Dislocation Bonus

It may not be the nature of all vacations, but it has surely been a recurring motif in mine since I started college; I get less sleep and have much more to do during a weekend home than at any other time in my life. I try to fit 20 hours of activity into 18 hour days, ending up quite stretched and useless, and we all know I haven’t been stretched in awhile. In that sense, and in many others, to be sure, I had a great vacation. If I can be granted a grey area – the ability not to put all my eggs into an enthusiasm basket if you will – I posit that travelling surely made me and my swiftly orbiting personal universe a site for sore eyes. With only 24 hours in a given day, sometimes you just have to catch (and release) a few red eyes.

My flight out of Raleigh occurred during a mini-monsoon on a Wednesday afternoon and by the time the plane took the sky, my first book was already half consumed like the first few chapters of an Italian meatball sub. I was held against my will in Cleveland, Ohio for a short layover, but managed to escape with naught but a dry mouth from a stale blueberry muffin. Throughout Wednesday, I spent a lot of time on personal reflection; I glanced intensely at every reflective surface I passed, trying to decide if I liked my new glasses. I knew my obsession had to stop when the stewardess knocked on the bathroom door to make sure I was still alive, with me having been in the bathroom staring into the toilet water for the better part of the flight.

There were many wonderful people traipsing through the Grand Rapids airport late on that Wednesday night, but only two mattered to me. They both happen to share my eye color, last name, and a genetic predisposition to dismiss the unsatisfactory parts of living in favor of idea or phrase that stimulates at least “two separate conceptual subnetworks” of the brain. The ride home was one typical to such topically specific conversations and not unlike thousands that have happened and will happen to those that think they aren’t like their parents but are actually imperfect amalgams of them. You know you are a special visitor when your dad calls shotgun for you, not against you.

The next day saw me trying on my wedding suit and fishing for compliments. When I walked out of the dressing room into the tuxedo store with my legs spread out far enough that I could easily have touched the floor with my knees, the lady asked me what was wrong. “I think the pants are too big.” She rolled her doe eyes like a pre-dawn baker and immediately cinched what needed cinching. I asked if I looked good and she was smart enough to pretend to be too busy to answer. I ate the rest of my questions for lunch, but saved some room for the rehearsal dinner for my cousin Kyle’s wedding. Prior to eating, I was taught how to stand in front of a piece of tape so that during a time of high emotion I would appear to be invisible and any brides in the area would take on an angelic glow. I was told this skill would come into use during the actual wedding.

During dinner I witnessed my cousin Kelly make the perfect face of disgust when the man sharing our table got one entire loaf of pre-salad bread to himself. The dinner was great, the company was entertaining, and the wedding party was just getting started. Jake (not a member of the wedding party, never think it), Kelly, and I caught up later for a late night dune climb. Later, on the beach, we found a barely living ferret buried in the sand. His head was just above high tide, and droplets of water were hanging from his eyelids; the saltless teardrops of the damned. After pulling him out, we found his body shaved from the neck down and covered in paper mache. Makes puppy mills look like prep schools.

Saw Funny People with Jake and Kent on Friday, and then went downtown Grand Haven for the ever glorious “beer tent.” A people populated parking lot handing tickets to people in return for beverage. The crowd consisted of those trying to appear older and those wishing they were are young as those trying to appear to be a bit younger than those wishing. I can’t tell you how many times Tyler Westerberg said “A toast! To the King family!” but it was probably ten. I ran into two ladies I met once at U of M and walked up to them, saying, “My memory tells me that one of you took a lot of Spanish classes and that one of you has a birthday on March 17^th.” This extremely creepy statement was taken in all the right ways, and they were quite impressed because I was right on both accounts. Turns out one of them is looking for a job in Raleigh. We live in a small world, and my brain is even smaller than that cliché.

The night was the same as any other, but I happened to stay up longer than usual, so it seemed like a “late” night. To make sure I didn’t miss breakfast in the morning with one of my best friends, I borrowed a phone charger and fell asleep with the phone on my chest so that I would be sure to wake up at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock. I jumped up sleeping in the morning, electrified by cellular vibrations in more ways than one, and didn’t wake up until I showered. It wasn’t until I got back to my room that I noticed that harbinger of bad news… the blinking red “You’ve got a text message!” light on my phone. I wouldn’t be seeing my friend. I lay back in bed and sank figuratively lower than the moisture from my towel. Like I said, red eyes aren’t exclusive to “late” nights or flights and my vacations are never relaxed.

Mark, a new acquaintance and the bride’s little brother, made for an entertaining wedding prep. He didn’t show up for pictures before the wedding because he had gone out surfing. When Someone finally tracked him down at the beach, he couldn’t button his shirt or vest straight. If people were snakes, I’m sure several people would have hissed at him for his indiscretion. In his defense, the waves were reportedly more epic than The Odyssey.

I showed off my tape standing skills during the ceremony, and drew no attention away from the beauty of the church- and state-sanctioned union. The wedding went off without a hitch (HAHA ha). Afterword, when we were supposed to be taking wedding party pictures, Mark was nowhere to be found. The aforementioned Someone found him at home, changed out of his tux. He was dragged back and we commenced to take some beautiful but time-constrained pictures. The reception was situated firmly within the borders of a rare northern hurricane, but the rain did not deter celebration or inebriation. Trevor, the groom’s brother and my closest cousin (in age only), gave a rousting and roasty toast, and then the prancing began. Dancing with so many people of the same last name should never be as fun as it was; but it was, especially considering that there was one person there who had gained the last name only hours earlier, and legally too. I also secured the age-old symbol of eternal bachelorhood, the garter.

My younger friend Ben, whom I had been unable to cross courses with throughout the weekend, asked if I would like to grab an early breakfast with him before I hit the road. He asked this, and I agreed, late on Saturday night while under the influence of drink. Despite my trepidations about another potential early morning equitable in fun to a baby boiling, I agreed. Despite Ben’s last words to me being “Pick me up at 8 AM at slip 9 on Chinook pier,” I agreed. As I pulled up to slip 9 in the morning, I called Ben. A phone call, however, promises little, only that two phones will temporarily acknowledge one another. It does not promise anything about human behavior. Ben didn’t pick up. At 8:20 AM, as I was about to pull away, I tried one last time by texting Ben “My yacht is bigger than yours.” A bleary-eyed and aspiring dentist named Benjamin emerged from an expensive looking yacht. He let me buy him breakfast.

And then, I was on the road again. You will hear about this very soon…

aCute fear of Flying

Housing update: Officially, as of last night, Mike and I have secured living arrangements* for at least the next year. We will be living with Chris, who graduated from Duke in ’07. He is an enthusiastic guy who likes HBO shows and living in nice townhomes. I originally thought the house was part of a rental community, but we actually have a landlord; he owns two connected townhomes, one of which we will be living in. I however, will be living in both. The girl who is currently occupying my lavender colored room isn’t due to move out until September, so I will be staying in

a room in the adjacent townhouse. Therein lays the benefit of having a landlord that owns both. I am going to shift my stuff to the garage tonight, say goodbye to Chad and Lauren in the morning, and wash my hands of Flemington Rd. forever. I will miss the perpetual marathon of Friends, and the tasty ice cubes that our freezer managed to birth.

*Disclaimer: we found this place through Craigslist, so any future jailtime or brain damage resulting from said discovery should be blamed solely on one WGK. Address: 213 Columbia Place West, Chapel Hill, NC 27516

I just bought a bike on the internal company “For Sale” mailer. It’s a sturdy beast, and it now sits snugly in the back of the Intrepid. If my car has any presentiment skills, it would do well to crush the bike before I can unload it. I have a feeling that any travel outside of work will be done via my new trike, minus the training wheels. If I leave the training wheels are, they are sure to poke holes in my diaper.

Disconsolate Dreams: On Thursday night, I had perhaps the most depressing dream I’ve had since I was five; only the second real nightmare in my life. When I was in Kindergarten, I had a dream about a red sponge brontosaurus being lynched and screaming in pain. I remember I woke up crying. On Thursday night, I dreamt of running through a small desert in Spring Lake (my hometown) barefoot. I was sidestepping poisonous snakes, successfully dodging through to the other side where my family was standing. One of the snakes managed to nip me, but it was just a small flap of skin, like I had cut myself with a piece of paper. When I pulled at it though, it revealed that my entire foot was empty and a rotten black; it was being eaten away by the poison. So, for the rest of the dream, I had fifteen minutes to run around town and say goodbye to everyone who was ever important to me. My family was on the other side of the desert, so I grabbed them first, fiercely. I was able to find everyone, extended family and all, in fifteen minutes. I went to the Heins’ and then the Mikrut’s, finding Jake with his shirt off (typical), and shared a few laughs with him and his mom. The only people I didn’t get to say farewell to were my Dad (because he was on the phone with Poison Control, trying to find a cure) and Bert. I know I can’t adequately describe my fear, but let’s just say I discovered that desperation can undoubtedly equate to terror.

Big Berth Day: With that dream being my weapon of mass portent, I set out to invade the weekend. Friday night was dedicated to the celebration of Sumertime Susan’s birthday. The setting was Rum Runners, a dueling piano bar in Raleigh. The characters you all know and love. Mike paid $10 for them to play the Michigan fight song, and then some cretin paid $11 for them to stop and play Ohio State’s song instead. It was a great night, and I now reserve a special part of my heart for the love of piano bars and Gypsy’s Shiny Face Diner, where we ate afterward.

Was he hot? Was he sweaty? On Saturday, I hung out at Wisconsin’s pad with him and his friend from Atlanta. Also in attendance: Zhang it! and a guy from Wisconsin that has been here for a year, Luke Skyhook. Skyhook was telling us about how he lived next to a football player when he was in the dorms back in college. Whenever he would walk by down the hallway, the guy would be completely naked, lying on his couch with naught but a hand towel hanging out on his “front porch.” Apparently, the guy was a 300 lb defensive lineman. Without really thinking, I said “Was he hot?” In response I got shocked looks from everybody, and several pointed jabs at my sexuality. Trying to rectify my mistake, I said, “I meant, was he sweaty?” Again, nothing but shock and awe. I finally was able to communicate that I was only trying to find out why he was naked and not trying to visualize him for my own mind vacation. Still, I’ve managed to plant a seed of suspicion in my colleagues; as it has long been said, curiosity killed the cat and prying polished off the pussy. While the rest of the group joined the neighbors in an outdoor session of beer pong, I lay on a towel in the parking lot and made friendship pacts with a robot dog (a terrierist from Yorkshire) for, quite literally, at least two hours.

Snitches ain’t Snit Sunday: Went to an outdoor mall with Aaron to escort him to the AT&T store to set up his iPhone. Stumbled about Best Buy for awhile, bought a Livestrong t-shirt (in support of Johnny One-seed) and an outdoor volleyball at Dick’s. We played a few games of volleyball, and when I ran back in the words to fetch an errant serve, I almost stepped in a three-foot-long black snake. Déjà revuelta. (My best foreign language pun to date! Stop revolting... this have happened before.)Went to see the most recent Harry Potter at night with Mike and Zhang it!, and it was actually quite ambitious, much better than those previous and what I had expected.

Peach Pitney: Tonight after volleyball I am hoping to meet up with Rachel, a friend from high school. She has ties to my sister (volleyball), Bert (girlfriends!), and Duke (boyfriend!). I assume she is looking for a job related to nursing, but I guess I will find out more tonight if we are able to meet up. I need to snatch my glasses from the vision center, either tonight or tomorrow morning, so I look good for the Great Lakes.

"An inferior elephant is still way cooler than almost every other animal"

I set up an e-mail mailer list today that includes all the new hires I know. I am trying to reach out and connect with other new hires that aren't in Information Technology (my organization.) I'm a bit miffed that we have no idea who exists out there outside our realm. In the e-mail I said:

New hires are as precious as elephant teeth around these parts, and us jewels should band together so that we have more bargaining power.

Almost immediately I was called out by Mike (6-pack,) who said that the tusks of elephants are not actually considered teeth, and that the "cheek" teeth themselves had almost no value. I was horrified that I had helped to propagate a misconception, and I began to draft an appology e-mail. I was about to send it when I came upon this site. It helped me show Mike the error of his ways, and made me feel a bit better about my statement that elephant teeth have some worldly value. Mike admitted to me that he was a bit of an elephant "connousier" and that they had been his favorite animals since 2nd grade. I felt this was an important turning point in our relationship; Mike admitted that he was wrong (which he rarely is) and he also found out that I repect his choice of an elephant as his favored animal. You need only read the title of this post to see how much Mike thinks of elephants, especially African ones.

We all know the meerkat is the favorite child of Mother Nature, however.

Is that a hacker in your pants or are you just trying to scare me?

Thursday

The pace of work was not quite up to what I thought it would be and I had no assigned activities for the afternoon; I thus became obsessed with making my laptop and phone talk to each other. In order to accomplish this, I would have to take advantage of something known as Bluetooth technology, where information can be transferred wirelessly through connected sources. Twins and triplets have been using this technology for eons, but I have faithfully avoided it because I hate people who walk through the grocery store seemingly holding palavers with themselves.

After about ten computer restarts and some in-depth process switch-knifing, my computer finally announced that it could “see” my phone. This capacity, however, as with many such capabilities, came at a costly penance; my self-respect. About an hour before I finally got the connection to work, a lady sitting about 50 feet from me stood up and shouted “Who is trying to hack my computer?!!” A bunch of people gathered around her and chattered as she showed them her screen. “It says ‘Please enter the access code for Blackberry XXXX-XX!’” Thankfully, because everyone was distracted by the chaos, nobody noticed me writhing in my cube with my head down, yanking my battery out of my phone. “There,” she declared, “it’s gone. Hope that wasn’t a security breach.” I heard her asking who had a Blackberry, and I threw the phone in my bag and went for a walk.

More to come: housing update, worst dream ever (snakebite/death warrant), Summertime’s birthday weekend in downtown Raleigh, mailbox, HP6

Christmas in Calamityville

Most of the time I wear my badge proudly; it perches illicitly on my pocket like a motel-room purchase on a credit card statement. Sometimes it falls off. Sometimes it catches the glare of the sun and reflects my features to the heavens, announcing my wonder (and confusion). Mostly, it just watches the world stand still while I sift through the crumbs of my daily bread. There are times, however, when it slips inside my pocket to rest. This normally happens when I am done with work and tuck it in so it isn’t swinging in all directions and rubbing things the wrong way.

It doesn’t appreciate being tucked.

I drove over to the gym after work on Monday. I approached the door, bedecked with handheld accessories, athletic shoes to complement my athletic stance, and a bag full of workout clothing. In my pocket, the aforementioned piece of plastic with a pompous personality. With my hands full, I am at a loss for what to do to access the building. At first I consider putting everything down, but then I ideate and decide to bifurcate from that stupid idea, opting instead to press the card to the reader through the lining of my pants. I lean against the building, but my hips are too low slung to reach the reader. I lift my leg up, so that I look like a dog marking his territory with the musk of the misinformed, but my badge slides away from the reader and inches closer to the area marked Private Access. Next, I swing my leg open, touching the inside of my knee against the wall, so that now it looks as if I am attempting to mount the sexless and decidedly impassive card reader. This almost works, but in order to spark this particular electronic happy ending, I have to thrust upward against the wall. The door beeps; I realize I have no available hands to open it, but a man steps up from behind me and opens it for me with an amused flair. I briefly lose interest in living.

At some point during my time at the gym, perhaps even while I was pushing my dignity through the business end of a nutcracker, Lily Pad’s pad was getting robbed. Thousands of dollars of goods were taken but the neighbors saw nothing, and the thieves were bold enough to attack during the day. I couldn’t fall asleep last night after hearing Lily Pad say that the police didn’t really have any ideas on how to follow up on the crime. Into the wee hours of the morning, I poured over satellite images of his neighborhood, marking points where lookouts would be posted and where they likely loaded up the goods. There is an access road running along the pond behind his house – a great place for a getaway vehicle. I would like to ask the people at the end of that access road if they saw anything interesting, but I likely won’t. I think I’ll let the cops not do their job.

Before that late night of detective work, I went over to Brandon’s house to help load up the Budget truck he had rented to move back to Michigan. I put to use my excellent moving skills: twisting couches around corners, tossing hutches through tight spaces, and pinching mattresses in such a way that they practically carry themselves. I still remember the first time I ever helped anybody move. It was a lady from church and I was maybe eight years old. She bought everyone pizza after, and I fell in love with being helpful. The next time I volunteered to help someone move, I kept a keen eye on the relocater, waiting for them to order food for everyone, and started to get nervous when the vehicles were packed and my stomach started to throw punches. I remember asking, “When are we getting the pizza?” and getting shoved roughly aside and told how inappropriate I was being. Since then, I have always harbored some suspicion toward people that are moving, but my suspicions turned out to be merely passing pigeons last night, as it was agreed upon early that we were working in return for grub. I demolished a large container of sweet-n-sour chicken with my deft chopsticking skills, which I picked up from Zhang it!.

Mike and I have a late date (10:30 PM) tonight to checkout a possible living arrangement procured through the online intercourse haven known as Craigslist.org. There are some nice three bedroom townhomes not a stone’s throw from downtown Chapel Hill, and a nice young fellow is looking for two more to round out his chic adobe abode. It isn’t adobe, it’s brick, but I can never say “No” to anagram soup. Anyhow, the guy is coming back from D.C. tonight, and understands that Mike and I are jonesing to sign on a place, so he told us to come over late tonight. I plan on keeping my back to the wall, as usual, and I told Mike to bring a gun, so we should get out of there safely. If I don’t come back, however, split up my things accordingly. All I ask is that my EEYORE mug gets donated to charity. Which reminds me of the time in high school when Bert and I went around asking for donations to the Battered Women’s Club instead of the Hooved Animal Rescue. Needless to say, we got more donations than anyone else.

In a quirky turn of events, I went to pay my cell phone bill with Alltel yesterday and instead of owing them $80, they owe me $220. So, if someone out there put three hundred dollars on my phone account, declare yourself and I’ll treat you to an ice cream, because there is no way I’m calling up Alltel to complain. If it was a mistake on their part, then it is literally Christmas in July. And I heard Summer Santa doesn’t really care whether you’re naughty or nice.

Oh no! Gawd-zeera!

So since Tuesday I have been working the phones at work and am starting to get a bit of a feel for the deal. It feels especially fulfilling when I ask to be granted access to their desktop and I am given a resounding “Yes, take me!” Honestly, they never say no. I rummage around for a bit on their computer, address the dilemma, and then ask if they would like to upgrade to premium service for a small monthly fee.

“Just make that check out to Wesley King, yep, $15 please.”

“Hey, Leslie?”

“Nevermind.”

From the time when I used to check out library books as a timid young homeschooler, many have asked “Leslie?” after I say Wesley. The librarians demanded that I whisper, and they misunderstood quite frequently. I fail to correct, and this may someday be my downfall.

_________________

On Thursday, I was shadowed by an awesome Jamaican guy who is looking to buy a home in the area. We traded war stories, as the calls were coming in quite frequently, and it was a good time. My second favorite call was from Italy, where I could hardly make out what the man was saying. At the end of the call, the man said “Thanks Leslie, Ciao!” When Mr. Jamaica busted out laughing and asked what the Italian had called me, I said “Chow.” He thought this was the funniest thing in the world and started referring to me as a little doggie treat (Haha, chow) and he probably thinks my name is Leslie. I don’t mind, I like people with accents.

On Thursday night we went out to celebrate Andy’s birthday, an engineer who has been here for a year. Before I went over to join the festivities, I went to an elementary school to see if I could pick up any little kids. When I realized that I had mistimed my abduction (it was 5 PM,) I kept on rolling to the playground, where I got out and went to the basketball court for a “New Hire” event that Summertime Susan had coordinated. It ended up being only I, Candlewick, Summer, and Man U., due in no small part to the fetal and skittish nature of Interns and the fact that many people went over to celebrate Andy’s b-day after work. We four disbanded, after consoling Summertime, and I headed over to join the birthday festivities.

At the point in the evening when the celebrations and libations were winding down and we began to dread the next planned event, going to see “I love you, Beth Cooper,” we found ourselves shoved in the stuffy corner of a place called “Brixx.” Despite the two x’s, there were no scantily clad Midnight Cowgirls – we were only there having a drink. We made Andy order the most womanly drink possible – a maithai – and he asked the waitress for as many umbrellas to put in the drink as she could carry. She refused, citing some faux prose about their being out of umbrellas, so Andy requested tiny plastic swords. While she was away getting them, Zhang it! said something along the lines of “Did you guys see something outside?” and I immediately turned to him and said “Gawd-zeera!” in a perfectly flowing Asian accent. This joked worked quite well on many levels; everyone had been making fun of him the rest of the night for being Japanese even though he is decidedly Chinese. Countless times he had said “I’m not Japanese, bro.” What could he do when I brought up the most fearful monster ever to walk the streets of Japan? Hang his head and chuckle, while everyone else enjoyed my joke. After tossing out another line, “Four swords and seven beers ago…” I had done a sufficient night’s work of hooking the crowd and convincing them that you don’t mess with the best – especially when the best is Wes.

I’m not even going to mention how bad the movie was (13% approval rating). That might have counted as a mention.

On Friday, Michigan Mike and I convinced some people to come up and enjoy the pleasantries of Chapel Hill. I got to show off my Duck Crossing sign, and had enough “social juice” in me to go up to a group of peoples at the bar and start the conversation of how dominant the Big Ten is. One girl was from Penn State, her boyfriend from New York, and we had quite a good time talking to them. However, on the other side of the table sat a guy from Fort Bragg and his Flossie, and we had a hard time getting them to smile. Apparently he had his civvies in a knot.

Saturday I got an eye exam, glasses, and contacts that added up to more expensive than my car and my sense of accomplishment combined. Though my line of “Hey babe, I got vision insurance” didn’t quite have the potent effect that I’d hoped for, it did significantly lower my expense. I find it a bit nauseating that the only time I can knock $400 dollars of a bill is when I am gainfully employed; makes me feel a bit guilty. Well maybe someday I can write a book on the psychological damage inflicted on 22-year-olds with no fear and no emotions that for the first time in their lives find themselves with insurance… but probably not. I guess for now I’ll just grin and bare it. Har har.

At one point when I was picking out my glasses I had six ladies surrounding me, judging my looks and sightlines. Four were employed by the vision center, one was picking out her own pair before I came in, and one looked homeless. Well, this is America, and her opinion counted two (speeling?). I had narrowed it down to about ten pairs, and these ladies helped me get to two, and then there ensued a striking debate between several ladies about which pair I would take home with me. Deciding factors included but weren’t limited to: local female preference (southern wedding belles?), fashion trends, my strong cheekbones, my “native” complexion (what?), dress style at my workplace, weather patterns, and my penchant for skipping causation and going straight to effect. It was an orgy of opinions, and after it was over I had to go home and check myself for visualizational diseases.

This is how I will look when I put them on:

At 1 PM, Michigan Mike and I checked out a cute little piece of a place within walking distance of downtown Chapel Hill. As we were leaving, the realtor of record, maybe a few years older than us, looked at the floor and said in a whisper “There is one other interested party.” This was spoken with so little passion and such obvious acquiescence that I had to stop myself from laughing in his face. If no other places pique our interest over the next few days, we will probably end up there, unless that “other interested party” swoops in like a bird afowl.

Chilled at Lily Pad’s for the rest of the day, at another infamous southern Barbie-queue, thus leading us to an eventless Sunday afternoon. Well, there was the library trip.

I decided to walk, since I had about 100 pages left to read in my book, and I found myself with about ten left when I got there, so I sat down to finish in the lobby. It was there that I encountered my first legitimate OCD sufferer. A man with a bike helmet on was on his way out, but had to perform a specific task first. He would walk almost all the way to the sliding doors, and then walk back and stand on top of one particular tile, circle it, and walk back toward the door. He must have done this 7-10 times before he left. I was quite somber afterward, and had trouble finishing the last few pages of my read. I can’t imagine a life with such a burning need to ignore all else and only replicate movements; a life replete with repeat. As I finished reading, I looked up to see a tiny Asian boy bouncing on the bathroom door. He was looking and me and giggling; bouncing over and over again, and opening the door a little more with each bounce. He finally pushed too hard and fell all the way through, with a look of shock etched on his face that reminded me of how I feel when I think there is one more step at the top of a dark stairway and my foot hits the flat floor instead. There was a crash from in the bathroom, and then he bust out with a huge smile directed at me. It made me feel a bit better about watching the guy with OCD, but no less guilty.

In brighter news, I found the other book my Elliot Perlman, the author of Seven Types of Ambiguity, which is my favorite book. The guy is a barrister in Australia and has only written two books, so this was quite a pick-up, at least for me. After the library, went down to work to play some bball with Zhang it! and Wisconsin, and a few frolicking others. I’m quite spent, like a vial of tadpole spit after a pond frog drinking contest. Now I sit, getting ready to read, getting ready for a new work week, and looking forward to a trip home after this next weekend.