My Ever Steepening Learning Curve

It was a glorious day when I saved Hyrule. For weeks, I guided Link through mazes, caves, tunnels, and dungeons into the depths of the Underworld. As I approached the conclusion of the final maze and was ready to come head to head with the most evil of the continuous legion of thugs, I put the video game on pause, gathered my easily impressed elementary-school-aged children to observe the Master, and rescued Princess Zelda from the evil Ganondorf. My children rejoiced with me. We danced around the TV and harmonized along with the Link Theme Song. Then, on the screen before us, a miracle occurred! We realized the game was only half over – the game included a Second Quest!

As my children grew, the complexity of their games increased. The Nintendo game creators, in what I translate as a focused attempt to make me feel incompetent and to allow my offspring to gain the upper hand in all things electronic and technical, added additional buttons to the game controls. When the games went 3D, I retired – undefeated. I told my children that I no longer had the time to waste on games, but the truth was, the games became too difficult for me.

I know I am not alone.

Recently, we renewed our contract with our cell phone service provider, and along with the new contract, we were able to upgrade our phones. My husband, as the primary member on the account, received a free new phone. My new phone, which I did not need because my old phone was working perfectly, was semi-free because I chose the red phone to match my Jeep. The red phone cost an extra $69 above the free phone offer. The new leather case and car charger (since cell phone manufacturers never make the old cases and chargers compatible with the new ones) were a discounted additional $29. I also splurged on a memory card since my son told me the phone I chose had limited storage capacity. I assume I will now be able to store my winter wardrobe on my new phone. To justify the expense, I told my family that the new phone and its accessories could qualify as a Mother's Day gift.

Unfortunately, the original phone I ordered online was defective, and despite having my "network" following me around town, I had to stop working, leave my office, and go to the cell phone store for a new (refurbished) replacement. While waiting for my salesperson to program my replacement phone and transfer my personal data from the defective phone to the hopefully not-defective one, I watched another customer enter the store and hand his defective phone to another salesperson.

"Have you ever seen anything like this on a screen before?" the flustered man asked the clerk indicating what my poor nosey eyesight saw as a giant frown face on his screen.

"Nope," the salesman responded, "can't say I have."

"Well, can you make it go away?" he asked.

His salesman disappeared into the same magic back room where my salesman had gone earlier.

Then, the man looked at me and said, "I hate admitting defeat to technology – especially when it costs me more than my first car."

I nodded in agreement and said, "I admitted defeat when I saw how thick the bilingual instruction manual was."

"My kid could probably fix it," he said, "but he’s too busy partying at college."

We went back to minding our own business after that; however, that short impersonal conversation led me to an epiphany.

In the world of technology, I have become an antique. I have value, but it is in the eye of the beholder.

Lately, I am finding more things that are too complicated for me to deal with…or maybe, I am gadget-overloaded. Maybe I am tired of reading manuals that start with, "Never place your phone in a microwave oven as it will cause the battery to explode" and "Do not handle the phone with wet hands while it is being charged. It may cause an electric shock or seriously damage your phone."

Maybe it is time to shut off my power.

Twenty-five years ago, when the school where I worked installed its first computers, I bravely (before the publication of DOS for Dummies) learned how to "C colon backslash" on a screen without windows. Over time, I learned how to build websites, set up spreadsheets, compose professional documents, and competently add things to motherboards. With each new electronic accessory, I gained a new set of skills.

I have never had problem with cell phones, DVD players, coffeepots, all-in-one remote controls, electric pencil sharpeners, teller machines, faxes, printers, scanners, air purifiers, or other electronic devices with which I interact daily until recently.

When I was in high school, my dad, who used a manual one-armed-bandit adding machine with a coil of paper tape for his business calculations, brought home the first handheld calculator I had ever seen. My dad liked gadgets, too. I still own that Texas Instrument calculator although it has not worked for years. I cannot bring myself to discard something that cost my dad over one-hundred pre-inflation dollars.

In the early 1980s, I remember being wowed by a Brother portable electric typewriter that I could fit in my attaché case. I bought it without comparison shopping or knowing what the future would bring. I thought it would help me produce dittoes for my classes. (Raise your hand if you remember dittoes. Raise both hands if you ever cranked a non-electric ditto machine.) A few years ago, I sold the useless typewriter that only printed on unreadable thermal paper that is no longer made. I sold it on EBAY for several hundred dollars less than its original cost.

I have outlived dozens of personal computers, fax machines, printers, scanners, stereos, VCRs, game consoles, and other electronic devices. I remember my first PC cost more than I paid the obstetrician when our first son was born. I tried to donate it since I never got around to turning it into a planter, but no one wanted it. With each upgrade, I learned more and realized how technically savvy I could be.

But Sunday night, when both TVs in our house stopped working at the same exact time, I was stumped. Between my brand new cell phone not keeping a charge and randomly speaking to me when it had not been spoken to and the two dead TVs, I was ready to apply my senior citizen discount to the nearest home for over-the-hill computer nerds.

First, I had to wait three days for a repairman. This was during the NBA finals.

For three days, I tried rebooting the system at every opportunity. For three days, I searched the internet for reasons why two TVs would lose their cable signal simultaneously but still be able to show movies from a DVD player. For three days, we missed exciting basketball, fair and balanced news, and reruns of Frasier, Sex in the City, and Two and a Half Men.

It took Jason, the twenty-something-year-old cable guy, exactly five minutes to find the problem.

Apparently, I knocked the plug out of the outlet that connects our cable boxes to the cable signal when I was getting a piece of luggage from a rarely entered closet.

Now, I am scared. My husband, who usually compares me to my mother, despite my best efforts at concealing all hints of wrinkles, didn't make fun of me when I told him how I "broke" the cable. He was also exceedingly kind when I told him I was unable to open the bucket of chlorine tabs because I couldn't figure out exactly how to use the screwdriver and hammer to remove the tamper-proof plastic tab. But then again, he also depends on me to defrag his hard drive, turn his cell phone to vibrate at the movies, and program the clock on the coffee maker.

- - -

© 2008 by Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved.

(Originally Published by The Irascible Professor - September 9, 2008)

Bedroom Battlefield - CAT WARS!

Their hissing takes me from deep, comforting sleep to sudden, unwanted consciousness. It isn't an unusual sound for this time of night in my home. Cat Wars have commenced in the bathroom adjacent to our bedroom. On some nights, I sleep right through these battle cries. On other nights, they wake me. The sounds never affect my husband’s sleep pattern. He hears nothing, or at least he pretends with enough skill to fool me.

The battlefield isn't always in the bathroom. Often it is in our family room on top of the couch. On occasion, it's in one of our children's bedrooms. Sometimes it's in the kitchen. It all depends on where the cats decided to stop, drop, and snuggle in for the night. There are nights when they snuggle under the blanket. There are nights when they end their day between our pillows. If UPS or Fedex has made a delivery, bedtime often begins within the emptied carton.

Like human siblings, brother and sister cat have devoted their lives to antagonizing each other over the littlest details of their feline existence. Mostly it's about which cat has the better place to sleep. I've sat and observed two content sleeping kitties become Cat Commandos From the Third Dimension in the matter of nanoseconds over who has the better set of legs to snuggle against.

Tonight they are fighting over a sink. We have two sinks in our bathroom; my husband has claimed the one next to the medicine cabinet as his, and I have the other. The sinks are identical, although I am sure mine is considerably cleaner. Each cat has settled into a sink. Each cat has curled up in a ball and has snuggled in for the night. At least that is how I left them when I got into bed, closed the light, and left the world behind me a few hours ago. Tonight, Mr. Cat is in my sink and Mrs. Cat is in my husband's sink. When I left them so I could snuggle into the space where I end my day, all was fine in their feline world. They were purring in semi-consciousness, dreaming of bugs, mice, catnip, canned dinner, and a full water bowl.

But a few hours have passed, and I am brought to consciousness by the sound of hissing. I get out of bed to make sure they are not doing something questionable, destructive, or potentially dangerous. It's a Mom thing. My mom-gene never shuts down, not even for the cats.

I go into the bathroom and observe Mr. Cat standing over Mrs. Cat. He is swatting her on the head with his clawless paw. There is no fear in each of his swats as Mrs. Cat hisses at her clawless, clueless brother, showing her teeth, and making it very clear that tonight she is sleeping in Daddy's sink and she is definitely not in the mood to play this game. She has no intention of moving. She is bigger than her brother. I believe it is referred to as being large-boned, or maybe it is her need to satisfy her Inner Cat Woman by filling her stomach again and again and again with gourmet treats and table scraps. In the world of feeling good about oneself, we refer to her as extra-medium rather than large or pleasantly plump. We do not want to injure her over-inflated self-esteem.

I decide the cats are safe, and I leave them to settle their own Cat Disputes. I have learned the hard way, with scars to prove it, that playing referee is a lesson in futility. As I am about to shut the light in the bathroom, I notice Mr. Cat swat Mrs. Cat one more time. Mrs. Cat rises to her feet, arches her back, lets out a loud hiss, and chases Mr. Cat through my legs, out of the bathroom, and down the hallway to the children's bedrooms.

As I cuddle under the blankets, the cats re-enter our bedroom, leaping over the bed, one still in mad pursuit of the other. I cannot see who is the chaser and who is the chasee, but I do hear my husband mumble something about cats belonging outdoors where God intended them and how good they would look stuffed. I have also heard my husband, on occasion, threaten the cats that he was going to give them back to those nice people who placed the "Free to a Good Home" advertisement. I have heard him mutter, "This isn't a good home. I'll just ask for my money back." These cats were "Free to a Good Home" almost a decade ago. I would hate to burst my husband's bubble by telling him that even if there had been a warranty, it has more than expired. Besides, I remember very clearly that he picked them out and that he had wanted a third, but ours were the only two left. I also have seen him whispering sweet nothings into both cats’ ears telling them that Mommy doesn’t love them half as much as he does.

Tonight, I just ignore him as the cats leap over the bed a second time. I pound my pillow to get the shape right and try to fall back to sleep on my side of the bed. I pull more than my share of the blanket to my side of the bed. It might be my imagination, but I think I hear my husband hiss.

© 1995 Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published by Cat Fancy Magazine.

Careers that Begin with "P"

Mike the Plumber helped me unclog my water heater last week. When Mike replaced our old water heater in 2001, he explained that routine maintenance would extend our water heater’s life up to ten years. This amounted to attaching a hose to the bottom of the water heater and letting the water drain down our driveway for 30 seconds a month. Neither my husband nor I routinely maintained the water heater, so when Mike had to poke a wire into the clog of sediment, and the wet sediment sprayed all over him, I felt a little guilty. I got him several towels to wipe off the gunk. I offered him a beer, but he settled for a Coke. I offered to wash his shirt, but he said it wasn’t necessary because he always brings an extra one. While Mike wiped his face and got the sediment out of his hair and ears, we talked about our children. Mike has been our plumber for years; our kids went to the same schools.

Mike told me the latest dilemma in his daughters’ lives has been about their majors. Mike said that his older daughter, who will be graduating in the spring, has decided she hates her major. He said she is very stressed about it and nothing he says to her seems to help. His younger daughter is equally stressed because she has to declare her major at the end of next semester and has not figured out what she wants to do.

I made Mike feel a little better when I told him that my sons were running pretty much parallel with his daughters. One son has told us he is not thrilled with his major with just another lap to go, and the other son is also undecided.

"What made you decide to be a plumber," I asked.

Mike told me when he went to college, he got a degree in anatomy because he wanted to be a doctor. By the time he got his undergraduate degree, he realized he did not want to spend any more time in a classroom, so he became a policeman. Then he got married and his daughters were born. After he was shot once in his shoulder -- he showed me the scar when he was changing his shirt -- his wife made it abundantly clear that, if he ever wanted to see his daughters again, he would find a career that did not require dodging bullets. Twenty years ago, a friend who owned a plumbing company offered Mike a job.

I asked Mike if he was happy doing what he does. He said he liked almost everything about it -- except when his clients do not maintain their water heaters.

Then, Mike asked, "Did you always want to be a writer?"

I shared my story: When I told my parents that I wanted to write for The Tonight Show, the response I got was, "Be a teacher. Teachers have jobs." Their logic was that it was more likely that I would get married and have babies than it would be to get a job writing for Johnny Carson. With teaching, they said, I would always have a career to fall back on. I did what my parents suggested, taught English for a bunch of years, had my children, and never ever ever wanted to fall back on education. I started writing while my kids were at school each day, and except for the obligatory rejection letters, it wasn't a half bad way to make a terrible living.

I told Mike that my husband had a different dream. Having grown up near the beach, he told his parents he wanted to go to the University of Hawaii to major in marine biology. His parents said, "Major in business. If you go to school anywhere near a beach, you will wind up surfing all day and never get a degree." There may have been some truth to that.

When I asked Mike what advice he has given his daughters, he laughed and said, "I don’t give them advice. They don't listen to me anyway." That sounded familiar. What Mike and I realized, however, was that we actually have given our children the same advice: "Do what you love, and if you can't do what you love, then love what you do." Unfortunately, this falls short of actually pointing someone in a direction, so it is probably no better than the advice we got from our parents.

After Mike left, I went on the internet and started investigating college majors and career choices. Many university websites have valuable information that is supposed to help a student pinpoint his or her direction. I decided that if I were making choices for myself, a website would not help me much.

Then I did a little more digging and found some information that I thought was pertinent to kids and adults who are confused about their futures. I learned that:

• Country singer, Garth Brooks, has a degree in marketing.
  


• Frank Capra, director of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, It's a Wonderful Life, and It Happened One Night had a degree in chemical engineering.
  


• Roger Corman, director of many films, including the original film version of The Little Shop of Horrors, received an industrial engineering degree from Stanford.
  


• Howard Cosell was a labor lawyer before becoming a sportscaster.
  


• Oscar Hammerstein II received a law degree from Columbia University Law School, but gave that up to write the lyrics for such musicals as The Sound of Music and Show Boat.
  TV host, Montel Williams, is a highly decorated former Naval engineer and Naval intelligence officer.
  


• Ashton Kutcher of Hey, Dude! Where's My Car? and That 70s Show majored in biochemical engineering.
  


• Weird Al Yankovitz got his degree in architecture.
  

Those are just a few of the examples I found. There were pages of them. I figured those few made my point.

Last night, my younger son, who is living in a dorm at his college, called me with a whole week’s worth of things to tell me:

First, his English professor liked his paper so much that she thinks it might be publishable. He said at first he thought that was a sign that maybe journalism might be a good major for him until he realized he really doesn't like to write.

Second, he thinks he is going to drop calculus because even though he did well in calculus in high school, he thinks he is already in over his head and maybe he should have listened to us when we suggested taking an easier math class his first semester.

Third, his roommate accidentally flushed the plastic thing that holds the toilet paper down the toilet. Realizing that when the plumber got there and found the plastic thing inside the toilet, that they might have to pay for the repair, they decided to fix it themselves. They went online and found a site about how to fix toilets. They shut off the water, unscrewed the toilet from the floor, and managed to pull out the toilet paper holder. While reaching up into the toilet, something rubber crumbled in my son's hand. He thought it might be a gasket or something, but he was not sure. They reattached the toilet anyway, and when they turned on the water, the gasketless toilet leaked. They called maintenance. When maintenance fixed the toilet, there was no charge since the repairman just assumed the leak came from wear and not from inexperienced, computer-educated plumbers.

I told my son about my experience with Mike the Plumber and about his daughters' dilemmas. My son said he still does not know what he wants to be when he grows up, but he thought it was cool that he could handle a plumbing emergency. Then he added, "I’m up to "P" this week. Hey, maybe, when I grow up, I'll be a paramedic, a plumber, or a pirate."

It made sense to me, but then again, I am his mother.

- - - - -

©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.

(Originally published at the Irascible Professor - http://irascibleprofessor.com/comments-10-30-06.htm )

Waiting for the Big "O"

(An Excerpt from Waiting in the Wrong Line)

The car is pulled to the side of a narrow dirt road almost hidden by overgrown foliage. A beautiful white sandy beach can be seen from the car through a small clearing, and waves are relentlessly eroding the shoreline. We are on the island of St. Martin in the West Indies. We are on our honeymoon.

And we’ve been fighting all week.

We have battled in restaurants.

We have bickered on the beach.

We have brawled in the waves.

Strangers hear us coming and going.

Strangers want to remain strangers.

Right now we are sitting in a rented car on the side of a dirt road almost hidden by overgrown foliage, and we have drawn a bright red boundary line down the middle of the front seat.

I am so mad. It is at least 90 degrees outside, but you can see the steam coming out of my ears, seeping out of the car, rising from the roof of our rented car. If this were a cartoon, there would be horns growing out of the roof of our car and a devil’s tail would be coming out of the exhaust pipe. The car would be rocking with body parts being thrown from the car windows.

Unfortunately, to make the week just perfect, our rental car is the lemon of all rental cars. The air conditioning doesn’t work. The radio is not attached. There is gum stuck on the driver’s side of the windshield and a spring is coming out of the passenger seat, right under my behind.

When we point this out to the rental agent, he says, with a thick accent, “Hey, Maan, it be all we got.”

And, “Hey, Maan, it be all we got,” is all we’ve heard all week.

Orange juice with breakfast? “Papaya today. Hey, Maan, it be all we got.”

Hot water in the shower? “Cold showers. Hey, Maan, it be all we got.”

This has not been a good week.

Of the three pieces of luggage we put on board the airplane, only two came off. The one we can’t find has my asthma medicine and my brand new expensive bathing suit in it. It took me a month to find that bathing suit, to find one that fit just right and was so comfortable and sexy. The lost piece of luggage also has my husband’s Tums. My asthma medicine is secondary. My new bathing suit doesn’t matter. My husband’s Tums? He’s a basket case!

“What am I going to do without Tums?” my husband frets.

I stare at him, wheezing, desperately trying to fill my lungs with air, hoping I can find an island pharmacist who will make a long distance call to my pulmonary specialist. I say, without a hint of nastiness, “Maybe you should lay off the spicy food this week.”

To which my husband agonizes, “I won’t make it without Tums!”

To which I reply in oxygen-poor gasps, tugging at my bathing suit that I had to buy from the store in the lobby, even though it is too small, “I guess you’ll have to live with heartburn, honey.”

It’s been a tough week.

Now we’re sitting in the rented car, on the side of a dirt road. I am tugging at my too-small bathing suit. I am wheezing. My husband has heartburn. We haven’t had a good cup of coffee in a week. And we are both pissed. We are pissed at the car. We are pissed at the hotel. And we are really pissed at each other.

My husband gets up this morning and says, “Let’s fix this vacation now.”

I nod my head, somewhat skeptically, but I agree. We need a quick fix for this honeymoon in hell.

My husband goes to the lobby to talk to the concierge. He comes back an hour later and he’s bubbling. He’s found a perfect place for us to go. He’s waving a hand drawn map. He says it’s going to be great.

I’m already upset.

Nothing on this island could possibly bring this level of excitement.

Then he starts, “The concierge says it’s called Orient Beach. It’s on the other side of the island. It will take about an hour to get there. It’s a nude beach.” My husband’s rambling now. “All the movie stars go there. Very private.” he continues.

“A nude beach?” I ask. “Why’d he tell you about it?”

“Well, we got to talking about surfing, and then he told me,” he answers. “And he said there were great waves.”

Surfing.

Great waves.

I should have read the scribbling in the sand dune.

“Great waves,” the concierge says to the boy who spent the summer of his freshman year in high school painting his mother’s house to earn money to buy his first long board.

“Great waves,” he says to the teen who hid surfing magazines under the mattress, to look at the waves, not the girls in the string bikinis.

“Great waves,” he says to the college student who memorizedEndless Summer.

“Great waves,” he says to the young adult who watched surfing specials on television instead of the Super Bowl.

“Great waves,” he says to the homeowner who wanted to decorate our living room around a poster called Sunset at Doheny.

“Great waves,” he says to the man I married who I have never seen on a surfboard.

My husband tells me “nude beach” and “movie stars,” expecting me to react with, “Wow, what a wonderful, fabulous, original idea you have,” and all he gets is a nasty look from me.

Being the wonderful sport that I am, and wanting to try to salvage this semi-miserable honeymoon in paradise, I decide to go along with it. We grab towels and sun block. My husband hands me the map, and we’re on our way to a beautiful nude beach where movie stars hang out, which just by coincidence has great waves.

We drive for an hour. The island is very green, very lush, and extremely humid. It is early when we leave. For miles we drive never seeing another vehicle. We pass many other beaches. The sand is white. The water rushing to the shore comes in long, lingering pushes against the sand. I imagine myself lying in the sand at the water’s edge. There are no people on these beaches.

We are, for the first time this week, chatting peacefully. We are even laughing. My husband doesn’t have heartburn and I am not wheezing. With some distance between the hotel room and us, this vacation is starting to look more memorable. I’m starting to think that maybe, for once, my husband has had a good idea that won’t turn into the Nightmare in the Caribbean.

Then I see the sign: Orient Beach.

The sign is large. It is brightly colored. Orient Beach.

Our day is about to be an adventure in paradise. “I got you here,” I announce, crumbling the hand written map and throwing it in the back seat.

My husband looks around. He looks at the sign. “This isn’t Orient Beach,” he says.

“Yes, it is,” I answer, pointing to the sign, “Orient Beach.”

“Nope,” he says. “This is Rient Beach. We want Orient Beach.”

“It is Orient Beach,” I continue, not having a clue what he is trying to say.

“Rient Beach,” he argues.

Now there’s an explanation here, an artistic interpretation. Imagine the word “Rient.” From the top of the “R” start an “O”. Bring it up and around the back of the “R” so that it looks like a giant “O” going around the word “Rient.” It is very clear to me. I can’t see the confusion.

I get out of the car.

“Get back in the car! This isn’t Orient Beach,” he says. He leans over the back of the seat and retrieves the map I just crumbled. “Why did you crumble this?” he mumbles. “I’ll get us there.”

“We are there,” I say. “Look at me.” He looks up.

As if my arm is a giant, thick, bold, black magic marker I am dramatizing the big “O” with my arm. I am drawing a giant “O” in the air. “See O … rient. ORIENT. See it? Don’t you see the “O”? Come on, think outside the box.” I am standing there drawing this giant “O” over and overagain in the air for my husband’s benefit.

“Get back in the car,” he says.

I go up to the billboard. I point to the “O” and draw a giant circle one more time.

“Get back in the car,” he says.

I go back to the car. I am standing next to his window. “Think of a giant ‘O.’ Now put the word ‘range’ in it. What have you got?”

Expecting to hear, “Orange,” all I get is, “Get in the car.”

“Orange,” I say. “Think ‘O’ plus ‘range’ is ‘orange.’”

He says nothing.

I try again. “Imagine the word ‘liver’ with a giant ‘O’ around it?”

“In the car,” he says louder.

I get louder, not liking the bossy tone he’s delivering. “Oliver. Think: ‘O’ plus ‘liver’ is Oliver!”

I push myself up on the hood, blocking the driver’s view. I am visibly enraged. With my finger, I write on the filthy windshield, “vulate.” Then I add the giant “O.” I am screaming. “Think. ‘O’ plus ‘vulate’ is ovulate.”

He has stopped talking.

“‘rgasm.’ ‘O’ plus ‘rgasm.’ Think!” I am writing “orgasm” across the windshield.
Screaming, “verload,” I yell and write. “‘O’ plus ‘verload,’ ‘OVERLOAD’.” I am now screaming over the engine. If anyone is hiding in the bushes, they’ve all jumped into the sea in fear of the mad woman on top of the hood of the car giving a spelling lesson to a baboon who can drive.

I get down from the hood. I open the car door get in, glaring at him, “You are such an AF!” I say.

“You mean ASS?” he says, trying to correct me.

“No,” I say. “You are an AF! ‘A.’ ‘F.’ ‘AF’.”

“What is an AF?” he asks.

“Sam, ‘AF’ with a big ‘O’ going around it. YOU ARE AN AF!” I say.

I turn my body away from him and stare out the window, trying to get a view of the great waves before we leave Rient Beach.

And then he shuts off the ignition.

“Oaf,” he says. “I am an oaf.” He meekly smiles, staring through the windshield with the words “orgasm” and “ovulate” and “overload” written in the filth.

I don’t say anything. We both silently get out of the car, grabbing our share of gear from the trunk and head toward the beach, and I swear, as we pass the “Orient Beach” sign, my husband says, “Ya know, that’s a really cool logo.”

---end

©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.

The Contents of this blog – including all photographs – are COPYRIGHT PROTECTED and may NOT be used, distributed, shared, emailed, or copied in any form without the written consent of the author/photographer.

Originally Published In Traveler’s Tales – Whose Panties Are These?
Also Published at CommonTies.com and Sasee Magazine.

The World According to Señor Poje´

What I said was, "Which part of 'NO' don't you understand?" but what my son said he heard was, "I'd just love to have a tarantula living in my house." I've considered having his hearing checked, but instead, I was deciding which piece of furniture was the highest off the ground so that when Señor Poje´ opened the latch on his tarantula cage and came looking for the mean lady who wouldn't give him a home, I could be high enough off the ground to jump to my death rather than being eaten alive by an irate arachnid.

It's when my son used school as his reason for needing Señor Poje´ "just until school starts" that I became suspicious. "It's for school," had always worked in the past with things like expensive calculators, software, and top-of-the-line backpacks. However, I had him this time! I mentally went through his class schedule.

"Gotcha! You don't have science this year!" I said.

My son countered with, "Remember, my biology teacher from freshman year? He keeps pets in his classroom. I'm going to trade Señor Poje´ for a letter of recommendation for college."

Thus, Señor Poje´ was alive and well and eating crickets in a cage on a shelf in my 17-year-old son's bedroom until the third day of school this year. I wrote up a formal contract and had my son sign it just in case his freshman biology teacher said he had enough class pets. "He's going back out in the desert where he belongs if you can't find him a home," I said. My son nodded and signed on the dotted line, but I knew he was already at Step Five when I was just coming to terms with Step One.

On the third day of school, Señor Poje´ found his new home in the biology lab at my son's high school. There was no need to negotiate for a letter of recommendation. A few teachers enthusiastically told my son they would write letters for him. Not one of them required an arachnid as payment for services rendered.

We have gone through the class pet thing a few times. Caring for the class hamster for a weekend in first grade led to the adoption of a series of pet hamsters. When I learned the average life-expectancy of a hamster is about two years after a $100 vet bill for which I was told that there was nothing one could do to stop the blood coming from Xena, Warrior Hamster's rear end, I told my son to find a more cost-effective pet.

That's when the hermit crabs moved in. My son fed them garbage and discussed how hermit crabs are environmentally important. We watched them move in and out of shells until they finally shed their crusty outer bodies one last time, shriveled up, and died. I saw nothing environmentally important about hermit crab bodies rotting in my son's bedroom.

There were several fish which kept living and living and living. These were not class pets. These were school fair prizes. My son did not actually do anything to win these. He simply batted his eyelashes and his teacher handed him a plastic bag with two gold fish in it.

Then there were those swimming things he brought home from the drainage ditch by his elementary school playground. They started as a school experiment, and then my son volunteered to continue the science project in his bathroom at home - in my house. The swimming things lived in a fish tank with a giant rock in it so the swimming things could become tadpoles and then toads which needed to eat things that others pay exterminators to get rid of. I believe my older son added aftershave or cologne to the water in hopes that the tadpoles would die and he would have more counter space, but that's debatable because they did not die and eventually my son, the science experiment caretaker, was forced to put the frogs back by the drainage ditch because they were starving to death. They did not like store-bought bugs. At least that's how I interpreted my lack of desire to keep buying them.

My older son never got into unusual pets. I think that's because when he was in third grade, his teacher made him mount and identify bugs for a project. I watched as he scooped bugs from the pool, and with tweezers, collected his bugs. He was okay until he had to push the pin through the bug to mount it. I believe Tarantula Boy did that for him. I certainly did not. I was fine with all of this because it was "for school" until a scorpion he found at the bottom of the pool proved that this species will outlive man. With the pin pushed through its back, after spending a good deal of time at the bottom of the pool, the scorpion came out of its water-induced coma, pulled his body -- pin and all -- out of the cork board, and was found walking on my son's pillow.

For years my sons have heard me mutter things about school projects, class pets, and hands-on science experiments.

It's not as if my sons have been pet-deprived. We have four cats. We have always had cats. If you look at my carpet and find a stain, I can name the creator of that stain in four notes. We have more litter boxes in my house than bathrooms because the cats do not share. My husband and I share a bathroom. I could say I won't share, but that won't get me my own litter box.

I blame the unusual pets on teachers. I know I am a teacher, too, but I specialize in English, so I am above reproach. English teachers do not do parts of animal anatomy; English teachers do parts of speech. However, just point me toward a science classroom or an elementary school classroom, and I will bet something is alive or has been alive in a cage or a tank within that classroom at some time in that teacher's career. You are guilty! Admit it! You are why Señor Poje´ and the other menagerie of unusual pets have lived in my son's bedroom. You are why my son could not mow the lawn last week when he had to go to PetsMart to buy crickets for Señor Poje´ because that was part of the terms for his adoption by the biology teacher. And you are why my son has left the spot on his shelf open because Señor Poje´ is returning at the end of the school year. "You said he had to be out by the third day of school," said my son, "but the contract didn't say a thing about his return engagement."

©2005 Felice Prager.

Originally published by the Irascible Professor

Blame it all on the bloomers

Perhaps there are women who grew up in the 1950s and '60s who have fond memories of gym class. They may tell wonderful anecdotes of bonding with other women while running track, climbing ropes, jumping over the pommel horse, and playing basketball. But when I think of those days, I start to hyperventilate and require a quick dose of reality. So I call my oldest girlfriend, and she reminds me that I no longer have to wear my blue bloomers.



Physical education was a school requirement in the 1960s. Five days a week, we had to dress out for PE. That meant we had to wear our blue bloomers, white sneakers, and white socks.



The "bloomers" were the gym suit our school required. It was a cornflower-blue cotton thing with an elastic waist and snap closures. I never understood the color choice, since the school colors were orange and black. I could have dealt with black much better.



The gym suits were carried at a local store. Every September, the store had an increase in sales because groups of moaning teenage girls would flock into the store to purchase the uniform.



The boys didn't have to wear uniforms for PE. They wore black gym shorts and a school T-shirt. The year after I graduated, the school approved black shorts and a school T-shirt for senior girls. But that was too late for me. I wore my blue bloomers until the week before I graduated.



Once the suit was purchased, we had to sew our names over the right chest pocket, using white thread. My gym teachers would not let us abbreviate our names, which wasn't a problem for me, but Anastasia Karchanaski and Katherine Philipowizc were not happy.



On my first attempt at the sewing project, I carefully spelled my name over the pocket with my ballpoint pen and began to sew. Midway through the project, my girlfriend came to visit. Seeing what I was doing, she mentioned that her mother had given her uniform to her father's tailor to sew on her name.



She looked down at my attempt and said, "Uh-oh!" Apparently, I had written my name over the wrong pocket. For the entire year, my name was sewn over one pocket and written in dark ink over the other. I wasn't the only one who made that mistake, though; many other girls also had their names sewn over one pocket and written over the other.



Sneakers were another issue. The teachers wanted us to make sure they stayed white, so we had to polish them with white shoe polish. If our white sneakers were soiled from use, we were supposed to polish both the cloth and rubber portions of the shoes to make sure they looked new. I actually polished my sneakers several times, but only because I wanted them to appear as if they had been dirty – even though they never were.



We were supposed to launder our uniforms weekly. I never did. I made it my goal never to sweat in class because we were given only five minutes to change and shower. There was no way I could change and shower in such a short amount of time.

Once a year we square-danced in PE class. The movable wall that separated the boys' gym from the girls' gym was pulled back. We were paired off. Then we would honor our partners, do-si-do, and allemande right and left in our never-been-laundered blue gym suits while we tried to avoid stepping on our partners' toes with the whiter-than-white sneakers.

My girlfriends and I tried every way we could think of to break the PE class rules. For instance, we tried to keep our stockings on under our uniforms and socks because it was such a difficult task to put them back on – especially when they were stretched out. That worked until the teacher tapped me on the shoulder one day and said, "Miss Klein, you have a run in your leg."

We also cheated at anything that required counting. President Kennedy's Council on Physical Fitness publicized its national goals, but the numbers coming from my gym class were flawed. When we did sit-ups, for example, one girl held another girl's ankles and counted. It wasn't unusual for the counting to sound like this: "1, 2, 8, 11, 13, 14, 15, 19, 20, 25, 31..."
I really disliked gym. Had it not been for the written tests, I'm not sure I would have passed.

We had the same rotation of activities each year. Once winter began, I knew I would have to contend with gymnastics. I watched girls gracefully approach the balance beam, placing one foot in front of the other, pointing their toes. I had a hard time not falling off. I watched girls on the uneven bars. I excelled at hanging by my legs, upside down, saying, "But Miss Lee, I'm dizzy and I'm going to throw up."

It was not as if I wasn't athletic. I swam well enough to become a lifeguard. I could ride a bike. I could skate. I just wasn't good at gym. Maybe it was the cornflower-blue bloomers





©2005 Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved.





Versions of this article appeared at CSMonitor.com and Loti.com.

Neglected Disabilities

It was about four PM. I was home alone. I was sitting on the bed that used to belong to my son before he got married and moved to another state. Three of my five cats were looking out the window, and I was watching them as they stalked a bougainvillea leaf as it was being moved by a breeze.

I am easily entertained. Some have referred to me as a cheap date.

I had opened the window so the cats could smell “spring.” They like how "spring" smells. Then the bougainvillea leaf started moving in the breeze and the entertainment began. The cats were darting back and forth in front of the window as the thin red leaf caught bursts of air. I was tempted to go outside, retrieve the leaf, and bring it inside for them to tear to shreds, but I knew my cats were having more fun watching and chasing the leaf, and giving them the leaf would simply end the game too soon.

Suddenly, the cats stopped short and assumed the position of fear and distress. Their hair stuck up. Their ears were alert. Then they scooted under the bed.

I then heard the source of their fear and distress as well. Clackity clackity clackity clackity. (That is my best attempt at onomatopoeia.) A young boy was coming down the hill on his skateboard. Each time the wheels hit a sidewalk seam, the board went clackity clackity clackity clackity.

What made the occurrence significant was the fact that the boy on the board was simultaneously talking on his cell phone while navigating the hill. I know the kid because I used to tutor him. He had been labeled ADD, and his mom had come to me for help. He was a very nice kid and well behaved, but he tended to prefer watching bougainvillea leaves float in the breeze rather than watching his math teacher create math magic on the white board.

It made me think. Since I am unable to drive my car and talk on my cell phone at the same time, I found it interesting that my ex-student with a documented disability could balance on a skateboard going downhill fast -- occasionally jumping a curb -; while simultaneously talking on his phone. Yet, despite all the hours of quality one-on-one tutoring he had, he probably is still counting on his fingers and toes. I also know in my heart that he will go through life unable to deal with fractions, despite my best efforts.

We all have things we can't do. I could never climb the ropes in PE class. No matter how I tried, I couldn't get my arms and legs to work together well enough to conquer the task. There was no disability I could find to get me out of rope climbing in PE, and the best I could do was feign a sprained ankle -- complete with a doctor's note. I was stumped by calculus but the best I could do was major in English because I couldn't claim a calculus disability. Though I could memorize the Gettysburg Address in third grade, memorizing the correct lyrics to songs has always been a burden. Yet, there is no disability that keeps me from being embarrassed at karaoke bars.

I have a million of these undiagnosed but very real (to me) disabilities. We all have them. The difference is that we only hear about the ones written about in books. Call them whatever you want -- disabilities, gaps, shorts. We may all have them; some of us just deal with them better than others, I suppose.

I am now going to reveal a handful of my undiagnosed disabilities just to prove my point. The important thing to remember is that I, Felice Prager, am a survivor. Despite my shortcomings, I am choosing to see success despite my deficiencies. You probably are, too. You just don't know it yet.

CLWEAS – aka Can't Leave Well Enough Alone Syndrome. Those who have CLWEAS don't know when to stop. They tend to pick the scab until it is infected. They tend to want to get to the root of something even if it means the need for a plumber or electrician in the end. They nag their kids to the point of insanity. They say things like, "Do you want more?" and fill a dish despite a negative response. They call too often and when the calls aren't answered, they write letters and send gifts. When they help their sons move into an apartment, they buy enough tea and chicken soup mix to last several decades just in case of flu of epidemic proportions. Tea bags and chicken soup have indefinite shelf lives. When it comes to education, a person with CLWEAS will check answers obsessively and possibly not hand in the exam fearing there is an error that was missed. As a writer, proofreading becomes an activity that never ends. Rewriting is inevitable.

CPITWS – aka Can't Pee in the Woods Syndrome. Those who have CPITWS avoid camping trips, exploring the wilderness, and car trips on roads that post signs like "Next Stop: 50 miles."

WDIPTDTS – aka Where Did I Put That Damn Thing Syndrome. Also Known as WDIPTDTAS -- Where Did I Put That Damn Thing Again Syndrome. This condition tends to eat up a lot of time and is one of the most frustrating disabilities. A person puts something down in a very logical place and then it disappears. It happens with earring backs, notes, lists, bills, credit cards, homework, documents of major importance, $50 bills, and eyebrow tweezers. People with WDIPTDTS and WDIPTDTAS are firm believers in conspiracy theories and know that the physics theory that matter cannot be created or destroyed blah blah blah is a fallacy – and have dozens of backless earrings to prove it.

IJHTHAFFD – aka I Just Have to Have Another Furry Friend Disorder. This condition is best detected in the home. Just count the pets. If it goes beyond two or three, IJHTHAFFD may be at the root.

(An aside: Yesterday, while planting a few cacti in my backyard, I found a hole under our mesquite tree. From experience, I knew the hole was either the home of a snake, a rodent, or a rabbit. I thought: "Six foot rattler!" since we have had those in the past, so I ran like the wind for the garden hose, attached the power nozzle, and got close enough to spray into the hole but not close enough to get eaten. I also had my cell phone ready so I could call the snake police. The snake police are number one on my speed dial. Then a baby bunny popped out. It was two inches -- newborn, probably. And it was sopping wet. I felt so bad. I ran to get lettuce and carrots while the baby bunny dried off in the sun. When I got back, another baby bunny had joined it. I named them Jack and Jennifer. I scattered the lettuce and carrots and kept saying things like, "I’m so sorry! Now go back in your hole so your mommy can find you." I took a picture with my cell phone and sent it to my son -- the one who used to take scorpions and centipedes outside instead of killing them because "they are beneficial, mom." He wrote back and said, "Since you almost killed them, you should keep them." I didn’t respond since I like furry faces but I know jackrabbits don't make good pets -- we've done bunnies before and the only thing I remember is that they create a lot of poop and then they eat it. I went outside this morning to inspect the bunny hole, and it seems that Jennifer and Jack Rabbit have two other siblings: Jillian and Bob. All is well. They like lettuce but prefer what falls off the mesquite tree. ANYWAY, I looked up Sonoran Desert bunnies online and it said that 80% of them are dead within a year -- their life expectancy being two years -- because they get eaten by almost everything. Sometimes, people who think bunnies are snakes tend to drown them. End of aside.)

TTMS – aka Talk To Machines Syndrome. Those who have TTMS tend to see inanimate objects as audiences. They think what they say to machines will change things. They tend to personify. They are often not aware that they are doing this and have been known to say things like, "Come on, finish perking!" to coffee machines and "Please don't freeze!" to computers. Some suffering from TTMS have said that the inanimate objects have menacing personalities and tend to be vindictive.

DCFBD – aka Diet Coke for Breakfast Disability. This is sometimes referred to as "Do as I say, not what I drink." People with DCFBD know it is not healthy. They don't care. They are even known to finish off the warm, flat can of Diet Coke that was left on their desk the night before.

SATDS – aka Share All The Details Syndrome. People who have SATDS tend to tell a story, include all the details, and leave nothing out -- even when they are not asked. The syndrome tends to waste time, keep a person from staying on task, and alienates friends and relatives.

OMGOMGOMGS – aka as Oh, My God! Oh, My God! Oh My God! Syndrome. This occurs when a large insect or arachnid is in the vicinity of the person afflicted. They get up on furniture and scream, "Oh, My God! Oh, My God! Oh My God!" until a brave person comes in and smashes the creature. These people often suffer from SATDS, with a twist. When they Share all the Details, the insects and arachnids get larger with each telling of the tale. In the end, the insect or arachnid takes on the appearance of the supernatural and develop menacing personalities similar to those in TTMS.

IIDWIDIWFIS – aka If I Don’t Write It Down, I Will Forget It Syndrome. These people have very good memories. The problem is that they can't remember what they need to know when they need it. They function well with lists but tend to also suffer from WDIPTDTS -- so they cannot remember where they put the list.

CRWTISFD – aka Can't Remember What The Initials Stood For Disability. Those who have CRWTISFD can spout off initials like ADD, ADHD, SCUBA, and MRSA, but cannot remember what the initials represent. In fact, they often ask those using the initials what they stand for, but they have known to become indignant when others ask them to translate initials into real words.

There are many other syndromes, deficiencies, and disabilities. Some are mild and some are severe. With all of them, it depends on the degree to which a person has it and how well they learn to cope. I am doing well with mine. I just take it a day at a time. I inhale and exhale and always have my trusty hose by my side along with my cell phone. But don’t ask me to use both of them at the same time. I'm having a tough time with CDTTAONMHHITS -- aka Can't Do Two Things At Once No Matter How Hard I Try Syndrome.


© 2002 by Felice Prager. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This essay, any part of this essay, or any item on this blog may not be used in any form without the author's express written permission.

(This essay originally appeared at The Irascible Professor - http://irascibleprofessor.com/comments-04-11-08.htm)

Protecting Your Pet in Desert Environments

The desert, with its extreme heat, lack of precipitation and water sources, and unique exotic native plants and animals, is a deceptively challenging place to live, especially for those with pets. With the development of the desert, people often forget that the desert can be dangerous, if not deadly. It is the responsibility of the pet owner to take extra precautions with pets to protect them in the desert’s harsh environment. It is always err on the side of caution in the desert Southwest. Following these guidelines should help most pet owners keep their pets safe and healthy. For the most part, these guidelines are common sense.

1. On hot days, leave your pets at home, if possible. Your pets are safest and healthiest in their normal habitats. It is better for your pet to be lonely for a few hours than to subject a pet to the extremes of a desert environment.

2. Leaving a dog, cat, or any pet in a car, even with the air conditioning on, is only asking for trouble. Interior vehicle temperatures can reach 160 degrees or higher. Opening a window will not provide enough ventilation to cool a pet. Pets can die or suffer permanent brain damage in less than five minutes at those high temperatures. In addition, there have been horror stories where pets have accidentally put vehicles into gear. The car has rolled and the pets and humans have suffered the consequences. A pet will be healthier and happier at home.

3. Don’t tie up a dog anywhere. This is considered animal cruelty and is illegal in many areas.

4. For those who enjoy hiking with a dog, make sure your dog is in good physical condition before you attempt the outing. Prepare as you would for any hike, but add to your list of needs the requirements for your dog such as extra water. Bring a portable pet water bowl and damp towels in a plastic bag. Give your dog rest time in the shade no matter how well conditioned your pet is. Just because you are rested, it does not mean your pet is. Consider a longer rest to protect your pet. Since dogs cannot communicate physical distress until the situation is serious, be a careful observer of your dog’s needs. Train your dog and make sure the trail you choose is dog friendly. Pick up after your dog, for obvious reasons. Remember: heat exhaustion is very common with dogs. Early signs include rapid breathing, heavy panting, and salivating. Other signs include fatigue, muscle tremors, and staggering. Don’t allow your dog to get to this point, and if he does, take the dog to a cool, shady place and apply wet towels or cloths to help the dog’s body cool down. Try to give the dog small amounts of water and immediately contact a veterinarian.

5. If left outdoors, which is not advised, make sure your pet has access to shade during the entire day. What may be shady in the morning may be a hot, sunny spot as the day progresses. This is true of doghouses and other pet shelters, as well. Your pet needs shade to stay cool. It is possible to purchase items that help shade your animal including pet tents. It is well worth the investment for the safety of your pet.

6. Never leave your pet attached to any type of leash – even tethered lines. The danger of your dog being tangled and strangled is ever-present.

7. Leaving your pet outdoors on hot days has another disadvantage: it is common for a hot sunny day to turn into a violent summer monsoon storm, complete with lightning, thunder, flooding, and violent rushing water. Never leave your pet outdoors if there is a chance of a lightning storm.

8. When summer rain and monsoon season begins, desert toads (Colorado toads) emerge from their burrows. These are highly toxic to dogs. The dog may be interested in the toad because of natural curiosity, or the toad might go to your dog’s bowl of water. Any contact, including drinking the water in which the toad has been, can be fatal to your dog. Newly developed areas have these toads. You will not always see them since they spend much of their lives beneath the ground. Check your yard frequently for them before allowing your pet out in the backyard.

9. Pets are vulnerable to drowning. Though you can potentially teach a dog to swim its way to a step if it falls into a pool, the best answer is to keep all pets away from pools. Keep gates locked around pools, Jacuzzis, and hot tubs. If you keep a cover on your pool, make sure it can hold your pet’s weight in case your pet decides to walk on it.

10. Keep your pets away from hot grills. The danger is obvious.

11. Check the heat of the pavement before walking your dog. People who have moved here from other areas and new pet owners are often unaware of just how hot the pavement can get. If you cannot keep your hand on the pavement, it is too hot for your pet. Booties are available for this purpose, but even these are not always a good alternative on the hottest days. When in doubt, let your dog protect its feet by walking on grass or in the shade. You would not expect your dog to walk on hot coals. That is what the summer pavement is like on hot days.

12. Hot weather makes everyone thirstier but also raises the evaporation rate. Provide a larger bowl that will not tip over. If the water is outdoors, leave it in a shady area so it stays cool. Automatic watering bowls tend to stay cooler. There is a variety of new products available the refill pet bowls automatically and well worth the expense. If necessary, leave more than one bowl for a pet. If you have multiple pets, provide multiple bowls. In addition, wash the bowl well because evaporation tends to leave algae and calcium deposits.

13. Do not feed your pet outdoors. Besides the obvious, that pet food can spoil in extreme heat, pet food, especially dog food, attracts other predators such as skunks, javelinas, coyotes, bears, bobcats, and mountain lions that are a danger to your pet. The food is also an attraction to the poisonous desert toad.

14. Make sure your pet’s vaccinations are up-to-date.

15. Keep your pet indoors during celebrations such as the Fourth of July. Fireworks tend to frighten pets. Occasionally, in fear, they will bolt and get lost. It is also possible for a stray firecracker to wind up in your yard, potentially injuring your pet.

16. If javelinas (Wild boar) visit your property, keep your dogs away from them. Though they may seem harmless, they can inflict severe bites. They have poor eyesight and startle easily. If you are walking your dog and encounter a group of javelinas, keep your dog close to you and leave the area.

17. Rattlesnake bites can be deadly and require immediate veterinary attention. There will be immediate, painful swelling around the bite area. Keep your pet as calm as possible and transport it to the vet immediately. If you know your pet has been bitten but cannot identify the type of snake, the vet can administer a test to check. The Humane Society of Southern Arizona offers Snakebite Avoidance classes. Preventative measures include keeping your dog leashed, avoiding walks at night in the summer when snakes are more active, and not allowing your dog to investigate bushy areas, rocks, or areas where snakes may be hiding. Rattlers are territorial, so if you see one, avoid that area in the future.

18. With Gila monsters, leave them alone. Gila monsters are not aggressive and will only bite after being provoked, but the bite of a Gila monster is severe, painful, and poisonous. Gila monsters hibernate and are sometimes trapped in the yard of new homes that were built during the winter.

19. Tarantulas are not dangerous despite how scary they may appear. They leave their burrows at night during monsoon season in search of a mate.

20. Scorpions can inflict painful stings. Clean up rock and brush piles from your home and do not allow your pet to dig under rocks to avoid being stung. Some believe certain pets are immune to scorpion stings. Even if this is true, which most believe is not the case, the sting is painful. If your pet is stung, do as you would a human. Apply ice to the area and contact your veterinarian for further advice and monitoring.

21.Valley Fever is a disease caused by a fungus that occurs in the soil of the Southwest. It can afflict both humans and many companion animals, but it is NOT transferred between them. It general causes problems when the immune system becomes overwhelmed. The severity varies greatly and there is no vaccine, just treatment. Symptoms include fever, weight loss, and cough, but these symptoms can be caused by other problems. If you suspect your pet has Valley Fever, consult your veterinarian for assistance.

22. Letting your cat or small dog out by itself is the sure way to lose it, even in a fenced yard. In addition to coyotes, there are bobcats, hawks, and owls that are big enough to carry off a small pet. Even if it feels like you live in suburbia, don’t forget that this is a desert. Wildlife moves along washes – looking for a meal – and if you leave your small pet outdoors, it might spell your pet’s demise.

23. If your pet is an indoor pet, such as a hamster, a tortoise, or any other small animal kept in a cage, keep it that way. These animals do not fair well outdoors. Their bodies are not suited for the heat and if they are, by keeping them indoors, their needs have changed.

24. The chance of poisoning a pet accidentally is higher during the spring and summer. Fertilizers, herbicides, insecticides, and fungicides can be dangerous or even fatal to pets. If your lawn or yard has been treated, keep your pet away from the area. Pets are good at finding poorly stored chemical products and chewing up the containers and eating and drinking the contents. Pet owners should be especially vigilant about storing these products.

25.Some groomers believe the best way to keep a dog cool in the summer is to give the dog a close grooming. Though this may seem like a logical solution, it isn’t for most breeds. A dog’s fur is protection from the cold, the heat, and the elements such as the sun. For some breeds, long hair keeps them cooler than removing it. If you are considering a haircut for your pet, thoroughly research your breed and lean toward not getting the pet’s fur removed if the dog will be out in the sun. Like a human, the dog can get a severe sunburn and have no way of communicating this pain to you.

There are other basic rules for specific animals such as horses and animals suited for desert life such as giant tortoises. If you own one, become an expert about caring for your pet in the desert. Your pet will appreciate it and will have a better chance of surviving.


(This piece was published at DesertUSA.com.)

Mom Goes On The Line

I received three e-mails from my mother today. This is unusual because until today, my mother didn't own a computer. She's watched me work on my assorted computers that occupy my office and my kids’ bedrooms. For us, computers are a way of life. For my mother, computers have been frightening machines that collect way too much dust.

The first e-mail from my mother said, "Believe it or not---I'm on the line. It took a long time. Call you later. Mom." I figured by "on the line" she meant "online" and laughed at her interpretation. As a little girl, I remember my mother putting someone on hold by saying, “hold the line.” Then again, to my mother, there was a phone line, a clothes line, and A-line dresses. “Online” was never a concept she learned. “Online” just happened.

“Welcome to the club,” I replied in my e-mail. “Have fun exploring.”

The second e-mail came several hours later. It said, "I'm just learning, so don1t mind the mistakes. I bought a Dell like you suggested. Eventually I!ll know what I!m doing. gIVE mE A lITTLE tIME. Love you- Mom." This was all written in the subject line of the email. The body of the email was empty.

With a little interpretation, I saw what my mother did. So used to typing on a Smith Corona keyboard, she let her fingers decide which keys to press instead of looking at the keyboard to see the computerized differences.

I didn't want to burst my mother's bubble and tell her that she might never know what she's doing on a computer. So I sent her a reply explaining that the apostrophe and quotation marks are not over the 1 and 8 anymore like they used to be on her old Smith Corona typewriters. I explained where they were and a few other intricacies of the newer keyboard. Then I told her that the message didn't belong in the subject line. I told her where to put it. I told her to have fun and explore this new cyber-world. I told her about bookmarking favorite places, using a virus scanner, avoiding pornography, and other simple things. I worried that I was putting too much into an e-mail, but then again, I had wished I knew someone when I started out using mine who could walk me through the tough stuff. I told her I hoped the beginning is interesting and relatively easy for her. I told her not to be afraid. I told her that unless she messed around and tried to upgrade the inside of her computer like I do, she'd be fine. I don't think she'll try to see what's inside the box. And if she does, which I doubt she will, I can fix it for her.

I also sent her a second email with some links to some of my published work online, things she has never read because she could not access them without a computer. My mother has seen most of my print publications; until now she has missed everything on the Internet.

When I was in elementary school, my mother was one of the few moms who worked outside the home. In the late fifties and early sixties, other mothers stayed home. Mine worked because she had no choice. Life sometimes forces us to make those decisions. Some mothers made cookies; I don’t have any memories of my mother baking. Instead, my mother typed my school reports for me.

In my case, the situation was ideal. The office where my mother worked was across the street from my school. She was often able to coordinate her lunch with mine, and I was none the worse for it. I always had a ride to school, and for lunch, we would visit a local coffee shop and eat grilled cheese sandwiches together. I'd have my chocolate egg cream; she would have her black coffee, no sugar.

It was so long ago, but I can still visualize her office with the modern machines that impressed me so much back then. I have always liked machines. This probably explains why I love my computers so much and why my sons had no arguments when it came to purchasing Nintendo, Super Nintendo, Nintendo 64, Playstation, Xbox, and the other game machines they have wanted. The only problem for my sons was getting Mom to stop playing so they could.

In my youth at my mother’s office, I liked trying to figure out how her machines worked. My mother's office had great modern machines such as assorted electric typewriters, phones with five lines, a manual adding machine with a slot machine-like pull arm, and a Xerox machine that needed pink paper placed on top of white paper all placed in a hard plastic sleeve just to make one copy. These copies were always too dark or too light and looked nothing like the original, but there was no alternative and I was the only one I knew who could ask her mother to make copies of things. My mother never said no since she was in charge of ordering supplies at this office.

I remember when I took typing in high school, a required course for all academic students going on to college or secretarial school, and I finally made it to 40 words per minute; my mother was doing 65 words or more at the time. She never made mistakes. I tested her once at 80 words and no errors. She was an incredible typist. In those days, fixing errors required specialized typewriter erasers that tended to rip the paper if pressed too hard against the print. Sometimes it required starting from scratch. In those days, carbon paper made barely readable copies, and they served the purpose because if another copy was needed, my mother would type it again. In those days, my mother typed the addresses, one at a time, on the letterhead and on the envelopes. Billing clients took several days. In those days, my mother was the master of her trade. She typed fast and rarely made an error that she couldn't fix with ease.

My mother’s third e-mail was a reply to the one I had sent filled with, what I thought, were helpful hints. It was also written completely in the subject line. “Why did they move the apostrophe and quotation marks? There was nothing wrong with where they were. I’m going to write Dell a letter about it. Love Mom.”

Today my mother took a big step. She is on the road to being computer literate in a world very alien to the one where she had been a super star. With as much tact as I could muster, I told my mom where to find the apostrophe and the quotation marks, and she told me, in a 21st century e-mail, what I could do with them.

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©1998 by Felice Prager. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

This essay has been published in several places including The Front Porch, Sasee Magazine, and Chicken Soup for the Working Mom's Soul. aka MODERN MACHINES.

Republished In 2006 in Memory of Marcella S. Klein.

Counting to a Billion

I received a very peculiar phone call last week. The man’s voice sounded unusually similar to that of my Great Uncle Seymour, which is why I didn’t hang up in the first place. The call started with, “Hello, Sir or Madam,” (At this point, I had a hunch it might have been a recording, but I was committed.) “You have just won one billion dollars!”

At the words, “one billion dollars,” my latent listening skills went into over-drive.

“Yes, you, Sir or Madam, have won a billion dollars! All you have to do to keep your winnings is stop everything you’re doing the minute the money arrives at your front door and count it, one bill at a time to check for accuracy. The money will not be yours to spend or invest until you, Sir or Madam, have counted every single one dollar bill in the billion that will be shipped to your home, office, or alternate address. There will be a C.O.D. charge for postage and handling which we will charge to your credit card. Please, Sir or Madam, at the sound of the tone, provide us with your name, address, telephone number, credit card number with the expiration date, social security number, and your mother’s maiden name. Thank you and congratulations, Sir or Madam. This has been your lucky day. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.”

Okay, now before anyone begins to think I was born yesterday, I didn’t fall for the scam. And I knew I was in error thinking it was my Great Uncle Seymour. He still tries to slip me a twenty-dollar bill every time I see him at a relative’s wedding, but I know he’s on a fixed income, so a billion dollars is really pushing it.

The phone call did make me think, however. The idea of winning a billion dollars simply by counting it began to fester in my brain. Things often fester in my brain.

So I started doing the math. I used a calculator to check for accuracy.

I made the assumption that I did, in fact, win that billion dollars. And, as in the phone call, it would be mine only after it was counted. I would do this alone without assistants or a money-weighing machine. I would be diligent and efficient, taking no breaks. I would count until I was finished.

I figured I could count a bill a second. That seemed reasonable. In a minute I could count $60, which would be $3600 in an hour. I kept multiplying. $3600 per hour times 24 hours would be $86,400 per day. If I continued for 365 days, I’d be at $31,536,000 at the end of the first year.

Thirty-one and a half million dollars and I still haven’t slept, eaten, showered, used the phone, paid my bills, paid my income tax, or gone to the bathroom! But those would be only minor inconveniences. I’d have a billion dollars waiting for me! Yippee! A billion dollars would be mine. I’d drive expensive cars and eat in the finest of restaurants. I’d have a maid! I’d be doing the Dance of
Joy in my mansion on my own island in the South Pacific.

Back to counting one bill at a time, one bill per second.

At five years I’d have counted out $157,680,000.

At ten years, I would be at $315,360,000.

At twenty years, I’d be more than halfway there, having counted $630,720,000.

I figured it would take a little less than 32 years to get to a billion dollars. The year would be 2032, and the money would finally be mine.

True, I’d have a Charley horse from sitting so long, my hair would be gray, my hands would be permanently cramped, I’d have developed a nervous twitch, and I’d be over seventy years old, but the money would be mine.

Unfortunately, I’d also have stopped writing for 32 years. This, more than any of my bodily functions, would be a major problem. I might get the label of the world’s most efficient procrastinator. People might say I deliberately counted the money just to avoid facing the day-to-day struggles of being a writer.

But the money would be mine.

Yesterday I had a thought. If I typed a word a second without a break, I’d have a billion words written in 32 years. Then I was thinking I could type really short words like “a” and “an” and “it” and “in” and be done in half the time. Then maybe, I could finish my novel. I could even write another novel, or even two more novels.

The idea of typing a billion words began to fester in my brain. Things often fester in my brain.

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©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.

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