Craigslist: "To the Woman who Crapped in my Car."

Thanks to my girl Carly for providing this phenomenal example of why yesterday's mortification is NOT THAT BAD. And she's right. Thanks be to God in Heaven that my story is not nearly as bad as this poor woman's (and just to clarify, my story has nothing to with shit).

This story is courtesy Portland's Craigslist under "men seeking women."

RE: To the woman that crapped in my car. (NE Portland)

We met on Craigslist so I am hoping that this post finds you. I know that it could quite possibly be the most humiliating first date that you have ever been on, but I am willing to look past that.

I thought we had chemistry sitting at McMenamins sharing that basket of Cajun Tots while drinking the Terminator Stout. I really felt like there was a connection there. I found you to be intelligent and witty and looked forward to further conversation with you.

At some point in life, everyone has gambled on a fart and lost. It just happened to be on a first date in the passenger seat of my car. Please don't feel bad. The package I sent you with Pepto the next day and the note that said "First dates are always a crap shoot. Call me" was meant to be funny, not offensive.

I have gambled on a fart and lost on multiple occasions. The first time I did it was very memorable. It happened when I was five and sitting on my uncle's lap. I am lactose intolerant, but love cheese. I probably win 95% of the time, but I don't think anyone wins 100% of the time. That's why they call it "gambling". I'm the last person to judge you for crapping your pants. In fact, I am impressed by your boldness. The timing on the other hand, could have been a tad bit better...like when you're not sitting on a heated leather seat...

What I am trying to say is that if you want to go out again, I would be more than happy to take you someplace=2 0where we can get a meal that is high in fiber and less taxing on the digestive tract.

I await your call,
Tad

P.S. - If you shat yourself on purpose to end the evening early.Touché.

This guy is a keeper. Lady, wherever you are, you are most definitely not reading my blog. But if you were, I would tell you to GO OUT WITH THIS GUY AGAIN!

"Mortified" doesn't even begin to cover it...

Something happened to me this morning that will leave a scar on my pride for the rest of my life. I am a different woman from here on out.

I can't tell you what happened. I won't write it. For those of you that see me on a regular basis, you know me well enough to know that I will happily tell you my "mortified"-doesn't-even-begin-to-cover-it embarrassing story face to face. But I won't post a permanent record of it online. Even I have limits.

I will say that it involved the new boyfriend and an early morning mishap.

The thing I take away from this experience (besides a bruise from the multiple palm to forehead hits I gave myself today and besides the tension in my back from cringing some many times from the memory) is that I have FABULOUS friends.

Friends that will answer their phone at 7:00 on a Thursday morning. Friends that will laugh at me. Friends that will tell me to get over it. Friends that agree it is the worst thing that could happen and friends that are willing to top my most embarrassing moment with stories that make me have to cross my legs so I don't pee myself from laughter.

I also have friends who point out that if the "fella" can handle this situation, he's a keeper for sure.

But we already knew that.

Anyway, in about a 60-chain gmail today discussing my most recent mortification, someone told me this story, and I couldn't be more grateful for it:

I can top it and make you feel better - during college I lived with a
roommate and my roommate lived with her boyfriend - get it - he was there
ALL THE TIME. One day I contracted the stomach flu - bad - in fact (you
are probably too young to remember), but back in the day Jack in the Box
was handing out free salmonella with their fries - and I got it. I lived
close to the UW and knew that the Quad's bathroom stalls - though they were
nice, were not going to provide enough - how can I say - privacy for what I
needed to do. I ran home, and it was all I could to do, to not (excuse me)
shit my pants. I ran through the door, had my pants down, sat down on the
toilet and exploded. Only then to look up and see my roommate and her
boyfriend in bed having sex - looking at me in the mirror. Worst part was
- I could not even get up to close the door!!!!! We lived through it -
never spoke about it and I was invited to be in her wedding, so do you feel
better now????

Yes. As a matter of fact, I feel 95% better.

My friends are gifts. GIFTS!

And hopefully one day my story from this morning will be a gift to someone else.

How To Know A Meguire, Part II

I said on Monday that "you can't say you know me well unless you're aware of three things." Not that you need the reminder, but the first thing you have to be aware of is that sometimes I freak.

The second thing you have to be aware of is that I often confuse uncommon phrases, names, and words as common phrases, names, and words. For example, in normal conversation I may throw in the saying, "he didn't know his ass from his elbow" thinking that this is a phrase everyone uses.

Turns out that is a phrase I grew up with (thanks to my dad). Most people have never heard it and often find it funny that I use the phrase freely without any explanation.

Another example would be when I used the phrase, "I wouldn't follow him into a flower field." I was talking to Carly and we were discussing a mutual acquaintance, saying how he seems very nice and innocent, but that we really didn’t think he was.

My point in saying, "I wouldn't follow him into a flower field" was that I wouldn't follow him even if it were to a completely harmless place. And what could be more harmless than a flower field? And while I'm sure there is a common phrase for conveying that message, I prefer to make up my own and then pass it off as commonplace understanding.

And finally, you can't say you know me unless you are aware that my tonsils swell to the size of golf balls anytime I get sick. Seriously.

Two golf balls in the back of my throat. My closest friends can hear it in my voice and see it in my swallow. It's disgusting.

Last year I had strep throat four times (not to mention the other two trips to the doctor for swollen tonsils that turned out NOT to be strep). According to my doctor, I need to have strep five or six times before we consider taking my tonsils out. We had this discussion in December.

When I went into his office last week, he decided it was time to refer me to an Infectious Diseases Specialist… telling me I win the award for the most disgusting throat he's seen.

Well thank you, sir. That reminds me of the time I had mono freshman year of college and scared the nurse out of the room because she was afraid to swab my throat. When the doctor came in, she told me, in my feverish state, that I had scared her nurse half to death.

And she only had to LOOK at them.

Try having them in the back of your throat and trying to pass food by them. It's like sandpaper on an open wound.

YUM.

So I call the office my doctor referred me to and I say this:

"Hi there. My doctor referred me to Dr. Myint's office and I need to set up a consultation appointment."

The receptionist then says, "Um. Okay. Hold on a minute. What is this regarding?"

And I say, "A possible tonsils removal."

The receptionist: "Woah. Well wait a minute. I mean, do you even have an infectious disease???" (And yes, she said it as if there were three question marks on the end of her sentence.)

And after taking the phone away from my ear and looking at it like it had just given a Wet Willie, I say, " Well, obbbviously I have an infectious disease."

And then I thought about adding, "Plus I thought it might be fun to come talk to someone about slicing up my golf-ball-sized tonsils and missing a week of work because of it."

But I didn't.

So then the receptionist realizes that maybe she's been a little out of line and we talk about booking an appointment. She finds the next opening and we get down to the personal details so she can book me.

"When is your birthday?" she asks.

"August 16, 1985."

"Awwww, giiiiirl. I should have known you was a Leo. Shoooot! All that attitude you were throwing at me. I got it too, girl. Mmm hmm. You know I got it. I'm a Leo too."

And I assume she's referring to my "Obbbviously…" comment.

By the time we hung up the phone we were fast friends. I look forward to meeting her on February 25 when I go see Dr. Myint to discuss the removal of my golf balls. I hope he has fresh breath.

How To Know A Meguire

You can't say you know me well unless you're aware of three things:

1.) I sometimes FREAK. And when I say freak, I mean freak the freak out. And it's usually just escalated venting. I'm usually pissed or irritated about something to the point that I just blow my top. Healthy? No. Definitely not. Is it rare? Yes. Fairly rare. It maybe happens two or three times a year.

I think the most memorable freak was when I was living with Anthony and Steve in the Ballard house. It was my senior year of college and I was in the middle of a six-month-long internship from hell (the very internship that made me realize I'd rather sever my right hand before working in the magazine industry).

Anyway, I got a call from my Managing Editor. And while I don't usually use this label in complete seriousness, she was about 98% bitch.

I drove downtown after 4 hours of class that day. On the agenda? Reading through stacks and stacks of either (exaggerated) stories or fact-check listings. You know, provide two sources that confirm the address is 123 Main Street and the website is www.ihatemyinternship.com.

There must have been something going on along the waterfront that day, some big event, because there was literally no parking. Nothing. I drove around for half an hour and couldn't find a thing. And I'm a pretty good parking-spot-finder. Sometimes I even make my own. Successfully.

And did I mention that I was putting in 20 hours a week at this UNPAID internship that I HATED? And did I mention that my hatred seeped up through the pores on my face? I have never had skin like the skin I had while working (or should we say volunteering?) at this place.

So I call my editor to see what I should do. She doesn't answer. Nor does she call me back. So I go home. I'm not going to waist another quarter tank of gas looking for parking so I can go not be paid to do something I hate. Plus I had planned to make up the hours later in the week.

But of course, I get a call from her later that night, around 6:00. After lecturing me about my work ethic and how the "no parking" excuse was completely unacceptable, she insults my intelligence and my four years of working as a waitress by asking me if I'd "ever worked a real job." She was manipulative, condescending, and 100% bitch.

I told her that yes, as a matter of a fact I've had a job since I was 13 and that, yes, I agree it was a poor decision to not come to work due to parking. I told her it wouldn't happen again and that I would be in early the next day. I hung up my phone.

AND EXPLODED.

Carly and Krissy were over that night... I think we had planned to watch The Office or something... and I LIT INTO THEM. Lit like a Banshee with her hair on fire. My entire face turned red and I was screaming... spit flying... arms flailing like the arms on those massive blow-up figures you see at car dealerships... veins in my neck & forehead popping... screaming "OH MY GOSH" and "WHAT A BITCH" and "WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS" and "SHE CAN'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT" and "I'M QUITTING" at the top of my lungs. I think the people working down the street at Taco Bell heard me. Not to mention the little kiddles next door.

Not the mention Anthony, upstairs in his room, listening to me call this women almost every horrible name in the Urban Dictionary, praying that I would contain my freak to the middle floor of the house. I wouldn't be surprised if he put his chair in front of the door.

Although that probably wouldn't have helped. The amount of adrenaline running through me was enough to lift a car.

And Krissy and Carly, being the friends that they are, sat there. Watched me. Batting their eyes in disbelief (but not surprise), wiping the spit flecks off their faces. And when it was over, they agreed that yes, what a bitch. Now let's watch The Office.

They know me. Knew me at the time. They knew two crucial things about the freak:
1.) I was not yelling at them. I was just yelling because I couldn't not yell. Although I was one crazed lady screaming at them at the top of my lungs, they knew I was just mad, and not mad at them.
2.) They knew it would be over soon. They knew I just had to say my piece, LOUDLY, and that then I would calm down quite quickly, move on, and laugh at whatever Michael was doing on The Office.

And I feel I should tell you: I did not quit the internship. I made up the hours. Kept my mouth shut. And sweated through three more months of fact checking.

Although I did consider hiding poop somewhere in my Managing Editor's office. Preferable somewhere near the heating vent.

And now, two years later, I can say that not going to "work" because you can't find a parking spot is NOT valid. And had I respected the publication, had I felt respected in that office, had I not had a face covered in zits and a condescending editor in my ear, I may have made a better decision.

But live and learn, yes?

I know I said at the beginning of this post that you can't say you know me unless you're aware of three things. And I spent a little more time on number one than I thought I would, so I'll get to the other two tomorrow.

Thanks for reading. I'll try to never freak on you.

And to my dear friend Holly, who says she's had writer's block lately... try a "How to Know a Holly" (it even sounds good!) post. It may bring up some freakish memories... it did for me.

Kiss (Extended Version)

Pandora loves me. And I love Pandora.

I've been listening to Michael Jackson radio the last two days in preparation for the Michael Jackson vs Prince DJ-Off I will be attending tonight at Nectar.

And Pandora, knowing me so well, played "Kiss" by Prince twice. One was the extended version.

And really, who wouldn't like an extended kiss?

Now, the only question that remains is whether I wear a purple buttless suit tonight or cropped black pants with white socks and a red leather jacket?

Decisions, decisions.

I'll leave you w/ one of my most favorite Michael songs.

What a bad ass. I may have to name my first born Diana.

Coffee in the Kitchen

As mentioned in previous posts, my desk at the office is the first desk off the main kitchen area. Considering how much I love food, this isn't normally a problem. I don't mind smelling what people heat up for lunch because the wafting smells of chicken and rice, burritos, lean cuisines, and hot pockets only last about an hour... from 11:30 to 12:30. And it honestly doesn't bother me. Mainly because I'm the cause of the said wafting at around 12:15.

Especially lately because I've been really good at bringing my lunch (trying to save, save, save).

But I have noticed a pattern. And it's more of a morning pattern than an afternoon pattern.

I need coffee. Every morning. Especially on Mondays and Thursdays. I need coffee on Mondays for the obvious reason: it's the first day of the week and the thought of five work days until the weekend is depressing. I need coffee on Thursdays because I'm alllmost there. I'm alllmost to the weekend, but not quite. So I need the extra umph in the form of ground beans, water, and cream.

But, having a desk right off the kitchen means I almost always know who is in the kitchen before I step around the confines of my cube.

Now, no one I know (including myself) would tell you that I'm an avoider. I generally like people and I generally like the people I work with.

But my pre-caffeinated being shrinks away from any and all social interaction until after 9:15... an hour or so after I've arrived at the office.

So today, for example, I've been avoiding the kitchen coffee run because every time I am ready to get up and take the four steps to a cup of brewing goodness, I hear someone in there that I really, truly, do not want to see.

And although I'm not an avoider, I'm a pretty good faker. If I were to say, meander into the kitchen around noon and run into those awkward co-workers that you know but that you don't really know, and if they were to say, "Oh hey Meguire, how are you?" My reply would be a polite and energetic, "Oh I'm good, thanks! How are you? Are you gearing up for busy season?" And then I'd smile and make good eye contact and all that stuff that says, "yes, I'm genuinely interested in what your baby had to eat for breakfast this morning."

But that politeness and energy, that ability to reciprocate pleasantries, it doesn't kick in until after 9:15. After my coffee.

So that is why right now, at 9:15, I'm still sitting behind my desk, waiting for an empty kitchen so I can just get up, get my coffee, and get back to work.

Wait... I think I hear my opening... wish me luck...

Begin Again the Work of Remaking America

We officially have a new president. New in too many ways to count.

I can't express how grateful I am that I can not only witness this day, but that I also witness this day at the young age of 23. This day has the potential to shape the rest of my life. This day marks the type of change, leadership, and hope my generation craves.

Barack Obama, good luck. You've walked into a pile of shit and it's your job to convert that shit into fertilizer and grow us a new, prosperous garden. I, for one, believe in you.

Here are a few of my favorites excerpts from the 44th Inaugural Address:

"Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents…

Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet...

Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America — they will be met.

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness…

Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began. Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year. Our capacity remains undiminished. But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions — that time has surely passed. Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America…

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions — who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage…

Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control — and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous. The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our Gross Domestic Product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on the ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart — not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good…

Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with sturdy alliances and enduring convictions. They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint…

With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations."

You can read the whole speech here or watch it here.

Dirty Doggy-Doors and PLCs.

We all have our own "reevaluate stories." Stories that usually consist of an event in our lives where we have one moment of clarity. One moment of "what the hell was I thinking?" One moment of recognition that we may need to take a little time to reevaluate our lives. We've made a PLC, a poor life choice.

I think college is full of these stories. And had I been blogging at the time, I may remember more of them.

But just the other day I had one such moment. And it came at the most unexpected time… especially considering I've been out of college for a year and half and the "reevaluate" moments are dropping off a bit. Thank God.

But, like I said, just the other day I found myself pausing, shaking my head, saying out loud to myself, "what are you thinking?"

I was half way through our doggy-door at the time.

Yes. Doggy-door. The kind that have the swinging rubber flap. Meant for dogs, not humans.

Let me explain.

I had gone over to my parents' house on the weekend to do some laundry and hang out with them, Penny, and their cable TV (I currently do not have cable in my apartment… which is jaw-droppingly unbelievable to The New Guy… but that's another entry).

So I pull up to my parents' house around 10:30 in the morning and discover no one is home. The leash is missing from the porch hook, so I figure they have taken the dog for a walk. It's a sunny day in Seattle, so I figure they could be out for a while.

All the doors are locked.

As they should be.

And I don't have a key anymore because after my sister lost her key to our parents' house, my mom developed a liability clause that said anyone who has a key and looses it is responsible for replacing all locks on the house. I didn’t want to carry around that kind of pressure on my key chain, so I relinquished my key privileges.

Anyway, I'm standing on our back porch looking at the locked door and I realize I have two options: take a couple minutes to retrieve the hide-a-key, or see if I can fit through the doggy-door.

And considering that finding the hide-a-key would involve me walking an extra 24 steps (12 to retrieve it, 12 to return it), I decided on the doggie door option.

So I walk around the back of the house, go down the stairs to our basement door, and give the doggy-door a kick to make sure my mom hasn't put the shield in – the shield the doggy-door makers include with the doggy-door to keep burglars and lazy-ass daughters at bay.

The shield is not in. So now the question is, can I FIT through the door?

So I get down on my hands and knees, shove my left arm through the door, followed by my head, kind of moving in a "S" formation.

And keep in mind that this doggy-door has been around for a few years… with one side facing the outside… meaning it's not exactly the cleanest thing. And probably not something I want on my freshly washed hair. But, whatever.

So my left arm is through up to my armpit, and so is my head. I soon discover that entering the house through the doggy-door is not as easy as I thought it would be.

My shoulders are too wide to fit through the actual opening… so I twist counter clockwise and maneuver each shoulder through one at a time… forcing the right shoulder (the one on top) a little too much, leaving a rug-burn looking scratch on the part of my arm that would be my tricep (if I worked out).

But hey, I'm half way done because my shoulders and head are successfully through the doggy-door.

So now, I'm halfway inside my parents' house, still on all fours, cut off at the waist. The front two "fours" are inside on the hardwoods, and the back two "fours" are still outside. My hips are about six inches higher than my head. Not exactly comfortable.

Meanwhile, the dirty rubber flap is resting at the base of my neck and back and I'm just hoping there is not poop or something equally nasty on it.

Next is the hips. Probably the widest part of my body. And this is where the trouble starts. Because I CANNOT get my hips through the opening. I try twisting. I try approaching it at a diagonal angle. And just as I'm sitting there thinking of another way to try and get my hips through the doggy-door, I realize something:

I'm on all fours, half inside, half outside, stuck in the middle of a doggy-door, and WHY THE HELL did I not just go get the hide-a-key? Am I really so lazy that I would rather shove myself through a 12x16 inch opening then walk an extra 24 steps to get a damned key. This is a PLC. For sure. It's time to reevaluate.

But for now, I'm stuck. And I need to get unstuck. On the last try I did get my hips through… but I lost a belt loop and my jeans now have dirt stains and who-knows-what-else stains on them. My face is red because I turn red anytime I exert myself or get stressed and I look as though I've just been mowing the lawn for thirty minutes.

So I'm inside at last, laying on my back on the hardwood floors trying to catch my breath, and I hear the porch door unlock.

My parents are back from walking the dog.

My mom looks downstairs at me and says, "What are you doing?"

And I really don't have the heart to tell her that her youngest daughter just spent the last 15 minutes trying to get through the doggy-door because she didn't want to walk to find the hide-a-key.

So I say, "Nothing."

And she's heard this answer so many times from me and my sisters that she raises her eyebrows, cocks her head as if to say, "did I raise you this way?" grins, and walks away.

Good-For-Something Memories

Memory can be a tricky thing. It sticks with you when you wish it would go away. Or sometimes it's just out of grasp… you know it's there but you can't find it. And sometimes I'll know I want to remember something – I'll be in the moment and think to myself, "remember this," only to find that the next day, all I remember is telling myself to remember something.

I think the gift (or curse) of memory is one major thing that sets us apart as humans. As much as I would like to think that Penny, our aging family boxer dog, remembers the time she stole my lunch-time peanut butter sandwich off the counter, I don't think she does. As much as I would like to think that she remembers her brother, Ralph, and the 9 years she lived with him, I don't think she can.

She recognizes, of course. She "remembers" who I am, who my sisters are, and greets us with a stubby-tail wag and old-lady breath when we walk through the door.

But recognition is not the same as remembering. I think the remembering is what makes us who we are. I think that much of our identity comes from our memories.

So while I wish I could forget that time I was verbally assaulted by the fat old Greek guy I used to work for at my first waitressing job in college, and while I wish I could forget all the memories that started with, "I knew he was a bad idea…", while I wish I could forget a nose bleed on someone else's white sheets, that one time my mouth farted at work, and cubic zirconium barretts, I can't.

It's funny the memories that stick with you. And evade you.

I wish I could remember my houses more, the ones I lived in while growing up. I wish I could remember my mom as a young mother. I wish I could remember the kids I used to play kick-the-can with on Whittier Road in Grosse Pointe. And I wish I could remember my first day of college.

But most of all, I'm scared that I won't remember. I'm scared that one day all my memories, even the bad ones, will be just out of reach.

So, that is why I continue the blog. No matter how insignificant, stupid, or embarrassing my memories are, I want to remember them. I want to look back and remember who I was at 23. 33. 43.

So it's selfish really, that I'm not trying to do anything but preserve memories. And it's crazy that I ask my family, friends, and even a few strangers to read my memories.

But I've always been a fan of honesty. And transparency. And my memories are who I am… take them or leave them.

The same thing goes for my blog posts.

My hope is that people will enjoy reading my memories. Or at least appreciate them for what they are. I make no promises of great writing. I make no promises of enlightenment.

I can almost promise that I will post things that I wish I could forget. And can almost promise that I will post things I shouldn't, including things that will piss people off or greatly embarrass my family.

But the bottom line is that I am that girl that had seventeen spoons in the bottom of her sink. And I'd like to remember that… so that one day when my daughter calls me crying about how she's going to live alone forever, I can pull up my good-for-nothing blog and make it good for something.

So, thanks to all of you who read my blog regularly. The phrase, "I read your blog today…" is one of the greatest compliments I'll ever receive.

I hope you enjoy the new design. I couldn't have done it without Katie Tringali, Owen Robinson, and Sarah MacKay. They are geniuses who dealt with my countless e-mails and requests, and who did all of it without asking for anything in return.

Under Construction...

Hi Guys - If you've stumbled across my new page... GET EXCITED! It's a work in progress at the moment... and without the help of three VERY SMART PEOPLE, I would never have been able to get this far. I'm still tweaking stuff (hence the lack of posting) but will post an entry by the end of the week introducing Seventeen Spoons.

Thanks for checking in -- Can't wait for you to see the final result!