This year has been action packed and we’ll try to delineate the highlights for those who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) come visit us, or those who locked their door, shut the lights and pretended to not be home when we came to visit them.
Hattie is a sturdy little 22 month old tyke. She swaggers like a sun-drenched whaler whose rum filled leg has fallen asleep after being stuck in a cramped, drifting life boat for 10 months.
She’s climbing and tossing and smiling and giggling and babbling and singing. And that’s just when she’s in her crib. We took her across the country to meet cousin Bubba (Andy) this spring . She pulled out the hair, it wasn't the chemo.
Her favorite place these days is the Kerhonkson town park. We try to limit her time there as it is a reclaimed landfill, suspiciously lush even in November!?! And after 25 minutes there, one's own cheeks start to flush (even in June!?!). We try to keep her away from Superfund sites, as per the General Parenting Handbook, page 3, paragraph 4. (Note to self: Is that why our taxes are so low?)
In anticipation of the day when the snot-nose boys' intentions are other than innocently shoving her out of the way for a ride on the slide, I have been working on a new utility patent. My alternative use for the common swing is as a chastity belt for overprotective fathers (ummmm, like me). Whaddya think? Next stop Walmart shelves? I know, I know, the snow plow and Ladle Cradle are all well and good, but this has REAL potential!! (prospective investors please hit 'reply') Right now it's a little unwieldy, but I plan to fine tune it and maybe offer a few color choices! In a few years I will adjust the stamped Warning notice accordingly to caution teenage boys about teenage girls who have fathers who have excavators. But for now, we're in Beta testing!
At 22 months Hattie has an impressive command of scatological farm life language. Luckily for her, there actually is poop everywhere which she loves pointing out (in case we have forgotten). In her defense, linguistically, ‘poopoo’, ‘poppa’ and ‘puppy’ and 'pupae' are rather similar sounding and frequently used and thus difficult to enunciate or differentiate for such brand new lips.
We are going with the European ‘ momma and poppa’ for the time being because it feels different and cute. We know that soon she’ll buckle to American convention and resort to rolling her eyes, slamming her hands on her hips and saying, ‘dad.’ (As in, "What evvvvvvvver, dad..." add cluck of disgust and embarassment here).
She has taken to saying 'poppa' in public places (shopping markets, banks etc) as pa- PAHHHHHHHHHHH. The 'PAHHHHHHH' part is screamed at the top of her lungs as she cracks herself up and concerned shoppers look over to see me unable to convince this little trickster to use her 'inside voice' through my tears of laughter. She knows how to play us already.
My pursuits of country music fame have stalled a bit as I can’t seem to commit to which color cowboy hat will define me, black or white. It’s an indelible and important decision, one that impales me on its horns as I don’t want to get halfway through a potentially prosperous career and then realize I made a humiliating mistake at the beginning by choosing the wrong color hat. Frankly I don’t know how anyone figures this out. So the guitar has been on the wall waiting. And waiting. Luckily there are only 2 choices. Black or White. Everyone else in the family has figured out how to look like country stars...
The best I could whip up was this at Tractor Supply with Hattie...
And as a result, I'm thinking White Hat... A careful read of Hattie's lips says: "Umm, pa PAHHHHHHHHHH can you please put me back in the car alone? NOW?? I'll pay the fine the cop issues for endangering a child out of my eventual allowance... right now, and I mean RIGHT now, I just want to be, errrr, alone."
Yes, I have brought shame to my family with my in-store antics.
I've graduated to somewhat regular essayist on the NPR network here in the Northeast. Great to be able to get these things out, and fun to hear folks say, "Hey, I heard you on NPR while I was having anonymous sex with a prostitute at a truckstop on rt 95- Hey do you have a cold or something??"
On the farm, Hattie likes to survey the views from the comfort of her clothing-optional adirondack chair.
This year she was even elected Miss John Deere 2009
What she doesn't realize is that merely looking at this junker tractor the wrong way breaks it.
But it's hard to stay mad...
This one was in last year's xmas letter but it's too cute not to reuse.
Like any good Nichols, Hattie has a strong genetic propensity for the telephone. Combine this with a strong genetic propensity for ordering up room service and there's trouble aplenty when it comes time to settle up with the front desk.
"Let's get some more breast milk up here already. I called 40 minutes ago. You call this 5 star?"
Again this year we're off to Florida, but in the words of George Jefferson, we're movin' on up! (Ha! You thought I was going to quote Kierkegaard!! Fooled ya!) Movin' on up and not into a larger, more fuel efficient RV, either. This year we are getting one of the apartments on Continental Acres Horse Park at the discounted, sympathy rate. (Come to think of it, 'Continental Acres Horse Park' does sound like one of those suspiciously euphemistic, assisted-living outfits they park you at in Florida when you turn 97 and can no longer find your teeth).
Hattie learned to walk in Florida last winter, and we attribute her confidence afoot to the fact that we were unable to level the RV. She learned to walk on a pitched surface and we slept each night with the blood rushing to our heads. This resulted in some strange dreams indeed. And even stranger morning breath.
We'll take our 2 superstar ponies down this winter and Cori will spend lots of time getting them into even better shape. She had a great season of riding and (surprise!) we've discovered that Hattie is simply nuts about riding! So it's extremely cute to see the two of them doing chores, for example, and Hattie tossing a fist of hay at the horses for dinner while mom take a slightly more thorough approach.
Cori is working on a certification that will put her into a fairly elite grouping of instructors. Again this year her students worship the ground she walks on, even if the economy has affected the luxury activities like horseback riding and yachting. Speaking of yachting, we sold the Bada Bing. It was bittersweet because it finally closed that excellent chapter of our lives. But, you know, more sweet than bitter.
Somehow we managed to bale and pick up 700 bales of hay (I'm using the term 'we' generously here) and that cacophonous symphony of backfiring old equipment always takes me back to the Katonah, NY farm where I cut my teeth cutting baling twine with my teeth (!?!). Here's a view from the 1936 Farm All tractor I learned to drive at 7 years old.
We had a few weddings/ events on the farm this year and they were great fun. I also got to officiate a wedding of a few dear friends up here at a location other than the farm. It was on a golf course. The septic system had backed up and was, as Dylan once indelibly said, 'blowing in the wind.' I tried to be mature and not turn their wedding into a Comedy Central roast, but damn...There's a picture of me in a suit out there on facebook if you need a good belly laugh.
We got to spend some time with the family this year. Cori's mom came to stay in Florida and get some Oma time in. We visited PU, Helga and Hattie's favorite, Herr, Doktor, Professor P. Pumpkin Pie, Esq. in Westport, Mass
Nice puppy. This is PU trying to kick sand on top of what will otherwise be a $25 fine. Nice puppy.
Hattie's favo view of horse shows is from the small of her favorite ride's back. The feeling is mutual.
So that's our picture story of 2009. We wish you all much love, and as we look down on the bracelets that Bubba gave to us, we can't help read, and reuse with respect, his sagacious, genuine Team Sharp words:
Be well and in peace.
love Cori Wally and Hattie (and the Bichons)
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
xmas letter 2005
Dear friends and family-- Happy holidays to you all. We’ve decided to cobble together an annual report, especially for the benefit of you who haven’t heard the details directly from me on my cell phone while driving which I seem to do a lot of these days somehow. (I’ve developed the vengeful habit of riding my Verizon minutes’ limit to the razor’s edge in a small man’s attempt to kick the Big Man in the shins with my crippling singular usage of his network and thus get my money’s worth. It feels good.)
Life is great at Norwegian Woods Farm (and B&B if you don’t sound too weird to us on the phone). If you are a small white dog, you will be adored, watched like a hawk, hugged and damn-near smothered with affection. In return, you will only occasionally crap inside. We’re batting 800 on that front!! (800 being the aggregate number of times we’ve had to reach down with a paper towel).
If you are a horse, your every need is tended to lovingly and dutifully by the sexy lady of the house. In a week or two, there will be no more available stalls. This means a few things: 1) we are now firing our commercial horse boarding business on all cylinders 2) I no longer see cute snorting mounts waiting for a ride and attention. As we are eligible for the NY State Agricultural Exemption, I see proud , well-trained 1400 lb tax deductions! 3) There’s a good chance that in my stocking this year I’ll get a hammer, some 2x4s and a smile from my wife.
If you are a guinea hen, your gorge on tiny deer ticks has come to a merciful end with the snow. (We got the ugly bastards b/c they eat 1000/ day each. One day I stayed home and counted) If you are a chicken, you are in a quaint, barely windproof piece of Section 8 housing that I (and a few college friend onlookers) slapped up one day. You will spend the winter huddling under a heat lamp put in for warmth. Warmth? I think it is part of a larger conspiracy propagated by Cori to slow-cook, oven-roast these suckers over the winter. Nonetheless, they do lay eggs and Cori has become ‘The Egg Lady” selling fresh eggs to neighbors from a self serve cooler at the bottom of the driveway. Somehow this easy gift to the local high school pranksters has been over looked by their blind lust for our mailbox which was finally bashed to smithereens a few months ago. (In my high school days, our family’s mailbox was always the only one spared which made me Suspect #1 in the neighbor’s eyes. But I had nothing to do with it and told the accusers as much- I wasn’t so stupid that I would leave only my mailbox in tact, thank you. Errrrrgghh.) Our neighbors love the eggs and Cori is the Queen of Old Queens Highway. The $3 / dozen fee covers the cost of armor she needs to get past the rooster. He’s a mean SOB and especially hates me (I’m vegetarian. What gives?!)
If you are a cat at Norwegian Wood farm, you apparently didn’t get the memo that we don’t ‘do’ house cats. Period. Despite our continual lower leg blocks at the front door, they think they will wear us down and finally invite them in. And they are mistaken. “You are barn cats,” I yell daily. “What don’t you understand about this?” The sorry answer is , None of it. None. When either of us leaves the house, we are trailed by a proud parade of 6 cats each trying its damndest to get under our feet and trip us up.
This fall we finished off Furry Phones International Head Quarters and Industrial Park, so now the workshop has heat, lights and a parking space for the ‘Employee of the Month’. That means production can continue without interruption. Listen carefully and you can hear the sound of whips cracking! Business has tapered to a reasonable flow, (has the global market been saturated already? Yikes!) which has allowed a little more time for Cori’s second and third love-- to ride and instruct. (I’m still safely at Love Number 1 for the moment.)
Cori has also been awarded the title of “Ms Kerhonkson Landfill 2005” by the ogling gents who run our town dump. She has swept the contest for the 5th year in a row, not surprisingly. Her prize is that the guys fall over themselves to unload her filled pickup truck for free while charging me $10 to throw out my recyclable soda can.
I’ve been swinging hammers on a nearby building project that seems to rival the Taj Mahal in terms of time (and cost) needed to complete. Someday it will be the home to a fabulously wealthy Wall Streeter, and they will double my asking price because of the love and extra attention put into the house. That’s my mantra anyway as I slip on my keester with 50 lbs of supplies on the icy, inaccessible driveway.
With an unexpected revisit from a musical muse, I have gathered up my very talented high school friends and packed back into a small, aromatic, recording studio to record another CD. This new year we will be attempting to get some more radio airplay and then record another CD. It’s really great to be writing music again. And on the subject of writing, I plan to finish my novel this winter, though I certainly realize this refrain is beginning to sound familiar.
The LadleCradle was picked up by a very large catalogue (www.wdrake.com) so come January 2006, I’m curious to know who out there falls prey to the stern warning that no kitchen is complete without one, no home is safe. In any event it is exciting and I appreciate the validation, even if it is from an outfit that also sells miniature garden gnomes and plastic corn on the cob holders in the shape of corn on the cob.
Many of you have asked about our parents. My dad died three times this summer in one scary day and lives to tell about it largely as a result of a regular person’s CPR skill. With gratitude, this spring I am re-certifying as a NY State EMT. (editorial note: CPR classes in your area are fun fun fun and only take a few hours.) Cori’s pop had some health scares too including the black and blue results of accidentally using a log splitting maul to trim his toenails but is doing great now and looks smashing in his padded flat shoe. Fraus Heidi and Helga are well and are keeping their convalescing husbands (somewhat) out of trouble. Nephews and nieces number in the hundreds now and are growing like weeds.
We’ve been fortunate to have dear friends and even some family choose to spend time with us on our farm and elsewhere. Despite our many interests, hanging out with each other and friends continues to really be what we cherish the most – Christmas (Am I still allowed to use this word?) is the time when we get the cards of your cute kids, your updates, your warm wishes. And we are reminded of how lucky we are.
With tons of love and the wish to see even more of you in 2006…
Stay well and have a happy new year.
Wally and Cori
PO Box 96
Kerhonkson, NY 12446
845 626 5125
cwn4@aol.com Farm picts are at: www.eventponies.com
Life is great at Norwegian Woods Farm (and B&B if you don’t sound too weird to us on the phone). If you are a small white dog, you will be adored, watched like a hawk, hugged and damn-near smothered with affection. In return, you will only occasionally crap inside. We’re batting 800 on that front!! (800 being the aggregate number of times we’ve had to reach down with a paper towel).
If you are a horse, your every need is tended to lovingly and dutifully by the sexy lady of the house. In a week or two, there will be no more available stalls. This means a few things: 1) we are now firing our commercial horse boarding business on all cylinders 2) I no longer see cute snorting mounts waiting for a ride and attention. As we are eligible for the NY State Agricultural Exemption, I see proud , well-trained 1400 lb tax deductions! 3) There’s a good chance that in my stocking this year I’ll get a hammer, some 2x4s and a smile from my wife.
If you are a guinea hen, your gorge on tiny deer ticks has come to a merciful end with the snow. (We got the ugly bastards b/c they eat 1000/ day each. One day I stayed home and counted) If you are a chicken, you are in a quaint, barely windproof piece of Section 8 housing that I (and a few college friend onlookers) slapped up one day. You will spend the winter huddling under a heat lamp put in for warmth. Warmth? I think it is part of a larger conspiracy propagated by Cori to slow-cook, oven-roast these suckers over the winter. Nonetheless, they do lay eggs and Cori has become ‘The Egg Lady” selling fresh eggs to neighbors from a self serve cooler at the bottom of the driveway. Somehow this easy gift to the local high school pranksters has been over looked by their blind lust for our mailbox which was finally bashed to smithereens a few months ago. (In my high school days, our family’s mailbox was always the only one spared which made me Suspect #1 in the neighbor’s eyes. But I had nothing to do with it and told the accusers as much- I wasn’t so stupid that I would leave only my mailbox in tact, thank you. Errrrrgghh.) Our neighbors love the eggs and Cori is the Queen of Old Queens Highway. The $3 / dozen fee covers the cost of armor she needs to get past the rooster. He’s a mean SOB and especially hates me (I’m vegetarian. What gives?!)
If you are a cat at Norwegian Wood farm, you apparently didn’t get the memo that we don’t ‘do’ house cats. Period. Despite our continual lower leg blocks at the front door, they think they will wear us down and finally invite them in. And they are mistaken. “You are barn cats,” I yell daily. “What don’t you understand about this?” The sorry answer is , None of it. None. When either of us leaves the house, we are trailed by a proud parade of 6 cats each trying its damndest to get under our feet and trip us up.
This fall we finished off Furry Phones International Head Quarters and Industrial Park, so now the workshop has heat, lights and a parking space for the ‘Employee of the Month’. That means production can continue without interruption. Listen carefully and you can hear the sound of whips cracking! Business has tapered to a reasonable flow, (has the global market been saturated already? Yikes!) which has allowed a little more time for Cori’s second and third love-- to ride and instruct. (I’m still safely at Love Number 1 for the moment.)
Cori has also been awarded the title of “Ms Kerhonkson Landfill 2005” by the ogling gents who run our town dump. She has swept the contest for the 5th year in a row, not surprisingly. Her prize is that the guys fall over themselves to unload her filled pickup truck for free while charging me $10 to throw out my recyclable soda can.
I’ve been swinging hammers on a nearby building project that seems to rival the Taj Mahal in terms of time (and cost) needed to complete. Someday it will be the home to a fabulously wealthy Wall Streeter, and they will double my asking price because of the love and extra attention put into the house. That’s my mantra anyway as I slip on my keester with 50 lbs of supplies on the icy, inaccessible driveway.
With an unexpected revisit from a musical muse, I have gathered up my very talented high school friends and packed back into a small, aromatic, recording studio to record another CD. This new year we will be attempting to get some more radio airplay and then record another CD. It’s really great to be writing music again. And on the subject of writing, I plan to finish my novel this winter, though I certainly realize this refrain is beginning to sound familiar.
The LadleCradle was picked up by a very large catalogue (www.wdrake.com) so come January 2006, I’m curious to know who out there falls prey to the stern warning that no kitchen is complete without one, no home is safe. In any event it is exciting and I appreciate the validation, even if it is from an outfit that also sells miniature garden gnomes and plastic corn on the cob holders in the shape of corn on the cob.
Many of you have asked about our parents. My dad died three times this summer in one scary day and lives to tell about it largely as a result of a regular person’s CPR skill. With gratitude, this spring I am re-certifying as a NY State EMT. (editorial note: CPR classes in your area are fun fun fun and only take a few hours.) Cori’s pop had some health scares too including the black and blue results of accidentally using a log splitting maul to trim his toenails but is doing great now and looks smashing in his padded flat shoe. Fraus Heidi and Helga are well and are keeping their convalescing husbands (somewhat) out of trouble. Nephews and nieces number in the hundreds now and are growing like weeds.
We’ve been fortunate to have dear friends and even some family choose to spend time with us on our farm and elsewhere. Despite our many interests, hanging out with each other and friends continues to really be what we cherish the most – Christmas (Am I still allowed to use this word?) is the time when we get the cards of your cute kids, your updates, your warm wishes. And we are reminded of how lucky we are.
With tons of love and the wish to see even more of you in 2006…
Stay well and have a happy new year.
Wally and Cori
PO Box 96
Kerhonkson, NY 12446
845 626 5125
cwn4@aol.com Farm picts are at: www.eventponies.com
xmas letter 2006 finka de la stinka
‘2006’
(El Finca del Stinka)
(translated: A farm of great aromas)
(A screenplay with few lines)
(Starring)
Cori Nichols
(And featuring)
Wally Nichols
(with)
Dr. Funk and Nurse Diesel
(And a cast of thousands if you include horses, guinea hens, bales of hay, tractors, ticks, yellow jackets, parasites, amoebas, lawn clippings, a mortgage and ladybugs)
In their collective screen debut…
Act 1: Scene 1:
INT. Bedroom. 4am some dark wintry Dec. morning. Cori, a 30 year old (if you round down to the nearest 30) beautiful blond number, tosses and turns. She surveys the unlit bedroom and watches her breath crystalize into frost . There is no heat and Upstate New York again promises to shake the weaklings to the hard ground this winter. The three males in her life (1 human , 2 canine) crowd the undersized king mattress and shamelessly grope the duvet, sheets and pillows leaving her with only the mattress warning tag to stay warm (which , it says clear as day, she’s not allowed to remove under penalty of law) . All three males are on their backs, interwoven, with their legs and arms extending straight up in the air. The din of snoring is almost unbearable. The air is pungent. There is fogged condensation on the inside of the window and she remembers a different sort of luxury in the courtin’ years. Her lips are blue and it ain’t the lipstick…Indeed, it is probably warmer outside.
Able to neither sleep nor breath fresh air (CLOSE UP: Wally’s mid section, posterior), Cori sits up in bed, grabs a wad of blanket and sturdily yanks. (Imagine a tablecloth under wine glasses and a full royal buffet) The 56 thread count ‘bargains’ Wally found at the Dollar Store back in April hastily return to their rightful owner in the form of a bullwhip. The sheets are coarse enough to grind foot bunions back into compliance and make canvas Home Depot drop-cloths seem an unattainable luxury for their caste. Instinctually Wally swats for them, and unsuccessful, pulls an unwitting, yet warm, bichon by its front legs a little closer.
CORI
(sotto voce)
Hey Blanket Bandito…Are you awake?
Wally lays frozen in fear that any movement might betray his real state of consciousness resulting in his having to get up and feed the wood stove that, despite manufacturer’s guaranty of a 10 hour overnight burn time, self-extinguishes every night in fewer than 3 hours. He knows that if he feigns sleep, he’ll out-stubborn her, which is no easy feat. He thanks his parents for making him a Scorpio. He flatulates to complete and authenticate the Oscar-winner sleep performance . The Bichons (resigned to this nightly occurrence) shift uncomfortably and fall back asleep slightly anesthetized.
CORI
Got to get up and pack. We’re leaving today.
Wally snaps out of bed. It’s true. The couple has decided to shut down the farm, drain the pipes and leave for the warmer climes of Florida until Spring returns to Kerhonkson and melts the 300 feet of snow they will likely get and thus will likely have to plow with a single undersized (yet fun to drive) ATV). At least 10 weeks.
(Director’s note: Many consider Florida to be nothing more than the sanctuary of white-belted retirees, myopic golfers and tight, mesh-shirt wearing, muscle-clad goombas steering their white, flame-licked Trans-Ams towards drive-through Beverage Barns with cans of open beer not so discreetly wedged between their legs. And while it seems true that if you want to be on an episode of Cops here, all you need do is open your front door and sit on the steps, Florida also has art beyond the limitations of television. Look no further than the reception area of any Hooters or Cracker Barrel and you’ll see for yourself. But this couple knows better and will not indulge in mockery at Florida’s expense-- In Florida, simply put, it is warmer. (Even though global warming is doing its best to level the playing field). While also true that the shoes are whiter, the pants ride higher, the politics are keener (Wally still finds occasion to refer to the state as “Flor-a- DUH” after each election cycle, deserving or not), the bottom line is that after a year of hard manual labor, the likes of which one might find at a prison labor camp, the two farmers could use a break. Checking all notions of self-esteem and accomplishment at the door, they are booked to live in a plastic motor home (de rigeur in Florida) on an equine resort (‘resort’ might be a slightly misleading term) and train horses. (CUT AWAY: Wally trying to fit a bridle over a horse’s ass).
Cori’s horse boarding and riding lesson business has been a smashing success (only 3 miles of fencing were smashed this year!) —They have upwards of 14 horses and many concerned friends and family ask after the health and well being of Antonio Blanco Del ‘Piccolito’ Osama Bin ‘Drama’ Llama, the farm’s only camelid, who remains as smug and proud (and alive) as ever.
Wally’s efforts as a home developer (ummmm, the good kind so hold your rotten egg bombs and protest marches) have resulted in 1 almost finished house (of 4 ) and a dark look up the pleated skirt of throttling regulation, bureaucracy, fines, overcharges and damn near imprisonment. Other than that, it’s really going well!
In Florida, it is worth noting, Cori wont have any one of a dozen youngster students shadowing her as they do here on the farm. They all want to grow up and be like her minus the husband. Nor will she have the benefit of her father’s worldy advice and love as he passed this spring at 89. If there is a place ‘beyond’ for in-laws, Wally’s mother is now grilling Roger with questions on gardening while he is too polite to mention that he’d really prefer a few minutes with Abe Lincoln and Socrates before heavenly Bingo.
This past year Wally turned 40. The very act was as much a surprise to him as the party Cori threw. More like a roast. From far below the stack of bales upon which he lorded, in a friggin’ frigid barn with no indoor plumbing, dear (??) friends and family articulated the roastee’s foibles, frailties, connivery and shortcomings in a loving (and beautifully catered) way. One of the cheap’n’ easy targets was music, which some noted (ahem, pardon), has taken Wally in a new and exciting direction, to wit, the genre of Country. Yep. Living in the country has a way making one live for the country, if you get the drift. Country living has a way of breaking down the human innate survivalist aversion to country music with which we’re all mercifully born. But it grew on him like it’ll grow on you. So new music hot off the hard drive has been birthed in 2006 and the process promises to continue into 2007 and beyond (and then beyond that) until he is backed into the single remaining refuge of musical opportunity: Evangelical Christian Rock (which he threatens to learn about, and master, if forced). If you want to hear stuff before that however, send up a smoke signal and your i-stocking will be electronically stuffed.
WIDE SHOT: on idling pick-up truck/ trailer combo, loaded with 3 horses, 2 bikes, 2 bichons, rollerblades, computers, clothes, food, rent money, a AAA membership, dental floss, a frayed (and ultimately ignored) bumper sticker peddling a sun-bleached, discontinued Kerry/ Edwards promise, a CB radio, Rolaids, an outdated map of Tuscany (you never know!) and a used banner they picked up from someone in the DC area for $2 on Ebay saying “Mission Accomplished.”
The rig starts down the long rutted driveway slowly, squatting low on its burdened suspension like a pregnant Sumo wrestler and pitching dangerously in the gullies that shred the unsuspecting undercarriages of Mormon Church missionaries. The driveway has a perfectly ignored feel to it, one we do not want the people in Set Design to fix with their shovels, no matter how much they beg.
CLOSE UP: On Cori (driving) and Wally in a slap fight with the bichons for control of the front seat. There are big pre-trip smiles all around until Cori suddenly scrunches her nose, scowls, swats Wally and cracks the driver’s side window. Wally shrugs his shoulders defensively and points at the closest small dog.
CAMERA: follows the rig down the driveway, framed symmetrically under the majestic ‘Gunks’ mountain range towards which they drive, through the farm gates. It’s 4 am- the witching hour for diesel dogs and asphalt cowboys. 2006 and a patient farm loom large in the rear view mirror.
CUE: philharmonic-style string orchestration. If you’re gonna get misty this is the time, folks. Roll credits
BUT WAIT!!!
No sooner are they through the symbolic gates than they are pulled over by a state trooper and ticketed for being grossly overloaded.
The End
(If you would like to be an extra in this film, we’re reviewing resumes. Please mail headshots to : cwn4@aol.com and enclose $25 for processing. To get a tour of the set, and meet the stars, please consider a visit any time during what we hope is a very fine and healthy 2007).
Love,
the entire cast(e)
(El Finca del Stinka)
(translated: A farm of great aromas)
(A screenplay with few lines)
(Starring)
Cori Nichols
(And featuring)
Wally Nichols
(with)
Dr. Funk and Nurse Diesel
(And a cast of thousands if you include horses, guinea hens, bales of hay, tractors, ticks, yellow jackets, parasites, amoebas, lawn clippings, a mortgage and ladybugs)
In their collective screen debut…
Act 1: Scene 1:
INT. Bedroom. 4am some dark wintry Dec. morning. Cori, a 30 year old (if you round down to the nearest 30) beautiful blond number, tosses and turns. She surveys the unlit bedroom and watches her breath crystalize into frost . There is no heat and Upstate New York again promises to shake the weaklings to the hard ground this winter. The three males in her life (1 human , 2 canine) crowd the undersized king mattress and shamelessly grope the duvet, sheets and pillows leaving her with only the mattress warning tag to stay warm (which , it says clear as day, she’s not allowed to remove under penalty of law) . All three males are on their backs, interwoven, with their legs and arms extending straight up in the air. The din of snoring is almost unbearable. The air is pungent. There is fogged condensation on the inside of the window and she remembers a different sort of luxury in the courtin’ years. Her lips are blue and it ain’t the lipstick…Indeed, it is probably warmer outside.
Able to neither sleep nor breath fresh air (CLOSE UP: Wally’s mid section, posterior), Cori sits up in bed, grabs a wad of blanket and sturdily yanks. (Imagine a tablecloth under wine glasses and a full royal buffet) The 56 thread count ‘bargains’ Wally found at the Dollar Store back in April hastily return to their rightful owner in the form of a bullwhip. The sheets are coarse enough to grind foot bunions back into compliance and make canvas Home Depot drop-cloths seem an unattainable luxury for their caste. Instinctually Wally swats for them, and unsuccessful, pulls an unwitting, yet warm, bichon by its front legs a little closer.
CORI
(sotto voce)
Hey Blanket Bandito…Are you awake?
Wally lays frozen in fear that any movement might betray his real state of consciousness resulting in his having to get up and feed the wood stove that, despite manufacturer’s guaranty of a 10 hour overnight burn time, self-extinguishes every night in fewer than 3 hours. He knows that if he feigns sleep, he’ll out-stubborn her, which is no easy feat. He thanks his parents for making him a Scorpio. He flatulates to complete and authenticate the Oscar-winner sleep performance . The Bichons (resigned to this nightly occurrence) shift uncomfortably and fall back asleep slightly anesthetized.
CORI
Got to get up and pack. We’re leaving today.
Wally snaps out of bed. It’s true. The couple has decided to shut down the farm, drain the pipes and leave for the warmer climes of Florida until Spring returns to Kerhonkson and melts the 300 feet of snow they will likely get and thus will likely have to plow with a single undersized (yet fun to drive) ATV). At least 10 weeks.
(Director’s note: Many consider Florida to be nothing more than the sanctuary of white-belted retirees, myopic golfers and tight, mesh-shirt wearing, muscle-clad goombas steering their white, flame-licked Trans-Ams towards drive-through Beverage Barns with cans of open beer not so discreetly wedged between their legs. And while it seems true that if you want to be on an episode of Cops here, all you need do is open your front door and sit on the steps, Florida also has art beyond the limitations of television. Look no further than the reception area of any Hooters or Cracker Barrel and you’ll see for yourself. But this couple knows better and will not indulge in mockery at Florida’s expense-- In Florida, simply put, it is warmer. (Even though global warming is doing its best to level the playing field). While also true that the shoes are whiter, the pants ride higher, the politics are keener (Wally still finds occasion to refer to the state as “Flor-a- DUH” after each election cycle, deserving or not), the bottom line is that after a year of hard manual labor, the likes of which one might find at a prison labor camp, the two farmers could use a break. Checking all notions of self-esteem and accomplishment at the door, they are booked to live in a plastic motor home (de rigeur in Florida) on an equine resort (‘resort’ might be a slightly misleading term) and train horses. (CUT AWAY: Wally trying to fit a bridle over a horse’s ass).
Cori’s horse boarding and riding lesson business has been a smashing success (only 3 miles of fencing were smashed this year!) —They have upwards of 14 horses and many concerned friends and family ask after the health and well being of Antonio Blanco Del ‘Piccolito’ Osama Bin ‘Drama’ Llama, the farm’s only camelid, who remains as smug and proud (and alive) as ever.
Wally’s efforts as a home developer (ummmm, the good kind so hold your rotten egg bombs and protest marches) have resulted in 1 almost finished house (of 4 ) and a dark look up the pleated skirt of throttling regulation, bureaucracy, fines, overcharges and damn near imprisonment. Other than that, it’s really going well!
In Florida, it is worth noting, Cori wont have any one of a dozen youngster students shadowing her as they do here on the farm. They all want to grow up and be like her minus the husband. Nor will she have the benefit of her father’s worldy advice and love as he passed this spring at 89. If there is a place ‘beyond’ for in-laws, Wally’s mother is now grilling Roger with questions on gardening while he is too polite to mention that he’d really prefer a few minutes with Abe Lincoln and Socrates before heavenly Bingo.
This past year Wally turned 40. The very act was as much a surprise to him as the party Cori threw. More like a roast. From far below the stack of bales upon which he lorded, in a friggin’ frigid barn with no indoor plumbing, dear (??) friends and family articulated the roastee’s foibles, frailties, connivery and shortcomings in a loving (and beautifully catered) way. One of the cheap’n’ easy targets was music, which some noted (ahem, pardon), has taken Wally in a new and exciting direction, to wit, the genre of Country. Yep. Living in the country has a way making one live for the country, if you get the drift. Country living has a way of breaking down the human innate survivalist aversion to country music with which we’re all mercifully born. But it grew on him like it’ll grow on you. So new music hot off the hard drive has been birthed in 2006 and the process promises to continue into 2007 and beyond (and then beyond that) until he is backed into the single remaining refuge of musical opportunity: Evangelical Christian Rock (which he threatens to learn about, and master, if forced). If you want to hear stuff before that however, send up a smoke signal and your i-stocking will be electronically stuffed.
WIDE SHOT: on idling pick-up truck/ trailer combo, loaded with 3 horses, 2 bikes, 2 bichons, rollerblades, computers, clothes, food, rent money, a AAA membership, dental floss, a frayed (and ultimately ignored) bumper sticker peddling a sun-bleached, discontinued Kerry/ Edwards promise, a CB radio, Rolaids, an outdated map of Tuscany (you never know!) and a used banner they picked up from someone in the DC area for $2 on Ebay saying “Mission Accomplished.”
The rig starts down the long rutted driveway slowly, squatting low on its burdened suspension like a pregnant Sumo wrestler and pitching dangerously in the gullies that shred the unsuspecting undercarriages of Mormon Church missionaries. The driveway has a perfectly ignored feel to it, one we do not want the people in Set Design to fix with their shovels, no matter how much they beg.
CLOSE UP: On Cori (driving) and Wally in a slap fight with the bichons for control of the front seat. There are big pre-trip smiles all around until Cori suddenly scrunches her nose, scowls, swats Wally and cracks the driver’s side window. Wally shrugs his shoulders defensively and points at the closest small dog.
CAMERA: follows the rig down the driveway, framed symmetrically under the majestic ‘Gunks’ mountain range towards which they drive, through the farm gates. It’s 4 am- the witching hour for diesel dogs and asphalt cowboys. 2006 and a patient farm loom large in the rear view mirror.
CUE: philharmonic-style string orchestration. If you’re gonna get misty this is the time, folks. Roll credits
BUT WAIT!!!
No sooner are they through the symbolic gates than they are pulled over by a state trooper and ticketed for being grossly overloaded.
The End
(If you would like to be an extra in this film, we’re reviewing resumes. Please mail headshots to : cwn4@aol.com and enclose $25 for processing. To get a tour of the set, and meet the stars, please consider a visit any time during what we hope is a very fine and healthy 2007).
Love,
the entire cast(e)
Dear Wally #43 Boyfriend
Help I need a boyfriend!
Dear Wally-
I need a boyfriend and I need one now. Someone handy would be nice because halfway through an addition to my house my ex (a carpenter) and I broke up. Damn it. It has been a long, cold winter with nothing but Tyvek sheathing to keep out the cold (and the wolves?). My fingers have yet to thaw. My ideal mate will need to know his way around a nail gun and also not be scared of ladders (I have a pesky clogging gutter situation that needs addressing three times a year). I’m not too particular about height—Somebody 5’10” would be ideal but anywhere between 4’ and 8’ is between the uprights, as far as I’m concerned. Speaking of sports metaphors, this guy CAN NOT be one of those self-scratching sofa slugs who watches ‘the game’ every day of the week. A little sports is ok (an hour a month?) but that’s it.
Oh, and can you make the fellow a good looking artist, too. (With no moustache??)
Thanks,
PP
(ps- Sorry to be pushy but can you make this a priority? My roof is starting to heave.)
Dear PP-
A long cold winter with nothing but Tyvek to keep out the cold? Let me get this straight: Your hands don’t work. Your roof is about to break. You need regular gutter and ladder work. There’s only a thin membrane between you and wolves.
And you wonder why guys aren’t busting down your door? (Do you even have a door or does your new boyfriend need to put that in too?) Let’s back it up and start with the basics: I offer advice on things I mostly know nothing about: From soapbox rants to rodent control to lottery fantasy fulfillment to politics and most everything in between. The ‘Dear Wally’ forum is not exactly a dating service, not even obliquely, but I’ll try to help you where I can because I think everyone should experience love (and clean gutters). And because I know nothing about seeking a male mate, I’ll offer some advice.
How about we ease away from the one-stop-shopping model of mate-seeking. It’s outdated. There was a time when one could drive through a country town and see a quaint corner store selling mismatched shelf-mates. Two in particular stand out in my memory: One store sold ‘cold beer and clothes.’ The other sold hardware and Chinese food. But those days of convenience shopping at the same place for hardware and Chinese food might be behind us. Those places are all out of business now and it’s no wonder. It’s a complicated, specialized world out there now and the same hold true for mates. Ask for too much in one package and you might get left holding useless sweet and sour nuts (and bolts). Nobody wins. It’s also a lot of pressure on any one human to hit all the things on someone else’s wish list. I respectfully submit that your wish list for handyman skills alone sounds decently extensive. I got shivers just reading your letter.
I think you might do well to consider first seeking a carpenter or handyman in the classifieds to finish your house before the snows return and not think of him (or her) from the get go as a sexual object or someone with whom you might want to dash off into the sunset. If, after a decent amount of work has happened and has been paid for, the wolves haven’t devoured you both, and everyone is happy, and you both start seeing sky rockets, then ok, fine. But keep the boyfriend part out of it for now. It’s too complicated, especially where power tools are involved.
You might simultaneously take an ad out in the personals (different from the classifieds, right?) seeking a man with the qualities you mention (minimum height, no moustache, etc).
Alas, your ideal of the uber-renaissance mench might also be antiquated. Da Vinci was the last known such jerk and since he walked the earth, he’s made the rest of us guys look like under achieving schmucks and fools.
I’m sure you will find plenty of folks to help out with the various projects and I’m excited to hear how things work out. You might also ask the question, ‘what am I bringing to the table’ (Yes, I know you need one of those made too, right after the roof is fixed). Are you witty? pretty? loving? hard working? appreciative? I’m sure all of the above, PP. Break it down for the guys out there and good luck.
-W
Got a question that needs answering or a roof you want someone to look at but not fix? Contact our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally-
I need a boyfriend and I need one now. Someone handy would be nice because halfway through an addition to my house my ex (a carpenter) and I broke up. Damn it. It has been a long, cold winter with nothing but Tyvek sheathing to keep out the cold (and the wolves?). My fingers have yet to thaw. My ideal mate will need to know his way around a nail gun and also not be scared of ladders (I have a pesky clogging gutter situation that needs addressing three times a year). I’m not too particular about height—Somebody 5’10” would be ideal but anywhere between 4’ and 8’ is between the uprights, as far as I’m concerned. Speaking of sports metaphors, this guy CAN NOT be one of those self-scratching sofa slugs who watches ‘the game’ every day of the week. A little sports is ok (an hour a month?) but that’s it.
Oh, and can you make the fellow a good looking artist, too. (With no moustache??)
Thanks,
PP
(ps- Sorry to be pushy but can you make this a priority? My roof is starting to heave.)
Dear PP-
A long cold winter with nothing but Tyvek to keep out the cold? Let me get this straight: Your hands don’t work. Your roof is about to break. You need regular gutter and ladder work. There’s only a thin membrane between you and wolves.
And you wonder why guys aren’t busting down your door? (Do you even have a door or does your new boyfriend need to put that in too?) Let’s back it up and start with the basics: I offer advice on things I mostly know nothing about: From soapbox rants to rodent control to lottery fantasy fulfillment to politics and most everything in between. The ‘Dear Wally’ forum is not exactly a dating service, not even obliquely, but I’ll try to help you where I can because I think everyone should experience love (and clean gutters). And because I know nothing about seeking a male mate, I’ll offer some advice.
How about we ease away from the one-stop-shopping model of mate-seeking. It’s outdated. There was a time when one could drive through a country town and see a quaint corner store selling mismatched shelf-mates. Two in particular stand out in my memory: One store sold ‘cold beer and clothes.’ The other sold hardware and Chinese food. But those days of convenience shopping at the same place for hardware and Chinese food might be behind us. Those places are all out of business now and it’s no wonder. It’s a complicated, specialized world out there now and the same hold true for mates. Ask for too much in one package and you might get left holding useless sweet and sour nuts (and bolts). Nobody wins. It’s also a lot of pressure on any one human to hit all the things on someone else’s wish list. I respectfully submit that your wish list for handyman skills alone sounds decently extensive. I got shivers just reading your letter.
I think you might do well to consider first seeking a carpenter or handyman in the classifieds to finish your house before the snows return and not think of him (or her) from the get go as a sexual object or someone with whom you might want to dash off into the sunset. If, after a decent amount of work has happened and has been paid for, the wolves haven’t devoured you both, and everyone is happy, and you both start seeing sky rockets, then ok, fine. But keep the boyfriend part out of it for now. It’s too complicated, especially where power tools are involved.
You might simultaneously take an ad out in the personals (different from the classifieds, right?) seeking a man with the qualities you mention (minimum height, no moustache, etc).
Alas, your ideal of the uber-renaissance mench might also be antiquated. Da Vinci was the last known such jerk and since he walked the earth, he’s made the rest of us guys look like under achieving schmucks and fools.
I’m sure you will find plenty of folks to help out with the various projects and I’m excited to hear how things work out. You might also ask the question, ‘what am I bringing to the table’ (Yes, I know you need one of those made too, right after the roof is fixed). Are you witty? pretty? loving? hard working? appreciative? I’m sure all of the above, PP. Break it down for the guys out there and good luck.
-W
Got a question that needs answering or a roof you want someone to look at but not fix? Contact our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally #44 Good Book? Baby's Bellybutton
Dear Wally-
Read any good books lately?
-Marcy (Stone Ridge)
Dear Marcy:
Like many caught up in the hurly-burly of life, I long to have the quiet time to drop into a red velvet smoking jacket and revisit the classics. That said, and being the parent of a toddler, my ‘A’ list is topped with an efficient, portable stand-out. An inflatable life donut in a sea of sinking mediocrity, this book works for all ages. Let’s meet the soon-to-be-classic, intensely popular, “Where’s Baby’s Belly Button?” by Karen Katz.
This future member of the literary canon’s title is more a rhetorical question than a literal one. In this gripping, intensely short work, a solitary child (our most innocent, fragile member of society and the one the author suggests needs the most protection and nurturing from proverbial village it takes to raise him/ her/ errrr, mankind?) endures the frustration of ignorance, the heartbreak of adult betrayal, the exhaustion of exploration, the sweet nectar of self-discovery and finally the elation of vindication. The narrative turns on themes of redemption, awareness, modesty and perseverance that are as delicately intonated and intricate as a honeybee’s waxy knees.
It’s quite a ride, this tale- one your child may seem to never tire of hearing. And understandably…Big questions get answered and we as readers are able to leave the experience with a sense of fulfillment, satisfaction and un-slakable thirst to reread (and reread again) for deeper meaning. (It’s like peeling an onion, though every layer still tastes like onion). Dickens himself chronicled the human condition as deftly in but two of his works (I can’t remember which two) and comparatively, his attempts mostly leave one feeling like they have just eaten a dirt sandwich. Nutritional maybe at some elemental level, but hardly worth the prodigious effort. Yet Dickens and Katz will be shelf-mates on the great mantle of posterity, mark my words.
In the book’s ostensible plot, ‘baby’ (yours?) can’t find her belly button. Upon lifting a small flap of interactive cardboard masquerading as a shirt, the belly button is revealed. The ‘Ah Ha’ moment you don’t expect pays off every time. Your baby laughs, you laugh and all feels right in the universe.
But grab a hankie and a headlamp. Venture beneath that cardboard flap and you get to the kernel of what this author is really saying. To wit, things in this life are not always so obvious. If one wants to know where a belly button is, one has to put in the work. One needs to feel the burn of curiosity, the hobble of despair, else nothing in life will have genuine meaning or value. Life is a zero-sum game, she suggests. To use a tired cliché, you can’t know good unless you have known bad. What is the elective exhilaration of ice cream without the sour gum rub of mandated Brussel Sprouts? Etc etc.
For Katz, this is a lesson that can’t be taught soon enough. (For ages 1 and up!) The author , rightly so, hammers the point home early by posing the question other ways. Where’s baby’s nose? Where’s baby’s feet, where is baby’s head? and so on. (and so on) (and so on).
If you fall for the clever trap that this is just about a banal belly button romp, you need to get back to your literary analysis basics. The revered Algerian semiotic deconstructionist philosopher Derrida, for one, has produced much fontanel-bulging information on symbols (like belly buttons) if you dare to go there. But beware, take on this literary avoirdupois and it might be a long trip back to the surface!
‘Button’ serves it up fresh in 7 compact pages. Each page is made of water (and puke) resistant cardboard, brightly illustrated and replete with a tenacious, anti-rip hinge mechanism. I personally have read it at least 4,000 times and there’s been no hint of degradation (nor, alas, binder rot). I tried to toss it in the fire (when my baby wasn’t looking) and lo, it’s fireproof! I ran it over with my tractor and my baby wiped the tire marks right off with a tear-soaked diaper. I’ve tried drilling holes in it with the post hole digger and have broken as many drill bits. Even 'accidentally' flinging it out the window at 65 mph didn’t dispatch it. So you can feel good about your investment. Make a little space next to ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ and get this in your summer beach bag!
-Wally
Ps- It also makes a nice sand scoop or sandcastle drawbridge!
Got a question for our columnist Wally Nichols or just want to buy his copy of ‘Where’s Baby’s Belly Button?’ without putting your credit card info online at Amazon.com? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com
Got a question for our columnist or just want to buy his copy of ‘Where’s Baby’s Belly Button?’ without putting your credit card info on Amazon.com? Contact our columnist at cwn4@aol.com
Read any good books lately?
-Marcy (Stone Ridge)
Dear Marcy:
Like many caught up in the hurly-burly of life, I long to have the quiet time to drop into a red velvet smoking jacket and revisit the classics. That said, and being the parent of a toddler, my ‘A’ list is topped with an efficient, portable stand-out. An inflatable life donut in a sea of sinking mediocrity, this book works for all ages. Let’s meet the soon-to-be-classic, intensely popular, “Where’s Baby’s Belly Button?” by Karen Katz.
This future member of the literary canon’s title is more a rhetorical question than a literal one. In this gripping, intensely short work, a solitary child (our most innocent, fragile member of society and the one the author suggests needs the most protection and nurturing from proverbial village it takes to raise him/ her/ errrr, mankind?) endures the frustration of ignorance, the heartbreak of adult betrayal, the exhaustion of exploration, the sweet nectar of self-discovery and finally the elation of vindication. The narrative turns on themes of redemption, awareness, modesty and perseverance that are as delicately intonated and intricate as a honeybee’s waxy knees.
It’s quite a ride, this tale- one your child may seem to never tire of hearing. And understandably…Big questions get answered and we as readers are able to leave the experience with a sense of fulfillment, satisfaction and un-slakable thirst to reread (and reread again) for deeper meaning. (It’s like peeling an onion, though every layer still tastes like onion). Dickens himself chronicled the human condition as deftly in but two of his works (I can’t remember which two) and comparatively, his attempts mostly leave one feeling like they have just eaten a dirt sandwich. Nutritional maybe at some elemental level, but hardly worth the prodigious effort. Yet Dickens and Katz will be shelf-mates on the great mantle of posterity, mark my words.
In the book’s ostensible plot, ‘baby’ (yours?) can’t find her belly button. Upon lifting a small flap of interactive cardboard masquerading as a shirt, the belly button is revealed. The ‘Ah Ha’ moment you don’t expect pays off every time. Your baby laughs, you laugh and all feels right in the universe.
But grab a hankie and a headlamp. Venture beneath that cardboard flap and you get to the kernel of what this author is really saying. To wit, things in this life are not always so obvious. If one wants to know where a belly button is, one has to put in the work. One needs to feel the burn of curiosity, the hobble of despair, else nothing in life will have genuine meaning or value. Life is a zero-sum game, she suggests. To use a tired cliché, you can’t know good unless you have known bad. What is the elective exhilaration of ice cream without the sour gum rub of mandated Brussel Sprouts? Etc etc.
For Katz, this is a lesson that can’t be taught soon enough. (For ages 1 and up!) The author , rightly so, hammers the point home early by posing the question other ways. Where’s baby’s nose? Where’s baby’s feet, where is baby’s head? and so on. (and so on) (and so on).
If you fall for the clever trap that this is just about a banal belly button romp, you need to get back to your literary analysis basics. The revered Algerian semiotic deconstructionist philosopher Derrida, for one, has produced much fontanel-bulging information on symbols (like belly buttons) if you dare to go there. But beware, take on this literary avoirdupois and it might be a long trip back to the surface!
‘Button’ serves it up fresh in 7 compact pages. Each page is made of water (and puke) resistant cardboard, brightly illustrated and replete with a tenacious, anti-rip hinge mechanism. I personally have read it at least 4,000 times and there’s been no hint of degradation (nor, alas, binder rot). I tried to toss it in the fire (when my baby wasn’t looking) and lo, it’s fireproof! I ran it over with my tractor and my baby wiped the tire marks right off with a tear-soaked diaper. I’ve tried drilling holes in it with the post hole digger and have broken as many drill bits. Even 'accidentally' flinging it out the window at 65 mph didn’t dispatch it. So you can feel good about your investment. Make a little space next to ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ and get this in your summer beach bag!
-Wally
Ps- It also makes a nice sand scoop or sandcastle drawbridge!
Got a question for our columnist Wally Nichols or just want to buy his copy of ‘Where’s Baby’s Belly Button?’ without putting your credit card info online at Amazon.com? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com
Got a question for our columnist or just want to buy his copy of ‘Where’s Baby’s Belly Button?’ without putting your credit card info on Amazon.com? Contact our columnist at cwn4@aol.com
Dear wally #45 To Meat Or Not
Dear Wally
Is it better to be a vegetarian or is it better to be a meat eater? I’m a hardcore vegetarian but am beginning to wonder…
-Anonymous
Dear A:
If you love your Uncle Leo, and want him not to die, you’ll kick your selfish vegetarian habit to the curb and grab a juicy burger. Here’s why: When cows fart (sorry there’s no delicate way to state this stark bodily functioning) they release the greenhouse gas methane (CH4). And lots of it. (I grew up on a farm and followed one such cow around with a Ziplock bag for a week long science project in 6th grade, so trust me, I know). A typical 2,000 lb cow makes a 7,000lb GM Hummer H3 look like a 1,000 lb Prius, even though the 1,000 lb Prius kinda looks like a 2,000 lb cow. (And, as an aside, my 4,000 lb Honda Element looks like a 5,000 lb pot belly pig).
Methane is over 20 times more effective in trapping heat in the atmosphere than carbon dioxide (CO2) over a 100-year period and is emitted from a variety of natural and human-influenced sources.
Thus, if you eat a cow, you will be doing your part to reduce the methane emissions because if the cow is sideways on your plate with a order of fries, it won’t be walking around flatulating (and looking cute) (and ruining our earth). Conversely, if you don’t eat meat, uncontrollable amounts of methane will take over the atmosphere and cook all humanity.
But not before we drown.
The polar caps will continue to melt. As they do, the ocean sea level will increase to levels incompatible with human life. Never mind all the money we’ll have to spend to replace the signs along the road that say, for example, “elevation 300’ above sea level.” Never mind all the hip waders we’ll have to buy from Orvis. Never mind all of humanity clinging to the lonely windswept top of Mt Everest (which will probably be a beachy Club Med at that point).
Uncle Leo’s condo in Miami Beach will be under water and he doesn’t know how to swim. You are, in effect, sentencing Leo to death-by-drowning by not eating meat. (However on the bright side, with water covering 98% of the earth, I’ll probably be able to finally sell my 13’ boat).
To add insult to injury, by eating all those fresh leafy greens that you pick up at Davenport’s Farm market, you are effectively wiping out nature’s cleanest carbon scrubbin’ system as plants absorb atmospheric carbon through photosynthesis. So being a vegetarian is a double eye-poke whammy, environmentally speaking. More unrestricted methane from the cows and less plant ability to bind it in an inert, harmless state (because YOU ate all the broccoli). It’s a bad formula for humanity and recklessly selfish. And I’m not even talking about home-wrecking methane levels present after you eat the broccoli…
I’m sorry if this sounds strident. Global warming is too serious to not take seriously. And Uncle Leo still has a few good years in him despite his constant nagging.
Vegetarians will try to talk up the humane angle. They will tell you how ‘meat is murder’. Their scope is small, however. They are focused on one animal at a time which, while noble, is still myopic. You are focused on the entire universe and you may well politely remind them that in addition to Uncle Leo not knowing how to swim, the cows they purport to care about, ( the very same ones they are trying to ‘save’) are equally bad at swimming. So by hamburgering, you are just doing what has to be done to save them as well. Jees…
Look, it’s not always easy doing the right thing. And as the old expression goes, it’s the frontiersmen who get shot in the back with arrows. Try thinking of those ‘arrows’ as kabob-style grill skewers instead, and sally forth with a big bottle of BBQ sauce in hand (and juicy burger in the other). Feel good about it, too!
If you are having trouble making the switch back from, ummm, raw cabbage to meat, consider the taunting olfactorial effects of bacon. I have found that bacon is a gateway drug. Even the most formidable vegetarian can not, in the late night sanctuary of peerless solitude, resist the narcotic lure of wafting bacon. Start with the Facon’ Bacon (available in most stores’ embarrassingly tiny organic section) then ease on over to the real bacon aisle and from there it’s an easy step to the burger department and by extension, mankind’s salvation.
Good eating! (and thank you from me, the world and Uncle Leo)
- Wally
(Admission: I myself am one of those selfish, mostly-vegetarians. N.B. --The guy who looks just like me and who occasionally shows up at Red Lobster when his wife isn’t looking is a hypocritical imposter who should know butter.)
Got a food-based ethical crisis and need some expert columnar advice? Contact our hotline at cwn4@aol.com between 8-5 on weekdays.
Is it better to be a vegetarian or is it better to be a meat eater? I’m a hardcore vegetarian but am beginning to wonder…
-Anonymous
Dear A:
If you love your Uncle Leo, and want him not to die, you’ll kick your selfish vegetarian habit to the curb and grab a juicy burger. Here’s why: When cows fart (sorry there’s no delicate way to state this stark bodily functioning) they release the greenhouse gas methane (CH4). And lots of it. (I grew up on a farm and followed one such cow around with a Ziplock bag for a week long science project in 6th grade, so trust me, I know). A typical 2,000 lb cow makes a 7,000lb GM Hummer H3 look like a 1,000 lb Prius, even though the 1,000 lb Prius kinda looks like a 2,000 lb cow. (And, as an aside, my 4,000 lb Honda Element looks like a 5,000 lb pot belly pig).
Methane is over 20 times more effective in trapping heat in the atmosphere than carbon dioxide (CO2) over a 100-year period and is emitted from a variety of natural and human-influenced sources.
Thus, if you eat a cow, you will be doing your part to reduce the methane emissions because if the cow is sideways on your plate with a order of fries, it won’t be walking around flatulating (and looking cute) (and ruining our earth). Conversely, if you don’t eat meat, uncontrollable amounts of methane will take over the atmosphere and cook all humanity.
But not before we drown.
The polar caps will continue to melt. As they do, the ocean sea level will increase to levels incompatible with human life. Never mind all the money we’ll have to spend to replace the signs along the road that say, for example, “elevation 300’ above sea level.” Never mind all the hip waders we’ll have to buy from Orvis. Never mind all of humanity clinging to the lonely windswept top of Mt Everest (which will probably be a beachy Club Med at that point).
Uncle Leo’s condo in Miami Beach will be under water and he doesn’t know how to swim. You are, in effect, sentencing Leo to death-by-drowning by not eating meat. (However on the bright side, with water covering 98% of the earth, I’ll probably be able to finally sell my 13’ boat).
To add insult to injury, by eating all those fresh leafy greens that you pick up at Davenport’s Farm market, you are effectively wiping out nature’s cleanest carbon scrubbin’ system as plants absorb atmospheric carbon through photosynthesis. So being a vegetarian is a double eye-poke whammy, environmentally speaking. More unrestricted methane from the cows and less plant ability to bind it in an inert, harmless state (because YOU ate all the broccoli). It’s a bad formula for humanity and recklessly selfish. And I’m not even talking about home-wrecking methane levels present after you eat the broccoli…
I’m sorry if this sounds strident. Global warming is too serious to not take seriously. And Uncle Leo still has a few good years in him despite his constant nagging.
Vegetarians will try to talk up the humane angle. They will tell you how ‘meat is murder’. Their scope is small, however. They are focused on one animal at a time which, while noble, is still myopic. You are focused on the entire universe and you may well politely remind them that in addition to Uncle Leo not knowing how to swim, the cows they purport to care about, ( the very same ones they are trying to ‘save’) are equally bad at swimming. So by hamburgering, you are just doing what has to be done to save them as well. Jees…
Look, it’s not always easy doing the right thing. And as the old expression goes, it’s the frontiersmen who get shot in the back with arrows. Try thinking of those ‘arrows’ as kabob-style grill skewers instead, and sally forth with a big bottle of BBQ sauce in hand (and juicy burger in the other). Feel good about it, too!
If you are having trouble making the switch back from, ummm, raw cabbage to meat, consider the taunting olfactorial effects of bacon. I have found that bacon is a gateway drug. Even the most formidable vegetarian can not, in the late night sanctuary of peerless solitude, resist the narcotic lure of wafting bacon. Start with the Facon’ Bacon (available in most stores’ embarrassingly tiny organic section) then ease on over to the real bacon aisle and from there it’s an easy step to the burger department and by extension, mankind’s salvation.
Good eating! (and thank you from me, the world and Uncle Leo)
- Wally
(Admission: I myself am one of those selfish, mostly-vegetarians. N.B. --The guy who looks just like me and who occasionally shows up at Red Lobster when his wife isn’t looking is a hypocritical imposter who should know butter.)
Got a food-based ethical crisis and need some expert columnar advice? Contact our hotline at cwn4@aol.com between 8-5 on weekdays.
Dear Wally #46 Dandelion
Dear Wally:
How is it that in this day and age of environmental awareness, we still have dandelion (or any) weed killer on the shelves? Don’t we know better?
-AB, New Paltz
Dear A- The national obsession with dandelion eradication is, of course, a curious, forceful one. By listening to the ads on the radio and TV this time of year, one would think that dandelions are no less a threat to homeland security than the Bubonic Plague. The typical commercial says it all: Frustrated dad (usually) in the opening seconds tearing his hair out because the unwelcome yellow f#@kers are everywhere and propagating on the lawn like horny bunnies. A snarky neighbor in a Porky Pig BBQ apron leans over the fence and gloats. (He has time to enjoy his lawn because, presumably, his time is not spent fighting dandelions). The infuriated, victimized dad shakes his fist at a cruel, mocking god above (Ugggggh-- Why Meeeeee?) until a suspiciously sterile, white 1 gallon container is handed over the fence (label showing!) by the knowing neighbor who is tired of watching this suburban chump twist in the wind. The receiving dad beams widely in thanks, applies the chemical to the lawn (not wearing the HEPA mask or hazmat suit he probably should be wearing) and the shot dissolves to HIS family FINALLY able to have a friggin’ backyard BBQ and enjoy their lawn because the dandelions have been dispatched to dandelion heaven. His OCD is in remission (for now) as there is uninterrupted, rich, green grass as far as the eye can see. The way it should be…
I remember playing with dandelions (we had them everywhere) and making necklaces and popping their heads off at friends. Even did that while we were BBQ ing. Someone once made a tasty summer salad out of them to my simultaneous horror and delight.
Before we even get to the toxicity of the product that kills them, let’s consider that there is no kid out there that gives a crap whether or not their parent’s lawn has dandelions. They do not hurt to walk on barefoot, they contrast nicely with the green grass, they grow measurably on a spring day between the time a child gets on the school bus and the time the child returns in the afternoon. So the poisoning that’s happening, if you will, that is a secondary product of some chemical company’s efforts, is of the younger generation’s tolerance of these cute little weeds. The companies are breeding hate in the name of purity. And as history shows, we humans are pretty decent at doing this…
The much bigger problem is the nature of the chemical that is used to eradicate this and other weeds. It’s bad enough that chemicals have to be used on our produce in order for the yields to be high enough to keep farmers in business. We need to eat so until better, safer methods are developed, and agricultural financial incentives are initiated to offset ‘losses’ for not using weed killers and pesticides, that argument is off the table. But killing dandelions is hardly the noble mission the advertisers, garden centers and some others who stand to profit make it out to be. We have serious watershed run off issues with toxic elements everywhere we turn. Pretty much everything dumps into tributaries that ultimately dump into much larger waterways that we all share.
I hate fish served any which way but especially when its flesh is permeated by a broadleaf weed killer made by MROChem called ‘Triple Threat’ which indiscriminately and proudly kills many things including dandelions. (They whitewash all those unpronounceable ingredients with one sinister, problem-eradicating name which suggests pinpoint accuracy and intimidation).
Nor do humans benefit from drinking and using water that has ‘Triple Threat’ in it. I don’t think the ultimate cost benefit analysis works in our favor on this one folks, despite the claims of inertness that may or may not be peddled at the corporate PR level. (I fully expect to hear from their lawyers, btw).
My father was obsessed with squirrels thieving from the bird feeders. His budget on squirrel-proof bird feeders would make small island nations jealous. Not one of these expensive gizmos proved efficacious and we kids would routinely hears expletives from the kitchen window as these fearless interlopers would perform stunning acrobatics to get some ‘bird’ food. The question we kids dared not ask aloud, but the one that dad finally resigned himself to is, “What’s so bad about squirrels getting the food in the first place?” Why birds and not them? It’s pretty arbitrary, actually. Frankly, the squirrels were more fun to watch and that brought in more entertainment for the dollar. But even still, the birds and the squirrels figured out how to share. And life kept on happening.
I doubt the world will stop turning if lawns are infiltrated by dandelions. It’s a good thing I’m not Governor of NY or the head of the DEC because those shelves of pointless chemicals at the garden centers would be empty…
Found this grassroots organization if you are interested in going green AND going yellow: http://www.myspace.com/banpesticides
-Wally
Got a question for our columnist? Email him at cwn4@aol.com or just pelt him in person with dandelions when he plays guitar at The Rosendale Café Tues 8:30 pm June 12.
How is it that in this day and age of environmental awareness, we still have dandelion (or any) weed killer on the shelves? Don’t we know better?
-AB, New Paltz
Dear A- The national obsession with dandelion eradication is, of course, a curious, forceful one. By listening to the ads on the radio and TV this time of year, one would think that dandelions are no less a threat to homeland security than the Bubonic Plague. The typical commercial says it all: Frustrated dad (usually) in the opening seconds tearing his hair out because the unwelcome yellow f#@kers are everywhere and propagating on the lawn like horny bunnies. A snarky neighbor in a Porky Pig BBQ apron leans over the fence and gloats. (He has time to enjoy his lawn because, presumably, his time is not spent fighting dandelions). The infuriated, victimized dad shakes his fist at a cruel, mocking god above (Ugggggh-- Why Meeeeee?) until a suspiciously sterile, white 1 gallon container is handed over the fence (label showing!) by the knowing neighbor who is tired of watching this suburban chump twist in the wind. The receiving dad beams widely in thanks, applies the chemical to the lawn (not wearing the HEPA mask or hazmat suit he probably should be wearing) and the shot dissolves to HIS family FINALLY able to have a friggin’ backyard BBQ and enjoy their lawn because the dandelions have been dispatched to dandelion heaven. His OCD is in remission (for now) as there is uninterrupted, rich, green grass as far as the eye can see. The way it should be…
I remember playing with dandelions (we had them everywhere) and making necklaces and popping their heads off at friends. Even did that while we were BBQ ing. Someone once made a tasty summer salad out of them to my simultaneous horror and delight.
Before we even get to the toxicity of the product that kills them, let’s consider that there is no kid out there that gives a crap whether or not their parent’s lawn has dandelions. They do not hurt to walk on barefoot, they contrast nicely with the green grass, they grow measurably on a spring day between the time a child gets on the school bus and the time the child returns in the afternoon. So the poisoning that’s happening, if you will, that is a secondary product of some chemical company’s efforts, is of the younger generation’s tolerance of these cute little weeds. The companies are breeding hate in the name of purity. And as history shows, we humans are pretty decent at doing this…
The much bigger problem is the nature of the chemical that is used to eradicate this and other weeds. It’s bad enough that chemicals have to be used on our produce in order for the yields to be high enough to keep farmers in business. We need to eat so until better, safer methods are developed, and agricultural financial incentives are initiated to offset ‘losses’ for not using weed killers and pesticides, that argument is off the table. But killing dandelions is hardly the noble mission the advertisers, garden centers and some others who stand to profit make it out to be. We have serious watershed run off issues with toxic elements everywhere we turn. Pretty much everything dumps into tributaries that ultimately dump into much larger waterways that we all share.
I hate fish served any which way but especially when its flesh is permeated by a broadleaf weed killer made by MROChem called ‘Triple Threat’ which indiscriminately and proudly kills many things including dandelions. (They whitewash all those unpronounceable ingredients with one sinister, problem-eradicating name which suggests pinpoint accuracy and intimidation).
Nor do humans benefit from drinking and using water that has ‘Triple Threat’ in it. I don’t think the ultimate cost benefit analysis works in our favor on this one folks, despite the claims of inertness that may or may not be peddled at the corporate PR level. (I fully expect to hear from their lawyers, btw).
My father was obsessed with squirrels thieving from the bird feeders. His budget on squirrel-proof bird feeders would make small island nations jealous. Not one of these expensive gizmos proved efficacious and we kids would routinely hears expletives from the kitchen window as these fearless interlopers would perform stunning acrobatics to get some ‘bird’ food. The question we kids dared not ask aloud, but the one that dad finally resigned himself to is, “What’s so bad about squirrels getting the food in the first place?” Why birds and not them? It’s pretty arbitrary, actually. Frankly, the squirrels were more fun to watch and that brought in more entertainment for the dollar. But even still, the birds and the squirrels figured out how to share. And life kept on happening.
I doubt the world will stop turning if lawns are infiltrated by dandelions. It’s a good thing I’m not Governor of NY or the head of the DEC because those shelves of pointless chemicals at the garden centers would be empty…
Found this grassroots organization if you are interested in going green AND going yellow: http://www.myspace.com/banpesticides
-Wally
Got a question for our columnist? Email him at cwn4@aol.com or just pelt him in person with dandelions when he plays guitar at The Rosendale Café Tues 8:30 pm June 12.
Dear Wally #47 lawn mower blues
Lawn Mower Blues
Dear Wally:
It’s lawn cutting time again and we’re trying to squeeze another season out of our aging ride–on lawn tractor. It’s actually only 4 years old and we got it at Home Depot. When you first start it, it seems so co-operative and willing. It initially mows well and goes up pretty decent inclines. But after about 20 minutes it starts smoking a lot and begins to smell like delicious frying bacon. It also then refuses to go up any incline and groans/ lurches slowly as you head up a hill. If we don’t return it to the garage before 20 minutes, it stops right there and we’re walking home until at least a day later. We can’t afford a new tractor now plus we feel like we owe it to this tractor (part of the family after 3 years after all ) to try and fix her up. What should we do?
Strapped in Stone Ridge.
Dear Strapped:
I have that same mower! (or at least my mower has those same problems) Seriously, that John Deere looked so fine on the showroom floor. So proud. It looked like it would never let me down- like I could hop on it and cut a 48” path from the Hudson Valley to the Napa valley without so much as a backfire. I even dreamt of entering it in mini-class tractor pulls and letting my daughter take it to the prom in 18 years.
When on a tractor, even if a lawn tractor, I feel a swelling sense of camaraderie with my Midwestern farmer-brethren who are out there day in, day out hauling heavy disc harrows with their 140hp Green Deere machines and tilling the soil so the rest of America can eat. I take this tractor business seriously, you know.
My machine gave me 3 good years before the wheels started coming off (literally and figuratively). It’s not clear that the disintegration of my mower is a design flaw, a function of lightweight, JV parts, or simply an application over-abuse. (Shouldn’t have tried to jump 3 Greyhound busses with it last year!) I’m sure cunning legal minds could easily argue all the angles. I just know this: 4 years in lawn tractor years in the care custody and comfort of a typical weekend warrior homeowner is equivalent to 100 years in human years (the last 50 of which are spend on a prison labor chain gang busting rocks in the hot sun). So you are essentially sitting on a felonious grandma’s back, pulling on her ponytail and expecting her to haul your rear end up and down a hill (which might just have happened everyday in the joint anyway). I don’t care how much yogurt she eats, or how many squat thrusts she does each morning. She (or anyone) is gonna start smelling like cooking bacon after that kind of exertion. It’s because we bought low end models, I’m both proud and embarrassed to admit. And there are a lot of us out there, evidently.
The billowing white smoke after 20 minutes (you didn’t use those adjectives but may I take that liberty because this has been my observation) is cause for real concern. Is this insulting that I suggest you check the oil before each use? I hope not and hope you accept my apologies if this sounds patronizing. Running an engine with no oil seems to present in a similar fashion- smoky puffs of protest as unlubricated metal grinds against more unlubricated metal in a molten fire chamber. I know dealing with engine oil seems like such an annoyance sometimes. I hear you. But they have a dipstick for a reason and it would behoove you to check the level every so often. If you pull out the dipstick and there is no oil, which I suspect, much will be explained. Just add some and deny having never checked it before.
So she only creeps up a hill after a while? This might be related to the oil, which I will safely assume is non-existent. Whatever residue of oil stubbornly lingers in the crankcase when you start out the day might just be leaking onto the drive belt below. This would certainly cause the belt to slip as it gets warm and expands by causing the rear axel pulley to slip.
The bacon you are smelling? That’s the sound of money cooking, my friend Your money. Start saving for a new riding mower and meanwhile, just cut the lawn in 20 minute units. Or mortgage the house, buy a big John Deere , turn that lawn into a big old corn field .
Like they say on Car Talk after 45 minutes of jokes at your expense, you probably should take it to a mechanic.
--Good luck and wear goggles.
Wally
Got a question for our columnist or have spare tractor parts he can use for his barely functioning junker? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally:
It’s lawn cutting time again and we’re trying to squeeze another season out of our aging ride–on lawn tractor. It’s actually only 4 years old and we got it at Home Depot. When you first start it, it seems so co-operative and willing. It initially mows well and goes up pretty decent inclines. But after about 20 minutes it starts smoking a lot and begins to smell like delicious frying bacon. It also then refuses to go up any incline and groans/ lurches slowly as you head up a hill. If we don’t return it to the garage before 20 minutes, it stops right there and we’re walking home until at least a day later. We can’t afford a new tractor now plus we feel like we owe it to this tractor (part of the family after 3 years after all ) to try and fix her up. What should we do?
Strapped in Stone Ridge.
Dear Strapped:
I have that same mower! (or at least my mower has those same problems) Seriously, that John Deere looked so fine on the showroom floor. So proud. It looked like it would never let me down- like I could hop on it and cut a 48” path from the Hudson Valley to the Napa valley without so much as a backfire. I even dreamt of entering it in mini-class tractor pulls and letting my daughter take it to the prom in 18 years.
When on a tractor, even if a lawn tractor, I feel a swelling sense of camaraderie with my Midwestern farmer-brethren who are out there day in, day out hauling heavy disc harrows with their 140hp Green Deere machines and tilling the soil so the rest of America can eat. I take this tractor business seriously, you know.
My machine gave me 3 good years before the wheels started coming off (literally and figuratively). It’s not clear that the disintegration of my mower is a design flaw, a function of lightweight, JV parts, or simply an application over-abuse. (Shouldn’t have tried to jump 3 Greyhound busses with it last year!) I’m sure cunning legal minds could easily argue all the angles. I just know this: 4 years in lawn tractor years in the care custody and comfort of a typical weekend warrior homeowner is equivalent to 100 years in human years (the last 50 of which are spend on a prison labor chain gang busting rocks in the hot sun). So you are essentially sitting on a felonious grandma’s back, pulling on her ponytail and expecting her to haul your rear end up and down a hill (which might just have happened everyday in the joint anyway). I don’t care how much yogurt she eats, or how many squat thrusts she does each morning. She (or anyone) is gonna start smelling like cooking bacon after that kind of exertion. It’s because we bought low end models, I’m both proud and embarrassed to admit. And there are a lot of us out there, evidently.
The billowing white smoke after 20 minutes (you didn’t use those adjectives but may I take that liberty because this has been my observation) is cause for real concern. Is this insulting that I suggest you check the oil before each use? I hope not and hope you accept my apologies if this sounds patronizing. Running an engine with no oil seems to present in a similar fashion- smoky puffs of protest as unlubricated metal grinds against more unlubricated metal in a molten fire chamber. I know dealing with engine oil seems like such an annoyance sometimes. I hear you. But they have a dipstick for a reason and it would behoove you to check the level every so often. If you pull out the dipstick and there is no oil, which I suspect, much will be explained. Just add some and deny having never checked it before.
So she only creeps up a hill after a while? This might be related to the oil, which I will safely assume is non-existent. Whatever residue of oil stubbornly lingers in the crankcase when you start out the day might just be leaking onto the drive belt below. This would certainly cause the belt to slip as it gets warm and expands by causing the rear axel pulley to slip.
The bacon you are smelling? That’s the sound of money cooking, my friend Your money. Start saving for a new riding mower and meanwhile, just cut the lawn in 20 minute units. Or mortgage the house, buy a big John Deere , turn that lawn into a big old corn field .
Like they say on Car Talk after 45 minutes of jokes at your expense, you probably should take it to a mechanic.
--Good luck and wear goggles.
Wally
Got a question for our columnist or have spare tractor parts he can use for his barely functioning junker? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally #48 Toddler Travel
Dear Wally #48 (Inflight Mover and Shaker)
Dear Wally: Any advice for flying across the country first time with a toddler? I’ve heard (and seen) other parent’s horror stories. Now it’s my turn. Help!
-Beth
Dear Beth:
Ok ok. Stay calm. I have recently crossed the country with my infant and the good news is we all survived. Got to figure that 7 hours of anything, good or bad, will be over in 7 hours and 1 minute.
We started out OK. We timed the flight so we’d be flying at night and thus our cherubic 16 month old would be sleeping. But once we got to the airport, plans tore asunder- she was on fire. Never mind the second wind. She was well into her 4th or 5th wind and racing around by the time we cleared security (annoyed maybe that she had to take off her squeaky shoes?). So many strange smelling people and a palpable pulse of stewing international excitement only fed her energy level. It was pretty cute actually.
She quickly learned that rubbing her hands on the terminal’s water fountain resulted in a panicked, 5-alarm, bio-hazmat decontamination by both parents. That happened about 20 times with her and our respective joys being inversely proportional. I’m not especially germ phobic but the Newark Airport Concourse water fountain is pretty much ground zero for the nastiest of the nasty, second only to its restroom. (This airport is one place I’d happily consider wearing an adult diaper). Back-up wipes were already checked in the mutha-ship supply bag so we did a silent and reverent (and ultimately futile) prayer to the diaper gods to leave us be for a few hours, but that’s always a gamble and the house usually wins.
At this age, exploration is everything and these little 16 month old peckers move fast. Especially in public places. Short of putting her in a straight jacket, we had to just intercept and do damage control. Oh, and apologize for the newspapers and M&M’s whipped to the floor. (This jerky, uncontrolled ambulatory phase, we’re told, is temporary. I’m pretty sure the next phase will include all out sprinting and I’m not certain this 40 year old in decent shape will be able to keep up without a dart tip dipped in elephant tranquilizer and a bamboo blowgun). Meanwhile, the thought bubbles above the passengers heads in Alaska Airline’s flt 7 waiting area read something like this:
Holy Crap.
Control your kid, damn it.
How were they allowed to have children?
Maybe Earth will be hit by an asteroid and we wont have to sit next to them.
Honey, did you pack the injectable Kava Kava?
Is that kid a bomb sniffing dog in disguise?
She may be all over the place but she sure is one cute kid.
They finally called the flight and we had the good sense to board very last (the idea being to minimize the passenger exposure ratio.) Our plane mates avoided eye contact. We heard the exhales of relief and caught discreet ‘high fives’ as we moved past them and inched towards the rear, which felt surprisingly like the banishment it was.
A small child has no idea that sitting in a bouncy seat for 1/3 of a day will have any payoff. One can easily imagine their frustration when forced to sit in a lap beyond their allotted patience. To compound things, our snuggly ‘frontpack’ had to be unbuckled and shoved below the seat for take off and landing. The reasoning, from the mouth of an equally dumbstruck flight attendant, was that the device hadn’t yet been tested by the FAA for crash integrity and thus the child had to be held in our skinny, weak arms.
I suppose that slamming into the earth at 550 mph in the event of a crash might be marginally better in a parent’s arms, but who cares at that point? Besides, don’t we need free arms to grab our ankles so we can more easily access our rears for the famed goodbye kiss? Common (not corporate) sense says if you make babies sit on a parent’s lap in the first place, then let the baby be strapped in to whatever device the parent wants.
The unfortunate soul in 25F tried to melt into the window when he saw us coming. Didn’t even fake a smile. His number was up and he knew it. He must have run over a nun with his car in a past life. I tried sometimes successfully to block the Cheerios our daughter chucked at his head with great amusement. This was now all about triage and a battery of small oats to the head, I figured, would leave no permanent scars on this guy so I focused on bigger problems like trying to not get us three thrown out at 35,000 feet.
Halfway through the flight, I caved and spent an hour locked in the bathroom with our daughter letting her ‘work it out’ (read: caterwaul) until she finally fell asleep. My ears have rung less after rock concerts.
A brief quantitative summary:
Number of wipes used: 230
Number of friends made on flight: 2
Number of potential friends lost on flight: all but 2
Number of people onboard we will never see again: 158
Amount I care, on a scale of 1-10: 0
Advice? Pack a bottle so your kid can swallow during altitude changes. Bring an extra pack of wipes. Sit near the back. Get an aisle seat. Tie a string to the Cheerio(s). The new age cliché be damned: When it comes to air travel with an infant, it IS the destination, not the journey. Remember, 7hrs and 1 minute and it’s over! And take the hit upfront- think of the fun you’ll have when you get there! Seriously, don’t worry about it too much- every parent has gone through the same thing.
-Wally
(got a question for our advice columnist or just want to know what flight he will next be on so you can change your ticket? Email him at cwn4@aol.com)
Dear Wally: Any advice for flying across the country first time with a toddler? I’ve heard (and seen) other parent’s horror stories. Now it’s my turn. Help!
-Beth
Dear Beth:
Ok ok. Stay calm. I have recently crossed the country with my infant and the good news is we all survived. Got to figure that 7 hours of anything, good or bad, will be over in 7 hours and 1 minute.
We started out OK. We timed the flight so we’d be flying at night and thus our cherubic 16 month old would be sleeping. But once we got to the airport, plans tore asunder- she was on fire. Never mind the second wind. She was well into her 4th or 5th wind and racing around by the time we cleared security (annoyed maybe that she had to take off her squeaky shoes?). So many strange smelling people and a palpable pulse of stewing international excitement only fed her energy level. It was pretty cute actually.
She quickly learned that rubbing her hands on the terminal’s water fountain resulted in a panicked, 5-alarm, bio-hazmat decontamination by both parents. That happened about 20 times with her and our respective joys being inversely proportional. I’m not especially germ phobic but the Newark Airport Concourse water fountain is pretty much ground zero for the nastiest of the nasty, second only to its restroom. (This airport is one place I’d happily consider wearing an adult diaper). Back-up wipes were already checked in the mutha-ship supply bag so we did a silent and reverent (and ultimately futile) prayer to the diaper gods to leave us be for a few hours, but that’s always a gamble and the house usually wins.
At this age, exploration is everything and these little 16 month old peckers move fast. Especially in public places. Short of putting her in a straight jacket, we had to just intercept and do damage control. Oh, and apologize for the newspapers and M&M’s whipped to the floor. (This jerky, uncontrolled ambulatory phase, we’re told, is temporary. I’m pretty sure the next phase will include all out sprinting and I’m not certain this 40 year old in decent shape will be able to keep up without a dart tip dipped in elephant tranquilizer and a bamboo blowgun). Meanwhile, the thought bubbles above the passengers heads in Alaska Airline’s flt 7 waiting area read something like this:
Holy Crap.
Control your kid, damn it.
How were they allowed to have children?
Maybe Earth will be hit by an asteroid and we wont have to sit next to them.
Honey, did you pack the injectable Kava Kava?
Is that kid a bomb sniffing dog in disguise?
She may be all over the place but she sure is one cute kid.
They finally called the flight and we had the good sense to board very last (the idea being to minimize the passenger exposure ratio.) Our plane mates avoided eye contact. We heard the exhales of relief and caught discreet ‘high fives’ as we moved past them and inched towards the rear, which felt surprisingly like the banishment it was.
A small child has no idea that sitting in a bouncy seat for 1/3 of a day will have any payoff. One can easily imagine their frustration when forced to sit in a lap beyond their allotted patience. To compound things, our snuggly ‘frontpack’ had to be unbuckled and shoved below the seat for take off and landing. The reasoning, from the mouth of an equally dumbstruck flight attendant, was that the device hadn’t yet been tested by the FAA for crash integrity and thus the child had to be held in our skinny, weak arms.
I suppose that slamming into the earth at 550 mph in the event of a crash might be marginally better in a parent’s arms, but who cares at that point? Besides, don’t we need free arms to grab our ankles so we can more easily access our rears for the famed goodbye kiss? Common (not corporate) sense says if you make babies sit on a parent’s lap in the first place, then let the baby be strapped in to whatever device the parent wants.
The unfortunate soul in 25F tried to melt into the window when he saw us coming. Didn’t even fake a smile. His number was up and he knew it. He must have run over a nun with his car in a past life. I tried sometimes successfully to block the Cheerios our daughter chucked at his head with great amusement. This was now all about triage and a battery of small oats to the head, I figured, would leave no permanent scars on this guy so I focused on bigger problems like trying to not get us three thrown out at 35,000 feet.
Halfway through the flight, I caved and spent an hour locked in the bathroom with our daughter letting her ‘work it out’ (read: caterwaul) until she finally fell asleep. My ears have rung less after rock concerts.
A brief quantitative summary:
Number of wipes used: 230
Number of friends made on flight: 2
Number of potential friends lost on flight: all but 2
Number of people onboard we will never see again: 158
Amount I care, on a scale of 1-10: 0
Advice? Pack a bottle so your kid can swallow during altitude changes. Bring an extra pack of wipes. Sit near the back. Get an aisle seat. Tie a string to the Cheerio(s). The new age cliché be damned: When it comes to air travel with an infant, it IS the destination, not the journey. Remember, 7hrs and 1 minute and it’s over! And take the hit upfront- think of the fun you’ll have when you get there! Seriously, don’t worry about it too much- every parent has gone through the same thing.
-Wally
(got a question for our advice columnist or just want to know what flight he will next be on so you can change your ticket? Email him at cwn4@aol.com)
Dear Wally #49 Summer Camp
Summer Camp
Dear Wally:
My 13 year old nephew Gardiner is going off to summer camp (Camp Flying Cloud) for first time. It’s a ‘wilderness camp’ in Vermont and he’s never really spent much time outside. He’s more of a gameboy-and-ice cream kind of kid. (No matches allowed, the mail comes in once a day in a garbage can and they have to forage for food and non-poisonous berries, miles from the nearest road, etc.). Any advice on how I might write a letter to console him? I’m really fond of the kid. I don’t want him to get jungle rot, or dysentery, or malaria or get mauled by a wild animal. Help!
-Uncle Charlie
Dear Uncle Charlie:
This camp business sounds like the classic bait and switch-- they sell the underage kid on a ‘wilderness retreat,’ then make him and his friends hunt and trap on their Vermont woods so THEY can survive the winter. And then charge the parents for the experience! They avoid providing food or shelter or wifi by spinning it as ‘green.’ Wow. What a scam! It’s called an underage labor camp and the International Labor Organization has strict regulations on such things. There should be laws against summer sleep away camp.
But seriously, rest easy. This will be an experience he will remember for the rest of his life. He will draw on this well of resourcefulness for many years and bond with the other inmates, creating lasting friendships (Bloods? Cripts?). You are the only one worried here. Let it go. Fire off a volley of support that touches on the things 13 year old boys care about, to wit: Bathroom humor, fear, and your own experiences at summer camp on the way to manhood.
Anyhoo, here’s a letter template for you! Change it as you see fit.
--Wally
July 10, 2009
Dear Gardner:
Welcome to summer camp . I was going to send you a jack knife so you could kill something wild but your mom said no knives were allowed. Are you supposed to use your fingernails to scratch out the eyes of a charging grizzly bear? Ummm, good luck with that. I suggest screaming like a girl and shoving the kid next to you, the chubby foreign kid who doesn’t speak English too good, in its path. So if you get mauled, don’t blame me, blame your mom who wouldn’t let me help you defend yourself.
She also said you don’t have any matches to start the fires you need to cook.
What the…?
How much is this camp, anyway? Do you get a hot pot and a generator or are you rubbing two sticks together like a hobo under the interstate bridge? Fire by stick, as a business model, didn’t work for the Neanderthals—look what happened to them—they went extinct and their women were extremely hairy. Lesson learned (finally). I’ve enclosed a lighter. Don’t let the guard see it.
You are welcome.
Do you get water, or do you have to make that too? If so, remember the formula: 2 parts hydrogen, 1 part oxygen. Don't screw this up or you will burn off your eyebrows.
What about a solar powered soft-serve ice cream machine? Should I try to mail you one of those or wont it fit in the daily mail garbage can?
Do they put mints on the rock you use for a pillow when room service turns down your bed of moose urine soaked twigs at night?
Your little sister Whitney says she misses you.
NOT.
I bet the feeling is mutual. She has taken your room and is living in it. I heard she painted it pink and put your Gameboys on Ebay. Don’t tell the other campers you will return to a pink bedroom with a Jonas’ Brothers poster on the wall or you may well be hung up by your underwear on a branch in the pine forest and left to rot (at least that’s what happened to me).
Look out for wolverines. They are rare in Vermont but if one escaped from a Russian zoo, it would probably head straight for camp Flying Cloud. It’s only 6,000 miles—an easy trot. (I understand you are 1 mile or more from the nearest road. That’s a long way to have your shrieks heard but maybe if the wind is right, some passerby by might hear you. Maybe. If not, and a wolverine gets you, can I have your bike?) I hear wolverines seek out small boys sleeping in tents and eat them from the inside out. Sweet dreams.
When I was a kid I went to Camp Itchybutt. It was fun. Until I got kicked out for mooning the girl’s camp. (And stealing the motorboat) (And sneaking into the kitchen and eating the Captain Crunch) (And lighting my farts) (And lighting my councilor’s farts when they slept).
I’m sure your experience will be much richer. Plus you probably wont get dragged down to the lake and beaten with the oars by the older campers. That part of my camp experience wasn’t in the brochure...
This will be a unique , life forming experience. At the end of your 3 weeks you will probably realize that a desk job after college maybe isn’t all that bad. Versus being out in the wild eating poisonous berries and getting crippling diarrhea.
Well, I hope you make it out alive. I’m rather fond of you.
Hey--if you scout a good place out there in the wilderness to slam up a Walmart, let me know so I can buy the property and clear cut it!
Like I always say, “What good is nature if there isn’t a nearby parking lot to view it from?
Love,
Uncle Charlie.
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want a pep talk for your camp-bound kid? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally:
My 13 year old nephew Gardiner is going off to summer camp (Camp Flying Cloud) for first time. It’s a ‘wilderness camp’ in Vermont and he’s never really spent much time outside. He’s more of a gameboy-and-ice cream kind of kid. (No matches allowed, the mail comes in once a day in a garbage can and they have to forage for food and non-poisonous berries, miles from the nearest road, etc.). Any advice on how I might write a letter to console him? I’m really fond of the kid. I don’t want him to get jungle rot, or dysentery, or malaria or get mauled by a wild animal. Help!
-Uncle Charlie
Dear Uncle Charlie:
This camp business sounds like the classic bait and switch-- they sell the underage kid on a ‘wilderness retreat,’ then make him and his friends hunt and trap on their Vermont woods so THEY can survive the winter. And then charge the parents for the experience! They avoid providing food or shelter or wifi by spinning it as ‘green.’ Wow. What a scam! It’s called an underage labor camp and the International Labor Organization has strict regulations on such things. There should be laws against summer sleep away camp.
But seriously, rest easy. This will be an experience he will remember for the rest of his life. He will draw on this well of resourcefulness for many years and bond with the other inmates, creating lasting friendships (Bloods? Cripts?). You are the only one worried here. Let it go. Fire off a volley of support that touches on the things 13 year old boys care about, to wit: Bathroom humor, fear, and your own experiences at summer camp on the way to manhood.
Anyhoo, here’s a letter template for you! Change it as you see fit.
--Wally
July 10, 2009
Dear Gardner:
Welcome to summer camp . I was going to send you a jack knife so you could kill something wild but your mom said no knives were allowed. Are you supposed to use your fingernails to scratch out the eyes of a charging grizzly bear? Ummm, good luck with that. I suggest screaming like a girl and shoving the kid next to you, the chubby foreign kid who doesn’t speak English too good, in its path. So if you get mauled, don’t blame me, blame your mom who wouldn’t let me help you defend yourself.
She also said you don’t have any matches to start the fires you need to cook.
What the…?
How much is this camp, anyway? Do you get a hot pot and a generator or are you rubbing two sticks together like a hobo under the interstate bridge? Fire by stick, as a business model, didn’t work for the Neanderthals—look what happened to them—they went extinct and their women were extremely hairy. Lesson learned (finally). I’ve enclosed a lighter. Don’t let the guard see it.
You are welcome.
Do you get water, or do you have to make that too? If so, remember the formula: 2 parts hydrogen, 1 part oxygen. Don't screw this up or you will burn off your eyebrows.
What about a solar powered soft-serve ice cream machine? Should I try to mail you one of those or wont it fit in the daily mail garbage can?
Do they put mints on the rock you use for a pillow when room service turns down your bed of moose urine soaked twigs at night?
Your little sister Whitney says she misses you.
NOT.
I bet the feeling is mutual. She has taken your room and is living in it. I heard she painted it pink and put your Gameboys on Ebay. Don’t tell the other campers you will return to a pink bedroom with a Jonas’ Brothers poster on the wall or you may well be hung up by your underwear on a branch in the pine forest and left to rot (at least that’s what happened to me).
Look out for wolverines. They are rare in Vermont but if one escaped from a Russian zoo, it would probably head straight for camp Flying Cloud. It’s only 6,000 miles—an easy trot. (I understand you are 1 mile or more from the nearest road. That’s a long way to have your shrieks heard but maybe if the wind is right, some passerby by might hear you. Maybe. If not, and a wolverine gets you, can I have your bike?) I hear wolverines seek out small boys sleeping in tents and eat them from the inside out. Sweet dreams.
When I was a kid I went to Camp Itchybutt. It was fun. Until I got kicked out for mooning the girl’s camp. (And stealing the motorboat) (And sneaking into the kitchen and eating the Captain Crunch) (And lighting my farts) (And lighting my councilor’s farts when they slept).
I’m sure your experience will be much richer. Plus you probably wont get dragged down to the lake and beaten with the oars by the older campers. That part of my camp experience wasn’t in the brochure...
This will be a unique , life forming experience. At the end of your 3 weeks you will probably realize that a desk job after college maybe isn’t all that bad. Versus being out in the wild eating poisonous berries and getting crippling diarrhea.
Well, I hope you make it out alive. I’m rather fond of you.
Hey--if you scout a good place out there in the wilderness to slam up a Walmart, let me know so I can buy the property and clear cut it!
Like I always say, “What good is nature if there isn’t a nearby parking lot to view it from?
Love,
Uncle Charlie.
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want a pep talk for your camp-bound kid? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally #50 Men fixing things
Dear Wally:
Last week’s column about summer camp was extremely funny but I found the use of such immature bathroom talk, which I won’t dignify here by mentioning, childish.
-Anonymous
(Wally replies: Dear Anonymous: Childish? I know you are but what am I?)
Dear Wally:
Whenever my husband tries to fix something, he ends up swearing at it. I regularly hear curses coming from the garage. My friends say their husbands do the same thing. Why do guys do this? It makes no sense. Neither does leaving empty containers in the freezer, which he and my friends’ husbands also do. Ugggh.
-Jody
Dear Jody-
You and only 50 million other American women!
I too am one of those swearing, container-leaving (and worse) thugs. I hope to shed some light on the ‘why’ of this behavior so you might better understand the hairy, upright thing you married .
My thoughts: First, swearing at inanimate objects gives us silverbacks a sense of control when the situation is anything but in control. Granted it may be illusory, but to berate and damn a stubbornly broken whatchamacallit to the deepest tarry pits of Hell generates an adrenal surge of primal power one can feel right above the kidneys--a feeling that is reminiscent of our loincloth-wearing ancestors as they stared up at the scaly shins of the T Rex (or whatever was big and threatening at the time) and realized they were about to be gobbled up. (Insert your favorite swear here). It’s kind of the last thing left to do when the situation (or machine) has you check-mated. And it feels good.
Cursing broken objects is an outlet for the frustration one may feel when one is staring down the barrel of a humiliating situation in which they are over their head technically or financially. That usually translates to spending money for someone else to fix it (or to fix one’s broken / lacerated body part). And we guys don’t like spending money on broken things like our BBQs or our pride (Right guys? Right. F-that! ) Sometimes, by first swearing, and then walking away for a cool down period, a guy can return later to find the stupid object has come to its senses and decided to become co-operative. This rarely happens.
Swearing at objects occasionally signifies victory. After something like a rusted bolt puts up a serious fight, and I fix it, it feels exceptionally satisfying to shake my bloodied knuckle at it, drop the F bomb on it and tell it what it can do with itself.
Sometimes you will hear foulage from the mouth of a guy who has been hurt by an inanimate object, such as the coffee table leg that jumps out and stubs his toe. The only real option at that point is to swear at it. This makes sense to you, right? Got to keep those damn, free thinking objects in their place…
Of course swearing at inanimate objects has a time and place. If you find yourself walking down the street indiscriminately swearing without provocation, you might want to get that condition checked out by a professional. But now and then? In the garage, or at a tailgater (the person not the football party)? I should think this normal and not cause for excessive concern.
As for the empty container left in the fridge- Don’t think of it as carelessness or laziness. Instead understand what your guy is really saying: “Honey I love you and didn’t think you wanted me to prove it with roses that brown and bend over on the shy side of a week. This empty container of what used to be strawberry ice cream will endure longer than our love (so long as it stays in the freezer and we don’t lose power). Let it be a frozen cardboard monument to all that we have together. Be reminded of it every time you open the freezer to root around for a bon bon. Let it also serve as a reminder of my sacrifice: I’ll eat this sugary poison down so that you don’t have to. If one of us has to get a huge can, let it be me. I’ll take the hit to my rear. That will be my present to you. You’ll have the gift of mobility and I’ll be stuck here on the sofa with my oversized caboose, unable to get up. Go out- be nimble, be mobile. Have fun. (And oh, please pass me the remote) (errr, and the chips).”
On the bright side, scientists are only a few years away from doing a genetic end run around us guys. When our DNA is no longer needed to propagate the human race, we will all wind up in a heap somewhere in the Arizona desert next to broken Boeing 727 fuselages, swearing at the obsolete, toilets with liftable seats scattered about and mumbling at the empty ice cream containers that surround us. And at that point, while your tractor may still be broken, at least your garage will finally be quiet!
-Wally
(Have a question or just need someone to say “I love you” by coming to your house and eating your ice cream? Email our advice columnist @ cwn4@aol.com)
Last week’s column about summer camp was extremely funny but I found the use of such immature bathroom talk, which I won’t dignify here by mentioning, childish.
-Anonymous
(Wally replies: Dear Anonymous: Childish? I know you are but what am I?)
Dear Wally:
Whenever my husband tries to fix something, he ends up swearing at it. I regularly hear curses coming from the garage. My friends say their husbands do the same thing. Why do guys do this? It makes no sense. Neither does leaving empty containers in the freezer, which he and my friends’ husbands also do. Ugggh.
-Jody
Dear Jody-
You and only 50 million other American women!
I too am one of those swearing, container-leaving (and worse) thugs. I hope to shed some light on the ‘why’ of this behavior so you might better understand the hairy, upright thing you married .
My thoughts: First, swearing at inanimate objects gives us silverbacks a sense of control when the situation is anything but in control. Granted it may be illusory, but to berate and damn a stubbornly broken whatchamacallit to the deepest tarry pits of Hell generates an adrenal surge of primal power one can feel right above the kidneys--a feeling that is reminiscent of our loincloth-wearing ancestors as they stared up at the scaly shins of the T Rex (or whatever was big and threatening at the time) and realized they were about to be gobbled up. (Insert your favorite swear here). It’s kind of the last thing left to do when the situation (or machine) has you check-mated. And it feels good.
Cursing broken objects is an outlet for the frustration one may feel when one is staring down the barrel of a humiliating situation in which they are over their head technically or financially. That usually translates to spending money for someone else to fix it (or to fix one’s broken / lacerated body part). And we guys don’t like spending money on broken things like our BBQs or our pride (Right guys? Right. F-that! ) Sometimes, by first swearing, and then walking away for a cool down period, a guy can return later to find the stupid object has come to its senses and decided to become co-operative. This rarely happens.
Swearing at objects occasionally signifies victory. After something like a rusted bolt puts up a serious fight, and I fix it, it feels exceptionally satisfying to shake my bloodied knuckle at it, drop the F bomb on it and tell it what it can do with itself.
Sometimes you will hear foulage from the mouth of a guy who has been hurt by an inanimate object, such as the coffee table leg that jumps out and stubs his toe. The only real option at that point is to swear at it. This makes sense to you, right? Got to keep those damn, free thinking objects in their place…
Of course swearing at inanimate objects has a time and place. If you find yourself walking down the street indiscriminately swearing without provocation, you might want to get that condition checked out by a professional. But now and then? In the garage, or at a tailgater (the person not the football party)? I should think this normal and not cause for excessive concern.
As for the empty container left in the fridge- Don’t think of it as carelessness or laziness. Instead understand what your guy is really saying: “Honey I love you and didn’t think you wanted me to prove it with roses that brown and bend over on the shy side of a week. This empty container of what used to be strawberry ice cream will endure longer than our love (so long as it stays in the freezer and we don’t lose power). Let it be a frozen cardboard monument to all that we have together. Be reminded of it every time you open the freezer to root around for a bon bon. Let it also serve as a reminder of my sacrifice: I’ll eat this sugary poison down so that you don’t have to. If one of us has to get a huge can, let it be me. I’ll take the hit to my rear. That will be my present to you. You’ll have the gift of mobility and I’ll be stuck here on the sofa with my oversized caboose, unable to get up. Go out- be nimble, be mobile. Have fun. (And oh, please pass me the remote) (errr, and the chips).”
On the bright side, scientists are only a few years away from doing a genetic end run around us guys. When our DNA is no longer needed to propagate the human race, we will all wind up in a heap somewhere in the Arizona desert next to broken Boeing 727 fuselages, swearing at the obsolete, toilets with liftable seats scattered about and mumbling at the empty ice cream containers that surround us. And at that point, while your tractor may still be broken, at least your garage will finally be quiet!
-Wally
(Have a question or just need someone to say “I love you” by coming to your house and eating your ice cream? Email our advice columnist @ cwn4@aol.com)
Dear Wally #51 Barry
Dear Wally:
We’re having a baby and my wife and I are in disagreement about what to name the kid. I like the name Barry. She doesn’t. What do you think? If you agree with me publicly, you might help me win this one.
-Darren
Dear Darren:
Well, first, congratulations on the baby. That is really great news. I am flattered that I have been invited to the inner sanctum of such an important family decision as baby naming- especially considering that save for the fact you read my column, we are complete strangers. (Does your wife know you have reached out to me for naming help?? I seriously doubt it and don’t envy you when she finds out). Look Darren, ‘Barry’ might be a tough sell to the wifey because a few selfish celebrity Barrys (Barries?) have damn near ruined it for all the rest of the would-be Barrys out there. I don’t really mean ruined it. Maybe I mean that because of their high-profile careers, they became larger than life, cheese caricatures of themselves. I’m a little nervous for you because these dominating Barrys from the 70’s have created a vortex that all other regular, modern-day Barrys must now struggle to escape from while simply trying to enjoy their own Barrydom in peace and without association or undue limelight. But before nixing it all together, consider that this very challenge might be your boy’s constitutional fortifier in the long run. He might be the Barry that breaks the mold.
Let’s start with the major players who are making me feel this way: (see if you can guess the Barry)
1)Flashy gold medallion (it was a medallion way before bling was coined) nestled in a thicket of matted chest hair tuffs. Locks flowing all the way from Fabio to Farrah. Frill white shirt unbuttoned to the navel. Skin tight pants and the ability to undulate slickly on the disco floor. Bright white chompers upstaging the mirror ball.
While it’s true that the 70’s had many fashion victims, no one held a gun to this Barry’s head and made him make these choices. This Barry sings in a delightful castrated falsetto. Figure it out yet? Of course, I speak of Barry Gibb of the Bee Gees. This is who we have to thank for this tarring. These days he can be found doing such things as creating the soundtrack to Good Will Hunting. He has been to a barber since his glory days and now looks like freshly shorn mutton ready for the Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck this fall. As a point of historical interest, maybe, take the ‘B’ from Barry and the ‘G’ from Gibb and you get ‘BG.’ Pluralize this by adding a few more brothers and you get Bee Gees. (There’s your ‘a-ha!!’ moment).
2) Continuing on the Barry spectrum, there’s the Walrus of Love, Barry White. Nothing more to say, except, “I’ve always loved you baby…”
3) Barry Williams, the last of the singing/ dancing 70’s Barrys I’ll cite, played the indelible role of Greg Brady in the Brady Bunch. Dashing, and charming on screen, he was our go to guy for beads, headbands, girl tips, and all things cool.
Only…we find out the back story years later in a rent-paying, tell-all book scheme-- Off camera he was making out with his TV sister Marcia (ewwwwww!?!) in the onset doghouse. (Isn’t that illegal in California??)
If I haven’t scared you away from the name, let me take this opportunity to reflect on some of the lesser known Barrys I and many others know who have done nothing but bump up the stature of the name. They are to be commended. These Barrys are professors, engineers, bartenders, fathers, brothers, sons. All outstandingly nice and accomplished in their fields. They have the respect of their peers and the love of their families. They have escaped the Barry Vortex and to this day thrive. One can’t hope for much more for one’s progeny.
I think my best move here is to recuse myself on this family matter. I’m sure your little Barry will be a cool kid. I never asked, but I assume it to be the case that your child is a male?? Not that it matters… Try it out for a few days before the ink on the birth certificate dries. See if he (or she) feels like a Barry. If he does, stick with it. If he doesn’t, leverage your stubbornness for a new car and agree to move on.
Why Barry? I forgot to ask- what’s in it for you?
Whatever you do, don’t name him Wally unless you want him to swing from a hook in the 8th grade locker room by his underwear…
Good luck and wear goggles.
-Wally
Have a question for our advice columnist or want validation for the name you chose for your child? Email him at cwn4@aol.com and he’ll try to make you feel better.
Ps: just kidding- I never spent time on the hook. I just worried I would.
We’re having a baby and my wife and I are in disagreement about what to name the kid. I like the name Barry. She doesn’t. What do you think? If you agree with me publicly, you might help me win this one.
-Darren
Dear Darren:
Well, first, congratulations on the baby. That is really great news. I am flattered that I have been invited to the inner sanctum of such an important family decision as baby naming- especially considering that save for the fact you read my column, we are complete strangers. (Does your wife know you have reached out to me for naming help?? I seriously doubt it and don’t envy you when she finds out). Look Darren, ‘Barry’ might be a tough sell to the wifey because a few selfish celebrity Barrys (Barries?) have damn near ruined it for all the rest of the would-be Barrys out there. I don’t really mean ruined it. Maybe I mean that because of their high-profile careers, they became larger than life, cheese caricatures of themselves. I’m a little nervous for you because these dominating Barrys from the 70’s have created a vortex that all other regular, modern-day Barrys must now struggle to escape from while simply trying to enjoy their own Barrydom in peace and without association or undue limelight. But before nixing it all together, consider that this very challenge might be your boy’s constitutional fortifier in the long run. He might be the Barry that breaks the mold.
Let’s start with the major players who are making me feel this way: (see if you can guess the Barry)
1)Flashy gold medallion (it was a medallion way before bling was coined) nestled in a thicket of matted chest hair tuffs. Locks flowing all the way from Fabio to Farrah. Frill white shirt unbuttoned to the navel. Skin tight pants and the ability to undulate slickly on the disco floor. Bright white chompers upstaging the mirror ball.
While it’s true that the 70’s had many fashion victims, no one held a gun to this Barry’s head and made him make these choices. This Barry sings in a delightful castrated falsetto. Figure it out yet? Of course, I speak of Barry Gibb of the Bee Gees. This is who we have to thank for this tarring. These days he can be found doing such things as creating the soundtrack to Good Will Hunting. He has been to a barber since his glory days and now looks like freshly shorn mutton ready for the Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck this fall. As a point of historical interest, maybe, take the ‘B’ from Barry and the ‘G’ from Gibb and you get ‘BG.’ Pluralize this by adding a few more brothers and you get Bee Gees. (There’s your ‘a-ha!!’ moment).
2) Continuing on the Barry spectrum, there’s the Walrus of Love, Barry White. Nothing more to say, except, “I’ve always loved you baby…”
3) Barry Williams, the last of the singing/ dancing 70’s Barrys I’ll cite, played the indelible role of Greg Brady in the Brady Bunch. Dashing, and charming on screen, he was our go to guy for beads, headbands, girl tips, and all things cool.
Only…we find out the back story years later in a rent-paying, tell-all book scheme-- Off camera he was making out with his TV sister Marcia (ewwwwww!?!) in the onset doghouse. (Isn’t that illegal in California??)
If I haven’t scared you away from the name, let me take this opportunity to reflect on some of the lesser known Barrys I and many others know who have done nothing but bump up the stature of the name. They are to be commended. These Barrys are professors, engineers, bartenders, fathers, brothers, sons. All outstandingly nice and accomplished in their fields. They have the respect of their peers and the love of their families. They have escaped the Barry Vortex and to this day thrive. One can’t hope for much more for one’s progeny.
I think my best move here is to recuse myself on this family matter. I’m sure your little Barry will be a cool kid. I never asked, but I assume it to be the case that your child is a male?? Not that it matters… Try it out for a few days before the ink on the birth certificate dries. See if he (or she) feels like a Barry. If he does, stick with it. If he doesn’t, leverage your stubbornness for a new car and agree to move on.
Why Barry? I forgot to ask- what’s in it for you?
Whatever you do, don’t name him Wally unless you want him to swing from a hook in the 8th grade locker room by his underwear…
Good luck and wear goggles.
-Wally
Have a question for our advice columnist or want validation for the name you chose for your child? Email him at cwn4@aol.com and he’ll try to make you feel better.
Ps: just kidding- I never spent time on the hook. I just worried I would.
Dear Wally #52 This Little Piggie
This Little Piggie…
Dear Wally:
I was playing ‘This little Piggie’ on my toddler’s toes recently. It felt irrelevant, stale and unfair. Can you please help me understand it or maybe even update it to reflect the current human condition?
-Gilian (mother of 2 toddlers) Stone Ridge, NY
Dear Gilian:
If you are feeling the ‘en-wee’ (wee wee!), let’s dig in a bit. Good stories need conflict and resolution- that’s what endears them to folks and what, in this turbid sea of life experiences, makes people feel buoyed to something other than a broken-off piece of beer cooler they happen to grab as it floats by. A good story shouldn’t go stale, especially one as interactive and sing-songy as this.
The original lyrics, of course, are :
This little piggy went to market,This little piggy stayed at home,This little piggy had roast beef,This little piggy had none.And this little piggy went... "Wee wee wee" all the way home...
Despite the billions of little toes that have been inspected and tickled by parents over the years, many today might feel that ‘piggy’ is an inappropriate, misdirected term—a pejorative surrogate for a human body part. We humans disparagingly refer to each other as ‘pigs’ when we do such uncouth things as pilfer company 401K funds, leave our dirty jock straps on the kitchen table, or heap yet another layer of marbled meat on top of the towering, free, midnight buffet platter the tilting cruise ship has already supplied. (No self-respecting pig has ever worn, or been caught wearing, a jock as far as I know). And yet all pigs are unwittingly dragged into our human drama, their images sullied and their tender loins crisped to perfection and served with delicious apple sauce. But as I reread this nursery tale that dates back to the 1800’s with more critical eyes, my brow furrows at the injustice and vagueness.
It’s not fair that the first of the aforementioned piggies has to go to the market day in and day out. Who died and made him the errand boy? Just because he is the biggest? That hardly seems fair. He never gets a break that doesn’t require a splint. He doesn’t even get any choice as to which market. And what if he also needs some lumber or hardware? He’s screwed. That means a separate trip and subsequently an enormous carbon footprint—even if he goes to the market in a Prius.
Unless…
unless they mean that when he ‘goes to market’ , ummm, it’s…a…one way ticket…ugggggh!!!!! They couldn’t! Could they? Gulp.
The next piggy stays at home because why? Because he’s grounded? The details of the house arrest seem conveniently murky. This particular little piggy is not being adequately socialized and it is recklessly irresponsible (if not unconstitutional) to make him stay home without due cause or process. Especially when piggy number 1 spends every living moment either at the damn market or getting to it. Piggy 2 clearly has Middle Piggy Syndrome and is acting out as such. This little piggy will likely land on skid row with an empty scotch bottle for a blanket but not before costing society dearly in expensive, uninsured trips to the ER that we’ll all have to pay for. This is a great example of bad parenting.
The third piggy eats roast beef?! Roast beef is pricy and the entire piggy family, except for at the holidays, can ill afford premium cold cuts in these fiscally austere times. Plus, all this daily red meat will wreck havoc on a GI track.
The fourth piggy ‘had none.’ None what? None roast beef? The ‘none’ that he has or doesn’t have is completely unqualified. No wonder some kids today are confused and overwhelmed... Whatever the others have that he doesn’t represents a grave injustice that needs revisiting in substance and sentence structure alike.
The last piggy went ‘wee wee wee’ all the way home. Well, tell piggy number 1 he needs to turn around and go back to the market to pick up some more diapers and wipes. Overindulge the runt of the litter and it’s a sure bet that incontinence and a smart aleck, potty mouth will follow. (Look what happened to me).
Well, we let the air out of that business and now there’s a void. So here’s a new rhyme for you. I find it lacks the character, meter and foot (ahem) of the original, but you may like its relevance. Grab your kid’s toes and give it a whirl!
Good luck
- Wally
This little piggy goes to New Paltz, NY to patronize the big box stores. He rides a bike and thus uses no fossil fuel. His family work ‘contract’ (which he was forced to sign at 5 years old) says only 1 trip per week. It has been reviewed and approved by PETA.
This 2nd little piggy stays home and cleans up with Clorox Green Solutions. Then after his homework is finished, he is allowed to go to Skatetime 209 for ½ hour before his French tutor shows up.
This 3rd little piggy has tofu sticks (not roast beef) because he doesn’t want to support the industrial agribusiness complex and their unfair feed lot, antibiotic and GMO grain practices. Plus he heard soy reduces blood pressure.
Turns out the 4th little piggy won the scratch off lottery from the Quickie Mart and is now the richest piggy in town. He drives a Hummer with vanity plates that read :USED 2 HV NUN. (The Catholic church is not happy with this).
This 5th little piggy legally changed his name to Smart Bacon (despite trademark violations) and says ‘me me me’ because saying ‘we we we’ is too 60’s.
Got a question for our advice columnist or just need him to stomp all over a perfectly good nursery rhyme? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally:
I was playing ‘This little Piggie’ on my toddler’s toes recently. It felt irrelevant, stale and unfair. Can you please help me understand it or maybe even update it to reflect the current human condition?
-Gilian (mother of 2 toddlers) Stone Ridge, NY
Dear Gilian:
If you are feeling the ‘en-wee’ (wee wee!), let’s dig in a bit. Good stories need conflict and resolution- that’s what endears them to folks and what, in this turbid sea of life experiences, makes people feel buoyed to something other than a broken-off piece of beer cooler they happen to grab as it floats by. A good story shouldn’t go stale, especially one as interactive and sing-songy as this.
The original lyrics, of course, are :
This little piggy went to market,This little piggy stayed at home,This little piggy had roast beef,This little piggy had none.And this little piggy went... "Wee wee wee" all the way home...
Despite the billions of little toes that have been inspected and tickled by parents over the years, many today might feel that ‘piggy’ is an inappropriate, misdirected term—a pejorative surrogate for a human body part. We humans disparagingly refer to each other as ‘pigs’ when we do such uncouth things as pilfer company 401K funds, leave our dirty jock straps on the kitchen table, or heap yet another layer of marbled meat on top of the towering, free, midnight buffet platter the tilting cruise ship has already supplied. (No self-respecting pig has ever worn, or been caught wearing, a jock as far as I know). And yet all pigs are unwittingly dragged into our human drama, their images sullied and their tender loins crisped to perfection and served with delicious apple sauce. But as I reread this nursery tale that dates back to the 1800’s with more critical eyes, my brow furrows at the injustice and vagueness.
It’s not fair that the first of the aforementioned piggies has to go to the market day in and day out. Who died and made him the errand boy? Just because he is the biggest? That hardly seems fair. He never gets a break that doesn’t require a splint. He doesn’t even get any choice as to which market. And what if he also needs some lumber or hardware? He’s screwed. That means a separate trip and subsequently an enormous carbon footprint—even if he goes to the market in a Prius.
Unless…
unless they mean that when he ‘goes to market’ , ummm, it’s…a…one way ticket…ugggggh!!!!! They couldn’t! Could they? Gulp.
The next piggy stays at home because why? Because he’s grounded? The details of the house arrest seem conveniently murky. This particular little piggy is not being adequately socialized and it is recklessly irresponsible (if not unconstitutional) to make him stay home without due cause or process. Especially when piggy number 1 spends every living moment either at the damn market or getting to it. Piggy 2 clearly has Middle Piggy Syndrome and is acting out as such. This little piggy will likely land on skid row with an empty scotch bottle for a blanket but not before costing society dearly in expensive, uninsured trips to the ER that we’ll all have to pay for. This is a great example of bad parenting.
The third piggy eats roast beef?! Roast beef is pricy and the entire piggy family, except for at the holidays, can ill afford premium cold cuts in these fiscally austere times. Plus, all this daily red meat will wreck havoc on a GI track.
The fourth piggy ‘had none.’ None what? None roast beef? The ‘none’ that he has or doesn’t have is completely unqualified. No wonder some kids today are confused and overwhelmed... Whatever the others have that he doesn’t represents a grave injustice that needs revisiting in substance and sentence structure alike.
The last piggy went ‘wee wee wee’ all the way home. Well, tell piggy number 1 he needs to turn around and go back to the market to pick up some more diapers and wipes. Overindulge the runt of the litter and it’s a sure bet that incontinence and a smart aleck, potty mouth will follow. (Look what happened to me).
Well, we let the air out of that business and now there’s a void. So here’s a new rhyme for you. I find it lacks the character, meter and foot (ahem) of the original, but you may like its relevance. Grab your kid’s toes and give it a whirl!
Good luck
- Wally
This little piggy goes to New Paltz, NY to patronize the big box stores. He rides a bike and thus uses no fossil fuel. His family work ‘contract’ (which he was forced to sign at 5 years old) says only 1 trip per week. It has been reviewed and approved by PETA.
This 2nd little piggy stays home and cleans up with Clorox Green Solutions. Then after his homework is finished, he is allowed to go to Skatetime 209 for ½ hour before his French tutor shows up.
This 3rd little piggy has tofu sticks (not roast beef) because he doesn’t want to support the industrial agribusiness complex and their unfair feed lot, antibiotic and GMO grain practices. Plus he heard soy reduces blood pressure.
Turns out the 4th little piggy won the scratch off lottery from the Quickie Mart and is now the richest piggy in town. He drives a Hummer with vanity plates that read :USED 2 HV NUN. (The Catholic church is not happy with this).
This 5th little piggy legally changed his name to Smart Bacon (despite trademark violations) and says ‘me me me’ because saying ‘we we we’ is too 60’s.
Got a question for our advice columnist or just need him to stomp all over a perfectly good nursery rhyme? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally #53 Toddler Travel
Dear Wally:
My wife and I are looking for clues as to what our toddler might be when she grows up. We see her take great interest in some particular activities and want to know if there’s a connection or tendency or whatever. Any insight? Are there things we can do to help steer her in one direction or another?
-Myron
Dear Myron:
Wow. This is a serious question. Well, as my driver’s ed teacher used to say to me in particular, “Keep your hands off that wheel.” I doubt we can extrapolate and predict with any accuracy what kids’ actions today might bring for them tomorrow. (Although recently I saw some home movies of me when I was a toddler. Some of the more graphic footage was of me flinging the contents of my diaper against the bedroom wall. Which, I guess, accurately predicted I would be a writer). I think if we went there, so to speak, there would be a lot more pressure on kids, and mostly disappointment in the end, if they felt their parents had a 20 year notion of occupational prearrangement, such as might unfold in the following hypothetical dialogue:
“Junior, your mother and I are a little concerned with this sudden interest in medical school. We saw you spend a lot of time dumping the dog food bowl upside down as a kid and were pretty sure that we all agreed that kibble tossing was the right career path to pursue.”
“But mom and dad, that was when I was 2. I’ve sort of changed my mind. I want to help people.”
“Nonsense, you never once played doctor. And besides, there are very few professional kibble tossers. The market prospects are thus extremely good for you to make a solid, respectable living.”
And so on.
If your theory were true, Myron, that toddler actions today were toddler careers tomorrow, there would be a glut of executioners. Have you ever not seen a little boy running around with a huge stick trying to beat something’s head off like it was a piñata? Happily, most grow out of that.
We would also have a flood of qualified applicants for the many dog and cat tail pulling positions we, as a society, would then have to create.
There would be whole fields devoted to adult frog catching, puddle stomping and doll hugging, if kids actions were any indication of future occupations.
Toddlers are just experimenting with touch, feel, smell, action etc. And things change quickly. Up until 3 days ago, for instance, my own daughter adored taking baths. She’d splash for almost hours at a time giggling and chucking water. And then suddenly, BAM, no more tub. No way. No how. I’m told that might change back at any moment, too. I think my point is that extrapolating from today’s interest is, at best, a waste of time. You’ll want to encourage exploration and commitment when the time or activity is right (I trust this will be instinctually evident to you and me) and above all not railroad anyone into anything, unless your kid is clearly going to be a major league baseball player and bankroll your golden years. In that case, go for it.
What we can hope for is that when our kids rock back on their haunches and play with pebbles in the driveway for hours, or grabs at the cat’s tail all over the front lawn, that they’ll bring with them curiosity and glee into adulthood (hopefully without Cat Scratch Fever or rabies). If you are lucky and do it right, and don’t rush the process even a little, your girl will curl up around noon as an adult and take nap so she’s refreshed and on the top of her game for the rest of the afternoon. (I tried this at my former job and, unfortunately, that’s why it is my former job). She’ll sniff flowers and laugh and define herself by her happiness and friends, not by the title on her business card.
Remember, hands sort of off the wheel!
-Wally
Got a question or need a business manager for your pro sport bound toddler? Email our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com
My wife and I are looking for clues as to what our toddler might be when she grows up. We see her take great interest in some particular activities and want to know if there’s a connection or tendency or whatever. Any insight? Are there things we can do to help steer her in one direction or another?
-Myron
Dear Myron:
Wow. This is a serious question. Well, as my driver’s ed teacher used to say to me in particular, “Keep your hands off that wheel.” I doubt we can extrapolate and predict with any accuracy what kids’ actions today might bring for them tomorrow. (Although recently I saw some home movies of me when I was a toddler. Some of the more graphic footage was of me flinging the contents of my diaper against the bedroom wall. Which, I guess, accurately predicted I would be a writer). I think if we went there, so to speak, there would be a lot more pressure on kids, and mostly disappointment in the end, if they felt their parents had a 20 year notion of occupational prearrangement, such as might unfold in the following hypothetical dialogue:
“Junior, your mother and I are a little concerned with this sudden interest in medical school. We saw you spend a lot of time dumping the dog food bowl upside down as a kid and were pretty sure that we all agreed that kibble tossing was the right career path to pursue.”
“But mom and dad, that was when I was 2. I’ve sort of changed my mind. I want to help people.”
“Nonsense, you never once played doctor. And besides, there are very few professional kibble tossers. The market prospects are thus extremely good for you to make a solid, respectable living.”
And so on.
If your theory were true, Myron, that toddler actions today were toddler careers tomorrow, there would be a glut of executioners. Have you ever not seen a little boy running around with a huge stick trying to beat something’s head off like it was a piñata? Happily, most grow out of that.
We would also have a flood of qualified applicants for the many dog and cat tail pulling positions we, as a society, would then have to create.
There would be whole fields devoted to adult frog catching, puddle stomping and doll hugging, if kids actions were any indication of future occupations.
Toddlers are just experimenting with touch, feel, smell, action etc. And things change quickly. Up until 3 days ago, for instance, my own daughter adored taking baths. She’d splash for almost hours at a time giggling and chucking water. And then suddenly, BAM, no more tub. No way. No how. I’m told that might change back at any moment, too. I think my point is that extrapolating from today’s interest is, at best, a waste of time. You’ll want to encourage exploration and commitment when the time or activity is right (I trust this will be instinctually evident to you and me) and above all not railroad anyone into anything, unless your kid is clearly going to be a major league baseball player and bankroll your golden years. In that case, go for it.
What we can hope for is that when our kids rock back on their haunches and play with pebbles in the driveway for hours, or grabs at the cat’s tail all over the front lawn, that they’ll bring with them curiosity and glee into adulthood (hopefully without Cat Scratch Fever or rabies). If you are lucky and do it right, and don’t rush the process even a little, your girl will curl up around noon as an adult and take nap so she’s refreshed and on the top of her game for the rest of the afternoon. (I tried this at my former job and, unfortunately, that’s why it is my former job). She’ll sniff flowers and laugh and define herself by her happiness and friends, not by the title on her business card.
Remember, hands sort of off the wheel!
-Wally
Got a question or need a business manager for your pro sport bound toddler? Email our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally #55 Calander of Love
The Calendar of Love
Dear Wally,What do you think it means when a gentleman I am interested in is only available to go out on Monday nights? This guy I have been seeing for a couple of months is "busy" a LOT. He has a normal day job (including having to be at work Tues am) so that whole school night thing isn't it or Monday would be out too. I can not figure it out. A wife? A girlfriend? A boyfriend? What do you think?-call me confused
ps: plus he’s a little kinky. I’m a little prude.
Dear Confused (and not so kinky) ( but a little prude):
It’s been some time since I was in the dating game and reading the relevant romance tea leaves, but as memory serves me, something is fishy. And certainly not knowing enough details about something has never stopped me from mouthing off before, so here’s the deal: This guy definitely has a wife and a husband and a boyfriend he’s not telling you about, plus who knows what else? Here’s why by way of the calendar of love:
Tues: There is no such thing as a Tues pm date. The love shop, as they say, is closed on Tuesday. Your man is at home with his other wives doing the dishes and being Tuesdayish..
Wed: Wednesday night dates are the bastion of the optimistic. Lust springs forth like a coiled up greyhound at the starting gate. Those so eager to reach over the midweek line and goose the weekend right in the keester tend to make dates on Wednesday --and you have to love that enthusiasm, even if the Wed pm-ers tend to wear pocket protectors--only that’s not even your guy. The pros of Wed dates are that there’s rarely trouble getting a table out. The cons are that most of the restaurants (other than Olive Garden) are closed on Wednesdays. If he offers to take you to Olive Garden on a Wednesday, go and get the bottomless salad bowl, but make it clear afterwards that it was your last date with him if he thinks you are a Wed pm Olive Garden type of girl. Also tell him to lose the pocket protector.
Thursdays are a set up- a test for the weekend big commitment date- a walk on concrete 5 hours after it is poured, a cautious fingering of the freshly painted hand rail at the department store when you think no one is looking. (Are there still any department stores?). A date on Thursday has the whiff of promise (err, I think I like you, maybe) and were your 9-5 er willing to offer his hand to you on this night for a good time, Confused, I’d say take it and run. But I’m understanding that a Thursday pm date offer has yet to be tendered. That’s because he probably has a wife and a husband and a boyfriend.
A date on a Fri or Saturday night is the brass ring nervous daters of either gender strive for- the ultimate statement of keen interest. One need not read deeply into this availability to know that this thing, whatever you crazy kids call it, has legs. No married man would be brazen enough to ask out someone other than his wife on a Fri night date, unless she was an insurance agent and they were strictly discussing a policy of some sort before a rousing game of handball.
A Sunday date, by itself, means you’ve got a friend on your hands (and in the words of Porky Pig, ‘that’s all, folks…’) The Sunday night date is about eating guacamole and watching 60 Minutes with a long time mate or member of your bible study group. Keep the expectations for fireworks low, (unless you are reading the book of Revelations) if this is the day he suggests you meet, and you wont be disappointed. The exception to this is if you have Sunday night date immediately after a Sunday morning date, if you know what I mean… in that case Sunday evening dates are niiiiiiiiiicccceeeeee and you can skip the 60 Minutes. But he hasn’t even asked you out on this typical, “I just want to be friends’ date. And that leaves us at…
Monday ( your day). A Monday night date is a cautious thing. It creeps out from behind the blinds of truth to either question the validity or hedge the bet. A Monday night date, as you suspect, is the number 1 date of married men (or women) who are doing so on the sly. Why? Because it is the day they are least likely to get caught and the day they are least likely to be expected to go out on a surreptitious date. So the oleaginous (and kinky) use this day to do their bidding.
Put it to him straight and grill him on why a Monday night is the only time he’ll do anything with you. Is he on Parole? Let him know you are a prude and that if he plans to be with you, he needs to gingerly escort you to another day of the week- He has 6 others to chose from.
Then tell him you want to meet his wife his husband and his boyfriend (all at the same time) and see how he reacts.
I hope this has helped.
-Wally
Got a question about your love life or just want someone to butt into your affairs? Email our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally,What do you think it means when a gentleman I am interested in is only available to go out on Monday nights? This guy I have been seeing for a couple of months is "busy" a LOT. He has a normal day job (including having to be at work Tues am) so that whole school night thing isn't it or Monday would be out too. I can not figure it out. A wife? A girlfriend? A boyfriend? What do you think?-call me confused
ps: plus he’s a little kinky. I’m a little prude.
Dear Confused (and not so kinky) ( but a little prude):
It’s been some time since I was in the dating game and reading the relevant romance tea leaves, but as memory serves me, something is fishy. And certainly not knowing enough details about something has never stopped me from mouthing off before, so here’s the deal: This guy definitely has a wife and a husband and a boyfriend he’s not telling you about, plus who knows what else? Here’s why by way of the calendar of love:
Tues: There is no such thing as a Tues pm date. The love shop, as they say, is closed on Tuesday. Your man is at home with his other wives doing the dishes and being Tuesdayish..
Wed: Wednesday night dates are the bastion of the optimistic. Lust springs forth like a coiled up greyhound at the starting gate. Those so eager to reach over the midweek line and goose the weekend right in the keester tend to make dates on Wednesday --and you have to love that enthusiasm, even if the Wed pm-ers tend to wear pocket protectors--only that’s not even your guy. The pros of Wed dates are that there’s rarely trouble getting a table out. The cons are that most of the restaurants (other than Olive Garden) are closed on Wednesdays. If he offers to take you to Olive Garden on a Wednesday, go and get the bottomless salad bowl, but make it clear afterwards that it was your last date with him if he thinks you are a Wed pm Olive Garden type of girl. Also tell him to lose the pocket protector.
Thursdays are a set up- a test for the weekend big commitment date- a walk on concrete 5 hours after it is poured, a cautious fingering of the freshly painted hand rail at the department store when you think no one is looking. (Are there still any department stores?). A date on Thursday has the whiff of promise (err, I think I like you, maybe) and were your 9-5 er willing to offer his hand to you on this night for a good time, Confused, I’d say take it and run. But I’m understanding that a Thursday pm date offer has yet to be tendered. That’s because he probably has a wife and a husband and a boyfriend.
A date on a Fri or Saturday night is the brass ring nervous daters of either gender strive for- the ultimate statement of keen interest. One need not read deeply into this availability to know that this thing, whatever you crazy kids call it, has legs. No married man would be brazen enough to ask out someone other than his wife on a Fri night date, unless she was an insurance agent and they were strictly discussing a policy of some sort before a rousing game of handball.
A Sunday date, by itself, means you’ve got a friend on your hands (and in the words of Porky Pig, ‘that’s all, folks…’) The Sunday night date is about eating guacamole and watching 60 Minutes with a long time mate or member of your bible study group. Keep the expectations for fireworks low, (unless you are reading the book of Revelations) if this is the day he suggests you meet, and you wont be disappointed. The exception to this is if you have Sunday night date immediately after a Sunday morning date, if you know what I mean… in that case Sunday evening dates are niiiiiiiiiicccceeeeee and you can skip the 60 Minutes. But he hasn’t even asked you out on this typical, “I just want to be friends’ date. And that leaves us at…
Monday ( your day). A Monday night date is a cautious thing. It creeps out from behind the blinds of truth to either question the validity or hedge the bet. A Monday night date, as you suspect, is the number 1 date of married men (or women) who are doing so on the sly. Why? Because it is the day they are least likely to get caught and the day they are least likely to be expected to go out on a surreptitious date. So the oleaginous (and kinky) use this day to do their bidding.
Put it to him straight and grill him on why a Monday night is the only time he’ll do anything with you. Is he on Parole? Let him know you are a prude and that if he plans to be with you, he needs to gingerly escort you to another day of the week- He has 6 others to chose from.
Then tell him you want to meet his wife his husband and his boyfriend (all at the same time) and see how he reacts.
I hope this has helped.
-Wally
Got a question about your love life or just want someone to butt into your affairs? Email our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally #55 Teaser
Dear Wally- Are you a cat person or a dog person?
-Laurel
Dear Laurel- You guess. Here’s a letter I once wrote to our enormous black cat, Teaser.
Cat,
I don’t like you rubbing up against my leg. I never have and I never will. We go through this every day. This is not new material. You should be chasing mice not fishing for compliments by parading your oversized, puckering exhaust pipe back and forth at us and our guests every living moment of every living day. Put that tail down! It’s almost like you are giving my steel-tipped work boot a huge, pulsing neon bulls-eye.
I trip on you because you are constantly underfoot. Constantly. Why don’t you read the memo I posted clearly stating ‘No cats allowed underfoot.” What don’t you understand about this? You seem to be missing the social cues and body language perception skills that other lesser species have. Yet I hear cats are very perceptive. And barn cats wily. So what is your problem?? The more I recoil, the more persistent you are. Plus you leave cat hair everywhere. That is the primary reason you are an OUTSIDE cat. (That, and I find you pushy) (and the word ‘barn’ is right there in your title). I put that word ‘outside’ in capitals as a courtesy in case your eyesight is going (I have reason to believe that your eyesight is going because there are STILL mice around and it looks like they are having a holiday on your watch. Are they? Are you on the take or something? What are they paying you to leave them alone and pester me? Whatever it is, I’ll double it.)
Cat,
Even if I shaved you bald, there would still be black cat hair everywhere. How can anything lose as much hair as you and not be completely bald? I think you grow it just to leave a trail of it everywhere you go in case you get lost. Yet you never stray far from the front door. I bet you say, “If I can’t be inside, at least my hair can.” There’s a path of snarly black cat hair from the front steps of the house to the hood of my car. There are muddy cat paw prints (Don’t try to blame it on a raccoon, I’ve got your number) on the hood of my car crisscrossing left and right, up and down. Are you practicing Salsa y Merenge on my car or something? Shouldn’t you be CHASING MICE? You fight the other cats when we put breakfast food down. So I know you have the fight in you. Why don’t you turn that hostility towards a good cause? (ummm, like getting field mice?)Would it kill you to think about your work a bit more instead of bickering with your fellow barn cats? The only catfight I want to see is between Britney Spears, Lindsey Lohan and Hanna Montana and it involves jello. (Are you listening God?)
Cat,
I know you hate my dogs and want to see them garroted. Unfortunately the feeling with them is mutual. We fell on the dog side of the cat/dog lover’s fence long before we met you. Don’t take it personally. There’s a reason for the expression ‘fighting like cats and dogs’ (There’s also a reason for the expression ‘raining like cats and dogs’ but I have no idea what it means.) I’m sorry, but we’re too old to change. The inside is for the dogs, the outside is for the cats. Just as the memo states. I know winter is coming and you think you will be cold. You wont. Trust me. Try to keep some of that hair on your body. It will help. We made you an insulated cathouse (in the barn- do you remember where that is?? If you get lost, follow the mice) but you refuse to stay in it. Are you upset there is no room service or something? Instead you park your keester smackdab on the stoop of our front door, where each morning I trip. We haven’t changed the policy. We wont.
Cat,
I know you have self-esteem and co-dependency issues to work out. Never mind the abandonment issues you have with your father. But strutting like a cheap $3 whore on my front porch, I assure you, is not the answer. It is pathetic and I hope you can get the professional help you need.
Remember this final thought. I’d like you 215 times more if you pulled your own weight around here. (And if you didn’t leap up and pull the heads off of birds in mid-flight). And I’m sorry I inadvertently ran you over last year with my car. I felt horrible. I’m glad you are feeling better. I feel like we’ve gotten a little closer as a result of that incident. Not much, but a little bit. Under my car is not a great place to nap, you know…
Cat,
My appreciation of you is fickle and foxy like the wind and, at times, downright questionable.
-Wally
Got a letter for our advice columnist or are you a crazy old cat lady who is wants to letter-bomb him? Here’s his email address: cwn4@aol.com
(ps- Simmer down cat lady- this is a bit of a goof- Teaser is pretty cool actually)
-Laurel
Dear Laurel- You guess. Here’s a letter I once wrote to our enormous black cat, Teaser.
Cat,
I don’t like you rubbing up against my leg. I never have and I never will. We go through this every day. This is not new material. You should be chasing mice not fishing for compliments by parading your oversized, puckering exhaust pipe back and forth at us and our guests every living moment of every living day. Put that tail down! It’s almost like you are giving my steel-tipped work boot a huge, pulsing neon bulls-eye.
I trip on you because you are constantly underfoot. Constantly. Why don’t you read the memo I posted clearly stating ‘No cats allowed underfoot.” What don’t you understand about this? You seem to be missing the social cues and body language perception skills that other lesser species have. Yet I hear cats are very perceptive. And barn cats wily. So what is your problem?? The more I recoil, the more persistent you are. Plus you leave cat hair everywhere. That is the primary reason you are an OUTSIDE cat. (That, and I find you pushy) (and the word ‘barn’ is right there in your title). I put that word ‘outside’ in capitals as a courtesy in case your eyesight is going (I have reason to believe that your eyesight is going because there are STILL mice around and it looks like they are having a holiday on your watch. Are they? Are you on the take or something? What are they paying you to leave them alone and pester me? Whatever it is, I’ll double it.)
Cat,
Even if I shaved you bald, there would still be black cat hair everywhere. How can anything lose as much hair as you and not be completely bald? I think you grow it just to leave a trail of it everywhere you go in case you get lost. Yet you never stray far from the front door. I bet you say, “If I can’t be inside, at least my hair can.” There’s a path of snarly black cat hair from the front steps of the house to the hood of my car. There are muddy cat paw prints (Don’t try to blame it on a raccoon, I’ve got your number) on the hood of my car crisscrossing left and right, up and down. Are you practicing Salsa y Merenge on my car or something? Shouldn’t you be CHASING MICE? You fight the other cats when we put breakfast food down. So I know you have the fight in you. Why don’t you turn that hostility towards a good cause? (ummm, like getting field mice?)Would it kill you to think about your work a bit more instead of bickering with your fellow barn cats? The only catfight I want to see is between Britney Spears, Lindsey Lohan and Hanna Montana and it involves jello. (Are you listening God?)
Cat,
I know you hate my dogs and want to see them garroted. Unfortunately the feeling with them is mutual. We fell on the dog side of the cat/dog lover’s fence long before we met you. Don’t take it personally. There’s a reason for the expression ‘fighting like cats and dogs’ (There’s also a reason for the expression ‘raining like cats and dogs’ but I have no idea what it means.) I’m sorry, but we’re too old to change. The inside is for the dogs, the outside is for the cats. Just as the memo states. I know winter is coming and you think you will be cold. You wont. Trust me. Try to keep some of that hair on your body. It will help. We made you an insulated cathouse (in the barn- do you remember where that is?? If you get lost, follow the mice) but you refuse to stay in it. Are you upset there is no room service or something? Instead you park your keester smackdab on the stoop of our front door, where each morning I trip. We haven’t changed the policy. We wont.
Cat,
I know you have self-esteem and co-dependency issues to work out. Never mind the abandonment issues you have with your father. But strutting like a cheap $3 whore on my front porch, I assure you, is not the answer. It is pathetic and I hope you can get the professional help you need.
Remember this final thought. I’d like you 215 times more if you pulled your own weight around here. (And if you didn’t leap up and pull the heads off of birds in mid-flight). And I’m sorry I inadvertently ran you over last year with my car. I felt horrible. I’m glad you are feeling better. I feel like we’ve gotten a little closer as a result of that incident. Not much, but a little bit. Under my car is not a great place to nap, you know…
Cat,
My appreciation of you is fickle and foxy like the wind and, at times, downright questionable.
-Wally
Got a letter for our advice columnist or are you a crazy old cat lady who is wants to letter-bomb him? Here’s his email address: cwn4@aol.com
(ps- Simmer down cat lady- this is a bit of a goof- Teaser is pretty cool actually)
Dear Wally #57 Sleepless in Seattle
Dear Wally- I don’t have a question for you. Just wanted to say hi from the West Coast been up most of the night.
-Cousin Bubba
Hey Sleepless in Seattle Bubba! - Been thinking of you constantly this last week as I hump enormo 2x12x20’ notched Doug fir roof rafters up to their glorious (and final!!) 18' height on my construction project. It’s been a long journey for these rafters from the Pacific Northwest (your home) to my home (The Hudson Valley). If they could emote, I wonder if some of these reddish hued thugs would feel happy to be here on the east coast. Soon they will sag under the constant load of snow—an unrelenting force to which they are not accustomed. I never noticed how sweet they smell when they are cut. You are a fine home builder so you know the fresh cut, gummy, sweetness of which I speak. Normally I just catch a whiff around Christmas time.
You also know the joy of right angles and plumb walls, contrary conditions we humans force on nature—nature which then mocks our demands with no consistent offerings of such irrelevant things as 90 degree angles or perfectly straight lines. Even our horizons are not what they seem—just try to get to the horizon and set your level on it!
I wish you were here pooh poohing me for pooh poohing the 6' level (and all it stands for). Jeff , the crew leader, however, is more of your ‘quality and precision’ school and won't give me an inch (or even an 1/8th of an inch over a 16' span). Bastard. So together we make a good team. Well actually, by himself he makes a perfectly good team. I’m just along for the ride and trying to stay out of his way. Tomorrow we sheath the roof. Keeping mother nature out, despite our attempts with windows and skylights to let her back in. I wouldn’t fault her if she felt she was getting mixed messages.
Been using Jeff's pneumatic framing gun and the beer-soaked, gruff, conclusions of Rusty (my other cousin, the ER doctor) ring loudly in my ear- "Anyone who owns a nail gun will eventually be my bitch.”
The first time I pulled the trigger the damn thing took off spraying 4” spikes in all directions. With me attached. I think there was a safety latch missing. Jeff ran for cover and rightly so. I think all the hunters around though I had jumped the gun, so to speak, on deer season. I might have even gotten a deer for all I know. I felt like a prohibition era gangsta coping a squat with a Tommy gun and trying to take out another pinstriped gangsta. Rat-a-tat-a-tat! This nail gun is not a tool for weekend warriors, especially ones with itchy fingers. I know you are laughing from your bed at this image of me only partially in control and I hope this expenditure of energy doesn’t set you back.I still have my kneecaps (where the nail gun hangs from my belt) so that's good. I love my kneecaps and use them every day. But crap, a couple of perpendicular 2x4s over my shoulder combined with an accidental trigger touch and it could be an unwitting, modern day crucifixion inside of 4 seconds. Well, we all have our crosses to bear. I guess mine are 2x4s right now. I know you wish yours were, too.I wish you were here scampering around on fresh lumber, yelling at me to do this or not do that, not showing your skinny backside to the hospital staff through that rear entry gown I’m sure you refuse on principle to cinch up. Are you making the sick people on your hall laugh? I bet they love you.
Save me some of that anti nausea medication- I just got my tax bill and am feeling a little woozy. I also wish I could turn this nail gun on your cancer, one cell at a time if necessary. This thing fires 280 rounds a minute. How long could it take?
Well, tell those transplanted stem cells to do what they have to do to get you better and back to your 4 kids Jess, Zach, Sarah, and Sammy (and wife Kate) who miss you and wish, as I do, that you were prancing around your garden with them instead of fighting Lymphoma for your life at 43 in an airtight room with right angles and plumb walls (and maybe doug fir rafters).
-Love,
Cousin Wally
Ps- get some sleep.
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want a picture of his cousin’s hospital gown? Email him at cwn4@aol.com.
-Cousin Bubba
Hey Sleepless in Seattle Bubba! - Been thinking of you constantly this last week as I hump enormo 2x12x20’ notched Doug fir roof rafters up to their glorious (and final!!) 18' height on my construction project. It’s been a long journey for these rafters from the Pacific Northwest (your home) to my home (The Hudson Valley). If they could emote, I wonder if some of these reddish hued thugs would feel happy to be here on the east coast. Soon they will sag under the constant load of snow—an unrelenting force to which they are not accustomed. I never noticed how sweet they smell when they are cut. You are a fine home builder so you know the fresh cut, gummy, sweetness of which I speak. Normally I just catch a whiff around Christmas time.
You also know the joy of right angles and plumb walls, contrary conditions we humans force on nature—nature which then mocks our demands with no consistent offerings of such irrelevant things as 90 degree angles or perfectly straight lines. Even our horizons are not what they seem—just try to get to the horizon and set your level on it!
I wish you were here pooh poohing me for pooh poohing the 6' level (and all it stands for). Jeff , the crew leader, however, is more of your ‘quality and precision’ school and won't give me an inch (or even an 1/8th of an inch over a 16' span). Bastard. So together we make a good team. Well actually, by himself he makes a perfectly good team. I’m just along for the ride and trying to stay out of his way. Tomorrow we sheath the roof. Keeping mother nature out, despite our attempts with windows and skylights to let her back in. I wouldn’t fault her if she felt she was getting mixed messages.
Been using Jeff's pneumatic framing gun and the beer-soaked, gruff, conclusions of Rusty (my other cousin, the ER doctor) ring loudly in my ear- "Anyone who owns a nail gun will eventually be my bitch.”
The first time I pulled the trigger the damn thing took off spraying 4” spikes in all directions. With me attached. I think there was a safety latch missing. Jeff ran for cover and rightly so. I think all the hunters around though I had jumped the gun, so to speak, on deer season. I might have even gotten a deer for all I know. I felt like a prohibition era gangsta coping a squat with a Tommy gun and trying to take out another pinstriped gangsta. Rat-a-tat-a-tat! This nail gun is not a tool for weekend warriors, especially ones with itchy fingers. I know you are laughing from your bed at this image of me only partially in control and I hope this expenditure of energy doesn’t set you back.I still have my kneecaps (where the nail gun hangs from my belt) so that's good. I love my kneecaps and use them every day. But crap, a couple of perpendicular 2x4s over my shoulder combined with an accidental trigger touch and it could be an unwitting, modern day crucifixion inside of 4 seconds. Well, we all have our crosses to bear. I guess mine are 2x4s right now. I know you wish yours were, too.I wish you were here scampering around on fresh lumber, yelling at me to do this or not do that, not showing your skinny backside to the hospital staff through that rear entry gown I’m sure you refuse on principle to cinch up. Are you making the sick people on your hall laugh? I bet they love you.
Save me some of that anti nausea medication- I just got my tax bill and am feeling a little woozy. I also wish I could turn this nail gun on your cancer, one cell at a time if necessary. This thing fires 280 rounds a minute. How long could it take?
Well, tell those transplanted stem cells to do what they have to do to get you better and back to your 4 kids Jess, Zach, Sarah, and Sammy (and wife Kate) who miss you and wish, as I do, that you were prancing around your garden with them instead of fighting Lymphoma for your life at 43 in an airtight room with right angles and plumb walls (and maybe doug fir rafters).
-Love,
Cousin Wally
Ps- get some sleep.
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want a picture of his cousin’s hospital gown? Email him at cwn4@aol.com.
Dear Wally #57 Late Great Phillip Cornell esq
Dear Wally #57 Wally (almost) Gets Filthy Rich Via The Internet!
Dear Mr. Wally-
God has blessed me with an honest and intelligent partner in you, my brother. Will need your legal name and credit card number and you security social number (9 digits if you are US citizen). As I am the deceased lawyer for the wealthy from oil, royal Phillip Cornell of Lome , Togo, Africa we can now start the process of getting you large inhertiance ($10.5 million US) of which I take 65% and you take 45%. I urgently await your reply and also need place of birth and mother’s maiden name for to send you a condolence card in case she is dead.
Sincerely,
Tobea Masku, Esq
Dear Tobea: (May I call you Tobea? I feel like we can trust each other like brothers). I respectfully must decline your generous offer for 45% of the $10.5 million. By the way, 45% plus 65% = 110% which is even better than 100%! Thank you, good sir! You are indeed generous!
I am afraid I have no place to park all the Porsches I would buy. Nor would I be able to keep a 200’ yacht in my small Kerhonkson farm house.
I also am concerned about what an unfathomable amount of wealth might do to my head. I thus wish to avoid the temptations of such largess and only hope it doesn’t disrespect the honor of my dear, late uncle (?) Phillip Cornell. I would like to offer my services, however, for your noble cause.
I believe that you might more efficiently find the late Phillip Cornell’s next next–of-kin via bulk email if your future written correspondence is grammatically correct.
So, I offer this proposal with the utmost respect and humility: I will proofread your correspondence at the ‘friends and family’ rate of $100/ hr for a minimum of 5 hours, my brother. This would be a fine and solid investment of time and money on your part. In exchange, you will end up with a letter that you can know will not make anyone question your otherwise sterling legal credentials and bona fides (and literacy). I can start immediately.
Sincerely,
Wally (ummm, that’s Mr. Wally, I guess)
Ps: You write extremely well for a deceased lawyer!
June 3
Dear Mr. Wally:
As brothers, we should be able to open honestly against one each. I feel you are having my best interest in mind and I would be willing to increase your percentage from 45% to 40% of $10.5 million US dollars in exchange for said proofread correction. I writes Englihs better then I speak it. Dutch to. 40% much better then $500, yes?
Can we make a deal? I will need your security social number as well as bank routing number to receive funds from your account.
Sincerely,
Tobea Masku, Esq
June 3
My dear Tobea-
Hmmmmm. I do not seek any percentage of your $10.5 million (USD), even if it is an increase from 45% to 40% (!?!) I would prefer to simply take my humble fee and leave my generous share of the inheritance to you so that YOU may purchase lovely things for your family.
If you just send $500 to my Paypal account, listed below, I will happily and thoroughly start in on the 5 hr project of giving you the tools you need to do your difficult job.
-Mr Wally
(ps ‘Englihs’ is spelled ‘English’ --This is a freebee, no-charge tip just to show you that you are in good hands!)
June 4
Mr. Wally-
We play a game of cat and mouse. I am trying to offer you large monkeys. Let us not eat small raw crayfish anymore. Take my sincere offer. I am a respectable businessman and wish only the best for you and lots of ingheritence from your loving Uncle Phillip Cornell, deceased, from the diamond money.
Tobea Maskuku, Esq.
June 4
Dear Tobea:
Wait, now diamonds? I thought we were rich on oil?!?
Crayfish are best cooked, I agree. (I think). Please let me help you help yourself. I offer a very fair and legitimate service. You will not be sorry!
Sincerely,
Mr. Wally.
June 5
Dear Mr. Wally- You are tire me out with your many letters. I need to make this transaction happen now for the corrupt government claims the money back and soon none is left! Please, as my brother, give the information I request so we can get you your money in certified cheque.
Sincerely,
Tobea Masku, Esq
June 5
Dear Tobias-
With heavy heart, I must end this email relationship. (Plus I have to get back to work). Sometimes it takes a sharp hook to catch a crayfish. You will have trouble catching anything but discarded tires with your mistake-filled letter.
Good day sir,
Mr. Wally
(ps- as my brother, you should already know my (our!) mother’s maiden name. No condolence card necessary as she passed away 13 years ago. Remember?)
Got a question for our advice columnist or just need someone to grind down an email scammer? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com and remember, 45% plus 65% = 110% which is 10% more than the most possible! (This was a real email exchange by the way).
A Good Credit Score is 700 or Above. See yours in just 2 easy steps!
Dear Mr. Wally-
God has blessed me with an honest and intelligent partner in you, my brother. Will need your legal name and credit card number and you security social number (9 digits if you are US citizen). As I am the deceased lawyer for the wealthy from oil, royal Phillip Cornell of Lome , Togo, Africa we can now start the process of getting you large inhertiance ($10.5 million US) of which I take 65% and you take 45%. I urgently await your reply and also need place of birth and mother’s maiden name for to send you a condolence card in case she is dead.
Sincerely,
Tobea Masku, Esq
Dear Tobea: (May I call you Tobea? I feel like we can trust each other like brothers). I respectfully must decline your generous offer for 45% of the $10.5 million. By the way, 45% plus 65% = 110% which is even better than 100%! Thank you, good sir! You are indeed generous!
I am afraid I have no place to park all the Porsches I would buy. Nor would I be able to keep a 200’ yacht in my small Kerhonkson farm house.
I also am concerned about what an unfathomable amount of wealth might do to my head. I thus wish to avoid the temptations of such largess and only hope it doesn’t disrespect the honor of my dear, late uncle (?) Phillip Cornell. I would like to offer my services, however, for your noble cause.
I believe that you might more efficiently find the late Phillip Cornell’s next next–of-kin via bulk email if your future written correspondence is grammatically correct.
So, I offer this proposal with the utmost respect and humility: I will proofread your correspondence at the ‘friends and family’ rate of $100/ hr for a minimum of 5 hours, my brother. This would be a fine and solid investment of time and money on your part. In exchange, you will end up with a letter that you can know will not make anyone question your otherwise sterling legal credentials and bona fides (and literacy). I can start immediately.
Sincerely,
Wally (ummm, that’s Mr. Wally, I guess)
Ps: You write extremely well for a deceased lawyer!
June 3
Dear Mr. Wally:
As brothers, we should be able to open honestly against one each. I feel you are having my best interest in mind and I would be willing to increase your percentage from 45% to 40% of $10.5 million US dollars in exchange for said proofread correction. I writes Englihs better then I speak it. Dutch to. 40% much better then $500, yes?
Can we make a deal? I will need your security social number as well as bank routing number to receive funds from your account.
Sincerely,
Tobea Masku, Esq
June 3
My dear Tobea-
Hmmmmm. I do not seek any percentage of your $10.5 million (USD), even if it is an increase from 45% to 40% (!?!) I would prefer to simply take my humble fee and leave my generous share of the inheritance to you so that YOU may purchase lovely things for your family.
If you just send $500 to my Paypal account, listed below, I will happily and thoroughly start in on the 5 hr project of giving you the tools you need to do your difficult job.
-Mr Wally
(ps ‘Englihs’ is spelled ‘English’ --This is a freebee, no-charge tip just to show you that you are in good hands!)
June 4
Mr. Wally-
We play a game of cat and mouse. I am trying to offer you large monkeys. Let us not eat small raw crayfish anymore. Take my sincere offer. I am a respectable businessman and wish only the best for you and lots of ingheritence from your loving Uncle Phillip Cornell, deceased, from the diamond money.
Tobea Maskuku, Esq.
June 4
Dear Tobea:
Wait, now diamonds? I thought we were rich on oil?!?
Crayfish are best cooked, I agree. (I think). Please let me help you help yourself. I offer a very fair and legitimate service. You will not be sorry!
Sincerely,
Mr. Wally.
June 5
Dear Mr. Wally- You are tire me out with your many letters. I need to make this transaction happen now for the corrupt government claims the money back and soon none is left! Please, as my brother, give the information I request so we can get you your money in certified cheque.
Sincerely,
Tobea Masku, Esq
June 5
Dear Tobias-
With heavy heart, I must end this email relationship. (Plus I have to get back to work). Sometimes it takes a sharp hook to catch a crayfish. You will have trouble catching anything but discarded tires with your mistake-filled letter.
Good day sir,
Mr. Wally
(ps- as my brother, you should already know my (our!) mother’s maiden name. No condolence card necessary as she passed away 13 years ago. Remember?)
Got a question for our advice columnist or just need someone to grind down an email scammer? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com and remember, 45% plus 65% = 110% which is 10% more than the most possible! (This was a real email exchange by the way).
A Good Credit Score is 700 or Above. See yours in just 2 easy steps!
Dear Wally #58 A Raise?
Dear Wally-
We’re trying to decide whether or not to get an aluminum Christmas tree this year. I say yes. It’s a big family debate. Some of us want the ease of a no-hassle, prefab tree. Some of us think that cutting down a real tree is more in keeping with the holiday spirit. Surely you have some sagacious advice that can help avert a family fight? If you help me convince my family that I am right, they are wrong and that aluminum is the way, there’s $20 in it for you.
-Aluminum Anne in Hurley
Dear Anne:
Wow! $20? Merry Christmas indeed. There’s gonna be a big party around here on that!! Let’s innocently enough lay out the pros and cons and see if your obstinate, insensitive family can’t put aside their unslakable lust for holiday bickering and come to the right conclusion—your conclusion. And for a whole Jackson, I think I can only think of pros, if you know what I mean.
Pros: Aluminum trees are 100% symmetrical. If conical symmetry is what you need, (and who doesn’t need a little of that these days??) the choice for steel trees is a no-brainer. In our house we currently have a jagged, natural Charlie Brown tree that we cut down and stuffed into our living room. I neglected to bring a tape measure out to the snowy field, and ‘eyeballing it’ in the open, well, let’s just say my perspective was a bit off. As a result, the top foot of the tree bends and runs parallel with the ceiling. This Dr Suessian kink gives us and our guests sore necks just looking at it. The money we saved by cutting our own tree has been spent on professional chiropractic adjustments and painters. In this case, chopping our own tree down was a literal pain in the neck. Remind your family that with an aluminum tree, you just get out the Sawzall and have at it. Once you hack it to fit properly the first year, you can be sure it wont keep growing on you. That’s the beauty of aluminum. Plus, if you don’t have satellite or cable, you can just budge your TV near it, drape the power cord over it and it acts as a sort of antennae.
Aluminum trees also are green. “Green, Wally,” you say? “Oh really?” Yes, here’s how: All those cans you bring to the recycle center get collected and smelted back into useful household items like crutches, iceboxes, toaster ovens and xmas trees. Take a sniff of any Walmart tree and chances are you’ll catch a faint whiff of Coors Light. So by using up discarded aluminum cans, you are actually reclaiming a natural product and thus doing your part to help keep landfills empty. And that’s a gift that you can feel good about. That’s the kind of gift that never stops giving. Speaking of never stops giving, an aluminum tree (if primed and painted correctly) will never rust or decay- what better way to keep the Christmas spirit alive year after year after year then to imbue it into a rustproof aluminum chassis? (Try that around March 15th you brittle, dry, brown, shriveled, crooked, real wood evergreen sticking out of a snow bank!)
You may think that an aluminum tree lacks authenticity, but think again. Many higher end models come with plug-in Glade ‘evergreen’ liquid scents packs that can recreate a Saskatchewan pine forest well enough to fool the keenest of noses.
Aluminum trees easily fold into a shoebox when the holidays are over. There are no needles to clog your vacuum cleaner. No trying to fit it back out through the front door and getting stabbed in the hand or eye with angry needles. You can paint them pink and use them for Easter. Or Orange and use them for Halloween.
Fresh cut Christmas trees get back at you for killing them by oozing sap. They also need a little sugar water in their base to keep green longer and that’s an open invitation for household dogs to drink up the pitchy water. Drinking water with sap in it results in clogged canine urethras* This can be painful and costly (and embarrassing).
Some also say aluminum (frequently found in deodorants) causes Alzheimer’s disease. If your objecting family raises this thin scare tactic, reply by saying you have no intention of rubbing this tree under your armpits. That should quiet them down.
Well, that should about do it. I wish you and your family a joyous holiday holding hands around the aluminum tree (careful you don’t get cut on a sharp edge).
-Wally
*This has not actually been verified by science. But neither has it been denied…
Got a question for our advice columnist? Email him at cwn4@aol.com. Fan of natural Christmas trees? So is he and he’ll say so for $30!
We’re trying to decide whether or not to get an aluminum Christmas tree this year. I say yes. It’s a big family debate. Some of us want the ease of a no-hassle, prefab tree. Some of us think that cutting down a real tree is more in keeping with the holiday spirit. Surely you have some sagacious advice that can help avert a family fight? If you help me convince my family that I am right, they are wrong and that aluminum is the way, there’s $20 in it for you.
-Aluminum Anne in Hurley
Dear Anne:
Wow! $20? Merry Christmas indeed. There’s gonna be a big party around here on that!! Let’s innocently enough lay out the pros and cons and see if your obstinate, insensitive family can’t put aside their unslakable lust for holiday bickering and come to the right conclusion—your conclusion. And for a whole Jackson, I think I can only think of pros, if you know what I mean.
Pros: Aluminum trees are 100% symmetrical. If conical symmetry is what you need, (and who doesn’t need a little of that these days??) the choice for steel trees is a no-brainer. In our house we currently have a jagged, natural Charlie Brown tree that we cut down and stuffed into our living room. I neglected to bring a tape measure out to the snowy field, and ‘eyeballing it’ in the open, well, let’s just say my perspective was a bit off. As a result, the top foot of the tree bends and runs parallel with the ceiling. This Dr Suessian kink gives us and our guests sore necks just looking at it. The money we saved by cutting our own tree has been spent on professional chiropractic adjustments and painters. In this case, chopping our own tree down was a literal pain in the neck. Remind your family that with an aluminum tree, you just get out the Sawzall and have at it. Once you hack it to fit properly the first year, you can be sure it wont keep growing on you. That’s the beauty of aluminum. Plus, if you don’t have satellite or cable, you can just budge your TV near it, drape the power cord over it and it acts as a sort of antennae.
Aluminum trees also are green. “Green, Wally,” you say? “Oh really?” Yes, here’s how: All those cans you bring to the recycle center get collected and smelted back into useful household items like crutches, iceboxes, toaster ovens and xmas trees. Take a sniff of any Walmart tree and chances are you’ll catch a faint whiff of Coors Light. So by using up discarded aluminum cans, you are actually reclaiming a natural product and thus doing your part to help keep landfills empty. And that’s a gift that you can feel good about. That’s the kind of gift that never stops giving. Speaking of never stops giving, an aluminum tree (if primed and painted correctly) will never rust or decay- what better way to keep the Christmas spirit alive year after year after year then to imbue it into a rustproof aluminum chassis? (Try that around March 15th you brittle, dry, brown, shriveled, crooked, real wood evergreen sticking out of a snow bank!)
You may think that an aluminum tree lacks authenticity, but think again. Many higher end models come with plug-in Glade ‘evergreen’ liquid scents packs that can recreate a Saskatchewan pine forest well enough to fool the keenest of noses.
Aluminum trees easily fold into a shoebox when the holidays are over. There are no needles to clog your vacuum cleaner. No trying to fit it back out through the front door and getting stabbed in the hand or eye with angry needles. You can paint them pink and use them for Easter. Or Orange and use them for Halloween.
Fresh cut Christmas trees get back at you for killing them by oozing sap. They also need a little sugar water in their base to keep green longer and that’s an open invitation for household dogs to drink up the pitchy water. Drinking water with sap in it results in clogged canine urethras* This can be painful and costly (and embarrassing).
Some also say aluminum (frequently found in deodorants) causes Alzheimer’s disease. If your objecting family raises this thin scare tactic, reply by saying you have no intention of rubbing this tree under your armpits. That should quiet them down.
Well, that should about do it. I wish you and your family a joyous holiday holding hands around the aluminum tree (careful you don’t get cut on a sharp edge).
-Wally
*This has not actually been verified by science. But neither has it been denied…
Got a question for our advice columnist? Email him at cwn4@aol.com. Fan of natural Christmas trees? So is he and he’ll say so for $30!
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