While Paddy and I were over at my dad and stepmom's for dinner on Thursday night, this was our conversation in between bites of chicken pot pie:
Paddy: I have a penis!
Me: Yep, you do. Please eat your dinner, Paddy. *trying not to laugh*
Paddy: Papa, do you have a penis?
Papa: Yes.
Paddy: Is it a big one? Or a small one? Which is it, Papa?
Me: *trying not to throw up*
On Thanksgiving morning (ages ago, I know, I know) Patrick actually got on a swing. And not only did he sit on it without screaming, he let me push him a little bit. And I think he may have even enjoyed it.
Now I understand that for those of you with adventurous kids this seems like a ridiculous accomplishment. But you've got to understand that our little guy is muy sensitivo. MUY. And this is an event that has been 18 months in the making. Everytime we would even suggest the swing, he would lose his shit. Then the one time we got him on there he slid off and was traumatized for months. So, it took some major coaxing to get him on there again - I promised I'd make a mini-snowman with him if he tried it. Success!
I cherish this time when I can use snow as bribery. I know the time when I'm bargaining with an iPod is just around the corner.
Christmas of 2008 was so great. We were warm and cozy in our new house and, even better, this new house had a food storage room in the basement where we could pack away all of the holiday crap once December was over.
This year, I went to retrieve the many boxes of holiday decorations and wrapping stuff to find that they would not budge. Apparently, in my haste to put things away last year, I hadn't noticed that the top two shelves of the food storage room were pooled with a dark, gooey substance. A substance that pretty much glued our boxes to the shelves.
I just spent the last hour scrubbing those shelves with effin' hot water trying to dissolve the sludge and have decided that it is either:
a) molasses; or
b) the remnants of a crime scene.
I'm leaning towards the first option, though why the previous owner would have stored molasses for an emergency is beyond me.
So, I'm looking at tonight's gross task as a learning experience: I now know that if we ever decide to store food*, molasses will not be part of the inventory.
*Our storing of food would never happen for two reasons:
1) That room is already jam-packed with twice as much holiday shit than we will ever need, 20 bottles of wine, a shelf of hard liquor and three (yes, three!) yellow onions; and
2) If anything so awful happened in this world that our survival would depend on more than what is in our pantry, I'm pretty sure that we'd just be better off drinking the Kool-Aid.
Courtney: Dude, Amanda! We need to stick you in a steam chamber - you sound like Darth Vader.
Clint: Or a major stoner.
Courtney: No, I've got lots of stoner friends and they don't sound that bad. That is the voice of someone who has been chronically ill for 18 months.
Clint: Okay, you make her laugh and I'll whack her on the back. We'll get that mucous out somehow.
We went to Tennessee earlier this month to visit my grandma, aunt, uncle and cousins and had such a great time. Grandma totally spoiled us. She laid out a tasty breakfast each morning, complete with clementines (which Patrick is now referring to as "Sweeties" instead of "Cuties") and pastries from Panera's. She also planned fun (yet non-stressful) outings during the day, such as hanging out in the 60-degree weather in her darling neighborhood (think DayBreak, but smaller and more centrally located), a picnic in the Smoky Mountains, lunch on the Clinch River, a morning at the Oak Ridge Children's Museum and chocolate shakes at the old-fashioned drug store in town. Oh, and there were many Scrabble games. And a few sinful pieces of Grandma's chocolate cake. Mmmm . . .
(Shittiest Scrabble hand EVER)
I fear that someday he will trip on that lower lip.
Pretty sure this is what heaven looks like to an energetic, slide-loving toddler.
"I'm going to go again, Mom. Is that cool?". . . Milo ate his own poop for dinner (as he does) and then in the middle of the night puked it up in our bedroom and then after I cleaned it all up he yakked again on the hallway rug and then after I cleaned up mess #2 I went outside to throw away my plastic bag full of shitty puke rags and stepped in* a third pile of shitty puke he had left directly outside of the back door? Well, now you know.
*WITH MY BARE FOOT
Last Sunday night/early Monday morning I thought that Matt's stomach pains were just another instance of what I like to call, Men-Can-Be-Such-Goddamn-Whiny-Babies-When-They-Are-Sick Syndrome.
So, around 4 a.m. when he said that he was going to drive to the emergency room and that I didn't need to go with him and should just stay home with Paddy, I'm ashamed to say that I let him. Drive. Himself. To. The. Hospital. Wow, that looks as awful typed out as it sounds spoken aloud, doesn't it? Yep, I am an asshole.
Yeah . . . not one of my best decisions. Turns out, Matt's appendix was swelling and getting ready to burst. Poor thing. This time, his distress was not worthy of an Oscar, but rather caused by genuine, unadulterated pain. Yep, I am an asshole.
The ER doctor recommended surgery right away, Matt went under the knife around 9 a.m. and we were home by 3 p.m. The Appendix-less One is taking it easy and doing much better. He'll be back to normal in no time. And I'll still be an asshole.
1. Halloween candy on Courtney's desk
2. The Lilith Fair has announced a summer 2010 tour and I'm totally considering flying to DC to see it with my high school FFBFF (Fellow Feminist Best Friend Forever) Rachel
3. Today is my Friday, bitches!
4. Patrick asking me out-the-blue on the way to school, "Mom, do ducks have hands?"
5. Heated car seats
6. Lunch with my sis
7. Chaz's transformation is near completion
UPDATE - and one more . . .
8. This shirt, and how much it reminds me of Milo
Since as a mom-who-blogs I'm pretty much legally required to post a photo of my kid in a pumpkin patch, I just have to say how happy I am that we are in the digital editing age. Observe:
And a few more, just for the hell of it:
*If you don't use Picasa for your photos, get it here right this second, for free. It is the bomb dot com.
Patrick:
Yeah, and we saw the horses and I said hi and they went "neeeeigh" and they looked at me and they were walking around and eating their dinner and . . . . *tilting head* What do horses eat?
Female relative:
They eat oats and hay and grass.
Patrick:
They eat grass for dinner? And they have grass for breakfast?
Female relative:
Yes.
Patrick:
Do YOU eat grass for breakfast? *giggling*
Female relative:
No, silly boy, I've never had grass for breakfast.
Unidentified eavesdropping smartass:
Um, are you sure about that? I'm pretty sure that you did in college . . .
Patrick's current greeting of choice is "Hello there!", which I think it fits his expression in this photo perfectly.
This was P's second professional photo shoot. The first was in the basement of JCPenney at six months old. He was a terrified, drooling blob who could barely hold up his massive head and the photos captured that perfectly. Not so cute.
This photo turned out much better. The way he's lounging on that little bench cracks me up. And could his clothes not coordinate with the background any better? Were it not for his pale skin and white-blonde hair you would have to call upon your mad Where's Waldo skills to even spot him.
Here's our conversation while looking at the sheet of eight wallet-sized photos this morning:
P: Ohhhh!!! There I am!
Me: Yes, that's you. You look so handsome!
P: *pointing to each square* That's Patrick. And that's Patrick. And that's Patrick. And that's Patrick. And that's Patrick. And that's Patrick. And that's Patrick. And that's Patrick!
And that means pumpkin goodness. Pies, cookies, ice cream, breads and photos of pumpkin-painted body parts.
Here's a recipe for a tasty treat that Paddy and I made this weekend:
Pumpkin Gingerbread
3 cups sugar
1/2 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/2 cup vegetable oil
4 eggs
2/3 cup water
1 (15 ounce) can pumpkin puree
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground allspice
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground cloves
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly grease two 9x5 inch loaf pans. (You can also use mini loaf pans or well-greased muffin tins, decreasing the baking time, obviously)
In a large mixing, combine sugar, oil, applesauce and eggs; beat until smooth. Add water and beat until well blended. Stir in pumpkin, ginger, allspice, cinnamon and cloves.
In medium bowl, combine flour, soda, salt, and baking powder. Add dry ingredients to pumpkin mixture and blend just until all ingredients are mixed. Divide batter between prepared pans.
Bake in preheated oven until toothpick comes out clean, about 1 hour. 
The original, un-Mandafied recipe can be found here.
Here's the card I'm giving my better/older/cuter/crankier half for our ninth anniversary today:
And he knows it's true.
Love you, Matt. But don't tell anyone.
Recently saw this license plate frame:
I already had The Sex Talk with Paddy. Can you freaking believe it? We didn't intend for it to happen this soon. And I myself definitely hadn't planned on being a part of it - this is father/son territory in my book. Alas, the opportunity presented itself this week when I picked him up from daycare.
Yesterday Paddy's sweet teacher handed me an Incident Report to sign. This isn't a big deal. It's just that legally they have to explain why your kid is not being returned to you in the same condition that you left him. I've signed them before for things like a scrape on the knee, a bump on the forehead and a few kid-to-kid biting incidents, the first of which I chronicled here. This time it was again a biting episode - again with Patrick as the bitee, not the biter. Okay, fine. As long as Patrick's not the one munching on his friends and the bite isn't severe, I'm okay with it. Signed. Done. Let's go.
A few minutes later, as I'm sitting at a stoplight in the car, I'm reading more carefully over the document and see that the usual description of the incident doesn't give a reason for the bite (fighting over a toy, someone stole someone's snack, etc.). It simply said, "A child bit Patrick on the neck." Wait a minute, what? Not on the typical easy-to-access finger or hand, but on his neck? WTF? Is there a toddler vampire in the house? Sweet Jesus, please tell me that the kids aren't being read chapters from the Twilight series for story time. Isn't it enough that every girl over the age of 10 is obsessed with your book, Ms. Meyer? Did you have to target the diaper crowd, too?!
Anyhow, I now felt it necessary to investigate MiniVampireGate further with Patrick, so started quizzing him:
Me: Paddy, what happened today?
Paddy: Clara bite me. She bite me right here. *pointing to neck*
Oh, honey! I'm so sorry. Does it hurt?
Yeah, it hurrrrrts. *drawing out the sentence with a non-convincing whine*
I'm sorry. Why did she bite you?
I lay on her.
What? You laid on her? Why did you do that?
I was just giving her loves.
*10-second silence*
Well, sweetie, from now on, you really should only lay on the girls who want you to, okay? You need to make sure that they like your loves.
Okay, Mom. I ask them first.
These hands just want to hug you. Is that so wrong?Mama: How was the puppet show today, honey bear?
Paddy: Good! There was a fox and sheep. And then a wolf ate the sheep all gone! And then Stella cried.
Mama: Oh, well yeah, Stella cries a lot, doesn't she? It's just that Stella is sensitive.
Paddy: No, mom, she is Stella.
Can you believe this? The nerve of some people thinking they can sneakily sway youths' ideological leanings with words of encouragement and concern about getting an education.
My blood boils at the thought of American students being told things like, "Every single one of you has something that you're good at. Every single one of you has something to offer."
That condescending son-of-a-bitch.
And, what about this? "We need every single one of you to develop your talents and your skills and your intellect so you can help us old folks solve our most difficult problems."
Clearly he's too lazy to solve the really difficult problems (i.e. health care) on his own.
And have you ever seen such evidence of an egomaniac! "So I wasn't always as focused as I should have been on school, and I did some things I'm not proud of, and I got in more trouble than I should have. And my life could have easily taken a turn for the worse. But I was -- I was lucky. I got a lot of second chances, and I had the opportunity to go to college and law school and follow my dreams."
Braggity, brag, brag . . .
But this is the part that really gets me: "Where you are right now doesn't have to determine where you'll end up. No one's written your destiny for you, because here in America, you write your own destiny. You make your own future."
How DARE he instill hope! First-class asshole, that Obama is.
Thank God that the kids in Patrick's preschool weren't forced to watch this disgusting showmanship of liberal indoctrination that was so neatly wrapped up in a bouquet of bullshit called "education". It's an outrage, if you ask me.
Courtesy of Monday morning Google chat
Rachel: mandy my uterus hurts
me: Oh shizz, I'm sorry. Get an IUD and you won't have a period for 5 years!
Rachel: why the hell would i get an IUD. i dont shtup boys
me: But if you ever wanted to take a walk on the hetero side, you're covered!
Rachel: i would rather swallow a razor blade with a shot of tabasco than flip the script on my orientation
Hi everyone,
Please don't hate my mom because she hasn't posted anything recently. She's been sick on and off with the flu and bronchitis (3X) since July 1. So, needless to say, the last six weeks have been quite an exceptional time, especially since the steroids she was prescribed tended to make her increasingly irritable and aggressive, which as you can imagine has been SO AWESOME for Daddy and me. However, after four rounds of antibiotics, a couple different kinds of inhalers and some cough syrup with hydocodone, she's doing better. And luckily, in between her coughing jags and episodes of incessant wheezing, were we able to enjoy ourselves a bit and get a couple of things accomplished. Check it out, yo!
Cheers,
Paddy
A lame excuse for Holtywood's inactivity is coming soon. For now, enjoy this most adorable photo of Mr. P:
I love Patrick's face in this photo. It's from the 4th of July holiday when his 12-day-older cousin, Kailyn, came into town. We moved our extra carseat into our bigger car, and as you can see, Patrick was not pleased that Kailyn was riding in UK style in the Britax car seat and he was relegated to sit in the Cosco model. (What a brand whore P has become!) If looks could kill . . .
But don't worry, he forgave her in record time.
Paddy: Daddy, I love you soooo much.
Matt: Awww, thank you, Paddy. I love you so much too.
Paddy: Mommy . . .
Me: Yes, honey? *ready to bask in the glow of my son's affection*
Paddy: I love Daddy so much. *walks away*
I'm not at liberty to reveal who I quoted in my submission to Overheard in the Office, but just know that she was kidding. Kind of.
(Okay, maybe not the very last one, but damn near close to it.)
Our buddy Ed grew up on a sheep farm in Riverton, which amazingly enough, his parents still own and operate. Urban sprawl be damned!
Last month, Ed was kind enough to invite Patrick for a visit. While Matt toiled in the basement, Paddy and I met up with guncles Weston and Brandon for an exclusive behind-the-scenes look at farm life.
The alfalfa fields provided ample space for much aimless running.
The baby lamb was of some interest to Paddy, though more so to me, as I made Ed's dad assure me that she would not be slaughtered for food or wool. 
The tractor was not a hit. I had to coax him up there. Such a tender young fellow.
Ironically, the biggest thrill of the day was the airplane teeter totter purchased at a nearby boxstore that was constructed on former farmland. *sigh* You can take the kid out of the city . . . I've got a million other pictures/experiences to post (Feldwomen getaway, Pride parade, Ed's farm, 4th of July cousin visit), but I've been down with the flu/bronchitis for a week and just don't have the energy or brainpower to do any lengthy posts (I can hear you all breathing a sigh of relief as you read this, "Good, now I won't have to pretend to have read her out of control rantings.").
Until I get back to my chatty, surly self, here is a video of Patrick "going to work" that makes me laugh and subsequently go into a coughing fit every time I watch it. So, for the sake of my own health, I'm cutting myself off from viewing it. But you still can . . .
In the grand tradition of my mom and stepdad taking my sister and me to Lagoon every 4th of July, here are some pics of Paddy's first Lagoon outing that happened last month. Yes, yes, I'm behind. Just deal.
Me: Okay buddy, tilt your head back so I can rinse your hair. *leaning over bathtub in lowish-cut shirt*
Paddy: That's your nest, Mama. *poking my chest* You have two nests.
Today was Father's Day. I should have served Matt breakfast in bed, set him up with a tee time at the Country Club golf course (oh wait, we're not members), and greeted him with an ice cold beer as he returned home to a spotless house. But that's not what happened. Instead, Matt got up with Paddy and let me sleep-in while they ate cold cereal and read the newspaper. Then I asked Matt to do a few little drilling/hammering/electrical tasks that took about an hour and a half. He spent the rest of the afternoon cutting down the knotty pine that he had spent Saturday ripping out of the downstairs bedroom closet and shoving it into the garbage can of the vacant house next door (BTW, anyone interested in buying a charming 2,700+-square-foot house with a nice yard and AWESOME neighbors? If so, e-mail me and I'll give you the MLS#). A Father's Day to remember, eh?! But I did make him a nice hearty "man" meal of homemade meatloaf, red potatoes and green/wax beans. And Paddy gave him a cool fingerpainted picture frame that we crafted last week. And I gave him some new shirts. Do those gestures count for anything? Sure hope so . . .
Moving on, in the grand tradition of posting alternate holiday greetings, here are a few good ones from my e-card site of choice, starting with my very favorite:
Don't let the fact that Obama became president without having a father in his life make you feel unimportant this Father's Day
Grandpop, just wanted to say how proud I am of you this Father's Day for surviving the digital TV changeover
You're the best father I can imagine unless you lost my inheritance in the economic meltdown in which case I can imagine better
Dad, thanks for dating someone older than me during your mid-life crisis
I hope this blue-tinted Father's Day card helps make up for the fact that I wasn't a boy
Dad, thanks for struggling with your homosexuality long enough to sire me
You're the greatest weekend dad ever
You're the world's greatest dad although my frame of reference is limited
I hope your Father's Day is even more relaxing than every other day of your highly sedentary existence
Me: Paddy, it's time to go inside and take a bath. Walk up the stairs to the porch, please.
P: No. I'm playing with the rocks.
Me: I know, but we can play with the rocks again tomorrow. *in stern Mom-Tone* Right now it's bubble time.
P: No, it's outside time.
Me: *picks up whining toddler and sets him on the porch*
P: No! *swatting me away* Go to work, Mommy! Go away! Go to work!
TRAIN: Every spring the Heber Creeper is transformed into Thomas the Tank. Last month, I felt Paddy was finally old enough to see what all the fuss was about. Aunt Liz, Paddy and I met up with Gaga Carol, Uncle Steve, Aunt Heather and Cousin Alex on a cool Friday afternoon. We rode, we played, we snacked, we petted.
Thomas, Cousin Alex and Patrick
Uncle Steve offering Paddy some grass. Paddy gladly accepted. And then proceeded to scarf down the fudge bar Aunt Liz bought for him.
The Ultimate Thomas Tour Guide, Alex, coaxing Patrick out of the hay maze. 
Studying a model train. He's so intense. (And just so you know, my cropping of this photo totally spared you the buttcrack of the crouching woman on the left. No thanks needed.)
Aunt Liz showed P how to feed the pony.
Gaga showed P how to pet the baby camel. (This guy had the softest poof of hair on his head - Paddy's poof twin, perhaps?) 
"Mom! I'm gonna get you!"
Paddy playing with his "unbrella"; Milo standing guard.Open-minded straight girl:
I can't believe he told her that I was bisexual - not that there's anything wrong with that - it's just that I'm not bisexual.
Bald and handsome gay man:
Yeah, but you really are bisexual since you only have sex twice a year.
Open-minded straight girl:
Totally true. I never thought of it that way.
We all know that Paddy loves his guncles (gay uncles), so it totally makes sense that he would be drawn to fairies of any type, right? At last month's Race for the Cure, he was entranced by the Donation Fairy.
Race for the Cure '09:
"Pay up, kid."
Dan and Liz after running the 5K.
Tough guys wear pink
I'm going to miss the closed-eye pose when he finally stops doing it.I'm sure that Holtywood's three loyal readers (Hi Liz, Rachel and Grandma!) have noticed that I haven't posted in a bit, whereas the rest of you probably view the past three weeks as a much welcomed respite from my snarky comments infused with 4-letter words, endless Paddy photos and uninformed political opinions. Now, in the normal world of "mommy blogging" (HATE that term, by the way), this lack of posting would indicate that things are not 100% perfect in Holtywood and I just can't admit that life really sucks sometimes. Most moms whom I blogstalk are so anxious to brag about how awesome their lives are that their blogs* are constantly updated and full of multiple exclamation points, floating fetus widgets and lists of 25 reasons why they love their perfect, manly husbands soooooo much (even though I'm preeeeetty sure I saw him in the family Suburban/Sienna/Land Rover cruising Fairmont and/or Sugarhouse Park last night). I'm really hoping that Holtywood isn't obnoxious and fake and shitty like that - please tell me if it ever is. Actually, much of the time I blog when things are not going well, as it makes me feel better to bitch publically about whatever has pissed me off. I've even dedicated the posting label "fuh" to neatly categorize my bitching, which currently contains 61 posts. (And I can guarantee that by the time Paddy turns three the "fuh" count will be over 100.)
What I'm trying to say is that my neglect of Holtywood actually means that everything is going pretty well around here - we've just been busy. We've been walking (Race for the Cure, after-dinner strolls), gardening (making progress on the backyard tiers, roses are blooming), home improving (wiring through the laundry room ceiling), playing (Thomas the Tank in Heber, zoo, parks), eating (summer patio dining cannot be beat), reading (the very complex memoir called sTORItelling), watching (NBA finals), traveling (Feldwomen Santa Fe Weekend), kicking (Matt is on a community kickball league) and working (Me: 24, Matt: 40+). But don't fret, Liz, Rachel and Grandma, I'll post some pics of some of the above activities soon. You can stop worrying now. We're fine. In fact, we're PERFECT and BLESSED and LIFE IS JUST SO SERIOUSLY AWESOME. In case you didn't know.
*If you want, I will privately send you links to the worst offenders of these types of blogs. Be warned: you may barf on your keyboard.
In honor of Mother's Day, I snagged the following greetings from my all-time favorite site. My dark sense of humor enjoys them immensely. They really are a nice departure from all the trite, sappy, nauseating cards that are available, don't you think? I've put an asterisk next to the ones I expect Paddy will send me one day. Happy Mother's Day!
Mom, thanks for 17 years of you're: too fat, a smart-ass, not beautiful like your siblings. Unwittingly, you prepared me for corporate life.
Happy Mother's Day. Thanks for loving me just a little more than the family dog.*
Happy "I Know I Was an Accident and Ruined Your Life Day".
Happy Mother's Day from the one child who disappoints you all year.
Happy Mother's Day, thanks for being so lax in keeping track of your vicodin.
In lieu of a headstone, Mom, I want to memorialize you with the finest R.I.P. adhesive car window cling that money can buy.*
Happy Mother's Day to the woman who single-handedly convinced me that motherhood really isn't for me.
Happy Mother's Day. We sure looked cute when we gave you post-partum depression, didn't we?*
Mom, it's nice to see that your crippling agoraphobic depression hasn't dissuaded your anticipatory excitement for brunch!
Mom, you can stop covering for Dad's alcoholism now.
When I say Happy Mother's Day, I really mean Happy Judgmental Nagging Bitch Day.*
Happy Mother's day to a woman who rendered my husband incapable of taking care of himself or me.
As to not waste a holiday, I'd like to wish you, the most flamboyant of my gay dads, a Happy Mother's Day.
Thanks for being a wonderful mother and always supporting me in every decision you ever made for me.*
Thanks for not holding it against me for coming into the world ass first! Happy Mother's Day!
Happy Mother's Day to the woman who ruined my son's life.
Happy Mother's Day to a new mom who still somehow has a better body than me.
Happy Mother's Day, now please send me addresses for the potential Father's Day cards.
Subject: hi again!
Hi there,Just realized I should have offered you a piece of gum in the car. I think I didn't b/c we were so busy talking.
Sorry!Lunch was fun.
Love you!
This past weekend, I shot some footage of Patrick reading his Curious George book because I wanted to show you all what an awesome talker/storyteller he is. (Okay, okay, he's not this good, but for two years old, he's pretty damn good). But, my little plan backfired. Karma sensed that I was getting ready to brag about Patrick and only allowed me to get the following two non-reading instances recorded. Please stay tuned for the videos I like to call "The I'm-On-Camera-So-I'd-Better-Squint-My-Eyes Pose" and "Hang On, George, Let Me Just Tilt to the Side While I Poop"
Yesterday, after a rough Monday back at work (as our PR Director noted, the office was on its second pot of coffee by 9:30 a.m. - not a good sign), I was more than eager to pick up Paddy from school at the day's end. This is who greeted me with a big, "Mommy!"
Apparently, that afternoon his adorable teacher April had styled the hair of all the little girls in his class, and Paddy was very verbal about the fact that he wanted in on that action, damn it! So, he was given the two little topknots you see above. He was very proud of his new 'do. He went around saying "two ponytails" throughout the evening. I let him wear them for most of the night, until we decided to take a little walk up the street. I mean, I try to be open-minded about stuff like this, which I should be, considering that in my women's studies heyday I was denouncing THE MAN'S oppressive gender roles every chance I got, but last night I just didn't have the energy to deal with the neighborhood toddler bullies calling Paddy a sissy.* And so, out came the ponytails. They were cute while they lasted, but don't worry all you ponytail fans out there, I have a sneaking suspicion that we will see them again this summer. Girls outnumber boys in Paddy's class two to one.
*I'll just leave that for Weston to do in the comment section below.
