By Ann Brown
Thirty-two years ago (this Friday), Robin and I had a huge fucking fight about something stupid. And by “stupid”, I mean it was possibly my fault. At the core of the fight was an issue that continues to plague us to this day: I think it is hilarious when I fuck shit up, and Robin prefers to arrive at our wedding destination and not be informed that I have forgotten his shirt. And when I helpfully point out the humor in the situation (by way of telling him, “oh, lighten up, you big baby. You are harshing my wedding day mellow”) he refuses to let it go and just wear the three-piece wool suit sans shirt in the 103 degree September LA weather. I mean, it’s not like I forgot his pants. For fuck’s sake.
He can be so uptight. Sometimes I have no idea why I married him. He really doesn’t share my upbeat outlook on life. I might have to start sneaking my happy pills into his morning granola. Be like me!
If only I could marry myself. I am an ideal spouse. Ask anyone but Robin.
We didn’t speak, or even make eye contact, all that afternoon. Not even when we were walking down the aisle. Not even when we were assembled under the wedding chuppah, not even when we put the rings on each other’s fingers. My noble attempt to make detente by complimenting him on his very manly hair shirt during our vows was met with staunch resistance. Really, what’s a bride to do?
Our freeze began to thaw only when we both laughed during the ceremony because – having our wedding on a hill overlooking a golf course on a Sunday afternoon – a voice on the loudspeaker announcing that “Stevenson, your golf cart is ready” obscured all other sounds and finally, someone at our wedding yelled down the hill, “Stevenson, go get your fucking cart already!”
Which is why I maintain that yelling the word “fuck” at a formal event is never NOT funny. You can take that to the bank.
Anyway, Robin and I managed to get – and stay – married thus far. I have a tiny “To Do” list for him, however, which he must complete if he wants another thirty-two years out of me. The list includes “empty the trash in your bathroom.” And, “change everything you do and are, and recreate yourself in my image.”
To celebrate our 32nd anniversary, we are driving up to Seattle for the memorial of a dear friend’s mother. This will be perfect because Robin and I will have three hours together in the car with no distractions. Or, as Robin is calling it, “captive.” He is concerned that the drive will pretty much be a three-hour verbal intervention on him. Which is ridiculous, of course.
I have a written list.
By Ann Brown
You see, here’s the deal: If I follow God’s instruction to fast on Yom Kippur, I will feel virtuous and my clothes will feel nice and loose all that long prayerful day. Which will make me feel disinclined to atone for anything because I will feel so great. When I feel good, I tend to get cocky with my awesomeness.
Instead of atoning, I will sit in temple and think about all the non-maternity clothes I can buy now that I have fasted for 24 hours. I will be filled with joy and optimism and energy and love for my fellow sentient beings.
This, surely, is not the attitude God wants from me.
So, really, what I should actually do is grossly over-eat on Yom Kippur. Starting at sundown the night before, I should gorge myself, maybe sneaking in a few scallops wrapped in bacon, and eat myself sick. So the next day, sitting in temple for ten hours will be HELL. Pants cutting into my stomach, zipper jabbing the flesh, holding in my farts until they feel like a heart attack. Now THAT overfed, bloated feeling is guaranteed to put one in a despairing, self-loathing, beating-your-breast kind of mood.
You know, the way God wants us to feel. Hopeless. Overwhelmed. Dyspeptic. Chosen.
AND I am certain I’ll be able to take the weight off by Succoth. Because of this:
My son’s friend Marissa told me about a phone app where you put money on the line for going to the gym. You say to your phone, “I am going to go to the gym for one hour every day for the rest of my life or else I will have to pay a million dollars to people I do not even know, maybe even Nazis or Romney supporters.”
And if you don’t do it, They (the Apps. Or Mitt’s kids) take actual money out of your actual bank account and give it to random people who, I guess, have bet against you. No, maybe not. I stopped listening to Marissa at that point because all I could think about was her doctoral work with fruit flies and it concerned me to hear her say that fruit flies have brains because I don’t know about you, but I do not want to live in a world where a fat person has to give money to Nazis or Republicans AND fruit flies have brains.
But it did get me thinking about an Atonement & Fasting App and how I could make a buttload of money off it during the High Holydays.
Eating. Fasting. Gaining. Losing. Self-loathing. Self-medicating. I love the beautiful traditions of my people.
By Ann Brown
It’s another rainy afternoon. Perfect for making soup, reading, avoiding work, and napping. You’d think I’d be perfectly happy. But no.
I am not snugly in my comfort zone. One of my toes is hanging out.
Kids start off with a very small comfort zone. It’s pretty much Baby + Parents. In preschool, the circle widens to include Teacher and Friends and, often, Mommy’s Favorite Barrista. As we grow older and evolve, we expect that our comfort zone will stretch and grow, as well. We expect we’ll re-evaluate the original blueprint, move walls, increase space, put on a second story, and bump out windows to accommodate our larger life. Getting comfortable in a bigger comfort zone is one way we know our therapy is working and worth the hundreds and the thousands of dollars we have poured into it for all these years, relegating ourselves to living in debt, driving old cars, running up our Master Cards, and eating government cheese.
Raising kids is a daily practice in venturing out of our comfort zones. Well, at least it is for alarmist, hand-wringing, nervous-stomach, neurotic mothers like me. I am ancestrally programmed to circle the wagons and hunker down. I would totally NOT have left Egypt, choosing instead to bring Pharaoh a nice spinach lasagna and offer him parenting advice in exchange for scoring my sons an easy gig working on the nearby pyramids. It is not easy for me to stretch and grow. And, subsequently, it is not easy for me to push my kids to stretch and grow.
Happily, however, they learned to do it despite my hanging to their ankles, crying, “please don’t go!” I tried telling my youngest, when he applied to Georgetown for college, that there were actually no colleges east of Idaho. That all those names – Harvard, Georgetown, Yale – were made up. Like “Brigadoon”. Unfortunately, West Linn High School did a better job at educating him than I had hoped and he called my bluff. Well, not so much called my bluff as patently ignored me and went off to DC for four years.
This reassures me about parenting. It tells me that even when we mess up – and we are going to mess up a lot, and often – all is not lost. Even when we cannot personally provide everything our kids need, we can share with them the experiences of our own inabilities, insecurities, weaknesses, and failures. And sharing those things does indeed provide a rich and meaningful lesson for our kids.
My kids know that I am an overprotective parent. So I try to make the most out of self-deprecation, to take the stinger out of my fretting, to not make them responsible for it. I like to text them with messages like, “just worried for a moment that you are dead and life has no meaning. Please text back within 24 hours.” Or, “please call me every five minutes while you are on the road. Or at least, please call me when you arrive.”
Because my tiny, cramped, overcrowded comfort zone is not their problem.
I first wrote about this topic in 2000 when my oldest left for college. And then again, about six years ago. And, if I am lucky enough to still be writing parenting articles in ten more years (Yikes -I will be almost SEVENTY years old then -let us pause for a moment to consider that -YIKES), I am certain nothing will have changed by then, either. Because the point is not that I need to change myself. (Well, my therapist might disagree. But let her write her own column.) The point is that I cannot allow my overprotective issues to become my children’s issues.
So, I am making soup this rainy afternoon. And reading. And avoiding work. And even though none of my kids lives near me – one lives in New York even though I told him that New York does not exist –and I wish wish wish we were all together safe under one roof, I am comforted to know that I raised them to live their own lives and follow their own destinies. Despite my offer of a zajllion dollars to stay here. Because, and this is worth repeating from the paragraph above, I do not want my issues to become their issues. Well, I kinda secretly do, but at least I know it’s wrong.
Easier said than done, I know. But we can all get there. Walk this way. And if you are in NY, can you make sure my son is dressing warmly? Much obliged.
By Ann Brown
I cannot remember why I came into this room but since the computer is in here, it must have been to do something on the computer.
And now I cannot remember what it was that I needed to do on the computer so I figured I may as well write a blog post.
Only I cannot remember what it was that I wanted to write about.
I’ll just sit here and wait. I need to hide out from Mom, anyway.
You know how you go along in your life thinking that you are pretty normal, doing normal shit, living a relatively normal lifestyle and then your 88-year-old mother shows up and it hits you that, compared to her, your life possesses all the vim and vigor of an end-stage hospice patient? Don’t you just hate when that happens?
Granted, I have an injured knee right now. And granted, there’s the whole “I am so tired because of Phila” thing. And my finger is still broken. But Mom is kicking my ass.
Take this morning, for instance. She has been up since 7 – after miraculously being able to fall back asleep following an unfortunate 5AM hallway run-in with Robin who was letting Phila out to pee, and Mom was going to pee, and Robin was Very Extremely Naked. Hah. There were some screams coming outta that hallway this morning that I have never heard. Mostly from Robin. I think Mom just pretended it was a Cossack pogrom, shut her eyes, hid in the basement and waited for the Russian Revolution. That’s what I do when I see Robin naked.
Or maybe Mom thought there was a bear in our kitchen. The way Robin was holding his, er, flopping salmon and all.
Anyway, Mom has been up since 7. She has showered, coiffed, dressed, eaten breakfast and is now waiting for the 417 grams of fiber in her toast to kick in. ETA of her morning poop: approximately Wednesday. Waiting for her morning poop is Mom’s cross to bear.
Sadly, the ONLY area in which I am faster than Mom is my digestion.
I slogged out of bed a few minutes ago and stood in the kitchen. Nothing came to me – no plans, no ideas, no coffee – so I came here, into my office. To the computer. So when Mom comes upstairs again it will look like I had something to do. I think I am going to tell her I am working on my novel.
No, who am I kidding? NOBODY believes that anymore.
I will tell her I am booking a Pap smear with my gyno.
Which, come to think of it, is something I need to do.
And planned to do.
Which is why I came into my office.
By: Ann Brown
I was going to add my blah blah blah to the Todd Akin thing but, honestly, I am too tired.
Oh, wait. Maybe just this one thing:
His logic is kinda awesome. Like, I am pretty sure I legitimately ate five bagels yesterday so, according to Akins, my body will shut down and I will not gain weight.
But enough of politics. I’m too tired for any more anti-douchebag bon mots. And I don’t have much time to get this post written – Mom is flying in at 2PM this afternoon (or maybe at noon. Or maybe yesterday. I have no idea. I am so fucking tired) and I still have to ready the guest room. And by “ready” I mean dust the furniture and hide Robin’s pornographic magazines.
Ha ha, that’s a joke. Robin’s pornography is on the computer. Duh.
I have no idea what to do with Mom this weekend. She lives a very full and active life in LA – theater, dinners, parties – and when she comes to Oregon, I feel I need to keep up the level. Which is challenging because my lifestyle is less go go go than Mom’s in that my lifestyle is mostly day drinking and making fun of Mom.
Plus, I am so fucking tired.
Because of Phila.
Which is Robin’s fault ™.(Yup, I’ve trademarked it.)
I am getting no sleep at night. Oh, Phila goes happily into her little playpen at night when Robin and I get into bed and turn off the light. We say, “Good night, Phila.”
And then it’s quiet for about three minutes.
And then I say, “God DAMN it, Robin, get your hands off my boobs. No means no.”
And then it’s quiet for a few minutes. I begin to drift off to sleep.
And then Phila begins her remodeling.
That’s what I presume she is doing. I hear shuffling, scraping, hammering, power tools. In the morning, her playpen is in a completely different shape than it was when she went to bed. They say Poodles are smart; what they don’t tell you is that they are also chock full of great design ideas. I swear to God, she built a sort of loft in there last night. With a bookshelf. And a mini bar.
Puppy training is going well, by which I mean, Robin is doing all of it. Robin’s job is to get up at 5AM, take Phila out to pee, feed her, walk her, play with her, and get ready for work while she hangs out with him. Then when he gets home from work, his job is to take her to the park, feed her, train her, and play with her until bedtime.
My job is to remind Robin that I voted NO on getting a puppy.
It has quite revolutionized our marriage. Robin says things like, “Honey, would it be okay if you watched Phila for five minutes while I pass a kidney stone?” And I answer, “Umm, no, that isn’t gonna work for me. Michael Kors is just about to critique Alicia’s crotch.”
And he crawls back downstairs to vomit and scream into a rag stuffed in his mouth.
Because I voted NO on the puppy.
The other day, just to fuck with him, when he got home from work I told Robin that Phila had taken up my whole day and I couldn’t get a thing done, so he needed to take her out of the house for at least four hours. Plus, I needed to hire a cleaning crew because I couldn’t get to cleaning the house. Plus, I was going to order Thai from the expensive place because, you know, I couldn’t get to cooking, either. Plus, I needed to get the sleeveless linen dress on page 42 of the JJill catalogue. In “limeade”. Or white. And Bee Kind lemon shampoo from Gilchrist and Soames.
Because of Phila.™
Because there was a vote.
Speaking of which, Todd Akins is a douchebag.
By: Ann Brown
As of this morning, I am a Very Valued Customer at Safeway Market. An assistant manager came out of her cubicle to tell me so. She congratulated me and gave me her work cell phone number and her business card. Which has only her first name and her work cell phone number on it.
“This is so you can reach me any time,” she told me.
“Really?” I asked, “Any time?” Sweet. I could use someone to take Phila to the vet next week.
She could not have been more earnest when she said, “Yes. Anytime I am in the store.”
So I waited a few minutes and then called her from the baking aisle.
“Hello,” I said, “this is Very Valued Customer Ann Brown. I was wondering if you had any turbinado sugar.”
I didn’t need turbinado sugar. I mostly use Splenda. I was just fucking with her, of course. But also, I wanted her to think that I was the kind of wholesome eating person who – if compelled to use sugar at all, say, if I was all out of organic agave – would choose turbinado. These kinds of things are very important to me. I define myself by the contents of my shopping cart.
Which is why I either send Robin to the market or I shop outside my ‘hood when I want to buy cookie dough or Fritos. Or Monistat Ultra.
I really don’t know why I bother, however. I mean, have you taken a good look at what people buy? You know, all of us whose carts are filled with coconut probiotic water and shade-grown no pesticide yam sprouts and quinoa? We do not look so hot. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but it’s true. We look kinda wan. And jiggly. And our hair just sort of sits there. And we are always tired and complaining.
And the gorgeous, thin, energetic, white-toothed, luxuriously- maned specimens of health? They are guzzling a Trenta quadruple caffeine mocha while piling mini marshmallows and bologna in their carts. What the fuck.
The answer, of course, is that all the preservatives are keeping them young and beautiful. Duh. Man, were the rest of us hippie Birkenstock crunch eaters all sold a bag of horseshit or what? Paying forty dollars for cold pressed pomegranate juice at the wood-paneled, hemp basketed foode shoppe, and my lifeless hair is falling out. I may as well shop the shit at Walmart.
As you may recall, I recently wrote about a Walmart going up in my neighborhood. And, as promised, I have not stepped foot inside of it. Although I was tempted two weeks ago when I was alone and out of ice and my broken finger made it impossible for me to hook the hooks of my bra so I had to just wear it unhooked; you know, straps draped over my shoulders and cups hanging in front of my boobs like a thin, greying lace curtain ill-containing a pair of unruly ferrets behind it.
I was prime Walmart material.
But I am defined by my grandiose token acts of political rebellion (and my shopping cart) so I did not go. I stayed home and carried on without the bag of ice. I had a rum and coke NEAT. What I will not do for the Revolution.
It’s too bad I was not a Very Valued Customer two weeks ago. I could have called the assistant manager and asked her to deliver a bag of ice to me.
And when she got here, I would make her hook my bra.
By: Ann Brown
God help me, we have a puppy.
She’s my change-of-life puppy; the puppy I had post-menopause, when I thought I was too old to even have another puppy. I mean, I stopped getting my period, like, ten years ago. Or maybe two years ago. I can’t remember. I am so fucking tired from the damn puppy I can’t think. This morning I brushed my teeth with Moroccan Hair Oil paste. Didn’t even rinse. Why bother?
Now I remember why I was such a bitch when my kids were little. I was EXHAUSTED.
So I’m at the vet for her nine-week shots, sitting in the waiting room with all these other puppy moms. Every single one of them is about half my age and a quarter my weight. They are women who – when asked to put their dogs on the scale that is in plain sight of everyone else in the waiting room – they STEP UP ON IT with their dogs. Yeah, they claim it’s because their dogs won’t step on it without them, but they are not fooling me.
People who weigh themselves for sport are a category unto themselves. A category of folks who, let’s just say, will not be joining the rest of us up at the big Bed, Bath and Beyond. And people who weigh themselves for sport in public, and then say shit like, “Omigod, look at this! When I am on the scale with Bruno and Buster (her two 500 lb Great Danes), the scale says 160 pounds! Can you imagine if I really weighed that much?” Those people? Yeah, well, if I hadn’t used up all my vitriol for Michelle Bachman this week, I’d have a lot more to say about them.
The only way I am going to survive this puppy is to raise her like she is my spoiled grandchild. I am too fucking tired to do a good job this time around. As far as I am concerned, she can do whatever she likes -eat whatever she wants to eat, never do her homework, bite the mail carrier and smoke weed in her crate – so long as I can get some sleep at night and watch my stories on TV in the afternoons.
Oh, and I am going to eschew the dog park this time around, as well. Frankly, I am not interested in meeting anyone else in my life – I hardly get to see the people I already know – and I don’t have it in me anymore to stand around and discuss dogs, for fuck’s sake. I want to discuss, I don’t know, my arthritic knee and why I can’t digest cooked tomatoes anymore.
I will take my puppy on walks in the regular park, however, because I really need to get off my ass once a day. That is the best benefit of having had a change-of-life dog baby.
Well, that, and – from what I remember the doctor said the last time I had a baby – I can’t have sex for six weeks.
By: Ann Brown
Fuuuuck. I have such a huge “To Do” list. Pobrecita yo. And I cannot get to any of it because I have a broken finger.
A broken finger. My first broken bone. Which probably speaks to the physical risks I have taken in the past 58 years. Or even the physical effort I have put out. When you spend most of your life reading, making snarky comments about other people, and day drinking, you don’t tend to sustain a lot of injuries. Although once, when I sat down on a super soft sofa, a button flew off my pants and hit me in the eye. It hurt like shit and made a big red mark on my eyeball and I had to go to Urgent Care. Under “describe how the injury occurred” I just left it blank. Fuck them. It’s enough that they fucking weigh you when you come into Urgent Care with a bleeding eyeball. Justify that, Kaiser Permanente. Like if I wasn’t such a hopeless doughball, I wouldn’t have gotten a flying button in my eye from my too-tight pants when I sat down on a sofa.
Oh, wait. Right.
Well, I don’t need their judgment at a time like that. “Mrs. Dr. Strangemom, you have a bleeding eyeball. You will have to begin an immediate course of diet and exercise.”
Maybe there’s something we can cut out of health care – the weighing in part. That could save the health industry a buttload of valuable doctor time, and money could be put back into the economy because, you know, of all the extra food we’d buy just knowing we weren’t gonna have to step on a scale when our eyeballs are bleeding.
Note to self: alert Congress. I might have the solution to the health care issue.
That isn’t, of course, what the doctor said when I got to Urgent Care. What she said was, “Are you Dr. Strangemom?”
Yeah, she is a blog follower. Very nice woman. Very competent doctor, too. And very gracious, even after I said to her, “um, yeah, all your stories have been really hilarious and yes, you should totally write your own blog, but, well, MY FINGER IS BLUE AND THROBBING AND CAN WE TAKE JUST A MOMENT AND CHECK IT OUT?” And then Robin came into the exam room while they splinted my finger and the doctor and Robin totally hit it off and on the drive home all Robin talked about was how great she was and we should totally have her over for dinner this summer. He didn’t say this next part out loud but I heard it nonetheless: Isn’t it great how you smashed your finger in the garage door and broke it to pieces because now we know this kickass doctor at Kaiser?
He kinda has a point, but I am not ready to concede to it.
However, there is an upside to My Unfortunate Injury.
I don’t know about you, but there is something very ego-boosting for me about having a broken bone. It’s like, people see me and think, “there goes a RISK TAKER. Maybe she is an athlete or something.” I am all squishy and shit around the middle of me, but I can still rock the running shorts pretty well.
I make sure that I wave my splint around so everyone sees it. Also, I have an impressive repertoire of facial expressions that says, “I am in enormous pain but I am tough.” I even have one facial expression that says, “you couldn’t handle what I am dealing with.” And one that says, “hey, asshole, that was MY parking space.” Because – and here is the best part of my injury – it is my middle finger that is broken and splinted.
Yup. I broke my “fuck you” finger.
Thank God I still have my voice.
By: Ann Brown
I cannot discuss that book with you. Because my MOM read it and then she will call me and want to discuss it with me and then I will have to pour hot tar up my nose and into my brain so I can die. My mom is super open about sex – isn’t that GREAT? No.
Also, I can’t discuss it because I didn’t read the book.
I don’t know about you, but I am not in any hurry to get my hands on FIFTY SHADES OF GREY. I mean, I just know it wouldn’t work for me. And, frankly, the last thing I need is more evidence that I am dead inside.
Reading a book about someone having sex is not going to put me in the mood to have sex. It will, however, totally put me in the mood to write a book. Which will make me feel bad for not working on my novel. Which will piss me off at Robin because, you know, it’s his fault. And then I will attack the Wheat Thins, which will fill me with self-loathing for being fat and then there is no way in hell I am going to want to get naked and have sex with anyone.
And there’s the whole sado-masochist thing in the book. Which my mom told me about. While I was driving. It was hard not to steer directly into a tree and end the conversation. From what I was forced to hear, I understand that the woman was okay with spanking and the like. Again, I just don’t get it. The last time anyone tried to spank me I was two years old. I actually don’t remember it but Karen says that she (then age four) and I were gonna get a spanking for some transgression so she told me to put a bunch of hardcover books in my underpants. You’ll have to ask Karen why she thought that was a good idea. Karen has always had some weird shit ideas. I bet she probably even read FIFTY SHADES OF GREY. Hey, Karen! Mom’s on the phone. You two have a lot to discuss.
My point being, spanking would only make me think about books. Books in my underpants. BLUEBERRIES FOR SAL, most likely, or HAROLD AND THE PURPLE CRAYON, which were our favorites at the time. And that just doesn’t seem respectful to literature, you know? To stick books down your pants. Plus, Harold is cute enough and all, but I don’t want him down there.
Note: I suspect that even if I put great literature in my underpants before getting spanked, I would not feel sexy. But I’m willing to give it a try. Maybe my signed copy of KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL.
You know what would turn me on? Fifty shades of white. In a minimalist living room with polished wood floors. In the Room and Board catalog. I could stare at a photo like that for a long time.
Especially if it’s tone-on-tone.
I had, like, five really hot topics for the blog but then something happened that changed everything:
Firefox updated itself last night and my old computer won’t accept it anymore. So I had to switch to Safari.
First, the Holocaust and now this. My people are always being persecuted. Plus, my people are not a Safari people. We are a desert people. So we use Firefox.
Opening my computer on a regular weekday morning and suddenly having to use a completely unfamiliar browser, well, that rocks my fragile world. It’s like, I don’t know, landing in Zimbabwe when I boarded the plane for Palm Desert. I don’t speak the language, I don’t recognize the landmarks, and I have no idea which native foods will give me diarrhea.
I miss Firefox. When will the hurting stop?
Before today, I could wake up in the morning, lumber into my office, log in and start my day all without a cup of coffee or even opening my eyes. Yea, though I walked through the valley of Gmail and Facebook, I was not afraid; Firefox was by my side. Now I must cleave myself unto a new browser. And now I have to figure out how to hack into Robin’s email account all over again.
Yeah, I hack into his account. The way I see it, hacking is like having an intimate conversation with my husband – sharing hopes, dreams, and secrets -only he doesn’t even have to be there. We can maintain our intimate bond while one of us is sleeping or at work, and then when we are actually together we can pretty much just watch TV in silence during dinner.
Win/win. Going on 32 years this September.
It’s a good thing I know Robin in real life because in real life he is hugely interesting. He raises bees, he does Tai Chi, he taught himself to be a salmon fisherman, he plays the clarinet, he can quote Neruda and Karl Marx. To judge him, however, solely by his emails, FB, private messages, and the porn he bookmarks, he is a big ole slice of white bread. With Miracle Whip.
Only once did I find something juicy in his Comcast account. An unread email from a woman who, evidently, was really pissed off at him. She sent him this laundry list of his transgressions full of very cutting and – in my opinion – unnecessarily cruel and personal remarks. It was totally out of line. I almost deleted it and sent her an email defending him. But then Robin might know that I had hacked him. Also, the email was from me. That was when I learned that Robin doesn’t even bother opening emails from me that have as the subject line: Fuck You And Here’s Why. I swear, the man doesn’t even want to make our marriage better.
So, farewell Firefox. And farewell hacking, because if I’ve learned anything from being on Safari for a day, it’s that a marriage must be based on trust. And that now when I access Robin’s accounts, it shows up on my History.