A Life's Work


Monica was a chef set in her habits, which took anybody approximately five minutes into working with her to realize. She had organized her time and her space the way she liked them. She had a routine, a certain way of doing things, from which she never deviated. Her system was tried and tested—at Iridium, at Café des Artistes, at Alessandro's and even in a diner with its excruciating lunch shifts and lesser regards to quality. It didn't matter if she worked at the fanciest Manhattan restaurant or a place that served Howdy Doody and James Beans.

And now, as The New Yorker restaurant editor, Robin Raisfeld stood there with a notebook in hand, for a profile about her to be published in the October 2009 edition of the magazine, doing a tour of her kitchen, lingering for a second here and there, she wondered if he got it. That she wasn't a zealot, that her supernatural quest for perfection was her mark, the touch which separated Javu from every other restaurant on this side of the island.

"How would you describe your cooking style?" The journalist asked, with no preamble as he pressed record on his phone's voice recorder.

Monica scratched her jaw, sitting on the other side of her desk in her office. "I like honest, real, straightforward food made with the highest quality ingredients possible. The adage is true, you can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear. Elegant food can only be made out of high-quality products."

She flashed him a smile, trying to hide her nervousness. The journalist didn't flinch. Monica knew these kinds of interviews could make or break the reputation of establishments. There were too many people—food critics, self-proclaimed foodies, food bloggers—upon hearing of one slightly off smell or a chef with a bad reputation, ready to declare a restaurant was "overrated", or "not as good as it used to be". Good press was everything in the business, a detail they forgot to tell you about in culinary school.

"The restaurant industry is a notoriously tough business. How do you handle the challenges of being the executive chef of a Manhattan restaurant and being a mother of three?" he asked.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh, I didn't know we were doing personal questions," Monica blurted out suddenly. In the matrix of the fine dining industry, every little detail could bring down a temple, but she didn't expect her personal life to be under the microscope.

The journalist looked up from his notebook. "Lauren said it was ok."

A pause followed. "Oh well, then …" Monica trailed off, before clearing her throat. "Of course, it's not easy when you have a marriage and kids. But being a restaurateur is never easy." She scrutinized his reaction and realized he seemed underwhelmed by her answer.

Before he started writing down notes again, she added, "It's a challenge but you work around it. When my twins were little babies, they were often at the restaurant, the food-storage bins acting as their cribs and playpens, and when I gave birth to my youngest son, the restaurant closed for renovation work, that time off was welcome and I now feel I am the best version of a chef I can be. Family time is non-negotiable for me and my husband―it's a team effort and a lot of organization. I want to make sure I'm home to put the kids to bed, bathe them and cook for them a few days a week. It takes a village and I learned to delegate, we are thankful for great friends, family, and a great babysitter. Most of all, I'm lucky to have an amazing and helpful husband."

Monica studied the interviewer's face as he nodded, seemingly satisfied and wrote down some notes. He tapped his pen on the notebook and she felt her heart rate sync-up with the rhythmic sound.

"You mentioned Javu undergoing important renovation work under new management and with the help of prestigious architects. Since reopening, it's been a strong contender for a Michelin star, and it's now on Zagat's latest guide edition. Do you feel the restaurant has reached a new level of excellence and it's a reward for your work?"

Don't brag, stay humble, Monica could hear Lauren's cautionary words ring in her head. "I would lie if I said I don't like my work getting appreciated, but it's most importantly an appreciation for the whole team. Awards are good for the business and they're good for team morale. Ultimately, like Michelin stars, they don't go to the chefs but to the restaurants and that's fitting."

The journalist smiled appreciatively and Monica internally sighed of relief. He went on to ask a few other questions, related to the restaurant which Monica felt comfortable answering. He left a while after, and she followed him outside of her office. She was met at the door by the restaurant's PR consultant, Lauren Barkley.

"I just tested the waters with Rob, you nailed it!" Lauren enthusiastically said.

Monica ignored her ardor, her brows furrowed. "What was that with the personal questions?"

"Monica, it's a profile. It's literally titled Up Close And Personal With Chef Geller."

Monica crossed her arms. "Would he ask those questions to a chef who's a father?"

"Probably not. But it doesn't matter, journalists love some human interest stories. And your story about the babies in the food storage bin? Jackpot! How did you come up with that, it's genius."

"I―I didn't come up with that, it happened! Ugh, why do we even have a publicist?"

"Oh honey, if all restaurants hired publicists, they wouldn't have the life expectancy of a goldfish in a bag."

Monica sighed, she gave herself the time to think over the profile and came to the conclusion the personal questions weren't so bad, after all. Maybe she could set an example in the industry. Maybe her parents would read it and be proud of her. Her father, who once told her he was glad she wasn't the type to try and have it all, would have to eat his words. She tried and she did truly have it all, through bad jobs, firings, hostile working environments, heartbreaking break-ups, and bad relationships.

Now, she had entered her forties and never felt better. She would never go back, to before Chandler, before the twins, before Andrew. There was a tinge of sadness and nostalgia for the days when she could see her best friends every day. They hadn't drifted away, but each of them had their own little life going. They didn't see them often, except for Phoebe and Mike. The couple had moved to New Rochelle, a few miles from their neighborhood, shortly after Phoebe got pregnant with her first daughter, Lily. They would see each other every week at least, either through playdates with the kids or their traditional couples night.

Joey had an established career in Los Angeles and visited on holidays and big occasions such as the births of Phoebe's daughters, Ross and Rachel's wedding and Andrew's birth.

And finally, though Rachel and Ross were geographically close, still living in the city, it was harder to see them regularly after Rachel got the high executive job at Gucci she coveted for years. The couple barely ever left Manhattan, Rachel was focused on her career, eager to overcome the setbacks she endured after leaving Ralph Lauren, which was only fair to Monica. She had given up on Paris for Ross. Her best friend and brother had come a long way since, learning to listen to each other and compromise. She often wondered if they'd have another child but Rachel was busy with long hours at work and Ross seemed happy to teach at NYU and take care of Emma and Ben, satisfied with their life in the Upper West Side.

They still had the odd over-dramatic fight, prompting long phone calls—usually Rachel—and one of them sleeping on their couch for the night—usually Ross—but whenever they fought, no one did anything stupid and she considered that to be massive progress for the two of them.

After almost losing Rachel to Paris, her brother had turned a corner. He had the love and family he always dreamed of and as a result, he was a lot more subdued and became more flexible and appreciative. She smiled silently, it was the same for her when she started dating Chandler and that's how she knew this time, it was going to last for Ross and Rachel.

Thinking of her husband, she instinctively took out her phone to text him.

• • • The interview went well. I think? I'll tell you later. The photoshoot is this afternoon, wish me luck.

She went to the locker room to dress in her chef's uniform, the magazine wanted pictures of her in the kitchen. As she was adjusting her toque, she felt her phone buzzing in her pocket.

• • • You'll do great, honey. You're the hottest chef in New York.

She smiled and quickly typed a reply.

• • • Only in New York?

• • • Oh sorry.

She waited a couple of minutes for an answer before the phone buzzed again.

• • • Hottest chef in the tri-state area.

She laughed at her husband's silliness and replied.

• • • You're an idiot.

He didn't take long to answer.

• • • But I'm your idiot. Don't think it'll get you out of this marriage.

• • • All right, I'll keep you around.

• • • Thank you. You don't need luck, you'll be stunning. I might be considered the hot one in our marriage but I think we've established you're the photogenic one.

Monica grinned, picturing his sarcastic voice in her head as she read the text; she quickly sent I love you to him and turned off her phone before going to the kitchen where the camera crew was waiting for her.


When she made it home, Monica took a look at her front yard, assessing the damage inflicted by three hyper kids coming home from school. She cringed but knew she was way too exhausted to do anything about the clutter, the bikes, and the multiple dollhouses. Monica realized that while she could have it all—the dream job, the lovely husband and the beautiful kids—a clean house at all times was asking too much of the universe.

Chandler often teased that she had gone soft with age. The truth was, there was simply no time left to be a neat freak anymore. After the kids and Chandler, her job and her friends, the house was what she loved the most, and it was clamoring for attention just as much. She couldn't keep up with it as if she were a housekeeper out of an old English novel, or actually, as she used to in their New York apartment when life was less busy and frantic.

She took a look at the exterior of the house before stepping inside. It was her masterpiece, her decorating pet project during her maternity leave with the twins. It was immaculate like something out of a magazine spread—she kept some of the mid-century vintage furniture she had carefully cultivated in the apartment and the original art and added funky light sconces decorating the walls, more contemporary furniture, pristine kitchen counters, a new fridge, and a new couch, the old ones ending their days in the basement.

It wasn't so bad. She noticed that Chandler definitely tried to clean things up before she came home and loved these unremarked gestures of kindness from him. Her house was still beautiful and warm at its messiest state, the kids were healthy and happy, and her husband was the most understanding and loving person she knew. It was worth every sore muscle and every stepping on a LEGO incident.

"Erica! Jack! Dinner's almost ready. I know you're watching TV. You're going to have to turn it off. Five minutes!"

Monica heard Chandler from the hall and laughed. He nicknamed her Wonder Woman but on the days she ran late at work, which was more often than she liked, he'd turn into Super Dad.

She looked around in the living room, and indeed the twins were glued to episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants, not paying attention to her entrance. She went to find him in the kitchen, feeding Andrew his dinner. Chandler turned as she was leaning against one of the kitchen cabinets. He grinned at her while holding a fork to Andrew's mouth.

"Hey honey," he said, still holding a big smile. "What's going on?"

"Just admiring my perfect husband with my perfect children in my perfect house."

His smile grew bigger, and he was about to speak, probably a joke or a quip instead of just accepting the compliment, when Erica and Jack burst joyously into the kitchen.

Of course, she was aware that life wasn't perfect. Exhaustion had become a permanent state, grumpiness, bad days were part of the package but all that really mattered were Andrew's shining blue eyes and rosy-cheeked face when he was happy, Erica and Jack getting excited at the sight of her and calling, "Mommy! You're here!" in high-pitched voices, dragging at her arms, telling her stories about their day at school. In those moments, she couldn't care less about perfection.

She held the twins close, feeling the familiar squirm of their arms and legs, wincing as their little feet trampled on hers. She missed them so much. A couple of hours apart, it was nothing, it should be nothing, but as she clasped them tightly to her, it felt like ages, like she missed out on too much: did Jack grow a couple of inches? Did Erica's hair go from platinum blonde to sandy gold? From where did this new little scar on her arm come from?

Erica and Jack took their seat at the dinner table, side by side, talking in that almost-secret twin language they had, with voices overlapping yet somehow understanding each other perfectly. Monica turned to Chandler who was cleaning Andrew's mouth after he ate the spaghetti. She was staring wistfully at their youngest, and Chandler noticed straight away—her imploring gaze, her sharp inhale, he could pretty much tell from her expression alone when she was too emotional to talk. "Honey, everything all right?"

"Yes, I just … I missed the kids today."

"I know."

"Do you think I spend enough time with them?"

"What?" Chandler was genuinely shocked and surprised.

"I had this nightmare where Jack, Erica, and Andrew are all grown up and robbing a bank together and in the news, a true-crime expert would say 'family and friends trace the start of the Bing children problems to their mother, a shadowy presence in their life, who was barely home after they came back from school and missed dance recitals and playdates' and then I wake up. It must mean something."

Chandler laughed and stood up to hug her from behind and kiss her cheek. "That's ridiculous, honey. If our children robbed a bank, they would be too smart to get caught, and they'd get the idea from me," he joked, trying to make her smile. He turned her chair to him and dropped to one knee. His voice too dropped a few levels. His sweet, honest voice, Monica thought, smiling silently.

"Mon, look at me. You come home late a couple of days per week, so what? You never missed a dance recital or an important soccer game. You're there when they need you, and what matters is that you make every moment with them count. They love you so much. Right, guys? She's the best Mommy in the world."

Monica melted in his comforting arms, closing her eyes until she heard a small voice call out, "We love you, Mommy." It was Erica's tender voice.

"Love you, Mommy," Jack followed, almost shrugging at how obvious his father's statement was.

Alerted by the commotion, Andrew joined the chorus. "I love you the mostest."

The sweetness of their words was so biting that tears jumped to her eyes. She reached to a paper towel to wipe them away. "I'm a mess."

"No, you're just tired," Chandler assured her. "I'll bathe the kids and put them to sleep. You deserve a little rest and I won't accept any objection," he added, kissing her sweetly.

"Okay," she replied in a small voice and wondered again at her perfect husband and how lucky she was to have him by her side.


The next day, Monica took the opportunity of a free afternoon to clean the house—at least she could enjoy a decluttered, organized home for a couple of hours until three little hurricanes came home from school and destroyed everything on their way. Phoebe called and interrupted her, she was in the neighborhood on her way back from work. By cheer advantage of proximity, they often met when Monica had a day off and Phoebe would drop by in between her appointments in Manhattan.

They met at their usual place, a coffee place in Pelham which Monica loved. Phoebe wanted to talk "seriously" but Monica noted, you wouldn't tell by her cheerful tone. Her friend always sounded relaxed, regardless of what was going on in her life. She was always one of those people who took things in her stride, it was what she noticed first when Phoebe had answered her roommate ad, a lifetime ago.

She spotted her in the back and they hugged. They settled and ordered lattes and muffins. After checking on each other: kids, husbands, friends, work—in that order—Phoebe approached the subject that seemed to preoccupy her.

"You know how Mike and I are trying for another kid?"

"All too well."

It wall all Phoebe talked about now, a third kid, but Monica couldn't blame her. It was all she talked about when she and Chandler were trying for a baby, before finding out about their infertility. They stopped trying and a year later, Erica and Jack were adopted, a few years later, Andrew was conceived. The cosmic irony of it all.

"It was one time!" Phoebe yelled.

"Pheebs, I love you but if you two leave in the middle of dinner one more time to go have sex in the bathroom, we're canceling couples date night forever."

"Fine. But when I'm ovulating, the window is pretty short. We had to!" Phoebe took a deep breath to calm down. "Ok, well, Mike told me if we have another one, he thinks he should get back to being a lawyer."

"Really? He hates that."

"I know. I want another one so bad, so does he, but is it worth it giving up his dream for a stupid job he hated?"

"I thought the piano bar was doing well."

"It's doing fine, but he wants all of our kids to go to college. Which is ridiculous. I didn't go to college and I'm more successful than all of my college-educated friends!"

Monica blankly stared at her then shook her head. "You know, we could help? We still have a lot of clothes and stuff the kids grew out of. I'm sure you'll manage. We freaked out when we knew about Andy and it turned out fine."

"Oh!" Phoebe's face lit up. "How about we triple-team Mike at the next couples night?"

Monica laughed. "Sure, Chandler will be thrilled."

They sat in silence for a little while as they sipped their cups of coffee when Phoebe, with a mischievous smile, turned to her. "What about you two, don't you want another one?"

"I don't know …" Monica trailed off, a little flustered. "We don't have the time to think about another one, the three of them keep us pretty busy."

"Chandler doesn't want to?"

"No. I don't know. It's me, actually." Monica frowned, thinking hard. "Wow, I just realized that I'm the one holding up. It's just, sometimes I feel like I don't spend enough time with the kids and the restaurant is finally getting all this press ... It's a fragile equilibrium, you know?"

"Yeah. But I have to tell you, Chandler would love another kid."

"Really? How would you know?"

"He's great with kids, he loves being around them. I think he would have a gaggle of kids if you wanted to."

"We have a gaggle of kids. I could get pregnant, technically, at any time, the chances for another pregnancy are still slim. And adoption requires so much energy … Huh, maybe I don't have baby fever anymore."

"Monica, I've known you for what, almost twenty years? The first night we spent as roommates, watching TV around an ouija board, you told me you wanted four or five kids!"

"Yeah, I know. I just love our life so much right now—wait, have we really known each other for twenty years?" Monica gasped at the realization.

"Yes. I remember cause that's when I married Duncan," Phoebe casually replied.

"Duncan! Oh God! Ok, let's not talk about how old we are. It's upsetting."

"We're still young, trust me. The other day, we went to the doctor for our health insurance—don't get me started on what a scam that is—the doctor told us that, barring accidents, we should prepare ourselves to live a hundred or beyond. Life expectancy is going up apparently. Do you know what that means? Me and Mike, we have another sixty years of marriage to look forward to. Can you imagine that?'

"Oh my God. That's a lot of years."

"You know, I love Mike so much, but sixty more years of this? I don't know if I can take it. Some nights when Lily is screaming bloody murder and Frances needs to be fed, and Mike can't get up no matter how hard I kick him … All I'm saying is, we might end up killing each other."

Monica laughed. "Well, I've known Chandler since I was eighteen. We're beyond the murdering stage at this point. We're like conjoined twins. Two brains but one heart, and most times, he knows exactly what I'm thinking."

Phoebe grinned and took another sip. "Hey, you think Ross and Rachel will have another kid?"

"No idea. Rachel is busy all the time and Ross … He's not against it, but he'd be the one to take care of it with Emma. And Ben is in high school now, the hormones are kicking in. That's a lot to handle. So I would say ... no."

"But Rachel loses all reason when Ross wants something though. I think she might want to."

"Well, I'm sure they're mature enough now to deal with those kinds of problems if they have different opinions on the matter."

Phoebe nodded in agreement. "Yeah, yeah, they've really matured. It's amazing."

They both sighed, then Phoebe scanned Monica's face. "Want to make a bet?"

"50$ on whether Rachel is pregnant by the new year!" Monica quickly replied in a shrill voice, her blue eyes shining with excitement.

"Oh, it's on!"


Monica held Jack's hand while Chandler carried Erica as they walked into the twins' bedroom. It was time for The Talk. For the twins, it was regular bedtime storytime. Their parents were used to reading stories and tales to them about their adoption, and playing games―the smaller kangaroo carried by Andrew's stuffed kangaroo acting as the adopted kid of Erica's Barbie and Ken dolls.

They settled down with their backs against the headboard on Jack's bed, Erica and Jack sitting between their legs.

"Princess, do you remember why we named you Erica?" Chandler asked, looking down at his daughter while Monica opened a photo album on Jack's lap.

Erica stared at her father, wrinkling her nose and trying to recount the story. "Um, because of Mommy-Tummy?"

"That's right, sweet pea. Your dad and I couldn't make a baby but we wanted a baby to love and take care of. So you were born from your birth mother's tummy, and then Daddy and I adopted you."

Monica looked down at the twins, gauging their reaction. Erica was pressing her cheek against her father's chest, a sign she would be lolling her head against him soon.

"Your Mommy Tummy's name was Erica, see that's her in the picture," Chandler pointed to a picture of Erica, with him and Monica when she came to New York for the first time and they visited the city's landmarks. "You remember her?"

"Mommy-Tummy!" Jack exclaimed, pointing his finger to Erica's picture as if the memory had just struck him.

"She looks like me," Erica said, grinning at her mother, delighted.

Monica laughed as she kissed her daughter's head, smoothing her long blond strands of hair away from her face. "Yes, she's very beautiful, just like you."

"She loves you very much," Chandler chimed in and Monica sensed his voice slightly wobbling.

"Your birth mother was too young to take care of a baby," she continued for him, pausing to weigh her words, "and we needed a baby to love and take care of but we couldn't grow one in my tummy."

Monica remembered the year that followed the news of their fertility issues, she felt a tinge of sadness. It was strange, she thought the grief was definitely gone after she had gotten pregnant, but the pain and the sadness of those first few days after the test results could never really fade away from her mind. Nothing in her life had hurt so much.

"One day, on Thanksgiving, the phone rang and we were told that we were having a baby. We yelled and I hugged your mom," Chandler said, smiling at Monica as he recalled those moments. "Uncle Ross and Joey, Aunt Phoebe and Aunt Rachel were there and we all hugged each other."

It had been an awful Thanksgiving dinner. Monica was disappointed in her friends, she wasn't feeling enthusiastic about cooking, riddled with anxiety and drained by the adoption process. She thought back then she was never going to be resilient enough to wait more months, more years. Then, the phone ringed and it made Thanksgiving 2003 the greatest Thanksgiving of her life.

"We took a plane and we flew to meet your birth mother, Erica," Monica said after taking a deep breath, and checking on the twins, who were happily listening to their parents. They always loved storytime. "She wanted the very best for you, she wanted a family where you would be loved and taken care of. Daddy talked to her about how much we wanted you and how long we waited for you, and she picked us."

Chandler never told her the full story of how exactly he convinced Erica to pick them. He simply said that he told her how much he loved her and that she would make the world's greatest mother; Monica guessed it was only the condensed version, Chandler was never one to brag about his romantic gestures. It was the foundation of their marriage—the silent, unconditional acts of kindness and sacrifices.

"Then one day, we were with Erica and we took her to the hospital, and she surprised us again and gave birth to Jack then to you, Eri," Chandler followed.

"We were the happiest people in the whole world when we both saw you, and we couldn't believe two small babies would make us smile so big."

Jack and Erica grinned. Chandler stroked her cheek where it grinned, a petal-soft swelling of happiness. Monica pursed her lips at the display of affection, it reminded her of their first smiles. Erica at six weeks, and Jack a week later. Her heart had expanded three sizes. "You and Jack were so tiny and perfect, you were the most beautiful babies ever."

"We held you and we cried—happy tears," Chandler specified when Jack looked up, worried for a moment, "and we took you home. So, Erica, we gave you Mommy Tummy's name, and Jack we gave you grandpa's name."

"And that's how we became a family."

Chandler and Monica smiled knowingly at each other. She loved him and the kids unreservedly, she thought there might come a time her rib cage wouldn't be able to hold it all.

"When are we going to see her?" Erica innocently asked, and Chandler and Monica gave each other a worried look.

"You've already met with her when you were smaller, don't you remember?" Monica said.

"No, I don't remember."

Monica looked over at Chandler, surprised to find his head looking down suddenly, with a strange, sad expression.

"Chandler?" she called him after a moment of silence. He shook his head and looked up at her.

"Erica is a little busy right now, but we will meet her when she comes to New York," he said at last.

"And we'll have ice cream? Does she like ice cream?" Jack asked, clearly more preoccupied with his favorite dessert than the complicated adult emotions his parents were experiencing.

Monica waited and looked at Chandler again, it was like a grey cloud suddenly appeared over his head. "Yes Jacky, she loves ice cream and we'll take her with us to the park and we'll all have ice cream."

"What about Andy?" Jack followed up on his request.

"Well, just like your sister was a surprise, a few years after you were born, we had another surprise! Andrew grew up in my tummy and he was born nine months later," Monica explained.

"You two were gifts to us and then we were given another gift so we could be a big family and you could play with another brother and love him like we love you. All three of you share a very, very special story."

"Like a secret superpower?" Jack's eyes lit up.

Chandler chuckled. "Yes, like a superpower."

"I love playing with Andy, now he can kick the ball and score goals," Erica said, snuggling closer to her father.

Monica closed the photo album and leaned to kiss her on the cheek. "I know you do, honey."

"We love the three of you very much, we will always love you and take care of you, and if you have questions you can always come to us."

The twins nodded, mirroring each other, Monica and Chandler watched them for a while, Jack was yawning heavily against his mother's chest, and she wondered how eyelids so small could lift lashes so long. Chandler carried Erica to her bed, sang softly to her and Monica pulled the comforter over Jack's body, his face smoothed out in sleep and his cheeks flushed.

"I love you, little bunnies," she said as they both stood up. One last look at them and she realized they would never stop blowing her away. She turned off the lights and closed the door.

Chandler held her hand as they walked down the hall toward their bedroom. He kissed her temple and smiled, then looked at her in a way that meant he was in the mood to fool around and Monica wondered if there was anything else on his mind.

"You know, I saw Phoebe yesterday, she went to the doctor with Mike and he told them they could live to a hundred."

"Really?"

"Yeah, could you imagine another sixty years of marriage? Would you put up with me?" she asked impishly.

Chandler gave her his lopsided grin."Of course. I can't wait."

Monica tilted her head to the side. "You're looking for sex tonight, aren't you?"

Chandler gasped in mocked outrage. "I don't see how that's related …" he said and began kissing her neck as they entered their room and sat on their bed. "But if you want the truth, I'm excited to live as long as possible with you. I can't wait to be flabby and old and read the obituary together every single day to celebrate every time we outlive someone."

Monica laughed. "I can't wait too."

Chandler put his hands over her shoulders and started to massage them as Monica flopped down on the bed, face first.

"Hey, how about we relax a bit, and maybe I massage you for a while," he leaned over her, his body draping hers and leaving a trail of kisses from her arm to her neck. "And maybe more," his voice dropped to a whisper, close to her ear. "After all, the soon-to-get-a-Michelin-star and voted hottest chef in the world deserves to be worshipped."

At the feel of his hands and the tone of his voice, Monica turned to face him and closed her eyes with pleasure as he kissed her firmly on the lips. "Oh God, you do know how to turn me on."