Here are the lovely things about being at home during the weekdays:

• No one talks to you. Sure, you can talk on the phone, but that’s easy to screen if you are not in the mood (which is 98% of the time). You can initiate when you feel you may have spent too long without talking to an adult (and then blather on about god knows what to the poor soul who took your call. Sometimes you can hear them shifting phone around or nodding politely, or, say, typing an email as you tell them some very very interesting story about your gym class. But you power through that.). But you can also have DEAD SILENCE all day. It is bliss.
• No one wants to know what you are doing for lunch and/or questions why you are ordering lunch when we have lunch materials in the refrigerator (see: on a new budget, but more on that some other time).
• The apartment is tidy because you tidied up and no one is around to mess up your handiwork. There are not clothes on the bedroom floor (as in YOUR bedroom, the one that was so perfect when you lived alone. Who knew this would be the problem room, says your once OCD self, but alas, you married it). Why are there no clothes on the floor? Because you have (yet again) have kumbaya-ed your way into picking clothes up since you do not believe in “grey area” clothes (the ones certain people call not “really dirty or clean” thus grey and thus amass in a pile on floor while their fate is determined), particularly when it comes to the male portion of population. To be fair, sometimes your “picking up” involves shoving said clothes under his side of the bed with the edge of your toe, but I digress.
• You don’t need to listen to anyone chewing lunch/talking on phone at volume 11 in your presence (see: Noise blog)
• You are alone. ALONE! No one is calling your name, no one says mommy every 8 seconds, no one is asking for your opinion or where something is (like, say, the milk. Really, have been asked that question). It’s just you.

And then…..your spouse takes the plunge and starts a new company, and he’s home too.

There are certain things that I do that can only be filed under “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Or “if you want an enormous sucker/ consummate consumer, I have your girl.”

Time and time again I tell myself not to do any/all of the below. I will swear (inwardly) that I have finally learned my lesson. Then I will proceed as if I have never before done the action, always with the same result.

1) Switch beauty products. I find a product I like after trying/rejecting many other more expensive (and sometimes cheaper) options. Let’s take concealer as an example. I finally have my semi life changing product that actually hides the flaws without looking like heavy, claustrophobia-inducing make-up (at least in my mind’s eye). Then I read an article about another concealer or a friend tells me she has “the best” concealer. I start to question my trusty choice, even though that gal has never let me down. I then purchase and (immediately) loathe the new product. It sits on my shelf for some time while I convince myself I will one day use it. I never use it. I then donate it and feel somewhat heroic.

2) Buy my kids clothes without asking if they like the item. Apparently what I think is cute and what a 9 yo girl and 6 yo boy find cute/acceptable are not one and the same at least 25% of the time. Boy is generally okay with my choices except when he’s not. It’s annoying that they have opinions.

3) Take advantage of a sale when I don’t need anything from that particular store. Sure, I can use an extra t-shirt, but inevitably it’s for the kids and then please see above. It’s extra special when the item is on “final” sale and then does not fit.

4) Feel certain I can still fit into a size small top. I cannot. But I have some old shirts that are small and must have stretched and thus I do not ever learn lesson.

5) Buy too much fruit. Especially raspberries which get mold approximately 80% of the time if you don’t eat them the day or maybe minute you buy them.

6) Fail to notice that an item on amazon prime is what can be only be called “aimed at those with enormous storage areas.” Am still making way though the 12 bottles of clorox I accidentally bought 3 years ago. I’ve also done this with soap, toothpaste and sunblock.

7) Order jeans online. Have yet to keep a pair, I know it doesn’t work….yet I have 3 pairs packed up to be returned as I type.

The other day as I strolled up Broadway, I saw the facade of an old restaurant – Teachers Too. In scraping off the facade another failed store, somehow this gem was revealed. That’s right, people, Broadway used to have establishments other than banks and drugstores. Seeing that signage brought me back to my youth and made me nostalgic for what felt like a simpler time (will be writing about my 1970s parenting style soon).

I am happy to be raising my kids in this city, but sad sad that my kids will never have the city I had. Here is the NYC (slash Upper West Side) they will not have:
The grit. Okay, I don’t miss the litter and the non-AC subway cars (if you want to know a small hell, it’s riding through NYC subway tunnels without air conditioning. Hell was dimmed by opening the windows. Have blocked out what I may/may not have inhaled on those journeys). I miss the graffiti (the good kind, the art that could be really beautiful). I do miss the flavor, the heavy accents, the diversity. Pre gentrification, people of all races seemed to actually – go figure – live on the same block. At least in my neck of the woods. Or maybe they didn’t and I just wish they did but right now, while there is some diversity in my kids’ schools, there is exactly one black person in my 64 apartment building. There might also be one Asian woman but I don’t think so. We do have a mix of jews and gentiles, though maybe not on my particular floor.

PIX. Pix on WB channel 11 was the best game ever. It was like space invaders game you called into, but to get your guy to shoot the “invader” you had to say “Pix” into the phone Some lucky kids – no one I knew – got picked as callers. The smart kids said “pix” as many times and as quickly as they could. The sorry losers tried to time it just right and inevitably said pix way, way too late.  I felt bad for them, they had no game.

Unique Boutique, P.S I love you, Eyeore’s bookstore, Steve’s cookies, David’s cookies, Diane’s (gave up meat there, but still, great burger joint), Tower Records and so many more independent stores. Now there is nothing on Broadway that distinguishes it from any given mall and the only remnants of my youth are Harry’s shoes and westside Judaica. I don’t think I’m exaggerating. Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues might be slightly better, but not really.

Tokens. Yes, metro cards are convenient, but tokens were awesome. That they changed in shape/size was awesome. Knowing to ask for a transfer on the bus made you feel efficient – you knew what was up – and busses were 25 cents on Sundays. I am starting to sound like your grandpa who walked through snow to school, but there was something uniquely New York about the old system. Today, not so much.

The one where kids have some independence and just like the burbs, kids could travel alone or with friends and they were not the only ones doing so. Recently, my doorman asked me not to let my 9 and 6 yo ride the elevator alone. From the lobby to our apartment. Bucking his advice, I have been letting my 9 year-old run errands (and for the record, she was still 8 when I let her), and I can tell some people think I’m too lax. I also have left them in their seats at the New Victory theater while I run to the bathroom (I know some of you — you know who you are –  are having a heart-attack right now. Hi!). Back in the day, I rode my bike down the street, neighbors looked out for each other (or so it felt as a kid) and my two requirements as I was allowed more and more freedom were to 1) call when I arrived and 2) carry a dime (and then a quarter, just so I don’t sound even older than I actually am) to make a phone call from a phone booth should that need arise. And guess what – I survived and was more independent and confident for it. While I am willing to send my girl on local errands, I don’t want to be some crazy pioneer freak and have her be the only 4th grade traveling alone to school though I am confident she could.

Maybe the city is safer now, but it’s missing a lot of what made Old York so great.

Okay. I don’t really want to talk about the obvious egregious things that happen on the subway (see: nail clipping – the fuck?; any food consumption except maybe skittles, don’t ask me why they’re okay but they are, ditto starburst;  the leg spread (trust me, we think the opposite about your nethers than you hope and promise you don’t need that much room because often we are the same height and I fit just fine in one seat); the doorway stand (I know you see the space in the middle just like I do); the pole hog (okay, I might do this a little bit), and the backpacks. oy, the backpacks).

But here are things that have I have seen/experienced that warrant a post.

1. Eating an ice cream cone. I know I said I wasn’t going to talk about food, but like…what? How does someone make the choice to lick an open-faced, wet surface in a closed, germ-infested environ? I saw this for the first time ever yesterday. Felt maybe like a new low.

2. Sleeveless items (and I wear them – big fan, but you need to know your armpit space aka the personal space your armpit violates when raised). If you are wearing anything of the sleeveless variety a) do not lift your arm to fix your hair/hold on/for any reason and have it directly near my face/nose/hair.  I do not want your armpit region near my cranial region. Just a fact. I wish this was obvious. b) for the love of god DO NOT STAND OVER ME AND DRIP YOUR SWEAT ONTO ME. This actually happened to me. Was sitting reading and I felt a droplet of wet on my leg. The kind that makes you look up and wonder if it’s raining. ONLY I WAS ON THE SUBWAY. Gent holding arm up above me was dripping sweat. Onto my person.

3. Shelling sunflower seeds. Dude s). Are you really putting the seed into your mouth, shelling it and SPITTING the remnants onto the subway floor? Yes, yes you are.

4. Playing video games. I’m totally fine if you play them, but there is a mute button. Please use.  And if it is your child playing, teach him early (note: have never seen a girl do this unless doting on her boyfriend and feigning interest) to do so quietly.

5. Coughing. People cough, I get this. I’m okay with it (ish). I’m not a complete lunatic (spouse would chime in, “oh, you are. but not about this.” Except he might say I am about this. I digress). But must you cough either without covering mouth or directly into your hand and then immediately hold the pole? At least give it a second so I don’t automatically list the possible viruses I will now catch as I am also holding that same pole. I don’t think I’m *that* germaphobic (I mean, I take the subway and have two children) and I realize I made it through the 1970s/80s without catching the plague and/or Purell. But how do you still not know to cough into your elbow? Six year-old boy child knows this.

6. The “oblivious” white man. Yo. I was pregnant twice and NO WHITE MAN ever gave me his seat (I am white in case anyone didn’t know that.). It was the ladies and men of color. Why? because they pay attention and are gentlemanly/empathetic. The white folk are “reading” and “don’t notice.” (I know this because while with child, I asked them to get up. I took a little joy in this activity. File under: Will get my ass kicked one day).

So, I’m moderately okay with this so-called middle age thing. Maybe because in my head, I’m in my early 30s. But it has dawned on me that no one looks at me and thinks “young woman” (except perhaps octogenarians).  Like maybe that bartender wasn’t really flirting with me but was instead humoring someone his mom’s age because that’s the polite thing to do and maybe we tip well. Or, perhaps, he was just taking my order and was, I don’t know, friendly.

But mostly I’m okay because if this is middle age – knowing and liking who I am, enjoying life as a married woman but still having great night outs with my girlfriends, having things more or less settled (these are the two kids I will have, this is the man I will marry, and I will keep them all – for now anyway) — I’m a-ok with it. It’s kind of this  golden time where you stop really giving a shit what other people think. And you’re not just saying it, you actually don’t care.  Like, maybe there are times when you should give a tiny bit of a shit (see: “maybe it’s not them” blog post)…but you don’t.

But here’s what I was/am not prepared for:

1) being hot all the damn time. Unless I’m freezing. I no longer have any sense of whether I will be hot or cold in any given scenario. Okay, usually hot. but not always.

2) aches and pains. I remember lying on a beach chair in my 20s. Legs going up the back of the chair whilst on my stomach reading a magazine. Now the thought of having my legs go up at a tilt while I lie on my stomach is something that seems physiologically wrong and maybe impossible. In fact, I can’t even lie flat on my stomach on a beach chair for more than six minutes, and that’s only if I am lying flat with any reading material on the ground so there is no “crick” in my neck/spine (also, I use the word “crick” on a fairly regular basis. also, who gets to read on a beach chair?). I will be going about my merry way (often on stairs) and suddenly I have knee pain.  I grunt when I sit down on the floor, and may say things like “okay!” as I launch myself back to standing (whilst using arm/leg to do so).  Not to mention my torn rotator cuff (okay, that I may have torn when I was young, like 39) and my chronic lower back pain.

3) on that front, while ignoring any (rare) ache or pain was all it took in the past, these bitches now need attention. Like, daily. They are high maintenance.

4) ditto hang-overs. I will get a head-ache the same night as I have one (1) drink. not that this will spare me the head ache the next day. Grease does not help, nor does the trusty V8 of my youth. For a while, I went rogue and killed the hangovers with salad (they were tricked, like didn’t know what to do with themselves, so they gave in. That didn’t last that long though). On more than one occasion I thought I was coming down with a stomach bug after a night out, but no, no. The quease was just my pay-back for enjoying myself the night before. With two cocktails. Some would suggest that is an indictor to maybe stop drinking. Please.

(also, mom, really, don’t worry. I don’t drink to much. promise).

5) I generally feel relatively lucky on the wrinkle front. But sometimes after being in the sun, I will get home, remove sunglasses and see those forehead “11” wrinkles essentially *etched* into my forehead. Also, they are red.

6) acne is back. For the love of god, if I”m going to be in my 40s, can I at least have clear skin?

7) unlike some of my (rude) friends (and you know who you are, and there an annoying number of you), people do not gasp/cover mouth in awe/say “no way” when I tell them I am 43. Ever.

So I don’t want to get overly morose, but here I go. Tomorrow, my mom and stepdad will get back from a six week trip to regions of the world that do not seem to have reliable internets or phones, aka she has been mostly MIA for more than a month.

Other than the garbled, frantic “can you hear me??” check ins (I could her her. She could not hear me. Also, it was like a phone call from 1990s Europe where there was a time delay/echo every time. Whomp, there it is!). Anyway, the point is, I have basically have not talked to my mom in six weeks. It is a very weird feeling. One I do not like.

My father was quite ill over the past year and so mortality has been on my mind more than it should be or at least more than I want it to be. My mom is 70, in great health (knock viciously on some seriously hard wood) and can do a handstand in yoga. I think she might go to bed later than I do, and she definitely has more of a social life than I have (the teenage me would never believe this, but it’s true, 16 year-old self, it is true). So I am lucky enough to not have any real reason to worry (still knocking). But not taking to her for this long is, how do I put this, ass. Or in a more eloquent way, unsettling. Because one day this is how it will be. Forever. And I don’t like it at all.

Even in this short time, I have wanted so many times to pick up the phone with small things – a cute thing one of my kids did or said, a question only she would know, reporting in on my various relatively minor ailments. Or really, just to hear her voice. It is reassuring every time (even when I violently disagree with the advice she is giving. When I was single, I liked to remind her that she herself had not been single since the 1960s, so maybe she was not a dating guru. I digress). I know she’s got my back and that she is the one person other than me/spouse who loves my kids close to the way we do. She would do anything for me, which I know even more since I became a mom myself. And these weeks were a reminder to cherish this time because I don’t know when it will be gone, and it won’t just be six weeks that we don’t talk but six months and then six years and….I can’t even write this without getting teary.

As anyone who knows me will attest, I am not a kumbaya, Pollyanna, glass half-full person. I have other positive qualities, but optimism is not really one of them. I don’t believe that you need to “put positive vibes out there” (hard to tell, I know) and never come to me if you want me to point out “the bright side.”  But these six weeks have reminded me that I am too old to take things for granted, and that these relationships we have are special and never to be replicated.  So mom, I missed you. Please get home safely, do the 90,000 things you need to do around your house to be moderately calm/not distracted/not sorting mail. And then call me.

This could be a very short post. Reply all: Don’t do it.

But since this is my forum, I will add this:

If we are making a plan and there are only a few people on the email, reply all is acceptable. IN EVERY OTHER SCENARIO IT IS NOT. Right next to “reply all” is a button labeled “reply.” I highly recommend it.

Most egregious over-uses of reply-all aka function-which-should-be-banned:

Emails that should go simply to the organizer of an event but no! Instead you opt to reply all  to the 36 people who were invited and their spouses, aka 72 people. I don’t care if you’re going to be late and/or have a question about the event. The organizer might. I don’t (See “reply” button option)

Similarly, emails that go to large group inviting you to an event do not need “reply all” with your regret.  No one but the person doing a head count (and your good friends whom you have already informed privately) really cares if you’re coming. Or at least, I don’t care.

If I have replied “no” to an event (privately, using aforementioned “reply” button), please for the love of god take me off the entire chain. I beg you.

Email to large group thanking one or two people for their hard work on something. What this actually does — and I know you know this – is show off how polite and thoughtful you are. Kudos and all. But know that when you do it in a group email, others who are prone to annoying email behavior think this is okay too. So then I get 900 other people responding “yes, thanks you two!” or “ditto!” and the like. Feel that I don’t have to explain why this is particularly painful…right?

Worst of all: group texts. Why, why, why?? Especially those wishing everyone a happy new year and the inevitable reply all responses. Sometimes I don’t even recognize the area code on a text I get. So… please don’t do that. Ever.

Sometimes, whilst on a rant about the insanity/egregiousness of people living in this town, I take a step back and think….maybe it’s not them, it’s me. To be clear, I think this post rant, not during rant.

Things I have done that have led me to this introspection:

– Said “you’re welcome” on numerous occasions to ingrates who don’t say thank you when you hold the door open for them.

– Maybe intentionally pushed into people who blatantly disregard the rules/common courtesy and board train before letting people exit.

– Asked someone/several people on the subway if they have a problem when I catch them looking at me for an annoyingly long period (once in a while they do have a problem and that’s never the best scenario, by the by).

– Rudely said “what?” to people at gym who impatiently stare at me as I fill my water bottle. Including one older woman who went on to tell me that she had just seen someone at the gym she hadn’t seen in a while. This woman was clearly going through chemo and the older lady told me she had no idea this woman had cancer (they were gym friends, she informed me) and apologized for being in a daze.

– Aggressively tapped on (more than one) car window to inform driver he/she had “almost fucking hit my child” while child looked on wide-eyed.

– Attitudinally said “I’m in line” to someone who was clearly cutting (even though once in a while the cutter had already ordered/was just looking/was not trying to get in line).

– Said “sorry” and smiled to an older woman as we did the “both side-stepping each other in same direction” dance on the street. She said “for heavens sake, move” or something along those lines to which I turned around and yelled back “well then I’m not sorry!.”

I could go on, but I think you get the gist.

Noise bothers me. A lot. And for someone with this disease, it is ironic that I happen to live in a very, very loud city. But it is not the city noise (in general) that bothers me most, though I have been tempted to key/egg cars whose alarms go on for hours. There was also a drunk, homeless gent who took his fall/winter residence in the church doorway across the street from our last apartment and I really had no mercy for him and his antics (by no mercy, I mean I called 311 twice).  It got especially bad when I could actually recognize his voice/knew he was a-coming. But that’s not really what I’m talking about when I say “noise bothers me.” I’m talking about smaller noises.

My mother shrugs off my complaints as high maintenance with a “her again” eye roll, and my spouse talks about how it’s “the voices in your head” making the noise. IT IS NOT THE VOICES.

Here are the things you are not allowed to do in or near my presence:

– Mouth noises. Don’t make them. I don’t want to hear the food being masticated in your mouth, I don’t want to hear a loud noise as/after you yawn and I do not want to hear you eat an apple (or carrots, a not-ripe peach). Ever.  Also, do not chew gum, more specifically in the movies/theater or in a museum (not that I ever go to museums, but still. When I do, don’t ruin it). Ditto hard candy, but at least those have a shelf life. Till you put the next one in your mouth, and dear god, you always do.

– Breathe so I can hear you. I may make an exception if you are working out, but even then, I don’t need to hear you grunt/orgasm as you do your workout (really, there is one woman at the gym where I feel like I am actually listening to her have the sex. But no, no, she’s just lifting weights). If you can hear yourself breathing, IT IS TOO LOUD. If your nose is stuffy, I have a solution for you: breathe through your mouth. It’s temporary, you can go back to the nose breathing once your cold/congestion passes. On that front – do not sniffle incessantly. I would happily offer you a tissue if I was guaranteed a yes and not a beat-down.

– Clip nails anywhere in public. Why, why do people do this? How is this a socially acceptable norm?

– Whistle. I really, really don’t  want to hear the song stuck in your head.  I know whistling probably means you’re happy or in a good mood, and that’s very nice. Stop anyway.

– Say my name (aka “mom/mommy” variation) 1,000 times in a row (I admit this may be an entirely different category).

– Jiggle your foot. I know this doesn’t make noise, but it’s annoying anyway, and I thought I’d throw it in while I was at it.

For more information on my affliction, please see the NYT:

I grew up in NYC and I am a big fan of our subway system. When it works, it’s like magic. Ok, sometimes it doesn’t work, but I always have a book and I am set (not that I won’t complain, obviously). I like the subway system so much that I can discuss the best route between destinations for hours (really) and consider it a personality defect when I can’t figure out how only make one transfer instead of two. I refuse to take cabs during rush hour, so I am only really tempted to take taxis when: It’s very cold out; it’s very warm out; it’s raining; it’s too sunny; it’s humid; I’m hungry; I’m tired; I just got my hair done; it is late; I have to be on the East side; I am wearing uncomfortable shoes….so okay, I take cabs sometimes.

But there is a small problem with taxis other than the obvious lack of availability in the rain/rush hour, the potentially horrendous odor of the car/driver, some people’s driving skills and the general raggedness of many a cab. That problem is this: Some of the drivers take in instant and powerful dislike to me as a person/being.

To be fair, some of the hate has been warranted. I was a belligerent, know-it all 20something who was always convinced the cabbies were taking the longest route possible to screw me over fare-wise, who jammed into those bad boys with too many people (and proceeded to maybe have a beer and request that they turn the radio to KTU, as if in my living room), who asked for specific routes mid-another route and who used to demand that drivers “please get off your phone sir, it’s not safe.”

I have been asked to exit a taxi three times in my life (if you didn’t know this could happen, it can): One was not my fault (was with an even more belligerent 20-something friend) and the other two were. As in, I take full responsibility. The third forced exit occurred whilst on the west side highway (yes, that’s where I was asked to get out; yes, that’s where I got out) and I was in the cab with my then my boyfriend who decided I was wife material anyway.

But then there are the times when the drivers through no fault of my own are, in a word, batshit. My first experience with a truly crazy driver – and by crazy I mean made me fear for life and/or inspired me to take down the medallion and call 311 — was not until I was in my 30s. We were en route to JFK (the same trip, incidentally, where I got to he aiport an hour before my international flight and begged the flight staff to let me on anyway (when they told me I was too late) because I was “pregnant and want to surprise my husband with the news” I was not pregnant. Don’t judge).

This gent seemed angry at me from the get-go, possibly for requesting the airport (I had a suitcase, just saying), possibly for just wanting a taxi in the first place. He got even angrier when I didn’t want to talk to/flirt with him. He decided to punish my destination/existence/ lack of interest in him as a mate by driving 90 miles/hr and tailgating to the point where I thought we would crash only to swerve into a different lane at the last minute. When I paid him  – and this was the only time in my life I did not tip despite my relief at being alive – I told him I would be reporting him. He did not take this well, and got out of the taxi to argue with me, gesticulating wildly and calling me a  “stupid bitch” a few times. I was already a wreck from his driving, was in a panic because I was late for my flight (see above), and only did not completely freak the hell out at his lunacy because we were at the airport and there were a lot of people watching. Even he, a known maniac, knew better. I followed through on my threat, took him to court and won.

The second crazy was about a decade later. To be clear, I have had bad drivers in the interim. I have gotten out of taxis because of the smell and I have had cab drivers who ran red lights or who started/stopped the car with great alacrity, sometimes in mere anticipation of the light change. But I don’t consider these drivers crazy, just not at the top of my list as pleasant experiences. All were forgetful, minus one window down-to-maximal-capacity-in-five-degree-weather trip, but that’s not where I’m going here.

The next time I encountered crazy, I was with my daughter who was eight at the time. It was pouring rain and I felt lucky to see that yellow light. We got in and requested our destination. He was on speaker phone and was in the midst of a loud and vehement conversation slash enormous fight with a lass on the other end who was equally worked up. He did not pause in his conversation to acknowledge our request or, say, presence in his vehicle. I repeated our destination hoping to be heard over the (extremely loud and, by the by, grating) voice of his lady friend. Again, nothing. So I asked him if he could please turn the volume down on his phone or maybe take it off speaker so he could hear. He whipped around, looked me in the eye and said, “Fuck this. Get out.” And pulled over and kicked my daughter and me out of the cab. In the rain.  I also 311-ed his ass and won that case too.

The latest incident was a couple of months ago. Two friends and I hopped into the back seat of cab and told him we would be making three stops, all on the Upper West Side. He shifted into drive, cheerily welcomed us and proceeded to tell us that he would only be making two stops. We cheerily told him that we needed to make three stops. He became somewhat agitated at this, and even more agitated when one friend suggested he could take us to the local police station and explain why he was refusing to take us to where we wanted to go. As you might guess, things were not going well. We pointed to the bill of rights and, um, the law. He pointed out that his “law” was two stops only. At this point, the other friend in the cab got all lawyerly and decided to record the incident on her cell phone. She asked him to repeat that he would not take us to three separate locations (which he did with some level of enthusiasm I might add). We then asked to get out, mostly because I, as the last stop, did not want to be alone with that fella even if we convinced him to make that third stop.

Pleased with our foresight, we settled in to watch this clever film-making in the next cab. Only it turns out that the “record” was in slo-mo and showed, well, a lot of slo-mo activity and garbled, crazy-sounding voices (possibly my own). Regardless, we had the facts, and two days ago, I won that case too.

Three times in nearly four decades of taxis is not that much, I know.  But it sure is enough to mention, and even though I’m anti Uber (which is an entirely different story) , there’s this little thing called Via….