A guess? Anyone?

Does anyone have any idea what my two youngin’s are doing?

My ten year old is wielding an ax and appears to be chopping ice? All the while, his little sister sits there (in the rain, no less) offering moral support.

So, any idea what they are doing?

Well, shoot. In that photo, it looks the said 10 year old almost chopped his foot off. 

Still can’t figure it out? Does this help?                                                                                                 

Well, I guess this photo doesn’t really help you either.  Other than, those two work well together when they want to get something done.  I bet it’s something really important.            

Oh, yeah, baby! Homemade ice cream is something really important!

Every Sunday, we have a big whompin’ Sunday dinner, in which it takes all day for my momma and myself to prepare and 15 minutes to eat.  We sit down to supper every night as a family (all nine of us) but Sundays…well, that’s the day when there is a huge platter of meat and extra fixin’s on the table. We bless the hands that prepared the food…in reality…that’s everyone in the family because no one is exempt from food production in this family. My blind brother? He can find those tators in the dirt with his hands when we harvest.  My elderly parents? My daddy still plows the ground and my momma churns the butter like nobody’s business. You can bet my youngin’s are not strangers to planting, hoeing weeds and picking beans.  If they want to eat, they better learn to produce the food too. Crankster? Well, let’s just say that he is really good at supervising all food production on this farm!

So, every Sunday in the summer, we have homemade goat’s milk ice cream.  In my opinion, and as much as I love cow’s milk, there is NOTHING like homemade goat’s milk ice cream. It is creamy and so, so rich. It’s just a ritual that we have in the summer.  Every Sunday = goat’s milk ice cream. The flavor of the ice cream changes weekly and is usually seasonal. If the cherries are ripe, then it’s cherry ice cream. Strawberries? You betcha, strawberry ice cream. This past summer, Cranky and I took the canoe to reach some of the blackberries that grew right out over the pond. Some of them fell into the pond (which we retrieved) but heck, no one noticed the taste of pond water that evening when we had blackberry ice cream. 

Homemade ice cream on Sundays is a rare occurence over the winter so when I hollered to the youngin’s to go cut some ice from the pond on Sunday afternoon, I was humored to find these two youngin’s bustin’ their butts to fill the tub with ice.  They had enough ice in there to make about 10 freezers full. There wasn’t any whining or complaining about me treating them like slaves like their normally is.

Them (whining) “But…Momma, why do we have to do it?”

Me (calmly, of course) “Because I collectively housed you in my belly for 36 months and never charged you rent! You do the math, you little twits.  That’s 36 months of rent free accommodations. Three freakin’ years…you terds owe me!” 

Them (complaining) “But…Momma, why do you make us work all the time? 

Me (soothing, of course) “Because I birthed you without so much as an Advil for pain medication for a combined 36 hours of labor for all of you twits. That’s a full work week for some employed folks. YOU OWE ME BIG TIME!”

Them (really trying my patience) “But…Momma, why are you so mean?”

Me (okay, at this point, screaming) “Because I’m married to your father, that’s why! Now, go do your work before I really lose my patience!”

Them (smuggly, of course) “But…Momma, you don’t even own one ounce of patience to lose it in the first place.”

Me (fully engulfed with rage)…just silence. I think the look on my face was sufficient. 

Them(scared silly)…silence from their mouths as well and scurrying away like rats. 

So, the answer to the million dollar question is…

Those little twits are cutting ice for homemade ice cream because the ice is free! And we all know how much I like FREE! And ice cream…I really like ice cream.

Enough already

If Ronald Reagan was still alive (and hypothetically,  if he ever stood in my living room because you know,  Ronnie and I were like, totally tight.  You know,  like, big time buds?), I know he would stand there, smoke blowing out his ears, reddened face, fist clenched and shaking it into the air, all the while demanding, “CHEESYCHICK, TAKE DOWN YOUR CHRISTMAS TREE!”

Okay…okay, I’m on it.

Geez…I really hate it when an ex dead president gets on my case about my Christmas tree that is STILL up.

Okay, really, it’s not Ronnie who is demanding that I take it down.  Cranky has put his foot down and my kiddos are embarrassed to have friends over because the tree is still up.

I liked it better when I pretended an ex dead president was telling me what to do.

It’s becoming an obsession and I’m concerned

One fish, two fish, DEAD fish!

So, I’m wondering.  Should I be concerned that all my four little twit children want to do is sit on our frozen pond and ice fish ALL day long?

What is that sitting in the middle of our pond?

That would be my four heathen children, one cousin and their little dog in the middle of our frozen pond…ice fishing.

There they are, four heathen children, one cousin and one little dog in the middle of frozen pond...ice fishing.

What’s wrong with them…seriously?

My oldest twit and little wonder dog sitting on the ice.

Yes, that child is sitting on the ice.  Has he no brain?  Or does choose not to use it?

My third son little twit sitting on the ice.

This boy evidently chooses not to use his brain either.  There must be something wrong with him too?

My second twit son sitting on the ice.

For the love of God, can’t one of them figure out that the ice is freakin’ cold?

Aha! Someone using their brain a little.

Thank you baby girl for using some of your brain cells.  At least there is hope for someone in this family.  But on the other hand, you are sitting on a five gallon bucket on the frozen pond in 20 degree weather trying to catch a fish.  Enough said.  I think you may have inherited the same disease as your brothers have- inability to use their brains for practical reasons.

Success...at last. If you call a fish a success story.

He is the champion, my friend…and he will keep on ice fishing to the end. (please sing this to the tune of  “We are the Champions” by Queen and you will dig it.  JUST DO IT, NOW!)

Okay, now that I have everyone singing, on to our previously scheduled program.

Wait…if I’m slightly deranged, then maybe that’s where my kiddos get their affliction for weirdness from.  Oh, geez…and I always blamed it on Cranky and his family genes.

Aren't these little ice holes cute?

So, I am worried a bit.  My punks love to fish.  They would rather fish than anything else in the world.  They had a chance to get off the farm today to get some culture but they chose to sit on that frozen pond…all day long. 

I worry when my baby girl fills out her first grade “get to know me” paper and it says she want to be a pro bass fisherwoman on it.  She wants to fish on the pro bass circuit.  When I was in 1st grade, I wanted to be a rodeo clown.  I didn’t even know there was a pro bass circuit when I was in first grade.

More dead fish. Nice.

You know that I am a huge advocate of the “Buy Fresh, Buy Local”  or the zero mile theory with food consumption, right?  Well, if you didn’t know, I am.  And as much as I buy into these well thought out and common sense visions of the ultimate food chain, I would rather buy Mrs. Paul’s frozen fish sticks that came from like, China or some other foreign country, than to sit on my bum on a frozen pond all day trying to catch fish for supper. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the common sense factor here.

"I want to be on the pro bass circuit too."

Great…even the dog’s brain is frozen too.  There has to be an end to this fishing madness.

I guess I could drain the pond.

It’s still Christmas, right?

I am thinking that it’s time to take down my Christmas tree…

Normally, I keep our Christmas tree up until February (or March or… okay, I have been known to keep it up until July) but considering that the needles are falling off and the ornaments are crashing to the floor, maybe it’s time that I took it down.  Rest assured, I have not turned on the lights for fear of it catching on fire.

Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow. Or the next day.

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.

"Oh, geez, what the hell happened to you, Cheesychick?"

Well, I will just tell you… 

Way back in October, I had the wonderful luck of getting my one front tooth knocked out by our ill mannered pigs.  Yep, that’s the truth. I would not blame those stupid pigs unless they really deserved to be blamed.  There is a little more to the story than what I shared with my immediate family and I’m not going to share the ‘whole’ story with you either.  Let’s just say if I wouldn’t have been cursing at the pigs in the first place, then maybe my mouth would have been closed and just maybe, I would not have gotten my one tooth knocked out.  But that’s just theoretical.  Quite possibly, it was all fate and I was meant to get my tooth knocked out that day and it did not matter how it happened. 

So, to back track a little, when I was 19, I was in another accident and knocked out both my front teeth.  (Are we seeing a pattern here with stupid accidents?) I had to have extensive surgery and two crowns to get the front teeth problem fixed.  The dentist I had at the time was an old dude, something like 114 years old and quite possibly 40 years past retirement but he was cheap.  Remember? I’m all about cheap.  So, for just about 20 years, my teeth looked like this… 

I think that old dude dentist must have been drunk when he put these crowns on!

Yep, for just about 20 years, when I smiled, I had to cock my head so my teeth looked even.  It has always worked out except my youngin’s always are asking me, “Momma, why do you always turn your head like that? You look so stupid.”  We have always been about honesty in this family.

When I had the latest tooth mishap,  I called my new dentist, Tad and he got me in right away.  I call my new dentist by his first name, ’Tad’, because…well, that’s his name.  My new dentist is a school chum of mine and our friendship history goes back to junior high.  Ever since 7th grade, Tad and I got stuck sitting next to each other because of the alphabetical alignment of our names.  My maiden name was Finkenbinder and his last name is Glossner.  There was this one kid, Brian Foose stuck in between us but let’s not talk about him.  (Sore subject for Cranky)  Anyway, about this friendship, Tad and I were really good friends out of circumstance…we were both geeks.  But not only were we geeks, we clicked as friends.  Back in those days, being a geek was not cool.  It was best to fly under the radar and hope the cool kids in the cliché did not notice you.  If they saw you or you drew attention to yourself, you were toast.  They never relented until you were in the fetal position in the bathroom stall, crying and trying not to breathe the smoke infested air.  Not that I have any experience with this humiliation ever happening to me…it’s just what I heard happened to some people.  (Therapy has helped me deal with some of these repressed emotions, but for the most part, I still have unresolved issues!  Cranky would whole heartily agree.)  

So, that’s why I can’t bring myself to call Tad, “Dr. Glossner”.  It seems so formal between us.  

So, like I was saying before I got sidetracked by my own story, Tad, my old friend and new dentist, got me in right away to see if he could fix my tooth.  Plus, I would have beat him up if he did not get me in the office right away.  It wouldn’t have been the first time that I beat him up and he is still afraid of me after all these years. 

Tad said, “Sure, I can fix you up!  While we are at it, let’s fix these crooked front teeth.  How about two new teeth instead of just that one?  It will only cost you $382,o12.00 for the extra crown.”  

I said, “Sure.”  At least that’s what I think I agreed to.  At that point, he had my mouth crammed full of all these dental appliances, mirrors, gauze, his fingers, his assistant’s fingers, and whatever else he could shove in my mouth cavity to shut me up.  I’m not really certain that “sure” is the exact word that I used that day.  It may or may not have started with a “S”. 

I agreed to crown lengthening surgery which really, really hurt.  Don’t let those people in the dental industry fool you…it hurts like hell. ”You’ll just feel a little pinch.”  A little pinch, my ass.  

My gums had to heal in between the crown lengthening surgery and getting my new crowns so Tad gave me temporary front teeth. The only problem was that these temporary teeth were tobacco stained yellow.  He said, “This is the only color we have in the office to make your temporary teeth.”  Yeah, right, Tad.  I somehow think this was your way of getting back at me for something I did to you in junior high. Let it go, Tad, let it go. I thought it was funny, why can’t you find the humor in it? 

For three more weeks, I had to deal with tobacco stained front teeth.  Believe it or not, I just kept my mouth shut for 3 weeks. What? You don’t  believe that?  Get out. 

So, this week, 3 days before Christmas, Tad finally gave me my Christmas wish.  My two new front teeth.  But not before inflicting me with just a little more pain… 

Tad just had to inflict a little more pain on me.

 Isn’t there some code of ethics that dentists must adhere to when inflicting pain?  I’m thinking that the dentist should not enjoy it so much.  Tad called this little procedure, “electrosurge” or something like that.  I personally think he is full of crap and made it up to try to impress me. It sounds like a milking machine to me.  

And they say I have issues?  

But Tad is a good man and he really wants his money, all $382, 012.00 of it so he finally agreed to install my new teeth.  Taaa-daaaahhhh! Here they are. 

Those eight years of schooling paid off for Tad, no?

Tad, I just want to say…I’m so glad that I let you cheat off of me in biology in high school or you never would have become the fine dentist that you are. ( Ha ha ha, he he! I kill me!)

In conclusion of this super long blog about my teeth, I would also like to add that I’m just a simple girl and I only ask for practical things…well, except for the water buffalo. 

All I really wanted for Christmas was my two front teeth. 

P.S. Who out there thinks I should have asked for facial hair wax instead of the two front teeth?  Good gravy…that’s some moustache for a simple girl.

Another P.S. All photos courtesy of Tad…or he may charge me another $382,012.00 if I don’t acknowledge his photography skills.

My organization skills rock.

Do ya’ll know what this is?

It’s a twisted, mutilated, tangled mess of Christmas lights that has caused my nerves to tingle and twitch.

Sooooo glad that I put the lights away properly after taking down last year’s Christmas tree.  I am soooo happy about this ball of lights, I could just puke.  Bring on the holidays.

I don’t know what to title this post. “Move to Trash?”

I typed that headline in and it (my stupid computer) immediately asked me if I wanted to move my post to trash. What? How does it (my stupid computer) know that this post is going to suck? I’m thinking my (stupid) computer is smarter than me and isn’t so stupid after all. Maybe it’s my past track record with my posts. Okay, computer, you win. This post most certainly will suck but we aren’t going to move it to trash just yet.

Guess what? The farmer’s market is over for the season. Thank goodness to Joseph, Mary and the donkey they rode in on. (I stole that line from my partner, Katie. She uses it and I idolize her so I have to copy her!)  Anyway, I have nothing to do these days except blog. Ha ha ha ha. I’m so funny that I should go on tour.

No, really, I do have some extra time so guess what I have been doing? Cleaning my house. I just cleaned it, like, last May; I don’t know how or why it’s this filthy again.  I have one room done and I have found that all I do is stay in this room and stare at the cleanliness of it. I keep putting off moving to the next room.  The rest of the house is a disaster zone…I kid you not.

 Look…it’s clean. Wow. It only took me 4 days to accomplish this small feat. I shall now show you what kitchen looks like.

 I tried using the vaccuum to clean this mess up.

 Then I realized that the vaccuum was not going to do the job. It would require  an atomic bomb to rid the counter of this caked on, hardened flour mess. So, Cranky used this tool instead. Cranky has big muscles so he was able to manhandle the scraper without much difficulty.  My solution was to bring the pressure washer into the kitchen but after that mess the one time in the upstairs bathroom, Cranky frowns on me using it in the house anymore.  But geez, did that pressure washer ever take off the soap scum and residue in the shower! It also took off the tiles, the grout and the caulking but it sure was a clean shower. I was debating the use of fossil fuels verses harsh cleaning chemicals to clean that disgusting shower and the pressure washer won the heated debate inside my head. Plus, my pressure washer is just a hoot to use. I wrote my name on the shower walls with the power washer wand. Come on…you know a pressure washer is a cool little machine when it has the word, “wand” in it. It’s like magic.  Cranky bought me the pressure washer as a birthday gift one time. It ranks right up there with the best gifts ever like the tap head for my weed whacker and my rototiller. All gifts courtesy of the Crankster. That boy knows I don’t like diamonds or fancy dinners.  The way to my heart is power equipment and water buffalo. But why won’t he buy me water buffalo?

So, back to what else I have been wasting my time with. Oh, we went to get our Christmas tree yesterday.  Katie and her husband sell Christmas trees on their little farm so I bartered some whole wheat flour or something for a huge, huge tree. Here is the youngin’s with the tree they picked out.

They are punks, I tell you. Who dresses them?  Do they have a mother?  Evidently, she has no idea how to patch holes in clothing.

Here is Cranky inhaling carbon monoxide exhaust from the chain saw.  The heck with a bow saw for this job. We would still be there today if we let those youngin’s of ours cut it down with a handsaw. They would have got in some knock down, drag out fight deciding who gets to saw down the tree first.

And there the tree is…still on the truck. I’ll get it in the house one of these days…when I clear a path to get it in.  So, I better get this post finished or else move this post to the trash.

No jelly doughnuts. What the heck?

I’m back from my long, long day. And there were no jelly doughnuts to be found anywhere at the greenhouse plastic covering ceremony.  But in the good news category, I did learn how to set up my greenhouse and cover it with plastic.   I also learned the proper way to attach rocks to the plastic when throwing the attached ropes over the greenhouse roof.  This will avoid ripping the plastic like what happened earlier today.  Good to know. My mental greenhouse list of “what to do” and “what not to do” is full. I can now set forth with setting my own greenhouse up.  Now, I just need the ambition to do it.

Now on to really important stuff…Help me out here.  Is this normal?

Our Hereford bull who obviously thinks he is a dog.

Why can’t he be like the other cows?  Noooo. Our bull has to sit on his bum and act like a watch dog.

See? The other cows are normal.

What's up with him?

So, that’s what today’s post is about…the lack of jelly doughnuts at a greenhouse raising and our bull…otherwise known as “The Dog.”

I think I need to think of some new material.

Just Stuff

I never thought it would take me this long to get another post together as I thought my life would be slowing down a bit this fall. It certainly is not as busy as this past summer but I’m still pretty dog gone busy.  I only have two more farmer’s markets for the season and that is a good thing.  I am ready for a break. 

Since the last time I blogged, there has been a few notable happenings.

We had a Halloween Harvest Hoedown on the farm last weekend.  It was cold, wet, muddy and miserable but we still had a good time.  We usually have  hayrides, games and other fun party stuff but not this year.  We did, however, have a wonderful bluegrass band that played from 6pm until midnight. It was more or less like a jam session with players and pickers taking the stage at any time. And they sure played some great bluegrass music.

Our bandstand filled with bluegrass pickers.

Our pavilion filled with friends and kin folk listening to the music.

I think these two partied too much.

What else happened? Oh, yeah. My oldest boy got his first deer.  I am not a hunter myself but Cranky likes to partake in the slaying of innocent animals.  Needless to say, Cranky sure was proud of our son.  Cranky claims, “It was a hell of a shot!” Yadda, yadda, yadda.  I will just take the photos and pretend that I am so excited about this great  achievement when actually, all I wanted to do was get in out of the cold into the warmth of my house and sit on my bum.

Sorry about the blood.  I forgot to warn you there would be blood and gore in this post.

 

Just look at Cranky and how happy he is.  I have about 50 million other photos just like this.  They  just had to take a crap load of pictures all posing in the same pose of the dead deer, Cranky’s huge, proud smile and the spent bullet. This obviously was exciting stuff in their lives.

I guess one of the traditions of Cranky’s family is that you have to drag your first deer to the butcher shop, skin it yourself, drink the blood and eat the heart. (And pose for more pictures next to the dead deer.) I don’t know if this is bogus or not.  Truthfully, I don’t care.  Cranky took all the youngin’s, the dead deer,and the camera to the butcher shop and left me alone in the my warm house sitting on my bum.

Dragging the dead deer with no help from his brothers.

Is this the part where he eats the heart? I now understand why hunting is so fun.

Okay, enough about the dead deer, proud papa Cranky and ole dead eye, my son. 

I have to head off to bed now.  I have to be up early to help a friend put plastic on her new greenhouse at 7Am.  Seriously, who plans to put plastice on a greenhouse at 7 in the morning?  On a Sunday morning, no less?  Well, my friend, Elaine does.  And when I finally get around to setting up my greenhouse and putting on the plastic, guess what time I am going to do it?  At 7AM and Elaine’s butt better be here helping too.  She is serving donuts.  Really, that is the only reason that I am helping at 7AM on a Sunday morning.  I would never help someone out unless there is donuts involved. And she better have jelly filled too.

 

I blame it all on Jeannette.

Okay, so I have been telling you that I was REALLY busy this past summer and I think most of you believe me because I live on a working farm, have four little youngin’s, two aging parents, one blind brother, a big garden to feed the babes, lots of animals, a new donkey, and one very cranky husband. (This sentence works better if sung to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Do it. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. Nah, not really, but try it anyway.)

So, on top of all this active lifestyle, I also like to peruse Craig’s list. I never even knew anything about Craig’s list until  the summer of 2008 when my dear friends from Wisconsin came to stay with us for a week. That was the summer that I lived in the outfitter’s tent with the youngin’s. I will mention the great thing about Joe and Jeannette from Wisconsin is that they are the greatest houseguests EVER. When they visited, they were thrilled to stay in the outfitter’s tent for their stay which meant that I did not have to clean my insanely messy house for their visit. I could just move back into my own house for a week and it does not bother me one bit to live in this constant state of mess. Thus, this avoided the “whole freaking out because my house is a freakin’ mess and I have guests coming in 3 hours because I procastinated putting off cleaning it because I would much rather be outside puttering around.”  This is my mentality pretty much all of the time. And I wonder why Cranky is cranky?

This is Joe. Joe likes trees. I mean, REALLY likes trees. For Pete's sake, the boy has several college degrees in trees. Seriously.

This is Jeannette. This photo was taken this past winter right after Jeannette just finished puking because she was preggers. She is not pregnant anymore as she delivered a healthy baby boy named Eli who has a lot of hair. A lot.

By the way, Jeannette really does not have red eyes. I have no idea how fix the red eye thingy feature on my camera. But in other news relating to my technically challenged brain and zero computer knowledge, I now know how to link on my posts. Can we hear a big, “HooAhhh!” for my competency in that area?

 So, back to Joe and Jeannette. When they visit, they also cook for themselves, make bread and I can put them to work on the farm and they love it. In fact, Jeannette can throw a hay bale farther than any gal I have ever seen. She is, after all, a former Wisconsin state tree climbing champion. I kid you not. She won a chainsaw out of the deal. Yep, from what I hear, that’s what ‘them there’ cheeseheads do in Wisconsin, milk cows, make cheese, climb trees and polka. Mercy, can’t forget the polka.

Where was I going with this Joe and Jeannette thing?

Oh, oh, yeah, right. I remember.

Jeannette and I were talking about the good, bad and ugly things with computers and the internet. She suggested that I check out Craig’s list as she thought I might like it, as I am cheap and like to barter.  Turns out that I really like Craig’s list.  So much so that Cranky threatens to disconnect the internet because I am always finding “deals too good to pass up” on there. Like the greenhouse. Well, I’m not going to get into the greenhouse incident but let’s just say that one did not end so good. The greenhouse deal ended up with us being involved in a hit and run accident in the Sheetz parking lot, spilled cappuccinos, and several appearances to testify in court against the thug who hit us. But that was just one good deal with bad ending. There were plenty of other “good” deals that went just dandy.

Like for instance, last spring, I answered an add for “hypothetical turkey poults”.  That should have been my first indication as to what type of person was on the other end of that add. Come on, seriously? Who posts an add for turkey poults that aren’t even hatched yet?  Well, this chick did.

Okay, the chick I'm talking about is not the one in the lavender jacket and not the one walking away. It's the chick in the apron in the farm stand. That chick is Katie.

Katie, my Craig’s list “hypothetical turkey poult” add posting friend did just that.  I now consider Katie my friend, because that’s what our Craig’s list connection has blossomed into.  We connected in so many ways, it’s uncanny.

So, what does Katie have to do with my busy summer?  As Katie and my internet connection grew, we shared our dreams for our respective farms with the thoughts of how to sustain our agricultural livelihoods.  Turns out that Katie, who has a small scale iris and plant business, Stoney Creek Iris  was looking for someone to share a stand at a new farmer’s market starting up not far from our homes. Turns out that I was in the process of obtaining my farm bakery license  and was looking for an avenue to sell my goods.  And thus, with some collaboration with another partner, we have had a stand at a busy, thriving farmer’s market from this previous spring to the present time. The market is called appropriately enough, Farmers on the Square as it sits on the square of a little county seat town in Pennsylvania. Farmers on the Square is a local and producer’s only farmer’s market which means than all the goods being sold are produced within a 100 mile radius from the market. It is a participating “Buy Fresh, Buy Local” market.  Our stand is called “The Three Sisters Stand” and we offer quite an ecclectic array of goodies. From goat’s milk soap, shitake mushrooms, herbs, unusual produce, homegrown and homeground artisanal breads made from our own all natural wheat.

 So, now I have this little farm business going which I can not keep up with. I’m just not organized for this type of lifestyle. I mean, come on, I have to be at market at a certain time!? That’s like having a real job. This coming from girl who refuses to wear a watch because I once read that people who do not worry about the time live longer. So, from that day on, out went my wristwatch and I try not to look at our clocks, unless it’s market day. I just know, market day is going to take a couple months off of my life span. I just know it.

So, where am I going with this post? Oh, heck, I forgot. The one thing I can remember is that I blame my new “job” on Jeannette. She is to blame for all of this. Because if she wouldn’t have told me about Craig’s list, I would have never have read the add for hypothetical turkey poults and never met Katie who needed a farmer’s market partner and thus, this vicious cycle would have stopped. It’s like the 6 degrees of separation thing.

And I blame it all on Jeannette.