Marn-teenie, on the rocks

This morning as I was leaving to go to work, I heard the sounds of a fiery vortex annihilating the world coming from my living room. It was pretty early for this to be normal, so naturally, I went to investigate and see what all the shouts of terror and desperation were about.

Turns out Marni was sitting in her red full length, non-skid closed feet, zip up from the front, flannel pajamas watching the movie Antz. It was the scene with the magnifying glass.

She was so engrossed in the movie that she didn’t notice me enter the room. I thought I’d keep it that way and leaned over and softly kissed the top of her head and started to leave the room to head to work unnoticed. Or so I thought.

Marni turned, looked up, smiled, and said “Oh, hi!” And as I waved bye-bye she said, “No..! Zudha!” Which, as any Lemony Snicket fan knows, means “Hey, you forgot a to take a drink to work. Let me get one for you.”

Marni slid off the couch and went over to the little refridge and, completely unprompted mind you, grabbed two gold Cokes for me to take. We placed them in a little white plastic bag, and I said thank you, and she nodded her head with great satisfaction, adding confirmation “Zudhas. Yes.”

Thinking my Jedi training was done, I got another “wait!” from her as I was putting on my jacket.

Marni reached down to her own hand, slid off a little shinny plastic ring with a green plastic gem, handed it to me, and said clear as a bell, “pinky.” She then pointed to her pinky, then to me, just in case I didn’t get the message.

She wanted me to put on her green ring and go to work with it.

Marni obtained her Green Lantern status from church. The ring has recently been her most prized possession, and she won’t let her brothers touch it, much less look at it. For her to part with such a treasure… well, I doubt it’s possible to put into words.

I slid the small ring onto the first knuckle of my pinky. Marni smiled, then she got the front door for me and gave me a hug and a kiss, waving goodbye as I left.

I can’t help but think there’s so much to left learn about relationships from actions of a three year old.

Which way is up?

We all seem to seek some kind of moral compass from time to time, one that directs our actions and provides us validation and comfort. However, what I need is a physical compass it seems.

Anyone who knows me recognizes that I have a horrific sense of direction. It’s for this reason I don’t venture into D.C. all that often, I avoid major cities, and I carry a plum bob with me so I can tell which direction is down.

I’ve tried to figure out why I experience this disorientation, and have limited it down to at least three good candidates.

One, my attention usually gets focused on details about what’s happening around me. At any given time I’m fairly good at knowing the relationship of objects near me; how they orient to the global baffles me. I rarely think in terms of a fixed environment.

Two, I over generalize turns in roads; for instance, I know that *I* made left, a right, and another left… however when the road starts doing little bends and subtle curves, I neglect to take them into account.

Three, that gland in your brian that is responsible for maintaining direction hasn’t developed nearly as well, perhaps giving way to other attributes like charm, good looks, and modesty. I’ve heard that people with fantastic senses of direction actually do have some part of their brain a little larger than average. I must make up the compensating half of the population.

I wish I could say for certain that one, or even any combination of those things, accounted for my inability to know which was is North.

It astonishes me that people like Danny point through a thicket of trees and say “it’s this way” and several miles later, there we are.

I view one-way streets as fowl play in cities. As such, when I went to Chicago, I did most of my travel by foot. You’d think that would have helped, but it didn’t.

A friend of mine pointed out “it’s a big grid, you can’t get lost!” (Oh how I proved HIM wrong.) “See,” he says, “this way it’s numbers, and this way it’s letters, and here’s the origin.” “Great,” I’m thinking, “so when I’m standing at M and 27th there’s actually FOUR places with the same name.” To which he tells me just walk one way or the other to see which direction to go. Okay, think about that. Fine, now I know how to get back to the origin, but at that point I have NO point of reference. Like the man who built his home on the north pole and all walls face south. Thanks. I’m just supposed to magically know what quadrant I’m in? “Hmm, am I bleeding and my wallet missing? Guess I can rule out South-East.”

Perhaps I’m just lacking some boy scout trick. I know the sun rises in the east, and sets in the west. A lot of good THAT does for me when I have no idea which direction I need to be going. I don’t seem to need clouds to hamper me. At night time, I look up to find the North star, but aiming for the brightest point of light, I follow the moon like a month drawn to flame. I have no idea where that star is.

Maybe I get lost in too many details. For instance, when I pull out a compass, I get anxious over the little things. “Hey, magnetic north is not true north!” and will this affect me? Or, “magnetic north wanders” and I can’t follow a moving target. And of course, there’s the big worry, “has the Earth’s magnetic poles flipped again and am I now heading south when I should be going north?” The anxiety is too much to bear.

Don’t even get me started on highway signs. I can’t count the number of times when I’m trying to head to some place and the sign simply says “Winchester” … like I’m supposed to know if _my_ destination is before, after, or some turn from this arbitrary place. I want a sign that says, “Yo! Moron! You’re heading North on I-81 at mile marker 320, the next place to pee and ask directions is in 14 miles, look for the big yellow M.”

So, how do you guys do it? Are there little signs by the side of the road I’m missing? Do even numbered roads go one way and odd another? If so, why do maps show squiggly lines? Am I supposed to put a stick in the ground and make a sun dial, and does this work at night with a flash light (my shadow never moves).

Seriously, how do people like Rob, Alan, and Danny just “know” where they are at any given moment and which way is the escape route?

Kisses, No Hugs

I feel it only fair to recount some more post-Christmas experiences.

Personally, I discovered that while it’s better to give than to receive (a lesson sometimes forced on you by circumstance) that it’s even more rewarding to watch a child open Christmas presents.

Mind you, on the Eve of Christmas, my brother and law and I were in the attic above his daughter’s room, stomping on her ceiling, yelling Ho Ho Ho and ringing bells. Meanwhile downstairs Santa was adding to the booty.

Madison, when questioned the next morning, stated she heard nothing which disturbed her from her sugar plumb dreams. It’s statements like this which make me wonder I’m instructed to “pee as silently as possible” in the middle of the night, or why the television’s volume is set to negative four. Anyhow, I’m sure there’s good reason, but on with the story.

Somewhere under the pile of presents the tip of a nine foot Christmas tree was trying to peek out. Madison kept walking past the presents, and it was unclear to us if she knew what to do with them. However, once mom dropped the green flag, she turned into a child sized woodchipper.

Quite the expert at unwrapping, not only was she able to unwrap her presents, but those she delivered to us, and a few that weren’t. Admittedly, none of us seemed to mind.

Slowly, but surely, the west wall of the house became obscured, and in it’s place a toy department looked like it was starting to open. Eventually the sight became so overwhelming that Madison just got a dazed look on her face. Could it be that she was truly probing the depths of infinity by exploring the pile surrounding the tree?

I have to say, I took more joy in watching her go through her stuff than I did with my own gifts. Her face brightened with wonder and amazement at each pulled ribbon or torn box.

Finally, when all was said and done, we went to eat. However, Connie pulled me aside to witness something amazing. There, in the living room, with brand new wonders all solely for her enjoyment and pleasure, Madison sat instead at the candy jar. Not eating the little Hershey kisses, but playing with each foiled kiss as if it were a doll.

Funny how that 5.1 Dolby Stereo and wide screen digital TV was so close in our grasps, if only we all had the sense to buy a $1.79 bag of chocolate instead of huge hunks of plastic labeled Playskool.

The Surprise Gift from the Stork

Every once in a while, the sequence of events turns unexpected and delivers a message from the universe that you weren’t expecting.

Such was this Christmas.

Madison, my three year old niece, approaches me with a small red squishy present. So, like many of the others, I start opening it while in the middle of conversation with those around me.

My conversation stopped as my mouth dropped open.

Inside was a baby outfit.

A blue and white top, with dark blue pants. It was tiny.

Tamara just sat there smiling at me, as if she was clueless.

I turned the package over to see if I had gotten the right gift. Across the bright red package were written the words: “To Walt, Love Red. Part III”

I pulled out the baby clothes and they were so tiny! I said to Connie, who was passing out gifts from under the tree, “I think I was supposed to get parts ‘I’ and ‘II’ first.”

The news hit me like a bomb shell.

Connie started rummaging, and I looked over at Tamara torn between surprise and excitement.

That’s when my mom calls across the room, “what do you got there son?”

I grinned. “Baby clothes!”

Tamara looks at me and the innocent look on her face is still there, only now it’s mixed with confusion.

“Those are Erich’s,” my mom adds. “Why did you open them?”

I looked down at the wrapping paper in my lap. “Well, one, Madison handed it to me. Two, it had my name on it. Tamara?”

Tamara gives me this “don’t look at me” expression, and turns to Paul, my dad.

He takes the wrapping paper and flips it over. “See, it says Erich.”

Apparently, my parents collected the wrapping paper from *last* year’s Christmas, and wrapped gifts with it this year, not checking to see if the paper was already addressed.

Well, I immediately forfeited the gift to baby Erich. However, the emotional aftermath stuck around for a while.

While Tamara and I aren’t expecting kids, I now know the feeling I’ll experience should she ever decide to surprise me in similar manner.

I always liked to know if God has a sense of humor, and this was the best Christmas “gotcha!” I could have ever asked for.

Take my breath away…

I’ve finally hit my threshold, and I have to speak out. Today’s topic: the dental hygiene of those around me.

Every once in a while you invite someone over to your cube to work side by side on a project, and that’s when you notice it… the air starts feeling thick, heavy, and warm, but worse of all it’s got a sweet sickly smell to it that smells much like bacteria having a field day on a dung pile. What’s worse is that the odor lingers well after the person has left, and fanning the office doesn’t help. It’s like once some of the particles get caught in your own nose and mouth, it won’t leave without a lot of forceful exhales, nose blowings, and water drinking. Part of the problem is that these people don’t even know something’s wrong, as the build up as dulled their perception to it in much the same way as a smoker has no conception how much they wreak after just one cigarette outside, even if puffed outside.

I’ve been trapped in cars on long rides, stuck in elevators, and even lost interest in a number of dates after getting close enough to smell it. Even one case comes to mind where I happened to share a kiss and got a taste of it; I almost wretched. It certainly spoiled the mood, not to mention future romantic interest.

You can’t cover up the smell with gum, sprays, or breath mints. Quick rinses with mouthwash will only work for the short duration. A very short duration. Like maybe half an hour.

This letter is inspired because for the last hour and a half I’ve been breathing this fowl air and I’ve got to let the world know there’s a solution. Don’t let yourself become one of these offensive people, because usually no one will tell you …they’ll just avoid you. It’s different from bad breath, it’s on a whole other spectrum.

Let’s start with the basics, and that is with excluding a particular offence: coffee breath. This is TOTALLY different. That creates a temporary bitter smell that’s detectable only at close ranges, it’s easily disposed of by running a tooth brush over the tongue.

No, I’m talking about the gasp-for-air my-eye-are-watering didn’t-your-mother-teach-you-to-floss type of biological warfare. If your teeth taste sweet to you or your gums bleed, this may be the only danger sign you’ll get. Well, that and the time alone you’ve been acquiring.

Step one: BRUSH AT LEAST TWICE A DAY. Do it right before the dragon breath can set in. That’s when you get up and you could quite possibly offend yourself, and do it before you go to bed so your teeth don’t rot in the middle of the night. Ideally, if you can, do so after each meal.

Step two: FLOSS. In fact, if you’re good at flossing, you can even skip brushing! Ask your dentist, it’s true! The trick is to do it right. See, what causes that sweet sickly smell is rotting food decomposing between your teeth and just under your gum line. Simply take a piece of floss and insert it between the teeth, then U shape it around the left tooth sliding up and down, then do the same for the right tooth. Slide the floss out, remove the crud, and do the next slot. Seriously folks, this doesn’t take that long.

Your gums, incidentally will love you for it. If you stopped flossing because you see blood, you’re going the wrong direction on the corrective scale. Floss more. Your gums will obtain the stimulation they need to get good and strong. They’ll hold your teeth in, and when you go to the dentist for scalings (where they measure the pockets in your gums), you’ll discover you’ve got less places for food to get trapped.

Step three: USE MOUTHWASH. Listerine is pretty darn good, as it actually kills the things in your mouth that are trying to decompose that food you failed to dislodge. You’ll find you get much better liquid coverage when using mouthwash right after a good flossing.

Now, there are several secret weapons.

SECRET WEAPON #1: GET AN ELECTRIC TOOTH BRUSH. However, you need the right kind! Do not brush across the grain of the tooth, side to side. No, no, no. You’ll be back in the dentist chair before you know it. Brush up and down with the grain of the teeth. Stimulate the gums, and try to get the bristles to tickle just under the gum line. Do this and you’ll keep your teeth forever.

SECRET WEAPON #2: USE A WATER PICK. Hate flossing? Guess what, a water pick, while slightly messy in inexperienced hands, can get out more surprises you didn’t know were in your mouth. On occasion, I’ll brush, floss, rinse, and then use the water pick just as a measure of how well I’m doing. I’ve always managed to get debris I thought I had long removed. Proper technique is to shoot a stream perpendicular between the teeth.

SECRET WEAPON #3: USE A WATER PICK, BUT PUT A CAP FULL OF MOUTHWASH IN THE TANK. This not only drives out the bad stuff, but it gets mouthwash into places where it normally doesn’t get to. For the ultra lazy, this is the way to go. You don’t have to rinse with strong quantities. You don’t have to floss. You don’t have to brush. However, for the diligent, it has many rewards.

If you do the above, you’ll save yourself a lot of personal embarrassment, you’ll be far more kissable, and people won’t mind getting really close to you for long periods of time. That sickly sweet smelling fowl air won’t plague you (or your friends) anymore.

As an added treat, here are some other tips.

Sulfur like substances on the tongue give a really nasty smell and taste. Scraping the tongue, or using the special tongue attachment with a water pick helps out a lot. It’s an attachment that fans the water much like sticking your thumb over a water hose; it power washes the tongue’s taste buds like a car wash power flush.

Eating fruits will counter bad breath and those evil nasties that get on your tongue. However, bad breath also comes from what you’ve eaten. It’s the air that’s coming from your stomach that’s causing the problem. The solution is a little bit of parsley see oil — it’s cheap and sometimes marketed as breath assure. It’s a cross somewhere between neutralizing the smells like a box of Arm’n’Hammer in your ice-box and forming a thin layer of healthy oil over the acid bath of digestive juices that are dissolving your last meal. You don’t need very much.

Anyhow, my cube is almost breathable again. With that, I adjourn. Stay tuned next week and see if I need to expound on another topic, “Deodorant, it’s not just for Americans.”

Beltway Rant

So I’m driving to work this morning on the beltway, and traffic comes to a grinding halt. I turn on the radio and discover that there’s been an accident way up at I-270. Now I haven’t even crossed the American Legion Bridge (which is a politically correct way of saying the Cabin John Bridge).

This disturbs me, because isn’t the beltway supposed to be some uber-escape route in the event people need to clear out of D.C. in a haste?

Back when I went to school, and grades mattered more than how you felt about yourself, the words “an accident” implied two things. One, that there was a singular accident. Two, that when one approaches the vicinity, one would expect to see the remains of a collision.

I find it incredible to be believe that with four lanes, a long exit lane, a dedicated HOV, and two shoulders that traffic could become so entangled as it did in such a short course of time from _one_ game of bumper tag. Wouldn’t you think the road designers would build some form of redundancy or alternate routing to resolve such a circumstance? I mean, put lots cars together, and there’s a pretty good chance two are gonna touch at some point.

I might point out that it took me about 2 hours to get to work, and I’m 33 miles away from my destination. Much of that time was sitting still.

Eventually I got up to the point of the accident, but unless Wonder Woman’s plane crashed into James Bond’s new car, there was no wreckage, evidence, glass, or vehicle to prove anything had happened. Meanwhile the radio station kept describing the details which I visibly could not see.

What I could see were two police cruisers. Sitting in the middle of the lane I needed to be in. Two officers were walking around a red, smoking run way of bright flares.

“Oh good,” I thought. “They’re going to remove the flares by the time I get up there and this will clear up soon.”

It was at that point I saw one of them lean over, ignite another flare, and start marking off his newly found Holy Ground in the middle of I-495. Meanwhile, two lanes of left-lane traffic were left to ponder why The Way was blocked, the shoulder unusable (as it was unobscured), and ended up remerging with other traffic without police assistance.

As I drove by, I surveyed the inside of their red cultish fire ring. Nada. As best as I could tell, they were just invoking the homestead act in some very lucrative property space.

I even went so far as to give them the benefit of the doubt, that perhaps the police cruiser had broken down or even been involved in the accident. No so. They put it in reverse, moved it, saving themselves having to walk 20 feet, so they could set up even more flares.

Eventually I got past the bottleneck and hit open road. So did a lot of other people. However, it became fairly clear to me that extending the accident scene had the secondary effect of trying driver’s patience and making them late. Their nature reaction was to speed. And up ahead in the road, unmarked vehicles were pulling people over left and right.

I got away unscathed (financially, not emotionally).

I can’t help but wonder, based upon the down stream officers, if this was more of a ruse to generate income at driver expense, or a sincere happenstance of events.

Currently the cynic in me, more specifically the one who has to stay late to make up the time while a snow front moves in, is leaning for any slant which makes sense.

Telemarketers Beware

I got home last night, and the kids had half an hour before bed time. When this happens, I’m usually a good sport about getting them all wound up so they’re exhausted when their head hits the pillow.

Patrick and Robert were rough housing, I was flying Jenna around like an helicopter, and Johnathan and Marni were doing the same, engaging us in aerial dog fights. Naturally, things were loud, stuff was getting knocked over, and everyone was having a blast.

Then the phone rang. THOMAS C. I know no THOMAS C.

I answered, and a female voice started in about carpets. “Oh wow! Carpets!” And the kids eyes lit up with my false excitement. That’s when I realized it was a recording.

I know what you would have done. You would have hung up and not listened to the automated deal. Not me. I waited through to the end, working the kids into a frenzy in the meanwhile.

“Please press 1 to speak with an operator now.”

*Beep!*

“Please hold, an operator will be with you shortly.”

I handed the phone to Marni and then picked her up and the moment I heard the operator answer, I started tickling Marni to bits.

She handed the phone to Patrick, who told the young lady he wanted his mommy. Johnathan caught on as to what was happening — this telemarketer at the other end wasn’t supposed to hang up, -and- she was trying to get the kids to get their mom on the phone.

No such luck. Mom was working. Dad was napping. And unfortunately for her, I was their only source of immediate supervision.

Now, hanging in our kitchen is a list of forbidden words the children are not allowed to use. They made this list for themselves as a reminder that it isn’t nice to call people names like “dummy” and “stupid.”

For whatever reason, Patrick decided he was going to share this list with the telemarketer. That put the kids, as well as myself, into stitches of laughter.

Then he ran out of words.

To his credit, he recovered wonderfully (as he had been doing all this from memory). He started explaining to the telemarketer how he was not going to get his mommy and that he was going to fart and poop on her head. …among other things.

At that point Robert, feeling left out, said aloud (and well enough for her to hear) that he wanted the phone and a chance to fart on her. He demonstrated that he could make noises with his arm pit that the other’s couldn’t.

More fighting, tickling, and rude bodily noises happened. And I could still hear the lady at the other end trying to make sense of things.

When it got to Marni’s turn again, she accidentally hung up by putting the phone down the wrong way.

Oh well, I doubt we’ll be getting carpet service from them for a while.

Now Don’t Go Dragging Santa Into the Middle of All This

Part of being an older brother is learn and refine the art of trouble maker for one’s siblings. The true artist is capable of slipping in and slipping out completely unnoticed, leaving distraught mayhem in the wake, while having no direct cause of action for punishment or retribution. For the holiday season, I’ll share with you one of my pride’n’joys — the time I got Santa Clause to provoke a fight between my two sisters.

Roll back the clock to the early 80’s. It was a time when companies seemed to care about their employees, and lavish Christmas parties were held for employee and family. Such was the case with MITRE in McLean.

For those of you who don’t know what MITRE is, the answer lies within a deconstruction of their name. MITre, which is short for MIT Research and Engineering. Now present-day MITRE denies this, but I’ve seen first hand little green stickers with this text on it in their computer labs. They’re usually suck to the back side of the really old steel filing cabinets. Anyhow, it’s only paragraph three, and I’m on a digression.

MITRE had great Christmas parties. It wasn’t that there was unlimited food, small gifts, prizes, and such. But rather that employee’s kids, usually in their teens, could volunteer to be Santa’s elves. This was the greatest treat of all, seeing some well built 16-18 year old, long haired girl with big dark eyes, wearing seamed stockings and an elf costume that was one size too small. At least, that was the treat for me going.

My sisters, of course, went to go see Santa and lavish their Christmas wishes upon him. So, when the announcement came that Santa (and his elves!) would be ready for photographs, I jumped right into line.

My parents were there, in line, trying to hold my sisters from cutting. I was first in line because I was oldest, and primarily because I had been paying attention. I made sure to indicate just how lucky and fortunate it was that I had managed the spot I did before all the toys ran out. For had I been second, or even third, in line, there was that possibility that Santa might earmark the last goodie I wanted for someone else.

Terrorized by this prospect, my sisters burst into cries of unfairness, and how I always got to go first. They pleaded with my father who looked at me and said, “Walt, let your sisters go first… they’re younger.”

This wasn’t good at all. And I started to protest. My mouth started to open, but I didn’t get any words out. This requeuing would instantly resolve all the discontent I had just worked on brewing.

Now you have to understand, I wasn’t doing it to be mean. Absolutely not. My mind just works a lot faster than I can usually get things out. Follow the line of logic. Two upset little girls are going to what…? That’s right, attract attention. And who will be coming over to cheer them up? Think holiday. That’s right. The long haired, busty elf-chics. The more commotion, the better.

As I was saying, I was about to protest about being there first when the solution dawned on me. “Go right ahead, you take my place, Merry Christmas.” I said with a big grin and so much drizzled sincerity that it aroused my father’s suspicion.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but you gave that up too easily.” I smiled. “No, I *want* them to go first.” My dad didn’t believe me and stood between us.

My sisters leaned around him and stuck out their tongues. I enjoyed every minute of that. I knew what was about to happen.

Up they went, they told Santa everything they wanted, got a candy cane, and came on down singing “we saw Santa first!”

My turn.

I went up, sat on Santa’s knee, posed for the picture, smiled at the elves. “You got a good thing going here Santa.” He smiled and asked, “So what do you want for Christmas?”

Sounding humble and sweet, I said, “The only gift I know *you* can give me, Santa.” Dramatic pause. “Two Candy Canes.”

Santa ho-ho-ho’d and told his elf to “give that good little boy, two candy-canes!” And so she did.

I walked slowly down the ramp, one candy cane in each hand, toward my two sisters who’s array of mocking instantly ceased, filled with horror at what had just happened, and burst into tears. “I guess you were on his Naughty List.”

Parents bewildered as to what had just happened. Elves all around me. Sisters struggling to get back in line, but being denied as they had their turn. Ah, isn’t this what a Merry Christmas is all about?

You can rest your head on this down pillow

Sometimes it’s refreshing to take a gander into our own lives and put it on display for the amusement of others; my journal seems to be filling with self-deprecating humor these days. Sometimes it’s interesting to trod unsolicited into the lives of our friends and make gross sweeping assumptions to the determent of all. I suppose there’s a word for this, and intrusion will do as good as any.

Today I intend to do neither, but instead will allow you to peer into the true-life story a co-worker shared with me nearly a decade ago. Our story comes from Tim P., as told to him by his neighbor who was laughing so hard tears were rolling down his face. This is just one of those things that sounds too incredible to be true, but is and alas, if I don’t do my civic duty to capture it here and now, it could become lost before future generations can enjoy.

This is one of those stories that require the reader to have two important skills. The first being the ability to visualize every detail, and the second to play it in their mind as fast as possible again and again in order to appreciate what Tim’s friend was feeling.

Tim’s neighbor is this guy who’s married. The spouse apparently has two strange attributes that are found in more and more people these days. First of all, she enjoys exotic animals. Secondly, she considers her pet children. This latter point is an absolute necessity for keeping in the forefront of your mind as the events unravel. It’s fairly clear, however, that this couple isn’t exactly always on the same page and was perhaps the role model couple for War of the Roses.

The wife happens to own a parrot. Not just any parrot, but a really exotic, expensive one. It’s huge, it’s got long colorful feathers, it knows several tricks, and it talks. Perhaps so much so it pisses the husband off, but there’s not a thing he can do about it.

Things go pretty well for the first decade or so with the parrot. Strong and impressive these creatures, they have a very long life span. Once you get a parrot, you pretty much have him for life. They have their own personality, and this woman adopted him in her mind as if he were a child, babying it and babbling right back at it.

Over a period of several months they noticed that the parrot was developing a wart on its beak. The parrot was impressive, but the newly formed blemish was just something the woman couldn’t tolerate.

Skipping the details of getting the parrot to the vet, it turns out the wart was benign and could easily be removed via a surgical procedure. Leaving the wart on, however, would pose no health risk to the bird.

Debate ensued between the couple about whether or not hard earned money should be spent on such frivolous things such as cosmetic fowl wart removal for peer acceptance.

Infuriated by his uncompassionate logic and that he refused to look upon this screeching imitator as his own flesh and blood, she stood her ground until eventually he consented to paying for the operation for peace of mind alone.

The day for the operation arrived, and the couple took the parrot to the vet (do I even need to mention he was coerced into attending to provide moral support for the bird).

“It’s actually quite a simple procedure,” explained the vet. “First we knock out the bird, then we cauterize the wart, and then cut it off. Your bird will be as good as new in a couple of hours.”

The couple was nervous (who are we kidding, she was nervous). “You can be there for the whole thing, it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes,” added the vet to reassure them further.

So, everyone went into the little operating room.

First they gave the bird an injection, and the bird started acting drunk, then sleepy, and eventually plopped over.

“Where can I get a vial of that stuff?” asked the man. Sure, the vet smiled, but his wife merely shot him the look from hell. Taking his cue, he shut up.

The vet reached over and grabbed a wand-like device, which was used for pumping electricity from the tip to a point of contact. He slowly leaned over the bird, and touched it to the wart.

It turns out the step the vet skipped was to check the machine delivering the amperage. He thought the nurse set it. She thought he had.

The next set of events can only be truly appreciated in slow motion…

The moment the wand got near the bird, in the first few nanoseconds an arc jumped from the tip of the wand to the bird’s wart making a bright blue crack. All the bird’s muscles contracted at once. So much so in fact, that all the bird’s feathers shot out in an instantaneous Technicolor explosion as high as the ceiling. Milliseconds later the bird, somehow woken by the event, vaporized, though not before getting off some kind of parrot like squawk.

Rewind. Normal speed.

POOF! There was an astounding cracking arc that illuminated the whole room, just as a squawk was followed by a bang as the bird exploded into thousands of feathers, large and small. Every color of the rain forest started falling around them, as if by magic happy fairies. Apparently parrots have tiny feathers under the big ones and they take quite a while to fall.

For a moment there was silence as the vet was still frozen there in time, electrode hovering over the empty space where the parrot had just transported to the Enterprise. “I’ve never seen it do that before. Cool.” And the nurse, trying to conceal giggles, was tapping the machine commenting “oops.” The husband did the only thing he could do, he doubled over and laughing his ass off.

Apparently, that’s where Tim came into the picture. The husband was looking for a sofa to sleep on that night and was willing to trade the tale of the day’s events for lodging.

Did I mention the eye drops?

You know, in the grand scheme of things, I don’t mind the horse pills at all.

‘Why?’ might you ask.

The answer is that I have to have special eye drops to clear up this acute case of pink eye. Two drops, each eye, three times a day.

Now, let the record stand that when it comes to eye drops, I’m just a plain old sissy. Yes, if you’ve ever put in contacts you’re a bigger man than I. Even if you’re a woman.

For some reason, whenever my eye even gets the remotest inkling that something’s about to enter it, it shuts. I’ve tried it with everything from drops to my finger. And let me tell you, the latter hurt.

Even if I know it’s good for me. Even if I know it’s just liquid. Even if I’ve done it dozens of times before, it doesn’t matter. I go into super squint mode and can’t get the drops in.

Oh sure, I’ve tried to trick the eye. Super speed or even volume. No dice. Squirt something at it, and it all gets stuck in those super thick lashes of mine.

Since Tamara’s asleep trying to recover from the plague I just foisted on her as a present for driving me to the doctor, I opted to let her sleep and have Michele H. do it instead.

First the was the approach. The kids have been pissing her off something feirce today. I thought it was just my illness, but all of them have been trying people’s nerves for the last two days. I suppose it’s nature’s way of saying Thanksgiving Hell is almost upon us. If this were a Buffy episode, it’d be entitled “From the dinner table, it devours.”

Michele was just more than eager to go fiddling (good enough f word as another, I guess) with someone’s eyes at this point. Her near-zero resistance to the idea should have immediately put me at bay.

However, 5:00pm and and I needed drops.

I sat back in a little metal folding chair and scenes from Clockwork Orange flushed over me. Now I know she worked in a doctor’s office, but she didn’t have to be enjoying this so much.

I informed her of my little optical phobia and she knew just the trick.

Gently she inserted her claws prying my eyes open, while skillfully with the other hand unleashing a tide of burning fluid.

Well, that’s what the eye thought. I’m sure the actual even was quite peaceful and involved a cooling sensation at the end of it somewhere.

Anyhow, when I came to, and the laughing and pointing stopped, Michele handed me back the bottle and went back to dealing with minors.

Marni, once again, came up to inform me that I looked no better off than Godzilla himself. My beat red eyes were just a thing of fasination with her.

The only problem was, if mom was allowed to play with Walt’s eyes… why wasn’t she?

I can’t help but think I now have to start watching my back, especially when I sleep. Come to think of it, that’s good advice handed off to me by Chris long, long ago. Right after he burned my house down with plastic-wrap.