It's For The Birds

 That’s right. The birds.

      There are bunches of them, and they’ve been driving my family crazy for a week now. We go to bed, wake up to, and spend our time at home surrounded by what sounds like a small dog barking and a squeaky toy being repetitively stepped on. In reality, the racket is coming from a huge black raven honking its head off at some louder, squeakier and even more irritating group of magpies. They’re fighting over sticks. Really. Sticks that they each want to use for nests they are in the midst of constructing. Nest that will be home for their squawking babies for 5 – 7 weeks. These nests, as creative and lovely as they may seem, are large and obstructive, and are either in the tree directly outside my window or ON the log truss holding up the roof, which is also right outside my window. The squawking never ceases; there are no quiet moments of reprieve, but rather just a constant chafing of an otherwise perfect spring day.

      I know…nature at it’s best, but I have to tell you these huge and ominous looking flying freaks are making me a little insane. It’s not the sweet chirp of a robin or peaceful song of a dove that is ringing in my ears, but a loud and grating tuneless screech instead. It’s incessant. It’s tasteless. It’s what I imagine brainwashers and interrogators would use to render their victims helpless, willing and adaptable. It’s what was making me raven (I mean raving) mad! And no wonder it’s called a murder of ravens or magpies. No mistake there.

      Hey, I’m all about living in harmony with nature, but I don’t feel like the birds are being respectful or civil at all. They’re not listening to MY needs. I’d be happy to let them build the nest and have their little flying rodents, if they’d just tone it down a bit. Compromise….the foundation of any tolerable relationship.

        Before I knew it, I found myself sitting at my desk with the window opened fully, my pump action BB rifle perched perfectly on the sill as I awaited the next twig installment. Being that it was only 30 degrees out, I wrapped myself in a down jacket, pulled on my Uggs, protected my neck and face from the cold with my favorite cashmere wrap (I was already sporting it), and pulled my hat over my head….My hunting hat….in blazing Hunter’s Orange. Yeehaw. Thinking back, I must have been quite a sight… looking like a conspicuous fashion-conscious assassin…but when adrenaline and survival mode kick in, there is no room for perfect planning or a wardrobe change.

         I was only about 8 feet from the nest, the birdy bulls-eye, but it was sitting above me at an angle that wasn’t really giving me a clean shot. As I had scared the diabolical beasts away during my dressing, window opening and gun positioning, I thought this may be a great time for a test shot….to see how I should best hold the firearm in order to ensure a nice vital shot when the nasty creature returned (didn’t want some big bird flopping around the yard, if I missed the vital…) I crouched, leaned my gun on the sill at the perfect angle to pick off the latest building material, a pathetic looking stick, and just as I was about the pull the trigger, it crossed my loopy mind that if I missed, the BB could ricochet off the log truss and either break an expensive solar tinted window, or plug ME in the head! And would a BB gun do the trick anyway? Was I gonzo? It was obvious that I had been so obsessed with eliminating the feathered fussing, that I had neglected my better judgment, succumbing to insane thoughts of retaliation and madness instead. I had lost my serenity. I had lost my mind. I had been rendered mad by birds. Had I become Tippi Hedren? Would I slowly descend into madness as Poe’s character in The Raven? (And I used to love that poem….)

      Snapped back to reality, I questioned my self further. Is it even legal to shoot ravens and magpies in Wyoming? I couldn’t remember. I know that all songbirds are protected, but for god’s sake, there is nothing song-like coming out of those things. So I researched anyway, just to be sure I wouldn’t be headed to jail after my next psychotic episode. Couldn’t you just see the headlines? “Crazed Housewife Holds Flock of Magpies Responsible for Her Shooting Spree” or “Frenzied Female Fights Fowl Play” Great. My husband would love that one. The guy I phoned at the Game and Fish said I could shoot crows, but not ravens or magpies…even though they are in the same family. I asked him again…”Are you sure? Isn’t a raven just an enormous crow? Isn’t a magpie called the ‘coyote in the sky’? You can kill coyotes here…but I wouldn’t…” He confirmed his first stance, and asked me if there was a problem with something and where I was calling from. I hung up. So it turns out, those pesky things are not on the predacious list, and are in fact, protected under Wyoming Game and Fish law. I can NOT shoot them, nor even seriously bother them, no matter how mean they are to the sweet Robins or tuneful doves. Ravens, I read, are actually considered good for the environment, because they help cull mice population and eat the carrion. (Well, who cares - my dogs do that too…..)

      Starlings on the other hand are considered intrusive and fair game…..and they cause quite a rumpus too….

        And my husband wonders what I do all day.

I Got Conched Out

     You'd think I'd have learned my lesson.

     But that defiant Hungarian nature wouldn't let me admit defeat...

      The trek to "Big Ds" seemed like a good idea, mainly because it was a

trek.  An excursion on a lazy island.  A chance for us to explore this 1/2 mile wide adventure land.  Something that felt like moving.  Besides, I'd finished my book...

      Big D's, it turns out, is a conch shack...or place that sells raw, bacteria laden mollusks that have been sitting out in a boat for hours.  In Big D's defense, the prep area looked quite clean, and I personally watched D himself brushing the cutting board with soap and water (conch water?).  But it was his expertise in slicing oranges, tomatoes, onions, limes and that slimy thing called conch, that helped me trust the man with my intestinal tract.  He threw the oranges up into the air, and sliced them with his big, sharp knife as they floated through the down.  He talked to us about how he's been featured in 27 magazines as having the best conch in the world, and how Al Roker did a spot on him on the today show....etc.  So I thought that if Al Roker trusts him, then why shouldn't I?  What I didn't know was that Al was born on Exuma, and has a town named after his family here.  That he has a special interest in promoting the island that is his home. That his opinions are slanted and not entirely objective. That his stomach is accustomed to eating raw, bacteria laden mollusks, made with fruit and vegetables washed in a bucket that also is used for washing raw conch.

      In any case, I tried it.  Actually, more than just tried it.....I ate an extraordinarily large bowl, pilled high into a beautiful triangular pyramid by Big D himself..... sculpted with his large hands that had just made the raw, bacteria laden conch salad.  Yum. And, as you've guessed by now, the gentle gods have decided that being allergic to gluten, diary, all trees and grasses, mold, penicillin and certain types of people, is not a sufficient test for me.  Apparently, now I am to be allergic to conch too.  Yes - I could barely make it home that afternoon – driving 50 miles an hour on a road that shouldn’t be driven more than 35 – because you could fall off the edge of the thing into the mangroves - before, once again, alternating ends over the

toilet for 2 hours straight.  Never planned on getting so intimate with the porcelain. Fun.  No one else got sick, or even cranky, so after inquiring with the oracle (Mr. Google), I discovered that I had displayed symptoms of a mild (they obviously weren’t in the bathroom with me) shellfish allergy.  And, it appears, that one can be allergic to only a few or one form of shellfish, like myself....I think....because up until now, I've been eating mussels and shrimp with no adverse effects.  But the allergy can develop at anytime in one's life, and it will never cease, but only get worse.  Lucky me.

       So, I'll add conch to my list of allergies and now will have to be extra annoying when ordering seafood in a place that also serves conch.... My friends will be overjoyed to dine with me.

      The rest of this trip, I'll be dining on Uncle Ben’s instant boxed rice and canned peas from the best market in town. Oh, and rum.

     Dreaming of paprika chicken with rice noodles and lots of fresh vegetables.

Don't Get A Pedicure Before Going To The Bahamas

   It’s clear to me now, that I should NOT ever get a pedicure prior to a trip to the Bahamas.  My ‘Monsooner or Later’ is posing a problem, but I’m sure that ‘I’m Not Really a Waitress’ or ‘Cha-Ching Cherry’ would be equally dangerous.    It’s those damn curly tailed lizards.  They are apparently friendly and non-aggressive, but I have found that not to be completely accurate.  They like small pieces of yellow cheese.  They like pieces of fruit. They like to socialize. They like my toes. Obviously, the dumb reptiles have really poor eyesight and think my pretty tomato-colored toes are…tomatoes. Cherry tomatoes.  Or maybe watermelon.  Or mango or something. In any case, they're not so cute to me, and I'm about to enter combat mode....    They attack me…those irritating beasts.....and regardless of whether I’m sitting on a chair, at the dining table or standing at the edge of the deck, the bloody crawly things will unfailingly nip at my pedi.  It doesn’t really hurt, per say, but it sure can scare the senses out of you when you get a tug on the toe before you’ve even had your first cup of coffee…or third rum and ice cubes….  It's dangerous actually, and i almost had to take a trip to the clinic (open on Tuesdays from 10 -1:30) from a mishap with a chair that got in the way during one of my escapes. And I can't just move my feet, because they follow my movement, and being that they are 'social' and 'playful' they think I'm engaging in some fun ritual that excites them even more. I move to the left, they move to the left. I move my feet in, they move in. It’s frankly just rude.   The kids think it’s a riot, so I’m glad I can be some form of entertainment and not just the boring ol’ disciplinarian,  but it’s pretty bad when your daughter asks you to put your feet down so that she can lure the lizards in and play with them…..That in itself may deserve a privilege loss, eh?     It’s gotten to the point now, that I have the kids survey the area first before I venture outside, and then, I sit with my feet in an elevated position, regardless of where I am.  Am I supposed to endure this abuse? Will I be forced to always be reclined, with my feet up for the entire trip? (I know, sounds like what most people would WANT to do). Or, (gasp), do I have to remove my polish?   So, the things are endangered, I’m told, but I’m about to push them over the line to extinction in a moment.  And can you blame me?  If finding nail polish remover in this town is anything like finding water, I’m screwed….

Water Water Everywhere

The first night we went to the place with the 'best food on the island'. It was a closet that served fried conch, fried chicken, fried snapper, fried rice. Oh- there was also mac and cheese.  My 14 year old daughter and I ( we are allergic to gluten) ate ice cubes ( mine had rum in it) and plantains.  Needless to say, I had more rum and ice cubes than plantain.  So much better for your sanity. I mention this experience because incidentally, the best 'restaurant' in town ALSO serves fried conch,  fried chicken, fried snapper, friend rice and Mac and cheese.  There was an addition to the menu at the restaurant extraodinaire, and that was curried lobster.  Curried lobster?  That is so not within the realm of food stuff here.  That's prob why it's such a fancy restaurant!  We eat here... After a crazy $28 per meal of fried whatevers, we go to pay the bill. They don't take credit cards we're told (now- sheesh) and we've spent $240 between the 4 of us, mostly on booze.... It's taken 2 1/2 hours to get our sad meals....  We scrape up $240 even leaving no tip for the poor dolt of a waitress, and of course kent complains to the owners of the best resto in town that  this in not acceptable.  As if they care...they're skimming off the top, man! We return home and I immediately feel nauseous.  My son is sleeping in my bed due to his trauma from the previous night, and he is worried. I take an anti-nausea pill designed for cancer patients on chemotherapy ( hello Elvis) and I try to go to sleep.  2 hours later I'm alternating both ends over the toilet in an effort to eliminate whatever it is that had gotten me so sick.  This goes on for 4 hours and I wonder if it was the ice in the rum, the curry in the lobster, the water I brushed my teeth with or the raw conch I ate at lunch. How come no one else is sick?  Why poor ol me?  Actually, I thank god it's only me! I survive the nite and we go looking for bottled water that I desperately need at this point.  The first place has lost the keys to the water bottles (seriously).  The second place has only one gallon available.  The third and last place had NO water but recommends the gas station ( because that just makes sense right?) down the street. Fyi, there is only one gas station that has very limited hours.  They have water, but they too have lost the keys.... No joke.  It's clear that water theft is big down here and we are out of luck, so we head to the liquor store.  Rum and wine have water in them, don't they? Right now, I'm on my 3rd homemade mohito.  My son is trying to catch dinner down at the beach and is only seeing barracudas.  Haven't seen him in a few hours.... My daughter is already writing in the guest book ( I may have to edit,) and My husband is grilling some ribs that look like they came from a very sad and lonely pig.  I'll happily be a eating ice cubes for dinner again! On thursday, we're renting a boat and touring.  My husband assures me he knows how to drive one and is familiar with the waters here.  Really? How is that possible?  I'm not even familiar with the waters here, and i know everything....I'm sure adventures await....

It's better in the Bahamas

It's 4:19 am when my 13 year old son comes into our room hysterically crying and not making any sense whatsoever. We have no idea what is going on because he is unable to get a grip or explain anything to us.  After ascertaining that he is not in some waking terror state, my mind goes to places dark and scary and I imagine someone has entered the house and flashed him or something.....  I bolt out of bed to check the place out when he says I can't explain it, it"s just really scary and itchy.  Itchy?  What you talking about boy?  He pulls down his shirt from his shoulder and there is what looks like a spider bite.  It's just a bite, Bud, I say and administer cortisone cream.  It continues to get read and swell.  I give him benedryl.  He's crying in pain. He's still hysterical.  I go to survey the room situation, ripping off sheets and looking under and behind the bed.  Nothing.  The little culprit has hit the road.  Good thing, because i was going to smash it to smithereens.  I go back into the bathroom where my sweet son has ripped off his clothing and is screaming because his welt is painful and growing.  My husband tells him to get it together and put his clothes back on.  He reaches for his shirt, and as he lifts it, a CENTIPEDE falls to the bathroom floor.  It is 3 inches long and very much alive.  At this point, The poor boy is panicked beyond  belief... Am I going to die?  I don't know.  Are they toxic?  I don't know?  Should i call 911?  Is it even 911 that you call here?  Are the hospitals and clinics closed after 10 pm...like everything else here? He has 3 bites on his body...one on his weenie...swelling, red, painful. All I can say is, thank god for google....   I googled 'centipede bites' and to my DELIGHT found out that they are extremely painful, but not toxic....usually.  Whew.  We'll just watch him. After a serious counseling session and an entire cleaning of a the room, we finally convince Dylan that this is a once in a lifetime thing...that he can rest easy....to go to sleep and not think about bugs crawling up and down his body bitting him... He finally gets into bed with his sister and sleeps there.  Tonight he is sleeping with me.  Sigh. This is only day 1.....

Holiday Heaven?

Adventure #1 We get to the greatest beach house ever- finally- after a day of travels and endless  delay.  The trusty house keeper, Jemeice, has promised to meet us there, but alas, she is not there.  We play a game called Try to Find the Hide-a-Key for 29 mins while avoiding the security cameras ogling at us.  We fail.  I poach some faint wifi and send a desperate email to the owners....in Scandinavia.  Our phone isn't working here! We saw them 'locking up' the house they call an airport when we left there, so we know the airport has closed.  Can't go back there, And it's dark- which is actually a great thing because the stars are AMAZING right by the ocean.  We forget we're homeless for a miNute and explore the area.   It's the perfect location and the house LOOKS perfect through windows in any case..  After some time I frantically search through my stuff, because knowing how organized I am ( used to be), I figure I'll have some local info somewhere. To my surprise I actually find Jeneice's ( still not sure how to pronounce it) number.  I pick up the cell, and considering this is a holiday spoiler, I allow myself the luxury of troubleshooting the phone so that I may call for $3.99/min.  I reach Jeneice and she tells me the airport said that the plane wasn't coming in due to a gas leak and fire in the fuselage.  Silly her- that was the plane BEFORE ours.  Think I would have known if there had been a fire on the plane! So, it all works out and we get into the best beach house at 9:45! Whew and yay.  Adventure # 2 is coming and THAT is a doozie.  You won't believe it......

Summertime Summertime Sum Sum Summertime

        It’s been weeks.
        I realize I’ve been negligent with my passion and less than active with my conduit of liberty and expression, but heck, who has the time? Fret not, my mind is still that fervent river lashing against the levees of society, but alas, it is summer in this high altitude town, and that obliges we fill our days with all activities al fresco. I find myself weakened by the warmth….the greenery….the fact that I don’t have to wear a wool hat or Sorels (God, I love flip flops)….and I abandon anything interior in exchange. (You should see the state of my house…but who cares….’cause I’m not in it!)

         Only those that live in a climate with 10 months of winter would understand my compulsion to spend all possible hours in open-air with friends and family. The pressure - I mean novelty - (did I say ‘pressure’?) of summer never has a chance to wear off here. Life is still funny and worthy of humorous blogging, to be sure, but again, who has the time? And Jackson Hole in the summer? Hilarious. I never thought I’d get such a chuckle out of observing tourists lined up alongside the road, pining for a glimpse of a mangy moose stripping some poor homeowner’s trees, or an osprey on top of a bloody telephone pole, or a field of cows (cows for god’s sake).  And boy how I laughed at the circumstances of our annual, self-induced laborious 4^th of July camping trip, which took days to plan and prepare for, but was ultimately 3 days of sitting on a pile of dirt and mud. There were some comical moments in those few days – or they seem funny now anyway. Who knew fireworks were that powerful…..?

         So, we can’t grow tomatoes here and we never put our down jackets away, because even though it’s summer, it still gets chilly at night….(when we’re determined to be outside eating our dinner that has gone cold), but we sure know how to make the best of any day above 30 degrees. We are a hearty and committed people. We will endure ridiculous tourists and bison jams to ensure we pack a year's worth of summer activities into 8 weeks. And we will prevail. By autumn, we will have survived it all, including the County Fair where perilous contraptions called ‘rides’ are assembled in 3 hours, after being pulled into town on flatbed trucks by people that look like a cross between nursing home residents and prison inmates. There is an entire novel of material right there.

         “So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be”. Lordy, lordy, Lord Tennyson, how right you were. I don’t have time to just sit on my bum and peck on the keyboard right now. There are only 32 days until school starts however, and by then, I will have accumulated long lists of situations that can be shared during my kid-free days. By then, I will be ready to come inside, make my bed, wear shoes and compose. By then…..I will have mastered the role of swim cap assistant, and perfected stuffing waist-long hair into a too tight, flimsy and shapeless vinyl topper, with nary a foul word or chiding from my daughter….. (♫ Some people call me a dreamer….la-la-la la-la-la laaaaa…♫…)

        Imagine.

Torn

This morning, arriving downstairs for my morning coffee, I found a good-sized stack of torn out newspaper articles, advertisements and other pieces of paper sprinkled around my kitchen counter. My husband has been doing that a lot lately; tearing out segments of the weekly paper for me - things he thinks I should be made aware of. I do, of course, read the paper myself, and in whole newspaper or online format (if he’s shredded it before I can get to it), but I think he thinks that if particles of articles are presented in a ripped, tattered and unconnected style, maybe I’ll just acknowledge it a little bit more. Like those speed signs that say ’19 mph Limit’ instead of ‘20 mph Limit’ - so that you take note, perhaps it’s a ploy to get me to pay attention. But I don’t speed through the paper anyway, as in a podunk town like this, it only takes about 15 minutes to read about the same thing I read about last week….or find out about the recent goring of some idiotic tourist in Yellowstone. Yup. 15 minutes….and a short conversation with the nosy neighbor and my parents, and I keep absolutely abreast of all the local news and weather forecast too!  Nevertheless, somehow my husband thinks that a crumpled and shred up mess scattered in random piles is a compelling way to spark my interest. Doesn’t he know that I like things uncluttered and organized and….well, coherent? 
       Usually, there are notes scrawled on the top or side of the piece in an attempt to indicate why that particular section has been singled out: Things like “Should we do this?” or “Very interesting” or “Please save”. Save? Why in the world would I save a snippet of newspaper? Recycle, yes, but save? Is he going to start scrapbooking now? (I’ve been told this is what happens when people get older…scrapbooking….) In that case, why doesn’t he neatly cut out those bits of writing and important dates (maybe even a little special lettuce-edging would be nice) and glue them to a fold-out display or poster board? He could color certain sections, paste on some pretty pictures and then prop that thing up right at the kitchen table, and, I guarantee, I’d take notice….(and perhaps it would satisfy his need for cutting and gluing things too). Heck, he could even highlight the really important parts for me. Or…..we could have ‘presentation’ night…..!

I wonder, is this a sign of some underlying compulsive condition? A hoarders need to clip and save everything? A regression of the faculties and a lust for kindergarten activities? Is he going to start wanting to eat dirt now too? Is it only a matter of time before I find scraps of paper and solo socks hidden in the corner of his office and stuffed into jacket pockets?

And so here is my quandary: Do I tell him this is crazy old man stuff and risk quashing some good intention, or do I just accept the insanity (whilst I struggle to make any sense of the news) and see it as simply a loving action? After all, knowing his good nature, he could just be trying to help me out because he knows (thinks) I’m so busy that I don’t have time to read that paper once a week. I love that he wants to share these slices of information with me and dispenses with such formalities as talking….. since he knows I love to read…..right? So what do I do: Speak up or shut up? Mention or muffle? Express or suppress?

I’m torn.

I Am Not Dead

            Last night at my daughter’s 8^th grade graduation ceremony, I was keenly aware of strange, subtle and sometimes lingering glances in my direction. I experienced everything from peeks of pity, to looks of loathing, and after verifying that both boobs were in place and that I didn’t have the proverbial skirt stuck in the pantyhose thing going on, I convinced myself that my perception was due to nothing but a brief flash of paranoia, or a bad mussel that I had gulped down merely minutes before. ‘Perhaps these folks have read my blog’, I thought at one point, ‘and think I’m certifiable...a wacko.’  I quickly reminded myself of a great quote from Oscar Wilde: “Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.” So there.

But then, at the reception after the ceremony, a person who is somewhere between an acquaintance and a friend clued me into the situation.

“I have to ask,…” she said. “Are you and your husband still…..together?” she prompted while displaying the two-index-fingers-together-‘buddy up’ SCUBA sign in my direction.

“Like married?” I asked, holding up my hand adorned with my wedding ring. “Uh. As far as I’m aware. Last time I checked anyway. I was just sitting with my husband and everything seemed fine….but then I’m always the last to know. Why do you ask?”

She laughed….or choked….but it sounded like a laugh. “Ah, good. I thought you should know….I’ve had several clients….people that don’t even know you hardly at all…..ask me about you or talk about you being divorced… I told them I knew nothing, but then I was concerned for you...”

Gotta love a small town.

“Well next time someone inquires, tell them to call my phone directly…..I’ll leave an updated message weekly, for those whom are so interested in my life, and avoid speculation and false rumors altogether. Next thing you know, people will be thinking I’m dead. Elvis and I both. Sheesh. “

So there you have it. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been negligent with this blog, (because I’m both overwhelmed and underwhelmed), or because someone saw me without my wedding ring (rarely wear it), but whatever the trigger, this is yet another example of our perverted and voyeuristic society - this time at my expense.

         Not to say that my love relationship hasn’t had its share of dips and ruts (a la ‘mattress trouble’), but after 18 years, whose hasn’t? The point is, it’s private - a concept that is destined to go the way of the Dodo and black and white television. The only thing that is public should be that which is publically heard from the source itself. You know, hold your horses then get your information straight from the horse’s mouth…..but don’t look in it…..before the cat gets let out of the bag prompting a cock and bull story that may send someone running around like a chicken with its head cut off on the way to the funny farm that smells like a rat. Simple. It’s one of my mottos- ‘always go to the source’, and imagine how much more sane this world would be if we all just stopped speculating, and distorting. Aren’t people tired of playing ‘Broken Telephone’ and getting caught in the grapevine?

But then we’re all conditioned and manipulated by reality television shows, youtube and live feed cameras, where the line between reality and fantasy is practically non-existent. Encouraged to pry, peep and probe, maybe our sense of respect and discretion is being bred out of us. Maybe, our concept of entertainment has finally absolutely extended beyond the television, the movie theatre, the computer, and into people's private lives....anyone's private life.  Is it because we are seamlessly connected now, that we expect to know everything about everybody? Is it Steve Jobs’ fault? Can we just blame the media…again? As I’ve asked before, I wonder if it is television and media driving our lust for intruding, or is it our lust for intruding that is driving the television and media? Whatever the case, it’s getting plainly gross.

And I don’t know how much ‘news’ I’ve watched where the anchors and experts are describing potential scenarios and undeveloped situations with astonishing verve. From computer simulations to possible future plots, so much time and energy is spent filling 24-hour news shows with fear-based and unsubstantiated information, that it’s no wonder we’re all confused and upset. We’re told to worry about things that are not happening and may in fact never happen, but that seem to lure us in anyway. It seems such a waste of power and resources that could be redirected to actual ordeals and valid and valuable events. I say, give us the info and then responsibly guide us in the current situation, not some abstract and made-up science fiction show. I realize most media bases their success on delivering a great ‘hook’, but truly, there is enough going on out here on this planet we’re destroying -Pandora (I mean Pandora’s Box) - to hook us on the now, and what to do about the now…now. Geez. Haven’t these people read any Ram Dass?

On a personal level, l have this to say:

I am not dead. I am still happily married. I do not have six toes on one foot. I am deaf in one ear, I do dye my hair and I do wear a retainer at night. I am not a spy for The Earth Liberation Front. I was once a ring girl at a boxing match, and I was de-sistered from a sorority. I am not gay. I am an environmentalist. I abhor kids running around in restaurants and, yes, I am absolutely addicted to chocolate.

“Don’t believe everything you think” – Thomas Kida