I Sang At a Club and Bombed Like a Motherfucker

I got a voicemail from a guy who had heard I was a singer and invited me to sing a few songs with his band at a gig that Saturday. In case you’re wondering how he got my number, I don’t know. This past summer I was practicing to perform some songs with the ex-boyfriend’s band, which never materialized. I did, however, tell everyone that I now sang with a band, including the dude at the post office who was helping me track down the “Good Morning I See the Assassins Have Failed Again” mug I had ordered from Etsy. Which apparently had been delivered to the wrong address so Post Office Dude took my number and I think he gave it to a guy who gave it to a guy.

Or something. Who the hell has time to play Inspector Gadget when fame and fortune come knocking at your door?

I was initially hesitant. I haven’t sung in front of an audience since college when I fronted a punk band called Freddy Fetus and the Coat Hangers, but in MY MIND I’m a singer. In my car and in my shower, I’m a goddamn singer. This guy I was dating, whom my friends referred to as “Mr. Atlantic City,” said “You’re gonna go sing with some band you’ve never heard, without rehearsing, and just WING IT in front of an audience? That’s a terrible idea, you’ll be TERRIBLE” so of course now I HAD to do it.

Atlantic City is Las Vegas with a yeast infection. Mr. AC owned a weekend house there, so for the last few months our dating consisted of cavorting around town until 5 am. There’s so much more to DO there than there is in the suburbs, what with the casinos, the cash for gold places, the tranny prostitutes and getting shot. His house has an elevator, and in case you’re wondering if the very rich are indeed different from the rest of us, yes they are. In a recent study which I made up, scientists concluded that 100 percent of men who drive Bentleys with vanity plates “are jackholes.” Mr. AC wanted to do only what HE wanted to do. He was furious with me for cancelling our weekend casino debauchery to go sing, even though I invited him along. No dice. (see what I did there?)

On our first date Mr. AC declared “I’ll pay for you to get a boob job, but only if they’re HUGE” and I hadn’t even mentioned wanting one. But fuck yeah, if you’re buying me titties, I’ll take three. He was also pissy because in two months he had wined, dined but not yet vagined me.  Rich dudes don’t expect to wait for sex. Every time we spoke on the phone he ended the conversation by saying “GROW THAT RUNWAY BABY” which is surprisingly less charming than it reads. Did I mention he had an elevator in his house?

Breaking the date was the end of our relationship. He was fun, and good-looking, especially from certain angles like when he was reaching for his wallet, but it was for the best. On our last casino romp he’d won $600 at the craps table, which he’d tossed at me and said “use this for something sexy to wear the next time you see me” and I was struggling to figure out how to make my utility bills look sexy.

The gig was in South Jersey, which is so white-trashy it should be a separate country from America. They have a completely different world view down there;  the number one recreational hobby is aggravated assault and “MILF” is a career objective. The entire southern tip of New Jersey smells like the inside of a fake leg. The minute you drive south of Exit 100 on the Garden State Parkway, you can hear the twanging of dueling banjos. The gig, coincidentally, was in the same town where the ex-boyfriend lived. No, I did not invite him. We haven’t spoken since we ended our relationship amicably, and by amicably I mean I was screaming ‘YOU LIMP DICK MOTHERFUCKER” on his front lawn.

I went to the band’s website to look at their song list, and I decided to sing ‘Brown Eyed Girl’and ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You.’ Yeah, I know, you think of me as all punk rock and Nirvana but schmaltzy lounge music is SO my jam. You haven’t lived until you’re heard  Robert Mitchum mumbling his way through “Mama Looka Boo Boo.” In the privacy of my home, I wipe off the heavy winged eyeliner, throw on some Bonnie Bell Lip Ssmackers and rock the fuck out to the Fifth Dimension.

I got to the club and it was packed. PACKED. I met the bandleader, a bearded, portly HIspanic dude. I knew I had made yet another of my famous bad decisions when he asked me what key I wanted to sing in. What KEY? Is this a gig or are we taking our fucking SATs here? I tried to deflect him by playful responding “oh you’re such a troublemaker” and lightly smacking him in the jowls which is what people in South Jersey do to show affection. Beat one another.

That’s when I began drinking shots. I’m a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. As a matter of fact my superpower is turning tequila into crippling regret, but hey, I was at a bar in South Jersey and when in Rome, right? Since it was too late to get a bad tattoo or develop adult acne I started pounding shots of Patron.

A bleached blonde who’d known these guys for 20 years was sitting up front with her husband and decided she was my new best friend. She bought me shot after shot and told me all about her affairs and her 2 grown kids in rehab. Once I’d drank enough tequila to let my brain cells leak out my asshole, I completely forgot the words to ‘Brown Eyed Girl,’ and she was kind enough to write them for me on a napkin. When I told my bestie about this, she asked, “a sanitary napkin?” but NO, a cocktail napkin. Although looking back I wish I HAD gone on stage with a sanitary napkin because that would have been like in 1974 when an inebriated John Lennon stuck a Kotex on his head at a nightclub and John Lennon is a GOD.

When I got on stage the band leader dude handed me a tambourine. I was all SMASH THE PATRIARCHY WOULD YOU HAND ME THIS IF I WERE A MAN? so I said, “Don’t give me this, I don’t play the tambourine! FUCK your tambourine, man!” And then I said “that’s actually the name of that song. People think it’s ‘Tambourine Man’ but it’s really ‘FUCK Your Tambourine Man’”and I cracked myself up so much the band had to play the intro a very long time until I could stop laughing.

That went so well I decided to do a sexed up version of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You.’ It was less a song and more me dry humping the band leader. My friends on Facebook were disappointed I didn’t get video of this but imagine, if you will, a drunk Jessica Rabbit with one bad leg giving a clumsy lap dance to Puerto Rican Santa Claus.

When it was over, my new best blonde friend said “Well, you LOOKED good” and some chick gave me her card and told me she was a vocal coach and that I should call her. Like, immediately. The band didn’t invite me to sing with them at their gig next month but I’m gonna show up anyway. I’m getting my sanitary napkin ready and practicing the Fifth Dimension’s ‘Wedding Bell Blues’ and that’s a string of words I never thought I’d put together. But there you have it.

 I present me singing, unironically, “Can’t Take  My Eyes Off Of You.” Recorded live this morning in my bathroom so please excuse the clunking sounds in the background as I got ready for work.
The recording ends abruptly, but so do many things:

https://www.smule.com/recording/frankie-valli-cant-take-my-eyes-off-you/1624246345_2641155142/frame

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Samara In Tinderland

Tinder – lowering sexual standards since 2012.

Tinder is the fast food of online dating – quick, cheap, and temporarily curbs your hunger. Although I’m sure people have met their significant others on Tinder –  just given the sheer quantity using it – it has an undeniably sleazy quality to it.

No judgments here. I like the sleaze.

Tinder combines everything that is wrong with society – hook up culture, chatting with people without real interaction, the desire for instant gratification, making snap judgments, rejecting people solely upon their looks – into one convenient online shopping-type app!

A veritable smorgasbord of single (ha!) people! Swipe and go!

 

In a recent article that I made up, the CEO of Tinder argued that Tinder is a progressive social construct which gives legitimacy to the online dating phenomenon.

They left out the part where you don’t need to have even $5 in your pocket to leave the house and purchase a beer somewhere. Or the ability to hold even the most rudimentary of real-life conversations.

And yet, people everywhere are getting laid off this app. It’s the cyber version of grunting, clubbing a woman over the head, and dragging her back to your cave for hot troglodyte sex.

It’s also free. That gives you an idea of the financial status of many Tinderonis. I’m not saying it’s teeming with broke-ass motherfuckers, but apparently, I appeal to a great many of them.

Perhaps because I look kinda funky in my profile pics, and am holding a guitar in one, I attract a lot of artist-writer-musician types. No one should give up his dream. However, if you’re approaching 50 and your artsy dream doesn’t include being able to afford a studio apartment, perhaps it’s time to modify your dream? To one that includes a steady paycheck, and perhaps a dental plan because OMG are you kidding with those teeth?

 

There are men who actually open with gross sexual overtures, like “Hi! Spit, or swallow?” Oh, WOW, it’s like Sophie’s Choice, how can I make that decision?! I will probably want to do both, you suave devil, you!

Some men are either trying desperately to be quirky, or English is not their first language. I don’t want to meet “I’m half a camel, I once tipped a stripper in McNuggets.”

There are quite a few men with that “restraining order” look in their eyes. Their profiles tend to go something like, “BOOM! YOU BITCHES CAN’T HANDLE THIS. THE PARTY’S ALL UP IN HERE. POW!” (And other cartoon fight sounds. Kapow!)

I don’t understand what motivates someone to pose shirtless in a club, guzzling a bottle of vodka, with his arm around another chick. The 1995 rave called, it wants its sweaty chest picture back.

Some men put up only picture of their face, then FIVE pictures of random objects. Like, 5 car pics. Their profiles say things like “Love cars, weed, partying.” Fabulous! Let’s get stoned and DRIVE AROUND, SHALL WE? I would love to court death with a guy who describes himself as a “SWAGASAURUS.”

 

I may need to join a different online dating service, one that costs actual money to join and requires that you have reasonable proficiency with the use of your opposable thumbs.

I did meet a handsome, sweet, funny guy. He made me laugh, which is always a plus. I was about to give him my number when he asked me if he could tell me about a certain “fetish” he has.
I’m pretty open, so I was curious.

He has a “crush” fetish. DON’T GOOGLE THIS. YOU CANNOT UNSEE THIS.

There are two levels. Level 1 is getting turned on by insects and other invertebrates being crushed. Level 2 is getting sexually turned by small vertebrates, like kittens or bunny rabbits, getting crushed to death.

WTF? Is this Tinder, or an episode of Criminal Minds? That night I wept for humanity and slept with a Bible under my pillow.

 

There are so many bizarre encounters on Tinder…

…people MUST be using it for the entertainment. I know I do.

This dude is one of my favorites. His picture is from a Purina Puppy Chow ad. He loves to hold conversations with me that make ZERO sense. He rarely responds to anything I say, so I’ve just begun saying random things – to see if he’s even reading what I wrote.

I’m pretty sure he’s a bot.

Another man rambled on and on about what we would do, once we were a “couple,” despite the fact that we hadn’t even MET yet. Here’s an excerpt:

What a fun-filled night! Perhaps I’ll even get to squeeze a few of his blackheads!

 

Despite the fact that Tinder is yet another nail in the coffin of Western civilization,

it’s a fun app and I’m keeping it because hey – I’M on there, right? So it can’t be ALL bad.

Now I just need to find the male version of myself. Although, some might argue I’m already the male version of myself.

It might be the fast food of online dating, but I won’t deny that even I crave some Micky D’s once in a while.

Of course, McDonald’s won’t give you herpes…

 

Have you been on Tinder? Or other online dating services?
Did you meet your significant other that way? IS THERE HOPE? 

Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

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How To REALLY Pack For a Blog Conference

 

I’m heading to BlogU this weekend, and have read scads of articles on how to pack for a blog conference.

I have my own ideas of what to bring. Here’s how to REALLY pack for a blog conference, à la Samara.

1. DRUGS & BOOZE

If I’m going to mingle with other humans you best believe I need to have a righteous buzz. If you see me face down sizzling in my own drool, it just means I got a package from one of my friends in Portland. Feel free to wake me by hurling Skittles at me and yelling “TASTE THE RAINBOW!!”

If you’re flying, you can always hide drugs in your vagina. If you’re not flying, you can STILL hide drugs in your vagina. Everything is better after it’s marinated in vagina.

Crushed up and snorted Adderall is fabulous when paired with a nice Merlot. Crystal meth is optional but always a crowd pleaser.

The conference is at the University of Maryland, and we’re all housed in the dormitories there. There’s no alcohol allowed in the dorm, and, YOU KNOW, NO ONE EVER BREAKS COLLEGE ALCOHOL RULES. Forget wine, I’m gonna need lots of tequila to answer questions I have no answer for, such as “What is your blog about?”

2. EVERYTHING IN MY CLOSET

One article suggested I make index cards for each day, with my itinerary written and an outfit planned.

hahahahahahaha

By what sorcery would I know  on Thursday what I want to wear on Saturday? I’ll need at least 3 sizes of jeans, depending on my level of bloat.

Maybe I’ll break out that pair of high-waisted denim shorts with suspenders I bought because they were on sale at Forever 21. They make me look like the love child of Boy George and Urkel but they were only $4. 

You can never pack too many clothes. What if I meet a millionaire who wants to whisk me away on his boat for a three-hour tour, ♫ a three-hour tour ♫, and we run into a tropical storm and are shipwrecked on an uncharted island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean and I need ALL THE THINGS?

3. FORTY-ELEVEN PAIRS OF SHOES

I’ll be doing lots of walking, so I need flats. That could mean combat boots or gladiator sandals, depending on how prehistoric my toenail look. I need stiletto heels for obvious reasons. If it rains, I’m going to need my cute rubber rain boots. Workout sneakers, in case I decide to work out. I know, I know, I don’t even work out at home don’t LOOK AT ME!

Flip-flops are essential. I do NOT want to catch foot herpes from a communal bathroom.

4. MENSTRUAL PRODUCTS

The uterus ninjas are here. Light, medium, heavy, ultra heavy “I should just stuff a fluffy rodent up there”? It’s a crap shoot these days. I’m packing the Super Deluxe Variety Pack of tampons.

5. HAIR STUFF

Blow dryer, duh. But also, in case I get ambitious, flat iron, curling iron, maybe a roller set I got on clearance at Walmart and never used? Root volume, hair spray, gel, smoothing spray, detangler, oh I was supposed to get travel sizes of all these things? Who has time for that? I’m writing THIS when I should be packing.

6. HANDCUFFS

In case I have to make a citizen’s arrest.

 

7. MANY EYE MAKEUP PALETTES

I like a daytime natural eye look, but I also do a smoky eye, a cat eye (if I have an extra 30 minutes to do winged eye liner), and a statement eye (the statement being “help me, I look like Steve Buscemi.”)

8. FIREARMS, AMMUNITION AND ACCESSORIES

I’m fairly certain guns are legal int the South. YES, Maryland is the south. It’s below the Mason Dixon line, isn’t it? Listen, I’ve heard you can eat crabs and drink beer in a restaurant there without wearing a shirt or shoes. That sounds like the South to me.

Also, I need specific clothes for concealed carry. Thank goodness for this Concealed Carry Fashion Expo. A girl needs options, ya know?

9. DUCT TAPE

Why wouldn’t you want it for a blog conference? Shoe breaks, luggage tears, purse gets a hole in it? Fix it with duct tape! Flat tire? Duct tape. Skin exfoliation? Duct tape. Alien space ship crashes and needs minor repairs so they can return to the Planet Crouton? Duct tape.

Add clothespins and baby powder to the duct tape and you have a portable S&M kit. The baby powder is to help put on latex – but you knew that.

10. EMERGENCY PONCHO, FIRE EXTINGUISHER, FLASHLIGHTS, DOOR HINGES, JUMPER CABLES, GLUE GUN

Because shit happens.

 

By the time you read this, I’ll be on my way to BlogU!! I can’t wait to spend time with my online friends!

The most talked about event at the conference is the closing night costume party. This year’s theme is “Tacky Wedding.” Costumes are not my thing, but my girl Ashley Fuchs convinced me to dress up as “Hungover Stripper From Last Night’s Bachelor Party” since I could just pull things from my own closet. Score!

Maybe, there’ll even be pictures…

 

What do you pack when you go away for the weekend? Are you an overpacker, like me?
Where should I go for good crab in Maryland?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

Spring Fever

You know that thing where you’re walking down the street and men can tell you’ve just had sex? They must have some kind of fornication radar.

If I leave a friend’s apartment in the city, after we’ve had some #sexytimes, and walk a little ways before catching a cab, men will follow me down the street. Not in a scary way. In a “Hey baby, I don’t know you but would you like to come back to my apartment even though your head might end up in my freezer?” kind of way.

Okay, that’s pretty scary.

Guys are very forward in New York. It’s an urban thing, I think. You don’t get ogled as openly in the suburbs as you do when you stroll through Lincoln Center after two hours of hardcore car sex.

Not that I have done that.

Car sex is the suburbs dirty little secret. All those minivan-driving soccer moms and dads don’t tell you the real reason they bought that Honda Odyssey is, back row comes out, middle row folds down flat, voila! it’s a bed.

The parking lot at the gym is like a scene from Caligula.

Spring fever. It’s totally a Thing, and I have it. It makes me want to do crazy things, like jump in my car and drive 13 hours straight to Nashville, to hang out with my college bestie who now lives there. Even after the debacle we had there last year.

This past weekend, one of her fave bands came in from Columbus, Ohio to perform and they crashed at her house. Six guys. They were perfect gentlemen, by the way, those Midwestern boys. They drank two cases of beer and put every CAN IN THE RECYCLING BIN and no, that is NOT a euphemism for sex.

 

So, getting back to spring fever. It’s Monday evening and all I can think about is how much I love tequila. I would love to knock back a couple of shots of Patron this very minute, but that would fuck up the whole homework vibe.

Today, I had my annual gynecological exam. We ladies have to get our vajetable gardens rotated once a year. I used to see the female doctor in the practice until she impersonated female SS guard Irma Grese and tried to electrocute me from inside my smush mitten during a routine “procedure,” so now I see the doctor who delivered my kid.

The thing is, the doctor is really good-looking. He was cute back then, but 12 years has made him much sexier. Which is something that ONLY HAPPENS TO MEN. He’s now ‘handsome in a late 40’s man’ way, instead of ‘cute in a boy’ way, and he has a great personality, and I have spring fever and did I mention how handsome he is?

He was all up in my bajingo and asking personal questions about my sex life, and the next thing I know I was saying flirty things and batting my eyelashes at him.

I have no idea how that happened. Yes, it was sort of surreal. Plus there was a woman in the room, she’s always there and she’s about 100 years old. I think she might be his mother?

No, that would be completely weird. But she’s old and motherly and she’s always there when he gives pelvic exams but she really didn’t interfere with our flirty flow and I’m suddenly very, very glad I’m anonymous.

 

After that, I went to the supermarket and within 12 seconds, some dude was hitting on me at the deli counter. And I never get hit on at the supermarket. The gas station is usually my jam. Yeah, I’m like Miss America in the Field of Dreams at the ol’ gas station, and those attendants are typically delighted with me. Or maybe it’s my red hair, which in their country means that I’m a prostitute.

The point is, Supermarket Guy knew someone had just been all up in my business, even in a routine medical way.

 

Is online dating for the dregs of humanity, or is that just my experience? So far, I’ve had a guy ask me about wearing diapers, and another one inquire as to how much I enjoyed doing laundry. One man in his mid 40’s told me he was a freelance “painter/filmmaker/writer” which is code for “waiting for my parents to die.”

The most recent man online sent me pictures of the trophies he earned as champion of that card game “Magic: The Gathering.” He’s hoping I will accompany him to an upcoming comic convention, and as enticing as that sounds, I’m busy that weekend shaving the lint off my socks.

Those were the good ones. One man messaged me “I WILL PAY YOU $2 FOR YOUR SOCKS I WILL LITERALLY PAY YOU TO PEE ON A SOCK WHY DOES GOD HATE ME SO MUCH I AM SO FUCKING LONELY.”

 

Online dating is terrifying, because when you meet these people they want to have actual conversations with you about the healing properties of bone broth popsicles which is why I prefer to meet where the music is VERY LOUD.

I become even more non-filtered when I’m feeling socially anxious. While in Portland with my college bestie, I was doing my best wingman for her while some dude chatted her up at a coffee bar/drug dispensary.

I’m not sure how the conversation turned to her being a cancer survivor, but he refused to believe it. He started out flattering, telling her she was so full of life and energy and zeitgeist and joie de vivre and KonMari. Then he became super annoying and finally I interjected with, “What are you saying? CAT Scans or it didn’t happen?”
I guess you had to be there.

*This blog post brought to you by one long, continuous unedited stream of consciousness at the behest of my girl GKelly who suggested I write about flirting during a pelvic exam, after I posted it on Facebook.

Do you have spring fever? Have you had some weird online dating experiences?
What about weird gynecological experiences?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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I Stopped Exercising For One Year: Here’s What Happened

There’s a reason why the expression is gym “rat.”  It’s not gym “puppy;” puppies are adorable and cuddly. Rats are annoying.

For most of my adult life, I was a gym rat. I exercised every day; some days, for hours. I craved the endorphin high and the all-day energy boost. I loved being fit and strong. If I’m being totally honest – I also measured my self worth by how fit I looked.

My life revolved around the gym. I didn’t intentionally set out to make gym friends but only other people who make exercise such a priority can stand gym rats.

It’s no wonder. While the rest of the world was “aaahhh”-ing over their first sip of coffee, I was at grueling outdoor bootcamp classes. The crack of dawn found me running around Central Park in tights, holding a tire over my head. If an alien from another planet observed me from a far-off galaxy, they probably imagined I was some kind of AAA superhero.

“Flat tire on 86th street? Car Repair Woman saves the day!”

 

During my exercise mania days, I ate “clean” most of the time, which means, I stripped every bit of fun out of the experience of eating. Every day I ate grilled whatchamadingle with a side of steamed doojawockey. I removed sugar, alcohol and complex carbs out of my diet, along with the will to live.

I lifted weights. I trained with kettle bells. I climbed a zillion steps to nowhere on the stairmaster. I yoga’d and spun and kick boxed.

I set impractical and ludicrous fitness goals, like being able to do 20 unassisted pull ups. As my parting gift for this achievement, I received permanently jacked up shoulder joints. I have bone spurs in both rotator cuffs. It feels like tiny angry gladiators are spearing me right where my wings would attach to my body. If I had wings.

I’m supposed to get the spurs surgically removed, but I have to recuperate in a shoulder sling for months. It’s not really practical at this time in my life, or any other time for that matter, since I won’t be able to drive, eat, sleep or wipe my vag after peeing.

Over the years, I’ve injured every part of my body exercising. I’ve pulled muscles, pinched nerves and torn cartilage.

I sprained my asshole.

 

There were other downsides to being an exercise devotee. Going to the gym was time-consuming. Aside from exercising, there’s also getting changed, traveling to and from the gym, showering afterwards – it took up hours of my day.

I put more energy into my relationship with exercise than I did with a living human being.

 

A little over a year ago, I started to dread exercising. I could no longer bear the sight, sounds or smells of the gym.

So I stopped. I know exercise burn out when I feel it.

Playing exercise hooky freed up so much of my time that day, I was delighted. Was this what it felt like when you’re not a slave to the gym?

 

I didn’t want to stop exercising completely, so I took up walking. But when it was snowy or rainy, I skipped those days.

Once again, I marveled over all the extra time. Gradually, I just stopped exercising.

And then the dam…BURST.

I started eating junk food, stuff I hadn’t eaten in decades. Doughnuts, and candy bars, and cake. Carb-o-rama.

I gained 30 pounds. Of course, it bothered me immensely. But some extra weight settled in my breasts, which were finally bigger than a B cup. The last time that happened, Cujo the newborn was gnawing on them constantly. Now, I had a great, baby-free rack.

No one complained that I went from “waif” to “sturdy.” And the extra fat in my face was like taking a Black and Decker steam iron to some of my eye crinkles.

 

For several months I tried to burn fat just hating exercise, but it didn’t work. When I realized I was getting winded eating pancakes, I knew I had to start working out again.

I joined a gym near my house. The fitness director encouraged me to do some really extreme classes, but I declined. I used to measure the success of my workout by how much I wanted to puke. Nowadays, I have no interest in exercising to the point where I’m yakking in the ladies locker room.

I used to be hard-wired to enjoy the pain of exercise. In just a year, I managed to completely turn that around.

This has been such a paradoxical journey. On the one hand, I feel liberated. Those extra hours a day gave me more time to waste on the Internet write. Weekend mornings, instead of bolting out of the door to the gym, I hang out with my kid.

On the other hand – I worry about my health. My father died of a heart attack suddenly at age 46 – the age I am now. I think the the best way to avoid death is to become a moving target.

I’ve had to reframe my whole idea of myself. My identity was wrapped around being waif thin, and I’ve had to give that up. It hasn’t been easy, but to ease the pain of the transition, there’s cake. Mmmm, cake. 

I’ve started back slowly, going every couple of days. I do it only because I must. Exercise has lost its allure for me. The whole time I’m on the treadmill, feeling like a hamster on a spinning wheel, I’m counting the minutes until I can get home and back in front of my keyboard.

The only thing I seem to enjoy exercising these days is my mind.

 

Do you exercise? How do you stay motivated?
Is anything as good as cake? Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

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