Hey, look! Jenny McCarthy's on Sesame Street!

It's nice to see she's doing something besides that Autism activism.

What's this? She has a whole series of books about being a mother. I wonder what they're like.

Jenny, what do you have to say about marital relations during pregnancy in your book, Belly Laughs: The Naked Truth about Pregnancy and Childbirth?

PIG IN THE PASTURE (SEX IN THE NINTH MONTH)

I don't think pigs graze in pastures, but I just figured it sounded better than "pig in the mud." Any way you phrase it, this is exactly how I felt the one and only time my husband and I had sex in the ninth month. All the books tell you about "comfortable positions," and the one they really zero in on is the "doggy-style" position. Sure, it's great at an ideal weight, but when you're close to two hundred pounds, you aren't thinking dog...you're thinking pig. And I'm sure I sounded like one because my cries (of joy and desire, of course) sounded more like squeals than oohs and ahs. It was clear to me that my poor husband was concentrating hard on his Rolodex of fantasies because I sure as hell wasn't one for him anymore. I just wanted that piggy sex to end, but I hung in there like a good wife because I wanted to take care of my man. (Full disclosure: I was really "bad" the whole pregnancy. I never really "took care of him." I should have offered a couple of blow jobs here and there, but the way I felt every day, you couldn't have paid me enough.) [pp.147-148]

Um, okay. But what about-

Now, let me give you a better visual. My husband is very lean. Sexy as hell. But very lean. Most women would kill for his metabolism. As I propped myself into position and we began to get down, I could feel that his entire lean body was half the size of my ass. No joke. I couldn't stop thinking that his skinny frame was going to get stuck between my ass cheeks. So every time I felt him pump, I would clench my cheeks to keep from swallowing him up. All the while, I couldn't stop thinking how just plain wrong this was. This was not a high-self-esteem moment for a pregnant woman in desperate need of some. My advice: If you're not feeling it, don't try this one. Leave it to some lonely farmer. [p.148]

I... I see.

Hey, look! Ice-T is on Sesame Street!

Sound Parenting Decisions

Sending our daughter to daycare was an unavoidable necessity, so we spent a lot of time considering our options and carefully evaluating the places in town:

• Sister Knucklecracker's Purgatorial Childcare
• Typhoid Mary's Germ Nursery (Free Blankets!)
• Li'l' Axefighters Infant Dojo
• That Van Lurking by the Playground Fun Time Center
• Bob's Alligator Pit

In the end, we chose one for its friendly staff, clean facilities, and convenient location:



That's right. After a rigorous examination of childcare centers in our area, we went and chose the one by the porn store.

Decay of our society's moral fiber: 1
Responsible parenting: 0

I'm still not sure how it happened.

Well, I have an idea. We were so worried about the kind of people that our daughter would be exposed to inside of the daycare that we didn't pay enough attention to the kind of people that would be outside of it.

Why didn't I notice this earlier? The porn store is screened by the fried chicken restaurant, so by the time your brain is done saying "mmm, fried chicken," you've pulled into the daycare's driveway, handed over your check, dropped of your daughter, and are ready for something to eat.

I'm thinking I should get a coffee mug or something emblazoned with my new motto, "I routinely make poor decisions."

Guest Posted

Yeah, I guess I forgot to mention that the Imaginary Reviewer was kind enough to let me do a guest post over at his blog.

The post is about video games, a subject near and dear to my heart.

The Most Least Caring Dog

So, our daughter turns one year old this month, and I thought I'd share some of these pictures that show how well our dog has taken to her.


Oh, you look cold. Here, let me bring you this blanket.



There you go, all nice and warm. Just let me tuck it in for you.



All better? Sweet dreams!


Touching, isn't it?

Well, it would be until you learn that I posted these pictures in reverse chronological order. That's right, the dog is stealing the blanket from the baby.

Go back and look at picture one again. Yes, he's backing away carefully so that he doesn't accidentally wake her.

Backing into your dreams

The most effective goal setting happens in reverse, when you pick what you want and work backwards to see how you can get there. It's easiest to tackle your biggest goals in baby steps, and working back from the finish line helps you step in the right direction. I map things out in writing.

For example, it has been a lifelong dream of mine to meet Bruce Campbell, so I can start by writing that down ("MEET BRUCE CAMPBELL"). I can meet him by luring him out of his palatial Hollywood mansion with the smell of a delicious, fresh-baked pie, so I would write "BAKE A PIE" under "MEET BRUCE CAMPBELL." The logically preceding step would be "LEARN HOW TO BAKE," although I shouldn't forget to include "LEARN BRUCE CAMPBELL'S FAVORITE TYPE OF PIE," and "FIND OUT WHERE BRUCE CAMPBELL LIVES," which should all be listed as steps towards our eventual meeting. I'm done once I have worked my way back to the point I'm at now, which is ignorant of Bruce's address (and pie preferences) and unable to bake (but full of ambition). Then I have a roadmap that I can follow upwards to realize my dreams.

This method also works to encourage parallel thinking and to recognize more than one way to reach a goal. For example, I don't need to bake a pie, as long as I have something that looks like a pie ("BUILD FAKE PIE") along with a way to simulate that new-pie smell ("GENERATE EXCITING SMELLS"). This is great because once I have laid out all of my options I can choose which ones will take the least amount of work for maximum efficiency. I can also work on multiple strategies so that I have backup plans if something doesn't turn out the way it's supposed to ("RENT PIE COSTUME").

However, problems arise at the two extremes of the creativity spectrum: the unimaginative and the insane. Unimaginative people may scoff at my goal of bringing the dead back to life, calling it a crime against God and nature. However, neither of these obstacles are insurmountable. A figurative definition of “dead” allows me to work miracles (CONVINCE NETWORK TO RESUME “ADVENTURES OF BRISCO COUNTY JR” SERIES) or facsimiles thereof (BUY “ADVENTURES OF BRISCO COUNTY JR” DVDS). A little imagination makes it easy to publish that memoir by your cat, as long as you're flexible on the definitions of "memoir," "cat," and "publish."

Far more challenging are the goals that can not (or should not) be attempted. People could waste their entire lives trying to eat braised leprechaun calves, and that's not even a goal that wastes the lives of others. All it takes is one person going about the courtship of Jodie Foster the wrong way to ruin things for everyone.

That's why there is something to be said for having your plans reviewed by a third party. The internet, the yellow pages, or even the line at the unemployment office are all excellent places to find one of the hundreds of thousands of professional coaches out there who will help you develop a plan of action in exchange for money (or in some cases, a hot meal). A coach can align your goals with more realistic and achievable expectations, like helping you realize that turning milk into yogurt can be as personally rewarding as converting mass into energy.

Whether you are working backwards on your own or with assistance, the method helps not only to reach your goal, but for seeing if your goal is worth reaching. Why spend 12 years teaching a cat to play the banjo when it won't even put you on the cover of Cat Fancy magazine? After a thorough examination of your objectives and priorities, you may find that you can set the bar for your goals so low that you accomplish something by doing almost nothing at all ("MEET SOMEONE NAMED BRUCE").

What couldn't go wrong?

My high school English teacher once told me that nothing is ever as bad as we expect it to be, because there is no force on earth as powerful as the human imagination. That was a load of shit. However, I wanted to give my imagination a break from worrying about everything in my life that is on the brink of catastrophe (read: everything), so I thought I'd start wondering what couldn't go wrong.

No matter how horrifying things get, at least I can be relieved that:

• I will not be humiliated on national television by losing a breakdance competition to George Takei.


• The CEO of my company is not going to get drunk, "borrow" my car, and wrap it around a tree.


• I will not be entrusted with a sacred relic that has been passed down through generations, putting me in terrible danger as it is hunted by the powerful, relentless forces that would do anything to possess it.


• Henry Paulson is not going to ask me to oversee the distribution of a massive economic relief package (read: pile of cash) designed to shore up America's ailing strip club industry, forcing me to choose between my family's respect and the welfare of hundreds of thousands of exotic dancers across the country.


• I will not be sucked into an alternate dimension run by talking cats where I have to amuse them by running in a hamster wheel for hours at a time.


• My old company from Boston is not going to keep me awake and annoy my neighbors by sending their head of HR to my house at 3:00 AM, by alternately screaming and crying about how they can't live without me and how they'll give me double what I'm earning now just for sitting at a desk and surfing the internet all day in a futile effort to try and win me back.


• I will not have two Hollywood producers/literary agents/talent scouts/philanthropic trillionaires simultaneously discover my writing online and get into a bidding war with each other in an attempt to win my affection that leaves me paralyzed with indecision.


• An outer space virus will not infect me with an insatiable hunger for cardboard and old gym shoes, contaminating the entire state and requiring the mobilization of the national guard to control.


• I will not bring about the end of civilization all by myself, even if I DO go and vote next week.
  

So I guess I've got all that going for me, even if I can't look forward to developing some sort of mutant superpower.

Don't Drink That, You Fool!

I follow a strict set of rules in bathrooms both public and private. For example, I don't use the public urinal for short people and young boys that is set closer to the floor, because I have a moral objection to getting pee on my ankles. Similarly, I don't talk to other people while I'm using the toilet, washing my hands, or entering or exiting the bathroom because I'm attending to a biological necessity, not mingling at a social event.

I recognize that some of my ideas may seem a little extreme, but for the love of god, NO ONE should EVER bring a beverage into the bathroom. That's not just some crazy tinfoil hattery I'm spouting, but an honest-to-god safety issue. When you bring your morning coffee into the bathroom with you at work, you're inviting your coworkers to go to the bathroom in your mouth.

I'm serious. Dr. Charles Gerba studied the effects of flushing toilets and found that not only is a germ-and-virus aerosol spray ejected from the toilet every time you flush, but that water droplets from the toilet can remain suspended in the air for up to two hours after the flush. That means that your steaming cup of coffee is sitting there collecting aerosolized water droplets from the leavings of everyone who has gone through that bathroom before you. How well do you know your coworkers? Do you really want to get to know them that much more intimately?

You'd have to some kind of lunatic to drink morning coffee that you've carried into the office toilet, and yet some of my coworkers regularly carry drinks of all kinds into the bathroom with wild abandon. It just makes my skin crawl.

I Resolve to Be Awesome

Okay. 2008 has less than three months left in it, and I don't have a prayer of completing any of my New Year's resolutions in time. So, it's time to achieve excellence by lowering the bar, scrapping the old resolutions and establishing this new set of goals to achieve before 2009:

Don't wear white pants after labor day. Tricky, but not impossible. I expect this to be helped by the fact that I don't own any white pants.

Don't sell national secrets to foreign powers. Luckily, I don't actually have any security clearance, even if those guys from Burkina Faso have been trying to get pretty chummy with me lately.

Don't get addicted to crack. Winners don't use drugs. Losers don't have to use drugs, either, so I've got my bases covered either way.

Don't drink alcohol before sundown. Woah, back up. We're trying to list goals that we actually have a chance of accomplishing here. At the rate things are going, I'll have broken this one by the end of the week.

Don't get humiliated on national television. It's a gamble, but one I'm willing to make. I'm not going to be at the American Idol tryouts, but you never know when you'll be the star attraction on an episode of Cops. Let's keep our fingers crossed on this one.

Don't make any Nobel-prize-winning breakthroughs in science, health, peacemaking, etc. Because I shouldn't be hogging all the credit for myself. It's time for someone else to be in the spotlight.

Don't get stabbed in a bar fight with Charles S. Dutton. Because only a fool gets into a bar fight with Charles S. Dutton.

If this goes well, I might actually make up some more goals and retroactively apply them to 2007. Self-improvement isn't so hard after all.

An Open Letter to My Grocery Store

Hey there,

I hate you. I hate how you never stock the items I'm looking for and reorganize your shelves every three months. And I can tell that you feel the same way, based on how you have huge numbers of registers near the entrance and only one employee manning them. Let's just recognize that we need each other to survive, and focus on getting our business done as quickly as possible.

That's why we need a grocery store GPS. Handheld units, available to shoppers, that will lead people to the items they need. People could upload their whole grocery list and have the system give them the fastest route through the store. You could even have people e-mail the list ahead of time so their route was already planned for them by the time they got there (yes, you can currently order groceries online at some stores to have people actually shop for you, but that costs more and I'm cheap).

Back to this route planning thing. They do it for cars. UPS programmed their guidance systems to completely eliminate left turns from their truck routes in order to save gas, so I'm sure you can make something that tells me to pick up the eggs right near me before I have to walk across the entire store and look up at the top shelf before I can figure out where you're hiding the bacon.

It's brilliant, right? Well, I'm sure that someone else thought of it first, or is working on it at Microsoft, or whatever. Still, I want it implemented immediately, so that we don't spend any more time together than we have to. But here's how you, terrible example of mismanagement and customer abuse that you are, will manage to fuck it up:

You'll order 15 units. 10 of them will break immediately and never be replaced. 2 will get stolen by punks and disgruntled stockboys. The remaining three units will all have their own signature defects (like sticking keys, unreadable displays, etc.).

Despite advances in RFID technology, you won't keep up to date with your inventory, leading customers to the wrong areas of the store, or shelves that are bare because no one brought the last shipment out from the back room.

The wireless signal will interfere with cell phones, blackberrys, and pagers, displaying text messages on the grocery readouts and making all incoming or outgoing phone calls impossible (wait, that last bit doesn't sound so bad). It will also have an effect on pacemakers.

The increased amount of radio waves bouncing around the store (or whatever) will give us all cancer, like how cell phones are supposed to do only a million times more dangerous.

In conclusion, shopping for groceries has been awful, is currently awful, and will forever continue to be awful. If I weren't so lazy, I'd grow my own damn food and avoid them altogether.

At Least It's Not Barney

There's a song that will entrance our daughter like a chicken immobilized in the hypnotically unwavering gaze of Al Gore. (What? You didn't see him hypnotize a chicken on Letterman? Get out.)

It's not completely bizarre. My wife and I knew that she would recognize music she heard in the womb, it's just unusual that she chose this particular song:


crappy version from youtube because I'm too lazy to find a good one

She heard it once. During the season finale of Dr. Who (don't judge), and yet the opening baseline will completely freeze her mid-tantrum. She has been in the middle of some of her loudest, angriest screaming binges, completely ignoring the rocking, patting, shushing, and cuddling, but voodoo child will stop her in her tracks. And half the time it puts her to sleep.

If only I had known earlier that subwoofers would be an essential nursery component...

The Internet Is So Confusing

You can't swing a keyboard without accidentally typing the URL of someone's personal blog, and half of them claim to be advice from experts. The blog is the new business card, and everyone is setting up shop in the hopes that it will show potential customers how knowledgeable they are, sometimes with disastrous results.
No proof of skill is required to start handing out advice freely, but it reminds me of the phrase about stock market tips:

"Those who say, don't know, and those who know, don't say."

Anyway, it's time for me to hop on board this expertise train to pull in some of that sweet, sweet consulting money. The trick is to find a niche that's not already been done to death. So, from this day forward, I am an expert on (and will be answering questions about) the following subjects:

Pencil Sharpening: "Almost as important as having the proper sharpener is using the proper grip with your pencil. Softer lead pencils require a firmer hold, while the following illustration shows the best way to..."

Toenail manufacturing: "Common developments are the Irish hook, the Great Plains runway, and the west side split. These will all have a negative effect on your resale value, which is why it's important to..."

Eggplant wrestling: "Try borrowing some strategies from Sun Tzu. Study your opponent carefully in the days leading up to the match. Does he prefer to use his upper-body strength, or does he specialize in holds that leverage his superior leg work? You can adapt your method by..."

Armadillo repair: "It's normal for daily use to inflict signs of wear and tear on your armadillo, but you can fix some of the more common damage with this basic remedy of..."

Moustache fitting: "As you can see in this chart, your ideal style of moustache can vary greatly depending on your facial structure. It's easier to fit the moustache to your face than it is to use prosthetics to accomodate your moustache, but if you absolutely need to, you can..."

Coathanger maintenance: "While usage will soon run them down, your coathangers can be kept in their prime if you are sure to..."

Spitwad design: "Texture is as important as--if not more so--than size, but the true professional focuses on a consistent..."

Alternative energy sources (e.g., orgone, water-fuel technology, perpetual motion, zero-point/free energy): "What distinguishes this from some of the scams out there is my personal guarantee that..."

Sumerian courtship rituals: "The suitor would then stuff the body of the goat with a mixture of wheat and cloves, while using the head to..."

Beet farming: "Your one-stop source for all beet-farming-related content! If your North Atlantic Spotted Beets keep wandering off, they could be responding to their natural migratory instinct that kicks in each spring. If you make sure that your beet pens are surrounded by fences at least eight feet high (they can--and will--jump over anything lower), you shouldn't have any more problems."

While I would also like to claim expertise in the field of applied stupidity, I have to put in a few more semesters before I earn my master's degree. However, from there I am assured that I'll be fast-tracked for the Advanced Stupidity Application PhD program. I'll provide more information on that as it develops.

Why Daddy Blogs Are Awful

I am fed up with these parenting blogs not offering any material details about their children. Sure, there are photos galore, but can their four-month-old bench press a cinderblock? Does their baby's fastball clock in at 75mph? What about their aptitude for knife throwing?

It's a sad state of affairs when people think that just a few pictures are all you need to really get to know a baby. If they're going to share their children with the world, they need to do it right.

These infants need to be measured and profiled by a baby metricologist--that is, a highly trained expert with a fictitious degree in the pretend science of the metricology of babies, as opposed to a baby who is a practicing metricologist--so that all of the relevant facts are presented. Fortunately, I have obtained the services of the preeminent baby metricologist in North America, and am able to present information that actually MEANS something.

-BEGIN METRICOLOGY REPORT-

Initial observations:
Examination of the subject revealed that structural integrity, tensile strength, and resonant frequency are all within normal parameters.

Does subject possess x-ray vision?
No. The subject becomes agitated when her parents disappear from view.

Does the subject exhibit signs of telepathy?
Yes. The subject can sense when she is no longer the center of attention, and takes immediate corrective action.

Has the subject demonstrated mastery over animals?
While the subject is able to direct the household canine to perform routine cleaning of her hands and feet, she has not been successful at directing animals (domesticated or otherwise) to assume feeding and changing duties currently performed by the parents.

Is the subject a shapeshifter?
Possibly. The subject's current abilities apply mostly to the face, which is able to express both giddy delight and intense discomfort, but the subject has not manifested any radical physical changes elsewhere (e.g., sixth finger, third nipple, tail).

What is the subject's top speed?
The subject's top speed was recorded as significantly less than 25mph.

Does the subject appear to be either an indigo child or a crystal child?
No, the subject appears to be pinkish.

Other noteworthy observations:
The subject is able to eject fluids in open defiance of all known laws of physics.
It should further be noted that the subject's overall cuteness coefficient was measured at 5.8 Geddes Standard Units (GSUs), which is trending towards the higher end of recorded measurements for specimens who have not undergone genetic manipulation, but not so extreme as to damage the very fabric of the universe.

-END METRICOLOGY REPORT

As you can see from this informative and highly scientific assessment, our daughter has a promising future as a mind reader, or possibly a part-time beastmaster or weekend shapeshifter. It's a shame about the x-ray vision, but I'd imagine that it leads to headaches around Christmas.

Ill-Considered Remarks

I firmly believe that there are faces out there that could benefit from a good punching. That being said, I may have been a little hasty in earlier remarks made here about Alton Brown. I misjudged him based on insufficient information, and I regret that now.

Specifically, after reading an interview about Iron Chef America and its (completely unnecessary) spinoff The Next Iron Chef, I realize that most of our opinions are pretty similar, including the one about a certain judge who is in desperate need of a haircut.

Mr. Brown, if you have let the peevish grumblings of an anonymous internet hack disturb you in any way as you lay down to sleep at night on the pile of crisp, large-denomination bills that were so hard-won through your televised efforts for the food network, you should know now that I am sorry, and that I offer a full retraction.

P.S. Suck it, Andrew Knowlton.

Puppy vs. Kitty

Our dog isn't the insatiable gourmand that Pilar used to be, but he's a happy-go-lucky bundle of energy with a boundless enthusiasm for life. He gives kisses, he offers his paw, and he is always looking for pets. He's a big puppy.

Our neighbor has a friendly kitty (an oxymoron that is rare, but not completely fictional). Kitty meows hello, Kitty nuzzles affectionately, Kitty asks for belly rubs. Kitty and Puppy should have been friends.

It really looked like it was going to happen. At first, Puppy was excited about a new friend. Puppy and Kitty touched noses. Tails were wagged, butts were sniffed. Then Puppy asked to play.

Puppy play is rowdy. It is chest bumping, grappling, chasing, and full-contact. Puppy jumped around, Puppy thumped the ground with his paws, Puppy raced off and came charging back, doing huge loops around the yard. Kitty didn't know what to make of it at first.

Then, on his last lap around the yard, Puppy was introduced to the concept of Kitty play. Racing heedless and carefree, tongue hanging out and mouth grinning wide, Puppy was ambushed by a gray rocket that launched from the bushes by the back stairs. It was great fun for Kitty, and no one was hurt, but Puppy wasn't very fond of it. Since then, he races for the safety of our house every time Kitty comes over to say hello.

Progress

I routinely make poor decisions.

Like the time I was uncorking a stubborn bottle of wine, thought to "improve" my grip, and ended up punching myself in the face. Or when I listened to my classmates in eighth grade and ruined the basketball scoreboard. Or the time I thought it would be okay to go on that "marketing job" interview where they told me to show up wearing shoes I could "do a lot of walking in." Or the LARP weekend. And so on.

That's why it makes me happy when I can spot a potential disaster in the works, and make a conscious choice to avoid it.

Yes, our liquor cabinet is understocked, and we are dangerously short on mixers. But as appealing as it seems at first glance, I don't need to actually mix White Russians using baby formula before I realize that it's a Bad Idea.

Can you hear that, world? It's the sound of a little something I like to call progress.

Iron Chef America

It's okay. Certainly, it's head and shoulders above the absolutely painful Iron Chef USA, but it's still a mixed bag of entertainment. On the one hand, the guy that they have as the chairman is absolutely hilarious. He manages to be completely over-the-top with his gestures, his dialogue, and his mannerisms, but at the same time he makes you feel like you and he are sharing a private joke. And the little sound effects that they add to his karate moves that introduce the Iron Chefs? Win.

On the other hand, Alton Brown. Sometimes he's on the mark, but as a general rule, I would pay good money to punch Alton Brown in the face. Specifically, he needed a good firm smack (possibly with a rolled-up newspaper, or maybe a brass knuckle) during battle coffee. I get it--you're hyper because it's coffee--but I didn't want it in the first place. And is it just me, or does Kevin Brauch appear to be seething with barely-concealed resentment when Brown condescends to let him give the same explanation of the judging rules every episode?

For the judges, I can understand that the show's producers would want people who think differently because arguments mean drama, and drama means good television. The problem is that some of the judges are insufferable when they get to express their opinion. Andrew Knowlton comes across as prissy and elitist when he disagrees with his peers, quibbling over academic minutiae, picking apart the statements of the other panelists, and always needing to mutter the last word into his food like a spoiled eight-year-old. In contrast, Jeffrey Steingarten does an excellent job of voicing his opinion, frequently failing to agree with the other judges but still managing to sound like he is trying to offer constructive criticism, not just showing off. One is a tough but fair evaluator who is disappointed when chefs fail to meet his high standards, and the other is a petty control freak who throws a fit whenever the world around him refuses to meet his expectations. You never know what you're going to get.

I'll keep watching it (unless they keep adding new Iron Chefs; YOU ARE NOT WANTED, MICHAEL SYMON). In the meantime, I have compiled this list of items that I would like to see used as the central ingredient of future episodes battles:

Tic Tacs
Oatmeal
Jello
Goldfish (the cracker, but the pet might work as well)
butter
hot dogs
salt
scotch
bread
windex

Oh wait, this might actually be my grocery list.

The Bee Gauntlet

The previous owner of our house was a botanist, and she did a fantastic job planting gardens that always have something in bloom. We did an equally fantastic job of completely neglecting everything outside so that the house looks abandoned, or possibly under attack by some kind of malevolent plant monster.

Our front walk is flanked by lavender plants (bushes? shrubs? Some of the branches have gotten thick enough that I'm thinking about calling them "trees") that have pushed out over the concrete and started getting in the way. I trimmed them back last year, but they have returned in full force. While the plants on either side of the walk don't quite touch each other, there's no way to keep from having them rub up against anyone trying to enter or leave the house.

This isn't a problem. The lazy bees who have nothing better to do besides loiter around my lavender bushes all day like shriners at an open bar are the problem.

That's right, bees. You heard me, Science. All those missing bees that you're looking for? Maybe you should check my front yard, because I can count at least six of them, and sometimes as many as twenty, available at all hours^*.

It's a gauntlet made of bees, and I have to run it any time I want to go to work, get groceries, check the mail, or leave a flaming bag of poo on my neighbor's doorstep. It's at the point where I've got to psych myself up before I can leave the house to do anything.

As always, I recognize the importance of staying positive, and have been trying to tell myself that this is a good thing. After all, if I dont want to run this gauntlet of bees, then it must keep out unwanted guests and/or intruders, too. It was a comforting thought, until the doorbell rang yesterday.

What good is having a bee gauntlet if it won't keep out Jehova's witnesses?


_{*Okay, hold your horses, apiarists both amateur and professional, before you go posting all kinds of scientific mumbo jumbo about how what I've got in my yard are only bumblebees, not honeybees. I'll tell you right now: I don't want to hear it.}

There's a reason for that.

When I gained a measure of autonomy, I decided that I would test a lot of the practices that my parents tried to instill in me to determine if they were valuable habits to develop, or an unnecessary waste of time. Like pyjamas. Is it really necessary to have a completely separate outfit to sleep in? I decided that it was not, which proved to be a real time-saver in college once I didn't have to worry about bringing my Star Wars PJs to a keg party if I thought I'd end up passing out on the couch.

Now that I have a house, I'm looking into some of the more common home upkeep chores to see if they're important enough to do frequently, or if I can get away with letting them slide for a while. Like mowing the lawn. We're not in an appearance-obsessed suburb, and the dog seems to like stalking through shoulder-high grass from time to time, pretending he's a wolf on the prowl for a squirrel or an unattended baby. Who is it going to hurt?

Me. I found out that it's going to hurt me, and the lawn needs to be mowed on a weekly, if not daily basis. While using the weed whacker (okay, it's technically a "string trimmer," and not actually a branded weed whacker) to clear out a dense clump of vegetation, a rustling in the underbrush (underweeds) made me stop. I watched, horrified, as a spider big enough to take on a rat (and probably win) in a no-holds-barred, bare knuckle brawl staggered out from his hiding place and moved on to more welcoming surroundings.

In addition to mowing the lawn, I am now considering paving the lawn.

A matter of perspective

Happiness really is all in your mind. For example, I was stuck behind a logging truck on my way to work last week. I was already late, and now I was stuck going less than the speed limit down a winding, two-lane country road that took half an hour to drive under the best of circumstances. It’s times like that when one is well served by cultivating a near psychotic detachment from reality, so that previously serious problems become trivial, or even helpful.

I realized that the logging truck was actually doing me a favor. After all, I could get in a fatal accident at any speed above 20 MPH, but thanks to his inability to make it up steep hills, there would be no danger of that. And, it gave me time to practice my Queen Elizabeth wave (you know the one, it goes elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, etc.) in case I ever find myself in a parade.

It worked so well that I tried to change my perspective on other issues in my life:

-Our well pump was supposed to break. If we had a reliable source of clean water, I wouldn’t have been forced to meet my next door neighbors, who are really great people (as evidenced by the fact that they ran over 300 feet of hose from their house to ours). It also helped to teach me about the importance of water conservation. It’s NOT a renewable resource, people!

-All these bills help me to “keep it real.” Money would just go to my head. And this way, I can really be sure that I’ve got my priorities in order. Who needs both clean clothes AND a hot meal, right? Because that’s just getting greedy.

-Yeah, our heat pump doesn’t cool our house at all, and may even be broken. But I could stand to sweat off some unwanted pounds; I stopped being able to see my ribs, and it made me feel totally chubby. Also, this solves our problem of not having any hot meals.

-These ants aren’t infesting our house. They’re graciously sacrificing themselves to keep the hordes of spiders around here well fed. As long as there are plenty of ants blundering around and walking into the spider webs hidden in the walls and behind the furniture, the spiders won’t go back to roaming the halls where I can see them.

-And we need a lot of hulking spiders looming in the dark corners of the house. If anything, they have to be BIGGER, because at their current, half-the-size-of-my-fist stature, they can barely hold their own against all the wasps that set up shop outside.

-And those wasps. Thank god the wasps are here because—

You know what? I can’t do this anymore. If I keep this up, I’d have to give myself a wedgie and shove my head in the toilet, because I’d be completely insufferable.

This Will Not Become a Blog of Fear

I’m undecided as to whether “growing up” is something that happens in one pivotal moment (“Congratulations, today, you have become a man/woman (as applicable)”), or something that happens so gradually that you don’t even notice.

Okay, that’s a lie. Only a complete moron or someone in need of a cheap rhetorical device would think that growing up is anything other than the sum of the hundreds of small moments in our lifetimes that shape who we are and what we value.

Unless you define “growing up” as “being recognized as legally able to drink.” That’s pretty important, but also centered around one specific point in time.

However it happened, I have grown up, and my fears have grown up with me. For example:

Attics. Yes, they still make spooky noises, but I’m not as worried about vampires. Was that thump just the house settling, or a family of squirrels moving in? What if it’s something bigger, like raccoons? Or buffalo?

Faucets. The irregular flow isn’t caused by demonic possession. It’s our well. Is it going to run dry for the fourth time? Are we going to need another new pump? Will we be forced to filter and drink our own pee?

Cars. Evil cars won’t run me down while I cross the street. But is the car I’m driving about to fail? Why hasn’t it shifted to the next gear? Is that smell coming from my car, or the one in front of me? Was that noise always there? Can I fix it by turning up the radio?

Closed doors. My boss isn’t conducting satanic rituals behind her closed office door. And I’m reasonably certain she’s not shedding her human disguise so that her gills can air out properly. But what is she discussing in there? Raising insurance co-pays? Freezing salary increases? Firing me because of that time I wore white pants after labor day?

Coughs. It may have taken me over ten years, but I’m not afraid of Captain Tripps anymore. But does that cough mean a trip to the emergency room? Or billing disputes? Why do all the really scary symptoms develop outside of the doctor’s normal office hours?

Ground cover. The undead hands of the vengeful dead aren’t going to erupt from the ground to rip at my flesh, but what is lurking in those leaves? We picked up six ticks in our backyard last season, how many are waiting for us this summer? Isn’t there an effective lawn treatment that will drive them off? Will napalm work?

Sure, I might have scoffed at this list when I was younger, but that’s because I had some growing up to do.