Unintended Consequences

       Since there was no youth group for the high schoolers, we spent part of Sunday evening watching a video on ethics. A segment of the discussion centered on the fact that while it is wrong to do evil so that good may result, it is sometimes necessary to do good, knowing that there may be unintended evil consequences. I'm not sure that the fact that Drew will be nearly 18 before he gets his drivers license is evil (he might disagree), but it certainly was unintended as a consequence of our time overseas.  This situation would be much worse if we had moved to Nebraska, where 13-year-olds can get permits to operate off-road vehicles, and 14-year-olds can be driving the roads with an adult. Maryland’s age requirements for driving are some of the strictest in the nation, meaning that it isn’t all that unusual for a high school junior not to have a license. Of course, in Nebraska, the cutoff PSAT score for a National Merit Scholarship (2013) was 207, whereas in Maryland, it’s 219. So it’s not all roses around here.

Besides late driving, another advantage of living in Maryland is that we are close to Washington, D.C. This is helpful when trying to remedy another unintended consequence of the Admiraal European Adventure, which is the fact that our kids visited capital cities in England, France, Belgium, Italy, Netherlands, and Norway before they set foot in their own nation’s capital. On Friday, it was time to put matters right -- for Lucas anyway, his older siblings being too occupied with their scholarly pursuits to accompany us.

It’s only about 50 miles to the center of D.C. from our house. I had been warned, however, that Friday afternoon traffic could make our return trip last close to three hours. So we decided that it was time to conquer the East Coast train system, which is nowhere near as comprehensive and convenient as the one in Europe, but is, at the same time, much better than the one in the Midwest. I bought our tickets online, and was informed that if I didn’t show up on the train, my reservation would be cancelled and my money held for me in an account for future Amtrak use, a policy that seemed much more forgiving and friendly than that employed by CFF/SBB in Switzerland. Baltimore’s Penn Station is only 8 miles from our house, but to take public transportation was going to require more than an hour, so we decided to park the car near the station. This took about 30 minutes, which reminded us of driving in Europe. The drive from our house to the train station is one of my favorites, despite the slowness, as it takes us down Saint Paul Street (which the GPS insists on calling Street Paul Street). This boulevard is home to what have to be some of Baltimore’s most gracious and lovely homes, in addition to two university campuses and lots of overhanging trees -- way better than the (perhaps) quicker trip down I-83.

Delivering the donuts outside Penn Station. That is something we didn't see much of in Switzerland.

Baltimore's Penn Station

I had read online complaints about Penn Station being dirty and ill-equipped with restaurants, but it seemed clean and warm to me, the bathrooms did not require us to deposit a coin of any denomination to enter, and there was a Dunkin Donuts. I don’t know what else people are looking for. The train was a little bouncier than the Swiss models and we missed the mountain scenery, but within 40 minutes, we were at D.C.’s Union Station, in walking distance of some of the most famous monuments and museums on the continent. 

Proof that I am not neglecting the civic education of at least one child.

We started with the Air and Space Museum, which, like all Smithsonian museums, has free admission. We saw a real piece of the moon, the real Wright Brothers 1903 flyer, the real Spirit of St. Louis, and some real unmanned military craft. What Luc liked best, though, was the flight simulators (not free, by the way). I opted out when I saw that, though the flying is simulated, the spinning round and round is not. He, however, is saving his mowing money so he can make himself good and sick when we bring the rest of the family to D.C. The cafeteria in the Air and Space Museum is operated by McDonalds, which provided another highlight. 

After lunch, I asked Luc if he would rather visit the artwork in the National Gallery or take the long walk to see D.C.’s major monuments. When told he would be able to walk on the grass, he opted for the monuments. It’s about 2 miles from the Capitol Building, on one end of the National Mall, to the Lincoln Memorial, on the other. We saw the Washington Monument (shrouded in scaffolding to repair earthquake damage, but still impressive), the World War II Memorial, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, and the Lincoln Memorial.  I had been to D.C. as a teenager, but didn’t remember much of our visit. I was probably looking for cute boys, not national landmarks. What struck me this time about Washington, after having visited several other country’s capitals, was all the space. This was clearly a city that had been planned from the beginning, rather than one that grew up over centuries and eventually ended up becoming the capital. 

On the way back to the train station from the Lincoln Memorial, we took a small detour to see the White House, as well as something labeled “Mile Zero” on our map. Mile Zero turned out to be the point from which the distance to D.C. from everywhere else in the country is measured, which was a pretty interesting discovery. The crowd surrounding the marker, however, was more interested in the goings-on on the White House lawn. They said, it appeared, and we’re going with it because it’s a good story -- that the tall man we saw running around with the dogs was President Obama himself. If so, I’m glad he got out to enjoy the beautiful day. There did seem something a little off about all the people -- us included -- being so smitten with seeing the president (maybe) from a distance and behind a fence. After all, we pride ourselves on not being royalty-mad like those crazy Brits. I remember reading last year that John Adams shopped for his own groceries when he was president.  Not that it’s Obama’s fault if he doesn’t swing by Giant on his way home from work. He’d cause a riot. And if that’s a little sad (since the President is supposed to be a citizen like any other), it is also just  the way it is. Brittany Spears would have the same problem.

I haven't figured out how to zoom without making things blurry, so this is as good as it gets. The tiny little dot might be President Obama. At least you can see that the White House is, as Lucas commented, "a white house."

Customer Service

        I was slightly annoyed after I waited at home all Saturday morning for the water heater repair man to show up, only to have him tell me that he couldn't do anything with the water heater, because it was powered by oil. I told him that I was pretty sure that I had communicated that fact on American Home Shield online form, which included the words, "In order for our technicians to resolve the problem in an efficient and timely manner, please provide as much information as possible." He said, "They never tell us anything."
        I was slightly more annoyed Thursday, when the day that I had been told I would need to wait for an oil water heater fixer to appear had turned into five.
        By the following Saturday, I was annoyed enough that Eric had to tell me to speak nicely to the repair man on the phone who said, "What? An oil water heater?" Of course, 4 hours later, Eric was struggling to control his tone of voice when he was told that, oops, no one was on the way, but someone would be soon.
        When the oil water heater repair man left, with our check for $75, which we paid for the privilege of hearing him tell us that he didn't know what was wrong with the heater and it probably wasn't covered anyway, both of us were feeling the stress. We tried to laugh it off.
         The laughter was a bit forced this week, when I stayed home all morning to meet the plumber, who, for another $75 check, was happy to tell us that he couldn't fix our toilet and a replacement wasn't covered by American Home Shield.
         That same day, I spent an hour on the telephone with Hewlitt Packard. We purchased our printer about a year ago in Switzerland. Last week, the ink started getting low, so I went to Target to stock up. I couldn't find the right numbered cartridge, but found one that looked the same. When I took the cartridge home, it fit in the printer. But when I tried to print, the printer display told me that the cartridge was incompatible. Being a resourceful type, I searched the problem online, and found that even though the cartridges are EXACTLY THE SAME, HP puts some sort of secret code on them so that the printer and cartridge must come from the same country. In our increasingly multicultural world, this seems a bit jingoist on the part of HP, but whatever. Happily, an online "HP Expert," reported that all I needed to do was contact HP for a free regionalization reset. Two, one-hour phone sessions later, the HP representative was delighted to tell me that, though a regionalization reset would not work on my printer (for reasons he was unable or unwilling to explain), HP would be happy to "upgrade" the printer . . . if I sent the Swiss one to them at my expense and payed a small upgrade fee. I asked if this would cost more than just going to the store and buying a new printer. He said that it probably would. At this point, I said thank you very much and hung up.
         The most annoying part of that whole annoying week was that I couldn't figure out what it all meant. If there is anything I hate, it is an inconvenience without a lesson. Then last night, I was self-medicating by reading G.K. Chesterton's The Innocence of Father Brown. In the short story, "The Queer Feet," I found the explanation. Chesterton writes:

In the heart of a plutocracy tradesmen become cunning enough to be more fastidious than their customers. They positively create difficulties so that their wealthy and weary clients may spend money and diplomacy in overcoming them. If there were a fashionable hotel in London which no man could enter who was under six foot, society would meekly make up parties of six-foot men to dine in it.

       We went to the aquarium on Saturday, and the best part was watching the dolphin show, wherin the trainers lead the beautiful animals through a series of jumps and tricks that everyone seems to enjoy. I hope American Home Shield and Hewlitt Packard got similar joy from our contortions to make their systems work. But at some point, even we become weary of jumping through hoops.

        This weekend, Drew leaned how to install a toilet.
        And our new printer is an Epson.

That's a Sport?

The youngest of my children has been a surprise since T-9 months, when I found out he was on the way. Sometimes, the surprise is one I could do without -- like the time when he was 7 or 8, and he called 911 to scare his sister -- then ran away when the police actually showed up at the door. Sometimes, the surprise is a happy one -- like the time he won the 4th grade spelling bee, or the time I returned from an interminable afternoon at the DMV to find he had baked a banana cream pie. Sometimes, the surprise is just a surprise -- like when he demonstrated his ability to say the entire Greek alphabet. He can always be trusted, however, to pursue the quirky, the offbeat, the unusual. So, it probably shouldn’t be a surprise to me that when I told him he had to participate in a sport, the one he chose was . . . surprising. One that I hadn’t even realized was a sport.

As it turns out, climbing is indeed a sport, with teams, practices, meets, and even seasons. Providentially for Luc’s career, our new home is within 5 miles of one of the most established climbing gyms in the East. Luc’s first competition was on Saturday, and so he and I left the house at the unspeakable (for him) hour of 7:30 a.m. to drive to the appropriately named Rockville. For the uninitiated, it may come as a surprise that there were no actual rocks involved. The climbing walls are indoors and covered with colorful, man-made projections that made me feel like I had dropped into a cartoon alien world.

I expected to see a dancing bunny advertising Froot Loops at any minute.

Mostly spectators, waiting for the climbing to begin.

For Lucas, the importance of topping a wall was completely erased by the importance of hanging out with his buddies. 

  It’s autumn, which means that it is bouldering season. Bouldering, for those who, like me, are unfamiliar with the sport, is climbing without ropes. It involves not only a great deal of strength, but also technical skill and experience.

Luc working on a wall. He was supposed to use only the orange holds. The older climbers could use only the green. Picture trying to reach the top that way. I actually saw several boys achieve that feat (see below).

See the green hold on the top right? That's the one he has to touch with both hands.

        The walls are not terribly high -- although the mats underneath are definitely necessary -- but they are usually tilted in what seems to me to be the wrong direction for climbing ease. Saturday’s competition had three levels based on age, and for each group, there were 7 or 8 routes, called “problems.” Competitors had four hours to try as many problems as they could. They received points for reaching the top and also for something called “bonus holds,” which I still don’t understand. Each climber could try a wall as many times as he wanted. 

Don't they realize that if they tilted the walls the other way, bouldering would be much easier?

Some of the routes, particularly for the oldest group, seemed simply impossible. The strength and grace of some of these older (16 - 18-year-old) climbers was impressive and flat-out fun to watch. But what was most surprising about the competition was how difficult it was. The most common sound heard in the gyn was the “thwack” of climbers hitting the mats as they fell off the wall. My unprofessional estimate is that about 10 percent of attempted climbs resulted in success. Some walls, I never saw anyone top, and many kids didn't top a single wall. I gained a new respect for kids who want to participate in a sport where victory is so elusive and so painfully won. I may bemoan the digital generation for its short attention span and addiction to immediate reward, but none of that was evident in Rockville last Saturday.

The sound of climbers slapping the mat was matched by the sight -- and smell -- of the chalk they use to keep their hands from slipping. 

Luc did finally reach the top of this wall.  Of course, I had put away the camera by that time,
so this shot will have to do.

The Nice American

         Americans are really nice.

         I am trying to focus on the good things about living where I do, and this is one of the big ones. When I went to the pharmacy yesterday, I got a big smile and a seemingly sincere, "How are you doing today?" from the young woman behind the counter. She laughed with the pharmacist when the noise of the register tape made her jump, and she told the aged, hunched woman behind me how nice she looked today. Far from being an isolated incident, I can almost count on a pleasant exchange with someone every time I leave the house. The grocery store cashier complements my choice of snack bar, the man at Toyota runs out to see if I need help with my plates, the school secretary answers my questions cheerfully. This kind of friendliness is not a worldwide phenomenon. I notice and appreciate it now in a way I did not before.

        That said, let's move on to the day's main topic. As I said, I am working on appreciating my location. This does not come naturally since, as it turns out, Baltimore is neither Geneva nor Cincinnati, which are at least two of the places ahead of it on the list of Places I Want to Be Right Now. In this spirit of aspirational appreciation, I decided that it was Time for an Adventure. So after dropping Luc and Jo at Co-op last Monday, I set off to see what Central Maryland had to offer.
        Being a mildly goal-oriented kind of person, I had previously googled "vintage furniture Westminster." Our Realtor, who has been the good fairy behind both our home and all our home improvements, had further suggested that I should find some antiques to furnish the living room. So I obediently set out for the Westminster Antique Mall. The Co-op is about an hour from our house, in what, after living in Baltimore County, seemed like the barren countryside of Carroll County. I drove through rolling green hills, past red barns and white farmhouses, under a clear sky of the blue that only autumn brings. When I reached the Antique Mall, it was closed.

Closed, but with a promising look.

       Happily, this was because it was only 9 in the morning. I decided to push the envelope of adventure by visiting the nearest grocery store while I waited for the mall to open at 10. Unhappily for adventure, but happily for efficiency, the nearest grocery was a chain that has become familiar to me in recent weeks.

I highly recommend Giant. Good private-label, veggie sticks, Jones Soda . . . .

            After a successful (measured by the fact that all the groceries fit into the bags I brought) shopping expedition, I took care of answering some phone calls, setting up an orthodontist appointment, and scheduling time for Drew to drive with the instructor.  
   

The mobile office.

       I returned to the Antique Mall, finding it open this time. I am not a seasoned antique shopper. We've always been more the kind of people who wait around for someone to give us furniture. Since we don't really know anyone in Baltimore -- with or without furniture -- that didn't seem like a viable option. Plus, at 42, it's probably time for us to stop behaving like college students and buy our own stuff.  Anyway, I could get into antique shopping. Being at the Antique Mall was kind of like being at my Grandma Emy's, Aunt Nancy's, and Aunt Betty's houses -- all at the same time. I had no idea about the quality or value of anything I was looking at, but I was charmed nonetheless.

What do you think about this for the living room?

How about these? The tables, not the glassware, of course.

        I didn't end up buying anything, being unable to make decisions about anything but groceries or textbooks without other family members weighing in. Plus, now I have a great excuse to go back next week. I traveled back to the church where the Co-op meets through the center of Westminster, which is as homey a country town as I could ask for. I ate a bagel at a place called Sam's, which was right on the main street. The lady tending the counter asked me to help her thread her needle (which I did), and shared her parking woes. A man came in and asked her to sponsor a softball team. She agreed and went back to her hand-towel sewing. She warned me not to put any salt on my sandwich, because the chicken salad was already salty. I felt like a regular.

Sam's

        I made it back to Co-op in time to be the English helper and the art helper (guess which one I'm better at). Maryland is not Geneva. It's not Cincinnati either. And my adventure was hardly earth-shattering -- I didn't even buy a teaspoon. But for that morning, I was content to be where I was.

Driving in Baltimore

       This is the view out my window as I drive on I-695 around Baltimore. 

Don't worry. Johanna took this picture. All my hands were on the wheel.

       This is my speedometer.

I'm not telling who took this picture.

       Comparing these two pictures, you wouldn't think that cars would be whizzing past me on every side, would you? 

        Loyal readers will recall that my favorite thing about Geneva was the public transportation. Our one car mostly sat in the garage. If the kids wanted to go somewhere, they took the tram. My groceries arrived at my door.

Life has changed a bit since we returned to the US. This is my new best friend and constant companion.

At least it's a pretty color, right?

And this is what I spend a lot of time looking at.

Yes. They all have their brake lights on. Always.

I am sure that there are worse roads in the world that I-695. It’s just that I have never driven on one. The speed limit may be 55 mph, but everyone is either going 75 mph or at a complete standstill. And we switch from one speed to the other without warning. Combined with the every-half-mile merges, five other interstates shooting off and joining up, and ubiquitous construction, it is no surprise that there’s been an accident on this interstate almost every time I’ve driven on it. Which is far more frequently than I could ever ask or imagine. The accidents don’t do much to regularize the traffic flow, although they do provide ample opportunity for spontaneous prayer. Which is better than spontaneous cursing.

Our neighbor, who is a Baltimore native, told us that when he took driver’s ed, the instructor told the class to always drive 8 miles over the speed limit. Apparently to avoid being run over from behind. We’re not in Geneva anymore, Toto. And not in the Midwest, either. Gone are the friendly farmers in pickup trucks who wave other cars on in front of them and regard the speed limit as an upper, rather than a lower limit. 

My (least) favorite road sign sends me into panic every time I see it. Tell me, how am I supposed to drive in a mature and responsible fashion with this kind of instruction?

In Indiana, they'd tell you to get ready to start thinking about merging pretty soon. Right after you finish your donut. Here, this is the first warning they give.

If the other drivers are any indication, the answer is, I’m not.

 

The Cathedral

We have been visitors in eight different churches over the past nine weeks. This is surely a record of some kind, and a streak that I do not hope to extend. The experience has been, however, educational.

It’s actually not quite fair to say that we have visited all eight churches, because we started at Crossroads, our own joyful, multicultural, multilingual congregation in Ferney-Voltaire, France. At Crossroads, the music is unpredictable and depends on who is leading. One Sunday it could be Dolly from Nashville with gospel hymns, another it’s the youth pastor’s tribute to Edwin Hawkins, then it’s Mosh-Pit Terry and the band. The Crossroads congregation, composed of expats, is a flexible and sporting bunch who celebrate in whatever way they’re led. My thought when we first visited, two years ago upon our arrival in Geneva, was: “These people really love Jesus.” And it makes them really happy.

Mosh-Pit Terry’s louder twin was leading music at Hunt Valley Church, which we visited on our house-hunting trip to Baltimore. The worship hour was like being at a deafening concert and I didn’t know a single song, all of which made me grouchy and judgmental. Nevertheless, the congregation was into it -- even the white-haired members. I did chuckle, slightly, when a woman tripped up to the podium to announce an upcoming silent retreat. But then, not only was the sermon Biblical and interesting, but the pastor quoted Flannary O’Conner. I started to unbend. Some other members of the family, who shall remain nameless, appreciated the fact the the service lasted EXACTLY one hour. I later noticed the digital clock on the back wall. It’s matched by one in the lobby that lets lingerers know how many seconds they have to find a seat before the service begins. 

The next Sunday felt like Homecoming Weekend for the Aliens. After having been members of North Cincinnati Community Church in Mason, Oh., for seven years, we knew people from the greeter at the door, to the minister, to the family sitting in front of us. Some of our closest friends were there, and it took us at least an hour to extricate ourselves after the service. Though the music has gotten a bit peppier since we left, the service was familiar. It felt safe and comfortable to listen to a sermon from a pastor whom we knew -- from years of experience -- that we could trust to be seeking what God had to say to his congregation. 

The fourth week found us in Grand Rapids. Eric’s dad is the Michael Jordan of ministers -- he  just can’t seem to stay out of the pulpit. He has officially retired from his second denomination, but still seems to be preaching every Sunday. We went with him to the small congregation that he was leading. The organ music, the traditional hymns, the well-thought-out, three-point sermon all prompted Drew to say, “This is the kind of service I’ve been waiting for.”

Orange United Methodist welcomed us the next Sunday. It’s a tiny church that shares a pastor with another congregation -- and the pastor isn’t seminary-trained or full-time himself. I think most of the people there moseyed over from the houses nearby. We immediately doubled the size of the group when we walked through the whitewashed doors and sat in the age-worn wooden pews. Pastor Dean greeted everyone by name and told us that he was going to preach the Bible, “and I’m sorry if your feelings get hurt.” I can’t imagine anyone having  feelings hurt by this jolly, country Santa Claus of a man, but I always appreciate his candor. The truth that those tiny country churches embody is that in God’s family, everyone is important, everyone is noticed, and if they’re not there, everyone is missed.

I like Trinity PCA in Northern Kentucky because: 1) They’ve taken over and are refurbishing an abandoned church building, which is recycling at its best, as far as I am concerned; 2) I taught English years ago to the pastor’s kids -- and his daughter-in-law; and 3) Lots of people whom I have met through the years in various places have drifted there. I also (and I am kind of alone in my family in this) get a real kick out of liturgy. Don’t tell Lucas, or it will further confirm his opinion that I am just plain boring. Also, the Westminster Catechism makes me cry, which I realize is not so much boring as really odd. Trinity was extremely convenient, as Lucas, Johanna, and I were headed to the airport afterwards to pick Drew up. He was returning from India, where his church experience rivaled mine, to be sure. India seems to specialize in the two-hour church service, as a starting point. The translation of the sermon did add some extra time. Eric was back in Geneva that Sunday, at Crossroads, the lucky dog.

I don’t know why, but North Baltimore seems to be a hotbed of Presbyterianism. This is good, because it provides a variety of churches with which we feel doctrinally aligned. This is bad, because it makes us picky. We visited Timonium Presbyterian Church the first week after we moved into our new house. We visited Hunt Valley again the second week, and last week we ended up at Aisquith PCA. The pastor at Aisquith told us we had come to the wrong service (the 9:30 one), because that was the service where all the old people used to come. When they were still alive. He really did say that, though not in exactly those words.

When we visited Hunt Valley for the second time, Johanna told us it reminded her of the churches she had visited earlier in the summer in Uganda. Only quieter. And no one was dancing in the aisles at Hunt Valley. The pastor talked about how the church is like an ancient Cathedral that has been added onto through the years. The foundation might be from the 500s, there might be Gothic buttresses and Romanesque columns and a modern glass steeple. It’s a good illustration of our summer, visiting different churches that sing, preach, and pray in a variety of ways (and languages), but are all part of the House of God.

Queen of the Rednecks

      A word of advice for those who want to see the best of America: Avoid Great Wolf Lodge. Those who know me well will not be surprised to hear that I am not really a resort/amusement park/arcade kind of person. (You may be surprised to learn that I do love a good water slide.) Nevertheless, despite some really good water slides, Great Wolf Lodge does not put forward our country's best face.
      The Aliens ended up spending a few days at Great Wolf Lodge when we first returned to the US this summer. The other hotels in the Mason area were, inexplicably, booked, and we needed a home base from which to drive our children to see their various friends. So we checked into the lodge. The whole hotel is set up to provide an exhaustingly entertaining experience. Kids run up and down the halls on treasure hunts with magic wands that set off chimes, bells, and voices. Hysterically cheerful desk clerks check in guests. The arcade bings and beeps like a junior version of Las Vegas, the snack bars and restaurants hawk enormous portions of sugar and fat. It's the culture of R&R at its most frenetic. The clientele seems to be mostly made up of people who should definitely not appear in public in their bathing suits, but who have decided to buy string bikinis several sizes too small. They have attempted to make up for the clothing deficiency by covering up with tattoos.
       I spent the first few days at Great Wolf Lodge feeling fit, smug, and a little shell-shocked. Then came day number 3. I returned, sticky and hot, from a humid, two-hour bike ride with my fitter and better-bike-equipped friend, but decided to wait until after lunch to shower. Drew and I walked across the street to Chipotle, the rest of the family being occupied elsewhere. We returned from our lunch, hotter and stickier, and found that our little wolf bracelets didn't work to open the door to our room. So we trotted down to the desk, where we met Eric, who had come back from his lunch to discover the same thing. We explained our problem to the friendly desk clerk, who told us,
       "Oh, that's because checkout is at 11."
       But we weren't checking out until the following day.
       "I have you checking out today."
       But we booked the room for four nights.
       "That's right -- four nights from Sunday to Wednesday." Smile.
        But we arrived on Monday.
       "But you were booked from Sunday to Wednesday." More smiles. This clerk was cheery, but she wasn't a pushover. And seemingly, she had the paperwork (the electronic version at least) to prove it. Also, while we were taken aback at being summarily evicted from our room, we weren't entirely sure that we hadn't made a booking mistake. We were buying a house, moving from one country to another, sending a child on a mission trip to India, trying to enroll in a public school without yet being residents of the district, planning a year of homeschooling, and keeping up a fairly intense social life. Sometimes when you have a lot of balls in the air, one drops.
        Seeing that our stuff was still in the room, the clerk did relent enough to allow us access for 30 minutes. No more. What did she think we were going to do, steal the soap? If she did, she was right. I used part of my 30 minutes after being asked to leave Great Wolf Lodge to take a much-needed shower. Then we packed up as quickly as we could and hauled ourselves ignominiously to the only home we had left -- our rented van.
       The experience left me with one question: If Great Wolf Lodge is the bastion of the American Redneck, and I just got myself kicked out of Great Wolf Lodge, what does that make me?