I'm either stupid or insane

The weather in Indiana isn't known for its stability.  In the last few months, we've had everything -- snow, 90° days, 40° days (within the same week as the 90° days), tornadoes, several inches of rain, several days with no rain, humidity.  So it shouldn't come as a surprise to know that yesterday, Indiana once again experienced what is known as "Indiana weather."  (Hey.  With weather like this, we don't have time to get all creative.)

Now, here's my beef:  The tornado sirens went off four times yesterday.  Thing is, there was no tornado.  This is good and bad, but mostly bad, and I'll give you examples of why --

1.  The first time the alarms went off, I was at work, crammed in our "tornado-safe" hallway downstairs.  I was also soaking wet after having just run in from my car in a heavy downpour, so I got to be even more uncomfortable.  But I couldn't see the storm.  I resented being inside and bored while a storm was potentially raging outside.  Plus, I was at work, with no work to do, and the guy next to me said, "If I'm going to die, do I really want to die here at work, with all these people I don't like?" and I understood his point.  At any rate, they've gotten so lax with the sirens that we knew there was no tornado, so we just plain didn't want to be downstairs.  So the first tornado siren was annoying as hell, because they totally haven't been used for the purpose of "SHIT SHIT SHIT TORNADO ON THE GROUND BITCHES," so we all had to waste twenty minutes in that dumb hallway.

2.  The final three sirens went off when D. and I were at home on the porch, watching a storm roll in.  We didn't even sit up in our seats.  I continued to sip my cocktail, and he was texting a friend about something else entirely.  During the last siren, I was on the phone with my brother's best friend because his dog had just died.  He was like, "Oh... don't you need to get off the phone?" and I said, "Nah.  I'm gonna keep sitting outside.  I will get off the phone, though, because this dumb siren is loud."  Again, each of those three times, no tornado showed up to the party.  Because I was at home, and I'm my own boss when I'm home (that's right bitches), I didn't have to huddle with my cat in the bathroom against my (and my cat's) will.  Instead, I was reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and letting my cat explore the front lawn.  Had a tornado showed up, I'd be dead and embarrassed.  And the next time a tornado does show up to my curious, siren-trigger-happy town, a lot of people are going to be dead and embarrassed because a siren went off and they thought, "Those morons.  If they keep crying wolf like that, nobody's going to take them seriou--(whack)" and they fall off their roof, binoculars in hand, because the tornado broke off a tree branch and sent it their way.

3.  I really like tornadoes.  I'd really love to see one some day.  Those sirens give me false hope.  Every time a siren goes off and there's no fucking tornado, I'm sorely disappointed.  It makes me sad.

People say early sirens are a good thing.  I think they suck.  To summarize my points, the needless sirens make me either:  stuck in a hallway with people I don't want to die next to when I'd rather be outside anyway, dead, or sad.

Will upload videos of awesome clouds later.... because I need the space on my phone for the 500.


My Indy 500 tradition (aside from making Jell-O shots)

Before the start of the 2007 Indianapolis 500, from our seats in B Stand.

I wouldn't be at all surprised to find out that my dad waved a checkered flag as my mom gave birth to me.  I'm assuming he didn't, but if he had, I'd calmly ask if he waved the white flag after I crowned.

I've been going to the Indianapolis 500 every year for the last ten years with my dad, my uncle, my brother, and a wild card ticket.  I don't remember every second of every race, or even every incident to cause a caution lap... or even the entertainment at some of the races.

Actually, I hardly remembered a thing about last year's race until I watched the highlights of it on YouTube.  Before that, all I knew for certain was that P., my ex-fiancĂ©, took the wild card ticket and went to his first 500.  I can't believe that was already a year ago.  We had a big fight the morning of the race, and he barely spoke to me all day.  No wonder I pushed it out of my head. 

At any rate, I wasn't always big on stats, unlike my dad, who reads all the qualifying speeds in the paper the next day (only to memorize them, because of course he went to the track to watch the qualifications himself).  I don't know much about cars, the winning purse, who's on which team, who has which sponsorship, or Indy Racing League events outside of Speedway, Indiana. 

What I did get into was the history, the drivers, their families.  Accidents that ended careers or lives.  Things that remind me that the race isn't just entertainment; it's a life for those in the cars, and it isn't just a day of drinking beer and sitting in the sun for (the good) fans.  Some people feel this way about football, but was there ever a time in the history of that sport where 50% of the players wouldn't survive their careers or your life was in danger by simply being a spectator?  I look forward all year to this race, not only because it's the one day that I get to spend with my dad, my brother and my uncle without us getting encumbered by our significant others or kids, but because of the overwhelming energy that takes place at the track every Memorial Day Weekend.  If you've never been to an Indianapolis 500, you have no idea what I'm talking about. 

I'll try to compare it.  Let's see.  The Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show.  The birth of a child.  Dropping E for the first time.  Crouching under the stairs during a tornado.  Having a crush on someone.  Stepping onto the court/field/stage for a regional competition.  Finding out you're pregnant.  Eavesdropping at work.

Eh, I can't do it justice.  Combine all of those.  Excitement, fear, electricity, adrenaline, "damn, I wish I were closer!", squealing at every turn or downshift or pass or flying spark or pit stop, the wind out of your chest and "OHHHH my god" at every wreck, the rush of disappointment if it rains, the pain in your palms from slapping your hands together, your throat tender and coarse from cheering and trying to talk to your neighbors over the screaming engines.  And the next day, you can barely get out of bed.  I'm convinced that's why the following day is a paid holiday for most Americans.

My Indy 500 tradition is studying videos online of past races, including the wrecks and details of fatalities.  I've seen nearly every wreck that was caught on tape -- I slow them down, I pause them, I watch again, looking for angles of impact...movement in the cockpit...the exact second that something goes wrong.  A blown tire here, wandering high into the marbles there.  I've been doing this for years.  It reminds me that the 500 isn't just a sporting event, and I could easily be paying $85 to witness someone get killed.  I could do that for free by just driving up and down SR 25; I wouldn't have to be out there very long.  Anyway, yes, it sounds like a buzzkill, but to me the danger of the sport plays a huge role in the history of the event -- more than the money, the sponsors, etc.  The risk of participating is right up there with the race's longevity (the track is celebrating its centennial this year) and the drama (hello, Andretti curse).

Some of the best drivers the race has seen -- drivers my dad looked up to when he was a kid, especially after he was upset that his family was moving from New Jersey to Indiana, one of his brothers said to him, "Naw, Indiana's gonna be great, it's got the 500" -- have been killed while competing, testing, or practicing.  Bill Vukovich in 1955's race, Tony Bettenhausen while testing a car in 1961, the heartbreaking second lap of the 1964 race that killed Eddie Sachs and Dave MacDonald (the race was red-flagged and gasoline has not powered cars at the Indy 500 ever since), Jim Clark in 1968 during a race in Germany.  And it's still dangerous -- Scott Brayton was killed while testing a car in 1996, and other drivers have died at the speedway participating in non-500 events.  I didn't even name 15% of the drivers in the same boat.

In 1931, a kid playing in his own yard on Georgetown Rd. was killed by a flying tire.  The last spectator to die from anything other than stupidity was in 1987, also from a flying tire.  Even as recent as last year, spectators have gotten injured at the race. 

So how is it fun?  Why do we do it? 

You can easily spot the ones who "get it" from those who don't.  I'd like to say that most of the people in the infield don't get it.  The guy with the Natty Lite and a sunburn on his shirtless man-boobs who uses the area near the pulled pork barbeque tent to pee doesn't get it.  Anyone who watches the video of Gordon Smiley's fatal wreck in the 1982 qualifications and reacts with, "oh man, that was a SWEET crash!!!!  Let me see it again!" not only doesn't get it, but gets punched in the face.  I'm not even sure that the rich people in the Tower and Pit Road Terrace seats get it, as some of them have had the legacy tickets for years, or they're donors, or friends of rich friends who know a rich guy, etc.

But then there are those who can't answer the above two questions, who can't describe the experience in words, who jump up and down a little bit and go "shitshitshit!" when Kanaan gets passed, who take our kids to Pole Day once they hit six or seven years old just so we can answer their questions and get them hooked, who almost cried when Meira was sliding along the Turn 1 wall after colliding with Matos in 2009 because he totally could've been dead, who don't get drunk at the race... flip off the sexist morons who boo at Danica Patrick... feel like they might shit their pants when the engines first fire up... watch highlights from each race for the last thirty years online just to prepare themselves for an upcoming event... absolutely wear themselves out from it all, but can't stop feeling excited for next Sunday.

It's larger than life, beyond comprehension.  At least it is to me.  And if it rains this Sunday in Indianapolis, I will be super pissed.


"Got plans this weekend?" "Oh, you know. Rapture, etc."

I have had the longest friggin' week at work, so I'm excited for this weekend.  I've got a work function tonight that involves an open bar, tomorrow is Pole Day, tomorrow evening a bunch of Christian extremists will be sucked up into Jesus's big vacuum cleaner in the sky, and on Sunday I'll finally have time to plant my new gerberas.

The scene from Six Feet Under where pornographic blow-up dolls get loose and float up into the sky keeps popping into my head.  A woman sees them from her car and thinks it's The Rapture, so she jumps out and happily runs toward them and into traffic.

So D. and I have been talking about exercising.  Neither of us are necessarily overweight (actually, I weighed more when I was in college), but we both used to be in better shape.  He was a certified PT master instructor when he was in the military, so maybe I should think about what I'm getting myself into.  When we worked on the lawn last weekend, I was sore for three or four days.  True, I was out there for about ten hours, but still.  And I could barely walk when I started softball season this year.  I need something to do every day that isn't running. 

I'm just trying to find a balance.  The only way I've changed my eating habits is that I have more money than when I was in college, so I'm eating higher quality food.  But when I stopped waitressing and got a desk job, I didn't rework my caloric intake.  I lost a bunch of weight a couple years ago to impress my exwhodidn'tnoticeanyway, but I basically did that by not eating.  I don't want to do that again... but man, my clothes sure did fit nicely. 

Really, my bottom line is, I want to be in shape and keep my curves.  Oh!  Curves!  /looking into it

Too expensive.  Damn, they're all too expensive.  I wish I had room in my house for a fitness area.  I could probably have it in the garage, but I'd also like to have a television in there with cable.  That was one thing I'd really wanted in a house, was a fitness room.  Maybe D. wouldn't mind if I moved his bedroom to the basement...?


Quincy, the Quality Octopus

Right now, I'm really miserable in one area of my life, and I'm having a hard time figuring out why I'm even involved with it anymore.  Aside from the fact that I'd lose the house if I gave up.  If only I made this much money waitressing.  Or cooking -- but my brother said opening up a restaurant is a horrible idea.  Thanks bro.

Anyway, I distract myself in the evenings by watching Netflix streaming online.  After years of resisting Grey's Anatomy, I've started watching it from the beginning.  I'm on the third season, and this is my synopsis for a typical episode:
Dr. Grey starts off the episode by either having sex with someone or being neurotic and whiny.  Patient is admitted to the hospital and, despite the fact that they are alert and/or a strong personality, they will die at some point of multiple organ failure.  Or a tumor.  Dr. Yang pisses off a patient's family by being deliberately and obtusely insensitive.  Dr. O'Malley's puppy gets kicked.  (I've just been informed that he doesn't have an abused puppy in every episode -- so... why does he always look like that?)  Dr. Grey and Dr. Shepard look at each other.  Alex talks and looks like a douchebag for the entire episode.  The audience wants Sara Ramirez to stop liking George and start singing something Monty Python-esque.  Something upsets Dr. Stevens, causing her to bake cookies while crying.  A baby gets admitted to the hospital and everyone gets quiet.  There is only one elevator in the entire hospital.  Bailey yells and then shows her softer side and then yells again.  Chief Webber also yells, but in the "I'm going to have a heart attack any second" kind of way.  Addison does something likeable and everyone ignores her.  World-renowned surgeon Dr. Burke messes up a surgery.  Dr. Grey ignores everyone else's problems and goes crazy, which leads to having sex with someone or being neurotic and whiny (hello, smashing cast scrap and making a mess out of Dr. Torres' office).  Dr. O'Malley tries to assert himself.  Dr. Yang says exactly two words to her boyfriend, who is pleased that she is "opening up."  The episode ends in one of two ways:  everyone is with their significant others while something big happens at the hospital, or something big happens at the hospital and everyone looks at each other with intensity (except for Dr. Grey, who always looks like she's squinting and puckering her lips). 
In other news, my back is starting to itch from sunburn -- D. and I spent about ten hours in the yard on Friday, ripping out twenty years of neglected garden rubbish and putting down three cubic yards of mulch.  Our yard looks pretty bitchin', but there's still more work to do.  The worst part about the yardwork, aside from the sunburn that lets everyone know my dumbass Irish self was wearing a Y-back sports bra with a tank top, was that I was pulling up thistle almost all day.  That shit hurts, and I was wearing gloves!  I will be so glad when the mulch eats it all up and it goes to service any new stuff I plant. 

I saw on Facebook that C., my fucked up friend who isn't my friend but didn't unfriend me on Facebook, is opening a daycare.  Now how in the fuck is she going to do that?  You need a license -- which might be hard to get, considering her kid was taken away by CPS.  You need a stable environment -- and with her alcoholic husband and her rental home that's practically condemned, good luck.  You need common sense... I have too many examples of how that might be hard for her to overcome.  Someone commented on her status, saying something like, "um... you need a license and... lots of other stuff," and C. said "I know what I'm doing!  It's all taken care of!  I've wanted to do this forever!"  Ooookay.

Well, I'm going to go back to being ignored at my cubicle now.


Blogger wouldn't post this from my phone. Twice. Bad Blogger. Naughty.

Made pork chops last night, and they totally sucked. D. nommed them right up -- not that I'm surprised. He ate dog while living in Korea.

Starting to get the hang of not having an additional 18" of hair:


My parents chose the perfect time to get knocked up

...with me, that is.  I love that my birthday is May 12.  Sometimes it's a little chilly, but today it's hotter than two rabbits doin' it in a wool sock.  And usually there is a hell of a thunderstorm.  Love it.

I get a paid holiday for my birthday, so I'm going to spend it doing yardwork.  Getting a tan, getting exercise.  I'm going to come back to work on Monday and people will be like, "zomg, did u like go to florida or somethin?" and I'll be like, "no bitches, my birthday just wins," and then I'll impress them with my front lawn.

Tonight, I'm going to wing dinner because (a) there's almost nothing in the house food-wise, so I'm just going to cook ground turkey and then do something random with it, and (b) I have my first softball game in the evening.  I went to D.'s softball game on Tuesday, and there were a couple of kids in the bleachers who were acting up while their mom was playing softball.  I ended up taking one of them to the bathroom (with permission from their mom, who didn't thank me), which was waaaaay across the field from us, and they talked my ear off.  "I like watching mommy play softball and I'm in the first grade and we learned about god in preschool and my little sister Ali wants to play softball like mommy does..."  When we got back, they continued their game of jumping down onto each step of the bleachers, even if someone was sitting right next to where they were to jump.  I can't understand why the mom was in such a bad mood.


This weekend, I violated a chicken. His name was Herman.

Two weeks ago, C. and M. (married, drug-abusing, criminal moths to the courthouse flame friends of mine) came over unannounced and asked me and D. for money. They had only just started new jobs that paid well but hadn't paid yet, and C. & M. had been going without cell phones and internet, and they were also in danger of not being able to pay their rent. Just before we gave them the money, D. told me, "If we don't see this money back, that's strike three."

Strike one was the dinner party in September. Strike two was running into them at the End Zone during a Colts game, and halfway through their first beer, it was obvious that they had taken something beforehand to get fucked up, as C. dropped her lighter and bounced into everything imaginable like a pinball before finally landing to pick it up. After they left the bar that night, M. successfully achieved a hit-and-run while intoxicated and spent the next five months on house arrest. Strike three actually should have already occurred due to M.'s behavior on house arrest -- he would call us all day, every day, while fucked up and somehow forgetting again that we work from 8-5, to ask us to stop by the liquor store for him. We never did. Or, "hey, you guys wanna come over and bring a shit-ton of booze and get fucked up?"

But strike three came and went when I talked to C., who at the time was in the process of texting a guy she had a crush on (and eventually fucked), and told her that I thought M. was a bad influence on her.  "Before you met him, you were so serious about being sober and moving on," I said.  "Yeah, I know," she said absent-mindedly before diddling with her cell phone and saying that she had to go because she wanted to visit the guy she liked because she wanted to fuck him and get home at 10, which is the time she told her husband she'd be home from my house.  I gave her the benefit of the doubt, like I have been doing since I was eight years old.

However, strike three presented itself again two weeks ago, after they asked us for money.  We gave them the money, I told C. that D. won't want to hang out with them again (not that we ever actually hang out... I haven't had them over since the dinner party, though every time they "drop by" so we can do them favors, I always notice a bottle of Miller Lite sticking out of his pocket) if the money isn't paid back.  C. said, "Oh yeah.  I'll be making sure that M. pays you back." 

I woke up the next morning to a voicemail from M.:  "Hey, we just got in a car wreck, and they're giving her a blood test and might send her to jail... please call me back."

His Facebook status at 12:15 that morning said, "Wife in jail with OWI need 500 to bail her out, please help."

I was still seeing red when he called later that morning.  "Hey, do you guys think you could lend us a little more money?"  I ripped him a new asshole, asking why she was driving if she was fucked up, telling him we were all tapped out of money at the moment (which I know he didn't believe, because he has a habit of making extremely weird and rude remarks about how we must make so much money because of the big house/the cars/the televisions/the computers/the phones, when really we don't make that much money -- we just don't spend all of it on court fines and drugs... and the nice televisions were both gifts), yelling at him to get his shit together, etc.  It went in one ear and out the other, he mumbled an "okay," and we hung up.

The next day, C. called me.

C.:  Hey.  I'm outta jail.
Me, apathetic:  Cool.
C.:  But I have to say, I'm pretty upset that you seem to think that M. and I used that money you lent us to go get fucked up.
Me:  I actually didn't say that.  I certainly reamed him, but I didn't say that.
C.:  Okay, well, he seems to think you did.  I didn't get fucked up last night.  I got an OWI because my medication doesn't mix right, and I dropped my glasses while I was driving (?!), and when I picked them up, I side-swiped a car.  But it was my medication, the cops couldn't do anything about it, and they released me.  They were just being dicks.
Me:  You know, you say that a lot.  "The cop was just a dick," "They're just trying to fulfill a quota," "They just didn't like me because they knew I'd been in trouble before."  If your medication fucks you up to the point where you shouldn't drive, then you're not safe at all from having to go back to jail over this. 
C.:  I am too!  It was prescribed by a DOCTOR.  It SAYS on the LABEL, "Use caution while driving."  It DOESN'T say to NOT drive.
Me:  Why do you think they even mention it at all?  Do you have any idea how wiped out the pharmaceutical industry would be from lawsuits if it didn't?  Because people take certain meds, they shouldn't drive.  You think that if a legitimate practition injects you with morphine that you would be okay to drive without consequence and not get arrested for intoxication?
C., avoiding issue:  Well, whatever, I don't understand why you're basically telling me "fuck you."
Me:  I'd never say that.  I've been supporting you for years.  Visiting you in prison, writing to you in prison, going to your court dates, giving you money, letting you stay in my house, giving you rides... I wouldn't do that if I didn't think you could get your shit together.
C.:  This is just who I am.  It isn't M. being a bad influence.  Not all of us can be as perfect as you are.
Me:  Perfect?
C:  What's so bad about me just wanting to live my life and have a good time?
Me:  Nothing, if your definition of living your life has you do things that put you in jail all the time... if you want your "good time" to be in jail, then go ahead.
C.:  And as if you never drink.
Me:  If I'm going to drink to the point where I get fucked up, I stay at home.  You seem to have some kind of magnet that reacts to cars, but only when you're drunk.  Sure, I do some of the same things you do, but I don't drive and get a hit-and-run.  Or side-swipe a car.  Or show up at a bar with a truckload of Xanax in my system already.  Or get arrested at least three times a year.  But somehow, you have so many excuses -- it's just bad luck, the cops are just stupid, it's just my meds.  So we're not talking about me, we're talking about you.
C.:  Right, well, obviously we're not going to agree on this, you obviously don't accept me... we'll pay you back the money, but after that, we're done being friends.  So why don't you just keep being a loser, living with your cousin, and you guys can go make some retarded babies--
Me:  Okay.  Fuck you.  [click]

When I told D. the last thing she said, he laughed and replied, "Well, we could certainly make a retarded baby, but at least it won't get taken away by CPS like hers was."  At the time, I thought that was too mean, as I was sure she'd call back the next day, but she hasn't called in over a week, and I've had time to get used to her finally trying to not need me anymore.  So now I think what D. said was hilarious.

What I also thought was funny was that she made the comment about retarded babies when D. and I were supposed to join them for a March of Dimes walk this past weekend to raise money for natal care.  You stay classy, sweetheart.  Since D. and I (and my parents, and my brother) were the only ones to even donate money to the team, we were able to justify not going.  I mean, a doctor performing surgery on a sick baby isn't going to think, "Good thing those people walked at the county fairgrounds with their free t-shirts.  It's the physical movements they made that day that make this surgery possible."

Since we didn't go to the March of Dimes, we did some yardwork (and our front lawn looks KICK. ASS. right now), and we invited over a couple of D.'s friends from work, to whom I've also been getting pretty close as well.  I made my first ever whole, stuffed, roasted chicken:

1 3 lb chicken, rinsed with water and patted dry with a paper towel
I put a can of chicken broth in a roasting pan and threw in some chopped carrots, sliced celery, and a few quartered potatoes.  After rinsing and drying the bird, I stuffed it with about 1/4 cup rosemary, maybe 1/8 cup each thyme and sage, half a quartered onion, lemon quarters (but not before squeezing the lemon onto the chicken), and two cloves minced garlic.  With the stuffing inside, I tressed the chicken with a length of butcher twine.  I added it to the roasting pan, among the chicken broth and vegetables, rubbed a bit of olive oil on the bird and dashed on some salt, pepper, and oregano.  I put it on the lower shelf in the oven at 350° and checked on it every half hour or so to either stir the veggies or baste the chicken.  At two and a half hours, it was ready to eat.

And it was pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.  I'm going to make chicken enchiladas tonight with the leftovers.  It was a bit strange, however, putting my hand inside the chicken cavity.  D. named the chicken Herman, and I said I'd rather not name something I'm about to stuff, roast, and serve to people.  But... the body of a chicken is so...unappetizing, when you have a whole one.  Its arms, its legs, its general shape.  I had to watch closely to make sure D. didn't take it and make it start dancing on the counter.

I don't need C. around to have a good time, but I do need food.  I need to make food, I need to feed people.  Finding a new, promising recipe is like going on a great first date... you want to try it out to see if it works, but you're nervous that something will go wrong.  Does that make allrecipes.com an enabler?


Clorox wipes to the rescue

Everyone's talking about Osama bin Laden, but I couldn't really give two shits about it (my first thoughts upon hearing my cousin, an Operation Iraqi Freedom veteran, saying in a steady and resolved voice that bin Laden was dead, were "Awww, he's left-handed like me," and then, "gas prices zomg?"), so I'll talk about my hair instead. HEY PEOPLE, LOOK AT ME BLOG ABOUT HAIR.

At a party we threw a few weeks ago...


At a party we had on Saturday.  Yes, I'm about to roast up one bitchin' bird.

In that second picture, my hair is in pigtails. I haven't gotten around to taking a decent picture of it loose yet. And I just tried, with my phone, but it's a Monday morning, my neon green (nnn-TSS nnn-TSS nnn-TSS) fleece sweater (which is the part of the sentence where you realize I'm not going to a rave, but rather, I'm wearing something in a bad color with a company logo on it) is washing me out, and thanks to lack of sleep, my eyes look like I've gotten stung by a bee.

Besides that, my hair looks like shit right now anyway. You'll have to wait with baited breath to see my new hair in its full glory.

But I feel good that I was able to donate 18 inches of my hair to people with cancer. Kinda sucks for them, though, because my hair was really damaged and weak in some areas. So say there's some kid with cancer, and she's told that some lovely woman in Indiana who makes really good lasagna has donated her hair and misses it a lot but sure is glad that cancer girl can have a wig. Cancer girl gets excited. Then cancer girl receives this wig full of damaged hair with dye blotches and split ends. Cancer girl then either gets pissed and sends all her brothers after my blood, or cancer girl kills herself and leaves a note that rips me a new one.

Maybe I've actually done a terrible thing.

Or maybe I'll forget about it and start watching CNN to get any detail I can about bin Laden. Tonight, from the Spin Room: WAS BIN LADEN REALLY LEFT-HANDED? And then, THE COMMON HOUSEHOLD ITEM THAT CAN KILL ALL YOUR CHILDREN WHILE THEY ARE QUIETLY BEHAVING. YOU'LL BE SHOCKED AT WHAT ONE REPORTER UNCOVERED.

Alright, alright. Time to edit documents now. I'll brag about my roast chicken later.
Yay phone!