You have GOT to see this:
Mo' Money Taxes
Be sure to watch the whole video - it'll pop up automatically. Seriously, you won't believe it. Be sure to stay tuned until you see the shot of the Bootylicious girl leaning provocatively on the hood of a car. The redneck Boss-Hogg types are pretty funny, too. I won't get started on reverse discrimination and political correctness, except to say that this is beyond the pale. But then, IDGAF.
I think, in addition to getting your taxes done in 30 seconds, you can buy a car with your refund. When I clicked on Other Services (I shudder to think) and Locations, they went nowhere. I suppose the website is still under development. I was curious as to whether this is a Memphis-based business. It must be. Where else? I remember doing a double-take the first time I saw one of their storefront signs. Wow.
You just have to laugh. Out loud. Rolling on the Floor. What's that acronym? ROFLMAO? Maybe SMHWMMHO would be more like it. Shaking My Head With My Mouth Hanging Open...
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Learning New Things
Darnit, if all that Law & Order Middle-of-the-Night-Marathon watching didn't help me understand some basic things for yesterday jury stint. The judge made a point of telling us that these sorts of shows are not real. They're just drama. As if...
At some point, I realized that I didn't know the difference in a crime, a misdemeanor and a felony. I remembered the name of a Woody Allen film called Crimes and Misdemeanors. But I don't think that would be a good source of legal knowledge. Besides, it varies from state to state, and I have a feeling Woody didn't film that in Tennessee. And besides, I never watched it.
So, after a little Googling, I figured out that the two main categories are felonies and misdemeanors. It has to do with the severity of the offense. I'm not sure who makes that decision - the prosecutors, I suppose. They key, though, is that a felony is punishable by a sentence of a least one year, and a misdemeanor, not more than 11 months and 29 days. Now I know. I think crime is a general term that encompasses both.
That's neither here nor there, though. I've been trying to figure out which side rejected me. I have a feeling it was the defense, given The D's career in law enforcement. One of my dream jobs is to be a jury consultant. If I had been consulted about this defendant, I would have told him not to wear a black shirt with a white satin tie. It shouted "Mobster." But I don't think we have those in Memphis. Pimp, maybe? Oh, well. I figure it must've had to do with domestic violence since they asked lots of questions about that. If I'd been the lady whose daughter had roughed up her BF and then married him, I'd have asked to speak the the judge privately, too.
At first, when judge asked if us if we, or any of our immediate families, had ever been involved in any way in a crime no hands were raised. He seemed surprised. He must've doubted that was true. I think we were just all shy. Sooo, when he asked again, it was one big confession. People were telling about their parents' houses being burgled back in the 70's. They would stammer and try to estimate how many years. I wanted to shout, "Just hurry up and pick a decade!" Or the fact that my wallet was stolen out of my hotel room back before identity theft was cool. But each little anecdote triggered more. Finally, we finished, which is when I approached the bench about EV and one other little matter.
Oh, on the subject of Too Much Information. One of the questions was whether we, or our family members, had ever worked in law enforcement. I wasn't sure being in Military Police in the Air Force counted, but the judge said it did and asked some probing Daddler questions. I have to admit, I was proud of The D at that moment. That triggered a spate of stories about sons and nephews and second cousins once removed who were serving in the military. I know they were proud, too. Finally, the judge explained that he didn't care about military service unless it had been as MP.
Oh, I forgot to tell about the lady who had two sons who'd gotten in trouble for something at some point long, long ago. When asked when that happened, she said she was 56 and her son was 34 now, so it must've been...ummm... Finally, the judge did the math. Like he did when I didn't know how many years ago I'd gotten my CPA license, but I knew the year. He did the math. 25 years, he said. I said, "Gee, thanks." I used a slightly sarcastic tone, because that made me sound kinda old, and I had not volunteered my age. I also explained that I couldn't do math. That was the only laugh of the day. But people were desperate for a little levity.
And actually, even though I was disappointed that I didn't get chosen, I was relieved to finally be able to go to the ladies' room. I wish I'd thought to ask about a bathroom break during my little sidebar. I'm sure I wasn't the only one squirming in my seat.
Well, I think I've exhausted this subject. I'd be doing laundry and dishes and assorted other chores, but they involve the sewer drain, so that's a good excuse. Hopefully, Public Works will get here before the housekeeper comes tomorrow.
Over and out...
At some point, I realized that I didn't know the difference in a crime, a misdemeanor and a felony. I remembered the name of a Woody Allen film called Crimes and Misdemeanors. But I don't think that would be a good source of legal knowledge. Besides, it varies from state to state, and I have a feeling Woody didn't film that in Tennessee. And besides, I never watched it.
So, after a little Googling, I figured out that the two main categories are felonies and misdemeanors. It has to do with the severity of the offense. I'm not sure who makes that decision - the prosecutors, I suppose. They key, though, is that a felony is punishable by a sentence of a least one year, and a misdemeanor, not more than 11 months and 29 days. Now I know. I think crime is a general term that encompasses both.
That's neither here nor there, though. I've been trying to figure out which side rejected me. I have a feeling it was the defense, given The D's career in law enforcement. One of my dream jobs is to be a jury consultant. If I had been consulted about this defendant, I would have told him not to wear a black shirt with a white satin tie. It shouted "Mobster." But I don't think we have those in Memphis. Pimp, maybe? Oh, well. I figure it must've had to do with domestic violence since they asked lots of questions about that. If I'd been the lady whose daughter had roughed up her BF and then married him, I'd have asked to speak the the judge privately, too.
At first, when judge asked if us if we, or any of our immediate families, had ever been involved in any way in a crime no hands were raised. He seemed surprised. He must've doubted that was true. I think we were just all shy. Sooo, when he asked again, it was one big confession. People were telling about their parents' houses being burgled back in the 70's. They would stammer and try to estimate how many years. I wanted to shout, "Just hurry up and pick a decade!" Or the fact that my wallet was stolen out of my hotel room back before identity theft was cool. But each little anecdote triggered more. Finally, we finished, which is when I approached the bench about EV and one other little matter.
Oh, on the subject of Too Much Information. One of the questions was whether we, or our family members, had ever worked in law enforcement. I wasn't sure being in Military Police in the Air Force counted, but the judge said it did and asked some probing Daddler questions. I have to admit, I was proud of The D at that moment. That triggered a spate of stories about sons and nephews and second cousins once removed who were serving in the military. I know they were proud, too. Finally, the judge explained that he didn't care about military service unless it had been as MP.
Oh, I forgot to tell about the lady who had two sons who'd gotten in trouble for something at some point long, long ago. When asked when that happened, she said she was 56 and her son was 34 now, so it must've been...ummm... Finally, the judge did the math. Like he did when I didn't know how many years ago I'd gotten my CPA license, but I knew the year. He did the math. 25 years, he said. I said, "Gee, thanks." I used a slightly sarcastic tone, because that made me sound kinda old, and I had not volunteered my age. I also explained that I couldn't do math. That was the only laugh of the day. But people were desperate for a little levity.
And actually, even though I was disappointed that I didn't get chosen, I was relieved to finally be able to go to the ladies' room. I wish I'd thought to ask about a bathroom break during my little sidebar. I'm sure I wasn't the only one squirming in my seat.
Well, I think I've exhausted this subject. I'd be doing laundry and dishes and assorted other chores, but they involve the sewer drain, so that's a good excuse. Hopefully, Public Works will get here before the housekeeper comes tomorrow.
Over and out...
Monday, January 23, 2012
Civic Duty, Part II
The Jury Coordinators showed us a film. About how important we were. When I went to get coffee, I realized that the people in the back couldn't hear a thing over the buzz of the ice machine. I wasn't sure why there was an ice machine since there weren't any cokes or fruit or pate or smoked salmon. Not even cream cheese or mayo. But I'm not complainin'.
They had little packets of chicken broth and hot chocolate. Swiss Miss, mind you. Not some generic crap. Don't you hate how they try to make the generic stuff sound like the real deal? Like, instead of Swiss Miss, they call it Bliss Kiss Chocolate Flavored Liquid Beverage Substitute. And they make the packaging eerily similar to S.M.
It's actually very clever. Take a trip to your local Sav-A-Little and see what I mean. I've learned to be less of a brand snob, but when it comes to salsa and cola, I refuse to compromise. Off-brand salsa tastes like ketchup with tabasco and anything other than Coca-Cola tastes like crap. Give me club soda with Vivarin and I'm better off.
I should go. I'm still contemplating why I was rejected. Was it because The D was in Military Police in the Air Force for 20 years? Or because I emulated Angie Dickenson in Police Woman with his 38? Or because I'd been a victim of domestic violence when my Emotional Vampire former sister choked me. The judge (in our little sidebar with the three, very serious prosecutors and the cool looking, swoopie-haired-wet-behind-the-ears public defender, plus the court reporters) rephrased my diagnosis of psycho as "having issues." I said, "To put it mildly. She has Narcissistic Personality Disorder." At which point, I think they decided I was a loose cannon. And I'm sure cannons are as bad or worse than a semi-automatic, which the defendent was alledged to have possessed.
I only brought up the domestic violence thing because he asked that question pointedly. And I did NOT want to be held in contempt. I was discreet and asked to speak in private. Because I didn't want to air my dirty laundry, on the microphone, in front of the whole courtroom. Besides, I was feeling insecure after walking around with my zipper undone.
There's so much more to tell. I'll just say this. I only made it two-thirds way through my brand new Oprah magazine before the judge gave me the boot. I didn't even get lunch. I'm done for at least ten years.
I'm going to set my email on auto-reply to say I'm in Federal Jury Duty. Head to the Coast. Oh, just remembered my friend L is going to Mexico this week. Ixnay on that idea. Maybe my vacant rental house. Where I can take a hot bath without sewage backing up into my yard. Order Chinese. Ask a neighbor to give me the password to their wireless router so I can play Words With Friends.
It would be easier, though, to stick a chicken pot pie in the microwave for The D, run a hot bath without letting it drain, and hope to god the Public Works Department smiles on me. Or think of the sewage backing up into my yard as organic fertilizer. God knows I could use some good grass.
Let's be clear though. I mean grass in my yard. As in Bermuda or Zoysia. Because it's still a mudpit. That little comment was a nod to a friend who thought the catnip my mother found in a kitchen drawer (I wrote about it in one of my first blog posts) was something other than catnip. I have my vices, but that's not one of them. And that's all I'll say.
They had little packets of chicken broth and hot chocolate. Swiss Miss, mind you. Not some generic crap. Don't you hate how they try to make the generic stuff sound like the real deal? Like, instead of Swiss Miss, they call it Bliss Kiss Chocolate Flavored Liquid Beverage Substitute. And they make the packaging eerily similar to S.M.
It's actually very clever. Take a trip to your local Sav-A-Little and see what I mean. I've learned to be less of a brand snob, but when it comes to salsa and cola, I refuse to compromise. Off-brand salsa tastes like ketchup with tabasco and anything other than Coca-Cola tastes like crap. Give me club soda with Vivarin and I'm better off.
I should go. I'm still contemplating why I was rejected. Was it because The D was in Military Police in the Air Force for 20 years? Or because I emulated Angie Dickenson in Police Woman with his 38? Or because I'd been a victim of domestic violence when my Emotional Vampire former sister choked me. The judge (in our little sidebar with the three, very serious prosecutors and the cool looking, swoopie-haired-wet-behind-the-ears public defender, plus the court reporters) rephrased my diagnosis of psycho as "having issues." I said, "To put it mildly. She has Narcissistic Personality Disorder." At which point, I think they decided I was a loose cannon. And I'm sure cannons are as bad or worse than a semi-automatic, which the defendent was alledged to have possessed.
I only brought up the domestic violence thing because he asked that question pointedly. And I did NOT want to be held in contempt. I was discreet and asked to speak in private. Because I didn't want to air my dirty laundry, on the microphone, in front of the whole courtroom. Besides, I was feeling insecure after walking around with my zipper undone.
There's so much more to tell. I'll just say this. I only made it two-thirds way through my brand new Oprah magazine before the judge gave me the boot. I didn't even get lunch. I'm done for at least ten years.
I'm going to set my email on auto-reply to say I'm in Federal Jury Duty. Head to the Coast. Oh, just remembered my friend L is going to Mexico this week. Ixnay on that idea. Maybe my vacant rental house. Where I can take a hot bath without sewage backing up into my yard. Order Chinese. Ask a neighbor to give me the password to their wireless router so I can play Words With Friends.
It would be easier, though, to stick a chicken pot pie in the microwave for The D, run a hot bath without letting it drain, and hope to god the Public Works Department smiles on me. Or think of the sewage backing up into my yard as organic fertilizer. God knows I could use some good grass.
Let's be clear though. I mean grass in my yard. As in Bermuda or Zoysia. Because it's still a mudpit. That little comment was a nod to a friend who thought the catnip my mother found in a kitchen drawer (I wrote about it in one of my first blog posts) was something other than catnip. I have my vices, but that's not one of them. And that's all I'll say.
Civic Duty
I did mine today. Unfortunately, I was rejected, along with half the other 14 candidates.
One little story. A teaser. Because I have lots of fodder from my short tenure in the United States District Court. Here goes...
I set my alarm for 6:00 this morning. I overslept. It turns out my phone only lets me hit the snooze button six times, and since it takes me a good 75 minutes to wake up, it was 7:15 when I became conscious. And since I'd wanted to allow 45 minutes to get downtown and make a few wrong turns onto one-way streets before I found the parking garage, and then find the Clifford B. Davis Federal Building, and get cleared through the metal detector, I was in a bit of a panic. On top of that, my sewer drain is clogged and I'm afraid to flush or shower, but I can't bear the thought of skipping a shower for something like Jury Duty. I have a long story about the sewer, but no time now.
I lucked into a perfect parking spot in the Mud Island Garage and hoofed it to the Jurors' Holding Pen. Even though I packed enough reading material to last a week, and I wore my full compliment of chunky silver jewelry, I got right through customs. I mean security.
I was two minutes late and I was very afraid of being thrown into jail for contempt of court. Needless to say, that didn't happen. I rode up on the elevator with an animal rights lady. I told her if we were questioned about why we were late, we should say we stopped to rescue a stray pit bull. I told her that dog abuse was a class E felony, but she said it wasn't. I didn't argue. Besides, I figured it was better not to start out the jury gig withperjury lying. Just to be on the safe side, when we took the oath, I swore to Allah, not God. Wonder about athiests? Maybe they should swear on Madelyn Murray O'Hair. Or Nitzsche.
Hey, I just thought about something. Is it any coincidence that the only two atheists I know are also lawyers? Hmmmm.
Ok, quick story, then I gotta run. I was anxious when I plopped down in my seat on the front row of the holding pen. I scanned the crowd. Didn't see anyone I knew. Damn, I could've skipped the makeup and hair. Chatted up the lady right behind me. I was so hyped up. Remembered that I hadn't had coffee. Which oddly enough, counteracts my morning scatteredness. I headed back to the coffee pot. Which was nearly empty. I figured out how to make a new pot without calling the bailiff. I stood there waiting and a sweet man with hair gel and a lavender shirt under a sweater vest appeared. I told him I'd just started a new pot. Turned out he wasn't there to get coffee. I thought I heard him say I should settle down. I said, "I should settle down?" He said, "No, your fly is down. I thought you'd want to know." O....M.....G....
I'd thought it was too good to be true to find relatively unfaded jeans sans holes that fit my butt and weren't too short or too long. In a random pile in some random place in my bedroom. When I was running late. And then it all came back to me. I wore them on the plane on my first visit to see Mr. Man. I'd gotten them at my beloved thrift store. When I walked down the tiny aisle to go to the restroom on the airplane, I noticed more than one man do a double take. I thought, "Wow, I need to get another pair of these jeans!" Until I got into the tiny bathroom and reached down to undo my zipper and saw that it was already undone. Thank god I had on underwear. Sometimes if I can't find clean ones, I go commando. While I go downstairs and push wrinkle release on the dryer so they'll be fluffed when I finish hair and makeup. And of course, I always forget.
Well, that's all for now. Stay tuned...
One little story. A teaser. Because I have lots of fodder from my short tenure in the United States District Court. Here goes...
I set my alarm for 6:00 this morning. I overslept. It turns out my phone only lets me hit the snooze button six times, and since it takes me a good 75 minutes to wake up, it was 7:15 when I became conscious. And since I'd wanted to allow 45 minutes to get downtown and make a few wrong turns onto one-way streets before I found the parking garage, and then find the Clifford B. Davis Federal Building, and get cleared through the metal detector, I was in a bit of a panic. On top of that, my sewer drain is clogged and I'm afraid to flush or shower, but I can't bear the thought of skipping a shower for something like Jury Duty. I have a long story about the sewer, but no time now.
I lucked into a perfect parking spot in the Mud Island Garage and hoofed it to the Jurors' Holding Pen. Even though I packed enough reading material to last a week, and I wore my full compliment of chunky silver jewelry, I got right through customs. I mean security.
I was two minutes late and I was very afraid of being thrown into jail for contempt of court. Needless to say, that didn't happen. I rode up on the elevator with an animal rights lady. I told her if we were questioned about why we were late, we should say we stopped to rescue a stray pit bull. I told her that dog abuse was a class E felony, but she said it wasn't. I didn't argue. Besides, I figured it was better not to start out the jury gig with
Hey, I just thought about something. Is it any coincidence that the only two atheists I know are also lawyers? Hmmmm.
Ok, quick story, then I gotta run. I was anxious when I plopped down in my seat on the front row of the holding pen. I scanned the crowd. Didn't see anyone I knew. Damn, I could've skipped the makeup and hair. Chatted up the lady right behind me. I was so hyped up. Remembered that I hadn't had coffee. Which oddly enough, counteracts my morning scatteredness. I headed back to the coffee pot. Which was nearly empty. I figured out how to make a new pot without calling the bailiff. I stood there waiting and a sweet man with hair gel and a lavender shirt under a sweater vest appeared. I told him I'd just started a new pot. Turned out he wasn't there to get coffee. I thought I heard him say I should settle down. I said, "I should settle down?" He said, "No, your fly is down. I thought you'd want to know." O....M.....G....
I'd thought it was too good to be true to find relatively unfaded jeans sans holes that fit my butt and weren't too short or too long. In a random pile in some random place in my bedroom. When I was running late. And then it all came back to me. I wore them on the plane on my first visit to see Mr. Man. I'd gotten them at my beloved thrift store. When I walked down the tiny aisle to go to the restroom on the airplane, I noticed more than one man do a double take. I thought, "Wow, I need to get another pair of these jeans!" Until I got into the tiny bathroom and reached down to undo my zipper and saw that it was already undone. Thank god I had on underwear. Sometimes if I can't find clean ones, I go commando. While I go downstairs and push wrinkle release on the dryer so they'll be fluffed when I finish hair and makeup. And of course, I always forget.
Well, that's all for now. Stay tuned...
Thursday, January 19, 2012
My Gratitude Journal
Oprah did it. And if I were going to conform to her philosophy when I describe the things I'm thankful for, my journal would go something like this:
I'm grateful for: cleansing rain that clears the sky and the depths of my soul... the written word of the eternal voice of the human poet... the hope for new life when I see the tender green shoots of a spring flower struggle through the snow's crusty surface... the sighs of relief which stir the embers of my heavy heart... finding a pocket of air when I am in a dark cave, on the verge of asphyxia... the gentle soothing of Lortab and Flexeril when my back hurts, or when The D is getting on my nerves and I don't want to fix dinner for him...
No, really. Here's what I'm thankful for, in no particular order: celery seed. money. my own HVAC unit. cayenne pepper. two hour lunches with my friend Donna (the brunette Ellie Mae). my baby sister. macaroni and cheese. painting. getting an unexpected government check in the mail (IRS, VA, City or County property tax refund). electricians. cinnamon. showers with big tanks of hot water. cotton sheets. my Kindle Fire. Downton Abbey. the Beatles and the Stones. being 50. really. a clear mammogram and colonoscopy. having The Daddler here. having Kiddo far, far away in North Carolina. good dreams - when I'm flying, or talking to my mother, or snuggling up to a certain someone. indoor plumbing and electricity. google. my new leaf shredder. texting. Words With Friends. hearing "Groovy Kind of Love" when a certain someone calls...
I'm grateful for: cleansing rain that clears the sky and the depths of my soul... the written word of the eternal voice of the human poet... the hope for new life when I see the tender green shoots of a spring flower struggle through the snow's crusty surface... the sighs of relief which stir the embers of my heavy heart... finding a pocket of air when I am in a dark cave, on the verge of asphyxia... the gentle soothing of Lortab and Flexeril when my back hurts, or when The D is getting on my nerves and I don't want to fix dinner for him...
No, really. Here's what I'm thankful for, in no particular order: celery seed. money. my own HVAC unit. cayenne pepper. two hour lunches with my friend Donna (the brunette Ellie Mae). my baby sister. macaroni and cheese. painting. getting an unexpected government check in the mail (IRS, VA, City or County property tax refund). electricians. cinnamon. showers with big tanks of hot water. cotton sheets. my Kindle Fire. Downton Abbey. the Beatles and the Stones. being 50. really. a clear mammogram and colonoscopy. having The Daddler here. having Kiddo far, far away in North Carolina. good dreams - when I'm flying, or talking to my mother, or snuggling up to a certain someone. indoor plumbing and electricity. google. my new leaf shredder. texting. Words With Friends. hearing "Groovy Kind of Love" when a certain someone calls...
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
In a Funk
I'm in one. There's not one significant cause. Just a total eclipse of several minor ones.
I can get extremely myopic when I'm faced with too many hardships. Even minor ones.
I try to find reasons for my lack of reason. My Attention Deficit Disorder is a major handicap when it comes to prioritizing and solving immediate problems. My Henny Penny nature is a huge problem. In other words, I have no perspective. When the sky is falling, who can worry about the details? Unfortunately, taking care of details goes a long way in preventing the sky from falling.
Funny thing. I was with a friend the other day, and a tag on the back of my shirt collar was driving me crazy. I told her that I couldn't think about anything but the stupid tag. That I liked shirts with the tags printed on the fabric rather than a stiff, sewn on label. She told me that children with ADD tended to be bothered by tags on their clothing. Whoa...
The irony is that when I notice the tag, I go in search of scissors with the intention of cutting it out. Even though I have 120 pairs of scissors, I can't find a single pair. And on my scissor search, I get distracted by random things along the way. So frustrating.
Have I mentioned that I'm frustrated?
I'm going to close now. I have responsibilites. I'd like to run away from them, but I won't. I'll suck it up. And maybe I'll make some macaroni and cheese. I swear, of anything in this world, m&c is the panacea. The cure for all that ails me.
I can get extremely myopic when I'm faced with too many hardships. Even minor ones.
I try to find reasons for my lack of reason. My Attention Deficit Disorder is a major handicap when it comes to prioritizing and solving immediate problems. My Henny Penny nature is a huge problem. In other words, I have no perspective. When the sky is falling, who can worry about the details? Unfortunately, taking care of details goes a long way in preventing the sky from falling.
Funny thing. I was with a friend the other day, and a tag on the back of my shirt collar was driving me crazy. I told her that I couldn't think about anything but the stupid tag. That I liked shirts with the tags printed on the fabric rather than a stiff, sewn on label. She told me that children with ADD tended to be bothered by tags on their clothing. Whoa...
The irony is that when I notice the tag, I go in search of scissors with the intention of cutting it out. Even though I have 120 pairs of scissors, I can't find a single pair. And on my scissor search, I get distracted by random things along the way. So frustrating.
Have I mentioned that I'm frustrated?
I'm going to close now. I have responsibilites. I'd like to run away from them, but I won't. I'll suck it up. And maybe I'll make some macaroni and cheese. I swear, of anything in this world, m&c is the panacea. The cure for all that ails me.
Monday, January 16, 2012
I Give Up
I sliced my middle finger open today. Then I heard the sound of the new thingie. Sure nuf'. The D wasn't in his recliner. I looked out the window, and there he was, his white hair bouncing around in the dark. He'd taken his new toy outside. Hooked it up to a working outlet, and started scooping leaves into it. WTF? I was winding down. I ran outside and grabbed a rake on the way. He looked at me like I was a lunatic. I remembered that I was missing his galantamine. Damn.
The only thing that kept me from hyperventilating was my bloody finger. Sounds like an Edgar Allen Poe short story, huh? The Tell-Tale Heart. The Bloody Finger. The Cask of Amantillado.
My interference in the leaf sucking process pissed him off and he walked away. I'm just hoping I don't hear the motor at 3:00 a.m. This is new. Not good. It worries me...
The only thing that kept me from hyperventilating was my bloody finger. Sounds like an Edgar Allen Poe short story, huh? The Tell-Tale Heart. The Bloody Finger. The Cask of Amantillado.
My interference in the leaf sucking process pissed him off and he walked away. I'm just hoping I don't hear the motor at 3:00 a.m. This is new. Not good. It worries me...
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