Comfort Food

Sometimes one must perform icky tasks in pursuit of culinary delight. The results are usually worth the effort. My labor Friday paid off all weekend.

Picking chicken off the bone is not my favorite cooking chore. I try hard not to envision the chicken clucking happily around the barnyard or, worse, stifled in a chicken factory. You know what I mean. Yet the chicken must be off the bone when one is crafting chicken stew. I put some happy tunes on the CD player and sang along as I separated the meat from the carcass. The bare bones joined their vegetable counterparts in the stockpot where they simmered with spices for a few hours, melding into my version of homemade stock as it filled the house with a luscious scent. The shredded meat waited patiently in the refrigerator for the next step.

That's another joy of making chicken stew: no part of the chicken gets wasted. It greatly appeals to my sense of efficiency.

I make chicken soup and call it stew because it's thick and chunky. It's also an excuse to cook with farfalle, or bowtie pasta as it is commonly known. Bowties are a favored shape running neck and neck with acini di pepe as my all time favorite pastas. It's rugged and holds up well in soup. I also get weak for rigatoni, but that's a tale for another day.

This weekend was filled with outdoor labor enjoying glorious blue skies and crisp fall air. During the day, Wendy and I channeled weese as we busted ass to get our yard in a semblance of order for the impending winter season. Evenings found our appetites sated with hot chicken stew and cuddles in front of a roaring blaze in the fireplace. Does it get any better than that? Not often methinks, but then we are simple folk.

The touch of green is fresh spinach from a bag, the first I've purchased since the e. coli debacle. Living on the edge, oh yeah baby. That's how we do it here in the 'burbs.

.

Up In Arms

Do you like the look of your arms? I haven't been enamoured of my own in years.

My arms used to be something truly special. I clearly recall my stepmother telling me admiringly on more than one occasion, "Suzanne, you have perfect arms!" Of course it was in jest, but not total jest. I did have good arms in my youth, near perfect to my legendary memory.

Years passed as years tend to do and my arms aged along with the rest of me. From the elbow down, they still look good. I say this with no exaggeration: my forearms are fab.

From the elbow up, well that's where it gets scary. Tone and shape have disintegrated into classic middle age upper arm flab. The pudgy flesh sways gently back and forth like a hammock swinging betwixt two trees. Or is it more like the jiggle of a bowl of jello? Either or and both. I haven't worn a sleeveless anything in more years than I can count on both hands. A little self-conscious, you say? Indeed. I used to have perfect arms after all.

When my stepfather died, we were the beneficiary of first choice of his yard tools. One of those little gems may be the upper arm savior I so desperately need.

Behold The Pogo! This device splits logs like a knife through butter. It works with a pump action by lifting then driving the handle downward which propels the wedge into the log. It's like a sliding hammer. Guess which muscles get used? That's right, those flabby ones that run down the back of my upper arms!

It's so much more pleasant than splitting wood using wedges and a sledge hammer. No missed targets, no flying or stuck wedges. No bending over to retrieve and reseat the wedge or log. No harsh jarring of my aging joints. No danger should the dogs want to hang around to help. It's efficient, smooth, and damned effective.

Nothing gets me quite as excited as productive exercise and accomplishing more than one thing simultaneously. There may be hope for my arms after all.

.

People Who Call Me Susan

There are three who get away with it.
Three people I know.

All others get corrected. Politely of course. No venom in my voice, no evil glare exposing the truly heinous nature of their offense.

Still. It's best to remember.
I prefer you remember.

My name is Suzanne.
Not Susan.

Richard is one. I've worked for and with him for nineteen years. He has called me Susan from day one. His business partner and employees get it right, but not Richard. Not verbally, not in writing. Susan it is and for some reason I don't mind.

Katie is another. She has cut my hair for... well... for a long time. I like that she always asks about The Boy and consistently gives a good haircut. I don't see her often these days, what with adopting the wild and crazy long grey curls I've been working on since last November. But when I stopped in last month, I smiled at her greeting: "Hello Susan! It's been awhile!" I don't even grit my teeth when Katie calls me Susan.

Anthony is the third. He's Bonnie's dad. They live directly behind us. We met them before we put up the privacy fence, otherwise he might still be a stranger. I don't have the foggiest idea why he thinks my name is Susan or if I've ever corrected him. Seems like more trouble than it's worth to do so. I just roll with it.

As for the rest of you, well, don't be stealing my "z".
Such deprivation should not be the norm in polite society.

.

Sunrise, Sunset

The house we lived in prior to this one had three levels. Our bedroom was on the top floor. The master bathroom was small, yet perfect in function. Its best feature was the window overlooking the backyard. We used to hang out that window and smoke cigarettes.

I leaned comfortably on my elbows, my forehead on the sash, usually a book or magazine resting on the sill, the smoke from my cigarette drifting away discreetly. I miss that window.

I smoked off and on during the five years we lived in that house, but mostly on. Evidently I'm addicted. I used to spy on the neighbors behind us. Couldn't be helped, really. Sometimes I liked to look around while hanging out the window smoking cigarettes.

I often watched the man behind us do chores in his yard. He was a fairly young man, clean cut, father of three. Once I observed him deconstructing tree branches that had fallen during a particularly nasty storm. The man always moved like he was encased in a bubble of molasses. Each move was painfully deliberate and slow in motion. Efficient, I suppose, in his own way, as he eventually got the job done. But geez. From my comfortable smoking perch on the third floor, my imagination conjured up a leather whip to crack over his head while shouting, "Get moving, man! You haven't got all day!"

But maybe he did have all day. Who was I to say? I dropped my cigarette butt into the toilet, flushed, then re-entered my own world.

I thought about him today as I worked in the yard. 'Tis the season to turn the summer pile of tree debris into a neat stack of kindling for the fireplace. I had all day to do it. I moved slowly, deliberately, without great sense of purpose and zero urgency. Much like our old neighbor.

My kindling project today was just busy work. Brainless busy work. Minimal physical labor to get me moving, to keep me moving. Snapping little twigs and branches into appropriate fireplace lengths is satisfying. Every so often I'd get gouged or scratched by those branches and twigs, which aroused an idle curiosity when I almost appreciated the pain.

I told my friend Tina that I am in a mood. She didn't ask me to define it. It's just the mood I get in when things are happening around me over which I have no control.

There is no control. No task that can be done to fix or repair or resolve. No 'if I just apply myself, get off my lazy ass and do it' results to be had, no tangible 'if I just put my mind to it, the problem will be gone' solution. There's just hanging out. Waiting.

I thought about that while I snapped twigs and made piles.
The weather was beautiful.
I sure made an impressive mound of kindling.
And for today, that's gotta be enough.

.

It Gets Around

My blogroll is acting up.
I don't get the little visual indicators when someone has updated.
It displeases me.

We're having our trees trimmed this week.
I think they will be happier all neatened up.
It excites me.

I opened a door without really thinking.
It will expose something near and dear to my heart.
It scares me in a good way.

Things are settling down nicely at work.
I get to use my brain again and have found it still functions.
It gives me hope.

I woke up early and listened to the rain.
The weather is dark, cold and wet.
It relaxes me.

My mother has breast cancer.
She's being evasive and I still don't know if she's shared everything.
It makes me wanna puke.

.

Do Your Friends Treat You Like a Guest?

And if they do, is it a bad thing?

.

Reflection Unbecoming

I did something completely radical.
I shaved off my eyebrows.




No, of course I didn't. But I feel like it sometimes. In moments of fury. Fucking eyebrows need almost daily maintenance. Tweezers be damned! I never signed on for this.

And how about these damned age spots? The ones on my face? What the fuck is up with that? It's got me seriously contemplating wearing makeup. Lots of it. I yearn to slather my face with cosmetic concoctions thick and rich enough to offer at least a vague promise of fully concealing those demoralizing spots. Age spots. On my face! Oh the unmitigated horror.

Let's not even go near the topic of the wrinkles on my neck. Only Wendy can go near them. Because when she's near my neck I'm not thinking about how wrinkled it looks when I see it in a mirror.

She needs to stay there. Near my neck.
Aging gracefully evidently requires props.

.

Innovation

During a casual conversation with long-distance friends, the topic of strip clubs came up. I declared, in a somewhat righteous manner, "There are no strip clubs in Virginia! We have laws against that sort of thing." Imagine my nose pointing in the air as I sniffed arrogantly. Why the pomposity? I was lost in the moment.

I was reminded of the conversation as we passed through Richmond on I-95 and saw billboards advertising Paper Moon: Richmond's Finest Gentlemen's Club.

"Huh," I mused. "Virginia does have strip clubs!" A google search provided a directory of 23 clubs located throughout the state, clustered primarily in Virginia Beach and Norfolk, with a handful in Richmond (doesn't every capital of a conservative state have titty bars?) and a couple here in Northern Virginia. Who knew?

I don't have any strong feelings for or against such places. I've even been to one. Once. Well. It wasn't a pure strip club, it was a Girl's Night stripper event at a now-defunct gay bar, Tracks, in the District. Gay bars don't flourish here in Virginia. There are even fewer of them than there are strip clubs. Shocking, I know. We Virginia homosexuals must venture across the river to mix with Our Own Kind in public.

So there we were on that mild summer night, a throng of lesbians of varying ages gawking at the skantily clad dancers gyrating on the stage. I felt awkward, quite awkward actually. I was around 25 years old, my life in a complete shambles transition. What was I doing there? Peer pressure. My friends thought I needed to get out of the house and have some fun. They were probably right.

Those friends badgered me into tipping the dancer I'd been oogling watching. To this day that memory is strongly ingrained: me shyly approaching, unexpectedly making eye contact and quickly looking away. But at what? What drew my eyes? Well her fabulous abs for one thing, which were even more spectacular up close. She smiled, but I don't know if it was a real smile or a plastic one. Didn't particularly matter. She shimmied provacatively as I tucked the dollar into the waistband of her panties while turning twelve shades of red. I ran casually strolled back to our table. My friends greeted me with whoops and hollers. I grabbed my beer, drank deeply and waited for my heart to stop beating so damned fast.

Have you ever driven down I-85 from Virginia to North Carolina? The... umm... facility pictured below can be seen from the highway just after crossing into North Carolina. Many times, I've seen a red neon sign flashing "OPEN" displayed in the window, otherwise I'd be certain it is abandoned. I've always assumed it is a strip club. Despite the sign announcing its status as an innovative health club. A health club with an all girl staff.

What do you think?

.

Let's Talk Purses, Shall We?

Well. Not just purses. Purses and bags. In my mind, those items perform distinctly different yet equally important functions.

I like to be prepared. Hence I carry around a lot of stuff. Therefore I need a big bag. No, not a plastic bag. A tote. A shoulder bag.

When I leave our home for work, I carry my big bag stuffed with all manner of things I may need during my travels: my dayplanner, a book to read, antibacterial hand wipes, a notebook in which to jot random thoughts, a bottle of water, perhaps a small snack, an umbrella if the weather warrants. I do so like to be prepared.

Inside the big bag nestles a smaller bag. The smaller bag is my purse.

My purse is an island unto itself. It holds my stash of important littler things: wallet, cell phone, dental floss, cigarettes and lighter, assorted pain relievers, chewing gum, mints. Things I use often and like to have easily at hand. My purse can also be grabbed for quick errands when the big bag may be extraneous.

I envy women who have purses to match different outfits. I'd like to be one of them, but I'm not. Instead I'm the kind of woman who uses one purse exclusively until it is used up. Sometimes it matches my outfit, other times not so much.

I had a disturbing experience recently. Wendy and I went shopping over the weekend and I purchased a new purse. It was time, past time perhaps. Holes had worn in the seams of the old one. Once home, I excitedly transferred my precious purse belongings into their new home.

Monday morning rolled around and, as is typical of many Monday mornings, I was running late. The clock tick tick ticked toward the time, then past the time, I should leave for work. I let the dogs in, did our doggie thing, grabbed my purse off the dining room table, stuffed it into my big bag and slung it over my shoulder. I was off and running.

Halfway to work, as is my custom, I reached into my big bag to rummage around in my purse in search of the mints I always keep there. My forehead wrinkled in consternation as it quickly became apparent there were no mints to be found. "What's up with that?" I thought as I frantically fumbled around taking inventory with my fingertips. "I need a mint! I need a mint NOW!"

I discovered not only was my essential tin of mints AWOL, but so was my cell phone, chewing gum, dental floss, assorted pain relievers and, drum roll please, my freaking wallet. My brow wrinkled further as my anxiety grew. I was naked in the wilderness!

Alas, alack, woe was me! I had been careless. The purse I grabbed off the dining room table on my way out the door that morning was my OLD purse. All that was left inside was worthless stuff that didn't merit transition to the new purse.

I can only imagine this problem would be compounded were I ever fashionable enough to coordinate purses with my outfits. There is a reason I am like I am.

.

Photo Distraction

I just finished reading a book titled The Drowning People by Richard Mason and had a strange time of it. I enjoyed the author's writing style. He's adept with the twist of a phrase and works in little things that make the reader anticipate what's coming without giving it away. The settings are rich, the characters full of body and soul, the storyline nicely paced.

But there was a problem: the dust jacket. Specifically the full length black and white photograph of the author on the back.

It distracted me.

It distracted me because I could not reconcile the prose within with the youthful visage in the photo. The author is a fine young specimen of the male form. A lock of shaggy dark hair falls across his forehead, his face clean-shaven, his slender body slouched with thumbtips in pockets, the tail of his open-collared white button-down shirt untucked over his dark pants.

I can easily imagine him modeling boxer briefs for Calvin Klein.
But I cannot imagine that book coming out of his brain.

I took the dust jacket off and hid it on the bookshelf until I was done. Problem solved.

.

Perspective

I'm cranky today. I have no real reason. That makes me even crankier.

I labeled myself Grumpy Smurf.
Wendy said, "There is no Grumpy Smurf!"
I said, "Yes there is, dammit. I am him."

Then I saw this. This lady, well, she has a real reason to be cranky!

I wonder how she scored the toss?

.

Got Wood?

Monday I ordered two cords of firewood, our usual winter supply. Today the wood was unceremoniously dumped in our driveway. There was the traditional jumping for joy and cheering, because firewood delivery means something special: fall is in the air with winter close behind.

So deep is our appreciation of a roaring blaze in the fireplace, Wendy and I welcome even the task of hauling and stacking firewood. Into the wheelbarrow log by log, load by load, rolled lovingly through the gate and across the yard to the designated wood stacking location. We have fabricated a tidy rack to safely store our precious logs until it is time to incinerate them to ash as they add warmth and atmosphere to our humble abode.

Usually we stack on the weekend. But it's Wednesday. The thought of leaving our precious firewood heaped unattractively in our driveway until Saturday was unappealing. So after work today we began the hauling and stacking process. It got dark right about the time we noticed the wheel on our wheelbarrow was rolling drunkenly instead of smoothly. Cheap piece of shit wheelbarrow, we cursed. But the timing was good, I suppose, considering it had gotten dark and all.

A cord of wood stacks to the dimensions of 4' high by 4' wide by 8' long. The racks we constructed hold two cords perfectly. Before we broke the wheelbarrow broke itself and it got dark, we had filled the racks about 3/4 full, representing approximately a cord and a half. Yet a significant pile of logs still remains in the driveway. A significant pile. Enough logs that I'm thinking they delivered closer to three cords than two.

A blessing or a curse?
My back says the latter while my frugal nature says, "Score!"

.

Puppy Tuck, Suburban Style

I've always been susceptible to guilt. The source of such susceptibility is a mystery to me. Is it just human nature? Depends on which human, I guess.

Our dog Pixie plays that particular weakness of mine. She is usually rather subtle in her own non-subtle way. This morning, she notched her efforts up and left subtlety in the dust.

Wendy always leaves for work before I'm fully awake. The pups don't mind her departure as much as they do mine. They come on back to bed and snuggle with me, encouraging me to stay there instead of getting up and being a productive member of society.

Three days a week I work my nine-to-five. I leave home at 8:35. (I should leave at 8:25 but time flies faster in the morning. What is up with that?) We all gather in the kitchen just prior to my departure. There, we chat briefly they listen intently as I babble. I dispense a tasty, longer-lasting chew-type treat for them to enjoy while we are off selling our souls earning an honest living. I say goodbye in my talking-to-the-doggies voice, "Pika pika choo choo chow chow chow!" (Don't ask why I say that or what it means. I have no answers.)

Dudley always happily snatches his bone (I call all those things bones, even if they aren't remotely bonelike at all) and rushes off to settle on the couch.

Pixie, on the other hand, turns into Little Miss Coy. She sniffs the bone. She sits and stares pitifully at me like she recognizes that treat to be the bribe it truly is and wants no part of it. I sweetly encourage. She turns her nose up and, leaving the bone behind, slinks off to the dog bed in the living room. I toss the bone on her bed and depart, knowing full well she'll scarf it up as soon as I'm out of sight.

Yeah. She sure shows me who's boss.

This morning she didn't run off and pout. She shimmied shyly over until she was right next to my foot and she tucked my calf! Ah that shameless little vixen! Playing the Tuck Card when she damn well knew I was late for work!

Eh, what's a few more minutes when I'm already late?
It's a small sacrifice for a puppy tuck.

.

Kick Off

We have a friend who has a thing about feet. He professes his own to be beautiful, yet rarely exposes them in public or private. Other people's feet? They creep him out, causing him to shudder and cringe in disgust.

We were at his apartment last weekend to watch football. I wore sandals because the weather was warm. As I made that decision, the thought of our host being bothered by my nearly naked extremities crossed my mind but didn't change it.

See, my feet truly are beautiful. I take care of them. A little foot maintenance goes a long way. I have no cause for foot shame.

Upon arrival at his abode, I snagged a beer and settled into a chair strategically located next to a bowl of cheesy poofs. Cheesy poofs, beer and football are a winning combination. I propped my feet comfortably on the ottoman.

Our host glanced over and, with gallant inflection, offered me a pair of socks.

I wonder what Miss Manners would advise in such a situation.

.

The Calendar Says Thursday...

... but it feels like Friday because we're taking a three-day weekend. It's time for our fourth and final Family Weekend at The Boy's college.

Our car will be packed with a bunch of crap vital things that (a) he forgot to take with him, (b) couldn't fit in his roommate's automobile, and/or (c) I haven't already shipped to him.

I will be forever grateful to his roommate, let's call him C, who has provided transportation for The Boy both home and back to school many times through the years.

Yes, C has a car. The Boy does not, despite the deal I made with him when he was just a kid. I'd read an article about how most smokers get hooked while in their teens. If kids don't smoke before they hit age 21, odds are they never will. Made sense to me. "Son," I said to him, "I have a proposition. If you don't smoke cigarettes before you turn 21, I'll buy you a car."

Considering my own history with cigarettes, I felt the bribe a worthy investment.

He upheld his end of the bargain. As his 21st birthday approached, I contemplated how best to uphold my end. But he shocked me by letting me off the hook. His explanation: our family resources could be better used in other ways, and, while a car would be convenient, he didn't really need one and most likely won't for some years to come. It just wasn't practical.

Alrighty then.

Graduation looms on the not-too-distant horizon. His post-graduation plans do not require an automobile. Yes yes, I'm doing a happy parent dance as I type that. Not because he won't need an automobile, but because he has crafted future plans. Music to any parent's ear, yes?

Pixie will be glad the life-sized replica of Soldier Boy, a souvenir from The Boy's summer role in Sunday in the Park with George, is leaving. It really freaks her out. I'll admit it can be a bit alarming caught in the corner of my eye as I enter the room, an unexpected presence bearing a remarkable, if imperfect, similarity to The Boy.

Peace out, folks.
Enjoy your weekend.

.

Across the Generational Divide

The suburban dog plays many roles, not the least of which is to entertain her adoring humans. Pixie was recently tasked to play debutante in a silly game amongst friends. Adorned with my grandmother's pearls, she assumed a regal, sphinx-like stance for the requisite photo.

Of note, this is the first decent picture we have of her awake. Typically she is in constant motion and therefore difficult to pixellate. Her other gear is asleep. Ever wonder how many photos of a sleeping dog constitute too many? I think I know the answer.

Yet wearing the pearls seemed to imbue her with a sense of solemnity and tradition, as, we all know, pearls are wont to do.

I'm pretty sure she's the first dog to wear that strand.
My grandmother would be so proud.

.

Simple Snare

I used to think I was über-cool.
Yes, yes, it's true.
I still do. Mostly.

Self-delusion.
My favorite midnight snack?

But a girl has to believe in something.
Might as well be herself.

I take great pleasure and pride in my ability to raise one eyebrow independent of the other. My left eyebrow. My quirkable left eyebrow exudes cool, indeed it does. It puts me in a different class, a class above those persons less eyebrow-rific. You know who you are.

On my first face-to-face date with Wendy, there was plenty of conversation. Comfortable conversation. Getting-to-know-you conversation. First date conversation.

Something she said caused me to raise my eyebrow.
Yes yes, that quirkable left eyebrow in which I take such pride.
I flexed that puppy for all it was worth.

And that's when it happened.

Wendy mirrored my raised eyebrow with her own, then, in response to what was most likely a stunned amazed dumbfounded outraged appreciative confused incredulous look on my face, proceeded to waggle both eyebrows at me. One up. The other down. Rapidly reverse and repeat.

And that, my friends, is all it took.
It was like a switch flipped in the cosmos.
As simple as that.
My heart was hers.

I told her later. Much later.
But she still doesn't believe it.
Not about my heart being hers, but about when I knew.
I'm telling it true, though.

My girl, she's a class above.

.

I'm Not a Rock, But I Play One on TV

We took a walk along the Potomac River this evening. Yes, the same Potomac River where scientists recently announced discovery of an abundance of intersex fish. Bass, to be specific. Both wide and small mouth. What are we doing to our world?

"Run, freedom, run!"

While driving to work this morning, I became aware of my brain processing subjects at lightning speed. Thoughts bouncing from place to place, worry to worry, person to person, non-stop, high speed. I cranked up the CD to a volume certain to block out the rest of the world. It worked. But ever since, I've been intermittently bursting into song.

"Freedom, run away!"

What's worse, I wonder. Racing thoughts or spontaneous showtunes?

My office, especially of late, is a fascinating blend of male egos colliding. But I'm finding it more frustrating than fascinating. Well. Frustrating is not the right word. Maddening is more like it.

"I'm simply layin' out the facts for you ...
Ain't no time to relax for you..."

For some reason, I'm a magnet. Necessary business reasons aside, people talk to me about things. They confide their feelings. What is up with that?

My own feelings--which aren't all bad--take a backseat while I'm in the office. There is fear in the air there. Unrest. Upheaval. Fear of the unknown. Fear of change. But change has arrived in all its glory. Their fear will dissipate eventually. Change is here to stay.

"That freedom sun will shine someday..."

Meanwhile, I've got control of the volume and a river to walk beside with my girl and our dogs. What more can a woman possibly need?

"Run, freedom, run!"

.

Father of Mine

A daughter's relationship with her father has got to be one of the most complex--outside of her mother perhaps--she will experience. That is, if she knows her father. I am lucky enough to know mine.

Oh wait. That's just stupid. Why would any daughter consider herself lucky to know her father? I mean, isn't it a father's job to allow their children to know them? I guess it's like any other job. Some dads are good at it, others suck, and there are many levels of competence and/or incompetence in between.

Parenthood is like that. It's all fly by the seat of the pants, hard work and hope. Daughterhood, once one reaches adulthood, is pretty much the same.

My parents divorced when I was in fourth grade. I don't recall feeling particularly tramautized by the event. I left that to my sister. My father, an officer in the Navy, promptly was restationed from Washington, DC to Hawaii. I've tried to imagine what my life would have been had we, as originally intended, moved with him as a family unit before the Big D got in the way. I never get far. What's the point anyway? It was what it was and is what it is. Pragmatism rocks.

My dad and I seem to understand each other. Enough to respect the differences and enjoy the sameness. I'm thinking about him today because I owe him an email and can't seem to stay on task. I'm not so good at the regular communication thing. It doesn't help that we live on opposite coasts. I sit wrapped in my own little cloud, taking comfort in the familial breezes swirling in the distance yet not deigning to disrupt my personal reveries.

I think I may regret that some day.
Hell, for that matter, I think I do already.
I need a swift kick in the ass.

.

Life Is a Game of Pick Up Sticks

Hi.

I'm feeling better.

Oh. What? You didn't know I was feeling bad?
That's because I wasn't.
But then I fell down the stairs.

Dogs enjoy human bodies crumpled on the floor. Something about it excites them. They mill around and trample on the body, poking with their cold noses and tickling with their whiskers. They greatly prefer when the body is moaning.

I'm glad I could amuse them.

What does the title of this post have to do with me falling down the stairs? Nothing. It's completely unrelated. But the storm that blew through here Friday left a mess in our yard. I spent the majority of the weekend bent over picking up sticks.

I did leave one where it fell. I've entitled it "Stuck Stick". Kinda looks like a lightning bolt if you use your imagination.

Yes yes. I'm as easily amused as our dogs seem to be. Are you?

.