James Snipe's mountain lion repost

Update: Apparently, it's not a complete hoax.

Update III: Hello Illinois. (Following Alabama, Georgia, North Carolina and East Texas.)

(Yes, East Texas is a separate state, Thankyouverymuch.)

This has gotten a lot of hits.

Look at what James Snipe hit with his car on county road 328 north of Swenson, Texas in Stonewall County. The lion was still alive [Editor's note: Daaawwwww!] but unable to move, so our neighbor called animal control and they came and put him down. A land owner had seen this one a week before dragging off a 320 lb. steer. Our neighbor is an amateur taxidermist and he's going to stuff him. This one weighed 260 lbs. while most mature male mountain lions weigh 80 to 150 lbs. We had no idea they still roamed around here!

Still don't know if this is for real. "Snipe" is a name I've seen before, but it makes me pause.

Update: Abilene Reporter-News is calling it a hoax.

Summer begins, and it's back to work

I can only imagine how weird it's going to feel Tuesday morning. I start classes at TCC. I don't feel any real excitement, just a vague unease about sticking out with my 36-year-old self and having to plow my way through information I learned in high school and then again during the first stint in college.

But maybe I'm freaking out on the subconsicous level: I've already had two dreams about having a final the next day in a class I didn't know I was in. More of those to come.

Me and Meredith spent the weekend taking it easy, wishing we could've done more about Memorial Day. We "celebrated" on Sunday by taking a trip to Central Market, and discussed on the way back how boring we've become, thinking a trip to Central Market counts as a celebration.

I picked up some expensive hot dogs, beer and some kind of birch-based soda pop. Meredith picked up some things, including the wine pictured above, which she bought primarily because of the name.

This is going to be a pretty rough summer. Eight months after Sam came along, we had finally developed a schedule that allowed both of us to get as much sleep as we needed. Now, with my entire morning taken up with school, normal sleeping times have pretty much been shot through.

But it's not so bad. Last night I watched "The Pursuit of Happyness", which is good motivation. After watching what that guy went through, my problems don't add up to jack.

Sam, who I'll be seeing a lot less of from now on. I'll miss the boy, but it's all so that we can eventually spend more time together as a family.

Needing a barber

I've been searching for a decent place to get a haircut since I moved to Fort Worth two years ago. And I finally found a spot a couple of weeks back, kinda.

I've been spoiled with good barbers. One of my earliest memories is going to Howard's when I was 4 or 5. The shop was right across the street from the Texas Tech campus. I remember watching an old cowboy -- boots, skinny legs, vest, handlebar mustache -- sit down for a shave. It seemed like a horrible waste of whipped cream.

Abilene had several good shops -- one a couple of blocks from my house. How do you know you're in an authentic barber shop?

• A shoe-shine stand that you’ve never patronized.


• A rack of hair products on sale that no one has used since 1967.


• They know how to finish a high-and-tight.

The high-and-tight is simple, but it has to be finished out with a straight-razor trim. South 14th Barbers in Abilene would also add a quick rubdown using a hand-vibrator on your neck and shoulders.

After such treatment (For $8!), you'd feel much better about taking on the world, and no one would ever mistake you for a hippie.

In Fort Worth, there are no olde time barbershops close to my house. I've been visiting a Great Clips in a strip mall a couple of blocks away. I have no problem with the cuts. But the service?

The haircuts are priced in a fast-food type menu above the front counter. The barber chairs are separated by pastel-colored sails, and let's not kid ourselves that anyone ever spent five seconds thinking about putting in a shoeshine stand.

Every damn time I come into the store, I'm asked for my phone number, so that they can call up my file and ask me if I still want a "two on the sides with a trim on the top."

Because you can't just ask me and I can't just relay the information to you in an exchange that lasts maybe four seconds on a slow day. You've got to bother me with my phone number and build a million-dollar computer network to let everyone within the Great Clips community know that I prefer a "two on the sides with a trim on the top" -- and still never remember that it's tapered in the back, not blocked. Freakin' brilliant.

Anyway, after tiring of this, I finally got online, started looking and found an "Old Time Barber Shop" (actual name) within a reasonable driving distance.

Great place. Shoeshine stand, wooden furnishings, free sodas and mostly bald barbers. I was given a complete high-and-tight that was finished off with a hot-towel rubdown on my neck.

The only problem was the price: $20, including tip. I realize that, considering the shop is in a prime real estate area in Keller, they have to charge that to make ends meet. Still, I can't but feel slightly chafed.

It's a definition of the suburban experience: I'm not paying for a trip to an olde time barbershop, I'm actually buying the experience of going to a place like an olde time barbershop.

I dunno. I'll keep looking, but so far they have a new customer.

Registered

I'm officially enrolled, summer session I at Tarrant County College. Here comes algebra.

The wierdest thing about the process was that it was all online, which is something I'd heard of, but never went through. It's too easy -- you go to the site, click a few boxes and you're done. It left me a little edgy.

It's the same difficulty with technology that my Dad shows when he calls the refrigerator the "icebox" or refuses all entreaties to get a new answering machine.

I have no problem with using the Internet to buy junk. Using it to schedule a couple of six-week courses that will go onto my permanent academic record seems too ephemeral.

At North Texas, circa early- to mid-1990s, we had "teleregistration." Teleregistration consisted of calling a computer and dialing in the class you wanted to take. The computer would then either tell you that the class was full, or that you were now enrolled in "Feminist iconography of 18th century artistic and philosophical movements" when you were trying to get into miniature golf.

Teleregistration required a certain amount of quick decision-making, flexibility and organization. By the time you hung up the phone, you hadn't just signed up for classes, you had accomplished something, by God.

Photo from Todd.

That's me during my sophomore year, with a 32-inch waistline, a glorious mane of blonde hair that could be seen from the front, and my lucky teleregistration hat. Laugh if you will -- that hat got me into a lot of in-demand classes. I lost it a long time ago, the last bits of it of probably have dissolved on the bottom of the Brazos river by now, but that's another story.*

Notes: The Hico Steak Cookoff
The latest: The event was ... apparently last weekend. People keep dropping by this site after plugging in the search words, and I don't have any news to give or any links to follow, as the town has yet to post this year's winners on the Web.

I can say that my parents went and had their usual good time, tho it seems that the lady who brings the fried pies did not attend this year, a no-show that gave us all the blues.

Update: The FLDS thing
I recently read a story reporting that the Fundamentalist Church of Latter Day Saints compound near Eldorado was showing a decreased amount of activity, and that the "lush green lawn around the temple was now brown." Just thought y'all might like to know.

Maybe lawn destruction could be the linchpin to defeating the cult. We just send in covert gardeners with Roundup and the people flee in terror of God's wrath.

Animals in the e-mail
My wife sent me a note that contained only this budget line for an AP story from my hometown:

LUBBOCK — Turns out there was no need for window dressing after all. The confused wild turkey that smashed into a window at the Lubbock county courthouse Monday was laid out for a while, but eventually was able to fly away. AP Photo.

I'm sure that there would have been a need for window dressing, but an argument about whether or not it was still bow huntin' season got everyone distracted.

And Scott forwarded this bit from the town of Swenson (out in the middle of nowhere northwest of Abilene, and I've been there):


Another shot showed the dead cat, which I don't really want to see every time I come back here. Anyway, from the e-mail:

Look at what James Snipe hit with his car on county road 328 north of Swenson, Texas in Stonewall County. The lion was still alive [Editor's note: Daaawwwww!] but unable to move, so our neighbor called animal control and they came and put him down. A land owner had seen this one a week before dragging off a 320 lb. steer. Our neighbor is an amateur taxidermist and he's going to stuff him. This one weighed 260 lbs. while most mature male mountain lions weigh 80 to 150 lbs. We had no idea they still roamed around here!

The freakin' cat weighed 260 pounds? Dang. Maybe he was stalking the car.

Of course, the whole thing could be a fake. Not that it'd actually matter if it was.

Updated: It's real, sorta.

Later.

*The story: I was on a canoe trip on the Brazos, and the wind blew the hat off my head. I got sunburned, bad. No, it's not much of a story. Thanks.

The Force never looked so beautiful

And I'm pining for an XBox 360 like dead parrots pine for the fjords.

Notes: Evil Cat, cartoon brutality, life-changing decisions, etc.

So.

The original plan was to let people know once classes started, but since it’s the main thing on my mind nowadays I’ll go ahead and announce it.

This summer, I’ll start taking college classes to begin the process of getting certified to teach middle school math. It’ll be about two years. To qualify, I first have to take a lot of catch-up courses, and right now I’m in the middle of the usual last-minute application rush I’ve always enjoyed so well.

I’m not going to pretend that I’ve had a deep voice chanting "Teach the children, give them a compass" in the back of my head since I can remember. I’m planning on teaching middle school math because I figure I can handle the age group, and the scarcity of math teachers will give me better salary options and a better chance to work where I want to. I don’t love numbers. I like numbers. I flirted with numbers in college and thought the usual journalistic fear of numbers was stupid.

Everybody wants to spend their lives doing what they love to do. I’d love to do that, whatever it is. On the other hand, doing what you love can also make you suffer. My Dad made a career out of doing what he loved, and I saw it break his heart on a bi-annual basis.

My last three jobs were a lot of fun: Old-folks home attendant, pizza maker, assistant sports editor. They all had something about them to enjoy, and I wasn’t in some personal drama over whether or not this was the lifelong decision that would complete me as a person. It’s a job. Lighten up.

Baby tips
VMarks sent me this link to "baby tips" which includes some of the following advice.

Some of the humor there is pretty sick. It’s weird, how I’d have thought all of it was hilarious before Sam was born. Now, I still laugh at it, but a part of me cringes to see someone doing something awful to an infant, even in cartoon form. Being a parent makes you edgy.

The evil cat attacks the environment
Both outside and inside: First she eats the zinnias, then she vomits on the floor.

(Second Picture not included)

Even though the results don’t look like the flowers, come to think of it.

A deeper prison

Another week, another adjustment.

We got scared of coming in every morning and seeing this:

We were terrified that Sam would figure out that a little lean and jump means freedom, and possible head owwies.

So we adjusted the bed, just as Ikea designed the crib.

Man, when I was putting that thing together, I busted my thumb with a hammer so many times I lost count and spent most of the night cursing Sweden and all things viking related.

But lowering the mattress wasn't that bad, just took about 15 minutes for the whole project. Next step: We take off the bars and Sam gets an actual bed. So that he can come into our room at 4 a.m. and demand to watch Barney.

Dark side of politics

One day, the idea of relating virtually everything we come across into a Star Wars metaphor will seem old and outdated.

And that will be a sad day.

Missing the geek dungeon

Or

Wanting to pull out the +3 battle ax for reality

My freshman year at North Texas, I spent the majority of my time immersing myself into role playing games. Dungeon and Dragons, Palladian, Paranoia. I played miniatures once. Real gold-medal geek-olympics-type stuff.

This phase lasted about three semesters, after which I started hanging around guys who actually spent time with girls. And suddenly, scrounging together enough gold pieces to buy that elvish long bow wasn’t that high of a priority.

I’ve found that, given enough time, most of my old obsessions will come back to me, and lately, for a lot of reasons, I’ve been missing the fun of pure geekish escapism.

Reasons? Well, marriage kind of takes away the need to present myself as a with it dude who bends reality to his will and therefore has no need to pretend to kill pretend goblins. (No, no one ever bought my attempt to portray myself that way. Duh.) Secondly, I’ve been camping recently, but not enough to fulfill the need to get out there for the adventure and danger. (The "danger" of being eaten by skunks and smelling really, really bad.)

And what really got my mind headed in this direction was two news bits: Dungeons and Dragons is coming out with a "revolutionary" reboot on the game rules, and Gary Gygax, one of the guys who started the D&D franchise, died in early march.

Quick joke, from The Latest Word blog, thanks to Todd:

When referring to Gygax's death, you can say he:

1) Started a new character sheet.

2) Is looking for a ninth-level cleric.

3) Failed his save vs. death magic.

4) Is food for purple worms.

5) Immediately became an NPC.

6) Finished the Doritos.

And so on ...

Those were some good times back in college: Staying up until dawn hyped on vivarin and cheap cola; rolling a 20 at the exact right time, living through what were actually some decent stories; laughing at our own social incompetence.

The problem with daydreaming about this now is that I really have no where to take the memory. I don’t know any one who plays any more, starting a group would be an organizational nightmare, and joining some kind of club would bring me into contact with people who take the game way too seriously. (Imagine yourself stumbling into a political conversation with someone who cares deeply about the latest mining habitats for dwarves. You get the idea.)

So, I’m left with scouring the fantasy books at the library for a decent story (not an easy thing) and hoping that someday I’ll get together with people who can’t think of a better way to spend the evening.

I’ll be the scout. I’m always the scout.

Quick treat

A website that tells you what the No. 1 song was on any day of any year going back to 1891.

Obviously, this is great birthday material.

Dec. 10, 1971, was Sly and the Family Stone's "Family Affair."

I don't have a clue. Maybe I'd recognize it if I heard it.

It begs the question, is it better to have a birthday song that you don't recognize but by a group with a lot of street cred, or is it better to have a piece of excrement that you hate but that bursts into your head as soon as you hear the title, like 1981's Dec. 10 No. 1, "Physical"?

Actually, that's pretty easy to answer.

Grandparent fulfillment post, No. 3

Here are a few pictures of Sam, who seems to be very comfortable with the camera, and a short story.

When I was working the gourmet case at Central Market, the food I hated handling the most was whipped sweet potatoes. I like it as food, but as something to work with it was too soft to spoon and too firm to pour. It was also sticky to a point where it was impossible to go through a day without having to take some time off to wash and rub the stuff off of you, and you'd still go home looking like you were the cutter from a butcher shop where animals bled orange cream.

Sweet potatoes were the worst, until I ran into pureed prunes. Mix them together, and ughhh...



Otherwise:

Sam with blanket. He likes it so far, but doesn't seem to be really attached to it. I'm wondering when they start developing those "I want my binky" type feelings.

This is Sam's favorite thing to do. He's been pulling up for two weeks or so, and will stand at the window in his room, happily watching the world go by, and drooling gallons at a time.

Sam goes for the camera. His expression in this one kind of disturbs me.

Lubbock: THE conservative bellwether

Always strange to see a hometown nobody much mentions for most of my life keep coming up. It's not always good, but it's fascinating to me.

This morning, Peggy Noonan used the anchor of South Plains civilization to guage George Bush's unpopularity:

In Lubbock, Texas – Lubbock Comma Texas, the heart of Texas conservatism – they dislike President Bush. He has lost them. I was there and saw it. Confusion has been followed by frustration has turned into resentment, and this is huge. Everyone knows the president's poll numbers are at historic lows, but if he is over in Lubbock, there is no place in this country that likes him. I made a speech and moved around and I was tough on him and no one – not one – defended or disagreed. I did the same in North Carolina recently, and again no defenders. I did the same in Fresno, Calif., and no defenders, not one...

The reasons for the quiet break with Mr. Bush: spending, they say first, growth in the power and size of government, Iraq.

She doesn't mention illegal immigration, which I'm going to hazard a guess and say is a fairly big deal among conservatives in Lubbock, probably moreso than the war in Iraq.

Buy my interest here is mainly in Lubbock being used as a political weathervane.

George Bush (the first) made a remark after winning the 1988 election that a friend of his from Lubbock said things were good, so Bush guessed it'd all be all right. The comment led to a few news stories about Lubbock becoming the next Peoria (as in "Will it play in ...?")

This didn't last long, as pollsters soon realized that asking if Lubbockites preferred the conservative option was akin to asking attendees at a baptist convention if they were fond of Jesus. The results were too uniform to be of much use as a national guage.

After 9/11, Bush (the second) wanted a terrorist policy that "the boys from Lubbock" could understand.

The Bushes don't give a great reflection of the city. They -- inadvertently, maybe -- peg Lubbock as a place where downhome folks sit on porches, drink heavily sweetened tea, swat flies and make vague remarks over the state of the world as they hear it coming over the wireless.

Noonan's remarks are different. Lubbock becomes the cliff that you daren't jump over if you're a conservative politician. I can hear the dismissals now (Lubbockites automatically tense any time they get national attention) about how we're a bunch of racist meth-adled simple folk with family trees that don't fork.

But I think Noonan's hit something here: If conservatives hack off this crowd, there's no where else for them to go.

Spooky baby

In this one, the ghost of Sam haunts his parents for an unjustified nap time.

(He's standing up in his crib, by the way. That's actually the reason I shot this.)

A new post

I haven't been writing much lately for a lot of reasons. Mainly it has to do with me doing the once-a-decade-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life survey and trying to come up with one or two answers.

Hence, I've cocooned myself off so that I could focus on a couple of things. Soon I'll emerge, again, as the most kick-ass butterfly ever.

There's a lot of stuff going on that I've thought about posting on, and I'm doing a disservice to myself by not sitting me butt down and pounding it out. I'll get back to it soon.

Meanwhile, here's something moderately interesting from the Wall Street Journal -- a critique of a book that examines the writer's quest for status:

For scholarly authors who want to flaunt their erudition and thereby make a status claim, Mr. Zaid offers Noel Coward's deflating remark: "Having to read a footnote resembles having to go downstairs to answer the door while in the midst of making love." And Mr. Zaid has a fine eye for authors who value media attention more than the work that inspired it: "What matters isn't the poem," he observes, "but to appear on television as a poet."

Mr. Zaid's goal is to capture the variety of anxieties that beset literary fame-seekers, and he does so with a mocking cleverness. A serious theme, though, runs through his book – that with the possible exception of a few agonized painters and musicians, no one can quite touch the exquisite torment of the literary artist as he faces the hazards of fate. And yet reading Mr. Zaid's account, one can't help noticing a resemblance to another social figure: the businessman.

Sick, disgusting, twisted and a nice lawn

A random thought brought on by a sad event:

I've followed the Warren Jeff's cult thing (Fundamental Church of Latter Day Saints) with interest for a few years now.

I heard about the compound in Eldorado fairly soon after it started, thanks to the fact that I was in the town reporting on a random story and the guy I was interviewing happened to mention a compound with "these fundamentalist mormons" going up outside of town.

It sounded foreboding, and the last couple of weeks we've all come to know how.

One of the things that struck me was the area photo of the temple (with the "nuptial" rooms).

Dang, that's a green lawn for being out in the middle of nowhere near desert-like San Angelo. And we're in the middle of April. I can only imagine the thousands of gallons of water and hours of labor they had to pour on that sucker to get it to look like that, tho I can imagine it pretty well.

It brought to mind a story my brother told me while I was working in his lawn-care business. A friend of his in the same line of work had won a huge, $50,000-a-year-plus contract to tend the grounds of one of the mormon places of worship in Lubbock.

A contract like that will keep a man set for the year. But he soon regretted taking the job, because the mormon folks who ran the place were never happy with anything -- the lawn had to be immaculate to the point of other-worldliness, and trying to meet their needs had him running in circles.

To point out to the easily offended, I don't think that the modern Church of LDS has anything to do with the cult, other than the fact that they developed from the same group that moved into Utah back in the 1800s.

The random thought: I wonder if that culture spawned a rather strong obsession with lawns. The pioneers in Utah were able to survive only through massive and collective irrigation efforts to bring water to their farms. Maybe that somehow transformed to an immaculate lawn being "Godly."

No idea, just curious.

Sci-fi delicious

Just saw this:

Fox has given the green light to "Virtuality," a two-hour back-door pilot from "Battlestar Galactica" mastermind Ronald D. Moore.
The sci-fi project, from Universal Media Studios and producers Gail Berman and Lloyd Braun, is set aboard the Phaeton, Earth's first starship. It revolves around its crew of 12 astronauts on a 10-year journey to explore a distant solar system. To help them endure the long trip and keep their minds occupied, NASA has equipped the ship with advanced virtual-reality modules, allowing the crew members to assume adventurous identities and go to any place they want. The plan works flawlessly until a mysterious "bug" is found in the system.
"It's very much about what's fantasy and what's reality; what we do to escape our lives and what actually institutes our lives; are these things very different," UMS president Katherine Pope said.

Mmmmm ...

This should be good, but I need to put the should in italics. Moore might be burnt out, and Fox killed "Firefly" for no good reason.

I'm one of many who were never too keen on the holodeck in the Star Trek series. It offered too many easy outs for too many problems, and they never addressed the problem of exactly what happens to humanity when physical holograms are finally created.

I'm currently in the camp that says we're doomed. Your typical human has to decide between being in a fake world were he can do whatever he wants all the time or being in the real world and getting the typical weggie that reality gives every day. We don't stand a chance.

Hat tip: NRO

At the botanical garden

In Fort Worth, where the family spent part of Sunday.


We have a few pictures. It's required. Everybody -- brides, prom girls, new engagees, families with horribly ugly children -- were taking pictures of themselves at the Forth Worth Botanical Garden.


Sam now has a new way of getting around. I'm kinda excited by this, because it means I can stay in backpacking shape. After the boy gains about 10 more pounds.

About Hulu

It's been out there for a bit, but wanted to pass on a recommendation for Hulu.com.

Besides sports, I watch almost no TV nowadays. But I have watched a lot of stuff on-line.

I was going to TV network sites and watching a few shows, but the quality tended to suck. "Jericho" on CBS comes to mind. I got tired of watching the episodes because I got sick of a pause every six seconds.

Hulu.com is what you'd prefer these sites to do. It's obvious the networks don't take on-line programming seriously because they haven't invested the capital to make a smoothe-running system. The programs at Hulu run without a pause and the offerings are increasing daily. It's a combination of new and old, and they also have a few movies. It's all free -- you just have to watch a short commercial every 15 minutes or so.

I am not being paid to do this. Thanks.

Also, NBC's cancelation of "Journeyman" is a freakin' crime. Thanks again.

From Hell -- what makes a truly awful film

A guardian critic reviews the latest Paris Hilton film.

Actually, he doesn't review the film. Why bother, when you can instead write a lengthy meditation on some of the worst garbage Hollywood and other filmmakers have produced throughout the decades?

"A generically appalling film like The Hottie and the Nottie is a scab that looks revolting while it is freshly coagulated; but once it festers, hardens and falls off the skin, it leaves no scar. By contrast, a truly bad movie, a bad movie for the ages, a bad movie made on an epic, lavish scale, is the cultural equivalent of leprosy: you can't stand looking at it, but at the same time you can't take your eyes off it. You are horrified by it, repelled by it, yet you are simultaneously mesmerised by its enticing hideousness. A monstrously bad movie is like the Medusa: those who gaze on its hideous countenance are doomed, but who can resist taking a gander?"

Bug people

Folks always made fun of Tom Delay’s background as an exterminator. I’m beginning to see how the experience made excellent congressional training.

Last year, we hired an exterminator, after the bug problem in my house got under the skin of my very lovely and granola wife. The man came out, talked to us about his company’s "vision" for half an hour, and tried to sign us up for seasonal treatments at $200 a pop. We said we’d think about it (we were thinking, "Hell no") and he eventually sprayed and left.

Two months later, the bug company began leaving messages on our phone, saying it was time for a treatment. Three weeks after that, an exterminator showed up unannounced at our door, asking if he could spray the insides.

"Ah, no."

How ‘bout a perimeter treatment?

"No thanks."

He left, and about 20 minutes later, we had a rather testy message on the answering machine (we never answer) from the bug people. But at least that was the last we heard of them.

Last month, the termites came. They haven’t swarmed, but they’ve deposited little brown mounds on a spot on the high wall over the kitchen.

And so the estimate process began again. We’ve had two people over so far, will have two more tomorrow.

The first guy was pretty laid back, and was in and out in about 30 minutes.

The next guy was from Terminix. He came in, talked about his vision for what the house needed, and refused to give a price. Then he spent about an hour going through and around the house, going so far as to pull out some metal-detector looking doohickey with which he went over the walls -- a grim expression plastered on his face the entire time.

Then he came back in and started to give his sales presentation to Meredith*. The presentation includes a 10-minute video, which talks about Terminix’s dedication to the customer and features some really disgusting photos of termites.

Then, he gives his first price: $110 a month for the next two years for complete coverage. (The first guy just had a one-time cost of $700.)

There is sticker shock. How about a one-time treatment?

"$900."

Still too high.

"We have a coupon out there right now, I think. That'd make it $800."

Umm ...

"Perhaps $650?"

I hear, "What can I do for us to begin treatment today?" He even calls the manager, who tells him to tell us to get bent.

Finally, three hours after he first arrived in the house, he leaves.

I have distant memories from the growing up years of the exterminator.

A man came by our house in an unmarked white van and sprayed around, after which point, mom paid him. And that was about it.

I’m left wondering if Mom was lucky enough to know someone, or if the trend to the hard-sell-packages-that-nobody-needs is new to the business of bug killing.

I don't know. I just wish Dale Dribble had a blog.

* I left Meredith alone for two reasons. Salesmen love to play couples off on each other. And I didn't want to sit through it. I would have had more sympathy for Meredith had she not let the man in the house before I put my pants on.