I’m not sorry

Growing up, I had a great uncle who was a millionaire. He lived out of state and we only saw him every few years, so this relationship generally translated to terrifying dinners at restaurants without children’s menus and occasional dog-sitting for his two full-sized poodles, Spike and Spikeson, while he and my grandmother went for a swim in the hotel pool.

I honestly have no idea where my parents were during these dog-sitting rendezvouses—I can’t really imagine my grandma and great uncle willingly being like, “For sure, we would love to have this awkward pre-teen hang around while we catch up after years apart!” Chances are, I forced myself upon them, because I found my Uncle Jim super glamorous, not so much because of his money, but because he had written and published a book. It was a book about business, and it was self-published, but dammit, he was an author, which was what I wanted to be when I grew up. Along with the lead singer of The Bangles. And also Jem.

It was during one of these outings to the hotel that I remember having a very short conversation with Uncle Jim. I can’t even really remember what it was about, but I do remember him saying “You can’t make everyone happy all the time.”

To which I responded, with great dignity, “No. But I can try.

And I did. Try, I mean. I actually completely failed at the making everyone happy part. But no one can say I didn’t try.

I don’t know why or how I turned into such a people pleaser. I do enjoy making other people happy, but I also love basking in the knowledge that, for the most part, I am universally well liked. (There is, I should point out, about 10% of the population that has a violent reaction of hatred toward me, which I can’t really explain. Is it my awesomeness? Or do they just have the ability to see through my bullshit?) I feel confident that if I died right now, my tombstone would read “I liked her, she was nice.”

But trying to make everybody happy means often neglecting your own happiness, it turns out—a lesson I learned the same night as the conversation at the hotel, when, in an effort to impress my uncle, I ate a cow’s pancreas and nearly had a mental breakdown over its awfulness. It was a scene that would play out again and again during the course of my life, though usually with less pancreas. Other people’s happiness became what made me happy.

So for now, I’m going to try an experiment—I’m going to try to find out what actually makes me happy. I suspect it might be copious amounts of television and pizza? It’s definitely not pancreas. But whatever it is, I want to find it, and I want to worry less about whether what I’m doing is making other people happy.

(–she said, while secretly worrying that everyone was going to be offended when they read this, and assume it was about them, because that’s what she would do. But then she remembered that creepy Madonna video where she was covered in latex and wearing cornrows for some reason? And she allowed it to be her new anthem. For now. Along with “Milkshake,” by Kelis.)

Quite the Week

Without going into details, I have been having what can only be described as Quite the Week.

It’s weeks like this that make me lay in bed awake at night, thinking of weeks past that I thought had gone poorly, and just laugh and laugh and laugh at my former self that thought her worst week was the week that she felt left out at a putt-putt golf outing, or the week she accidentally befriended a homeless person and then accidentally helped him commit a crime. (That actually happened. That week was also very intense.)

But the problem now is that, as I believe I have mentioned before but am too lazy to go back into my archives and link to, I have completely and totally lost the ability to relax. Never exactly a laid-back person to begin with, having children and a stressful job has pretty much rid me of all vestiges of the ability to just chill the fuck out.

I mean, I know what I am supposed to do, in theory– lay down! Read a book! Take a bath! Drink too much beer and stalk old friends on Facebook! But when I try to do those things, a very loud and persistent alarm immediately begins sounding in my head: WARNING! WARNING! LAUNDRY IS GOING UNFOLDED AND I GUESS YOU FORGOT YOUR EMPLOYEE REVIEWS WERE DUE TODAY WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM WHY ARE YOU LYING DOWN ARE YOU DYING BECAUSE YOU CAN NEVER LAY DOWN AGAIN UNTIL YOU DIE!

(I just now remembered when writing that review that my employee reviews really are due today. That’s distressing.)

I’m assuming I can’t be the only person who lost the ability to chillax upon entering adulthood. Otherwise, there would be no bitter, Type-A women to unthaw with ukulele music in romantic comedies. Is there anyone among you who found your way back to relaxation? Can you tell me the path? Do they sell wine on the path? Is wine the path?

All snakes and no kittens

Because I am a sophisticated lady, one of my all-time favorite movies is Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. I learned a lot of valuable lessons from that movie—about bicycles, about perseverance, about the Alamo—but the one scene that has always stuck with me throughout my life is the scene in which Pee Wee encounters a pet store that’s on fire. One by one, he rescues each and every animal in the store, pausing momentarily in front of a tank full of snakes each time he exits. Finally, once all the cuter animals have been saved, he has no choice but to go back for the snakes.

pee wee

I no joke use this scene as a metaphor for my life at least once a week. And judging from the reaction I get every time, I am literally the only person on earth that has ever seen this movie, but trust me, guys, it is fucking hilarious, and it’s on Netflix right now, so go check it out and then come back.

I can wait.

Okay, you’re back? You loved it? You fully understand why a woman with a master’s degree would connect with this movie on such a deep level and use examples from it to relate to her every day life? I figured you would. You just get it.

Anyway, lately, I’ve been feeling like my life is all snakes and no kittens. It seems like I’ve done all the easy things already, and just left behind a squirming mass of bills to pay and birthday parties to plan and floors to somehow chisel dried raspberries off of and projects at work that require both dedication and a deadened soul.

And I know it all has to get done—snakes, kittens, all of it—and that it makes sense to just get the snakes out of the way first, but you guys, the pet store is burning down, and I do not want to waste time saving snakes if it means that a bunch of kittens are gonna die. So I go for kittens first every time, even though it means I inevitably fall prey to times like this, when all that’s left are the snakes.

How do you deal with situations like this? Are you the responsible type that will save the snakes first? If so, how do you feel knowing that there might be a bunch of dead kittens because of you? And fellow kitten-savers—how do you dig yourself out when all you have left is snakes?

Leave your responses in the comments—tell ‘em Large Marge sent you.

(You would get that joke if you had gone and watched the movie like I said. Liar.)

The Great Potato Fire

When Ben goes out of town, I generally eat only two things for dinner– Panera Thai chopped chicken salad, or Manwich sloppy joes. The Panera salad would be my number one choice at all times, as I love restaurants but hate buying gigantic pants, so the salad is a good compromise, but it is also fairly expensive, so I have to limit myself. Which leaves me with the Manwich, because I never learned how to cook, and sloppy joes push my culinary skills to the max.

My mother tried to teach me, but I just wasn’t interested. Why learn to cook, when food could just magically appear when someone else cooked it? And as a very anxious person, I tend to worry far too much about cooking to actually enjoy the process– what if I’m doing it wrong? What if this tastes disgusting? What if I poison someone with my inferiorly prepared chicken breast?

But I think the true reason I steer clear of cooking is The Great Potato Fire of 2001.

Allow me to set the scene– it was the end of my first semester in graduate school. My roommate had just moved out, taking with her all of the furniture and the means to pay the cable bill, so I was sitting on the floor in the living room in my pajamas at 3 pm on a Wednesday, sewing a sock monkey as a Christmas present and watching a video cassette of The Mikado that I had gotten from the library. You know, as one does from time to time. I was hungry, but I had no money– and not the “oh, I couldn’t possibly afford sushi and sake!” kind of no money, but the “it’s cool to use washcloths as toilet paper until I can afford to buy more as long as I wash them, right?” kind.

There was no money. But there was a potato.

One big, fat, perfect potato. The kind of potato that begs you to give its worthless existence some meaning by turning it into french fries.

Where I got the idea that I knew how to prepare french fries, I have no idea. I guess when you have no furniture and you’re watching light opera in your pajamas on a weekday afternoon, you develop a sort of hubris that you wouldn’t normally exhibit out in the world. But I went to work, carefully slicing the potato into fries, warming oil on the stove, sliding the potatoes into the pan. Yes, yes! This was all going according to plan! I can cook! Someone call my mom!

I had vague memories of my dad making fries in the Fry Daddy when I was growing up, and it didn’t seem like you needed to stand guard over the Fry Daddy at all times. So I went to check my e-mail.

This, in hindsight, may have been a mistake.

It only took a few minutes before I noticed that something seemed wrong. At first, it was almost imperceptible– the air just started to feel oily, as if I had chosen to skip eating the french fries and intended to inhale them in vapor form instead (a not altogether unpleasant experience– someone call the vape people and get them on this!). By the time I thought to investigate, the vapor had evolved into a white, voluminous smoke– a smoke that turned tornado gray and then erupted into flames before I even made it all the way to the stove.

I had finally done it. I had set my kitchen on fire.

Unsure of how to proceed, but unwilling to die in my pajamas surrounded by sock monkey detritus, I sprinted into the parking lot and began screaming for help. As luck would have it, the maintenance man just happened to be out doing his rounds, and he trotted over, much more slowly than one would hope when one is standing in a parking lot screaming for help. Upon surveying the situation, he calmly opened the cabinet under my sink, removed the fire extinguisher that apparently had been there all along, and put the fire out, simultaneously saving my life and robbing me of the only opportunity I had ever had to use a fire extinguisher under legitimate circumstances.

“There you go,” he said. “Enjoy your day.”

After he departed, I surveyed the damage. The walls behind the stove were scorched black, and the stove itself was enveloped in the pinkish-white foam of the fire extinguisher. I looked forlornly at the cremains of my last potato, swimming in rapidly congealing grease and foam. I had no money. I had no potato. And now I had a giant mess. That I was going to have to clean up myself.

I thought for a moment of simply abandoning the apartment, allowing it to be annexed by the two angry pit bulls that lived next door. But, knowing that if I did so, I would never get my security deposit back (and blissfully unaware in the moment that setting your kitchen on fire pretty much automatically costs you your security deposit, anyway), I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. The pan containing the fries had warped, so rather than try to salvage it, I just carried the whole situation out to the dumpster and threw it in, grease, fries, foam and all. I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning out the nooks and crannies of my stove, and scrubbing (futilely) at the scorch marks on the walls. And in those moments, I learned two very important things:

  1. I had just physically passed through the portal from childhood to adulthood
  2. I was never, ever, ever going to cook anything again if I didn’t absolutely have to

That night, my best friend Ashley took pity on me and bought me a Chick-Fil-A dinner. Soon after, I flew home for Christmas, and when I returned, flush with parent money, I found a second job to ensure that I would always have enough money to keep myself in cereal and restaurant food for the rest of my days.

Ben loves to cook and he is terrific at it, and he has tried to teach me several times, but nothing ever sticks. Maybe if I hadn’t left to check my e-mail the day of the Great Potato Fire, things would have turned out very differently, and I would be a world class cook by now. I like to think that’s true, but honestly, given my attention span, it was never really a question of if I would set the kitchen on fire. It was just a question of when. 

Cool thing

My whole life, I have wanted to be cool.

I tried my hardest to pretend I didn’t. I was aggressively anti-cool. I pretended my haircut was an ironic choice, rather than just a terrible, shitty haircut. I wanted clothes from Abercrombie and Fitch, but I wore men’s XXL t-shirts from K-Mart, because A & F didn’t sell women’s clothes in my size (not that my size was men’s XXL, either). I wanted to be on the homecoming court, despite my lack of a homecoming dress, or homecoming tickets, or, you know, a homecoming date.

And I knew it wasn’t cool to want to be cool. But I still wanted it. In secret.

Over time, the definition of cool changed, but I still wasn’t it. In high school, it was the clothes, and the car, and the parties. In college, I secretly pined to be invited to a sorority, despite my steadfast refusal to attend any rush events or go within 1000 yards of any the sorority dorm. I wanted to be so outsider edgy cool that they would pursue me, like I would be some major get. Surprisingly, this strategy did not work at all, although I did manage to finagle my way into several honorary fraternities, so I have a lifelong network of nerds that were really into English and marching band.

In grad school, it was cool to hate everything that was cool. You would only admit to liking Britney Spears ironically. Your favorite author absolutely could not be Stephen King. Your favorite movie had to be in black and white, and a foreign language. I proudly displayed my collection of Elvis Costello CDs while hiding my vast cache of Smashmouth and KC and the Sunshine Band retrospectives, only admitting to my abiding love of Neil Diamond while absolutely annihilated in a friend’s living room once. (I made everyone listen to “Soolaimon/Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show” on Hot August Night and kept loudly announcing to everyone that “this is where Neil really starts rocking out!”) Now, as a mom, I am supposed to be into yoga, and farm fresh meals for my kids and wooden, not electronic, toys and all organic everything.

And you know what? I’m over it. I’m uncool, and I’m proud.

I enjoy playing games on my phone. I love the song “Barbie Girl.” My favorite movie is “Clue.” The other day, an episode of Jessie made me cry. My clothes all come from Target and Old Navy. I don’t like Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. I don’t understand the popularity of kale and I refuse to figure it out.

It’s okay to fall in love with every one hit wonder. It’s all right to still know every word to Skee-lo’s “I Wish.” It’s even better to teach them to your kids, because kids rapping are badass. It’s fine that you don’t like Akira Kurosawa.

I am never going to be cool. And I’m done trying to fake my way into it. Although I think Ben is getting tired of me asking him to take me to homecoming.

Projects, revisited

As I’ve mentioned in the past, I am a huge fan of projects. Never one to introduce small, incremental changes to my lifestyle, I have always preferred sweeping plans or entirely new regimens. This may explain why I have changed very little since the fifth grade:

fifth grade

Nailed it.

Because to be honest, as much as I love them, the projects very rarely stick. There’s generally a very intense period in which I LIVE, EAT AND BREATHE whatever new project I am embarking on, but inevitably I grow resentful of the project’s hold over my life, or sometimes I just forget I’m doing it one day, and by the time I realize it, I’m like, fuck it, project ruined. Let’s eat.

I outlined my 2016 projects in this earlier post, and at the time, I was really, really into them. But times change, so I thought I’d give you a little update on where things stand now.

  1. Learn Spanish. I have to admit, I did really well with this one until the minute I actually got to Mexico and learned that while the app claimed I was 47% fluent in Spanish, it had only taught me the 47% of words that I would need to talk to a two-year-old. As we were staying at an adults-only resort, I found that there wasn’t really anyone around with whom I could discuss at length the water-drinking habits of local horses, or whether or not my aunt has written a book (she has not).
Capture

I don’t feel like my LinkedIn connections are going to be particularly impressed.

After that, the magic was sort of lost. I pointed out words that I recognized on signs or brochures to Ben with the same zeal that Rosie reserves for informing me that she has farted, but then Ben pointed out that most of those same signs and brochures were also in English. So as of right now, I’m stalled out at 47%, and haven’t logged on since we left Mexico. Maybe I would feel a little more badass if I were 47% fluent in, like, Russian or Japanese, but 47% fluent in Spanish seems a little lame, like there should be a little banner under the 47% badge that just says “You tried.”

2. Learn to Meditate. To be honest, I almost immediately forgot about this one after I blogged about it. Maybe all I had to do to achieve enlightenment was admit that I wanted to learn, and I took an amazing shortcut straight to nirvana? But I kind of don’t think so, because right now my body is made almost entirely of stress and chocolate, so I’m thinking that just saying I wanted to learn meditation didn’t cut it. I may revisit this one once I figure out how to take ten minutes for myself each day without Rosie blowing up a building to get my attention.

3. Lose 30 pounds. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA no.

I’ve been kicking around some new project ideas in my head, but nothing has really jumped out at me yet– I still want to do everything listed above, but the thrill is kind of gone. I do feel like I deserve some sort of award for keeping my blog going as long as I have– this definitely counts as a project, right?

86104-random-pictures-thread-only-rule-post-here-more-entertain-me-3uadrl

Geez, you don’t have to be so sarcastic about it, Christian Bale.

So what do you think? Any projects worth sticking to? Any to dump? Any new to start? Who knows– you might be the one who suggests the project that could finally change my life.

Or at least 47% of it.

Rise and shine and then lay back down indefinitely

Society perpetuates so many lies in order to keep our species thriving—“Have kids!” they say. “It’ll be so fun!” they say. “It won’t be weird at all to have sex with your husband while your two children may or may not be asleep less than 15 feet away in their own rooms, and could easily walk in at any time, scarring everyone for life and requiring years of costly therapy!”

But to me, the biggest, most unforgivable lie of all was this:

You’ll get so used to getting up early that you won’t be able to sleep in anymore!

Perhaps this is true of normal people. Clearly, someone is getting up earlier than me, and getting to the doughnut shop and taking all the good doughnuts before I can even get there, but fuck that guy, because while he was up at the butt crack of dawn to commune with Satan or whatever it is people do before 6:30 a.m., I was catching those sweet, sweet Z’s, which have far fewer calories than doughnuts. Although now that you mention it, I would like a doughnut, too, please.

I will never not be able to sleep in. I am like a black belt at sleeping in.

My children, however, are not.

It’s been five years, and I keep waiting for that day to arrive when I finally spring from bed without prodding at 5:30 in the morning, smiling and ready to face the day. “I couldn’t possibly have slept another second!” I will say to myself. “Thank God it’s finally time to get out of this amazingly comfortable sleep nest I have built for myself out of comforters and pillows and head out into the world where people will insist on interacting with me!”

But amazingly, this day has not yet come.

I was promised it would. People pointed at the elderly as examples. “My grandparents get up every morning at 4 and head over to the local McDonald’s to drink coffee with their friends!” But what they often leave out is that their grandparents also tend to go to bed at 7:30 at night, and even then I say they are missing out on at least another three good hours of sleep in this scenario.

And besides, grandparents are also famous for not understanding the internet and awkwardly referring to African Americans as colored people, so we may not exactly want to be modeling ourselves after them.

I really would like to become a morning person—getting up earlier would give me another few minutes to myself each day, to exercise, or write, or eat my aforementioned doughnut without having to share it with anyone. But no matter what I try—moving my alarm clock across the room, refusing to allow a snooze option, setting it for 40 minutes before I would usually get up—I always find a way to sneak back into bed until the last possible second.

I’m just really trying to ride it out until my daughters hit the teen years, when I will easily be able to sleep in until 10 every Saturday and still make them feel guilty for not getting up until noon. Until then, does anyone have any good tips to get me out of bed a little earlier? Or better yet, would anyone be interested in a job as my personal waker-upper, forcibly dragging me out of bed at the appointed hour? I won’t be able to pay much, but you can use my bed nest when I’m done with it. I’ll even warm it up for you, if you just let me lay here five more minutes.

Porn for Moms

You walk in the door after a long day in the office. Your feet hurt. Your knees hurt. Somehow, your pants grew teeth at the waist and are biting into you. Exhausted, you drop your purse on the kitchen table and stand still for a moment, just listening. What is that sound?

Oh my God. Is that—

Silence?

Yeahhhhhhhh, baby, you’re all alone in the house on a weeknight.

You check all the rooms, one at a time, just to make sure you’re not imagining things. And not only are they empty—

They’re also already clean.

The bed’s made. Floor’s swept. The smell of lemon Pledge hangs in the air.

Oooooooh, yes. There is nothing left for you to do except relax.

But surely there’s some laundry that needs folded in the basement? Or a litter box to scoop? This all just seems a little too good to be true. Are the kids down there, hiding in silence and waiting to leap out from behind the easel and scare you just enough to release that tiny bit of pee you always seem to have hanging out in your bladder?

What the what? Someone came down here and redid the basement playroom and now it looks like a Pinterest wet dream and everything is neatly stored in a wicker basket lined with jaunty fabric and there’s no permanent marker on anything and it doesn’t smell like cat poop anymore, just fresh air and grapefruits?

Unnnnnnnngh.

Back upstairs, you find a thin-crust pepperoni pizza at the perfect temperature for eating, a rare break from the molten lava face-jam that is eating pizza with your kids. You think about changing into your pajamas, but before you even have a chance, you look down and realize that somehow, you’re already wearing your comfiest yoga pants and softest lounge-around shirt. Your bra is gone, but your boobs somehow levitate anyway. What is this witchcraft?

You transfer the pizza to an actual plate, not something with poorly sized dividers, and carry it down to the living room, where the TV is already set to Netflix and there’s not one educational Canadian cartoon in your recommendations, only thought-provoking documentaries about social injustice, and also new episodes of My 600-Pound Life.

You settle in under your favorite down throw on the couch and prepare for the night of your life. The first episode of Making a Murderer begins to play. And then you fall asleep. And your pizza falls on the floor. Face down.

And you’re going to have to clean that up in the morning.

Megan the Mighty

This is my best friend, Megan. You should all feel sorry for yourselves that she’s my best friend, and not yours.

12813906_1013751078690005_4561286868056050909_n

Megan became my best friend when I still looked like this:

1399629_10151751036787611_94153595_o

Luckily, my friends still let me hang out with them even though I looked like an elephant seal.

So I know our friendship is legit, even though when she first moved to Aurora in the seventh grade, I was deeply entrenched in my World’s Worst Personality phase, which involved slapping people on the forehead when they said something I perceived to be stupid (i.e., everything) and generally being insufferable. Thankfully, she gave me a second chance, because I don’t know where I’d be without Megan today.

While I was off getting my college degree in Writing Funny Stories About Marching Band, Megan was majoring in physics and generally being badass. She figured out fashion before I did, got a boyfriend before I did, got a kickass job and married and had kids before I did. She was—and is—my role model, someone I look up to every day.

She is also my sounding board, my etiquette advisor, my professional coach and my secret keeper. Even though she lives eight hours away in Virginia, I feel like she’s always with me—for my greatest triumphs and my most ignominious defeats (both of which usually involve my children, surprisingly enough). We have helped each other dress for our weddings and we’ve used the jets of a Jacuzzi tub to wash vomit off a car seat. We’ve been to inaugurations with our husbands and prom with each other.

If I could fold up West Virginia and drag our houses right next door to each other, I would. Or I would build a teleporter, so Megan could materialize whenever I need someone to drive around aimlessly with, singing our own special parts to old Hootie and the Blowfish songs and wondering what we’re going to be when we finally grow up.

I hope everyone is lucky enough to have a best friend as cool as Megan. But who is not actually Megan. Because Megan is mine. Get your own*.

*Except Angela and Wittnie, I’m happy to share with you guys.

Operation: Kill Siri

Our children were bored today. You can tell when they’re bored, because instead of just destroying one small corner of the house, they go ahead and level the whole thing, unleashing what could only be described as a literal dirty bomb. Apparently the only thing that can relieve the sort of soul-deadening malaise they experience when Mommy and Daddy have to stop entertaining them for ten minutes is to drag out every single thing they’ve ever owned, inspect it, find it lacking, and discard it as far away from its original storage space as possible.

It would be easy for me to say that I never get bored– how can I, after all, when the children so thoughtfully provide me with so much cleaning to take care of?– and to be honest, I feel like at its heart, that’s true. When I’m not working, I’m taking care of the girls, or grabbing the rare adult conversation with my husband, or getting ready for the next day. I’ve added blogging and learning Spanish into the mix, so one would think I wouldn’t have a second to spare on being bored.

And I don’t, really, and yet somehow I’ve found a way to allow myself to get sucked into my phone, Tron-style, for hours every night for the past couple of weeks. It comes at the expense of sleep, of catching up on shows on which I’m woefully behind (NO ONE SPOIL IF IT TURNS OUT OJ KILLED NICOLE!), of reading and cross-stitching and sometimes, even those aforementioned rare and wonderful adult conversations. It’s like I spend so long every day in the “on” position that I’ve come to need that phone time to wind down.

But it doesn’t really count as winding down if you stay up until 2 am doing it.

I think I’ve somehow become on of those people that everyone hates– the phone addict. And I’m not even using it to do anything cool, like Instagram the Frosted Mini-Wheats I’ve eaten for dinner for the last week straight since Ben’s been out of town. It’s just an endless cycles between Facebook, Buzzfeed, Best Fiends (I am appalled at how many times I have mentioned Best Fiends on this blog, tbh) and, dorkily, Wikipedia, which I generally use to prove people wrong when I do manage to have a conversation with someone over the age of five.

So tonight, I’m going to start yet another new project– because honestly, I let the whole drinking water project just completely deteriorate, and I’m not getting all of my moisture from Oreo middles. The project itself is deceptively simple– stop looking at my damn phone. But I think it’s going to be a lot harder than it sounds,  which is embarrassing to admit. I’ve already moved my phone charger to the other side of my bedroom, so I won’t be able to gaze lovingly at Buzzfeed’s “19 Pictures That Only Make Sense if You’re a Professional Skateboarder With Only One Leg” article, which I will read while scratching my head and saying NONE OF THESE PICTURES MAKE ANY SENSE! When I get home, my phone will just stay in my purse, which will also solve the age-old problem of never knowing where my fucking phone is.

How will I fill the hours that the phone leaves behind? Hopefully with sleep, honestly. Some good conversation, a new book. I’ll be woefully behind on the world of random lists and pictures of celebrities that look like animals (I’m looking at you, otter Benedict Cumberbatch). But I do know one thing– I’ll never be bored.