Chuck Spots the Eighth Natural Wonder of the World

 

      It seemed a shame to go all the way to Virginia, visit Monticello, and not visit Natural Bridge State Park and see the Natural Bridge. It was 500 million years old. Made of limestone. And it had an interesting history. In 1774 Thomas Jefferson--yes, that Thomas Jefferson-- purchased the Natural Bridge from King George III of England for twenty shillings. Jefferson liked to take his family and friends there to see this natural phenomenon. Plus, my sister Caroline had just purchased an Amish house nearby and told me the Natural Bridge was a cool thing to see.

        Strangely enough, Chuck wanted to see this amazing geological formation, the main focus of the park. But we couldn't figure out why. We, of course, smelled a rat. It wasn't long before we discovered that--believe it or not--cats have bucket lists like people, and the Natural Bridge was smack at the top of his list. 

        But why? Did Chuck only want to see the bridge? Or did he plan to climb the bridge to the top? Even though Chuck can't climb trees, he's always wanted to climb mountains. And climbing that natural bridge to the top, and then looking down, privy to an amazing view, well . . . we had no intention of letting Chuck face a challenge that would only lead to disappointment. And a disappointed Chuck is more than anyone can bear on vacation.

        "If he thinks he's going to climb up that bridge . . ."

        "Are you going to tell him now or later?" Dan asked.

         "Here's the plan," I said confidently as we drove to the park. "I figure once he sees the bridge, sees how tall it is, I mean seriously, he's not going to want to climb up there."

          Dan shook his head. "Listen. I wouldn't want to climb up there. You wouldn't want to climb up there, but Chucky--"

          "And I'm sure it's against park rules," I interrupted.

           "But Chucky is a one of those cats . . ." He didn't finish his thought, but he didn't have to. We both knew the truth. Once a rascal cat, always a rascal cat. And Chuck had a terrible reputation for always doing the thing you shouldn't do, wouldn't dare to do.

            We were here now, in Natural Bridge State Park. It was beautiful, and sure enough you couldn't miss seeing this immense geological formation. The guidebooks said it was 215 feet tall. You had to crane your neck all the way back to see the top of it. 

        

          We leisurely walked along, following the flowing water that seemed half stream, half river beside us. The weather was perfect. Chucky seemed to be enjoying himself.

           After awhile, we became convinced Chuck had completely forgotten about his maybe plan to climb the bridge. We weren't going to bring it up. 

            Unfortunately, the path we followed took us under the bridge, but we weren't worried. Chuck scampered beside us. 

             "You see,"I said to Dan, "you were worried for nothing."

             

             No sooner were the words out of my mouth when Dan pointed. Chuck had started to scamper faster, then break into a run, towards the bridge, as if he did intend to go bridge climbing . . . in fact, he was now directly underneath the massive arch, inspecting the sides of the bridge. Did he intend to make a stab at climbing up? 

              

 

            "You have to stop him."

            "I'll talk some sense into him," Dan volunteered.

            "Maybe talking won't be good enough," I cautioned. "You might have to grab him."

      When Chucky puts his mind to something, it's not easy to talk him out of it or restrain him. He has an amazing amount of energy. 

            I crossed my fingers as Dan jogged towards Chuck. They remained in intense consultation. What could Chuck be saying?

        When I got there, Dan took my arm and maneuvered me over to a picnic table a few feet away. "No worries."

        "So, what's going on?"

        Dan laughed. "Chuck came here with a mission, but it's not to climb the Natural Bridge. He wants to sign a petition to make the Natural Bridge the Eighth Natural Wonder of the World."

        "What? How can a cat know anything about the Seven Natural Wonders of the World?" 

        

        Dan shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Chuck says he wanted to see it for himself first."

         I marched over to where this belly boy was sprawled out, eating his snack in the shade of the bridge, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world.

          I figured if he wanted to sign a petition to add the Natural Bridge to that illustrious list, he should know the Wonders that were already on that list. And, I was curious if my smart aleck cat could name even one Wonder.  

         "Chucky, can you name the Seven Natural Wonders of the World?"  

          "The Grand Canyon," my snarky cat immediately replied.

          Well, lucky guess. Everyone knows the Grand Canyon. So I waited. Could Chucky name any others? 

          Silence.

          "The Northern Lights." That was Dan.

          "I asked Chucky."

           "Victoria Falls." Dan again.

           "Stop." Dan, sometimes, can be such a show-off with his incredible brilliance. "I want to know if Chuck can name--"

            "Mount Everest in The Himalayas." Dan was on a roll, and Chucky was going to let him go on and on. It was becoming clear Chucky knew only one Wonder, and Dan was swooping in to save him from embarrassment. 

             "The Great Barrier Reef, which is made up of 2900 individual reefs-" It would have been lovely if that were Chucky's soft purry voice, but it wasn't. I rolled my eyes at Dan.

              "Okay. Okay." I turned toward Chucky. "So all these Wonders are pretty spectacular. There's a reason why they are on the list. Wouldn't you agree?"

               We waited for Chuck to say something, to realize that as wonderful as the Natural Bridge was, it didn't quite match the awesomeness of the Grand Canyon or the amazing height of Mount Everest, the tallest mountain on the Earth. We admired his initiative but for gosh sakes one had to be realistic. 

               Chuck finished his snack and gazed up at me. He then looked up at the Natural Bridge.          

           "Did you hear me, Chuck?"

                

               Chuck huffed, still looking up admiringly at the Natural Bridge. 

               "Don't forget Paricutin, the cinder cone volcano in Mexico." Dan just couldn't resist. "That's the seventh natural wonder and for good reason. Most people don't know--"

               "Really!"

               Chuck was still looking up. And I knew that look. No matter what we said, he was going to paw print that darn petition. He'd made his mind up. 

               Finally, he glanced over and blinked. I had a small hope that maybe I'd gotten through to him. 

               "Well?"

                "Got any more turkey, mom?"      

               "Unbelievable."

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Chuck Tackles the Fire Pit

        Imagine this. The four of us--three of my sisters and myself--set off for a relaxing vacation in Lancaster, PA. We wanted to see the Amish. We booked a tour to learn all about their unique way of life. And we rented a beautiful old farmhouse on a horse farm about twenty minutes outside of Lancaster called Shallowbrook Farm, circa 1850. 

        We were excited about the trip--catching glimpses of the Amish in their buggies, eating all that delicious fattening food, partying together when we made it back to our lovely farmhouse at night. But, most of all, we were looking forward to the fire pit. It sat on the side of the house and beckoned to us. Much like the siren call beckoned the sailors from Odysseus' ship. 

          

 

My one sister Cheryl is an expert at fire pits so we knew she could get that fire roaring. My other sister Karen promised to bring the marshmallows.  Cyndi, my youngest, with her ease and grace would keep the conversation flowing.  And I, of course, had Chuck. 

       "This is a real fire," I cautioned. "You can't get too close to it." I don't have a fire pit at my house, and I knew Chucky had never seen a real fire pit before. So I was a bit worried how he would react. But even though this belly boy is impulsive, he does have some degree of common sense. He would be able to feel the heat generated from the burning wood. He would have sense enough to keep his distance. 

       Or so I thought.

       Fast forward. Cheryl brought the necessary "fire starter" kit. She had matches. There was wood stacked on the side of the farmhouse. The fire pit was in essence a circular construct of large boulders that enclosed an area where you would build the fire. 

       The only thing we didn't anticipate was how darned cold it was outside. There is cold and then there is COLD. It took a while for the fire to catch on. We were a very impatient bunch. We pulled our chairs closer to the boulders. Chuck was with us, watching his Aunt Cheryl intently as she steadily added paper, wood, and lit the match. 

       "How much longer?" we all wanted to know.

       "Once it catches on, "Cheryl assured us. "You'll be nice and warm.

       We wore heavy coats, scarves, hats and gloves. Chucky had his fur coat to keep himself warm. We stamped our feet. I put my feet on top of one of the boulders, but Cheryl immediately cautioned me. "Be careful. Your boots might melt right off your feet, once this fire gets roaring."

        If only . . . I thought to myself, then I'd be able to feel my toes.

        While we waited for the fire to grow hotter, Karen brought out the marshmallows. We loaded them on the professional telescoping skewers we found in the farmhouse and tried not to burn those white round puffs of sweetness as we softened them in the ever growing fire. Roasting marshmallows was something we did as kids. There's nothing better or worse than getting the marshmallow stickiness all over everything. Chucky wasn't sure if he liked the marshmallow taste or not. 

         

        But at least it took our mind off the COLD.

        Finally, the fire took off. I pulled my chair even closer, struggling to feel more of the fire's heat. 

        That's when it happened. And I partially blame myself for being such a terrible role model. Chucky, who obviously was also very cold, had been pacing around. He saw what I did and decided, I guess, to get one step closer.

         He bounded on top of one of the boulders and leaned in. Too close to the fire. 

          A thousand thoughts raced through my head. What if he decides to jump in? What if he really doesn't understand the nature of fire, doesn't realize he can get severely burned? If I leap up and try to grab him, he could try to get away from me and slip . . . I imagined him in the fire. The funeral afterwards. How would I explain it all?

         I was frozen into doing nothing. 

         The fire pit was now raging. Flames leapt out as if their sole mission was to claim my helpless cat.

         My sisters sat in stunned silence. Watching. Waiting.

         I had to do something. I calmed my fears and called out, "Chucky, honey, come down off that giant rock."

         He tilted his head towards me. Weirdly, he didn't seem panicked or in anyway alarmed. 

         I needed to get a grip.

         Then he let out a big sigh and jumped down.

         I scooped him up and squeezed him against me. He was safe. His fur was super warm. I was almost jealous.

         Cyndi, the voice of reason, said, "I think we need to go inside now. It's too COLD out here."

         Cheryl said, "Yeah. For the full fire pit experience, you need hot chocolate or coffee and a blanket wrapped around you."

         "And you need something in that coffee and a heated blanket," Karen added. 

         And you need a Chucky sitting on your lap. That's what makes a perfect fire pit experience. Surrounding yourself with the ones you love.

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Chuck Parties at Mount Vernon

        I am ashamed to admit it, but I've been all around the world--to Africa and to China (twice)--but I've only recently found the time to visit Mount Vernon, the home of our first president--George Washington. That was a big mistake. I should have gone there years before. To make up for it, we not only went on the regular tour of the house, but we signed up for the VIP tour and got to see the entire house--the upstairs as well as the downstairs and even the cellar which was rumored to be haunted. It was well worth it!!

        At least Dan and I thought so. 

        Our guide was a retired Army Colonel. He was chosen because he knew everything about George Washington. And since I had read Ron Chernow's Washington A Life, the Pulitzer Prize winning biography of Washington, before I arrived and thought I knew everything about Washington, I was suspicious. Did this retired Army Colonel really know Washington as well as I did? 

        I decided to put him to the test. As we were touring the house, I asked the one question that most casual readers of Washington don't know--how did Washington light his house. Now, most people assume he used candles. And that is partly true. But candles don't give off good light, especially if you want to illuminate an entire room. An innovation in lighting Washington took advantage of was whale oil. It burned cleaner and brighter than other oils. Our guide pointed out the whale oil lamps in the dining room. I was impressed. 

         Mount Vernon is not as luxurious as Monticello. It was a working farm. Even during the Revolutionary War, when Washington was General Washington--before he became our first president--and he was criss-crossing the then "colonies", engaged in fighting a brutal war against the British--for our freedom--he was also engaged in writing letters home to Mount Vernon on a regular basis to his cousin who had agreed to run the farm in his absence.  

        Historians call Washington a micro-manager. His letters are filled with orders, details, questions regarding the running of the farm--crops that should be planted--where, how much. Methods that should be used. Where the crops should be sold. The managing goes on and on. He wanted to be kept informed about everything. He loved Mount Vernon, much the same way that Jefferson loved Monticello. 

          Chucky, of course, had a different opinion of our tour. He showed his version of mild admiration for the variety of rooms as we passed through them on the basic tour. On the VIP tour, we re-did some of the same rooms on the first floor, and I could hear Chucky huffing and puffing (he has little patience). He had had enough and was itching to get out of the backpack and be outside, run free. 

        Even when we saw Washington's writing desk, and my heart started pounding, Chucky showed no reaction! Full disclosure--Washington was very aware of his place in our history. He kept copious notes. He kept track of all his letters. He wanted an accurate accounting of his time as general during the war and as president of the United States. 

        There's a wonderful story of how he sent trunk loads of his correspondence back to Mount Vernon--as the war was still going on--and the trunk almost landed at the bottom of some river. Luckily, it didn't and made it safely back to become part of our history.

           "There's a lot to learn here, Chucky," I said. "This is an historic house. It gets thousands of visitors every year."

            "The tour is almost over," Dan said, more to the point.

            We decided to check out the gardens. "I don't understand Chuck at all. You would think he would show some kind of interest."

             We were alone in one of the many gardens that dated back to Washington's time. Chuck had disappeared among the plants. 

              "We'd better find him before he does something crazy."

               "Look." Dan pointed to Chuck, who was now rolling around on one of the plants in the garden. I'd seen that behavior before.

                "I wonder if that's . . . no, it can't be . . . but it seems just like . . ." I walked over and sniffed the plant. It smelled just like catnip. Had Chuck somehow managed to locate a catnip plant in the middle of this herb garden?

                 "I think he's high on catnip." 

                 And there you had it--later at home I confirmed, that, yes, indeed, catnip was one of the herbs grown in Washington's kitchen garden. It wasn't my imagination! Somehow Chucky had sniffed the catnip out within seconds. 

                 While we, the responsible ones, were taking in the historical significance of this wonderful landmark--Mount Vernon--Chuck, the rascal cat, was partying in the kitchen garden at Mount Vernon! And darn it, he looked like he was having more fun!

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Chuck Snoozes on Jefferson's Bed

        I've always wanted to go to Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's home in Virginia, the one he renovated over and over again, throughout his entire life, both before and after he became our third president. I read a book that posited the key to Jefferson's personality rested in his house renovations. It was his obsession, his love, and it literally bankrupted him. 

      Do you remember the movie The Money Pit? Tom Hanks and Shelley Long buy what they think is the perfect house. They begin renovating. Things continually go wrong. They go deeper in debt. They've bought a money pit.

      Okay, some awkward disclosures:

      Most historians believe our third president had an obsessive compulsive personality that literally drove him to continually change the configuration of Monticello. This is neither good nor bad. You can see his personality, his likes, and his creative inventions reflected in every room.

       When I suggested traveling down to Virginia to visit Monticello, as part of our president house tour, Chuck was interested. I was intrigued. It wasn't for the food. This time. No, his wanting to go existed on a deeper level. Chuck is a fan of cozy, well-built houses. He'd listened carefully as I shared what I'd learned about Jefferson's constant re-doing of his house. 

        Chuck wanted to see Monticello for himself.

         Immediately, I suspected Chuck had an ulterior motive, a plan he intended to put into operation. I knew I had to be on my guard.

         There is no way to describe how spectacular Monticello is, both inside and out. It sits on a mountain. Surrounded by land. When Jefferson was alive, it was acres of farmland.  

          

                                            Monticello

         When you first step inside Monticello, she is both grand and unusual.

          As we moved from room to room, studying the artifacts Jefferson had collected that were now hanging on the wall,

seeing in person the copying machine that Jefferson invented that duplicated letters that he wrote to preserve a copy for history,

his chest set,

his harpsichord, which he not only knew how to play but also to tune,

nothing interested Chuck more than Jefferson's bed.

       We were lagging behind the group we were with, and therefore, alone in the area. Chuck, in our backpack, wriggled to get free. It didn't take a genius to realize Chuck wanted to get closer to Jefferson's bed, his "bedchamber."

        "Don't touch the bed. It's an historical heirloom," I explained.

        Chuck literally bounced over. Sniffed. Noticed it was a kind of built-in bed chamber. Chuck reared on his hind legs, admiring the red silk curtains. Plopped down on the floor.

        I turned my gaze for a second to make sure we were still alone and in that moment . . . from the corner of my eye, without really seeing, but knowing exactly what this rascal cat would do, Chuck leapt up on Jefferson's bed. 

        I couldn't believe it. 

        And he relaxed as if he were in his own private suite. As if he were suffering some grand delusion that he was President Chuck, about to take a snooze in the middle of the afternoon. 

         Time stopped. But it didn't.

          I was the one who froze in horror. Luckily, Dan took two steps forward, scooped Chuck off the bed and safely ensconced him inside the backpack. 

          Our guide reappeared at that instant. 

          Dan smiled. "We were admiring Jefferson's bed chamber," he said, without missing a beat. 

          I glanced over to the bed. In full view were several of Chuck's orange and white cat hairs on prominent display.

          Would she look over and see them? And how would I begin to explain . . . Our guide smiled, totally oblivious to the travesty that had just occurred. "Yes. Very stylish. Imported from his house in Paris."

           As she turned to leave, I shooed the cat hairs off the bed, and thought to myself--my Chucky may be a rascal, but he sure has taste.

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Chuck and the Super Squirrel at Montpelier

          When we drove down to Virginia last November, we made the decision to visit the houses of four of our presidents. Where we made our biggest mistake was our decision to take Chuck with us. 

       Yes, yes. He promised, as he always does, to be good. Well-behaved. He understood that often he needs to be quiet. When you're doing an inside tour of a president's house, cat's are not allowed. Never.

        I thought I could impress upon Chuck how important Montpelier was from an historical perspective. After all, he is a smart cat. He loves the National Geographic channel. 

        As we stood on the expansive front lawn and gazed at the house, I explained that Montpelier is part of a Virginia plantation of over 2500 acres. James and Dolley Madison lived there. James Madison was our fourth president. "He wrote the Federalist Papers, Chuck, which helped ratify the Constitution. He is known as the Father of the Constitution. And . . . he is called the architect of the Bill of Rights."

        I looked down at my handsome orange and white cat, who was sitting quite comfortably in our backpack, and caught the end of a yawn.

        "Did you see that?" I asked Dan. "Did he just yawn?"

         Dan shrugged. "Maybe a little bit too much history."

         "Well, I was only trying to impress upon him--"

         No one was listening, not Dan, and certainly not Chuck. We walked across the beautiful lawn and into the house. The rooms were impressive. 

         Then we went outside again. 

         Chuck was itching to get out of the backpack.

          "You may as well let him down," Dan said. "He needs to walk around a bit."

           We were the only ones around. What harm could he cause?

           I was wrong.

           The minute Chuck's paws hit the lawn, he spotted the lean mass of brown fur who just moments before had leapt down from an expansive tree and was now wandering across the lawn, minding his own business. But that didn't matter. In the world according to Chuck, all squirrels are fair game. He took off after Super Squirrel who had no choice but to run as fast as he could, for his life.

            For awhile, I thought Chuck was going to get that poor innocent squirrel. But he never really had a chance.

             Super Squirrel raced to the tree, scampered up with Chuck in hot pursuit. The only difference was that Super Squirrel knew how to climb a tree. Chuck leapt up on the trunk, took another few steps and then stopped. Paralyzed. 

              Cats are not good tree climbers. 

               Super squirrel turned around and let out a torrent of squirrel curses that put my poor Chucky to shame.

               Dan went over and pulled our poor feckless hero down. 

               "It's okay, buddy. It could have happened to anybody."

               The 2500 acre plantation included 1800 wooded acres with eight miles of nature trails and fifty different specimens of trees. But Chuck wasn't in any mood for hiking along the trails or checking out anymore trees or wildlife. My little wild cat had had enough for one day.

                "How about some ice cream, Chucky?" I asked. 

                After all, our fourth First Lady, Dolley Madison herself, popularized ice cream as a dessert in the White House. Without access to a freezer, she had to rely on large blocks of ice cut from frozen water, packed on straw and stored in a cool place. Her favorite flavor was oyster ice cream. 

                Again, Chucky yawned. Too much history.

                By the way, Chucky's favorite flavor is vanilla. 

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Chuck and the Seagull

           When you're a Jersey girl, it is part of your DNA that demands you spend a certain amount of time each year at the Jersey shore. No if, ands, or buts. The sandy beach call you to its shores. You long to see the seagulls,  even if they will swoop down and try to steal your lunch. There is nothing more refreshing than the sea breeze blowing through your soul. 

       We are all romantics in our own way.

       I have to admit it was my idea that Saturday to take the almost two hour ride to Island Beach State Park. Although not as popular as Seaside Heights with its boardwalk and social scene, IBSP boasts ten miles of sandy beach, rolling sand dunes and tidal marshes near Barnegat Bay. It was October and cloudy. 

       But I believe in magic--that once we arrived, the sun would come out. It would be warmer, and despite dire predictions of icky weather, we would have a lovely day. 

       Chuck, the rascal cat, of course, agreed. He is always up for an adventure. And if food is involved--he heard us talking about lunch and watched as we packed our turkey sandwiches (he loves turkey)--he can't resist coming along for the ride.

        As always, I extracted a promise. "You will be good, right?"

        "Mom, of course. What mischief can I possibly get up to at the beach?" (I don't have enough fingers to count the ways.)

         Nevertheless, we packed and were ready to go in no time: cut offs, jackets, sneakers, blankets, food and Sirius XM radio to keep us entertained as we drove to the Jersey shore.

           Full disclosure. There were things we did not anticipate:

            The weather did not improve. It was windy. Very windy. Cold. But that did not deter us. We arrived at Island Beach State Park--no one else was in sight. We drove in and kept on going down the long, straight road that leads to the ocean. Parked the car. Got our gear. Maneuvered Chuck into a backpack so we could move more quickly toward the beach. (At least it wasn't raining.)

        

     The sandy path to the beach was very long. We were carrying a lot of gear. A lot of food. And blankets. And Chuck. About half way there we almost gave up. Where is the beach?? The water? It's hard to walk in the sand, carrying things, in sneakers. 

            The day was very windy. Imagine the kind of scene you see on TV when you're watching a hurricane make landfall. Through teary eyes--windy--we put our bright red blanket down, and it blew away. Everything we put down blew away. Chuck almost blew away. He started complaining. Meowing. 

             "He's just hungry." I put some food down, but you guessed it, it blew away. It took us awhile to get settled. To anchor the blanket with our bags and sit down. Geez. It wasn't supposed to be this hard.

             Chuck disappeared. I shouldn't have been surprised. Something always happens with Chuck. You take your eyes off of him for one moment and . . . 

              "There he is," Dan said. 

              Chuck was chasing a seagull who was racing toward the ocean. With Chuck's food. Who would have believed that at the very moment when Chuck had stopped meowing and was eating, that a seagull would swoop down and grab the turkey piece, practically right out of our fearless hero's mouth . . . 

                At first Chuck was stunned. But, boy, that kid can run. When he's motivated. And he wasn't bothered by wet sand or the ever increasing blowing wind. He was running for justice. To retrieve what was rightfully his.

              Dan leaped up. "I'll get him."

          Luckily, Chuck did not blindly follow the seagull into the water. He stopped on the edge where the waves were washing up on the sand and stood there, no doubt cursing his bad luck. Dan scooped him up and brought him back.

              "I'm warning you," I said, wanting to shake the living daylights out of him.

              "You saw what happened," he meowed back defiantly.

              "Sometimes you have to let things go, Chucky."

               But he was already on the blanket, grooming himself, self-soothing is what the vet calls it. 

              The ocean was beautiful. We are not complete blockheads. Finally, after the Chuck and seagull episode, we managed to hold our sandwiches and gaze out at the ocean. We hadn't seen the Jersey shore in awhile. Watching the waves roll in and out--priceless. 

              Later, we packed up, took a long walk away from the water, where it was less windy. And actually had a good time. On the way home, in Chuck's version of events, he managed to wrestle his turkey back from the seagull. Always the hero, my rascal Chuck!

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES WITH CHUCK.  PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "NO COMMENTS." IT'S EASY.

    

            

Missing in Action - Me and Chuck!

     I write a travel blog, and it has been too long since I wrote my last one! Okay, so I'm embarrassed! And the worldwide pandemic, that basically shuddered us into isolation and prevented us from doing any kind of traveling for TWO years, is no excuse. Well, maybe, it can afford me some kind of little excuse. 

     In horror, I saw that the date of my last post was 2018!!! So, what was I doing for the other two years? I hang my head in shame and beg forgiveness. I admit freely that I was absent for so long from this blogspot that I had trouble logging in. I had to literally break into my own blogspot! Well, not technically, but I would have if I hadn't stumbled across another poor author in the exact same situation--she had neglected her blogspot for 10 years (that made me feel a lot better), but had the wisdom to realize that the stumbling block that existed wasn't really an obstacle. It only took me two hours, not two days, to once again be an official blogger!!! 

      So, what did I do over the last four years? Here are some tidbits of the less juicy things . . . Now, wait a minute. Just come back and read my blog and I'll tell you all about it!