Bad TV

Most everyone who knows me knows that I have a fairly low opinion of television programming in general. Certainly there are exceptions to my dislike of shows; I enjoy a number of them – on DVD – regularly. I am, however, completely opposed to commercials and advertising. (Which is where the DVDs come in…) I won’t go on too long about this, but suffice it to say that I firmly believe that there is no amount of television that one can watch without it affecting their brain at some level – whether it be conscious or not. With that in mind, it’s wise to consider what sort of show one is watching.

This topic is at top of mind for a very specific reason: JT. JT is a 15-year-old young man with Down’s syndrome, and I am paired with him this week for a bike camp that teaches children with disabilities how to ride a bike. This volunteer role has been incredibly interesting, and also quite thought-provoking.

Today, the fire alarm went off during our regular hour and fifteen minute session. (The alarm had been pulled by a toddler; the criminal act was witnessed by many and still charges were not pressed. This is clearly evidence of the deplorable breakdown of our criminal prosecution process.) While we milled around outside, JT’s mom shared a story with us, which I will summarize:

JT was home alone one day when he found himself in a terrible quandary: His bag of potato chips absolutely refused to open. This was a very large problem, as JT fully intended to eat those chips and was – in fact – counting on them to assuage his hunger. The solution that came to his mind was inspired by one of the many television shows that he enjoys: Reno 911. (Those of you who are not familiar with this show: Bless you. May you continue to live an unadulterated life.) JT picked up the phone and dialed 911.

When the operator heard his emergency – that he couldn’t get his bag of potato chips open – she sent help immediately. It wasn’t long before the Sheriff’s deputies arrived on the doorstep of the home. At this point, another important lesson was remembered: Never open the door to strangers. Thus began a very strange sort of stand-off. On one side of the door, JT explained his dilemma. The police were sympathetic, and opened the bag of chips passed through the door to him. When entry continued to be denied they departed, calling later to recount the situation to JT’s parents.

This tale provoked a number of television-related thoughts for me, most of which I will spare you. What I will say: JT talks often about TV, and what show he will be watching that evening. At his level of development, he is like a child – unable to differentiate between what is viewed onscreen and actual reality. This is what we’re subjecting our children to on a daily basis… disturbing. I can’t imagine what a horrifying place the world must be through the eyes of a television.

Digitized and Pixelated

In my former veterinary career, I used to take on the occasional pet-sitting job as my schedule permitted. When I departed that field, I left the pet-sitting behind – at least until Pixel and Digit entered my life. Pixel and Digit are Papillons, a small breed known for their luxurious coats and – especially – for the way that their fur cascades from their upright, pointed ears. Their dad – P – is a graphic designer that I met through work. We had a friend in common, for whom I used to cat-sit, and one day our conversation took a turn toward pets. The next thing I knew, I had acquired a regular client.

P and his wife travel, and the “kids” do not care to travel with them if it can be avoided. That’s where I come in. In addition to Pixel and Digit, the household counts two felines as members: Stray Girl and Crumbcake. Both cats were originally strays. The dogs tolerate these feline intruders, for the most part, although there are regular moments of tension.

Together, the canines create an odd – yet oddly compatible – couple. They are close to the same age, seven or eight years old, but are very obviously from different parents. Digit is a boy, and he is practically a caricature of himself. His eyes are large (frankly, they’re a bit bulgy) and they protrude from the sides of his head in a comical fashion. One of the eyes seems to stare slightly off in the wrong direction at all times. He has a tendency to run about with his tongue sticking out of his mouth ever so slightly, and his personality matches his appearance in every way. His entire body vibrates with enthusiasm, and – when pleased – he cannot help but wiggle every which way. When encountering any sort of comfortable resting place, whether it is a bed, a pillow, a blanket, or even a yard, he throws himself at it and rubs his body to and fro, making snorting noises the entire time.

Pixel, on the flip side, is like a porcelain doll version of a Papillon. She is absolute perfection in a tiny four-pound package. Small and delicate, her itty face holds beautiful doe-brown eyes. This appearance is most deceptive. She is fearless, and patrols the yard for signs of any intruder. As a sufferer of small-dog syndrome, she doesn’t seem to realize the truth of her diminutive size and would not hesitate to take on a raccoon, despite the fact that a raccoon would see her as nothing more than a light snack.

The two dogs are delightful to care for – most of the time. Things get a little tricky at night, when I am trying to sleep. P specifically requests that I stay overnight at their house, as he doesn’t like the dogs to have to spend the hours alone. This would be fine, except for the fact that Pixel and Digit seem to believe that nighttime is a time to take care of many odds and ends (snacking, tormenting the cats, etc.) and that it is also important to be extra vigilant for intruders. To be on the safe side, they bark at anything that might be a noise. This is disturbing, particularly as the home is located in the country, where there is no external lighting. In addition, the house is filled with large, uncovered windows. This – effectively – puts me on display for all to see.

The first time I stayed with “the kids,” it took me some time to relax enough to begin to feel that I might be able to fall asleep. I lay in the bed, one small dog curled into each side of me, concentrating on relaxing each individual part of my body. As fatigue began to overcome me, and I finally starting a slow drift toward sleep, the night was split by a horrific yowl. I very nearly leaped out of bed. What in the hell, I thought, was that? My mind briefly ran through every horror movie that it had ever seen, searching for that particular sound in the “noises to be very concerned about” database. I didn’t locate the sound, but this was not all that comforting as I watch very few horror films – expressly to avoid fueling my already-very-active imagination.

As I lay frozen, the yowl came from the darkness again, but this time it was much closer. Pixel, lying next to me on the side closest to the noise, stirred slightly. What kind of watchdog is this? I wondered. It barks at nonexistent noises, but completely ignores the sounds of an approaching monster. Once again, the horrific noise cut through the night. It very much sounded like it was coming from the space right next to the bed. This time, Pixel lifted her head and growled. The noise responded. Pixel growled. I realized that this mutated noise was the cat, Stray Girl. It appeared that her mangled, roughen-up appearance – a result of her years on the street – coordinated with this garbled version of a feline voice.

Despite her looks, Stray Girl is a sweetheart. She loves attention, and it appears the night hours – full of darkness and silence – bring out the loneliness in her. The only cure for this ailment, of course, is affection. Unfortunately, Pixel was not about to let a cat on the bed that was reserved for the higher ranking members of the pack. As Stray Girl – desperate – leaped unto the end of the bed, Pixel sprang into action. With a fierce spattering of barking, she threw all four pounds of body weight toward the pitiful feline, who turned tail and jumped off of the bed. As her feet hit the floor, she let out the first of what would be hours of plaintive, complaining yowls.

Pixel, satisfied with her performance, curled back into place next to me. I sighed, feeling a sense of foreboding about the actual amount of sleep that I was likely to get. My fears were not misplaced. Just as my ears had finally learned to ignore the freakish cries of the despondent cat, and I began to doze off, the dogs spontaneously sprang from the bed and run – barking frantically – down the stairs toward the front door. I found it odd that they alone had heard anything that might prompt such behavior, but – since I was now sitting straight up and was wide awake – thought that I might as well check it out. I moved toward the stairway and down the steps only to find the two dogs munching on dog food in the kitchen, looking happy to see me as I passed through the doorway. Oh good! Their faces said. She must have come down to reward us with a treat.

By the time we reconvened upstairs, I had given up on sleeping. Resigned to a long night, I turned the television on and distracted myself with bizarre late-night offerings. Pixel and Digit, meanwhile, had made themselves comfortable and soft snoring emanated from Digit’s slightly open mouth. Off in the distance, I could hear the sound of my companion in sleeplessness, Stray Girl, whose yowls waxed and waned as she wandered in and out of rooms. Occasionally, as the sounds grew louder, Pixel would growl softly, not bothering to open her pretty little eyes.

A Progressive State Of Mind

Last night, I was taken out on a “date” by J. The entire evening’s event schedule was restricted; information was provided on a need-to-know basis as the night went on. Things started out uneventfully: We had a lovely dinner, during which we conversed and tried not to be overly concerned about the strangeness of our waitress. (A modicum of concern was necessary. She was very odd. And she walked very strangely. Perhaps she was not – in actuality – human? It’s wise to be aware of such possibilities when out and about.)

After the meal, I was transported to a nearby bar, where I was presented with the evening’s entertainment: a Chicago-based progressive rock trio making their Madison debut.

For those of you who don’t know, J is a progressive rock journalist. It is his full-time hobby, and he is very good at it. Too good. So desired are his reviews that he receives near-daily shipments of CDs from bands and labels. (Needless to say, his CD collection numbers in the thousands.) His “hobby” takes him to festivals and concerts, and he’s often contacted by artists for a myriad of reasons. He had met this particular band at a festival earlier in the month, and they’d asked him to come out to see them when they played in Madison. The convenience of being able to cross “date night” and “see band” off of his “to-do” list at the same time was too much to resist, and so fate played her hand.

This I did not mind. I am quite fond of music, and have found myself quite intrigued with much of the music that J has introduced to my ears. What was – perhaps – the bigger surprise of the evening was that this band was second in a line-up, and that they were to be preceded (and followed) by “heavy metal” bands. This generated – in my mind – immediate sympathy, as I imagined that anyone who might have come out to see them would have noticed this and made inaccurate assumptions about the music that they play. I felt even more pain for them when I noticed the sparse population loitering about the premises of the venue. I would venture to guess that – between J and me – we comprised roughly 1/10th of the listening audience. This was even more disturbing when you factored in the fact that both bands awaiting their turns were also counted among the viewer numbers.

For some time, as J chatted with the band members of Aziola Cry (the trio that we had come to support), I watched the first heavy metal group go through some sort of elaborate on-stage ritual that spoofed actual band preparation. They seemed young, and I had the distinct impression that they were playing the roles that they imagined that a heavy metal band member should play. The lead singer wore a look of deliberate sullenness, and heavily utilized the “gaze off into the distance” method of cultivating the appearance of great emotional depth. He would – for good measure – occasionally fix the odd audience member with a scowl that was undoubtedly meant to communicate suppressed rage – the sort that could only be expressing through loud, jarring music and screaming voices.

After some time of “tuning” their instruments and moving random items about, the four band members onstage were apparently struck with a simultaneous need for alcoholic refreshment and abandoned their posts to satisfy this requirement. This was most interesting because they were already behind schedule. No doubt they believed this disregard of audience member’s time to be yet another key element of the success of a “heavy metal rock star.”

When the show finally began, and the loud chords and yelling washed over me, I felt a brief sense of nostalgia. I was – momentarily – transported back to my high school days, and the concerts that I had attended. Damn Yankees, Poison… it all came flooding back. Unfortunately, my trip down Memory Lane was cut short by the reality of the sounds emanating from the stage. They were – to put it bluntly – not very pleasant. I spent most of the show reviewing these points/questions in my head, where they alternated in the top position:

• I think that the lead singer perms his hair, and I think that he does it specifically to make it a more effective head-banging tool.
  
• I can’t believe that people still head-bang.
  
• How did head-banging ever begin? It’s not at all logical. There’s no way that it is not harmful to heads and necks.
  
• Why does the guitarist even try to head-bang? He practically has a crew cut. It looks absurd.
  
• I wonder what the singer’s voice would sound like if he were to actually sing with it. It almost sounds like it has potential.
  
• How do they make that weird, demonic voice? (This question was usually accompanied by quite a bit of neck-craning and shifting about in the seat.)
  
• It is SO dorky to wear black shorts with black socks and black sneakers. I can’t really think of a cool way to wear black shorts like that, but it’s DEFINITELY not with those socks or shoes.

Finally, the men that we had come to see were allowed their turn (literally) in the limelight. I had been introduced to them earlier, and they are – not surprisingly – very nice. They are a purely instrumental trio. I was looking forward to hearing their music, and was particularly intrigued by the fact that one of the three played a very unusual instrument – a Chapman Stick. As it turned out, I was not disappointed. They were very, very talented. Also worthy of noting:

• The drummer very much reminds me of my high-school friend Jerico, but with blond hair. I had to repeatedly tell myself that the man onstage was NOT Jerico with a wig.
  
• The drummer is also VERY talented and incredibly fun to watch.
  
• Drumming would be a very, very good arm workout.
  
• The Chapman Stick player reminded me of a cross between Paul Rudd and Christian Bale. He has much more of the Christian Bale presence, however; very hooded, shadowy, mysterious… That, coupled with the strange and difficult instrument that he plays, makes you believe that he knows things that the audience does not…
  
• The guitarist was playing with a broken finger. Seemed oddly impressive and stupid at the same time. Certainly played well, regardless of the wisdom of the action.
  
• Playing instruments under hot lights makes people very, very sweaty.
  
• Sweaty people tend to wipe sweat off of their face and forehead, and they tend to use their hands to do this.
  
• To avoid having to engage in the obligatory “nice to see you”/”nice to meet you” end-of-encounter handshake, it is most valuable to be a woman and have a purse that one can occupy both hands with. Men are definitely at a disadvantage in this situation.

To summarize: This trio is worth checking out, and “date night”/”band review night” was a great success. (Check those two boxes off the list.)

To learn more about Aziola Cry, visit the website: www.aziolacry.com

The Force Is With Me

My electromagnetic field is very powerful today. I know this because it has been wreaking havoc all day long, and has – frankly – made my life more difficult than it needs to be.

I should have suspected something right away this morning, when my cell phone – which had been fully charged – dropped down to two out of four bars the second that I picked it up to look at it. Naively, I wrote this off as a fluke and proceeded to “go about my business.” A few hours later, I found myself in a battle of wills with my computer, which insisted upon going through a series of program failure after program failure. As if this weren’t enough, the minute that I would return programs to functioning status it would begin firing irritated messages at me and would beep irrationally and repeatedly. Annoyed, I turned it off and went to yoga class.

My successful yoga class lulled me into a false sense of security, so I was especially unprepared for the afternoon’s largest surprise – the mutiny of the car alarm. My car’s alarm is controlled by a (normally) useful remote control. This control is useful precisely because it tends to function correctly and does – actually – enable or disable the alarm. I assure you that the usefulness of this device decreases DRAMATICALLY when it begins enabling and disabling the alarm ON A WHIM, and very much WITHOUT my input.

Imagine my surprise when I found myself DRIVING a vehicle while the alarm blared – quite loudly – in my ears. Most unfortunately, it was also blaring in the ears of everyone surrounding me. As I frantically pressed the buttons on the remote – disregarding their actual intended purpose – I struggled to both maintain control of the vehicle and to appear oblivious to the honking and wailing of my car.

“What noise?” Is the question that I very much hoped that I was conveying through my eyes, which were fixed on the road before me and refused to make contact with any of the nearby humans. “Shouldn’t someone do something about that car alarm?” asked my slightly raised eyebrows. “Whoever is allowing that racket to continue is a TOTAL moron. Idiot.” added my slightly wrinkled nose, always supportive of the rest of the facial efforts.

In the meantime, my hands were determined to accomplish the mission that they had accepted. They attacked the vehicle’s remote control – which hung, suspended, from the keychain in the ignition – with a vengeance, smashing it about this way and that, searching for its Achilles’ Heel, or – at the very least – for the stupid battery. The poor things had no idea that there was no hope for them: The Force was too great. It wasn’t until my electromagnetic field changed currents that the alarm finally ceased its embarrassing and obnoxious Ode To Chaos.

I should have called it a day after that episode, but – foolishly – I believed that I could save myself by simply avoiding all electronics. How could I forget that we – humans – are made of electricity? That is the only explanation that I can come up with for my bizarrely irrational thought processes for the remainder of the day. I won’t get into the specifics, but I will say this: It is a VERY bad sign when you find yourself arguing with yourself and winning. I’m hoping that my system will whip things under control overnight, and that tomorrow I will arise once again rational, and clear-headed. (I can’t say that this has ever happened in the past, even on the best of days, but if there’s one thing that I can be good at it’s optimism.)

Closing thought: Tomorrow, if you wake up to the sound of your alarm going haywire, or if your microwave decides for itself the length of time that your coffee needs to be heated, take my advice and GO BACK TO BED.

The Secret Lives of Neighbors - Apartment 7

“This,” I heard my neighbor across the hall announce loudly from inside his apartment, “is what I use for my zits.”

I paused, turning the key very slowly in the lock of my front door.

“Zits are p-i-m-p-l-e-s,” he continued. “I squeeze them, and they ooze lots of pus.”

He pronounced “ooze” in a very drawn-out fashion, adding an unnecessary dramatic element to a word that conjures a vivid enough image on its own. How very, I thought, disturbing…

I recalled that I had seen this neighbor departing the building earlier today, with two tall, slender young men trailing behind him. Thinking back further, I now remembered that the few occasions that I had seen people visiting my neighbor, they had always looked very much like these two young men and – more importantly – spoke in a broken, rudimentary English accentuated by some sort of Russian or Slavic accent.

Hmmm. While I had previously felt some sympathy for my fellow apartment dweller, his lack of regular friends was now starting to make quite a bit of sense. What sort of bizarre conversation topics did he introduce to his guests? Even more puzzling, what was he talking about? I tried to visualize some sort of apparatus that one would use on an oozing pimple, but my mind drew a blank.

This particular neighbor is a bit odd in other ways, as well. For one thing, I cannot figure out what sort of hours he keeps. It seems that he comes and goes according to a rhythm that only he understands. When he is home, I can generally hear the television through his apartment door as I pass through the hallway. I’ve come to the conclusion that he either listens to his TV at a ridiculously high volume, or he’s positioned the television directly in front of his door. I’ve also determined that his favorite genre of film is – most decidedly – the hero-takes-all action flick. On occasion, I hear him shout encouragement to the film’s lead, providing much-needed support to the fictional character.

Even more interesting than my neighbor, however, is his roommate - a feline named Percy. Percy is a large orange tabby tomcat with a loud personality and an even louder voice. I hear this voice regularly, in the form of various sorts of meows, as Percy makes his wants and needs known to the world. One of Percy’s wants (that he very much believes to be a “need”) is to be free to roam the neighborhood. This is a bad idea for any cat, but an especially bad idea for a cat that lives on the second floor.

Last summer, I opened the door to the backyard one morning and found Percy sitting on the stoop. As the door opened, he let out a long and prolonged meow of protest (clearly having found whatever wait he had endured to be completely unacceptable) and paraded past me with his tail in the air. I followed as he led me to his owner’s apartment door, and obligingly knocked when he let out another feline wail. After some time, and repeated knocking, the door opened to reveal a very sleepy-looking cat owner. Percy, quite finished with me, deserted my side and sauntered past his dad, meowing loudly the entire way. My neighbor, meanwhile, mumbled a quick “thank-you” and closed the door, both of us quite ready to end the encounter.

As the summer progressed, I learned that Percy had taken to jumping off of the balcony, and that his owner – while he had initially taken extensive measures to prevent this – had given up the battle. If the chicken wire lining the entire balcony wasn’t going to contain Percy, then my neighbor felt that nothing would. (I, myself, can’t help but question the wisdom of letting the cat out on the balcony in the first place…)

Things seem to getting worse as times goes on. Already this year, I’ve been startled and/or awoken by one of two disturbing noises on a regular basis. The more natural – but still jarring – sound is the high-volume yowl that Percy employs as his “I want back in the apartment right now” signal. This can go on for quite some time, as often Percy’s owner is not in his own apartment to hear these plaintive cries. As if that weren’t bad enough, his owner has his own call for Percy – a ridiculously loud whistle that practically rattles my apartment. It sounds like a cross between a “wolf whistle” and a steam engine, and tends to be repeated multiple times, occasionally interspersed with calls of “P-E-R-C-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y.”

Sometimes I visualize the daily life that these two companions lead, Percy talking all day long about topics important only to himself, while my neighbor narrates his own activities to Percy, a habit that - as today proved - can lead only to problems. Since this morning, my imagination has begun drawing even clearer pictures of what life must be like behind door number seven.

"This," I imagine my neighbor explaining to Percy, leaning closer, "Is a nose-hair trimmer. It can also trim ears. Ear hair traps W-A-X. Wax is gross and yellow, and smells bad."

In my imaginary vision, my neighbor places an unusually emphatic stress on the words "smells" and "bad," driving the point home to the disdainfully meowing tabby who - with a final protesting wail - turns toward the balcony door.

Travel Velocity

Current Thoughts:

I am really, really tired.

How in the hell can I make that stupid message light on this hotel phone stop blinking?

Wow - I am tired.

I listened to the stupid message. It was idiotic. Clearly, it was automatically sent to my phone when I checked in. The dorky thing just says that - for my convenience - I can have people call this room directly. You know what would be more convenient? Telling me how to turn the stupid blinking red light off. Better yet, could we just have left the phone message-less? That might have been nice.

I NEED to sleep. I have to get up really early tomorrow for a work event.
M-U-S-T A-P-P-E-A-R P-E-R-K-Y.

That light is going to instigate a seizure. I can feel it coming on.

SO tired.

What can I cover the phones with? What's really annoying is that there are TWO phones in this room, and BOTH are blinking their stupid red lights.

Kind of a red-orange, actually.

I am already annoyed about having to get up tomorrow, and I haven't even fallen asleep yet. Also, there are a number of work projects that I had intended to complete tonight. How many did I successfully cross of the list? I'll tell you: Zero. That's right. And not because the list isn't here, either. Because I didn't finish ANY of them.

Cannot fight fatigue much longer....

Great. I forgot my toothbrush. REALLY great.

I HATE these phones.

Flushed Away

As humans, we each process our lives in very different ways. We find different things sad - because they resonate a little bit differently within each one of us -we take different amounts of pleasure in different things, we find different degrees of happiness in the same pursuits. There are certainly events and/or topics that create a more or less universal response among non-psychopathic people (tragic deaths, lost loves, Pink Panther films) but – on the flip side – there are those quirky responses that are so individualized as to be incomprehensible to others.

I, for example, cannot listen to music early in the morning. It’s far too dangerous. If I were to hear the wrong song before my mind had prepared, it would set the mood for the entire day and possibly even extend into the next day. I’m also terribly disturbed by the sight of an elderly person dining alone in a restaurant (I find this horribly, horribly sad – even if the person appears to be having a good time.) On the flip side, it takes only the briefest thought of the Cheshire Cat to put me in a cheerful mood and to inspire hours of rumination upon the many delightful characters and quotes of Alice In Wonderland (or Through The Looking Glass, depending upon your perspective.)

I try to embrace these eccentricities in humans whole-heartedly, and celebrate them for their very strangeness. They certainly make us a more interesting species. Throughout my life, I’ve had a number of experiences that reinforce the uniqueness of each of us. One of the most memorable – one that I still ponder regularly – occurred during a visit to my mother’s aunt and uncle.

Aunt Gay and Uncle Martin were retired schoolteachers. They lived in what was perhaps the coolest home that I have ever seen. It was created as a model home in the 1950’s and the builders had installed the "top of the line" appliances for that time. This meant that the kitchen was entirely furnished in aqua and pink, and that there was even a built-in blender in the counter. It was amazing. I coveted it immediately.

Gay and Martin loved their home – perhaps not with the same ardor that I felt – but what Gay REALLY loved were her frogs. Being an adorer of amphibians myself, I could certainly see where she was coming from. We differed, however, on one very important point. I like live things. She was enamored of inanimate frog objects. Upon our arrival, she wasted no time in showing us the focal points of the living room; two very large, very concrete frog garden statues. It seems that having these frogs outside was too depressing for Gay; she wanted them located where she would see them on – at minimum – an hourly basis. Gazing at the (frankly) hideous creatures, I pondered this with some bemusement. It hardly seemed logical. Not only was the slap-hazard application of the scarlet red painted mouths frightening, but these large concrete abominations seemed destined to be the demise of toes everywhere.

As exciting as these frogs were, they were not the most exiting thing that we would be invited to share in. We had been visiting – under the freakish, bulge-eyed watch of the stone amphibians – in the living room for some time when the conversation took a decidedly strange turn. "How was our toilet at home?" Gay wondered. This was certainly not something that I had been wondering about prior to the question, but now that it had been asked I, also, began to question the state of the toilet. My biggest question was "What in the hell is she talking about? Does she know something about our toilet that we don’t know?"

Gay’s next comments clarified the situation somewhat. It appeared that she was merely being polite in inquiring after our toilet; she was actually leading up to a rather lengthy discussion about the merits of her new toilet. This was strange. What was even more strange was the expression of rapture on her face as she spoke, and Martin’s affectionate eye roll and comment of "here she goes again…" as he gazed at her indulgently. What we did not realize at the time was that this entire conversation was but a pre-show activity. Before we fully understood what was happening, Gay was standing and waving at us, indicating that we should follow her down the hall.

Call us slow, but my mother and I – no doubt at the insistence of our minds, who refused to believe that this was happening – still did not fully comprehend this experience. Thus, when we found ourselves huddled as a threesome around a sparking white porcelain toilet, we shared looks of consternation. Gay reveled in the moment, looking from one face to another, allowing the anticipation to build. When the tension had reached what she must have felt was the peak, she slowly reached a hand toward the shiny metal handle and pushed.

"WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT!!!" She bellowed with glee, causing both my mother and I to jump in alarm. "HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A POWERFUL FLUSH LIKE THAT BEFORE?!!!"

Mute, my mother and I shook our head. I could honestly say that I had never seen a flush quite like that before.

Lost in her own joy, Aunt Gay was oblivious to our experience. Then, remembering her role as the gracious hostess, and perhaps finally considering our presence in a slightly different manner, Gay bestowed upon us the ultimate act of generosity.

"Would you," she asked, leaning in close to us and speaking gently, "like to use it?"

Lovebirds

My father could be described as many things: Hard-working; logical; intelligent; determined… The list could go on for quite some time. One descriptor that could NEVER be found on the list, however, is that of adorer-of-birds. At least not the domesticated version. While he has a healthy appreciation for most species of wild avian life forms (aside from the ones that are caught building their nests in absurd spaces or harassing other birds), he considers pet birds to be far more trouble than they are worth.

He does have a point, in some respects. Birds are indisputably some of the messiest creatures around, especially when kept in cages within one’s home. They have a tendency to amuse themselves with games like “How Far Can I Throw My Bird Food” and “Watch Me Take a Bath and Drench Every Object within Ten Feet of My Cage.” While one can see a bit of the appeal of these pastimes, a modicum of restraint on the bird’s part is desired. Unfortunately, restraint is one thing that birds SUCK at. They throw themselves enthusiastically into every part of their little bird lives. Take, for example, Percy and Priscilla, two conures that I (very) generously gifted to my parents a few years ago, under the guise of “can you keep them for a while?” (My father – to this day – threatens to remove me from the will when the birds are acting particularly vile.) The two are bonded, which essentially means that everything that they do is double the fun, double the mess, double the noise, etc.

Percy and Priscilla embrace life with a passion that one can’t help but envy. Every morning, they eagerly anticipate the arrival of the sun and greet it with a loud cacophony of unearthly squawks. This cheerful greeting can go on for extended periods of time – on really good days it can go on for hours. Once the morning salutation is complete, the pair will generally move on to a lengthy examination and discussion of the contents of their food dish. This requires quite a lot of enthusiasm and dedication to do properly, as does every other activity that is undertaken during the day. If either Percy or Priscilla begins to feel slightly neglected, they take matters into their own wings by “causing a scene.” This most likely means either flying wildly around the house, swooping close to humans to increase the excitement factor, or flinging one’s bird self unto the floor. The status of “wing clipping” is the determining factor in this situation. The benefit of both of these scenarios lies in the attention that it draws from the humans of the home.

Still, despite the loud nature and messiness of The Two, my father has more tolerance for them than he does for the other avian member of the household – Ozzie. Ozzie is a small parrot, and her biggest fault is that she absolutely, positively adores my father. Her entire bird world revolves around his comings and goings. She loves him with a pathetic desperation, and it irritates him to no end. He is never left in peace if Ozzie is around; if he is within ten feet of her cage she cannot keep herself from attempting to get on him by whatever means are necessary. This is a problem. She often launches herself toward him with a shriek, only to fall short and land on the floor. Undeterred, she beelines in his direction at a fast waddle, pupils dilated in excitement.

Ozzie monitors the whereabouts of my father at all times. When he goes to work, she grows despondent and spends the rest of the day anticipating his return. As his truck pulls into the driveway, she emits a shriek of ear-destroying capacity and lunges forward into her “anxiety pose;’ the stress of the impending arrival nearly too much to bear. With eagerness, she watches his vehicle until it is out of sight, then immediately swivels to face the door. When it finally opens, and my father steps through, order is restored to her world. With dilated pupils, she clacks her beak in homage. Oblivious, my father tends to walk right past her cage and go about his business.

Ozzie spends all of her waking hours listening for or to my father, and/or admiring him with her head tilted to the side and her feathers fluffed in delight. The highlight of her entire day occurs at the very end when – before being put “to bed” – she is placed on my father’s knee by my mother. There she finally receives what she has been longing for all day long – attention from The Loved One. With no small amount of disgust, my father concedes to pet her head for a few minutes before sending her back to her cage. The irony of this situation is that Ozzie’s affection is so misplaced. Were she to take advantage of my mother’s affection, she would be showered with attention and petting all day long.

The irony does not end there. Not only does Ozzie adore my father, but Petula – The Mean Green Attacking Machine – loves him as well. In her eyes, he is second only to me. While she regularly attacks people who offer her attention, she actively seeks it from my father despite a track record of consistent refusal. There have been many times that I have found her at the very edge of her cage, as close to my father’s recliner as she can possibly get, hunched into a pitiful position and peeping softly to herself as she watches him with longing. The times that my father does choose to indulge her with a spot of attention only lead to desperate acts. Sometimes, unable to restrain herself as he walks by, Petula throws herself off the top of her cage, aiming for my father’s shoulder as she hurtles through the air while issuing a series of panicked-sounding peeps.

My mother and I have often speculated on this bizarre relationship that my father has with these birds. The best theory that we have been able to arrive at is that these birds have – like so many women – chosen to waste their affections on a man who refuses to love them in return. This seems to be supported by the fact that Keats – a male bird – shows little interest in my Dad and that Percy and Priscilla – who have each other – regard him as more of a source of entertainment than a love object. The misplaced love that these two female birds feel for my father - the “man of their dreams” – is disturbingly similar to the same emotions that I have witnessed in females of the human variety. Perhaps – I am now thinking – the term “bird-brain” is associated with women for a very good reason…

Haiku For Today

Late spring sun streams in
Sunlight accosts my tired eyes
Warms my sleepy skin

Phones ring; people talk
Worker ants build an empire
I watch; contemplate

Time takes prisoners
Willingly they punch the clock
Calculate their days

Summer sings her song
Nature mourns the changing world
Fall stands on stage left

I wait; ponder; think
Elusive answers hover
Well beyond my reach

So I give a gift
In writing from me to you
A pitiable haiku

Do You Believe In Magic?

As a young child, I had a way of "acquiring" tasty snacks or other useful items from the family kitchen. It was a habit begun very young: One of my baby/toddler pictures features me – front and center – in a pose very familiar to my parents. Standing to my full height of less than two feet, I am pulled up to the edge of an open kitchen drawer, rooting through the contents with intense concentration. Even then, I understood that anything worth having was undoubtedly hidden away.

Fast-forward a number of years, and I had reached an age at which it was my duty to take my younger brother under my wing to show him the ways of the world. These ways included a comprehensive tutorial of desirable things to eat, and how to acquire them. Unfortunately, my common sense of preservation dictated that I could not reveal the true nature of my owner status – which, essentially, consisted of slipping select items out of the kitchen drawers and/or cabinets and relocating them to my room and/or pockets.

I might have been a touch sneaky, but I was not greedy. [In my defense, once I aged a bit more and realized that what I was doing actually fell into the category of "absolutely forbidden according to one of the very-well-known Ten Commandments" I did cease the habit of absconding with the family groceries.] Much of the joy that I derived from my carefully secured spoils was found in the appreciation and wonder in the eyes of my little brother.

Ah… the younger sibling. Mine was particularly delightful at that age, primarily because he was so incredibly trusting and naïve. He never doubted a word that I told him. On the contrary, he became an ambassador for me in my absence.

"Don’t touch that rock!" He would exclaim loudly to my parents as they strolled through the yard. "That rock is Kresha’s!"

A few steps later, the parental units would once again require reprimanding. "Don’t touch that plant – that’s Kresha’s plant!"

By the end of the walk, my brother would have done a superb job of planting the symbolic flag of my ownership over nearly every item on the property. He was a loyal sidekick, and I rewarded him in the best way that I could imagine – by sharing with him the pleasures of the carefully gathered foodstuffs.

We had a good thing going, but – like so many things – it was destined to come to an end. Being an intelligent child, I had determined that the best way to present my stolen delights was under the guise of "magic."

"Watch what I can do!" I would boast, before pulling a pack of gum out of my pocket, or a cookie from my sleeve.

"Wow…." My brother would gaze, in awe, from the treat to me, and back again.

One summer day, I had – with considerable aplomb – produced a supreme treat: A package of grape kool-aid. Such a treasure was hard to come by, and I was anticipating the consumption of it with unparalleled excitement. Just as I prepared to indulge, I heard an alarming question coming from another room. Even more alarming was the fact that the voice asking it was my mother’s. "What" the voice questioned, "Are you two doing?"

This was a dangerous moment. Would my young, innocent brother have any idea of what to do here? Undoubtedly not. Stomach sinking, I heard his jubilant response. "Mom!" he exclaimed, with glee, "Kresha can do MAGIC! She made kool-aid appear out of AIR!"

As I ran, feet keeping the pace of a world-class sprinter, I could hear my mother’s voice – far away - yelling my name.

Mean Green Machine

We’re all well aware of the dangers of the animal kingdom. We’ve seen the photos of victims of shark attacks – people with massive chunks of flesh and/or limbs missing – we’ve heard tales of cougar attacks, we’ve witnessed the scarred visages of humans bitten by dogs. We know that humans have fallen prey to the occasional warped bear, and that horses can kick their longtime rider. What most of us have not had to deal with, however, is the horror of the vicious Mean Green Petula Machine.

Petula is the worst kind of terror: She is tiny – perhaps three inches in height – and is rounded in the loveliest manner. Her feathers are made up of various shades of green, and her plump little belly extends in front of her like a friendly little Buddha’s. A small, well-formed beak fronts her cute little face, and intelligent brown button-eyes peer out at the world from the sides of her well-proportioned head. The entire package is – to be completely truthful – delightful. This is most unfortunate, as it causes many people to fall into THE TRAP.

Petula, you see, is prone to episodes of EVIL. Her reservoir of wickedness is ever-refilling and tends to manifest at the most surprising times. Consider, for example, an incident relayed to me by my Significant Other (henceforth to be known as SO.) According to my SO, he was innocently occupying himself in front of the entertainment center one fine afternoon, paying not a smidgen of attention to the bird cages about three feet to his left. Earlier in the day, being the caring fellow that he is, he took it upon himself to open the bird cages to let the birds stretch their little legs by running back and forth between each other’s cage. [This, my friends, is where he made his first naïve mistake. NEVER think that you’re going to get on Petula’s good side by being nice to her. At best, you’ll stay temporarily off of her black list. The way to the good list is long and forbidding.] As my SO continued about his business, he was – without warning – attacked from the left by a small green flying MONSTER. Before he even realized what was going on, Petula had attached herself to the left side of his face and begun a biting frenzy, her small beak a blur, her wings propelling her closer to the targeted skin.

Just as Petula readied herself to take on the secondary enemy – his glasses – my SO reached up and managed to grab her in his hand. [There are definite disadvantages to being a mere three inches tall. (Six if you count the tail feathers.)] The worst part about this story is that it is not the first time that such an incident has occurred. Petula once lobbed herself at her grandma in a similar tactic, and has even taken smaller leaping attacks toward me – her very own mother. There is clearly a faulty gene in this bird’s genetic makeup. I suspect that it’s the very same gene that many successful sports coaches possess.

Petula was acquired to be a companion bird to her older brother – Keats the cockatiel. Unfortunately for Keats, it took Petula approximately .0005 seconds to establish herself as the queen of the castle by – once again without warning – violently attacking her new big brother. Poor Keats has never recovered. The moment of the initial attack, most of the hard-earned bird knowledge that he had in his head was vaporized by the shock. To this day, I still catch him attempting futilely to recite the notes of "Sleigh Ride." Also lost were such favorites as "the wolf whistle" and key segments of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

Still, it is certain that Keats is less lonely than he used to be. For one thing, he has no time to consider it - what with having to keep a constant eye on Petula, who is prone to attacking him whenever and wherever the mood strikes. He’s not the only one. While I am the chosen object of Petula’s deepest adoration, her affection does not save me when she is possessed by The Fury. I am still trying to figure out what lesson I am to learn from this bird. What is it about her – this creature that is, by turn, either attacking me or whining nonstop for my attention – that, once I understand it, will strengthen my character? All I know for certain is that – until I have mastered this mystery – I’ll be sure to wear safety goggles at all times when within a ten-foot radius of her cage.

The Block

A few weeks ago, I resolved to become a much more disciplined writer. As practice, I determined that I would write a minimum of one piece of writing per day, no exceptions. Being the flexible taskmaster that I am, I did concede that the writing could be in a number of formats: personal (not to be shared) essay; essay to be posted on my blog; essay to be posted on my secret blog; or inspired poetry. (Ha! That last option was my inner voice’s way of taunting me; I once happened upon a tortured piece of angst-ridden poetry leftover from my high school days. The memory has inspired many, many jokes from my internal conversation partner.)

I will be completely honest: I have not been writing on my secret blog much, I’m not writing personal essays these days, and poetry has yet to fly – inspired – from my ink blotter and pen. It takes remarkably low powers of deduction to look at the dates of this blog and realize that I have – once again – miserably failed in my attempts to become more structured with my literary powers. What, I have been thinking to myself nearly every day, is my problem? Certainly I’m tired. Of course I have a full-time job. Yes, I have pets to care for and people to spend time with. I’ve fallen embarrassingly behind on my list of films to watch and books to read, true. Still, doesn’t everyone face similar time dilemmas? Yet I happen to know that there are people in this world who accomplish incredible numbers of things. They manage to hold down difficult yet life-changing jobs, parent exceptionally gifted children, volunteer for up to ten different organizations, be champion runners or swimmers or kayakers, and have the time to renovate their magnificent Victorian home on their own.

I am beginning to suspect that the problem may be that one’s levels of personal expectations are based on a curve, and that one can always find someone higher along on that curve that is making one’s own grade look shabbier than one might like. If this is the case, it might behoove us to simply eliminate all overachievers. Failing that, we may have to learn to do something terribly unpleasant like accept one’s own limitations. What a horrid concept. I, for one, shall endeavor to find the hidden flaws in any person that seems to have it "all together." I’ve found – in the past – that this sort of knowledge can perk one’s spirits up considerably.

Sigh. Once again, my weakness of character has allowed me to pursue a tangent that – for a bit – successfully diverted my attention from the sad fact that I am still not the disciplined writer that I strive to be. The sad truth of the matter is that I have, of late, found myself battling the dreaded Block Of The Writers.

The Block is a vile and terrible thing, capable of convincing one’s mind that not a single word is worthy of being preserved upon paper, and that the ideas in your head are too embarrassing for words (literally) anyway. If The Block tires of that particular angle, it often opts for the even more entertaining technique of refusing to allow any ideas at all to enter the waiting receptacle of your Literary Bucket. When in blockage mode, The Block positions itself squarely in the doorway between the Idea Room and the Reception Area of the Literary Bucket. There it waits, huffing under its breath in anticipation as it spots an approaching idea. The poor idea, oblivious, is nearly tripping over itself in excitement as it approaches the Reception Area. It knows that, once it checks in, it’s only a matter of moments before it is brought to fruition – finally able to realize its full potential in the written word. Alas, it is not to be.

As the eager idea reaches the doorway, The Block springs low and attacks, slamming the idea backward with a full-body shot. The idea is stunned and confused. The Block smells blood, and circles in for the kill. With an evil snicker, it jumps up and down upon the idea, reducing it to a quivering mass of bewilderment. The idea finds itself dazed, and cannot remember where it was going. It may remember – vaguely – a sense of purpose that it had moments before, but it’s lost now. With an odd look at The Block, the idea wanders back in the direction from which it came, mumbling to itself. Whether it will ever find its way back again is anyone’s guess.

With an enemy like The Block planted solidly in my brain, is it any wonder that I’ve struggled to bring my poor, abused ideas to literary life? There’s no doubt that they’re in there – I’ve never had a shortage of topics to think or talk about – but when it comes time to translate them to paper my foe is winning far too many battles. This cannot go on. I am mocking The Block even now by transcribing the details of our battle. Take that! I am declaring, in literary war terms. Stop me from writing this, why don’t you?

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.