Mr. SponsorPants

Things I learned (or was reminded of) this week(end). An ongoing series.

• In observing alcoholics (myself included) this weekend, it struck me how readily our ego and defiance work together (at lightning speed, and virtually unseen) to perceive a criticism or sleight from someone when none is offered -- that is, someone is talking literally about themselves, but what we hear -- and react to -- is a comment about us -- a comment they were not making at all.

• People make up a lot of rules in their head about sharing in AA meetings that do not exist.  While some sharing is more productive than others -- and some meeting formats request people abide by certain suggestions (no cross talk, for example) -- there is really no "wrong" sharing.

• Alcoholics Anonymous does not try to explain God, it only suggests we seek one, as we understand them.  Being angry or doubtful or cynical or critical of a belief in God is absolutely no barrier to working the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous.

• Serenity is learning to live with unanswered questions and unresolved issues.

• As it says in the Big Book, when discussing our inventories, "the world and its people are often quite wrong."  Looking at my part in things -- so crucial for my peace of mind and continued sobriety -- is not the same as saying that a wrong thing is not, in fact, wrong.

• Anonymity helps me remain teachable, as well as to hear peoples' shares in meetings with a minimum of filters.

• Listening to a 5th Step is, when done with real attention and a true intent to be of service to another person in recovery, actually very hard work -- well worth it, but hard work nonetheless.

the lonely man

He is not an alcoholic.  Barely had a drop of alcohol and never done any drugs (any!) in his whole life.

He had been married for 28 years.  Five children, ranging in age from early 20's to early teens.  A devout man of faith, his life guided by the Torah and the faith of his fathers.

Nearly fifty years old and suddenly divorced (married young), it is a turn in his story that is strangely both sad and joyous.  An ending and a beginning.  He embarks on a new way to be true to himself -- a new life.  To say more is to share details which are not mine to tell, and really not the point of this story.  I am compelled to add, though, that while divorce is always a sad thing (well, almost always I suppose), the responsibility for his marriage ending can be shared with his ex-wife -- there are not really any villains to the piece.  Wreckage, to be sure, but no bad guys, and little blame.

Still and all, from a home full of life and wife and children and memories he finds himself living alone, in a small studio apartment, in many ways starting from scratch.

We met casually.  Socially.  I had no idea when I started making small talk that I would be presented with a confused and broken heart, a man who felt somewhat abandoned by the faith of his fathers, who could talk himself into feeling brave by day, but alone, in his little studio apartment, was lost and lonely each night.

I did what AA taught me to do.  When I realized he needed to talk, that this was not some casual chit-chat, but a person in pain -- maybe more pain than they even realized themselves -- I listened.  I wasn't uncomfortable with the deeply personal nature of what he started to tell me.  I didn't feel any judgment of his story, or fear when he tentatively revealed how lost and needy he had become.  I knew I didn't have to really do anything, just witness for him, and from being listened to he would find some measure of comfort, maybe begin some healing even if only for a while.  I have seen that -- and felt it -- enough to know it is true.  That knowledge -- and that gift -- is mine by way of Alcoholics Anonymous.

"It's like you spend your whole life inventing yourself, first as a student, then a worker, then a husband, then a father ... "  I nodded, and just looked at him calmly, comfortable with letting him find his own words, another AA gift I've learned, from all the hours I've sat and listened to sponsees -- and all the hours sponsors have sat and listened to me.

"... and after a lifetime of inventing myself, I find out I'm a schmuck, and I've been kidding myself, and so was my ex-wife ... and ... and now I guess I have to re-invent myself."

I smiled, but as sometimes happens when people are raw, they are also guarded, and ready to take offense when none is intended.

"What?  You think that's funny?  My pain should be your punchline?"  he asked.

"No!  No no no... it's just that... well, I guess I have some little bit of experience with re-inventing yourself." 

Mollified, he went on, and as I said, mostly I listened, letting some measure of his hurt and confusion hopefully bleed out through the words, offering only a nod or "uh huh" as seemed appropriate.

"But the hardest part in a way," he said "is how do I make friends now?"  He was a grown man, father to five children, with advanced degrees and no small amount of business acumen, from what I could tell.  But none of that could hide the kind of naked plea inside such a thing, when it is said with the honest bewilderment I saw in him.  I suggested that in reinventing himself it seemed he would have to relearn how to connect with people, too.

We talked more, I said that he was perhaps being hasty in thinking he was abandoned by his faith, and that these things took time.  I was grateful that my frame of reference is based on AA's tolerance of any path, spiritually speaking.  I didn't have to side with him against "them" -- or with "them" against him -- in the question of his, or any, religion.  Only share my own experience that maybe God isn't too worried about some of the things which some people suggest God might be worried about, and that no one owns prayer and meditation -- and that maybe there is not one right way to practice it.  He was an intelligent man, these were not light bulb sparking ideas I was suggesting, but sometimes we need to hear people say the things we hope are true.

Eventually I disengaged (I was happy to listen, happy to share, but as with many lonely people there is a well of Need that can swallow you whole, if after a couple of hours you don't gently, firmly step back) but I made sure to exchange emails and we're set to have coffee later this week.

On the way home I thought about that one plaintive question he asked:  "... how do I make friends?"

And I thought about how AA offers that in such an embarrassment of riches.  Whole roomfuls of people ready to greet you, to hear you out, to take that most valuable of commodities, their time, and spend it on you. 

What's that line from the Doors song?  "People are strange, when you're a stranger..."  I know not every town, not every meeting, may offer what I have found in Alcoholics Anonymous.  Though I have been to meetings in hundreds of cities in dozens of states (and a couple of countries) over the years, and always found that bit of magic I first encountered (sometimes a blaze, sometimes a spark, but always there) I suppose it is naive to claim it can be found in all meetings... but I'll lay odds that it can be found in most.  I've heard many, many more stories about welcome and acceptance than I have of anything else in AA.

AA doesn't own a friendly and inclusive philosophy, but certainly offers it with little or no requirement, and practices it in earnest.  (And if reading that makes you angry, or doubtful, I can only shrug and say that has been my overwhelming experience of Alcoholics Anonymous, for many years now.)

AA has offered me an avalanche of love and support, a tidal wave of warm, clumsy, often awkward, sometimes infuriating, messy and wonderful human contact:  True friends.

Even those of us who show up too damaged to embrace it can at least stand next to it, and know that it is there, and maybe somehow eventually learn to take it in.

This morning, sitting in a meeting I love and feel loved in, against the backdrop of my conversation with the lonely man it was so clear how much AA has offered me in so many ways -- but most especially in the gift of friends.

It was only when I sat down to write this that, as is often the way, the point of something I'm thinking about is revealed to me.

The real healing gift from AA in this regard is not the having of true friends.

It's the learning how to be one.

... but only if we keep coming back.

Towards the end of the meeting he raised his hand and shared.

He spoke quietly.  He was deeply honest, talking about issues from his life and how it seemed his alcoholism had taken them and used them as fuel for especially dark and self destructive things.  It was getting harder for him to believe it was worth staying sober if this emotional hell were to continue for too much longer.

In this meeting we sit in a circle, so I could see not only him, but many of the people listening to him as well.

As he opened up I watched the faces around him painted with sincere compassion, deep empathy and a real sadness for what he had been through before and what he was facing today.

No kind of writing, no television show, no play or scene in a movie will ever adequately capture what really happens in those moments in an AA meeting, when an alcoholic shares the dark truth of their struggle with people who have lived and felt it themselves.  There is an attentive stillness in the listeners, and I believe that it is in those moments that Something enters the room.  Healing happens, or at the very least, great pain is lessened for a time, and made more bearable so that someone can carry on.  I would even say that in those moments it is possible to feel God in the room, palpable and powerful.

Alcoholics Anonymous does not own this experience -- the power of sharing honestly with people who understand and do not judge is an ancient healing tool, probably in many ways almost as old as humanity itself.

But for it to work, people must speak their truth, and others must listen.

That's what AA owns.  Through a spiritual process -- the 12 Steps -- and the example of others who have walked the path ahead, it takes alcoholics, who's "moral compass" has been ruthlessly subverted by fear and ego and alcoholism until lying is as easy as breathing, and shows us that the truth will actually heal us.  AA meetings show us how to find our truth and speak it.

I know how New Agey faux Native American that sounds -- but it is literally true.

And it teaches us how to listen -- not just listen, but hear.  The very people who's self obsession was so intense that we were deaf to others, in conversations merely waiting for our turn to talk again, completely absent from an honest exchange, can now sit, still and attentive, as someone in pain brings it to a meeting to share and take the power out of it -- and perhaps leave not only a little lighter, but with practical solutions and real tools to help them cope.

Not every meeting is quite so intense.  Sometimes in an AA meeting I'm just sitting there, and it's seems pretty mundane, and I think to myself that I'm actually just sitting there waiting for the next person I'm supposed to help to come through the door.

But other times I am privileged to be a part of something else, something bigger than myself, and I am witness to real recovery and subtle miracles and I look at the people listening and I feel how we are all connected, and I think that there is hope for us all, no matter what we face there is hope and healing for us all -- but only if we keep coming back.

sometimes I lose faith in my fellow man

Sometimes I lose faith in my fellow man.

This is a terribly unoriginal sentiment, a veritable cliche -- but a very real and painful place to be.

Some people, when they feel this way, get motivated.  They get busy.  They work for change.

What I want to do when I feel this way is shut down, isolate and then do things that are foolish and potentially self destructive, like eating something with a metric ton of white sugar in it.  And on it.  Or have unsafe sex with serial killers and junkies who don't bleach their works.  (Listen to the pudgy white kid from the 'burbs show off his drug lingo.)

Or drink.

Because losing my faith in my fellow man means I see the world as a hostile place -- which is laughable in one regard, since compared to most people on planet Earth I live a life of security and freedom and dizzying abundance.

My sadness or anger, compared to the daily lives of many people, is almost like sacrilege.

Which means that I get sad and angry (frightened) and then I judge myself for being sad and angry (and frightened).

Sometimes insight's a bitch.

Goodness, what a lot of self-involved histrionics.

It can be very busy in my head sometimes.

So I go to an AA meeting -- even though when I feel this way, despite the overwhelming evidence I have to the contrary, I don't believe in those moments that it will help.

It pretty much always does, though.

I go to AA meetings when I don't feel this way so that when I do feel this way I go to AA meetings.

I'm pretty sure this is a big part of why I'm still sober.

a meeting is a meeting.

The voice mail from a sponsee detailed a challenging (but rewarding, I sensed) 12th Step call.

In the course of leaving the message he explained that he hadn't made it to a meeting that day because of this selfsame 12th Step call.  His commitment to himself right now is 90 meetings in 90 days (which, for people who are new, or who need to build a better relationship with AA, is an excellent thing to commit to doing.)  He framed it in such a way as to suggest that since he was doing something AA-related (and indeed, 12th Step work is one of the most important things a sober alcoholic can do) then that would sort of "count" as his meeting for that day.

This sort of recovery-tools barter is not uncommon, and virtually every sponsee I've had tries it at some point, particularly about going to meetings.  "Since I went to Central Office to buy Literature for my service commitment tomorrow I don't have to go to a meeting today, I figure..."  or "I was at my General Services Representatives meeting this morning, so I don't have to go to an AA meeting tonight, right?"

On the one hand, that all sounds eminently logical -- and you can certainly do whatever you damn well please, as far as I'm concerned.

On the other hand, there's my dead sponsor.

My dead sponsor, the one who truly shaped how I do AA (and who's wise counsel I miss every single day of my life) was pretty clear on this point of trading on some other AA activity as "credit" for meeting attendance.  I have clear memories of many times I would be deftly weaving an excuse for not going to a meeting into a larger story about some other AA activity, and he would, depending on how much he was enjoying his coffee, let me go on a little.  Then he would take a long hit on his cigarette, tilt his head back to blow the smoke straight up into the air, smooth his toupee down a bit (it was a pretty good one, actually, and in all the years I knew him I never found it offputting) and then fix me with that look he had sometimes and say, "All your little phone calls with other people in the Program, and your coffee and Big Book time with sponsees and the rest of it... is not a meeting.  A meeting is a meeting."  And he would brook no further discussion on the topic.  I never even bothered to try to "yes, but..." him after a few months, he was so adept at shutting them down.  (A skill I need to foster, as I continue to sponsor).

And that's how I run my own Program today.  A meeting is a meeting.

As for Mr. 12th Step Call ... well, my suggestion will be that he double up and do two meetings tomorrow, to be back on track for his 90 in 90.  For myself, I must be disciplined about these things, and that is what I try to pass on to others.

Service work is important, sponsorship is important, fellowship is important -- hell, it's all important -- but a meeting is a meeting.

give/get

At a meeting recently I heard someone talk about going abroad -- they're visiting a country famous for its culture of carousing.  The person sharing has about six months sober again -- I don't say "again" with any snark, I just mean that they've been around AA's message for a while, longer than their six month clean-and-sober time.

As they talked about their trip, they described meetings in this country (they'd been there before).  "Low bottom people" and "very depressing" -- they "don't get a lot out of them." 

I listened, keeping my face impassive (though I caught myself shaking my head a little in dismay, and stopped it immediately).  Man, they just don't get it  I thought.

What about going to those meetings and seeing what you can give?  Seeing if you can take some of the positivity that you feel in your home meetings and share it with those people?

What about not approaching the whole thing as an opportunity to get but rather a chance to give?  Because, as it says in about a million places in the AA literature, when we give, that's when we get.

I don't blame them, exactly.  Alcoholics are by nature selfish people -- and I see myself in that statement, rest assured.  It was AA that changed how I view things, overall, seeing almost every experience as a way to be of service -- from crap jobs to bus rides to waiting rooms to supermarket lines.  When I approach those things as someone willing to be of service to the people around me, then suddenly the jobs aren't crap and the rides and waits and lines aren't so bad.

I'm not sure exactly when this change occurred in me, but it feels like I've been given the key to true happiness.  No one can do it perfectly of course, but my experience is, the more I live this principle the more joy I feel.

True for me then true for anyone...

we smelled him before we saw him

The walk to my regular Tuesday night meeting was especially pleasant -- the weather's finally turning here, so it was cool -- not quite as brisk as I like it, but moving in the right direction.

En route I passed a teenage boy and his mother arguing in Sign Language.  I am pleased to report that it looked to me like it is possible to infuse Sign with the same dripping sarcasm which is the hallmark of teenagers arguing with their parents all over the world.

Stopped to buy a bottle of water at the little convenience store across from where the meeting is, and at the counter, cheerfully laid out in a neat picnic basket, apples and bananas were for sale -- I indulged the impulse and grabbed a banana.

One of my sponsees was on deck with his greeting commitment, and we hadn't had the chance to catch up lately so I popped the top on my water and sat down to chat.  A few of the other greeters began to assemble -- it's a very social meeting.  Merrily carrying on we didn't really look up when we heard the door open -- so we smelled him before we saw him.

If I had to guess, Bush might have been president the last time this gentleman had a shower.

And I mean George H. W., not Dubya. 

There is a point when the grime and sweat and filth coalesce into a kind of shellac, stiffening t-shirts as if they've been starched and making simple sweat jackets as thick as leather.  Iron grey hair under a dull grey film stuffed under a dark grey cap.  Six good teeth (that I could see -- the two canines and a row of four in front on the bottom).

He walked in and hovered a few feet in front of my sponsee and I.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the other greeters do a slow fade back into the room.  I can't fault them for it, they were new and, not to put too fine a point on it, smelly homeless people can be scary, if nothing in your life has prepared you for doing anything but walking past them and not seeing them.

I smiled and said "Hello."

"Is there an AA meeting here?"  he asked.

"Yes.  Welcome."  I said.

AA, and the countless examples of those who've come before me have taught me how to treat everyone with dignity.  I looked him in the eye, asked his name, called him by it.  I told the part of my brain freaking out about the smell to just shut up, and I consciously spoke to him without using any kind of "special" tone of voice -- neither solicitous nor dismissive.  Just talked. 

He was maybe 70% lucid and 30% out-to-lunch, but he had been to AA before and was sober tonight.

I offered him my banana but he opted instead for what looked like a quarter of a Ritz cracker he pulled out of one jacket pocket.

We chatted for quite a while.  My sponsee gamely hung in there and contributed a bit to the conversation.  Rick, for that was the homeless guy's name, eventually headed in to get a cup of coffee.

"Wow," my sponsee said, "you are good."

(I wasn't going to type that, for fear it would seem self-aggrandizing, but... that's what he said.)

"Nah," I said.  I don't remember now what I might have added, because more people came in and there were hellos all around and then it was time for the meeting.

If I had traveled another path in my life, I might actually be that homeless man -- I know that in my heart.

But it wasn't some "It's a Wonderful Life" mirror-based "what if" thing happening for me.

It was the knowledge of friends I've made along the way, and some of the sponsees I have today, who I know at one time were just like Rick -- ripe and filthy and maybe more than half crazy.  And I know those men today and I see they are miracles -- clean and good and strong spirits dedicated to a principled life.

And I think about how somewhere, years ago, they walked into an AA meeting and people made them welcome -- maybe didn't give them a hug, that's a hard thing to do in a case like that -- but a smile and a cup of coffee and a sincere "Hello, you are welcome here..." is often as good if not better.  And from that welcome they began a path that made them the men they are today; sober and healthy and helping others to be.

It is a strangely humbling and joyous thing sometimes to be a part of something with such a miraculous potential to change and save lives.

To be a part of AA.

To be the face at the door, the open smile -- it is a privilege and a responsibility.

And I am grateful to my marrow for it.

$58,000 a month

The 12 Step world brings you in contact with all kinds of people, but ironically I met Rockabilly while he was working, and it was only in later conversation we discovered we were both "friends of Bill."

He's a great kid (I'm close to fifty, so if I have to put up with the encroaching indignities of middle age, I will claim the few perks as well, one such being that I can refer to someone in their late 20's as a kid).

Rockabilly's got a distinctive look, a little rough around the edges by some people's standards maybe (there are decisions we make in our youth, while using, which can stay with us for the rest of our lives -- unless we invest in major laser tattoo removal), but his demeanor is serious and centered.

And he's doing the single dad thing.  I asked about the carseat in the back of his Honda, and he told me he's got a kid -- the mother of his child is strung out on Crystal and totally AWOL, so he has sole custody.  He tells me this without a trace of self-pity.  (And some days I think my life is challenging ... )

He's seen something of the world, hustled its mean streets, been beat up and shot down, and came out the other side clean and sober, with the grace which many people who had low bottoms and hard climbs evince without even realizing it.  He's cool in the way pseudo-hipsters try to be, but on him its the genuine article. 

I met him working his second job -- but it turns out his bread-and-butter gig is working at a rehab.  It is not a 12 Step based rehab facility, though of course there is access to 12 Step literature, and the opportunity to attend meetings is offered -- but it's not a requirement for being there, as it can be in some rehabs.

Rockabilly reports that the price for attending this rehab is $58,000 per month.

He tells me that the first question many of the residents have when they check in is, "I was told I don't have to go to AA meetings, is that correct?"

He reports this to me without a trace of smug or snark, and with unselfconscious class models how I should approach this factoid as well.

Struggling with addiction is a bewildering nightmare, and it would be unseemly to mock anyone's hardship, as tempting as it might be to turn a phrase or two, given my own frame of reference and obvious personal bias.

I'm afraid it has crossed my mind though, that while I would never want to poach any of the residents from Rockabilly's day job, after more than 20 years of volunteering to take people to AA meetings for free, I find I am now more than willing to not take people to AA meetings, for a small monthly fee.

I always thought he was kind of a nutjob, actually.

I am forced to confess I always thought he was kind of a nutjob, actually.

Too loud.  Big mouth.  Big smile big teeth big hair big personality.

He is old too.  Older than I am.  And that means he's old.  But less than a year sober, and this his first time in AA, so he faces the very unique challenges and occasional despair of that particular path.

I always said Hi to him at the meetings, but I confess I did not work to grow especially close to him or reach out beyond a general, unfocused welcoming demeanor.  It's not that I shunned him at all -- believe me -- but let's just say it was easy to be busy helping other people and to just give him a smile and a hello rather than very much more.  I will help anyone, I have neither criteria nor agenda, but in a room full of alcoholics it is certainly possible to let the mill of people pull you a bit nearer to some and a bit further from others.

Tonight I watched him go up to a newcomer sitting alone in the back row, and gently but firmly, not taking no for an answer, invite them to sit up front, in the empty seat next to him.

He is still a nutjob, and too loud, but this evening he is my hero, and there is every chance he saved a life tonight.

Connecting a few dots with a chronic relapser...

He came up to me after the meeting, as we were all folding up the metal chairs and placing them on the racks in the back of the room.  After the usual pleasantries he got down to it.

"I have a resentment against this meeting."  He said.

"Okay."  I said.  I have a very small service commitment at the meeting, but I knew that's not why he was telling me this.  He stood there, waiting for me to ask about his resentment, but I am way too wily an old fox to be suckered in that easily.  The silence played out and I looked at him with what I hoped was an expression of pleasant patience (but for all I know made me look like I had gas.)

"Do you want to know what my resentment is?"  He finally asked.

"Well," I said, "Alcoholics Anonymous suggests you write your resentments out in an inventory."

That certainly wasn't the answer he was looking for.  And that wasn't why he was telling me this.

"Yeah, but my resentment is..." and he went on to tell me his resentment anyway.

"Okay," I said, "AA suggests that you write your resentment out in an inventory, then you can take a look at your part in it before doing anything about it."

"But I'm telling you my resentment." 

"Yes, I know.  But what AA suggests you do is write out your resentment in an inventory."

"But I'm telling you so that you can..." and he outlined the course of action he wanted me to do about his resentment.  For that was why he was telling me about his resentment.

"Have you ever done a four column inventory?"  I asked 

"Yes, yes ... " he waived his hand dismissively.  "But I'm telling you about it."

"Yes.  I know. I'm standing right here."  This dry jibe sailed right over his head, so focused on delegating his resentment and what he wanted done about it over to me.  "But what AA suggests you do is write your resentments out in a four column inventory, to get clarity on the who and the what -- and then you can look at your part in it."  And then you can see that it's you who has to do something about it, I added to myself.

This wasn't going the way he wanted at all, and his frustration began to rise, masked by a gigantic smile worthy of any glad-handing politico on the campaign trail.

I won't detail the rest of our circular conversation, but it will surprise no one reading this that I am not going to be doing anything about his resentment, and it is a sucker bet to think he went off to write out a mini-inventory and actually possibly learn something about what was running him in this.

But here's the thing.  This gentleman is a semi-regular at one of the meetings I think of as my Home Group (to the new kids, your "Home Group" is a casual designation one makes about a meeting, equal parts affection and commitment.  I, greedy so-and-so that I am, have decided that I can have as many Home Groups as I want, so I have three.  I am, after all, the man who, when a child, was told the expression "You can't have your cake and eat it too" responded with a tart, "Well then, bake two cakes."  But as usual, I digress.)

And this gentleman has been coming to AA for many years now, and is, yet again, in his "first" thirty days or so.  He has a very difficult time with relapse.

All the way home from the meeting my mind has been turning the conversation he and I had over and over, worrying at it like you do with your tongue when you have that bit of food stuck between your teeth.  There was something there that I wasn't seeing ...

And it hit me, not moments ago, in one of those grand, cliche, light bulb inspirations:  The dismissive hand wave when I asked him about having written an inventory before.  I am not going so far as to say that he did not actually ever write one, but the way the suggestion was treated, it struck me just now that he doesn't see any value in it.  That is to say, he doesn't believe it will actually accomplish anything worthwhile -- he doesn't believe writing an inventory will work.

And maybe that's a key element in his relapse cycle ... because believing that the Steps, suggestions though they are, can help you, while not required, is perhaps the essence of the Second Step.

If Step One, to paraphrase very broadly, is "Drinking has me beaten, and it has ruined/is ruining my life" then Step Two could be, at heart, "But I believe that doing these Steps, trying what AA suggests, will help me."  (And then of course Step Three, to complete my paraphrase trifecta, would be something like "So I have decided to do them.")

I think the 12 Steps can work if you don't believe in them at first, but eventually...  you come to believe, yes?

So ... and I'm connecting these dots almost as I type this ... maybe for some people who are deeply chronic relapsers, part of why they cannot stay sober is not that they are stuck at the First Step, but that they are somehow stuck, through a kind of lack of belief in the process, at the Second.

Hmmm...

Of course, if you're brand brand new to AA, I know in my heart that the process will work for you whether you believe or not -- that is to say, don't worry about understanding the process or let some intangible belief criteria stand in the way of actually doing the Steps.  This is more about those tragic and challenging people who blessedly (and often very bravely) keep coming back but are unable to stay sober.

IF I am right in this instance, now the question becomes ... do I invite him out for coffee and share this line of thought with him in an effort to be helpful, or do I just sit back and see if the Universe offers me a cue.

Hmmm...