Rats - The Wonder Creatures

I love rats. They are, in my opinion, marvelous little creatures. Certainly I won’t deny that they’ve done their fair share of spreading disease and illness, but – then – so have humans. Personally, I’m a little more frightened of my fellow man. Ironically, while I’ve oft longed for a rat to call my own, I have yet to own one. I’ve had hamsters, and gerbils, and dwarf hamsters, and guinea pigs, and rabbits, but no rats… yet. All of that is about to change.

The answer to my rat-less state came to me rather unexpectedly, when I was perusing the local paper yesterday in an effort to distract my mind from the rather pressing work matters that I was ignoring. It seems that, in a land far, far away, there is someone else in the world who has recognized the incomparable value of the rat. That land is Tanzania.

In Tanzania, a brilliant former industrial designer from Belgium named Bart Weetjens has begun a nonprofit organization that trains the giant African rat to detect land mines. Absolutely amazing. Why don’t more people think of such exceptional ideas? This Bart fellow has real potential.

The rat featured predominately in this particular article is a four-pound feminine beauty named Henrietta (see photo). Her description reads like a personal ad for my ideal companion: luxurious brown fur; lovely white belly; works for bananas; obsessive groomer; possessor of cheek pouches (I LOVE those…); detector of explosives. What more could one ask for? I felt the first rush of love, and thought to myself "I MUST have Henrietta." There are, of course, a couple of obstacles impeding the satisfactory obtainment of this goal; the largest being the fact that Henrietta lives in Tanzania and I live in Wisconsin. A long-distance relationship would never work for me, as I feel an urgent need to have access to the bellies of all of my pets. One never knows when the urge to tickle someone’s belly will strike, but when it does it is of the utmost imperative to answer the call.

Reading through the remainder of the article only strengthened my resolve to obtain a Ratus Adorabalis Africanus. Their qualities put other animals to shame: They have the ability to swing through trees by their tails, seek affection like little dogs, and have such amazing senses of smell that they’re also thinking of using them to detect tuberculosis! (It appears that they are as accurate in detecting tuberculosis as human lab technicians who are working with microscopes. Hmmm. How can we be so sure that we ARE the superior species?)

Just when I felt that I would have to sink into the depths of despair, left in a permanent state of wanting, I read a very important piece of information. Bart The Brilliant has begun a website – www.herorat.org – that allows people to "adopt" individual animals! While this doesn’t solve my problem of lack-of-belly-access, it does allow me to "own" my own rat while my mind works on the problem of how to get it all the way to Wisconsin. Since these rats live six to eight years, I have some time to ponder….

Link to original newspaper article: http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2003712156_rats18m.html

W-O-R-D-S

Who, I wondered, first thought that it would be a good idea to begin advertising on consumer’s butts? This thought had been prompted by the sight of a young woman walking along a sidewalk - which bordered a major thoroughfare - wearing very distracting black sweatpants with bright red lettering across her rear. In order to read the letters – which said "echo red"- I was forced to take my eyes off of the road for a length of time that could hardly be considered safe. This traffic hazard brought a memory of the previous week to mind, during which I had spent nearly an entire morning office commute practically on top of the semi in front of me, attempting to decipher the obscure lettering that ran down the back of the trailer. (In my defense, most of that time we were not moving quickly at all due to the endless miles of summer construction.)

In my opinion, if one owns a meat stock business, one should not use "Old English Lettering" as the font of choice. It is absolutely absurd. The obvious choice for a meat-industry business of any kind is either something with a "western" feel to it or something morbid. "Old English" is difficult to read under the best of conditions. The best of conditions involve paper, which can be held very close to your face, or an electronic file, with which you can highlight the entire text and convert it to a more readable font. The back of a semi trailer is no place AT ALL for the "Old English" style. I would definitely write a letter stressing this very point to the owners of that trailer – if only I knew who in the hell they were. Since I could not make head or tails of their name, it would be a blind shot. But I digress…

Back to the butt: Not only am I bothered by the question of how this trend came about, but I am even more bothered by the fact that it has caught on. There are so many bizarre factors about it: You are, obviously, encouraging people to stare at your fanny; you are causing some sort of subconscious association between whatever product/brand you are touting and your butt; you are sporting a message that is inevitably warped by the shape of your tush and becomes nearly illegible… This line of thinking leads naturally into the bigger question of "why do people feel the need to become human billboards?"

The entire concept is ridiculous. In the corporate world, a LOT of money is paid to get a name/logo/brand out into the world. How strange is it, then, that consumers are willing to actually pay their own money to promote a company/organization across their chest/on their butt/down their leg, etc.? A portion of the money that they pay for their shirt – which loudly proclaims the manufacturer’s name across their bust – will then go into advertising which targets that very same consumer, who will watch it and think "I should go buy a shirt at X company…" Preposterous.

Now statement shirts, on the other hand, have some merit when used properly. "Team Jen" or "Team Angelina" would not be what I would consider proper uses. As I see it, celebrities receive enough attention and/or publicity without the casual pedestrian or mall-shopper helping them out. Instead, I believe that a statement shirt should raise awareness – preferably in a humorous manner – or, failing that, make one laugh. Some of the best that I’ve seen: Without Me It’s Just Aweso; Mediocrity Thrives on Standardization; Suburbia: Where They Tear Out The Trees And Name Streets After Them; Ambivalent? Well, Yes And No…

The unfortunate side effect of these shirts, of course, is the fact that in order to read them you find yourself staring – often for some time – directly at someone’s bust. If this person is a male it is generally not as awkward as it is when it is a female, but it’s not really pleasant either way. I’m quite the fan of the messages written across the back of the t-shirt, for they allow one to do as much staring as one wants without the wearer’s observation, and even to talk and gesture about the person if one so desires.

One day, when I have the time and energy that it would take to do the topic justice, I will venture into the extensive and meaningful world of bumper stickers…. But not tonight.

Coffee Culture

Coffee was clearly on the minds of several fellow Madisonians, I noted this morning as I entered Starbucks to find an unusually long line for the mid-morning time. Undeterred, I claimed a place behind a white-haired gentleman and contemplated the menu board above the counter. This is an odd habit that I have. Inevitably, I will order the same beverage that I order each and every time that I visit. Also inevitably, I will examine the drink options in detail before placing my order.

Having reviewed the menu, noting with special interest the seasonal drinks currently available, I settled back unto my heels. The line was progressing at the rate that one might expect – say – grass to grow. Unfortunately, the fatigue that I felt was my Achilles’ heel; I could not afford to "make a statement" with an attention-drawing departure. I was certain that my energy would fail me completely before I could reach the next Starbucks, which was doubtless at least an entire block away.

My attention span, influenced by lack of sleep, shifted from topic to topic at an accelerated rate. After a moment, it settled soundly upon the gentleman in front of me in line. Initially, I had not paid him a great deal of mind, but I now realized my mistake. This fellow was most interesting. He was quite a bit taller than me, probably over 6 feet in height, and his hair – a silvery white with some bits of gray – did not appear to have been combed. It stood out in several oppositional directions, creating an effect that – on a much, much younger person – might have been trendy. Unfortunately, he did not have the correlating attire to pull the "deliberately grungy but uncaring" look. His shirt, a long-sleeved, pale blue button down, was tucked neatly into his jeans – in the front. The back of the shirt was obviously not bound by the same rules of etiquette. It hung loosely over the man’s black belt, drawing attention to the saggy rear of his too-large denim pants. His pants were loose enough to pool on the floor, blocking my view of his shoes. This I lamented for a bit, as I was most curious about them.

In his right hand, the man held a Starbucks gift card. In the left hand, he held what appeared to be the envelope that had housed the card. By now, he had reached the register and had been addressed by the cashier, who – naturally – wanted to take his order. It was at this point that things became even more interesting. For reasons that were not initially clear, the fellow stepped away from the register and began moving to the left. The two cashiers and I watched, a bit confused until he stopped in front of the bakery case.

"What are these?" he asked, pointing to the platter labeled "blueberry scones."

"Those are blueberry scones." responded the cashier, communicating something via eye contact with the employee next to her.

The gentleman proceeded to work his way through every item in the case, questioning the identity of each baked good, clearly suspicious of the veracity of the written labels. By this time, the cashier had begun sending me messages via the E.Y.E. standards of communication. I was responding in kind, my head jerks and squints assuring her that my patience was endless. As far as I was concerned, the morning had just perked up considerably.

At the end of the refrigerator case tour, the man selected two blueberry scones. An interesting choice, I thought to myself. I, personally, would have gone with the pumpkin or cinnamon chip, but to each their own…

Still positioned in front of the case, a distance of at least four to five feet from the employee helping him, the man began another series of questions.

"So, that’s $3.70 for those, then?" he asked.

The two employees both answered at the same time, one asking him to repeat himself and the other affirming his total, with tax. The gentleman, clearly confused, must have decided that the problem was that they had not heard him well enough.

"T-H-R-E-E S-E-V-E-N-T-Y?" he shouted loudly, causing people seated at tables in various parts of the café to look up.

"Your current total is $3.70, with tax." the cashier answered, exchanging yet another meaningful look with her comrade.

"Hmmmm…." He considered the case, pointing his finger mid-air in the direction of the baked items, scanning them over and over as he struggled to make a decision. It appeared quite likely that his gift card was in the sum of five dollars, and that his goal was to make his total the same. Unfortunately, I could see – even from where I stood, still in line – that all of the items would put him over that. Finally, he mumbled something to the girl that – sadly – was not the one taking his order.

As his transaction was completed, and he loudly voiced his pleasure at paying a mere twenty cents total, I mused upon the encounter that I had witnessed. I had so many questions… Where did he get the gift card? Why would you go to a coffee shop and not get any coffee? Was he going to eat all of those things by himself?

At the end of the counter, there was a chest-height counter designed to hold beverages that were waiting to be picked up. After placing my order, I moved down to the counter, where the white-haired fellow had positioned himself. He stood, his scones and cookie in bags next to him, reading a newspaper that he had pulled off of the selling rack. The paper was open in front of him, covering nearly the entire counter. This was, I thought, bizarre. We were surrounded by tables and chairs, simply begging to be utilized, yet he stood in the one spot not intended to be used in this manner. Even stranger, the employees were ignoring him completely.

My beverage made its scheduled appearance, and I accepted it from the barista with a smile, reaching around the man’s pilfered newspaper.

"Have a nice day." she suggested as I stepped away.

"You too." I replied, and meant it.

Feline + Water =

Things To Remember When Bathing Felines:

1. The personality of a dry feline is not indicative of the personality of the same feline when water is applied.

2. Regardless of clawed/declawed status, felines are able to produce sharp weapons when wet. These weapons are highly effective when used against a human bathing assailant.

3. When combined with water, felines have the ability to; scale walls, cross ceilings, jump to heights of more than 15 feet, and cling to human clothing and/or skin.

4. Do NOT underestimate the speed with which a feline can move given proper motivation (i.e.: escape from water). Water appears to accelerate the feline vascular and muscular systems, which results in motions that appear – to the human eye – as furry blurs.

5. Felines are – as a general rule – more intelligent than the average human. This means that one must proceed with EXTREME CAUTION when executing Plan B(ath). It is ESSENTIAL that every contingency be planned for.


As a veterinary assistant, one of the many roles included in my rather vague job description was that of animal groomer. This was a position that I usually enjoyed, as it kept me busy in a back room, and I could always claim that I couldn’t hear the phone, or the calling of the Doctor, because the "water was running" or the "blow-dryer was too loud." Unfortunately, I could not control the clientele, and on occasion I found myself in the unenviable position of having to bathe a creature of the feline variety.

Oddly enough, most cat-owners do not care to bathe their own pets. I can only speculate that this might be because they fear for their lives, or – at the very least – for the more sensitive portions of their anatomy. These people would inevitably put on an elaborate show when setting up the grooming appointment, and again when dropping their cat off at the clinic.

"Oh, normally I would give Buffy a bath myself," they would sigh, averting their eyes guiltily, "but we have family coming from out of town and I absolutely have to get the house clean. I just don’t have time to do it right now… But Buffy needs to be clean for our guests!"

Glancing at the chart, I would see that Buffy had been in for a bath every four months for the past five years. I would also see the blood splattered around each entry. Sometimes the note would be nearly illegible; the poor scribe no doubt suffering from severe loss of blood and unable to hold the pen properly.

Resigned to my fate, I would accept the docile-appearing Buffy, carting her to the back area of the clinic. As we traveled through the rooms, Buffy’s feline radar would alert her to the presence of water and bathing products, and a low, eerie growl would begin to rise from the depths of the pet taxi. By the time we would have reached the bathtub, Buffy would have transformed completely. Glancing into the front of the carrier, I would see the Feline Version X: Water Avoidance Deluxe Model.

This was never a pretty sight. It involved electrified fur, which had the ability to stand straight and stiff from each follicle. Ears would – without fail – be sucked back into the head, resulting in a strange, earless, slit-eyed monster. This creature emitted sounds that could only have originated in the bowels of hell. Low moans, piercing wails, shrieking growls: The vocal range was astounding.

There were ways to prepare for the Human vs. Feline battle that was ahead, but it was a guarantee that I would sustain some losses, even with the best battle plan. I had, throughout the course of my cat-bathing traumas, discovered an apparatus that some (undoubtedly scarred) genius had developed: the feline-bathing cage. This brilliant mechanism was designed to hold a cat inside, but left plenty of space for water, human hands, and shampoo to reach inside. Unfortunately, anything entering the space was also exposed to the Feline Fury that was trapped within.

Still, taking all dangers and damages into account, the cage was the only viable option. Since Buffy (or whoever it might be) would be in "a state" even before entering the cage, the transition from carrier to cage was always exciting. It usually involved holding the carrier by one end and pummeling the same end in order to knock the feline out. The feline, meanwhile, would be using its Super Feline Powers to remain affixed to the very same end of the carrier. This could, and usually did, go on for quite some time. If the cat was finally dislodged, I would have to move very quickly in order to trap it with the towel – an essential piece of equipment when dealing with many hostile animal species.

The move from towel to cage was considered a success if – at the end – I bled from no more than four puncture wounds. With the spitting feline under moderate control within the bathing cage, I would don the best defense available for the next phase of the process: the plastic shampooing gloves. These gloves were more of a morale boost than any real defense; they were generally hanging in tatters within moments of their descent into the bath territory. Still, I would persevere, the end in sight… until the flailing feline splattered shampoo into my eyes, effectively blinding me and allowing it to sink its teeth/claws/all of the above into the closest available flesh.

After a grueling battle, Buffy and I would be exhausted. Still, the feline nature does not allow for surrender – a fact that both Buffy and I would be all too aware of. The final step of the torture process was the blow-dryer. This hot-air producing wonder was attached directly to a cage, which the wet cat was most often quite eager to get into, as it involved getting out of the now-hated "bath cage." Within moments of entering the new cage, the cat would realize its mistake, and the fury would be released. The Sounds would begin, accompanied by The Clawing. The Clawing did little damage to the Plexiglas cage front, but the noise that it created was far from pleasant. In combination with the freakish howling, it was downright disturbing.

After an excruciatingly length of time, I would cease the air flow and eye the creature within the cage. By this time, Buffy would have settled into the "fake calm." This is – of course – the most dangerous state that a feline can enter. On the exterior, nothing appears amiss. Instead, the animal radiates a practiced, controlled lack of response to stimuli. This is most deceptive. At this point, the feline is likely to explode – without any prior warning – into a violent ball of fur, claws, and teeth.

Once the creature is in the "fake calm" state, it is a guarantee that the owner will show up to collect their precious cargo. This necessitates a speedy transfer of the cat from the dryer to the carrier. During this transition, I anticipated the loss of several pints of blood, a pound or two of flesh, and some hair and/or nails.

Moments later, I would limp from the back area, Buffy safely ensconced in her taxi. Buffy, upon spotting her owner, would instantly assume the "sweet" personality that she had found to be most effective with her humans. I, meanwhile, would force a smile as I handed her over, blood dripping from the scarlet scratch splitting my cheek. As the client shot toward the door with a final guilty glance over her shoulder, I would turn with a sigh to retrieve Buffy’s chart. Opening it, I would make a note – in pen – detailing Buffy’s bathing experience, doing my best to avoid the drops of blood.

Speed Bumps

On my first visit to Mexico, I flew into Guadalajara - a city in central Mexico about four hours south of my final destination. My travel companion and I were met at the airport by a father and son who were, if you stretched the definition of the work, loosely "related" to my fellow traveler. They drove a small pickup, and we were told to squeeze into the front seat next to the father, a man in his late 50s. His son, who appeared to hover somewhere in the 20 – 25 year old range, seated himself in the bed of the pick-up with our luggage. I found this a touch concerning, but was quickly distracted by the fact that the truck cab had not a single seatbelt in sight.

Before I could question the situation, we were in motion. We passed through the city in short order, and soon found ourselves on the highway that we would need to follow for the bulk of our trip. I had not, prior to this point, realized that we would be driving through a mountain range. Had I known this, I might have reconsidered our airport destination. Had I known about the "rules of the road" in Mexico, I might have reconsidered the trip altogether.

The highway was a series of blind corners and curves, and was dramatically accented by the unblocked drop off of the mountain side. As we drove, I stared, horrified, into the abyss to the right of the vehicle. I could see, punctuating the cliff at various heights, a shocking number of vehicles. There were cars, and trucks, and semi-trucks that had obviously rolled off of the mountainside and been stopped by trees or outcroppings of rocks. The logical assumption was, of course, that at the bottom of the mountain one would find the vehicles that had descended the drop without impediment. On the left side of the vehicle, we were flanked by a dark wall of stone. Smashed against this rock wall, every few hundred feet, were more vehicles. The reason for the high automobile death rate was soon made all-too-apparent. As it turns out, driving in Mexico is a highly competitive and aggressive pastime. The goal of this sport is to pass everyone who dares to drive in front of you, and – for maximum points – to honk and gesture wildly while doing so.

It was most unfortunate that the curves and turns of this highway reduced visibility to approximately -25 feet. This did nothing to deter the Mexican drivers. In fact, if I understand the game correctly, it might even have elevated it to an advanced level. Mute with terror, I gasped for air as the truck careened around corner after corner, cresting peaks and rounding turns only to encounter vehicle after vehicle approaching us at high speed – in our lane. If, by chance, they were not approaching us in our lane, it tended to be because we were not in our lane, and were, instead, in the opposite lane approaching someone else at high speed. When I managed to glance at our driver, to see how he was holding up, I was most disturbed to find him chortling to himself, looking into his rearview mirror to admire the latest conquest in the "passing game." This had the added benefit of keeping his eyes away from the road in front of us. From the pick-up bed behind us, I could hear the companionable chuckling of his son, who was most admiring of his father’s skills.

It is a testament to the benevolence of Fate that we arrived at our destination physically unharmed. The mental damage, sadly, I am still working through.

The following week, after a day spent in a different city, my co-traveler and I missed the last bus to the small town that we were staying in. In order to return to our lodging, we had to employ a taxi. It was a fairly lengthy trip, but the driver had no trouble filling the time with chatter. As we approached a particularly long and dark stretch of rural road, the man fell silent. Though I had not known him long, this seemed out of character. After a few moments, he began talking in a subdued and quiet voice. We had to ask him to speak up.

This stretch of highway, he explained to us, was haunted by the ghost of an old woman. Really? We asked, intrigued. It didn’t look haunted. It looked like the rest of the highway – desolate. Oh, he assured us, it was absolutely haunted. He went on to recount the experience of a friend of his, another taxi driver, who was traversing that very stretch of highway one night earlier that year. He was alone in his car, having dropped his passengers at their destination. Prompted by an unknown force, he turned his head to the left, where he saw – seated in the passenger seat – the ghost of the old woman.

By this point, it was clear that the driver had worked himself into a state of mild panic. I suspected that his mental wheels were turning, and that he was already projecting himself into the future, when he would be returning to the city via this same highway, sans us. Had he seen any way to do so, I’m fairly certain that he would have held us captive in that vehicle for the remainder of the night. Fortunately for us, his mental capacities were not all that they could be due to the rather large distraction of his fear.

A few years later, I returned to Mexico, and this time I brought my entire family. As a group, we were five people. To prevent losing a non-Spanish speaker in a Spanish-speaking country, we made every attempt to stay together when traveling. This meant that we would often squeeze into a single taxi – my mother in the passenger seat and the four remaining people packed into the back. This made for an uncomfortable trip, at best. At worst, it was perilous.

Many of the cities in Mexico attempt to control the hazards of driving by placing speed bumps throughout the streets. We quickly learned to brace ourselves for each of these obstacles, as the taxis tended to be deficient in the "shocks" department, and the weight of six people would generally destroy whatever life they had left. Always vigilant for the upcoming event, we began calling out whenever we spotted the telltale signs. "Speed bump!" we’d yell, all five of us. The taxi drivers were initially startled by this, but would often warm up to it. I had to wonder what they made of it, as – for the most part – they spoke no English. We were a motley crew, five people who insisted upon contorting ourselves into a single, overheated vehicle, and issuing a strange chanting cry as we drove about the city.

In Zacatecas we discovered, as we were driven through the city, that the speed bumps were much higher than in other parts of the country. This meant that, with our combined weight, we inevitably "bottomed out" on each one. Our cries of "speed bump!" began to take on a frantic edge, the sound of scraping metal unwelcome to our ears. The driver of our cab seemed unconcerned. He merely adjusted the speed of his driving, causing our slides over the bumps to become long and drawn-out, rather than short and jarring. As we continued, I noticed that his mouth was moving as we drove toward each bump, silently mouthing the words that he was beginning to recognize. "Speed bump" he air-spoke. Gaining confidence as the car lost underbelly, he guided us through the city.

As the car continued and our concern grew, a sixth voice joined our group. Directing us (I suspect deliberately) toward a particularly wicked-looking series of three speed bumps, the driver exclaimed jubilantly, in heavily accented English "SPEED BUMP!" The smile on his face stretched from ear to ear, his delight with his passengers and the experience apparent for all to see.

A Dorothy By Any Other Name

What’s in a name, anyway? As someone who grew up with a name that I have yet to encounter another person sporting, I am quite accustomed to having my name questioned. People ask about the pronunciation (and then generally proceed to mispronounce it for the rest of our acquaintanceship); they ask about the origin; they ask where I am from… The fact that I have a name that has not been heard by their ears before seems to arouse either great suspicion or the inexplicable belief that they have suddenly obtained the right to pry into my entire family tree and history.

Really? They might ask, leaning forward. Why did your mother decide to give you that name? Do you have siblings, and what did she name them? Where did you grow up? Where are your parents from? Do you speak another language? Oh really? You’re American?

I can’t claim that I myself don’t pay undue attention to other people’s names. On the contrary, I’m quite interested in them. There are certain names that I carry around in my head with me, and reflect upon from time to time. The imagined sounds of these names, played over and over in my head, brings me enjoyment. It’s difficult to articulate the reason, but I believe that it has something to do with the appreciation that I feel for language in general. The way that a name rolls off of the tongue can bring with it a crisp aesthetic pleasure.

In the acquisition of names business, working in telemarketing for five years was by far the most brilliant action that I could have taken. During that time, I amassed the bulk of my favorite names. One such name is a jewel of such value that I could not have created it if I had tried: Mulebert Feast. Truly fascinating. I have so many questions that I wish that I could have asked Mulebert. Does he have siblings, and what would their names be? Where is he from? Why did his parents name him Mulebert? Did they despise him? Unfortunately, Mulebert was an incredibly disagreeable fellow who had no desire to talk. In fact, his sole desire appeared to be to accost the telemarketer that had dared call him in his home. No doubt the burden of shouldering the name Mulebert had taken its toll over the course of his lifetime, leaving a wizened and bitter shell. Had he but embraced it, perhaps even assuming the moniker of "MB" (which has quite a ring to it) his personality might have been entirely different.

Another type of name that ranks high on my list of memorable is the name that forms a sentence in and of itself. My favorite: Jared Showers. Well yes, I thought to myself when I read it, I certainly hope that he does. I then proceeded to snicker, glancing about the building for the ever-so-clean Mr. Showers. Even as I pitied the poor child that had borne a statement as a name, I filed it away for future enjoyment.

Over the years, a number of other names have made their way into my mental storage chamber. As the urge arises, I pull them out for a quick chortle or enjoyable review, depending upon the name. Richard Dick; Lisa Bends; Mickey McNamara; LeeLee Sobieski… Each of these names thrills me in a slightly different way.

So taken am I with names, and the naming of things, that each creature that holds my affection generally endures an ever-evolving series of nicknames throughout their lifetime. Juliet the canine has gone by many, many names: Pooh; Pooh Bear; WeeWee Sobieski; Pea; Peanut; Peanut Butter; Poobelah; Boo Banters… The list could go on for pages. Each of my pets has survived similar identity crises. Friends and family often suffer the same fate, although for their sake I try to tone it back a bit.

In my world, it’s not safe to assume that you’re only required to answer to your given name. If the given name doesn’t suit the current mood, or if I feel that it’s lacking a certain "pizzazz," I’ll likely improve upon it. Generally, however, I try to maintain the proper use of formal names with business colleagues and strangers. As a result, I have to take my joy where I can find it in these situations. This most often occurs when I am in the presence of an unfortunate soul who has difficulty remembering a) other people’s names or b) how to pronounce other people’s names.

Imagine my delight when, on a recent business trip, I found myself in the company of a co-worker, S, and a volunteer named Bill. Bill’s full name was William, which was printed on the table tent placed prominently before him at our table. The fact that his name was William/Bill was no doubt a factor in his failure to acknowledge my co-worker S, who repeatedly addressed him as "Bob" for the entire course of the two days that we were together. William/Bill/Not Bob did not respond a single time to any of the comments/questions that S directed his way, yet S merely assumed that William/Bill/Not Bob did not care for him and was deliberately ignoring him. This entire situation was a great source of entertainment to me, as I wondered at S’s mind and what would a) lead him to the first conclusion of "ignoring me = dislike for me" and b) how he could fail to notice the prominent display of the proper moniker and the fact that everyone else in our group regularly interacted with "Bill." I daresay, there is nothing like mixing business with pleasure…

Child's Play

As a child, I could generally be found engaged in activities that would be described to adults as "up to no good." It’s not that I set out to be wicked; it was more that the activities that seemed most intriguing were the ones that had been forbidden. One could only engage in the encouraged pastimes for so long before one understood that they were – beyond a doubt – boring. Sure, the coloring book seemed like a good idea for about ten minutes, but then one couldn’t help but notice how the kitchen wall could use a little "freshening up." There was also the added bonus of having one’s artwork on display, for all to see, without having to go through the work of locating a long-discarded coloring book or – even more tiring – having to pretend to have no idea of where aforementioned book had gone while wiping ones’ hands of the ashes created when the fire that was the book had finished its spectacular show.

Most often, I found myself in the company of my cousin R, who is six days older than me, and my younger brother, J. As a threesome, we were particularly dangerous to any and all creatures in the general vicinity. Again, it’s not that we intended to cause any harm; it was more that our ideas were not necessarily in the best interest of said critters. Many a day passed during which we filled our hours "snake hunting" or "toad catching." We often filled an entire bathtub with frogs, who endured our games unwillingly – attempting escape all the while. Kittens were dressed in clothing, hamsters were driven around in cars, gerbils were bounced about in blankets, ducklings were given "swimming lessons," and rabbits were encouraged to ride ponies. In the end, no animals were harmed in the filming of our childhood, but it was sheer luck that saved them on occasion.

For many years, my parents rented a number of acres to a local farmer. He used this land to pasture a herd of beef cattle. Naturally, it became my quest to make one (or more) of these creatures into my noble steed. I had many daydreams which involved me mounted upon the back of one of these fine creatures, my hair streaming behind me as we galloped around the hills that surround my family home. (It’s true that – during my entire childhood – I had a bit of a "thing" for horses. It is most unfortunate for the cattle that my dream of a horse was downgraded to fit the available livestock of the time. I was nothing if not resourceful.) In order to "break" a cow in, I understood that I would first have to get on its back. The cattle, as it turned out, had absolutely no interest in experiencing this sensation. In fact, one might even say that their interest level hovered somewhere in the negative numbers.

Many plans were made, and plots unfolded and foiled, in my efforts to capture a mount. R and J were my faithful cohorts; they assisted in the deployment of various traps and schemes, yet success was not ours. A particularly disastrous plan involved me swinging out of the branch of an apple tree, hanging by a grapevine, and dropping into the space where – moments before – a cow had been located, munching on an apple. Because the cow – using its early warning detection device – had been prompted to move out of the area at high speed, I dropped instead onto the hard packed ground. This was a bad place to land, particularly from any notable height. Angry at my stupidity, my breath knocked itself out of my lungs with no small amount of force. Even angrier at my lack of sense, my entire respiratory system refused to refuel for several moments, causing me to attempt to communicate with R & J in panicked, indecipherable sign language. Unfortunately, what could have been my last wishes went ignored, unseen by the two young boys who were doubled over in laughter.

Undeterred by this spectacular failure, I developed my masterpiece of a plan. It was quite complicated, and required a lot of planning and setup. Fortunately, I had my companions to assist. We industriously looted an abandoned barn, which provided the essentials of our cow-capturing device: An old, rusty stanchion (device which closes around a cow’s neck, locking it into place in its stall); a piece of wire and wood fencing (quite flexible); some wire with which to pull our plot together. The location was key: an old apple orchard which was a favorite loitering ground of the herd. Chuckling to ourselves, we used the wire to hang the stanchion from a branch of an apple tree and wrapped the fencing around the back. This created a small circular space that could only be accessed through the stanchion opening. In this space we dropped a number of tasty red apples. Delighted with the set-up, and confident of our imminent success, we all assumed posts within the booby-trapped tree and waited.

As the cattle meandered closer, we struggled to stifle our giggles of delight. In short time, a brave and curious cow approached our trap, oblivious of the danger that she was in. I eyed her speculatively. She was quite lovely, really. Black and white, with large brown eyes and a youthful gait. If one squinted, one could almost imagine that she was a pinto… As my mind drifted into visions of the bond that my steed and I would share, and to the long rides that we would have, the cow reached her head through the stanchion opening and began eating the apples, crunching loudly.

Seizing the moment, I slammed the stanchion closed. The lock clicked audibly. There was a brief second of shared delight and surprise as our human threesome registered our success, and then The Hell began. The cow did not like being trapped. She did not like it at all. In fact, she was adamantly opposed to it. With an unearthly moo/moan, the cow began The Battle. Her hooves dug into the dirt, pushing the large cow body away from the tree, pulling the stanchion and the branch that it was – as it turns out – very securely attached to. Her inability to remove her head as easily as she had placed it there caused the cow to panic, and she increased the volume of her frightening moans as her eyes began rolling back into her head.

Underneath the cow’s panicked cries rose an even more disturbing noise – the wails of three children who have realized that they may – in fact – have committed an act that might actually get them killed. There was no way that their parents were going to let them live after finding out that they had caused a cow’s head to pop off its body. The cow, hearing this bizarre noise that undoubtedly signaled the presence of a cow predator, stepped up the escape efforts. With a groan that could probably be heard within a five-mile radius, she yanked violently on the metal that held her captive.

At this point, I can only assume that the Universe took pity upon us, and had finally stopped laughing long enough to do something about it. Inexplicably, the stanchion unlocked. For a moment, the cow stood still, shocked. Then, with her tail held nearly straight in the air in a manner that I have seen at no other time in my life, she turned and bolted.

There was quiet for a few moments, save for the occasional sniffle. I considered the events that had just occurred. There was an important lesson to be learned here, and I – for one – had noted it well. What I now knew was this: One should NOT ever try to ride a beef cow. It was obvious that they were not suited to it. Turning, I scanned the neighbor’s acreage to the left. There, on the hillside, I spotted them – the herd of Holsteins. The answer to my problems stood in all of their black and white spotted glory. Dairy cattle – now those were friendly. There was no doubt in my mind that – somewhere within that group – my faithful mount was waiting patiently for me. All I needed to do was get on her back…

Sugar And Spice

According to historical documentation, there is quite a discrepancy in the components that make up the male and female sexes. The simplest way to sum up these long-standing beliefs is:

Female elements: Sugar, Spice, and "Nice things."
Male elements: Snips, Snails, and "Puppy dog tails."

As a female, I have to admit that I’d very much like to accept this dogma without question. Unfortunately, as a person of at least moderate intelligence, I’m afraid that I have to give this at least some cursory thought before I can settle into my feeling of smug superiority. My reflections have caused me to identify key "trends" in my personality, which could – indeed – be a reflection of my inner sucrose/spice constitution.

Since I’ve been a young child, I’ve gravitated toward animals. These creatures have been varied in nature – ranging from tadpoles and toads to rabbits and ponies – but have all been adored by me. I’ve spent countless hours tending to them, playing with them, wanting more of them, and worrying about them. So strong is my affection for animals that I truly believed that I would be a veterinarian and – in fact – worked for many years in the veterinary field. (Until the cruel reality of the absurd amount of HUMAN interaction required to work in the veterinary field sucked much of the joy out of if… and I decided to put my education to a better use.) Affection for animals/Tendency to rescue them = Sugar/Spice/Nice Things.

The aforementioned line of reasoning works quite well, at least until I consider my favorite male companion’s propensity for creature cuddling. According to him, this is a trait that he, also, has possessed since his youth. Hmmm. Either he is lying, (a suggestion that he would take great offense to) or the male ingredient of "puppy dog tails" might actually indicate an ability to appreciate the animal kingdom. (It also proves scientifically that men are – as women have often claimed – part dogs. This is an entirely different topic that will not be addressed at this time.) I have indeed born witness to his current affection for animals – and their return affections – and cannot, therefore, easily dismiss his claims. I will have to concede the possibility of the following equation: Affection for animals = Puppy dog tails.

Along those lines, I will also have to disclose that I have seen, among the male of the species, an ability to act in a seemingly Sugar/Spice manner. This is, to say the least, disconcerting. It almost makes one question one’s own Sugar/Spice abilities. At least, it might make one question those abilities until one considers all of the fructose cards mailed to friends and family, or the glucose-ridden phone calls "just to catch up." When you factor in the carefully selected birthday and holiday gifts, and the hours of careful cleaning and decorating that precede any gatherings of loved ones, the spices practically leap out at you. I have yet to see any such behavior from the Snips/Snails team.

On the other hand, how does one explain the recently purchased bouquets of flowers from my FMC? It hardly seems Snip-like… If I give it more thought, I can think of at least ten examples from this past weekend alone of behavior that could be construed as saccharine. (In a marvelously good way, of course.) How can a being of solely Snips/Snails/Tails be so capable of Sugar/Spice/Nice? It almost calls everything that we’ve been taught into question.

Just as I begin to consider panic – perhaps my FMC is a female in (an exceptionally good) disguise – I heave a sigh of relief. Flooding back into my mind come a river of memories that prove Snip/Snail/Tail status without a doubt: The leap from around a corner (accompanied by a Kung Fu yell) with the sole intent of scaring me; the loud belch from another room, followed by a string of manly giggles; the surprise wrestling move which takes me off of my feet ("to teach me, so that I can defend myself"); the contents of pockets strewn about multiple surfaces. Perhaps I have found myself in the company of the evolved male companion. My Favorite Male Companion = Snips/Snails/Puppy Dog Tails/Just The Right Amount Of Sugar.

Keeping The Doctor Away

Today, I had an appointment with a doctor. As someone who works in a position in which I encourage the general public to have regular contact with and – in fact – to develop a good relationship with their own physician, I feel a bit hypocritical when I reveal that I myself despise visiting the doctor. I can’t quite describe the roots of this aversion, but it’s one that I’ve felt since the beginning of (my) time. My mother has often relayed the story of five-year-old me, visiting the doctor for routine immunizations, and the spectacle that I caused in the clinic office. Refusing to believe the nurse’s blatant lies for a moment (this won’t hurt, it will only take a second) I managed to wedge myself into the small space under my mother’s chair, and there I settled in for the battle.

The poor oblivious nurse had no warning of the epic war ahead of her. Her coaxing and gentle tugs led only to an escalation of my efforts. Inspired by the sight of the needles, I launched tactic number one – the scream. Maintaining this high-pitched sound throughout the battle was a vital demoralizer for the enemy, and I intended to use it well. In short time, I’d moved to tactic number two – full-body resistance. By now, the nurse had called in reinforcements. A number of health care professionals gathered around the chair, unsure of their next move. My mother, having witnessed the strength of my fury many times in the past, had settled into an odd combination of resignation and hope. In short time, the final fight was in progress. Walking past the door, someone glancing in would have seen a nearly unbelievable sight; a young child, apparently female, stiff-limbed under a standard waiting room chair that held a woman in her early thirties. This chair was elevated a number of inches off of the floor by this deceptively small girl. Surrounding the duo, nurses pulled on the child from all angles, the strain and effort apparent in their faces.

Eventually, I was immunized, but the violent battle had taken a toll on everyone involved. Fast forward twenty-five years, and I still feel the urge to crawl under chairs when faced with an approaching needle. Now, instead of a group of nurses, I wrestle with my own internal voice of reason. Our conversations are tense:

Me: Holy crap! What in the hell is that? It looks like it could suck an eyeball through it – it’s HUGE! There is NO WAY that I am letting that thing puncture my skin!

Reason: Give me a break. I’m SURE that you can’t even remove an eyeball through a needle. There are cable-y thingies attaching your eye to your brain.

Me: Who the HELL CARES??!!?? That needle is NOT going where that nurse thinks it’s going. I KNEW that I didn’t like her when she mispronounced my name in the waiting room.

Reason: Come on. EVERYONE mispronounces your name. You have had many, many needles in you in the past, and you are JUST FINE. Plus, you’ve drawn blood from a TON of dogs and cats. You’re very familiar with the mechanics of the

Me: WHOA! What did she just take out of that drawer? How many tubes does she have there? Does she plan to entirely DEPLETE me of blood? There is no WAY that she can take that many tubes of liquid out of me!

Reason: Stop. It. Right. Now. You are acting like a child. You are an adult. You don’t think that you’ll have to endure worse things than this in your life?

Me: OUCH! CRAP! What is she DOING? Trying to SLICE MY VEIN IN HALF????

Reason: For crying out loud, YOU ARE ALL DONE. Cripes. What a huge baby you are!

Me: Well, that wasn’t so bad. Why’d you get me so worked up about it?

Over the years, many horrifying moments have occurred in the clinical setting. Today, for example, I narrowly escaped a nearly catastrophic situation: The Tetanus Shot. To be completely honest, I have no idea of when I had my last tetanus shot. Because of this, my chart does not reflect a date. This means that every time I visit the clinic, I am asked about it. T, the medical assistant, asked about it very early in our conversation this afternoon.

T: Do you know when you had your last tetanus shot?

Me: (Looking off to the side, striving to appear unconcerned) Hmmmm. No, I’m not really sure….

T: Do you think that it was in the last ten years?

Me: Mmmm-hmmmm. I think so…..

In reality, it may not have been within the last ten years. Then again, maybe it was. You would think that such a traumatic experience would be burned unto my brain, but my brain has other ways of looking out for me. The tool applied in this situation was clearly The Block. The Block means that, when I hear the phrase "tetanus shot," the alarms go off and the emergency metal doors of my mind come slamming down in my head, blocking the passage to the memory chamber. An effective tool in some situations, but flawed in that I haven’t found the "false alarm, open the doors now" button.

After the assistant left, an uneasy feeling lingered in me. As it turns out, it was justified. Upon her arrival, my doctor had a seat and began to go over many of the same questions that I’d already been asked. Once again, the tetanus topic was raised.

Dr: Do you remember the last time that you had a tetanus shot?

Me: No, I can’t quite recall….

Dr.: Hmmm. I have some of your old records here. I’ll scroll through them and see if I can find anything.

Me: (Thinking to myself: Do not panic. Look as if you’re not alarmed. You can always refuse the shot.)

Dr.: Well, there’s a mention here from 2001 saying that you couldn’t remember the last time that you had the shot. That was quite a while ago.

Me: Hmmm. I definitely have had a lot of those shots. (Thinking to myself: Crap. Why did I say that? You’re not supposed to have a "lot of those shots," you idiot. You only get those every few years.)

Dr: Oh, I see that T has already put a request in for the vaccination.

Me: Oh? (Thinking to myself: Traitorous woman!)

Dr.: But do you think you could find out when you had the last one? Or would you rather just have one today, just in case?

Me: Oh, I can DEFINITELY find out when the last time was. Yes, I’ll make a couple of calls...

The relief that I felt at that offered "out" was short lived. Standing up from the computer, the doctor walked over to the small vanity in the office. After washing her hands, she pulled open a drawer. In horror, I watched as she lifted out the syringe.

It was a very, very long day.

Have You Hugged Your Smurf Today?

As a young girl – perhaps somewhere between five and seven years of age – one of my most prized possessions was a pink shirt with an image of Smurfette on it. It asked, in bold letters, "Have You Hugged Your Smurf Today?" As a child, I adored it. I can still visualize it in my head, can still feel the swell of pride in my young girl chest as I gazed down at it.

Looking back as an adult, I cannot help but feel that the shirt raises a number of important questions. The foremost being, of course, what in the hell is a "Smurf," anyway? I was compelled to turn to the internet – the world’s largest compilation of non-knowledge within which small specks of true information are buried – to seek an answer.

Imagine my excitement when I discovered the website launched by the very creators of the Smurfs! Scrolling through the pages, I found myself growing more and more distressed. There were no answers here! In fact, there appeared to be pure sacrilege. According to these liars, the Smurfs were introduced in a book format, as secondary characters. While I could possibly be persuaded to believe that, the site goes on to detail the launch of the Smurf’s star careers – as singers! Preposterous. Losing hope, I read on to find a final, disturbing reference – and the only one that even attempts to define a Smurf. They are referred to as "the little blue men."

Now, I don’t know about you, but I have yet to see a "blue man" that has not been coated with paint. As far as I know, the color blue does not occur naturally in the world of human skin pigmentation. As if this claim weren’t bad enough, they’ve tacked on an even unlikelier genetic variable – that of "little." Now we are to believe that – in the genetic jackpot – the Smurfs happened to end up with BOTH the "blue" gene AND the "little" gene? What kind of fools do these people take us for? Disgusted, I decided to forge ahead with my investigation.

After a disheartening amount of time, I was forced to conclude that there is a conspiracy in place to keep us from learning the true nature of the Smurf being. How else to explain such distracting ploys as adding the adjective "sky" to the descriptor of "blue," or the vague assertion that the Smurfs live "somewhere in the forests of medieval Europe?" You don’t think that – were an entire colony of "sky blue creatures" to build a little village and run about in hats and white trousers, with little tails protruding behind them - people would know EXACTLY where in the forest they were? They’d likely have been burned out of their homes. Of course, true to the conspiratorial nature of the situation, it is also stated that "it is not possible for a human to find the village except when led by a Smurf." Oh – right. Of course not.

I won’t even go into some of the disturbing origins of the Smurf tales, or the ridiculous claims about their natures and customs. It’s getting far too close to destroying my treasured memory as it is. Instead, I’ll address pressing question number two: How would it be possible for the average person to have hugged "their" Smurf on any given day, let alone "today?" First of all, why does the shirt imply that we all have our own Smurfs stashed away? According to the propaganda, these Smurfs are squirreled away deep in the heart of the medieval forest. Not only does the forest pose a challenge in and of itself, but one would have to have a time machine to access the medieval element. It just doesn’t make any sense at all. If not a single one of us has our own Smurf, then why would the shirt even ask if we’d hugged this nonexistent creature? I pondered this for a bit. Is it a code? How did I obtain this shirt, anyway? Was it given to me as a gift? If so, I could have played the unwitting pawn in an elaborate game – but of what?

Second, what was so important about hugging the Smurf that very day? Wouldn’t it have been okay – if one did have a Smurf – to have hugged it the day before? Or to be planning to hug it the day after? Does the shirt imply that a Smurf needs a daily hug? If so, it would be news to me. In all of the paragraphs of suspect and evasive text that I read through, I found not a single reference to a Smurf’s need for daily physical embraces. Nothing was adding up. It was clear that something was being communicated to someone, somewhere – and things were not as they appeared. For the sake of my memory, I’ve decided to conclude that – while I may have been a pawn in someone else’s game – the game itself was undoubtedly an elaborate Smurf preservation and conservation plan. When looked at in that light, the pieces do begin to fall into place….

I Think, Therefore I Am… Still Awake

Sleep and I have had a long-term, torrid affair, fraught with frustrations and resentment. While I adore sleep with all of my being, I find that it periodically makes itself elusive to me, often "playing hard-to-get." This sleeplessness directly correlates with other symptoms: a feverish energy, an unusually high level of productivity; a racing mind. Unfortunately, at some point all of these symptoms come to a dramatic and sudden stop, and the exhaustion sets in.

At that point, sleep and I are generally back on good terms. It’s a bizarre cycle, and one that I had not questioned until very recently. It came up in a conversation with a close friend, who was most surprised to learn that I have never attempted to address this issue or – better yet – alter the pattern. Interesting, I mused later. What a novel concept…

This isn’t the first time that this particular person has questioned a behavior that I have learned to ignore or accept. When we discussed my lifelong struggle with headaches, to which I am resigned, shock was expressed by my companion. Why, my companion wondered, aren’t you trying to do something about them?

But I am doing something about my headaches. I know in precisely which situations I am most likely to be afflicted, and those are the situations that I avoid - if life allows for it. Jarring motions, loud noises, high stress, the consumption of processed sugars… the list goes on and on. In addition, I’ve found that with a regular yoga practice my headaches decrease by 75 – 90%. This, I believe, is my solution. Nurture peace, health, and happiness, and headaches won’t follow… That may, actually, be the solution for more than just headaches.

Sleep, however, is a different sort of beast. For that particular struggle, I can fairly safely lay the blame on the culprit for many of my problems – my overachieving, overworking, overindulgent mind. What a frustrating and energy-sapping creature my mind can be. At times I search frantically for the "off" button, seeking a respite that I have yet to find. I can accurately state that I’ve had my mind as long as I’ve had this strange sleep cycle. Coincidence? I think not. The real question, then, is how to re-train my mind? Is there a formula that I can plug in? Mind + x = Restful sleep + Inner harmony.

What could "x"be? This brain of mine is a complicated and frustrating organ, and it seems as if it deliberately tries to befuddle me – to keep me from understanding the true key to calming it. Often, just as I think I’m on to something, it sends me – without warning – in a completely different direction. Take, for example, this excerpt from an internal conversation one sleepless night:

Mind: You are never, never going to catch up with work. Weren’t you supposed to call (name undisclosed) today? Ooooh, you’re in trouble now…. Did you turn in your weekly update? I didn’t think so….

Me: You’re right! I am in trouble. Maybe I should just get up and write those things down, then I could

Mind: Hey! Wait a minute! Did you water the orchids this week? Remember the orchid on the bottom shelf? I think that it may have a disease. Know what? Yesterday we read about that type of wild horse in China that’s probably going to go extinct soon… What was the name of that horse? I think it started with ‘P.’ Hey – remember when you used to read all of those books about wild horses? Remember that girl that sat next to you on the school bus who claimed her grandpa

Me: You know, I AM trying to sleep. Now I only have five hours before I need to get up for work, and I need to be alert tomorrow!

Mind: I was thinking that we may need to start taking CoQ10 supplements…. I think that they might be pretty important. Did you pay the credit card bill? Oh – there’s that movie that opens this weekend. Didn’t we tell someone that we’d go see it? I really enjoyed that trip to Canada. The trees at that waterfall were so vibrantly yellow… What is going on with the deforestation in the world? How much of Brazil’s rainforest has been razed? What is the current status of the Florida Panther? Wasn’t it on the endangered species list? Why do people need to drive everywhere – including through the Everglades? Couldn’t that be a no-car zone, like that island off of Michigan? Why do people feel the need to develop everything?

Me: Great. Now I’m feeling upset about the panther again. You know that always makes me think of the cougar problem in California. Why did you have to bring that up?

As you might imagine, it’s often easier, after listening to this barrage of thoughts for any extended period of time, to simply get out of bed and take on a series of (hopefully distracting) tasks. As a technique, however, (now that I’m really considering it) it may be flawed. After all, what I am essentially doing is working myself into such a state of physical exhaustion – after multiple days and nights of this – that my body is forced to overpower my mind to insist upon sleep. Hmmm. How irritating it is when someone else forces you to reexamine elements of yourself…

Still, now that the question has been raised, I do feel the need to explore this "x" factor.

No doubt I’ll spend many a sleepless night pondering the mystery of its identity…

A Thousand Words

It’s been said that a photo is worth a thousand words. Recently, I traveled to Washington with My Other. While there, The Other took it upon himself to record every moment of the trip in a photojournalistic fashion. The resulting photos could fill volume upon volume of scrapbooks, and have communicated thousands of words to me, the viewer. Rest assured that I have – through the magic of the “delete” option - forever silenced a number of these digital critics. Still, the power of their communication has caused me to reevaluate a number of things.

According to photos 11-17, photo 22, photos 78-104, and countless others of the hundreds of photos, I have a bald spot. This bald spot was not revealed to me by the back-stabbing mirror in my bathroom, but the photos feel that it’s best that I face reality. To be fair, a human viewer may not refer to the spot as being “bald,” but that’s why we must rely on photos for honest opinions, isn’t it? This spot has been brought on by a stressful couple of years (yes, I’m one of those people whose head – under times of duress – dramatically flings the hair off of itself, announcing its internal commotion in a most annoyingly external fashion) and by the fact that I’ve let the part have its own way for far too long. It appears that hair is actually supposed to be managed, not allowed to manage itself. Clearly it’s not responsible enough for that.

Once faced with this reality, I felt obligated to do something about it. (Another reason to not allow anyone to take photos of you, in my opinion.) Cut to two days after my return from Washington, where I could be found in an elevated chair, facing my reflection in a mirror, describing with great enthusiasm the mystery of the disappearing hair. Dean, my hairdresser, was most sympathetic. Yes, he could see the problem. Yes, I am one of those people whose head turns on them under stress. Yes, he could envision a solution. Do I like the current length of my hair, he wonders. Why yes, I do, but I suppose if it needs a little more shape it could be “cleaned up….” Half an hour later, many inches of my hair lay strewn about the floor around us. Initially concerned, I remembered how my hair has betrayed me in the past and felt a smidgen of satisfaction. Ha, I thought. See if you can jump off my head now, why don’t you?

My new prescription for a non-bald head involves moving the part around, and cutting back on stress. Since life consistently interferes with the second part of this prescription, I’ve decided to focus my efforts on moving the part. This is not as easy as it might sound, particularly as I have no patience for the blow-dryer and a very low tolerance for styling products. Without these coaxing tools, my hair seems to believe that it has the right to go where it would like to. Where it would like to go, of course, is exactly where it’s been going for the past six months – into the position that allows for maximum exposure of my bald spot. Traitorous strands of protein.

As if the hair deficiency weren’t bad enough, the photo collection teamed up to kick me while I was already down. “Ha!” they laughed, “Look at you! Could stand to lose a few, couldn’t you??” Scanning through the photos that were still on the camera, in the presence of The Other, I could already sense the snickering of the pixels. “Why,” I fumed, directing my anger at His Otherness, “Didn’t you tell me how bad those jeans were?”
In this time of extreme need, he had let me down. For some incomprehensible reason, the condo in which we were staying had not a single full-length mirror. All mirrors ended at approximately the level of my waist - clearly a dangerous place to stop reviewing one’s appearance. How could I have been expected to know that the jeans that I wore were not, in fact, slimming AT ALL? The deceptive and evil mirror in my own apartment had never let me in on this secret. Of course, now I know that my mirror has a vendetta against me, but prior to this trip I never suspected…

Now I was facing the consequences of my naïve trust. Here was the evidence of the look which I had been sporting – unaware – ALL DAY. It could most accurately be described as “voluminous, strangely bulging denim pants topped with putrid unflattering sleeveless flour sack.” Not the style that I had been hoping for. To drive the final nail into the coffin of my self-esteem, the eight-month pregnant (yet bizarrely slender) woman posing next to me was probably 2/3 of my size, even if you included her unborn child.

Naturally, I’ve had to begin an emergency weight loss plan. This plan involves, primarily, me feeling miserable and refusing to go near a camera ever again. On occasion, it inspires fitful bouts of exercise, during which I curse digital photos and obsess over the photos on other people’s cameras. Photos which, I now think suspiciously, have never been revealed to me.

Fortunately for me, I’ve never been one to spend too much time fixated on any single problem – not when there is such a plethora to choose from. In short time, I know, I’ll have moved from these issues to another topic. Perhaps that strange pain that I’ve been feeling in my neck lately. I once had a friend who had torn an artery in her neck, and didn’t even realize it… I knew someone else who had broken his neck – and didn’t find out for THREE DAYS! Ouch! The pain is definitely getting worse….