Whose Vacation IS this???

I just got home from an EXHAUSTING but often delightful 10 days with Jennie and family in Austin TX. I had the questionable joy of baby-sitting all six kids for 4-5 days while Jennie and Mister went to New York City to see the sights and the shows.

The kids were darling and fun, except for Jasper, who screamed for hours upon any occasion of being put to bed. I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of Texas Longhorns, what with only 5 to 6 hours of sleep per night, and non-stop activity during the day. I lived, perforce, on diet Mountain Dew, left-over Easter candy, and Mylanta to settle it all down.

Though eating like a pig, I only gained 2 pounds, such was my activity level. (80 times up and down the stairs each day will do that - especially while carrying toddlers)

Today and tomorrow are all-day Professional Career Workshops. Thursday I plan on a day of unconsciousness to catch up, but will probably unpack my bags instead. Then Thursday nite to Friday eve I've got Arianne's two while she gallivants off to Vegas with her "pregnancy team" of yesteryear. Yes, she needs it. (so do I)

Saturday a baby shower for half-sister Leslie, followed immediately by 7 hours of temple work. (Listen for gasps of erratic panting from over-stimulation and fatigue.)

I plan a physical breakdown for Sunday. The mental one is already well underway.

WEIRD LORIE’S INVENTIONS

SLOGANS: The USA has “E Pluribus Unum.” The bold have “Seize the day.” California has “Don’t tread on Me.” Inigo Montoya has “You killed my father. Prepare to die”. Never mind what Captain Moroni had -- it was so long it took his whole coat to write it out, and was spelled in reformed Egyptian to boot.

But if there is a slogan that has guided my own life, it would have to be “There’s gotta be a better way!” I’ll bet I’ve said that a hundred thousand and twelve times throughout my life when faced with a problem nobody has bothered to solve in a cheap and easy manner.

My children call it “Our mother is insane, but inventive.”

Like: “There must be some gentle way to hold one’s mouth shut so one won’t snore.” (I created a 3.5- inch-high foam C-shape cushion cut to my front neck size, then put it inside a knee-sock and pinned it around my neck. It worked!)

Like: “How can I lie on my side in bed while suffering degenerative disk disease without my waistline sagging and causing agony?” (I had a plaster cast made by my doctor of my torso in correct posture, cut it in half at center front and back, lined it with 1 inch foam, and slept in it. In bed, of course. It worked, but did not ignite my husband’s passion).

Like: “How can I create a 3 ft deep soaking tub that fits inside my current bathtub?” (I made a plywood form from scrap lumber in the garage, lined it with a plastic tarp held on by duct tape, and made a small opening for a large cork to plug the drain. It was great! But ugly.).

Even at age ten: “How can I make a mermaid fish-tail from this green crepe-paper so I can be exotically romantic. (I sewed the crepe paper up on Mom’s machine without her knowledge – my very first sewing project. I made a tightly fitting under-tube from an old flour sack so the crepe paper wouldn’t rip, donned both, and hopped around feeling very mermaidish until I got bored).

I’m not Edison, so I don’t do my strange projects beautifully, nor develop them until the world would desire them. Just enough to get me by with a solution to my latest need.

Well, weird Lorie has TRIUMPHED yet again!

I have sleep apnea, caused by my over-large tongue sliding back into my sleeping throat and blocking off my air -- about 81 times a night, according to my friendly neighborhood sleep lab.

So they gave me a CPAP machine, which requires me to wear a plastic mask over mouth and nose, and blows wind down my throat past the obstruction which has made me stop breathing (my fat tongue). But in order to blow hard enough to get past the tongue, the doctor had to set it on highest pressure. It blows the mask right off my face, blows air into my stomach, or both. I get less sleep than I did before.

After enough nights without sleep, or jerked awake by a stomach full of air, I knew there had to be A BETTER WAY way to get that tongue to stay inside my mouth and out of my throat. Sleep on my side? That would work if I didn’t have bursitis in both hips. A mouth-appliance, tried previously, pulled my lower jaw forward to hold my tongue out of my throat, but unfortunately reshaped my teeth to look like a bulldog. (My dentist called it “Home Orthodontics.”) I briefly wondered about a pierced tongue with a ring I could fasten to a securing device outside the front of my lips. For about 3/10^th of a second I considered it. Argh! The pain! The ugliness! The ripped tongue! I even, in weeping weariness, considered a tracheotomy.

Finally it came to me: Could something glue my tongue to the roof of my mouth while I slept? Although super glue would work, it might be a tad too permanent. (My children might relish that, though, come to think of it.) Then, Eureka! I rushed to my all-night Walgreen's and bought their strongest brand of denture adhesive, Polygrip. I washed and dried both tongue and roof of mouth. With a thin layer of pink goo spread on my tongue, like butter on bread, I gently pressed it up against the roof of my mouth. VIOLA! My tongue stayed right there! And stayed and stayed! I plopped into bed, and was able to sleep ten hours straight without obstruction! The next morning I felt fabulously rested!

However, that very SAME morning presented the problem of how to get my tongue unglued! According to directions, I swished my mouth with warm water, and the glue turned into what bubble-gum looks like when chewed extensively with candy – long stringy, sticky goo. I tried scraping it off. 20% success. I tried brushing it off with toothpaste. Another 10% success. I tried scrubbing it with olive oil, remembering how you can remove stickers from plastic things you have just bought, and the stupid stickers will not come off without scratching the plastic. But I didn’t HAVE 8 hours to let the oil soak in. I suddenly remembered that the slight graininess of peanut butter, added to its oiliness, often does the trick with stickers on plastic. I pasted my brush with Skippy, and IT TOOK OFF THE GOO! But there’s something even too weird for me about brushing my mouth with peanut butter.

After cleverly re-reading the package directions, I learned that a warm, wet washcloth will remove the “residue.” Fortunately it did, and after only a minute of gentle rubbing. Further experimentation showed that half a cup of hot tap water, vigorously swished, one mouthful at a time, will thoroughly wash out the goop, leaving no residue, and no peanut-butter breath.

So now I’ve had MANY nights of good sleep without a CPAP machine! I intend to write the Polygrip people and tell them about this new marketing angle. I’m sure the world of large-tongued apneatics (?) will be thrilled, and the Polygrip people will show a sudden growth spurt in stock value!

February: Crushes and Loves

In response to my daughter's challenge to answer 7 questions about my history of LOVE, I could not but think back, and back, and back. So here they are. I want to hear YOURS, too.

FIRST CRUSH: For someone whose short term memory is less than 4 seconds, flat, I remember my ancient crush life with amazing thoroughness. Kindergarten: Garth Powelson. 1st and second grade, Ronnie Wilson (cute blond), 3rd to 5th Glenn Bullock (gorgeous guy who finally hugged me at our 35th class reunion), 6th through college- Rick Skousen, (interspersed with Dave Shaw, Dave McKinley, and Doug Hadfield. I wasn’t blind, after all!)

CELEBRITY CRUSH – This has to be Han Solo – not Indiana Jones or other incarnations of Harrison Ford. Also, what heart cannot palpitate at the pure charisma of Sean Connery at ANY age! (well, under 50, anyway). And I will have to admit George Clooney is ridiculously, impossibly, ungovernably handsome and charming. Gregory Peck was no slouch, either, but you youngsters will have to go back and see Roman Holiday or To Kill a Mockingbird to understand that “sexy” assuredly did not begin in the 1990’s. He’ll knock you flat!

THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY: Rick Skousen, again, who became a great and wonderful friend, and whom I probably would have married had he bothered to drop a hint or two while on his mission that he planned to come back and marry me. Sheesh! He swore later that he must have let me know his expectations. But a later reading of our correspondence, done together, made him realized that signatures like “Love in the Gospel” or “Your friend forever, Elder Rick” did not a proposal hint.

FIRST KISS -- Was HORRIBLE, stolen from me at a “necking party” by a pimply boy named Barry. (Don’t ask what I was doing there. 13-year-olds will agree to anything their friends suggest.) I ran out of the room and nearly threw up in the bathroom. Later, I GAVE my first kiss to tall, dark, handsome Doug Hadfield as we walked together down Canyon Rd, both of us age 14. Alas, he lived in Lehi, which was long-distance by phone, and our parents did NOT allow long-distance romantic phone calls. So, sigh…. that crush died of malnourishment. Also, that kiss took place on a Sunday eve when I skipped Sacrament Meeting. My dad saw us, arms around each other, as he drove to church with the family. BOY! Did I get Hail Columbia that night when I got home!

FIRST DATE – Eternally memorable! At age 13 (before Church dating standards) I invited the above Rick Skousen to a formal dance at our Junior High. My mom remodeled an aunt’s brides-maid dress into a floor length formal for me, basting the waistline together to shorten it to my size. As Rick and I climbed the 3 steps into the ballroom, Rick stepped on my hem while I ran up the stairs. RIPPPPP! The dress tore half way off at the waist, dropping to reveal my mother’s safety-pinned girdle beneath. That event put a crimp in my crush for some time, but has been a fruitful topic for endlessly required school papers entitled “My Most Embarrassing Moment.” Rick and I now laugh about it.

FIRST LOVE -- The great love of my life was my first husband, Bill Brooks. DARLING! Curly brown hair, blue twinkly eyes, deep dimples, cleft in his chin, tall and muscular, southern drawl, great sense of humor. My adoration of him outclassed anything I felt before or since. We were married in the Temple after a 9 month courtship. But immediately I learned that great looks and a temple marriage guarantee NOTHING! A recent convert, Bill apostatized when he learned that an addiction he had would not be tolerated by the church. He then tried to pull me out, too. After 5 years and a nervous breakdown for me, we divorced. But my love for him will always blaze in my memory.

FIRST DATE WITH MY HUSBAND – (#2, that is). I would never have dated Jim Davis if he hadn’t asked me on the single most boring day of my life. We met on a BYU Stake Temple trip where I avoided him like cholera. He was skinny as a broomstick and had a mustache that looked like two black caterpillars. After accepting the date I instantly forgot it, and did not remember until he rang the doorbell. “OH NO!” I shouted as I heard his voice asking for me. I threw on my easiest dress over my sweaty body, hardly ran a comb through my hair, and prepared to be as non- charming as possible. Jim took me to his apartment and grilled me a steak dinner (which he burned), and then we went to see a race car movie starring Steve McQueen. I never touched him on that date, and didn’t even try to be more than vaguely pleasant, which intrigued him. He was wonderful to me then, and continued to be sweet, considerate, courteous, and charming for the next 8 dates, which I didn’t want to go on, but didn’t have the guts to turn down. After 3 months he “niced me out” and I realized that whether or not I felt passion for him, I would be a fool not to marry him. (Interestingly, he was already engaged to another girl in Chicago at the time.) I did love him, but I did not grow to be IN love with him until after we married.

Dancing and Cleaning

A longtime friend who has taken ballet for 60 years (YES! I mean Sixty whole years!) asked me what I do for exercise. I told her, "Belly-Rock-Reggae while house-cleaning." She asked me what on earth that was, so I thought I'd tell all of you. It's exercising for fun and profitable. (not profit)

Belly-Rock-Reggae.... I have recorded dozens of albums and singles to my i-pod and to i-tunes on my computer. Some are Belly Dance, Some are rock music (Michael Jackson's "Thriller," Elvis's "Jail House Rock," with a little nippy surfin' music thrown in). Some are Caribbean reggae music, but all of them have a pretty rapid beat. I even have some electronic music (sounds like robot rap), and am waiting for some bouncy pirate ditties from my daughter-in-law. I clean my house while I dance. Fun!!!! And definitely aerobic! Plus, I end up with a tidier house.

I now have about 360 tunes on my list. I click "alphabetize," and they all fall into title order, but not style order. So it's quite amusing to be jitterbugging through the kitchen, and suddenly have to switch to belly dancing on the way to the bedroom, returning later to a brisk Sousa March. Anyway, the only time my house is tidy is after I've dancercised around the rooms. I even mop and vacuum while I prance. It's strictly belly dancing for doing dishes, though, since my feet can stay in one place while my hips and arms undulate above them, sloshing water over the countertops.

Half an hour of dancercise takes me through about 7-10 songs, so I can make it about a month before hearing repeats. But I'm always looking for new fast songs. (Donations are MORE than welcome!)

After 15 years of this, I have one thing to say about "pop music" of any style. Having grown up with classical music, I never cease to be amazed that people actually MAKE, and other people actually BUY "songs" that contain not more than five notes, screamed, growled or moaned in a voice without ANY tone quality, in words so repetitious one goes mad hearing "Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby! Oh, Oh, Oh! I want you, I want you, I want you...."

The only saving grace of such lyrics is that the diction of most singers is so muddy you have to listen a few dozen times before you can be sure what it is they are repeating ad nauseum. And, of course, you have to watch out for gradually coming to understanding that some of the words or meanings are shockingly obscene. (Never mind tasteless. We can live with tasteless. It's TODAY!) That's why some of my favorite songs are in Spanish. Catchy beat, and I can't tell if the words are dirty.

Anyhow, it keeps me in shape, and frightens away peeping toms.

A Story By Lorie

My talents have been stymied in church for the last 4 years. I think bishops are leery of opinionated single women, and so give them callings like "Sunday School 5-minutes-left warning bell ringer," where they can't do much harm.

But for Christmas I talked the Primary into letting me come dressed as Elizabeth (John the Baptist's mother) and tell the Christmas story from her point of view.

I don't just talk when I tell stories. I leap around, wave my arms, use a multitude of voices, and contort my face into evil or angelic expressions. Children are mesmerized, because today's children have never heard a story TOLD! They get read to. They see TV. But they never see a live storyteller. I am more than flamboyant - which exactly suits my personality.

The cautious teacher or primary president invariably begins her introduction by urging the children to listen and be courteous, a totally unnecessary exercise for her. Once I get started, the kids are all eyes and gaping mouths. Who is this insane woman? they wonder. And what is she doing leaping around, making faces, and yelling in those crazy voices? I better keep an eye on her in case she explodes!

The teachers and presidency were astonished! The kids never moved a muscle while I mimicked "Harrod the Horrid" wringing his hands and planning his villiany on the wise men and Bethlehem babies. (Kids adore gore!)

So today I got my second shot. Our Stake President's wife has a bunch of six year old Cain-raisers in her Primary class. The lesson was supposed to tell what kind of little boy Joseph Smith was so the children could identify with him. An hour before the meeting she phoned me and asked if I would pretend to be Lucy Mack Smith and come to tell the story of how fun-loving little Joseph got his bone sawed into without anesthetic to save it from amputation.

Hot Dog!

Quick as a whip I cut a piece of muslin into a circa 1815 mob-cap with back ruffle, sewed it up, donned a black dress with pilgrim collar, grabbed a shawl, and brought along my long windshield ice-scraper as my old-age cane (none of the old people at church would loan me their canes, making lame excuses that they could not walk to class without theirs. Wimps!)(pun intended) . I was only 5 minutes late for church, in spite of it all!

As I stood outside the classroom door for my big entrance, I heard chaos within. A brief qualm assailed me. But the minute I entered and introduced myself as Lucy Mack Smith, on loan from the Spirit World to tell them a bloody story, there was quiet. In a crone's voice, leaning on my ice-scraper, I told them of Joseph almost getting his leg sawed off. I drew a picture on the board, illustrating how the tibia had to be carved out with a drill and a chisel, while blood and puss flowed all over. (Good medical background lends verisimilitude.) They LOVED it! Not a peep more until the end, when one of them asked me why I had a broom on the end of my cane. I explained it was handy to sweep the snow off my covered wagon during the winter. Vraiment!

I just had time to whip off my cap and shawl afterward, and race back to the RS room to lead the closing song. A fun Sunday!

FAST Weight Loss!

I don't write much, because nothing much in my life is funny, and my daughters inform me that philosophical discussions will not cut it in the world of blog. Besides, I think I only have one reader, and SHE is the one that told me not to philosophical.

But.... a preface for today. I'm trying to lose weight, as I have been since age 17. Right now I have a competition going with my sister Kathy. We make our own rules on Weight Watcher points, exercise, and sugar consumption. Then when we break any of our own conditions we have to put a dollar in a bottle for each transgression per day. At the end of the month, we exchange bottles. It works for me. No cherry chocolate is worth a buck! (I think it's 22 to 5 today, my favor.)

Yesterday morning I weighed in at a colossal 149, after being 146.5 the previous day. And I did not cheat! So what the fat happened?

Then, about noon I got food poisoning from something I ate (can you get food poisoning from a year-old jar of jam in the fridge? That’s all I can imagine it was. Everything else was fresh.) But I had Montezuma’s revenge in spades for the rest of the day, finally glugging half a bottle of Pepto Bismol to stop it. In the evening, out of curiosity, I decided to weigh myself again, because I knew I had lost a lot of something. When the scale said 144.5, I laughed myself silly. I lost 5 pounds in ONE DAY!? Hey, maybe I better have a little more of that jam! I could be 140 by Sunday!

Unfortunately, the experience didn’t FEEL very good, and the next day I really wasn’t up to eating anything until about 3 in the afternoon. So I tossed out what was left of the jam. Now my plumbing has learned its lesson but good! It hasn’t let ANYTHING THROUGH since the Pepto.

Aren’t you glad I told you about that?

Lorie, Six Months Later

Man! It's been six months since I wrote my last post! That's because I've been seriously brain dead most of that time. (Skip the next few paragraphs if you're not in the mood for Sturm und Drang (i.e. self pity and woe) Just scroll on down to “Fun Stuff!” After all, I have half a year of zombie-ism to make up for.

You see, last summer I was part of an Adult ADHD study at the U of U. Yep! ADHD-R-Me! Which explains a lot of things about my weirdness: Tons of energy, lots of forgetfulness and insensitivity to what others are feeling because I'm concentrating on something else. The doc gave me Ritalin, which made me cry a lot and want to die. It only got worse till they finally they took me off everything, and I went through some pretty bazaar withdrawal. But at long last I felt and acted fairly acceptable and good natured, except that I had no memory, no organization, few useful skills, and could stand for half an hour looking at a funnel, wondering what I should do with it (Answer: put it away). I verged on institutionalization due to utter senility.

There are other meds for ADHD, but they are stimulants. Because I have Tourettes syndrome (light but persistent) I can't have stimulants, or my Tourette's symptoms twitch away like a dozen roaches on electro-shock.

But then, Ahhhhh! A little Strattera, (Only $297 per month!) and a quarter of a no-doze 3 times a day, and I’m finally happy and reasonably calm, plus able to keep away the boogey-man of wishing to dive off a cliff. I can even sleep at night!

OK, end of tale of woe. That's what I did from July to December.

FUN STUFF!!

I've been called on a mission! I am now Sister Davis, an employment missionary for the church, which I enjoy a great deal. I don’t have to be reverent. I spend two afternoons a week "intaking" people with no jobs and dwindling hope, and showing them a dozen places to look for income and fulfillment. On alternate weeks I spent two full days teaching a professional career workshop to unemployed, underemployed, or career-changing professionals who range from city managers to chefs to would-be professors to office managers, and everything in-between. These are usually salaried-type people, rather than less-educated hourly workers.

It's lots of fun to let my personality fly and alternately charm and browbeat them into trying new and uncomfortable things to get better jobs. It's deeply satisfying that the people I teach give me ratings of "fun, delightful, motivating, intelligent, well-informed, humorous, fabulous teacher etc." These are not the reviews I get from my children, though we love each other anyway. Too bad our kids will never get to meet the scintillating, ebullient, (verbose) personalities we had in our hay-days. Yes, my YOUNG friends, as I am, you WILL become.

OTHERWISE I am fine and dandy. I have very low rent here in Salt Lake, even though Jennie's family and 6 kids (whom I moved here to help) abandoned me for Austin. I am out of debt, have a year's supply of food, several very close friends in the ward, and a few minor callings. I also work in the temple Saturday evenings. I spend one day a week with daughter Arianne in American Fork so we can hang out some, and she can have a much-needed break and run away from home. (Aren't you other moms JEALOUS?) She would like me to move there, but I can’t' afford it and still enjoy the luxury of frequent visits to Ben's family in Portland or Jennie and her hoard in Austen. I visit each for 2 to 3 week vacations a few times a year, during which time I do a lot of recovering furniture, baby sitting, making curtains, building shelves, baby sitting, cleaning, cooking, baby-sitting, and creating princess dresses. My grandkids think I'm the greatest.

CHRISTMAS!!

I spent Christmas Eve in American Fork with Arianne's family. We gorged on Schnitzel with Noodles (Spaezle noodles, our family's favorite "special-occasion" meal) lemon meringue pie and treats, made the yummiest sugar cookies with the children for Santa, and ate too many of them. Although we had planned to watch a fun movie, we all stayed up past midnight wrapping presents, then fell into bed.

Up again at 8 a.m. for the traditional breakfast of scrambled eggs with chunks of kielbasa. After baths and dressing up for photo ops, the kids opened presents for an hour, getting stuck on whichever thing they opened last, and having to be moved along to the next gift by coercion.

Daphne, blond and 4, got a dollhouse with furniture, a little family, and a lot of tiny critters. Beck, age 2 a week ago, (another throwback to Jim Davis), got an electric train with all kinds of loading and unloading devices on a table with a winding track. Other friends and families gave him more toy trains of varying sizes and styles until his train board became Grand Central Station as seen by Picasso.

I received big, beautiful photos of my children’s' families -- my favorite gift, plus my very own Costco card, cause Arianne is tired of picking up my every-other-week box of baby spinach. I will never save enough on spinach to pay for a $50 card, but whatever turns her on is great with me! Tonight I went to Costco for supper, the menu of which included samples of everything they were handing out free in the store. I went home full.

(I tried to load in my new family pictures here, but somehow it didn't work. Besides, by now you are sick and tired of this blog entry -- half my life history. So I'll try again another time. Or else Jennie, Arianne and Ben will post their family shots on THEIR blogs. (COOL blogs, I might add.)

Lots of love And Happy New Year to all!

Oh YES! And a long time ago (almost 50 years) and far away (570 E. 2950 N. Provo, UT) I wanted to have some Glamour Shots taken of myself. This is one. 18 years old and 117 lbs. Is this a babe?! (We actually had waistlines in those days. Such concavities are unknown in today’s young women.) I think I had the pictures taken to bolster my abysmal self-esteem. My brother told me I was ugly as a frequent throw-away comment to keep me in my place (from about age 5 on). Nobody but dweebs asked me on dates (and pretty few of them, too. My only steady boyfriend in High School turned out not to like girls, except as friends. I appreciated that he never made moves on me, but I never thought to wonder why. It was just another proof I wasn’t pretty enough.) What could I do but believe these evidences, statistics notwithstanding?

Well, I was a dweeb, too; the ADHD social equivalent of a 12 year old. It’s a good thing Bill and Jim were hormone-soaked, or I might never have gotten married and had these fabulous kids! OR been forced to grow up!

Actually, EVERY marriage has deep problems ahead from however an auspicious beginning. It's SUPPOSED to be that way in the eternal scheme of things. Only we don’t see them with the young naïvety of love. We can’t possibly fathom the growth and development the Lord has planned for each of us through the ever-challenging problems in the marriage ahead.

It has been said by experts that the gush of hormone-juiced romance wears off after about 2 years. If, by that time, you have not built some real love based on mutual respect, enjoyable personalities, compassion, humor, commonality, sympathy, and appreciation into your marriage, it is unlikely to survive. I think that’s about right. Sex, money, and kids won’t hold a couple together. Physical beauty always degenerates. Illness and disease are inevitable. Mental problems and eventual senility come to one or the other or both of every couple. If the true-glue ain’t there, life will be misery. ESPECIALLY for the kids.

Hectic life this week! I am SOOOOOOOO wiped out from teaching workshops all day Tues and Wed. Add to that my decision to rework my lesson plans. Four hours Tuesday nite and 6 hours Wed night. I didn’t get to bed until 2 a.m., and was up again at 7:15. Bring on the no-doz! But the new plans went very well, and the students raved about my class. My students ALWAYS think I’m an incredible teacher and presenter: enthusiastic, fun, intelligent, imaginative, interesting, well-informed, inspiring, etc. etc. It’s almost worth the work to get the rush of favorable evaluations after the last class. But I’m worth exactly NOTHING the next day. So, of course, I took on the hours of another missionary sister for half the day today. (Nnnngggg. Hot shower. Good book. Chocolate [sugar-free] pudding.)

And, naturally, half an hour of exercises in my perpetual bid to actually lose ten pounds. HA. I bounce between 147 ( after a full month of starvation and exercise) to 153 (Thanksgiving & Christmas). Depressing – especially in light of the photo below. But better to work hard and stay in that 5 lb corridor throughout my 60s, than balloon up to 180, which I could do with no problem at all, plus a great deal of pleasure!

And who is this Lovely Lithe Lassie you leer upon? Why, tis MOI, of course, at age 18. I just wanted to let you know I was not always old and plump. This is what I will look like again after the resurrection (but next time with straight teeth).