Me write good.

So I'm a liar.  I told you we'd have bedroom pictures this week but every day I get home and it's too dark or overcast to take good pictures so here we are with my metaphorical hat in my blogger hands.  I'm trying not to build it up like it's some big exciting unveiling because it's really just a room with a bed and some wrinkled linens in it.  That I WILL take some grainy iphone pics of this weekend. 

But in moderately exciting crafting news I took an introductory calligraphy class this week!  Wave your markers in the a-ir like you just don't ca-are!  I had a pen set when I was in middle school (I had lots of friends, obviously) but haven't really touched it in 20 years.  

I signed up for a class through the Chattery and I needed to find a quote to transcribe with my soon-to-be-acquired dope writin' skillz.  Ahhh... *rubs hands together*  Some inspiration to hang on my wall.  But what really speaks to me on a spiritual level??

"That's why we call it murder not 'muckduck'." - Dwight Shrute

"Knuck if you buck." - Crime Mob(b)

"She can touch your lobes but never your latinum." - Ferengi Rule of Acquisition #40

"Hodor." - Hodor

"The flower doesn't dream of the bee. It blossoms and the bee comes." - Mark Nepo

"Hey, assbut." - Castiel from Supernatural

"Are you there, God?  It's me, MurderSauce." - Halloween season ModernSauce

"Actually, it's about ethics in games journalism." - internet shitlords

"I sneezed on the beat and the beat got sicka." - you know who

"There are years that ask questions and years that answer." - Zora Neale Hurston

"There's always money in the banana stand." - your favorite tv show

So many good, timeless options but I finally settled on:

"Have faith in your own bad taste." - John Waters

It seems to cover so much ground.

Well turns out that it was a different instructor and format than I thought so we didn't get to the quote.  In fact, I only managed to do four letters.

The instructor made the cute name card!

It feels a little like The Shining writing your name over and over and over but truthfully it was all I could manage.  Even though I write (type?) every day remembering how to write in cursive requires some brainpower that I apparently left in middle school along with my old pens.  I tried to write my neighbor's name but had to ask how to make a capital G in cursive sooo...

  

Bet I could figure out how to make a hashtag, though. 

Regardless of the fact that my entire public education was obviously wasted, I'm a handwriting enthusiast so I had a super fun time.  It's so meditative writing 'o' and 'a' a million times.  Even watching someone write is kinda amazing:

I gotta step up my envelope game for Christmas, y'all.

But I have to start practicing my general handwriting just to remember how to put letters together rather than the stroke-victim-printing I currently have.  Time to start writing a real note or two.  Anybody up for a pen pal situation?  

Also just like my middle school years...

From this short and amazing video

...in which dirt is dirty and I overreacted like a punk.

If you're a gardening person you know that it's Fall planting time as indicated by the glorious weather and that special need that comes from deep in your loins to birth green shit.  That is a terrible mental image...  

But because I, and most of my friends, are cheap bastards - we prefer the more respectful term "frugal fuckers" - we began a Plant Swap.  Bring me your old, your tired, overgrown shrubs yearning to breathe free...

So in preparation for the big day I began digging up years worth of irises to divide, wildflowers of unknown origin and whatever else I could rip from the ground.  It may have been glorious weather but I was sweating so hard I actually thought it was raining.  

So sexy.

After a few hours of work I squeegeed my face and took my gloves off and noticed a tiny splinter on the back of my hand.  This probably explained the pain I felt the last hour but had decided to ignore because I'm a gardening beast [mule].  When I removed the splinter I surprisingly gushed [trickled] blood for a few minutes as the splinter was apparently the cork in my knuckle artery.  These frugal fuckers better appreciate the brutal carnage I endured to get these irises.

The next day I woke up and my tiny wound was sore and inflamed.  Meh.  Maybe Charlemagne licked it during the night or I slept on it funny, I'll just let my superhuman immune system take care of it.

But it didn't take care of it - it got worse and worse.  

As I whined to my work colleagues throughout the day, someone mentioned it sounded a bit like a spider bite.  Since I can't remember how the injury happened it seemed like a possibility.  What I had assumed was a splinter was now most likely a giant fang from an EBOLA SPIDER.  Completely rational.

Naturally I went to the internetz which is the source of all things good and fair to guide me in my troubling time.

Is the area red and swollen?  Most definitely.

Is it hot to the touch?  Positively feverish.

Does it hurt?  I can't grasp a pen.

Are you easily swayed by hyperbole from the internet?  I'm here, aren't I?

Are there two puncture wounds near each other?  Um... yes.  Are spiders actually tiny vampires??

Are you experiencing elevated blood pressure, dizziness and stomach cramping?  WELL I AM NOW, GAWDDAMMIT.

It didn't help that when my boss pulled up a picture of a black widow spider bite she gasped because it looked exactly like my finger.  Even though I KNEW (in my head, not my heart) I wasn't going to have my hand rot off I still left work a few minutes early to go to the doc in a box to at least deal with the obvious infection in my hand.  

The nurse came in to do my history and I could feel her rolling her eyes.  My whole hand was throbbing and I was sure my muscles were disintegrating into black soup on the inside but it didn't actually look that bad so she was totally justified.

Fortunately, it was NOT a deadly bite from an Ebola Black Widow Spider From Hell but was in fact a bacterial skin infection called cellulitis.  Even though I've never heard of it it's pretty common.  The doctor told me if my swelling went beyond these lines, though, I would probably lose my hand.

Just kidding, he said take some antibiotics.  I mostly trusted him but since I heard him telling some other patients in the next room over about the Ebol-ai virus and compared it to HIV I was a little suspect.

Fortunately, the swelling went down considerably overnight and even though it still hurts to grasp anything at least my hand muscles aren't rotten meat soup so I'm fine.  

The worst part of the whole "ordeal" (mild inconvenience?) was that I updated my tetanus shot and had a pretty severe reaction to it.  Thanks, medicine!  In addition to the normal tetanus muscle pain and inability to lift my arm to take my clothes off or wash my hair, I also developed flu-like symptoms the rest of the weekend!  Yay!  

Luckily, before my joints started to ache and the chills set in the plant swap happened and it was glorious.

Not all mine. 

Never been so excited about a bunch of dirt and weeds in plastic grocery bags before.  I think everyone left with lots of new goodies and none of their own so Plant Swap is now a "thing."  A regular event.  I'll probably send out invites in foil-lined envelopes in the Spring so start digging!

We always follow the Plant Swap with the driveway sale at Green Thumbs Galore which is a magic fairlyland of earthy goodness.  They almost exclusively do online sales so everyone can shop.

My goal is to take a few pics for you soon of my new plants - I always want to wait until they "look better" but that's just low landscaping self esteem thanks to Pinterest.  I'm still planting and mulching (hard to dig holes when you can't grip a shovel with your right hand or move your left arm) but I'll show everything to you soon - good or bad.  Hold me accountable.  For the sake of plants everywhere.

But glorious foliage will have to wait because I'm going on vacation next week!  I planned that well - plant a bunch of things and then leave for a week.  No wonder I kill so many things.

But while I'm gone please make sure to visit this garden tour at The Design Files which I'm loving.  You can also entertain yourself at the Fly Art tumblr which is filled with gems like this:

I would like a giant - shall I say... anaconda-sized? - poster of this on my wall please.

Also, someone please go water my plants while I'm gone.  I still have tons of irises that would love to go home with you too.

Just make sure to double glove.

And do NOT google images of cellulitis.

Cabin fever is for lovers and sociopaths.

GRATUITOUS SNOW DUMP!

Literally.

The rest of the country would rather die than look at more snow but us Southerners love a good cold day of miracles and frozen precipitation as long as it doesn't involve a traffic jam from hell like last month.  We enjoyed a delightfully manageable eight inches that resulted in much Instagraming.  *clears throat*

Well, "manageable" is a strong word considering power is out for thousands of people and I've had to work at home for three days because we don't leave the house now after the storm a few weeks ago.  

Day 1 was Wheeee! and I got a lot of work done.  By Day 2 I was feeling... strange... and started doing some logic puzzles like in middle school so my brain wouldn't turn into mush but I'd already lost so many synapses that they just classified my results with a sad face.  

By Day 3 my cabin fever has turned into brain pneumonia and I forgot how to talk to human beings.  I'm wearing socks on my hands.

I just grunt at things to communicate and eat a lot of dry cereal.

 I'm de-evolving.  

via Vintage Gal

Here's my Valentime's selfie for you.

I'm getting you all Open Hearts Wave necklaces because that's how much I love you.  It's like regular Open Hearts necklaces but BETTER because WAVES.

Just kidding.  We're all getting the same thing for Valentine's day.

Hours upon hours of everyone's lesbian girl crush and hair porn.  

State of the Union: Much Frozen. Very Not Okay.

Thanks, Snobama.

You know you want dogeweather.

You might have heard that the South got up close and personal with climate change biznasty starting on Tuesday.  The promise of a feather-light dusting of flurries (yay!) very suddenly became a giant fuckbucket of ice and terror (boo!).  

By 11AM Tuesday shit got real and everyone in my office said deuces up and scrambled back into our cars to head home.  A 25 minute commute took me 2.5 hours.  Dozens of cars already littered the ditches and I think I whimpered out loud most of the way.  Also, I had to pee. Being stuck in traffic and having to pee is my worst nightmare.  I began to think of elaborate plots to pee into used coffee cups or plastic Target bags while remaining fully clothed and not pulling over because the interstate lane was literally the safest place to be.     
Fortunately my crazy pee brain was over-dramatizing a tad and I was okay after I found my second wind and a McDonald's.  Not surprisingly it was the only clear driveway within 20 miles because OF COURSE lots of people wanted fries before they died in the freezing cold. 

The calm white river of terror after the storm.

I turned off on a smaller road before I got home to avoid the standstill of cars and also if I wrecked I'd be near my second homes: Taco Bell and liquor stores.  I may have been visibly shaken but I had enough wits about me to develop a strategery.  

After inching through a few giant wrecks, the cars thinned out and I was able to eventually slide home going about 5 mph with my stomach churning.

Less than two inches of snow might seem like no big deal elsewhere but never in my life have I seen such dangerous driving conditions down here.  Blizzard-like wind gusts of snow that immediately turned to ice on the roads makes everything completely impassable to our 2-wheel drive cars.  Our cities aren't meant to handle that kind of thing anyway and we use our salt trucks for storing cold beer in the summer.  We spend our tax dollars on good Southern, Christian things like community pools filled with sweet tea and Confederate flags large enough to blanket an airplane.

I felt victorious as a storm warrior until I realized that it took some people in town four hours to get home.  Praise be to my fairy goddiva Beyonce for her infinite protection and goodwill because then I started to hear stories coming from Atlanta.  It was a post-apocalyptic nightmare down there of 6, 8, 10+ hour commutes.  Thousands of people stranded on the interstate or sleeping in grocery stores, kids stuck on school buses, sweet tea swimming pools frozen over.

Buzzfeed was not exaggerating:

Pretty much what my road home looked like minus a few lanes.  And minus the horse and Ice Walkers.  Check out here and here for much frozen.

I had actually planned to go to IKE-Rah in Atlanta that night because it was the last night of a sale.  Just think, I could have been stranded in an IKEA eating Swedish meatballs and actually living in their 250 sq ft knockout spaces for a few days!  Sounds like the making of a great iPhone documentary called Stranded Lingonberry Sauce.
But instead I'm at home (boo IKE-Rah dream) and set up a makeshift home office which means I lit a bunch of candles, made some hot chocolate and turned on Star Trek in the background.  During work breaks I did laundry, cleaned the kitchen, cooked dinner, made a quilt and wrote a novel.  You work-at-home freelancers are living the dream! 

(If this is not home telecommuting works, DO NOT SPOIL THIS FOR ME!)

Driving through the heart of shitty weather did not make me want to go outside and play when I got home but SOMEbody was intrigued:

"Da fuq is dis shit?"

Look, Charlemagne!  This is the climate your Viking cat ancestors bred you for!  Don't you feel at home?

NOPE.  DO NOT WANT.

She turned tail pretty quick but it's in her genes.  You can't deny your destiny, Charlemagne.  She gets snow crazy though and will go outside for five seconds only to return inside and race up and down the hall for five minutes.  This is exactly what I do to warm up too.

Go!  Fly like the fluffball of arctic wind that you are, cat!

So I'm stuck at home for a bit longer with the taps still running and wearing two pairs of socks.  I get snow blindness every time I look out the window because I'm stupid and it's like looking at the sun when you're seven - it's so exciting but it BURNS SO MUCH.

It's also amazing to see how picky a person normally gets when there aren't terrible weather conditions.  I have a fully stocked pantry, fridge and freezer that I could live on for weeks and yet three days ago I HAD NOTHING TO EAT WAAAAHHHH I'M SO HUNGRY AND POOR.  Well now everything in my kitchen looks fucking delicious.

The bright part of my forced captivity other than the smorgasbord of food is that my amaryllis is in full bloom!

Even this picture will make you snowblind. At least you can't see the dirty window.

It was a Christmas gift that I haven't killed yet.  Leaving the country was probably the best thing that I could have done for it.  I think my mere presence is enough to distress plants.

After all day of being (gratefully) stuck at home, I may be out of toilet paper (oops) and wine (double oops) but I'll be manage.  

I hope all my local people and Southern comrades are doing okay.  If you can make it here I have a crock pot full of pork and a freezer full of appetizers and vodka.

Please bring toilet paper.

Map this mundi.

So this has been a pretty big week around the ModSauce Ranch.  I've been glued to the tv/computer/twitter stream/bat signal for that little thing... what was it?  with the person...? and the other person...? oh yeah, THE MOTHERFUCKING ELECTION.

*Nate Silver panty orgasmisplosion*

Some bloggers tastefully and non-partisanly urged you to shave your muff in the shape of a donkey or elephant to privately profess your political leanings or whatever it is that polite girls do on election day but we don't fucking do that here.  

I live in Tennessee and 117% of my non-gay neighbors believe that drinking wine is the gateway drug to having gay buttsex with innocent babies so please indulge me a few sentences of judgmental hyperbole and gloating.

Because my vagina has spoken and it says this:

My friend, party host and bat wielder. Follow him and his husband on the twitters.

Well, my vagina isn't gay or a donkey but you know what I'm saying.  This is pre-pinata breaking on election night in the ghetto.  The gay-tto.  And it was marvelous.  That's the definition of saucy right there.

I've had a political hangover for several days now.  I can't stop reading articles about the election even though they all say the same thing and I've been travelling to all corners of the interwebs in search of awesome Obamagifs.  

But if you're tired of my judgmental hyperbole never fear!  Somewhere on tumblr (the home place of all gifs) I found these golden maps that almost distracted me from my patriotic web surfing:

Toyko

Ewan David Eason's Mappa Mundi project is inspired by the medieval European maps of the world and it makes me happy.  Eason's maps are of modern cities rendered in gold.  Yes, that's not a gradient in Photoshop, it's a reflection.

Milan

I'm not sure why these jumped out to me but when I found them I had got into a bottle of sauce and was all emotional after watching Obama's acceptance speech so the idea of ancient Mappa Mundis rendered in gold seemed to make perfect sense for this whole week.

But I have been up late every night and my donkey muff is starting to itch so I'm tired and being impulsive.

London

But yeah... it was mostly the wine.

Beijing

Trying to figure out the logic of a drunk and emotional person is circuitous at best but I think I responded to these because of all the roundness (it's like a hug from the world?) and the graphic harmonizing of seemingly disparate places and maybe even something about maps.  To the future?  WHERE IT'S GOLD?!  I like shiny things.

Auckland

Aw hell, I don't know.  But here it is and I like it.

Paris

And look how good they would look in your living room gallery wall.

Just kidding.  That's a teaser because I don't think there are prints for sale.  But let's harass the artist until they are.  We managed to all come together and make some good things happen this week so I think we can do it again for something really important.

But we better hurry because I'm quickly slipping away from civic warrior into normal half-informed asshole.  Right now I'm flipping back and forth between Rachel Maddow and Rambo 4 while drinking the rest of Tuesday's wine out of a mason jar and eating a scrambled egg.  This is the glamorous (and nonsensical) life of a real design blogger.

All pictures from Ewan David Eason.

So thanks for all my twitter friends for hanging out with me during this election season.  It's been hilarious and awesome and terrifying but mostly you made my days bearable.  If you don't follow me on twitter #1 Why not?!  #2 I swear my political tweets will slow down a bit so if you've recently unfollowed me you can come back now. 

Maybe.  

I still tweet and blog what my vagina tells me to.  

Which is sometimes art... (?)

I have multiple blogger personality disorder.  In my vagina.

Madame, get your gun! Part 1.

The past few years around my birthday (this is a month late because of being sick) I've decided to act like an adult and tackle some issues standing in the way of world domination - like drive-thru tellers.  So this year I got the chance to try something I always wanted to do - shoot shit with a deadly weapon!

So recently if you've experienced a sudden and overwhelming feeling of safety - like a giant teddy bear was rocking you to sleep while fingerbanging you - it's because I passed my safety course in Guns 'N Bang Bang Shit!  

My heart feels like shooting some pistols in the air like Yosemite Sam but that would violate the first rule of gun safety which is to always point the muzzle in a safe direction.  I learn good.  The second rule of gun safety is to say filth and farn and filth when you miss your target.  I also violate this rule because I use other F words.   

Somehow I managed to control my mouth and this Madame is now certified to carry a concealed firearm should I wish to do so!   

Wait, that doesn't sound very safe after all... 

My family hails from Texas so I'm genetically predisposed to liking red meat and weapons.  If that weapon was able to procure the red meat even better.  I also grew up in the kuntry where we had more guns than minorities.  I'm not scared of rifle fire unless I know Dick Cheney is nearby.  

And although I'm a product of my generation - a generation whose defining cultural contribution was gangsta rap -  

I am terrified of handguns.  

TERRIFIED.  

Terrified like an errant chest hair during the filming of Magic Mike kind of terrified.  I've never even touched a gun and just the thought of physically holding one made my stomach flip flop.  

Which is oddly the same reaction I have when I see this gif...

But there was always a nagging feeling that if I could just get past the excruciating terror then I'd probably really fucking dig it.  Kinda like my relationship with Brussels sprouts (and possibly my feelings about waxed chests...?).  At the very least I'd have conquered a fear and Oprah says that's important for my spiritual growth.  

So an opportunity presented itself for a class about safety and I put on my big girl panties and signed up with a friend.  I was hoping for something similar to those paint-your-own-pottery wine nights but with no wine and we get to learn about deadly weapons instead of pumpkin mugs.   Knowledge is power, y'all.  The more you know. *shooting star* 

Seeing as that I had zero experience with firearms I decided to have a private lesson before the main class.  Here I would get some preliminary knowledge and try all different kinds of guns which sounded exciting if I survived the excruciating terror part.  

Between you, me and the interwebz, I needed a private class because I was so nervous that I thought I might either pee or vomit or cry or all of the above once the gun thingies were introduced into the equation.  Excretion of bodily fluid was imminent and I wanted to limit the number of witnesses.  I would be paying the one instructor/witness so he would be contractually obliged to hold my hair back should the need arise.


Not gonna lie - there were a few times on the drive to the shooting range that first morning where I almost lost my grande iced soy latte.  Not only was I going to try out some death cannons but  STRANGERS! NEW SITUATIONS!  SUMMER HEAT!!!  

These are a few of my least favorite things.

When Mr. Instructor Man started laying out all the guns on our bench my mouth went dry because all moisture had left my body in the form of an intense and immediate full-body flop sweat. 

I think I managed to hold it together thanks to adrenaline and the caffeine.  I tried to plaster a winning smile on my face to distract from the terror I was feeling inside.  

Look at me I'm so normal right now!  AHAHAHAHAHA I'M BREEZY.

I don't think he could tell at all.  But things were dicey there and I I'm not sure what happened during those first few minutes.  Mr. Instructor Man may have thought I had a mild stroke because of the gibberish and profuse sweating.

But we started slow using our mouth words and away from the thousands of terror pistols he had laid out on our death bench.  I learned all kinds of important things like all the parts of a gun and the ammunition and the fact that I'm cross dominant.  

"MOTHERFUCKING YEAH I'M DOMINANT!  *air guitar solo* Uh... what does that mean?"  

Turns out that even though I'm right-handed (the Lord's way) I use my left eye for important things like lining up a shot and scoping out the clearance racks at Target.  I'm special.

The first taste of my new gunslinger lifestyle was a laser gun which was a nice gateway drug to the real stuff and lessened my impending hysteria.  It would be great to use during PowerPoint presentations to jazz up your meetings too.  I aced this one due to my previous Duck Hunt experience.

The first real gun with actual bullets he let me shoot was a .22 caliber giant canon of some kind with a scope, a wood handle, a mile long barrel and a windsock.  I lined up the windsock as best I could in my shaky grip,  released some bodily fluid that I'll let you use your imagination with and took my first shot...  

KABLAMMO!

That's the (totally realistic) sound of the gun and my panties simultaneously exploding.  A proud moment.

Actual footage from my lesson.

It felt really good - exhilarating and maybe sexy (?) and weirdly anticlimactic.  I guess when there's so much build-up that's bound to happen.  Especially when you're losing your shooting virginity with such a small caliber bullet.  

Regardless of the small size of the bullet, I had an immediate urge to mount something and SHOOT ALL THE THINGS!!  RAWWRR!  Instead I gleefully and embarrassingly exclaimed "I did it!" like instead of shooting a bullet I pooped in the potty for the first time.  

I did it!  I'll let you guess what.

Mr. Instructor Man had the good manners to not roll his eyes to my face.

Once I realized I was more in danger of mounting unsuspecting range guests than passing out, I was able to settle down and get to work shooting shit.  My initial fears were replaced with even MOAR adrenaline and pheromones and I started destroying everything within a 5 foot radius of my target.  We'll figure out the aim part later.

However, the raging chemicals and the nervous state of my insides dropped my IQ by at least 20 points and made me awkwardly chatty.  I had this weird one-sided conversation throughout the morning where I threw out intelligent gems like:

"This magazine is heavy!"

"My fingers are weird..."

"Wow, this gun is getting hot."

"It's not me, it's the targets..."

"Does this come with a comfort grip?"

"That was oww-y."

"Have you had any accidents in any of your classes?"

"Can you make a tourniquet?"

"Gee golly, that was loud!"

"Am I doing good do you like me can you be my life sensei how about BFFF best firearm friends forever?"

And on and on and on with my bullshit drivel.  To his credit, my instructor was exceptionally nice and very encouraging in the face of such blatant vacuity.  I felt really comfortable which probably led to my inane chatter.  It's his fault really.

Probably like many other lady people, that was another area that kept me from taking lessons sooner: the possible instructors.  I figured I'd get a weirdo ex-military crank job who kept calling me honey and talking about how girls have no upper body strength.  I mean, I DON'T have upper body strength but I don't need strange men yelling at me about it. 

I was born with these tiny biceps stop yelling at me!

But I was the one with the prejudices that were proven wrong so #1 I'm the asshole and #2 don't be scurred, ladies.  Before even having met me, Mr. Instructor Man had much more confidence in my abilities than I did.  

So with a lot of his encouragement and probably a bit of beginner's luck (adrenaline surges make your senses ON POINT), I was surprised to find out that he was totally right.  I did fine and am actually not the worst shooter ever!  I don't think...  Ten years of drawing every day for a living does wonders for your hand/eye coordination.  

By the end of our class I got to put my sweaty hands on at least half a dozen different guns.  A Glock so I could pretend to be in a rap video, a few carry options, some revolvers and even a .357 Magnum because fuck it - LET'S DO DIS!  Mr. Instructor Man told me I didn't have to shoot more than one round because it's a big ass gun but I emptied all the rounds into that paper plate target like a boss.    

Apparently, Mr. Instructor Man was impressed by my saucy shooting because he videotaped my hands firing the .357 for his "website."  A website that I'm guessing is called ManicuresAndMagnums.com.  Dudes everywhere are jacking off to my delicate lady hands around a gun right now.  [MS sidebar: I'm kidding.  He was not a pervert - obviously I am.  For serious, let's take another class together Chattavegas peeps!]

I left my private lesson drenched in sweat, make-up running, physically and mentally exhausted (strokes and explosions will do that to you) and immediately went home and had a very long but fitful nap where I dreamed about guns.  

And then I dreamed about guns again that night.  

I think I had a shooter's high. I had so much energy I was forced - FORCED! - to go outside and aggressively pull weeds until I exhausted myself again so I could go to sleep and dream about shooting targets again.  Next stop: Olympics 2048!

I've thought about shooting pretty much all the time since then.  I have a Tiger Beat style crush on putting holes in things.  We have unleashed the monster and - watch out! - I have reasonable aim.  

It would have been nice to find a new hobby that was cheaper and less dangerous than shooting guns but I always have to make things more complicated.  Maybe I should investigate crocheting or cooking or blogging...?

But this was just my first few hours into my new hobby, come back tomorrow for the 2nd part of my gun class adventures.  And then I'll shut up about it for a while.  

Maybe...