It's much like pointing out that a child does not ethnically resemble his parent.

The first time you tell someone that they look too young to have had whatever child they have, it's a compliment... or, at least, can be meant as one.
The second time you make the comment, it becomes mildly uncomfortable to the target. Target is the appropriate word here because the statement has become pointed.
The third and every following occurrence, you are simply begging for an awkward conversation about teen pregnancy and what it feels like to be a statistic.
Are you looking for some sort of confession?
Are you my priest?
Did my Catholicism unlapse without my noticing?
Have some couth.

No Beer This Time

Sam is testing Ethan on spelling. "Curl."
Ethan responds, "c-u-r-l."
Next Sam says, "Bitch."
Beat.
Beat.
I look at him, befuddled. Ethan starts giggling.
"Huh?" Sam says as if it had come from someone else. He rechecks the paper. "Oh. Birth."
I think Sam's cold meds are slowing his brain down a bit.

To Claim the Meditation Was Unsuccessful Would be an Understatement

Dammit, is the sound still on on the television? No, ignore it. Need to learn to ignore sounds if I want to be able to meditate at work... Where would I? The break room? People will think I'm insane. The bathroom! No, no lids. Go to the car- it won't be freezing much longer... It might get too warm, not idling the car, I kill the environment too much anyway. Roll down the windows, open the sun roof. Freakin' traffic. Stop! No thinking... The refrigerator just kicked on. I guess I'm never around actual complete silence. Block that out... What time did I start? Stop thinking! Breathe, breathe, breathe. Now you're thinking about breathing! Now you're picturing the word BREATHE. Focus. The center of the A. Focus. Focused on that flower when I was in labor with Connor. Could I draw that flower now? Oh my god, stop thinking. I could blog how bad at this I am. Clear your head!... Am I really thinking about blogging about thinking about blogging?... God, how long has it been?

Dear Sir,

I appreciate that you decided to pull over to the side of the road in order to take a phone call. However, perhaps you could have chosen not to pull over on the highway off-ramp? Yeah, that super curvy one, the one with nearly blind curve. Perhaps the road the off-ramp connects to would have been a more logical choice? Or, say, that half-empty, free, carpool parking lot? The one right in front of your dumb face? You know, so as to not cause an accident. Of course, your poor decision making skills make me feel really safe that you share the road with me. Moron.

I Have a Confession

Please don't think less of me.

I...

sigh

Okay, like a band-aid. (No, not braille-y. Rip-quick-for-less-pain.)

I am and/or was a fan of the Twilight series of books.

Deep inhale. Deep exhale. A weight has been lifted.

So the am/was of it all is due to the fact that I finished reading the main series within days of release of the last book and have not really looked back. When I was reading them, I really liked them. I read every spare minute of the day. The children scavenged the remains of the pantry. Sam talked divorce. And then I was done, and I haven't picked any of the series back up since I finished the fourth book.

And then my sister Lindsey and I made a mad dash for the first movie when it was released, and... eh.

In fairness, I'm pretty much guaranteed to not enjoy a movie made from a book that I loved. And I really did not enjoy it. Whatever, I've never seen the second movie, and have no plan to see the other two-still-to-come. And, please, don't try to convince me that the book series sucks or that the movies are the best things ever shown in a movie theater. I really don't care.

This all comes about because I was listening to NPR this morning (criminy, let's see if I can fit one more link in this post), and this particular "news item" (really?) was about those nutters who are camping outside the red carpet for the premiere of the latest movie- no, not to see it, because they are in no way getting in. They are camping in order to get a look at/picture of the stars of said movie.

Need I repeat that?

Here's another kicker. They've already been given their wristbands that guarantee their "entrance" (though not necessarily position, I suppose), so they are free to leave. They're not budging.

I know.

This post has gotten long. If you're still reading, thanks. Let's get to it.

So this, I dunno, reporter? broadcaster? Wtf-ever he was, he profiled two groups of campers. The first group was so-and-so and her eight friends, "and I use the term 'friends' loosely." Oh yeah? Did they meet on-site? That's why "friends" may not really apply? No, they met online. Hey, f**ker! Therefore they could not be friends? Just "friends"? Rather judgey of him. I admit, I don't talk to many people online. Pretty much just Cassie (bam!) most of the time, but what the hell? In an age where so many people meet or chat or comment or blog or share or create/join a community online, I think a statement like that is a quick way to get a lot of hate-email.

Let's move on to group two. They called themselves, I think, Twi-Moms? Something where they combined "Twilight" and "Mom". Ladies? Stop doing this shit. It is creepy and disgusting. If you want to lust after these boys, fine... maybe? Honestly, it's still a little eww. Reading the books, it's easy to find a piece of yourself in the main character, easy to remember being that teenage girl. But watching the movie, putting these boy faces onto the love interests (oh, lord, spoiler there, I suppose- but if you haven't read them yet, odds are you probably aren't going to) just ups the nasty factor. (Maybe this is why I didn't like the movie? No, it still just sucked.) So, A! Lusting after boys- boys with boy faces, you can't imagine you are their age. You can NOT. And then B. You go and add "mom" into it? You go and make it sound incestuous? No, do not argue. That is what you crazy bitches did. You took "yucky" and turned it into "criminal".

As Cassie just said to me, "As much as the term 'cougar' annoys me, at least it doesn't denote 'motherhood'." And what's more, because I share the label "mother" with you, you are dragging me with you into your world of skin-crawly-molesty-foul. Please. Just. Stop.

No matter where we all fall on the political spectrum (although, let's be honest, if you read my blog, the odds are against "conservative"...

...being one of your defining characteristics. It could be! All are welcome! Just odds against.), can we all just agree to stop using the term "teabaggers" for the current conservative movement? (NSFW. Holy hell, NSFW.) (Mom, please don't click that link. I said don't click that link!)

Please? Can we please choose a new term?

Dear Industry of Growers of Chickens,

I know that we, as a society, want everything bigger and faster and more, more more, more! (Everyone's inner-reading-voice should have just converted to Boris Karloff- "And they'd sing! AND they'd SING! SING! SING! SING"!) (That was a reference to How the Grinch Stole Christmas! If you didn't get that from the last set of parentheses, you should never tell me because I will make fun of you forEVER.) I get it. The chickens have been bred for their breast-size, much like Hollywood actresses. You've gotten to the point that the poor little chickys can't stand up on their own, much less even flap their wings. All because we Americans like maintaining our fat asses, and it's way cheaper to grow one huge chicken than two little ones.

So, yes, I get why chickens, and more specifically chicken breast, has gotten bigger and bigger over the years. But this?

That's frickdiculous. Absofrickinlutely frickdiculous. Yeah, I had to double up on the made-up words to express the point. Thanks for that, too, Industry of Growers of Chickens.

Loveys and salmonella,

Sarah

And there you have peek number three into my brain- just in time for my dialogue with myself.

This morning, the first thing I typed to Cassie was, "i'm going to investigate a noise. if i'm not back in five minutes, call the police." She responded with, "will do".

I'm not entirely sure this was the most logical way for me to go about things.

In situations like this, I always debate my under-reaction and my over-reaction. I refuse to be the chick who calls the police over a noise at her window that ends up being a bird flapping around. But I'm also not going to be the one who is killed in her home because she startled a burglar. So how do I appropriate-level-react?

If I had called Sam, I figured he'd have said, "There's no one in the house... No, there's not... Honey, stop... Fine! What's it sound like?... What the hell does "two spoons" sound like?... I don't have any spoons to test it out, just tell me... Well, where's the noise coming from?... What do you mean you don't know? Find out... Find out... By walking around!... Listen, I don't have time for this. If you're really worried, call the police. If you're not, then just go!... Well what if it's the furnace exploding?"

See? He'd be no help at all.

But I figured at least someone should know that I was going to go all bad-ass investigator. I wasn't entirely clear on how Cassie would react to my request- had I not returned. Possibly, I put her in an awkward position. If it were me, I'd try calling her first. Although I'd wait longer. And then I'd get no answer and I'd call again frantically and still no answer and then I'd call the police and they'd balk at me and I'd demand they react and then she'd be dead, all because I'm a horrible person.

And now you've had your second peek into the running stories I have going on inside my head.

Alright, I just asked her what she'd have done.

me: okay, i have an important question
what would you have done if i hadn't come back in five minutes?
Flutterby: i was debating that, actually
prob at the 5 min mark, i would've msg'd you while digging through my chats, etc to find your address
i estimated it would take me an add'l 5 min to come up with your address and the number for your localish PD
and then I prob would've called bc better safe than sorry
i figured if you said 5 and you weren't back in the add'l 5, that was reasonable to make a phone call
then i would've played spider solitaire or something :P

She is apparently a better person than I. Better at keeping other people alive, anyway.

So back to the noise. I leave that message with Cassie, and I slowly walk into the front hallway to try to pinpoint the noise. The noise stops. Of course. I head toward the upstairs. The noise starts up again. Dammit! It's coming from the basement. (We all know how much I love the basement.) I open the door, peek down there, realize I can see nothing, and then belly-down on the floor to get a better view. Yes, yes I really do. I am about to go down the stairs when I realize, as I'm saying in my head, "this-is-so-stupid this-is-so-stupid this-is-so-stupid". Is it so stupid that I'm afraid to go downstairs? No. It's stupid to go down there without a weapon. So I turn around and search the living room. Connor's lunch bag- what the hell is that doing here instead of at school with him? Whatever, not a good weapon. Where's the bat? (Why did I think there's going to be a bat in my living room? I have no idea.) Crap. Weapon, weapon, weapon. There is nothing bludgeoningable in this room! I know, a knife! I tippy-toe into the kitchen, find a pointy knife. Wait. Would I be able to stab someone if it came down to it?... Yes, yes I could. Okay, down the stairs. Slowly, slowly. (Because someone who is hiding in my basement- playing with spoons- isn't going to have noticed me opening the door and sneaking down.) I squat down on the landing halfway down the stairs and rotate on the spot, searching the noise out. I'm not turning the lights on- better to be blind than to let the psycho-spoon-playing-killer get a better view of me. Ah! What the hell is that?! Oh, the ping-pong table. (Why was this more threatening than all the other crap piled up in the basement? I have no idea. Because psycho-spoon-playing-killers are actually big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killers, I guess.) The noise kicks in again. Alright, that's it. The lights are going on because... because the sudden light will blind the big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killer and I'll get the jump on him! (I watch entirely too much police-drama television.) The noise is coming from... there! Crap. The furnace. Why is the furnace playing spoons? Dammit, I hate it when Sam's right- wait, wasn't that in my head?

This was the point when the furnace turned off altogether. I couldn't therefore solve the mystery, but that was fine because it meant it wasn't a big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killer. Screw it. Sam can solve the furnace issue when he gets home. So long as it doesn't blow up in the meantime.

But only the beers you serve with lime. The regular kind of beer is full of uck.

Sam and I stopped by a quick-stop-and-go-gas-station place for beer. I set it at the register and sort of stepped away so Sam could pay. Okay, what I really did was turn away and stare longingly at the enormous candy display behind me, reciting (In my head, only, thanks. I'm not completely insane.), and this sounds like The Little Train That Shouldn't, "I don't need candy. I don't need candy. I don't need candy."

And as I'm standing there, trying to ignore the Whatchamacallit, I sort of sense... the woman behind the counter is doing... nothing?

I look at her curiously. "Hi," I say, trying to prompt her ass to just ring up my beer, already.

But because I am obsessive about the candy (and also, to get some, I must choose one before the bitch hits "total"), I turned back to the display.

Yet there is still no beepy-beepy meaning she's ringing up. But there is, "Uhm, do you have any ID?" So I turned and smirked (okay, and snorted) at Sam because, seriously? Neither of us will ever again pass for traditional college students. But he handed over his license, and she studied it. And studied it. Then she handed it back to him (I assume, because at this point I was still obsessing with the SweeTarts), and I hear, "I'm going to need your ID, too."

...

Aren't we being a tiny protective of the beer?

But I held my tongue (mostly) and handed over my license so we could just get the hell out of there. Seriously. Bitch. Wrap up the beer. Oh. Mygod.

It wasn't until I was climbing back into the car that it occurred to me. Okay, so maybe my obsession with the candy display, the awkward ignoring of the activity at the cash register, my continuous back-turning to her. Maybe it looked a little bit like me turning away to hide my face? And that dude, the one who was obviously old enough to buy booze, but he's with that chick who isn't making eye-contact, who's acting kinda sneaky? And who isn't, for whatever reason, making the purchase herself. Huh. Maybe someone needs to call the cops.

Cate Just Brought Something to My Attention

In response to yesterday's post, I found this:

Call Me Cate said...
So what happens when he googles the right combination to find your blog?!?!?

...

...

...

Sonuvabitch.

Great. Now I have to figure out how to preemptively block a site that is not specifically associated with pornography. Thanks for giving me more work, Cate.

Merry Christmas... and yes, he was back in at 6:20, and I expect him there again in five minutes.

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring... oh, wait...

3:08am

*Knock Knock*
"Go back to bed," I say, groggily.
"But I threw up."
"Oh, no."

Poor Ethan. What a way to start Christmas. Poor me. Is there any possible way to get puke out of a mattress? Especially at three in the morning?

I set him up in a little nest right outside the bathroom door. He refuses the light being turned off, though. He's up again at 4:20. And by "again", I don't mean to imply that he sleeps in the intervening time...

5:10am

There is whispered conversation. Connor greets Ethan.
"I'm throwing up."
"On Christmas?!"
Because he has a choice in the matter? He didn't take into account the scheduling conflict?

Emily and Connor wait while Ethan throws up again at 5:20. There's nothing for it. We give up on the notion of sleep and go down to rip open some presents.

We've finally given in and given Connor his cell phone. I decided to put it in his stocking, since it's normally the last thing they tear into, yet it's the first thing he does. I hurriedly grab the video camera to catch his reaction. He's shocked into silence for a solid three seconds. A record. I look down. The friggin' camera is paused.

Moving on, I pull a large present out from under the tree to give to Ethan. Apparently this is the keystone gift. The tree decides it would prefer a horizontal life. It dumps water everywhere, breaks a tree-side's worth of ornaments, and irreparably damages the tree stand.

I think it's time to break out the espresso flavored vodka for my coffee.

I hope this morning is going better for everyone else.

To whoever arrived at my blog by googling: why is it not safe to eat dead crap?...

...please seek the help you so desperately need.

Unless you meant dead crab. In which case- the help you need might be a stomach pumping. Also the ability to watch your typos.

Also, who the hell googles in complete sentences? Stop doing that. Key words, asshole, key words.

You Can All Just Leave Your Keys Right Here in This Bottomless Pit

I know that anyone who reads my blog is too smart for this information. Perhaps, though, you could just send a link to the people in your life to whom you know this advice pertains.

And, for those of you who arrived at this post through a link in a friendly email or perhaps after following a url from a crumbled piece of paper shoved hurriedly into your hand by a well intentioned if not all too subtle relative... they didn't mean you needed to read this... yeah. They meant they were sure you knew someone who knew someone who should read this for their own good... right. Uh huh... maybe you could just take a quick skim-zy over it anyway?

So, let's say your driving along a highway. For simplicity, there are, on this highway, two lanes of traffic headed in the same direction, this is the direction you're headed, too! There are many, many signs along the road. They say something along the lines of "55 (or 65/75/80) STATE SPEED LIMIT". For starters, let me interpret "STATE SPEED LIMIT" for you. This means "I will make that little arm on my speedometer hit said number". I know it seems like what that sign is saying is "limit means no more than, so just make sure you do 55 or less", but that's not what it means. The "or less" must go. Holy hell, just hit the speed limit. If you can do fifty, you can do fifty-five. Why? Because I goddamned said so.

(For those of you who are now yelling at the screen, "Fifty-five? What do you mean fifty-five?! They should be doing over that!", okay, I get what you're saying. Shut up now. You're scaring your family with your incoherent screaming. A? I'm not advising anything illegal (regardless of what I do in my own life) because the hell if I'm gonna get sued because some moron can't identify a state trooper when they see one. And B. Isn't it enough that I'm just getting these assholes up to the limit? Plus, I'm about to give the more important advice, so settle down.)

Okay, class. Eyes over here. Back to the highway. You are now traveling at the speed limit. Of the two lanes, which one are you traveling in? The left lane? Wrong, Johnny, sit the hell back down. The right lane is for normal driving. The left lane is for PASSING. What's passing? That's what the rest of us are currently doing to you. Or would be, if some other idiot- and I'm not naming names, *cough*JOHNNY*cough*- wasn't in the left lane keeping pace with the right lane. Let me explain further. Have you ever wondered why there are so many other assholes out on the road? Why they all seem to come flying up from behind you, ride your ass for a minute, then veer out from behind you, into the right lane, get ahead of you, only to veer back into the left lane? That's because they aren't the assholes in this scenario. They're hoping you will suddenly come to your senses, then, within a minute, they've learned their lesson, and have to get around you by passing on the right. Get the eff out of the left lane! Are you passing someone? No. This is a highway, not a free-for-all. Move. Over. Now. The interesting thing about this part is this is not just common sense. It is not just basic decency. It is not just a regular courtesy, some made-up rule that the rest of us abide by because some how we are in sync with each other. In a ton of states, it's an actual law. And it's not even one of those pesky ones they never tell you about. The have signs. They post those signs- at regular intervals, even. Sometimes that sign seems to be more apparent than the speed limit signs I kindly pointed out earlier.

So let's say, now, class, that you are driving the speed limit, you are in the right lane. You are approaching a car in the lane ahead of you. They have not listened thus far in the lecture, and are traveling at a less than reasonable speed. What to do? Change lanes? Okay, that's right- and you'll move back to the right lane after you've passed the other car? Good, good. Now how are you going to change lanes? (You know what, Johnny? Don't even bother giving me whatever stupid answer was going to come tumbling from your pie hole. Just go stand in the corner.) The correct answer is, "I will not only signal my lane change and check my blind spot, I will make sure I'm not about to cut off a car that is already passing in the left lane, especially if that person has chosen to do so at a higher rate of speed than I." You can signal using these lights on the outside of your car that are wired to that little stick thingy that sits behind the steering wheel. They let the other drivers around you have the slightest bit of warning before you pull some jack-assed maneuver. Your blind spot is this little space just back and to the side of your car that you cannot see using your rear view mirror- you do use your mirrors, right?- so you must actually turn your head in order to see this area. I know, I know, actually using muscles within your body to do anything besides flip someone off seems like a lot more effort than it's worth. Give it a shot, though. It might save you something in insurance premiums.

Okay, that's it for today. Next time, we will discuss how allowing someone to merge in ahead of you in traffic does not make you less of a man, why it's impolite to keep your brights on when you're behind someone, what to do on the highway when there are three lanes of traffic (god help us all), and why you do not always have to lead the pack. 'Til then, turn in your licenses and stay the hell off the road. Thanks in advance.

I think I could avoid a ton of conversations with him if I just put "No, it does not involve naked women," on a recording for him to play for himself.

On television was a show about a couple who wanted a feng-shui-ed-out garden. The nutter expert who was advising them in the process kept going on and on and on for effing ever 'til I reached through the tv and punched her in the throat about meditate this and meditation that and meditating for you and me!

Sam walked into the room. "Meditatiate!" he announced- the expert was just shy of making up words, herself. "I'm good with meditatiation! As long as it involves naked women."

"Nope, sorry," I told him. "It could not involve naked women because you could not concentrate enough to meditatiate."

"In that case, I'm not a fan." And he left.

The elephant in the room is that the crap-gangville-strip is the famous Route 66. They should be embarrassed.

One evening of our trip, we go to a fantastic mexican restaurant. They make a margarita to end all margaritas. Normally I'm a frozen margarita girl because it needs to be frozen to cover up the nasty syrupy mess that most places serve. This one is excellent on the rocks, no salt necessary.

At one point, a woman comes over and says "Quieres mas? You have limonda o agua?" Now, as I have neither lemonade nor water, I pay no attention. (Or maybe it's because I'm nose-deep in my big-ass margarita glass.) Until I notice there's been no response.

"Uh, Alex," I say. "Do you want more lemonade?" "Oh. Sure." He passes his glass over, and I look curiously at Sam. "Why are we not responding to the waitress?" "Well I know I didn't get what she was asking." Huh. Over the years, I've tried to maintain some semblance of the remedial Spanish I took in high school. Paid off, I guess, as I barely notice the Spanish-English merging that she uses as she comes and goes from our table. I'm sure she's dumbing it down (Enlish-ing it up?) some, but I'm still understanding her perfectly. I'm proud of (read: full of) myself for my bad-ass bilingual-ness. Even from the bottom of my second delicious big-ass margarita.

And then we end up at Wendy's a few nights later. "Welcome-to-Wendy's-I'll-take-your-order-whenever-you're-ready-unless-of-course-you're-a-dumbass-gringo-in-which-case-you're-not-understanding-a-word-of-this-and-I-will-treat-you-like-crap," comes through the speaker. In Spanish. I assume. Because I? Don't speak a single word of Spanish. Apparently.

"Uhm... hi?... Can I... get two orders of nuggets?... And..." "Anything else?" she says. I'm sorry? Since when does "and" mean "I'm not in the middle of a sentence"? I know I'm slow here, but I'm thinking of how effed-up "nuggets de pollo" would sound. Eventually I finish and she gives us our total- I think?- and, we assume, asks us to pull up. Except I can't understand a word she says in English, either. I'm so flustered that I screw up the order and have to ask her to add on some junior bacon cheeseburgers at the window.

Now this is a personal insult. Right? It must be because the holy-bitch grows fangs. Sam hands over what I believe is way too much money, but it must not have been because we only get a dollar and change back. Huh. But then frostys come through the window (wee!), and then she yells at us. Something about nuggets de pollo? She shuts the window and Sam stares at me. "Pull up?" I say. It's really an odd sensation, the combination of fear, confusion, and growing pissed-off-ness. The woman is being heinous, but she's holding my nuggets de pollo hostage, y'all.

Eventually she comes out and- I am not kidding- throws the bags of food through the car window before dashing back into the restaurant. Thank god we got our frostys before we pulled up. And pissed-off wins the emotion battle that has been roiling within me. Heinous-holy-bitch is lucky because Sam is the one in the driver's seat and pulls away before I can go jump the woman.

It's not until we're almost back to the hotel eight miles on the other side of the crap-gangville-strip that we had to traverse (at ten-thirty at night) to get there (because of the lying-liar signs at the exit that said Wendy's was right here) that I found the receipt stapled to the bag. She had short-changed us by ten bucks. If I didn't live two thousand miles away? She and I would have words. Of course, we wouldn't be able to understand each other...

Taking My Home to Work

I was at work the other night and called Sam to see how the evening was going. Homework was done, yay. The kids had eaten, a plus. And then...

Sam: The neighbor's dog caught and killed a groundhog.
Me: Oh, no.
Sam: Yeah. It was a baby.
Me: Ick. What did she do with it?
Sam: Well, she was going through our property on her way home, I guess. But then the kids ran out to see and scared her and she dropped it on our driveway.
Me: Vomit. So? What did you do? It better not still be there.
Sam: No. I threw it at the dog.
Me: The hell?
Sam: Well, I wanted her to take it with her.
Me: You just winged it at her? And how did that work for you?
Sam: It's at least in their woods now, instead of our driveway.

Sometimes the "don't call home on your break" option is the best option.

Or Maybe I Told Every One of My Coworkers and We Tagged Your Account "Dumb Jerk"

I decided early on that this would not be the place I would come to complain about customers. Suffice it to say, however, I would like those-some-of-you to STOP BEING SUCH JERKS. For real, you are NOT going to get a NICER person than I waiting on you. I have infinite patience in my "professional" life- which is odd because everywhere else I have none. So, just a friendly reminder to everyone. The person on the other side of the counter, the odds are they don't own the store. The odds are they have dealt with a jerk or ten that day. The odds are they are not paid big bucks. So, while it's true that the odds are you won't ever see them again, and therefore don't have to face the consequences of your rudeness directly... consider that you may have, in your carelessness, made someone's mommy cry. And life will punish you.

For Sale: Two Boys, Slightly Beaten

Me, to Ethan: Do you need it or not?

Ethan, sarcasm dripping: Maaaaybe.

Me: And you think that's an okay way to talk to me?

Connor: I'm so proud.

Do they not get my need for my job to pay me?

We went to the bus stop this morning and waited. And waited. And waited. For the second time this school year, there was a school delay that I did not know about. Because I didn't bother to look for a delay. Because I assume that they have school when I don't even have to shovel the driveway at all. What, because it's cold??? It's WINTER, PEOPLE! It's SUPPOSED TO BE COLD.

Possibly, I'm more pissed about sitting at the bus stop for ten minutes then the whole actually having a delay... No, it's the delay. These people are ridiculous.

This type of crap is an everyday occurrence.

Deep growly voice, chanting: Eat a tur-key-LEG! Eat a tur-key-LEG! Eat a tur-key-LEG! Eat a tur-key-LEG!
Connor, stalking after Emily. I don't know why. But it's stuck on repeat in your head now, too. You're welcome.