A Kind Of But Not Really Goodbye
Do you ever get tired of your computer? Because I do. Not that I’d ever tell her that (please don’t spill the beans) I don’t want to crush her innocent spirit. She’s a darling. An aging darling though, she’s freezing on me plural times a day, which is new. She’s always been so well behaved.
But there comes a time each year, around the middle of May most of the time (very fortunate timing) where my body starts to reject keyboard time. There’s this electric feeling coursing through my blood stream saying, screaming in fact, "Saturation point! Saturation point! Saturation point!" and this internal method thoughtfully reminds me to run, run far away. To find a land where computers, while not forbidden, are immoral, a place where dolphins (who may take the form of trout) carouse in the evening calm, where the food is hearty and the moose are… moose, where there’s no need to romanticize because the setting will do it for you.
It is most fortunate that this so coincidentally coincides with the end of the semester and the stress of finals week. Because this just so happens to be that time of year where I do get to find this magical land.
So yes, I’m leaving you. Not for good or anything, but we’re talking like a once a week kind of posting. Please don’t be mad at me. I need this. It is what makes me human and loveable and endearing. We must all have a Home whether it be home or a sporting camp deep in the heart of the Maine woods, where we retire for some amount of time to recharge. And that’s what this is.
This is not goodbye, this is see you later, keep in touch, and I’ll do my best to do the same. FYI I’m going to try to focus what posts I am available for on Dear Miss Eliza, so make sure you get really curious and ask lots of questions and keep me busy, all right?
See you in the fall… or in a week, whichever comes first.
p.s. party at my house tonight. Cake and ice cream for 700!
Dear Miss Eliza: The BIO 110 Edition
And now a special edition of Dear Miss Eliza, stemming from the fact that I spent my day reviewing for my Bio final. And now of course, I know everything there is to know about behavior so I felt compelled to share such knowledge with you. Feel enlightened, dear readers!Dear Miss Eliza,
My mother is the queen bee in my hive, and I’m next in line to inherit the throne. But I don’t understand why I should have to do all the reproducing by myself, I mean why can'’ some of the other bees help me out here? Do you know why I have to do it all myself? Nobody ever told me.
Princess of the Hive
Dear Princess,
See, reproduction is awfully complicated. For example, depending on which species you are, it involves sex. Which means that a girl and a boy have to meet and… you know… And some females aren’t so good with being around male genitalia. Your sisters might be penophobic, which would explain why they aren’t interested (or even afraid of) reproduction.
Or perhaps they prefer to focus on their careers. This is very common, you know. People do it all the time, so why not bees? And since all your sisters’ careers revolve around you reproducing well… there’s your result right there. You make babies and they raise babies and everyone’s careers are fulfilled!
Then again, it could be the whole haploidiploidy thing. Which means that you ladies have twice as many chromosomes (one set from mom and one set from dad) as your brothers do (One set from mom and none from dad because there’s no sperm involved in making boys). So your sisters are more related to you (r=.75) than they are to their theoretical children (r=.5). This means that the best way for them to pass on their genes to future generations, is for them to help you have lots and lots of kids.
Of course what really makes you haploidiploids into freaks is how you relate to your male relatives. For example, a male receives all his genetic information from his mother which means his relatedness to her is 1. But she only passes on half of her genetic information to him, which means her relatedness to him is ½. It’s sort of the same thing with you and your dad. You got half your genetic information from him, so your relatedness to him is ½. But he gave you all of his genetic information, so his relatedness to you is 1. Cooky, huh?
-Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
So my partner and I robbed a bank, and got caught. Oops, of course, but it’s a little late to complain, you know? Anyway, they took us downtown, and put me in this room with a table, a couple chairs and a mirror, right? They told me I had a couple choices. If I talk, and tell them everything then they’ll cut me a deal and I’ll only get 6 months in the big house. But If I stay mum about the whole thing and my buddy talks, then the whole thing gets pinned on me and I get 5 years. Thing is, I got no idea what he’s telling them in there, and what if he’s trying to pin the whole thing on me! But what if he’s not and I got this chance to save my butt? Can I really afford to pass that up?
Prisoner with a Dilemma
Dear Prisoner,
This happened to me once you know. Well, not the bank robbing thing, in high school my boyfriend and I got picked up for jaywalking. Yeah, it wasn’t pretty. But I did have pretty much the same choice. For me it all came down to food. My mother’s best dish was a Big Mac if you know what I mean. So I was all for spending a little time in juvie. I kept my mouth shut.
It backfired though, because Lindy (That was my honey’s name… don’t look at me, I didn’t name him!) kept his mouth shut too. Apparently he had this nasty test coming up in accounting class, and he really wanted to get out of it.
So since neither of us talked, and the only witness was this cute little old lady with glaucoma, they didn’t have anything on us and had to let us both go. Sad because I had to go back to big macs, which led to my weight problem, and he failed his test. We learned our lesson though.
Next time we jaywalked, we did it in front of a MUCH more reliable witness!
Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
So I’m this great guy right? And sure, I don’t know how to meet girls or anything. We all have our issues, right? So I was thinking, right? The personals section! What a way to meet a girl without ever even needing to meet her. Definitely a good way to go, I’m thinking, right? But I sit down to write it, and my mind goes totally blank. I mean, what should I put down you know? How do I make myself look good enough for a girl to actually look at me? And I come up with nothing. I just don’t know. Do you?
SWMDear SWM,
Since everyone and her sister would tell you to make yourself look mature and capable, I’m going to ignore that part. I mean DUH! Instead, let’s look to the psychology of the female who searches the personals ads. What sets her apart from females who don’t search the personals ads? Most importantly, it means that she’s looking for a mate. I mean, if you’re not looking for a mate, you’re not going to look in the personals ads are you? (Well, not unless you need a laugh or something, but you don’t need to be worried about those kinds of girls. They’re only going to make fun of you.)
So what you want to do in your personal ad is to show these girls who are looking for a mate, that you could fill that role. And the best way to say "You’re looking for a mate, and I can be a mate," is to just say that. So stress the fact that you could be a mate. Come right out and say that.
Next, the girls who are looking for mates are all well and good, but they need to me looking for a male mate for you to qualify in any meaningful sense. So don’t forget to emphasize the fact that you’re a male mate. One might expect that this would be covered by the M part of SWM, but what about those people who think that M stands for Mylanta? So you should restate this somewhere.
So now we’ve got "SWM, and I can be a mate." To this I would add, "But only the male kind of mate, because that’s what my dad made me."
Now you might want to add something about the kind of girl you’re looking for. And of course, you’re looking for the kind of girl who is looking for a male mate, because that is what we’ve established to this point.
So your ad should read: SWM, and I can be a mate. But only the male kind of mate because that’s what my dad made me. Looking for a female who'’ looking for a mate." And I think that's followed by some code that’s worked out with the personals ads makers or something.
Well, I hope you’re happy now that I’ve done all your work for you. Good luck with that girl of yours!
- Miss Eliza
Dear Readers,Do you have a question for Miss Eliza? About anything? I promise, I'm not picky or anything. In fact, I might go so as far as to say I'm... what's the opposite of picky? inclusive? Well, that's putting it nicely, but we'll go with that. I'm inclusive. I'm also a caring sensitive person who loves to help. If you have a situation/question/sentence ending in a question mark that you would like help with, just drop it in the comments section, or e-mail it to me at selizawalden@yahoo.com and jsut like that, you become a priority. Didn't you always want to know what that felt like?- Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
All my friends are lazy. I really want to help them overcome this; but American Idol is on most weeknights, and weekends are just not convenient, especially since I got the entire 3rd season of 24 on DVD. what's a boy to do?
Sleepy in SeattleDear Sleepy,
Here’s the thing about advice. (And believe me, I know advice) You have to ask for it in order to be able to accept it in any meaningful way. This is much like pity. So, trying to affect your friends’ behavior without their desire for such affectations is going to get you a great big punch in the nose.
In light of such painful repercussions, I would advise that you simply learn to accustom yourself to their ways. See if you can learn to be lazy right along with them. Observe their behavior and attempt to reproduce it. What are these friends’ thinking processes? Can you learn how to think this way yourself? Try. I know it’s going to be uncomfortable, because I can see that you are such a lively vibrant personality, but such a stretch is going to be worth it in the long run.
First, learning to be lazy yourself is going to bring you closer to your friends. This is good. Trying to change them would lead to alienation and then you would no have any friends and that is bad, not to mention lonely. Why do you think so much of our youth is based on learning to have friendly relations with other people?
Second, mastering laziness is WAY less work than trying to make a difference. And minimizing effort is a goal to be esteemed.
Third, just look at the results! You get to be lay around, maybe watching some TV (which will keep you in the know at the water cooler) play some video games (maintaining or even improving hand eye coordination) and get on the computer once or twice (your daily dose of human contact). What more do you need?
- Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,My baby is sick, he's got a cold. I'd like to try to comfort him when he cries so that he doesn't get too worked up and uncomfortable. However, I don't want him to get used to getting attention (immediately) when he cries. Any suggestions?-concerned dadDear dad,
It's all in the operant conditioning. What you want to do is to negatively reinforce this comfort that you want to get rid of. In other words, you want to punish your son. But not the normal physical abuse that would get you in trouble. So you'll have to be more creative.
PUNISHMENT POSSIBILITIES:
Ask yourself, what would Simon say about my sining? If the answer is "Simon" enough for this to get prime time air space, this could be a good way to "punish" your son for feeling confort (immediately) after crying.
Two words: brussel sprouts.
Leave him with your mother-in-law for a day or two. But before you do, make sure you tell him how much fun you and your wife will be having without him.
Of course, the normal way for a baby to show that he's not comfortable (immediately) is to cry again, and so you have a punishment-cry-attention-comfort-punishment cycle which takes up LOTS of time. Which makes you ask, "is it worth it?" hard to tell. Give it thirty years or so, and then ask his therapist how much he talks about you. If the answer is, "the real question is when DOESN'T he," then I'd try a different approach with your next child.
- Miss Eliza
In Which The Negative Reveals His Secret Weapon
And now for all you clock watchers out there, you should know that The Negative, who we left with a horrible despondency, has one minute to save Pablo’ house from certain annihilation. He is standing on his lawn with his new friend Sam and his old friend, La Femme Violet (pronounced, of course, VEE-o-let). And since last we met, they have been joined by several bulldozers, a wrecking ball, and an auctioneer (who would never be able to sufficiently explain what he was doing, or how he came to be there).
The Negative has capitulated to ever mounting despair; he is sitting on the lawn, possibly getting grass stains on his lovely new spandex suit. And Scene!
"Dude, you’ve got to get up. This is so not cool," La Femme Violet tells her boss, "So your parents messed up. It happens. We all learn to see that our parents are… I guess you would say sketchy, huh? Yeah. It’s no biggie. You still have your card to play, right?"
The Negative was not paying attention to her due to the mind bogglingly huge pond of self pity he happened to be drowning in at the time. La Femme Violet, in true form for a woman who has a crush on her superhero employer, wanted to pat him on the back in one of those pathetic and weak attempts at consolation. But since she was on the opposite side of the lawn from him, she would have to travel a short distance to accomplish this.
An easy task, one might suppose, and hardly worthy of mention. But of course it is worthy of mention, because this simple act would bring about a chain reaction whose echoes we are still listening for today. Allow me to explain.
While walking across the grass, La Femme Violet stepped into an inconsequential hole and fell.
"Damn rodents," she said.
Scholars have argued for some time whether or not this hole was actually the work of rodents or not, but the answer is rather trivial. It is enough to know that all holes of this nature on Lucy’s lawn were caused by rodents, leaving rodents as a perfectly justifiable explanation for her now sprained ankle.
At this precise moment, several things happened.
1. The clock hit 0 minutes and 1 second left to stop this abomination.
2. The bulldozers and the wrecking ball and the auctioneer braced themselves for the "good part."
3. La Femme Violet’s comment about rodents registered in The Negative’s brain causing him reflexively to push a button that he had conveniently programmed into his watch.
And that was all it took. An aide almost instantaneously ran up to Sam and whispered something into his ear, which caused Sam to yell in a voice so angry and nefarious that the bulldozers and the wrecking ball and the auctioneer were instantly paralyzed. A fortunate series of events for them, considering what followed.
Sam was mad, indeed livid. He marched up to The Negative and frowned down upon his person.
"What have you done?"
"I have ruined you," The Negative confidently replied, "the way you just ruined me, so now we’re even. Specifically, with one little jab onto this button which I so conveniently programmed into my watch here, I sent a picture to all major media outlets across the globe. And the picture I sent them, showed this!"
With a flourish he pulled a piece of paper out of the sleeve of his costume. Much as it would have been easier to pull this out of a pocket, no one had as yet found a method for attaching pockets to spandex suits. This is the ultimate gripe of any superhero, you would not believe how much flack I hear about this.
But back to that piece of paper, it was the final product of that hour he had spent at his computer, a picture of Sam embracing… a vole! Both wore insidious grins, and one of them (I won't say who) had a cigar in his mouth. The background was a lush, palatial kind of setting with expensive-but-tasteful decorations and furniture. A true picture of opulent greed and ultimate evil which no one anywhere in this universe could find to be anything but abominable and despicable.
"I would never stoop to such a level!" Sam cried. "This is not only embarrassing and capable of destroying everything I have built these past decades, it is completely and utterly false! How dare you attempt to spread such wicked lies!"
"Photographs do not lie, friend Sam," The Negative replied with a smile. "Deny all you want, but you will not survive. Sexual harassment? Employing illegal immigrants? Forcing thousands of Americans out of work for your personal gain? Child’s play, as you have so wonderfully demonstrated, but allying yourself with the lowest, most destructive life force known to humanity. Sorry buddy. You’re toast."
He was right too. At that moment, another aide approached Sam and explained to him that in the past minute or two, over 30,000 law suits had been filed, his stock had toileted and his wife was asking for a divorce. Yes indeed, this was certainly the end of an era, and The Negative couldn’t help but gloat at this triumph. And he happened to be VERY good at gloating.
"Well, I guess there’s no point in my hanging around anymore is there? Back to the hot house, huh?" Sam asked no one in partcular. Not that no one in particular was listening. In fact, he has several particular listeners.
"Well, that’s if Satan will even have you," La Femme Violet interjected. She was also a great fan of a good gloat. "I don’t think you’ll find him very welcoming just now. I hear even he can’t stand those voles."
And so Sam skunked off into the evening, leaving behind him Pablo’s house, all in one piece. while La Femme Violet and The Negative took a well deserved break on his front porch.
"So," he began, "my mom and dad, they..."
"Just another anecdote for your therapist. We all need to have them." She consoled.
"You’re right," he said, changing the topic for no particular reason. "About the name, I mean. The Negative isn’t working very well. And it’s got more of a villain aura to it. I don’t think it’s going to work."
"I know the feeling. La Femme Violet is nice and all, but what is she actually capable of? These answers are always in the name, and there's just nothing there. No good, I tell you. Just not working."
"Maybe Picture Perfect. Yes. That’s what I’ll call myself. It sounds so much more positive, and upbeat than The Negative. Not to mention the necessary pun works better too."
The sun’s final beams of the evening spread across the neighborhood in a moment of magic. Picture Perfect noticed this, and he watched as the rays crept up to his companion's face and lit it in just such a way...
"Sounds like the name of a computer program," she said, not noticing his attention, "but… I think I like it. So what about me? How about Sidekick-Some-Ass. That totally rocks, and it means I’ll get to kick tons of ass! Dude! This is cool." She looked at him. "Are you ok?"
Picture Perfect was wiping his nose with the sleeve of his costume.
‘What? Oh yeah. I could probably use some tissues though. Let me go get some."
And with that, he opened the door, and to his great amusement was met by a cascade of candy. Peanut Butter M-Azing bars to be precise. And it looked like his house was full of them.
The End!
Did you see that? No "To be continued..." and we can all breathe a sigh of relief and conclusion. Isn't that a nice word?
In Which The Negative Faces A Great Challenge
In true suspenseful and heroic fashion there were twenty minutes left on the metaphorical clock keeping track of the end of Pablo’s house. It does indeed pose a query that Lady Dude! can sew two superheroic costumes in under two minutes, but The Negative must take a full hour to toy with a couple photographs. I ask you though, to please consider that clocks must always almost run out of time before the world can be saved from abominable evil. If it isn’t a last minute--nay last millisecond--victory, then it holds no place in the most awe inspiring of halls, the superhero hall of fame.
“Aha!” The Negative cried as he almost ripped the photograph on it’s way out of the printer, “You, the evil, the slime incarnate, even you cannot have an answer for this!”
The Negative was not talking to Sam himself, obviously, because Sam himself was not there.
And then he was.
“So you have decided to make your stand after all, young Pablo. How fortunate for myself. It’s just not the same when you don’t put up a fight. You have no idea how disgruntled I have been since last we met, due to the very fact that you wanted to play the weak card.”
“Pablo? Oh, you mean the guy that lives here? No, that’s not me. Don’t be ridiculous. I am not Pablo. Whatever gave you that idea? I am The Negative, defender of the oppressed, the needy, and the riders of bicycles. (I mean, how hard is it to share the road?)”
[NOTE to readers, the views expressed here are not necessarily those of the author, or of blogger.com. I just write down the story. I don’t make it up.]
Sam didn’t seem to believe The Negative. (About what? Probably the Pablo thing. Remember, he didn’t have a mask or anything, just the suit. A work in progress, you might say.) So he just sort of smiled and nodded. How lucky that Sam's silence should give Lady Dude! an opportunity to scope him out.
“Wait, don’t I know you?” she asked. “Yeah, you’re rich and famous or something right?
Sam? I’m so sorry that I ever got this opportunity to meet you. You given me this really nasty feeling in my tummy, like I’m pregnant with a huge… who knows what.”
“My condolences,” Sam replied.
“Anyway, I’m Lady Dude! For now anyway, I don’t think I like the name. It just sounds so… off kilter. Maybe La Femme Violet. Yeah, call me that, ok?”
For my dear readership, Violet in this case is pronounce VEE-o-let. It's the french pronunciation.
“What ever you say.” Sam used that very enunciated tone your kindergarten teacher took when she was trying to placate you. Sam was a big fan of placation. Then he turned to The Negative. “So I assume you have the authority to speak for Pablo on all matters pertaining to this house which will soon be my greatest Supercenter ever?”
“Of course.” The Negative replied.
“Good, then allow me to show you just what will await you if you give in to my demands.”
Sam waved a magic wand, and no, he didn’t have the magic wand with him before. But he is Sam after all, give him a little credit.
The Negative and la Femme Violet (pronounced of course, in the manner of the French) and Sam were standing on Pablo’s front lawn looking at a giant piñata where his house no longer stood.
“You turned my house into a piñata?” The Negative was not quite impressed. Close, but not there yet. He was put off guard enough however, to refer to HIS house instead of Pablo's, a mistake that Sam smiled at, but did not mention.
“This is not just any piñata, Negative, this is a house sized piñata full of peanut butter M-Azing bars. Care for a whack?
Of course The Negative cared for a whack. He’d been craving a peanut butter M-Azing bar since he woke up yesterday morning, and that was a LONG time ago, and you know how cravings just snowball when you ignore them, so you can’t really blame The Negative for grabbing the bat that Sam had popped into being for him, and running full force towards the M-Azing bars.
Fortunately, La Femme Violet was able to maintain a direct line with reality and screamed at the slobbering superhero that that was his house that he was about to attack with a baseball bat.
It wasn’t so much what she said to him that made him stop. I think it was more the fact that she had said it after wrestling him to the ground and while she was jumping up and down on top of him that really did the trick. Either way it worked, and he released his grip on the Louisville Slugger.
Then he stood up and said confidently to his evil nemesis, “I don’t cave in so easy as that. A little respect, that’s all I ask.”
Sam nodded the way your kindergarten teacher used to not at you. “In that case, there isn’t really much I can do.” He started running around the yard. At first it looked like he was kicking the air in front of him or something, but this air was almost immediately replaced by a bouncing soccer ball. The Negative followed the ball not only with his eyes, but with the rest of his face as well, nodding, and shaking his head as it went back and forth.
The Negative thought back to those halcyon days of his youth, joyous with his friends, zigging towards the goal, and away from it again. He remembered his first soccer ball, It was a birthday present when he turned nine. He clapped and hugged his father who smiled back indulgently. What a soccer ball that had been, some kids had their teddy bears, or their barbies, or their play stations, but he was never so happy as in the company of that soccer ball.
“Yes,” Sam replied to these thoughts, “I remember that ball well. I was visiting the factory that day… They let me put the air in it myself…”
It took a minute for the meaning of this statement to pool in The Negative’s brain. For the first minute while it took hold, he continued nodding. In the next minute his shoulders began to sag, and his chin went up and down much slower. In the third minute it stopped altogether, and in the fourth minute, it finally made sense. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe you. My dad would never…”
“I still have the receipt. I picked it out of your trash one night. One of my many pleasures. I’m especially fond of receipts, they tell me how much money I am making. You wouldn’t know about that, though, would you?”
“Accounting was never my strong point,” The Negative sassed. He wanted to look strong, but his entire past was crumbling, one happy memory upon another had been built upon a lie, upon a poor child in a sweatshop who saw these toys everyday, but never got to play with them. He was a bad person.
And just like that, his morals crumbled, and a tear ran down his baby soft cheek that just this morning he had applied moisturizer to. The good kind too, he bought it at a farm stand from this nice old lady who had mixed the concoction herself from emu butter. But even that good deed fell under shadow now. Escape was futile.
To be continued…
Well, I don't know if all of you are completely insane by now, but this is definitely driving me nuts. Who knew that stories took so much time to tell! They never used to. The next one is the end. I promise.
In Which Pablo Solidifies His Alter Ego
"Yo," Lucy said. Lucy loved to begin conversations with yo. She figured it was genetic, because her parents had told her that it was the first word she ever said. "Sup?"
"I need a suit," Pablo replied. "Black with a purple stripe down the side."
"Hot date, huh?"
"And I need it to be spandex."
"Spandex? This is serious, dude. Do I even want to know?"
"I have been forced into battle against the most stupendous force of evil known the entire universe. It is a matter of life and death, good versus evil, David against Goliath, celebrities against the paparazzi, Coke versus Pepsi-"
"Right. I get it. So you’re doing the superhero thing."
He nodded, his expression solemn.
"All this time, I’ve been the personal assistant of a superhero? This is big. This is like hair dying big. A superhero’s assistant should have really cool hair. I’ll find a nice purple to match your suit. But I’m forgetting something. What is it?"
The car was silent for a minute while she thought. Pablo’s face maintained its stony façade.
"Ha! I know what it is. Don’t superheroes need superpowers?"
"You would not believe me if I showed you, but I have been blessed by the gods with an unusual ability to doctor a photograph."
"No wonder I’ve always been strangely attracted to you all this time. I just figured I’ve been trying to get ahead. But it’s really your heroic magnetism that I find so sexy. What are you doing this weekend?"
"This weekend may not see the light of existence if all goes ill today. Why don’t we concentrate on that suit right now?"
Oh, sure. Of course, I mean duh! But Ilike after that…"
"We will talk of that in time."
The truth is that Pablo had been meaning to ask Lucy out for two months now. But whenever the opportunity came within one mile of him, he felt queasy and his nose started running. Asking nice girls out on dates just wasn’t his forte. So since he didn’t keep any tissues in his car (a huge metaphysical error, but we won’t go there), he really didn’t want to get started.
"So that suit?" he asked, scratching at his nose.
"Right, It shouldn’t take long, I’m a whiz with the sewing machine. Heck, maybe I should make me a cool outfit so that I can be Super Sewing Girl. Dude, that would rock. Call me that from now on, right?"
"I’ll see what I can do. Ok, Super Sewing Girl, go forth and find me that which my body has been craving my entire life, the black body glove with the purple stripe on the side."
"You got it… ummm… Pablo. Hey, that’s not going to work for your superhero name. Got anything better?"
"Go forth, and make haste, we have not many fractions of fractions of moons to bring about the salvation of this, our planet. Whence you return, I shalt give you my name."
You may or may not have noticed dear reader, that since Pablo’s run in with Mr. Sam, his countenance has changed. His words have become cryptic, and his muscles have grown somber. If you should wonder at this transformation, it can be explained as such: to each superhero, his own. It was Pablo’s way to react to such grave news as the demolishing of those quarters in which he had spent so many contented hours with the gravity that he felt it deserved.
And so It was with all due seriousness that he pondered the name to give his alternate identity. Fortunately (at least for his house) there was no need to think on this too long. He would call himself-
The light bulb went on over his head again. This of course meant that Lucy—excuse me—Super Sewing Girl had returned. Only now she wore a purple spandex suit with a black trim and her hair was purple. She tossed a handful of black fabric at him.
"There you go. Need a phone booth or something?" She asked.
Pablo looked at his watch. "It hasn’t even been two minutes. Do I even want to know?"
"I had to settle for a wig. The dye wasn’t going to happen." As if that was supposed to explain something. "So anyway, about that name thing…"
"I’m thinking, The Negative. You know, a pun on the whole photograph thing."
"The Negative? That sort of works. Sort of. It’s not going to win you any awards at Marvel or anything."
"Number one, way short notice," He snapped. Mr. Serious had pretty much vanished. Don’t ask. "We’re up against a giant diabolical clock here. Number two, me and names? Not the best of friends. Why do you think I don’t have a dog? I couldn’t think of a name. Number three, I’m not trying to win awards. I want to save my house."
So Pablo was not so good with teasing. Hey, nobody’s perfect.
"Right. Check. You’re The Negative. Maybe we can rework that all later. If we get the chance and everything. But right now, you need to change. And then you have that thing you need to be working on. And I’m your personal assistant, so I’m just going to…"
"Fix my computer? It froze on me this morning. I think it was connected to this whole Sam mess that I’ve gotten into, but it’s hard to tell. You’re good with supernaturally indisposed technological equipment, right? I thought so. How nice. That means we’re rolling."
Now since I know that the time table on all this is important to you readers, you should know that at this moment, Pablo has one hour and forty minutes to save his house from the utter indignity of being turned into one of Sam’s Supercenters.
At one hour and twenty five minutes, The Negative, now in full The Negative regalia, and Super Sewing Girl are pacing Pablo’s study, back and forth in front of his de-chilled computer, deep in thought and conversation.
The Negative: "What we need is a picture. If the world can see photographic evidence that Sam really is worse than George Steinbrenner they will tear down his buildings, and send him back to that pit of Hell where… Where…"
Super Sewing Girl: "You need a mask. Sure, an outfit is a start, but you have to accessorize. Thing is, do you want a full face mask, or just one of those ones that covers some of it, like the Phantom of the Opera has..."
The Negative: "Maybe if I can link him to something that is universally acknowledged to be disgusting and evil and worthy of actual hate. What have we got like that? Say he’s incestuous? He’s buddy buddy with Osama? He invented the filibuster? No, I need something really good…"
Super Sewing Girl: "And Super Sewing Girl seems pretty limited. I think I should get a more encompassing name, like Rockette Woman, or Lady Dude. Yeah, Lady Dude! With the exclamation point as part of my name. That’s it, I’m Lady Dude! from now on, and I can swim like an otter and fly like a hawk, and dig like a vole, wow, I’m totally awesome!"
The Negative: "What was that you said?
Lady Dude!: I’ve got a new name. It’s-"
The Negative: "Vole? You said something about a vole? You are totally awesome!"
And with that, the Negative made a mad dash for his computer screen, and the gems contained within it awaiting his nimble mouse. This was going to be good.
To be continued…
Once more I must apogize for dragging this on so, but there comes a limit to how long one's blog ought to be, and I keep going past it. A sad state of affairs, I know. We'll see.
The Following is intened to be read in a British Accent... the high class kind thank you very much
Do to an exsessivly stupendous case of burn out htat abloslves me from all gramatical and spelling errors, I am not posting today.
What?
No. I don't see any irony at all in posting to tell you I'm not posting. The idea is absurd.
I blame the burn out. I finished classes today. And by finished I mean that I still have to complete final exams or murder my proffesors in order to be able to leave. I haven't decided which option I'm going with. I would welcome any and all suggestions on the subject.
Yes. I did leave my last post with To be continued... and it's completely unreasonable of me not to tell you what happens so... here we go.
A light bulb went on over Pablo's head. No, I mean the physical kind, because the metaphorical lightbulb may or may not be over used. How did the light bulb find itself in the on postition? Well Pablo was sitting in his car, and Lucy opened the passenger side door so that she could climb inside.
Now if you're wondering when and how Pablo got in the car without your knowledge, ask yourself if you know what your gastronimical bacteria are up to right now.
Where was I? Right. Lucy got in the car, and the light bulb went on over Pablo's head. Oddly enough, the light shut off again once Lucy slammed the door shut, as she was so often wont to do.
To be continued...
I already told you I'm not posting today. Don't you ever listen? Sheesh!
To be continued...
In Which Pablo Meets His Enemy
Wow, that was quick wasn’t it? This blog has surpassed my wildest expectations. Which was easy to when you think about it. I have very low expectations. This comes in handy in so many different environments that I would actually advise it as a course of action for the rest of the human race. Now here he is, Mr. 600:Pablo Jones was humming at his computer as he flitted between blogs. And then it hit him. He gasped. Well, he tried to gasp, but it came out as a hiccup, but it had the same effect, meaning he inhaled rapidly. Then he smiled.
Then he said, "Oh goodie! I’m number six hundred at this blog. How nice. I’ve waited my whole life to feel like I belong somewhere, and now I have an actual number that will forever and always be associated with me, myself and nobody else ever. Dude, I rock!"
And then Pablo’s computer froze, in the way that can only happen when you’re in the middle of a life changing epiphany. And then there was a knock at Pablo’s door. He really wanted to ignore the knock and nurse his ailing hardware back to health so that it could continue to show him how lucky he was to be such an impressive and invaluable number. He wanted to work on his acceptance speech.
Instead he answered the door. (If this doesn’t make any sense to you ask yourself why you have a cell phone if not to interrupt you at any possible moment in your extensively important life. Then it will make sense.)
"Hello? Can I help you?" he asked the form that was covering his doorstep. It was a harmless looking elder gentleman with an adorable smile on his face. He gave Pablo the creeps in the way that only a harmless old man with an adorable smile can do.
"Mr. Jones? I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time."
Pablo really wanted to say no. He had learned through past experience that no good came come of conversations with people who knocked on his door. He wanted to slam it in this man’s face. He wanted to yell and scream and scare this man away.
"Absolutely, come right in." he said. (Do you see a pattern developing here?)
As the benign old man crossed the threshold, the sky darkened. Then it lit in a stupendous slash of lightning, and an earth ripping peal of thunder. Fear gripped at Pablo’s gizzard and twisted it with an evil grin that only an inanimate force is capable of summoning from the pits of hell. But by now the sky had resumed its shining and the birds were chirruping and children were giggling in the street again. Of course he was confused, but Pablo had learned that when one is confused, one’s best course of action is to smile and nod. So he did.
"Mr. Jones, do you know who I am?" the nice old man asked.
Pablo stared at him for a minute. "Ummm, no. I don’t think I do."
"What if I do this?" The old man donned a blue trucker hat. You know, the kind with the really flat brim and the mesh stuff in the back? It was like that. But this one had some white writing on the front. It said…
And Pablo knew this man. But he was still confused.
"Aren’t you dead?" Pablo asked.
"I tried that, but you know how things are. I mean, I was down there, right? Watching the world go by, and I couldn’t help saying to myself, ‘Sam old boy? The world just isn’t as evil without you in it.’ Seriously, you guys have no idea how boring you are to watch when I’m not around to cause a ruckus. So I’m back for a second go round."
"So you’re evil then."
"Do you really have to ask?"
"And what are you doing in my house?"
"I just wanted to see your reaction."
"To what?"
"To me, when I tell you that I’m going to tear your house down and put up a Supercenter."
Pablo nodded. He decided that his confusion was trying to explain that he was missing something, so he wanted to go over all the pieces again. So he kept nodding. Then he nodded some more. Then finally something stepped into place…
"But isn’t that like, bad or something?"
"Bad? Of course it’s bad. And unethical. And immoral. Not to mention mean, greedy, and unfeeling. Why else would I be doing it?"
Pablo wanted to fight. He wanted to punch this dastardly, hugely successful, southern hick of a billionaire straight into a nice large pile of human feces. He knew where to find one too. The neighbors had been saving it for just such a moment as this. He could drag this undead moron over there right now and rub his face in it.
"So when do I have to be out?" he asked.
"You have two hours to set your affairs in order."
"And how much money are you giving me for this?"
"Well we’ve done our research on this, of course. I mean really. So we’re prepared to pay $1000 for the whole caboodle, it’s the going rate in Indochina you see, and then we’ll be free to sell it again for market value in the US."
"Right… Well I guess I’ll be seeing you then. Ummm, good luck or whatever."
"And to you, Pablo." And Sam patted Pablo on the back and smiled and walked down Pablo's little stone pathway to where it met the sidewalk and took a right.
And it was then that Pablo truly understood the evil that was that empire. To wish a man good luck, and to pat him on the back and smile and knock his house down, that was lower than Oscar the Grouch on a deep sea expedition in a black hole. And Pablo knew what he had to do.
To be continued…
My apologies on the to be continued thing. This is turning out to be much more involved than I had originally suspected. But I promise, I’ll get to the bottom of this.
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
My girlfriends all tell me that I shouldn’t let a guy pay for dinner "because he’ll be expecting… well… you know," and that instead of following such fascist and prehistoric cultural norms, I should burn my bra and my garter and my dish cloth. Which is all well and good, but I have no idea what they’re talking about when they just well-you-know their way through it. And since I hate to feel ignorant, I don’t have the marrow to ask what they’re talking about. So Miss Eliza, what is this well… you know that everyone keeps talking about.
- Well… No I Don’t
Dear Well…,
You see when a woman and a man love each other very, very much (or in this case, when he pays for her dinner) he expects her to… umm… reciprocate the favor. You know, it’s the age old story of if I scratch your back then you scratch mine. Only in our analogy, if I buy you dinner then you… you… how can I say this gently?
I’ll just come right out with it because you obviously don’t have a head for intonation. It means he’s looking for a… there’s just no way to say this kindly, is there? Well, he’s looking for a place to watch NASCAR. Sadly, yes. He just wants you for your cable. I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you, but your guy is a mooching loser.
You can break the cycle, however. While burning your bra and your garter and your dishcloth is one way to go, I would instead face the problem by looking for a different type of individual. You see, you can tell a lot about a male by how he finishes the sentence, "can I buy you…" I have included the following as a rough outline, though this in no way exhausts all possibilities.
GOOD
Can I buy you a drink? He wants sex. Which is a much better deal for you than NASCAR.
Can I buy you a stand mixer? He wants someone to replace his mother. It’s still better than NASCAR, and you get a stand mixer. Say yes. Stand mixers are not cheap.
Can I buy you Red Sox tickets? He wants you to know where his priorities lie. And just so you know, he’s got them right. Don’t mess with them. And he’s a keeper.
Can I buy you flowers? He wants you to smile again. He hates seeing you down in the dumps, and he feels your pain, and wants it to go away.
Can I buy you a book? He wants to test you. He has a philosophy about girls and the books they choose and their personalities. Choose the right book or he’ll leave you flabbergasted in front of the magazine rack.
BAD
Can I buy you Yankees tickets? He wants you to sell him your soul. It’s a bad trade. Don’t go for it.
Can I buy you lingerie? He wants you to know you have no style at all. This is an insult. Punch him. Or withhold sex.
Can I buy you a vacuum cleaner? He wants you to bring it over to his apartment and try it out.
Can I buy you chocolates? He wants you to psychoanalyze him. It’s never preferable to get inside the head of anyone who brings up chocolate. Remember the movie Labyrinth? That baby was just a symbol for chocolate. You don’t want to go there.
Anyhoo, I hope I’ve been of some help. Good luck with getting rid of your NASCAR loser.
- Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
I have moral scruples against drinking coffee. It’s not a religious thing, I just feel like coffee is an invention of higher powers (Possibly Starbucks, but the jury’s still out on that one) who seek to subdue your mental capacities. But as a mental entity free of the devil that is coffee, I take umbrage at members of this culture so uncouth as to ask others to go out for coffee. This question thoughtlessly discriminates against non-coffee drinking members of society. Miss Eliza, could you ask your readers to abstain from asking this question, and also to call their friends on it when faced with this outrage?
-Nimble Greenleaf from east IndiaDear Nimble,
You have brought an important matter to our attention. I personally feel ashamed for my past conduct on the matter of going out for coffee (but I swear I didn’t inhale) and I apologize for any hurt or offense my carelessness has caused. However, I must draw the line just short of reparations. I am a poor fake advice columnist blogger. Not the best way to earn a fortune, but I except that all to change, as soon as blogger gets its Lotto blog up and running.
Miss Eliza
The Greenville Collection:The Flatlander
What is a flatlander? Where I come from it’s a name that locals have for the tourists. It isn’t necessarily that they live on flatter land than we do. You could be from the Rocky mountains and pop into our town and comment on the pretty hills around here and we’ll give you the evil eye and talk about that flatlander from out west.
This being the case, I started asking myself once, "what makes you a flatlander?" Is it being from out of state? And I concluded that no, that’s not it. Mainers can easily be flatlanders. You come up to my neck of the woods with all your extension-of-Massachusetts money and stay in that cabin on the lake, you know the one you paid $250,000 for, and you say, "Isn’t it quaint and peaceful up here?" And we’ll frown and slap mosquitoes off our necks.
So maybe a flatlander is from outside a smaller area? Is it that people who come from outside, say, Pisataquis County could be called flatlanders? You’re getting closer, but don’t bet on it. Sure it’s harder not to like you because we’re related. And we’re in the same boat economically so we aren’t going to treat you so coldly, but you could still be a flatlander.
See, it turns out upon much consideration that geography isn’t really a factor. So is it people who are compatible with nature? Well look at all those families who had to stop in Freeport on the way up here. Some stay in cabins, some stay in RV’s, some stay in tents. Some will bring up speed boats which will make others sadly shake their heads as they float around in their canoes and kayaks. They all do a little hiking and pat themselves on the back for being so close to nature. But we don’t buy it. We may not have a Wal-Mart and we may have closed down our local McDonalds, but we’ll still sit in the drug store on Sunday morning and drink coffee. We’ll tell our anecdotes about those crazy tree-hugging flatlanders and we’ll laugh at you for spending so much money to do something as easy as taking a walk.
It’s not the car you drive, or how much rust is on it. It’s not how you say the word "horse" or "there". If you ask us how to get to Acadia we’ll smirk and say "ya can’t get they-ah from he-ah." It’s not how many guns you keep in your truck and it’s not about whether you’ve got electricity and running water. We do, by the way, in case you were wondering. It’s not how much money you have and it’s not how many toys you own to play with outside.
The truth is, I’ve narrowed it down to the answer to one single question: "Do you know where to go to find moose?" It doesn’t matter where you go in Greenville, people are asking that question. We say that we’re a big tourist town and that’s our industry, but that’s not quite accurate. It’s really moose. We have moose in the landscape, with Moosehead Lake and the newly named Big and Little Moose mountains. We’ve got moose in our retail with tourist shops like Moosin’ Around Maine. You want something moose? We have toy moose and books about moose. Moose postcards and CD’s filled with moose calls. You can get Moose-in-a-can and If You Give A Moose A Cookie. Want moose on your pajamas? Or maybe a lawn ornament? I know, you’re looking for earrings and a belt buckle made out of moose antlers. Chocolate moose poop? We have the moose hunt in the fall. You get to see them in the back of a truck with their tongues sticking out. You can find Moose head busts in several of our stores. Need a moose safari? One tourist company painted a bus brown and put some antlers on it so they could herd people out to find them.
And you buy it all. It’s natural to come to Greenville and ask to see a moose, but what’s with all the other silly questions?
"Hi, could you tell me how to get to Greenville?" Sure. Remember where you blinked? Go back there. Yes, town really is this one little intersection with the blinking yellow light. But you didn’t come here for the civilization, so don’t get so disoriented when you don’t find any.
"Where’s a good place to eat?" Honestly, they’re all the same. They all serve the same thing, except the Lost Lobster. I’ll give you three guesses on that one. But I hope you like beef in any shape or form, or maybe chicken. And don’t be looking for fast food. If that’s what you desire, well, try the grocery store.
"Where can I get a USA Today?" Ummmm, Dover? It’s about forty five minutes down the road. Good luck on that one.
"I’ve been coming here for ___ years. I’m not a flatlander anymore right?" This one’s my personal favorite. And the answer is, if you have to ask… In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not a welcoming group of people, and we tend to be pretty cliquey.
So we’re not always so nice to tourists. Why is that? Maybe we wonder how you can be so stupid and still have more money than us. It’s not that you are stupid, but you have to admit that naive often comes across that way. Maybe we think you look down on us. You come up north and think, "you live how far away from a movie theater? How quaint." Maybe we figure that loving Greenville doesn’t count if you only love it for a week or two out of the whole year. If you can put up with winter and mud season and black fly season and mosquito season all in one 365 day stretch, then you might be an ok person. Maybe we resent how much we actually depend on you. While this does qualify as biting the hand that feeds you, it still happens.
Anyway, along with your flannel shirt and Ford Explorer, try not to forget your-brush-off-of-us-locals-and-our-attitudes look. We’re really not so bad once you get to ignore us.
And as for where go to find moose? Drive out of town in any direction until you come to cars parked along the side of the road. There may be people standing outside taking pictures, there may not. Pull your car over on the side of the road along with everyone else’s. if there isn’t a moose right now, there will be.
Oh, and be careful driving. Moose aren’t fun when they’re on top of your car.
Mr. 500
Well it looks like mysterious #500 has no desire to show himself. But since I was all excited about doing something, I’m going to do it anyway. If you happen to be #500, and are reading this, please do not feel insulted at all the scandalous, possibly libelatory, things I’m going to say. You forfeited your right to an actual history a long time ago. And if you like this one better, feel free to use it, just don’t forget to say that I am your source.
So without further ado, is the life and times of Mr. 500, better known as Leo.Born in 1978, Leo grew up in a small rural area of eastern Wisconsin. His father was a molecular biologist, who taught classes at the local community college where he met Leo’s mother, a janitor, one night as she was singing while mopping up a leaky toilet in the men’s room. He told her that he could make her a singing sensation, and the rest is history.
As a child Leo developed an exquisite taste for the local cheese, which to this day remain “fromages.” For many years, he had intended to inherit his ailing grandfather’s dairy farm, but his life bumbled off on to a dramatic side track (as lives are apt to do) one day in late ’96.
The actual details are a little sketchy, but as with all good stories, it’s worth talking about. As far as I have been able to piece together, it was around this time that Leo was first introduced to political science. It was his senior year in high school, and this interest manifested itself after Leo discovered that he had a crush on his current events teacher during the hooplah surrounding that year’s presidential election.
The crush never amounted to anything (though he still sends her Christmas cards each year), but his political fetish bloomed. Just about the time he was thinking about running for the local school board, he heard something on the radio about a woman named Monica Lowinski, and that night he had a dream, a vision really, so sacred that he will not speak of it to anyone.
But this dream, this vision, molded the course that he was on. He denounced his still ailing grandfather, and ran off to New York, the news mecca of our culture, to learn the ropes of what he now understood to be his calling in life: political cartooning.
And that’s where he is today, renting a flat in the big city, he has a drawing board and a pencil, and is perfectly content to read newspapers and watch CNN and FNC, and to apply his old fashioned Wisconsin humor to anything unlucky enough to cross his path. Alas for him, there is not so much money in this sort of life style, he’s been forced to take a second job as a soda jerk in a 50s style drug store where the women all wear poodle skirts and the young men don’t want to be square.
This is far and away not the life he envisioned for himself living in Wisconsin and tasting fromages, but when life goes the way you planned it, you know you must have taken a wrong turn back there somewhere.
I still intend to keep track of future readers who hit future special numbers. If you would like me to invent your biography, just be the lucky number (100x where x= any number ever) and e-mail me your name, and tell me how you want it to end. you can find me at selizawalden@yahoo.com
Don't Forget:
Don't forget to check the people counter and e-mail me if it says "500" for you. I'll make you all kinds of famous.
selizawalden@yahoo.comIt'll be as fun for you as it is for me, I promise.
The Greenville Collection Part 1: Support Group
Support Group
Hi. My name is Sarah and for six years I drank milk out of a bag.
"Hi, Sarah."
You know, it really feels good to get that out in the open. I mean, I always thought I was the only one. OK, not the only one only one. I mean everyone in my school had to do it too. But you go out into the world and suddenly you’re surrounded by people who got to have cartons. But I didn’t know about you guys. I thought it was just my school because they did stupid things like that. You know, people ask me, "what’s it like going to school in Greenville?" And I’ll give them one of those don’t-even-get-me-started looks and say, "well, I graduated with nineteen other people and we drank milk out of bags at lunch." And they give me that what-freaky-kind-of-place-did-you-grow-up look and I go, "I know." And you guys probably all know what that feels like, right?
A couple nods.
"I never tell anyone at all. I’ve found a place in the world now. I don’t want them to know things like that about my past."
It’s just worse for us. I mean, hot lunches are psychologically damaging for everybody, but there’s something about those sacks, maybe it’s the way they sag around your hand and all the condensation gets on your fingers, that just screams onset of depression. You can feel it in the school everywhere.
"This is the first time I've thought about it that way, but it makes sense. I mean we’d blame the administration or the faculty or the bars on the windows.
[note to reader: there weren't actually bars on the windows] I think it can all be traced back to the milk bags. They’re just so droopy, everyday, like the superintendent’s laughing at us."
"No way out, no way out. Lunch was the worst part of my day."
But they do have their good side. They’re great for a laugh. You guys must have played with them too, aiming them at other people’s trays.
"Who can write their name in the shepherd’s pie?"
"For us girls it was a great way to cope with penis envy. Not me personally, but I had some friends who took out their Freudian aggression at the lunch table."
I remember someone put one in my backpack once, did that ever happen to you? Yeah, none of my books would close right for the rest of the semester.
"Boys used to throw them at me and yell about how I needed implants."
"I think the kid that sat behind me right after lunch liked to put one in my seat right before I sat down. I spent so much of fifth period in the bathroom that the teacher must have thought I had a bladder infection."
And remember the chocolate ones? And all the brown stuff would collect down at the bottom and since the plastic was clear, you could see it all in it’s horrific picture? No, that’s not really a good word, but you get my point.
"I couldn’t even drink those. It reminded me too much of dirt."
Of course there was drinking it. It was never honestly cold.
"Yeah it always just a luke cold. I could never stand that."
And the bag would flatten when I sucked and the milk would squeeze into little streams and tributaries heading towards the straw. And when the milk was almost gone the bubbles would flow and no matter how hard I tried, I could never get the bag to be 100% flat. I always felt like such a failure.
"Did any of you ever blow it up again and stick the straw through the other side so you’d have a balloon?"
"I saw a kid do that once, but then he added a hot dog onto the other end and went around waving it in people’s faces and screaming. I still can’t eat a hotdog unless it’s blistered and black and has lots of condiments."
And the straws, remember the straws? How they were pointy on one end? And trying to decide where to stab it? I usually went straight down the middle.
"My friends used to pick on me because I always put the straw in the same place, the seam at the top, an inch over from the right hand corner. I still don’t really know why."
"I was a corner kid."
And if you got the straw in just the right place then you could push the straw all the way into the bag and it wouldn’t come out the other side. My straws were red, Yours too?
"Yup."
"Mine were clear."
Then sometimes I’d just forget to pick up a straw, so I’d bite a corner off the plastic and tip it upside down and drink it mouth to mouth with the bag.
"I had to do that too. I always forgot something at lunch, a fork or a napkin or a straw. The straw was the worst one though."
It was like sucking on an udder. A humiliation, even if it’s only in my head, from which I’ll probably never fully recover.
Talk about humiliating though, all those other people out there? It’s a clear cut example of the two types of people, you know?
"And the carton people have no idea how to picture or conceive of the things we’ve been through. I’ve never seen one that understood or reacted well when they found out about my bags."
I remember telling my dad about the bags once. He didn’t even believe me. So I brought one home from school one day. At lunch I slipped it in my backpack and it waited there until seventh period was over and it walked home with me. Picture the bag of milk sitting there, touching my pencils and my calculator and my ruler, from noon until I got home at 3. The terrible shape it must have been in!
"And room temperature too, I’m so sorry."
I know we can’t blame all the world’s problems on bagged milk, but it’s an acceptable excuse for me. What’s wrong with you? Oh, I drank milk out of a bag for six years.
"It’s always worked for me."
