••• Thursday, September 30, 2004

Hello Mutter?

I found this link to a Detroit Free Association MEME at the Easy Bake Coven I always wanted one. Mom said a passing trend. No Creepy Crawlers either. Except boyfriends? and thought I'd give it a whirl Tilt-a. Jilt-a. 8th grade boyfriend. He barfed. I dumped. Him. And it's Free Free!!

How it works: Every Sunday morning comin' downShe posts a new list of words for your associating pleasure double yours to post on your blog. There's a cute little button Butt on. Butt off. The slapper. to steal Not bandwidth! Bad! and if you officially sign up at the site for sore eyes, you're free Free! to associate I don't really with people from ..and it's raining..
all over the world

Here's this week's list (with my responses. No doi, Dilbert)
  1. Diminishing:: Returns
  2. Fed up:: UPS
  3. 3:00 AM:: Get off, me.
  4. Interfere:: please
  5. Often:: never
  6. Hay:: making
  7. Prediction:: love
  8. Homophobia:: grandma's milk
  9. Booty call:: Wrong number
  10. Enunciate:: Whah thah?
Per Lunanina’s site, free association is described as a "psychonanalytic procedure in which a person is encouraged to give free rein to his or her thoughts and feelings, verbalizing whatever comes into the mind without monitoring its content."

I was a little surprised to learn that this isn't a normal, 24-7 type of brain activity. In other words, this little exercise will be about self-restraint for me. Hmmm...Reversal of fortune psychology?

Gnitting gnus tomorrow I'll love ya. Promise.

••• Tuesday, September 28, 2004

The Urethra Chronicles
Two weeks ago we resumed potty training The Cakers at the request of the daycare provider, who recently announced that she has a hernia. While she didn’t come right out and say it, we’re thinking she’s thinking that her condition sprang from hefting the Pound Cakers onto the changing table several times a day.

We found some great training pull-ups that are designed to let the trainee feel it at first squirt. These things work pretty well. So well, in fact, I was initially concerned that the crotch inserts contain some kind of moisture activated acid.

When we first starting using the trainers, Cakers would initiate a sit on the potty, several times a day. But just before showtime, she’d pull-up, pee-down and demand a diaper change. After a few days she seemed to develop a tolerance to the acid release, and soon after, she wouldn’t even sit. Not even for a romp with Sponge Bob Barbie.

A few days ago she announced “I want bubble gum.” I was about to tell her we don’t have any gum, but on impulse blurted, “You can have bubble gum after you pee on the potty.”

I was certain that she was gonna flush this option down the mental crapper, along with all the other happy thoughts we’ve contaminated through linking with a tinkling (New Pretty Pony, various Barbies and their babies, etc.). So I was stunned to watch her whip off her panties and proceed to the oject de résistance. While I enjoyed a whipped panties induced flashback to my college days, my husband zoomed to the store for gumballs, returning just in time for the magic flush.

Last night, she finally agreed to Pee for SpongeBob Barbie (Sounds like a weird charity fundraiser) who has been sitting enticingly on the breakfast bar, for over a week now. The Cakers was thrilled with the prize and expressed an interest in doing it again today. She only gets to play with the doll for awhile, then they are separated until we pee again.

After this piddly task is accomplished, I’m afraid the next chore is going to be a real stinker. In fact Cakers has already told me, more than once, "I pee in the potty like a big girl. I poop in the potty when I'm four." A girl with a plan. Can’t hate that.

Media Darlings
And the Award for Understatement of the Year Goes to Richard Gagne, spokesman for the provincial police of Quebec who had this to say about a recent car accident:
The two people at this moment were in the midst of having sexual intercourse at the wheel of the vehicle, which makes driving that much more dangerous."
Tru dat.

::You'd think this would've been a case for the Mounties, ay?::

P.S. Check out this cool blog I found on a Google.

••• Sunday, September 26, 2004

I Have a Dreamy
I have blocked and sewn up the Creamy Dreamy but haven't yet tackled the crochet edging.

I had to widen the sleeves (in short order 'cause they short sleeves) to fit the extended armholes. They kind of bunch up in the back, but look fine in the front, on account of the extra acreage. I'll post pictures when I'm entirely done, just before I put it away for the winter.

As I approached the Dreamy finish line, I said aloud, "Yay! What shall I do next?" Then my husband gives me a look. It's the look he saves for special moments. Rare moments, far and few between, when he lays down the law and makes demands. Demands of a most private and scintillating nature. Demands that leave me no choice but total acquiescence.
A man has needs, woman. You've been neglecting me, and now it's time to pay. I'll tell you what you're doing next. YO You're gonna do what I say.

Wh-wh-what's that?

You're gonna get out your garters.

Then what are you gonna make me do?

You're gonna strip, for me.




Hmm..I don't know... Kitchen table? Floor? No. The couch. You're gonna strip for me, on the couch. Now.
So I fetched my garters and strip I did.

Garter squares for an afghan, sewn into strips. In fact, for the next few weeks, I'm all about garters and stripping for my husband. No other knitting will pass my lap.

A while back I promised my husband that he'd have his afghan for watching college football on TV. I didn't say exactly which part of the college football season he'd be watching, so if I have it done by the bowl games, I'm still good.

I have about 12 more squares to knit. Needless to say, I am really looking forward to getting this afghan gorilla off my back, and onto his.

Make it Stop!
The weather. I want it to be Fall. I think we've had more 80 degree days in September than we did in June and July combined. I know it sounds lame to complain about nice weather, but summer at the end of September is kind of like reuniting with an ex-boyfriend. At first it's really great, but after awhile you start to get restless and soon realize that the seasons change for a reason and it's time to move on.

Yesterday my husband wanted to go to a local harvest themed craft fair (yeah, he's kind of a freak). I really had other things to do and thought it was going to be too hot for milling with the cider crowd. Besides, I'm kind of over craft fairs. I'm kind of over booths filled with jig-saw puzzles and eucalyptus wreaths and elaborately ugly hand-knit sweaters and texturized sheets of ceramic stuck with marbles and copper wiring for hanging on your wall. Hmmm..where to put that?

So grumpily into the sunshine I went, and happily ended up harvesting a wonderful Sunday afternoon. The Cakers had a riot at the kids' booths, the squash bisque was out of its gourd and I made some finds.

This is a closeup of the silk scarf I bought for my mom. It's called a "burnout" pattern. All done by hand, of course. Except for "rayon" and "wash," I didn't understand anything the woman said as she explained the process. I likes it. That's all that matters.

Here's a tile to add to my angel collection:

And regardless of how bad a crafty day's overall booty call, I must have my token craft fair earrings. These beauts exceeded all expectations:

No clever endings today. I'll just leave y'all dangling.

••• Friday, September 24, 2004

Divorce Papers
Prologue:Last night, at 10:50 pm, my son handed me some papers, type side down. He often asks me to proof his work for school, but something about his words and posture told me this was different. In fact, before I turned it over, as he made a quick exit, I knew exactly what was in my hands.

Remember senior writing class? That perennial assignment: The Most Influential Event of My Life? This was that.

Opening Line…. “They told me that it wasn't my fault. They told me they will always love me, no matter what…..”

The rest of his words are between me and my boy and a stranger, the English teacher.

I handled it pretty well, last night. I didn’t even cry. Last night.

In fact, afterwards we had what I thought was a real good talk. A real good talk like we've had many, many times. Talks where nothing even close to those burning words were even implied. My denial, or his?

But today I have a heartache. And it goes something like this...
Why can’t you be like the other kids, and just hate me?

Why can’t you be like the other kids, and just lash out at those you love the most? The adults who were there at your first breath, to assume an undeserved place of honor at the epicenter of your tiny world. A position from where later they could and would inflict the profoundest betrayal.

Why can’t you be like other kids, and warm the chill of your broken child with illicit elixirs and other ill-gotten evils?

Why can’t you just steal money from my purse?
Or gamble my savings on the internet?

Sneak out of the house.
Drink my rum.
Mock my parental vanity.

That’d be my preference, you know.
‘Cause then I could count it.
And ground it.
And give it a name.

Medicate it.
Shrinkydink it.
Cry it to my friends.

But you’re not like other kids.
It takes a special wisdom and acceptance and flexibility
To pull a punch like this.
On pristine paper.
Ink still wet.
Near the end of the show.
Near the end of an increase row.

Double spaced.
Through the heart.
Times New Roman.
Et tu, Brute.

••• Thursday, September 23, 2004

Do I have to change my name?
Will it get me far?
Should I lose some weight?
Am I gonna be a star?
- Madonna, American Life

Say My Name, Say My Name….
Before starting my blog (June, 03), I took what I thought was great care to think up the perfect name. A name that represented knitting, as well as elements of my personality (ex: a thus far incurable compulsion to play on words and being a pig collector). Thus, a pig was born. A very special pig. ::Aw, man. Now I’m getting all kerplunk.::

But while linking around the webring this week, I noticed quite a few cleverly named Purl-esque blogs out there, including another Purly with a tail that's curly. And suddenly, the name that once felt so special now seems so....so...common. Usual. Bit. ::And no, I’m not casting any purls of blame. In fact, I'm casting no purls beyond my own front mudpile.::

I now find myself in the throes of a Blog Identity Crisis.

Suddenly I'm thinkin' baby needs a new name. Something shiny and fresh and totally unique. So far I've come up with the following ideas:

Queer Flows KnitPad
Windy Knitting
Maison Dickies
At The End of My Knits
The Knitting Cur Dungeon

Whatcha think?*

*The preceding message was sponsored by the Tongue-N-Cheek as Art Society. Any resemblance to reality is totally ironic.

Okay, I'm being a smartass. But I am seriously thinking of making a change. Right now I'm not sure if it's going to be a name change, new skin, boob job, or an entire makeover. Regardless, I won't be making any impulsive decisions (the kind I'm wont to want)and may soon seek help and feedback from all y'all.

In the meantime, I hereby confess to coveting the handles on these cutting-edge newbies:
Catchers Knit
Domestic Pussy

Have you Hugged Your Ringmaster Today?
While at the Knitbloggers home page, I was amazed to see we’re up to 479 members. That’s nearly 500 peeps!


That being said, I imagine some days Julie feels like she's jumped into a burning ring of fire. I think we should buy that girl a drink.
Or yarn.
Or a Mercedes Benz, Lord.


••• Monday, September 20, 2004

My Fifedom for a Sleeve
Andy: Well, when did you do your last troublecheck?
Barney: Yesterday.
Andy: You didn't troublecheck today!?!
Barney: No.
Andy: Well, let's troublecheck! Sarah, get me 142-R. And put this right through - this is a troublecheck.

I've made some progress on the third sleeve of the Dreamy Creamy (Or is it...oh. never mind.). Three sleeves? How you do dat? Easy. You be a Barney Fifical Knitard. That's how you do dat.

In a Previous Episode: I had to lengthen the arm holes on the body, so the ribbon didn't cut across mid-boobage*. Therefore, I had to adapt the sleeve width to fit the new pits. Easy Peasy? More like Cheesy Queasy. If this doesn't work, I'll be reaching out to my knitting community, with all three arms.

*There's a pattern adaptation lesson here. Boobs are more dimensional than a tape measurement. Boobs have depth and width and volume and length. Yes, I said length. Boobs take up space, therefore they take up fabric. Playtex knows this. Victoria knows this. Marcia did not know this. Now she does.

A Busy Mutha
The weekend seemed to fly by. I took my son on a college visit on Saturday. He approached this special voyage with a less than enthusiastic attitude, on account of having already made up his mind on where he wants to attend, and it wasn't here. After talking to the representatives from his major, however, we were both grinning ear-to-ear and eager to leave the fray of program hawkers to have a chat.

Once outside, Cam said something to the effect of "Well, I started out on this trip thinking it was going to be a waste of time and now I'm thinking this is where I need to be."

This is hard on a mom. I know Cam really, really loves State and he is still feeling torn. Hell, I really, really love State. It's my alma mutha, after all.

But here's the tough part. The part that cries "is there an adult in the house?" State doesn't offer Cam's major of choice (Sport Stu*dies. Yes, it's really a major. I was shocked too.). Central does offer the major and is kind of establishing a name in the field, including a well-connected internship program with semi-pro teams around the state.

We had a mature discussion about this and I am impressed that, although he loves his Spar*tans, he seems to grasp that the right academic program is more important than a month of Saturdays at Spart*an Stadium.

Cam is still going to visit State and I know that someone there will tell him he can patch together a course of study that will get him to the same place that Central's program can. But I also know my boy and that he needs a bit more structure than that. And then there's the internship program, and Central is smaller, which means and he'll get more attention and guidance....sigh...growing up is hard.

And besides, East Lansing doesn't have a Krapohl Ford Dealership.

It's a message from God.

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••• Friday, September 17, 2004

Light Days Friday
Thanks for all the support and great product ideas in response to Thursday's post. I have to admit, yesterday I was a bit apprehensive about hitting the publish button. But today, I'm feeling the sisterhood!

Based on comments, however, it sounds like there's definitely a void in the tampon market. Maybe we need to push for a new product line. I kind of like the sounds of Vortex Sanitary Pads and Black Hole Tampons. Anybody up for a marketing venture?

'Ku du Jour
Pink Phallic Crochet
Effects of Smocking on Health

Google me funny!

Posting may be lean over the weekend, except for the Haiku commitment, of course. Have great weekends everyone.

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••• Thursday, September 16, 2004

Today's agenda
Evokes sanitary belt
To the writer's chop

On With the Flow
Disclaimer: The following post contains thoughts of a personal and graphic nature regarding the month-to-month feminine hygienx of a perimenopausal maniac. No apologies or knit content ensue.

First of all, I think I am handling this aging thing very well. That being said, I must admit that I’m not handling this aging thing very well.

Truth be, there ain’t no pussy padding around this issue. I’m just gonna cut to the trap. I need a better tampon.

I’ve been using tampons since 7th grade, after I snuck a box from my sister’s stash and taught myself to apply (there’s another story there, honies). Although I've changed brands and suck levels over the years, the tampon has always been my monthly mainstay. My endometrial end all. It was all I required. Period.

Due to unforeseen changes in the wax and wane of my ebb and flow, I’ve resorted to padding my monthly security protocal with self-adhesive maxi-pads. This new necessity is making me a tad, er, crotch-ity.

As a relative newcomer to the maxi-pad, and after enduring several months of its silent indignities, I have some questions. First of all, why do they make the maxi-pad adhesive out of material which is a natural repellant to cotton crotched undies? Said adhesive, however, has become quite enamored with the tender epidermis of my inner thighs, upper crev-ass and any skirt/pant fabric hanging near.

If I'm wearing a skirt and no hose, the crack, snapple, pop of a bunched up sticky pad, as it travels thigh to thigh, is audible to the naked ear. In fact, an untimely butt-cheek shift in a suddenly silent meeting may cause those in attendance to scan the room for a chewing gum bogart.

Aside from discomfort, if the pad in question is sticking every which place but loose, it’s not providing much protection. In fact, the maxi-move I lovingly refer to as the Jelly Roll (not to be confused with the notorious C*** Blunt configuration) places the moisture repelling plastic side in the direct flow of fire.

This leads me to my second question. If it is necessary that I endure the discomfort of having a maxi-pad stuck to assorted and various parts of my nether regions, why not give the discomfort some function? I mean, let's stick the landing on the first try. Why not sell a roll of duct tape with a box of old-fashion Kotex and allow me to stick it anywhere I please? It may not be more comfortable, but at least I know who’s got my back. And if there’s a dilapitorial benefit to boot...no hair off my ass.

Where you going? I’m not done.

But none of the above rant would be even be necessary if the tampon manufacturers hadn’t left me hanging by a string. Simply put, today’s tampons don’t suck. Enough.

Years ago, there was a Saturday Night Live skit that spoofed on a tampon product. In this parody, a woman jumps into a swimming pool (purportedly wearing the product in question) whereupon the pool water slowly disappears, presumably absorbed by the kick-ass hygiene product.

I want that tampon.

I want a tampon that gives me cotton mouth. Hell, I want my tampon to give anyone within a three foot radius of me cotton mouth. I want a tampon that’s so powerful, it makes my ears pop, coming or going.

I want a mature tampon. None of those cutesy crayola-pons for me. I want my tampon to be thick and meaty, like a Johnson & Johnsonville brat. And strong. So strong, in fact, that I will never again worry about going to the staff picnic, wearing a thong under a mini skirt...an untimely sneeze...on the bosses shoe...Never again.

This is all I want. This is my menstral’s song.

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••• Wednesday, September 15, 2004

She’s Come Unblogged
Ever so often I just can't do the blog thing. Sometimes I’m too busy, other times I can’t find two brain cells to rub together, and yet other times I simply have nothing to say.

But what really bugs me is when I do have the time and I do have something to say and my two brain cells are humping each other raw, but still, somehow, it just won't flow. This has been the case with my latest writing embloggo. All systems ready, but no flow.

But I may have figured out the problem. I believe that I get all blogged up when I think too much about what I’m writing. That is, I'm too quick to judge the juices, macerate the muse or allay the alluring alliteration. ::Okay, maybe I should judge a smidge and allay a lot.::

Hopefully, this revelation means I'll be back to a somewhat regular post schedule real soon. ::Is "new revelation" redundant?::

...In a KnitShell
The Dreamy Creamy (or is it Creamy Dreamy?) is coming along at a dreamlike pace, as in slow. I added two inches to arm holes on both front and back, and have been trying to figure out the respective sleeve adjustment. The cognitive acuities required for this type of planning(logic, patience, attention span of a medicated flea) are not my strong points, so results from this make-shit-up-the-sleeve-as-you-go approach might be interesting.

I hope to have this sweater done in time to wear to work next week and/or before it snows. This is a longshot, considering late meetings this week, and a college visit on Saturday. (We're going to the college, they aren't coming here).

::Gasp.:: My baby's a high school senior and turning 18 next month. Hang on to your babies, ladies (and gents). 'Cause the time, she flies.

Haiku: Day Tu
Babe to boy to man
Stands tall before his mother
To pilfer from purse.

••• Tuesday, September 14, 2004

All Right. I'll play.

From the sea of Blahs
A Pushy Chick pulled aboard
Me, without a rhyme.

••• Saturday, September 11, 2004


I seem to have a case.
I'll be back when things clear up.

••• Wednesday, September 08, 2004

Ok, I'm back. (Joanna made me say it.). But I'm really, really tired. So I'll keep this short and humor-free.

The weekend was sublime and we enjoyed the best weather of the summer. In fact, it was so beautiful, day and night, I knit not one stitch after our Thursday night landing.

Between sunbathing and Cakers chasing and campfires under starry skies (shorts and t-shirts only required garb), there was little time for much else.

Of course, there's always time for unexpected company.

This Blue Heron landed upon our shores late Saturday morning and stood in that spot for about 10 minutes. Last week the in-laws saw a bald eagle on the beach.

Once home, I was able to finish the front of the Dreamy Creamy (or is it Creamy Dreamy?). When I held it up against me for a preview, I was disappointed to see that the lacey loops landed mid-boobage. So I uncastoff both the front and back and added two inches to the armhole lengths.

And since I'm 'fessin' up on the effin' ups, I might as well share that I messed up on the armhole shapings by decreasing each end every row instead of every other. I didn't redo, but will have to refigure the sleeve shapings.

Okay, confession #3. This pattern calls for a crochet trim finish. I don't know how to crochet. oops.

Here's the front

I'm so tired, I'm typing cross-fingered. I'm so tired, this post has no title and I don't give a rats ass. I'm so tiredI can't

••• Friday, September 03, 2004

Fruits of My Labor Day Weekend
Throughout the summer, I collected snapshots of my new Northern Michigan neighborhood. I had intended to write this post weeks ago, but what better tribute to mark the end of our first summer in the new community digs?

On the drive to the cottage, we pass through this little town called Mesick. Yes, as in Me Sick. As if the name isn't weird enough, Mesick has annointed itself the Mushroom Capital of the World.

You won't find much else but mushrooming in Mesick. But in the event you got a queer eye for the fungi, you might find this place handy:

After you get yourself fixed up at the apothecary, you can stop next door, for a foamin' shot of deer snot.

Yousick yet? Metoo.

Northern Michigan by the Yard
The following shots were all taken within minutes from our cottage, along the main roads and highways.

Bottle Tree very pretty.
And the bottle blossom is neat.
But the fruit that has fallen,
Can be murder on bare feet

In the same yard as the bodacious bottle tree were two driveway posts, each wearing a bowling ball. Because the residents of the mobile home were in (therefore, not mobile), we could only get a quick shot of one ball. But as you know, in bowling, a split shot is the most difficult.

On the road to town from the cottage, we're greeted by this imaginative menagerie. They are all made from hot water heaters or propane tanks.

Is that Who you think it is?

Why, yes it is. Tank You, Jesus!

::You'd think with all those hot water heaters, they'd have at least one Mary in a Bathtub::

Okay Kim, before you start having im-morel thoughts of an autumnal voyage, this is a mushroom carved from a tree stump. I call him Well Hungus Amongus. ::No, really, it's just a mushroom.::

And what some yards lack in fungal stature, they make up for in well-capped quantity. Mmmm...pass the butter fried steak.

::No, Kim...just mushrooms. ::

Oh Deer, I almost forgot.

You can't drive a half mile around here without seeing some rendition of the white tail fakeout.

Nope, the little fluffins' aren't real. I know. Those bogus, bovinous beauties fool me every time.

And that's the end of my tail.

Without BeLaborin', I wish you all a restful holiday weekend.

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••• Wednesday, September 01, 2004

Hula Poop
It just keeps comin'round.

This past weekend at the cottage was pretty nice, despite the nasty weather and some other, ahem, issues. My in-laws doted on the Cakers, while Eric worked and I knit a bit. And worried a lot, about that that other matter. You know, the matter matter.*

Early Saturday afternoon, I happened upon a whisper fest between my husband and his parents. I didn't know what they were talking about until I heard my mother-in-law say, just above a whisper, "Well, can we flush or not?"

What???!??, said I.
Oh, nothing, she said, as all three exchanged don't feed the crazy lady glances.
Tell me! I shrilled.

My husband approached me in a gentle, calm manner, much as one would the mentally infirm or the divorcee in the throes of a Bacardi Limon psychosis as she dangles your only set of Cobra Mustang keys over a sewer drain.**

He then held me by the shoulders, looked me square in the eye and said "The alarm went off. The tanks are full. We're at defcom 4."

I'll spare you the remaining details of that particular exchange. I will say, however, that it was more than alarming to learn that a heavy rainfall can cause water to pool in the poop chopper. Apparently poop choppers, dukey tanks and related alarm systems don't know shit from rainola.

So, in addition to prevalent preoccupations with salmonella and e-coli and cottage guests with compulsive flush disorders, I now have to be concerned about pissing off mother nature.

My father-in-law quickly (too quickly?) made the call to our guy. After a brief exchange of info(including the query regarding how many people are pooping in the house) our guy assured him we could hold it until Monday. While we didn't speak of it again for the rest of the weekend, neither did anyone shower or run the dishwasher, or spit.

Truthfully, I think everyone was a little nervous, which somehow made me feel less a case.

Who You Calling a CoHo?
To keep our minds out of the sewage, we headed into town, to the Annual Coho Festival, where the highlight of the day was the Annual Coho Festival parade.

First of all, I am a happily married woman. But being happily married doesn't preclude me from an active fantasy life. Right?

That being said, this bad boy on parade immediately captured my fancy. I mean, honey, you can do burnouts on my lawn patch any time.

But quickerin I could say "Deere John" my father-in-law nudged and whispered..."there's our guy."

Mmmmm..be still my whizzin' heart. Right then and there, I decided I was a little old for riding bitch on a souped up lawn tractor.

Right then and there, I decided my next Secret Fancy is gonna be about power.
Big, strong, long, round, reliable power. Pumping power. All at the drop of a dime. ::Get a load of that hose...sigh::

Okay, this cornball parade has one last corner to round. So bear with.

And what would the Coho Festival be without the Coho Queen and her court? (My husband thought there should be two queens for some reason.)

For the record, being the Queen of the CoHo festival is not just about the glamour and prestige, although there is plenty of that. What folks don't realize is that being the Coho queen also involves great personal sacrifice.

You see, at the completion of the parade, this float is pulled directly to the Queen's birthplace, where she will spawn and..well..I just can't say it. Too tragic.

I guess it's time to roe this boat ashore.

Humpy Wednesday!

*See August 19 post for context.
**To this day, I believe that Bacardi Limon is laced with angel dust.

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