Sweetest Hangover

I am bleary-eyed and cotton-headed from watching too much television, but it doesn't detract from my—warning: made-up word ahead—happies. Almost every moment —but especially that final 30 minutes comprised of the President's speech, Elizabeth Alexander's poem, and Reverend Lowery's benediction—seemed to deliver exactly the words we needed to hear. Even Justice Roberts' fumbling of the oath was somehow "right" for what I'm sure was a nerve-wracking 30 seconds for the guy. The only disappointment was Rick Warren's over-the-top emoting and bizarre pronunciation of Sasha and Malia's names. I think Obama knew what he was doing by 1) including him and 2) making sure he was all but forgotten by the time Reverend Lowery finished HIS flawless benediction.

And now...I think I'll go to a ball. It's called the Suburban Denim & Ballerina Flats Ball, and I'm the hostess and solitary guest. I planned it this way so that I can dance like a loon and no one will ever know. Speaking of loons: here are our girls, flashing their homespun backstage passes to the HOPE '09 show:


Happy Inauguration Day!

The Follow-Up Punching Post

Because you asked so nicely, and because each of you were willing to tear Vida's walloper limb from limb, I will now go into more detail about The Punching Incident. So, let's see:

As I mentioned previously, I rounded a corner and saw Vida crying. Her friends quickly filled me in on what happened. "Where is he?" I said. They told me he'd walked into his classroom and that was, indeed, where I found him. He was sitting with his teacher—a woman I've never spoken to before—who was giving him some after-school tutoring.

This is when I was at my worst, really. When I'm exceptionally angry with someone who isn't a member of my immediate family, I speak slowly because it helps to disguise the fact that my voice is shaky. I apologized for interrupting and then I said, "C, did you just punch my daughter?" Blank stare, angelic face. He's a gorgeous kid, actually. I took a step towards him and tilted my head. "Did you just punch my daughter?"

"No. No. I was in here and she's out there." I looked at him with a you-lying-little-punk-I-am-so-going-to-kick-your-ass expression on my face. He then went through several more lies: he didn't do anything, he didn't THINK he'd done anything, he didn't MEAN to do anything, he wasn't TRYING to do anything, he was just running by and bumped her, etc. etc. It was clear that his teacher wasn't buying any of it, but she was also completely useless, as she didn't see it happen and we don't know each other. I'm sure that from her point of view I was just a weird, aggressive, vaguely menacing parent. She said something about telling C's mother, at which point I apologized again for the interruption and left in search of our principal.

My girls were waiting outside. "Let's go guys," I said.

"Where are we going?"

"I want to talk to the principal."

"Oh, no, Mom! No!" said Vida. "This is soooooooo embarrassing."

"I don't care if you're embarrassed, Vi."

Eventually we found the principal, and she sat Vida on her knee and talked quietly with her for about 20 minutes while Vida alternately cried and nodded yes or no. I really couldn't have asked for more. That night, though, the principal sent me an e-mail saying that unfortunately C had a different story than Vida, so she couldn't suspend him. I almost bit my tongue off. Instead of typing a missive in which I pointed out that Vida has no history of lying or junior-style assault, and the kid in question DOES, I wrote some bullshit about how I'm sure she had both Vida's and C's best interests in mind, and that that was as it should be blah de blah de freaking blah.

Then I stewed. In the end, C's consequence turned out to be having to spend one day's 20-minute recess and 1-hour lunch in the school office.

On Friday, in an unprompted bid for forgiveness, C apologized to Vida after school. Then he walked about twenty yards over to me and said, "I'm sorry."

I said, "What are you sorry for?"

"For hurting Vida's feelings."

"Oh really. And what else?"

"For hitting Vida."

At this point I should have called the principal over to witness the confession, but I didn't. Instead, I just stared at him for a few seconds. And I didn't see some horrible, lying, punching, future criminal. I just saw a kid who, despite a colorful history of making shitty decisions, is no better or worse than my kids. I said, "Don't do it again. Don't do it to ANYBODY."

"Okay."

"Okay. Thanks for coming over here, C. I appreciate that."

And then he ran off and Vida beat him in three straight games of tetherball.

I was telling this story to my cousin-in-law yesterday, and he couldn't get past what he felt was my too-tame reaction. He works with at-risk kids in the San Francisco public schools, and as we talked, I started to think maybe he was right. But then I realized: he doesn't have his own kids yet. The longer I'm a parent, the less black/white there seems to be in the world; it's mostly gray. C is a kid with some problems, but he isn't someone whose heart is all twisted up in his chest (yet). So I guess in the end, I treated him with...I don't know...compassionate disapproval? Basically, I did what I hope his mother would have done if our roles had been reversed.

And now I'm all confused again. But I'm thinking this post was rather well-suited to the MLK holiday.

Speaking of the MLK holiday, we tried to follow our President-elect's directions today by performing a little trash picking-up "service" at the girls' school. It was just the four of us, but we did our best, even clawing around under the lunch tables to grab errant ketchup packets, nasty alcohol cans (teenagers tend to party on the campus over the weekend; their drink of choice is something called "Joose"), straw wrappers, and whatnot.

Is there any point in trying to remain cool about tomorrow's inauguration? No there is not! I dance my way everywhere, I say "sure!" to random milkshake requests, I burst into happy tears at the smallest provocation. Giddy. That's what I am.

The Post In Which I Describe How I Briefly Turned 14-Years-Old Again

Yesterday, Vida was punched twice—TWICE! PUNCHED!—by a fourth grade boy after school. Eyewitness accounts confirm that the boy's actions were unprovoked and that, in fact, the two of them hadn't exchanged a word or even a look. He just walked up to her and punched her once, which elicited a shocked, silent response from Vida. "Do you want me to do it harder?" he said. He then hit her harder and ran off.

I realize that this could have been his way of saying, "I like you and do not have the words to express myself," but frankly I don't care. When I rounded the corner and saw my kid crying and heard the myriad other girl voices explaining what had happened, my reaction was such that there could have been no doubt in anyone's mind that I attended public school in Daly City.

In other words, my lovelies, your Nesting Ground Mistress LOST HER MIND. I was so utterly unencumbered by common sense that I might as well have been wearing the circa 1980 Daly City-sanctioned female uniform of creased baggy pants, black jellies, and my boyfriend's Member's Only jacket. I might as well have had elaborately feathered my hair, rimmed my eyes with the lighter-softened tip of a Maybelline eyeliner, and sprayed myself with Jovan Musk. I might as well have been standing at the 28C bus stop surrounded by a bunch of girls who wanted to kick my ass.

But I digress!

All is well now, and as I descended from the wuthering heights of my insanity, I realized two things:

1) I kind of wish this had happened to Risa instead because she would have just gone all Matrix on the kid and that would have been the end of it.

And also:

2) No one is ever going to punch Vida again.

Pinoy Capital: The Filipino Nation in Daly City

Congratulations to Sunny Vergara, the Wily Filipino himself, on the publication of his new book! I cannot wait to get my grubby little hands on this anthropological ode to my hometown:



Read all about it here at Sunny's new blog addy. And click here to purchase (I just did!).

Is It Unusual?

A random question from the increasingly random Vida:

"Is it unusual for a Filipino child to enjoy canned corn?"

My answer was, "I...really don't know."

52 More Minutes

I had a disquieting morning, and the rest of the day unfurled accordingly. It's Wednesday, which is the day I've set aside for reading creative nonfiction (oh, be quiet; I told you I was organizing my reading), and I chose at random the essay "Mirrorings," by the late Lucy Grealy. I don't know why the anthology I was reading from didn't mention that this was the essay she later expanded into her now-famous Autobiography of a Face, but it didn't.

Well, hell. I don't think I've ever read something that required me to take a break every few pages due to excessive emotional reaction. I experienced an acute feeling of claustrophobia, as if it were impossible to escape from the writer's imperfect face. A feeling, of course, which mirrors Grealy's own. The book is still open on my bed, where I left it with three pages to go.

Afterwards, I headed to my desk to check the news and saw yet another photograph of a dead Palestinian child. I don't have the heart to post it here or even to link to it, but what is there, really, to say? It's a picture of a child who died violently and who looked like she died violently. Even learning that Hamas is known to stage photos didn't take the edge off. Staging or no, the child is dead. Many children are dead. I don't know enough to state an opinion either way, but at this point isn't everyone at fault?

I guess the next ten hours could have been ones that resulted in what other people describe as a series of hug-your-kids-tight epiphanies, but I was just pissed out of my mind all day. Impatient with the girls, with myself, with older women turning left on El Camino. I sneered at the crumbs on the table, the dolls in the wrong place, the soup that wasn't hot enough, the clatter that button-fly jeans produce while spinning in the dryer.

It's 11:08 p.m. now, and the good news is that I refuse to carry this with me into tomorrow. The next 52 minutes, though, are going to feel like a long, long time.

The Post In Which I Gush Over Eleanor Farjeon Again

No Man's Week is winding down, even as I type. Yesterday we spent the afternoon at the library, then came home to a fire in the fireplace, a semi-quiet game night, and—yay!—takeout. It's not a complete hunkering down, of course. Little bits of real life impinge in the form of bills, lesson plans, laundry, thank you notes, to-do lists, and the endless loop of bad news on CNN.

I'm starting to think about the weeks to come when I'll have larger blocks of time to write. I have three pieces that are thisclosetobeingdone, and I don't have to look any further than my blogroll for inspiration. There is Jean, for example, who resolves to submit (or make that send) more work this year, Marianne who already has stories about to appear in print, and the ever-prolific Grace, who doesn't allow anything—including tragically hemmed pants or hospitalization—to break her writing stride. I'm also trying to organize my reading a little more. At the moment, I'm all over the place.

Circling back to our library trip...I found a circa 1950 copy of Eleanor Farjoen's novel, The Glass Slipper, and I cannot wait to read it. I discovered Farjoen—an English children's book writer—last year when I picked up her collection of stories, The Little Bookroom. I thought I bought it for the girls, but have since come to the realization that I didn't. At the end of every story I have the same visceral reaction: a tiny, sharp intake of breath. If you want to read a quick one, I posted it here.

Anyway, in looking more into Farjoen's life, I found that director/animator Hayao Miyazaki (Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke, Castle in the Sky, etc.) cites her as an influence. I like the way they both resist(ed) placing characters and situations into convenient good/bad categories (I know I'm supposed to say "dichotomies." Alas, I cannot...). Instead, they present life as it is: complicated. It makes me happy when authors respect the intelligence of children (or, um, adults) in this way. It's something I try to do in my own writing, but I'm often lazy and miss the mark.

Note to self: stop missing mark.

No Man's Week

Folks are penning lovely, reflective posts about the-year-that-was, but I'm among the legions of parents who won't feel like it's 2009 until school is back in session on January 5th. This week, then, I'm suspended happily in a no man's land of peaceful putzing around with my little family. Today was Ri and Vi's 9th birthday, and we took them to the new California Academy of Sciences, where they discreetly shrieked their way through the rainforest (green anaconda! piranhas! freakiest frogs EVER), worked their way around the aquarium with their jaws dropped (I could have sat in front of the Philippine coral reef for an hour), and became giddy with slight motion sickness in the planetarium (Vida raised her hand in front of the whole auditorium and correctly answered a question posed by the planetarium lady; I think this portends a future appearance on Jeopardy). If you have zero aversion to crowds, I recommend a thorough exploration. Other random facts about our visit:

1. Risa has a pathological fear of butterflies. The air was thick with them when we reached the rainforest canopy, and my poor little 9-year-old started to shake. After a few minutes, one of the butterflies—royal blue and big as a bird—landed on my arm (you realize what this means, do you not? It means that I am a PRINCESS), and a small crowd gathered around. Risa was right beside me, breathing normally, so I thought she'd conquered her discomfort. But then the butterfly flitted away, and she was back to cowering. At one point, she became so agitated that she SWATTED at a butterfly, so I had no choice but to rush her back down to to the rainforest floor. Weirdo.

2. I like penguins.

3. They served pretty good pho in the cafe. *scratches head in confusion* They are so green and healthy in there, though, that they only offered natural sodas and water (pfffft), which means that I was deprived of the lunchtime Diet Coke that basically ensures my daily survival.

4. I also like moon jellies.

5. Lea wanted to touch a starfish in the tidepool area, but kept saying the water was "too deep." We finally gave up on her and started to move on to the next thing. She then realized that she REALLY, REALLY wanted to touch a starfish. I led her to the other side of the tidepool (since we were, by this time, closer to that end) but she didn't want to touch any of THOSE starfish, she wanted to touch the starfish that we had all touched, which meant working our way back against the tide (get it? get it?!!). Normally I would have done my oh-no-you-don't-young-lady-the-whole-world-does-not-revolve-around-your-whims-and-wishes thing, but there was something about the situation that made me give in. I brought her back, held her hand, put it in the water with mine, and together we touched the starfish. I said, "Okay?" and then she just leaned against me and a single, heartbreaking tear slid down her cheek. Weirdo.

6. And also electric eels.

7. There are many times when the spousal unit's significant height comes in handy, but never more so than in extreme crowd conditions. Others may be swiveling their heads around or standing on their tip-toes to locate their partners, but I never have a problem finding home.

8. But not so much the albino alligator.

I have no decent pictures from today's activities, so I will post two from yesterday's when Risa and Vida spent three hours playing tetherball, a sport (is it a sport?) for which their passion knows no bounds. Here they are engaging in one of their cutthroat matches:


Lea has no interest in tetherball. Instead, she spent her time perfecting ever more dangerous tricks on her scooter. Behold her death-defying deep squat maneuver:



Don't try this at home.

Eat, Drink, Merry

I am sitting here in my trainwreck of a kitchen, simultaneously cleaning up from last night's festivities and making a shopping list for the next two days. Yesterday was all about crab. My dad schooled the girls on crab anatomy:


And then, much to the delight of everyone under the age of 9, he insisted that two of the crabs participate in a foot race prior to their demise:


Let's hope he has no such plans for tomorrow's prime rib roast. Speaking of which, I am off to Pape Meat Co. to pick it up! I have mentally prepared myself for being jostled around by people who, for reasons unknown, strongly believe that they should be served first. But never mind them! They are but specks in my sea of happiness!

I'll meet you back here after all the merrymaking! And here are a few more exclamation marks: !!!!

17 Random Things About Me

Marianne tagged me, so here I sit. I confess it's challenging to come up with seventeen random things about your Nesting Ground Mistress, especially because this entire blog is made up of random things about me. But here goes:

1. As a child, I insisted on having my fast-food hamburgers "plain," which inevitably caused my entire family's order to take an unholy fifteen minutes to fulfill. But did they stop me? No! They never stopped me! In this sense, I think you will agree, they enabled—nay, encouraged—my selfishness. Were one of my children to cause such a disturbance, I would say, "You cannot be serious right now," and ignore them. How I became so mean, I will never know.

2. Two days ago, I watched rapt as Arnel Pineda played "Who Wants to be a Millionaire." Afterwards, in a WTH moment, I wondered why host Kris Aquino chose to wear a voluminous black ball gown for the occasion. I also noted that Arnel has not been using a flat iron on his hair while at home in the Philippines.

3. This morning at the post office, when presented with my choice of either a) nutcracker stamps or b) Madonna and child stamps, I said, "Well, I'm gonna have to go with the...nutcrrrrrrrackers!" The postal worker found me neither funny nor charming. I hope she will rethink this as her day goes on.

4. I would rather stay up until 2 am than wake up before 7 am.

5. While I was in Reno, Nevada, canvassing for Obama, a man opened his door and a black pitbull (whose rhinestoned collar announced she was a "DIVA") took a flying leap at your terrified Nesting Ground Mistress. I instinctively turned my back and felt her nails dig in just below my bra strap. The man then grabbed DIVA by the aforementioned collar and threw her back into the apartment. "Sorry about that!" he said. My cousin Lui (she of the gifted tweets) will attest to this...this...this assault on my physical and psychological safety.

6. I do not like crispy cookies. I like chewy cookies.

7. Even though it takes "10" as its basic unit, I don't understand the metric system.

8. I don't think I'm doing this correctly.

9. I once successfully faked my way through fifteen minutes of being spoken to in Pilipino.

10. I can easily identify people by the back of their heads. I can do this if I've known you twenty years, five minutes, and/or if I have only seen you on television or the movie screen.

11. I've never had a cup of coffee, glass of wine, or bottle of beer because I do not like the way these things taste.

12. I have had the same pair of contact lenses for about twelve years. I was fitted with new ones a few years ago, but they were so uncomfortable, I turned back to these.

13. I sometimes talk to my inbox (it doesn't reply).

14. I am currently reading, among other gleanings, Bolaño's The Savage Detectives, Daniel Gilbert's Stumbling on Happiness, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (to Lea), The Tale of Desperaux (to Risa, Vida, and Lea), this week's issue of The Nation, the December issue of The Atlantic, and the Fall issue of All-Story.

15. These are my rain boots. I'll be wearing them all day, even if it stops raining. I'm lazy like that.


16. I wear three rings.

17. Last night, while putting Lea to sleep, I sang a Carpenter's song.

I'm tagging any 17 people who read this (yes, that means you).

The Post In Which I Use the Word "Kulangot"

I've been reflecting on the way that social networking has changed my relationship to blogging (and now I'm reflecting on how ridiculous that sounds). I started tweeting because tweeting is...silly. You have 140 characters to make your statement, plead your case, or just tell the world that you're headed to the gym. It's quick and often hilarious, as when Weez demanded that her Twitter crew must tweet in haiku, and they did it. Such is the power of tweets and/or such is the power of the lovely Weez.

Facebook is another animal altogether. You can throw down larger chunks of text, plus it's easy to link, share what you're reading, etc., so that in many circumstances it has taken the place of (my) blogging. These days, blogs feel a little bit like an Auntie, while Facebook and Twitter are like hyperactive cousins. It's fun to hang out with hyperactive cousins, of course, but there are times when the less frantic, more fully realized existence of Auntie is the only way to go.

In this post, though, all worlds converge as I reveal my favorite blog post, favorite tweet, and favorite Facebook status updates of the week:

My favorite blog post was A.D.'s because 1) I thought he fell off the face of the earth, and I am relieved to know that he did not and 2) he cites Bolano's The Savage Detectives, which I am also reading. In the early pages we witness a poetry throwdown in a classroom at a Mexican university. "There's a time for reciting poems and a time for fists," says the narrator.

My favorite tweet came from my little cousin Lui, who posited a simple question: "There's a New Yorker in the trash can at this BART station. Dare I?" There was no follow-up, but I bet the fear of finding pages 57-58 stuck together with...I don't know...some kind of monster kulangot (okay, I can't believe the Urban Dictionary has an entry for "kulangot") was enough to keep her hands in her coat pockets.

My favorite Facebook status update is a tie. First there was Rich Villar's "Rich is LMAO at Rod Blagojevich getting arrested in a blue jogging suit. OH PLEASE GOD LET THERE BE PICTURES." Basically, he just cracks me up. And then there was Patrick's "Patrick is rockin' it," with a link to this, which made the odious task of unloading the dishwasher just a little less pain-in-the-ass-y.

Thus ends my first ever post in 5 years that includes the word "kulangot." Banner day, my lovelies. Banner day.

Flying Food Particles OR Kids Are Gross

Monday is my volunteer day at the girls' school. I start with Writing Workshop in Vida's classroom, move on to 3rd/4th/5th grade yard duty (where I try to even things attention-wise by over-chatting with Risa), and finally head over to Lea's classroom to help with reading groups. I find all of this enjoyable and rewarding, with the pronounced exception of the 40 minutes I spend supervising the lunch tables.

Kids are gross.

They are so, so gross.

Unleashed after more than 3 classroom hours, they are like rabid feral beasts. They have no sense of personal space, and despite the fact that there is plenty of room to keep a good ten inches between their butts, they prefer to sit on top of each other the better to push and elbow and tickle and lean. They also like to scream directly into each other's ears. Everyone touches everyone else's food, and they are laughing and guffawing in a way that encourages semi-chewed food particles to fly out of their mouths and land, let's say, behind the ear of someone else.

Last week one of the kids picked up a handful of tater tots, smooshed them on top of his hamburger, and then covered the whole thing in two packets of mustard. The worst part? HE ATE IT. Someone didn't want their carton of milk, so I walked amongst the tables asking if anyone wanted it. This set off a frenzy between two boys, and I was only able to quiet them down when I told them they'd have to Ro Sham Bo for it (Ro Sham Bo works in a variety of situations, actually, and because there is always a clear winner when using the "best of 3" option, there is never any argument afterwards). One kid asked me if he thought he needed plastic surgery. I told him I'd get back to him next week. Another scowled when I said I liked his haircut. One kid's garbage was free floating all over the place. "'Scuse me, Mister," said I. "Can you please pick up your garbage?" He then rolled his eyes, which ignited a stare-off between us.

I won.

More Appropriate as a Tweet, But...

...I'm listening to Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass at the moment. In related news, I find this image uber caliente:


Am I wrong? No, I am not.

Thanksgiving Day, 2008

After last night's harrowing 7-hour drive, we are ensconced comfortably in that neverland zone between moving from one home (my in-laws') to another (my sister-in-law's) on this, Thanksgiving Day. The girls are watching the parade which, for a reason that remains vague to me, currently features Rick Astley singing "Never Gonna Give You Up." Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I love that freakin' song.

I don't usually bring my laptop along on this particular roadtrip, but I have some writing to do and knew we'd have downtime. Instead of using said downtime wisely, however, I've been sucked into the Black Hole of the internet. The most fascinating find of the day has been...

...The Golden Notebook Project...

which, according to the FAQ, is "an experiment in close-reading in which seven women are reading the book and conducting a conversation in the margins." Doris Lessing's publisher has given permission for the entire book to be published online, so you can follow along with the participants as they read.

I think this is a brilliant idea, and am also thinking it would be wonderful to do with Filipino and Fil-Am literature. Anyone have the energy for a new project? E-mail me! Or text me! Or leave a comment! Or shout when you see me crossing the street! Or ignore me completely and go back to your peaceful day!

To you and your families, Happy Day.

Friday Night Happy

I would like to take this blogging opportunity to ignite jealousy in the hearts and minds of all you lovely people. How will I do this, you ask? I will do this by describing my Friday night date with the spousal unit.

I took the train into the city, walked out the station doors, and spotted said spousal unit patiently awaiting my arrival in his car which was, per usual, parked in a spot that willfully ignores all rules and regulations. I was able to wing my way across the 6-lane wide street before the police arrived, however, and we proceeded safely on our way to what I thought was going to be The Slanted Door, but which turned out to be A 16, which is located in the Marina, which is an oddly—how to put it nicely?—bland part of the city, which I habitually avoid due to the...blandness. But A 16 was a revelation.

Parking was, of course, a challenge, so I hopped out of the car to finagle a table (that rhymes!). Normally, I don't do well with this. I am always being smirked at and told that the wait will be 145 hours, but by some miracle of the Date Night Gods, I was promised two seats at the chef's counter. Ten minutes later, a frazzled and pissed off woman walked in and said with much drama, "I am here to cancel my 6:30 reservation, IF YOU CAN BELIEVE THAT. Instead of sitting down and enjoying a delicious dinner, I have to go home because the babysitter didn't show up." She then left in a haze of misery and dejection.

The spousal unit walked in as she walked out, so I turned to the hostess. "Can we have her table?" I asked, referring to Drama Lady.

Of course we could.

We then ordered the mozarella burrata which looked, frankly, like curdled milk surrounded by a glistening pool of olive oil. But then I put a little on my crostini and my eyes nearly rolled back in my head. Hard to describe. It was like eating fresh air and sunshine. Because I am Filipino and cannot pass up braised meat to save my life, I then had the beef short ribs alla genovese and a side of roasted polenta. I can't remember what the spousal unit had (seafood of a kind, I think) because I was far too engrossed in my own culinary choices.

Happiness, happiness.

And then! And then we went to see the majestic Toni Morrison in conversation with the less majestic Michael Krasny. Maybe it's because she is a Pulitzer Prize winner and a Nobel Prize for Literature winner and has, therefore, no reason to be anything but herself, but still.


She was remarkably real and had a way of talking about literature in a way that makes it not so precious. When Krasny noted that she has two sons and asked her, then, to "locate" (gag) her interest in the mother/daughter relationship, she paused for a moment and said, "Well. I am a daughter." It was kind of an "Oh, snap!" moment, and I felt bad for Krasny and for anyone who has ever asked a stupid question, ever. Then she practically giggled when someone wanted to know if Beloved was in some sense a conversation with Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. And then someone asked if another of her novels was a response to Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom!. She threw up her hands and said, "Sound good! I'll take it!" After the laughing died down, she gave her real answer to both of those questions, which was, "Um, no."

Happiness, happiness.

And then! And then we came home and watched more of the first season of Mad Men. Oh, Don Draper. You're such a bad, bad boy.


You're so jealous right now.