Normally I say that it isn't worth it to drive me crazy. Really, it's so close that by the time you get your seat belts on and move the car, find a parking spot and walk to the door you could have just walked the whole way and saved the gas. Yet here I am in the HOV lane on my way to the Funny Farm. So what's driving me out of my tree?

GPS

I have come to believe that this really stands for "Generally Pointless Steering". Seriously. We're talking driving a car, not flying a plane, here. There are no Instrument Flight Rules. You can't just rely on the little voice to tell you what to do. In any other situation, letting the little voice that only you can hear dictate your actions is called psychosis. And it's considered a bad thing. Yet when driving this (I'm sure) otherwise lovely and intelligent individual in front of me had no problem listening to their GPS telling them to turn left. The left turn signal went on. The car moved into the left turn lane. The car moved back into the right lane. THEN the left turn signal went off. Then the left turn signal went on. The car moved into the left turn lane. Cars honked because there was no left turn lane. The car moved abruptly back to the right. The driver fingered the little screen and veered to the left again. More honking. Squinting at the little screen. Swerve to the right.

Had they paid half the attention to the actual road and traffic that they paid to that little screen their carma rating wouldn't be in the toilet right now. And the illegal U-turn would have been unnecessary.

Gasoline

I know, I know. Take a number. I haven't complained much about gas prices because this modern witch's broom is a Prius named Rosie. I hate to complain when I'm getting over 50 mpg. But today, for you, I make exception (sorry it's in writing, you'll have to imagine the accent).

I'm a sucker for some things. Little things. Sometimes things that make no sense. I'm a New Age feminist with a soft spot for some old time traditions. And I don't just mean Goddess worship. No. I liked our little full-service gas station. It seemed to be the last one left in the area. I know there are parts of the country where they're still common, but around here they're nearly impossible to find and yet I had one I drove past every day on my way to work. Not that I stopped all that often - not in Rosie. But the prices there weren't more than a penny higher than the self-serve next door so when I needed gas I stopped and talked to the wonderful characters who worked there. It was a happy thing.

Last week I noticed that the numbers were gone from their sign. I figured that with prices changing so much they'd just taken them down. Two days ago I saw it. The trash bags taped over the pumps. Big, black hefty bags are the coffin of choice for my blast of the past fuel station. Poof! I think Rosie even hiccuped.

What struck me was that it struck me at all. Gas prices go up and I say: "Well, they've been this high in Europe for a long time." They go up more and I think: "Well, I'm glad I have a Prius." Gas prices start to impact the cost of travel and I say: "This is a good year to go camping." They start to impact the cost of food and I think: "I'm no worse off than anyone else, we'll figure this out." But when my favorite little full service station goes out of business I stop to brush away a tear and stamp my feet with a "THIS ISN'T FAIR!!"

Yup. I think I've been driven crazy. Here's hoping I remember where I parked the car.

I ain't from around here. The natives tend to not let me forget that. That said, I've been here nearly 10 years and I'm starting to get used to this place. So when the weather changes during the first week of October I know better than to believe that Fall is here. I know that this cold snap isn't the first sign of the Goddess turning the wheel but just a preview of it. There will be other hot days and winter will disappoint. But my Midwestern heart longs for Fall. A leisurely time of year when a witch's thoughts turn inward and energy gets conserved for that long stretch of dark that doesn't break into a dawn until Imbolc. Being a witch means changing your reality at will so my reality today is that it is Fall.
On my way to a meeting today on the lawn I had a chance to walk across grounds. I was late. Big surprise there, eh? So I was walking quickly with my face pointed at my feet as if to will them speed. Then it happened. I caught the scent of leaves burning on a cool breeze. The breeze that whispered past my ear catching both my hair and the leaves around me. It was enough to make me look up and actually "see" the world around me. It's amazing how differently I see after a weekend in the woods with good witches and the Fae. But that's another post..... The sight that I met didn't call out an announcement that Fall was here - the leaves hadn't started to change. But you could see that the air was crisp. You could see the nip in the air. You could feel the Goddess turning the wheel silently in the background. Stealth season change.  Blessed Be.

I've been working on an entry for a while now and finally decided to split it in two and put this part up first. The reasons I've hung onto them rather than just posting is because they're both a bit on the rant/vent side of things and they both have potential to alienate some folk. So, diving right into vent #1, here's today's quiz from Blogthings:

You Are Bisexual

Girls or guys? You'll take either. Or both. You can't make up your mind. And why should you?

And that, dear reader, should serve as a cheat-sheet for the pop quiz that follows:

1. What do you call someone who "decides" to be gay?
2. What do you call someone who "decides" to be straight?

Those are trick questions because the answer is the same: Bisexual. Simply put, if you're in a position to "decide" then you have the option of being either. And that means that you're really bi. Sorry to break that to anyone reading who made the "decision" and thought it was more cut and dried than that.

Now I'm not saying that bisexual folks don't make that "decision" everyday. They may not intend to, but they do. Because as a bi individual you have two options: pick a side or be promiscuous. And picking a side puts you back in the closet and/or in the position of supporting this widely held misconception that you "chose" to be one or the other. And the latter still puts you in the closet as a bisexual.

Case in point, and the inspiration for this post: I have a friend (more than one but we'll focus on one) who was married for years and has a child. The marriage failed, as over half of marriages today do, and both parties moved on. My friend moved on to a same-sex relationship and now is widely regarded in the community as having "decided" to be gay. And, of course, that "decision" is why the marriage broke up. Truth be damned. Because, clearly, any story that either party to the marriage tells about why they really broke up is just a smoke screen designed to protect this outlandish "decision" to be gay. At least that's what word is on the street. 

In short, my friend is now defined as "gay" based on the nature of their primary relationship. Just as I am defined as straight by the nature of Iggy's plumbing and the nature of my relationship with him. Sure, I could change that. I could be "gay" if I chose a woman as a partner. But the only way to be "bi" would be to have multiple, more-or-less simultaneous partners of both genders and to be open enough about it that everyone knew. And then folks wouldn't call me "bi", they'd call me something worse. Rhymes with "store". Or "hut". Depending on the particular tone desired.

So the other day I was discussing this topic with someone who insisted that orientation was a choice. You know, "choice" like "tampons or pads" kind of choice. Deeply personal, influenced by upbringing but not by biology. Her "proof" was a woman she knew who was raped and then "decided" to be gay. In the mind of my partner in conversation, it was reasonable to "choose" to be gay. Or bi. And she defended this stance by saying that she'd support her own children's' "decision" regardless of what it was. Her "open mindedness" on the subject was offered as "proof" that her position was correct.

Now, her heart appears to be more-or-less in the right place - maybe a bit further to the right than Netter puts it but still functioning. So why do I take issue with this?

Because if you can just "choose" to be gay then what's the big deal with limiting rights to gay people? They chose it knowing what the situation was, they can just "choose" to be straight if they don't like it. You know, like the bisexuals can.

Which brings us to the other reason why bi-folk live deep in closets. It isn't uncommon, in my experience, to not fit in well with the gay community. After all, we do have a choice that they don't. We can "opt out", they can't. And we certainly don't fit in with the straight community. Same-sex friends get nervous that we might be attracted to them (or might not - and they're not sure which is worse). Opposite-sex partners seem to get more paranoid about infidelity because there are "twice as many people for you to cheat with." Or worse, if you're a bi-femme, are the guys who want to know if you have a "friend". Serious ick factor on that.

So here I sit. Happy in my closet, sipping a glass of Chianti and watching my friends in the community having fun navigating the waters of the world. I suppose we all live with our "choices" - some of us just get to make more choices than others.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Somehow the date yesterday caught my eye. September 17th. I got to thinking and told Iggy that it was a year ago the 15th that Guido hit me and that's why the date caught my attention.

I was wrong.

That alone is interesting to me. Interesting because here I am, one year later, and the events of that week are so distant to who and where I am now as to have been bumped out of memory. I actually had to check the calendar this morning to see if I had the date right. Turns out that September 15th was the day that Guido moved out. The 8th was the day he hit me. The 12th was the day my friends turned up to help.

What a year it has been. Early on, the drama was still thick as we saw our counselor a couple more times and Guido continued to lie to me while I continued to listen. He started dating and telling me he wasn't. Then he tried to tell me that I had to take him back. And that was the last time I saw him in person. Telling him that I'd call security may have had something to do with that, but I could be wrong.

So what's happened in a year? 369 days if you need to be exact (leap year, remember?).

1. Guido is gone and the divorce is final. There is no more reason for me to have contact with him. Ever.

2. Witchlets appear to have "gotten over" Guido leaving. For Thing 1 that means no more sniper fire at either Guido or Spawn. For Thing 2 that means no more asking about them or telling me that she misses her step-sister.

3. I appear to have "gotten over" Guido. No anger about him or his actions, just gratitude that I got out and shame that I could make such a mistake. But for him? No emotion.

4. I'm making progress on processing the whole mess. I could write a novel on just that but suffice to say I think I'm starting to put some things together.

5. WF and Rat Terrier are separated. Who knows what will happen there but things are moving in a direction where the witchlets have less contact with that toxic woman.

6. I've met someone special and seem to have a better approach this time. Iggy is a good guy, we share many of the same cultural norms and communicate better than I have with anyone in a long time. The issues that have come up we've dealt with together as us against it rather than us against each other - this is a change from both Guido and WF. We're moving our relationship along with our eyes open. And it feels pretty good.

7. I'm making progress on the job front. After years of laying groundwork it finally looks like maybe, possibly, hopefully something might shift. I'm not pulling out the streamers until I see something in writing but all indicators are happy ones.

8. I'm back on track in school. Taking classes and getting my program committee put together.

9. Thing 1 has started middle school. Four weeks in and I haven't killed her yet. We'll see what the update in another year looks like on that front.

So lots of shifting in life. Not as much maybe as the year when I had the air mask but it certainly does feel like I've come "unstuck" after a stretch of stagnation. So I'm starting to put some plans in place for the next stretch of time, being sure to hold space for mystery.

Please fasten your seat belts low and tight across your lap and return your tray tables to the upright and locked position for take-off. We'll be on our way shortly.

Hello. My name is Witchlets' Mom and I have a problem.

For nearly the last 12 years, I have kept my obsession at bay. Sure, there was that one 3-week lapse in 2002 but I quit cold-turkey right after I saw what was going on. Seriously - less than a month in over a decade. That's pretty good control.

I know. I'm making excuses. Truth is, I'm falling off the wagon here. I see it coming and like a B-horror film in slow motion I can't stop it.

It's hard for me to trace back to the beginning of my fall from Grace. It would be easy to blame Iggy but, truth be told, this started before he arrived on the scene. I think that it began sitting in the waiting room at my Neurologist's office. I'd brought a friend with to drive me and she'd brought her iPod. She pulled it out and began to watch something, giggling out loud.

Curiosity killed the cat and it didn't do wonders for my self-control, either. I had to ask. I had to see. It was shiny. It was funny. It was Californication. It had David Duchovny. And the entire season was available on iTunes.

Can you say "Gateway Drug"? I knew you could.

I watched the entire season. There was no more. And slowly, oh so slowly, I began to forget about this "television" thing again. My decade of abstinence had given me some measure of self-control - or at least denial. There was no "habit" to be broken. I didn't "need" to entertain myself watching pretty pictures on little boxes. At least not pretty pictures that come and go in episodic waves with recurrent characters facing similar problems penned by the same writers week after week.

You know it's coming. Wait for it.

Then Iggy brought over "Firefly." Just a couple of episodes, it'll make the movie more comprehensible. Sure. And speed just helps you get through finals. I'd say "tell me another bedtime story" but my bedtime has been late enough for a while that I don't need a story to get to sleep. Or rather, I don't need another story. By the time I go to bed I'd already watched an episode or three of Firefly.

Yup, past tense. I've burned through Firefly now (great series, btw) and we've moved on to Dexter. I know full well where this is going. It's September now and I expect that by the conclusion of 2008 the Witchlet home will have some form of broadcast television. You know, more than the kind we've been able to pick up with the rabbit ears for the last 12 years.

I've known this day would come. When I banished broadcast at Thing 1's birth I knew that someday the educational benefits of the talking box would outweigh the evils. Two years ago I nearly gave in when I realized that there was a large, third-world country size hole in the witchlets' knowledge base where most kids had an understanding of broadcast television. That realization came when Thing 1 couldn't answer a question about TV news because she'd never seen it (and what is wrong with NPR?) during the same week when Thing 2 asked a friend to pause the TV show so she could go to the bathroom. But cultural literacy be damned - we were not about to have broadcast TV in our house!

So did I really change my mind over a sci-fi western and a show about a serial killer? Not really. Blockbuster has rented us their collection of Mythbusters and the witchlets keep wanting to watch again (and again, and again). The other day, Thing 1 couldn't answer a very basic question on history. There's educational programming out there that didn't exist when she was born. Besides, it's an election year - what better time to let the witchlets learn about fiction on broadcast television?

Your Mind is 75% Cluttered

Your mind is quite cluttered. And like most clutter, it's a bunch of crap you don't need. Try writing down your worst problems and fears. And then put them out of your mind for a while.

The house is getting cleaned up as it generally does in the fall. That's right - the rest of the world does "Spring Cleaning" and I do "Fall Cleaning". If you've read this far into my blog you'll know that I don't do thing exactly like everyone else so this shouldn't be a great surprise. For weeks I've been a Witch on a rampage, whirling from room to room with a pile of bags - plastic bags for the trash and paper bags for Goodwill. I dance in honor of the Goddess and magically clutter evaporates and the floors materialize again.

All of this is making one thing painfully clear to me:

I need to start keeping a journal again.

There are things that I don't want to put out there into the great unknown Ether of the Internet but I need to get them out of my head. They're just taking up space and collecting dust - dust that makes my nose run and my head hurt. Maybe, just maybe, if I get all that crap cleared out I'll sleep better.

To say that I "am not a morning person" would be a gross understatement. Of the order of magnitude of saying that the Pope "has read the Bible". So it should be no great surprise that morning in our home is not the most pleasant time of the day. Y'all have heard the question: "If a tree falls in the woods where no one can hear does it still make a sound?" right? Well, if an alarm clock sounds in our house where no morning people can hear I am quite convinced that it really makes no sound. That or I've trained myself to turn it off in my sleep. This would be why "Good morning" in my house tends to sound much more like "Oh crap! We're late!!"

"Crap" is the operative word, in case there was confusion.

So it was this morning, the second day of school for the year. The first day adrenaline has worn off and we're back in our comfortable routine of cutting it just as close as possible in our quest for those last 3 nanoseconds of sleep. Naturally, the Wonder Dog picked up on this and chose this morning to run out the gate as we were collectively sleepwalking to the car. And unlike prior excursions, Wonder Dog elected not to return promptly this morning and stood in the road and taunted us for running so late.

Luckily, the school bus had only just left and there was a group of mothers hanging around the corner near our house who saw the whole thing. One of them called out to me and said that she'd catch the renegade mutt and that I should go on. In my rear view mirror I could see her heading up my driveway with Wonder Dog in tow and I said a heartfelt blessing for her as I went to work.

Now, I don't consider myself to have a job so much as I have a career. Thing 1 went with me this year to a professional conference and the look on her face when she said to me "You're really well respected, aren't you?" was worth every hour I've had to spend away from her and her sister over the years. I've maintained that part of the reason I value my career so much is because I have daughters and I want to be the kind of role model who shows them that you can be a mom and a valuable, contributing member of society at the same time. It isn't that I don't value stay at home moms (SAHM), I just would never choose to be one.

But this morning I had to stop and think about this for a bit. The group of women at the bus stop were all SAHMs. The one who retrieved Wonder Dog was a SAHM. Over the years many of the "room moms" and school volunteers my girls have known have been SAHMs. The parents who drive for field trips often are as are many of the parents who pick up the slack in our various carpools. And it isn't just SAHMs that do all this work - there are dads and work-at-home parents of both genders.

If everyone I know shared my values and beliefs on the subject then I'd have been running after Wonder Dog in my suit this morning late for a meeting. My girls would have fewer school activities and field trips because there would be fewer volunteer hours to go around. Basically, there would be no slack in my life or schedule of the kind afforded to me because others have chosen a different path from mine.

So I guess when I start to get all uppity about what makes a "valuable, contributing member of society" I need to stop and remember that what allows me to be a mom while having my career is the willingness of others to be parents at the expense of careers that take them away from home and family.

And we'll end it there before I mention the whole single mother thing........

Labor Day weekend is just around the corner. You know what that means, right? No, I don't mean picnics or grilling or a long weekend or even the Labor Day sales. I'm talking about the approach of the bestest holiday of the entire year.

Samhain.

My favorite holiday may be two full months off, but I'm already planning. You see, I struck a deal with the multiverse a few years back. I figure if our Judeo-Christian society can put out Christmas decorations and start playing Christmas music before Thanksgiving then I can put up my Samhain decorations after Labor Day. My only constraint is that I first must see Christmas decorations for sale in two separate retail stores. Not online. Up close and in person.

We've had our first spotting for 2008 at one of the usual offenders of early retail. Now, as soon as I find a second source I can begin to put up the decorations (don't worry, pictures will be posted). The only trouble is that I'll feel absolutely silly if they go up in any visible sense prior to September 1st no matter how many stores have their Christmas wares on display. I guess this means that I have one week that I have to avoid shopping. At least at certain locations.

That's okay, though. I can still practice my cackle. Cackles are timeless.

Now that we have that out of the way, let's talk about children under 13. After all, they shouldn't be reading at this point so they won't know that we're talking about them, right?

At the back to school picnic today, Thing 2 found and ran off with her friend Bea. That statement should come with the caveat that "friend" is open to interpretation. These two girls can either be as close as conjoined twins or they can be as lovingly kind to each other as a two starving dogs with a single chicken nugget. The two states alternate at a dizzying speed and you never know from one breath to the next what you're dealing with. That kind of "friend".

So these two little darlings had wandered off and I'd finished counting my blessings, one of which was the lack of both screams and mushroom clouds. Still, I thought it best to find them so I asked one of the other moms if she'd seen Thing 2. She hadn't but asked who Thing 2 was with so that she might keep an eye out for her. The name "Bea" didn't mean much to her at first but slowly recognition lit her face and she said "Oh! The other bossy girl."

The look on her face told me who the "first" bossy girl was.

She apologized, needlessly, and explained that it was just what the other kids called the two of them but I was already laughing. You see, I know the truth.

The truth is that Thing 2 entered this world, looked around at the delivery room and cast a disparaging look at the Obstetrician as if to say "Tell me you had nothing to do with the selection of wall color in here. It's simply hideous." In the 7.5 years since then things have not changed substantially.

Over the summer WF and I have worked a bit on the life lesson that one should generally avoid telling one's parents what to do if one wishes to have a life outside of one's bedroom. It's not been a particularly gratifying wall to beat my head on but it has been educational. It taught me that my first stop at the picnic today needed to be with her teacher to offer bribes of alcohol or chocolate in lieu of hazard pay for this academic year. Yes. I gave a preemptive apology. Don't criticize until you've spent the day with Thing 2.

All behavior issues could, of course, be solved very quickly and easily in the manner most familiar to parents in our society. We could have her "evaluated" and "treated". That's a modern euphemism for "complaining" and "medicating". I'm not saying that there aren't children with legitimate issues that need to be medicated to help them function in adaptive ways, I'm just saying I'm not sure Thing 2 is one of them.

She's successful in her academics - her ability to sit still seems to be good enough to allow her to have her multiplication tables down cold. She's articulate - too much so for me some days. Really, the biggest issue is socially and even there she seems to be limping by even if it is with the reputation of being "bossy". So why doesn't this bother me more? Don't I want my child to be a team player? How can I ignore that the bossy kid isn't the most popular kid?

Bear with me while I go off on a short feminist rant that may be totally off base. But it is my blog. And you were warned.

Too often I think we teach our young girls to be passive. They learn that they have to play cooperatively in teams and get along. They learn that they have to build consensus. They learn that they can't be in charge.

And while we're teaching our girls this, what are the boys doing? They're beating on each other, competing with each other for dominance. In short, they are learning to stand up for themselves and be in charge of something - even if it is just themselves. When they're older, we teach them that they must get along with others, share their toys and find ways to build consensus. But when they're young so many things get dismissed as "boys will be boys".

The girls, on the other hand, learn to be compliant and passive. They do well in school because they know these skills. And because they don't have trouble, there's no need to teach them the other set of social skills as we do boys. Try telling a teacher with 30 kids in a classroom that not only do they have to teach the boys to share and play nice but they have to teach the girls to be more assertive. Then see which gets priority. It's a simple matter of time management - teachers can't do everything!

The boys enter adulthood with both sets of skills - albeit one more polished than the other. The girls enter with only one. If these girls then attempt to enter a male-dominated field they must learn at least the basics of the other skill set. Trust me - if you don't learn how to be assertive and take charge of your own life/career someone will do it for you. And it won't be fun. So how do girls learn this? Well, you can try "trial by fire" or "years of therapy". Those are the two most popular options.

At this point, Thing 2 is the "bossy girl". I could die on the hill trying to teach her that this isn't the way girls behave and helping her learn to be more passive and compliant. And I would die on that hill. Not only would I suffer from that decision but I believe that she would, too. In breaking her spirit I fear that I would rob her of a skill set that currently comes naturally to her. A skill set that I am only just learning to acquire for myself. So I'll let her be the bossy girl. But I am not going to re-paint any walls.

I have never been a fan of the tiny school. This is most likely because in terms of our local schools, I have two diverse roles in examining the schools in our district: Diversity and Cost.

Looking at it from the standpoint of diversity issues, tiny schools are likely to be more homogeneous in population and offer their students exposure to a less diverse peer group. As a member of a religious minority, this is no small concern to me. Looking at it from a resource utilization standpoint, tiny schools can be a drain on the limited resources of a community. Regardless of how small the student body, these tiny schools still require administration and facilities that are not substantially less expensive than their larger counterparts. Either way, tiny schools cannot compare favorably to larger schools in the same district serving the same demographic.

As of today, this is all past tense. Today, next Monday if we must be specific, I gain a new role in which to examine schools. In three short days I will become the mother of a Middle School Witchlet.

Oy.

MSW attends a tiny, private school that falls outside the realm of schools I am involved in examining. No, those two facts are not connected. WF and I chose her school on its merits not the shortcomings of the public counterparts. No insider information was used in the processing of this decision and no animals were harmed in the execution of her transfer.

For those of you who don't grasp the concept of "tiny", I'll put this into perspective. There were 14 children in the entire 5th grade last year. There will be two second grade classrooms with 12 children in each this year - making it the biggest class in the school. The entire Middle School is in one hallway. The lockers aren't assigned in advance, they're first-come, first-serve on the first day of school (see also: chaos). The lockers don't lock. Kids keep their notebooks in their classrooms. Band instruments are kept on a folding table in the hallway. You have the same science teacher and classroom for all of middle school (same with English, Math and Social Studies). Maybe I should use a capital "T" on Tiny?

The school isn't the only thing that's tiny here. MSW isn't exactly large. She's always been my "little" girl and at four years older than Thing 2 she's still less than 10# heavier and 6" taller. They wear the same size, more or less. And while Thing 2 is built like a hockey player, she's not that big for her age.

Keeping with her diminutive size and genetic heritage (late bloomer, moi?), MSW is showing few signs of the kind of maturity that her peer are not only starting to show but to brag about. You know - physical stuff. (see also: Tanner Stage) Face it, emotionally and intellectually she's older than I am. This bothers me not one, Tiny iota. I'm more than happy for her to be my "little" girl a little longer (see also: denial). MSW disagrees. Or at least I think she does. We still need to "talk" ("Talk"?) but the whole "I borrowed my friend's razor to shave my legs" thing seems to indicate that she and I have different perceptions on her level of physical maturity.

Layer Middle School on top of this. You know, that place where the kids dream of lockers and "cussing"? No shit. I picked that up on a g-damned routine e-mail screen. I mean, where the Hel did she pick up that cussing was acceptable? I'm going to f'ing nip that in the bud!

A tiny school means that she'll have contact with fewer teachers who will get to know her better and are more likely to pick up on issues before they become Issues (I'm stuck on this capitalization theme today, aren't I?). One hallway means that she'll have less territory to roam when the issue isn't borrowing a friend's razor but taking a drag off a friend's cigarette. Fewer peers mean that the risk of her falling into a crowd where I don't know the kids (or the parents) is slim. And it means that even if she's the only late bloomer, she'll know all the kids and that's the best insurance I know for teasing. At least the mean-spirited kind.

So while I can't say I've come full circle on my beliefs about tiny schools in the public sector, I can say that as a parent of a soon-to-be Middle School girl I've done some soul searching on the topic. At this point, with this child, I'm glad we're at a Tiny school.

Still, I think it's safe to say that I could use a care package of Vodka and Calgon. AA batteries wouldn't hurt, either, except that I'm planning on sleeping through puberty for both of the Witchlets. It seems safest, Tiny school or not.