Category: blog

As I have been taking the time to smell the roses, I have stumbled upon some very lovely and sometimes shiny objects.

My little Finch family is one example of a shiny object in my life. I am constantly watching to see what they may be up to; which is rather silly because it is pretty much the same thing all day. Chirp, chew up food, spit the food in the other bird’s mouth, sleep. When I take the time to think about it, which I do, their lives are a lot like mine. Chirp, chew, spit, sleep – not necessarily in that order.

It is nice to watch Father Finch stop by every now and again for a little feeding and courtship. Turns out their courtship is much like humans. The male will tease the female with his bill – touching her bill if he is interested. Then, he’ll provide her the best bits of food his bill can bring. At this point, the ball (or in this case, bill) is in her court. If she is good at mimicking a hungry, young chick, he’ll feed her. This exchange reminds me of so many of my first and, in some cases, last dates.

I’ve spent several hours gathering photo and video footage of the Finch family. As a result, I have a whole new respect for BBC Nature, Discovery, Animal Planet and PBS. Holding the camera steady while waiting for activity and, when activity actually happens, having a good song playing in the background – so as to reduce editing hours – is a lot of work. After a couple of attempts at footage, I decided to head to the library. Chirp. Chew. Spit. Check out stuff. Sleep.

As I was walking toward the library I was approached by a man, probably in his late 40s, who was walking a dog. “Wanna see something crazy?” he asked me.” “Sure,” I replied without hesitation. Shiny objects, shiny objects. While I was following him I started thinking, “Manhunter. Horrific movie. Great soundtrack. I wonder if the library has it….shitfuckdamn, this may not end well – which means I’m going to end up with a late fee on this DVD set. Chirp. Chew. Spit. File a police report. Pay library fines. Sleep.”

Then, I saw crazy. His dog had found a nest of goose eggs, about ten of them, resting next to a large daylily. After I took a picture and thanked him for sharing this with me, he made an observation. “I was just thinking how strange what I said may have sounded.” “Yeah, I thought that too. But I don’t think it is any more strange than me taking you up on the offer.”

It was at this point that I went my own way. Even though he was also into shiny objects, I wasn’t ready for him to touch my bill or spit in my mouth.

Most of the time, I enjoy taking my time. When I’m driving, I like making good time. Unfortunately, as great as Dirk is  – affordable, practical, sleek, low maintenance – he, like me, takes his time getting going. When I am driving Dirk, I can both see and smell the roses. When I drive my other car, which takes zero time to get going, I don’t even know roses exist. I must admit, I prefer Dirk and the roses.

Oreggano is also like Dirk, which I appreciate, because I know I can call on her anytime that I want to grab coffee, have a glass of wine, or anything else that keeps me from doing things I don’t want to do. Being that it was Administrative Assistant day, I decided to take the morning off and have coffee with her. I figure I make my own copies, file my own papers and take my own calls, so that makes me my own administrative assistant.

Oreggano is also her own Administrative Assistant, so it was a lovely celebration of ourselves. We got our coffee, took Indigo to the dog park and, while he was busy smelling other dogs’ butts, we were busy smelling the roses.

Afterward, Dirk and I made our way to the office. As I was driving along, seeing and smelling the roses, I was passed by a guy in a souped up third generation Chevy Nova Coupe. His car was almost forty years older than Dirk and clearly had more juice in the engine, but Dirk probably averaged about 30 miles more to the gallon. And, as fast as the old Nov could go, the guy had to signal with his cigarette. “Lame,” I thought to myself as he passed me by, “I would never signal with a cigarette, especially in a sweet ride like that. I’d signal with a pimp stick.”

And then, I looked at my speedometer and had another thought, “If I hadn’t already named him Dirk, I would name him Hagar. Son of a bitch can’t drive 55, literally. Time to move over to the slow lane, throw on some Simon & Garfunkel, and put those roses in a vase.”

Skiwi and I share a common love: the library. We love all things Dewey; however, like all who have experienced love, we have a favorite: the CDs. He is currently in possession of Animal by KE$HA and we were listening to it while DDDG was making us dinner. DDDG’s birthday is in May and they are planning a trip to New York City to celebrate. While DDDG slaved away in the kitchen (it isn’t her birthday yet), Skiwi and I were talking great NYC restaurants and activities.  As we discussed great places to visit, I suggested that the two of them join us in the Hamptons in August. “I really like that idea. We can play track eight while there,” Skiwi told me while flashing a sly smile and holding up the KE$HA CD case. “Party at a Rich Dude’s House? Perfect!” I replied.

While KE$HA Tik Tok’ed, so did the clock. We had finished dinner and were eating dessert when DDDG began telling me about Skiwi’s love for the hazelnut cookie. “I made him coffee for breakfast and went to get a couple of cookies only to find he had already eaten the entire center row,” she told me. Skilled at the art of distraction (most likely the result of a good library read), Skiwi replied, “And she makes a fine cup of coffee. As good as, if not better than, that served at Cambria Suites.” “Well that is good to hear,” I stated and added, “It will definitely help with her dream of becoming a barista.” “Yeah,” said Skiwi, “Except most people like their coffee in the morning.” “Whatever,” said DDDG. “I know, I know,” I comforted her and added, “Luckily you and I share the same definition of ‘morning.'”

A few minutes later I was in their basement purchasing cosmetic products while Skiwi tooled around in the back room. As DDDG and I were talking prices, Skiwi stepped up to the counter and asked, “What are you two going on about?” I looked at him with the intent of providing an honest response and then saw why he was pretending to be so interested. He was donning his royal blue Ambassador sash courtesy, per say – it cost his company $20, of the San Antonio Chamber of Commerce. He is so proud of this sash and has told me about it on more than one occasion. I attempted to take a picture of him and he bolted out of the room. DDDG missed the entire incident and couldn’t understand why I was laughing so hard and why Skiwi was so blushy. “What?” asked Skiwi as he returned to the room sans sash, “What’s so funny? I’m just like KE$HA, I stand for fun.” “Me too,” I replied, “The party don’t start ’til I walk in. Where’s my Ambassador sash?”

While sitting in my office today I had a bit of an epiphany – and by ‘epiphany,’ I am not referring to the  manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi. What I’m talking about is a sudden realization, an understanding if you will, about people and their looks.

A coworker stopped by my office and asked why we hadn’t been out for beer again. As he was saying this I remembered we had, some time ago, gone out for drinks with a group of coworkers. He was a rather handsome gent, which made me wonder why I had blocked out this event. As he continued to speak with me, I had recall and my epiphany.

According to www.answers.com, ‘quality control’ is a system for ensuring the maintenance of proper standards in manufactured goods, especially by periodic random inspection of the product. According to me, some manufactured goods – people – have missed all inspections.

These are people who, by all appearances – physical, on paper, in their profile – seem ‘qaulity.’ Once they start speaking or you begin socializing with them, you quickly realize they missed both the initial QC  inspection and any periodic random inspections thereafter.

The physically attractive people are the worst. You see them and think, “Uh huh,” and then, sometimes within seconds, you think “Uh uh.” Dr. BJ and That’s Not Chinese have a friend like this. Very, very attractive individual. When I finally met him, I wasn’t impressed. Biggest dick ever – in more than one way, from what I’ve been told.  I saw the draw (I’m talking about his face and stature, not his plank), but that was it for me. Although handsome, like my coworker who I could not recall, his looks were all he had. Based on conversations with both of them, their looks are all they’ve ever had. It appears whoever is working their assembly line is either on break or can’t see past the pinstripes.

That said, I am extremely thankful for all of the QC inspections (most of which are non-PC) my friends and others have provided me periodically throughout my life to ensure the maintenance of ‘proper standards,’ (who knew I had standards – and that they’re proper?).

Sleepless and I were hungry the other night and, instead of making dinner, decided to bake a cake. Some people are like Martha Stewart in the kitchen. Not me. I’m like Amelia Bedelia, in the kitchen and elsewhere. I have all of the amenities for baking – aprons, pans, measuring devices, ingredients, oven, wine – unfortunately, I rarely use all but the latter. Thus, it took some time to actually bake the cake. In the midst of all of the baking, we received an invitation from Oreggano and Cream of Tartar to join them for pimp sticks on the porch.

We, of course, graciously accepted the invitation and started packing up the cake and ingredients to make the frosting. Oreggano and lactose aren’t friends, so we had to pack milk. As I looked around the kitchen, trying to decide how to transport the milk, I was reminded of my babysitting club adventures and opted to put it in a zip top snack bag. “This reminds me of Q’s breast milk for Baby Q. Do you think I should write ‘breast’ across the bag?” I asked Sleepless. “Absolutely,” she responded.

So, with the breast milk in tow, we headed to their house for pimp sticks. When we arrived, Oreggano told me, “He thinks you came over because you need blog material.” “Yep,” Cream of Tartar confirmed. “That’s not true. I don’t just need blog material. I also wanted to smoke one of your pimp sticks.” We then wowed them with the bag of breast milk and took our positions on the porch so we could enjoy the propane heat lamp and pimp sticks.

Cream of Tartar is a bit of a handyman who loves a challenge, so I was discussing some projects at my house that might be of interest to him. Once I mentioned my garden/back lot, he was sold. “You should grow hops there and sell them,” he told me. “Actually, you’ll probably only be able to trade them for beer, but that’s still worth it. Do you have security back there?” “No security,” I replied, “But I’ve got Alice. She regularly walks by and provides me full reports.”

“Alright, well, we need to be very careful about who we allow to garden with us,” Cream of Tartar told me. “You can’t trust people with a garden – it’s been proven.” “How are we going to screen people?” I asked. “Interviews,” said Cream of Tartar. “We’ll ask a few basic questions: How dedicated are you? How much time can you commit each week? Are you familiar with the acceptable use policy? What is compost and what does it mean to you? What are your long-term gardening goals?” “Those are good questions,” Sleepless told Cream of Tartar, “Hopefully you’ll get some good applicants.” “Hopefully,” he replied and then warned me, “Being the proprietor of an urban garden is hard.”

We brought out the cake and, knowing that the frosting had been made with milk in a zip top bag, Cream of Tartar couldn’t have been more excited, “Mmmm, breast milk cake.” “We should start ordering our lattes with breast milk,” I suggested. “Skim or whole?” Oreggano asked. “Breast, please,” Sleepless replied.

By this time MiniMe had joined us and Cream of Tartar was sharing his excitement for her 21st birthday. “He may be more excited about this than you,” Oreggano told MiniMe and added, “I’ve already resigned to the idea that my anniversary will be put on hold.” In addition to sharing a common love for Jameson, MiniMe and Cream of Tartar share a day of celebration – her birthday and his wedding anniversary.

Cream of Tartar was going on about a few matters specific to MiniMe’s life and, every now and again, he would drop a ‘f’ bomb. “Sorry about that,” he apologized to MiniMe and added, “You might need ear muffs when you’re over here.” “I’m in college,” MiniMe replied, “I’ve heard a thing or two.” “Maybe you need mouth muffs,” Oreggano advised Cream of Tartar. Sleepless did as she had been most of the evening, giggled in the corner and sipped her white zinfandel.

MiniMe began telling all of us about her upcoming trip to India when Cream of Tartar jumped up from the couch and started pulling knives out of storage. “We’re talking like adults now,” Cream of Tartar told MiniMe, “You’ll be in India, you need a goddamn knife.” That’s Not Chinese had been texting me and I had been sharing some of the conversation and concerns with her. She had her own concerns about Cream of Tartar’s perceptions of India. “She is obviously in denial,” Cream of Tartar told us. That’s Not Chinese shot me another text, “India is not like us – very peaceful people.” “I’m more worried about the leeches,” Cream of Tartar replied, “This is a matter of personal defense. You need a knife.”

Cream of Tartar than preceded to demonstrate his various knives and provide commentary on their quality. “I’ve got a plethora of knives. Not guns, knives. I’m a Democrat in a Republican’s body. Trust me,” he instructed us and continued on with the demonstrations. “This here is a real small package but you get a lot of punch.” “This one, well, maybe not this one. I don’t think it is legal there. In fact, I don’t know if it is legal here.” “This would be a good one if you want deep penetration in a compact size.” “Lash this to a stick if you need to kill a pig.” “Clip it on your bra strap in case someone tries to get aggressive. Then (he pretends to pull a knife from his faux bra strap), you’re the aggressor.” In the end, he ended up giving – not loaning – MiniMe a small, practical knife. “This is a survival knife and it is yours to keep,” he told her. “If, however, you manage to get it autographed by a Shaman, then I’d like it back.”

“Wow. That was amazing,” Sleepless told Cream of Tartar, “Best show and tell ever.” She was right. His game was on. He hadn’t been drinking too much and had only smoked one cigar so I had to assume his energy came from, hmmm, breast milk cake.

A few nights ago I received a drunk dial from Bitchin’ Camaro, Addly and Passed The Sniff Test. It was just after midnight and went something like this, “Hey, what are you doing?” “Sleeping.” “What are you wearing?” Up until this point, Bitchin’ Camaro was the only one asking the questions. The next question was yelled by all of them, “Are you wearing any underwear?” Passed The Sniff Test continued on, “I know you, I know you’re not. Tell ’em you’re not.” Unfortunately, for Passed The Sniff Test, they drunk dialed on a day when I opted to don a saucy fullback.

Tonight, instead of the drunk dial, I received the drunk text. And, instead of receiving them some time after midnight, they started coming in around six PM. Dr. BJ had just returned from “The South” and invited me to join him and That’s Not Chinese for wine. When I arrived at her house, I found Passed The Sniff Test was also there and all three of them had been imbibing for a couple of hours.

Passed The Sniff Test was busy with his phone, “I’m buying porn for her birthday,” he advised me. “What?” I asked. “He found my favorite porn online. It’s on DVD and is only $5, so he is getting it for me for my birthday,” That’s Not Chinese clarified with great enthusiasm. “Mmmm hmmm, ” said Dr. BJ, “And they plan to watch it together.” “I’m sorry,” I paused and questioned again, “What?” “We are going to watch it together,” That’s Not Chinese confirmed. “You do not watch porn with friends,” I replied. “Sure you do,” said Passed The Sniff Test. “Sure you don’t,” I advised. “Nothing is going to happen,” Passed The Sniff Test told us. “Well that part isn’t true,” said That’s Not Chinese and added, “If we watch porn together, something is going to happen.” It was at this point that Dr. BJ’s wine which was supposed to be flowing softly across his pallet and warmly into his belly, came spewing out of his mouth.

One might think this response would result in a topic change, but the focus on sex continued. “All the crazy ones are good in bed,” Passed The Sniff Test told us. “Did you hear that?” That’s Not Chinese asked me and added, “He just called us crazy.” “I’m not crazy and I don’t think he was referring to us,” I replied. “Oh, he certainly was,” said That’s Not Chinese. “I didn’t hear it,” said Dr. BJ. “I didn’t say that,” said Passed The Sniff Test. “Oh, yes, you did. You said all the crazy ones were good in bed and we are good in bed so that means you think we’re crazy,” That’s Not Chinese firmly stated. “No, not true at all,” said Passed The Sniff Test. “I said ‘All the crazy ones are good in bed,’ not ‘Everyone who is good in bed is crazy.'” “This shit is crazy,” said Dr. BJ. “Certainly is,” I said and quipped, “You two enjoy that birthday porn.”

There are some days when, no matter how much good you do, kids and adults with disabilities are out to get you – or so it seems.

 

Tree and I were so excited to volunteer at the hot dog cart for charity – we even picked out somewhat matching outfits and woke up early. Waking up early may not be a big deal for Tree, because he has “kids and a job,” but it is a big deal for me.

 

We arrived to find the hot dog cart strategically placed in between the store entrance and the handicap parking stalls and immediately started grilling and selling. Being that Tree has a food handler permit and loads of experience with meat and wieners, he was the grillmaster. I was in charge of marketing and financial transactions, primarily because I do not have a food handler permit.

 

I was doing my best to market, making friendly shoutouts to patrons, “Hot dogs and hamburgers,” Tree would follow up with, “Its for the kids.” He would then remind me, “Follow everything with ‘Its for the kids,’ it helps with sales.”

 

All of the money we made was being donated to a local children’s hospital and the prices were extremely low. $2 got you a hot dog, chips and drink. $3 got you a hamburger – with an option for cheese, chips and drink. Bitching got you nowhere.

 

A few minutes after making a ‘specialty’ burger – toasted buns, two well-cooked stacked patties with cheese – we received a complaint from management, “The burgers are burned.” “Maybe they should come and make them,” Tree replied. “It’s for the kids,” I added.

 

The handicap stall next to the grill had seen a lot of activity during our six-hour stint. Two Cadillacs, with placards hanging from their rear view mirrors, ran into each other and another senior patron pulled into the stall and hit a shopping cart so hard it flew several feet. All of the drivers were ornery – regardless of whether or not they hit something.

 

Tree was a bit cold in the shade, so he moved his grill into the sun. This location put him ever so slightly in the handicap stall. “Not so sure that this is a good move,” he told me and added, “These old people have been so cranky today.” Within minutes of this comment an elderly gentleman in a large truck pulled into the stall. As he walked into the store, oxygen tank in tow, he stopped to get all up in Tree’s grill about the location of his grill. “It will be moved by the time you return,” Tree assured him with great irritation. “It’s for the kids,” I reminded him.

 

Several women with a small child – who appeared to be sleeping while her grandmother held her – requested to purchase hot dogs and hamburgers. As I was gathering their chips and drinks, they were putting the little girl in the shopping cart. “Is she tired?” I asked. The grandmother curtly replied, “She has cerebral palsy.” I may not be bilingual, but I speak tone and easily translated her response, “Asshole.” As they walked away, Tree reminded me, “It’s for the kids.”

 

Pretty soon, the gentleman with the oxygen tank returned to his truck. Instead of getting in, he stopped just short of the passenger door, dead (or so it appeared) in his tracks, and hunched over his cart. “You should go check on him,” I advised Tree. “No way, he’s mean,” Tree quickly replied. “He’s probably stroking out.” “Well we can’t not check on him,” I said. “I’m going over.”

 

I approached him to find his eyes were open and he appeared to be breathing. “Sir, are you ok?” I asked. “Yes, just trying to catch my breath.” “OK, well, just let us know if you need help or anything.”

 

I returned to Tree with a full (of shit) report, “He is just trying to catch his breath. Apparently he is exhausted from having to yell at you about the parking space.” “Whatever,” said Tree and added, “It’s for the kids, not old people.”

If there is one thing MiniMe loves, it is being our burrito runner (aka, designated driver). Tonight was no exception. Prior to retrieving BiAss (who would rather be called Fussy One, but I would rather have flawless olive colored skin), we had MiniMe run us to the liquor store. I asked if she knew where it was and she said, “I know where it is. It is right by PE.” ” Is that really why you know where it is?” asked Tree. “Or is it because you always drive your mom there?”

Earlier in the evening (about 10 minutes prior), we had discussed people who lie. Not those who lie in bed – we don’t judge those types. Rather, those who tell lies. MiniMe shared an observation, “There is a big difference between a lie and a hyperbole.” There are a couple of ways to silence a room quick. 1) Make an extremely insensitive comment. 2) Use a big word that others don’t understand. Not one to enjoy a pregnant pause, Tree spoke up, “College kids, Jesus.”

It took me two days and multiple online searches to understand this word and that is not a hyperbole, that is the truth. I didn’t research it until the next day and I was spelling it wrong – huge difference between a hyperbole and a hyper fibula – thus, I am not using an extreme exaggeration to make a point. To be honest, none of us had time for exaggerations, we were too hungry. Starving even. We’ll probably end up eating a horse.

Once we were seated at the restaurant, Tree and I were talking about our upcoming volunteer activity which will benefit a children’s medical center. “I hate children,” said BiAss. “Just because you hate them doesn’t mean they have to have diseases,” Tree advised him and then continued telling everyone about our task. “So, we are going to have hot dogs and hamburgers.” “I didn’t know about the hamburgers. Do you have a food handler permit?” I asked Tree. “Yes, I have a food handler permit,” he responded and then told Sleepless, “She’ll (looking my way) handle the money.” “She knows how to make change,” Sleepless replied. “Do you have a boom box?” Tree asked me. “You know it,” I replied. “This is going to be great!” Tree exclaimed.

“It really is going to be great,” said Sleepless and added, “I cannot wait for pictures.” “Maybe we should take an outfit change,” suggested Tree. I decided to throw in a hyperbole, “If we take outfit changes we will sell thousands of hot dogs and make millions.” This hyperbole resulted in BiAss asking MiniMe a question, “What is a conjecture then?” “Yeah,” MiniMe responded, “I only use words I know.”

As things go with our group, this topic brought us to a completely unrelated topic, high definition television. “I’m not a fan,” I told them. “Makes people look horrible,” MiniMe added. “I love HD,” said BiAss, “I watch it and I’m always like, ‘Did I take something I forgot about?'” It is virtually impossible to talk about psychedelic drugs and not make a reference to a Disney cartoon. MiniMe shared a story with us about a little girl who believed The Little Mermaid’s hair color was the color of true redheads. MiniMe quickly and boldly corrected this young girl’s misconception. “Did you also let her know Santa Claus isn’t real?” asked Tree. “Or the Easter Bunny?” Sleepless asked and giggled. “Or that parents don’t love each other?” Tree quipped. “Orgasms, they’re not real,” I advised. Sleepless, though laughing, was concerned MiniMe might not really understand this last comment. “Orgasms?” MiniMe said rhetorically, “I know they’re not real. I’m in my second year of college. If I didn’t know that, then I’m in trouble.” That’s the truth, or is it a hyperbole?

 

 

Prior to stopping at Oreggano’s for wine and conversation, MiniMe expressed an interest in eating. Instead of going out to eat or getting a cheap drive-thru value meal, MiniMe wanted to go to the world’s largest retailer of natural and organic foods. I wasn’t so keen on this request and attempted to persuade her to go to a local small retailer of natural and organic foods, where we could get less – less expensive food and less pretentious patrons. My attempt was not successful.

Diggler was in agreement with my retail preference, but we both opted to give MiniMe’s suggestion a try. After paying over $20 for hummus, pita, and buffet to-go food, Diggler made an observation, “No wonder they (the yuppy hippies) dress so poorly, they can’t afford good clothes after paying this much for food.” Diggler was right, however, it probably isn’t just the food that sets their budgets back, the money spent on digestives to treat butt and heartburn most likely puts a dent in their finances.

In addition to the cost and side effects, the food was not very good. MiniMe, still a fan, was defensive, “I told you to get the other hummus. Everyone in the hummus world knows the other brand is the best.” “Hummus world?” I asked. “Yes, hummus world,” she boldly replied. “I’m not sure I want to be part of that world,” I informed her. “Me neither,” said Oreggano and Diggler in unison.

In addition to being part of the corporate world, Diggler has been working in the hospitality world as a part-time server. “I love serving,” he told us. “The people are great and so is the money. Speaking of money, the other day one of the cooks went to jail because he was arrested for dealing cocaine.” “That’s never good,” Oreggano commented. “Right,” Diggler agreed, “But he returned to work the next day with gold teeth.” “There’s good money in the cocaine business,” Oreggano stated and asked, “Did he by chance have new rims as well?” “Oh yeah,” said Diggler, “the ride was tricked out. But I don’t understand it. I mean, he is supposed to be deported and he comes back to work with all this bling.” “Deported?” I asked. “Where to? Hummus world?”

As most know, I am a huge fan of the public library. This week, I was pleased to learn that Mad Men Season Four was on the hold shelf awaiting my retrieval. I wasted no time collecting the DVD set and immediately began watching it. Being an avid skier and a professional (both are lies), my time has been limited, so I typically end up watching the series late at night. Last night, after viewing six episodes, I decided to go to sleep. Or, as Tree refers to it, ‘nap.’

A few hours later, I woke up with a desire to style my hair like that of Joan P. Harris – the saucy and voluptuous office manager. So, I pulled out the bobby pins and french twisted my hair like nobody’s business. I then grabbed a mirror to check it out and was blown away by what I saw. First and foremost, my french twist was superb. Second, I was not keen on my profile. In fact, if I had to weigh the pros and cons, I definitely had a confile, not a profile, there was nothing positive about that side shot.

While eating lunch with Sleepless and Q, I shared my recent observation. “From this day forward, I am only going to look at people square on – so they won’t see my confile.” “I’ve never noticed your profile,” said Q. “Well, that’s because I’ve not french twisted until now,” I replied and continued on with my ranting. “They shouldn’t call them mug shots at the jail – they should call them what they are, confile shots. Just a bunch of bad side shots of, not ironic, convicts. And forget about profiling, call it what it is, confiling – looking for the bad or the cons in people.”

I was on a roll and, while looking them square on, continued still, “Grade school photos are to blame, they completely had me fooled. For years – most of which were long before Photoshop – my mom bought the silhouette student photo package. You know the package. Looks like a regular picture with a faded side shot floating to the left of your face.” Both Sleepless and Q nodded their heads as if to say yes. “Well, my confile looked good then, cute even. Now, not so much. Very deceiving. For once in my life, I know how Barbra Streisand feels.”