INTRODUCING.... THE SNARKIES

To all of you needlessly rude peeps on the planet, I salute you. I “see” your snark-factor and I’m gonna raise you one now. I think it might be fun, playing your game for once. So I’m recognizing— nay, celebrating— your way of life. It’s high time someone honored your achievements in making the world a less happy place for the rest of us. Some of you are quite accomplished in your art, and you should be singled out for your inwavering commitment to various acts of discourtesy. So I present to you {drumroll, please…} The Snarky Award.

Television has the Emmy. Theater has the Tony. Movies pay tribute with the Oscar. Musicians receive Grammys. And for all you impolite losers who were raised in barns, I give you the Snarky.

The first Snarky recipient I would like to pay tribute to is the rude Sonic carhop. You know who you are... you pretend it's ten minutes 'til 2:00 so you don't have to give us "happy hour" prices on our drinks.

Let me first say that I adore Sonic. You can’t get a colder, more refreshing soft drink anywhere than you’ll consistently get at Sonic Drive-Ins. Not only do the Sonic mixologists always provide just the right fizzle-to-syrup ratio, there are dozens of add-ins to get just the flavor you’re craving. They also have the best ice in the world. And the ice stays nice and cool in the trusty Sonic styrofoam cup. The straws are even extra large for maximum intake. It’s thirst-quenching perfection. And during “happy hour”, from 2 to 4pm daily, this perfection is always half-price.

So yesterday it was nearing 2 o’clock as Brittnee and I were leaving Hobby Lobby, and we decided it would be a good idea to wet our whistles with a little carbonated refreshment from Sonic. We pulled up to the drive-thru, ordered our drinks and proceeded to the window where the carhop said, “That will be $3.58”. Ever-so-kindly, Brittnee replied, “So what time does happy hour start?” To which the carhop snapped, “It’s from 2 to 4.” And Brittnee and I, in unison, said “So what time is it now?” And the carhop retorted, “It’s like ten ‘til 2.” Ok.

Now, according to the clock in the car, it was already a few minutes past 2… but apparently in the blissful land of cherry syrup, lime wedges and fruity/fizzy drinks, the clock runs a few minutes behind the rest of the universe. And if you question her authority on the matter, the carhop will put you right in your place. She doesn't have a good humor about 50%-off drinks and wouldn’t dare discount them a nanosecond early… it's almost as if the other 50% was coming right out of her fanny pack coin-changer-thingie. Like Paul Masson will sell no wine before its time, the surly carhop will sell no half-off slushes before 2pm. I get it. Rules are rules, and our clock was probably a few minutes fast, I'll admit. But for the love of Oreo blasts, just be nice about enforcing them, please.

It’s not my fault your skates are laced up too tight and that most people are too cheap to tip you. I feel for you. Really. But anyone in a snappy little fast-food visor should dispense both fries-- and disappointing news-- with a smile. I’m just sayin’…

And so, surly Sonic Carhop, this Snarky’s for you!

TRAINER BOB LOSES IT!

When it comes to losing it-- your cool, that is-- no one lost more tonight than mild-mannered Bob Harper.

On the second episode of Biggest Loser Couples, Bob completely went off on Joelle for slacking during the Last Chance Workout. Now, maybe I just have my "I love Bob" goggles on, but I can't really fault the guy...

This season "boasts" the heaviest contestants in the show's history, and despite their size and obvious physical barriers, these guys have heart. You can tell they really feel it in their gut (no pun intended... well, ok maybe a little intended). They are puking. They are gasping. Their faces are red and dripping with sweat. They're here to kick some major beeeee-hind.

Oh, and then there's Joelle.

After the couples were split in the first ep-- sending one home, while the other remains at the ranch to "earn" the ousted one a chance to come back after 30 days-- the pressure is on. Not only are they fighting to maintain their own standing in the contest, they're also fighting for their teammates who are having to go-it alone at home. I have to admit... I understood Joelle's temptation to take host Allison Sweeney's $25,000 bribe to leave. Joelle knows her heart isn't in this... hence her declaration to "fake it 'til I make it". Come on. If you fake it, you don't make it. That's the whole premise of the show. It takes a lot of commitment to do the work, drop the weight and make lifestyle changes that stick. If you "fake it", you end up with a 2-lb loss for the week... which is what Joelle posted at the weigh-in. Personally, I think she should've said, "Thanks, Allison... Give me the cash, I'm gonna cut and run". Betcha she could've gone longer than 20 seconds at that point! It would've been easy money. And with that kind of cash, even after taxes, you could hire a personal trainer to beat you up every day-- plus, pay off all of your debt, put a down-payment on a home or realize any number of dreams. But that's not what The Biggest Loser is about. I think Joelle succumbed to the peer pressure-- which kind of is what the show is about. In a good way.

But I have to tell you, after seeing Joelle's BFF Carla in the first episode, I get the feeling that Bob's myriad F-bombs would have been a mere drop in the workout-barf-bucket compared to what Carla would've done if she had caught Joelle dragging around the gym like that. I wouldn't tangle with Miss Carla for anything... and I don't say that, because at 379 lbs she is the biggest female in the show's history. I say it because I don't think she'd hesitate to jack. you. up.

So I can't wait to see what happens next week! This is really inspiring stuff to me right now... how amazing that some of these people are able to lose this amount of weight in such a short period of time. Makes my little 12-lb loss since New Years look pretty namby-pamby... but I'll take it. I'm a little more than 20% of the way to my 55-lb goal. I know it's going to get a lot tougher from here... so I believe that, when the going gets tough, I'll just envision Bob getting all Jillian on MY Joelle butt!

PUTTING THE "G" IN GHETTO...

I should probably just apologize, up-front, for this post. Let the title serve as a warning... I am, in the words of the Doobie Brothers, "taking it to the streets". Or at least taping it to the bathroom mirror. I've had it, and it's time for decisive action.

Over the past two years, our department has gone from something like 436 people down to fewer than 200. And I'm not sure how you lose over 200 pooping, peeing, messy people and find that the restrooms were cleaner before... it just defies logic. But the ladies room has gone from Stellar to So-So and now has taken a dive to Third World Country. And I did a dozen years at the old CDP building, folks, so I'm certainly not uninitiated. Nope. I've been grossed out, like, 4,300 days in a row. The restrooms back then were just barely one rung above the "Job Johnny" you'll find at any outdoor festival and one rung below the Texaco station with the smelly outdoor restrooms and a key attached to a 2" x 4". So when I say it's bad, folks, it's pretty dang bad. Brittnee even coined an super-descriptive term that explains it to a tee... our ladies room smells like "poopy Crayons".

Now, I've already speculated in a previous blog that Little Latin Lupe has it in for me... I would put up my first car payment that she races me to the restroom, just when my bladder is sloshingly full of Diet Coke and on the verge of rupture, to place the yellow bar of doom across the doorway. I'm sure it's my imagination, but I detect a hint of smugness when she knows I'll have to sprint, cross-legged, into a lopsided gallop across the third floor to get to the other restroom. She's amazingly quick and agile for a gal with a giant yellow caca cart, that Lupe. So I don't wanna do anything to rile her up. But something's gotta give. I mean, the unmentionables are poking up out of the top of the trash receptacles in the stalls-- so it dawns on me: It's time for a friendly little note.

Maybe it's just a balls-out case of after-hours swagger... but as I sat there alone, with not another living soul in the office, it hit me. It was time to do it for myself and for my office peeps. I printed the note without hesitation, grabbed two pieces of tape, and headed for the lavatory at warp speed. Wish me luck. Tomorrow, either the bathrooms will be in better shape. Or I'll have the tread marks of the giant yellow caca cart across my back. Either way, I'll be a hero... In my own mind.

PS-- I'm hoping I'm not construed as a Passive-Aggressive Emoticon User... Hmm... didn't think of that. But no, I don't think there was any "passive" here. Ooooonly aggressive. Too many Tampax wrappers running amok in the stalls will do that.

"PUT THAT TONGUE IN YOUR MOUTH AND EAT..." ADVENTURES IN DINING: PART DEUX

After the popularity of our visit to the Star of India two weeks ago, we've all been patting ourselves on the back for our collective culinary bravado-- and having avoided any major health scares or ill effects from the meal, we've decided it should be a regular institution. From now on, our little luncheon group will dare to find a different "greasy spoon" each time we eat out! Mikey G even coined a term to describe our new lunchtime haunts: Riskaurants. Me likey.

So today, we gave the ol' wheel of death 'n diarrhea another spin... and this time, it fell on me to choose the venue. Now, every time I pass through Springdale, I notice a bunch of new Mexican joints along both sides of 71-B. Most are kind of nondescript, small and have names that I can barely pronounce. And only one really sticks in my memory-- partly, because it's a little larger than the others and partly because there are usually quite a few cars there. So I said, "Let's try the Tesoro Beach Bar & Grill" and away we went.

We pulled up and saw the lettering on the windows: "$3.99 Lunch Specials". I'm thinking, "Score!!!" I mean, you can't expect much for four bucks these days, right? When we walked in, our nostrils were immediately met with the pungent smell of cleaning solutions-- and following the former dirty mop bucket / incense tear-gas combo from the last riskaurant, we all concurred that we were off to a promising start. We might actually like this place. We were the first diners to hit the joint today, so we were able to have a nice, long, apprising look around. Everything appeared to be spotlessly clean. I just had to apologize to my friends. Here we were, trying to tempt our gastronomical fate, and I had to go and pick a perfectly safe and sanitary place to eat?Sheesh. To myself, I was thinking, "We'll probably get ice in our drinks and everything." And sure enough.

So the waitress arrives, plops down the obligatory chips and salsa and proceeds to take drink orders while we browse the menu. And when I say menu, I mean it was about a five-page spread, full of dozens of options: Mexican, Salvadorean, tex-mex, lunch specials, a la carte, etc... And despite the lack of apparent risk here, el Gran Jefe decides to take one anyway: Taco de Lengua. Now, in case that doesn't sound sufficiently gross to you, please allow me to translate. Tongue Tacos. I ain't making it up, folks. Seriously.

Take a look for yourself... those are radishes on top, by the way. I'm not sure if you can tell from the photo, but surprisingly, it looked quite palatable. I was comparing it to the grotesque lump that startles me when I accidentally look down and see a giant beef tongue in the meat case at the grocery store. This really just looked like any other cut of beef, grilled.

But a meal that can taste you back? Not for this chica. But Jefe actually found it quite yummy and said it just tasted like beef (makes sense, I guess). And he made a very happy plate, so who am I to quibble...

Mikey G opted for an almuerzo Salvadoreño and ordered the Tesoro Plate, which I would assume to be the house special for lunch. It certainly looked special, anyway (see photo at top of this post). He had a tamale, a couple of flautas, a really interesting-looking tostada with boiled egg and some feta-like cheese crumbles on top. He, too, made a plato feliz... clean as a whistle!

Brittnee chose to play it safe and ordered nachos-- which also looked very good and were almost completely consumed. This was a triumph over the four kidney beans she managed to gag down the last time we played this game. And since I'm firmly on point with my new year's diet, I'm low-carbing these days and ordered a plate of fajita meat. It's not very exciting, but a good choice without the tortillas and rice. I forgot to tell them to hold the sizzle, and despite that I somehow managed not to smell like Mexican food all day. I'm telling you, the gastro-gods smiled on us today.

Delicious food... reasonable prices... extremely friendly service... no peril. Ok, so that last part might have been a bit of a buzzkill at first-- but as Mikey G pointed out, that's part of the allure. When you try a new place, you take the good with the bad... and you just might find a fantastic new place to eat. Who knew? ¡Esto es loco!

Oh, I might also mention the assorted "specialty teas" that were on display by the register. There were three of them, but the one that really caught my attention was of the colon cleansing variety. I suppose that if we'd seen that as soon as we set foot on Tesoro sand, we would've had our first inkling that our brave pursuits were in vain. Everyone knows that any self-respecting riskaurant performs a good colon cleanse on its own terms, without the aid of herbal stimulants.

VINCE IS BACK WITH ANOTHER SHAM... WOW!

Our ol' pal Vince, the ShamWow pitch man, is back... this time, with a nifty new chopper called the Slap Chop-- plus a whole new shtick that's all but dripping with double entendre.

And the new tag line?? Wait for it...

"You're going to be in a great mood all day, because you'll be slappin' your troubles away..."

Seriously! That's how the ad starts. And all the while Vince demos the amazing abilities of this little kitchen gizmo, I think to myself, "He's messing with us. That Vince is a dirty rapscallion. He doesn't think we're listening closely enough to catch the innuendo..." Here are a few of his best lines...

- "If I can do it with one finger, you guys can do it with your whole hand... "

- "One chop, you add the pickle..."

- "You're gonna love my nuts..."

- "The reason you're gonna slap away everyday is because it's so easy to clean..." (I have to wonder, is clean-up easier with a ShamWow???)

- "You can do everything in the cover, alright..."

- "Guys, we're gonna make America skinny again, one slap at a time..."

- "Tacos, fettuccine, linguine, martini, bikini..."

And the best part?? Vince throws the rinky-dink wannabe Slap Chop into the sink behind him... Over his shoulder. Without. Missing. A. Beat. It is priceless!

So what do you think: Is Vince for real? Is all this filthy talk mere coincidence or is he a total perv? Will he parlay his raw huckster talent into a whole career of as-seen-on-tv products, just like Billy Mays? I still have to say that Vince is infinitely more entertaining than Billy... And after seeing this commercial for the first time, I am literally wiping the tears! Oh and PS, Vince-- it's not from your onions. Because like you state in the ad, "Life's hard as it is... you don't wanna cry anymore". But I know I will... next time they air this spot!

THINK I SHOULD STOP CARRYING ALL THIS CATNIP AROUND IN MY BRA?

Yes, it's a baby-kitty. And yes, it's drinking a saucer of milk... Ahem...in my kitchen. It showed up (ran into my garage and told Mark it wanted to come in out of the cold for a minute) a couple nights ago. He had pulled his car into my garage to wax and detail it, and had heard a cat crying for over an hour; despite his repeated attempts to follow the sound, he could never figure out where the distressed cat was-- until it bolted across the street, up the driveway and beelined into the garage. Poor little thing was so scrawny and hungry and pitifully unkempt. And once it got nourished and comfortable, it traded the crying and mewing for loud, loud purrs. My heart melted. And so apparently, you guys aren't the only ones who know I'm the Crazy-Cat-Lady... word has hit the feline grapevine, as well. It was only a matter of time.

He (and I use the term dubiously, because as you know I'm not the best kitten-sexer) appears to be about ten weeks old. Calico. Feisty. Friendly. Bullies the crap out of Smidgey, which I love. So you know what this means... if he's going to be sticking around a while, he'll need an S name. And a politically-correct belled collar that matches his coloring. Déjà vu, eh? Oh yeah, and you'll have to endure one or two (ok, a whole big-honkin'-bunch more) cat stories.

I'm going to canvass the neighborhood this weekend and see if anyone is short a cat. And if no one 'fesses up, I'm not sure what in the heck I'll do with four cats. Four. FOUR. F-O-U-R. I'm screwed, folks. Even if you explain that two are fat, decrepit, old, inside cats that have been with me since the Macarena was the schiz... and the other two are rescued-strays-turned-outside-cats, you still sound like a freak. In the same category with Trekkies, Bigfoot stalkers, Hare Krishnas, Dungeons & Dragons gamers, Amway salesmen, Bingo ladies with their own dobbers, and the like. Not pretty company to be in.

So how did this happen? Do you think it could be the catnip I've been carrying in my bra?? Maybe I should empty out... but then I'd have to buy a B-cup...

XMAS PAST AND PRESENT... TIME TO GET REAL

So I'm jumping on the resolution bandwagon. Again. And this time, I'm posting some brutally honest photos to show my progression from fit to fat. It only takes a few years to turn back into a lardo.

I vowed to never let myself get this heavy again, but somehow it happened... no, let's not say "somehow it happened" because that implies that circumstances caused it. And I'm the one who's responsible.

Time to get real. Time to get serious.

This weekend, I started the program. I picked up the book Never Say Diet by Chantal Hobbs-- who once weighed 350 lbs and is now a fitness expert, spinning instructor and accomplished marathon runner. And it's pretty inspiring. I have to think that if this mother of four can find the strength to turn herself around (first mentally, then physically) and start living a passion-filled life of energy and activity, then I can do it too. Heck, I've done it before-- I've just got to find the wherewithall and commitment to make it stick this time.

My goal for 2009: 55 lbs in 40 weeks. Wish me luck!

Oh, so you noticed that my hairstyle hasn't changed in five years?? I see it too, and it royally stinks. Yeah, I'll be changing that as well. "Out with the fat... in with the phat!"

COKE CLOTHES: C-C-C-CATCH THE WAVE

Ok, unless you're a total Eighties Lady (and proud of it!) like me, you probably won't remember the whole "Max Headroom" ad campaign for Coca-Cola... nor the clothing line that they came up with in the late 80's. But take my word for it: Cokewear paired beautifully with the Swatch in all it's Swatch-Guarded splendor, ultra tight-legged jeans and hightop tennis shoes back then. My all-time favorite was my Coca-Cola Rugby shirt... which I esteemed to be even cooler than the Coca-Cola sweatshirt my parents brought me back from Macy's in New York in 1987. And that's saying something, because I thought a shirt from Macy's was "way rad" at the time.

But what conjures all of these memories is that today Robert is celebrating his 22-year anniversary with J.B. Hunt... and Mikey G challenged everyone to think back to January 5, 1987, and tell what we were up to that day.

Hmmm... this date in 1987? Let me think back... Ah, yes, yes, I remember it now.

It started as any usual day for me. I was a junior in high school and woke up 30 minutes late, just like always... We lived in Witter (ten miles south of Huntsville) and so I was in a rush to get to dear ol' HHS by the eight o'clock bell. I hopped in the shower; lathered my hair in Apple Pectin shampoo and applied copious amounts of mousse in an attempt to get the David Coverdale look-- a hairstyle that completely eluded me all throughout the 80's, despite my unwavering devotion to AquaNet. I donned my Coca-Cola brand rugby shirt and cropped Guess jeans with ankle-zippers, grabbed a cherry Poptart, a can of Diet Coke, and a pair of thick "scrunch-socks" to run outside bare-footed and throw my books and shoes into the passenger seat of my '79 Monte Carlo. I hopped in, fired her up and punched the heat knob repeatedly in a desperate attempt to reach a respectable temp above freezing as I raced down highway 23-South. As I drove, I ate the poptart, put on my socks, Velcro'd on a gleaming-white new pair of Reebok high-tops, and applied pink L'Oreal lipstick and electric-blue mascara in the visor mirror--- all to the pounding bass of Def Leppard's Hysteria cassette. Finishing the make-up, I grabbed the can of AquaNet from under the front seat and gave the hair one last spray. By the time I got this close to school, my lacquered-into-place-side-wings had already fallen... *sigh*

I parked illegally, not wishing to risk another "tardy" mark in first period English, and rushed to my locker to grab my lit book and folder and engage in some quick chit-chat with friends. I shuffled to class, took my seat and proceeded to hone my own literary skills by writing notes to my girlfriends: "Brad Moppin is sooo fine. We went to see Mannequin Friday night at the Fiesta Square 6, ate at Pizza Hut and he held my hand the whooooole night. I hope he asks me to prom!!! JM + BM = TLA... blah-blah-blah. Oh, what did you do over the weekend?" Repeat six times (at least one 4-pg note for each class in the school day). Each of my girlfriends got roughly the same note, the only variable being the pictures I drew, making fun of a different social outcast from each class. In between, I laughed to loud and too much... was dared (and accepted) to jump in a trashcan in the middle of the courtyard on break... botched the apron I was sewing in Home Ec... and tried to avoid the Stoner Sisters--- who I was certain wanted to kick my butt, because I had mocked them in caricature when penning notes to my friends.

Before you knew it, it was 3:20.... time to head to the Dari-Hilite for cheese fries and more Def Leppard on the juke box. By the time I hung out there a couple hours, made a few loops down the one-way, turned around at the old hospital and waved to the guys at the DX station, it was time to go home--- I was late for dinner. Again. And would probably get grounded. Again. There would be a few stern words followed by a few tears, nothing too major. Then I would retire to the den with my folks and spend the rest of the evening watching McGuyver (via the gigantic satellite dish in the backyard). I would be "doing my Spanish homework" (read: writing notes about the incredible Brad Moppin) while spending QT with the parental unit. Shirley would be on the phone, talking to her sister and cleaning up the dinner dishes... my dad would be sitting on the hearth, blowing his cigarette smoke up the fireplace insert. And this domestic bliss would continue until 10:00 or so, until it was time to pick out my Coca-Cola shirt and acid-washed jeans for the next day...

Looking back, I guess my routine hasn't changed all that much. I don't spend as much time thinking about my hair... or thinking about Brad Moppin (who now has 8 children, incidentally). But I still write notes-- lots and lots of notes, just not on ruled paper ripped from a spiral notebook and folded intricately into Origami-like shapes. Nope. These days I type out my notes. On a flat-screen HP. And now it's called blogging.

INDIAN... OUTLAWED

Robert challenged our little luncheon club to a gastronomical adventure today: the little Indian restaurant at a nearby dilapidated motor inn. And despite his proclamations that the food isn't cooked on-site, but rather literally "motored in" and unloaded from the greasy trunk of a '79 Datsun, we accepted. I watch enough Anthony Bourdain, Andrew Zimmern and Alton Brown to hold these types in pretty high esteem, intestinally speaking... and if Bear Grylls can drink his own urine from a putrefying snakeskin, then surely we could handle one measly lunch at the old no-tell motel. Right?

Let me admit I've never had Indian cuisine... but I've been adventurous in the Caribbean and also tried "lamb fries" at the Old Ft. Worth Stockyards in October, so I fancy myself a budding Zimmern. I had visions of curried beetles and spice-glazed scorpions (like I said... too much Bizarre Foods). And Mikey G, the lone voice of reason, interrupted these musings, asserting that there is a difference between exotic fare and just plain living dangerously. I had to admit he was right. But I was still in. We all were. So at precisely 11 o'clock today, we downed our tools, loaded into two vehicles and set out on our wild culinary ride.

We stepped into the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit restaurant and were immediately assaulted by the scent of incense. Lots and lots of it, hanging heavily in the air. I recalled an episode of Top Chef in which the contestants competed in "restaurant wars" and one of the teams was chided for using lightly scented vanilla candles on their tables. Even neophyte home cooks know you don't use scented anything near food. And this was way more than a little vanilla... it was olfactory rape, the kind of smell that makes your eyes water and your throat close up.

We were immediately ushered to a large table near the buffet and the kitchen. And as luck would have it, we were just in time to watch one of the help mopping the tile in front of the swinging kitchen door. The mop bucket, once yellow, was a dingy brown; the mop itself, an unspeakable shade of grey. Fortunately, the door was held open long enough for all of us to catch a glimpse of an older gentleman conveying pieces of naan bread onto a serving dish. So at last we had proof that there was at least some cooking going on back there. Our interest was piqued!

There was no need for ordering. We were invited to sample the buffet. And by buffet, I mean seven stainless-steel chafing dishes of un-named contents, lined up on an oblong table. It started with white rice, naan bread, something that I will guess was Tandoori "chicken" (appeared to be drummies and thighs of some type of fowl, anyway), a dish that was labeled as chicken within some other ambiguous lumps in a yellowish sauce, a potato/mixed vegetable dish in a sauce that tasted of sweet potatoes, something unappetizingly green that resembled a thick spinachy pesto, and a tureen of soup-like kidney beans in a thin orange-colored base with onions and cilantro. Later, they also brought out an eighth offering-- something that looked like mashed yams. Or baby poo as Mike pointed out later.

In the meantime, the drinks we'd ordered had arrived. Robert had stumped our waiter by ordering "iced tea", and after a long, uncomfortable silence when the waiter finally nodded that they indeed served iced tea, we followed suit. Until Josh had the good sense to order a carbonated beverage, that is (great call, by the way... a beverage from a canister, dispensed by machine... no prep!) We all quickly chimed in at once, changing our orders in like fashion. We ended up with four Dr. Peppers and one Mountain Dew-- which all arrived sans-ice. Looking back, I think it was the "iced" in "iced tea" that stopped our waiter in his tracks. Either that or the fact that he'd been inhaling those incense fumes all day and had no cognitive ability left.

So here we were: Full plates of moderately spicy food and nothing but tepid, syrupy soft drinks to wash down these dishes of dubious origin. And Mikey G (correctly, I believe) outed our colas as Dr. Thunder. Maybe it was because they were hot, but they just didn't quite taste right... not even like Mr. Pibb. And our water glasses? Oh, forget that. They had been filled from a pitcher as soon as we were seated, but Robert and Josh immediately spied out their cleanliness and advised firmly against it. They were real glass, but layered with a suspicious white film... the kind that builds up over time. Lots and lots of time, with zero washing, much less sanitizing, in between. In fact, at one point, the heat of my kidney beans overpowered me and I seriously contemplated the water. I held the glass up to inspect both the vessel and its contents, sniffed the water inquisitively, then held it back for a second look-- when Josh exclaimed, "No!" and told me he would knock it out of my hands if I tried to drink it. He was dead serious, so I put it down and Brittnee shared her warm Dr. Thunder with me.

But all in all, we continued undaunted. Mikey G sopped sauces from his plate with his naan bread like a total pro-- as if he had been doing it all his life. I went back for seconds of the potato dish. And Brittnee?

Well, let's just say that Brittnee did a good job of forking her rice around on her plate. She actually did consume one piece of bread and a total of four kidney beans... plus a whole lot of incense. She said, in fact, that she could still taste the incense all afternoon. Notice her plate looks exactly the same in this "after" shot. The only real difference is her horrified "get me out of here" expression.

We stopped at Sonic on the way back to the office and got her some good ol' American fare-- via drive-thru window, in case anyone at Sonic burns incense.

So we lived dangerously on the first workday of the year. Mainly, we did it to prove our intestinal fortitude-- a pact among friends, securing our bond and proving we can all hang. Truthfully, we are totally in it for the bragging rights. And as much as we like to boast about our culinary conquests, I don't think we'll be going back to the Taj-Bismol. Especially Brittnee... twelve bucks for four beans is pretty steep.

Hello, old friend...
It's been a while since we've been in contact, but I haven't forgotten you. No, you cross my mind more often than you know. I've missed you every single day that we've been apart.
I know, the styles are a-changing... the slim-leg jean is at the peak of fashion right now, and I hear the high-rise waist will soon take its place. But you have nothing to worry about. Why? It doesn't matter to me. Styles come and styles go, but we have something special. Besides, what's a great jean for, really, if not to make you feel brand new? And wearing you again, my favorite 29-waist Citizens of Humanity Kelly bootcut jean, would feel better than...
Better than eating that piece of pumpkin pie... Better than sneaking an extra dollop of gravy... Yes, even better than Grandma's homemade rolls with real butter... Better than the best Thanksgiving meal any of us has ever clamped teeth on.
I have plans for us to reunite soon, my little denim muse. And I'll be moving you up to the front of the closet as a reminder to keep my resolve strong. For, in 12 short weeks, we'll be together again. And this time, I hope it's forever.
XOXO,
Julie

POLITICALLY CORRECT KITTY COLLARS

Well, I stopped in at Petco tonight, because Smidgey's starting to outgrow his collar and it's time for a new one. This is my first time to parent a quasi-outdoor cat, and I'm still kinda worried he'll go out one day and never come back-- so I'm really over-the-top-careful about his collar.

I'm forever polishing the tag and making sure the phone number is legible in case the unthinkable happens; I want the person who finds him to ring me as soon as they can stem the bleeding of their hands and forearms, hopefully before I even have a chance to realize he's missing. So of course collar-shopping was a major decision: I needed something safe and comfortable for him, and of course it had to coordinate with his eyes and coloring [I wish I was lyin'... ] And when I finally found one in the right size, and that I liked, I flipped it over to read the back of the package. And that's when I saw the lamest selling-point ever (and keep in mind, I work in Advertising so lame selling-points are my milieu... I mean, I've pretty much written-- er, seen-- it all):

"Removable bell attached for the safety of the local bird population".

Yo... Seriously???

Have we become so unfreakingbelievably PC these days, that it's now incumbent upon us to right the cruel injustices that exist within the food chain? Like our creator, in His infinite wisdom, didn't consider the delicate balance of nature and the universe? And I might disrupt the harmony of the animal kingdom if I act irresponsibly, buying an un-belled collar, and my cat maims a bird?

Give me a buh-reak.

Long story short, I bought the absurdly socially-responsible collar because it met all of the cute/comfortable/colorful criteria (read: "it looks good"). But I would've actually appreciated a brazenly truthful statement on the packaging, such as:

"Removable bell attached because it's simply adorable".

Or more appropriate in this case, "Removable bell attached because humankind needs a warning: This little JD will rip your shins to shreds".

PS-- I also bought a package of four glow-in-the-dark balls with bells in them, and they don't even glow. Buzzkill. I have to say it was kind of a lousy night for belled petcare accoutrements. I turned off every light, lamp and nightlight in the house to find this out. Thank goodness I bought the collar with the bell, or else the little sprite could've done me some seeeerious damage.

BLOGGING: THE DAILY PULPIT OF LIFE'S MINUTIA (WELL, EXCEPT THAT I'M TOO DARN LAZY TO ACTUALLY BLOG DAILY)

Ok, so we're nearing the end of 2008 and I'm shuffling back through my memories of the year... and I suddenly realized I'm so glad to have this blog to chronicle the past year's events. I don't really use this as a forum to communicate with others, but more for myself, and it's fun to go back and see what was going on at any given time of the year. Not that anything really noteworthy has happened to me in the prior 365 days, but for whatever reason, I like reviewing the minutia of my life.

And then the thunderbolt: My entries carry the same themes over and over. Now, I was somewhat aware of this because Mikey G had pointed out to me, some months ago, that most of my posts revolve around cats and feet. But I would assert that there are, in fact, a few additional categories:

-The plethora of weirdos that I inevitably attract

-Crappy stuff that's sold on TV

-Cars and automotive mishaps

-Pumpkins

-Poop (remember... it's always funny)

-Music

-Weight and appearance neuroses

-Work

-My various gaffes and public embarrassments

-Ebay

I think it's kind of funny that all of my interests and activities seem to converge in these very distinct areas. I'm looking forward to '09 to see if the trend continues! If so, that means the future is fairly predictable for me: I'll go to work selling cars and have a mishap on the lot when I attract a mob of angry, pumpkin-growing eccentrics who bowl their vegetation at me, severing one of my feet so that I have no choice but to buy a tube of Mighty Mend-It to re-attach the missing limb. The Mighty Mend-It will carry an unfortunate side effect that Billy Mays failed to warn us about: severe loss of bowel control. I'll need lots and lots of Sham-Wows. Embarrassment over this malady will prompt me to live the life of a social recluse, selling off my vast TimeLife 70's CD collection and Burt Sugarman's Midnight Special DVDs (and all the other crap I've bought from those ever-compelling late-night TV ads) on Ebay to support myself and my benevolent feline work... that is, if I can get my car retro-fitted with special pedals to get me to Fayetteville under dark cover of night. And, of course, I'll need to be able to feed my cats at home. Because I'll be adopting three more. Ironically, I'll become a maimed, agoraphobic, redneck version of the old woman who lived in the shoe-- but sans-kids. I'll stick with the cats. They enjoy reading my blog.

AT LEAST I KNOW SOMEONE READS MY BLOG...

My most devoted reader is the Smidge. He loves to hop up on the desk and watch the screen while I type... he does the same with the tv, sometimes staring at it for half an hour at a time. Maybe he's just a flat-screen fetishist. But I'm taking it as a compliment, just the same.

We'll call this an even swap for the unholy act he perpetrated on the holiday goodie-basket I brought home from the cabin last week. Wow. I thought something smelled funny when I came in the door this afternoon. And sure enough, he (or someone) seemed to have confused the rather large, empty basket lined with paper shreds as a litterbox in waiting. I've always said these cats can poop at will... and nothing seems to stimulate them like a pristine receptacle.

See, my mother had made this wonderful goodie basket for me and had it waiting in my room when I got to the cabin for Christmas. It was full of all kinds of treats (Poppycock, pistachios, almond roca, Lindt truffles and the like) for me to nibble on while I was there, lest I become too weakened from hunger to stumble ten feet to the kitchen for a snack. And since I hadn't touched a single bite of the goodies, she sent it home with me. I started in on it a couple days ago, and now the basket has been completely defiled. I'd love to post the photo (oh, yes, I took one!) of this abomination, but it is a little crude. Hysterical, but crude. Even for me. But suffice it to say, the basket's now full of Poopycock.

CONVERTIBLE LIGHT THERAPY

Does anyone else ever feel a little melancholy after the holidays? Kinda blah, like it's all over just a little too quickly?

I know that sounds really strange coming from me, the least Christmas-y person you'll ever meet. But when you're a kid, the anticipation of Christmas fuels you for weeks until you finally get to open all of your presents. You spend a lot of time under the tree... you shake every gift with your name on it... you wonder if what you think is in that box is really in that box... and when you finally do stumble into the living room on Christmas morning to find the loot that Santa left, just for you, it's a pay-off of unequaled proportions in the kid universe. But once you're grown, and the thrill of ripping the paper off mounds of gifts is no longer part of the equation, the fun of Christmas really is only in the anticipation of it and then in watching others open the gifts you carefully selected for them. I think it may be different for parents, but that's how it is for single folks. The anticipation is the best part, and so the actual event doesn't always quite measure up.

So I feel a little nonplussed now that it's over. As I've mentioned, I got uncharacteristically excited about Christmas this year: Decorated my tree early, worked on the office party for weeks, spent a three-day weekend before Christmas on Mt. Magazine with my mom's side of the family, and even made the whole round of holiday visits before December 25. And so by the time the big day arrived, all of my holiday stuff was... well, over. It was nice to have a relaxing day off, but it was perhaps a little anti-climactic.

And here it is, December 26, and I find myself wanting to hang onto it a bit longer. Now, I never take my tree down before New Years anyway; I cling to the twinkle-lights as long as I can do so in good conscience... that part's not any different. But I realized that I still hadn't driven down to the Fayetteville Square to enjoy the Lights of the Ozarks display this year, so I called in a to-go order at Pesto Cafe (yes, the pre-resolution carb-load is in full-swing!) and decided to cruise through our local winter wonderland while I was at it. It seemed like just the extension I needed.

As always, the square was gorgeous. This year, though, something was a little different and I couldn't quite put my finger on it at first. Then I realized it was all the people, strolling around in their shirt sleeves. And in addition to the handsome cabs, Party-Time Ponies was there with a carousel of horse rides for the kiddos. And then I rounded the west side of the square and saw the camels. Brittnee had told me there were camel rides around the square this year, and I saw them with my own two eyes. Suddenly, the Lights of the Ozarks took on a carnival-like feel. I had these trippy flashbacks of little kids on camelback at the Gentry zoo. It was weird. Camel rides, 450,000 lights and Christmas carols. Oh, and to add to the oddity of it all, did I mention it's 70 degrees tonight?

As I drove down Mountain and hung a left onto 71-B, the very strangeness of it pressed on me. I felt compelled to double back and circle the square one more time. And I really wanted to make the next round with the top down on my car-- but that just seemed way too bizarre. And then I got to thinking: camels, Christmas music and a nice "Spring" night in Northwest Arkansas on December 26. Could a drive through the lights in a convertible really be that off-kilter??

I dropped the top and took another spin... I have to say, I enjoyed every second. It was much better with the top down... the lights were brighter, the music more melodic and the swirl of the humid late-December air wafting through the car was most welcomed. In a word, it was closure... ah... exactly what I'd been seeking, following all of the yuletide anticipation.

WE'RE OFFICIALLY TREE-HUGGERS NOW...

Ok, so it may not look like it in the photo, but it really was kinda sad saying goodbye to our little office tree today. Brittnee and I have spent the past six weeks lovingly designing, decorating and re-decorating, tszujing and re-tszujing this verdant little treasure. We've grown pretty attached to it... sniff-sniff... So that "sentimental feeling" they've been warning us about for years in Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree? Let's just say that the carol doesn't lie.

We started this love affair on November 13 and have pretty much spent every single day obsessing about the look of this goofy tree. Being in charge of the office party is a job we've taken pretty darn seriously... and since the tree is kind of the symbol for the whole shindig, naturally it took center stage in our minds. (A) You can't have a Christmas party without a tree and (B) The tree needed to reflect the attitude of the party we were planning: Silly. Whimsical. Light-hearted. A contrast to the pressure-filled days most of our staff normally experience, and especially now while our department has just gone through our first ever lay-off. The tree needed to convey that we were planning a fun, laid-back day for everyone. We even grouped the ornaments into sets and gave them away as door prizes, so we felt that they should be extra-special... we don't want to send our office-peeps home with crapola! Plus, we're supposed to be the "creative" ones around here, so our reputations were on the line!

See, this is the first time we've kept our holiday party in-house, so there were a few nay-sayers. I even overheard some employees grousing that it was just going to be a "normal workday" and "they'd just have to be tied to the phones all day, anyway"... so after that, it was on. This was not to be any run-of-the-mill workday. No. We wanted them to be all but assaulted by holiday spirit, complete with all kinds of Steve Carrell Office-esque shenanigans. "Put a seat belt on your office chair, folks... you've never had a day like this in CDP". Well, that's what we were hoping the tree was saying, anyway.

So the day started with breakfast for 150 from Cracker Barrel, progressed to the Tacky Sweater contest mid-morning (hence, Brittnee's attire in the photo!), then named winners for our "group vs. group" mini-tree decorating throw-down, and continued with Christmas songs and door-prizes on the half-hour throughout the day. All in all, we are very pleased with the outcome and hope all the employees enjoyed it half as much as we did! It was our goal to turn everyone into believers. Not that there is a Santa Claus, mind you, but that it is truly possible to turn an on-site office party into a rollicking good time!

But the tree? Well, the tree I'm gonna miss. It smarted a little, dismantling it ornament by ornament today. And though Frosty the Snowman will "be back again someday", our tree-mendous friend will not. It pretty much got picked clean, save a few glittery wisps of willow and some ribbons on top. Oh, well... there's always next year! But who knows? Maybe we'll top the topper!

Merry Christmas, all! And may your office parties not stink! :-)

"WHEN YOU TURN YOUR CAR ON... DOES IT RETURN THE FAVOR?"

After a week and a half, I finally got down to Dallas to pick up the new (well, new to me anyway) Cadillac... Yippee!

This shot was snapped shortly after my inspection of the vehicle (to be sure that I was, in fact, purchasing what I thought I was) and turning in all of my paperwork to finalize the sale-- just before driving it off the lot. Up until this point, I was feeling pretty much the same as I had been in my previous post. Scared. To. Death. But as soon as I slid behind the wheel and hit the "On" button, my trepidations began to fade away. It drives like a dream. I've yet to get anyone else behind the wheel, but I'll keep working on you guys!

I was really, really nervous when I got on I-35 and headed home. Driving an unfamiliar vehicle in DFW... "Somebody, get me out of this traffic... like, quick!" Once the traffic spaced out and I got out of the metroplex a ways, I juiced it a little to see what it would do... frankly, I was still a bit terrified but did get the speed up to 101 mph. That'll probably be about the fastest I'll ever have it, but now I know that it truly is capable of getting on up there with no lag. The XLR is supposed to hit 60 in 5.9 seconds... I hope I never find out!

By the time I got near Tushka, Oklahoma, I finally had my "I love this car" epiphany. It had been a long time coming, so it was quite a relief. Not coincidentally, I had this breakthrough at roughly the same time took my eyes off the Heads-Up Display that projects the speed on the windshield and started really looking at the instrument panel; that's when I realized the speedometer says "BVLGARI". A designer speedometer? Are you kidding me?? This is my car!!! Bwaahahahaha. The only thing that might top that would be if the leather seats were embossed "Coach"!

Wish me luck... this is a majorly humongo purchase for me. I think the Hoopty Wagon may get a bit lonely over the next few weeks. But to answer Kate Walsh's question from the Cadillac commercial, the answer is "Yes! Yes! Yes! Ohhh, Yes!"

HO-HO-HOLY CRAP... I'M NOT SURE I'VE BEEN "THAT" GOOD THIS YEAR

Well, if you tune in here once in a while, you know that my New Year's Resolution for '08 was to clear out the credit card debt and finally retire the mean, green Hoopty-Wagon. You may also recall that I was going to lose a ton of weight and morph into a remarkably svelte, strikingly youthful-looking, 100-lb super model. Well, if you see me regularly, you can probably guess which one of those fell by the wayside, I guess it was...oh... April'ish. Since then, I've had plenty of time to gain back all the weight I'd lost the first few months of the year, plus a little more (I'm kind of an over-achiever in that regard). But I've decided to spin it this way: I saved something to work on in 2009. See, what I lack in resolve, I more than make up for in brilliant rationalizations.

So even though I didn't stick to the physical plan, I'm proud I was able to remain faithful to the fiscal plan. Now, for part B... car shopping. It was fun at first, but I've done so much browsing the past few months that it has actually started to feel like a part-time job. I started out reading books about how to get a good deal, then progressed to shopping car loans and got my financing all pre-approved, and then started to really hunt for cars in earnest. Once I narrowed it down to two or three models, along came the research, the expert reviews, owner testimonials and endless Carfax reports. (By the way, friends, I bought so many Carfaxes that I finally broke down and purchased a bundle that will expire before the end of the year-- so let me know if you need me to run anything for you!) And all through this process, I've been reminding myself that this is an economic decision, not an emotional one... and so a phrase that Mark said early on has become my mantra: "Fall in love with the deal, don't fall in love with the car". Great advice. But I'm going to share another little secret with everyone: when you detach yourself emotionally and don't let yourself "fall in love with the car", car-buying just ain't all that fun. And when you shop deals nationwide and have to wait to take possession of the car, you have waaay too much time to second-guess yourself.

And that's where I am today. See, yesterday, I bought a ridiculously well-priced ($10k below market value!) pre-owned Cadillac and have yet to experience anything close to glee. In fact, with all the financial gloom and doom in the media right now, it's really kind of a huge "Oh, crap" moment. I've gotten so accustomed to socking away my nickles and dimes for sales tax, down-payments and insurance premiums, that I feel a pang of guilt now that I'm actually spending the money I worked to save. Now, don't get me wrong... I feel I've earned it. It hasn't been a picnic to forego the shopping and the weekend get-aways, nor to drive a 1992 Honda all this time! But I do think it will probably feel really great when I finally get behind the wheel in a few days, knowing that I've had to sacrifice for it. If there's one thing that can usually lift my spirits, it's wide tires and dual exhaust... Sorry, but being an unabashed redneck is part of my "charm". :-)

So for those of you on my Christmas list this year... you'll be getting "glad tidings of joy" from me, and maybe a ride around the block. I'm still a little freaked out that I actually bought the silver sled. Gasp. Where's my brown paper bag?? I. Can't. Breathe. Uh, this is probably a good time for more rationalizing:

• Most people my age pay daycare; my "daycare payment" just happens to be a two-seater. (Uh, let's be really honest... at my age, I could be paying college tuition for my offspring! And a measley little XLR is a lot cheaper than that!!)
• I bought used, so owner #1 took the depreciation and I took the great deal.
• I'm spending my own money before Barry O has a chance to spread it around.
• If this turns out to be a whopper of a financial blunder, I can probably sell at fair market price and recoup all of my money.
• I did my part to stimulate the economy.
• Everyone pays out the nose when they're having a mid-life crisis.
• I'm sooo "over" turning up the heat in the Hoopty, using the pair of needle-nosed pliers I keep in my glovebox for this task!

There. Whew... Now I feel all better. Christmas shopping, anyone? And let's grab a bite to eat while we're out... the diet doesn't start for 33 more days. But since I don't pick up the new ride 'til next week, there's just one question: How handy are you with a pair of pliers??

OH, TANNENBAUM... HOW LOVELY ARE THY FLAME-RETARDANT BRANCHES...

So something is clearly amiss at Chez Jules... Never have I been so excited about Christmas.

Anyone who knows me will attest to my normal Bah-Humbugginess; I normally make the Grinch look like a big ol' softie, and Scrooge's attitude toward the season seems downright cheery in comparison to mine.

But not this year.

Maybe alien elves abducted the real Julie... Perhaps the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Yet to Come paid me a little visit when I wasn't looking... Or all the Whos in Whoville helped my heart grow three sizes larger. I don't know. But I'm running with it this year., no questions asked.

Since I now share space with the Smidge, who loves to climb the corn plant and is forever needing rescued from way up high in the trees in my backyard, I figured a Christmas tree was pretty much out of the question. The last thing I need is a painful Christmas memory of the year I had my beloved Smidge sent off to a taxidermist for breaking all of my cherished ornaments. So the perfect solution was to get a small tree and put it up in the bedroom, the thought being that I can pretty much keep the Hellkitten out of there. Well, since my bedroom is done in a chocolate/aqua scheme, none of my ornaments match. The only thing to do was rush out in a fit of fury and buy all new ornaments to match my room... voilà! Problem was, I got so excited buying aqua and turquoise decorations, that suddenly a small tree wouldn't accommodate them. So I now have a six-foot tree in the bedroom.

Now, the tree itself is kinda cheesy... and by kinda, I mean 200%. This is the first time since 1994, when I lived in a one-bedroom apartment, that I've had an artificial tree. And now, I remember why... it's just not the same. But this was supposed to be a compromise, so that's why it's a "skinny" tree and not as tall as the real ones I normally buy. But hey, since the needles won't dry out and fall off, I can enjoy it longer. And boy, am I enjoying it. Every night, I've been going to bed with the lights twinkling so I can gawk at it. You can't tell it from the pics, but it actually turned out pretty sweet for a mid-sized flame-retardant monstrosity... the ornaments are really fun. And once I buy a few more peacock feathers and tszuj the topper a little more, I think we'll be done. The big girls are enjoying laying on the dupioni tree skirt that I'm sure looks fur-covered by now. Ugh. But best of all, Smidgey's still alive and not stuffed like one of the 'fraidy cats from Hope Floats, knock on wood. Just 31 days 'til Christmas... hold on, lil' Smidge.

And for anyone else who lives with a feline juvenile delinquent, a parting tip: A chinese yo-yo makes a wonderful disciplinary tool for wayward cats. And two of them work like magic! Go figure. I picked a couple up while I was buying Christmas decor at Pier One, and the little stinker's scared to death of them. Score! If I stock up on paper yo-yos, I might be able to have that ten-foot tree in the living room, afterall...

POOP SANDWICHES FOR LUNCH... 'TIL 2012

Once again, folks, I don't make the news... I only report it. And this is funny. This hit the AP wire yesterday (yes, on election day) and Brittnee and I have been getting tons of mileage out of it ever since. Frankly, it's just too amusing not to share.

Associated Press: BUTTE, MT – Democrats are criticizing a 38-year-old man who parked a trailer load of manure across the street from Whitehall's Democratic campaign office to protest presidential hopeful Barack Obama.

Terry Reed, who owns a construction and excavation company in Whitehall, parked the trailer near the office on Saturday. He also posted a sign in the manure mocking Obama's "change we can believe in" slogan as "a load of crap."

"I think Obama's plan is just one big old poop sandwich and we're all going to have to take a bite," he said.

Suzanne Molyneaux, the Obama campaign's election team leader in Whitehall, said traffic came to a near standstill as people stopped to take pictures of the trailer. Reed said he doesn't plan to move the trailer until after Election Day.

"My only regret is that I didn't do something sooner," he said.

Well said, Mr. Reed... here here. I think we're all going to get really tired of eating this same lunch for the next four years. But more on that later.

FOX NEWS... WELL, KIND OF

So I'm at work today, minding my own business (ok, so that would be a first!) and our intranet displays a selection of the day's top news stories. Now, I rarely read this stuff... and it's not because I'm too engrossed in my work to engage in tomfoolery, Heaven only knows. But I've just never taken much interest in being fed a stream of news factoids; plus over the past few months I've grown weary of seeing the same stories over and over again: Freddie, Fannie, the eratic stock market activity, the liberal media slant on the presedential election, blah-blah-blah.

But today, I just happened to be stalling on closing out the monthly financials-- the bane of my existence and one of the few things I detest about my job-- and I saw this little tidbit. And once you read it, you'll know I'm not making this up. I literally LOL'd (which fortunately, my co-workers are used to... on a floor of 200+ people, they all know the Julie Mannon guffaw whether they want to or not). But I'm taking up valuable time you should be reading this amazing tale:

Associated Press: PRESCOTT, AZ – Authorities in Arizona say a jogger attacked by a rabid fox ran a mile with the animal's jaws clamped on her arm and then drove herself to a hospital. The Yavapai County sheriff's office said the woman told deputies she was on a trail near Prescott on Monday when the fox attacked and bit her foot.

She said she grabbed the fox by the neck when it went for her leg but it bit her arm.

The woman wanted the animal tested for rabies so she ran a mile to her car with the fox still biting her arm, then pried it off and tossed it in her trunk and drove to the Prescott hospital.

The sheriff's office says the fox later bit an animal control officer. He and the woman are both receiving rabies vaccinations.

Now, I know that's not funny in the haha sense... but let that be a lesson to all you joggers. First of all, you should be at home watching your Burt Sugarman's Midnight Special DVD collection (more on that in a future blog-- but suffice it to say, it's awesome!) and eating cookie dough like the rest of us. And if you do get bitten on the ankle by a rabid fox, don't grab it by the throat for crying out loud... or else you could find yourself running a whole mile (which frankly, sounds bad enough in itself) and even more terrifying with a wild, diseased animal gnawing on your arm.

Crazy, huh? Yeah. But not like a fox.