You’re Beautiful and I Appreciate You

As we all prepare for what comes with the Trump era, I’m going to pause to point out something great.

img_3361I have been S E R I O U S L Y trying to be excited about how many work projects I have. Yay! But also annoyed that my fitness goals aren’t exactly on point and why the fuck is this boy ignoring me? Also what the fuck is with all of this laundry!? I don’t even have any clothes!!!

Sometimes you just have to get out of bed.

Even if you don’t want to. (Wayyyy better chance of staying in bed if you don’t have kids or recently got fired from your job, BTW)

But yesterday, I did get out of bed. With gusto. (Ish.) I spent the day in a satin robe with my best friend doing laundry and getting paid to write. Not the interesting, sexy or inspiring writing. But something that is paying the bills and allows us to do just what we were doing. Lingerie. Coffee. Best friends and avocado toast while dealing with annoying people.

After class I hit the library to do more work at at 11:30, feeling deflated because I still had a long To Do list for the morning, and while I was excited about clean sheets, I just remembered that they were still in the dryer, a car pulled up next to me with their window down. Mine was down too (balmy NOLA “winter”). They said “Hey!” and I said “Hey!” back. The guy driving and girl in the passenger seat were both snacking on something that looked like it was recently picked up from a drive-through.

I don’t know if I knew them or not. But then they shouted over: “You’re beautiful and I appreciate you!”

Something similar happened the other day when I was dropping off items from a photo shoot. A woman at the boutique I just exited paused to tell me how great I looked.

This is not to sound vain – the point is that I felt frazzled and disgusting (why is my car smelling like mold and about to overheat – again) and stressed to the max so it was particularly nice to see how something small can really help shift perspective.

This guy at the bar the other day (I was working, he was a customer) told me to “Stay out of the real world as long as possible.”

I’m fairly sure I’m in the “Real World” and, incidentally, recently got fired from that shitty bartending gig anyway.
So, for all those who are heading out on the town this weekend, remember to be kind. Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others.
Also, here is a poem we read last night:
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Partners-N-Crime and PB&J

There are two main kinds of PB&J. The first, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Jameson. The second, that delicious sandwich. Both types of PB&J can fall anywhere within the range of “YESSSS! This is ahhhmaazing!!!” to “Just fucking shoot me.” The latter part of 2016 was asphyxiated by PB&J.

And, while usually names are omitted from the lovely Bananas, it is a little hard to do with this one because I’m talking about Jameson (but not that whiskey shot that may or may not kill me one day) – I’m talking about a human.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that 2016 was a particularly low point in Andrea-land. A few weeks ago I was on the phone with my mother and I said something like, “Ugh… October was really really fucking hard.” And my mom said without malice (but a tinge of irony), “Just October?” BITCH. Okay, not a bitch. But really, though. I know that my life is full of ups and downs. Maybe it is because I’m so wildly passionate? I found a great image to depict my life:

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I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like the above image. Totally and completely unique.

Anyway, in August I reconnected with an old friend who used to run in the same party circle as me. We’ve known each other ten years and (after my first spout of shit talking) it was nice to hang out. He’s a bit of an enabler but also incredibly smart. Smart and likes to party. AKA Trouble.

Additionally, for a long time I was searching for (what I thought was) a Nelly song – “Hot Boys,” but that is a different thing. What I really wanted was this song:

So I have to thank him for solving that mystery. (Also, I guess thanks for the threesome. I dig it.)

But, back to the main point. My messed-up-as-fuck almost attorney “friend” who really and truly sucks.

I thought I could help him. Get his shit together. Finish law school. Sometimes I am better at giving a fuck about other people than myself. If you ask, I’m happy to help. But, despite the time spent together (he was homeless, I let him stay with me a few times), nothing ever moved forward. It was always someone’s fault – just definitely not his. It was some reason outside of his control that he didn’t have a job. (Not that he was drunk, late and maybe stealing.) Not his fault that he couldn’t finish his thesis. Not his fault that he has (another) child that he can’t afford.

Finally (we are talking about not that long of a time), I was over it. I didn’t want free drugs and I didn’t want (probably) stolen booze without mixers. I had no interest in staying up past 9 or 10 p.m. and I can’t stand falling asleep to TV. *

*For the record: This is deal breaker territory. I suffered through it with Hot Chef but not again and certainly not when you are rolling in drunk and staying for free in my bed and you are going to drive me crazy by drinking and smoking (helllo, I asked you to go outside a gazillion times with that cigarette!) and watching shit on my laptop. Woof.

I really didn’t think he should give up his dream. In every success, there are casualties along the way. I was willing, if he put out any effort, to potentially be one. But, we’d slept together. >>I’m human!!!<< And it made things messy because he is the definition of Bad News Bears and he totally fell for me. But, he wanted to keep it a “secret” because “what would people think?”

I didn’t keep it a secret, but I didn’t talk about it. It only happened a few times and I consistently and firmly told him that I was not interested in dating him and had no romantic feelings whatsoever. It just happened that he was party to a situation that I couldn’t immediately surgically remove from my life so it seemed easier to just let it ride.

Jameson is in the music industry (unemployed) and thought that because I like this song, I was obviously trying to send him a message through the lyrics. He clearly doesn’t read my blog. Let me summarize: a) I like the song and b) I actually don’t always listen to the lyrics of pop songs that much and c) 5 years of Sometimes Boyfriend might connect him to that song now that I am implored to pay more attention to the lyrics but *certainly* not crazy dude.

So, a few messy phone calls later… (him to my voicemail) many, many mean texts. (As my bestie, she got some fucked up shit typed on little phone keys too…) Horrific actually. Followed by me blocking his number… (I thought messages from a blocked number just go to LaLa Land, but I have 5 messages from his 985 # and I refuse to listen.)  and a bit of violence later, I was cleaning up my trashed apartment (he dumped multiple bottles of water on my bed because since I didn’t want to spend the night with him, he was *sure* I was inviting someone else over and proceeded to make a mess of my bed as a precautionary measure.) including flipping over the coffee table and just making a giant mess.

I wasn’t there for that – I left (because he wouldn’t) and then – he finally quit it.

He also posted this on my Facebook later:

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^ Don’t know why I was Googling “Billy Crudup” and the search for “rehab” came from a looking at the multitude of bottles of Taaka bottles and the disaster that Jmo made when he broke into my apartment and threw a bunch of shit around.

** also, I would say that the very, very public Facebook page made all of this OFFICIALLY NOT A FUCKING SECRET. (And potentially a cause for concern…)

He tried to call me for awhile from other numbers but, since he never listened to anything I said, did not attempt between the hours when I am awake. Seriously. Get out of bed before 3 p.m. (or don’t!) but if you are crashing at my place because you can’t get your shit together and I go workout at 7am, at least when you *finally* leave my house around 4, take the trash down. It’s your mess anyway. Also, cool it on the nasty text messages to me. Definitely don’t nasty text my best friend. And mostly, stay the fuck away.

BTW, I’m moving. Let’s all say goodbye to my apartment for the past 5 years. It wreaks of the past anyway.

The Letter P

P is for Portland. And also for Pabst. And Poboy. And Playboy. (Oh, shit! And for Pinot Grigio, too!!)

It is also for pussy. And pizza since I’m being tangential. But most importantly (today, anyway), P is for Parkway!

This photo is when they surprised everyone with a turkey day in May:

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Every November, Parkway dishes out their signature Thanksgiving Poboy. It used to happen throughout the month leading up to Thanksgiving (and would sell out daily) and then one sad year they only did it at the Oak Street Poboy Festival (YES I made it out that year. With a hot date, thank you.) They have since changed.

Today they are back to a more consistent schedule: They serve it on Wednesdays during the month of November.

So, thanks to a tip from social media (love you, Instagram!) I was made aware of the opportunity to indulge while at the peak of my hunger on the first Wednesday in November. Move over, world. I have a sandwich to inhale.

To be honest, November crept up on me. I was busy!

School? Definitely.

Boys? They are the worst! (But oh so tempting.)

Apartment? I can’t even.

Then, after working all day, I ended up at Felipe’s (again) in line (again) scrolling through Instagram (okay, again).  But instead of ordering (again) magic happened. I found out that 1) tomorrow is national sandwich day — hashtagnationalsandwichday and 2) Parkway is celebrating it a day early because it is also Thanksgiving Poboy Wednesday. Yassss. So, I immediately left the line for the greater good – turkey. (hashtagblessed. hashtagthewritelife.)

It was an almost-full crayon box of a bar when I walked in. There were just a few of the reject (favorite!) slots open. But, I know better than to queue up at the sandwich line outside. That is for novices. Solo diners, especially, should eat at the bar. It is super fast. And great!

Mike was behind the bar (he always is) and I squeezed myself into my favorite seat (no one likes it; it is in the sun and the bartender can’t see you. < Or that is what other people say. I’ve never had a problem ordering) with my newly delivered Playboy.

Hello, favorite corner seat.

I ordered quickly because I was a lady with a plan. I also threw in some regular fries and a PBR (self explanatory) and started reading an article about fried chicken. Yum and thank you.

Not two minutes in, there is a comment: “I’m sure you are just reading that for the articles.” Laugh, joke. The guy is from Portland…I’d encountered him briefly when I had to stick my head under the bar to find the hooks to hang my bag.

I offered that no, in fact, they don’t do nudes anymore (see below) but my dream as a writer is to be published in Playboy and I do, in fact, read the articles. They are great.

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(Not. Nudity.)

His hair was dark and hung in almost curls around his face. Pale, of course. Did I say Portland? He looks like a guy in a band that I can’t place.

Anyway, he was flirting. Heavy. You know, taking any opportunity to brush against my leg. Asking questions. The dark, artsy type. You can imagine how he was stoked when I revealed that I was a writer. (No matter that my genre isn’t literary. Although his diatribe when I said I wasn’t into poetry was something for the books…

My sandwich arrived and, full-on in a white t-shirt, I beasted the most delicious (messiest) sandwich without spilling on myself a single bit of cranberry. I washed my (admittedly half) order down with a bottle of PBR. < Drank it cold!! And all the while, Mr. Portland is talking to me. Flirting with me. I literally didn’t have a fork and was shoveling stuffing and turkey and bread dripping with gravy toward my open mouth with a dexterity I only have when dealing with my favorite sandwich. (Okay I’ve got similar skills with human body parts that I’m a fan of.)

Anyway, the level of flirting was off the charts considering the food consumption of the moment.

I then made a few really un-sexy (sexy?) stretch moves to make room for the second beer I was drinking. Mr. Portland kept hinting to wanting to hang out while he was in town. I would have loved to say I had a boyfriend, but I don’t (sigh) so I had to continue with the “I’m super busy…” Because I am! —  Busy unabashedly shoving a sandwich in my face.

I do also have several current/pressing/omfuckinggod work projects on my plate.

His friend finished work so he should have been “done” but ordered another round because he wanted to sit with me longer. He asked about the seasonal Abita. I warned him against the peach beer because I assumed that it probably tasted like baby food. He declined a taste and suffered through that whole pint. Whatever. I was right. Baby food.

Beer. Digestion.

Beer. Digestion.

I checked my phone a few times though generally enjoying the group conversation – me, Mr. Portland, Mike and the other guy next to me.

Finally, out of the mildest curiosity, I looked over after returning from the bathroom to see what book was propped open in front of my new friend. (Beer makes me have to pee.) Scratch that…Everything makes me have to pee.

Long story not-so-short, he flat out asked for my number. And said he’d love to see me while I in town. He quit with the subtle (not subtle) hints and just went for it. He was like, “How are you so tiny?” “Do you always eat like this?”  (Me: no and I work out all the time.) “You’re so pretty.” … it went on.

He was reading The Bell Jar. I thought of my best friend. I thought of me. I wondered how old he is, but since I had no intention of meeting him later, I didn’t bother to ask.

He told me he likes to say “YES” and aims to live fully his week in New Orleans. He wants to sleep under bridges (okay maybe my memory is wrong on that one – but that is the idea.) His friend, he says, just got his master’s in film and (omg) works at a pizza place.

Is that the fate for us all? He wants to know. He also wants to know how I got into writing. He wants to tell me how pretty I am some more. I bet he wants to do more than that. I decide he is most definitely under 25.

I wonder if I did hang out with him, how fast his enamor would last. I think I hold the record for guys falling hard and fast for me and then immediately thinking, “Better not.”

 

Hey, What Are You Reading?

So, I’m sitting at the pizza place across the street slowly sipping a giant glass of Pinot Grigio and reading my book when a bunch of sexy firefighters come in to pick up pizza. And by pizza I mean a stack of large pizzas. (There is a football game on, the place is getting crowed with pick-up orders.)

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Full Disclosure: That pizza/wine photo was from the pre-cleanse send off. But I love to rip the bubble off so I took this photo and would also like to say I’m sorry to everyone across the street for past and future impropriety.

BUT, back to my story. Saints Game! WHO DAT!

This very sexy guy in uniform interrupts my reading with a “Hey, what are you reading?!”

And I flash a copy of Technical Editing, Fifth Edition. And then he says “Wow that is so cool, I’m actually looking for someone to edit my dissertation and none of my friends will help me.”

(Insertion: I look super hot because before studying I went out to brunch with one of my favorite ladies and then got my nails done. I’m still rockin’ an all-black super cute skirt and tank combo and have on and this amazing purple shade of lip gloss.)

I have no idea what I would charge or what it would entail but it seemed pretty flirty. No man has ever asked me “What are you reading” when I am clearly not seeking attention unless they are actually trying to flirt. But I don’t know. He actually might need help? But who interrupts someone clearly not aware that there is a game on just trying to carb binge and who says “cool” to Technical Editing, Fifth Edition who isn’t flirting?

In any case, I wrote down my phone number and my email. (I mean, hottie fighting fires while he finished his PhD. SWOON.)

They walk out.

And then the woman next to me GUSHES about how he was just flirting with me and OMG yadda yadda yadda.

THEN, I get an email. Like within minutes!?

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Ummm what does that mean? That was so fast. Did he think he was going to forget?! So I waited like an hour… finished my wine and wrote back. Because I assumed he meant “editing” and maybe more… wink, wink.

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And then since I had his name I looked him up on Facebook. (UGHGHHG) And sent this:

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And then this happened:

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Ahhhh I am so awkward. ALSO: “Not too many New Orleanians interested in reading and writing” is a big fucking red flag. NOLA is where so many famous writers come to write and there are a slew of us competing for the same limited jobs.

I don’t even know. I was confused. Was he really looking for help? Who the fuck reads a Technical Editing book at a pizza place during a football match? (Me.) Or, as the rest of the crowd seemed to think, was he hitting on me? Or just wanting to fuck because he totally just got kicked out and no one was misreading the situation, I just have no filter and made it weird??

Who knows because at this point I’m drunk even though I ate a whole calzone the shape of a football because I was just finishing a cleanse. (Makes total sense, don’t judge me.) BUT JUDGE ME FOR THIS: and never, ever again wonder why I am single.

First I wrote, “Interesting.” SEND

Then I wrote, “I am confused” SEND

THEN I WROTE:

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Shockingly, he never wrote back. And that doesn’t even make sense? Anyway. Curtain call on that one. Sorry hot fire fighter, it wasn’t meant to be.

 

The Fly That Broke the Camel’s Back

There are a few things that have happened to me since I moved to the South. First and foremost, I got over my fear of bugs. Okay, I didn’t get over my very rational fear of bugs, but I can deal with it like the quasi-adult that I am.

This is not to say that they don’t eat me alive if they can because apparently my pheromones are exactly what the want and need. However, bug bites aside, I can now kill them with a murderous rage that has no hesitation. Barehanded sometimes. (Of course only if they are inside and a threat to humanity/mental health – I guarantee you couldn’t sleep at night if your roommate didn’t know about the termite invasion and left the front door light on and the door ajar and thirty of them set up camp underneath your lamp on your bedside table until they were all dead.)

Flash back to 2006. Katrina just ravaged the city and I’m pretty sure there was a larger population of rats and cockroaches than humans. My mother, being the amazing human that she is (and also former city dweller) taught me the pro tips about lights. Turn them off when you leave a room to not be wasteful, but keep them on when it’s important. Meaning – don’t do anything in the dark that you wouldn’t do in the light. (She was talking about sex.) And then later, “If you turn on the lights and give them a minute, they will go away.” – in regard to kitchen roaches and whatever the fuck else lives in my dilapidated but very cute kitchen.

When I was 19, I had to put on a special outfit to kill roaches. In the south they fly. No one warns you that. I’d take my white faux leather belt with studs on it (so Emo) and put on rain books and attempt to wreak havoc by wildly swinging the belt through the air. And then miss repeatedly. Not very effective; better is to turn on every light and leave for a while so it goes back to wherever it was hiding.

Five years later I was crushing them barehanded, with adrenaline pumping and a meat tenderizer or even underfoot without hesitation. The other day, I killed a bee on a beer can with one hand while everyone else ran away.

But you know what. Regardless of my dexterity with the scary bugs, the fruit fly (and termite) situation here might be my undoing. Sure they are tiny, but your roommate doesn’t take out the trash when you are away one weekend, and next thing you know you lift a plate and mushroom cloud of tiny bugs erupts, I can’t deal.

I mean LOST. MY. SHIT.

I scrubbed, I cleaned and still, they resisted. Fortunately the roommate is pretty chill and responded quite well to my note (we have different schedules!) asking him to please MacGyver the bartender-style fruit fly traps in some shot glasses around the kitchen.

Seriously, it doesn’t matter how many times I tried his magic trick of red wine vinegar (we didn’t have apple cider) topped with a little bit of Palmolive and sealed with plastic wrap with holes. Oh yeah, you also put a piece of fruit in the bottom. **My traps were a complete and utter failure. As a matter of fact, I think I made them a snack**

However, I am not happy to report that the fly population is zero. (Or close to it.) And I found joy in wiping their fallen carcasses from the bottom of the refrigerator when I cleaned it the other day. And even more so when I peered into their final fluorescent bath. So much so, that I took a photo!

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SO MANY.

Also, in case your roommate can’t solve the problem he created, find out how to cure yourself here.

Back to Basics

Well, friends, June is almost over and I’m staring at July like “Where the fuck did you come from?!” Probably because I took it upon myself to mostly ruin June. And some of May. And in case the pale skin and extra 5-7 pounds from binge eating and even more binge drinking wasn’t motivation enough, I’m actually kind of bored and totally ready to leave this particular party. I’m ready for a different kind of summer fun. (Yes, it still includes rosé and books and omg maybe boys!) Just 86ing too much booze and then drowning my sadness in a GIANT bowl of pasta with butter and cheese because being a graduate student in English might be the least lucrative thing ever.

Anyways, things got messy. Never got out of that post-finals feeling of over-scheduled and too much sugar and not enough sleep. So it is finally time to clean up.

There are a few rules when shit gets messy. First, so many things are out of your control – but many also that are all on you. Small thing: shower. Oh my gosh when I’ve been kind of sloppy and rushed and hungover and busy sometimes I just don’t shower enough. You’d think I’d remember after all of these years that a hangover is deeply improved by a long hot shower. But, sometimes I’m lazy and don’t feel like getting wet. So there.

Point being,  probably the simplest way to change your day for the better is wash/put on fresh sheets and then hop in the shower, shave your legs (shave your neck if you are a dude) and and curl up with your soft, fresh smelling self in bed. See! The world is not that terrible! (Just kidding b/c yes, it is.)

Another easy thing to feel adult is to floss. Yeah some of you do it daily, and everyone tells their dentist that they do – so if you really want to get out of a funk, actually do it!

More on Adulting 101:

  • groceries (healthy snacks and fruit so you don’t reach for junk)
  • start on the other laundry (it feels good!)
  • delete all phone and text history from your bender (if you don’t remember, no sense wondering about it and ruining a whole other week!)
  • make a list (I don’t care what is on it, just make one.)

This week I’m all about going back to basics (because next week I’m doing some crazy diet cleanse shit) and cooking and living simple.

A few weeks ago I met my favorite breakfast partner for bagels and we both decided to also grab a hard boiled egg. Protein, you know? They were a bitch to peel. I don’t eat the yolk unless its egg salad or a deviled egg (see the difference?) so having big chunks of the egg white torn away with the shell while I cursed over a tiny trashcan was not ideal.

But it did inspire me. At home my mom always keeps a dozen boiled eggs and she is really good at it. You can always peel them. The peeling issue has prompted me, on many occasions, to take to the internet for research. Alas, after all that searching, my mom’s way is the best. Sometimes, when I’ve worked out an need to just shower and get dressed, I look for an easy, nutritious breakfast to send me on my way.

Break Fast with this Open-face Egg Salad 

Step One: Turn on a pot of water and bring it to a full boil. (Pour enough to make sure the water can cover the eggs.)

Step Two: Add eggs to boiling water, one at a time, with a large spoon. Kind of close a lid over it between eggs to keep the water boiling. Make sure the water is back up to a complete boil before securing a lid tight and then turning off the burner.

Step Three: Walk away. If you go all day the yolk might get a little greenish tint (but still tasty) 15 minutes is the sweet spot. If you walk away to get dressed and come back in 15, this is what you get:

Hello, egg!

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Me, peeling an egg.

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And look how cute they are!

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I made egg salad – under a Tbsp. of mayo (because the eggs are super fluffy), sea salt, fresh ground pepper on a toasted English muffin. Eggs are still a bit warm. It is V yummy.

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Sometimes egg salad makes people gassy. Try this perfect Tuesday morning breakfast at your own risk/if you don’t care that you may bombard your coworkers with egg-farts, you hate you significant other, you love your significant other – OR, if you are like me – eat it because you are born alone and die alone and if you must eat breakfast alone you might as well enjoy something that is really simple but really fucking tasty and has enough going on that you aren’t starving again at 9:30 a.m. thinking about diving into your lunch.

 

“If You Can’t Be with the One You Love…”

If you were going to say “love the one you’re with” – you are wrong. That is a terrible idea. Especially when you are in your thirties, as I recently found out thanks to a certain Doctor-In-Training.

I can literally count on my fingers (maybe even one hand!) how many times I went out with Doctor-In-Training. I was trying to keep it casual (something I’ve never been able to do) and give the whole “dating” thing a whirl but he seemed to be thinking “lets move this out of the sack” and “let’s spend weekends this summer on tandem bikes together” or riding in (insert two person manual boat here) on the bayou.

I actually was kind of down with it. Crazy, right? I liked a boy. (Okay now you can sing the full chorus of the titular song.)  It didn’t hurt that he was (and I guess probably is) a really good kisser. And the right level of smart nerd to appeal to Yours Truly.

Anyway, those cute texts about duo activities aside, we only saw each other on the weekends. For like one month (max). And then I had finals and he was starting a new rotation. Sure, I could have texted, but I was wondering how many hours of reading it would take before my eyes literally bled and decided it was on him to check on me.

I had a library buddy, my favorite one, so I was already set on company. (I was also feeling pretty bloated from downgrading my meals to pasta with butter and cheese and sour patch kids.)

So I didn’t call and he didn’t contact me either. Not until Friday, anyway. Six days after he haaaadddd to take me out for my birthday despite my objections that I needed to study. (Dinner, by the way, was great.)

But back to Friday. My phone rings. (You know how I feel about calling over texting…SWOON)

Until I found out the purpose of the call. It went like this:

Doctor-In-Training: “We need to talk…”

Me: “…Okay???” (is that how you start a conversation about what movie we are going to watch!?) < clearly not >

Doctor-In-Training: “I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you (emphasis on really) but I’m growing attached and I don’t see this going anywhere.” You know, “No FUTURE.”

Me: (silence because I am more angry than sad because I’ve been at the library and that definitely could have waited until TOMORROW.) Finally, “Wow that is shitty timing.”

Doctor-In-Training: “There is no good time”

True. There is no good time to break up with someone. But, categorically, there are better times and worse times. Worse being my cat just died, better being I just went for a run and I thought you were calling to make pool plans.

Also not good: after a really hard week of finals when (BTW) you didn’t bother to call me either. So. Glad you stewed for five days and made a decision. I HOPE YOU FEEL BETTER.

Nothing really more to say.

But wait, whoops: There was me, sending random and mildly arbitrarily-timed but angry (and occasionally drunk) text messages.

Great news though, a full two (three?) weeks later I got a message that included “I’m obviously missing you. And I’m not sure I should have left you.”

LEFT ME!? Okay that implies that there is a mortgage and a child, and I don’t know… a relationship. But thanks dude, you are not confusing at all.

Anyway back to “If you can’t be with the one you love” … because there is an answer and it is great:

Respond to the super cute boy who’s been messaging you (who cares if he is 7 years younger than you!) because you know what won’t happen after three HOT weeks of that? A phone call from him that says “I don’t think this is going anywhere.” Because he’s 24. And that, my friends, is pretty hot. He’s old enough to have had a serious girlfriend so the training wheels are off. Fun times. I highly recommend it.