High hopes

When you are down,
lift your head off the ground -
there's a lot to be learned,
so look around!

I've been a Phillies fan since I was a little girl. "Fan" actually doesn't seem like a strong enough word to describe my love for my team...

When I was four, I announced to my mother that I was married. Naturally, she was curious about who her "son-in-law" might be. My dad had the Phillies game on, and I pointed at the TV with glee: "That's him!" To my mother's horror, the TV camera had zoomed in on the husky bearded catcher, spitting tobacco as he squatted behind home plate. (I swear, my taste in men has improved since then. I'm more of a Chase Utley girl now.) Several months later, while in the bath, I told my mother that we'd divorced. "He was a smoker," I informed her sadly, shaking my little four-year-old head so seriously that the scene would've been believable if I hadn't been surrounded by rubber duckies.

I guess you could say I've had a penchant for storytelling since I was young, too. Now, of course, my stories are much more fact-based. I had a long week of grad school, full of tough editing choices, emotionally draining group projects and intense classes...

But it was worth it. I'm figuring out what I want, what I know, and remembering who I am. It took a little venting to friends, and a couple servings of dessert, but I'm back in the game now.

The Phillies won tonight, too, with "Doc" Halladay pitching the first post-season no-hitter since the 1950s.

We've got high apple-pie-in-the-sky hopes...

Here I am

"I found your old diary."

My mom was visiting me for my birthday, sharing girl talk and gourmet food with me to ring in my 22nd year.

"Um, what?"

Apparently, I'd given my childhood diary -- with Simba emblazoned on the front, I might add -- to my mom a long time ago. Oh, the silly choices that a high school girl will make in order to have more room for make-up in an old desk drawer... My mom laughed as she recalled what she'd found when she carefully turned the pages, which were stiff with glue from movie tickets and restaurant napkin rings that I'd pasted in as mementos.

Basically, every year, I wrote one entry. "Dear Diary, I am so sorry that I haven't written in you in sooo long," I would begin. Each entry was a time capsule, a seven-, eight-, or nine-year-old's idea of a year in review. I shared about the boys I liked at the moment, the classes I'd loved, and the adventures I'd had, promising to write again soon... only to fail miserably. Reportedly, one year, I even offered to name my diary, like a teenage boy naming his first car, hoping that personification might help to guilt me into logging my secrets more often.

I promise not to name my blog. And I promise not to offer any lame excuses about why all was quiet on the western front here this summer. I'm not even going to apologize.

You see, every time a friend or family member asked me why I hadn't blogged in a while this summer, I lamented that nothing exciting had happened to me. "What would I write about? I just sit at a desk all day," I constantly insisted. This is true. I did, in fact, slouch in front of a computer screen all summer. My summer internship taught me a lot. I know now that I need windows -- or, at least, that SAD can strike in the summer if you're inside all day. I know now that my hunch about not having the stomach for hard news was right-on. Telling tough stories is important; reporting on gut-wrenching crimes has its purpose. But it's not for me. I need joy. I need interaction.

I needed to learn about new media in a less sedentary, more innovative way. And grad school has granted me that opportunity. There is life beyond my computer screen, and experiencing it doesn't have to mean choosing a new career. It just means that I have to listen to my gut. I am a great reporter. I have a weirdly fierce love for women's lifestyle magazines. And I need to hold strong to that.

Or, as Mufasa would say, I just need to remember who I am.

I cherish my loved ones more than words can express. I bake when I'm stressed; I make a mean batch of cookies. I did, in fact, do a lot of cool things this summer -- sometimes even in the vicinity of my poorly-lit office. I love a good story, and I think everyone has one. I'm a New Yorker. I'm a daughter. I'm a friend. I'm a perfectionist. I'm a writer. I live every day with the goal of learning something new, and laughing along the way. I couldn't be prouder to be part of the young Jewish community. I believe in love. I believe in the power of my pen (or my keyboard?). I believe in beauty, and music, and prayer, and peace. My name is Rachel Liane Slaff, and this is next chapter of my life.

A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song. - Joan Anglund

There's no place like home

I just bought glittery Toms, and I took them out for their debut stroll this weekend. My friends all loved them -- and every time someone asked what happens when I click my heels together 3 times, I just laughed. I've always loved The Wizard of Oz.

Tonight, my late-night editing of the last paper of my undergraduate career keeps getting interrupted by seriously scary thunder and lightning. When I was little, whenever the humidity of Jersey summers had once again become too much for the skies to handle, Mom and I would sit on the porch and watch the thunderstorm roll in. The thunder would crash, and lightning bolts would streak across the darkened skies. Rain would pour down in sheets, gushing down our hilly street and transforming the yard into mud. As the storm raged, Mom and I would cuddle on the love-seat on the porch, safe and dry and happy.

I love my city. I love my adult life. I am so excited to graduate that there simply are no words... But I really wish that, just for a moment, I could click my heels together and be 7 years old again, hugging my momma in the middle-of-nowhere New Jersey, instead of sitting alone in my apartment, jumping every time lightning strikes.

When I think of home, I think of a place
Where there's love overflowing...

Trusting your gut

After a long, snowy winter, I heard the ice cream truck boo-bee-dee-boop its way down the block the other day -- and I instinctively scrambled for quarters. I didn't end up getting my Firecracker pop, but I knew exactly what to do.

I made pesto sauce from scratch yesterday, based on a whole lot of guessing and praying, and that turned out well, too. I'm starting to realize that I have enough of my mother in me to be able to cook instinctively. Should I add more olive oil? Probably. Will a little cream cheese brighten up that sauce? You betcha. I know what to do, even if I have trouble trusting my inner Betty Crocker at times.

Some things, I think, are just automatic: cookies need milk; kites gotta have breezes; don't wear white after Labor Day. My best friends and I went to a showtunes-only piano bar in the West Village this past weekend; I know that when I'm with them, there's a 95% chance I'll laugh so hard that my beverage'll shoot out of my nostrils. (This is, apparently, genetic in my family. Thanks to my aunt for passing on this darling propensity to snort liquids out of my nose. Totally chic.) Before you eat birthday cake, you blow out the candles. Before babies can walk, they have to learn to crawl. I've heard that you never forget how to ride a bicycle once you've learned, either. Some things...some things you just know.

I should have known, then, that senioritis would come knocking at my door. I'm not being an extraordinary procrastinator - I just can't sleep very well lately. My brain is whirring through thoughts and ideas and dreams at a hundred-bajillion miles per hour. There's too many banquets, and projects, and parties to look forward to! Spring is coming, and with it comes the end of my year-long thesis project and the conclusion of four years of workworkwork. Daffodils will be blooming soon, and I'll have heard about graduate school and decided on my summer plans and settled into a post-coed life.

I've been working towards these next few weeks for the past four years. I'm almost a legitimate participant in the real world. But I'm not all that nervous - though my five-year plan is fuzzy, I'm weirdly at peace. Somehow, I think I'll know what to do when the time comes.

A New World

In less than two hours, it'll be 2010.

My Blackberry keeps buzzing with people's memories of where they were ten years ago; most of my friends' Facebook statuses are some variation of "Ten years ago, I was in middle school. Where did the time go? Holy crap."* What does that even mean, "Where did the time go?" Even if time could stand still, would we really want it to?

Ten years ago, I was 11 years old. I'm pretty sure that I spent New Year's Eve watching the ball drop in my pjs, cuddled up on the sofa - some things, apparently, never change. I was in 6th grade then; I loved ballet class, hated that I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend, and desperately wanted to fit in. I had these ridiculous pants with a tiger's face silk-screened across the crotch, which I adored and wore at least once a month (probably didn't help to boost my coolness factor). I still liked math class then, since I hadn't met that beast otherwise known as geometry. I still told people that I wanted to be a pediatric cardiologist when I was 11...I didn't decide that journalism was a better choice (less blood involved, theoretically) until 7th grade. I liked roller skating, *NSYNC, and going to Creanies for a banana split with Mom when I got good grades. I went to bed by 10pm. I was a little girl still.

In the editor's letter of Glamour this month, readers were asked to think about when they were ten years old. What would we tell that young girl? Would she be proud of us? Well, I hope the girl that I was a decade ago would like the Rachel of 2010. I guess I'm finally "cool" now: I live in a studio in New York, I'm about to graduate college, I no longer have braces, and I am, in fact, allowed to have a boyfriend. I think my younger self would be proud of my dedication to community service, and she'd expect nothing less than my absolute devotion to Jewish student life on campus. She'd go nuts when she saw my armoire full of sparkly, shiny dresses. Most of all, though, the Rachel that I was ten years ago would be proudest of the woman that I am now, I think, because I'm happy. I have friends that make me laugh, parents that never seem to stop giving and caring and teaching, and a city that never ceases to amaze and amuse me.

So, here's to next year. Here's to more living, laughing, and loving. Here's to a decade of job-finding, reporting, and change; here's to another ten years of exploring my city. Here's to the weddings (And babies? Oh Lord.) that the next decade will bring, and here's to growing up without growing old. Here's to being happy. I hope time does anything but stand still.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

*(Mine, for the record, says "Rachel Slaff is ready for a new year, a new perspective, a new decade, a new journey...let's go, 2010.")

Shake it out, baby

I had my semi-annual holy-crap-I-have-so-much-work-to-do freakout today. Poor Mom made the mistake of asking how I was...and the waterworks commenced.

But I had homework to do. I have four different things due on Tuesday. I don't have time to be upset. I needed to get all the worries out and move on.

So I danced. I busted a move. I turned my iPod speakers way up and jumped around my apartment like a crazy person. (My apologies to the folks in apartment 2D for that herd of elephants that you heard above you around 11:00pm.)

Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy... (I swear I'm not a Delta Nu: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Coemj2qdWMw) Aaaand I'm back in the game.

I Should Be Sleeping...

It's hard to fall asleep when I have such an awful knot in my stomach. I get emotional during commercials for baby shampoo; witnessing my friends and family deal with grief makes me ache beyond words. I've said Kaddish too often lately. I've whispered "May their memory be for a blessing" three times in five days. I lit candles tonight in memory of the victims of the Holocaust. I have, officially, reached my quota of depressing things.

In Judaism, death isn't a time for dwelling on the past. Kaddish is about the glory of G-d, not the deceased; we light candles as a reminder to the living, not for the dead. So, enough gloom. I'm living life. I have a healthy, happy family (okay, actually, Mommy has a head cold - feel better! xoxo). I have friends that I can count on. I have classes that challenge me and teachers that encourage me and a city full of opportunities outside of my front door. I got life - and I got a lotta nerve, baby (Hair reference, anyone?).

L'chaim.

If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops...

The girls came over for junk food dinner and a chick flick (which was soon turned off so we could root for the Phils) tonight.

One of them came over a bit early; actually, I got back from the grocery store 2 seconds before she buzzed. She announced, as we both tugged off our rain boots, that it was an absolutely dreary day. She had no energy, everything was blah...life was as yucky as the weather outside.

"Nah," I grinned. "Good things happen on rainy days."

She grimaced, as if to say that she wished it were so.

But it is - and I'm not just saying that because my mother always told me that good things happen on rainy days. It has rained, without fail, every year on my birthday. It rained when my parents got married; it rained the night that I was born. It almost always rains on the first day of school. It rained tonight, and the Phillies won, 11-0.

Even putting superstition aside, rain is pretty awesome. We pray for it - and we have for bajillions of years. It makes grass grow, and fills lakes, and makes all kinds of other nature-y, circle-of-life things happen.

You have to know who you are, and be comfortable with it, when it rains. Rainy days are not exactly good hair days. They're the days when your commute takes longer, and people are stressed, and your homework might get a little soggy. They're the tough days, sometimes - but that's why they're good. They challenge us. They force us to realize what will matter 10 seconds from now and what will matter 10 years from now. A little rain? No big deal.

Rain brings us rainbows. It brings us peace. (Oh man, I love napping when raindrops are pitter-pattering on my window.) It brings us joy: when I was little, Mom would take me for walks during rain showers to wave hello to the earthworms that had crawled onto the sidewalk; I still look for them when it rains now. And there's puddle-jumping, too - rain gives even grown-ups an excuse to be silly.

So, yes, it was gray today. It was cold, and blustery, and damp. I wore 3 shirts and ridiculously high socks. I plodded across 14th street in my checkered rain boots, with my floral-print umbrella, hoping that my groceries wouldn't melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. But it was also a day full of accomplishment (homework, I will not miss you when I finally graduate) and friendship and laughter. It was a rainy evening full of girl talk and cookie dough and cozying up on the couch. Good things happened today.

Luckily, there's also a chance of showers tomorrow...

Seasons of love

I was almost home yesterday when I looked down and realized that the sidewalk was strewn with leaves. Weren't those still on trees the day before? When did it become autumn?

For that matter, when did I become a grown-up? I walked out of a rough meeting in the journalism department yesterday and somehow felt sure that my mom would be sitting in her red car waiting for me across the street - but then I realized that I haven't been in high school for four years. Mom still talks me down when I'm upset, of course, and Dad still helps me see things clearly (how does he always do that?). But I'm a not a little girl anymore. I have to solve my own problems. Actually, I've been so busy lately that I have to decide which problems are worth solving.

So, on my way home, I crunched through leaves and realized that I don't have time to be upset. I don't have the time to be anyone but myself, to do anything beyond what gives me glee, or to share my life with anyone but the people that make me happy. (Homework doesn't count, here - I read a book on the history of the color blue last week. Seriously, 200 pages on a color. It was ridiculous.) I looked up at the trees on 12th Street and realized that they'd changed colors without a fuss - no upset or tantrum, just a subtle shift from green to gold. They were different, sure, but they were still beautiful.

I went to rehearsal with my friends instead of pouting last night. We laughed and ate fake chicken nuggets (holla, Red Bamboo) and sang, and I decided to face whatever is in front of me without fear.

I have no idea what my future will be like. But I do know this: I'll be the best Rachel Liane that I can be. I'll be goofy, and sweet, and a little edgy; I'll write with wit and live with intention; I'll cherish sunshine and friendship. Seasons change. Leaves fall. I have no idea exactly when I grew up; no one hands you a manual and says, "Welcome to adulthood." (Wouldn't it be great if you got one of those car navigation ladies in your brain when you turned 21? "Turn left here." "In 2.3 miles, you should ask that guy out." "Pay your bills." That'd be swell.) Life, though, has granted me enough friendship and love to make it through.

I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane

When I told Dad that I was going on a trip to Kazakhstan, he was surprised -- until I said it was a service project. Social action is simply what I do: delivering Meals on Wheels in middle school, leading Interact in high school, volunteering at the HUC Soup Kitchen with Kesher, leading the social action component of Project FEED. I ran for Hillel president because I believe that we are all responsible for one another, because I feel obligated to give back.

I didn't think (as odd as it might sound) that this trip to Kazakhstan would be any different. It was volunteering, it was Jewish, it was peer-led -- of course I was going and of course I would have a great time.

I was excited to see new places and meet new people. I was terrified to try to keep kosher in Central Asia. I was thrilled to get the chance to do what I've always loved. But, community service is nothing new for me, so it didn't dawn on me that this trip would be anything out of the ordinary, beyond my bizarre destination.

I didn't expect my outlook to change. I've helped the elderly in the US so often -- I didn't realize that helping the elderly in Kazakhstan would affirm my commitment to doing what I can for others as never before. Volunteering used to be my norm, but now I know that my actions can be a way to reach, to strive, to go beyond what is expected. Scrubbing walls, smiling, and delivering meals took on a deeper meaning for me in Kazakhstan. I didn't just feel warm and fuzzy because I'd helped someone; I felt energized as I realized my own blessings. I felt truly connected to something holy as I realized how alike we all are. I felt as if I finally understood why it is better to give than to receive.

I went halfway around the world to discover that joy and humanity can be found anywhere. I spent 32 hours on airplanes to remember how much value one moment can have. I left what I've always known to revive the purpose of what I've been doing all along.

As Borat would say, I like.

Editing Carrie Bradshaw

I was watching TV on Saturday night, when one of my all-time favorite Sex and the City episodes came on. The very last line explains the whole half hour show, really: "Some people are settling down, some people are settling...and some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies."

I've always loved the episode because Carrie raves about the importance of zsa zsa zsu, that indescribable chemistry that makes sparks fly, stomachs flip, and relationships last. But, as I heard that line at the end of the episode for the bajillionth time, I suddenly was struck: what if you don't have butterflies?

I refuse to settle. (Ok, at least, I try not to settle.) I'm certainly not settling down. And, of course, I want a truly great love story.

But -- what am I supposed to do until those butterflies show up?

I spent the weekend wondering about my state of flux, my butterfly-less romance purgatory. I watched friends flounder in relationships; I noticed little old couples in Riverside Park and wondered if, as Carrie claimed, the memory of their zsa zsa zsu kept their love alive. I smiled and nodded as friends tried to fix me up, and laughed when my mother suggested putting on lipgloss and knocking on doors in my building until I found a Jewish boy with a cup of flour. It was exhausting.

You see, you can't hurry love (no, you just have to wait...). Sure, I could go on a date. I could go for coffee. I could march right over to the next cute Jewish boy I notice on the A train and exchange phone numbers. But I'm not in this for a booked calendar, or coffee, or a hefty little black book. I'm in this for butterflies, and those cannot be manufactured. Carrie forgot to mention that refusing to settle can mean settling in for the long haul.

So, enough already. I'm through with making jokes about being the third wheel, and I'm done with fending off those gut-wrenching looks of pity from happily coupled friends. I refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies, I do - but I also refuse to believe that I cannot be happy now. I refuse to wallow in singledom. I am determined to find my own glee.

Someday my prince will come. There'll be butterflies, and romance, and we'll ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But, no fairytale starts at its end. Here's to the first part of the story, the beginning of my fairytale, the part that Carrie Bradshaw skimmed over. Here's to chasing butterflies.

Living the questions

A year ago, I went home for the 4th of July. We had a great time shopping, BBQing, and watching the Phillies, but I spent most of one evening sobbing about how much I hated my job. I interned for a Jewish non-profit last summer, so I spent my time sitting in an (almost) empty office, sifting through old camp newsletters. Actually - to be more precise - I spent my summer asking questions, and getting mad when I didn't like the answers that friends and family offered. Why I was stuck in a cubicle all by myself? Why didn't I love my summer job as much as everyone else did? What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Why didn't I know exactly where I'd be in 10 years?

Back then, I still thought of myself as a Reform Jew. I made the same mistake that I so often criticized more observant Jews for: I didn't question my world, my practice, my choices. I continued to do what I'd always done, despite my inner sea of uncertainty.

Life is different now.

I love my internship this summer. It is undoubtedly the biggest opportunity that I have ever been granted journalistically: I am challenged, as a researcher, a writer, an editor, and a team player, every single day. I don't leave my job wondering why I continue to shuffle into work every morning - I leave the office every evening excited for what the next day will assuredly bring. I help to create something that women look forward to each month, and I am part of a tradition, of a cultural mainstay, that has existed for over 100 years. It is thrilling (as one of my dear friends would say). And so, thank G-d, this summer, I did not have an emotional breakdown on the 4th of July. There were no questions wailed into pillows, no late-night movies interrupted by smeared mascara and unanswerable cosmic quandaries. Instead, I spent this Independence Day watching fireworks, snacking on picnic food, and thanking our forefathers for granting themselves and their posterity such a glorious 3-day weekend.

This 4th of July, I was at peace. I have figured out, at last, that Judaism is not something I "do;" it is who I am. So, now, I force myself to question what is meaningful for me. I have to challenge what I know. I have to push my limits, and reach for new meaning, and grapple with this tradition that has been handed down to me. A great Jewish concert or a weekend reminiscent of campfire sing-a-longs might be spiritual for some people - but I've learned that sometimes I need a little silence in order to hear myself think. I sing at services, not to harmonize with instruments, but to offer up as sincere a prayer as I can. Being a Jew, as I've realized during this past year, means being part of a community that is larger than I can ever fathom - so I try my best to connect, through prayer, through thought, and throughout my life. Now, I ask questions, even if I can't find the answers. I like being ruffled from my complacency and seeing where it takes me.

That's the difference, I think, between me at 20 (well, almost) and me at 21 (okay, again, almost): I don't ignore the big questions naively anymore, but I don't waste my breath with the even bigger questions. I cannot possibly know what the future holds, but I'd like to think that I'll be better prepared for whatever comes my way if I'm able to wrestle with who I am and what I hold dear. So I wonder and argue and inquire. Que sera, sera.

My mom gave me a card almost 6 months ago; I kept it, even though the quote on the front was irksome to me at the time. (I wanted answers! I wanted things to be neatly resolved and folded up and put away.) ... The card makes more sense to me now:

"Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer..." (Rainer Maria Rilke)

A new world

I took the ferry across the river to visit my aunt in NJ today. We spent too much money on clothes, ate Chinese food and ice cream (not at the same time, understand), and walked around one of those infamous Jersey strip malls in the sunshine.

And, somewhere in between my egg drop soup and my lunch bowl, my aunt suggested that I should really think about working for one of the magazines within the publishing corp. that gainfully employs her; last night, one of my dear friends told me the saga of her break-up and then make-up with her boyfriend, explaining that the fighting was more or less based on the details of their future marriage; another friend is pretty sure that she'll be engaged within the next two years and just landed a fabulous job (a real job, with benefits and a salary).

Am I really old enough to be having these conversations? I feel ancient some days...especially the days that I spend with my adorable, toddler-age cousins. I pay my bills. I clean my house. I'm in charge of getting myself up and out the door. I'm feeling pretty ready to graduate. But babies and FICA and wrinkles, oh my! Is this normally the vantage point of 20-somethings?

And if it is, how exactly does one go about improving the forecast? Because, right now, I'm soon to be the copy editor of a trashy teen magazine, thanks to my aunt's connections instead of my own abilities, with lots of bridesmaid dresses in her closet and a bunch of dead houseplants (I may claim to be responsible, but I'm awful at remembering to water those things)...

The only logical solution, as far as I can tell, is to hearken back to the third grade and paint my nails Barbie pink. Ignorance sure was bliss.

Hot pink pudding

My parents are helping me redecorate my apartment as an early birthday present - mostly because if I tried to paint solo, it would lead to the grown-up version of Alexander and the No Good, Very Bad, Horrible...whatever, you get the point.

I love my new lamps. My inner perfectionist is so unbelievably relieved to have my pictures rehung, centered and in line with one another, on my walls. I love my new dulce de leche bathroom walls, which, by the way, match my beautiful shower tile perfectly. I got adorable new towels with graphic little flowers on them. My mom made me gorgeous pillows for my bed and sofa out of sari fabric. It's awesome.

But, oh, me and my big ideas: I wanted to paint a wall (just one!) a fabulous, deep, maroon-y, lipsticky, not-pink, not-red, not-burgundy color. I decided on a paint chip named Luscious. (Seriously.) When my dad opened up the gallon of saturated girliness, there was, I am not ashamed to admit, dancing on my part reminiscient of a football player scoring a touchdown.

But then we began to paint.

We did not read the paint can. (Who does this? No one. But, oh, dear children, please learn from our mistakes.)

We did not let each coat of paint dry for 5-6 hours. (Seriously. I know. It's a long time.) It got gloppy. The wet paint on the wall was some alien bastard child of hair gel, Cyndi Lauper, and Jell-O instant pudding mix. When it dried, the wall showed every brush stroke and roller crease, and was 30 splotches of color instead of one uniform, eggshell block. It was like an imitation-Rothko in the worst way, like those faux finishes that 80s housewives paid lots of money for...

Thank G-d, my parents are coming to fix my wall tomorrow while I am at work, and it will be a homogenous, velvety smooth, saturated wall of joy soon. But, as I lay in bed last night, laughing because there really is nothing else you can do when you've applied 3 coats of pink pudding to your walls, I realized: I didn't like the primer showing through, I was irked by the striations and variations in the color, and I was frustrated by our inability to fix the wall. I had lost control. Things were out of my hands. And I was annoyed. Whoa - not okay.

Life is out of my control. Every person that I love and hold dear has a bit of their past peeking through into their present, every situation that is meaningful and lesson-laden doesn't go as planned, and every moment is different, varied, unique from the next. I have to learn to let go. To let things be. To take life as it is, to make of it what I can, and to be at peace with that.

My outlook has to be more flexible. The pink pudding look, however, has got to go.