I'm baa-aack

So I know it's been about a century since I last blogged, but I touched down in the United States last week and I've been busy ever since. First, let's start with my harrowing journey back home. 

Though I love sitting in airports and people-watching, I'm not a big let's-hang-out-in-the-airport-for-8-hours-waiting-for-our-flight sort of gal. But, for some reason, every time I travel with my family this is what ends up happening. Probably because I'm always the one that pays for my ticket, while they use their airline miles, which they have a lot of. This inevitably puts us on different flights during a single 24-hour period, so here's me hanging out in the Buenos Aires airport for a total of 8 hours waiting for my flight, after my dad, mom and sister all depart hours before me for theirs. 

When it's time for me to check in, the American Airlines lady tells me I'm going to Los Angeles. "No...," I say, "I'm going to San Francisco." 

"No...you aren't," she responds, staring blankly at her computer screen. Luckily I have a printout of my itinerary, which I show her. "This is strange," she says, looking over it. Ten minutes of her tapping on a keyboard and a phone call later and she tells me my connecting flight from JFK to San Francisco is canceled -- and the next available flight they have for me is the following day, connecting through Los Angeles. Ugggh. 

I refuse to believe that there are NO other connecting flights I can snag the day I arrive in JFK, since I'm arriving at like 6:30 a.m. and I reeeeally didn't want to spend an extra night in a hotel (missing J like crazy at this point). So I tell her fine and figure I'll haggle a same-day seat on a plane out when I land. 

The plane ride to New York is long but pleasant since the seat next to me is empty. Highlights include watching Water for Elephants and Arthur, along with making out the Amazon river below by moonlight as we fly over the Amazon. 

When I land in JFK it takes forever (as always) to get through customs, and after standing in a ticketing line for 30 minutes I'm told I have a confirmed seat on a connecting flight at 6pm. I'm equally happy and pissed -- happy 'cause I still get to go home that day, pissed because I have to sit in the airport for 12 hours. The rest of the day is spent watching CNN on the overhead televisions and adding myself to standby lists on each San Francisco flight. A crowd of about 20 shares my plight, and they crowd the standby desk in front of me, yelling at the flight attendants that they need to get on the flight. Flight attendants, unfortunately, are not magicians, and cannot make more seats appear -- especially when American Airlines "overbooked every flight" that day, they say. Some of my standby amigos yell obscenities, a portly French girl begins to cry and shout some pretty nasty French words (as my limited knowledge of French would lead me to believe). 

I sit on a nearby bench taking pictures of this and trying not to laugh. At 7am, wearing the same clothes I wore 24 hours before, I find this all very amusing. No anger is getting any of us on this flight. This fact is apparently lost on these people. After the group parts I walk up to the desk and ask (very sweetly and very calmly because these people are essentially the gatekeepers) whether there is any way at all that I can get on the next flight out at 3 p.m. Attendants actually smile back at me and pleasantly explain the situation, which I nod at and say I understand. The last thing I'm in is a good mood since I'm greasy and tired and missing J, but I crack a few jokes with them and they laugh. The female attendant tells me she'll try her hardest to get me on the next flight, but no promises. I thank her, since that's really all I need to hear. 

One thirty rolls around and I make my way to the other gate, where the standby list has just appeared on the screen near the desk. And what do you know -- my name has been moved up to #2! Score. Thank you flight attendant lady. The standby crowd has joined me in the area, and has resumed yelling at the new attendants at the desk, as though this is really going to get them a seat on the plane. 

Plane pulls up, your truly gets the last seat. Angry people are left yelling and crying at the gate. Moral of the story: You attract more flies with honey.

When I landed J met me at the airport with a big bouquet of pink flowers (love him) and I couldn't stop hugging him. Though I had a  fantastic time in Buenos Aires, after the fourth week I was ready to come home. I missed J like whoa and was having (if truth needs to be told) major sex withdrawals that started about a week or two into my trip. (Whoever said sex wanes with marriage obviously isn't in my marriage, where frequency is taken to almost teenage proportions.)

When we got home he had his anniversary present to me sitting on the couch (it was one of the Kate Spade bags I wanted) and we pretty much did not leave each other's side all weekend. As cheesy as it sounds, I don't know how I lived before J. Sure I had serious boyfriends and I dated casually between them, but no one is like J. He really is my heart. 

Anyway, this weekend will officially be dubbed The Weekend of Real estate. We're going to our realtor's party tonight that she throws every year. She invites all her business clients and friends and serves unlimited margaritas all night. Obviously I am game. Then tomorrow we're going to start touring properties with her. I CAN'T WAIT!!!!

Fierce

This commercial is all the rage right now on television here:

It plays almost every five minutes, and it never gets old. The model is fierce and the song is so addictive. Wish we got Mexico's Next Top Model in Estados Unidos.

Buenos Aires pictures (finally!)

Good example of the Belle Epoque architecture that is so prevalent here.

Old meets new.

The obelisk in the Plaza de la Republica at dusk.

Old meets new, again. This strip of light was a news ticker screen wrapped around a fantastic old building.

A cafe at night.

The colors of these buildings (below and above) were intense.

The walls surrounding Recoleta Cemetery.

Checking out wares at the artisan fair.

A hippie practicing her moves near the artisan fair.

My favorite mime.

Beautiful disaster

Written on Sunday, July 10: 

So where do I start? *cracks knuckles*

I got into the Buenos Aires airport today and waited patiently for my sister and mom's flight to get in (they were connecting through Santiago, Chile.) My flight got in three hours before theirs, so I staked out a seat near the arrivals screens and hung out people watching to Paul McCartney (I'm having a Wings moment) to pass time.

Around the time they were supposed to land, half the flights on the arrivals screens began flashing red. I leaned closer and saw that all flights out of Santiago were suddenly "canceled." God damn it. In a foreign country by myself? Totes not a big deal. In a foreign country minus the rent money my mom was supposed to give our apartment's owner, Tomas, when we signed our rental contract that night? Slightly unnerving. (Here you pay all cash for the big things, and so my mom was traveling with a couple Gs for our place.)

Apparently the volcanic ash from that Chilean volcano was blowing past Santiago at the moment and all flights were grounded until the ash cleared and it was safe to fly. When I talked to the customer service desk, which was not really a desk, just a lone room off the back of the luggage conveyor belt that I had to climb over to enter, an impatient Argentine man sat behind a sparse desk inside and told me had no answers, just that all flights out of Santiago were canceled until further notice. 

Unfortunately I had no way of getting a hold of anyone since wifi seemed nonexistent throughout the airport (nothing makes you look more American than wandering around with your smartphone, sniffing for wifi in every corner and orifice of a building), and all of Tomas' contact info was sitting in an email in my inbox.

Finally, five hours after I'd been in the airport, I found wifi and checked my email. Hello six messages from my sister telling me they were stuck and that United was putting them up in a Hilton that night. Sigh. The grease on my face from traveling for 15+ hours felt palpable. All I could think of was taking a shower. I needed Tomas' number, stat.

Thankfully he happened to be online when I signed on, and he told me to leave right away since he'd been waiting for us for hours, and gave me the apartment's address. He stressed he needed the payment up front in full when I arrived, just as the rules stated, but I stressed this was impossible since the half of our entourage with the money was still en route to Buenos Aires. He said this was going to be problem; I said I could look for a hotel if it was. Thankfully something about this statement made him relent, and he said come anyway.

I jumped in a cab driven by a guy named Julio and chatted with him during the 30-minute ride from the airport into the city. Julio was a big fan of Fleetwood Mac, so when he found out I was from Estados Unidos, he put on his "favorite cd" (Fleetwood Mac's Greatest Hits) and we talked nonstop until he pulled up to the curb of my building on Sanchez de Bustamente in the Recoleta district. He asked if I wanted to go out later that night with him and his friends, but I told him I was exhausted and needed to decompress, which he acknowledged along with his cell phone number if I changed my mind. Oh, Julio.

Tomas was a very kind, older Argentine who empathized with the whole situation. Instead of telling me to find a hotel for the night, he allowed me to stay, unpaid, but asked for my passport that first night as collateral to make sure I wouldn't up and leave without paying. I laughed at even the thought of doing this, but he said he's had it happen before with an American woman and her child. They'd stayed for a week, promising payment every day and on the seventh day they left without a trace or payment. Obviously after hearing this I understood Tomas' plight. 

After showering and fluffing my feathers, I went out for a stroll around Recoleta, grabbed food at a corner restaurant and ate the yummiest tart for dessert at this confiteria called "La Porteña." Most people here don't speak any English, and I barely speak any Spanish, but somehow communication still flowed well through hand gestures and broken phrases. After I got home with a second tart for the road...I realized that my main credit/atm card was gone. 

In the words of Lindsay Lohan, I felt like my heart was going to fall out my butt. I tore through both purses I'd brought flinging receipts and crumpled napkins everywhere, searching in vain for my card until I realized I'd lost it back at the airport where I last used it. Shit. So much for taking it easy. I signed online and emailed J 40 times, telling him it was urgent and that he needed to call the bank asap to put a stop on the card. Which he did, but not before noticing that four charges totaling $700 were made on the card in the last hour. Ughhhhhh. The claims department was closed for the night, but J said he'd call in the morning and report the fraud. 

Flash forward to five days later and THANKFULLY the claims department reimbursed all the money that was stolen, pending our signature on an affidavit swearing I didn't make those charges. While I could barely sleep that evening with the money issue overshadowing my first night in the city, everything was taken care of the following morning and I've been having a great time so far. Lots of shopping and eating with my mom and sis, who eventually caught a flight out. I'll post pics soon!

Argentina-bound

The time has come to bon voyage. As much as I love hearing my next door neighbor play acoustic renditions of Extreme's More Than Words through our paper-thin walls every day around dinnertime, this apartment is getting too small for me, a husband and three animals -- especially during a long, hot summer. (No intermittent guitar taps -- which Anonymous Neighbor is currently practicing -- will change that.)

I'm off to Buenos Aires tomorrow and won't be back in the states till mid-August-ish. I'm taking my laptop down to do some freelancing from the Southern Hemisphere, but I probs mcgobbs won't be blogging that much (can you blame me?) I'll be posting pictures throughout the next four weeks, though, so stay tuned!

Carmel birthday, in pictures

I had the BEST weekend in Carmel with J. 

Our hotel room -- a small British-style cottage with a private entrance -- was beyond adorable. When we checked in, a bottle of Sherry and a welcome kit for our dog were already waiting inside, and we didn't have to use our car once all weekend since our room was on the main street near all shops and restaurants. I didn't want to leave! It's been a dream of mine my whole life to own a vacation home in Carmel, so we also browsed real estate in the area (just for fun) and let's just say the prices are a little high: bungalows and cottages start at about $2 million-plus. Nevertheless, I quietly added this dream to my bucket list. ;)

Our front door.

 

Banksy-style art on the outside of our chimney.

Wine tasting (above and below) at Vino Napoli.

Noshing on the Antipasto Misto, a platter of salumi, cheeses and olives.

The Tuck Box English Tea Room.

Watching the sunset during our hotel's wine and cheese social.

Dinner at Porta Bella's. The food and ambiance were amazing.

At the beach.

The Cheese Shop, one of Carmel's must-see places. The shop has over 300 different kinds of cheese from all over the world, and tasting is encouraged. We were given about 15 different cheeses to taste, and told the background on each type. Highly recommend a stop here.

We heard the best Bloody Marys in town were at A.W. Shucks, so we had to give them a whirl. They were divine. So good, in fact, that we ended up ordering five of them, along with plates of fresh oysters (below) on the half shell.

One of the many adorable little alleys lit up at night.

A celebration to last throughout the years

The next two weeks are going to be some of the busiest I've had in the last six months, but for good reason. It's my birthday next week!! (continue with copious amounts of exclamation marks here). And being that my two favorite holidays of the year are Valentine's Day and my birthday, The Day of My Birth must be celebrated accordingly, much like Jesus'. Meaning it is a weeks-long affair, just like my wedding was. (If you can't already tell, I love a good celebration.)

So I'll be gone this weekend visiting friends and family as we pre-celebrate and indulge in ice cream cake and fondue (calories don't count during your birthday month, obvi), then my actual birthday is on Tuesday (April 19th), followed by the highlight of festivities -- J is taking me to Carmel to celebrate! 

I grew up about an hour from Carmel and since childhood it's been one of my favorite places to visit in-state.

We've decided to lux it up for a long weekend at a cute B&B on Ocean Ave. (the main street downtown). I can't wait to check out our digs since from what I've seen online the place looks ultra adorable, with a stone fireplace, a yellow and white British cottage-style motif, and a wine and cheese social every evening. And is it wrong that I'm kind of excited to be staying a block away from a Tiffany & Co.? Perhaps the weekend will be my chance to practice the art of persuasion. ;)

Anyway I'm really looking forward to trying some of the many restaurants I've read rave reviews about (including Casanova's, dubbed Carmel's Most Romantic Restaurant, and La Bicyclette) and doing lots of shopping and wine tasting. All with my best friend and partner in crime. I cannot wait. 

The following Monday my good friend from New York is flying in with her new baby to spend a couple days here in the city with her husband (who's on business). I can't wait to meet the baby and catch up with my friend since talking on the phone while 3,000 miles apart just doesn't cut it. Her visit constitutes a special b-day present in itself. Later that week my friends are heading over here to throw me a little birthday shindig/Cinco de Mayo party (margaritas, anyone?), and that should wrap up my month.

Oh, and I should point out that in none of this have I even mentioned the royal wedding, which is going to be a celebration in itself at our household, replete with British flag cupcakes and English cucumber sandwiches. (J still hasn't gotten the memo about why we must celebrate this event. But that's okay. I just continually reply "God save the queen.")

Athens to Rome or bust

Fabulous news, lambs: I'm doing Europe this summer!!!

I'm going with my fam, which is great since that means my sister (aka one of my BFFs) and I can hang out shopping together every day in "giant floppy sun hats" as she says. I concur. She and my mom are going to Turkey for three weeks in June, then taking a train to Athens, Greece where my dad and I will meet up with them. From there we'll explore Greece and some of the Greek islands. We're still planning an approximate route from Athens to Patras, which is where we'll cast off for Corfu, but I do know that Corfu will be our last Greek locale before taking a ferry over to Italy. 

Once we dock at the port city of Brindisi in Italy, we plan to rent a car and drive up to the Abruzzo region, which includes some of Italy's best medieval castles and villages. (The area is also where Clooney's The American was filmed.) Towns I want to see there include Castel del Monte, Sulmona, Castelvecchio, Pescara and Teramo.

From Abruzzo we'll head back down the boot and cut over to the opposite coast. Again, not sure how far south we'll go -- we might try doing Sicily, but we're not sure yet. I do know we're planning to head up the Amalfi coast where we'll rent an apartment or villa in either Naples or Sorrento for a week and use it as a base for day trips to places like Positano and Pompeii. At the end of our trip we'll fly out of Rome after spending a couple days there too (funny enough I am the only one who wants to see Rome again, everyone else is sick of it. How anyone could ever get sick of Rome eludes me.)

Anyway, mapped out our trip is going to look something like this (not counting the still-unplanned path from Athens to Patras):

One thing I love about traveling with my family is that they're a very off-the-cuff bunch, especially my mom. Making sure we know exactly where we're going to spend each night is not their style, which means advance hotel reservations aren't in their vocab. We usually pick a starting and ending location, buy our plane tickets, then plan a rough idea of where we might be every couple days. Aside from our rented apartment on the Amalfi coat and whatever hotel we book in Athens when we land, I have no idea where we'll be staying along the way and I love the spontaneity of that. I need a good adventure.

Anyway, is it weird that I've already started packing? I guess its symbolic of my near-pornographic eagerness to get this party started. The last time I went on a major trip was when I went to Rio and Buenos Aires in the summer of 09. As on that trip, J won't be coming on this one either since he has to work, but he's very happy for me (I think some of that may have to do with the fact that he can play golf the entire month of July without me getting on his case about it).

The best thing of all about this trip, over all the indigenous olive oil and pasta and wine I'll be consuming? I don't have to ask for any time off to do it. I'll be gone for three weeks and no one can tell me I can't have those days off or I can't leave for that long or any other bureacratic bs. Winning!

Highs and lows, Jan. 30th edition

High(s):

Hmm...what was my high this week? Better question: How do I choose just one? Notable highs that come to mind are

• Buying those seafoam green Kate Spade heels, the color of which I found out is actually called "Varducci green" as in the Varducci green that vintage Vespas from the '60s came in. How do I know this? Because of my second high....

• I found my dream Vespa! It's about an hour away from where I live, and I have no idea if it's still even available, but the color is perfetto and though after our cross-country move I have yet to get my in-state driver's license, much less my M2 moped one, these pics are a good starting off point to measure all future finds against. You know, like when you grew up with a picture of JFK Jr. on your wall because he was your perfect man and you wanted one just like him, then one day you found one just like him and ended up marrying him and it was all because you never lost sight of what you wanted? These Vespa pictures are kind of like that. Eyes on the prize.

• J and I just spent this afternoon having brunch with a lawyer who I met through a lunch meet-and-greet at work. Said lawyer is a very likable, very social guy who -- if you can believe it -- may talk even more than I do. (That has yet to be calculated and confirmed.) He invited us over to his house, which turned out to be more of a Mediterranean-style villa than a house, up in the hills overlooking the bay. From that high up, the views of the city in the distance and the ocean farther out ahead were spectacular, and for three hours we had fun talking over bagels and lox and the amazing views. Most of the conversation revolved around travel (said lawyer and his wife have been everywhere) so it was refreshing to see that a high-powered partner at a global firm still has ample time every year to go abroad with his wife and live for weeks in villas in the South of France or the Amalfi coast. First-world problems.

• Yesterday J and I were out shopping and I went a little cray cray at Sephora. J talked me into buying all high-quality makeup to replace my cheap stuff with, so I did and, though it was expensive -- more than I've ever spent on makeup in one sitting -- I don't feel bad about it at all. In fact, it made me very happy putting on all my new cosmetics this morning. Which is what money is for, right?

• Tonight Drew is coming over so he and J can begin preparing a case against one of Drew's bandmates -- the one who essentially stole most of what Drew's band earned because he felt he was entitled to all copyrights. In essence this is J's first "client," though he's not taking money from Drew and might not be able to represent him once he starts his official firm job tomorrow. But J's still taking it very seriously and hopes to pitch his first client to the firm once he gets a bit more settled in to the new job. Regardless, right now it's very cute watching J drink coffee out of his law school mug as he pours over Drew's record label contract, making notes and addendums and other lawyer-y things on his legal pad, with our cat and dog sitting near him. The start of a beautiful career. 

Low:

Only two more weeks at work! Ten days -- begin the countdown. I'm considering this both a high and a low (tee hee).

The British are coming

I just finished my Christmas dinner of steak and red wine by the fireplace with my dad and D and thought I'd write a quick post to say Merry Christmas to you and yours (in a British accent, of course). 

My holidays feel just a smidge out of whack since my mother and sister have flown south for the season and are currently enjoying summer in Buenos Aires (opposite hemisphere = opposite seasons). They'll be down there for about a month, living in an apartment rental and hanging out with the locals, then they're off to Peru in early January, wherein my dad will make like the birds and fly south to join then.

I was invited along (more than once) for this fete, but had to decline because of time constraints with my bloody job (apparently I'm all about sounding British tonight). I DO have all next week off -- thank God! -- but would have wanted to stay longer than a week if I was going to spend that much money on airfare. Plus being away from D during this time of the year would have sucked, and I KNOW Boss Man would never let me take time off in January what with a bunch of important news things occuring, so no Buenos Aires/Peru por me. Me no encantan. To satiate my travel bug I've been watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona religiously and pretending I'm summering in Spain with a handsome spaniard who wants to weekend with me in Oviedo.

In other news D bought me some swinging presents this year:

• A wood-handled melon baller from Sur la Table (only the one I've been talking about FOR-ever. I guess you know you're old when you get your kicks from overpriced kitchen utensils.)

• A copy of Sterling's Gold, as in Roger Sterling's Gold, the fictional memoir Roger wrote in Mad Men that's been actually published (hardback!) as a collection of Roger's witticisms from the show. I guess this officially makes me a hardcore fan (though me owning a Mad Men wall calendar for three years running would have probably already affirmed that).

• A pair of black Hunter rain boots!:

D bought me a pair of the original, tall, high-gloss version. Hunter boots were made popular by Arthur Wellesley the 1st Duke of Wellington (hence the name) and became uber fashionable among the British aristocracy in the early 19th century. Apparently they're the Queen's personal favorite in shoe wear.

The Queen in her Hunter boots during the Gun Dog Trials (whatever those are), 1967.

Whatever works for the Queen works for me. Maybe the Hunters are what's making me feel all-sorts British tonight.

I surprised D with the first two seasons of Breaking Bad, a pair of cufflinks and tiebar (no Ferragamo this year; Kenneth Cole had to suffice), and rotating Belgian waffle maker that he's wanted since we got married. He's already made me fluffy Belgian waffles twice and they were divine. Both times. Although with the holidays coming to close I feel I should start watching what I eat again (as in: probably not a good idea to down an entire tin of shortbread in one sitting). Better idea: Salad? (Notice my use of question mark, as taste buds are always partial to processed sugar over leafs). 

I do know that I've felt rather blah lately -- a combination of feeling flabby and lazy. And pale -- did I mention pale? Because something about looking sickly white with no trace of my golden Cabo tan from August makes me feel a bit under the weather. Not that I'd EVER go to a tanning salon (no judging those that do, but something about frying under lightbulbs semi freaks me out). But with my tan gone and my muscle tone non-existent I've just felt blah. And I know it's because normally I walk a lot. 

Up until a couple months ago D and I walked at least a couple miles every night, not including walking to and from the train station for work and what exercise we got walking for lunch. But since the weather's turned unseasonably cold for my area (and the rains have swept in), walking is the last thing I want to do when I get home. And my thighs -- Mona and Camille, yes they have names -- are deffo not thanking me. What I need to do is quit making excuses and bear the cold weather in my Hunters. Don't worry ladies, you'll firm up again soon enough!

Italy is not "alright"

Venice was a major maritime power during the Middle Ages and Renaissance, a staging area for the Crusades and an important center of commerce and art in the 13th century up to the end of the 17th century. I guess it's...alright....

Today at work my friend, B (the one who got proposed to in Paris), signed online to chat for a second while she and her fiance waited in Rome for their flight back home.

This was a big trip that meant more than just that new ring on her finger -- B and Co. had never been to Europe before. They'd saved up for nearly a year for this 10-day trip and were excited to finally see what all the fuss about Europe was about.  They spent the first three days and nights in Paris, which of course is one of the most amazing cities in the world and deserves much more time than just three days, but they adored it all the same. According to her, if she ever wins the lottery she's planning to buy a vacation home there (cue the millions of others -- including me -- who are pining for Parisian vacation homes of their own). 

With her second leg of the trip done, I asked today how she had liked Italy. Her answer?

"It was alright."

And this is basically how I inwardly (thus silently) responded to that answer: 

"Are you *%$@^$# kidding me?"

Okay, so maybe I'm a little biased about Italy. It is my favorite country on Earth and I've had many spectacular memories on that boot-shaped land mass, so perhaps I took it more personally than I should have. It's not like she was trying to insult me, after all, and everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I just don't think it's fair to spend only FIVE DAYS in an entire country and think you can make an accurate assessment about it -- especially a country as culturally and historically rich as Italy. (This same thinking would go for any European country. No wonder she liked the city of Paris since she spent three whole days there, almost the equivalent amount of time she spent exploring the entire country of Italy.) 

After leaving Paris a day later than expected due to an airport strike, B and Co. arrived in Venice at 6pm and left the following morning. Venice is one of my favorite cities and I know for a fact that you absolutely can't see it all in under three days, minus in under 24 hours. But c'est la vie. Next stop for them was two nights in Florence, which she said "wasn't what she expected." When I asked what she was expecting, she described something that sounded more like the real Tuscan countryside, a medieval village like Sienna perhaps, surrounded by rolling vineyards and picnic baskets and people pedaling past on old Italian bicycles with baskets full of produce attached to the fronts. Regardless -- Florence is an awesome city! Even if it's not what you expected, the difference in perception versus reality is delightful on its own. 

ANYWAY, they spent their last two nights in Rome (only two nights for the former capital of the world -- I'm dying inside!) She said she liked it but it was too touristy. Again, wrong time of year to go, and what did she expect? It's still warm there and the summer crowds are only beginning to wind down since there's...well...a lot to see there. It was, at one time, only the capital of the entire Roman Empire for, oh, 700 years.

No offense to B, but I guess my problem is that I hate when people go Europe (or anywhere, really) for the first time, try to cram 3,000 cities into a week or two, and then grumble about how it wasn't that great, or it wasn't what they expected it to be, or it was just "alright." No one could possibly capture the essence of any one of those sprawling cities in so little time.

So no. Italy is not "alright." It's fabulous.