The Junk Drawer

I’m a good driver. Really, I am. I just can’t handle getting my car in and out of the garage. They never teach you that in driver’s education. Apparently I needed a special class for driving at .2 MPH.

Getting out:

There was the time I was in such a hurry to get to a hair appointment, I failed to wait long enough for the door to go up before I started backing out. The door scraped the entire length of my car’s trunk before I realized my mistake. It was a costly one: $500 to replace the whole hood.

Getting in:

Today when I returned from an errand, I decided to back my car into the garage. But I did it from the opposite direction that I’m used to doing it. I cut it way too close to the edge of the garage and my side view mirror ripped off half the garage frame’s molding. Nice.

The vinyl strip came down and wedged itself between the mirror and the driver’s side door. If I put the car in reverse, I’d pull more off the frame. If I pulled ahead, I’d scrape my car door. So I just sat there for a second or two.

Luckily I had my cell phone.

Ring… ring… ring…

"Dave?"

"Yeah?"

"I got in an accident."

"You OK? Where are you?"

"Um. The garage. Can you come help me?"

Click.

Dave gets to the garage and studies things for a moment, while I’m trapped in my car long enough to feel my stupidity weighing heavily on me. He shakes his head and figures out he can pull the molding down from under the mirror without too much more damage, but it has to come off the garage frame. Fine. Do what ya gotta do.

The molding can be tapped back onto the frame, but it won’t ever be right again. It’s all mangled and sad-looking. And I did scratch my car. I doubt it can be buffed out, and so now I’ll always be reminded of the degree of dumbness I possess. I’m really glad I’m not into the fancy, expensive car thing.

OK, folks.  Time for you to share your dumb driving experiences. You didn’t think I posted this for your benefit, did you? I’m looking for the dumb, stupid, idiotic stuff. Make me feel better.

Ready, set, go!

Until now I had only considered my cat Shadow’s butt to be a weapon of mass destruction. Last month I wrote about how she mortified me by dropping a fart grenade in front of my plumber.

Today I’m happy to report that Shadow can use her butt powers for good, as well. It dispenses tech tips.

Here’s how it happened:  My husband Dave was doing some online shopping when Shadow decided the keyboard would be a fine place to get comfortable. She laid down across the whole keyboard and her butt landed hard enough on some keys to screw up the screen Dave was viewing while he was scrolling with the mouse.

The screen content went from normal size to gigantic with that little trick of hers. Once he shooed her away from the desk, Dave had to figure out which key caused the screen text to enlarge so much. After some fiddling around, he discovered it was the CTRL key. It seems if you press CTRL while scrolling up or down, the screen’s text size enlarges or minimizes as you scroll.

In almost ten years of working in the computing industry, I have never known about this little tip. And I can really use it now, since my eyes are not what they used to be. The beauty part is it’s not just for web browsers. The technique works in programs like Microsoft Word, where the view is enlarged, but your font size stays where you want it.

What makes this technique better than other text enlarging maneuvers is that you don’t have click around menus inside each program to find what does the job. That’s what I used to do — for years. Now it’s just a simple CTRL and scroll!

Thanks, Shadow, for sharing your buttalicious talents. See how much better it is to use your powers for good?

In this season of giving, I present you with Blue on Blue — the worst picture in the history of picture-taking.

I once told someone I would only post this to the blog if I was drunk. But upon further reflection, I decided I can’t keep this to myself. Seeing it might actually make someone feel better about themselves.

This is a 12-year-old me taking part in a benefit walk for MS research.  For the record, I am not color-blind. I thought this ensemble matched perfectly because most of the pieces had blue in them, some shade of blue. I can’t explain away anything about this picture: the white belt, the short shorts, the tube socks, the hair. Oh, the hair! It’s just so wrong from head to toe.

Enjoy this snapshot because there will never be another one like it. It is the single worst picture that exists of me outside my prom pictures, which are a whole different matter. For my junior year prom, I wore what looks like lingerie. In the senior prom picture, I look like Ma from Little House on the Prairie in a pink, lacy, bustled number that goes all the way up to my chin. If someone wants me to post them, you’re going to have to pay me. That, or I’ll need to be drunk.

Good Christmas morning! If you’re like me and you don’t have a fireplace to gather around with your family today, here is a suitable replacement. But without the heat and soot.

Behold! The WPIX Yule Log! For those living within about a hundred miles of New York City, you’ll recognize it.  WPIX began airing the Yule Log in 1966 as a way to bring a crackling fire to the homes and apartments of New Yorkers who didn’t have a fireplace. For a ten year period, it didn’t air due to the high cost of running it without commercial interruption. It does air with Christmas music in the background, but stupid me forgot to turn the volume up.

If you’re curious about the Yule Log’s history, including whose fireplace was used in the filming and efforts to resurrect it during the un-aired years, check out its listing in Wikipedia. I learned here that the Yule Log is being aired in some other U.S. markets, including Chicago. If you’re not from the NY area, let me know if you’ve had the pleasure of seeing the log and where you’re getting it. I’m interested to know how far-reaching this little tradition has traveled.

I hope everyone is warm and toasty this Christmas morning.

I know. It’s sad and it doesn’t make any sense. Welcome to our Pumpkin Tree Display. We never intended to leave our autumn pumpkin display out on the patio, but it just happened. OK, strike that. It didn’t just happen. It happened because we are the laziest people we know.

Then a friend gave me a small artificial tree to stick out there because we can’t keep a tree in the house. Our cat, Lucky has "chewing issues," and would likely eat the needles and puncture a necessary organ. This is how we still enjoy a tree and keep Lucky from using up some of his nine lives.

I want to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas. I hope that Santa is good to you and better than he was to me. Today I woke up with a huge zit on my chin. So now when I have family pictures taken of me today and tomorrow, I will be instructed to cover up that thing or get out of the picture. Can someone please tell me when the pimples of my youth will stop showing up on the face of my 40-something self?

Happy Holidays to all my zit-free bloggy friends!

At this moment, I’m trying not to scream.  I have just read that Google rescinded the change that forced me to move my blog to WordPress. All that pain and suffering was almost for nothing.

From BloggerBuzz:

December 20, 2007

You Blog, We Listen

Two fixes just went live, before we sign off for a brief holiday break:

• Unregistered commenters can once again provide an auto-linked URL [Help Group Thread]
• Images in the Header page element will no longer be cropped vertically [Help Group thread]

We apologize for having broken these features for you. Your blogs and Help Group posts showed us the true extent to which you used and cared about these features, so please let us know if they’re still being problematic.
Thanks for your patience!

What this means for people leaving comments on Blogger blogs is that they can again leave links directly to their blogs without having to use or create a Google account.  Simply click on the Nickname field and then a URL field is enabled, where you can enter your blog’s address. No more having to setup an OpenID account or login to Google.

Do I regret having moved to WordPress now? Not exactly. I still have way more control over my blog and more flexibility with features than I ever had with Blogger. There are some very cool and useful widgets and plug-ins that I’m using now with WordPress and that I’m planning to implement in the future. So all is not lost.

I just wish I hadn’t been forced to learn a new platform so quickly. That’s not how I operate. I prefer having enough time to research things and move ahead cautiously and carefully, instead of flying by the seat of my pants like I did with the migration to WordPress. At the time I moved, there was zero indication that Google would come to their senses and bring back the URL field for direct blog links.

I recognize that there are far greater problems in the world than my difficult migration to WordPress, I really do. But it did cost me a significant amount of time and effort. And hosting is not free, so there is a cost there as well. When Google states “We Blog, You Listen,” they should add “And We Fail to Think Ahead and Don’t Know How to Communicate.” The way they went about the change, with no concern for its implications in the blogging community and no warning, is deplorable for such a large corporation.

Bringing back the feature now is too little, too late for me and others who fled to WordPress or other blogging platforms. And, for that, they deserve a huge bag of coal for Christmas. And a punch in the face.

Yesterday I had to take my car to the dealer and pay $400 to have a mechanic turn off a bright yellow malfunction light in my dashboard. That’s what I think when I take my car to the shop. "A light came on in the dashboard. I don’t know what it means. But make it go away."

I know the technicians root around in my car’s innards and do something. Whatever they do makes the light go off and that’s what I pay the money for. If you’re a mechanic, don’t waste your energy trying to explain it to my pea brain.

When I found out it would take the whole day to fix, I asked if they could give me a loaner to drive to work. They didn’t have loaners, but they offered a shuttle service to anywhere within 15 miles.

I wrote my name on the sign-up sheet and soon after, the shuttle driver collected me and three other carless people, and we all piled into a van. Excellent! I’ll be at work in no time at all. Or so I thought.

We exchanged pleasantries and got settled in, only to smell trouble immediately as our driver fumbled with his papers, mumbled to himself, and stumbled into gear. It was apparent we’d gotten the Don Knotts of shuttle drivers and this would be no ordinary trip. I fastened my seatbelt. HARD and SURE.

I shall refer to him now as Worse Than Me. Regular readers know that I’m the most directionally-challenged person to get behind the wheel of a car. Our driver wishes he were only as challenged as I am.

Worse Than Me had no plan, couldn’t read street names, and didn’t appreciate helpful instructions from his passengers. They only seemed to anger him ("I know where I’m going!") To add insult to injury, he TALKED ALL THE TIME. Sometimes to us. Sometimes to himself.

Worse Than Me chatted up the poor soul who got into the front seat with him. It went something like this:

So we’ll take you first since you’re close I know the back roads and you’ll have to tell me if you need a ride home and oh boy it’s been busy the last few days I had six people to deliver to work yesterday and all of them wanted to get there right away because everybody wants to get dropped off first you know and sometimes I have only one person in the morning but today is an average day with the four of you sometimes I have a lot of people to pick up at night the shop closes at 5 o’clock but sometimes I’m still out driving at 6 o’clock the mechanics leave at 5 o’clock but customers can pickup their cars until 8 o’clock so which building do I have to drop you off at?

Wow.

He did not take a breath.  He wasn’t expecting responses. More importantly, he wasn’t exactly watching the road.  And then his cell phone rang. Oh, dear God. Please don’t answer that.  Luckily, it rang only once and he never got to pick it up.  Eyes on the road, buddy. Eyes on the road.

Worse Than Me keeps talking to Poor Soul #1 all the way to the first drop-off point. I have remained silent thus far and intend to stay that way, even if I’m the last person to be dropped off. I’m kind of into him concentrating on his driving and the not-getting-in-an-accident part of this expedition.

When we get to Poor Soul #1’s workplace, he exits the van and now the driver has to figure out how to get Poor Soul #2 to her destination, a house in the middle of nowhere.

We continue through towns I’ve heard of, then through towns I haven’t. Traffic gets thinner and thinner and I don’t know where I am. Neither does Worse Than Me. Poor Soul #2 tries her best to direct him to her house and a very long discussion ensues about where he’ll find the Burger King he needs to turn at.

Apparently the driver thinks he knows where to turn, but Poor Soul #2 has to correct him at almost every intersection. He argues with her about which way to go, despite her objections about the path he’s taking. She indicates there is a much faster route, but he repeatedly states "I don’t want to mess up." All I’m thinking is — Then let her help you! I’m very uncomfortable at this point because two people who have just met each other are arguing already. This does not bode well.

Poor Soul #2 abandons her effort to guide our driver and let’s him do whatever he wants. He mumbles something about "I know all the back roads from when I was a kid," and Poor Soul #2 announces "You know, I’m really not feeling well and I can’t comprehend what you’re saying to me." I laugh very loud at that in my head.

We eventually make our way to Poor Soul #2’s house in the boondocks and she quickly slips out of the van, to presumably go inside and scream her head off. I consider briefly getting out with her, pretending I live there, too. I could have always called a cab from there. Darn! Why did I think of that just now?

I allow her to exit the van, and against my better judgement, I get into the empty front seat. I’m now inches from the driver, but I’m still silent and I don’t plan on making eye contact. My only fear now is that he’s dropping off Poor Soul #3 next, and I’ll be left alone with him in my quiet misery.

My fear washes away as Worse Than Me announces he taking me to work next. Poor Soul #3, a woman in the back seat, sighs "Oh my God. We were closer to where I work when we were back at the first place. By the time I get to work, my car will be done!"

Worse Than Me says nothing and proceeds to drive further east towards my workplace and much further from Poor Soul #3’s destination. I silently pity her, as I realize that she’s going to be alone with him for another hour, at least.

I’m blessed that our driver knows how to get to South Mountain, which is about two miles from where I work. This means I can continue my vow of silence and not have to give him directions from Timbuktu. I have absolutely no idea where I am at this point. I ask myself repeatedly whether I should have just stayed back at the dealer and waited for my car right there in the shop, instead of here in Wayward Van.

Traveling past more places the driver recalls from his childhood ("I remember that park from when I was a kid." "I remember that’s where I used to hunt as a kid." "I remember that little house from when I was a kid."), we finally approach South Mountain and I realize it’s time to speak soon. I have to tell him which street to turn on at the base of the mountain.

On approach I finally utter three words: "Turn right here."  Worse Than Me jabbers away about how he remembers dropping off some passengers at one of the big buildings on campus and asks me when they put up that sculpture near the front of it. I reply without opening my mouth, "I-hmm-no" (translation: "I don’t know.")

I give up a couple more words: "Turn here." We have two more blocks on the journey, and I insist I won’t speak any more than is absolutely necessary, so I just wave him on with my hands. We approach my stop and I allow a final word to escape: "Here."  I have successfully been driven to my destination, not engaged the driver once, and said less than ten words in 57 minutes. I don’t know any monks who could do that.

As I reach for the door handle and Poor Soul #3 prepares to make her transition to the front seat, I look at her with all the sympathy I can muster. I silently mouth the words "Good luck" as I step onto the curb. She looks at me with a pained expression, her eyes the size of saucers.

All I could do was wish her well for the next hour I’m sure it’ll take her to get 20 miles west of here. I half expected her to put her hands up on the inside of the window as they drove away, in a Edvard Munch-esque silent scream and a face that said "Save me." But I never looked back. I didn’t have the courage. I failed as a human.

Godspeed, Poor Soul #3. Godspeed.

In that order.

I’m Forgetful

Last week I thought I’d run to the grocery store, order a fresh-made pizza and pick up a few items while I waited. The woman who took my pizza order said “Sure. It’ll be ten minutes.” I left and did some shopping, came back ten minutes later, and found another employee just starting to make my pizza… S-L-O-W-L-Y.

Fully-loaded with groceries, I had nothing else to do but stand there and wait while the guy finally put my pie in the oven. I decided to bide my time by reading all the little recipe cards by the international cheese section. Did you know there are over a dozen types of brie cheese? But only two can be called “true Brie?” I moved about the cheese area and ventured over to the olive bar to stare at the ten types they had available, all swimming in their olivy juices. They all looked disgusting to me. I then made my way over to the sausage and questionable meats section. I wondered if anyone ever checks the expiration dates on these things. Is that really sausage? Does anyone ever buy this stuff?

Bored out of my mind, I went back to my pizza moving through the exposed oven on a conveyor belt and counted down the seconds until it made its way to the end. The guy finally put it in a box and handed it to me with outstretched hands. “Gimme, gimme, gimme already!”

I couldn’t have been more excited to get through checkout with my pizza and other items. When I got in my car and drove away I thought “Oh, this pizza’s gonna taste just gr….” Oh, wait. Where’s the pizza? I’m officially brain dead and now I have to park my car again, walk back up the the cashier and reclaim my pie. “Um. Hi. I forgot this,” I say. “Yeah, we were about to eat it, it smells so good.” I try to avoid eye-contact, as I’m sure the cashier and customers can’t believe anyone would forget they bought something the size of an end table.

I’m stupid

My husband Dave and I aren’t big drinkers, but he did just discover a great new beer he likes called Magic Hat 9 and he keeps a few in the fridge for an end of day treat.

The other day, Dave asked if I’d grab him one out of the fridge. I obliged and thought I’d be super nice and pop the cap for him. Because I don’t drink beer at all, I didn’t even know if we had a bottle opener in the house. Searching through the silverware drawer, I came upon the only thing I thought would work: a manual can opener.

I yelled to the other room “Can I open it with this can opener?” Dave said “Yeah, that’ll work.” What I did next made him wonder if he married the stupidest woman on the planet. He wondered why things were taking so long. I had a lot of trouble opening the bottle. See, that big hook on the bottom works. That little indentation at the top does not work at all, no matter how hard you try. Even if you work up a sweat.

I’m old

There’s only one piece of equipment that makes you look older than your age and that is an eyeglass chain you wear around your neck so you always have your glasses handy. I’ve known only one person in my life who did this and I thought she must have been 100 years old: Mrs. Weinhoffer, my sixth grade teacher. She was the quintessential schoolmarm, if ever there was one. Her eyeglass chain was silver and antique-looking. I have associated old with eyeglass chains ever since. Having avoided the old people eyeglass accessories display case at my pharmacy for months, I realized I had to break down and buy one today.

I’m so tired of taking my glasses on and off when I want to read the newspaper, and then put them back on when I want to see something on TV or anything more than six inches in front of my face. I don’t know how bad I’m going to look, but I do know I’ll look older than dirt. Up next, a scooter, a hearing aid and a box of Depends.

God help me.

I came very close to giving up blogging this week. Moving from Blogger to WordPress was no picnic and I wondered if it was all worth it. I finally got some outstanding issues resolved and I’m happy to say that I’m not giving it all up.

During the five days it took to fully make the transition, I had reason to laugh only once. It was when I discovered the following two videos.  The first one shows two chatty cats having a conversation in their native feline language. The second one is its interpretation to English.

Until I can get my bearings back to write something unrelated to my blogging nightmare, I want to share them both with you. Even if you’re not a cat person, you can’t not think they’re hilarious. Enjoy!

The Feline Language Version

The Junk Drawer has undergone some serious cosmetic surgery today and is in recovery. I’ve been in the process of moving to WordPress and things went a little haywire for several hours today.

My blog’s appearance may change over the next few days, so bear with me. My old backlinks also do not work, but will be repaired in the next day or so.

Please check back for a new look and new posts soon!

UPDATE 12/12: This is my site’s final look. If I kept searching for a theme that was perfect, I wouldn’t be done until January.

This theme has most of the features I needed, won’t require too much tweaking, and so it got the thumbs-up. I hope you like it, too!

I still need to resolve some issues with links and RSS feeds. Thanks for your patience.

Junk Drawer Management

People like to make a lot of noise in our neighborhood. Here’s what happens a couple weeks before Christmas. Before the fire truck comes, we get 10 minutes of some guy on an ATV blaring sirens to announce Santa’s impending visit.

If you didn’t know this was the week for Santa, you’d be scared half to death that your house was on fire. The first guy’s sirens are as loud as any emergency vehicle and then the fire truck lays it on heavy as it rumbles down the street.

I don’t know who was more scared. Me from the noise, or Santa Claus after he got an eyeful of me. He greeted me on the porch while I was wearing no shoes, shorts with a hole in them, glasses, no make-up and my hair was soaking wet from the shower I just took.

I really hadn’t wanted to talk to him since I knew how frightening I looked in my Saturday morning costume. But he waved at me and I couldn’t just run away. He brought me an apple (???) and a candy cane. It was like reverse Trick-or-Treat, with me as the trick. Santa, please forgive me. I don’t normally look like that.

I’m delighted to announce an addition to the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection. This piece, dubbed Bagel #9, was submitted by reader Heather Simoneau. Of course, if you turn it upside down, it can be Bagel #6 to you.

She reported it was found in a package of Thomas’ plain bagels at a SuperFresh store in Bethlehem, PA. Pour yourself a cup of coffee and enjoy!

Today’s post, brought to you by the #9

As you know, I’ve been struggling with what to do about Google’s idiotic change in its commenting system. It’s been a nightmare dealing with the issue and considering my options.

After much pain and anguish, I’ve decided to move my blog to a new platform. No more Blogger. It’s WordPress, baby! I’ll let you know when that happens. Hopefully, the migration will be seamless.

My good friend, J.D. over at I Do Things So You Don’t Have To has been listening to me grouse about the Blogger mess for several days. She knows I’ve been irritated and consumed by this problem, especially because it’s kept me from writing about anything else.

She told me, "Well, you can’t always write about fluffy kittens and sunshine." As I pondered that nugget yesterday, I watched my cat Stinky twitch about while she was dreaming. I caught her just as she was waking up out of what I suppose was a nightmare about Big Bad Google screwing up my blog.

Because I wanted to post something cute, fluffy and non-Googly today, here she is for your viewing pleasure. The other cat to come into the picture is Stinky’s arch nemesis, Lucky, aptly named because he escaped death for ruining our furniture.

Yesterday I posted about the recent unannounced change to Google’s commenting system on Blogger blogs. If you host with Blogger, this change is significant and will likely cause a drop in your readership.

The post I wrote didn’t include a complete enough explanation of why this will impact you, so I would encourage you to visit BlogCatalog, where there is a more involved explanation of the problem and links to other blogs where the issue is being discussed.

There is also a link to the appropriate place to voice your concern to Google about this change.

Check out the discussion on BlogCatalog today!

And speaking of problems with Blogger, there is a problem with the way pictures are handled in posts. When a reader clicks on a picture, they are asked to download it or open it with a program of their choosing. Before, the picture would simply open within the browser. This is a known bug and Google is working on a solution.

Seems this is a big weekend for Poopy Heads. Google has just changed the way people can leave comments on blogs hosted on Blogger, such as this one. I’m not happy with this change and it’s made me seriously consider moving to another blogging platform.

Until I decide what to do, I thought I’d at least announce what happened and explain all the commenting options now in place.

Why is Google a Poopy Head?

When leaving comment, no longer can you click on the Other option and enter your name and URL back to your own blog. They’ve replaced that field with Nickname, which only allows you to type your name. Poopy Head Move #1.

The old way was much more user-friendly and gave you a way to easily link me and my readers back to your blog.

What to do?

Commenters WITH Google accounts may still login with their Google User ID and password to leave a comment. But when the comment is posted, people will get a link to your profile (not your blog). I know, that stinks. Poopy Head move #2.

Commenters WITHOUT Google accounts have several options, none I like very much. Big Giant Collective Poopy Head Move.

1. Create a Google account and just use it for commenting. This method also means you can check the box to be notified by email of responses to comments.

2. Choose the Nickname field and just enter your name. Simple enough, if you just want to leave your name behind.

3. Enter your blog’s URL below your comment. It’s a poor substitute for the old method, but at least it means anyone who wants to visit your site can copy and paste it (or type it) into a browser URL field to get there. It will not be clickable!!!

A pain, I know, but this is probably the easiest option if you want to display your blog address. (Read on for how to make it a clickable link).

4. Click the drop-down arrow next to “Sign-in using:” and choose one of the services listed if you have an account with one of them. Enter the information it requests (assuming you know it — not all users will).

5. You can still click Anonymous, if you prefer.

Yeah, but what if I really, really, really want to leave a clickable link to my blog in your comments? No problem. You just have to enter your blog’s address in this format:

<a href=”http://www.yourblogname.com”>Text to Display</a>

Of course, you would replace the “yourblogname” part with your blog’s address, and replace “Text to Display” with whatever you want the link to read.

I’ve done this myself and it takes just a few times to memorize the format. You could also keep a little text file handy with your code already formatted. Just copy and paste into your comment and you’re off. Go ahead and copy the above text and practice it by leaving me a comment and a link to your blog!

If you have any questions, or if you just want to complain about this new system, drop a comment in the drawer. Oh, how we love to complain here! It’s good therapy.

UPDATE: Google has rescinded this change. Read about it here. Sorry, Google. Too little, too late.

Dear Poopy Head Truck Driver:

I know you didn’t mean it when you had an accident on the bridge I cross to get to work. But I just have to tell you what you were responsible for this morning.

1. You made me 45 minutes late for work.

2. You made about 2,500 other people 45 minutes late for work. That means the world lost 1,875 man hours of work, about a year’s worth of a typical job.

3. You forced me to look death in the eye and try crazy stunts to shoot off the last exit before the bridge in an effort to get away from the traffic jam.

4. You made it so that 1,000 other drivers tried the same thing and caused us to get in a second traffic jam on side roads.

5. You made my office have to make a pot of Disney Mickey Mouse coffee that’s been in the refrigerator for about a year, since I had the supply of new coffee in my car.

6. You caused all the people who could finally get moving again to gun the accelerator and violate every driving rule known to man, trying to make up lost time.

7. You made me hate the innocent cyclist who I saw whiz by me at one point, getting to his destination on time.

8. You made a thousand people, who just finished their morning coffee, wish for a Port-o-Potty on the side of the road.

I hope you totaled your truck, don’t have insurance and have to take a bus to work for a month. I hope you were cited and fined for your incompetence. I hope everyone flipped you off when they made it past your stupid accident. You should be lucky they didn’t kill you. I know I wanted to.

P.S. Poopy Head isn’t what I was calling you that whole time, but this is a G-rated blog, so that’ll have to do.