That's My Bix!

I was concerned last night when I could not find the cat. I called and called. I made kiss kiss sounds. I opened the cupboard where we keep the num-nums’ er, cat treats. Everything. Tilly was nowhere to be found.

Later, Esteban called from his whirlwind tour of the West Coast. He’s in Vegas right now, off to Anaheim tomorrow.

Weetabix: I can’t find Tilly.

Esteban: She’s probably in the basement stalking and killing something.

Weetabix: Don’t say things like that. I’m constantly in fear that I will step on a little dead corpse with a tail.

Esteban: That really bothers you, doesn’t it.

Weetabix: You think? I mean, mice are quickly becoming more feared than bats. I mean, I’m terrified of bats, but bats have never been present in this house. Mice apparently have.

Esteban: You’re afraid of bats?

Weetabix: Where have you been?

Esteban: I didn’t know that. After thirteen years, I’m learning all these new things.

Weetabix: Perhaps you’re not paying attention because’ gah, bats!

Esteban: I suppose, bats are just mice with wings right? So I should have known.

Weetabix: See, that’s why I used to be more afraid of bats. They had two methods of attack, although I don’t think I’ve ever seen bats running, even on the Discovery Channel. Even with the wings, though, I think I’ve lowered Attack by Bats to Code Orange and have elevated Proximity To Mice up to Code Red. In the event that I encounter bats or when our intelligence officials learn of bat activity, we will reevaluate the levels, but right now? Bats Orange, Mice Red.

Later, as I was watching TiVo’d Manor House (how damn hot is the Second Footman? And his ass? Mmmmhmmm. Love the British with their bare bums. Love that.), I felt Tilly attacking the bottom of the bed, which is what she does now to announce her presence. She then jumped up and was incredibly happy and playful. I petted her and basically mauled her in the manner she loves (she likes it rough, yeah, who’s your daddy!) while she purred and trilled with delight. I relaxed in the knowledge that I hadn’t unknowingly locked the cat somewhere where she would slowly die of suffocation. Because, you know, I worry.

Then this morning, I woke up right away, well rested, springing from my bed immediately, which is unusual for a chilly Wednesday morning. I stumbled into the bathroom, did the shower and grooming thing, back into the bedroom to get dressed, back into the computer room where I checked my email, read Uncle Bob and Anenigma (whom I still secretly suspect is my college roommate Kassandra), stopped back at the kitchen sink to take my asthma medication and my vitamins, walked back through again in the search for my shoes, then went into the living room to open the blinds and harass the cat, who was contentedly licking her stomach on the recliner.

Then I walked back into the kitchen and noticed half a mouse on the rug in front of the sink.

My brain took a moment to comprehend that. Half a mouse. The part with the little curled up feet and the tail. Mouse. Mouse. Half. A. Mouse.

My brain then sent an Instant Message to my heart, alerting it to Stop Working This Instant. My heart then surveyed the situation and took its own sweet time deciding whether or not to start back up again.

For an instant, I actually looked at the phone and thought about calling Esteban and demanding that he fly back home this instant and take care of this’. This’.oh my god HALF A MOUSE. But then I realized that it was just stupid and I could simply flee, run screaming from the house with my arms waving over my head and never return as long as I lived. Or possibly simply burn the house down to the ground and then salt the earth, which seemed to be a much more rational solution.

Then the background music swelled and I realized it had turned from the theme from Psycho to some Hallmark Family Theatre special about rising above insurmountable odds and the strength of character and other unbelievable bullshit like that. I sighed, swallowed, then wrapped four miles of paper towel around my hand to pick up the little pile of horror. In my head, some sick bastard was playing the soundtrack to Chariots of Fire. Luckily, I could not feel the various viscera through the wad of paper towel. I pitched it into a garbage bag and took it straight out to the curb. At least she had the courtesy to murder on garbage day.

Very disturbed, I drove to work mouse after stopping mouse at Sbux mouse as I needed mouse something to brace myself mouse. I then realized that Tilly is not just an exterminator, oh no. She’s a serial killer. I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t a tiny little well in the basement and she hovers over it, all ‘It will put the lotion in the basket! It does as it is told!’. She’s eating them. Dude. She’s EATING THEM! Half a mouse! Soylent green is people!

I am seriously considering drafting up a strongly worded letter to my congressman about this. I can hardly believe that our taxes are going to help inner city kids learn to read or clean air bills when there is a rodent menace running free and breeding with abandon and showing up in pieces on kitchen rugs with their disgusting little claws up in the air. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, take up your arms and fight with me against this slithey-tailed scourge on the planet! We will not go gentle into this good night. We will prevail! We will overcome!

I’m so pissed at Esteban for jinxing me. And I’m so buying some GD mouse traps. Because seriously, if this happens again, I think I may simply perish on the spot. It seems like the best course of action, honestly.

Esteban departed for his tour of the West Coast this morning. Of course, he timed his departure to coincide with the arrival of my Netflixed copy of 13 Ghosts. Now, I know that this is probably a lameassed horror movie and I know that I am in fact 31.89 years old and theorhetically should not in fact be afraid of sleeping in a house with only an obese lazy cat for personal protection (oh yes, and a classic wooden Louisville Slugger beside the bed because Esteban is paranoid and also has a respect for America’s pastime), but the last time I used that reasoning, I watched Jeepers Creepers at 10 am on a Sunday morning and slept with the lights on, the closet doors closed, and took a running leap at my bed as to prevent some sluglike appendage from slithering out from betwixt my winter clothes stored under the bed. And got really creative with my clothing choices because I would not, could not go into the basement lest I see some person standing in the corner and the Blair Witch about to do whatever it was that the Blair Witch did.

The tiniest little things wig me out. Even in a more or less lame jumpy movie like ‘The House on Haunted Hill’ with Chris Fucking Kattan (Rule Number One of Horror Movies: You lose all of the fear as soon as you hire MANGO to star in your movie, ok? Because he’s Mango. Mango wears gold tap pants and a lot of eye liner. He’s only scary from a fashion standpoint, that is all. He’s MANGO!) the ghost doctor would do this wiggy weird shaky thing, this shaky thing that no human could possibly replicate. It ruined me for the whole movie. It just looked so completely INSANE and honestly, it was a brilliant effect. It was scarier than the vats of fake blood and really bad CGI put together. Just seeing that scary ghost jittery shake across the video screen. Brilliant. At odd moments for the rest of the week, I would close my eyes about to fall asleep and get the picture of HOLY FUCK JITTERY DOCTOR and then the adrenaline would start and good bye sweet lovely dreams of being massaged by Russell Crowe while eating hot fudge brownie cake. Because damn. Damn.

I had someplace else entirely to go with this when I started to write this entry, honestly. It’s had a mind of its own since the second sentence.

I also received Spirited Away, but that will wait until Esteban returns as opening act for the second leg of the Crosby Stills and Nash tour. And we also have to wait until he is back to see the Xmen movie. I really liked the first movie and am pretty excited to see it. There’s ample hotness in that movie, I’ve heard. I mean, I’m torn throughout the entire first one between my love of hot older distinguished English men and devastatingly masculine hothead Hugh Jackman. And the Electric Boogaloo has Alan Cumming. So it’s Value Added Drool Factor. But must wait. MUST WAIT!

Still don’t remember what I wanted to tell you about when I started writing this entry. You know, I usually have something specific. Sometimes it’s just a sentence or something that I thought was funny, but right now, it’s a mystery.

Penny, Carissa and I went to the Bad Bar on Friday but we didn’t stay long. We met Eric out there, but it was exceptionally packed and we were stationed against the Magical Wall of Support instead of ensconced on barstools. Stephanie was working, which was cool because I haven’t seen her in awhile. Some Ken Doll looking hardbody guy decided that my breasts were the best thing ever. He told me several times that I had very large, lovely breasts. And he asked me to feel his pectorals. And his ‘ceps. I told him that I wouldn’t reciprocate, but I don’t think that he knew what ‘reciprocate’ meant. At one point, he did a shot and then placed the expended shot glass in my cleavage, which was not appreciated. Then he started getting feely, so we fled to a pancake place and Penny and I wolved down stacks of pancakes while Eric was our charming companion, drolly noting each time I dropped syrup down my, er, stack. (You know, Eric, you really should stop lurking and actually sign the comments). And then we each went to our respective homes after much car shuffling.

In other news, Esteban did the dishes. Finally.

Well, not entirely. He lost it completely at about 10:30, having begun them at the last possible minute before his trip. I was in bed by then and heard him drop something, then yell at the top of his lungs with frustration, then come into the bedroom and say ‘I’m sorry. I have most of them done. Most. I just can’t. I can’t anymore. I can’t.’

Thus, there are eight or ten pans and whatnot left and a pile of clean ones that must be put away. I’m not complaining. Living with the status quo of his method of dishwashing is like an extreme sport. I have a feeling that something is going to happen while he is gone. I’m either going to give up and take over the dishwashing or I’m going to buy a dishwasher and have Ward install it before he returns. The problem with the latter option is that there is no place for me to install a dishwasher into our existing cupboards and I really don’t want one of those that you must drag over to the sink and attach every time you want to run it. Note to self: investigate that.

While Esteban and I were tooling around on Saturday, running errands for his trip (getting him two pairs of non-pleated dress pants, because he doesn’t that pleats do not look good on all men. On some men, pleats create this strange crest-like apparatus in their lap that is just not attractive unless you’re trying for a peacock thing with your Dockers, which in that case, more power to you.) and I forced him to run through McDonald’s for some Diet Coke, as I had a serious caffeine-withdrawal headache. There is some Instant Win promotion going on right now, so when I got home, I peeled back the game stub to see if I had won anything.

I was not prepared for what was there.

‘Sorry. It Wasn’t Your Time.’

Is it just me, or does that sound very strange? I realize that they’ve stopped saying ‘You are not a winner’, because society has gotten so distressed that it might be just the confirmation that some idiot needs to jump off a bridge. (Not to mention ‘Would You Like Supersized Fries with that?’ might be translated to ‘No, really, they have no calories whatsoever and dayam, have you lost some weight because mmmhmm girl, you lookin’ fine!’)

But ‘Sorry, it wasn’t your time?’

Who the hell is writing the game pieces for McDonald’s? It’s just so ominous.

I’m afraid to get another Diet Coke now.

I probably shouldn’t be going there anyway. Although as Chauffi pointed out, McDonald’s posted their first ever quarterly loss during the same period of time that I eschewed their Diet Coke for the Sbux. And need I tell you that Sbux is looking at franchises on Mars? This cannot be a coincidence.

I still can’t remember where I was going with this entry when I wrote the first sentence. Man. That sucks. I hate it when I’m all stupid and stuff.

I am a mean horrible person some days.

No, not in the snarky way that I often write about, not in the ways I insist I am going to hell. No. I am ashamed.

I made someone I love very much cry this weekend. Sometimes it is not so much what you say but what you don’t say that curses you to hate yourself. I also was unkind to family members, unwilling to participate in their various niceties.

I also had a temper tantrum, feeling it more important to drive through Starbucks rather than make a funeral on time. It was for someone we had never met, the relative of a friend, but still.

Coffee. Final respects. Horrible person.

Also, Esteban’s grandmother Gen ate Easter dinner with us yesterday, (the meal in which I over pineapple-fluffed). She’s had a stroke and has speech aphasia and what is more, a brain tumor is pressing against her frontal lobes. It presents an awful lot like Alzheimer’s Disease, only she’s not mad and she’s not taking off her clothes for delivery men. She’s just a bit confused.

Esteban’s family is very upset, understandably so, but in my mind, I can only think of MY great-grandmother, of how bad it got, of how bad it WILL get, and I can only think ‘This is not so bad. You have no idea. You have no idea. You will never have any idea. This is not so bad.’

At dinner, it seemed like I was the only one who understood what she wanted when she asked for a Kleenex by pointing to her nose and saying ‘Runner. Loose.’ The rest of the family was just upset, couldn’t clear the hurdle of nonsensical phrases and kept treating her like a child. She’s not a child. She just wanted to wipe her nose. She’s not hitting anyone. She’s not cussing like a sailor. She’s just sad and angry at the balls of cotton that have appeared where her thoughts used to be.

Someone asked her how old she was and she said ‘Thirty six’ or seven’ and the parents all nodded as though this confirmed that she was losing her mind. I suspect that it wasn’t so much that she thinks she’s only in her thirties, but rather that she tried to make the words happen, tried to pull forth from that jumbled haystack of language inside her brain and struggled until she finally found something that at least made sense, even if it wasn’t entirely accurate.

I just couldn’t help but be mad at everyone. Everyone. Everyone for not appreciating that this is not so bad. I want to yell, ‘Just wait. Just wait until she tries to strike you. Just wait until she asks you why dead people haven’t come to visit her. Just wait until she learns that her mother is dead and then again tomorrow asks you where her mother is and then again tomorrow, and every day will be the day her mother died. Or her father or her husband. Every day. Just wait. Just wait.’

That makes me hate myself too.

When my great-grandmother was in the final stage of Alzheimer’s, she did not know who I was. Mine was actually the final name to slip from her loosening grasp on reality, then I became ‘that nice girl’ or ‘that good girl’. Everyone else ‘others’ or ‘cats’. She didn’t like cats. The actual cats were ‘kids’. She would get one word caught in her throat for days at a time, using it interchangeably for everything. The world. Need some world. Where’s my world? Not that world, this one. My world hurts’ hurts! World. The word would lose meaning with repetition. Whirled. Worried. Wordled. Were Eld. She would speak with such conviction that it almost seemed as though she were speaking a language no one had yet deciphered. The language of flowers. The songs of earthworms. Things your attic would say to you if you would only listen.

I was similarly mad at my Mafia Grandmother, my great-grandmother’s daughter and caretaker. She took everything at face value, though my great-grandmother actually thought that the cats were people and that people were cats. She just didn’t understand, couldn’t fathom the cell her mother was locked inside. Most likely, none of us ever could.

I didn’t stop at Starbucks for coffee, by the way, despite my tantrum, but probably only because I wasn’t driving the car. I shouldn’t have been thinking about coffee at such a time. I am a bad person.

The funeral was awful, but such is the nature of funerals. It felt really lovely to be singing in church again, though. There is just something about singing in church that makes me feel eight years old. My great-grandparents always dressed me sweetly and carted me off to church every Sunday. They included two of the hymns that I had picked out for my great-grandmother’s funeral, and I flipped through the hymnal and reread my great-grandmother’s favorite hymn. I play a little trick with myself each time. I always think that it is Hymn 388, but it isn’t. Then I try Hymn 338, but it’s not that one either. It’s Hymn 397, or at least in that synod’s hymnal. I’m not sure where my brain decided that it played a little number trick, but I remember trying to find it in our synod’s hymnal and being similarly stymied. I think it plays hide and seek with me, chiding me for not attending regular services.

In other news, I will be hanging out with my niece Abigail later this week while Mo is on a business trip. This will be fun. I’ve already promised her that we will make our own pizzas and watch DVDs and talk with our mouths full and end sentences with prepositions and run with scissors and laugh even after someone loses an eye or a limb. Good times that.

I went to the dermatologist yesterday to have my Red Fucking Face Disease checked out. All is well. He said that the three little seemingly-permanent white spots on my face were little milli-something and that he could take care of them. He then proceeded to attack my face with what I suspect was a sewing needle and a paper clip.

He did compliment me on tolerance for pain. I believe the words he used was ‘rock steady, completely hard core.’ He left pressure marks on my cheek for the one I had tried unsuccessfully to pop two months ago but I can’t even tell where the other two were.

He then gave me a free pen. I’m uncertain if it’s just a reward for being tough or if it was an apology for making my face bleed. It’s a nice pen, even though it’s from a drug company, advertising Glyquin. I don’t know what Glyquin is. According to the pen, it’s a cream of some sort. I’m a bit worried that it’s really a treatment for secondary syphilitic lesions or something. I’ve got it sitting on my desk at work and it’s a good thing that I only work with marketing folks. You can distract them easily with shiny objects and colored markers, which they like to sniff dry. Seriously, just you try to find a working marker around my office. I have one black Dry Erase marker that I carry with me from meeting to meeting, because I suspect my coworkers are huddling in conference rooms, huffing madly until the speaker starts to sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher and the Powerpoint presentations melt off the walls into a puddle of color on the floor.

Aside from the little red spot on my cheek, I look incredibly cute today. I bought a new black fine gauge cardigan twin set last week and have paired it with black trousers and black loafers and a single strand of white pearls. I took a shower last night before I went to bed and slept too late to take another one this morning, so I fought the unrulyness of my slept-upon-wet hair with the only weapon I have’ a curling iron. It doesn’t really give me curls because my hair is still rather short and the iron rather fat. It simply gives it a bit of lift and threatens the cowlicks into submission. When I stopped by Penny this afternoon, she informed me that I looked quite smart with my black-framed glasses and my hair all floofy. When she and I were waiting for Carissa to go to lunch, I had removed my glasses so I asked if if I still had the smart thing going on. She replied that with my rock star jacket I now looked like some kind of wild librarian. Yeah. Hoooh boy. That Dewey Decimal system had better WATCH OUT.

I’m very excited that next week we have our annual work anniversary awards shindig, where there are ice sculptures and hors d’oeuvre buffets and open bars and we will be dining on some ambiguous thing called ‘New York Striploin’. It’s a bit strange, though because this is the first time I will be receiving an anniversary thingy. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been working for the same company for over five years, although honestly, I’m only going to suck up the free Blind Russians and look fabulous. I’m wearing The Boots. And then we’re going to The Bad Bar. And I will be in a skirt and The Boots. I’m a bit afraid, actually, because the power of The Boots combined with the evil of the Bad Bar’ and you know how in meteorology when two divergent weather systems get together and it causes like a tornado or a hurricane or something? Well, I’m a bit afraid something might explode. But if I survive, hopefully, I’ll get someone to take a picture of The Boots for you. Yes, you. Because I adore you. In fact, I like you best of all. Shhhh. Don’t tell the other readers. They just wouldn’t understand.

Scene: Dinner at Casa Bix. Leftover mashed potatoes (real), herbed sweet corn, and London broil.

Esteban: (watching a show in which a pseudo-Bobby Flay helped a woman replicate her mother-in-law’s apricot dumpling recipe) Now, that would never happen with us. Because you’re a better cook than my mother.

Weetabix: (completely taken aback) Wow, that’s like the nicest thin’

Esteban: (continuing to chew upon his rather spectacular dinner) Or at least AS GOOD a cook. Or pretty close.

Weetabix: (Apparently, it is possible to be taken aback in two different directions) Gee’ thanks honey. For the record, way to earn points and then fall solidly to the ground with a giant crash.

Esteban: (rolling his eyes) Who is this guy, anyway?

Weetabix: (smirking) I don’t know’ but he’s hot!

Esteban: He’s good in the kitchen.

Weetabix: And he’s HOT!

Esteban: He reminds me of’of’. You know’ (mimicking Jamie Oliver’s English tangy lisp) You rub it, see, and then you plop it on the grill, right?

Weetabix: Yeah, except’ heterosexual.

Esteban: Uh’. He’s gay?

Weetabix: (ignoring him, commenting on the finished apricot dumpling) Oooh, that looks good. I would try that.

Esteban: No’ back up’um’ gay?

Weetabix: (bursts into laughter)

Esteban: No, seriously, Weet’ he’s gay?

Weetabix: No, he’s not gay, that I know of. I’m sorry. I’m just making fun of you.

Esteban: How do you entertain yourself when I’m not around? Seriously?

Weetabix: DVDs, mostly.

Esteban: But’. He’s not gay.

Weetabix: No, your boy crush is not gay.

Esteban: I do not have A. Boy. Crush. Damn, and now I’m hungry for apricot dumplings.

Weetabix: Maybe you should ask Jamie Oliver to whip some up for you. Or maybe your MOM.

Esteban: Is he really gay? Because’ you know’ clueless here.

Weetabix: Offer to suck his dick and see what he says!

Esteban: Do not have a boy crush. You are going to write about that on your diary, aren’t you.

Weetabix: Oh, I did a long time ago.

Esteban: You’d better write about how you farted in Applebee’s and then laughed so hard that you drooled. Otherwise you will have no writer credibility whatsoever. Or maybe I’ll write another guest entry and list all of the things you don’t write about. Like the farting. Or how you snore.

Weetabix: I’ve written about the snoring. I believe the term I used was ‘congested water buffalo’, actually. (a commercial with Jamie Oliver comes on. Esteban’s eyes glaze over. The smirk from Weetabix is practically audible)

Esteban: (noticing her smirk) NOT A BOY CRUSH!

Weetabix: HEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

I shouldn’t toy with him so much. It’s just that he makes it so hard to resist sometimes.

Sometimes when you’re sitting amidst crazy confusion and stress and your phone at your desk just doesn’t stop ringing and you’ve got so many meetings on top of meetings that it’s simply impossible for you to breathe in between, sometimes, just sometimes, your brain rescues you and says “hey, look at this delightful thing”. I love my head some days. Some days it is a clueless stupid casaba sitting atop my shoulders but some days, this day, it is a lovely thing indeed.

My new favorite phrase is “ass plunder”. And you know what makes me giggle insanely? That in Jenfu’s Nibelung ring, this page is linked as ‘Weetloaf’.

It’s incredible outside. Absolutely incredible. At lunch, I could only drive around with one window open, then the other window open, then both windows open, then only the passenger window cracked halfway because it was just so nice outside that I wanted to suck it all up and never let it go for even a second, even though it was really cold driving around with both windows open at 60 mph. It was just so nice. I can’t even begin to tell you how nice it was and have been reduced to wanting to write the word ‘nice’ four hundred times so that you get the idea.

Sometimes my head is not such a very intelligent thing.

After I fled work at 8 pm, I drove home and then drove completely past my home, toward the Bay. A wildlife sanctuary lies between my house and the crook of the Bay and there is one delicious road that splits the sanctuary in two, like the cross-section of a sandwich, and there are enormous whitetail deer that hang out near the bluff overlooking that road. Inside the sanctuary, there’s a place where you can feed dried corn to the deer, a gallon bucket for $2, but the locals know that this is the real place to see the deer, after dusk when the sanctuary is closed, the deer come here for garden spoils, lettuce and other delicacies fed through crossing wires of the fence by eager hands. When I passed, Peter Gabriel going boom boom boom from my car speakers, ten heads with ten spiky hats turned in unison, their velvet earphones perking.

And then it was the shoreline. The sun was just setting, turning everything into pastels. The trees haven’t budded yet, still lining the road with ancient twig basket weaves and wardrobes of bramble. As the car zipped along the curvy rolly ziggy road, the Monte became a white bunny, scurrying through thicket, impaired occasionally by larger, slower SUV and Minivan farm rabbits hobbling along the run to the warren.

The water was open and clear. A few gulls played Battleship on the sand bar while the Canada Geese tried to convince them to play Stratego. The clouds were girls in pastel prom dresses twirling to Alphaville with awkward boys in white tuxedos. Finally the SUV rabbits hobbled off to their domestic pots of hasenpfeffer and left the single liquid lane to anyone with a twitchy nose and fast feet that felt up to the challenge. I scampered around the curves, between million dollar houses and tiny but noble Depression-era cabins, cowering in the shadow of yuppie vultures waiting to snatch up their plots for thousands per shore linear foot. Further up the peninsula, the clear water gave way to icebergs and finally one big glacial sheet floating three hundred feet off land, covered with mysterious mounds of white, where waves of ice crashed upon itself. Burial mounds upon hills upon snow upon ice upon cold clear perfect good water. And for a moment, just for a moment, my best most perfect wish would be to be a mermaid, to have ice water in my veins and a strong tail for swimming and I would simply flip myself out to the frigid rim and then slip underneath with barely a whisper and simply follow that sheet of frosted glass below the surface and the soft diffused light and frozen dits and dithers of icy Braille would show me the way up through the Lakes, backwards through the St. Lawrence and out to sea. This bunny would swim. Out where the world was waiting for me. The world was waiting. The world.

Instead, I motored up the escarpment, where there are tiny prehistoric trees the size of saplings growing on the rocky ledges and cave paintings near site of an enormous native massacre so bloody the site became known as Red Banks. Back through the trees so perfect for hasty escapes. The clouds were changing then, even then, as the sun sunk beneath Point Au Sable, three new jet contrails lit up in three parallel lines. The mathematical sign for The Same As. But then a fourth jet swam through the pastel scratches in the sky, making it not The Same As. Not The Same As. Not the Same. Someone was writing runes in the sky. The DJ announced the last dance by playing The Cure’s ‘One More Time’ and the clouds all clung to each other helplessly and tried to get a good feel over the layers of crinoline and tulle, finally dispersing in their parent’s station wagons as the chaperones turned down the lights. The road was liquid no longer, now a smokey slate and it was time for all smart bunnies to disappear into their holes. But it was a nice ride. Nice. Nice.

Nice.

Online Diaries has posted an interview with me here.