This is in honor of Dan J., who recently de-lurked and left a comment. Dan was my boss at my former job, and would have saved me from being laid off if he hadn’t been shit-canned, too. He is a runner, and I always wanted to tell him this joke, but it seemed a little inappropriate for the office.
A guy is out jogging very early one morning when he realizes he has to take a dump. He looks around for a public building, or a gas station, but he’s in a residential neighborhood. He runs for a few more minutes, but the urge just grows stronger. Then he spots a thick cluster of bushes. He considers running on past, but the need is just too great. Stepping behind the shrubbery, he shucks down his shorts and squats.
As he finishes, but before he can pull up his running shorts, the worst happens. An old lady appears beside the bushes and stands there, staring at him without speaking.
Embarrassed, he says, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
The old lady smiles coyly.
“I’ve been a widow for many years. Would you mind,” she blushes, “if I just touch one of your testicles?”
The man is taken aback, but he’s not really in a position to refuse. “Okay.”
Reaching out, she gently cradles his left testicle between her fingers and thumb for a brief moment.
As he starts to pull up his shorts, he realizes she’s still staring fixedly at him.
“Would you mind,” she says, blushing even more deeply, “if I touched your other testicle?”
Reluctantly, he agrees and she softly squeezes his right testicle.
By now he’s starting to enjoy himself, so he’s not too upset when, after glancing down in embarrassment, she gazes shyly into his eyes and says, “Would you mind if I just touch both of them at the same time?”
“Sure,” he says. “Go ahead.”
The old lady takes his left testicle in her left hand and his right testicle in her right hand,. Slamming them together with every word, she yells:
“DON’T…EVER…SHIT…IN…MY…YARD…AGAIN!”
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Of Mice and (Wo)men
I started my new job today and I just want to rail at the injustice of the universe for a moment.
Because there was a MOUSE in the clinic! He ran in the front door last Tuesday (it's an automatic door that closes very slowly to give handicapped patients plenty of time to get in) and apparently he managed to find enough food to hang out for the past week.
And when I suggested bringing in a trap and squashing his little head, I started to realize that, even though I've always been the bleeding heart liberal everywhere I've worked in the past, a new day has dawned.
Because every single one of the women I worked with chorused, "No! You can't do that!"
So I won't.
However, if I were to set a pail of water, with a cunningly contrived little gangplank, I mean diving board, in the kitchen, it wouldn't be my fault if he found out he couldn't swim.....
Because there was a MOUSE in the clinic! He ran in the front door last Tuesday (it's an automatic door that closes very slowly to give handicapped patients plenty of time to get in) and apparently he managed to find enough food to hang out for the past week.
And when I suggested bringing in a trap and squashing his little head, I started to realize that, even though I've always been the bleeding heart liberal everywhere I've worked in the past, a new day has dawned.
Because every single one of the women I worked with chorused, "No! You can't do that!"
So I won't.
However, if I were to set a pail of water, with a cunningly contrived little gangplank, I mean diving board, in the kitchen, it wouldn't be my fault if he found out he couldn't swim.....
10 True Things
This is the exercise required to earn the "Honest Scrap" award given to me by Comedy Goddess. After reading Ian's (Idiot Stew) list, I decided not to even compete in the funny category, so all you're getting are true statements.
1) I’ve been married 3 times. The first, at age 18, for 13 years. Then again at age 33 for 6 years. And now for 11 years. God knows why Bill was willing to give this a shot, but it seems to work.
2) I am spatially challenged. I cannot stand in my basement and tell you what room is overhead. I can look out the basement window, see what’s out there and figure out what upstairs room offers the same vista, but to just know – doesn’t happen.
3) When I was in the fifth grade, I read that William Shakespeare had the best vocabulary in the history of English and I resolved to exceed him. By the time I was in high school and heard Howard Cosell announce a football game and realized how annoying it is when people use words others don’t understand, the damage was done.
4) I am afraid of mice. As in, stand-on-a-chair-and-shriek afraid.
5) I am not afraid of snakes, although I wouldn't wear one as an accessory.
6) I am 2/3 of the way through my third read-through of the Bible. This makes it impossible for me to take everything in it literally. I plan to continue re-reading it, in different translations, as long as I live.
7) Although I made a fair living at it for 33 years, I was never especially good with computers. A few years ago, people on my former team held a party and burned one of my programs in the fireplace because it was so difficult to maintain. As far as I know, there was no straw figure of me in there with the greenbar.
8) My SAT scores were high enough to qualify me for Mensa. I did not join as I figured the last thing I needed was to pal around with other socially-challenged people. (For all I know, Condaleeza Rice and Madeline Albright may chair their local chapters, but the Mensa folks I've known over the years belonged in an Asperger's support group.)
9) I drink bottled water at home. This is because I live less than a mile from an old landfill that was never completely cleaned up, and from a petroleum depot. I’m a freak about recycling the bottles, but it’s still not something I feel great about. However, I’d feel even worse about dying with a third hand sprouting from the top of my head.
10) I’ve wanted to write since I was old enough to hold a pencil. In the second grade, when Mrs. Young had us draw what we wanted to be when we grew up, my picture showed a woman in a flowing blue dress, seated at a typewriter. This blog is the most fun I’ve ever had with my clothes on.
1) I’ve been married 3 times. The first, at age 18, for 13 years. Then again at age 33 for 6 years. And now for 11 years. God knows why Bill was willing to give this a shot, but it seems to work.
2) I am spatially challenged. I cannot stand in my basement and tell you what room is overhead. I can look out the basement window, see what’s out there and figure out what upstairs room offers the same vista, but to just know – doesn’t happen.
3) When I was in the fifth grade, I read that William Shakespeare had the best vocabulary in the history of English and I resolved to exceed him. By the time I was in high school and heard Howard Cosell announce a football game and realized how annoying it is when people use words others don’t understand, the damage was done.
4) I am afraid of mice. As in, stand-on-a-chair-and-shriek afraid.
5) I am not afraid of snakes, although I wouldn't wear one as an accessory.
6) I am 2/3 of the way through my third read-through of the Bible. This makes it impossible for me to take everything in it literally. I plan to continue re-reading it, in different translations, as long as I live.
7) Although I made a fair living at it for 33 years, I was never especially good with computers. A few years ago, people on my former team held a party and burned one of my programs in the fireplace because it was so difficult to maintain. As far as I know, there was no straw figure of me in there with the greenbar.
8) My SAT scores were high enough to qualify me for Mensa. I did not join as I figured the last thing I needed was to pal around with other socially-challenged people. (For all I know, Condaleeza Rice and Madeline Albright may chair their local chapters, but the Mensa folks I've known over the years belonged in an Asperger's support group.)
9) I drink bottled water at home. This is because I live less than a mile from an old landfill that was never completely cleaned up, and from a petroleum depot. I’m a freak about recycling the bottles, but it’s still not something I feel great about. However, I’d feel even worse about dying with a third hand sprouting from the top of my head.
10) I’ve wanted to write since I was old enough to hold a pencil. In the second grade, when Mrs. Young had us draw what we wanted to be when we grew up, my picture showed a woman in a flowing blue dress, seated at a typewriter. This blog is the most fun I’ve ever had with my clothes on.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
At the Sound of the Beep
On Wednesday of the first week I was laid off, I heard a noise, a slow, measured beeeep that reiterated four times. The first time it happened, I ignored it, figuring it was a utility truck outside backing up.
About fifteen minutes later, though, it sounded again. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Along about the third beep, I jumped up, forsaking my keyboard, and went on safari, but by the time I reached the kitchen, it had stopped.
Fifteen minutes passed and there it was again. This time, I leapt to my feet and raced through the kitchen to the smoke detector. Nope, it wasn’t the smoke detector. By the fourth beep, I was rounding the kitchen counters (which are edged with foam tubes, so that I don’t eviscerate, I mean, so the grandkids don’t brain themselves. Thank God). I threw open the basement door as the last beep sounded. Dammit.
Next iteration, I headed straight for the basement, clattering down the wooden stairs, to determine that it was not the lower level smoke alarm nor the carbon monoxide detector. I was heading back to the first floor as this round ended.
A quarter of an hour passed and I sprinted for the second floor, but still no dice.
And that was it. No more beeps.
The next week, the same thing occurred. I ran all over looking for the source, without success. But I’m not trained in Six Sigma methods for Process Improvement and Kepner-Tregoe Problem-Solving techniques for nothing. I made a note on my desk blotter: this time it occurred on Tuesday, starting at 8:15 a.m.
For the next five weeks, I repeated this exercise, looking for a source, a pattern, something that would tell me how I to eliminate this annoyance which was interfering so grievously with my writing. I told Bill about it, but it never happened when he was home. He changed out all the smoke detector batteries, but within a few days, it was back.
Finally, on Christmas Eve, it recurred.
Excitedly, I ran into the living room. “That’s it!” I shouted. “That’s the noise.”
He meandered into the kitchen, listened for a moment and said, “It’s the dishwasher, you idiot. It’s telling you it’s done.”
Idiot?
Fortunately, as well as being grounded in Problem Solving and Troubleshooting, I’m fluent in Husbandese, and know this actually translates into “my beloved wife, center of beauty and intelligence for the universe.”
Because no one is dumb enough to talk like that to the person who prepares his food.
About fifteen minutes later, though, it sounded again. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Along about the third beep, I jumped up, forsaking my keyboard, and went on safari, but by the time I reached the kitchen, it had stopped.
Fifteen minutes passed and there it was again. This time, I leapt to my feet and raced through the kitchen to the smoke detector. Nope, it wasn’t the smoke detector. By the fourth beep, I was rounding the kitchen counters (which are edged with foam tubes, so that I don’t eviscerate, I mean, so the grandkids don’t brain themselves. Thank God). I threw open the basement door as the last beep sounded. Dammit.
Next iteration, I headed straight for the basement, clattering down the wooden stairs, to determine that it was not the lower level smoke alarm nor the carbon monoxide detector. I was heading back to the first floor as this round ended.
A quarter of an hour passed and I sprinted for the second floor, but still no dice.
And that was it. No more beeps.
The next week, the same thing occurred. I ran all over looking for the source, without success. But I’m not trained in Six Sigma methods for Process Improvement and Kepner-Tregoe Problem-Solving techniques for nothing. I made a note on my desk blotter: this time it occurred on Tuesday, starting at 8:15 a.m.
For the next five weeks, I repeated this exercise, looking for a source, a pattern, something that would tell me how I to eliminate this annoyance which was interfering so grievously with my writing. I told Bill about it, but it never happened when he was home. He changed out all the smoke detector batteries, but within a few days, it was back.
Finally, on Christmas Eve, it recurred.
Excitedly, I ran into the living room. “That’s it!” I shouted. “That’s the noise.”
He meandered into the kitchen, listened for a moment and said, “It’s the dishwasher, you idiot. It’s telling you it’s done.”
Idiot?
Fortunately, as well as being grounded in Problem Solving and Troubleshooting, I’m fluent in Husbandese, and know this actually translates into “my beloved wife, center of beauty and intelligence for the universe.”
Because no one is dumb enough to talk like that to the person who prepares his food.
Friday, January 2, 2009
A Hoy There, Mateys!
Ta-da! I won my first blog award, A Hoy! (This is probably old hat to many of you, but it’s my first award, so I’m very excited. )
It was given to me by Radagast, who was actually my first follower, too, way back in September, when I started this. It was he who first made me realize that blogging is more than just putting your thoughts on (electronic) paper – they actually go out into the world, and people read them, and engage with you. For a writer who’s used to working without an audience, that was heady stuff indeed.
I’d like to re-award (like re-gifting, but without the risk of social embarrassment) to everyone in my blogroll. After all, that’s why you’re in my blogroll –- because I enjoy your blogs so much. However, the Hoy by-laws prevent me from passing to more than three blogs that are already in my blogroll, though, so I’m going to shoot for diversity of content.
My choices for passing this on are:
1) K (Interstitial Life) – because she’s hysterically funny. Pick a post, any post, and I guarantee you’ll laugh.
2) Connie (Far Side of Fifty) – because she posts such gorgeous photos and she tells stories of the America I remember growing up in, and regret that my grandkids will never know.
3) Buffalo Dick (Opinions and Rectums, We All Got One) -– because he’s funny, and he cooks beautiful food and sometimes the blogosphere gets a little girly and he breaks that up. With an ice axe.
4) Rachel (Rachel’s Ramblings) -- because her posts always show me something I've never seen before, or thougt about before, or somehow make me think.
5) Chef E (The Behind the Wheel Chef, et. al.) – because there’s a lot of variety in her 6 blogs. If you can’t find something to your taste in one, you will find it in another.
Rules for Making an Award
1. Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award based upon any criteria - for example, the quality of the commentary, wit, humour, artwork, overall design, value to you of the information being provided, and so on.
2. The awarding blogger should choose at least two blogs not on his or her own blogroll, the purpose being to encourage variety of reading matter, and to have the person making the award think about what they like to see and read.
3. Your five choices must be published in a dedicated post on your own blog. This post must contain the name of the author (which may be their logon name), and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone. This post should contain brief details of what attracted you to the blog. Details may also be posted in the comments section of "What is a Hoy?"
4. In the same dedicated post, each winner has to show the award and acknowledge the blog that has given him or her the award.
5. Both those awarding and receiving A Hoy must show the link to A Hoy blog, so that everyone will know the origin of this award.
6. When publishing details of the blogs to which you have made your awards, these rules must be published for recipients to follow.
It was given to me by Radagast, who was actually my first follower, too, way back in September, when I started this. It was he who first made me realize that blogging is more than just putting your thoughts on (electronic) paper – they actually go out into the world, and people read them, and engage with you. For a writer who’s used to working without an audience, that was heady stuff indeed.
I’d like to re-award (like re-gifting, but without the risk of social embarrassment) to everyone in my blogroll. After all, that’s why you’re in my blogroll –- because I enjoy your blogs so much. However, the Hoy by-laws prevent me from passing to more than three blogs that are already in my blogroll, though, so I’m going to shoot for diversity of content.
My choices for passing this on are:
1) K (Interstitial Life) – because she’s hysterically funny. Pick a post, any post, and I guarantee you’ll laugh.
2) Connie (Far Side of Fifty) – because she posts such gorgeous photos and she tells stories of the America I remember growing up in, and regret that my grandkids will never know.
3) Buffalo Dick (Opinions and Rectums, We All Got One) -– because he’s funny, and he cooks beautiful food and sometimes the blogosphere gets a little girly and he breaks that up. With an ice axe.
4) Rachel (Rachel’s Ramblings) -- because her posts always show me something I've never seen before, or thougt about before, or somehow make me think.
5) Chef E (The Behind the Wheel Chef, et. al.) – because there’s a lot of variety in her 6 blogs. If you can’t find something to your taste in one, you will find it in another.
Rules for Making an Award
1. Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award based upon any criteria - for example, the quality of the commentary, wit, humour, artwork, overall design, value to you of the information being provided, and so on.
2. The awarding blogger should choose at least two blogs not on his or her own blogroll, the purpose being to encourage variety of reading matter, and to have the person making the award think about what they like to see and read.
3. Your five choices must be published in a dedicated post on your own blog. This post must contain the name of the author (which may be their logon name), and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone. This post should contain brief details of what attracted you to the blog. Details may also be posted in the comments section of "What is a Hoy?"
4. In the same dedicated post, each winner has to show the award and acknowledge the blog that has given him or her the award.
5. Both those awarding and receiving A Hoy must show the link to A Hoy blog, so that everyone will know the origin of this award.
6. When publishing details of the blogs to which you have made your awards, these rules must be published for recipients to follow.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Auld Lang Syne
I’m sitting here at the corner of Memory Lane and Humiliation Avenue, wondering: Is there no statute of limitations on dumb things you’ve done?
The Friday before Christmas I had lunch with a guy from my old high school crowd. He graduated a year ahead of me, and I hadn’t seen him since Commencement, but I had good memories of working together on plays when we were in school. So when this blog generated an invitation to get together for lunch, it seemed like a nice opportunity to reminisce about old times and catch up on where we are today.
And it started off like that. Over salad combos at a local deli, we talked about who we kept in touch with, and who we’d love to hear from but hadn’t. He told me about a theater project he’d just finished and I chatted about the Chronicles, laughing over my husband’s refusal to talk to me in bed the other night, because, he said, “Everything I say winds up on your blog.”
I expected a laugh on that, but just got an odd look, and, “You put some pretty personal stuff out there.”
As I finished off my couscous and tomatoes, though, the conversation took a strange turn.
Did I remember, he asked, the evening during my senior year when I came over to his house and we almost, ah...?
I looked at him and memory came flooding back, along with a rush of color to my face.
Yes, I said warily, I remembered. Why?
Because, he said, he’d always been curious as to what happened that evening and why we didn’t….
And I realized one of the things I really hate about hot flashes is that they feel way too much like the way you blush when you’re really embarrassed. And wondered what would happen if I just got up and ran out the door. But when you’re of an age to compare hot flashes with all-over blushes, you don’t really do that any more. So I just said, “Oh?”
And he said that he’d thought things were going okay, and then all of a sudden I sort of withdrew, and then I acted like I was mad at him, and he’d never really understood what went wrong.
Well, I said, it’s been thirty-five years….
And you’ve never thought about it since then?
Not for at least thirty or so….
Because, he said, he’d been thinking a lot lately about various relationships of his that had gone sour, and he’d wound up feeling like a jerk that night, and he needed closure.
Ouch. Who among us women can resist the siren call of closure?
So, I folded my hands in my lap, thinking, I cannot even freaking believe I’m having this conversation, gave one last wistful thought to escape, and said, Well, since this seems to be something you need, let’s see what I can recall.
Here’s the really bad thing, though. It was at this exact point that I started thinking about what a hilarious blog this would make.
His recollection, he said, was that I had engineered the whole situation in the first place….
And suddenly it was 1971, and I was seventeen again, with a major crush on an older boy. And a bookworm who’d read far too many romance novels about men who fell in love with girls who gave them the priceless gift of themselves. Not to mention endlessly curious about a topic that the preceding decade of Free Love made even more ubiquitous than it is today, if that’s even possible.
At some point during the preliminaries, though, the voice of reason (which sounded suspiciously like my mother’s) pointed out that this wasn’t going to wind up anyplace I’d like. And, it added, you’ll get pregnant.
Sitting across from him in the deli, I tried to explain some of this, but his expression mirrored nothing but confusion.
But we weren’t even dating, he pointed out. How could you think that was going to turn into a relationship?
Yes, I said, I understand that now, but I didn’t then. Thinking, fifty-four is so far from seventeen it’s hard to believe they occur in the same lifetime.
I could see him trying to fit the pieces together. Were you a virgin? he asked.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but my face grew even hotter. Well, yeah, I said.
Because I was just hoping to get laid, he said.
Yes, I understand that now, I said again. I had a sudden image of God guffawing as he watched me soldier my way through this discussion.
I don’t know if he got the closure he was seeking, but we parted on good terms.
So now I’m left with this question: That kid I whopped with a broomstick when I was five, because he wouldn’t let my sister have a turn on the swings, should I expect him to show up on my doorstep, asking for answers?
The Friday before Christmas I had lunch with a guy from my old high school crowd. He graduated a year ahead of me, and I hadn’t seen him since Commencement, but I had good memories of working together on plays when we were in school. So when this blog generated an invitation to get together for lunch, it seemed like a nice opportunity to reminisce about old times and catch up on where we are today.
And it started off like that. Over salad combos at a local deli, we talked about who we kept in touch with, and who we’d love to hear from but hadn’t. He told me about a theater project he’d just finished and I chatted about the Chronicles, laughing over my husband’s refusal to talk to me in bed the other night, because, he said, “Everything I say winds up on your blog.”
I expected a laugh on that, but just got an odd look, and, “You put some pretty personal stuff out there.”
As I finished off my couscous and tomatoes, though, the conversation took a strange turn.
Did I remember, he asked, the evening during my senior year when I came over to his house and we almost, ah...?
I looked at him and memory came flooding back, along with a rush of color to my face.
Yes, I said warily, I remembered. Why?
Because, he said, he’d always been curious as to what happened that evening and why we didn’t….
And I realized one of the things I really hate about hot flashes is that they feel way too much like the way you blush when you’re really embarrassed. And wondered what would happen if I just got up and ran out the door. But when you’re of an age to compare hot flashes with all-over blushes, you don’t really do that any more. So I just said, “Oh?”
And he said that he’d thought things were going okay, and then all of a sudden I sort of withdrew, and then I acted like I was mad at him, and he’d never really understood what went wrong.
Well, I said, it’s been thirty-five years….
And you’ve never thought about it since then?
Not for at least thirty or so….
Because, he said, he’d been thinking a lot lately about various relationships of his that had gone sour, and he’d wound up feeling like a jerk that night, and he needed closure.
Ouch. Who among us women can resist the siren call of closure?
So, I folded my hands in my lap, thinking, I cannot even freaking believe I’m having this conversation, gave one last wistful thought to escape, and said, Well, since this seems to be something you need, let’s see what I can recall.
Here’s the really bad thing, though. It was at this exact point that I started thinking about what a hilarious blog this would make.
His recollection, he said, was that I had engineered the whole situation in the first place….
And suddenly it was 1971, and I was seventeen again, with a major crush on an older boy. And a bookworm who’d read far too many romance novels about men who fell in love with girls who gave them the priceless gift of themselves. Not to mention endlessly curious about a topic that the preceding decade of Free Love made even more ubiquitous than it is today, if that’s even possible.
At some point during the preliminaries, though, the voice of reason (which sounded suspiciously like my mother’s) pointed out that this wasn’t going to wind up anyplace I’d like. And, it added, you’ll get pregnant.
Sitting across from him in the deli, I tried to explain some of this, but his expression mirrored nothing but confusion.
But we weren’t even dating, he pointed out. How could you think that was going to turn into a relationship?
Yes, I said, I understand that now, but I didn’t then. Thinking, fifty-four is so far from seventeen it’s hard to believe they occur in the same lifetime.
I could see him trying to fit the pieces together. Were you a virgin? he asked.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but my face grew even hotter. Well, yeah, I said.
Because I was just hoping to get laid, he said.
Yes, I understand that now, I said again. I had a sudden image of God guffawing as he watched me soldier my way through this discussion.
I don’t know if he got the closure he was seeking, but we parted on good terms.
So now I’m left with this question: That kid I whopped with a broomstick when I was five, because he wouldn’t let my sister have a turn on the swings, should I expect him to show up on my doorstep, asking for answers?
Monday, December 29, 2008
A Tale of Two Cities
We arrive at the zoo on Saturday for the big Festival of Lights and I call my step-daughter to arrange a rendezvous.“As soon as we find a bathroom for Kylie,” I say, “we’ll meet you at the Elephant House.
Shay tells me where the bathroom is (to the right of the entrance and down the hill) and, using these very misleading directions, we eventually find a toilet.
Potty break dealt with, we climb back up the hill to the Asian rotunda that has always housed the elephants. No sign of Shay. I call her again.
“Where are you?” she says.
"I’m standing next to the Elephant House, across from the new Forest exhibit."
“What Forest exhibit?” she says. “We’re right outside the Asian Experience.”
It can’t just be the Elephant House anymore, no, now it has to be the Asian Experience.
“I’m standing next to the wooden polar bear cutout, with the signs pointing to Santa’s Holiday Village and the North Pole Post Office,” I say.
“Stay where you are,” she says. “I’ll send Jeff to find you.”
So I wait. And I wait. In the meantime, Bill and Kylie make a circuit around the Elephant House. (Four-year-olds are lousy at waiting and fifty-four year olds aren’t much better.)
Ten minutes later, Shay calls back.
“Where are you?” she asks again. “Can you see the North American Habitat?”
“I’m right by the entrance,” I say. “You know, big sign, PNC Bank Festival of Lights.”
“PNC Bank? American Electric is sponsoring this.”
“Not in Cincinnati.”
“Well, they are in Columbus.”
I pause a moment while that sinks in.
“We’re going to stop looking for you now,” I say. “Enjoy yourselves.”
So our little party checks out the elephants, who stand with their backsides turned toward us, giving me a nasty flashback to the last time I tried on swimsuits in front of a three-way-mirror. We visit the cathouse, the reptiles and even pause for a respectful moment at the shrine to Maggie, the last of the passenger pigeons. (You don’t have to like something to recognize its significance.) After writing a thank-you note to Santa and playing on the jungle gym, we’re ready to head home.
All night long, Bill made Kylie hold my hand “so Grandma won’t get lost.”
I still say we would have been fine if we’d just made it to the right city.
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