Cheeky's Hideaway

S*b*rbia

There's been a lot of talk around Casa de Cheeky as to whether this particular casa has outlived it's Cheeky-ness. 

My deep personal loathing of suburban America has kept us comfortably nestled in our snug, $700/sq. ft. grassless abode, patiently reminding ourselves of how much our mortgage helps our taxes while wincing every time a delivery truck grazes our car.  We love the convenience of walking half a block to the over-priced grocery store that smells like Bruce Vilanch's large intestine if it had been left on the counter all night.  We're just down the street from a movie theater that, including babysitting, costs $40 per show, and we've got tons of cool restaurants and bars down the street that we vaguely remember the insides of.  It's almost ideal!

But there's a down side, too.  Our yard is a lovely shade of asphalt.  The space between rooms is about the same as the space between these two words.  And the cost of school virtually guarantees I won't have groceries--let alone essentials like an iPhone--until retirement.

Meanwhile, our friends beckon us with bony fingers from across the rivers, tempting us with tails of gingerbread houses on gum-drop lanes, with attached garages and affordable schooling where all children are handed gold bullion and Ivy League scholarships.  "Join us," they call, "all are welcome."  Their dulcet pleas echo in our ears, promising joyous backyard barbecues, with traces of desperate pleas for companionship in shared misery beneath the surface.

No harm in looking, right?

This weekend we trekked north for a brief taste of what could be should our weakening bonds to the city ever snap.  Armed with a fair value estimate of what we could afford and a short set of rules (no McMansions, no Penn Station) we ventured into the wilds of Westchester County to see if our hard-earned equity could be turned into something that didn't require an elevator ride and a stored-value card to do laundry.

In Des Moines, or Little Rock, or Missoula, the sale of our apartment could probably be leveraged into an 8 bedroom estate with a carriage house, marble fountains full of 1958 Glen Garioch, and a family of jugglers and flame-eaters who would perform nightly for our amusement.  We didn't think our dollar would stretch quite that far around the city, but a bathroom with two sinks and minimal exposed plumbing seemed reasonable.  Sure enough, the towns we visited (officially "villages," which makes me think they're populated by Smurfs) were all charming and beautiful, with affordable schools, beach-front access, and no neighbors casually dropping anvils on the floor above us during Cheeky's nap time.

Of course those weren't the houses in OUR price range. 

No, the houses in OUR price range "have potential."  They're the ones that HGTV looks at and says, "Well, we COULD fix it up some, but we might as well just bring in the bulldozers."  Don't get me wrong, I'm as big a fan of floor-to-ceiling wood-paneling in EVERY ROOM as the next guy, but there's something missing when the only cleanser you need is Pledge.

And then there are the "pass-through" streets these over-priced quaint homes were located on.  "Pass-through" is suburban code for "acceleration-only" allowing cars to shoot by like Hot Wheels coming off the loop-de-loop.  Backing out of the driveway would suicidal, and ever since I saw Pet Semetary I've assumed all such roads were automatically accompanied with nearby burial grounds for the internment and resurrection of evil dopplegangers of pets and loved ones.  No thanks...I'll pass on the high-speed Frogger and homicidal zombie cats, thanks.

We walked away disheartened, not because we didn't find anything we liked but because of how obviously poor and unworthy we are.  It's not like we told the broker we were interested only in castles with helipads; we legitimately thought we might find a yard and driveway without also finding appliances from the dawn of electricity.  Nothing makes you appreciate your unobstructed view of the apartment next door like the prospect of commuting an hour to get there. 

My next strategy: contact some brokers to see if they can locate a nice house somewhere in the early 1990s.

Story Time at Casa de Cheeky

"Daddy, will you tell me a story?"

The big blue eyes looked up at me, while the ketchup-stained lips continued to smack away at their chicken fingers.  Stories had recently become a part of meal time, and with Oodgie out of the room I was on the spot.

Oodgie usually deals with this by telling inane stories that sound remarkably like snippets of daily life.  "Once upon a time there was a little girl named Cheeky who went to Grandma's house and played with puzzles.  Then she had some mac and cheese and chased the cats, then she came home.  The end."  It works--Cheeky's into it--but our lives are so collectively boring that for me reliving them in a abridged toddler-speak is makes me dream of placing a shotgun between my teeth.

Faced with the prospect of fulfilling my darling daughter's request for entertainment--but unwilling to take the quicker, easier, more seductive route outlined above--I immediately rifled through the poorly organized cards in my mental rolodex looking for some nursery rhyme or fairy tale still loitering around from childhood. 

To my dismay, though, I found that despite a clear recollection of once knowing the Grimm cannon and other random folklore I could in no way compile a narrative thread that held any of them together.  I could name principle characters, and generally remembered the horrific things that happen to them (grandparents eaten by wolf, children locked in rooms, talking animals, etc.) but a story about giants or severed body parts would at best confuse Cheeky, and at worst send her running into the den to watch Dora and punish us with another hour of her incessant yelling.  (Dora's, not Cheeky's)

So I improvised.

"Once upon a time there was a cop named John McClane, who flew in a big airplane to see his wife in LA.  But when he got to Nakatomi Plaza he discovered the building was being robbed by a bad man named Hans, who tried very hard to stop Officer McClane.  But Officer McClaine was very resourceful, and after walking across glass and jumping off the roof, he eventually stopped Hans and save everybody.  Hooray!  The end!"

"What on earth are you doing in there?" piped Oodgie from another room.  "That's not a good story!"

"First of all, it IS a good story, and second it's what I know!  I can't just make up a story as good as that one!  Did you like the story, Cheeky?"

Pause

"Sure!"  She reached down to get another chicken finger.

An audible sigh can be heard through the wall.  I relaxed, knowing that once again I had overcome adversity and mastered a crucial talent of parenting...in my own way.

"Can you tell me another story, Daddy?"

"Of course, sweety.  Once upon a time a soldier named Dutch took his team of elite commandos into the jungle to extract an informant, but little did they know that there was an alien hunter in the treetops waiting to pick them off, one by one...."

The end.

You Can't Spell 'Diet' Without D-I-E

Not long after our triumphant return from Antigua Oodgie and I decided the bulbous, squishy parts of our bodies have to go.  Months of feasting, carousing, and general abuse of our bodies have finally caught up with us--although you could argue that they caught up to us in our late 20s and we've been ignoring it since.  Our weapon of choice?  The South Beach diet.

For the eight of you not familiar with this diet, it in no way whatsoever resembles the actual South Beach.  The implied decadence of the name is immediately countered by the word "diet" after it, which means that no matter how easy the diet may be you'll still feel like a POW two hours into it.

We're freakin' starving!

I have noticed a few bad habits I'd picked up over the years as a result of this suicidal challenging decision.  Apparently my brain is hard-wired to grab a bag of chips 20 seconds after I walk in the door, and the battered chicken fingers which make up 63% of Cheeky's diet look more and more succulent every day.  I've been trusting my young, fit body to absorb my indiscretions, forgetting that neither adjective applies to me anymore.  Now I'm picking the croutons out of my Caesar salad (oh, the irony of it all...)

Far and away the most traumatic change, though, is the strict prohibition of beer.  We all know that it sometimes occasionally has been known to in some people to possibly maybe contribute to weight gain.  OK, I get it.  But seriously....none whatsoever?  The timing of this could not be worse.  The biggest national holiday of the year and they expect me to sip mineral water?  I 100% guarantee that there's a loophole somewhere that I can exploit!

...as long as I'm OK with the consequences.

Any one else have any diet war stories they'd like to share?

Misery Loves Company

On Thursday I went into the Duane-Reade on 40th and Madison looking for some cold medicine.  I stepped over half-opened boxes of Christmas supplies and shimmied past the sad little greeting card section to get to the pharmacy, where I assumed most of the medicines would be.  I went up and down each aisle half-a-dozen times, scanning the shelves for Dayquil, Vicks, Robitussin...anything!  I kept thinking I was lost, that I wasn't looking in the right place, until I realized the problem; I couldn't find them because they weren't there.  The empty shelves I assumed were just another example of New York's legendary lack of customer service were actually barren because they'd been picked clean.

It's that time of year in the city.  And Casa de Cheeky is representin'.

Cheeky's voice has been muffled behind a membrane of mucous for the last week, except for the intense, grating squeals she's perfected when she's having an emotional breakdown (now as frequent a Old Faithful).  Attempts to cheer or tranquilizer are met with baffling tirades and meandering conversations in Simlish.  We're torn between feeling incredibly bad for her and wanting to lock her in a hermetically sealed mayonnaise jar on Funk & Wagnel's porch until she feels better.

My coughing comes like gunshots, as my body tries to dislodge the goblin living deep in my trachea.  Worse, it's been coming in staccato bursts just as I'm falling asleep, jolting me to delirious consciousness and frightening dogs around the neighborhood.  I've been sleeping on the couch to keep from startling Oodgie out of sleep (which usually doesn't take much; six hours of staring at the ceiling would be considered "better than average" rest for her) but it's done little good.  And cough "suppresants?"  Who are they kidding?  They're about as useful as anti-drug posters at an Amy Winehouse concert.

Poor Oodgie complains that her head is completely stuffed and has the battered look of a Somali refugee.  In addition to battling whatever little buggers are coursing through her blood stream, she also gets the added bonus of a psychotic, snot-drenched toddler and a doped-up, useless husband.  But I give her credit, as she handles it all with her usual blend of strength and grace.

So we've been quarantined for the last couple days.  Fortunately it's "dead week" in the blog world, in which nobody is actually reading any posts (including this one) because they're too busy cramming all the last minute Turkey Day planning into 48 hours.  Here's hoping that your Thanksgiving is free of sibling fist-fights, over-cooked poultry, and hacking, coughing houseguests. 

We'll be staying home, so you've got one of those three covered.

Reason #117 Why We Need a Bigger Place

I spent all day Saturday re-reclaiming a reclamation project.  Between Oodgie's business (why aren't you people buying these?) and our collective lack of organization and energy, our den had yet again become a graveyard of old bills, broken electronics, and prints that were hanging in our individual apartments for years before we were married.

In addition to throwing out credit card statements from 2002, I took it upon myself to move a bunch of crap to our basement storage rooms.  Our building has "community space" where people can put things they don't want in their apartments, but can't bring themselves to sell, give-away, or add to a blazing pyre before the homecoming game.  We've been enthusiastic contributors to this space, and as I was unloading a box of VHS tapes and a framed Hopper print, I had an unsettling realization.

We probably have enough down there to furnish another apartment.

Or an entire house.

The subject of space comes up regularly at Casa de Cheeky.  There's no question that concepts like "second bathrooms." "back yards," and "gaming rooms" are very appealing to us.  I'd love to let Cheeky run around in an enclosed space without that space being limited to a thirty foot radius from me at all times.  And that pile of stuff downstairs is a testament to our ability to accumulate crap, a skill I have little appetite for neglecting.

I actually feel bad about all the garbage we've got downstairs.  It bullies it's way into every corner of the basement, picking on other people's stuff and taking their lunch money.  It voraciously consumes everything in it's path.  We're even negotiating with neighbors to adopt extra furniture as if we're hosting some potlatch at Pottery Barn.  It's getting ridiculous

The most chilling thing about this--and an ironic deterrent to doing anything about it--is the concept of moving all this crap some day.  Movers are somewhere between cockroaches and toe cheese on the phylogenetic tree, and the fewer interactions I have with them the better.  My eye starts to twitch when I imagine them lumbering up the stairs with a disassembled dining room table, then menacingly awkwardly waiting for an oversized tip while I count the number of gouges added to its frame.  The only alternative would be to ask friends to help (and we're well beyond the "we'll pay you with beer and pizza" stage of our lives) or do it ourselves, which...um, no, that's not happening.  I'd happily leave all our stuff buried down there, next to Fortunato and the Ark of the Covenant, as long as my out-of-shape butt is spared that task.

And so it continues, and the Museum of CroutonBoy's Left-Overs continues to gather items for it's collection.  I'll be down there again this weekend, wedging an armoire behind a box of old paint cans and Christmas lights.  Unless someone wants to borrow it for a while...all you've got to do is come pick it up!

And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Our Cheerios

Yet again we have let our apartment become a haven of refuse and flotsam.  It's no secret that I have a higher tolerance for offal than Oodgie does, but even I was taken aback at how narrow the aisles between the rubbish piles had become. 

Ironically, despite the ample supply of red, yellow, and blue plastic objects to cast into the mix, Cheeky wasn't really responsible for this mess--it was our own doing.  We spent much of the weekend hiding tidying the clutter, but before we did I took a quick inventory to assess the scope of the project.

Bathroom

Our bathroom remains our Kubla Khan, tormenting us with it's potential but stubbornly unwilling to resolve into a fully functional lavatory.  Our new toilet flushes so loudly the FTA needs to regulate it.  We're afraid to flush it while Cheeky's sleeping, which means we're either exercising our urethral sphincters or accumulating our pee until it bubbles and smokes on contact.  We've grown to hate the color of the walls, and the tiles are immune to all suction cups.  Just your usual post-renovation depression.

None of this compares, of course, to the ongoing Case of the Missing Countertop.  We had to drive out to Queens to personally inspect and select countertop #4 from a stone company run by the Klopeks.  The guy helping us (who looked strangely familiar) apologized for all the problems, and made it appear that everything would be OK in a couple of days.  Yeah, that's what the architect at Pisa said.  In the meantime, though, we have enjoyed the advantage of reaching into our vanity from above like it was a school desk.  I wish they all came with a lift-up sink!  Now we keep our razors and toilet paper right next to the EraserMates and compasses...

Living/Dining Room

...because who are we kidding, it's the same room...

Here we've got boxes parallel parked against every wall, filled with packaging, labels, envelopes, and other detritus of Oodgie's fledgling business.  Her supplier has a different definition of "quality" than she does, so every corner is strewn with the remains of repackaged or discarded products (getting antsy to see what we've been working on?  Come back later this week and you'll find out...) 

It wasn't just the products, though--walking barefoot revealed chunks of hardened cheese, cheerios, and stickers with the fuzz of a thousand carpets frizzing from the back.  The collateral had blocked all means of access for days, and the accumulated filth was threatening to bury us alive.  I did imagine an hilarious reinterpretation of our existence by future archaeologists who would painstakingly excavate our apartment and inaccurately recreate our daily lives, but stumbling over boxes in the dark on the way to the bathroom seemed like a good enough reason to ignore that and do something about it.

Den

Despite an earlier reclamation, the den has regressed into a holding cell for unwanted items which the court system hasn't found a place for.  After our desktop computer became an expensive foot-stool, the room has fallen completely out of use, and were we not storing paint cans, unhung mirrors, and incomplete tax returns there it would probably be reclaimed by the forest. 

Bedroom

The bedroom had been our refuge from all this, but even the Chamber of Love was cluttered and aggravating.  Window access was blocked by my brother's unsent Christmas gifts (yeah, I'm a dick, but it's not my fault!) and a collection of home fitness equipment last used during the Clinton administration.  I found movie stubs for that collection I'm totally going to frame and mount in my dorm room, and enough scattered shoes to make Carrie Bradshaw's lesbian-biker-sister blush (because no one in this house wears Manolo Blahniks, unless I really want to feel sexy)

(by the way, I don't recommend looking for pictures of "lesbian bikers" at work...ZOINKS!  I should have expected that...)

Remarkably though, we managed to get most everything under control, or at least to the point where a vague sense of progress was made.  There are still a few boxes in awkward corners, and two Elmos are staring at me from the living room floor, but we can no longer blame it on laziness or apathy. 

If we can't keep it clean now, we must just be slobs.

The Hole Where Our Sink Should Be

It was supposed to be the dawning of a new era.  We should have returned to a newly renovated bathroom, complete with high-end tile, fancy-shmancy faucets, and someplace to hang a roll of toilet paper.  Our weeks away from Casa de Cheeky would render the transformation invisible to us, and the only thing we'd notice would be the steep increase in our debt/equity ratio.

Instead we got this.  This is a lot of things, but it's definitely not a sink.

You see, sometimes, in the world of home renovation, "yes" actually does mean "no."  For example, "Yes, we'll delivery your counter top," actually means "no, we don't deliver it to you."  "Yes, I'll be there tomorrow," could just as well mean "no, I can't make it until Friday."  And "Yes, I can install recessed lights," means "no, I cannot install them in a place where the light would illuminate anything you need."

In all fairness, "yes" does sometimes mean "yes," but in a qualified manner:  "Yes, the toilet works," may actually mean, "Yes, it works about half the time.  That counts."

Why must these things always be such a pain?

I'm exaggerating a bit, but after moving our for three weeks and investing the financial equivalent of tuition at Notre Dame you shouldn't have to deal with this crap.

It looks nice and all...the tile is great, the fixtures work, and it no longer smells like a wet dog.  But it's not done.  The contractor won't come back until the counter-top is delivered, and he still has to install all the towel racks, shelves, and...um, what else is there...oh yeah, sinks, which are all sorta useful when you're using a bathroom.  Meanwhile the toilet keeps running running running loud enough to distract us while watching our favorite shows, and we've got razors, toothpaste, and deodorant strewn pell-mell around the kitchen.  It looks like someone robbed a Walgreens and used our apartment as a hide-out.

Supposedly everything should be finished tomorrow, but I majored in skepticism in college and won't believe it 'til I see it.  I don't know what we're going to do in the meantime (Oodgie doesn't like my suggestion) but lamenting our fortunes seems like a good start.

So...how is your week going so far?

Wednesday Morning Update:  The counter-top arrived last night, and the contractor made arrangements to come in and install it.  One problem though...IT'S CRACKED!  REJECTED!  Yippee, we start again!  Estimated completion date will now be in two weeks.  May God have mercy on our filthy hands souls.

Roll Credits

Sadly, our time in Bespin is drawing to a close.  ECG returns Monday to wrest control from us, unless my petition to have it declared a micronation in her absence is approved by the UN.  I had hoped to install better defenses to repel their forces in the event a siege was necessary, but I was too busy sipping scotch and taking long showers in relative luxury to notice the time passing.  I've only got a couple more days to establish my squatter rights.  And that means we've got one weekend left to score some killer cupcakes, browse for a new bong $300 jeans, and throw snowballs at Liv Tyler.

Although I'm going to miss the covered parking and stunning views, it's probably a good thing we're heading back to our humble abode.  We never got around to hosting any of the fancy parties we talked about, and all the cool restaurants and trendy shops don't do you much good when you're primary babysitter is riding a bike through Hanoi.  The weather has consistently sucked every day we've been here.  And I'm sure the ASPCA is monitoring my behavior, just in case I decide to test the "cats always land on their feet" hypothesis from six floors up.

Cheeky, for the most part, has loved the extra space.  She's also loved the following:

• Precariously testing her center of balance at the top of the stairs
• Enough square-footage to approach OEI decision speed while running, and room to slide an additional three meters after the inevitable trip and fall.
• Standing on the back of the couch to look out the windows
• The shafts of light that beam into her bedroom at the crack of dawn, rousing her extra-early for more hours of wooly-minded playtime!
• The scissors-and-surgical-instruments drawer in the kitchen

The early-rising alone is enough to push her parents over the edge...the combination of the above is nearly lethal.   Reflecting on this, I'll actually welcome having Cheeky in a contained, horizontal space for a while.

Now, if I can just slip the HDTV into a suitcase...no one will notice, will they?

As Featured on MTV Crib-Crashers

Greetings from the West Village!  Our temporary relocation has begun, and we're back in the heart of Manhattan for three glorious weeks. 

Saturday morning, before we left, Oodgie and I were sitting in our former old current apartment, looking around at all that is cozy and familiar about it.  "I don't want to leave...I like it here," commented Oodgie.  "Me too.  I know ECG has a nice apartment, but I'm going to miss the comfort of home.  I do love it here" I replied.  We grudgingly filled our suitcases with five times the necessary clothing and toiletries (as if we were going to Botswana for a month), watered the plants, and packed up the kid for the three three mile journey. 

Now that we're in, I have no intention of ever letting them have it back. 

Those of you who live in houses (the majority, I assume, unless you're like the average New Yorker and prefer calculating square footage in the double-digits) probably know what it's like to have a playroom, a master bath, and a front door you don't have to share with 70 other families.  We aren't used to such luxury.  We've become accustomed to squeezing every last drop of comfort out of our little, over-priced square of real-estate.  We love it, but with all this space I suddenly have an excuse besides "I wasn't listening" when I can't hear Oodgie talk to me.  It's pretty sweet.

It's a top floor apartment, and I've been trying to think of a good nickname for it.  "Casa de ECG" is too awkward.  "Grandma's House" sounded like something over the river and through the woods, which this place is not.  I briefly considered Armenia and Laputa, but both seemed too esoteric.  I liked the idea behind those, though, I settled for something similar but more familiar:  Bespin.

Here's a quick rundown of the key differences I've noticed so far:

                                                           

Casa de Cheeky	Bespin
Sheer drop down six stories to pavement below	Two large landscaped roof decks	Advantage – Bespin. Plus if I drop a water balloon I have a 7% chance of hitting Matthew Broderick
Furthest point in apartment is 20 steps away	Stairs, once every 5-10 minutes	Advantage – Casa de Cheeky I shouldn't get winded getting a glass of water
Parking is a Darwinian battle in a land of limited resources	Parking 47 seconds away	Advantage – Bespin. No contest
Kitchen the size of a smallish walk-in closet	Kitchen the size of our Casa de Cheeky	Advantage – Push. The space is awesome, but you don’t need that much to order Chinese.
0 bathrooms  (at least for the next 10 days)	4 bathrooms	Advantage – Bespin. I may crap in one and wipe in another, just   because I can.
If you crane your neck you can see some treetops and water   towers	Natural light on three sides with a view of Manhattan skyline	Advantage - Bespin
A combination of old stereo components and Airport   Express, held together with duct tape and bailing wire	Radio-controlled home entertainment system with   room-specific music controls	Advantage – Casa de   Cheeky. Fancy remotes don’t matter   if you can’t figure how to change the channel. And did I mention their musical tastes include klezmers?
Living room looks like Santa’s workshop after a gas-line exploded	Living room looks like Santa’s workshop after a gas-line exploded	Advantage – Bespin. It’s like New Orleans.   Half the room can look like the Lower Ninth   Ward, but if you spend your time in the French Quarter you’d never know   anything was wrong.
Our operation is small enough not to be noticed...which is   advantageous for everybody since our customers are anxious to avoid   attracting attention to themselves.	Aren't you afraid the Empire's going to find out about this little operation and shut you down?	Advantage – Bespin. That's always been a danger looming like a   shadow over everything we've built here. But things have developed that will insure security. I've just made a deal that will keep the Empire out of here forever.

I'll be spending the next couple weeks installing a moat and drawbridge around the building in case ECG returns and tries to take her apartment back.  Is there a city ordinance against using burning oil to defend your building's entrance? 

I Guess You'd Call That "Triple-Booked"

Let me give you a little glimpse of what the next ten days hold for us:

• we're moving
• we're renovating
• we're having houseguests

Does it seem insane to you that we've voluntarily planned this to happen all at once?  I sit here, staring at the list, and can only nod in amazement.  We must be nuts.  But let me explain.

ECG is taking a much-deserved vacation to Vietnam for almost an entire month.  She has cats, and apparently the lazy bastards will starve if they aren't fed.  (Maybe if they stopped lying around all day and learned how to open a can of cat food that wouldn't happen).  As payment for all the wonderful acts of charity she has given us, we've agreed to house-sit while they're looking for Colonel Kurtz and sucking down pho.  That means that all the paraphernalia, accessories, perishables, and assorted sundries of our lives--none of which we can live without--have all got to move with us.

Now I should mention that this isn't such a bad thing.  Our apartment, which looks like the world's smallest Crate & Barrel, is a nice little place in Brooklyn that, despite facing the ass-end of a college dorm, we're very happy with.  ECG, however, lives in a terraced apartment in the heart of Greenwich Village, down the street from Sarah Jessica Parker and a short walk from the best shopping, restaurants, cupcakes and pizza in town.  It's twice the space, well-appointed, and a short walk to the subway.  In other words, it's where we want to live.

When we first heard about this offer, we happened to also be talking about the sad state of our bathroom.  The previous owners of our apartment were really into wallpaper--and not really into grout--and a new bathroom has been at the top of our wishlist since we moved in.  But our downstairs neighbor wouldn't appreciate it if we peed through a hole in the floor for a week, and Cheeky already smells like a stable, and that's with a nightly bath.  It didn't take long for us to connect the dots and decide that this was a golden opportunity to upgrade without showering in the men's room at Macy's.

Then, in the spirit of "why the hell not?" we invited my parents to stay with us for a few days.  It's expensive for them to come out and visit, and with the extra space they could live with us without feeling crowded.  Sure, there's a higher risk of them stumbling upon something they wouldn't want to see, and I don't relish picking them up at the airport during Manhattan rush hour, but I'm sure they'll appreciate staying someplace larger than a second-grader's diorama.

The only problem--and this is a big one--is that we're not prepared.  At all. Our bathroom drawers are completely full.  I've taken no inventory of clothes.  And how long before Paco II is dead?  We've got to get crackin' on this!

But not until we're caught up on 24 and Battlestar Galactica...priorities, ya know.