Clairely

Maybe the cavemen did it

Today’s issue of Columbia’s student paper contained an advertising insert for Geico car insurance. But Columbia is in the middle of Manhattan and most students don’t have cars.  This seems like an outrageously bad advertising idea. Like selling gloves outside an amputee support group.

Conversations with my mom

Mom: So I was driving down the street today, and you know those bronze sculptures of small children or animals that some people put in their yards?

Me: Yes.

Mom: Well, someone had a sculpture of a little girl swinging on a swing. It was in a beautifully manicured lawn, really spectacular. But it’s still cold outside so the little girl was wrapped in plastic to protect her from the weather. And I  drove by and I thought ‘Oh my god, she’s dead.’

Me: What?

Mom: You know, when little kids go missing and you find them three weeks later in the woods, wrapped in plastic.

Me: It looked like that?

Mom: Exactly like that. It was awful. They should have just let the statue get ruined by the winter because it would have been much better than having an ornamental murder scene in their front yard.

Let's Dance

I'm kind of judgmental. Okay, very judgmental. But that's because most people are stupid and wrong.

One of the things I judge freely and harshly is reality television. I can't stand it. It ranks right up there with body odor and lost luggage and people who still use scrunchies. I hate reality TV, but I won't rant about it here because it's not 1999 and Survivor is not in its first season. The reasons for my disdain are trite and snobbish. You can probably guess what they are.

Oh, but I'm also a hypocrite, because I watch reality television anyway.

I don't watch prime-time reality shows, the ones that pretend to seek out the "best" person for something—the best apprentice, the best pop star, the best romantic partner for a particular bachelor, the best fashion designer, the best person to eat maggots for three weeks on an island. No, I prefer the trashier kind of reality show. The shows I watch feature bratty teenagers who cry when they don't get what they want. Or botoxed divorcés who go shopping on Rodeo Drive and complain about not being invited to important luncheons. I also like America’s Next Top Model. Yes, it claims to be looking for the "best" model, but I don’t care about that. I like it because the girls cry over shoes and get yelled at when they fail to make fake beards sexy. Oh, and once I saw an episode of America's Biggest Loser in which the weight-loss contestants were forced to move a pile of cupcakes from one side of the room to the other using only their mouths, but they couldn't eat them. It was so cruel and heartless, I laughed about it for days.

But there's this reality show that I actually, truly like. I think the people competing on it are talented and I'm not sure, but I think it might have some artistic merit. And I kind of want the "best" contestants to win. It’s weird, and I feel uneasy admitting this, but I really, really like America's Best Dance Crew.

It's on MTV. I'm in journalism school so I’m supposed to watch CNN, but I bet I've logged more hours watching True Life documentaries than I have with Anderson Cooper. I wish MTV played more music, and I wish the music it did play was good—or at least not so bland that I found myself wanting hearing aids just so I could turn them off—but these are past grievances and I got over them long ago. Right around that first season of Survivor, actually. And yes, I'm fully aware that at age 25, I'm outside MTV's target age demographic. I may be old for MTV, but I'm still immature. I mean hip.

I like America's Best Dance Crew because show is so simple. A bunch of dance teams compete and I get to watch their routines. There's no back story. I don't have to learn the dancers' names. I see a short, 5-minute clip of their weekly rehearsal and then they come on stage and do things like incorporate hip-hop moves into the Broadway song "All That Jazz." Then the judges say stuff and I don't pay attention to that. And then the next dance group comes on and the process repeats. It's short and succinct. Like a YouTube video.

• MTV
• Music Videos
• MTV Shows
• Entertainment News

The reason why I love America's Best Dance Crew is the reason why I hate all the other reality shows. They try to get me to form a relationship with the characters when all I want to do is watch them dance around and entertain me. I don't care that Tiffany’s mother died when she was only 3, or that Robert's father never hugged him. I want to watch them lose weight, eat earthworms, sing a song or design a dress. Stop trying to make me care about reality show contestants when I can barely bring myself to make small-talk with my neighbors. I don't bond with TV characters. I judge them harshly and then change the channel.

Also, she show is hosted by AC Slater. Unfortunately, no one ever does The Sprain.

*Except America’s Next Top Model.

In the time of chimpanzees I was a monkey

So I watched some of that sporty NCAA thing. I really like basketball, so I bet I could get into the tournament if, y’know, I weren’t sitting at home in pajamas, on a futon littered with a dozen copies of the same damn article, wondering which version was better.

I went to Vanderbilt so I know with great authority that Vandy’s sports team is the best in the country. Unfortunately, most people don’t believe me because Vanderbilt tends to lose. Badly. To schools I’ve never even heard of. This happened tonight. That was the quickest damn tournament I’ve ever seen. Now that the shiny gold uniforms have left the court, so has my interest.

But sports aren’t about winning and losing, are they? Okay, they are. But not to me. To me, sports are about much more: the blind, faithful adoration of a team for no good reason other than the fact that they represent my school or hometown. This is why I make such a good Cubs fan.

As a Cubs fan, I’ve gotten used to losing. I’ve gotten so used to losing that sometimes I forget there was even a competition. “What are these numbers doing up on the scoreboard?” I’ll wonder. “Who put them there? That’s distracting. I want another hot dog.”

Sometimes when my teams lose, I like to pretend that they won. In fact, according to my calculations, the Cubs have won the World Series seven times in a row. Once they were so awesome that they won it twice in one season.

Okay, so college basketball didn’t work out. But you know what I do like to watch? The Olympics. Then, all loyalties are off and I start to root for teams like Qatar and Nevis. Now those guys are winners.

11) write this

Things I have done to avoid finishing my master’s project, which is due in 2 days:
1) play Bejeweled.
2) dust under the refrigerator
3) run 16 miles
4) paint my nails
5) organize my iTunes music by adding album titles to songs that previously had none listed. For instance, did you know that “Venus” came from the Bananarama album True Confessions while “I Heard a Rumor” came from an album called Wow?
6) Write a long email to a friend about why I wish they'd sell Kellogg's Pops cereal in giant oil drum-sized barrels instead of cardboard boxes that I can finish in four days.
7) give my dog a mohawk
8) make my dog’s eyebrows point in opposite directions
9) ask my dog for editing advice and then get angry when she tells me my favorite paragraph should be deleted
10) fantasize about a Big Lebowski sequel that focuses on The Jesus.

I’ve been working on this project since September. I guess when you’re in journalism school people expect you to like, report on something difficult? And do a lot of work? Booooring. I like my project, but I’m sick of it. If I were in prison and my master’s project were a rival inmate, I’d sneak up behind it and shank it in the gut.

Things I wish I’d done my master’s project on instead:
1) Chocolate Chip Cookies
2) Backrubs
3) Extremely comfy pajamas with pictures of puppies on them

Why did I not have this chocolate chip cookie idea back in September? I could investigate the corrupt, semi-sweet underworld of the illegal cookie trade.

Things I want to write about next:

1) Doilies. Where do they come from? Is there a doily factory? What is the purpose of a doily? Isn’t it just an intricate-looking napkin that goes under things? Why does it get its own term?
2) Men’s fascination with the movie Point Break.
3) People who breed gerbils.
4) Why they make shampoo and conditioner bottles the same size when I always run out of shampoo first.
5) Toothbrush technology. I want to write about that. I remember when the “Reach” toothbrush came out and it was all crazy and weird because it could bend to help you reach your molars. Did it help at all? What about those people who brushed with flat toothbrushes in the 1970s? I bet their teeth fell out.
6) The deodorant industry. Once I wrote about deodorant for  my friends’ blog, back when I had time for things like that. I bought pear-scented deodorant the other day. It doesn’t smell like pears, more like synthetic chemicals that have been rubbed into bunnies’ eyes. Meaning – it smells refreshing.

These Vagabond Shoes (Cost $752)

So I moved to New York and I love it. Not in the snobbish, this-city-is-the-center-of-the-universe, I'm-going-to-refer-to-myself-as-a-local-even-though-I've-only-lived-here-one-week sense. No, not like that. I love New York in the way that I love the MTV show My Super Sweet Sixteen. You know, the one about teenage girls named Brandi who throw lavish Sweet 16 parties and can't decide which BMW model they'd rather get, so they ask their daddies to buy them both. I'm drawn to that show, repulsed and yet intrigued because I can't believe that people actually live like that. That's basically how I feel about New York.

This city is full of trendy people in bizarre clothing who wear $300 shoes to walk around on sidewalks that smell like urine. Also, I just can't get over the litter. A Styrofoam cup here or there makes sense to me, but some people throw full cartons of Chinese food, noodles and everything, right on the street. Tonight I saw a huge pile of wrapping paper, bows and greeting cards dumped on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street, right next to parallel parked cars. Clearly someone had a party and then when they loaded the presents into the car, they decided to leave the wrapping paper behind. This is beyond my comprehension. Haven't they never heard of Smoky the Bear or McGruff or whichever cartoon character came to my elementary school and told me not to litter? Have they not seen the 1970s commercial with the crying Indian?  For a city so progressive, this place is kind of backwards.

But aside from the trash and the urine and the smelly subways, New York is really pretty cool. So far I've been to a Bulgarian night club; a 1920s speakeasy; a Broadway play called Curtains, starring Niles from Frasier; Central Park; a creepy hellhole called Coney Island; and once I tried to stalk Paul Newman by going to a restaurant I heard he frequented, but he evaded me by not eating there that night. Also by aging 40 years and no longer being hot. And by discontinuing my favorite salad dressing.

I have yet to stalk David Bowie. He supposedly lives in Manhattan, but I'm not so sure I believe that. Sometimes, I don't think he really exists. I just can't picture him doing normal, everyday things. Does he ever shop at the grocery store? Do people run into him at the local market? "Oh, hey, it's David Bowie, the man who wore giant space shoes and a bright red mullet, may or may not have had mansex with Mick Jagger—oh, and he's buying some Shredded Wheat." No, that never happens. Because David Bowie is made up. Or maybe he exists in a more ethereal, intangible sense, like Love or Happiness. Or Santa Claus.

New York is so big and I've only been here for three weeks. I have done so much but I haven't even scratched the surface. I may have lightly grazed the surface, snagged a nail on its cashmere sweater or something, but it'll be months before I am able to leave a mark.

From Russia With Love

I have a mild obsession with Russia. I don't know anything about Russia because I am an ignorant American, but I love it anyway. I love their funny fur hats, I love their weird dance moves and I love that the Kremlin looks suspiciously like King Kandy's castle at the end of Candyland. I think Boris and Natasha stole the show on Rocky and Bullwinkle, vodka is my favorite type of alcohol, and the mystery surrounding poisoned Russian spy Alexander Litvinenko is easily the best news story of the past 20 years. Russia is dark and cold and corrupt and scary. I think it's just swell.

My unfounded love affair with Russia is well documented. At age nine, I wrote my first book, a twenty-five-page novel about a small Russian orphan named Katrina who travels to America to become an Olympic gymnast and finds a box of newborn kittens along the way. I drew upon my extensive knowledge of Russian history, incorporating the word “babushka” into every major scene. This novel is one of the great, undiscovered masterpieces of our time. I have no idea why it was never published.

Ever since the kitten/orphan story – a timeless epic, really - I have continued to support Russian culture in a number of ways. I always root for the Russian team during the Olympics, I try to meet as many people named Vladimir as possible, and the other day I attempted to eat lunch at a Russian restaurant but it was closed.

I don't know much about Russia because I never studied it in school (I was too busy learning about Abraham Lincoln over and over again) and while I've always wanted to learn about the Siberian wonderland, I've never bothered to make that happen. Something always comes up – school, work, my job, Wayne's World playing on Comedy Central. But right now I'm in the fabulous limbo between work and school, and I'm taking a break from Mike Meyers movies, so I bought a few books on Russia and decided to fix my ignorance. I started reading  Peter the Great: His Life and World by Robert K. Massie. Yes, I realize that I just recommended a biography about a 17th century European ruler and now I sound like a 65-year-old history professor in need of a new tweed coat, but let me tell you, this book is fascinating.

The first thing I learned was that in 17th century Russia, when peasants left the house to run errands, they carried what little money they had around in their mouths. That's right, their mouths. They stored their coins under their tongues so that no one could steal them. I think this is an excellent idea. The next time I buy a diet Coke from the gas station and the attendant rings me up and says, "That'll be $1.49 please," I'm going to open my mouth and unfold a wet and wadded up dollar bill from my mouth. Then six months later, I'll die of hepatitis. But it'll be the most culturally aware bout of hepatitis you've ever seen.

The next thing I learned was that when Peter was 10-years-old, an angry mob of soldiers and guardsmen stormed the Kremlin and tried to kill his family. Peter lived, of course, and so did his mother, but his personal guardian Mateev was not so lucky. They dragged him by his hair, threw him over a railing onto upturned sword blades, then hacked him to pieces and ground them into the dirt. Later, they did the same thing to his uncle. So I read this, and I immediately felt ridiculous for complaining that life was unfair when I woke up this morning and discovered I was out of coffee.

When I read about Peter the Great, I realize that I just don't have anything to complain about. I mean, sure, he was enormously wealthy and bought himself a navy even though he ruled a landlocked country, while I worry about fluctuating gas prices, but you know what? He didn't have central heat and air. Or television. Or a fleece bathrobe. Peter's half-brother was a cripple and his other half-brother was almost blind, and before Mateev was hacked to pieces he had the extreme displeasure of being banished to Siberia for six years. Or was it seven? Either way, the life of a 17th century Russian was really hard. If Peter the Great were alive now, he'd probably be in therapy.

I can just see Peter sititng in a semi-circle with a bunch of strangers who are sipping coffee out of Styrofoam cups and talking about their relationship problems. One man claims that he suffers from emotional distance and that when he gets too attached to a woman he puts up a "wall," and that's why he's still single at 45. Another man has trouble staying faithful in relationships and he blames that on his parents' poor relationship and the fact that his father never loved him. A small man with glasses stirs his coffee and discusses his feelings towards women, his relationship with his sister, and the time his mother locked herself in the bathroom and took an overdose of chewable vitamins. "That's interesting," says Peter, "because when a hoard of soldiers seized my uncle and beat him until his limbs hung from his body at strange angles, then chopped off his hands and feet with axes, impaled him with spears and, as a final act, trampled his bloody remains into the mud, I felt exactly the same way."

And then he'd write a book about his life called "A Million Little Pieces…Of My Uncle" and Oprah would read it and then he'd make millions of dollars and he would store all of it in his mouth.

And people wonder why I love Russia.

The Big (and by "Big" I mean 400 sq. ft. efficiency) Apple

I'm moving to New York in August, so last week I booked a cheap flight (Jet Blue: "If We Give You Your Own Tiny TV And Show You Seven Episodes of Scrubs, Maybe You Won't Notice That We're Three Hours Late") to the city and searched for apartments. I learned many things about myself over the weekend, things like: I can't afford an apartment with closets. I can't afford an apartment with a kitchen. And sometimes, depending on the location, I can't afford an apartment with a floor. I thought it might be nice to live in SoHo, but I ruled that out when I discovered that I'd have to walk up five flights of stairs and fold myself up into a box of Grape-Nuts. I could do Cheerios, maybe, but Grape-Nuts come in those mini-cereal boxes, probably because nobody wants to eat an entire 15 oz. box of whole grain wheat and barley clusters.

Here is my synopsis of New York apartment-hunting, based on my vast experience of looking at Craigslist ads and then spending one weekend in the city.

Most apartments in New York are rented through brokerage companies, so instead of meeting the building's landlord or owner, you meet a sweaty little man in a cheap suit who tries to convince you that even if you're going to school on W. 116th Street, you'd really rather live all the way across town on  E. 22nd Street. "This is a great location!" he will tell you, his pit-stains slowly seeping, larger and larger, across his chest, "just 32 stops on the subway and you're right there." If you're lucky, he might smell like onions.

The first apartment you see will be a 2-bedroom apartment with only one bedroom. "The other bedroom is the living room," the sweaty man will say when you look at him suspiciously, and then he will explain that if you run a clothesline from the edge of the refrigerator – by the way, the kitchen is also in the living room – to the opposite wall, there should just be enough room for a twin mattress, and maybe a pile of clothes ("your closet," he'll call it). Wondering if his stench is Vidalia or Pearl, you will move on.

The next apartment will be so significantly superior to the first that you'll think you've found your new home, until you realize that you can't turn around in the shower. Sure, the kitchen countertops are granite and the hardwood floors have been refinished, but what if you drop the soap? This apartment will be approximately 300 sq. ft.

The third apartment will have a bedroom with dimensions narrower than your height, and if you lay down, your head and feet will graze the walls. The fourth apartment will have roaches. The fifth apartment will have termites. The sixth apartment will have a lovely woman named Brandi who offers you a good time and an unidentified blue and yellow pill, much like the one found in that Dragnet episode with the teenage boy who takes LSD and then paints his face blue and then Jack Webb sends him to jail.

You will repeat this process three or four times with several different brokers. Some of them won't smell like onions. Some of them will smell like hot dogs. And then you'll finally meet one who seems normal. He'll still wear the cheap suit, but his perspiration will be under control and the light scent of CK One will – aside from reminding you of scrunchies, Doc Martins and the Rachel haircut – be a welcome respite.  His name will be Darren he will show you an apartment with windows. The apartment will also have kitchen that is separate from the bedroom. You will think Darren is a genius and you will give him all of the money in your bank account.

The New York apartment experience will change your life. It will make new thoughts run through your head, thoughts you never would have considered before, such as, "I guess I could store my shoes in the sink." You will come to appreciate every square inch of your apartment. You will take up yoga and practice contorting your body into various space-saving positions, and you will never look at another box of Grape-Nuts the same again. And when your friends back home ask you how things are going, you will give them a big smile and say, "Wonderful! New York is the only place I'd ever want to live."

Can't Beat The Real Thing (Unless You Add Vitamins)

Last week I went to Florida, where I spent my days drinking pña coladas by the pool and my nights being slowly devoured by the largest mosquitoes ever to buzz menacingly above the earth. I had a lot of fun in Florida, but if I could do it over again, I'd probably re-think my decision to visit Jake's Safari Jungle and Mini-Golf Course at dusk, just after a rainstorm. My legs itch constantly and if I wear shorts in public, people subtly move away from me so that they don't catch what they assume to be a flesh-eating bacteria or contagious rash. But I'm not upset, because now diet Coke comes with vitamins.

There are many things wrong with our world: war; poverty; terrorism; the twenty decapitated bodies recently found in Iraq; Dick Cheney's new "fourth branch" of government. But at least our society has gotten one thing right: injecting vitamins into carbonated soda beverages. I don't know about you, but I was really worried about whether I could get all my daily vitamins and minerals without actually eating anything nutritious.

The product is called Diet Coke Plus, and it contains 15% of the daily requirement for niacin, B6 and B12 as well as 10% of zinc and magnesium. That's right, just 10 Diet Coke Pluses a day will give you all the zinc and magnesium you'll ever need. Take that, beans, seafood and whole grains! You are useless to me now.

The Coca-Cola Company released a statement about their healthy new product, in which they claim that "[c]onsumers, including  Diet Coke drinkers, are increasingly looking for more beverage options." I'm pretty sure that's a lie. I don't know anyone who feels underserved by the beverage industry. Who in their right mind would walk down the beverage aisle in the grocery store and say, "Coke, Cherry Coke, Diet Coke, Diet Cherry Coke, Caffeine Free Coke, Caffeine Free Diet Coke, Vanilla Coke, Diet Vanilla Coke, Diet Lime Coke, Coke With Splenda - man, I wish they had a bigger selection!"

I can't even imagine a Coca-Cola product I'd like to be invented, except maybe the legendary 1970s Coke that can teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. I've been drinking Coca-Cola my entire life, and I have yet to receive even one singing lesson from Coke. Come to think of it, none of Coke's marketing campaigns have ever come true for me. I have never turned cuter or smarter or happier because of Coke. I've never won a game of one-on-one against Michael Jordan and my Coke Points have never earned me a new car stereo (although that might be because I've never collected them). I'm starting to think that Coke's advertisements are a sham. Good thing I can rely on products like McDonalds and Pepsi to help me make friends, find true love and live a happy life.

I can't wait until they release a Diet Mango Sorbet Coke (Now With Added Fiber). If you drink it, there will be peace in the Middle East.

The Adventure of the Citrus Fruit

There are limes at the bottom of my driveway. That's right, limes. Those little green things you squeeze over certain pasta dishes or drop in bottles of Corona. I find them at least once a week, just sitting there, like it's perfectly normal to for limes to hang out in driveways, especially in regions where tropical fruits do not grow. Sometime it's just one wedge, sometimes a whole lime, sometimes or two or three. The limes are always cut into segments. Sometimes they're squeezed, sometimes it looks like whoever sliced them decided against using limes that night. "Nah, not this Wednesday," he said to himself, and then drove over to my house and threw them down my driveway.

The limes show up at night, and I usually find them while I'm out walking my dog, Molly, before bed. And because my free time usually involves fleece pajamas and afternoon naps, I have nothing better to do but concoct elaborate explanations for their existence. I haven't had this much mystery and intrigue in my life since that one Christmas when Santa accidentally left all of the Toys R Us price tags on his presents and suddenly I had to rethink his whole "workshop run by elves" story.

I'm obsessed with this citrus fruit mystery and have come up with various scenarios to explain it—a secret club of late night tequila drinkers; the remains of an impromptu key lime pie baking contest; a mythical creature that visits us from a faraway land, leaving only partially eaten limes, his only source of food, as evidence —but none of them seem very plausible. I want to know the truth.

Here are the facts. Limes do not grow in Tennessee. I didn't research this or anything, I am merely basing this statement on the fact that I have never seen a lime tree (lime shrubbery?) in the state.

I live half a mile away from a grocery store, where I assume the limes are being purchased.

The crime scene is a quiet residential area with light foot traffic, mostly joggers and dog walkers, not the kind of people who carry citrus fruits around with them as they go about their day. You don't really need to worry about contracting scurvy on a 3-mile jog, you know?

As far as wildlife is concerned, we're talking squirrels, sparrows, maybe the occasional rabbit, although I doubt any animals are involved. The limes are always cut into neat segments, and how many squirrels have you seen use a knife?

The limes only appear at the end of my apartment building's driveway, near the street, with no nearby picnic table or grassy area around which people might congregate. Driveway, curb, two-lane road – that's what we're dealing with. As far as I can tell, my neighbors' driveways remain lime-free. I discovered this by skulking around the perimeter of their properties late at night, which I'm sure they didn't find creepy at all.

I keep hoping to find a pattern in the lime activity, but so far I've found nothing. Every night I take Molly for a walk, and every night I report my findings back to Paul, who smiles and says, "that's interesting," which is his way of saying, "you're weird." Paul views the limes as nothing more than a strange occurrence, and he humors my nightly updates the way one might humor the incoherent ramblings of an elderly relative who can't stop talking about The War. He doesn't understand the limes' true significance. What if the limes are the first signs of a larger discarded fruit disorder? What if one day I find a navel orange or a pile of tangerines at my doorstep? Today's lime is tomorrow's truckload of rotten grapefruits. I think Churchill said that. Except he used totally different words.

These limes have consumed my thoughts, and I find myself telling people about them in detail. "Yesterday, I could almost make out what I think might be teeth marks," I'll say to my mailman, who, I've noticed, has redirected his route so that I'm at work when he delivers my mail. My father made me promise not to talk about fruit during our regular Sunday phone calls, and the grocery store cashiers claim they haven't noticed any unusual activity near the lime display. Whenever my friends come over, I take them outside to view the evidence.
"See that?" I'll say, pointing to a greenish brown thing lying on the sidewalk.
"What, a dried up piece of three-day-old fruit?"
"Exactly."

If I were Sherlock Holmes, I would pick the limes up and take them inside. I'd look at the marks etched upon their rinds, taste their juices to determine whether they were of the Key or Persian variety, maybe sample the dust on their skin to determine how long they'd been sitting in my driveway. Unfortunately, I'm not a fictional character in 19th century England who suffers from a drug addiction, and there's no way in hell I'm touching the remains of someone else's discarded food, even if it contains the key to the murder of a wealthy British man, the true identity of an eastern European Count, or the entrance into a secret high society cult.

But I want to know the truth! Why are these limes in my driveway? Why do they show up every single week? Has anyone else noticed them? Did they come from a Corona? Where is the bottle? Did the beer drinker throw the limes away but keep the glass bottle out of the goodness of his recycling heart? Is there a late night margarita party at the bottom of my driveway every week? Is this a government experiment designed to test a rational human's ability to deal with minor fruit-related confusion? Do the terrorists know about these limes? Is this a new kind of teenage prank? Instead of smashing mailboxes, have today's youth turned toward subtle psychological tactics designed to make their victims go mad over a period of months? Or maybe the limes belong to an eccentric old man with a rare form of obsessive-compulsive disorder that requires him to discard citrus fruits at the base of every home whose address ends in a 7. Is that it? That's it, isn't it? I knew it.