My Real Life Nightmares: Part Four

"Ikea: Human Rat Trap of Terror"

One rainy day, about a year ago I was sitting at home, looking forlornly out the window, thinking to myself in a sad and pathetic voice, "My, my it sure is rainy. And while I'd rather not sit here at home watching the rain fall and thinking to myself in a sad and pathetic voice, I cannot think of a single place to go where I can both purchase affordable curtains AND enjoy delicious macaroni and cheese with the children." And then it hit me, "But of course! Ikea- that wonderland of inexpensive and stylish goods/ Swedish food! Suddenly life makes sense." And without further ado I packed the kids into the jeep and away we went, whistling merrily. And we were never heard from again! The End.

No, I'm just kidding. But we were incredibly naive in our merry whistling. Upon arrival we made our way to the Ikea restaurant. We all got their macaroni and cheese. The children got chocolate milk, and I splurged on the sparkling apple juice because frankly, I like drinking out of fancy, sophisticated, sexy glass bottles and being a hardcore Mormon its about as edgy as I get. In any case the kids were ready to shop before I had finished savoring my edgy apple juice, so I loaded Avery into the impossible-to-manage-shopping cart, held Brook's hand, and tucked that puppy into the deep pocket of my jacket for safe keeping. However, no sooner did our shopping experience begin than things began to go down-hill. Brooklyn wanted in the cart, Avery wanted out. The arrows pointed one way, we seemed to be headed another. And that friggin' impossible-to-manage-shopping cart kept sliding all over the slick floor while my kids loudly demanded we go home. But one does not simply exit Ikea.

We made it past the Tupperware, into the area rugs, through the shower curtains and down the storage isle. It was there I paused to catch my breath. And while I caught it, I noticed a lovely and practical storage box. Well, I couldn't very well leave Ikea empty-handed. I considered its usefulness and reasonable pricing and decidedly put it in the cart. Unfortunately, there were two other less reasonably priced, macaroni-faced items in the cart, one of which playfully expelled my storage box out and onto the floor. I may or may not have said something negative under my breath, I don't really recall. I don't recall because as I leaned over to pick up the box, something heavy, breakable, and very sexy came sliding out of my jacket pocket. And when she broke upon the floor it was a sparkling apple juice explosion of such magnitude a piece of green glass sliced the corner of my left nostril and blood came streaming down my face. Customers stared in alarm. Shocked, I fled the scene of the crime in search of a bathroom. But one does not simply find a bathroom in Ikea.

Back through the shower curtains, into the area rugs, past the Tupperware, I found the lone bathroom. She was in use. I waited, holding a wipe to my still bleeding nose. I waited, and I waited, and I waited. Back through the Tupperware, area rugs, shower curtains, storage, lighting, frames, and house plants. At long last I spied what I thought might be natural light- an exit perhaps? It had to be! I threw the bloody wipe aside and forged full speed ahead, the shopping cart sliding this way and that as my children clung desperately to the sides. Blood trickling down my quivering upper lip as we neared the source of the natural light: A large window overlooking the parking lot and a sign reading "This Way to Flooring". And we were never heard from again! The End.

Of Poo and Parenting

I have few simple requests in life. I like a sunny stroll now and again. I enjoy an occasional bubble bath. I love a fresh-baked donut in the morning. And I like having as little to do with human feces as possible. Friends, I beg you is it too much to ask? Apparently, yes if you are the proud mother of the most anal-retentive child on the planet. I will spare you the details of "the incident". Suffice it to say at around eight-o-clock last night Brooklyn found herself trapped inside the bathroom- a poo lying menacingly between herself and the door.

Now don't judge me too harshly. Since I have become a mother I have dealt with my share of nasty diapers, vomit, and various bodily fluids- most times with a great deal of patience and understanding. But "when poo is found where poo ought not to be, it becomes the responsibility of he of whom it was created, once that person is above age three." Not only is that a lovely bit of poetry, but it is also my motto. Plus I think its in the Bible somewhere. Old Testament. So anyways, everyone in the family felt that Brook really ought to be the one to put said poo to rest in the toilet where it belonged, seeing as it was her fecal matter and all. She disagreed. She strongly disagreed. She swore in her wrath that she would not ever, ever, ever pick up that poo. I suggested if she planned on spending a great deal of time with the poo she ought to ask for its name. Andy asked her if her new friend was too good for its home. She didn't laugh, or even crack a smile. I suppose it was hard to see the humor from her perspective, holed up as she was with the silently ominous poo.

After some soul-searching and some Clorox wipes, she did eventually farewell the poo in a flush of triumph. And I believe that once she works through the emotional trauma of our questionable parenting techniques, that she will have learned some valuable lessons. Firstly, that she is ultimately responsible for dealing with her own crap (effective on so many levels). Secondly, in the midst of life's most horrific moments Happy Gilmore references are still funny. And most importantly, poo will out.

My Nightmare Before Christmas.

I'm a large six months pregnant, attempting to keep the peace between two highly charged girls, while trying to maintain a chipper holiday spirit, while adjusting to my new church calling, while struggling to keep the dishes and laundry in check. Unfortunately, I have the energy level of a three-towed sloth and find myself unable to accomplish any save one of the afore mentioned items. I'm still a large six months pregnant. So, no neighbor gifts or Christmas cards this year. Potty training has been indefinitely postponed. And as for that chipper holiday spirit? Well, "chipper" isn't exactly in the cards. "Mildly contented holiday spirit" more like.
Still, as mildly contented as I am this year, it sure beats the pants off of last year. Last year was nothing short of a nightmare. Are you ready for this? I call it "Merry Christmas 2007."

First there was Brooklyn's notorious ballet recital. She was supposed to be a doll in a high school rendition of the Nutcracker's Suit. Dressed rehearsal went well, except for having Andy's car towed from the gas station in the middle of a snow storm. That didn't go well at all. Two-hundred dollars and countless frustrations later we got our car back. Merry Christmas douche tow-truck driver. On the night of Brooklyn's first performance she wandered out on stage in the middle of Act I, but was conspicuously absent from her own dance in Act II. That is, until she made her debut clinging desperately to her teacher's leg, screaming like a nazgul while all the other dancers and audience watched in nutcrackery silence. Brooklyn refused to go to her second performance, and the next day developed an eye infection. Merry Christmas lil' nutcracker.
One morning I woke up to about a dozen baby spiders crawling on and dangling from our family room ceiling. Our Christmas tree was infested with them. I hate spiders. Merry Christmas exterminator. That next weekend was Brook's Joy School Christmas party, where she would be playing the part of Mary in their little six-child production. Thirty minutes 'til go-time a massive tantrum ensued causing Brooklyn's eyes to swell completely shut. So rather than attend the party, we dropped our cookies off and spent the evening at the nearest Instacare where Brook and Avery were both diagnosed with Pink Eye. Merry Christmas pharmaceutical intervention. This was mere days before our planned trip to California to visit my family, which we were compelled to cancel due not only to Pink Eye, but the terrible congestive colds that Andy and I both developed. It was a bitterly disappointing vacation. Instead of sharing goodies and hilarious antidotes with loved ones, we tackled both children four times a day, attempting to hold their eyelids open for expensive medicated eye drops. Merry Christmas ruined festivities. The day after Christmas we disassembled our tree in low spirits. The webbed star said it all. I have never been happier to see January.

I don't know about you, but I'll take large six-months pregnant mild-contentedness.

My Dilly-Dallyer

Brooklyn is a dilly-dallyer. Meticulous and careful by nature, she has exceptional concentration for a five-year-old. However, this does make it difficult for her to move from one activity to another. In a world where we are often driven by the clock, life can be frustrating with someone who will not be rushed.

This month she has been attending our neighbor's Joy School twice a week. Each Tuesday and Thursday morning we awake with time to spare. "Hurry and get dressed Brooklyn" I instruct. She disappears in her room. Thirty minutes later I find her still in her underwear, putting multiple outfits together, unable to decide. "Brooklyn we only have ten minutes before Joy School starts and you have to eat breakfast. PLEASE HURRY." I emphasize. Five minutes later, "Brook, if you don't put something on and eat RIGHT NOW you will be late for Joy School." "Brook, less talk more action." "Do you know what HURRY means?" "It doesn't MATTER what socks you wear. JUST HURRY." "Brooklyn, no TALKING- EAT!" "HURRY! HURRY HURRY!"
Its not her fault. Like many kids her age, she just doesn't grasp Go-Time. But unfortunately I still get frustrated with her.

This morning it was my fault. I thought it was Friday until Avery remembered, "Is Brooklyn going to Joy School?" Thank you Avery. She was already fifteen minutes late. "Brook! Today is your Christmas party! We have to HURRY!" And she tried to. But there were so many pretty panties to choose from. And she couldn't find the socks she wanted. Avery and I said a quick obligatory prayer over the Cream of Wheat but I soon realized Brook wouldn't have to time to eat any of it. "Brooklyn! You are not very good at hurrying! You are going to miss your party!" I yelled. She came running down the hallway with her snow boots, flopped down and pulled them on as quickly as she could. "Is this the right way Mom?" She asked. "Yes! Hurry!" I threw her her coat, "Hurry!" I handed her a Pop Tart. "Eat this! Hurry!" She flopped back down to the floor. "What are you-?!" But I had to stop. She was kneeling down in the middle of the floor, eyes closed, arms folded, head bowed reverently, saying a silent prayer over her breakfast.

I don't teach my children half as much as they teach me. In the midst of worldly demands I had grossly neglected my priorities. My five-year-old Brooklyn, however, my little dilly-dallyer, had remembered her Savior. And in her humble way, she taught me the most valuable lesson I've learned this Christmas season.

My Real Life Nightmares: Part Two

"When Good Geese Go Bad... "

I do in fact realize that I have had more bizarre and embarrassing experiences than the average human being. Maybe its just rotten luck. Maybe I cause it. Whatever the reason, I have come to accept that it is the price I pay everyday for being me. With that in mind you'll have to excuse me for being a little paranoid, even fearful of seemingly non-threatening objects/ situations including: pottery wheels, Ikea, volleyball nets, rope-swings, phones, drive-thrus, spiders, friendly gestures, leaping, multi-tasking, and geese. While all make for entertaining stories, today's story is about a goose. An exceptionally e-vile goose we will call Jorge. He wasn't a Mexican goose or anything. His parents just happened to like the name.

When Brooklyn was a baby, Andy and I lived in a little townhouse in Murray. We liked our little townhouse, and all the identical surrounding townhouses. We liked the landscaping and the pool. We even liked our neighbor who covered all his windows with tin-foil. The only downside to our little townhouse was the fact that Jorge lived on the roof. Not directly on top of our unit, but close enough to observe our comings and goings. And the thing is, he didn't seem to pay mind to anyone else's comings and goings. No, he only had eyes for me. Beady, angry eyes.

I don't know what I did to offend him. But he watched for me. And at the sight of my attempting a stroll with my infant, looking nervously about, he would launch unwarranted attack. Swooping at my head, charging me with his vicious hissing beak, flapping his dirty great wings. Yes, Jorge was a real douche.

I called the condo manager, but she liked Jorge and considered him an asset to the community. I considered calling animal control, but figured Jorge had people on the inside. Retaliation was my only option. My next walk I played it cool. I pushed the stroller casually, looking straight ahead, whistling, all the while aware of Jorge's ever- ominous presence. I was not disappointed. He appeared suddenly from behind a bush and slowly turned his face towards mine. Our eyes met. I could feel his hatred permeate the street between us. I stepped towards him. He seemed surprised.

"You seem surprised," I quietly taunted. He hissed menacingly and took two steps towards me. Tension mounted. "Freedom!" I shouted as I ran at him. He dodged me and tried to bite my calf. But I had a secret weapon. Before he knew it, I had my flip flop in hand and was delivering a beating the likes of which he will never forget. A car drove past us. I can only imagine what the people inside it were thinking.

"Check out that crazy barefooted lady beating that beautiful, defenseless creature of nature!"

No matter. Brooklyn thought it was a jolly fun show, and Jorge received his comeuppance. Unfortunately, he was more of an emotional than a logical thinker and continued to threaten me every chance he got, but I did observe the haunted look in his eye and his reluctantly kept distance whenever I reached for my shoe.

My Real Life Nightmares: Part One

Unless you are a freakishly secure person, or a very heavy sleeper you know the terror of a nightmare. You've felt the embarrassment of being naked in public. You've known the frustration of not being able to locate your locker. You've shared in the dread of being chased only to discover you run in slow motion. You've watched with horror as your nose dissolves into your face...or not. You know, whatever. You know how bad dreams take you right up to that moment before you hit the pavement, and then you wake up. Granted sometimes you wake up punching your sleeping husband, crying, and giving him ultimatums, but eventually you get a grip and realize with relief that it was just a dream and that you still have all your front teeth.

Then there are times when horribly embarrassing, emotionally scaring things happen to us in real life and the only way to make ourselves feel better is to share these occasions on our blog for the enjoyment of friends and family members. So without further ado I give you My Real Life Nightmares: Part One.

A little personal history: Until I came to live in Utah, my senior year of high school, I lived with my family in a very secluded, wooded town in Northern CA. When I say secluded and wooded, I am talking no traffic lights. No lamp posts. You know how when you go camping in the middle of nowhere. Well, you take a couple lefts and that's where I lived. We did have neighbors, but it was hard to see them through the trees. And when it was dark outside you could see every star in the constellation. Very remote. Very spooky to be home alone.
My dad was the manager of a geothermal power plant and he was NOT well liked. He had a tendency to take over other people's jobs, and that tended to rub people the wrong way. At the time of this story, one of the men he had fired had been calling our house in a very threatening sort of way. He would always call when my dad wasn't home and if Angie or I picked up he would harass us. Pretty creepy.
I was probably fifteen at the time. It was nighttime and Mom and Dad were gone. He called and I hung up on him. Later that night the phone rang unexpectedly again. I answered and was greeted once again with "Your dad home?" That was it. In emotionally charged situations I often morph from harmless innocent into dirty fighting sailor with tats. Not unlike Jekyl and Hyde. I turn into my father. I let the dude have it. "Listen ^&%^&! If you ever call back here again I will %#$$##@! all over your sorry $#@!!*!" Silence. That'll teach that scumbag. And then, "Diana? Is that you? This is Brother Moore from the bishopric."

Oops.

Morphing quickly back into harmless innocent, I cried and explained and apologized. But I couldn't help but notice a little gleam in his eye whenever he saw me at church from then on. Cussing out a member of the bishopric; one of my more nightmarishly embarrassing experiences. Don't think I ever gave Dad that message. And I don't need to tell you that Brother Moore never crossed me again.

My Friend Casey

Once upon a time there was a dude named Casey. Casey wasn't a bad dude. He held down a respectable job where he got to wear a uniform and a name badge everyday, and party every night. Casey wasn't a bad dude. But Casey was a disoriented, drunk dude. One night Casey met the girl of his dreams. Her name was Melanie. Or Emily. He wasn't completely sure, but he did know that she was everything he was looking for in a woman. He knew she had kind of blondish- brownish- reddish hair, and he knew that what they had was special. He didn't know exactly where she lived. But that did not concern Casey one little bit. Into his car he staggered, up and down streets he drove until he saw a light. "That must be Melanie's house!" He thought, "Or Emily's!" Out of his car, up the steps, he knocked at her door. Todd answered. This was confusing to Casey. Did Melanie or Emily have a brother? No matter, Casey was quick to regain his confidence. "Is Melanie here?" He asked as he peeked expectantly into the Living Room. He saw Andy and a woman. Andy was of small consequence, but the woman- She did have hair. Could this be his lady? "Melanie? Emily?" He called hopefully. In an odd coincidence a woman named Melanie had previously owned the house, but had moved three years earlier. "Melanie moved about three years ago." Not Melanie, but Diana responded. Casey felt very confused. "Emily?" He tried again. "You've got the wrong house." Andy assured him. "See you later Casey," Todd began closing the door. There was obviously something fishy going on. "How do you know my name?" Casey wondered out loud. "Its on your shirt dude." This momentarily blew Casey's mind. But of course! Casey laughed and pointed to the name of his company on the opposite side of his shirt. In the midst of this ah-ha! moment, Casey had nearly forgotten the task at hand. Nearly, but not entirely and without skipping very many beats at all he had regained focus. "Do you know where Melanie lives?" He found these people very unhelpful and slightly alarmed. But Casey was nothing if not undaunted. Oh, and drunk. He cheerfully got back into his car and continued his search, taking no notice of anyone taking down his licence plate numbers. Because Casey knew a girl like Melanie, or Emily, only comes around once in a lifetime. The End.

My Marlboro Man

I was raised by the Marlboro man. No lie, he even owned the jacket. It was free with proof of purchase, an honor reserved for only the most loyal of customers.

My dad wasn't the kind of father you would cuddle up next to on the couch. He wasn't an open, laughing, soft-bellied father. He was tattooed, tough, and smelled of cigarettes and Old Spice. He was a strict disciplinarian, a religious workaholic, and a seasoned rebel. He was a distant cowboy silhouetted in the sunset. He didn't teach me to ride a bike. But he did teach me to fear no living man. He never took me camping. But he taught me to take responsibility for my actions.

My dad never joined the church. And when I turned eight and wanted to be baptized I had to ask for his permission. If I've painted an accurate picture for you, then maybe you can see how imposing a figure my dad was and how daunting a prospect was laid before me. But, I wanted to be baptized so I summoned my courage and entered the garage (where he always seemed to be) and asked him if I could be baptized. A twinkle never failed to appear in the old man's eyes whenever he was asked for permission or advise, and somehow they were always one and the same. I will never forget his response. "Making a promise to Heavenly Father is a very important thing, Diana. You don't get baptized because your mother wants you to or because I want you to, you get baptized because you want to. And if you do get baptized I will hold you to it whether you're sixteen or thirty. If you make a promise I will make sure you keep it." At eight years old I learned what integrity meant. Being baptized was my choice and that has made an incalculable difference in my life.

When I was fifteen I wanted to learn to drive. Here is a little background. I grew up in a tiny mountain resort town in Northern CA with winding two-lane roads. My dad prided himself in his ability to manipulate these winding two-lane roads going speeds more appropriate for an interstate freeway. And what really chapped his hind-quarters were all the "incompetent" drivers blocking his way. He would intimidate them off the road, shouting obscenities through his cigarette and making suggestions of where they may shove their heads. Oh, it was all great fun until he met other road-ragers. On more than one occasion the car in front of us would pull over and challenge my dad to a fight. My dad would oblige, much to their surprise and dismay. But he never actually had to fight. The offending victim, upon seeing a friggin' scary angry dude coming for him, would always opt for flight. So naturally, when it came time to learn to drive, I wanted my mom to teach me. That didn't last very long as the old man did not approve much of her skills and wanted to pass along secret driving techniques to me that only he knew. Teach me the ways of the Samuri. That also didn't last very long. After a few lessons I absolutely refused to drive at all and did not get my licence until I was eighteen.

I left home at sixteen just like he did. As you can imagine, he was not very pleased with my leaving and refused to give his permission. But I guess that's why its called running away. A week after I left he called me. "Honey, I've given it some thought and I am giving you my permission." I didn't know it then, but in fact he was not only giving me permission to leave home, but his consent to grow up. I had stood my ground and gained his respect and he treated me accordingly from then on. I knew I had arrived the day he thought I was old enough to share in a dirty joke.

The summer following my first year of college was the last summer I spent with my dad. I hadn't lived at home for two years and I could tell he was very pleased to have me back. So pleased he bought me two cars. The first one we saw while we were out together- a beautiful dark red 1954 Mercedes. The body was in wonderful condition, even the interior, but it didn't run. In his younger years my dad had been an exceptional mechanic. Word on the street had it he even built his own car once. So, to my utter delight he bought the car. He tried so hard to fix it for me, but couldn't do it. It must have been frustrating for him, that his mind wasn't working so clearly as it had once done. But he would hardly admit defeat. He explained that he would continue working on the Mercedes but would buy me a new car in the meantime. I understood what he really meant. He bought me a 1988 Buick Regal- straight cash. "This is a good car" and he was right. It was no Mercedes, but it ran and that was what mattered. I drove that car back and forth between UT and CA five or six times and it never gave me any problems. After Andy and I got married we sold it to his cousin and it still runs to this day. Sometimes at night the horn will start honking and the hood will pop open. They say its my dad, haunting it.

The last time I saw my dad was that Christmas. I wish I had known it, then we could have had that talk he kept telling me he wanted to have, "Just you and me." When he took me to the airport, Angie and Mom waited in the car while he waited with me, holding the boxed-up dinner he insisted I take with me. We stood a long time in silence. He never was a man of many words. He bought me a milkshake and when it was clear my plane was going to be very late he sighed and told me he had better head home. He hugged me, that great cigarette-Old Spice hug and told me he loved me. I was always proud of the way he walked in his cowboy boots, how he didn't give a crap if he stood out like a sore thumb in the San Francisco airport.

That spring he annoyed the crap out of me with phone calls about my income tax forms he was preparing for me. I was ungrateful and a little short with him a couple times. That is why I called that Sunday, so I could talk with him and let him know I loved him. I ended up talking to mom for a long time, but he walked in just as I was about ready to hang up. I told him I was dating a guy named Andy that was 6'4. "I could still take him." He said. That was the last thing he said to me.

Tuesday morning I got a phone call.

He thought he was invincible. The man who tackled my boyfriends to the ground, the man who called me "smartass" as a term of endearment, the man who showed me his love by sharing his garage-stashed candy with me. The man who taught me not to judge a man by his tattoos and his pack of cigarettes, but by his heart. That was and always will be my Marlboro man. Happy Father's Day Dad.

My Cold Heart

Funny story. Years ago, when Andy and I had first started dating we happened to run into each other at a dance. A slow song came on, signaling the opportunity to pair up. With my studded belt and Buddy Holly glasses, I was his obvious choice. There was a lull in our somewhat awkward conversation which Andy broke with, "So, do you like Chicago?" Unaware that the Napoleon-esque song we were dancing to was by the very band, Chicago, unaware in fact that there was such a band, I responded politely that I had never been there. And I wasn't going to judge him for it, but I did think it an odd inquiry.

So how did we end up together when my idea of a romantic song includes heavy drums and death imagery and Andy's romantic notions fall under the genre I laughingly refer to as "Butt Rock?" When my day-dreams include reading the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy together, and his include shouting wildly at televised basket-ball players? TomAto-tomato. We both like England, art, playing Chess, and watching Will Ferrell movies, and really what more could you ask for? But I digress. What were we talking about? Ah, yes...

I've never been a fan of love songs, chick-flicks, romance novels, floral arrangements, or puppies. Alright, puppies are cute and I do like roses, but you get the picture. It isn't that I'm completely unromantic, I just have different ideas about romance than most women. The most difficult moment for me in any friendship with another girl is the moment she says, "Hey let's have a girl's night and go see (insert she-film here)" First I have to muffle my cringe, then diplomatically explain how I'd rather see the awesomely nerdy epic movie playing in theater 5 because I read the book multiple times- simultaneously making it clear I'm not being judgemental, that it's not her- its me, that I'm a cold-hearted-wench that doesn't want to see a movie about bridesmaid dresses and women who overlook their gorgeous guy-pal until he finds happiness with someone else, all the while keeping my fingers crossed she still wants to be my friend. So I usually just see the friggin' movie and vent to Andy later.

Don't get me wrong, I'm plenty girlie. My favorite book is Jane Eyre, I love the A&E Pride and Prejudice mini-series, I break down in tears bi-monthly, I love newborn baby smell, and I'm constantly asking Andy his honest opinion of whether I look fat in these jeans. And to set the record straight I'm always up for a girl's night out, let's just skip the movie and head straight for the ice cream shall we?

My Zombie Encounter

I know what you're thinking, "But Diana, aren't Zombies just fictional monsters found in such hilarious films as "Night of the Living Dead"?" No, my naive back-talking friend, they are real. I know because I saw one in the RC Willey parking- lot just off Redwood Road not a fortnight ago.

Every so often Andy and I like to pretend like we have the money to afford new pieces of furniture. We go a-looking, find that everything is unreasonably expensive and instead splurge on gas-station doughnuts. It was on one such occasion, while waiting for an opportunity to pull out of the RC Willey parking lot, that we spotted him- a real live zombie. His blue hood was pulled completely over his eyes, but exposed his gaping mouth. His legs- stiff from being dead so long, his arms held out limply in front of him as he staggered towards our stagnate vehicle. I pointed him out to Andy, who was equally concerned at the rate at which he was approaching my passenger- window, apparently hankering for brains. The very moment before he hit our car, Andy put her in reverse. This sudden movement served to disorient him momentarily- throwing him off the scent. We watched in stunned silence as he reared his hooded head and let out an fevered moan of disappointment the likes of which I will never forget, and then continued down the sidewalk in his rambling zombie way. It was a narrow miss, and I am pleased not to have joined the hellish army of the living dead. Still, some part of me wished the little fella luck in his never-ending pursuit for juicy brains.