Dropping Off the Grid

This is just a quick post to say that I might be disappearing for longer than usual starting soon. Then again, I might actually be writing more than usual as well. I’m not making sense.

At the end of this week, I’ll be traveling to the US for a week or so. My dad is having heart trouble again.

On the positive side, he hasn’t had a heart attack or anything yet, so that’s good. But when he went to his cardiologist for a general check up, an ecocardiogram revealed two blocked arteries, necessitating another test to check out the extent of the problem. After the scope test yesterday, the news was dire: the aortic valve that was replaced about 5 years ago is 100% blocked and failing and another valve that was repaired in 2008 is also 100% blocked and nonfunctional. It seems that surgery is imminent.

My dad is not a young, healthy guy. He’s 77 with the mentality of a 104 yr. old. When the job and housing crisis hit the US, he lost his job and was forced into early retirement. My parents lost their house to a foreclosure and had no choice but to declare bankruptcy. This has taken an emotional toll on my father more than mere words on a page can describe. Having no other interests and no feeling of purpose, he aged fast. that was 4 years ago.

Aside from this, he has diabetes and has had heart trouble for as long as I can remember. Angiograms, angioplasties, stints, double bypasses, triple bypasses, valve replacements, and catheterization are all words and processes I’ve been familiar with for most of my childhood and young adulthood. As my mom and sister say occasionally, my father has been living on borrowed time for over the last 10 years or so.

I’m scared. I’m going to the states to be with him and with my mom. I’m not exactly sure what I will be be able to accomplish necessarily by being there in person, but I know that if I stay here, detached, and separated by 7000 miles and 7 hours time difference I’ll just make myself crazy.

Time to pack.

The Worst Kind of First Date

“I love touching you.” “I just want to kiss you all the time.” “Just give me a hug.” And the worst of all “Relax, don’t worry.” These are all pretty normal phrases to hear from your boyfriend or someone you’ve been seeing for awhile. On the other hand, these are not phrases you want to hear on a first date with someone, not even knowing his last name. Especially, don’t ever tell me to relax. Telling me to “relax” if I don’t know you just puts me on guard even more.

And yes, this story gets worse.

As someone who many moons ago was date-raped by someone I trusted, I am fairly cautious when it comes to getting to know people and dating. I rarely (anymore) jump into bed with someone on the first date, and I never sleep with someone just moments after meeting them. Also, because of previous life experiences I tend to have very good radar for crazy and I have visceral reactions when I am in a situation I shouldn’t be in. My stomach starts to hurt, my heart races, I start clenching my jaw.

Tonight, I went out on a first date with a guy I met yesterday on the beach. Let’s call him Lorence. He was attractive with nice hair and pretty blue eyes, he had a nice smile, and he seemed a little dopey – not too bright – but, sweet. I thought he could be fun for a few drinks and maybe a date or two. Plus, these days I’m trying to build new “yes” habits instead of “no” habits, so it was sort of a personal goal I set for myself to say yes to something even if I wasn’t 100% sure about it. That will teach me.

So, we met yesterday, exchanged numbers, and parted ways. When he called me on my way to dinner to go out tonight, I thought “why not?”

He picked me up at my friend’s house on his motorcycle. On the drive, he kept moving my hand from his waist to his chest. It was awkward. I felt like I was being forced to cop a feel. So when he would take his hand away, I’d move it back to his waist. And the dance went on like that until we got to the bar.

We both had a beer. Longest beer ever. I tend to drink beer on dates when I’m not super comfortable. I can’t get drunk from beer and it takes me forever to finish a pint so, it’s a good go-to. During the drink, it was obvious that he thought the bar was a formality he had to endure before we went home to have sex. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to fuck. He kept trying to shove his tongue down my throat, he was rubbing my arms, intertwining fingers with me, touching my hair, staring at my lips. Horn dog.

I kept shrugging off hiss weird behavior and saying to him “I don’t even know you,” when he would try to kiss me with so much tongue (yuck.). Or “I just want to get to know you a bit first,” when he would try to put his hand up my shirt. Or “I really just want to take things slowly,” when he tried to start kissing my neck in the middle of the bar.

Every time I would say “you don’t want to talk, you want to have sex.” He would get defensive and say something like “we are talking!” But the only things we were talking about was the fact that I wanted to talk and he clearly didn’t. Eventually, it was obvious to me that the date was not working and I said, “I’m getting pretty tired. I’ve been up since early this morning. I think it’s time you took me home.” He said fine but that he needed to stop and get something at his place first, if I didn’t mind. “Of course,” I said, “no problem,” and off we went.

Once we arrived at his place, deep in the ghetto of Florentin for those of you who know Tel Aviv, he said, “I might be a few minutes. You can come up if you want, or stay here if you want.” Not wanting to be left alone on the street with his motorcycle in Florentin at 11pm, I said I’d come up with him. Once upstairs, he “looked for something” for a moment while I commented on his apartment being nice looking. Then, the next thing I knew, he was kissing me hard and trying to take my shirt off. I pushed him away, no easy feat because he is so much bigger than me, and said “We’re not doing this tonight. I want to go home.”

Then, he spewed some profanity at me including calling me a “cold bitch,” claiming that he “knows my type,” and that I should “leave and go the fuck on with my life without him,” and threw me out of his apartment. Door slam, angry muttering, all of it.

Then, stranded in Florentin, I started to walk home. Who the fuck did this guy think he was?? Then I started to shake. How dare he say that to me?! He doesn’t even know me! Then I started to cry. What the fuck?? Then I started to make phone calls. No one was awake, until finally, Ben’s brother (who I’ve become quite good friends with) responded to my text. We talked as I walked home. I cried. I told him what happened. He did his best to console me. It mostly helped. It’s not so much what Lorence said that hurt so much, as much as being in that situation dredged up all these weird sensory recall memories of how horrible I felt so many years ago with that man. I felt alone. I felt vulnerable. I felt like I just wanted someone to hug me and tell me that they’ll protect me. I wanted all of those things tonight on my walk home.

Yes, this date with Lorence could have ended way way way worse. But this is not the kind of date girls dream of having when they meet a good looking guy on the beach. And I should have listened to my instincts. When my stomach started hurting and my jaw started clenching, I should have just left then on my own and not asked for the ride home.

What an asshole.

Update!!! Not moments after posting this blog, I got a text from Lorence that was accusing me of “playing games” with him and warning me that “the next time I go to a man’s house if I do that, I’m going to lose.”  I can’t help but feel like the sane person in the insane asylum. All I did was tell him all night that I didn’t want to touch, kiss, or have sex. I just wanted to talk and get to know him. He brought me to his place under the pretense of “getting something” and then threw me out to walk home when he jumped on me and I stopped him. Wtf.

Missing Out

Today, one of my best girlfriends from college is getting married in Virginia. When she first told me about the engagement, she prefaced it with “I know it’s not easy for you to travel back and forth, but I would really love it if you could be there, but I also understand if it’s not possible.” My heart broke. I tried. I spent hours searching for the cheapest of cheap flights. I tried arranging my schedule to make it possible. Despite my best efforts, the writing was on the wall: I wasn’t going to be able to make it.

In 2011, I missed two of my other friends’ weddings in the states as well. To be totally honest, I knew I was going to miss them when I decided to move here and it didn’t completely bother me. I was so overwhelmed by all of my friends getting engaged and then married so close to each other that the idea of not going to the last two weddings (of four that year) of 2011 was sort of a relief. Not having to find a dress, find a date (because James never wanted to go to these things with me), then field questions about why I’m still not in a serious relationship and conversations about MORE people getting engaged and/or having babies. I was so over it. Coming here when I did took the pressure off of me to be involved and present in all those f*cking weddings…

It wasn’t that I was not happy for my friends. They think they’ve found their one and only, they see a life of ever-lasting marital bliss for themselves, and that’s just great. For them. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. We were so young. 26. So. Young.

At that time, right before moving here, I was in a pretty negative place in my life. I was not working, my “relationship” was sucking the life out of me, my friends seemed to have it all figured out, I was drowning in debt, and my family was putting an exorbitant amount of pressure on me to have my life together. I look at pictures of me from that time and I was even slightly overweight; I was eating my emotions and stress, and it wasn’t working for me. The only thing I could do to feel like I had control was bury my head in fiction novels for grad school and get good grades. Then, in one fell-swoop I took the control of my life back by making the decision to move. To leave everything that was wrong with my life behind and start fresh. Some may have thought I was running away; I choose to look at it as running toward something better.

Now, almost two years after moving here (my anniversary is at the end of July), it is still the bet decision I have ever made for myself. But, there are moments, like these, where I am a little sad that being here means giving up being at important life events for my good friends. Weddings, birthdays, baby births, good times, hard times. The best I can do is be available on skype. But, is that enough?

As a little girl, I was never the type to imagine big elaborate weddings in reception halls with 6-tier cakes and princess sparkly dresses. When I pictured my wedding, I saw me and my unknown groom-to-be, our two sets of parents, my best friend, his best friend and a rabbi. On a beach. I was always wearing a pretty white bathing suit with a white sheer, long-sleeve, v-neck, shirt/dress/cover-up thing and a long long string of pearls wrapped around my neck, hair down with flowers in my hair, bare-foot. Then, for the “reception,” we would have a bonfire bar-be-que on the beach until the wee hours to which everyone was invited. Bring your guitars! Bring your beach blankets! Bring your playlists! And someone bring marshmallows for toasting over the fire, for the love of G-d!

Being here, makes me think that this dream is actually possible. But, I acknowledge that my nearest and dearest in the states probably won’t be able to be part of it. It’s the price you pay for happiness. Nothing can ever be too perfect, or the universe will restore the balance.

Thank You for Bringing this to My Attention

My old academic adviser from undergrad used to have a joke: How does a stage manager say “f*ck you?” The answer was “thank you for bringing this to my attention,” said in the perfect deadpan that you didn’t know if she was serious or sarcastic. Perfect.

After the last encounter with the woman I tutor for, “crazyface,” things were not the same. Something had changed in me. Maybe it was that I noticed myself getting anxiety about talking to her on the phone or seeing her; maybe it was the way she never calls me back when she says she will; maybe it was the constant incessant phone ringing the days leading up to her son’s bagrut exam. Either way, I was done.

Done. Done-doneski. Done.

So, I started tapering off my hours. I made the executive decision that she has monopolized my Saturdays for too long and that Saturdays are not a work day for me anymore. She wasn’t happy. Then I told her that Wednesday afternoon from 1:30 to 4:00 was the only time I had available for her into the foreseeable future. Again, crazyface was not happy. Then, the other day my phone rang. Here’s what happened:

crazyface: Joan, do you still want to continue working for us?
me: Why do you ask that?
cf: It’s just that the past two or three weeks you seem more unavailable…
me: Well, my schedule has increased significantly recently. I’m just actually busier now.
cf: Do I need to find another tutor?
me: That’s completely up to you. You know that I only have Wednesday afternoons free for you now, so if you feel like that’s not enough I suggest you hire another tutor.
cf: Do you have someone for me to replace you? (Excuse me? Now I have to give two-weeks notice and find my own replacement….oh no, woman…)
me: Umm.. no, I don’t. Listen, it sounds like you are not happy with the time I am giving you so…
cf: Well, I just don’t understand. You said you took another client but why would you do that if you knew I wanted the hours?
me: To be totally honest, my new client is far more reliable and respectful of my time than your family. She studies in-between lessons with me and she wants to sit and work with me, which is more than I can say for your daughter. Also, her parents are paying me what a tutor is supposed to be making here rather than taking advantage of me at the price you pay. Also, it takes me 2-3 hours roundtrip when I go to your house and my new client lives 15 minutes away. It would have been completely irresponsible of me financially and professionally to not take her on.
cf: Ok… so maybe can you come Saturday for a few hours because my daughter has a test on Tuesday?
me: No. I told you I only have Wednesdays. And I’m starting to think that maybe this business relationship is no longer a good idea.
cf: What do you mean?
me: I mean that this situation and this conversation we’re having is ridiculous. You don’t know how to treat a professional who comes to teach your children and your children aren’t receptive to the lessons. It’s obvious that Wednesdays are not enough for you and I refuse to suffer through another conversation like this one again. I will not be working for you anymore.
cf: ….
me: Good luck with everything. Take care. *click*

And now I’m freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

Yom HaShoah

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. – George Santayana

Today is Holocaust Memorial Day in Israel (aka Yom HaShoah). Officially, Yom HaShoah starts the evening before (Erev Yom HaShoah) when everything is closed early for the night by law. No restaurants, no stores, no bars. Also, they shut down the TV broadcast during this time too. The next morning, everything is back to business as usual with the exception of a 2 minute air-raid siren that sounds in remembrance at 10AM.

There is a post on facebook with regards to Yom HaShoah that seems to be picking up speed. I’m not going to repost it here because I don’t want to be part of spreading it’s popularity. But, I need to make my opinion about it known.

The post in question is a link to a blog-post that claims to help people “rethink” or “adjust” how people view the Holocaust. It’s a post by a religious Jewish man so it’s not meant to be an antisemitic or Holocaust-doubting (I think). The post is 20 pictures with short blurbs that are related to the Holocaust; but instead of seeing pictures of suffering, death, and turmoil, the pictures are mostly post-liberation, reuniting families, and happy events with survivors many years later. The writer goes as far as to claim that these pictures tell a “more true story” of the Holocaust than the pictures depicting piles of bodies and strife. While I can understand that this blog writer may think he is “taking back the power” of the enormous tragedy of the Holocaust by choosing to focus on the tremendous joy of liberation instead of the pain and tragedy prior to being set free, I think he actually inadvertently gives fuel to the Holocaust-doubters and the antisemites who think (and thought) that the Jews were/are making much ado about nothing regarding the Holocaust.

Some of the pictures depict Jews in a concentration camp immediately post-liberation, still in their striped uniforms, bald, deathly thin, with rotting teeth, but smiling and drinking champagne and smoking cigarettes. This is, in fact, the cover picture at the top of the post. Happy, celebrating, knocking-on-death’s-door Jews in a concentration camp. What could be more “true” than that? There is another picture that shows a Shabbat religious service with a big meeting hall filled with Jews (again, still in their striped uniforms, still deathly ill looking, still in the camp post-liberation) holding a religious service for Friday night led by a Rabbi with Shabbat candles lit on the make-shift altar. It is not until you read the short sentences in small print under each picture that you learn that these are all taken after the Allies liberated the camps.

I consider myself to be very well educated on this subject having learned about it from the time I was small and then formally studying it as part of my Master’s degree. When I saw the pictures, I thought to myself, “How strange! I didn’t know there was a camp where the Jews were allowed to hold Shabbat services,” and “Wow those prisoners look so happy…” and “How did this man get away with performing a show for the other Jews inside the camp?” The answers, of course, is that (again) all of the pictures were taken post-liberation. While they celebrate the joy of freedom and the fact that some survived, they are not appropriate for Yom HaShoah.

How many people do we all know who just skim through the internet looking at things but never really reading about what they see? On the surface, someone who is already a Holocaust-doubter could and will see these pictures and use them as proof that “the Holocaust wasn’t as bad as those Jews would have you believe,” demonstrating the happy looks on people’s faces, their warm clothes in some pictures, and the champagne, cigarettes, and freedom to practice their religion within the gates. And worse than those people who already believe that the Holocaust didn’t happen, are those who don’t know what to believe. Pictures like these being circulated on Yom HaShoah might just give someone the tangible “evidence” they are looking for to push them in one direction. G-d forbid.

The person who posted the blog in question claims that the narrative of the Jews for the last 70 years is that of “helplessness” and that by showing the other side of the Holocaust, we Jews can start to reclaim our personal history to make it that of celebration of life and survival. This “author” has completely missed the point of Yom HaShoah. While we are certainly grateful the war ended when it did, and we know from history that Jews are certainly a resilient people, 6 Million Jews died in camps. The Holocaust was an event so evil, so meticulously planned with the goal of wiping out the Jewish population completely. Today, on Yom HaShoah, we remember not only the lives that were lost but we remember that as a people, we are strong and need to continue to be strong. And most importantly, we remember that if the world does not remember history, history will be repeated. So, today, we actively remember.

The Role of the Teacher

Gotta vent.

I’m not sure if I have mentioned this before, but I work as a private English tutor for a crazy woman and her 3 lazy children. Very recently, I made the decision to quit working for her, but I have yet to work up the courage to confront her and rip off the bandaid. That is, until today.

First, some background. One of her three children I teach is a 15 year old girl in 9th grade. She is a nice girl, a smart girl, but a very manipulative girl. From the previous year of trying to teach her, I can safely say that he problem is not learning English; her problem is her mother. Whenever this girl says the slightest thing about something being “too hard” or that “she can’t” or that “she doesn’t understand” or that “she doesn’t have the energy,” (ain li coah) her mother jumps in and either tells her to just do it later or [worse] her mother just does it for her. I, on the other hand, am not her mother. I refuse to spoon-feed her because I can see how smart she is. I can see that if she just put a teensy bit of focus on her homework rather than sitting there and complaining for 20 minutes that “she doesn’t understand nothing” (ani lo mivina klum), she would be able to conquer the dreaded English homework and she would see that not only can she do it, but she can do it successfully.

Today was no different. Until her mother got involved…

Crazyface (the mother) had the audacity to lecture me today about “being patient” and “being gentle” and how “our goal is to get her daughter to want to learn English.” Now, not to toot my own horn here or anything, but I am a very patient, gentle teacher. I brought her 17 yr old from being basically non-verbal in English to being fluent with 90% accuracy. I brought her 10 yr old from being a non-reader, to reading small passages without help and answering reading comprehension questions. I’m a good teacher. For a year I’ve put up with her 15 yr old’s foot-stamping, whining, crocodile tears, yelling, and door-slamming that was all directed at English lessons with me. I never took it personally because she and I have a fine relationship as long as I’m not trying to teach her how to do her homework. But, it is obvious that she is just not interested in learning English, maybe even learning English with me. And you know what? That’s fine.

As I explained to Crazyface today, as firmly and as pointedly as possible, that I agree that teachers should be patient and kind and gentle. I agree that you shouldn’t throw kids into the deep end of the pool before they’re ready. BUT it is not my job as the private tutor who comes on my days off to convince her daughter to want to work with me. I’m happy to work with her and teach her, but if she doesn’t want to learn, I’m not going to chase after her. You’re goal as the mother is to get your daughter to want to do well in English on her own. My goal as the tutor is to teach people who want to learn more.

Here’s the thing. I did nothing wrong today specifically except expect her daughter to do her homework without me giving her the answers. After trying to trick me or guilt me or con me into doing it for her for 15 minutes unsuccessfully, she went and complained to her mom that “she doesn’t understand.” The details and ins and outs of the lesson/assignment she had are too long and numerous to go into here but believe me when I say all I asked her was “what do you think the answer is?” to the question “what was the movie about?” regarding a movie we watched together where I stopped and explained what was happening every 5 minutes and asked her constantly “do you understand?” and she would say “yes.” I believei t was fair of me to expect that she would answer the simple question “what do you THINK the movie was about?”

So, for her mother to lecture ME about how to do MY job that I am quite successful at with my 157 other students, just set me off. How dare you lecture ME about how to be a teacher. How dare you have the nerve to TRY to tell me how to do my job. Where do you get off telling ME that I’ve never faced a challenge I felt was insurmountable. You know nothing about me. You know nothing about teaching.

I’m not here to force anyone to do anything in private lessons. If YOU want YOUR daughter to work with me and learn English, YOU have to figure out how to motivate her. After a year of putting up with her BS and being patient as doors are slammed in my face, I’m obviously not who she wants to work with. Maybe instead of CONSTANTLY trying to bend the world to meet your children’s desires and whims, you should teach your children how to fit into the world. Believe or not, I don’t care if your 15 yr old’s English homework is done on time. I don’t ever care if it’s correct. If you ask me to check it, I will to the best of my ability but if your kid doesn’t want to finish her homework with me while I’m in front of her, I’m not losing sleep over it.

Feelings and Healing

I have this problem: Commitment scares the shit out of me.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never lived in one place for more than 7 years on and off. Maybe it’s because the longest I’ve ever had one single job was 14 months. Maybe it’s because my longest “relationship” of 3 years was on and off and never labeled with an official title. Or maybe these are all symptoms of the illness.

In terms of dating, although I am looking for that person to be in a fabulous, long lasting, loving, passionate, supportive, caring, trusting, adult, exciting relationship with, I tend to lean on the side of “let’s just have fun and see what happens.” Where this may not lead [ever] to serious relationships, it does bring exciting and passionate love affairs into my life. And where I see many of my friends bored with their significant other, or in a rut, or doing things out of obligation, I tend to live the life off of the pages of a steamy romance novel complete with wild sex, racing pulses, and elevated emotions. My love affairs seem to never stagnate, which I think is a good thing, but maybe it’s because we (myself and Mr. Whoever are both guilty of this) keep one foot in and one foot out. When they end, it’s not a break-up. Without discussion we spend our time like it could potentially be the last night together if one of us happens to meet the one. But then neither of us meet the one. So the affair continues until something else stops it.

Once upon a time [in 2007] I thought I was going to marry the man I was seeing. We were living together, we were “doing what we wanted” and what we wanted seemed to be not seeing anyone but each other. We talked about our lives together in the future and made plans for our adult life. I really thought he was it. Then one day, out of nowhere, he told me in the spirit of our honest relationship that he had slept with a girl we both knew the previous weekend while I was out of town. When he told me he really expected that I would be cool and understanding about it. I was anything but. I didn’t know how to react so I did what any 22 year old would do. I threw him out of our home after tears and arguing. Before he left, I remember standing on our porch walking him out, numb from crying and saying to him “I hope the sex was worth it.” To which he responded through teary, hurt eyes “It wasn’t.” I thought I knew him. I trusted him. I had instincts about him. I loved him openly with my whole heart and soul. It turned out I didn’t know him at all. Three years later, he married that girl he cheated on me with.

Maybe he’s to blame for my commitment issues.

The moral of this story is that because I’m terrified of this happening to me again, and because I have a hard time trusting that my instincts about men are accurate, I am realizing that I push feelings away before I have a chance to live in them. I deny real feelings the chance of fully blossoming in the open air, and because of this they are forced to grow slowly but ever-surely in hiding, deep down where my brain can’t wipe them out. Feelings, when real, will find a way despite your best efforts.

Ben has been gone since December 12th. His absence was by far the hardest thing I’ve had to face in a long time. The hardest part about it was that I couldn’t understand where the pain and the sadness was coming from. We were talking all the time and I was looking forward to our conversations with the lightest of hearts. But, in between, I was so so sad. And angry at myself for being so sad over a love affair that was never meant to last. Then it occurred to me: This pain I was feelings was a broken heart. I apparently had much stronger feelings than I had previously realized and it took a while to figure it out. My heart was broken because a man I had accidentally fallen in love with was far, far away from me to potentially never return. And if he would return in the future, it wouldn’t be for me. I wasn’t who he wanted long-term. I knew that up-front. I should have been ok. I was the only one to blame in this situation. I was the reason I was hurting.

To make a long story short, I just recently realized all of this. I’m slow on the uptake, apparently. As a result of finding this truth inside me, the other day I had a hard talk with Ben. I told him that I love him. I told him that I’m having trouble moving forward since he’s left. I told him that although I can’t imagine my life without him in it, right now I need space. I need time. I need to not be in contact with him for awhile.

His reaction was perfect, of course. Very understanding. Very supportive. Very positive about this not being a permanent situation and that we will be in touch again at some point. Very reassuring that this is not the end of our friendship and that I am as important to him as he is to me. As we hung up the phone, he sounded so serious and he said “We will talk sometime in the future, Joan. Be well.” I had done a relatively good job of keeping it together until the line was disconnected. As soon as I hung up the phone I sat on my bed sobbing. What had I done? What just happened?

Then something amazing happened; I fell asleep in tears and woke up the next morning with a sense of relief. But, let’s be clear: it is not relief from knowing that contact for the time being is severed. No, not at all. That is not it at all. It is relief from finally acknowledging how I’ve been apparently feeling deep down and coming clean about it. Like a sinner making confession to her priest, I confessed and was granted absolution. I feel light as a feather after months of unknowingly carrying around a mystery weight. The weight is gone and I feel great. I’m healing.

I still need some time to break the habit of relying so heavily on Ben, but I am now confident he and I can and do have a place in each others’ lives in the future. He will happily always have a place in my heart. He inadvertently in this experience has really taught me to not suppress how I’m feeling and not to be scared of it. To be honest with myself about my feelings for other people and not to be afraid to acknowledge my feelings out loud. And most importantly that feeling something doesn’t necessarily have dire consequences. If you love someone, tell them. This world needs more love. And for this, and all the countless other things he has taught me without realizing it, I am grateful. I don’t know if Ben still reads this blog, but Ben, if you are reading this: thank you.