Twitter, Twittiando, Tweet

Inspired by a business story in USA Today, I logged into Twitter a few weeks ago.
My husband always has said that I have no unspoken thought, so this constant vomitation of the inane and ridiculous would be perfect for me. And, if it sells a few t-shirts, well there you go.

I felt, and still do in a way, like the wallflower at the dance. While some people have 15,000 followers, I struggled to figure out how to follow. I eventually found some friendly business people, mega-smart bloggers and friends to follow. The network expands as followers of followers become your followers and you theirs. It is a little like high school.

In blogging I attempt to be relevant, or at the very least, amusing. But on Twitter, simply making noise seems to be OK. I've attempted to hold back from the impulse to hablar too much mierda. Sometimes though you can't help it. The thing asks you "What are you doing?'' every time you log in. I always want to say: "Aqui, comiendo mierda, wasting time. Y tu?''

Here are some examples of things I didn't post:
"My father just taught Maria the word Sacamoco.''
"I have lost control: Animal cracker under my kitchen table for three days.''
"Why exactly am I following Guy Kawasaki?''

I hate to admit it, but overall, I am enjoying the blasted Twittiando. I've met some cool people and reconnected with old friends. I think I am going to like it better when I do a little unfollowing though.

Twitter has its critics. And they're mostly right.
But, if you've got a little start-up, are looking to expand your circle of influence, or looking for a quick way to stay connected with friends and meet new ones, Twitter has possibilities. Just make sure you know how to edit.

I am @LosPollitos by the way.

Of parties and special gifts

Maria was quite upset Friday. She wanted to know why no one came to my birthday party. I told her that sometimes grown-ups don't have birthday parties. She was none too pleased to learn this.

The best present was this note from my mom:

"Hija, no importa los años que cumples, yo revivo el dia que nacistes. Bendito Dios que me dio el precioso regalo de tu vida.

Asi como tu sientes por Maria, yo llevo 41 años sintiendolo.

Salud para que puedas disfrutar de una plena y larga vida.

Te quiero.
Mami"

Roughly translated:

"My daughter, it doesn't matter how many birthdays you celebrate, I relive the day you were born. Thanks to God who gave me the precious gift of your life.

The same way you feel about Maria, I have felt about you for 41 years.

May you have health so you may enjoy a long life.

I love you,
Mom.''

There's not much more a girl needs.

41 minus 20: Pre-birthday thoughts

Ed. note: If you are Carrie's Mami, please close your browser now. Go here or here or here, instead. Gracias.

A friend sent a note yesterday that I need not dread tomorrow's 41st birthday. It is, after all, the 20th anniversary of my 21st birthday.

While it would be lovely to still be that fresher, slimmer version of me, let me tell you that I celebrated the ability to imbibe legally in a college town where it is tradition to give the girls free shots on their 21st. I partook. With nothing but dry toast in my gut for dinner.

Can we say un poquito estupida?

I woke up the next morning and asked my roommate why I remembered little more than the color peach. Well, the kind soul she was had hung my sloshed face over a peach-colored towel and removed the gas permeable contact lenses from my head herself. Can you imagine the love and work that took? It's hard enough to get those suckers out yourself. (I'm all happily Lasik-ed now, by the way...)

Another friend later told me he stood in the living room and told the rest of the group that "I was never here, OK?'' That was just in case I died. Nice, huh? I'm still friends with him and despite that really tepid heart of his, I love him.

Can I get a really huge AMEN for NOT being 21?

Smarter is better.

That's not me. That's Daisy Fuentes. Another hot 41-year-old Cubanita.

Fitness magazine

Daisy Fuentes, beautiful and talented Cubanita, is 41 and on the cover of Fitness magazine this coming month.

I, dear reader, another beautiful and talented Cubanita, turn 41 in a few days. Oh yes, I do. Good genetics have offered me a wrinkle-free face, so far, and many years of therapy have made passage to the other side of The Hill a relatively bump-free ride.

Because Fitness magazine was kind enough to send me excerpts and because I will never, ever be featured in Fitness, I offer you Daisy's quotes... and mine.

Pre-Hoppi Bir-day treat to myself.

1. WHAT’S BETTER AT AGE 41?:

Daisy says: “The way I feel. Being comfortable with who I am and caring less about the opinions of others as to what I should look like. I don’t care about fitting into any specific kind of category that society puts people into. I care about what’s best for me. I can’t say that was the same when I was younger. I was very influenced by a lot of outside forces, there’s so much being told to women as how they should look, how they should act, what they should be like, what size is the right size. You can’t help but let that help you. But that doesn’t affect me anymore. That’s very freeing. And it feels great.”

Carrie says: "What she said.''

2. WHAT’S EASIER AT 41?:

Daisy says: [When I was younger] my motivation was coming more from a vanity place. Now, being in this business, it’s more about health for me. I want to be a healthy, active, older woman. I want to age gracefully. It makes a big difference. The activity in your lifestyle, when you’re in your 30s and 40s really have an impact as you get older and that’s going to determine if you look great when you’re fifty. It’s about staying healthy,…You do have to change. You do have to acknowledge it to yourself. It doesn’t get any easier but you can definitely get more easier…Being motivated to be healthier is easier.

Carrie says: "Being OK with owning a cheap purse and eating flan for breakfast. Wouldn't, not couldn't, do that at 25."

3. WHAT’S TOUGH AT 41:

Daisy says: “Traveling. It really takes it out of me. When I was 22, I could get off the Red Eye and go on set. Now it’s too hard. I need my rest, I need my beauty sleep.”

Carrie says: "Losing the Tweezerman I keep in my car for chin hair emergencies.''

4. WHAT OUTFIT MAKES YOU FEEL THE MOST CONFIDENT?:

Daisy says: "Jeans and tank top. It’s my favorite look…I think if you’ve got it together enough and you’re confident and secure with yourself, you should feel as sexy and glamorous in a tee-shirt."

Carrie says: "Any outfit that includes my Spanx and back-fat minimizer one-piece."

5. WHAT CAN YOU DO NOW THAT YOU COULDN’T DO WHEN YOU WERE YOUNGER?:

Daisy says: “I can snowboard. I learned when I was 40. I’m very proud of that. It was something I just sort of said, I can do this. I put it off for a long time, I was going to Aspen a lot. I just thought, I don’t need to go up the mountain. Why can’t I do this? I thought I’m too old. I should have started doing this when I was 13 or 20. And I just went for it. When I started, my instructor was in his 50s, he’d always been a ski instructor and he only learned how to snowboard at 40 and now he’s an instructor. So I said I can totally do this.”

Carrie says: "I'm a freaking Superwoman now. I survive on less than 6 hours of sleep, juggle two businesses, a freelance career, a kid, a husband, a cat, 12 guineas. Take that 25!"

6. WHAT’S THE BEST AGE-PROOF ADVICE YOU EVER GOT?:

Daisy says: “Staying out of the sun. The damage is done. It’s hard to stay out of the sun. My mom did, but I ignored her.”

Carrie says: "Marry someone 15 years older.''

Punk'd at the pool, or a day in the suburbs.

We were at the pool yesterday when I looked to my right and saw three young mothers who could have been triplets. Same short bobs, pulled back into tiny pony tails. Same brown sunglasses. Same cute little noses, lean bodies.

I elbowed my friend. "Mira! They're like triplets."

Wow, she said. I couldn't stop staring.

Then, we look to our left.

Two women. Same short, blonde bobs. Same bottom-heavy shapes. Same sized-children . I took my sunglasses off to get a better look.

"Nena, this is weird,'' my friend said.

Trippy. And like we were being Punk'd.

(Takeaway: I won't be getting that bob I really want any time soon and I really do need a suit better than my $19.99 Costco one, not to mention a firmer you-know-whatsis...)

A genius name: Butaca TV

Butaca = easy chair.

At my grandparents' house there were two butacas. If they wanted in, you got out. Pronto. My grandmother's butaca spun and rocked and if you tipped yourself back too far, you risked death by head smashing on the Terrazzo.

Word is Butaca TV soon will be launching a beta version to allow viewers to watch Latin American movies and shows, and talk about them, on-line.

Some services will be offered for a fee and some for free.

The Butaca tip comes from Juan at Hispanic Trending.

Boo-TAH-CA.
Love that word.

Life lessons in the hen house

check out the grey one with the grass in it's mouth

We returned from vacation, slept too few hours and went to pick the guineas up from the friend who kept them warm and fed while we were gone.

"They'll be easy,'' I had told her. "I read that their poop is dry.''

I'll be eating that statement for a long while.

Most every daily text message on the guineas included descriptions of the ginormous load of poop they blasted each day. One message included video of her cat sitting on the brooder. "Don't they look tasty, Simba?'' said the voice. I figure that's just about when she started counting down our return.

And now that the feathered children -- 12 of them -- are in my charge I can agree that holy shit, they shit. A lot.

As I stuck half of my body into the poop-filled cage yesterday -- dung under my nails, wood shavings embedded into my knees -- I attempted to recall just who the hell I thought I was going to be at 40. Without going through the list of all my fantasy futures, I can tell you that smelling like a chicken coop was not even in the top 100 possibilities. Even stripper would have ranked higher.

We have one cat, who lives mostly outdoors, and six fish out in the pond. Given that Maria is half-way to 5, my days of taking care of infants is long behind me. But whether it's a baby human or a baby bird, the care of any young, living thing is consuming.

I have spent hours cleaning out the cage and even more hours worrying about cleaning out the cage. To clean, I have to grab them and move them to a second cage. Twelve of them. One by one. And though I am no hawk and I sing to them in Spanish, their instinct is to fight and fight. When the cage is clean and they're back in there eating and chirping and scratching and craning their long necks, Maria and I sit and watch them. In the late evening I do it alone. They are relaxing to watch.

As I watched them exercise their wings last night, it hit me hard: As a new mother, I am neurotic, over-thinking and by-the-book. No freaking wonder Maria's early days -- the days of no sleep and cracked tatas -- left me fried. Frita. For years.

Every time one of these birds takes a wet poop, I worry. And, I check the Internet. Um, did that when I had a human infant too. I didn't want to put the birds in a wire-bottomed cage because well, would they be comfortable? When a few of them showed a love for eating wood shavings from their bedding, I called the Farm Depot.

Me: "They are eating the wood shavings. What do I do?"

Farm Depot Guy: "Don't put any in there.''

Me: "Will it hurt them. Will they die?"

Farm Depot Guy: "Nah. They'll eat rocks.''

Me: "Their water is getting really dirty. Do you have a hanging waterer I can buy?"

Farm Depot Guy: "Why don't you just put it up on a few bricks?''

I'm the typical new mother. I want it perfectly and clean. I want to buy my way to success. Farm Depot guy is like a mother of 4. Secure, natural, going with what feels right. No need for gadgets.

When Maria and I went to the Depot yesterday afternoon to get a new feeder, we told Farm Depot Guy we are training the birds to come to us by giving them millet. It is supposed to be like guinea crack and it will make it easier to get them into the coop at night. Read that in a guinea book, I explained.

"Well, you do what you want, but I say that's a waste of time and millet,'' he said. I'd get that same shrug when I told older mothers I pumped breast milk for eight months. Waste of time.

Oh, can I tell you how many nursing, feeding, playing, discipline books I have read? How many failed exercises and theories? Waste of time.

My husband is about to build a bigger box for the birds, one that will get us through the next four weeks until they move to the coop. I've sent him about 10 links with pictures and designs. "You're a little obsessed,'' he said.

And yesterday, I showed him an 8 x 8 x 8 shed at the hardware store and told him it would be the coop of my dreams, with plenty of roosting space for each of the children. He looked at the price tag and rolled his eyes. You don't even want to know how I color-coded my Baby Bargains book.

In four weeks, the birds will be in a coop. Whether it is more Stokke than umbrella stroller is to be determined. When I step outside of my own mania and perfectionism, I can see myself clearly. I can laugh at myself, tell myself to relax and enjoy the moment. (I credit lots of therapy for this...)

My daughter also has taught me a lot about myself. Parenting moments of success and dismal failure have added perspective and depth I would not have had otherwise. I look back and cringe at my "by the book'' moments -- everything from sleep issues to toddler tirades.

But, taking stock of the last few days of over-thought, going with old truisms and the gut are what seem to offer me the most glittering in-the-moment experiences. It is when I let go that all feels good and falls into order.

I will not have the benefit of becoming a no-longer-phased-by-much mother-of-many. So, my kid and my birds -- and any other creature who comes to live with us -- are pushing me forward. Reminding me that, really, all it takes is a little warmth, safety, food, fun, and love.

If you eat a little bedding along the way, whatever.

We survive.

Socks con sandalias

It was unusually cold in Northern California last week.

So cold that I put socks on with sandals as we strolled high-style Carmel. I whined to my husband that I was the most un-chic woman in the entire region.

"Just keep speaking Spanish. They'll think you are European.''

Ah, si!

Proof of what my husband always has said: I'm more fun in Spanish

(click title for story...)

excerpt:

The researchers said the women classified themselves as more assertive when they spoke Spanish than when they spoke English.

"In the Spanish-language sessions, informants perceived females as more self-sufficient and extroverted,'' they said.

Memories and promises...

We spent a lazy Sunday morning watching videos of our wedding, Maria's first days on the planet, my pregnancy and old home movies of my own mother pregnant with me. It was a first for Maria.

She laughed out loud when she saw how big my glorious belly was, she was surprised by how tiny she once was and how young her Abuelita was way back then when she was 24.

She also got to see moving images of great-grandparents and a regal great-great-grandmother of the same name. She asked a lot of questions about them.

And it all probably prompted this exchange later in the day:

"Mami, when you are old, I am going to take care of you.''
"Really, mama, why do you think you will need to take care of me?''
"Because when you are old, you are going to forget things.''

I pray I do not ever forget lazy Sunday mornings -- all PJs and messy hair and hearty laughs.

Yes, Hispanics eat ice cream and moose is alce

The keyword searches that bring people here give me great joy. It feeds the nosy person/former reporter in me. Some are relevant to what we're doing here and others are not. Some are just plain icky and these two just made me laugh out loud:

"do hispanics eat ice cream" (yes!)
"advice long winded talker'' (of course they found me)

And you know, one of the most all-time popular and constant searches:
"how to say moose in spanish.''

Go figure.
Maybe I'll go have ice cream now.

118 Reasons to Love Being Latina

The Latina magazine June cover story: 118 Reasons to Love Being Latina.

So, I think: 118? Hmmm. Did they aim for 120 and fall short? Did they aim for 100 and have too many?

A quick glance inside reveals that churros, hoop earrings and Juanes are among the reasons.

Personally, I like being Latin because it gives me a genetic excuse for my expanding posterior.

Azucar!

What are yours?

Happy Cinco de Mayo: Taco truck tacos for everyone!

While this was taken last month, it screams Cinco de Mayo to me. Makes me want a Margarita on the rocks with lots of salt. Makes me want taco truck tacos al pastor. Now, even at 6:28 a.m.

Good thing I don't live in L.A. Those crazies are trying to ban the most delicious of cheap, heaven sent food. As told on NPR here.

You'll find me on Charlotte Pike this afternoon patronizing a truck for dinner. While I can.

Ole!

Fueling Latin stereotypes and busting them

Given how expertly I can sob like a true telenovela star -- ask my family, they'll tell you. I truly transform! -- I have missed my chance at super stardom and a boob job by not auditioning for Viva Hollywood!, the new VH1 "reality" series. It stars bobitas, malitas y Rico suaves cat-fighting and sheet jerking their way to estardumb.

It launched last night, but I just watched it online while I put together an order. It was delicious to see Maria Conchita Alonso at 9 a.m. on this Monday. She's glorious and likely will continue to be so if she stops injecting stuff into her face. Carlos Ponce. Meow! Walter Mercado. All I can say is Ay, Dios Mio, he's still alive?

Despite the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I have to say I felt right at home watching these people. Telenovelas have semi-melted the brains of every woman in my family (Hi, Mami! Hi, Tia!) and they provided the background noise to much of my youth. So I guess they induce a little nostalgia. But, nostalgia like how an addict might remember old binges.

Now, before I lost an hour or so to VH1, I heard a story on NPR this very morning on how the hugely famous Latina Dora the Explorer was created, mostly sans stereotype.




Excerpts:

And when it came to sketching the way Dora looked, the creative team made sure she wasn't stereotypically Latina.

"Short hair," (Producer Chris) Gifford says. "Not long, flowing hair. A little more tomboyish; a girl who was more interested in adventure and exploring than someone who thought a lot about what she looked like."

When Dora was presented to Nickelodeon's consumer-products group, Gifford says, the marketers were skeptical at first.
"There was a big concern about [the character] not being a good consumer-product property," he says.

And another about Tico, whom I have dissed in this blog:

"Tico was always sleepy," says (Brown) Johnson (of Nickelodeon). "Asleep under a tree. Our cultural consultant said, 'Not such a good idea.' A Latino character, who only speaks Spanish, the littlest character, always asleep. Just not a good idea."

The goal, according to Johnson:

“One of our goals with Dora was to position the whole idea of being multicultural as being super special.”

Gifford tells NPR that Dora is "courageous," "kind'' and "She's got unbelievable interpersonal skills."

If the entertainment industry wants to continue to attract, sell to, and market to Latinos, it really has to remember that we're not all Dora with the short hair and we're not all Charo with the coochi coochi. Most of us are kinda somewhere in the middle. More like Penelope Cruz on a bad hair day or J.Lo with baby weight.

For now, I just vote that Dora make a guest appearance on Viva Hollywood to teach nice nice.

And, it'll totally freak out guest star Cheech Marin.

Blog Birthday numero dos

The second birthday of this blog passed and I forgot about it, and so I passed up yet another opportunity to be completely self-absorbed and all happy happy about me. As a blahger, aren't I supposed to navel gaze?

OK, so it's been two years, at least technically because I abandoned this space for a few months before picking it up again with regularity in the fall of 2006.

The blog was begun, mostly, to help provide some additional opportunities for web surfers to find Los Pollitos. The beauty of a blog, as you smarties know, is that I can pepper this thing with the necessary words -- Spanish t-shirt, onesies en espanol, Cuban sayings -- and hurrah and hail Maria, the gods of Google bring them right into my warm and waiting little lap. It's also a way to keep in touch with customers and let them know when new stuff or new news happens, way before I can write and design a real newsletter. (sign up here for newsletter and special deals).

Coming in a close second in motivation, of course, was to share my struggles and successes in raising a bilingual child all the way up here in wooded solitude and far away from the fast-talking Cuban abuelitos.

It was a genius idea because I've met some wonderful and inspirational people who are doing the same thing (see my links section). Sharing the quest for bilingualism also has kept me honest and ever-trying because I have to come back here and report how I am doing, or not doing. It's my own little 12-step program.

Speaking of which, it seems appropriate to tell you I'm about more than these two subjects, and you probably already know that, but these topics are what I choose to share with the strangers in Dubai who find me instead of the Latina they're looking to spank, or those who are looking for pictures of gorditas and hot mamis.

If I knew you in real life you'd hear me complain a little more, though I would tell you I'm trying not to. I'd use the f-word, for I have a potty mouth. I would tell you about my love of this and this and this and my no-likey of this and this. I'd quote my therapist, tell you most everyone could use a 12-step program (Hi, my name is Carrie) an interest outside their kids, and at least one pair of blue shoes. And I'd make you a flan that would never let you forget me. I'd also finally tell you my charming and talented husband's name.

But, this is what we've got. You're a hit on my counter, my friend from afar, a generous commenter. I am your time-waster, your some-time value read. Maybe I am more, maybe I am less. No se.

But, know I'm happy to share what I do share and I'm grateful for those of you who stick around, send me little love notes and forward the site to your familia and friends.

The beauty of a blog is that it is organic and evolving and as we move forward, tell me what you want -- more bilingual, more business, more Boonie, more free media-whore tips (and oh boy, do I have some mega-whorish tips to share soon!).

Y muchas gracias...un besote grande.

El futuro ...

I nearly spit coffee out of my nose this morning. Here's a link courtesy of a local friend...And, if you've ever hung out at a job pick-up site, you'll know...

Hey Lupe, wanna play Mall?

from playthings.com:

"Hip-Spanic, Las Vegas, will debut Lateenaz, a line of fashion dolls and play sets designed to embrace Hispanic culture and traditions. Each playset (Salon, Mall, School, Quinceanera) opens up to different play scenes and comes packed with themed accessories, mix-and-match outfits and a “Lateenaz” logo patch. The dolls have realistic body shapes, facial characteristics and hair. Free gear is also available to girls who log into the website with good report cards."

OK, I can embrace school and quinceanera, and ok, kudos for encouraging good grades, but salon and mall as the only other options?
Please tell me there are other options.
A library? A playground? A congressional office?
Hell, I'd even be happy with a Dream House.

Realistic body types and hair?
I don't even want to know.

More here with information on Hispanic heritage dolls like Baby Abuelita and some trends and stats.

(photos from Toy Directory Monthly added April 17, 08)

Help for Hollywood: Gifts for Latin babies

I imagine this weekend a whole lot of celebrity elite were sending gifts to the royal Latin blessings born to Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony. Her father told reporters they'd already bought azabaches for the sweet twins, which no Latino baby should be without. Or at least no Caribbean Latin baby. Must ward away the evil eye of those spreading the mal de ojo. (see above, available on ebay) My mother gets on me for not pinning Maria's on anymore.

But what else to send babies who have it all?
Cultura, of course!

Here are my gift tips for Latin babies, perfect for all baby showers and newborn gifts -- and for American-born Latinas getting newly in touch with their Latinaness. (There are a couple of toddler gift ideas at the bottom.)

OK, teach bebe about La Tradicion with a guayabera and then sprinkle baby with Agua de Violetas, the sweetest baby cologne known to mankind. Cologne for babies? Oh you bet.

Teeny tiny perfect little confections of leather made in Spain and Portugal. And, only Spain and Portugal. When you walk on sunshine, you must be shod by artists. If they're charol -- patent leather -- all the better. Oh, and if they've got jingle bells on them, even better too.


Sweet shoes go perfectly with these fancy baby outfits from La Ideal in Miami, the first place I went baby shopping for my own princesa. It's like the Cuban Babies R Us. I didn't see their gorgeous embroidered Colombian dresses, or fancy outfits from Spain on the web site, which is too bad because these sweet dresses and pant suits are stunning.

Latin parents like the paci, commonly called tete. Give this one, called RaZBaby, designed by two Cuban-American sisters from Miami.

Now, on to music: Lull sweet child with Cuban Lullaby, a delightful collection of traditional lullabies and a personal favorite around here. A little more rockin' is Diez Deditos, by Jose-Luis Orozco, an awesome album of playful Latin American songs and finger games. There's a book by the same title.

I usually give my favorite illustrated copy of Los Pollitos Dicen, so baby is sure to learn the words, and yes, I pair it with a Pio Pio Pio Spanish t-shirt from our own collection. (We're about to add newborn hats and bibs, by the way!)


And, here's one sure way to get grandma and grandpa to love you: Give an abuelita and abuelito doll that sings Spanish nursery songs. We particularly like Abuelo Pancho, though Maria doesn't play with hers much anymore. My mother says he is "exiliado al closet.'' (exiled to the closet.)

Moving on to a couple of toddler gifts. Inspire rhythm and noise with Salsa in a Box, everything a tiny person needs to channel Tito and Celia. (Or J.Lo and Marc) And teach the "eh-re'' and the "ñ" sounds with these blocks, made in the U.S.A.


Alright then, not a bad little regalito list, si?

Mamas y Papas what are your favorite Spanish baby gift items?
Hollywood needs us.

Oscar is back

This news has lit up a rainy day.

Las Comadres, Nashville, TN, USA. Al Fin.

Nashville now has a Las Comadres group. The discovery was supremely joyful to me, right up there with other life-changing finds like brow make-up and the concept of Mother's Day Out.

There have been two meetings and the local organizer reports Latinas from all backgrounds, and ages, have attended. They've moved here from all over the United States and Latin America.

This is good news for us here in Middle Tennessee who are looking for a formal, but fun way, to meet Latinas for networking and friendship. And food, of course. Claro que si!

The charming Mexican-American woman who has helped organize the local chapter, a native of South Texas, said she was absolutely over-the-moon after the first gathering. The second was even better, as founder Nora Comstock was here too.

The local lady and her husband relocated here because of his job. She's a professional woman and a stay-at-home mom to three children. She was lonely for Amigas so she called Comstock and Comstock put her in touch with two others who also had requested a chapter. We're now one of 75 chapters across the country.

You can register for an invitation by filling out the membership form on the Comadres web site. There are no fees or dues. (Non-Latinas can join if they're married to a Latino).

You also can listen to the hard-working and generous Comstock talk about Las Comadres during an interview last week on PBS's To the Contrary. There's also an informational video on the Comadres homepage.

Comadre, by the way, means "godmother" in Spanish.
I have a feeling we'll all be feeling sprinkled with fairy godmother dust as this thing grows.