Bask in the Fat

As a parent, I feel that one of my biggest responsibilities is to instill in my kids an innate desire to be...curious.

About everything.

Of course, I don't want to belittle the importance of teaching kids other critical lessons such as the perfect way to boil an egg, how to fast-forward through commercials on TiVo and stop it precisely as the show starts again, and, of course, the proper techniques of delivering an effective dutch oven.

You know: life skills.

But this curiosity thing drives me. I feel like I'm constantly kicking the kids out of the house and locking the door behind them, telling them, "I don't care what you do, but you're not staying inside to slowly morph into one with the couch, so figure it out." Of course, inevitably, and no matter how much whining there might be (i.e. a lot), they end up have a great time exploring, spying, play-acting, etc.

But one way in which this curiosity drive formally manifests itself is through their organized extracurricular activities. We have a rule in our house: only one sports/extracurricular activity at a time with as little overlap as possible. It can be the same series of activities (soccer, softball, etc.), or something new each time - we don't force the kids into anything they don't want to do, but we want them to want to do something. Anything. In the end, our oldest constantly has a list of things she wants to do and try, but our youngest, McKenna, definitively stated last year, "I don't want to do anything."

Hmm. OK, I understand the ridiculous oppressive dangers of scheduling everything for kids, but I needed to understand better what she wanted to do instead.

"I just want to sit on the couch and do NOTHING."

OK, no. I explained to her that she didn't have to follow in her older sister's footsteps down the sporting route - she could do anything that interests her at all - maybe something that another friend was interested in. I went through a list of ideas to see if anything peaked her interest...

"Art?"
"No."
"Gymnastics?"
"No."
"Entomology?"
"No!"
"Phrenology?"
"No!"
"Spelunking?"
"I said I don't want to do ANYTHING!!!"

Hey, I would be fine with this if she instead was out in our court playing with friends, designing a treehouse in the backyard, searching for a cure for irritable bowel syndrome in our laboratory... But no, she only wanted to do "nothing."

Then I remembered she had a propensity for dancing... There were times when I'd have the stereo on and she would break out with her own version of ballet, or, if I was playing some swing, her own (glorious) version of that. One day when she was in a particularly good mood, I proposed it to her.

"Would you be interested in taking some dance classes? I found one that teaches ballet and tap in the same class once a week - all with girls your own age."

She pondered this. "Would I have to wear pink leotards and a skirt?"

I pondered this. "Do you want to wear pink leotards and a skirt?"

She looked at me like I was daft, "Yes, of course!"

"Then absolutely!"

So I signed her up, got her the leotards, the skirt, the tap shoes, the ballet shoes, the tights, the hair ribbons...and started taking her to the studio each week. The only problem was that the studio was a 35 minute drive on a Thursday night in traffic across town for a class of 7 year olds that didn't end until 8:30. It was a commitment. We couldn't simply drop her off and they didn't allow parents to watch the classes, which meant 60+ minutes of driving time each week and another hour reading in the parking lot on a weeknight.

Still, we were happy that she was at least pushing her boundaries and trying something new.

On that first night, she was nervous. When she finally emerged from class, she saw me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me out to the car - unsmiling.

"How was it?" I asked, expecting her to rave about how much fun it was and how cool her teacher was.

"I don't want to talk about it," she stated with tight lips and a frown.

I was a little worried. "Did something happen? You didn't like it?"

"No! I liked it! I just don't want to talk about it!"

OK. OK. I get it. She was self conscious - fine. As long as she was having fun. But of course the second we got home, Paige and Reese asked her the same thing, and they both got the same answer: stay outta my bidniss.

So the weeks went on. Every week I would drive her - in silence, sit in the car while she was in class, ask her how it went, and get the same irritated response. We knew she struggled with this type of attention and feedback, but this was getting ridiculous. On top of this, she refused to show us any dance moves she was learning, talk about any of the kids she was befriending, or tell us her teacher's name or anything about her experiences. It was annoying, but...we were happy she was doing something, anything...

A few months go by and then we get word that there will be a dance recital. Finally - we will get to see the fruit of our monetary, time and emotional commitments! But McKenna headed us off at the pass and told us she didn't want to do the recital. We didn't push it, knowing that it was likely she'd change her mind if she didn't feel the pressure from us, and sure enough, a week before the recital she proclaimed she suddenly wanted to do it. Of course, because it had to be on her terms, and in her mind this was the way she maintained control rather than the teacher, her parents or anyone else.

On her last practice before the recital - in which our extended families had already committed (and paid!) to come - I helped her get in the car and she sat there in the back seat tightly gripping her recital costume in silence. With the excitement of the impending event just a couple days away, I had to try again...

"So...how did class go? Are you ready for the show?"

She glared at me. "AAAAAAA! I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!!!"

So, yes...I lost it.

"Look!" I began...blood pressure surging, brow furrowing, bowels clenching, "THIS HAS GOT TO STOP!" I proceeded to soliloquize the commitment that others were undertaking so that she could continue to dance: the hour drives in traffic every Thursday night, sitting in the car while she danced, the money we were spending on the classes, clothes and shoes...and that we were doing this because we loved her and simply wanted her to have the opportunity to try new things, explore new avenues, learn new things about herself.

"You need to understand," I said strongly, "that every time I ask you about your experience, it's not because I'm trying to get you angry; I AM TRULY INTERESTED IN YOUR HAPPINESS. So when you brush me off so rudely and coldly, it not only hurts, but it makes me question WHY Mom and I are spending the money, the time and the effort to bend over backwards to do this for you!"

My long speech and harsh tone hung in the air like a swimmer dying slowly in an Olympic sized pool filled with flesh-eating bacteria.

I was pissed. Frustrated. Hurt and angry. But as I slowly calmed down and began to breath normally again, the silence continued... Suddenly my anger returned. How could she sit there and listen to all of that and STILL ignore me? This was unacceptable. We NEEDED to talk about this. NOW.

"WELL?!?!" I asked in my best Ted Knight impersonation, "I'M WAITING!"

She crossed her legs, looked out the window and said, "Dad, guess what? In class today the teacher had us get on our costumes and mine is so cool, we have to wear our hair in ponytails with a ribbon and we even got socks that we get to keep and I'm the the only person who knows all the dance moves perfectly and..."

My head was spinning...I couldn't exactly assimilate what I was hearing. Was she actually IGNORING my speech? Was she actually attempting to NOT address our concerns? Was this her way of slyly sneaking past these nearly insurmountable problems?!

My first reaction was, "HELL YES SHE IS!" But then I was hit with another thought... Wait a second, it wasn't that she was avoiding the concerns...she was actually addressing them head on. Although I realized I was the one that needed to "talk" about the problem, she instead went right to the "fixing" of the problem. No bullshit. No circular discussions. No accusations or admissions and denials of guilt.

This was actually brilliant.

We each got exactly what we needed: me - having her share her experiences, and her - not having to have to talk about the process of sharing her experiences. Her solution was direct and to the point - cut out the fat, eliminate the MSG, and get right to the meat. And from that moment on, she proactively shared with us - everything: her experiences, her dance moves, her friends... We were both satisfied, and I was once again reminded how eye-opening it is to learn something new about yourself from your kids.

Of course, getting right to the meat isn't always so satisfying... We saw it this week as the tribe cut out the b.s. and went right for the self-proclaimed "King:" Brenda. Now, with Marty and Brenda gone, who really is left to care about? Nobody. Is it satisfying to see someone get what's coming to them? Sure, but in the long run, it's absolutely horrifying.

In fact, that's been the biggest problem with Survivor over these 21 seasons. More often than not tribes figure out a way to cut right to the meat and get rid of the strongest, the smartest, the craftiest, yes: the most interesting players in the game in order to keep themselves alive. The problem is that what's leftover is DEAD WEIGHT. Inevitably it means we'll see a tribal council with idiot vs. loser, or worse: idiot vs. loser vs. someone who by shear willpower and studliness somehow makes it to the finale, only to get trounced by the other two during the imbecilic voting.

So when Brenda refused to stand up for herself and *gasp!* "scramble" to stay alive, fine. You suck, and - why again did you even agree to come on Survivor? The whole point of the game is to do everything you possibly can to WIN. She gave up.

Still, the thought of a final two with Purpletarded Kelly and balsa-kneed Dan makes me cringe. We deserve better than this.

Ultimately, while it's OK for a child to ignore the delicious fat and superfluous seasonings to get right to the meat, the life worth living is one that basks in the fat. Plays with it. Appreciates it. Uses it sparingly, but isn't afraid to nibble it at times, or rub the melted, rendered mess all over their naked bodies in pure acts of self aggrandizement at others.

SNL's parody: A good balance of lean and "fat..."

I don't watch Survivor to learn something about myself.

I watch it for the fat.

Gimme more fat.


Bask in the fat.

Don't Forget the Tzatziki

We were heading from the southeast coastal town of Brindisi, Italy to Patras, Greece across the Ionian Sea: a redeye 20+ hour boat ride departing just after lunchtime. Although the boat had multiple classes, it appeared there would be nothing for the first and second-class stewards to do since the entire group of 15-20 travelers (mostly in our twenties) headed straight for the belly of the ship and the inexpensive third class area.

We were half expecting to have to brave the long trip banished to the decks due to how cheap our fares had been, but thankfully we were led deep underneath the boat to a warm room laden with airplane-like seats and a few tables. Twenty hours to go and nowhere to lie down save for the floor under the tables due to the fact that the chairs were bolted in and wouldn’t recline in the least. But hey, at least it wasn’t a chicken-bus/boat.

We were reassured when we saw the showers on board and hit the snack bar just before setting off to find that they indeed sold beer. We’d be able to make this work for sure. We sliced open a huge cured sausage that we’d packed in our bags back in Rome, toasted our beers to the next 20 hours, and smiled in confidence and comfort.

Then we started moving.

Directly into a fierce lightning/rain storm.

It appeared that I had spoken too soon.

The boat was rocking and swaying so much that everything on our table was swiftly swept off in a single movement. Before we could finish our first beer, three passengers had run out of the room in merciless bouts of vomiting. Not a good sign. Neither Paige nor I had ever been seasick before, and although we weren’t too worried about it, the thought of actually getting sick became more of a frightening reality as each passenger ran from the room with their hands up to their mouths in an attempt to make it out to the bathrooms or deck.

Paige fell first. One moment she was OK, taking her turn on our mini Italian travel Scrabble board, and the next she was running from the room like a madwoman. Twenty minutes later when she still hadn’t come back I ventured out to try to find her, eventually encountering her at the rail on deck in the dark, immersed in the cold beating wind and booming thunder. The boat was rocking so much that I could barely walk straight and had to keep my balance by holding the walls. She couldn’t talk properly and was in horrible shape, having vomited nonstop for the duration of her time out there, wet and chilled to the bone. I asked her if she felt like she could make it inside if I helped her, and she feebly groaned “uh-huh.”

She stayed in for almost ten minutes before suddenly finding enough energy to run helter-skelter from the room back out to the deck. I felt horrible for her, but so far I was not feeling seasick in the least. At that point, all other fifteen people in our room had fallen, and the animated conversation that had circulated loudly prior to our departure had changed to the sound of crashing waves, creaking boat and an occasional moan.

I immediately joined Paige out on the deck with all our coats in tow, my scarf and anything else I thought could keep her warm. She couldn’t stop vomiting and had no intention of trying to get back inside only to have to run right back out here again. Better to stay where she could let it go when it came.

And it came. Often.

I went back inside and laid down in an insanely cramped space underneath a table, intending to go back out in a few minutes to continue checking on her. But instead, I unexpectedly drifted off to sleep. I woke with a start, realizing what I had done and looked around to make sure Paige had come back in.

She was not in the room.

I looked at my watch – two hours had gone by since I had returned inside. Visions of Paige being swept overboard in a huge gust of wind and crashing waves entered my mind as I ran out to the deck.

She wasn’t there.

My heart jumped into my throat as I expected the worse, but as I turned to go back inside and scour the ship, I noticed a heap of clothes on the wet deck next to the wall. It was Paige, crumpled up in a soggy ball.

When I got to her she was shivering beyond control and nearly catatonic. Her mouth was chattering so much that her weak words came out in staccato form. As I carried her back inside, she explained that the wind, rain and lightning were so bad that at one point in her non-stop vomiting, an especially evil gust of wind blew her own vomit right back into her face. At that point she retired to lie on the wet deck and vomit freely in puddles around her, uncaring about anything except getting through this. She must have passed out or dozed off or entered some freaky state of unconsciousness because she didn’t remember anything until I came to get her.

Back inside, I made up her sleeping bag, got her into some dry clothes and tucked her in, placing Pink Floyd’s “Animals” on our CD player and sticking the earphones in her ears. She moved her lips with an inaudible “thank you” as she closed her eyes and slowly stopped shivering through infrequent bouts of jerking. I crawled back under the table, marveling at the insane rocking of the boat and the sound of the fury outside. It was amazing to me how this thing stayed afloat.

About fifteen hours into our trip, the storm finally passed. I don’t think anyone even noticed, however, because by that time they were all fatigued and drained of any remaining energy...or food. When the sun started coming through the windows, I quietly got up and headed for the bathroom. I was not surprised to see each one of the toilet bowl rims, the surrounding floor, and even the dimly lit walls caked in barf.

I’m not saying that made the sight any easier to experience, it was just an observation.

When Paige woke, she weakly explained that she thankfully felt better, although she had had one final vomit bout in the nearby garbage can sometime in the middle of the night. At that point, she remembered briefly considering going back out to the deck, recalling her barf-in-the-face and deck-puddlin’ vomiting episodes, and decided, “Screw it, the garbage can would be just fine.” I supported her decision.

As I looked around, I honestly thought some of the other passengers were dead. Not a single other person even stirred until there was an announcement over the intercom about our arrival. Their asses were sufficiently kicked.

Paige was doing remarkably well, considering that she had vomited and dry heaved nearly 50 times, and felt like she could handle her pack and walk OK by herself. We strapped on our packs and headed upstairs to see a strangely beautiful day on the heels of such a horrendous night, surprisingly hungry…and already smelling gyros…

By this time Paige was getting a little loopy – it had now been longer than 24 hours since she’d eaten. And it had been over 23 hours since she’d even had anything at all in her stomach. And what food she did have was now digesting in the stomachs of sea creatures deep in the Mediterranean or crustily drying on the deck of the boat and the sides of her face.

In the true spirit of Egyptian street vendors, we found a small little alcove down the block and ducked inside to point at food we wanted. The lady behind the counter wrapped us up a couple of amazing gyros, bursting at the seems with crispy pork slices, thick onions, fries, tomatoes and tzatziki sauce and wrapped in a fresh fat pita. Unbelievably good. We hungrily grabbed our plates and sat out at the sidewalk tables underneath the awnings as the rain started up again and poured onto the street right next to us.

We had survived; solid earth and greasy gyros were our rewards.

This evil vomit story reverberated in my head while I watched this week's Survivor episode. Marty IS a survivor...and yet, it's also been absolutely baffling how he's escaped a rapid departure the past three weeks.

Let's quickly review:

1. His new tribe, in an attempt to get him to play his idol, splits the vote between him and Kelly one-leg (a person, I should point out, that is IN their alliance). When the vote ties, everyone re-votes with the threat that if it's another tie, all other tribe members are on the chopping block. Surely Marty will now get 100% of the vote, right? Instead, in a completely illogical vote - COMPLETELY illogical - Kelly no-leg gets 100% of the vote, and Marty returns to camp with idol intact. Huh? Nice strategy Brenda.
2. In a second attempt to get Marty away from his idol and boot him off, the tribe concocts a plan to simply ask him for the idol as a show of trust, guaranteeing him that he will be safe, and then simply voting him off anyway. Unbelievably it works, and as Marty hands over the idol, we are sure that he has just done one of the all-time stupidest blunders in the game. Instead, powerless and with no alliance to his name, Marty is safe during the vote and Jill gets booted. Huh?
3. After the merge, Marty is STILL the main target - even though he has no idol and no alliance. Jane, in particular despises Marty with every fiber of her North Carolina being - apparently because he didn't befriend her in the beginning or something? Whatever. Still, it looks like a sure thing that he's gone...until Sash expresses remorse in promising Marty the idol back for this tribal, throwing a wrench in the works. However, in the end, Sash KEEPS the idol (huh?), and Marty is spared while nearly-naked Alina gets the boot. HUH?!

Marty is teflon. It will now be anticlimactic if he gets booted unceremoniously. That just can't happen.

Like me, Marty looks at all the carnage caking everything around him, and wonders how and why he was spared. Like me, Marty is thankful, and yet even more relieved that he hasn't had to have his viscous inner soul blown back into his own face by some evil wind. Like me, Marty looks forward to solid ground, and a million dollars (and/or a greasy gyro).

But the real question is, like Paige, will Brenda, DanOnka and Jane end up cold, wet, and catatonic, curdled in their own filth?

This, my friends, is why we watch.

Don't forget the tzatziki. 

Don't Forget the Tzatziki

We were heading from the southeast coastal town of Brindisi, Italy to Patras, Greece across the Ionian Sea: a redeye 20+ hour boat ride departing just after lunchtime. Although the boat had multiple classes, it appeared there would be nothing for the first and second-class stewards to do since the entire group of 15-20 travelers (mostly in our twenties) headed straight for the belly of the ship and the inexpensive third class area.

We were half expecting to have to brave the long trip banished to the decks due to how cheap our fares had been, but thankfully we were led deep underneath the boat to a warm room laden with airplane-like seats and a few tables. Twenty hours to go and nowhere to lie down save for the floor under the tables due to the fact that the chairs were bolted in and wouldn’t recline in the least. But hey, at least it wasn’t a chicken-bus/boat.

We were reassured when we saw the showers on board and hit the snack bar just before setting off to find that they indeed sold beer. We’d be able to make this work for sure. We sliced open a huge cured sausage that we’d packed in our bags back in Rome, toasted our beers to the next 20 hours, and smiled in confidence and comfort.

Then we started moving.

Directly into a fierce lightning/rain storm.

It appeared that I had spoken too soon.

The boat was rocking and swaying so much that everything on our table was swiftly swept off in a single movement. Before we could finish our first beer, three passengers had run out of the room in merciless bouts of vomiting. Not a good sign. Neither Paige nor I had ever been seasick before, and although we weren’t too worried about it, the thought of actually getting sick became more of a frightening reality as each passenger ran from the room with their hands up to their mouths in an attempt to make it out to the bathrooms or deck.

Paige fell first. One moment she was OK, taking her turn on our mini Italian travel Scrabble board, and the next she was running from the room like a madwoman. Twenty minutes later when she still hadn’t come back I ventured out to try to find her, eventually encountering her at the rail on deck in the dark, immersed in the cold beating wind and booming thunder. The boat was rocking so much that I could barely walk straight and had to keep my balance by holding the walls. She couldn’t talk properly and was in horrible shape, having vomited nonstop for the duration of her time out there, wet and chilled to the bone. I asked her if she felt like she could make it inside if I helped her, and she feebly groaned “uh-huh.”

She stayed in for almost ten minutes before suddenly finding enough energy to run helter-skelter from the room back out to the deck. I felt horrible for her, but so far I was not feeling seasick in the least. At that point, all other fifteen people in our room had fallen, and the animated conversation that had circulated loudly prior to our departure had changed to the sound of crashing waves, creaking boat and an occasional moan.

I immediately joined Paige out on the deck with all our coats in tow, my scarf and anything else I thought could keep her warm. She couldn’t stop vomiting and had no intention of trying to get back inside only to have to run right back out here again. Better to stay where she could let it go when it came.

And it came. Often.

I went back inside and laid down in an insanely cramped space underneath a table, intending to go back out in a few minutes to continue checking on her. But instead, I unexpectedly drifted off to sleep. I woke with a start, realizing what I had done and looked around to make sure Paige had come back in.

She was not in the room.

I looked at my watch – two hours had gone by since I had returned inside. Visions of Paige being swept overboard in a huge gust of wind and crashing waves entered my mind as I ran out to the deck.

She wasn’t there.

My heart jumped into my throat as I expected the worse, but as I turned to go back inside and scour the ship, I noticed a heap of clothes on the wet deck next to the wall. It was Paige, crumpled up in a soggy ball.

When I got to her she was shivering beyond control and nearly catatonic. Her mouth was chattering so much that her weak words came out in staccato form. As I carried her back inside, she explained that the wind, rain and lightning were so bad that at one point in her non-stop vomiting, an especially evil gust of wind blew her own vomit right back into her face. At that point she retired to lie on the wet deck and vomit freely in puddles around her, uncaring about anything except getting through this. She must have passed out or dozed off or entered some freaky state of unconsciousness because she didn’t remember anything until I came to get her.

Back inside, I made up her sleeping bag, got her into some dry clothes and tucked her in, placing Pink Floyd’s “Animals” on our CD player and sticking the earphones in her ears. She moved her lips with an inaudible “thank you” as she closed her eyes and slowly stopped shivering through infrequent bouts of jerking. I crawled back under the table, marveling at the insane rocking of the boat and the sound of the fury outside. It was amazing to me how this thing stayed afloat.

About fifteen hours into our trip, the storm finally passed. I don’t think anyone even noticed, however, because by that time they were all fatigued and drained of any remaining energy...or food. When the sun started coming through the windows, I quietly got up and headed for the bathroom. I was not surprised to see each one of the toilet bowl rims, the surrounding floor, and even the dimly lit walls caked in barf.

I’m not saying that made the sight any easier to experience, it was just an observation.

When Paige woke, she weakly explained that she thankfully felt better, although she had had one final vomit bout in the nearby garbage can sometime in the middle of the night. At that point, she remembered briefly considering going back out to the deck, recalling her barf-in-the-face and deck-puddlin’ vomiting episodes, and decided, “Screw it, the garbage can would be just fine.” I supported her decision.

As I looked around, I honestly thought some of the other passengers were dead. Not a single other person even stirred until there was an announcement over the intercom about our arrival. Their asses were sufficiently kicked.

Paige was doing remarkably well, considering that she had vomited and dry heaved nearly 50 times, and felt like she could handle her pack and walk OK by herself. We strapped on our packs and headed upstairs to see a strangely beautiful day on the heels of such a horrendous night, surprisingly hungry…and already smelling gyros…

By this time Paige was getting a little loopy – it had now been longer than 24 hours since she’d eaten. And it had been over 23 hours since she’d even had anything at all in her stomach. And what food she did have was now digesting in the stomachs of sea creatures deep in the Mediterranean or crustily drying on the deck of the boat and the sides of her face.

In the true spirit of Egyptian street vendors, we found a small little alcove down the block and ducked inside to point at food we wanted. The lady behind the counter wrapped us up a couple of amazing gyros, bursting at the seems with crispy pork slices, thick onions, fries, tomatoes and cucumber sauce and wrapped in a fresh fat pita. Unbelievably good. We hungrily grabbed our plates and sat out at the sidewalk tables underneath the awnings as the rain started up again and poured onto the street right next to us.

We had survived; solid earth and greasy gyros were our rewards.

This evil vomit story reverberated in my head while I watched this week's Survivor episode. Marty IS a survivor...and yet, it's also been absolutely baffling how he's escaped a rapid departure the past three weeks.

Let's quickly review:

1. His new tribe, in an attempt to get him to play his idol, splits the vote between him and Kelly one-leg (a person, I should point out, that is IN their alliance). When the vote ties, everyone re-votes with the threat that if it's another tie, all other tribe members are on the chopping block. Surely Marty will now get 100% of the vote, right? Instead, in a completely illogical vote - COMPLETELY illogical - Kelly no-leg gets 100% of the vote, and Marty returns to camp with idol intact. Huh? Nice strategy Brenda.
2. In a second attempt to get Marty away from his idol and boot him off, the tribe concocts a plan to simply ask him for the idol as a show of trust, guaranteeing him that he will be safe, and then simply voting him off anyway. Unbelievably it works, and as Marty hands over the idol, we are sure that he has just done one of the all-time stupidest blunders in the game. Instead, powerless and with no alliance to his name, Marty is safe during the vote and Jill gets booted. Huh?
3. After the merge, Marty is STILL the main target - even though he has no idol and no alliance. Jane, in particular despises Marty with every fiber of her North Carolina being - apparently because he didn't befriend her in the beginning or something? Whatever. Still, it looks like a sure thing that he's gone...until Sash expresses remorse in promising Marty the idol back for this tribal, throwing a wrench in the works. However, in the end, Sash KEEPS the idol (huh?), and Marty is spared while nearly-naked Alina gets the boot. HUH?!

Marty is teflon. It will now be anticlimactic if he gets booted unceremoniously. That just can't happen.

Like me, Marty looks at all the carnage caking everything around him, and wonders how and why he was spared. Like me, Marty is thankful, and yet even more relieved that he hasn't had to have his viscous inner soul blown back into his own face by some evil wind. Like me, Marty looks forward to solid ground, and a million dollars (and/or a greasy gyro).

But the real question is, like Paige, will Brenda, DanOnka and Jane end up cold, wet, and catatonic, curdled in their own filth?

This, my friends, is why we watch.

Don't forget the tzatziki.