You Have Yours

When one's life is full of drudgery, one is entitled to guilty pleasures.

American Idol tops my list. It's even ahead of Junior Mints. Wait...American Idol...Junior Mints. Yeah, American Idol. No doubt about it.

Another guilty pleasure is biographies of rock stars. I adore late 60s / early 70s rock and all the delicious trippiness of that era. And yes, I'll admit it, I feel comparitevly fabulous about myself every time I read about someone who had it all and ended up snorting it up their nose and blithering away in rehab.

In the past week I've read three such biographies. One was "My Life with The Dead" written by the manager of The Grateful Dead. Did I enjoy it? Of course. And I ate Junior Mints while I was reading it. It's a heady life I lead.

While I've never been a Deadhead, I do have a couple of Grateful Dead stories:

1983, Tempe Arizona: A dozen or so Deadhead wanna bes in a college student apartment (belonging to my friend Karen and her roommate Terry), pre-concert. Terrapin Station is playing. I'm thinking back to a Dead concert I had attended two years prior, in Kansas City. I thought it was boring. I'd turned to my friend half way through it and commented that I should have brought a flashlight and a book.

The day of the concert, I'd written on the white board in the dorm hallway "Trip on citric acid with the Grapefruit Dead!" Maybe that's what was missing. Acid.

After the concert, we'd somehow stumbled upon a crowd of ardent fans, waiting for the Dead to enter an awaiting limo. Finally his royal beardedness appears and the crowd asyncronously lauds little variation on two statements "Great show!" and "Hey Jerry, love you man!" This goes on for a while and is punctutated only by the lone and blasphemous cry of a spoiled 21 year old blonde: "Ew! I saw his butt crack!"

Well, I did - when he bent over to enter the limo and his baggy brown cordouroy pants slipped down. As might be imagined, it wasn't pretty.

Two years later, I'm dissing the Dead again. Mid Terrapin Station, I turn to the person next to me and say "You know...I really don't think their music is that great." The room goes silent, people freeze mid bong hit, and twelve pairs of eyes are upon me. I shrug and repeat that I think their music is just ok. I was 23 and that was a big moment for me. I chose integrity over cheaply won acceptance. It felt good.

What's funny is over the years their music has grown on me. But do I wish I had been a Deadhead? No, not at all. I didn't see a lot of joy in the faces of the gauzy dervishes whose dancing seemed almost perfunctory. If I would have followed any band around from city to city, it would have been the Beat Farmers in the early 90s. Whenever they played in Colorado, I was there, from Herman's Hideaway in downtown Denver, to the Buffalo Rose in Golden. I remember one night at the Buffalo Rose where the pre show energy was building like a storm at sea. I was close to a wall of speakers that blasted a song that was popular at the time "You want it allll, but you can't haaaave it...." That song just about killed me. I got a lot that night though. The energy of the crowd gave me no choice, they moved me with them, and I was nothing short of enthralled at finding myself in the front row, mere feet away from Country Dick Montana who, at the time, I thought was the sexiest man on earth.

At a BF concert in a small bar in Breckenridge, CO (Shamus O'Tooles), equipment malfunctions and suddenly the band is right in the middle of the bar, drinking and talking with everyone. Guitarist Jerry Rainey and I talk about his five year old son's obsession with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Joey Harris is smiley, friendly, and adorable. He makes me feel successful in my attempts to impress him with my knowledge of his previous bands. Country Dick is in a sinister mood. He stands alone, drinking beer.
The concert resumes shortly after. Some college guy (nice looking but nerdy), keeps trying to pick me up, and finally I agree to dance with him. Country Dick asks for a volunteer to do a "Sheep Shot" (a small inflatible sheep bedecked in a black garter belt. Liquor of some sort if poured into an opening and....ME. The sheep shot recipient has to be me. Some people need to summit Kilimanjaro. Some need to climb the corporate ladder. I need to be the one to do a sheep shot, and I am, as the crowd watches. A proud moment? Well, er... maybe not, but memorable. Country Dick held the sheep over my mouth,I drank what I think was whiskey out of it, and beamed at him as he said in his fabulous deep voice "There...now doesn't it taste better that way?"

Ninety minutes later the concert is over. Most of the crowd has left. Country Dick is sitting alone on the stage. He doesn't look happy. I go over to him and ask if he is ok. "I will be in a couple of weeks" he growls. God that voice. I'm 30 years old and just beginning to realize that life is short and opportunities often fleeting. I'm suddenly asking the mighty Country Dick Montana if I can have a hug. Amazingly, he smiles and stands up. He puts his long arms around me, I burrow into him, inhaling him, and we rock back and forth on the stage in each other's arms. Is he loving me? Is he about to ask me to come back to his hotel room? No. Actually I think I'm holding him up. He's pretty drunk. A few minutes later I'm telling him he should drink a lot of water, and maybe get a humidifier since we're high in the mountains. He seemed to think that was a good idea. Yep, my life as a groupie, Jewish mother style.

Country Dick died mid-concert a few years later, at a bar in Whistler, BC. Although I rarely listen to the Beat Farmers anymore, I consider them one of the great loves of my life.

I am right on the verge of discovering some new groove. I think it's going to be an artistic medium of some sort. Once it is in place, a mighty torrent is going to flood it.

The Funniest Word in the World

If you are under ridiculous pressure as a team to 'make your numbers', if you have a tribal elder amidst you who tells decades worth of vivid anecdotes, if said tribal elder has sufficient comedic talent to spin simple menu items into hilarity, then the funniest word on earth is...

Fudgana.

With proper feinged innocence, Fudgana can make bystanders in coffee shop lines snicker, serious coworkers double over in "He he he!" laughter, and young, platinum blonde, tell-it-like-it-is types proclaim "Oh my God...that sounds like vagina."

I didn't make up the word. That honor goes to Howard Johnson's, they of 28 flavors fame. All you can eat fried clams on Wednesday? Orange and turquoise exterior? Yes, that Howard Johnson's.

A Fudgana was a banana split-like concoction, best consumed at 2 am in the late 70s, preferably after a midnight movie like The Song Remains the Same. State of consciousness is probably a given here. I always had my Fudgana with coffee fudge ice cream. Fudganas were huge (cue more paroxyms of laughter from coworkers). I think they contained four scoops of ice cream in addition to bananas, hot fudge, and whipped cream.

I miss those carefree days. Ok, I'm lying. I've never been carefree. I do, however, have happy memories of Howard Johnson's on Miami's Dixie Highway. When I travel back I can see the setting perfectly: the various combinations of friends, the spinning condiment caddy with fluorescent yellow mustard, the paper placemats, the long L-shaped counter visible from my place in the booth. And yes, of course I can not only see the Fudgana, I can actively miss it, causing me to earnestly proclaim that I want one.

I forgive you if that doesn't seem funny.

Snippets

Here are a few snippets from conversations with prospective students today. Today was not an atypical day.

Appointment with 23 year old woman:

Her: I was originally going to be a massage therapist
Me: Oh really? What made you decide against that?
Her: (deadpan): I hate feet
Me: Oh, ok. Well, that's good that you realized that.


End of 11 hour day phone conversation with 28 year old man:

Him: Yeah, I've had a lot of legal problems and that's why I want to be a cop.
Me: I see.
Him: Yeah, the sooner I get this degree the sooner I can go to the police academy and then get out there and start killing people
Me: Oh, uh huh, that's great.

I wasn't really listening. I thought he said helping people. I hope he said helping people.

Elsewhere

When I ask a man where- if he could take a trip anywhere in the world- he would go, and he shrugs and says "I dunno. Somewhere warm." I think he's a moron.

Just thought I'd share that.

But then again if he says he'd choose to spend three weeks in the Amazon, I'd be in over my head. Antarctica wouldn't work for me either. For one thing it's the driest place on earth. It's true, there is virtually no humidity. Also it is not civilized Where does one find a diet coke in Antarctica? If a man's dream vacation was to spend a week fishing at a lake in North Dakota, I suppose I could bring a suitcase full of books, a journal, and my camera...

Actually it doesn't matter if a man wants to go to North Dakota, Italy, or Guam because he'll be going without me. I haven't been dating. I have no idea when I will be up to the arduous task again.

I think I was traumatized by Captain Lameass- the one with the long-nailed baby hands. Come to think of it, I think when I asked him where he would choose to go on vacation...

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Happy Nu Yaah

I went to a party last night at the home of a preschool teacher. She didn't have enough stick-on letters from her school supplies for 'Happy New Year' so the living room window wished us a 'Happy Nu Yaah'. Works for me.

Here's what New Year's Eve was like:

3:00 pm: Faauu overhears my lack of enthusiasm for the party I'm going to that evening and invites me to join her and so other coworkers at a local casino. As much as I enjoy their company, loud, crowded, and smoky doesn't sound so great.

5:00 pm: Do students really want me to call them on what is almost New Year's Eve? I wisely decide that no, they do not. A better use of my time would be to unfurl long streamers of red velvet ribbon festively over the wall of Robert's cube. For best effect this must be performed 5 or 6 times, while he is entrenched in a phone conversation. Short bursts of maniacal giggling are required for the task. I dutifully set about my work.

6:00 pm: Robert and I are the only ones left at work. Outside the window we hear the sounds of downtown Tacoma's "First Night" New Year's Eve celebration beginning. Somewhat new in town, 24 year Robert is oontemplating the limited choices for his evening's celebration. He is either going to "Go to downtown Seattle to see the fireworks and just celebrate with whoever is next to me" or join aforemention coworkers at the casino. We look out the window and wonder if First Night might be worth attending.

6:30 pm: "I know. We could go to Zoo Lights at the Pt. Defiance zoo" Robert likes the idea. Instead of going home and getting ready for the party as I'd planned, we are lost, on the beautiful Tacoma Narrows bridge crossing onto the peninsula. Oops. We make it to the zoo shortly thereafter.

7:30. How awesome is 'Zoo Lights'? Let me show you the ways:



10:15 pm: Although I forewarn Robert that even I am too young for the party we are about to attend, he insists he doesn't mind going. Our plan is to stay for about an hour, then go to the casino to wish our coworkers a Happy New Year. Shortly into the party I gently try to explain that we may be leaving early. A bitter, older man demands to know if we are going to take the rest of them with us. Sadly, he's not kidding. I don't remember what I stammered in response.

11:20 pm: The party has been pleasant. Mostly nice people, enjoyable visit with the adorable labradors in the backyard. Socially adept Robert is managing to have a decent time despite being the youngest in the room by 24 years and having to fend the aforementioned bitter old man's barbed inquiry of "What country are you from?" Sheesh. I ask when we are going to leave. Robert thinks the right thing to do is to stay at the party until after midnight. Everyone has an animal that represents them. I'm a koala bear. Robert is a dolphin. His decision is not based on his needs, but the groups' needs. He is evolved.





12:00 am: Yep, we made it. Hats, noise makers, champagne, Dick Clark, the whole thing. We go outside on the front porch a few minutes later for a glimpse of fireworks. At about 12:20 we leave.

And that was my New Year's Eve.

How was yours?

Getting Better

Remember the Beatles' song 'Getting Better' from Sgt. Pepper?
After McCartney's bouncy "It's getting better all the time!" an acerbic Lennon intones "Can't get no worse..." I've always thought that one snippet of song sums up the Lennon-McCartney duality perfectly.

It also sums up my optimism vs. the harsh reality of trying to find the right partner. My Saturday night date and I were about as compatible as peas and Hershey's syrup.

While we did manage two hours or so of reasonably interesting conversation he had no sense of humor whatsoever. Not only was he incapable of producing humor, he was incapable of understanding it.

Follow me, if you will: The setting is a downtown Seattle Indian restaurant (which I had to select because Captain Lameass couldn't generate a single idea). The characters: An earnest, witty, reasonably cute middle-aged blonde woman and a dull, graying, retired journalist. Make that a dull, graying, retired journalist with long-nailed, tiny baby hands (yes,I'm shuddering too). The dialogue:

Me: I went to an Indian restaurant once and my friend asked the waitress why there were no beef dishes on the menu. The waitress said "Holy cow!"

Ok, you get that right? Of course you do. Cows are sacred in India...

Him: Moronic blank stare.

Me: (glancing at watch) "Ok! Ha ha..."

I asked him if he'd like to try my entree. He ate half of it, and didn't ask me if I'd like to try his (I don't eat lamb but that's not the point...). Then when the check came I politely offered to pay half. Most men act mildly insulted when I offer. He said "I would LOVE that."

Ugh.

I had taken the bus from Tacoma, and told C.L. (Captain Lameass, lest you've forgotten) that I needed to find Cherry St. to catch the bus home. To his credit he drove me the three blocks to the bus stop. As we approached Cherry Street he said he wasn't in a hurry... just then a bus approached the stop. I flung open the car door. "OHLOOKTHERESMYBUSTHANKSBYE". I ran across the street like a 19 year old Olympic athlete. Had I been required to jump hurdles I could and would have.

It can only get better. It can't get much worse.

Semiahmoo

The body of water in the foreground is Boundary Bay. In the middle is the spit that leads to The Inn at Semiahmoo. To the left is Puget Sound and White Rock, British Columbia.

If you look carefully you can see an extremely adorable beagle in the foreground who just so happens to be Ms. Brandy Joy Gilson.

One of the reasons I adore the Northwest.

The Pyramids, Man Walking on the Moon...

My going two entire days without a diet coke...

I realized I was seriously addicted. To what you ask, fizz? Caffeine? Well, maybe. But I think the real answer is aspartame. I'm hoping that giving it up will help reduce my sugar cravings.

Losing weight is very important to me right now. Some men still think I am attractive or even beautiful at this weight, but the date I had on Sunday looked at me otherwise. I liked him, so it hurt. He seemed to enjoy talking with me enough to linger two and a half hours over lunch, but at the end of the date he gave me a quick hug and said "Well, that was a nice way to spend an afternoon."

Indeed.

I went home and screamed and threw things. Actually I just sat in front of my computer and finished a school project, because what else can one do?

The fact that I thought my hair looked too gold and so had it dyed a color I can only describe as taupe probably didn't help. I have another hair appointment tomorrow.

Yes, I know. He wasn't right for me, it's not meant to be, blah, blah. I wasn't looking to marry him. I just would like the chance to get to know him better. Maybe in a month, after I've lost ten pounds and no longer have taupe hair I'll call him.

And yes, of course, I will continue to get out and meet others.

Tromso, Norway

I had my review at work today. My very, very performance-based review. I'm happy to announce that I can officially perform.

Although my raise hardly catapults me into Lexus or first class territory, it is substantial enough for me to consider a well-planned, budget-conscious indulgence.

I want to go to Tromso, Norway. No, let's make that Tromsø. I love Scandinavian letters with dots over them or lines through them.

Although my time in Sweden was in ways far from idyllic, Scandinavian seeped into my soul like it had been waiting for me all my life. I'm not finished with it.

Tromso, Norway is the world's northern-most college town. There's lots of culture, friendly taverns, an intellectual atmosphere, extreme climate, northen lights, 6'5 blonde Norweigan men and maybe even the occassional polar bear. What's not to like? In my fantasy I travel there alone and encounter all of the aforementioned (except maybe the polar bear). If I could experience the northern lights in the arms of a rugged, intellectual viking (hey, it's my fantasy...)I would feel more alive in five minutes than I have in the past decade. I might even settle for a repressive Swede who sends me home before New Year's...nah. Let's start over.

After my viking and I experience the spirtual magic of the other-worldly chromatic wonder, we trudge through the snow in 10 degree weather (Tuscany's all yours), the gale-force winds blowing back our hair. What I see next is a contemporary yet elemental Scandinavian dwelling, featuring a roaring fireplace and nothing else I am going to share with you.

Chances of any of this happening? 5% at best. But it's nice to know that at least the funding for far-fetched fantasies is somewhat within my reach.

http://home.online.no/~bennett/Tromsoe.htm

Only you know for sure

I can't decide if this is charming or disgusting. Click on all the destinations for the full effect:

http://downloads.raileurope.com/holidayCard/06_christmas_card.html

Weather Report

I got to work about half an hour ago. It was cold and bit cloudy. Now it's snowing. I am, as always, thankful that I live only a mile from work. Walking home uphill in the snow will be kind of fun.

48

It's been a decent birthday. A group of friends from work took me to the Old Spaghetti Factory for lunch on Thursday. Gooey birthday dessert with a candle, singing waitstaff performing a blissfully short and cheerfully moronic 'Happy Birthday' song, etc. We had fun. I take birthday wishes seriously and was happy to have a candle to blow out.

I had another chance for wishmaking today when, on our company party Argosy cruise, I was called to the stage for 60 or so people to sing happy birthday to me. The regional director's ( a woman for whom we have, shall we say, mixed feelings) birthday is this Sunday. While everyone was singing Happy Birthday to me, I wished her a happy birthday as well. She must be serious about wishmaking too, because she blew out the candle on my cake. I walked back to my table with the slice of cake and announced what had happened and everyone thought it was a hoot. Tina summed it up well "That is so typical of her! It's like she was saying 'We're done with your birthday thing- Whuff!- go back to your table" Christy pulled a lighter from her purse, rekindled my birthday candle, and I got to make my wish. Thank you.

From this picture, you might imagine that my birthday wish was to lose weight:



That's not a wish, it's a plan. I simply have to face the fact that sugar is to me what vodka is to an alcoholic. Hi Wendy, welcome.

Here are some other pictures from the cruise, which was wonderful. It was a clear but cold and windy day. I was the only person on the boat to (briefly) venture onto the deck. It was blustery indeed. It was far more pleasant to enjoy the tour of Elliott Bay from inside the cabin.

Oregon, Washington, Arizona, Whatever...

I finally got my Washington driver's license, three days before my Oregon license was due to expire. I haven't lived in Oregon since March of 2004. Yes, I should have gotten a Washington license when I moved to Seattle in March of 2004, and yes, I should have gotten an Arizona license when I moved to Phoenix in March of 2006 (I always move in March...it's weird) but the important thing is I now have a state-appropriate license.

This means I'll probably move to Tennessee next month. No, actually, March. It's always March.

We're Easily Amused

"This student's last name is Nibblet" I casually commented.

Shrieking laughter from the cube behind me. Shrieking laughter from me. With tears streaming down our faces and gasping for breath we pondered if her father was the Jolly Green Giant. "What if....what if... she one day became president...Hail to the Chief would be played for (wiping tears away) President Nibblet."

Like I said we're easily amused. Be happy for us.

The Aroma of Tacoma

If you had asked me ten years ago to tell you what Tacoma was like, I would have told you (even thought I'd never been there at the time) that it was a crime-ridden city that smelled like paper mills. I've been told that ten years ago that was somewhat true. Tacoma has since gentrified into a (mostly) lovely little oasis of sparkling fountains, funky coffee shops, and nice walking trails. Granted, the view from my 14th story window reveals industrial smokestacks, belching out vast quantities 24 hours a day. But the famous 'Aroma of Tacoma'? Nonexist. Until today. I stepped outside and it smelled like sauerkraut.

Let's hope this kraut thing does not start to occur on a regular basis or I'll be transported back in space and time to Pumpernicks in Miami. Pumpernicks, an authentic Jewish deli (no ham) always had gleaming metal buckets of sauerkraut on each table. They also had a gleaming metal bucket of these truly frightning baseball-sized pickled green tomatoes, but I covered weird food in my last post so I'll leave it at that.

I'm in the computer lab at work (instead of at my desk) ADD at full throttle. I simply can't concentrate on work right now. Thanksgiving vacation is coming not a moment too soon.

Too Busy to Blog

The Future of American Education

I don't feel like writing about my personal life.

Ok, well, here:

Satisfaction with work: Dwindling
Relationship with police sargeant: Over
Dieting: Unsuccessful
Last book read: Peyton Place

For filler and / or possible interest, here is my response to a discussion question on future trends in education for my 'Standards in Education' Class:

The future of standards-based curriculum and instruction will be partially determined by future trends and events in our society. If our schools grow more violent, an increasing number of parents may choose to home school their children, and / or have them attend school online. More students may start attending private schools. With shifting dynamics like this in place, it will be difficult to enforce standards.

Within public schools, standards will continue to adhere to what the market will bear, so to speak. College-bound students will likely invest extra time in supplemental education and or preparation classes in order to pass graduation exams. Ambitious students have always done this to pass college entrance exams like the SAT. Having to pass graduation exams will put extra pressue on them.

It is not likely that standardized testing will go away. It may become more culturally sensitive since it is under fire for not being so. I suspect that more schools will offer alternatives to passing scores on graduation exams. This may lead to the sort of stratification schools had before the 1960s or so, in which there was a distinction between students who were 'vocational' and students who were 'college prep'.

Hopefully schools across the country will focus on each others' best practices. It's not going to be easy to find the right balance between setting high expectations and making unrealistic demands.

*&#%!

I received word today that one of my students died. He was a new student and hadn't posted into his online classes in over a week. I'd left him several messages and knew something was wrong when he didn't return them; he and I'd had a great rapport when he came in for his initial appointment.

His father called the main number today and it was reported to me that Scott had died. I don't remember exactly how old he was, but he was under 30. He had some physical deformities and had told me of kidney problems but I figured he'd still get to live out his life. He was a positive person, with a lot of goals for himself. He had a great sense of humor and was one of those people who I'm sure was liked by everyone who knew him. I'm sorry if it seems morbid to be writing about this, but he was a neat guy and I just want to pay him tribute.

In more upbeat news, I am deciding on a Halloween costume. What I really want to be is an angel. Yes, that's right. Don't laugh. However, I just started dating a police sargeant, so I had the idea of going as one of the women you see on the TV show 'Cops' (if you happen to watch it. I watch it about as often as I thumb through the National Enquirer in the grocery store line, which is to say every now and then if I am really bored). I'd wear a stained tank top with a thick white bra strap hanging out. I'd get a fake tattoo on my upper arm and mess my hair up. I'd complete the look with sweat pants from WalMart and a touch of garish makeup.

But no, I'd rather be an angel. So an angel I shall be. That is if the Halloween Superstore isn't sold out of angel costumes by the time I finally manage to get down there.

Platinum Blonde

Two days before my 40th birthday I dyed my hair bright red. I lived in Portland at the time, and flew to Denver for a lovely party my friend Martha was hosting for me. I hadn't seen my Denver friends for almost a year. You know how when you make a major change in your appearance, it's the first thing people comment on when they see you? You know how they ooh and aah and fuss over you? That's only if it looks good. No one said anything. Not a word. Finally, I turned to one of my friends and graciously implored "Would you please say something about my *ucking hair??!" The best she could manage was "Oh...well, I guess I just need to get used to it."

Ok then, no more bright red.

Let's try copper. Let's try copper and wear a mauve twin set while on major network TV (a Portland station was running a feature story on the singles group I'd started). Copper and mauve. Very, very bad idea. Even without the mauve.
Next.

Ok, maybe something a little closer to home is the key. Blonde. But golden
blonde. And new makeup to go with it! I don't fully trust the Clinque salesgirl's choice of bright coral, but hey! I'm sure it looks better than I think! I just have to get used to it! That night I was cohosting an event with little southern belle Patsy (see the Ted Nugent Style of Home Decorating post). She took one look at me and a look of great distress came over her face. The kind of great distress expression most people reserve for seeing someone who's just been shot. "Windy" she hissed "That is the wrong shade of lipstick on yew. Yew go take that off raht now."
Do you think I said "Thank you very much for the excellent suggestion Patsy. I'll go do that right away." If you guessed 'Yes' you don't know me very well. After a few choice words the orangey smear on my lips stayed on. It was, however, never reapplied.

Actually with a few adjustments the golden blonde wasn't that bad. Light brown was pretty nice too. Dark brown? Won't be going back to that anytime soon.

For the past few years I've stuck with the tried and true- highlights. In Sweden I decided my hair needed some perking up, so I bought a highlighting kit. Thankfully the directions were not just in Swedish. They were also in German. Oh well, I've done my own highlights before, no problem. And yes, they came out well. A lighter blonde than I'd ever had but it looked good. Did Peter notice? No. Did he notice my zig-zag bangs the time I'd trimmed them with toenail clippers? (I was stuck in a minimally stocked cabin in Ugglarp, Sweden. What else was I supposed to use? A knife?) Yes.

My point of this whole bimbo-esque post? At 1:30 this afternoon I announced to my mananger that I was taking two hours off to have my hair done. "Investing in my professional image" I supplied. I went to the salon across the street and told the stylist I wanted cool blonde highlights. Really light. Platinum. And that's what I got.

When I got back to work, my whole team was in a meeting in the room next door. I walked in, planning to scurry to the nearest available seat when a very loud collective "Whooooo!" of admiration went up from the group, followed by an equally loud round of applause and lots of "Wow, it looks great!" type compliments. Never one to accept a compliment graciously I blurted out " I think I look like Edgar Winter!". Only about four people on my team are old enough to remember the albino leader of the Edgar Winter band, but never mind. When questioned why I didn't like it, I said I need to get used to it. I think I'm liking it though.

Within a few weeks I'll post a picture. I'm dieting. God help me.

Will this insipid post ever end?

Yes.