Hot.

We used the heater for the first time last night. It had gotten to the point where even with a comforter, a down, and a quilt I was still waking up in the middle of the night from the cold.

And in the morn, when it was still dark outside it is so hard to climb out of bed and light the candlestick. I go out to the barn to milk to cows and we all look around blinkingly.

Oh, wait, that's not me.

Me?

I lay in bed for the better half of ten minutes. I think about what to wear and whether or not my job is really worth showing up for (it's not). Then I stumble out into the kitchen, turn on the coffee maker and will Heather to get out of bed (this is the same will power I use to stop the hiccups. It's very effective).

Then I put on layers (lots of them) and drink coffee and try to keep my eyes open long enough to put on mascara (mascara makes it look like I've been awake, dressed, and chipper for hours rather than the reality).

Now that we use the heater, I've gained ten minutes that I previously spent bemoaning my chilled existence.

Today, I had eggs.

Tomorrow, who knows, I might do something crazy. Like blog IN THE MORNING.

Ha, yeah right. Tomorrow I'm getting ten minutes more of sleep.

And they say that junior high is just a bunch of drama

At my small private junior high I learned judgement. With only 10 girls in my class and 20 cootie- (and fuzzstache-) ridden boys, us girls had to stick together. Of course sticking together means making fun of everyone else. The older we got the more we learned that tearing each other apart gave the greatest esteem but in the early days we targeted our teachers.

In the same way that contestants on ANTM shouldn't talk about Tyra because she watches ALL the footage, we couldn't get away with mocking the tenured full-timers so we went for the marginalized foreign language teachers.

The first Spanish teacher was a woman (maybe). The eighth graders said she wore a wig and I mean, her voice, it was so low and so deep and SHE SMOKED. Horrors of all horrors. We would try to say "hola" in her voice and double over in the locker room.

The second Spanish teacher was old. Very old. I never saw him with my own eyes since I decided to take French that year (a decision still haunting me, by the way) but I heard he was older than dirt, dinosaurs, and even the biology teacher.

His health was declining and he decreased to only one day a week and then he need assisted breathing and he had to move class to the first floor since there were no elevators in those days and he had one of those wheely ventilators. One day he just didn't show up to class. They never told us what happened.

His replacement was a timid 20-something girl. They were starting to infiltrate the school with them and I was too young to notice the underlying gender issues they were also infiltrating but it took me years to shake them.

She was strict though and not afraid to yell at the cootie, fuzzstache boys (she never dared talk that way to the girls). For all of this the boys loathed her. Finally, one day one of the boys whispered, mostly over his breath, "I hope you get dragged out into the street and shot."

Horrors of horrors. She walked out of the classroom and straight to administration. Where had he heard such language? They had prohibited clothing and outerwear that resembled gang symbols, and seriously, THIS WAS THE SUBURBS. I THOUGHT WE WERE SAFE.

You should have heard the administration when I announced I was going to a Catholic all-girls high school. I mean, there might be LESBIANS there. Or FEMINISM. Or, horrors of horrors, BOTH.

Sluggo and Sluggo, Inc. go to Chicago (A Photo Essay)

The partners in crime before departure. There are about a hundred other pictures exactly like this (never give Sally the digital camera).


The view from our totally cheap and totally sketchy parking structure. It was half as much as the structure across the street and besides, they wouldn't steal my car anyway. There's too much dog hair in it.


Anna is holding the city inside her hat. Yeah, I don't get it either.


Look! The espresso brownies in Chicago have icing. Even Starbucks is better in Chicago.


Three pictures of the mecca. I need to show the magnitude as well as the height, and of course the Anna.




I didn't find much here, sadly, because most of their clothes looked like this:

Since I live in The Land That Never Gets Colder Than 70 I resisted the outerwear funness.

Also, I discovered the source of all their power:


Then we went to Uno's for Chicago Style Pizza.


However, the restaurant is about the size of a shoebox so we waited 75 minutes to get these stellar seats which are actually in the bar (this is not the same as being at the bar).


Here you can see our server (who did not tell us him name) getting our drinks. My drink was sub-par because they "ran out of cherry juice," he said. CHERRY JUICE? What is this, a Welch's commercial? Where I come from we call it Grenadine.


But the pizza was still life-changing and I'd go back in an instant.


And here's the view from our parking structure at night.

Merry Christmas!

A little bittle of holiday cheer is all you're going to get from me so lap it up fast. Also, there is now a secret Christmas present hidden on the site. Wooo.

My Week In Pictures

This hot piece of meat drove past us, Heather. I tried to get his number for you but he couldn't hear over the roar of the motor. Your loss.


Pretty much the highlight of my week. (In case you can't tell, that's a CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN.)


This is my old car. That is snow on it. That is also snow falling. Oh, Chicago.


Portrait of an old lady. I mean old cat. Isn't she cute? (The whiskers coming out of her eyebrows are because she's so old, and I have no problem mocking it. P.S. Internet, remind me to tell you sometime about Jeni's dog, Tina.)


Me and the fiance. He's cooking up the breakfast I had just wrangled from out back.


There were more pictures but Blogger kicked me off before I could finish. I'll try to get more up tomorrow.

Thanksgiving: thoughts

by Anna Kueck
Guest Blogger

Thanksgiving has turned into something ironic, a break from everything I am supposed to be thankful for. You know all those great opportunities? All that great stuff you learn and post-graduate things you have to be excited for.

I suddenly discovered I have been working tediously to discover only what I don't want to do, and to fail at my one strength. And so I had that conversation with Joe, who is just a prof, and his concern with the future of students only stretches as far as their minds will concede to produce. On the low minor note of his spiked comment, I slammed the door on the plans I had made, and then the back up plans, and rode home peacefully with a newly blank imaginary life.

Now I am escaping my family (whom I am also supposed to be thankful for) and spending the evening with your dear Abigail. As evenings were spent before the future had even presented itself, when we were still pining to leave the monotonous certainty of these suburbs that now welcome us home.

Anna Kueck and I grew up together and she's been mentioned in posts such as Empathy and Harriet the Spy. We're in Chicago, full of pumpkin pie and saying yes to coffee.

She doesn't really "do" the internet thing. It's okay, I still like her.

If By Perfect You Mean Honestly, Hilary, What Was So Bad About Lizzie McGuire?

I'll admit that I'm a fan of Hilary Duff. I have been known to play "So Yesterday" at high decimals (you can hear the background vocals better that way) and I own "A Cinderella Story." I even feel the need to defend her occasionally on Fug.

This is why I was avoiding seeing "The Perfect Man." But when it's free Hil and passes the time on a flight, I can't say no.

I wish I had.

Breasts were referred to as "speed bumps."

Hilary sported an awful awful wardrobe. Worse than Cinderella Story. She is wearing this heinous red dress in the opening shot and her hair always looks like it got chomped up into a weed-wacker. [Note: I hoped to link to all sorts of wonderful pictures of the tragedies just described but the internet is completely void of them. Her publicist must have beat to it and destroyed the evidence. (Also, one site was blocked by the Panera filter for "intimate wear/swimsuit." Hilary seems to be breaking out of the comfort zone.)]

She does some really awful things involving making her mom fall in love with an imaginary person, totally ruining someone's wedding, turning on the fire sprinkers in a restaurant, evacuating the entire place and surely ruining everything in it, although you wouldn't know because the only resolution is a high from her "I'm such a rebel because I have three piercings and a tat" best friend.

Did I mention tat-girl's uncle owns the restaurant? Right.

*spoiler*

AND AT THE END THE IMAGINARY GUY BECAME REAL. AND HE WAS THE RESTAURANT OWNER. CHRIS NOTH, ARE YOU EMBARRASSED? I SURE HOPE SO.

Why Taking Seperate Cars Is Always A Good Idea

"So there's that."

"Just to clarify, you're telling me ... " I confirmed the worst. I remained silent, not sure what to say at that point.

He waited. I sighed.

We got out of the car.

"This is the part where you're supposed to yell and hit me."

"I'm passive aggressive!" I joked. "I yell and hit, I just don't yell and hit you, I yell and hit about you."

"I know," he responded. "I'm giving you the opportunity to yell and hit with me."

I sighed again and walked through the door he was holding open for me. We made niceties with the regulars, got coffee, finished the to do list and got back in the car.

"You're quiet."

I looked at him, keeping my eyes opened wide. "Uh huh. So?"

"Well, it means you're upset."

I looked away. Looking at the sun had the unusually opposite effect of stopping the tears. I raised my voice a little.

"Of course I'm upset."

He was satisfied with that. He wanted me to hit him, I could tell. He wanted me to throw my fists into him. Even though it wouldn't hurt, he would feel better, knowing he deserved it to hurt.

But I use words. Words I think over for hours until I craft stinging biting sentences. If there's one thing I've learned it's that my looks and my punches don't hurt but my words do.

"You can blog about me if you want and I promise I won't read it for a couple days."

Silly boy, what's the point then?

As life billows smoke inside my head

There are days like the ones I've had recently where sleep blurs into class blurs into work blurs into the nothingness that everything important falls into. There is the suffocation feeling of capture which is only good for poetry and sentences that end with prepositions.

"How do you keep it under control?" she asked three weeks ago.

I watch for the signs, I see the smoke signals even through all the smog, and I try to stop it, I tell her. I try to stop it from coming over me and crashing down, down like the waves at Newport.

And yet, even in the midst of these waves, there is the red tide, glowing from within and there are friends' birthdays and midnight movie showings and when the fiance takes us out to a movie.

It's interesting how the two always seems to come together. Do they find each other in some twisted triangle? Like the Bermuda Triangle, swirling around out away far from here preparing to come, moving across the fault lines.

And there are days when friends come and they say, "I'm here to help you. Can I wash your laundry for you? Can I fold this pile of clothes?" And saying yes is the easiest decision to make and the only one I can.

We got her the high-thread count sheets for her birthday and her mom was impressed at what great friends we were. How did we know? How did we know to get her the best kind, not the softest? We just do.

We know what thread count to get and when to come and throw clothes in a washing machine.

I know good people.

My Week In Pictures

I like sauce (and Elmo?)


eyes on the road


a low-quality picture of a high-quality theatre


True Potter fans


Christmas in the OC


Pop quiz: are we going up or down?


Kelly Mumaw, so hot right now

Identity Theft

"People change inside the maze.
Be careful not to lose yourself."
"Some game, huh?"
"Some game."

My whole life people have always been surprised at my low stress level.

"You seem so calm for being so busy."

"Man, if I was doing as much as you, I'd be crazy."

I always responded with "you gotta do what you gotta do" and the like. My busyness has never been a stressor for me. Sure, I like rest and I like not being busy but it doesn't ruin my life to be working a lot.

However, there is an indicator, a test, that when failed it suddenly becomes apparent that the insides of my life are starting to peel off after all.

It's The Cards Test.

My whole life people have always been surprised at my lack of wallet.

"Where do you keep your money?"

"In your pocket? Really? Really?"

I have four cards. Two forms of ID and two forms of charge. It's all I ever need and all I ever have and it's what I lose when my life starts to fall apart.

I first noticed when I was moving out of the dorms the end of my freshmen year of high school and I lost my ID card THREE TIMES in two weeks. I had to replace it every time I lost it too, because it was the kind of card you couldn't live without.

It's happened several times since, usually when I'm moving or traveling and there are so many things to remember I just can't remember them all. I just can't.

And now it's happening again.

The Cards? They're missing. We called the movie theatre and the restaurant and looked in the car and the pants and the whole house and they're missing.

And I'm relegated to laying on the couch and moaning about how my life is a joke and how I have so much homework and how I just will never ever survive. Ever.

Truth: I can't cut.

There is this Everybody Loves Raymond episode where Ray has to go to a parent-teacher conference because one of the twins cannot cut a straight line. They have the two samples side by side and one is straight cut on a line and the other is a cut all about the page.

I am the second page. The saddest part is I TRY to cut on the line. I concentrate and look closely and hold the scissors about this far from my face and still, STILL, the line goes all about the page. ALL ABOUT THE PAGE.

So, for the most part I avoid cutting. I secure friends and relatives to complete the task for me. I got a roommate with a fancy cutter thing and I still make her use it. I don't even own scissors, it's just not worth it. (Besides, my mom taught me you can use your teeth for everything.)

Using a paper cutter does not help and it simply adds an element of danger to an already complicated situation. So today at work when it came time to cut 100 pages four times each, I turned on my desk lamp, pulled everything close to me and set to work.

An hour later, when the Boss man had called to see how everything was coming I told him that I was really slow and so I hadn't gotten through very many.

"That's alright," he said, "it's better to be slow and careful than do it too fast. When we did it too fast last week the pages didn't fit and you could see the black lines."

Appreciating the encouragement, despite the fact that I had done 15 PAGES in that hour, I looked at my completed pages.

Sure enough, you could see the black lines.

IRSuicide

"Hey Abs, this came today, I had to sign for it. FYI."

This happened to be certified mail. Certified mail from the IRS.

Their letters aren't that mean. They say things like, "please call us right away to rectify," and "even if you are unable to pay, we can set up a payment plan," and "please check to make sure this is correct and not our error."

All those nice things are just tricks, tricks I tell you, to lure us delinquents into calling them.

"Hi, yes, I received a letter. I can't pay you."

"Well why not?"

"I don't have any money."

"Well why not?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why didn't you know you had to pay taxes?"

"Because I've never paid them before."

"How is that possible?"

At this point I'm starting to wonder how much scolding is allowed within IRS jurisdiction. I try to divert the conversation back to the actual purpose.

"I'd like to set up a payment plan to pay the balance for my 2004 taxes."

"What about your 2005 taxes?"

"Uh, 2005 isn't over yet?"

"Well, how are you going to pay them? You didn't pay 2004!"

"I didn't know about my 2004 taxes until it was too late!"

"How is that possible?"

"Can I please set up a payment plan--"

"Ma'am, you need to talk to your employer about your 2005 taxes. They MUST be paid!"

At this point, tears streaming down my face, I hung up.

That was three weeks ago. It took me 6 weeks to call them after the first notice, I don't know when they thought I would call again. I guess that's why they sent the certified mail.

The envelope is thrice as thick as the last and a peek in showed a "What You Should Know About the IRS Collections Process" guide book. Apparently, they figured out that what they should know is that I deal strictly with paper and the internet, none of this telephone crap.

And by deal with paper, I mean put it in a pile on my desk.

And by my desk I mean the place under all the Important Papers.

And by Important Papers I mean these things that places keep sending me that have things like "Collections" written all over them.

Do I sound desperate yet?

Will someone please organize my life?

Hello?

Anyone?

I can't really breath under all this paper.

Shedd Aquarium, Lake Michigan

On a Tuesday in July we went to the aquarium. It was my nineteenth time--I always kept track--and your first. It was my treat (for once) and we even ate in the café (it was my first time in the café).

You loved the dolphins. You know, made that same face you make around puppies. The same face my little sister makes around puppies. Anyway, I couldn't get you away from the dolphins.

I had chicken tarragon at the café. I felt so guilty for not liking it so I kept eating the bread. But you still noticed, and you asked if I wanted some of your clam chowder. No, thank you, I said politely and you grinned and passed the butter.

Before the marine show started in the afternoon, we cast our dreams across the Lake. You said it was just like throwing change into a fountain, just make sure not to hit the whales. You made me promise I wouldn't tell my wish because then it wouldn't come true, and well, that might contradict yours.

What Happens When I'm Left To My Own Devices

" ... I get tongue-tied.
My mind goes ... blank.
Then I spend all night tossing
and turning trying to think
of what I should have said."

It's not that I have a thing for younger men, it's just that when you get to the top, only the youngest are left.

And I really don't. It's not a thing when there's only one.

And he's not that young.

And he is a philosophy major, at least he was one? Or did he just change? I can't remember.

"Abigail, should you really be getting involved with guys who are still changing their major?" Lauren asked.

We're not involved.

The first time we talked I made jokes, he laughed, he said philosophical things, I said obscure things that weren't philosophical and yet seemed to fool him, and then he said, "I really love talking to you. We should do this again sometime."

And sometime never came.

Never.

I saw him again a few weeks later. We did the same dance. I did the laugh, you know, that laugh.

Nothing.

Nothing except a "how are you doing, really?"

We parted ways, I was resigned to the fact that he was one those guys. That's fine, I said, I can totally be one of those girls. Insert the laugh.

Well, tonight, he comes up to me with a new level of awkwardness. This isn't the usual conversation.

"Are you living life well?" he asked. What? What does that even mean?

And then, AND THEN, he asks, "is there anything you want to tell me?" Now, this isn't like third grade where you know, he heard from his friend who heard from my friend that I think he's cute. This is like, you know, I'm supposed to tell him ... ?

Now if I was really at the top, I would have said something brilliant like, "well, yeah, when are you going to ask for my number?" but I'm not at the top and I'm not brilliant.

When England Seems So Far Away

darling of darlings,
I will be getting a phone card soon. may i call? i will call until you answer. so you have basically no choice. remember when jesus said if you knock enough times, eventually the owner of the house will haul his ass out of bed and answer the door? that will be you. even if you are in class. and i will probably call at a very awkward time because i can't count (and thus cannot calculate what time it is in california). but i will try not to call when you are sleeping. i miss you so much, can you come visit me?

how is your life?

love,
kathy

Seriously, seriously, LIBERAL ARTS? What is that?!?

Hey, Abigail, is it true that you actually won't graduate because you can't finish an 8-page article on bipedalism?"

Yes, yes, that might be true.

But that seems dumb. Just finish the article.

Because if I finish this article then I have to read another and I when I finish that article I have to read another and if I read from here until the end of time then maybe, MAYBE, I will graduate. And WHY WHY WHY are there so many damn theories about hominids? Why must I know them?

I have read about cannibalism, I have read about evolution, I have read about apes and monkeys and tools and tribe structures and violence and more tools and OH MY GOD THIS DISCOVERY IN THE RIFT IS CHANGING THE FACE OF EVOLUTION AS WE SPEAK.

Seriously. The Tuang baby is saying more than they could have ever imagined. And the ramidius? It's big toe is turned off to the side even though his ankle is UPRIGHT.

And then found some great fossil in 1995 that just might CHANGE THE FACE OF EVOLUTION some more but it takes a really long time to chip away the dirt.

Also, it took a long time for the world to form. Evolution is measure in "m.y.a." or million years ago. Tuang baby lived 3 to 3.5 m.y.a. and this most recent discover is as young as 2 m.y.a. and they found this crazy crazy thing that shows bipedalism over 1 m.y.a. BEFORE the hominids moved to the SAVANNA.

My life is a joke.

If I had to choose between Chipotle and America's Next Top Model I'd have to think on that for a long while

End Notes:
1. The 7th Inning Stretch is key to my success in finish a Chipotle burrito. Notice how I stretch both my arms and neck while my opponent seems to be concentrating on only the arms.
2. I'm pretty sure if Tyra saw this footage we would be contestants for her show because I mean we show expression. Dangerous yet sexy. We're not a "carcass hanging on a fence." No sir. I mean ma'am.
3. Thanks to Chief Eatwood for the Photo editing. We warned her the other day that if she mocked us one more time we would Photoshop her out of the group photo just like at the end of ANTM. Then we remembered she's the only with Photoshop.

The Friendship Theory

"Two zits totally appeared on my chin DURING class!"

"Well, I have a zit under my nose! It appeared this morning!"

"I have one there too that appeared this morning. Your twin chin zits are coming!"

"What? How?"

"Well, I got 'em."

We Used To Be Boyfriend-Girlfriend

The seasons are a-changing. They've debuted the "holiday drinks" at Starbucks, we've started watching Love Actually on repeat, and we're going to go shopping for a Christmas tree soon.

The seasons are a-changing. Today my dear Jeni became betrothed to the Boyfriend. We (Jeni and I) met over three years ago in the Student Union Building. I had flown in that morning, her parents had dropped her off that afternoon and we were about to begin the wonderful adventure of college. I never believed those people who said they met someone and it just "clicked" until I met Jeni.

Bart came into our lives a year ago although he likes to think he'd been plotting it all along. He bought me chocolates and flowers because he wanted to date her (this is something the rest of the guys should have learned). I judged him because that's what friends are supposed to do. Then he just bought me more flowers and more chocolate.

He called me three weeks ago and said, "November 6th, Huntington Gardens, save the date and get the girls, I think you know what's going down."

And down it went. We all spied from the perch at the Japanese Gardens and my eyes were defiled when I saw them KEhhsss. (She said "yes").

Now we get to plan a wedding and register and shop shop shop and I LOVE parties. And cake.

So that is that and this is them (if I had to see it, you do too):



Oh, and Bart, she's really picky about light bulb wattages and mayonnaise. Just FYI.

My Week in Pictures

Lucy, you been cooking?


Neighborhood Cat


It's not a costume


Date Night


Is it acceptable if they're on sale?


Suzy Saturday*

*Photo courtesy Boyfriend Bart

You Lurker

Today I was at Starbucks and I ran into a friend from church who I had met this summer. We chat every Sunday morning during Coffee Hour and if one of us misses then there is a chiding.

"You didn't stay for coffee last week!" I said to her, excited to see her out of the normal realm.

"You weren't here two weeks ago!!" she said, a little two quickly.

I hung my head in shame. Missing that one week as been my downfall for quite a while now.

"I know, sorry, I was on vacation."

Then, THEN, she said, "Yeah, I know, I saw on your blog."

People, she has been reading my blog since we met this summer. She has been lurking in the dark quiet corners of that blue space on the right. And I know, I KNOW, there are more of you over there.

Show your faces.

Anatomy of a Bad Day

From the vault. I'm working on cleaning up all the hand-written blog posts on napkins and checkbooks and French notes. Perhaps I'll debut one a week.



1. Fall asleep night before to 2 Very Loud Boys arguing over whose girlfriend is prettier.

2. Wake up at 7 a.m. to do homework for two hours before going to work.

3. While inside coffee shop, breathe smoke because the smoking patron, while smoking outside, is smoking directly outside the door and blowing the smoke back into the establishment.

4. Endure 20 minutes of conversation with chatting ken because maybe he is interested in a date.

5. Decide he is so boring that you are not interested in a date at minute 21.

6. Find out he is married at minute 23.

7. Withdraw into book in order to discourage the conversation. Ken keeps on chattering.

8. Get nothing done during two hour pre-work study time due to boring, married ken.

9. Eat chocolate for breakfast. Realize that chocolate, the one food you can tolerate, is causing your throat to swell.

9. Deal with dumb people at work. There was some significant eye-rolling today on the part of several students.

10. Drive in traffic back to coffee place to do second two hour study time.

11. Get immense headache because you haven't eaten anything all day.

12. Get orange chicken from Panda Express. Also causes throat to swell.

13. Car won't start. Must get towed.

14. Unfortunately, you are far from where you need to be in 4o minutes and you are the only one with the Very Important Handouts.

16. It is 92 degrees. Very Cute Outfit gets soaked in sweat.

Summer 2005

Le Photo Day

1991 I used to think it was cool to suck on my shirt. So I would suck on the collar of my shirt all day long. So much that I looked like a dog who had lapped up a bit too much water at the water bowl. I was photographed with this look. (That year I also wrote a poem about how 1991 is the best year. Because it the numbers looked the same backwards and forwards.)

1993 I must have taken some sort of sedative because half my face was drooping lower than the other half. With the smile, this looked especially special. Also, I had braided a small bit of hair in front of my face and then pulled it back and clipped it on top. What they say about the camera catching every stray hair is totally true.

1995 Let's just say I owned a strawberry-print jumper. And this was pre-braces.

1998 I was in eighth grade so I owned the school. And by owned I definitely mean I was really cool even though I HAD BRACES AND WORE TAPERED JEANS. Oh, the humanity. Around this time my mother got a memo from the school saying they were making a graduation video and would she please submit all pictures of me, you know, through the years. She actually submitted the above pictures. Other people saw them.

2001 I forgot it was yearbook picture day and I didn't have a change of clothes. See, we had uniforms in high school and the most mortifying thing ever would be being photographed for the yearbook in your uniform. So I took my uniform shirt off and photographed in one of those teeny tiny tanks. I definitely ended up looking topless.

2002 I paid the extra $20 for three outfits and props for my senior pictures. I drove to downtown one-way street Evanston for my sitting session. I freakin' put on makeup. When I got the proofs back I divided them up into "meh" and "vomit." The latter group no one was allowed to see. The former group made me loathe myself.

2004 I said bye bye to convention and wore my hair up and messy. That was when my hair was really long--we're talking homeschool long--and I totally went college cutie instead of college chic. I chopped it all of three weeks later and started working full time.

Tomorrow marks senior picture day for me. I have to take time off of work to do this and I keep convincing myself that it's for posterity's sake so when I'm on Behind the Music or 20/20 or America's Next Top Model and they do those yearbook pan shots I will actually be in the yearbook. Rumor has it they photograph seniors in front of a faux ivy wall. We don't have ivy in Southern California and my school is certainly way outta that league.