Merry Crapmas

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. And he’s sitting on my neighbor’s lawn in an inflatable helicopter. This is wrong.

I get the inflatable lawn ornaments. There’s just something about having a huge Santa standing in the middle of your grass. Then, come January, he folds up to nearly nothing to store away until next year.

It gets even better if you put Santa on a timer. This way every morning Santa slowly rises, swaying one way then another like a drunken sailor on shore leave, until at last he is fully erect and waving to the passing cars. Every night just after dark, the timer clicks and Santa starts to bob and weave again, finally passing out in a puddle of his own vomit. OK, the vomit part is just my imagination at work, but if you’ve ever watched an inflatable Santa call it a day it doesn’t take that much imagination to see him as passed out drunk.

The problem with the inflatables is that no one seems to know when to stop. Down the block last year was an abominable snow woman. At least, I think this is what it was. I lacked the courage to knock on the front door and ask why their snowman had a clear set of breasts, but no bra.

This year, at a different house is Santa-in-a-helicopter. I’m sorry, who thought this one up? I am thoroughly convinced that some Lillian Vernon employee said, ‘Boss, all we gots is Santas and Helicopters.’ and the reply was ‘limitations like that shouldn’t stop Christmas lawn art!’

To add to the problem, there is a complete Nativity scene about fifteen feet away.

You probably already figured out that I am not the most religious person, but why do I have more respect for your religion than you do? How do you become the kind of person who puts a Nativity scene on your lawn, but moves it out of the way for some bargain basement Franken-Santa inflatable???

And what will next year bring? Oh, I know there will still be snow globes with merry-go-round ponies and stars and elves in them. But what will the leftover combination be? My money is on Easter Bunnies with Santa hats and baskets with presents in them. This is sure to confuse small children everywhere.

For our yard, I don’t think I’m going to wait for the sale. I’m all set to slap a beard and hat on our inflatable St. Patrick’s Day leprechaun. He’s over six feet tall (one of the major points of appeal that pushed us to buy him) and he’s holding a beer mug! This way, when Santa passes out at the end of the day it’ll look realistic.

Remember, you’ll want to get a good head start on warping the holidays for next year. Be sure to purchase your leprechaun right after St. Patrick’s Day - this is when the party stores have the best prices. And just shoot me an email, I promise to direct you to the right places for the Beard and Hat conversion kits.

Merry Crapmas to all!

http://www.amazon.com/s/?ie=UTF8&keywords=santa+helicopter&tag=googhydr-20&index=aps&hvadid=2196346991&ref=pd_sl_7zoyxi8znv_b

http://www.google.com/products?q=inflatable+santa+lawn&hl=en&show=dd

The end is nigh(ish)

We are here! Dec 21st 2008 -
I hear you saying ‘so?’

But know this, 12-21-12 is the end of the world. The Mayan calendar predicts this. All great religions see the end of the world as coming in 2012. Well, all the good religions anyway. And why would you want to be a part of a creed that has no impending doomsday scenario? Where’s the fun in that, really?

So, you’ve got four years left before the poles switch, the ascension occurs, and the human race goes extinct. What are you going to do with your time?

That’s a big question. Do you stop going to work? Spend your days plying your family and friends with fond farewells and try to play as much golf as you possibly can?

Should you sell your water-front property? Between global warming and the polar shift, water front property should be a lot less valuable in five years. The market may be soft now, but think how soft (or even underwater) the ground will be in five years.

There are so many things to do before facing the end of the world.
Let’s start with The Basic Apocalypse Readiness Check-list:
1 - make certain that you have a survivable low point in the house to weather high winds, tornadoes, things of that ilk.
2 - make certain that you have a survivable high point in the house to weather floods and such.
(It doesn’t really matter if your area is at risk for these kinds of disasters. Who knows what will happen when all this goes awry?)
* Sidebar - there is no advice for California. I am sorely afraid that the old Lex Luther drop-California-into-the-ocean plan may come to fruition here. Notice how I moved far away from the state . . .
3 - keep plenty of canned foods on hand. You can also get MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat at Military supply stores. If you have any questions regarding the debatable tastiness of the MREs simply ask any military person you know.
* Freeze-dried ice cream is also a great thing to have on hand for end-of-the-world scenarios. Just keep in mind that the labeling is correct about the ‘freeze-dried’ part but not the ‘ice-cream’ part.
4 - keep plenty of drinkable water on hand. You should have one gallon of water per person per day for the duration of the planned siege.
* because the ‘siege’ will be until the end of all time, you should realize that your life span after December 21st will be measured in gallons per person per day.
5 - don’t bathe in your drinking water. If you want to continue to be able to be near the ones you love during this time of crisis, bathing water is a must. Keep non-drinking water on hand to encourage cleanliness at the end.

There are all kinds of things still to be done. You have only for years to build a shelter to house your entire family (comfortably?) until the world is a safe place to live in. Remember, the Basic Apocalypse Readiness Check-list only covers minimalist survival. You’ll likely want things like beds, entertainment, and communications devices so you can talk other survivors into checking out the ‘surface’ and reporting back to you. Without this, someone in your shelter will have to make the foray into the unknown and (hopefully) return to tell you all about it. It’s far better to have a patsy to do the early recon; communications systems will help ensure this scenario.

If you are looking for a handy guide to survival shelters, may I suggest “Blast From the Past” with Brendan Fraser (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0124298/). Whether or not you enjoy the comedic value of the film, there are excellent ideas for survival shelters in the movie.

And last but not least, what else do you have to do before the end comes? Each of us must look deep into our own hearts. Is there someone we need to forgive? Someone who needs forgiveness from us? A wrong that must be righted? There are deep soul searches to be conducted.

Remember, you have just four short years from now to do what needs to be done. Me, I have to go shark diving and parachuting. Because, hey, if something goes wrong, my family will survive for that many more gallons per person per day!

Not easy bein’ green - Part 2

There are bigger and better ways to ‘go green’ than just by saving plastic bags. Cities are starting to catch up with recycling - which is in hot debate about whether or not it saves any money. Nashville (where I live) now recycles plastics up to #7! Lordy, almost no one recycles #7!

There must be a caveat . . . Yup. They don’t take plastic bags. These have to be the easiest thing in the world to recycle. I swear I could melt a few down on my stovetop in an old pan and make something useful out of it. I’d do it, too, except for the poisonous vapors it would release. And right there on the bag it says ‘please recycle’ and ‘#2’. So why won’t Nashville take them??? We are left to recycle them by . . . (*gasp*) using them again! (Give me a moment, I have to shake that thought off!)

There are big ticket items that can be bought more wisely, too - you know, the next time you’re not in a recession - like fuel efficient cars, energy saver fridges, dishwashers, etc. Personally, I’m holding out for a hybrid mini-van and a fridge that I can open the doors and cool the whole house in the summer.

There’s also a big push towards ‘green construction’, which a friend of mine is certified in. Apparently, often it’s not the materials that are different, but the way that they are assembled, and some methods to reduce waste. But, there are some things that are different.

There are recycled countertops. Beautiful pieces, really, made out of shards of broken (recycled) glass. I’m encouraging my father to get those when he re-does his kitchen. And there are toilets that have two different strengths of flushes. So you can flush according to what you put in there. But I have to wonder if there is also an alarm or a loud, taunting voice. There might as well be one. Like no one’s going to realize that scary loud whoosh of water through the pipes means you just dropped a deuce!

My contractor friend recently added a second story to his own home - and you can bet it’s green. He and his wife just had their first baby a few months ago (sounds like a good time to plan major construction on the house!) So they have been really excited about some of the new products they have found.

I get it. He’s in construction, she’s his wife. But they practically glowed about a spackle that had no volatile compounds and was so safe he could do the walls with the baby right there. This is the right time to put in energy saver appliances, and they are going all out. All the way out to the insulation. Which they swear is an organic foam that fills the cracks completely and won’t let a smidge of air escape. They say it’s so safe you can eat it. And some days they are so excited about it, that I think they will. (I’ll write again and let you know how that works out for them.)

But for any of us not currently adding a second story onto our house, what can we do?

Well, we can save gas by driving less aggressively. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. We can save money and energy by putting fluorescent light bulbs all through our houses. They don’t burn out for ten whole years. Unless, of course, they pop and die like mine do. We can put recycling in the bin. If you paid just a little more attention, you could keep a huge portion of your trash out of the landfills. Except, of course, if you live in an apartment, which almost no city provides recycling for.

So, see? There’s plenty we can all do to make a better tomorrow. And sometime tomorrow we’ll realize how to get it done.

Not easy bein’ green - Part 1

Okay, actually it is fairly easy to be green these days. Or at least greener.

There are a lot of things we can all do without much effort. And most of us aren’t doing them. Some things there are really no good excuse for: Like using plastic bags. Every grocery store and its’ brothers all sell those cloth re-usable bags for 99c.

Just think, Kroger gives you 4c credit every time you use one of your own bags! This means in a mere 27 trips you will have paid off your bag. (I’m counting the 9c of tax in there, too.) In that same 27 trips you will have discovered that your cloth bag holds twice as much as a single plastic bag, and never needs to be double bagged. Was this accounted for in that 4c? Or am I getting gypped?

Nevermind. I’m saving the environment. And I can sling my grocery bag over my shoulder, can you? As South Park so aptly put it, I am no longer creating ‘smog’ I have moved up to creating ‘smug’. Five more baby ducks will survive to adulthood because I brought my bags today. And I got 20c!

In that same 27 trips to earn back the price of your bags, you will also walk an extra five miles. ‘Huh?’ You say, ‘how is that?’ Some of you are better at this than me and you will never make the extra five miles, but me, I clock the time: Going back to my car to get the bags out of the trunk.

I started to give my kids a quarter every time they remembered the bags, thus greatly increasing my number of trips before the bags are paid off, BUT greatly decreasing my number of trips back to the car. Unfortunately, my kids suck at it as bad as I do. Basically, I’m never going to earn back the cost of the insulated bag for milk and ice cream, but I will continue being smug.

There are other things to do, too. Sara Snow, on ‘Get Fresh’, (https://www.singledad.com/home-and-cooking/articles/Sara_Snow_s_Simple_Steps_to_Live_Green_1214980981.php) tells us to unplug things. Everything. My Dad’s a physicist and he disagrees with Sara. He points out that non-transformer plugs don’t draw a current unless the thing is on. So who cares? And you sure don’t want to unplug it while you’re using it.

But what about transformer plugs? (Those bulky black boxes that make it impossible to plug anything into the other socket in the outlet.) I hear they’re evil! Some conservationists/granola-nut-jobs call them ‘vampires’ because they suck so much energy.

I was going around the house unplugging them while my father laughed at me. He said the hairdryer might draw 2c of electricity in a month. Well, I’m joining up with Sara Snow then: I want my 2c! Again, (*sigh*) this is followed by a sentence that starts ‘unfortunately’.
Unfortunately, there were only 4 things to unplug. I can’t unplug the phone. It doesn’t even work without the base plugged in, let alone take messages. I won’t unplug my computer because I would go clinically insane waiting for Windows to start up every time I sat down. Sometimes Yahoo is just too slow for me. And I understand that we should unplug the TV every night before bed - Sara wants to know who is watching TV at 3 AM. TiVo is, that’s who! I can’t miss an old episode of ‘House’! So TV stays plugged.

But I’ve done what I can. I’ve reduced my electric bill by 96c per year!
Ahhhh, the satisfaction of a job well done.

Fly your flag and throw your shoe!

It’s time to take a moment and fly your flag. No! Not your freak flag! Your American Flag. Wipe a tear from your eye, stand tall and proud. Everyone should live in a country so great.

This is what Americans have long believed. It was okay to not be democratic. It was okay if your women had no rights. You were allowed to be not-as-good-as-us. We were simply holier than thou and proud of it.

It was also okay to be small, backward, have a monarchy or women who didn’t shave - anything! But now, it’s only okay to be those things if you aren’t after us. The Jihad came at us with a big bad strike and we went apeshit.

I know others out there have recognized the sublime irony in our strike - a fervent, almost religious, lash out at those who didn’t harm us because they were in some small way associated with those who did. Yes, we went Jihad right back on them. Of course, this is to prove what a bad idea Jihad is. Gotta love it.

Now, I’m not saying that anyone is right or wrong here, nor that anyone has deserved what they got. No, I get the distinct impression that those who deserve some ‘getting’ are the only ones who aren’t getting it. But Americans, as a people, were wrong. We have the right to vote, we have some control over our government, but we often chose not to vote. For some reason ‘The Hills’ is more important than the presidential debate. What’s really sad is that some poor idiot - who really needs a Living Skills class rather than his/her own TV show - will read this and think ‘Hey, that’s cool! We got a shout out!”

*sigh*

In the re-wording and backtracking the government has done, the war on Iraq has changed from being a ‘war on terror’ to an almost attempt at ‘Americanizing’ the country. I mean, we can’t prove they did anything wrong except be not-as-good-as-us. Only now, we’d already opened the can of whoop-ass and we desperately needed someone to shake it at.

So, Welcome, Iraq, to the twenty-first century. The time where we take over your country and turn you into a democracy so you can be as good as us. We won’t take the time now to ask what becomes of us when you get better at it than we are. (Japanese electronics anyone?)

George Bush should be proud. Regardless of what he originally intended, he has succeeded at Americanization even if the Iraqis don’t like it. His visit a few days ago yielded a shoe being tossed at his head. The Iraqi Prime Minister sat quietly and still-faced as the shoe came flying through the air right at W’s head. W, by the way, had to duck to not get beaned.

That kind of aim takes practice. I’m glad to see he gave the Iraqi people the opportunity for such pastimes. It’s all over folks. They don’t need us any more. We can get our troops out of Iraq!

Throwing your shoe at the head of a foreign leader? Why, that’s as American as baseball and apple pie!
http://cosmos.bcst.yahoo.com/up/player/popup/?rn=3906861&cl=11096193&ch=4226716&src=news

They’re dropping like Sci-Flies!

First it was Michael Crichton. The man who wrote Jurassic Park and The Andromeda Strain - and may or may not have hired ghost writers to churn out some more recent pieces like Next - has passed on. (Don’t get mad at me about the ghost writers comment. I’m just repeating gossip. The fact that a lot of people didn’t think his latest works were his best only makes it jucier.)

Now Forrest Ackerman is gone, too. He is credited with having coined the term ‘sci-fi’ and finding such literary sci-fi greats as Ray Bradbury. He had a huge collection of, shall we say, paraphernalia and opened his home to the public, like a museum, every Saturday.

I have to assume the man believed in forces beyond this world in order to throw open his doors once a week and believe that the visitors wouldn’t do his things any harm. And that his wife wouldn’t do him any harm, either. And, no, it wasn’t his wife that killed him. I think.

I have to admit that all this has me nervous. Something is after sci-fi writers. So I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Crichton, Ackerman . . . (It’s sci-fi, three shoes is appropriate.)

I find myself looking over my shoulder in public places. I mean what about all the smaller authors that maybe don’t make national news? What’s their morbidity rate? And why isn’t anyone putting the clues together!?!?!?

Please excuse my outburst. I’m sorry. I just let my imagination get a little carried away for a minute, there.

But that’s okay. It really isn’t about me is it? I mean, after all, I write thrillers. I get that it’s a fine line of distinction, but it’s one I’m hoping will keep me alive through the coming dark times for sci-fi writers.

I have to say that I am sorry to see Crichton and Ackerman go. They were the giants who founded the industry and they leave a grand legacy that someone among us will have to step up to carry on. But it seems the even the grand masters themselves were not able to defy science and medicine in the end. Or were they . . .

Big thumbs, tiny heads

All right, I saw the movie Wall*E and it was cute. At some time in the far future, people have become fat blobs who are no longer able to stand up because their bones have become weak and useless. Everything is done for them: they no longer even speak to each other.

As I said, it was a cute movie, until I realized the day is fast approaching where we wake up and realize that Wall*E was wrong. We will become a species with huge thumbs, weak legs and teeny tiny little shrunken heads.

No! You protest. We are becoming a species with a useless pinky finger and big heads. Like the aliens. But, alas, this is not going to be the case.

There was a time where you would die if you didn’t know how to build a fire and boil water. And - don’t get me wrong - I’m glad that time has passed. Because during that time you were likely to die, period. We now have clean water, toilets that flush (Hallelujia!) and women have an alternative to dying during childbirth and leaving the husband alone to figure out what to do with the child/beast. (Praise be to all you women who want ‘natural’ childbirths, but you won’t see me doing something just because ‘people have done it for thousands of years’. Horse and buggy, anyone? Really, get a better argument.)

But here’s the downside: we are getting phenomenally stupid. When I was a kid, if my toy train broke, I flipped it upside down and looked at the three working parts to see which one was at fault. My son’s train set is remote controlled. Which is way cool. But I bet there are very few of you who could offer a better explanation for how it works than “the remote sends a signal through the air to the train and the train goes.”

On the upside, my son didn’t pay the money to buy all the parts of that train set - upwards of several hundred dollars, piece by piece. So he isn’t afraid to get out a screwdriver and take it apart to see what’s wrong. This is why kids are so much more tech savvy than their parents: No fear / no concept of money.

The same applies to the TV and all that goes with it. At least my son’s train set isn’t a video game and he does build his own tracks. He uses all five of his fingers to do that. And thank goodness, because I was about to be afraid he wasn’t getting enough exercise.

But, train sets and video games aside, we are getting stupider by the minute. I was elated when I learned to microwave a potato rather than bake it, but appalled when they invented soup that you didn’t have to add water to. Seriously? Oh gosh yes! Adding water just took soooo looong. And drinkable water is so hard to come by in the continental US.

I became concerned when my mother got a hot dog cooker. It’s like a toaster: you put in two dogs and two buns and then push the lever down. Five minutes later, voila! Up pops dinner. The contraption is the size of a bread machine. Seriously? You are going to devote that much counter space to a food you shouldn’t be eating anyway? If you have a machine for it, you’re eating too many hot dogs. Bet you can’t name three hot dog ingredients without vomiting. No, it’s fine, I’ll wait ‘til you get back from hugging the toilet . . .

But wait! There’s more! Screw the hot dog machine, because you can now buy your hot dogs prepackaged in a plastic sleeve and just pop them in the microwave. Thank god, because getting out the hot dogs, then getting out the buns, then pushing the button on the machine was just so taxing. If you’re out of breath, I’m just saying it’s maybe because you don’t do anything except push the buttons on your video games and your diet consists of hot dogs.

So look around your house, embrace the huge thumbs of future generations, and feel your skull. It may be the last time we have a head that we use.

Ghost in the Machine

I have been told that I am lucky I am ‘merely weird’. Because, with all the things I have done or lived through I should be ‘totally f***ed up’. And this was from someone who loves me.

It was the movie Amityville Horror that sparked this. I first got into trouble by saying I wanted to see the movie. My aficionado friend was horrified. It was a remake! I tried to get myself out of such a terrible gaffe by saying I had read the book, but it was a long time ago and I wanted to see what I remembered. I mean, the book had really scared the crap out of me. It got worse when I explained that I had been seven when I read it. Hence the comment about my mental stability.

In the book, the little girl has a rocking chair that rocks by itself. I had a child-size rocker in my room, too, at the time. I swore I saw it rocking one night. As we had no pets, there was no way it had been an animal. Even though I no longer wanted to have my own room, and I huddled under the covers in fear every night, there was no way to stop me from reading.

In kindergarten, there had been an advanced reading group, comprised of kids who already knew how to read. And boy was I pissed that I wasn’t in that group. I made up for that with a vengeance. By six, I had contraband books under my bed. I wasn’t afraid of 500 pages, and I loved ghost stories. True Tales of the Unknown, Anthologies, Legends, Haunted Houses, the Bell Witch, you name it, I read it.

The fascination with ghosts peaked somewhere around junior high, but some of it lingered. And while there aren’t any ghost stories coming in my books in the near future, it could easily be argued that this still explains a lot. I was in college when I met my first ghost.

By this point, I think it’s just well known that ‘AJ is weird’. So you have to understand that I don’t freak out or panic over much. Apparently I am either extremely coolheaded or else so stupid that I don’t realize that I should be afraid/panicked at the time. Later, of course, I turn to Jell-O.

So it’s no surprise to me that I stayed calm and analytical when I walked into my dorm room and found my dresser drawer open. As I had just stepped out for a moment, I knew no one had come in to the room and done it - unless one of my friends had decided to take a very subtle approach to psychological torture and had developed a Cherokee-like softness of tread. I was going for ghost!

After watching the dresser for a moment, and thinking excitedly ‘it would have to be a poltergeist’ - and no, the movies weren’t anywhere near as terrifying as the books about poltergeists are - I made my move. I pushed the drawer shut. I didn’t expect anything.

So you can guess how shocked I was when the drawer slowly came back open.

There was no noise. No one around. No strings. So, I spent another long moment staring at my dresser. It stared right back, one drawer open about eight inches. Then, I pushed the drawer shut again.

It opened again. Just as smoothly as the first time.

The third time I shut the drawer, it was the drawer above it that came open. I shut my mouth and figured that this made a practical joke a lot less likely. I mean, who would bother to rig two drawers?

Three more times I shut drawers and three more times the drawer directly under or over it would slowly come open. I checked the tracks the wheels slide in, I peeked behind the dresser, I felt all the sides for triggers, filaments, or any kind of device. But there was nothing.

My analytical brain knew that, at this point, I had to change the game if I wanted to learn anything more about my ghost. So I slammed the drawer shut.

And was immediately rewarded with a small meowl.

Yes, I had completely overlooked the fact that the kitten was missing. It must have crawled in when I stepped out of the room, or I just hadn’t been paying attention after all. It must have been really squished back there when I closed the drawers all the way.

Scrambling, and feeling really bad about smashing my kitten, I snaked my arm into the drawer and up over the back panel. Sure enough, my little furry friend snuggled into my hand and I pulled her free.

I thought we all learned a valuable lesson that day. I know there aren’t ghosts in dorm rooms now. Really, it’s a dorm and, urban legends aside, who would want to haunt it? I now look for more earthly explanations first. And the cat learned not to crawl inside the furniture. Or so I thought. Because one day about six years later, the couch started meowing every time we sat on it.

The Master Race

Fallout from the Obama election

First, Hollywood has to deal with the Obama election. Gone are the days where the movie is clearly fictionalized (i.e. non-offensive to any past or present president) because there is a black man or a woman in the office. Now we’ll have to go to the next step – not only will the First Lady be a man, but the president will be, too.

Hollywood has a way of predicting these things. If you dig up old episodes of ‘Laugh In’ there’s a shot of Goldie Hawn listing a handful of things that eventually came true, one of which was that in twenty years there would be an actor in the White House. Yes, Goldie is that old. And there was Reagan, right on time.

The West Wing has recently been cited as being prescient about the Obama/Hilary issue in the Democratic party. Frankly, I’m just wondering if Stallone will be the next one proved right. There’s a conversation in Demolition Man, where Sandra Bullock explains that Schwartzenegger was first elected governor of California (check!) and then an amendment was added allowing foreign born citizens to become president (in the works!) Hence the ‘President Schwartzenegger Memorial Library’ she and Stallone were zooming past.

But aside from oh-so-deep concerns of Hollywood, there are more issues at stake here. I’ve made no secret that I’ve loved moving to Tennessee this past year. Whether I love it or not, this is a deeply red state. What I hate is that the Obama assassination plots have come from areas within twenty minutes of my home.

Look, I hated Bush. But I didn’t hate him for the color of his skin, or even for the color of the powder he spent years sucking up his nostrils. I merely disagreed with his decisions at every point along the way. In my personal opinion, he did everything he could to drive this country into the ground and make his friends rich. Sure there’s more, but the point is that I hated him for his policy, for his effect on the people of America. And no matter how much I wanted to, I never once actually hatched an Assassination Plan!

One thing Obama has already done, just by the color of his mocha skin, has brought racism into the light of day. He didn’t create it, but it is getting harder to deny that it exists. So, maybe we’ll finally do something about it.

I just don’t see how any thinking person can think the whites are the Master Race. I can’t imagine any of us Real Americans are all white, or all anything, any more. I have Italian, Turkish and Hillbilly blood in me. And I, like most of us, am probably host to a variety of ancestries that I didn’t even know were there. Isn’t that the point of this country? Aside from the fact that I don’t think there even are any real whites left, I still have a hard time thinking there is a master race.

Stop for a moment and imagine God. What does God ask of us? Most of us will say that God wants us to love each other. What about Vengeance? It is God’s. So sayeth the Lord and all that.

Now stop and think about the history of the White Race in America. The white man came to an occupied land. Labeled the native people as idiots, mostly because he didn’t understand them. Then he blew them to kingdom come. While still conquering the West, white americans went to Africa and enslaved people there. Then brought them here as slaves, set them free, and treated them as second class citizens. I have to say, right now, I can see that the whites ARE the master race: Master A-Holes, that is.

Is this what your God wanted of you? Do you truly think you will die and stand before him and he’ll say to you “You put flaming poop on your neighbor’s doorstep! Was he white? . . . No? Well then, good work, come on in to Heaven!” or “For years you have talked smack about your colored neighbors! Hallelujiah!” Seriously? God is a racist bigot?

Or did you just sit by and think softly that the neighborhood wasn’t the same? Did you think it was okay if there was a black or latino section of town? Because all that it takes for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing. Because you have to live in the world you allow.

It’s okay to hate Obama. But hate him for his ideals, please.

The Best Stuff on Earth

My family recently went organic. Or at least, as organic as we could without becoming total granola freaks. What this means is that we pay twice market value for standard items like milk and bananas. And they go bad faster. The upside is that we get the warm fuzzy feeling that we are doing good things for the planet and our kids.

The first issue with organics is finding good stuff. This is still America and we do still have to make it to soccer in the evenings, so we aren’t going to spend our weekends grinding our own graham flour. And, while I read that this is the idyllic life they live in Spain, I do not take a leisurely bike ride home and pick up fresh bread, tomatoes and vegetables on the way home from work. We have to buy some things ready to go.

The second issue is that I’m having a hard time calculating out the real value of organics. I mean, the Kroger with the good organic produce is seven miles further away than the Publix with only a little organic stuff. There is another Kroger closer, but as I look at the near dead fruit, the produce folks smile and say “The spots are because it’s organic!” No crap, what about the rot? Personally, I need my bananas to last at least twenty-four hours before they go to seed. So how do I calculate the negative value of all the extra driving? I mean not only is the place further away, but we have to go twice as often because “it’s organic!”

This is all tempered, of course, by the very real fear that the non-organic bread in the pantry could last a year without growing mold, and that’s just WRONG. Even Disney has acknowledged this: Wall-E’s only friend is a cockroach who lives on still-fresh twinkies eight-hundred years into the future.

The third issue is: How do you know if something is good for you? My general rule of thumb is that if I can’t identify the ingredients then I shouldn’t eat them. Then again, I have a lot of years of college Chemistry and BioChem under my belt, so I realize this isn’t the best course of action for everyone. But let’s face it: the FDA has no recommended Daily Allowance of FD&C Red #40 or Xantham Gum. (What is Xantham Gum? I seriously don’t know.)

To be honest, we all know some of the jargon, so it’s just an issue of what you do with the knowledge. For example, ‘fat-free’ means ‘we have replaced the fat in this product with something akin to plastic.’ ‘All-natural’ means nothing! Hell, plastic is all natural. Petroleum products originated on earth. Only glowing things extracted from meteors are banned from using this term. The question is: do you refuse to buy these things?

‘Heart smart’ can be really bad. It means there is increased fiber. But what else has been increased? Usually sugar. And sugar (usually in the guise of high fructose corn syrup) is the way the devil will steal your soul. It’s everywhere. Places you wouldn’t even suspect. Like tomato sauce! Bet the last time you had spaghetti you were thinking, ‘hey, this sauce just isn’t sweet enough.’ It’s in those plastic cases of deli meats that are sold next to the baloney and in your very bland Wheaties. Diabetes, anyone?

At least when you read the label you can see ‘high fructose corn syrup’ right there at the beginning of the ingredient list. You may be surprised, but you can put the box back on the shelf and get something else. What about the things you can’t identify? Sure, Lake Blue 40 looks like a bad idea, put it back! But what about Cochineal? My friends and I are geeks, so we had the Merck index handy (Merck lists scientific chemicals). Cochineal is a red coloring made from crushed bug abdomens and eggs. Seriously, that’s disgusting. And it’s in your food. Hey, at least it’s ‘all-natural’, right?

You can take your sigh of relief here and say to yourself, ‘well, I’m sure I didn’t eat any of that’. No, you probably drank it. Guess where! Snapple! Made from the best stuff on earth.

Thanksgiving

It’s that time of year again. Thanksgiving time - the time where I start talking smack. This year I am going to shoot my own dinner!

Let me give a little background. My house was built before the rest of the neighborhood. This has resulted in a few anomalies. One is that the house number is out of order – we are 205 right next to 238. This is always fun when trying to get packages delivered. Another is that our house is deemed ‘county’ where all our neighbors are ‘city’. This means that we have the express privilege of shooting things on our own property.

Hence the smack talk.

When you add in that we inherited my father-in-law’s sniper rifle, things get fun. I decided last year that I wanted to shoot my own turkey for thanksgiving. I’ve been told that wild turkeys have the best flavor, too. I can’t wait.

Okay, now’s the time for all you Peta/vegetarians to stuff it. I am a firm believer that God gave us those pointy teeth to eat meat. I don’t believe in senseless or inhumane killing, but I did see The Lion King. I do think there’s a circle of life and it ain’t like the guidance circle the schoolkids are having these days. I don’t think the lion and the zebra should sit down together and talk about their differences – unless, of course, the zebra is suicidal.

On the other hand, I am like most people – I have a soft spot for cute fuzzy things. Mammals are harder to kill. (I could never take down Bambi!) And things that are closer to the me-ness that is me get more respect. Sorry, just the way it is. Admit it, you happily poison weeds. I bet you squash bugs, even outside your house. Even the kinds that don’t bite or sting. Some of you will even extend the killing to include snakes . . . They are not like you, and don’t deserve as much respect as, say, the Gray Wolf that we will tirelessly work to save.

My line is at birds. The turkey is – literally – fair game. There are flocks of wild turkeys here in “the bend” where I live. They roam the streets. They are in the neighbors’ yards. But they won’t come into mine.

I lay out in my back yard, rifle poised on its bi-pod, ready to aim. I am a good shot – after all that research for Vengeance, I’m good with a hand gun, too. But there is a real sense of satisfaction in finding a good use for the sniper rifle.

Unfortunately, the turkeys don’t come. I check with the local laws. Apparently it is legal to feed the animals on county properties. It is legal to shoot them, too. It just ain’t legal to bait the turkeys then shoot them. The law isn’t really specific about how long a time lapse I need between the baiting and the shooting . . . . hmmmmm.

Once I found this out, there just wasn’t enough time to feed the birds and establish my yard as a food source. I also can’t stake out in my yard and place a well aimed shot down the street to get a bird off the neighbor’s lawn. (Ultimately, I must agree that this is a good law.) And the turkeys never came closer than three houses away. Apparently, they were smarter than that. In fact the only county lands I have ever seen them on are a few vacant lawns that have big ‘no trespassing’ signs posted. Are they turkey sanctuaries?

In the end, this year I was forced to give some grudging respect to the birds. I mean, they went everywhere in my neighborhood except near my house! I was also forced to buy my Thanksgiving meats at Publix like everyone else.

But next year . . . next year there will be random free corn scattered across my lawn in early November. Next year I will build a real blind to hide in. Next year . . . well, let me just say this:
Game on, turkeys!

BEA or bust - Part 7

BEA or bust -
The trip to Book Expo 2008

Day 6 - the way home - 4pm


Do not attempt to drive in LA between the hours of four and . . . well, ever. We were packed up and back on the road. The bumper to bumper traffic of the millions who had wised up that weekend and were also fleeing LA (or just commuting home?) clogged the road like a stick of butter in an artery. We weren’t going anywhere soon.

Luckily, we only had to get to Phoenix and we each had an Ice Blended in hand. We had made that the number one priority getting out the door. We also had the GPS programmed for the Coffee Bean that was furthest out from LA and had a cooler of ice waiting for the spare each of us would get.

I know you don’t believe me. But I really did this. Just ask Eli. I really like Mocha Ice Blendeds and no one does them like Coffee Bean. I also know that you now realize the cooler signifies that neither of us had yet burned out on the Mochas. This is sad. I failed. I worked really hard toward the goal of getting sick on them. I was up to four a day there at the end. Do you know how many calories are in those things? I didn’t eat much of anything else the last few days. I should have been really sick. What are they putting in them?

After breaking free of the knot of traffic, we accelerated and headed straight for Dallas - ahem, by way of Phoenix again. We got an audiobook - this time we checked to be certain it was on CD before buying - and listened all the way in to Phoenix.

We found a purveyor of crickets before hitting the hotel, where we carried the frogs right through the front lobby. The girls behind the desk squealed and jumped. Not in fear - no, they gushed ‘We heard there were frogs last week!’ and ‘They are so CUTE!’ We smile. Suck up, frogs. Be cute.

For the first time, we really crashed for the night. Even the sound of crickets meeting their end wasn’t enough to keep me up. But somehow I was awake with the dawn. Which was fine, we had a long day ahead of us. Besides, a friend in town had mentioned that Phoenix now had a . . . COFFEE BEAN! Well, you can guess where we headed.

After ransacking yet another Coffee Bean, we pulled out our second audiobook. I usually like the author we had just sacked. But not everything translates well to audio. I was scowling by the fifth time the story explained that the house was run down and the main character didn’t quite have the coin to fix it up. Really? Five explanations? There may have been more, but we wouldn’t know as we popped the CD out and hit the next Barnes & Noble standing monolithic on the side of the freeway. I may be a savant, but I’m smart enough to know when an author is talking down to me. And I’m smart enough to turn it off.

This time the book had merit and we listened avidly. Which was a good thing because this was the longest day of . . . well ever. As slow as the trip had been going out, it was slower traipsing back. We crossed two time zones against us this time - lost hours that felt as though we had stretched time into some endless taffy loop. Then there was the cruel trick played by the Texas Highway System. Remember, I mentioned the 80mph speed limit? Well, it turns out that’s just during daylight hours, and dusk hit just as we crossed the Texas border. The signs taunted us all the way back to Dallas. 80MPH - after dusk 15MPH. Okay, the 15 part is an exaggeration. But just a little. I swear 60 felt like we were in danger of seeing horse-drawn carriages pass us. Or maybe skateboarders.

Oh, do you also remember how I said the Texas landscape was barren and unchanging? Yeah, that’s ten times more so at night. I tried consoling myself by saying that I wouldn’t be any happier if I could see it. But that didn’t help much.

Eli passed out right after the audiobook ended and somehow I am driving in the dark all alone. I sing Metallica songs at full volume, but Eli doesn’t budge. What can I do? This is like so many nights, where everyone else has gone to sleep and I am still awake. But what I normally do is read.

After half an hour of nothing, I get really bored and decide to pick up a book. I got a lot of them at the Expo. I shuffle through the stack, trying to decide what to read. Who cares if I get pulled over? Maybe the flashing blue lights will wake Eli and get it across that it is no longer my turn to drive. Surely the police won’t ticket me - after all, I’m clearly not that bright, I’m just a savant.

BEA or bust - Part 6

BEA or bust -
The trip to Book Expo 2008

Day 5 - the Expo - 5 am


Eli and I have gotten into the swing of things. We are friends with the folks in the neighboring booth. We are talking to everybody - Expo-style. And we have a plan for dinner that does not involve French accents or overpriced peas.

The frogs are living it up, front and center on our table. It appears that they, not I, are they stars of this little dog and pony show. Booth visitors want to know if they can win a frog, touch a frog, or just stay and gaze longingly at them. Occasionally, someone speaks to me or to Eli.

But all this is just fine. It frees me up for a run to the Coffee Bean up the street while the frogs hold court at the booth. I am not yet sick of Mocha Ice Blendeds. I’ll have to start drinking more, even though I am already at two per day.

As far as the booth stuff goes, Eli and I are holding up better today. Maybe we have better shoes or we have acclimated or maybe it’s just time to buck up - but we aren’t quite so whiny today. Or maybe we are just a little afraid of the uber-bright clown down the way or the creepy man that looks like a cross between a body builder and Colonel Sanders.

God! I promise I’ll be good. I’ll even go check out the writer who claims he’s conquered the black, homosexual angel fantasy genre (more power to him, maybe he has!) But please God, keep the clown away.

There are other writers, and other publishers here. For miles and miles. But we are in a booth near the creepy clown and the guys selling multicultural children’s stories (with clowns! Save me!)

There is a man hawking a cook-book for men with food to “make her panties drop”. So the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and so is the way to a woman’s . . .

There is the “Little Jake” or “Little Will” or “Little Somebody” or other series. These books are about a small boy with a big arsenal and he kills lots of wild creatures. With glee. These are books for kids.

I find a book of teenage love poems. I have to say I am sucked in, and even find one entitled “Lorraine V.” - which just happens to be the name and initial of a good friend of mine. I know she will be thrilled to have a poem about her that involves the words “water fountain”.

All of this wildness is tempered with random trips to the nearest Coffee Bean. I have suckered new friends from various other booths to trek to the Bean with me. I have made converts (take that, Starbucks!). However, I am always the one to make the half mile trip on foot. It is actually longer to go by Metro - as is often the case in LA. And half the trip is just what it takes to get out of the Convention Center. Eli doesn’t go, using such excuses as ‘but you already know where it is. I’d hate to get lost.’ ‘No, I don’t need one right now, but if you are going, bring me back a medium.’ Or ‘You and Bruce could talk, what would I say?’ Oh yes, Eli has a bag full of excuses not to walk. But Eli always gets an Ice Blended in the end. Yeah, I was slow on the uptake on that one, too.

Still, the Expo has been fun, if exhausting. We are champs at showing people ‘How to Disarm a Mafia Hitman’ - the sideshow we were running based off research from my book Vengeance. The four frogs of the apocalypse have been rotated until their eyes spin (I didn’t know frogs could do that. Hmm, learn something new everyday.) And it is at last time to take down our banners and abandon our corner of the Expo.

I bleed again for my craft. I bleed from the same shower-hook/banner-holder that I bled from the first time. The only thing new is the band-aid. Yup. I’m definitely a savant.

BEA or bust - Part 5

BEA or bust -
The trip to Book Expo 2008

Day 4 - the Expo - 9 am

We have arrived, and it is HUGE. Our banner is lost, so currently the booth is recognized only by a small sign with the publisher’s logo. At ten minutes until the doors open we are entirely set up - except for the missing banner. The shipping company has us on hold while they try to figure out if they even mailed anything. Apparently, they are confused. And we are concerned.

But just then, a nice person shows up from another booth. The box he is holding has his booth number on it, but it is definitely our banner. Eli tells the woman on the phone, who thanks us and reminds us of the $42 shipping charge that is still owed - as the banner did arrive at the LA Convention Center.

Seriously? The Center covers about four blocks. No where else is it acceptable to get a package within half a mile of the right place and say that it was delivered. On top of this, there are no hooks to hang it. Three minutes until doors open.

While trying to jury rig a system in place I decide to introduce the shipping lady to the airline lady who cancelled my flight with a bright smile. I think they would be fast friends.

In the end, shower rings from a kindly neighbor saved the day. The banner was up by the time the third cluster of people came through and I have now bled for my work. Literally. I wear my band-aid with pride.

9 pm

We have made it through day one. And are aware that day two is supposed to be the big day. We have ordered room service because walking is not an option. Smiling is no longer something I am capable of either, but I don’t think it will be required by the room service personnel.

Besides, the pesto and peas cost $51. We have paid for the food, the service, the overblown French accents, and definitely the right to not smile.

It appears we still owe a tip, though.

BEA or bust - Part 4

BEA or bust -
The trip to Book Expo 2008

Day 3 - Phoenix to LA - 3:56 am

We crawled out of bed less than four hours after we crawled in. We sacrifice four crickets to the gods - frogs - and pack quickly. The sky is a deep shade just shy enough of black to let you know that it’s a dome over you, even though the hotel lights block out any stars. None of this matters. We are wide awake, because we are a mere 349 miles from the nearest Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.

We set the GPS and tell her: Lead on, Maggie!

We ride in relative silence, it has been a year since either of us has had our favorite drink - Ice Blendeds at the Coffee Bean. Maggie (named after her maker: Magellan) took us to the Irvine Center store. Surely we have passed others along the way, but they were not ranked as a GPS “point of interest” so they must not be as good.

The only problem was, this store was in a mall and it was 9:15 am when we arrived. There were tense moments finding the store on the mall map and the deep seated fear that the store would not be open until the mall was: at ten!

We were formulating Plan B when we spotted a man sitting out with his morning brew in front of the store.

“Look! He has coffee!” One of us yelled. The man startled, by the look on his face he seemed afraid we wanted his coffee. And we probably did look a bit like rabid dogs. We had come a long way for this. (and the book expo, but whatever.)

The boy behind the counter thought our glee was a bit odd. But I didn’t care. I had a Mocha Ice Blended in my hand in minutes.

Unfortunately, it was much better than I remembered it being. I was so certain that I had idealized the drink during the time I had been without, but no. And the fact that it was so good saddened me. Like a junkie coming down, it would be just as hard to leave it behind as it had when I moved from LA the first time.

A new plan was hatched: make ourselves so sick on Ice Blendeds that we will willingly give them up at the end of the week. It is a good plan. I went back in and got a second one for the road. I am nothing if not determined.

Coffee Bean in hand, we arrived at the Expo and spent the afternoon setting up our booth. For all this, we will sell no books. The expo is for tradespeople. We are meeting PR people, other authors, artists, and rights agents (Like Hasselhoff, I hope to be loved in Germany!)

The day has left us excited about the show, but both glad we are ex-Angelenos. Of course, here there is a Coffee bean on every corner - three within a stone’s throw of our hotel (this is equivalent to a twenty minute drive.)

We hit my favorite sushi house for dinner. While I learned that LA driving (and the mild muscle cramping that goes with it) is not a skill that is lost, sadly the ability to stuff your face with sushi is quickly gone without practice.
At last we are snug in our hotel in West Hollywood. The frogs and crickets are chirping sweet songs of predator and prey. It may be time for bed . . . at last a real night’s rest. But I swear, through the forest sounds of the animals, I swear I can hear the Coffee Bean calling me.

BEA or bust - Part 3

BEA or bust -
The trip to Book Expo 2008

Day 2 - Dallas to Phoenix - 2:26pm

Yesterday we raided a roadside convenience store. The place had to know it was in the middle of nowhere, because it offered an assortment of audio books. Clearly, no one visiting this store could have anything better to do.

Eli and I were excited. There had been a webinar earlier in the day, but apparently you shouldn’t try to attend webinars while in the car using a cell phone based internet system and passing through the middle of the forsaken land. And there was another eight hours to go.

We greedily picked out a trilogy and hit the road again.

After eating our ice cream sandwiches - or rather attempting to drink them before they vaporized in the west Texas sun - we ripped the cellophane off our audiobook set and popped the case open to reveal a glistening new set of ten . . . cassettes.!?!

There is no cassette player in the car! Eli (a complete technophile) says it would be no less surprising if we had opened the box and discovered the book on LP.

Thinking back, all the audiobooks on the shelf were the same shape, which means the store didn’t offer anything on CD. So we didn’t miss something, there was no choice to be made about format. We took what was there and didn’t think that it might not be right. Part of me wants to balk at the cassettes, but another part of me feels compelled to point out that there is no way a CD would have fit into that box. Boy, were we not paying attention. (Again, I mention that I prefer the term ‘savant’.)

Reduced to listening to staticky radio stations when we could find them, we tried not to complain. The cassette problem was truly our fault. And it was also our fault for not checking things out before we got too deep into the back of beyond. So we faked smiles and lied to each other about how much we loved country music from the fifties and Broadway hits in Spanish.

We hit Phoenix just before midnight. Mind you we only made that goal because the earth was kind enough to have us cross two time zones in our favor. So it was really a little before two a.m. our time.

We checked in and one of us showered - I won’t say which one of us and the four frogs of the apocalypse were cleaned. They creaked incessantly to warn us of the coming changes. We did not care.

The frogs are going with us to show visitors to the booth how they orient - just like in the book. It’s all plausible, the magnetic orientation of the frogs that Becky finds, and a lot of it doesn’t even require a polar reversal, just a frog. So these four (poorly named Jordan, Jillian, Becky and David) are off to show what they can do. We would have gotten frogs in LA rather than dragging them out and back, but we have only a limited set up time. So these guys are getting hauled cross country, along with twelve cricket dinners. I swear the hotel room sounds like I am camping out by the back pond. I dream of the polar reversal and the bees beside the 101 freeway.

Luckily, to me, this is restful.

BEA or bust - Part 2

BEA or bust -
The trip to Book Expo 2008

Day 2 - Dallas to Phoenix - 4:03 am

I started the second day of my trip half an hour late due to a faulty alarm clock. Or perhaps a faulty alarm clock setter? Eli? Really, though, thank you Eli. This gave me four and a half hours of sleep instead of just four. I re-packed my bags (oh joy!) and graciously allowed someone else to load them into the trunk.

Eli and I hit the road, but we didn’t go far. My mother, stepfather and brother live a mile down the street so we had to stop in for me to say ‘hi’. Eli, being their nearby adult child, has a key, and popped open the front door yelling “Pants! Pants!” at full volume.

Apparently, this is the new form of greeting at my mother’s. Apparently, there was a problem with this recently. I didn’t ask for more details.

We give hugs and are told for the umpteenth time to ‘drive safely’ and, at last, we are on the road with 962 miles to go to our hotel in Phoenix. Within half an hour we have already stopped twice - once at Sonic for limeades (a road trip necessity) and once to unpack my luggage to find the antennae to the GPS (which makes it work remarkably better.)

It’s going to be a long day.

The Texas read system has done a brilliant thing and upped their middle-of-nowhere freeway speed to 80. But since Eli has gone to sleep and the landscape is so monotonous, 80 just feels . . . so . . . slow.

And even at 80, you can just drive and drive and never get anywhere. (Don’t zoom out on the GPS on long trips, it’s really depressing to watch your car not move forward on the map.) But I know we haven’t left Texas because a beer billboard has called me treasonous if I drink anything else and there is a general foul smell lingering in the air. I know it’s manure, but I’m not sure what kind it is - prairie dog? Jackalope? What do they have out here that could possibly smell so bad? I try dot to breede for two huddred biles.

On an up note, we have named the kindly GPS ‘Maggie’. Every time we exit, she tells us to please make a legal U-turn. Apparently, Maggie never has to pee.

It turns out that Maggie, like me, is a savant. She’s fantastic with directions, but really slow on the uptake. You would think that after passing four possible U-turn spots at high speed, she’d figure out we don’t want to turn around. But she doesn’t. I don’t get mad, though, I treat her with the pity that savants deserve. I have also learned that if you hit the right buttons you can say, “Maggie, do you think you should shut up now?” and she’ll cheerfully reply, “Yes!”

We turned Maggie off after that pit stop for more limeades. Seriously, you can’t get lost in back-of-nowhere Texas. Just make sure you have a full tank of overpriced gas and follow the smell.

BEA or bust - Part 1

BEA or bust -
The trip to Book Expo 2008

Day -1 - Nashville to Dallas
Brace yourselves frogs, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Though we are just getting into the car, already - for me - the trip is nineteen hours old. After being dropped at the airport two hours early (an absolute UNnecessity in Nashville) my flight was bumped, bumped again, and finally cancelled. All due to weather.

According to the airline, there was a bad storm in Dallas, although all reports from the ground stated “sure, there was a little rain”. To add insult to injury, the next flight to Dallas (two hours later) wasn’t even delayed. And the screen behind the desk at the terminal was posting the Dallas weather as 74o and partly cloudy. This flight was, of course, sold out.

A smiling attendant told me it was a good thing I lived in the area as I “could go home and just come back and try again the next morning.” She recommended hotels for stranded travelers, offered us seats in the airport to sleep on, never apologized and offered no comps. All with a smile that would make the manufacturers of Thorazine quite proud.

I called my travel agent/manager/Eli and was soon booked on a flight on Southwest. I bid my newfound and bitter airport friends goodbye (must be they didn’t have a travel agent/manager/Eli). After re-doing all the check-in and TSA stuff, the kindly folks at Southwest told me the weather in Dallas was sunny that evening.

An hour after I was originally to have landed, I was on board my new flight. After landing . . . somewhere, I immediately popped myself onto the next connection to Dallas. Of course, I realized only as I landed that there was no way on earth that my luggage had also made the flight. Not my brightest move. Eli pointed this out several times over midnight pancakes at IHOP while we waited for my suitcase to land.

At this point I decided the next time someone tells me how smart I am, I will gently but firmly insist that I am a savant. This way, when I do remarkably stupid things (which I am bound to do - probably sooner rather than later) I will not only get acceptance but maybe even sympathy.

I have to say that this label has sat well with me in the weeks since. I was labeled the class brainiac by first grade - don’t get me wrong, I earned it. I was socially awkward and couldn’t keep my mouth shut (situations that still plague me to this day (“grow out of it” my ass!)). But when you get that “brainiac” label, people expect things. Teachers expect you to do well. Other students expect you to do the work. And I think people really enjoy when you do something stupid - which I do all the time.

So being a ‘savant’ is fantastic. If something doesn’t work out, well, it wasn’t the area I’m smart in. If I’m stupid, poor me. If anyone doubts me, all I have to do is throw in a few mumbled phrases about ‘Wapner at three’ or ‘only driving on Mondays’. Most people still get the reference. So here’s to savantism! Join me! Why have expectations and silly talks about your ‘potential’ when you can be celebrated for buttoning your shirt in the morning?

I’m all in, how about you?

Houdini – part 2

I’ve Never Heard of That Before

This is a phrase that gets used a lot with our dog. For example, the conversation goes like this:
Home Depot Guy – You can use this clip on the dog run.
Us – No, our dog can undo those.
Home Depot Guy – Then use a Caribeaner.
Us – No, he can unscrew them.
Home Depot Guy – Really!? I’ve Never Heard of That Before.
Or regarding the Indestructable Ball (which is advertised as both Lion-proof and Elephant-proof.)
Us – We’d like to return this. It didn’t work out.
PetCo Girl – Wow, we’ve never had an Indestructable Ball Come back before. What did this?
Us – Our dog. And you should check out the time on the receipt.
PetCo Girl – Holy $#it! You only bought it four hours ago!
Yes, not only had the outer layer of ball been scratched within an inch of it’s life, half the ball had been inverted into the other side. Indestructable, my foot.
Hercamer has eaten the siding off my father’s house (Thanks for letting us stay with you last summer!) He peeled and chewed one quarter of the side in five minutes. The neighbor yelled across the fence, “Hey, your dog is eating your house!”
Hercamer put serious teethmarks into a steel doorknob. Yup, you read that right, steel.
He scales any kind of fencing. Chain link is super-easy, he just sticks his feet in and climbs like a person until he levers himself over the top – piece of cake. I have no idea how he got over the 7-foot vinyl fence without leaving any marks. SuperDog? But I know he piled old wood and a piece of crate to make a ladder to get over the cinderblock fence.
He’s learned how to open every door in every house we’ve lived in. And he can open child proof locks on cabinet doors and drawers. Yeah, the kids got through those really quick, too – Did Hercamer teach them how? All in all, they were just a waste of money and a lot of frustration until I gave up and unscrewed the suckers.
Hercamer uses his toys (non round ones only) as doorstops. I guess turning the knob was just too pesky!
On the upside, he was very cautious about who got to go near his babies (our kids). There were a few times an unsavory sort would try to come near one of the kids or start a conversation. It was awesome to be able to shrug and say, “I’m sorry about the dog growling at you, but he doesn’t let anyone near the kids.” I never added, ‘anyone he doesn’t like’.
Most recently, Hercamer unscrewed the caribeaner on his dog run and went to check out the neighborhood right after we moved to Tennessee. (We do still use the caribeaners because they won’t keep him, but they do slow him down . . . a bit.) When we went to pick him up at the neigbor’s house, the nice man said, “The dog’s in the backyard. I put him up on the porch so he wouldn’t wander further away, but he jumped over the railing. I hope he’s not hurt. It is a second story porch.”
I looked up. The railing on the porch was just that – railing. So Hercamer could see through it; he knew exactly how far he was jumping. I said, “Oh, he’s done stuff like that before. Don’t worry about it.”
I didn’t add, “I’m just grateful he didn’t eat the siding off your house!”

Houdini – part 1

Don’t Fence Me In

Anyone who has ever gotten close to a pet can tell you that they think and feel. Maybe not the same as people, but pretty darn near it. In the never-ending quest to distinguish humanity from animals, the researchers have told us that humans are the only ones who use tools, who have true language, who feel emotions. This has all been proved pretty much untrue – and if it hadn’t been, I could have shown it with Hercamer. And, with Hercamer, I can show that humans don’t have the monopoly on insanity either.
First, Hercamer is an eleven-year-old Terrier/German Shepherd mix (we think). And, no he’s not named after the war general, the town in New York, or the Diamond mines. While those are all great ideas, our Hercamer is named after a childhood imaginary friend. (It’s really best if you just don’t ask.)
We got him at the pound when he was tiny and still quite a mystery. As we went along we learned that he was bigger than we thought he’d be. He’s loyal beyond belief. He’s also very bright and has almost no pain receptors. Yeah, think on that for a while.
From day one (when he repeatedly threw himself into the pool, even though he couldn’t get out) he’s proved to be a handful. More than once we have decided to strap a camera on his head and give him his own internet reality show.
He is fifty-five pounds of ferocious looking sweetheart. To this day we refer to him as our ‘puppy’, even though I once had someone pull his truck over to the side of the road and meet me on the sidewalk to inform me ‘that ain’t no puppy’.
While Hercamer is well trained in general, We get a lot of calls that begin, ‘Um, I think I have your dog.’ This first happened when we were in Los Feliz (an area in LA). We had a small patch of yard in front of our apartment and we were determined our puppy would have a place to play. So, with smiles on our faces, we installed one of those invisible fences. We buried the wire around the edge of the yard, planted the small flags to show Hercamer the boundary and checked the shock collar.
No, this isn’t inhumane. The dog doesn’t get shocked! You see, he learns where he can go – he sees the flags, the collar beeps a warning when he gets close, so your puppy never has to feel the sting. Even the kit says eventually you can just put up extra flags and your dog won’t go near them!
We did everything just as the directions suggested. We trained Hercamer with the collar, were vigilant about keeping to the suggestions, we did it just like we were supposed to.
I think the invisible fence worked for three days.
Hercamer tested it one day: he ignored the beeping and jumped through. All we heard was the yelp as the shock got him. We brought him back in and gave him that look. The one that says ‘you learned your lesson, didn’t you?’
Well, Hercamer learned his lesson. Remember that he has almost no pain receptors? We didn’t know that at the time. But what Hercamer learned was that it was worth it. After that first day, the yard was good enough until something interesting went by. Then a brief yelp was all the warning we got. Hercamer would be gone. He did this, walking back and forth through a shock that no dog in his right mind would cross. He burned a patch of fur off his neck before we even realized it. We decided to cut our losses before we looked like we were abusing him. We couldn’t return the invisible fence (a lesson we were doomed to repeat . . . repeatedly).It has been eleven years. And we still haven’t designed a Hercamer-proof fence. I kept telling myself that I am smarter than the dog. But there’s just no accounting for tenacity and a lack of pain receptors.

Anti-matter

While I am familiar with the physics term ‘anti-matter’, I don’t necessarily agree that this is the best use of the words. I am becoming more convinced that the term shouldn’t be used as a noun describing a substance that exists to counterbalance matter as we know it. Or maybe, since ‘matter’ itself already has two meanings, ‘anti-matter’ can, too.
Because I can think of a lot of things that anti-matter. They don’t just fail to matter, they anti-matter. They suck meaning out of other things, maybe out of life.
I’m not just talking about your average conundrum like diet soda. Yes, it’s a conundrum. You drink it to stay thin – and therefore attractive. But all the chemicals actually age your skin faster. They age your body faster, too, making your kidneys work overtime. But that’s not what ‘anti-matter’ is about. That’s just a poor diet.
I’ll give my first example of things that anti-matter: When in lived in LA, I saw people jogging on Mulholland.
Let me explain. Mullholland is a beautiful road. It twists and turns at the top of the hills that divide Hollywood from North Hollywood. The views of both LA and the Valley are incredible. Lots of mornings it gets foggy and mysterious and amazing. But the reason the views are so great is because of the sheer drops on either, and often both, sides of the pavement. Because the sides drop away, there’s no shoulder.
Now start putting all the facts together. You have to jog inside the lines, in the lanes of traffic. The twists and turns mean you can’t see more than thirty feet at a time. And let’s throw in one more thing: almost every car coming around the blind corners is speeding. And the crazy joggers are in the road!
Now, I would buy that the joggers are trying to commit suicide. It would be a great way to do it. You’d get a beautiful view. You’re practically guaranteed to die from being hit, because the cars are going so fast. And you can rest assured that your family will get the benefits of your life insurance, because it won’t look like you were trying – I know there’s a clause that says they won’t pay out if you commit suicide, but thankfully no such clause exists against stupidity.
But if these people are trying to kill themselves, why jog? Why not just walk? Enjoy the view before you go! Even though the fumes are bad in LA, jogging – and therefore sucking down more bad air – won’t speed up the process. Jogging on Mullholland just makes no sense. And if you are jogging for your health . . . well . . . . at least you’ll be in good shape when you get hit.
Do you see? Do you see how much of my life has been sucked away by this thing that anti-matters?
There are other things, as well. Like two-sided gift wrap. It’s worse that they charge you more for this stuff, too. You can’t possible use both sides of the same piece! Again, I can think of a few ways to make this item work. For example, one side would say “Congratulations on your Wedding!” and the other could say “Congratulations on your Divorce!” This way you could save by not buying two rolls, but still know that you were prepared for anything. However, no one makes this particular paper (I’ve looked). Then there is the inherent problem that when your friend opens up his Wedding gift he finds ‘divorce’ paper on the inside. And, even though you paid the upcharge for the two-sided paper, you still wind up looking cheap.
The only real situation I can imagine for this product is to use it to wrap gifts for those uber-recyclers who save the paper from their presents to re-use it. This way they won’t necessarily look like they are recycling as they can use the other side. But since I don’t know any of these people, I’m at a loss on this one, too. It is yet another thing that anti-matters – that sucks time from my life.
This doesn’t stop it from being made, though. My kids’ elementary school is once again holding their fall fundraiser. We are expected to sell chocolates, cards, and – yes – two-sided gift wrap.
Hey, you don’t happen to want to buy some, do you?

Chaos

Let me start with this statement: I love Chaos, even though I think most of her problems are my fault.
You deserve what you get when you name a dog ‘Chaos’. I named her, therefore it’s my fault. But I love her.
Chaos is the second of our two dogs (and I am certain you will hear much more about both of them.) When we got her, she was a sweet, skinny little thing, so excited to be rescued from the pound that naming her ‘Chaos’ just didn’t seem so ominous. And her chaotic tendencies were funny because I knew she’d grow out of them.
My bad.
When we took her into the vet for the first time, even he had a hard time getting a hold of her. The vet laughed at her name and assured us that she would settle down, likely by her first birthday. At her one year check-up, he assured us that she would settle down by her second birthday. At her two year check, the vet said there was no way she’d still be like this in another year.
We promptly got ourselves another vet.
Chaos is now eight and shows no signs of slowing.
Watching her with our older dog is like watching those cartoons where the little dog runs circles around the big, bored dog saying, “Hey Spike, wanna play? Don’tcha wanna play? Spike?”
When we let her off her chain in the evening, she takes off. Her strides are long, her body stretching like a greyhound, and she races in a blur around the several acre track that is our yard. While she can thread the needle through the fence or an open doorway without ever missing, that’s because she already knows where those things are. It’s not like she’s paying attention.
I know, because I’ve had my legs taken out from under me more than once. Landing on your butt this way is referred to as a ‘drive by’ at our house.
While she responds to vocal and hand commands, (she can ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ with the best of them) she is still completely unable to stay still. If you’ve ever watched your cell phone vibrate its way across a table top, this is what it’s like to watch Chaos execute the ‘stay’ command. She may not have left the ‘sit’ or ‘lay’ position, but within three seconds she will be in an entirely different place than where you left her. And she does all of this with a fabulously blank stare.
She only relaxes when she’s asleep. And in this she chooses the extremes, too. When she sleeps, she does so on her side with her legs extended in front of her, her mouth lolling open and her tongue hanging out. She looks like she worked herself into a heart attack and just keeled over. And I’ll tell you, it’s really hard to find a pulse on a dog!
When Chaos is awake, she is like a spring – always poised to jump up and go. And if you don’t stop her, you’ll be lucky to spot her butt in the distance as she gets out of range to hear you yell “Chaos! Come back!” (I’m quite certain that my neighbors just love hearing this three mornings out of five.) Of course, all this happens after she has once again pissed off the two family cats by using them for hurdle practice. While she is clearly nucking futs, she’s a good puppy. At night, when we call her in, she always comes. But as soon as you hear the soft sound of thunder in the distance, you’d best step out of the doorway, or you’ve got about two seconds before you end up on your butt.

Tele Me More - part 3

Tired


Just in case the telemarketers weren’t bad enough, there are just general rude people out there using phones. They mumble (or yell!) ‘wrong number’ and hang up on you. Hey, I got out of my chair - I left my work - to answer your wrong number, an apology wouldn’t kill you, would it?
When I lived in Florida there were a lot of wrong numbers. It’s just facts that Florida has a lot of old people and that a lot of old people don’t see so good. So they often punch the wrong digits on the phone. This is understandable. What’s not understandable is the person on the other end calling me a name because I tell them that I’m not Love’s Buffet. I was once accused of holding out a coupon on a microwave for a different senior. I swore up and down that I wasn’t at WalMart and that he’d called a private residence, but apparently Sheila (whoever she was) had used her wiles to get her way at WalMart and I was clearly on Sheila’s side. By that point I was firmly on the side of mandatory eye exams for everyone over sixty, but nobody was listening to me. (Maybe because they couldn’t hear?)
In Florida I became impressed by what people will demand when they think they have the right number. And by how polite some people could still be about general errors. One day my roommates and I received several calls about a tire sale. About the fifth call, the person asked is this 954-0411?
Yes, that was our number. We looked up the tire place in the phone book (954-0441) and called to ask if maybe they had misprinted the number in their ad. They swore they had not made a print error and they were downright mean about it. We believed them, after all, it was Florida and people did misdial all the time. But another ten calls down the road, we went out and bought a copy of the paper. Sure enough, there was our home number in the National Tire and Tread sale ad.
Given the previous rudeness of the tire folks, my roommates put me up to the call. AJ will tell’em! (Yes, the roots of my evil on the telephone go deep!)
So I called. I asked to speak to the manager. Dan came on the line and I explained that I had the ad in my hand and it was my phone number on the page. I was offering to do what we could to help when Dan began calling me an idiot. According to Dan, I clearly couldn’t read the paper, I didn’t know my own phone number and I needed to stop harassing him. I apologized and said good-bye.
You may have figured out already that I don’t take well to being called an idiot. I don’t think many people do, but I tend to fight back. So when I hung up I was greeted by three dumbfounded faces. What had I done? Why hadn’t I told him off? I mean, wasn’t that why I had been elected to make the call in the first place?
I just smiled. “We’re selling tires!”
All weekend long we kept someone posted by the phone. We told every tenth caller he had won a free set of tires. We gave out specials: like buy one for twenty dollars, get three free. We asked pertinent questions, diagnosed problems, and volunteered to rotate tires for a buck. Yes, we can get you in and out in twenty minutes! Yes, we have just that tire in stock! Of course, it has an eighty thousand mile warranty - it’s new technology, a really good tire. We gave polite help and correct directions to the store. And we told everyone to ask for Dan.

Tele Me More - part 2

Where has decency gone?


You may not have it in you to harass telemarketers simply for calling your house. While this has never stopped me, I do understand that they are just doing their job and that the job probably sucks in general. So having me call them a home-wrecker may not light up their day.
Still, you probably agree on my second point: if you call me then you’re rude to me, all bets are off. I faced this one just last week. I was mad at myself for answering the phone in the first place, but the woman verbally backed me into a corner. I really didn’t want to tell her that I’ve fallen prey to $80 annual charges before because I forgot to do the oh-so-easy call-back in 30 days to cancel. I wound up just being short with her, when I could have done so much more. *sigh* Opportunity lost is so sad.
While I admit that I can border on being mean, I do try very hard not to be more rude to the telemarketer than she is to me first. So, one morning at eight, when I was told that I must not be able to read clocks because it was actually nine a.m. I offered a very condescending (and satisfying) lecture on time zones. I don’t think the telemarketers are allowed to hang up on you. *smile*
But the one that takes the cake is a number that called the house for weeks. I didn’t answer, but they clogged my machine with ‘a very important message regarding your AT&T wireless service.’ I didn’t call back. After all, I don’t have AT&T wireless. I don’t have AT&T anything, and I don’t want it. But they escalated. They called three times in one day! So I called the number on my caller ID and waited.

“AT&T”
“Yes, you all have been calling me about my wireless service--”
“What’s your wireless number?”
“That’s just it. I don’t have AT&T Wireless.”
“Then why did you call?”
I held it together! Barely, but I did!
“I’d like to be removed from your call list. You’ve been calling me about an account that
I don’t have.”
“Then how did you get this number?”
Deep sigh! Remain in control!
“I just called back what was on my caller ID. From when you called me.” I rattled off the number.
“Oh, that’s not us. That’s Sprint.”

Yes, she swore until I got her manager on the phone that Sprint had been calling us from a line designated as AT&T and leaving us messages about our AT&T account. She also swore that the number I called wasn’t them - even though she acknowledged that she had picked up the phone and answered ‘AT&T’ when I dialed that number.
AT&T did remove me from their call list - which was a bit difficult since I wasn’t even on it to begin with. It worked - it was a whole two months before they left me another important message about my AT&T wireless service. I haven’t worked up the nerve to call them about it yet.

Tele Me More - part 1

Fun with Telemarketers


It was the internet pop-up that got you, wasn’t it? The one that had you saying ‘but Honey, they’ll send me a free laptop/plane ticket/gas card/you name it. The set-ups all look good until you realize that you can’t possibly subscribe to enough magazines to get said ‘free gift’ and by that point it’s too late. They have what they need - your email, your name, your address, and - worst! - your home phone number.
Then, they start calling. We don’t need the Birds or the Thing or Jaws anymore. We have telemarketers! It’s downright scary answering the phone when caller ID won’t tell you anything. Then you’re stuck. No, I don’t want a new cellular service. I have no desire to remodel my house. There is nothing - nothing! - you can say to make me want dish TV. And I don’t owe you an explanation why or another minute of my time.
My personal favorite thing to say is something I saw eons ago on TV. I think it was Ellen DeGeneres who was asked if she wanted to subscribe to the paper. She enthusiastically said ‘yes!’ then promptly hung up. The caveat here is that I think they can call you back.
An Ex of mine pointed out that you can tell when someone else is speaking to a telemarketer because they pick up the phone and say ‘hello . . . yes, this is he . . . . . . . . . . .’ then there is the long pause for the pitch. This is a good time to break in with, “Is that him!?” (feel free to use ‘her’ if you are female) “I thought you told that bastard you were through! You said you quit seeing him!”
If you’ve got the acting chops, it gets better.
When your significant other (who is probably laughing his/her ass off by this point) says It’s just a telemarketer. You get to come back with something along the lines of: I may have been stupid in the past but I won’t fall for that again. Sprinkle your ranting liberally with the need to save your marriage, how you have kids, how this breaks your heart.
Then, if you are really brave, get on the phone and tell that bastard/hussy not to call again. It’s over. Your wife/husband is home to stay and you won’t have your marriage torn apart again.
While you can’t threaten bodily harm, it is great fun to call them a liar every time they protest that they are just a telemarketer trying to get you to purchase that extended warranty on your car.
It almost makes it worth it to pick up the phone!

Trading Up - part 3

Say What?

I know that I have no excuse. I grew up in Oak Ridge, a small town outside of Knoxville in the Appalachian mountains. I like to claim that the town is why I still don’t speak Tennessee. To my credit, Oak Ridge is the ‘city of scientists’. It’s the town that ‘built the bomb’ (along with its sister city Los Alamos, but that’s something we Oak Ridgers only seem to recognize because we must.) Oak Ridge (along with its sister city Los Alamos) has the distinction of having the highest number of PhDs per capita anywhere in the U.S. One of those is my father. My mother holds a JD and firm grip on atheism. So you can see that I was doomed to geekdom right from the start.

I contend that this is why I don’t speak Tennessee. We spoke a different language in my house growing up. My mother loves to tell the story about the neighbor who was upset that she had no fillings in her front teeth. (This was back in the days before the gold-capped front tooth was cool.) My mother told the neighbor lady that she was happy for her and was shocked when the neighbor demanded ‘why? I mean I can’t fill a thing!’ (If you didn’t get it, read it out loud.)

Other phrases that have given me pause are: Carry me to which means to give a ride. At least when someone says ‘I was wondering if you could carry me to . . .’ you get the gist and when you say ‘sure’ you aren’t surprised that they head for the car. But I don’t care to is a whole different game. I asked an employee if they could help with something, and he replied ‘I don’t care to.’ So I asked the next guy. This insulted the first person who reiterated that he ‘didn’t care to’. So I reiterated that it was fine and I’d find someone else. It almost got ugly. As it turns out ‘I don’t care to’ means ‘sure, that’s fine’. Yeah, clearly not what I thought either - and I grew up around here.

I’ve had discussions about flyers, where I imagined telephone poles and bulletin boards adorned with brightly colored papers. Later I realized that flyers bloom in the spring and grow up from the ground. Jeetyit? is a question asked by the neighbor kids wanting to know if my kids have had their dinner already. And family lore has another neighbor (no not the same one, that would be too easy) who complained that naming a child ‘Ian’ was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. This made no sense until she took it further, huffing that ‘if they’da had twins (twiy-uns) they coulda named’em Ian and Ay-out.’ Yes, Ay-out is spelled o-u-t.

I thought I had moved to the South. Only upon arriving do I realize that I had in fact come to the Say-outh.

In the Say-outh, people are friendlier. I knew more of my neighbors in seven weeks here than I had met it seven years in LA. People say hello at the gas station and the grocery store. And, get this: they wave you in front of them in traffic! This last one is truly unbelievable to me. They actually motion for you to get in front of them. Will I be expected to exhibit such self-sacrifice for a neighbor? I mean, I’m glad to know your name and all, but give up my precious spot in traffic?

Clearly, this is a strange and alien land I traverse. There are customs I must learn. I don’t want to offend the natives. (I really should be a native, shouldn’t I? So why don’t I feel like one?) I tried it - I motioned someone in front of me in traffic yesterday and she gave me a thank-you wave. I am flummoxed. I think I’ll soothe myself by heading out to the back acres and trying to find the little bunny I made my cat, Delilah, set free the other day. Perhaps I can shelter it from the hawk overhead and in exchange maybe the bunny can explain to me why ‘hawk’ has two syllables.

Trading Up - part 2

Duck!

When we moved from LA to Nashville last year, our goal was to trade up. And you’d be hard pressed to argue that we failed. While we made out like bandits on the sale of our house in LA, the bulk of the money went to paying off my daughter’s kidney surgery which our health insurance had deemed ‘experimental’. (Best money I ever spent!) Still, we walked away with a very respectable down payment on the next house.

When we moved in, we were quite pleased that we had gotten our upgrade - more land and a desperate need for more furniture. We were happy. What I didn’t realize was that the land and the house was the very least of the trade-up.

Now, don’t get me wrong here. I loved LA when I got there, and I loved it for a long time while I was there. It just didn’t suit where I am now. And there are things about it that I miss dearly even after a year: 1) Poquito Mas. There just aren’t the same quality little Mexican joints in Tennessee. You figure it out. 2) Trader Joe’s. Organic meats and all kinds of good stuff for really great prices. 3) The Coffee Bean. This one makes me cry. Yes, Tennessee has Starbucks. But to me that’s like saying “You miss Spago’s? Try McDonalds!” We are getting a Trader Joe’s in Nashville soon, but alas there is no Coffee Bean on the Horizon.

Still, there are so many things around me that make me pause. Having a barn now, I felt the overwhelming need for barn cats. Their names are Samson and Delilah. (Yes, Sammy has longer hair and no, Delilah isn’t allowed near the scissors.) Once we got barn cats, we started getting the kinds of presents that barn cats bring. You might say this is gross, but as a biologist it’s just way too cool. Once we started getting these presents, I needed a book to ID all of them.

Even better are the live creatures. We lined the cement pit in the back yard, filled it with water and watched as turtles, frogs and waterbugs came to occupy the new sanctuary. We found hundreds of tadpoles swimming there this July. I haven’t seen any frogs in the pond and sincerely hope that this is because they hopped away. I have not notified the kids of the very real possibility that the dog drank them.

Perhaps the roadside signs say it best. In California, there are signs along the freeway that depict a man holding a woman’s hand while they run. The woman holds the hand of a small child whose feet don’t even touch the ground. Basically, they are a visual statement not to hit people dashing across seven lanes of traffic. You may have seen pictures of the signs and thought they were a joke. Rest assured they aren’t. I have been quite pleased that we don’t have these same signs in Nashville. What we have here are warnings not to hit families of ducks dashing across the road. That, my friends, is the trade-up I really came for.

It’s the ducks that -
Wait. I’m sorry, I have to go. I can see out across my back yard that Delilah is bringing home a small rabbit - and it’s still alive. While I am content with the whole circle-of-life thing, I feel the need not to let the cat kill something cute just because it can. Yes, I am a sucker. So I am off to perpetrate some bunny-rescuing and you try not to hit whatever is crossing the street in your part of the country.

Trading Up - part 1

Wagons East!

If you could see the U.S. from space, I am convinced there would be a visible line of cars heading from California back east - particularly to Nashville. I can imagine a lot of heads nodding as you read this. Yes, we moved to Nashville from San Diego last month. Our neighbor just came from California. My sister brought her kids out after ten years in Riverside. It’s the reverse of the Wagon trains of the eighteen hundreds.

I’m not the first to get this grand idea that somewhere-in-the-South would be a better place for a family than Los Angeles. I have become equally certain that I’m not the first Angeleno to hop online and start looking at Real Estate. And I know I’m not the only one who was glued to my computer until three a.m., rating homes and finding better deals like it was the latest Mario game I had to beat.

When I finally got a real estate agent on the phone, he threw out a few options that left me sputtering. I didn’t want to live in the crackerbox houses he was offering - because surely no reasonable house had ever been given away for such a pittance. In response to my stammers, the agent backpedaled “I can get you a fixer for twenty thousand less!”

It took me a while to explain to the agent that it was just me. Clearly, I had gone stupid. And I had gone stupid years ago not even knowing it. I had bought our first house in the LA market and had easily acclimated to the idea that you spoke of houses with less that two thousand square feet in terms of half or three-quarters of a million.

By the time we arrived in Tennessee, we had stars in our eyes, much the same way I had when I moved into my first tiny studio in LA ten years ago. Only this time the terminology was different. We were no longer throwing around phrases like Right off Hollywood Boulevard or behind Grohman’s Chinese Theater. Now the words were substantial things like cul de sac and second floor and the most important: acre. Only now, in addition to the stars in our eyes, I am certain we also had the word ‘sucker’ stamped across our foreheads.

In the end our agents were fantastic. They kept us out of unreasonable purchases and got us a great deal in an even better neighborhood. (Thanks Dan and Stan and Jan!) (Yes, those are really their names. Welcome to Tennessee.) In the end, my desire to put our family into a better place for us led us to do something we thought was original and exciting. We left our friends behind (*sigh*) and threw ourselves into the unknown - pioneers off exploring where no man had gone before. Of course, we took this great leap only to find that we were merely the next in a long line of wagons (minivans?) heading the same direction we were.