susan hayward photography

The Pity Party

Thanks to Suzanne for sending me this comic in an email. It came at just the right time.

I think it's time to admit that this week has been a big pity party for me, thrown by myself, for myself.  

My freak-out session about the home video of me in my teenage years caused some of you to feel like I must think you are "obese." Let me just say that I was trying to describe how I felt about my body when I was a teenager. Whether I should be considered overweight or not was not the issue. My self-image was the biggest problem, not the number on the scales. Furthermore, I do not consider--nor ever have considered--any of my friends or family too large. I don't pay a lot of attention to what people wear or their dress size. How much you do or don't weigh doesn't mean anything to me--your actions do. Fortunately, I've been blessed with friends and family of integrity, intelligence, and extreme kindness. And so you are all beautiful to me.  

Perhaps you are thinking this is a bunch of hooey coming from a person who just the other day got all emotional over her fifteen year-old self. "Someone call a waaahhm-bulance, Susan's sad about her body again," you might say. And you'd be justified in doing so. It's time I shut up about this. Maybe I'm like the woman in the comic who sees a giant behind where there is none (although I wouldn't mind a distorted breast image of myself, weighted on the plus size). Maybe, in comparison to some, I should not be complaining about anything. But here's the thing: along with finding my perfect career, food and weight are also my life issues. I suppose you've already guessed this by now.

So here's an idea. Maybe I should stop trying to be perfect and spend more time enjoying myself. Maybe food is just food, not an "issue" and not a mortal enemy. It's occurred to me that it's not really the end of the world if I eat a piece of cake once in a while, as long as it's not an every day thing. I may fall off my healthy eating habits bandwagon quite often, but I know how to get back on. It's like my niece says, "I'd rather live in moderation than deprivation (especially in terms of food)." I second that motion. 

Thanks for reading. No need to call the Waahm-bulance. Susan's Pity Party is officially over. 

Going Bananas

So Sunday night we’re all sitting around at my sister’s house and somebody says, “Let’s watch that video of Susan eating the banana.” Inside I groaned. Outside, I said, “Let’s just not.” But apparently nobody heard the desperation in my voice. Or maybe they all thought I was joking. But I wasn’t. I really wasn’t. 

What’s the big deal? You may be asking yourself. The key word here is big. When my brother-in-law shot this video of me lying on the floor, watching television while slowly eating a banana, I was an overweight teenager. Every time I see myself in this video, I remember the sound of my thighs swishing as I walked when I wore my favorite silky black pants. I remember eating pie while watching Saturday Night live every weekend, hating myself with every bite. I remember curly fries from Arby’s and toffee peanuts for lunch every day, and the shame I felt as I gobbled them up in the car on the way back to school. I remember the wool skirt sewing project I slaved over for weeks, only to discover that it wouldn’t zip closed around my pudgy middle. “You can give it to your sister,” I recall my mother telling me as I tore the skirt off. In response I flung it across the room. I remember relatives coming to visit and telling my mother, “She’s got a sweet tooth, that one.” And I remember how smaller girls would glide through the halls like nimble fairies in the forest, while I lumbered behind, a cellulite monster threatening to destroy the social order. 

But there’s a happy ending to this story, although you could argue that it’s not really over. When I was sixteen, something inside of me shifted. I no longer wanted to feel and be large. I wanted to be healthy. I wanted to be fit. It was like my brain suddenly realized that it could change. So I ate healthier foods, and I exercised. Over the course of a summer, I lost thirty pounds or so. When school started again, a friend of mine said, “I was looking at you the other day and I thought ‘Where did half of Susan go?’” That was the best compliment anyone had ever given me. Finally, my own body did not embarrass me. Finally, I was skinny.

For the most part, I’ve managed to keep the weight off, give or take pregnancy and holiday pounds here and there. But when I watch this video, my heavy years come back to me. I become the big girl again, the one who can’t control her food intake. The one who doesn’t get asked on dates. The one who was told, “If you gain a few more pounds, you might be considered fat.” My brain shifts back about twenty-five years, and I’m sitting in front of the television, watching Saturday Night Live. I hear the clang of my fork against the plate as I shovel apple pie into my mouth. The Church Lady struts across the stage, purses her lips and asks, “Could it be Satan?”  I laugh out loud and take another bite of pie, barely registering that I’m doing so. As I scrape a fork across my plate to catch the last crumbs, my eyes fill with tears. I realize that I dislike every part of myself—even my toes.

This is not a happy place I’ve been all week since watching this video. Wallowing in memories of self-hate doesn’t exactly make for a field of mental posies. I think most of us would rather forget our teenage years. However, that's hard to do when someone films them. So I've decided that when my kids hit the awkward stage, I won't document their struggle. Unless, of course, they ask me to. But if they say, "Let's just not take that picture, Mom," I'll put the camera away. I think I'll understand how they will feel at that moment. And I will understand how they will feel in the future.

The Photoshop Diet

Yesterday I was feeling kind of soft and gushy. And I don't mean that metaphorically. So when my husband sent me this link of photoshop retouching examples, I started to feel better about my body. Did you know that Madonna looks downright haggard without the miracle of photoshop? And just as I thought, Demi Moore doesn't look that good just from eating her vegetables--it's quite possible surgery might have been involved. As for Katie Couric's extreme weight loss in a very short amount of time, all I can say is, "Sign me up for the photo retouching diet of the decade!"  

I had so much fun looking at all that retouching and what it can do a for a person that I decided to fix up a few of my own photos.

This is me when I was a high school senior and weighed seventy five pounds.

 

Here I am today, after having three children:

 

This is me in college, when I worked part-time as a Ronald McDonald model:

 

And here's my wedding picture. Rick and I have been shackled together for fifteen years now. 

I'm so pleased with myself in these pictures, I'm thinking of inventing Photoshop glasses. You could put them on in the morning so that when you look in the mirror, you see yourself retouched, looking perfect in every way. That big zit on your chin? Zapped! That chicken skin dangling from your belly? Smooth as a baby's bottom. And those cottage cheese thighs? Lactose free, sister. Ah, the possibilities make me giddy. But alas, I am not a scientific person, capable of inventing things like this. So for now, I'll just have to settle for being an average, ageing woman in person and a fit, trim, and taut goddess in photographs. You know, just like Katie and Kim and Madonna. 

 

The Comedian

Every family has a smart aleck, and ours is the youngest. Because the oldest has taken the role of the brain and the middle is the uber X-Game athlete, the youngest has chosen to be the funny one. 

Take yesterday. J's hair was looking a bit like he'd been through a battle with the pillow and the thirty six stuffed animals he sleeps with. Actually, it always looks like he's had a rough night. Come to think of it, I did finally give up on the idea of a top sheet because every morning I found it on the floor next to his bed in a little heap. Sometimes I find his comforter on the floor too, while J. lays huddled in a ball like a roly poly in the middle of the mattress. One of these days I'm going to record what he does every night. I imagine it involves a lot of thrashing, flipping, and hair pulling--possibly even dialogue and weapons. 

So his hair is always a mess. But as this child usually wakes up growling and sulky, I have chosen to be happy that he will put on clothes and shoes, and if I'm lucky, a clean pair of underwear. As the mother of boys, I figure I don't have to "do" hair in pig tails or cute curls or what have you. Not only is their hair not long enough for such things, quite frankly, my boys don't care. And by default, neither do I. 

But the other day, we were out in public and I happened to look down at J's head. The hair on the back of his head was matted and dusty looking, while a few bits at the top sprang up like milkweeds. When I examined the rest of his head, I found swirls and waves of blond and brown tresses colliding in a frizzy fury, and a fringe of electrified cowlicks bordering his forehead. It looked as if he had literally fallen out of bed, crammed on a pair of shoes, and staggered to the car with nary a thought to personal hygiene. But I guess that's where I was supposed to come in. Oops. 

Slightly embarrassed, I tousled J's hair and said, "You've got bed head, big time dude."

J. pulled back from my touch. "Watch it," he said. "I worked all night on this."

I could not pull out a brush and tame his hair hurricane because I don't carry that stuff in my purse. So I could only laugh and put my arm around his little shoulders. And I knew enough to not ask my next question. Because a kid with bed head that bad surely forgot all about clean underwear. And a mom like me surely forgot to ask.

Recipe: Nana's Banana Bread

When my husband's Nana died, the grandchildren spoke at her funeral. More than one grandchild reminisced about her cooking. One mentioned her lemon poppy seed cake, another pink lemonade served by the pool, still others fondly recalled her beer bread, baked beans, seven layer lettuce salad, and trifle. But I think she was most famous for her banana bread, at least to me. 

Now, I know that there are hundreds of recipes for this classic quick bread. And most of them are good, aside from the recipes that try too hard to be healthy, using whole wheat flour, apple sauce and honey. Let's be honest. Real ingredients like white flour, oil, and white sugar make for a sweet, moist loaf. I like the recipes that call for a bit of sour cream in there too. The sour cream idea comes from my friend Shannon, who shared her recipe in a church cookbook. She called it "The Best Banana Bread Ever." And she's not kidding. It really is the tastiest, most velvety, and moist bread I've ever made, hands down. But it's missing one thing. And this is where Nana comes in.

Nana's banana bread recipe looks pretty standard until you come to the final instruction: Frost with vanilla frosting. When my Aunt-in-law shared this recipe with the family, I thought, "Brilliant! What could be better than creamy sweetness on top of dense, bready sweetness?" I've been known to lick the frosting off a cookie or a piece of cake, and the middle of an Oreo always tasted better to me than the actual chocolate wafer. In my world, baked goods are merely pedestals for the real star--the frosting. Ah yes, I can attribute many a cavity to my affinity for frosting. I also have an intricate pattern of stretch marks that spell out "Sugar Mama" on my thighs and derriere. It stands to reason that though I grew up with naked banana bread, the first time I tried a frosted loaf I was hooked. And so is everyone else who tries it. 

Nana's Banana Bread

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup shortening

2 eggs, beaten

2 cups flour

1 tsp soda

1/2 tsp salt

1 cup chopped nuts (I don't like nuts in my baked treats, so this is optional)

3 ripe bananas, mashed

1 tsp vanilla

Sift dry ingredients (you can use a whisk if you don't have a sifter). Cream sugar and shortening. Add eggs. Add nuts to the sifted dry ingredients. Mix dry ingredients to the creamed mixture. Add bananas and vanilla. Bake 1 hour and 15 minutes @ 325. Let it cool in the pan, then turn the loaf out on a cooling rack. Then, FROST WITH VANILLA FROSTING. 

NOTE:

DON'T EVEN THINK OF USING STORE BOUGHT FROSTING ON THIS BREAD. Store-bought frosting is full of artificial ingredients that taste funky. Make your own frosting with real butter. It will taste much better than the fake stuff. And if you already went to the trouble to make the banana bread from scratch, you need to finish the job with your own frosting.

P.S.

The frosting should be a little runny, kind of between a cookie frosting and a glaze. You're supposed to pour it on top and let it run down the sides of the loaf. 

Tough Love

"You're the best mom in the world," my son J. said as he tackled me from the side. I was standing at the stove, stirring macaroni and cheese from the box--the cheap brand, not Kraft. (Before you call me a tightwad, which I am, so I wouldn't mind, I should tell you that my kids actually prefer the cheap stuff. Once when our kids were toddlers, my husband made them the fancy Kraft stuff, totally ignoring the directions on the box. He eyeballed the proportion of butter and milk, all the while assuring me that he ate Kraft Dinner quite often as a child and knew exactly what he was doing. When he mixed the packet of orange "cheeze" he ended up with a soupy sauce, to which he added--now get this--pepper. Yes, you heard me right. Pepper. Normally, my husband is a genius with spices. He can throw together a lovely spaghetti sauce with nary a recipe, and as for barbecue, I've never met anyone who can cook up a dead animal like he can. But pepper on mac-n-cheese? For our kids? It was not a surprise when all three took one bite and said, "Yuck. What'd you put on this?")

 

So, I was standing there cooking for my youngest, when he rammed into me and said this very nice thing, to which I should have replied, "I love you too." But my youngest is not a small kid. He's what you'd call husky. That's why, when he threw his body into this love tackle, I instinctively said, "Ouch!" and rubbed my ribs. 

"Sploosh," my kid said in response. In embarrassment he had lapsed into this cartoon language of his, sound effects you'd hear after Wiley Coyote just got hosed by the Road Runner. Only, I'm never the Road Runner in these scenarios. 

Take climbing the stairs, for example. Our house is a split level, so we go up and down the stairs roughly a million times a day. About a year ago, I noticed that if we all happened to head upstairs at the same moment, the kids literally shoved me aside and ran past. There was no Ladies First, just "Beat ya to the top!" I realized then that if I were to survive in this house, I would have to learn to see everything as a sport. We have fourteen stairs in all. That translates to fourteen yards. And with or without a ball, if you make it to the top first you've made a touchdown. Unfortunately, I was the kid in junior high physical education class who hardly ever got the ball, even if I was wide open. My so-called team mates knew that if they did pass it to me, I'd just run the wrong way. Somehow, my kids know this about me too.  

But it's all good. I know that, aside from the stairs, these little football moves are done out of affection, much like the dead mice and birds my cat brings me as gifts. All I can do is take the love I'm offered in whatever form it comes. I've come to accept that I'll never make the winning shot. But I'm willing to take one for the team.  

The Perfect Gift

Last weekend I went on a Sister Date with, as you might have guessed, my sisters. As I'm the youngest, I often ask my sisters for advice on things like husbands, kids, my life's purpose, and what's supposed to be in fashion (not that I pay much attention to fashion. It's just nice to know what I won't be wearing this season.)

On this date, pregnancy was on my mind. It had occurred to me that Bellatrix had hinted that she wanted to come for a visit, but didn't actually ever show up in December. One day she rang the bell, and I warned my husband that he could snuggle up to me now or never again--at least not for the next week--because soon we would have a house guest. For some reason, pronouncements like this have an effect somewhat like narcotics on my husband. I didn't even have time to say, "Are you in the mood?" before he dashed to the bedroom, hollering to the kids, "We're having a meeting. Don't bother us for awhile." Then he closed the door and locked it, laughing to himself while he did so. 

The next day I gathered some candy, a few good books, tested the heating pad, made sure I was stocked up on ibuprofen, and waited. But Bellatrix didn't come. She didn't come the next day either. Or the next. And because I was so busy having a tizzy over Christmas, I forgot to think about her. 

So last week, when I realized she never showed, I wondered, if by some holiday medical miracle, I was pregnant. My initial reaction to this thought was "Oh, crap!" Don't get me wrong. I love my children. A lot. But I'm pushing forty, had my last baby eight years ago, and am seriously enjoying not having any bums to wipe, bottles to warm, or breasts to pull out in public to feed a hysterically hungry child. And don't get me started on how much I cherish sleeping longer than four hours at a stretch. 

But on the positive side, I was looking a bit plump in the midsection. It might be nice to attribute my gut to having a bun in the oven rather than admitting that I ate too much during December. And during my three pregnancies I did enjoy not having to suck it in. Pregnancy would explain my nausea and why I have more zits that my teenage son. Also, having another child would pretty much give me a purpose and a direction for the next five years while I waited for the kid to go to kindergarten already. That might be nice. For a week or two, anyway. Until the post partum depression set in.   

So I asked my sisters, "Could I be pregnant?" 

My sister L. said something like, "I don't think so. Didn't you guys have the operation?" Yep. When the last kid came out, my husband and I decided to ensure that we would not get pregnant again. A few snips later, a weekend on the couch with a bag of frozen peas, and we thought we were in the clear. 

My other sister M. said, "You never know." She was right. You always hear stories about people who get pregnant despite vasectomies and/or tubes tied in double knots. Granted, those stories are often in The National Enquirer, but they could be true. And it would be just my luck that, seven years after The Snipping, one lone sperm with a craving for eggs over easy slipped through the pipes and hooked up with one my girls. 

But then, a miracle happened. That morning, my sister M. had given me the perfect gift, a Bellatrix Lestrange t shirt. She thought I could wear it when Bellatrix visited--you know, to give the people living with me some explanation for my behavior. I held it up to myself and showed my husband. "I can see the resemblance," he said. For some reason, I wanted to throw a green pepper at his head, which is what I did when I was pregnant with our first child. Having no green peppers handy, I just said, "Thanks a lot," in my most sarcastic voice. 

 

Later that night, I discovered that I am not pregnant (whew). Bellatrix showed up, this time for real. Turns out the t shirt has magical powers. Just touching it will call Bellatrix to my house. And when I wear it, I want to curse everyone around me. Why, just last night I snapped at my youngest while I was making dinner. Recognizing my witchy voice, my husband stepped into the kitchen to deal with the situation. "Everyone just be quiet," he said, staring at me, his eyes wide with fear (or perhaps sarcasm, I couldn't tell which). "Don't make any sudden movements, and maybe she won't hurt us," he told the boys as he moved slowly toward the plate of chicken on the counter. Lucky for him we were still out of peppers. 

P.S.

I'm considering getting the complete Bellatrix outfit. It's not really my style, at least not during most of the month. But it would make a nice ensemble for those days when I'm feeling especially wenchy. It's kind of reminiscent of Wonder Woman, don't you think?  
 

 P.P.S.

I didn't take these pictures and I didn't get paid to endorse these products. I found the photos on a company's website when I Googled "Bellatrix t shirt." I think the company's called Hot Topic or something. 

Taking a Sick Day

Wednesday was a big day for me. Or at least it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be the first day of solitude since December 23, the day my kids started Christmas vacation. I had a whole list of things planned, and first would be some time alone reading in bed with a very large mug of hot chocolate. Then some serious writing time at the computer, followed by a few magazines, perhaps a trip to the library, and to top things off, a big nap.

But it was not to be. 

Everything started out normally. The alarm went off—which is to say my cat jumped onto the bed and rammed her wet nose against my cheek, then started palpitating my chest with freshly sharpened nails. Then my husband’s alarm clock clicked on to talk radio. (For some reason, he enjoys waking up to the sound of people arguing about sports.) My husband moaned and swung his arm towards the noise. Without opening his eyes, he found the snooze button and pressed it. 

While my husband dozed, I tiptoed to the basement to read and exercise. Eventually, I heard the sounds of doors opening, running water, and one kid yelling, “Wrap it up, would’ya?” to another who apparently was hogging the hot water again. Immediately after that, the water stopped and there was the hiss of aerosol deodorant being sprayed, then the scrape of a stool along the kitchen floor as another someone sat down to eat breakfast. From where I was hiding, it sounded like the morning was moving right along, and soon I would have six hours all to myself. 

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about parenthood it’s this: the minute you plan something and look forward to it, one or more kids will either barf or get a sore throat. That’s why, when my husband told me that our youngest said he had a tummy ache and was at that moment crying in his bed, I wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, yes. But not surprised. In that instant, my plans vanished. Instead of spending hours at the library, I would be forced to stay home and do something heinous, like clean up vomit. Or do laundry. 

However, after everyone left, my dear sweet little boy hopped downstairs carrying a Beverly Cleary Ramona book. Smiling in his most endearing way, he asked, “Will you read this to me?”  There was no evidence of tears, no clutching of the stomach, no groaning, no labored breathing to manage the nausea. The kid looked healthier than I had felt in years. 

“Are you really sick?” I said. My youngest bent at his waist and turned his lips down.

“A little,” he said, his voice now suspiciously shaky and small. He stumbled over to the couch and lay down, wrapped himself in a blanket, and said, “Ohhh, my stomach.” I knew he was well enough to go to school. Yet rather than force him to go, I decided this was the perfect opportunity to teach this child a lesson about honesty. Plus, I needed to make sure this wouldn’t become a habit, thereby ruining my secret life without the children.

“Well, if you stay home, don’t expect to watch movies or play video games,” I said in my sternest voice. “You’ll have to stay in bed and read or sleep all day, and I mean all day.” He trudged up the stairs and obeyed my orders. Of course, I couldn’t resist making two mugs of hot chocolate and reading a chapter of Ramona to him. But when the cups sat empty and the chapter ended, I closed the book. “Well, it’s naptime for you,” I said.

“Awww,” my youngest grumbled as I left the room. 

“But you must rest to get better,” I hollered over my shoulder, resisting the urge to cackle. My evil plan was working. The child was so bored, going to school would seem entertaining in comparison.   

But the best teaching moment of all happened later that afternoon, when my other kids came home from school and asked if I would take them to play basketball at the church gymnasium. “Ooooh,” my youngest cried, “can I go too?” 

“Heavens no,” I told him. “You’re sick. If you’re too sick to go to school, you’re too sick to go play basketball.”

That did it. He snapped. Without thinking, he said, “But I’m not sick.” Then he caught himself.  “What I mean was, I was sick this morning, but I’m not now.” He tried to smile, the kind of cheesy smile he saves for school pictures and bribery.

It was too late, though. I had already decided that he had to take the full dose of medicine in order to recover fully. So while his brothers went to the gym, he stayed home and thought things over. By bedtime he was miraculously healed. “Mom,” he said as I tucked him in, “wake me up at seven o’clock tomorrow.”

“Why so early?” I asked.

“I want to be sure I make it to school on time,” he said.

Sure enough, when I tapped him on the shoulder the next morning, he didn’t even fuss. Instead, he jumped out of bed and got himself ready in less than ten minutes.  

While I wasn’t alone on Wednesday, as it turned out I did get to read in bed and drink hot chocolate. It just wasn’t my bed or my book. But that’s all right. I taught my child an important lesson: Don't mess with Mom's secret life without children.

'Twas the Sixth Day After Christmas

The other day I noticed that December is all about acquisition: calories and pounds from all the treats and meals out because you can’t handle the idea of cooking anything more than hot chocolate and maybe some popcorn; stuff, starting with decorations and ending with gifts; and things (like clothes and gadgets) that you buy for yourself but you really should be buying for other people. Or maybe that last one is just a personality defect of my own. Because I don’t usually shop for new things, I’m always amazed at what’s out there. I mean, did you know there are kitchen contraptions that can make quesadillas? And bags that will preserve your produce and bread and lunch meat much better than the refrigerator alone, and felt pads you can put on the bottom of your china cabinet so that you slide it across the room without asking for your husband’s help, who would probably ask why you wanted to move the china cabinet anyway? And pills that can help you shed those unwanted pounds in a mere weekend? And dresses that have support panels built in to tame that belly full of jelly (and cookies, and chocolates, and turkey, and stuffing, and pies and cakes).

Incidentally, I tried on one of those “slimming” dresses while I was Christmas shopping for someone else. After nearly dislocating a shoulder trying to put the thing on, I turned sideways to the mirror and discovered that my belly would require more than just a spandex panel to flatten it. Instead of three months pregnant, I looked more like I had a two month old fetus in there, curled up in a ball like my sleeping cat. The only things the dress appeared to have any effect on were my legs, which were smashed together, making it impossible to walk without looking like a toddler with both legs shoved through one pant leg. 

I remembered an incident years before, when I had just moved into the area. One of the first few Sundays at church, a woman asked me if I was pregnant. I was not. “No, just fat,” I replied. That reminded me of a similar experience a few years prior to that when a different woman, while staring at my stomach, asked the same question. Only she asked it slower, as if she were really trying to come up for an explanation for my protruding stomach: “Are you…,” pause here, while she tilted her head and really pondered my belly, which at that moment was encased in a pair of overall shorts. Granted, I had just eaten a hearty dinner of five pancakes, but still. The woman started her question again, “Are you…pregnant?” I could just see myself at church wearing this clingy dress with its insufficient support panel, my legs wrapped in spandex saran, waddling down the hall in heels. I work with children at church now. If grown-ups can ask me if I’m expecting, children would have no qualms with saying, “Is there a baby in your tummy?”   

At this thought, I turned my back to the mirror, wiggled and tugged and yanked and contorted until I could get out of that stupid dress. As I finally pulled it over my head,  my hair crackled with electricity and my shoulders popped. I wadded the dress up in a ball and threw it on the little bench in the dressing room, where the slippery material slithered off onto the floor. Though I said nothing out loud, in my mind, I yelled, “Nottafinga!” “Son of a Nutcracker!” and “Crap!”  (Lest you think I left the dress there in a sad little heap of cheap material (I concluded that was part of the problem, you see. The material would only look good on a mannequin, or maybe a Barbie doll), I did put it back on its hanger, and returned it to its proper place. But not without cursing again.)

But I digress. What I meant to say is that now that December is over, we can get down to the business of January, which is all about getting rid of stuff and starting over. So here it is, six days into the month and I’m still trying to decide what this year’s projects will be. Should I join a gym? Do a 21-day detox? De-clutter my house (again)? Reorganize the kids’ rooms? Start running again? Read a book each week? Stock my freezer with meals for a month? 

What’s that you say? The stockings are still hung by the chimney with care? And the tree is still sparkling and beautiful, yet taking up much needed space in the living room? And nobody has any clean clothes because I haven’t done the laundry in two weeks? Well, I guess that’s a good place to start. But I have to say, this feels an awful lot like December.