Finnegan, Finnegan, Wherefore Art Thou Finnegan?

When I was about 10, I had a parakeet.  He was blue.  He was pretty.  He was stupid.  I named him Finnegan.  Because that was the name of a parakeet my grandmother had once.  And because I was an unimaginative child, I couldn’t think of anything else.

I made it my life’s mission to teach that bird to talk.  I tried.  And tried.  I pushed learning my times tables aside to teach this bird how to talk.   That’s why I don’t know my “8’s” to this day.  He never learned.  He never tweeted either.  Not to be confused with Twitter.  It didn’t take long before I realized that Finnegan was depressed.  I should have figured that out when he was cowering in the corner of the bird cage at the pet store and wasn’t playing with any of the other parakeets.

One day, I decided to clean out his cage in the garage.  I don’t know why.  Maybe I figured if I got bird poop and chewed up seed shells on the floor I wouldn’t have to clean it up?  I asked my brothers ever so nicely to not open the garage door while I was in there.  Boys being boys, they did what they wanted to do.  And opened it anyway.

Finnegan took this opportunity to run for dear life.  So off into the wild he went.  Free as a bird.  Literally.  Out into the big open sky only to be breakfast for some eagle or raccoon.  I threw myself on the ground and started screaming.  I screamed and cried as if someone had forced their way into our home and was killing all the members of my family with a butter knife.  I was absolutely, completely and entirely devastated.  My first heartbreak.  The day my dear pet parakeet left me.

Every day for a week, I went outside and called out his name.  “Finnegan, oh Finnegan, come back home.”  I was pathetic with a capital “P.”  It didn’t work.  He never came back.  It took me a good 2 years to get over that one.  Seriously.  I probably should have had some therapy.

After I was done being sad, I got angry.  Angry that he didn’t appreciate all that he had.  A warm house, food, water, a mirror, a loving and caring “mother.”  I kept saying to myself, “yeah, well I wonder what Finnegan is saying to himself now?  Huh?  ‘oh what have I done? why did I leave?  I’m cold.’  Too late now, isn’t it, Finnegan.  You damn ingrate.”

Umm, yeah.  Therapy may have done me good.  Think it’s too late?

Mama’s Losin’ It

 This writing prompt was brought to you by Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop

The Superstar Blogger Award Goes to…Me!

Image from Alphabet Soup
Image from Alphabet Salad

I am so honored and thrilled to accept the Superstar Blogger Award from Life, Breath, Present.  She really enjoys my posts and is always there with a great comment.  She’s definitely a loyal reader and her support is very much appreciated!

Life, Breath, Present writes with such honestly and faith.  She is someone who appreciates all that life has to offer and what has been given to her.  She is a faithful wife and mother above all else.  Thank you for this nomination!

The rules are you have to answer the questions below.  So here goes…

  1. What is the funniest thing about you?  Hmm.  I guess I would say that I have the gift of being able to make fun of myself without crying.  And that I am clueless about most everything and like it that way.
  2. Who is your favorite personality?  I see two answers to this question. 1) Kristen Wiig.  She is my idol and I aspire to be her when I grow up.  2)  I love a good sense of humor.  Gotta have the sense of humor going.
  3. What is your lucky thing?  I don’t have a particular lucky “thing,” per se.  But I will say that I am very superstitious and happen to knock on a lot of wood.  So, wood.  Can wood be lucky?
  4. What is your favorite weather?  My favorite weather is Fall.  Definitely Fall.  Because you can exercise outside without sweating to death.  I also love the smell, feel, colors, the crispness of the air.  I like to see the leaves falling.  I do not like to clean them up.  That’s why I have DH.  And his leaf blower.
  5. A name that you want to give me.  A name that I would like to give Life, Breath, Present is “Devoted.”  Because she is devoted to her life and family.  That is apparent from the get-go.

There are so many blogs out there that I truly love and enjoy.  But one in particular stands out for me.  I was immediately drawn in by her stories, her humor, her honesty and darn it, she’s an incredible writer!  So, I would like to award the Superstar Blogger Award to (drum roll please)…MJ over at 154 Hidden Court.  She’s a true gem.  Thanks for sharing your gift.



Why I Hate Grocery Shopping More Than umm…Anything

grocery shopping
Trying to keep it clean people. No matter how hard that is for me.

I went to the grocery store today.  The Kid opened the refrigerator this morning and proclaimed that there wasn’t a thing in it.  So, I guess I needed to.  Even though it seems I just went.  I don’t know why, but grocery shopping day comes real quick-like.  Don’t you think?

Anyway, it was 17 degrees outside according to the temperature gauge in my car.  Tried as I may, I could not find a blessed spot closer than a football field away from the front door of the store.  So I parked.  And sat there.  And sat there.  I heard car doors slamming shut all around me.  Other people were not just sitting there.  They were getting that crap done.  Because they are smart and did not want to prolong the inevitable.

I mean, I had stuff to do while sitting in my car.  Like text a friend.  Check Facebook.  Update my status.  And when I was done with that, I googled “will pigs ever fly and if so, when?”  When I finally got the courage — yes, you need courage to drag your ass out of a warm car with butt warmers into freezing cold temperatures — to start my excursion, I noticed there were several empty spots.  Even one that was right next to the handicapped spot.  Figures.

I realized pretty quickly that I should have tried to convince myself to stay in my car a little longer.  Or at least until Spring.

  1. “Don’t look.  Don’t look.  Don’t look.”  That’s what I said to myself as the nice cart attendant was gracious enough to grab me a cart.   Out of the corner of my eye, I saw hanging from his nose, one of those mucusy, thick snot strings.  You know the kind that are so thick, they don’t even move with all the head shaking in the world?  That kind.  But I looked.  It’s kinda like a bad car wreck.  You really don’t want to look but you are compelled.  All I can say is, I’m surprised I purchased as many groceries as I did.
  2. One of the things that irks me the most is when people find it necessary to have a reunion smack in the middle of the cereal aisle.  Standing 6 people deep, carts included, makes it kinda hard to pass, in case you were wondering.  My dad used to say, “you make a better door than window” whenever we would stand in front of him while he was watching television.  Well, what I wanted to say was, “you make a better door, vault and Fort Knox than a nice, CLEAR OPENING IN THE CEREAL AISLE SO MOVE!!!”  But I didn’t.  I stood there.  Huffing and puffing.  Because I’m passive-aggressive like that.
  3. I just wish people wouldn’t walk backwards in the grocery store.  Because if they do, they stand the chance of getting run over by my cart.  Well lady, you shoulda used your rearview mirror. Or better yet, you should not walk backwards in the grocery store.  She seemed a little miffed.  I don’t know why.
  4. I find it funny that you suddenly feel really bad about some of the choices you made while you are putting the items on the conveyor belt and someone is standing behind you in line  watching your every move.  Even with the mucus snot image branded into my brain, I got a few extra fun snacks.  To help pass the time while we are all home staying warm.  Thank God I grabbed some broccoli.  You know.  To dip into the Ranch dressing.
  5. “Don’t look.  Don’t look.  Don’t look.”  This time it was the man in line behind me who only had 4 items (I have good peripheral vision).  “Oh God.  I should probably offer to let this guy go in front of me.  That would be the nice thing to do.  Oh screw that.  I want to get home just as much as he does.  Why is MY time any less important.  If I pretend I don’t see him, then he won’t think I’m selfish.  Because if I didn’t see him, then how can I have the opportunity to ask if he wants to cut me?  Besides there are like 3 Express lines here.  That’s his problem if he doesn’t want to use them.”  “Excuse me, sir.  Would you like to get in front of me?”  Yeah, I looked.
  6. They really outta invent brakes for shopping carts.  Either that or stop building grocery stores with sloping parking lots.  I’m tired of running after my cart.  Well, that actually didn’t happen today.  But it could have.  If it did happen, I most likely would have let it go.  Because I seriously haven’t the energy.  This season should not be called Winter.  It should be called the “I can’t get out of bed because I’m tired all of the time energy sucking” season.  Don’t you think?  Anyway, what I am tired of is thinking of ways to get my cart from running backwards down the hill.  Do you know how hard it is to keep your foot behind the wheel while unloading that thing?  I can barely chew gum and walk at the same time.  It’s a damn circus act.

Ok, so this was going to be a quick post.  Because I have a ton of laundry to do and I haven’t even finished putting away those darn groceries.  But it wasn’t so quick.  Sorry about that.  Anyway, this is a great excuse to not do those things, right?  For both you AND me.  You’re welcome.  Stay tuned for “Why I Hate Laundry and Putting Away Groceries.”

Celebrate Lung Leavin’ Day

What is Lung Leavin’ Day, you ask?  I’ll tell you what it is in a minute.  But first, I have this to say:  I generally like to find the humor in, well, everything.  But there are some things that, really, cannot be made fun of.  Unless it has happened to you, it’s not your place.  Particularly, if this “thing” is something serious.

There is only one part of this story that I find funny, and when I say “funny,” I don’t mean ha-ha funny.  Less than 48 hours ago, I was perusing the internet.  You know.  What I always do.  Looking for inspiration.  Looking for other bloggers to connect with.  Looking for ways to better my writing.  When I came across a link someone had shared on Facebook.

I think what made me “click” was because of this word:  mesothelioma.  Is this personal for me?  No.  But a few years back a good friend of ours lost his dad to this exact disease.  I remember the anguish his family felt from losing such a good man, a devoted father, a loving grandfather.  They felt cheated.  It seemed so senseless.  He was a seemingly healthy person.  Why did this happen?  Because of a decision he made as a young man during one summer.  One summer.   He took a job at Johns Mansville.  A manufacturer that produces asbestos-containing products.

When I clicked on this link, I was impressed with the site and the message it sent.  I got to the very bottom of the page.  Where I had to choose one out of three plates in which I had to write a fear on and then “throw” into the fire.  So, I clicked on a plate, and then sat there for a minute.  Thinking.  And thinking.  What was I going to write?  I’ve never had cancer or anything that I was truly, deathly afraid of.  Besides, what fear of mine could be worse than having cancer come back?  So, I left the site.  Because I didn’t feel worthy.  But my mind kept going back to it.

So, here’s where it gets “funny.”  I have an email account that I created just for my momfeld stuff.  For some reason, I suppose because of the whole peri-menopause thing going on or just because I probably have adult ADD, I forget to check it.  I hadn’t checked it in a week or more.  I finally remembered today.  There was an email from a woman.  The one with the plate site.  Asking if I would tell her story.  Talk about Lung Leavin’ Day.  I felt honored and more than happy to do it.

This brave woman lost a lung to this disease on February 2, 2006.  Mere months after giving birth to her child.  When you go to her site, you can read her story and how she got this disease.  It’s amazing.  Every year, on the second of February, Heather gathers together with her closest friends and family for Lung Leavin’ Day.  Where they throw their fears into a bon fire.  What better way to rid yourself of all that you are fearful of?  All that could be holding you back?

After I thought about it for a while, I realized that my fear can be anything.  Fear of public speaking.  Fear of heights.  Fear of writing a book.  Whatever the fear, it’s your fear.   It doesn’t matter how big or small.  So, please do me a favor.  And yourself.  Because it’s important.  And hell, it feels good.  Go to her site (which is really creative and cool) and write your fear on a plate.  Then go ahead and smash it into the fire.  It will feel good.  I promise.  Because I went back there and wrote a fear and smashed that plate.  So I know.  It felt good.  And I’m doing it again.  On February 2nd.

This disease is a killer.  Heather beat the odds.  Honor her and all who have suffered from or succumbed to this disease.  Click on the plate.  You won’t regret it.  Oh, and spread the word.  Thank you.

lung leaving' day


Quick Call the Doctor. I Think I Have Cabin Fever.

Just kidding.
Just kidding.

Part 2 of My Reader’s Suggestions.  This one is about Cabin Fever.  Because when we can’t get out, that’s what it feels like.  A damn fever.  A fever that will not go away.  No amount of Motrin can help either.  Believe me.  I tried.

If you live in the Northeast like I do, hell, if you live anywhere besides Hawaii, you have suffered the effects of this crazy winter.  I will almost bet there is an epidemic of Cabin Fever going on all over the country.  As for me?  I’m just about at my wit’s end.  I can tell you that.

I’m not a skier.  I’m not a sledder.  I’m not an outside in the cold kind of person in any way.  I secretly feel blessed when I ask the kid if she wants to go outside and build a snowman or make snow angels and her answer is, “heck no.”  Thank the Lord.  Following in her mom’s footsteps.  That’s good, right?

So, now if it isn’t bad enough, I have a disgusting head cold.  Disgusting.  With snot, phlegm, the works.  I feel like crap.  Which translates to not wanting to leave the house because I don’t have the energy.  But at the same time, I am beyond bored out of my gourd.  The Kid wanted a drive over to a friend’s house last night.  Even in my fog, I jumped at the chance to actually breathe a little fresh air.  Even if I was just going from the garage back to the, umm, garage.  Hmmm.  I feel duped.  How did that happen?

Anyway, how do we cure the dreaded Cabin Fever?  You know, if you don’t ski, sled, ice fish or partake in any of the fun outside snow activities you can do?  Damn.  Even if you do do those things, it’s just too damn cold out.  Unless you like frostbite.  But I’m guessing you don’t.

I’ll tell you what I have been doing:

There are 10 billion channels on cable.  Yet there is nothing on.  I have become a Facebook stalker to the creepy extent.  My brain is so fuzzed up from mucus plugs and television radioactive waves, that it can’t think.  So, in my attempt to write, I sound like Justin Beiber on pot, tequila and prescription meds.  You know…stupid.  (Yeah, yeah.  You’re all sick of hearing jabs about JB.  But I haven’t said a thing about him yet, so I’m allowed.)

I could play a game with The Kid, but I haven’t.  And don’t really want to.  I mean, I will if she asks.  But I’m hoping she doesn’t.  I could get up and go on the elliptical.  But that would mean I would have to remove myself from the position in which I have been for the last 3 days on this couch.  And the indentation from my butt in the leather is at such a comfort level that if I move, I fear losing that.  Besides I don’t feel good.  But I mentioned that.

I could walk to a neighbor’s house.  But I’m afraid of the cold freezing my nose hair to the point where they break off.  And we need our nose hair.  Don’t we?  But I could go there with my hairless nostrils and drink wine and sit by her fire and bitch about stuff only we girls can bitch about.  But I don’t feel good.  But I already mentioned that.  Three times.

So, this reader of mine with the suggestion to write about Cabin Fever?  Sorry.  I think I just completely disappointed you.  I cannot help in any way.  Well, I did attempt to clean out the toilets before I got sick.  I even stared at my closet to organize it.  But I just stared.  That, by the way, was my second attempt.  Three time’s a charm?

It seems I’m not the best person to ask about Cabin Fever.  Probably because I’ve got it so bad, I’m delirious.  But it was fun talking about it.  And getting it off my chest.

So, stay warm everyone.  Only 146 more days till summer.  I think.  I may have forgotten how to count.  Actually, I just cheated and looked on-line at one of those countdown sites.  Because I believe I have forgotten how to count.  That’s what happens to frozen mucus brain.

Shalimar: The Choice of Mrs. Beasley’s Everywhere

image016-1Shalimar.  It was my mother’s favorite.  Past tense.  Because she got all weird about smells and they give her a migraine or something nowadays.  But whenever I get a whiff of it, I am immediately reminded of an incident that occurred when I was four.

We lived on an Army salary.  Which wasn’t much.  Or so I’m told.  My parents didn’t have many material items.  They certainly didn’t blow their money on extravagant things.  Except this one time.  This extravagant thing was Shalimar.

My dad saved for months to be able to purchase a bottle of the real stuff for my mom.  Real, honest to goodness perfume.  Not cologne.  Not toilet water.  Perfume.  It cost him a small fortune.  And we didn’t eat anything but hot dogs and drank nothing but tap water for 2 months.  Actually, I don’t think that’s true.  But it makes for a better story, doesn’t it?

The love of my life was Mrs. Beasley.  If you are above the age of 40, you know who I’m talking about.  Buffy’s doll from “Family Affair.”  I adored this doll.  Adored her.


There is no better thrill than taking the top off a bottle of perfume and pouring it over your favorite doll.  Every last drop.  I promise.  Best. Thrill. Ever.  Boy, did Mrs. Beasley smell good.  Just like my mom.  My mom, on the other hand, was not happy.  Which was odd, because I was quite certain she would be thrilled.  Honored even.

My mom was 9 months pregnant with my youngest brother (according to the Army doctors of the day, she was eleven months along).  She swears this incident threw her into labor.  Looking back, I kind of did her a favor.  I mean, come on.  Eleven months pregnant?  The kid would have had a full on beard if he waited any longer to come out.

And Mrs. Beasley?  Two words:  Garbage Dump.  I was devastated.  So, my mom couldn’t get the smell out.  Why did she care?  It was her favorite after all.

Mama’s Losin’ It

Peri-Menopause: Nature’s Gift to Global Warming


On my Facebook page last week, I mentioned that I wear baby doll pajamas to bed.  Even in the dead of winter.  That’s because if I don’t, I run the risk of death by drowning.

When I got my first night sweat, I wasn’t sure what was happening to me.  I thought maybe I had a bad nightmare.  I was drenched.  Like someone doused me with salt water.  I actually had a puddle right where my boobs meet.  My head was as wet as if I just came out of the shower.  And the sheet under me?  It was more like a Slip ‘N Slide.

I was relieved to discover that this didn’t happen very often.  Just once in a while.  I could totally handle it.  That was about 3 years ago.  Recently, it has decided to kick itself up a notch.  Including the hot flashes.  You know the ones.  Where you swear someone lit a match to your insides and started a bon fire?  Yeah.  Those.  And in the last 3 weeks my night sweats have produced enough water to create a small sea.

I was told that I was in peri-menopause.  Peri-menopause?  What the hell?  I can’t be going through that already.  I’m only thirt — oh — 46.  And I’m not sure who told me.  Was it my doctor?  A friend?  My mother?  I don’t know.  Because one of the other symptoms of peri-menopause is…ummm.  Hmm.  That’s funny, I don’t remember.

Even if you just started hanging around me, you quickly get the idea that I’m freaked out by the whole aging process.  The changes to my body is completely throwing me for a loop.  I mean, I don’t mind being in my forties.  I feel like I’m all mature and stuff.  Mature.  Something I’ve been trying to achieve since 1987.  But really.  Can’t the Age Fairy just leave my body alone?  What did I ever do to her?

So, Age Fairy.  You are a meany.  Here’s what I say to you:  this old age may cause me rage but sweat and mood swings will never hurt me.  Nanny-nanny boo-boo.


My Favorite Things


Don’t you just love that song “My Favorite Things?”  I do.  If I even say the word “favorite” it pops up in my brain.  You know how easily songs just pop up in there.  Anyway, I thought, hmm, I bet all my readers would just LOVE to hear about some of my favorite things.  And that’s what I’m going to do.  Tell you.

  1. My bed.  Oh Lord in Heaven.  Seriously.  Climbing into my bed at the end of a crazy day — freak it, it doesn’t even have to be crazy — and stretching out all of my limbs has got to be, by far, the most favorite part of my day.  Like seriously.  I’d rather do that than, well, never mind.  It’s like Disney World for my soul.  Or at the very least, Busch Gardens.
  2. My new Garlic Peeler and Slicer from Pampered Chef that prevents me from ever touching a garlic bulb ever again ever.  There is nothing worse than having the smell of garlic on my fingers for a week.  Well, having it seep out of my pores for 2 days kind of sucks too.  But that’s the price I’m willing to pay for the pungent, irresistible flavor of this herb (vegetable?) closely related to the onion.
  3. The heated seats in my car.  Love, love, love my heated seats, aka Sheats.  There is nothing like having my buns warmed by electrical currents.  Genius I tell you.  Pure genius.
  4. My red plaid PJ pants that I got in the clearance bin at some outlet store somewhere about a million years ago.  They are tattered and torn and will fall apart any minute.  Chances are, if you’ve been to my house — hell, if you’ve been to Shop Rite — you’ve had the pleasure of meeting them.
  5. My Rabbit.  No.  Not the furry kind.  The “easily open a bottle of wine in a jiffy” kind.  This hardly needs an explanation.  Therefore, I will not give you one.


Nice, right?  I know.  Don’t be jealous.  Now go get your own things.

This blog topic has been inspired by the one and only “Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop”

Mama’s Losin’ It

Toto, We’re Not In Manhattan Anymore

manhattan ksGuess how many Manhattans there are in the country?  I’m not talking about the drink.  I’m talking about the town, city, borough, hamlet.  I’ll give you a minute.  And no cheating.

I have a cousin who lives in Kansas.  He posted a status on Facebook today that he and his wife were having date night in Manhattan and asked about a Thai restaurant.  To which I replied:

“Hey, it may be something you wind up loving! Go for it! And Mitch, Aunt Terry’s son, is playing a gig at Slattery’s Midtown Pub at 8:30 tonight. I was trying to go, but I’m not able to make it. How long are you in town for?”

His reply?  “I meant Manhattan Kansas.”


So, people.  You are about to get a geography lesson here.  What did you guess?  Because there is not just one Manhattan.  Not even two Manhattans.  There are 10. Ten. Diez Manhattans.  If you got that, you should get a prize.  Here they are.  In no particular order.

  1. Manhattan, KS
  2. Manhattan, IL
  3. Manhattan, MT
  4. Manhattan, NV
  5. Manhattan, CO
  6. Manhattan, FL
  7. Manhattan, IN
  8. Manhattan, MS
  9. Manhattan, NY
  10. Manhattan, PA

When it comes to geography, I am no genius.  Actually, that also goes with math, science and anything that I was supposed to pay attention to in school.  But really?  Who would have thunk?

I asked my Facebook friends this morning if they had ever heard of Manhattan, KS.  Because I was feeling a little dumb.  I received 15 replies.  Here’s the breakdown:

8 people said they knew.  7 responded with a resounding “NO.”  Of the 8 who said they knew, 3 claim that they wouldn’t know if they didn’t live there once or had a family member live there.  So, technically 10 didn’t know.  The way I look at it, that is more than half.  Okay, so that is more than half.  Like I said.  Not a genius in math.

Guess what?  I don’t feel so dumb anymore.  Eat that Manhattan, Kansas!  But I think I’d like to visit.  After all, I have a family member there.

The Polar Vortex Is Not a Shirt

I’m very distracted by the number of typos in this card. But you get the picture.

Last week, I asked my readers for some ideas for a topic.  One of them suggested Polar Vortex.  So here goes.  This is what I know.  Or more accurately, don’t know.

I have to be honest here.  I did not know what Polar Vortex was.  In case you haven’t realized by now, I kind of live under a rock.  I hate the news.  It depresses me.  When DH puts on the evening news, I zone out on my iPhone like a prepubescent teenage girl.

Now that I have that out of the way, what comes to mind when you hear these two words?  Polar = cold.  Like Polar Bear.  Not that a Polar Bear is cold exactly, but he lives in the cold.  When I think of Vortex, I think of, well, um…some kind of material that you wear to keep sweat from touching your skin?  Or it could be something weird going on in your brain.  Wasn’t there some strange movie about that once?  Probably not.

I looked it up and here is the real meaning:  “A persistent, large scale cyclone located near either of a planet’s geographical poles.”  Well, that’s the short version.  I don’t understand the rest.  This is good enough for me.  So, in layman’s terms, there is a cyclone at the North or South pole?  Am I close?  Again, probably not.  But I have to ask.  What does a cyclone at the North Pole have anything to do with us?  I’m so confused and still feel like I’m in the dark.  Maybe if I tuned into the news?  Nah.

Whatever it means, it’s a bit nuts.  I’m telling you people, this winter sucks minus.  It doesn’t seem to matter what part of the country you are from.  Florida doesn’t even seem safe.  What the heck is going on?  I mean figuratively.  Because we already know  what’s going on literally.  In case you zoned out, it has to do with a cyclone or two (I think).  I mean, I’m not equipped for this business.  My parka isn’t even enough to keep out the cold.  The last time I checked, I’m not an Eskimo.  If I wanted to partake in this crap, I would have moved my buns to Alaska.

Below zero temperatures is cruel.  It’s like a bad joke.  And then we wake up 2 days later and it’s 52 degrees.  People have become so accustomed to minus 10 degrees that when it’s 50, they feel it’s okay to bring out the shorts and tank tops.  Seriously.  I, myself, have contemplated pulling out the tankini and catching a few rays.  The snow?  It’s no longer white and fluffy.  It’s a disgusting mess of mud and slush.  It’s everywhere.  On your car.  On your legs.  All over those really cute riding boots you got for Christmas.

Ok, so is it over?  This Polar Vortex business?  I hope so.  Today hit around the 45 degree mark.  I didn’t wear a coat to work.  And when I got out of work at 5pm and stepped outside, I wasn’t even cold.  Now do that in August and we’d be freezing our asses off.  It’s just so weird to me.  It’s January people.  JAN-U-AR-Y.  Did I get off topic?  Sorry.

And the material you wear that keeps sweat from touching your skin? That would be Gortex.  See?  I know what I’m talking about.  Kind of.