Still Loving My Hyundai

I had to go to the dealership this morning. When I shut the car off last weekend, it made a kind of clanking gurgle (technical term !) for 5 seconds or so. It sounded like something's timing was off. I lifted the hood, determined I needed a quart of oil, but doubted that had anything to do with it. So I called Richard over.  The only thing he could posit as a cause was an old belt. Most likely the serpentine belt, especially after I contacted the dealership and verified that the engine has a timing chain, not a belt. 

That greatly erased one worry, that of destroying my engine by procrastination. The chain should last "forever," per their service department. The car currently records a history of 145,500+ miles, a long way from forever in my many Accents' driving history. The serpentine belt has an official expectation of 50k miles. (Uhhhh, oops?) It was definitely due for replacement. 

More Googling, and I researched the consequences of continuing to drive the car if the serpentine belt snapped. So long as my only "long" trip was to the dealership, the car shouldn't overheat to get there. Still, it was a cautious half week with only a couple <1 mile trips. I didn't even drive far enough to get that quart of oil. The dog's toenails had just been done, the larder was full, there were few club duties in the next few days, so I found no need to invoke my paranoia by putting the car to the test. 

Well, at least not paranoia over that part. Back to Google, I tried to find out how much the new belt installation would cost. Results ranged from $860+ installed down to $78 if they didn't count installation. I did of course. No way was I going to fool around with that on my own or with some wannabe mechanic. There were the usual offerings where I could get a more precise quote if I gave them a lot of information. 

Screw that!

I at least had one ace in the hole. When we switched satellite companies, we were promised a "rewards card" with a debit balance of $300. It wasn't good for cash, only for purchases. I'd been waiting and waiting. At first I thought I'd apply it two weeks ago to the annual renewal of our Rec Center dues, or at least a bit over half of it. But that deadline came and went so they got paid out of the budget.  

Then Steve and I agreed a good place to spend the money was in replacing the propane grill. The old one had a leak somewhere in the line between tank and grill. We'd researched getting a new line but our grill only had them from some RV supply store. Not worth the effort. No grilling for over a year, but we got by. Now that the card was coming, and my daughter was coming to visit, having a functioning grill seemed like a great idea.  I went online, found a decent price and decided to get one delivered. The old one went to the curb and disappeared instantly, before we could even call the garbage company for a price to haul it away. (Good luck, whoever you are!) The new grill also came out of the budget with no card in the mail yet. We'd spend that amount on some regular bill or something and juggle the books later. Last time we'd switched and gotten one of those cards, it simply was applied in full to a bill, with no payments needing to be paid until the $300 ran out. They were happy, we were happy.

Saturday the mail included the long awaited card. FINALLY! It at least would pay $300 worth of the new belt installation worst case, or have a balance left in the best case. Turned out we had the best case. I now have to keep track of the balance and be sure to spend it within 6 months. That won't be a problem. Remembering the 4 digit pin if I used the card somewhere which required one might have been. I know I wrote it down. It just wasn't where I keep the rest of the information for logging into the Satellite company website. Fortunately, after finding out the car dealership didn't require it when I used it there, it popped back into my head... an hour later. Steve and I developed a system for pins, basing them on a word instead of random numbers. To use it we just have to look at my phone number pad where numbers = letters in order to come up with the numbers. It's just like an ATM keypad, which helps us every time Steve needs to change his bank pin number because somebody's stolen his card number... again. And yet again. He comes up with an apt word (not all are curses) and then spells it into the ATM.

I keep the pin with the card, on the same piece of paper wrapped around the card which has the latest balance. WTF you say? It's not the actual code. Just another word that cues my memory. We've already found out that the local grocery store will accept the end balance on one card and the rest of its payment from another, or cash, so we can spend every penny. 

With that card, in a way, my serpentine belt replacement was free. Not only that, but had I been paying more attention, and replaced the belt every 50,000 miles just because somebody decided the old one only lasted that long, I'd have already bought two more in the meantime.  That's one of the reasons I love my Hyundai. Now if this one is like my last one, I should need to get the starter replaced at around 287K. Then there'll be the decision as to whether to replace the tranny shortly after the 300K mark.  I'm not halfway there yet. The car is a 2013, bought at the end of 2013 after that school bus rear-ended me. It got less than a year of high work miles on it before I retired, and gets few enough miles now to require only two oil changes a year with our traveling back and forth to Minnesota. With my luck with several of these cars now, this one may outlive me.

Mental Illness, My Ass! A Rant

 A long time ago, children died from diseases, starvation in famines, birth defects, even in wars. In more recent times, many died in automobiles when they crashed. Even seat belt laws didn't stop those deaths, though they helped when used. We have a new primary cause of children's deaths now: mental illness. The Governor of Tennessee was on TV insisting that the cause of the recent school shooting was mental illness. He didn't say that the true highest cause of children's deaths is now guns. He didn't mention guns. It was all mental illness.

People can and do get mental illnesses. It happens all over the globe. We are no sicker than any people anywhere else. Other countrys' children are not dying in such numbers with bullets ravaging their small bodies, despite mental illness in their populations. But ours are. Toddlers find adults' guns, think they are safe, or toys, and suddenly a bullet goes where it shouldn't. Or several bullets do, because it is so easy to shoot off multiple rounds. That was curiosity, or playing what they see on TV. Not mental illness. Not unlesss you count the parent's inability and/or unwillingness to keep their guns out of the reach of children. 

Older children, even adults, get angry just like the rest of us, get mentally ill, learn to hate. They "act out", grab a gun from the home, or a friend, or wherever guns can be found these days which is practically everywhere. They go hunt their targets, whether teachers, classmates, or whoever needs to pay in their minds, and find their fame. We can blame mental illness, bullying, thrill seeking, or whatever. Those things used to be "solved" by a schoolyard fight, where bruises, bloody noses, possibly even a stabbing or a broken bone might have been the result, followed by suspension of those involved. These days there is too often no one left to suspend, with the final victim often being the shooter.

We lump it all under "mental illness". Who else would go around shooting bunches of people if they were mentally healthy? Calling it by that name means we are not at fault for what is happening almost daily in this country in schools, churches, anywhere people gather.  We as a nation fall back on the reasoning that our constitution gives us the unimpeded right to bear arms. It's just a few bad apples who misuse them.

Those bad apples are finding close at hand the tools that have only one purpose: kill. Kill as many and as fast as possible, without stopping to reload, to think, to let any inconvenience slow them down. We call that misuse to pretend we don't know that is exactly why they were made, call them hunting rifles as if we were going to feed ourselves on a deer with 30 bullets in it. We blame the shooter for picking up the weapon so easily at hand, call them mentally ill. We stockpile guns, play soldier on the shooting range with them, pat each other on the back for our prowess at pretend killing, hitting targets with human shapes instead of circles on them, and find ourselves innocent of any wrong. We are so "innocent" that we defend rabidly our right to do that, without restrictions of any kind, just because of a piece of paper back when muskets were necessary for safety and defense when our white invader ancestors were claiming territory in this country. We hadn't killed off wolves and bears which might have found our presence an invitation to attack for a ready meal or to fend off a danger to their young. We hadn't yet destroyed all the peoples already there who were willing to fight for their lives because they were here first, or others from overseas who also wanted to claim this land for themselves and a different king.

But muskets had to be reloaded for every shot. Better have good aim and kill immediately what you aimed at rather than risk vulnerability while reloading. After some years one could shoot six bullets without pause, then 30 or more. You didn't need to aim anymore as the spray would find its victims. Any victims.

We kept interfering in attempts to regulate the possession  of firearms, arguing "rights". We stopped the bans on instruments of war for home use and entertainment, because "rights," and because the aftermath of a tragedy of a mass shooting just "wasn't the time" to do it. Now they come so frequently that there never is a right time by those standards. We refused to stop violent people from owning them, or home grown militias from stockpiling them. We defined "rights" as absolute, inviolate. No other rights were given limits, after all. Right?

We have the right to freedom of speech. This freedom can come with penalties, however. You can't tell lies about another and defame them without expecting consequences. You can't  incite violence, start a riot,  or cause panic in a crowded theater by falsely yelling "Fire!" Too many don't understand that being free to speak one's opinions is not also the guarantee of an audience.  Having nothing worth listening to is not to be equated with somebody shutting down your rights.

We as citizens have the right to vote, but persons of color are less able to use that right. The poor are less able to travel to where they can vote, after first having to travel to procure the "proper" ID and getting time away from work to do all of that.  Felons can't vote under many different circumstances in individual states. We impose age restrictions and all sorts of requirements before that right is actually allowed. 

Pick a right, and you'll find laws about how and where and when. But laws to control the use of guns, or even who should be able to own which kind of them, are fought against tooth and nail. People gotta make money, doncha know.

So maybe it really is all about mental illness after all: the mental illness of American society that can support the blanket defense of the tools of violence while decrying their use in the way they were designed. Pretty sure that's not how the Governor meant it, though.

Tracking A Package

I love tracking with the USPS. When I ship packages, I always follow where they go. When I order things to be delivered, I "appreciate" some of the wild journeys they make. Take that appreciation however you will. One of those is due here this afternoon. Maybe. It's been on an interesting journey.

It started in Durango, CO on the 21st. The first entry is that a tracking number has been provided. Often it means only that the shipper has generated a number. It doesn't guarantee the item has left the shippers location. I've seen that take as long as three days before the package is acknowledged somewhere as having left the shipper's location.

An hour later, to the minute, it is recorded as SHIPPING LABEL CREATED USPS AWAITS ITEM. Impressive progress, right?

In an hour and a half it has progressed to "SHIPMENT RECEIVED ACCEPTANCE PENDING" followed just over an hour later as "PRE-SHIPMENT INFO SENT USPS AWAITS ITEM" which clarifies that the post office hasn't actually gotten it yet. Busy, busy tracker, but all of it gets summed of as a kind of "we're planning to see you."

In a total of nine hours, and 5 notices of progress later, it actually arrives at the post office in Durango, only they describe it as "ORIGIN ACCEPTANCE".  Whew! I've been through Durango several times. It's totally charming and scenic, but not very large. Maybe they walked it through town, enjoying the views? Stopped for coffee?

Exactly one hour and 15 minutes later,  however, it is "PROCESSED" through the Albuquerque, NM USPS. So far all of this is the same day, March 21st, from 11:17 AM to 9:48 PM. Such a lot of paperwork before action, but when it finally moves, zip!!!

And now it sits. People gotta sleep, you know. But early birds take over and by 5:49 AM it "DEPARTED" Albuquerque. Now we start to see actual progress, not those "we see you" kinds of notices which fill the tracking form. At 11:47 AM it DEPARTED" Flagstaff, AZ. Despite appearances, that actually takes 7 hours, due to a change at the state border from daylight savings time to standard time. Aside from the Navajo reservation which covers contiguous parts of 4 states and thus has chosen to exercise their sovereignty by keeping the AZ part in the same time zone as the other three states through the entire reservation, Arizona does not set our clocks ahead and back. It confuses a lot of people who are used to certain hourly differences and then they change, and change again, twice every year. I long since lost track of how many times I hear,"Oops, I thought you were awake by now, sorry" or it's opposite, depending on which way others' clocks changed.

Note here another shortcut in tracking. It hasn't bothered to "ARRIVE" in Flagstaff, just depart. Heaven help us if it should have disappeared somewhere in there. We'd never know whom to blame. However, it has "ARRIVED" in Phoenix three hours later. Nice drive down the 17.

An hour an a quarter later it gets "PROCESSSED" in Phoenix. It sits overnight. Apparently the processing hit a glitch, because the next morning, a bleary-eyed 2:55 AM, it "DEPARTED" to be noted as having "ARRIVED" 45 minutes later... in Scottsdale. Not Sun City. Nope, Scottsdale. It went north, not west. The zip codes share the first 2 digits, but that's all.

Now we're really having fun.  I keep checking on it all day of the 23rd, and the only posting is at 11:00 AM that morning: "MISSENT" from the Scottsdale location. I go to bed waiting in vain via tracking info for it to be sent back to the Phoenix processing center which it would have to go through before being sent out to here.

This morning, the 24th,  there were several interesting postings. The first one seemed to be a misguided attempt at CYA. It is now positioned on the tracking chart by yesterday's time code, despite never showing up yesterday on tracking, but claiming that it "ARRIVED" in Sun City at the post office 11 minutes after it was also somehow noted as "ARRIVED" in Scottsdale. It apparently sat in two places yesterday at the same time. Hey, I did not order Schrodinger's cat! My only conclusion is that it was way too big an ass for somebody to cover despite their best efforts.

This morning at 3AM it was again "PROCESSED" through the Phoenix facility.  Two hours and 17 minutes later it "DEPARTED" there to "ARRIVE" in the Sun City post office 58 minutes later.Within 11 minutes it was loaded on the mail truck, finally, officially, "OUT FOR DELIVERY" !

Whew!

I'll be looking for it around 1 PM at the house. Unless.......

 

An Atypical Day

And thank goodness it wasn't typical.  So many things don't need to be repeated.

Rich has one of those emergency type phones the government gives out to people who can't afford modern smart phones. As a downside, mostly it works - at least so far as Rich had worked with it - via some wi-fi system. So I guess one better have their emergencies near public hot spots. I hope 911 calls have a better instant connection, but he hasn't needed to try that out yet.

My sleep patterns are... uh... interesting these days. Often I wake  up around 3 or 4, get up for a couple hours until I feel sleepy again, and return to bed. While I was up this morning, and Steve had gone to bed, his phone gave the beep that means he's getting a text. I ignore them for two reasons: I don't text myself so don't know how to access them, and even if they weren't private, they mostly are junk texts or from another sleep-deprived friend. It beeped about three times, and I made a mental note to let him know once we were together and awake. Neither of us does a good job of checking our phones periodically to see what we've missed unless we have a good reason.

A bit after I returned to bed, and hadn't quite fallen asleep yet, I heard my phone ringing across the house. It was 5-ish, and that usually means my Minnesota friend is calling, either having trouble with our sudden two hour difference , ot thinking this is one of my early mornings. I just called her yesterday, but she had company. She promised to call me last night but it didn't happen. No real problem, but I just wanted her to know I cared to reach out and see how her brand new job was going. The net result of that 2 second reflection on who likely was calling, and the need to cross the house to find a hangup instead of getting back to sleep, meant I didn't pursue it. I also forgot about it for hours.

It was after 8 when I mentioned to Steve he had some texts. It turned out they were important. Rich sent them. His bike had broken down (flat tire we later found out) and he need Steve to tell me to go to his friend's house, the friend with the really big pickup, to come rescue him, his bike, its trailer, and its huge load, at a specific intersection. 

There were problems with that request. I don't know where his friend's house is. I have been there, but don't know the address. Besides, the friend was by this hour likely busy working on other people's tax returns, and not available to do a rescue. I did call and left voicemail with Rich's request. At 4PM, I haven't gotten a call back.

Another problem was I was unable to reach Rich with a call back for more details. What happened? How worried should Steve and I be? Which quadrant of that intersection should I look for Rich in? I had after all determined by then, at least partly due to the hours of cold rainy weather he was stranded out in, to drive myself there to see what I could do, even if it was only to provide a very warm and dry seat for a bit. I knew he was on his bicycle, and would be towing a trailer he'd build especially to use with his bike for hauling things, even a person, around in. His need for a large pickup might be mitigated if he could unload some of whatever was on the trailer into my hatch. Despite not having breakfast or coffee yet, I popped in the car as soon as I was dressed for the weather and took off. I'd left him a voicemail, and had Steve text him, to inform him I was on the way.

There was no response.  I went anyway. It was an intersection I knew how to find. 

Once there, I found a major intersection with a stop light. Three corners were heavily commercial and one had a large apartment complex. I looped here and there through them, looking for any sign of Rich or bike. After fifteen minutes of that, I left him another voicemail, letting him know where I called from, and which way I was  heading home from there as the most likely way he'd try to trek back home, looking for him all the way.

Nada. 

A while after returning, I got a call from him. He confirmed one of our early guesses, that he hadn't charged his phone enough to be able to call back. That was fixed. And yes, now he'd gotten my voicemails. No, he hadn't heard from his friend either. But he was fine, inside, warm and dry. I heard a female voice in the background. Since he indicated his location was over a mile (further away!) from the intersection he'd originally called from, I presumed he'd found a bit of a rescue. 

I asked what I could do. He needed a replacement bike tire. It was currently on the front wheel of a bike in the back yard, and he proceeded to direct me to the location of his crescent wrenches, with instructions of how to remove the wheel so I could bring both wheel and wrench to his new location.  I told him 'd see if I could take the wheel off, and call him back. My muscles aren't what they used to be.

It was unexpectedly easy. Those nuts were not tight! We arranged the location to meet, only this time I asked for a landmark to meet him at. He gave me a grocery store and which quadrant of the intersection it was in. Back in the car I went, this time with the dog along. She wasn't included the first trip since I had no idea whether there would be any room in the car if I were bringing some of Rich's stuff back. The original plan from this call was that he'd direct me to where his bike was, but instead he just asked for the wheel and wrench. I did him a bit better, including the washers and nuts which came off the wheel I brought. He seemed pleasantly surprised that I brought them. I simply had assumed that not every bicycle tire axel was identical and it was a good idea to know they fit.

I got home for breakfast by 11. Rich just showed up, almost 5 hours later. It was a ten mile trip. Must have been either some very nice company connected with his rescue, or one hellacious load to haul back.

 

Worst! Haircut! Ever!!!

I just don't speak "hairdresser", I guess. When I walk in I get greeted with "We have you down as a number 2." Uh, say what?  So I ask, "What's a number 2?" And the slightly uninformative reply is, "Oh, that's a clipper." They used to have me down as a number six and didn't explain that either.

OK, I like the very edges around the ears and bottom back finished off with a trimmer. But I've done enough clipping of dog hair to know that there are many attachments you can put in the trimmer to make it stand away from the (head in my case) different distances for different lengths of hair left on the head. Still, what is a number 2? How short or long?

I have learned not to trust the people cutting my hair. Perhaps one cut every other year is the way I wanted. Then that hairdresser moves on.  If I'm lucky, the only complaint is that they just left it a little long in places I can reach myself, and I quickly fix it. Before my shoulders turned into crap, I used to cut my own. I learned by cutting the kids' hair when they were too young to complain. But I can't communicate to the people with scissors.

Here's how I like it these days. Nothing is longer than 2". But that length is for my crown, and spread out a bit in all directions from there. If you poked a pin in the whorl of hair that marks my crown - and I trust we both know you won't because that  would hurt!!! - and the pin was attached to a piece of a string almost 3" long, and you swung it around the pin in a circle, that is the area where it should be 2". Almost like wearing a hair yarmulke, where what's under it is 2" long. 

From that "border" in all directions the length tapers down. On the top of my head I want it an inch long by the time you reach my face. Slow long taper, that's the trick. Then, down along the sides of face, over the ears, and along the nape it should end at the hairline in about a 1/16th inch. Completely clear of the ears. Those two points of hair running slightly down the neck should be shaved off, rounding across the bottom. I can't see how that's so hard to understand.

After I explained this to my scissors person, she asked me, "So, you want the number two then?"

How the hell should I know? And yet, I still let her go ahead.

Things seemed to go reasonably well as she started with the crown. But she reached the 1" length about 2" away from it, not at my forehead. Despite that, she left one side of my head, over my right eye, at 2". It waves there, and she kept pulling the hair down and forward, rather than up to check the length. I fixed that at home.

As she started down the sides of my head to the ears, she reached a half inch as soon as she started. At least she didn't leave it long over the ears, so there's that, I guess.

She left the back for last, starting at the bottom. She was well into a long discussion of the benefits or drawbacks of cutting with scissors or clippers, and after using the scissors going up to the crown, seemingly just the right length, she got out the clippers and repeated the job, taking off another 3/4 inch or more. She announced she was finished, took off the cape keeping some of the clippings off me, and asked how I liked it. There was no offer of a mirror to show me the back. I always have low expectations at this point because it needs to be shampooed and tamed to its new length and combed without their idea of what a blowdrier should do to it before I can really tell. I told her it seemed OK, at least all I could see, and she informed me that was all there was in a short tone before kicking me out of the chair while she swept up my hair. Everybody else in the place escorts the customer to the desk, settles the bill, and then goes back and cleans their station. Not her. Good thing my knees are pretty OK these days while I stood around and waited.

When I got home I got a rather shocked reaction from Steve. It was time for the hand mirror. It told me what my hands hadn't discovered yet, just how short the cut was in back, including one bare spot. Not bald. This was down below the crown whorl. Shaved clean! No wonder she hid the mirror.

And to think I actually tipped her, just because it's what I do for a haircut! 

Here's a tip for all you locals who read this. If you go into the Great Clips in the shopping center between Subway and Fry's, and you see the middle aged woman with barber scissors and a comb tattooed across her left forearm in solid black... RUN!!!

Bye Bye Birdie: The Rest Of The Story

Our 'Broken Bird" has flown, if that expression isn't too off the mark for a person missing a leg. It wasn't of her own volition - or should I say it wasn't because she thought there would be actual consequences for her actions Monday night.

I didn't realize it until Tuesday morning taking the dog walking out front, when I passed a pile of collected things at the corner of the yard. It wasn't recycle day, though it is recycle bin location on those days. Dim as it was so early, I had enough visibility to make out a folded walker in the stack. Shea's of course.

Once the dog was done, I went in the back of the house to wake up Rich. He confirmed she'd gone, while fighting waking up so strongly that I decided to let the details wait till later. I  knew he'd been up late in pain from an abscessed tooth. I didn't know why else he was so tired.

Since the last post about her, there have been some changes. Broken Bird has had problems getting the right kind of insulin prescription. It seems, if I have this right, she needs a combination of fast acting and slow release versions. Her doc sent the wrong scrip in, and as a result she spent a day sick to her stomach in the back of the house.  Rich explained that her blood sugar levels were too high, and spent most of a day keeping her hydrated and cleaning up after her. 

The dog got walked elsewhere all that day, apparently as revolted as we would have been by the smell she would have to have passed through on her way to the back yard. While concerned about Shea, we found the dog's reaction somewhat amusing. I guess I won't expect canine company if I ever get the stomach flu.

When  Shea was well, many of her days were spent with a woman friend, sometimes here, sometimes out and about since her friend has a car. Shea's pharmacy transportation and other trips became the friend's responsibility, presumably voluntarily. Her mother also picked her up for a few hours, but returned her. There is apparently some conflict there.

When I woke the morning after Shea was sick, it was in a bit of a panic. I hadn't seen her go through the house to the bathroom the previous day, hadn't heard her at night, as I have done on most others. Were either of the two making sure her blood sugar levels were OK during that time? Might I find I needed to call an ambulance for her after whatever I saw of her when I took the dog through that now clean(er) space? However, she was sitting up and busy on her phone, either texting or surfing. I didn't ask, just let her know I was glad she felt better.

That was Sunday. Tuesday she was gone, her possessions at the sidewalk. I immediately woke up Rich. I hadn't gone out that way with the dog because Rich spent Monday working on the rollers on the patio door and the way was blocked.

Around 10:00 he rose, and came into the living room and talked to both of us. He had kicked her out the previous evening. She had informed him she was going to quit taking the medication which is the equivalent of methadone but for those addicted to fentanyl, keeping the body from withdrawal but denying the high. 

And here I thought just having diabetes was scary enough!

As soon as she finished passing on that information to Rich, she proceeded to start smoking something she called "blues". (More ignorance here: I never knew there was a smokeable form of fentanyl.) Rich immediately kicked her out of the house, then packed up her belongings, meager as they were, and hauled them to the curb. He informed her that this particular location is a traditional location to anybody passing that whatever sits there is available to anybody wishing to claim it, and if she wanted any she needed to pick it up before they did. As he was explaining this to us, he glanced out the window and noted that most of the pile had disappeared. We have no idea with whom, Shea or somebody passing. Her wheelchair is gone with her. The folding walker and a tote of clothing remained, and I went out and pulled both into the carport. They will be donated locally, per Rich's directions of where, presumably in the next day or two, or perhaps Steve will find he needs the folding walker and it will stay. His balance is getting worse these days.

Rich's Broken Bird has chosen to remain even more broken than we knew. We are left wondering how much of what we "knew" was true: the flu? The reasons for getting kicked out of other places? Was it abuse aimed towards her? Or defense against her version of self abuse? Or are they even mutually exclusive? Did the friend become supplier? I do know we all tried to be kind. She seemed appreciative. But we couldn't fix her even temporarily, just kept her safe from the elements and prevented her diabetes from winning this round. We are a little sad, yet a little not, disappointed but not angry. I guess we've seen too much by now to be angry.

Rich is doing his best to deal with his tooth. Our lives go on.

With A Nod To Pat Schroeder

I listened to her obituary in the car this morning. She was a pioneer in a time when women were supposed to have their place, and it wasn't in Congress. A much quoted retort of hers was, "I have a brain and a uterus, and both work!"

I'd have loved to have had a bumper sticker with that one it. I still would, it it didn't need to say, at my age and after all this living, "I had a brain and a uterus, and both used to work."

Sighhhhh.