Why, yes -- yes, I am trying to make you somewhat nauseous. Whatever gave me away?
Rather late, rather burned Sunday pizza
From the Flat Iron, whose delivery zone we live quite a ways outside of, not that the phone-orders guy said anything when we ordered, but the actual delivery guy was cool about it. I often gripe about everything but bars in Portland having a 10PM bedtime -- in St. Johns, it's more like 9:15. I'll never understand the circadian rhythms of this town.