Pooch Potential

We just might be adopting this girl next Saturday!

So here's what happened. We spent weeks and weeks filling out applications at scads of rescue organizations and being turned down. Gay, our adoption facilitator, was working her network and was taking all the rejections even more personally than we did. Finally, a rescuer Gay knows in New Jersey sent an email saying she was getting a purebred Golden into her group in early June. And -- key factor -- she hadn't listed her online anywhere. We claimed her on the spot.

Here's her story: she was originally found as an 8-week-old puppy wandering around the side of the road in North Carolina with her brother. (Her rescuers suspect a breeder dumped the puppies when he couldn't sell them.) She was adopted out to a family who ended up keeping her chained outside year 'round, even in 0 degree weather.  They returned the dog to the same rescue group for the unforgivable offense of uprooting a flower in the garden and presenting it to the mother. (Bad dog!)

She's a healthy nine-month-old girl now, who loves retrieving things like balls and flowers and sticking her head inside buckets. On Friday she'll be en route to New Jersey where we'll go meet her. 

As soon as I opened her photo yesterday, I started freakin' out. What if I can't handle her? What if she eats up the furniture? Scratches the floors? Stinks up the kitchen? Needs walking four times a day? I hope I haven't gotten in over my head. (This is why I wanted an older dog, one that was nice and lazy...)

Her first owners called her Isabelle, but we're going to give her a new name. (It's recommended. Fresh start and all.) Here's what what's in the running:

Butterscotch (Butter for short)
Lily
Ginger
Flip Flop (that’s QB’s)
Bucket

Oatmeal

Let us know which one you like. Don't worry, the voting's not rigged like it is on Dancing with the Stars. 

Mud Pie

Look at all that beautiful dirt! It's pretty gorgeous, right? Actually, it's not dirt at all. It's compost. Last year this poor veggie patch was more like a rock garden, despite the amount of back-breaking work I put into it. I tore up all that grass by hand. (Not as easy as it sounds, I learned.) I dumped in 40-pound bags of fertilizer and peat moss and hauled all those heavy rocks from across the yard to make the border. 

Despite all that, the results were unimpressive. Here and there a plant sprouted which was quickly nibbled up by the rabbits, squirrels and deer. At least our neighborhood rodents were well fed.

This year, however, there's a new game plan. The rocky soil is out, the expensive compost is in. This stuff is amazing: rich, black and soft. Completely rock-free. I've put it around the hydrangeas, the clematis, the pansies, the butterfly bushes. We've taken to calling it garden crack. Can't get enough of it.

Another important addition this year: I'm adding an anti-deer fence. It's not the prettiest thing,  which is unfortunate, since the garden sits smack in the middle of the back yard. But I'll suffer through an unsightly barrier in exchange for some juicy cucumbers and fresh baby lettuce. I'm already dreaming of those mouth-watering tomato-basil pastas I'm going to make. There's nothing better than a home-grown organic tomato in the summer. Except a margarita to go with it.

Jarv figures with everything I've spent on this crazy project, it will work out to about $6 a carrot. He's probably right. But it's well worth it.

I told you we knew how to party out here in the 'burbs.

Main Street March

Friends in Los Angeles, you'll get a kick out of this. Ever wondered what people in Connecticut do on Memorial Day? (It's been keeping you up nights, hasn't it?) Turns out, half the town gathers "downtown," -- and I'm using that term loosely -- to watch the other half march in a low-key parade. Everyone puts on their madras shorts, brings their coffee and their labrador. (Not us, of course, 'cause we don't have a dog.) It's a prep-fest. Good, old-fashioned fun. 

Most amusingly, one group dresses up like early American settlers and plays their little Colonial instruments. I think that proves once and for all that no one rocks Memorial Day like New Englanders. Party on!

Dog Saga, continued

Just to clarify, the puppy in yesterday's post is not our dog. It's a stock photo, people. I'm a good photog and all -- but not that good. (Although my friend Gail does say I have a gift...)

We went to visit three dogs today at Gay's house in Weston. Gay is, for lack of a better term, our dog adoption facilitator. She's been doing animal rescue for something like 25 years and knows everyone in this vast, underground network. She's put in dozens and dozens of hours trying to find us a Golden and has been so frustrated by the experience she's about to throw in the rescue towel altogether.

We've applied to many, many Golden rescue groups and been rejected by, let's see, all but one! Here are some of the reasons we're not qualified:

1. We're installing an invisible fence instead of a standard fence. Many rescue groups do not approve of this. No dog for you!

2. My children are under age 10. They don't like that. (Yeah, 'cause it's so rare that a family with a dog would have kids under 10. And Goldens are known for their viciousness.) No dog for you!

3. We live in a different state than the rescue group. They need to come to my house, inspect my laundry room, check my banking records and look under my bathroom sink. No dog for you!

4. We've never owned a dog before as adults. Despite the fact that Jarv and I both grew up with Goldens doesn't count. Clearly, we don't know what we're doing. No dog for you!

5. We weren't willing to fly the entire family to St. Louis to be interviewed by some guy who won't release any of "his dogs" to people he hasn't personally vetted, even if we've been vetted by a long-time, well-respected golden rescuer in Connecticut. No dog for you!

After a while, it started getting embarrassing. And exhausting. No one found us to be suitable applicants. I find it a little ridiculous and hypocritical. The animal rescue community is constantly moaning about how many dogs are being killed in shelters every hour and that we need to adopt, not buy from puppy mills. And here we were, ready and eager. I think I'm safe in saying we're no bigger bozos than anyone else, but the rescue groups would rather leave a dog to die in a shelter than let us adopt one. How pathetic could we possibly be?

Just as we were about to give up, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. And the light was in... New Jersey. Will tell you more tomorrow. 

Doggy in the Window

Aside from birthdays, in-laws, and cake, the main topic of conversation at our house for the last few weeks has been about one thing only: a dog.

We actually promised the kids a pooch two years ago when we moved to Connecticut. Sitting in the kitchen in L.A., it seemed like a harmless pledge. We were talking Connecticut, after all. If you couldn't have a dog in Connecticut, which was nothing but country lanes, huge backyards, and beaches on the Sound, where could you? Once we got here and started thinking about it seriously, we reassessed the enormity of the commitment. Somehow, in the midst of all the transition and newness of everything, the kids seemed to forget about the theoretical doggy, or at least put it on simmer.

A few times the subject came up and QB, our absurdly responsible kid, would say things like, "I'm not sure we're ready to take care of a dog. Maybe when I'm eight."

Well, he's eight now, and the Dog Issue has reared it's head again, this time with Mopsy leading the charge. (Come to think of it, she started to get obsessed with dogs right around the time I rented that St. Bernard Beethoven movie that she went on to watch 50 times. Pisser. This could all be due to a careless Blockbuster selection....) We dodged it effectively for a while but eventually, with Mopsy's insistent pestering, she wore us down. "Can we get a dog today?" was usually the first thing she said in the morning. "Can we get a dog tomorrow?" was usually the last thing she said at night. After all, we had promised. 

Thus, we embarked upon our search for a dog. We pretty quickly settled on the breed: golden retriever. Jarvis and I had both had a goldens growing up. We knew what to expect with a retriever and felt like we could handle one. My friend, Molly, who has her own rescue group in L.A., had drummed it into my head to never, ever buy a dog from a store or a breeder. We knew we wanted to go the rescue route. I believe in that philosophy wholeheartedly and abhor the puppy mill industry.

But rescuing turned out to be not so simple. Next time I'll tell you why we've have since been rejected by scads of rescue organizations and why I now understand why people give up on adopting and go to a breeder or even, as last resort, the closest puppy store. (Sorry, Molly.....)

Cake Capers

A few of you have asked me if I'm concerned about my in-laws reading my posts. I haven't been, but maybe I should be. (If they ever do, I'll be banned from their house.) My MIL has literally never even looked at a computer screen, so I'm not too concerned about her blog surfing. And my Father-in-Law just got rid of dial-up, so that tells you a lot about his internet savviness. If you happen to know the Dr. and Mrs., though, let's just keep these little stories to ourselves, shall we?

Speaking of which, I have a second update to the birthday visit from Jarvis' parents. I had made a birthday cake that afternoon, naturally, and planned to serve it back at our house after we returned from the restaurant with the kids and in-laws. We all ended up ordering a dessert, though, so I back-burnered the cake. I hadn't completely finished frosting it, anyway.

Jarv saw his parents the next day in the city and the first thing his mom said to him was, "I came all the way to Connecticut and your wife didn't even offer me a piece of cake!" This was, evidently, a slap in the face and shameful breach of etiquette. She was also ticked that Jarv hadn't packed a piece for her in his briefcase. (She does know that cake is available in New York city, right? I mean my baking is good, but not that good.... We're talking about a box cake, here, for Pete's sake.)

I had no idea she was so intent on the cake that night, although I should have considering her penchant for sweets. She gets a jonesin' for sugar the way a crack addict craves a fix. But right after a huge helping of tiramisu? And considering that she packed up half the cheese in the house to take with her, I'm aghast that she was too shy to inquire about the dessert.

Once again, I'm at a loss.

Note to self: when cake is in the house, always, always serve it. It doesn't matter if we've just come from a pie-eating contest and stopped for ice cream on the way home. Just serve the damn cake.

Better than the Prom

Tuesday was the big night: this season's Dancing with the Stars winner was crowned. I'd been looking forward to it all week. Honestly, I didn't really know who to pull for. (Incidentally, I'd like to say for the record that way back in April, my three faves were Shawn, Melissa and Gilles. See 4/21 post.)

Even though Shawn had been doing well lately, Melissa and Gilles were the better dancers over the course of the season. Between Melissa and Gilles, though, it was a tough call. Do you handicap based on the fact that Melissa was, as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, essentially a professional dancer? (Shawn, of course, also had an enormous leg up over her competitors as a gymnast who's spent years training her body to hold amazing positions.)

On the other hand, do you take into consideration that male contestants, by and large, have a huge advantage: they stand there and look dancer-like while their pro partners twirl and spin their sexy selves around them. (Who's even looking at the guys, anyway?)  I love both Gilles and Melissa. Asking me to choose one was like asking which of my children I'd save in a fire. Gilles rocks every sultry latin dance. And he's smokin' hot. But I also want to see spunky Melissa pull off a great American comeback and show up that Jason guy and his new girlfriend. If I really had to choose, I'd have to go with Gilles, who has consistently been the best performer the entire season.

It came down to the Freestyle round, the last dance of the Finals. Shawn and Mark were phenomenal. Her hip-hop routine was fun, non-stop, and had fantastic choreography. There were tons of tricks and flips, and she cut loose with some serious moves. It reminded me a lot of the freestyle routine Mark danced with Kristi Yamaguchi, who won that year. Well, you gotta stick with what works. 

Melissa was disappointing. With all the flips, lifts and jumps, her number was impressively acrobatic, but there just wasn't enough dancing. I think she forgot she was in a dancing final, not a cheerleading competition. Performing right after Shawn's superiorly-choreographed dance didn't help her either. Melissa's abs, though, are worthy of that crystal ball trophy. I'd kill for her midriff.

Then we were on to Gilles' and Cheryl's freestyle. Oh, Gilles, what were you thinking? This Flashdance send-up was cheesier than a can of Velveeta. It opened with Cheryl draped backwards over a chair and continued with the two of them slithering all over each other. Seemingly inspired by Solid Gold, they even wore ripped shirts and treated us to a few pelvic thrusts. Gross. I really wanted to see Gilles break out some moves, but not that. Please, not that! 

So if we were to vote on the Final round alone, then Shawn really did deliver the winning goods. In the end, the final three were all utterly entertaining and enjoyable. I guess it really doesn't matter who won. (As long as it wasn't Ty.) 

I just love this show. (I know, I need to get out more.) One of the reasons I'm so crazy for Dancing is that it's the only program that my 4 year old and I both truly want to watch. I'm usually on the elliptical working out while she spins around the room in a swirly dress, imitating the dancers. It's good, clean fun. And there isn't enough of that these days.

Dance on!

Birthday Update

In the name of fair and accurate reporting, I feel I must provide an update to yesterday's blog. Doc and Mrs. B. did in fact, make a begrudging appearance here in Fairfield county to celebrate Jarvis' birthday.

They got here at 6 pm, we went out for dinner, and they fled for the city at 9. So anxious were they to make their train, they wanted to go to the station -- which is 3 minutes away -- a half hour early. On their way out, Mrs. B., who's never shown even a flicker of interest in sports, was grumbling that they'd miss a Lakers game on TV while en route to the city. Whaaat!? I hope the searing pain of that loss has subsided a bit.

Also bizarre: when we got back to our house after dinner, Jarv's mom pulled out the tin foil and started wrapping up wedges of brie and gruyere from my cheese platter to take back to the hotel. And the crackers I had set out during cocktail hour were no longer as crisp as she would have liked, so she traded those in for some fresh ones from my pantry. The cheese, she reported, would be her breakfast the next day. (Come to think of it, that's not much stranger than the time we had a picnic and she packed up a whole, untouched pie to take home.) What are we, the food bank? Doc must have her on one heck of a budget.

But Jarvis was placated by their appearance and the kids were delighted to see Grandma and Granddad. It was an odd night. In other words, pretty normal for this group.

In-Law Foul of the Week

So my in-laws, (who I love dearly, of course) are on the East Coast this week. QB and Mopsy’s cousins, Onyima and Onyeka, are both graduating from college -- one in Atlanta, one in Providence. Doc and Mrs. B are out from LA for a good 12 days traveling to both events.

Originally, we had talked about them staying with us in Connecticut for the week in between the two stops. It made perfect sense. They’d go to Atlanta for graduation number one, fly up to Connecticut to see our kids for a few days, then make the easy, 2-hour drive to Providence for the second graduation. Somehow, though, the plan changed. They decided that instead of spending some time with QB and Mopsy -- who they only see twice a year -- they'd prefer to stay in New York city. And, oddly enough, instead of driving to Providence, and making the 5-minute detour off the freeway to see us, they decided to fly.

There was a very logical explanation for this, of course. You see, Mrs. B. travels like a First Class lady on the Titanic. She rolls with at least three overweight suitcases (with protective plastic coverings, naturally), hat boxes, and several carry-ons. She can barely tote one of the small ones herself, with her bad shoulder, bad back, diverticulitis, etc. Given the baggage situation, she was concerned that there would be no porter on the Acela train and would find herself in a bind. (We’ve since learned this is untrue.) The airlines, one the other hand, can be counted on for their dependable baggage assistance. Hence, they made the decision to fly from New York to Providence (a three-hour drive), thereby bypassing Connecticut – and this pair of grandkids altogether.

Would they make up for this fly-over by making the short 1-hour trip to Fairfield county to see QB and Mopsy? Nah. They don’t seem to feel too bad about it, either. There’s been a lot of vague talk along the lines of, “Yeah, we need to figure something out.” They’d be delighted for us to come into the city to see them, despite the fact that this would mean a rush-hour trip into New York on a school night. Of course, we’ll be absolutely expected to show up in Providence, gifts in hand, to show our support for Jarvis’ sister and her children. If we don’t make it, inevitably it will be our fault that QB and Mopsy weren’t able to see their grandparents on this trip.

Not to overthink this, ('cause, hey, I've been known to do that once or twice) but by my calculations, the in-laws were willing to travel about 5000 miles over 12 days to see two of their older grandkids, but won’t go an additional 47 miles to see our children.

Here’s the sad kicker: today is Jarvis' birthday and they completely forgot.

Lucky Penny

Mopsy coined a new expression recently. Whenever she finds a penny on the ground, naturally, she snatches it up. But instead of calling it her "good luck penny," it's simply her "good luck." This translates roughly as, "I have my good luck in my pocket, today, Mom." I wish I could always feel as confident as she does.

This reminded me of another funny incident a few years ago. We took a trip to Palm Springs when QB was about 5 and Mopsy was a toddler. On the last morning of our weekend, we were eating brunch on the scenic patio of the resort, which was nestled up against the sun-baked mountains. QB sagely surveyed the scene, taking in the other guests among us. Suddenly he announced, "Mom, you and Dad are the luckiest grown-ups here." Why was that, I inquired? Maybe because we were so fortunate to spend the morning in such a beautiful part of the desert? 

Nope, that wasn't it. "You're the only two who have kids!" he pronounced. Indeed, he was correct. We were the only adults in the restaurant that morning with children in tow -- which automatically made us the luckiest. I was touched by the self-love reflected in his outlook, and the confidence he displayed about his place in our family, and in his world. 

If only we could all be that lucky.

Mama's Day

I love Mother's Day. What's not to like? With any luck, I get flowers, cards, little homemade gifts from my children (which is my favorite thing to receive) and usually something chocolate. Plus, I get to sleep in late (yea!) and skip any and all chores and duties. On Sunday, Jarv made breakfast and dinner. 

Mopsy gave me a little flower pot she had decorated with little glass mosaics. QB gave me a card with a watercolor portrait of me and a 5-page story he wrote called "The Case of the Missing Jewels" -- an action-adventure tale about a shark and a piranha. Lastly, I got a "Choice Coupon" which entitles me to one of the following:

--I will turn off the TV.

--I will give you cereal in bed.

--This coupon is for scrambled eggs in bed. 

All are very tempting choices, although I'm not quite sure how I fell about two kids tromping up the stairs with cereal and milk sloshing around in a bowl and depositing it on my comforter. I asked if I could upgrade my choice to a day free of any sibling fighting. He agreed! Now we just need to get Mopsy in on the plan. I think I negotiated a pre-tty good deal for myself.

Now on to another timely matter: Dancing with the Stars will be announcing its finalists tonight! Last night I was just downright embarrassed for Ty Murray. Did you catch his little butt shimmy during his so-called salsa? You couldn't miss it with the super close-up camera work. Blech. Latin and Ty just don't mix. You can't even put this guy in the same league as Gilles or Melissa. If cowboy man doesn't hit the skids tonight, I'll be taking it out on Samantha Harris. I don't know exactly how she could be responsible for such an incredible ballroom injustice, but she's my top choice for a scapegoat. I'm fairly certain QB could conduct a smarter interview than she does. 

See you around, Ty.

Is this Wrong?

My sister Nicole, who loves a good forward, sent this to me yesterday. By witching hour, this concept was looking pretty good to me.

Where's it written that crate training is only for dogs?

Funny of the Day

The other day Mopsy and I were in the car and got stuck in some traffic. After inching along for a while, we finally came upon a car pulled over to side of the road. I explained the delay to my passenger in the back, "I think there was an accident."

Mopsy gasped and asked, incredulously, "Someone went pee-pee on the street?!"

That made my day.

Go Home, Ty

Can someone explain to me what a crazy, asinine world we’re living in? No, I’m not talking about the war in Afghanistan or the fact that hopes and dreams Democrats everywhere may just rest in the hands of Al Franken. I’m talking about the fact that Ty Murray, rodeo star, has somehow made it into the semi-final on Dancing with the Stars.

I hardly even bothered watching last night as they announced the elimination. It was obvious since Monday, when we watched Ty dance a rhumba as if he was experiencing a horrible case of the runs and trying not to have an extremely embarrassing accident on the ballroom floor. It was obvious that Ty had been bested when Lil’ Kim performed a top-notch salsa only a girl with her innate rhythm and chutzpa could pull off. (Ty: let’s see you shake and shimmy like that. On second thought, I’ll skip it.)

So when I heard Tom Bergeron announce Lil’ Kim would be going home, I nearly coughed up my late-night brownie. Even Ty had one foot off the stage, so sure was he that he was out of there. (At least he has the decency to look sheepish, realizing that no way, no how does he belong on DWTS, week 9. He didn’t belong on the show, week 2. Even his wife, Jewel, knows it. Must be why she’s taking potshots at that sweet Melissa Rycroft.)

Jarv, who’s watched about five minutes of the season, jokingly proclaimed it a conspiracy. Has any black celebrity ever won the show, he inquired. In eight seasons, just one -- Emmitt Smith.  “That’s okay,” Jarv quipped cheerfully. “Keep your silly dancing show. We’ve got the White House.”

Just to review: Ty is horrendous. Awful. Sure, he’s improved a lot, but still he dances with the fluidity and emotion of C3PO. Watching him swivel his hips around Chippendale-style in front of Jewel during his solo was a new kind of creepy. Ew.

Poor Lil’ Kim. It’s one thing to be voted off, but to be beaten out by Ty? That’s got to be more embarrassing than showing up to the 1999 MTV Music Awards with only a purple pasty covering your left boob.

The only two plausible explanations I can come up with are that either they put that ding-dong Samantha Harris in charge of counting the ballots, or that Jewel has a lot more fans voting than Lil’ Kim. If the contest is decided on the depth of your spouses’ fan base, why even bother with the dancing?

Maybe you’re thinking I’m way too invested in this. Maybe I’m thinking the same thing. I need to get out more.

MIL Foul of the Day

So on QB's birthday the other day, his grandmother -- who, for the record, I love dearly -- waited to call him until 8:30 at night. Odd choice, I thought. But no skin off my nose. I was already knee-deep in Mopsy's bedtime routine. (Normally, she's in bed at 7:30, but with cake and presents, we were running later than usual.)  

Here's the story on her troubled sleep history. We went through a year-long period after we moved to connecticut when we couldn't get her to bed until 11 and then she'd wake repeatedly in the middle of the night. I've finally gotten her back on schedule. But the bottom line now: Don't Mess With Mopsy's Bedtime. (Or be prepared to face the wrath.)

But did my dear MIL insist on talking to Mopsy despite the fact that she was nearly asleep, T minus 1 to lights out? Yes, she did! And did Jarv, who knows better, finally acquiesce? Yes, he did! So Jarv marches into Mopsy's room, phone in hand. Ignoring the evil looks I'm shooting him, he hands the phone over. Grr. Grandma does her thing, "How's my grandma girl?" she coos. Then she asks Mopsy (who's no longer anywhere near sleepy), "Did you open your present from me today?"

Uh, no she did not. The gift Grandma's referring to would be a red-white-and-blue sundress, which she specifically told me to hold onto until Mopsy's birthday in, yes, JULY. Did Grandma really need to bring up this provocative subject more than two months early, in the middle of bedtime? 

Big surprise: Mopsy didn't get to sleep anytime soon.  

If I were in a cartoon strip, the thought bubble above my head would have read, 

"*^#@"$F*!%*?T@!!! " 

Sold!

We had our silent auction for Mopsy's nursery school last night. I am SO glad it's over as, naturally, I was the chairperson. This is the list of all my sundry volunteering tasks this year: Bingo Night and Art Smarts at QB's school. For Mopsy's pre-school: I'm on the Board, chair of the auction and also Room Mom despite initially turning the job down. (Instead, they gave the duty to a mother who has MS and really doesn't have the energy for any of this nonsense. Enter me, stage left.) Oh, and I also volunteered to work on the silent auction for an amazing girls' foster home called Project Return. In short, I'm over-committed and probably do a half-assed job on all of them. Note to self: Do Not Make This Mistake Next Year.

So back to last night. All was going well, despite a small mutiny in the kitchen and brewing fist-fight between two moms. (I found this much more entertaining than the actual party.) Our "theme" was the 60s, but the gal in charge of decorations decided single-handedly to dump that and instead go in the direction of a garden party with asian influences. (That's as diplomatic as I can be.) But okay, whatever. It wasn't a big enough deal to get upset about it. Jarv had been recruited as auctioneer for the live auction. I was significantly more nervous about it than he was. He kept asking, "Do you really think I'm worried about talking in front of a bunch of parents?" Yeah, I guess he's used to speaking at big corporate conferences. So 60 semi-drunk moms and dads in the church rec room was probably not that big of a deal.

And he did great, (despite popping out early in the night to fetch a bottle of scotch for he and a buddy.) I wasn't planning on bidding on any of the big-ticket items. But a friend shamed me after she spent $400-ish on a garden cart with kids' handprints and I hadn't even bidded on Mopsy's class project: a Jackson Pollack-esque splatter painting. It was cute and all, but did I want to spend $200 for it? Not particularly.

The last item came up for bid -- a small plane ride for two from Connecticut to Montauk and back. On stage, Jarv was really talking it up: a day on the beach, lobsters at sunset. And I love Montauk. $350 seemed like a pretty good deal. So I raised my hand. Jarvis, shook his head but reluctantly announced, "$350 from the woman in the back." Then someone raised to $400. I went to $450. Jarv was trying to signal me like a pitcher shaking off a sign from his catcher. I was hoping, praying the other guy would go to $500. But nothing. Just silence. Jarvis looked at me as if to say, what did you do? but reluctantly called out, "Sold!"

Buyers remorse set in about 10 second later. What had I done? I shouldn't be allowed to bid at silent auctions. I get all caught up in the excitement, the competition. It reminds me of the time I was bidding on ebay for a Polar Express wooden train set. It was the hot item of the Christmas season, about 4 years back, and sold out everywhere. I had to have one for QB. As bidding came to a close, I was relentless. And I won! Jarvis brought me back to reality when he said, "Let me get this straight, you won the opportunity to pay double the retail price for this thing?"

Again, last night, he brought me back down to earth afterwards when he asked why in God's name I bid on the flight and reminded me, oh yeah, he hates flying in small planes. Oops. So if anyone wants to spend the day in Montauk with me, speak up.

Bon voyage.