The Interview

I'm always interested when I see that a blogger is being interviewed - both for the types of questions that are asked and the answers to those questions. The thing is, though, that most of those interviews are actually just questionnaires. There isn't any real interaction between the question asker and the person that's answering, the questions aren't usually tailored to that specific person, and let's be honest - it seems to be the same gig over and over.

So, I asked someone to help me put a spin on the blog interview process. Rather than just emailing me a list of standard questions, I asked that he email only one and wait for my answer before deciding what to ask next. I also chose someone that I thought would ask unique and difficult questions...and he didn't disappoint. Some were so hard to answer that I might have even stamped my foot once or twice.

My interviewer is Mr. London Street - a fantastic writer and a good friend. His contributions are in bold.

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I'm always struck by the idea of boundaries; how some bloggers will tell you about everything and anything (especially their sex lives) whether you want them to or not whereas other bloggers barely talk about anything above the mundane. What, if any, are your no-go areas?


Wow. Starting off with a bang, aren't we?

Obviously I don't care much for boundaries where blogging is concerned. This is the age of "too much information" and I enjoy participating in it. Being honest, over sharing, ignoring boundaries others wouldn't dare - it’s an addictive, heady feeling. I think part of the reason I feel that way is that I had a real problem being honest when I was younger.

My old issues aside - There are always going to be people that dislike what I have to say and I will always be crossing someone's boundaries. Fact is, I like being shocking...and as far as the topic of sex is concerned, its full steam ahead.

If I have any no-go areas, I haven't yet run across them. Maybe one day, if I'm ever married or in a serious committed relationship, that will change. Then again, maybe they'll be boundary pushers too and shrug as I type away about their bedroom preferences, et al.


How important do you think the social element of blogging is? Do you mainly see it as a medium to write and get your writing read by other people, and how much of it is about other people's writing and getting to know them?

I've enjoyed reading the blogs of the friends I've made and I've enjoyed getting to know them, but yes, this is largely a medium to write and have my writing read.

I think of blogland as being split into three sections - 1) bloggers that blog, 2) writers that blog, and 3) readers that do neither. It is much easier for me to connect with writers that blog because, like me, they tend to be more selfish and understand when I say things like "I just spent an entire day reading my own archives". We take this blogging gig far more seriously than others and we're always trying to improve, because we want more. This isn't just a hobby - it’s a stepping stone. Or rather, we hope it is.

I think the social element of blogging is very important, which is funny because obviously I would rather write than socialize. People respond more to bloggers that reach out and connect with their audience outside of the comment section. However, regardless of how much I enjoy my blogroll, I don't add new blogs to my reader often and I will always prefer to write rather than read. It is, as they say, "all about me".

That sounded terribly bitchy, didn't it? A third of you won't think so.


I'm impressed to see such an honest answer. Some bloggers can get away with that and get really huge without ever replying to a single comment or giving a single award; the rest of us have to toil away knowing we'll never find it that easy. Whose success do you envy?

Yes, that's true. And speaking of awards, I wish there were more out there without all the bloody stipulations. I don't participate as much as I used to and that's mainly because all of them require the same thing - Answer these 7 questions and tag 7 people! I love receiving them because it means I'm liked, and lord knows I love talking about myself, but you can only answer the same question so many times. There are a few out there that come with no strings attached, that are simply there to acknowledge a great bit of writing, but there ought to be more. (Hint, hint.) I'd make one myself, but I'm not nearly popular enough to pull it off.

Whose success do I envy? Anyone that's been able to use blogging to propel them into the writing arena of their choice. I generally stay away from the "famous" blogger's sites though because I've never found one that didn't irritate me. They're so full of ads and propaganda. Where's the damn writing? I'll probably never be one of them because I refuse to ever put an ad on my blog...turning it into, basically, a stat counter with pretty pictures and a few paltry sentences.

You know what I envy more than success? Talent.


Okay. We might come back to that in a while. In a meantime, imagine that eventually they make the movie of your life. I'm not going to ask you who'd play you, that's far too boring and obvious a question. Instead, I want you to describe to me the opening scene, which has no dialogue at all. What does it show you doing? What does it look like? And what's the song playing to kick off the soundtrack?

The first scene starts with a completely black screen. There are faint murmurs, a cough. With a loud pop a spotlight comes on and wavers a moment before highlighting a lone figure on a stage.

The figure squints, her round face pale, teeth clenched in a grimace that intentionally fails to be a smile. Beads of sweat appear above the thin red line of her upper lip and she blows the bangs of her frizzy, white blonde hair up with a single quick puff of air before clenching her teeth again. A black and gold spandex outfit hugs her too large frame and the sequins around the elastic cuffs squeeze notable indentations into the exposed flesh on her thighs and arms.

Another pop fills the silence, then the hiss of an old sound system coming to life. Just as the first strains of Crystal Water's song "100% Pure Love" begin, and the girl's wide hips reluctantly start to swish back and forth, a loud laugh echoes across the space.

The girl gallops and scuffles through her routine, her steps pounding along just a bit off from the beat. As she breathlessly hits her finishing stance she raises her jazz hands high overhead and let's her middle fingers detach from the rest, flicking toward the politely applauding crowd.


Brilliant. I want to watch what happens next now. What do you think would surprise people who read your writing most, were they to meet you in person?

I suppose that all depends. I've never asked my readers what, if any, preconceived notions they have about me. They could be surprised to know that I have a loud, obnoxious laugh or that my feet are enormous and I trip over them constantly. Little things that aren't really of any consequence.

But probably they'd be more surprised by how awkward I am. I'm far more comfortable with writing than I am speaking. I'm not an unintelligent woman and I believe that, for a person of my age and limited education, I have quite an extensive vocabulary. However, I suppose in person that could be misconstrued - partially because of my southern accent and shortening of most words in the English language, and partially because of my undeniable urge to use swear words in every other sentence.

I make friends relatively well, but I'm always very nervous when I meet a new person. Sometimes I stumble over my words and ramble a bit in the beginning. It takes me awhile to get settled.

Since I haven't yet had an opportunity to meet another blogger, who has gotten to know me already through my writing, I don't know if it will be the same. I'm hoping that it will be less awkward than meeting a relative stranger. You'll have to let me know how I do.


I wonder whether that's true of a lot of bloggers. I suspect there's often an element of constructing a persona which more closely reflects who we'd like to be, like Second Life avatars. What's your biggest disappointment in writing so far? And which of your posts are you most disappointed that people didn't love? Be honest, we've all got at least one.

I think maybe my biggest disappointment is that I can't seem to make it all come together. I write blog post after blog post, but when I've tried to sit down and think of, or write, something on a larger scale I become overwhelmed and I panic.

It happens with some of my longer posts - I get paranoid about how lengthy they become and I end up essentially cutting my story off at the knees and sewing the pieces back together, minus a few inches. Conclusions are something I often struggle with anyway, because I get so caught up in writing the meat of a story that I forget what the main ingredient was supposed to be. I may have had a point to make in the beginning, but let me start concentrating on the little details and it all falls to shit.

A more specific and recent disappointment, one that's really been eating me, is a post I attempted to write and never finished. It's about my mother. I have two pages of material and it just isn't right - it's too hard. There are so many layers to our relationship and I'm afraid I can never peel them all back sufficiently enough to make people see the whole picture. And having them only see part of the picture is out of the question. So, it sits mocking me in my documents folder and I've almost started to hate it.

Which of my posts am I most disappointed people didn't love? That's hard. I think I've been pretty lucky because the posts I'm proud of have gotten a decent amount of praise. I don't get many "that was total shit" comments and on the occasion that I have, my readers rally like a mob of villagers with torches. It's awesome.

But there is one that is a secret favorite of mine; one I wish everyone would have oohed and ahhed over more (though I never would have admitted it before).

I wrote it in about 20 minutes or less. It's full of run-on sentences and things that would normally drive me (and a lot of writers) crazy, but I love it. It's a lot like how I am with my friends - random, eccentric, always trying to make people laugh even when the joke is on me. And, at the risk of crawling even further up my own ass, it kind of reminds me of a Vince Vaughn monologue. It's this one: “Does it feel hot in here to you? Must be me. Do do CHHH!” Great title, right?


One thing I'm really struck by about your blog is that it doesn't say a lot about where you live. Tell me a bit about your home town, what you like and don't like about it. If someone visited you for 24 hours where would you take them, what would you show them and what would you do?

What can I say about small town America that hasn't been said before? Everyone knows your name, your medical history, and how much you deposit in your bank account every other Friday evening. It's a living, breathing Norman Rockwell painting. I alternately love and hate it.

I'm the sort of person that craves culture and new experiences yet, because of where I live, rarely have the opportunity to go after them. I often feel smothered by my lack of options. There aren't any fantastic art museums or ancient ruins. There aren't any chic boutiques or glamorous restaurants. If you want to go to a movie, go bowling, do much of anything really...you have to go into the city almost an hour away.

However, there are almost just as many days when I can't imagine living anywhere else. It is a very beautiful place.

The town itself is tiny; there's only one stoplight. Main Street is lined on one side with old buildings - some painted, some left to their original brick, and one renegade furniture store paneled with dark wood. They are all smashed together, some with roofs shaped as you'd see them in an old western. The drugstore still has its original sign and you can still buy an ice cream cone inside from the old fashioned counter.

On the other side of the street there's a small gas station, a Laundromat, and row of shops. The shop on the end would be almost invisible if its far wall that meets the end of the sidewalk wasn't covered in an enormous mural of rolling green hills, sheep, and a cartoon man in lederhosen. It’s a German restaurant that's almost never open, run by an eccentric German woman that chain smokes and shows everyone pictures of her passel of German Shepherds. She wears bright red lipstick and complains loudly, and in a thick accent, about the lack of appreciation for German cuisine. She only takes reservations when she feels like it and there's never a menu - you eat what she fixes or you don't eat at all.

The town square is immediately past the restaurant and contains a small parking lot and a very large old clock. Directly behind the clock is a white gazebo surrounded by grass and flowers - it's where the old ladies sit during every parade, whispering behind their fans and watching their husbands nearby. On one side of the square are a hardware store and a steakhouse made to look like a stable, but with two stained glass windows on either side of the bright red doors. On the other side the buildings, a salon and an antique store, are fronted in huge glass panes; a derelict looking dry cleaners seems stuck on as an afterthought, when in fact it's been there forever.

If you continue down Main Street things spread out a bit. You'd run into two banks, a crumbling brick apartment building, the old elementary school that now serves as a police station, a few churches, a baseball field, and "the walking track" where the high school kids park on Friday and Saturday nights. With nothing else to do but eat and shop, walking around a pavement oval and sitting on tailgates in the adjacent parking lot is what passes for entertainment.

My house is about 15 to 20 minutes outside of town - 10 when I'm feeling reckless. Houses, trees, churches, and a lone country gas station are about all there is to see between point A and point B, but it's a lovely drive none the less. As I've said before, I live by the lake so I feel I'm lucky there. I've never been much on nature, but watching the sun set over the water still has the ability to make my throat feel tight.

So, obviously, 24 hours would be plenty of time to show someone everything there is to see. I'd take them on a boat ride and show them the marina, maybe browse through the antique store and have dinner at the pizza parlor. Then, if they were really lucky, I'd take them to an authentic country party...outside...at a barn. We'd play beer pong, discuss the merits of light vs. dark beer, and argue over who likes Johnny Cash the most.


Have you ever travelled outside the States? If not, where's on your wish list?

Yes, I took a two week trip to Spain when I was in high school. It wasn't a school sponsored trip, but rather a tour group open to anyone that wanted to go and put together by our Spanish teacher every other year. We toured the whole country, hitting a lot of the major cities, and took a day trip to Morocco. It was the most fantastic thing I've ever done.

I had a wish list of destinations before I went to Spain, but it's since multiplied. Ireland, England, France, Peru, Australia, Switzerland, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. I want to see and experience them all...and I will.


What's the appeal of Switzerland? I'm genuinely interested in how people outside Europe might see it, because believe me, in England it's known for chocolate, neutrality, Nazi gold and euthanasia clinics. Are you a big Sound Of Music fan or something?

Yes I am. I adore the Sound of Music. What of it?

I suppose the majority of the appeal is in the scenery. And of course the fact that it isn't here. Besides, I love chocolate.

But...euthanasia clinics for what, exactly?


Well, euthanasia clinics are for euthanasia (what do you mean "for what?" honestly). It's not legal in England so people fly off to Switzerland to die with dignity in a special clinic. Or they just go somewhere like Croydon for a weekend and find that the will to live soon ups and leaves.

Here's a question for you. Why didn't you have an abortion? Was it a difficult or an easy decision to have your daughter?

I worked for a vet's office for two years so when I hear euthanasia, I automatically think about animals. I've never heard of a euthanasia clinic for people - that's what I meant.


I had an abortion when I was 17 so when I got pregnant again a year later, I was afraid to tell my mother that "oops, I know we spent all that money fixing my life once already, but we're going to have to do it again".

I never wanted to have children and when I found out I was pregnant again, by someone that had told me that was impossible (yes, I was naive), I immediately planned to have another abortion without telling my family. He said he would help me with the money for the procedure, and then promptly disappeared.

Then I did what I do best and procrastinated. I ignored what was going on with my body because I was too terrified to do anything else. So the decision to have her was more like indecision turned inevitable action. I put it off so long that I had no other option.

It was my decision to keep her, not have her, that was the difficult part. I seriously considered adoption for awhile, but ultimately my family swayed my vote. My mother wanted me to keep her and she promised to help me raise her. And she has.

When she was born (I never thought it through before the fact...not really) I realized that nothing would ever be the same, that my life would never be easy again. But she's been, and will always be, worth every single sacrifice.


Which things about your writing would you least like your mother to read? What about, one day, your daughter?

Well, funny you should mention that. Sometimes, when I haven't quite finished a post, I'll print them out to read over and edit later. Recently my mother came across two of them. The first was “Love is blind, friendship tries not to notice” and she said, "You really are a good writer. You get that from your mother." The second, "Safe Words (Alternate title: No pain, no gain)", was met with considerably less enthusiasm. "You really shouldn't leave these lying around where anyone could read them. Disgusting!"

Truthfully, if I didn't live with her, she could read my blog all she likes. But since I currently do its best if she doesn't. We fight often enough already and if I were to mention her, unfavorably or not, it would just spark another argument. She became aware that I was writing a blog at the beginning of this year, though she isn't privy to the address of course, and has said many times since, "You'd better not be putting shit about me on there!" She's very sensitive.

Though it would make me a tad uncomfortable for her to know so much about my sex life, which I write about quite frequently, I could get over it.

As for my daughter...I'm not ashamed of anything I write. When she's old enough, she's more than welcome to read all of my archives. I've been systematically printing them out and putting them in a binder so maybe one day she'll read them all and say, "God, my mother was embarrassing...but funny." Who knows, maybe they'll go a long way in helping with her inevitable therapy sessions.


What's your favourite item of clothing that you've ever owned? Tell me what it looked like and, more importantly, what it meant to you.

I was never a very stylish person. My school years were riddled with embarrassing clothing choices; I honestly can't believe anyone would be seen speaking to me. Being a large girl didn't help either - for some reason the people that make plus size clothing for girls and women seem to think you shouldn't dress mutton as lamb, and they chose the most horrendous cuts and patterns. Between my mother's love of all things frilly, my own misguided choices, and the (as my Papa used to say) seamstresses at the local tent and awning store...I developed an unhealthy hate for clothing in general.

But over the past few years I've gotten a lot better. I've become more adept at picking items that flatter me and I think it's safe to say that I've finally formed my own sort of style.

Rather than just one item of clothing, I have a favorite outfit. It's so simple, but it gave me a confidence I hadn't felt before. Three (or was it four?) years ago I bought a pair of tight, dark blue jean capris that you could cuff if you wanted; unrolled they reached about mid-calf and I preferred them that way. I'd had them for awhile before I went on vacation to Oklahoma to visit my dad. While I was there I went shopping with my stepsister and stepbrother, looking for an outfit to go out clubbing. I ended up picking out a plain white V-neck t-shirt, a plain black button up vest, a black trilby hat, and a pair of red and black Kenneth Cole strappy high heels.

When I went out that that night, I knew I was hot. I danced on a stage, something that would usually take a large amount of alcohol for me to even consider, and I walked around in those shoes like I owned the place. I've played at that sort of thing before, but that was the first time I actually felt that sort of confidence. In the past it was "fake it till you drink enough". And even though by the time the sun came up I was hobbling (and sneaking) barefoot from a cab to the front door, bruised and looking a lot worse for wear, that night and that outfit were the start of a beautiful relationship between me, myself, and I. I still have bad days, like every other woman, but most people are surprised when they realize just how healthy my ego really is.

The sad part is I only got to wear the outfit that launched my vanity once more. A few months after its second debut, it was packed in an overnight bag and left in my (accidentally) unlocked car downtown while I went out drinking with my best friend. When we stumbled out of the bar a few hours later, we realized that someone had taken the bag full of clothes. I still have the shoes, as I was wearing them at the time, and my hat which I'd left at home, but the rest was gone. Now every time I'm downtown I stare at the bums that wander by, wondering if they're the ones that took my clothes...and if they're wearing my underwear.


One last question: what question were you most dreading that I'd ask?

I wouldn't really say I was dreading a specific question, but I hoped you wouldn't ask any that I would have to decline to answer.

I wanted to be completely candid for this interview and that wouldn't have worked well had you asked me something that would betray someone's confidence (someone that reads this, obviously) or like, oh, "how many people have you slept with". Because there's no way in hell I'd answer that publicly. (So, back to your first question, apparently there is a no-go.) Unless, of course, I'd stand to make a large sum of money from sharing such information. It happens, you know - just look at Chelsea Handler.

When everything turns to shit

Usually when I say “I’m very busy and important” I’m being ridiculous, but lately it’s been completely true. I’ve had meetings constantly about this new database and somehow I’ve become the go-to girl. I’m not under any illusion that this is because I’m smart. It’s likely because no one else wants to deal with it and they know they can push it off on me and it will get done. That and they like sitting in my office and staring at my cleavage.

A lot of these meetings are sprung on me at the last minute and I hate that. I’m a bit sporadic with my appearance so if I don’t know about a meeting ahead of time I could come to work in yesterday’s touched up makeup and jogging pants. This, evidently, is not acceptable anymore now that I’m the go-to girl. No more waking up at six and running out the door 30 minutes later. Now I’m back to my 4:30am alarm setting and it sucks like a hooker with a quota.

I had several days notice on yesterday’s meeting so I was able to dress appropriately. I chose my outfit carefully on the off chance that, this time, the cute consultant would get some balls and wave a green flag. I was also hoping he would find the two Tweety Bird bandaids on my ankle and knee endearing rather than juvenile. I’m a very accident prone shaver. Very.

I teetered into work in heels that were half a size too big. I was convinced that with a little adjustment they could be the next “mama’s getting laid tonight” shoes. I looked good. It’s just a shame I had to walk like a candidate for hip replacement.

The meeting ended up lasting three hours and was very informative, though not in the conventional sense. It turns out the cute consultant is married with two small children. It’s the other eh *shoulder shrug* looking guy that’s single. Someone mixed up their statistics. However, this someone didn’t mix up signals and is pretty sure that the married one has been flirting. Or this someone could have a complex and think that every man she meets is flirting with her. Guilty until proven innocent. I know its backasswards.

Anyway, there went that idea. If they aren’t married, they’re gay. If they aren’t gay, they’re creepy stalkers with small penises. Moving on…

That put a bit of a damper on my day, but I’m pretty resilient. By the time I left work I was in good spirits. I picked up the kid and we sang along with the radio all the way home.

Getting out of the car every evening is a bit of a struggle. I’ve got my purse, the kid’s school bag, jackets, cups, the kid’s artwork, and any number of other odds and ends depending on the day’s events.

I was juggling everything in my arms and trying to put the key in the lock while the kid held open the screen door, standing back a bit. As soon as I pushed it open our 130lb yellow lab flew past my legs, making me stagger on my heels.

I looked after him, a confused expression on my face. Why on earth had he been locked up in the house all day? Then I took two wobbly steps through the door and figured it out.

The smell was like a right hook to the jaw. I almost went down. My knees buckled and I might have said “motherfucker”. The kid followed me in and as I threw everything down on the table she took a few steps past me into the dark house, fingers pinching her nose. “It smells weally weally bad Mama.”

“Stay back”, I said, pulling her toward the door. “You stand right here while I figure out where it is.”

I flipped on the light in the dining room and stared at a large, spread out puddle of what looked to be vomit. There were pieces of leaves, rocks, and chunks of something hard and black…like vomit trail mix. I glared at it, crouching down and taking a reluctant sniff. Nope. Not the source, but of course I hadn’t really thought it was.

That’s when I noticed that my bedroom door was open. My bedroom door is never open unless I’m home. I shut it every morning because the cats will park their hairy asses all over my clean laundry that I should put up, but don’t.

As I approached my bedroom the smell got stronger. I held my breath, flipped the light switch and sure enough, there was the fucking source. Shit. Shit. Shit. All over the floor. But not normal piles of stinky dog shit. Hell no. This was diarrhea dog shit. Thick, brown puddles of diarrhea covering entirely too much of my carpet.

I immediately gagged and backed away from the door. The kid was asking questions and yapping at me, but I just waved my hands at her in a shooing manner. Then I lost it.

“OH MY EFFING GAWD! (gag) THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR! (gag) OH I’M GOING TO HURL! (gag) FUCKING (gag) DOG!”

I danced around the kitchen while I screeched, my heels tapping on the floor. I grabbed my cell phone and called my mom, who didn’t answer. Then I tried my sister who also didn’t answer. I needed to avoid the mess and I needed to blame it on someone other than the dog.

I sent the kid to the living room to watch TV while I scouted around for more. I found another crime scene in the playroom. Not diarrhea, but massive piles. I mean massive. They looked like deflated footballs. More gagging and screaming followed.

While I was pacing and hyperventilating in the hallway, thinking vile thoughts about the dog, my sister called back. “THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR!”

“Well I didn’t do it”, she replied indignantly.

“I KNOW you didn’t DO it. Someone left my door open and…”

“I didn’t do that either”, she said.

“Do you understand what’s happening here? I’m practically breaking out in hives! I’m having trouble breathing! I even threw up a little in my mouth! I need you to co…”

CLICK.

Realizing I was going to have to deal with the shit all by myself, whether I wanted to or not, I headed to the laundry room. I dug through the cabinets and armed myself with a new roll of paper towels, carpet cleaner, old cloths, and air freshener. I layered five plastic grocery bags together and started hunting for a pair of rubber gloves.

I had to settle for a pair of bright orange gardening gloves with white grippy dots all over the palms and fingers. I put my hair in a clip, pulled on the gloves, and walked slowly toward my room.

I held my breath and walked in, tearing off a huge wad of paper towels. I had to hike up my skirt to squat down. I was afraid I would go toppling over because of my thin heels, but I refused to take them off just in case my bare feet somehow made contact with the muck. Gagging and cursing the entire time, I threw the first wad in the bags and took off out the door.

And that’s how it went for an ENTIRE hour. Pick up, gag, run out, gag gag gag, cuss, scream, dance in place…and repeat. I looked like Rocky, psyching myself up, pounding the air with my fists. When it came time to scrub the carpet my feet were killing me and my head was pounding. I dumped cleaner all over the floor and tried to figure out how I was going to scrub it without falling over.

The only way was to get on my knees.

And that’s how my sister found me: On all fours with my skirt rutched up, ass sticking out, heels in the air, intermittently spraying air freshener while I scrubbed and cussed at the floor like a deranged person.

After the first few minutes of her taunting I wished I’d taken a gigantic deflated football turd and transferred it to her room. I told her just that while she was lightning candles all over the house. She was not amused.

I had to take a 15 minute break to recuperate before cleaning the second room. Then I went through the same process all over again. On one of my mad dashes out the door to breathe my sister was standing in the kitchen.

“I’m hungry”, she said.

I stared at her in disgust.

“What?”

Later that night I was lying on the couch watching TV with mom. They’d let the dog back in, much to my irritation, and he was crashed within reaching distance. There was a commercial on so I let my eyes drift closed for just a minute.

“What’s…oh…oh!”

That same sickening smell filled the air. The fucking dog let loose a series of farts, each one polluting the air far too close to my head. I promptly jumped up and ran for the bathroom, gagging, while my mom fell off the other couch laughing.

After I finished throwing up I returned to the living room, ashen faced and with tissues shoved up each nostril. “Iz nwat punny. I’m squeamish.”

“PFFFFTRRRRFFFFT”, said the dog’s ass.

“Classic”, Mom wheezed, trying to pinch her nose and laugh at the same time.

The kid stuck her head out of her playroom.

“Mom”, she said.

“What honey?”

“It still smells like shit in here.”


*The criminal, Skeebo, seems to show some remorse. Refused to pose for his picture and elected to hide under the table in shame instead.*