University II: Scholar's Revenge

Today my job shipped me off to the Congress of the Social Sciences and the Humanities, a yearly gathering of homo academicus. Every year it takes over a different university campus in Canada, hosting panels for a week, and leaving nothing behind but empty dessert trays and complimentary pens.

Or so the legend goes.

Sitting behind my company's booth, I wondered if it was appropriate to use newsie-style calls to entice the roving academics to pick up our book titles. Fortunately, I didn't have to startle them. We had dessert squares. The refined sugar did it all.

Some academics always seem hungry - like the memory of being a starving graduate student, and even hungrier sessional, has never died. Even post-tenure, they seem worried that someone will take it all away, and they'll be back with the rest of us, sunk deep in the dusty gutter of department-funded cheap wine and brie events.

A further observation: Roots Tribe Leather satchels and briefcases are the bag of choice for the ambitious young male academic.

A further further observation: The bag of choice for entrenched older male academics is whatever the hell they feel like. Now hand them a dessert square.

Wandering through the booths, looking at all the books I want to, but will never read, I felt a phantom pain for my imaginary scholarly career. With different choices I could have been reading that book, participating on a talk about that topic, dodging... that undergrad, and that undergrad's mother. Oh woe! I have the Roots bag (specifically the "Modern Satchel - Tribe"), but not the teaching contract to stuff inside it.

But I also never became a lawyer, or a doctor, or a writer, or any of the other careers I played mental dress-up before discarding. There's a persistent worry, three-parts Sylvia Plath's plums and one part Beast in the Jungle, that I will spend too much time trying to decide on what to be, to ever really be anything at all.

Persistent- but not overwhelming. I have always tried not to mix crises of being with events that have an official hashtag.

I shook it off, bought a book, and went back to the booth. I would have been a lazy grader anyway.

Oh, For The Smell Of Overpriced Pearson Education Outputs...

I didn't realize how odd it would be, or how nostalgia-inducing, to see Froshies wandering the streets of Montreal. This whole post-grad thing kind of snuck up on me. It felt like one day it was still summer and I could maintain the illusion of being a college student on a temporary break from life. And then the next day, drunken 18 year-olds were running me down in their neon shirts while I returned to the job I might* be returning to for the rest of the year. As this is the first time I won't be buying textbooks, new pens or optimistically writing in a scholastic planner, I feel both regret and guilt at being a bad consumer. Maybe I should buy a Crayola pack at Bureau En Gros to assuage my guilt or something.

I'm not sure whether to keep up my studies on my own or give up and start watching Twice in a Lifetime on repeat**. I've already forgotten important points on de Saussure and Radway, which would seem like a reason to haul out the course packs. But then again, if I go into grad school for epidemiology, or simply spend the rest of my days as a shiftless jack of all words, will I ever really need to recap de Saussure and structuralism? On the other hand, I could keep up with my friends who are still in school.

Sigh, I'm not sure which way to go. Maybe I should pick a third path and study something I never studied before. Particle theory, here I come!
Note: I do not think it bodes well that I spelled it "particly" the first time around.

*Depending on how my latest fuck-up at work pans out.
** Was saved from doing so today by friends. Probably for the best because it started out with someone humorously slipping on a book and dying. You know, for the laffs only a low-budget, Cancon serial drama can provide.

The Random Bits

Well, I think I waited too long to get back to the porn guys after they liked my write-up. D'oh.

In other mildly annoying news, I have cookies that need to be squirreled away for two whole days, TWO DAYS people, before I can eat them. This is after I had to brown butter, mix dough, chill everything for a few hours, shape dough in teaspoons, bake, heat preserves, strain preserves, and then assemble sandwich cookies. I have spent less time studying for some of my exams than I have making these cookies. When they've finished maturing, I'm going to post a picture. Not only as a monument to my blinkered dedication, but for educational purposes. To illustrate how graceful little sandwiches of wit and elegance on the recipe site can become lumpen oozing messes in the right hands. Not that I would care, as long as they come out delicious.

(Oh, and I wrote my last undergraduate exam on Friday. I hope. I do not want to be too noisy in my celebrations just yet, lest ye Administration gods smite me.)

Schoolday the Thirteenth XII

Sorry about my absence. You know how in horror movies, there's always a moment when the hero/ine thinks the danger is past, and the monster is killed? And they turn around to breathe a sigh of relief, but over their shoulder we see the ghoul sit right back up and make a grab at them, and we know this will be the worst battle. School was kind of like that two weeks ago. I was getting all cocky, thinking I was just about graduated, when I got mired deep into finals. Last week, for example, I had two exams, one take-home exam, and two papers. Friday alone I had one of those exams and one of those papers, and then I foolishly decided to work from one to seven. I went to bed at ten that night.

But all this is in the past. And is boring. Although I had a funny moment Thrusday at school. I was working on my paper on Altman (Short Cuts, bless) in the screening room. I had made a mental note that the headphones weren't plugged in, and that I should do that before playing the movie. Which is why it was super embarassing when, fifteen minutes later, a girl taps me on the shoulder to ask me if I realize they aren't plugged in. This is while I have the TV on at max volume, with the headphones on my ears. And then, to make matters worse, I leave, and then the same girl came out to ask if the cell phone she found was mine. It was. I was tired.

But I have some fun stuff coming up, hopefully. Time for more knitting, reading, assorted cultural activities that keep me from being a hermit. Oh, and I have Twitter now- username Protagitron. I heard that John McCain had it, and I wasn't going to be less plugged-in than someone who's older than Israel. And now I'm not sure what it offers that Facebook doesn't. But I beat Oprah to it, so at least I feel cooler than someone. Suck it, O. (Please don't kill me with all of your money.)

Huey Long? I didn't feel a thing!

Sometimes I think I'm one of those people whose humour is actually just a series of inside jokes... with themself. See, yesterday I had brought my computer to class to try and work on an essay, which usually just means I end up scrolling through New Yorker articles while obsessively refreshing Facebook. The article I was reading at the time- George Packer's "Populism and Paranoia"- referenced Huey Long, one of those historical people who, like Benjamin Disraeli, I know is very important, although I cannot conclusively say why. So, this leads me to the Wikipedia article on Huey Long, which leads to a snort from my seatmate, Sam. He's surprised that, of all the things a person could be reading about in class, I'm reading about Huey Long. And that makes me laugh.

So, I've tried telling this story to about five people now, and nobody gets why I think it's funny. I'm not sure if it's because the name Huey Long is inherently funny, assasination or not, or because two people can have a weird bonding moment over a dead Louisiana politician. Or maybe I'm just amused that so much human interaction is mediated by the Internet. Either way, nobody's laughing but me. Maybe it's time to work in a double entendre with Long's name...

The World's Mildest Gossip

You know what? The only thing that sucks more than mild gossip, is mild salsa. Get some chili peppers all up in that, or you just have diced tomatoes with delusions of grandeur. Anyway the mild gossip of the day, or week as it were, would be an ex-TA of mine may be, or probably not, flirting with me at my fine place of employment on Monday. I am too intrigued by the possibility to let it go. I saw him wondering around, and called out his name. We ended up talking about his real area of study and funny Cultural Studies papers I have handed in. I'm sure the divide between his actual thoughts during his conversation and my picture of them ran something like this:

ex-T.A.: Oh, thank God. A student of mine who doesn't view me as a potential obstacle or stepping stone to law school. I will talk to her in order to feel valued again.

My version: Dear, sweet, Protagitron. You look so damn attractive holding that Yale University Press catalogue as you create records, pushing your glorious curls behind one ear. Run away with me, and we will fight the twin enemies of the Code of Conduct and poorly edited essays... together.

Okay, so I'm not quite so pathetic in real life. And yet, I find myself uncharacteristically tempted- although I'm sure the interest is entirely one-sided, even failure would provide an interesting coda to my university career...

Early Bird Gets The Yarn

I am supposed to teach ten people how to knit tonight. Or tomorrow morning. How do you count 1AM? The Fine Arts Council, or McGill, or whoever controls the Byzantine room booking and insurance situation at my institution of high learning, decided the best night for an all-nighter would be Thursday night. I decided signing my group up to hold a workshop was a good idea. 1AM makes a lot of things bad ideas, and not only when ordering food. Out of a mysterious window on St. Laurent. I'll let you know how it goes.

Otherwise, I've been keeping myself busy, but not in any sort of bloggable way. Although the sink is being recalcitrant again. Stay tuned for Volume Two: A SINK TOO FAR.

A Bright Spot!

Good news, fellas: the McGill shenanigans have been taken care of. I might be able to graduate on time, and all I had to do was prostate almost every professor in the English department. And then fill out many forms. And, perhaps, sacrifice the blood of a newborn on the eve of the first noon.

So, my relationship with my educational institution of choice has returned from "hate" to "ambivalence." Time to dose the flames on my McGill-wear bonfire.
Q: What does it take to set a pile of 80% cotton 20% polyester on fire?
A: Seething, burning hatred. Also, a match helps.

Detective Protagitron

I'm sorry, I've slipped back into a weekly publishing schedule. Blame my abusive boyfriend, aka McGill University. And the night I was a rent-a-cop for the McGill Model UN. You see, I occasionally, out of guilt, volunteer at Walksafe. That's an outfit at McGill you can phone at night if you need to be accompanied anywhere on the island. In case you need all the safety and protection a 5'1" girl like me can offer. We also annually do "security" at the hotel where the McMun conference is happening. We act as a buffer so the Israeli Security Council doesn't order too many hookers and get the model UN banned from any hotel for life.

Well, in my dreams I hustled hookers out of the door. Actually, I spent most of the night knocking on doors and awkwardly telling rowdy types to simmer down. Oh, and the only semi-professional clothes I own are very "Lesbian at the PTA," except I lack a natural butch authority. They had me with this other guy, who was very sweet and conscientious. He would be the first to knock on any door if he heard a peep. Unfortunately, he would then just stare at them in silence. So it was up to me and my domestic partner pants to instill fear in their hearts. Check it: "Heyyyyyyyy guyyyyys.... Yeah, there's uh, a few too many people in your room, so you need to keep it down, mmmkay?" They positively wet themselves in fear. Well, at least they didn't laugh at me. They are true keeners at heart, so they would whisper an apology and then shut up.

They are horny little monkeys in the pants though. Further evidence that large gatherings of nerds descend into bacchanalias. (see: engineers) I'm just waiting for the cat-loving, comic book-reading, action-loving nerd demographic to reach critical mass so I can engage in some whoring. Unfortunately, I don't think we'll ever achieve the budget of McMun, so we can't give out free muffins to those who keep us in line.

Kawaii!

If this course had a textbook, this would be its cover.

At the beginning of every semester, I go through a weird phase where I vow to be friendlier in class. This lasts for about a week, because before long I'm cranky and fixating on the newest injustice the STM has rendered upon me. But McGill can be downright frosty, particularly in winter when the student body begins to sublimate the weather into their own being, so I'm making a particular effort this year, so I take it as my duty to temporarily inject some light.

I've met some good people that way, and probably made a few consider a restraining order. Today I engaged my seat buddy in my Introduction to Japanese Culture class. His name is Charles, and he seems very nice. He also seems very concerned about our midterm in that class.

And, come to think of it, I share that concern. Apparently it involves some kind of research and then, horrors, role playing. If we have to bring costumes, I'll seriously think about seppuku.

University Bound: The Final Chapter

I am back in Montreal, and have checked one whole day of classes off of my final (final! Where did the time go?) year at McGill. Will I finally learn not repress my emotions and be honest when I am attracted to someone? Will I pass all of my courses? Will I make friends with my professors? I don't know, but at least there are American Cheez-Its to get me through it.

Praise YHWH!

As of 11:45, I have finished completely with Jewish History: 400-1000 CE. I feel like there are now two paths of celebration open to me:

1. Watch a Christmas movie

2. Order a bacon cheeseburger, and ask for shrimp on the side. To garnish with, at my will. 

I am so happy, and yet so sleepy, and all I can think of is Maimonides. The wind calls out his name, and yet smells of rendered pork fat. I am confused. 

My Future Beckons, And I Think It Has an STD

My roommate and I have made a pact- by the end of the week, we'll have some kind of rough idea of what we're doing with our lives. WHICH IS WHY I'M CURRENTLY HYPERVENTILATING INTO A BAG. We're not talking a detailed narrative here- who knows what the ETA on the house in the suburbs and the one kid in Montessori will be- but at least a general plan for the next year. OH GOD I AM OLD. I'm currently vacillating between grad school and a year off teaching abroad, but important details, like which grad program, where, what country I want to teach English in, and so on, are still blank.

Katie is doing much better, and has actually narrowed down her schools to a shortlist. While she's been doing that, I've watched the Celine Dion made for tv movie. I might have some catching up to do, particularly now that I'm traumatized by what turned out to be, to quote Iris, "soft porn about their relationship." "Their" meaning Celine and Rene, or rather Celine and a creepy older Quebecois man who managed her since she was twelve. Played by an Anglo actor in a bad wig.

My procrastination isn't because I'm scared of growing up- that's a fate I've accepted with stoic resignation- but of getting letters of recommendation. I hate writing CVs, and I hate harassing people to lie and write something about how original and engaging I am. BUT I DO NOT WANT TO BE A FAILURE. If they were all more honest about this, mine would read something like "Protagitron does her work semi-competently, and even spells her name correctly sometimes. She will probably not make any major or minor contributions to her field, but she will pay her tuition on time, and generally smells inoffensive."

Come to think of it though, I don't know if I could even get that far. Most of them don't know who I am, and if they do, they know they hate me. I was keeping one professor in reserve, the ever-delightful Professor Mole, but ruined it all by talking to him outside of class a few days ago. Here's how that conversation went:
Protag: Hello, Professor!
Mole: Protagitron, how are you doing?
P: ... I'm... here. That's, uh, half the battle, right?
Mole:... Yes. Yes it is.
P: ...
Mole: ...
P: Have a nice day?
... and scurry. At this rate, even my application to CDI College isn't going to be processed.

My New Friend

Bookshelf... or catshelf?

The day of the crap e-mail, I was in a foul mood because I made a public ass of myself twice- very, very loudly- in my econ stats class. First, I blurted out an exponentially wrong answer once, and then again, and then three times because I wanted to make the situation completely hopeless. You know, saying the wrong thing once you can explain away as a cough, twice as some sort of nervous tic, but three times? You're just dumb. Then I asked the prof to show me something he had just finished showing the class. He looks suspiciously like Santa Claus too, from the snow white beard to the square glasses, and knowing that I was now consigned to finding only coal and Statistics for Idiots textbooks in my stocking did not make me feel any better about myself. Until today.

In that class, we get a much-needed break halfway through the class, where we can all toddle off to smoke, check our e-mail, or get hosed at the vending machine. I was idly browsing online, checking The Comics Curmudgeon, when I heard a jolly voice behind me. "Ooo, comic strips!" I almost put my face through the monitor- I have a low shock threshold- and turned around. It was Professor Kris Kringle! I slurred something inarticulate about how it was a blog that made fun of lame comics, praying I hadn't scrolled down to an entry about someone fucking Marmaduke the dog. "Surely that's not still around, is it?" he asked, pointing to... Dick Tracy. Not June Morgan's breasts, praise Jesus. We then proceeded to have an awkward conversation where I blathered about Mary Worth, Dick Tracy's lovers, and the horror of the upcoming Liz/Anthony union on For Better or For Worse. I mercifully lurched to an awkward pause after I had used "lame" for the thirteenth time. "And I get to it by accessing... joshreads.com?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "Thank you," he replied, repeating "joshreads.com, joshreads.com... I will have to check it out" as he headed back to the classroom.

I can't wait to see what mark I get when he realizes I've ruined the Family Circus for him.

My Big Fat Greek Examohgodthepuns

Well, I just had a week of nutty shenanigans to contend with. Instead of trying to rent an apartment in the city, I will soon be buying a hut in the far North and living amongst the polar bears. They cannot harass me by phone or e-mail, only eat me which would be ever so preferable.
Ahem. Anyway, I have my Greek Mythology final tomorrow. Today I did seven straight hours of it. I think I've ODed on our Hellenic brethern. I've changed the cat's name to Philoctetes, and the degu's to Ajax. I'm so desperate not to study any more, even though I still need to be able to locate Aulis on a map, that I'm watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding on tv. With bad reception. Maybe it will tell me something more about the Aeschylus tragedies I haven't read yet. I think John Corbett is playing Orestes!
Wait, no, my tv reception is just that bad.

Trauma and Lace

Well, let's just forget that week ever happened, alright? I'm still in recovery. Right after I had to write three essays in a week, I had to write three exams. Granted, it's my fault for not being more... studious and better at time management. But still, it was traumatic. I'm not even on solid foods yet, unless really dark stout ale counts. The other plan was some therapeutic sleeping in, which was ruined when my friend called from Boston. At 6. Because he was bored. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Helllllarrrrrggh.
Josh: Hey Protagitron, it's Josh.
Me: Wha? Ish six! I KEEEEEL YOU. [pause] How ish Boston?



Well, I'm feeling a little less homicidal now. I have yet another exam on Monday, and then a week off until my final exam on the 28th. I'm ignoring Monday's exam, however, and concentrating on my knitting, which was sadly neglected over the past few days. I love knitting this stole, since the lace is just interesting enough to keep things interesting while also being simple enough to master. I haven't seen any mistakes in the pattern yet, and it's turning out nicely. I'm hoping I'll have enough yarn left over to add some dramatic fringe. I think the stole needs sweepy fringe. Until I'm finished though, I'll just hold it up and pretend I'm a spider with a web.

Posting From the McGill Netherworld

Jeez, I'm surprised this thing hasn't rusted over. Right after my last post, I was thrust deep into pre-reading week school work. In two weeks I had a paper, a presentation, five midterms and a few shifts I picked up at work. I gave up even the basic rudiments of grooming and sacrificed sleep so the world would have my essential essay about the McFarlane action figure of Frankenstein's Monster. Who knows when the fate of the world will depend on what this overpriced toy has to say about feminism? The world must know! So, I promised myself I would get back to knitting- and posting- the first Monday of reading week. Unfortunately, I was too busy raiding the parental fridge and spending money on discount yarn to post anything.

And then I promised to myself I would get around to it at the beginning of this week... which ended up becoming an impromptu Festival of Grilled Cheese. When you assume, because your job is constantly running out of important things for sandwiches like... all the elements of a sandwich, that there will be no supplies at all come Monday, and decide to stock up on bread, lettuce, and tomatoes just in case, that will be the day your boss finally pulls through. So, you're left with a bag of extra groceries- what to do? Well, cut those veggies up into a salad, buy a bunch of sliced cheeses, make a bread pudding (with caramel sauce), and have some friends over for a grilled cheese fiesta.

Not only will you be well-fed, but it will lead to awesome conversations. For example, besides my roommate and her boyfriend, I invited pals Josh and Frances. They are two of the most wonderful people, and two of the nerdiest. I think of myself as a dedicated nerd, so this is a high compliment. Josh, dedicated Trekkie, was complaining about the upcoming Star Trek movie, and the following conversation occured.

"Protagitron: Well, at least the cast is full of pretty.
Josh: That's the problem. It's not Star Trek!
Frances: Josh, I watch Torchwood, and sometimes prettiness is the only thing that makes things bearable.
Josh: How can you say that when you said you didn't like Seven of Nine because she's just eye candy?
Frances: But she is.
Josh: No she's not!
Protagitron: Hey, did you know Jeri Ryan's pregnant?
Josh: Ew, it will ruin her figure!"

So, in Labour Economics the next day, Frances and I were studiously taking notes on wage discrimination against women in the workplace. And by that, I mean we were writing notes to each other out of boredom like we were still in middle school. I will have you know, however, that we do not fold them up into those complicated squares. We're too mature for that. So, I made an appropriate doodle:

It was captioned: "7 of 9 suddenly finds herself discriminated against in the workplace."

Frances's reply: "It will ruin her figure. Ahahaha!"

Well, as they say at McGill: Grandescunt Aucta Labore. "Through work, all things grow."

Protagitron's Gymnopedie

Bagels: Serious Business
I spotted this at the gym. Under 'Hamilton's Shame' it says "Sugar-coated baked item sold in Steeltown as a 'Montreal-style bagel.' Montreal's newspapers are all about the hard-hitting news.

This Monday the McGill Fight Band played the men's hockey game against Concordia. Well, I don't play so much as blow on my clarinet and hope for the best, but it's often fun. Unfortunately, this game coincided with the McGill Management Carnival. If you're not in the know, Carnival is the week-long bacchanal the Management Faculty throws every year, and the entire reason McGill was the only Canadian school on Playboy's list of top North American party schools. Take that, Brock. This meant we were swarmed for the entire game by Management students in all the stages of drunkenness, from sober on down to horizontal. You can spot them because they're all wearing jumpsuits with their team name on them. I assume the team names are chosen after the Carnival, and the boozing, have begun, because they're all thinly veiled sexual innuendos. Particular favourites? The Glad-he-ate-'ers.

After the game, I was walking home with my roommate and our friend and percussionist Abby, lecturing on that very same topic. I had just stated my thesis, something along the lines of "However, shame on the ShamCOCKS. That's not even trying," when a tallish bloke walking by yelled "I'd LOVE to double your entendre." Which prompted a few awkward seconds of mortifying silence before he yelled back "That was... just about what you were saying" and I squeaked out "I gathered" like a chipmunk drunk on helium.

On reflection, I really could have played that one better. I should have flipped my hair, raised one eyebrow all come-hither, and purred: "Why, I would adore to in your endo." We would share a good laugh, or two, and then it would seem as if my friends had suddenly disappeared into the night- there would only be the tallish bloke, me, and our sparkling innuendos perfuming the night air. A cup of coffee that night would turn into a lifetime of love and laughter, our children the ones forever giggling in middle school health class, the gravestones on our joint plots reading something like "Here lies a Master Debater", and "Cunning Linguist, Beloved Mother and Wife".

But some things are not meant to be. So, tallish bloke, I will think of you always, and the wind won't howl, but only whisper "ShamCOCK, ShamCOCK, ShamCOCK..."

The Once and Future Sandwich Queen

Pistache and I are on the same page, mood-wise.

First, some big news: I am now gainfully employed! Soon I will be making sandwiches at a wee student café on campus. You may now address me as the Sandwich Queen. I'm actually pretty gleeful at this event- I have a real job! Which will give me money! And where I can meet people! It's a win-win-win situation, and it goes a fair bit towards my New Year's resolution of not being a hermit. Now I just need to ditch my tinfoil hat.

Other things have been working out in my life, but perhaps working out a little too well. I'm highly suspicious whenever I hit a streak of good luck. Suddenly my days are full of Commando quote fests over cheap beer and pizza, and the promise of Cronenberg and Romero screenings in class. It's all too good to last! Something black must be on the horizon. So far, the worst has been some dipshit's alarm/horn/whatever has been going off all morning. If it wasn't so bloody cold out, I would track the source down and beat it with a crowbar. Of course, I would have to a buy a crowbar first... so maybe later.

I would also like to report on the results of a research project my esteemed colleague and roommate embarked on: The Effects of Being Abandoned in The Fridge For Over a Month on Name Brand Jell-O. Her conclusion: "This must be how they make Fruit Roll-Ups."

Yummy.

Disastrix!

In the past two weeks since I wrote about my hat, it has happily been keeping my ears toasty while I have failed in every other aspect of my life. The most recent? The morning of my second to last exam, I realized I had been studying... FOR THE WRONG EXAM. Yes, for the past month or so I had mixed up my two econ course numbers in my head, and it had taken me until the last possible moment to realize my error. Now, if it had been any other class than this one, which I had kind of dicked off in through out the year, I probably could of winged it. But, no, it had to be the one class I had to do well on, to make up for the regrettable midterm which featured me answering a question about utility from fixed proportions of gin and tonics with "Stephen Harper should drink less so I can be spared this question."I will never know if the prof was amused by my answer, because I was too ashamed to pick my test up. So, I desperately tried to cram in some info before I went off to school. "Mmmm hmm, mmm hmmm... don't get it." Toss paper. "Ah, yes, wait... we learned this?" Toss paper. "Ew." Toss paper.

So, I went off to the exam feeling a little, how shall we say, stressed. And then I realized once I got off the McGill metro station that I didn't have my student card, and didn't have time to go back and get it, and briefly considered just passing out in a snowbank somewhere and letting the cruel nature of Montreal take me out of my misery. But no. No, I soldiered on! I signed all the forms about improper ID and whatnot, although if I was faking my identity, I think I would have sent someone I mite more competent in my place. Like the cat. Or the cracker I found under my desk while cleaning, which had probably achieved sentience. But I wrote that exam! And it wasn't a complete horror show, more of just a sideshow. I think I did quite well on the multiple choice, and one or two of the questions. We won't speak of the others. A nice Gentleman's C, perhaps?

And on the bright side, I am going to kick ass on Friday. After all, I'm already prepared.