Rebecca May 19th, 2008

Sorry things have been so slow of late on this blog. Chalk our silence up to spring fever, I guess. My time has been largely taken up with a traditional springtime activity: falling in love. With a car.

Two weeks ago, my poor decrepit subcompact mysteriously squealed–I guess you could call it a mechanical death rattle–for the last time.* That was Tuesday the 6th. I found the Beetle that Friday, test drove her on Saturday, and signed the check the following Monday. Since then, my online free time has been mainly spent in only a few places: eBay Motors, Volkswagen Forum, VW Vortex. I’ve found myself coveting original factory-made VW floor mats, Blaupunkt stereos, even a silly stuffed daisy for my dashboard vase. I’ve learned to match part numbers to my VIN. I’ve read the owners manual from cover to cover (hmmm…maybe I should note this on my Bookworm list). I’m on the phone every day with the dealership and the founder of the local VW club. I’ve become obsessed. I’ve become…a car person.

And to think it only took me 37 years.

*I sold it to a friend of my mechanic’s for a song. No, not even that much. More like some tuneless humming.

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Rebecca May 1st, 2008

Remember that eye trouble I was telling you about a month ago? Well, I didn’t realize there was a contributing factor.

So, yeah. It turns out I need glasses.

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Matt April 1st, 2008

matt: okay, i’m done
matt: my total back?
rebecca: yeah?
matt: ::drumroll::
rebecca: hit me
matt: 711$
rebecca: wowza
rebecca: good job!
matt: this is up from ~110$ that they were originally gonna give me
matt: all thanks to filing a 1099Misc and putting down my expenses
rebecca: suck it, IRS
matt : i paid more for my computer and software than i made in my business
matt: yay for failed business models
rebecca: go failure!
rebecca: rah rah rah!

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Rebecca March 23rd, 2008

I’m not normally the sort of person who goes looking online for answers to medical problems because I am a hypochondriac. I see no reason to aggravate those tendencies. Knowing me, if I start researching a rash on my arm I’ll only click on those sites that discuss flesh-eating bacteria. Five minutes and one phone call later, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment for something that can be cured by applying more lotion and I’m $80 closer to meeting my insurance deductible. So I ignore the Internet.

Except for last night.

I was on the couch watching Midnight Cowboy (this year’s Easter holiday family movie) when it began. A blank spot crept into my vision the moment Ratso Rizzo and Joe Buck entered the Factory-inspired happening. It reshaped itself into a jagged electric blue line that grew and grew, until I could not see any of Joe’s subsequent roll in the hay with party girl Brenda Vaccaro. After twenty minutes the aura faded away from my peripheral vision and I was left with a heavy feeling on the right side of my face. I know this aura well. Throughout my twenties and early thirties, I got a migraine every couple of months. This ocular disturbance almost always preceded them. So the moment the bright blue line appeared I learned to either take some medication or–if I was at work–immediately go home.

Things have changed in the last eighteen months. I get the auras, but not the migraines. I don’t know which is worse. I still get the occasional headache; they only disrupt my life two, maybe three times a year now. But these goddamn auras will happen every day for a week, disappear for a month or two, then reappear. Last night’s was the third in as many days. I can’t function for a good twenty minutes if one begins at work. It’s almost painful to look at my computer monitor, a piece of paper, or even out the window because I can’t completely focus. I get nauseous. When I’m at home, I usually go in my bedroom, lie down and close my eyes until it goes away. Thank goodness I haven’t had one while driving. Yet.

Don’t ask me why I haven’t discussed this with my doctor, and see above if you want to know why I’ve never consulted WebMD. Ignorance is bliss and a larger checking account, I guess. Anyway, with a few clicks of the mouse and the right combination of words, I found this and this. The former site won’t let me save their image for some reason, but it’s the more accurate of the two. However, the latter gives you some idea what I’m experiencing:

Ugh. Just looking at that almost triggers another aura, or, as I know now, an ocular migraine. I’m very happy to finally have an answer to my problem. It’s benign, it can be treated with over-the-counter painkillers if there’s any discomfort.

So don’t you go mentioning the words “retinal detachment”.

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Matt March 2nd, 2008

The scene: Me, in my pajamas, hair doing an impression of David Lynch, in the kitchen searching for something that I could possibly pass off as having an iota of nutritional content; my niece sits on her leg in the living room recliner, writing (I imagine) “My fat-ass uncle looks like an ugly(er) Jack Black” in a notebook she jealously guards.

Me: Hmm

The Niece (TN): ….

Me: Er… {Looks into freezer hopefully, visibly shudders when met with ice cream and frozen fruit.}

TN: …. *cough*

Me: Um… {Briefly searching the fridge, moves on to the cupboards.}

TN: ….sigh….

ME: Okay, you can have a ham sandwich, a slice of pizza, some liverwürst {Pause to enjoy the look of horror and revulsion crossing TN’s face.}, some cheese and crackers or some nachos.

TN: Nachos!

ME: Of course. {Goes about gathering the ingredients, searches the cupboards for some salsa and some “taco sauce.”}

ME: So, which do you want? {Holds up either bottle.}

TN: Yuck. Neither. I don’t like red salsa.

ME: …. {Struck dumb, aware of other salsas out there but unable to grasp the full-on horror that would be corn salsa nachos.} {Search about for an automatic pistol to shoot self, failing to find one, reluctantly keeps on living in the same world that TN exists.}

End scene.

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Rebecca February 16th, 2008

Early this morning I learned one of my photographs of San Francisco was chosen for inclusion in the Schmap online guide to the city. It’s a picture of Union Square, the heart of the city’s upscale shopping district.

I took it on a trip to the Bay Area last March. My mom and I went down there to scatter half of my father’s ashes in the Bay. My father, who was born here in Montana, lived in northern California for nearly 40 years. Every summer he and my mother, also a native Montanan, took me along as they drove the thousand-odd miles to spend a week or two with family back in Big Sky Country. Our route never varied; on the way up we would take I-80 to Wells, Nevada, turn north on Highway 93 and follow it straight into Missoula. On the way back we always turned off the highway at Challis, Idaho to follow the final miles of the Salmon River up to Stanley, over Galena Summit and down into Ketchum just in time for lunch. When I was a child I knew every milepost of this journey by heart. I knew when we would pass the Shoshone Ice Caves north of Twin Falls (no matter how much I begged, they never stopped). I also knew we would always eat breakfast at the Commercial Casino in Elko, and I resigned myself to the long hour I would have to spend in the “children’s room” at John Ascuaga’s Nugget in Sparks while my parents gambled on the main floor. Back in the 70s, children had to stay in a single dimly-lit room. A harried casino attendant checked in on us slot machine orphans from time to time and, even though the television mounted high on the wall was never tuned to cartoons and the plastic chairs were incredibly uncomfortable, we had a Pong machine to entertain us. Last year, we stopped at all of these places, including the Nugget. (Every place we went brought back so many memories of my Dad, I had a really hard time keeping it together, especially when we passed the “Welcome to California” sign just below Donner Pass.) Unlike my parents, I don’t have a gambling bone in my body. However, following tradition my mom and I turned off the Interstate and pulled into the multi-level parking garage. We brought him into the casino with us for good luck. I put the box that contained his ashes in my bag and casually draped my windbreaker over it so we wouldn’t draw attention. It failed. My mom and I thumped him every time we sat down at a new machine. “Okay, you rascal”, we said, “at least pay for our gas money.” Believe me, this isn’t as bizarre as it sounds. He had an incredible sense of humor. I inherited only a fraction of it. Even though we didn’t win anything, we knew he would love the fact we brought him to one last game in the Nugget.

All seven of my father’s children were born and raised in the Bay Area. My sister Randie, her husband, their three children and six grandchildren still live there. We had plenty of chauffeurs on hand to take us to all our family’s old stomping grounds: Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, Golden Gate Park, the Sausalito Marina, North Beach and the Palace of Fine Arts. Union Square wasn’t one of those hangouts (I wouldn’t have been caught dead in Saks when I was in high school; it wasn’t Goth), but we walked through the neighborhood on our way from the Ferry Building Marketplace to the new-ish Westfield San Francisco Centre. I’m normally not a shop ’til I drop kind of girl–unless the shopping in question is in that beautiful Ferry Building–but my mother and my sister had time and money to kill, and they were determined to spend their afternoon slaughtering both. I scored a small victory when I got them to temporarily abandon the high ground of expensive boutiques in favor of Rasputin’s on Powell. With the exception of one rainy, cold, foggy day (which is the rule and not the exception this time of year), the weather was glorious while we were in the Bay Area. Everything was in bloom. The branches of the lemon and orange trees in my sister’s backyard were so heavily laden with fruit they nearly touched the ground. She sent us home with over 100 pounds of citrus; I feasted on fresh luscious Meyer lemons for months afterward. My favorite memory of our trip is the morning I woke up early and sat in bare feet and pajamas on my sister’s deck drinking tea, eating an orange from one of her trees, and watching the ships on the Bay. A gentle breeze off the water caressed me while I sat in the sunshine, and despite the sadness of the occasion, I felt as safe and content as a baby in her mama’s arms.

This summer the California branch of the family tree is coming up to Montana, and we’re going to scatter the other half of my father’s ashes down a local waterfall he loved to visit years ago. Since we mixed flowers from the Japanese Tea Gardens and oranges from my sister’s backyard with his ashes in the Bay, we’ve decided to send Dad off this time with native wildflowers picked along the trail to the falls and some of last summer’s huckleberries. Huckleberry pie was my father’s favorite dessert; when he moved back to Montana in 1989, he made sure there were enough berries in the freezer at the end of each August to be able to eat pie all winter long. Because the Forest Service discourages people from scattering human cremains in our National Forests, be sure you look the other way when you see us coming up the trail. We’ll be the group picking Indian paintbrush, Jacob’s ladder, and yellow violets, and also carrying a picnic basket, bottles of wine, and a box. It will be obvious it’s us, because we’ll be thumping the box and talking to it along the way.

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Rebecca February 11th, 2008

Patia was kind enough to tag me with the “Four Things” meme. Ché amica!

4 Jobs I’ve Held:

1. Babysitter (I know, I’m surprised too.)
2. Apple Picker (Again with the surprise.)
3. Laundress (Man, does this feeling ever end?)
4. Alternate Ferryman on the River Styx (That’s better.)

4 Movies I’ve Watched Over and Over Again:

1. The Big Lebowski
2. The Thin Man
3. The Trouble With Harry
4. Grumpy Old Men

4 Places I’ve Been:

1. Honolulu
2. Santa Fe
3. Seattle
4. Philadelphia

4 Places I’ve Lived:
1. El Cerrito
2. Florence
3. Pinole
4. Lolo

4 TV Shows I Watch:

1. Antiques Roadshow
2. History Detectives
3. American Experience
4. Iron Chef America

4 Radio Shows I Listen To:

1. Car Talk
2. This American Life
3. Morning Edition
4. All Things Considered

4 Things I Look Forward To:

1. A New President
2. A New President
3. A New President
4. A New President

4 Favorite Foods:

1. Spanakopita
2. Sour Cherry Pie
3. Penne ai Quattro Formaggi
4. Lobster Tail with Drawn Butter

4 Places I’d Rather Be:

1. Ferry Building Marketplace, San Francisco
2. Zabar’s, New York City
3. New Orleans’ French Quarter
4. Anyplace in Paris, Really

4 People I E-Mail Regularly:

1. Matt
2. Marzi
3. Dana
4. (another) Dana

4 People I’ve Tagged:

1. Chris
2. Dory
3. Matt
4. Phil

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Rebecca January 27th, 2008

I often like to joke that if there was a sleeping event in the Olympics, I would take home the gold for America. (My friends with sleep apnea and insomnia almost never laugh at this. Go figure.) I’m one of those lucky folks who can easily get their eight or nine hours and wake up feeling refreshed despite having a number of vivid and bizarre dreams throughout the night. I fight crime, I fly, I get my freak on with decidedly odd individuals. (Peter Lorre? Been there, tapped that.) Like most people, I wake up with a smile on my face after one of the erotic ones. However, I have this other kind of dream that brings me even greater pleasure.

I think of it as my soft core “This Old House” porn.

In the wee small hours, I restore and remodel historic homes across the country. These plaster-and-wood nocturnal activities begin the moment my dream self walks into a house and finds it…lacking. It even happens with the haunted ones in my nightmares. Suddenly, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, new walls, floors, cabinets, fixtures, molding and windows appear to complete a room or an entire building. All action ceases while I change these things over and over again until everything is precisely the way I want it. Just last night, for example, my brain took a run-down antebellum mansion in New Orleans, added decorative tiles in the bathrooms and granite counter tops in the kitchen, replaced the roof on the breezeway, and installed a beautiful claw-foot tub in the master bath. A little paint went a long way towards freshening things up; the living room was a nice butter yellow, the parlor a warm peach. The marble fireplace mantels in all the rooms were thoroughly cleaned. The cypress floors were sanded and polished to a shine. When I woke up, I felt satisfied in an almost sexual way. And it’s not just properties eligible for nomination to the National Register of Historic Places. No, during a gunfight with several kidnappers in a 1970s split level last month, I took some time out to replace the worn shag carpeting. That avocado green was really distracting; I couldn’t shoot straight because of my mounting frustration with its hideous condition. I went with a patterned Berber, killed the ringleader and ultimately saved the day.

When I go to bed, I don’t wonder if I’ll be undressing George Clooney tonight. Nope, I’m concerned about other things. Like whether or not glass-front cabinets, despite being historically accurate, are worth the smudges and mess. In case you’re wondering, I haven’t done any work in other countries yet. I’m really looking forward to my first European commission. Hopefully it will be a palace in Spain, because I want to learn how to work Moorish architecture into everyday life.

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Rebecca January 21st, 2008

Dear Tall Lady Who Sat in Front of Me at the 7pm Showing of "Atonement" Saturday at the Wilma Theatre,

I’m sorry. It just wasn’t your night, was it?

First you had to deal with me: someone who clearly was unhappy with your presence. Trust me, it wasn’t personal. You see, I have bad mojo when it comes to movie theaters; no matter where I sit in the house, unless it’s front row center, the tallest person in the room always, always chooses to sit in front of me. This wouldn’t be so bad, except that I’m only 5′1". (Well, one and a quarter inch, but who counts a quarter inch, right? That’s like a full-grown adult running around saying they’re "36 1/2!" You know, totally retarded.) Unless a theater has stadium seating it’s hard for me to see the stage or screen because I’m so short. When I’m on my own, I’ll sit right down in front. I’d rather put up with a strained neck than someone’s head obscuring a third of the screen. My friends know this. That’s why they steer me towards the middle of the house. They value their eyesight and their sanity. My rotten luck used to frustrate me, but now I just chuckle. I could pick a seat in the most isolated part of the theater and sure enough, a seven-foot tall, 400-pound man wearing a Zulu headdress will be drawn like a magnet to the chair in front of mine. So when I saw you and your friend enter, walk up and down the aisles, and head right for row O, seat 2, I began to laugh. I know I said "Oh, crap!" pretty loudly. I startled you. In the face of my rudeness you were gracious. You promised me you would scrunch down in your seat so I could see. Thank you.

I felt a twinge of guilt, but it was nothing compared to what I felt ten minutes later when the man in front of you turned around.

I hate it when people talk during movies. Oh, I understand from time to time everyone leans over to ask, "What did he say?" or "Who’s that?" The occasional comment or question is perfectly fine; I’m guilty of it myself. If you’re seeing a movie with someone it’s hard to go two hours without any kind of contact. (A whole conversation, though? That’s another thing entirely. When I saw Interview with the Vampire many years ago at the old Cine 3 two women sitting behind me launched into a blow-by-blow discussion of everything happening on the screen from the moment the opening credits started to roll. After fifteen minutes of listening to their Cliffs Notes version of the film, I turned around and said, "Excuse me? I didn’t pay good money to see Interview with the Two Women Behind Me. Shut up." Rude, yes, but it worked. Sure, I’m fairly certain they’re the ones who (deliberately?) spilled their Pepsi all over my purse at some point during the next two hours, but it felt good to tell them to put a sock in it.) I didn’t mind when I saw you briefly bend your head to your companion’s ear and whisper something. In fact, I couldn’t hear you at all. It was short and, after all, the movie had just started. Lots of people rustle and fidget during the credits. No big deal. That’s why I was appalled when that older gentleman whipped around and loudly addressed the two of you:

"WHY DON’T YOU SPEAK UP SO WE CAN ALL HEAR YOU?"

I’ll admit it, I jumped in my chair. Wow. I felt bad for you. I saw you lean forward and say something to him. I can only hope any frustration you might have felt after confronting me influenced your choice of words. I really hope you said what came naturally. Like, "Go fuck yourself!" It’s what I would have done. I would have told you so with an apologetic smile, but you and your friend quickly left the moment the end credits appeared on the screen. I don’t blame you.

By the way, the movie was pretty good, wasn’t it? I didn’t see that twist coming at the end. I went out and bought the book, I liked it so much. I wonder if it will win Best Picture. The kid, at least, should get an Academy Award.

Sincerely,

Rebecca

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Matt January 20th, 2008

The scene: Me, sitting askew in my computer chair, grasping at my right side amidst a side splitting chuckle.

Enter: my mother, peering down the hallway, asking in as sincere a voice as you’d expect from someone that had to give birth to me:

Did you take your medication today?

I’m taking anti-depressants, not depressants mom. I get a big enough dose of that from you.

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Matt January 17th, 2008

Flickr group “Honest Photography” - where at any given moment you can feel:

• relief that your [insert noun] doesn’t look so [insert adjective].
• relief that your [insert noun] looks just like [insert proper noun]’s [insert noun].
• shame from realizing that no photo on there completely captures the chaos of your own house (though this one comes close).
• shame from realizing that your life is in complete shambles.
• the realization that suicide is out of the picture because you wouldn’t want anyone to find your body amidst the clutter in your house.

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Matt January 10th, 2008

My goal as a movie watcher is to watch everything that will hold the slightest interest to me. My particular tastes run towards romcoms, dramedys and sci-fi, but I’m willing to watch just about anything. Recently I added a slew of “controversial” movies onto my list; movies that I might not normally watch or even have the inclination to, however are now in my queue because I like to keep an open mind when it comes to film viewing.

So, after the break is my current Netflix queue. At 144 movies long, it isn’t short but believe it or not this very morning I culled some hundred-odd films from the list (mostly tv releases). Also, the order was randomized, save for the top five movies or so.

See a movie on here that you think should be moved up? See one that you can’t believe anyone with any modicum of sanity would watch? Have a suggestion that might fall in line when compared to the rest of the movies? I’m all ears.

Continue Reading »

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Rebecca January 8th, 2008

I’m home sick from work. I’ve been in this state since Saturday: sore throat, clogged sinuses, a cough that starts at the arches of my feet and ultimately rattles the light fixtures. Luckily, I have half a bottle of codeine-laced cough syrup left from last year’s bout with bronchitis. I’ve spent the last four days in a pleasantly mild opiate haze spiked with the citrus notes of Lemon Zinger tea and Halls cough drops. During this downtime, I’ve watched movies (Pirates of the Caribbean 3, The Science of Sleep, Serpico, La Vie en Rose*), posted commentary all over the Interweb (everywhere except where I should, ahem), finished one book (The Discovery of France by Graham Robb) and started another (Ian McEwan’s Saturday), and caught the season premiere of my beloved “Antiques Roadshow” (dammit, they’re not going to be anywhere near me this summer). I also watched the return of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert without their writers last night.

Did you see either? Boy oh boy, I’m not sure if anyone on TV is funny anymore without their writers. Oh sure, both men had their moments, like Colbert’s introduction of a show with nothing on it, but…overall? Meh. The highlight was Andrew Sullivan’s appearance on Colbert. Apparently I haven’t been paying enough attention to the chattering classes lately. I had no idea he left the Republican Party for our team. He was there to discuss his article about Barack Obama in December’s Atlantic Monthly. Watching him, I came to the conclusion that someone (Hello, Bill Maher?) needs to have both Sullivan and Christopher Hitchens on their show to debate the issues raised by Obama’s candidacy. Or, if you’re like Hitchens and believe any reference to race is “pathetic and embarrassing”, debate the very existence of such issues in the first place.

Anyway, enough codeine-fueled rambling. I’m off to watch some daytime TV. BBC America is airing back-to-back episodes of “How Clean Is Your House?“. I have a deeply masochistic need to be upbraided–via a hapless English proxy–on my housecleaning skills. If I’m lucky, “Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares” will air later this afternoon. Lord knows I need more BLEEP! in my life.

*Marion Cotillard is amazing, just amazing as Edith Piaf. Even though I gave La Vie only three stars on Netflix, those three were entirely due to her performance.

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Rebecca January 4th, 2008

“Emotionally draining” doesn’t even begin to describe the relationship I have with my mother’s husband. I don’t refer to him as my stepfather because a) he came into my life a bit too late for me to consider him a father figure and b) we don’t get along at all and haven’t from the start of their courtship. Call me idealistic, but my family should not resemble something out of a Dear Abby column: a 36-year-old woman and a 65-year-old man exchanging verbal potshots at each other every chance they get. There are a variety of reasons why this is on both sides. Let’s just call it a personality conflict; I can’t stand the one he’s got and the feeling is mutual.

One of the precious few areas in which we agree is politics. In the ten years they’ve been married, my mom and I have worked on her husband, using logic and reason to change his worldview from that of a dyed-in-the-wool Reagan Republican to a Democrat and–entirely without our persuasion–a Barack Obama supporter. I’m pretty proud of this. To be honest, it wasn’t that hard; the disasterous Bush Administration helped us quite a bit. He was already a conservationist in the Theodore Roosevelt mold. (TR is his hero; Theodore Rex is his favorite book). Each industry lobbyist Bush appointed to a key position in the Department of the Interior was another nail in the coffin of his personal politics. The stench of corruption and cronyism finally got to him, although I don’t know how he managed to ignore the similar miasma that emanated from the Reagan Administration. I think the reason he supports Obama is because he sees some of Teddy’s qualities in the Senator from Illinois: a honest politician who wants to be a force for good in a changing world.

As for myself, I haven’t openly supported any of the Democratic candidates. I think I’ve just been completely turned off by the constant media overexposure. I loathe the way our country’s primary process has been turned into one, two or three years of campaign rallies and $1000-a-plate fundraising dinners. I’d rather see all states hold their primary (or an anti-democratic caucus) on a single day no more than four or five months before the general election. Hell, while we’re discussing impossible dreams I’d also like see the abolition of the Electoral College and announce my upcoming marriage to Clive Owen, but let’s keep this post firmly grounded in reality. As November nears, I find myself thinking more and more about the perfect 2008 Presidential race. On New Year’s Eve some friends and I went out to dinner. Over lobster and lamb sliders, we agreed: Ron Paul should pull out of the G.O.P. and run as a Libertarian, Michael Bloomberg’s exploratory committee hopefully leads to an Independent candidacy, Mike Huckabee will be the standard bearer for our nation’s idiots and, thanks to these three men, a Democratic win is all but guaranteed this autumn. As much as I’d like to vote for a member of Team Vagina (bros before hos, man), I don’t think Hillary Clinton will take our country in a much-needed new direction. She’s the epitome of meet the new boss, same as the old boss. John Edwards…feh. Bill Richardson has the necessary foreign policy experience, but let’s be honest here–he’ll be out of the race by March. That leaves one serious contender.

Once again, I find myself in agreement with my mother’s husband. Perhaps there’s hope for our relationship.

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Rebecca December 28th, 2007

My Grandma’s out of the hospital and recuperating in a local nursing home now. It’s one of the better ones in town (if you’ve ever spent an extensive amount of time in any nursing home anywhere, you know this isn’t saying much), but she’s very unhappy there. In her words, it’s “weird” and the other residents, you know, the ones suffering from Alzheimer’s, are “creepy”. Somehow she got it into her head that a nursing home is a Hilton for invalids. She wants to recline on her pillow top bed in her tastefully decorated room and be waited on hand and foot by the staff without the inconvenience of interacting with the other guests. I can’t say I blame her, but she picked the place. It’s giving her the level of care our family can’t provide right now.

There are two things she particularly hates about the nursing home. First, her arch-nemesis from the retirement community is there. The poor woman had a stroke a few months ago. We were taking Grandma back to her room the other day when we walked by this lady sitting in her wheelchair out in the hall. “There she is”, hissed Grandma, pointing at her and giving her the stink eye as we passed within inches of her chair. Thankfully, the woman was oblivious to this. The other is another resident, an elderly gentleman. Also wheelchair-bound, he’s a good ten years younger than Grandma. He keeps hitting on her, asking if she’s a widow, how long she’s been a widow, what room she’s in, and how long she’ll be at the home. We think it’s rather cute. She rejects him at every turn. Personally, I’m jealous. I’m not getting that kind of action at age 36, so I can’t imagine turning it down at 96. I’m starting to think I need to leave the bar and head over to Riverside Manor if I want to meet more men.

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