Hells Dells

Let me start off by saying right away: Sorry to my peeps in Wisconsin, this rant is not directed at you.

With that apology out of the way and considering that spring break is upon us, I felt this post to be blog worthy.  So here it goes…

There is a special vacation spot in Wisconsin, approximately 3-4 hours northwest of Chicago, which promises Illinois families seeking a quick vacation, oodles of family fun and bonding time.

A place where a river, a lake, and a plastic pool playland converge to form the “Waterpark Capital of the World”.  A place known as the Wisconsin Dells.

Or, as I like to refer to it: Hells Dells.

Hells Dells, the resort spot where Wisconsinite locals ply their wares and treat their Illinois tourists with unmasked disdain, and charge a fortune while doing so.

At least, that’s been all four of my past Hells Dells experiences.

Maybe it’s just that the folks who live and work in Hells Dells have come to find the folks from the greater Chicagoland area to be rude and demanding.  Or maybe they’re just cranky all around. I don’t know, but I swear, Hells Dells residents seem to HATE people from Illinois (or perhaps they just hate me).

I won’t go into every transgression that has ever happened to me while at Hell Dells (but think along the lines of numerous parking tickets, anti-abortion protesters holding up graphic pictures on busy intersections, and a beetle problem in a hotel room).  Instead I will provide a brief recount of my last HellsDells episode, or the Glass Incident, as it is known around my house. 

A few years ago during the gray, gloomy, and cold month of March, my family had a three day stay at a giant indoor/outdoor water park resort that was teeming with children and adults stuck indoors. The first day was spent in the ‘Cavern’ indoor pool, which consisted of plastic molded and colored to resemble Gold Rush era caves, boulders, and bridges. Encircling this water wonderment was a  "lazy" river designed to be floated in with yellow inner tubes.  There, each member of my family claimed an inner tube and we proceeded to float in a giant loop around the Cavern 3,465 times in a 6 hour period along with 13,000 other people.      

The second day was spent at the “nation’s largest indoor wave pool”.  Well, at least that had been the plan.  Except when we arrived at the wave pool, it was empty. As in: drained of all water. Which meant no waves, no inner tubes, no nothing.  Wait, I take that back, there were two green garden hoses, yes folks, two green garden hoses, filling up the pool. At the rate the hoses were flowing, I suspected the pool would be ready by mid-April.  Oh?  And the two mutant guys in charge of filling up the pool? Um, yeah, they were entirely unable to offer me an explanation of how exactly, a giant wave pool became devoid of water and thus waves, overnight.

Being me, I marched myself to the front desk and asked for explanation. 

Me: What happened to the wave pool?

Front Desk Girl: Someone accidentally left the drain open over night and all the water leaked out.

?  

I looked around to ensure she was talking to me, then asked:

Me: Am I being punked?

Front Desk Girl: We are sorry for the inconvenience ma’am. The pool should be filled up by tomorrow.  Here’s a $25 off coupon for your next stay.  You have three months to use it.

Oh, okay – THANKS! What GIVERS!

Not wanting to again partake of the Cheerio Bowl (our nickname for the Cavern pool) we spent the better part of our day crammed in a tiny hotel room along with thirty other desperate parents and their whiny children, painting ceramics with meager brushes (that I’m pretty sure were procured at a highly discounted rate, as they appeared to be obtained from a garage sale some thirty years prior.) All this of course, was at an extra charge.

After three hours of painting a light switch plate while trying to comfortably fold my 5’9 ft frame onto a toddler chair, and then having my exposed big toe stomped on by a tike who decided to throw a temper tantrum while his mother sat by idly, encouraging him to 'work it out', I decided I had HAD ENOUGH. 

Still seething during dinner, my husband tried to ply me with numerous fruity alcoholic drinks in an effort to calm me down.  While this type of tactic usually works, this time was different.  Even though I was intoxicated, I had several years of pent up frustration (nay, hatred?) built up against Hells Dells and like a volcano, I was ready to blow (Or is that what whales do? Perhaps I was ready to explode? Erupt? Regardless, I think you get my point).  Anyway, this is what happened:

Me: I haffa an idea

Glenn: Oh no.

Me: Oooh yest.

Glenn: What? What are you going to do now?

Me: You are gonna hafta be my hit car.

Glenn: Hit car?

Me: Noff, not hit car. Other car.

Glenn: Why don’t you have another Tropocana--Banana-O-Rama? I’ll ask the waiter to double the rum again.

Me: NOFF! (hic). Om meant getaway car. You take kids. 

Glenn: You know, your starting to sound a little like Tonto.

Me: Stoppit! Dis is serious bidness. I hafta plan to get a glass.

Glenn: What do mean you have a plan to get a glass?

Me: Oma steal a glass from dis restaurant.

Glenn: Why?

Me: Beeeeecauzzzzz! I like the logo-glass and I hate HellsDelps!

Glenn: But this restaurant didn’t do anything to you.

Me: It doesn’t matter!!! Can’t you see? Itsa HelpsDells conpairacy!

Glenn: Conpairacy?

Me: Why youf repeatin me?

Glenn: I don’t think you should do that.

Me: Ooooooh big (hic) man. Whaf you gonna do, tellon me? You know you can no stop dis. And you can no stop me (table pound) when I know whaf to do when I wan!! Itsah plan now in notion.  I wan the glass, Oma gonna take it. And everfree time I use it, will remind me how I got even with HellsDess.

Glenn: (Rolling his eyeballs at me) It’s a plan in notion, alright.  You couldn’t have said it better. Come on kids, let’s go get the car. Better go give your Mom a kiss too, just in case she ends up in the slammer. 

Me: Come here my babies, gimme kisses. Mommy (hic) lovefs all the both of yous.

As my family headed out to retrieve the getaway car, I formulated my plan:

I was going to nonchalantly walk through the bar with my drink and pretend to sip it on the way to the restroom.  Once in the women’s bathroom, I would dump the drink down the toilet, flush, wrap the glass with a wad of toilet paper, stealthy put it in my giant purse, and then walk out the front door, unnoticed.

As I got up from the table, I made a mental checklist: Food bill had been paid, check; I had grabbed a glass with some drink-life left, check; I remembered to put my shoes on, check; I also remembered my purse, check; I ensured my family made it to the car, check.  Alrighty then, I-WAS-RET-TO-GO!

I sauntered my way across the restaurant, lazily sipping my drink. As I reached the bar area I tongued the tip of my straw and give the bartender a buzzed little smile that’s screamed: just another woozy Illinois broad headed to the little ladies room.  I then successfully completed the walk through the bar and headed over to the hallway where the restrooms were located.

Hot damn, I thought! So far this was EASY-PEASY.  I checked behind me, no one was around.  Trophy glass in left hand, I reached the bathroom door, opened it with my right hand, and BINGO, I was in baby!  Plan in notion, indeed.

Except? 

Why were there men in the women’s bathroom? And urinals? Hey, what the?

HOLY SHIT, had I walked into the wrong bathroom?

After a brief moment of panicked eye contact with a surprised bald guy trying to stuff his peter back in his pants, I quickly backtracked my way out of the men’s restroom.  Oh boy.

Two minutes later, I was firmly ensconced in the passenger seat of my hit/getaway car, with my belt safety latched.

Glenn: Well?

Me: Well whaf?

Glenn: Did you get the glass?

I looked into my lap and decided not to answer.

Glenn: Helloooo?  Earth to France.

*Sigh*

I could tell Glenn was not gonna let this one drop.

Me: I got dis instead. 

I proceeded to hold up my replacement Hells Dells trophy.

Glenn: You got a soup spoon? How did you get that? What happened to the glass?

Me: I don wanna talk bout it. Take me back to hoftel. I hate DellsHells!  Omm never coming back.

And so far my dear readers, I’ve been true to my word. 

Smile Therapy

A few posts ago I recounted my attempt at trying to learn the proper techniques of meditation; this happened last summer when I was on a quest to improve my psyche, tap into my inner peace, and dare I say, become one with the universe.

Turns out my three week search for a harmonious self was actually a moronic idea, because at heart, I’m a cynical smart-ass who prefers snarky comments over group hugs, tie dye, and ambiguous music (I wonder why one of my friends didn’t just punch me in the head and save me from myself?)

By the time week four rolled around, I was bored to tears with my newly discovered accepting self and decided that the universe really didn’t need me, so I moved on to getting rid of my belly fat (which I still have not accomplished, mostly because I stocked up on Nestle Toll House frozen cookie dough that was on sale at Target.  Eights months later and I still have 20 bags in the freezer.  Did you know that even though the package advises against doing so, eating this cookie dough while still raw and frozen is totally foodgasmic? I’m talking serious YU-UM people.)

Nonetheless I did manage to learn one quick technique that I have decided to share with you, my dear readers.  A technique I stumbled upon when an acquaintance of mine learned of my quest for self-improvement and recommended a book by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist monk who teaches Zen stuff.   

I can’t remember the exact title of the book, since I checked it out from my library, but I do remember it took me 6 days to read approximately three paragraphs, because apparently my psyche was not equipped to handle Zen-ness, even in minute doses. (Well that, plus the fact I was distracted by Thich’s name, which sounded like a nasty type of Asian fungus I definitely wanted to avoid catching.  Theoretically I knew I probably couldn’t catch ‘Thich Nhat Hanh fungus’ from a book, but one never knows.  It could very well be that the TNH Fungus, as I like to refer to it, is actually a new strain that resides in book pages, especially those books written by Buddhist monks, and has yet been to be discovered by scientists.)   

Fortunately the three paragraphs I read were enough to enlighten me to a technique called Smile Therapy.  Now read the next line carefully, since it will divulge the secret behind Smile Therapy without exposing you to the threat of TNH fungi poisoning: the theory behind ST is that through a sequence of breathing and smiling, your brain assumes you are happy. 

That’s it. 

When I first read it, I immediately felt this assumption was totally asinine, thus me and my brain decided we were waaaaaaay too smart to fall for such a simple minded gimmick, so we ignored it.   

Until one particularly rough back to school morning, when my kids were being giant pains-in-the-asses and me and my anti-Zen state wanted nothing more than to throttle them both.  Then out of nowhere, the notion of Smile Therapy popped into my head and so somewhat reluctantly, I inhaled deeply, smiled widely, and barely whispered “This moment” and exhaled with “Could be perfect”. 

Then I did it again: 

Inhale (big smile): “This moment” 

Exhale (bigger smile): “Could be perfect” 

Still smiling and through clenched teeth, I instructed my fighting kids to gather their CRAP and GET IN THE CAR. 

As I was driving, and the kids were still fighting, I inhaled, smiled and said a little louder: “This moment”  

And still smiling, I exhaled: “Is getting perfect” 

I allowed for a quick pause, inhaled, smiled harder and repeated: “THIS MOMENT” 

Exhaling, with my lips now stuck to my teeth, I chanted: “IS FREAKING PERFECT” 

From the backseat I heard the kids whisper:  

Older kid: What’s up with Mom? She’s acting like a nutter. 

Younger kid: Dunno, she’s smiling instead of yelling and using her middle finger on the other drivers. 

Me: (inhale, maniacal smile directed out my window at the old lady sitting next to me in a silver Buick) “THIS MOMENT” (exhale) “IS PERFECT.”   

Pause.   

Me: (big inhale, my face now plastered with a demented smile usually found on a crazed character from a Stephen King novel) “THIS MOMENT” (exhale) “ISSSS PERFECT.” 

Older kid: Mom’s kinda freaking me out. 

Younger kid: You’re not the only one, notice how cars are getting outta the way to let her pass?

As I held the steering wheel and happily gunned my way through a yellow-red light, I continued my smiling mantra.  I was a cranked up grinning fool.  I was so damn happy, I even gave a thumbs-up to the asshole that caused me to slam on my brakes.  And from the backseat, I realized there was Complete. Utter. Golden.  Silence.  Which miraculously?  Lasted all the way to school.   

Huh. 

Could it be true? Did this fungus-Zen-master smiling therapy shit really work? Because….I actually felt….happier.  In fact, I wondered if I had unintentionally stumbled upon a mystic technique to everyday happiness.

Except…I don’t use Smile Therapy much, because I enjoy being edgy (read: cranky, ornery, or insert any other adjective describing a perpetually PMSing female).  

But there are some days, when I am so grumpy that I can barely stand myself, that Smiling Therapy is…..well, better than a fork in my head………

High School Yearbook

I came across my senior high school yearbook this weekend and read the notes that were written to me in the back. Which?  Obviously brought back some memories - or not, considering I had to look up the people who wrote me these snippets:

“You’re a great person”

“You’re pretty crazy”

“You’re such a sweet person”

“You’re a super person”

“You are really a super person”

(Actually even after looking them up, I still couldn’t remember any of the people who expressed those sentiments.  Although I am pretty sure they were NOT in any of my AP English classes, which is probably why they were adjective-challenged and I couldn’t remember them.)   

Tucked on page 148 under the picture of the school janitors (by the way, is the use of the term janitors still acceptable, or has that position been renamed to Sanitation Engineers?) I found this little gem, written by someone whom I shall refer to as Jethro:

“Maybe I’ll be able to call and we’ll go out to a movie or a party”

I don’t remember Jethro ever being able to call (What does that even mean, Maybe I’ll be able to call? Maybe I’ll be able to call, if say, the sticky note I smacked on my forehead reminding me to call doesn’t fall off before I get home.  Or, maybe I’ll be able to call, if I can get the pencil in my mouth to dial your number correctly, because you see, I have this funky medical condition doctors have deemed inexplicable and sometimes my fingers freeze up and don’t work. Seriously? Able to call?).  Any rate, I looked up Jethro because I vaguely remembered his name but not his face, and decided he probably wasn’t ever able to call since judging by his photo, he obviously needed to spend time re-frosting his hair with his mother’s box of Clairol. In fact, I’m not even sure why he wrote that, because I think we may have only spoken to each other twice during the entire four years of high school and I never had any interest whatsoever to go to a movie or a party or anywhere else with him.

Then there was something that someone wrote in my yearbook, that I distinctly remembered, pissed me off.  It was written by a girl who I always suspected felt herself to be in competition with me. I’ll name her “Dee”.

While we were both tall and had a similar build, Dee was the color opposite of me: blue eyes, pale white skin, and blonde hair, fashioned somewhat after the outdated Farrah look.  Me…brown eyes, olive skin, and dark brown hair that regrettably, at times resembled Rosanne Rosannadanna in a violent wind storm. And on the days I felt as though a frizzy equilateral triangle was sitting on my neck posing as my head, I took comfort in the fact that Dee’s skull was almost the exact size of a seedless watermelon. While that may sound a little mean, it was nonetheless true. She had a giant seedless watermelon head.

I also used to think Dee was a total moron, at least socially, because all the girls in her clique used to hug and call each other “Squeegee”. (Don’t even ask me what the whole “Squeegee” thing was about, because I don’t know.  It was weird. Everybody was “Squeegee”.  They used to scream “Squeegee” to each other across the hall. In gym class they would chant “GO SQUEEGEE”.   Sometimes they would use a high pitch voice and draw out the E, so it came out sounding as “SQU-EEEEEEEEEEE-GEE” and I would want to hang myself just to be put out of my misery.  Often, they would shorten “Squeegee” to just “Squeeg”, thereby nicknaming their nickname. On occasion, Dee and company would get over excited, just like those little dogs that accidentally pee when happy, and they would inadvertently refer to a girl not in their clique, as Squeegee.  Then it would quiet and awkward for all those involved, especially the non-Squeegees, because let’s face it, who in their right mind wanted to be called Squeegee?  Last I checked, Squeegee was a tool used by a belligerent Chicago homeless guy on Michigan Ave who was trying to ‘clean’ my windshield against my wishes whilst I was stuck in traffic; my only recourse was to try and cram a dollar bill out the window without rolling it down, in hopes of making the Squeegee man go away.)

Yet Dee did have one thing I didn’t, and that was a specific Italian boyfriend who I shall call Fuglio (pronounced: Foo-glee-o).   This attraction itself was rather odd, because being 100% Italian myself, I am not and typically was not, ever attracted to Italian men because I know them to be: 1)crazy  2)short  3)bossy  4)loud and 5)crazy.  In fact, I didn’t really have any boyfriends in high school because I was a late bloomer in that regard. (Wait, I take that back, I did have one official boyfriend for about two weeks when I was a freshman. He asked me to “go out with him”, which meant steady back in the day, and I said yes because I never had a boyfriend before.  Then I saw John Travolta in the movie Grease at the local discount movie theater, and had to break up with my boyfriend because I loved John Travolta more.  Of course, I didn’t tell him that’s why I needed to break up, because really, how pathetic would that sound?  But evidently my love for Danny Zuko was so transparent, my now ex actually figured it out and called me on it.  I of course, vehemently denied such frivolous conjecture.  Turned out, it was a good thing we broke up, because at the beginning of our junior year, it was apparent my ex-boyfriend's replacement girlfriend was pregnant and it was totally scandalous.  Not that I would have ever gone all the way with him, because I was not that kind of girl, but still.  Come to think of it, it’s also a good thing I never hooked up with John Travolta either, because he turned out to be kind of wacky what with Scientology and all, and I can't imagine ever quietly acquiescing to the Silent Birth process.)

I became attracted to Fuglio in my senior year because we shared a couple of classes together and we had hung out at some parties; I found him to be funny, personable, sincere, and cute, plus it didn’t hurt that he had a nice little butt.  In fact, now that I think about it, I bet he wasn’t even all Italian. 

Anyway Fuglio, my unrequited senior high school crush, and boyfriend of Squeegee Dee, wrote this in my yearbook:

“To the girl with the best legs in school, it’s a shame I hafta go.  I know your gonna miss me! Really though your a good girl.  Good luck”.

Okay I know what you might be thinking, that based on the above paragraph, perhaps Fuglio was a bit of a conceited lunkhead.  But I beg you not to judge him just because he wasn’t adept at contractions or choosing girlfriends. Because I am quite sure he was good at other things and like I said, he did have a cute butt.

And the best legs reference?  Yeah, during our Senior Graduation Brunch, guess which female was voted as having “Best Legs” in the senior class?  That’s right – me. (And coincidentally my first ex-boyfriend, you know the one who got a girl pregnant in high school, he won Best Legs for male.  Imagine the set of legs our kid would have had, had we had a kid, when we were kids.)

Any rate, Dee, who also won an award at the Senior Brunch for Best Party Thrower, was not happy with me winning that award.  I guess she felt she should have won it or that I was not worthy of a Best Leg title.  I’m not sure which it was, but it prompted her to write this in my yearbook:

“Best legs huh! Ya – right! You’re really a good person.  Good luck with everything you do in the future, I hope you get what you want out of life, come to one of my parties and bring your legs!”

Which? Initially I thought she was total byotch for writing that, but reflecting back on it now, it doesn’t upset me at all.  In fact, time has given me great wisdom and perspective and I can now see she was confirming what others thought of me, at least according to my high school yearbook: I was a really good, great, crazy, super person!

So take that, Jethro!

Skunked

For the last three years around the February/March timeframe, our home has been skunked.  Skunked, as in a skunk has pointed its noxious skunkhole directly at the crevices of our home, lifted its nasty tail, and spewed forth its pungent essence.

The skunking typically occurs in the middle of the night.  The first time it happened, I distinctly remember being in the midst of a pleasant dream, when suddenly, a strong foul odor disrupted my REM. It was so stinky, I briefly awoke and gave Glenn a hefty sideways kick for interrupting my slumber (I of course assumed he was the cause of the smell, after all, he had just eaten two Taco Bell Cheese and Bean burritos with hot sauce earlier in the evening.  And typically one does not consume Taco Bell without some type of odiferous digestive by-product).

It wasn’t until the following morning however, when Glenn went outside to take out the garbage, and then came back in, that he realized we had gotten skunked.  I guess through the course of the night, we had become desensitized to the smell. And even though it was cold, we opened the windows in a futile effort to air out our less than aromatic home.  That year, the skunking only happened once.

Last year when we got skunked again, I knew exactly what I smelled.  In fact, the skunk spray was so strong, it woke us both up and left our eyes and throats burning and our stomachs nauseous.  

That time, we contemplated the idea of setting a humane trap.  Which to be honest?  At that point, I wasn’t feeling so magnanimous towards that damn skunk.  While I didn’t necessarily want to kill or maim it, I did want it to feel some major skunk version of discomfort too.  (The best idea I could muster was baiting the trap with my beloved mother-in-law’s not so beloved “spaghetti”.  Which? Can best be described as pasta overcooked to the point of spontaneous disintegration, laying in a puddle of tasteless reddish watery sauce and topped with Kraft “parmesan cheese” from a green bottle).

Of course the humane trap also came with the issue of: What if we did catch a skunk?  Then what?  How could we approach a live trapped skunk without getting sprayed?  Glenn suggested we cover the trap with a blanket and tie a long rope to the cage.  Okay …so that we could what?  Attach the rope/cage to our van bumper in the middle of the night and drag the skunk 20 feet behind us, across town to the forest preserve and ditch it?  All the while hoping to avoid law enforcement detection?  And how would I explain a skunk crammed in a trap attached to my bumper by a long rope to the police if we got caught (and I say I, because in a situation where lying is needed, Glenn is useless):

“Yes officer, we did notice giant sparks flying out from behind the van, but you see, the Big Gulp sale at 7-11 starts at 2 a.m. and we wanted to be the first in line, so we really felt we couldn’t take the time to stop and investigate. What? No Sir, we didn’t hear the skunk squealing in the cage; hell, we didn’t even know skunks had vocal chords, right Glenn?  I mean, I’ve just always assumed they’re one big mass of stinky anal glands with paws. Well yes sir, I can assure you that we were unaware that a skunk was attached to our van.  Hmmm, it is a complete mystery as to how it got there, although if forced to speculate, I would probably suspect my neighbor Karen”. (see Meditation rant for Karen reference).   

After two more skunking episodes, our problem appeared to be resolved, because lo and behold, a few days later we spotted a dead skunk lying in the street that had been hit by a vehicle (and no, the skunk death was not due to any of our vehicles).

This now brings me to last week, when once again, we got skunked.  Upon

awaking and inhaling that familiar smell, I shook Glenn awake to let him know we had been skunked. (What? Surely, you didn't think I was about to suffer alone.)

As soon as daylight hit, I got dressed and ran outside to investigate.  A light snowfall provided me with the perfect tracking method. I followed the skunk’s footprints which appeared to start at the right side of our front stoop, continued across the drive, circled its way all around the base of our house and then incredibly led right back under the front stoop from the left. 

Huh? It only circled the house?

Did this mean that not only did we indeed have a skunk, but it was extremely stupid, incredibly lazy, or completely lacking any sense of direction?

In addition to the skunk tracks, I also found deer, rabbit, raccoon, squirrel, and possibly coyote tracks in the front yard, all directly under the tree near my front stoop.  It was as if the entire animal cast of a Disney movie had decided to converge on my front lawn in the wee hours of the morning to contemplate the potentially retarded skunk now hiding under our stoop. 

After a quick internet search, I had devised a simplistic plan of action and went out to purchase my anti-skunk weapons: moth balls and cayenne pepper. (But not before I went to the gym.  Where I stopped at the front desk to check in and ended up recounting my skunk woes to the kindly older male employee.  Not only did he feel my pain, but he supplied me a new one when he informed me that skunks carried life threatening rabies.  It was right about then, when I turned my body sideways away from the front desk where we were standing, that I noticed a long trail of water which had started from the front door entry, made its way across the entire length of the tile, and had stopped directly at my feet. Vaguely listening to the employee as he was now explaining how my family was undoubtedly minutes away from contracting acute encephalitis, I fished through my cloth gym bag and realized my water bottle lid had come opened and had simultaneously leaked on the gym floor and the things in my bag.  Including my MP3 player.  You’ll be happy to note that I was able to dry out my MP3 player and fortunately it still works, as long as I don’t mind listening to an 85 minute continuous loop of N.W.A.’s Straight Outta Compton.  Undoubtedly I blame the skunk for this mishap, for obviously distracting me from properly tightening my water bottle lid during my malodorous morning.)

Once home, I circled my house and spread two boxes of moth balls around the perimeter (By the way, did you know if a tiny gloved part of a hand touches a mothball, it is nonetheless equivalent to jumping into a giant mothball vat? And that not even a super long hot shower, which accidentally scorches the skin, can eliminate the mothball odor that tenaciously clings to every pore of the said water-heater burnt body?)

In addition to the mothballs, I also covered the ground and bushes near our front stoop with enough cayenne pepper to scare the people of the state of Louisiana into thinking I single-handedly contributed to a national shortage of the spice.

And?

All I can do next is wait and hope.  Wait to see if we get skunked again. And hope that the mildly carcinogenic concoction strewn about the outside of my home smells offensive enough to deter a skunk.

Does anyone else see the irony of this?

Finally, in honor of the animal shenanigans I encountered this week, I decided to post an animal video that is so completely hilarious, you will want to watch it again, if you haven’t seen it already (and no skunks are involved).