To wit for this gal, a birthday reflection itinerary:

Night before birthday–Dinner out with my great guy at a Brazilian steakhouse, which I love because I can eat so much of the food at these places. We are in a food coma within an hour and must go home and recline on the couch to watch reruns of Cheers. Reflective birthday thoughts: Wow, am I full. Wow, am I glad I no longer have to wake up at 5 a.m. to go to work. Wow, Cheers is still very funny.

Birthday morning–RG Daughter calls, just to chat, and then realizes today, not tomorrow, is my birthday. RG Son and I had talked the night before, and I told him that counted as the birthday call. I call an old friend with whom I share a birthday and age, and laughingly tell her we need to agree on yet another new age, say 34; and then we seriously agree that we are simply thankful to be any age today. Reflective birthday thoughts: I will always be a “bratty kid” in the eyes and heart of my aunt, who is like my mother, as she reminds me every birthday.

Birthday Night–My great guy is working, so I insist that my former manager at “Eggs in Hell” join me to see Eric Burden of the Animals fame at Hard Rock. “You’re the only one old enough around here besides me to remember any of their hits,” I tell her. I have never had social time with my former manager, but we have unexpected fun on my birthday, singing and dancing to “We Gotta Get Out of This Place” and all the rest. Reflective birthday thoughts: My former manager is pretty cool now that she’s not my manager, and I hope a friendship continues to flourish.

Later on the Birthday Night–While killing time before my great guy gets off work, I win an $834.00 bonus on a 60-cent bet at a dumb slot machine I never play. I frantically press the “cash-out” button on the flashing thing so no one notices. “I played that machine right before you and didn’t win a damn thing,” says a woman sitting two machines down from me. Reflective birthday thoughts: Now, if I could just figure out a way to win even half that amount every week, I could supplement my income quite nicely. Right. That’s why I get weekly offers for free concert tickets and logo mugs and umbrellas.

Ever Since My Birthday–

Customers of my great October-birthday-too guy invite us on a 50th birthday dinner cruise aboard a beautiful private yacht, complete with live music and crazy colored flashing drink glasses. My great guy and I poach a few minutes of the extravaganza to quietly toast our own birthdays and just about everything else to each other on this fun, fun night off together.

Despite an ongoing learning curve, I continue to make more money in three days at my new evening job than I ever did in six (often 9 or 10 in a row) mornings at the fine-dining egg house. And I get to wear a cotton T-shirt as opposed to a polyester Nehru-jacket-like billowing mess that felt great when the August heat index topped 102 and I had $18 to show for a 7-hour shift. Although I have to pick up extra shifts and catering gigs to dig myself out of the financial hell hole I fell into slinging those expensive eggs for eight months, I am no longer exhausted 24/7 as a result of having to wake up at 5 a.m. every damn day.

Birthday reflective thoughts: I have been breathing a sigh of relief ever since my birthday. It feels decidedly good.

Perfect? No. What workplace is?

Money still terrible? Yes, but I can deal with that with a lot more patience when the work environment is positive and everyone is at least cordial and respectful.

Am I looking for another job? Only a part-time second one. I am determined to make this crazy place work out. Perhaps we all needed that terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day to wake up and try a little harder to understand each other a little more.

Here’s to hoping it continues.

With full credit to and incredible admiration for Judith Viorst for writing one of the best children’s books, ever: “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day”.

I woke up two hours before my 5:02 a.m. alarm on Monday morning, after tossing and turning for hours and tossing some more, and, finally, never really going back to sleep. I watched a third repeat of Piers Morgan’s CNN show, willing myself to find the elusive peace that only deep slumber could offer, which never happened. I knew, then, that it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I was the first one in at work, as always, and found it impossible to prioritize the zillion components of opening sidework, knowing my coworkers would be late as always, and once they arrived at work, late, as always, they would leave every sidework task incomplete that they took on, as always, which would set me up, as always, for a weed-fest at the opening bell.

When I couldn’t find the butter ball scooper because the in-room dining staff had hidden it too well, and I broke a half-full wine glass left by the night staff in our breakfast supply “cage,” and then realized we were also out of Frosted Flakes and sugar packets in said cage because the night staff had apparently been starving for an overly sweetened case of cereal, I knew it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Maybe I’ll just move to Seattle, where the air is cool and crisp, the evergreens are just that, and it’s sunny and bright and perfect weather three months out of twelve. Well, not until my shift is done.

When my first table was a nice lady from Denmark who spoke perfect English, and who wanted the most expensive breakfast Benedict we offer, plus a side of bacon and a mimosa, and who sat alone at my four-top for two and a half hours working on her laptop, thereby preventing me from turning said four-top, and who tipped me exactly nothing at the end of two and a half hours, despite the multiple refills of coffee, a free side of multigrain toast, and some great conversation that I provided, I knew it was but the start of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

When I offhandedly pointed out to my manager who arrived an hour into the shift that my coworkers had disappeared to God knows where to sleep, eat, put on makeup, do their hair, and sleep some more, and that although the sidework wasn’t complete, it wasn’t my fault, and she asked me why we had no ice, why fresh iced tea wasn’t brewed, and did I realize the juice glass on table 104 hadn’t been polished even though the table wasn’t in my section, I knew it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Maybe I’ll move to Montana to be next-door neighbors with my best-sister-friend and savor the cool mountain air and forget that winter exists there 11 months out of 12.

When I didn’t have another table for an hour and then a server from the night shift was called in because, said the manager, “We are supposed to be very busy,” and I had already written a third check on a zero-percent interest credit-card offer in so many months to make ends meet because I make less than half in two weeks what I used to make in four days in the Keys, but at least my Great Guy makes great money because they auto grat 18 percent on every single check at his place, and I told my manager I’d had it, and walked off the floor and smoked three cigarettes out back while waiting for HR to open its doors, I knew that what was already a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day wasn’t looking good for improvement.

When the HR lady opened her doors to find me waiting for her, and I couldn’t utter a coherent word to tell her all that was so very wrong with my job, with my finances, but mostly with the life that I had so excitedly set out to live four years ago, and she told me “disciplinary action” would certainly be taken against me, and I agreed that it should, and she said how surprised she was because she’d heard such great things about me, but policy was policy, and I told her do what she had to do and that I would write it all down for the F&B Manager because I could write ever so much better than I could speak about it all, and she simply nodded while jotting down notes, I knew that while some days may seem terrible, this was, in fact, the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day of all days, and it had not a whole lot to do with why I’d waited for HR to open up that day.

Maybe I’ll move to a place I’ve never seen.

My Great Guy tells me he’ll pay the rent and take over my car payments. The F&B Manager tells me I am not fired; quite the contrary, would I please make a detailed sidework list and mention to HR that we are working on a solution for me because that will help him. My one friend here tells me better things are in store. My manager says she thought we were friends and asks why I went to HR, and from now on she’ll be more careful about sharing her feelings with me (huh?). My coworkers snicker and speak about me in Spanish, which I pretend not to understand and understand very well.

Today, when I researched a small delivery of Sephora makeup items that cannot be gotten in the Fort Lauderdale store because they stock their store like a Soviet Union market of decades ago, and then realized that the delivery had been made days ago on the day when I found my locked mailbox wide open and empty–on the very day I walked off the floor at work and didn’t get fired–I surrendered to the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Maybe I’ll move to a place I’ve always dreamed could exist, where bad days are simply bad and not terrible and horrible, where work sucks but at least you make a living wage working for a manager who gets half of it and doesn’t accuse you of making her day more terrible and horrible.

I had terrible nightmares that scared me last night, well before my Great Guy got home from his always opposite shift to mine at 2 a.m., and long after I had stopped counting the days until we might have a day off together again, because contrary to being fired, I am on the schedule for 9 days in a row, call time 6 a.m. for the foreseeable future, as others are granted later start times and vacation when they choose it. Disciplinary action wears many disguises.

I think I’ll move to Australia. And when I don’t, maybe I’ll just take a hard look at the sum total of where I am and vow to finally move on, if only in spirit. A girl can dream, right?

Before anyone feels sorry for a Restaurant Gal who was left home alone on one of the crucial archetypal moments of passage in a teenage gal’s almost grown-up world, understand that I spent my senior year of high school at a then-groundbreaking alternative program once known as “The Early College.” And, being at the end of the hippie era, holding such a prom was never even considered at such a groundbreaking-ly alternative school.

Last night, however, I unexpectedly and unwittingly attended my first prom. I styled my hair myself, tying its fly-away untrimmed length into a tight ponytail while pinning my layered bangs off my forehead with gold clips. I hadn’t seen the inside of a nail salon in weeks, but, oh well. Who could see my nails, anyway, my toes enclosed as they were in clunky black non-skids, and my exposed hands a wreck as they always are from serving and tending bar.

I wore an all-black ensemble identical to at that of least 20 others wearing the same. But in a crowd of 600, no one noticed this prom faux pas.

“Okay, listen up!” our captain shouted at the Darth Vader-esque-clad army of which I had been recruited to be a part at the last minute.

“Remember your prom?” he smiled when we had all quieted down. “All the things you did and didn’t do, and all the things you did that you weren’t supposed to?” The band of soldiers laughed, as I did, even though I had no prom memories of any sort. “Well, it’s all about to happen here tonight, and we’re here to make sure it goes smoothly and that everyone has fun.”

With that, I was assigned to a team of two in charge of placing bread-and-butter plates next to forks, and polishing and precisely placing fancy butter knives on said plates.

My first prom had begun.

“Spring rolls?” I asked impossibly thin, beautiful girls clad in floor-length, jewel-tone gowns trimmed in sparking rhinestones as I passed hors d’oeuvres.

“No thank you,” most shyly smiled into their laps.

“I’ll take one,” most of the guys said, flagging me down every time I passed by.

“Chef doesn’t want to see any leftovers!” barked the captain at one point.

Don’t give me a sales challenge, because I’ll win every time. I made sure to revisit every handsome young man who had eaten more than one of my spring rolls, encouraging them to “take as many as you want.” By the end of the “mocktail” hour, I had them grabbing the tiny rolls by the dozens off my tiny tray. Chef was pleased with my first prom’s first memory–winning the spring-roll maven crown.

Dinner was a somewhat rushed affair, but only by formal banquet standards. To the all-dressed-up-wth-every-place-to-go teenagers longly ready to dance and romance and launch themselves into one of final events of their youth, the pre-set salads and dessert, along with a plated chicken dish, amounted to nothing more than a final hurdle to cross into young adulthood–the sooner the better.

“Are you ready to dance at your prom?” shouted the DJ.

Screams.

“Are you really ready” shouted the DJ.

Louder screams.

“Let’s dance!” shouted the DJ.

It took roughly 4.5 seconds for the dance floor to fill with all 600-plus attendees.

“Clear, clear, clear!” shouted our captain behind the scenes. “Everything! We’re outta here by 11:30!”

Don’t tell me to make quick work of a last-minute on-call job. I’ll clear my station and the one next to mine–teetering stacked plates laden with stripped chicken bones slathered in uneaten bites of mashed potatoes be damned.

“Hey RG!” shouted the captain in my ear as I cleared my last water glass and privately worried that the pulsating and bouncing over-crowded dance floor was about to cave in and bury us all in the basement four levels down.

“Yes?” I shouted back.

“You’re cut! Go home! Thank you!” shouted the captain.

Really? Before the prom queen is crowned? Before the group of misfits at one table finally doesn’t care and dances anyway? Before the cool sports guy finally notices the never-before-noticed cool drama-club president? Before passionate kisses are stolen and after-party plans include rules to be broken?

Don’t ask me twice to go home after a double day, when I have to do it all again at 5 a.m. tomorrow.

Good luck to the beautiful and the awkward, to the brazen and the bashful, to those sporting overly inflated confidence and those about to forget they ever lacked it. Dance the night away, store it away forever, and remember that one night–no matter how perfect or perfectly horrible it is–is but one night. Even prom night.

Oh for God’s sake.

“This is our new manager, RG,” smiled the second biggest of the management trifecta later on my last day. “And this is RG,” he said, introducing me to the new manager, “Who we are so very sorry to see leave us.”

Huh? Sorry to see the gal go who couldn’t hack food prep and who could never seem to sell enough food to keep you and the rest of the trifecta happy? Sorry to see the gal go who garnered nothing but complaints from the three of you, well, until a couple of guests complemented me?

“Do I need to talk her into staying?” asked the confident new manager.

We all awkwardly laughed.

“So what happened?” asked the new manager a few minutes later, when it was just the two of us surveying a slow-for-the-moment lounge on my last day.

“Wait a half hour, and you’ll see,” I laughed, because it was easy to sustain laughter on my last day.

And when a half hour passed, almost to the second, the new manager cornered me in the kitchen while I was frantically tossing lettuce and tomatoes and cucumbers onto a plate.

“What the hell are you doing back here and not serving behind your bar?” he asked, incredulous.

“This,” I smiled, “Is exactly what happened.”

He was dumfounded.

“No, no, no,” he scolded me. “You stay behind the bar and I’ll prep and run all your food. How can a bartender be in the kitchen doing all this and still do her job as a bartender?”

No kidding.

To be fair, my wonderful former manager felt the same way, and he always helped me as much as he could, until room service weeds grew thick and tangled as the restaurant staff hacked through their own tables’ brambles and vines. Then it was back to ladling soup and plating desserts–complete with fruit and whipped cream garnish–for this gal. And yet, something was very different about this new guy’s attitude. Something commanding. Something certain. Something I wish I’d known was about to land on my floor before I gave my notice and accepted a job that required carrying trays of eggs that I was sure I would drop on day one.

On my last day, I sold enough. On my last day, I garnered a few more “excellent” comment cards. On my last day, I worked with a manager who not only got it, he acted upon it 100 percent.

Damn.

Background checks and drug tests passed and accounted for, I start the new job tomorrow. But my new manager on my last day of my old job asked me to come in tonight “to help out for a few hours.” Which I did, of course. Because gaps between hospitality jobs–even a week–mean no income for days, which is followed by the dreaded “training” period, which means a meager income for more days, at best, and zero tips.

Swan songs aren’t always sung in perfect harmony. Sometimes, you just have to hum along for a bit, and hope your voice is heard during an instant replay.

If, on day two, the triple management threat is telling you to clean better and sell more food, you clean better and try to sell more food.

If, on day five, the triple threat tells you sales are down in the bar but up in the hotel over this time last year, and, “You have big shoes to fill–your predecessor was amazing,” you try to focus and sell more food.

If, on day seven, you are absolutely sure your immediate and wonderful manager is looking for his next job on Craigslist as much as you are, you second guess this gut feeling and tell yourself you simply need to suck it up and do better at tending a bar you must constantly leave in order to tackle server side and prep work in the kitchen as you sell more food.

If, on day eight, your normally busy and focused immediate and wonderful manager is doing crosswords and texting in his office as you close, just after humorously pointing out to you that the triple management threat has conveyed to him how, “That bartender got complaints from guests last night for being slow with drinks,” even though you rang a record high in sales, you bookmark Craigslist when you get home and drink half a bottle of cheap wine.

If, on day ten, you are offered another job that you are certain you can do well–all except the part about carrying trays and jacks, since its been years since you had to carry a tray full of food in any formal fashion, and you are pretty sure the new bosses will find this to be a problem, even though they hired you on the spot after you explained this major deficiency in your hospitality experience, you accept the job while desperately pounding the pavement to find another so you don’t actually have to take it.

If, on day eleven, you give notice, saying to your immediate and wonderful manager, “I have found something that is a better fit for me,” and he laughs with you while congratulating you, and then adds, “I’m out in a week, too,” you know you made the right decision to leave, but feel terrified that the next show will be an equal disaster.

If, on day twelve, you apply for a job on Craigslist that requires a photo to be attached to your resume, and you actually do this, you might want to question two things: Am I actually a restaurant gal or just a washed-up, never-was in this entire business?

On day twelve, I am tired, burned to a crisp, much deflated, and not quite sure what is next except I start the next job next week if I can’t find something else by then. I need a big win at Gulfstream.

In 2010, I had three days off in September and two days off in October. I am not complaining about this. I am, however, still marveling that I actually survived the grueling schedule marked by double upon double. That I face a two-week stint without a break as I transition from one Keys job to a new opportunity off the Rock, bothers me not at all. Been there and done it pretty well–like a multiple-mile run you think you can never finish, but always do, and always feeling energized by the sheer effort and fact that you did.

In 2010, I lived with and loved my great guy, I fretted a lot and worried more than is healthy about money and jobs. Always, I wondered what was next of any value for me in the Keys.

On January 1, 2011, I say farewell to this strange, beautiful, churning azure water world I have called a home of sorts for two years. On January 1, 2011, I take on a “real” job–as real as tending bar can be. “Real,” in this case, means benefits, paid days off, 401k, and all the other employment trinkets we all used to take for granted and now eagerly covet–the trinkets that used to be called golden handcuffs in a grander job on a grander scale in a work world that is no more.

On January 1, 2011, I will wish I had done the following while living in the Keys:

–Taken in the show at Theater of the Sea in Islamorada.

–Perused the Diving Museum in Islamorada.

–Visited the sea turtle hospital in Marathon.

–Eaten roasted chicken and sipped Cuban coffee at the Sunshine Market in Tavenier.

–Fished beyond the reef.

–Caught a big fish anywhere.

On January 1, 2011, I will miss the following about the Keys:

–Watching sunrise steps away from my front door.

–Watching sunset steps away from my front door.

–Knowing the most local of locals on several Keys–their drinks; their smiles; the variations in their gray ponytails; their bad moods; their snickered gossip; their masked former, incredible lives; their acceptance of me as one of them–but only and understandably, just so much.

No time is wasted time. All time is time that allows you to grow even when you are past grown. 2011 is just in time.

I wish happiness and prosperity and peace for my newly connected siblings; for my former, excellent manager who deserves so much more; and for my great guy as we hold near to our hearts the best of all we had in 2010 and look forward to 2011 together, again.

Happy New Year to all.

On a whim, I responded in person to a location that had placed an ad for a full-time position, was interviewed first ahead of the three others waiting to enjoy the same agony of telling all about oneself, and suddenly found myself first on the A-list for a second interview. That the big boss with whom I was told to meet didn’t know that I was told to meet with him at an assigned time the next day was awkward, but interesting. “I told my manager to send me his top three candidates. You’re apparently the only one, and I didn’t even know he’d recommended you. Lucky you, though, right?” I don’t know if I have the job, but here’s to hoping that I remain first and only on that list. Merry Christmas to the job-hunting gods for waving their magic wands just in time.

On a whim, I called a former manager to give him a heads up on providing a reference, and he asked if I wanted to work a Christmas Eve private dinner occurring in four hours. He was doing a favor for a friend to help out, and they suddenly needed a second bartender as the guest list had expanded at the last minute. I spent an hilarious six hours with my former manager, pouring mostly sodas and wine and an occasional sour concoction, all the while a little awe-struck by the realization that there are still folks who still have plenty of money to host lavish holiday dinners in lavish mega mansions. Merry Christmas and thank you to my former manager. Some day, I hope we will work together again. But I hope it’s in a restaurant all of his own, because he is one of the best and would make it a thorough success.

On a whim, I am enjoying a few days off in sunny SoFla off the Rock–a visit planned on a whim at the last minute with my best-sister-like-girlfriend from chilly Montana. She is relaxing, finally, after a busy and emotional year. She is not alone on Christmas, and neither am I. We are having Christmas dinner together with my great guy at a picnic table in a very cool park. Merry Christmas to us both, to our grown kids who are having their own merry days, and to knowing we’ve both turned corners in our hearts as we look forward with hope to a new year of happiness and peace in our lives.

I have a feeling everything will work out just fine, regardless of how it all actually works out. It always does, I think, when you simply act on a whim.

Merry Christmas to all.

That my landlord is also my boss at the one remaining job I have made this realization a potentially delicate situation:

“I won’t pay rent until you fix it!”

“I won’t pay you at all if you keep complaining about it and don’t pay the rent!”

Thus, I thought it best to allow him to think I was an idiot girl, despite being his bar manager, who didn’t know anything about hooking up TVs or connecting my computer to the Internet, and that he knew it all and could fix everything. This worked for three days until what I already knew became clear–he knew less than I did about everything.

Until I lost all measure of sanity and control and left him a voicemail–because he never answers my calls–that I was at the end of a very short rope and ready to write a zero-interest promotional check on my credit card to cover the cost of getting the hell out of the Keys and live in my car and use wireless from any number of Starbucks that actually existed beyond the one in Key Largo that was currently a 45-minute drive from his kitchenless, spaceless,TV-less, wireless-less, way-too-expensive-for-the-privilege-to-live-here-except-you-didn’t-demand-first-last-and-security shangri-la.

I am not sure whether my landlord/boss values me more as an employee or a tenant, or if he values me at all, but a miracle occurred in a matter of hours of that voicemail being delivered: A nice Direct TV man named Ed in Colorado called to ask if it was convenient for a tech to come by this afternoon, say, at 3 p.m. Not between noon and five. Not between 8 a.m. and 2 p.m. next Wednesday. Today, at 3 p.m.

“Why certainly, Ed,” I told him in my most pleasant, happy voice, because Ed was not my enemy. Because 3 p.m. today was perfect. Because if it took the tech hours to figure out the problem, I’d be late for work on a night that promised to be slow as hell with a perfect excuse that my boss/landlord could not dispute.

Ed and I chatted and laughed for a few moments about how the weather is sometimes warmer in Denver in January than it is in the Keys in January–especially last January–and how my daughter went to school in Colorado Springs so I know about weird Colorado weather, but how now she’s living in D.C. and I miss her all the time, as well as how I miss my son in Cincinnati, and how I wonder if I could ever live in D.C. again, or maybe even Cinci. But, you know, the weather. And, well, I have this job that pays pretty well. And my boss is my landlord, which makes this situations tricky, and my great guy just moved to Fort Lauderdale, so I have to deal with all this on my own, which is fine because I am fine being on my own. You know? And so, yeah, 3 p.m. is fine. Perfect.

God love Direct TV angel number one. He assured me that a local Direct TV angel number two would be at my home-that-is-by-no-means-a-home-but-I’ll-deal-with-that-another-day by 3 p.m., and then he agreed with me about the weather in Cinci and D.C.

Direct TV angel number two has survived death three times. I mean real death–drowning, a ladder fall, and a lightening strike. He says he saw the light during the near drowning. He had to learn to walk and talk again after the lightening strike. As he told me these stories, all the while fishing wires out of walls and an attic crawl-space I didn’t know I had, I had to ask myself: And my so-called life feels like it’s at stake because I can’t watch TV, never mind that I need TV to fall asleep and sometimes–many times–I just can’t sleep and the drone of Headline News or a billionth re-run of “Andy Griffith” soothes me, calms me.

“Okay, it’s all online now,” my Direct TV angel number two smiled when he completed his job order within an hour. “Do you need me to show you how to use the remote?”

Which he did. He then helped me move plastic bins that I re-use over and over again in hopes of moving to his home that is really a home. And then he was gone, driving far away to his own home that is hours away off these peculiar rocks into which the most peculiar people fall and call home.

“Hi, RG. This is Ed from Direct TV,” came the call moments after Direct TV angel number two drove away. “Is your TV working properly now?”

Yes, yes it is, Direct TV angel number one. Direct TV angel number two was wonderful. He did a great job. Please let his manager know.

“I will. And you enjoy those Keys!”

Yeah, sure. I mean, of course.

Now, hours later, when I have no interest in watching the TVs my Direct TV angels made workable, I marvel at how angels appear and work their magic–even if it is only making a TV work–when you least know you need their particular brand of magic, and always when you least know them for who they are and the message they send.

A very short list of plusses and minuses about my tri-dimensional world:

Plus: Making money, finally.

Minus: Sometimes I forget where I am working, and I draw a total blank when I answer the workplace phone.

***

Plus: A bad shift at one place is often replaced by a good shift at one of the other places later that day.

Minus: It’s a double; it’s grueling.

***

Plus: No more sitting around the house and watching TV with the dogs during my time off, while my great guy works another in a perpetual string of shifts that occur opposite of mine.

Minus: Wait, did I feed the dogs–yesterday?

***

Plus: I appreciate my nicest customers at each job, allowing them to dilute the pain-in-the-ass customers that are a part of every job.

Minus: By the last hour of the second half of a double, no one seems nice.

***

Plus: I work for some great managers.

Minus: Balancing the moods and quirks and expectations of multiple managers, while trying to remember what rule is in what place at what job, can be tricky.

***

Plus: Making money, finally.

Minus that’s really a plus: Work, work, work and no time for a personal life that, of late, has had its challenges. This gives me time to ponder what’s next after I’m done making all this money, finally.