Solid Rock

“Safe upon the solid rock

The ugly houses stand.

Come and see my shining palace

Built upon the sand.”  (Edna St. Vincent Millay)

As I’m sitting at my desk, looking up invoice after invoice in Oracle, I begin to feel uneasy.  Is there someone watching me?  I look around, and no, no one’s about.  (This is good, as I’ve got several internet windows open and am interspersing work with fun.)  I go back to my spreadsheets and doggedly enter another few invoices to search and examine.  The feeling doesn’t go away.  This time, I look around more fully.  I’m still alone.  A quick prairie dogging over the cube wall determines that everyone is hard at work and plugged into Itunes.

Somewhat disquieted, I sit and stare at the blue fabric walls of my home-away-from-home and try and come to grips with whatever’s gotten into me.  I look at my open windows on my task bar.  A conversation with Miranda – she’s not having a very good day today, poor lady.  I’m trying to cheer her up.  Oracle, Oracle, Oracle.  One on the legends of Eastern Pennsylvania, one on the Blue Ridge mountains and one on cave houses, of all things.  A conversation with Crazy David – a good friend from college who went AWOL from the military in the Appalachian Trail for a good long while before returning to civilization.  We’re discussing the beauty of Virginia.

As I tell him what it was like to drive through the Blue Ridge Mountains, that feeling slams into me again.  I realize it for what it is.  Disquietude.  I feel cheated.  Now why on God’s Green Earth should I feel cheated?  I have a good life.  I pay my bills, I’m getting back on track, I live in an awesome house.  I have a man who loves me and wonderful family and friends who never seem to forget me, even though I don’t see them as much as I should.  My every need is met, and even if my pants don’t fit like they used to 3 years ago, I’m still looking ok.  I have a good job with people I genuinely like and I am pretty good at what I do.  So what is it?

It’s the very fabric of my life.  I don’t like the path I’ve chosen for myself.  This life – this everyday, routines-and-responsibilities life.  I’m fine with routines.  Responsibilities, too.  I have no reason to dislike anything – I’ve chosen it myself or it’s all fallen into place in front of me.  But it doesn’t fit.  It’s like a dress that I found on sale, that was on the front of the rack nearest my hand, and looked good so I got it.  A dress that doesn’t fit as well as I would have liked; that gaps or sags or rubs me raw under my arms.  It looks ok on me – it functions properly, but it’s just not great.

I’ve felt it growing ever stronger – this feeling of disquietude – ever since my Dad passed away.  It pops up unexpectedly and with varying fervor.  My mind screams at me, “Wait!!  No!  This isn’t how it was supposed to be!  I’m meant for something more – something else!”  Since we went to Virginia last month, It’s nearly overpowered me at several times.  While in the mountains it was the most intense it’s ever been.  As David drove, I stared unblinking out the windows, drinking in every single aspect of the scenery I could.  A wild feeling filled me and I felt a desperate clawing  at my insides.  I wanted out of the car.  I wanted out there!  I needed out – needed to go into the hills and breathe the air and just exist.  It was so powerfully primal, that it scared me.  I had no end goal in mind, just needed OUT THERE.  Those mountains, so big and beautifully unforgiving, symbolized everything I’ve ever wanted.  I can sympathize with my now indoor only cats as they press their faces up to the screen of the doors – gazing fixedly outside and breathing in the air deeply.  They want out there.  I want out there – my out there is bigger and wilder, but it’s there, too.

Naturally, being scared of doing anything big, I never do anything about it.  I want something else, something I can’t name.  I want to be as special on the outside as my Dad always said I was.  But to actually try and accomplish that would be, well, mountainous.  So I don’t do anything.

I’m ungrateful, I know.  With so much in front of me, all I can see is what I DON’T have.  It’s human nature, I surmise, to be this way.  It’s also terribly clichéd.  Disgusted with myself, I closed all the browser windows, windows into freedom and other lives, and returned to plugging in numbers.  But not before changing my screen saver to the picture I took while driving down the highway in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Currents

Once upon a time, there was a girl who had many friends.  So many that she couldn’t count them on two hands and two feet.  She was bright and funny and liked to listen to the things others said.  She never knew what drew them to her, and she didn’t really care – she genuinely liked everyone she met.

The girl sailed through her high school and college years, surrounded by a bubbling throng of people she adored and who adored her in return.  She never lacked for company and as such, her fondest times were when she was alone.

As we all do, the girl grew up, learned all she could and set off into the wide world.    Like a dandelion puffed by a breeze, she and her friends all drifted away on the currents of the wind to see what the world had in store.

She drifted along, soaring high at times and sinking deeply at others.  She went here, she went there, and everywhere she had her other drifting friends.  Not as close or numerous as in the glorious days of growing up, but there nonetheless, sharing the winds of fate.

The girl grew older.  She loved and she lost, and it hurt her.  At times, she felt so heavy inside she couldn’t float along as before.  She fell to the solid earth.  She kept to herself more as time passed, watching the lives of her friends and offering encouragement as they lived, got jobs, got married, had pets and babies.  She was so happy for them, glad to watch, but kept apart from them.  She had sadness in her and couldn’t join the whirling throngs in the dance of life.  She loved, she watched, and she kept apart.

One day, she realized she was alone.  She never meant to be so.  She loved those around her very much.  Over time, however, they had floated out of her reach.  Try as she might, and as far as she stretched her arms, she couldn’t pull them close again.  They waved to her from their skybound heights and sent love and floated on.

The years passed.  Earthbound, she watched those in the air.  She smiled, she reminisced and she lived on.

Painful Memories

Nine A.M. classes were always the worst.  The absolute pits; an ungodly early hour to have to learn something.  My sophomore year, I started my day with  a Basic Anthropology class.  On one particular day, I remember sliding into the lecture hall about 3 minutes late and grabbing the last available desk, as all the other 200 or so chairs were taken.  After the inevitable butt-chewing from the professor in front of the whole hall on the subject of my tardiness, we got down to the serious business of learning.

Dr. Brown started in on his lecture and as usual, my eyes started to droop.  Late nights of studying and the college kid’s all consuming need to sleep were very hard to overcome.  As the class dragged on and the good Doctor droned forth, I found it harder and harder to focus.  The buzz of the projector, the scribble of pens and the gentle hum of the fluorescent lights lulled me into a state of zen note-taking, monotonous and mindless…until it was shattered by a sudden CRACK!

Snapped out of my dozy trance, I bolted upright in my chair and looked around for the source of the disturbance.  The other two hundred students did, too.

“Whoa! What was THAT?” I thought. “That was LOUD!  Did someone drop a book?  Slam a door? I wonder what… Oh!  Ow!  Ow ow ow!! Why does my forehead hurt so much all of a sudden?!” 

As my classmates’ eyes all focused on my side of the room, I realized with dread that the sharp crack everyone heard was my forehead hitting my desk because I fell asleep and keeled over.  With the whole class staring, the professor laughing and my head throbbing, I succumbed to my mounting mortification and, grabbing my bag, I fled.

I sought refuge in a top-floor bathroom and discovered a goose egg the size of a quarter forming on my forehead.  It was probably the most embarrassing moment I’d ever had, but after another missed class and a further week of hat-wearing, life was back to normal.

It’s a random thing to post, but the memory came back to me today when a guy fell asleep in a meeting right after lunch.  He was leaning back in his chair and it tipped over against the wall when he dozed off.  Unfortunately, it was in front of a lot of VIP’s.  I’m glad it wasn’t me, but I can totally feel his pain, literally.

Kitti Graffiti

We have a rogue graffiti artist in the house.  A stealthy soul who sneaks around and when no one’s looking, makes his mark.  Many artists are misunderstood in their own lifetimes, and that is definitely the case with this one.  I have no appreciation for his style.  That said, I must admit that some graffiti is actually really cool – avant garde artistic statements of freedom, placed for the whole world to share.  Or vandalism, either way.  But that’s graffiti in the big wide outside world, not in my house.  And it’s even less cool when the artist is my cat and his medium is pee. 

I first noticed his work when I was taking a stroll through the living room last Saturday.  Our new leather ottoman looked a bit…stripy…on the side.  On closer examination, I saw that there were five marks along its side, about six inches from the ground – like someone tapped a spray paint can nozzle five times in a row…while lying on his/her stomach.  I wondered what it could possibly be. 

I didn’t wonder very long.

Thinking it was some cleaner I had used, forgotten to wipe up and had dried there, I swiped it with a paper towel, and the horrible truth dawned on me.  Cleaner indeed! Oh no, it was something much worse.  The anathema of every cat owner with awesome furnishings and hardwood floors – kitty pee.  On. My. New. Furniture!!  I’d been tagged. 

Shocked and appalled, I ran for MY chosen mediums – the cleaner, the disinfectant and the “Kitty No Go” odor neutralizer.  The Art War was on as I cleaned everything up, covering over what was now obviously his artistic endeavors as he observed from a high bookshelf.  I ranted and raved and called him some truly horrible names.  I threatened and glowered, and told him what he was doing was totally unacceptable – but to no avail.  He sat there on the bookshelf as Zen as a kitty-Buddha – the very picture of smug calmness; a little smile curving his kitty-lips and twitching his whiskers.  

As I walked into the dining room, having vented my spleen, I realized why.  He was no tag and run artist and the ottoman wasn’t his only installation.  Hells, no!  He was a prolific Great Master and that was only one room in a monstrous exhibition.  We’re talking Kitty Louvre proportions, folks.  My dining room walls bore testament to his earlier works.  Knowing now what to look for, I realized the walls were heavy with his efforts.  I repeated my earlier efforts, curses and pleas and soon that room too, was denuded.

With a liberal sense of unease, I started examining each room.  The bathroom – yes, that would be his “Yellow” period.  The den – ah, yes, his Impressionist phase.  He even specialized in tapestries at one point, I found, and spent another hour washing the living room curtains.  Completely unwilling to be curator to this art museum of horrors, also known as my HOUSE, I eradicated every trace.  He followed me from room to room, calmly watching the destruction of hours – more like minutes – of his work.  Finally, I was done. 

His art Mew-seum closed, we went our separate ways, glowering at each other.  I congratulated myself repeatedly for stopping such a menace and my day went on.  He was to have the last laugh, however.  If you’re not aware – and I sincerely hope you’re not – if kitty pee is left on a surface such as hardwood floors and not found in a short amount of time, they can become discolored.  I might have destroyed his temporary art installation, but my floors bear testament to his Jackson Pollock phase for all time.  Cat Bastard.

Quick Update

Hi Interwebs!

So many things have happened recently – I barely even noticed I wasn’t posting!  In short, here are my excuses:

• Christmas was rather time consuming.  You wouldn’t believe how much time one uses up keeping cats from a) climbing the Christmas tree, b) playing Ornament Rugby, and c) unwrapping the presents with their teeth/eating the gifts inside.  Oh!  And drinking the tree water.  And chewing on Christmas light strings.  And…you get it.  Suffice it to say, there are three felines permanently on the NaughtyList.
• Really good drugs. Well, it’s me writing, so obviously it wasn’t anything illegal or jail-taunting.  I had an ESWL lithotripsy in January.  It was NOT fun.  Everything that could go wrong that didn’t end in death basically did.  I was allergic to the antibiotic they pumped in my IV and they couldn’t find the stones while I was laying on the operating table.  Two surgeons, and an xray machine and they can’t see the stones.  Let’s just say my insides looked like London on a foggy day… (no more onions and peppers the night before surgery.)  They ended up letting me cool my heels in recovery until the reaction to the drugs wore off and then operated on the OTHER kidney.  The last thing I remember was an anesthesiologist telling me that what she was giving me would feel like a “couple of margaritas” and then the drugs hitting me…just like she said.  Drunk to the point of almost being spinny sick.  I said “I wish every happy hour was like this…” and passed out.  (I think it sounded more like, “Ah whoosh efery happehhourss  lhyk thishhhh…”  Anyway, I woke up just fine and had good painkillers and good times.  Since it was non-invasive, I was up and around in no time.
• I’m studying for the GRE. Yep, because I want to get my MLS and make lots less than I currently make.  When I say studying, I really mean sporadically cracking a study book and feeling alternately euphoric because I can kick the Verbal section’s butt and enraged because I am really NO good at math.  Which is funny – ’cause I’m an accountant.
• I’m shopping for a new set of wheels.  What this means is, I desperately want a bike.  I haven’t had one since I was in high school and it’s high time for that to change.  I’m so jealous of the eco-chicks who ride to the store on their bikes looking all hippie-chick and cute and I want a fun way to get back into shape. 
• I get to go to the dentist!  Ok, yeah, not thrilling to you, maybe, but certainly to me!  What I really mean to say is that the company with which I’ve been contracting for the past seven months offered me a full time position.  You know what that means - INSURANCE!  Wonderful wonderful insurance with your shiny deductibles and happy little co-pays, you are mine once more!

So there, in short, are a few of the reasons I haven’t been a good little blogger.  I plan on that changing – stay tuned and we’ll see!

Come back…

Last night was a rough night.

It all started simply enough.  I was riding my brand new mountain bike through some woody areas near my parents’ house and decided to pop in and see Mom.  Mom wasn’t there, so I just wandered around a little.  I went out to my Dad’s old office – a large rec room, built onto the garage, where he did all his work.  Everything in there looked the same as it had always looked, but with more dust on everything.  The memories were so strong, I had to leave.

As I turned to go back into the garage, I saw something I never thought I would.  By the doorway, washing his hands in his workshop sink was my Dad himself.  Looking back on it, I can see it all so clearly – every minute detail – but in the moment, all I knew was that I was hurtling across the room to where he was, as he grinned his goofy grin and splashed water from the sink at me.  He was standing there in his usual white t-shirt and jeans, with his old black belt and his trusty pocketknife strapped on, as if he’d never been away.  With tears streaming down my face I ran into his arms, so happy that I thought I might drop – and my arms closed on empty air. 

I stood there, breathing hard, trying to figure out what happened.  As I did, he reappeared before me, hazy and still smiling.  He was only there for a moment and as I watched, he faded.  I was alone in the garage, with nothing but dust motes and a crushing sense of loss and dismay. 

I’m not sure when I started crying – before or after I woke up from the lovely nightmare.  I’m not sure how long I sat there in bed, hysterically sobbing and hiccupping before I realized that it even was a dream.  It was so crystal clear in my mind, so brutally real – the colors and the light and the sounds and I could smell his pipe tobacco for several minutes after I woke up. 

It hurt so badly to lose him the first time, a year and a half ago and then to lose him again in just a few moments in a dream on a stormy night.  Awesome Boyfriend held me for what felt like hours, until I managed to get a grip on myself and form rational thoughts.  After an hour or so, I even managed to go back to sleep, too exhausted to dream – most thankfully.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized something that had been in the back of my mind since I woke up – he was healthy in my dream.  For the first time in all of the vivid, heartbreaking dreams of my dad since his death, he wasn’t sick and wasted or confused and upset.  He was well and whole and happy.

In some part of my mind, as hard as it is to realize it, I think I’m becoming whole and healthy again, too.

The Nomsibility of Exercise

It’s 8pm on a Wednesday night, and instead of being where any sane, hardworking girl finished with a day of tax drudgery should be – on the couch, watching Supernanny reruns – I’m at the gym. 

That’s right, interwebs, the gym.  A place which, for many a month, was foreign to me.  A place I wanted to revisit…someday.  Just after I got past ______  (enter some major/minor/imagined/etc. obstacle here).  Big hopes, big dreams, little motivation.  Heck, because I work out at the Y, I figured that even if I didn’t exercise, my membership was like donating to charity – a good cause, so it wasn’t wasteful if I didn’t go; it was totally ok.

But there I was, walking down the garishly lit hallway, surrounded by the sounds of fellow humans tormenting themselves in the pursuit of smaller waistlines and bigger biceps.  My goal?  An exercise class.  And not just any exercise class – the big bad biker daddy of them all – Powerpump. 

Powerpump, you may wonder?  It sounds so friendly.  Proactive.  Energy-packed.  Well…it’s…something.  Imagine, if you will, an exercise class where you use barbells, aerobic steps and free weights in a pumped up, action packed, techno music filled frenzy.  In all honesty, it’s something pretty awesome, but it’s INTENSE.  At least to the girl who hadn’t worked out in a (long) while.  (Apparently, according to Awesome Boyfriend, chasing cats around the house doesn’t count.  Something about wood floor-sliding cutting out half the effort or something – I wasn’t listening – I was chasing cats.)

Class starts and I thank my lucky stars I had the foresight to ask the instructor what-all was needed (one step aerobic step, barbells with 3 different weight amounts, a mat, an extra hand weight or two…).  Immediately, we plunge (literally) into squats.  While holding barbells.  And we do it a lot.  And fast.  Shocked to find out that I didn’t magically retain all that stamina and flexibility I had garnered in the wide variety of athletic endeavors I indulged in in college, I was in danger of collapsing in agony.  “Think of something pleasant!!”  I thought. 

So I thought of that thing I love more than almost anything else – food.  Tasty, wonderful nomsy goodness.  I thought of what I would have for dinner that night when I got home – because in fear of overdoing it and barfing on the floor in front of a class of strangers and subsequently having to change my name and find a new gym, I hadn’t eaten since lunch – 9 hours before.  I pictured the nice, healthy ground turkey tacos I would have, covered in lettuce and tomatoes.  Mmm…dinner. 

Meanwhile, things were ramping up in class – I was supposed to put more weight on my barbells and heave them over my head repeatedly.  Wow – new kinds of pain!  Suddenly, ground turkey isn’t working for me anymore – escapism must have more fat/calories/carbs!  I pictured other things I love dearly – warm garlic bread and Blue Bell Tin Roof ice cream.  I thought of how wonderful they’d taste – I even pictured the steps of how to make them and how easy it would be to have them, right after class!

As we all laid ourselves down on the step aerobics step and thrust our iron burdens skyward ad nauseum, bread and ice cream – the comfort foods – weren’t enough to stave off the pain.  It had to be enchiladas, covered in chili gravy, that I focused on.  More than that, I had to tell myself that I was going to actually get to eat those things the very second the class ended.  That was the only way!  Mmm…chili gravy…and onions.  And rice…and what the heck, beans, too!!

We clambered back upright and our instructor – once sage and enthusiastic, now savage and sadistic (ok, maybe only in my head) demands more weight on the barbells and…what?  He said what?  I couldn’t have heard that right… I’m supposed to lunge now?  My legs have been visibly trembling since our little squat encounter.  People around me can see my pants  vibrating like hummingbird wings.  This cannot be good.  As my poor weak legs tremble alarmingly beneath me, I try to breathe and collect my thoughts as I sink into a lunge I may very well never get out of.  “At least I’ll be closer to the ground if I do fall,” I think, as I lunge my first lunge in at least 4 years.

In that second, I know that whatever food fantasies I’ve been indulging in during this torture session, they’re not going to work.  I have to pull out the big guns.  The favorite and worst-for-you stuff.  My reason-for-living meals.  My Olympic team.  I picture pizza, hot and steaming.  Pasta – piles of it – covered in white wine garlic butter sauce.  Paella – the kind Awesome Boyfriend makes – and our special shrimp and grits.  I can smell fried chicken, and I swear those are cannelloni dancing in my eyes.  My vision clouds – whether from exhaustion or forceful daydreaming, it matters not.  In the haze, I can see the mother load.  Chicken tikka masala, surrounded by saffron rice.  It’s the food equivalent of walking towards the light.  My time has come and I’m done – I can’t go on, in more ways that one.  I’m cashing in my (meal) ticket and it’s “Goodbye world, it was nice nomsing you,” and all that. 

Just as I think I can’t possibly continue, the class ends.  Nearly heaving with exhaustion and trying to hide it, I try to make a graceful exit.  My legs are as limp as the penne pasta I was fantasizing about, however, and my exit is more like Donald O’Conner, singing “Make ‘Em Laugh”  in “Singin’ In The Rain,” as opposed to dignified.  I make it to the car and curse myself soundly for jumping in the exercise deep end like that.  I go home, sit down on the bed to change out of my clothes…and fall asleep. 

The hoot of it all was that I never did get my dinner that night – dream or otherwise.

The Madness of a Wandering Mind

Today I was sitting in yet another interminable meeting on yet another tax issue.  Since it was right after lunch and I’d had no coffee or sodas, I started to phase out.  My mind started to wander…

 … “What am I doing here?  I know the least of anyone at this table – when am I going to find a job where I’m on a level playing field with everyone I work with?”…

 … “Manager Chick always has the nicest jewelry… I wonder how much she paid for that set?  I bet it’s Ann Taylor or something…  I could have made it for a quarter of the cost…”

 … “Must study for the GRE!  Must work out!  Must…not…eat…that…donut…”

 … “Glamour Girl’s earrings don’t match…  Is that supposed to be that way?  Is that the fashion now?  Am I behind?  Oh no!  I’m too old to know what’s trendy anymore!  Should I mix and match my earrings too?  At least I could use the ones that I’ve lost the mate to…  Nah.  I like symmetry and she probably just dressed in the dark…”

 … “I wonder what it would be like to go to work every day and be happy.  I like seeing these people’s faces – they’re very nice – but they’re not my friends like at my last company.  I miss my friends so much!  I should try harder to stay in touch!”…

 … “I need to get ready for Christmas!  What do you get the people who have everything??  Oh no!  Do they exchange gifts here?  Do I need something for my new coworkers?  Good thing I can make everything I ever wanted to…”

 My mind wanders more quickly than I like – I think random thoughts, plan outfits, make lists in my head.  To reign in, I draw elaborate paisleys in the margins of my notepad.  Today, the random thoughts wouldn’t be contained!  Focus was not to be grasped!  I finally gave up and lost myself to daydreaming with this gem…

 … “I wonder what my coworkers would look like in period clothing?  What era?  My nice manager – I see her in Italian renaissance silks… the sweet new girl…hmm…she’s a living Waterhouse painting…so…something medieval…  Glamour Girl…she HAS to be something Spanish from the 1540’s – rigid, painful, yet intimidatingly pretty… New man-boss…nothing works for him.  Can’t picture anything for him.  Maybe something stereotypically evil.  Yeah, that works.  Menacing and evil…but with pointy curly toe shoes.  Yeah.  That’s it.  Mean…but…not.  Yeah…”

 Yeah.  Weird.  Think it can’t get worse?  Ha! I say!  Not only do I picture what period attire best fits for everyone I know (if you’re reading this, I’ve thought it about you, too – my readership’s not that large!), I also picture what animal they might be.  So my loyal readers, be ye ducks, otters, meerkats or potbelly pigs, I bid you adieu.  Confession time’s over – it’s time to go home!

Grr…

…why is it so hard to write about myself sometimes?  People, as a rule, love to talk about themselves!  It’s the subject they know best!  But I’ve started 7 blog drafts and not found a single worthy to post.  So I’ve banished them to the Land of Half Formed Ideas to dwindle and perish or fight their way into real, quasi-entertaining stories.

I suppose I’ll just fill in a quick update instead.  October’s half over, almost, and I am in shock that it’s passed so quickly.  It’s my favorite month and I don’t feel that I’ve gotten to enjoy it at all.

There are so many awesome things about October – the changing weather, the start of hockey season, football and renaissance faire.  Oh, and also my birthday.  I can’t believe it’s only little more than a week away.  It took me nearly a year to get ok with being 30, and now I have to be ok with 31?  I guess so – the alternative isn’t very attractive. 

Last weekend was the first weekend of the Texas Renaissance Festival.  It looks to be a good season.  I play Mistress Cathrine Norreys, and my friend Will is my escort, as my brother Sir John Norreys.  The new gown is AMAZING.  I forgot to bring a camera last weekend, so I’m hoping someone out there took pictures and put them online.  It’s always somewhat of a shock to search the internet for TRF pictures and find one of you that you never noticed being taken.

So what else?  The house.  Yes.  The house.  The never-getting-finished, too-much-to-do house.  Pretty much all good progress stopped when I moved in.  Nothing’s been finished, but at least I’m getting more unpacked now.  I bought a washer and dryer and they’re being delivered this week, which will be awesome, since darling Tybalt, my middle cat, has “thinking in the box” issues and frequently protest pees on things.

Ok, that’s a quick update for now – mostly for Awesome Boyfriend, who, even though he already knows everything I’m going to type, still checks the blog every day.  Hiya, handsome.

Everyone, have a happy Tuesday and an even happier week.  Maybe we can all get drinks next week and help me forget I’m getting older.

I want to GO there!

While casting around for ideas of what to do for Awesome Boyfriend’s rapidly approaching birthday, I came across this:

http://www.houstonzoo.org/Feast/

It’s the Houston Zoo’s big fundraiser. (Author does Homer Simpson antsy dance…)  It’s a little pricey at $75/person but OMG!!! Food from all those awesome restaurants! Big Bad Voodoo Daddy!! Animals everywhere!! For anyone who knows me, you all know I love some things very dearly in life; animals, food and swing music/dancing are definitely up there on the list! What a cool idea!

As the great Liz Lemon says… I want to GO there!!