Aw, but Jessie

Being able to watch your dog throughout the painful hours during which the two of you cannot be together just isn’t enough for some of you, who demand even closer and more intimate communication. Luckily technology has once again caught up with, or possibly even raced ahead of, your expectations and demands, and the resulting must-have is puppy tweets. (In fact, the product isn’t available everywhere just yet, but you’d better line up and order now, because these babies are gonna be flyin’ off the shelves.)

And just exactly what are you stepping up to pre-order? Why, over 500 of your pet’s favorite phrases! But it’s so much more than that, because these phrases get delivered directly to your pet's own Twitter site! Triggered by motion, this electronic dog tag generates messages each time your dog stretches, sneezes, yawns, barks, breaks wind, falls asleep, scratches itself or indulges in a rousing session of oral gratification, not to mention those moments of mailman-induced frenzy.

Imagine the possibilities! Say you’re in a meeting at work: things get a little dullish, you decide it’s time for a sly visit to Twitter…only to discover that Buster's day has been much more productive than yours. Or maybe not; maybe there's just been a whole lotta sleep going on. Either way, you're in the know. To no one’s surprise, dogs are naturals at this, and their tweets seem effortless. Ad copy actually suggests inviting friends and family to follow one’s pet on Twitter, and, hey, why not, when the dog’s making witty suggestions like getting sparkling water for the toilet bowl!

Rat in me kitchen

Got up this morning, went into the kitchen to make coffee, opened the cupboard and found an early Valentine’s gift from better half perched beside the mugs.
















Wasn’t he sweet, hiding them like that for maximum early morning enjoyment? This man is fluent in the language of love, let me tell you. And over the years he’s taught me enough that I, too, am capable of making the occasional romantic gesture, which is why he’ll be getting a love coupon book after dinner tonight.

‘Course, I removed all the coupons for things like back rubs, lap dances and snuggling. Hey, there are still three “control television all day” coupons, several that are good for a full-house vacuum, and one offering 50% off on a sincere show of empathy, so he still got the better end of this deal.

Parts is parts

I’m heaving a massive sigh of relief, emphasis on the heaving, after spending a long weekend with my crazy, cat-loving Great-Aunt Gertrude. So glad we do this only once a year! Trudi, as she’s called by her closest personal friends (i.e. what she calls herself) is a kind and gentle soul, an animal lover and only child who tells hilarious stories about her childhood, wears dramatically mis-applied make-up, and can make even the dullest of events memorable, but not always in a good way. Her love for animals doesn’t diminish her craving for their flesh, which has led to some meals that I’ll simply refer to as unfortunate and regretful as I try to re-introduce real food to my system.

See, the problem is, the older Gertrude gets, the stranger her meat-replacements are becoming. On our first evening together she proudly set down what appeared to be a cheese-topped casserole. I hoped it was macaroni, and bravely took a bite. The texture, the flavor, the immediate unwillingness to swallow—I couldn’t even wait until she turned her head to make use of my napkin. “What are we eating?” I gasped, reaching for a water glass.


















“Tender bits,” she said brightly.

“Of what?” I asked, then quickly said, “Never mind!” because I truly didn’t want to know, remembering where I was. And when I saw the can in the garbage as I was helping clean up, I pushed it down as far as possible so as to resist the temptation to read the ingredient list.

On the second night things seemed initially more promising. Dinner seemed to consist of some breaded meat patties, mashed potatoes, and a vegetable. But this was clearly impossible; if you knew Gertrude, you’d realize that she’d never eat anything so pedestrian. I started picking at my potatoes and vegetable, hoping for the best. “Don’t forget to finish your choplets, or you won’t get dessert,” Trudi said curtly. “Clean plate club.”


















But I refrained from club membership and didn’t get any tofu pie that night. Aww.

For our final meal together I begged her to let me take her to a restaurant. “My treat!” I said, hungrily, unable to face another canned meat substitute. “Anywhere you like!” But she wanted none of it; she’d planned something special and couldn’t be dissuaded.

She spent the afternoon in the kitchen, humming loudly amidst the sound of the electric can opener, ignoring the smoke alarm’s repeated bleats. Later she came out of the kitchen a little unsteadily, bearing a large, steaming platter. All her cats came near the table and meowed demandingly. I kept trying to slip them parts of my meal under the table, but Trudi got all hawk-eyed on me and finally said, “If you don’t want the hostess cuts, fine, but don’t give it to the cats. It gives them the runs.”

Turns out I didn’t want the hostess cuts. In fact, I spent about an hour afterwards in the bathroom trying to brush that hostess cut flavor out of my mouth, while Gertrude prepared me a little doggie bag of leftovers to bring home to better half, along with her love. Even the raccoons won’t touch it.

Inside outside leave me alone

Went to the store this morning and had the displeasure of ending up in line behind a woman who, for some reason, insisted on facing me/the back of the store, rather than standing in the direction of line motion and goal achievement. Worse, she just stood there staring at me, seemingly oblivious to my increasing discomfort. There are unspoken rules in our society, many of which involve body placement and direction, and most of the time we assume that everyone's read the same rule book, but, as usual, we're wrong.

In order to avoid conversation and eye contact (since the only thing I had to say was, “Hey, how about turning around?”), I suddenly became “captivated” by various items for sale in the checkout line. It’s always interesting to see the stuff they think we’re going to want at the last minute, isn’t it? The sewing kits, lip balm, razors, tape—it’s all there for a carefully reasoned point, folks; this ain’t accidental marketing. Possibly, then, you can imagine my surprise when I curiously picked up what turned out to be

a hemorrhoid treatment device, then read the packaging label. This little guy is used to massage internal hemorrhoids, which apparently calms them and reduces their size—and I sincerely wish I’d stopped right there. But I’m one of those “no paragraph unturned” readers, and besides, Mrs. Social Gaffe was still staring at me, possibly more intently now than ever, and so I persevered.

And thusly learned that another suggested use for this handy piece of rubbery plastic is doing incontinence and kegel exercises. For the next several moments my mind made frantic, yet feeble, attempts at un-reading, forgetting, erasing. My admittedly limited knowledge of hemorrhoids and incontinence (ignorance is bliss, baby!) involves two bodily orifices that would not be happy sharing the same piece of white plastic. Ever.

Luckily, that’s when the clerk finally said “Ma’am?” signaling my queue companion that her opportunity to make a financial transaction had arrived. This caused her to turn away from me at last, fascinating as I am, which is when I quickly replaced the item on its little metal display hook and noticed that the man in line behind me was also intently interested in my purchasing decisions. Just another reason why I love me some shopping. But this time I had to say thanks, but no thanks.

Ashes to ashes

Today my niece becomes a teenager, and as I wish her well and look back to my own teen years, the first thing that comes to mind is this terrible woman who had the unfortunate task of teaching me what was called “Language Arts” the year I was 13 (and fully convinced that I’d already mastered the language and all its arts). She somehow managed to include the phrase “Neil Diamond” in every sentence of our grammar homework, every day. She sported visible dandruff, immense amounts of polyester, terrible shoes, and my intense scorn for an entire school year. Worst of all, she kept this jar on the corner of her desk. To scare us, I assumed.

I was fully convinced that she wanted me to become part of her collection, especially because I managed to make fun of Neil Diamond in every writing assignment, and managed a few sly remarks about the way dandruff shows up on polyester in an improvised speech. Even now, when I hear the phrase, “Those who can’t do, teach,” this individual pops into my head. I assume that when she retired—for she’s surely retired by now—she returned those ashes to the parents of hundreds of obnoxious teenagers throughout the area. Frankly, I’m still relieved to have escaped her clutches. Meanwhile, Happy Birthday to a special girl.