Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Everything Will Be Ok

God. Sometimes, when looking at my blog I just click on "next blog" with the ridiculous hope that I'll come across something brilliant enough to take up the next half hour of my time. But alas, this is never the case. Instead it's just a giant picture of a dirty faced kid with the first line of writing saying something about how everyone needs to be updated on my offspring. SHOOT ME.

Ok, don't shoot me. That might be the Rex Goliath talking. But seriously. What is with the mommy blog? I must admit I'm a little sad that Santi is out of my life for good because I'm considering that a mock mommy blog in reference to a dog instead of children is a money making idea. I just don't have the resources that were once available to me. I'm ok with this though. You know why?

Because. At work I've been talking to a lot of people in a lot of different situations. Some are struggling with their instructors. Some are struggling with what they want to do with their life. Some are struggling with licensure. Some are struggling with online learning as a whole. And at the end of the day I can take comfort in one thing:

I'm happy with where I am right now.

I don't want to be in school. I am ok with the fact that I don't have a kid or a husband. I'm feeling good about my job and my friends and my social life. I've got down time, I've got plans. I've got interests, I've got boredom. I've got the city, I've got the country. I've really got everything a girl could ask for.

This weekend I plan on going home and really taking some time for myself. The best part about North Dakota is that you can go literally out into the middle of nowhere and have quiet and solitude at your disposal. It's really a beautiful thing. And it's something I never realized I had there until I left. I might just take a bottle of wine out to the Golf Ball or some other secluded place and drink it and think and ponder and appreciate everything I have in my life at this moment. The freedom, the friends, the romance, the experiences. It's rather ironic that a single, childless lady of my age is going to a land of young marriage, babies, and having a husband to take care of you to appreciate my independence and the wondrous opportunity that lies before me.

Ok, the Rex Goliath is taking over, blog. I'm going to to turn in. It's certainly time, isn't it...

Sunday, March 27, 2011

My Amazing Magic Trick

Today I was an idiot and decided to go work out and then go grocery shopping afterwards. I call myself an idiot for doing this because part of this process involves me not wanting to carry any sort of a purse/bag/satchel. I don't know why. My only reasoning for this is because I hate carrying things into the gym. The gym is a place of activity and having to lug things like purses/bags/satchels around is cumbersome to me. I get that people have gym bags, but I'm not one of those people. I don't like making sense when I leave my apartment to do stuff.

So, to resolve my issue with my lack of desire to carry anything with me as I go to the gym, I just threw my keys, phone, and debit card in my jacket pocket so I could get into the gym, answer any important phone calls I would get as I was walking to and fro my errands, and fetch some groceries as I had planned ingesting more than some pasta and cereal today.

I get to the gym and realize that I had forgotten the lock I use to keep my valuables (aka old ratty pants and jacket) safe as I work out my body into the sculpted perfection that it is. Of course I forget it on the day I actually do have something of value with me. That would be my debit card. Against the logic of anyone else I know, I decided to go for it and threw my stuff in a locker and hoped for the best as I sweated away half an hour on the elliptical machine. I realize I could have put my card in my cardigan and brought the whole thing with me, but like I stated before, carrying shit to and within the gym is something I don't like doing. I'd rather leave my entire checking account to the fate the unlocked locker has in store.

I returned slightly apprehensive that my card had gone missing from my jacket pocket, but soon found that no one had taken the time to rifle through all the unlocked lockers and sweaty clothes to steal what little money I have. I mentally paid tribute to the powers above that had so predictably protected my card from theft and shoved all my belongings into my jacket pocket. Onward to purchase groceries!

The grocery store was welcoming after my walk through the throngs of uptown night lifers who were dressed to the nines for a Saturday night out. Sure I looked homeless, and they probably all thought I was too, but I know at this moment all those pretty people are staggering around aimlessly, getting into drunken fights with one another and making bad decisions that they will regret in the morning. All whilst I sit blogging and drinking an orange La Croix. Don't be jealous of my way awesomer life uptown night lifers.

Anyway, my life got even more awesome when I got to the grocery store and purchased things like milk and hamburger and fucking tomatoes for more T's. Mmm. I love me a T.

Upon checkout, I was pleased that I had only spent 12 dollars on the basic necessities that I need to keep me alive. I whipped out my debit card with glee and swiped it for easy payment. Hip hip hooray for me. Grocery shopping has been a success. Now off to my cozy little place with a bag of food and a smile on my face!

I get a block down from the grocery store, once again among the throngs of dressy uptowners and hipsters ready to get their drink on. As I'm waiting to cross the street, I habitually check my pockets to ensure I have everything I left my home with. Phone, keys, iPod, card... card... card... card? Card. Where's my card? Where did you go? Are you in this pocket? That pocket? No. Are you in my grocery bag? No. Are you on the ground somewhere? No...

Oh! I must have left you at the checkout stand at the store. Of course! It's bound to happen sooner or later if I just carry my debit card around in my pocket like an irresponsible idiot. So, I make my way back to the grocery store all the while carefully retracing my steps and keeping an eye out for a yellow piece of plastic on the ground, just in case it had somehow fallen out of my pocket. I get to the store, and the cashier lady who had rung up my things already just vaguely remembers me and my scrubby look even though I've been gone for just a couple minutes. She tells me no one has turned in anything and we thoroughly look around the check out stand and once again in my pockets and grocery bag only to find nothing. I am baffled. How and when and where??? Card. I had a feeling I was going to lose you this evening, but I certainly thought you'd be stolen out of my gym locker before I'd carelessly make you disappear into thin air at Lund's. I mean, I've managed to work some magic in my day, but this is certainly the most impressive trick I've performed yet.

So yeah. I end up leaving my name and number with the manager in case anything turns up, and leave the grocery store empty handed. Well, I shouldn't say that. I was now lugging a stupid bag full of groceries which I had purchased with a card that is now no longer existent. It's not like I can even blame myself for not remembering when I last used it. I had a bag of fucking groceries in my hand that I had just bought. But card? Card is gone. Gone forever.

I uttered "fuck" the entire way home and held out this inane hope that perhaps when I got home, I'd have a facebook message from some kind stranger who had found the card, taken the time to look me up and tell me about it. But alas, no such message has been received. No phone call from the store. Only a call from someone who certainly makes me smile, but who can't bring my card back into existence. I can't say that it was only a phone call, it was a wonderful phone call, but as far as the card goes, it was an unproductive one in that respect.

I digress. I ended up canceling the bastard. I checked my account and everything. No suspicious activity; the last purchase being at Lund's just this evening. I'm baffled by my brilliance in this whole matter. Because, really I'm the one to blame for everything. What idiot is staunch enough about carrying shit to the gym to just willy nilly throw their debit card into their pocket and hope for the best?

This idiot I guess.

Well, at least I lost it after I bought the groceries. Now I've got all the meat, milk, T's and eggs a girl could ask for. Fuck access to my checking account...

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Lazy Sunday as a Female Bachelor

Tomatoes. The fruit of the gods I tell you. There is nothing like sliced tomato on some toast with mayonnaise. I like to call it a T since it's really a BLT without the B or the L. This is my second T of the morning. Hopefully it will be my last otherwise I'm going to start thinking there's something wrong with me.

I'm realizing that I'm a female version of a bachelor. A bachelorette you say? No. A bachelorette wouldn't find herself sitting in her kitchenette in her underwear and sports bra eating her second T of the day writing in her blog. I imagine bachelorettes have it more together than this. They do things like wear make up on the weekends and find air fresheners to make their homes smell pretty. Hell, they wear perfume to make themselves smell pretty. They shave their legs and do their hair and get manicures and drink martinis. They decorate their little bachelorette apartments with pictures and vases and go shopping for cute bachelorette clothes that they wear to attract bachelors.

I have been known to do one or two or maybe even three of the above stated activities (minus the manicure, stay away from my hands vietnamese ladies), but as I look around my home, I'm seeing more and more that it doesn't resonate an essence of "a woman's touch" but more of "a woman lives here, but she doesn't really know what to do with it". I do happen to have a plethora of art in my posession. Partially because I happen to have artist friends who hook me up big time with their creations. Partially because I used to live in a 1600 square foot bachelor pad that had nothing on the walls whatsoever, so I made the best of the situation and conjured what little woman's touch I had within and did my best to make the place not look like a beige cave. I succeeded in certain areas of the home, but definitely not all. 1600 square feet is a lot of room to decorate. Luckily I was kicked out of that suburban nightmare and I didn't hesitate to bring all of my art/decor with me. Now I'm in a quarter of the space I once had, so covering the walls with pictures and frames wasn't a difficult task to do.

So I have a lot of art. But do you know what I don't have a lot of? Furniture. And here's where I start thinking I'm really a female version of a bachelor. I don't have a bed. I have a mattress. I don't have a couch, I have a floor. And right now I'm sitting at the first kitchen table I've ever had, in my life. Ever. And do you know how I got what little furniture I have? Kerin everyone. It wasn't even my doing. Kerin hooked me up big time with a mattress to sleep on, a table to eat at, and a chair to throw my purse, jacket, and what not on when I walk in the door. Kerin is the one who helped me figure out where to put the little frames and candles I ended up with. She's the one who had the idea of using the mantle above my little fireplace as a spot to display some obscure pieces of Carly art that are hard to hang. She's the one who went out of her way to buy me two extra panels of curtains so I didn't have bare windows staring at me all the time. Really, this place looks as decorated as it does because of her, not because of me. And I'm grateful for this because at the end of the day I really am a girl. I'm just not one who flourishes in the homemaker department.

So anyway, I sleep on a mattress, and I have a sink full of dirty dishes and a corner in my kitchen that contains an overflowing garbage can. I'm in my underwear on the internet on a Sunday morning with no plans except to maybe go for a run eventually. No shopping, no hair appointment, no martini. I live off of tomatoes, Pasta Sides, and wine. I really need to clean my bathroom, but probably won't any time soon. And my very first kitchen table is covered with mail that I should really go through, but again, probably won't because today is lazy Sunday folks. And I'm a girl bachelor with no plans. It's going to be glorious.

I think I'm going to call it quits on eating a third T. But I might think about putting on some clothes...

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Well This is a Whole Bunch of Nothing...

It really was a beautiful sight tonight to see the merlot bring a colorful life to the empty wine glass I poured it into. Am I turning into a wino? Perhaps. But at least I've got the cognitive ability to write in you, blog as I sip on this deliciousness that I call word elixer.

The poofs are warming up to me. Slowly yet surely. Noodles is sitting on the desk as I write this very sentence. Good job Noodles. I don't feel quite so alone now with my glass of wine and this laptop. Your purrs make this all worthwhile. Chew Chew is still aloof, but at the same time he was eating up my pets and love whilst making some yummy cheesy rice earlier. I kiss their soft heads, and they seem to accept the love though it is not from their mother/caretaker. I feel like we've had a breakthrough kitties. Let us nurture our relationship into something fruitful and meaningful. By Friday night you guys had better be cuddling with me on the couch with a bottle of wine and Intervention as I bitch to you about my day at work.

I feel like I had more to write, but it's late. I'll let it all be what it is, which is a short entry about cats and wine. They really kind of go hand in hand. Pet a cat, drink some wine, write some words. Such is the life of Samantha Veldhouse. Don't be jealous, myriads of people who read you blog. Things will settle down eventually to where I'm in my uptown apartment, sans cats, but con wine and blog, writing incessently about the nothing that happens to me on a daily basis. Wake up, write emails, answer phone, go home, drink wine, write blog. Something cool had better happen to me soon.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Blog, Welcome the Poofs

And now, poofs, I will drink and write.

I'm cat sitting for my friend Alair. It's really been a nice change of pace. I get to stay in a super sweet apartment downtown with two persian cats who kind of hate me. It's like being on a mini vacation where I still have to go to work every day and crack open a couple cans of fancy feast at the behest of felines with mush faces. It is strangely reminiscent of my days back in Maple Grove what with my watching Intervention on demand with mush face animals staring at me. However these mush faces are nothing compared to the joy that was/is Santiago (yes, I lost him in the break up, he is Ryan's dog and probably the biggest heartbreak of all when I think about it). I don't mean this in any offense to Alair. And also, they really are no comparison to begin with since they are cats and not a pug dog who loves me with all his little pug heart. I think I'm growing on them though. Today one made the move to sit on the couch while I was also sitting on it. The other, last night jumped into bed with me and made me pet him for awhile before quietly slipping away into the closet. I consider these small victories since when I first was here they wouldn't even allow themselves to be in the same room as me. Oh cats. You're so moody and strange. You take such patience. Well, you're lucky (or perhaps cursed, I'm not sure how you feel about me yet). I'm here allll week. Get used to it. I'm like a taller, midwestern/scandanavian version of your mom. Only I'm not working on my dissertation nor am I about to marry a guy and move to North Carolina. But other than that, the similarities are kind of endless, if you keep our similarties to the fact that at the moment we are both academic advisors at Capella.

Anyhow, blog. I'm working to get the poofs accustomed to my personal habits. Like drinking and writing in you. They may think I'm working on my very own dissertation, which is cool. If a couple of cats think I'm smart enough to be writing a dissertation, I can deal with that. But it's not true poofs. I'm just blogging. Way less cool, but perhaps just as lucrative? Only time will tell. And what does it matter? You, like Santiago, are illiterate. I don't care how much you judge me from that coffee table Chew Chew, you can't read. I know you can't because at the end of the day you're a cat. But you know what you can do Chew? You can jump up on the counter that is like 15 times your height and that is amazing. I can't do that.

Wow. Yeah. Not to bring up the heartbreak that occurred back in October, but I've moved into the acceptance stage of everything and Ryan really isn't on my mind much anymore at all. Am I completely over him? Probably not. But I know I'm over him enough to where I don't have to worry about bringing him up at every turn. That's kind of liberating to know...

But the thing that has emerged from this drawback of heartbreak is that I never really mourned the loss of Santiago in all of this. He may be more difficult to get over too because I know he loves me with all his pug heart still. He never did anything to me. He never wanted me out of his life. I know if I saw him again, he'd be really happy to see me and would jump up on me and snort and wag his tail. I'd crouch down to his level and kiss his little pug head and let him lick my face. I'd pick him up and give him a hug and then I'd find a toy for him to chase for five minutes until he's ready to hyperventilate. Then he'd curl up with me on a couch and fall asleep, snoring the evening away. Well, that's what it was like every day when I'd come home from work anyway. I'd imagine it would be something like that if I were ever to see him again.

That dog would follow me around every day. I'd cook in the kitchen and sing to him. "Santiago, Santiago, you're so cute, and adorable." I know, my lyrics are really original. I'd change the sheets on the bed and he'd be there. I'd go downstairs to vacuum, he'd be there. Click click click click would go his little nails on the hardwood floor. Snort snort snort all night long. He was such a good dog. Always when I was cleaning, he'd be there watching me, keeping me company. And when I needed him to get out of my way, he was always ready to cooperate by going into his cage. What a good friend indeed.

I shouldn't drink and write with poofs nearby. They are sweet in their own way, but they also make me think back to the last time I shared a living space with an animal and make me sad. It doesn't help to know that Santiago is currently being pet-sat himself and I'm not the one doing it. But at least I can verify my self worth with keeping Noodles and Chew Chew alive over the next week. I have a feeling come Saturday or Sunday or whenever Alair gets back from her love fest with the fiance, I'm going to be a little sad to say goodbye. I think right now, they are learning about me just as much as I'm learning about them.

Poofs? You guys are going to have so much fun with me here. We're going to continue to drink and write every night and you guys are going to curl up with me at some point, I don't care how much you judge me. You know it Noodles. I saw how much you wanted to sit with me on the couch earlier. Don't deny yourself the pleasure of cuddling with me, poof. You and I both know you'll cave sooner than later. For now I'll continue to do my thing whilst you both do your own. But know that I'm ready for pets and cuddles whenever you are because I know what it's like to be without.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Cabin Fever Anyone?

Blog, I think winter has made me crazy.

First of all, I parked my car on the street today. Well, I park my car on the street whenever I park my car because that is the only place I have to put it around here. Street park, yo. Anyway, because it has been winter for a year and 9 months, there is of course a snow bank along the side of the street that has melted, frozen, accumulated and repeated that process since November. As we now know, the snowbank is that of frozen concrete that turns out to be a complete bitch to try and park your car up against. It also is a complete bitch for others who park on the street as well. I'm also kind of a complete bitch for eying a spot that I'm pretty sure was the exact length of the boat that is my car. But like any woman driver who has been slowly driven mad by old man winter, I thought I could accomplish the impossible. It didn't help that the bitch who parked her (his?) SUV ahead of this spot had done so a good 3 feet away from the snowbank of terror (and fucking old snow) and therefore made it extra tricky to maneuver my carboat into a position that fit within the space I had so stupidly chosen to park.

Long story short, I ended up feeling like that one scene from Austin Powers where he bombs it on the three point turn. Sadly, I wasn't skilled enough to get my car in such a position, so after bumping bitch SUV in front of me and old grandma car behind me for a few minutes, I managed to escape down the street to a space that was much more plausible. However, now I'm faced with the fear that Kerin has instilled in me when it comes to parking on the street in the winter. I'm very conscious of how much my rearview mirror on the passenger side sticks out onto the street for fear of it being clipped off by passing traffic. Because of this fear, and the ample space at hand, I get my car into such a position as to where it is sitting pretty much halfway up the side of the concrete snowbank that lines the street. Technically, it's still on the street despite this since I'm pretty sure that the "curb" is actually 5 feet out from the actual curb that has been buried since April of last year (or November, whatever). My car is the only one parked halfway up a snowbank right now and I don't even care. It looks ridiculous. I was madly laughing the entire time I was getting it into this position. I climbed out the drivers side and found myself balancing on the concrete snow, fumbling to lock my door, laughing maniacally and muttering how stupid winter is. Winter is so stupid. Ha! It is so fucking stupid everyone!!

So that was me getting home. Then I get into my apartment where I proceed to ready myself for the gym. During the process of changing out of my work clothes and into my gym clothes (which I'd like to add are getting increasingly more and more unattractive as the winter goes on because, well, I just don't give a shit anymore), I find myself violently whipping off my shirt and snapping it into my hamper. I'm dancing to stupid music on the radio. I'm stretching in the mirror. I'm giddy with gym excitement. I end up putting on three pairs of pants and two shirts (because it's still winter and fucking cold outside and I can't remember the last time it didn't take me 15 minutes to put on enough clothes to walk out the door, someone help me please). I put on a scarf that ends up making me look like I have a neck brace. I find myself jumping around my apartment, taking longer than necessary to gymify myself. Hair up, hair down, hair up, hair down. Before I know it I'm staring into my liquor cabinet. I catch myself doing this and realize I am looking for my hat and gloves. I'm looking for my hat and gloves in my empty liquor cabinet (sad that it's empty, huh). I think for a moment that my new found internet access can save me and then I decide running two miles on a treadmill is a better solution.

Shit. I only realize now that I forgot to put the incline up to .5 tonight. I'm angrier about this than I should be. Perhaps it's because now I feel like I didn't get an adequate workout. Perhaps it's because running outside doesn't require you to PUSH BUTTONS TO MAKE YOUR FEET GO. I don't know.

I hate everyone at the gym. Everyone is stupid and doesn't know anything. Everyone is obsessed with E! news and commercials. Everyone wants to have giant muscles and to be skinny. Everyone is wearing spandex and shorts that are too short. Everyone is walking around the gym trying to look like they work out all the time instead of actually working out. The girls are all wearing makeup like they're going out on the town or something. Who the fuck wears exorbitant amounts of eyeliner and eyeshadow and mascara to the gym? Seriously, your eyes look more made up than I did at my senior prom, and you're at the gym right now? Who are you? Stop it.

I take pride in the fact that everyone who sees me at the gym probably thinks I'm a big butch lesbian. I don't care. I really don't. You know why? Because I'm not a butch lesbian. I'm a straight girl and I can clean up nice people. And even if I were a butch lesbian, who cares? If I were a butch lesbian, I'd be one of those butch lesbians who looks like she's got a guy body, but really she's got a lady body. Because I'm really a girl just wearing baggy clothes and a sports bra. And if I were a butch lesbian, I'd be wearing baggy clothes and a sports bra because I want to because I'M A BUTCH LESBIAN.

I digress. Winter has made me slightly crazy. I refuse to wear a hat these days. You know why? Because I'm sick of hats. I'm sick of putting shit on my head to keep it warm. I also don't wear gloves or mittens. You know why? Because I lost them all. Yeah, I lost all the mates to my mittens and gloves for this year. It happens every year, I don't know why I'm surprised. I have no complete pairs of mittens or gloves so I've just boycotted them completely. My sick winter mind tells me it'll be warm soon enough to where I don't have to worry about frostbite taking my fingers. It keeps telling me that. I keep believing it. I'm waiting for the day I can comfortably keep my hands out in the air without them turning numb, like the Mormons are waiting for the day they get their own planet. It'll happen. It'll totally happen and it'll happen soon enough.

I'm going to bed. It's time. It's time to push through another winter evening into a new winter day. But that new winter day is one day closer to it not being winter anymore. That being said, who wants to take bets with me that there's still going to be snow on the ground in May? I'm 99% sure this is going to happen people, but God help me if I'm wearing a hat when we find out...

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Eggs are Incredible... and Edible!

I've got cold water running over boiled eggs. This is going to be magnificent...

Is part of me sad that I was only, as my mother puts it, a "sparkle in her eye" at the time the "incredible edible egg" slogan was created? Yes. I'm a huge egg advocate. There is nothing false about that advertising slogan whatsoever. Eggs are indeed incredible. They are also edible. They are also eggs. I've never been one to get into advertising, but I think that is the most brilliant slogan ever created. Probably because the egg is the most brilliant piece of food ever created by the world, ever. Think about it. An egg is small, round, compact, beautiful. You can crack it open and fry it, scramble it, poach it, separate it, or you can keep it in its shell and do the most wonderful thing of all: you can boil it.

Boiled eggs. Seriously, I want everyone to jump on this egg train with me. I can boil 6, 7, 8 eggs at the same time. It only takes like 20 minutes. Once the eggs are boiled, all I have to do is grab a paper towel, a salt shaker and a hard surface and dinner is served. What's that? I'm running low on lunches? Why, take a couple boiled eggs out of the fridge and bring them to work. Find a paper towel, some salt, a hard surface and lunch is served. I don't give a shit if I'm the girl who's lunch smells like sulfur, I'm eating boiled eggs yo! They are the most amazing thing to consume during the noon hour!

I mean really! What other natural food can you find that is contained in a shell? You can cook an egg in its shell! You can have it cooked and ready to go and it's still in it's natural container. That. Is. Amazing. I don't care who you are, that is amazing food right there. And not only is it cooked and contained in a beautifully round and smooth shell, it is nourishing. This isn't any peanut. This isn't any coconut. This is freaking food for a baby chick that has been aborted by me boiling it's lifeline and yoke sack and whatever the hell else is in there. I don't care about you baby chick. Yeah I'm a heathen for it, whatever. I'm taking your food, baby chick, and making it my own. I'm eating your lifeline for lunch tomorrow, baby chick. Don't think I won't. I will. I just ate two of you since I started writing this entry. I'm unstoppable!

I do want to point out that I'm fully aware that the eggs you buy in the grocery store are not capable of growing baby chicks, but they are eggs all the same. Nature is nature, folks. Eggs first and foremost are meant to foster chicken embryos into real live baby chicks that turn into chickens. And because of this I'm going to continue to proudly call myself a baby chick heathen since my diet consists mostly of their embryo food, pasta, and wine.

Oh, and how appropriate. I'm drinking Rex Goliath tonight. Probably the best wine ever created. The best wine next to three buck Chuck and eggs. I know that eggs aren't wine, but they're so awesome right now they're going to be grouped in with it, I don't care how much nonsense that makes.

The thing about Rex Goliath is that it has a giant rooster on its label. A rooster that is full of seed that it somehow uses to inseminate chickens so that they create amazing eggs. See? Yeah, I know chicken sex is gross to think about, but eggs aren't. Eggs, if we remember, are incredible and edible and eggs. If it takes something as disturbing as chicken sex for that to happen, I'll gladly live with it and hell, I'll even embrace it. (though that's not to say I want to witness chicken sex anytime soon... or ever)

Fucking eggs man. They are the bees knees. Only they're not bees or knees at all. They are incredible. They are edible. They are eggs, and right now there are two of them in my tummy and that makes me pretty happy.

Oh shit. I promised this guy I met tonight at improv that I'd put him in my blog. Well, this is going to be a big let down if he ever remembers to take the time to find my blog in the endless folds and creases of the internet. His name is Don Watts. Not Don Knotts who we lovingly remember as the dopey Barney from the Andy Griffith Show (is Andy Griffith still alive?). No, this is Don Watts, and I really don't know him at all. He had a hat on and is in some show. Whatever. Anyway, I told him about you, blog (because I'm starting to do that so I write in you more) and he said he wanted to be a subject or an entry or something. So there you go Don Watts. You made my blog. It's not hard. You'll probably never find this anyway, so who cares.

But if you do, you now know that eggs are the most amazing thing in the world.