As I bask in my infrared snuggly-light, I'm watching the thermometer and the snow falling and falling outside. One of these years I ought to hibernate, but for now I'd rather get in on Thanksgiving. The food, the family, the heart-warming life-affirming television specials that help us realize the industry really cares about our needs first and foremost...
Terrapins have our own Thanksgiving story, you know. It's pretty similar to the Squanto and Pilgrims tale, only in the turtle version, the larger picture of stable biomes and the detrimental effect of non-native species was understood. So Squanto the turtle showed the European newcomers all the toxic fungus to eat and the rocky soil where they couldn't dig below the frost line to hibernate. That's why native North American turtles don't live on reservations and we maintain our original caustic culture. Now if we could just keep kids from taking us home as pets and removing us from the breeding population. That's frustrating on many levels.
Hmm. I got sidetracked by vengeance and innuendo. Imagine.
I really wanted to talk about the food at a Shelly-style Thanksgiving. First – no turkey. It's too close of a relative. That would be like humans eating another mammal. Blah. No, we go for the mealworm and cricket bake, just like momma used to make. Don't let the misleading name give you nausea, though. It's not really baked, just warmed to about ninety degrees. That way the mealworms are more active and tempting to the palate. Sometimes the crickets can be a problem, though. I remember having to be the one to pull the legs off some of them so grandpa could catch his Thanksgiving feast.
Mom always tried to get us to eat our salad after that. Not that we didn't like salad, it's just that we wanted to save room for the earthworm pudding. Who wants vegetables, even if they are firm and colorful and sweet, when there is food that is trying to get away? It's nutrition and entertainment and stimulation of the hunting instincts. All at once! Not to mention the sheer joy of plunging one's face into a huge container of slimy, wiggly goodness.
Ah. The memories.
I hope you all make some of your own memories this year. Hear that kids? Try plunging your face into a container of baked pumpkin, whipped cream-y goodness. When your stuffy aunt is watching. Before the pie is sliced and served. I promise your mom won't ever forget it.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
If he knew what he wants
Shelly is pondering the possibility of hibernating this winter, and she asked me to cover for her while she makes up that small, cerebral cortex-less mind of hers. Yep, it's me. Derick William Dalton.
What, you think I would miss a chance to insult her back?
A kid walked into the clinic the other day. Wait, that's a start of a lame joke. And that's not how Shelly would say it anyway. Can I start over?
I saw a juvenile Homo sapiens today who was seeking care for being whiny and unfit to perpetuate the species due to genetic defects in her immune system.
No, too harsh, needs more subtlety.
This teenager came for help with a sinus infection. That's better. So, while examining her (Work. Did you all notice? I was doing work? Take THAT, Shelly!) we talked about school. She enjoys her junior high and seems to be doing well. I joked to her mother that if a biblical Hell exists, and my actions so merit my eternal presence there (I said it in a less stuffy fashion, though) I will spend it forever repeating grades six through eight. Yes, I know that's technically middle school, but this is Hell, remember?
Over lunch I tried to remember something good about those years.
Principal's office with Sean and Jimmy? Only half good, and that half ended when we actually got there. How about girls-whose-names-I-will-change-to Autumn, Monique, Mary, and Marina? Nope: played with my feelings, 'just a friend', too shy to connect, and maestro of me, the Stradivarius Fool.
Garbage Pail Kids! Those were great! They were – discontinued due to a lawsuit from some uptight male doll-maker who wrote his name on tiny fake butts. If THAT'S not a weirdo...
My grades were top-notch. Academics? I must have liked them and so perhaps HERE is the good to be found in junior high. Well, maybe not since most of my learning was from reading at home. In school I mostly remember being taught incorrect outdated science for two minutes a day from Mr. Washed-Up as an intro to his tangents. So I ignored his lessons and read my textbook instead. In Mr. Liverspot's science class we learned he read page one of six-page reports and no more. Yep. I got away with it. And no, that wasn't a good thing, even though it was fun at the time. His PE class was the best since we ALL liked running laps and doing sit-ups until Jimmy (yep, same one) puked his Hawaiian Punch all over his white PE uniform. To make things worse and take away what little joy we all had, Jimmy and Sean both moved away soon after that.
Going to the office with the new principal, perhaps? No. He had an ego like an overripe peach that went three rounds with Ali. And he held it out in front of people on purpose. Maybe the math teacher who suffered from depression and narcolepsy and was verbally abusive to students and made them feel like they were about to be physically abused. Maybe I should have left him out. Now I'm having horrible flashbacks and I've crossed the line from humor to sarcasm to sincere revulsion. He later shot himself, by the way. (Proceeding on to macabre...)
That's how it all seemed at thirteen. Now I think about how miserable Washed-Up and Liverspot must have been, trapped in a job that gave them no satisfaction, with a rotten retirement even if they DID stick it out to sixty-five. New Principal must have taken some wicked shots from parents and school boards and who knows who else over the years to feel threatened by a thirteen year old. I feel badly for them. But worst of all, how could Math Teacher's fellow faculty not know he was in such bad shape? Didn't they care at all about him? He was a human being! Even if they thought he was the poster boy for so-called failing public schools (a good description, actually) he was also their co-worker. Someone's father and husband.
Then again, this was Hell. Maybe everyone was so internalized by displeasure they didn't notice. Or maybe Math Teacher was careful to hide it.
Coming up with something good from junior high is harder than I thought. Think, man! There has to be something. Or maybe even somethingS. Or a group of somethings.
Group!
That's it! The one good thing about junior high! It brings me joy to this very day. In fact, I was just listening to their rhythmic and aesthetic perfection.
Micki and Vicki and Debbi and Susanna? I can STILL walk like an Egyptian and STILL have warm fuzzy innocent age thirteen fantasies about when I'm gone they like to try on all my clothes. Not that they would have fit. Not even for Susanna who's barely over five feet.
They ALL sang, they wrote much of their own stuff as opposed to none, and they were talented instead of shocking. Take that, Madonna. They didn't party like frat boys, either. Talking to you, Go Gos. Debbi and Susanna had kids and are still married to their same guys, and Susanna told the nudy magazines to forget it. And now they are back together for another album. I'm shouting 'bell jar' in two different octaves. With no vocal crack, though. It's harmony. It's junior high, and it's good.
The angels who rescued me from Hell.
Thanks, Bangles.
What, you think I would miss a chance to insult her back?
A kid walked into the clinic the other day. Wait, that's a start of a lame joke. And that's not how Shelly would say it anyway. Can I start over?
I saw a juvenile Homo sapiens today who was seeking care for being whiny and unfit to perpetuate the species due to genetic defects in her immune system.
No, too harsh, needs more subtlety.
This teenager came for help with a sinus infection. That's better. So, while examining her (Work. Did you all notice? I was doing work? Take THAT, Shelly!) we talked about school. She enjoys her junior high and seems to be doing well. I joked to her mother that if a biblical Hell exists, and my actions so merit my eternal presence there (I said it in a less stuffy fashion, though) I will spend it forever repeating grades six through eight. Yes, I know that's technically middle school, but this is Hell, remember?
Over lunch I tried to remember something good about those years.
Principal's office with Sean and Jimmy? Only half good, and that half ended when we actually got there. How about girls-whose-names-I-will-change-to Autumn, Monique, Mary, and Marina? Nope: played with my feelings, 'just a friend', too shy to connect, and maestro of me, the Stradivarius Fool.
Garbage Pail Kids! Those were great! They were – discontinued due to a lawsuit from some uptight male doll-maker who wrote his name on tiny fake butts. If THAT'S not a weirdo...
My grades were top-notch. Academics? I must have liked them and so perhaps HERE is the good to be found in junior high. Well, maybe not since most of my learning was from reading at home. In school I mostly remember being taught incorrect outdated science for two minutes a day from Mr. Washed-Up as an intro to his tangents. So I ignored his lessons and read my textbook instead. In Mr. Liverspot's science class we learned he read page one of six-page reports and no more. Yep. I got away with it. And no, that wasn't a good thing, even though it was fun at the time. His PE class was the best since we ALL liked running laps and doing sit-ups until Jimmy (yep, same one) puked his Hawaiian Punch all over his white PE uniform. To make things worse and take away what little joy we all had, Jimmy and Sean both moved away soon after that.
Going to the office with the new principal, perhaps? No. He had an ego like an overripe peach that went three rounds with Ali. And he held it out in front of people on purpose. Maybe the math teacher who suffered from depression and narcolepsy and was verbally abusive to students and made them feel like they were about to be physically abused. Maybe I should have left him out. Now I'm having horrible flashbacks and I've crossed the line from humor to sarcasm to sincere revulsion. He later shot himself, by the way. (Proceeding on to macabre...)
That's how it all seemed at thirteen. Now I think about how miserable Washed-Up and Liverspot must have been, trapped in a job that gave them no satisfaction, with a rotten retirement even if they DID stick it out to sixty-five. New Principal must have taken some wicked shots from parents and school boards and who knows who else over the years to feel threatened by a thirteen year old. I feel badly for them. But worst of all, how could Math Teacher's fellow faculty not know he was in such bad shape? Didn't they care at all about him? He was a human being! Even if they thought he was the poster boy for so-called failing public schools (a good description, actually) he was also their co-worker. Someone's father and husband.
Then again, this was Hell. Maybe everyone was so internalized by displeasure they didn't notice. Or maybe Math Teacher was careful to hide it.
Coming up with something good from junior high is harder than I thought. Think, man! There has to be something. Or maybe even somethingS. Or a group of somethings.
Group!
That's it! The one good thing about junior high! It brings me joy to this very day. In fact, I was just listening to their rhythmic and aesthetic perfection.
Micki and Vicki and Debbi and Susanna? I can STILL walk like an Egyptian and STILL have warm fuzzy innocent age thirteen fantasies about when I'm gone they like to try on all my clothes. Not that they would have fit. Not even for Susanna who's barely over five feet.
They ALL sang, they wrote much of their own stuff as opposed to none, and they were talented instead of shocking. Take that, Madonna. They didn't party like frat boys, either. Talking to you, Go Gos. Debbi and Susanna had kids and are still married to their same guys, and Susanna told the nudy magazines to forget it. And now they are back together for another album. I'm shouting 'bell jar' in two different octaves. With no vocal crack, though. It's harmony. It's junior high, and it's good.
The angels who rescued me from Hell.
Thanks, Bangles.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Two-for-one special
I was asked a question recently. "Why are you so sarcastic?"
I'm more sardonic in my verbiage, I think. But more important a correction is the fact that this is a two part question. Let's take the first.
Why? The source of philosphy, that question, dating back to ancient Greece. It's the seed of scientific inquiry which has carried the world to new levels of achievement. Psychology has tried to answer it as it's emanated from the psyche of humans and others. Mountain climbers address it with off-hand reference to a summit's presence, writers to the absence of written word. Biologists provide my favorite approach - food and sex.
I, in a rare moment of humility, will admit I don't have the capacity to add to the tomes of discourse attempting to delve the question of "Why?". So on to part two.
Am I so sarcastic? No-o-o-o. Not at all.
I'm more sardonic in my verbiage, I think. But more important a correction is the fact that this is a two part question. Let's take the first.
Why? The source of philosphy, that question, dating back to ancient Greece. It's the seed of scientific inquiry which has carried the world to new levels of achievement. Psychology has tried to answer it as it's emanated from the psyche of humans and others. Mountain climbers address it with off-hand reference to a summit's presence, writers to the absence of written word. Biologists provide my favorite approach - food and sex.
I, in a rare moment of humility, will admit I don't have the capacity to add to the tomes of discourse attempting to delve the question of "Why?". So on to part two.
Am I so sarcastic? No-o-o-o. Not at all.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Home is where you hide your hatchlings
One can learn a lot about a chap via perusal of his sub-davenport floorspace. Such an area forms a physical manifestation of persona and priority. Give me a day under a couch and I'll give you a psych evaluation Jung would be proud of, a behavioral vignette Skinner would applaud.
So. Want the dirt on Derick William Dalton?
Exhibit A: Dirt.
Grains too large for clay or loam. Very gritty, nearly 0.5 mm in diameter. Pigmentation indicates decomposing granite, about a six on Moh's scale of mineral hardness. Conclusion? Classic hoarding behaviors. And failure to remove shoes upon entering the house.
Exhibit B: Dust Bunnies.
Not only are these rapidly reproducing under here, they each have a terrible infestation of mites. Mangy dust bunnies is a nice touch. But the real issue is their attitude.
“Hi Dust Bunny. I think I can get you some flea powder for those pests.”
“Pests? Those are my children.”
“I meant the dust mites. That's gotta itch.”
“Mites? What are you insinuating? That I tolerate or contribute to parasitism?”
“I see them crawling through-”
“Get your eyes checked, turtle.”
Denali ain't just a park in a Alaska. Wait, that came out wrong...
Exhibit C: Junk mail.
To my trained observation, there is a positive correlation between distance from the front of the couch and the postmark date. DWD is a stuff-and-forget type. Procrastinator. Abstract random. Look, a wrapper of a – um, never mind. Make that abstract randy.
Exhibit D: Pet.
Who leaves their pet turtle under the couch? That's not the place for a beloved member of the family.
Unless I've been demoted. See? Withholding affection.
Uh oh. Here he comes to put me in the bath again. Save. Publish. Logout. Reopen rough draft he was pretending to work on to cover up video games. Whew.
So. Want the dirt on Derick William Dalton?
Exhibit A: Dirt.
Grains too large for clay or loam. Very gritty, nearly 0.5 mm in diameter. Pigmentation indicates decomposing granite, about a six on Moh's scale of mineral hardness. Conclusion? Classic hoarding behaviors. And failure to remove shoes upon entering the house.
Exhibit B: Dust Bunnies.
Not only are these rapidly reproducing under here, they each have a terrible infestation of mites. Mangy dust bunnies is a nice touch. But the real issue is their attitude.
“Hi Dust Bunny. I think I can get you some flea powder for those pests.”
“Pests? Those are my children.”
“I meant the dust mites. That's gotta itch.”
“Mites? What are you insinuating? That I tolerate or contribute to parasitism?”
“I see them crawling through-”
“Get your eyes checked, turtle.”
Denali ain't just a park in a Alaska. Wait, that came out wrong...
Exhibit C: Junk mail.
To my trained observation, there is a positive correlation between distance from the front of the couch and the postmark date. DWD is a stuff-and-forget type. Procrastinator. Abstract random. Look, a wrapper of a – um, never mind. Make that abstract randy.
Exhibit D: Pet.
Who leaves their pet turtle under the couch? That's not the place for a beloved member of the family.
Unless I've been demoted. See? Withholding affection.
Uh oh. Here he comes to put me in the bath again. Save. Publish. Logout. Reopen rough draft he was pretending to work on to cover up video games. Whew.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Back to School
What happened to August? I blame the cold weather-induced torpor I was in while hiding under the couch. Sluggish brain equals gross, squishy sentences whose slime trails into paragraphs until their subjects and predicates are separated by salt into a bubbly writhing mess. (With apologies to all actual slugs.)
Mr. Derick William Dalton fancies himself, or maybe past tenses himself, skilled in the dissemination of pithy mathy instruction and suave science education. I don't think he's really anything other than average. As proof, here's the transcript of a lesson I taught regarding physics, with no training whatsoever.
***
I find that math often interferes with initial understanding, then enhances it later. So to make it easy, lets make up our own units. And we'll assume velocity and acceleration are the same thing for further simplification.
A Subaru Impreza (mass of 1 horseless carriage unit) crashes into a Cadillac Escalade (mass of 4 horseless carriage units) The answer is the Subaru wins, because they are the awesomest cars ever.
But, if it was a Prius instead (1 hcu or 'hachoo'), and it and the Caddy were both traveling at 60 mph (100 kph or 1 easy math unit or emu, like the bird), the equations look like this:
Prius: Force = 1 hcu x 1 emu = 1 sneezebird unit
Escalade: Force = 4 hcu x 1 emu = 4 sbu
So the Escalade will plow through the Prius and push it until the friction (1 asphalt friction factor or aff) decreases it to zero sbu, at which point it will stop. The Prius, not the math. Math never stops. Ever.
If the road is uneven the math gets complex because one has to compensate for aff-holes.
So, to make the vehicles collide and stay where they collide, the sbu would have to be equal. We have to change the acceleration of the Prius. Like this.
Prius: F = 1 hcu x 4 emu = 4 sbu
Escalade: F = 4 hcu x 1 emu = 4 sbu
Since a Prius won't actually go 240 mph (240 mph = 400 kph = 4 emu), we could load the trunk of it with with a copy of War and Peace, a sack of Paul McCartney's fanmail, and the McDonald's cups we find on the roadside (mass of 1 hcu each). Like this.
Prius: F = 4 hcu x 1 emu = 4 sbu
Escalade: F = 4 hcu x 1 emu = 4 sbu
If you want to make the Prius explode, I'd recommend either diesel and fertilizer, or plastic explosives of a military or commercial construction grade. But stand way back and wear eye protection.
Questions?
Mr. Derick William Dalton fancies himself, or maybe past tenses himself, skilled in the dissemination of pithy mathy instruction and suave science education. I don't think he's really anything other than average. As proof, here's the transcript of a lesson I taught regarding physics, with no training whatsoever.
***
I find that math often interferes with initial understanding, then enhances it later. So to make it easy, lets make up our own units. And we'll assume velocity and acceleration are the same thing for further simplification.
A Subaru Impreza (mass of 1 horseless carriage unit) crashes into a Cadillac Escalade (mass of 4 horseless carriage units) The answer is the Subaru wins, because they are the awesomest cars ever.
But, if it was a Prius instead (1 hcu or 'hachoo'), and it and the Caddy were both traveling at 60 mph (100 kph or 1 easy math unit or emu, like the bird), the equations look like this:
Prius: Force = 1 hcu x 1 emu = 1 sneezebird unit
Escalade: Force = 4 hcu x 1 emu = 4 sbu
So the Escalade will plow through the Prius and push it until the friction (1 asphalt friction factor or aff) decreases it to zero sbu, at which point it will stop. The Prius, not the math. Math never stops. Ever.
If the road is uneven the math gets complex because one has to compensate for aff-holes.
So, to make the vehicles collide and stay where they collide, the sbu would have to be equal. We have to change the acceleration of the Prius. Like this.
Prius: F = 1 hcu x 4 emu = 4 sbu
Escalade: F = 4 hcu x 1 emu = 4 sbu
Since a Prius won't actually go 240 mph (240 mph = 400 kph = 4 emu), we could load the trunk of it with with a copy of War and Peace, a sack of Paul McCartney's fanmail, and the McDonald's cups we find on the roadside (mass of 1 hcu each). Like this.
Prius: F = 4 hcu x 1 emu = 4 sbu
Escalade: F = 4 hcu x 1 emu = 4 sbu
If you want to make the Prius explode, I'd recommend either diesel and fertilizer, or plastic explosives of a military or commercial construction grade. But stand way back and wear eye protection.
Questions?
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
What bwings us togevah today
Since my escape attempt, whenever I'm turned loose in the house I have to wear this harness Derick William Dalton made for me. I think it's out of an old material sample for a couch. He's so cheap. He sewed velcro on to secure it around my shell and and tied a long string to it so I can't hide anymore. I do get to run around outside more often though, so I suppose the trade-off is alright. I just wish it was a sexy lizard-skin green instead of davenport blue.
Last time I was free in the house, he left a copy of The Atlantic on the floor. Well, to be fair, his kids probably kicked it off the end table while jumping repeatedly onto the couch. Luckily I had all day to peruse it, as it's tough to turn pages without opposable digits. I'll give you primates that one. So, one article was on marriage, that it's an outdated institution and is pointless. I completely agree with Ms. Sandra Tsing Loh, of course. But then I read the article.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2009/07/let-8217-s-call-the-whole-thing-off/7488/4/
I had to check the title again. Marriage? That's not what the article was about. Listen to this and decide if my title is more accurate: To Thine Own Selfish Be True.
The author's marriage got boring and so she did that weird thing humans do (you know, trying to reproduce but blocking the biological outcome?) only it was with some other guy. Then her friend complained about her marriage: her husband cooks like a French master and keeps in great shape and takes care of the kids but gives her grief about her weight and shows no affection. (I'm with him, but apparently mammals are supposed to show affection. Must be your squishy-soft skin and silky-fine hair. I have to see DWD and his wife cuddle frequently. Blech.) Another friend's hubby also keeps his hands and other things totally to himself but spends his free time watching other people pretend to reproduce. A third friend goes through men faster than I do.
I can see how that all relates to marriage, but as an expert on self-centeredness thanks to personal practice and millions of years of evolution, I can tell you that the civil joining of two Homo sapiens was not the central theme.
I'm all for free love, especially if he has a nicely indented plastron with a glistening coat of wax (ooh, that gave me chills!). But promising monogamy to a spouse and a community then backing out is colder than me in January under three feet of snow and one of dirt. And selfish. Too fat? That's why the author's friend isn't getting any? There's something else going on. Her Chef Boyar-bicyclist is either getting it on the side or has other issues he won't talk about. Selfish and selfish. Friend number two's hubby found another way to be selfish but pretend he's not. As for love-machine girl, maybe I'd better not comment, but I know how human males take a dumping. They only think they are tough.
So, she says, stick around the kids to keep parental relationships with them, but don't bother with the initial marriage part. I say go a step further and skip the parenting, too. Bury the kids in the sand with some food nearby and let them fend for themselves until they are strong enough to dig themselves out. Parenting is a waste of time.
Just don't mis-label your article in a highbrow-even-for-snobby-primates magazine. It's selfish to make readers retitle it for you.
Last time I was free in the house, he left a copy of The Atlantic on the floor. Well, to be fair, his kids probably kicked it off the end table while jumping repeatedly onto the couch. Luckily I had all day to peruse it, as it's tough to turn pages without opposable digits. I'll give you primates that one. So, one article was on marriage, that it's an outdated institution and is pointless. I completely agree with Ms. Sandra Tsing Loh, of course. But then I read the article.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2009/07/let-8217-s-call-the-whole-thing-off/7488/4/
I had to check the title again. Marriage? That's not what the article was about. Listen to this and decide if my title is more accurate: To Thine Own Selfish Be True.
The author's marriage got boring and so she did that weird thing humans do (you know, trying to reproduce but blocking the biological outcome?) only it was with some other guy. Then her friend complained about her marriage: her husband cooks like a French master and keeps in great shape and takes care of the kids but gives her grief about her weight and shows no affection. (I'm with him, but apparently mammals are supposed to show affection. Must be your squishy-soft skin and silky-fine hair. I have to see DWD and his wife cuddle frequently. Blech.) Another friend's hubby also keeps his hands and other things totally to himself but spends his free time watching other people pretend to reproduce. A third friend goes through men faster than I do.
I can see how that all relates to marriage, but as an expert on self-centeredness thanks to personal practice and millions of years of evolution, I can tell you that the civil joining of two Homo sapiens was not the central theme.
I'm all for free love, especially if he has a nicely indented plastron with a glistening coat of wax (ooh, that gave me chills!). But promising monogamy to a spouse and a community then backing out is colder than me in January under three feet of snow and one of dirt. And selfish. Too fat? That's why the author's friend isn't getting any? There's something else going on. Her Chef Boyar-bicyclist is either getting it on the side or has other issues he won't talk about. Selfish and selfish. Friend number two's hubby found another way to be selfish but pretend he's not. As for love-machine girl, maybe I'd better not comment, but I know how human males take a dumping. They only think they are tough.
So, she says, stick around the kids to keep parental relationships with them, but don't bother with the initial marriage part. I say go a step further and skip the parenting, too. Bury the kids in the sand with some food nearby and let them fend for themselves until they are strong enough to dig themselves out. Parenting is a waste of time.
Just don't mis-label your article in a highbrow-even-for-snobby-primates magazine. It's selfish to make readers retitle it for you.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Blind leading the bound
Derick William Dalton does not look his age, nor does he act it (but that's a different story). Mostly he laughs about it when others are surprised by his years, as he is much less droopy and bald and gray than he ought to be. On occasion though, it bothers him, and I'm trying to find out why.
A few days ago at his "job" (notice I didn't say work, because he doesn't) it happened again, and I got to hear him telling someone about it on the phone. "Blah blah blah lecture on stuff they read on the internet, yadda yadda tell me how to do my job." That was the first ten minutes of the conversation, although "conversation" isn't really accurate because the person on the other end had a chance to say three words, tops. Then my favorite quote of the conversation: "I hate it when my baby face is all people can see!"
Well, human boy, you insist on wearing clothes, so that's their only option. I got more confused as he continued his ranting, something about two bastard's degrees. I thought I knew what that word meant, and I certainly didn't think it was insulting, especially for most reptiles who don't even know their parents, much less have some kind of community-supported connection. Perhaps I don't understand, as how would one earn that title twice? The only explanation that makes sense to me is his parents married after he was conceived and then divorced before he was born. I may never know, as that's not really a polite-company conversation topic, especially not to ask of the person who provides the food. Although with a cup of tea, an extended pinky, and a British accent, it might be fine. "I say, Nigel, word is you're illegitimate as the son of a cockney dilly, what?"
The connection of the timing of his birth, parents' marital status, and his appearance is beyond me. I do know this, though. People make an awful big deal out of their physical attributes when they don't even look any different than a fetus. What's the point if you are going to be soft and weak and helpless and then try to look like it too? They don't develop anything to be proud of like wings, claws, tails, gills, poisonous stingers or fangs, or best of all shells. Their physical strength relative to weight makes me embarrassed for them. They can't even detoxify their own waste, so they have to dilute it with huge volumes of water and spend hours peeing.
See, if turtles were as vain as humans, we'd have useful elective surgeries such as a teflon-coating of the plastron for smoother maneuvering across the ground. Well, females anyway. Males need to, how shall I say, have a high coefficient of friction to maintain a certain angle at certain times. They might go in for a good shell buffing on occasion, though, perhaps a remodeling of the supracaudal and marginal scutes of the carapace for easier burrowing.
But we aren't and we don't. We look old from hatching on, and don't feel the need to mess with nature. Close your eyes once in a while: droopy and bald and gray disappear for free, and suddenly firm and flowing and lustrous don't matter.
A few days ago at his "job" (notice I didn't say work, because he doesn't) it happened again, and I got to hear him telling someone about it on the phone. "Blah blah blah lecture on stuff they read on the internet, yadda yadda tell me how to do my job." That was the first ten minutes of the conversation, although "conversation" isn't really accurate because the person on the other end had a chance to say three words, tops. Then my favorite quote of the conversation: "I hate it when my baby face is all people can see!"
Well, human boy, you insist on wearing clothes, so that's their only option. I got more confused as he continued his ranting, something about two bastard's degrees. I thought I knew what that word meant, and I certainly didn't think it was insulting, especially for most reptiles who don't even know their parents, much less have some kind of community-supported connection. Perhaps I don't understand, as how would one earn that title twice? The only explanation that makes sense to me is his parents married after he was conceived and then divorced before he was born. I may never know, as that's not really a polite-company conversation topic, especially not to ask of the person who provides the food. Although with a cup of tea, an extended pinky, and a British accent, it might be fine. "I say, Nigel, word is you're illegitimate as the son of a cockney dilly, what?"
The connection of the timing of his birth, parents' marital status, and his appearance is beyond me. I do know this, though. People make an awful big deal out of their physical attributes when they don't even look any different than a fetus. What's the point if you are going to be soft and weak and helpless and then try to look like it too? They don't develop anything to be proud of like wings, claws, tails, gills, poisonous stingers or fangs, or best of all shells. Their physical strength relative to weight makes me embarrassed for them. They can't even detoxify their own waste, so they have to dilute it with huge volumes of water and spend hours peeing.
See, if turtles were as vain as humans, we'd have useful elective surgeries such as a teflon-coating of the plastron for smoother maneuvering across the ground. Well, females anyway. Males need to, how shall I say, have a high coefficient of friction to maintain a certain angle at certain times. They might go in for a good shell buffing on occasion, though, perhaps a remodeling of the supracaudal and marginal scutes of the carapace for easier burrowing.
But we aren't and we don't. We look old from hatching on, and don't feel the need to mess with nature. Close your eyes once in a while: droopy and bald and gray disappear for free, and suddenly firm and flowing and lustrous don't matter.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The price of sloth
I had the house to myself for a few days several months ago. Turns out Mr. Dalton fancies himself an amateur athlete and participated in one of those community let's-pretend-to-be-athletic-and-motivate-each-other-to-use-these-gym-membership-coupons-in-January-and-quit-by-February events. I heard all about it. Multiple times. I was bored of him telling the same story over and over on the phone, until I heard a new part.
He was describing some cramps, which was weird, because usually it's his wife describing cramps. “Should have trained harder. Now I'm paying the price of my sloth,” he said.
What? He has a sloth? I'm not the only non-human animal around here? He must keep it outside, since I've never seen it.
Then I caught on to yet another species-centric inaccurate facet of 21st century American English. I happen to have known a sloth once, and to associate him with slacker behavior is wrong and offensive. Just like it would be if I told DWD he's a lazy cracker. Wait, that doesn't fit the analogy at all...
So if DWD hadn't been acting slothful, he wouldn't have been in pain. Let me describe my sloth friend. He doesn't get from A to B as fast as those mid-west triathlon want-to-bes, and talking to him wasn't always an intellectual feast. But Sloth never stopped except to sleep. Just hung and watched and hung and ate and hung and helped sponge carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere with the cyanobacteria growing in his fur.
So maybe DWD's right. If he was exhibiting slothful behavior he wouldn't ever race around crazy trying to accomplish a list of goals that some guy on the television with extra shiny teeth and a nice suit said was important. He wouldn't have as much debt and wouldn't have to work as much and would have more time to climb trees. So he either wouldn't be trying to prove something to other humans in nasty spandex shorts, or he'd have more time to prepare and be cramp-less.
There's no way one turtle, as brilliant as she may be, is going to have an effect on cultural verbiage. But maybe I can nickname my friend so he's divorced from the tainted connotation. Here are some suggestions.
Pale-throated amenable
Brown-throated repose
Maned halcyon
Pygmy three-toed placid
Linnaeus's two-toed nonchalant
Tortoises at least get the “and the hare” story. Maybe some kid's book in the future will disseminate my genius and my friend's character to the masses with the title of The Amenable and the Rat Race.
He was describing some cramps, which was weird, because usually it's his wife describing cramps. “Should have trained harder. Now I'm paying the price of my sloth,” he said.
What? He has a sloth? I'm not the only non-human animal around here? He must keep it outside, since I've never seen it.
Then I caught on to yet another species-centric inaccurate facet of 21st century American English. I happen to have known a sloth once, and to associate him with slacker behavior is wrong and offensive. Just like it would be if I told DWD he's a lazy cracker. Wait, that doesn't fit the analogy at all...
So if DWD hadn't been acting slothful, he wouldn't have been in pain. Let me describe my sloth friend. He doesn't get from A to B as fast as those mid-west triathlon want-to-bes, and talking to him wasn't always an intellectual feast. But Sloth never stopped except to sleep. Just hung and watched and hung and ate and hung and helped sponge carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere with the cyanobacteria growing in his fur.
So maybe DWD's right. If he was exhibiting slothful behavior he wouldn't ever race around crazy trying to accomplish a list of goals that some guy on the television with extra shiny teeth and a nice suit said was important. He wouldn't have as much debt and wouldn't have to work as much and would have more time to climb trees. So he either wouldn't be trying to prove something to other humans in nasty spandex shorts, or he'd have more time to prepare and be cramp-less.
There's no way one turtle, as brilliant as she may be, is going to have an effect on cultural verbiage. But maybe I can nickname my friend so he's divorced from the tainted connotation. Here are some suggestions.
Pale-throated amenable
Brown-throated repose
Maned halcyon
Pygmy three-toed placid
Linnaeus's two-toed nonchalant
Tortoises at least get the “and the hare” story. Maybe some kid's book in the future will disseminate my genius and my friend's character to the masses with the title of The Amenable and the Rat Race.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Window to the world
I suppose giving Derick William Dalton a soapbox for his biased version of that last story won't hurt anything. As if we'd believe him.
In the meantime, I've been running loose in his house. The freedom is nice and the exploration is invigorating. The kitchen door has glass running nearly it's full height, so it's a great place for me to sit and enjoy the outdoors without subjecting myself to natural selection. Not that I'm against it, even though it is why I'm twelve centimeters instead of twelve meters long, and am forced to eat worms and leftover salad and patter through the house instead of eating trees and mammals while tromping through the forest making the ground shake. Natural selection is a great idea for populations, but it doesn't interest me personally. Have I grown soft in my domestication? Don't have what it takes to survive and reproduce in the wild? No, but how to explain it... I suppose if natural selection were a religion, I would be an unrepentant sinner. If it were a genre of art, I would be the avant garde. French Foreign Legion, I'm AWOL.
But mostly I'm at the window to watch the hummingbirds. Talk about natural selection. I can't tell if their behavior is from an inferiority complex over their size, or if they just like being small and zippy, with nothing to prove to anyone. Except to reptiles of course, but they fell off our wagon millions of years ago.
DWD put the feeders up on purpose as he likes the twittering and buzzing and iridescence. It was annoying at first. And I have to admit, as hard as that is to do, I was jealous as they hovered and moved faster than I could keep track. Luckily, my shell protects my psyche as well as internal organs. I get bitten, I laugh. Fragile little hummingbirds get one mistake. Ever.
I couldn't make out the twittering, so I started making up dialogue as I watched them eat.
“Then he says (slurp slurp) 'Let's hang out. (slurp slurp) I'll show you a flowering elderberry bush I found.' (slurp slurpee slurp)”
“Oh (sipsipsip) honey, (sipsipsip) that's so romantic! (sipsipsip) What did you (sipsipsip) do (sipsipsip) after?”
“Nothing (slurp slurp). Didn't go at all (slurp slurp). My ex came zooming out of a tree (slurp slurp) and it was a who's-beak-is-longest contest (slurp slurp) after that. They both forgot all about me (slururururp).
Which makes me wonder why they don't help each other out more. The females seem to get along, several drinking at the same time. But then a male chases them all off and spends more time watching his back than drinking himself. Two males never bond at the watering hole. They could learn a bit from the humans that way, but then they might have a harder time with the reproductive part of natural selection. Instead, it's action sequence aerial dogfights nearly all day. That part kept me interested until I got motion sickness.
Unless it's all a game. The males don't have to produce eggs, so maybe they aren't under the same calorie demands. The females want genes for their young from a guy who looks like he'll never make a mistake, so the males could spend all their time chasing each other around and the one who doesn't starve gets all the action. Maybe the females like getting chased. It burns off their energy so they can eat more. Perhaps the males pretend to chase each other around when the females are looking to impress them. Maybe they find a lookalike and one eats while the other flirts, then they switch off and split the rewards. Or maybe they switch off then, too.
Either way, there are about a dozen of them out there flying around like they haven't a care in the world, and the more I watch the more I get depressed. Maybe my shell's not as thick as I supposed. I'll outlast them like I did the rats, but that doesn't make me feel any better just now. But the forecast of four days of heavy rain does. Fly around in that, hummingbirds.
In the meantime, I've been running loose in his house. The freedom is nice and the exploration is invigorating. The kitchen door has glass running nearly it's full height, so it's a great place for me to sit and enjoy the outdoors without subjecting myself to natural selection. Not that I'm against it, even though it is why I'm twelve centimeters instead of twelve meters long, and am forced to eat worms and leftover salad and patter through the house instead of eating trees and mammals while tromping through the forest making the ground shake. Natural selection is a great idea for populations, but it doesn't interest me personally. Have I grown soft in my domestication? Don't have what it takes to survive and reproduce in the wild? No, but how to explain it... I suppose if natural selection were a religion, I would be an unrepentant sinner. If it were a genre of art, I would be the avant garde. French Foreign Legion, I'm AWOL.
But mostly I'm at the window to watch the hummingbirds. Talk about natural selection. I can't tell if their behavior is from an inferiority complex over their size, or if they just like being small and zippy, with nothing to prove to anyone. Except to reptiles of course, but they fell off our wagon millions of years ago.
DWD put the feeders up on purpose as he likes the twittering and buzzing and iridescence. It was annoying at first. And I have to admit, as hard as that is to do, I was jealous as they hovered and moved faster than I could keep track. Luckily, my shell protects my psyche as well as internal organs. I get bitten, I laugh. Fragile little hummingbirds get one mistake. Ever.
I couldn't make out the twittering, so I started making up dialogue as I watched them eat.
“Then he says (slurp slurp) 'Let's hang out. (slurp slurp) I'll show you a flowering elderberry bush I found.' (slurp slurpee slurp)”
“Oh (sipsipsip) honey, (sipsipsip) that's so romantic! (sipsipsip) What did you (sipsipsip) do (sipsipsip) after?”
“Nothing (slurp slurp). Didn't go at all (slurp slurp). My ex came zooming out of a tree (slurp slurp) and it was a who's-beak-is-longest contest (slurp slurp) after that. They both forgot all about me (slururururp).
Which makes me wonder why they don't help each other out more. The females seem to get along, several drinking at the same time. But then a male chases them all off and spends more time watching his back than drinking himself. Two males never bond at the watering hole. They could learn a bit from the humans that way, but then they might have a harder time with the reproductive part of natural selection. Instead, it's action sequence aerial dogfights nearly all day. That part kept me interested until I got motion sickness.
Unless it's all a game. The males don't have to produce eggs, so maybe they aren't under the same calorie demands. The females want genes for their young from a guy who looks like he'll never make a mistake, so the males could spend all their time chasing each other around and the one who doesn't starve gets all the action. Maybe the females like getting chased. It burns off their energy so they can eat more. Perhaps the males pretend to chase each other around when the females are looking to impress them. Maybe they find a lookalike and one eats while the other flirts, then they switch off and split the rewards. Or maybe they switch off then, too.
Either way, there are about a dozen of them out there flying around like they haven't a care in the world, and the more I watch the more I get depressed. Maybe my shell's not as thick as I supposed. I'll outlast them like I did the rats, but that doesn't make me feel any better just now. But the forecast of four days of heavy rain does. Fly around in that, hummingbirds.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Busted, you cold-blooded bimbo.
For the record I am not lazy. The appropriate term is busy. This is Derick. The William Dalton guy. Shelly forgot to log off, and now the world will know the truth. For example, Shelly makes the Vulcan live-long-and-prosper-sign more than I do, even without an opposable thumb, so she can't give me grief over anything relative to sci-fi nerdiness.
Don't let her fool you about the bath, either. She will sit and blow bubbles (both kinds) for hours if I let her. And here's not very ladylike for you: she likes to squirt water out her nostrils. I have to admit, it is quite impressive. I've tried to mimick her and haven't had nearly as skillful a result.
So, back to busy. Shelly's parenting skills, along with those of all turtles, would warrant intervention by some government agency. Worse, she doesn't even have kids. At least none that I know of. Or that she knows of. Am I being species-ist? Is it unfair to judge all turtles by the actions and words of a polysyllabic sharp-witted hard-shelled slow-moving worm-eating dirt-digging shade-seeking floozy who will say yes to any male of the right species? Probably. Because I pay the internet fees and buy the worms and dirt and hire those males. (Yep, you heard me, Shelly. I hired every one of those guys.)
But she's right about one thing. My children don't always wash their hands after pooping.
Don't let her fool you about the bath, either. She will sit and blow bubbles (both kinds) for hours if I let her. And here's not very ladylike for you: she likes to squirt water out her nostrils. I have to admit, it is quite impressive. I've tried to mimick her and haven't had nearly as skillful a result.
So, back to busy. Shelly's parenting skills, along with those of all turtles, would warrant intervention by some government agency. Worse, she doesn't even have kids. At least none that I know of. Or that she knows of. Am I being species-ist? Is it unfair to judge all turtles by the actions and words of a polysyllabic sharp-witted hard-shelled slow-moving worm-eating dirt-digging shade-seeking floozy who will say yes to any male of the right species? Probably. Because I pay the internet fees and buy the worms and dirt and hire those males. (Yep, you heard me, Shelly. I hired every one of those guys.)
But she's right about one thing. My children don't always wash their hands after pooping.
Monday, April 26, 2010
A Bone to Pick. Or Gnaw.
Lately the Ringo drums have been replaced by Derick William Dalton and his wife laughing while watching the murder mystery show Bones. They also ooh and ahh over the human remains, dried and dessicated, soggy and putrescent, burned crispy, or in a post-woodchipper amorphous mess on the table. To be honest, they just make me hungry. They turn loose all those crunchy sweet beetles to clean the bones and I drool. Sometimes the bodies come in with juicy fly larvae on them, and I feel rumbly in my tumbly. On occasion they show remains before being discovered and they have crows or kitties or sharks or crabs taking a nibble. Here I get jealous first, and then hungry. Sure I love humans, but that can be taken two ways.
Okay, that was an exaggeration. I really don't know how humans taste. Not for lack of opportunity. However, when I get past my culinary attraction to the remains, I note one of the underlying conflicts of the series: science versus religion. As an animal, and a reptile what's more, I am in a uniquely objective position to comment. The rats in the terrarium next to me in the pet store long ago would have said "position to be judgemental", but they long since died of old age and I'm still around. So I don't give a rat's you-know-what and neither do they.
What the writers describe as science in the Brennan-Booth debates is really atheism. Science is about what's measurable. God isn't, so he (or she or it or them) is non-disprovable. As lack of evidence is not evidence of absence, atheism isn't science but a valid religion. It's based on belief in an unprovable absence. The writers don't need to adjust the conflict, because it works well. They need to change the labels so -
Oh, sweet! This episode is about a saltwater floater! That gives the skeleton such a delightful bouquet and softened texture to the palate, adding a lightly abrasive crust and a piquant marine aftertaste.
Okay, that was an exaggeration. I really don't know how humans taste. Not for lack of opportunity. However, when I get past my culinary attraction to the remains, I note one of the underlying conflicts of the series: science versus religion. As an animal, and a reptile what's more, I am in a uniquely objective position to comment. The rats in the terrarium next to me in the pet store long ago would have said "position to be judgemental", but they long since died of old age and I'm still around. So I don't give a rat's you-know-what and neither do they.
What the writers describe as science in the Brennan-Booth debates is really atheism. Science is about what's measurable. God isn't, so he (or she or it or them) is non-disprovable. As lack of evidence is not evidence of absence, atheism isn't science but a valid religion. It's based on belief in an unprovable absence. The writers don't need to adjust the conflict, because it works well. They need to change the labels so -
Oh, sweet! This episode is about a saltwater floater! That gives the skeleton such a delightful bouquet and softened texture to the palate, adding a lightly abrasive crust and a piquant marine aftertaste.
Monday, April 5, 2010
The difference between psychiatry and dermatology? Lipstick.
I'm often fascinated by the facial features of humans. Specifically, how much more they can communicate than a reptile. See, here's what I can say: eyes open, eyes closed. That's I'm watching you, I'm not. I can't say I'm watching you because I think you are a good-for-nothing crook. Well, I could be saying that, but it looks identical to when I say the curve of your plastron is a total turn-on and I want you to fertilize my eggs. Do you see the problem? And do you see why male box turtles have had to evolve long rear claws to hold open the female's shell in the back? You hairless pink monkey girls think you have a hard time commuicating with your mates. Did I say pink? I meant pink and brown and tan and olive and - well, you get the idea.
Binocular vision seems like an interesting concept. If you don't mind people sneaking up behind you. I see Derick William Dalton's kids try this on each other once in a while. The problem is, they always giggle before they pounce. I suppose it's kind of cute, but how does he expect them to survive in the wild like that? One little giggle, zero point eight seconds, that's all I need to close up shop. Then who's giggling? Me. From inside my fortress. Of course, eyes on the side, of which I'm very fond I'll have you know, would be more efficient without the bulk of the rest of my turtleness. I'm not complaining about my figure. I am quite comfortable with my body shape, and Animal Planet with all those half-starved zoo models will not injure my self-image. Does that Russian tortoise really think she's attractive with glistening mango juice on her face? And the way she sticks her back legs out of the shell much farther than is comfortable? That's not biology, that's just a floozy show. Besides, the size of my shell doesn't matter. My neck is long and flexible, and I can easily peek around behind it.
Here's what I wish I did have, though. Lips and a dimple. Then I could smile, the dimple would dent into my right cheek, and I would be adorable. More adorable, I mean. The lips, on the other hand, aren't for what you think. It has nothing to do with food or affection, only communication. Picture this: eyes open, red lipstick. That means hello. Eyes open, red lipstick, and dimple: let's be friends. With the eyes closed, there are so many possibilities. With a hiss or two thrown in, I have an anthropologically recognized language.
Blue lipstick? Interesting possibilities for meanings. I'll have to read up on my Mary Kay and Sigmund Freud and get back to you.
Binocular vision seems like an interesting concept. If you don't mind people sneaking up behind you. I see Derick William Dalton's kids try this on each other once in a while. The problem is, they always giggle before they pounce. I suppose it's kind of cute, but how does he expect them to survive in the wild like that? One little giggle, zero point eight seconds, that's all I need to close up shop. Then who's giggling? Me. From inside my fortress. Of course, eyes on the side, of which I'm very fond I'll have you know, would be more efficient without the bulk of the rest of my turtleness. I'm not complaining about my figure. I am quite comfortable with my body shape, and Animal Planet with all those half-starved zoo models will not injure my self-image. Does that Russian tortoise really think she's attractive with glistening mango juice on her face? And the way she sticks her back legs out of the shell much farther than is comfortable? That's not biology, that's just a floozy show. Besides, the size of my shell doesn't matter. My neck is long and flexible, and I can easily peek around behind it.
Here's what I wish I did have, though. Lips and a dimple. Then I could smile, the dimple would dent into my right cheek, and I would be adorable. More adorable, I mean. The lips, on the other hand, aren't for what you think. It has nothing to do with food or affection, only communication. Picture this: eyes open, red lipstick. That means hello. Eyes open, red lipstick, and dimple: let's be friends. With the eyes closed, there are so many possibilities. With a hiss or two thrown in, I have an anthropologically recognized language.
Blue lipstick? Interesting possibilities for meanings. I'll have to read up on my Mary Kay and Sigmund Freud and get back to you.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Bathtub Shelly
At the risk of making readers feel voyeuristic, a peek into my hygiene regimen sheds some light upon the frustrations of depending on a mammal for support. A male mammal, what's worse.
Every other day or so, I am rudely awakened from my cozy cubby by Derick William Dalton's right hand pulling me out. One would think he'd know what "hiss" means by now. Snakes use the phrase to imply the listener has a sexy aroma. Turtles, on the other hand, use it as a gauntlet-dropping final straw to the rules of engagement. Of course, that's only because running away isn't an option. We usually just hide in our shells and laugh as predators break their teeth trying to get at us.
I am then carried to the bathroom sink where his grubby kids wash their hands after pooping (sometimes). Here I must note that he very kindly sets the water temperature to a perfectly toasty temperature. But then he leaves me there for forty minutes, and by that time it's chilly. The first ten minutes is divine. I only need to come up for air three times, and I get all I can drink. But then I have to go, you know? So there I sit in pee water getting colder and colder. Of course, this is the one time when DWD decides to write. While I'm losing heat to dilute urine, he's blah blah blah starship engines, or blah blah blah alien pathophysiology.
I crawl as high up the side as I can, and stretch out my neck. There he is, sitting with his back to me. Blah blah blah futuristic geo-political-religious commentary. Boring! Well, except the part where the bad guy gets sucked into a spaceship drive, or out into the vacuum without a helmet, or has dental work with no anesthesia. But in the meantime, I've got a floater in here. I'm no microbiologist, but doesn't that defeat the purpose of a bath?
Finally, he comes in to drain the cesspool and wash me off. Then there's the fresh earthworm or macaroni and fish, as his handwashing-challenged kids call the food pellets. Good food under a snuggly heat lamp. Not bad.
Now if he wouldn't pretend to be Ringo Starr on the drums while I'm trying to sleep, life would be good.
Every other day or so, I am rudely awakened from my cozy cubby by Derick William Dalton's right hand pulling me out. One would think he'd know what "hiss" means by now. Snakes use the phrase to imply the listener has a sexy aroma. Turtles, on the other hand, use it as a gauntlet-dropping final straw to the rules of engagement. Of course, that's only because running away isn't an option. We usually just hide in our shells and laugh as predators break their teeth trying to get at us.
I am then carried to the bathroom sink where his grubby kids wash their hands after pooping (sometimes). Here I must note that he very kindly sets the water temperature to a perfectly toasty temperature. But then he leaves me there for forty minutes, and by that time it's chilly. The first ten minutes is divine. I only need to come up for air three times, and I get all I can drink. But then I have to go, you know? So there I sit in pee water getting colder and colder. Of course, this is the one time when DWD decides to write. While I'm losing heat to dilute urine, he's blah blah blah starship engines, or blah blah blah alien pathophysiology.
I crawl as high up the side as I can, and stretch out my neck. There he is, sitting with his back to me. Blah blah blah futuristic geo-political-religious commentary. Boring! Well, except the part where the bad guy gets sucked into a spaceship drive, or out into the vacuum without a helmet, or has dental work with no anesthesia. But in the meantime, I've got a floater in here. I'm no microbiologist, but doesn't that defeat the purpose of a bath?
Finally, he comes in to drain the cesspool and wash me off. Then there's the fresh earthworm or macaroni and fish, as his handwashing-challenged kids call the food pellets. Good food under a snuggly heat lamp. Not bad.
Now if he wouldn't pretend to be Ringo Starr on the drums while I'm trying to sleep, life would be good.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
My Impersonation of Steve McQueen, Sans Motorcycle
Just like my worm the other day, I almost escaped once. Derick William Dalton turned me loose in the back yard for some exercise. I like to think he had concerns with my cardiovascular health, because if I find out he wants me to lose weight, I'm going to bite him.
The grass was cool, the sun was warm, and the breeze smelled better than the stale air of my terrarium. At first I was enjoying it. Then I started feeling a little exposed but quickly found the solution. The hillside. Cool dry dirt to dig and sagebrush under which to hide. When I'm not trying to catch anything in my mouth, I'm surprisingly quick. I waited until DWD was distracted by one of his kids and I was gone. I crawled under a tumbleweed, dug down, and flipped some of the dirt over me.
DWD spent hours looking for me. Almost stepped on me twice. His wife and the neighbors were out looking for a while, too. The sun went down, all got quiet and dark, and I didn't have to stay up until midnight listening to laser guns and starship explosions from the television. I enjoyed the peaceful sleep for several hours, but then I woke to notice bits of frost forming on the grass around me. And I smelled dog. Well, smelled, and the scar on the back of my shell was tingling due to the presence of some Voldermutt. No more sleep after that.
Obviously, the sunrise the next morning was my favorite of recent memory. That's how DWD found me, out in the open trying to thaw out, my legs and head stretched out to catch as much sun as I could. Not very ladylike, but I wasn't trying to impress anyone.
So, my terrarium doesn't seem so confining anymore. Just wish I had a baseball.
The grass was cool, the sun was warm, and the breeze smelled better than the stale air of my terrarium. At first I was enjoying it. Then I started feeling a little exposed but quickly found the solution. The hillside. Cool dry dirt to dig and sagebrush under which to hide. When I'm not trying to catch anything in my mouth, I'm surprisingly quick. I waited until DWD was distracted by one of his kids and I was gone. I crawled under a tumbleweed, dug down, and flipped some of the dirt over me.
DWD spent hours looking for me. Almost stepped on me twice. His wife and the neighbors were out looking for a while, too. The sun went down, all got quiet and dark, and I didn't have to stay up until midnight listening to laser guns and starship explosions from the television. I enjoyed the peaceful sleep for several hours, but then I woke to notice bits of frost forming on the grass around me. And I smelled dog. Well, smelled, and the scar on the back of my shell was tingling due to the presence of some Voldermutt. No more sleep after that.
Obviously, the sunrise the next morning was my favorite of recent memory. That's how DWD found me, out in the open trying to thaw out, my legs and head stretched out to catch as much sun as I could. Not very ladylike, but I wasn't trying to impress anyone.
So, my terrarium doesn't seem so confining anymore. Just wish I had a baseball.
Friday, March 19, 2010
A Political Runt. Or is it rant?
I was trying to concentrate on an escaping worm yesterday. Don't you dare laugh at my lack of speed. Have you ever eaten one the size of your leg with no hands? My hard time was exacerbated as DWD was on another political tirade on the phone. Something about hating fancy felosi. Sounds like an Italian dressing, which is weird, because DWD loves salad. So do I for that matter, as he gives me the leftovers. He has started these rants a few times a day over some apparent change in a health fair. I think he must have attended one. If I were a betting girl, I'd say his cholesterol was checked and too high. DWD doesn't handling aging or lack of fitness very well.
I thought he was done so I started to nod off under my heat lamp, tummy full of earthy, wormy, goodness. Then he started in on trying to get money from some Irish guy. He wanted to bill O'Reilly or O'Malley or O'Someone. He had a lot of mean things to say about this person, too. This also made no sense as DWD does no work overseas. In fact, I suspect he simply does no work.
My point is though, why do you all stress out so much? Too much on your plate at work? Not enough on your plate at the table? Just hibernate. Take a break. It's a good rest. Then have sex when you wake up and pass on your genes. Nothing matters after that. Homo sapiens of the world, chill out.
Wait, what? You have to raise your young? Wow. That sucks.
I thought he was done so I started to nod off under my heat lamp, tummy full of earthy, wormy, goodness. Then he started in on trying to get money from some Irish guy. He wanted to bill O'Reilly or O'Malley or O'Someone. He had a lot of mean things to say about this person, too. This also made no sense as DWD does no work overseas. In fact, I suspect he simply does no work.
My point is though, why do you all stress out so much? Too much on your plate at work? Not enough on your plate at the table? Just hibernate. Take a break. It's a good rest. Then have sex when you wake up and pass on your genes. Nothing matters after that. Homo sapiens of the world, chill out.
Wait, what? You have to raise your young? Wow. That sucks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)