Monthly Archives: July 2012

The Other Side: Notes on the Fourth Month

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This is the awkward part when the new followers (welcome, by the way!) open the email or click on the link to this, my newest post since last Friday’s post was Freshly Pressed, and find out that this blog is essentially a (dum dum DAH)…

…mommy blog.

Don’t worry; I won’t be offended if you unsubscribe. But the gym post is proof that I do talk about things other than diapers and that my vocabulary isn’t limited to adorbs, so I do hope you’ll stick around. But today we are going to talk about babies, so sit tight.

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Please don’t eat me. But let me eat my hand, ‘k?

Miss C is four months old! What what! And ohmahgosh, you guys, she is The Best. I have tried to eat her several times because she is just so unbearably cute, but luckily B has stopped me before I get too far in preparing all the mise en place to go with her. I think I can now officially say that she sleeps through the night; I know I’ve been saying it for awhile, but I was always tempting fate by doing so. However, now that she’s 16 weeks old and she’s been sleeping in solid eight hour stretches since she was at eight weeks, I’d say it’s a habit. And boy oh boy, are we ever appreciative. Now, there are some caveats. She does sleep swaddled and she does fall asleep at the breast 99.5% of the time, so those are some habits that she will eventually have to be weaned from. However, for now, we’re going to let them slide.

Napping is another story. She is usually good about taking five to six 25- to 30-minute naps each day, but lately she’s become so enamored with everything that’s going on around her that she puts up a bit of a fight when we try to put her down. But hey, it’s my thinking that as long as she’s sleeping through the night, she can pretty much do whatever she wants during the day, short of inviting other babies for a cocktail hour at 5PM every day. Upper hand much?

Scarlett O’Hara baby

Here’s the part where I bang the wow-they-grow-so-fast drum once again. She is huge! There is such a black and white difference between a baby at four weeks old and a baby at four months old. At four weeks, she was still in her chopped liver state of being, as my mother affectionately calls it. She moved in slo-mo, didn’t interact with me unless you count feeding times as interaction, and still kind of looked like an insect. On her playmat, there is a little dangling monkey thing that I remember trying really hard to get her to engage with when she was tiny. She had no interest in it, obviously, and I attached some loco postpartum ennui to that toy. Now she not only plays with the monkey but can’t get enough of it. It’s bittersweet. She chats with us when we talk to her and gives us gigantic smiles and giggles when she first sees us when she wakes in the morning.

I mean, come on.

She has also discovered screens. Whereas I used to watch TV or watch YouTube when I was feeding her, I hesitate to turn them on now as she quickly gets fixated on them. I’ve always heard that babies between birth and two years should not be exposed to screens, so I’m going to try to keep her from them. That’s a pretty tall order, but we’re going to at least try.

Hooty hoo!

She is pretty much the most squishy, snuggly little gal you could possibly conjure up. She gets in good and cozy with us when we make a family sandwich. By the way, family sandwiches are the best kind. Om nom nom to a mommy, a daddy, and a bebe.

Gym Types

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One of the big incentives I have for going to the gym is to observe the wildlife there. I have collected some data about the people I am likely to see, and today I will present my findings.

1. Pacers

You can mostly find these people around the weightlifting area. They lift about 500 pounds and then just pace around for 30 minutes until they approach the machine and nearly kill themselves lifting again. Then they go home. Although I don’t usually lift weights at the gym (I heft a 13-pound weight around the house all day long, thank you), I can’t imagine that this is an optimal fitness plan.

2. Friend Makers

At each gym I’ve been a member of, there has always been a guy who wants to strike up a conversation and make friends with any warm body available. Perhaps he wants to become king of the gym? I don’t know, but he does very little exercising and instead just bothers everyone who actually is. No matter how engrossed you appear to be with your book or iPod, he will target you and it’s hard to shake him if you engage him. This guy at my current gym kind of looks like Weird Al so whenever I see him moseying up to some unknowing person, I imagine him asking them if they’d like an accordion lesson or to hear the story of how he used to be fat.

Dare to be healthy. Source

3. The Ill-Dressed

There are a number of sub-species of this particular nomenclature (ie, girl who wears only sports bra but shouldn’t, 40-year-old man who still wears his high school track shorts, etc.), but I am focusing on the people who don’t seem to understand that corduroy pants do not proper gym attire make. Old people are really bad about this. In their travels through life, some of them never learned that button-down oxford blouses, khaki pants and Tevas with black socks are not optimal exercise apparel. But it’s not just old people. My younger brother always wears jeans, a wife beater, and Timberlands to the gym. No. Just no. I can’t even.

4. Gum Smackers

It is extremely easy to come off as a douche at the gym, even when you’re not. This is because very few people who are at the gym actually want to be, so they (and by “they” I mean “me”) spend their time there judging everyone who seems to be enjoying themselves/not having trouble. Thus enters the gum-chewer. If I am dying during Zumba and you are flying through the routine while still chomping your gum and barely sweating whatsoever, you are a douche. Plain and simple. You are also likely to be wearing shorts with “PINK” or “JUICY” across your butt. See # 3.

Oh, I’m sorry. I seem to have confused you for someone I don’t want to punch in the face.  Source

5. The Bored

Not to be confused with Pacers, who ought to be bored if they aren’t already, these are the people who come in with every iDevice available on the market, plus an e-reader, plus a hardcover book. Each are set up in its own little spot on the treadmill, where the Bored will walk for maybe 45 minutes. I can’t even justify bringing that much crap on a transcontinental flight.

Silicone frog fins: for when shaving your legs and chest just doesn’t alienate you enough

6. The Fake Fish

At health clubs with pools, you will find people who swim only with flippers and fins that make them go faster. Why? Just why? You’re not racing anyone. Again, I’m not a swimmer so maybe there’s some secret real usage for these that I’m not aware of, but they seem like the equivalent of running with shoes with springs in them. Sorry, but the more unnecessary equipment you use, the doucheyer you look.

And last but not least:

7. The Coerced

You can always tell the people at the gym who are there because their doctor ordered it and their spouse found out and made them go. They do everything to counteract the health benefits of exercising. At one gym I used to go to, there was a group of 350-pound men who would stake out the stationary cycles where they’d drink coffee and talk about football. Occasionally they would pedal. Occasionally.

That’s all I’ve got for now. I’m writing this on Thursday, which is my off day at the gym, and I’ve already thought far too much about it.

Do you have any pet peeves about exercising at the gym?

Snapshots of Chicago

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Today I miss Chicago.

I miss my apartment in Rogers Park at the corner of Sheridan and Pratt. The walls in the hallways of the building were purple and one time there was a guy passed out in the hallway in front of my door. I got mad at B who left first that morning for not warning me about him. I miss hearing Fresh Air for the first time in that apartment. There was an interview with John Waters about his Christmas album.

The first apartment

I miss eating Chicken McNuggets on the benches in Union Station while waiting for my Amtrack train to Memphis. I miss meeting B there at 8:40 in the morning when his train arrived. It was like a movie; we’d see each other from opposite ends of the great hall and then kind of pick up the pace to meet one another. Then we’d go to Lou Mitchell’s for breakfast and play footsy.

I miss the El. I would often take the Red Line from Loyola to the Chicago stop and then just walk up the Magnificent Mile to the Art Institute, which at that time was pay what you can. I felt classy getting off at Chicago because there were some colorful tiles on the walls of the subway. I loved the way the train slowed down and lurched around the Sheridan stop. I always felt like something must be wrong at first but there never really was, not there at least. I miss the heat lamps that you could turn on to stay warm on the platforms during the winter. They were awesome because they actually heated you up.

I miss Chinatown on my 22nd birthday. I have never felt so cold in my life. B and I took the train to Chinatown that Sunday. It was completely sunny with no cloud cover to lock any remaining heat in. It registered 2 degrees Fahrenheit but it was also very windy. We were the only people out and we ducked into each shop, all selling the exact same sets of chopsticks and bamboo plants. Then we ate at the Three Happiness Restaurant (or was it six?) That night we went home and ordered a pizza from Giordano’s because that seemed like the thing you were supposed to do in Chicago on your birthday.

I miss the Newberry Library book sale. I liked imagining where the books and tapes we bought came from. A bungalow in Hyde Park? A brownstone in Lincoln Park? We would each bring $30 in with us and leave with close to 45 books apiece. It wouldn’t matter if the books we bought ended up being crappy because we only spent like $0.60 on them anyway.

I miss brunch in Boys Town. And dinner in Andersonville. Once we had the same waiter at two completely separate restaurants on the opposite ends of town within the space of a week. He didn’t seem too impressed when I pointed out how coincidental this was and how amazing truffle fries are.

I miss the second apartment. When we saw it for the first time, the previous tenant who was still living there told us that it was a lucky apartment. Looking back, that seems like a pretty hokey thing to say but I didn’t think so at the time. It seemed 100% plausible that the place could be lucky. I moved in two weeks later.

The second apartment

I miss working in Evanston. I miss walking through the residential neighborhoods on Hinman to the restaurant where I worked. One time, I was walking on Hinman around 2:30 on Saturday. I walked passed a building with some condos. There was a couple lying on the front drive way, completely naked and doing The Do. It was one of the most bizarre things I have ever witnessed. I looked around to see if anyone else saw it. I was the only one around. I still kind of think it may have been a mirage or something.

I miss the restaurant culture. I never went to Alinea, but I knew enough people who had either worked there or eaten there that I felt like I pretty much got the gist of the place without having to spend my month’s salary to experience it myself.

I miss who I was when I lived in Chicago. I arrived a 21-year-old student who had never really lived on her own and I left a 26-year-old married woman eager to see the world. I love that city so much.

And I hate to admit it, but that Sufan Stevens song makes me tear up a little.

7 Ways Waiting Tables Prepared Me For Parenthood

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When I was in the final stages of my pregnancy with Wee Cee, I remember thinking that I hadn’t felt so tired since I had worked a swing shift on Mother’s Day at a restaurant in Chicago. Little did I know that I would be reliving some of the best and worst moments from my employment there once I pushed our bag of sugar from my loins. But I am grateful I waited tables prior to having a baby because the lessons I gleaned from schlepping around crates of wine and crumbing people’s tables have a lot more carryover into my current position as mom to a four-month-old than I could have guessed.

Here’s what I learned:

1. Always anticipate the next step. Waiting tables requires you to always be thinking about what someone will need next and providing it to them before they know it’s a need. Before you even bring them the salt lick they ordered, refill the water pitcher and have it standing by. Babies are the exact same. Not in their salt consumption. Eww. They are the exact same in that if you can think ahead a few steps, your day will be a lot easier and they will be a lot happier. The days Miss C cries the least are the days that I am most on my game about offering her what she needs before she even knows she wants it.

Of course, there are are days when anticipating all likely contingencies doesn’t make a difference at all. And on those days you remember…

The equivalent of being screamed at all day. To add insult to injury, the baby weight is what made you fat in the first place.

2. You just can’t make some people happy. Everyone has bad days, and sometimes those bad days coincide with a visit to your restaurant. There’s not a lot you can do to mitigate ornery customers, and you certainly shouldn’t take it personally when they treat you poorly. Babies are the ultimate tough customers. There are days when they wake up dead-set on hating the world. You do everything you can to make sure they have what they need, but you get no thanks whatsoever. By the end of the day, they will have essentially stiffed you of your tip when they insist on crying through the night rather than sleeping like they had the entire week before. But you learn to deal with it because the amazing moments you have with them make up for the days when they leave you $0.01 on a $150 bill.

3. Fall into a pattern. A couple weeks ago, it occurred to me that Wee Cee had, seemingly overnight, just gotten easier to deal with. The big trick of it was that it hadn’t happened overnight; it had happened over the course of weeks and months. She had gotten used to this whole living-outside-the-womb thing and created a pattern of life (with help from B and me, of course). Much like waiting tables, where the more you do it, the better you get at it, I had learned to read her cues and fallen into a predictable routine, which she thrives on. When you’re waiting tables, people know when you have no idea what you’re doing and get annoyed. Same same with babies.

Party of two

4. Put on a show. When I waited tables, I often had customers who were dying to engage me. They wanted to talk food, cut up with me, and form a bond with me over the two hour span I had them in my section. Although these kinds of tables for sure required more work, they were a million times more fun, not to mention better tippers. When I finally allowed myself to lose my self-consciousness around these perfect strangers and just have fun with them, my job became more rewarding. Kinda like singing “Baby Beluga” 900 times in a row. I may feel like an idiot doing it at first, but a baby’s happiness is extremely contagious. If you get a rise out of them by doing a ridiculous dance, you tend to keep doing it.

5. Just get dirty. If you’ve ever lived with someone who works in a restaurant, you know immediately when they’re home. They smell like BO mixed with onions and garlic with a dash of ammonia thrown in for good measure. It’s nasty, and it gets even worse on laundry day when they haul out all their work clothes and make a big soup of it in the washing machine. The nastiness of working in a restaurant was the only thing that could have prepared me for laundering cloth diapers and being spit up on while I’m in the middle of breastfeeding C. The latter is a special breed of vile. Having partially-curdled milk regurgitated upon your exposed boob and knowing that it will be hours (perhaps days?) before you get the chance to shower is the most humbling and disgusting feeling I’ve ever experienced. But the baby culture shock would have been worse had I never gone through full garbage cans trying to locate expensive cutlery I had accidentally tossed in and didn’t want taken out of my paycheck.

6. Don’t be a hater. Prior to working in a restaurant, I was never a jerky customer. Still, I had very little appreciation for the amount of hard work that goes into waiting tables, so the first time I went out after I had been working at Quince for awhile, I watched my servers with new admiration. Same with parenting. My life is now a list of “used to’s.” I used to think it was lame to put your baby’s picture as your profile pic on Facebook. I used to think parents had no real reason to bemoan their lack of sleep, as they basically brought it on themselves. Now I get it. I’m in the trenches, and it’s hard.

And last but not least:

7. Just fold it. I worked at a fancy-schmancy restaurant where we had to fold the napkins, Really fold them. I’m not talking about this:

I’m talking about this:

And if I hadn’t had the practice folding roughly 30,000 napkins when I worked there, I couldn’t stand a chance against folding pre-fold diapers.

I miss my times in the restaurant, but all I have to do now to relive them is look out on the porch at C’s diapers drying on the rack. Ever since B mentioned that they kind of look like chickens roasting on a rotisserie, that’s all I can see.

Oven roasted?

Wedding Grievances

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Get in my belly.

Just when I thought this year would pass by with no one getting married, one of our friends who we met in Korea got engaged. Whew. I was concerned that I may not have a chance to eat wedding cake until 2013. That is cause for panic.

As great as my own wedding to B was, going to other people’s weddings is always, always better. Your own wedding is almost more stressful than it is worth. People know this, and that’s why you get handed a ton of checks at the reception. You literally have to get paid to go through it all. That would also account for why the checks from married attendees are in $100 increments. They know.

First of all, very few people actually have the opportunity to eat on their wedding day, much less at the reception. My own wedding day was a big ol’ non-eating extravaganza. That morning, my mom and I went out for crepes and I had like two bites of mine because my time was better spent willing potential asteroids away from the Earth on my special day than focusing on breakfast. Later, my mom and my bridesmaids ordered a ton of barbecue from my favorite joint in Memphis for lunch, but I couldn’t choke it down. This really was a shame because if I had just spilled some sauce on my dress, I probably would have relaxed. After the ceremony, we were too busy greeting people at the reception to eat more than like one strawberry and a smashed up piece of cake. So yeah, food and your own wedding don’t mix.

Also, no matter how relaxed and go-with-the-flow you normally are, on your wedding day you are going to feel like you’re in the middle of your period. I have known people who actually got their periods hours before their weddings, and at least they had something to blame their hormonal insanity on. I had nothing but my impending nuptials. The sad thing is that it’s all the other mess that makes you dread the day, not your actual spouse. Way to go, priorities.

The minutiae that causes drama is infuriating. I would much rather be angry about something important that goes wrong than something that doesn’t even matter. How dare my cousin’s boss’s dog’s groomer have the audacity to be offended when she doesn’t get invited to my wedding and starts circulating rumors that I was the one who gave the dog fleas? I’d prefer to be mad about the flowers or the cake or something actually worth my time than this tomfoolery.

The protocol of having a wedding can also be a headache. We live in modern times where (at least in theory) you can wear what you want, pursue any career you choose regardless of your race or sex, and behave like a lunatic on the subway and most people will expect it and not even really mind. Our society gives us a lot of freedom and leeway to behave the way we choose. This is not the case on your wedding day. Weddings are stuck in olden times and things must be done in the exact same way that they are done at Buckingham Palace. For instance, people actually believe that the couple’s firstborn will emerge with three arms if the bride does not carry something blue or if the groom sees her before the ceremony. Nevermind that a woman on her third marriage will likely still wear white on her wedding day. White is tradition.

That look of happiness is due to relief that the wedding is over and now we can go on vacation.

The best moment of my wedding day was when B and I were pronounced man and wife. By the end of the day, I was starving, tired, and extremely ready to be removed from my binding dress. But I was his wife. All the punishment of the day was totally worth it.

Have nothing else going on? That’s fine. Now’s as good a time as ever to cry.

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So, lately we’ve been undergoing some growing pains.

Ever since we returned from our trip, Miss C has been cranky and just generally difficult. A quick consult with Dr. Google indicated that her orneriness is likely due to a growth spurt, which often occurs around three months. She was 15 weeks yesterday and her drama began last Monday.

All occasions offer fantastic opportunities for her to cry. Feeding time. Playtime. Car rides. Bath time. Oh, and bedtime. That’s when she really hits the ground running.

I knew that I was flirting with disaster by telling anyone who would listen that she had been sleeping through the night since she was seven weeks old. She would be out like a light at 9:15PM with very few exceptions, quietly dosing off around 8:55 with little help from me. Then she would make it all the way 7:30 or 8:00AM without a peep. That is no more. The witching hour now transpires around 8:15PM with her screaming like someone is pulling out her fingernails. Our old routine of rocking, jiggling, swaddling, and hushing now does very little to get her settled. It’s a *tad* frustrating. Last night she wasn’t out for good until 11:00PM. She slept until 8:15AM, which I admit is no small thing and will elicit a “so what the heck are you complaining about, woman?” from many people. But the trauma of a bedtime of sorrow kind of overshadows that.

Nowadays she cries when we’re not in her line of sight, holding her upright, looking at her, not singing a song, etc. She cries when she’s wet but she cries even harder when she’s being changed. Is it the cloth diapers we switched her to about a month ago? Are they uncomfortable? She cries when she’s hungry (understandable) but she cries when I try to nurse her because it’s too slow/ she has to at least partially recline, which nowadays she hates because she can’t see anything. She cries when we give her the bottle, too. Sigh.

The soundtrack to our life is sobbing. As with all this baby stuff, it will pass. But tell that to me when I’ve been holding her for three hours because whenever I set her down she screams at me. Tell that to me when I’m on the fifteenth round of Baby Beluga. Tell that to me when she finally takes a nap and I get in such a tizzy about how I’m going to allot the next 30-45 free minutes that I end up panicking and choose to watch Nyan Cat.

Sure, it’ll pass. But in the meantime I’m going to sulk. And put the coffee on.

A New Excuse to Watch Cartoons

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Playing on my IPad makes me feel like a boss. Nevermind that I don’t actually own it. B got it for work and he’ll have to return it to the State of North Carolina once he leaves his position. Will we be able to afford our own? Highly unlikely unless Miss C starts paying rent. Despite the lack of scruples of Chik-Fil-A, I don’t think they’ll hire her until she’s finished kindergarten.

But we are all so behind the curve when it comes with this one particular piece of equipment. Um, remember Penny from Inspector Gadget? Remember her “computer book”?

It’s an IPad. DIC Entertainment was the Leonardo DaVinci of the 1980s. Steve Jobs (rest your soul), eat your heart out.

Enjoy your weekend!

If any of my former students read this post, they will be mortified.

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For the past couple nights, B and I have been editing all the photos on our computer after Miss C is down for the night, so as to make room for the colossal influx of pictures that has occurred since she was born. This has forced us to go through all the film we took while we were in Korea. Life these days is a little different than it was back then:

Taken around 4AM after the consumption of several adult beverages

Obviously the above picture made the cut. Obviously. But we did far more in Korea than go to pubs at 3AM and pose for pics with rubber chickens. Most of the time we were hanging with the kiddos:

The day before we finally left Korea after two years. I had only just gotten over the jetlag.

Luckily, we also have a big box of notes and art that kids gave us that helps us remember those old days.

And today is sharing day!

Kids were always drawing pictures of me.

Art by Clara, age 7

We weren’t allowed to play Hangman because according to the parents, it was too brutal and violent, so instead we played Petal Drop. I’d like to know what word I’m spelling on the board. I’d also like to know why I’m apparently teaching a class of jack-in-the-boxes. The child in the right corner is perplexed as well.

Just to clarify, I haven’t worn a vest since I was in sixth grade, thank God. That is a scarf (or sling?) I am wearing in the picture.

Of all the things my student Leewon (age six) could have put in my conversation bubble, she chose ”Look at me, please.” Wow, way to make me look dictatorial. Perhaps if they don’t give me 100% of their attention, I will slap them with my wooden baton. Those four kids who aren’t looking at me have it coming. Hell hath no fury.

We often got letters from the kids. B got this one on Teacher’s Day:

B wants me to mention that he thinks that the idea behind that last line is that since teaching is a service rather than a item, it is technically “nothing.” Right. Michelle is just a young Korean Chelsea Handler.

I got this card from Joe on White Day (basically Valentine’s Day but specifically for women):

Judging by Joe’s own handwriting (he was seven), I take that compliment extremely seriously.

The older kids didn’t make stuff for us as often. They were too busy playing Starcraft in their spare time. Therefore, when Scarlett – a nine year old who had been learning English since she was four – showed me this booklet she had made just for fun, I had to trade her a book of stickers in order to get her to give it to me permanently. Have you ever wanted a handy instruction book on how to put on silly makeup? Here you go. You can thank me later.

This must be concealer for Smurfs. *Wink.*

Step four results in blindness, FYI.

I’ve never been to a real ball. My life is not complete.

Fainting very hard should be avoided by all means necessary.

And this, my friends, is why we teach.

 

 

 

 

 

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It seems that since I changed my web address, everyone is still subscribed but updates of new posts may not appear in your WordPress feed. Pooh. Well, it is a free service so I guess you get what you pay for. The best way I’ve found of fixing this is to unsubscribe and then resubscribe. Updates should then appear in your feed. Thanks for bearing with me through this small change!

Ten Things I Learned On Vacation

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1. It’s good to misplace your own antiperspirant among your bajillion pieces of luggage because then you get to use your husband’s Old Spice deodorant, which actually works.

2. Cracker Barrel is a great place to bring your three-month-old because the place is basically run entirely by grandmothers and aunts. Also, there will always be another child there who is louder and more poorly-behaved than yours. Fact.

3. Just when you’re ready to laud your Garmin as the miraculous culmination of all the technology that came before it, it will pronounce Whole Foods as “wa-hole foods.”

4. The relief you feel the moment you pull in to a Hampton Inn after an eleven hour car ride with an infant is comparable to the feeling Industrial Age children experienced when getting off of work from the coal mine.

Nothing says “business suite” at the Hampton Inn like this classy touch.

5. Many alternate lyrics to “If You’re Happy and You Know It” can be concocted while in the car with an infant. For example:

“If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.

If you can’t do that, just sit right there.

If that is still too difficult for your cognitive level,

Just blow spit bubbles and blink your eyes.”

6. The moment I take over driving for my husband, a hurricane will make landfall. This is the Murphy’s Law of roadtrip driving.

South of the Border, for all you fancy-schmancy people who need real roadside attractions

7. When you are on a budget, trips to rural gas stations can be substituted for pricier tourist attractions. We stopped at one BP in the boondocks of Florida that was run by three men, the youngest of which was roughly 85. They were smoking pipes and selling shriveled sweet potatoes at the front counter. I don’t think British Petroleum authorized their inventory.

8. No matter how many exciting activities you planned for the week, you will still hear a child say, “I’m bored.” And responding to this comment with a suggestion to do chores around the family’s rented beach cottage is never a sufficient response to said child.

Huzzah! Teenagers strike again!

9. Make sure you accumulate as much garbage as possible in your car. All those empty water bottles can surely be used for a craft project when you return home. When your spouse asks you if you were going to throw away the spoils from the baby’s latest diaper change, tell him that you were planning to keep it as a souvenir.

10. Always prepare yourself for the worst the instant you open the door to your home after a two week absence. That way, when all your stuff is still there and the place isn’t burnt to the ground, it’s an added bonus.

What the What?!

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I changed my URL! So as not to upset the feisty internet gods too much, the change is kinda small. We are still at WordPress, as we love WordPress.

I am a decent enough writer, but I am by no means technologically-savvy, so the jury’s still out on whether all my dear followers moved with me. If you’re reading this, then you made it. Hurrah!

Anyway, please update your bookmarks accordingly. Does anyone still use bookmarks? Hmmm.