It's a wonder a corn grits beverage never caught on

So here I am on yet another Sunday night wondering where on earth my weekend went, wishing I had just another four hours or so to unwind and attend to the various things I didn't accomplish in the last 52. This happens every weekend, of course, and I'm finally starting to realize: Oh yeah. If I would simply get UP at a reasonable hour on Saturdays and Sundays, I would have an extra four hours in each weekend. Of course, if I did that, I'd just deem myself deserving of a nap by mid-afternoon, so let's just say that weekends are inherently too short and perhaps it has nothing whatsoever to do with my laziness or poor time management and leave it at that, OK?

In dating news, I have no news. I do have a question, however--you know, for those of you who are happily coupled off or have ever been happily coupled in the past. (You like those, don't you? Doesn't everyone like to help?) Tell me, if I have not seen either of the two men I'm not-so-scandalously dating since this past Monday and Tuesday, respectively, and if I have not given either of them more than an idle passing thought here and there since then, is that a sign that perhaps I'm not so into them, or does it just mean I am busy and popular and they are new and still foreign and relatively unimportant to me and perhaps I will warm to one of them and soon be genuinely excited to have him in my life? As I mentioned last week, I'm trying to do this thing where I actually keep an open mind and reserve judgment instead of saying, "Um, thanks but no thanks" after three dates. Mind you, I have had a good time with both of them. There's been nothing so odious or unpleasant as to warrant an obvious "I'm out" decision. But neither is making me say, "You! Yes, YOU! I want to date you and only you!" either. Three-to-five dates in, what do you think: is that portentous, or could it still go either way? I know no one else can really answer this for me, but it still annoys me that I can't figure this stuff out by now.

As I said, however, I haven't gone on a date since Tuesday, so I can't even blame my so-called player lifestyle for my absence from the Internet of late. I would say I've been busy with many other things, but in reality, I think several time warps were involved. This evening, however, I did have plans. I went to see David Sedaris read at a theater downtown, and naturally, rather than leaving feeling inspired to write something myself, I left realizing I will never craft witty sentences anywhere near as artfully and hence, I should not even pretend to try. Instead, then, how about some pictures?

Pictures of pumpkins...



And apples...



And my friend Amy with a mutant gourd...



And me and several friends outside an antique store...



Bearing treasures untold inside...









And I guess that about covers the highlights of my weekend... How was yours?

If I could just get a paid endorsement from NBC for this post, maybe I could afford even MORE shoes!

At the risk of being that girl who quotes lines from a TV show even when that TV show has been off the air for nearly half a decade, I have a Friends reference for you. Oh, who am I kidding? I am totally that girl. And I maintain that there is an appropriate Friends reference for nearly every situation in life, so I'm not even going to feel lame about this.

Anyway, do you remember the episode where Phoebe decided to play the field and date two men at once? One was a fireman whom she liked because he was strong and burly, and the other was a school teacher who was all sensitive and gentle. And she couldn't decide between the two of them, particularly because they both just kept getting better and better (the fireman actually wrote poetry, and the teacher... oh, I don't remember anymore). But then eventually, the two guys found out about each other and it all blew up in her face?

I am totally just like Phoebe right now. Well, except that the two men in question actually do the same thing for a living (and neither is a fireman or a teacher). Oh, and that neither one is particularly buff and burly nor endearingly sensitive and arty. And neither really has me at all excited enough to rave about him, so I'm more in "trying to keep an open mind and not run away immediately like I usually do" mode than "how long can I pull this off?" mode. Also, neither has found out about the other yet, and I'm not sure either one would even particularly care (or have any right to care) if they did.

So actually I guess I'm nothing like Phoebe at all, save for the fact that I am dating two men and I don't know how long I can (or want to) keep doing so. Television is obviously JUST LIKE REAL LIFE, however, so what I really want to know is how Phoebe had TIME to date two men, while still going to work and playing guitar and hanging out at the coffee shop for three hours every day. I mean, I can skip the guitar and the coffee shop parts, but when am I supposed to get my blog time in? How am I supposed to (finally) finish that damn still-overdue third Twilight book? This is seriously cutting into my very important sitting-around time. I remember now one more reason I hate dating. Even when you're temporarily past that phase of fielding mundane, small-talky emails from multiple date candidates at once, the actual dating part takes too damn much time.

In other news, I did decide on a pair of red shoes. Thank you all for your very serious input on that. I went with Pair #1, which I was leaning towards from the start. Unfortunately, every online review I read was correct and there is something wrong with the workmanship of that shoe, because just as those reviewers reported, the soles on both of my brand-new red shoes were peeling away from the shoe within a mere three hours of wear. It's nothing a little shoe glue won't fix, but it's annoying nonetheless. Hence, I have taken a cue from Lara and fired off an email to the vice president of Steve Madden shoes (or rather, to whichever assistant to the vice president answers mail at the supposed V.P.'s address posted on their web site). If I'm lucky, perhaps he will send me a heartfelt apology and a coupon for some large percentage off another pair of cute but poorly constructed shoes. Fingers crossed.

Because one new pair of shoes clearly wasn't enough, I also bought a pair of brown flats, a pair of mary janes, and a new pair of brown boots, all in the same week. Apparently I've suddenly decided to pretend I have copious amounts of expendable income. (Disclaimer/Clarification: I do NOT.)

Perhaps I am just doing my own small part to keep the Global Financial System from crumbling. What's that? Oh. Perhaps you haven't heard about that. Apparently the world economy is in a state of ruin. Here's a tip from my friend Plump: Start stocking up on Beanie Babies now.

I thought perhaps I would give you a virtual fashion show of my new possibly economy-stabilizing purchases, but unfortunately I am nowhere near my camera nor its related photo uploading software (or, for that matter, the actual shoes in question to be photographed) at the moment, so that shallow and self-indulgent little project won't be happening. (Translation: I am blogging at work, though doing so on my lunch break, which I feel makes it only mildly unscrupulous.) And now that I've mentioned both "fashion show" and "lunch break" in the same paragraph, I suddenly hear Kelly Kapoor in my head, chanting "Fashion show! Fashion show! Fashion show at lunch!"

My apologies if you're hearing her now as well.

Even Garrison Keillor wears red shoes, and I should be at LEAST as hip as he is, right?

You guys, I am totally famous. Remember back when -R- and I went to see Crazy Aunt Purl, and -R- was totally a blogging rock star because Crazy Aunt Purl totally knew who she was? (Also, remember when I could come up with exclamatory adjectives other than "totally"? Yeah, I'll work on that.) ANYWAY, today I have -R- beat, because while Crazy Aunt Purl may read -R-'s blog, guess who reads mine? Go ahead, guess. I'll wait. Give up? Oh, no one special, really. Just PAULA POUNDSTONE. And not only is she reading, but she sent me an e-mail to tell me to keep up the good work!

OK, so really the e-mail came from Paula's manager, and it was intended for my lovely guest-poster, Nabbalicious. Also, in this age of Google alerts and Technorati, it shouldn't be so surprising that if you write about a celebrity, even in the giant cloud of anonymity that is the Internet, there's a reasonably good chance that celebrity (or someone hired by that celebrity) might read what you wrote. Still, I managed to forget this fact of modern life momentarily, because seeing Paula Poundstone's name in my Inbox with the subject line "Your post about 'Wait, Wait'" still caught me completely off guard. And now that I've gone and written about her twice, she'll probably see this as well. (If so, hi, Paula's manager! How's it going today?) I have to wonder, though... if celebrities really DO read everything we write about them, then Ethan, why haven't you called me?? Sigh.

All right; that's really all I had to talk about tonight. Yep; e-mail from Paula Poundstone is about the most exciting thing I have going on, and it wasn't even an e-mail directed towards me. Yes, yes, I could talk about last night's debate, or about how I watched the portions of it that I watched with a boy, and how that boy looked at me at one point during the event to ask, "So... are you watching this or not?" because he didn't want to interrupt my very important and serious civic-mindedness by trying to kiss me (which is more than I can say for The Neighborhood Giant during Michael Clayton, the result of which being that I still have no idea what the hell was going on in that movie). But if I wrote about that, it might either jinx the portions of that situation that I feel semi-good about, or force me to dwell on and subsequently weird myself out over the parts of that situation I feel not-so-good about. So I fear I need to be annoyingly vague and uncharacteristically secretive about that. Sorry.

Instead, then, let's talk about shoes! What? I wouldn't be a female blogger if I didn't blog about shoes at least once a year, and I can't recall any shoe-related posts thus far in '08. To my male readers, I do apologize. You can just skip to the next post in your feed reader right now if you prefer.

Still with me? Great. I'm following Abbersnail's lead and deciding that it really is high time I just bought a pair of red shoes already. I am woefully inadequately accessorized most days, and I do think red shoes would be just the thing to point me in the right direction in that respect. The question is, which red shoes? I think I finally have it narrowed down. The choices are thus. Weigh in, if you will.

#1 - I think I like these best. However, the reviews thus far lead me to believe I'll need to buy some shoe glue almost immediately if I purchase them. Steve Madden makes a cute shoe, but apparently his workmanship is shoddy. Is it worth it? Glue is easy enough to apply... So cute, though, aren't they??



#2 - Nearly the same shoe (and the same brand), but mysteriously eight dollars cheaper. Also, are they really such a bright red, or is the photography just misleading here? Tough call.



#3 - Perhaps a bit more versatile, in that they'd go with dresses as well as jeans and pants, but how often do I actually wear dresses in the fall and winter? (Answer: Not often.) Still, how cute is the kitten heel?



And finally, #s 4 and 5 - both excellently versatile and tactful choices, as you can see.





OK, so I am kidding about those last two, although I sort of secretly love the thigh-highs and nearly wish I had some absurd costume-related excuse to purchase them. Aaannnddd, now you're picturing me in red pleather thigh-high boots with whatever outfit would accompany such a thing. I do like to keep people guessing and put myself out of my comfort zone now and then, but that's not really an image I meant to conjure up.

Back to the point, then. #1, #2, or #3?

You think I could milk this guest post thing all the way through NaBloPoMo?

You know how disappointing it is when a blogger you've grown to know and love suddenly closes up shop, right? Surely we've all been there with at least one site... And yes, yes, when that happens, we're still left with sixty-some live and active blogs in our feed readers, so perhaps we should not complain, but that is not how that old Girl Scout song goes... "Make new friends, but keep the old," it says! KEEP them! One is silver; one is gold! Who am I to judge which is worth more in our currently shaky economy?

All of this is to say that I am here to help. Here at Stefanie Says, we are all about giving gone-but-not-forgotten bloggers a temporary home: a place to share their tales of ridiculousness or woe without reactivating their own Typepad account.

OK, so by "we," I mean "me," and really I'm not all about this at all. I am sometimes about it, however. And today I am about it again. Many of you piped up and said "Welcome back" to our old pal Darren several months ago. Today we have a post from another good friend you may also recall. Show of hands if you remember a fine writer who went by the name Nabbalicious! And while we're at it, raise your hand if you're a fan of public radio as well! Do you have both hands up now? Oh goodie. Then Nabbalicious has a story for you.

Take it away, Heather...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Radio on the TV

I purposely told very few people that I could potentially be appearing on "Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me" when the show would be in Los Angeles taping a pilot for CBS. Emily from WBEZ Chicago called to ask me if I wanted to be a contestant, in response to my frantic email looking for tickets to the taping.

(For the uninitiated, "Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me" is a weekly news show on NPR that is part current events, part commentary, and all comedy. Don't feel bad if you haven't heard of it, either. One person backstage at the show told us that when he heard it was going to be a TV show he responded, "Do they have NPR in L.A.?!" Oy. I think he should feel a little bad.)

If I still had my blog, I would link here to the story about how I was traumatized each year in September at school when my birthday arrived. The class would gather around and sing songs to me. They would eat cupcakes in my honor, sometimes topped with things alight. We all have our crosses to bear in life. But my point is, I don't like to be the center of attention. I don't like to be ignored, exactly, but I'm always unsettled when all eyes in the room are on me, and I usually tend to panic in situations like that. Unless I'm drunk.

So, Emily's question about whether I wanted to be a contestant on the show was met with this response: "Um... I just wanted to see the taping?"

"C'mon! It'll be fun!" I reluctantly agreed, thinking to myself that I would just play along with her and back out later. This was clearly a mistake both me and the producers of "Wait, Wait" would come to regret. If I don't get on, I get to watch the taping. Everyone wins!

Emily asked a few basic questions. "Where do you live?"

"Long Beach."

"Yeah? How is that?"

Shit! This is an interview! I'm already auditioning! So, naturally, I start saying logical things like, "Oh, it's great. You know, it has a real reputation for gangs. But I just don't see that. Sure, maybe up in the northern part you might. But where I live? Totally cute." I don't suppose there was any need to tell her about the bodies occasionally found in dumpsters near where I live, or last year when I saw a coroner's van parked outside one of the neighborhood apartment buildings.

I frighten most people with my rambling, but Emily seemed to love it. We talked for a few more minutes, and then she told me that we'd be in touch.

While I tried to decide if I should back out, I explained to the few people I told about this why I didn't really want to go on: YouTube. They would ask me a question like, "Who is the president of the United States?" and I'd stare dumbly at Peter Sagal while the panelists dropped increasingly frustrating and obvious hints such as "Rhymes with MUSH!"

And then a video of the entire thing would go on YouTube, and I'd become a national laughingstock.

However, less than a week later, I was waiting in a van to go to the Wilshire Theater for my taping with a few of the other potential contestants. I decided to just go ahead with this contestant business, because I figured my chances of getting on were slim at best. Dozens and dozens must be vying for a spot on the show.

On the van, I'm told there are six trying out, three will be chosen.

We're hustled to the theater backstage and approved for wardrobe, then invited to raid the craft services table, a mélange of randomness. Twinkies, trail mix, Nutella, bread, Red Vines, coffee, tea, cereal, fruit.

I resisted the urge to scream, "I SAID ONLY BROWN M&Ms, DAMMIT!" because I'm sure no one has done that before.

While drinking my tea (how very post-rehab rock star of me, right?), I find out that I'll be on the show. My moratorium on telling anyone about the show is lifted and I commence texting everyone I've ever met, plus possibly a few strangers.

Twenty minutes later, mid-text, I find out that I'm bumped. My suspicion is that I looked too similar to another girl who had been chosen and they wanted a little more diversity among the contestants.

Commence texting everyone I've ever met to tell them that I will not, in fact, be on TV. I'm vaguely disappointed, but mostly relieved. This is why I told almost no one to begin with. I should have known from my degree in quantum celebrity physics that just as quickly as you rise to the top, you can crash to the bottom and wind up with your face in a ditch with your friends on an episode of "E! True Hollywood Story" selling you out.

My consolation prize is actually a good one: I'm going to be on the radio show. "I have a face for radio," I said to a fellow would-be contestant next to me.

"What does that say about me?!" he said. I pointed out that he'd be on TV waving, as Aisha Tyler would be playing for him during the "Not My Job" segment (she was funny, but she didn't win him the Carl Kassel calendar). I didn't even rate that.

While we stayed backstage for a minute, some of the "Wait, Wait" staff came to talk to us. The radio show's director came backstage to chat with us, and we immediately notice how young she looks. It turns out this is her first job out of college, but she's so sweet, I can't hate.

She tells us that the show is a complete mom-and-pop operation. There are just a few people working on it, and they each write one-fourth of every episode. The Chase Auditorium has just 500 seats, they tape about five segments and dump the least funny one each week. They even redo jokes, and play tricks with the laughter to make it all sound natural and off-the-cuff.

She also told us that "This American Life" is recorded in Berkeley – something to do with the TV show. That means when Ira says, "Coming to you from WBEZ Chicago. It's This American Life. And I'm Ira Glass," he's a liar.

The taping was about to begin, so we were ushered off to our VIP seats and Peter Sagal was introduced to the audience. After the clapping and hooting died down, he told us how surreal the entire thing had been and how he was wearing a suit that wasn't even his. He also noted later that his favorite thing about television is that nothing is ever your fault. That sounds like a job I might like.

My friend Steve, aka Digital Janitor, was there to lend some moral support in the event that I got on TV and freaked out, and he got a much better shot than I did of how everything looked:



With that, they started the show with panelists Mo Rocca, Tracey Ullman and Tom Bodett.

Someone at NPR was looking out for my ass, because the first contestant came on and I knew instantly that it would not have worked with me.

First, she seemed to have trouble hearing and comprehending what was going on – she wasn't on stage, but rather on a set designed to look like she was live via satellite instead of backstage in Hollywood. Not hearing or comprehending is pretty much my general state of being, which means I would have been doomed.

Second, she had to pretend that she was in Denver, CO, and did something for a living that she didn't really do. It made bantering with the panelists a little rough.

Third, Tracey Ullman said during a break in shooting that there was something "Sarah Palin-esque" about the contestant. She didn't hear Tracey, so I felt doubly bad for her that she couldn't even defend herself. The stage guy said not to pick on the contestants, and the taping continued.

I was beyond relieved to not be up there. I'd hate to hear what –esque qualities, Palin or otherwise, I bring to the table.

Seeing the show live was surreal. It was all the voices I hear in my car each week, but come to life. The action was hard to follow at times, especially when they would talk over one another. Listening on the radio, I can just focus on their voices, but in person, my head was darting back and forth as I tried to follow along. Later, I found out that just about everyone in the contestant pool was having that problem.

My love for Carl Kassel only grew. He reads his voices with such a straight, serious face, regardless of what he's saying, and it's exponentially funnier in person.

On our way out, we passed a hallway where Peter Sagal and Mo Rocca were winding down. I waved and said, "Hi, Mo! You're my favorite!"

"Ha! Thanks!" he said.

No need for him to know that he's tied with Paula Poundstone, right?

Anyway, if you want to hear me be a boob on the radio, you shouldn't have to wait too long. I'll be the one talking about all the gang activity in Long Beach and drawing blanks on the names of places like that street where the stock market is.

What's that? Haven't I ever heard of Dooce? Why no, in fact, it rings no bell.

Well then. When we last left our heroine*, she was on her way out of town to enjoy wine and Catchphrase around a campfire with friends. I'm pleased to report back with a "check" and a "check" on the wine and the campfire. Catchphrase might have been more likely to happen had I remembered to pack it. Oh well. Next time.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
* That would be me, but don't worry; I'm using the term lightly.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

In all, I had a lovely weekend, and I hope you did as well. And even lovelier, I came into work today (late as usual, unfortunately), saw the empty desk on the wall that borders mine, and remembered that my newly least favorite coworker is out of the office for two more days. Oh, sweet daytime silence. I've missed you so.

I know it is in poor (read: stupid and possibly self-sabotaging) form to blog about that place that starts with a "w" and rhymes with "schmurk," but given that this particular desk neighbor is a thorn in the side of even the woman who controls my paycheck, I have a hard time believing this could get me in too much trouble. (Famous last words? Perhaps. And yet, I persist.)

On more than one occasion, friends have said to me, "How's your job, anyway? You don't really talk about work much." Indeed; I don't. That is because 95% of the time, when I leave work, I LEAVE WORK. I don't take it home with me, in mind or in matter. There are periods of stress and busyness, yes, but thankfully they are not the norm. For the most part, I have few complaints (save for the overly enthusiastic birthday singer and the hallway hugger, both of whom, I'll readily admit, mean well and yet annoy me anyway). Lately, however? Lately I have plenty to say when anyone brings up the "w" word. Why? Because not-so-recently, the wiseguy you may remember as Mr. "All Jeans, All the Time" left us and was replaced by a better dressed but far less competent woman who has seemingly made it her mission to work my last nerve.

There really isn't a story here (or, there probably is, but it's not one I feel like telling). Instead, then, I present a simple bulleted list of grievances, for my own agitation and your potential amusement. My new coworker...

• Is currently sipping margaritas on a Mexican getaway, paid for with her ex-husband's frequent flier miles,
• on a trip she should not even have been allowed to take, given that she's not been employed long enough to accrue vacation time,
  
• and that she spent the last week working part time because of mysterious medical issues.
  

Also,...

• She is a size 4 and has Bebe Neuwirth legs, even though she readily admits she has not exercised in 15 years, and
• I am pretty sure her "sweater muffins" were a gift from (and likely to) her ex-husband.
  

Of course, the more important things are that...

• I have had to tell her three times where the UPS labels are kept, where various files on our network are stored, and generally how to do most pieces of her job, even though
• Nearly every part of said job is painstakingly documented in great detail in a binder she claims to consult constantly.
  

It's much more amusing, however, to note that...

• Her online dating profile is full of lies and strange delusions (which I know because she made the mistake of telling us which site she was using, apparently unaware that when bored and annoyed, I would shamelessly sleuth it out for my own--and another coworker's--entertainment).
  

What? I'm not proud. And given that I recently discovered this particular woman's personal email moniker is "[Town where she lives]babe," clearly neither is she.

I'm pretty sure campfire Catchphrase also counts as sucking out the marrow of life

Bad news, folks. It turns out I can handle only one Internet-based addiction at a time. Hence, lately I have been far too busy commenting on status updates, accepting Green Patch requests, and playing Twirl on Facebook to do much blog reading or writing.

All right; so that isn't entirely true. I have also been going on dates that I give you no details about (sorry, Jess), reuniting with the TV shows that I forgot I liked to watch during the past four months, immersing myself in civics nerdery (I totally played Palin Bingo during the debate. Did you?), and trying to finish the third of those ridiculous teen vampire books before it is due at the library (TODAY). That last one isn't going to happen, by the way. Why yes, Hennepin County Library system, you CAN have small portions my money, 30 cents at a time, while I hold that book hostage. I'm not a delinquent library patron; I consider it a DONATION. A donation to a worthy cause and a totally intentional one at that. Yep; I am simply helping to support the library's mission. It has nothing to do with keeping those 44 people holding for that book behind me waiting while I take my good sweet time deciding if I'm on Team Edward or Team Jacob. Nope. Not at all.

I promise you I can still talk about things other than Facebook and the Twilight books. At least, I think I can. If not, I'd better forget about NaBloPoMo right now, because while a theme helped me through that full month of posting last year, I highly doubt either of those particular themes would keep any of you reading this year.

Before I find more interesting things to talk about, however, I had a Facebook-related story about an awkward relative that I was going to tell you. Remember that? (No? Well, how about I tell you anyway?)

As we all know, the primary purposes of Facebook are to play word games with your friends and to look up old classmates and boyfriends to find out if you have aged any better than they have. As such, I have wasted more time than I care to admit beating people at Scramble and having my butt kicked by Lara at Scrabble. I also spent a solid hour scrolling through pages of people who apparently graduated from college with me. And in the midst of doing that, I found a picture of my cousin.

Let me clarify. My cousin did not go to college with me. My cousin did not go to college at all, and he has never even lived in the state where my alma mater is housed. But there on page 14 of the class of '97 results was a photo my cousin likely wishes he'd never uploaded to this here series of tubes we all know and love. It's a photo I've seen before, but not in any family album. No, I saw it years ago on a rudimentary web site forwarded to me in the very early days of the Internets-as-entertainment. The site was called, simply, "Ugly People," and the site owner had apparently trolled through Internet dating sites, church photo directories, and other people's family albums to find disarmingly unattractive and frightening-looking people for the rest of us to point and laugh at. It's all fun and games when you're looking at strangers with mall bangs and lazy eyes and unfortunate wardrobe choices. But when the scrawny, skeevy-looking guy in a black mesh tank top with mad scientist hair is a guy in the family photo your aunt sends every Christmas? That's... well, that's funny, too, though in a far more guilt-inducing way.

I do feel bad for my cousin, of course. I remain baffled as to why that photo was the one he chose to post where anyone with an Internet connection could mock it, but his early forays online managed to nab him a reasonably hot Russian bride (yes; really), so who am I to question how he marketed himself? In any case, since the "Ugly People" web site, that photo has apparently made the rounds and is still floating about the Internet and resurfacing where we least expect it. Like on page 14 of the list of graduates from the class of '97 at a mid-sized Midwestern state university. Oh my.

The guy using my cousin's photo has his profile set to Public, so I was able to click through to see who he is. Although we apparently graduated from the same school on the same day, I don't know him. You know who does, though? -R-. I noticed in the "Education & Work" area that the company where he works is the same one where -R- is employed, so I quickly sent off an e-mail to ask her about him. People, it is -R-'s nemesis!

OK, that last part is a lie. -R- doesn't actually know him at all. He does work in her building, though, and when she looked up his picture in the company directory, she said she's seen him in the elevator more than once. This would be a much better story if the cousin-photo-stealer were the guy who has gotten on our friend -R-'s bad side by repeatedly ignoring her, however, so I'm just going to pretend that is the case.

All right. I am out of here in a few hours, so have a lovely weekend, all of you. I am going to the woods this weekend, because I want to live deliberately. Wait. No. That's Thoreau, not me. I'm going to the woods because I want to drink wine around a campfire. I like to think good old H.D. did a bit of that himself.