Archive for the ‘humor’ Category

Confessions of a Middle Aged Mommy Jogger

Warning all males: Gross female commentary follows. Read at your own risk.

It’s time you know the truth.

I have a lot of truth to tell.

Middle-aged mommy truth.

You see, a little over a month ago I started jogging. I haven’t jogged since I was in my EARLY 20’s. There is a very good reason I haven’t jogged since that time.

I HATE running, jogging, or anything that resembles the aforementioned beast.  Loathe is another word that comes to mind.


You might be wondering why I would be doing something I loathe. It’s really quite simple.

I am determined to chase down and tackle the 20 year old who stole my body. I’m not worried about the jerk who stole my laptop, ipod, and air conditioner last month. I figure God will take care of that one for me, or he’ll eventually meet up with on of my pistol packin’ friends and regret his birthday. Meanwhile he gets to burn his brain cells out smoking something he bought with the money from hocking my stuff….something that my hubby probably tried back in the 70’s (and wishes he could enjoy again).

But the teenie bopper who stole my bod needs to be tackled, beaten, and forced to return the hot merchandise.

Therefore I must get in shape enough to chase her sorry thievin’ butt down and inflict the aforementioned punishment. If cattle rustlin’ is serious enough in Texas to warrant a good old fashioned hangin’, female goddess body snatching is surely worth at least as much.

And so I jog.

And with a 42 year old bladder that’s supported four oversized uteruses, it’s always an adventure.

Note to self: three glasses of iced tea consumed in the two hours prior to running is not the most intelligent thing to do with the aforementioned equipment.

It’s just not.

Matter of fact, I’m seriously considering a modification to my massage pay scale. Instead of payment in Jackson’s, I may want to require payment in Depends.

Or maybe I’ll just take tips in Depends. I kinda like those Jackson’s. The bill collectors probably prefer Jackson’s, too, unless they are female, 40+, and have recently taken up jogging.

Or maybe someone will just give me a tip that says, “Hey Genius…..don’t drink tea before you run.”

I really hope that little hard body jogger that kept passing me recognized the dark gray on my light gray shorts as a serious sweating problem.

That’s what it was…..sweat.



Because middle-aged mommy joggers …ahem….sweat….down there. A lot.

And that’s all I’ve got to say ’bout that.

Going Green—Are They Serious?

Yesterday, number one daughter and I were assassinating a bit of time during our extended lunch break at massage class. We cruised through a couple of stores in the strip mall, and ended up at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

I LOVE that store. If I had a million dollars,  I could probably blow at least $750K of it right there in BB&B. My all-time best blender came from there. After blasting through and subsequently burning up no less than three of the Wally-World $30 blenders, I finally bit a bullet and plunked down $100 on a BB&B version.

….and I haven’t purchased a blender in two years now.

Of course, I really want one of those $750 blenders that will turn your garden into hot soup with the push of a button, but that will have to wait awhile.

But I digress.

So anyway, cruising the aisles of BB&B I stumbled my way through the small appliances because I love small appliances. That includes coffee makers, although I am having a coffee free summer this time around….except when I get a Starbucks Mocha Cappucchino urge while picking up PowerAdes for the horse camp. Then I have a coffee binge.

So anyway, cruising the aisles of BB&B amidst a sea of coffee makers, I noticed these shelves of cups. Hard, plastic cups. And in front of them is a “green” logo and a sign that says something to the effect that these hard plastic cups are the latest novelty. You can actually wash, rinse, and reuse them and help save the planet.


We are now marketing reusable drinking glasses as a new, green, environmentally friendly, and cost efficient way to consume a beverage.

Why the heck didn’t I think of that?

Oh wait. I did. They are called iced tea glasses and coffee mugs. Unfortunately I wasn’t the first on that deal, either.

Geez!  What’s next? Washable, reusable plates and flatware?

Back off! I called ’em first!

Lilies, Birds, and Faith–Tuesday Randomness

This morning I sit here at my computer, less than one month from my final REAL paycheck. Only one more month of knowing exactly where my income will originate and when it will be deposited. And only three more weeks of showing up to work for someone else because I think I have to.

It’s a very sobering place to reside. Maybe even a little bit uncomfortable.

Maybe a lot uncomfortable.

But a little bit exciting.

Maybe a lot exciting.

Here’s what I know that I know that I know. Just before spring break, I made a decision to break free. After almost two years of talking about leaving, I finally read the signs, cut the ties, handed in the resignation, stopped trying to figure out how to make something else work, and said  “I’m outta here”. Of course with education, that simply means that summer will mark the end of my services to the organization. The “outta here” gets dragged on for months.

I rationalized that all the signs from God I had been requesting had been quite clear, and that my continuing to ask for signs might result in my being hit “upside the head” with one.

I don’t really want to be hit upside the head with a sign from God. Those sometimes hurt.

With my sweet and ever patient husband on board (at least somewhat), I let it go. After all, what’s the worst that could possibly happen? I could fail miserably and have to go beg someone to let me teach again? Meanwhile our already insane debt load could climb higher and higher and I could bankrupt our family.

No big deal.

I just gotta have faith.


Besides, didn’t Jesus tell us to consider the lilies of the field and the birds of the air? Matthew 6:28 says, “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin.” Okay, so there aren’t any birds in that verse. I thought there were.

And I’m thinking his lilies never met up with a good ol’ West Texas hail storm to rip their pretty little dresses right off.

Needless to say, I am down to only one more “steady” paycheck from a tax-payer-funded entity. I am struggling to keep my mind away from fear and onto the positiveness of knowing I made the right choice and my family and I will be provided with everything we need.

I’m just not so sure Visa will get everything it needs.

Or Home Depot.

Or Citibank.

Or GMAC Financial.

My only ace in the hole is a massage therapy license and not nearly enough clientèle to replace my current income. For that matter, I currently have enough steady clients to almost pay the bills at my wellness center.


And actually, I have lots of aces. I have tons of fabulous knowledge and expertise that blesses people every time an opportunity presents itself. I just haven’t quite figured out how to get people in these parts to pay money for what I am offering up.

They call it marketing. I apparently have a weird aversion to it.

I can market the heck out other people’s stuff, yet when it comes to something I am promoting, I seem to get weirded out about it and don’t give it the massive effort it warrants.

So I sit here, typing away, trying to convince myself that I am not a stupid doofus who quit her job with bills to pay and a daughter headed off to college this fall. I sit here telling myself that opportunity is about to explode all around me and my dreams are about to come true. I play the affirmation game telling myself that I am worthy, cared for, and quite capable. I discuss with my goddess brain the fact that I have a ton of skills, information, and talents and that the world is about to knock my door down begging (and paying) for my knowledge.

Hey, God? Do you think you might send a few paying door knockers a bit early so I’ll know you aren’t calling me a stupid doofus, too?

I guess I have some marketing to do. See you later.

Perspective of a Goddess in Training

I can’t resist posting a link to my eldest daughter’s blog. The title alone was intriguing. Her story relates to the battle that exists between conforming and telling her truth. In this case she conforms in person and tells her truth to the world. Kind of ironic.

 I Didn’t Get Dumped and Nobody Died

Hippozebrapotamus Sightings and Other Self-Image Issues

I like me.

Really I do.

I even like most of my body, most of the time.

I can look in the mirror at 42 years old and say to myself, “Honey, you rock!” and really mean it. I clean up well. I think.

Hunky Farmer Boy says it, too, so it must be true. Of course being of the male species, he can do that at 6:30 AM on a Saturday morning when my eyes are swollen shut and I have crusted drool glued to my face. I’m not sure his opinion is always completely accurate, but I’m really glad he finds my 42 year old swollen eyed drool-faced self worthy of his ….ahem…..attention.

And this fabulous self-image rocks along pretty good most of the time.

MOST of the time.

Until someone brings out one of those nasty, obnoxious, things called a camera.

Don’t get me wrong.

I like cameras.

As long as I am behind the lens and not in front of it.

And I don’t even mind being in front of one as long as I never ever ever ever never EVER have to see what distorted torturous images of humanity were captured by that lens.

Because unless it is capturing a picture of my kids, HFB, a peach blossom, or any member of the human species OTHER than me, a camera lens is just another one of those horror house freak mirrors that stretches and bulges it’s subject in all the wrong places.

Because I can’t possibly look like that. I’m much slimmer and substantially more gorgeous than THAT!

After all, I was a Beauty Queen. Miss McKenzie AND Miss Tulia 1986. I had the crowns to prove it. I even had the glamour shots thing done after the second rugrat came along in 1995-ish. THAT camera said I looked like Reba McEntire.

All cameras should be outlawed except that camera. It can stay.

And those clothes. My gorgeous look like a million bucks clothes. Black slacks, sort of shimmery two piece animal print top. Very classy. Until a camera destroys the look.

Kill the camera.

Death to the camera.

Leave me with my fantasy.


Some well-meaning, helpful type wants to show off my progress on my new business.

Then take a dang picture of the business, NOT ME!!!!

Oh no.

He wanted me in them.

I’m thinking, it’s been awhile. Maybe cameras have improved. Maybe his is one of those glamour shot cameras that will make me look like I SHOULD be the owner of a wellness center.


No such luck.

(cue Jacque Cousteau voice)

“What we have here folks is the rare hippozebrapotamus of the species married-with-four-children-and-too-busy-to-take-care-of-herself.”

Looks more like I need to find a wellness center instead of own one.

And shut my trap long enough to smile for the evil camera.

And how appropriate that this particular shot is in front of a danged refrigerator.

“Notice how well the specimen spans the width of the refrigerator.”

And they say black is supposed to make you look thin.


Did I mention how much I HATE cameras?

The Clothes Line Murderer

This is my sweet man, Hunky Farmer Boy. He’s the lone source of testosterone amidst a sea of about five dozen females of various species. I think you’ve met previously.

This is Hunky Farmer Boy on his Tonka Toy. (This is where you hear the Tim the Toolman Taylor grunting sounds.)

Boys and Their Tonka Toys

My Hunky Farmer Boy with His Big Tonka Toy

For reasons never fully understood by me, HFB likes to use his Tonka Toy to pull things out of the ground. You’d think he’d get enough of that working as an electric lineman, but apparently not. Apparently, they put more poles in the ground than they get to pull out of the ground, leaving him somewhat unbalanced. So he has to spend his leisure time on the farm pulling stuff out of the ground. Big stuff. Or at least sorta big stuff. Most of the time, I’m okay with that, because as his director of operations (aka bossy britches wife), I am usually giving my approval to what he removes and often times I’m assisting in the process. Most of the time.

Sidenote: Men should never be allowed to function without a woman telling them what to do. It just isn’t natural, and truth be known, it’s dangerous. Someone could get hurt. Or worse. Get pee-ode. Like me.

This is the back yard of my wellness center/vacation home. It’s six blocks from the four bedroom mansion where we sleep.

Backyard Lake with Clothesline Pole

Notice the bright yellow clothes line pole amidst the lake of our recent rains. Sorta hard to miss, isn’t it? I did that on purpose. I like clotheslines. I haven’t used one since I was…oh…say….10 years old, but I like clotheslines. It’s a strange obsession.

Did I mention I like clotheslines?

I’m not sure why I like clotheslines. Since the incident last night, I’ve been trying to analyze why I like clotheslines. I’m not really sure. Maybe it’s representative of a piece of my childhood. Maybe it’s part of my obsession with wanting to be self sufficient. Maybe I get some sort of sick humor out of watching a sexy 6’4″ hunk of man hang himself or bip his noggin’ on it.

Whatever it is, it is serious. I like my clothesline. I’ve begged for one at the mansion for years. Never got one. My wellness center/vacation house came with one pre-installed. Someone loves me.

Back to Tonka Toys.

Did I mention that HFB does not share my obsession with clotheslines?

It’s a detail relevant to our story here.

HFB has mentioned pulling it up a couple of times. The first time, it was because you couldn’t see it. So I painted it John Deere Yellow. As evidence by the photo above, you can see it now.

He’s hinted that the edges of the cross pieces are dangerously sharp and it needed to go. I diverted that conversation with a discussion of options for padding the ends of the poles.

Then I did something really dumb. I left him alone with his Tonka Toy on a beautiful spring afternoon while I went to relax my mind in the peaceful tranquility of yoga class.

Note to self: Bad idea.

We all arrived back at the mansion at about the same time. Conversation initiated. I had purchased some books at Barnes and Noble after my date with strength and peace. He had tilled, and mowed, and hammered, and pulled the clothes line up.

Hunky Farmer Boy with the Big Tonka Toy say what?

“You did WHAT??????????”

Now realize, that I don’t get mad at him. I just don’t. It just doesn’t happen. I pout occasionally when things don’t go my way (okay I pout every time things don’t go my way), but there just isn’t much in this world worth getting truly mad about.

Except extricated clotheslines. Apparently. Yeah.

He might as well have ripped my heart out of my chest, sacrificed my first born, and sold the horses.

“I thought we agreed to pull them up.”

“No. YOU agreed to pull them up.”

“We can set them up farther back out of the way.”

To myself: There’s a guy for ya. Who in their right mind wants the clothes line on the east forty, three hundred miles from the house?

To make matters worse, my girls were witness to this rare, almost unheard of episode of psychosis towards my sweet, hard working man. (I say those things to remind myself that I really do love him, murdered clothes line and all.)

And to make things worse still, #3 daughter, to whom I had preached just hours earlier about getting over her “mad” with her sister, a mad she had nursed for well over 24 hours, began to preach to me about how I needed to get over it like I told her to do.

Child, I birthed you. I can snuff you out. Better choose sides wisely. Besides, this is different. This is my precious CLOTHESLINE!!!!

Don’t you have a horse to ride or something?

And so the evening wore on. I grieved over my poor un-anesthetized clothesline being ripped from its ancient roots. I grieved over being mad at my sweet husband for something so…..<gulp>…trivial. I psycho-analyzed what kind of sick human could overlook a thousand other reasons to be angry in over 20 years, yet let Mr. Helpful rip out her precious clothesline and she blows an aneurysm.

I thought about his offer to “replant” it elsewhere in the yard. That made my chest tighten up with resentment. It doesn’t belong elsewhere in the yard. It belongs where it was. Where it’s been forever. It belongs right smack dab in the middle of the yard where every 6’4″ hunk that walks through can be tatooed with a divot in his forehead.

No. Just forget it. It’s gone. My precious yellow poles are gone. Send flowers. Memorials to the Murdered Clothes Line Association are also appreciated.

And then……


A moment of sanity.

Simple solution.

Mr. Tonka Toy could just put them back exactly like he found them.


In concrete.

That’ll teach him to pull up my baby with is big Tonka Toy.

And in a few years when I decide I want that danged clothesline somewhere else because I’m tired of strangling myself on the way to pick tomatoes, I’ll be more than happy to acknowledge that he tried to move the thing years earlier, but had to put it back IN CONCRETE no less because the nutcase he married had some weird survivalist obsession with a stupid clothesline.

Because if Mama ain’t happy, no one gets to be happy!

Oh, and Hunky Farmer Boy is grounded from his big Tonka Toy.

That’s all I have to say ’bout that.

Natural-ly, Powerful-ly, Amazingly Smiley

Several months ago, I worked through a book by Danielle LaPorte called Style Statement: Live by Your Own Design. I rock when I am living 80% Natural, 20% Powerful. You’ll have to read it understand what that means. Trust me, it’s cool mojo.

This time of year really makes me want to step up to the plate and be authentically natural and supremely powerful. The new life, the sights, the sounds, the smells, and yes, even the wind. I thought it would be a fabulous time to share some things that make my world Natural-ly, Powerful-ly Amazingly Smiley.

Just think about the raw power it takes for one of these to push through the soil, stretching, climbing, digging, and POP! No makeup, no skin care routine. Just plenty of raw natural beauty.

Times 20 (-ish)

Can tulips shave? These beauties have a five o’clock shadow that’s just a bit obnoxious!

And then there are these tulips……

Nothing says natural powerful like flying pony tails, tiger socks, and being a foot taller than every other nine year old.

And if that doesn’t suffice……..

Smoking everyone down the court and banking it off the glass right through the net is pretty powerful. So is being a foot off the floor AND a foot taller than anyone else this side of the Amazon. See a pattern taking shape?

And what could be more naturally powerful than a beautiful day of sun……..

And raw feminine power smacking a tennis ball. I pity the poor dudes on the other side of that net!

If that’s not enough natural power, how ’bout some man-made power laced with some hunky man power?

Yeah….I know. I’ve used this shot before. What can I say? This man on this tractor, says natural powerful on a level that sends me into orbit….with no rocket boosters necessary.

I think I hear a tractor. Better head to the farm. Somebody needs me. <wink-nudge-wink-grin>

Elephant Logic Part 1: Now I See Pink–Bring on the Straight Jacket

Flashback 1981: A group of about five thirteen year olds managed to convince management that we met the criteria for…..duhn…duhn….duhn………

Gifted and Talented.

And I was one of them.

And no, you don’t get to have an opinion on that, so there.

I still don’t know how I “passed” that test, especially after the pattern block puzzle kicked my whiny hiney. I just knew after THAT part of the test, I would forever be relegated to spend my days as <shudder> NORMAL. Oh, and when I couldn’t remember as an 8th grader that 14-9=5, I figured I was a goner, too. Stress can really mess with your head.

But alas, I was deemed ABnormal and was rewarded by being allowed to ditch math class a couple of days a week to go ponder solutions to the world’s problems. I was good at that. There were no pattern blocks.

I spent lots of time in this fledgling program solving analogy puzzles. You know the ones…..

Sue is in room A. Jason is in room C. Joe is serving punch to Charlie. Where is Charlie?

Then you get this chart with a bunch of squares where you place X’s in the boxes that identify what couldn’t possibly happen. If CSI would employ this miraculous technique to solve a crime scene, we’d only have 30 minute shows.

Anyways, I rocked (and still do) at this demonstration of my AB-normalness. Give me words, and I will input into the brain bowl, stir it around, and produce the most deliciously logical answer.

Great for G/T class. Not so great where a suspension of rational thought is required. It makes for some smelly elephant poo.

It also makes my elephant turn a nice rosey shade of pink….as in


(Disclaimer for remainder of this post: My elephant is not any ONE person. It represents a system of belief that leaves me gasping for breath. If you choose to assign an individual identity to any part of what follows, YOU ALONE are responsible. Do not blame me.)

I do not understand why normally intelligent people suddenly give up on anything that remotely resembles logic when it comes to religion. Don’t misunderstand me at all. Faith rocks. Believing in something one cannot see ROCKS!!! Jesus ROCKS!!!!

Arrogant suspension of logic sucks rocks…..and makes me see pink elephants.

What can I say? I am cursed…er…uh…I mean blessed with logic. It’s in my genes. It’s on my 8th grade transcript AND my GRE results. It oozes from my marrow. It’s just there.

For 37 years of this life, I obediently suspended logic (what am I saying? I obsessively suspended logic) in support of a precise way of pleasing the Big Guy. I was the champion of persecuting anyone else who didn’t suspend all logic and think like me.

And then logic tackled me like a freight train.

And then my faith in the Universal Master grew stronger than it has ever been.

And then I wanted what had been promised. And I wanted everyone else to have what had been promised. It was some majorly cool mojo.

And then I told a large group of ladies (because elephant logic says those are the only ones I get to speak to) about the cool mojo.

And then I was swatted by the elephant with a rolled up newspaper. Bad Angie. Bad Girl. Bad influence. (Figures of speech, of course…..this is my insanity trip and I can remember it like I want.)

And then I tried using logic with the elephant. And the elephant head butted me and it hurt. It hurt alot.

(Apologies for the repeated us of And then….. Just a few more, I promise.)

And then I used determination. If there is one thing I have, it’s determination. I determined to be a part of change.

And then God removed me and told me to leave them alone. They were not mine to change. I only get to change me.

For four years, I’ve wandered in the desert alone with Him. For four years, He has nurtured and nourished me. Many think I am dying of thirst, having cut myself off from the Source of Life. Quite the contrary. I’m being carried along by the Source of Life. He has shown me much in that time and has strengthened my faith in HIS power.

He has also continued to show me the logic of His power.

But the elephant has remained tied like a noose around my neck, still stealing my breath on occasion.

And so as I begin to shovel the stinky elephant poo from under my bed, and prepare to ship my elephant off to Zimbabwe forever forgiving and releasing it, my vision becomes clearer, and I can see the blessings and the power and the freedom that comes with a logical relationship with the Father.

Part 2? I’ll have some fun with pink elephant logic.

Elephants are Stalking Me, but They Aren't Pink So I'm Still Sane

A few days ago, I mentioned some Wound-Licking, Truth-Telling, and Under-the-Bed-Clearing that I felt like needed my attention.

That began a series of dialogs with some close friends about how best to gently but effectively lance and lick those wounds without causing major collateral damage. Two important facts here: 1) I’m good at generating collateral damage, and 2) I suck at cleaning up collateral damage.

What can I say? It’s a gift. Call it like I see it. State the obvious, even when not politically or socially correct. I’m working on it. Have been since about second grade. Middle school wasn’t pretty.

Anyway, I made a conscious decision to publicly lick my wounds with gentle humor. Everyone needs to laugh. Laughter is good medicine as long as it isn’t directed at someone. Humor is just what the doctor ordered.

Then I began referring to these wounds as my elephant. I mentioned to others my need to exercise the elephant, maybe by airlifting it to Zimbabwe (do they have elephants in Zimbabwe? I wouldn’t want mine to be lonely.) I started thinking about the humor in seeing my situation as an elephant.

As my tired body headed to bed last night, I noticed my hubby had the TV on (as always) and he was watching some nature show….on elephants.

Ironic, doncha think?

Then this morning, I glance down and see my Animal Spirit Guides book laying there beckoning me to read from it. And being as to how my elephant was born in part because of my obsessions with supernatural possibilities and communication with the Divine, I glanced up and said, “So, ya got somethin’ ya wanna tell me, eh?”

And I opened the book to the page on elephants. That many elephants in that short a time span said to me that there was something I needed to hear, and since they weren’t pink, I figured I hadn’t lost my mind completely yet.

If ELEPHANT shows up, it means:

Do not let anything stand in the way of attaining this goal that is so integral to your purpose.

Neither rain, snow, sleet, hail, elephants, or credit card debt shall stand in my way.

You have the determination and persistence required to overcome the current challenges you’re faced with.

Yes, Ma’am. Dem things on my head would be bull horns. Git outta my way.

Trust your senses, and if something in your life “smells” bad, take the necessary action to do away with it.

That would be referring to the elephant poo under my bed. Anybody got a big shovel?

Remain loyal to those closest to you in spite of anyone questioning their integrity.

Well, that would fit any number of situations, past or present.

It’s a good time to renew your sense of connectedness to the divine.

Uhm…yeah…that’s part of what birthed this elephant in the first place, but hey, anyone wanna take me to the mountains? Or maybe I’ll just enjoy a bit of farm worship.

Call on ELEPHANT when:

There are mental, emotional, or physical obstacles in your path that seem to block you from achieving your goals or following your mission.

Okay, Mr. Suffleupagus. (I had to look that one up!) I dialed your number already. That’s why we are here. (Is he an elephant or a mammoth? Close enough.)

You’re feeling tired, weak, or depressed and want more energy and vitality.

Hunky Farmer Boy might appreciate this.

You want to feel more confident.

Darn tootin’. (oooo…those smell like elephant poo!)

You want to increase your libido and encourage romantic feelings.

Hunky Farmer Boy might appreciate this even more!

You find yourself in a position of power and responsibility, one that requires you to be a strong and effective leader.

I think self-employed (aka jobless) qualifies me on this one.

If ELEPHANT is your power animal:

You have an insatiable hunger for knowledge and continually seek to understand things.

Check. See my transcripts if in doubt.

You’re at your best doing some kind of political or social work or otherwise being in a responsible position of public service.

EWWWWW. Got that dirty, nasty, smelly t-shirt. Took me 13 years to bust outta that jail. I’m layin’ low for a while… ’til death.

You have an innate capacity for drawing on ancient wisdom and communicating this whenever appropriate.

I’m getting this out of an animal spirit guide book, aren’t I? And that innate capacity for drawing on ancient wisdom and communicating is the sperm donor of this elephant I birthed.

You’re a passionate and uninhibited lover who’s quite able to please and satisfy your partner.

Sounds like a good question for Hunky Farmer Boy. Oops! He’s snoring. Guess that means I’m REAL good.

Once you set your mind to something, there’s nothing that will stop you from obtaining it.

Mom? Dad? Anyone wanna weigh in on this one? Stop laughing and shaking your head. Determination is a good thing. Bulldozing through concrete walls with my noggin’ is a noteworthy talent, don’t you think? Never mind the blood and concussions. That’d be some of my infamous collateral damage.

Okay….yeah….Definitely thinking the Big Power is telling me something.

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