State of Grace

I apologize in advance for the earworms*.

O, Florida! Sandbar state of gators and grannies, you are a source of endless fascination! Your wonders are many.  Here are a few:

This business about unruly curly hair in this climate is true! I happen to like having the humidity pump up the volume of my hair so much that I look like Barry Gibb. When I connected my puffy hair with the Bee Gees last night,  "How Deep is Your Love?" began to spin in my head. I sang just a little to my hubs ("...cause we're living in a world of fools/bringing us down/when they all should let us be/we belong to you and me") and he fell into the brothers Gibb song warp. Now you're caught in the dreaded spiral. Feel free to hate me, my hubs sure did. But the hubs, as a man of science, should have known better to aim his wrath at his very own auditory cortex which, according to other men and women of science, continues to spin the unwanted tune without your permission. 

MRIs on every block! Why is that? Hubs, that man of science, informed me it's for the elderly population, but I think the MRIs are for the folks who have McCain signs in the front yards (the first I've seen, being from Northern California and all).   McCain is for another 100 years in Iraq which is nuts, thus McCain backers need to have their heads examined.  A neuro MRI does the deed in color and cross sections.  Of course, the MRIs would have done a fine job in locating my overactive auditory cortex, which is now stuck, without rhyme or reason, on "My Sharonna".

The Venice of North America, Fort Lauderdale, with its waterways in and around both swank and modest neighborhoods. On a walk with Malcolm, I located our local canal:

I think these are lovely.  I scanned the water for manatees and gators, but none were available for viewing.  Unfortunately, a song of my youth, "Poke Salad Annie (the gator's got your granny)" got revved up on my mental turntable.    Truth be told, Tony Joe White, the father of 'Swamp Rock', is preferable to the aforementioned Bee Gees any time.

Family! Behold my hale and hardy 90 year old mom-in-law and my not-a-mean-bone-in-her-body sister-in-law Barbara, hangin at their crib. They're just up I-95 from our sweet little vacation house. We're going over there now and, as I told my Twitter friends, I better put on a proper bra.  Heck, I should put on clothes.  I can't think of a song suggestive of poolside nudity.  Visuals, yes, but in my case your image would involve a 52 year old mother with mild but persistent cellulite issues.

Come on, put on your clothes and let's see our peeps.

* Earworm, a loan translation of the German Ohrwurm, is a term for a portion of a song or other musical material that becomes "stuck" in a person's "head" or repeats against one's will within one's mind.

Napping and Wise Potato Chips - My Kind of Vacation

Yesterday I took two naps, one at noon for an hour and half and the second snooze in the late afternoon. I must have been exhausted because I fell asleep with Chris Matthews hollering at America on Hardball, sniping away at something to do with the Obama/Wright debacle.  The day before I dozed off reading and went down for a two hour napper. The day before that I didn't nap, but I did have a sip of Manischewitz concord grape wine that was so outrageously sweet, I fell into a sugar induced coma. I believe that counts as rest.

Napping and Kosher wine isn't my usual thing, but I'm in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where the hubs is attending an eye doc meeting and I've been hanging out at the sweetest little vacation rental house and visiting my dear mother and sister-in-law. We're a long way from LA, scene of my last post published 20 light years ago, and the LA hipsters in black and leather have been replaced with Florida's fine seniors in shorts and visors. Then again, conceptually I'm not too far from LA as this cute house has a pool and a hot tub and I've been using both with hedonistic dedication. 

Malcolm is with us, having been drugged into a stupor by the vet prescribed sedative and crammed into an airline approved carry on bag. We flew non-stop from SFO to Miami and he was conked out through the entire trip. Malcolm has his wings!  With the good drugs, we can take him places! I'm thinking he'd like France, where dogs can dine in bistros with impunity and wear little dog berets.

About the napping - I feel a little guilty about napping as I'm unemployed and living off the land with no real reason to be crapped out, but still, I'm bone tired.  My psyche has been working overtime since my last post and that's been taking a big toll. Certainly, the EMDR therapy has helped me more than I can articulate and I'm at ease with myself more than I have ever been. But, not all of the demons have dissipated. They've gone underground and I can tell they're lurking when I consider my moods and behavior as of late. I've been overly vigilant, excessively worried about little and large life issues.  I get easily pissed off, as demonstrated by my comments on other blogs, and have administered swift smackdowns to an infamous female troll and some bloggers who should know better.  And, most telling, I want to eat fatty, salty carbs.  (But don't we all?)

My fretting and quick temper aside, all I really want to do is rest. Do nothing. Go nowhere. Just lie out by the pool of this lovely little house on a palm lined street in the warmth of Southern Florida and catnap.  Dreaming of nothing, maybe except for the Wise potato chips waiting for me in the kitchen. Wise potato chips cannot be found on the West Coast. Ask my hubs how I squealed when I encountered the rows of Wise chip bags, resplendent in its varied flavors and salt content.  The profusion of fresh, not frozen, Lender's bagels inspired another squeal and a leap.  Be sure to ask my hubs how he backed away from me in embarrassment, hoping no one saw me jumping in the Publix aisles and ready to say to any one who saw the spectacle,  "I don't know this weirdo woman screaming at the carb products! No, not me!"

Want to see some pics?  Sure you do:

The house.  Prettier in real life and it sure looks great here.  Owner is a super guy.  $238/nightly.  Slightly cheaper than the Marriott but way bigger, like two bedroom, two bathroom, living room, fully equipped kitchen, pool and hot tub bigger.  Did I mention reliable and zippy wifi that doesn't cost an extra $12 bucks a day?  Marriott, you and your Book of Mormon in every room does not cut it for us. 

Power napping here and maybe the occasional set of laps.  But nothing too rigorous as I have pronounced that this area is dedicated to high-quality, professional lounging.

 

 

 

Further to laps - I learned that Malcolm is not a swimming dog.  He is a terrier.  That means land based.  If this terrier smothers me with a pillow tonight because I didn't consider his land based orientation and, instead, violated his delicate sensibilities by taking him for a swim, I want you to know that it's been fun and I love you all.

Living room opens to pool.  Cool, loft-like space.  Martinis should be enjoyed here, with Wise potato chips, of course. 

 

 

 

Hip dining area.  Lenders bagels have been enjoyed here. Muted gold wall color contrasts nicely with the fern green of the living room.

 

 

   

The only thing objectionable to our otherwise perfect lodgings.  We call this objet d'art, "What the Fuck?"

 

 

 

 

I'm sorry to end with that thing, but it's time to sleep. I need to rest up for tomorrow's naps.

You sleep well, too, Dollin Readers.

We go to SoCal, take in the hipness and walk the dogs.

  In Santa Monica 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

For many reasons, most especially those involving the self-preservation of sanity, Hubs handed me the keys to his car and announced, "Let's go to LA and see Tracy." 

The hubs, he is a wise and generous man. He knows I love a good road trip - I enjoy driving long distances and the good road trip satisfies the restless vagabond within.  The arrangement reflects the easy going, complementary elements of our marriage:  He catches up with academic papers, plays with the GPS and his cell phone, and takes epic naps. I get to be Queen of the Road and play my CDs of This American Life podcasts and mixes reflecting a weirdly eclectic taste in music (Django Reinhardt, Glenn Gould, Hall and Oates, Radiohead). Most importantly, by driving I avoid car sickness.  There's also something grand and authoritarian in serving as the primary road warrior, the woman you can count on to get you there.  I take this role as Mother Trucker seriously and my hubs loves to kick back toying with gadgets while  riding shotgun.

It's turned out to be a brilliant idea, this little va-kay.  The weather is perfect, upper 60s/low 70s (too chilly for some Angelenos who, astonishingly to those from a cooler climate, wear sweaters and scarves in this Spring like temperature), I scored excellent and reasonably priced last minute seaside accommodation where I'm basking in the cozy companionship of the Hubs and the Hound, Malcolm. 

Another excellent reason for the road trip was that our kiddo Tracy's band, the up and coming Twilight Sleep, gave an acoustic show last night at a deeply hip Los Feliz restaurant/bar that has a small but very nice backroom stage.  Tracy, whose ethereal voice recalls a bit of Bjork, was well received by the Deeply Hip and, of course, from us, The Parentals, aka the only 50 year olds in the room. 

We also scored heavy celebrity creds by hanging out with Tracy's boyfriend Brian, an awesome guy on all counts, most especially in his utter kindness towards us geezerly boomers.  Tracy and Brian just returned from Hawaii, Brian's home turf, where the Silversun Pickups played clubs in Maui and Oahu.  Though our kids are the very definition of Deeply Hip, they're also big, sweet nerds when it comes to family.  They stayed with Brian's grandparents and his Uncle Petey in Kailua Kona where they happily watched his Grandma's "stories" (subtitled intense Korean soap operas), and drank beers with Grandpa, a Pearl Harbor survivor.  No glitzy hotel suites and throwing TVs out of  windows for these rock stars, who prefer Grandpa's solemn stories of the Pearl Harbor Attack and Grandma pointing out the cheating wives in her Korean soaps.

Because I'm the worst of stage mothers, I am pleased to embed for your viewing pleasure below the new Silversun Pickups video directed by Johnny Cash, who is reportedly a very crazy man.  Joaquin P. set up the band on the back of a pickup truck and filmed them whizzing way too fast and doing donuts on the streets of downtown Los Angeles.  Talk about car sickness, everyone lived, but just barely.

Here you go, and off we go to a leash free dog park,  Runyon Canyon, where we will release Malcolm and mingle with the locals.  For all its many faults, I love LA, I really do.

And now for something completely different: The Mother of All Home Births

 
 

Behold my handsome Stepkiddo Andy and his beautiful wife Irene who delivered her first child in her home ALL ALONE, ALL BY HERSELF, NO EPIDURAL, NOTHING.

Before she met Andy, Irene was an EMT and married to her first husband. Her daughter Josie (who is known around here as My Dude, as opposed to My Grandchild and she addresses me in kind), was one of those fast births and Irene had the training to deal with such events. By the time her EMT colleagues arrived, Irene was holding Baby Josie in her arms while delivering the placenta.

Holy Clan of the Cave Bear!

My womenfolk are mighty and not to be messed with. You have been warned.

Wake me up when April Fools is over, 'kay?

  Lazy Mister 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

So much to say, so much to say, so much to say.

But, let me say this first - THANK YOU FOR YOUR VALIDATION, LOVE AND WELL WISHES.

And, secondly - YES, I AM SHOUTING IN ALL CAPS. STILL AM. SUCH IS MY GRATITUDE.

I have 5 kazillion emails to return resulting from my last post.  Most are from child sexual abuse survivors who did not want to come forward with an online comment, but wanted to say, "Yes, me too."   

I understand, my dollins, I understand completely.    I have amply demonstrated that I can barely get out a blog post after I come forward with my own sorrow and shame. 

Yet, once you begin to tell your truths, there's no stopping.  You can't halt the birth, you can't push the baby back in.  Don't stop.  However, do find support when it comes time to stand up and speak.  Therapy works for me as well as compassionate friends and journal keeping.   Books, too.  Start here - The Courage to Heal -  the book that saved my life.

Dollins, Happy April to you.  I am determined not to make this my "cruelest month".   And,  I need to remind myself that my life is no Waste Land.

Don't worry, I'm quitting right here with the cheap and easy as well as dark and gloomy T.S. Eliot references.  After all, today is a good day for a prank. 

Many bunches of  "lilacs out of the dead land" to you, Dollin Readers.

Might be the bravest, most hopeful thing I've ever written.

So, this blog has been pretty lame lately.   Sporadic posts with cliffhangers - hey! I got my kid a fancy bag! Now, I'm off to therapy! THE ABYSS! Maybe I'll be back soon and maybe not.

Then, an ominous silence.  And, perhaps some curiosity - The hell did she go? Was the headshrinking session that awful?  Did she fall into the toilet before she went out the door? 

Well, it's the former - headshrinking = awful - rather than the latter, though falling into the bowl is the sort of freak accident that would happen to me.

What's the big deal about therapy?  Hasn't this blogger been through her share of psychotherapists, psychiatrists, group therapy sessions, inner child workshops, warrior woman weekends, and a stay in the psych ward already? 

Yes, I have.  Thousands and hundreds of dollars have been invested in my mental health.  This EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization Reprogramming) work, however, is different.

The gory stuff after the jump.  Thus, a warning to sister and brother abuse survivors:  Graphic descriptions of abuse lurk in the next section.  Please, my dearest of all my dollins, don't venture forward if you're feeling vulnerable and could be "triggered" by such tough information. 

Moll's New Bling-y Bag

Moll's New Bling-y Bag
Originally uploaded by GraceD

OH WELL, blew the NaBloPoMo. I suppose I could have been a ninja about it and gone to the library to use one of the computers to get online and post, but OH WELL.

And, that's the story these days - I'm giving myself a break. I don't do that well and I don't do that often enough. The only time I get a break is when my body gets into cahoots with my psyche and forces me to stop using ingenious methods like an asthma attack or anxiety so vicious that I can't leave the house. "Stop!" says the bod, "you move too fast/got to make the morning last."

(Boomers - sorry to get the '59th Street Bridge Song' stuck in your heads. The antitdote to rid yourself of 'Feeling Groovy' is a bracing round of another New York song, 'Miss You' by the Rolling Stones.

I've been walking Central Park
Singing after dark
People think I'm crazy
I've been stumbling on my feet
Shuffling through the street
People ask me, "What's the matter with you boy?"

Yeah, that's more like it, "stumbling...shuffling..." To hell with feeling groovy on the Queensboro Bridge, which is a nasty bit of road anyway, known best for punishing runners on the NYC Marathon course.)

Anyway, I did cut myself some slack without resorting to illness or panic. Instead, I ran, walked, played, planted heirloom tomato seeds and chased the hubs around the house. I also bought Molly a purse that is not a Marc Jacob's knock-off from a street vendor, but rather a shiny, lustrous Kathy Van Zeeland bag from our local mall. Please observe Molly taking stock of her prize near the Capitola Mall's food court. She loves it, will use it everywhere and with every outfit. I particularly look forward to seeing her wear this fancy, shiny thing along with her gloomy skater guy look - giant black skateboard sweatshirt with hood up in that dark monk manner, jeans with flared hems that drag on the ground, tattered Vans. And the shiny bag. Oh, to be 16 again with the license to mix up the fashion rules (as long as your peers like it, your high school circle will damn a look faster - and meaner - than Anna Wintour can reject couture lines from the pages of Vogue)

Must close here. Therapy appointment at 9:30 this morn. An hour and a half! No wussy 50 minute shrink session for this stumbling, shuffling crazy girl.

In the meantime, isn't my girl beautiful? I, of course, think so. I also wonder on a daily if not hourly basis how a Popular High School Chick sprang from my uterus 16 years ago.

Crazy-long bangs. Good for flirting.

Crazy-long bangs. Good for flirting.
Originally uploaded by GraceD

Still without the laptop but iPhone-flickr blogging will keep me going for now. Must stay with the NaBloPoMo program! Here I'm being ever so slightly coquetteish at Hubs. I got a peck on the cheek for the effort.
Ahhh, Spring...

We Pause for a Malcolm Moment and for Technical Difficulties

Audrey Hepburn-esque Neck
Originally uploaded by GraceD

There's some odd glitchy stuff going on with my 'peruter, as Moll used to call this thing we pound on all day. I'm circumventing this pesky geek problem and coming at you through the back door via flickr and the miracle that is the iPhone. Cool! However, the keyboard on the touch screen is too weeny to do real power typing and I'm unable to get my fingertips on the right keys because I'm a total klutz. It's taken me three hours to get to this sentence of this post! For now, please gaze upon my furchild, Malcolm. who is doing his best imitation of a giraffe, though he would prefer that you think of Audrey Hepburn in regarding his long, elegant neck.

Why life is great...

Springtime Becomes George
Originally uploaded by GraceD

...despite all my fears and chronic dread:

1. It's spring in Santa Cruz
2. The air is fragrant with blossoms.
3. My husband loves me. Just look at that smiling man.



Therapy was great, which means I opened up a bit which means I cried like I thought my heart was going to break. Yup, it's an AFOG (another fucking opportunity for growth).

Will discuss. For now, it's off to bed after a beautiful, active day.

Freaked

This brief entry in list form serves to explain why the last post was so stupid:

1.  I'm very nervous because I have to go to my third therapy session this morning.
2.  Therapy is hard and anxiety inducing.
3.  I will begin a technique called EMDR soon and right now I'm prepping for it.  You know, history taking, getting to know my therapist, she getting to know me, etc.
4.  Even the prep/etc.  is anxiety inducing.

So, forgive me, Dollin Reader, this is a bitch and singing "da da da" riffs to myself is the best I can do at this point.

I will be brave and try to write about the process when I come back. 

Love,
GraceD

Day 3 of NaBloPoMo - List: Five Classic Rock Riffs

For your reference - Riff rhythms translated in "da" notation.

1.  Deep Purple, "Smoke on the Water"
Da da DA/Da da DA DA/Da da DA/DA DA

2.  Derek and the Dominos, "Layla"
Da da dadda da da DA/DA DA DA DA da DA

3.   Rolling Stones, "Brown Sugar"
Da da/Da da dadda da/Da da/Da da dadda da

4.  The Kingsman, "Louie, Louie"
DA DA DA/DA DA /DA DA DA/DA DA

5.  The Kinks, "You Really Got Me Now"
DA DADDA DA DA/DA DADDA DA DA

Day 2 of NaBloPoMo - Test! And, I'd be a gun packing mama if I had to be.

test

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

Yeah, I got your "test", like a test of my patience, a test from the gods, a test in the form of technical difficulties. My laptop said no, no, no, no Internet for me.  No rehab either.  (I think I have just maxed out on the Amy Winehouse triple no on this blog.   No, no, no more.)

Anyway, I left the "test" above as a way to save my place on NaBloPoMo.  It may not fly, it may not count as a post, and Eden may smack me silly then force me into this pose for such a weak-ass attempt to stay in the game.  But, I will not break down! I shall carry on! Hence, tonight we have not one but two posts of lists, glorious lists.

This is for gwendomama, who loves me like a rock and will lavish me with freshly baked goods just for doing the following classic blog meme, Five Random Things About My Sexy Self. 

1.  I've gone 50 years without knowing that my left leg is shorter than my right.  My doc observed my asymmetrical gams a couple of years ago, just prior to sticking a needle as long as a curtain rod into my right knee.   I was jonesing for that cortisone injection, I had knee bursitis that hurt like a mofo.  The bursitis - and a myriad of other knee and ankle issues - all due to the sad fact that I am lopsided.  This also explains why I trip on my longer leg now and again.  That alone killed my career as a runway model.

2.  I'm all for "the right of the people to keep and bear arms."  Unlike many of my progressive friends, I vigorously object to losing any shred of our Second Amendment rights.   Evil exists and though we'd like to confront Evil with the peace and clarity of the Dalai Lama, I believe that Evil would want to cut His Holiness.  I don't have the open, expansive spirit of the Dalai Lama, and thus would prefer to confront Evil with my own legally owned weapon.  If I were a gay man, I'd have a gun.  If we lived deeper in the local mountains, I'd have a gun.  If any one hurt any of my family, I'd go after them with a gun.  Indeed, I began to feel strongly about citizen's defense when I became a mother.

3.  Also, since becoming a mother, I'm also for the death penalty.  This evil doer was instrumental in making me a believer.

4.  I'm not comfortable swimming in a medium to big body of water.   I do know how to swim and I'm fairly good at it, but I'm not one to throw myself into a sizeable pool, a swimming hole or the ocean.  I don't do laps.  I don't body surf.  Many years ago, I tried to overcome my wariness by getting SCUBA certified.  Though I documented quite a few dives into my dive log , I still felt sketchy.  Please note:  My uneasiness with swimming should not prevent you from inviting me to your pool party.  I'll bring an entree, some wine and I'll be perfectly happy bobbing around in the shallow end on an inflatable ducky ring.

5.  I have not been without a pedicure for a year now.  And, I always wear earrings.  That's about as girly as I get.

No, I will not tag anyone for this meme.  If you have a blog, no doubt you've done it anyway.  But, just for kicks, you could let me know just one odd random thing about yourself in the comments.  Go on, tell me about how you're double jointed or that there's a colorful hummingbird tattoo on your left buttock.

Day 1 of the NaBloPoMo and already I'm stealing blog fodder.

I must confess:  Though I insisted that you say the words WHITE RABBIT as your first act of speech for the first day of the month, I blew it.  My first words? I GOTTA PEE.  To which the hubs said, WHA'?  Lame, lame, lame. Does not bode well for the month.

Dang, I had a funky day today.  The weather was beautiful, the house was clean, everything in its right place, all the ducks in a row, everyone accounted for.  One could be carefree! Instead, I was tired, dead tired.  Fatigue - the killer menopausal symptom that kicking me around.  Give me hot flashing and sweaty pits any day, this level of tired is not unlike the exhaustion that smacks you down and down hard in early pregnancy. 

(Little memory of being pregnant with Molly, more for my documentation really, but I'll let you in on it - Remembering that I had pillows in my office when pregnant with Molly.  After lunch, I would lay the pillows on the floor, flop down and take a 20 minute snoozer. Wake up still tired.)

So, funky day = drop in synapse activity.  Creativity is limited to stick figure drawing.  Best that I find a nice little list I can copy and paste.  Ah, here you go:

From the McSweeney's hipsterati, a list from their section, Lists:

FAQ for Dogs  by Neahmiah Scudder

1. Who's a good boy?

2. Who's got a fluffy tail?

3. What's in your tail?

4. What do you have?

5. What's in your mouth?

6. Where did you get that?

7. Where is the rest of that?

8. Where's your mom?

An apology, rabbits and another attempt at NaBloPoMo.

  Spring, thank God. 
   

Behold, the buds and blossoms of early Spring in Santa Cruz, California.  I present these to you, dear and ever-dollin Reader, on bended knee and muttering apologies for slamming Hillary Clinton.  I was impudent and bitchy in that entry  - carelessly lumping the Senator in with the Clinton Administration (though, to be fair to myself, HC does cite her First Ladyhood as 'Professional Experience' on her Monster.com profile and Facebook page), not giving her a break for taking a shot at fixing health care some 15 years ago, and mocking her performance in last week's debate. 

Bad blogger.  I was, in a word, notnice.  For all of this bad juju, I take personal responsibility, but blame can also be placed on the scourge that is menopause, the Bush Administration and, what Steve Martin used to say - that the moon was in Feces.

I won't take down the post.  It will remain because it's a blogging ethic not to pull an entry just because one made an ass of oneself.  Also, there's valuable cultural information about Stoner TV in that entry. 

Before I move on, I thank you in advance for forgiving me, not only for throwing negative vibes into the universe, but also for flashing signs of Spring to those Dollin Readers in colder climes.  That flagrant display of blossoms may be more harmful to readers than the Hillary slam.

Indeed, moving on.  On to March! (Where did February go? Flash in the pan even with the extra day.)  Don't forget to say "white rabbit" immediately upon waking tomorrow morning.  Why? I asked Google who came up with this from the Brits:

"On the first day of the month when you wake up in the morning shout 'White Rabbit' and when you go to bed at night shout 'Black Rabbit' and you will have good luck."

Liking that "Black Rabbit" twist.  It feels sort of Beatrix Potter-esque.

With the beginning of the month comes an excellent challenge to get my ass up and blogging regularly.  I will do Mrs. Kennedy's NaBloPoMo which has gone monthly.  Go, Mrs. K! And, go me!  I'll do a blog post every day for March and I will do it right.  I will do it!  Yes we can! 

How can I not? The theme for March is "lists".  All the hip people love lists.  It's well established that though I am not hip, I'm all about itemizing and bulleting must-dos and must-buys or who's hot and who's not.  And, I will go beyond my Costco and celebrity lists (though I believe you can never go wrong on a blog with a roster of George Clooney's many virtues).  I'm thinking along the lines of:

A-ha moments.

Ghetto features of my house.

The order of products utilized in my shower/beauty routine.  Rationale for use of each product to be described.

Reasons to love (fill in the blank with anything - Mexican flan, the flashlight, Ferragamo shoes, Las Vegas, Sharpie pens, George Clooney)

Trends I have followed like a pathetic lemming.

Great ex-boyfriends who I will not trash, even the ones who left me.

Why I am awesome (may be short or long list depending on the day's self-esteem index level)

Foods that will never cross my lips.

Racist things said by the Duke of Edinburgh, and he's said plenty.  Example.

What I believe you must do in (places I have been on the planet).

I'm having fun already, making a list of my lists.

Tomorrow I will begin with the classic blog meme,  five things about me.  I think I've done this list before,  but I'll do it again because I will be rewarded with brownies.   Really.  That's what gwendomama said and I'm holding that dollin to it.

All righty.  Don't forget - WHITE RABBIT!  Then, BLACK RABBIT!  And, all will be well for the new month.