Yes, We Have No Burnett's

The moment one learns English, complications set in. — Felipe Alfau

Somehow, certainly not by careful design, much of my worklife has been spent communicating with others by telephone. In my younger days, I was an employee of the good old Bell System, back when people could choose between telephones with buttons or dials. When I began working there, no one had a cell phone & nearly every household had landline service. Subscribers in rural areas could still get party lines.

When it was time for the Christmas holidays (Remember those? We were able to say "Merry Christmas" back then without offending anyone), I would volunteer to work the skeleton crew so that most of my co-workers could leave early on Christmas Eve. We didn't get many calls on that day anyway, and I'd get to leave early on New Year's Eve as a trade-off. I recall one Christmas Eve when I got a call late in the afternoon from an elderly woman.

She was in a nursing home and was being moved to another room. She needed to get her phone service moved as quickly as possible, because they were moving her that very day. When I told her we could not move her phone until the following week, she immediately started wailing. She sounded so frail.

"Oh, Lord! You got to move it today, else I won't be able to talk to my family on Christmas!"

I felt quite bad for her, but the technicians were booked solid, and only emergency orders had a hope of being worked the following week. I was already expediting her order because of the circumstances.

She continued to whine and moan, and I did feel sorry for her. I had questions, though, and said "I'm so sorry the nursing home is moving you to a different room with no warning. That's very unusual."

"Mmmm, well, yes. I suppose so."

"Why are they doing that?"

"It's this lady I'm in this room with. It's all her fault! She keep worrying me & worrying me. And when I hit her, they move ME!"

There's always more than meets the eye. Here she was acting pitiful, and she'd just been caught beating up her roommate. I told her her service would be moved at the end of the following week, and wished her a Merry Christmas.


Wilton, circa 1750-1753
The photographs on this post are of Wilton, a plantation house owned by the prominent Randolph family. Yes, Morris & I were out exploring again. It was a chilly day with drizzling rain, so the pictures look a little gloomy. I decided to be adventurous and play around with some button called picnik. Usually, I limit photo manipulation to cropping and adjusting the contrast, but I experimented with some of the more mundane picnik features this time. I didn't want my pictures to look too freaky.

Front view of Wilton
It took a lot of money and many slaves to support the lavish lifestyle of the landed gentry in Old Virginia. By the time a few generations had passed, the economic climate had changed. The last of the Randolph family to live there was Robert, who died in 1859. Here's what a northern visitor in 1833 had to say about the house:
"...spacious wainscoted rooms, high ceilings, broad staircases and fine hall give you a very magnificent idea of the grandeur of the former proprietor who so long ago had an establishment that wants for nothing but a fitting up, to vie with modern elegance. But such ruin! - Broken down fences, a falling piazza, defaced paint, banisters tied up with ropes etc. etc. - the general aspect of the house is that of forlorn ruin."

Center Hall at Wilton
The illicit photo of the interior was snapped when our guide, Tom, dashed off to the bathroom before we began our tour. Honestly, what is it with us Americans? You can go to Europe and practically lick the walls of 12th Century structures, but over here we act like something 100 years old will turn to dust if it's looked at cross-eyed. Photography, with or without flash, was not allowed inside the house.

One of the most striking qualities of Wilton is that the entire interior is elegantly paneled - even the closets. The early Randolphs were very wealthy indeed, and the house reflects their importance in colonial society. But consider this: hot, humid summers + no window screens + mosquitos. Sure, the place looks great now that it's renovated, but in its heyday on a summer night it would have been filled with a bunch of hot itchy sweaty malarial rich people. I'll happily accept reduced circumstances with window screens & air-conditioning.

Rear view of Wilton
Zooming back to current times, I once again find myself in a job that requires a good amount of telephone conversation. The wonderful thing about answering the AA hotline is that you never know what to expect. It is quite common for callers to pay no attention to what we say when we answer the phone, and we do get a lot of wrong numbers since ours is one digit different than a local television station's phone number. I fielded calls all day when the nation's TV stations went digital two summers ago. I finally started telling callers that unless their television was causing them to get drunk, I could not help them.

The previous office manager told me a story that still makes me grin. It goes something like this. She answered the phone one day with the usual "Alcoholics Anonymous, how can I help you?"
"Uh, yeah, my wife handed me this number and told me to call it. Who did you say this is?"
"Alcoholics Anonymous."
"F%CKING BITCH!!!" (shouted to someone in background as the call was disconnected)

The Chesterfield Apartments
Richmond's first AA meeting was held here in June, 1943
A few weeks ago I got a call from a blurry-sounding woman asking a question. After a bit of confusion, I understood that she was asking about a brand of liquor, Burnett's, and whether we stocked it. I told her I couldn't help her.

"This isn't the ABC store??? Who is this?"

"This is Alcoholics Anonymous."

"Huh? Who?"

"This is Alcoholics Anonymous. We're who you call if you want to stop drinking."

"OH MY GOD!!!" she screamed, and slammed the phone down.

Boo, Y'all.

You know what's weird? It just occurred to me that I have no clear memories of the Halloween costumes I wore as a child. I can recall trick-or-treating, and sitting on the living room floor in a sugar-induced stupor surrounded by candy. I remember walking through the neighborhood streets on crisp, dark nights with Jimmy - the boy who lived behind us - our dads following a half-block back, keeping an eye on us. I can even recollect how my plastic Halloween masks felt uncomfortably bumpy & hard, as if they were trying to reshape my face. I just can't remember any of my costumes.

Well, not until I got older. Suzanne had a costume party one time when we were in high school, and I decided to go as a baby. My mother crafted some sort of giant diaper for me out of God knows what, and I carried a rattle. For some reason, I guess because I was half-naked, I decided that I needed a second costume from which I could emerge as a crying baby.

This "travel costume" was a spur of the moment idea, and I blame the outcome on the haste of the execution and the chilly night. It was too cold to ride around in a diaper, so I thought it would be brilliant to arrive in a - well, it just sounds ludicrous now that I think about it.

My mom was very indulgent about letting me select the color of my room, even when I was too young for such weighty responsibility, so when I chose a rancid mustard-gold paint in 4th grade, she cheerfully painted the walls and then told me I would have to live with it. By 7th grade, I was redecorating my room with two white walls & two malachite green walls, black curtains on the white wall & white curtains on the green wall, and black & white shag carpet. A black vinyl swivel chair and an orange beanbag chair provided a venue for conversations with friends and listening to my Jesus Christ Superstar album. After a few years, the beanbag either needed new beans, or -

I decided it would be a lark to show up at Suzanne's door as a beanbag chair. Of course, I needed help. I couldn't drive over there like that. I also needed help getting the beans out of the vinyl beanbag. The beans were really little styrofoam pellets, and my dad produced a spare outdoor trashcan so we could empty out the beanbag. Boy, those little pellets took on a life of their own when they were released from that chair cover. They did not want to settle down in that trashcan, and they flew about & stuck to everything. They also seemed to expand in the cool night air. My dad had to get a second trashcan to hold all of the styrofoam balls, and even then they seemed to spill over the edges like living lava.

I guess it was static electricity that made these little pellets so perky & pesky. Try as we might, we could not get the bag completely cleared of them, but it was time to go to the party so my friends zipped me up in the beanbag, hoisted me into the hatchback of my car, and off we went. The beanbag was really hot inside.

I rolled into the party, someone unzipped the bag, and a cranky baby coated with styrofoam balls wrestled his way out of the chair cover, like an infant turtle struggling free of its leathery egg shell. I'll bet Suzanne's mother was still finding styrofoam pellets when she was moving to a new home several years later.

Sadly, I didn't learn my lesson from this experience. A couple of years later while home on break from college, one of my dorm mates (also home in nearby Norfolk) had a costume party, and I went as a mummy. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to put on a complete set of long underwear and wrap myself in toilet paper. By the end of the evening, all of the toilet paper had fallen off in perforated squares, and I was simply a young man wearing nothing but long underwear in public.

Secret Squirrel

I hope everyone has had a splendid weekend. I did. I was busy both days, and only had time for one short nap. Weekend naps are something I look forward to during the work week. I'm sleepy tonight. I went boating with Sadie this afternoon, and the sun zapped me. Yawn!

Before I head upstairs to bed, I thought I'd share a few photos with you. By now, everyone has probably seen the ground squirrel that photobombed a couple's vacation picture (below). As it turns out, he's been around for awhile. Obviously, he's not camera-shy, but I was surprised to learn that he's been a thread in our nation's fabric since our early days, and still wields power and influence in modern times. He has also visited a couple of my good friends recently. This guy seems to be everywhere!



Here's our furry pal acting as a protocol advisor to President Obama & Michelle on their recent goodwill trip to the Old World. This venture might have been a disaster without his counsel.



Jimi Hendrix would never have played The Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock if not for the urging of this wise marmot.



He was part of the first lunar landing, although some naysayers still claim it was all a ruse. He knows better. He was there.



Passionately devoted to the United States of America when we were still just thirteen ragtag, bickering colonies, few Americans today know that we would never have united as one nation if not for the wise vision he shared with our country's forefathers.



Before you jump to any conclusions, this was not a political endorsement. Our friend was simply foraging for nuts, and he found a really big one.



My friends Suzanne & Brett in Amsterdam were thrilled that he found time to drop in when he was in Europe. They are opening a new shop, La Naranja, in the Kinkerbuurt section of the city. Suzanne told me that he is a whiz at product marketing ideas, and he didn't charge them a thing. They just had to keep their cats outside during the consultation.



My pal Scott will be launching a new art show of his works in September, and confided to me that this little ground squirrel has a keen eye for the best picture placement on the walls of the Nau-Haus Contemporary Gallery in Houston.

Double Feature

Do you ever have one of those days where you think it's another day of the week? On Tuesday I thought it was Thursday. Wednesday I tried to make it be Thursday, also, and it wouldn't. I was in a local grocery store, saw that they had eggs on their daily special for Thursday, and had picked up two dozen before I realized I was a day early for the bargain price. Today I keep thinking it's Friday.

No surprise, then, that I started to name this post Double Feature Friday, but came to my senses before I did so. Our first feature today shows recently discovered archival footage of my pal in Texas, Scott, getting dressed when he was a youngster. It seems he's always been fussy about his appearance.



I've been on an old movie kick lately. Through the advancements in media technology, tons of old films are now available, and the list keeps growing. I went on a Val Lewton junket for awhile. Despite the lurid titles that the studio insisted upon (I Walked with a Zombie, Isle of the Dead, and the like), his movies were actually quite well done. I Walked with a Zombie was a Caribbean version of Jane Eyre, except the mysterious wife was a zombie instead of a madwoman. His Curse of the Cat People, despite its lurid title, is more of a psychological study of childhood fantasies than horror film.

Another movie I enjoyed recently was The House on Telegraph Hill, directed by Robert Wise, starring Valentina Cortesa and Richard Basehart. It was a hybrid film which had elements of film noir and the woman-in-peril genres. Valentina Cortesa swaps her identity with that of a dead friend, and we know that nothing good ever comes from that. How many times did we hear this from our mothers when we were kids: "You may play in the neighborhood for one hour, but remember to look both ways before you cross the street and don't swap identities with any of your dead friends." Bette Davis learned that lesson in Dead Ringer when she murdered her wealthy sister & assumed her identity, and then got nabbed for murder anyway because her sister had killed her own husband.

Now that we've had our Intermission, it's time for our next feature film, Backpacker Cat, which was sent to me by Scott, and I've watched it frequently when I need a calm moment. Laetitia & Guillaume, a French couple, began a walking trip in October 2008 from Miami to the tip of South America. In Louisiana, they found a stray kitten in the middle of the road, and Kitty has been with them on their journey ever since.

I just love this clip.

What's your point, Vivian?

I ran away from home on Friday, and ended up in New York. The days were peaceful, the vistas clean & serene, and the nights were so quiet that I slept the deep sleep of the carefree man. Most mornings I was up before the sun, and my companions were deer, muskrat, and heron. "New York?" you exclaim. Well, yes, there is more to New York than Manhattan. I was Sadie's guest at her summer home in the Thousand Islands region.

It took quite awhile to get there, but the time spent was well worth it. I love traveling to see new places, especially in the company of friends. Sherry, Robespierre, and I made the journey together, and we returned to Richmond late last night. Sadie's place is on the St. Lawrence River just west of Alexandria Bay. Her cottage is adjacent a the tiny resort settlement on Point Vivian. I'm including several photographs of my daily sightings, all taken from Sadie's porch, dock, or yard. I hope you like them, because I took a lot of pictures, so more are sure to follow. The first snapshot shows my first dawn from Sadie's dock. The second is a view of sunset the same day.



Here's the cottage as seen from the boathouse & dock. Sadie's dad built it in the mid-70's, and subsequent additions expanded the home to a spacious house with plenty of room for guests.


The town of Alexandria Bay is just a ten-minute boat ride (or a couple of miles by land) from Sadie's house. Within walking distance is Point Vivian, a charming resort community established in the late 1800's. I was curious about this hamlet, so Sadie pulled out a booklet about Point Vivian which was written by her Aunt Louise. Louise Gaylord Cooke now makes the old family summer house her permanent home in the riverside neighborhood, and I learned about the history of this settlement from her carefully researched efforts. Bear with me while I share this information with you.

Now known as Point Vivian, the cluster of resort cottages originally had no name. It was just a grouping of small Victorian homes built by inland friends & neighbors who wished to have relief from the summer heat. Little did they know how things would heat to the boiling point in their peaceful enclave.

In the mid-1880's, one of the original residents, Pastor Josiah Clatterbuck, died of a heart attack while fishing one morning. His wife, Vivian, decided to make their small cottage her permanent home. She bade tearful farewells to her summer neighbors when they departed at season's end, and promised to greet them the following summer. Vivian's neighbors told her that they worried about her spending the winter on the isolated point, but her resolve was firm and she steadfastly refused to return to her inland town. She said she was ready to move forward with her life, and she needed to embrace the changes that God was unfolding day by day.

Vivian's lady friends wrote to her frequently throughout the harsh winter, fretting about her safety & comfort. They were relieved when Vivian replied that many of the local fishermen stopped in to provide her with freshly caught food, and even removed the snow & ice from her paths and performed household maintenance. The pastor's widow's melancholy was lifting, and letters began hinting at a gaiety of spirit that Vivian had never dared reveal with her dour husband at her elbow.

Time passed, as it is wont to do, and the summer residents returned to the lovely point on the St. Lawrence River. As their carriages rumbled through the woods toward the shoreline, the view of the blue water was interrupted by a flash of bright color. Vivian had painted her house pink!

Even Vivian's outhouse was pink, and a wraparound porch had been added to the house. And there was Vivian, emerging from the outhouse like the sun bursting over the horizon! Gone were the dark mourning gown and shabby black cloak Vivian had worn when her neighbors last saw her at the end of summer. Her clothing was more brilliant than a peacock's plumage. Indeed, it looked like a peacock had sacrificed its life for the enormous hat that adorned Vivian's head.

The summer villagers did not know what to make of these changes in their quiet friend. The women could not rouse her for their quilting bees or scrapbooking soirees until late afternoon. Candles seemed to burn behind Vivian's new garish draperies (tightly drawn) into the wee hours of the morning. Vivian's soft titter had transformed into a braying laugh that startled small children and horses.

Vivian's former benefactors, the local fishermen, were sulky, and hinted that Vivian had no use for them now that the millionaires had returned to their nearby islands. Indeed, a new hundred-foot dock had appeared near the store, and the pleasure craft of the seasonal wealthys crowded out the modest skiffs of the common folk. Nighttime seemed endless, for laughter and piano music throbbed from Vivian's pink cottage until the neighbors had to slam their windows shut for any hope of rest.

The ladies of the town, although dismayed, did their best to take a charitable view of Vivian's behavior. The poor thing had gone mad over the lonely winter, they whispered, and she would settle down soon enough now that her neighbors had returned. They would take her back to the interior of Jefferson County when summer ended. For the time being, they would do their best to ignore the liquor bottles that littered Vivian's flowerbeds.

Beneficence turned to ire, however, when the ladies' own husbands began 'taking walks' late at night, returning home at unholy hours, and giggling in their sleep. Mrs. Rhutan found a rouge stain on an article of her husband's clothing of which she claimed only she, he, and God should have any familiarity. After a hastily arranged quilting bee at Mrs. Garlock's cottage, the women marched down to Mr. Henry's store to confer with him. Mr. Henry, a fussy man, placed the 'closed' sign in his window, and led the ladies upstairs to the town's meeting room above his shop. Plans were made over the next three hours.

About two weeks later, the supplies were received by Mr. Henry's store. The ladies insisted that Vivian join them for an afternoon picnic, and served her morphine tea. Meanwhile, Mr. Henry entered the pink house, a small box in hand, and laced all of Vivian's liquor bottles liberally with laudanum. The ladies returned to the point, and deposited drowsy Vivian on her fainting couch. Later that evening, the laughter and music from Vivian & the men died down quickly.

The ladies, aided by Mr. Henry, circumnavigated the slumbering husbands & millionaires, and carried Vivian down to the dock. The firewood was already arranged in the hull of the wooden skiff, and the lamp oil was at hand. Vivian was placed atop the wood, the flames were lit, and Mr. Henry gave the boat a robust shove into the swift current. Vivian raised her head briefly and croaked "What's the point?" before falling back into her stupor.

No more was heard. The band of villagers watched silently from the dock. The breeze on the water encouraged a merry blaze, and soon Vivian & her pyre disappeared behind Gypsy Island.

The next morning, the energetic women - every last woman in town - assembled in front of the pink house. Under the firm direction of their wives, the chastened men set to work with ladder & bucket. The women barked orders to their spouses, and tidied up the yard. The interior of the house was cleaned from top to bottom. The liquor bottles, indoor & out, empty or full, were tossed in a little donkey cart which Mr. Henry supplied. The piano was carried to the store, and hauled upstairs to the town meeting room (where it can still be seen today). By the end of the afternoon, the pink house was a crisp white, but the ladies decided that the outhouse should remain pink. The women slept easily that night, and the men got whatever rest they could manage with one eye open.

And that is how Point Vivian got its name.

Today, I try to use my imagination for good, not evil. Therefore, I must tell you that this story is my own fabrication. I found no reference in Louise Gaylord Cooke's brief history of Point Vivian concerning the origin of its name, so I just did the best I could. I hope you enjoyed it. The story was inspired by the marvelous snippets of historical arcana which you will find at Lidian's Virtual Dime Museum. Admission is free; go take a look.

Come back for more tales from the Thousand Islands. Some of them may be true. At least the pictures won't lie. Here are a few more for your enjoyment...


That's Sadie's dock & boathouse above.

Sadie & Robespierre braved the chilly waters, while Sherry & I remained on dry land.




Although we were at leisure, we had occasional reminders that the St. Lawrence River is a workplace for some.



And here I am, Day One, looking a bit stunned that I am sitting on the dock of the bay before the sun has broken the horizon.


p.s. Sheldon told me that this is the worst picture of me that he has ever seen. Sweet of him, huh? What does he expect for a 5a.m. photo before a shower, shave, and second cup of coffee...sheesh!

Other People's Lives

On a couple of recent weekends, I indulged in a beloved pastime which is free and readily accessible these days. The only cost is transportation, and that needn't be much if you stay close to home. It can also be fun for the whole family, as long as everyone (including adults) is well behaved. I have memories of my parents & I doing this from time to time.

One Saturday in February, Constance & I were out roaming in the car. We rode to Southside, which is not a town, but rather the part of Richmond that is located south of the James River. Our main goal was to snap a picture of a particular backyard that has a lot of lawn clutter, but we also stopped at Southside Plaza to visit a thrift shop that Constance likes. Southside Plaza is a collection of struggling retail shops from the glory days of the American Shopping Center. You can buy groceries, get short-term loans using your automobile or anticipated paychecks as collateral, purchase other people's flotsam & jetsam, or eat unidentifiable animal meat at your choice of dubious restaurants. If your timing is right, you can also get a stab wound or a bullet through your head in the parking lot.

Note to tourists: See the photograph to the right? If you are visiting Virginia and Monticello's surroundings look like this, you are not at Thomas Jefferson's home. You are in the parking lot at Southside Plaza looking at a church across Route 360. Get back in your car.

Anyway, on our rambles, we ended up in the West End, and an English cottage-style home that I find intriguing had a sign out front stating that the house would be open for inspection the following day. This house has been on the market for several months, so I made a mental note of the time for the open house. I'm not in the market for a new home; I'm just nosy. The following day my friend John & I went by for a look. On the way there, we noticed that there were signs everywhere for open houses, so we looked through four that day. What a fun way to spend an afternoon. And it's free! You don't even need to think up a tale to tell the realtor; just tell them you're sightseeing. They can spot us a mile away, anyway, and they'll be more likely to leave you alone. I've included a few pictures. You can browse without leaving your home, and if you are looking for something to do next weekend, check out some homes in your own area.

Here's the English Cottage on Oak Lane, which features rolled eaves on the shingle roof, a popular conceit meant to evoke the thatched roofs of Merry Old England. This style, and its cousin, Tudor Revival, were quite popular in the first half of the last century.


All the rooms were empty. I'll bet the realtor gnashed her teeth when the departing family refused to get rental furniture at their new home until this one sold.


The house had interesting woodwork, custom cut in a rustic style. Most of the closets were built as add-ins, which I am sure was deliberate since closets were customary at the time the house was built. I was especially drawn to the odd convergence of ceiling and closet doors shown below, and the small rounded door inside the closet which led to a storage room in a gable.


The next picture shows a bit of a third floor master bathroom in another home on our afternoon tour. This house was in the Museum District on West Franklin Street, and looked like a typical dwelling from the front. Inside, detailed wood trim work abounded. The house had an English basement, where the original kitchen was located at the back of the building. There was also a new ubiquitous granite & stainless steel kitchen on the first floor, which lacked the practicality of the old kitchen, but would be far more convenient for a midnight snack than schlepping down to the cellar.

From the master bedroom on the second floor, you took a narrow staircase from the dressing room up to the bathroom pictured. This was truly a destination bathroom, because after trudging up those stairs in the middle of the night to pee, I'd be tempted to curl up in the soaking tub for the rest of the night.



The following Saturday found me at a new development called Rockett's Landing after brunch with Jean & Bruce. I took a few photographs there, too, so stay tuned to Planet Bill, and I'll be back with more open house adventures.

Oh, and here is a picture of the yard that started this whole romp. These folks have an unbelievable amount of stuff in their backyard, but their front yard is neat and orderly. That would seem sensible, except you have a clear view of the backyard from a major thoroughfare, and you can't see the front yard at all unless you drive into the neighborhood. I can't wait to see what they cram into their yard when the weather gets warm.

Scary Mary

My car was covered with snow when I left home this morning. Fortunately, I was expecting this, so I allowed extra time. According to Scott, we will have have another six months of winter. This will be a long day, because tonight I have a monthly work-related meeting that usually keeps me at the office until ten o'clock.

I went to bed early so that I'd be rested today. I watched a documentary about Abe & Mary Lincoln before I nodded off. I usually read when I go to bed, but I'm working on a humongous book right now that could kill or paralyze me if it dropped on my head when I start drowsing. There's something about reading or watching a movie that works on me like Sleeping Beauty's spindle. It's great to be able to fall asleep quickly, compared to the tossing & turning I used to experience. The pitfall is that I regularly turn an ordinary feature-length film into a mini-series. It gets a little aggravating, especially since I should be getting these things back in the mail to Netflix as quickly as possible. I've been watching this daggone Lincoln chronicle for over a week now. It makes no difference how interesting it is, either. Ten, fifteen minutes tops, and I'm adrift in the wooden shoe with Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.

I saw my share of movies when I was little, but my parents did not take me to every children's movie that hit the big screen. I remember loving Disney's The Jungle Book and The Aristocats. Also That Darned Cat!, The Shaggy Dog, and The Absent-Minded Professor. Doctor Dolittle seemed like the movie that would never end, but maybe Anthony Newley annoyed the hell out of me even as a child.

Swiss Family Robinson made me look at my treehouse with a critical eye. Why couldn't I live in a treehouse like the Robinson family? Where was my giant water wheel? I had to go to the garden hose to get water. My treehouse seemed mundane after seeing that movie. And instead of an ostrich, I had an ordinary old beagle.

There were quite a few movies that I didn't see until I became an adult. Bambi, for example, and Sleeping Beauty. I still haven't seen Pinocchio, believe it or not. I didn't see Mary Poppins until a few years ago. Perhaps my parents thought it was too dark. I can understand that, after looking at the trailer below.

Thai Hot & Spicy Conversation

Sigh.

It's nice to be home on a cold, damp night. This has been an Alice Through the Looking Glass week at work. The faster I go, I still manage to end the day in the same place. Tuesday night I went straight from the office to a monthly service meeting, which was all the more fun because our Local Lunatic was in attendance.

After the meeting, I met my friend Constance at Chadar Thai for dinner. Chadar is a pleasant restaurant operated by a tiny & attractive couple. The food is excellent; exquisitely prepared and presented. It was nice to relax after the busy day and the evening meeting.

Both Constance & I ordered our food "Thai hot." The proprietors offer varying levels of spiciness with most food selections: mild, medium, American hot, and Thai hot. As we ate, we chatted, and somehow (the economy? Job lay-offs? Dashed dreams?) the conversation wended its way to a friend of Constance's who lives in New York City.

Her friend had moved to the big city, armed with a degree in fashion design, and even though she found work with top designers, it was difficult to make a living. Finally, in desperation, Constance's friend turned to an unusual method of supplementing her meager income. She discovered that, with a minimum of expense and effort, she could consistently earn a living wage just by going through her usual daily activities. All she had to do at the end of the day was pop her soiled panties in an envelope, and send them through US mail to buyers found via an advertisement in a men's magazine.

Of course, most fetishists have specific ideas about what is compelling, so our NY Girl would have to wear thong underwear one day, and big girl cotton panties the next. When demand exceeded supply, she would entreat friends to "wear these when you go jogging," and provide them with a pair of underwear. Apparently, she developed a steady clientele.

Well, talk about thinking outside the box! With the economy near collapse, and the job market in flux, it's nice to know that there are always opportunities for quick cash if you're willing to lick an envelope. It's best not to think about what happens when the envelope gets opened, however.

How Fights Start

A friend sent me the following, so I thought I'd pass it along. I'd heard some of these before; you probably have, too. But, let's face it, your memory ain't what it used to be. By the way, where am I?

Oh, wait! Before I forget, a woman who recently started coming to the early morning meeting picked up a thirty-day chip today. For my Earth-people readers, most AA meetings give out tokens in recognition of consecutive days in sobriety. At my very first meeting, a guy picked up a thirty-day chip, and I wanted to be just like him. Experts are still trying to figure out how in the heck one-thousand nights can be crammed into those first thirty days. That's how it feels, anyway.

So, at the end of the meeting this woman comes up to me and says "You're the Bill who answers the phone line? I was hoping I'd meet you one day. Can I give you a hug?" Of course I said no. Are you kidding? I gave her a big hug and thanked her, and congratulated her on her thirty days. What a way to start my day!

I rarely meet the people I've talked to, so I was grateful to hear that she is doing well. She said she was scared when she called, but I was encouraging and humorous. Note to self: be that way on all calls, even when you're swamped. I know that when these folks call, the phone receiver seems to weigh one thousand pounds. It is so difficult to admit we need help.

When I got to work this morning, one of the first things on my list was making a deposit at the bank across the street. Unless I'm depositing a million dollars, which hasn't happened yet, I walk to the bank. Today, when I went out the front door, there was a hullabaloo in the street. An SUV was straddling the median, windows blown out, one tire flat, and had sustained quite a bit of body damage. Glass was all over the street, along with a prone traffic light pole. I guess someone was in a hurry to get to work this morning, but they had been hauled off, either to a hospital or jail.

Oh, I promised to share the information on how fights start. Here you go...

My wife sat down on the couch next to me as I was flipping channels. She asked, 'What's on TV?' I said, 'Dust.' And then the fight started...

My wife was hinting about what she wanted for our upcoming anniversary. She said, 'I want something shiny that goes from 0 to 150 in about 3 seconds.' I bought her a scale. And then the fight started...

After retiring, I went to the Social Security office to apply for Social Security. The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver's license to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later. The woman said, 'Unbutton your shirt'. So I opened my shirt revealing my curly silver hair. She said, 'That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me' and she processed my Social Security application. When I got home, I excitedly told my wife about my experience at the Social Security office. She said, 'You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten disability, too.' And then the fight started...

My wife and I were sitting at a table at my high school reunion, and I kept staring at a drunken lady swigging her drink as she sat alone at a nearby table. My wife asked, 'Do you know her? ''Yes,' I sighed, 'she’s my old girlfriend. I understand she took to drinking right after we split up those many years ago, and I hear she hasn't been sober since . ''My God!' says my wife, 'who would think a person could go on celebrating that long?' And then the fight started...

I took my wife to a restaurant. The waiter, for some reason, took my order first. "I'll have the strip steak, medium rare, please." He said, "Aren't you worried about the mad cow?" "Nah, she can order for herself." And then the fight started...

A woman is standing nude, looking in the bedroom mirror. She is not happy with what she sees and says to her husband, 'I feel horrible; I look old, fat and ugly. I really need you to pay me a compliment. 'The husband replies, 'Your eyesight's damn near perfect.' And then the fight started...

I asked my wife to buy a case of Miller Light for $14.95. Instead, she bought a jar of cold cream for $7.95. I told her the beer would make her look better at night than the cold cream. And then the fight started...

My wife asked me if a certain dress made her butt look big. I told her not as much as the dress she wore yesterday and then the fight started...

A man and a woman were asleep like two innocent babies. Suddenly, at 3 o'clock in the morning, a loud noise came from outside. The woman jumped up from the bed and yelled at the man 'Holy crap. That must be my husband!' So the man jumped out of the bed, scared & naked, and jumped out the window. He smashed himself on the ground, ran through a thorn bush and to his car as fast as he could go. A few minutes later he returned and went up to the bedroom and screamed at the woman, 'I AM your husband!' The woman yelled back, 'Yeah, then why were you running?' And then the fight started...

Saturday morning I got up early, quietly dressed, made my lunch, grabbed the dog, and slipped quietly into the garage. I hooked up the boat up to the truck, and proceeded to back out into a torrential downpour. The wind was blowing 50 mph, so I pulled back into the garage, turned on the radio, and discovered that the weather would be bad all day. I went back into the house, quietly undressed, and slipped back into bed. I cuddled up to my wife's back, now with a different anticipation, and whispered, 'The weather out there is terrible.' My loving wife of 10 years replied, 'Can you believe my stupid husband is out fishing in that?' And then the fight started ...

I asked my wife, "Where do you want to go for our anniversary?" It warmed my heart to see her face melt in sweet appreciation. "Somewhere I haven't been in a long time!" she said. So I suggested, "How about the kitchen ?" And that's when the fight started...

My wife and I were watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire while we were in bed. I turned to her and said, "Do you want to have sex?" "No," she answered. I then said, "Is that your final answer?" She didn't even look at me this time, simply saying "Yes." So I said, "Then I'd like to phone a friend." And that's when the fight started...

Update on the traffic light out front: when I escaped for lunch at 2:20 this afternoon, there was a new pole already in place. I'm surprised they were able to replace it so quickly.

Obnoxious Teens

By and large, my friends & I were fairly tame in our high school years. We didn't drink alcohol or smoke dope. We didn't vandalize people's property. We did, however, engage in pesky pranks from time to time. No animals were harmed in the commission of these acts.

Sometimes the tomfoolery was directed at a friend. Our pal Charlotte, for example, had a part time job at Jack-in-the-Box, and this low-end eatery boasted one of the first drive-thru windows in our area. When we knew that Charlotte was working the window, we'd pull up to the speaker and place a large order. When she had carefully recorded our long list of sub-standard fast food and asked if there would be anything else, we'd scream "...and a Charlotte shake" and scram. The Jack-in-the-Box was near one of the Amphibious Naval Base gates, so large orders were not unusual. Many times I'd choose the shortest line at McDonald's, only to have the sailor ahead of me get to the counter and say "The USS Nimitz would like 500 Big Macs, 389 Quarter Pounders with Cheese, 451 medium Cokes, 403 orange sodas, and 999 French fries. Oh, and 276 hot apple pies."

One day, when we had a snow day from school, Suzanne & I decided to walk over to Fred's house for hot chocolate. Fred lived in another neighborhood, so it was quite a hike through the snow. When we got there no one was home, but we found a back door that was unlocked, so we went in to get warm & rest up for the long walk home. We were also hoping that Fred & his dad would come home, so when they didn't we shoved all the living room furniture into the center of the room and left. Colonel K was not amused, and when he blessed me out on the phone I said coolly "Be glad we didn't take all the labels off your cans. Next time, be home when we want hot chocolate."

One lark sort of backfired on Brenda & me. Four of us had dashed to the beach to "study" after school one afternoon. Brenda and I were getting out of the water, the beach was deserted, and we thought it would be cute to moon our two friends on the beach blanket. We did, but when we turned around, three nuns had materialized out of thin air and were walking between us and our friends. Yes, we had just shown our asses to three stern nuns in their black habits. To this day, I have no idea how those sisters appeared so suddenly on a seemingly empty stretch of sand.

We all spent a lot of time at the mall, and one evening Suzanne pretended to lose a contact lens. We had split up into pairs & singles, and acted like strangers that stopped to help her look. Soon, we had many shoppers helping us, and a security guard even roped off part of the area. Then we all gathered against a far wall to see how long it would take before people figured out that Suzanne had fled the scene.

On another mall adventure, Suzanne & I shoplifted a bottle of Prell shampoo, and surreptitiously dumped it near the intake tube of the mall's fountain. It took several moments, but when the shampoo hit the fountain jets, it was really spectacular. Prell truly was as concentrated as the commercials promised, and they had to shut down the fountain before the bubbles went all over the place.

One of our best capers targeted Krispy Kreme. I think we had two car-loads of friends that night. One of us had a pair of novelty spectacles with battery operated windshield wipers on the lenses. It was between 10 & 11pm, and Elton John was in town for a concert. This was during Mr. John's flamboyant era, and he was known for outrageous costumes that included bizarre eyeglasses.

The doughnut shop was full of old people (you know, people my current age), so Suzanne & I went in first and sat at the counter. Other friends entered in pairs and took seats. We acted like we didn't know each other. Finally, Fred came in wearing the motorized glasses, and sat across from us at the counter.

Suzanne went into a convincing act, asking me and the strangers next to us if that wasn't Elton John that just came in. Other friends "overheard" her and started getting excited. We all agreed that, yes, it was Elton John. Suzanne squealed and ran over to Fred, asking for his autograph, which he graciously provided on a KK napkin. Other customers were all abuzz. I'm not sure how we made our exit, but perhaps Suzanne will remember.

Speaking of Suzanne, below is a little slideshow I assembled from the pictures I snapped at her wedding in October. If you watch it, it is helpful to know that the posed photos of Suzanne in her gown were taken moments before the ceremony. We were in a room adjacent to the assembled friends, family, and groom. Suzanne did not want Brett to see her gown before she walked down the aisle, and her mother kept popping in the door, throwing it wide open. This explains Suzanne's facial expressions in a couple of the shots.

Call of the Wild

I just had to show you this picture of Sheldon's cat, Sassy.
You know how some cats simply love people, greet visitors at the door, hang out with them and make them feel welcome? Well, that's not Sassy.

Cats, like dogs and people, have unique personalities. Sassy's clearly says "Feed me or go away." She will allow me to give her a couple of strokes, and then she moves a few feet closer to her food bowl. If I pet her too much, she starts breathing heavily - huffing, in other words - and this means that she's getting ready to break into a full-blown hiss.

I'm a frequent guest at Sheldon's place, so Sassy has grown to tolerate me. Sometimes, if she isn't napping, she will greet me at the door and let me pet her for a few moments. I think she actually likes me in her own peculiar way. Nana (Sheldon's mom) and I seem to be within Sassy's Periphery of Tolerable Things, but I suspect because we are both viewed as Possible Food Sources. I have taken care of Sassy when Sheldon's been out of town, and as soon as we've exchanged pleasantries and I've filled her food bowl, Sassy gives me that "Don't let the door hit you on your way out" look.

I asked Sheldon if, when the two of them are there alone, Sassy shows her tender side and curls up on his lap. Sheldon says that doesn't happen, but she will sometimes sit on the arm of his chair while he's watching television. She won't even curl up next to him in bed, although she will lay at his feet if there are enough sheets & blankets separating his bare skin from her fur. This makes me feel like less of a pariah.

Sassy has a flawed sense of spatial relationships. It's fun to watch her try to stuff her fat self into an empty cereal box. She's mad about empty cereal boxes and paper bags. She also likes the little catnip-filled pillow that she got for Christmas. Lately, when I've visited Sheldon, this catnip toy can be found somewhere on the dining room floor, soggy from a round of vigorous chewing. Sassy also got a fancy new food bowl for Christmas; stainless steel with fashionable orange bands around the perimeter.

Sheldon loves Sassy, and I have to admit that I do, too. She's true to her self.

Betty Helps Filthy Parents

The gestation period for this infant must have been three days. These parents seem completely unprepared for their new family member. Maybe they simply woke up one morning and found a newborn in bed with them.

While Daddy roots around in the basement for a forgotten baby carriage, Betty White is enlisted to sanitize the bathroom. She certainly has her work cut out; look at that sink! Perhaps Mommy forgot to wipe down the basin after her appointment with Lady Clairol.

Betty, though, has made a surreptitious call to Social Services, and stalls for time as she cleans the tile. The cannister of Fantastik is employed as a changeling, and the infant is whisked off to a home where cleanliness reigns, much like my own mother's home.

I found this 1960's commercial clip on a site with similar snippets. If you're interested in vintage marketing, I also highly recommend a trip to Lidian's blog; she unearths some of the most interesting moments in American print ads.

First Amendment

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

There. I said it.

An American Tragedy

see more pwn and owned pictures

I hope none of my readers has killed anyone in their zeal to find Christmas gifts this year. Can you believe that story about the Walmart greeter getting trampled to death? I can't say I was surprised, but I certainly was disgusted. Someone told me that the remaining crowd was angry that they couldn't get inside to shop, and had to be told "No. You've already killed someone. We're closed."

I avoid that store unless I have a very compelling reason to be there. My cousin in Iowa sent me an idea recently that I'll share just in case you must shop at Walmart in the near future. It's Walmart Bingo, but you'll have to make your own game cards because I'm not clever enough to copy it from her e-mail message to this post. Here are the things that go on your Bingo card:

• child without shoes
• woman with hair curlers
• someone with an eye patch
• "rat tail" hair style
• obese person using scooter
• Rebel flag tee-shirt
• white girl with 3+ multi-racial children
• someone using an oxygen mask
• kid riding a bike in store
• frozen food item left to melt in random aisle
• dirt diaper left in parking lot
• someone using a voice box
• (free space) person oblivious to the fact that they are in your way
• bearded woman
• teardrop tattoo
• child over 5 drinking from baby bottle
• someone buying beer and diapers
• entire family wearing NASCAR apparel
• man under 30 with no teeth
• somone missing a limb
• someone giving away kittens
• someone with puke or blood on their clothes
• unattended crying children
• pregnant woman with visible "tramp stamp" tattoo
• someone with unbearable body odor

I haven't started my Christmas shopping yet. I'll probably do most of it on the Internet. Some folks enjoy the holiday crowds, but I'd rather eat ground glass. I'm the new Scrooge.

On a lighter note, I took my first ever Yoga lesson today. It was very enjoyable and relaxing. I'll probably wake up sore tomorrow, but I'm looking forward to the next lesson. It's too good of a deal to pass up because there's no charge. My sponsor is a Yoga instructor and a Feldenkrais healer, and he is giving free lessons prior to our Saturday morning AA meeting. Sweet!

The Holiday Meal (redux)

It's that time of the year when everything seems to go faster and faster. I have a list in my head of all the things I'd like to accomplish during the holidays, but I'm taking a realistic attitude toward everything. If some items do not get crossed off the list, the world will probably keep spinning. Most holiday stress, even though it is fueled by merchants and media hype, is self-induced. I'm going to take a look at the things I am happy to have, instead of the things I lack.

I hope everyone takes time to relax during the upcoming days, and spends some time with love ones. In the spirit of Thanksgiving cheer, I'm dusting off an older post. Have a safe and happy Thanksgiving!


Debbie carried the last steaming dish into the dining room and positioned it on the beautifully laid table. She beamed at Don, noting with approval that her husband had already carved half of the turkey. Her children, Corey and Chelsea, were just seating themselves, and Steve and Susan were placing their napkins in their laps.

"This looks good, Mom," said Corey. "I'm starved!"

The mingled aromas of roast turkey and dressing, fresh rolls, candied yams, and pumpkin-spice tapers hovered over the assembled family. Everyone looked freshly scrubbed and well-dressed, and the polished silver gleamed in the mid-afternoon light.

Another Holiday Meal with the family.

"Shit!" cried Don, a streak of blood splashing from his thumb to the off-white carpet as he staggered toward the kitchen. "Are you trying to kill me with them damned sharp knives?"

"Sweetie, do you need help?" Debbie called after her husband. "Here, Susan, will you start passing the vegetables while I check on Don?" Debbie hurried into the kitchen, and Don's slurred curses were muffled as the door swung shut behind her.

"Here, y'all, just pass me your plates and I'll load them up," declared Susan, grabbing a plate from Chelsea's place beside hers. "We need to fatten you up, Chelsea! But, you know, I think your face looks a little bit fuller than last time I saw you."

"Oh, God! Really?? Am I fat?" Chelsea bolted from the table.

"Gimme her plate. I'm hungry," Corey yelled, reaching out a pudgy hand to take Chelsea's brimming plate.

"Boy, you look like you done started Thanksgiving way back in January," sneered Steve. "Say, is that eye-shadow you's wearin'?"

"As a matter of fact, yes it is, Uncle Steve. But don't worry, I didn't steal yours, or the panties I found in your man-purse...oh, sorry, satchel," retorted Corey.

"Er, I'd better check on Chelsea. See if she needs help," sputtered Steve, heading toward the bathroom, where the sound of retching could be heard.

"Steve, you stay away from that girl," shrilled his wife Susan, frantically.

"Here," Corey grabbed the plate from a distracted Aunt Susan along with two extra rolls, and lumbered off down the hall. "I'm eating in my room."

Debbie's tearful muffled voice came through the kitchen door, "Don, put down that damned bottle. You promised! Give it to me now!"

"Stay away from me, Uncle Steve! I don't want you to rub my back!" Chelsea screamed from the bathroom.

Susan, alone at the table, looked around sadly. "What was that weird looking stuff in the green beans?" she wondered. "Didn't Debbie know that Rachel Ray said you should never try anything new or different at a Family Holiday Meal?"


I hope your Thanksgiving dinner fell somewhere between Norman Rockwell Advertisement-Unreality and Totally Dysfunctional Family Ordeal.

That Darned Dog!

I got another amusing story in my mailbox from my cousin Shelley in Iowa. I'll include it below, but it made me think of a couple of dogs I used to share living space with in my younger days. Before I share my recollections of Ivy and Calpurnia, here's the story Shelley sent me.

Jasper and the Unbaked Yeast Rolls

We have a fox terrier by the name of Jasper. He came to us in the summer of 2001 from the fox terrier rescue program. For those of you, who are unfamiliar with this type of adoption, imagine taking in a 10 year old child about whom you know nothing and committing to doing your best to be a good parent.

Like a child, the dog came with his own idiosyncrasies. He will only sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, nuzzled as close to my face as he can get without actually performing a French kiss on me. Lest you think this is a bad case of 'no discipline,' I should tell you that Perry and I tried every means to break him of this habit including locking him in a separate bedroom for several nights. The new door cost over $200. But I digress.

Five weeks ago we began remodeling our house. Although the cost of the project is downright obnoxious, it was 20 years overdue AND it got me out of cooking Thanksgiving for family, extended family, and a lot of friends that I like more than family most of the time. I was assigned the task of preparing 124 of my famous yeast dinner rolls for the two Thanksgiving feasts we did attend. I am still cursing the electrician for getting the new oven hooked up so quickly. It was the only appliance in the whole darn house that worked, thus the assignment.

I made the decision to cook the rolls on Wed evening to reheat Thurs am. Since the kitchen was freshly painted, you can imagine the odor. Not wanting the rolls to smell like Sherwin Williams #586, I put the rolls on baking sheets and set them in the living room to rise for a few hours. Perry and I decided to go out to eat, returning in about an hour. The rolls were ready to go in the oven. It was 8:30 PM.

When I went to the living room to retrieve the pans, much to my shock one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty. I called out to Jasper and my worst nightmare became a reality. He literally wobbled over to me. He looked like a combination of the Pillsbury dough boy and the Michelin Tire man wrapped up in fur. He groaned when he walked. I swear even his cheeks were bloated.

I ran to the phone and called our vet. After a few seconds of uproarious laughter, he told me the dog would probably be OK, however, I needed to give him Pepto Bismol every 2 hours for the rest of the night. God only knows why I thought a dog would like Pepto Bismol any more than my kids did when they were sick. Suffice it to say that by the time we went to bed the dog was black, white and pink. He was so bloated we had to lift him onto the bed for the night.

We arose at 7:30 and as we always do first thing; put the dog out to relieve
himself. Well, the dog was as drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He was running into walls, falling flat on his butt and most of the time when he was walking his front half was going one direction and the other half was either dragging the grass or headed 90 degrees in another direction. He couldn't lift his leg to pee, so he would just walk and pee at the same time. When he ran down the small incline in our back yard he couldn't stop himself and nearly ended up running into the fence. His pupils were dilated and he was as dizzy as a loon.

I endured another few seconds of laughter from the vet (second call within 12 hours) before he explained that the yeast had fermented in his belly and that he was indeed drunk. He assured me that, not unlike most binges we humans go through, it would wear off after about 4 or 5 hours and to keep giving him Pepto Bismol. Afraid to leave him by himself in the house, Perry and I loaded him up and took him with us to my sister's house for the first Thanksgiving meal of the day.

My sister lives outside of Muskogee on a ranch, (10 to 15 minute drive). Rolls firmly secured in the trunk (124 less 12) and drunk dog leaning from the back seat onto the console of the car between Perry and I, we took off. Now I know you probably don't believe that dogs burp, but believe me when I say that after eating a tray of risen unbaked yeast rolls, DOGS WILL BURP. These burps were pure Old Charter. They would have matched or beat any smell in a drunk tank at the police station. But that's not the worst of it. Now he was beginning to fart and they smelled like baked rolls. God strike me dead if I am not telling the truth! We endured this for the entire trip to Karen's, thankful she didn't live any further away than she did.

Once Jasper was firmly placed in my sister's garage with the door locked, we finally sat down to enjoy our first Thanksgiving meal of the day. The dog was the topic of conversation all morning long and everyone made trips to the garage to witness my drunken dog, each returning with a tale of Jasper's latest endeavor to walk without running into something. Of course, as the old adage goes, 'what goes in must come out' and Jasper was no exception.

Granted if it had been me that had eaten 12 risen, unbaked yeast rolls, you might as well have put a concrete block up my behind, but alas a dog's digestive system is quite different from yours or mine. I discovered this was a
mixed blessing when we prepared to leave Karen's house.

Having discovered his 'packages' on the garage floor, we loaded him up in the car so we could hose down the floor. This was another naive decision on our part. The blast of water from the hose hit the poop on the floor and the poop on the floor withstood the blast from the hose. It was like Portland cement beginning to set up and cure. We finally tried to remove it with a shovel. I (obviously no one else was going to offer their
services) had to get on my hands and knees with a coarse brush to get the remnants off of the floor. And as if this wasn't degrading enough, the darn dog in his drunken state had walked through the poop and left paw prints all over the garage floor that had to be brushed too.

Well, by this time the dog was sobering up nicely so we took him home and dropped him off before we left for our second Thanksgiving dinner at Perry's sister's house. I am happy to report that as of today (Monday) the dog is back to normal both in size and temperament. He has had a bath and is no longer tricolor. None the worse for wear I presume. I am also happy to report that just this evening I found 2 risen unbaked yeast rolls hidden inside my closet door. It appears he must have come to his senses after eating 10 of them but decided hiding 2 of them for later would not be a bad idea. Now, I'm doing research on the computer as to: 'How to clean unbaked dough from the carpet.'

I had a dog when I was growing up, and Pebbles was a bright and cheerful companion. Other dogs I've encountered, though, rarely live up to the standards set by my dog, Lassie, or Old Yeller. Take Ivy or Calpurnia, for example.

When I lived with Virginia on Oregon Hill in the mid-80's, one of her friends brought her new puppy over and convinced Virginia to assume ownership. The pup was a little Black Lab, and I suggested the name Calpurnia (not Caesar's wife, but the no-nonsense maid in To Kill a Mockingbird). The sweet, little puppy soon grew into her huge paws, and indiscriminately ate everything she could.

When Christmas came, we decided to decorate a live tree, and I hauled out my collection of hand-blown glass ornaments from Germany. They were quite special, and they had cost a lot. Each one was unique, and they looked great on our tree. One morning I met up with Virginia in the kitchen. As a police officer, she worked some strange shifts, so we hadn't seen each other in a few days.

"So what do you think of our tree?" Virginia asked.
"I love it. I'm glad we put one up," I answered.

"Have you looked at it closely lately? No? Come here. Notice anything?" I honestly didn't see anything unusual. It was still standing; that was a plus in a house with two cats, and a dog who could clear the top of the coffee table with her tail. "Look carefully at the bottom branches. Do they seem to be missing anything?"

Why, yes, they did. Most of my glass ornaments and the tree lights, in fact. Calpurnia had been spending her days munching away at anything she could reach on the tree. She loved the taste and crunch of those ornaments and glass lightbulbs. And she never seemed any worse for the wear, either. The glass was no match for Cal's digestive system.

Just a few years earlier, I shared a house (hovel, actually) with three other guys on Ellwood Avenue. It was my first home away from home, other than the college dorm. My roommate Danny had a Springer Spaniel named Ivy who was as dumb as a box of rocks. Sweet, but stupid, bless his heart.

Another roommate, Clay, found some string trailing out of his bedroom one morning. He couldn't imagine why it was there, so he picked it up, winding it around his hand as he followed the trail. The string seemed dirty and used, and Clay wondered who'd left it strung all over the upstairs of the house.

He tried tugging on it to wind it in, but it was caught on something around a corner, so he kept walking and winding, only to discover when he turned the corner that the string disappeared into Ivy's butt.

Dogs will just eat any old thing. Cats are much more sensible when it comes to their diet.