My sister, Maureen, told us over the weekend that her two little boys, Sam and Jake, were going through a real whiny stage and that it was driving her husband, Kenny, out of his mind. He had tried everything to make them stop their nasalizing, but they kept at it, like an ice pick in the ear. 

At his wit's end, Kenny stooped to old-fashioned male chauvinism by calling Sam, "Samantha," and Jake, "Jacqueline," when they came at him whimpering. It really rankled Jakie, the younger of the two, and one time, when things were calm, he approached his dad and said, "I really hate it when you call me Jacqueline." Kenny, psyched that he was making some progress said, "I figured you would. I was just trying to get you to stop whining." Jakie said, "Okay. Do you think you could call me Jessica instead?"

Unlike many of you, I am still partying today, even though it's Monday.  That's because it's my sister Julie's 50th birthday.  We are staying in a hotel that, though reasonably priced, has high tech amenities for people who must be insane.  Like this tv in my bathroom mirror.

What kind of un-fun person wouldn't make her family wait for an hour in the lobby while she got these photos just right?  



Here I am blow-drying Paula Dean's Hair. 

I think I really nailed the bangs.

 

 

This is me as Jeremy Irons as Claus von Bulow.

I'm glad he was pleased.

The poof lifespan of a goldfish makes it a rotten pet, but when Margot and Greta were little, I let them bring one home if they a) won an award or b) insisted.  I warned the girls about this flaw in the nature of house-carp, but they always convinced me that they could man up if push came to flush.  So with this species' Achilles heel in mind, we named our first goldfish "Indy," which was an acronym for "I'm Not Dead Yet."  When he/she became dead, I gave a touching eulogy, in which the fish was renamed Nid, an acronym for "Now I'm Dead."  

In my commemorative speech, I remembered Then-Indy's finest quality, which was his/her petit(e) stature.  I thanked him/her for not growing to the a size of a koi fish, because koi fish make me gag. Most of them are grotesquely oversized for their artificial environments, and they look pathetic, like Clydesdales rolling around in a jumpy castle.  Koi are actual fish right? Yet they seem to be always gulping for air.  They are the Jabba the Hutts of the fish kingdom, the embodiment of gluttony.  They look up at you as though to say, "Lady, check again. There's gotta be another fortune cookie in your coat pocket." 

After my speech, we closed the lid of the toilet.  But before we pushed the handle, we opened it again because what kind of freaks don't want to watch that spiral thing happen to whatever they're flushing? 

I was at the vet today, sitting tight and trying to keep my dog from biting other sick animals.  Boredom set in and I began to read the inspirational animal art on the walls, starting with one that had the caption, "We humans are indeed fortunate if we happen to be chosen to be owned by a cat." I snapped a photo of it quickly because I didn't want anyone to see me snapping a photo of it.

I don't want to sound negative, so I'll just state that, obviously, I can't say enough about this framed print. And it may surprise you to know that its element that stood out the most for me was the word "indeed." Let's face it, most of the time, "indeed" is a snooty and unnecessary addition. Put it in any sentence, and it's like all the other words were having a great time at a party until Indeed came along and started counting everybody's drinks. Indeed is kind of a bitch who comments on your hair and then leaves you rolling your eyes as she sashays off after educating you about something lofty, like French film.

Okay, wait a minute. Indeed is really starting to sound like a girl's name to me, like Indira, or Sinead. You could name a baby Indeed, especially if you wanted to stick it to people who refused to believe you were actually pregnant. Which somehow reminds me of that fantastic tombstone that reads, "I told you I was sick!"

I'd just like to add that, in the expression, "yes indeedy," the word "indeed" loses some of its big talk.  Yes Indeedy is who Indeed becomes on the rare occasion that she has too much loudmouth at a cocktail party. Still annoying, but flaky and easier to brush off.  

Here are three quick reasons why I'll miss Greta next fall when she goes to art school:

On any given day, if I become mildly confused about the matter at hand, Greta will grab me firmly by the shoulders, spin me around so that we are face to face, and say in an urgent, but hushed tone, "Listen to me. You're in the hospital."

After dinner one night, Greta asked Margot, "Hey, will you empty the dishwasher for me?" Margot became indignant and refused. Greta said, "Okay, okay. Geez, I was trying to get you to do something nice for me and this is the thanks I get."

Greta walked into the kitchen on a rainy day looking glum. She said, "I'm sick of my routine. When I got into the shower this morning, I thought, 'Oh no, not you again.'"

Here's a great new party idea. If your friends say that they want to throw you a birthday bash, and they ask you what kind of cake you want, just say, "Hmm, well, if it's all the same to you guys, I'd rather have a trifle." For those of you who don't know what a trifle is, it looks like this:

At the party, after everyone sings "Happy Birthday To You" to you, make sure you are at the wheel during dessert divvying. Then, begin scooping trifle on the plates, but before you pass them, take a large bite of each friend's portion.  People will be amazed by what you are doing. 

This is exactly the kind of thing that happened at a birthday party that was held last Saturday in my honor. To be fair, it was my sister, Julie, who leaned in and whispered the idea in my ear. But the dramatic and fork-free execution of the concept, and the hearty stick-to-itiveness of eating a dense dessert item from the plates of so many people? That was all me. The party quickly took on a new and different vibe, memories were surely made, and it was a real shame that lots of my friends had to go home then, when I was having such a great time. 

Note: If you plan to attempt this at your own birthday party, it's important to understand that it will not work with birthday cake. People become possessive of cake slices and may find your actions disappointing and gross. 

Dear Natasha: 

Why do I blog about you so often -- our rapidly-growing, red-eared slider turtle -- while I rarely mention our two, furry mammal pets called dogs that are way more entertaining?  I guess it's guilt. I feel guilty that I shunned you when you were given to us. It was rotten of me to tell Margot that I didn't want a turtle, and that I wouldn't lift a finger to help care for you.  And to make matters worse, I said all that knowing that you were in red-ear shot. I'm also contrite that I never asked how you were feeling when your partner, Boris, died in your shared tank, though I'm guessing it was something like shell shock.

But to be completely frank, Natasha, I still have some big issues with you. I googled "why is my turtle becoming frantic, swimming up against the glass of her/his aquarium, whenever we walk by?" I get it now -- this is how you people beg for food. Listen, for someone like me who cares about how everyone in the room is feeling, even the reptiles, this behavior is unnerving. True, our Scottie and Westie make themselves available whenever I open the refrigerator, but that doesn't get under my skin because it's part of the deal when you have dogs. Plus, unlike you, they give back to us by doing that hilarious imitation of those crazy, horned animals charging into each other on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.

And hey, I might as well tell you now that, when I was googling to learn more about the harebrained manner in which you're now conducting yourself, I also learned that at some point during your preposterously-long-for-a-pet lifespan, you will grow to expect a 90-gallon tank like the one shown below in this homesick photograph:

An example of the 90-gallon aquarium
that will come into my house over my dead body.

Tilda Swinton, take heed.

Natasha, we have heard that some animals grow to the size of their habitats. If that's true, and it probably isn't, it's creepy and I'm so grateful that we humans have set some boundaries in this regard. Nonetheless, your 20-gallon aquarium is perfectly adequate for your current size (one gallon for each inch of your shell, if you didn't know), so it would be a good idea for you to settle in where you are, size-wise. Anything larger would be unacceptable for me, decor-wise. 

I hope we understand each other. 

Love you girlfriend/bro,

Correspondence Con

                                         

Maybe parental jail time is a common fear among little kids.  Margot went through a period when all she could think about was Bo or me getting "pootened in jail." My childhood worries were legitimate though, because our dad was just one slip of the tongue away from being put on ice. He was in the military intelligence game at Fort Meade, MD, just outside of Washington, D.C. We couldn't know what he did at work, but we did understand that he'd get in big trouble if he sang at the dinner table. Then there we'd be, five little kids, watching as the g-men took him away in handcuffs. They'd push down his head as he slid into the back of their Crown Vic. In my mind, this scenario was unavoidable, because who could keep important stuff like that bottled up?

Sometimes, our dad needed to go out of town, to undisclosed locations. Our mom would throw out ideas about where he was going by analyzing the contents of his suitcase -- "Cotton sweater. Light khakis. Red polo. I'm guessing Gibraltar." But our dad had been trained for this kind of situation and he didn't have a "tell." How frustrating for him, not to have been able to slap her on the back if she ever pinpointed his destination.

If his car was in the shop and he needed a ride home, our mom would take us over to pick him up at Fort Meade's secured office buildings. We didn't mind going because it was always entertaining. At five o'clock every evening, the Marine Guard would march out in lock step and ceremoniously lower and fold the flag while a bugler played Taps. But that's not what was entertaining. The entertaining part was watching from our car, as grown men and women, dressed in fancy work clothes and clutching briefcases, ran like elks out of the building at 4:57 p.m., hellbent on bypassing the flagpole and getting into their cars before the ritual commenced. Anyone who was upright and within eye shot of the observance was obligated to stand at attention and wait until the whole thing was over.

In fairness, those bureaucratic runners had just clocked in at least eight hours of government service, and they must have figured enough was enough. And believe me, it was a real bummer for us kids if my dad screwed up the timing, leaving us waiting in the car for hours (minutes), while he stood there with his hand over his heart. Years later, after my dad had retired, my little nephew, Sam, asked him if he missed being a spy, and also, what did he ever do with his mask, weapons, and jet pack?

When I spilled coffee on a check that Julie and Chris wrote to me, I knew I was going to really pay for it. This will take months to rectify. 

From: connie "wilsterman@con.net" 
Date: Friday, April 12, 2013 11:50 AM
To: Christine McDade <Christine.McDade@inf.org>, Julie Heneberry <julie_heneberry@wg.org>
Subject: Check

Hey guys.  The check that you wrote me for $450 for the New York weekend was involved in a spill and the bank rejected and shredded it.  I don't know if you are willing to write me another check to replace it.  Maybe you can meet about this and let me know.  Con

From: Julie Heneberry julie_heneberry@wg.org
Sent: Tuesday, April 16, 2013 9:46 AM
To: wilsterman@con.net; Christine McDade
Subject: Re: Check

We can't be held accountable for the irresponsible actions of others.  We wrote you a check.  We've done what we can.

From: Christine McDade <Christine.McDade@inf.org>
Date: Tuesday, April 16, 2013 10:12 AM
To: Julie Heneberry <julie_heneberry@wg.org>, "wilsterman@con.net" 
Subject: RE: Check

This is going to be a real problem for us.  We told our auditors this already cleared and now you are going to make real asses of us, not to mention liars.  You’re going to need to write us a check for $450 to resolve the matter.  Thanks

From: Christine McDade Christine.McDade@inf.org
Date: Wednesday, April 17, 2013 2:30 PM
To: Julie Heneberry <julie_heneberry@wg.org>, "wilsterman@con.net"
Subject: RE: Check

Connie,

Has this been taken care of yet?  Your up-in-the-air lifestyle doesn't work for most of us.  We have busy lives.  We can't just put life on hold and while we try to track this thing.   We're going to need to make some calls, make a change to our check book – this is taking a lot of our valuable time.  Please make the check to us for $500.  

This upside down, backwards "e" is the symbol for schwa -- the vowel sound that happens when we say a word's weaker syllable(s). The schwa sound is a quick "uh."

The "a" in sofa is schwa

The "e" in travel is schwa

The "i" in family is schwa

 The "o" in dinosaur is schwa

  The "u" in particular is schwa

"Schwa" is a cool word that we can't say a lot, because who wants to talk about grammar in order to interject it into conversations? So let's extend schwa's use by broadening its message of weakness to other realms.  For instance, if you're finding my grammar-related topic boring, you could tell someone, "Her blog post on schwa was the schwa of her blog posts." It would also work when speaking about certain relationships, as in, "Poor Carol is certainly the schwa of that couple."  Along these lines, you could say, not out loud, that "Walks With Schwa" is the perfect Indian name for someone who is saddled with a lackluster spouse.

Margot was four and Greta had just turned three when their oldest cousin, James, went off to summer camp for a couple of weeks. His

mom said that we were allowed to send emails, which was a very progressive thing at the time. One day Margot said she wanted to write to him, and she asked me if I would type it out for her. She believed that he was in misery because he was in a strange place without his family. While she was saying her letter, she tried to put a good face on things, but she just couldn't pull it off.  

Greta wanted to write to James because Margot did. She was just coming off a jag where she went around hitting people and I guess she thought she'd take a stab at dictation. It was her first correspondence of this nature, and she managed to touch on some key words that someone would expect to find in a letter. She asked me if I was writing it all down like she was saying it, and I told her not to worry. I couldn't sound this crazy if I tried.  

It's Monday morning, and I'm writing this post to educate the people of Massachusetts, many of whom are sleeping right now, about why they have the day off. Today is Patriots' Day, a holiday only celebrated in Massachusetts and Maine.  Over the weekend, I asked a lot of well-educated people, some of whom are paying their employees to take today off, "What event does Patriots' Day commemorate?" and no one could pinpoint it.

So as a public service, I decided to answer the question, and to provide an explanation for my readers. However, since I have the day off, I didn't want to spend a lot of time doing boring research. Whenever I'm in this situation, I add the words, "for kids," after the subject I'm googling.  In this case it was, "The Battle of Lexington and Concord for kids." This way, you get the gist of the thing, plus easy vocabulary, in one paragraph. Also, these websites gloss over the hideous details one might find when researching topics like "war for adults," by calling bloody fighting and extensive casualties "skirmishes," or by mentioning that "shots were fired," for example.

Here is the upshot of the Battle of Lexington and Concord from socialstudiesforkids.com: 

"First shots fired between American and British troops, on April 19, 1775.  The British chose to march to Concord because it was an arms depot.  This meant that the Americans had stockpiled weapons there. British troops had occupied Boston and were marching on Concord as they passed through Lexington.  No one is still sure who fired first, but it was the "Shot Heard 'Round the World." Both sides opened fire, and the Americans were forced to withdraw. But they had slowed the British advance.  By the time the Redcoats got to Concord, the Americans were waiting for them in force. The weapons depot was saved, and the British were forced to retreat, harassed by militiamen along the way.  The skirmishes were preceded by Paul Revere's famous ride, warning the countryside: "The British are coming!"

I like to hang out with my sister Julie and her partner Chris because they often consider topics that you can't delve into with most people. For instance, last night we learned that Chris will always cover for Julie if she gets mixed up with the law, unless she somehow wanders into the areas of child abuse, serial killing (one murder is okay), or treason.

Treason got a big laugh because it's so old world that lots of us don't worry about it.  She might as well have said, "I'd leave Julie if she ever became a tosher (someone who scratched a living by scavenging Victorian sewers) or a mudlark (someone who scratched a living by scavenging river banks at low tide)." We asked Chris to give us an example of a treasonous act for which she'd turn Julie in and she said, "I'll know it when I see it."  

So, what's the difference between plain old treason and high treason? In the past, regular treason was committing a crime against a social superior, like a wife killing a husband, or a slave killing a master. High treason was a crime against the crown. But we don't have a king in our country, so high treason and treason become the same thing and killing your boss gets bumped down to just murder. And remember, one murder is okay.

As I came down the straight away on my road this morning, I saw that someone had left a giant ramp at the foot of our driveway. My brother used to make ramps just like this for our bikes when we were little, and I wondered, for a split second, if he had come up from Baltimore and built it for me, just to spice up my day. You'd probably kill yourself if you sped up and hit this thing at 40 miles an hour. On the other hand, you'd have to be half-dead not to think about how fun it would be.

A few summers ago, we went to a friend's house for a 4th of July party. To help create a patriotic mood, she draped the front of her house in flag bunting, like this:

I told Julie and Chrissy that flag bunting depresses me.  They asked me why and I said, "I don't know.  It just makes me feel funny and I hate it." The following Sunday, when I returned from a weekend trip, my house was covered in flag bunting. That was a good one, you guys, but the exposure therapy was ineffective. However, it did make me wonder why bunting leaves me sweating bullets.

Well, it turns out we can blame Ford's Theatre in Washington, D.C. -- the place where Lincoln got shot.  The realization dropped on me like John Wilkes Booth when I was there last summer with my sister, Maureen, and my eight-year-old niece, Ellie. I grew up in Washington, and I went to Ford's Theatre on field trips so many times that I could have been a docent.  Reliving Lincoln's death scared me when I was a little girl, and every time I took the tour, I prayed that things would work out differently for President Lincoln. What I'd forgotten after all this time is that his box seats were crawling with bunting.

After exiting through the gift shop that day, the three of us were feeling a little blue. Then Ellie looked up the street and saw Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. We had such a good time in there that I was sorry I'd always told my kids you had to be 18 to be admitted.  All of the wax presidents are patient and accommodating about posing with you for photos.  Best of all was that I got to live out my childhood dream of stopping Abraham Lincoln's murder. 

On our quest to understand stuff, yesterday we ripped through boxes, and today we'll cover zones.  A zone is the opposite of a box because everyone wants to be in the zone, while everyone wants to be out of the box. But heads up people, and beware of something that can happen to you when you're in the zone. The sense of satisfaction and contentment that you are feeling means that you've now somehow entered your comfort zone -- a place you should definitely get out of.  So now what? Hint: To stay in the zone and out of your comfort zone at the same time, you'll have to think out of the box.  Don't worry, you'll find it.   

Previously, we identified soil as a real unsung hero. And I think that boxes also fall into that category. Boxes are the chumps of the packing world because they are only as good as the things they are holding for us. A box of rocks: Nobody likes that.  A box of candy: Everybody likes that. A box of rock candy:  Everybody likes that during the Depression.  

Boxes must have been crushed by the popularization of "thinking out of the box," which is a way of putting pressure on human beings to solve tough problems for their bosses. The words, "think out of the box" are usually prefaced with the words, "C'mon people!" The shredded creative thinking these words produce can be used as packing material for boxes.

I get math anxiety whenever someone asks me to think out of the box. This is because, when I learned about the concept at my first job, it was explained with the help of a puzzle called "Nine Dots."  As you will see, The Nine Dot Puzzle is a word problem in disguise.

Connect all dots below with four straight lines without lifting your pencil. 

Scroll down for the solution.

I've never made anyone do this before.

When's the best time to go to the dentist?

2:30 (Tooth Hurt-y)

Sorry, you'll never think of 2:30 the same, ever. Believe me.

Okay, here is the annoying solution to Nine Dots.*

*Get it? Had you been thinking out of the box, or had you been a civil engineer, you would have figured out this simple geometry problem puzzle.  C'mon people!

Though we're not famous comedians, my sister Julie and I have both made celebrities laugh. This is a very cool thing for us and we like to brag about it when we can work it into a conversation. 

Well, since you asked, one time, we were on Martha's Vineyard, in a little village called Menemsha. I was elected to go to Larsen's Fish Market to get some oysters. And though I thought twice about it, I decided to bring my cocktail along in a red plastic cup. When it was my turn in line, the guy who was doing the shucking said to me, "Hey, why did you write the word 'Amish' on your cup?" And I said, "Because I don't want people to know about all the alcohol in it."  The guy behind me laughed, and when I looked around, I saw Tony Shalhoub, the actor who played Monk, the obsessive/compulsive detective. I smiled at him, turned back around, set my drink on the counter and locked my arms together so no hugging would happen.

All right then, one other time, Julie, her partner Chrissy, and I were in Paris, walking down a dark street, late at night. Two women approached us from the other direction and it became apparent that it was Lily Tomlin and her partner, Jane Wagner. If you are too young to know how cool this is -- imagine coming face to face with Ellen DeGeneres and her wife, Portia De Rossi. Julie, who is always adorable, literally froze in her tracks, put her hands up to mouth and said, "Oh, oh, oh." Lily smiled at her and asked us what we were doing out so late.  I snapped the photo below. As you can see, Julie somehow found her way into Lily Tomlin's coat, where some hugging may have happened.

Chris, Jane, Lily and Julie

We said goodbye, figuring that was going to be the best part of our trip.  Well, guess what? It wasn't, because the next night, in a restaurant on the other side of the city, those two ladies came in right behind us. Lily Tomlin said, "Hey, aren't you the girls we saw on the street last night?"  And I said, "Yes we are. And we've heard about you celebrity stalkers." She laughed, and we talked for a bit. As they walked away to their table, Julie said, "We'll see you girls tomorrow!" Another laugh.     

If it's your turn to have your friends over for dinner this weekend, but you're feeling like squashing it because of crippling exhaustion, just text this to your invitees: "Thought I'd just throw down a ham." Then sit back and watch as the regrets roll in. Why? Because people under 60 will do anything to stay out of ham's way. These are the same people who celebrate ham's cousin by walking around in t-shirts that say, "You had me at bacon." So what's our beef with ham?*

Here's what I came up with after doing exhausting researching in my own head.

1) People don't really mind the ham, but are afraid of side dishes like jello salad, macaroni and tater tot casserole.

2) Some people won't eat ham for religious reasons. God knows why, but it's easier not to mess around with it.

2) Ham slices are pink.  Pink meat is undercooked.  Undercooked pork will give you trichina worms. Nobody wants that.

3) Leftovers. Even if you are a guest at a ham-based dinner party, you will need to deal with them.  Hence the old adage, "The definition of eternity is two people and a ham."

4) Association with holiday family dinners, when you are a little girl wearing tights and itchy lace. Plus, before eating, sitting across the living room from your maiden aunt whose condition makes leg crossing uncomfortable, exposing you, your brother and sisters to a new and terrifying underworld of lady legs, hosiery, fasteners, girdles and garters. The plus side of this is that every year, after your dad returns from dropping her off, he commiserates with these words, 

"Brave men wept." 

*I really like ham.

Happy that she played a role in my embarrassing story from yesterday's blogpost, my sister Julie has challenged me to write that, one time, about two years ago, I accidentally put a can of Bud Light into Margot's school lunch, thinking it was Polar Selzer. In my defense, it was really early in the morning, the two products have the same blue can, and I grabbed it hastily from a low lying crisper drawer, where seltzer lives in our refrigerator.  This could have happened to anybody, even a morning person, like me.  

Margot called me as Julie and I were driving up to Boston. "Mom, you put a Bud in my lunch," she said, and I heard her friends laugh. As I soaked that in, she hung up hastily because she had to get to her next class. Then I panicked because Margot's high school has a zero tolerance policy for drugs and alcohol. And any news of on-premises beer can leak quickly in a small school. So for her own good, and because I have an irrational fear of juvie, I felt obligated to call the principal and turn Margot in.

I was actually turning myself in, but in any case, it was kind of a big deal.  The beverage that had started out the day as a can of seltzer, then morphed into a can of light beer, was now liquid crack cocaine. Margot was called into the office and then sent to her locker to collect the contraband and turn it in.  And though they weren't mad at her, a lock down situation is stressful and not something you want to be the cause of. When I saw her later that day, she said that she wasn't mad at me and that it wasn't too much of an ordeal, except for the cavity search for the other five beers.

When the principal called me to ask if I wanted to come in and collect the beer, I declined sheepishly, saying, "No, really, this one's on me."  

It's great for me to have my younger sister Julie close by, because she likes to tell people mortifying stories about me from the good old days. And apparently, when I was little, out of the five of us kids, I was the know it all. She was willing to learn things from me though, because she was three years younger and she looked up to me. Only too bad for her because I never knew what I was talking about.

So, whenever we are out with friends and Julie starts a sentence with the words, "One time," I get really nervous. Like yesterday, she was very happy to share that, one time, when she was seven and I was 10, she walked out of her room and saw me with my ear to the closed door of the room I shared with our older sister Barb. Our mom and Barb were in there talking really seriously, and Barb seemed super upset. I was having trouble hearing, and though I picked up on some key words, I had to leave a lot to speculation. 

Right then, Julie came down the hall. I put my finger to my lips so she'd stay quiet.  But she kept tugging on my shirt because she wanted to know what was going on in there. So I took her by the arm and we went downstairs and around the corner. It was then that I leaned down and said, "Listen kiddo, Barb just got her period, and now we're all in trouble." 

Like I was saying the other day, when you're little, and your name is "Constance," it stinks because you can't find your name on bike license plates in the kind of gift shops that also sell tomahawks.  It wasn't until I got a lot older that I started to appreciate the flexibility and power of my name in its shortened form, "Con."  

It started a few years ago, on a late October camping trip to Vermont, when I was renamed, "Camping Con."  Camping Con starts most sentences with, "Raise your hand if..." or "Okay, everyone name your favorite..." Apparently, she is really into unifying the group, which explains all the calls for votes. Camping Con can make appearances at family dinners, especially if someone lights off a ton of candles, so actual camping is optional. 

I was rightfully accused of being Camping Con last night when I said this at dinner:  "Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Easter Sunday -- that weekend was an emotional roller coaster for the people who lived through it.  Everyone name a high point and a low point.  Starting on my left.  Please pass the ham." 

Camping Con is closely associated with Cocktail Con, Shock-A-Con and Crying Con (mostly in that order).