I’m Not Crazy, I’ve Been Tested

I have been contemplating writing this post for a while, but was very wary of doing so, given the sensitive subject matter. But today’s posts by Sara and Jen and Tonic have finally inspired me to bite the bullet, ignore my reservations and put pen to paper (or text to screen).

I do not suffer from depression, anxiety or any mood altering disorders. Not officially. My brain chemicals are not imbalanced, my neurotransmitters seem to be firing on all cylinders and I do not have to rely on happy pills to get me through the day.

That’s not to say that I never feel so low that my emotions are splattered all over the floor or that I never get so anxious that I feel I’m about to explode.

So far in my life I have had to deal with a childhood, which let’s just say was not all sunshine and rainbows, a tumultuous few years of marriage, infertility and the birth, and almost death of Offspring the First, who has severe special needs. Having knocked so many curveballs out of the park, I was convinced that I would finally catch a break when it came to trying for Offspring the Second. But I really should have known better, because I swear I could hear the sound of omniscient laughter.

There are days when the enormity of everything I have to contend with overwhelms me and I feel like I cannot breathe. On days like that I just want to hide under the covers and never come out.

There are nights when I am so anxious I cannot sleep, and I obsessively keep checking Offspring the First to check he’s still breathing.

And there are times like when I hear my neighbours toddler shouting “mummy, mummy” or I find out that my friend is pregnant yet again, that I go home, lock the door and cry like the baby I long to have or for the words I may never hear.

But for the most part I cope. I manage to get out of bed in the morning, paste on a smile (which is not always fake), go to work and get on with my day.

I’m not sure how I do this, but what I do know is that I will never answer the “how do you cope” question in either of these two ways.

  1. I cope because I have no choice
  2. I cope because I have to

I find these to be the two most insensitive responses to a very sensitive question. And every time I hear someone trotting out these meaningless platitudes it irks me anew.

With the cards life has dealt me I have met many people in similar situations, several of whom are dealing with depression, anxiety or mental health issues.  Do they choose to be enveloped in a swirling vortex of darkness from which they feel they may never escape? Does anyone really think that this is a conscious decision on their part?

As for having to cope; everyone has reasons why they HAVE to cope. Spouses, kids, jobs etc. People who suffer from clinical depression or any mental health condition also have jobs and families, and they are dealing with a debilitating condition that wrenches them away from their daily lives without so much as a warning. Saying that you cope because you have to is, in my opinion, an insult to all those who are desperately trying to survive each day, but, with the best will in the world, are unable to do so.

So how do I cope? I honestly don’t know; I don’t have a prescribed recipe for survival.

What I do know is that I feel like God is holding my hand and guiding me, I am blessed with friends who understand me and I have been bestowed with a talent for writing which provides me with an outlet for my pain.

In short, I cope because I’m lucky.

And to all my friends, both flesh and virtual, who persevere with life in spite of the crushing darkness that descends upon them, I admire you for putting yourselves out there, sharing your stories and giving people like me the tools to understand.

I wish that you all be lucky too.

NaNo: Lonely Writer Seeks Characters For Mutual Companionship

We were once so happy

I’ve just written 1,000 words of pure drivel. There are words on the page and they seem to follow on coherently from one another, but appearances can be deceptive. Make no mistake, these words are craptastic.

I started NaNoWriMo feeling as though I had gained two new friends. I knew my lead characters intimately, like they were an extension of my soul and we were getting on famously. We held hands, shared cherished moments and had captivating conversations. Their dulcet voices drowned out the habitual cacophony in my head and I felt warm in the glow of their affection.

But then they started going off having fun on their own. I felt like the third wheel, the hanger-on, the friend you take with because she is pathetic and nobody else wants to hang out with her. And I let them. I didn’t want to stifle them. They had to go off and explore, forge their own path, be their own people.

So I gave them their wings and set them free. I followed them, watched them travel their own journey and I delighted in their new discoveries. But now, they’ve gone too far. I’m trying to get them back, rein them in a little, bring them back on the path I have imagined for them.

But, like errant children, they are refusing to do my bidding. I’ve given them the taste of freedom and now they’re rebelling. They’re going joyriding, setting things alight and smoking in the shadows. I want them back, my characters, my friends, the ones who understood me, worked with me and let me hold their hands as I led them to their destiny.

I’m writing their story; I just wish that they would let me write mine.

No longer part of the “in” crowd

Go Team Vagina!!

Okay girls, you knew this was coming. My last post inspired a Team Vagina following, so this post is dedicated to girl’s best friend: The Vagina

Our vaginas are unsung heroes. They live in dark damp conditions, we keep shoving cold hard gynaecological instruments inside them and give them no thanks when they produce a clean pap smear. We sometimes introduce them to partners who have no idea how to treat them well and every so often we force them to push out tiny human beings.

We are not kind to our vaginas and yet they keep on taking a beating without so much as a word of complaint.

You said it, sister!!

So today I am celebrating our vaginas.

First we need a mascot. Isn’t she just too cute? There just couldn’t be another mascot could there?

Don’t you just wanna stroke it?

There’s also a delightful activity book for all vagina lovers. Yes ladies, you can now buy The Big Colouring Book of Vaginas. I kid you not!!

So what colour would yours be?

And check out the reviews:

“I got this book for my wife, and I wasn’t sure how she would respond. To my surprise she has been colouring it happily. She loves it.” Written by Christian Grey

“I really wanna stress how much I long every day to go home and pull out my crayon and start rubbing away on this book. I wish I knew what vaginas  look like in real life because I think I’m getting my colours wrong.” Written by Ana Steele

And it’s interactive too. You get quizzes and everything.

Well here are my answers:

My vagina looks like … a magician’s assistant. Has sparkly wands shoved in it but all the credit goes to someone else. Or … check out the cute mascot.

My vagina smells like … okay, I’m not joking about that one… it smells like coconut shower cream

I call  my vagina a …. Vagina!!! I am not Ana Steele.

I think my vagina is great … because it’s always ready and able (if slightly unwilling) to participate in my daily whims for it.

A special treat for my vagina … is not having a sparkly wand inside it.

My vagina likes … not sparkly wandy things.

If my vagina could talk it would sound like … after reading Jen’s post, I am convinced it would sound like Golden Girls’ Blanche.

So grab yourself a badge and proclaim loud and proud: Team Vagina.

And yes WordPress, fingers up to you. We love  our Vaginas, we blog about our Vaginas and we make no apologies for it. Press This! I dare you!


(I am now completely blocking out the knowledge that my Old Man has recently discovered my blog. LALALALALALALA – I’m not thinking about it, it’s not happening. And dear old Dad if you are reading this, I did warn you that my blog was me: unedited. We don’t talk about it, we don’t mention it. This never happened!)

Saturday Night Live … Or Dead

This is what it REALLY looks like

Have you ever been to A & E on a Saturday night? It is a veritable conglomeration of drunks, junkies, and people just looking for a bed for the night. There will also be the inevitable bar room brawler loudly proclaiming “you should see the other guy.” It’s like Night of the Living Dead only instead of zombies you have doctors who have been on shift for 300 hours and couldn’t get out of working on the weekend.

I’m just gonna take some blood

Last night, my sister called me at “this had better be an emergency,” o’clock and her tone of voice convinced me not to kill her, she sounded close enough to death as it is. I had just come in from an evening out with the hubby, and leaving him to pay the babysitter, I accompanied dear sis to hospital.

We squashed ourselves into the last remaining seats amongst the moaners and groaners, some of whom looked like they were one step away from being toe-tagged. My sister was clutching her stomach in agony and there I was  in cocktail dress, heels and full party make-up. I swear, some of the patients, especially those with stale alcohol on their breaths, looked at me like I was being paid to cheer them up.

Has this one been triaged yet?

Two vomiting bouts later, my sister was ushered into a tiny cubicle where she promptly ordered to disrobe and don one of those ever so stylish, leave nothing to the imagination hospital gowns. Everyone knows that my dignity is languishing beneath a pair of stirrups or stuck in a pair of granny pants somewhere, but my sister was still holding on tenaciously to some of hers. Well, she was, until last night. She’s waved a regretful farewell to it now.

Once she’d donated bodily fluids in various shades of red, white and yellow, it was like she was peeing rainbows, the professionals made their appearance. They poked and prodded and Vagina guys insisted on conducting an internal. At this point I was banished with a “you may blog about it, but you ain’t watching it,” edict from my sister. She made me promise that I wouldn’t mock her on my blog. I pinky sweared, but crossed my fingers behind my back.

Yeah, it’s fucking magical!

Vagina Doc, Pee Doc and Mr Slice and Dice started arguing. Vagina said it’s kidneys, Pee said it’s cyst, Slice and Dice threw up his hands “it might be vagina, but it certainly ain’t surgical.” And so started a round of “you say kidneys, I say vagina, you say uterus, I say ovaries … UTI, candida … let’s call the whole thing off.” Forget Vagina Monologues, this was a complete family holiday with too much drink explosive argument, involving the entire human body.

And the winner is: Gynaecologist. Vagina Guys were left holding the speculum. I’m always a little suspicious of male gynaecologists. All those years in medical school and they decide that this is where they want to be all day? Wouldn’t it put them off when they were servicing one recreationally? And they were very polite too. Each time, before entering the cubicle, they gave a gentle knock. My sister, who at this point was dosed up to the eyeballs on morphine, was all “you’ve been all the way up in my bizniss, I don’t got anything left to hide.”

With my sister declaring her undying love to all the medical staff, I made my bleary-eyed way home. It wasn’t a total waste of time. I got a great blog post out of it, managed to write 1,000 NaNoWriMo words whilst we were waiting and I learned a very important life lesson: TV shows lie. There are no Dr McDreamy’s or Dr McSteamy’s, there are only overworked, underpaid residents doing the very best they can. Even if it does involve looking at vaginas all day.

Works better than jewellery!

No promises were broken in the execution of this post. Pinky Swear. Fingers crossed behind my back.

Indecent Advice or Don’t Let Me Display My Wares

I got called “miss” today. Twice. Trust me, you call a thirty something woman “miss” and you’ve got a friend for life, (which in her case is not as long as she would have you believe).

Stork hunting is like an extreme sport; you need willpower, energy and stamina whilst keeping your eye constantly on the prize. Which is why, since I started this whole baby making mission, I’ve been eating healthier, getting fitter and generally taking care of the body that is intended to house precious cargo. And people are beginning to notice. Even, the husband, who usually needs an anvil to the head to make him aware of anything outside the edges of his Galaxy.

I’ve been getting compliments from my friends, getting appreciative glances in the street, and inappropriate comments from strangers. Last week I was even awarded with a Joey Tribiani-esque “how you doing?” True, most of the instigators of these remarks are from people on whom I wouldn’t waste a perfectly good drink by chucking it in their face, but , and as much as I am loath to admit this pathetic feminine weakness, the occasional drive-by hooting does a lot for a girl’s ego.

I’ll take ’em tall, smooth, rich … and in a glass

A couple of weeks ago I was walking to work and I got several stares, winks and a couple of lewd gestures (those weren’t so much fun but life has taught me well, that you take the good with the bad). I was wearing my new skirt, which was a couple of sizes smaller and I felt pretty damn good about myself. People were noticing me, not the overweight me, but me me and the feeling was quite exhilarating.

That is until I arrived to work and I discovered that my new skirt was firmly stuck in my knickers. Traitor!! I was mortified. I walked the entire seven minute walk with my ass hanging out. Seven minutes may seem like a very short time in the grand old scheme we call life, but if you’re displaying your favourite granny pants it might as well be 700 years. Sure, I had felt a slight chill in my derriere, but the leaves were changing colour, the temperature had dropped and we’d moved the clocks. A little bit of a nip was to be expected. Right?

Once the redness in my cheeks, all four of them, dissipated and I gave a short prayer to all that was holy that my boss had not been in the office when I walked in, I got angry. I mean what the hell? All those people in their cars had seen me, laughed at me and literally made me the butt of their jokes and not one of them thought to call out “Oi lady, your arse is hangin’ out.”

Tell me please!

Full of indignation I called my brother with whom I am very close and share almost everything, even humiliating stuff, especially humiliating stuff and he imparted this anecdote: A few weeks earlier, whilst running an errand, he noticed a young woman, who he had never seen before, sporting a very unfortunate red stain. Not thinking twice, he walked up to her and made her aware of the situation. Yes, she was horrified, but her gratitude was far greater. Imagine if she would have continued on and only spotted her spot when she got home?

So, boys and girls, do me a favour. If you ever see a woman committing accidental acts of indecent exposure, advertising her monthly cycle or dragging toilet paper on her shoe please please tell her. She’ll be embarrassed for a minute but grateful to you for life.

And if you call her “miss,” that’ll just make her day.


Rule Brittania?

Okay, so election results are in. Whilst half the United States might be in mourning, I know that most of my readers are breathing sighs of relief. Perhaps feeling a little civic pride that their compatriots chose the lesser of two evils.

I’m proud of my country too.

This year we hosted the Olympics, and aside from losing a few Australians and Americans on the way from the airport, we managed to do it without royally screwing up.

Speaking of royalty, Her Majesty the Queen‘s Diamond Jubilee was this year. The pomp, the circumstance and the pageantry were all spectacular, even in the driving rain, which we affectionately call the Great British Summer.

We Brits are an odd bunch. We have a quirky sense of humour, we  talk funny and we think that we’re better than everybody else. We’ll  never admit it though because we are much too polite … mostly.

In short Britain Rules!!

Or so I thought ….

… until I came across this mortification to the British population.









I only hope that this is ironic, an example of our cynical humour … but if not, on behalf of all Brits, I sincerely apologise.

Stork is busy doing NaNoWriMo, producing a magazine, writing copy for a product catalogue, learning to drive and trying to make a baby whilst attempting to maintain a steady blog posting average. Quality may vary. Keep Calm and Keep Reading.

So Who Do YOU Think Should Run The Country?

I don’t really care about Politics; in fact my knowledge of Politics is approximately the same as E. L. James’s knowledge of the English Language. I am aware of its existence but I couldn’t speak intelligently of it in any context. So instead of spouting off tripe and hope people are stupid enough to buy it (oh look , maybe I do know about politics!) I will mock because that’s always so much more fun.

Tomorrow is Election Day in the Land of the Free, and judging by the presidential offerings, the Home of the Very Brave. I have been following the campaign only via blogs and I think I’ve picked up on that fact that US citizens are frustrated, annoyed and quite frankly fed up of the whole administration. Well, they’re not the only ones.

Today, we Britons celebrate Guy Fawkes Day. Guy Fawkes hatched a plan to blow up Parliament during a State Opening on 05 November 1605. Somehow or other his plan was foiled and ever since then, every year on 05 November we celebrate his demise by building bonfires and burning his effigy. No-one can hold a grudge quite like we Brits can.

Having read people’s views on this supposed democratic privilege and seeing the mess both the United Kingdom and the United States are in, I thinking that maybe Guy Fawkes had the right idea (and if you suddenly find me on a “no-fly list” somewhere, you will know why). The Government is and always will be an old boys network and the current GOP’s “War on Women”campaign is not doing anything to change my mind.

In the 1980s the BBC screened a sitcom called Yes Minister & Yes Prime Minister. It is a hilarious and satirical look at how the Government is run. A couple of years ago, William Hague, former leader of the Conservative Party in Britain, hosted a radio program where real-life politicians made comparisons between the Yes Minister series and real-life Government. It was quite hilarious listening to politicians trying to fluff their way out of accusations that the sitcom was actually spot on in so many areas.

This TV show is the best show ever written. There is nothing like half an hour with  James Hacker and Sir Humphrey Appleby to make you forget your troubles, albeit very temporarily. And so, in an effort to cheer up the disillusioned US masses, I attach one of my favourite clips of the show. It’s not going to make you feel any better about the state of your country but it will make you laugh.

Life and Other Contradictions

My “going paperless” adventures of last week brought to my attention some of the various ways in which life and its idiosyncrasies, takes a special sadistic pleasure in messing with our heads.

  • You’ve just put your last load of washing in your front loading washing machine and switched it on. That door is pressurized and nothing short of the Jaws of Life is going to prise that thing open. You feel a smug satisfaction because your laundry basket is empty, possibly for the first time in a decade.  And just as you’re hearing the sound of water pouring into the drum your husband announces that he’s going to take a shower. It’s not like you didn’t ask him FIVE MINUTES AGO if he had anything that needs washing, at which point he sniffed his shirt and shrugged his shoulders, saying “I don’t think so.”

It’s this way or no way

  • You’ve been begging your husband to do the dishes for three days. One more day and you might just be eating recycled food. And when does he get a fit of domesticity? Just as you’re rinsing the shampoo out of your hair. Oh yes, he’ll be experiencing cold showers for a while.

Because no post is complete without a good pee picture

  • You’ve just shaved your legs and getting dressed to go out. You’re almost completely ready when you notice that you missed a bit, right on the back of your leg near the hemline of your dress. And you know, just know that everyone is going to be noticing that tiny forgotten spot.

Feminism rules!

  • That dress you’re squeezing into, the one that squashes your lungs so tight that you’re not quite sure you can eat or talk, never mind breathe. Just as you’ve gotten used to subsisting on 65% oxygen levels you realise that you need to pee. And this is no simple “I can hold it in,” slight discomfort in the bladder, this is a full-blown cross your legs, do the pee dance and stop breathing completely potential leak-fest.

Laughing will only make it worse

  • You get a “while you were out” card from the Post Office, whilst you were at the Post Office picking up last week’s parcel because the postman was too lazy to ring your bell. You know this because you were in all day and that bell was silent as doom.

They only notice when I don’t do stuff … like cooking

  • That phone call you’ve been waiting for all day is going to come the minute you’ve given up on it, decided to go out and actually meet people and have just locked the door. You now have a choice to let the machine get it or bust open the door (keys are too slow) and try not to break your neck whilst running to answer the call.

  • You run out of toilet paper the day you ate that dodgy curry.


  • You can’t find your glasses because you’re not wearing your glasses.

Still wouldn’t be able to find ’em.

Finally, and this is the real kicker. Hormone injection side effects, Early Pregnancy signs and PMS symptoms are ALL EXACTLY THE SAME.

And these are the good ones

Ain’t life grand?

To Pee or Not To Pee

It’s P-Day. Today is the day I have been ordered by my doctor to pee on a stick and hope for a blue line.  Just a sec … Ana Steele moment … okay, I’m back.

The test package is glaring at me from the table. Literally … the light is reflecting on the cellophane wrap and it looks like it’s giving me the evil eye.

Don’t look at me like that!

I’m hesitating; in fact I’m terrified.

Flashback to last month: (cue swirly image fade out with accompanying xylophonic music). I had traveled all through the previous night when P-Day arrived. I decided that as I had been up all night that my morning sample probably wouldn’t have a high enough concentration of the hCG hormone. Total rubbish of course, but I managed to sell it to my husband and even convince myself.

Over the next few days I came up with every excuse in the book and some creative new ones, not to take the test: I’m on vacation, it’s a Jewish Holiday, I don’t want to do it at the in-laws, I’m too tired … I don’t want to … just leave me alone.

And because God really has a wicked sense of humour, I had a particularly long cycle. I was so convinced I was pregnant that I avoided any situation that could harm my possible fetus. The hormone medication I was on was also making me exceptionally crazy and moody, which again I put down as a sign of  Early Pregnancy. In short, I was completely and utterly bonkers for approximately ten days … until I got my period when I, and everyone around me, started waxing nostalgic for that magical week and a half.

I plead temporary insanity

Back to the present:

I have good reasons not to want to do the test.

  1. I’d rather have the hope of a yes than the knowledge of a no.
  2. If I am pregnant I’ll eventually find out, and if I’m not, I’ll definitely find out in a few days.
  3. Every single time, and I mean every time I have taken a pregnancy test in the past, my period came the next day. It’s almost as if my desperation is clenching all my muscles and holding everything in and then when I get the confirmed negative, I release and it all comes gushing out.

But do I really want to work myself up into a frenzy like I did last month? I don’t think I can put myself or my increasingly supportive husband through that. I may mock him from time to time but the guy is a treasure in human form. He’s even quit smoking!! He’s the practical, “it’s better to know where we stand” sort. Or perhaps he just doesn’t want to go through a repeat of last month. Whatever the reason he’s giving me pee orders (and not in a creepy Christian Grey type of way).

The test is still glaring at me. It’s mocking me, but I’m not going to let it get to me this time. Don’t think, just do it.

There was no way that I was not using the picture

(Pee break)





Results are in:

Me Sad-faced

And you all know what this means?

  1. Tomorrow I’m getting my period.
  2. Cue more injections, trans-vaginal scans, hormones and various invasive tests
  3. This is the one that hurts the most – I now have to return to the scene of the crime faceplant. Oh the humiliation!! Seriously, haven’t I suffered enough?

Disclaimer: I realise that pee makes a frequent appearance on my blog. I make no apologies, after all, my blog title means that a certain level of ickiness is to be … ahem … expected. And besides, I’ve read enough of your collective blog posts to know that most of you find weird bodily functions to be hilarious. Pees out!

Going Paperless or Plastic Doesn’t Grow On Trees

I love the internet. The internet is cool. You can ask it questions without judgement, look up funny pictures on Google without worrying about getting fired and ask for the definition of “ butt-plug” without any raised eyebrows.

Oh like you weren’t wondering too

The internet lets you do everything so that you never ever have to leave the house and deal with annoying Luddite muggles. That is until I tried applying for a credit card. An online credit card. From the bank where I have been stashing my cash since I reluctantly joined the adult world of employment. Oh god, this makes me sound like I earn my money hand over fist. Actually, I’m seriously considering it if it means never having to deal with a financial institution again. I’ll take a wanker over a banker any day of the week and twice on a Sunday.

Oh yes, I have so been screwed.

I submitted my application for my online credit card, er online, received an online confirmation and an online approval. Now all I need to do is provide two proofs of address and a form of ID. No probs … this is an online application, I’ll scan the documents, email them through, job done. Or so you would think. This virtual credit card bank, which will absolutely never ever send me any paper statements or inconvenience me with a real life customer service representative, insists that I go to the local branch of the credit bank and submit the original documents to them. I don’t have original anything … even my hormones are fake. I have no statements, utility bills or anything tangible with my name on.

Even my underwear has someone else’s name on it.

Again, my foolish little brain tells me that this should pose no problem at all; have printer, will spend. I run off some bank statements and then it’s time for proof of address number two; utility bill. I try logging in to my phone company account and cannot for the life of me remember my password. I try every variation I have ever used including the name of my first imaginary friend, the name of the drug I’m taking and even my stripper name* until finally the system freezes me out. I call the phone company, suffer through what seems like 3 years of eighties pop music, press buttons until my fingers bleed and am finally told by an automaton that I should log into my online account for help. Well duh!! I go through the entire process again but this time, I refuse to push those buttons.

*(Your first pet’s name + the name of the street you grew up on = your stripper  name. True Story! I read it on the internet. Now that I know that I’m not using it as a password, if you’re very very good I will one day share what mine is.)

Nope! Not pressing those buttons. Let the meltdown begin.

I get chastised by a robotic Christian Grey who spanks me for not obeying the rules, but then Ana Steele comes on the line and she’s very apologetic , says it was all her fault, and please don’t leave this moronic company. But I have a feeling that she is mad-faced with me for making robot Christian angry and jealous of his punishment because the new password she provides me with goes something like this WcGki98!Z*h7 (or WTF! for short).  Eventually I get the stupid documents printed and it’s off to hell we go.

Longer alternatives welcome

At the bank I present my documents to the teller and I suddenly find myself caught up in the Twilight Zone of conversations.

Teller:   These are print-outs not originals
Me:        I am aware of that, but I do everything on line. I don’t have originals.
Teller:   You need to provide original documents as proof of address
Me:         I don’t get original documents any more since the bank declined my mortgage application to be able to pay for them. Do you think that money grows on all those trees you are trying to save?
Teller:   Looks at me blankly and repeats like the moron she is. You need to provide original documents as proof of address.
Me:        Bashing my head against the glass and she’s about to call security. I’m applying for an ONLINE credit card. She doesn’t get the irony. And I’m bringing you statements from YOUR bank, this branch actually. Can’t you just log on to my account and check my address from there.
Teller:   We can’t do that. You need to bring in the documents.
Me:        (mumbling: oh my god I am stuck in a loop and I’m never getting out). Look, I don’t have original documents and I am sure as hell not paying for them.
Teller:   Oh, but we don’t charge for one-off statements. She actually looks relieved that there’s finally a question she can answer.
Me:        And you didn’t tell me that sooner because … oh forget it. So can I get me a one-off statement.
Teller:   Of course, I’ll just order that for you. She starts tapping her fingers on the keyboard.
Me:        Huh! What? Order? Can’t you just print it off now?
Teller:   No, I can order it for you today and you should receive it in the post in the next 7-10 days.
Me:        Don’t you need a proof of address for that?

I’m not risking the wrath of phone company robot Christian again. This time I’m calling the gas company, at least if it all goes wrong they have the fuel to help me explode.