Sleep

I'm a complete goner for Eric Whitacre. If you're not, you should be. His latest project is so spectacular on so many levels that I can hardly stand it, and I feel compelled to drag you into my own personal obsession and make you love this too. (Whether you like it or not!) You'll see what I mean when you watch the following video:

Many, many thanks to my awesome and beautiful niece, Lindsay, for sniffing out this video!

Hey you! Yeah, you! Now, don't leave me yet! I've got lots more to say and another video to show and much, much more swooning to do. So, onward we go!

Mr. Whitacre originally composed "Sleep" to mesh perfectly with the words of Robert Frost's famous poem, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" (words below). Unfortunately the heirs of Robert Frost's estate would not consent to the use of the poem, and the copyright of the poem will not expire until 2038, leaving Mr. Whitacre with beautiful music and no rights to use Frost's lyrics. What's an extraordinarily talented composer to do? Mr. Whitacre called upon his friend, Charles Anthony Sylvestri to compose a poem of the exact same rhythm and syllables and whatnot (whatnot? whatev) as Frost's poem, and the collaboration of Whitacre and Sylvestri resulted in the unearthly piece of gorgeousness, "Sleep." Here it is in its entirety:


Oh my goodness gracious.

Oh, how can you not love this? I think I have died and gone to straight to heaven. And many argue that is exactly what is implied in both Mr. Frost's and Mr. Sylvestri's poems. The beauty of it all is that you get to be the judge of that.

I stumbled upon a video on YouTube which contains a recording of Mr. Whitacre's music sung to the actual words of Robert Frost's poem--the words for which the music was originally written. So cool! I must assume this recording has to be some sort of a copyright infringement-throw-them-in-the-pokey-a-lawsuit-just-waiting-to-happen-and-somebody's-going-to-be-in-big-trouble situation, and since I try my doggone hardest (although often failing) to live a life of integrity, I will not post it here. But it is out there (ahem), and it's oh so very, very lovely.

I find the study of the two poems to be absolutely fascinating. I wonder what was going through Mr. Frost's head as he put pen to paper! I wonder what was going through Mr. Sylvestri's head as he did the same! Perhaps Mr. Sylvestri had the more difficult of the two challenges in writing his poem since he was intentionally mimicking a very beloved original piece; perhaps Mr. Frost had the harder portion of the labor because of the supreme effort that is required when attempting to create a work of art by drawing solely upon one's own inspiration. Whichever may be the case, all I know is that I certainly couldn't do either but I have an almost uncontainable appreciation for both. I could get lost in every bit of this.

SLEEP

The evening hangs beneath the moon

A silver thread on darkened dune

With closing eyes and resting head

I know that sleep is coming soon

Upon my pillow, safe in bed

A thousand pictures fill my head

I cannot sleep my minds a flight

And yet my limbs seem made of lead

If there are noises in the night

A frightening shadow, flickering light

Then I surrender unto sleep

Where clouds of dreams give second sight

What dreams may come both dark and deep

Of flying wings and soaring leap

As I surrender unto sleep

As I surrender unto sleep

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sounds the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Sigh.

It's Becoming an Epidemic!

(Click here to see an update on the Applebee's story below.)

First I gave you this.

Now, merely two weeks later, and from the same location, I give you this:
Somebody's gotta keep an eye on these imbibing toddlers! (Parents, I'm looking at you!) OD-ing on Similac CANNOT be pleasant. Just sayin'.

The latest in this tawdry toddler trend is shown in the video below. I'm giving this little guy a pass though; he really didn't have a choice in the matter and never knew what hit him:

Optimism At Its Finest

The person who placed this ad must certainly have a bright and hopeful outlook on life, no? I'm going to try to be more like that. Just so you know.

Provo Daily Herald, April 10, 2011

A Tutorial on Proper Wedding Attire

Oooh look! Our names are up in bright lights!

When this little piece of correspondence finally arrives in our mailbox, there's going to be Trouble with a capital "T" and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for Pre-dic-a-dic-a-dic-a-dic-a-ment for me. (And just where is that royal invite, anyway? I just KNOW it is on it's way, but the waiting, waiting, waiting can be such a nuisance.) Anyway, as I was saying, according to the invitation (which is certain to be in my mailbox aaaaaaany day now, ANY DAY NOW!!! ANY! DAY! NOW! petite foot stamp, stamp, stamp), the dress for the event is listed as: "Uniform, Morning Coat or Lounge Suit." SAY WHAT NOW? Lounge suit? Did I just read, lounge suit? Please say no. Please say no. Please say no. Because if lounge suiters are allowed at the royal gala, this is where Trouble with a capital "T" starts to hit the fan. I'll warn you right here and now that once that invitation arrives and Dave reads the dress code, he's going to dust off his favorite lounge suit, don his platform shoes, cue the Bee Gees with a wink and a nod, and bust a vein breaking out his moves. Oh me. I can just kiss my royal social life good-bye right this moment. Ta ta. {royal pout}

A lounge suit? Really? I think Kate and I need to have a little afternoon tet-a-tet and rethink this whole lounge suit idea. I mean, think about it. She'll have a bunch of upper-crust swav-ish types sporting the "Morning Coat":

And a bunch of old geezers dripping with Euros and royal swords wearing the "Uniform":

And Dave wearing this little number, the "Lounge Suit":

Hey? Um, Kate? D-d-d-d-do you have anyone besides your little college roommate advising you here? Anyone? Anyone? Cuz, this royal wedding thing is kind of a big deal. Are you absolutely positive this is the type of outfit you want showing up at your multi-million dollar, eyes-of-the-entire-free-world-will-all-be-on-you affair? Oooookkkkkkaaaay. Don't blame me when your future father-in-law and his largish ears goes all ballistic when Dave shows up in . . . what's that now? Get out! Seriously? Seriously?

Wait a sec.

Blink, blink.

A lounge suit is NOT the same thing as a leisure suit?

Ah.

Ah.

Well then! Well, um, gee, um, in that case, nevermind.*

Alrighty then! See you at the wedding! Pip, pip! Cheerio! And all that rot! (Just remember to get that blasted invitation here post haste, Kate! I already fear that you have egregiously violated the hard and fast rules of proper wedding etiquette by being so tardy with our invitation. Your soon-to-be Grammy Liz is gonna be royally ticked off at you . . . . )

Speaking of the royal wedding (we'll be there! just as soon as we get our invite!), consider investing in this classy bit of memorabilia. Hey, give it a chance; you just may want to go for it. And if not that, then perhaps this? And, finally, what loyal royal watcher would ever want to be without this?

* Thank you, Roseanne Roseannadanna.

Please Decode Me

I cad smell. I cad breathe. I cad taste. I cad taste nothin', nothin' at all. *Hack, hack, cough, wheeze, sniff, sniff* Pardon me.

I usually like codes--codes like the one below, not like the code that has taken up residency in the top half of my head. In fact, I love puzzle codes so much that every day I decode the puzzle that appears in our local newspaper without using a pen. Or a pencil. Just by using my little noggin' (when there is space in my little noggin' that is, unlike NOW). But I hate this particularly obnoxious type of code. My head is about to explode through my ears and my eyeballs, and our one-year supply of Kleenex has dwindled down to tiny pieces of airborn lint, and that's certainly not going to do me a bit of good. Not to mention the fact that this code makes me talk like I'm about four years old. What is it going to take to drop-kick this code out the front door and send it on its merry way to North Da-CODE-a (yeah, so sorry) where it belongs? *Wheeze, sneeze, sniff!* Help.

Anyone who breaks this code and leaves the correct answer in my "comments" will find this in their mailbox. (No cheating.*) And, if you win, I hope your taster will be working better than mine is right now. Boo. C'mon everybody, and play along! What have you got to lose? Besides, I did half the work for you by giving you a bunch of those "special" letters--you know, those letters that show up EVERYWHERE and show up OFTEN. Yeah, politicians special letters. This should be easy! Ready, set, go!

*"No, we don't cheat. And, even if we did, I'd never tell you."

--Tommy Lasorda, American baseball player and coach

A Sunday Drive

When I was a little stinker, my dad would load all six of us little stinkers, as well as my mom, into the family truckster almost every single Sunday and take us on the quintessential "Family Sunday Drive" up Lamb's Canyon in Salt Lake City. Never mind the fact that since I was the youngest stinker, and thus the easiest to push around, I was consistently relegated to the backward(!) facing seat of our family wagon inducing much kinetosis, otherwise known as, "Look out! She's gonna lose her cookies . . . again!" (My mother never left the house for one of those drives without "the bowl.") Regardless of THAT, this was a time of family togetherness and bonding. It was also a time of the 25 cent gallon of gas. One didn't have to actually budget for a family drive back in the day.

All this to say that today, after completely loving every minute of this, I loaded up two of my own little stinkers, Christian and Sean, and yes, that stinker Dave too, and we headed up American Fork Canyon for the quintessential "Family Sunday Drive," and this is what we saw:

This video was shot with my camera phone, hence the completely unintentional but completely appropriate (considering the nostalgic memories of it all) vintage look. And, no, nobody lost their lunch, but Christian was very, very happy to return home, um, if you get my drift. And I didn't even make him sit backward.

Hey, That Was Just the Pre-game Warm Up!

My introduction of Mrs. Latrodectus to you here was merely the pre-game hype to suck you into the madness and insanity of the Super Bowl of Spidermania at our blessed home sweet home. You guys just don't know what you are missing by not living at the Creepsmeout Institute's officially sanctioned "Spider and Snake House," also quite fondly known as my arachnid infested home. Lucky duck me.

"Hey, Troy! What does the competition look like for today's big Spidermania Super Bowl matchup?"

"Well, Howie, there's stiff competition this year with Mrs. Latrodectus leading her coffee klatch of widows sporting their spiffy black and red uniforms as they go up against the much larger (although still merely babies, believe it or not!) and furrier tarantula team led by their star quarterback, Bubba Theraphosidae. My, that name's a mouthful, Howie! Reports are in, however, that Bubba worked very hard this past off-season and has actually learned how to spell his name! His third grade teacher, Mrs. Orgill, must be so proud right now."

"Thanks, Troy! Okay! I think we're about to view the coin toss to see who receives first, but . . . oh my! . . . Oh, dear! So sorry, Troy, but the control booth just told me that Mrs. Latrodectus is not eligible to play in the Spidermania Super Bowl because, well, because, heh heh, can this be right?, well, Troy, I'm being told in my earpiece that Mrs. Latrodectus lost her eligibility to play when she was, ahem, unceremoniously flushed. That'll do it to you, I guess."

"No! Seriously? Howie, you're freakin' me out here! Seriously? Well, if that's the case, then Bubba and his hairy team of tarantula toddlers win by default! Woo hoo! Let the partyin' begin, cuz, guess what? It's Friday, Howie, and we gotta get down on Friday!"

It’s Friday, Friday

Gotta get down on Friday

Everybody’s lookin’ forward to the weekend, weekend

Friday, Friday

Gettin’ down on Friday

Everybody’s lookin’ forward to the weekend

*Go here if you want this song to be eternally stuck in your brain with no hope whatsoever of shaking it loose. You are forewarned. Don't blame me. You have your agency. (But check it out anyway {mischievous grin})

Personally, I have to say that I'm a little bit perturb-ED with that fuzzy and leggy Bubba Theraphosidae. When I first met him, he didn't even have the common courtesy to rap on my door with his little sticky foot. He just up and cha-cha-ed right across my threshold and straight! into! my! mud! room! Just like he owned the joint! Sheesh. Spiders these days!

I have half a mind to send my silver-tongued friend, Ssssir Thamnophis, over to give Bubba a good tongue lashing about proper manners! Woopsy. Well, I guess that's just not going to happen. Uh, I kinda forgot that Ssssir Thamnophis is without a silver tongue due to the fact that he is without a mouth due to the fact that he is without a head due to the fact that Christian accidentally decapitated him with our Snapper Standard Mulching RP217019BV 7.00 hp Briggs & Stratton Mower out near my chrysanthemums.

Bubba Theraphosidae saying "howdy-do" to Christian's hand

Bubba Theraphosidae patiently waiting for the coin toss

Ssssir Thamnophis poses for the camera before the

unfortunate decapitation

Raise your hand high if you're suddenly all itchy and twitchy. I'm sure I'll have to do penance for that. I guess I won't go on to tell you about the six rattlesnakes that my merely-half-a-block-away neighbor introduced to the sharp blade of her shovel last summer. No, I won't do that. I think we're good here, right?

It's Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday . . .

R.I.P., Mrs. Latrodectus

I hope the octo-legged widow who thought she could share the bathtub with me today is very content now that she is in a "much better place" and reunited with her eternal companion once more. I didn't take the time for polite and/or idle chit-chat so I'm not 100 percent positive that she was actually a widow, but she sure had that widow-ish look about her when I scooped, dumped, flushed and offered a little prayer over her porcelain grave. And, if she really was the type of widow I suspect she was, she was never really separated from her eternal companion in the first place because she undoubtedly consumed her sweetheart in two quick bites and a lick, thus keeping him with her always.

Mmmm. So sweet.

And, sentimental me? I say, happy trails to you and yours! Don't let the door hit you on your way out!

Here is a photo of the Widow Latrodectus in her glory days. I think I caught her given name as Annabelle Something-or-other. Annabelle L-l-l-l . . . . Oh, yeah, I remember. It was Annabelle Lecter. I think she's some sort of relation to Anthony Hopkins perhaps?

Just What the Doctor Ordered! No Credit Card Needed!

Just on a whim, Ashley texted me this beyond adorable picture of little Kimball with the message, "A little ray of sunshine for you!" attached to the picture. So, so, so cute! Couldn't you just eat him up?!

So, what I'd like to know is, when did Ashley get to be so psychic? How and when did she get the ability to divine that this was exactly what I needed after I saw this completely devastating and disheartening view (see completely devastating and disheartening view below) out my back window which happens to be 727.4 miles away from her? Psychic.

She's gifted, I tell you! I'm going to start calling her, "Ashley: The Mom Whisperer." TLC and/or Bravo will, no doubt, be wining and dining her any day now. Hold out for the big bucks, Ash!

And, thanks, Little Red! You really are a ray of sunshine who has saved me from having to resort to my usual method of coping in this foul and generally poopy weather, which method is never a ray of sunshine when that credit card bill comes around revealing the aftermath of my coping therapy. Therapy? As in, retail. As in, INTERNET SHOPPING. As in, I have my credit card number memorized for pete's sake! And the expiration date too! And the three-digit code on the back! That kind of therapy. Oooh. That's so bad. Kimball could hire himself out as "a little ray of sunshine" and save some folks a lot of moolah. And, I'll be happy to write his first testimonial!

Kimball, you are my hero!

Proud as a Peacock!

This kid is something special, I'm telling you. I'm busting my buttons over here with overwhelming feelings of pride and admiration and outright adoration!

Although Christian didn't win the State Sterling Scholar, I could not hold him in higher esteem nor could I be more proud of that boy of mine. His integrity, his unwavering standards, his kindness, his goodness, his desire to always be in the best places with the best people, doing the best things are only a fraction of what makes Christian so incredibly outstanding and so extraordinary.

Did I already mention how much I love him? So much it makes my heart skip a beat. So much that I cry. A lot. So much that I want to shout it out loud to everybody, including the UPS guy (it kind of scares him when I do that, I think). So much that I find myself in a state of constant silent prayer of thanks for this exceptional guy of mine. Same thing goes for my entire family, for that matter.

"Behind every success is effort.

Behind every effort is passion.

Behind every passion is someone

with the courage to try."

That pretty much sums up Christian's fearless attitude about daring to try, daring to fail, and daring to succeed. I hope that someday I could be even a smidgeon like him.

Way to go, Christian!!!

Programming Note: Christian did not wear a lavender colored shirt to the awards. My camera likes to mess with me a lot, and it turned his lovely blue shirt into an odd shade of heliotrope. (Go look it up. Okay, I'll do it for you. Heliotrope means purple. Betcha thought it meant some kind of water amoeba, didn't you. Right? Admit it. You did, didn't you. Okay. I guess that was just airhead me.)

St. Patrick's Day Redux

Darn that Daniel Quinn. Ah, well. What can you do. So, here we go, second verse, same as the first . . .

Unfortunately, Christian was especially late getting out of bed on St. Patrick's day. This mess o'Charmin did not help matters. At all.

It's the ol' cereal switcheroo inside the boxes.

"Daniel Quinn was here!" {Scary smiley face}

To help nourish us after cleaning up after that heap o'mess left by That Darn Daniel Quinn (that's his full name now--That Darn Daniel Quinn, no longer simply Daniel Quinn--I just made that decision, right here, right now; hope he likes it), I made this fancy schmancy bread roll-up thingy (look down yonder for pics and the recipe). I thought it was an appropriate recipe to make after cleaning up that heap o'mess left by That Darn Daniel Quinn because, after all, it does contain green. And, we're all about going for the green during the season of That Darn Daniel Quinn. Just ask the Tupperware containers in the back of my refrigerator. I've got that green thing covered, AND HOW!

Hey? Just an FYI for anyone who may have the pleasure of dining at our home: You may want to put 1-800-222-1222* on your speed dial. Why? Because I'm a thoughtful hostess. And I care. About you. And your health. And avoiding a potential lawsuit.

*Utah Poison Control Center

Leprechaun Log

(Just made that up! I know! Dud.)

12 frozen rolls, thawed and risen

10 oz. frozen spinach, thawed and squeezed-to-its-last-breath dry

1 cup Monterey jJack cheese (I used mozzarella, don't hate me)

1 egg, beaten

1/3 cup finely chopped onion

1 tablespoon butter, melted

2-3 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Spray counter top lightly with non-stick cooking spray. Combine rolls together and roll into a 10x14-inch rectangle. In a bowl, combine spinach, Monterey Jack cheese, egg and onion. Spread spinach mixture over dough to within 1/2-inch of edges. Roll up jelly-roll style, starting with a long side. Place seam side down on a large, sprayed baking sheet. Brush with butter and sprinkle with Parmesan cheese. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise 30-45 minutes. Remove wrap and bake at 350°F 30-35 minutes or until golden brown.

Kiss my Blarney Stone!

Quoth the Raven . . .

Have you ever noticed that "Eyeore" sorta, kinda rhymes with "Lenore" and "nevermore?" Just an interesting little non sequitur to liven up your day. (If you think I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, well, . . . you got that right, mister. Go here for a bit of clarity if you're feeling up to the task. I know! It is a ton of work to try to understand my thought processes. Please don't stone me. That would hurt a bunch, I think.)

Oh, and for you literary types, there's this:

Gotta love the tail on the wall.

And, you can scare the pants off yourself and feel cultured at the same time with this. Or, you can undo all of that culture schmulture stuff with this. Whatever floats your boat, darlin'. But personally, I much prefer THIS. Now, you're talkin'.

Don't Breathe This!

If you've been paying attention, boys and girls, you need to know that you have witnessed a miracle! Or, as I like to say, a mur-a-kull. (Thank ya-uuuuuuh. Thankyaverymuch.)

Remember a while ago, back before Charlie Sheen started "WINNING!"--way back when I brought you to your knees in tears of sheer boredom by blah blah-ing here about the fact that I didn't kill anything? Like yeast? It's true! I didn't kill the yeast while making my bread! But better still, and get this--I didn't kill any of us! We're still alive! We ate that bread and did! not! die! Praise the heavens and sing hallelujah! Nunny nunny boo boo! We didn't die-eye! We didn't die-eye! That is such a load off of my mind, I just gotta tell ya, the fact that I didn't kill any of us. Oh, the relief. Whew.

So! Speaking of my Blendtec (and, yes we were, just so you know), do you happen to remember this? (Go look.) Bic lighters, X Box360, vuvuzelas, you name it, these Blendtec guys have tried to blend it. I never imagined way back when I wrote that post (did you go look?) that I would be conducting "Will It Blend?" experiments of my very own. But here I am, gathering up wheat kernels, ice cubes, bananas, strawberries, active credit cards (say what? DAAAAAAAVE! Dave! Did you sneak my credit card into the Blendtec again?), etc., and blending a-go-go until my family eventually screams for the madness to just stop.

For a spectacular display, I'm thinking of throwing our leather sofa into my Blendtec just to see if it will blend. Any other suggestions? I'm game for anything. Just don't tell Dave. He's such a fussbudget when it comes to having to replace pieces of furniture and such. Boo. :(

And now for some classy, high-brow entertainment wherein the Blendtec dude blends an iPad! So cool!

Actually, I think I've got somebody (ahem) runnin' scared. Truth be told, I am feeling pretty giddy and reckless about my new toy kitchen accessory and all that it can do. For some reason or another, Christian seems to be a little wigged out about me and my Blendtec. Weird. Hey! Did he happen to tell you about his favorite Christmas gift? Wonder if he'd let me borrow it, just for a sec . . .

So, That Leads Us to This:

I'm going to put you on the spot and ask if you watched the video in my last post. Remember? The video I raved about, gushed over, swooned to, and basically bared my soul to the whole world about? Yeah. That one. Did you watch it? Wait! Don't tell me. I don't want to be crushed just in case you didn't. I'm going to live in that alternative universe in my head (just like Charlie Sheen {he has Adonis DNA, apparently}), and pretend that every single one of you watched and listened to that bit of heaven. And you loved it, didn't you. I'm going to go to that special place in my head and totally assume that your answer is a big fat, "yeah, baby!!!" I'm putting my fingers in my ears and singing, "la la la la la la, I can't hear you! la la la la . . . " because I have a feeling most of you didn't watch.

Boo. You didn't watch, did you. :(

But! A big shout out to those very few who did! Just so ya know, you guys basically saved me from turning into Charlie Sheen (he also has tiger blood, apparently). One never knows what life may be rescued from turning into Charlie Sheen by another's kind and simple act of watching and listening to a lengthy and stuffy performance of "Danzon No. 2" by the Simon Bolivar Orchestra conducted by Gustavo Dudamel. You just never know. And, I thank you. All two of you.

The rest of you? Well, go watch the dingdarn video!!!

Are we good to go now? Okay, dokey!

So, to add to the coolness factor of this whole romp, just a couple of weeks ago . . .

this guy . . .

played that exact same fabuloso masterpiece (you didn't watch it, did you {sad face}) . . .

here.

Sigh. Heaven help me.

2011 All-State Orchestra

Music Crush

You've heard of a "man crush," right? It's when a guy thinks another guy is super-duper cool and kind of wishes he could be that guy for a day or two. I hear that a lot of guys have a man crush on Jimmer right now. And Tom Brady. And, Woody Allen. Wait. That can't be right, can it? Woody Allen? Pause, pause. Ponder, ponder. Now I'm all confused. Anywho! If I were a guy, I would totally have a man crush on Johnny Depp. Stop. I do have a man crush on Johnny Depp, and I'm not even a man. Huh. Go work that one out with your psychoanalyst and get back with me when you've got it all figured out.

Besides my man crush on Johnny Depp (oh, hi Dave! didn't see you there), I have a new music crush. Let me tell you, sister! I am in full gallop in LOVE with this particular piece of music. To the musically snobbish (read: Classical 89.1 listeners), I'm sure it is like cotton candy--all fluff and sugary and oh so contemporary, but I don't care. I love it. I LOVE IT!!! This piece sits very close to the top of my heap of classical favorites, very, very close to the top, almost sitting atop of and rubbing shoulders with my bawl-your-eyes-out Scheherazade (nothing is better than that). And I'd bet my copy of The Pirates of the Caribbean (hey, Johnny!) that those Classical 89.1 listers would not sniff their noses at my Scheherazade. Just sayin' that this is that good. To me.

Quick, like a bunny, run and get yourself a nice hot cup of Pero or whatever it is ya'll are drinking these days, and settle in to watch and listen to this. (I know it is a time investment, but SO worth those ten minutes that you would otherwise be using to watch that ridiculous "The Bachelor" skankiness.) So, hang in there with it; I always think my head is going to explode at about the 8:47 mark when things really get ripping in preparation for the big finish. You are crazy not to adore this piece. But you must listen AND watch. The passion these performers put into their work is half of the enticement and lure (and dare I say, the sexiness, whoa!) of it. So watch it.

And now, please enjoy Gustavo Dudamel and the Simon Bolivar Orchestra performing "Danzon No. 2" by Arturo Marquez:

Tell me you did not love that. I dare you. Seriously. I am in love.