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October 2004
Friday . . . Actually received a paycheck for ninety-four hours the week including Labor Day. And guess what? It was entirely spent before the next payday, a mere seven days later. As Gomer Pyle USMC used to exclaim, "Surprise, surprise!" Ouch. My net income has tripled and I'm not getting caught up. I've been averaging eighty-seven hours a week. Which, for me, is the peak number of work hours I can mentally & physically endure. Just the other day, a client revealed his true (and long suspected) colors to me, I almost cried. I later realized it was the lack of sleep that was causing my sadness. My tears. Demonstrating that "perception is reality", on my two days that I only work eight hours, are two days which I have labeled, 'my weekend.' I just figure that God is getting me ready to be employed in the movie industry being that sixteen hour work days are common there. The Rick Schroder movie I was asked to audition for is opening on October 1st, 2004. Sadly, since I wasn't Robert Selden Duvall or a Native American, I did not stand a chance <grin>. The Dr.Mrs. Malamud is coming into some money and she will have enough (and so will I) to 'afford' a divorce. I have no intention of filing, so, her decision to divorce the good Doctor Malamud on February 14th of 2003 is still simmering on the stove of choice. On the drive to the apartment this afternoon following the forth consecutive fifteen hour workday, I couldn't wait to share with the Missus some bit of trivia . . . and then, just as quickly, reality struck when I realized that she lived 1,014 miles to the east. Sigh. Well, she'll be coming out next week and actually will be staying with me and Mainio for a few days. With my psyche already prepared for divorce, I'm sure I'll notice a few of her character flaws, that for twenty-five years were cute or ignored but soon may be used for evidence of why we should not remain married.
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Tuesday . . . On my two days off, that is, the two days of my seven day work week (that knows no weekends) where I work only eight hours per day, I feel pretty good. But then, its back to my sixteen hour work days. As of midnight tonight I'll have put in forty-eight hours over the past five days that include a Saturday and a Sunday. Yes, I know, you're tired of hearing how hard <grin> I work. This is all just to prepare my lovely reader's to perhaps understand that the reason I haven't been posting as often as you beg me to <again, a weak grin>. I am just weary. I get so damn tired. But, I don't see a way out. Thank gawd, that although my work has no upside, and generates not nearly enough income, I don't actually revile it. Not really. I just hate that I don't have the guts to move on. Although I read in the Wall Street Journal that corporations are actively looking for executive talent . . . Wednesday, the Mrs.Dr.Malamud will return to briefly stay at the apartment with Mainio and I. In anticipation of her handing me divorce papers, I've numbed myself so that even the hope of her changing her mind is about as bright as the proverbial candle under the bushel basket. Covered by an overturned bathtub. Inside a thick canvas tent. Beneath the containment dome of an atomic reactor. I keep dreading the whole dating scene.
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Friday . . . Yesterday I signed the official papers at the bank granting the Mrs.Dr.Malamud the divorce she promised long ago on February 14th, 2003. (Yes, that was Valentine's Day. And a mere three days after our twenty-sixth wedding anniversary.) I went from a promised Escalade SUV and an easy retirement writing books with two dogs who (because they knew no better) loved me, to living alone with Mainio, working up to eighty-seven hours a week and driving a very used Peugeot. Because they could not possibly survive apartment life, the two dogs were put to sleep. Mainio recently shared with me that he spent a 'last afternoon' with the bulldog.  How touched I was when I heard his story. I loved it the other day when I ran into our dog-trainer, who bills himself as the "Best Dog trainer in the World." He asked how my animals were doing, and without skipping a beat, I told him I had to put both of them to sleep. Har! No, it was a very sad moment. Moments. As I glanced over the many signature lines on the Maricopa County divorce papers I noticed the block checked for her to receive our brand new house in the Lone Star state. I asked her if I'd be collecting the thousands of dollars in equity I held in the place where she resides. She looked up, smiled, paused and then declared, "Sure." Such is the trust between us. I probably should be ashamed of thinking this, but, I have a sneaking suspicion that her rush to finalize the divorce 'soon,' is due to her ailing, asset-laden mother. For, when my parents died, my (sole & separate) inheritance was spent supporting our marital community. You see, like the Sicilian in the great movie,  Princess Bride I felt that a divorce was ". . . inconceivable." As I went to sit in the leather seats of the borrowed Cadillac outside the Wells Fargo, I switched on the CD player spinning Ray Charles last recording session titled: Genius Loves Company, and heard Elton John croon, "Sorry is the hardest word to . . . " How apropos. What does Dr.Malamud do now with only twenty days until the divorce becomes final? How does he proceed? Damn. You know I used to hate it when the oh so bitchy and opinionated Dr. Laura used to insist, that while the children were less than eighteen years of age, both divorced parents should remain unattached. And now, even though my children are all over eighteen years of age, I feel that I should not ever again marry. I will forever remember being taken aback the first time I saw my oldest brother with his second wife. My mind involuntarily recoiled at the sight of this stranger with my brother. My memory screamed out, "Where is his real wife!?" So, I can only imagine what torment the same scene caused the pre-adult souls of my dear nieces. I really don't miss the company of a woman, not having one since almost two years ago. And I don't mean 'having' one, I mean not enjoying the company of a fine female designed by God to compliment and complete Man. And correct man. And clean-up after man. And cook for man. Now, I am missing the company of a woman <grin>.
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Sunday . . . I'm watching  The Big Chill, the 1983 movie I'd first seen Glenn Close's bare breasts in. Hey, I'm a guy. I cried during the funeral scene in the church. I remembered my own parent's funerals when myself and my brother almost spoke longer than the ninety minute recording tape. Oddly enough, without consultation, my first born brother machined-gunned just the facts about their lives in his best Joe Friday pantomime.  While the-baby-of-the-family, me, sprinkled the wet-faced crowd with the personal touch by recalling bizarre happenings at the Alzheimer's wing my Pappy spent his last eighteen months in. And by talking about our dear, sweet mother (who imbued me with more compassion than I'd wish to carry) and telling about her Depression-Era thriftyness and how, after her passing, of me discovering an empty metal Sucrets box labeled in her perfect handwriting, probably written with favorite Papermate pen, "String too short to use." Forever, I'll remember my Southern preacher friend, who, as he worked his way through the reception line and upon coming to me poured out in his lovely drawl, "I don't know how to tell you this, Doctor, but I've never had more fun at a funeral." As I type this, the tears are flowing. Understand that during my eulogies of first my father, who died of Alzheimer's and a year later my mother, who died of a broken heart, amidst my tears, memories, and sadness, I had the SRO crowds stabbing through the black curtain of their grief with guffaws and giggles of the brightest white. This is good. This is good. It's been a long time since I had a sincere cry. Of course, I may have had a few shots of tequila (okay, seven shots) but that's what I need to bring down the façade that the world sees. Being an actor, being a writer, The Big Chill is a masterpiece . . . even though Kevin Kline's Southern accent seems to come and go. No wonder I keep myself from watching it. It brings to the surface numerous raw recollections, that like icebergs, normally float low and expose only one-tenth of their bulk. Too many bad choices. Unwise choices. In awe, I observe Mr. Kline and I know that I could influence audiences in the same manner this unbelievably, believable actor does. And I'm better looking too <grin>. Hic.
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Saturday . . . The nine by twelve inch tan envelope displaying the return address of "Michael K. Jeanes, Clerk of the Superior Court, 201 W. Jefferson St." remains unopened. I struggled to pull it out of my glove-box-sized mail-cubby hole this Thursday afternoon. I know what's in it. How odd that this morning after I moused over to the Word program on my home computer to record last night's sad, surprisingly vivid and lascivious dreams involving the very-soon-to-be-ex-Mrs.Dr.Malamud, glancing at the pull-down list of recent files, I see she must have edited, or even typed the originals of our divorce papers and printed them out on my own computer. I thought they had come from the $300 an hour auspices of a Texas solicitor. Oh well. While I absolutely do not expect any financial shenanigans sprouting from her deft fingers, if there were any, it could hardly compare to the crushing emotions I've been slogging through these past many months. Granted, perhaps I've earned more than a few of the ball-peen hammer blows to my heart, but that doesn't dull their pain. 27 years of wedded bliss to end on the 27th of October? It was the best ten years of my life <grin>. Not much of a Halloween present. Do they give Halloween presents anyway? To signify my period of mourning, I am contemplating having my barber of thirty years shave my head. How odd that the relationship with my barber has gone on longer than that of my first and only wife. I'm not sure if I should request a 'Marine-recruit' style burr, or a total Christopher Reeve (God rest his soul) shaving cream and straight razor cut baldy. I feel moved to display some outward indication of this major and totally unexpected and undesired transition in my life. Gawd damn, how many times had I read about the "empty-nest" syndrome of married couples where soon after the children depart, the marriage dissolves?  Never had I thought it would happen to me. I predicted it for Dave and Cindy, our neighbor's of two decades, but never for us. As, I'm not the cuddly Jay Leno type, but more like Christopher Walken, my chrome dome will surely startle and might even frighten a few of my clients. Too bad for them. But yet, like Samson shorn by his Delilah, I will be left weak, wondering and wandering. Will I be easy prey for Morgan Fairchild, Jill Hennesy or Martin Short? Probably. About eight months ago I finally accepted the distinct possibility that my best friend in the whole world did no longer desire to share her life with mine. I feel like I should cease all communication with her. I was trying to imagine what if she was a best male friend, what I would do? Do you cease all communication with a 'best-friend?' Who do I share with now? My heart is aching just typing this. Who do I talk to? Who do I bounce ideas off of? I don't want to run off looking for a new wife, but after eighteen months of separation I am yearning for the emotional, physical and spiritual delights only a female can bring to a male.
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Tuesday . . . Cruising Southwest suburbia in the Peugeout, feeling sorry for myself by floating thoughts of "My life: sorting through cow manure and horseshit. All the people who should still be alive, instead of me." And then I cheer up and think (since I'm 'ignorant' enough to believe that God has the time to watch over Dr. Hammurabi Malamud) He must want me to remain alive. Alive for something. To do something. To amount to something. I often imagine that my life's meaning is to change lives for the better. To cause the normally lazy and mentally taciturn American person to cogitate without realizing he or she is actually pondering with a purpose. Is my job to encourage my fellows to realize that there is more to life than watching Realty-TV or oogling and ah-ing over cable's Celebrity Poker Showdown? Watching other people live? The excitement of buying a brand new, just finished, smelling of paint and plaster new home. Halloween decorations are out and very soon kids will be Trick or Treating. However, when tricks are played, the police will be called. Gazing at the newly married young couples walking hand-in-hand (with hands occasionally venturing below waist level and grabbing behinds) exploring their new neighborhood and neighbors. And knowing later, in the darkness of their new bedrooms, bathed in the blissful cool of an Arizona October, they will be exploring each other. Delighting each other. Making babies. Having lost what they have, I know they don't know what they have right now. Tonight. A dead marriage can be likened to a funeral, which many times is the only moment we are finally forced to acknowledge what that casket-dwelling cadaver meant to us. What that marriage meant. I whiff the aroma of multiple home cooking: the baked potatoes, the vegetables burbbling in cast-iron pots, and the slabs of meat sizzling in their own bloody juices. These sumptuous scents simmering in the breeze are easily distinguishable from the fumes of a Frechetta Brick Oven Pizza baking in my lonely oven. I sigh as I realize it may be years before these home cooking smells float out of my kitchen. My nose sucks in the bouquet of t-bone steaks earning black stripes on outside grills and the reflexually remembered then-taken-for-granted-good-times in my former backyard cause my eyes to brim over. The acrid smell of burning wood first alarms me, causing me to think a house on fire, only to relax when I realize that even in 55F degree weather, fireplaces are already being fed their lumber meal. And wood burning reminds me of Christmas and that this will be my second Christmas spent without the Mrs.Dr.Malamud. My mood drops even further as I recall two Thanksgiving's ago, with the Missus having been in Texas for only a few weeks, when Mainio phoned from his friend's father's mansion, inviting me to a servant served repast. However, I was so disconsolate at her being absent, I declined. And no, this was months before I discovered the terrors of tangling with tequila. KOOL FM is playing Beatle songs from the 1960s. I sing along until I choke-up involuntarily reminded about my high school days. I don't want to go back. You can never go back.
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Wednesday . . . The Great State of Arizona steps into the dissolution of the Malamud marriage. Unbeknownst to Dr. Malamud, the soon to be ex-Dr.Mrs.Malamud, has already spent $500 procuring the paperwork for the divorce she desires so much. (And with the way she's spending money, I'm a little desirous too <grin>.) Now the Superior Court wishes to force two monumental intellects to sit through a reconciliation hearing with a county employee? In December? In Surprise, Arizona? (Apparently to outsider's, "Surprise, Arizona" sounds a delightful place, but, believe me, it is not.) And, it's about thirty miles of heavy traffic from the Dr. Malamud nine hundred and ninety square foot estate. Like, after twenty-five years of her second marriage and two years of over one thousand and thirteen miles of separation an adult in her second half-century of life would not know when she wants a divorce? Look here it's been the twenty days since the filing of the legal papers and we are still not divorced. She promised that would be the end of it. I've been trying to engineer the complete balding of my already half-naked pate with the actual date of my divorce settlement. How can I do it with the friggin' government ass-wipes butting in? I'm sure it's just some county employee whose job it is to collect a salary by sending out these boiler-plate proclamations that begin, "The Court having conducted a review of this case, (right!) and it appearing that judicial intervention is appropriate . . . " Examining all the forms, many of them financial, it appears that the almighty county of Maricopa is not aware that the Malamud's have no minor children. Judging from the forms it is quite obvious that rather than being concerned about a quarter century love affair ending (don't ask my wife about that) the government is concerned about the children or the fractured family going on welfare. Love is not something that can be legislated. You know how when you fall 'out-of-love'? Well that's what has happened to my spouse. And dammit, she's done it without having more than 352 good reasons. I occasionally visit with an older Jewish lady, who eats pork, and she explained to me, "When a woman has had 'enough.' She has usually had waaaaaaay enough." That's the way females are. They forgive and forgive and forgive (but never forget) and then one day, usually without any type of comprehensible verbal warning, they have had enough. Enough.
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Friday . . . "I let a red-headed woman make a fool out of me" croons James Taylor from his Gorilla CD. Damn did I. And I'm still letting it happen. When I went to kiss the Mrs.Dr.Malamud good-bye when she was here last, she snapped her head away as if I'd asked her to lick my . . . well, you know. That hurt. I was thinking last night that I continue to send her emails and little bits of interesting information clipped from here and there that I think she might find interesting, informative or funny, and I get nothing in return from her. Like a hopeless sap, I continue to treat her as if we are still best of friends. Of my three best male friends, two are looney (one moved back in with his mother at age 45) and the only sane one makes Joan Rivers seem about as talkative as Sean Connery. I've already bought the Missus her 2004 Christmas presents, even though in 'ought three,' I got nothing from her. And, no, I did not buy them expecting at tit for tat (although the tit part would be nice). I reflexively purchased her gifts knowing that she'd really enjoy them. She only seems concerned with me when the "me" involves money. Perhaps, maybe even without realizing it, she is still working through the re-emergence of all the carefully buried angst I generated in her during our quarter-century and three kids of life together. Gawd, sometimes I am so simple, so naive, that I even surprise myself. Shit. Like I've heard said: "Divorce doesn't stop the pain." And while she thinks it will for her, it is just the beginning of the pain for Dr.Malamud. Of course, I've already battled through the severe pain, but a dull throb will probably continue for the rest of my life. This morning I heard an owl hoot-hooting in the darkness nearby and grabbing my binoculars soon spotted the cat-sized winged carnivore squatting next to a chimney looking amazingly like the fake plastic owls people perch on their parapets to frighten off sparrows, pigeons and doves. Later I also gazed at a red-headed, black speckled woodpecker, that reminded me of what a peckerhead I have been. Cheesh. I can't believe how much better I feel both bodily and emotionally when I get eight hours or more of sleep. That's why this week-end I've managed to schedule thirty-two billable hours. Well, I've got nothing else to do. Given a chance, I'd probably mope around and ponder how my life is going nowhere. You know, the more I think about it, not that I'm some kind of genius, but the more intelligent one is the more one notices all the things that are going wrong. All the things that aren't right. It's no wonder so many gifted people kill themselves and avoid all the damned trauma.
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November 2004
Tuesday . . . I'm listening to the FM Clear Channel jazz station, and being they have a playlist of about eighty-three songs, the one I'm listening to now draws me back to this Spring when I was dieting heavily while my heart was melting over the Missus's divorce wishes. To me, it is just amazing the influence music exerts over humanity. Almost as if we all were specifically designed to enjoy it. To discover a deep connection with it. As I was watching a 1980s many hours long interview with President Richard Nixon, I found it so funny when the question was asked of him to name some of his favorite modern music. I expected Frank Sinatra, or Dean Martin, and had to smile when R.N. came out with specific Beethoven symphonies. The nationwide jazz channel I'm listening to here in Scottsdale is the same one they play in the offices of the distant Mrs.Dr.Malamud. Yesterday I saw that Mainio had received a Halloween card from his mom. Last year I got one too. Not this year. Well, I have three apparently blind women interested in me. One has already asked me to lunch (and disappeared as surely as Johnny Carson) one really perked up when (being she self-filed and got divorced last year) I asked her some questions about wrapping up my own divorce and the third asked me about twenty questions as to what I was doing on Thanksgiving Day. Sadly, none of them represent the great monetary wealth I am looking for as the number one trait in the next Mrs.Dr.Malamud. Actually, as my regular readers know, I was hoping to be invited by parents of Mainio's friends to dinner. However, I've got my daughter and her new husband (with his family in Texas) and my oldest (divorced) boy to consider. At least I don't have to cook.  I'll have to ask around what they have planned. It's not easy being the mother and arranging Turkey Day. At least I don't have to cook. Last year, on November 27th, 2003, I tried to pick up a Honey Baked Ham but they were so rude being they were closed on Thanksgiving Day. Speaking of women, Morgan Fairchild is coming to Tempe, Arizona, as she stars in the stage production of The Graduate. Morgan Fairchild, nude. Of course she is fifty three years old or so. But she will be shilling for her new skin care line. Like her skin isn't the way it is because of genetics. I told Mainio that if she should call the apartment, just to get her phone number and I'd call her back. Can't play too easy to get, can I?
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Tuesday . . . Feeling way down. Well, actually, I'm too tired or busy for crushing depression so, I've settled for the portable back-pack type that conveniently keeps the gloom and doom feeling of a heavy boot pressed in the middle of my chest where ever I journey. Earlier this week, my soul was chewing on the fact that I guess I've been pretty gawd-damned depressed for quite a while. I guess I was too depressed to notice I was so depressed. So long. Shit. I never, ever thought I'd be getting divorced. But, you know that <grin>. I was saddened Monday night after I dragged into the apartment, worn from another abusive eighteen hour workday, when my Mainio told me he'd be ". . . moving out" to the manse of his best friend parent's over the Thanksgiving college break period. I'm like the imprisoned Saddam Hussien with Mainio being my only visitor. Hell, at least The Butcher of Baghdad enjoys his gardening. What a sad friggin' life I chose to lead, eh? Although I'd be welcome, I sure as hell don't want to trek west to Peoria or the deserts of Wickenburg, in order to sup Thanksgiving Dinner with my soon-to-be-ex-inlaws. Although, I would enjoy visiting my soon-to-be-ex-mother-inlaw, should Thanksgiving dinner be scheduled there. I continue to have flashbacks, of me strolling outside, alone in the cutting November cold of an early 1970s Thanksgiving gathering outside the home of a cousin of my first fiance. I remember then seeing into the future. Only now I can't remember the past, so I can't see the future that I imagined thirty three years ago. No doubt I would not have believed it. I don't believe it now.
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Tuesday . . . Today I read and answered an e-mail from the soon to be ex-Mrs.Dr.Malamud discussing Christmas presents for our adult children. She favors the green monogrammed paper known as cash, while I prefer actual three dimensional presents, precisely covered in shiny wrappings, that are too exciting or enticing to return. As a way of preparing the Missus for the next three or four decades of life sans the poor Dr.Malamud, with bitter determination I've been strictly limiting my communication with her. Years ago she christened me with the entirely appropriate moniker of: "Never a Dull Moment Dr. Malamud." I remember having an post-church lunch with an assistant pastor, his wife, and my Missus, where after I had burst out in one of my loud and silly impersonations, the reverend proclaimed that, "Going to lunch with Dr.Malamud is a humbling experience." Humbling? I don't know why. In the midst of a quiet autumn drive the other evening, I was remembering the last few Christmas parties with the Missus' business peers and superiors. Prior to these highly arranged (most often by her) get-togethers she continuously warned me to behave myself lest (I imagined) I upset any fragile origami and rice paper constructed egos and cost my spouse her job. Well, now she doesn't have to fret Dr.Malamud's verbal misbehaviors as a cause for her own unemployment. "You don't have Dick Nixon to kick around anymore!" Ooops, sorry, slipped into my Richard Nixon persona. As I read the Missus' e-mail today, it hurt me in the heart to learn of her continued money woes, but such is the existence of an over-extended individual wage-earner. I've always believed that she needed a pot of money to be happy. And there is certainly nothing wrong with that. Shortly after I wrote my last entry, the wife called me in during the tail-end of a sixteen hour day sounding quite sad. A quick "Can't talk now," from me ended that conversation. Being naive, I thought her sadness stemmed from second thoughts on the divorce. But no. For when she phoned later in the evening it was to tell me that the State of Arizona had erected another barrier to her divorce in that there needed to be some sort of telephone conference for them to be certain I wanted the divorce. Well, course I don't "want the divorce," because I know that the pain doesn't stop with divorce. The heart-ache will last for the rest of our lives.
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Day After Thanksgiving 2004 . . . At a quarter past four o'clock this dark and crisp morning, I listened as my cell phone let out a long sonorous beep complaining that during my death-like sleep of half a dozen hours, I had missed a call. Tapping in my code I heard the Missus wish me a "Happy Thanksgiving." How odd. She is a prime reason my day was so "un-happy" and stuffed with few thoughts of thanksgiving. Yesterday, dependent on gifts from more or less strangers, I was graciously offered a sumptuous, Styrofoam-plated gourmet quality dinner complete with steaming dark turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole (which is known to cause cancer) mashed sweet orange tubers, apple and pumpkin pie slices. The brown crusted fruit-based wedges of delight I took home for the young Mainio to consume as quickly as an eighteen foot Great White shark bites off and swallows a swimmer's thigh. It is so uncomfortable living through my second year of not having more turkey, ham, sweet potatoes, gravy and onion-less stuffing crowding the shelves of my refrigerator than I could eat in days. I'm going to miss having turkey sandwiches slobbered with mayonnaise on toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sadly (because I scheduled the week with my focus on my swelling bank balance being regularly deflated by purchases of Christmas presents) the boy spent the day alone watching the Bravo channel, football games and wandering from friend's Thanksgiving dinner to friend's dinner feeling ostracized by visiting relatives. He ended up back at the empty apartment wolfing down a Jethro-sized bowl of Hebrew National hotdogs buried beneath the comforting heat of Wolf brand chili blanketed by grabs of store-grated cheeses. I think I'll buy a Honey Baked Ham this weekend for us to share. We will devour its pink goodness from the table strategically placed in front of the new flat-panel monitor, ripping off pieces of meat like cavemen did at the first Thanksgiving <grin>. (But don't feel too sorry for the boy, because when, after another sixteen hour workday, I got to the apartment after 10PM and I walked in and spotted a bright red checkered patent leather coat flung on the floor paired with his bedroom door slung shut, Detective Colombo-like, I deduced that he was probably completing some of his own nocturnal stuffing.) I cautiously stepped on my talking scale this morning and, even though all my muscles have deteriorated to the firmness of a wheel chair bound WWII veteran, I have (entirely due to my ninety-plus hour work weeks and not having a single day off since August 1st) maintained a thirty-seven pound weight loss for over a year. Speaking of veteran's, while I was attempting to siphon up self-sorrow for my less than luxuriant Thanksgiving, I thought of the many thousands of American troops in Iraq and Afghanistan, sleeping in three foot deep coffin-sized cavities self-cut into the hard earth. Our citizens, many so very young: men and women away from home, risking death daily and missing not only family, friends and spouses, but Thanksgiving, Christmas and hundreds of comforts we experience without enjoying. God Bless those soldiers and soldieresses. Thoughts of those relocated Americans bitch-slapped your Dr.Malamud back to reality as I realized that my life, my circumstances, are pretty damned fine. While, inside my head, my depression blackens my outlook. A depression fertilized by thoughts of where I know I could be (why, I already am a legend in my own mind!) versus where I am and my incomprehensible fear of making the slightest movement towards fulfillment and relief and an end to a throbbing prostate ache. Or, could I still be simmering in a God-mandated period of being broken, being educated and learning to experience gratitude for the myriad of little things, strewn like salt across my path, that I continue to fail to appreciate?
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