Shadows

Sometimes, the hardest part about having a house guest isn't the lack of privacy or the disruption in your routine, or even that they leave the cap off your toothpaste. In the case of my mother, who always packs her own toothpaste, the hardest part is usually saying goodbye.

No, actually, that's not accurate. Saying goodbye takes 30 seconds at the airline terminal, the security guard giving us the evil eye should we presume we are allowed to "park" there. The hardest part is after she leaves, after I've spent three days adjusting to her presence, I suddenly feel an emptiness in the car, a quiet in my apartment, a distinct lack of energy where sunlight used to shine. It's always a long, lonely afternoon that I can never fill because something tangible is missing.

I woke up this morning and the first thing my mom said to me was, "I got sick!"

"What!?" I asked. "What happened?" Was it too much wine the night before, food poisoning, perhaps? Or was it something more serious? My mind raced with the possible afflictions her almost 57-year old body could face.

"I don't know," she answered, tearing up. "I just got sad. The weekend's almost over."

Oh, I thought, relieved, that she said "sad," not "sick." I could handle sad. We go through this every time. Unfortunately, though, it never gets easier.

Like me, my mom left home for another state while the ink was still drying on her college diploma. She never went back. So I often wonder whether she cries not only because she misses me, but because she's afraid I'm following just a little too closely in her footsteps.

This post is so boring it doesn't even deserve a title

I'm kind of disappointed. I thought Gossip Girl started at 8:00 tonight, but I guess I have to wait another hour. Is it wrong that I find myself so obscenely excited about this show? You know, the one targeted at 12 year olds? I was never much into the OC, but this brings back memories of 90210, which, to this day, is still one of my favorites. Saturdays have been known to disappear entirely whenever SoapNet plays a marathon.

I have been slammed at work. Which is a good thing - I like being busy. But even after I leave the office, my mind works overtime, the wheels in the brain keep on turning. I skipped the gym tonight for some much needed R and R, and, oh, to plan for my mom to come visit tomorrow.

My mom is flying in tomorrow night, and then on Friday we are driving up to Santa Barbara and Santa Ynez for a weekend of wine tasting. This is my third time doing this trip now, and I am so excited to share it with her. I know she is going to love it.

I feel like this whole fall is a season of trips, though, and that the season is already slipping away from me. After this adventure, I have a major work event; and then a week later, I am off to Boston for my friend Maria's bachelorette party. A month after that I fly home again for Thanksgiving; a week after Thanksgiving, I fly to Cabo for Maria's wedding. Two weeks later it's back home for Christmas, back to LA for New Years, and I'll wonder where the hell the year went and how on earth it's possible that 32 could be just around the corner. Or in sixth months. Hmm, stress much?

No wonder I need to escape with the CW; it should stand for Chill, Woman.

When T stands for time

I've never really considered myself a pack rat; but I'm the first to acknowledge my addiction to sentiment.

How else to explain the photo albums I've kept since sixth grade - an encyclopedic timeline, photos chronologically placed in the order in which they were taken, subjects' names written below each picture so I never forget a face, or a memory? Or my collection of written journals which rival my photo albums in number and double in detail? My stack of yearbooks in tow since high school, or the camp newsletters that date back 20 years? All have made their way from Boston to Syracuse to Manhattan to LA, taking up room in the back of my closet and corners of my mind.

I also have a thing for T-shirts. At least the ones that I got in college or shortly thereafter, and represent a time in my life I'm still not quite ready to let go. I don't actually wear these shirts anymore - they are horribly out of style or stained or don't fit; yet they sit in drawers ready for the taking, tangible reminders of sorority formals, fraternity philanthropies, or simply a time when I was young and fit and constantly drunk on a cocktail mixed with cockeyed optimism and blissful ignorance.

For the last few years, I've thought about getting the shirts sewn into a quilt. I've found a few places that will do this online, but if any of my readers can personally recommend someone to do it, I'd feel better giving up the shirt off my back if I knew it was going into good hands.

I was cleaning my apartment yesterday and, in need of a rag, opened my bureau to see which shirts, if any, could be sacrificed. I must have about 40 abandoned T-shirts between the two drawers, but it was like opening a Pandora's box of memories, a late 90's time capsule yellowed with age yet too pristine to do my dirty work.

There's this shirt, from the DKE volleyball tournament, the first full week of school my senior year.


It was one of the most fun days of my college career, when boys were in abundance and my confidence was sky high. It would also turn out to be the day that Princess Diana died. The shirt was extra large on me - as was the style back then - and I cut the sleeves and the neckline to show a bit more skin. The shirt has a permanent brown ring under the neckline from when I used to wear it to the gym, and would hold a five pound weight on my chest to do crunches on the incline bench. (I still do those once in a while, but only when I am wearing a dark color.)

This shirt, promoting Jane Fonda's workout, is funny in that it wasn't meant to be ironic, not in the way old 80's and 90's t-shirts are considered hip now.

My grandmother used to volunteer at a Hadassah thrift shop, and she would often mail me care packages when something cute came through. This was in the mid 90's, when "used jeans" started to get popular, and once she heard that I was shopping with friends for vintage Levi's, she started sending me "gently worn" denim from the shop. Keep in mind, however, that the shop was in Sarasota, FL, and the donators were typically either 80 or dead. So the clothes didn't usually work on my college campus.

Grandma sent this shirt along with a purple velour sweatsuit that was so embarrassingly awful, at least until its doppleganger made an appearance in The Wedding Singer. That movie came out within weeks of my grandmother's death, and then I wore the sweatsuit until it literally fell apart. The shirt remains and still makes me laugh every time I look at it.

Finally, if you haven't realized by now, I have a small thing about my body. I'm obsessed with working out, and I am constantly, ten years later, still comparing myself to the physique I had at 21. That summer before my senior year, I was in the best shape of my life. I was exercising all the time, determined to go back to school with the best body on campus, and I'm sure it didn't hurt that I worked that summer in a restaurant, on my feet for hours each night.

This tiny little t-shirt was a badge of my work that summer. Guess, back then, was what like Gucci would mean to me now, and I bought this with money I had earned at the restaurant - the first time, I think, I purchased my own wardrobe, without any help from my parents.

Wearing this shirt, with newly flat abs underneath and paired with those popular platform sneakers, I felt like a superhuman Sporty Spice-meets-GI Jane. (With better teeth and hair, of course.) The picture of pop culture health, 1997's version of Wonder Woman. Ten years later, it's frumpy and faded, but always hoping to make a comeback.

And suddenly the hinges started to unhitch

At least one of these women is on the verge of a meltdown.

Whatchu talkin' about, Willis?

I stood behind this really interesting-looking girl at Starbucks today. She wore super-tight, skinny jeans of a dark wash and no discernible brand name; a baggy t-shirt, haphazardly tucked in to one of her pockets; a gray hoodie with 1960's-style patches that I couldn't decide - did it come that way or did she sew them on herself?; and green ballet flats that weren't at all my style and yet somehow, paired with the rest of her disheveled outfit, looked chicer than the silver ones I had on.

Her long hair tumbled over the hood of her sweatshirt and down her back, and though it was kind of ratty at the ends, like she was long overdue for a trim, I found myself slightly envious of her flowing mane. Thinking that she probably doesn't realize that it all starts to thin around 30. What do they say? Youth is wasted on the young? Yeah, that.

Standing in line, I got kind of lost in it all, this carefully crafted, artistic mess. Who was she, why was she here, ordering coffee amidst all us commuters? Then, the barista asked for her name along with her drink order, and I heard her answer, "Scout."

Now, that's not a common name. There is only one Scout I'm aware of, and that's Scout Willis, middle child of Bruce and Demi. I stole a glance as I moved up to place my order, and sure enough, it was her.

I've never actually seen a picture of her before, at least not recently, but I did see her sister, Rumer, at a party a few weeks ago, and it was the same face. The same porcelain skin, the same features as their movie star parents. (Rumer is beautiful by the way. Photos do not do her justice.) Suddenly, now that I understood she was a celebrity, her eclectic outfit made sense, although her reason for being in West LA didn't. My neighborhood is lovely, but it's not the hippest part of town.

I kind of forgot about all of this until a few hours ago, when my friend Miya started telling me about her day working as an extra on a new movie. She was running through the cast, and then said, "Oh! And guess who stopped by?" Demi and Scout. Apparently Rumer is in the movie, and mom and middle daughter made an appearance on the set.

Isn't that strange? I've never given any thought to Scout Willis in my life, and now she turns up twice in one day? The Celestine Prophecy would say that she has a message for me, but I can't for the life of me think what it might be. Join the Girl Scouts? Don't spread Rumors? Maybe I am just getting Punk'd.

Runners Delight: Too Legit to Quit - now with updates!

Well, for all the bitching and moaning I did about it, the race turned out to be AWESOME. It was one of the most fun things I've done in a long time, and infected me with an energy that lasted the rest of the weekend.

Shortly after I posted on Friday, I re-checked the race website, and it turned out that there would be a bag check, after all. By that time, though, I had already decided that I could easily fit my cell phone, some cash, and my drivers license in a palm-sized change purse, and running with that would be no different from jogging with my iPod. And of course I wouldn't need my iPod, because there would be live music playing throughout the course. (Besides, racing against others is usually motivational enough for me to deem music unnecessary.)

I went to bed early Friday night, and woke up at 6:30 AM Saturday, half an hour before my alarm went off. I ate, stretched a bit, and then headed downtown to the LA Coliseum. The drive was easy, and I pulled into a parking lot a few blocks early simply to get out of the traffic. I had no idea where I was, really, having never been there before, but I just followed the swarms of red t-shirts towards what I assumed must be the starting point. Thank goodness I had kept my cell phone with me, because I never would have found my friend Jen otherwise. Thousands of red robots spanned the length of the football field, talking, laughing, stretching. It was hard not to get excited.

I was worried about my hip, though. I had taken two Aleve before I left the house, and practiced some stretches Jen had shown me the week prior. I figured if I had to walk I would, but, oh, I really didn't want to quit. Around 8:45 we headed toward the starting line, and I joined the 9-minute mile group. Back when I used to run in New York, they never bothered breaking the group down by time, and it could take up to five minutes just to cross the starting live. Here, though, I crossed maybe only 30 seconds after the whistle blew at 9 AM.

Another benefit this race had over those in Central Park was that there were no hills - the whole course was flat! We left the Coliseum and headed down Figueroa. Naughty by Nature was performing about a half-mile in; a bit further down was Dawn from En Vogue, and towards the end of the road, The Sugar Hill Gang. At the end of 2 and 1/4 miles, we simply turned around 180 degrees and ran back the way we came, so we passed each performer twice. There were plenty of runners stopped at each stage, taking photos with their camera phones or dancing to the beats, but I kept going, determined not to stop until I had to. And here's what's fabulous: I never had to. I don't know if the Aleve kicked in, or the stretches finally worked, or my endorphins simply took over, but my hip never hurt to the point where I even considered walking. I was totally fine. And now, more than 24 hours later, it feels better than it has in weeks. I'm not sure what helped the healing process, but I finally feel like it is healing. Yay.

The last half-mile of the race we took a detour down Exposition Blvd., where Sir Mix A Lot was situated. I somehow managed to run by at the exact time he called out "You can have them bimbos, I'll keep my women like Flo Jo..." All the runners went wild. And that was the beginning of the end, a perfect build-up to the finish, where we found ourselves heading underground, running through a dark tunnel beneath the stadium, music blasting and echoing off the cavernous walls, to emerge into the daylight again, crossing the finish line in the middle of the Coliseum. It was spectacular. Screw Central Park. This, quite literally, rocked.

The best, however, was yet to come. Now, I had known that MC Hammer was performing after the race. They called it a "Finish Line Concert". But after the drive-by performances of the other groups, I wasn't expecting much more than a song or two to be played on the field. Something fun, but quick. I was mistaken. MC Hammer came on the stage around 10:30 or 11:00, and performed for a good 45 minutes or an hour, maybe more. I wasn't checking my watch. He was fantastic. Seriously? For an event which was billed as a "Run Hit Remix", a kind of tongue-in-cheek reference to these early 90's bands who had maybe one hit record and are only now washing up on VH1 as has-beens, I really hadn't expected the Hammer to hurt 'em. He killed 'em! The crowd was totally into it - dancing and singing along and shouting at the stage for more. There were back up dancers and audience participation and he performed every song we wanted to hear - and performed them well. Or at least he lip-synced better than Britney Spears. He was all energy, which reinvigorated the crowd, a true feat after running five miles under the late-morning sun.

I took a bunch of pictures on my cell phone, but, naturally, I don't have the cord or the software or whatever it is I need to upload those pictures to my computer. I was hoping the Nike website would post a few photos along with our scores, but they must still be overwhelmed sorting through 10,000 race chips, as the site, so far, hasn't been updated at all. I ended up coming in just past 45 minutes, so it seems like I stuck pretty closely to my 9-minute-mile pace. That's a bit slower than what I typically run on the treadmill, but since my hip is feeling pretty good, I'm thinking I should maybe stick to it for a while.

All in all, this race was was one of the best things I've done in a long time, and I am annoyed at myself for being, in Huphter's words, such a whiner. I get like that sometimes, where I will work myself up over something and convince myself it's going to be one way; and then, often, it turns out being absolutely nothing like I thought. Someone please remind me of that the next time I work myself up in a tizzy and threaten to miss one of the most fun and gratifying mornings of my life.

UPDATE: Well, it looks like they finally posted our scores, although I am a bit confused. It says that I came in 3858th overall and that my average pace was 8 minutes, 53 seconds, which sounds about right. But, they claim that my total time was 1:11:30, which, even factoring in a late starting point, doesn't make sense. I looked at the clock when I passed the finish line, and it was somewhere still in the 45 minute mark. I would have had to have started more than 25 minutes after the whistle blew, or run at a 14 minute mile to get that time. What am I missing? Or is Nike simply suffering from a technical hangover? Anyone?

UPDATE 2: Okay, thanks to my new Reader In Brooklyn, I managed to upload some pictures. More on Flickr.

UPDATE 3: I guess they figured out the race results after all, and while I'm not sure how accurate they are, I am compelled to post them since they are much better than what I wrote before. I finished 995th overall, my time was 44:59, and my average pace was 8"60' (that's how they wrote it; I am aware that 8"60' is actually 9 minutes).

Junior High called. They want their music back.

As if I haven't listened to enough 80's music this week, I am supposed to run the Nike Run Hit Remix tomorrow.

I say "supposed to" because my hip has been hurting for weeks now, and I'm not sure I'll be able to run the whole thing, even to the motivational music of Sir Mix a Lot, Naughty by Nature (not that I hate ya), and MC Hammer who will be performing live at various points throughout the course. Common sense tells me to consider skipping the race, but I've already paid the $40, and well, this baby's got back since slowing down my running schedule over the last few weeks to accommodate my hip.

Frankly, the whole thing has been more trouble than it's worth. Initially, I signed up with a group of friends. Since then, two have had to back out due to injuries, so now I know only two other people running the race. I don't actually care about running with someone; to be honest, I prefer to run alone. But races are only fun when you have people to meet up with at the finish line, to nosh on bagels, share your experiences, and, in this case, laugh at the fact that you are at an MC Hammer concert. Again.

Then there is the fact that it starts at 9 AM. Downtown. Which means I will have to get up at 7 (on a Saturday!) to eat, leave by 7:45 and get on the grounds by 8:30 or so. The only other races I have done were in New York, and started at 10 in the conveniently central Central Park. I'd drop my bag around 9, meet up with friends, and meet them back at the bag drop after the race. This time, I'm pretty sure there is no bag drop. I'll have to leave everything in my car except my keys. Including my cell phone. And without my cell phone, I don't have any way of connecting with my friends once we're at the race, because, oh!, every single runner is required to wear the same red Nike T-shirt that also serves as our race number.

Now, come on, Nike. You couldn't just give us pin-on numbers like a normal race? You want us all to wear the same outfit? Apparently they are also serving as our "tickets" into the concerts, and without them, Naughty by Nature's bodyguards could mistake us for ne'er well doers from the nearby Skid Row. But there's just no way I can count on finding my friends, sans cell phone, in a red sea 10,000 people deep.

Hip hop hooray. Boo ya.

Random Tuesday Goodness

I was driving home from work tonight and almost drove off the road when this song came on the radio:

The last time I heard Boom Boom Boom, I was in sixth grade, not exactly keeping up with dance club beats, and don't think I even realized it WAS a song; rather, I just thought it was something dirty the older kids made up for us to chant in class. I couldn't have even known what the lyrics meant, but I have very vivid memories of singing it with my sixth grade clique.

That's kind of like my experience with the song Supersonic. Like Boom Boom, it came out just before my time, and I grew up chanting the chorus, not realizing until very recently that it came from an actual song. Like, from the radio. All I knew was that the S was for Super and the U was for Unique, the P was for Perfection and so on.

Apparently Paul Lekakis has an anniversary remix out now, and I've watched it seven times already on YouTube. I've watched the Supersonic video four.

At least it's getting my mind off the fact that I came home tonight to find a giant wasp's nest hovering above the front door to my apartment. Okay, it's not giant, but it's horrifically scary and not at all welcome. Is this something appropriate to call my landlord about? I hope she thinks so when she gets my voice mail tomorrow morning.

I do have a hunky neighbor I sometimes call on for stuff like this, but he's not home right now, and, anyway, I have a bit of a problem with the whole "damsel in distress" thing. I don't know why - I have plenty of friends who are happy to play that role - but I guess it's the influence of growing up under such a strong mother. Who would be horrified to think of me singing the Boom Boom song in between rounds of Spin the Bottle.

Because of my job, I receive a lot of email newsletters from various spas and skin care companies. I received one today from a company that we work with on occasion, and I got pulled in by their inspirational lead: I was at at dinner party recently in Los Angeles, and a guest there said he felt like he'd just "woken up" after realizing that he'd spent years working so hard for his company that he had truly sacrificed the time for developing a meaningful life. He didn't have a family or a wife... and while he had been successful at so many other things... now he felt remorseful and unfulfilled.

The letter then went on to talk about how we all need to take more time to smell the roses, and something related to spas, etc. but I couldn't quite follow it because I was still stuck on the lead sentence. She sat next to a single, successful, relationship-seeking man at a dinner party in Los Angeles?

What dinners parties is she going to? Now THAT is news I can use.

Twenty years come and gone

I remember being about 11, getting gussied up in the finest Madonna impersonation my fifth grade wardrobe would allow, anticipating the television premiere of the VMA's with as much enthusiasm as if I were attending them live, in person. I was, of course, going to watch them alone in my parents' living room. But for some reason, dressing up in my denim mini skirt, belted t-shirt, and pointed flats made watching the show so much more enjoyable. I never could grow up fast enough.

Ironically, I've never even been into music. MTV was, at first, symbolic of being a teenager, being cool. I spent afternoons glued to Remote Control and the Top 20 Video Countdown. In college, when I was cool, MTV was synonymous with The Real World; and now, I pretty much just watch it for The Hills. I would never even see a music video these days if I didn't seek it out on YouTube, having my curiosity piqued after weeks hearing the song on the radio. (It never occurred to me until tonight to check mtv.com. Duh? Or bad marketing, MTV?) And yet, this year, I found myself eagerly awaiting the VMA's with the same anticipation I felt back in grade school, if only to see if Britney actually showed up.

She did. And, while I could have phoned in a better performance, I found myself enjoying the rest of the show more than I have since that night back in the 80's. I'm not sure that's a good thing.

"Nobody likes to be reminded of how they are getting older," said Justin Timberlake at one point, referencing Chris Brown, but it was a statement channeled straight from my mind. It was a Justin-centric weekend, in a sense, as I watched the movie Alpha Dog last night, and his CD has been on repeat in my car since last Saturday, when a friend and I watched his SNL appearance saved on her TiVo. I finally got why Cameron would date nine years her junior. I may have been quick to grow up, but I'm often late to the party.

I felt even older, and, well, weirder, when Robin Thicke came on stage and I immediately started salivating. Um, hello. Who are you, O Delicious One? Of course I know that he is Alan Thicke's son, and that he had a record drop at some point this year (do they still call them records?) but I had no idea just how insanely gorgeous he is. As I started notice my body temperature rising, I also started thinking how much he looked like his dad - a younger version, maybe, than I knew, but give it ten years...

And that's when I realized that I'm more attracted to Jason Seaver than Mike Seaver, which makes me officially too old to be watching this.

My other blog is a...

I know that it's only like, two days since Labor Day and, technically, it's not even fall yet, but has anyone given any thought to Halloween?

Okay, okay, I know I was just kvetching about a heat wave, but I've been doing some blogging recently for Halloween Mart, and their new blog, Trick or Treat, officially launched today!

My assignment was to come up with a character - one that would post among many - that could talk about Halloween costumes on a regular basis. After a few weeks of hemming and hawing and not completely understanding the assignment, it hit me.

Please allow me to introduce you to Candy Cotton, Sorority Social Chair at Southern State U. As Social Chair, Candy has theme parties to plan every week. Quite often they require a costume.

This brilliant idea of mine required virtually no stretch of the imagination. I was Social Chair of my sorority back, oh, a hundred years ago, and spent months of my life playing out some post-adolescent fantasy of dress-up, every week bringing a new reason to dress up like a 1920's flapper, 1950's prom queen, or 1970's disco dancer. Once the idea struck, I dragged out all my old photo albums for inspiration, and got lost among the sea of nostalgia and stale Natty Lite from my fridge. And then when I sobered up, I started writing.

Candy will be posting every week or so, and I invite you all to tune in as she navigates the many challenges of dressing for Rush Week, Homecoming skits, and Fraternity parties. Although the latter, let's face it, is more about the art of undressing. Not that I would know anything about that. That part all came from my imagination.

Winds of change

I just got back from driving my good friend to the airport. She had two giant, overweight bags to check, two carry-ons, two cats to store in cargo, and a one-way ticket to New York City.

Things have been happening in two's lately. Mia is just one of two friends of mine moving out of Los Angeles this month. The other is Nicole, and that, fortunately, is only for two months as she ships off to a temporary gig in Chicago. But that is two months more than I would like, as, in the short time that I have known her, she has turned into one of my closest friends.

The funny thing is, twelve months ago, I didn't know either of them. I hung out primarily with another group of girls, two of whom have recently acquired boyfriends, and have sadly, slowly, fallen out of my day-to-day contact. I don't begrudge them for it - rather, I have watched in awe as two of my very best friends have fallen madly, deeply in love with men that I am pretty sure will become their husbands. Their lives are changing. All of our lives are changing.

Amidst all this change - which isn't so much change exactly, so much as it makes me think of clouds, moving quickly in the breeze, morphing into new formations just as you fixed your eye on the old ones - I've found myself especially inspired by two other friends that have recently become part of my social landscape.

First, let me say, I don't know that I've ever been "inspired" by a friend, before. That term sounds like something better saved for a grown-up, a Professional Corporate Person perhaps, someone with their shit together a bit more than I. But I have made some extraordinary girl friends here in Los Angeles, two of whom recently decided that life was too short to coast through, waiting for a fairy prince to save them. These are women. They've started businesses, restarted their lives, made sweeping changes in order to better themselves. Both have just gone through possibly their hardest years ever and I know they are dealing with their own seemingly-bottomless wells of insecurities and obstacles. I, however, just see two pillars that inspire me to build. On myself.

I'm sharpening my Number 2 pencils, y'all. This is going to be a busy fall.

Too Darn Hot

I'm one of those people who are always cold.

I typically wear long sleeves until the temperature reaches 80. My office mates know that unless the rest of building is sweltering, I'll be bundled up in a sweater, wearing sweatpants under my skirts at my desk. My own personal motto is, "the hotter the better," and my only complaint about living in LA is that the summers here don't get nearly as warm as they did back in New York. Which is also what has allowed me to live without air conditioning for the past few years - I very rarely need it.

Except that when I do - like today, for instance, when the outside temperature has spent its third day in triple digits and the indoor temperature is exactly the same, except, oh, WITHOUT THE BREEZE - I'm actually hating the heat, hating everything that is coming in contact with my skin, especially the sweat that won't stop dripping down it, a dirty little reminder that I should be careful what I wish for.

I had planned to stay in and be productive all day today. My next four months are going be a whirlwind in terms of work, trips, and social obligations, and I was looking forward to spending a chunk of time today getting my finances in order, making detailed to-do lists and spreadsheets, and knocking out some business stuff that has me a little stressed. But it's just too darn hot.

I went to the beach yesterday. While it was better than being in my apartment, it offered little in terms of cooling relief. So I think that now I am going to spend about two hours at my air conditioned gym - until my iPod runs out of battery or I pull something, whatever comes first. I am actually going to bring my stuff and shower there, as getting dressed in the air conditioned locker room is sounding much more enticing than air-drying in front of my fan. Then I might have to seek another source of air conditioning, like a mall, which will completely counteract my intentions to budget; although I have a feeling that the throngs of people slopping up Sale items may make me just crazy enough to leave, and head back into the heat.

All I know is that I am having ice cream for dinner.