Thanksgiving Bounty

 

I am thankful for paper towels, because I have six animals, all of whom live inside and consider going outside to take care of their personal needs to be a savage exercise in cruelty.  They do it, of course, or they have to watch me go all white vinegar on their shedding hides and listen to lecture number 3,712 about what animals won’t get to do inside if they’re not trustworthy and responsible about going outside.  We all agree on that one, even though if you don’t think a Dachshund can roll her eyes, pull up a chair and watch the fun.

But I’m pretty sure all animals can empty the contents of their traitorous digestive systems onto the Karastan at will.  If an expensive area rug isn’t available, my tennis shoes, sewing basket, or the polished hardwoods in the living room will do just fine.

So when the weather gets cold, and your furry mafia comes in from the bracing chill of winter with a look of revenge in their eyes, do what I do.  Carpet your house in paper towels.

It will make for a Bounty-ful Thanksgiving.

Merry Christmas, Eeyore

I’m a little bit of a late bloomer when it comes to getting ready for Christmas. I'm kind of like those bulbs you have to plant in your flower garden in the dead of winter to turn into flowers come spring. Or maybe it’s the seeds you plant. However it goes, Father Christmas won't be seeing my bloomers til half past Valentine's Day.

But for the first time since the Power Ranger incident of '02, I started shopping before Christmas this year. I was going to wait, but the operators were standing by and I had to call right away to get the Ginsu knives.

Although I don’t go full out in the decorating area, you can tell it’s Christmas around my house by subtle changes in the décor. Just keep an eye out for mutations in the dust patterns on the coffee table.

I’ve moved the nativity scene that I forgot to put away last Christmas from the shelf in the laundry room to the top of the entertainment center, dusted off the baby Jesus, and removed the dryer sheet from the shepherd’s staff. The shepherd isn't quite as festive without his lint-free banner, but now it smells a little more like a stable and less like the Snuggle bear.

What appears to be stray tree limbs connected by lumps of fur in one corner of the living room is actually a small Frasier fir holding up under the strain of the investigative processes of two Labradors, three cats, and an inquisitive Dachshund sporting a Christmas tree skirt. Occasionally the tree gives a shudder and deposits various small animals on the floor. If it lived in the Hundred Acre Wood, my tree would be Eeyore.

There are 1,497 gift bags of assorted sizes and heritage covering every available flat surface, along with several containers of used bows that are perfectly suitable for family gifts if you affix them to packages with a loop of Scotch tape. There is no Scotch tape anywhere in the house. There are several dozen wood screws of assorted sizes in the junk drawer, but repeated attempts at giftwrap show that the wood screw is not a device that is effective for this purpose.

The kitchen table is covered with bits of burned sugar cookies and ingredients for partially assembled gelatin salads and casseroles that will bear offerings of melted cheese and Ritz crackers come Christmas day. This is not considered untidiness in the kitchen, but rather food preparation with holiday flair.

There is a wreath on the outside of the closet door instead of the inside of the closet door. The wreath boasts a giddy Snowman who is on the verge of bursting into the songs of the season just as soon as the Captain tells me where he hid the batteries.

There is a car in the driveway awaiting new tires, a replacement windshield wiper, and a brake job. Nothing says Merry Christmas at our house quite like "there's a front end alignment with your name on it just around the corner."

So for all of you folks who have every Martha Stewartesque napkin folded into snowflakes, don’t judge me on my lack of handmade ornaments and scented candles. Christmas at my house might have a different flavor and a smell that tends more toward PineSol than pine branches, but the spirit is the same.

I might deck my halls with takeout boxes instead of tinsel, but I still have the hope that good will is not just a store where you can get half off every Tuesday.

Merry Christmas!

Little Cat Feat

While I was waiting for celebrity gossip to load over my dial-up internet connection, I whiled away the time licking the crumbs off the breakfast plates and perusing the headlines in our local paper.

It seems that our City Council, having exhausted their legislative efforts in a road maintenance fundraising extravaganza known locally as the Pothole Tax, recently decided to proceed with an innovative stroke of legislation involving leash laws for cats.

This idea is known locally as Stupid.

Leashing a cat is nearly as effective as lassoing escaped methane from a pasture full of Longhorns.

I know from experience how unproductive this sort of excursion can be. (The catwalking, not the methane lassoing. I have teenaged sons, but I find that a quick shot of Chanel Number Lysol takes care of them.) I attempted the leash walking feat before, and I have a new respect for anti-bacterial cream, sterile bandages, and super glue.

I was younger at the time, and when a light bulb came on in my head, I didn’t have the wisdom to shoot out the light before it could cause major damage. What a good idea it would be to use the Dachshund’s puppy collar and leash to take our ten-year-old tabby for a stroll. Lucy’s puppy collar was designed for comfort and was quite sporty. What objections could Justin have?

Turns out that “What a good idea!” and “What objections could Justin have” are the words that drive a cat over the Cliffs of Insanity. Who knew a 10-year-old ball of mottled fur that sleeps in the sun all day had a Ninja-mode over-ride?

Justin put out my little light bulb with a power surge.

I staggered into the house with the leash wrapped around my legs like I’d been shortsheeted with mummy wrappings.

“Son, run in and get me a Band-Aid.”

“Just one?”

“Well, make it a big one.”

“Anything else?”

“Got any spare Type O?”

After all I’ve done for that kid, he still won’t part with a pint of the good stuff for his mother.

Today I have so many scars, I have striped skin. With my faux-tiger motif, I'm all the rage at jungle-themed costume parties.

So next time the lawmakers get together, I’d rather they do something harmless like levy a per child tax on buffet restaurants.

And leave the Kitty Bill of Rights alone.

Broadband or Bust

Because life isn’t exciting enough living with a pair of lively Labradors and their minions, the cast of the Jungle Book, the Captain and I decided to crawl into the Pony Express Age and install cable television and high speed Internet access in the house.

Actually the idea for the high-speed Internet came from the boys. When they offered to share the password-protected lock they installed on the bathroom door, we agreed immediately. We’re reasonable people after all.

Just now, the Captain and I are sitting in the living room. Alone, a suspicious circumstance because it's never happened before. “It’s quiet.” I can’t help remembering the “Let’s dress the Dachshund in a tutu” fiasco of ’98. “Too quiet.”

“Enjoy it.” The Captain of my Hobby Shop is a computer technician by trade. He could hack into Bill Gates Christmas decorations and install an Apple tree topper without tarnishing the angel’s halo. He has just put in a wireless router so that we can all share the broadband. This works about as well as the North and South Koreans share airspace, but he’s done his part.

Tonight for the first time since building blocks gave way to bandwidth, I haven’t had to ask permission to use my computer. The conversation usually goes something like this:

Me: “My turn to use the computer.”

Random Youth: “What’s for supper?”

Me: “Nothing if I don’t get a turn on the computer.”

Random Youth: Sigh. “Fine. Let me kill this guy first.”

Twenty minutes later, the guy is still alive and I’m wondering who’s going to make the sacrifice in his place. Maybe I can talk the dog into taking one for the team.

But tonight the house is so quiet I can hear dust mites tatting lace in the living room drapes.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. Nothing gets to a Mom faster than “that infernal racket” or absolute silence. “What do you suppose they’re doing?”

“Holding hands and humming I’d Like To Teach the World to Sing?”

I followed the day-glo light of laptap monitors down the hall. To my bedroom. The only room in the house with matching sheets.

The boys, who can’t share the back seat of a beachbound minivan for more than a two-minute warning are piled up in neutral corners of the sleigh bed turned Internet Café, watching THE SAME You Tube videos and instant messaging one other. I tiptoed back to the living room.

I might not be happy with the details, but I’m content that all those news reports about families growing apart are wrong. As long as my guys are wireless, I don’t have to come unglued.

Snowman's Land

In South Carolina this week the snow fell up to our shoetops. That’s counting our high-top sneakers and the weather-proof hiking boots we bought to wear wading in the puddles last spring.

Rare occurrences such as snow that doesn’t melt on impact or a decent bullpen for the Braves make the news in the South. We don’t interrupt Wheel of Fortune every time a tornado sucks up a trailer, but in a section of the country where people remember snowfalls by how many children they had at the time, that means only one thing.

Everybody stops to take part in the miracle.

The miracle of how to keep feet dry that skip out to play in the snow 72 times in one day with changes of gear in between. (Turns out kids’ tootsies need extra looking after as well as Captains and dogs.)

The miracle of the Replenishing Cup of Hot Chocolate. No matter how many sets of cold fingers come through the back door, there is always a steaming cup of hot chocolate for them to wrap around.

The miracle of the birds and the. . .other birds. At the Mullis birdfeeder buffet, the larger birds sling enough food off their plates that the smaller birds on the ground have plenty to eat. On Wednesdays chickadees eat free.

The miracle of how to keep the dogs from eating the snowman’s eyes. Although the snowman at our house boasts walnuts for eyes, rendering him slightly nearsighted and unable to react quickly to danger, this has not been an impossible miracle to experience. Dalmador Labmations like to lick walnuts, not eat them. This also results in an admirably smooth complexion for the snowman.

The miracle of finding the Dachshund in the snow drift before she becomes an ice statue. This miracle is documented on digital media, although the expression on the Dachshund’s face does not lend to flashing such evidence around as if it were clever baby pictures.

The miracle of an entire county buying enough bread to keep America’s Breadbasket in business. I am two peanut butter sandwiches away from financing secondary education for every person in Kansas.

And the miracle of how to make one roll of toilet paper last a week. (Even though I personally witnessed a Wal-Mart shopper hurrying toward the register with a 72 pack. I don’t know what other provisions he stocked, but I do NOT want to be snowed in at his house.)

In a few days, the snow will fade away and our lives will be filled once again with red mud and kudzu. Until then, we believe in miracles.

And even after. Because the Dachshund will never let us forget.

Special Delivery

For a while, the Captain of our Kennel discovered he could waylay any latent longings for new experiences in motherhood I might display with the addition of a new pet. Pets aren’t less expensive than children, but in rare cases their obedience training is actually effective. I am now the Angelina Jolie of the animal world. Presently I have six animals representing various cultures lounging on the living room furniture, ringing for takeout.

The cats are no trouble. They thrive on indifference. And aloe plants. Aloe plants that you’ve pampered and promised roomy new pots to if only they will “Live, please, live just one more day!” Shortly after a feline gourmet vegetarian meal, you will discover that fillet of aloe plant makes them puke fancy green spearmint gum-type designs on the new living room plush.

I can also keep up with the Labradors. Chunk a ball down the driveway and they will knit themselves into a scarf trying to be the first to grab it up and chew it like Double Bubble. Big dogs are easy. They know they’re dogs (okay, they also know they’re people and feel entitled to at least half of your sandwich, but that’s another thing entirely.) The thing is, they EXPECT to chase a ball and to be invited outside of the house for personal chores, such as watering topiaries and chasing squirrels. They come in the house to sleep or to help with the vacuuming or to beg for potato chips.

It’s the Dachshund that gives me trouble.

So far she has successfully trained me to retrieve a toy, give her a treat, and dress appropriately for carrying her outside under the umbrella in inclement weather. I’m striving for more complex achievements, but if she thinks I’m good for agility training, she’s going to be disappointed. I’m 51 years old. I don’t always make it safely through the hallway obstacle course on my 2:00 a.m. bathroom expedition. For me, agility is the ability not to trip over shadows and to open the bottle of pain reliever without calling for the Jaws of Life.

Occasionally, I will look down by my chair to find the little darling gazing up at me with the kind of eyes that would make Ebenezer Scrooge sign up as a Salvation Army bell ringer, attempting to assimilate me into her thought processes. Usually I’m not adept at picking up other languages, but now I recognize Dachshund for “play,” “treat,” and “let’s send the big dogs to live with your brother.”

As an added embarrassment, she doesn’t care for clothes like the movie stars' dogs do. Oh, she’s up for sleeping on your new sweater or dragging your soiled underwear through the dining room to pad her bed when company is passing the sugar bowl for tea. But she turns surly if you present her with a set of twinkling reindeer antlers at Christmastime, and no matter how nicely you ask, she won't let you tie the chinstrap in a fetching bow.

She once shunned a beautiful sweater, knitted entirely by the hands of her loving auntie, to shield her from the winter wind. She pulled her head and paws in like a turtle so that trying to dress her was like stuffing a sausage. And I’m quite certain that the thoughts parading through her stubborn Dachshund brain were particularly unladylike. I informed her straightaway that I knew a little Pug that would love to have that sweater, and with one look she invited me to pack it up and send it along special delivery. And the Labradors along with it.

I think I’ll need a bigger box.

An Inspirational Birthday Message

10 Reasons Why I Hate My Sister

1. You always got all the boyfriends. On second thought, after unsuccessfully training two husbands, I’m not really envious of extra men in your life.

2. You got all the craft talent. But I’ve got enough hand-beaded jewelry to last me until I’m 375 years old, and you helped Ryan make a shoebox float for Carnivale that won first place in German class.

3. You got married and moved away. But you had a pack of kids that have been like sunshine on my flower garden for most of my days. (Okay, maybe flower garden is a bad analogy because all mine are dead, but you get the point.) Also, you have a daughter that gave me a glue gun. On purpose.

4. You got the rogue common sense gene in the family. As soon as I figure out why that’s important, I’m going to fire off a letter of complaint to the Management.

5. You started the tradition of taking Mr. Beason’s classes for high school English. But because you did, I already knew that half the class would fail when I walked in his door. Also I used what I learned there to ace the Advanced Placement test and exempt college freshman English.

6. You’re the sweet one. But then I had to be the funny one, and I sailed through school on the strength of humorous English compositions, and have collected a nice bit of pocket change from the same sort of thing telling about the trauma I suffered at the hands of my siblings. Also, my kids want to come live with you. Could I drop them off tomorrow morning?

7. You have grandchildren. Of course, when my kids are gone, I’ll still have two Labradors, a diva Dachshund, three cats and Captain Bill to take care of. Could I drop Bill off tomorrow morning, too?

8. You can do math in your head and I can’t. Come to think of it, I don’t really have a problem with this one.

9. You always win at monopoly. (See number 8.) But I'd rather shave my legs with a potato peeler than play Monopoly and because of unsportsmanlike conduct I've been served with a lifelong Monopoly Ban by the kids, so it goes to show that things always work out for the best.

10. You were born first. But Mama & Daddy were so tired by the time I came along, I got away with everything. And you talked mama into letting me wear hose when I was the only barelegged girl left in fifth grade. And you’ll always be older than me. Come to think of it, I don’t really mind having you around at all. (And I have a pair of pants that need hemming, and I broke my pink earrings, and I lost my new bracelet and . . .we need to have a craft night real soon!)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LORY! MY BEST FRIEND AND SECOND MOM! I LOVE YOU!

Let Lying Dogs Sleep

As a companion piece to a story to appear soon in The Christian Science Monitor about our newest addition, Sam the Smiling Dog, I'm rerunning a piece about our attempt to find a sitter for our furry family when we took a weekend break (escaped) and headed to the beach. I'm excited to point out that no pet sitters were harmed during our absence.

This past summer, we finally conjured up the nerve (and money) to spend a weekend at the beach. It's hard for us to get away, since there's no immediate family left willing to stay with our darling doggies (oh yeah, and the cats, like they're not old enough to take care of themselves, and boy do we have nerve thinking they need a chaperone). But over the years we did without luxuries like frozen pizza and liver mush to scrape together enough cash to hire Guido, who usually moonlights at Happy Valley Pet Park, to stay the weekend at our home.

Here, then, are Instructions for the Pet Sitter while we’re on vacation:

There are a number of animals here. It is important to remember that dogs and cats have been bred over the centuries expressly to tell lies about the amount of food they are allowed to consume. Here’s the routine. This section applies to the Mostly Labradors, which is the State Dog Breed of South Carolina. That’s not official, mind you, but everybody knows it’s true because according to a scientific poll taken at the Doggie Do Canine Emporium and Park last Tuesday after the Milk Bone truck came by, everyone here has been owned by such a beast at some point in their lives.

The Mostly Labs are the ones most likely to try and intentionally mislead you about the frequency, amount, and duration of meal times. The Labrador Breed Club flag bears a picture of a cookie and a loophole.

By the time you get here all the animals will have had their morning potty break and have eaten breakfast, which they will lie about having. If animals hadn’t been fed in weeks, they would be dead, not rolling about the living room floor looking like a can of biscuits about to pop open. The vet mentioned the word “blubber” at our last appointment which is not, to the best of my recollection, a word associated with starving animals. They can eat again at supper time, which is not the time of day marked by finishing breakfast.

No, they do not need a snack.

No, not even a little one.

No, they do not need a cookie.

Yes, I’m aware of the cuteness factor.

Yes, I know about the big brown eyes.

Okay, maybe one cookie.

They’ll need to go out when you get there. They can stay out until they get tired and want to come back in. That should take at least until they reach the bottom step. Repeat as necessary until you consider replacing the kitchen door with one that revolves at a steady clip.

If they go missing, they’ll be at the neighbor’s house begging for food. They’re dogs; they don’t know Halloween comes only once a year. Especially since the neighbor has a treat for them every single day. Twice on the weekend.

However, they’re not supposed to beg for food, so if you catch them trick-or-treating at regular intervals throughout the afternoon, you may speak sharply. They won’t listen to you, but at least you’ll feel like you tried. Be aware that their feelings will be hurt and they’ll gaze balefully at you like you’ve taken their last cookie. It’s okay; they weren’t supposed to have one anyway. The Atkins diet people would go broke with spokesmodels like these.

If they start to go out of the driveway, call out, “Stay in the driveway!” in a cheerful tone and they’ll run to you like lost sheep found. Keep some of their regular kibble in your pocket and give them a bite when they’re good. In that way, a few kibble should last the entire time we’re gone.Sometimes they give into temptation if a squirrel or bunny across the street is particularly insistent in their taunting, but for the safety of all concerned (not the bunny or squirrel who have no need even to break a nervous sweat) the dogs should stay out of the road. It’s a quiet enough neighborhood, but I’ve come down with a nasty case of laryngitis yelling for them to come back when in hot pursuit of a stray butterfly.

Around 6:30. For supper, both the big dogs get two scoops from the bucket, and Lucy, the Dachshund Diva gets one. The amount of time it takes to consume the food is in no way related to the amount of food each should receive. Hunga Din (Bo) could suck down the bits like a Hoover as you pour it into the bowl, while Sam must take the time to lick up stray crumbs before they evaporate mysteriously into the air or someone else's (another Bo reference. His rap sheet takes hours to print.) drooling maw.

Still, two cups apiece is the rule. Those who overindulge have to be helped when it comes to establishing limits. “Just say no” is not a viable slogan for a beast who stoops to begging for the rights to lick the butter dish.

You’ll need to put Lucy’s food down next to you so as to fend off the big dogs. They’ll circle her, and every now and then they try to snag a bite, but since they are afraid of her, they’ll mostly try to convince you that she is not hungry and said they could have her supper.

After supper, they’ll need to go out again. They like to roughhouse inside, but if they get too wild you can take them outside. (They’re like small boys and will often resort to biting each other’s ear just to see who squeals first.) If you walk up and down the driveway they’ll probably start chasing each other--unless it’s hot. Then they’ll follow you up and down the driveway and complain. They usually do more chasing after dark when it’s cool, but they’re both afraid of dog-eating monsters and you’ll have to stay out with them as a motivational and protective influence. Usually about 20 minutes will be all you can stand.

Make sure they go out again at bedtime (between 10 and midnight), but that’s not a big playing time. If you don’t make them go out, they’ll be insistent to speak with you personally at about 5:30 a.m., which I know from experience is way before dawn this time of year.In the morning, same deal foodwise (2 cups for big doggies, one for Lucy, but Divas don’t breakfast well and she will probably ignore it and want to be served brunch instead later in the morning).

A word about Lucy; she’s half Dachshund and half Bull Shark. She’ll put up with a certain amount of ignorance on your part, but if you expect her to do anything she considers demeaning, such as listening to baby talk or fetching a ball, she’ll take your arm off up to the elbow. It's important to remember that if you can see her teeth, she is not smiling.

As for the cats: Feed them. They’ll lie, too, because it’s expected, but if you keep their bowl full of Friskies then really, what right do they have to complain? But be careful of the gray one. I suspect he and Lucy have the same father. If all else fails toss him some catnip and close the door. What happens in the cat box, stays in the cat box.

Thank you for your assistance, and I understand that our agreement expressly forbids me from using your real name.

Jingle Bill$

Now that Thanksgiving is tucked conveniently away in freezerbound Tupperware and I’ve sewn the button back on my accidently expanding waistband, I can look forward to my favorite December pastime; counting down the days until Christmas. There is a complicated formula involving a calendar and a red marker that I could use, but I prefer the new math method. I count the number of sales flyers in the newspaper and divide by how many gifts I have left to buy.

Many of the area retailers have been infused with a generous helping of the Christmas spirit since the eve of the autumnal equinox, but I’m very firm about leaving the Christmas goodies on the shelves until the last of October’s candy corn is gone and the turkey leftovers have disappeared into the Dachshund. There’s something about toting red and green wrapped gifts home in a Frankenstein Trick or Treat bag that takes away the festive air of the whole project.

So I’ve been out this week, taking in the sights and sounds of Christmas. I noticed that “Debit or Credit” is the greeting of choice around town. Waffle House must be the only place left that still takes cash. They have to have something to give the folks behind the mask during the twelve days of armed robberies.

I got all my Christmas shopping done at a store that advertised cut-rate sale prices on all the merchandise. A perky sales clerk in a Santa hat rang up my purchase. When she hit the Total button, the machine started flashing like a jackpot winner on a slot machine. I guess a long list of cheap stuff still turns into a big bill. Especially when they add the state’s share at the end.

As I looked around the store, my eyes reflecting the soft glow of the cash register’s LEDs, I saw the walls were festooned with greetings for every holiday from Christmas to Kwanzaa. Now that we’re all celebrating different things this time of year, there’s only one greeting that still applies to everybody.

Peace on Earth.

Plus Tax.

Deck the Dachshund

My house may not be Martha Stewart clean, but you can eat off my floor--there’s a stash of Cheerios stuck to the linoleum by the stove that I could string for Christmas tree garland. I’m not saying I’m the worst housekeeper since the Addams family decorated their house by taking the skeletons out of the closet, but it’s almost time to deck the dustballs for Christmas.

This year I’m going to keep it simple. I’ll string some lights on the cobwebs and tuck a present or two under the mushrooms that have grown up beside the bathtub. The boys, as clever as teenagers can be, have traced a map to Bethlehem in the dust on the coffee table. If it’s as accurate as the ones I’ve had from mapQuest, any wise men around here would do well to stop at the Citgo station on the corner in Jerusalem and ask for directions. Otherwise, they’ll risk missing a baby Jesus sighting by thirty miles and two left turns.

Keeping close to nature this year, I’m turning my efforts to decorating the dogs. Once you’re greeted at the door by a hundred pounds of black Labrador clad in the graceful garb of the Sugar Plum Fairy, and a Dachshund in Spock-like elf ears, you can appreciate the spirit of the season.

So what’s the big deal? Everybody loved it at Halloween.

Desperately Seeking Something

Because I don’t spend enough time looking for things in my daily life, I bought a word search puzzle book. The idea is to find and circle words that are hidden inside a box with a bunch of unalphabetized letters, which is good because finding the other kind would be too much like filing. Word Search is like a scavenger hunt only you don’t have to go next door to your spooky neighbor’s house asking for a kitchen knife or a set of hot curlers.

My first search was for a pencil. Ever the optimist, I looked in the cup on my desk. I found four broken blue crayons, two fountain pens with no ink, and a petrified Milkbone. I briefly thought about trying to use the Milkbone, but the Dachshund is possessive and I’m pretty sure she can take me in a fight. She is not known for fair play.

I looked under the sofa cushions, in the glove compartment of the car, and in my jewelry box, where I found the safety pin I needed last week for an unbecoming wardrobe malfunction. Later that afternoon while doing the laundry, I found a pencil stub in the lint trap of the dryer. The eraser was melted, but if we wait for all our blessings to come at once there will be nothing left for the Rapture, so I forged ahead.

I sat down with my puzzle book and my pencil stub. Immediately I found several words. None of them were in the word list and I’m not sure that all of them were English. At least one of them made the dog blush. Perhaps I needed an eraser after all. I scratched out my ineligible answers with the safety pin and circled a likely looking word using all the letters on one side of the puzzle. If this were Scrabble, I could clinch the victory with a Q and an unabridged dictionary.

About that time the Dachshund tackled me in an announced Milkbone raid and broke the point of my pencil stub. So now I’m off to search for the pencil sharpener. But that’s okay. I haven’t found any more words to circle anyway. I think I’ll write to Vanna and ask to buy a vowel.

Wonder where I can find her address?

Live Long and Pamper

I don’t always get much useful information from women’s magazines. If I could really Walk Myself Thin,” I would be decked out in Kate Moss’s cast off clothing and people would refer to me as “that poor woman with rickets” instead of “Tank.” I'll walk myself thin the day Richard Simmons sports a comb-over and wears Dickie's work pants instead of silk shorts.

So when I saw the article on how to live longer that suggested eating fruits and vegetables, I knew there had to be more to it. And since I am always trying to improve the quality of life for the man who promised to love, honor, and carry in the groceries, I came up with a quick list for hubby dearest to help him improve my quality of life.

1. Just Say No to the sarcastic comment. My new stretch jeans may make my behind look like two transfer trucks passing on the Interstate, but you won’t outlive the day old bread on the kitchen counter if you say so.

2. Refrain from asking the faux innocent question. It is not amusing to inquire if my mother was the star of Shark Week on the Discovery channel.

3. Never use the word “nice” in regards to my new outfit. Either it takes your breath away, or somebody at the Salvation Army is getting a leopard-print dress for Christmas.

4. Remember: “Refrigerate after opening” is not a suggestion. Neither is “Proceed with caution.” Come to think of it "Don't touch the roast on the second shelf" can be added to the list.

5. Three little words: No cat baths.

6. Use an old rag when checking your oil. Pass up any item of clothing that bears a "dry clean only" label or that looks as if it’s trimmed in lace that could be older than your grandmother.

7. Don’t eat any freshly baked item that you find in our kitchen. There are no such things as Pecan Pie Pixies or Double Chocolate Leprechauns who leave goodies sprinkled about the globe. If there is anything worth eating at our house, there’s been a death in the family. You know how refined sugar comforts the bereaved.

8. Stop putting Granny’s teeth in the dog’s mouth. He may look like he’s smiling, but the Purina sticks to his dentures. And Granny keeps getting choked on Pupcorn bits.

9. Back away from the cat. A kitty stretched out on his back may look like a cuddly ball of cotton, but he has a weapon of mass destruction on all four corners. A friendly game of Cootchy Cootchy Coo will result in a trip to see the nice folks at the all night trauma center. Luckily they do a great job with stitches. And I think you need just one more hole punched in your Frequent Flyer Blood card before you get a free pint.

10. It is now against Federal Law to feed hot dogs to the Dachshund. The last occurrence resulted in a chemical reaction that brought a swift penalty from OSHA for unsafe fueling procedures. It also set fire to the electric blanket and melted two pairs of house slippers and a Hello Kitty pillow sham, and took a team of Navy Seals and ten Boy Scouts wearing HazMat suits to secure the area.

Now that you're going to live longer, you may plan to use your extra time to improve my quality of life with clever surprises of sugary snacks.

Either that or we'll take a nap. Time with you passes too fast anyway.

Lying Dogs and Cat Nip

We finally conjured up the nerve (and money) to spend a weekend at the beach. It's hard for us to get away, since there's no immediate family left willing to stay with our darling doggies (oh yeah, and the cats, like they're not old enough to take care of themselves, and boy do we have nerve thinking they need a chaperone). But over the years we did without luxuries like frozen pizza and liver mush to scrape together enough cash to hire Guido, who usually moonlights at Happy Valley Sanitorium, to stay the weekend at our home. Here, then, are Instructions for the Pet Sitter while we’re on vacation:


There are a number of animals here. It is important to remember that dogs and cats have been bred over the centuries expressly to tell lies about the amount of food they are allowed to consume.

Here’s the routine. This section applies to the Mostly Labradors, which is the State Dog Breed of South Carolina. That’s not official, mind you, but everybody knows it’s true because according to a scientific poll taken at the Doggie Do Canine Emporium and Park last Tuesday after the Milk Bone truck came by, everyone here has been owned by such a beast at some point in their lives. The Mostly Labs are the ones most likely to try and intentionally mislead you about the frequency, amount, and duration of meal times. The Labrador Breed Club flag bears a picture of a cookie and a loophole.

By the time you get here all the animals will have had their morning potty break and have eaten breakfast, which they will lie about having. If animals hadn’t been fed in weeks, they would be dead, not rolling about the living room floor looking like a can of biscuits about to pop open. The vet mentioned the word “blubber” at our last appointment which is not, to the best of my recollection, a word associated with starving animals. They can eat again at supper time, which is not the time of day marked by finishing breakfast.

No, they do not need a snack.

No, not even a little one.

No, they do not need a cookie.

Yes, I’m aware of the cuteness factor.

Yes, I know about the big brown eyes.

Okay, maybe one cookie.

They’ll need to go out when you get there. They can stay out until they get hot and want to come back in. That should take at least until they reach the bottom step. Repeat as necessary until you consider replacing the kitchen door with one that revolves at a steady clip.

If they go missing, they’ll be at the neighbor’s house begging for food. They’re dogs; they don’t know Halloween comes only once a year. Especially since the neighbor has a treat for them every single day. Twice on the weekend.

However, they’re not supposed to beg for food, so if you catch them trick-or-treating at regular intervals throughout the afternoon, you may speak sharply. They won’t listen to you, but at least you’ll feel like you tried. Be aware that their feelings will be hurt and they’ll gaze balefully at you like you’ve taken their last cookie. It’s okay; they weren’t supposed to have one anyway. The Atkins diet people would go broke with spokesmodels like these.

If they start to go out of the driveway, call out, “Stay in the driveway!” in a cheerful tone and they’ll run to you like lost sheep found. Keep some of their regular kibble in your pocket and give them a bite when they’re good. In that way, a few kibble should last the entire time we’re gone.

Sometimes they give into temptation if a squirrel or bunny across the street is particularly insistent in their taunting, but for the safety of all concerned (not the bunny or squirrel who have no need even to break a nervous sweat) the dogs should stay out of the road. It’s a quiet enough neighborhood, but I’ve come down with a nasty case of laryngitis yelling for them to come back when in hot pursuit of a stray butterfly.

Around 6:30. For supper, both the big dogs get two scoops from the bucket, and Lucy, the Dachshund Diva gets one. The amount of time it takes to consume the food is in no way related to the amount of food each should receive. Hunga Din could suck down the bits like a Hoover as you pour it into the bowl, while Whatzit must take the time to lick up stray crumbs before they evaporate mysteriously into the air or someone else's drooling maw. Still, two cups a piece is the rule. Those who overindulge have to be helped when it comes to establishing limits. “Just say no” is not a viable slogan for a beast who stoops to begging for the rights to lick the butter dish.

You’ll need to put Lucy’s food down next to you so as to fend off the big dogs. They’ll circle her, and every now and then they try to snag a bite, but since they are afraid of her, they’ll mostly try to convince you that she is not hungry and said they could have her supper.

After supper, they’ll need to go out again. They like to roughhouse inside, but if they get too wild you can take them outside. (They’re like small boys and will often resort to biting each other’s ear just to see who squeals first.) If you walk up and down the driveway they’ll probably start chasing each other--unless it’s hot. Then they’ll follow you up and down the driveway and complain. They usually do more chasing after dark when it’s cool, but they’re both afraid of dog-eating monsters and you’ll have to stay out with them as a motivational and protective influence. Usually about 20 minutes will be all you can stand.

Make sure they go out again at bedtime (between 10 and midnight), but that’s not a big playing time. If you don’t make them go out, they’ll be insistent to speak with you personally at about 5:30 a.m., which I know from experience is way before dawn this time of year.

In the morning, same deal foodwise (2 cups for big doggies, one for Lucy, but Divas don’t breakfast well and she will probably ignore it and want to be served brunch instead later in the morning).

A word about Lucy; she’s half Dachshund and half Bull Shark. She’ll put up with a certain amount of ignorance on your part, but if you expect her to do anything she considers demeaning, such as listening to baby talk or fetching a ball, she’ll take your arm off up to the elbow. It's important to remember that if you can see her teeth, she is not smiling.

As for the cats: Feed them. They’ll lie, too, because it’s expected, but if you keep their bowl full of Friskies then really, what right do they have to complain? But be careful of the gray one. I suspect he and Lucy have the same father. If all else fails toss him some catnip and close the door. What happens in the cat box, stays in the cat box.

Thank you for your assistance, and I understand that our agreement expressly forbids me from using your real name.

WiiCovery Woom

My kids are threatening to get me the Wii Fit for my birthday. The name Wii is a clever pun made up by people who think of English as a substitute language for people who don't use twenty dollar bills for Q-tips. It is pronounced “We” and means, “We will own your grandmother before your hip replacement heals.”

I wouldn’t worry, but these kids are old enough to find ingenious ways to get the money. They are fully capable of selling tickets and offering to broadcast my workouts via webcam to people in a position to share my humiliation worldwide or to the inmates of Folsom Prison who need just one thing like this to send them into a full Jailhouse Rock and Revolt frenzy.

For the last few of you who were involved in brain surgery or afterschool detention when the Wii Fit hit the shelves and are in a Wii Frii state, this is an exercise program that can determine, through your participation and cooperation, precisely what happened to the last piece of pecan pie that was in the refrigerator just yesterday.

The machine reflects your image on the television screen as an iconic picture called a Mii that is a computer determined reflection of your innermost fears. It sees you when you’re sleeping and it knows when you’ve been drinking whole milk. Back in seventh grade when we drew unflattering pictures of Fat Elaine, we got a visit to the principal’s office. This electronic fellow generates a quidmillion dollars in sales and markets another zillion units every time you waddle across the pixels.

The most frightening idea is the nauseating list of exercise opportunities that are available. I don’t know if the thought of watching my pudgy onscreen caricature rolling into yoga’s Downward Doggie position is more frightening, or the idea of getting stuck in a Hula Hoop loop. All I know is that the first time that wretched machine is foolish enough to flash my weight or body mass index in high definition on my widescreen television where both teenage boys and the Dachshund can see, it’s going to lose some mass of its own.

Now that’s Wii-assuring.

Merry Christmas Anyway

I’m a little bit of a late bloomer when it comes to getting ready for Christmas, kind of like those bulbs you have to plant in your flower garden in the dead of winter to turn into flowers come spring. Or maybe it’s the seeds you plant. The point is, you’ll find me getting ready for Christmas just about the time WalMart begins laying in fertilzer and peat moss with an eye toward the bulging wallets and wish lists of early gardeners.

I started shopping before Christmas this year, though. I was going to wait, but the operators were standing by and I had to call right away to get the bonus Ginsu knives which I desperately need because I’ve lost the key to the rented storage building where I keep the reindeer for the yard and if those knives can cut through a soda can like they show on TV, I’m sure they can handle that cheap padlock the manager of the storage place put on the door.

Although I don’t go full out in the decorating area, you can tell it’s Christmas around my house by subtle changes in the décor. Just keep an eye out for mutations in the dust patterns and you can tell where I’ve turned an eye toward holiday preparation.

I’ve moved the nativity scene that I forgot to put away last year from the shelf in the laundry room to the top of the entertainment center, dusted off the baby Jesus and removed the dryer sheet from the shepherd’s staff. It made him look like a flagboy on race day anyway, even though it gave the whole scene an air of celebration.

What appears to be stray branches connected by lumps of unkempt fur in one corner of the living room is actually a small Frasier fir holding up under the strain of the investigative processes of two Labradors, three cats, and an inquisitive Dachshund sporting a Christmas tree skirt. Occasionally the tree gives a shudder and deposits various small animals on the floor like a pile of cast-off inhabitants of the Island of Misfit Toys. The version of that Christmas tale that boasts “not a creature was stirring” never had a cat who took personal offense at live greenery that was not scented to match the litterbox.

There are 1,467 gift bags of assorted sizes and heritage covering every available flat surface, along with several containers of used bows that are perfectly suitable for family gifts if you affix them to packages with a loop of Scotch tape. At least one of the bags is surrounded by shredded tissue paper. (See the “not a creature was stirring” reference in the previous paragraph.) There is no Scotch tape anywhere in the house, not even in the junk drawer. There are several dozen wood screws of assorted sizes in the junk drawer, but repeated attempts at giftwrap show that wood screws are not effective for this purpose.

The kitchen table is covered with bits of burned sugar cookies and ingredients for partially assembled gelatin salads and casseroles that will bear offerings of melted cheese and Ritz crackers come Christmas day. This is not considered untidiness in the kitchen, but rather food preparation decorations with holiday flair.

There is a wreath on the outside of the closet door instead of the inside of the closet door. The wreath boasts a giddy snowman who is on the verge of bursting into the songs of the season just as soon as Bill Dear tells me where he hid the batteries.

There is a car in the driveway awaiting new tires, a replacement windshield wiper, or an oil change. Nothing says Merry Christmas at our house quite like a car in need of body work. There is not a sense of urgency for the repairs, however, due to the fact that I’m fairly certain that the key to the car is locked in the storage building with the yard-bound reindeer.

So for all of you folks who have every Martha Stewartesque napkin folded into snowflakes, don’t judge me on my lack of handmade ornaments and scented candles. Christmas at my house might have a different flavor and a smell that tends more toward PineSol than pine branches, but the spirit is the same.

Merry Christmas!

Kitchen Crisis

“Mom! Ryan stuck the vacuum cleaner hose up under the stove and now there’s smoke coming out of his pants!”

I opened one eye and waited while the whirling scenes behind my eyeballs settled into recognizable figures. A young boy stood by the bed, the very bed upon which I collapsed in the early hours of the morning after arriving home from an intimate anniversary trip to the coast with my husband and his MasterCard. This must be a dream. I closed the errant eye gratefully.

“Mom. The turtle is missing out of his pocket!”

I’ve heard you can change the course of your dream if you concentrate. I concentrated on Continental breakfasts on the hotel terrace. I concentrated on platters of pastries and piles of fragrant fresh fruits of the season. I tried to concentrate on going back to sleep, but this act is difficult when confronted with a young boy leaning in close enough to breathe your exhaust and visions of Hoover-bound turtles are dancing in your head. Unless that turtle was Michelangelo or one of his Teenage Mutant Ninja buddies, he was probably exiting my son’s shorts in a puff of I Dream of Jeannie Smoke.

Fine. If reality was going to intrude into my unconsciousness and stomp barefoot across my fantasies, I’d get up. I swept down the hall in a swirl of pink nylon and polyester lace to take command of the sandstorm.

“What are you doing?” I shrieked, fanning away the clouds of dust that threatened to cover my body like a “just add water” mud pack.

“Good morning, Mom,” Ryan greeted me calmly without looking up from the task at hand, which seemed to be a daring attempt to suck the oven’s inner workings piece by piece into the vacuum. “Jeffrey’s dinosaur head rolled under here, so I thought I’d get it out so he wouldn’t bother you.” A fresh pillar of dust-filled smoke arose as he hit a warren of dust bunnies that didn’t need to worry about finding a place on the endangered species list.

Son Two, The Informer, was right. As Ryan knelt on hands and knees on what must be the kitchen floor, jabbing at the stove with a vacuum cleaner bayonet, the clouds appeared to be passing through the billowing folds of his star-spangled shorts. I couldn’t imagine a prettier picture to greet me after a week of soaring seabirds and glimmering shells at sunset. A threadbare moon in my kitchen.

I wrenched open the kitchen door and turned on the ceiling fan, industrious actions that succeeded in creating a tornado-like whirlwind that rerouted the dusty smoke back up Ryan’s boxers. Seen through sunlight filtered by vacuum exhaust with dust clouds rolling up one leg and down the other, my oldest son looked like a “person of interest” in a Stephen King novel.

“Here, let me,” I screamed over the roar of the vacuum sucking up dust clots, Jeffrey jumping up and down like a caffeinated flea, and Lucy the semi-dachshund barking disapproval of the chaos. I grabbed the vacuum hose from Ryan and knelt down to survey the situation. As I squatted, not wanting to commit to a full bend and kneel unless absolutely necessary, the vacuum hose brushed the flimsy pink folds of my gown and sucked a foot or so of the delicate fabric inside. I immediately voiced my surprise and disapproval in a calm and controlled manner.

“Stop screaming and stand still!” Ryan grabbed one edge of the flimsy material and began to heave mightily in the manner of someone wrestling an unruly reptile.

“Help!” I squealed back as the struggles resulted in a blow to my left eye and a near-miss indiscretion involving my modesty.

“Excuse me. Is this a bad time?” asked a friendly voice. I squinted through my remaining good eye and discovered the local pastor peering in the open kitchen door from the steps outside. Dropping by to inquire about my trip, the good man took in this lovely picture of family unity: Me, dabbing at my swollen eye with a dishcloth, my nightdress sucked down the vacuum hose while the three of us--the vacuum hose, the nightdress, and me—snaked around my teenage son whose heavenly-body boxers flapped as he endeavored mightily to wrest me loose, and my youngest offspring jumping about excitedly in backwards pants with a lizard’s tail flapping from the back pocket which was now in front.

“Can I be of assistance?

“Pull the plug!”

Responding to emergency situations is an important part of a pastor’s life’s work and he responded admirably. He lunged through the door and remedied the situation with a yank to the snarling monster’s cord.

Slowly, my night dress drizzled back down my thighs and the swirling clouds of dust began to silt at our feet. I stammered and sputtered, looking for an explanation that didn't involve animal abuse, child neglect, or chiffon in the kitchen after breakfast time.

The good pastor collapsed in a chair at the kitchen table as dust bunnies swirled around his head in a halo pattern before coming to rest on his shoulders. He took in the situation with a soulful look and began to laugh.

“I’d use you in my sermon this week,” he paused to wipe his eyes. “But I don’t know if you would fit in better with The Good Samaritan or,” he winced as he pulled a small, surprised turtle out from under him, “the Ten Plagues of Egypt.”

And To Think Noah Had Two of Each

We usually go to the annual dog show in the big city next door, if for no other reason than to see what we could have had. We love our dogs, but without us, they’d be in the line for federal assistance. There are two of them, which in Bible language is a multitude.

Lucy is a Dachshund mix. I’m not real sure what’s in the mix, but she looks like the love child of a link sausage and Daffy Duck. Lucy could give Jennifer Lopez diva lessons. She has an aversion to dog food, getting her feet wet, and sharing the Earth with other life forms. We can’t open the door, turn on the television, or stroll into the kitchen without having her alert the news media with a dedicated barkfest. We've taken to flushing on the sly when she goes outside to eat ants.

Bo is a Lab mix. If you noticed a trend, it’s true. All our dogs are mixes. It’s so much easier than making one from scratch. Just be careful when adding the water, so it doesn’t overflow.

Bo is a talented liar. To hear him tell the tale, he hasn’t been fed since finding the stray square of Shredded Wheat under the refrigerator in 2005. At present he is on the Atkins diet, having failed miserably at Weight Watchers, the Zone, and the cabbage soup diet, the last of which gave our kitchen a signature scent I’d rather not discuss and gave Bo the opportunity to spend a lot of time outside.

I’ve read him all the articles about walking off the weight, but he whiles away his time table surfing for bread crumbs and licking likely spots off the linoleum. He has no shame and will face off with the big, brown-eyed “I’ve never been fed” look if he thinks he can score a bite of your peanut butter sandwich.

The dogs are supervised at all times by the house warden, Justin. Justin is a tabby cat whose official title is Supreme Ruler of the Household and Wielder of Sharp Claws. Unfortunately, as is the case with many heads of state whose family tree is shadowed with intertwined branches, Justin is common sense challenged. Most cats understand that if a space is occupied by another object, they should find somewhere else to lurk. Not Justin. Therefore he has numerous wounds and abrasions inflicted by flower pots or dishes or wayward dogs who weren’t quick enough to escape breaking his fall.

For aesthetic reasons, and to earn the gratitude of our feathered friends who, it turns out, take us for granted and write ugly messages on our windshields when the feeder runs dry, Bill Dear hung a bird feeder in the tree outside our bathroom window. This window is a favorite perch for Justin, who amuses himself by chatting with the birds outside.

However, the window ledge is too small for Justin’s elderly, but massive frame (another candidate for fat-free catnip), and is high off the ground to boot. So Justin sits for hours on the bathtub, staring at the window and willing himself to levitate so that he can see the birds. Occasionally we take pity on him and hold him up to the window, but this became embarrassing when our friends found out. (So, Bill, I hear you hold your cat up to the window so he can see out. Why don’t you just buy him a canary?) It’s not the sort of thing that a man likes to talk about around the water cooler at work.

Despite his best efforts (Bill Dear’s present method of discipline is threatening divorce and shooting me ugly looks across the potatoes at dinner), I’m sure Justin’s kingdom will increase. There is an invisible sign etched into the atmosphere above our house that beams longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates to homeless animals all over the globe. “SLEEP WARM! EAT FREE! OPERATORS STANDING BY!”

I just hope the offer ends soon. I’m tired of sleeping in the doghouse.

Happy Anniversary, Baby!

Since Bill Dear tells me that today is our anniversary, and because we’ve agreed not to buy any gifts, I thought I’d better take several seconds to reflect on the highlights of our years together. And since I’m worse off than a redneck without a rear-window gunrack when it comes to poetry, I’ve decided to create something that leans a little more toward my area of expertise: a list. So here is my Top Ten List of Adventures From Our Eleven Years Together.

In the first months of married life, you totaled both the new car and my new husband. Insurance covered them both, but it turned out that replacement parts for theToyota were easier and cheaper to come by than parts for your knee. I expected to do a little redecorating when we got married, but it would have been less expensive just to buy you a nice recliner. And if you pop me with that cane one more time, so help me you’ll be using it as a designer toothpick.

A few years later we totaled the Toyota again – this time together, which explains why the Toyota dealer turns off the lights, draws the blinds, and puts out a sign that says VOLKSWAGEN whenever we drive by.

We survived the Great Rice Krispie Treat Incident. The year I was going to make homemade goodies for Christmas gifts, you left me alone while you went for a grocery store run to stock up on provisions. When you left, I was measuring cereal into a cup. When you returned, I was covered in a marshmallow and Rice Krispie coating, my hands were cemented together like mortared bricks, and the telephone receiver was attached to my hair like a possum baby clinging to its mama. You took the blame for leaving me unsupervised, a random act of kindness I could appreciate more if every Christmas you wouldn’t bellow, “If you’re making cookies, I’m calling 911!”

We bought a Queen-sized sleigh bed. Otherwise how would we fit two boys, three cats, a Dachshund with a diva complex, and the front half of a Labrador in one place to watch Who’s Smarter Than a Fifth Grader on Thursday nights?

You joined the Baptist Church. Who else would forsake the energy and excitement of the Pentecostals and the quiet dignity of the Lutherans to spend eternity singing the first, second, and last verses of every hymn?

I lost my job. I went from a liability to an expense faster than Batman can double park the Batmobile when my office downsized, an event that affected our bank account much like the Grand Canyon influenced the terrain in Arizona. You suggested clever cost-cutting measures such as selling the children to gypsies. The gypsies brought them back, demanded a full refund, and refused to pay a restocking fee.

You introduced me to cultural events to broaden my horizons. Now that I’ve heard him sing in person, I still think Leon Redbone is missing some teeth.

We merged closets. I didn’t know that when he's angry a man’s jaw muscle really jumps like a Jack Russell terrier like the romance novels described until I suggested you put all your belongings in the coat closet in the front room.

You got a dog. For someone that lived quite successfully in a pet-free bachelor pad for eight years and the quiet company of cats before that, bringing home a big, black dog was like inviting Godzilla home to sleep on the couch--and walking him through the streets of Tokyo every night at seven for exercise.

You became a GPS for my entire family. When my sisters and I got lost trying to get home from an amusement park an hour away from home and called you, giggling hysterically, from a restaurant where we stopped to consider our plight over plates of sugary snacks, you successfully directed us home by phone. Any other man would have hung up and changed phone numbers.

Cat-astrophe

While I was waiting for Celebrity Gossip to load over my dial-up Internet connection, I whiled away the time by licking the crumbs off the breakfast plates and perusing the headlines in our local paper. It seems that our City Council, having exhausted their legislative efforts in a road maintenance fundraising extravaganza known locally as the Pothole Tax, recently decided to proceed with an innovative stroke of legislation involving leash laws for cats. This idea is known locally as Stupid.

Leashing a cat is nearly as effective as lassoing escaped methane from a pasture full of Texas Longhorns.

I know from experience how unproductive this sort of excursion can be. (The catwalking, not the methane lassoing. I have teenaged sons, but I find that a quick shot of Chanel Number Lysol takes care of them.) I attempted the leash walking feat before. They say experience is the best teacher, and I have a new respect for anti-bacterial cream, sterile bandages, and super glue.

At the time, a light bulb came on in my head, and I had one of those epiphanies you read about in the life stories of people who make a fortune selling their ex-wife’s wedding gown on e-Bay.

I would use Lucy’s puppy collar and leash to take our ten-year-old tabby for a stroll. Lucy’s a Dachshund. Her puppy collar was designed for comfort and was quite sporty. What objections could Justin have? Little did I know the wattage in my light bulb was way too low. Justin put out my little light with a power surge.

“Son, run in and get me a Band-Aid.”

“Just one?”

“Well, make it a big one.”

“Anything else?”

“Got any spare Type O?”

After all I’ve done for that kid, he wouldn’t part with a pint of the good stuff for his mother.

I also discovered that it violates the Feline Bill of Rights to give Kitty a bath or even, thoughtful as it may seem, to baptize him in the toilet. (Don’t ask. Remember I have kids.) I have so many scars, the doctor thought I had striped skin.

“Say, how many children do you have?” he asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Two. Why do you ask?”

“Either you delivered 137 children by C-Section or your obstetrician starts drinking very early in the day.”

After my adventures, it’s not odd that I’m taking a stand against trying to tame cats. If the good Lord wanted them to be domesticated, catnip would grow wild in my yard instead of ragweed and sticks.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the efforts of the City Council to rain down order and justice on an unsuspecting population. But it occurred to me that if we’ve advanced as far as cat confinement, it’s time to move on to more important things, like extending high speed Internet capability out to my house.

I’ve checked with the authorities about that Internet thing. I talked with a smug young man who speaks English as a fourteenth language and probably greases his eyebrows with olive oil.

“When do you think DSL will make it out to my house?” I asked chummily.

He laughed cruelly. Guys like this weed out the stragglers in the herd like a cheetah in its prime.

“About the time they tame cats.”

“Well, put me on the list. They’re about to vote it into law.”

From Hot Dogs to Handcuffs

Once upon a time, as the newspaper accounts tell it, there was a whole pile of parents with nothing better to do than sit in the school pick-up line and talk about life and love and what to wear to Wal-Mart. As time went by, they came to school earlier and earlier until they started getting there before their grits were even cold, and since it’s just natural to get hungry doing all that waiting and talking, they began bringing snacks. Everybody knows a sausage dog is no good unless it’s been sizzling on the George Foreman for a little bit between the Pledge of Allegiance and Recess. So these folks lined up in the elementary school pick-up line four hours early, popped open the campers, set up the grill, and tailgated til the cows came home. Or until school let out, whichever came first.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m all about tailgating. I’m not above getting out grandmama’s stainless and grocery store china and grilling corn dogs from the back of the Toyota whenever there’s a high school football game worth going out in the cold for. Nothing says “party” like Hi-C punch in a Dixie cup. But there’s a time and place for everything, and it’s just downright tacky to pull out your cocktail weinies while you’re waiting on your first grader to get out of show and tell.

For some reason, the principal of the elementary school felt it wasn’t conducive to good study habits to have the students’ parents giving each other high fives and downing SteakUms in the parking lot all morning. Maybe if the parents had invited the principal to join them, the police wouldn’t have got involved. A little tact and adherence to good manners might possibly have headed off the jail time, or at least cut down on the assault charges. When school let out and the principal headed off to shoo the partiers away, one of the Mamas took it personally. Threats regarding the principal’s future health plans filled the air, phrases full of colorful adjectives and a more than a few unseemly nouns were exchanged, police came to visit, and a whole pile of bright-eyed grade-schoolers just getting out for the day learned some new words. And all the while there was the naughty woman’s husband, rubbing his face and shaking his head, saying, “I TOLD her to get in the camper.”

I’m just glad it wasn’t me. If the police were leading me away from the scene in a set of fancy bracelets, all the members of my family, from Dad to Dachshund, would queue up in a nice receiving line by the squad car to witness the festivities. As I drew near, Son Number One, who at 19 has his priorities firmly in order, would lean out to me and whisper softly in my ear, “Mom if you’re not cooking, we’re going out for pizza. Where do you keep the coupon's for meat lover’s?”