Smokey the Magnificent

I cleaned the fridge today. I can very rarely say that. Interestingly, I was expecting to find all manner of unseemly smeg lurking under mould, but I didn’t. There was a small ramekin half-full of chocolate moisse I don’t remember making, but it only looked elderly, not grotesque. One could say it had acquired a certain gravitas - think Patrick Stuart, as opposed to post-earring Harrison Ford. And there was a jar of REALLY old hummus that I only threw out on principle - smelled fine, looked fine, but could conceivably have been in league with the Commies back in the day and the last thing my fridge needs is to be overrun by the Red Menace, innit. So it’s a mystery. Either Helpdesk Man has been being cleanly behind my back or I need to give the fridge a raise.

Anyhoo. Practically my only sister Betty Scandretti has tagged me for a weedy meme, Happy 101, or Ten Things That Make You Put the Gun Down Once More, For Now. I’m then supposed to tag a number of friends, that being the sort of thing that makes memes happy, but a) meh and b) hello, Aspie, “friends”?

Here I go.

1. Having a clean fridge. It just makes me want to curl up inside it and - hold on, we’re out of cheese. When did that happen? I distinctly remember not moving cheese when I cleaned the shelves. We had cheese. What the blazes is my fridge up to?

2. The last page of The Grapes of Wrath. Everybody I’ve spoken to on the matter finds it creepy as heck, but I don’t.

3. Olives. Ha!

4. Playing poker with Helpdesk Man. More so if I’m winning, or at least not bleeding chips to the point where he shoots me a withering glare and asks me to recite the rule about pot odds.

5. The snortlepig saying “Kees eyes, kees chin, kees nose, kees ears, kees chin, okay!”

6. Sewing, on the rare occasions that the needle isn’t coming unthreaded and the bobbin hasn’t run out unnoticed halfway through a long seam and the pattern doens’t require a degree in hyperspatial engineering to figure out and the pig isn’t drawing on the sewing machine with a pink felt tip pen and the fabric is still pleasing one several days after having purchased it, making one go “ooo” instead of “hrmm”, and everything is snortly.

7. Helpdesk Man comparing my cooking favourably to purchased foodstuffs, whether from a restaurant or particular supermarket brand.

8. Rediscovering an old interest after getting into a rut. I don’t mean like Willow and Xander. I mean like cooking. In theory, I love to cook, no? Ask people to describe a Smokey, and once they’ve gotten words like “crepuscular” out of the way and mentioned my unnervingly mobile upper lip, they’ll say “she cooks”. And I do. But sometimes I find myself making the same eight meals over and over again, feeling moop about the entire process. And then, aha! I get a book out of the libe about pasta-making, and the spark is rekindled. I had practically my only small sister Ruth over the other night and we made tomato fettucine in a cream and basil sauce, and it was delicious. So there.

9. Not being dairy-free. I do not mean to exhibit smugness in front of any Gentle Readers who come over in suppurating pustules when schmeared with cream cheese. But it is the truth. It makes me happy. Sometimes I’m eating a bowl of ice cream and I think “Gosh, I’m glad I’m not dairy-free”, and then I grate some cheese on top of the ice cream and slather it in custard. Or at least, I could. Unlike some.

10. I saw an inchworm one time. It made me happy.

Remember the snortlepig’s security knickers? Well, she seems to have made a new friend. It is a small bottle of peppermint essence. She fell in love with it at the supermarket when I gave it to her to hold in place of the cream, having spotted at the last second that she had taken the lid off and was about to upend it onto the supermarket floor. That same day I made mint chocolate chip ice cream (not my most successful flavour - that was three weeks ago and we still have some lurking in the freezer), and had to wrest the essence away from a squealing pig with entreaties and promises to give it back. When it was returned to her, sans half a teaspoon, she carried it away in sobbing triumph and promptly hid it under the sofa where my clawing fingers and dodgy housekeeping would never find it.

Then a few days ago, the snortlepig’s tiny aunt discovered it under said sofa while searching for the snortlepig’s small wooden animals. I put it back on the shelf and thought nothing of it until today, when the snortlepig started dancing and pointing and saying “DA!” at the pantry. I picked her up, wondering if she’d developed a sudden taste for dried chickpeas… but nope. She’s been carrying the peppermint essence around again for two solid hours. Freak.

Interestingly, although the peppermint smell cannot be detected outside the bottle and although she almost certainly does not associate the two, the mint chocolate chip ice cream was her favourite flavour. She also eats olives. She’s classier than me.

Incidentally, shikakai? Good stuff. Exceptionally. If this keeps up I might be able to wear my hair down occasionally, although of course I would then have to navigate the perils of giving the snortlepig the milks without sitting on it myself or having said pig twine it round her feet and pull. Madonna never had this problem (the Blessed Virgin I mean, not the singer, although I doubt she did either).

I’m drafting a dress! It is harder than it looks. And invisible zips are evil. I will update you when there is good news: until then, don’t ask.

In other news… hoom. Helpdesk Man ate the first ripe tomato of the summer yesterday and his eyes watered a little. I am babysitting my small sisters on Friday, and we will watch the last 29 minutes of Toy Story 2 and the entirety of Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. I have an article due in six days that isn’t even remotely written. We watched Season 5 of The Office and are on to Season 6. I’ve been listening, goodness knows why, to wizard rock and have so far sifted only two decent songs from the dross - I Believe in Nargles and Accio Love. Both of which are, quite honestly, rubbish: but I have a small life. Also, the pig’s wet nappy reeks strangely of tuna, which we have not eaten for months. I’d better go change it before worse things happen.

So Helpdesk Man and I are watching our way through the Harry Potter films. Hermione’s eyebrows notwithstanding, I’m enjoying them more than I expected. The Order of the Phoenix, which we watched last night, was positively arty in a few spots. That bit where Fred and George were consoling Nigel after he’d been using Dolores’ torture quill was actually moving. Also, I’d never before considered the awesomeness of the name Dolores Umbridge. She’s good with names, is JK Rowling.

Here’s the thing, though. The Triwizard Cup. Now, clearly it didn’t matter how the contestants got to the cup through the maze: they were being judged on results, not the wizarding prowess they showed during the process. (Which made their previous accrual of points kinda redundant, which was silly, but never mind.) So if Harry proved himself a one-note wonder, it wouldn’t affect his win. That being the case… why didn’t he go with “Accio Firebolt” again? He could have zoomed over the maze looking for the cup found it in seconds. Better yet… why not “Accio Triwizard Cup“? I can buy that the Cup was maybe enchanted to keep it in place, but the broomstick thing should have worked. Silly Harry.

Also, I like that they didn’t tart Hermione up too much. They de-bushified her hair movies before they were supposed to, and put her in civvies when she still should have been wearing robes: but she wasn’t in crop tops and miniskirts, and that is something. There are Standards left in the world. And hoodies, apparently.

Anyway.

Much to my surprise my one-hour-of-housework-a-day resolution has left me eager and sprightly, so my added challenge for this week is to tie up loose ends. Which sounds like killing my ex-bosses, but it isn’t. I’m fairly fond of most of my ex-bosses, with the exception of Simon the evil manager from Rialto who once spent five minutes castigating me for stealing a piece of company scrap paper to write an amoosing story on to pin up by the freezer. Oddly it wasn’t the story he objected to: it was the stealing. Of the scrap paper. Which never actually left the premises, so technically it would be what, vandalism? Graffiti? Anyway he ended up filching $400 from petty cash, so ha.

Most of said loose ends are fairly routine - I have to fix a few flagged articles at Suite, complete my shopping tote bags and mend a few clothes. Sadly, I also feel morally compelled to do my taxes. Yes, those taxes. The ones that should have been done last March, or whenever it is one traditionally does taxes. Helpdesk Man and I have made a date to stare them in the face tonight, and I am hoping to contract fulminating lupus before then in order to gracefully back out. It’s not the money - I’m pretty sure I owe a paltry amount, plus of course the late fee - it’s the psychology of the thing. Ever watch Black Books? Exactly.

Today my dear mother and I went on a mish to find op-shop furniture for the homestay student. We didn’t find any, but we did come across a rather lovely hospice shop which had piles of fabric. Piles and piles! I fossicked through it with embarrassing thoroughness and very nearly bought about eight lengths of crepe and floral cotton and the like; but in the end I restrained myself and only got some white and cream cotton. One can never have too much white and cream cotton.

Anyway it reminded me of my plan to colour-code the snortlepig’s wardrobe for fall and winter. So I started looking at colour palettes.

It is harder than one thinks.

One does not wish to age the snortlepig with overly sedate colours. She is only tiny, and one should wear clear cheerful colours while one can.

One also wishes to choose colours that suit her, naturally.

And they need to blend with each other, that being the point of the whole exercise; but they can’t all be neutrals, because if one uses up all one’s neutrals in the first season what will she wear in the second? Also, I do not wish her to look drab. People might sneer.

And it being winter, one feels one should choose warm and cheery colours to counteract the effects of the damp.

But one is currently partial to pale blue and grey, which are not warm and cheery.

And one should not go too pale in the winter, because nobody wants to wear dark clothes in the summer and again, variety.

And a lot of colours don’t go well with pale blue.

And I didn’t get much sleep last night, and the colours are beginning to blur before my eyes. And I have to make chocolate ripple ice cream and do an hour of housework. And colourlovers.com requires you to log in before you can make your own palette.

So… you tell me. Too cockatoid? Too nautical? Too drab? Too cheesy? Too girly? Too pretentious? Too… no, I think not. Too dull?

Bah. You do it. I’m just her mother.

1. So I wangled a bunch of characters for my practice novel out of thin air, and half a plot to boot. This is well and good, but I need a villain, or at least some form of dramatic tension. Maybe some entity with a moustache.
2. I think I need to trim the snortlepig. I made her a lovely top which looked, if anything, too big in the making: and now it won’t fit over her squish. I am remedying the situation by lacing the back up corset-wise, but it is not ideal. I did, however, overcome the butterflies in my tum and attempt buttonholes for the first time. After many rippings-out I achieved a set of the sorriest-looking buttonholes ever to grace a garment; but at least the plunge has been taken.
3. The space bar on my keyboard issticking, which makes me want to KILL THEWORLD. See?
4. We finally finished the X-Files - including, against sound advice, the second X-Files movie I Want to Believe. Which was rubbish. And it could have been spectacular if they’d only continued with the bally arc (and omitted Mulder’s pedophile haircut and Scully’s greenish dye job and anorexic makeover, and so on, obvs.). So that was depressing. But I was a bit disenchanted with Scully ever since she had the baby anyway. It’s sad when shows leave one with a slightly bitter taste in one’s mouth when they’re over, but I really did enjoy the X-Files around seasons 5-7ish… so that’s something. We’re now finishing off Dollhouse, and thence on to catching up on a few seasons of The Office. It will be nice to watch something with fewer autopsies: the snortlepig has started saying “yucky” when Scully uncovers figures on gurneys, and will probably end up twisted in the head.

Somewhat to my astonishment, Helpdesk Man and I passed the police check for having a homestay student. The next step is to be interviewed by a nice lady called Loretta and have the student’s room inspected to make sure we aren’t planning on chucking her in a rat-infested hole in the floor. Which is a doddle in theory - well, except for the interview, which will probably prove us to be antisocial semi-loons with supralapsarian leanings - only the homestay student’s room currently contains fourteen boxes of junk left over from moving house, a large plastic bag full of used coffee grounds, and no furniture.

So I am once again scouring TradeMe. According to the terms and condishes of homestay-student-having one has to provide it with a bed with a Good Quality Mattress, a desk, a chair, a lamp, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. Privileged little blighter. I don’t even have a lamp. Anyway I was thinking of going for a vaguely shabby chic-cum-Anne of Green Gables dormer room kind of look, with a splash of French Country thrown in. Dusky pinks and greens and creams, kind of demure, an old-fashioned writing desk if I can get one, that sort of thing. We specified a girl homestay student, so hopefully the pink will not be a problem; and it’s a style I like well enough that when the room eventually becomes the snortlepig’s room, I won’t feel the need to rip it all out and start afresh. Hopefully.

Of course, the tricky bit is that one has to decorate the room before the interview, so if one fails one is not only out a supplementary source of income, but the price of a roomful of furniture. Still. We will prevail.

I had a cunning thought the other day. If I am to be making most of the snortlepig’s clothes from now on (and it seems I will, both because it amooses me and because I am Agin the clothing industry and hand-me-downs have slowed down to the merest trickle since she left the baby stage), it makes sense that they all match. Currently she has a pleasing conglomeration of handmade and bought items in varying clashing shades, and only about two tops go with two bottoms on a good day. So next time a new season hits or she grows out of things, I plan to go to Spotlight with a tiny colour palette in mind and buy five or so fabrics - a few solids, maybe some dottos or stripes and a floral - that all mix and match, and then make her clothing accordingly. It seems frugal. Plus, I can then look back fondly on her childhood photos and say “Oh yes, that was during your blue period”, and date contested family holidays by the hue of her trousies. And it’ll force me to make clothes she actually needs, as opposed to things I want to make (case in point: she is currently inundated with tops and rather lacking in bottoms).

Right. I now need to go and complete my hour of fiction writing for the week. I have successfully managed to do my hour of housework every day, even going so far as to do an extra hour the day before we went to the beach (more on that later). None of the editors I queried have gotten back to me about my print articles, though; nor have I utterly mastered the Road Code; and I totally forgot about the fiction writing thing until now. I should really use this time to work on My Novel, but I’m getting rather sick of it; perhaps I’ll start something new. We shall see.

Oh, yus. Question. If you were a nearly-two-year-old snortlepig, and it was going to be autumn/winter when you were twoish, what kind of colours would you want to wear for that season? I fancy dove-grey at the moment, but it might be a little drab for a toddler. D’you think? Dove-grey accented with blue or possibly maroon? Maybe I should save that particular combo for when she’s a sedate matron of four.

So, Star Wars in a few hours. Luckily I got a head start on cooking last night - we watched Julia & Julia instead of Up as we’d planned, and I got inspired and started peeling onions at 9:45PM. The snortlepig helped. She is good at onions. So the kidney bean sauce is simmering away in the crockpot, the mince just requires seasoning and cooking, and I’ve made the mango sorbet and strawberry sorbet. Actually I’ve made the strawberry sorbet twice. The first time I made it I found it a bit on the sweetish side, and being confident and well-adjusted immediately started to worry that people would think less of me as a sugar-gobbling shill with no appreciation for the natural subtleties of fruit. (This is a Thing we me. I think it stems from growing up with sisters who ordered orange juice when I was wanting milkshakes. It is only in recent years that I have learned to man up and order a caramel milkshake and fries if I want them, even if my sister is ordering a vegan panini and spirulina at the shop next door. It’s so good to grow as a person, don’t you think? Anyway.) So I ruthlessly halved the sugar in the next batch, and it turned outr wimpy and pallid. So I melted it down again, added some more sugar and will shortly plonk it back in the machine to freeze anew. Never let it be said that I lack commitment to my Art.

On the subject of Julie & Julia, I finally got around to looking up Julia’s blog today, and was faintly if illogically surprised to see it looked just like the one in the movie (for the record, atrociously ugly). She comes across better in the blog than the movie - wittier and better at cooking and generally less cutesy and Meg Ryanish. And that’s not a slur on Amy Adams, who is awesome: it was a badly-written character, and Nora Ephron is culpable. For one thing, it sounded like most of her lines were taken from her blog (although I haven’t read enough of it yet to determine whether or not this is the case). Who says “Dreading, dreading, dreading” in real life? And another thing - which was also an issue in You’ve Got Mail, Nora, sorry - people don’t emote when they blog. With their faces, I mean. All those shots of Amy and Meg sitting in front of their laptops, eyebrowing and grimacing away to their voiceovers? Doesn’t happen. Look in an internet cafe sometime. Does the glassy, vacant-eyed, slightly grumpy stare emitted by the average inhabitant give you the slightest clue to what he is typing? No, it does not. It could be a sonnet, a thesis or a Dear John - you just don’t know, because we don’t feel the need to toss our little heads and smirk in synchrony with our thoughts.

Of course, I realise she was probably just trying to jazz up the inevitable eighteen scenes of Julie sitting in front of her laptop, and perhaps she thought the glassy-eyed stare would have gotten a bit much after awhile. But still. There’s “winsomely perky”, and then there’s “I want to chuck you in a flotation tank for eight straight days and we’ll see if your cute bob is still bouncing around your cheekbones then, wench”.

Yes, well.

I made some shorts for the pig today. At least, they were supposed to be shorts: I realised too late that snortlepigs have a crotch-to-knee measurement of about an inch, so they’re kind of three-quartersy.

I like ‘em. The button detail on the hems pleases me, and the ungathered panel on the front waistband (which was due to running out of fabric and having to piece the band) gives the thing a vaguely sailory, Donalf Duckish, Frenchish air which the pig carries off rather well. I can see this in beige and blue for a boy, can’t you?

Helpdesk Man artily arranged these standing up by themselves on the couch. Very Dr Seuss.

Button detail on hem of trousies

The snortlepig, struck by a momentary panic: "Is my squish still on?"

"Smile for the camera", I said, and she did this. She didn't get biddable photogenicity from my side of the family. Freak.

So, yup. I gotta go wash my hair. It’s got a sort of “Anglo-Saxon warrior after a week of battle” vibe, and one cannot watch Star Wars with hair like that. It would be disrespectful to Princess Leia.

PS: Helpdesk Man had the grace to admit that the “Sherlock Holmes” movie was a bit rubbish. We may make it to our fourth anniversary after all.

The snortlepig and I have broken a cup each this evening. I wonder what it portents. Thirst, probably.

You know how one occasionally buys a kitchen appliance and then never uses it? I have personally moved the majority of the food processor attachments from house to house three times, while being absolutely convinced I will never use them. Yet somehow, I can’t bring myself to break the set by chucking them out. What if Helpdesk Man loses his job, the snortlepig requires a brain transplant and I have to sell the food processor on TradeMe in order to afford a pair of nifty wristlets?

Beside the point. Where I was going with this is that our new ice cream maker (Helpdesk Man’s present to me and vice versa for Christmas) is not one of those items. We’ve had it for ten days and have already used it five times… seven by tomorrow. I love it dearly. Lemon sorbet, frozen Coke, vanilla ice cream, butterscotch maple ice cream and strawberry sorbet so far… and another strawberry sorbet and some mango sorbet are in the offing. For the record, sorbet is an excellent answer to the question of What to Feed One’s Vegan Sister, as well as What to Feed One’s Lactose-Intolerant Friend.

Speaking of lactose, the snortlepig has finally mastered the word “milks”. Until today, I had thought that this was a good thing - arguably more subtle than clawing at my chest, would you not think? Only today I was sitting on the piano stool at church, eagly alert for my cue to play “I Stand Amazed In the Presence”, when the snortlepig eluded the clutches of Helpdesk Man and ran up to me shouting “Milks!” Helpdesk Man had to carry her down the aisle as she shouted “Mummy! Milks! Mummy! Noooo!” in full-blown tragedy voice. The congregation was most entertained. I think I’ll pack a cosh in my handbag next week.

You will be happy to hear that so far, I have not broken any of my New Year’s Resolutions. On New Year’s Day, despite the fact that it was a public holiday, I put in my time and did my hour of housework. And didn’t I feel smug! I have also made some progress on the road rules, although it may come down to working the psychology of the multi-choice quiz rather than actually knowing the rules. The test is kind of passive-aggressive, so when it says things like “How fast can you drive if you see a school bus letting off wee cherry-cheeked urchins?” and the options are A) 20 km/h, B) 3o km/h, C) 40 km/h and D) 50 km/h, you can just tell it’s waiting for you to tick D and then scream at you “FIEND! BLACKGUARD! WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!” So you tick the holier-than-thou-est answer listed, A, and lo and behold, you are right. (Don’t even get me started on its smugly leading questions about the Effects of Alcohol.)

Tomorrow Betty Scandretti, as she is known to her adoring fans - Uncle Bizzy, as she is called by the snortlepig, and practically my only sister - is gracing our township with her presence. The plan is to watch Up while Helpdesk Man and Betty’s somewhat male nattily dressed counterpart go out to see the new Sherlock Holmes movie. This is partly a Plan B occasioned by the inability of the snortlepig to behave in a movie and the inability of my mother to babysit said pig, on the grounds that her home became inundated with fleas while they were on holiday (!) and has to be fumigated. However, let it be noted that I am also not attending “Sherlock Holmes”* because, if the trailer is any indication, it is a travesty and a farce and should be boycotted by all right-thinking people. K? (Uncle Bizzy and I were going to see The Lovely Bones, but it is not to be. Up is smashing, though.)

Then the following night, several of my dearest friends (a phrase virtually synonymous with “only friends”, for the record, meaning “ones I can run into without having to say things like “Hey, didn’t you have a baby?” and “So are you and, um, still - no? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Oh, well, OK then!” “) are coming over to eat nachos and watch Star Wars. As little as watching Star Wars needs a reason, we actually have one - my belly-dancing friend codenamed Perdita, it transpires, has never seen it. Can you imagine? And I met her working at an arthouse theatre, of all things. So this is very exciting. We have managed to work her into a state of cautious anticipation, and will do our best to avoid peering at her avidly and nudging her in the ribs to make sure she takes in all the good bits. From time to time I feel a moment of panic, thinking “What if she doesn’t like it? S– from the movies didn’t like it. What if she thinks it’s rubbish?”… but then my inner Yoda calms me, replying “S– is dead inside, and Harrison Ford will work his magic. You are trying too hard. Do, or do not. There is no try.”. And then I am calm anew.

Do you remember the first time you saw Star Wars, then? I will always associate it with Raro, a repellent powdered drink mix, because I first saw it on TV with the Raro logo popping up at vital moments. It wasn’t as earth-shattering an experience as the first time I saw The Fellowship of the Ring or even The Princess Bride, mostly because I initially watched half of The Empire Strikes Back late at night and didn’t have a clue what was going on, and had to get my friend’s little brother to fill me in weeks later on who was doing what. But it was still pretty awesome. And much more memorable than my first taste of Star Trek. (”Dark Page”, the one in TNG with Deanna’s dead sister. I mostly remember a lot of shots of people climbing down Jeffries tubes… not exactly the stuff of legend.)

Also, I am making the snortlepig a pair of shorts. And the mango sorbet is almost done, and tastes pleasing. And that is all.

*I usually italicise movie titles. This is not an inconsistency. Those are scare quotes, meant to indicate a withering sneer at the thought that THAT film is worthy to lick the boots of the great detective himself. K? K.

I finally got around to putting up my punk dress on Craftster. This one:

In other sewing news, I adapted a crayon roll tutorial to make a hair accessories holder for my dear friend April. It sorta rolls shut and ties with a ribbon, and I put a wee pocket on the front for no good reason.

Fortunately the photos are small enough you can’t see my wonky topstitching. Topstitching is like the scones of the sewing world - not hard in theory, but sublime if perfect and unpleasant if not, and the mark of a fine cook where fancier dishes can be fudged and disguised with bits of herbs and such.

For my other friend (for I have two!) I made a reversible tote bag, with a girly side and a geeky side. The girly side had a flower and swirly embroidery, and the geeky side had an embroidered quote from the X-Files… namely “I’m in love with Assistant Director Skinner”, which is funnier in context. Sadly I finished that one about four minutes before the friend showed up to collect it, so I didn’t get photos: it did put me on a bit of a tote bag kick though, so I have another one half cut out. Goodness knows I could use them - the weird Plunket ones I got given at an expo have the consistency of cheap fusible webbing and can’t be trusted with so much as a bag of chocolate chips. Neither can Helpdesk Man, but he has more tensile strength.

Yesterday I fell prey to one of my periodic desires to become a better person - and by “better”, I mean “skinnier and more productive”. So Helpdesk Man and I are trying a grain-free week in order to curb sugar cravings, and I have vowed to perform no frivolous Internet surfing and to wade through my impressively long to-do list. Which includes making a fairy dress and its accompanying corset before Saturday (assuming my steel boning arrives in time), finishing the Christmas shopping and getting up-to-date with various freelancey bits and pieces. Also sourcing a turkey. And finishing a dress for the snortlepig. And cooking for Saturday’s picnic. Things like that.

I went this morning to our church’s Christmas display, at which two of my small sisters were performing as part of a handbell-ringing group. It was quite an experiemce - not because of the bell-ringing itself, but because of the conductor, who kept up a cheerful patter between songs about how the bell-ringers were rubbish. It was quite astounding. She helpfully pointed out every mistake upon the completion of each song, informed us which of the ringers suffered from blood pressure problems, told us all about the woman (second from the right) who had been so bad initially she had tried to quit, and generally did her utmost to nudge the troupe towards suicide. Amazingly, they seemed to bear her no ill-will.

Would you rather be given free food for the rest of your life, or free holidays?