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A weird side effect of migraines for me is an energy surge once it has subsided. I don’t know if this is because the adreniline in my system is no longer needed to stave off the searing pain in my head or some odd sense for making up for the lost time I spent holding my head and praying for a quicker death.
After my all day migraine on Sunday, I pulsated with energy at 10:30 pm Sunday night.
Having discovered water marks on the marble floor, I grabbed some steel wool and attacked it with the vigor of a hundred thousand Polish cleaning women.
My hair was in a very loose end-of-the-day ponytail and my eye makeup something out of the Marliyn Manson collection. On my hands and knees in my rather short cotton nightie, scrubbing away with the scent of polishing spray in the air, Sparky walks in and says, “Wow. You have never been sexier.” And he meant it.
I’m going to have to start walking around with steel wool more often.
“Hey Sparky. These are our weekend plans. We move H’s stuff out of his place on Friday. Which means we get his TV for the red room for the summer. Then Saturday we babysit Emily and the dog comes to stay for a few days. That TV is going to be great. It’ll help the red room feel homey, don’t you think? I picked up a TV table for that corner and with the chair…”
That’s basically how I introduced the idea of babysitting a 15 month old baby and dog sitting. The thing is, Sparky hears roughly 40% of what I say. We have a joke that like the Simpson’s dog, he hears only key words, words like cleaning, workout, protein powder, High Definition TV and phrases like “Let’s save money!” or “Let’s go visit your Mom!”
I was kinda counting on being able to slip the words baby and dog into a conversation about TVs without him noticing. Then later, when he was hit with the shocking sounds of dog barks and baby screams I could simply say, “Well, I told you and you didn’t say anything. I thought you were okay with all this. I wish you would have said something. I could have cancelled but now we’re pretty much committed.”
This form of manipulation might seem calculated and somewhat uh, evil, but really, until you’ve been married, you have no idea the subtle manipulations that occur on both sides of the bed. One just learns to adapt and hopefully thrive in the jungle of matrimony. I, my friend, have recently come to terms with my particular jungle and, in full Rambo gear, have embraced my fate.
Needless to say, he picked right up on the baby part. I think he was mid-sentence about not changing diapers when the dog part hit his temporal lobe. If our life was a cartoon, the whole frame would have come to a screeching halt with skid marks and clouds of smoke.
“A Dog? You didn’t just say a dog, right?”
Well, I did and I was caught. For those of you who do not my OCD stricken husband, he doesn’t like most PEOPLE in the house because they touch stuff like the fridge or walls. His constant vigilance when actual people are here can be a bit overwhelming. Put a baby in the house and as long as it doesn’t actually move, he’s fine. But a walking baby and all he can see are the hand-prints, much like those in the Blair Witch project, leading to the loss of his sanity.
We are cat people. We have two cats. Much like Sparky, our cats don’t like people in the house, let alone other life forms. To a cat person, a dog means walking, piddling, dog smell and all sorts of horror. Poor Sparky’s wee brain. It was really quite mean spirited of me to volunteer for the job.
I love animals. And babies. Especially recently. I’ll be 35 in August and as I have yet to procreate, my ovaries have stepped their quest. I’m mothering everything little-ler than me. I’ve wanted a dog for a while, not because I want to continue to torture Sparky and the cats, but because I want a little friend to go places with me. One of the weird perks of being in Europe is that you can take dogs anywhere, a little friend to go shopping or running errands. The dog sitting idea came up with a friend’s need and ended with my glee.
Sparky, true to his good nature, dealt with the idea. Then reality hit.
The baby was dropped off and as she hasn’t been away from her family very much, if at all, was understandably heartbroken when Mama didn’t come running. “Kitten” as I have been calling her, cried for a good 40 minutes. It was only when I left the room did she stop crying (I tried not to take it personally). This was just in time for Ginger, the sweet teeny, tiny Jack Russel.
Ginger, looking to make friends and influence the Master of the House, promptly peed upon entering. Sparky, and I chuckle here, was immediately defeated. He was just so sad, picturing his gorgeous loft destroyed in a matter of days. It is really a testament to his good nature that he didn’t string me up immediately.
Ginger peed three times in total, on our hardwood floor while her people were here and never again. She is the most cat-like dog I have ever met and I’m totally in love. I love walking her and taking her with me EVERYWHERE. When we come home, she goes into her kennel, on her own, until she wants some love. She leaves the cats alone, leaves their food and poop alone and understands that she cannot come into the bedroom.
If there is any truth I know, its that life is a balance. For one action there is usually an equal reaction. When and how is what adds the mystery to our lives. In payback for Saturday, Sparky volunteered us for lunch with his mother on Sunday. Personally, I think this was uncalled for. As torturous as Saturday was, Sparky did not have to change the stinky, poopy diaper, but I did have to listen to his aunt talk incessantly in a high pitched shrill.
Because the gods hate me, I came down with a migraine about 45 minutes before we were due to leave. My migraines start with vision loss and an inability to speak coherently. I could not find my migraine wonder drugs because I couldn’t see and couldn’t explain to Sparky what to look for thus by the time my vision came back, we were on our way. One must not be late for lunch with Mutti, she hates tardiness. It was no coincidence, I’m sure, that the pounding started when we picked up Auntie Leopard Print.
The worst part occurred when Auntie LP was pouring the contents of one glass bowl into a smaller glass bowl using a metal spoon. Clink, clink, scraaaaaape. Clink, clink scraaaaape. As a war child she makes sure she gets every last drop and this took at least four hours. It might have only been a minute or two but the sound of metal scraping glass, over and over slowed time to such an extent I am sure we could have watched the entire miniseries version of Das Boot and had time left over for 2001: A Space Odyssey. It would have been kinder.
After repeated attempts to inform Sparky that my three hours were up, he politely smiled and sat back. Our married couple telepathy kicked in and I could hear him chuckle and think of three dog piddles, a screaming baby and a TV.
Since I had my sweet little Ginger with me (taking advantage of having a friend at a family function), I decided to take her for a walk. The sunlight could not have pierced my skull as cleanly as Auntie LP’s voice. I bent over to buckle the thin strap of my shoe and Auntie bent over with me to make sure I heard her. Her mouth mere inches from my ear. All I could think was “Why?” and try not to whimper.
While I managed to make it through the day, I learned a valuable lesson. I might be able to manipulate situations to my liking, I might be able to bend Sparky to my will occasionally, but Ironus is watching and he really likes Sparky.
I’m pissed OFF. Why?
Well, let’s start with this: An Anti-Choice argument that totally neglects the word or concept of woman
First of all, it was written by a man. Sorry to be the one to break it to you guys, but your options and right to an opinion ended when you decided not to use a condom. Yep, that’s right. I do not want to hear the “She said she was on the pill, patch, had taken care of it” excuse.
How do you prevent getting caught up in that mess? Keep your semen to yourself. If it is so special and unique and god-like don’t waste it on such a whore who might abort your god-given right to progeny. Oh, and take a lesson from poor old Boris Becker. Frankly, its healthier for the woman if she doesn’t swallow. See below.
How does someone write an entire article about abortion without mentioning the word woman? He did it very well, actually. I really got the feeling that he didn’t even think about a woman being involved AT ALL. I mean really, she’s just a vessel, right? I mean, really, that whole partial birth abortion thing, women are just chomping at the bit to experience that. I know I am. In fact, I can’t wait to get pregnant just to say wee, general anesthesia and cervical dilation, gimme more, gimme more.
I can almost see his point of erring on the side on caution, but shouldn’t that caution be for the WOMAN? Denying a doctor the right to perform a potentially life-saving procedure based on the potential of a fetus is an atrocity in and of its self. What about a woman with other living, breathing children or partner who loves them? Don’t we have a medical responsibility to them, to the here and now, to the responsibilities of the actual living?
If a doctor can chose to remove a gangrenous leg to save a life, why can’t he also make the decision to end a pregnancy that threatens the very viable life of a woman? Why is this even an issue? I just don’t understand.
I don’t like the idea of a partial birth abortion. No one does. These are not given willy nilly. I know a lot of women who have had abortions. For some, it was a devastating decision, some not so much, but no one walked into it without a lot of thought. None of these were partial birth. Partial birth abortion is an extreme measure and the ability of a doctor to perform such a procedure should be left up to the doctor and the woman. End of story.
I’m not going to even get into the birth control vs. abstinence bullshit of the Bush Administration. I just get too upset. My usually extremely low blood pressure reaches almost normal when I think about the sick cycle of repression this administration has foisted upon the women of our country. Really, its sickening.
Growing up, I had no idea that my right to chose what to do with my body would ever be in jeopardy. No fucking clue that we could actually go backwards. What next? Are we going to take back the right to vote and bring back the Three-Fifths Compromise?
Which leads me to my next problem. The HPV vaccine. I wrote about this when it was fresh. The initial controversy was that American Christian parents did not want the HPV vaccine to become mandatory because it was medically suggested that girls receive the vaccine between 10 and 13 years. Why that age? Because the vaccine must be given BEFORE the girls become sexually active. And oh my god, the reaction that girls might become sexually active at 13 really threw the Christian right into a tizzy and totally missed the point. The point being that there was a vaccine that would protect your daughter from a particularly harmful strain of a particular virus. She could pick up that virus from her husband when she loses her virginity at 35. She could pick it up at 16 on prom night. She could pick it at any point in her life. Just because the vaccine is given at 13 does not mean the medical profession is advocating teen sex. Nope, sorry. It means that the medical profession understands that, contrary to the Bush Administration’s machinations, kids have sex. So rather than debating the age and circumstances that are acceptable by your god, vaccinate your daughter so she doesn’t have to deal with the consequences of having ignorant parents who left her unprotected.
And, people, please, at some point ALL of your daughters will have sex. When is totally up to them, not you, not Bush and his cronies, not the school who gives out condoms and sex education and not Planned Parenthood who makes the morning after pill available so we can all avoid the possibility of a pregnancy.
The Christian right was all up in letter writing, Fox News ranting arms that this was giving the girls carte blanche to go out and fuck anything that moved without any worry as to consequences.
Does anyone really believe that?
So then it became a controversy about abstinence rather than a breakthrough in medical research that could save 10,000 women a year from the most virulent strain and save 4,000 women from death. This is not a religious issue. It’s medical.
So, that’s old news. What has me pissed off today?
Research that shows the exact same strains of HPV can cause throat cancer in women and MEN. Oh yes, have you given blow jobs to more than five men? Have you eaten out more than five women? Guess what, your chances of contracting throat cancer via HPV are twenty five times greater than if you never smoked the pole or took a bite out of the clam sandwich. If you smoke cigarettes, its only three times as great risk. That should put it in perspective
So what do you think is happening? Oh yes, the HPV vaccine is now being encouraged, hailed and praised. They are testing the vaccine to see if it can be administered to men too. Oh wait, what does that mean? Administered to men or boys before they become sexually active. Does that mean 10 to 13 years of age? Why, yes it does. Wow, this doesn’t seem to be an issue at all anymore.
I’m happy that the vaccine is finally being seen as a positive, but I am pissed as hell that it is only when men are being effected that it gains legitimacy. What the fuck, people? Don’t girls and women mean more to you than just blow-job machines and an incubator? Why is it that women’s health only becomes a priority in how it affects men in our American society.
Which brings me to my latest personal rant. Personal irresponsibility. Women, we have choices. We have voices. We have legs to walk away. We are not Ariel, the Little Mermaid.
Fucking vote. Write your congressmen. Talk to your girlfriends. Write an article or a letter to the editor. If you want your daughters to be more than chattel, vote. If you want your daughter’s daughters to experience this stripping of rights and respect only via history books used at Liberal Arts colleges, vote. Write your congress people. Do Something.
One of the projects I am working on right now is the idea of personal irresponsibility in Expat women. Women opting out of life for whatever reason, falling into a cycle of depression, isolation and anxiety and using the fact that they are in a foreign country without the support system offered at home as an excuse to continue to opt out even when circumstances are such that it would be healthier for them and their children and their partners to change those circumstances. Opting out is a choice, but do we really want to opt out of life because we live abroad?
We don’t have to. We have options. We are the generation of women who were told day and night we could be anything, do anything, yet I hear so much misery, so much heartache about how horrible this is or that is. I am guilty of it myself. Like the hair club for men, I am not just the President of the company, I’m a client.
Before I go off on that tangent of willingly selling our souls for room and board, I’m going back to the original topic. Just because we live abroad does not mean we cannot or do not have a responsibility to fight for our rights as women. Vote, ladies. Register and fucking vote.
Personally, I would prefer you vote for either Hillary or Obama. If you are Republican, don’t bother. There are enough of you to begin with and that party doesn’t really need you and frankly, they don’t even like you. Being a woman and being Republican is a socially acceptable and encouraged form of self-hatred. Just take up cutting. At least that way you only hurt yourself and not the rest of us.
So, there we go. I think I’m done here. I have a lot more pent up, but I’ll save that for my next phone call.
In case you need your blood pressure to spike, some links. You really should know what is happening to us, by us (TUBU)
A news source for the Christian minded
Update: Here are some other links that can help us. They all have stuff you can do from your keyboard. The CWA has an e-mail activist team. Let’s counteract them with our own.
The meme:
1. List your top five local eating places.
Local is hard because I live in Germany. I’ll try.
Schoenburg Hotel
La Java
Asia Kim
Havana
Mutti’s – Sparky’s mother makes some mighty fine comfort food. I leave about 10 pounds heavier with my arteries 75% blocked, but its delish.
2. List your top five favorite eating places from childhood.
Only five? I’m from SF! I could give you five from every different type of food. Seriously. If you visit the Bay Area, drop me a note and I’ll give you some recommendations because SF is littered with good food.
The North Beach Restaurant -some good old fashioned Eye-talian
El Faro’s – Mexican on Concord Blvd
Karen’s – My stepmom, she makes the BEST food ever and you get to take home recipes and leftovers
Any drive up crab shack on the wharf or whatever you call it when you go and pick up fresh cracked crab and eat it at home.
Scott’s
Now, I was thinking that a food meme while not exactly boring, could be more interesting so I added a question.
3. List five food items you would NOT put in your mouth.
Any sort of insect appetizer
Blow Fish – not that adventurous, I am afraid.
Milk that is within 3 days of expiration. I don’t even want to hear about it being good for days after. I don’t believe you.
Lamb – not a vegetarian, just don’t like the taste
Rocky Mountain Oysters – I might have sucked on a lot of balls, but that’s as far as I’m gonna go.
Add a direct link to your post below the name of the person who tagged you. Include the city/state and country you’re in.
Nicole (Sydney, Australia)
velverse (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)
LB (San Giovanni in Marignano, Italy)
Selba (Jakarta, Indonesia)
Olivia (London, England)
ML (Utah, USA)
Lotus (Toronto, Canada)
tanabata (Saitama, Japan)
Andi (Dallas [ish], Texas, United States)
Todd (Louisville, Kentucky, United States)
miss kendra (los angeles, california, u.s.a)
Jiggs Casey (Berkeley, CA, USA! USA! USA!)
Tits McGee (New England, USA)
Kat (Ontario, Canada)
Cheezy (London, England)
Paula (Orange County, California, U.S.)
Jeff (Colorado, USA)
Fringes (around Houston, US)
Monstro D. Whale (New England, MA)
Motormouth (New England, MA)
HeisseScheisse (Boweltown, Germany)
Tag five people and let them know they’ve been tagged:
I’m not going to tag because, well, I’m too lazy. So if you want to do it, go for it, baby.
So, I have not been at a pity party, although I do enjoy them. I have been pretty busy and most of my thoughts are in my head and hard to express.
We had some weekend guests. Jessica and Jonathan met me and Sparky in Strasbourg Saturday morning. We walked until my dogs wanted to fall off. Granted I was wearing really cute, high heeled shoes that were so not appropriate for lots of walking, but until I started limping, I looked pretty cute. It’s important to look good in when shopping in France.
The weather was blue and gorgeous and the company delightful.
After exploring the La Petite France, we picked up eclairs and quiche for the next day and headed home. I made a really big dinner as I am wont to do when we have company. Jonathan made delish flour-less chocolate cupcakes in like 3 minutes. Its fun watching a pro cook.
Tatiana came over for a little getaway, leaving the kids at home with her husband. She might have used the word guilt, but I think it was only in regard to what she thought she should feel.
And of course, we stayed up until 5 am talking and talking and talking. It was when we noticed the once pitch black sky turn lighter and lighter shades of blue did we decide to call it a night. A scant few minutes later, Tat got to experience my special little hell in Boweltown, the raucous cacophony of bird twitters that are so loud you think the entire bird population has moved into your ear canal like that little boy of the two spiders in the ear fame.
As usual after a good conversation with girlfriends who happen to be writers, I am once again inspired to continue on a couple of projects I have had on the back burner waiting for the right mood, decent writing weather or perfect cup of coffee to move me into action.
After passing out falling asleep very early last night, I woke up this morning more motivated than I have been in months, just chomping at the bit to get organized and put together my outlines and do some much needed research. But in order to work efficiently and without distraction, I need to make sure the rest of my house is in order. I finally moved my email to one machine rather than having some mail on one and nothing on my laptop. Then I re-arranged the furniture in the red room because the glare of sunlight on my screen hurt my eyes. Then I did some laundry and played with my hair and made lists and dusted because a dusty desk is no fun to type on, right? I even made a PowerPoint chart of my new summer schedule. Dude, today I was a pro pro. A professional procrastinator. I procrastinated better than Sparky and he is the Yoda of the Procrastination Arts.
I pretty much procrastinated until I was too “tired” to do more than procrastinate.
But I’m going to push through it. So after this post, I’m turning off my Internet thus cutting off my access to celebrity gossip sites and all sorts of distractions. Then I’m going to make a cup of coffee, put on my headphones and play Free Cell until my eyes bleed because I will not be able to do more than write “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
If you don’t hear from Sparky within a few days, you should probably be worried.
Stomach flu or food poisoning or both. I’m not really sure which. The fever and the cold sweats might indicate flu, but I’ve had that before with food poisoning.
And you know what? Fuck the environment and give me the cottonelle.
Sparky was gone all day yesterday and while he was away I was sad because I wanted someone to care for me. Then he came home and cared for me and all I wanted was to be alone because even his heartbeat was too loud for my pounding head.
He got me juice, but took too long, like three whole minutes. He made me soup, but gave it to me in too big of a bowl with too big of a spoon. I mean, really, how long do we have to be married before he realizes that I like little spoons for almost every spoon requirement and little bowls are best with the stomach flu so that you only have a few sips. More than a few sips can be deadly. Exorcist deadly. And I wanted toast, honey toast, but it had to be made a certain way with the toast from the freezer and just the right amount of soyola, but from the uncontaminated (meaning no crumbs of any nature from previous use) side of the container with a three-second honey application that is then spread all over the toast as close to the corners as possible with in a one minute period because then the toast cools down and the honey doesn’t have a chance to melt into all the crevices. And trying to explain this when you are sweating from every pore and skin touching skin hurts is impossible so you just need your partner to KNOW but even if they KNOW, it will never be perfect so its just easier not to eat or drink or even talk because talking is too loud.
I’m a nightmare when I’m sick. Give your condolences to Sparky who has had enough sense to get lost today too.
And now after all that I’m getting dizzy from all the small letters.
The whole purpose of this post was to wish J a Happy Birthday. Sweetheart, I missed it yesterday because I could not actually get up, but I thought of you occassionally when my head clearned for a moment.
So go wish him a good new birth year.
I’m heading back to bed to watch the 6th season of Gilmore Girls for the 35th time. I need a new series.
Via Google Chat:
jen: are you actually working?
Henry Hassenbacher: yeah, what bs
jen: I just had to clean my cat’s ass and his anal sacs sprayed all over my t-shirt.
Dis. Gust.Ing.
Henry Hassenbacher: ahhh
yeah
jen: I don’t know how to get that type of stain out. Is it fat? Is it protein?
Henry Hassenbacher: Ask C.
jen: good idea! but anal sac secretions aren’t poop
Henry Hassenbacher: are you extremely fond of the t shirt?
jen: Kinda. I’m on my third t shirt today.
1 went down with coffee. 1 with anal sac
Henry Hassenbacher: not bad for 10:30 am
jen: dude, I just made myself sick on liverwurst
what a morning
liverwurst and anal sacs
and coffee. Yum
I want to make out with someone right now
jen: did i tell you my brother got me a roomba
Henry Hassenbacher: yeah thats a really great gift
i need one
jen: so, the door bell just rang and it was dhl
Henry Hassenbacher: well not anymore since i dont have an apt
jen: I was so excited
I was like, wow, jeff got on the ball
He was down with Steve this week and Steve must have motivated Jeff to go to the post office
and I get my roomba
it wasn’t the roomba
it was a long package addressed to Sparky
which is meaningless because I open every package that comes into the house
and as I was opening it, I thought about a bomb and what if Sparky has a mistress who wants to off us and I open the package an it explodes
but that didn’t stop me
you know what it was?
a three foot long wooden spoon
Henry Hassenbacher: hahaha
jen: wtf
Henry Hassenbacher: wtf
jen: i have no idea why we got a three foot long wooden spoon
Henry Hassenbacher: hahah
thats pretty funny
jen: I know
Henry Hassenbacher: see, this day keeps getting better for you
I realized today, as I did another load of laundry, I’m addicted. To laundry.
I do laundry for the same reason I picked up smoking again. It feels good. There is a certain level of comfort in having every piece of cloth in the house freshly washed, dried and Downey-ed. I have ritualized it and made excuses for it. All laundry needs to be done by bedtime, Sunday night. Fresh linens put on the bed right before bed so I can enjoy the smooth, clean, hot-but-not-overdried fresh scent. This makes me feel that all is right in the world.
My relationship with laundry is long and like most addictions, convoluted. My first load was when I was eight; my first solid and permanent household chore – wash, dry, fold and put away the family’s towels using the half-half-third folding method so they could be placed neatly in the closet. I still remember pulling that first load out of the dryer and being so disappointed that they weren’t fully dry and thus learned my first laundry lesson of the elusive correct drying time.
In college and after, when the availability of quarters in my bank account determined when I could get my next load, I was known to take it to my Dad’s house. My dad does his household’s laundry. He developed a formula of Tide, Clorox 2 and Downey and Bounce dryer sheets that to this day I have not been able to replicate. Its not a secret. I stand there with him as he pours the components into the wash, I take notes, I watch closely, journeyman to the master, yet the final scent alludes me.
It is, perhaps, like my brother’s sandwiches. It is simply that he makes it that makes those sandwiches so delicious. It is simply my father’s hand that gives it that special something. I’m 34 years old and I can’t tell you the pleasure I get from wearing clothing my dad has washed. Is there something Freudian in there?
When I was single, working and partying, I saved Sunday nights to prepare for my week. Clean and vacuum the house and spend the entire night doing laundry and making my bed with fresh linens. It was my meditation time and the sense of accomplishment as I slipped between the tightly tucked sheets, knowing that every garment, every sock was in its place has never been replicated. Not from cleaning up pretty bad credit or even losing more weight than most people weigh to begin with. Or successfully wrestling with a foreign country or the seldom acknowledged foreign land of marriage. Nothing makes me feel as accomplished as an empty laundry basket and freshly made bed.
Now that I have a washer and dryer to myself, in my loft (no hoofing laundry up and down basement stairs), I find that I can’t control my addiction.
I have even been known to strip Sparky bare, simply to wash the T-shirt and panties he wears so that my laundry basket remains empty for the next day. A rogue pair of socks can ruin a Sunday night. I have been known to wash small loads, but not even this addiction can justify a load consisting of a pair of socks, right? Right?
When we bought this washer the sales lady explained that there was an electronic sensor to gauge how much water to use in relation to the load size. I asked if it it could compensate to wash one shirt or a single sweater. Both she and Sparky asked who would wash just one article of clothing. Well, I would. There is a delicate cycle for a reason. And a mini cycle that take a brief 30 minutes as opposed to the hour and half for the normal wash. Perfect to assuage my guilt at the one or two item wash.
I have as many laundry products as I do beauty products. As a 34 year old woman, that is saying a lot. One of the top ten perks of Germany was finding the stain remover aisle at the grocery store. I am no longer a slave to Zout for all my stain needs, even though Zout is still a fave. Now I have little bottles for each type of stain. And they work better than anything I have found in the American market.
The sad thing about having a front loading washer is that I don’t get to pour the detergent into the water and watch it dissolve before loading the clothes. I really liked that part.
Now, some might say I ought to get a job or have a kid, put that energy to good use. Like my sister whose response to my comment that she is wasting her potential as a theatre arts major, is that as a hausfrau I should probably not talk. Well, we’ll see who she calls the next time she has a stain issue.
LEO July 22-August 21
The sun-Mercury summit in your fame house has a wake-up-call feel to it. Will May be the month when fantasy collides with destiny? Some of you face make-it-or-break-it decisions, like power in the world as opposed to power in bed. Whether bedroom or boardroom, the message is clear: Take no prisoners.
Watch out world.
