My son has learned the power of guilt. He has crafted it. He knows who you are, but he’s not fessing up. And that is under no pressure of my doing. He is, however, cuddling up to me and You’re the GREATEST MOM EVERing me atleast 6 times a day. Tis the season. I’m taking it.
But today, when Max wrote his letter to you, his request, well, it’s a doozie. And I don’t want to spoil him, but I bet I do it anyway. I am pretty sure he threw the doozie your way in an effort to prove that you don’t exist. If you don’t deliver, he proves that his precious parents would never buy such a thing for an 8_year_old. What Max does not remember is that I filter what they are allowed to ask Santa for.
When he was four he wanted his own live meerkat. “Baby, Santa doesn’t make animals. He makes toys.”
When he was six, he wanted to ask you for a real street stock race car. “Baby, Santa doesn’t make toys you can’t operate. And also, he makes sure everything for kids is street legal.”
And last year he wanted a phone. Yes, a phone. “Baby, I don’t know if Santa makes phones, but I won’t allow you to have one. So, when Santa checks with me, I’ll tell him no. And then unless you write something else down, I’ll be forced to make my own suggestion.”
“Fine, I’ll ask for a REAL football helmet.”
But this year as he wrote his request, I didn’t keep from writing down this year’s request. It’s a bit much, but I think he can handle it. That and, it’s not a toy with 500 pieces.
He did hit you with a bit of a wink and a nudge, though _ the guilt move: “And if I’m on the naughty list this year, that’s okay. I’ll be okay with out it.” Nice touch, huh?
Santa, my son is growing everyday. He is kind and sincere _ even when he tells me the meal I made him makes him gag, “Mom, I don’t want to be mean, but when I eat this Spinach and Artichoke Cheesy Tortellini, it like….comes back up when I swallow.” And he has to deal with me responding with, “Well, drink more water after every bite.” He’s smart and talented and his giggles rule my world. He’s giving and fun.
Do kids deserve extravagant gifts from you? Nope. Are you an excuse to keep my kids well_behaved for one month out of the year? Not really. They are pretty even keel year_round. Do I expect my kids to get a gift from Santa until they go to college. You betcha.
Good Luck Santa. Drive Safe.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: Mambo Santa Mambo by The Enchanters
If you have any hope, or your computer screen is dirty, perhaps you can see Carrie out there dancing on a cloud somewhere…
We were flying on that trip, before all the crazy happened, and Max leaned up to me and said, “Mom! Look out there somewhere! Carrie’s out there!” And then just gleamed at me with comfort and pride. Then he looked for her as if he was expecting to see her just right over there, dancing on the clouds. Me too. So, I snapped a picture to capture the moment.
Sometimes, I consider that I’m stuck and maybe I should get over losing her. But then again, I think the best way to honor someone is to never forget them. To remember her and smile. To learn from her and her contributions to life.
And then Max and Lucy bring her memory back to me with such joy, their eyes all lit up. “Mom! Remember when Carrie did this!!?” I know they miss her. A part of me believes that when they remember her and talk to me about her, they are taking my hand, giving a little squeeze and trying to comfort me by always keeping her close. It’s beautiful.
So, today, for Carrie, enjoy your view.
Happy Carrie Day!
Song of the Day: Glitter In The Air by Pink
This year for Thanksgiving, we decided on a whim to take a trip to California. Just for fun. In doing so, Ricardo and I did everything right. We prepared, we planned, we packed. We booked our flights so that we had ample time to make our connecting flights with two kids in tow. We packed perfectly so that we could check the giant suitcase and pay $20 in an effort for our kids to only have to keep up with their backpacks. Every issue was addressed. Every detail, meticulously accounted for, including counting out enough gummy bear vitamins for 6 days.
We had to wake the kids up at 4:30a.m. to get checked in. With all of the hullabaloo about the pat downs and x_ray security. Look, I either get a free body scan check for cancer or I get felt up. It’s win_win. Still, we knew there was a possibility for a delay in security check, so we woke our children up at 4:30a.m. We made it. Checked in. All was right. Except, I didn’t get felt up. Maybe next time.
And our plans for a vacation in Sunny California are a bit smuttered by the weather. It seems pilots don’t like to land in fog. Which is probably good, in theory. Except I’ve made up my mind faster when buying shoes than these guys hauling my entire life (Ricardo, Max, Lucy, and that big ass suitcase with all my stuff in it) around in a mass steel bird. “We’re going to circle Denver. Nah, I think we’re gonna go to Colorado Springs. Woops, no it’s cleared, going to Denver. It’ll just be 20 minutes.” 40 minutes of stomach_wrenching turbulence later, we land. In fog, mind you. You can imagine the 25 year_old pilot’s face when I thanked him as I departed. I thanked him for finally making a decision, but thanked him quietly so as not to commence projectile vomiting. I was so sick. I thought Lucy would be the one, but no, it’s me. We walk into the airport only to find that we’ve missed our flight by 20 minutes.
We are advised to check in with Customer Service. So we go.It’s amazing the glares the poor customer service agents are getting from the folks in front of us. As if Bobby directed the weather to do this. So when we step up to Bobby 30 minutes later you can imagine his surprise when he sighs, “Can I help you?” and I retort “Vodka shots for everyone behind the counter! YAY!” I really thought that’d get me on the next flight. If by next flight, you mean tomorrow ma’am, then yes.
Thanks to all that, we’re hanging out in the Denver airport. Our new flight, the one we’re booked on is for TOMORROW NIGHT. Hello Denver! However, we’re opting to to hang out on Standby for the flight that was supposed to leave at noon, but has been pushed back…to FIVE! Wow. We’re up for an adventure.
Whatever we do, we’re gonna have fun doing it, DAMMIT! Ricardo and I take turns on taking the kids on “adventures” which would consist of tram surfing. Max and I run into my coach and her team coming home from a tournament. I think we freaked her out, “So, Les, you’re uh, hanging out in the Denver Airport tram surfing?” Yes. I. Am.
We watched 3 movies, played 2 games of Uno, 49 games of catch _ yes Max packed his football _ and I think Lucy finished all of her extra homework that I bribed the teacher to send home. All that good work, and we ended up not getting on the flight on stand by. We trudged to customer service just in case. And lo _ they could get us to San Fran. Then a lean in with an explanation that they aren’t really supposed to but since we’re nice and all.
I looked around and saw every other person screaming rage in their eyes. Some knew more than the ticket agent and others had the best saddest story to top all others. There is something to be said for just genuinely being nice. So we get on a flight at 9p.m. That would officially clock our time in the Denver Airport at a measly 12 hours. The trip, whether we’re in route or not, is serving its purpose, I’m spending time with my family. I am thankful. We eat and I don’t have to do the dishes, still thankful. We wait for 3 hours. The kids are depressed that we are going to wait for another flight. We try to explain we are not on stand by, that we have tickets. They don’t understand, nor do they care. They want to go to a hotel. They are begging us for sleep. That’s new. I go ask the ticket agent _ “Seriously its on time and everything because we just spent twelve hours in this airport.”
“Oh bless your heart! Yes its on time! No worries!” I come back and re_assure the kids in my most comforting actress voice, that indeed, the flight is on time, all is good. FIVE MINUTES LATER the other ticket agent comes on the overhead and says “Folks there is rain and wind in San Francisco so we are delaying the flight to 11p.m. but need to board at 10 and de_ ice.” Shit. Max begins to weep. Lucy too. How do they know what de_icing means anyway?
Meanwhile, I develop a new appreciation for tagless shirts. Ricardo can’t tear off the tag without ripping the shirt. Did you know that ticket agents aren’t allowed to have scissors at their counter? I’m guessing its so someone doesn’t stab them in the eye when they tell them their flight is not delayed and then oh wait, yes it is. So I can’t cut it out. Its now rubbing a blister on me. The kids and I resolve to watch another movie. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to sit down and watch a movie with my kids. I’m a wee bit embarrassed about that, and yet, thankful.
So then fog rolls in and they hustle us on the plane. Ironic that FOG is what is going to get this plane OUT of here. Eventually we take off. Lucy fell asleep before we ever took off. We landed in San Francisco and went to baggage claim hoping on some prayer our suitcase would be there. It wasn’t. Next stop shuttle bus. We call to confirm that our hotel shuttle bus is coming. They promise it’s there every 30 minutes. We go out to the designated bus stop to wait. They never came. It starts to drizzle out. Then harder. Then sleet. It is 2 a.m. (4a.m. Central Time _ I’ve officially been wearing this effn tagged shirt for 24 hours). We are apparently the only ones in San Francisco. We are huddled in a bus stop shelter at 2 in the morning. Max loses it. Chris starts to make him stop and I whisper _ “The kid has valid and rational concerns.”
We finally pay some shuttle who has stopped by every 15 minutes to check on us to just get us to our hotel. When we get there, no one is at the counter. Because it is 2am. Just when I consider hopping the desk and checking ourselves in _ a guy appears. My butt is puckered for the inevitable report, “We have no rooms at our Inn.” But we get a break, and get a room. With two beds, even! I ask for toothbrushes and toothpaste. He hands me four toothbrushes with toothpaste pre_applied. Which is great, except that means we can only brush (with toothpaste) once. Everyone else opts for the morning brush, but I have to wash away the angst and humility and shower before I go to sleep. In the shower, the hot water stings on the spot where my tag was on my shirt. And I have to brush the hair off my teeth, opting for a dry brush in the morning, with a mouth rinse of coffee. We go to bed, but without our luggage, we have to punt on our pajama apparel. I have to sleep in my bra and undies and its weird because I wear thongs, y’all. I’m also slumbering with my daughter. Awkward.
The next morning I am forced to put my tagged shirt back on. And we track down our bag and go eat and rent a car. Ricardo takes the kids back up to the room to get our backpacks and gets on the elevator and it stops mid floor. Holy crap. Here we go again. We get in the car and head back to Sacramento to pick up our luggage.
We did it _ we got our bag _ which was the easiest part so far _ picking up the giant suitcase. I now have deodorant _ face soap and moisturizer. Let’s give Thanks.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the day: Time Is On My Side by The Rolling Stones
Yes, it’s this picture again. I guess Ryan Reynolds graces the cover of People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. But I think they missed the boat this year. Because really, This. Is. The. Sexiest. Man. Alive. And I’m married to him.
I caught a glimpse of People Magazine’s TV show with Kim Kardashian hosting, citing, “And I KNOW SEXY…” Really, Kim Kardashian? Because I just sauntered by your latest People Magazine headline in the grocery story with a headline that read, “I thought I’d be married with a baby before my 30th birthday” The loud whine that oozed from that startling revelation was uh, not sexy. Let me tell you what’s sexy hunny.
When I was pregnant my husband progressively did the following for me: first he tied my shoes. Then he slept on the couch next to me when I was so huge, I couldn’t sleep in the bed and had to sleep in the recliner. For five months, the guy slept next to me on a couch. And then, when I got even bigger, he never batted an eye, and shaved my kankled legs for me. That is sexy.
Sexy is that he makes me laugh so loud, we’re known as the obnoxious couple at any party. We pride ourselves in it.
Last weekend, Ricardo was working on his schoolwork. I jumped up and announced I needed to go clean out the shed real quick to make room for the giant bouncy house storage. I went outside, noted it was chillier than I thought, but I was just going to move a few things around. Five minutes later, Ricardo is there to help me with a jacket in hand for me. That’s so sexy.
Sexy is also that he mops.
And he lets me talk the entire time we run together. Sexy is we run together.
And he cooks.
Uh, I gotta go….
Song of the Day: Feelin Love by Paula Cole
When I moved to The Big O _ I was told on several occasions in some form of Midwest glee, “Oh sure we get snow, but we get all four seasons!” Isn’t that lovely? Sure it is, especially when it happens in five days.
Monday: Isn’t this tree beautiful? Oh how I love fall and the beautiful leaves delighting in all the colors and splendor! I know all these leaves will fall soon. Thus the name of the season and all. But even then _ we love to gather all the leaves and the kids frolic and play in them. The kids are playing in the leaves with long sleeve shirts on. No jackets.
Tuesday: Uh, wow _ the leaves fell. I run over and apologize to my neighbor as the leaves are blowing into his yard. I have no time for leaf pile jumping until tomorrow. And it looks like theres just a few more leaves to fall before I commit to an afternoon of picking up the leaves. Besides, it’s like Disney World _ we’re doing it once. Neighbor is patient given my leaves in his yard are way prettier than that literal pile of crap in the OTHER neighbors yard. Isn’t it a beautiful carpet of red and orange leaves on the contrasting green lawn. It’s like yard art.
Wednesday: The rest of the leaves on the tree are now officially on the ground. It’s time for my annual celebration of my trust fund baby inheritance, if by “trust fund” you mean leaf blower. The wind is still blowing but the opposite direction of where I want the pile. I strategically angle the leaf blower and the other half of the yard is up to those now very capable third graders. You better help me or I’ll be the only one cannon balling into those leaves. Yay for sweatshirts and jeans and Dad’s leafblower! We make a pile, they jump.They get bored with it, it turns out leaves are not as soft as they thought. leaves are crunchy and itchy. They disappear. I pick it all up. Life is good.
Friday: What the hell is this? I had to run to the store to get new hats, gloves, and snow pants. Goodbye Fall. That was fun while it lasted _ uh, 4 days. I’m off to hibernate with blogging and baking in front of the fireplace going for 6 months straight.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: Baby It’s Cold Outside _ Ella Fitzgerald
This was the first weekend with no more football on Sundays. You know, so as not to interfere with Nebraska Football on Saturdays, so they have the games on Sundays. Go to church at your own risk, but don’t you mess with a Huskers Schedule. Doesn’t everyone do that?
Instead of hustling to a game with dog in tow and all the water bottles, folding chairs,and snacks packed, I considered letting everyone sleep in and relax. But where’s the fun in that? So, I insisted we go to church. Then I dragged them to the gym. We made it home in plenty of time to lounge around, still.
Then we went to Max’s end of the year football party at that Pizza of Amazing Machines place. So, pizza, and video games and go karts later, we’d had a great weekend and then I went into Sergeant General mode with bedtime. With all that stalling and stuff, and sugar rush, it took a while and a lot of angst. I tried to stay patient and kind since I’d been to church and all. It turns out all that patient and kind stuff can pay off.
I went to kiss Max goodnight and as I walked out he said reeealll slowly, “Mom, I love you.”
“I love you too, Max.”
“Mom, you’re the best woman I know.” And before I could interject with some bold statement he said it first, “And you’re the best woman I’ll ever know.”
Damn Right Kid. So, I kissed him goodnight and then ran to my computer to document this message for future reference. It’s the best night ever.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: The Long Day is Over by Norah Jones
After all this time, I’ve still got it. This is a picture of the sun dial at the zoo. After I took this picture, I checked my watch, it was about 30 minutes off. My life story.
I had the opportunity to watch JulzHOLLA‘s! kids last week. It’s a running joke among us, that she won’t let me watch her kids. She claims she knows I’m busy and all that. But really, I don’t think she trusts me with her kids.
I assured her everything would be taken care of, and that I like her kids. Really, I love her kids. So, I was excited for this adventure. And a rare opportunity to have Maggie all to myself! She dropped off the kids early in the morning. The kids were all excited we were going to school together! Soon they were referring to my minivan as a bus, and could they go wait at the bus stop please?
Maggie is almost two years old now. And she won’t eat. If a battle of wits is what you want, little_miss_toddler, bring it on. I would have let the whole eat_your_cereal thing go, however, after our bus stops, we were headed to the gym. And I don’t want a hungry, grumpy kid in the day care at the gym. So, I go on a mission: Time out or eat your food kid. All she wants to do is play with the other girls who are getting ready for school. All I want her to do is eat and then she can play. And here we are at an impasse. It ends up win_win. She never eats, but she never gets to play either.
I pull up to the bus stop _ 15 feet down the driveway and load up all the kids. And I drop them all off at their respective schools. That’s right, I rock out TWO separate school drop offs without one fender_bender. Heck, I don’t even get flipped off. Not once. I. Am. Awesome. I know.
Now, off to the gym. Maggie won’t talk to me, and keep catching glares from her in the rear view mirror. When we get tot the gym, I decide to sit in the café with her and order her what seems to be her favorite smoothie. That way, she’ll get something to eat. She won’t eat it though. I’ve never seen her reject the Chocolate Banana and Peanut Butter smoothie before! I panic. Then I sigh. She must really be pissed at me about the whole timeout or eat your cereal gig. Hold a grudge much, little two year old? I finish my coffee and take her into the daycare. I expect to be paged because she won’t want to be in there, and she’s hungry. But then again, she’s looking at me, like “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out Miss ‘EAT YOUR CEREAL’ lady.” Did that baby just say ass to me? Yes she did.I drop off the diapers and go to workout.
Dear God, I’m starving a baby and going for a run anyways. I am officially a jerk…again. JulzHOLLA! will later tell me, “Have you seen her cheeks? She could survive a 4 hour hunger strike. She can miss a meal.” Thanks. Now you say that. I wonder if she stores food in her cheeks like my hamster, Jezebel, used to….
While running I realize that I’m probably going to have to change a diaper today. It hasn’t occurred to me until just now, while lacking oxygen and sucking air on Mile 2. I walk into the locker room and ask one of my pals, “Hey, how long can I go without changing Maggie’s diaper, you think?” With the help of all the ladies, we figure out that if they change her diaper in the play room, then maybe I’ll never have to change her diaper! This is awesome! I love my gym!
I run for 30 minutes and no one paged me or came up and got me. Maggie must be in her happy place. I take my sweet time, steam, shower, and get ready for the day. Now, I just need to feed her and put her down for her nap.
I would rather change a diaper than deal with nap time. We eat. I give her a spoon. She tries to use it, and after a while, ends up putting the mashed potatoes on the spoon with her hand, and then uses the spoon to get it in her mouth. I’m impressed because I think she’s doing a great job. She’s also having to really work to get the spoon in her mouth. When she’s almost finished, I realize, I gave her a children’s sized spoon, not a toddler’s sized spoon. There’s a difference. Maggie explains so. And I find her a toddler spoon. She sweetly exclaims in song, “Yesss!” and she finishes up lunch. Which sucks, because now it’s nap time.
But wait. What’s that smell? Crap. No, really _ it’s crap. While I’m figuring all that out, Maggie waddles off and gets a diaper and the wipes and delivers them to me.
“Is that your poop? Do you have a dirty diaper?”
“YESSSSS!” She sings. Then she turns and waddles off and fetches the diaper changer mat. Impressive. Very impressive.
I take a deep breath to settle my nerves. And so as not to gag. Be brave for the baby. Be brave for the baby! Why is she laughing at me? We did it! I still got it! Ladies and gentlemen, I can still change a diaper! Woohoo! Okay, now naptime.
I dread nap time. Nap time at my house usually ensued my true Mommy Dearest rage. “GO TO SLEEP, KID! YOU NEED TO RELAX AND BE CALM FOR A WHILE! JUST DO IT!” You know what? I think naps are disruptive to my day, and really, I just wake up sleepy for the rest of the day anyway. Still, I do what I’m told, because no one wants a cranky toddler from lack of sleep. It’s worse than the cranky toddler from hunger.
She grabs her night_night blanket and reaches her arms up to me as if to say, “Take me to my royal crib!” So be it, I sweep her up and we head to her room. What the hell is happening? I say, “Are you ready to go take a nap, Maggie?” She giggles _ in DELIGHT _ and sings “YES!” again. Wow. Really? I don’t believe it. I put her down in her crib verrrrry carefully. Some point since we started our walk to her crib, she’s apparently already gone to nap mode. She won’t look at me, just looks away and gazes off to sleepy_sleep land. And boom. She goes to sleep. Three minutes later _ THREE MINUTES LATER _ I hear her soft baby snores in the baby monitor. Incredible.
I get some work done and she wakes up exactly when JulzHOLLA! said she would. I opt to change her diaper again, and we go shopping at Target. Target seems to be Maggie’s second home. She handles the cart like she owns the place. “Hi guys, good to see you again!” We find nothing we need, but we have a lot of fun doing it. Then we go pick up my kids at school and meet up with JulzHOLLA! and her girls.
It was such a fun day, completely off the cuff. I’m so grateful to JulzHOLLA! for trusting me with her babies. I hope she lets me do it again!
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: Minion Mambo from Despicable Me Soundtrack
It just occurred to me the other day that I could run for President. Primarily, because while discussing any issue, be it politics or potholes, I end it with a “If only I ran this show.” And then I laugh. And Ricardo laughs…pretty loudly, actually. But technically, I’m a U.S. citizen, I’ve lived in the country my whole life (although Nebraska seems like a different country during football season) and I’m uh, ahem, over 35 years of age. I could do this.
When election time hits, I get all crazy. All the voices in my head start stewing. And I loathe every democrat, republican, liberal, independent or tea party candidate out there. I think I am irritated by the fact that these people are offending me with senseless finger pointing, sound bytes out of context, and accusations. I’ll deal with enough of that with my eight_year_olds.
Politician hopefuls have some how managed to be gazillionaires raising enough money to obliterate me with tv ads, radio ads, stupid mail out ads, ads on my car windshield, sending brainwashed 20_year_olds to my door at dinnertime, more stupid ads in my door when I’m not there to answer the door for the brainwashed 20_year_olds, and my personal favorite, the automated phone call ads disguised as non_profit unblocked survey calls. Really? Non_profit? Cuz you’ve raised over 5 million dollars for a local election.
I really can’t wait for election day. I’m going to dance in the streets when this is all over. And we can just get back to the fun Geico Commercials, which by the way, are more factual and contain more pertinent information than any election ad.
“Mom, that’s funny because Abe Lincoln was real honest. You get it!?”
As opposed to, “Mom, what does scandal mean? Why does that guy look like a “non_profit” millionaire? And how does he get his hair to comb over and stay like that?”
Good points, kid.
Even better is when I explain that there is an election. I explain that we’re supposed to vote on the person we think will take the best care of our city/county/state.
“Mom, how can you tell?”
“How can you tell they will take care of us? They don’t tell you what they are going to do, they just tattle_tell on what someone else is doing. And you don’t allow tattling for us, why do they get to do it?”
Good point, kid. It’s called cherry picking, red herring, and/or hasty generalization. And I think it should be illegal. There should be new election laws. If I were in charge, and I love to be in charge, to make the rules _ this is just a morsel of some of the rules I’d make:
1. Your ads can only run 14 days before election.
2. You can do one televised interview. No debate. You must just answer factual questions. You must do it while attached to a lie detector. With your spouse sitting front row. Maybe your kids too.The interview will be one on one, not with your opponent. The opponents will do the same interview.
3. No printed ads. You can launch one website. The website can only have facts about you on there.
4. You can’t hire anyone to help you campaign. You must do it all on your own. If you’re going to consider running our country/city/state, perhaps you should be able to get elected on your own first. You must do it after work hours. No sending 20 year_olds out to interrupt my dinner.
5. You must use your own money to pay for one factual ad that will run 14 days before the election. You better make it good.
6. On your ad and website, you must write only facts about your job that you want. Here’s where it gets fun. A U.S. Senator’s job is to write bills, and vote on bills, and occasionally, sit on a committee or two. So, if you’re a new candidate, tell me what bills are coming up, and how you’d vote on them. Period. That’s all I want to know. If you’re a returner, I want to know your attendance record. I want to know every Yay and Nay of ever bill you’ve ever voted on.
7. Elected Officials should have punch cards and have to punch in and out of work every day. If you take a sick day, vacation, your constituents should be notified. Vacation time must be approved by me.
8. Lobbyists or any other receiving of any outside money out of your $174,000 salary is illegal. You must even forfeit your multi_million dollar owned company’s salary. You don’t work for them right now. You work for me. You’re working for the “good of the people”. You’re not doing us a service if you’re still making your salary for a job you don’t work at anymore. Stop calling in on your stocks, and get to writing a bill on new election laws that you promised you’d write.
9. They must pass a written exam over the Constitution of the United States. And a verbal test on knowing all the words to the Star Spangled Banner must be aced. (I want that one for Olympic Athletes, too.)You must get an A+ on the tests in order to be sworn into office.
This has been very cathartic.I think the next time I get a call, I’m going to humor them and answer their question on who I will vote for. “Look, I’m making a mental list. And the one that violated my tv time the most with ridiculous ads that said nothing about about what they will do, the incumbent who said what he’ll do when really, he should have already done it. They won’t get my vote. It turns out that’s basically every campaign ad there, so I’ll vote for the lesser of the douche bags. If there is a douche bag tie, I will go with who has worse hair. If you have great hair, I know how much time you spend doing it. That’s a waste of my tax dollars. How’s that?”
One final thought, I am not impressed that you can raise millions for your job. Now, if you raised millions for a cause, that might catch my attention.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the day: American Idiot by Greenday (ear muffs!)