Don't Eavesdrop On My Lunch Pod, Part 11

Me: I don't think Phillip Dick was all that as a writer. For me, what he had that set him apart was a set of really original ideas. Most sci-fi is a retread of the same seven plots, but he had serious originality.

Guy 2: You've got to read The Man in the High Castle. It's brilliant. It starts off as a pretty standard alternate history plot, Japan won WWII, blah blah blah, and then it goes forty degrees off to the side. It's a fascinating depiction of the melding of the two cultures, and -

Guy 3: Hentai arrived on our shores forty years earlier than it did in this timeline. Las Vegas is overrun with tentacles.

Come Home To Roost

I heard it first at the crack of dawn. I was in the laundry room fishing a clean shirt out of the basket when I heard a gentle scrabbling noise, like tiny claws against metal. I froze, trying to place the sound as it echoed up and across the metal cubes. There it was again, up high in the corner. I leaned over the folding table, and listened intently, my ear tilted towards the ceiling. A soft whirring sound, like someone shuffling a deck of worn cards, echoed through the room. This time I had it, but to be certain I pulled myself onto the dryer, as silently as a ninja, and crouched there with my head near the ceiling. A tiny chirp rewarded my patience, and as I climbed off my dryer perch, I swore until the paint peeled off the wall.

Damned nesting birds in the damn dryer vent.

Oh, the spring sparrows love the dryer vent. It’s got a tiny roof over the opening to protect the little family from the elements. Warm air from the house seeps through the vent to ease the evening chill. Gentle southern breezes cool the nest during the heat of the day. Tufts of old lint that escaped the trap and got caught on the flashing near the hole make a nest lining so soft it’s like the mother bird’s breast.

And to top it all off, there’s a bird feeder and a freshly dug flower bed within fifteen feet. I might as well put out a sign saying Hotel, Free Dinner Buffet and Continental Breakfast. Early Bird Special.

The word has probably spread from generation to generation of the feathered fiends that I won’t move a nest that’s gotten past the initial pile of stick level. I just can’t do it. It seems so mean spirited. I know they’re just sparrows. But it doesn’t matter.

I know their presence means I can’t use the side door of my own house after the eggs are laid, because the parents, the little three ounce demons, will attack me to protect the nest. If you listen closely, the outraged avian screaming sounds exactly like someone shouting “For Harry, and Saint George!” They don’t care that I’m ten billion times bigger than they are. They just know the Egg Must Be Protected.

Finally, I know it means I’m going to be hanging my laundry to dry until Junior is fledged and crapping on my husband’s car, because to use my dryer would mean blasting damp heat over tiny birds. I believe in very little, but one of the little things I believe is that you are just about as valuable as the value you assign to the weak and the helpless.

All this flashed through my mind, but after the shower and the first hit of caffeine, I started to wonder. I check the vent weekly every spring, looking for tell tale twigs and bits of yarn. I may be a wimp when it comes to displacing nests and families, but I love my dryer, too, and two springs of hanging socks over shower rods was plenty. I usually catch the little creatures a few sticks into the process. And I just ran the dryer three days ago, there shouldn’t have been time for a nest to take hold, let alone a chance for Mama Sparrow to sit there chirping at the ungodly hour of my awakening.

So I went out to my car, tossed in the laptop, and then I sat there watching the vent. The sparrows sat on my gutter making conversation, carefully not looking at their nesting site. A few aimless circles were flown to distract the casual observer. After a furtive glance at my car, and a brief stop at the bird feeder, the larger sparrow picked up a long piece of dry grass and flew into the sheltered vent… next to the dryer vent.

That would be the stove exhaust vent, I thought. I guess the humans will just have to eat at restaurants until the nest is abandoned. It’ll be a sacrifice, not having to do dishes or stand over a hot stove after a long day at work, but I suppose we’ll get through it somehow.

Don't Eavesdrop On My Lunch Pod, Part 10

(Discussion in progress about whether or not Guy 3 should mount a flatscreen TV over his bed for optimal lazy TV watching. I have taken the conversation to the gutter by suggesting that he not only mount the TV on the ceiling, but that he add a miniature video camera for that "mirror over the bed" effect found in the cheapest whorehouses and the finest hotels.)

Guy 2: No.

Me: What's wrong with the idea?

Guy 2: I don't want to think about lines of attack in the bedroom.

Me: There's a window into your marriage that I didn't need.

Guy 3: The wife has +8 fortifications.

Me: You don't have LOS on your wife's nipples.

Don't Eavesdrop On My Lunch Pod, Part 9

Ninety nine percent of today's lunch gathering will not be immortalized here. Here's why:

Guy 3: "But I WANT a kancho with a happy ending."

Suck My Sunny Side

When I finally got my first paycheck that wasn't entirely spoken for by bills, creditors, leeching exes, emergency vet bills, steam cleaners for the incident that LED to the vet bills, or one of the million other catastrophes I spent my mid-twenties lurching between, I rejoiced. And, as a proud American, I rejoiced by blowing three hundred dollars on an MP3 player. I went with a Creative player (the now-discontinued Nomad Jukebox Zen model), because that three hundred really was all the excess cash to my name. The twenty gig iPod I had been coveting with a fervor normally reserved for porn only had a Firewire port at the time. Not being a member of the Mac Cult, I would have needed to install Firewire cards on two PCs. That pushed the total to 380 smackers. I wasn't about to finance a toy, so the twenty gig Zen went home with me.

It's a great toy. I'm fond of holding its brushed aluminum case and making various annoying and inaccurate claims as to how much storage space is being waved around. I'm even fonder of making playlists for every conceivable reason. Turning 34? I'll make you a playlist! Afternoon bridal tea? I've got the soundtrack! Party? All I need to know is the average age of the attendees and the purpose of the function. Going into labor? I'll set up nine hours of songs with a good pushing beat! Nothing is worse than a frustrated DJ with access to modern technology.

But my number one favorite excuse for a playlist is a roadtrip. The last one was assembled for a two hour trip to Lancaster, PA. Packing took three minutes, but the playlist process was a happy two hours. Let's see, so four hours on the road, plus some extra time for traffic... in the mood to sing along... a happy mood, no "Traveling Soldier" drama... eh, not feeling the folk songs or the show tunes... whoa, I forgot I owned that one... voila! The perfect, happy, rocking the highway, 4.6 hour singalong playlist!

I opened the sunroof, hung my left arm out the window, and hit shuffle. Somewhere on I-83, the Red Hot Chili Peppers started to wail, and I was howling along. "Hit me you can't hurt me suck my kiss," Kiedis and I were saying to each other. "Give to me sweet sacred bliss, your mouth was made to SUCK MY KISS!" It was a full out, head snapping, chair dancing extravaganza in a 94 Mazda.

The thing is, I wasn't actually chair dancing in a 94 Mazda. I was dancing in a muddy field during the summer that I was seventeen. I am the designated driver, so I'm not high on anything but August heat and dehydration. The sun is setting at Lake Fairfax when the Peppers hit the stage, and we're all pretty worn out, but we get to our feet for one last mosh pit, one last group singalong, one last chance to wave our lighters in the air. We're just dumb, overprivileged kids from the suburbs who don't know our asses from heartbreak and desire, but we know something unpredictable is going to happen to us. College starts in two weeks, but we're not thinking about any of it, we're thinking about how we know all the words to this song and how much we rock, man, we really, really do.

THAT was the buzz that my MP3 player killed when the funky ass Flea bass cut off and the banjo cut in. "There's a dark and a troubled side of life, but there's a bright and a sunny side, tooooooo..."

Watch out for that shuffle mode, man.

A Brief Guide To Popes Named Benedict

B1: Four years of poping around (575-579 AD). No one knows much about him, because that was WAY before the Internet.

B2: Two years of popehood (683-685 AD). His official title these days is "Patron Saint of Europe." A whole subcontinent! Very nice, Benedict II!

B3: Three years of being the Rock (855-858 AD). Credited with reducing the secular power over the papacy.

B4: Three years of popery (900-903 AD). After ten minutes of half-heartedly poking around the Internet, I can safely say he didn't actually do much.

B5: Less than a month of wearing the big hat (964-964 AD). Emperor Otto deposed Benedict V after less than a MONTH. How sad.

B6: Two years of Vicar of Christing (972-974 AD). Emperor Otto handpicked Benedict VI and set him up as Pope. This time, the local Romans did the deposing and killed him, to boot.

B7: Nine years as Pope (974-983 AD) - a new record! Everyone seemed to like him, and left him alone to be Pope. He returned the favor by not doing anything dramatic with other countries, other kings, or other people's wives.

B8: A whopping twelve years fishing of men (1012-1024 AD). He had some trouble getting settled at first, got run out of town a few times, but eventually settled in with a little help from a king.

B9: Twelve years, a snack break, and another year (1032-1044 AD, 1045-1046 AD). Benedict the Ninth had some major issues. A young pope (nephew to BVIII), his daddy bought him the papacy. He was apparently not a really religious type, which would be okay in pretty much anyone BUT a pope. He SOLD his office to someone for a pile of gold, and took a year off. Apparently he spent that year angling to get back in, and managed to get a second term. It ended with his excommunication.

B10: One year in the big chair (1058-1059 AD). His election involved some miscounted votes in Florida and accusations of election rigging in Ohio, and was ultimately forced to flee for his life.

B11: Eight months in charge (1303-1304 AD). Apparently three hundred years of letting the name "Benedict" take a break wasn't long enough; BXI died mysteriously after dinner one night.

B12: Eight years with the big honking ring (1334-1342 AD). One of the French popes, this one had a reputation for witch hunting. Of course, he called it "reforming."

B13: Six years of being called "Big Guy" (1724-1730 AD). Another reformist type, this one wasn't so bad. He mainly thought the cardinals should be a little less about fancy robes and spending money, a little more about the whole praying thing.

B14: Eighteen YEARS in charge (1740-1758 AD). This Big Benedict finally broke the curse of the short termers! Too bad he chased off many of the Indian and Chinese Catholics by being a stuffy pants about local tradition loopholes.

B15: Eight years of popish fun (1914-1922 AD). He was a pacifist who preached neutrality during WW1. He kept trying to arrange truces and prisoner exchanges. He also thought that foreign missions should train up local preachers ASAP (and get the white boys out of the local bars). People seemed to like him.

B16: New boy in town (elected 2005 AD). With a real name like Ratzinger and a nickname like "God's Rottweiler," well, "Benedict" is a step up.

Don't Eavesdrop On My Lunch Pod, Part 8

Me: "You might not like the process under a new manager. I suspect he'd be rigidly fascist."

Guy 2: "I prefer fascism to incompetence. Ze trains will run on time in ze new vorld ordeh."

HOORAY

Just taking a moment from the Friday from hell to say that the only thing better than a book contract... is a book contract for your considerably more talented and hilarious writer friend! It proves that there is in fact justice in the world.

Three cheers for Guy 2!

Can Steel Be Wrapped In Flannel?

Absolutely no portion of my anatomy should be made of steel. There's just no NEED for it.

Our beagle's knees are now made almost entirely from steel, which is why the usual warm weather "fitness routine" is on hold. We "work out" via a leisurely walk in which the beagle stops and sniffs every blade of grass ever assaulted by other life forms. She's trained herself to pee in six drop increments, so as to make a full bladder last. No matter how carefully she plans, she runs out before we get home. She won't admit it, and continues to stop at every rock and signpost, straining and squeezing and grunting. She will die trying to wring the last drop from her urinary tract in a frantic attempt to leave her mark on this cold and unfeeling world. Since she was raised with mostly male dogs, she does this marking in a weird half squat, half lifted leg position.

We think this posture may be related to the repeated knee injuries.

But at any rate, she's got stitches, metal plates and screws, and a plastic collar that prevents wound licking but gets her stuck under the coffee table. There will be no fitness walks for two months, maybe more.

I purchased a "fitness DVD" in a fit of self-loathing six weeks ago. It purports to turn various troublesome bits into taut hairless cables covered with lycra. I felt better about myself the next morning, and stuck the box with its steely ass photo in between "Star Trek: Season Three" and "Stargate: Season One."

This morning, as I stumbled into the kitchen with bleary eyes to give the beagle her medication and breakfast, I caught my reflection in the microwave door and found myself frozen like the victim of a Medusa. As I gazed back at my morning hair, my glasses, my plaid flannel bathrobe, and the personal bits made of something that was DEFINITELY NOT STEEL, I thought that maybe this was what the magazines meant by "letting yourself go."

So I rescued the DVD from its exile in the furthest reaches of our galaxy, and popped it in the player. After the workout, I was chock full of endorphins and good will towards man and beagle. That lasted approximately seventeen seconds, and as I dragged my quivering limbs to the bedroom, I called out to my beloved mate. (My mate, who earlier heard the Warner Brothers theme music coming from the living room, and thought, why the hell is she putting in a movie at 8:30 AM. Notice that he did not associate "his wife" with "fitness DVD.")

I said, "There is no portion of my anatomy that should be made of steel." He, being an exceptionally intelligent man and quick of wit, answered me with "Mrmph" in a very reassuring tone. As Guy 3 puts it, my mate has mastered Advanced Husband skills.

Spam, Part 4

Subject line: Get Away From Aging Bakelite

Why? Why do I want to prevent myself from interacting with seventy year old phenolic resin? Did someone just discover that's what REALLY killed Andy Warhol?