writing about whatever that current event of the week actually thinks, and that’s not fair to anyone. Are they just writing what they think people want to hear? Are they pandering because it’s fucking easy as hell to say “I’M NOT FOR MURDERING GAY PEOPLE” and “CANCER IS NOT WHAT I LIKE”. Not only that, but if you aren’t saying something thought-worthy then you are adding to the roar that is the world and while it’s a wonderful thing to have the nation rise up as a whole against bullshit, it sometimes has the unintended action of  making it that much harder for people who DO have brilliant and amazing things to say to be heard. People have a limited attention span and if they spend their lunch hour picking through posts that say nothing new or personal because they are written solely out of fear of missing out on the topic du jour are going to miss the chance to read the people out there who have something unique and intriguing and personal and brilliant to say. Those posts that make you say, “YES. FUCKING EXACTLY. THIS IS WHAT I WAS TRYING TO SAY BUT I COULDNT FIND THE WORDS FOR IT.” They are the posts that make you say, “Oh. Oh, shit. I get it. I get it now and I didn’t before and now everything has changed.” The posts that are so beautifully written that you immediately link to them on the Facebook disagreement you were having with your great aunt Agnes and she reads it and says, “Hmm. Well I never thought about it that way. I guess I’ll have to think about it.”

Those brilliant posts exist. I hope I’ve written a few. Probably not nearly as many as I’d like but I’m limited in my areas of expertise. I get humor because that’s how I survive. I get family because I’ve been blessed to have a dysfunctionally functional group of people who challenge me and make me laugh. I get mental illness because I survive it. I fight it as a regular demon and I haven’t a choice but to become a savvy warrior because that’s how you live. We don’t always get to choose our causes. Sometimes our causes choose us.

There is another thing I write about on the regular and that is kindness. Because we can’t live without it. Because it keeps us afloat. Because it keeps us worthy of survival as a species. Because it helps me forgive people who demand that I use my voice for their words because if I don’t it means I’m unworthy or low or their enemy. Because it helps me remember that that kind of anger comes from pain or fear or desperation that no one should have to feel. And because that same kindness is what I depend on and hope for from them when they read this.

This is my house. You are welcome here. You are wanted. You are allowed to leave links of posts or articles you think this community would say “Oh, I needed that” to. You are welcome to talk and visit and make friends and to realize that each of us is flawed and human and (in the grand scheme of things) knows nothing. Because I’ve come to know that the only thing I really know is we could all do with a little more kindness. Both in giving and getting.

Be kind to one another. And more importantly, be kind to yourself.  You deserve it.

PS. This post scares me a little to post because I know a thousand of you will think “Shit.  She’s talking about me” but I can assure you that 127 different people have asked me to share their stuff within just the last 24 hours (not an exaggeration) so I’m really not paying attention to names, and also there is a tremendous difference between suggesting that I write about something and demanding I write about something.  Still,  I feel a bit bitchy, because in a way I realize I’m sort of saying, “Stop demanding that I join you in your brave and valiant crusade, you well-meaning and good people with absolutely wonderful causes which I wholeheartedly agree with you on” and that’s not what I want to say at all, but it’s the closest thing I can say other than this:  I can’t always sing your song with you.  I listen.  I share.  I think.  But if I’m always singing everyone else’s song then there’s no room for mine.  I have a song to sing.  A terrible one about why Jesus is a zombie and the time I found a severed boobie on my lawn.  A song about horrible things and about wonderful things and mostly silly things that make the day a bit brighter for those twisted enough to appreciate it, or those offended enough to be able to use it as a terrible example to others.  A song that sometimes is out of tune and seldom rhymes and is sung loudly in the dark and in whispers when I’m not quite myself.  A song that sometimes overlaps with yours as we find ourselves unexpectedly sharing a chorus we never knew we had in common.  A song that sometimes captures minds and hearts and changes the world in good and bad ways…but most importantly, a song that is uniquely mine.  One that’s given silence to reflect and write, and information to grow, and that changes as I change.  It’s the same song you sing.  But different.  And all of those songs are beautiful…even the discordant ones of our enemies that inspire us to work harder to prove them wrong in hopes that one day they’ll find themselves accidentally humming a strange tune they’ve picked up along the way…a tune of joy and kindness and love and equality and acceptance.  Or at least something by Prince.  That man is a bad-ass.

PPS.  It occurs to me that I talked about those posts and stories and essays and books that make us yell “YES!  THIS EXACTLY” and that those lovely things are the things that it would be nicest to hear over the roar of kleenex advertisements and selfies, so I’m going to share a few of the ones that hit me personally because maybe you need to see them too.  And maybe in the comments you can share your own. A book, a song, a post, a quote that makes you strong or anything that makes the world a better place…anything that you keep coming back to as a reminder that you’re not alone or as an anthem to keep you going when it’s hardest.  Share your song.  Because I want to hear it.  And maybe, one day, we’ll find ourselves singing along together and you will know it’s because I am with you wholeheartedly, and not just because it’s the easiest thing to sing.

Okay, here are a few posts that stick with me:

This one is fairly recent but I used it so often recently when in discussions with people who didn’t understand why what Rachel Dolezal did is not okay and why it has nothing to do with Caitlyn Jenner ~ From Awesomely Luvvie:  About Rachel Dolezal the Undercover Sista and Performing Blackness

Someone sent me this years ago and it stays with me every day.  I even stop people in the middle of my next book to tell them to read this first:  From Christine Miserandino: The Spoon Theory

Which of you sent me this originally?  I don’t know but when I read it I screamed “YES!  YES, THIS!”  Boggle the Owl on surviving depression.  Boggle the Owl on Anxiety.

Okay.  Your turn.  Share.  Give me something you think needs to be heard.  Something that breeds kindness and makes the world a better place.  Sing your song.  We’re listening.

It costs nothing to be kind. Probably.

People always say “It costs nothing to be kind” but technically it doesn’t cost anything to be a real asshole either, so I’m not sure why we’re bringing financials into it.  It does, however, cost money to hire lawyers after you stab people you don’t like in the leg so maybe that should be the phrase everyone should remember.  Then again, if you bottle everything up and continue to be kind to people who are being real dicks you’re going to end up in some pretty heavy therapy or in a lot of bars drinking your resentment away and I can tell you that neither of those things are cheap.  Really they should just change the saying to “Life is already expensive.  There’s no need to make it worse by being a dick to people.”

It doesn’t quite sing like the first line, but it’s more accurate.

Dinosaurs are making me feel fat and I haven’t even eaten any of them.

I’ve read that our universe is constantly expanding but that we can’t tell because we’re expanding with it and so we are get bigger at the same rate everything else does.  So does that mean that if we traveled back into the past with a time machine that we might be bigger than the dinosaurs since they were around when the universe was smaller? Either way, I think it explains why I feel so fat today.

Unrelated:  Right now I’m in New York recording the audio book version of FURIOUSLY HAPPY and that is exciting and terrifying and exhausting all at once.  If you want to send good thoughts I would love to have them.  I would also accept random compliments, small kittens, or fried cheese sticks.  I’m not picky.  I’ll take whatever you have in your pockets, really.  Surprise me.

No, seriously.  What do you have in your pockets?  Or purses?  Or desk drawer.  What’s the weirdest shit you’ve got on you right now.

This is what I have instead of coworkers.

I sometimes miss having human coworkers to visit with over the tops of our cubicles and having people bring birthday cakes to the office, but I’ve learned to appreciate that my current coworkers (although very shitty at discussing pop-culture gossip) still manage to bring me a fair amount of office drama.

Hunter S. Thomcat and Dorothy Barker in an almost everyday scenario in my office:

hunter and dorothy barker

Then Dorothy Barker goes into the kitchen and kicks around Hunter’s food bowl until Hunter goes to investigate.  Fifteen seconds later:

dorothybarkerchair

 

And that’s why it’s sometimes nice to have fairly mute coworkers, even if they insist on never wearing pants.

********

Weekly wrap up time!

Made by my friend Matthew (The Oatmeal.)   He's made of awesome.

Made by my friend Matthew (The Oatmeal.) He’s made of awesome.

Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by Melt: massage for couples.  Basically it’s an instructional massage video that teaches how to give bad-ass massages with a simple, step-by-step video guide.  It costs less than one professional massage and you have it forever with unlimited access.  You can watch the trailer here.  It’s super pretty and an excellent skill to know, plus you can show your partner how they’re doing it wrong.  Like, if they say “Hey, wanna see how I can disable someone with a pressure point?”  That’s not good.  Don’t do that.  Instead watch the video.  Just saying.  PS. It’s on sale until Father’s Day.  Check it out here.

Eels up inside ya. Finding and entrance where they can.

So last night was bleak for me.  Two people I adore are in a coma.  Another is in the hospital.  Another passed away.  Everything in the news makes me want to punch people.  My allergies are horrible and I don’t know if that’s what’s keeping me in bed or if it’s a touch of depression.   I’m not sure if I like my new glasses.  A lizard bit me.  It probably goes without saying that some of these problems are less important than others but they all seem to build up to a feeling of hopelessness and dread and anger that I’m too tired to vent, so instead of venting I’m restructuring.  My head.

I’m avoiding the news.  I’m thinking only positive, healing thoughts for friends and family who are struggling.  I’m reminding myself that feeling miserable and terrified does not help anyone and would be the last thing that any of the people I’m worried about or sad about would want.

I’m not focused enough to write a real post so instead I’m going to share a bunch of shit that makes me happy but that isn’t worth a whole post.  And if you like it you can share something that makes you happy.  And that’s how the world goes around.

My husband’s Facebook page this morning:

eels

*****

I pass this giant man almost every day.  I don’t know what he’s supposed to be holding.  Invisible iguana?  Delicious turkey leg?  Machete to slice up assholes?  Perhaps he’s in the middle of a three-way with two invisible people?  Half of him is all “I know kung-fu.  Come at me bro” and the other half is pouring out a 40 for his homies.  It’s times like these that I wish I knew photoshop.

Is he supposed to look menacing?  Because that's what I'm getting from him.

Is he supposed to look menacing? Because that’s what I’m getting from him.

*******

Last month everyone was sharing pictures from this website that let you combine you and your partners faces to see what your baby would look like so I decided to see what it would look like if my cats had a baby and that’s how I found out that this website is a lie.

I named him "Little Bloopy" because he looks a bit bloopy. Don't know why I'm having to explain this.

I named him “Little Bloopy” because he looks a bit bloopy. Don’t know why I’m having to explain this.

*****

This showed up on my amazon page and I felt a bit insulted but then I realized that I really do want that unicorn mask.  Touché, Amazon.

Why is the guy in the fish mask wearing a business suit?  Victor says the real question is "Why is the guy in the business suit wearing a fish mask."  We're going to have to agree to disagree.

Why is the guy in the fish mask wearing a business suit? Victor says the real question is “Why is the guy in the business suit wearing a fish mask.” We’re going to have to agree to disagree.

The cats on the left are looking at me like, “You brought this on yourself really.  Look at your life.  Look at your choices.”

******

Hunter S. Thomcat stole my shoes.

bloggessslippers

Your turn.  Make me smile.  Pretty please?

May we all have that level of confidence.

dorothy barker

I don’t make a very good monk. For several reasons probably.

So, I’ve read that monks say that to achieve happiness you have to perfect the art of living in the moment. They say, “Don’t wait.  Don’t think of the future or the past. Be completely in the moment.”

As much as I’ve tried, I can never master this because I’m perpetually worried about the future, but technically even when I am thinking of the future I’m still in the present moment even though that particular moment is a moment when I’m obsessing about the future. I’m not sure if this means I’d make a very bad monk, or if it makes me a very talented monk who is just really good at multitasking.

**********

And now, our weekly wrap-up.  Buckle-up, Buttercup.

Fabulous graphic by @wedrawtweets

Fabulous graphic by @wedrawtweets

 

Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

Shit-you-may-or-may-not-want-to-see:

Shit you should buy or steal because it’s awesome:  

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by How To Not Get Screwed.  It’s not a sex book.  It’s about moving, which is good because summer is when most people move and also it’s when you’re very likely to get screwed and that’s when this comes in handy.  Spot a scummy real estate agent, call them out on their underhanded bullshit, everything you need to know about buying or selling a home.  You should check it out here.

I can’t tell if this happened because I have a medical issue or because I’m just really lazy.

Yesterday I went to pick up my meds and while I was there I handed the pharmacist my prescription for my ADD medication and she was like “Sorry, I can’t fill this one.  We can only fill prescriptions within 21 days of them being written” and I guess I can understand that but I’ve been walking around with this prescription for a month because I’m not really focused enough to remember to refill my meds if I’m out of my ADD meds and the pharmacist was like, “Yes, but you’ll still have to get a new one” and that sucks because first of all, the fact that I’m making my meds last long enough that my next prescription expired proves that I’m not abusing them or selling them on the street, so if anything I should be rewarded by getting more drugs.  Plus, now I have to make an appointment to see my shrink to get another prescription and I’ll have to tell her I kept getting too distracted to fill the prescription that I insisted that I needed because my ADD was making me too distracted.

But technically she already knows I’m irresponsible and have ADD so really it’ll probably just make her happier that she’s doing an excellent job diagnosing me.

Although she’s not really doing that great if she actually expected that I was going to fill my prescription myself within a normal time limit.  I suspect it’s a test and I failed it.  Or she did.  Maybe we did as a team.  I’m not good at evaluating right now because I’m low on ADD meds.

Someone please make an appointment for me with my shrink.  And remind me to get her to call in my meds this time.  And then take me to the pharmacist to get my meds before they call me with that ” YOUR PRESCRIPTION HAS BEEN READY FOR WEEKS AND IF YOU DON’T PICK IT UP SOON WE’LL RESTOCK IT.  YOU ARE WASTING OUR TIME” message.  And then bring me a cheesecake.  And take me to the post office.  And make me drink more water.

Jesus.  I need a babysitter.  For me.

I blame the meds.  Or lack thereof.

PS.  I don’t have a graphic to go with this post so instead I’ll show you the business cards I made for myself.

furiouslyhappycards2Please note that I forgot to put my name on them or a website or even what FURIOUSLY HAPPY is.  I think it’s pretty obvious I made them without the benefit of drugs.  Or possibly it seems more obvious that I am on drugs if I made business cards with Rory’s taxidermied raccoon face on them.  Depends on the kind of drugs, I guess.  But!  You can do this with them:

furiouslyhappycards3

They would come in much more handy if I ever left the house long enough to give out business cards, but at least I have some now, so…you know…baby steps.