Priority Use

Today I went out for tea with someone who I met at work. I have a lot of fun at work, and people seem to really like me there. I had already been asked out once, so it wasn't a shocker when another guy came over to my cash register and asked if I wanted to get some coffee sometime (neither of us drink coffee, though, but I guess "getting coffee" is a rather general term). He seems like a nice enough person, so I obliged willingly. We had a nice time this afternoon--we both ordered teas at Starbucks (his choice, not mine). Really, I have no complaints about the afternoon. Well, nothing major, anyway. We had a nice conversation, and he could definitely be a friend. Just a 20 year older friend. But, hey, like I said, no complaints. But, this did lead me to look back on my interesting (though perhaps limited, admittedly) history with those of the opposite sex and to finally come to an amusing realization: I seem to attract the older--much older--men in my life. Yes, I know, he could have just seen me as a friend. I'm not jumping to any quick conclusions here. It was really when he told me that I looked good in skirts (the one I wore today, in particular) that I had that classic thought: "can boys and girls (men and women) really just be friends? But, I'll spare you that entry--a little to "Sex in the City-esque" for me now. Anyway, the point is, my "intimate" life (if it can really be called that), seems to be composed 97% of men who are [quite a bit] older than me and about 3% of those who were at least born in the same decade. I have nothing against older men, really and truly. It's just that sometimes it would be nice to have a conversation about something that the two of us are experiencing now--I don't know, college might be a good way to start. I just feel so young when we talk about our families. I mean, I am still very hardly removed from mine. I see my dad practically every day, and some of these guys, well, are dads themselves. And, I just find that a little odd. I like kids, but I'd rather not discuss them over an intimate dinner--or even a cup of tea.

Why is it that I'm racist if I notice the color of someone's skin, but I'm not sexist if I notice that the person I am talking to is a woman?

It seems like race is a pretty big issue. It's one of those things that just keeps getting bigger and bigger because we can't let it go. How can we make something not matter if it is the subject of so many things?

So is it racist to pick a "qualified" individual based on racial diversity for admission to a college or promotion at work?

You can't talk about an issue so as to not notice the issue. Talking about the issue is making it an issue.

It's no solution. Just some things to think about.

David Letterman's Top "10" George Bush Solutions to Global Warming:

3. Switch to celcius so a scorching 98 degrees is a frosty 37.

2. Keep plenty of Bud on ice.

1. Invade Antarctica.

My dad and I went out to sushi tonight. We went up to the Hill--the college student area, I think I mentioned before--to the new outpost of a trendy sushi place that is also on the walking mall downtown. I was not looking forward to the proposition at first. We were going to walk, which meant that we would have to go through the college neighborhood--something that I try to avoid at all costs. There's something about some of the college students here. They're just, I don't know, obnoxious. Now, I am definitely not saying this sitting atop a high and mighty lounge chair. I am not saying, or believing, that I am better than anyone one else (a la previous post). I am saying, more, that I see things differently. Just not the same as many of these people here. But, anyway, that's not point. The point is, I didn't want to go, but I did anyway. And, the sushi was fabulous. Anyway (now that I have gone of on a point that got me absolutely nowhere), at the restaurant, we were having a conversation about bars. My dad was giving me the lo-down on the clientele at all the bars in the town--telling me who goes where and when. Somehow we got on the a comparison between two of the bars. They were both similar, but one--he said--had a more "active" crowd. They danced and moved around more than at the other place. Then--he added-you wouldn't see overweight people at the "active" bar. I interjected that there aren't overweight people in this town, really (cause there aren't). Then, I glanced around, and realized that we, in fact, were the most overweight people in the entire restaurant! And, you know what? It was totally true. Now, a little disclaimer on this: I don't need anyone telling me this "oh, you're not overweight" stuff. This was not an observation out of self-consciousness. It was a pure, objective observation with nothing attached. Now here were two healthy, food-conscious, gym-going people in a restaurant (we're not talking skinny club here, people) who were the most overweight (yes, I realize, the word most is highly relative) people in an entire food eating establishment. Quite an odd realization. Let's just keep it at that.

One of my biggest fears is that I'm not going to do anything good for the world. I see so many problems and I have so much inspiration every day to make things better, but what if I don't do anything? I don't want to get trapped in the everyday bullshit and not get anything done. I don't want to be too scared to put myself out there. I don't want to compromise my beliefs and my values out of cowardice, out of being unsure. I want to be able to do things that don't make sense, all the time. I just want to be good and I want to do good. When I think about the all-encompassing future I see so many possibilities, but sometimes these possibilities seem so endless it's overwhelming and I don't know where to begin. So, I just don't do anything. And, I worry that that's how I'll be forever.

She told us a lot of things that day, but the main think I remember that she said is, "Don't forget where you came from." When I used to work at the Swap-O-Rama [flea market], some of my friends would say, "Oh Nancy, you're too good to work there." But that's not it. I don't want people to confuse it. It's not that I'm too good. I'm not any better than anybody else who works there. It's just that--maybe I see farther than them. They see tomorrow only. That's all they can see. Because there's nobody to show them how to get somewhere. There's not a lot of people there who have gotten somewhere themselves. And if they do, they don't come back. In a poor neighborhood, it's like people become successful, and then you never see them again.
--Holler If You Hear Me

Last week when I was making dinner, I sliced a bit of my finger on the edge of a tin can. It didn't hurt, really, but it bled quite a bit (not as much as when I almost needed stitches after nearly fainting with an exacto in my hand). I immediately put a bandaid on the poor sucker so as not to contaminate my dinner and I left it to sit for a couple days. I have been working at a bookstore, and I didn't want to get any nasties in the cut, so I kept it covered. Since the bandaid came off a couple days ago, I have been pretty diligent about putting some of my dad's vitamin c rub on the cut each night or whenever I use some for chapstick. This afternoon when I was laying on my bed contemplating the day's events and why I was so damn exhausted, I started staring at my injured finger. I hadn't looked at it since last night and it was quite a shocker. All that remains of that fateful evening is a memory in my mind, and a tiny dark bit of skin that has healed over the opening. It has been pretty fascinating to observe, to be quite honest. All the work that goes in to making me work every day is just astounding, and it's only in times of injury, I think, that I am truly awed by life's little spectaculars. So, it may have only been a little break in the skin, no lives were threatened, but it was enough to make me appreciate my cells' goodness. Thanks guys. Without you, I'd be nothing.

Over Nepalese food the other night, my dad and I started a conversation not unlike the usual that has been resurfacing in my thoughts. Apparently, in India, children are taught that they are different than their thoughts. Thoughts are just sort of something there, to be observed and watched, but not to necessarily be followed. Thoughts are beingness are not inseparable. In fact, the point is, is that the two are fully separable. At first, this didn't seem that interesting to me. Sure, thoughts are not us. We aren't our thoughts. Sounds good enough. But, then I really tried to figure out what that meant. Do I really ever just observe what's going on in my head? Do I ever separate the me from the thought, and I realized that I don't, really. I don't know if many people do, in fact. Perhaps, we reasoned, this stems from Descartes: "I think, therefore I am." Does that unnecessarily assume that without thoughts we are nothing? That sort of makes sense, but does that mean that when my thoughts change, I am changed? So, then, this got me thinking (have I mentioned that I am working a job that affords me lots of time to follow my thoughts?), what am I? What exactly is a person? Well, their thoughts, no?

Wow, all this thinking sure has made me tired. I guess, if I could figure out how to observe my thoughts and not make my thoughts me, then I wouldn't be so tired. I could chose to watch them as I pleased.

Tonight, part of me thought that I wanted an almond joy. Instead of just perceiving this thought, I did a Descartes. I did my thought. I ate the chocolate. Man, I sure do have a lot to learn.

Well, you'll know where this came from if you are the person responsible for the following passage which really had my mind rambling. I just didn't want to leave a comment about your post on your comment board because it got me thinking about more than could really fit in the little comment section. I hope you don't mind me devoting my (short--I'm tired) post to thoughts about your post.

[here, if there's one cookie left and your friend wants it, you would give it to him, but you would still feel a twinge, an i-wanted-that-cookie-too twinge.

there, the twinge is nonexistent.]

I just don't know that I think this can all be delineated so easily. I definitely feel the twinge of not wanting to hand over my last "insert name here" sometimes, but other times I'm more than delighted to give away all that I have. So, I really don't think it's a here vs. there issue. Or even a this culture vs. that culture issue. I think it can be easy to make judgments like that--I found myself doing it all the time when I was away--but I just don't think it's all that fair. Believe me, I am the first to inflate many bothersome issues about our country and our culture as a whole, but I think, often these generalizations just aren't fair. Maybe I get this feeling because part of me feels so apathetic in the world. Like my political views don't really matter, so I may as well just say "screw it, that's how it is." On the same hand, maybe it's just me being helpless and vulnerable --not willing to lump myself in the crowd of cultural generalizations that make me sad to belong where I do in the world. I don't know what it is. But, I just don't think that there really is a there vs. here thing, anywhere.

I don't know for sure. I think I have to sort this out in my head--and sleep--before I go on any further. This is one of those topics that, if I were having this conversation out loud, I'd be stopping to think and clarify myself after every sentence, which just doesn't seem possible within the confines of this blog and my exhaustion. Perhaps I'll come back to it. Or we can carry over by phone.

We didn't end up going to Mt. Rushmore this weekend. Yesterday it rained just about all day and we decided we didn't want to spend the day driving in the rain. And, the South Dakota weather forecast didn't look to hot. Instead, we stopped and got bagels and drove north to some outlet stores about an hour away.

There are a lot of great big truck stops in my lovely state and for some reason my mom really likes to stop at all of them. Truck stops are kind of a crazy cultural icon in their own right and we've been known to do a little shopping along the side of the nearest interstate. Some of the best truck stops, though, are scattered in Wyoming, Idaho and Oregon. A few years back, my mom took me and two of my cousins west on a 3500 mile road trip and we stopped at some of the most amazing stops. Some truck stops have full-service restaurants, parks, showers, and malls inside of them. And, these, are lots and lots of fun to see. There's a gigantic truck stop, that's sort of a family resort as well, called "Little America" near the border of Wyoming and Colorado. We had seen it on our way out of Colorado on this road trip a few years back and really wanted to check it out. It's one of those places that you really can't miss if not for the 100,000 square foot, 50 acre complex on the side of the road, than for the 15 billboards that pop up along the way: "Little America, only 100 miles away." "Little America, only 88 miles away."

So, yesterday after our shopping conquest, our stomach juices were rumbling and we didn't know where to go. Much of Colorado, at least the new parts of the state, are littered (I chose that word on purpose--these sorts of restaurants just seem to pop up everywhere with no rhyme or reason) with food joints like Applebee's and Black Eyed Pea. These are the suburb chains. And, being as we were in, what is becoming, the suburb capital of the world, there wasn't much to eat. Then, my mom remembered that she had seen a famous truck stop featured on the news a while back and that she had really been wanting to check it out. [Actually, the chronology of this story is a bit off: now I remember that she remembered this when we passed the truck stop on our way to the outlet mall and said that we would stop there on the way home.] So, we decided to go there for lunch. She was in the mood for a greasy grilled cheese sandwich and french fries, and I didn't know what I was in the mood for, but I figured I'd be able to find something.

This place wasn't that great. I've definitely seen better. But, it's under renovation and much of it was out of commission. Admittedly, looking around was quite a riot. We placed our order to go and just observed the scene. It seemed like this place on the side of the highway was more of a family gathering joint than a truck stop. While we were waiting, a family of 4 came in to pick up their to go order, as well. This place supposedly has the world's best cinnamon rolls. Now, as much as I hate the term "world's best" (I mean, come on, how can you really make a judgment like that?), when we watched everyone leave with one (a few people even came in and bought 6), I figured they might be on to something, and who was I to not even give them a chance?

We were both kind of embarrassed at our purchases. But, in between bites of melted craft singles stuffed between two pieces of wonder bread and warm, gooey cinnamon roll, we managed to get passed the initial rosy cheeks. My mom's grilled cheese turned out to be excellent. But, it was excellent in one of those "I only need to eat this once every 3 years to know it's excellent" sort of way. Unfortunately, my cinnamon roll wasn't that good. Well, it just wasn't great. I actually felt bad for all of those people who spent their weekend budgets on purchasing six of them at once. I've certainly had better, and even made better to be perfectly honest. But, nonetheless, it was fun. Mount Rushmore is a true American monument. But, let me tell you, these truck stops--you'd have to have a hell of a good argument to say that they aren't American monuments in their own right. So, Johnson's Corner wasn't Mt. Rushmore, but it was an adventure, and that's what counts.

Sometimes I reflect upon the childhood stories that I'm going to have logged away to tell my children and grandchildren. And really, the thought of recounting the stories, alone, gets me excited.

Sometimes I like to drive really fast. Lately, though, I have been quite relaxed on the road, happily taking my place in the right lane with no desire to pass on the left. Sometimes, I admit, it feels really good to be the observer. Actually driving the speed limit and watching all of the impatient people pass me as though I was doing something wrong. Tonight, when I was coming home from a friend's house out in the middle of nowhere, I drove really fast. I came up to the first stop light and there were two cars behind me. Before stopping, both of them moved into the lane next to me. I think they thought that I was going to be the slow driver. I didn't know whey and I didn't really care. So, the light turned green and we were all off. I wasn't trying to beat them off the line, but I won anyway. It felt really good. At the next light, I even beat a corvette off the line, without even trying. Driving fast can feel really liberating, the same way that driving slow can. As though nothing can get in my way. I am a really careful driver, even when I'm driving fast, so it doesn't worry me. I'm pretty aware of what's going on around me, which I think is more than most people could honestly admit to.

Noise is the key to satisfying driving. And open roads. With wide, smooth curves. Sometimes I like really fast music and I play it really loud. I love to sing to my music in the car and tap the wheel to the beat. But only if I'm alone. I like loud fast music when I'm alone at night and no one else is on the road. I like to feel alone and independent, with only my music to keep me company.

When I'm in the mood to drive slowly, I like introspective music. Lyrics that make me think and a slow rhythm that keeps me connected. With these songs, I mostly hum.

Sometimes, I'm in the mood to listen to someone talking. This is usually during the middle of the day when I'm driving through the town and I'm having to stop at lots of traffic lights and make turns left and right. I enjoy having voices that I can listen to and even ones to which I can respond. A couple of years ago I was a coxwain for a local rowing club. I would have to get up at 5 am and drive out to the resevoir about 20 minutes away. It was really early and I was always tired and always alone on the road. Even through the road had the broad, smooth curves that lend themselves well to loud, fast music, the talking always kept me company. When I am particularly lucky, I get to listen to Dr. Laura. I love listening to Dr. Laura. Mostly because I disagree with just about every piece of advice she gives and she makes my blood boil. I never understand why people call in to get verbally abused by her, so when I listen to Dr. Laura I like to talk back.

I think I feel a road trip coming on. I might drive to Mt. Rushmore tomorrow. I haven't really decided. We've been wanting to go for years, and tomorrow might be the lucky day. If we go, I think it will be a good day for talk radio and a bit of loud, fast music. Even though I won't be alone.

This morning when I came home from a particularly exhausting workout I decided to cut and put the brownies away that I had made late the night before. It had been to late to deal with them so I still had to do all the putting away that inevitably ends with eating half of what is there. The fact that it was only 9:30 in the morning and I hadn't had anything to eat didn't stop me from eating the equivalent of at least 2 incredibly rich and fudgy brownies in the process. Well, obviously that was a bad idea. My exhausted muscles didn't realize what I was doing to them, and soaked up every last bit of sugary substance in record time and I was sick. Suffice it to be, I didn't feel like eating anything for the rest of the day. Not being one of those people who can just forget to eat, this lack of nutrition and overdose of junk really affected my mood for the rest of the day. All I wanted to do was curl up in my bed and read. Instead, I organized the spice cabinet. Which, unsurprisingly, was really fun. I'm such a sucker for nerdy things like that. Now, I really want to rearrange the bookshelf. What fun! I can hardly contain myself. Anyway, finally around dinner time, we decided that I was in a very unhealthy state (clearly, I would be a terrible starvation victim), and we headed up to the Hill [to be possibly explained in a future blog--this was in the blog that got deleted when my computer decided to go to sleep without warning] for a fine meal of Mexican food at a cheap college-y hang-out. My mom and I ordered frozen strawberry margaritas (yeah, a really good way to top off a day of only brownies. And, wow, they were strong). The guy who took our order didn't ask for my ID, but I could tell that he was kinda conflicted about the situation. He was about my age, and maybe he didn't want to broach the subject, I don't know. But, it was kinda awkward. After my mom ordered her platter #4 (vegetable taco and corn tortilla quesadilla), she stepped aside to look at something on the wall and I ordered my fajita burrito (hold the sour cream). The guy looked at me again and asked for my ID quietly. Apparently these are secretive sort of issues. I surrendered the little bugger and he stared at it for an unusual amount of time (I don't know, maybe 18 seconds--let's not exaggerate here) and handed it back to me. Oh, did I mention he was on the attractive side of the attractive/unattractive spectrum?

Speaking of attractive, my mom and I went to get ice cream the other day and ended up at the Hill again in a little local shop. When we walked in, I was on the phone with a friend, but I hung up before I ordered. Then, as I was about to order, the same friend called back so I picked it up. Realizing that I had to order and was potentially being quite rude to a possible item of attraction I asked if I could call her back. I asked him for a sample and he teased me and said no. Only I didn't realize he was teasing and we had ourselves a little chuckle. When he handed me the sample, people, it was golden. Not the ice cream, though that was pretty good too, but him. He was golden. Let's just say I'll be back next week, same time. I have only a few weeks to become his favorite customer.

[On an even more unrelated note, I just realized that the blogger spell checker doesn't even know a few of the most important Spanish words. It thought burrito, tortilla, fajita and quesadilla didn't exist. What a shame. Fortunately, I pressed the learn button so it won't think they're wrong in the future.]

I was writing a really great blog entry earlier this evening. The words had been building up and I had just been waiting for that sudden burst of inspiration. I finally had it after a day of brownie and burrito (see next post). I came to the computer and started typing away, feeling particularly proud of my rhythmic prose when bam out of nowhere, the computer does its little tell-tale beep and off the little bugger goes. So, there went my beautiful entry. Of course, at that point, I had no desire to try again. So my pup and I went for a walk and I went on with my night. Now here I am, back home, in front of the computer, to try again.

I love books. I can hardly walk into a bookstore without buying something. It's terrible, I know. But, what is most terrible about this condition is that my love for books keeps me from reading them. I have an ever-growing list of books to read, I keep a little list, even. But, I keep deviating from the pile. And then, I get so excited about a new book, that I can't finish the one that I am currently reading. But, I hate not finishing books. I have been reading this one book for about a month (maybe two, I've lost track), now, and I just can't seem to finish. I feel really awful resigning it to a life back on my over stuffed bookshelf having not even given the last 100 pages a chance, but I just feel as though I am wasting my time on a book that I can't get into when there are so many others to read. My mom has the same condition as me, however, the difference is that she actually finishes her books. Thus, we have a never-ending stream of new and interesting books that come in and out of our house. I had all the best intentions to read Book X next, but then, I found Book Y hidden on the coffee table, and I am just so conflicted! Does it matter if I switch around my book schedule? Do the books really care? Silly, I know. But, sometimes I'm just not sure. Well, I haven't bough Book X yet, so I just might start Book Y tonight. But, then, there is another book sitting on my bed right now begging to be read. Complications! Wow.

Yesterday my friend and her family took me out for coffee while we were on our way to visit their brandy new house. I am not much for coffee (though I must admit I became quite the European addict for a few months--quitting "cold turkey" one day deciding that coffee was not an addiction I needed to bring back to the states) unless it is sugared-up and creamy (coffee ice cream, anyone?). I am also pretty picky when it comes to ingested liquids. I don't seem to have a problem when it comes to pretzels, brownies and cakes, but give me a sugar-laden beverage and I squirm in my seat. Anyway, I decided to splurge. We were celebrating the purchase of a new house. What better reason for celebration is there? I went for a caramel frappacino (light) with whipped cream (I know, that defeats the purpose). Let me tell you, that drink was lip smackin', finger lickin' good. Or so I thought. About 3 hours later I came home and was in such a caffeine-driven mess. My mom was laughing at the fact that my mouth was moving a mile a minute. I could hardly finish one thought before another one was pushing to get out. Too much caffeine, I guess. I went to give my pup his medicine and could barely get out the right dosage because my fingers were shaking so much. My mom is convinced that half of our driving problems come from too much caffeine--"people are just all-dosed up." So, it was funny to see it have such and effect on me. I guess, though, that's a good sign. It means that my little ol body hasn't been too tainted with the stuff. Believe me, it has been tainted with enough other crap. I don't need anything else.

I don't really don't know the faintest bit about music. I couldn't name you the lead singer of The Strokes, or tell you what ska is. Heck, I can't even tell the difference between N'Sync (did I put the apostrophe in the right place?) and Backstreet Boys and it'd probably take me a whole five minutes to name my favorite band. I guess I know some about that "old time rock-n-roll." But that's just because my dad has drilled certain things into my head that I just can't escape if I tried. Sometimes I feel bad about not knowing. Not caring, really. I mean, come on, a young person not knowing music is like Christmas in July--it's just out of place. But, really, every once in a while I wish that I could sing along to all the popular songs and go through covers as though I actually recognized any one of the names. But, then I have nights like this and I don't really care so much. I remember, every so often, that it's not the music that I love so much, but more the sound of the music. Tonight I put on some good cd's and turned up the stereo really loud. And then you know what I did? I danced. And it was wonderful. I love dancing when no one is looking--Smokey doesn't count because he likes to dance with me. It's so liberating. It doesn't even matter that when I try to sing along I sound like an idiot, because it's so much fun. And, I love the beat. I think I'd do better if I was 70--at least with respect to music. So, I guess I know all that I need to know. About music, that is.

When my dad and I were passing through Olympia we went for a walk along the seashore and stopped at a grocery store to have lunch at the deli. When we sat down to eat, we both smiled at a little old lady sitting at the table next to us. I noticed that she was unusually friendly--actually vocalizing a hello together with her smile. The three of us enjoyed our lunches separately, and then my dad and I left to go buy some stuff in the bulk section for the rest of the drive. So, as we were walking out of the store, through the parking lot, I noticed that the old lady from the deli was walking in the same direction as us. I told my dad and so we stopped to talk with her. She was going in the same direction as we were, so my dad offered that we walk with her. Turns out she was 91 years old and amazing. She was all positivity and energy and it was amazing. It was just amazing to think about the wisdom that she must have, the experiences that she has amounted. I mean 91 years?? Can you even fathom that? So much has happened in our country since 1914! Anyway, that's not the point of this blog. The point of this blog is what I realized by talking with her (really, by listening to her, I didn't do much talking). She was impressively devoted to God and Jesus. She kept telling us that the reason she is alive every day is because Jesus died for her sins and that each day she thanks God for letting her live one more day but that she will be ready to leave when he decides this is so. I was so impressed by her faith. I think what people are missing in their lives, really, is faith. Now, don't get me wrong, I am the last person to be telling anyone that religion is the way to go. But, for me, faith is very different than religion. Faith is having something to believe in. Knowing that there is something very powerful out there. I don't know where I stand on all of this, the details, you know, but I do know that I want to be sure and live my life as though I mean it and to always believe in something, whatever it is. For me, it seems the most powerful to believe in myself. I don't know how ridiculous that sounds, but it works for me, so that's all that matters, right? I truly believe that I am the most powerful person in my life and that as long as I have faith in me, I will be okay. So, then, after being totally impressed (and also, admittedly, a little intimidated by her notions of Jesus), she turned to me and asked me if I had heard about this author named Kay Arthur (I think). I thought she said "King Arthur," so I told her yes. Then she told me that this author writes about God and sex. Hmmm...okay, nope, I guess I hadn't heard about her. I guess for some reason I have always put God and sex on two different sides of the good/bad societal structure. Not because I, personally, think sex is bad, but more because we approach it in such an odd way, in our culture, I think. Duh, everyone has sex (at some point in their live--we'll make this one kosher). But, it's almost like we're not supposed to on a really odd level. So, anyway, I was really floored to hear her start talking about this author. She was telling me how God loves sex to and that sex is beautiful and allowed under God within his boundaries. And, I guess that really encapsulates my general problem with religion: boundaries. I just think that people really need to question their beliefs--you know, why they believe what they believe and what it means to abide by someone else's boundaries. Now, I don't mean to tell anyone that what they believe in is right or wrong (I love that my friends all have different values and directions. That's the beauty of it all, right?), but I do really think that people should truly think to know. Okay, tangent. Anyway, I think it's wonderful that she believes in something so strong that she lives every moment of her day for that something. She did a little 2-step for us to show how happy she was and I couldn't help but be so happy for her, too. I want to be that happy, too, when I'm 91. And, you know what? I think I will be. I just have to believe in something. Something greater than how it looks at first glance. Something really big.