Love notes from Gloria

You've all read about Gloria, the 84-year-old neighbor (see this post: http://tommymac71.blogspot.com/2009/03/say-it-aint-so-glo-my-girl-gloria-is.html).

She knocks on my door yesterday. "Tommy! Tommy! Are you in there? Are you sleeping?" I had just come out of the shower (hmmm. Impeccable timing or opportunistic vixen?) so I was dressed only in my skivvies and a t-shirt. Throw on some jeans and answer the door:

Gloria: Oh, you ARE there. Were you sleeping?
Me: No, I was just in the show---. Uh, I was getting dressed.
Gloria: Oh, you're going out?
Me: Yes, but I won't be home til the evening.
Glo: Perfect. Can you get me some wine?
(Now, I've done this for her; fetched two large bottle of red swine, I mean wine, that she favors, so this isn't an unusal request)
Me: Sure.
(Long, uncomfortable silence ensues. Me wondering: 1. What was the cheap brand again? 2. Where's my money you needy wench?)
Her: Oh, they know what I like.
Me: (Thinking: 1. Who are "they" exactly. I'm now a psychic and I know where you buy your wine now? 2. Where is my money you needy wench?)

(Did I mention I'm not a nice person. I don't think I'm hell material, but I'm not Gandhi. Yes, I tend to eat quite well).

So I figure I can remember the bottle when I see it. It will be the biggest bottle for $5.99 in the joint. And I know the approximate location of said wine)

So, an hour or so later I leave for my afternoon meetings and appointments (I gotta work to support Gloria's drinking habits.) There is a note outside my front door. And $15 in cash.

Now Gloria is 84, as I said. She sometimes leaves notes "Open this" for her goose-neck Clorox toilet cleanser or "I'm sorry you didn't clean off my car yesterday (in the snow)."

Direct, to the point.

But here is the note from yesterday:

"Tom: 2 of these (note next to empty bottle of Livingston Burgundy Reserve Red Swine, I mean Wine.)

Thank you for taking garbage out. *

I'm waiting for the doctor to tell me when he's going to do the job. **

See you later. I'm going to go for the mail. I hope I make it." ***

Okay, after resisting the urge to swallow every capsule, tablet, drug and cleansing product in my condo, I thought the following things from this note.....

* I had no choice but to take the garbage out. Gloria leaves the foyer at about...hmmm... 100 degrees, so she's warm while waiting for the taxi pick-up most days. Even during the summer. (Anyone who's been here knows I am NOT exaggerating). I usually take her garbage out anyway, but this day she left the garbage outside her door in the morning. When I left that evening, her garbage included: an empty tuna fish can and an empty (I think) cottage cheese container.
Okay, I mentioned the 100 degree thing, right? Blistering heat. Tuna fish. Cottage cheese. You get the idea. I had no choice to take out the garbage or else risk the smell of hot vomit when I got home.
I'll wait while you go vomit yourself too.

** Um, Gloria and I talk once in a while but I don't know her last name, how many children she has, where she was born. None of that. Our conversations are limited to the length of time I can stand breathing in 100 degree air, or until she asks me my cat's name ("Fumbles" I tell her, followed by her saying "Hello Tumbles." This has happened five times already). These conversations last about 38 seconds or roughly the amount of time my first layer of skin takes to melt.
So what's with this too-much-information note about the doctor and doing the job?? Uh, I got nothin' Glo Worm. Usually a line that includes "doctor finishing the job" would be ripe for humor, or adult movies. But this was kinda sad in a "maybe you shouldn't be drinking shit wine" kind of way.

*** The mail is literally 20 feet from our foyer. Look lady, I removed the steamy bag of garbage (by bag I mean the little plastic shopping bags that old people use for trash containment. And next time Glo Glo, can you tie it up at least?). And I'm buying the wine. Don't guilt trip me into the mail thing. Just because my name is Mr. McFeeley doesn't mean I'm a mail delivery expert. My uncle did that crap with that cheesy Mr. Rodgers til he had to go postal on the Neighborhood of Make Believe. It wasn't pretty. Or make believe.

And, besides Glo Stick, if I do this mail thing, then it's gonna be "Can you reach that can of 10 year old pea soup. I'm just so weak, I can't do it" or "Come change my light bulb. It's so dark and I'm so weak. And I can't even see the can of soup I'm going to ask you to grab for me." And we all know what will happen. My sweaty hands in your 105 degree condo will drop the can of soup, hit you in the head, and then I'll have to somehow call your family (if you have one) or go to the emergency room with you. At least the ER will be more comfortable.

So later in the day I leave the wine outside her door (with the two dollars change. She asked me once where her $1.17 in change was, though never offered extra money when I bought one extra bottle of swine, I mean wine), and I barely get into my place when she swoops up the wine and the money.

I haven't heard from her since then. Given the daily treks to the mailbox, the vague doctor/job reference and the hope I make it crap, who knows if she got to finish either of the bottles yet.

I won't get worried until I smell rotting cottage cheese -- from INSIDE her condo. Or, is that REALLY cottage cheese that's rotting????

Wow, I AM going to hell afterall. I hope they dont' serve Livingston Burgundy Reserve Red Swine.

I'm Not Always Nice, But Am I Going to Hell?

So yesterday on my Facebook page, I posted something you might call "mean." Okay it wasn't nice, but I was joking.

It said something to the effect of: "I think Susan Boyle is just Taylor Hicks in drag.....I'm sorry, but she's just too ugly to look at."

Okay, definitely not kind, but come on....She's only famous BECAUSE she is ugly. And she's only famous because she's ugly because we, as a society, have made attractiveness as important as talent in determining celebrity.

So, in my opinion, this "uplifting" and "touching" story is a non-story. It's our own fault it's a story.

And, by the way, if you put Taylor Hicks in a dress.....that's what he would look like. I'm sorry, I'm not wrong about this.

So, seconds after I post it, I was the object of a online firestorm. People, and by people I mean women, were shocked and appalled. They called me mean and said everyone's been called ugly or fat in their lives and this was such a good story blah blah blah.

The underlying message? "You're the devil."

So then I thought "wait a minute, AM I going to hell? ME????"

Personally I don't believe there is a heaven or a hell. I think it's a cool religious fable to "teach" us to be good. I think you become a rotting corpse or some ashes over your favorite park or body of water, or bar. Other possibilities might include afterlives as a dictator, a frog, or a porn star.

But I wondered, wheh my time comes, how the interview for heaven might go.......

St. Peter: Ah, Tom McFeeley. I've been waiting for this day. I was afraid you'd come on my day off. When St. Patrick gets the gate, he lets all the Irish dudes in. Except those who had pet snakes.

Me: It's okay. I'm not that fond of St. Patrick's Day. I hope he doesn't read blogs. But, hey, you get days off?

St. Peter: Dude, it's heaven. The benefits up here are ungodly. Ooops, I keep saying that. But, we have lots to talk about. Would you like a seat in the heavenly recliner? There's a cold Heineken in the cup holder.

Me: A recliner? Outside the gates? Cold beer waiting? Sweet.

St. Peter: If it's that good outside the gates, imagine what it's like inside.

Me: Strippers?

St. Peter: If you get in, you'll find out. Now let's talk about this Susan Boyle thing.

Me: Pete, I'm really sorry. I was kinda tired that day. I was tired of the whole Susan Boyle thing. You see, it's only because she's ug -

Pete: Relax, McFeeley. It was freakin' funny. Taylor Hicks? That's just genius. But don't worry about that one. God made her ugly as a test.

Me: A test? What are you talking about?

Pete: Yeah, first God invented boils. On the feet. He thought it was funny, but you guys got all medical about it and didn't get the humor. Then he sent you Peter Boyle. Now that guy was odd, and very funny. And you still didn't get the joke. Well Gene Wilder, he got it. "Puttin' on the Ritz?" Pure genius. The big G loves that scene. We have a big party planned for Mr. Wilder upon is arrival.

Me: Peter Boyle is funny.

Pete: WAS funny.

Me: Oh, yeah he died.....Wait, he just died....Then we discover Susan Boyle. Is there a pl--

P: There is always a plan my man. Now you're getting it. She's 49 and never been kissed? Never did the tickle pickle, come on. Could we put ANYMORE fish in the sea. Clearly we just invented her this year.

Me; Yeah, otherwise she might have ended up with William Hung huh? (I chuckle)

P: Yeah, William Hung was St. Alyousius's idea. I'm telling you, you give a saint a fucked up name and he fights through it with good humor. It's like naming a boy Cody or Courtney or one of those other bullshit 21st century names.

Me: Yeah, I didn't have kids when I was married.

P: Thank GOD for that.

Me: Well, I guess you can. Where is the big guy?

P: Around the corner, but you gotta take an angel quite a distance. The G-man can't wait for Hefner to get here. God's pad makes the Playboy Manson look like a Studio Apartment.....Now, let's move onto the real business....We liked the Susan Boyle thing. Your appreciation of Stephen Lynch is somewhat disturbing. But that song about him waiting for his AIDS test? Funny stuff. So is there anything you wanna tell me?

Me: Uh, I once almost set a willow tree on fire when I was five. I let my brother take the fall for something I did. Though I did try to bring him some dessert.

P: Oh, how noble of you, you little rat.

Me: Uh, I once cheated my Mom when she was my English teacher and the girl I had a crush on to win a chocolate bar.

P: A Whatchamacallit, right?

Me: Yeah.

P: Good choice. What about that day you hooked up with a woman at a bar after you walked your blind date to her car and came back? Or letting that crazy girl in college think your friend was a warlock? Or your ongoing childhood attempts to put your cat in the toilet?

Me: The hardest thing to do, shoving a cat in the toilet. Those cats are strong creatures.

P: Well, you ain't going in the morality hall of fame. But you do help your elderly neighbor. You're good to your Mom. You generally go out of your way to help people, though the vast majority of them are attractive women.... But you make people laugh and laughter is slightly less important than oxygen. And we do think your idea of Special Olympians playing college mascots in basketball, though rough around the edges, does have potential. Both financial and economic. Good thinkng.

Me: So....I'm in?

P: Yes, you get in. Let me find the right key here. You'd think we have one entrance, but everytime a baker arrives, Gandhi just attacks him. That is one hungry dude.

Me: (trying to hug St. Peter), Thank you so much. I really appreci-

P: ---- oh stop with that. Orientation is at noon. You do have to shower first.

Me: Well...what....where are my clothes.

P: Dude, it's heaven. Only the front gate guy has to wear a robe. We go au naturale up here.

Me: Sweeeeet!

And then I wake up and realize I'm definitely headed to hell. I mean who tries to stuff a cat in a toilet...Oh yeah, my brother Sean tried it too. We're both going to hell. That's how our cat Oogie would prefer it. Yes, Oogie, don't ask. I'll tell you about it in hell.

Welcome to the world's largest (and annual) funeral -- bottom's up!!!

I really don't like St. Patrick's Day.

What, you ask? An Irishman who enjoys a Guinness as much as the next guy, or ANY guy for that matter, does not like to celebrate St. Paddy's Day???

Yes, that's what I'm saying.

Why, you ask. (That's is you're practiced in the art of obvious question-and-answer banter.)

Several things, I say. Here they are:

1. He wasn't Irish. St. Patrick was actually brought to Ireland from Wales as a slave. Nice, huh? Peel these 80 dozen potatoes and, when you're done, we have a wee snake issue you might want to take a look at.

2. Snakes might not have existed in St. Patrick's time. Who knows about this -- I'm no reptologist or anything. But parting the waters or making Guinness out of water (or tar) was not original. Snakes! He can drive snakes out of Ireland (and presumbably into water since Ireland is an island), proving snakes or people are kind of stupid. Who knows which is really true. Are we to believe St. Patrick was the Samuel L. Jackson of his time?? "We gotta get these m-therf-cking snakes off this m-therf-cking island!"

3. Oh yeah, he's not a saint. He was not associated with any particular faith. He has never been canonized by any Pope. (Canonize, kids, does NOT mean he was shot out of a canon as a form of saint hazing; it's the act of naming someone a saint.) So for all you (us) Roman Catholics out there who are going to hell if we get divorced, have pre-marital sex, or are gay and want to get married, because that's not what the church teaches us we MUST believe and practice, then you're are probably a hethen if you celebrate on March 17. (But we're all going to hell anyway based on these beliefs/rules so might as well hoist another one!)

4. St. Patrick was not born on March 17. He did not invent beer on March 17. He did not become a Saint on March 17 because, you know, he's not really a saint. Nor did he create Oprah on March 17 (see Really Big Bang Theory for THAT one). He died on March 17. Yes, death....woo hoo! (I wonder how many points that Not a Saint Patrick That Really Cool Welsh Slave Guy Who May or May Not Have Driven Snakes In The Water would have netted in the Ghoul Pool??)
Though in dying on this day and having millions of people revel in death, he did create the Irish wake.
(When I broght an Italian friend to her first Irish wake, she whispered "They DO know he died, right? And that he's laying right there?")

I also don't like the day because I don't need to celebrate being Irish. I AM Irish. Every day.

And celebrating being Irish has more to do than silly Halloween leprachaun outfits, green beer, painting shamrocks on your cheeks (hmmm which ones), and drinking until you forget how many fingers you have.

No, being Irish is about going to church even if you don't agree with it's teachings. Being Irish is about never showing emotions until your family is completely dysfunctional. Being Irish is about never crying until Uncle Seamus loses his left foot to gout, and then getting blind drunk becuase you haven't seen your cousin Courtney since your visit to the old country 10 years ago. And of course being Irish is about drinking because you want to, not because it's March.

Oh, yeah you MUST love the Kennedys. Shhh - it's unconditional. Don't ask why.

Have a great funeral, er, day anyway. Leave all your troubles behind.

And if you don't like Guinness, please take a tip I received from one Jimmy O'Neil back in my college days. "Have a 2nd pint,'' he said. "If you really don't like it after the 2nd one, I'll buy them both for you and never bother you again."

His advice changed my life. At least the portions that I remember...

Introducing the "Mancation" -- MAAC Daddies on the loose

Every year there are four special days on the calendar. No, not Arbor Day silly, though I do have a growing appreciation for trees.

Those days are the "mancation" for me and four buddies. If you know me well, you probably have heard about this. Me and three buddies venture to some exciting city in the northeast: Buffalo, Albany, Bridgeport CT, and -- pinch me -- Trenton, NJ for the Metro Atlantic Athletic Conference basketball tournament

The MAAC is one of those small school conferences you've probably never heard about whose team names are creatures or beings you've never heard of or will ever encounter. Golden Griffins, Purple Eagles, the Gaels. I went to Iona (home of the Gaels -- it's an Irish warrior, think Fighting Irish minus the Notre Dame). The other three guys didn't go to Iona, or any other MAAC school. And one weekend -- 10 years ago -- they apparently had so little to do, that they came to Albany, NY with me to watch teams (and creatures) they've never heard of to play basketball.

Ten years later, we are back. We have not missed a MAAC weekend since and we're not afraid to let it be known. We've labelled ourselves the MAAC Dadddies (I know, it's really lame. But it stuck). We've been written up in the newspaer (more than once in more than one city). We've had beers with coaches (and their mothers). We are known throughout the conference and, most especially, in the arena bars. We are not small time.

To illustrate what this weekend means to us, consider:

* My sister's birthday is March 4 and most years I'm the jerk little brother who misses her birthday five out of six years;
* One guy attended the tournament when his two-week old prematurely born son was still in the hospital. Oh relax, he was fine. Oh relax, the kid is six now and out of the hospital. He's lucky he popped out early, so that his Dad can be there on his birthday every year.
* Another MAAC Daddy had a mandatory regional manager's meeting that weekend one year. He blew it off.
* I lost my job two days before the tournament one year. Financial worries immediately set in and I ponied up for my share of the hotel and adult beverage consumption fund. I didn't eat for a month, but whatever. Beer has grains.

How bad is it? When I go to the arena in Bridgeport, CT -- a few miles from my house -- the bartenders, security guards and some random weird people say "Hey....where are the rest of the MAAC Daddies?" I guess it's our 15 minutes of fame.

I know what you're thinking. "Uh....why not go to South Carolina to golf? A trip to spring training or a five cities in six days baseball trip during the season?"

Let's put it this way....The year we first attended the tourney, we walked in a mostly empty arena on a Friday afternoon during a women's game. (Yes, we watch the women's games too. Sometimes.) There was a scramble for the ball, three players fell to the floor as timeout was called.

One of the guys, without thinking, yelled down to the court....wait for it...."Clean the wet spot!!"

That was the moment we knew we'd return every year forever. And our jackets were still on.

So while we might break our record for earliest beer consumed (9:38 a.m.) this weekend, please say a prayer for us. But think about your guy. (If you're a guy, don't to that. Think about your girl) Wouldn't he love four days away every year to blow off some steam and get the mancation he deserves.

Okay, fellas stop thinking about your girl. Or finish up. Either way, carve out your mancation today before you lose your mind. Oh, and clean the wet spot.

Say it Ain't So, Glo! My Girl Gloria is Cheating on Me

Today was a snowy, quiet day. I made up a couple of minor errands just to get out of the house. You know, return a Blockbuster movie, mail the rent check....Ooops, is it March already!!!??

One of my inspirations to get moving this afternoon (hey, I didn't say anything about bright-eyed and bushy tailed. You presumed that!) was that I typically clean off not only my Pathfinder, but the ancient, little green vehicle of sorts that belongs to my 84-year-old next door neighbor, Gloria.

I've mentioned Gloria before. She's the woman for whom I open toilet cleaners and roasted red pepper jars; I "fix" her answering machine (that is erase the messages after I've instructed her about 122 other previous times how to do the same); I take her garbage out.

So, you know, me and Glo are tight.

And I take this car-cleaning thing seriously, even though she's told me her family doesn't want her driving. Sometimes she's just GOTTA get somewhere. Hey man, she's an 84-year-old on the go! (She gave me 5 dollars during the first snowstorm. I didn't want to take the money so I bought that swill-wine and earned a nickel extra for when I need 2 minutes in a parking meter. The next time it snowed, I didn't go out that day, and she left a note on the door "Sorry you didn't clean my car today." So that's what we're dealing with here)

So I put on my winter layers, hat, gloves, goofy ski hat that makes my head 178 degrees. I trudge down the stairs, grab the shovel and walk outsi.......

What the? Who the? Dude....Someone cleaned her car!

Gloria is cheating on me!

So I dug out my Pathfinder, half brooding and half wondering who could be more benevolent than me!? Impossible! Whoever it was is an early bird, eagerly getting out before 3:30 p.m.!

I did discover that the new saint in town failed to shovel a path to Gloria's driver's side, which I not only happily did, I cleared a path on the passenger side too! Take that rookie!

So as I'm about to begin my trip to Blockbuster, my downstairs neighbor comes out with his own shovel and nods to me. I nod back, expecting that to be end of it. He says to me "I bailed you out this time, I took care of Gloria's car."

Newman! He's the guy! I actually kinda like him. And decide to drop my grudge. For now.

I said "You didn't have to do that. I told her I'd take care of it."

"Nice of you," I added.

"She gave me 10 bucks."

"Hmm."

Bad economy and Gloria's upping the ante. Interesting. She drives a hard bargain that Glo.

I got over it in a hurry. I parked outside of Blockbuster, used my nickel for 2 minutes at the meter while I retured the movie. When I returned home, Gloria's garbage was outside my door.

The true test. The wasted tissues, empty tuna cans (or is that cat food), and empty Parmalat boxes of an admiring 84-year-old. Come on rook, step up. This is what it's all about. We can all be the Shovel For Hire, but let's see what you got on garbage day!

Make sure my foyer doesn't smell like elderly refuse tomorrow. Be sure to pick that up tomorrow by 2 p.m. I have an early day.

.

A New Year, a New Start

I've only made good on one New Year's resolution in my life: To stop making empty promises to myself every year. Only setting myself up for disappointment, right?

Besides, I've found it's much more fun to make resolutions for other people. So here are the first annual Tommy Mac New Years Resolutions:

Barack Obama: To resist the temptation to show off the pecs and abs by always wearing a shirt at press conferences. (Topless press conferences? What if Wolf Blitzer misinterprets that phrase? Talk about a wardrobe malfunction.

Rod Blagojevich: To sell a vowel. To the highest bidder. Or maybe a consonant. You know, the letter J is 8 points in Scrabble? Supply and demand baby!

Sarah Palin: To increase her foreign policy experience. She will be adding an additional floor to her house so she can see Canada from her rooftop. And maybe meet Santa that way too. Russia, check. Canada, check. North Pole, check.

Dick Cheney: To keep his enemies closer. Maureen Dowd, PLEASE decline his hunting invite.

George W. Bush: To find bin Laden -- in less than 3 weeks!

Joe Biden: To return to obscurity.

Joe Lieberman: To firmly commit to the principals of one major political party. Maybe the Whigs this time.

Caroline Kennedy: You know, to stay true to the, you know, political legacy of, you know, the Kennedy name, you know.

Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie: To limit adoption to only two children in calendar 2009

Nicole Kidman: To finally use that tanning bed that Tom bought her all those years ago.

Katie Couric: To return to a job that takes advantage of disingenuousness and sugary sweet tones. If only that damned Yolanda Vega would just disappear!

Bill O'Reilly: To find even more creative ways to tell people it's okay to hate Obama without using the n-word.

George W. Bush (that's right, you can't get rid of him that easy): To make even more money by cashing in on a "Hit the Moron With and Old Pair of Shoes" carnival game. But only in blue states.

Michael Bloomberg: To write his long-awaited memoir: "How to Get Sh-t Done Despite Being a Nasally Whining Vertically Challenged Bostonian."

Hank and Hal Steinbrenner: To spur the economy by burning $1,000 bills rather than measley 100-spots.

The Mets, the Jets, and Iona College basketball teams: To find new and creative ways to build up the hope of one loyal blogger and then crush his heart in even smaller pieces than the previous year.

Eliot Spitzer: To exhaust any remaining influence to secure the number 9 on his prison garb.


So let's hope our famous friends can do what's necessary to stick to their 2009 resoultions, Tommy Mac style.

Happy New Year to all and if you have suggested resolutions, leave them in a comment.

Enjoy and be safe

Romantic Comedies: BAD For Your Relationship!

I love when I'm right. It happens so rarely that I need to bask in the glow when it does happen. I saw on TV this morning -- The Today Show no less!! -- that romantic comedies are BAD for your relationship. And this wasn't just Kathie Lee and Ho-ho-ho-ta Kot-bee just talking out of their oversize butts, this was a real academic study. Matt Lauer told me so!

Researchers at Heriot Watt University's Family and Personal Relationship Laboratory in Edinburgh (that's in Scotland you know) found "that problems typically reported by couples in relationship counseling at their counseling center reflect misconceptions about love and romance depicted in Hollywood films," according to a story in Time magazine. The Time story did not indicate if the Scottish researchers were drinking whiskey during the study, or if they showed favoritism towards movies that included bagpipe music during love scenes.

Dr. Bjarne Holmes, who lead the research, said: "...We are saying that it would be helpful if people were more aware and more critical of the messages in these films. The problem is that while most of us know that the idea of a perfect relationship is unrealistic, some of us are still more influenced by media portrayals than we realize."

By "some of us," he means people with vaginae.

One example from the study: a group of over 100 volunteers watched the 2001 romantic comedy Serendipity while another group of the same size watched a David Lynch drama. Viewers of the romantic comedy were found to be more likely to believe in fate and destiny. (They could not determine what the David Lynch group thought. Those volunteers apparently made a pact to jump off the tallest bridge in Scotland and arranged to have their bodies hidden in tall weeds, where they will not be discovered until the 2014 British Open golf tournament.)

Okay, so this notion of Hollywood providing unrealistic expectations (who would have EVER guessed that) might be setting the bar too high for men. That's not a huge surprise. But then I thought more about that point. Unmotivated, miscommunicating buffoons are setting the bar too high? So on the Great Female Relationship Expectation Chart, I'm somewhere behind John Cusack, Hugh Grant and Richard Gere? (Actually Mr. Gere likes me back there. But why does he keep calling me "Mr. Nibbles"??)

Researchers said viewers of the romantic comedies are coming away with the notion that if you are truly with "the one," then you will not have to communicate your feelings, needs, or even the fact that you're running out of milk -- your mate will just "know" what you require and destiny takes care of the rest. And you won't have to use that chalky creamer in your coffee tomorrow morning.

I guess I need to become a bumbling English chap whose hair is unkempt while I wear one black shoe and one brown shoe while struggling to make my friend's wedding on time, like Hugh Grant might do. And then I get to violate Andy McDowell's body. Actually that's a bad example. She's as dull as Hugh Grant, and he would be as satisfied sleeping with the ironing board in his hotel room. But you get the idea: the girls gets the goofball as long as he is adorably discombobulated and makes one awkward attempt to communicate his dying desire to be with her, and only her.

And then they bang.

Maybe romantic comedies are sending just the right message after all.

Well if you excuse me, I have to go get some milk, My soulmate and I are apparently miscommunicating.

Merry Christmas everyone. I hope Santa brings you all you hope for. If you don't celebrate Christmas, have a peaceful day. Maybe go to a movie, but not a romantic comedy -- then you'll never enjoy a fulfilling relationship!