"you're pretty athletic"

was the complimentary feedback i received halfway down sugarloaf mountain from "mr double black diamond". clearly he hasn't noticed the frequent withdrawals from our checking account that go to active.com on a fairly regular basis. nevertheless, he had been on at me for the last couple of years to give downhill skiing a go so that we could have "something to do together", why he just cant be happy that we both enjoy a bit of bravo tv from the same couch i do not know.

ski resorts; clearly i have been missing out on a whole new realm of people watching. north face aside, many seem to view it as an opportunity to showcase their collection of voluminous snowflake sweaters. i took it as one to test the commitment of my relationship.

starting with the ski boots. not only do those things bloody hurt, but they make it virtually impossible to maneuver 25 metres from the rental place to the 'staging area'. this doesn't even factor in balancing two extremely cumbersome and overpriced pieces of wood on one clavicle, while trying not to poke someone else in the crotch with a pole. 2,400 centimetres later and it's time to rearrange everything in order to get on the bloody chairlift, which was "fun" (sort of like an amusement park), until we stopped, mid-mountain, due to wind gusts, and just hung there helplessly swinging in the swirl.

and the hills were indeed alive with assorted expletives.

fortunately ours made it to the summit (and i was able to disembark with all equipment intact), to a snowstorm; all the better to propel us down a mountain that no one could actually see. so...if a couple can survive a cross country road trip (we did-- twice), then they need to try skiing from high altitude together. after a brief tantrum, i determined that passive-aggressive would be the best strategy to facilitate a sooner apres-ski, and guarantee that i would never be asked to go again.

and so i made full use of the many, many faceplants, lying like a dead starfish, waiting to be plucked, along with far flung skis and poles, from the snow and pine trees. "i hate skiing/winter/this/why did you bring me here/i cant do this/it's too steep/i'm never doing it again/this is your thing, not mine/stop trying to force me to do your stuff/this isn't fun".

neither my behaviour or technique were pretty, let alone gracious and graceful. and had there been video footage, rather like people who choose to record their boudoir moments, i don't know that i would ever pick up a set of poles again.

it took us 45 minutes to get down the mountain when it should have taken eight. it felt like two hours.

but i did make the "noise".

tis better to be DFL than DNF

i own snowshoes, enjoy being out on wooded trails, and even somewhat like running, or maybe it's co-dependent relationship with my preferred daily calorie count. therefore, when the opportunity to not only run in snowshoes, but race in them, for a paltry $15 registration, turned the decision making process into "screw it, i'll do it". the 11am start time was kind of a bonus.

'running-in-snowshoes' lesson of the day: oddly enough, what one wears to hike the dogs in, are not what you should be strapping to your feet to negotiate 3.5 miles of trail-- at speed. it was the equivalent of turning up at a cycling race with a hybrid bike, or your local charity 5k wearing a pair of skechers "shape ups".



apparently, i also need to work on technique, because fast people have snow encrusted bums by the time they cross the finish line.

you could cut glass with those nipples

this was pretty much the weather forecast for the maine coast women's half marathon this past weekend. and yet approximately 1,200 runners (that's about 2,400 ovaries) pitched up in assorted combinations of pink wicking spandex to brave the harsher end of tepid.

any sporting event that promotes itself purely on the basis of a matching set of chromosomes has the potential to be as annoying as one of those scented candle parties. fortunately, the act of slapping on a timing chip and bib number cancels out too much of the "kumbaya" and ratchets up the competition.

(because i really wont get out of bed for anything less than a 10k).

i am more hirsute with my clothes on than off (and other gifts that come with canine cohabitation)

the 'barmy dog lady with no kids of her own' transformation is almost complete- minus the stuffed corpse of little buddy/bucky/bradie, circa. 1984 in repose, underfoot.



while there aren't swings, slides and merry-go-rounds to punt the poodles off of at the dog park, there is an endless supply of poo, mud pits, and bum holes to stimulate each sensory function. because dog owners ultimately share the same side of the crazy coin as their oft ridiculed feline fanatic cousins, which goes beyond playing dress up and naming them "napoleon" or "cappuccino". let's take "oxymoron" who is brought to the park for the requisite exercise and socialization, but then immediately admonished for acquiring a thick saliva/dirt crust as a result of engaging in aforementioned activities. last time i tried tiring myself out with something as taxing as running, it did in fact require a more significant form of ablutions than simply licking my feet clean. apparently it is more arduous to hose off a dog than it is to redecorate the living room.

admittedly the last thing anyone wants is notoriety for being responsible for "The Problem Pooch", however public displays of mounting, nipping and bodyslamming will guarantee immediate titleship. axel is two for three.



we sleep in a pile every night, and while the sheets smell of fabric softener, they are also coated in a fine sheen of drool.

nothing says 'happy nuptuals' like swamp ass and bourbon

it's true what "they" say; it will all pass in a blur and you won't get to eat much of anything. and so the haphazardly orchestrated romantic-comedy-musical which was my kentucky wedding, became just that. i now see pictures posted on facebook that i don't even remember being taken, and i don't think i ever saw one green chili wonton appetizer, let alone got to finish the same glass of wine- which could also be related to the ceremony/reception fugue.



obviously 'the days leading up to' involved much last minute stress including whether or not to buy gin, rum and vodka at costco, or go the whole hog and get gin, rum, vodka, and bourbon for the rehearsal/reunion garden party/dinner. hands were wrung with frustration (countless rounds of hand wringing).



not to mention the 'shit-i-have-less-than-four-days-to-get-this-new-dress-altered' issue. thankfully, between much of the aforementioned alcohol and my new found fairy godmother who was working her sewing machine off in the heart of st. mathews, all was (mostly) amicably resolved.



fortunately, there was sufficient down time so that "the boys" (plus a few select spouses) were able to head down to the buffalo trace distillery, en masse, to get roasted on beverages infused in oak barrels (the other alternative being the creation museum up near cincinnati). this freed up time for the bride to engage in the usual girly things like going to make-up shops and working on (awkward) tan lines for "the dress".



finally, the BIG DAY arrived and the "staging area" was intentionally stocked with friends, fizzy alcohol and guacamole to help with last minute editing of the vows. until my brother, a perpetual victim of my noxious predilection for garlic, walked into a room reeking of onions and promptly left in disgust.



despite stringent efforts to avoid anything girly, i committed my own personal emotional foul; leaking- which is not the same as "crying". shortly after mooning my frilly pink knickers to a former co-worker, i saw another office mate who had flown in from new mexico the night before. wow...people...had...taken...time...and...money...to...make...the...effort...to...
see...me...dress...up...and...say...a...bunch...of...stuff...to...someone...that...they...
had...more...than...likely...never...met...up...to...this...point...and...even...though...
we...would...probably...only...have...a...total...of...7...minutes...of...actual...face...
to...face...time...they...came...anyway. this very thing was part of the whole 'courthouse versus wedding' decision. because people will always find a way to make it to a wedding (or funeral)- as long as there is "open bar" written on the invitation. and as such, we both got to see familiar faces from 12-15 years ago. so, while i did win the 'less expensive outfit' contest, he cleaned house on the 'who's going to cry first' challenge.



and all of those little things that i fixated on, in an effort to try and make things less "weddingy", ergo "boring" and cliche worked, eliciting the appropriate and therefore self-gratifying responses; an ebullient officiant (and former mattress store manager); invitations showcasing two sets of big glasses and a ramen noodle perm; europe's "final countdown" on sax as i was escorted down the aisle by both mum and dad, and the fun luggage tag favours- triggering hoarding behaviour amongst some attendees.



then there were the saucy cocktail napkins, sign in jigsaw puzzle depicting the marital black toenail cutting, a first dance to "ring of fire", and of course cake. the only criteria being that it had to either cramp up the ovaries upon visual contact (not gender specific), or result in a full on face plant.



finally, i have been astounded by all of the talented and creative people who made things happen. and while there was no 'bridal party' there were many worthy of a baby blue taffeta number with bows and puffed sleeves.



(photography courtesy of burt reynolds).

it's not about the journey

patrick dempsey is maine's own homeboy and therefore the primary reason i was unable to listen to my limp excuses sunday morning when faced with the prospect of 50 miles; dans le saddle; in a torrential downpour; over "puke hill". that, and an enormous registration fee long since withdrawn from the checking account. fortunately, positive reinforcement abounded at 7:15am, when dave zabriskie and i made 'protracted-eye-contact-but-not-in-a-creepy-stalking-kind-of-way (not to me anyway)' as he disembarked the stage with his peloton of "muscle". george hincapie was also kind enough to bend over for a paparazzi money shot.



and so 3,500 fairly unco-ordinated spandex/cotton blend clad people and their bicycles (and possibly 23 kickstands), avoided a concrete and carbon snarl between 8:15 and 8:19 as we all set off from the corral into the drizzly mists so as to enjoy some unripe "foliage", gatorade and gummi bears. lots of gummi bears. at miles 17, 28, and 39-ish. the mantra for the day was "soggy saddle sore is better than turbulence or sharing stirrups and a paper sheet with bill o'reilly". and aside from the obvious pain, discomfort and millilitres of mucous absorbed into the thumb of my right bike glove, there were some entertaining moments to briefly interrupt the whining. maybe only two; the "wheel housewives of cumberland county" rode by in their team kits, and the dulcet caterwauling of my one eared friend, cheering and photographing this "faster than shutter speed" grumpy, calloused crotch 200 metres from the finish line.



things started to perk up when i saw that the "apres feed" included baked lobster, globs of salty butter and a small serving of McDessert.

i like to pick things

while there is nothing more satisfying than working the corners off a scab, or peeling away a big chunk of cuticle, i will draw the line at eating these assorted moulting parts of my anatomy. and so in order to sublimate that impulse into something less destructive, trichotillomaniacs can be found working diligently in all areas of agriculture.



obviously the question of what is 'one who doesn't deviate too much from the bog standard 9 recipes in the kitchen' to do with all this fresh fruit?



she heads straight for the freshly made doughnut and cider hut to enjoy what others have done with all that fresh fruit.

oh yes i can

it is time for an intervention. i signed up for a 12 mile trail race, "the bradbury bruiser", so-called because of ankle twisting rock gardens in the last two miles of the course.



as most impulsive actions tend to be, this was a totally random "10:30 at night, i wonder what the new PR racing website aka tuesday night with the bates track crackheads looks like" ...and then there was a link...which i clicked....and then clicked "register now", it was only $20, i wasn't even sure that guaranteed a t-shirt (it did).

oops.

for the record: the t-shirt was so cool, i got one in my size, instead of sending it to my dad-- who is currently sporting assorted XL cotton of all the timing chip events i have participated in thus far.

fact: 12 trail miles do not burn as many calories as road miles, however they did score some parentheses-like sports bra chafing into my cleavage. fact: squidgy mud pits, poison ivy and a sweaty back (less than a foot in front), facilitates way more sharing than the confessional- certainly more than any road race i've ever attended. fact: being in your 40's and birthing a couple of children does not mean you are relegated to the "middle aged/too busy to get outdoors/puffy" shelf.



"do you want to sign up for 14 weeks of boot camp?"

-why not?

"the LA marathon would be fun to do- what do you think?"

-ok

"6 mile run (before you go to boot camp)?"

- sure, and i'll go an extra 3 with you for an even 9, just because you said you were feeling good.

"want to get up at 7am and run 14 miles with me on saturday (before you do the trail race on sunday)?"

fortunately, this zealour for "yes" had not yet developed during the 'sex, drugs and acid washed denim with puffy flourescent pink paint' years of adolescence.

there is a 12 hour mountain bike race at the same place this weekend. good thing i committed to something else already.

a labour day survival guide for visitors

labour day in the united states means snatching up those half price slip 'n slides at target for next year's 'two sunny days in june', followed by a full body crippling 'beef 'n beer' indigestion.

it also mean supporting the travel and tourism industry, by way of contributing to amtrak's coffers and the 'tv sitcom made famous bar' in beantown.



it means saving the environment, by driving a gas guzzler two hours to "almost canada", in order to conserve electricity by burning bits of leftover crown molding to liquify and blacken marshmallows that then fall into the embers of an egg and dart.



it means being able to experience a little discomfort (willingly) in order to exploit the situation.



and class 5 whitewater.



obviously.

registering for guests

making the cut to "the guest list" for a wedding is probably not quite as harrowing for the cutt-er, as voting off the chunky sorority cutt-ee on 'the biggest loser'. however, it might be easier to choose who will be one of the lucky recipients of grilled chicken, pasta salad, and an open bar, if you had one of those wedding registry 'point and shoot' gift guns to aim at the address book.

things to consider:

"they invited me, we no longer hang, should i still invite them?" it sort of depends if they have an opportunity to find out that you are actually having a wedding-- between tending their facebook farms, sending karma, and testing general knowledge about british punk circa. february 9th through february 12th, 1987.

"i haven't seen them in years, this would be a nice excuse to catch up." of course then you are left with the burden ("you" are chronically co-dependent) of agonizing over who to sit your middle school teacher from saudi with during dinner-- because "you" are also unable to facilitate introductions while cutting cakes/dancing romantically to louis armstrong/draping hands across each other and the bridal bouquet for a nice, sepia toned close up.

"i'll invite them because i know they wont come, but at least they will feel included". like trying to parallel park a pt cruiser rent-a-car, your judgement is nearly always off.

"do i have to invite them just because we're related? it's been years since we dressed up and ran around pretending to be carebears". this is only typically an issue when the more senior- and matriarchal- members of the family are offering "suggestions".

"how can i cherry pick co-workers and groups of friends and get away without causing any weirdness?" the answer to this is infinitely more valuable than a pain-free remedy for ingrown toenails, and unfortunately just as improbable.

"which exes can we (both) get away with inviting?" generally the ones who are now happily married and have put on 20lbs of complacency. note: "yours" has to be less attractive than "mine".

"what about the person who has already assumed that they are being invited?" find out what their food issues are and email a copy of the menu; crusted, basted, drizzled, and flambeed in that particular ingredient.

i have also learned that picking a playlist for a wedding reception doesn't necessarily mean it should meet the same criteria as the one for "good on long runs".

southern belles

a hot rod show, baptist convention, orphan's picnic (where the primary focus is beer rather than waify street urchins), and a good ole southern style wedding- minus the fried chicken, ATV's, lower back tat's, and acid washed denim, was the latest reason for a foray into travel, turbulence, and truncated cuticles.



to those with inverted nostrils: the american midwest is more than just 2 hours, out of a cross country/coast to coast flight. they have molded plastic animals, decorated in whimsical, local styles on the street-- all of which are just begging to be adorned.



and enterprise car rental, specifically covering the southern states, should seriously consider offering: "add daisy dukes", in addition to the: "GPS/if you crash into a UPS truck insurance" options.



gettin' lucky in kentucky...



which is exactly what this adopted belle will be doing next june. y'all.

committed to underachieving *

learning how to play bohemian rhapsody on the cello and singing the lyrics in mandarin seems rather a silly idea when you can just sit on the couch for 9 hours and read the complete works of bill bryson.

as such, i found myself pedaling with the 'bunco' group on wednesday night's road ride, quite comfortable in the diverse ecto/endo/meso demographic. not one to strive for excellence, it was reassurance enough to see an abundance of cotton athletic wear, bike helmets that belonged in "free styrofoam cooler with a 12 pack of bud light", in the beer cave at the local petrol station-- and even a kick stand or two.

not unlike my performance on tuesday night 'cardio crack at the track', i am more comfortable hanging back with my new buddy "kickstand", dodging potholes (road cellulite being more hazardous to the long term appearance of skin than a gallon of haagen dazs), and not overtaxing the pulmonary artery, it's associated ventricles, or the city to finance an ambulance plus crew.

predictably (in much the same way, that drawing and labeling the different types of triangles in lower level maths class finally had me gagging for sines and cosines the next group up), i started drifting ahead towards the next set of pedaling bottoms. this in itself presents a new learning moment as i appeared to miss the "i'm going to move to the left, so now you ride up front and shield me from the bugs/take a pull" cue.

i have officially upgraded from 'bunco' to 'canasta'.



* "sandbagger"** being the more technical term.

** given the presence of spandex, ergo "saddlebagger".

diner pour quatre

"i invited the oral surgeon and his wife over for dinner next friday."

apparently you have confused my compulsive behaviour about keeping meat in the meat drawer, instead of thrown on top of the bag of arugala and a cheesecake, for someone who appliques apple pies and is fluent in ironing. and these are not the kind of people who come over for a "build your own pizza from this fine selection of ingredients i have procured and we'll just work our way through a kiddie pool of cheap wine" night.

"well, it's a good thing you are so well versed with the gas grill and it's various accessories".

except the good doctor doesn't eat red meat, and his missus is a vegetarian (obviously not an animal rights one, as evidenced by the floor length fur she wore out to dinner in march), and we do not own a "dining room table". *

unfortunately whole foods has yet to develop a line of ezee sundried shitake steaks nestled on an artisan bed of flambeed orzo infused with a rustic pine cone pesto. the default "order the steamed lobster and clams carry out for four" is not going to work as they are "mainers", and my own one trick foo-foo pony does not meet the previously referenced dietary criteria.

i can only hope that one of them has a '6 month old crack head labrador puppy' allergy.


* "dining room table" being the litmus of achieving 'now we have somewhere to put a large silk table runner and centre piece to really reinforce how little we will use this overpriced pile of kindling' adulthood.

attached white female seeking same or different, for various activities

finding an eternal partner to argue over which way the loo roll should be placed is easy. weeding out the potential girlfriends who will bring you colouring books and soup when you're home sick, versus the ones who bring you grief, drama and just make you sick, is not yet available as a feature on eharmony.

once you have secured that "first date", it's a fine balance between personifying the single white psycho and coming on too eager for BFF-dom, versus feigning nonchalance and losing the interest of your future "three-hours-at-the-coffee-shop-talking-about-anal-bleaching" buddy. however, trying to discourage further contacts with a boring and/or attention seeking female who thinks that puns are the epitome of wit, proves to be more challenging than not punching her antithesis; "super-bubbly-girl-who-claps-her-hands-in-delight-(repeatedly)-and-somehow-manages-to-verbalize-the-exclamation-point-at-the-end-of-each-exuberant-statement".

and so the interview process begins; will this person reject me when they find out how overly neurotic and sensitive i really am (will i want to throttle her for being that way too?), does she exhibit the comittment to drive to another state just to go to the outlets- of which only 5 of the 325 shops will be hit? will she make a good running buddy and share the bodyglide? can i convince her to strap on a bike helmet and start building up a collection of 'trail bruises'? can she match my stories about peeing in the car/hedge/on myself?

our "date" ended with an emergency stop at mcdonalds for an evacuation of the chicken saag consumed at lunch. as far as i'm concerned, bodily functions on a "first date" suggests the beginning of a long and entertaining friendship.

twenty-six point two; number two

running 26.2 miles has officially been crossed off the "list of things to do before i die" (still waiting for "crush grapes with my feet" and "drown face in chocolate fondue fountain"- as the preferred way to die). however, stepping it up to an ultramarathon, or ironman (yeah, i don't do anything involving 'speedo' couture), is easily over ruled by the chance to repeat comittment vows to my running buddy- who was very "persuasive", employing several bottles of 'blue tattoo' pinot.



at first, i told her she could kiss my reduced, post marathon arse.



then i recalled our apres race euphoria and/or sport bean's delirium, and decided that this would be an excellent way to maintain aforementioned arse's residence in current size of jeans.



if all else fails, then we are strategizing for an energy conservation formation at mile 23...



it will be long distance training, and if this works as well as it has for my relationships, then i will be exchanging gu's with a speedy kenyan at mile marker 20.

while i did pee on my hand, i did not shit in my shorts

"there is a beginning, and an end". this was the mantra that my running buddy repeated at miles 4, 9, and 26-point-one-and -three-quarters. the san diego rock and roll marathon 2008, or FOC (fear of comitment) journey, did have a finish line, and we crossed it like true codies; holding hands.



the expo was a great opportunity for 4 idiots jacked up on pancakes, french toast, and breakfast burritos to: do the US marine pull bar challenge (girl's version); detoxify their feet in electro charged buckets of water that turned into poo stew after 20 minutes; trawl for free samples of nut based energy snacks that could pass through our colons before we even left the convention centre. unfortunately, while the trademarked "rock and roll" appeared to be the mouse ear equivalent for it's omnipresence on keychains, onesies, and various kinds of running vaporwick couture, it was impossible to find a simple bumper sticker that didn't instruct me to 'run like a girl', 'diva', or 'after chocolate'.



race day started early (and as it often does, in line for the port-a-loo), where team in training were the popular kids in town (out numbering even elvis), each region having their own sorority style hand slap/chant/running formation. the kenyans were nowhere to be seen (excluding a brief sighting at the expo), but that was hardly surprising as my corral was about 3 miles from the start line. apparently the winner crossed the finishing mats barefoot (where does he attach the timing chip?), but given the 3rd degree burns i sustained on my shoulders, i would assume that running on hot tarmac might feel mildly unpleasant. of course by the time the sun had burned off the clouds, and top layer of my epidermis, he was already getting a massage and relaxing with his complimentary bagel, bottle of poland spring, and cheque for $35,000.

despite the intestinal combination of brazilian steakhouse, sushi, and 3 varieties of trader joes tortellini marinating in the spin cycle with red wine, margaritas, and jamba juice, my GI was able to overcome any mid-race anal dilation. however, in an effort to avoid complete dessication, i hydrated enough to give my kidneys something to do for a few hours, i just did not want to spend several muscle stiffening minutes standing and waiting for a hot, stinky port-a-loo. instead we joined the men (and the homeless) in the bushes lining downtown san diego's office buildings, opting out of the more revealing "pull down and bare the cheeks" pee, for the "pull to the side and hope you don't splash on your hand because who really has control over the dispersal of a litre of accelerade at high pressure" pee. (apparently not me).

overall, the course was great (flat), plenty of people to watch (nike could so corner the market on dri-fit religious wear for the guy running in his yarmulke), and enough early morning fog to keep the melanoma levels low. the "rock and roll" feature had a disappointingly low zone of noise transmission or perhaps i was just achieving such levels of acceleration, that i never heard an entire song. however, there were plenty of homeless people and pre-pubescent middle school cheerleading clubs lining the course to motivate us to get the hell on to the next mile marker. during the harder (higher) mileage it did help to know that at least i wasn't bart yasso ultra marathonning in the southwestern desert, changing his (melting) shoes every 10 miles, and dodging piles of (slowly cooking) regurgitated banana. mind over puked up matter. so there was no crying because there was no debilitating hip pain, which i attribute to stretching out my IT band at each of the last 4 miles of accelerade stops.



and what does one do when faced with a 2,500 calorie deficit? drive over to old town for margaritas and chips, because obviously the salt packet from mile 13 was depleted and forming a crusty exoskeleton on my face. and then one compares the hues of her "first pee"; diluted mustard (french, not english).

unfortunately i never got the black toenails. even my supervisor at work was eager to check (and justifiably disappointed at)their post marathon status. if i train for another one, i might get lucky. next time it will be the east coast.

life scripts

we are each contributing a chapter to someone else's story, while simultaneously co-writing our own.

i like the one's i read where i end up spitting tea all over the monitor.

valet virgins & red penguins

other people's birthdays provide a great opportunity to "encourage" them to do things that they wouldn't normally do. however, there is typically an associated "ripple" to all the other attendees.

it was well worth the $26 plate of pan seared scallops (3 scallops equals $9 a piece), to use valet parking for the first time ever, and grope a red penguin.

oops...it's not all about "disa"

narcissism has some great ways of decorating reality; my narcissism. last year i played on a coed social football (soccer) league- this was the first time i had dribbled something (that was not on my pillow) in over 20 years. i begged the guy positioned behind me to be very concrete in his directives; "run forwards", "run backwards", "no, faster!", "kick the ball", "start breathing and get back up off the grass, now is not the time to lie down/cry/take a rest". he coached little kids, so i knew he could break it down for me. i found him to be very encouraging and informative. "push up d", "good job, d", "kick the ball, d". i sucked, but his narrative made me feel like i had contributed in some small way.

fast forward to coed flag football league this year. again, many patient voices and coaches, both on and off the field; cheering and directing me! "good job, d!" "don't let them through, d". "come on defense, don't let them through."

defense?

"d"

d?

not me?

defense.

oh.

she pushed me!

having worked with emotionally and behaviorally disordered children/adults for 9 years, i really should know better. whether it's obeying the "15 items or less" rule (and no, "two for one" does not count as one of the fifteen), or pocketing all the blank tiles in scrabble; people do not always conduct themselves as they are "supposed" to.

flag football was initially presented to me as the 'non-violent/non-physical' alternative to the slow paced carnage that seems to be on every bloody tv channel; daily. however, during today's game i was shoved aside by one winsome wench only to be barreled into by another freight train of a female (aaah, more girls with something to prove). in stressful situations we all regress emotionally to a younger state; like 5.

i wanted to smack her across the face (with my strawberry shortcake lunch box).