Whiz kitten

We isolated Hazel in the bathroom at 8:45 am on Sunday. The scene fifteen minutes later was this:

At the bottom of the photo is a bowl of water. The dark thing in the middle of the floor is an aluminum pie pan with the non-absorbent litter pellets for collecting the Golden Compass--um, cat whiz. You can just see Hazel behind Guy's toilet at the top of the photo. Sadly, this was the scene for most of the morning.

Everytime either Guy or I went into the bathroom to check on her, at least once an hour, she was firmly ensconced behind Guy's toilet. At one point, I sat with her for a few minutes in my lap, and she purred so loud that she was nearly chirping. Hazel was quiet but stressed--she only meowed when one of us came in, and it was a low, pitiful whiny mew, remeniscent of the yelps she made when she was only eight weeks old and trapped in a well on my mom's property. Hazel was beside herself, and I was beside myself. "Just pee, pwincess!" I implored each time I went into the room. "Det's all Mama needs is for it to pee!"

It was 5 pm and there was still no pee. I did the only thing I knew to do: I called Mom. "She's not peeing because she thinks she's being punished," said Mom. "Go clean out one of the regular litter boxes and pour the pellets in there. And go spend some time with her so she knows she's not in trouble."

So I did as Mom said. I sat in the floor and read a book while dinner was in the oven, and Hazel slowly came out from behind the can for a petting.

Finally, at 9:15 pm, twelve and a half hours after lockdown, I went into the bathroom and noticed some liquid in the box: Hazel finally went pee. I hollered hallelujah (or maybe it was "SHE PEEEEEEEED!"), and he joined me in the bathroom. While I used a small syringe to draw the pee out of the box and into a collection cup, Guy pet Hazel.

Guy: What a good girl, Hazel! Good girl! Let's get you out of here! [picks up Hazel]

Pixie: [offended} You bastard!

Guy: What?

Pixie: Are you gonna be the "good guy" and "rescue" her from Mommy and the awful bathroom?

Guy: Oh--my--God! Are you gonna be petty about this?

Pixie: [hand and pee-filled syringe on hip] Damn straight I am!

So far, there's been no passive-aggressive pee puddles anywhere in the house, and Hazel has mostly forgiven us. She was a little skittish around the house last night, but after I went to bed, she actually jumped on the bed with me and curled up for a bit. (Yes, sweetie, Mama saved you from the big bad bathroom....)

Teh vet?! WTF Mama? DO NOT WANT!

After some work at the office and a visit to MHRC to talk to some subcontractors, I picked up Guy from his office and made it home about two hours early. Maddy and Hazel were delighted--Mama's home! Maybe we'll get fed early!

Nuh-uh.

After some petting and treats and watching Mama do some yoga in the floor, we were unceremoniously scooped up and tossed in our carriers. Off to the vet we went for our yearly checkup. Which we did not appreciate.

However, the news was mostly good with a slight chance of age-related illnesses. Hazel gained half a pound, which now makes her a healthy 9.0 lbs. Which is odd, considering that Maddy pushes her out of the way of food on a regular basis, and that she will frequently turn her wee tabby nose up to treats in the evening. Her eyes looked a tiny bit cloudy in the center, which is common among cats her age (she'll be 10 in the spring, as will Maddy). So, she's probably lost a little central vision and relies more on her peripheral vision, something that also happens in older people. The vet proclaimed her otherwise healthy, the vet tech took her in back for a blood draw and a urine sample. "Good luck with that," I said. "Urine from Hazel is like blood from a turnip--you're not gettin' it."

Maddy was next for an exam, extracted with a certain amount of force from her soft-sided cage that made the scene look like a National Guardsman grabbing Elian Gonzales out of a closet. Miraculously, she lost over half a pound to make her 11.8 lbs, a weight she hasn't seen since she was only a couple of years old. Oddly enough, it was this year that I decided to start feeding her a little bit more at dinner each night. It occurred to me that my cat had been on a diet for four years, and if you only live 15 or 16 years, that's a mighty long time to be on a diet. She complains less now, and she's even lost a little. Good news all around. Blood and urine tests weren't needed, since she had some done in August when she came in limping and was prescribed Cosequin, which is glucosamine for cats and dogs.

The vet tech returned with Hazel. "You were right; no urine out of this one," she said. The vet then gave me some non-absorbent pellets for "litter" and a vial and asked that I lock Hazel in a room with some water and a small "litter pan" of the pellets and get a sample for them. Kidneys are often what kills a cat, especially in Maddy and Hazel's age range, and it was a good idea to have a test done. So, we have to lock Hazel in our bathroom tomorrow until she whizzes in a pie pan.

Good luck with that.

When I say Merry Christmas, I by-God mean it

Christmas usually leaves me feeling rather "eh." I enjoy it, to be sure, but I never get the glow of the season that's supposed to be about giving and love and all that crap. It doesn't help to return to work today to get two complaining phone calls from Squidwort--I swear, he must have been fit to be tied for the past five days without me around to call and bitch at. He must have been saving it all up for when I returned, as he didn't even ask me how my holiday went and barely even said anything when I asked him how his was; just launched into the "why doesn't this match the wound clinic standard next door", etc. barrage that he must have been practicing in the mirror for nearly a week.

So I was all ready to come home and gripe about his insolence, but I had to run some errands first downtown. I wasn't necessarily looking forward to being out in the weather. The snowstorm today has dropped several inches on Denver, making traffic difficult and visibility even more difficult. Cars everywhere spun in their tracks or refused to start in the 18-degree day. By the time I was walking down a snow-covered sidewalk at 6pm, it was 15 and blowing snow. A figure ahead of me on the sidewalk saw me, turned away, turned back to look at me, and stood to the side of the sidewalk. Well, not so much stood as hesitated.

As I passed him, he got my attention with a "I hate to bother you, madam." I realized he wasn't wearing a trench coat but a blanket wrapped around his coat, snowflakes collecting on his ratty stocking cap. "I'm trying to get a room at the Volunteers of America shelter tonight, and it costs $35, and I've got $26 from collecting all day, and anything you have would help. I'm not a druggie or a drunk, my word is my bond. I just need a little help and anything you could spare would be appreciated." The man was a bit unkempt but not dirty. His words were clear, unslurred, and his eyes focused well.

My thesis in grad school was to design a shelter and treatment center for the homeless mentally ill, and I learned a great deal there. From a fact sheet at the National Alliance to End Homelessness:

• Over the course of a year, 2.5 million - 3.5 million people will live either on the streets on in an emergency shelter.
• About 600,000 families and 1.35 million children experience homelessness in the US each year, and about 50% of the total homeless population is part of a family.
• It is estimated that 23%-40% of homeless adults are veterans.
• In rural areas, families, single mothers, and children make up the largest group of people who are homeless.
• At a given point in time, 45 percent of homeless report indicators of mental health problems during the past year, and 57 percent report having had a mental health problem during their lifetime. About 25 percent of the homelessness population has serious mental illness, including such diagnoses as chronic depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorders, and severe personality disorders.
• In a 1996 survey, 46 percent of the homeless respondents had an alcohol use problem during the past year, and 62 percent had an alcohol use problem at some point in their lifetime. Thirty-eight percent had a problem with drug use during the past year, and 58 percent had a drug use problem during their lifetime.
• Of all the homeless people at any given time, only about 5%-7% cannot or do not wish to be helped.

That last bullet point was from my thesis, written in Spring of 2000. I learned a lot doing that thesis, including that you're not supposed to give panhandlers money. You want them to go to a shelter and get in the system, get some legit help.

So there I am, looking a pretty decent-looking human being in the eye, knowing what my research told me and what, frankly, my heart is telling me. This man could be anyone I've ever met. And it's 15 degrees. And I'm about to go to Chipotle and get dinner for Guy and me and go home--home--to my warm, fancy-schmancy highrise condo to my husband and two cats who love me and make me feel welcome and loved and useful every day. And I don't have anything less than a five in my wallet. And then I think

No. Not on my watch. No one freezes outside alone on my watch.

The man spoke again as I pulled out my wallet and opened it. "I'm just nine dollars short, so anything you have--"

I handed him a ten.

Then man took it, started at it, and began to sob quietly.

My eyes teared up a little too, so I just hugged him. He hugged me back, and I patted the back of his head and whipsered, "Take care of yourself, take care of yourself. Go get warm."

He just kept saying softly, "Bless you, God thank you so much..." and walked off in the direction of the VA shelter.

I walked on to Chipotle, picked up dinner, and then headed back to the truck, Guy's Explorer Sport with 4WD, perfect for snow driving. As I found myself about half a block from the truck, I was walking behind a man in a large coat, walking along slowly and clutching his coat together in front of him. He stopped by a trash can, began to rummage around in it. Wonder if he's gonna find any aluminum cans today? I thought. The man's bare fingers found a McDonald's bag. He shook it open, grasping at the few cold french fries still left in it.

Not. On. My. Watch.

I pulled another six bucks out of my wallet and stopped beside the man. He turned to face me partway, trying not to let cold air into his old dirty coat. I smiled and handed him the six bucks. "Get something warm to eat," I said softly.

The old man nodded. "Thank you; I will," came his just-as-soft and grateful reply, and he shuffled off toward Chipotle.

It's entirely possible that I got taken for $16 this evening, but I haven't felt this good in a while. I finally felt the whole point of Christmas. It reminds me of the story about the old man walking down the beach covered in starfish washed up from a storm. He sees a little boy throwing starfish back into the ocean, and he says, "Son, there's thousands of starfish here; you're not gonna make much of a difference." The little boy throws a starfish into the ocean and gestures after it: "I made a difference to that one."

Just in time for a white post-Christmas

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyful Kwanzaa, and Blessed Solstice to all handful of my WAD readers! Rock on!

We had a lovely holiday in St. Louis and made it back just in time for another storm happening tomorrow. We left The Saint late Xmas Day afternoon to get to Topeka before midnight and get a hotel before one storm snowed on us. Evidently, it dumped several inches on snow on Denver on Xmas Day (according to Billy Ray, who called me this morning while we were driving to ask where we should locate a convenience outlet in the hall), and then it veered north, as it dumped very little snow on any part of Kansas other than Colby (yes, the home of the cheeze, y'all). We got here in time to miss that snow as well as get into town before a new winter storm warning just popped up on the TV. Hopefully, streets will be cleared overnight enough that Guy and I can get to work for our extravagant two-day work week. In Very Unfair News, Maddy and Hazel will be going to the vet for their yearly checkup on Friday afternoon. Oh noes!

Also, to send mad props to my sister-in-law in St. Louis, who has in the past posted here as STL Fan, I give you a I Can Has Cheezeburger moment in honor of her dealing with my 17-year-old niece.

Busy but happy, for now

The lack of posts this week has been due to rushing around fixing flooring issues, getting changes made in MHRC radiology to accommodate the new equipment, and oh, cleaning the house for a spur-of-the-moment visit from Jimmy Ray. Long time readers of WAD may recall Jimmy Ray, our much-beloved fellow employee at Design Associates and disco fan, who moved to Chicago with his wife when she got a promotion. Jimmy Ray got a last minute deal on airfare and came out for a weekend of tearing up the slopes on his snowboard, taking Guy careening down the slopes with him. And they have--they hit the slopes yesterday and are back on them today. While they're 'boarding, I've been spending time at the spa, grocery store, and maybe even the gym...or maybe just do my nails and hang out.

It's been good to catch up with Jimmy Ray, and him being in town brought a lot of DA employees out to cavort and hang out. Well, cavort as much as we thirtysomethings can. I've never been able to rock-and-roll all night and party every day, but us 30+-aged folks weren't worth a damn on Friday night at the pool hall/bar we congregated at. We broke up the party at 8:15 pm, leaving the younger interns from DA to carry on. We went out last night before a movie to our favorite Mexican watering hole/restaurant and were only able to have one margarita each so we wouldn't have to get up in the middle of the movie to go pee. How did we get this lame? When did we get uncool?

Jimmy Ray flies out tomorrow morning, and then it's all bidness. I have a PR to get out next week as well as shop drawings from the radiology equipment for MHRC. Right after I get the PR out, we leave after work on Friday to go back to St. Louis for Christmas to visit Guy's family. It's going to be a whirlwind of a week, but I'll try to keep things interesting for all my peeps.

Never look a gift Guy in the mouth

I had some appointments in the morning and afternoon on Friday, and rather than go to work for only a few hours during the day, I decided to call in, cash in a vacation day, and get most of my Xmas shopping and errands done. Guy, if you're reading this, I got you nothing so far. I got you nothing because nothing was on sale, unlike all the gifts I'm sure you've gotten for me. And that I'm sure you'll tell me about when I open them.

Getting gifts from Guy is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, he gets me things I really like, enjoy, want, and need. When he freestyles a gift, it's very useful and wonderful. When I tell him what I want, he gets exactly what I want. Regardless of the gift, though, I know he got it in some kind of sale. Guy is a bargain-hunter extraordinaire. He got us $3,000 off the Civic we bought 18 months ago, he found us a set of 600-thread count sheets and pillowcases for $55, and a yoga/fitness ball for me for $22.50.

It was the fitness ball that set me off, though. A few years ago, when I was heavier and still trying to lose weight to get my blood pressure into a safe range again, I told Guy that I wanted a fitness ball. I showed him a few different brands online and in catalogs, explained how they're sized, and so on. A week or so later, Guy and I were in a sports store when he spotted the balls on a shelf. "Is this what you want?" he asked.

"Right," I replied. "That's what I'm after, and they even have a small size. Here, you can come back later and 'surprise' me with a color."

"Holy shit!" Guy exclaimed. "They're 25% off! Sweet! I'm getting it right now! Yeah!" He pulled one off the shelf and walked to the checkout. "Fuckin' A! 25% off!"

He purchased the ball with me right there, which left me feeling a little bleh. After all, you want some kind of surprise, right? What made this situation long-term annoying was that for the rest of the day, Guy would occasionally shake his head and say "Man, I got that for 25% off!" while wearing a can-you-believe-it expression.

Now, women may be from Venus, but occasionally men are from Uranus. I don't mind him saving money--Guy and I are both cheap-ass Libras, and it's rare that Shorty will buy something on the regular price rack. But can't we just pretend I'm worth the whole $30? Seriously. And even if you save the cash, can we not act like the $7.50 is the same as getting a plasma TV for half-price? So, Guy is wandering around thinking "excellent, I got her the gift she wanted and saved some cash on it, good deal," but he's only saying the last part over and over, the part about saving money. And I'm walking around behind him envisioning daggers in his back and thinking "oh, i'm not worth $7.50? Is $7.50 worth the D-Con I'm thinking about putting in your turkey enchiladas tonight?"

So, this topic lay dormant until recently, when I mentioned it to Kellye the Observant and Amusing. "Well, of course he kept talking about it, Pixie," Kellye replied. "It's like a Viking thing: when he returns from an epic battle or victory, he can't just tell you; he has to sing a song about it." Of course, at this point I was once again laughing while slumped over my keyboard and Kellye sang, "I...have slaaaaaain...the beeeast....of Circuit Cityyyyyyy...!"

Just a few days later, Guy and I were wandering around Estes Park when my eyes lit upon a gorgeous necklace in a shop window. I oohed and ahhed over it, but it's really rare that I can bring myself to buy myself some jewelry. Guy and I went in and looked the display over, whereupon Guy mentioned the possibility of getting me something from the case for Christmas. I pointed out two or three that I liked the best, then said he could come back later and get it when I wasn't looking.

"See," said Guy, verbally pulling out a shovel with which he could dig his own miserly grave, "if I get you the brown one, it comes with earrings, and everything in the case is 30% off, so if the necklace is $59, and the earrings are $39--"

"Would you knock that the fuck off?" I said, five years of irritation dripping through my words. "What, am I not worth the full $59 or something?"

"No," replied Guy, "I'm just a cheap bastard!"

At this point, the standoff broke down into laughter. But we did have a brief discussion about how his commentary makde me feel. I'm fine if he saves money on my gifts; I know he's going to because he's the bargain-master. I just don't like having that be the most important thing to him. So the other night, I mentioned to Guy that I didn't know what to get him for Christmas, since he'd already gotten me something in Estes Park.

"I've gotten you three somethings," he replied.

"Three?!"

"After the business with the fitness ball, I felt bad for being so cheap, so I got you a couple other things."

Shit. Now I had to get him three things. Which is okay--for all of my shit that he puts up with, it's the least I can do.

Rattle and schlump

Today was a long, exhausting day full of meetings and changes and phone calls. Tomorrow will be more of the same, so I'm cheezing out and telling you another funny conversation we had today starring Kellye.

Elliot: Man, my owner on the FrouFrou MOB was getting in my grill hardcore today, but thank GOD Howie stepped to the line and talked this guy down, cuz it was the owner’s fault that things were behind in the first place!
Pixie: Don’t you hate it when owners get overly assholish? I mean, really!
Derek: Oh, man, that’s the worst. I don’t mind getting yelled at when it’s my fault, but don’t yell at me out of hypocrisy.
Pixie: No kidding! It’s like when that one CEO of P___ R___ yelled at us when his building was leaking air. I don’t blame him for being mad about the evident failure in design and construction, but it was stupid when he got all pissed because most of the original design and construction team on P_____ R_____ were no longer with their companies four years later.
Kellye: Yeah?
Pixie: Yeah, he’s all “I don’t like it when faces change!” and we were all looking at each other like, ‘dude, YOUR face changed; you’re not the same CEO we built this hospital with.”
Kellye: What’s that even supposed to mean, when faces change? Like we’re shapeshifters or something?
Pixie: Haahahaa! Like we’re pod people!
Kellye: [throwing arms in air in mock panic] “Aaagh! Oh, I’m turning into an end table!”
Pixie: BAAAAHAHAHAAAA!!!

ROTFLMAO

I’ve said very little about, Kellye, a coworker of mine who sits just over the 42” high partition from me, right next to Elliot. That I have said little about him is not because he’s inconsequential. Kellye, a second-generation Irishman (“I don’t have the accent, but I have Irish fighting eyes—they’re sunk in my skull so you can’t punch them in”) who is also a recently licensed architect (last year, just like Guy and me), Kellye can only be described with two words: freaking hilarious. Okay, three: subtly, freaking hilarious. With a straight face, Kellye can say something that leaves me weak and weeping with laughter, collapsed in my office chair. A sample of his wit:

Pixie: Did y’all hear that Frank Gehry is getting sued?
Elliot: Yeah, I’d sue because his stuff looks like holy hell.
Pixie: I mean, people make fun of Michael Graves for making weird stuff—
Kellye: Well, at least he got over his Facadism before he did the Denver Public Library.
Norman: [turning around from his monitor] Well, he does two-dimensional stuff because he has no depth perception. He’s blind in one eye.
Pixie: Really? That explains why that one eye always looks like this. [holds right hand in front of right eye, curling fingers and aiming hand off to right side]
Kellye: [raises an eyebrow] His right eye looks like it has a claw coming out of it?
Pixie: BAAAhahaaaa!! No, I mean, it looks…haahahaaaa!!
Elliot: It does always look crooked, like he’s looking around you, in a curve!
Kellye: He’s looking toward the future.
[everyone laughs]
Kellye: [not even looking up from his computer monitor] Evidently, the future is about twenty degrees to your left and ten feet behind you.
Pixie: [helpless with laughter, wheezing]

Well, at least I was warned

Friday morning, Jann asked Derek and me into a conference room to “chat about staffing”. She closed the door behind us and began by thanking us for our help on the major renovation and expansion project she’d been working on for the past several months. A little hospital in Utah that we did several years ago decided it was ready to upgrade and expand, and suddenly Jann had a major project on her hands. Since Howie’s projects were quiet, she borrowed Derek to head up the drawing set team and field phone calls from the engineers while she handled meetings, the rest of the phone calls, and the specs. However, the drawing team for the project always seemed to be hindered by a combination of scattershot project coordination efforts and the pain of Revit, the new drawing software that is very slowly replacing AutoCAD.

Jann sighed heavily. “Monica…Monica’s doing great. She’s really kicked butt on this project,” Jann began. And Monica, a fairly new intern with less than two years’ experience, sure has kicked butt. She does redlines without complaint, asks questions, learns from everything she’s given. Just a sharp young gal overall.

Jann sighed heavily again. “But Arnie, he goes to meetings with me and it’s like he’s not listening or making very good notes, because there’s always a bunch of comments from the meetings that don’t make it into his drawings. I’m thinking, ‘weren’t you in the same meeting as I was?’ It’s weird,” she said of one fellow with four or so years of experience. “He sends drawings to the contractor on my P______ project, and the contractor sends them right back saying ‘this is not what we asked for or need,’ and I’m just letting him flounder a bit because he needs to learn how to pay attention.” Derek and I nodded, made some comments about how experience is the best teacher, blah blah blah.

Jann continued. “Nicky, I see him come in late, not work through lunch, and leave early, and time and again I’m late to meetings because the drawings I’ve asked him to make for me aren’t ready when I need to leave.”

“And Pete, he’s so easily derailed or scattered, especially with a huge project like this one, and…the other day I was at the copier, and I looked up and he was just sitting there in his chair staring at me! I said, ‘what?’ and he said, ‘nothing,’ and I thought ‘well, get to work!’ It’s weird!” Derek and I cracked up at this, because we too have caught him staring at us. Elliot kept noticing him staring at him as he’d go up the stairs in the office too. As I’ve alluded to before, the guy gives off a creepy vibe. Not harmful or malevolent per se, just creepy.

Jann then asked Derek and me for suggestions on how to get this team to perform better. “I’m trying to give them the benefit of the doubt,” she said. “I mean, it’s not all me, but it’s partially me.” I thought to myself, wow, that’s an understatement. After all, I’m licensed, high-performing, and highly competent, and even I have problems working for Jann. I proposed that at this team’s level, they indeed don’t have the knowledge that allows them to keep moving forward, prioritize their work, etc. Hence, Jann needs to be more specific with the problem employees and find some system in which she can hold them accountable for progress made and keep them on track. She seemed agreeable to that idea.

Then, she began discussing future projects. “I think Monica can help you, Derek, with CA on this project for the first few months. I think she’d learn a lot from it. Arnie’s going to move full-time to the P______ project, and I’m going to put Nicky with Doc. I think Doc could keep him in line.”

“So Pixie, MHRC is about to start a few new projects in the spring, and Out-of-Town Medical Center will be cranking up a remodel project for their operating suite and the West Entry. I think Pete would be a good match with you on that. He can do the drawings, and you can handle the meetings and coordination.”

I nodded, but on the inside I thought NOOOOOOOO!!! Oh dear God, not that weirdo!! Now he’s going to want to be my pal even more! AAAAAGGGHH!!!!

On the drive home, I told Guy about the meeting with Jann. As usual, Guy had really good insights. “First,” he said, “if she’s not willing to guide Arnie at least somewhat and help him understand his mistakes, she’s just setting him up for failure, and she’s gonna keep getting the same shitty work out of him that she’s getting now. That’s really bad management on her part. Second, I think it’s perfect that she’s putting Pete with you. Now, you get the chance to set a clear line with Pete. You’re gonna manage him, and you’re gonna work with him, but you’re not interested in being his pal or cutting him some slack, no matter if he’s older than you or has done whatever in previous jobs. Doesn’t matter. His job is to do the job. If he gives you trouble, you tell Jann and let her deal with it, or avoid it, whatever she does.”

Which makes a lot of sense. Often, many women, myself included, make the mistake of trying to be friends at work. We want to be liked and be pals with everyone. However, that’s not the point of work. The point of work is to get work done, first and foremost. It is to make whatever product or service you provide and to do it well. While getting along with your coworkers is important to a great extent, you can get along without being buddies. After all, I get along with Jann without particularly wanting to work with her on a long-term basis. We make the working relationship work. What this means is, I don’t have to be buddies with someone to work with, for, or over them.

Now granted, architecture has its own pitfalls with this situation. The studio environment of college is such that a group of people spend hours and hours all day, night, and weekend with each other, week after week, and semester after semester. By the end of a four- or five-year college career, everyone in that studio knows most of the secrets and half of the people have slept with each other. That culture permeates architectural offices to some extent—coworkers hang out with each other as social friends outside of work on a very regular basis, and architects often marry each other. At one point, Design Associates had six office couples, which meant that a tenth of the office was sleeping with each other. Both Derek and I met our spouses at DA, though neither of our spouses still work there. Even Alex met his second wife when she temped as a receptionist at DA back in the day. S, there are many factors that make it easier for you and your fellow architects to cross professional boundaries without a second thought.

That being said, there’s nothing wrong with putting up a few boundaries when necessary. I’ve traditionally been bad at doing so in the past, but as I take on a position of more authority and management in my office, I can see that I need to draw the line somewhere. No time like the present. Even more interesting is that Jann told me she wants me to be honest about Pete’s performance, tell her exactly how he’s doing. Well, we’ll see.