The Reverse Grinch Effect

I could escape this feelin', with my China girl
I feel a wreck without my, little China girl
I hear her heart beatin', loud as thunder
Saw the stars crashing

I'm a mess without my little China girl
Wake up in the mornin' where's my, little China girl?
I hear our hearts beating, loud as thunder
I saw the stars crashing down

China Girl - David Bowie

So, I wasn't going to do this. I wasn't, under any circumstances, going to blog about my first grandchild. Or my late daughter. I assumed everyone was about sick & tired of that song & dance from the last blog (shameless plug: www.dayinthelifeofdina.blogspot.com if you just have to know the back story OR if you're auditioning for a soap opera and you need to be able to cry on command or make those I might cry but I might not faces where your lips slightly open and close before the commercial break). Besides, this blog was supposed to be different! This blog was supposed to be chock full of recipes (only one thus far), DIY's (none yet, but I'm soooooooo close!), and other cool stuff to help brand me and interest Lifetime in creating a movie of the week about my shenanigans. But, stuff happens. Stuff, in this house, has a name. It's Chynna Rose. If I could figure out how to insert an emoticon of a rose here, trust me I would. It's come to this. 

Why do you need to know this story? Because people tried to explain this to me and I just didn't get it. And, it's important. Are you a mom? A dad? An aunt or an uncle? Do you just know some moms & dads? Regardless, we need to talk about THE ANNOYANCE. If you're a parent, one day, you might just become a grandparent. You will annoy the crap out of everyone you know. You should know this up front. Granted, you will not care AT ALL that you are annoying the crap out of the universe. You may even get a perverse pleasure out of it. Now, if you just know parents, you should understand that one day they conceivably could be grandparents, and as such, will annoy the ever-loving crap out of you! If you're shaking your head in agreement with this ideology - maybe you've experienced THE ANNOYANCE first hand already - you might want to start a not-for-profit organization to end THE ANNOYANCE once and for all. Don't bother. It cannot be done. In our opinion, there's never been a cuter baby, a  smarter baby, a better baby.... We want to tell you. We HAVE to tell you! You must know!!!! We even have pictures to prove it!!! See, what no one told you is that being a grandparent makes your heart explode. It's what I call the "Reverse Grinch Effect". 

Here's what happens. You're a parent. IT'S SO HARD! You love them and all, but those teenage years, geez louise! Still, you push through. You get them "adulting" on their own at some level. They leave the nest. You're sad for approximately 2 days, but then you get cocky. I have no kids at home! I can go to the gym! I can take that promotion! I can drink wine on Tuesday nights! I can take all their closet space!!!!!! Life gets mucho wonderful as you remember what if feels like to just be you in all your college day glory. You even get a little selfish! Heck no, I don't want to volunteer on your committee. I'm FREEEEEE! Umm, you want me to go to what kind of meeting tonight? Sorry, it's hot yoga night, duh. See, life after kids is amazing. It really is. Then comes THE VISIT.

My visit went like this: I opened a gift from my son and his beautiful wife of 6 months. It was a collegiate coffee mug. It said Grandma. Simultaneously, my husband was opening an identical grandpa mug. I was very wrapped up in the moment, since I LOVE getting gifts! I remember seeing his mug and literally saying, "Guys, y'all are so mean! He's not that old." Then, I read my mug. Then I think I said something about making fun of people's ages was really mean spirited. Then my daughter-in-laws face fell. Only then did I "get" it. Okay, so I jumped up and down and hugged everyone and cried and said "really?" a thousand times and I was so so so so happy. Pinterest has ruined so many things for us as a society. I'm sure the video you watch when you look this up on Pinterest shows the future grandma screaming in joy, hugging everyone while yelling "I love you for letting me be a grandmother in approximately 7 months" and running figure 8's around the kitchen island. I still apologize to my daughter-in-law on a weekly basis. THE VISIT is Step 1 of the Reverse Grinch Effect.

Step 2.....here comes your kid with a baby carriage. I was far more fortunate than most grandmothers will ever be. I was in the delivery room. See, 2nd born son has blown our socks off with his initiative in life and career choices. He's a Navy veteran who recently landed a GREAT position. I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you. Since you could be reading this anywhere in the world, airfare to come and kill you would cost too much, so I can't really tell you. Suffice it to say it's a wonderful position that he just could not say no to, though he realized it would mean he'd be sequestered in training as his first child was being born. So, the grandmas stepped in. Yep, enter Grama & Didi (I'm the latter), birthing coaches extraordinaire! In an odd reversal of fortunes, you get to see birth from the flip side of the coin. I'm not going into detail. Thankfully, this was a great birth: only 6 hours of labor, blessedly normal, yet with the hallmark birth scares so many people experience, what with little ones not realizing we really need them to breathe immediately & whatnot. It was amazing. But, then I saw her face. Now, I'm a believer.

Step 3 of the Reverse Grinch...those eyes. They are baby eyes, her eyes. They are also her mommy's eyes. Her daddy's eyes. But, they are my eyes, too. And, yes, even though I'm deliberately trying not to make comparisons, they are her Aunt Chynna's eyes. What will she see through those eyes one day? Something as complicated and earth shattering as a cure for a disease? Something as simple and perfect as the love for her own child? I hope I am still here in this world when this all comes to fruition. I am annoying. I am overbearing. I am grandma, hear me roar. But, speaking of Aunt Chynna, were you wondering? Several people asked me prior to her birth, how do you feel about your son and his wife naming a baby girl Chynna? Does that bother you? Is it weird? Well.....it is, simply, a blessing. See, when you lose a child, you spend an eternity in the most excruciating pain. It never goes away. Don't listen to anyone who tells you it gets better. It doesn't. You will get better at pretending that it doesn't hurt as much, and that's something. You can even trick yourself sometimes. But, now I get to do something pretty special. I get to say her name. Chynna. It doesn't stick thickly to my tongue anymore. I can roll it right off. Chynna. It's melodic. I remember picking it for my baby and thinking how cool a 90 year old Chynna would be. It's so good to say that name again and not be drug down to the depths of despair. It's amazing to say it with connotations of gossamer angel wings and beautiful clouds on a sunny day and butterflies landing on your nose. I get to do that. And, just like the Grinch when the people of Whoville still loved the spirit of Christmas and him, even after he stole the roast beast, my heart fills with love. And explodes. Full on Reverse Grinch Effect. Forgive THE ANNOYANCE, please. We're just grandparents. We can't help it. 

Strawberry Fields Forever...& Waffles

He was working through college
On my grandpa's farm
I was thirsting for knowledge
And he had a car
Yeah, I was caught somewhere between a woman and a child
One restless summer we found love growing wild
On the banks of the river on a well-beaten path
It's funny how those memories they last

Like strawberry wine and seventeen
The hot July moon saw everything
My first taste of love, oh bittersweet
The green on the vine
Like strawberry wine

Strawberry Wine - Deanna Carter

You're never going to believe this, but I'm blogging about strawberries! Seriously, though, I'm actually blogging about waffles, the homemade kind...with strawberries on the side. And syrup. And whipped cream. That's not out of a spray can. Hater's gonna hate. I do not like spray whipped cream. Didn't Demi Moore overdoes on that stuff? Is that even a real thing? I'm overly naive about some things. Wink, wink.

But before we start, listen to my disclaimer. In anticipation of Harper Lee's Go Set A Watchman, I just re-read my favorite book of all time (Ms. Lee's other one, you know), TWICE. In To Kill A Mockingbird, one of the pivotal lines says something like, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it." I live in a teeny tiny house. It chose me. It was the first bungalow built in my little town in 1910. I have a kitchen that's a cross between Gray Gardens and going camping. If you understand that, we are best friends.Things my kitchen has: the world's tiniest oven, dubbed "The McOven", a gorgeous 1910 freestanding porcelain sink in desperate need of a good refinishing, and a decent amount of room. Things my kitchen does not have: cabinets. Also, pretty countertops & most other kitchen stuff. So, walk around in my skin for a minute and don't think nasty thoughts about my little kitchen. Or do. I love my kitchen and it loves me. Enough said. Let's be like the donkey in Shrek and start MAKING WAFFLES!

Do you see the gorgeous whipped cream and the beautiful strawberries with my farmhouse sink photobombing the picture? Please read the entire recipe before you attempt to make these waffles. I cook like I talk: scary, scary thoughts, but the results are delish.

Best Waffles Ever

Step 1 - Batter

1 3/4 C all-purpose flour

1 Tbsp baking powder

1/2 C Brown Sugar

4 Tbsp cinnamon

1/4 tsp salt

2 egg yolks

1 3/4 C milk (I don't drink cow's milk, but there's generally some skim in my fridge. I tried almond but did not like the results.)

1/2 C cooking oil

2 egg whites

So, I never really measure anything. Just eyeball it, especially the brown sugar and cinnamon. I've been known to add nutmeg, too. Mix all the dry stuff in one LARGE mixing bowl and all the wet (sans egg whites) in another one. Add the wet to the dry and mix by hand until most but not all of the lumps are gone. Now it get's fun. Use a mixer (hand or stand) to whip just the 2 egg whites until you can pick up the beaters and the egg whites stand at attention. I believe this is referred to as stiff peaks. Dump the egg whites into the other batter and fold, fold, fold, fold. Not too much. Just until they are incorporated into your batter. It will look something like this...

While you will need a waffle iron, it doesn't need to be a fancy waffle iron. Mine is not pictured because I would be mortified if you saw it. One hinge is broken and it used to be white. It cooks delicious waffles, though.Usually I net about 10 nice waffles. You are now finished with the most difficult portion of your meal. Have a mimosa on me!

Step 2 - Strawberry Topping

People literally do back flips for my strawberry topping. Ok, maybe I exaggerate for effect. I use this BOTH for waffles and for strawberry shortcake. It's so simple and so very good.

You will need an entire produce aisle container of strawberries, a large plastic container with a lid that seals like a Kylie Jenner lip challenge, and some sugar. Cut off the tops of the strawberries and slice them...thinly...as thinly as you can without incorporating your own thumb skin. It will take a while. This should be step 1, perhaps. But, Dina, this takes toooooo long! Just turn on Pandora and set it to the Linda Ronstadt station and see yourself in cutoff jeans and hoop earrings. Linda is my spirit animal. Sometimes Rita Coolidge is....just slice the strawberries very thinly. 

Add approximately 2/3 C of sugar and plop them all in the airtight container that nothing can escape from. Put the lid on tightly. Shake them until the sugar dissolves. Shake them until they start to fall apart. Shake them until (you get the picture). Then set them aside and do step 2 which was really step 1 above. As they sit for about 15 minutes, they will continue liquefying and you'll end up with amazing strawberries in their own syrup, thanks to the sugar. I never said this would be healthy. Did I mention my kitchen island was really an old restaurant cart with a plywood top? My affectionate term is hillbilly butcher-block. 

Step 3 - Turkey Bacon (Should probably be Step 2 but I was so excited to talk about the waffles)

If you so desire, I have a GREAT tip for you regarding turkey bacon. Cover a cookie sheet with foil and spray with non-stick spray. Preheat your oven to about 375 (the McOven cooks WAY TOO FAST - you may need 400). No need to flip midway, just pop the turkey bacon in the oven and give it a good 10 min or so. You'll never microwave it again.

Step 4 - Use either the hand or stand mixer and approximately 1/2 of a small carton of heavy whipping cream. Add about 2 TBSP of sugar. Beat it until you can scoop up a spoonful that won't fall from the spoon when held upside down, like a Dairy Queen Blizzard. Try not to eat the whole bowl full of whipped cream, but do check it for poison, duh.

That's it!!!!! Melt some real butter (please do not use fake butter), and call in the troops. The options are endless. I always have syrup on hand (heated), along with the strawberries and whipped cream. Our favorite combo is what we call a mess: one waffle with melted butter, a light coating of syrup, a spoonful of strawberry Heaven, and some whipped cream. So, re-read this, put the steps in the correct order, and give it a try. Y'all come on & eat!

Can I just say that this was THE MOST DIFFICULT thing I've ever written?

Thank you for making it to the end! I thought I'd never get the pictures in the correct places. It's 11 pm and 2 glasses of wine Dina wishes you an amazing waffle breakfast with all those you love dearly. 

Pool Hall Dayz - aka Shelly is on Drugs

I was born my papa's son
When I hit the ground I was on the run
I had one glad hand and the other behind
You can have yours, just give me mine

When the hound dog barkin' in the black of the night
Stick my hand in my pocket, everything's all right

Well I just got paid today
And got me a pocket full of change
Said, black sheep, black, do you got some wool?
Yes, I do, man, my bag is full

It's the root of evil and you know the rest
But it's way ahead of what's second best

Just Got Paid - ZZ Top

Disclaimer: all names (except mine and my parents, And maybe yours if you recognize it) have been changed to protect the innocent.

Chris Farley may have lived in a van down by the river, but, as a highly impressionable child, I lived in a pool hall next to the railroad tracks. Sort of. See, my father owned a commercial building in Seagoville, TX pratically diagonal from Smith's Pharmacy, across the big ditch from The Rag Doll boutique, directly behind Wade's Dry Cleaners, & right next door to Mitchell's Meat Market. Initially, he created Seagoville's then only laundromat. He even purchased large quantities of "Perk", stain eraser extraordinaire of the 60's, and gave Mr. Wade a run for his money doing some dry cleaning of his own. They took Perk off the market due to birth defects or extra toes or something. I have no idea. That stuff could get any stain out of any fabric, though...if it didn't just dissolve into a hole right before your eyes. I'm surprised I didn't come out with an extra toe. (Counting my toes as I type.) Nope! All good. As the post-Korean war era gave way to the prosperity of the early pre-Vietnam Nixon era, your average Joe & Jane bought a house in the suburbs complete with their very own washer and dryer hookup. In the name of progress, my father thought it best, wisely, to reinvent his brand. What other kind of business could prosper where a town's lone washateria once stood proud? Hint: the warm smell of colitas was rising up in the air. Guys, put on your best long-sleeved silk shirt and spray your feathered hair into place. Ladies, get that baby blue eye shadow ready to go and and lie down on the bed to zip up your tightest pair of bell bottom jeans. We're headed to Ted's Recreation Center. Cue music: ZZ Top's "Just Got Paid."

Here's the deal. If you want to make a killing in the pool hall bizznass, you gotta stay open until 2 am, especially when you don't have a liquor license. Please understand, we're talking about the early 70's. There were no laws against driving under the influence. There were no laws against driving without a seatbelt. Heck, there was no such thing as a carseat. The Monte Carlo and the Mach IV were king. All the cool high school guys had mustaches and collar length hair. EVERYONE smoked cigarettes because they weren't bad for you (HAHAHAHAHAHAHA). It was a different time and a very different place. Ted's Recreation Center was a first in Seagoville: first microwave oven in an establishment, first video game (PONG), amazing pinball machines, regulation sized AND small pool tables, and the best (only) fooseball in town. All this, plus my father, Ted Stilwell, manning the snack bar 24/7. Ahhhhhh....glory days - right as I was starting 1st grade.

Right now you're probably asking yourself where Shelly comes into play. I bet you just can't wait for the Shelly story, right? Ok, ok....let me give you the amazing Shelly segue! See, it's one thing to have your impressionable 6 year old daughter in your pool hall during the weekdays from 3 pm until about 9 pm. It's an entirely different story to have your 6 year old daughter in a pool hall on a Saturday night until 2 am. Don't even get me started on my gorgeous 5'9" mother. I'm quite certain she was the subject of many a pool hall boy's dream back in the day. But, what about young, defenseless me? That was a HUGE question. If I were lucky, I'd get to spend the night with a close family friend and second grandmother, Birdie Jane Swindle. She was a Godsend. I loved that woman in a way I've never quite loved anyone else. We would stay up until who knows when talking about who knows what, and I always knew to expect pancakes the next morning...with Burleson's syrup. Birdie Jane ONLY used Burleson's because once, years before, when her husband was in the hospital, Mrs. Burleson was there, too, She thought the Burleson's were so nice and polite that she insisted she would patronize their products forever. I loved her tiny little house..... But I couldn't impose on her every Saturday night, so sometimes my parents had to be inventive. Sometimes mom and I would just go home and leave things with my dad, except that one time when we thought someone was breaking into the house. My dad had to rush home & load the shotgun. It was an armadillo. Not our finest moment. I really did think the armadillo said "no one's home" outside the kitchen window. Other solutions included Pop, the gentleman we invited to live in the pool hall to thwart break-ins. I'll blog later about our beloved Pop, though I can explain that he had a room in the back with a twin bed, a chair, and a night stand. Some Saturday nights I would stay in there and do super fun things like read multiple books, draw some pretty kick butt pictures, and act out my own movies (starring either Raymond Burr or Roy Clark, my two TV crushes at the time). There were times, however, we went into clutch mode. There was simply nothing to do with me. So we turned to the most beautiful woman in the world, a high school aged girl named Carmen. I can't remember her last name nor do I know what happened to her in life. If Selena Gomez and Sofia Vergara had a baby, it would look like Carmen. I was allowed to go home with her once. Her mom was a sweet little hug of a woman who fed me CONSTANTLY. If Carmen wasn't there, however, and this only happened once...Shelly was always willing to step in. It was almost dusk on Saturday night. The regular crowd was rolling in, cue sticks carefully packed into leather satchels. The air smelled of Love's Baby Soft and Brut. I saw my parents exchange glances, as if to say, "Crap! We forgot the kid was still here!" My mother pointed at me from behind the snack bar, then motioned for me to come closer. "Baby, sit right here on this stool. Don't you move. Momma will make you something to eat. You want a Chuckwagon?" See, my Dad had that fancy microwave which was the size of a small elephant. He would go into Dallas to the Shepp's distribution center (Schepp's? Sheppe's? Scheppe's???????) to stock up on snack bar merch, including the world's first microwaveable hamburger.....the Chuckwagon. But I wasn't crazy about the Chuckwagon. I wanted a Snicker's. But, having already exceeded my daily allotment of sugar, I was denied. Then someone lost their change in the coke machine. And someone tilted the pinball machine. And someone popped the cue ball on 2 tables. And my father scurried to help. And my mother looked at me and said those fateful words: "STAY WITH SHELLY."

Have you ever seen Ever Carradine? She's Robert Carradine's daughter...of the famous Carradine acting family. Anyway, the first time I saw Ever Carradine on a TV show (she's an amazing actress), I had a traumatic childhood flashback and screamed, "That's Shelly!" Actually I screamed "that's someone else" because I changed her name to Shelly just for this blog. Although, Birdie Jane was really Birdie Jane, come to think of it. I think that's ok since I'm really just telling you that Birdie Jane was an actual saint and the finest person ever known to mankind. But Shelly. She had good intentions. I was sitting on the snack bar stool. Shelly was telling me her life story. She'd been dating one of the high school hotties. Except he broke up with her. She was 300% sure she was going to win him back, except he wouldn't talk to her when she called his house. His sister would answer (this was pre cell phones, pre answering machines, and pre caller id, mind you) and tell her he wasn't there, though she could clearly hear him yelling "tell her I'm not here" in the background. So, if he wouldn't talk to her on the phone, she clearly had no other choice but to hang out at the pool hall until he showed up. Because she knew he'd be there. Then she touched my waist-length 6 year old dark brown hair, looked wistfully into my eyes with her abnormally large pupils, and said, "Wanna go pick flowers outside?"

If I'd said no, there wouldn't be a blog.

We went to the railroad tracks across the street. We picked buttercups. We picked up the rocks we deemed beautiful. Shelly let me wear the braided leather bracelet she'd made herself. We touched the hot, metal tracks. She braided my hair. We walked. A while. It got dark. I looked up and realized we weren't in Kansas anymore. I told Shelly I wanted to go back. Shelly was busy...turning circles in the moonlight with her arms outstretched, her hair spinning wildly. Right as panic was setting in, I spotted the tracks and knew exactly what to do. Did I tell her I was leaving? I don't remember. I just know that as I neared the pool hall, my mother was standing in the doorway and several feathered-hair, silk shirt wearing, mustachioed guys were yelling my name outside. Actually they were yelling "Diana" or "Dana", but oh well! Seeing me back safely with Shelly trailing behind. my mother grabbed my shoulders, looked at me sternly, hugged me fiercly, and whispered, "That girl is on drugs. If you ever follow her or anyone else out of here without me knowing, we will go to fist city and I will knock the pee wadden out of you." What is pee wadden????? One just never knows some things.

Gingham Style

Back through the years
I go wonderin' once again
Back to the seasons of my youth
I recall a box of rags that someone gave us
And how my momma put the rags to use
There were rags of many colors
Every piece was small
And I didn't have a coat
And it was way down in the fall

Coat of Many Colors - Dolly Parton

Ok, ok, so this story is NOT about rags. I never wore rags. Repeat: never wore rags. Anywhere. Not even to Branson's in Seagoville, TX. Or to Welch's Grocery where a toddler me convinced Gene Altom I could read because I memorized most of the labels. Or to Gibson's where I bought my first ever VINYL RECORD ALBUM at the tender age of 12 (Kiss: Alive II) and my second ever album (Rita Coolidge - Anytime...Anywhere). This story is about childhood. Mine, as it were. Disclaimer: (lay off the colons already, right?)...I had an ideal childhood. I was then, and forever and always will be, blessed. As you read this entry, you're going to think me a bratty, ungrateful child. That is so not the case. I have amazing, gentle, loving parents who did nothing but sacrifice all they ever had and ever wanted so that I could be happy. They did this, though, in their one-of-a-kind pioneer meets flower child make-it-or-you-can't-have-it philosophy. Welcome to the world of Marsha & Ted Stilwell. Pull up a chair, why don't you?

You know the scene in Hope Floats where Gena Rowlands is on the staircase and Sandra Bullock is in the living room and she (Sandra/Birdie) yells at her mother, "Yeah, well I had the mom who brought stuffed road kill to school!" Or something like that.....Well my mother NEVER stuffed dead cats. Ever. But, momma did have a similar philosophy. Go big, my child, or just go home. Hence, I bring you the story of the blue & white gingham/checkerboard curtains. And shirts. And other various and sundry items. 

My father was born in 1927. He was intended for greatness. Had it not been for WWII, he was headed to Texas Tech and would have been the first child in his Great Depression era family to graduate from college. Daddy would've made a heck of an engineer. But, the war calleth, and nothing would ever be the same. So he owned various companies, worked multiple jobs, and eventually landed in Seagoville, TX in the mid-60's, where he opened a laundromat near Smith's Pharmacy (right smack dab behind Wade's Dry Cleaners). That's where he met my mother. Actually, that's where he met my Aunt Johnnie whom he hired to manage his newly opened laundromat. Momma wasn't far behind, at all, though. Now, daddy owned a business. Daddy owned some land in a then unincorporate area of town. Daddy was quite the catch! Imagine if Hank Williams Sr. and Clark Gable could be one person. That's my daddy. So he wooed. He courted. He danced a little, I am so sure. And, he won her heart. And proceeded to move her out to the country. Into a mobile home, which later became a "storage building" when he bought a church in Pleasant Grove and moved it way, way far away. That's my daddy! Children of the Depression are resourceful in a way that amazes me in only the best ways.

Meanwhile, life was quasi-normal growing up. Sure, there were a couple of winters where we ate mostly what was canned from the summer's garden. We shopped mostly at the unclaimed freight store in downtown Dallas. We sliced our own bacon. Thankfully, that was only a phase. I went to school smelling like smoked pork for a year. We installed a fence around the entire acreage comprised of carefully cut creosote telephone poles & chain link. We drank well water from a 40 ft well my daddy dug himself. I rinsed my hair with rain water collected from a tank behind the garage so I didn't have to subject my coif to hard water. Normal, right? 

But, back to those curtains. Rumor has it my father picked up "perfectly good" fabric somewhere. I don't recall the specifics but, based on his MO, it would've either have been the freight store or the city dump - like when he brought home approximately 75 dumped cans of "Cavalier Red" paint & turned my life into The Shining meets Grizzly Adams. But, that fabric! Baby blue and white gingham checkerboard. "Why, Mirt (his affectionate nickname for my mother that she still hates) you could surely do something with this." "Why yes, Ted," said she. "Why, it matches the blue glittery linoleum in the kitchen just perfectly!" Fast forward 3 days. Every window in the entire house has gingham curtains. Blue and white checkerboard EVERYWHERE. It was like we were being stalked by Dorothy Gail after the tornado dropped the house on the witch. But wait, there's more. Fast forward 3 more days. My parents are going country-western dancing. Probably to the Longhorn Ballroom where they once saw Willie Nelson wearing a tuxedo. Maybe the VFW. They call me into the kitchen. To take their picture. Wearing their newly fashioned BLUE & WHITE GINGHAM WESTERN PEARL SNAP SHIRTS THAT MY MOTHER JUST WHIPPED UP! Somewhere in time, a picture exists. It is of my parents wearing blue & white checkerboard shirts. Standing in front of blue & white checkerboard curtains. If you can control your vertigo, you can almost see their heads. This, my friends, is about as good as it gets. Until I tell you about the time I rode a donkey bareback. Let's pace ourselves, shall we?