Things that make me a happier person:
- Returning to my desk and not seeing the evil little red voicemail light blinking at me
- Having a work week that doesn't involve 50+ hours
- Working out in the morning
I’ve been a morning worker outer for several years now. Yes, I’m the obnoxious, uncaffeinated employee that is the first to flip the office lights on in the morning because frankly I’ve been awake for 3 1/2 hours before the work day even started and I derive some unnatural pleasure from being the first one in. Now, I may be fighting heavy eyelids at our 4pm meeting, but one can only do so much.
For me, the pros outweigh the cons in AM exercising:
Cons:
- Forced use of public showers and the accompanying risk of foot fungus
- Carrying your sweaty gym clothes with you the rest of the day
- Being woken up by yesterday’s NPR stories because the morning programming hasn’t started yet
Pros:
- It’s over with by 8
- I buy approximately 71.5% less shampoo/conditioner/soap
- Lots of good stories are inspired by events pre-8AM
Case in point:
- It’s never an uninteresting crowd in the West Village – especially in the morning. In one day I saw a gaggle of Norwegian rhythmic gymnasts, a tranny in scrubs, and a sad French Bulldog with a cone on its head.
- I was walking toward the Hoboken PATH station. It’s dawn. I noticed a man in his underwear pacing outside his apartment. I think, “If I promise to be helpful/kind/generous for the rest of the day, pleeeeeease keep the guy in his skivvies from talking to me.” My silent pleas were ignored and I was forced to stop and help Captain BVD. I felt sorry for him -- he had stepped outside to pick up the Wall Street Journal and the door had locked behind him. Classic, right? I let him use my cell phone to call the local locksmith. About a week later, I saw Joe Tightie Whities on the train. I smiled and gave him the universal look for “I don’t know anything about you, but I saw you in your underwear last week so it probably would be weird if we talked.” I guess everything worked out for him.
- I had just walked out of the Christopher Street station and was headed toward the gym. I was totally zoned out listening to my iPOD, but I could feel someone walking closer behind me. I turned and this VERY nice looking guy flashes a huge smile. I had the always gorgeous I-slept-in-my-workout-clothes-and-forgot-to-wash-my-face-before-I-left-the-apartment look going on and could only think, “plllllllllease be smiling at some model/actress/beauty in front of me.” Sigh, my silent wishing failed again. The guy said to me, “Will you hold my hand?” I hesitated – Mom said never to talk to strangers and especially not to touch them. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, but I ignore it because he’s, well, quite nice to look at. He tells me his entire story –- prep-school graduate, Columbia law student, part-time model, Connecticut-native. He walks me the four blocks to the gym, drunkenly tells me I’m his new best friend, and walks off. Uh, what?!
So, if you didn't feel like reading the run-on sentences above, here are the key takeaways:
- Voicemails are my frienemies
- Foot fungus is bad
- Dogs with cones make me laugh
- Always put pants on before you leave the house
- It’s OK to talk to strangers as long as they are good looking
*Monty, the AE that sits behind me, greets me this way every morning. He also plays alot of Dr. Dre and is planning a summer trip to Iceland. Love it.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Juggernaut of Awesome
Occasionally this city taps you on the shoulder to remind you of why you put up with the endless crowds, overpriced everything, and sexual harassment in the subways. This weekend was one of those reminders.
I met Sarah and Shannon in Union Square for lunch. I was rocking an obnoxiously burnt orange t-shirt and excited to partake in some Big-12 mingling. The NYC alumni associations of the Big 12 schools had organized a flag football tournament. Our plan was to eat some falafel, take the subway to Harlem, buy necessary rations (beer) and catch the bus to Randall’s Island.
Needless to say, three white girls with a cooler on a bus in Harlem attract a lot of attention. Fortunately, a crazy old guy in a wheel chair began singing some traditional Italian ballad at the top of his lungs and diverted some of the staring. Once on Randall’s Island, we realize – there’s not much on Randall’s Island. In fact, the island is the home to three notable things: a firefighting academy, a psychiatric ward, and a sports complex.
With no other Longhorns in sight, I make an SOS call to my brother. Two kids under the age of three guarantees that he will be home on a Saturday afternoon. After successfully hacking into my Facebook page, he informs me that the event is in fact on Roosevelt Island -- not Randall’s. Oops. With only two hours left of the event, 12 beers in tote, and little enthusiasm to be on a bus for another hour, we settled into the empty dugout by one of the softball fields. We watched the Brooklyn Dominican Cultural Society compete against the Queens Puerto Rican Pride Association in the neighboring field and played a drinking game with the passing cars. Within thirty minutes, all three of us were sufficiently silly and discussing everything from the cyclical trendiness of skylights to whether or not Shannon could fake liking kids enough to make it to the finals of the Bachelor.
With only a couple beers left and plenty of daylight, we decide to go to PS-1. PS-1 is an old school in Long Island City that was taken over by the MoMA ten or so years ago. During the summer, they showcase young artists, architects, and musicians in a series of block party-style events.
As modern art tends to do (in my humble opinion, of course), the exhibits ranged from breathtaking (the James Turrell room) to a bit pretentious (the photo of President Bush hung upside down). Here’s one of the most memorable installations (you could walk in and out of it):
After exploring all of the exhibits, we went outside to see some surprisingly entertaining Icelandic DJ (hey, house music can be sorta cool) and danced with more hipsters wearing fedoras than I’ve ever seen at one place at one time. Here’s a photo of the courtyard from the school window:
After sweating out all of the beer we drank on Randall’s Island, Sarah and I bid Shannon farewell and headed back to Hoboken. On the walk back from the bus stop, we ran into Jesse and Keri. They convinced us to join them for a (-nother) drink. Jesse went to art school so she didn’t mind listening to Sarah and I go on and on about how incredible the backward waterfalls were and the uncertain meaning of the disco-decorated cop car. Not long after debating the artistic value of this exhibit...
...I begin to realize I was about to fall asleep at the bar -- generally not a good idea. So, I walked home, washed the incredibly long day off my face, and fell asleep on top of my covers.
What felt like only minutes after that, my phone buzzed with a text from my roommate Pauline asking me if I was ready to leave for Watchung Reservation. Watchung sounded like a much better plan earlier in the week when Keri, Pauline and I had discussed going hiking. But, I pulled myself together, chugged a few glasses of water, and slathered myself in sunscreen. We met up with two of Pauline’s friends and drove out to the reservation. It’s only a 30-minute drive, but I felt every minute of it being smashed in the middle seat of her Honda Civic. The weather was as beautiful as the trails however. We hiked for nearly three hours, making Sam move to the back of the pack when he felt like smoking (only the French would smoke and hike at the same time). We saw a couch along the way and decided to a take a group photo:
Whoa, long entry. Congrats to those that made it all the way through. Time for me to call it a night. I'm exhausted (see above)! Smell...you...later.
I met Sarah and Shannon in Union Square for lunch. I was rocking an obnoxiously burnt orange t-shirt and excited to partake in some Big-12 mingling. The NYC alumni associations of the Big 12 schools had organized a flag football tournament. Our plan was to eat some falafel, take the subway to Harlem, buy necessary rations (beer) and catch the bus to Randall’s Island.
Needless to say, three white girls with a cooler on a bus in Harlem attract a lot of attention. Fortunately, a crazy old guy in a wheel chair began singing some traditional Italian ballad at the top of his lungs and diverted some of the staring. Once on Randall’s Island, we realize – there’s not much on Randall’s Island. In fact, the island is the home to three notable things: a firefighting academy, a psychiatric ward, and a sports complex.
With no other Longhorns in sight, I make an SOS call to my brother. Two kids under the age of three guarantees that he will be home on a Saturday afternoon. After successfully hacking into my Facebook page, he informs me that the event is in fact on Roosevelt Island -- not Randall’s. Oops. With only two hours left of the event, 12 beers in tote, and little enthusiasm to be on a bus for another hour, we settled into the empty dugout by one of the softball fields. We watched the Brooklyn Dominican Cultural Society compete against the Queens Puerto Rican Pride Association in the neighboring field and played a drinking game with the passing cars. Within thirty minutes, all three of us were sufficiently silly and discussing everything from the cyclical trendiness of skylights to whether or not Shannon could fake liking kids enough to make it to the finals of the Bachelor.
With only a couple beers left and plenty of daylight, we decide to go to PS-1. PS-1 is an old school in Long Island City that was taken over by the MoMA ten or so years ago. During the summer, they showcase young artists, architects, and musicians in a series of block party-style events.
As modern art tends to do (in my humble opinion, of course), the exhibits ranged from breathtaking (the James Turrell room) to a bit pretentious (the photo of President Bush hung upside down). Here’s one of the most memorable installations (you could walk in and out of it):
After exploring all of the exhibits, we went outside to see some surprisingly entertaining Icelandic DJ (hey, house music can be sorta cool) and danced with more hipsters wearing fedoras than I’ve ever seen at one place at one time. Here’s a photo of the courtyard from the school window:
After sweating out all of the beer we drank on Randall’s Island, Sarah and I bid Shannon farewell and headed back to Hoboken. On the walk back from the bus stop, we ran into Jesse and Keri. They convinced us to join them for a (-nother) drink. Jesse went to art school so she didn’t mind listening to Sarah and I go on and on about how incredible the backward waterfalls were and the uncertain meaning of the disco-decorated cop car. Not long after debating the artistic value of this exhibit...
...I begin to realize I was about to fall asleep at the bar -- generally not a good idea. So, I walked home, washed the incredibly long day off my face, and fell asleep on top of my covers.
What felt like only minutes after that, my phone buzzed with a text from my roommate Pauline asking me if I was ready to leave for Watchung Reservation. Watchung sounded like a much better plan earlier in the week when Keri, Pauline and I had discussed going hiking. But, I pulled myself together, chugged a few glasses of water, and slathered myself in sunscreen. We met up with two of Pauline’s friends and drove out to the reservation. It’s only a 30-minute drive, but I felt every minute of it being smashed in the middle seat of her Honda Civic. The weather was as beautiful as the trails however. We hiked for nearly three hours, making Sam move to the back of the pack when he felt like smoking (only the French would smoke and hike at the same time). We saw a couch along the way and decided to a take a group photo:
Whoa, long entry. Congrats to those that made it all the way through. Time for me to call it a night. I'm exhausted (see above)! Smell...you...later.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Green is the New Black
Green bananas are gross. But, green grapes are a totally different story. Green tomatoes (fried and dipped in ranch dressing) certainly reside on my list of perfect foods. What else is on the list, you ask? Cellar temperature wine, Frito Lay bean dip, nearly rare tuna, Harry & David pears, and Heinz ketchup. I'm clearly too sophisticated for my own good.
One time a former boss described me as green. I'm going to assume he didn't mean it as an insult because Leonardo DiCaprio brags about being green, Bill Gates is made of green, and Ralph Nader parties with it. Perhaps it was a dig -- who knows? He used to also comment on my inability to tan and librarian-like personality. *air high-5 to all my fellow nerds*
But, life's one fat mixed message, right? Green means go to a driver and stop to a polluter. If your thumb is green -- good. If your big toe is green -- not so good. I'm not convinced green tea is all it's cracked up to be. Green blog entries on the other hand...
One time a former boss described me as green. I'm going to assume he didn't mean it as an insult because Leonardo DiCaprio brags about being green, Bill Gates is made of green, and Ralph Nader parties with it. Perhaps it was a dig -- who knows? He used to also comment on my inability to tan and librarian-like personality. *air high-5 to all my fellow nerds*
But, life's one fat mixed message, right? Green means go to a driver and stop to a polluter. If your thumb is green -- good. If your big toe is green -- not so good. I'm not convinced green tea is all it's cracked up to be. Green blog entries on the other hand...
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
False Alarm
The fire alarm went off in my building last night...again. It's the fourth night in a month that the alarms have sounded for no apparent reason. (One of them I slept through, so I'm not sure if that counts.)
It was 2AM the last time it happened. I stumbled out of my room with an unmistakable you-just-interrupted-my-perfect-REM-sleep wobble. The alarms had only encouraged one of my roommates out of bed. No words were spoken between us –- just a shared look of annoyance. I opened our front door to the sight of a Brawny Man-size fireman holding a Jolly Green Giant-size axe. The words, "is everything OK?" came falling out of my mouth. I admit -- probably not the most intelligent thing I could have said to a fireman while the fire alarm is thundering through the hallway. He responded to my stupid question by giving me a stupid look and saying, "Well, ma'am we're trying to figure that out."
I shut the door in his face. (What? I’m allowed to be grumpy at 2AM.)
The whole cry-wolf-fire-alarm-thing is starting to get on my nerves. I'm sure the Hoboken Fire Department agrees with me. So, if you're reading this blog and you're the little twirp that keeps pulling the fire alarm because you think you're being delightfully rebellious, I beg you -- pleeeeease find another outlet for your defiance! T-P'ing? Turnstile jumping? Graffiti, perhaps?
While I love surprise visits from Hoboken’s finest, I'm going to assume they have much more important things to do than carry sharp objects through my hallway in the middle of the night. In fact, I'm certain their time would be much better spent helping the guy I saw stuck in a tree yesterday trying to save his cat (true story).
It was 2AM the last time it happened. I stumbled out of my room with an unmistakable you-just-interrupted-my-perfect-REM-sleep wobble. The alarms had only encouraged one of my roommates out of bed. No words were spoken between us –- just a shared look of annoyance. I opened our front door to the sight of a Brawny Man-size fireman holding a Jolly Green Giant-size axe. The words, "is everything OK?" came falling out of my mouth. I admit -- probably not the most intelligent thing I could have said to a fireman while the fire alarm is thundering through the hallway. He responded to my stupid question by giving me a stupid look and saying, "Well, ma'am we're trying to figure that out."
I shut the door in his face. (What? I’m allowed to be grumpy at 2AM.)
The whole cry-wolf-fire-alarm-thing is starting to get on my nerves. I'm sure the Hoboken Fire Department agrees with me. So, if you're reading this blog and you're the little twirp that keeps pulling the fire alarm because you think you're being delightfully rebellious, I beg you -- pleeeeease find another outlet for your defiance! T-P'ing? Turnstile jumping? Graffiti, perhaps?
While I love surprise visits from Hoboken’s finest, I'm going to assume they have much more important things to do than carry sharp objects through my hallway in the middle of the night. In fact, I'm certain their time would be much better spent helping the guy I saw stuck in a tree yesterday trying to save his cat (true story).
Friday, August 15, 2008
Cheese
Every picture of these kids makes me smile, but these made me laugh out loud.
When at first you don't succeed...
Try, try again.
When at first you don't succeed...
Try, try again.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Perfect Timing
I’m not certain what the secret to life is, but I think it has something to do with timing. Miss a beat, and a joke is ruined. Miss a bus, and you might never meet the love of your life. Ok, I don’t really believe that. But, I do dream of solving the time puzzle. Just think how much closer I would be to checking off professional photographer, famous comedian, and successful investor from my to-do list.
Up until this point, I attribute most of the good timing in my life to serendipity. I decided recently, however, that I should focus more of my energy on cracking the time code. Be a better time manager, more efficient, organized. When O Magazine landed on my desk this morning, I noticed the leading headline, “Too busy to live?” I thought, perhaps, this would be a good place to start.
BTW, Oprah -- What is being "too busy to live" supposed to mean?
(If you're wondering -- no, I don’t typically read O Magazine. It’s a perk of the job. Comp’ed magazine subscriptions. It’s one way they get away with working us like crazy and paying us dirt.)
For all O Magazine subscribers, I don't mean to spoil the article for you. But, in the end, Oprah's suggestions turned out to be some Zen Buddhist mumbo-jumbo. I guess I'll have to spend more time searching.
(Just kidding about Buddhism being mumbo-jumbo. I indeed hold the ancient religion in very high regard. I was trying to be clever, but combined with comments about China in the previous post it may suggest otherwise. Clearly, poor timing.)
Up until this point, I attribute most of the good timing in my life to serendipity. I decided recently, however, that I should focus more of my energy on cracking the time code. Be a better time manager, more efficient, organized. When O Magazine landed on my desk this morning, I noticed the leading headline, “Too busy to live?” I thought, perhaps, this would be a good place to start.
BTW, Oprah -- What is being "too busy to live" supposed to mean?
(If you're wondering -- no, I don’t typically read O Magazine. It’s a perk of the job. Comp’ed magazine subscriptions. It’s one way they get away with working us like crazy and paying us dirt.)
For all O Magazine subscribers, I don't mean to spoil the article for you. But, in the end, Oprah's suggestions turned out to be some Zen Buddhist mumbo-jumbo. I guess I'll have to spend more time searching.
(Just kidding about Buddhism being mumbo-jumbo. I indeed hold the ancient religion in very high regard. I was trying to be clever, but combined with comments about China in the previous post it may suggest otherwise. Clearly, poor timing.)
Friday, August 8, 2008
Confessions of a Guilty Blogger
There are a few things I need to get off my chest...
I consume way too much Diet Coke.
I step over sidewalk cracks.
I sometimes sleep across-ways.
I prefer to watch TV with the volume at an even number.
I buy things because I like the packaging.
I like sweet potatoes and ketchup.
I don't like massages.
I'm homesick way more than I admit.
I watch the Bachelor when no one's around.
I'm judgemental of bad parenting and weird outfits.
I go up and down every grocery store aisle no matter what.
I skip mass sometimes.
I rarely stretch after I run.
Sometimes I go to the movies by myself.
I still think about joining the Peace Corps.
When asked to give my phone number at a store, I give Zach's.
I prefer eating with plasticware.
I consume way too much Diet Coke.
I step over sidewalk cracks.
I sometimes sleep across-ways.
I prefer to watch TV with the volume at an even number.
I buy things because I like the packaging.
I like sweet potatoes and ketchup.
I don't like massages.
I'm homesick way more than I admit.
I watch the Bachelor when no one's around.
I'm judgemental of bad parenting and weird outfits.
I go up and down every grocery store aisle no matter what.
I skip mass sometimes.
I rarely stretch after I run.
Sometimes I go to the movies by myself.
I still think about joining the Peace Corps.
When asked to give my phone number at a store, I give Zach's.
I prefer eating with plasticware.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Olympic Fever
I've kicked off Olympic training camp week with some serious preparation -- carbo-loading for the marathon TV watching sessions of obscure sports like trampoline gymnastics and synchronized swimming; tissue stock-piling for the tear-jerking player profiles and medal ceremonies; and DVR-clearing because the Judo finals are probably not a legitimate reason to miss work.
I love the Olympics.
It brings out a sense of patriotism and optimism and enthusiasm in all of us. My favorite part of the Olympics are the opening ceremonies. I found this photo from a rehearsal in Beijing earlier this week:
China: Props on designing the coolest steel birthday cake on the planet. It's too bad that you're an idea-smothering, environment-ruining sham. I find it a bit concerning that the IOC chose a host country where international journalists have limited Internet access and athletes may be required to wear specially designed masks when they compete outdoors. Is this really the world we live in?
I won't let a state engineered propaganda pageant ruin my Olympic spirit though. If you're reading this, live in the vicinity of 07030, and want to join, I plan to spend Friday evening celebrating the commencement of three of the best weeks in sports... and reminicing about my first frat party.
Mom -- not my fault, ask Greg.
Go Team USA!
I love the Olympics.
It brings out a sense of patriotism and optimism and enthusiasm in all of us. My favorite part of the Olympics are the opening ceremonies. I found this photo from a rehearsal in Beijing earlier this week:
China: Props on designing the coolest steel birthday cake on the planet. It's too bad that you're an idea-smothering, environment-ruining sham. I find it a bit concerning that the IOC chose a host country where international journalists have limited Internet access and athletes may be required to wear specially designed masks when they compete outdoors. Is this really the world we live in?
I won't let a state engineered propaganda pageant ruin my Olympic spirit though. If you're reading this, live in the vicinity of 07030, and want to join, I plan to spend Friday evening celebrating the commencement of three of the best weeks in sports... and reminicing about my first frat party.
Mom -- not my fault, ask Greg.
Go Team USA!
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The D-Word
This month marks one year of the d-word. This week marks what would have been four years of the m-word. My divorce has punctuated many unknowns in my life: Where do I belong? What makes me happy? Am I a Mets or Yankees fan? (Who am I kidding? I could care less. Go Longhorns!) On the other hand, it has brought unbelievable clarity to other parts of my life. It's like a spotlight that's flipped on just as the house lights go down.
Family.
It's not that a year ago I didn't know or appreciate the fantastic family I have. I don't think I quite understood it though. Oddly enough, as I was legally losing a family, I came to better comprehend what it is to be part of one.
Four quick stories that I've most likely already told (hey, I'm a Norris -- this is what we do):
Love Notes
Last Spring was a really lonely time. Becca and Graham did their very best to keep me busy post-work hours, but going home to my empty apartment was always a reality at the end of the day. Like clockwork, I would stop by the mailbox on the way in to gather what was generally a pile of junk. About once a week or so there would be a gem in the mail from my Aunt Jan. These simple, short, hand written love notes always had a way of saying exactly the right thing and arriving at exactly the right time. I'm not sure if I've ever told her how much those meant to me. I think I'll mail her a note.
Thirty-one Flavors
Graham and Rebecca invited me over for dinner the day the judge signed my divorce. When I arrived, Graham opened the freezer door to reveal an enormous number of ice cream pints. He wanted to be sure he was prepared with girl-feel-good food in case it was a rough night. It was one of the sweetest gestures I've ever received. Oh, and, Blue Bell was on sale. The Babins are always up for a deal.
Moving Van Madness
Dad has a sketchy history of driving Uhaul vans -- 1996. Hwy 35 and Riverside. Very close call. Everybody deserves a second chance though. Two weekends in a row, Dad made the trek from Houston to help me wrap up the final details of my move. He is the master packer, after all. He put up with my moving day crankiness, helped clean my apartment top to bottom, and even navigated the Uhaul down Hwy 45 (without incident, I should add). All for me to move half-way across the country from him. No daughter of year trophies for me anytime soon!
TRG TLC
I was really dreading my birthday last year. It fell in the middle of the week, so I was stuck in Dallas away from my family and frankly, had no plans beyond Pilates that morning. When I walked around the corner to my cubicle, I saw a trail of confetti down the hallway. A few steps further revealed what looked like Party City had vomited all over my desk. I was sung to, brought breakfast, taken out to lunch, and allowed to be gloriously unproductive. On a day that I was convinced would pass without notice, my co-workers made me feel enormously special. Only a couple of months later, they topped themselves with the best going-away party ever. They will always be the best in my book -- whether or not THD agrees.
I apologize for the handful of obscure references in this overly sentimental post. Please send all complaints to graham_babin@hotmail.com.
Looooove,
Les
Family.
It's not that a year ago I didn't know or appreciate the fantastic family I have. I don't think I quite understood it though. Oddly enough, as I was legally losing a family, I came to better comprehend what it is to be part of one.
Four quick stories that I've most likely already told (hey, I'm a Norris -- this is what we do):
Love Notes
Last Spring was a really lonely time. Becca and Graham did their very best to keep me busy post-work hours, but going home to my empty apartment was always a reality at the end of the day. Like clockwork, I would stop by the mailbox on the way in to gather what was generally a pile of junk. About once a week or so there would be a gem in the mail from my Aunt Jan. These simple, short, hand written love notes always had a way of saying exactly the right thing and arriving at exactly the right time. I'm not sure if I've ever told her how much those meant to me. I think I'll mail her a note.
Thirty-one Flavors
Graham and Rebecca invited me over for dinner the day the judge signed my divorce. When I arrived, Graham opened the freezer door to reveal an enormous number of ice cream pints. He wanted to be sure he was prepared with girl-feel-good food in case it was a rough night. It was one of the sweetest gestures I've ever received. Oh, and, Blue Bell was on sale. The Babins are always up for a deal.
Moving Van Madness
Dad has a sketchy history of driving Uhaul vans -- 1996. Hwy 35 and Riverside. Very close call. Everybody deserves a second chance though. Two weekends in a row, Dad made the trek from Houston to help me wrap up the final details of my move. He is the master packer, after all. He put up with my moving day crankiness, helped clean my apartment top to bottom, and even navigated the Uhaul down Hwy 45 (without incident, I should add). All for me to move half-way across the country from him. No daughter of year trophies for me anytime soon!
TRG TLC
I was really dreading my birthday last year. It fell in the middle of the week, so I was stuck in Dallas away from my family and frankly, had no plans beyond Pilates that morning. When I walked around the corner to my cubicle, I saw a trail of confetti down the hallway. A few steps further revealed what looked like Party City had vomited all over my desk. I was sung to, brought breakfast, taken out to lunch, and allowed to be gloriously unproductive. On a day that I was convinced would pass without notice, my co-workers made me feel enormously special. Only a couple of months later, they topped themselves with the best going-away party ever. They will always be the best in my book -- whether or not THD agrees.
I apologize for the handful of obscure references in this overly sentimental post. Please send all complaints to graham_babin@hotmail.com.
Looooove,
Les
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