Hast ye back, ya wee cunt.

Greetings all from Bonnie Scotland!

I'm here in St. Andrews with Bridget, living it up before she graduates from "Uni" next week. We got back yesterday from a whirlwind driving tour of the west coast and highlands, with stops at Loch Lommond, Loch Ness, the Eileen Donan castle, Oban, Inverness, Culloden, and the Clava Cairns.

We covered 500 miles in a little Ford KA (we like to say "cah"... makes us think of home). We split the driving, and when I was at the wheel, Bridget very helpfully sang the following:





Except it was more like "to the left, to the left...keep the car to the left." It was some kind of miracle that I didn't routinely turn on the wipers with my right hand when I needed to be shifting gears with my left.

Good times were had by all. More tales of hijinks on the A82, A9, etc. and pictures of this amazingly beautiful country when I return home.

One brief anecdote before I sign off, though: the gentleman who rode with us to the Enterprise office the other day is called Mr. Treblecock. I am not making that up.

Ooh, snap!

It's a rare day indeed when I find myself wanting to high-five Christopher Hitchens. I tend to get sucked into his Slate column every now and then and find myself unable to finish it as I click away, muttering to myself.

Today, however, his column is about Jerry Falwell and it's fantastic. Sassy, yet lucid (perhaps because he's not writing about the Iraq war). He refers to Falwell's "carcass" in the lede, so right off you know it's going to be good. He later refers to his "sausage-sized fingers." Sadly, he does not probe how the man's head looked like a nutsack...

Oh, and the content of the column is actually quite good as well. It's very much in the vein of Old Hitch's new book (so far as I can tell), and while I do not consider myself an atheist, I find I agree with Mr. Saucy's point of view after reading this and catching his chest hair-revealing Daily Show appearance. I definitely think that it's a crock that a person with "Rev." before their name gets some kind of credibility without first having to pass some kind of nutjob litmus test.

Anyway, well played by Hitchens. Ranks up there with his Vanity Fair piece on James Joyce, in my book.

I also run on Dunkin'.

Hey, so, did you know? It's, like, summer out there these days.

One of the best things about living in the Northeast is watching the seasons change, and not just because it's funny to say "leaf peepers" in the fall (giggle... it's also funny to refer to the soothing sounds of peepers peeping away around here after the spring thaw).

Of course, my favorite herald of spring is the resurfacing of the gross and weird expandable shark that Claire buried in the snowbank outside my front door:

I'm not sure that this photo accurately conveys the grossness of the expandable shark. After a month or so buried in an icy snowbank, it had expanded in some places and not in others. Eeeew.

But, as I said, the shark heralded the coming of warmer climes... and then, true to New England form, we had a big ass snowstorm, and a whole bunch of rain and now... NOW the season has changed from Mud to Black Fly.

This means driving with the windows down and, if you live in New England, stopping ever hundred yards or so to purchase a swimming pool filled with iced coffee at Dunkin' Donuts.

It's been quite some time since I last lived and drove around my native New Hampshire and you really cannot swing a dead cat around here without hitting a Dunkin' Donuts. Yes, I know that many other places have them, too, but here in N'Hampshah and Taxachusetts, the chain's ubiquity is quite remarkable. And thank gawd, because I really don't feel right unless I've consumed at least 8 gallons of the stuff each day. The hot coffee is passable, mind. I'll drink it happily. It's not the same as the black gold that comes out of my mom's Jura Happy Coffee Miracle Machine from Switzerland, but it'll get my eyes open and brain functioning in a pinch. But the iced coffee... that's a different story entirely. It is liquid joy. I think that with my next iced coffee cistern purchase, I should be offered stock options. And possibly also a bunch of balloons. That'd be nice.

Happy Spring-Summer (thanks, global warming!), all.

Overheard at Crappy Woburn Sandwich/Salad/Noodle Bar

Woman: Yeah, they're having a guest speaker at the school today, and I guess it's going to be Rosa Parks. And I'm wondering how some school in Reading got Rosa Parks to come speak.

Maybe she should focus on where her public school system found the money to raise the dead.

Beer me that beer, please.

I've been receiving some complaints regarding my delinquency.

I don't have a particularly good excuse for being away from the blog, aside from the fact that I have spent a goodly portion of the past few weeks driving all over the northeast and there isn't much excitement in that. Unless you count the two parking tickets I received in Brooklyn because I'm not quite capable of dealing with alternate side parking like a native.

The trip to Brooklyn was fantastic, however, and I was very fortunate to have the dining company of Josh and Erin as I gorged myself all over the city.

Instead of loading up on Brooklyn Brewery beers this time around, I made a trip to Bierkraft with Josh, where I purchased some bottles from the venerable Victory Brewing Company of PA. We can't get that up here, you see. As the weather warms, my palate yearns for hops. So, Hop Devil seemed a logical choice. I'd never tried it, and I was quite pleased with it, I must say. It's hoppy all the way through with a nice bitter kick at the finish. I definitely recommend it.

Meanwhile, stay tuned for a backlog of photographs.

Thursday night? Thursday night!

Attention New York City dwellers:

What are you doing tomorrow?

Are you going to be at The Annex, drinking and dancing with me, your favorite New Hampshirite*?

'Cause that's what you SHOULD be doing.

For one night only, Roots of Creation (New Hampshire-dwelling reggae-rock band and friends of yours truly) will be playing a show on the LES and I'll be in town for the occasion. It promises to be a nice, sweaty, dance-y show, so do come out and let me buy you a beer in celebration of my brief return to those sunny shores of Fistiana.**

The details:

Roots of Creation w/Spiritual Rez and Giant Panda Guerrilla Dub Squad
at The Annex
152 Orchard St. (btw Stanton and Rivington)
Convenient to the F (and JMZ, but who takes that?) at Delancey
Tickets are $10, my sparkling company is free
It begins at 8PM sharp. Late enough for you to go home after work and get pretty for me. Early enough for us to continue the post-show debauchery in other assorted establishments in the five boroughs before I turn into a pumpkin.

Come on out, kids. Because there really is nothing like a Friday morning workday hangover.


_______
*I may not be your actual favorite New Hampshirite. And I'm OK with that. *sob*

**Tobs, I'm going to try my level best to get back down there for your visit as well. Fingers crossed that I get my speeding ticket fine reduced so I can do that. If not, you might have to stop by New Sheenashire to collect me on your Huffy...

I'll have it in my veins, please.

Dear People of the Internet,

Something wonderful has happened.

Saturday night found me behind the bar, slinging beers and the odd Toasted Almond (the smell of which gives me a hangover). I was all by my lonesome back there, so things were moving at a feverish clip when the Otter Creek Stovepipe Porter (fabulous beer, btw) kicked. Pretty hard, too. It nearly hit the ceiling and splashed merrily across the bar. Anyway, this prompted the old run to the beer cooler for a keg change, my first such foray of the shift.

Down the stairs I trot, fellow waitress Chelsea in tow (she was desirous of a Keg Changing 101 refresher course). I pull open the door, and what is nestled among the Harpoons, Pennichucks, and Magic Hats?

That's right. A whole keg of delicious Brooklyn Lager. Brewed, if my two times on the brewery "tour" serves me, in Brooklyn. Brooklyn Lager! From Brooklyn! In the beer refrigerator at my place of employ (while I'm not exactly a bar-hopper here in the great state of NH, I have yet to see my beloved Brooklyn beer anywhere on tap or in a store)!

Scaling back my hours at the bar has meant that I'm a wee mite out of the loop as far as what's coming on tap, what's leaving, what bands are playing, etc. So, when I do work, keg changes are kind of like Christmas morning.

On Saturday evening in the beer refrigerator, my excitement could only have been greater by walking into the beer cooler to discover Clive Owen, shirtless (naked would be just weird... I mean, it's a giant refrigerator), sitting atop the keg of Brooklyn Lager, clutching a giant bag of money with which to pay off my student loans.

Chelsea patiently watched as I hopped up and down, screeched, and then hunkered down to awkwardly hug the keg like a lost twin.

Then, ever the professional, I recovered myself and we transformed that Otter Creek Stovepipe Porter into Magic Hat's Circus Boy (a MH that I actually like...such that I've...*gasp* purchased it!). So the Brooklyn Lager is waiting in the wings for its big moment. We have the nice weighty tap handle and everything.

Happy Beermas to me!

Happy Opening Day!

Oh man. It's spring at last!

It's the little things, really.

Remember my affinity for the minutiae of daily life? Well, the love affair continues, and I'm going to subject y'all to it...again.

Many of my friends and associates are off gallivanting in various exciting places like Turkey, Jamaica, and the dirty South. Others, like Tobs and Bridget, are accomplishing things like master's theses. Hayley's getting into college and turning 18 (you lascivious 20-something wolves in my acquaintance can just wipe the smirks off your faces...I will cut you.).

But what, pray, have I been doing with my time lately?

Sunday, I enjoyed the company of three of my favorite people during a family outing to Boston's MFA. Hayley and I commiserated on always being ravenously hungry while perusing the MFA, which makes enjoying those still life paintings of fruit and whatnot really, um, visceral. Luckily, after taking in some cultchah, we concluded the day at Legal Seafoods. Blue Point oysters were consumed, among many other Legal delights.

Monday is when things really got bananas, though. I tend bar on Monday nights and for some reason, eleventy billion kegs needed to be changed during this week's shift. Unfortunately, of the eleventy billion, one was full (really fucking heavy) and another was half full (still pretty damned heavy). I enlisted the help of a coworker with the former, and managed to drop the latter on my foot later in the night. Not my toes, thank God, but the top of the foot, where that bone sticks out. This wasn't fun, mind, though I did happen to let loose a restorative string of expletives shortly after I hauled the damned thing off my poor foot. Then I limped around the beer refrigerator, cursing the person who sent back their unfiltered IPA for being "too cloudy." Granted, I don't think a beer should look like orange juice, but dammit we had a half keg left!!

The night wasn't a total loss, though, because I had a Monday NY Times and a few quiet spots in the shift to work on the crossword puzzle. I like Monday's NYT puzzle because I can finish it more often than not. This week was special, though, because I started and finished it... in INK. This was a pretty big deal, as I'm a mechanical pencil devotee. You might say the experience knocked me dead. I felt pretty grown up. I really should have saved and scanned the puzzle in question so everyone can get the full force of my triumph, but I used the page to wrap a birthday gift and it's now long gone.

I'm not quite ready to join the ranks of Jon Stewart, Bill Clinton, and Ken Burns and use ink daily, but it'll do in a pinch on a Monday. I still have yet to finish a Wednesday on my own (someday I'll do it.. and it'll be awesome). And I doubt I'll ever time myself, as this person does (in part because I can't do them that fast).

Who says continuing on as usual (while other people do fun or productive things) isn't awesome?
Oh, I know. It's a nonstop thrill ride.

INK, people. Ink.

______
Those who don't want to pay for the Times puzzle and need the occasional fix should try out The Onion's puzzle. It's punny, full of pop culture references mixed in with the highbrow—an all-around winner. My thanks to Carl for bringing me around on it. I have survived many a slow afternoon in the office as a result.

Three cheers for Hayley.

Dear People on the Internet,

My baby sister (pictured to the right, in full patriotic regalia... you can see she's not really a baby at all, but I was 8 when she was born...) has been accepted to college!!!!!

She's the coolest girl ever, so I am naturally delighted for her, and for the venerable Boston institution that may find themselves with the pleasure of her well-dressed company come fall.

The losers in this scenario? Dickslap-lyan and Ass-deis Universities. Yeah, that's right you jerks. Stick it!

Also, I'll be very sad because she will take her awesome wardrobe to college with her.

Well done my darlin'.

What is "Who are the marketing wizards who came up with that one?"

It would seem that we're entering the part of boyfriend season when the mating dances are performed. Just when I thought it was safe to cease creepily reading about people with whom I attended high school (who now have spouses and children and are working on higher degrees and probably also have mortgages) and log out of StalkSpace, True.com hits me yet again with a remarkable bit of advertising.

I can't embed it, but I did find a permanent (I hope) link for your viewing horror. Go have a look...I'll wait.











....Ok. Did you give your eyeballs a good long soak in some lye? So, let us review together. "Jakeluv" is alone. In his bedroom. He appears to have "arty" posters of musicians behind his stereo. You are given the impression that he wants to talk to you. We know this because he lights a candle and dances.

Alone.

In his bedroom.

To the camera.

And then, the thing de la resistance, he points at you. You! You're the one he wants.

So why don't you talk to him? lol!

As Tobs might say, gentle fuck. Really? I don't think I really need to go into the necklace that swings as he cavorts about, nor the rapist/Matt Clement chin beard.

This is just insulting. Am I meant to find this appealing? Why, in the name of God would any reasonable woman ever be turned on by watching a strange man dance alone in front of his webcam? Creepy-wise, this is the Internet equivalent of being ground up on by a strange dude on a dance floor.

Which leads me to an anecdote from the weekend: Some strange dude came up to me from behind on the dance floor at a bar in Northampton. I believe he was desirous that we share a bump and grind. His fatal error was skipping past the conversation in which he asked my permission to approach me from behind and press his body against mine. I was therefore forced to elbow him in the chest (he was a bit shorter than I am), which sends the very clear "No touching!" message. You'll be pleased to learn that I managed not to spill my Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA during this maneuver.

All the news that's fit to drink.

I suppose you could say that I'm just now shaking out the cobwebs from a St. Patrick's Day bender. Last year I went all out with my St. Patty's post, but for whatever reason, didn't have it in me this time around. Before I launch into a very late roundup of the weekend's beer-related thoughts, please enjoy this video of the Dubliners playing "The Irish Rover" with The Pogues.


Shane McGowan. Wow. Just wow.... Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. I pulled a shift waiting tables on Saturday, which was at once fun and frustrating. Fun because people were jovial, frustrating because they wanted to be jovial and hang around while I waited for them to pay me so I could escape to the wilds of Northampton, MA to get MY beer on.

The thing that amused me most about the wannabe-Irish boozing crowd (no, it was luckily not like the UES wannabe Irish boozing crowd, well-documented here) was their drinks of choice.

Granted, there were a fair number of straight-up Guinness (or, according to Tobs, "Gayness") drinkers in the mix, keeping our lovely bartenders busy drawing shamrocks in the head. In my section, however, the most popular drink was by far the Black & Tan.

The Black & Tan, while a delicious beverage (and wrong as it may be for a stout to float, it is pleasing to the eye and ever so much fun to pour), is named for the paramilitaries who shored up the Royal Irish Constabulary when it came to squashing the IRA and Sinn Fein's declaration of an Irish Republic.

Now, while I'm aware that the common wisdom is that St. Patrick's Day has something to do with whacking snakes or something, I do find it a little humorous that people can shout "Erin Go Bragh" whilst hoisting the drink named for a group of people who did their darndest to keep Ireland under British rule. I mean, snakes aside, people like to celebrate their Irishness or wannabe-Irishness on that day by getting plastered (conveniently forgetting about the despair and so forth).

I considered suggesting these people opt for a Half & Half (Guinness and Harp Lager), but decided to keep the trap shut. I did manage to disabuse people of the notion that they wanted to drink Harpoon's Hibernian, so it wasn't a total loss. We also have Smithwick's on these days, and while I object to its color while you're pouring it (weird muddy brown during the "cascade"), it settles into a nice deep amber color and is quite tasty.

Win a Date with Some Weird Dude!

This ad (or one like it... there's also a dude with a knit hat and a dude with a lot of tattoos... covering their demographic bases, I guess) has been popping up a lot on my MySpace logout page lately.

Uh... Boyfriend season? I'm aware of the whole "springtime-is-coming-so-make-with-the-flirty
-like-in-Bambi" business, but for some reason I'm getting some funny images in my head regarding the season for those elusive boyfriends.

Firstly, I am from New Hampshire, so when I see "___ Season" my line of thinking turns toward weather and/or hunting. In this way, boyfriend season comes before/during Mud Season and dissipates by the end of Black Fly season? Or is it still boyfriend season during Mosquito Season? I mean, they obviously hibernate during the winter, so that's out...

Then there's the idea that it's boyfriend season, as in you can hunt them with perhaps a bow and arrow (oh, how classical!) or high-powered rifle. In which case, how does one stalk the creature? On horseback, riding behind a pack of baying foxhounds? Do you set up in his house under a pile of clothes/boyfriend detritus and wait for him to show up and lick up the salt (or, you know, beer...Fritos, what-have-you) you spread on the floor?

The thing that really creeps me out, though, is how similar it seems to the dreaded "Bathing Suit Season." And, knowing MySpace, it seemed just as likely (before I saw the True logo) to be advertising some manner of diet pill. "Get those winter pounds off, ladies! Boyfriend season is around the corner."

Either way, the Match.com and True.com full-frontal MySpace assault is weirding me out. Match has these bizarre little videos of "regular guys" receiving titillating messages from "regular girls (or so we would assume)." One of these guys appears to be 12. The other, reads a message whilst removing a button-down shirt and stroking his five o'clock shadow (don't worry, there's a t-shirt underneath). Both smile creepily, and the camera angle makes it seem like they're looking right at me. I find I am neither intrigued nor titillated by this (this spoof video, however, is hilarious) so much as uncomfortable and a little intruded upon.

I certainly don't frown upon online dating (whatever works...or provides the best emotional scars/stories to tell your friends at the bar), but I thought MySpace already had that function built in...for free...so why would I be inclined to pay someone to hook me up with the likes of Lil' Fella and Scruffy the Date Rapist?

The final thought on the matter is that I'm obviously in a demographic that gets thrown these ads (due to being young and a lady). I am therefore curious what other information MySpace uses to place the ads. My "single" status" Do my "interests" indicate that I would be more likely to click on Scruffy the Date Rapist's little home video?

I hope that it's not that sophisticated a system... but at some point it could be, and isn't that fun? So, I turn it over to you, bloggy folk. Do those of you "In a Relationship" end up with these disturbing videos? Are you free of the "boyfriend season" blight? And guys - what do the ladies look like?

Meanwhile, I've heard it's time to dust off that high-powered rifle and/or start popping dexatrim and running in place late at night. Boyfriend Season's just around the freakin' corner.

Ahem.

Happy Birthday Claire!!!!!

By my calculations, this is the 8th time I've said that to you. I've known you for a pretty long-ass time.

Remember this?















I look forward to being in Brooklyn for this year's Birthday Bowl-Stravaganza. I will pour a celebratory Rolling Rock on your head and you can tackle me for old times' sake.

Is it spring yet?

We might also call this post "Staving off the Stir-Crazies," because, while it is now March, there is still snow on the ground and I still have to wear a coat (that is a magnet for dog hair...oh what a Sisyphean task it is to roll the sticky lint thingy over it before I leave the house) when I go outside. I mean, sure, sledding with your pals in the front pasture is a rockin' good time, but now we're in the dirty-snow phase of winter. But, oh, wait. We're supposed to get a fresh 3-5 tonight.

So, in an effort to not go out of my mind, I'm enjoying the little things. For instance, it is currently February vacation 'round these parts, so there is a blissful dearth of rush-hour traffic. For Gil, it's a good parking space, for me it's a commute at more than .05 mph. Normally, this would be another sign of growing up, but before I got on the road this morning, I was awoken by my mother (it's not a normal thing... I had forgotten to set my alarm). There I was, in pink flannel jammies and retainer, blinking groggily as she opened shades and threatened to sing "Rise and Shine." This was actually kind of fun in a "whoa-I-just-woke-up-in-the-wayback-machine" sort of way.

And the other small pleasure that I find sustaining is the ability to find pretty much anything on YouTube. I'm just a few search terms away from reliving the glories of the World Cup, which can do wonders to banish the cold. But today's big YouTube score is the following short film called Foutaises, by Jean-Pierre Jeunet. Its English title is Things I Like, Things I Hate, and it features Jeunet's cult actor Dominique Pinon (brief sidebar: I once saw Pinon at Zuerich airport. He is very short and, um, distinct-looking). It's all about small things that one hates and likes, a theme that found its way into Jeunet's Amelie and A Very Long Engagement.



It's only about seven minutes long. Enjoy. I'm off to pop some bubble wrap.

For anyone who's interested (mostly Josh)...

We have Harpoon Hibernian Ale on draft at the bar.

My review..... meh.

Predictable, really, considering Harpoon's tendency to occupy the gross-to-meh spectrum.

If you want a real Irish-style red ale, I'd avocate seeking out the Pennichuck Engine 5. It's delicious.

Sneak in all quiet-like. Like a fish.

It seems to be in fashion to choose an official fish these days.

Therefore, I hereby declare the awesomely-named Patagonian Toothfish (fuck those assholes who renamed it "Chilean Sea Bass") the National Fish of my blog.

Not only is it a delicious mercury-steeped treat (I know, I know, I must lean toward vegetarian fish), but it is in part responsible for the landing of a record-breaking colossal squid.

Calamari rings the size of tractor tires. I imagine those would be a bit on the chewy side...

Whoa there, Wild Thing.

Hey kids! This post marks the official beginning of Sheena's Opining About the Red Sox Season. We are 39 days and 53 minutes away from Opening Day. I'm sure y'all are just as excited as I am.

Anyway,Boston.com (and indeed the whole region) is all a-twitter over "Dice-K," but for me, the matter at hand is Jonathan Papelbon's hair:


Yes, he's going for the "Wild Thing" association, which I dig, but somehow it doesn't fly as well during spring training. Here he just sorta looks like a rapist trucker. I think the mojo-enhancing power of weird hair should be reserved for the regular season, but that's just me.

Meanwhile, observe the clever conversion of a Damon jersey.

Stay tuned through the season to read more about my thoughts on Red Sox grooming habits and occasionally the manner in which they play the base-ball.

She's a squirrel-crushing, deer-smacking, driving machine!

This month finds me at a new job (in addition to twice-weekly beer spilling), parked at a desk and delighting in spreadsheets, invoices, and trying to get rid of phone solicitors. I know, you're wondering how I can handle all of the glamor in my life. I tell ya, it's rough.

The fun thing about living in the country, aside from the lack of good pizza or New York Times delivery, is that you must drive. A lot. To get anywhere. The bar is about 30 minutes (as the Sheena drives) from home. The new office is across state lines in Massachusetts, just a stone's throw from Boston. Ginger and I are going for some sort of Volvo mileage record.

I usually take Rte 93 all the way from Manch-Vegas to my office. This way, while I must counterintuitively drive north in order to go south, I can usually haul Volvo ass once on the highway.

This morning, I had an appointment too far to the south in NH to justify the north-then-south route. So, I manned up and went from 101A (lots of lights and assholes), to Rte. 3, to 95/128 (New England's most confusing highway). From there, I planned to hop onto my good friend 93 to get to my office. I had never done this on purpose before, but I figured that if 93 North has an exit to get onto 95, I could certainly get to 93 S from 95 north of Boston. Makes sense, right? Or, at least it makes sense to a non-Masshole who's not yet a full cup of coffee into her day.

As it turns out, getting to work is overrated. Why drive to my destination when I can burn a whole lot of the gasoline I purchased yesterday by taking a jaunt through the Metro-Boston area? What is a Wednesday morning without driving the length of the Tip O'Neil tunnel south to north? A wasted Wednesday morning, that's what. I was thisclose to picking up the phone, calling in stupid, and going home to pout.

I guess I'm not yet the commuting champion I thought I was. I suppose it was an instructive experience, but when you've already spent an hour in the car, it becomes difficult to correct your navigation error patiently. I did, at one point, scream "What the fuck is going on?" as I passed an exit for Walpole, which is south of Boston. This is the second time 95 has bested me (the first time, I drove to Waltham on my way to Beverly from NH (trust me, it was stupid)).

I suppose the more time I spend tooling around the commonwealth, the more likely I'll be able to realize my potential for asshole driving. I look forward to the day when I can blithely make a left-hand turn around someone from the right.

The troubling thing? I think watching the needle edge further down the tank might be worse than getting felt up on the N train. Is that weird? Yeah. Thought so.

____
In case anyone's wondering about the photo and title theme of this post, I had the Canyonero song stuck in my head during a pitiful daydream that involved piloting the mighty Hubertus over the highway median.

Nothing says "I love you" like a dead rodent.

Today, I received the best valentine ever. His Gusness killed a mouse and laid it at my feet. It was very romantical. I plied him with Greenies, and he spent the rest of the afternoon lolling on his favorite perch looking pleased with himself.

I'm pleased that Gus is taking another crucial step towards becoming a real cat. We'll be working on the outdoors business more when it gets warm again. There's no convincing him to go out in the cold, much less the snow.

Oh yeah, we've had a metric shit-ton of snow. I don't know if anyone heard any excitement over the mystifying appearance of winter weather in February. It came, saw, and bitch-slapped us around a little. The snow is all light and feathery, which makes for easier clearing, but it's been falling fast pretty much all day.


Even more exciting than the first proper blizzard of the winter, is the first Brooklyn-New Hampshire visit of 2007. Carson has dusted off his best black turtleneck sweater in anticipation. I expect there'll be a fair amount of eating, drinking, lounging... and perhaps a little romping in the snow?

And I think I speak for everyone when I say that we'll wish Toby were her.