I'm a bit Scattered and stuff...does It show?

I have news of brobdingnagian proportions!
(oh yeah, it's a word. dictionary.com's Word of the Day, fool!)

Pronounced just how it sounds. Brob-ding-NAG-eeyun. It means huge or gigantic.

I've been really into words lately. New words, obscure words, words that will give me an edge in BOGGLE.

(boggle? yes. boggle. that game with the letters and words, yeah, that one.)

My sister warned me not to download any games onto my tablet because it becomes a time-suck and the purpose of the tablet is to help promote my art Suspended Dreams and make me more efficient blah blah blah...

But surely one game won't hurt. A puzzle game that makes me smarter while wasting time, so it's actually like being productive, surely would be alright.

So I chose Boggle.

And now I can't stop.

And my friend said I should write a blog post about it and I said I can't, I'm playing Boggle, but here's the blog post so what happened (you may be asking yourself)???

I uninstalled it.

I had to.

It was taking over my days, taking over my nights, getting into my dreams. I literally dreamt about three to five-letter word combinations and high scores.

And that's where I draw the line (apparently).

Even now I keep thinking about it and how easy it would be to install it again.

Good thing I'm not a smoker cuz if it's this hard to quit a word puzzle game, imagine me trying to quit a drug like nicotine. Hopeless.

I'm going to pack some boxes. Get my mind off of it.

(pack boxes? what??)

Oh yeah. I'm moving soon. Did I forget to mention that?
Probably boggles's fault. It made me forget to do all kinds of things.

I'm moving! I guess that's my brobdingnagian news. Not far, still in AZ, just need to hop over to the next town for hubby's new job. So I gotta pack boxes.

So...

Many...

BOXES.

NaNo Continues...

I was making dinner and this mini-scene popped into my head. It has nothing to do with the novel I'm working on for NaNoWriMo, just a mildly entertaining slice-of-life thing.
Like a hopeful future. The person I hope I remember to be.

“MOM!! MAHHHHM!!!”

I cringe inside, hearing my daughter screech for me from the other side of the house. My guests, my best friends from college, try to hide their own discomfort.

To lift the mood I say smoothly, “Ah, the sweet, dulcet tones of my child's voice calling my name. Sweetest music to my ears,” the mood relaxes and I call back, “I'm sorry, are you addressing room service or your mother? You know, the woman who GAVE YOU LIFE?”

Silence from the other end of the house. I'm about to explain that I've talked to my daughter about this when she appears, humble and small, but clearly with a burning question.

“Mother?”

“Ah yes!” I feign delighted surprise. “Child whom I love more than life itself, come in!”

She comes in, Ellie Jean, my precocious 11 year old. “Mom, can I go play at Lily's house? Her mom said I could.”

“Are you chores done?”

“...”

“You know the rules. You can play at your friend's when your chores are done. Are they done?”

“...mostly.”

“Then you can mostly go to her house.”

“...what does that mean?”

“It means you can walk ¾ of the way there, then turn around and come back home to finish your chores.” I smile at my friends, both single and childless. I wonder if they envy this little exchange, or if they will remember this scene when they go to their empty apartments and be grateful they only have to take care of themselves.

“Ugh, mom. You could just say 'no.'”

“And you could just do your chores.” I smile playfully at her, “But isn't it more fun this way?”

“Whatever.” She turns on her heel and leaves, presumably to address the undone chores.

“And Ellie?”

She stops, rolls her head to one side and sloooowly half-turns back to me, I can see her eyes are half-lidded. “Whaaaat?”

“I love you.”

Her pose doesn't change but she smiles. “You, too Mom.”

a short Story for Your pleasure And entertainment

NaNoWriMo continues!

Day 4 and I have 8,115 words so far. I'm doing SO much better than last year and it is invigorating!

It's late, I'm tired, so here's a quick short story I wrote while warming up today. Let me know what you think!

~

Maybe they won't see me.

“Hey!”

Dang it.

“Oh my gosh, is that you Nora?”

“Yeah, woah. Didn't expect to see you two here.”

“We were just out for a stroll,” Callie begins.

“We just had lunch at that new sandwich place, have you tried it yet?” Cameron interjects.

“It's really good. So, what have you been up to?” Callie again.

“Oh. You know. Just..life. Living the dream.”

“Are you still in school?”

Cameron is the one who asks the question so I look at him when I try to answer.

“Actually I grad-” Heat. His skin on my skin, his breath mingling with mine, his eyes watching me, reading me, loving me...

 

“Woah, are you okay?” He reaches out to steady me and I jerk back. If just a look could unlock that kind of memory, I'd hate to think what physical touch would do.

“I'm fine, sorry. I just-”

“You looked like you were about to pass out. Do you need to sit down?” Callie is like that. Has always been so sweet, so thoughtful to the needs of others. It's why they make such a good pair.

“I've been fighting a pretty bad migraine all day, but it's much better now, I promise.” No more looking at Cameron. “Sorry. I was going to say that I graduated last year. I teach drawing classes at the college now. And my freelance stuff on the side, of course.”

“That sounds wonderful! How do you like it?”

“I love it. I really do.” Change the topic from me. Quick. “And what about you two?? What's it been now...three years of married bliss?”

“Four, actually.” They share an affectionate glance and he squeezes her shoulder gently.

Still dripping with the newly-wed glow. Sickeningly adorable. We were the same way.

No, no, focus. Find something solid to anchor to. Two years ago. Senior project, painting like mad, day and night, to get ready for the gallery show, moving into my own apartment- Feeling the first kicks, first hiccups, and the long delivery, and finally holding my child. Our child. Our son.

 

“Nora, you should sit down.”

Oh Callie. You have no idea. And never will. I risk a side-glance at Cameron thinking that he will never know, either. Never know the son we had.

“I'm sorry, I just...” I just need to get out of here, is what. “My car is parked just up the street, I should go. Go home, lie down. I'm sure I'll be fine.”

“Are you sure you're okay to drive?”

I'm already walking away. Briskly, hopefully not obviously so. “I'll be fine. Sorry. Good to see you!”

“Nora, are you-”

I might be sprinting. His first birthday. Cupcakes. Fingers and mouth stained with blue frosting. NO. Stop. It didn't happen that way. That would have been last year, and last year I graduated. With honors. Started working part-time for the college. No husband. Not even a boyfriend. Certainly no children.

The memories fade the further away I get from Cameron and his darling wife of four years.

They seem really good for each other. I knew they would be. I knew I would find a place, a time, where they would be together.

I need to consider moving away from this place so I don't run into Cameron anymore. Or anyone significant from that other life, for that matter.

Maybe I'll travel. I've always wanted to see Italy. And now it's just me to worry about.

I should go.

I wonder, for just a moment, if she regrets our trade. And for the millionth time I hope that she doesn't. Never comes back in her crazy machine, demanding to restore us to our proper timelines.  

This is my life now.

No looking back.

~

Goodnight world. I go now to my well-earned slumber.

it's NaNo time Again!

I'm doing NaNoWriMo again this year, kiddies, who's with me?

Who's with me!?! CHARGE!!!

Woah. Maybe settle down there a little bit. Take a breather.

If you want to join me in the thrilling adventure that is NaNo, please sign up with nanowrimo.org and then check out my profile here: Miss Hobbit on NaNoWriMo.org

Time to go meet my word quota for the day. Let me leave you with my favorite words from yesterday's quota:

"I feel sick.

And tired.

On my back on my bed I feel the turning of the world. A steady tipping that is subtle at first, but after focused attention becomes rapid. The speed of our planet makes me dizzy sometimes.

It's terrifying.

The terror is a comfort.

The rhythm of the earths' movement and the drumming silence on my ears is in perfect harmony with my worried heartbeat. I feel troubled blood pulse through my veins. I try to feel every bone, every organ, every cell. What is wrong? Tell me...what is wrong?

Silence.

I can no longer see the branches out the window for the darkness that has fallen. 6:00 P.M. then. Which means it's still the same day it was when I laid down. Just under 6 hours left in this day. Then we'll be on the next one, to whittle down those hours, too.

The monotony is suffocating and I try to feel the earths' spin and pull once more. But it's gone.

I feel sick.

And tired.

Guess it's time to get up."

too Personal to post...but I Did anyway

I'm not sleeping because I'm trying to remember the last time I had fun.

Last week I visited family - we played board games, teased each other, saw Guardians of the Galaxy, talked a lot and laughed a lot more.

That was fun.

But I don't think that counts.

That was outside of my normal life - a special exception to my usual routine. When was the last time I had fun in my routine?

I fear I may have forgotten how to have fun.

I fear I may have never known at all.

There was a significant reduction of fun in my life 2 years and 9 months ago. But before that....
I had three years of being relaxed and happy, but how much fun was there? And even before that...
Single, moving around the state, going to college...always so serious, long to-do lists, plans and appointments. Was I having fun? Why can't I remember?

The daily grind is always a pain, but I really think I could get a small measure of respite if I could alleviate this boredom.

All day long - the chores, the children's shows, the nursery rhymes and baby games, naptime, mealtime, bathtime - it's monotonous. lonely. and boring.

Maybe my circumstances are not to blame at all. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's always been me. I'm the source of the boredom, the lethargy, the mediocrity. I'm the problem.

I would gladly revert back to my old fun-loving self, but I don't know if she ever existed at all... I can't remember her.

Now I'm faced with two choices: accept that I'm broken, having never known how to have fun OR accept that I should not ponder these things after midnight as that hour tends to be riddled with self-doubt and discontent.

I know what you're thinking, and you're probably right.

It's both.

the Effects of watching TV with A Two Year old

Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood is one of Ellie's favorite shows right now.

Have you seen it?

'Cuz I sure have.

Yesterday we watched the episode where the children learn when it's appropriate to be silly and when they need to be calm.
All the children were sitting on the floor for story time as the Owl read to them.
Except Prince Wednesday. He was hopping around the floor saying “Ribbit! I'm a frog! Ribbit!"
It distracted from the story, but Owl didn't seem to notice. He just kept reading.

Daniel noticed.

At first he said softly, “Prince Wednesday, I can't hear the story.”
“RIBBIT!”
Slightly louder, but still kindly, “Prince Wednesday, I really want to hear this story.”
“I'M A FROG! RIBBIT!”
Now with a soft tiger growl, “Grrr, Prince Wednesday, I can't hear the story!”
“RIBBIT!!"
Then Daniel stood up, “Stop it, Prince Wednesday!”
And two guards marched in, “Did you raise your voice to the prince?” seized Daniel and took him away.
His mother cried as he looked out from behind cold, iron bars of the dungeon-

No. Wait. That's not right.
Oh yeah....
They sang a song together so Prince Wednesday could calm down. And finished story time. That's what happened.

I should probably get out more.

on Bad days, There's No Such thing as TMI

I should have known this would be a rough day.

I should have known the moment the cashier in Walgreens asked me, "How are you today?" when I was checking out with nothing but two large packs of Kotex.

If, first thing in the morning, I'm loading up on maxi pads, then I'm pretty sure you can guess what kind of a night I had. You don't need to ask about it. I know you know, just ring it up and let me out of here.

I wanted to say:
"Take a guess." (gesturing to the merchandise)
 or even:
"Better now." (thumbs up toward the merchandise)
but instead I said:
"Great, how are you?" (deliberately NOT looking at the merchandise)

Because cultural programming.

my Committments

I am committed to Art.

I wasn't always. Not really.

My relationship with Art was wishy-washy, at best. I knew I was Artistic. I wanted to study Art. Make Art. Be surrounded by Art.

...but I wasn't really an artist.

Then I decided I didn't like Art. It was stressful and demanding and time-consuming and I was done. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to do anything BUT Art.
I jumped into music, literature, writing, mathematics... But all of them left a void. I was always unsatisfied. Always searching for something more.

And always, there was Art, hanging at the peripheral begging for attention.

You know those artists who say they don't have a choice? They paint because they have to?

I never understood that. If you don't want to do something, then don't do it. You don't have to do anything. Not really.

I understand now.

It took a long time. Years? Maybe? I don't even know. A lifetime, more likely. A lot of soul-searching and denial and self-doubt.

But it was all worth it because now I know...

...that I am an Artist.

It's what I am. It's more than what I do. It's part of me. It's under my skin and carved into my soul.

Now that I'm done denying what I am, I feel good. And I'm committed.

That's the reason I've been pushing so hard on my facebook page and starting a new blog and getting really active on dA again. It's been hectic. But it feels good. So I do it.

Writing here feels good, too. So here I am, to brush off the dust and remind my little blog that I haven't forgotten it. I've returned to Art like the prodigal son, but there will still be time for writing.

^__^

amen And amen

This has been my life philosophy for a long time and this is the first time I've seen it worded so eloquently and compelling. So here, I share with you, words of a wiser man and possessor of words greater than my own.

"Cherish your doubts, for doubt is the attendant of truth. Doubt is the key to the door of knowledge. It is the servant of discovery. A belief which may not be questioned binds us to error, for there is incompleteness and imperfection in every belief. 

Doubt is the touchstone of truth. It is an acid which eats away the false. Let no one fear for the truth, that doubt may consume it, for doubt is a testing of belief. The truth stands boldly and unafraid. It is not shaken by the testing. 

Truth, if it be truth, arises from each testing, stronger, more secure. Those that would silence doubt are filled with fear; their houses are built on shifting sands. 

But those who fear not doubt, and know its use, are founded on rock. They shall walk in the light of growing knowledge - the work of their hands shall endure. Let us not fear doubt, but let us rejoice in its help. It is to the wise as a staff to the blind. Doubt is the attendant of truth." 

 – Robert Weston

another Taste of NaNo

I ask for one simple favor and it's like I have to scream at the top of my lungs to get any kind of attention around here. It makes me so angry I just...I'll smash everything! Destroy it all! Every stinking thing in my way, obliterated! No one does anything right around here, I feel like I've got to do everything myself and people keep getting in my way! I've got to talk to management about this, because it has gotten way out of hand.

Of course you can't go to management with any kind of complaint these days because it always comes back to male versus female. Stupid bureaucrats, yes, I'm a girl, but that doesn't mean I'm being irrational. Maybe age has something to do with it, but anyone could look at me and agree that I am not overreacting. Anyone would be upset. Even you.

And it's not just the people, more about them later, but it's this whole place. Everything is so difficult and it doesn't have to be. First of all, I can never find what I'm looking for. Seems like everything is kept on shelves that are unreasonably high and always out of reach at the most inconvenient times. And picking your way through this place is a joke. I'm always tripping over things or people are tripping over me All the time. I'm not even exaggerating. It happens all the time. Is it so hard to watch where you're going?

But the people, good grief, some days I just don't know how to deal with these people. They are so demanding, so controlling, and so overbearing. They are extremely particular about where I go and what I do. It's like I'm always being watched! Is it any wonder I broke down crying this afternoon? And don't tell me it's a girl-thing, because I swear I will scream if you say it. I feel like I'm at the end of my rope, just so sick and tired of it all. Sick and tired...tired...

I am tired, now you mention it. No, I don't want to nap! I don't want to! Is that my crib? No, I don't want to! I don't! I...my blanket? I love my blanket. So soft...so nice...so tired...maybe just...a little nap...

This snippet was inspired by my daughter, who is 15 months old and complains to me constantly about the state of things.

random NaNo excerpt

I think truth would be offered freely 

if the question were asked and there were room to receive it, 

but my mouth is full of high-fructose corn syrup and genetically modified organisms 

and my nose is full of pollution and ozone 

and my eyes are filled with hollow lights of screens and apps and magazine ads 

and my hands are full of plastic parts and metal tubing and green printed paper of imaginary worth 

and my ears are filled with angry cries of masses of the forgotten 

and despair of generations past 

and lies of those who call themselves my leaders. 

My soul sorrows and sorrow is my truth.

still On Track for 50,000

Been working like a fiend on NaNoWriMo this year. Not sure why I feel so driven, I'm not even pursuing a definite storyline, but I'm flying towards 50,000 words!
(find me on NaNoWriMo.org here, btw. We should be nano-buddies.)

I'm hoping to bust out another 1,000 in the next 30 minutes, so I don't have a lot of time to write here.
This blog doesn't count toward NaNo, so, I can't be seen here with you. I mean, I still love you and everything, it's just word distribution. You understand.

To satiate your obvious addiction to my glorious word-smithing (ha! yeah right), here's a small tidbit I wrote while warming up today.

 Arms

Thighs

Cankles

Two parts carrot juice

One part sewing kit

Some assembly required

Trimming

Stitching

Rearrangement

Change the body you have today

Don't be afraid of trimming too much

Smaller is always better

Tighten

Lengthen

Straighten

Almost ready for display

Still too much around the middle

Still too ugly to be seen

Softer

Smaller

Lighter

Hollow out what's left of the inside

Opinion, intellect, self-respect and character

These will not be needed

Slender

Delicate

Perfect

Every inch thoroughly examined

All undesirable features now gone

For display use only

As Promised...

I present to you, in all its glory, a comic page.

I want this little project to count towards my NaNoWriMo word count, I feel that it should since graphic novels are a valid and challenging form of story-telling. 

But here's the conundrum - 

- how many words should this qualify as? It takes a freaking long time to draw a page. Most published graphic novels have at least four people listed in the credits: the writer, the artist, the inker, and the letterer. 

Doing it yourself takes a loooot of time. 

I want to do more of these but I need a system to quantify the work. Something simple: 1,000 words per graphic page, or 100 words per panel. It's got to be fair, but still challenging. 

How many words do you think this page deserves?

artist Version of NaNo

I drew a comic page last night.

"Comic page"? It wasn't a comic, it was a graphic novel. But it's not really a "novel" because it is only one page long. What is the terminology for such a thing? Anyone out there "in the know" want to let me in on it? I'll let you use "quotation marks" if you'd like.

The script didn't take long to hammer out and the panels didn't take too long to place.

Drawing is what took for.ev.er.

Maybe I'm out of practice or maybe I'm just slow, but I did not expect a rough draft to take me 2 hours. (ugh! embarrassing!)
It's not even finished, yet. I've got to scan it into the computer and do the rest of it digitally. Doing it on the computer will save time in some areas, but I'm planning (tentatively) another 2 hours (if it takes more than that, I'm quitting).

I count 'graphic novel' as being part of NaNoWriMo (cuz it's my nanowrimo, I'll do what I want), but how many words would this be equivalent to? The whole script is only 50 words, at most, but it's the time, people. The crazy amount of time it takes just to draw a single panel!

I'm wanting to count it as 1,000 words. Straight up, nice and even: 1,000 words.

I'll post the finished project tomorrow (or the next day...or whenever it is done) and you can weigh in on what you think the NaNo word-equivalent should be.

Check back tomorrow (or the next day...or whenever it is done). You'll love it. {wink}

join My NaNoWriMo quest?

I was just re-reading a few posts from 2010, my last year at UVU.
I sounded way more intelligent back then.

What happened?
(you might ask)
Motherhood happened.

Now my brain is mushy. My writing (and my thinking, for that matter) isn't "critical" anymore. I think the most critical thought I have these days is: "When was the last time the baby ate?" followed by "What should I feed the baby?"

It's time for more. It's time for a challenge. It's time for....

NaNoWriMo!

Yes, yes, ladies and gents, step right up, it's that time of year again. National Novel Writing Month. (you might know it as "November".)

But this NaNoWriMo has a surprise twist: I have no idea what I'll be writing.

Seriously. I've been thinking about it for over a month now and I don't have a novel to work on. I can't come up with a storyline that I would want to write about for an entire month. But I've gotta come up with something because November 1st is in TWO DAYS.
(brief panic attack)
Is it kosher to set a goal for 50,000 words, with the allowance that those 50,000 words may or may not be related to each other in purpose? Not sure that counts as participating in NaNoWriMo since it negates the whole "novel" part.
Meh.
Ima do it anyway.

At this point, it will be less like "novel writing month" and more like "epic word-dump month." Scattered short-stories, dream imagery, and probably some hand-drawn graphic novel pages. It promises to be surreal, if nothing else.

I'm not convinced I want to share my epic word-dumping here, on the blog, but it needs to be shared somewhere. It doesn't feel like NaNoWriMo if it's not shared.

So I set up an account on nanowrimo.org, if you search Miss Hobbit you should be able to find me.
If you're already on there, you should look me up and we'll be buddies!

Good luck nanowrimers. :)

love Newton Faulkner forever

If my heart could utter words and those words became a prayer, these would be the words. And if you could hear my heart's prayer and it sounded like a song, it would sound exactly like this:

art Versus writing

I haven't been blogging...

(sorry)

...because I've been doing this:

I'm sure you understand.

Keep coming back, I'll blog again. And it'll be interesting and riveting and true.

Or rambling, snarky and sarcastic.

Either way, I'll be here. Hope you will, too.

Til next time....

Call me Miss Direction

I decided that I was not a good artist. I decided it was too much of a hassle. I decided to give up.

It was stressful, anyway. I would feel good to get the weight of "being an artist" off my shoulders.

It didn't. Feel good, I mean. Not good at all.

And I think it was because I didn't walk away and leave it to die. I forced myself to stay. To watch. I watched my art die.

A slow death.

It might have worked if I had walked away. I'm not sure why I couldn't leave it alone.

The pain of watching a part of myself wither away from neglect was finally too much. I picked it back up and began to nurture it again.

And that's where I am right now. I don't know why I keep coming back to art. I'm no prodigy, I don't specialize in any medium or subject or style, and I have no direction.

I only know I can't let it go. It can't let me go. It needs to take me somewhere and I need to let my guard down and let it lead.

It seems like I should have learned something from this, but I'm still in the dark.

Do you have a part of yourself that you can't ignore? That calls to you, pulls at you, keeps you awake at night? I've never created anything that I would consider to be important, so why the urgency? The tenacity?
Maybe I have the capacity to create something important.
Maybe I overestimate myself.
Maybe I underestimate myself.
Maybe we're all in a chronic state of underestimation.

How about this?
How about I promise to do my very best, to honestly strive to hear what's in my heart and follow its direction. Wherever it takes me. No judgment, doubt, or self-sabotage.

Now you promise to do the same.

something Original!

I asked a guy once what it felt like to wake up.

I was sincerely interested in what his answer would be. Having Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, I sometimes forget what is "normal" and I wanted to gauge the difference between him and me.

He said (and I quote):

"I dunno. One moment I'm asleep and then I'm awake."

Seriously one of the most disappointing conversations of my life.

I've thought about it a lot since then. Which is why I wrote this:

heavy bones
broken thoughts
consciousness lost in dark tunnels of misty doubt

breathe. in.
and let it go.

light.

open eyes
hazy mind
pain to the edges of sensation and saturated to the soul

breathe. again.
hold it in now.

daylight.

weary heart
soft sadness
closed mind slowly pried away from the forgetful void of sleep

breathe. deep.
yet another morning.

another 100% True, super-Classy Mommy moment

We were at the grocery store, it was late (well, only 8:00, but that is late for a baby), and we were about to check-out when Baby Girl started getting grumpy. She was acting uncomfortable and unhappy. It looked like a diaper issue.

So the husband-man finished checking out and I took the disgruntled baby and headed to the restroom.

I honestly didn't think I was that tired. I mean, I was a little disheveled and it had been a long day....but not enough to explain....ugh. Well, you'll see. Read on.

It started out normal. Walked in, empty room (which is always nice. I hate changing a diaper when it's crowded and busy), changed her diaper with the usual fuss, and while searching for a trash receptacle...

...I spotted a urinal.

This is the part where you're thinking, "Oh my gosh, she's in the MEN'S room!!" and that is a totally normal thought for you to have. After all, I've just said there was a urinal.

Want to know what I thought?

"Huh. I wonder why they put a urinal in the ladies' room. Seems weird."

what is wrong with my brain?!

I simply refused to let myself believe that I had walked into the wrong room. Couldn't believe it. In my mind it was more reasonable to assume that they had remodeled this women's restroom to be compatible for both genders (which would be completely unprecedented in my life experience and yet, as I've said, a far more reasonable explanation) than to admit I had walked into the wrong room. I've never, in my entire life, been in the men's room.

I remained in staunch denial until I walked outside and saw the sign next to the door:

"MEN"

d'oh

I didn't feel too bad about it (store was mostly empty, restroom was empty, no one needed to be embarrassed by this) until we passed a young fellow on our way to the exit who was obviously headed to the men's room. 

And I just knew....you ever have those moments where you just know?...I just knew that he had seen me go in there and had been waiting, in discomfort, for me to come out the entire time.

Sorry, dude. I really am. But thank you, sincerely, for waiting until I left rather than choosing to embarrass me in my error.

P.S. - this has nothing to do with anything, it's just that we're watching the pilot episode of Firefly while I'm writing this and holy crap! The storytelling in this episode is AMAZING. It's been over 10 years and I'm still freaking upset with effing FOX for canning that show.

grumblegrumble Effing stupid *bleepity bleeping* morons at that *bleep bleeping* crap network grumble....