Pole Positions

Amidst all the talk of political polls these days, it was refreshing to see two stories about actual poles in yesterday's paper. The first story told of the failed attempt to erect a flagpole in a neighboring county. In what has to be the greatest pissing contest of all time, the US Armed Forces Tribute Foundation wanted to construct a flagpole that would "pierce the sky 40 yards higher than the current tallest freestanding flagpole in Jordan, which reaches 430 feet."

The flagpole would serve as "the centerpiece in a proposed $1.5 million park honoring US military veterans." For what better way to honor veterans than to erect a 550 foot phallic symbol so far off the beaten path that no one will ever find it? The article reports that the group only raised $6800 of the necessary $1.5 million. Too bad none of them own a cornfield in Iowa, because I've heard that if you erect a 550-foot flagpole in Iowa, they will come.

What's that? You don't think a 550-foot flagpole is ludicrous? Consider these facts from the article: To ensure that the pole won't sway like a sapling in the wind, one manufacturer estimated that it would need to be 9 feet thick at the base, tapering to 2 feet thick at the top. Apparently, height matters, but sturdiness matters more. Nothing more disappointing than a 550 foot pole that bends in a stiff breeze.

In a fantastic show of self-confidence, "a beacon [at the top of the flagpole] would warn off airplanes." That's right. The pole would be so tall that aircraft might run into it. Just as a point of reference, the mighty redwoods in California "can reach 200 feet tall." The capitol dome in Washington, DC? 287 feet. Statue of Liberty, ground to tip of torch? 305 feet. Big Ben clock tower in London? 315 feet tall. So, add a redwood to the top of Big Ben and you'll almost reach the height of this proposed flagpole. The article explains that a "huge US flag would flutter above." I'm thinking you'd need a flag the size of Utah if you want to see it from the ground. If you're in a plane, however, you could see the flag up close and personal.

Undaunted, organizers are taking their slightly scaled down proposal to a neighboring state. I'm sure we'll all anxiously await updates on this story.

In other pole-related news, seems pole dancing is all the rage in exercise circles these days. That's right. Stipper poles aren't just for gentleman's clubs anymore. According to the article in yesterday's paper, more and more people, including Oprah, are installing the poles in their homes "as a way to get Madonna arms and Britney Spears abdominals while enhancing their sensuality." Go ahead. Just try to get the mental image of Oprah swinging around a stripper pole out of your head.

According to one woman, she installed a pole so she could exercise in the privacy of her own home. She didn't want to join a gym or run through her neighborhood. So, clearly, her only other option was to install a stripper pole "atop a small stage" in her basement.

Another woman also touts the benefits of an in-home stripper pole. She says, "You drop in a load of laundry, you take a spin. You cook dinner, you take another spin...It's just like a little playground for women." Here's the thing. I know what I typically wear when I'm doing laundry or cooking dinner. I'm not necessarily a slouch, but I'm thinking that a stripper pole probably loses some of its appeal if the person swinging on it is wearing baggy sweats, no make-up, and has her hair tied back in a pony-tail.

In the end, I think this might be taking feminism a bit too far. Personally, I think it's OK if we don't reclaim all of the tools of our oppression. Perhaps our time would be better spent trying to free ourselves from oppressive laundry and cooking.

Mistakes

In today's blotter, I read about a college student who drove his car down an embankment and crashed. When asked about the accident, he explained that he was turning around and "accidentally" hit the accelerator when he should have hit the brake. No one was hurt and this fellow's insurance company will certainly appreciate his more generous monthly contributions. Honest mistake. Could happen to any of us, I suppose.

This story comes on the heels of continuing coverage of Atlanta quarterback, Michael Vick's involvement in a dog-fighting ring. Yesterday's story included a picture of a young boy holding a sign that read, "Everybody makes mistakes." True. But what exactly was Michael Vick's mistake? Transforming Virginia farmland into a chamber of horrors? Turning perfectly healthy and potentially friendly dogs into vicious killers purely for profit? Callously drowining dogs who didn't perform up to his standards? Denying his involvement while continuing to rake in fistfuls of cash from the Atlanta Falcons?

According to Michael Vick, his mistake was getting involved in criminal activity, and he's sorry. I don't think it counts if you deny your "mistake" until your "business associates" turn you in. If he's honest, I think Vick would say that his biggest mistake was choosing to get involved with this particular group of "business associates" - associates who can't hide their criminal activities and then squeal like little girls when they're nabbed.

One of Vick's attorneys has asked that we all reserve harsh criticism because Vick is beating himself up enough about this. The attorney asked that we all remember that Vick is a father, not just a football player. In other words, we should show Vick's family more respect than he has. I hope his young son has some serious questions about why his father chose to squander his future on this "mistake."

If we're making a list of the people who made mistakes in all of this, I think the Atlanta Falcons organization deserves top honors. Seems Vick's contract is so airtight that even a felony conviction doesn't absolve the Falcons of their obligations. Vick is suspended, but not terminated. Something about if he's terminated, he gets to keep all the signing bonuses and whatever else the Falcons wooed him with. May we all find such generous employers.

Next on the list would be the people who suggest that this whole affair has anything to do with race. It doesn't. It has everything to do with greed, cruelty, brutality and callous disregard for life. To hide behind race is cowardly and it's stupid. Characterizing dog-fighting as a cultural pastime puts you on a very slippery slope. In the late 19th - early 20th century, white supremacists made the same argument about lynching, a crime that actually had everything to do with race. I don't care how bad-ass you are, you don't want to keep company with white supremacists.

In the end, "mistake" seems terribly inadequate to describe Vick's actions. "Mistake" implies that it can all be erased with a simple, "oops, my bad. Do over." No, "mistake" might describe the college student's trip into the embankment, but it doesn't cut it when over 50 dogs will pay the ultimate price for Vick's decisions.

Poison is poison

This weekend, while I took a break from the ever-present dissertation, I watched part of VH-1's Top 100 80s songs. I'm a sucker for countdown shows. It's a serious problem that I'm going to address someday. This countdown show not only played parts of the 80s tunes, but also included updates about what 80s band members are doing now.

Amidst the predictable and pretentious "I have moved on since the 1980s and I don't play, listen to, sing, or remember any of the words to any song I recorded, so don't ask," I learned some terribly disenchanting facts. For example, I learned that the guitar player from Aerosmith is selling barbecue sauce. Apparently, he came up with the recipe himself and wants everyone to know that the sauce is "perfect for everyday, not too hot and spicy." Now, if that's not the perfect definition of selling out and going mainstream, I don't know what is. Here's a guy who earned his rock and roll cred on such classics as "Sweet Emotion" and "Dream On" and now he's schlocking bbq sauce that's not too spicy. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I also learned that "Sister Christian" is not "motorin'." No, she's an office manager in Oregon. It's just too depressing.

As my teen idols aged before my eyes, I thought, "If they look that much older, how much older do I look?" Just then, Bret Michaels from Poison came on screen. Time has not been kind to Bret Michaels. Turns out, strippers haven't either. Seems he wrote "Ev'ry Rose Has Its Thorn" when he called his stripper girlfriend from the road only to learn that she was cheating on him. Heartbroken, Michaels penned the "classic, timeless ballad." That's a direct quote from Michaels. I learned a couple of valuable lessons from this: 1) Strippers aren't faithful to men in spandex, and 2) Bret Michaels doesn't know the meaning of timeless or classic.

Since watching the show, I've discovered the insidiousness of Bret Michaels. At random intervals throughout the day, I catch myself humming "Ev'ry rose has its thorn, just like ev'ry night has its daaaawwwwn, just like ev'ry cowboy sings a sad, sad song, ev'ry rose has its thorn." There's no predicting when it will happen, no rhyme, no reason. I'm just going about my business, and all the sudden, "Ev'ry rose has its thorn..." At the gym, in the car, in the kitchen, and most infuriating, while listening to much better music. It's maddening. Bret Michaels didn't pen a timeless classic, he penned an evil, insidious melody that once lodged in your brain will never, ever come out. I would wager good money that my relationship with this song has lasted longer than Michaels's relationship with the stripper.

Today, I went to the grocery store. Every cowboy was singing a sad, sad song before I'd even realized I was humming audibly. Desparate to change the evil melody in my head, I tuned into the store muzak. "You're the meaning in my life, you're the inspiration, you bring meaning to my life, you're the inspiration" whined nasally-challenged, horse-faced Peter Setara. I thought, "Holy crap! That might possibly be the only song worse than Ev'ry Rose Has Its Thorn." I was actually relieved when my mind's soundtrack resumed "ev'ry rose has its thorn..."

Timely horoscope

In an apparent response to my last post, my daily horoscope reads as follows:

In your involvements with others, be sure to keep an open mind when they're trying to make a point. You may have failed to comprehend something in your assessment.

This is certainly an intriguing theory - that somehow I failed to comprehend my crazy landlord's narrow-minded bigotry because of my own narrow-mindedness. To correct this problem, I've jimmied my brain open as far as it will go, allowing in expansive ideas from the known universe, and...nope, I'm still not willing to accept that all (and only) Chinese people are nice all the time. Perhaps the problem isn't so much my narrow-mindedness, but my liberal sense of social justice and fairness. Maybe tomorrow's horoscope will address this obvious character flaw.

In the meantime, I'm going to close my brain again. I'm beginning to believe that the Braves will win the World Series. I think I've ventured into pure fantasy. And still, all Chinese people are not all nice all the time.

More from the NEPIW

Here's another tale from the NEPIW (northeastern post-industrial wasteland):

In the month before I moved from the NEPIW, I lived at a friend's apartment while I packed and cleaned mine. One day, I went by my apartment to check the mail. I met up with the crazy landlord. My landlord had enlisted me as his confidante almost as soon as I'd moved into the building. The fact that I didn't cause problems and didn't question his unapologetic politically incorrect comments made him believe that I was "just like him" - a characterization that still makes me cringe. I realize that I should have revealed my liberal stripes and confronted his politically incorrect statements. I know I should have. But I was selfish. I wanted to hear just how outlandish his comments would become. He didn't disappoint.

He was cleaning Smokey Smokerson's apartment - and I got to hear all about it, whether I wanted to or not. While she lived in the non-smoking building, Smokey smoked. She smoked enough that the smoke penetrated through walls and multiple floors to reach my 3rd floor apartment. Rather than move to a building where she could smoke freely, Smokey tried to contain the smoke in her apartment by sealing off her front door. I'm not sure what Smokey's lung x-rays looked like, but I'm guessing there was a lot of smoke on them. Smokey finally moved out of the non-smoking building but not before she yellow-ed up her entire apartment. I know because I heard all about it.

Desperate to change the subject before my landlord shared more inappropriately intimate details about Smokey and her apartment, I mentioned that I broke a few pipes at my friend's apartment over the weekend. Long story. The short version is that I'm an idiot and hit the garage wall as I backed out with my driver's side door open. I'd relate the longer story, but it involves an iPod, FM transmitter, and lots of humidity - and all those details only take us further away from the upcoming punchline. My friend's landlord was very good about fixing the damage, keeping a sense of humor throughout the whole ordeal. When I finished telling this story to my landlord, he replied, "Gee, he sounds like a really nice guy. Is he Chinese?"

I stared at him for a moment, blindsided, hoping he'd explain this seeming non-sequitor. When he stared back at me, honestly waiting for an answer, I learned more about the workings of my landlord's brain than I ever wanted to know. As he worked night and day to shore up the faltering walls around his carefully constructed corner of the world, it seems that somehow "Chinese" people became "really nice." I'm not sure why I responded at all, but I said, "No, my friend's landlord is from here." I could see the wheels spinning as my landlord tried to process this information. Someone who wasn't Chinese was willing to complete a distasteful task and remained cheerful throughout. I think he's still trying to process this information.

This is why racism is so tricky. You have to be willing to throw all logic out the window, because the person you're confronting is way ahead of you on that score. But, without logic, how do you make an argument? And what would my counterargument be? That Chinese people aren't nice? That people from the NEPIW are nice, just like Chinese people? And then there's the characterization itself. I think my landlord believed that he was complimenting Chinese people, because he said they were "nice." But, seemingly positive characterizations can still be problemmatic, particularly when paired with a distasteful task like fixing a sewage pipe. In the end, I made some lame excuse and walked away.

In the news

My day typically starts with a cup of coffee, email, and perusing the day's news. This morning, on Yahoo.com, I learned that researchers have finally answered the age-old question: how good is a cat's long-term memory? Turns out, cats remember things they've done for about 10 minutes. Their memory for things they've seen is virtually non-existent. The researchers conducted similar experiments with horses and dogs and arrived at the same conclusions. While you ponder that, consider that someone somewhere is funding this research.

Researchers suggest that their findings are important (despite all evidence to the contrary). Learning how long cats, dogs and horses remember things they've done will somehow help us understand how we humans navigate around things in the dark and remember where we parked our cars. Ironically, I may not remember where I put my bedroom slipper as I climb into bed, but I'll sure remember this research report when I trip over the slipper on my way to the bathroom at 2AM.

In other news from the world of science, seems Oregon State University scientists have developed a way to test wastewater for drugs. According to the report, the scientists went to 10 U.S. cities, extracted a teaspoon of wastewater from the local water treatment plant, and conducted a "community urinalysis." I'm not sure which I'd rather do: spend the day with a bunch of cats who can't find their parked cars or analyze a sample of an entire community's urine. If these are my choices, I'll forgo a career in science.

The urine researchers are an enthusiastic bunch. Makes you wonder if this was their lifelong dream. When their 4th grade teacher asked what they wanted to do when they grew up, they must have responded, "I want to test an entire community's urine output!" According to one researcher, "Wastewater facilities are wonderful places to understand what humans consume and excrete." Well, you know what they say, one person's "wonderful place" is another person's "stinky, smelly, sesspool of filth." So, the next time you consume, excrete and flush, just remember that you're contributing to science.

Finally, in today's blotter, there was this story: This fellow went to a local strip club where he told one of the dancers a sob story about how he'd lost his home in a fire and didn't have anywhere to stay. Because that's what any of us would do if we'd lost our home in a fire - go to a strip club and ask a dancer for advice. Who needs the Red Cross when there's the red light district?

Being the helpful sort, the dancer suggested that the fellow get a room at the same hotel where she was staying. When she knocked on his door at 3:30AM, he must have thought he'd hit the jackpot. Here was his dream come true: a stripper with a heart of gold who also wanted to have sex with a homeless man with absolutely no problem solving abilities. I'm pretty sure he wasn't expecting her friend to punch him in the eye and steal the $4000 he had in his pants pocket. That's right, he didn't have anywhere to stay, but he had $4000. While it might have come as a surprise to him, I daresay no one else was surprised by this outcome.

I feel pretty certain that this fellow had trouble finding his parked car, and that his "contribution" to the local water treatment plant significantly skewed the sample.

Lyrics

I like to listen to music. I like folk, rock, country, really anything except rap music. I like songs that have something to say, and I'm a sucker for acoustic guitar and a good voice. Early Dylan, Indigo Girls, Amos Lee, Tom Petty, Alison Krauss - all OK by me. I'd like John Mayer, too except that he makes that weird scrunchy face when he sings and I keep thinking that he's smelling farts. Really distracting.

That said, I'm also a total sucker for mindless pop music. Catchy tunes and repetitive rhythms? Love them! I've gathered that there are 2 ways to make money with pop music: 1) write totally schmaltzy nonsense, or 2) just write complete and utter nonsense. Allow me to explain:

Category 1: Schmaltzy Nonsense

Example #1: "I'll Be There For You" - Bon Jovi
And Baby you know my hands are dirty
[Has he been repairing the car? Gardening?]
But I wanted to be your valentine
[But he's not, because apparently, she has a "clean hand only" rule for valentines. Very smart.]
I'll be the water when you get thirsty, baby
[Wouldn't he be dirty water? Why would she want that?]
When you get drunk, I'll be the wine
[Ironically, when he sings this line, he's actually the "whine"]

I'll be there for you
These five words I swear to you
[And you said he couldn't count.]
When you breathe I want to be the air for you
I'll be there for you
I'd live and I'd die for you
[But, no pressure.]
Steal the sun from the sky for you
[Cool! Go ahead!]
Words can't say what a love can do
[And this song proves it in spades.]
I'll be there for you
[Great]

Example #2: "Always" - Bon Jovi
Yeah I, will love you, baby
Always
And I'll be there forever and a day,
Always
I'll be there, till the stars don't shine
Till the heavens burst and the words don't rhyme
[Guess he'll be leaving since shine and rhyme don't rhyme.]
I know when I die you'll be on my mind and I'll love you
Always

[But wait, here are the best lines in the song:]
If you told me to cry for you, I could
If you told me to die for you, I would [Really?]

Example #3: "Shape of My Heart" - Backstreet Boys
Sadness is beautiful loneliness that's tragical
[Even more tragical, they don't bother to rhyme this non-word with "magical."]
So help me I can't win this war, oh no
Touch me now, don't bother if every second it makes me weaker
[Umm, what's the point if you just get weaker?]
You can save me from the man I've become
[A weak non-rhyming illiterate?]

Lookin' back on the things I've done
I was tryin' to be someone
[A weak non-rhyming illiterate?]
I played my part, kept you in the dark
Now let me show you the shape of my heart
[If it's all the same to you, I'd rather you didn't show me the shape of your heart.]

Example 4: "Accidentally in Love" - Counting Crows
Well baby I surrender
To the strawberry ice cream
[That's some pretty intimidating ice cream!]
Never ever end of all this love
Well I didn't mean to do it
But there's no escaping your love
[Or the ice cream, apparently]

Category #2: Just plain nonsense. I believe that no one can hold a candle to Duran Duran in this department. I love Duran Duran, but hell if I can figure out what they're singing about.

Example 1: "Union of the Snake" - Duran Duran
Telegram force and ready
I knew this was a big mistake.
[Better to acknowledge before recording the song.]
There's a fine line drawing my senses together,
And I think its about to break.
If I listen close I can hear them singers, oh oh oh...
Voices in your body coming through on the radio,ho,ho...
The union of the snake is on the climb..
Moving up, it's gonna race, it's gonna break through the, borderline
[It makes no sense. None. And these fellows made lots of money. Lots. No sense at all.]

Need more evidence? Here's Example #2: "The Reflex:"
You gone too far this time
But I'm dancing on the valentine [????]
I tell you somebody's fooling around -
With my chances on the dangerline
I'll cross that bridge when I find it
[Be hard to cross before you find it, I suppose]
Another day to make my stand, oh..
High time is no time for deciding
If I should find a helping hand, oh..
So why don't you use it
Try not to bruise it
[Use what? Don't bruise what? ??????]
Buy time don't lose it
The reflex is an only child, he's waiting in the park
The reflex is in charge of finding treasure in the dark
And watching over lucky clover isn't that bizarre
Every little thing the reflex does leaves you answered with a
Question mark
[Just like every line in this song]

That's all for today. Stay tuned for more examples of money-generating nonsense.

Breaking and Entering

In today's Blotter, there's a report of a man who broke into a local convenience store. Unfortunately, robbery isn't unheard of in this town, but this fellow's strategy certainly stands out. He broke through a wall with a sledgehammer. It happened some time between 5AM-6AM. The report raises several compelling questions:

1) Didn't the convenience store have any windows? If so, let's think through that decision-making process. "Let's see, I'm standing here at 5AM and I'd really like some cigarettes. I need to get into that store that's inconveniently closed right now. Luckily, I have my sledgehammer. Glass is pretty easy to break, so I think I'll take my hammer and bust a hole in that concrete wall. That shouldn't take too long or make too much noise. I'll be smoking in no time."

2) Didn't anyone hear any unusual noises? I've never heard of a sledgehammer with a silencer, so you figure someone must have heard this fellow's nefarious deed. Surely the convenience store wasn't in the middle of nowhere, because really, how convenient would that be? It would just be a store at that point. Maybe he happened to find the only window-less convenience store conveniently located next to a rock quarry.

3) How big was this fellow? Breaking through a wall with a sledgehammer can't be easy, so kudos to him and whatever exercise regimen he's on. Especially since he's a smoker. Wonder if he practiced on other walls before this big heist. If so, the police could just look for the house with walls like swiss cheese.

It seems like the strategy was doomed to fail. But, no. The thief got away with $60,600 of checks, cash, and cigarettes. Apparently, the police have a prime suspect because a former employee once told the owner that he would break into the store. And, when he said "break into the store," he meant "break into the store."

Pilates

In my continuing effort to mold my Cheez Whiz mid-section into gouda, I've started going to a pilates class at the gym. It's a class for beginnners. The instructor assured us that after we finished her class, we'd be able to go into any other pilates class that the gym offered. The key was to finish the class. The class turned out to be 55 of the longest minutes of my life.

Unlike yoga, pilates is all about the floor. Lying on your back, lying on your stomach, lying on your side. You get the picture. To complete the picture, add kicking your arms and legs in all different directions, "never losing control" as the instructor reminded us. There were several points where I was literally flopping around like a fish out of water. The fact that I couldn't breathe just added to the image.

Early on, we worked ourselves into some sort of squat and from somewhere in the room came the unmistakable sound of compressed air being released. I assure you that I did not smell it, and I did not deal it. But the sound hung there in the air for quite a while. I think we all deserve a huge pat on the back for not laughing. Not even a snicker. Perhaps it was because none of us could breathe. Or perhaps we were all thinking, "There but for the grace of God..."

I made it through that first class and lived to tell about it. My mid-section felt fine for the rest of that day and all through the next. Two days after the class, I sneezed and my stomach muscles screamed in pain. I believe I said, "But it's been 2 days! I don't understand!" The discomfort persisted throughout the morning, but eventually went away in time for me to go to my second pilates class.

This one was much the same as the first. I recognized a couple of return students, folks like me who were too proud (stupid) to stay away. The room filled up and we all assumed our positions on our backs. About halfway through the class, amidst the audible grunts and groans from some people behind me, I thought, "This has got to be one of the strangest things I've ever done as an adult. Walk into a room full of strangers, take off my shoes and socks, spread out on a mat on the floor, kick my arms and legs from side to side, and roll around like a ball." I decided not to think about it, for fear that I would get caught up in the absurdity of trying to rock back onto my shoulders while holding my ankles and start giggling uncontrollably. I've learned that it's easy to rock back, it's the coming up that's hard. Several times, I've gotten stuck just rocking back and forth, like a turtle on its shell. It's not as embarrassing as releasing compressed air, but it's pretty close.

So, I've survived a second class. I'm not sure if I'm brave enough to graduate beyond the beginner's class. We'll see next week.

Mountain Sojourn

This weekend, after attending my nieces' 5th birthday party, I returned home. I decided to avoid the city that's too busy to hate, because they're also too busy to stay off the roads. Instead, I meandered along the 2-lane highways through the mountains. Some would argue that these are merely hills, but to me, they're mountains.

As I wound along, I thought about the recent story in the local paper. Seems state officials found a moonshine still in the mountains. I still can't figure out why this is news. Wouldn't it be more newsworthy to report that they didn't find a moonshine still in the mountains? The article went on to quote one official who discouraged buying moonshine produced in a still because of the detrimental health effects. I'm thinking that if I drove up into the mountains, and purchased moonshine made in a metal drum with a coil sticking out of the top of it from someone without any teeth, I'm probably not too concerned about my health.

Anyway, didn't see any moonshine stills in my sojourn, and I have to say that I was a bit disappointed, but then, I didn't look very hard. Apparently, I care about my health. Instead, I traversed the back roads, remembering the times I'd driven that same stretch of highway on the way to my grandmother's house. I literally drove over the river and through the woods to my grandmother's house, and was always greeted with a smile and "Are you back?" on the other side.

Eventually, I ended up in "the Queen City." I'm not sure why it's called this, but it's on every sign in the city. I know, because I passed every sign at least twice. I did not ever see any queens - of the royal or female impersonating variety. I also did not ever see any signs pointing in the direction I wanted to go. So, I drove around in circles. I know I was driving in circles when I passed the mall for the third time. I'm not sure when I started cursing, but I do remember reciting a veritable sonnet of obscenity while sitting at an increasingly familiar stoplight.

I passed several gas stations and considered buying a map, but when you're 30 miles from home, and you're looking for a major highway, and the town you're trying to get to is decent sized, buying a map seems utterly ridiculous. As I came upon the same gas station for the third time, I gave up and asked for directions. Turns out, I'd been driving around the south end of town, when I needed to head north. Hmm, I would have known that if someone posted a sign pointing in that direction!

So, if you've lost anything recently, I'd suggest that you start your search in the Queen City. It's probably there, trying desparately to find a way out.

The Art of the Joke

I have twin nieces. They turned five this past week, so I ventured out into the 100+ degree heat to attend their birthday party. It promised to be the social event of the season and I didn't want to miss it. So, I loaded up the presents and off I went.

The day of the party was another scorcher. Throughout the late morning and into the afternoon, the nieces and their 2 year-old brother staged skillful attempts to capture and destroy the wrapped presents. With great coordination, the seven adults protected the hill, distracting the would-be attackers with toys, books, songs and finally resorting to lunch.

After lunch, all bets were off and the paper flew. The girls demonstrated remarkable manners when present after present yielded school clothes. With each gift, they smiled, held up the box or bag, and exclaimed excitedly, "Clothes!" Before the resounding "ooh" faded, they had tossed the box or bag aside and moved on to the next gift, hoping upon hope for a toy. Their prayers were answered when they finally unearthed two Disney Princesses and a Disney Princess carriage. After holding up their long-sought after prizes so everyone could see, they turned the dolls over for extraction. Happy Birthday to us. There's a special place in hell for the people who design packaging for toys.

After cake and ice cream, the party wound to a close. My nephew settled in for his afternoon nap and the grandparents returned to their homes so they could do the same.

Later that evening, we headed out for dinner. As we finished our meals, my niece turned to me and said, "Knock knock." On cue, I said, "Who's there?" "Pizza," she said. "Pizza who?" I responded. "Knock Knock," was her reply. A little confused, I said, "Who's there?" "Hamburger," she said. "Hamburger who?" I asked. "Hamburger you glad I didn't say pizza!" she said, triumphantly, smiling and waiting for the ensuing laughter. I stared at her, then smiled.

Encouraged, she said, "Knock knock." Sure we were headed toward a coherent punchline, I said, "Who's there?" "Balloon," she said. My hope for a coherent punchline faded as I said, "Balloon who?" "Knock knock," came her reply. At this point I knew I'd been suckered again. "Who's there?" I asked. "French fry," she said, barely containing her excitement. "French fry who?" I asked, knowing what was coming next. "French fry you glad I didn't say balloon?" She beamed.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. "Knock knock," I said. "Who's there?" she responded. "Banana," I said. "Banana who?" she asked. "Knock knock," I said. "Who's there?" she asked. "Orange," I said. "Orange who?" she asked. "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?" I said, with some flourish to signify proper delivery of the punchline. She giggled and I was sure we'd hit upon true understanding. To reinforce the point, I said, "See, that's the joke. Orange you glad I didn't say banana?" She laughed and nodded.

Just to be sure, I turned to her and said, "Knock knock." Still giggling, she said, "Who's there?" "Rude interrupting cow," I said. "Rude interrupt..." before she could finish, I said, "Moo!" She looked at me and said, "Rude interrupting cow who?" I had no response.

On the way home, she turned to me and said, "Knock knock." "Who's there?" I asked. "Rude interrupting cow," she said. "Rude interrtupting cow who?" I asked, knowing where this was going as soon as I finished the question. "Knock knock" was her reply. I sighed and decided that the art of the joke would have to wait for another day. "Who's there?" I asked. "Horse!" she exclaimed. "Horse who?" I asked. "Horse you glad I didn't say rude interrupting cow?" and she collapsed into a fit of giggles.

And that's all that matters. We can all hope for such enthusiastic responses to our jokes.

match.com

I am single. Or rather, I am still single. Some days, I wonder how this happened. I wonder how all of my friends got on the marriage train when I didn't even realize it had pulled into the station. Didn't hear the whistle, no chug-chug-chug, nothing. They all gleefully responded to the conductor's "All Aboard!" while I sat in traffic, going nowhere. I'm not even sure I was headed to the station. In fact, I later learned that I took the wrong exit and ended up at the dry well.

So, about a month ago, after I relocated, I registered for match.com, hoping to reverse my run of bad luck. Although I'd never had good luck with match.com, I believed this time would be different. I tried not to think about the definition of insanity: "Doing the same thing over and over again, hoping for a different outcome." Instead, I filled out the lengthy questionnaire, sharing carefully guarded information about my occupation and hobbies. I tried to strike a balance between witty and sincere, with a hint of irony. I figured there was no reason to immediately scare off potential dinner dates with my snarkiness. That could come later. Then, I plunked down my registration fee and it was off to the races.

Since I'm the only person in the free world who does not own a digital camera, nor do I have digital pictures of myself, I started at a distinct disadvantage. Well, OK, a friend of mine has a picture of me putting my foot behind my head. I decided that I didn't really want to meet anyone who would be interested in meeting me because I can put my foot behind my head. So, I went with no picture, knowing that most people immediately ruled out anyone who didn't post a picture. Given the responses I received, I hope this is true.

First, there was the fellow in Ohio who called me "sweetie" and begged me to be his friend. According to his profile, he was a woman. Rather than investigate further, I blocked his account. Next was a young fellow who looked exactly like Norman Bates in Psycho. I blocked him too. Then, there was the fellow who "LOVES MONEY." He typed his entire profile with "Caps Lock" on - like he was the Will Farrell character on SNL who can't control the volume of his own voice!!! According to the match.com fellow, he loves his money, he loves to sleep with his money, he loves to count his money. The last thing he read was his deposit slip. I blocked him too.

When you decide you don't want to chat with someone, match.com helps you out by suggesting polite "blow off" phrases. They are limited to: No thanks, I've found someone else; No thanks, I've decided not to date right now; and No thanks, you sound interesting but I don't think we're a good match. Obviously, they've missed a few. Something like, "No thanks, you sound really terrifying." Or "Thanks for your interest. After receiving your message, I put in a call to the local convent and have an interview tomorrow."

After these "interesting" fellows, I decided to stop waiting for Mr. Right to magically find my picture-less profile. I dusted off my searchlamp and crawled into the match.com cave. I looked at profile after profile after profile. As each one flashed by, I invented new rule-outs: "Too bald, too old, hair is too red, face is too long, too serious, glasses are too big, lots of typos in the profile, too much information." I knew that I was being too picky, but I still think I was right to avoid "Firepoker69" and "Bonefish582."

Lest you think I ruled out everyone, I did wink at a couple of fellows. Winking is match.com's way of letting you indicate interest without having to compose that first awkward email. I thought it was a great idea because I can't wink. I've tried, but my face scrunches up and I look like I'm squinting really hard. Not alluring. Not sexy. Just weird looking. So, here, at last, was my chance to wink, even if it was electronic. One fellow winked back. My heart leapt and I responded with an irreverent email. I thought I was following his lead - he had what seemed like a very sarcastic personal description. Apparently, I misread his description because he never responded to my email. Neither did the others. Who knew that electronic winking would yield the same results as squinting?

So, the search continues. At least this exercise cleared up why I'm still single.

Duvet cover starts snowball effect

I've decided to change the look of my bedroom. For the past 5 years, my room has been pastel. It was my attempt to move away from the country quilt look. So, I went with pastel purple, yellow and green. My duvet cover was light purple with little daisies embroidered into the fabric. It came with matching shams. It was on sale. So, I bought light green curtains, a light green throw rug, and called it good.

Then, the northeastern sun beamed in my bedroom window and completely bleached one side of the duvet cover. Apparently, the change wasn't visible to the casual observer, but I felt it necessary to pull back the duvet, exposing its dark underbelly, while saying, "See how dark it's supposed to be." Then, polite casual observers would respond, "You can't really tell." Impolite ones made comments about my sanity that I won't reprint here. All I wanted was confirmation that yes, I needed a new duvet cover.

Moving ahead without this confirmation, I started my search for the elusive new duvet cover. Choosing bed linens is a big deal. A bedspread, duvet, or comforter is the defining piece in a bedroom. Flowers say, "A woman lives and sleeps here, and her boyfriend/husband loves her enough to put up with flowers." Paisley says, "The boyfriend/husband wanted a solid color while the woman wanted flowers, so they compromised and chose a print that went out of style with Miami Vice." A solid color says, "I got tired and bored and gave up." Animal print says, "I'm wild and I'm tacky!" I kept all of these things in mind as I searched for my new look.

When you don't know what you're looking for, it's hard to find it. After much searching, I finally found what I'd been looking for (take that, Bono!). Yesterday, I purchased a duvet cover that's red with white flowers. Looks like someone drew the flowers with chalk. I liked the look of it, and liked the price even more.

With much anticipation, I brought it home, stripped off the old faded duvet cover and replaced it with the new one. I stepped back and admired the new look. The red really warmed up the room and was a nice contrast to my wood furniture and the bland apartment walls. All was perfect, except for the light green curtains and pastel colored pictures on the wall. So, now I needed new curtains and artwork.

I decided I didn't want red curtains because that would be too much red. I didn't want white curtains because they wouldn't add any color to the room. I thought, "What colors match red and white?" Blue? No, I didn't want a Yankee Doodle bedroom. Green? No, I didn't want a Holly Jolly bedroom. Again, having no idea what I was looking for, I set out.

There are lots of ugly curtains out there, folks. Lots of them. And they're really expensive. I finally ended up at Lowe's. I was hot, tired, and hungry. I looked at their selection and liked the prices. I almost gave in and bought red, then I saw black. I thought, "Now that's interesting and worth a try." Got 'em, brought 'em home, and now I have a Georgia Bulldog bedroom. Dammit.

It doesn't look bad, but I can't go in there without hearing "It's great (clap clap) to be (clap clap) a Georgia Bulldog." It's not particularly restful or soothing. There may be some people who wouldn't mind hearing that as they drift off to sleep, but I'm not (clap clap) one of them, nor do I want to be (clap clap) one of them. I also don't want (clap clap) one of them in my bed.

I'm now thinking that smoky gray may be the way to go.