it's official: i ain't martha stewart of femininity

hello all-

i am back from the heaven of tahoe. the lake that can make anyone complete. thanks for stopping by. this is written from the prompt, cleaning. and now i am back from vacation. maybe i'll clean my room. maybe. all my thanks always! enjoy!

Cleaning. I have never been good at cleaning. I spent more time trying to negotiate out of cleaning my room then actually cleaning it. It seemed to snowball in my teenage years when my life became a pitter patter of busyness and activities and sports and responsibilities and the socializing all more important than the actual business of the cleaning of the room. My father- I would tell him dad other girls are pregnant or doing drugs in my sad attempt at trying to get out of the cleaning of my room. Without skipping a beat of the drum of parenthood he threw back my way- I don't give a shit about them, get up there and clean your room.

Things haven't changed much. I will go on streaks when I try to actually put clean clothes away upon the exiting out of the dryer. There will be times I will dance with a cleaning once a week. But nothing sticks in this department. I am too busy. I have better things to do. Its sunny outside. I got to relax. Anything and everything to avoid it.

It surprises me. Because I do a good job of attacking most things head on the unmentionables of life that people hush about out loud or in their own inner dialogue the court reporter in their own very heads. But why not address this? My clothes always look clean and so do I even if I skip the shower too. I will never be the Martha Stewart of femininity-I would have failed as a cookie cutter of cleanliness as a 1950s housewife. But what about me that I can't face it. The clothes strewn about. The wrapper of a dark chocolate bar for before bed time. Receipts that provide a record of how I spend my time. Papers and more papers.

Cleaning. I am good at cleaning the soul. Cleaning what I should. Cleaning enough to squeak by. But maybe it is the spending the time on cleaning up myself and others that I just can't face the physicality of this task. I know most experts, those who specialize in clutter and hoarding and the such would tell me the room reflects my psyche. That it is cluttered and unmanageable and out of control. But I don't feel that way. I feel calmer than I have in years. My yoga mat being one of my clutter free zones. I should place in on my bed to zen me out. To begin the cleaning.

I really hate the loneliness of cleaning the room. But I don't mind the cleaning of the soul, yours and mine and others. Maybe we all get a speciality and mine has more to the organizing the hard questions and the lifting sometimes heavy and the folding of dreams and behaviors and dusting away the old to become someone new.

Today. Today I might have cleaned my room. My room. If I hadn't been on vacation. On vacation. From the cleaning. The cleaning I do. And the cleaning I still need to. You never really get a break from the working on yourself. And my work. My choice of work. Of the listening and moving and helping. The cleaning of humans but still letting the messiness of them survive while they do the heavy lifting for themselves. Sometimes you just need someone there to help you clean. I know I do.

trying on online dating for size

hello all,

thanks so much for your support and your kind words along this journey of writing. i am truly inspired and humbled by the ways you can connect with words. all my thanks, always. this is about me trying online dating on for size. i still haven't left the dressing room.

Trying it on for size. I decided to try it on for size. Not in the I want to buy it and wear it everyday kind of trying on. More like the tentative look at the item. This isn't really my style. I say inside my head. But it looks interesting. Maybe I should just try it on for size.

I decided to try it on for size. Online dating. It's been a week. It's not really my style. I am a more organic-not hippy variety-let things happen kind of lady. But after some deliberating and listening to others who have done it and the fact that the applicants I have seen too lately haven't been very promising. I decided to try it on for size. But before I stepped into the dressing room, before I got into the line to hand my clothes to the attendant, I decided it had to be for fun. It had to be for material. Writing. And if something came out of it great. And if nothing did. It had to be okay too. I am an anticipator kind of woman- I get expectations in my mind so before I tried on this new way of dating and interacting and the creating of the perception of what others would want to see of me. I paused. And when I walked inside the room to try it on. It was just me and the mirror.

I looked at the reflection as I wrote down words, not too many, some funny, others not, just enough not too many to go upon the screen of me. It is hard to know what to tell on this medium. It is so much easy to talk in person. And see another's face as you speak words. To know if they shake their head in unison with you or not. Then the pictures. Which pictures to choose? Fun ones of course. Unique. And of course I had to look good in them. Not the boring typical head shots. No cutting off a significant others arm. 3 I choose. One-when I am dancing and you can't see the details of my face (risky- maybe), one in a wonder woman outfit- top half only- in glasses and one in a tight dress that I found at forever 21 even though I am way past that.

And then the moment of truth when I stood in front of that mirror and pulled down the clothing past my head to see and send. And wait. Trying it on for size is letting me see what is next. And what will happen. Its putting something on that is new to take a risk and say what if I wore this. Out of this room. And surprisingly it was easy. There was attention, and ims, and ask out for dates and messages and it was fun on the rainy afternoon. I found myself laughing at comments or saying oh no out loud at looking at profiles. It was easier then I thought to stand in that mirror and try it on. But now what would be next.

Next. For all that attention. I haven’t made the next step of finalizing anything. Of seeing anyone beyond this room. For after I signed up on that day, I haven't had time, I haven't made time. There might be something about walking out of this room inside to the outside world in this new look to see what happens next which really scares me. Scares me in a way that I keep just looking in the mirror, turning different directions to find the perfect view.

the freedom in being a woman, so i thought. another judy blume moment, are you there god- it's me, kate

Freedom. The freedom I thought I would have in getting a period. I would be free from feeling different, free from the feeling that I was the last one standing in childhood among the budding femininity, free from the lack of breasts, free from the feeling I would be a child forever.

I was one of the last girls, last girls to start her period in my population of girlhood in junior high, Rohnert Park, CA. At least out of the ones who told the truth. I would listen to all the talks, the first one from my mother, then later in 5th grade, then in 7th. All the same. About cycles and what to use and expect. I remember looking in my mother’s face- thinking this is all very gross. But by the time I reached the age of 13 and almost all my friends had started. I wanted the drop of femininity. In 7th grade, I was shocked again but not because of the period talk but during the discussion of baby blockers, prophylactics, condoms, contraception- a girl in my class said it’s too late for me I have condoms under my bed. My mom found them. Me without a period. Me without a proper make out. Pretended not to looked shocked in these children becoming adults in ways I knew I wasn’t ready for.

But I wanted that period. Badly. But be careful what you wish for. On the day of school, 8th grade sometime after Christmas but not before my birthday not yet 14, I sat in the portable classroom while my teacher tried to teach us American Democracy. When I felt a wetness that just didn’t seem right. I didn’t know if it was my period. But I knew I needed to get to a bathroom and fast. There was the asking of the bathroom. Remember when we had to ask permission to pee- I don’t miss those days. And the long walk to the closest bathroom. Far away from this black top scattered with portable buildings of public schooling in California. I walked.

And once I found the proof I was a woman, I was woman, I was full of exacerbation because I didn’t have any womanly protection on me and I would have to do the dreaded, dreaded mammoth pad from the school office. First, there was the death of having to tell a grownup I didn’t know that I had my period. Part of my junior high life was on the line, I had to be strategic in who I asked and how. I wouldn’t want someone to hear. And then the box of mammoth grandma pillow pad was in my hands and before anyone could see it was shoved in a pocket-rather gracious fully-rather clumsily. It was hidden.

Starting your period at school the first time was not the freedom I had hoped for. The good news was my dad had remarried and I didn’t have to tell him. I couldn’t face my father and ask him to buy me pads. Freedom to be a woman already felt more limiting than I thought it would. So I tried to walk graciousfully while sitting on a huge pillow through the halls. I was a woman. I would get boobs. I would no longer be the last. I thought. Freedom to be a woman- little did I know that this freedom I had longed for would cause me more problems than I would like ruined pants, made playing sports not very fun, an ER visit, cramps so bad I would throw up, regularly. And the boobs I desired took multiple years to appear. The idea of freedom always seems to play out better than you think.

sin of liberalism #211: judging armpit hair in yoga

thanks to nancy for sending me this link to this wonderful uk commercial for a razor with trimmer. we need better commercials here- someone get on it!

Shame on you I think. Shame on you for the false advertising. When the woman next to me at yoga lifts her sweaty arm against her leg twisting in the standing pose and I am welcomed with a huge not small even masculinity worthy armpit of hair- the hair of the armpit- it is coming towards my face. I don’t care normally I don’t. But shame on her for false advertising. When I placed my mat next to her for a moment. For the moment of class. I saw a typical yogi in the sf-any city for that matter. She is white. Curly hair a top her head. Short tight spandex shorts. Tank top with the sports bra exposed just enough. And two nicely cleanly shaved legs, perfectly done. False advertising. I say. See why you would shave your legs and not your pits is beyond me. Completely beyond me.

See your legs are hard to shave. The shape and curve of a woman’s leg-I am sure a guys-are hard to maneuver without a nick or miss of spot of hair. I remember once a guy I dated told me I had bristles on my legs. Don’t girls shave everyday? No I said. Not every day. It’s not as simple as a face and a dude can get away with out shaving that at all. So I don’t know why you would spend such time on the legs and say screw the easy part- the pits.

Because shame on you. I think you should own it and have hairy legs so that I can know that in the preview of looking at you that armpit full of hair might be heading toward my face when we are in yoga while you have a good sweat abrewing. It is just common courtesy. To let me know. You are a card carrying liberal but sometimes say non pc things when in the solitude of your home. Or you eat non organic on sundays or something. I guess shame on me to judge someone else’s armpit hair. All I could think was- wonder what she had going on downstairs. Because of her false advertising of her legs and the puff of sweaty hair at my face. I wonder what she does for her womanly area. If I was a dude and found two nicely shaved legs and then happened upon the 1970s show I would be pissed.

Shame. I guess body hair makes us feel shameful and judgeful and everyone is full of advice of how and when to shape it and shave and get rid of it and to grow it. I get it. We don’t have to wear bras. We don’t have to shave. We don’t have to marry. We don’t need to procreate. We can work. We can play. Women’s liberation still might have limits. Limits I don’t want to know or say. Aloud. Or in my head quietly yelling.

As I shamefully judge the pit next to me. I wonder what is it really about. The smell, the shock, the false advertising, the uncertainty, the not fitting in the box, or me not getting why you would shave your long whitish curvy legs and forget those pits. It doesn’t matter why because I have done my own examination of my body hair. And how I keep it.

I am a terrible shaver. Of my legs. I still miss spots and cut myself it doesn’t matter if I am over 30. I shave my pits more often than not-my pits have never gotten bushy like my mr. rodgers friend of the moment. And for my danger triangle. It depends a lot on what I have going on in terms of extracurricular. If I have a regular visitor, I keep things trim and shaved my own little personal triangle of love. I have tried shaving it all but it just got itchy from the shaving- kind of a buzz kill past the first day. Red bumps all you’re your vag not cute. Plus I felt naked like a 12 year old. I have waxed but never the whole thing that includes in between the checks of my ass- it freaks me out to have a stranger up there under bright florescent lights- saying open up more- might be worse than the gyno. That is saying a lot. And this is an open call to those in the universe in charge of the waxer and gyno services- please serve a cocktail at both this affairs from now on-thanks.

I remember once a guy who I dated told me you should trim and I thought I had. Fucking pornos and girls who shave it all the time that makes it hell for my little bit. A little bit or a little bit more a travesty. See I believe if you are lucky enough to be there you shouldn’t complain. Not at all. Just enjoy the ride. Because we all have bigger worries than how to shave this and that. We just want someone who loves us either way. But know know if you have taken a vacay from the shaving, you will in fact find someone to bed. When you least expect it. It happens. Every time. Maybe I should stop shaving.

playing with fire: look bitch take off my acid washed jean jacket

Playing with fire. I play with fire regularly. Not the typical webster definition of the wood and oxygen and flames and sticks and air and heat and those things. No I play with fire. The type that can burn you more than just on your skin. The first and second and third types so deep so below the surface of the abyss of you that when you play- you play with fire- the risk is great. But somehow worth doing. Worth the risk of the burn again. I like to live on the edge or so I say. Mostly I push buttons. Mostly I say things I shouldn’t. Mostly I say too much. Mostly I am too honest. Mostly I am just playing with fire even if I don’t know it. Sometimes. But sometimes I know it and still do it. Say something that will make my heart beat or stop the pulse-the pace-the flow of the room but I still do it.

I started to think about when this started. It’s hard to say. It’s hard to remember when I thought it was fun to play with fire. I didn’t understand the boundaries, of child, or girl, or white, or woman, or working class or pretty or smart or any of the other titles I have been bestowed upon by birth, by social constructs, by my genetics, by so much that is not choice and so much that is. See it is hard to remember when I started playing with fire because I was an adult child. I was the negotiator between my parents as long as I could remember. Dad on one side Mom on the other and me in between. Always. I had honest conversations about my life-about who I wanted to live with and where and when before I was done with the 3rd grade. No child can answer these questions. I looked into the judge’s face, the therapist face, my own private lawyers face at 8, my aunts, my doctors face all saying the same thing I want to live with both my parents. All the faces the same. All the words the same.

It is hard to know boundaries of age if no one instills them in you. It is hard to know boundaries of gender if no one tells you women shouldn’t act this way. Because as much we pretend we have changed, progressed- a woman and what it means to be one fits perfectly in a neat little box on top of that shelf. Still it does. If you only smile and looked pretty life would be so much easier for you. I have heard more than once.

I play with fire. But I remember the first time I played with fire not with my family but with my peers. See my parents- divorced or not- together or not- my dad with or without a new girlfriend weren’t rolling in the dough. My dad started his job 3 months before my mother gave birth to me. He climbed telephone poles and climbed his way up without a degree or an almost degree to manage systems and the such. But we were poor. Not poor like starving poor. More like we had a Volkswagen before they were cool- two of them- and I would force my father to park down the street from school to drop me off as to not have anyone see my car. I didn’t realize I was being a shit. Then of course I didn’t. I was embarrassed of that car. And the roar of it. Dad please just drop me off at the corner. I never admitted why. I didn’t want to see his face, his hard working face, look at me with despair.

So when my parents- more like my dad and his girlfriend allowed me to get my first acid washed jean jacket-I was side pony tailed and gummy bracelet and legging out full of joy and beyond belief. I probably sang a rendition of my own personal Madonna in celebration. I wore that jacket- my coolest item- the coolest item- the item that anyone who was anyone was wearing. I wore it with pride like I once wore my green izzy kid outfit or the badges for most cookies sold as a girl scout. The pride I had for being cool. My father reminded me to put my name in it. Just in case he said. Just in case you lose it. I probably rolled my eyes at him. My green glass eyes, my mothers. Every time he looks at me he must remember. Or does he? He never says. I would be rolling my 9-year-old eyes as he provided me with his black sharpie from his toolbox or art supplies. For my father had all the answers. At one time I thought he did. Even though I played fire with so many things he did tell me.

I wore that jacket as if it was my pride and joy my second skin of acceptance in the 80s-I might have even popped that collar before I knew that was reserved for the preppies. And so I wore it for a week until until I lost it. Of course I lost it. I left it out at recess while I was running my skinny ass around playing something I am sure tetherball or handball or something with a ball. And after recess I returned to where I had thrown it on the ground and to my dismay. Gone. Nothing. Tons of jackets. Piled but mine was missing. There was only the pavement, hot from the afternoon sun, painted partially from the wear of playing.

Shit, shit, shit. I decided it was time to act. I asked my friends and classmates my teachers and anyone who would listen. I went to the lost and found until they told me don’t call us we will call you. I made reward posters. I posted them in the hope that it would return to me. Return it did. But only because I played with fire. After I posted the posters everyone at hahn school knew kate b. had lost her jean jacket. Her cool.

So when I saw that girl, that girl in my jacket at recess. I had no other choice than to. To take my 65 pound-4 foot-something self over and tell her- take off that jacket. She was older than me but I didn’t care. If I could redo it I would say look bitch take off my acid washed jean jacket. Now. Instead she bought time. Playing with fire practiced so I didn’t give up. Take off the jacket-it’s mine. I knew without a doubt that was the flesh and blood of cool, my cool. Look take it off and if it doesn’t say my name- it’s yours. We did the 4th v. 6th grade stare down. And eventually she saw the fire in my eyes and realized she shouldn’t play with a girl’s first love of the jean. She took it off and there there in the black sharpie eye rolled upon it was the words- kate b.

temporary lapse of feminist judgment- i was once a miller lite girl

Eating alone. I am eating my words of judgment, as I sit alone. By myself in this bar. See I was a feminist before I knew what feminism was. I choose to always study women who stood taller than they should. Susan B. Anthony. I ran to be the only girl in the mock elections in my 5th grade class in the Dukakis v. Bush (I) election. I wanted to be the first woman president.

I used to do things like play sports with the boys even when coaches or teachers said girls weren’t allowed to play. Play basketball in the gym with guys because girls never played when he wasn’t looking. So if he came in and I wasn’t playing I would fail this pe class. In my sophomore year. In my planned community. I took up the challenge. For no one told me no, not because I was a girl. Not now, not ever. I played my heart out as the only female on that court. Sweating and not caring just playing. And every time that teacher walked in his head turned down more quickly. I took the apology as easily as I took the challenge from him. He told me he was wrong, he was.

I got in fistfights with boys. I realized this helped out in my case because no bitches fucked with me. It was risky I realize this now. But two times I threw down over what I thought was justice. First a guy in freshman year started making fun of someone who was jewish. I got up and promptly slapped him across his face. In the middle of math class. We didn’t have a problem again until senior year and he yelled at me for not buying enough donuts for the senior picnic.

Later, I was donned with the nickname Tyson. After the ear biter/rapist/boxer/tattoo slurrer we call a boxer. Tyson was my name because I stood up against the injustice of a partial canning (when you literally put someone in a trash can) by a guy who was a year ahead of me in school. Canning was a type of flirtation of high school. I kicked my legs against the metal aluminum in the middle of the school quad of all the eyes on us. I got out of the trashcan. And saw all dots staring my way. I didn’t have any other choice. I swung my fist back and punched him square in the face. In front of the whole school. At lunch. Tyson they called me. I walked a little lighter.

See I was raised by my father so the limits of femininity were never mine. I never ate them. Consumed them. Threw them up as a bulimic. I didn’t starve myself beautiful. I didn’t squelch in fear that I couldn’t. A father raising a daughter is a sociological experiment and I am the researcher and the subject. See I had ideas about my mind v. my body and my looks. I always knew that my mind would always trump what was on the outside but it wasn’t until I left the black and whiteness of things. That I had to eat my words.

Poverty does that-makes your ideals and stances and soapboxes diminish. I didn’t strip, or pose or anything that would have been too much. But I was a miller lite girl once upon a time. For a few minutes of my life, for a few months. I don’t even drink such shitty beer even when I was poor. My snobbery of beer was mine even then. I ate my words every time I put on the whole black outfit. I put the real me-the qualities of wit and mind- somewhat on the shelf as to do my job. Everyone at each bar mostly guys were surprised I actually had a brain. Because miller lite models are idiots. Or so we thought. Women who use their bodies and faces to sell things are. I ate my words alone at the bar. I took the words in of claims for idiocy and stupidity and I swallowed my words when I ran into my former college classmate across the country where no one knew me. I wasn’t just a miller lite girl- I wanted to say. But I just ate my words. Alone. At. The. Bar.

psa from my heart to yours- please don’t offer me love advice until you introduce yourself

this week has been light because i am going on my 3rd and i think last getaway for the month and the summer. i am blogging from the oh my god i can't believe my view, i think i just pissed my pants of excitement in a beyond wonderful home in the tahoe keys. i have fallen in love with bloody mary's and seeing the lake upon me waking up.

here is my psa announcement to people who give love advice to strangers unsolicited. it was fourth of july and i was pissed. now i am not but the sentiment still lives on. it was written from the prompt i am love. have a great weekend and all my thanks for sharing in my trials and tribulations through this thing we call life. okay back to the beach. . .

I am love. I am love. Love to me to you is not entirely the same. I wish I could have said more elegantly piss off to the fat lady at the bbq. She conveniently over tanned with permanent lipstick too bright. See I want love like any lady or man and I have beat myself up in the game of why don’t relationships work for me in the long term. I have analyzed, I have therpaized, I have tried to make sense of it all. So when the fat lady at the bbq says why can’t you find someone? Well she yells across the bbq without even introducing herself interrupting a conversation. I wish I would have told her. Her some dieting advice. Because my “weakness” is being a spinster or a singleton but I don’t go around giving diet advice to fat people. No I let them be fat. Because let’s face it, it really is none of my business.

Do I tramp around the pool shaking my muscular ass and yoga-toned body and say I can eat whatever I like? No. Because I am love. I desire love like everyone but. But to be told. Why can’t you find someone? Do you try? Have you tried online dating or eharmony? Do you even want to get married? The spitfire of judgment- she doesn’t care about my answers. I just don’t fit into her world of perfectly matched couples. Throw my glass into her pool.

She stands now up from her perch. She has on sunglasses and white terry visor with a rather large terry cover-up to boot. She stands up and walks closer. Her boobs take up more real estate than her legs. One boob probably weighs as much as my calf and knee. She walks closer to tell me. You know the older you get it is harder to find someone. Coming closer with her cautionary tale of the fear of aloneness, a woman alone. Oh dear. Oh my. The travesty. Closer almost a whisper. Do you know once you are over thirty it goes does down and the chances are less and less?

I stare at this woman who didn’t bother to introduce herself in all her knowledge of 60 years spewing on a stranger. Next please I want to say. Instead- do you really want to tell me this statistics? Well I don’t know how old you are. I nabbed my husband at 19 and we got married before college was through. See this lady doesn’t know shit about finding love in the real world. Beyond the age of 19. There are some statistics I could slam her way like how lucky she made it- given that most marriages that start that young don’t anymore. I would have told her the higher the age of the first marriage, the more chance you might make it. I would have thrown in some stats on obesity and fat around the middle too.

I am love. I do want love. I was a leper for this lady. No success for me because I don’t have love, not in her eyes. But I do. I have. A stranger. A stranger spewing advice but hit at the core of my insecurity. Because I do want a partner and husband one day. I do want love. A love that lasts longer than I have. I do want children. And my fear is time might be running out for me. I know it’s irrational. But I have enough yells and screams in my own head about making the right choices in the love department I just don’t need to hear it from a judgmental bitch that hasn’t lived. My life. See it would have been like me giving her dieting advice unsolicited. It doesn’t matter what I have done, or did, or what I have accomplished I am zero without a man, a family. I want those things. One day. But a lifetime is a long time and I want to not settle for something just to have something. I would have done anything for a set of balls and a penis to avoid this abuse.

I am love. I do want love. But for now I a free agent. Trying on shoes before buying sometimes taking them out for a spin. I am love. I will find love. Love that will be more. More than this. More than that. With a man who would never speak to me in a condescending tone in front of strangers or alone or in silence. Contempt he will not have for me. So this is my psa keep your advice to yourself unless you are ready to hear some truth unloaded about your fat ass. I mean you do try don’t you to lose weight? I mean you do want to lose weight don’t you?

the price of pretty- one of the lessons learned in the OC

another ten minute quick write about my adventures while in the oc. . .

What I found there, there when I got on the plane, on the plane and arrived just an hour away, an hour away but a world away. Literally and figuratively. What I found there into the abyss of orange county-orange county the land of the privileged, the plastic, the hunter of perfection, the hunter for the next best thing. Uniqueness defined as the same. I found what I found there surprised me. It wasn’t an eating disorder or a plastic surgeon or a sugar daddy to care of me and my growing student loan debt. No what I found, what I found was although I don’t care to be like them because I do in fact like eating and reading books and the like the realness and suppleness of my breasts-slightly uneven-my butt-with a freckle on one cheek and part runner part woman-and my thighs-both a recipe of sports and heredity-and my hips- my womanly hips.

There might be genius, genius in the the stupidity that surrounds, surrounds me at the bars and the restaurants (all chains of course- no local make here), the lines of cars, cars all going the same way, in traffic again. Lines in the bathroom. Lines. Lines. Lines. Everywhere. Is that there might be genius in being good at just one thing, one thing only. Like being pretty, or being smart, or being funny. Maybe it’s too hard and too tiring to do it all. Maybe it is just too hard work to be pretty and smart and funny. Modern bride pretty girl so much easier than modern brilliant beautiful funny woman.

What I found there is much easier to be good at one thing. One thing by focusing on one thing on only your looks, only your looks you can be good at that and you don’t need the wit, the brilliance, because smiling and looking pretty will do. Just that easy. Easy, what I found is it is much harder, harder to do it all. To look pretty, say funny and smart and brilliant things. Things. What I found there surprised me because I got it. I got it. It is easy to buy it. Buy it. It is much harder to do it all. But do it all. I must do. Must do.

The overpriced label whore of clones, no they can’t put me in little boxes on that hill. I got it but I wouldn’t let the peroxide and the plastic get to my brain. My brain that would hurt me too much. Too much. Just like it hurt my neighbor at the bar to pay for her check or use, use her brain beyond her defined beauty. Defined beauty. Beauty defined meant something different to me. No one can buy beauty. Not the one I was looking for. What I found there wasn’t much at all.