We don’t have cable or network tv, as I’ve stated many times before. I feel compelled to reiterate this fact so that

1. You will admire me for my moral and heroic stand against the wasteland that is called television and
2. You will observe/admire my duplicity in the above statement, as I NEVER miss out on finding a way to watch the shows I like. (Are you kidding me, Project Runway judges? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? BLAYNE-the tanorexic gap toothed no-talent elflike creature who had no appreciation of Tim Gunn’s Sargeant Pepper reference? BLAAAAAYYYYYNE?)

So we don’t have tv. But the eight-year-old version of myself, the version who watched Mary Lou on a teeny tiny black and white tv in my mom’s bedroom, and believed with great tenacity that I could do all that gymastics stuff I could just master the split, could not let these Olympics pass without watching me some gymnastics. So I was very pleased to discover NBC joined the new millennium and was down with uploading extensive coverage of the games. And in between our end of summer activities, including but not limited to beach going, library going, slumber party planning, circus going, pool going, daily free lunches at the elementary school where all the neighborhood moms sit and chat and how cool is this that I haven’t had to fix a lunch in two weeks going, piano lesson going, nunchuk lesson going, bowstaff lesson going, I’ve been catching snippets of gymnastics at my computer.

And here are the conclusions I’ve reached about women’s gymnastics. Only instead of calling them ‘conclusions’ I’m going to call them ‘laws.’ Because I’m that arrogant.

KRISTI’S LAWS OF GYMNASTICS (not to be confused with Asimov’s laws of robotics)

1. Thirteen-year-old Chinese girls will compete illegally. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to assassinate the girls with a lethal twisty jumpy move. You will go to China-jail, and NO ONE wants to go to China-jail. Just ask Claire Danes.

2. Relating to number one, the older you get , the more likely it is that you will fall on your butt or back or take great, unexplainable leaps out of bounds. A 22 year old gymnast is as competitive as a 79 year old gamer. In other words, not at all.

3. Boobs are worthless. So are hips. Belly fat is an abomination against the Lord of Gymnastics.

4. The point system is intentionally constructed in a way that Kristi Harrison of Sandpoint, Idaho will not understand. This is so that Kristi will not get grand dreams of competing in 2012 because ‘How hard is it to get a 10? I could get a 10 if I just learned how to do a split!’

5. The crotchular area of a gymnast, even a very young gymnast, will be viewed by billions of people all over the world and China. Gymnastics is the only venue where this is acceptable and not cause for a massive world-wide To Catch a Predator type operation.

6. Five foot two looks really long and lean in the gymnastics world. GymNastia Liukin is 5′2, just like me! We’re the same! I’m going to call her and we’re going to train together and be best friends from now until forever! I LOVE YOU NASTIA!!!!!!!

I think my laws just took a walk on the creepside. And that was *after* I used the words ‘crotchular’ and ‘very young gymnast’ in the same sentence. Maybe I should quit now.

First of all, “WHAT THUH?” That’s my response to getting discovered by a much more dedicated and more popular blogger, who sent her many, many readers over here, many, many of whom left comments, which left me saying “WHAT THUH?” until I figured this great mystery of exploding traffic out. Then I said, “JINKIES!” because I had solved a mystery and that’s what you say when you solve mysteries.

I think I write too much about trying to lose weight. I wrote about it here, and here and oh, yeah, also here. Some of you with your “healthy self images” and “psychologically sound” brains, might judge me for my “vanity-fueled obsession” with “GETTING THIS GOD-AWFUL FAT OFF MY BODY.” You would be wrong for your judgment. Because haHA! I’m working on losing weight in a way that is healthy and DOESN’T involve me throwing up after every single meal. I bet you didn’t see that coming, did you? Judgers.

I got a buttload of traffic on that triathlon post, and I think it’s because we’re all, as fat Americans, in the same boat. We eat bad food. We sit at desks all day. The whole idea that jogging as a sport had to be invented is sorta hilarious. Our hunting/then farming ancestors would have done a spit-take in our faces if they knew we actually have to go run to lose weight. And then we would have said, “Why did you just spit in our faces? It’s not our fault we have the internet!” And then we would have had to sit down and explain the internet to our hunting/then farming ancestors and the whole evening would have ended in frustration.

Back to me. And jogging. The big headline of the year is that I’m starting to like it. I KNOW. I once had a friend tell me that she loved walking and hated running, but walking didn’t get her the results that running did. And after two months of walking, walking, walking, just about every day, with little weight loss, I timidly decided to start jogging a few minutes a day. You know how formerly fat people always start their testimonies with ‘I couldn’t go very far at first, but I kept at it and now I’m so freakin’ fit that everyone in the whole world is jealous of me?’ It turns out that the first part of the sentence, the part about starting easy and then going a little farther every day is true. WHO KNEW? And the results, which are so minor that they don’t reflect on the scale or in clothes sizes, but are there nonetheless, are enough to make me keep going.

And PS, let me just say right here, right now, that if you are a male reading this post you can just shut your face. Because you are not gaining weight in unexplainable ways like me and my 30ish year old sistah-girls are. You’re probably just getting finer and more rugged looking every freakin’ day, and I hate you for that. (Except my husband. I appreciate that you are getting finer and more rugged looking everyday.) Seriously, boys. You just don’t know.

AND OH YEAH, here’s how I’m managing this: chunks. That’s not my cute nickname for myself, that’s how I break up my time in order to keep running and not quit after three minutes. I started out walking for five minutes, then jogging for three or four minutes, until I got tired of jogging and just walked the rest of the way. Now I can walk for two minutes, then run for five, then walk for two, then run for five, etcetera, until I drop dead. On the treadmill at my husbands work, I can do this for two and a half miles. Here in my neighborhood, not so much. But I’m working on it.

PAM ANDERSON: This faux chicken is a definite thumbs up. Faux chicken…fauxken. I just made that word up myself. Hey y’all! Come get some fauxken! I LOVE FAUXKEN!!!!!!!!

LINDSAY LOHAN: How shocking am I? I’m the gayest of the gays! How do you haters like me now, ultra-conservative-religious-ex-convict Daddy? I’M GAY GAY GAY GAY! GAAAAAAAAAAAY!

SAMANTHA RONSON: Please don’t tell my girlfriend that there are pretty gay girls out there. Please. Seriously…I’ll like, totally come dee-jay your kid’s birthday parties if you keep the other-lesbians-exist thing on the down low. I’m really good, wicca wicca wicca bow chicka wow (starts scratching invisible records in the air.) Happy birthday, to your ki-id! I’m a lesbian! And a dee-jay! Wicca wicca wicca…

JONATHAN RHYS MYERS, WHOSE NAME I ONLY KNOW BECAUSE OF THE CAPTION IN THE IMAGE SOURCE, WHICH I TOTALLY HOT LINKED: Whosoevereth taketh mine pictureth shall knoweth the furies of mine non-connecting facial haireth, which shall confound thee with its mysterious unattachedness! PAPARAZZI BEGONE!

STRAIGHT LACED BODYGUARD TYPE: I hate mine life.

STOP LOOKING AT ME THAT WAY, YOU’RE SCARING ME, KID ROCK: I’ve got your fauxken right here, Pamela! IN MY PANTS! I’ve got 40 ways…WE COULD DO IT! I’ve got a matching ensemble on…I’D LIKE TO MATCH YOUR ENSEMBLE! WITH MY PRIVATE PARTS! I know we were once married for a while…I’d like to marry YOU AGAIN FOR A WHILE! IN MY PANTS! Wait…that one…didn’t…

GUY ON CRUTCHES: I may have lost my lower right leg, but at least I still have a jawline and the semblance of intelligence. That poor retard ahead of me is without either. So sad.

This is how I jog. Not to be read on a full stomach.

Alright. When I get to this tree, I’m going to start. I’m going to jog. Here…we…goooo….let’s walk until the stop sign first. Then we’ll jog. Why am I saying ‘we?’ I will jog. Me. Right. Now.

I begin my knock-kneed shuffle/jog.

Easy. This is suuuper easy. I could totally make it around the neighborhood. Here I go into the condo section. Look at those people. Wonder what they’re doing. Don’t look at my jiggly butt, you perverts. Freaks. My shins hurt. Wonder if I have shinsplits? Or is it shinsplints? Shinsplits suck! Dear Lord, my chest! There’s phlegm creeping into my throat from my chest! If I make it to the Asian house, I’m totally going to spit onto the ground like a redneck tobacco girl. I can make it, I can make it, I can make it…right, left, right, left, right, left…I HATE JOGGING THIS SUCKS WHAT AM DOING OUT HERE GOOD GOD I’M GOING TO DIE!!!!!!! Asian house. Time to walk.

This is the part where I walk at a very leisurely pace. I pass my house and take my sweet ol’ time crawling toward the stop sign, where I’ll begin to jog once more.

Already? Ugh. Time..to..start. Alright. Little winded already. I feel like my back fat is flapping. How did I even *get* back fat? Flap, flap, flap. This is good. This is good motivation to keep going. Except that I don’t want to think about my back fat. Or my blobby belly. Uh-oh…condo neighbors. Look down. Don’t look at them. They are judging your back fat. Why are my legs so heavy? It’s not even like I’m lifting them that high off the ground. I’m practically rollerskating with my shuffle jog. I need a better sports bra. WHY AM I SO JIGGLY? Nanananana gettin’ jiggly wit it. Heh. I better not tell Will I made that joke in my head. Asian house. Stop.

This is the part where I apologize for not clarifying the layout of my neighborhood in the first place. Our house is on a loop, probably like your house, except maybe your house is in a grid-like neighborhood. I wouldn’t know because I’ve never been to your house. You’ve never invited me. Our subdivision has a loop, and there’s all sorts of houses and condos on the loop. Three times around the loop makes two miles. I used to think it was one mile, but that was based on crap information from a neighbor who didn’t know what he was talking about (or I misheard him.) Three times is two miles. On this loop is a beautiful house with a decidedly Asian decor. The house is not owned by Asian people. I would not call it the Asian house if it were owned by Asian people. The proof of this fact is that I do not call the house owned by the one Asian family in the neighborhood ‘the Asian house.’ I don’t call it anything. Continuing.

I am so awesome for doing this third lap. I totally could have gone inside, but I didn’t. I’m like a freakin’ athlete or something. What’s that one race people do? Triathloner. I’m like a triathloner but without the swimming or biking or unicycling or whatever those guys do. Time to jog. Oh wow. The wheezing started right away this time. I am not a triathloner. I was only deluding myself. Maybe I could be a biathloner. If the two events were walking and shuffling. Or sitting and reading. Or breathing and blinking. Jog, jog, jog…there’s no way I’m making it to the Asian house. I wonder what people would think if we suddenly made our house into the African house, and put up tribal totems or something in our yard? That would be awesome. Condo people. Yeah, this is my third lap, that’s right, keep staring! I don’t see you out here running your elderly butts around the place! Heh. I said ‘butts.’ And oh…those guys do bike around the neighborhood quite frequently. My bad. They’re actually pretty fit looking. Left, right, left, right…I wonder if my arms look retarded. I never know what to do with them. I run with my arms high up over my head and do spirit fingers the whole way around the neighborhood. Or make longhorn fingers at everyone, like I’m celebrating a UT victory. Ha! I didn’t even go to UT! Asian house. Stop.

One of the funnest parts of Facebook is providing status updates. Some people take it a bit too far. Here are a few of my least popular/overly informative facebook status updates.

Kristi is:

having suicidal thoughts

on her way to the potty.

murderous.

shoplifting.

having an affair with your significant other.

on fire.

amputating her left leg due to gangrene.

selling off her children one by one.

sympathetic towards Nazis.

catching the Katy and leaving you a mule to ride.

probably retarded.

unemployable for reasons you wouldn’t understand because you’re stupid.

*not* holding someone hostage in the crawlspace under her house.

bulimic lol.

homeless on purpose.

napping. Nakedly.

afraid of dwarfs.

menstruating. Thank God!

watching you.

soooooo waaaaaaastttteed hahahahahaha

sniffing glue.

overly fond of crack-cocaine.

smarter than your average whore.

psychologically awesome.

fighting the good fight against diarrhea. And AIDS.

glad she just referenced AIDS in a way that wasn’t tacky.

wondering if her previous mentions of AIDS was, in fact, inappropriate.

satisfied with her AIDS references, as she decided they were a. appropriate and b. uplifting.

I feel like such a loser with this loser barely there blog. I know what you’re thinking if you read Here in Idaho regularly: “Why am I reading Here in Idaho regularly? This is clearly a waste of my precious time. And don’t give me your excuses, Kristi from Here in Idaho! You suck! I hate you!”

But it’s not that I’m *not* writing. I am writing. A lot. It’s that in my big brain full of commercial jingles and snippets of Brady Bunch dialogue and wonderments of what will happen to the Coreys(ies?) I only have so much brain space left to capture cohesive thoughts. And as you can see, even that space is compromised. So my poor little blog has become the proverbial red-headed stepchild of my writing endeavors. And that’s saying a lot, as I hate the phrase ‘red-headed stepchild.’

So here’s the latest scoop on me and my kooky attempt to become a published author:

a. I’m on chapter 4 of the big Palace Sweeper rewrite. CHAPTER 4. Do you understand what a small number 4 is, or how many many many more chapters I have to rewrite? DO YOU? This small number called 4 is very scary, as it has taken me almost a month of rewriting to get to this chapter. Scared, I am, said the girl who sometimes talks like Yoda, even though she hates Star Wars.

b. Meanwhile, back at the Blanche, Devereaux that is, I’m trying to write something called a short story as well. Why? Because I hate myself and I need punishment. And because this guy, a published author who wrote no less than 12 books before getting published, says the unpublished writer needs to get their work read by all sorts of people, including literary magazine editors. And those literary magazine types like short stories. Whatevah.

c. And then there’s Cracked, the only people in the world who actually pay me to write for them. Cracked is cool because of their editorial process. Anyone and their grandma can pitch ideas to the main editor guy. But for every one article I’ve gotten approved, I have about 20 ideas that never got so much as a ‘hey, thanks for trying, but you’re retarded.’ Still, I had a cool conversation with the main editor guy today, who encouraged me to name-drop Cracked when I finally get around to pitching my novel, because people all over the world are reading their very diggable lists. “BELIEVE YOU ME, I WILL.” I said. Then I felt sorry for myself for using that phrasing.

d. And then there’s this, the blog that started it all. The Cracked editor mentioned in the conversation mentioned in point c is actually a published author himself. And his path to publishdom involved him publishing snippets of his horror novel on his blog. He, of course, had a massive following at the time, not the half dozen readers I expect to skim through this particular post and get bored before hitting the conversation in point c. But somehow he had enough interest to attract a vanity publisher, then through his own self promotion and hard work, got enough attention to attract a real publisher. And now he’s published. Here’s his book. The temptation for me is to attempt the same. But I’m not ready yet. The book isn’t ready yet. So we’ll see, my friends, we’ll see.

“You’ve been writing about writing a lot lately. (Sigh.)”
- Will

“I GUESS THAT MAKES THIS A LITERARY BLOG, FOOL! WHO’S THE GENIUS NOW? ME! THAT’S WHO!”
- Me, in my head.

No. I didn’t get my invite to the star-studded and utterly glamorous premiere of The Dark Knight (no thanks to you, Christian Bale. Looks like I should have sent all my hundreds of 3:10 to Yuma fan art to Russell Crowe.) So I haven’t actually seen the movie in a theater yet. No biggie. It turns out there’s this thing called the internet, and if you type in the right words, you can see anything you’ve ever wanted to see in your entire lifetime. Such as this:

Being a member of the ‘computer’ generation, I don’t need no stinkin’ theatrical release to watch The Dark Knight. I just found it on youtube. Here’s the part where I write a serious review of the movie, even though I don’t know how to do that exact task, because I’m not good at paying attention to things that are put in front of me. LOL ADD.

THEME

Let’s begin with the obvious. What was the overall theme, metaphorically speaking, of The Dark Knight? I wouldn’t know because I fell asleep. But I did see those old Batman movies and their themes always had something to do with frequent punning, which also happens to be the themes of all 007 movies. Therefore, the theme of The Dark Knight is probably ‘Don’t do bad things or Batman will scrape your face off.’ Wait. That’s not a pun, is it? And maybe I don’t actually have a good grasp of the world ‘theme.’ Moving on…

SET AND COSTUMES

Oh man, they sucked. They didn’t just suck, they suuuuuuuuuuucked. First of all, why is everyone bowing at the altar of Christopher Nolan and his dark vision for Batman anyway? ‘Oh, Christopher Nolan is soooo brilliant!’ ‘Let’s just worship Christopher Nolan and sell our souls to the devil for the chance to touch the hem of his dark, dark pants!’ ‘I wish both of my parents were dead and Christopher Nolan would adopt me and my siblings!’ These are things I hear in my own household everyday, y’all. Every. Day. But after I watched The Dark Knight, I was gleefully reminded of how easily the mighty may fall. Nolan must have been experimenting with some wackjob timeframe for this particular movie, because the costumes and green screen backdrops all have a early 20th century feel. Which is cool, I guess, if you’re going to give some back story, but Mr. Nolan couldn’t be bothered. Good luck getting that Oscar, chump.

PLOT

Definitely the weirdest part of the movie was trying to follow the plot. It was all over the place. One minute we’re watching a bunch of kids dancing highly choreographed numbers in the middle of New York, the next we’re in medieval England. Maybe I couldn’t follow because I’m not a rocket scientist. Or maybe because I was drunk. Either way, does not compute. For example, check this out this scene where Batman mobilizes his fellow Batmen in a strike against Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst:

It doesn’t make sense, right? Is it me? I *get* that they’re trying to give a realistic portrayal of what life in Gotham (NYC) is really like, and I *get* that spontaneous choreographed street dancing is just part of the gritty day-to-day life in the mean city. Kudos for getting that part right. But, HELLOOOOO, where’s the Batmobile? Or any cars for that matter? And why is EVERYONE wearing a vest? Is this the new Batman costume? Are all those guys Robins? I NEED ANSWERS, CHRISTOPHER NOLAN!

PERFORMANCES

Everyone’s all agog with the late Heath Ledger’s performance. Me, not so much. But more on him in a minute. The true downfall of the entire movie, in my opinion, was Mr. Christian Bale’s ATROCIOUS re-imagining of Bruce Wayne. Gone is the gruff, debonair, reclusive playboy. In is his place is this thickly-Brooklyn-accented song and dance man who can’t walk two blogs without bustin’ a move. Here is a dialect-accurate excerpt from his dialogue:

“Pulitzer and Hoist have to respect the rights of the woiking boys of New Ywoik!”

Wowza. He must be using what they call ‘method acting.’ And who are all these other little Batmen? And where are their masks? And, ps, they suck at catching bad guys…they aren’t even trying! Seriously, this is probably the worst movie I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And I’ve seen Xanadu.

On to Mr. Heath Ledger. Oscar schmoscar. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I’ll just pretend that rule doesn’t exist when I say this fool did NOT deliver an Oscar worthy performance in The Dark Knight. I’d stake my youngest child on that fact. Seriously. Someone come and get her if he wins that Oscar. But he won’t. Because his Joker was so ridiculously unbelievable that the Oscar folks would have to be high out of their minds to give him an award for it. I keep seeing reviews using the words ‘mesmerizing’ and ‘psychotic’ and ‘Dear God above, was Heath Ledger actually your son return to earth and we blew it again?’ But when I watch this clip of The Joker teaching everyone The Joker Dance I just see a charming bloke faking his way through medieval society. (looks up to heaven) Where’s the angst, Mr. Ledger?

Clearly, Mr. Nolan doesn’t know what the hellz he’s doing when it comes to making movies. Clearly, I am the only one on earth who sees through his charade. And in conclusion, I clearly deserve that Oscar for pointing out the farcicalness of all this Batmania. The end.

And oh yeah, I give it four stars.

*****

First of all, say the words ‘invention camp’ and tell me you don’t just pee yourself with the excitement and promise those words hold. Seriously. The fact that my son did not actually create some sort of teleportation device last week has left me mildly disappointed. I had that much hope for invention camp.

Here’s the story of invention camp, herefortowith called IC, and how we came to send our son and about $176 of our dollars in its direction:

1. The not-young man in the picture is named Dr. Forrest Bird. The dr. part is not an honorary title or jive-talkin’ nickname. He is an actual doctor, as well as an actual world famous inventor.

2. This is the Bird Aviation Museum, which was opened with much fanfare and hubbub last year. The Bird Aviation Museum hosted it’s first IC this year. The camp sold out, with many, many children on the waiting list to participate.

3. This is Charlie. He wants to be an inventor when he grows up.

4. This is me, clearly. I am the richest duck in Sandpoint and I have no problem whatsoever shelling out my hard earned (Will’s) moneybags to help my children realize their dreams

So Charlie went to invention camp, which was incredibly cool. No, he didn’t create a teleportation device. He and his buddy created A LEVITATIONAL DEVICE. BEHOLD:

It’s just a prototype, they assured us. That’s why it didn’t work. He also created a roller-coaster, an amusement park ride, a super cushioned car that safely housed an egg during a demolition derby, and made me a smoothie with his muscle-power:

So it was pretty much the best week of his life, EVAH. EV-to-the-ER.

I’m struggling with this revision* I’ve got to do. S-t-r-u-g-g-l-i-n-g. Last week I realized that I wasn’t accomplishing what I thought I was accomplishing, which was creating enough danger and tension in my story to compel the reader to keep going. I imagined a reader getting to the third chapter and saying, ‘So what?’ and putting down the novel, which is exactly what I do when I get bored with a book. Like Pride and Prejudice.

So I reworked the plot and now I’ve got to go and actually write the chapters that fit in with the new plot. Ugggghhhhh. I don’t want to do it. I really don’t want to do it. But it has to be done.

I wish I had a word for the role that my husband plays in this process. The best word I have is ‘doubter.’ Like when I finished, I thought I had something great. He doubted it. Not because he doesn’t think I’m capable of something great, but because what he had read thus far didn’t meet the greatness mark. Part of me becoming a writer is teaching him how to be a critic without crushing my soul. He’s coming along. We’re on the same page today (heh) because he sent me to these videos.

This is Mr. Ira Glass, the creator of This American Life, talking to some unknown personage about the craft of creating a story. But it’s not the creating the story part that gets me in the gut. It’s the part about how much crap you create before you are good enough to make the story you know you want to make. Thanks, Mr. Ira Glass. I needed to hear this. If you only listen to one, listen to the third one.

*I wrote a novel. It’s not great yet.

You know I’m a sucker for ANTM. Also, BNTM, ANTM but the A is for Australia, and Project Runway. Except that I exempt Project Runway for reality tv trashing because Project Runway features genuinely talented people who do fantastical things with scissors and fabric and also candy wrappers. And Project Runway seems to attract interesting people who are funny enough to make me laugh and smart enough to make me envy them. But enough about my obsession with gay fashion designers.

The crazy thing about these shows is not just that people are so eager to become famous, or are so willing to confess all things about themselves into a soulless camera, or even that they’ve deluded themselves into thinking that winning a televised competition is inherently a good thing, although these are all very kooky aspects of reality television. No…the craziest thing is the reality-speak that has arisen from these shows. The best, of course is the ‘I’m not here to make friends’ speech, which makes me think it would be totally awesome if there was, in fact, a show that just revolved around strangers becoming friends. Maybe they could make friendship bracelets and braid each other’s hair and the boys could get matching tattoos and call each other ‘brah.’ That is what boys do when they are friends with each other, isn’t it?

So this reality speak prompts me to wonder: Are kids who have grown up watching reality shows speaking into phantom cameras, justifying their actions to an audience who isn’t there, practicing huffy eye rolling and otherwise ridiculous gestures for when the time comes that they get to make the pronouncement ‘I’m not here to make friends?’ Probably not. Except, look at how easy people ease into these camera-in-your-face shows. And how readily they lock themselves into the confession rooms to vent about their problems. Their REALLY BIG EARTH-SHATTERING problems. Like how that one girl better ‘watch herself ‘cuz she’s gettin’ on my last nerve.’ Or how, shock of all shocks, some people aren’t cleaning up after themselves in the house. These are things that are worthy of alone time with a video camera.

And the worst part is that I still watch. I eat that stuff up like it’s a carne guisada taco smothered in cheese, or perhaps a chorizo and egg breakfast taco, with a Dr Pepper on the side. I’m hungry.

I don’t, however, watch The Coreys. God love The Coreys. Only because it’s just heartbreakingly awful to see formerly famous people whore themselves out for the sake of becoming famous again. And there’s no competition or prizes…come ON. Who am I supposed to root for? Hint: the bandanna and the army patch.

Back to the original video up there. ‘I’m not here to make friends,’ they say. They are there to hook up with Flava Flav and to impress Tyra Banks and to not get eliminated and have to return to their lives of enormous normalcy and therefore shame. And you can’t blame them for that, can you?