The Danger of Mummification & Other Marriage Perks

d1eb1177c2b3d3a71f15d30d944b782aThis morning, I did my usual “What’s going on in the world?” perusal of the internet. CNN, Jezebel, and BlogLovin all received their due attention, before I stumbled across a story that turned my arm hair white. A woman in a Detroit suburb was found mummified in the back of her car, after having been dead for six years.

These were, in order, my reactions:

  1. Egads! (Horror.)
  2. Eww! (Think of the smell! Unless there wasn’t a smell, because she was so desiccated. Does a mummy smell like anything other than dust? I need to reread the Amelia Peabody series stat.)
  3. How!? (All of her bills were auto-drafted and she traveled a lot, so her neighbors thought she was just a globe-hopping introvert. Until, of course, some hapless roof repairman sent by the bank that eventually took over her mortgage was directed to check out the house…and he discovered her mummy.)
  4. Oh plummy tartlettes, this could happen to me! I autopay my bills, too! (Modern woes.)
  5. Wait, no. I have the Professor. Surely, he would notice if I were a corpsicle, before I started imitating Queen Hatshepsut in the back of my Volvo. He would totally miss my sparkling observations on Logan vs. Piz and all the pies I bake. There is minimal chance of me becoming a vehicular mummy.  MARRIAGE IS THE GREATEST.

Yesterday, a dear friend of mine asked how married life was. My answer was “It’s awesome. Exactly the same as living-in-sin life!”, however, that’s not quite true. Being married to Professor McGregor means rarely having to worry about becoming a forgotten desiccated corpse. It’s still possible, but the Grace train would have to really go off the rails.

There are other things that are way better, too. The man knows me so well that, each and every morning, he pries me out of bed with a perfectly made cup of coffee. If that doesn’t sound extraordinary to you, then you never did a stint slinging lattes in college. In order for me to properly enjoy home-brewed coffee, my milk (1/3 of the cup’s worth) must be microwaved for precisely thirty-eight seconds, then one Splenda and the tiniest drop of vanilla are added, before finally pouring the coffee into the damned cup. Otherwise, it will taste weird and be lukewarm and my whole day will collapse around me. For the first part of our relationship, I wisely insisted on attending to my own cup of Joe, so as not to appear like the pretentious maniac I am. Now, Professor McGregor does it for me. Happily. At his own suggestion. With organic fair trade espresso beans that I have delivered from Austin once a month, instead of the economical and perfectly fine grocery store stuff he drank before.

Also, not to give y’all too much information, but the marriage bed is awesome. Maybe it’s because we don’t have kids and neither one of us burned up the hook-up trail, but having a partner who knows what you like and sleeps right next to you every night is bitchin’. The next time someone tells me they don’t believe in marriage, because it squashes personal freedom, I’m just going to tell them about all the bedsport that comes with it. That’s right, it’s so good, I’m calling it bedsport. The only things worth raving about are worth doing so in archaic Regency slang.

My official review on marriage: two thumbs up. What’s better than perfect coffee, great sex with your beloved, and probably not becoming a car mummy? Nothing.

– Grace

At Least I’ve Learned A Few Things

The Breakup Chronicles: Part 2

First off, y’all are wonderful.  Thank you for your outpouring of support.  Sometimes we write just needing to get it out, and forget that people will have things to say.  And what you did say to me meant more to me than I can express.  You didn’t have to take the time to say a word, but you did, and it helped me a lot.  Never double that your kind words in a tough time are doing so much for someone.

Things are still uncertain and who likes uncertainty?  Not this girl.  I had grand plans to talk to Francois about it – a little check in, if you will – but when we last chatted I was tired and worried that I wouldn’t be quite eloquent enough.  So here we are.  Breakup week the second, confusion week the second.

I’m determined not to text him (or, you know, at least until Saturday).  Do you know how hard it is not to text?  It’s like when you’ve had a drink or two, and you know you really shouldn’t drunk text but you do because it’s so fun!  You’re so funny!  People must love you!  And then in the midst of that fun, when you’re trying to tell Grace one thing, you get drunk digits and instead ask her to milk you.  You know. Awkward times. (For the record, I don’t remember what I meant to tell her, but it was most certainly not for her to milk me.)    Right. Where were we?  Oh yes… I’ve been getting mixed signals out the wazoo which feels great because it feeds that little bit of hope I have, but it’s crappy because it keeps him in my thoughts.  And at the back of my mind I know that 99% of the time this sort of thing isn’t going to work out but those mixed signals are very powerful.  You tell yourself that you might be the situation that works.  It could be you!  Which is all to say, if you see me with a cell in my hand this week, you have permission to yell, “KATE, STEP AWAY FROM THE PHONE.”

Here we are.  Day 9.   Here is what I’ve learned thus far:

When your bestie offers to drive in to see you?  Take her up on it.  Best friend therapy often can’t be topped and you’ll kick yourself for missing that needed time with her.  True, you will probably talk her ears off but she’s a doctor and can sew them back on.

Hang out with people, no matter how much you want to wallow or stay glued to Facebook checking for signs of activity.  (It’s unseemly the amount of time I’ve spent checking to see if he’s been active.  Someone save me.)  It’s very possible Francois will pull himself out of my life for good, but my friends aren’t leaving me anytime soon.  In times like these they are especially supportive and say the kind of thoughtful things that make you cry not because of sadness, but because you’re not sure how you got lucky enough to have them in your life.

Wine is delicious.

Pathetic walks by the lake aside, exercise is healthy.  Go on an extra long run but this time focus on overtaking the guy in front of you rather than checking the parking lots for signs of Francois.  Admire the runner’s calves as you approach.  Race past him.  Feel victorious when you leave him in the dust.  Round the corner so he can’t see you.  Walk.

Hug your cats.  I’m still missing the lazy mornings in bed with Francois but little furry gatos can be pretty comforting.  I will be not ashamed of my cat lady status.

Listen to your mother:

I hope for Francois’ sake he realizes he’s being a dick.  Because he is not going to find another Kate Hepburn.  Sometimes guys need a hammer to the head.  Just a little tap.

and later…

If things don’t work out, since you keep finding better and better guys, I think you should set your cap for…Prince Harry? Why not?

Also, two solid hours of dancing around in one’s underwear and lip syncing to Bruno Mars and Carole King is recommended.  Not that I have experience with such a thing.


The Stages of a Breakup

The Breakup Chronicles: Part 1

Spinster friends, I was in relationship bliss over the past several months.  We’ll call him Francois the Dapper because he really is dapper and he’s kind and interesting and smart and funny and pretty damn attractive.  So you can imagine my…

1.  Shock

…when he texted me the other night and asked to come over.  I knew something was up, as he never asked to come over before (we’re, after all, of the generation where nobody can seem to make a decision: “What are you up to?”  “Nothing much.  You?”  “Nothing much.”  “Wanna do something?”  “Yah, what were you thinking?”  “Not really sure.  You?”  “I don’t care.”).  He walked through the door, stopped me when I tried to kiss him, and my heart plummeted.  A chill of dread spread through me, I felt hot, and all I could do was look at the floor, avoiding eye contact as I stated to myself over and over, “I will not cry, I will not cry!”  I’ll spare you the upsetting details but suffice it to say it involved a past relationship, lingering baggage, and confusion over his feelings.  My heart was wrenched apart, but I quite calmly offered my support and understanding.  I also offered him a piece of cake.  Then that night that I poured my feelings onto 4 single-spaced pages of nearly 2,000 words.  Y’all, I could not stop the words or the feelings.  I knew I was in…

2.  Mourning

There weren’t enough tea bags in the world to shrink the bags under my eyes.  You know the feeling; it’s where the tears roll down your cheeks in fat drops and you’re just not sure they’re going to stop this time.  It – I – was just so sad.  I re-lived every good time, every future plan.  I tried outlining the bad times I could think of, hoping they’d make me feel better, but they were only a reminder of how well I felt we worked through our problems.  I texted Francois, and asked to meet him again.  He agreed.  It gave me…

3.  Hope

Not only did we chat, but we got pastries.  I poured out my feelings.  I told him all my fears about the situation and my hopes.  He listened, he told me he had a lot to think about, and then he asked me if I wanted to hang out.  Can you blame me for saying yes?  And it was pretty nearly great, save for that two hours of a movie we spent without holding hands for the first time since I’d known him.  We parted ways in the evening and I sobbed my feelings to Grace and to my mother, but I maintained the day meant something.  He was thinking about it.  The next day I contemplated all the possibilities.  Things were looking up so I took a walk around the lake which only served to send me to a whole new level of…

4. Patheticism

Shut up.  That’s a word.  And that walk?  It was to take advantage of the sunshine and the beautiful weather!  To clear my mind and increase my endorphins!  To watch the sunset!  Or so I fooled myself to think.  I looked in every parking lot for his car, hoping that the distant runner was him coming toward me.  By the end of the walk, I was dragging my sobbing, puddly mess into the car, dialing Grace and asking her to tell me that I wasn’t the most pathetic person that ever lived.  She’s a good friend, she told me I was normal.  And then later that night, Francois called me.  We talked for 30 minutes and my hope was renewed.  And it was then that I began seeking …

5. Validation

…from nearly anyone who would listen.  Grace and my mother?  Check, check.  My coworkers?  Check.  The mailman? Check.  It was really important to talk it out.  Really damn important to tell my side of things and have others tell me that my feelings were reasonable.  I need them to confirm my interpretation of how he should feel and how it made sense.

6.  Obsession

There was also a really low moment in there.  Like, really, freakin’, low.  As in, I figured out the mysterious her.  And when I say “figured out” I mean I went through every length of internet stalking I could think of.  I’m so good at it, people should pay me.  We went to the same college.  We share a couple of friends.  She’s funny.  She works in advertising and marketing.  She’s a runner.  She has a gummy smile.  The list…it goes on.  You can bet I revisited the same pages over and over and over again, obsessing about why she should have left such an impression on this guy that I cared about, why their old relationship was ruining mine.

6. Anger at Him

This came on just a fast as it ended.  I think the outrage of my friends seeped into my own mind and I was so angry that he would contemplate giving up on us and giving in to something that wasn’t ever going to be.  There isn’t doubt that I won’t feel anger again, but it was short lived because I soon directed all my…

7. Anger at Her

Sure, this might not be the most logical thing, but I go back to what Francois told me about the relationship and it makes me steaming mad.  They were that on-again-off-again couple, and based on what very little I know (read: I’m a writer and I’ve crafted an entire relationship story from a few limited comments), I’ve concluded she was a terrible, no-good person who didn’t deserve Francois.  That’s a little harsh.  But you know, people you care about deserve better.  Also: sometimes I’m petty and I act like a 12-year-old.

8. Confusion

Rehashing every look, action, and word of this breakup sent me into confusion in the end.  Francois never called it a breakup, he just said he had to think about things.  I gave him so many easy outs in our conversations, and he never took them.  I even asked that whatever the answer was, that I just got a clearly defined one.  None of this casual conversation that fades into nothing because he’s trying to spare my feelings.  Please not that.  He agreed.

So here we are.  The stages aren’t complete. I don’t doubt that most people feel they can see this for what it is, but I’m still confused and waiting.  There’s also the responsibility that one needs to place on Francois, lest you think I’m ignoring that. But I gave myself permission to stop feeling embarrassed about my feelings – my hope – and I’m just riding the emotions for now, rather than forcing myself out of them.  It was a debate to share this with you, Spinster friends.  There’s always that fear of looking ridiculous, but I can’t be the only one who has experienced all of the above, and sometimes it’s good to put it out there because someone else might read it and have that sigh of relief that their own similar situation is… normal.

Where Have All the Love Letters Gone?


My workplace is limiting my email storage so I’ve been forced to look at emails I wrote back in the day.  It’s fun to see how unprofessional I was when I was a wee little Kate, making my foray into the business world.  Like the time I used 17 exclamation points in one message.  That was really cool.  I’m sure the Vice President who got my three-paragraph thank you email about lunch thought that was really cute.  But I digress. It was during this clean-up that I came across a rather large group of emails from my last official boyfriend in ::coughcough2007coughcough::. It would have been weird to go through them, re-read them, re-live my mindset from back then, so I quickly glanced at a couple then did a mass delete and it felt good.  But! I was reminded of something missing in my life and the lives of others.

Where have all the cowboys love letters gone? [It adds a little something if you sing it to the tune of that Paula Cole song.  Is it stuck in your head now?  You’re welcome.]

We live in an age where the love letter has been replaced with the email or the text message.  While some could use this as a platform to lament the use of the email or the text message, I will not.  You see, I actually like them quite a bit.  As opposed to a letter, they’re something you can get unexpectedly, any time of the day.*  That text message I got after a grueling meeting, the one from a date telling me he looks forward to seeing me tonight?  Yah, I’ll never object to it.

However, it’s the sheer volume of text messages and emails, and the obvious ease of sending them, which makes the love letter special, coveted, and missed.  It says something when your significant other takes the time to pull out the nice paper, a pen, and spend the time to come up with the perfect way to describe your golden locks or the way he goes all mushy when you tilt your head just so.  Or maybe he’s just letting you know how much he enjoyed the road trip to that one vineyard, and how he got to spend so much time with you.  I tear up just thinking about it!  Really.

Further, love letters provide the perfect opportunity for you to use your lover’s full name in a way that’s really sexy.  In romance novels, the heroine always notices when the hero uses her first name for the first time.  I don’t know about you, but seeing My Dearest Katharine** on the page would definitely make my lady parts quiver a little bit more than seeing plan ol’ Kate.  And that’s just the first few words!

Love letters are an acceptable place to describe that weird quirk about your lover that you never knew how to say in person.  Or maybe shouldn’t say.  Like the fact that in the mornings you like watching his nostrils flare while he’s still sleeping.  You think it’s cute.  But maybe that conversation is one that doesn’t go as smoothly in person.  The love letter, instead, lets you express these things and you get to avoid seeing the weird look on his face. But know that the weird look will probably turn into a blush and he’ll take a certain pride knowing his nostrils give you so much pleasure.

Love letters have an enduring and tangible aspect that just isn’t with an email or a text.  No digging through filed emails or trying to remember that sweet text message from five years ago.  The letters are there, in your hands, always available, and looking more loved and cherished over time.  Someday, your kids might even think they’d be great scrapbook material!

The road goes both ways on this one.  Men enjoy getting letters just as much as women.  Dare I say they even enjoy the well-thought letter even more than many women do?

How many of you get handwritten love letters on a regular basis?  Do tell!


*But to that guy, who texted me at 11:30 P.M., telling me he only wanted me to sit next to him in bed and talk and “nothing more.”  Yah, you didn’t fool me.  Less than subtle and highly offensive.
**But while we’re on this topic, a note of caution; the love letter is not the place to test out that new “pumpkin cheeks” name you thought of when you saw your loved one bending over in the supermarket aisle to reach for that can of green beans.

The Hickey: A Plague! A Mythical Love Plague!

Iil_570xN.392181666_nxoln eighth grade, I knew a lot about kissing.

I hadn’t actually done a lot of kissing, mind you, but I’d heard expert advice on such matters. (Note: For a thirteen year-old Grace, those experts were Dawson’s Creek, the classic movie channels, and Ashley Lindsey from my US History class who made out with her boyfriend in the canyon behind school every afternoon.) In my mind, there were three absolute rules of kisses:

  1. The greatest one of all time had already happened, thanks to Wesley and Buttercup, so the pressure was off.
  2. Boys tasted like Doritos and rubber orthodontia bands.
  3. If you really made out with someone, you’d have to wear a turtleneck the next day.

Two of these things ended up being true. The third, however, was a load of hippopotamus vomit. Do you know how bloody impossible it is to give someone a hickey, kittens? In order to make that perfectly crimson blemish, a delicate balance of sucking and biting must occur. All of this must happen while making noises of make out delight and balancing atop your prey partner. So: biting, sucking, and balancing. These things do not go together seamlessly, unless you are a world-renowned lollipop gymnast. You’re not. You will bite too hard, or suck with too much effort. Unless your kissing partner is a masochist, such attempts shall result in high-pitched squeals of pain, not a hickey.

How did this become our visual shorthand for passionate encounters? Give me tousled hair! Give me beard burn! Instead, we’re left with rare painful welts. Kissing shouldn’t have so much in common with Ebola, friends. What’s next? Using Black Death-esque buboes as code for “We’re pregnant!”? Nothing says bundle-of-joy like massively swollen lymph glands!

What’s more, if my kissing partner ever actually marked me in such a way, I’d be enraged. Deigning to make out with someone does not make you theirs to mark! If you want to tell the world you like me, buy some damned flowers. Roses speak of affection more efficiently than scabs. If Professor McGregor broke skin during our canoodling, I’d have grave concerns about his mortality. Have you encountered anyone who sparkles lately, love? Is your skin turning to ash in the sun?

We brand cattle, not romantic partners. If you’ve practiced giving hickeys enough to actually be able to pull them off, please put your free time to better use. You’d, no doubt, be good at imitating a blowfish. Perhaps join a circus as The Human Sea Porcupine? Whatever you do, don’t hickey any more unsuspecting souls. That’s how these ridiculous tropes get started. Now, if you’d share what you’ve learned here today with Those Construction Workers Who Whistle at Women Pedestrians, it would save me ever so much time.

So, am I the only one who’s never displayed this ultimate sign of passion? Tell me true, love hamsters. Hickeys: fact or fiction?

– Grace

Go Eat Worms, Nagging Baby Pushers!

justins-baby-card21Kittens, I am here to disillusion you.

You think, much as I once did, that the annoying questions will stop once you’re engaged. You think, having “landed a man,” that people will stop handing out unsolicited life advice and finally let you be happy, because—devil take it!—you’ve done what society wants, right? Not so, my dear yarn pouncers. You see, once the questions about your single status stop, The World starts in on wildebeests babies.

Welcome to pastel-wallpapered, pacifier-laden hell.

[For the purpose of dramatic recreation, The World will be played by italicized blue text, while the part of Grace will be sensibly vertical.]

We’re so excited for you and Professor McGregor, darling Grace! You must be so relieved that a man is deigning to marry you and your feminist ways. So, when are you having babies?

Not for a really long time. Like, at least five years.

Five years? Oh, my naïve Grace. Haven’t you heard how fertility works? Right now is the best/only time to have darling lumps of babykins!

Well, it’s not the best time for us. You see, the dear professor wants to get tenure first and I need to start and finish my residency. We just don’t have the time or resources!

Maybe you didn’t hear us correctly, sugar lump. If you don’t have babies in your twenties, you’ll give birth to horned horrors of children whose only forms of communication are shrieking and ritual sacrifices. We didn’t tell you this when you were single, just in case you were a spinster for another decade, but having babies in your twenties is crucial!

But we don’t want children yet. Every time a child screams in the grocery store, Professor McGregor and I high-five about not being parents. If we had kids now, I’d probably just hate them for the first year. I love sleep! My selflessness is really not developed enough to sacrifice it. We’ll chance the horns, thanks.

My dear, that’s how we all thought, until we had button-nosed mushy pea faces of our own. Once you see their wee, dear faces, you can handle all manners of trials. Sleep deprivation and never-ending screams are nothing, in light of your love! Why, the first time your spawn urinates on you is a moment to always be cherished!

We’re not ready for babies. Leave off.

But think of your grandmother, Grace. Doesn’t she deserve to be a great-grandmother?

My cousins, Alfred and Sage, have already taken care of that. We are totally absolved of any pressure!

But your father would love little ones to watch Notting Hill with!

My father would also love a dog. How about we get him one of those, instead? I’ve heard Labradoodles adore romantic comedies.

How can you be so selfish? Don’t you know that it’s your duty as a woman and a human being to have children? This is the next step, you callow girl. You’re supposed to get married and start a family. The species must propagate!

I call bullshit. On all of it. Are you ever suspicious that some people don’t actually have thoughts in their heads at all, but societal scripts they run through daily? That, perhaps, we’re surrounded by player pianos disguised as humans? After you get married, you have children, raise them, send them to college, then go tour the country in an RV, because you’re no longer needed until they have children of their own. That’s how it works! Once you deviate from said script, their wee little circuits explode. It’s all raised eyebrows and poor logic, instead of rational conversation.

Look, Professor McGregor and I want a family. Eventually. We want one when we’re financially and emotionally prepared. That seems super reasonable, to me. No one ever questions you about wanting to have children, only about not wanting to. How ridiculously backwards! The biggest life commitment you can make is the creation and care of another person. Shouldn’t that be treated with some degree of caution? Isn’t it the thoughtful thing not to jump on the baby wagon, just because we’re married?

Some people feel ready for children from the moment they reach adulthood. They are positive about their parenting abilities and the amount of love in their hearts. That’s totally awesome! They should be parents! I, however, have always known that I wanted children theoretically. Such as: One day, theoretically, I want to name a little girl Cordelia and teach her about feminism and Nutella! One day, theoretically, I will force bow-ties upon my son.

3234094106_5685e732a9One day, however, has yet to arrive. Right now, I am emotionally ill-equipped and not financially stable enough to feel comfortable spawning. I don’t want to deal with the realities of children: the long nights, the diaper changing, the worries about how to raise them into socially-conscious adults who eat carrots and respect women.

At the moment, I just want to watch Psych with my love and eat a lot of cake. Is that so unreasonable?

– Grace

Please Don’t Be Eaten by a Wolf

tumblr_kumhia1e3c1qzb7gjo1_400This weekend, I sobbed at the bookstore. If that sounds ridiculous to you, don’t worry. It was completely ridiculously ridiculous. There, in the middle of the New Fiction aisle, my eyes welled with tears and I choked back an involuntary sob. It was pitiful. It’s also what I deserve for reading the ends of books first.

Yes, I’m a book cheater! Rare is the novel I buy, without first checking to see how it ends. I’ve done this for years, scandalizing the hell out of our dear Mae, who believes in preserving the integrity of intended story structure. I’m all for story structure, but I’m also all for not being surprised by the narrator getting boiled alive in the school showers halfway through the book. Spoiler alert: I may have been traumatized by R.L. Stine’s Cheerleader series. As a late 90’s tween, I vowed never to be caught off guard by charred pep squad captains again! So, I cheat.

Which is what I was doing Monday afternoon, when I took my little sister on a celebratory “We don’t have school today!” bookstore adventure. Perusing the new releases, I picked up a book that received great buzz in the UK last year. The plot was intriguing, but had the potential for tragedy: woman is hired by man, man is training to hunt man-eating wolves in a forest, man and woman fall in love, despite danger of wolf attacks*. So, I flipped to the back of the book and read the end. Surprise! The man totally goes into the forest and gets eaten alive by wolves, after the woman begs him not to go. He tells her he loves her, kisses her, then nobly marches to his doom.

woman-cryingY’all, I lost it. All I could think about was Professor McGregor choosing to do the same thing. In reality, were we ever endangered by lupine warriors, he’d hire someone else to do the hunting or construct a clever trap that would keep him from becoming wolf vittles. Also—let’s be real—we live in Texas. A person is much more likely to be bitten by a snake, than to be eaten alive by anything. Logic was beyond me, however. I was overwhelmed by the realization that forever, that word that had so terrified me in past months, is not really forever. Barring miraculous advancements in modern medicine, we are not immortal.

Yes, that’s a morbid thought. It’s also one that needs to be dealt with…in a way that I feel completely at a loss to grasp. Love on screen is a lot of smiling and pining, which is certainly involved, but my variety also contains equal parts worry and protectiveness. Part of loving Professor McGregor is wanting to see him safe and happy, always. But there are things in this world – wolves and snakes and diseases that no gun can reason with – that threaten us.

Working in hospitals, I’m reminded of human frailty everyday. It’s just now, that I have a person who is mine, that the full impact of that hits me. For the first time, I’m jealous of Bella Swan. It’s not because she’s a spineless twit who made two supernaturals fall in love with her, but because—no matter how she might wish it otherwise, once she realizes how annoying Edward’s whining is—their love is actually forever.

Which brings me back to the wolf book. I’ve always been an empathetic person, quick to see myself in characters and situations, but suddenly my reactions are more violent. It was easier to read stories of love not conquering all, when I was neither in love nor desirous of its presence. So, am I just going to cry a lot now? Will the rest of my life be spent with tissues and waterproof mascara close at hand? That sucks. Y’all, I don’t want my days to feel like Nicholas Sparks marathons. Puffy, splotchy wimp is not my chosen aesthetic! Hell, I’m super embarrassed to even be writing this post. Walking around so vulnerable/drippy would mortify me!

I’m not marrying a vampire. Surely, I will get used to that fact eventually and stop being so damned emotional. You know…unless we have kids and I start crying over children, instead. I may have to institute a stronger Happy endings only! rule in my reading material. One can only bawl in Barnes and Noble so many times, before they ask you to stop shopping there. That would really make me sad.

– Grace

*This is not the actual plot, but just in case you want to read the book I picked up, I invented a storyline to keep you from being spoiled. You’re welcome. Unless there is a book about wolf wars on the shelves now and I just spoiled that one. If that’s the case, then I’m sorry and, also, what a coincidence!