December 12

Dear Diary:

I called my parents to tell them I was engaged—Mom was thrilled… she drank in the details of the proposal… Dad came to the phone and asked me if I had seen the New York Times Business Section that day about the corporate merger of the “Kubaniyya” I work for. (He calls it “Kubaniyash”. As in, “Kubaniyash indEt new?”…) We spent considerable time talking about the merger and what it meant to my career, and whether the stock was worth holding on to. Finally… “Tadiya le inatish Tru zEna asemashat…”

Yes, I said.

“Inna Tesfaye… Tru sew new?” he asked, albeit a little too distractedly.

(I could hear my mother’s muffled “Ayyyi.. ayyante neger!” in the background.)

“Awo.”

“YaTEsal?”

“AyaTEsm.”

“Y’TeTal?”

“AyTeTam.”

“Uh-huh. Ke sew l’debadeb y’lal?”

“Aylm….”

“Ay.. ingdia dehna sew bihon new.”

“Awo.”

“Tesfaye ma alshiN?”

“Actually, Daddy, his name is Yonas.”

“Yonassiiii? … Yonas ma?”

“Yonas [last name].”

“Tadiya Tesfaye mannew?”

“InnEEEE… innEnja…”

“Bei.. inatish y’chiewtlish…”

* * *

December 13

Dear Diary:

My uncle, Gash Sileshi, called at 5:30 this morning. I was dead asleep, but his booming voice at the other end of the phone…

“Allew?… Ah-lewwww? Allewww? Aysemam? Ysemal? Mannesh anchi?” (My uncle always starts his phone conversations the same way…--Several rhetorical “y’semal?/aysemam?”s followed by his incredulous “Mannesh anchi?!!…”, as if it were I who was calling him at 5:30 a.m. Even when he calls my brothers… it is “Mannesh anchi?”)

He must have sensed the grogginess in my voice…

“Innante gar snt s’eaat new?”

Gash Sileshi and I live two towns away, in the same state… we’ve lived in the same time zone for the past 10 years… but we have different area codes, thus he refuses to believe we live in the same time zone, so we go through the same routine…

“Innate gar y’berdal?”

It was 5:30 a.m. I had no energy.

“Awo. Y’berdal.”

“Izihm y’berdal!” I sensed excitement at this barometrical bonding. “Innate gar znab T’lwal?”

“Awo, Tlwal.”

“Ay! Ezihm Tlwal!!! Ay zm b'lo ende eNa newa!”

He congratulated me on my engagement. He wanted to know the wedding date. I said we had not set a date yet. He reminded me (via the very long story he’s told at every family gathering since 1990) about his friend’s daughter’s wedding… … smack in the middle of hmmamat… For some reason, my uncle personally felt scandalized that his friend’s daughter’s wedding was during Tsom… very scandalized.

January 8

Dear Diary:

ItiyE Hbret, my favorite aunt, hosted this year’s Genna dinner and threw us a small engagement party. The thing I love most about ItiyE Hbret is that she still thinks and acts like she lives in Ethiopia. All her friends are Ethiopians… her condo is in the middle of Adams Morgan, and were it not for her son dating a ferenj (or as she says, “M’Ts ferenj, yachi mekereNa ferenj”.. – no one knows the girlfriend’s name), ItiyE Hbret would have zero contact with the non-Ethiopian world. Through her various social obligations-- several idiroch, prominent position at the church, membership at Menen and KomErce School Alumni mehaberoch—ItiyE Hbret is separated from every member of the Ethiopian Diaspora by less than two degrees.

She made quanTa fr-fr because she knows it’s my favorite… she actually made the quanTa herself… as in she hung the meat from a diagonal clothesline spanning the length of her living room. One would have to raise the clothesline pegged with fresh meat and go underneath it to cross to the dining room. She is the only person I know who owns an actual insra, in which she routinely makes Tella and qrarri. Whenever I visit her, it takes her old hippie neighbor blasting Steely Dan from his stereo to bring me back to reality… Were it not for occasional blasts of “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” superceding the Mikahel BetE Krstiaan weTat mezemran chanting “Aman le Aman-ni..” from an old Sony tape player, I’d be happily lost among the all-weather eTan, guzguwaz, mesob décor of Unit 4A.

Oh. Somewhere between dinner and an elaborate bunna ceremony, ItiyE Hbret decided she was in charge of the wedding food preparation. She listed all the dishes she’d like to see on the buffet, and audibly began assigning the women in the family tasks.

Here’s the thing… ItiyE Hbret is a renowned bale moya. I mean, the folklore of her moya traverses several continents. A serious, serious abesha mgb gourmand. A purist. But… it’s so hard to eat her food in her presence… the minute one compliments her dishes, she finds the most unappetizing adjectives to denigrate her moya. I mean, humility, one thing… what she does, totally lEla…

For instance, I told her that the doro weT was especially delicious…

“Ayiii. WeT b’lo zm. Ebet, ebet y’lal… weT’m aydel…”

You know…!?

The kitfo.. “UU.. tewuN… nora nora m’l sga ke yet indameTu…”

The bozena shro… “ECH! Zm blo liqilaqi new… liiiiqqqilaqi…”

The gomen.. “Ay-hey… gomenu’iss teqelede.. gomenu ye ahiya fess, ye ahiya fess..”

Not exactly Martha Stewart cooing, "It's a good thing" … although I allowed myself to be briefly curious what “ye ahiya fess”... never mind.

Anyway, good time was had by all. ItiyE Hbret knew Yonas’ family… apparently, very well… She delved into the details of his parents’ brief separation in 1970… what with his father wanting to return to Addis whilst the wifey wanted to remain in Paris. ItiyE Hbret, sotto voce, admitted to being one of the astaraqiwech whose successful tdar intervention, she did not mind saying, has led to many a marriage flourishing.

“I didn’t know your parents were separated,” I said to Yonas later.

“Neither did I,” he mumbled.

****

February 13

Dear Diary:

We set the date! A Gash Sileshi-seal-of-approval-stamped-on-it-kinda date… no Tsom- not even one of those really obscure ones that only Gash Sileshi and two meloksEs in Waldiba observe - anywhere near our wedding date.

***

February 20

Dear Diary:

It’s very weird. Mom has yet to email me her list of invitees. In fact, I can swear that she is almost avoiding getting me that list. I am a little panicked because my mother’s list… I dunno… I have a bad feeling about the number of people she’s thinking of inviting. I’ve told her that we wanted a small, intimate wedding…

“Mn? Eko e’summa gebaN… sdist meto sew tadiya le “small and intimate” mn annesew?”

I….You see? That’s why I am panicking. That and the fact that we only want 200 people. My mother smiled a very sickly smile when I told her that my share comes to, er.. 100 people total. She patted me on the head…

“Tegurishin mn aregshiew,” she interrupted me.

Later I heard her whisper to my aunt about the 100-person limit. My aunt gasped. Loudly. … the kind of gasp the rest of us save for when we hear that a mud slide had killed ten thousand Pakistanis. “IndE! Ye w’CH sew new indE mtagebaw??? ItyoPPiyawi’m aydel indE eCHoNawa..?”

When ItiyE Hbret heard about the 100 people "limit" she rolled her eyes... " U U tay. InnEn small and intimate baregeN!!"

Seriously, I am panicked.

***

March 4

Dear Diary:

Yonas’ mom, ItiyE Menbere, my mom and my sister are in New York, looking for my wedding dress. ItiyE Menbere wore her “Dior Addict” knit sweater set I love. She was clearly in charge of this venture. Must be her years in Paris. We headed to Vera Wang, where she’s on first name basis with that chick Deandra. House of Wang offered us champagne as a freaky little waifish thing modeled wedding dresses. My sister lost interest by the third dress, and I by the fifth. Mom and ItiyE Menbere went through what must have been a million and a half dresses… Some of the dresses they hastily dismissed… they rolled their eyes at a raw silk dress I tried to tell them I kinda liked… “Mnew itE! Yaltetekose CHmdidu y’weTa… yaCHemadat!! ”

“But I…”

“Listen, chickie.. this ain’t about you,” my sister interjected dryly…

Oh, you think??

“S'il vous plaît, pouvons-nous voir quelque chose autrement? Ces robes me donnent un mal de tête. ..."

Deandra and her mignons delved hastily into the back room and with organized haute couture frenzy started wheeling out garment trolleys full of dresses.

My sister yelped and bolted out of the bridal suite. I was more decorous. I waited until Mom and ItiyE Menbere lost themselves in a seemingly weighty conversation about Italian vs. American beadwork before I crept out of the room, unnoticed.

I know I have disappointed my future mother-in-law… I chose an impossibly simple silk dress from a random boutique on Spring Street… ItiyE Menbere looked at it with unabashed bewilderment… “Where’s the rest of the dress?” she asked.

My mother looked at me and saw the excitement in my eyes as I childishly twirled about in the small boutique. “It’s gorgeous,” mom said quietly. “You’ll look beautiful in it…” and she cupped my chin the way she used to when I was a little girl.

ItiyE Menbere was genuinely confused about the whole thing… I paid $300 for the dress before ItiyE Menbere could recover from the bombshell. I slung it on my shoulders and headed out into the world…. things were looking up. ItiyE Menbere slipped into the Anna Sui boutique to recover from the whirlwind.

***

March 20

Dear Diary:

Mom finally emailed me her list. There is the list… numbered and all… and then there are her p.s’…

First p.s at the end of her list… “If any of these people can’t come, I have another list of my friends. I have gone to their children’s weddings and they have to come. Your brother, as you know, would not let me invite any of my friends to his wedding. It was very sad for me. So, I have to invite them now. Love, your mother.”

p.p.s. “I don’t know the name of Dr. Teshome’s new wife. His other wife (my friend) is Amelewerq. Invite her too. She won’t come, but it will be nice. Find out Dr. Tesome’s new wife’s name. She is Roman’s cousin.”

p.p.p.s “Do you know Mebratu’s last name? I added him because he visited your father in New Jersey when your father was teaching there. He is a good man. A man of God. He won’t come, but invite him.

p.p.p.p.s “Also, please call your cousin Seble and find out the name of that woman who came to see us in Addis Abeba when we were there two years ago. She brought us berbere and firewood. She is related to your father, and he wants her to be invited. But he can’t remember her name. It may be Bizu.. Beza.. She had a child named Kiros or Gebre-Kiros.. or Weldeyesus. Find him too. I hear he attends University in California. I don’t know which one. But it is the big University in California. She will not come but she would like to be invited.

p.p.p.p.p.s “Do you remember our friend Neal in London? … He lives in Croyden I hear now from your uncle Mesfin. Neal has not seen you children since you were six, and I am sure he would like to now. Do you remember him? Please find him on the computer. His sir name is Lester. Your father tells me his sir name is not Lester. It is perhaps Lenster. I think it is Lester. Look up both Lester and Lenster. He was at the ECA in the late 60’s. He gave you that nice red dress that you liked to wear. So, find him on the computer.”

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s“Wossenyelesh is now back in Addis Abeba. I don’t know how to get her address. Send her the invitation in the care of UNDP, Addis Abeba, ETHIOPIA. She retired two years ago from there, but if you send it c/o UNDP they will find her. It would be nice if you also invited her mother, Wro. Inkenyelesh. Amsale told me that Wosseniye is living with her mother. So, we have to invite them as they live under one roof. Wro. Inkenyelesh was Emama Tilikwa’s neighbour at Shola. They like each other and Emama Tilikua used to have a milk contract with Wro. Inkenyelesh. They can’t come all the way from Ethiopia, but invite them.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s“There are four Tigist’s in our list… Tigist Lemma is my cousin… she won’t come. Her son’s wife just had a baby. Tigist Tesfaye… from your father’s work. She is in Washington. Ask Hbret how to get her address. Tigist Meshesha—that one is Gashe Meshesha’s daughter. She is in Rome, but she comes here a lot for work. Ask Hibretiye for her address. The last one is Tigist “Kostara” Sebhat. Do you remember her? Her daughter and you went to the same school. “Kostay” and I grew up together, and her husband and your father are good friends. Invite her. Also, maybe invite her daughter. It would be nice but I leave that to you. You know what is best. It is your wedding and I want you to be happy.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s “Also, I want to invite all my mehabertgnoch . I will make that list for you tomorrow. That is simple. Most of them are in DC. Hibret will know them, and will give them the invitation. Just send her about 20 (twenty) invitations and she will distribute them for you.

“I want you to be happy. As your mother that is all I want for you, my darling. Your father says hello. I have told him not to call Yonas “Tesfaye” any more. He said he will try. And he wants to know who Tesfaye is. Isn’t Bertukan’s son’s name Tesfaye? I am certain Bertukan is on your list as she was very close to being your Godmother?

Your loving mother,

Mummy.

****

April 14

Dear Diary:

My sister and cousins were at the house today learning Amharic wedding songs.. and I was getting their advice on hiring a singer… I was a little confused about the lyrics on some songs… like the one with the line.. “serg inna mot and new…” I… it, frankly, gave me the heebie-jeebies. My cousin, who is in between marriages, concurred with that line… which then really made me panic.

But then Yonas explained to me the meaning and this time it was my cousin who panicked.

I love Ethiopian wedding songs—truly. There is something about the lyrics that invites merriment… Even my aunt, Geni, the born-again, was heard quietly singing “kulun man kwaleshi”. Geni always refuses to dance at weddings since eskista is not “le gEta kbr” sanctioned and all… the problem is, Geni used to be a huge partier in her days… and inevitably, right in the middle of weddings, she is divinely menesheT-ed into taking center stage and knocking out the CHferra like it was 1999… well, like it was 1984 at a home party in a swanky house in BolE. The next day, at the mels, Geni would shamefacedly sit in a corner, avoiding eye contact with her fellow revelers. Someone, eventually, would praise her eskista prowess, to which she would swiftly reply, “sETan tefetateneN..”… ItiyE Hbret, upholder of Ethiopian Orthodoxy, would invariably lament… “Wui!! sETan sra feto! Mn sra ffffffftit siyaregew… esu lerasu lEla bbbbzzzzzuuuu sra yalebet sew!!!”

Anyway, I think we’ve settled on a singer. BTW, if I had half a sense I would be an Ethiopian zefaN full time… especially come wedding season… all the popular ones put you through the ringer… No one calls you back… you have to have the right pedigree to be ingratiated by some singers, and be willing to drop 5K plus flight/hotel accommodations. ZefaNoch are the new Ethiopian royalty. And the protocol… ! If you deign talk to them directly, bam!, you are shot down… they are all booked waaaay in advance… or they give you that, “meShafEn aychE l’dewil’ilachiu..” If they say that, you know you are getting the gentle shove off. The protocol is to have the friend of your cousin whose sister knows the singer’s half brother call the singer in advance and introduce you.

So much to learn.

So, we finally decided on a low-profile high-talent zefaN… humble guy, until we asked him if he’d play “JemayE Nei Nei” at some juncture. “Ayhonm!” exploded previously humble zefaN. “Esu ye-party zefen new!”

Oh.

Sister and cousins showed off their hard work by singing the songs they learnt to the elders. Everything went swimmingly until one cousin, who’s solo début was to be the lead in the song “Ye wein abebayE” instead belted out the lyrics, “Ye wer abebayE”.

She needs to work on that.

***

April 20

Dear Diary:

Mom and I had a long talk about the invitation list. Sis was there to referee… Dad wanted no part of this. His list was exactly five friends—friends he’s had for the past 40 years. He couldn’t remember the woman, that relative of his, who came to see them in Addis two years ago… the woman who brought with her berberE and inCHet. Mom was adamant that we invite the woman… who we referred to simply as, “sEtiyowa”… “SEtiyowa meTerat alebat,” mom said decisively. “BerberE y’za meTa... be mn aqimwa itE! Ufff! Innante ferenjie hager yadegachiusss... lb adirq... ye sew wuleta indih... eCH!…”

“Ok,” my sister finally intervened. “Eswan Terten berberE’wun indEt intewalen? BerberE’wum y’Terra?”

Mom glared furiously.

Eventually, neither the berberE and nor the sEtiyowa made the cut.

***

May 3

Dear Diary:

Today was very exciting. We sent out the invitations! Well, I guess this is it! We’ve included RSVP cards so that we can keep up with the guest list. Yoni, bless his soul, wrote this nifty little program that keeps track of the guest list. I’m not sure how it works exactly even though he spent an hour explaining it to me… Something, something, press enter, something, something press back-slash..

Several people scoffed at the thought of RSVP cards in an Ethiopian wedding invitation. I found that a little surprising… how could people keep track? The people who scoffed then guffawed. “M’Ts… ay lfat!… lefash mechase…”

I don’t know what that means. It doesn’t sound good.

****

July 7

Dear Diary:

I have not been able to write in a while because things are starting to get really busy. The cake, the flowers, the dresses… Details. Too many details. I am very glad I got a wedding planner, I’ll tell you that much. Delegation is the best Aspirin… At a certain point, really, I couldn’t try to care whether the napkins were off white or ecru… Beige is beige… But the wedding planner woman took personal offense when the damask tabletoppers turned out to be ecru, not off white. She made a big deal about it, and I tried to feign indignation at the linen guy.

Here’s the best thing about having a ferenj wedding planner… it prevents the million and a half unofficial Ethiopian wedding planners from giving their opinions on matters big and small. “Ayy… ferenjuwa indesu aychalm alech” is the key phrase here, and everybody backs off. It’s almost too amazing. People who are otherwise fierce about voicing four different opinions on one subject matter, are silenced by a simple, “Ayy… ferenjuwa indesu aychalm alech.” Case closed.

I was afraid that what happened to my friend would happen to me… My best friend in high school recounts her wedding day with such venom it is amusing to everyone else but her. She, being a meticulous planner, had arranged it so that she would have a cocktail hour before her reception began. Wh-hell! This, ostensibly, did not sit well with one woman, who took it upon herself to direct traffic away from the cocktail area and into to the reception room. Why? Because “Indih aynet neger semtenm, aytenm anawq..”

Well, out come very-soon-to-be-unhappy-couple to the cocktail area, nada people around. Bride has a series of mini heart attacks. Someone then points them to their reception hall. Tears streeeeeming down her cheeks, my poor friend started yelling at the hotel person. Hotel person had had enough… she, also tears streaming down her face, relayed to the bride that exactly 45 people had told her 90 different things, and that eventually a woman identifying herself as the bride’s “second mother” had ordered the mass exodus into the reception hall…

Second mother??

Eventually, things calmed down, and bride sucked it all up. Someone later pointed out the alleged “second mother”. Funny thing is (funny to us, not to the bride) no one could identify the woman… the groom didn’t know her… none of the family knew her.. no one knew who the chick was.

But, and again funny to us not the bride, the woman seemed quite at home… sashaying easily to and from the buffet, the dance floor… yet no one knew who she was! And no one wanted to ask her who she was.

***

July 15

Dear Diary:

Well, today was the official cut-off date for RSVPs to be in. Here’s a curious thing, and this is the great Ethiopian Social Experiment… we did a tally of the people who sent in the response cards…

- Most of our parents’ friends sent in their RSVP cards… very classy, we thought. Even ItiyE Hbret!

- Almost all the ferenj, of course…

- Almost all of our close family members, did not send in anything. I called my cousin and asked him if he was planning on coming. He took offense to the question. Well, I explained, why didn’t he send in the card.

What card?

The RSVP card.

What RSVP card?

THE ONE IN THE INVITATION. THE ONE THAT HAD A STAMP ON THE ENVELOPE. THE ONE HE JUST HAD TO DROP IN A MAILBOX.

Ohhhh… THAT RSVP card.

Yes, that one.

“Anchi demo! Ahun esti mn y’balal le zemed esun melak?”

Huh?

“Bakish! Y’liqunuuuu…. Stampoon bill lakubet.”

***

July 23

Dear Diary:

Time is running out. There are still people we have not heard from, and the wedding planner woman is getting antsy about the count. It’s all about the count.

We finally started calling people yesterday. It is a very uncomfortable task that, I assure you. Some of these people I barely know, and the abesha in me found some leftover yluNta. But someone’s gotta do it.

I had an interesting conversation with a workmate of my mother’s.

After the obligatory “Mussshhhiiiiriiiit… dehna nesh wei, Muuuuushhhhiiiiritttt?” people seem to volley at all soon-to-be brides, I broached the subject of her RSVP. By now I had gained valuable experience/protocol…

“Tadiya, iyeTebeqnachuh n’w.” I started things off coquettishly.

Long crackling nervous laughter from ItiyE Roman’s end.

“Ayyyyiiiiiiiii…. Yenantenimma serg indEt iqeralehu?? Ye ihiTE lij nesh iko!!”

Wow. That was relatively painless. I penciled in ItiyE Roman’s name on the “Yes” senTerej.

I was ready to move on. She, apparently was not.

“Ingidih… EgzihabEr kefeqede..”

Nooooooo!! Not the “EgzihabEr kefeqede.” NO!

I erased her name from the “yes” column.

“IndE! MemTatimma alebachiu!”

Very long laughter from ItiyE Roman’s end.

“Eshhhhiiiiii…..beqa inmeTalen….”

Bingo! I wrote her name back in the “yes” column… this time in pen.

“Eeeesuuuuu fqadu kehonemma, inmeTalen….”

Noooooooooo! No. No-no-no. Maybe I can pretend she didn't say that.

“IndE… indEt y’honal, ItiyE Roman…?” (I put a line through her name.)

“InnEma… innEma alqerm bi neN. Gnnn, yeEsu fqad meCHemer alebet. Esu kefeqede, geftro yameTaNal… AlmeTam b’l enkwan, esu abrirro yameTaNal.”

That... sounded... like a no to me. I put another line through her name.

“Le innE eko, yanchi serg, yennE serg mallet new…Innem neN eko m’mosherew!!!”

Uh-oh. Now that is a yes. She wouldn’t miss her OWN serg, would she? That’s a definite yes. I grabbed a red pen and scratched in her name in the “Yes” column again.

Phew.

“Gn… l’mTa b’l enkuwan, ye Esu fqad kalone asro quCH yaregeNal.”

Oooookay. This was way over my expertise.

I finally blurted out that the bad people at the place we’ve rented told us that we need to tell them a definite guest count… in desperation I added a white lie about how the place will not add chairs…

Lame, I know.

ItiyE Roman remained unmoved.

“Beqa… kemeTahu wenber enkwan ayasfeligeNm… merEt lie quCH biyE yanchin serg belalehu… Inatish eko l’innE ihitE nat. Gebash? Ihit. Ihit y’gebashal?”

Finally! That’s was as definitive an answer we Ethiopians can give. I put her name down in the “No” column.

I took my list to Yonas. He showed me his call list. His list had three columns… “Accept”, “Decline” and “EgzihabEr Yawqal”.

Smart man. I am marrying me a smart man.

***

July 30

Dear Diary:

This might be the last entry I am able to write before the big day. I can’t believe how the past few weeks have just zipped by. Everything is going fairly well… Except when some people found out that ours was an afternoon wedding, and that the reception was immediately following. This, apparently, will not give people enough time to change from Ethiopian attire to cocktail attire. It really irritated the crap out of some people. Can’t figure out why. You’d think it uncomplicated matters. But un-complicating matters causes a lot of complications. Don’t ask me why. But hell if I spend all day in a wedding dress.

What would they have thought of my initial idea to get married on the beach at sunset? Now, THAT would have been one heck of a complication.

Our Qess is very stressed out that we be on time for the ceremony. He told us, his voice quivering with pain, that it is routine for bride and grooms to be a couple of hours late to the ceremony. I thought he was kidding at first so I laughed loudly, but Yonas nudged me hard in the ribs. Woah!

I ask Yonas later what would happen if I was running two hours late for our wedding. “I’d divorce you,” he said. I think he means it.

Anyhoo, I printed out the schedule of the day’s events and distributed it to the bridal party. I thought I was being overtly cautious by adding a 15-minute cushion to the line-item schedule. Curiously, very few of them paid any attention to the schedule. They kept asking me questions that, if they paid any attention at all, were all answered in the line-item. Oh, but the ashmoor… If anyone asked a question they’d snidely refer to the line-item…

“Eski… sile wEzeru line-itemu mn y’lal?”

“Ante… ya sewyE mn iyyarege new….? Eski, line-itemu lie temelketew!”

“Qoi eski… mechE new nfTachnin menafeT mifeqedew? Y’hEwunna…. ‘10:05 a.m.: N’fT tenafeTu’ …. Yichi line itemitu dess t’lalech.”

Oh, well. If it amuses them. It’s too late to get new lifelong friends.

At a certain point, you gotta let go. I just want to have fun.

***

September 20

Dear Diary:

It was a blast! I had such a blast… All the annoying minutiae of getting through the wedding faded when Yonas called me “my wife” the first time. My heart nearly stopped. He said it during our first dance… “Hello, mistE,” he whispered into my ears.

That guy… he drives me crazy.