An early Christmas present, from me to you. It's a blog of more than 100 words.

Ok, since I thought I had a huge assignment due on Thursday but I just remembered this morning that it wasn't due til next Tuesday (and I almost wept, I was so relieved) and I just phoned a friend to ask a question about our lab which is due tomorrow, and also to say '...and jeez, how about that midterm tomorrow, hey?' so that she could say 'You're a dimwit, the midterm got moved to next Wednesday, and you know that,' since I now have neither of these things in the next two days, I will now give you a real blog, one that doesn't involve my cervix.

Acutally, I'm just blogging to let you know that my computer woes have reached new heights. The screen on my laptop has gone a very dark shade of grey. So dark, in fact, that you'd think it was black if you couldn't just faintly make out the words on the screen which I am currently typing. Don't worry, I'm not straining my eyes in my endeavors to amuse. I have, instead, hooked the laptop up to the desktop monitor, so that I can sit here with the laptop in my lap, using the laptop keyboard and the laptop mouse and looking at the desktop screen LIKE AN IDIOT!!! It feels like I'm trying to knit a sweater while watching TV, without looking down. I'd take a picture of myself, but the camera-to-computer-picture-loader-cord is hooked up to the tower, which is currently unattached, dark, and forlorn.

(Side story: One time, at camp, me and my cabin of eight-year-olds were standing in our line-up, waiting to be called in for lunch. Trying to garner a little pity, I turned to them and said, 'Alright girls, everyone line up straight and look forlorn,' to which my best and brightest replied, 'Who's Lorn?')

This whole laptop-screen-going-so-dark-it's-nearly-black thing happened on Sunday, as I was sitting down to an assignment I didn't want to do (namely, defining a list of Romantic-era terms). After a morning of cramps and nausea, and two full days of wretched defining to do, this did me in. I wept and gnashed my teeth and wrung my hands, certain no one had ever been as hard done by as I. After much toil, I got everything rigged up to go on the desktop and re-opened my assignment to the definition I had been working on when I shut down Saturday night, and which I now present for you...

Sensibility: the tendency to give one's self entirely over to one's emotions, and to be highly succeptible to minute instances of pleasure or pain.

'Ahhh, you,' I said to myself, chuckling. 'Do the assignment, don't live the assignment.'

As another aside, and as September said earlier today, the fabulous, witty, brilliant, emminently hospitable, charming and unbelievably strong Jane has been having a bit of a rough go of things lately, what with her father's Alzheimer's diagnosis and her mother's sudden need for emergency surgery and her church's dissolution and her three growing boys and, well, let's just say that I'm not all that hard done by, and that if you have a few extra prayers hanging around, you might want to send them her way.

Cheers, all. Tomorrow I will return to my NaBloPoMo/crazy-paper-rush-induced sound-byte-blogging.

(This post was brought to you by the dash - - -)

X-Rated

Warning: This blog references my cervix. There. Now none of you can TMI me in the comments, because I warned you, and you read it anyways.

I'm being blackmailed by my doctor. I need my perscription renewed for my birth control pills, and he says he'll give me another three months, but that I have to schedule a pap smear in that time, or I'm cut off. Those are my options: either have my cervix scraped with a little spoon, or get accidentally pregnant. I can't decide which appalls me more.

Sage advice

I walk into the living room where Joel is sitting in his ugly, too-small red hoodie and elastic-ankle sweats, playing video games.

'Ha! You look like a hobo.'

He looks over, takes in my greasy ponytail, baggy t-shirt and sweats and undone bathrobe with the cranberry stain, and says simply 'Judge not, my dear, lest ye be judged.'

A brief interruption

I'm not even kidding, people. Let's all write some really long blog posts so that I can read them. I'll start....






Just jokes. I'm getting back to work now.

The weather is lousy. Won't you please amuse me?

The awesome thing about doing assignments during the week is that everyone is Facebooking and blogging and giving me intermittant breaks from my homework stew.

The crappy thing about blogging on a Sunday afternoon is that everyone is napping, or Sunday-driving, or family-lunching, and no one is around to play Facebook Scrabble with me.

I am barely more productive, and waaaaaaaaay more irritable.

There's pain, and then there's Motrin

I was going to try to think of something hilarious to tell you tonight, but I have this massive headache, and I've been working on an assignment since we got home three hours ago, and making no headway.

Does anyone want to define some literary terms in light of what they meant to the romantic period? No? What if I made you some cookies? Christmas cookies?

I put a Christmas tree up on my Facebook. Feel free to put presents under it.

The semester ends in less than a month. Exactly thirty days from today, I will be writing my third of four finals.

Then I will eat gingerbread and watch films in my robe. All day.

This is stupid. I'm going to bed, y'alls.

We're both the needy one.

Ok, I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before that my sister and I are BFF's and that we phone each other, like, eight times a day, but I'm not going to search through my whole blog just so I can link to that time I mentioned it, so let me mention it again.

My sister and I - by virtue of the womb we shared, and also due to the hours we spent waiting for the bus in hours so early that it was STILL DARK OUT, and all the times we ran for the phantom bus only to get to the stop, huffing and puffing and sweating in our winter jackets, to see a truck, or something, climbing the hill - are BFF's and we phone each other, like, eight times a day.

Ok, maybe not that many. But she'll phone me on the bus on the way home, and I'll phone her as I'm walking to school, and if the other person doesn't answer, the person phoning will just leave a message which usually begins with the phrase 'Nothing funny to report...just calling,' as though we had to make excuse for the fact that we have no hilarious stories. Unless the reason we're phoning is because we have a hilarious story, in which case the message begins with 'You will not believe what I just saw/did/knocked over/said in public.'

So, the other week, I'd phoned my sister a number of times, always getting her machine or getting her at an awkward time when she couldn't talk, and she'd been to busy to phone me back, and I was starting to feel like the needy girlfriend who always phones to see what her boyfriend is up to and does he want to come over and watch a movie?

This past week, I've been mad busy, and haven't had time to return the past three or four of my sister's calls. Today I got a message from her saying, 'Sometimes, when I phone you and then you don't phone me back, and then I phone you again the next day, I feel a bit creepy and stalkerish.'

I phoned her instantly to tell her that it's ok, that we're both the desperate, clingy one.

It's time for a Jeo-party!!!

Ok, because I apparently have tons of time on my hands, despite the paper-tsunami that's going to hit any minute, I was reading this post which led me to this post about how much this girl hates this DeBeers ad. Not so much how she hates the ad, but how she hates the woman in the ad. Not so much the woman the actress, but the woman portrayed by the actress in the ad. Who is not a real woman.

It got me thinking about how I hate people who aren't real all the time. I hate loads of fictional people. I hate Phoebe from Friends, and the yellow Care Bear, and that girl from the Lava Life commercials, and Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas. But the fictional character I hate the most?

It's Player 3.


See, Robyn and I played a lot of computer-Jeopardy when we were in college, but because we're a little bit of what you call dumb, we played together. As one person. Named Steku.


This is Steku the first time he ever won. About three months after we started playing. And we played two or three games a day. Like I said: a little bit of what you call dumb.




Please note, there was never any Jeopardy played without Grape Man (side of computer) and Steve Yzerman (bobblehead, bottom right). Ahh, bobbleheads. You think you're gonna get bored with them, but you never do. Bobbley bobbley bobbley.

Ah yes, Steku. But that was the Old Jeopardy. Old Jeopardy had such characters as Mike and Sue (Steku was always Old Man In Sweater), and Rob and Jenny, who were always making eyes at each other. I always kind of suspected they had something going on, but that her parents didn't approve. Because he was from New York.

That, incidentally, was the highest score we ever achieved on Old Jeopardy.

But then came my birthday, and Robyn got me New Jeopardy - Jeopardy 2003. The 'new' Jeopardy no old men in sweaters or clandestine couples, only the question-box-screen with the players' names and scores on the bottoms. We were sad to lose our happy characters, with all their made-up back stories and crazy ways, but we soon discovered that our new opponents had distinct personalities as well.

Player 2, see, he's kind of dumb as well. I think he's won once or twice, and I'm sure we were stunned when it happened. Probably we applauded. He seems like a nice enough guy, and when he gives his answer, his voice rises at the end, as though it really is a question. Like he's not quite sure of himself. I'm Ron Burgandy? His only irritating trait is how he'll say 'Crossword clues 'M'...for a grand,' and the way he forces out 'for a grand' makes it sound like a phrase he's just learned from his teenage nephew and is trying out on national television.

Player 3, on the other hand, is a bitch. No one can say 'What is the repeal of the Corn Law in 1846' with more insufferating smugness. No one can squeeze condescension into the phrase 'for 800, Alex' quite like she can, as though $800 were piddling change, and she could take it or leave it. No one, but NO ONE, should get ALL of the 'Presidents: Where Are They Buried.' And sometimes, when I know the answer, she beats me to the buzz-in.

No one beats me to the buzz-in.

So Steku takes on Players 2 and 3, and usually he kicks their asses because of his superior knowledge of ants. And tents in the Bible. And salami. And the way he'll guess the final Jeopardy question based solely on the category, because when it's Famous Women, the answer is always Helen Keller. And when he beats Player 3...man. It's better than chocolate. Or...I guess...sex, because he's a dude. But the handful of times when Player 3's beaten him - well, those were dark days, my friend.

But we never let it go out on a loss, and we always come back with a surprising wealth of knowledge about bats (little known fact: while Robyn and I both think that monkeys are awesome, and that we would know a lot about monkeys, the hard truth is that we, in fact, know very little about monkeys. Jeopardy has taught us a valuable lesson) and then we follow up our surprising wealth of knowledge with a flawless guess in Final Jeopardy, and then we do a dance on Player 3's favorite sweater. With our muddy boots.

Sometimes that's all it takes

On a day in which I have spilled coffee down (not on, down) my shirt, walked home from class at 5:30 IN THE DARK, back to class at 6:50 IN THE DARK, and home from class at 10:00 IN THE DARK, have zipped my neck skins into my jacket zipper, and have a quiz tomorrow that I can't muster up the fear to study for, I'd like to leave you with this snippet from my Modern Lit class:

It's certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat.

Thank you, W B Yeats, for making it ok.

An auspicious occasion

Now that Halloween is safely behind us, and none of my friends or relatives found razors in their popcorn balls, we can start thinking about Christmas.

When we lived in the States, we didn't really reach this point until the end of November, because Turkey Day stood between Pumpkin Day and Nutcracker Day. We had to wait all the way until Thanksgiving (which comes on the 3rd Saturday in November, or some such nonsense) before we could set up our tree.

Up here in the happy North, we can start decking the halls and hitting the rum-nog while the pumpkin rots on our steps (we would have thrown it out with last week's trash, but it didn't fit).

So many things signal the onset of the Christmas season. The malls should start playing carols any day now. The thrift stores have their tattered trees and decorations out of storage and slouched next to the counter of fake-gold jewelry. It is possible at this minute to buy earrings shaped like little wreaths.

One seasonal item in particular has always made me weep with nostalgia. Not the gingerbread, not the egg nog, not the nasty bits of fruit cake, but these. Juicy, fragrant, peelable Christmas oranges. It's not the sight of them so much that gets me, since they've been in stores for at least a month now and will hang on until long after the tree's been de-balled and burnt up, but the actual smell and feel and taste. Oranges are around all year, but not these....these rare, precious fruits where difficulty in eating is exceeded by payoff. Some fruits are, let's face it, more trouble than their worth (I'm looking at you, pomegranates), but a Christmas orange practically peels itself for you. All you have to do is move your hand towards your mouth.

Today, after weeks of restraint - weeks of walking through the produce section with my eyes averted and my nose plugged - I purchased and ate my very first Christmas orange of the season.

Feliz Navidad.

Conflicting signals

You know how sometimes hunger grows gradually, and you go from being a bit snackish to being moderately hungry to being ravenous in a clear and orderly fashion? And how other times, you're wandering around not-hungry as a clam, and then WHAM! Your insides start digesting themselves?

So, I got home from class early today, but I'd eaten a big lunch and wasn't hungry so I put off making dinner even though it was already half-prepared. And so I poked around doing a little bit of nothing until suddenly I needed to eat so badly that I couldn't even wait for the water to boil, and ended up eating half a box of dry pasta.

Now dinner's about ready, because I went ahead and made it anyways, but I'm not hungry because I have half a box of dry pasta slowly expanding in my stomach acid.

And the moral of the story, kids, is that your stomach is an idiot. Don't let it tell you it's not hungry.

That time I was a CSI

Ok, remember that time I said I was taking this CSI class, and that I hoped we'd get to all kinds of crazy things, like dust for prints, and that I'd keep you updated? Here's yer update, folks.

The class is awesome.

I mean, in some respects, it's totally boring. It's been dumbed way down so that Art students can take it and pass it and fulfill their science requirements. Science students actually aren't allowed to take it, it's that easy. It's the Earth Sciences of college. Which, awesome, who doesn't love easy. But also, there isn't a heavy emphasis placed on learning things, because we all know why we're here.

So the actual class part - boring. I do crossword puzzles online. But the lab part? SO rad. Almost immediately, we got to dust for prints. And we're all rubbing our fingers on the sides of our noses and through our hair to make them all greasy, and then pressing them onto flat surfaces, and then dusting all around like we don't know where the fingerprint is, and hey! Malfeasance was commited here! But I had just showered, and so I was pretty greaseless and we had to take a lot of prints so that we could practice the different ways of processing them. So I've run out of nose-grease and my hair is clean as a whistle, and I hear Leslie saying that if we need greasier fingers we can come up to the front and use some of the hand lotion, but I'm not looking at her when she says it, and when I finally make my way to the front there's just this tube of miscellaneous jelly so I smear some of that on my thumb and go back to making prints, and it makes some pretty well-defined prints, but it isn't until twenty minutes later when I'm back up at the front that I see the container of hand cream, on the other table. And the tube of jelly is gone.

So that was fun. Also fun was the time we had to study our hairs under the microscope. Joel and I have often remarked on how somethings are awesome on the body, like hair and skin, and just SO gross off of the body. For reals, though, think about it. My head-hair is so fabulous, and Joel will run his fingers through it, but my pile-of-hair in the shower is disgusting, and no one wants to touch it. (In a slightly related manner, somethings are tolerable on the body, like band-aids, but totally unacceptable off the body. I don't think there's anything more universally revolting than a body-less band-aid.) So examining our hairs under a fairly powerful microscope was an excercise in revulsion, but also kind of interesting. Especially when your hair has three distinct colors between root and tip.

We've also done some things with DNA that I won't try to explain because I don't understand them. Suffice it to say that we were processing some DNA and then running it through a thing, and when the thing came out the other end, there was one lane that didn't have any DNA, and that was mine. I totally botched that one.

We had an entomologist (bug scientist) come in and show us a bunch of slides of dead bodies with bugs on them. She also showed us videos of an experiment she did which involved dressing pig corpses up in clothing, leaving them in a house to rot for a month, setting fire to the house, and waiting for the neighbors to call the fire department. I will take up entomology as my second career.

We'll have another speaker in a few weeks on blood spatter patterns, and then we have a lab where we get to make our OWN blood spatter patterns (with fake blood) and let me tell you, I will be dying a violent death. Everybody better wear their lab coats.

So all in all, yes, it's been exactly like CSI. A bit tedious with some awesome moments. Oh yes, and we aren't allowed to wear contact lenses in the lab, and so two thirds of the class shows up in our dorky glasses from the twelfth grade, and you can tell who doesn't wear them all the time because we go to scratch our eyes, and end up poking ourselves in the lens. Idiots.

This is difficult

Hello friends. I am NaBloPoMoing, which is why I'm sitting here trying to think of something to tell you instead of reading one of the four books I've bought in the last two days.

Um, I am kicking my sister's ass at Facebook Scrabble. I just spelled 'weaponry,' using all my tiles and hitting a triple word score, for 98 points.

Oooh, speaking of my sister, Jane and I were just talking today about this awesome Dwight Schrute pumpking we'd seen on the Internet (I know, lame, but LOOK at it. It's freaking amazing)...

And then I mentioned this time my sister free-hand-carved a Koala-pumpkin, (Koala as in our dog, not as in the marsupial) and I thought you all should see it.It is brilliant. She is brilliant.

I have a headache from all this thinking.

A history concluded

I lied. I was going somewhere with that post.

Brand-new awesomeness.

A history of hair

The year after I graduated from high school, I got my hair dreadlocked. They looked awesome, but they were way more upkeep then you think they're gonna be, and they kind of smelled, even though I washed them all the time, which may have been why they were so much upkeep. But the thing with dreadlocks is that when you're done with them, you have to cut them off. Like, off.

It only took a month or so for my hair to grow from awful army-marine-short to cute-flippy-short, but you know how it is when you have bad hair. Each day is, like, three years long. I'm sorry, I have no photos of the dreadlocks OR the month I looked like a lesbian.

By my first year of college, I had cute short hair. Robyn also had cute short hair. Look how cute we are, with our short hair. But college is not the time for short hair. College is the time for sexy looooooooong hair, so we decided to grow it out. Every two weeks I would march into my RA's room and demand that she trim my mullet. Because that is what happens to short hair when you grow it out; it becomes a mullet.

So we went through the horrible, awkward stages together: the just-at-the-ears stage, the shaggy-bowl-cut stage, the at-your-chin-and-poofy stage. It was all bad, all the time. You try to dress it up with little clips or pigtails or whatever, but no. Still bad.

That was five years ago now. It is at this point that I would like to draw your attention to my current hair. It is long.

My sister's hair is also quite long, but hers still firmly resides in Awesome-Long country.

Mine has crossed the border into Amish-Long. Note the severe, blunt ends. Note the lack of any depth or layering whatsoever. Note how hearty and capable I look from the back.

Note how hot my sister is in this picture.

Ok, now back to my hair. Note the coloring trifecta. No, this is not a trick of the light. That is indeed the mousy brown of my original color on top, the unfortunately brassy root-lightening I had done before the wedding in the middle, and whatever color the rest of it was on the bottom.

You thought I was going somewhere with this. But no, that's really all I have to say. My hair is completely not-awesome.

Avast.

Happy Lallorween.

The latest fad is foetuses

A few years ago, everyone I knew was getting married. Even though people are still getting married (see: the eight weddings I went to this summer besides my own), it seems like now the thing to do is have babies. Except Robyn. She's not having a baby. I asked her tonight, because hey, who knows? But she's not.

And neither am I. It's hard not to catch the baby fever, when all of my friends are such adorable pregnant ladies, and I think that I, too, will be adorable when I am pregnant, because even a sasquatch, I think, would be adorable pregnant. The only things not adorable pregnant are spiders, and they are not adorable ever. Or even tolerable.

I cannot have babies now. Joel and I just got married, and we're still working through married things. We aren't ready to work through baby things yet. Also, I have things to do that you can't do after you have a baby. Like finish school in peace. And eat a cookie without someone eyeing you, following it from the box to your mouth, and asking if they, too, can please have one. And wear a bikini to the beach. I have some very cute bikinis.

I hope we have boys. My biggest fear is having all girls, and ending up with, like, eight, because we keep trying for a boy. My second biggest fear is having both boys and girls, but having the girls take after Joel, and the boys take after me, all thin and afraid of spiders and not good at sports. Or if they're all an equal blend: Joel's chisled jaw and my rounded nose...uggers.

I hope we have boys, and they all look like Joel. What with his profusion of dominant traits (brown hair, brown eyes, etc.) I figure my recessive traits (green eyes, reddish hair, freckle-pox) will all get stomped out anyways. I do hope for one girl at the end, one that looks like me. I'd like some proof that I was present at the moment of delivery. To look at my family, you'd think my parents had just stepped out for a jug of milk when the three of us were born. Dark-haired, olive-skinned, blue-eyed brother; tall, blonde, fabulously fair sister; me. We don't even look like second cousins.

In the end, I guess that's the fun of it. Seeing which bits of my DNA and which bits of Joel's survive the selection process. It'll be like a game, and a fun game, but a game that I can totally wait to play.

An excellent source of fiber and Vitamin A

I roasted pumpkin seeds the other day. They are cajun-spiced and delicious. They are my new favorite snack, and were essentially free (since we were going to buy the pumpkins they came in anyways). Free pumpkin seeds are, however, highly seasonal. Whatever will I do when I run out? Probably stop eating them. Alas.

PS. Nothing interesting has happened to me today.

You gotta know when to hold 'em...know when to fold 'em...

Our landlords are the social-est people I know. In May they had a Pop Star Party (I went as Avril...remember? I wore sock-chucks?) and we all sang kareoke (they have their own kareoke machine). They frequently invite us to come camping/to the States/to Costco with them. They have three tenants (five if you count Joel and me in the basement, six if you count the foetus [Shari's, not mine]) taking up their personal space. If anyone has ever had the gift of hospitality, it is Dave and Shari.


Every year, around this time, they whip their house up into a casino. People get tricked out in their fancy best to come and gamble their fake money away.

Seriously, they should set this up as a community service so that people can come see what its like to go up against the house. I lost loads of fake money, and in real life there's no Baron von Dave strolling around, saying 'Hey, I'll give you $10 000 but you have to lay it all on one bet. If you win, it's yours, but if you lose, I can't help you.' No actual casino owner walks up to a poker table and says 'For the next hand, the minimum bet is $25 000 but the odds are 5 to 1.' If you go broke in the real world, you can't just deal a table for half an hour and make $50 000 so you can keep playing.

Some people were kind enough to work tables the whole night, and were paid handsomely for their pains.

Melissa and her giant foetus-belly (seems to be contagious) spinning the wheel.



Poker...always a hot game.

Andrea deals a mean blackjack.

The color-wheel is no one's friend, but it's so hard to walk away.

What does one do, in the end, with thousands of fake dollars? Why, one bids with it! What's this? A gift card to the Olive Garden? Going once...going twice...SOLD for three hundred thousand dollars!!!

Joel and I turned out to be (perhaps unsurprisingly) poor gamblers, but with our deep Mennonite roots we are sharp and shrewd bidders. With our mere hundred and fifty thousand dollars, we walked away with the second Austin Powers movie, six chocolate bars, and nunchucks and a beating-stick!

It goes perfectly with the ninja mask and throwing stars Joel won for me last year.

Garbage day

Whenever there's a long weekend, garbage day shifts back a day. I know that this is no problem for ordinary, responsible people, but we're still struggling to not put plates on top of the computer or use the bookshelf as a coffee table.

Now, I know it could be worse (remember when I lived in the Mt Waddington house? We'd fill the full-sized garbage can in the kitchen every two days or so, and then just toss in into the garage to wait for garbage day, which we would inevitably forget until we had thirty or forty garbage bags in there, and then we'd have to cast around for someone who owned a truck, but not a nice one, because we didn't want to throw our rotting detritus in a nice truck, and not the last person who helped us out, because we couldn't stomach telling someone that yes, we'd done it again and could we please borrow their truck again. Side story: there was a pool table taking up the middle of the garage, and the mail slot was in the door on the far side, but you couldn't just open that door to get the mail because we'd accidentally jammed it shut, so you had to go in through the house/garage door and down the Walk of Terror between the pool table and the Temple of Refuse in order to get the mail. Usually, two people would come to the door and holler 'RAT' because then the rat would move, and we would know that it was across the garage - in the pile of old coffee makers, say - and not in the garbage, and then one of us would proceed to fetch the mail while the other kept a wary eye out. So one time, Chels was keeping the eye out and I was fetching the mail and the rat was up in its ceiling hidey-hole and I turned to come back, and the garbage bags rustled. They rustled, people! Rat-rustled! That meant we had two or more rats! We both stood there and screeched until I could summon the courage to dash up the Walk of Terror and back into the house. The mail was just junk and bills. return-to-story-sum-up after ridiculously long tangent - Joel, me, garbage day) and I know that, relatively speaking, two people make very little garbage at all, but we've missed every garbage day since ours moved to Friday (that's two, if you're counting) because who thinks of garbage on a Friday? Fridays, you're thinking about the things you have to get done so you an enjoy your weekend, you're thinking about sleeping in, and Halloween, and whatever. You aren't thinking about taking out the garbage.

Yesterday, I was hanging out with the A-A-A-Team, and because of the strike we couldn't make our annual trip to the Stanley Park Spooky Train so we opted to go out for dinner and then carve pumpkins instead. I asked for the pumpkin seeds, because I'm convinced I'm going to roast them and then munch them as a healthy snack, and four pumpkins is a lot of pumpkin seeds. I would have loved to have taken the whole bag of flesh home with me, spread it out somewhere, and picked the seeds out that way, but then I'd be left with this bag of seedless flesh and, as previously mentioned, Joel and I have forgotted garbage day twice. That is to say, we have no room for unnecessary bags of flesh. So I had to go through the bucket while the boys were dumping their pumpkin-face-parts into it, picking out slippery seeds and generally getting slimed. It was both hilarious and nasty.

My pumpkin looks awesome. I will post a picture for you later.