Edward is a Bleep

     UPDATE ON THE ALL IMPORTANT BEEPING MATTER:  For those of you who may not be familiar with this problem, you should immediately read yesterday's post as you never know when an insidious beep could infiltrate your home.  You need to know the solution.
     Well, actually, that's a slight exaggeration.  It turns out that unless you invite over that sink of dirty  dishes wonderful husband of mine, Edward, your home will be safe.
      Despite my asking him whether he had checked his closet and his answering in the affirmative and my asking him again and his saying that there was nothing in there that could possibly beep, and then my asking him to check again nonetheless and his getting annoyed and then my asking him to go through the closet again since the beeping was continuing and we were going crazy and he got mad, I went into the closet myself.  What did I find in plain view?  An old cell phone that had been left on and was beeping due to a low battery. 
      Because I am a peace loving woman and I am fearful of being locked up with women who haven't had sex in a very long time, Edward lives today. 
   

If You Read This, Beep

     We are being tortured.  A slow, insidious, painful kind of punishment. It is so bad that I fear for my mental health.  And as a result, there is tension between me and that hacking cough wonderful man I am married to, Edward.  Even the dogs seem to be affected. No, we haven't checked into Guantanamo prison or gone for some kind of couples encounter weekend.  We are safely at home.
     The problem?  There is a beep.  A persistent, annoying, electronic beep that is coming from parts unknown.  It goes off every few minutes, and it can't be stopped.  It's coming from Edward's office, which is directly across from the room where we -- more importantly -- I, sleep.  I find myself waiting for...and there it is, the beep.
     To remediate this situation, I have tried:  removing all things that plug in from his office, except the computer, and blaming Edward.  While the latter provided some satisfaction, it did not stop the beeping.  Nothing has stopped the beeping.  We have turned off the computer.  Still the beeping.  Am I to spend the rest of my days being beeped?
     Could this be a message from the beyond?  Oh God, is it my mother-in-law again?
    

     FAMILIY UPDATE:  My eldest niece, Babu, has had her name legally changed to Fontaine.

A Complaint? I Have Grounds

     The barrista at Starbucks was putting down coffee drinks for the young women in line in front of me with a wink, a smile and a flirtatious comment.  "Here's your macchiatto, extra heart, I mean hot, sweetheart.  I hope you really enjoy it and the rest of your day".  It was stupid and corny, but I was looking forward to my turn, and then it came.  "Ma'am, here's your venti, skim latte".  What?  That's it?  Where's a manager when you need one?  But then what would be my complaint?  That the barrista  failed to provide sexual harassment with my order? 
     Despite my commitment to overall high maintenance to keep everything together, it was apparently starting to slide at age 53.  Was it enough just to be a great intellect? Could I accept that my life had come to that?
     Then, a momentous thing occurred.  One day, in the city, I was looking in a store window when a man of about age 35 approached me.  Now he was no __________ (fill in the blank with the name of your favorite handsome male celebrity) but he was a decent looking guy who, from a quick up down and sideways appraisal, did not seem mentally deranged.  He asked if we had met at New York University.  I answered no, and he was on his way.  I finished my window shopping and preceded to the corner where he was waiting for the light to change and I said to him, oh I am so clever, "No, you have mixed me up with some other 22-year- old".  We both laughed heartily then started chatting as we walked down the street.  "What do you do for a living?" we asked each other.  This seemed reminiscent of something that I couldn't quite place, and then it hit me.  I used to have conversations like this when I was dating more than 25 years ago.
     He pulled out his phone and said, "I'd like to continue this.  Where can I reach you?"  Internally, I started to question his reality testing and his overall judgment. I responded, "I'm an old, married woman".  Yes, that is what I really said.
     Sometimes it's good to be a great intellect.
     
   

Grandma is a Viper

     Yesterday, when I was standing behind this old crone at the cash register at Whole Foods, I realized that though I may become just like her someday, I really don't like old people.  The crone looked, like many of them do, really nice from the outside.  But her sweet grandma exterior belied the viper within.  While there was a long line of us behind her waiting to buy stuff needed for the Thanksgiving holiday, she was checking out the price of each item as it was rung up, to make certain that she was not being overcharged.  Her demeanor suggested her suspicion of the cashier as having a personal vendetta against her.  When the cash register receipt was produced, she attempted to double check the addition - as if there has ever in the history of computerized cash registers been an addition error - before she deigned to swipe her credit card to pay. 
     I wanted to strangle sweet, little grandma and judging from the faces of others on the line, I don't think I was alone in my venal, murderous thoughts.
     Of course, I could have totally misjudged this incident.  I am, after all, going through menopause and am a little cranky.

 

Of Me I Sing

     When you're self-involved, it can be hard to accept that you are not good at everything.  And some things, for the sake of those around, should not be attempted.  For example, I would like to sing but all I can accomplish is a really loud facsimile of singing without pitch or hitting any recognizable notes.  Once, when I was in a school musical, I was told to speak the songs, not sing them.
     Oh, excuse me, News Flash!  Edward, that indelible stain on my collar sweet, loving husband of mine, needs to interrupt to inform me that our neighbor is walking her dog.
     I was told to speak the songs after watching the director and the pianist as well as my fellow cast members cringe when I opened my mouth.  So instead, I yelled the notes -- to some effect, I must say.  Good thing the musical was a comedy.
      When I first started taking jewelry-making classes at the local community college a few years ago, it was all so foreign to me, particularly soldering little pieces, that as I was working away at my bench in total frustration, I continually muttered profanities, some of which were more creative than the jewelry I was creating.  There was a culture in the class of mutual support so that even if someone's work was only fair, the focus was on providing positive feedback.  But once I turned out a piece that was so bad, a classmate looked at it, attempted to make some positive statements, and finally exclaimed, "It's just awful."
     These deficiencies are hard to accept, but somehow I muddle on, reminding myself of the truly fabulous person I really am.  
   

No One Gets My Humor

     The other day, Kitty, our impossibly flexible Pilates instructor, called my cell and asked me to inform our Pilates reformer class that she would be a few minutes late.  I made that announcement, but also said that Kitty asked the class to warm up with Kegel exercises. For the uninitiated, Kegel exercises work the pelvic floor and, among other benefits, help with sexual gratification in both men and women. They are, of course, never a part of a Pilates class, but I have to find my fun where I can. 
      Like last summer when I was getting into my car and passed two guys doing work at my house speaking to each other in Polish.  I said, "I know what you're saying about my husband.  It's all true,  but I want you to stop saying it."  I thought that was hysterically funny. They didn't.
     Or when I was visiting my mother-in-law, Brunhilda, to celebrate her 90th birthday and bought her a box of condoms.  At first, she couldn't figure out what they were but when she finally got it, she was so unnerved she told me to throw them down the trash compactor immediately. 
     Or when Thor, my trainer, gave me a card from his trip to Vegas advertising an escort for hire, and I put that card in hubby Edward's wallet.  Then, in front of Edward, I told him I was going into his wallet to look for ones, and I pulled out the card, feigning shock and dismay.  Edward turned a shade of pasty white and looked a little woozy.  What could be more fun?
     I just love myself.

A Five-Star Dinner, A No-Star Motel

     We're about to head up to the home of my sister, Mama Doc Duvalier, for the Thanksgiving holiday.  Mama Doc is Booty's mother (for more on Booty, please see the post, "Booty Does Boston") and she has two other wonderful daughters, Babu and Glinda.  Mama Doc, as her name would suggest, runs a tight ship, but she also cooks unbelievably well, unlike her much, much, much younger sister. 
        When we visit Mama Doc Duvalier, Edward and I stay at the Howard Johnson's Express Motel because Edward goes into austerity mode about our accommodations. The motel is reminiscent of a desert in that the choice of heat for the room is either dry blasting hot wind or nothing, and the amenities consist of ... nothing.  I find myself wondering what kind of freak is occupying the room next door since who in their right mind would choose to stay in this place.  Breakfast consists of day-old bagels and single containers of butter and cream cheese that must be passed around and shared among the guests.

     At Thanksgiving dinner, family tradition calls for each person to write something in magic marker on the tablecloth. These scribblings include heartfelt sentiments befitting Hallmark cards as well as Rorschach images suggesting a range of non-communicable but fearsome disorders.
     Mama Doc's cooking and the family vibe, even if there is a tiff or two, make the whole experience worth it. Edward and I return home satisfied and ready to start our diets.

     Shout-out to a fellow blogger, Love Bites, who can be found at http://summerpeterson.blogspot.com.  She has much to say about love lost and love found. 

General Hospital, Behind the Scenes

     This morning, Edward, that run in my stocking sweet husband of mine, accused me of being overly acerbic.  Somehow, that characterization reminded me of an incident several years ago when he was recovering from outpatient sinus surgery.
      I arrived at his hospital room, where he was recovering. I found him in one of two beds, his nose completely bandaged and bloodied but no longer woozy from the anesthesia.  All I needed to do was gather up his few belongings, get him dressed and drag him to the car.  Edward wanted to do the gathering and dressing on his own, and he retired to the bathroom.  As it turned out, this procedure took as long as a 15-year-old girl preparing for her first date when she can't find the right outfit in her closet.
      So, I laid down in Edward's hospital bed and hung out.  Meanwhile, a nice looking, thin, middle-aged  man arrived rolling a suitcase behind him to occupy the second bed in the room.  He was apparently going to have a test involving his eyes that required him to stay overnight. 
      Shortly after his arrival, a nurse came in and drew the curtain that separated his bed from the one I was lying on, and started asking many questions.  They began with his full name, date of birth and social security number and progressed to increasingly more intimate details. I couldn't believe that I was privy to all this information and I became uncomfortable.  How do I handle discomfort?  I use humor that can be somewhat acerbic.  So when the nurse asked this guy whether he had used illicit drugs, and he answered no, I called out quite loudly from behind the curtain, "Well, that's not what I hear on the street."
      There was a long pause.  None of us said a word.  Then, the nurse continued with the questions as if nothing had happened, and the guy seemed ok answering them.  Edward finally emerged from the bathroom and off we went.
     Really, Edward, the world can handle me.

Gina Lollobrigida and I Have a lot in Common

     I read in this morning's New York Times that one of the reasons for Gina's current visit to New York is to see the play, "The Merchant of Venice" starring Al Pacino.  Where was I last night?  Seeing "The Merchant of Venice" starring Al Pacino.
     Edward and I got tickets with our friends Cheeks A Flying (CAF) and his lovely wife, that queen of jurisprudence, known affectionately throughout all the courtrooms of the land as Mommy.  For more on CAF, please see the post, "The Importance of Gifts."  Anyway, Edward, CAF and I hailed a cab to meet Mommy at the theater, and although we had plenty of time and did not suggest to the cab driver that we were running late, had one of the most harrowing rides over there that I have ever experienced.  We drove on the sidewalk, missed pedestrians by inches and cut off numerous other vehicles.  In order to save our lives, we decided to get out a few blocks early and walk the rest of the way.  Not surprisingly, we all needed to use the bathroom facilities at the Millennium Hotel before arriving at the theater.
     Despite sitting in the back row of the Orchestra section with a guy with a huge head right in front of me, I was able to fully enjoy the play and unbelievable acting by the aforementioned Mr. Pacino, who CAF noted, needs to go to the gym.  At intermission, while the boys ran off to use the men's room (that really was some cab ride), I attempted to share a pack of almonds with Mommy.  I struggled with opening it and finally the almonds erupted all over the people in the row in front of me, all of whom took the shower of nuts well, I must say.
     There's another thing that Gina and I have in common.  The Times article mentioned that she is working on "towering sculptures of people, often women, and often likenesses of herself".  I admire that level of narcissism and can only aspire to such great levels of self-obsession.   I'll work on it.
    
    

Everyone's A Critic

     This morning, at my exercise session, Thor, my personal trainer, accused me of false advertising.  He stated that there should have been a picture of Booty's booty in my prior blog post, "Booty Does Boston." I assured him that her booty is, in fact, J-Lo worthy.  His expression told me he was unconvinced. Looking glum, he demanded I perform 50 runners followed by 10 push-ups and repeat. 
     Now, I'm at the radiology place waiting to have my annual mammogram and breast ultrasound, and a new procedure this year because I'm in menopause:  a bone density test.  With all this radiation, by the time I leave, I should be lighting up. 
     Talk about a group of glum people.  The women at the desk made no eye contact while shoving forms at me.  When I asked for a plain piece of paper on which to write this post, they reacted as if I'd requested some kind of special treatment - like a treatment gown that actually fits.  They gave me a size large which is big enough for me, the octomom and all of her offspring and since she and the kids are not here, I am exposing myself to everyone who walks by, whether they want to see my body or not.
     The results?  I live to blog again.


  

Gym Trauma

     It started out really well.  I was on my treadmill, hitting my stride with two really attractive guys working out directly in front of me.  So I had the music of my IPOD and some good eye candy to keep me going.  I was cooking.  Then this woman, reeking of perfume, popped on the treadmill next to me.  How could she not understand basic gym etiquette:  come unwashed and somewhat ripe like me, but whatever you do, don't come wearing perfume.  I gave her dirty looks but she persisted in remaining upwind of me.  The smell broke my concentration.
     Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, the cleaning crew started mopping up around me with sterilizing spray.  So now I was breathing in and choking on conflicting odors.  I felt like screaming, "It's not me who has the cooties, it's the woman to my right."  But they kept on using that spray as if they wanted to wash me out of the gym.
     The final insult came in the form of a hoochie mama who started running sprints on the treadmill to my left.  She barely broke a sweat, and her beautiful, long blond hair remained beautiful.  The gorgeous guys took note ... of her.
     What was left for me?  Hot yoga?  Yeah, as if a menopausal woman in a hot room is something anyone would want to experience. 

 

Edward Reads a Book and Another Matter

     Edward, the Pain in My Patoot hubby, just read a fascinating book entitled, "Helluva Town:  The Story of New York City During World War II".  The Amazon link is here.  The book is so good that Edward and I both believe my vast readership would be highly interested.  To quote from the fly leaf:  "Richard Goldstein's 'Helluva Town' is a kaleidoscopic and compelling social history that captures the youthful electricity of wartime and recounts the important role New York played in the national war effort.''  This Goldstein guy has written other great books too! 
     Today I attempted to do some banking for my business.  I discovered that I needed to run home and get a copy of my license.  As a joke, that turned out to be only funny to me, I grabbed not only a framed copy of my license, but framed copies of all my degrees.  I brought them back to the guy at the bank and loudly said, "you'll want photocopies of all of this, and I'd like it to be noted for my application that I graduated Summa Cum Laude from college."  Not a smile crossed his lips and the bank manager walked over to see if there was a problem.  Doesn't anybody understand intelligent humor anymore?
    

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Booty Does Boston

     Friday, we fired up the thirteen year old red Mercedes - Edward doesn't believe in buying a new car until you want to abandon your old car in the South Bronx - and pointed it north to Boston to visit, Booty, my niece who is in her first year of grad. school at Boston University.
     At the crack of 10 on Saturday morning, with Booty in tow, we began what would turn out to be about five minutes of sightseeing and many, many hours of shopping.  Edward started us off by buying a pair of black shoes and black gloves.  Booty and I hovered around him while he tried on myriad pairs of shoes, each time using a style of walking that caused some other shoppers to stare.  For some reason, Edward tests out  shoes by walking on his tippy toes.
     After the shoe purchase, I looked at Booty, and she was clearly sad.  Finally, she divulged that she absolutely required new boots.  In horror at this admission, we ditched Edward at a nearby bookstore and settled in for some serious work.  After much consternation, emotional ups and downs and just plain sweat, we located a pair of spectacular black boots in Booty's size.  They were the kind of boots that could change the course of one's life.  Booty was whole - well, almost.

     Two dresses, a pair of jeans and a sweater later, Booty's vital signs were stable, and if I was successful in loading the pictures of Booty in her finery, you can see them here.  Booty is also modeling our lovely accommodations at the Four Seasons Hotel.
      Booty declared herself ready for dinner - a very expensive dinner.  So we grabbed Edward and headed out to a place that was so trendy and hip, none of us understood the menu or the wine list.  We got looped and the discussion turned to a dangerous topic:  Booty's love life. There are three potential boyfriends.  Boyfriend #1, who I call, Mr. Nice Guy; Boyfriend #2, known as Playa; and Boyfriend #3 is just Huh?  I gave my opinion by stating, "Yes, No, Never".  That should make the winner very clear.   
     At the end of the meal, it was time for dessert, and I ordered it.  Apparently Booty can get cruel after the stores close and as she watched me eat, she said, "Boy, Auntie Barnie, you sure can suck down that gelato."  There was a brief, stunned silence and then, Edward, fearing that violence might break out, ran from the room.  No need to worry.  I kindly helped Booty out of her chair by grabbing the nape of her neck and pulling up, and we were out of there.
     The weekend ended on a calm note with a lovely brunch where we got to meet Booty's doe eyed roommate, Salsa.  And then we were back into the Mercedes headed home.  A wonderful weekend had by all.

God Bless America

     I'm getting to this post very late in the day because Edward, the hubby, hogged the computer for work needs, and I was busy throughout the day with my own work.  Yes, I actually do something productive besides shop for Spanx.  For the four of you who may be reading this, well actually three, because I don't think my husband counts, I will not be posting tomorrow or over the weekend.
     I started out this morning with an hour long fitness training session with Thor, my personal trainer of three years.  Thor is many years younger than I, but we have become quite comfortable with each other and even share personal information.  This morning, however, he was looking at me strangely and standing at a distance but not telling me what was the problem.  I knew that I had showered and I hadn't had time to develop any kind of sweaty odor.  Of course, halitosis is always possible, but I don't think I really have that problem.  Finally, he said, "you smell like beer".  I responded, loudly, because I always speak loudly when I'm making a point or offended or joking or, hell, I just always speak loudly, "that's my cranberry body lotion, and it doesn't smell like beer." 
     A new bottle of cranberry body lotion is now lying at the bottom of my bathroom wastebasket.  What made me think that cranberry could ever be a pleasant odor on my body?
     Thor is a great trainer - truly the best I have ever had - but he is not one to sugarcoat the truth.  When I told him that I didn't like my flat behind, he told me that I needed a Brazilian butt lift.  Thinking this was some kind of exercise regimen, I said, "Let's get on that immediately," but was disappointed to learn that it was a plastic surgery procedure.  When I offered to be a model in one of his exercise videos, he said my form wasn't good enough, and I never understood an exercise with just one explanation.  When I told Edward, he asked why I couldn't model the wrong version of an exercise routine.  Well, at least the hubby was looking out for my narcissistic needs.
      
    

Nude Pictures of Celebrities - Sex, sex, sex

     I slept late this morning, recovering from yesterday's 4.5 mile run.  Let me qualify that.  According to a fellow exerciser, the speed at which I run (usually 11.7 minutes per mile) cannot be termed running, it must be termed jogging.  He even had the audacity to ask me later in the conversation what I do for cardio.  I should have asked him what he does for brain cells. 
     At 53, I am trying to delay aging effects, and I'm not sure how well it's going.  I think when one sits and can play with rolls of fat on one's abdomen, it's probably a bad thing.  And going into Nordstrom and asking for Spanx that goes from neck to knee is also not a good sign (by the way, they have it and if you can tolerate sweating as you get in and out of it, it works very well).  I used to have a nice waist and then menopause hit and well why didn't other women warn me of this plague?
     About two months ago, I called my dermatologist to schedule a yearly cancer check as well as a long- overdue appointment for Botox.  The first available appointment was for a month from now.  My thought was, what if this was an emergency, and my wrinkles were developing at an out-of-control rate.  Could I really wait?  It didn't make sense that the appointment was so far in the future, when I had easily obtained appointments for Botox in the past, and then I realized that the receptionist evidently was thinking primarily of my cancer checkup.The Botox is paid for in cash, but the 10 minute cancer check is paid in part by insurance and that, I believe, is why I have to wait.  I'll bet if I called back tomorrow and scheduled two separate appointments, I could get in for my Botox immediately.  Hmmm.
     Edward, the hubby, has not interrupted me while I'm writing this.  He's doing something much more disturbing.  He's sitting in a chair staring off into space.  Oh God.
     Now, you're probably wondering about the title of this post, "Nude Pictures of Celebrities - Sex, sex, sex".  I did that just to get you to read my blog.  Remember now, I have very deep seated narcissistic needs, and I'll do whatever I can to fulfill them.

The Importance of Gifts

     It's day two, and I can see that both my narcissistic and material needs are not being met.  One of my two followers is obviously my husband who somewhat defensively explained the reason for believing his breasts were getting bigger, in a comment at the end of my first post.  I don't think he'll be buying me gifts anytime soon.
     I learned something really important about gift giving from my good friend, Cheeks-A-Flying (CAF) that I now pass on to you.  During a visit to Florida to see my mother-in-law, Brunhilda, Edward and I gave her a large selection of canned and other goods for her home in Florida so she would be well prepared in case of a hurricane. We thought it was needed and would make her feel more secure.
      Whoa - stop everything - Edward has interrupted to tell me of a harrowing experience he just had at Balducci's.  The espresso machine is not working!
       And now back to my story:  Brunhilda didn't have tons of money, but she certainly had enough to live out her life in the style to which she had become accustomed.  She wasn't scraping her pennies together to buy milk, if you know what I mean.  Anyway, I learned later that she and her aide took all the stuff we bought and returned it to the supermarket for cash.  Yes, you read that right.  She sold our gift for cash.
     I was absolutely furious about this and experiencing hateful, nasty, ugly thoughts about Brunhilda, who has since died.  (May she rest in peace.)  O.k., let me be truly honest.  Brunhilda and I didn't exactly have a lovefest going even before the gift fiasco. 
     Was I surprised when I mentioned this incident to CAF and did not get the response of shock and horror that I was looking for.  He simply pointed out that when you give someone a gift, your control over the gift ends.  It belongs to the receiver who is free to do with it whatever they want, even if you don't like it.   That strong clarification totally dissipated my anger so I was free to focus my hateful, nasty, ugly thoughts on other awful things Brunhilda had done.  Thank you CAF.
     And now some words about CAF.  I can't really remember why we call him that.  I think it has something to do with a rip in his pants and you know the cheeks were a flying, but I'm not sure.  He likes to get rips in his clothes mended rather than throw them out so I once alleged that he was auditioning for a TV show, "The Real Hobos of the Upper East Side." One time, he was getting out of a cab to meet us at a restaurant when I yelled at him, "Who is this hobo?"  O.k., not funny I know.  Anyway, the cab driver who was wearing long white robes that were obviously commonly worn in his native country, emerged just after CAF but just when I said the hobo thing.  I'm sure the driver heard "hobo" as "homo" and thought it was directed at him. 
      I could be in jail for a hate crime rather than worrying about the lack of espresso at Balducci's.  Ain't life great?

     I'm writing a blog clearly to fulfill narcissistic needs so I hope people read and like it.  I'm also writing it, because the other day when I was having my nails done, the customer to the right of me - a completely average looking 20 something - mentioned that she is getting free nail polish as a result of starting a blog and mentioning her manicures.  I'm really very interested in free stuff.  Not junky, old stuff but good expensive merchandise like the Hogan shoes the woman to the left of me at the manicure place was wearing that day.  I mentioned that I liked her shoes because they were dark leather snazzy sneakers.  She - a middle aged, very thin attractive woman who may or may not have undergone plastic surgery - mentioned that they were very expensive.  In fact, once she did the conversion from euros, she found that she paid about $500.  Now that's a credit card charge that's a little hard to hide from hubby.  So free Hogans would be very, very nice.
      Ah, the hubby.  Where do I begin to describe sweet Edward.  Well, let's see.  Edward is 15 years older than I am which makes him eligible for what I so kindly describe as Old People Discounts.  The other day, he went for a physical, and intellectual/obsessive that he is, he took along a list of his ailments to show the doctor.  He mentioned to me that he learned by writing the list that he has likely experienced every medical condition except miscarriage.  I asked, "What about pregnancy?"  And he responded, "Remember when I thought my breasts were getting bigger?"  Unfortunately, Hypochondriasis is Edward's middle name so when he starts saying how this or that bothers him, I just tune him out.  I'm not sure he listens to much of what I say either so we're probably well matched. 
     Edward just interrupted me to ask how to hang up his pants.  Are you kidding me? 
     Edward and I have no children (probably wise since between us the poor kids would have inherited every psychological disorder currently listed in the DSMIV) but we do have three dogs which not surprisingly have become our child substitutes.  I do agility with one of my dogs which means that I run around like a crazy person with the dog who is running through a course with jumps and other obstacles.  The goal is to run it with no errors in the shortest time possible.  I used to do it with one of my other dogs as well until the training got more complex and he had a mis-hap where a see-saw hit him in the face as he was running off of it.  He developed a fear of much of the equipment, so much so that when we competed, he would take the first obstacle and then run to a member of the ring crew, put his paws on the crew member and look back at me as if to say, "Call the ASPCA immediately!  She beats me!"  I would sweetly call his name as the timer ran on until he finally just ended every one's torment by running out of the ring.
     I must run now to engage in mundane tasks like food shopping and picking up my clip-on hair which was dyed to match my real dyed hair.  Yes, I am proud to say I am very, very high maintenance.