My way or the Freeway?

Before work today, I was sitting on my back stoop, enjoying a nice glass of water with lemon (all of the water I drink at home has lemon in it, because I hate how our water tastes), when the neighbor's cat started mewing loudly from the next porch over.

The neighbor's porch is much nicer than ours. It is wooden and red and high off the ground. Ours is concrete steps.

So the cat whines at me and I say 'hi, kitty!' and it jumps off their porch and over the fence and comes to hang out with me on the concrete steps. The cat was slumming. He/she (I think of it as a he, so that's wht he's getting called from now on) started rubbing up against me, so I pet him. And I checked out his collar and learned his phone number and that his name is Freeway.

Freeway and I hung out for awhile and I scratched his head and pet him and then Freeway left. He saw a stranger, thought "Hey...she'll take care of my physical needs" and once he was satiated, he left.

Imagine if I lived my life like that.

Of course, if that was my life, I'd been worried about more than fleas afterwards.

Knock on wood, knock on wood, knock on wood...

I just told a story about how I got pulled over but did not get a ticket the last time I drove to Ocean City late at night. I am driving to Ocean City at eleven PM on Friday night. Now I'm totally going to get a ticket.

And now, because I posted this, I'm doubly getting a ticket.

I need to go get smudged or something...

The Myth of the Stray Eyebrow Hair

This weekend, I had the closest thing I have to a recent ex over to my house.

No big deal. We’re friends. We’ve worked very hard to be friends (at least I have) (though, as that last parenthesis may have hinted, I still maintain a very slight amount of hostility). He’s been to my house before. He helped me make my bed once (I am an appalling bed maker and always try to have someone on hand to help out).

But for some reason, because he was coming, the house- at least my part of it- had to be spotless. Sheets cleaned. Bed made. Floor vacuumed. Laundry folded. Cat brushed. Bathroom scrubbed. Because nothing says, “Gee, you shouldn’t have broken my heart” like a spotless shower. Nothing makes a guy think, “Wow, I should have become really, really rich and offered to marry this girl and make children with her- shit” like a lint-free comforter.

It’s sort of like when you’re getting ready to go out and you notice a stray eyebrow hair that MUST GO before you leave the house. No one is going to notice this hair. No one cares. But in your mind, it’s huge. And it could be the one thing separating you from eternal happiness.

I mean what if- WHAT IF- you are sitting at a bar next to Mr. Perfect and he smiles at you and you smile back and he’s considering buying you a drink and whisking you away to Bermuda for a midnight ceremony on his private beach when he notices the eyebrow hair. And then it’s all over. And you’re stuck buying your own drinks while the girl down the bar with the slutty tank top and the butter face gets your drink and your midnight marriage.

At least that’s the way my mind works. But then, generally, I'm running late (because I'm always running late), so I just leave the hair.

In other news, I started a new diet yesterday. I haven’t dieted in a long, long time. I gave it up because it no longer felt healthy. But now I’m back. Because for me…dieting is kind of like a religion. Maybe that’s not quite right, but I like how it sounds. One of the characters in Francine Prose’s ‘Bigfoot Dreams’, which is the novel I am using for my final paper on the Absurd, diets all the time, and I’m writing about how she’s trying to find meaning in her life through dieting.

Which makes perfect sense. Because with dieting, you have a clear goal and a way to achieve that goal. That can be said about so little in life. That’s why, even when you fail, there is a satisfaction to dieting. Because so often, you can see why you failed (chocolate and beer, for instance). And you can blame yourself for everything that went wrong. Not some strange twist of fate. Not God. If a diet goes wrong, it’s just you who gets to shoulder the blame. I like that.

Really, if we're looking at shouldering the blame for what does and does not happen, it's my fault I'm not getting midnight marriage proposals. I should have plucked that stray eyebrow hair.

Anyway, I won’t be blogging obsessively about the diet here, because I started a new blog just for that purpose. It’s linked, if you want to check it out.

Poverty and the Single Girl...

I don't know who decided to let me out into the real world with my own credit card (two in fact), a vehicle, and the desire to spend, spend, spend. But it was a bad idea. They should put me back.

I decided to 'run a few errands' during my lunch break today. Sadly, for me 'run a few errands' really means 'vaguely spend as much money as possible'. Awesome.

I started off at Rita's Italian Ice, which has just opened it's doors for the season. This is a justifiable expense. Afterall, a chocolate Misto shake is well worth the $3.10 it costs, even though it is nearly impossible to eat the entire thing.

Mmmm...Misto shake...Rita's...

Afterwards I drove across the parking lot to the Vietnamese nail place to get a much needed pedicure. I could justify this expense as well: after all, I just ran a half marathon, and my feet/lower legs are atrocious. Were atrocious. Now they are smooth and there is no unecessary skin and my toe nails are a lovely Edin-burgundy.

Next, I drove down the street to Target, Mecca of Unecessary Shopping, to pick up 'The Sonoma Diet'. I can justify this purchase, too, I swear. And while I was there, I had to pick up a few things for my friend's birthday. And a pack of gum (the value of fresh breath must never be underestimated, plus chewing burns calories). And a bright, pink mini umbrella to fit in my purse, because I don't have an umbrella. Except for during a cold, rainy trip to England my junior year of college, I've never had an umbrella, but I'm an adult now, and I figure I should have one. It might rain. On a day that I actually care what my hair looks like. It might.

So, okay, I can justify every single purchase I made. Because that's how I live my life: I make dubious choices and then try to make them feel okay in my head. I'm fine with everything I bought. I am NOT fine with the fact that I just spent about sixty dollars during my lunch break. I don't have sixty dollars! I have a credit card.

Ooh, I was going to write more about my horrid spending habits and my new ideas about dieting, however, my cousin just called and we're going to move my futon NOW. Ah! I am in a skirt and heels. Gotta go.

Okay. I didn't actually kill my cat. But I think I came pretty close.

For a couple of weeks now, I have noticed that Darcy sometimes makes a wheezing sound when she breathes. I decided, instead of taking her to the vet, to monitor her, which really means I-am-so-poor-that-I-don't-get-to-go-to-the-doctor's-so-why-should-my-cat? So I monitored. And she wheezed. But she didn't seem to be getting any worse. So I wasn't too worried.

Then last night, I'm sitting on my bed, typing on my laptop and absently petting the cat, which is what cats are best for, when the wheezing started again. And as the cat wheezed and I pet her head and then her neck, I suddenly realized: this cat is over ten months old. And I have not changed her collar one bit since I got her when she was three months old.

And she's grown a lot since then. And gotten much, much fatter.

Yes, everyone. I was slowly choking my cat to death.

Not that she wanted to be saved. When I tried to take the collar off, she scratched me. And bit me. And then, when I couldn't find the collar's buckle and cut it off in a fit of desperation, she scratched and bit me some more.

But she's alive! And collar-free. Because, really, what does an indoor cat need a collar for? I only made her wear it because I didn't want to risk the possibility of her somehow getting outside and getting lost and DYING.

In other news that doesn't make me look quite so incompetent, I miss living with girls. I mean, I like boys well enough (despite previous posts that might seem to indicate the contrary), but I miss girl roommates. I need someone to chat with late at night. I need someone to help me pick out outfits when I've got nothing after thirty solid minutes in front of a mirror. I need someone to help me eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's in one sitting, after a crappy day at work. I need to have spontaneous Grey's Anatomy conversations over dinner. I need to be able to wander into the next room and find someone to do my hair. I need random dance parties.

And I'm tired of coming home to sports.

Because I Sham-rock!

As promised, I ran the Virginia Beach Shamrock Killian's Red Sportfest (a hundred other names) Half Marathon on Sunday morning.

I had to get up at five-thirty AM, which did not feel pretty.

It was great. And hard. I finished in a little under three hours, coming in at about the same time as the man who won the entire marathon (I can't remember his name right now, but he's pretty famous...I might get in some pictures as "Slow Half-Marathon Girl in All Black and Movie Star Sunglasses").

I started the race with the 2:30 pace group, which is really fast for me. Then I had to stop and use the port-a-johns at mile three. As did half of the race. There was a ten minute wait- needless to say, I never saw the 2:30 pacers again. And there were men waiting in front of me. I just wanted to yell at them to 'GO IN THE WOODS!'

A few miles later, I got sick to my stomach. We won't go into that. But I couldn't take any more energy gels, so by the end of the race I was running on...Nothing. Water. And a few sips of Gatorade. THAT was hard. The last three miles especially. It was the only time I really missed having my ipod and the only time I did not enjoy the encouragement from the sidelines. People would wave signs and cheer, "Come on! You're almost there! Only two more miles!" and I would want to yell, "YOU DON'T KNOW! YOU COME OUT HERE AND RUN TWO MILES!"

But I dragged myself to the finish and it FELT GREAT. I am, as I write this, still wearing my medal (pictured above). I just feel like I did this incredible thing. It isn't a life altering experience, but it made me realize how much my life has altered.

Special Shout-outs (though most of these people will never read my blog) go to:
- Everyone who waited at the 3 mile port-a-johns.
- The man dressed as The Scarecrow, who tried to hand me beer instead of water or gatorade and was surprised that I didn't want it.
- The guys standing behind me at the beginning of the race who still hadn't recovered from St. Patrick Day Kegs and Eggs. They veered off into a construction site about three minutes into the race to use a port-a-john they saw there.
- The two army guys who told me they were 'digging' my movie star glasses and that I made it look easy.
- The man with "WILL RUN FOR BEER" on the back of his shirt.
- Boy Scout Troop 79, especially the kid dressed in a huge, air-inflated fat suit, who the boy scouts kept pointing to and saying: "Look. Now you won't end up like this!"
- The half-marathon runner dressed like Uncle Sam.
- Also the marathon runner in the pink afro wig. I wonder how long that stayed on?
- All the citizens of VA Beach who stood on the sides of the road and cheered for us- especially all the army guys who kept yelling "MOTIVATION!" at us.
- Everyone from home who sent me good wishes before and after the race.
- My Mom, for schlepping down to VA Beach and driving back while I mostly slept in the passenger seat. And buying pasta dinner for me. And trying to take pictures with my digital camera but mostly just video recording the sand. And being so supportive and wonderful and proud of me.

As Mom and I were walking back to the hotel, she turned to me and said, "So. Which was harder: running a half-marathon or going onstage in just your underwear?"

I thought about it: the brave moments of my life. And it's the half-marathon. After all, going onstage in your underwear is like jumping off a diving board: once you take that first step and make that commitment, there's no going back. You're already out there, in front of everyone, in your underwear. But with a really long run, you can give up at any time. You have to keep recommitting yourself. And that's more difficult.

When we got back to the hotel room, and I peeled off all the grimy layers to hop into the shower, I realized/remembered I was wearing the same underwear that I'd worn onstage.

Obviously, it is the underwear that is brave. Not me.

Peace out, everyone. I'm going to go fondle my medal.

In less than 24 hours, I'll be very tired...

Well, this is it. I'm off to Virginia Beach to run the half marathon.

I'm having a slight toe issue, so I hope that doesn't turn into a problem.

Taking the advice of "Marathoning for Mortals", I am packing ALL of my running clothes. Because, as the book says "I'm certain that if I forget one piece of running apparel, one sock, one singlet...then, on race morning, I'll decide I need that exact piece of apparel."

Luckily, I haven't been running very long, so I don't actually have many running clothes.

13.1 miles. It isn't 26.2, but I don't want anyone to make the mistake of thinking this will be easy for me. It won't. I've run 13 miles before. Hell, I've run 16 miles before- remember the sobbing? It wasn't the initial goal, but it's still damn hard. And I'm ridiculously excited.

Anyway, this is me signing off...Think of me from 7:00 AM to 9:30/10:00 AM on Sunday morning. Cuz that's when I'll be chugging along the streets of downtown Virginia Beach...

Never underestimate the power of kosher, adult soda...

I had no idea that this existed until I saw it on the bargain-we-must-get-this-outta-here shelf of my least favorite grocery (the Giant within walking distance of my house).

GUS, or grown-up soda "has distinctive, dry flavors for discriminating taste buds, made from real juices and extracts. And it’s nicely carbonated for added crispness and refreshment".

I tried the grapefruit variety, which was on sale for eighty-six cents. It was indeed crisp and refreshing and clocked in at only ninety calories for the entire bottle. Most sodas are over one hundred calories for one serving and list at least two servings per bottle, which really makes me angry because everyone knows you're going to drink the whole thing. The GUS site contains recipes like the GuS-ito and the GuS-mopolitan. You could only do that with a grown-up soda. A+ Actually, A- , because though the taste deserves a strong A+ (I totally rated those Soy Chips too high), there is no caffienated variety.

In other news, I had a glass of wine with lunch, which pretty much means I'm useless for the rest of the work day. Oops.

And as I went home on Friday night as drunk as drunk could be
I saw a head upon the bed where my old head should be
Well, I called me wife and I said to her: Will you kindly tell to me
Who owns that head with you in the bed where my old head should be

Ah, you're drunk,
you're drunk you silly old fool,
still you can not see
That's a baby boy that me mother sent to me
Well, it's many a day I've travelled a hundred miles or more
But a baby boy with his whiskers on sure I never saw before


~ from the traditional Irish song "Seven Drunken Nights"

Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone!

Let's Go! find a nice place to sleep...

I've been researching my family's upcoming trip to Spain and the Western Mediterranean in 'Let's Go! Spain and Portugal 2006'. I've been a fan of the 'Let's Go!' series of travel books, ever since I went on a road trip with my college friends through the Great American West. It gave us advance warning on the Mormons (though did not speak of their killer mosquitos), told us what a fabulous cocktail party story the four corners makes, and pointed us towards the Red Iguana, best Mexican food in Salt Lake. 'Let's Go!' is informative and funny, plus I used it when I went to Italy, and I find it the easiest guidebook to navigate through.

Anyway, towards the back of the Spain and Portugal book, some helpful phrases are offered. In the section on accomodations, it lists things like: "Do you have any singles?" and "I need another key."

At the end of the section, it says:

"There are cockroaches in my room."
Hay cucarachas en mi habitacion.
"They are biting me."
Me estan mordiendo.

Yup, Let's Go! prepares you for all situations.

Beer and Brides

My new roommate and I are bonding by drinking beer and watching The Princess Bride. Because it doesn't matter if you're male or female- if you grew up in the eighties, you must love this movie.

Wesley and Buttecup solve the battle of the sexes.

We just saw the scene where Wesley fights the really big rodent. It is so just a man in an ugly suit. Doesn't matter.

Love. this. movie.

"You have six fingers on your right hand. Someone was looking for you."

Never underestimate the power of Soy...

So, while I was at the Superfresh off of Timonium Road the other day (undoubtedly my favorite grocery store in the world, mostly because it stocks Teany Tea), I picked up a bag of Glenny's Low Fat Soy Crisps, flavor: lightly salted.

The bag proclaimed "Great Taste!", "Only 70 Calories per serving" and "10 Grams pure SOY PROTEIN!. I didn't know that Soy Protein was a nutrient I should be specifically trying to get into my body.

But it seemed fun and kind of new-age (though Glenny's has apparently been making these chips "natural since 1979").

The ingredients are:
Low fat non-GMO soy flour (huh?)
Rice (mmm...carbs)
Mid oleic sunflower oil (huh?)
Sea salt (which I love, particularly on salads)

Now that I'm a runner (woohoo!), I am always hungry, so I'm looking for snacks that can be considered healthy- especially snacks that have a good amount of carbs and protein, while still being low-fat. Soy Crisps have five grams of protein and nine grabs of carbs per serving. Not bad.

A single soy crisp is not a pleasant thing to behold. If you made a tiny, exact model of the human brain in styrofoam, dyed it pale yellow and then sliced it 1/16 of an inch thick, you would have a soy crisp.

The first bite of soy crisp is not a pleasant thing to experience. It tastes rather like it looks- like styrofoam brain. Except lightly salted. But if you endure the first crisp and go for another and then another, the taste kind of grows on you. It's not so bad. There's something in that little piece of packing material, some taste that lingers and makes you want more. Maybe it's the mid oleic sunflower oil.

And apparently, it comes in other exciting flavors like caramel, mint fudge, cheddar cheese and apple cinnamon, so I really missed out when I chose 'lightly salted'.

All in all, Low Fat Soy Crisps are an excellent office snack, because you will not eat them too quickly, and you'll wash them down with plenty of water. A-

No Men, Part Deux

So, in continuation of yesterday's topic, a co-worker and I (he is male) discussed my weekend issue.

I explained the problem: the way men talk about women.

And he said, "Yup. This is how we do things. We all talk about that. And then we try to convince women that we're the one guy in the world that is different. But of course, we are not."

And it's true. Because generally, when I'm really into a guy, one of his best characteristics in my eyes is: but he's not like other guys!

But he is! They all are!

After I fumed about this revelation for a few minutes, we started to talk about said co-worker's girlfriend. She is in Marketing, much like myself (except she probably works more and blogs less), and he is upset about the tight pants she wears to work. He is upset because she goes to conferences with her company and men check her out. He is convinced that she is only invited to work these conferences so she can attract men to her company's booth. My co-worker has seen this in action at conferences he has attended. Pretty girls are working booths at events that are almost one hundred percent men and the men get drunk and stare at the girls. They are apparently less than subtle.

My co-worker considers this to be a tragedy because these women think they are indpendent and working in a man's world and they are merely being objectified.

My co-worker's solution? His girlfriend must obviously stop wearing tight pants. This is not a wider societal issue. It is just a matter of clothing.

I tried to explain to him that women are not considered well-dressed unless they are wearing form-fitting clothes. I tried to explain that women who are not attractive are not considered successful and that, sadly, many of our self-esteems are tied up in whether or not we are perceived as attractive.

Nope. The girlfriend just has to stop wearing the tight pants. The way her butt looks in those pants undermines the entire women's movement.

Okay.

Also, I am having a really bad hair day, because I am growing my bangs out.

No Men For Life.

I had a bit of an ordeal this weekend.

I ended up in a situation with four guys talking about women with very little filter. Women they’d slept with. Women they wished they’d slept with. Women their buddies have slept with. Who did what with who and when and most of it in the filthiest language possible.


It’s enough to put a girl off men permanently.

I’ve never heard men speak so candidly about their sexual conquests. It was certainly interesting. It was rather like seeing a car accident- the whole you can’t look away thing.

But how awful to realize that they really do sit around and talk about us in the way we always have feared. How horrific to have witnessed the proof.

And I know for a fact that I have been so discussed. I know because once a guy friend in college told me details about an encounter that he certainly didn’t hear from me.

I’m not saying I don’t Kiss and Tell. Of course I do. I can’t keep my mouth shut about anything. I have three separate blogs. I constantly fling my thoughts out onto an unsuspecting world.

But when women talk about sexual encounters…I know this is sort of clichéd, but it’s more about feelings. How did that make you feel? I’m really happy about this. I really wish I hadn’t done that.

Sometimes we reveal a little too much. Sometimes we, too, can be crude. But I feel that our crudeness is either a celebration of our happiness or a bid for sympathy. It isn’t a mean little triumph.

I don’t ever want to be discussed in that manner. Never. Never again, at least. And there’s only one way I can think of making sure that I’m not. Obviously, I can never even kiss a guy until I’m seriously dating him and we’re both madly in love. And afterwards, I must cut his tongue out. A little Titus Andronicus in the bedroom.

Eye of Newt and Toe of Man-Who-Drank-My-Beer

I am currently sitting in my living room listening to strange Indian music with the lights dimmed and a gingerbread candle filling the room with its musky scent and faint glimmer.

I would like my new roommate to think I am a witch. Then he would no longer steal my beer.

He has been living in the house for almost a week. I just met him last night. I asked B when the new guy was moving in and was informed he already had, days ago, and he was currently upstairs.

I thought, "Cool. New guy."

Then I went into the kitchen to put my groceries away. I opened the fridge to find (cue dun-dun-duhs): my four bottles of Blue Moon were missing!

I walked back into the living room and looked at B, who was resenting my constant interruptions as he was watching the Hopkins versus UMBC lacrosse game. I said, "B. Did our new roommate who I have never met drink all my beer this weekend?"

Blooked away from the television, rather sheepishly, and said, "Yeah. I'm gonna have to talk to him about that."

No one would steal a witch's beer.

I have to go. My tuna noodle casserole is boiling and bubbling in the oven.

Spooky Thoughts...

I was in Target today, and something terrifying happened.

I paid for my purchase with a one hundred dollar bill. I had other one hundred dollar bills in my wallet. I figured people around me were thinking, "How does she have all those hundred dollar bills? Is she a drug dealer? That cute little blonde girl?"

And then the truly frightening thought occurred to me. At some point in the near future, people will no longer think of me as a cute little blonde girl. Not because I'm dyeing my hair (which I am), but because I am growing older. I will be, undeniably, an adult. My entire identity will change!

Eek!

In other news, I've had 1-1/2 Micheladas for dinner tonight. No food.

Beer is liquid bread, it's good for you.

My new favorite drink...

Michelada Recipe
1/2 lime, preferably a key lime
Coarse salt
2 dashes Worcestershire sauce
1 dash soy sauce
1 dash Tabasco sauce
1 pinch black pepper
12 ounces beer, preferably a dark Mexican beer like Negra Modelo.

Remember the what?

I first fell in love with the musical Les Miserables when I was in fifth grade. My aunt would play her tape in the car while we were driving to play practice (she was the director, I had the role of Helena...and I hated all the kids who told me I only got a good role because my aunt was the director. I can act, okay?) and tell me everything she could remember about the musical.

Soon after, I tackled the 1,463 page book. I don't remember exactly when, but I remember that people were impressed.

I found the entire thing wonderfully romantic: Eponine's unrequited love leading to her death, Marius and Cosette in love at first sight, the life and death of little Gavroche, being imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread, and all those students dying at the barricades during the Student Uprisings of 1832. Everyone was poor and suffering in garrets. Sigh.

I was a little too young to have all the points really hit home.

For instance, I loved the final scene with Grantaire and Enjorlas at the barricade. Grantaire finally redeems himself for his horrible drunkeness and asks Enjorlas if he can be executed beside him.

"Turning to Enjorlas gently, [Grantaire] said to him, 'Will you permit it?'
Enjorlas shook his hand with a smile.
The smile was not finished before the report was heard.
Enjorlas, pierced by eight bullets, remained backed up against the wall as if the bullets had nailed him there. Except that his head was tilted.
Grantaire, struck down, collapsed at his feet."

That's page 1252 in the Signet Classic edition for those of you reading along at home.

All of those handsome (so I imagined) young students willing to lay down their lives on the barricades! Willing to die for their beliefs! Sigh and double sigh.

And then I got older and realized Hugo's point: but they didn't accomplish anything.

They were faced with insurmountable odds. They knew they were going to be killed. And they said, "Woohoo! Let's stay here and die!" (except in a much more eloquent and romantic fashion).

Yesterday morning I found myself at the scene of a similar occurrence that happend only four years later in Texas. It was the 170th anniversary of the fall of the Alamo.

The stories are very similar: the wait for volunteers who never come, the decision to die to send a message, the slaughter of every man who fought.

And I was walking around the beautiful gardens of the Alamo and thinking, "How utterly stupid. How stupid to just die for what you believe in."

I can understand impetuous sacrifice that has immediate consequence. Leaping in front of an oncoming bullet, for instance (though wouldn't it be smarter to dive and roll, taking the person down with you?). Undergoing a dangerous operation so a loved one can live. Understandable.

But thinking to yourself (in romantic and eloquent language), "Hey. A bigger stronger army is on it's way to kill us all. There is no doubt they will succeed. Let's stay and die." Where does that line of thinking come from? And where does it get you?

Well, dead.

RUNAWAY!

I intended to write this blog merely to ridicule the Alamo and ridicule the Texans who are so in love with it. But here's the thing: I still find the whole idea STUPID as anything. It would be much better to stay alive and fight then die en masse as a symbol of resistance. But reading over Les Miserables to find that quote, I realized: I still find the whole idea wonderfully romantic.

What's wrong with me?

When it gets dark, it looks like anywhere else...

Tomorrow morning, I will be leaving cold, rainy Maryland around 8:30 AM to hang out in warm, sunny San Antonio, Texas for almost four days.

The highs will be: 78, 81, 80, and a glorious 83.

I keep getting extremely excited about this. I packed my birkenstocks.

And then I remember: I will be inside a convention center for all of the day light hours.

The life of a bear seller is not as glamorous as it seems. Sure, I jet around the country on the weekends. Sure, I make decent cash. Sure, I sell teddy bears to cheerleaders in garish eye make-up.

But I don't get to experience the different places I travel to. When we land tomorrow, we are going straight to the Convention Center, where we will stay until nine. The next day is six AM to nine PM...as is the following day.

Sunshine? No, just the artificial lights of the convention center (this one is the Alamodome, which is pretty funny).

Local cuisine? If you call cold convention center french fries cuisine. I do not.

Night life? Well, we'll probably go back to the hotel and collapse in exhaustion. We'll order take out and watch television until we crash. Then we'll get up at five the next morning and do it all again.

I like my job. Don't get me wrong.

I just want a little sunshine, dammit!