Wednesday, February 27, 2013

The Dingo Ate WHAAT???, Or, How I Can Ruin Anything, Even at Disney World, by Allison

So we've just returned from most excellent trip to Disney World, in which I am fairly sure it is impossible to be melancholy, or even slightly less than super happy. They make it so.
Is magic.

However, in case you want to throw some horrifying, inappropriate, half-remembered Meryl Streep-doing-an-accent in with the Fun, just invite me along.

I can wreak havoc anywhere, it appears.

Even on It's A Small World.

At Disney World.
Happy animatronic poppets singing about unity and world peace?

Or, "The dingo ate my baby!!!"

I am on It's A Small World boat, sitting next to E, known Information-Seeker and Exposer of My Misdeeds.

Matt and the other two are safely seated behind us, watching the happy robot children sing.

We all love the Small World ride and go on it repeatedly when at Disney, since it is both insane and awesome, two of our favorite things. 

This particular Small World scandale went down on our first night of vacation, so maybe I was tired.

Anyway, as our boat of Happy takes us into Australia and such, E asks me what kind of dog is next to the boy with the boomerang.

It's a dingo, of course.

I know this, thanks to Meryl Streep.

That's all I know, since I apparently did NOT know how to keep my big mouth shut and tell my 10 year old that the dog was a lab mix.  I instead mush on with the following awful conversation:

 Horrible True Crimes Committed By Dingoes And Society, By Mommy.

The extent of my dingo knowledge is "The Dingo Ate My Baby" movie, the one where Meryl Streep wears horrible black bowl cut wig, does a very good Australian accent, and plays tormented mother of aforementioned baby.

And because I am an idiot, I choose to try to explain the true story dingo-baby movie to E, who immediately is like "What? That dog ate a lady's baby?"

And then I decide it is important to clarify, by saying that the dingo was a wild dog that was not as cute as that robot one, and that the mother of the baby was falsely accused of infanticide, partly because she did not cry enough, she seemed mad and grumpy and not sad and weepy, and people chose to believe she was bad and had killed her own baby. . .

And then I realize, I am a total, complete moron digging giant hole for myself,  and I cannot wriggle out of this conversation, being held while Happy Robots From All Over The Small World sing.

I can ruin anything.

And I try to explain to E what I took away from the movie/true story, other than "the dingo ate my baby" pop culture reference, was how first impressions sometimes are ruinous, and the justice system did not work in this case and after a number of years the lady was proven right, and set free, . . . but it is not a happy story, at ALL.

And we are at Disney World, where the happy is just raining down on us, unless I choose to put up an Umbrella Of Awful.
Which I totally did.
Big Giant Umbrella Of Ruining The Fun, Thanks Mom, Now I Will Have Nightmares.

And E is indignant, wants to know did everything turn out OK? She wants to know did they just unlock the jail and say, "Sorry" to the lady when they found out the dingo did eat the baby, and also why did the dingo eat the baby, and also why was I watching a movie about this?

And I am all, "E look, we're in Holland, there are ducks!"

And she is all, "Not buying it. Tell me more about the horrible terrible story involving babies and dingos and grumpy mothers in jail."

And I am all, "I am very glad that family in front of us cannot hear me right now, or I'd get us thrown out of the Happiest Place On Earth."

But E and I did have a cool talk about not making snap judgments about people based on how you think they should act (She tried to get in a "Sometimes a temper tantrum is OK" here, but I blocked that one, am not total amateur), about how sometimes what seems like the right answer is not right, and how we are never going camping in Australia.

And as we depart the ride, I turn to Matt and am all "Could you hear what we were talking about?"

And he is all, "Nooo?"

And E is all, "Dad, do you know what a dingo is?"

And I am all, "Who wants to go to the tea cups????"

And luckily, tea cup ride is another tradition, in which Matt takes progressively funnier photos of the girls as the tea cups whirl around, and one ride's disaster is dodged as we rush off to take embarrassing pictures of each other.

Fairly benign snarky silliness, no scary true-life crime stories at ALL.

Did not even talk about the Boston Tea Party, or even complain about no Starbucks at Disney.
(Which? Honestly, that seems like a win-win to me, seriously.)

Dodged a cloning debate when we got to renovated Fantasyland and there are now two Dumbo rides instead of one. Exact same, just two, and I almost started a whole thing.

But I did not!!!

Hurray!  I remembered to STOP TALKING!

Is magical place, after all.

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Sleepy Sunday Sauce, Courtesy of G. Love, Dig It, by Allison

So am in mood for Sunday slow jam kind of thing.

And I am both the doctor and the patient here, because I know JUST the thing to cure me.

G. Love & Special Sauce.

Yes, Please.

Baby's Got Sauce.

Your baby ain't sweet like mine.

I could write an Ode, or an opus, or a manifesto, or a treatise.

No need.

These dudes have it covered.

Dig it.

Baby's Got Sauce.

G. Love, thanks for the sleepy Sunday.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Reason Number 4,6752 Why I Cannot Finish Making My Mixtape: Cool Chill Awesome Fabulosity Vibe Must Be Added! Cayucas, Love This Band, by Allison

So I am not in want of a thing to encourage my procrastination/feed my insatiable music quest, am set for the next billion years on that.
But don't the greeting card people say you get what you want when you aren't looking for it?
Or is that a thing your friends tell you when they get married and you are not married yet?

It might be both.

Either way, it has nothing to do with what I am fixated on right now.

As I am STILL working on my endless mixtape for my friends, which is mostly done but I just could not officially let myself say it was done, what to my wondering ears should appear?

(Spoiler!!! Not Santa and tiny reindeer. Is better,  A NEW FAB SONG.)

New music!
Whee yay tra la la.
And, See?
Procrastination pays off.
Now my endless mixtape is longer and better!

Validation for Procrastination!

What song? You may ask.

And I may and will say, prepare for the extremely cool fabulosity.

The band is Cayucas, and it is modern beachy?
Is that a phrase or do I sound like a Realtor?
Is not dated, is what I am saying, and also many Realtors may say that, but this is a song, not a house, and I am not a Realtor.

I am, however, as one of my pretend jobs, a Decider Of What Is Awesome, and this is easy:

"High School Lover," by Cayucas, Is AWESOME.

Has a laid-back vibe, so kind of, let's hang out somewhere cool, and hope a magic band appears to play a bonfire/summer crush type song that rules.

And then they do appear!

And all is well, I love bedtime stories.

But this is for real, this band is crazy good and I am having quite a chill and yay time procrastinating to their extra cool music.

And I will totally get back to procrastinating now.

"High School Lover," Cayucas

Monday, February 11, 2013

Hush Little Baby, I'm Going To Sing You A Very Tragic Non-Lullaby, Mommy Likes This One Better, by Allison

So tonight, M the seven year old stylist, surely in an attempt at putting off bedtime, requests her favorite lullaby I used to sing her when she was little.

She calls it "Mama Crazy Hair," although I would never sing a song called that because I do not want any person, song or anything saying bad things about my hair.

She is referencing The Cowboy Junkies'  "Misguided Angel," and the lyrics start with  "Mama, he's crazy, and he scares me" so I guess it is good she turned that into "Mama Crazy Hair" in retrospect.
The original lyrics are kind of more serious than bedhead.

But before anyone alerts authorities, I have/had good reasons for choosing this song as a lullaby instead of the traditional lullabies:

1. I love The Cowboy Junkies, that song in particular, the tragic, slightly browning flower petal voice of the lead singer, and the arrangement and lyrics are gorgeous and is fab and I heart them and am fan forevermore.

2.  In my defense, I can't sing much at all, but that one song I can half do without alerting all of the animals like in 101 Dalmations.

3. I do not like traditional lullabies because they creep me out. Totally creep me out.
Surely due to overactive imagination, all I can ever picture is birds pecking away my diamonds and watches,  or babies falling out of cribs up in a tree why would anyone put a baby up a tree?

And I get stressed out.

So in my mind, tragic sad song about defeated sad girl settling for less than she's worth out of fear of being alone is not as scary as birds (true) or babies in danger (also true).

Really, the choices are limited if you are going the traditional route. Birds, cradles falling, nothing good there.
My darling Clementine drowns, tragedy everywhere in those lullabies.

 I have now talked myself out of feeling guilty.

And "Misguided Angel" is on repeat again. I am glutting myself in melancholy, but GOOD melancholy, the kind I can process.

I even forgot or blocked out traditional lullabies other than the awful parts that I just called out to Matt, who does not realize he is Very Important Fact Checker For This Very Important Blog, "Matt, how does the lullaby with the baby falling out of the tree go?"

And he is all, "Are you serious?"

And I am all, "I'm doing a thing."

And he's like, "Um, Rock A Bye Baby?"

And I am all, "UGGGGGGGGGGGGG. I knew I hated that one. I hate all of them. They are super awful."

 I am sticking with my own brand of gloomy night night song.

M the seven year old stylist makes it about hair anyway.  To her, that is as tragic as it gets.

And as deemed by me most excellent lullaby, The Cowboy Junkies' "Misguided Angel":

Saturday, February 9, 2013

So No One Told Me There Was A Car Dancing Olympics! I Have My Routine All Figured Out, Thanks To This Song, by Allison

So I was leaving the gym today, in a mood because I am having a huge fight with my iPod, and it is proving to be a dastardly opponent.

But the radio gods came through for me, with "Harlem" by New Politics. I am obsessed with that song right now.

And hearing it prompts, like orange level 5 def con hurricane warning type car dancing. It cannot be helped. Mandatory.

And I am having my huge rock out car dance, and at a stoplight, I hear a honk next to me, and I am afraid I missed the light due to car dancing yet again.

But no, was not that. It was a passenger in the car holding up a piece of paper, 8.9 was written on it.

I was all wha? And they were laughing, and then I realize they are scoring my car dancing, like I am an ice skater or on Dancing With The Stars (Note: was not wearing sequins and mesh and Insane Clown Makeup)

I did not realize that was a thing, Car Dancing Olympics.

Someone should have told me. Ralph Lauren designs the Olympic outfits, you know.

I am totally going to start training for it immediately, although I kind of have been hardcore training amateur status car dancer since ever, so I have a head start.

And I was thinking 8.9 is not bad (oh, I hope they were using a 10 scale and not 100) for not realizing I was in the Car Dancing Olympics. I can add flourishes, details, I will work on that.

Thanks, Car Dancing Olympics Judges! You totally justified the nonsense I do anyway, and if Car Dancing Olympics becomes a huge thing, I am trademarking and want credit.

As evidence of why I was 8.9 car dancing, I submit "Harlem" by New Politics. Video not out yet, but no need for video, you can't watch it as you thrash around joyfully.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

What Did I Do? Can I Say It Wasn't Lost If I Didn't Know I Lost It Yet? , by Allison

So I am not often without my crucial required possessions of phone, purse with wallet, lip balm, keys, Kindle as it is magic and books appear and I will forever be dazzled by that.

Usually the only time those things are not with me is because I have lost them temporarily, normally they appear in some weird place I thought I would remember because it was so weird that I did not remember because it was so weird.

But the other night, we went to see A Silent Film concert, which by the way, ruled. 
Concerts, requiring dancing, snaking way to front of crowd, nowhere for purse that is not squicky or yuk or "please steal me."
That is about the only time I go old-school, ID (For the bouncer persons who will humor me by carding me and thus establishing goodwill with suggestion that I may not be 21 yet. Well played, bouncer persons), credit card, lip balm.

I take more when hiking into the Grand Canyon or in boot camp class.
I tote numerous green teas everywhere, except shows where I cannot hold onto them and do not have time for that, am watching the awesome music.

I bring the fewest things possible, as I am aware I am likely to do something idiotic with whatever it is I have on me anyway.
But the thing about only bringing your driver's license proving you are you, and your credit card letting you have money for whatnot, is that if you lose those, that totally is no fun.

So of course I manage to do that last Friday. 

By getting into a car (I am blaming it on Matt's car was getting new tires and the dealership gave him a loaner and it was strange and I felt like it looked both like a frog and like a meteor had squished our regular car) I lose the things that were in my jeans pocket.

And guess how I found out I lost them?

The very nice man who found them in the parking lot, in a city in which I do not live but did visit the previous night for excellent show, called me to let me know he had them.

I was all, "Really? What? I lost them? I did not know that."
(Note: In my defense, I was getting ready for the gym, so I can get gold star for going to gym after concert in city two hours away, and had yet to need to prove my identity or buy stuff)

He was all, "Yes, I have been walking around this coffee event for an hour looking for you, but could not find you, are you here?"

And I was all "Noo, I am totally not there at all. I don't really know where there is, actually."

And after we figured out where he was and where I was were not the same place, he offered kindly, as he is Good Samaritan, to mail my things to me so I would not have to go through the horrors of replacing them.
This is so awesome, and he does not even know me or my Department of Motor Vehicles issues. (

Yay! I love awesome people.
And, he gets to join the (sadly) very large club of People Who Have Had To Help Allison Find Her Wallet Or Wallet Content Type Items. 
I did not tell him there was a club, because there really isn't I don't think, it is more like, a cluster of embarrassing memories.

I leave and lose lots of things all the time, you can ask my daughter E for the last 10 years refresher, she has savant-like memory for details on my nonsense.
But the worst is when I lose my wallet or its contents. 
I have done that a ludicrous number of times, not including when get this:
I had my wallet, with all my roommates' rent money IN CASH in it, and I go visit a friend who lives in a rowhouse in the city. I go in, put my keys and wallet in the kitchen, and within 10 minutes, someone walked into their house and stole it. That was so lame.
It was absurd, and my landlord would never believe "a mystery person stole my wallet with the rent money in it" because that is absurd. But true.

More often, I just put my wallet in stupid places.
I have just broken myself out of a habitual ridiculous habit of when purchasing gas for my car, I take out my wallet, get the credit card, leave my wallet on the roof of my car so I will remember to put the credit card back in it.

I NEVER remember to put my card back in my wallet.
I put it in my purse alone, and then drive off with the wallet on the roof of my car.

I have done this at least ten times.

But only once did I not get the wallet and contents back!
That was a dumb time I put my entire purse on the roof of our car, like the baby in Raising Arizona, at a rest stop during a trip.
 (Note: Before I had children.
Because I had this recurring nightmare where I leave the baby on the roof of the car like in Raising Arizona. Probably because
1. That movie is fantastic and I could watch it all day and
2. I leave other things of importance on my roof and drive off, who is to say I won't lose the baby? 
Subnote: In reality, I have never lost any of my children ever, nor have I put them on the roof of the car and driven away. And now, they are of an age where I cannot lift them onto the roof without them being a participant in this process, and also, they talk and say things and would object if I drove off, which I would NOT, except in old nightmares I had before I had kids and realized, children are very noisy and hard to forget.)

I remembered I'd left the purse on the roof when we had been back in the car for over an hour, I was probably looking for lip balm. Anyway, Matt made executive decision of "it's gone."
(Note: I was holding out hope somebody on the side of the road was holding it waiting for us to come back for it, but that was a faint hope.)

Normally when I leave my wallet on the roof of my car and drive off
(Note: I have broken this habit, am very excited about that) I am getting gas at this one place in our city that has nice people owning it and working there.
I am all about frequenting places where people are cool, it makes life so much nicer.

Also life is made nicer by the entire crew of mechanics roaming down the busy street I drove onto headed home, gathering up my important possessions I left on the roof of my car like idiot. 
They would then call and say, "Allison, we've got your wallet and credit cards, they were scattered all down Elm Street." And I would be all "Really? Oh, yep, you are right, they are not in my purse. I did that stupid thing again, didn't I?"

But these were cool friendly people, which is why I went there in the first place, so they do not throw things at me when I go retrieve the belongings I don't realize I've lost yet until they call and tell me.

However, after maybe the fifth time I stupidly did that, the gas station Friendly Cool People Who Were Sick And Tired Of This Nonsense were like "Look, just drive up to full service. We won't charge extra. Do not get out of your car, do not put your wallet anywhere."

I never do that, because I forget until I am already parked at the self-service and go get my wallet, and then I have enough brain cells to remember how embarrassing it is when I am an idiot, which reminds me to put my credit card in my wallet in my PURSE and not roof of car.

So, I have been cured of a ridiculous bad habit by being so embarrassed of the results of the habit. 
Also, I try to get gas when the kids are with me, and remind them not to let me put anything on the roof.

I am sure they will share that story when they sit around their freshman college dorm talking about who has the craziest mother.  I really have no defense on this particular issue, so be it.

And how is that for a meandering tale of me being mortified, repeatedly, by my own foolishness?

But get this!!! I got my ID and credit card in the mail today, along with a lovely note from Good Samaritan.

And it appears we are kindred spirits, because he had a story about the whole thing!
He wrote me a letter about walking around with my ID looking for anyone who looked like me, and making some guys mad when he'd go up to their girlfriends or wives asking "Are you Allison?"
(Note: As I write this, I cannot decide if I would like to be fly on wall or not during this quest. He wrote it in a way that sounded hilarious, but I am thinking if I were fly on wall I'd be grossed out by myself as flies are gross, and I would be upset that I was not a person who could go get her stuff back)

He then said that after initial boyfriend antagonizing, all the women in the area were helping him and telling him how nice he was to help me and what a great guy he was, which is true, it was and he is.

And then his friends wanted to take my ID around since the female part of the crowd thought it very charming and kind to help this pathetic girl get her stuff back.

My ID is like a baby or puppy at the park.

You know how guys walking around with a baby or puppy seem extra adorable and they garner way more attention and  goodwill then they would if they were without cute prop?

It seems Helping Strange Girl Who Loses Her Things is the new cute prop.

I am glad it turned out to be entertaining for my Good Samaritan and his friends, since he is awesome for getting me my stuff back.

But if Looking For Girl Who Lost Things becomes a thing, I totally want credit and am trademarking it. 

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

So You Can't Teach A (Still Very Very Young) Allison New, Um, Patterns Of Behavior To Reduce Public Humiliation? Or, I Am Idiot, by Allison

So am idiot.
I already knew this, but am gathering more evidence daily.

And though I tried very hard to come up with an analogy that did not include the word "dog", as am mad at both the Good and the Bad Dog right now,
(Also: For the record,  I do not want to compare myself to a dog literally or figuratively, at all ever, ever)
I can't think of anything else because I have been sobbing too much over sad French waifs, AGAIN.

I have decided I have Pavlovian (Note: this is the other dog part, the first was the title, so now all I have done is write "dog" eleventy times, enhancing my I Am Idiot documentation) response to anything, always, related to Les Miserables.
I certainly have been exposed to the play/movie/score enough that I should be able to keep it together.

I cannot.

Is Pavlovian, although remember, I am not a dog, nor do I want to be one, forget that word right away, please.

But there is an immediate, "Please excuse me while I sob for 2 1/2 hours" reaction to the first second of the music, even though I know full well what is about to happen.
That is the problem.
It is SAD. SAD things happen.
To French people, and I am Francophile.
 (Although note: Though I am also bookophile and wordophile and no-word-limitations-ophile, Victor Hugo's book Les Miserables is tough. If Ambien makes you zombie buy stuff on the Internet or eat tubs of butter, try Les Miserables. You're welcome.)

And I am fairly sure, and I checked so I am right, that I have already written at least two treatises on the topic of How I Cry Giant Waves Of Tears At Les Miserables recently.

I insisted the sold-out movie wasn't sold out (Note: It was NOT sold out actually, so good luck movie people, I am never believing you again) so I could sob with Matt as witness, as he had only heard stories.
Nightmare stories, whatever.

AND, I declared, in word form as that is how I roll, that I would NOT go see this movie with my friend K, otherwise known as Friend I See Extremely Sad Movies With And We Cry And Say We Will See A Happy One Next Time But We Do Not.

But what did I do today?

Somebody rang a French Sad Starving Singing People Bell, and I trotted along (In HUMAN form) to see the saddest thing I always cry over, with my friend K, aforementioned friend of chronic sad movie-watching, swearing not to do that again, and then gluttoning ourselves upon piles of Kleenex and makeup wipes.
(Provided by me, she thought she would not cry. I warned her. And came prepared.  Am Girl Scout Troop Leader, you know)

Matt was all, "You realize you are going to cry at the movies with K again. Did you warn her?"

And I was all, "It is not my fault if she is not up to speed on the billion blog posts I write about how I cry over this source material in whatever format except long boring book."

And he is all, "Did you pack Kleenex?

And I am all, "Yes, they are packed around my smuggled teas."

And he is all, "Are you late? Do you have your keys?" (He is taking after E on this)

And I am all "Yes, and No."

But I get there, music starts, I break out my various methods of not soaking my clothes in tears, pass some to K, she is thinking she does not need them.

Apparently she forgot who we are and what our routine is, which we have established as a thing now. 
 We could go see something super funny and cry over thinking of a sad movie we've seen before.

And of course, we cried, I explained my intricate analysis on Who Is Awesome And Who Is Overrated And Why Don't They Show The Revolution Leader More And I Cannot Process The Rain Making Flowers Grow Oh  No Here's Gavroche, I Am Toast.

I was not alone.
K wanted the tissues, there was weeping and honking and sobbing all around us.

Yet we acknowledged, afterwards, as we always do, stumbling out into the sunlight blinking tears out of our eyes, that we really need to see something non-tragic next time.

Which we will not do.


Sunday, February 3, 2013

Quoth The Raven, Why Is There Not More Poetry In Football? Or, Reasons Why I Am Not Invited To Superbowl Parties, by Allison

So, we are all watching the Superbowl, or, I am waiting for the commercials to rank them, as that is the sport I observe during this event (Go Oreos!).

I do not care for football because it takes too long and I can't see anyone's faces and all, but I did work at an ad agency so I love to see who brings their A game on the commericals and who does the lame beer plus girls equals boring commercial, Pavlovian response from audience notwithstanding.
(Note: Reason One Why I Am Not Invited To Superbowl Parties)

I also have my Kindle, for the non-commercial parts.

M the seven year old stylist asks Matt which team is which, and that is a good question.
I will also add here that M and E are dressed as Superbowl fairy princesses, which is not a thing, but E is humoring M by wearing a tiara and carrying a wand, and M is glittered up, and I am wondering why I never thought of that before.
(Note: Reason Two Why I do not get invited to Superbowl Parties)

Matt informs the girls who is what team while procuring Superbowl Food, which is the one day a year he gets horrible fake cheese things and melts stuff there are Doritos and way too much orange edible things that do not exist in nature.
 I protest the non-existent foodgroup of Superbowl Food.
(Note: Reason Three Why I Am Not Invited To Superbowl Parties)

And get this?

Somehow V starts laughing/mocking me when I helpfully interjected "M, the Ravens are wearing the black jeggings outfits."
I tell her I won a football pool at work once based on color of outfits and names
(Which? was awesome, and totally aggravated the people who took it seriously), and V tries to say it is not "outfits."
And I say, call my dad, I've had this argument with him for years.
(Note: Reason Four Why I Am Not Invited To Superbowl Parties)

And Matt tries to say Ravens are named for the state bird of Maryland and explains about the team used to be the Cleveland Browns, and he has actual cousins and uncle and such who played for pro teams so he knows stuff, and nobody in the room is interested in my tangential ponderings on cities poaching teams from other cities and what that does to an economy and is it worth it and they are all, "Here she goes again."
(Note: Reason Five Why I Am Not Invited To Superbowl Parties)

So I change topic, and say I like how the golddigger outfits have gold on them, and the girls are Wha?
So I start trying to explain the gold rush and E and V are, "We said no more history lessons" and M is all, "We can go to California and get gold?" Allons-y!

 And to keep with being positive and not grumpy about the non-commercial parts of the Superbowl, I pay sincere compliment to the Ravens outfits going with the Edgar Allan Poe theme.
You know, the black and white stark grim suiting the nature of the poem The Raven.

And Matt is kind of laughing, and V is all "They do not have poetry in football!"

And I am all, "Well they SHOULD have poetry in football. That would be awesome."
(Note: Reason Six Why I Am Not Invited To Superbowl Parties)

The Raven poem is a fantastic threat!
"Oh, yeah other team? NEVERMORE."

See, that is totally perfect and if it becomes a thing, I want credit.
They should make T shirts, black and gruesome, with "Quoth The Raven, Nevermore."

That would be the best team shirt ever, because that is a scary poem, and V is right, there is not much poetry in football sportwear currently, so it would be cutting-edge.

I get excited by this idea, and start speculating how cool that would be, and the snickering all around me by all of my family members, except M the seven year old stylist who is sketching it out as I speak is not appreciated.
Again I am informed poetry plus football equals Mom Is Being Weird Again.

So I try to say that in the Venn Diagram of Football fans and Edgar Allen Poe fans, there has to be some cross section and not just serial killers, and E is all 'NO MATH. Stop!"
(Note: Reason Seven Why I Am Not Invited To Superbowl Parties)

Luckily, since there are commercials every four seconds, we stop squabbling about whether I am a genius (Note: The answer is yes) or not (Note: I disagree with the latter sentiment, and since I am genius I know what I am talking about)
and when the game resumes again I get to leave otherwise known as stop bothering them.
(Note: Reason Eight Why I Am Not Invited To Superbowl Parties)