Two and Still Counting

Well, I sort of don’t believe that I made it to two, having hit one so many times before. But, here it is. When I started drafting this yesterday, I was of a far different mood than I am presently. But, I want to be true to what was real yesterday (absolute gratitude) because it still is true today, if rather masked by depression. Which sucks, but no one ever said that life got easy in sobriety, either. I’m weaving the two days together–I hope somewhat seamlessly.

So, if I may quote Volbeat in passing:

Counting all the assholes in the room
Well I´m definitely not alone, well I´m not alone

And that is perhaps the best thing about 2–the realization and recognition that I am not alone. Kind of beautiful.

The year has not been an easy one, certainly. It was filled with a great many troubles that I NEVER imagined, and more than a few that I suspected, but was a little dismayed and surprised to have them show up now. These revelations included major depression (not mine, but someone I dearly love), a radical and still-coming transition at work (including a campus move for me–ah, change. I handle that so well), more therapy and therapists than you can shake a stick at, and twin diagnoses (mine) of chronic fatigue (no surprise) and bipolar II (not a surprise, either, exactly, but I’m still working on that whole acceptance thing). And, on the upside, I am grateful beyond measure to all the people who reached out to me or who were there when I reached out through all of the above.

I am not alone, even when I feel like I am.

I was, for the most part, a solitary drinker. Social drinking ended for me at approximately my first drink, which, if my mother is to be believed, happened when I was about 6 months old. Thereafter I demanded–by her telling–demanded wine every time she had any. Mine! I was solitary in most adventures, and that remains true in many cases now, but not as much as before. Even when I venture off alone.

I am not alone anymore, even when I set off that way.

I traveled this year, rather more than I imagined I would (and all the more surprisingly, given the events of the year). Flew to such far flung places as a casino in Connecticut, an old airfield in New Jersey, to home in Virginia Beach, to a teen dream-come-true in Cleveland, and to a beach in Ireland. Several of these adventures saw me flying by myself. But, in Atlantic City, I met an elderly Irish man who was convinced I used to come to that restaurant all the time, a young woman who gave me an A7X bracelet because she saw my Matt-bat tattoo, and scores of folks who asked about the shiner I’d acquired at that casino during an Avenged show. In Cleveland, I celebrated Guns N’ Roses with some of my favorite people, and managed to thwart the (other) GNR fans lined up outside the hotel by leaving the van running and piling in the signed posters with as much dignity as Janean and I are capable of possessing (which is a fair amount, it turns out). In Virginia Beach, I ran what may turn out to be the worst and last half-marathon of my life, but I enjoyed every second of it. In Ireland, I got to visit a site I’d long intended to see–and, what’s more–unknowingly selected a hotel that was in sight of it.

Not the day I put my feet in the North Atlantic.

I also got to put my bare feet in the North Atlantic, which amuses me more that I probably should admit.

Not alone, even in the struggles.

Work constituted a major part of my year–as we prepared for the consolidation of the institution with another. It came as a shock to most of us that we even had to do it, and I think the work-level in preparation for it came as a shock continually throughout the year. But, we were together in it, and we will forge the new togethers. One day at a time. The impending changes did force me to kickstart productive research again (that’s a positive), and I find myself composing a paper on punk, nostalgia, and anxiety. Sort of oddly fun. Academics are weird.

So, that’s it. A year in brief. Here’s to another day and another series of days that may bring us to another year. My thanks to you all for traveling these roads with me.

The Halcyon Days of Candy Canes

The adventures in limited foods continue apace, including a rather pitiful realization that candy canes are now verboten.  CANDY CANES.  Somehow both dramatic and terribly funny.  As a result, this unrepentant lover o’candy canes is on the hunt to find the how-can-I-have-December-without-them treats in a non-corn syrup variety.

And hope like heck the taste is worth it (I  have faith).

Last week turned into an adventure in “what, this too??” With respect to both food and “food” (such as non-stick spray) items.  Everywhere I turned in my diet, one of the blacklisted entities would show up–most commonly corn and soy.  Our typical Thanksgiving dinner was…necessarily modified (I still served wheat rolls, but I clearly didn’t eat them or the butter they demand).  I called a friend for help in determining what in the world to eat for breakfast, and after lamenting the egg-less existence, she brilliantly pointed out that it was easier to just think morning dinner, rather than remaining stuck in my apparently limited vision of what constitutes breakfast.  Or, as another friend put it: “did you eat cold pizza for breakfast in college?  Then what’s the problem here?” My friends, they got my back.  So, yesterday was Acorn Squash & Homemade Sausage (store-bought that we typically get has corn syrup–I’ve not yet evaluated others).  Other options will be Brussels Sprouts & Bacon (the concept of which delights me to no end).  Another morning adventure was the every-other-day-smoothie with blackberries and bananas (and spinach.  Awesome).

More amusingly, I realized this week that it was easier to cook after a long day than it was to figure out where in the world I an eat out (waaay too much brainpower needed.  Brainpower, which notably, is really lacking after 6:50 pm, which is why we kept defaulting to going out in the first place).

So, all three meals are lovingly prepared each day. A process which is not unlike the hell I put myself through when I was avoiding writing my dissertation, only I’m not eyeing the baseboards for deep cleaning and it feels rather more productive.  I was June Cleaver with a full-time job and a minivan, dammit.  Thank the powers that be that the minivan is gone (I never could live up to that ideal) and that the job has survived me.

In non-candy cane related news, I can report that I slept–like really slept–the other night.  I feel asleep quickly and stayed that way in what must be that thing you non-insomniacs call deep sleep.  Astounding.  Utterly astounding.  I assume, since I did nothing physical to warrant such things, that the Magnesium that has been ordered (by the same doc who cut me off from candy canes) is doing it’s thing and helping.

If you happen to have  a lead on candy-canes that I can eat (not that I’m obsessing or anything), please let me know.

Gimmie a Pepsi, Just One Pepsi!

I probably should be careful about titles.  Any more “gimmie”s and I’ll be over with Darby Crash, and, yeah, the namecheck is disturbing to me too.  But, as my punk aficionados are no doubt already aware, there is a reason for the Pepsi-ness here.

“Institutionalized” was before my time–sort of.  How about before my punk time?  I’ve been trying to remember when I first crossed paths with ST–I’m fairly certain that it was during the “How Will I Laugh Tomorrow…” period, though the first image that stands out for me is this one, from “You Can’t Bring Me Down.”  I do recall that my first complete recording of ST was “How Will I Laugh,” and it was a copy dubbed off a CD (I think) by my best friend CR, shortly before some hideous teen falling out or another.  I listened to that tape until it’s untimely demise at the hands (?) of my mother’s Pontiac.

Ah, the good old days.

I never really expected to see ST live, though I wanted to, so I was delighted to see them on the Orion lineup last weekend.  I swear–barring the dude’s arm in the way–does it get more Mike Muir than this?  Dude has so fucking much energy.

******

I started this post in July–and then didn’t write another word.  And not writing, as I’ve shared before, is not a great sign for me.  I kept hearing that truth in different ways, but last night a friend’s pain drove it home.

Write or die.  Get the words out of my head and in front of my eyes or they remain shadows that can be dismissed.  I recognize how dramatic that sounds, but it is as accurate as I know how to be.

I’ve rearranged my title again–couldn’t let go of the truth of the disease, and particularly in light of the recent news of a new non-pathology (I love when the stuff in my head gets named! /snark) and the continuing struggles with chronic fatigue and its assorted foolishness.  But it’s beautiful, dammit.

I know I’m sick again/who’s gonna be my friend when I freak out?”

So back to the navel-gazing.  And, as an act of contrition (and also truth, since I tend to forget how bad things get.  I do the euphoric recall thing about everything), I’m going to make myself record my most recent disease-borne adventure in food, having been recently ordered to exclude:

• Dairy (allergic)
• Wheat (sensitive)
• Corn
• Oats
• Soy
• Eggs

Which left me wondering what I can still eat.  Seriously.  What do I eat for breakfast, having lived on oatmeal?  And is this the excuse to eat Brussels sprouts more often, to my family’s great horror? I’m also very, very grateful again to Isa Chandra Moskowitz and the Post-Punk Kitchen, where I’ve been getting my Gluten-free recipe suggestions for a while now (vegan cooking allows me to not worry about at least two of the above).

One thing is certain, Pepsi is not on the list of consumables.

Does that destroy any punk cred I might have had?

[ST was awesome, of course, BTW.  Fucking awesome.  As was Avenged, but that's a story for another day.]

The Future in Falafel

Working on a post about Suicidal Tendencies and the wonder of Mike Muir, but I have to ask this first.  When did this wonder of wonder happen at rock shows?   I can’t say I’ve ever actually enjoyed eating at such an event, but this falafel and veggie wrap was DIVINE.  And not just because I was hungry post-pit.

Strikes me as a good sign, you know?

Truthfully, I shouldn’t really attempt to comment on food at shows (festival or otherwise), since it is entirely possible that this is the first such show that I have ever attempted to eat at–or given myself the time to walk away from the crowd and chaos to eat.  Imagine that–substance over stimulation. I’ve seen what backstage food can amount to–and rider requests demands really can be things of wonder. Though, especially in the age of the internetz, how much of that is meant just to spin up the fanbase is anyone’s guess…Red Vines, indeed, sir. Indeed.

My next festival is Mayhem, later this month.  I’m having a very difficult time imagining the breadth of cuisine availability that was at Orion, and I’m not sure I am prepared to commit to trying concert food just because it’s there (in fact, that seems sort of dangerous).   The lineup is sufficiently old school to suggest greater possibilities: Slayer, Anthrax, & Motörhead, in addition to Slipknot.  They will be joined by a host of others bands, many of whom will no doubt be on the “young and hungry band on a dollar a day” meal plan (ah, summer festivals).

I’d technically be behind in doing a rock show food summer showcase in any case, since I did not eat at the casino in CT, where I caught A7X before Orion (a show that, weirdly, probably saved my job, as I was in the one place that neither my mouth nor my reactions could get me in trouble during the phone conference–phone was on mute, and yelling might have gotten me booted, so I was as professional as was required to ensure that I got to see my band, rather than, say, actually professional on the matter).  And the casino had Krispy Kreme, so that set a pretty unique bar right there, along with the Swarovski shop that (while also selling wholly inedible items) just sort of freaked me out.

But, summer rock show food could totally be an adventure.

Right?

Gimme Fuel, Gimme Fire

A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress. (Benjamin, Theses IX)

Much of this blog has been devoted to backwards–to history as the storm of progress blows ever forward.  Yes, I think I did just compare myself to the Angel above–twisted, backward starting, open-jawed complex that it is (Klee’s painting can be seen here).  I’ve always thought it looked more than a touch avian, perhaps more so than an angel “ought” to be.  Avian Medusa, at that.  I’ve decided that I want to turn around a bit–stop gazing at the pile of wreckage (though undoubtedly not forgetting it) and move into a future that I cannot see and certainly cannot control.

Life has changed radically since last I posted here, and, with the exception of fangirl (and, in truth, even that has had to reshape itself), each of my most-used masks–mother, wife, professor/admin, daughter–has been called to court.  After a very difficult year, Tough Guy has successfully graduated and moved out on his own (I have a lovely grandog now)–motherhood is a very changed art these days.  My professional life is…unclear on the best of days; through forces utterly out of my control (as if they were ever in it), everything at work is changing.  I have a job, thankfully, but I don’t know from day to day what it will be, require, demand, or steal anymore (and while this is necessarily vague, it is not, for once, a matter of being dramatic).

And so on and so forth.

As a matter of self-protection, I’ve locked some of my most private posts, and have pulled the majority of those that remain open and deal with alcoholism under the old title of this blog, Beautiful Disease, which chronicled much of the aforementioned wreckage.  Pieces I use primarily for classes are grouped as Everything is Academic. I’ll still lead my students here–as before, I will not shy away from the facets of my identity that bore this blog–as a matter of survival even–but also because alcoholism is a defining feature of my past, present, and, as likely, future.  What I’d like to do is use this space as a vehicle for finding my way through dreams and aspirations–maybe even a place to grow up (though, uh, I sort of doubt that).

So, the title: this dawned on me while standing at Orion Festival last weekend, in a wildly mobile pit waiting for Avenged Sevenfold to hit the stage (I think I’d kicked it around before, but it felt right in the moment).  It’s true–had I my druthers–I’d be a roadie.  Why?  Part of the shitpile of my history is music.  I am not much a musician–I surrendered playing music to my mother, who ridiculed my voice, and I worried that she’d do the same with any other musical language (and, in fact, that fear was borne out), even though I had wonderful friends who offered to help teach me. I channeled my adoration of music through dance in my earlier years and through the pits in my later years (and, er, current ones.  I have a shiner as we speak from a FABULOUS pit last Friday night).  I channeled by becoming a fangirl.

It’s also an homage to Berkley Breathed’s Penguin Dreams and Stranger Things, which had almost as much of a shaping effect on my life as his Billy and The Boingers Bootleg.

Bill and Opus, man.  All the way.

But, I love shows.  I love the trappings of shows (I love that I typed shoes twice before getting the word correct as well).  Pyro, smoke, stairs, lights, cords (and chords, ahem), you name it.  But, what I really adore about being a roadie (at least in my idealized vision) is the thing that I only rarely get to touch at work anymore, but the one thing about which I am most passionate: creating the space for creativity to unfold and be shared.  In those spaces, I can touch justice in the universe.  I don’t know why, don’t really care why–I just know it happens.

That is what I want out of life–to create, protect, and maintain creative space.  So, this is my space to do that–my own creative outlet, pointers to the outlets of others–whether musical, textual, or otherwise.  A space devoted to creative energies moving forward. I’ll be honest, even when it feels like I’m jumping off a cliff.

If asked today what I wanted to be able to do someday–when I grow up?  Tech work, sure, but I’d love to write a bio of Avenged Sevenfold (nobody could possibly be surprised by this).  Why? I am absolutely fascinated by the ways in which they have (mostly successfully) controlled messages about who and why they are–while managing to remain apparently authentic (and done so through their stage show, at that).  I’m curious about the hows and whys–how Zacky manages to manipulate and control his image again and again (and in such ways that make the fangirls–and boys–swoon).  Is he even aware of how good he is at his own PR (surely he is)? How they have shaped their image–collectively and individually–and how they look to continue to do so musically, visually, and textually.  And, yeah, I owe them something–a thank you, mostly.  They created a space in which a miracle could happen, even for me. A miracle on Bader Field; who would have imagined (I’ll try to recount it sometime, but right now, I”m just savoring it)?  And moreover, why?  Why the hell not?

Yeah, theorizing favorite bands is like a sport to me.  Been doing it since GnR.  Probably won’t stop soon.  And, at least at the moment, I’m thinking I’ll use the space to flex my theory-brain…break out the old Benjamin and see what happens when I let that fangirl mojo back out of the cage.

Work-in-progress, game, survival, creative spirit, fun.  Hope to keep some of you along for the ride.

Of Faust, Anniversaries, and Another Sober Night

Today is 366.

That marks the third time I can write that.  In fact, I’ve written it here before.  I haven’t read that post in some years now–I appreciate the hopefulness and the blush of reality.  And the McKagan quote, but that is practically a given.

My last drink, this time, I scarcely remember.  I mean, I remember the night (which is saying something for last year), and I know it was finishing off a bottle of Jameson, but that’s partially because I planned it that way, and it doesn’t have the sway and quality of the wine I mentioned in 2007 in my memory.  It was just another drink.   I couldn’t get drunk to save my life–despite polishing off several bottles of various types (it is a wonder I could move on the 28th, given the variety of the night before) before finishing the Jameson (and that was nearly half a bottle).

I went into the night knowing exactly what I intended to do. I felt nothing physically.  Emotionally, I was devastated.  I was once again at the same crossroad, only this time the threats (oh you Faustian bargains) were far more palpable.  I wasn’t going to live through this.  It wasn’t just a matter of sanity (though that was well in question too).  I was dying. If I may borrow from my favorite literary trope, I could hear Mephistopheles–and he was not wearing the poodle suit (what follows is from Historia):

And it came to pass between twelve and one 0′ clock in the night that a great blast of wind stormed against the house, blustering on all sides as if the inn and indeed the entire neighborhood would be torn down. The students fell into a great fear, got out of their beds and came together to comfort one another, but they did not stir out of their chamber. The innkeeper went running out of the house, however, and he found that there was no disturbance at all in any other place than his own. The students were lodged in a chamber close by the rooms of Doctor Faustus, and over the raging of the wind they heard a hideous music, as if snakes, adders and other serpents were in the house. Doctor Faustus’ door creaked open. There then arose a crying out of Murther! and Help! but the voice was weak and hollow, soon dying out entirely.

When it was day the students, who had not slept this entire night, went into the chamber where Doctor Faustus had lain, but they found no Faustus there. The parlor was full of blood. Brain clave unto the walls where the Fiend had dashed him from one to the other. Here lay his eyes, here a few teeth. O it was a hideous spectaculum. Then began the students to bewail and beweep him, seeking him in many places. When they came out to the dung heap, here they found his corpse. It was monstrous to behold, for head and limbs were still twitching.

Ah, to bewail and beweep.

For as much as I loved the taste of whiskey, I hated that night.  I hated it that night.  I hated that I couldn’t feel anything anymore.  I should have been in a blackout, but I wasn’t so blessed.  I packed off to bed and awoke with another ferocious hangover (that I felt) and went to work.  I hated myself. And wondered if anyone noticed.

Day 1 was just like normal, tinged though it was with a death’s anniversary (and, no, it didn’t escape my attention that December 28, 2010 was the one year anniversary of the Rev’s death.  It felt, actually, weirdly appropriate).  Except that I wouldn’t go home and drink that night.  Or the next. And one day (hour, minute) at a time, I put together 366 again.

I blogged on Day 2, sounding remarkably rational, quoting Knapp (whose book sits in my office now):

I sometimes think of alcoholics as people who’ve elevated [the search for a fix] to an art form or a religion, filling the emptiness with drink, chasing drink after drink, sometimes killing themselves in the effort.  They may give up liquor, but the chase is harder to stop. That’s why you hear people in AA meetings talk about thinking or acting alcoholically long after they’ve put down their last drink. The search for an external solution goes on: I want something.  I need something. “My husband is acting like an idiot,” a woman said at a meeting not long ago.  “I have to remember that the solution is not ‘Get a new husband’.” (61)

Did I mention the whole Faust parallel yet? Seeking.  Always seeking.

Day 366 was pretty normal too–at least this version of normal.  Awakened with no hangover (yeah!) and joint pain (not so yeah), went to work.  Annoyed colleagues and cleaned my office (hey, the network was down).  Came home and annoyed the dog.

Yep, this is certainly what passes for normal around here.

Save for this:  got honest with my boss.  I make no particular secret about me, my addictions, and my sobriety–my students link to this blog, and I talk openly, when appropriate, with some colleagues and students.  But not with my boss (well, one of them), though her assistant knows.  I owned up when showing off my new tattoo (in celebration of 365), and she asked if it was a Christmas present.  It seemed the right moment to be honest with her.  She’s perhaps the first person I’ve told who would really have been surprised (I guess–it felt that way), so that was…weird.

But, good.  One more step.  One more night the demons are kept at bay.

The Odyssey

I apparently started a post under this title on about 6 weeks ago, but hell if I can figure out the thread of what I was talking about.  So I’ll just steal the title and make the damn thing work.

Hi!

The adventure this week is with my brand-new Nook, which I’m still slightly ashamed to own, but as it facilitated my reading of a left-petite-behind-several-hundred-pages-ago Stephen King novel, 11/22/1963, I am at least not suffering the post-King agony of my aching hands.  And I’ve moved on to a complete collection of Sherlock Holmes, which is no slouch in the length-and-therefore-heft department either.

Oh hell…I seem to have a penchant for big books, don’t I?  I’m sure there is a penis joke to be made here.

So, King.  He’s the author who provided the primary rationale for me to never own an e-reader (which made the situation that much more comical to me), as I have a rather unfortunate propensity for throwing Stephen King books upon completion, most typically because of the cutesies that would get plugged into so many of the novels, particularly those in the Dark Tower series (and especially Dark Tower itself, as I recall).

None of this should suggest that I don’t like King–I do, though I suspect it is often more in the vein of why I like John Saul than, say, Kate Atkinson. King (and Saul and a host of my other standbys) is nothing if not comfortably predictable.   And 11/22/1963 fits right in his oeuvre, even with the suggestions he noted in the afterword (including, apparently, a new ending, as proposed by his son, author Joe Hill, whose 20th Century Ghosts keeps right on wowing me years after publication.  Horns was comfortably funny (at times), and I’ve tortured a couple of classes with Heart-Shaped Box, which should be in the hands of all metal fans).  The characters, the cars, the action, the setting (of course) are familiar–like old friends who, as the books suggests, appear in multiple strings of possibility–multiple harmonies within King’s universe.

Perhaps weirdly, I had occasion recently to talk to another King fan (not the odd part) after an Avenged Sevenfold concert (still not the odd part) because I was carrying around a Norwegian mystery that had survived two nights in the pit with me.  After the show, I wasn’t quite ready to face the two-plus hours of rural roads home, so I gave into my 15-year-old fangirl and went out to the bus area.

(Note:  This is not the Matt story, those of you who have already been so blessed.  The book was present but went unreferenced at that encounter…which was less than 24 hours previously…holy crap.  When did I sleep??  The Matt story is a fangirling for another post).

A7X’s bus was, of course, behind the gates, but the other bands were more or less left to the whims of the fans.  In the course of avoiding being run over by screaming BVB fangirls (so small!  so cute!  holy fuck they are young!), I ran (almost) into Johnny 3 Tears from Hollywood Undead.  He noticed the book, picked it up out of my hands, asked (reasonably) why I had it (why this was became slightly more obvious moments later), and noted that I needed better reading material.  And then asked if I had the book in the pit, noting that I was slightly to stage right, yes?  I’m sure I looked at him like he was daft (which is better than my reaction might have been had I not heard him do the same to someone else already–naming pretty much exactly where they were, in that case, seated), but I nodded and agreed that the book’s survival was miraculous.  And because I am still learning the fine art of conversation, I challenged him to suggest better material.

He produced King, asking if I’d ever read his favorite King novel (and clearly assuming I had not, silly man), Hearts in Atlantis, which is also one of my favorites, in no small part because it is not as predictable or self-referential as he became in the books that followed.  He was quite charming (and clearly aware that he was), and we chatted a bit more about King, agreed we could probably wax poetic on the subject for many hours, and I wandered off into the great beyond of Northeast Georgia.

The conversation was odd and memorable not because of who it was with (though that part was at least unexpected), nor the situation (I find some of the coolest readers at concerts), but because when he asked what it was I liked about, I couldn’t answer easily.  I stuttered out something–the characters, the length (the damn things do have the benefit of taking a while to read), but as I walked away, the word that kept swimming to mind was comfortable–like the hoodie I was trotting about in.  I suspect we really could have talked for some time about King, but we probably would have gone in circles–because that is what so much of the post-Dark Tower (and DT itself) does.

11/22/1963, like so much (all?) of King’s later works, is self-referential (that is, referring to King’s other works), though not to the irritating degree achieved in some of his novels.   In fact, it would be all but impossible for this novel to avoid such references, set as it is (in part) in Derry, Maine, where so many of King’s works have been set before.  In fact, to fail to make mention of the murders from IT  or other happenings set in King’s Derry would have left the novel hollowed for long-time readers, I suspect (it certainly would have for me.  I started IT hunting as soon as we landed in Derry).

But, in the end, it was just a comfortable, familiar ride, complete with a few giggles at the expense of teachers (especially English teachers).  It didn’t grab me in the same way that Lisey’s Story and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon and Duma Key (and Hearts) did; it didn’t frighten me in the way The Stand did in the post-apocalyptic so-fast-it-felt-more-like-a-publisher-deadline-than-an-ending glimpse of the future (that said, it was far, far, far better than the dreadful Cell).  But, if you want a good book to whisk you a way and not challenge you too terribly much, 11/22/1963 will likely fit the bill (otherwise, I’d suggest one of those noted above or the short story collections, which are fairly wonderful).

The original post, as best as I can figure, referenced my health…odyssey, which is ongoing.  But, what the hell, it took Jake Epping (of 11/22/1963) years to perform the action he intended, and it took Odysseus 10 years to get home, so, what, three four (*sigh*) months is a cakewalk so far, right?

Apologies for giving into my inner-Baroque German with the parentheticals.