Trying to get you people to answer a simple question is like herding cats. Green or blue? "Well, June, in 1987 I decided to stop believing in colors, so I surgically had that part of my brain removed and now I see only black and white."
GREEN OR BLUE?
"Are we talking about penises, June?"
Anyway, I did not count because I'd have had to slog through your "I don't believe in color" answers, but I think it's pretty obvious that Whopper won. Which is WRONG, by the way. WRONG. If Fonzie were here, he'd be able to pronounce the word this time. WRONG.
In other news, I hate my mascara. Not that long ago, Marvin sent me a picture of me sitting on the toilet in our old apartment in LA, and behind me is the etigerre that goes around the toilet. Rather than being appalled that Marvin even HAS such a picture, I took a gander at the cosmetics and other grooming items on said etigerre. Not one thing on there was from a drug or grocery store. They were all fancy boutique or salon-bought items. God, I miss having money.
The point is, now I have to buy my mascara at the grocery store, and I don't wanna hear that this is a First World problem because it SO ISN'T, and the other day I went for that gold L'Oreal tube of mascara that looks like a telescope. Maybe it's mascara for people who're going to stalk someone. Maybe it's mascara for Dudly Moore in 10. Maybe it's Maybelline.
What matters is I knew I'd owned this kind before, but what I could NOT remember is if I loved it or hated it. Perhaps the part where I NO LONGER OWNED ANY OF IT coulda tipped me off, but no. Into my shopping cart it went.
It won't come off. Dudes, I'm serious. I use that Clinique eye makeup remover? And then I get in the shower and wash my face? When I dry off, I leave a Shroud of Turin of my mascara on the towel every day. I use MORE eye makeup remover. It doesn't matter. It's the Everlasting Gobstopper of mascara. It's the mascara that won't quit. If it were Lionel Ritchie, it'd go all night long.
(c) Ned, who made a Lionel Ritchie "all night long" joke last night, which I am clearly being influenced by.
Oh, and you're welcome, for putting that song in your head. No, really. Any time. Because the time has come. To raise the roof and have some fun.
I guess I'd better go tuck my burnt-orange shirt into my leather pants, and also mush down my afro mullet and head to work. Talk at you later.
Oh, and you're still wrong about the Whopper.
Embrace life anyway.
You gotta hear the very, very last thing she says. Love her.
Last night, right when work was coming to a close, I felt a migraine coming on, and THANKS, HEAD.
(HEAD! MOVE! That's only funny if you enjoyed the movie So I Married An Axe Murderer, as I did. So bad, I did.)
I came home and took one of my migraine pills, and laid gingerly on the couch. And by "gingerly," I mean I splayed out in my long white SS Minnow dress. By about 8 p.m. I was in bed, covered in sweat and completely nauseated, with andirons clanging against my head, and the worst part was, I couldn't fall asleep because I knew Ned was going to call.
On nights I don't see Ned, he always calls. His call can come any time between 7:00 and 9:00, depending on how worky-outy he is, and yes, he works out every night. I know, dudes. Yes, I DO appreciate his worky-outy self and yes, he DOES look really good. And now you have me thinking about Ned and getting all moony, so let's move on.
I have no way to turn the ringer off on my phone, and if I unplugged it I'd also unplug my whole computer, so really I was just a slave to when he called. Because I KNEW, I just KNEW, if I drifted off, that's when the phone would ring.
Eventually, though? I did talk to Ned, and assured him I needed nothing but sleep, which I could now finally get, knowing the phone wasn't gonna ring anymore.
So by 8:30 I was in REM, and that is why I'm
WIDE EFFING AWAKE
So. Hi. How're you? You up? I am.
Barbara, you up?
I'll get the aspirin and Sucrets.
Barbara should've shoved those Sucrets up that guy's nethers.
So, I'm up, it's the dead of night, and I have no Sucrets, and you know what I'm thinking about, for no real reason? Are songs that remind me of old boyfriends. Do you have any of those? Are they stupid songs? Most of mine are stupid. Because they took place in 1982, for one thing. But without any more 'dos, let's look at them.
When I was in ninth grade, my song with my very first boyfriend, Kevin, was Shining Star by The Manhattans, who by the way were super good at lip synching.
I need three of you to come learn all of these moves and stand behind me. All of them. Now. Who's in?
My first true love, Giovanni Leftwich, decided in 10th grade that our song should be Stairway to Heaven, which KILLS ME DEAD. Could we have been more early '80s blue collar stereotypical tight jeans and cans of beer kids? We were practically Jack and Diane. Nevertheless, when I hear this song, we are so making out in a basement at a party. With cans of beer in our hands.
Do you think he picked this song because I have Robert Plant hair?
After that, I had an Official New Wave Boyfriend, who I went out with for years and have completely lost touch with. This Squeeze song makes me think of him putting gel in his pompadour before we went to New Wave night at our college bar. Yes, that whole sentence was terribly sad.
As was the fact that I, too, had kind of a pompadour.
And no, that guy I'm with is NOT Official New Wave Boyfriend. And I actually think I was relatively sober in this picture, but I sure don't look it.
As college wound to a close, I got back together with my high school boyfriend Giovanni Leftwich. It did not go well. It went on FOR YEARS and it did not go well. We'd break up, and that felt just as bad as being together. I finally had to kind of move away in the dark of night to get away from that whole thing, and this song always reminds me of that time.
Ned gets annoyed with U2, because he says a band should only be allowed to have one member who's a single-name person. You can't have a Bono AND a The Edge. Although technically he has a "The" in his name.
Eventually I moved to Seattle, where I moved in with a long-haired artist who loved this song. It always reminds me of him working on one of his frenetic paintings, surrounded by paint tubes, wearing combat boots and singing along.
My last boyfriend before I got married once played this not-safe-for-work song on my answering machine, because my real name is in here, and it's right after the person named "Seattle," too. He was a fun boyfriend. He threatened to canoe by during my on-the-water wedding and scream, "Noooooo!" I was a little disappointed when he didn't.
The song below was my first dance with Marvin at our wedding. It's called Our Love is Here to Stay. (News flash: It wasn't.)
As for Ned, it's hard to know what song reminds you of someone when you're in the throes of the relationship. Right now, EVERY song reminds me of Ned. If I heard Ted NUGENT I'd find a way to think of Ned.
But sometimes we get into the stupidest disagreements possible. We fought about soup once. We fought about a cold once. It seems to be getting better, because we've worked at it, but whenever we'd have a stupid argument, I'd think of this song.
It's the absolute dead of night now, and the birds are going to sing soon, and tomorrow (today) is SHOT, but this was fun. Thanks for traveling down memory lane with me.
What're your songs?
It's sad when you have to justify living your life instead of blogging about your life. Nevertheless, here's what I've been up to:
Ned-ing. Not only did we have a fabulous time watching Gone With the Wind, and when I say "we," I mean me and the other women in the theater. Anyway, not only did we do that, but Ned and I also went out for the salmon salad he likes to get on Wednesdays. Ned is what you'd call a creature of habit, and also Ned is what you'd call good at finding salads. The waiter said, "You know this menu by heart, but here." Sadly for the waiter, who probably had other things to do, we already knew what we wanted. Two salmon salads, please.
Also, I can't remember what it was Ned was feeding me, but he said, "When we get to my house, I want you to try [insert some new thing here] and see how you like it." "I wish I had the ability to just projectile vomit on command," I said, continuing my deep love affair with my own self. "You'd be all, 'How do you like this?' and I could just, blarghhhh, barf across the room."
"Yeah. Vomiting voluntarily for any reason," said Ned, "is just a thing you will never be able to do."
"Well. That or math," I said.
Being exercise-y. As I've told you, I joined this ludicrous challenge at work, where I've committed to 45 minutes of activity five times a week. NO ONE MENTIONED THAT THIS WOULD BE TIME-CONSUMING. Geez. Nevertheless, I started Sunday and so far have done 45 minutes of stupid stupid exercise three times this week. I will do it again tonight, and I hate everything and had better look like I have RICKETS when this challenge is done. Which by the way, I have no idea how long of a challenge I have committed to. I just signed up like when Marcia joins every club in school.
Having pertinent conversations. My mother and I were on the phone and got into a discussion about people who we knew were good-looking, but who just weren't our type. Like Ryan Reynolds. I know the world finds him handsome, but to me he kind of looks like some guy from my hometown who'd say "should've went." Anyway, who do you think is inarguably good-looking but not your type?
Getting Rick-Rolled. I was at the grocery store last night, buying all the things I forgot LAST time I went there, and I noticed they were playing Never Gonna Give You Up, which is what you play when you get Rick-Rolled.
Never Gonna Give You Up, in case you do not know, is a terrible '80s song by Rick Astley. For some reason, it became the thing to send someone a link ("Here's a wonderful picture of Kim Kardashian!" "Click here for how to lose weight without trying!" Or, if one is looking in my comments, "Here's a link to a blog that's funnier than June's!") And then when a person stupidly CLICKS on a link, they instead get a video of Never Gonna Give You Up.
So yeah. My grocery store was Rick-Rolling us. As we shopped. Which is real rude.
That about sums it up, what I've been up to, other than on the way home from daycare yesterday, Edsel got caught between the car seat and the door and got all panicky and even more wedged as he panicked, and I was driving and it was awful. By the time I pulled over he'd wedged himself out. Tallulah pretty much spent the whole time snickering at him unsympathetically.
Tallulah is a terrible person. Who would totally Rick-Roll you if she had half a chance.
I've been meaning to post this for awhile but I keep forgetting. Some of you have asked in the comments to see pictures of my friend Sleeping Beauty's kid, Josie, who is almost two now, and I'm certain my pal Sleeping would tell you the exact number of months she is, as all moms do and please see yesterday's list of things that bug me, says 573-month-old June Gardens, who enjoys a run-on sentence not at all.
Wow. I am exactly 573 months old TODAY. Where the eff are my happy bday wishes? Bunch of dinks.
Anyway, Sleeping B saw those comments and of course stampeded to send me a photo of her child:
Who looks precisely like--I want to say like Sleeping B in drag, but that makes no sense. She looks like if my friend Sleeping Beauty had been left in the dryer too long. It is amazing how one has a kid and that kid ends up looking like the person who had her. That Mendel, man.
Anyway, she also sent along a video, and I thought maybe on this gloomy day we would all enjoy watching it, as not only is it ridiculous, it is also ridiculous. I especially like Josie's big finish.
So here you go. Sister's got moves. Just like her Aunt June.
I hope I don't get sued by whoever wrote The Alphabet Song.
It is unseasonably cold here and I for one am annoyed. On my home page on my computer, as opposed to my home page I just have in life, I have the local temperature, the temperature of my hometown in Michigan, and for no real reason, the temps in Dublin and Paris.
Back when we all wore Swatch watches? Remember that? I wore two, because that was also a cool thing to do, and one of the watches was light blue and smelled like something. I forget what. But it was scented. The other was watch was black, to go with my general demeanor at the time. The point is, one watch was set to Paris time. My boyfriend Cardinal said, "I'll bet a lot of people in Paris have their Swatches set to East Lansing, Michigan time."
Anyway, my home page yesterday said the temp here was the same as it was in Dublin--46 degrees--and this morning? My hometown, my FRIGID NORTHERN HOMETOWN, has the same temp as here. Thirty-two degrees. Which is not pretty. THE GOOD SPRINGS HERE MAKE UP FOR THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. That was the deal I made with this place when I got here. Am irritated.
And what's more fascinating than hearing someone complain about their weather? How about their bird house?!?!
A few years ago, I spent seven dollars on this little wooden bird house with a hole in the middle. I think it was supposed to attract a certain kind of bird, a bird from our class, a bird of the Philadelphia birds, yet every year different species have come in and nested there.
Can birds be different species? They can't, can they. June. Paying attention in science since 1977.
Last year, hornets or bees or wasps or some stingy thing had a nest in there. And I mean "sting-y," not that the bugs failed to pay for heat or only got meat on sale or whatever.
Probably a bee or a hornet or a wasp is an INSECT and not a BUG, right? Do you know what I enjoy? People who act like that makes any difference, bugs and insects. It's like people who insist you know that a tomato is a fruit.
My point is, I hope the birds don't encounter the sting-y things and all hell breaks loose. I imagine this sort of thing happens in nature all the time, much like what's happened to my ass, and it's a tragedy any way you look at it.
Last night, Ned and I went to that old theater we like and saw The Passion of the Christ. Oh, by the way, I'm changing the subject completely now. My old friend Tammy called me The Queen of the Nonsequitur, and often I'd be telling a story and all of a sudden come up with SOMETHING ALL NEW, and she'd just say, "Are you the QUEEN?"
I imagine I'm an exhausting friend.
So, Ned and I met at the movie theater, where he showed up precisely at 7:30, which is when THE MOVIE WAS SUPPOSED TO BEGIN. "If you're worried about us getting in after it starts, I've read the book," said Ned, who apparently has the passion for the Ned.
Have you ever seen that depressing movie? I mean, I knew getting crucified was no walk in the park, although he did walk quite a bit, but dang. That was awful. I turned to Ned at one point and said, "This hardly seems like a good Friday at all. In fact, it might be the worst Friday anyone's ever had."
I kind of wish Jesus had risen up and kicked some ass after that, but I guess that goes against his grain.
After the movie, Ned and I talked about how my friend Sandy's birthday was last week, and not only did I completely forget even though her bday is on the Ides of March and therefore memorable, and even though I have known her for TWENTY-NINE YEARS and should know, I managed to email her that day and call her a twat.
Oh, I was kidding. Still. Happy birthday from one of your oldest friends!
I imagine I'm an exhausting friend.
Anyway, we talked about if we remembered birthdays, and did Ned recall the birthdays of any old girlfriends (answer: not really) and then somehow we got onto the topic of what the number one song was the week you were born, and sadly for Ned it was Mr. Tambourine Man by the Byrds. Not the birds who are building a nest in my house, but rather the singing ones with the Y in their name.
Had it been Mr. Tambourine Man by Bob Dylan, that would have been a different thing altogether. And by the way, that link up there goes to Wikipedia, and you know I am snobby about Wikipedia, but you click the year you were born and then look up your particular birth week. Good luck.
I have Satisfaction by The Rolling Stones, and you know that's a good one.
And speaking of songs (I'm changing the subject again) (I imagine I'm an exhausting blogger), do you have a friend who absolutely abhors a song, and then when you hear the song you get a kick out of it because you know how much they hate it? That's how I feel every time I hear Lyin' Eyes by The Eagles, because my coworker The Poet abhors that song.
Subject: With fiery eyes and dreams no one can steal.
Guess what I heard on the radio just now?
My oh my, you sure now how to arrange things.
Whenever I YouTube for you guys, I try to find the most ludicrous video I can. I guess every form of refuge has its price.
Did that terrible song ever go to number one? Because what if you find out THAT WAS YOUR SONG from when you were born? Oh, that will tickle me.
I have to go. I'm headed for the cheatin' side of town.
I was writing one of my friends whose real-life name might be Sarah. Or not. I mean, I like to keep everyone anonymous-ish on my blog. So it could be that her name is NOT REMOTELY SARAH. Anyway, in the email I wrote, "Sarah, smile" and found myself hilarious and THAT DOESN'T MEAN HER NAME IS SARAH. It could be that--that--
Oh, forget it.
The point is, I wrote "Sarah, smile" and then I got all in the mood to hear the song Sara Smile by the illustrious Hall & Oates. And I KNEW I already had that song on my iPod, because who doesn't? It's the Chanel of iPod songs.
But when I got home last night, and clicked on the song Sara Smile on my iPod?
It'd skip right over the song. Like it wasn't there! But it WAS there! And when I went to my iTunes store it said, "Yeah, June, you already purchased Sara Smile, because who hasn't?"
So that flummoxed me.
This morning, instead of writing a blog post as I always do, I got on the horn with AppleCare. Because you can't just NOT have Hall & Oates in your life.
The AppleCare guy heard my tale of woe and had me get on my iTunes. "Now, what song was it?" he asked.
Mustering all the dignity I could, I told him.
"...And who's the artist?"
WHO'S THE ARTIST? WHOOOOOOOOOO'S THE ARTIST? Once in college I was looking for a copy of King Lear and my college librarian asked me who wrote it. I was just as appalled then.
"How OLD are you?" I asked AppleCare guy. He kind of laughed, but I'll bet you anything he wasn't even born when Sara Smile was a song. "Just because a song happens before your time doesn't make it a bad song," I chastised him. "I mean, I have a song by The Ink Spots on my iTunes." I like how I was all smug while he was the one probably making twice what I do leading addled old people like me through their iTunes drama.
Anyway, he had me click on some cloud image and then unclick it and then wave a butter knife in the air and chant, and then lo and behold, guess who had her some Sara Smile on her computer?
"Thank you," I said to the guy. "Go home and download this song. You won't be sorry." He did the nervous laugh thing again. I should totally send him the 45.
Anyway, that's where I was this morning. In case you were worried sick.
It's you and me forever. Love, June.
Can you please tell me what I forgot to pack? Because you know I forgot some such nonsense, as I always do. Usually I get to my destination and I'm all, "Oh, I forgot pants!" Then I walk around like Donald Duck for the rest of my trip.
Or I'll bring the contacts that are in my EYES, which are disposable, but no OTHER contacts or any glasses, and the rest of the vacation is like an impressionist painting.
Anyway. Leaving for Michigan in an hour and a half. Things are UNDER CONTROL. Yessir. When I talked to Ned last he hadn't even CONSIDERED packing, so I feel like things are just as unchaotic at his house.
We saw the best movie the other day, she says incongruously, called Chicken with Plums, or Poulet aux Prunes, and who knew "plums" and "prunes" were interchangeable in France--those nutty French--and the point is at one point the actress takes off her glasses and when she does everything gets blurry. It was so much like real life. She must have the same prescription as me. Which is a sad, sick prescription. I have like 20/39394939493 vision.
But that is not my point. My point is I'm a disorganized packer. Am certain this shocks you.
By the way, the title of my post is exactly what Elton John was singing on my iTunes when I opened this page to start decomposing or whatever. Now Lou Reed is singing "I. Don't Know. Just where I'm going."
And you know, I don't. Glad Lou said something, because I have to print out directions in case my GPS up and dies like Mr. Bojangles. Which incidentally is not on my iTunes.
I've printed out those directions. How much would you like to bet that I forget them here at home?
"I HAVE NO PANTS!"
In case you're worried sick, Eddie Vedder is now singing, "All five horizons revolved around her sun. As the earth to the sun."
I LOVE this song. Love.
So I guess I should go do a sweep of the house to see if I'm forgetting bras or meds or oxygen, and also I should get the dogs to daycare, and y'all always ask me every time I go to mom's if the dogs are coming and why do you always forget my mother's dog is a cold-blooded murderer? I tell you this EVERY TIME and you never listen.
Remember when that jerky dog LEAPED out the back of the hatch and RIGHT ONTO puppy Tallulah's back? Now, I assure you, ASSURE YOU, Talu would kick that speckled dog's old fat ass at this point. All that'd be left are a few Gus bones and Talu with a toothpick in.004 seconds. But who wants to start a dog fight like we're the Michael Vick family?
"The day I stop's the day you change and fly away from me." The Cure. I swear I have songs from this decade on here somewhere.
Oh, but before I go, and I know you're sad disjointed June and her song call-outs is going. Are going. Whatev. Dick Whitman and I went to the movies last night, and yes I DO see a lot of movies. We saw The Sessions, which I guess is a true-ish story of a man who was paralyzed by polio and the sex surrogate he hires, who is played by Helen Hunt.
I mean, 1995 called. Remember when Helen Hunt was in everything including your bathroom? You'd walk in and she'd be checking out her enormous forehead. Her fivehead. Oh, hey, Helen.
Anyway, there she was last night, NAKED A LOT, and you can't help but like her. She looks like she'd done a lot of situps for that role, and who wouldn't? Well. I wouldn't. I'd just let you see the front butt.
You know when I didn't like Helen Hunt? Well. I didn't like her CHARACTER. Was in Castaway. What a BITCH. She's all in love with Tom Hanks, then FOUR YEARS LATER she has met someone, married, AND had a toddler. I mean, did she hump someone on the drive home from dropping Tom Hanks at the airport?
And when poor I-can-spear-fish Tom Hanks (and have I mentioned how useless I'd be on an island? Who'd panic and die on day one, over here? And I'd totally forget pants.) comes to Helen Hunt's house, he's all "Beautiful house" and she says, "Has a nice mortgage, too." Then he compliments her I'm-a-tramp-here's-my-toddler daughter, and Helen Hunt says just, "She's a handful."
OH SHUT UP. You have EVERYTHING, you big-foreheaded ho, and all you can do is complain. Irritating.
Oh, I love this song. In February, I went on I think it was my third date with Ned. We went to this tiny dark bar, and it was so cozy and outside was so blustery, and this song came on, and I was with a boy who had potential, and we were laughing and talking and I was so happy. I mean, as opposed to now. So totally over Ned. Which is why I'm schlepping him 299494949339 miles to meet my family.
I really want to see that HBO special on The Rolling Stones. Will one of you invite me over? I might be driving right past you today or tomorrow. Thanks.
OHMYGOD I still haven't told you what I wanted to tell you, about DW and me at the movies. Jesus. So, Dick W and I meet at the theater:
We were early, so we got treats and sat in the theater and talked. DW was telling a story and gingerly tugging this way and that to open his bag of Reece's Pieces, which you and I both know he was gonna have three of anyway, as he does. But seriously, he kept trying to rip the top, then pull, and HE WAS BUGGING ME.
"Give me that," I snapped. I pulled the bag as hard as I could and
every Reece's Piece IN THE UNIVERSE BURST up like a geyser, then landed down my shirt. It was amazing. It was like Old Faithful. You have never seen so many Reece's Pieces fly through the air in your life.
I gave DW the pieces that HADN'T landed in my bosoms, and I totally ate the ones that did. Hoo care, as Tallulah would say. Then throughout the movie, any time either of us shifted in our chair, you'd hear another candy roll down the aisle. We were totally the candy-coated clowns you call the sandman. Which is also not on my iTunes.
Okay, am going now. Will let you know if Ned and I detest each other by the end of today, or if that will happen AFTER he meets all my people and Gus tries to eat him.
P.S. "I know a girl who reminds me of Cher. She's always changing the color of her hair." Oh this is SUCH a good song. LOVE. The Flaming Lips. In case you don't have this one on your iTunes. Which, why?
I love this song.
I have to run to the doctor to see how my plantar fasciitis is doing, or Plantation Fascist, as my coworker The Poet would call it. I guess I cannot literally run there, seeing as I do have the Plantation Fascist. Ned assures me they can't give me another shot in my foot today, that they have to spread those shots out. Ned is the expert on things falling apart--he works out every day and as a result has a bad back and a knee thing. If I were him I'd just sit around.
Remember when we used to be 17 and just got up in the morning and walked around like it was normal? Nothing was achy or needed tweaking?
Some day I'll say, "Remember being 47 and you could just walk around being normal? Oh, things ached a little, but at least you didn't need this walker with the tennis balls on the bottom."
Can't they invent something a little more sophisticated than those tennis balls? It seems like everyone just defaulted to them. "Oh those walkers suck. Cut you a tennis ball and stick it on there." Seems like we should rage against the faultiness of the walker a little more than that.
Maybe I'll wait for that particular battle.
In the meantime, Ned and I saw 12 Angry Men last night [insert political joke here] [insert joke about all the men who don't get to have them the June here] [insert joke about the 12 readers who wish I'd move along here], and when it was over, we turned to each other and at the same time said, "That guy was totally guilty."
I guess we're over Henry Fonda. I'd really like to LIKE Henry Fonda, because he's cute and earnest and stands up for the little guy, but now I know he was a rotten father to Jane Fonda, who I kind of like, and whose veeedeos I totally worked out to in the '80s. My friends and I would do Jane Fonda and order pizza after. I was a size two.
We also used to listen to this hypnosis tape that would supposedly make us not hungry anymore, which, hello, again, hello. Size TWO. Of ourse, the whole time I listened to that tape I thought about ordering Chinese.
Oh, and I forgot to tell you, I choked to death at the movie. Got a popcorn kernel right in my throat and could NOT breathe. Finally I was able to wheeze a little and Ned said to himself, "Why is June singing during the movie?" Remind me not to die in front of Ned in the future.
I had to lift my arms over my head and stay calm and breathe through my nose. Finally I was able to sputter and cough. "Were you CHOKING?" asked Ned, who should probably be an EMT.
"Yes," I gasped.
"I could've Hemliched you," he said, heading for me like he was going to do it in retrospect.
"I'm FINE," I said, moving away.
"Of course, it would have made me nervous as hell to Heimlich you. What if I broke your ribs or something?"
Could you re-remind me not to die in front of Ned anymore?
Anyway, that was my chilling evening. I lived. Which I guess at this point is all I can ask for.
Tune in tomorrow to hear all about my foot!
....Where did those crickets come from?