Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Turn that Frown Upside Down

It's MJagger's 40th birthday.  That said, she will not understand what I am about to write. She's still youthful and has young skin.  She will not understand what I mean when I say:

My belly button has turned into a frown.

I'm serious.  I knew gravity would bring the girls toward the floor, but my belly button? I had no idea.

The problem started when I went for my 'mole-mapping' at the dermatologist.  Now, THERE'S a fun time! You stand there in your underwear while the doctor looks at your skin, up close and personal, with a magnifying glass, blemish by blemish, mole by mole.  Those of you who know me recognize that this is a lengthy ordeal, as I have lots of freckles, blemishes and moles.  It's kind of gross, if you ask me.  So, there I am in my 50 year old skin being inspected by a 30 year old dermatologist.  I know she's 30 because she told me so.  She looked 30 and had perfect skin, which I suppose is good because that is what she does for a living.  Dr. Derma and I had lots of time to talk about my tattoos, tattoos in general, tattoo removal, her ex-boyfriend's tattoos....I told you, I have LOTS of things to look at.  We talked about if I regret my tattoos (I don't), why I called them tacky (because they are), if I'd ever want any of them removed (not so much) and when did I get "that new tattoo" (she gets a good eye award for noticing my new "I'm-now-50" tattoo).  She was VERY thorough, which made me nervous because it was already very hot in the office and I was already sweating and the closer she kept looking, the more I would sweat.  The entire time she's looking, she's talking and I'm sweating.  (I think the nurse was dissociating. Seen one mole-mapping, you've seen them all.)  You know, the wife has had many a mole mapping but her description never included a lifting (and subsequent flopping) of the boobs, a gander down my butt crack or a quick glance at parts of which I don't usually speak.  Well, I got lifted, flopped, gandered and glanced.  Imagine my surprise when she reached into my thankfully-new-and-fresh bra, grabbed one of the girls, lifted her up and checked for suspicious beings under my tiny town.  I was mortified.  We won't even talk about when she pulled my underwear from behind and met me cheek to cheek.

For the record, the wife claims her dermatologist has NEVER done anything like that. I'm not sure if I should be happy/got my money's worth or freaked out.

Needless to say, there was one suspicious mole on my upper belly.  I'm not sure I'd call it a mole--it was more like a spot--a little black spot; in fact, it was little enough that I have never given it a second thought.  I've got all sorts of other growths to look at--this one didn't even register on my mole-mind. I've got red moles, brown moles, big moles, flat moles, hair-producing moles.  This thing? It looked like a flat spot, more like a little blob of  black ink than anything skin related.  So, she points it out and educates me on how this is suspicious and that we should watch it and remove it in a year or if it changes.  I pondered this for a second or two and then remembered that the wife had a mole/spot/blemish just like this on her back and she had had it removed.  I inquired if I could make an appointment to have it removed; after all, why wait when you can just get the thing removed and off the radar?  Dr. Derma looked absolutely delighted.  "No need to return--we can do it right now!"  Before I knew it, the nurse was wheeling in tools, I was flat on my back and Dr. Derma was injecting me with numbing stuff.  She's still yapping, I'm still yapping, and before you can say "little black dot," the little black dot was gone and I was the owner of two new stitches.  "We'll send this to the lab.  You'll hear from us in a week.  I'm pretty sure this is going to come back abnormal but it will be nothing to worry about."  Oh, okay.  Glad for the warning.

I went home and tried to admire my new stitches and now-one-less-mole-covered belly, but I really couldn't see much from my vantage point.  That's when I decided to try and take a photo of it so I could see it better.  I figure my fancy camera phone might as well be good for something.....and, I thought it would be absolutely hilarious to post a photo of my stitches on Book de la Face.....

....this is how I learned that my belly button is now frowning.  The photos do not lie.  There it was.  A frown.

Oh. My. God.  If you listen to nothing else I have to say, listen to this: DO NOT TAKE A PHOTO OF YOUR 50 YEAR OLD BELLY BUTTON WITH A CAMERA PHONE FOR ANY REASON.

It's not pretty.  I thought it was just the angle, so I tried again.  That was worse.  After 20 or so photos, I gave up.  Each was worse than the first.

It doesn't matter that I am relatively average in the belly department.  50 year old belly buttons and surrounding skin areas should not be photographed, especially if you have a 50 year old belly button that has been pierced but no longer sports jewelry. I knew I had two holes in my skin (belly button piercing holes remain quite visible) and I knew I had moles and I knew I had a "inside my belly button scar" from my laproscopy and I knew my skin was becoming a little saggy but I had no idea how frownie-licious I had become.  I was struck how the arrangement of the removed mole, belly button piercing and belly button lined up to make a face (albeit with only one eye).

I became terrified: one day I will look down and my belly button will be gone, lost in the land of sagging skin.

A few days later, I tried taking a photo again, as I wanted to post a photo of how the area had turned black and blue (don't ask me--I don't know why--it certainly didn't hurt).  You would think that I would have learned the first time, but no.  I had to try again.

It got no better.  I did eventually keep one of the photos because it made me laugh.

For the right amount of money, I will post the photo.

Suffice it to say I am now left to embrace my frown.  I must love my frown of which I can't turn upside down...well, unless I stand on my head....which might help in all sorts of ways, considering how rude gravity is.

Screw you, gravity--I'm taking me and my mole-mapped skin and going to bed.  Maybe if I stay prone, gravity won't have such a dramatic grasp on my dermal affair.
*********************************************
P.S. Yes, I will be removing my own stitches.  Was there a doubt? I can't let the doctors have all the fun.
**********************************************



Wednesday, August 22, 2012

You know you want to sing this: Sunshine Day

Sunshine and Rainbows

It's all sunshine and rainbows these days in the Addiverse, which should probably scare every last one of you. I have nothing of which to complain (although that's kind of a complaint in itself, don't you think?)  Seriously.  I am basking in the glow of the ever-delicious universe.  I just purchased14 new pair of underwear, I have the ever-surprising embrace of the in-laws and I savor the ever-approaching Madonna concert.  If I were any happier, I'd be twins.

Why, this giddiness makes me want to sing Brady Bunch lyrics:
"I think I'll go for a walk outside now
the summer sun knows me by name
I gotta get out, gotta get out, gotta get away
into the sunshine day.
Can't you dig the sunshine
love and sun are the same
can't you hear him calling your name?"

Now that I've firmly planted that song in the head for the rest of your day (and, if I haven't succeeded at this, I think I'll post the video to ensure your certain doom), I can go on with my dribble.

We went to the wife's annual family reunion last weekend, located somewhere in the heart of the Cheddarlands.  I don't ever know exactly where I am when I am in the state of Wisconsin--as a born and bred Flatlander, I get disoriented when I cross the border--but, as long as I am not on the street of a certain VP candidate, I'm all good with it.  (I can't say I don't want to be in his hometown, as his town features three Dunkin' Donuts--we have zero--so, we do indeed make road trips to that place of which we shall not speak. You know I'm a DD whore. I gotta go where the nectar of the gods is located, even if it means heading in to a dark, dark place.) The wife's extended family (and it is very extended, considering she has two aunts and seven uncles) has been strangely and most appreciatively nice to me these days. This year, they were so nice that a few times I had to take a look around and make sure they were talking to me.  I cannot tell you how far this family has come.  If they can change, anyone can change.  Maybe it was the civil union.  Maybe it's because I keep showing up, like a bad penny.....

...Maybe it's easier to just embrace wonderful me.  I mean, what's not to love?

The annual event features a giant salmon appetizer (of which I do not understand--I don't think we did salmon appetizer in the Land of Lincoln), a ton of dishes-to-pass (with a slant toward the German cuisine), a hand-holding prayer of thanks and an ever-growing vat of small children.  It's actually a very fun event and I'd be sad if I weren't invited.  Sometimes, it's a bit of a stretch for this vegetarian to find a plateful of food besides dessert products, but thanks to my addiction-level sweet tooth, I am all good with a plate of brownies, home-made chocolate chip zucchini bread and cookies.

Next week features MJagger's 40th birthday. I can't believe I am chronologically a decade older than her.  (For the record, "It's a Sunshine Day" was recorded in 1973, so MJagger was one year old when it was a hit.  Sigh.) I'm not sure anything exciting is going to happen in relation to this event, as I have been sworn to good behavior--no decoration of the office, no surprise party, no naughty antics.  This kills me!  I am not sure I can fully comply with these strict demands but I will do my best.  I guess I'll just focus on our pending Madonna concert as a distraction from anything I might consider in relation to a certain birthday. Well.....I have decided that posting old photos of MJagger on my Book de la Face page is not off limits, so that's at least a little bit fun--I have some pretty funny photos, so it is at least a wee bit fulfilling.  I don't think she's gonna have half as much fun turning 40 as I did turning 50....then again, most people don't have one-one-billionth of the fun I had turning 50.  

It's a sunshine day. Get out there and skip.  Seriously.  When is the last time you skipped?  You can't have a bad day when you've been skipping.  So, hum that sunshine song and do a little skip.  You're life will be full of sunshine and rainbows before you know it.



Thursday, August 16, 2012

Happy 54!


Today is Madonna's 54th birthday. Being the Madonna whore that I am, this is big news.  I am indeed sporting my Madonna t-shirt in her honor.  I will listen to her CDs all day.  I will stare lovingly at the concert tickets I have for September 19th. I suppose I am a bit old to be any kind of musician whore but if Madonna can wear an almost-there mini skirt at age 54, I figure I can obsess about her all I want at age 50. 

Since I am limited on time today, I am going to cheat--I am going to re-post (albeit updated) a previous Madonna-related blogging.  I chose one from 2006, as I figure many of you weren't reading my nonsense back then and those of you who were probably don't remember one word of this.  I know most of it came as a surprise to me.  This was written just after I returned from the a 2006 Madonna concert, attended with the wife and MJagger.  (I can't believe the wife went with us. What a woman!)  We did indeed have an awesome time, as we always do at Madonna concerts.  So, reminisce with me.  And, happy 54 to the material girl.

THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 2006 (as re-posted in honor of madge's birthday 8/16/12)

CONFESSIONS OF A CONCERT-GOING MADONNA WHORE

You can call her Madge. Call her Dita. Call her Ester. Call her Boy Toy. Call her Madonna. I call her orgasmic!

I have returned from the concert and I am here to tell you that Madonna is orgasmic.

Before I go on, I want to confess that I am way too old for things like orgasmic concerts. I could barely get out of bed this morning, and I don’t even drink. I feel like I was hit by a truck. My muscles ache. I’ve got to step up my McYoga.

The contestants in this night of debauchery included MJagger, MJagger’s mom-in-law, the wife and moi. MJagger and I were so excited we could barely sit in the car. I was sporting a smelly-brand-new Madonna ICON fan club t-shirt (smelly because it was new & unwashed), while MJagger was a vision in white—white everything, from sparkly tank top to white flip-flops. What a virginal view of beauty! The trip to the United Center was harrowing—traffic out the wazoo. A 1.5 hour trip took three long hours—terminal traffic thwarted our efforts to get to the concert early. MJagger is not one to be troubled by traffic. She weaved in and out and did the best she could to get to the concert early; however, there is only so much you can do in bumper to bumper traffic. We parked in what MJagger called the “crack parking lot;” she said it’s where she always parks and that you can buy crack as well as park your car. Gee, crack is right on the top of my list of things I want to buy at the concert. MJagger clarified that we wouldn’t be buying crack (please—neither of us has put our lips on a crack pipe, so don’t start rumors). The lot was cheaper than the official lots and promised an “easy in, easy out” parking. I prayed to Grover the car would still be there after the concert. (The wife looked skeptical but said nothing. I think she was still chewing on the whole crack thing.)

Despite the traffic, we had plenty of time—we were in the arena with plenty of time to spare…and, since Madonna didn’t start the concert until 8:45 PM (um, the ticket said she’d be starting at 7:30 PM, but she’s Madonna and she can start her concert whenever she damn well pleases), we had time to pee two times, have a snack, titter about the various fabulous outfits being sported by the fans and meet the fifty zillion gay boys sitting around us. As MJagger is a professional “concert seat hopper,” I was invited to learn her seat-hopping skills. She NEVER sits where her ticket says she should be sitting—she goes for the best possible seat she can confiscate. Since we all had single tickets, she encouraged me to sit next to her (her assigned seat was much better than my cheaper assigned seat) until I got kicked out. So, I snuck by the usher (some high schooler who was not paying attention—not a hard thing to do) and plopped my sorry ass into the seat next to her. It was very entertaining, as the people around me were also not in their assigned seats—it’s like a game of chance. We found ourselves next to “Kenny Chesney” (a good ol’ gay boy from Kittyhawk, North Carolina sporting a cowboy hat and a tight, no-sleeved T-shirt) and his favorite boy toy. They actually flew in from NC to see the concert—my kind of people—and were very proud members of the Madonna ICON fan club. (They were in their assigned seats, by the way—one of the few behaving at this point.) Surrounding us was a fag-hag supposed DJ (who we think was really a pole dancer), her best gay boyfriend, a Chinese girl (who I do not think spoke English) and two Polish persons (who definitely did not speak English). I worked with the crowd to make sure I’d have a seat to jump to in case the rightful owner of “my” seat showed up. Several people thought MJagger was my girlfriend (one person actually asked me if she was my “bitch!”)—we had to explain that my girlfriend (my “bitch”) was sitting in a different, far-away section while I was sitting inexplicably with my friend. Only true Madonna fans can understand this. (We did, by the way, talk to the wife by cell phone before the concert began. We could see her from where we were sitting, so it was kind of like we were almost connected.)

Enough about us--let’s talk about Madonna. She arrived on stage via a giant disco ball. Now, that’s the way to start a party. She was dressed in her best horse-jockeying outfit and the stage was filled with galloping horses. (Madge is really into horses these days.) Quite to my delight, her second song was an updated dance version of her oldy-moldy “Like a Virgin,” sung while riding up and down on a black leather horse saddle. Yee-haw!

Madge is really, really, really tiny. Very thin these days. She has what the wife and I call “arm legs;” meaning, her legs are so small they are like a “normal” person’s arms. Muscle and bones. Lots of muscles but still very teeny. It’s hard to look good in leotards—especially a white leotard, but she is the exception to the rule. I’m worried about her. Falling off that horse must have led to her being teenier than I remember. She still looked amazing—just teeny weeny and incredible in a leotard. The catwalk made it really easy to see Madge up close and personal—very crowd-friendly.

In my humble estimation, the crowd seemed rather poopy. Madonna even flipped off the front row because they weren’t dancing and having a good time. Geez, I would have taken my clothes off to be in the front row! What is wrong with these people? She chastised the crowd for not showing enough effort—and I agreed. MJagger and I were dancing our little legs off, but others were just standing there. Madge got the crowd going by changing the words to “I Love New York” to “suck George Bush’s dick.” (And, the Dixie Chicks get grief? Good God, she just told the crowd to give a blow job to the president!)

There I was, dancing my life away, when I suddenly noticed MJagger was nowhere to be found. Alas, she had made her break for the floor seats. You go, girl! She weaseled her way in next to two “we-don’t-want-you-standing-her-but-we’ll-tolerate-you” boys. MJagger is the master of getting the best seat possible and she is always successful. I aspire to glean some of her skills.

The show was incredible. The wife absolutely loved the “Saturday Night Fever” part of the show—Madonna came out in the best “John Travolta” white pantsuit with black shirt. She recreated the John Travolta movie solo and did a kick-ass job. Then, the dancers came out on rollerskates—a true 70’s flashback. I was beside myself. (Terri, you would have loved it! You would have been right back in 1979 at the roller rink!) Madonna got the crowd grooving and singing (all except those boring farts in the front role—ass wipes!) and hopping up and down. She even put on a “Dancing Queen” white-disco-lit cape. By the way, the “Madonna on a Cross” thing was no big deal—although, I suppose being on a disco-mirrored cross while wearing a crown of thorns could be construed as rather sacrilegious—actually made sense in relation to what was happening at the point in the concert. (It was about the 12 million orphans in Africa, orphaned by AIDS. Madonna has always seemed to hold education and prevention of AIDS near and dear to her heart.) Once she got off the cross, the dancing went into overdrive. Madge wanted to dance, and dance she did!

Suffice it to say that most of the songs performed were from her "Confessions on a Dance Floor" album, which was fine with me as I'm a big fan of that CD. My favorite song of the night was "Sorry," which also happens to be my favorite song on the CD. (I dedicate that one to MJagger, because I am very sorry, as well as I should be.) I don't understand, though, why Madonna insists on performing "La Isla Bonita" at every concert. It's not a favorite of mine and she always performs it. Blech. No offense. I'd rather hear "Holiday."

The two-hour sweat-filled concert ended without an encore. Hell, I wouldn’t have given an encore to that crowd, either. It wasn’t a let down, though, as the ending of show packed a punch. Gold balloons floating from the rafters, pounding bass rattling the chest cavity, disco ball a-spinning. I was exhausted and satisfied. The show was as good or better than the other four Madonna tours I have attended.

For the record, everyone should go to at least one Madonna concert in life. 

Thursday, August 09, 2012

Going for the (Green and) Gold

Note to my mother: You said Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia, looked like she lost weight.  I took the dogs to the vet today to get some kennel cough potion stuck up their noses and while they were there, the tech weighed them both.  Seems the problem is not that Lucy lost weight....it's that Freckles Warrior Princess has gained a lot of weight, thus making Lucy look thinner.  Freckles may be going on a diet--that little sausage of a dog has gained over two pounds.  When you only weigh 15 pounds, that's a lot of weight.  Woof!

So, I look up and it's Thursday.  How did this happen? I don't even remember Tuesday zipping by and here it is Thursday.  This begs the question: what have I done with all my free time?

I thought long and hard about this (okay, about 14 seconds) and realized that I've been frittering away my life by watching a lot of the Olympics, trying to figure out my bra size, reading Book de la Face statii, trying to ignore nonsense about religious chickens/public kissing, looking for my lost blog photo folder (how did I ever delete that on my computer?) and ordering nonsense on the Internet (including new bras).

In other words, I am rather pathetic.  Exceedingly entertaining to myself, but pathetic nonetheless.

(And, no--I did not figure out my true bra size. I'm going to need professional intervention on this one. I thought about only wearing sports bras as that seems to be an easy way out but really--you can't wear sports bras for all occasions.)

The wife and I have enjoyed watching the Summer Games.  I have to say, TV sure does "do" the Olympics a whole different way they did when I was a kid.  Back then, you got to watch what you got to watch--none of today's watch the highlights and the American wins during prime time--you had to sit through the pain and the losses and everyone's teams.  You got to hear everyone's national anthem.  You got to see the entire ordeal, not just the finals.  Not that I mind the current way of watching the American victories. It does save me time to read more Book de la Face entries and it fits in with our society's ADD approach to living.

I wasn't going to watch the Olympics because I was pissed off that they took softball and baseball out of the competition. I do not understand this. Explain to me why we can have NBA stars in the Games yet we can't have women's softball? (Don't get me started about the NBA players.  I won't be able to stop.) I might even forgive the excommunication of softball because it's such an America sport, but baseball?  I would think there are plenty of baseball teams around the globe.  I know that's an American game, but really....they have field hockey and lacrosse, why not baseball?

The wife and I have really enjoyed the gymnastics and the women's beach volleyball, especially Misty and Kerri.  How can you not love them? If you don't love them, please don't tell me.  Not yet, anyways.

(And, this is not my photo.  I gleaned it off someone's Book de la Face page.  I figure that's pretty public domain.  I'd give credit if I knew where to give it. Seriously.)

Sand volleyball is an amazing thing.  I can't imagine how much it must suck the life force out of you running and jumping around in that thick, deep, surprisingly cold (at least in London) sand.  Forget jumping up and blocking a spike--just running around the court a few laps would do me in.  Try doing all that while wearing a bikini.  Oh sure, you can wear something over your bikini but you still have to wear one.  That sounds like a lot of work to me.

The look on Kerri's face says it all.  That is one happy lady. I loved the way she would thank everyone at the end of each match--from the ball boy to the line judge to the girl holding the rake, she thanked them all.  She seemed genuinely excited about the whole thing.  (Actually, she probably smiling because she knows what bra size she is. Small.)

I know the Olympics aren't over yet, but they are for me because......football season has returned!!  I.LOVE.FOOTBALL.  (American Football for those who are still in Olympic mode.) Tonight is the start of the pre-season.  Some of you might think this doesn't count but it does.  Let the smack talk begin!  I'm sure I'll take a peek at the Track and Field but my mind will be on the grid iron.  I wore my green and gold today and loved every second of ribbing I got at work today.  Oh, how I love, love, love football season....

....But, I would draw the line at professional football becoming part of the Olympics.  Dear god, I will be beside myself if they do that.  That seems so wrong in so many ways.  I can't really articulate it beyond, "that's so wrong."  Because it is wrong.  Well, it's wrong in the Addiverse and that's good enough for me.

It'd be even worse than that whole NBA-players-in-the-Games travesty and that is a travesty.  TRAVESTY!

Give me water polo and synchronized diving any day.

**************************************************




Wednesday, August 01, 2012

Addi-fan-tastic

 It's been really hot in the Addiverse.... temperature hot, sillies--more so for the four-legged Addiverse inhabitants that the two legged ones.

Here's a photo of the dogs walking in the snow last winter.  I'm pretending this is cooling things off. I'm not in any hurry for winter but some days you just need a visual reminder that the weather is always in flux.

This ridiculously hot summer has taken its toll on the dogs.  At night, the dogs pant and pace and pant and pace and sound absolutely miserable.  They flop into their beds, then flop onto the hardwood floor, scoot under the bed, then plop onto a throw rug.  They pant some more, they go get a drink, they wander around some more, lick the air, lick their parts, lick their paws, wander some more.  (Whose idea was it to stop crating them?  Oh wait, that was me.  Remind me what a dumb idea that was.)  It's not THAT hot--for pete's sake, we have air conditioning and use it--but on some of those hot summer nights, it's not enough for our furry little friends.  They basically keep up up most of the night.  Actually, they keep the wife awake, which means I am then kept awake--misery loves company:

Me: (Asleep) Zzzzzzzzz.
The wife: (yelling at Lucy, who is licking something or other) "Stop it! STOP LICKING!"
Me:  (wiping drool off face) "Huh? What?"  (I never hear anything.  I don't know what she's talking about. I fall back asleep.)  Zzzzzzzz.
The wife: (yelling at Freckles) "Stop it! STOP DRINKING SO MUCH WATER!"
Me: (groan) "Huh? What?" (I still haven't heard anything...well, besides the wife.  I can hear her just fine. I am now wide awake.)
The wife:  (yelling at both dogs) "GO TO BED!"
The dogs wander to bed...but then start panting because they are so hot.
The wife: (yelling at all of us): "UGH! I CAN'T SLEEP!"
None of us can.

It got really old, this interrupted, less-than-optimal sleep.

(I thank myself for not letting them sleep in the bed.  I do not thank myself for having trained them to sleep in the bedroom.  Oh, how I miss the crates.)

One sleep-deprived morning, I decided we HAD to do something....and, instead of whining like usual, I actually came up with a solution:  a mini-fan.  I asked the wife if she still had that little desk fan in her office.  She assured me she did then inquired why on earth I'd be asking about that.  I explained my idea:

....Use the mini-desk fan in the bedroom to circulate air on dog-level--the floor.  What an Addi-fan-tastic idea!

Now, you would not think a mini-desk-type fan wouldn't make a hill-of-beans difference, but I am here to tell you that the fan saved my life.  I plugged that thing in, put it on the floor in front of the air vent, faced it toward the dogs' beds and turned it on.  I turned off the light and waited.

The hum of the fan is actually quite soothing....better than your generic white noise machine and a hell of a lot cheaper.  Bonus points for the fan drowning out the dog panting and wandering and flopping--the fan "covers" most of the extraneous noise the critters tend to make.  This means the wife can sleep, which means I can sleep.  Score!

I wasn't sure the dogs would even notice the fan, but trust me, they did: they shove each other out of the way to in order to secure the most air circulation.   Freckles usually wins, but that's because she's the alpha dog.  Lucy waits for Freckles to go get and drink and then scoots to the front row to get a shot at the fan's output.  They then both end up in their beds and sleep through the night, the fan gently blowing on them as if they were enjoying a cool ocean breeze.

I.am.a.genius.

We've been using the fan for over a month now and can I just say the quality of my sleep has improved one hundred bazillion percent.  The dogs love it--they've never slept better. The wife loves it and she is enjoying how rested she feels.  Life is good in the Addiverse.

I plan on using the mini-fan year round.  I plan on getting my own for use during soon-to-be happening hot flashes.  I plan on getting one for my desk for when the A/C is not on. I plan on getting one for the wife so she can drown out all sorts of noises at night....

I like the fan so much that I think I will give them to everyone I know for Christmas.

Act surprised when you open your gift.