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Hung over

Lying on the couch...vaguely hung over but mostly happy at the moment. 

Not hung over, so much, from the drinks consumed last night (while on a quest to improve my marriage by going on regular dates with J.) Hung over, more accurately, on cake and frosting and gray skies and leafless branches.

Dehydrated by a child sick this past week, by too many festivities, by not enough time to put words to screen.

Out the window...two squirrels chase each other good naturedly up and down a tree...playing follow the leader more than engaging in some aggressive mating mission. The sky, slightly brighter now, with melon undertones.

I'm hoping we can go to the beach. That I can sit on the sand with a cup of tea and watch the kids poke through tide pools.

A little woozy from a boy and a girl over-stimulated, who release their stress by whining and snapping and, in the case of Kitty Cat, sobbing over an inside out sock.

I can sometimes picture Fruit Bat, already, as a teenager--sullen and barky and condescending (with occasional flashes of self-possession). Other times, he is all little boy with his dinosaurs and his planets and his sticker books.

Yesterday morning I was ready to run away...over the mountains, into the Puget Sound, to Portland, anywhere. Now, in my depleted but recovering state, I want to be here to see what everyone becomes. How my relationship with J. evolves, how Kitty Cat will someday simply reach her hand into her sock and pull it rightside out, how Fruit Bat will morph into a young man, how long those squirrels can twirl around the trunk of tree.

A breakfasty green

You can find the first part of this story, Greener Grass, in my right sidebar under I Like To Write.

*****

It pissed Tamara off that she was portraying this delicate woman. When she, in fact, was not so fragile. When she, in fact, didn't even know if she would keep on with this pregnancy.

At the diner, they found a booth toward the back, upholstered in black vinyl with white piping. The table was turquoise. A bottle of Heinz ketchup and the requisite glass and chrome salt and pepper shakers gave Tamara something to do with her hands while she waited. Waited for the waiter and listened to Brad and Paul, who had moved on to the subject of bread pudding.

Paul crowed, "They have it. I NEED some. Holy crap."

Brad said. "Dude, what the hell? Stale bread, milk and raisins?"

"Stop talking dirty, man," Paul said. "Doesn't that sound good to you TaMARa? Bread-fucking-pudding?"

"Sure," she said. "But I don't want any right now." She turned her coffee mug over and waited for a guy with longish black hair, who grunted, "Morning" out of the corner of his mouth, to fill it.

One cup, she told herself. She ordered a runny fried egg over corned beef hash and a cheese danish on the side.

"Put it away, girl," Paul said, guffawing. "It'll be good for you both."

Tamara shot him a look that said Shut Up. You promised you wouldn't rat me out.

He saw it, she knew he did. But he just emptied three sugar packets into his coffee and guzzled. He belched his way through a story then, about the cafeteria food at his college and how delicious the home fries and roast beef were.

After they ate, Tamara, high on coffee and sugar, vibrated with energy and good will. Queens! God! New York City! She still couldn't believe it! She could wander the day away if she wanted! Buy a book and read it in the park! Sleep! Sit in Starbucks! The possibilities were endless! She loved these two guys! These two good guys who'd taken her on, no questions asked!

A short time later, though, she started dragging, started thinking about money and hygiene. She asked Brad and Paul to wait while she ducked into a CVS and bought a pregnancy test, a toothbrush, deodorant and a tube of wintergreen lifesavers.

The reality of her family, waiting half a country away, tapped at her like a mechanical knock at perfectly spaced intervals, like some sort of Chinese water torture.

She tried not to think about them. But then she saw a purple plastic hairbrush that was an exact replica of Caitlyn's. She noticed a display of shaving cream and wondered if Dave needed any. She smelled baking bread in the air outside the store and thought how much the kids would like it if she brought home doughnuts.

Ambivalence

For a while it seems all right. And then, suddenly, it does not. It is all you ever wanted, at first. And then it is nothing of what you want.

You think of the phrase: Be careful what you wish for.

You've always, in the past, scoffed at this. How could your wishes ever lead you down a wrong path?

But they can...of course they can. They can lead you through thickets of blackberry bushes, when you thought you were headed for a clear trail along a smooth, curving shore. They can take you up rocky cliffs when all you hoped for was to stroll across a flat meadow.

And there is more heartbreak, more exhilaration, sometimes, than you could've imagined. Each way has its own obstacles, its downed branches or washed out foot bridges.

Each way, too, in its familiarity, bores you. You think, what about that trek over there, through the trees? Surely it is more scenic, more adventurous, more satisfying.

But the people on that path, whose wind-breakers you occasionally catch glimpses of, think the same of your way.

For a while, again, it is all right. You're able to see what you have. Really see it. And then, suddenly, you can't. You deserve something awful, you think. Something that will shake you up and show you how good and easy you have it. 

Because it is one of those days when you're low on gratitude.

And why should you, of all people, with your warm house and your closet full of clothes and your cupboards full of expensive food and your loving family, be entitled to a single day like that?

Alternative food entities I'd like to thank

Having a child with severe food allergies is, as you've heard me whine ad nauseum, its own unique challenge. Events and meals that others take for granted as fun and delicious, become peculiar minefields.

There are some things we avoid, in which we would probably otherwise partake, if it weren't for my son's issues. Eating out as a family, for one. We occasionally do this, but not often. There are a very small handful of restaurants I trust, and perhaps it's because the kids are more like squirmy rodents at the table than actual human beings with manners, but we don't frequent food establishments much.

Ice cream socials? Out.

Pizza parties? Can't really do that either.

But, with the help of friends willing to go the extra mile (or buy the expensive cake mix), we manage to make it to lots of birthday parties. We also are able, thanks to some amazing companies, to provide Fruit Bat with treats so delicious that he barely knows what he's missing.

I'd like to thank (and provide a little exposure for):

-Cherrybrook Kitchen. They make amazing cake mixes that are dairy, egg and nut free. The chocolate mix is better than any Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker on the market.

-Amanda's Own. Tasty nut, egg and dairy free chocolate. This is the only place from which I can order chocolate bunnies. And I'm incredibly grateful to them.

-Enjoy Life Foods. The one and only snack/granola bars I can find in area stores. Both kids like them too. Whole Foods has also just started carrying their chocolate bars and I now have a cupboard-full.

-Sunbutter. The best peanut butter substitute you'll ever find. Honestly, I can't tell the difference.

-Trader Joes. For their semi-sweet (dairy-free!) chocolate chips and their own brand of Sunflower Seed butter, which is also very good.

-Ener-G Egg Replacer. Which allows me to whip up waffles and pancakes just as good as their eggy counterparts.

15 years ago, it's unlikely that Fruit Bat would even have food allergies (the rate has more than doubled since 1997), but since he does, I feel so lucky to live in an era of online shopping and alternative grocery stores.

Thanks to them, my heart doesn't break nearly so often.

A desperate Green

You can find the first part of this story in my right sidebar, under I Like To Write.

*****

"When are you coming back, Tamara?"

"I don't-" she stammered. "I don't know yet. I'll tell you though. I'll tell you right away when I know. It's just that...I'm not done yet."

It took every ounce, every thread of Dave's patience not to throw the phone, not to break a goddamn plate or squeeze one of her precious champagne flutes until it shattered in his hand, left blood coursing down his wrist and into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "Done? With what?" he asked.

All he could imagine was her fucking some other guy. Some other guy who was touching her in places only Dave should've been allowed access. He thought of her naked breasts, her perfect, naked breasts, sagging a little after three babies, but still round, still incredibly responsive. "Why'd you call? If you don't have any answers for me."

"Because," she said, her voice hitching up. "I wanted you to know I'm safe. That I'm thinking of you. That I haven't just, you know, taken off with no idea of the consequences."

"The hell you haven't," Dave said. "You don't know what's going on here...what it's like."

She laughed then, a deep, throaty gurgle that rose and rose until it finally stopped, and she said, "Oh, I think I know what it's like."

He pressed the hang up button (so much less satisfying that slamming the receiver into its cradle). Then he dropped the phone into the garbage disposal and flipped the switch.

The blades crunched and rattled and, ultimately, jammed. Dave smiled. When he looked up, he realized all three kids were watching him. "Broken," he said. "Oops." He waved their gazes away. "Waffles'll be done in a minute," he said.

He lurched for the iron then, threw it open and speared the blackened waffle with a fork. He tossed it on top of the phone in the sink and blasted it with water.

Calmly, he poured more batter and vowed to watch the clock this time. Three minutes. No more.

He supposed he should look into childcare. Of some sort. He needed to work. The pump station wasn't going to rehab itself and, since he'd been awarded principal status on the project, he had to step up. His boss, wouldn't exactly understand if he called in and said his wife was on a respite in New York and he had to babysit the kids. For an undetermined amount of time.

He finished cooking the waffles, dumped on some maple syrup and let the kids eat them in front of the TV. Then he started scrounging for Tamara's address book.

"Daddy!" Caitlyn called. "Daddy! Mommy puts powdered sugar on my waffles. I want powdered sugar." Passing through the family room, he pointed at her and said, "If you don't like what I  made you, go get yourself something else. I have stuff to do."

He finally found the pink, leather-bound book on top of a pile of clothes in the laundry room. Which was weird. But, whatever. He searched, unsuccessfully, for Rachel's number. He flipped until he saw Megan Roth, the daughter of his secretary.

He called her and she agreed to come at noon and stay until dinner time. At least he could go into the office for a few hours. Thank God. Thank God. He needed out.

It took most of the morning to rally the kids to dress themselves, eat and drink, brush teeth, comb hair. He didn't know why they weren't more self-motivated. What Tamara let them get away with that caused them to drag and argue and negotiate like they did.

He forced them all outside then, uncovered the sandbox he'd built a few years back, pulled up a lawn chair and started sorting through a work binder while they played, threw sand at each other, screamed.

*****

Tamara stepped from the shower, its floor dirty gray. She dried herself with a small, scratchy towel, grateful to finally feel clean. She hadn't eaten a decent meal in over a day and her stomach was bucking, her intestines a little slack, but she was scrubbed, at least.

She thought about her towels at home: sage green and thick. Always smelling of that fucking laundry detergent. She sniffed the towel she held. Nothing.  Blessedly free of scent. Who cared if it abraded the tender skin along her jaw line, the skin that always thinned when she was pregnant. Who cared about any of it.

She combed out her hair, pulled on the black skirt and one of the tops she'd taken from the woman in Milwaukee. Milwaukee. It might as well have been Singapore for how far she felt from it.

Suddenly she dropped into a crouch, hair dripping down her back. She covered her mouth with a clean hand. What in God's name was she doing in New York staying with an apartment full of guys she'd never met?

Then, as abruptly as she'd broken down, she stood and draped her damp towel over the shower bar. She was just there, that's all. Events conspired and she'd followed her instincts or her fear or whatever. And there she was.

"Can we go get breakfast?" she asked Paul as she emerged from the bathroom.

"You need food?" he asked, looking more alarmed than he ever had in the 30 hours she'd known him.

"Yeah, kinda."

He jumped up, yanked a sweater over his head and asked Brad, "Dude? Is there a diner around here somewhere? A coffee shop or something?" Then to Tamara. "You want a real breakfast? Like eggs and stuff? A diner. Yeah, a diner."

Tamara nodded and crossed her arms over her middle. "Eggs would be good," she said. "French toast, maybe?"

Brad stood, grabbed his wallet from a bedroom and stuffed it into the pocket of his khaki shorts.

It felt great to walk, to be out of the apartment and on the street. They went a few blocks, past squealing, hissing garbage trucks and nondescript brick buildings. Sun shined through cracks in fences, through sporadic trees, down alleys, and lit their faces, lent a buoyancy to the outing that would've been missing on a gray, rainy morning.

Paul and Brad talked about a friend of theirs named Mateo who was fishing in Alaska. They joked and whooped a little and Tamara bobbed along beside them. And then a pickup truck passed, it's exhaust spewing big, black puffs.

Tamara tried to hold her breath, but the stench got in, her stomach seized, and she threw up over the curb. When she looked up, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, Paul was lighting a cigarette and Brad gaped.

"Too much drink last night?" he asked.

She shook her head, "Nah. I just need some food."

"We're almost there," he said. "Can you make it two more blocks?"

"Totally," she said, and they trooped forward, though not as blithely as before.

Too early

You wake just shy of 4am. Your throat hurts. You swallow and swallow and try to ignore the scratchy sear. You get up, fetch juice. It helps. A little.

The full moon shines through black tree branches onto your face. You like it.

You try to drift off again. 

Your daughter wakes a short time later, with similar pain, similar respiratory issues. She will call you into her room three times before you give up on sleep, take a shower, brew strong coffee.

You are thinking in second person. Sometimes verse. Which is not like your usual first-person prose, but you go with it.

The snippets are kind of nice. They are all your brain can handle. Your whole day will be in snippets, thoughts clipped by your children's chatter, curbed by fatigue.

But, days like this are okay once in a while. Sometimes, when you're overly tired you appreciate more. You can't see the big picture so you focus on Little Things. Like caffeine and dry socks and deadlines already met for the week. Your daughter's warm, sour breath as she snores next to you. Your son's increasingly stringy body that he occasionally hurls in your direction and allows you to squeeze.

You think about contentment. Other parents on the playground. Are they all as smugly gratified as they seem? No. You're sure this isn't true. Everyone has their insecurities, their regrets, their fears. You wish you could see into their minds, like staring into Japanese glass floats people sometimes find along the beaches of the Pacific. Or maybe you don't. But you wonder why you're always reaching, spluttering for shore. How others hide their own reaching and spluttering so well.

There are a few things you have to do.

You can't get away from preparing meals. Getting kids ready for school. Coaxing them, with your raw voice, into doing things they don't want to do for themselves. And then making a few calls. Driving here and there. Always laundry. And dishes. 

Lamenting a bit.

You wish you'd stuck with learning guitar in your twenties. You wish an agent would fall in love with your manuscript. You wish you'd picked up french. Or Galician. Something pretty. You wish you could make decent sourdough bread.

See? Disjointed.

Disjointed and grateful.

Sleepy, finally, when it's inconvenient to be, but appreciative.

Green from a different perspective

Here's more Greener Grass. You can find the rest of the story in my right sidebar under I Like To Write.

*****

Dave sat on the edge of the bed with his hands between his knees. He needed to open the blinds. He needed to brush his teeth. He needed to start pouring cereal and milk for the kids. They'd be up soon.

It'd been a whole day since Tamara had called. He'd expected her back by now. He'd thought she would let herself in quietly and slip into bed with him, pressing her body against his and murmuring how sorry she was, how she'd missed him. That he'd sulk for a while, and then let her tease him into slow, languid sex. That it'd be something she'd look back on as her little Escape. Her little Adventure. Possibly her Mistake.

And then they'd go on like they had before.

Which wasn't spectacular. It wasn't an amazing, fun-filled life. Certainly not what he'd planned for himself. But he had  a wife and three kids and managed to fit in some golf. He was relatively respected at work. 

His normal life–it was a lot better than this shit. Than not knowing where Tamara was and having to explain to the kids that she was on a short vacation to clear her head.

He pounded his thigh lightly with his fist. What the hell was she trying to prove, taking off like that? Did she expect them to understand? To muddle through without her and then fall gratefully at her feet when she came back?

Dave stood and rubbed his hands over his bald scalp. He jerked open the blinds and had to duck away from the sun that surged in.

When he turned, Joshua was standing in the doorway holding his mangy stuffed giraffe, Freddy. His eyes were wide, his body humming with energy. Dave had to laugh at him. The kid vaulted from bed at 6:30 and was ready to take on the world, not stopping until he finally gave into sleep late at night. He exhausted Dave, but, just the same, he was a riot.

"C'mon, bud, let's get you some breakfast," he said.

"Waffles, daddy. Okay? Waffles!"

Dave said, "We'll see what we can do." How the fuck did you even make waffles, was what he wanted to know.

In the kitchen, he brewed strong coffee, then dug through the freezer for Eggos. Finding none, he asked Joshua, "How does mom do it? What does she use?"

Joshua was already in front of the TV, mesmerized by some cartoon.

"Hey," Dave snapped. "Did you hear me? I asked, 'how does mom make waffles?"

Joshua turned slowly, still half immersed in Spongebob. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Bisquick, I think."

Bisquick. Of course.

He was whisking Bisquick with an egg and a cup of milk when Caitlyn and Eli tumbled in and took their places on the family room floor. "Are you making pancakes, Daddy?" Caitlyn asked. 

Dave strode over and plucked her thumb from her mouth. In it went again. Always wiggling around in there when she was sleepy. "Waffles," he said.

Her face broke into a thousand pieces. "But I want pancakes, Dad! Pancakes!"

"We're having waffles," Dave said. He pulled her thumb from her mouth. 

It was all Tamara's fault, this thumb-sucking bullshit. She let the kids do whatever they wanted for comfort's sake.

Once Dave had returned to the kitchen, Caitlyn popped her thumb between her lips again.

He shook his head and scooped batter onto the waffle iron. He glanced up at the clock, wondering how much time he could steal to check his email and make a few calls. Just as he was reaching to unclip his blackberry from his belt, the land line rang.

His first inclination was to jump for it. But he stood, back against the counter, letting it ring, twice, three times, four. Then he strolled over, checked the screen, which flashed a number with a 718 area code, and answered.

"Hi Dave," Tamara said, a little breathlessly.

He forced himself to take several deep breaths. "Hey Tamara," he said, casual-like. "What's up?"

"I'm in New York."

"Well," he turned away from the living room and faced the window. He saw his neighbor, Craig, pouring fertilizer into a green broadcast spreader. That guy was something else. Craig and his lawn. To Tamara, he said, "Well, good for you."

She sighed. He heard it, her sigh. She had no right to sigh. "You don't have to be sarcastic," she said.

Dave gripped the phone hard, smelled the waffles burning. "What would you prefer, Tamara?" he said. "Because if I'm not sarcastic, I'm going to yell my head off. So, it's up to you. Either way. But I cannot be all sweet about this and pretend I think you need this, that this is good in any way whatsofuckingever for our family."

She sighed again.

He wanted to hang up on her bad. And he would've. He would've. If she hadn't then said, "I know. I'm sorry."

Fixations

I tend to get a little fixated on things sometimes. Things like movies or songs or books or a particular chair I want for the living room. Mostly, when I'm interested in something, I can pick it up or put it down without caring much. But then, there are the few compelling interests or trinkets I cannot shrug off.

Those things for me, right now, are:

Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan. I can't get the 9 disc out of my head. It's 3-years-old, but I just recently discovered it and it plays like a soundtrack, through everything I do.

Facebook. It's heroin, crack, strong coffee and milk chocolate all rolled up into one sugary speedball for the isolated "stay-at-home mom".

Red wine. One glass around 4:30 or 5 every night while the kids watch Magic Schoolbus. I look forward to this little window of freedom all day.

Validation. In general. I need it too much.

Quiet. My kids are still at the age where they talk over each other constantly, so absorbed in their own desires and thoughts that they don't stop to listen for another voice before they speak. I understand it, I do. But it also drives me clinging-to-the-ceiling-by-my-fingernails crazy.

White. Plain white dishes. Thick, white towels. Creamy white paper products. (Not snow). But, otherwise, the clean that white conjures.

Stories well told. 

Rust. Layers. Concrete. Mystery. I end up wandering the city looking for these things to shoot with my camera, wondering why I'm so attracted to what is Underneath.

An enigmatic green

Here's more of Greener Grass. You can find the first part of the story in my right sidebar under I Like to Write.

*****

Tamara and Paul stood outside a concrete block building with a diagonal orange stripe painted up the front wall and across the door Paul had just pounded on. A black mailbox hung by one screw and a dirty white cat with gray spots sat on the stoop waiting to be let in.

Paul grabbed the cat, scratched it under the chin, kissed its head.

"Do you know that guy?" Tamara asked.

He said, "I know all animals. Especially felines. They love me, man. They love me."

The door opened and a dark-haired, full-lipped guy of 25, give or take, stuck his head out, blinked. When he saw Paul, he broke into a lightning bolt of a smile. "Dude. Holy Fuck." He stepped out and grabbed Paul's hand like he was going to arm wrestle him. He slapped him on the back. "What the hell are you doin' here? In the middle of the fucking night. Jesus." He wore baggy flannel pants and a white t-shirt. His thick hair stood mostly on end.

He eyed Tamara, but his smile didn't dim.

"Just dropping by. You got a sofa or a rug to crash on?"

The cat leapt from Paul's arms and disappeared into the apartment.

The guy said, "I have a rug. Could probably clear a patch for you even." He shook his head again. "Jesus."

Paul gestured toward me. "This is TamARa. She's with me."

Tamara felt such a rush of gratitude just then that her shoulders slumped and she took in a gasp of air. She touched Paul's elbow and he looked at her and his eyes were warm. Butterscotch pudding, she thought. Which made her think of Caitlyn. Caitlyn loved butterscotch pudding. 

She shook her head.

"You coming up?" he asked, taking her head shake for doubt.

"Yes!" she said. "Yes, of course. I mean, duh. Where else would I go?"

They climbed up a creaky staircase littered with dry leaves, dead flies and balls of clothes. It smelled old and musty. The apartment itself was surprisingly decent, with furniture Tamara recognized from the Ikea catalogues she got every year. There were wooden bookshelves and candles in jars and two red chairs facing each across a leather ottoman. 

Tamara found the bathroom, which was grungier than the front room. She peed, found a tube of Aquafresh from which she squeezed a dollop onto her index finger and scrubbed her teeth. She opened the chipped medicine cabinet–(Eternity) cologne, silver razor, extra blades, wrapped bar of Irish Spring, prescription bottle for a couple unpronounceable pharmaceuticals, Chapstick, a box of Trojan Enz–when she closed the cabinet, she saw herself in the mirror and stifled a guffaw.

There were shadows like smudges of charcoal under her eyes. Her cheeks drooped and her lips were puffy and dry. She grabbed the Chapstick, smeared some on and tossed it back into the cabinet. She gazed at her breasts, wondering if they'd get as fucking huge this time. She ran a hand over her stomach. "Goodbye abs of steel," she muttered, then laughed. Because, of course, she'd never had them to begin with.

She and Paul slept for the rest of the night on a scratchy rug with flat pillows and piles of ugly afghans. Some time when the light coming in the windows was still gray, she heard someone clattering around the kitchen, heard the front door open and close.

When she woke again, the sky was blue and a screenless window had been propped open with a two-by-four. The burble of pigeons filtered in, along with the smell of car exhaust and, faintly, garbage.

Still lying there on the floor, she studied Paul's pink dreds. Matted and twisted, bits of lint clung to them. Every few inches she spotted a bead, a colorful bauble like something a little girl would use to string friendship bracelets. She reached from under the warm afghan and, gently, touched one. She ran the (twist) through her hand. It tickled her palm.

He stirred. 

She jerked her arm back and, simultaneously,looked up and noticed the guy from last night watching her from one of the red chairs. He held a mug on his knee. He cocked his head slightly in acknowledgment, but said nothing, just kept staring.

Everything that's good about now might just glide right past

I took the train to Portland this weekend. I make the trek twice a year or so, to see my sweet, thoughtful and fun friend Stacy. She's a crazy person who toils under the twisted system of billable hours an attorney, and is very busy. So I'm grateful when I get so many hours with her.

I'm also full of love for Amtrak, who whisks me away from Seattle on a four-hour ride during which I can do any damn thing I want. (Enough to make any parent of young children swoon). And, also, thank you, Amtrak, for the opportunity to people watch. While not quite as robustly strange and entertaining as Greyhound, you, nevertheless, give me good material.

Here's some of what I noticed:

-A girl of about 8, wearing camouflage pants and a Transformers t-shirt, practicing karate in the aisle of the Seattle station.

-An Asian couple, the woman with a monstrous silver purse jangling with zippers and clasps, a receding hairline and an electric water pot she couldn't bring herself to leave behind.

-A middle-aged man with long hair under a stocking cap and a trailing beard of faded red who is embarrassed when I confirm that he does, indeed, need to stand in the seat assignment line. Who is then full of righteous scorn when he finds out I am wrong.

-A woman older than 65 but younger than 75, wearing a deeply cut top that shows off wrinkled cleavage and huge breasts like peeled, overripe eggplants. 

And then, from the rails:

-Brown smoke rising up from behind the naked trees.

-The reflection of myself with a temple pressed against the window, watching the curve of track ahead.

-The stretch along the water, where, last year, the train I was on killed a man with the squealing of brakes and the smell of hot metal.

-A handful of bald eagles, perched along a river.

-Rows of identical houses painted different sherbet colors.

-I LOVE U spray painted onto parallel boulders. It is not clear if the author meant this to be for one person, or all of train-riding humankind.

-An old man slumped on the porch of a small house whose paint looks to have been blown off by an atomic explosion, watching the train go by. I wonder what he's escaping from, what may be inside. Why sitting out in the gray cold is preferable.

Stacy.