I Wanna Be Bionic

My inner artist and my inner scientist have been duking it out inside my head for my whole life, so imagine my delight the other day when I read about this dude who designed the Einstein robot.  [Check him out here:  http://www.hansonrobotics.com/]  I soooo want to work for this guy.  He has the perfect job for someone with artist/scientist conflict issues.

This Hanson dude built a robot that looks like Albert Einstein.  What makes it so awesomer-than-awesome is that he invented this stuff called ‘frubber’ – a synthetic material that resembles human skin - which he used to make the face.  Inside the head are dozens of little motors attached to dozens of little wires that are configured exactly like the muscles of the human face, meaning that when Albert speaks, he furrows his forehead, raises his eyebrows, blinks, everything.

They plan on being able to mass-produce these babies within a year or two for a cost of only about two grand.

I want one.

But I want mine to scoop cat litter and do housework.  And I want mine to look like Johnny Depp.  Or maybe Jude Law, like in the movie “Artificial Intelligence”…but without the penchant for screwing nannies.  (Of course, this might not be a problem if you are a nanny…Okay, scratch that.  There was just so much ew in that sentence, I even grossed myself out…)

You can already get prosthetics that react to signals from the neural pathways, right?  So if I ever lose a limb (or hell, a face), I want these guys to make my replacement.  I mean, it’s all wonderful and miraculous what those doctors have done for folks whose faces were eaten by dogs or whatnot, but let’s face it – if given the choice between a scar-riddled face that may eventually be rejected by your immune system…or a totally life-like frubber face that could be sculpted into the design of your choice (I’m going with Angelina), which would you choose?  I mean…c’mon!

Maybe eventually, we will all just keep replacing bits as they wear out, until we are like, 80% bionic.  How frikkin’ cool would that be??  I’m totally onboard with that.  Screw all that ethical bullshit.  I’d kick ass as a bionic woman.

Think about it – the possibilities are endless.  You could even have a robot that looks like you for days when you feel a little rough around the edges – you know, to schmooze at work functions and stuff (they are working on emotional cognitive artificial intelligence, so supposedly this could be a reality someday!)

Well, the likelihood of being recruited to work at Hanson Robotics is probably slim.  But I can sculpt, and I like learning new things.  Screw them.

I’m gonna build my own damn robot.

Mysteries of the Universe

Sooo, I’ve not been blogging much lately, but…

Good news:  I’m back.

Bad news?  My mind has been a bit fractured lately, so this is all you get.  *smirk*

Random Questions Raised in the Dark Recesses of My Mind

Why doesn’t the romantically candlelit cavern in the sewers where the Phantom of the Opera lives smell like poo?

Why in movies and television, do they always take the duct tape off the mouth before untying the hands or legs?  Wouldn’t it make more sense to undo the feet and hands, and let them take the friggin’ duct tape off their own mouth as they run?

Junebugs.  Just their existence in general – I mean, just why?

Since moonlight is just reflected sunlight, why don’t vampires at least get sunburns from being outside at night?

The popularity of Dr. Phil – again…why??

Why does time go by slowly when you are a kid and can’t wait to escape the bullying, the braces, the difficulty in obtaining booze…and then speed up when you are an adult and need all the extra time you can get to try and accomplish all the crap you set out to do when you were younger?

Why did I see a man handing his child a Red Bull at the grocery store at 11 pm the other day?

Who ARE you, mystery blog-stalker who keeps accessing this page from a WordPress link that misspells my name as ‘Andea’?  Who aaaare you…I hate such mysteries.  But you must like me, because you visit several times a day.

They keep making Kraft macaroni and cheese easier and easier to make – why don’t they just skip right to making it for us?  Do we really need that small sense of accomplishment so much?  (*apparently*)

Why don’t I have a robot?

More Fascinating Lies About Meme

‘Kay, I’ve been tagged by a very cool blogger friend, Lea (go check out her blog) and I’ve been taking my good old time with it, but here we go:

Sometimes you can learn more about a person by what they don’t tell you. Sometimes you can learn a lot from the things they just make up. If you are tagged with this Meme, lie to me.

Then tag 7 other folks (one for each deadly sin) and hope they can lie.

Pride

What is your biggest contribution to the world?

My extensive research on the lethal dose (LD-50) of tabloid magazine exposure.  I confirmed that in sensitive individuals, a minimum exposure of three magazine cover sightings in supermarkets is all that is required to invoke instant and complete brain death.  For those with repeated and frequent exposure involving incremental increases in exposure severity, such as members of the paparazzi, massive amounts are required to slow them down (example:  close and prolonged proximity to persons such as Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, etc.)  It is hypothesized that the public, armed with such knowledge, will be better equiped to cope should they be faced with such life-altering events as botched fertility treatments, unprecedented attention ensued after entering public singing competitions, or forgetting to wear panties when exiting a limousine.

Envy

What do your coworkers have that you wish was yours?

Huge expense accounts.  They are allowed to write off such work-related necessities as in-house shoulder-rubs, singing candygram deliveries, additional staff assigned to M&M colour-sorting, and big-screen office televisions, among many others.  It gives me something to strive for.

Gluttony

What did you eat last night?

Barbequed dinosaur.  It was delicious.

Lust

What really lights your fire?

When a man boasts to me of his hunting prowess, it drives me wild.  Also, I really don’t find it a turn-on for my man to have a terribly literate mind – the dumber the better.  And it’s very exciting when a guy is proud of his extensive study of how-to manuals such as the Kama Sutra – very hot…because you know, women are so much like cars, it only makes sense to learn about what pleases them from an instruction booklet.

Anger

What is the last thing that pissed you off?

I don’t get angry.  People try to piss me off.  But I am a rock.  I am Switzerland.  I am a white dove flying over a peaceful sea.

Greed

Name something you hoard and keep from others.

Knowledge.  I refuse to tell anyone anything.  Knowledge is power and it is mine – ALL MINE!

Sloth

What’s the laziest thing you ever did?

Completely slack my way through my university degree.  I slept through lectures and labs, I cheated on exams, I never did any of the extra assignments for bonus points.  I thumbed my nose at the Dean’s List.  I could have cared less about my grades.

Okay, your turn.

I know you’re clever.

Lie to Meme!

(P.S.  If you are reading this, consider yourself tagged!  Link back to me or message me to let me know so I can check out your answers…)

Broken Heart Rescue Balm – A Home Remedy

Before Broken Heart Rescue Balm

Now, I myself am not capable of incurring a broken heart (because I’m, you know, a superhero and all), but it occurred to me that perhaps some of you might need a fix for this particularly annoying human ailment.

Because sometimes the universe does things like, say, dump a person in your lap that seems to be super-special and you think, “Gosh, the universe isn’t so bad after all!  I should send a gift basket with a nice thank-you card tucked inside!”  But sometimes this seemingly kind gesture is tempered by the fact that the universe – being the sick little pulling-wings-off-flies little fucker that it is – also chose to dump a big fat ocean in between you and that special person and things just don’t work out.  (In the movies, this wouldn’t slow things down, of course, but instead would inspire a cinematic climax involving a bouquet of flowers being waved out the sunroof of a limo, or at the very least, a boombox serenade.  But alas, that universe is actually a parallel one, one that is less of an asshole than your own.)

So should you find yourself in the blue zone (not me, because of course, my own heart – yes, I have one…a tiny one – is made of high-grade titanium wrapped in Kevlar with a thick coating of Teflon, thus I am impenetrable by such weak emotions as anything resembling this ‘heartbreak’ that I have heard so much about), I have a few suggestions for you.

First of all – it is important to make the most of your wallowing.  It is like sweating out toxins.

Ingredients to have on hand:

1.  A plentiful supply of tissues (or for the environmentally friendly, a pillow that you don’t mind getting snot and tears all over).  A cat will also do.

2.  Chocolate.  This likely won’t help a whole lot, but it won’t hurt, either.

3.  Ice cream.  Ditto.  (And what the fuck if you get fat, you’re never going near anyone ever again anyway.)

4.  A large stack of trash magazines with a high volume of articles about LiLo, Britney, Jon and Kate Plus Eight, etc.  This will serve to show you that somebody else’s life probably sucks more than your own.

5.  The phone – for when your best friend calls repeatedly to offer condolences.

6.  Sleepy drugs that you can’t OD on, like Nyquil or Benedryl.  Feeling drowsy will help you feel vulnerable and sorry for yourself.  This is a good thing – if you can count on no one else to pity you, at least you can pity yourself.  Plus, you are probably sleep-deprived from all the being-in-love crap.  But under no circumstances should you indulge in alcohol or other recreational drugs just yet.  You don’t want to numb the pain or risk a drunk-dial.  So spoon yourself around that box of Kleenex and give in.

7.  Soft, comfy clothes (even better if you have one of his old sweaters to wrap yourself in.  But improvise if you must.  Just make sure you don’t coordinate.  You need to look as bad as possible.)

8.  Hot showers – though you don’t want to waste any wallowing time on grooming, you will need to periodically rinse the salt out of your eyes or you will risk going totally insane from the burning.  Even better if you can manage to actually cry in the shower.  This is another one of those cinematic acts that will make you feel like a tragic heroine, which is a highly desired state and a key ingredient in Broken Heart Rescue Balm.

9.  A box in which to put everything that reminds you of him – pictures, letters, gifts, anything and everything.  It all goes in.  You might think this goes against the rule of wallowing, but it doesn’t.  You see, you have been living with his photo next to your bed/on your fridge/on your computer for so long that the absence of them now will be more tear-jerking than if you just left them where they always were.   You may replace these items with other things, just make sure the substitutes will not, under any circumstances, make you laugh.  For example, replace his photo with a photo of a sad-looking puppy.  (Not a puppy you actually know, or else your angst will be re-directed, forcing you to begin the process of wallowing over him all over again once you finish crying over the puppy.)

10.  Male friends who think you are fabulous.  Surround yourself with them.  Don’t under any circumstances let them kiss you, though – at this point, you will just be reminded of the person you wish you were kissing and this may lead to contaminating a perfectly good friend with the broken heart virus.  Perhaps later you can come to some sort of friends-with-benefits kind of arrangement, but right now it is too soon….far, far too soon.

11.  Caller ID.  You do NOT want to have to deal with mothers or telemarketers right now.  They do not deserve to feel the burn you are giving the universe right now.

Take all ingredients in any combination desired or required, as quickly as possible before scar tissue begins to develop.  (For those of you with hearts, you really want to keep it as young and healthy and flexible as possible.  It’s good for the circulation.)

The next day, shovel all those used tissues into the compost, put on your hottest shoes  – with the highest, sharpest heels possible, all the better to drop-kick that asshole of a universe – and go back to planning your summer vacation.  Go somewhere fabulous, like Paris.

After Broken Heart Rescue Balm*

*Results not typical

Twitter Twit

I’m tweeting!

Follow the retardulation here:
http://twitter.com/GreenSeaGirl

On the Importance of Always Remaining Just a Bit Out of Touch With Reality – Part III

When the girl finds herself somewhat restless with her life, she sometimes finds it helpful to distract herself with certain comforting thoughts:

That if her more paranoid friends are right and the government really is watching everything we do, then she should be receiving a call from CSIS any day to offer her a position as a secret agent based on the fact that they have been monitoring her near-genius skills at Sudoku.  She looks forward to having a good dental package.

That if she watches enough reruns of Prison Break, Alias and McGyver, she will be equipped to escape any possible tight situation she might encounter as a secret agent.

That she was totally justified in buying those cute boots, because secret agents always wear cute boots.

And that no one would ever suspect nerdy blogger girl of being a secret agent.  This is the perfect cover.

Guilty Pleasures

Guilty pleasures.

We all have ‘em.  But it alarmed me recently to realize how very, very many I have.  Boy, do I.  (Of course, I probably don’t feel quite as much guilt as I probably should…but whatever.)  And let’s face it – don’t we all feel so much better about our own kinks when we learn what other people are up to behind closed doors?

So I’m laying it on the line.  It is my hope that by clearing the air, shaking the skeletons out of the closet, I will find freedom and maybe, just maybe, some other poor soul out there will read my words and find comfort in knowing they are not alone.

So here we go:

This one is a bit embarrassing.  I sort of pride myself on not being a typical ‘girl’.  But if you’ve been following along, you’ll recall the post about my current smitten situation causing me to purchase a pink computer.  Well, it’s a pervasive kind of disease, this being-smitten thing.  And now I find that I can’t stop buying shoes.

[But seriously...aren't they preeeetttty???]

KinderEggs.  The chocolate tastes like crap, the toys are weird and always end up in the junk drawer or the recycling bin and they are probably responsible for at least 3% of the world’s pollution problem…but I can’t resist buying them!  I think they [you know - THEY] know this and that’s why they stick ‘em right next to the cash registers.  I don’t know – it’s that element of ’surprise!’ or something.  Followed by the mild, low-brain-power challenge of putting together the plastic house shaped like a pumpkin or whatever that just sucks me in every time.

Cat yawns.  I’m going to confess this, knowing full well that it may throw my animal-lover status into question, but since I’m committed to full disclosure, it must be told.  My cat Sassy has the most enthusiastic yawns you’ve ever seen in cat-dom.  When I first got her, over 13 years ago, for some reason or another, I thought it would be funny – while her eyes were closed during the yawn – to stick my finger in her mouth so that she would be surprised by it when she closed her mouth.  It was pretty funny.  C’mon – it was!  And so it became something of a habit.  I will actually skip across a room to make it to her in time if I see a yawn beginning, just to stick my finger in her mouth.  I honestly think she does it on purpose.  She likes it, I know she does.  But I think you can probably understand the ‘guilt’ part of this sick little pleasure.

The Carpenters.  Singing along with them in the car.  Really loudly.  I know all the lyrics.  Some of them make me all thoughtful and melancholy.  Of course, after the tape was discovered by a date, I did toy with the idea of sticking a Sex Pistols label over the original text, but instead I’m coming out about it.  It’s very liberating.

Cheating at The Sims 2.  Don’t get me wrong, EA did a great job – it’s a wicked game.  But it’s a little…well….PG 13 for my tastes.  I have every downloadable hack and mod there is.  My Sims can have casual makeout sessions in public places, closet woohoo with random strangers and they can get knocked up as teenagers.  They can get free clothes whenever they want them without ever leaving the house.  I have killed all the fugly game-generated townies and other non-playables and replaced them with hot, beautiful replacement default facial templates so that they can all have gorgeous babies.  I am a boolprop ADDICT (if you are, too, you will know what this means).   My fingers can hit CTRL + C to access the cheat console faster than you can say ’shooflee’.  And this one is such a multi-layer guilt.  There is the guilt, firstly, from wasting time playing computer games in general.  Then there is the guilt from hacking up a game that the developers put so much work into.  Then there is the less tangible but no less disturbing guilt from all the time I force my Sims to spend lying on the grass waiting for a satellite to fall on them or how much stargazing with the fancy telescope that I make my male Sims do, hoping for them to be abducted.  I also really like watching them have nervous breakdowns.  I would make such a horrible god.

Free tv on the Internet.  Yes, that’s right.  I’m admitting it – come and get me.  The way I see it, until some website comes up with a way to prevent free tv from getting out there or they clue in and just start selling advertising to cover costs the way old-fashioned television does (duh), or else offer me every single show I want to rival the variety I can get elsewhere for free…I’m just gonna keep doing it.  I like to think of myself as a partisan for the free tv movement.  It’s not that I can’t afford cable.  I used to have cable, actually, but had to disconnect it when I realized I knew the names of all the Carter siblings.  Some pleasures just come with too much guilt to be worth it.

Well, this is by no means a complete list.  I have a shitload of vices, peeps.  So stay tuned for more embarrassing crap and possibly incrimating evidence in the future.

On Telemarketers and Messing With Their Heads

[Another special post featuring Evil Drea]

Everyone hates telemarketers, right?  Not me.  I mean, I hate dealing with them, but as for the poor schmucks themselves, I always have this surge of pity for them.  If this is what they have to do for a living, well, let’s face it – their lives obviously suck worse than mine, right?  So who am I to judge?  I think I would honestly turn to prostitution first, personally.

Anyway, I got a call the other day from Janine of Safe Harbour Security.  She wanted to sell me a home security package.  Seemed like a nice enough girl.  But the thing is, and this I told to darling Janine, I work as an emergency dispatcher and while the company I work for mostly deals with the 911 system, we also offer our own alarm monitoring services.  So no offense, Janine, but if I get anyone to monitor my premises, it’s most likely going to be my own company.

This wasn’t enough for Janine.

I listened patiently for a while longer, but finally had to draw the line.  “I’m really sorry, but I’m just not interested.”

*silence*

Janine:  “Ugh…WHATEVER!”  *slam*

It was while I was sitting there staring at the phone, dumbfounded, that I noticed the applause.

Evil Drea was at my side, giving a standing ovation, whistling through her fingers and waving a placard that read, “10!”  (Some of you who have been following along know that ‘whatever’ happens to be, along with some choice four-letter expletives, one of Evil Drea’s most favouritest words in the whole wide world.)

Now, normally it requires duct tape and various other restraints to force me to step aside and let Evil Drea do her thing.  But then I remembered Janine’s tone of voice and with a gracious bow, I backed off and let Evil Drea have the floor.

This is the letter she wrote to Safe Harbour Security later that day:

Safe Harbour Security

ATT:  Manager of Call Centre Operations

Dear Sir/Madam:

I am taking a moment to write to you in order to offer praise for one of your employees with whom I had the pleasure of doing business today.  Her name is Janine.  Unfortunately, my call from this humble telephone service representative ended before I was able to extract further identification information from her, so it is my hope that you will be able to determine who I am referring to without too much difficulty.

You should give this girl a raise!  Rarely in my experience have I encountered such a pleasant and dedicated telemarketer.  She made my day!  Her empathy and eloquence stopped me in my tracks.  I can only hope that she serves as a role model for all of your other staff, as I know she has what it takes to go far.

I am now discussing the possibility of using your service with the rest of my household, all because of Janine!  I can only hope that I shall have further dealings with this lovely lady in the future.

Please ensure that she is made aware of my high level of satisfaction.  While I know that her karma will reward her in time for her good works, sometimes it is just nice to know that you are appreciated.

Have a great day!

Yours Truly,

[Evil] Drea M.

Some days, it just doesn’t take much to make me happy.

The Curse of the Ringbearer

Some of you already know that I wear one of those oh-so-millenium symbols of feminine independence, the right-hand ring.  It’s one of those ‘marry yourself first’ kind of things – it went on right after I gave my last serious live-in the boot and it pretty much never comes off.  It’s a reminder to be a little more cautious in the future about what kind of crap I put on that same finger on the other hand.  (Yeah, okay…and it’s pretty…)

But today I took it off to do dishes (okay – fine - I wasn’t doing dishes.  It was to measure my finger for some half-baked Facebook quiz a friend challenged me to.  Whatever.  Shut up.)  No biggie, I put it back on right afterwards and carried on with my day (which still didn’t include doing the dishes, sadly).

Imagine my reaction when I had that ’something’s not right here’ tingling – and looked down to see that I had somehow put the ring on the wrong hand!!  You may be having trouble picturing it.  Okay, try this:  Imagine the reaction I would be likely to have if I looked down and saw a seriously pissed-off tarantula about to take a slice of my finger for lunch.

Why this drama, you ask?  Why the slightly mental overreaction?  Let me illustrate.

I’ve been proposed to a lot.  This is not a boast.  It is case in point of the fact that I possess that je ne sais quoi that brings out the crazy in people.  These proposals have ranged in seriousness from the dude who threw himself down on one knee three seconds after being introduced to me – to the tool who showed up at my parents’ house in a suit and tie, requesting an audience with them to ask for my hand (result:  mom, wearing her Rolling Stones tongue logo t-shirt, secretly wishing she were a drinker; dad, not saying a word, but quietly chuckling away to himself the whole time.)

People probably think that the reason I haven’t gotten married yet is because I have commitment issues (not really), or because I value my freedom too much (possibly), or maybe I just haven’t met the right guy (could be).

But I believe the real reason is this:  Every time some guy sticks a ring on my finger, I get hurt!  I don’t mean emotionally – no, I mean full-on physical, literal HURT.  Like with blood.  I swear to god.   Here, I’ll show you…

Ring # 1:   4th grade (shut up – it still counts).  Royden…somebody.  I arrive at school one day and on my desk is a small brown box.  Inside – a ring (gold with a green stone), 29 cents in change and a note on a scrap of paper that says, “Just a little something.”  Cute, huh?  Yeah, sure.  Until I tried the thing on, and immediately developed a horrifying rash highlighted by the bright green circle it left around the afflicted digit.  Not cute.  Not at all.  Of course, setting a pattern for later stages of my life, I still let him take me to the movies.  (Okay, so not a lot of actual blood in this one, but hang tight – I’m just setting the stage here, people.)

Ring #2:  Age 28.  Fiancee #1.  We’d been together for 10 years.  I’d moved out and moved back in about five times that year.  Things weren’t going so great.  In a final act of desperation, during lunch one day he comes over and does the whole one-knee thing (which I just find really silly – and my first thought at the time was “Shouldn’t he know I would find that silly?”).  Now, you should know that if this had happened about 10 years earlier – hell, five years earlier – I would have been ecstatic.  When I was in my early twenties, I wanted nothing more than to marry this guy.  A classic case of too little, too late.  And I believe the actual proposal went something like, “If we work things out, would you consider marrying me?”  (At that moment, a tiny rift occurred in the fabric of space/time and my younger self, overhearing this, paused in her browsing of china patterns and proceeded to slit her wrists.)

ANYWAY – the ring.  It was silver (score – I hate gold).  It wasn’t a diamond (score – at the time, I hated anything so traditional.  I have since been enlightened.  Though I still only approve of fair-trade bling.)  It was wrought in the shape of a sun; a recurring theme in our relationship…partly because of a dream we once shared of starting our own theatre company in Jamaica and partly something to do with me being (yeah, I know) the centre of his universe or something (yes, I am aware that the sun is only the centre of a very small solar system, not the whole universe.)

It didn’t take long.  As it turned out, the sun shape had some very pointy bits.  Which proceeded to completely shred my fingers.  One day it got so bad, I ripped the damn thing off and threw it across the bedroom, where it was forgotten about until later that day when it embedded itself in the sole of my foot.

Ring #3:  A couple of years later.  Fiancee #2.  This time I picked out my own ring – a simple silver band with a small round amethyst set flush with the rest of the band.  Loved it.  Until the day I was being rushed out of the apartment by F2 and in going to turn off the light, the ring somehow got caught on the corner of the switchplate.  In some freak moment of ridiculousness, the momentum was just right to force the ring to open up at the seam where the ring had been re-sized (made smaller for me), pulling the ring, with its now raw metal edges, all the way up and off my finger, creating two long ragged gashes the entire length of it.  I still have the thing, actually, and it looks like it was hit by a train.  That wedding never happened, either, by the way.

Ring #4:   A few years after that.  Fiancee #3.  This one proposed on the second date, so a ring was not immediately produced.  Actually, this guy was bipolar and refusing medication, and was also an artist, so while there was big talk of the amazing ring he was going to design for me, and many intricate drawings made, no ring ever actually was produced.  So technically this ring never actually hurt me, but since he tried several times, I still feel it counts.

In any event, this is why I panic at the sight of any jewelry anywhere near that hand.  My friends find it kind of entertaining.

But you know, I might consider marriage…if I ever got a ring on that hand that didn’t try to kill me.  I’m not holding my breath, though.

Boys Make Me Stoopid

Okay, now that you’ve all seen through my running-away-to-join-the-circus ruse, do you want the real reason I’ve hardly been blogging lately?

It’s because my brains have been sucked out by a MAN!  (By the way, if that sounds even remotely sexy to you, you’re a big pervert and should seek immediate solace in the knowledge that it must have sounded that way to me, too, since I mentioned it…okay, never mind.  Where was I?)

It’s true, though.  I’m turning into a frickin’ Disney animation.  Actually, he said it best the other day:  “I’m just a big mess of wanting to kiss you all the time.”  Or something to that effect.  My short-term memory is shot, too.

I mean, I just bought a laptop computer.  When they said, “What colour do you want, black or pink?”  I was all ready with my answer – black, of course.  Jeez, what do I look like?  Some kind of girly-girl?  Cripes.

Yeah.  So I am now the proud owner of a pink laptop computer.  Fuck.

And shoes – I’m out of control about the shoes…the voices in my head are having a field day:  “Oooooo, wouldn’t he like those!”

I’ve been gazing out the window a lot.  Smiling like the village idiot.  Which is now apparently me.

And staying up too late.

But not blogging so much.  No, not really.  And even now, I’m not focusing on this.    No.  I am thinking about how cute he is.  Pathetic.

And you know what?  He’s even making me face the evil voice mail lady on a regular basis.  It’s disgusting.  (But you’ve probably already guessed that if you leave a message and you’re not him, I probably won’t be getting back to you anytime soon.  I’m too busy thinking about rainbows and bunnies or some warm, fuzzy crap like that.   I haven’t been returning emails very well, either.)

But if you’re reading this, Shug (you know who you are), well…never mind.  I forget what I was gonna say.  *sigh*