Yo Momma Mia!!

We're makin' meatballs...PW style. I'm not afraid to steal. It's called plagiarism in writing. But in blogging, I don't think they've come up with a name for it, so it must not really exist. And anyway, I'm not stealing her recipes, I'm just stealing her format. And she didn't patent it, so I don't think she'll mind. And hell, it got her on the Bonnie Hunt show, so if it works for her, maybe it'll work for me. Whatever, we're makin' meatballs.



She calls her ingredients her "Cast of Characters". I think I'll go for more of a sports theme here, since I'm a professional hussy and all. We'll call our ingredients "The Starting Line Up". Creative, huh?



LOCAL ground beef. My butcher grinds it RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYES. Well, not exactly. I have to look through the eggs to see into the big refrigerator. BUT I see him do it.



Local sweet Italian sausage. HOMEMADE by the same old butcher who grinds my ground beef. He whistles while he works. It's the cutest thing. I LOVE VERMONT! Have I mentioned that? Everything tastes better homemade. These sausages are no exception. GO MEAT! (sorry to all you vegetarians, but isn't it good I know where my meat comes from?)




Squeeze those suckers out of their sacs. (Again, sorry vegetarians)



Two farm fresh eggs. Okay, they don't have to be farm fresh but in Vermont, it's easy to find. I LOVE Vermont!




Bread crumbs. I would have made my own, but who has the time?




Chopped onion. I try to chop it as tiny as I can because my spawn don't like onions. You make the pieces as big or as small as you like.




Fresh parmesan cheese. There's nothing better.




Golden raisins. The recipe calls for "snipped" golden raisins, but I chopped mine because I frankly don't know what "snipped" means? Do I use my kitchen shears for that? Don't know, don't care.



Italian Seasoning. Salt. Pepper. Red Pepper flakes (you decide how many).



Glorious Big Bowl of Love.



Okay, don't make fun of my hickville shirt. I'm still a hussy inside, even though I like to mash my meatballs with my hands.



Glorious balls of love.

Cook for 20 minutes in a 350 degree oven.

I'm going to start posting some of my favorite recipes here because I'm all like "let's change the world one home cooked meal at a time". So I better pony up. BUT here's the deal. I'm a recipe follower, so I've decided to add my own ingredient to the recipes, you know, to make them mine. However, I might warn you that the recipe probably would be A LOT better WITHOUT this added ingredient. BUT it's your choice. I think you'll know the added ingredient; it will be the same in all the recipes posted here (the stolen recipes from magazines and famous stars, of which I don't want any of them coming after me with their meat cleavers).

The Hussy's Hussifying Meatballs

2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 1/3 cups of bread crumbs
3/4 cup finely chopped onion
1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese
1/4 cup finely snipped golden raisins
1 TBSP. dried Italian seasoning
3/4 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. crushed red pepper
1/4 tsp. ground black pepper
1 1/2 lbs. sweet or hot Italian sausage
1 1/2 lbs. ground beef, veal, or pork
1 CUP strong coffee (he he he)

In a very large bowl combine EVERYTHING with your hussy hands. Make big (or small) balls and place them in baking pans (with a rim). Cook for 20 minutes at 350 degrees.

Enjoy!

Ima Bushwhacker

I'm really a trail follower is what I discovered this weekend. We went over to Uncle Jon's for a warming of the spirit. Uncle Jon lives next to the Saco River at the base of the White Mountains. The Saco was booming on Saturday, after a day long drenching. Its roaring waters kept me awake most of the night.


And because we couldn't cross the river right outside his backdoor, we had to go on a bushwhack to find his little cabin in the woods.

His little cabin in the woods is also known as his big man cabin, where no girls are allowed. Whatever. So sophomoric, isn't it? Well, it's not quite done yet, as you can see. But it was an adventure getting there. We traveled by boat through a sea of yellow, or so it felt.


We stopped to sleep on fluorescent green mossy beds.



And we tickled our fancies on feathery ground coverings.



We ate wintergreen leaves and threw them like confetti to the sun.



And we danced around mushrooms and wrote our initials on the underbellies of fungi.



We learned the Latin names for certain trees.



And collected the biggest and smallest leaves we could find.



And we soaked up...


the sun...



And each other.

And the whole time I was floating in that sea of yellow, I was wondering about if I was a bushwhacker or a trail follower at heart. The bushwhacker gets a choice- around that tree or over the rock? Let's go over this ridge and then down into the ravine. Let's cross the river here...the rocks are less slippery. And the trail follower?? She gets to just walk, sometimes hand and hand with the one she loves. There are rarely choices, and she may not see the unexpected shelf mushroom or hairy mossy rock, but she is content in knowing that she'll end up where she intended to go and not so far away that she doesn't recognize her surroundings when she gets there.

On July 21, 1992 I went to the boardwalk at Seaside Heights, N.J. with my parents. I just finished my freshman year at Iowa. My father grew up in Asbury Park, N.J. and summered, his whole life, on the Jersey shore. It is his heaven. We walked up and down the boardwalk that summer day- exhausted with the sensory overload. I ducked into a palm reader's tiny cave. It was dark. She grabbed my left hand and said this to me:

I am stubborn and don't like to be told what to do.

I have a soft heart and can easily be hurt by this.

I will live a long life.

I will marry at the age of 23 the man I love at 19.

I will have 2 sons that are twins and 1 daughter.

My marriage will not lead to divorce.

I will be successful.

I will be healthy.

My lucky day is Saturday.

My lucky numbers are 7 and 19.

+++

Now, I met Paul Bunyan when I was 22 and we married when I was 25...but that's the only thing (so far) this palm reader got messed up. I wrote all of this down when we got back to our condo in N.J. so I wouldn't forget it. And I forgot about it for awhile. But while I was pregnant with the twins, I remembered what this woman told me. And I checked through my journals from that year. And sure enough, I found this list. And sure enough, I have been really flabbergasted by it. And sure enough, I've been comforted by it. Why? Because I'm a trail follower. I am on the trail that has been marked for me. And I am happy to know that I will end up in the place that I intended to go when I started my life, a life that is obviously mapped on my hand.

I know that many of you disagree with this and that we all have, in some way, control over our destiny. I believe that too, but my experience with my left palm tells me that there is a greater plan for us. Your choice to either bushwhack through life, or follow the trail, doesn't really matter in the end. You end up where you're meant to be.

What are you? A Bushwhacker?? cuz Ima Trailblazer.

Ode to Supa Cath

Look at this spring chicken.

She turns 35 today. But we celebrated last night.


With her. The Goddess Who is Gone.


She came back. I'm only mildly pissed that it's just for the weekend.



And she showed up.


And new momma- exhibit A


And new momma- Exhibit B



And MUD.



And the Dr. was in the house too.



And we did a little of this.



And we did a little of that.



And then we read some poetry. We read Whitman and Longfellow and Poe. No joke. No, we really read our own creations, created especially for Cath.




This was fun.



And I think Cath liked it.



And she liked the tickies too.


And everyone, including Cath, was happy.

The End.

p.s. E and Katy, you were sorely missed.


Here is my contribution to the poetry collection for Cath; however, mine is in dream form:

I was traveling on a fast moving train headed west. I walked drunkenly through the cars to find an empty room, all to myself. I remember I was carrying a big box. It was very light, the box was, but big. I finally found a room with only one other passenger and so struggling to enter through the condensed door, I said, "Mam, would you mind if I share this room with you?" She looked up from her knitting, which she had strewn about her lap and in the seat next to her, and smiled nicely, "Of course not." I threw the box in the cargo carrier above our heads and took a seat across from this young looking woman.
"What are you knitting?" I asked.
"Oh, just a baby blanket," she answered simply.
"Wow," I shot back, impressed. "It's beautiful. Who are you knitting it for? Is someone you know having a baby?" She half laughed. "No," she said, "I knit shit for babies I haven't met yet. I just keep knitting baby blankets and hats. It's kinda my thing. I don't really know why."
"Oh," is all I had for a reply and I think she could tell I wasn't really impressed.
"What do you have in your box?" she asked me.
"Hmm, I don't know. Some guy gave it to me before I got on the train. I don't really even know where we're heading. Do you?" Her fingers were still moving ferociously and she didn't bother to look up when she answered my question with a mumble, "heaven".
"I'm sorry I couldn't hear you. What did you say?" She stopped her knitting and looked directly in my eyes and then she turned to look out the window, which was okay with me because her intense brown eyes were starting to scare me. I looked outside too. The train was moving way too fast for us to make out any definite objects, so I looked back at her, hoping my movement would get her to repeat her answer. "Heaven," she said louder.
"Well, I'll be," I said, "then we just came from hell." I offered a little giggle but she didn't take it.
"Yea," (and here's where things started to get cloudy and confusing) she mumbled something about, "wearing a gold dress in front of a classroom and doing a pole dance in front of the students and then falling down onto a table and puking into the toilet." I couldn't really understand her but I was really intrigued and so I pressed her to talk more, "I'm sorry. I couldn't understand you." And sure enough she started to knit again and kept on with the babbling, "someone made me go camping and then I was riding for hours and hours and hours and then my dad, who was dressed as a woman, was waiting for me at the finish line with a beer and then he rubbed my webbed toe." Hmm, weird, I thought. But then she dug into her super cool knitting bag and pulled out a bag of m&m's, which I was psyched about. She looked at me again with those intense brown eyes and asked me, "Would you like some?"
"Sure." So I dug into the pink bag and pulled out a handful and before throwing them into the back of my mouth I noticed that they were custom m&m's with the words, SUPA CATH written on them. I thought, 'that's cool', I wonder what I would put on my m&m's if I had my own personalized candies. "So why did you put SUPA CATH on your m&m's?"
"Oh, I didn't. My WOMBATS did." Again, 'weird', I thought. Why does this woman have wombats? Just plain weird. I looked out the window again and noticed that we were heading into the setting sun. "Hey, what are you expecting to find in heaven when we get there?" I asked, since this whole thing was very confusing to me.
"Ohhhh," she groaned orgasmically. Now I was really excited to hear her answer, but it (too) didn't make much sense to me. "There is a chiropractic table set up and I've got both legs wide open, someone is waxing me, rubbing my head, and feeding me the Glory Bowl." This image kind of scared me, but I went with it anyway without asking for further clarification. "I make people happy," she continued without prompting, "I make them super happy with my skillz. And I have a pink seat." Okay, whatever. I think I need to get off this train.
"I think this is my stop," I said, standing up. She looked out the window.
"Yea, maybe. This train's not for everyone. Actually," she continued, "it's hard to actually get on this train. Who let you on anyway?"
"Well, it was the same tall handsome guy who gave me the box. I think I'm supposed to give it to you, but I don't really know."
"Well, are you going to give it to me?" I lept up onto the seat to get the box down from the cargo carrier.
"Dood," she said, "I think it's time for some new jeans." I hopped down with the box in my hands and gave it to her. I looked down at my jeans and noticed that the spandex was stretched out in spots and made puffy polka dots all over them.
"Yea, whatever. I hope you like what's in the box and I hope you like what you get in heaven and thanks for the m&m's." I turned to leave through the condensed door; I didn't really want to stay to see what was in the box. But as I exited the room, I heard her mumble under her breath, "Oh man, not again. Another shriveled penis. I hope there's a hard one waiting for me in heaven cause I didn't get on this train for nothing."

The Bidding Will Start at 59

Today's bidding will start at 59. Can I have a 58? 58? 58?

Yes! To the silver alpaca pasture!

How about a 57? 57? 57? I see the horses raise a cold hoof!

Let's keep going down? Is there a 52? 52? 52? Yes! The mailboxes take a 52!!

What do we think kids? Will we get to freezing? Claire is in the way back of momma's monster mini van- Can we have a 44 folks? Who wants a 44? YES! We've got a 44? Timmy thinks it said 66, "Timmy, you've got to read the numbers!!"

How bouta, how bouta, how bouta 42?? Anyone, Anyone?? The frozen Christmas trees take a 42! Oooh, we're droppin' now. Let's go to 38? 38? 38? C'mon folks? 38? 38 goes to the ducks.

Oh folks- I think the steamy Huntington River has got its hand up. She's goin for 33!! Can we have a 32 folks? A thirty-two? 32? 32? 32? YES! We've got a freezing point!! Here we go- will we go under 32?

C'mon people. We can do this! 31 to the Huntington Garage! Let's keep going!! Are we going to go under 30?? 29? 29? 29? Anyone out there want a 29? Raise those hands folks!! 29? 29? 29? YES! To the cows on the right!! We see your steam!

Okay, how low can we go?? I see a 28!! 27? 27? 27? The Chickens on the left want 27... How bouta, how bouta, how bouta 25!! I see hands up at Camel's Hump, holding tight in the Valley at 25. Going once, going twice- SOLD to the Valley for 25! OH, but WAIT! We've got a 24 pulling into Brewster Pierce Memorial School! 24 degrees folks. Sold to the smiling faces at BPMS, who will hopefully help my children put on their winter clothes this morning because it's farkin' cold.


And icey.


And dark.


And dead.



And dying.



And beautiful too.

Quandary

I was in a bit of a dark period in my life when the twins came along. I'm not sure if you've ever experienced a period of sleepless nights for approximately 6 months, but I ended up in the deep dark depths of hell somewhere between the months of January and February 2005. And here's how it all started. I watched the TODAY show on NBC. For sure, NBC is to blame. Katie was still bubbling her bubbler every morning and she was doing a week long 'segment' on autism. I watched, for some god-forsaken reason, every morning that cold week in January. I don't remember watching daytime t.v. when I was locked in confinement for those early winter months of 2005, but for some reason I watched Katie Couric spout her vomiting vomit about how your totally functioning baby could instantly turn into a head banging monster who never can tell you how much he loves you or how much he appreciates all that you do for him, which is all I ever wanted (at that point) from my babies. "Please", I would pray to them, "wake up some day, I don't care how old you are, and tell me 'thank you for feeding me every two hours in the dark of night for the first six months of my life and I realize that this was very important to both my health and happiness and I realize, too, that it was taxing on your body and brain, but look at me now- I'm a successful and responsible functioning adult who loves someone and has brought other responsible functioning people into this crazy world'. All because of you and the sacrifices you've made." And you get my drift.

And Katie would have the stories about the babies who had their MMR vaccines and the next day they got a fever and all the days after that they were in a fog and never come back. They never returned from Neverland. And my fear, it took on a life of its own. And I realize, after hours of therapy, that this fear bore itself from some greater monster than Katie Couric and the media. But at the time the darkness enveloped me. And I couldn't see the light. No one could show it to me. Not for a very long time.

And so now- tomorrow even- when my big 5 year old boys who are headed to their most amazing pediatrician to get their last MMR shot, and Polio shot, and DTa/DTP/Td/Tdap shot in order not to be "excluded from school" I carry with me in my oh-so-out-of-date fanny pack all my fear of this autism shit...still. 4 (FOUR) years later.

And so, too, comes home in the homework folder the 2009 H1N1 Influenza VACCINE sheet with this disclaimer:

"Some inactivated 2009 H1N1 vaccine contains a persevative called thimerosal to keep it free of germs. Some people have suggested that thimerosal might be related to autism. In 2004 a group of experts at the Institute of Medicine reviewed many studies looking into this theory, and found no association between thimerosal and autism. Additional studies since then reached the same conclusion."

And I can't help but think of the 'some people' in this statement. Because they brought their functioning, normal children in to their amazing pediatricians for a 'normal' vaccine and left with a feverish nightmare of a child who will never say, "I love you Mommy" for the rest of their functioning lives. I carry this with me.

I carry the fear of my boys, tomorrow, getting filled with DTa/DTP/Td/Tdap, and Polio, and Measles, Mumps, and Rubella, and then two weeks later they get filled with dead Swine Flu and the perservative thimerosal and probably some candy just to make it all go down a little easier.

Why do I fill them up with this shit?

I've seen Katie Couric. I've seen the news stories of this pig flu reeking havoc on the young kids who can't seem to fight off the infection. Doctors are baffled. They're confused. Why are the children dying? I want my children to live. For obvious reasons. They are me. If they die. I die. But it seems so contradictory to fill them with all these chemicals just to keep them alive. When all I really want to fill them with is love and laughter.

I guess that's why Paul Bunyan takes them for the shots. And I wait at home to see if they arrive back here normal. With chocolate candy still on their lips.

Happy Festival Day!!

I like to plan parties. I'm a party planner at heart. I don't know why. I guess it's the co-dependent in me. I want to please everyone. I want everyone to have a good time. And I never, ever, ever want to rock the boat. Well, I planned a good party this weekend. Yea, I'm lauding myself again. Are you sick of it yet?

But here's the problem...my camera sat on my jelly cabinet all night long. I was too busy partying to take any pictures. And I take pictures so I can remember moments. And since I don't have pictures to remember moments of our Harvest Festival, I'm going to actually have to use words to describe the moments I want to remember. Solidify the day in words. I'll make them short- the snipits, I mean. I might have a lot of them. But they'll be short.

snipit #1: Helen, the 5 year old neighbor with long bouncing blond locks, bounding across the yard to us, a flitter of color with striped tights and layers of skirts and dresses and sweaters and pants, shouting "Happy Festival Day!!" as if she were preparing for our party for months, and may have (herself) lost a few hours of sleep in excitement!

snipit #2: Babies, in sacks and Bjorns and slings and things bundled so tight that you can only see cheeks. And how mommies congregated and met each other for the first time by bouncing their tummies together to show off their new additions and to have them meet each other, as if the babies (who were all sleeping tight) would wake up and say, "hey, it's nice to meet you. Will you be my friend? And someday will you dig for treasure with me in the sand pile like those big kids over there?"

snipit #3: Paul Bunyan huffing and puffing and smiling as he managed to carry his 41.5 lb. pumpkin (he grew with own hands) up from the alpaca tent where he was weighing it on the gigantic scale we have to weigh alpacas. Guess the weight of the pumpkins folks...you'll win a prize!

snipit #4: The GIGANTIC produce that lined the bench. Our carrot, which I wish I would have weighed (and wish PB wouldn't have eaten in the late night), was the size of an elongated pumpkin. The baseball bat of a zucchini, the bean (taped together) the size of a snake, the rutabaga the size of a fat man's head, the red cabbage the size of a basketball. Glorious overgrowth- for all those who have small potatoes, this table's for you.

snipit #5: The pies still hot from the oven that emptied out of picnic baskets - apple, blueberry, peach, chocolate, all with numbers sticking from their stomachs. EAT PIE NOW, my voting box said. VOTE HERE. The winner...my friend E. An apple pie to die for.

snipit #6: Oliver. Big Brother to Teddy and Eliza. Started the Scavenger Hunt after all was said and done. No chance of winning. But it didn't matter as he proudly pulled moss and fungus and worms and sticks in the shape of 'Y' and birch bark and pumpkin leaves from his jacket pocket. He completed his task and found all twelve items and needed to show someone. And I promise you, Oliver, next year you will get a prize, even if you don't come back first. I'll have a sack the size of Santa's full of candy. Take as much as you want!

snipit #7: The apple press: the tossing and cranking and squeezing and re-squeezing of nature's finest to get the sweetest and juiciest and freshest cider ever produced...the old fashioned way. And then to think to warm it, on such a cold eve. Addy, you're one good cranker.

snipit #8: The outdoor movie actually worked! With the help of doctor Dan (!!). The thank yous that floated through the airways from parents who were able to cuddle around the fire as their wee ones got lost in the bright white screen and the movie Cars, which we projected, miraculously onto it! Next year...remember more blankets!

snipit #9: Paul Bunyan's cute butt as he stood by the grill cooking up brats and dogs for our friends.

snipit #10: the sun setting through the trees.

snipit #11: the stars coming out.

snipit #12: Paul Bunyan rounding the corner with a huge stack of Pine slab on the forks of his tractor and the plume of smoke that headed up into this starry sky after he unloaded it onto the fire...just to make it bigger.

snipit #13: Paul Bunyan rounding the corner with yet another huge stack of Pine slab on the forks of his tractor...just to make it bigger.

snipit #14: Paul Bunyan rounding the corner with yet another huge stack of Pine slab on the forks of his tractor...just to make it bigger. Well, you get my drift. He was trying to help the band out, I realize this. It was a cold night, but I think a few of us burned our eyelashes and our asses.

snipit #15: And I'll make this my last: dancing in the mud to this band, who we were so very lucky to hire to play. PB and I, we love our bluegrass. And if you ever get a chance to hear them play in Burlington- please go. They're great. And if you hear them, ask for Sugar...she's not officially in the band, being the wife of one of the leads. But she's my favorite banjo player, and that's not just because she's a chick.

01 Track 1.wma -

Please come to our Festival Day next year. We'll be harvesting some good times again...and don't forget to bring your BIG produce because you might just win a prize!

Me and My Friend Roo

Winter of 1992: My freshman roommate in college, her name was Rachel, and I were lying in our bunks one night. It was January and yet, it felt like Spring in Iowa City. Winter had not arrived yet. It was late. We started talking about our twin sisters, as if we both had them. Our twins were living exciting and thrilling lives, very different from our mundane go to school, go to practice, go to dinner, do your homework, go to bed kinda lives. Rachel's twin was named "Roo". Roo lived in San Francisco and rode around town on her Harley. She owned her own restaurant (I don't remember which kind). My twin's name was Jade. She lived in Canada and was dating a pro hockey player while she played on the Women's Junior National Ice Hockey Team.

I don't really remember when my love of hockey cemented itself into my being. I dated a hockey goalie in high school. I won't mention that he was two years younger than me, but he was still cute and by then I had chewed up and spit out all the guys in my class. Anyway, he was the one who encouraged me to buy a pair of hockey skates. I couldn't really "use" them until I was done playing field hockey, since I pretty much ate, slept and drank field hockey for the four years I was at Iowa (although I do remember a few pond skates out there in Iowa City).

I almost went to Michigan (oh my god, I can't even imagine it now, my drawers would be all full of blue and yellow instead of black and gold- horror!) but that's only because I went to a hockey game on my recruiting trip. And then the field hockey girls who were in charge of me (the innocent little high school recruit) brought me to the hockey player's house that night for a keg party. I almost died and went to heaven. I still protect my Michigan puck I picked up that night. No one's allowed to touch it.

And if it wasn't for my friend Mike (who is now a Division 1 ref) who happily shipped out to me in Colorado some shin pads and shoulder pads and gloves when I told him I needed a few items to get me started, I'd still only have an imaginary twin sister who played hockey. I remember thinking when I was opening the box of brand new equipment- this is the beginning of something wonderful. I received a new helmet from my mother-in-law for Christmas that year. And thanks to Ron and Kevin in Breckenridge, CO who taught me how to skate- it all began.

Coincidentally, I played hockey in CO with this girl:

This is Michelle. We had the Vermont connection because I just finished my Masters at UVM and she just finished her undergrad. She played for the women's team! We go way back, she and I do. She gave me a pair of UVM socks in CO, oh...way back in 1998 that I just stopped wearing.




And now I don the ones I got from playing a season with the Philadelphia Freeze. This was all before kids- when time grew on trees.


And thankfully I played on a team called the Misfits with this one, because she asked me to play in both of her drop-in leagues, since she organizes TWO of them. She could manage the world if someone asked her to. She's a crazy one- just last Sunday it was her birthday. She's, like, all 41 or something like that. And so she just goes and runs a half marathon and then comes and plays an hour and a half of hockey. Yeah, whatever.



I love hockey. You want to know why? I'm weird. I love the smell of stinky equipment. I purposefully don't take a shower or wash my hands before I leave the rink so I can smell my stink all the way home. I don't know. I guess I'm kinda like a guy. I love feeling the sweat roll down my ass crack. I love hocking a loogy on the ice or blowing a snot shot. It feels great.



I love wearing all the gear so that when you fall you generally don't hurt yourself. Sometimes I pee a little when I fall real hard, but that's just because I don't do my Kegels regularly.




I love the camraderie on the bench and on the ice. Sometimes I think I would have never had friends in my life if I had never played team sports. Team sports just give you a group of people that you have to be friends with- in order to be a good team.



But sometimes you get some really weird people on your team. Like this cat here. He's weird. He shows a little too much skin for me, in places I'd rather not see skin (I did not include a photo of this...for everyone's sake).




I love watching some of the best. This is Tammy- she played at Princeton. Holy Moly is she good. And not only is she an amazing goalie, but she skates out with the best of us.




And I love the Zamboni. Isn't that queer? I mean my kids love the Zamboni...but they're KIDS? I got Timmy a t-shirt for Christmas last year. It says, "I wanna drive the Zamboni". I would have bought one for myself if they made them in my size. I don't know. I told you I'm weird.



I wanted to give you a few close ups of some of my weird friends but it got sorta steamy in the locker room. What with all our sweaty bodies and foul mouths. Someday maybe I'll let you in. That or you could just pretend that you have a twin and that they play hockey with us. And then they could tell you all about it. Or something like that.