Fragrance Foul

Do you remember the old days when stores didn't have their own unique smell? When industrial floor cleaner was the only scent you noticed when shopping. I, for one, miss those days. Shopping has become an assault on the senses, a dizzying combination of lights, sounds and smells.

Yesterday I accompanied my wife to the local mall to return a gift bathrobe which was the wrong size. Deep down I knew that this errand would not entail a short trip to the Customer Service counter, an exchange of items, and a quick trot back to the car, but I was hoping. After taking care of the matter at hand, my wife turned away from the outer door from which we entered and pointed herself towards the wide open spaces of the main mall. Dutifully, I shuffled behind.

Thankfully, my wife is not a marathon shopper, but rather a brisk moving hunter who visits only her select stores. A former gymnast, she is five foot nothing and less than one hundred pounds, yet has shoulders like an NFL strong safety. Clothes shopping is a chore for her, an annoying search for frocks that fit. Rarely am I present when she shops for things to wear.
However, I always seem to be with her when she is nick-knack shopping.

Last night we ran the nick-knack circuit. All of these shops carry a strong potpourri aroma that immediately attacks my sinuses upon entering the store. Tears drip down my cheek, my eyes burning from the pungent odor. I stumble through the brick-a-bra ck feeling my way through the aisles. I need to get out of this store! How many wooden Santa Claus's can one person look at anyway? Finally, through my stinging peepers I am able to spot daylight. Brushing past the crowded register I exit and vigorously rub my eyes. My wife leaves the store, beholds my blinking, flinching form before her, shakes her head and forges onward.
It's on to the candle store.

The moment we enter the candle store, my nose hair stages an immediate revolt. It feels like I am going to sneeze, but I don't, I just have that pre-sneeze inhale with no payoff. My face is now contorted in sneeze mode, prompting a concerned sales person to check and see if I am alright. I assure he that I am currently loosing a battle a yet undetermined scent and that I will be fine once I am able to breath again. Sensing that I am disabled and therefore a prime sales target, she attempts to sell me on the healing benefits of the Mandarin Cranberry candle. I politely decline the sales pitch and spot my wife leaving the store. I suck in the fresh mall air like a prisoner just released from solitary confinement.

My wife continues on with me in tow. Before entering yet another nick-knack store, my wife graciously offers me a pardon, pointing to a vacant bench in the middle of the mall. My plan was to make that bench my temporary mall home for the duration of the visit. I sat down, my nose relaxed and happy. Minutes later a woman talking on her cell phone sits down beside me. With her is a huge shopping bag from Bed, Bath and Beyond. A familiar stench rises from the bag and heads directly for my adenoids. Sugar and Fig bath sets are 50% off. Help!

What is that?

In a season known for giving, my sister-in-law is a gift terrorist. Not a person I would ever describe as "friendly", Debbie uses presents like weapons in her not-so-subtle attacks upon other family members.

It started nine years ago when she presented my wife (her sister) with a colorful box full of used towels. Christmas towels were on my wife's wish list and nothing says "I care" more than pre-stained towels. Over the years Debbie has cast her scorn upon all of us. One year my son received a one dollar gift certificate to Dairy Queen from his aunt. Even if she skipped him completely he could reason that maybe he was forgotten, but a one dollar gift certificate says "I remember, I just don't think much of you".

A few years back I received a lovely book on how to write a winning resume from Debbie, although I was gainfully employed at the time. Apparently, either Debbie knew something about my job situation that I didn't know, or she just didn't have much confidence in my ability to keep a job. I worried for weeks that somehow she had psychic insight into my employment future.

This year my wife was, once again, a target. Aside from her statement gifts (like my resume book), Debbie likes to buy odd gifts as well. She must enjoy watching others as they strain to figure out what exactly an item is. This years enigma was a two foot tall ceramic object that looked like a cross between a flower pot, a pizza serving platter and hockey's Stanley Cup Trophy. I half expected my wife to strap on her skates and lap the rink, holding this think over her head. My father-in-law though it looked like a satellite dish and I guessed that it was an indoor bird bath, but none of us could be sure. My son suggested that we all wash our feet in it, which sounded like a pretty good idea.

Whatever it was, it sure was a topic of conversation. I kept the box it came in hoping to re-wrap it and give it back to Debbie for her birthday. Won't she be happy.

Hard Times Hanukah

About an hour and a half drive from my home lies a small wooden framed house with an historic past. Now housing the "Walton Mountain Museum", the house was once home to the real John Boy and the rest of the Walton clan. If you were alive in the 1970's or watch any of the retro TV channels, you know of this poor, close knit family who struggled through the Great Depression with a gritty determination and unwavering ethics.

Last week I overheard some co-workers reminiscing about "Walton-like" Christmas's when times were tough for their families and gifts were sparse and often home-made. Everyone was very respectful of each others stories and listened intently as the heart-warming tales unwound. As I listened to these holiday anecdotes I thought "Why don't I have any tear-rendering Hanukah stories?" There are many reasons for this, which are addressed in the text below.

1. Scheduling

Maybe it's me, but Hanukah seems to be around the December time frame but never on the same days from year to year. Do they spin a big wheel in Tel Aviv every year to determine the exact dates for Jewish holidays? Each year someone at work stops me in the hall and wishes me a "Happy Hanukah" much to my surprise. I never know when it is, I have to hear about it from a gentile who has spotted it on his Garfield calendar that morning. Lets make a real date and stick to it. While we are at it let's settle on a spelling as well. One word meaning the same thing should not have multiple spelling options. It's confusing to me, much less the goyem.

2. The Eight Day Myth

Non-Jews in the South are under the mistaken impression that Jewish children receive a lavish gift each and every day during the Festival of Lights, a myth perpetuate as often as asked. "Yeah, when I was eight I got a solid gold calf on the first day and Corvette filled with hookers on the second day." However, I am thinking of about taking the Walton road on the next go around. Something like "The first day I got a brand new sock and on the second day I got the other sock." I need to contribute something to the discussion in the hallway outside of my door don't I?

3. Time honored One-Ups-manship

Jewish people, in general, struggle when listening to another person's hard luck story. Many (and I include myself) are simply waiting for the tale-spinner to draw a quick breath so they can cut in with their even more horrible story. My mother and her friends were experts in this field. Once, I witnessed a group of Mom's cronies top each other on ambulance experiences. Each story stretched the bounds of the human imagination and each account was more excessive than the last. How can I join in on the discussion when I am ethnically compelled to dominate the forum with with yarns which are specifically designed to minimize any and all stories previously told?

4. Limited Memory

For the life of me, I cannot remember a specific Hanukah in my life. Years melt into years like some over-worked shamus. I remember getting socks, pants, toys and a stereo one year, but nothing more than that. I wonder if my sisters have any Hanukah memories?

Has anyone out there had a Walton's-like Hanukah? Maybe you made a dreidel out of some hardened matzoah balls or your dad fired up the boiler for eight days in a rare moment of Hanukah spirit. Did Judah Maccabi visit your home with a bag full of pants that were one size too big, hoping that you would grow into them?

I am in need of Hanukah memories and I don't mind stealing from others.

No Joy in Dadsville

Every December my son and I sojourn to the hills of Southwestern Virginia in search of baseball magic. Amidst the cattle pastures and hidden stills, sits a baseball/softball warehouse filled with treasures beyond the dreams of a 14 year old baseball fanatic. Attached to this wondrous palace of pitching machines is a retail showroom, stacked with everything baseball. This is my son's favorite spot on the map.

Will is barely able to contain his excitement as we ramble along the highway, giddy with the thought that somewhere in that warehouse lies the excalibur of Easton's, the "Holy Flail" of bats.

The moment we enter the store, employees scatter towards their desks, like some warehouse musical chairs game, hoping that they will not have to be the sorry salesperson who has to wait on us. It is immediately obvious to me that the employees of this establishment recognize my son Will on sight. Will is a high maintenance customer in much the same way, I imagine, as Zsa Zsa Gabor would be when she goes frock shopping in Beverly Hills. These poor people know that they will be wearing out the carpet from the showroom to their warehouse, dragging out every bat, bag and spiked shoe in their massive inventory.

Will decides to start with three bats from three different manufacturers. Like a connoisseur of fine wines he samples each bat, swinging from both side of the dish (his jacket on the floor of the showroom representing home plate). He then holds a bat in each hand weighing them against each other. He repeats the weighing process with all three bats, two at a time.

Will remarks "Dad, those were nice but I need to see some more models before I make my final decision". The salesperson and I exchange sympathetic eye rolls and press on.

In total, fourteen bats were weighed, swung and tested. Our exhausted salesperson remains smiling and helpful throughout. Finally, we were down to the final cut and some of the telemarketing people have emerged from their desk areas to witness this historic sales moment. A crowd of a dozen or more people gather as Will takes his final test cuts. White smoke billows from the ventilation ducts high atop the warehouse. The moment of truth has arrived!

A audible gasp can be heard from the crowd as an Easton Stealth thirty three inch and thirty ounce beauty is trust to the sky in triumph!

'This bat shall be mine" cried Will, and the people smiled with approval.

The salesperson fell to the ground, thankful that the worst was over, only to feel something poking in the small of her back.

'Hey, lady, get up" said Will "I need to look at some catcher's bags too".

Hours later we exited the store with several hundred dollars in merchandise. The showroom closed early that day so that the "I waited on Will" support group could meet and welcome its newest member.

It was not only an exhausting day for me, but an expensive one as well.

Somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. A band is playing somewhere and someone's wallet is light. And somewhere my son is laughing and I can hear my junior shout, "There is no joy in Dadsville, that's what Christmas is all about".

Shake Before Serving

Each year, about this time, my father-in-law heads for Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and spends nearly a week playing golf and getting re-acquainted with his college buddies. Hank is a wonderful guy and the perfect father-in-law, however, his annual departure unleashes an unholy hellfire that compels me to start praying, almost immediately, for his quick and safe return from the links. Why would I want to deprive such a fantastic fellow a trip to this putters paradise? The answer is simple: When Harry departs, my mother-in-law moves into my home.

I realize comedic material regarding the subject of mothers-in-law spans centuries and even ions. The earliest unflattering portrayal of in-laws were probably found etched in a pre-historic cave somewhere near Henny Youngman's boyhood home, launching one-liners that live even today. Legends are truths with a little age added, don't you think? Why would mothers-in-law be so scorned if history had never recorded their kind as shrews?

If you had ever had the opportunity to spend a week in the presence of my mother-in-law, you would agree that myths have some connection to reality. Sometimes a very strong connection.

Possessed with a blunt nature that would make an IRS auditor blush, Jane has the ability to make one feel unwelcomed in your own home. Phrases like "What are you doing here?" or "I thought you were gone" can make a mortgage paying homeowner like myself want to run out in the street and re-check my address.

My son, a stoic lad, is unfazed by his grandmother, citing his IPOD as his source of comfort. "Nana is best heard through the muffled sounds of Green Day" he explained. Ignoring grandparents has come quite a long way since I was a kid.

The person that suffers the most during this week long siege is my wife. She is a petite, angst-ridden insomniac who receives a Christmas card from the Augustus Busch family for her continued support and consumption of their products. The mother-daughter bonding time that the golf trips creates is both painful for her and painful to watch. This combination of guilt, criticism and downright meanness are a recipe straight out of Freud's cookbook.

The best way to explain this angonizing interaction, is a model I call "The Pepsi Metaphor". Here's how it works.... First, think of my wife as a can of Diet Pepsi (I know that's weird, but stay with me on this). Next I place my mother-in-law in the role of a disturbed and thirsty infant. Finally, I will play the part of an unsuspecting schlemeel (not a stretch for me).

When the infant meets the canned drink she throws the Pepsi into the air, rolls it on the ground, steps on it a few times, and then hands it to me to open for her. Anyone who has ever had a shaken can of soda knows what happens next. Now take that metaphorical scenario and replace the Pepsi with my wife's emotions. GUUUUUUUUSSSSHHHHHH! All over me.

Every night, when I arrive home, I am greeted by a geyser of mom-induced rage. All I can do is hug my stuttering, convulsed spouse and keep her head from flying off. The are moments when, approaching my driveway, I nearly head for the lifeboats and drive off, leaving my wife to fend for herself. My love for that disfunctional little woman keeps me coming back, allowing her to vent herself into exhaustion every night.

Tonight marks the final night of this yearly ritual. Harry will return, I will have one final soaking until next year, and my wife will sleep until Tuesday. Next year, I get an IPOD.

Team Building
The effects of rope walking on the middle-aged employee

Carl Walenda, late patriarch of the world famous "Flying Walendas" circus family once said "walking a rope is living, everything else is waiting." While I admire people like Mr. Walenda and his zest for adventure, I suppose that I fall into that "waiting" category.

Last week the company that I work for bused a group of managers to a small farm on the outskirts of a town. The goal of the outing was to impart critical information about our company and combine that data with an outdoor group activity. Sounded like a harmless enough plan to me. I would go over some spreadsheets look at some cows, maybe pet a few goats and return to the office refreshed and educated.

Following lunch we were introduced to a large, burly gentleman who was twisting a rope into a noose as he spoke. "Could this be our new performance review process?" I thought, tugging on the top button of my shirt "Would an afternoon lynching denote a "Needs Improvement" score for a below par employee?"

As the man continued it became apparent to me that a mid-day hanging didn't sound like too bad of an idea afterall. He went on to describe a set of rules which we would need to adhere to as our groups strayed into the wilderness. We were then split into groups and were introduced to our guides. Our guide was a rustic, yet pleasant looking young lady who looked as though she had stepped from the meadows of Woodstock, New York in 1969. Short of wearing a Buffalo Springfield t-shirt, she was the real deal, floppy wool hat an all.

The first few events were somewhat benign, challenging the team to problem solve and work together. Our group mix was diverse, including people from many different departments. Everyone was ready for the next turn in the road and was good humored about all of the activities. I am fortunate to work with very nice people. Even I, an oft injured, belly heavy desk jockey relished the adventure, that is until we reached the rope course.

The group was to negociate the course without touching the ground one foot below the cables. Some of our more engineering savvy teammates were silenced by our guide, who hoped to spur some thought from the rest of the team. Once a strategy was conceived, the congregation mounted the suspended cables one person at a time and formed a human chain. The chain linked each person to another and the end people to trees that held the cable. The concept was strong, however, there was one variable that our engineers didn't consider, me.

With a fair amount of struggle, the group shuffled through the course, snaking through the turns like a slow moving python. I, on the other hand, traversed the course with the drunken grace of gorilla carrying a piano. I can't remember how many times I fell off of this apparatus, forcing me to start again from the beginning, but bet my teammates can recall that number. The hour was getting late.

Determined not to fail, I soldiered on. My teammates were waiting at the end of the course urging me on, their out-stretched arms hoping to reel me in. Rubber-legged I hula-ed on the cable desperately trying to steady my knocking knees. Anguish etched the faces of my poor teammates, hoping against hope that I would make it to safety and end the agony for everyone. If were alone and the wire was stretched across a hundred foot high gorge I would have stepped off the cable and perished into the abyss, but I was not alone, I was in front of my co-workers. I couldn't let these people down, not after all the effort and energy they exerted to reach the summitt! Summoning whatever strength that remained within me I hurled myself forward into the waiting arms of my brethren.

The rest of the day was a blur. My legs felt like soggy linguine.

On the bus ride home I recalled the words of Carl Walenda and thought "Hopefully Carl meant his message metaphorically, because if this was living, I will park myself and wait for the next best thing."

Jeopardy in a Small Town

Yesterday, I emerged from a downtown doctor's appointment only to find a long line stretching down Campbell Ave. Unbeknownst to me, Roanokers were lining up to test for Jeopardy, right here in our own little hamlet. The Jeopardy "Brain Bus" was parked outside of Center in the Square as a diverse group shuffled cattle-like down the street. I thought "could the Brain Bus be like the bloodmobile?" Where people donating grey matter to help the infirmed? Thankfully, this was not the case.

Driven by a curious impulse, I slid into line and followed the crowd.

It is interesting to see what comes out of the woodwork when something foreign stops by a small city. The line included people with babies, suited business people, blue collar workers, high school students and a dog who was carrying his own leash. I know that Golden Retrievers are considered to be intelligent, but this pup was taking it to the next level.

The man standing in front of me struck up a friendly conversation and I learned that he too was an intrigued passerby. Jim is a very nice fellow from nearby Radford, Va who was sporting a grisly looking scrape on his nose. I found myself drawn to his injury, staring at the wound as we spoke. My concentration was finally broken when Jim asked "I bet you are wondering what happened to my nose?" I pretended that I didn't even realize that there was something wrong with his nose, fumbling my words like Tiki Barber carrying the ball on a rainy day. Jim went on to tell me a very detailed account of his nose accident, the set-up of the story was so long that we parted ways before I hear the rest of the story. (Note: Jim referenced scores of relatives who contributed to or witnessed the incident, several of his house pets, as well as weather conditions and precise timing of the event, down to the minute.

Upon reaching the front of the line Jim and I were directed to tables located on either side of the room. In a "Sophie's Choice-like" moment, we were separated. The shnozz story would be lost forever.

I sat, pen in hand and answered ten questions designed by some TV producer in hopes of weeding out the dummies in the group. After all, Jeopardy is supposed to be a show for more educated audiences, isn't it? I mean contestants are not randomly picking metal briefcases held by leggy models or swimming the length of an Asian lagoon with a bamboo pole in their mouths on Jeopardy, are they?

Nine of the ten answers came easy for me (What is the capital of New Mexico? What was the name of Polonius' daughter?) , but question number seven took me a while to ponder. It concerned a nautical idiom that meant "out of control." My mind was a blank and I started to sweat. The timer was ticking. I searched the many closets of my brain and found only a linty sweater and a pair of busted flip-flops. Finally I scribbled "a bull in a china shop" knowing that the answer was wrong. Rarely do cattle and china travel aboard ship together, and, if they did, some poor sailor would have a lot of cleaning up to do.

The timer rang and a smug looking college student appeared, grabbed my sheet, and blurted "You missed one, but that still passes around here" rolled his eyes and spit "You will have to come back tomorrow at 2pm!" I told him that I had to work and could not make it. Angrily he responded "Then why did you come down here then!" tossing my test in a nearby bin. Somewhere, in game show heaven, the classy Art Fleming is selecting "Rude, low-paid Interns" for $100.

I took my complimentary Jeopardy pen and left the premises. I had almost reached my car when I spotted Jim walking down the street. Flagging him down, I shouted "Hey Jim, how did you do?" His response? "I feel like I've been thrown from stem to stern" he answered, giving me an immediate headache.

Jeter Taking the Soul Train?

The origin of the Faust legend can be traced back to northern Germany in the early 1500's. Three hundred years later Goethe embellished the tale for the theatre. On May 29, 1995 Derek Jeter made his professional debut in a Yankee uniform signifying opening night for demonic drama in the Bronx.

How can one man have so much? Jeter hits .300 plus every year, plays a flawless shortstop, has a handfuls of World Series rings, earns 20 million a year playing ball, and has a dating Rolodex that would make Hugh Hefner turn pea-green with envy. Why? One need only refer to Goethe's text for the answer.

I might be mistaken, but I think it happened something like this.... Somewhere in Michigan on a hot summer night in 1989, a lanky schoolboy titled a weegie board at an off angle and mistakenly conjured up the "Prince of Darkness" himself.

Startled by this horrifying apparition, the young boy fled into a nearby cornfield only to find Lucifer waiting for him among the stalks.

"Come forward child, I will not harm you" spoke Satan, fixing his fiery eyes fixed on the trembling youth.

"I don't know who you are Mister, but you sure are f-f-f-ffast" stuttered the boy

"Ran the forty in 1.3 back in the day" spoke The Evil One "How would you like to have that kind of speed son?"

"But I'm the slowest kid in school" said the boy "and the ugliest too"

"I might have guessed that second one on my own" said Satan, shading his blazing eyes "You look like a gargoyle I once knew named Reggie. Yikes!"

"Gee whiz mister, I get enough of that school" said the boy bowing his head.

"It doesn't have to be like that" said Satan "I can help you run faster, look handsome and be the idol of thousands."

"Really?" said the boy "Could you make me a great baseball player like Mickey Mantle?"

"Who?" asked Satan

"Mickey Mantle from the New York Yankees, silly!" exclaimed the boy

"Oh yeah, Mantle, sure, I remember him. Met him when he was about your age" said Satan

"You know Mickey Mantle?!" asked the boy

"Absolutely, how do you think hit all of those home runs when he was half-in-the-bag?" said Satan

"Can you make me a great player like Mickey?" said the boy

'Sure can" assured Satan "All you need to do is sign your name on this piece of paper and all of your dreams will come true."

From beneath his robe Satan produced a brittle looking scroll and a small dagger. With an outstretched hand Satan grabbed the boy's palm and pricked the child's thumb with the knife.

"Holy Cow, that smarts!" cried the boy

"Don't be a baby!" snapped Satan "it's just a little blood. Now take your boo boo finger and sign on the bottom line of this contract.

Satan had not created Steve Boros yet so the negociations went quick and smooth.

The young boy scribbled his name in blood and the deal was forever sealed.

Derek Jeter had signed a eternal term pact with the Devil and the rest is recorded in the annals of Yankee history.

Somewhere in America a slow witted, non-athletic child dreams of being the next Derek Jeter. In the Bronx, a super-model waits in Jeter's Yankee Stadium luxury box witnessing her shortstop boyfriend's assault on the post season record book. Lurking in the shadows is Satan, thirsting for fresh souls and biding his time until he collects his debt from the Yankee captain.

Hell's co-ed softball team will be adding a new middle infielder someday, moving Jack the Ripper to third base.

Does the seven train stop in Hell?

Co-Ed Recreation Softball
Where former ball players fade away.

2006 marks the final year of competitive sports for this writer. Where once stood a gap hitting, slick fielding third sacker now stands a weak kneed, immobile first baseman with forty pounds of mac and cheese hanging over his belt. Gone are the days when legging out a triple ended in a Pete Rose-like swan dive into the bag. These days I just try to find a hole in the outfield and ramble down the first base line like a beer truck with four flat tires.

My company fields a co-ed softball team every fall and this year I have been elected coach of that team. We have twenty seven people on our roster, yet we rarely have more than ten players available for each game, due to varying schedules. This season I made my body a promise not to actually play in any of the games. My body appreciated the sentiment, but down deep knew that it wouldn't be long until I heard the echoes of bygone days calling my name.

"Hey number 28, you still got it. That's it, slip those cleats on and step over that white line. You know that you want to"

Sure enough, I was pressed into action for the second game of the season when only nine of my co-workers dressed for the contest.

I would be anchoring down first base that evening (if you could see me in my uniform you would understand why "anchor" is an appropriate description), and batting in the tenth slot in the lineup. My top priority was to bat a slow runner in the lead-off spot, one that would not light a fire under me if I should happen to get on base. My secondary thought was not to get on base at all. Therefore eliminating all running completely.

My first at bat came in the second inning. I dug my cleats into the battery's box, struck my stance and stared down the pitcher. As the ball arched towards me I thought "This is a perfect pitch to hit right at the shortstop for a quick out." My hands released and the bat solid contact with the ball which flew over the shortstop head and through the leftfielder's legs. It felt great to hit the ball so squarely, however there was that running thing that always follows such a clout. Off I waddled, stiffed-legged like Forrest Gump in his "magic shoes." Rounding first base I noticed that no one had backed up the leftfielder and the ball was rolling towards the fence. The ballplayer inside of me thought "Wow, this looks like an inside-the-park home run", while the practical side of me wondered if any of my suits still fit me well enough in case I needed to be buried tomorrow. No one likes a sloppy corpse with buttons popping out, do they?

With every base that I turned I could hear my heart thumping a little louder. When I finally reached home plate my ticker sounded like the sound track from "Drum Line." My teammates greeted me warmly and I, in turn, tried not to throw up on them.

I got three more at bats in that game and reached base every time. I could not this other team to field the ball! I considered striking out intentionally in my last at bat, but my baseball soul would not let me whiff in slow pitch softball.

We pounded the opposing team for 23 runs on countless errors. Their team put me in mind of a girls high school softball team that I had coached years before. The school was one of those small private institutions that catered to the upper crust of the area. The team consisted of twelve lovely young ladies with no discernible athletic talent. Along with a lack of talent came a lack of interest in learning the game of softball. My team thought the uniforms were cute and that it might be fun to hang out together and travel on the bus to games.

Our practice schedule was as follows......

Monday-Still recovering from the weekend
Tuesday-Practice followed by shopping
Wednesday- Nails followed by shopping
Thursday- Spa day followed by shopping
Friday- "Practice, as if!"

My pitcher, Sherry would always start the game by batting her eyes at the umpire and asking him if she could pitch from the front of the mound because home plate was "too far." We lost our opening game 54-0, when the contest was called on account of darkness in the bottom of the first inning.

Softball is over for me now. My knees have hidden my glove and my pulmonary system has put me on final notice. Maybe a day at the spa isn't such a bad idea.

"Flightwear" is the answer

Anyone who has recently flown on a commerical airliner knows that security checks have taken a turn towards the ridiculous. Don't get me wrong, I am a nervous flyer and I feel that all suspicious looking passengers should be stripped, searched, subjected to hours of interegation and possibly beaten, however, confiscating a person's sample-sized tube of toothpaste is just going a bit too far.

Last week I traveled by plane and packed nothing liquid. Following the scare in England, the Feds have made it clear that air passengers cannot carry liquid materials on board any plane. No shampoo, no mouthwash, no shaving cream, just a small sample sized tube of toothpaste and nothing more.

Prior to the flight, I noticed one of my fellow passengers guzzling down bottled water like he was preparing to cross the Sahara on foot. At $3.00 a bottle, I suppose he didn't want to leave his investment behind.

When the flight began to board, gloved security people began to select passengers for a "random baggage check." I rarely fly and I never win any kind of contest, however, I have been a multiple winner in the "random baggage" sweepstakes, and this time was no exception.

I am led to a counter area with a small wall partition. The security person dons a fresh pair of latex gloves and begins rummaging through my bag. All is well until the airport fuzz stumbles upon my toothpaste.

'What is this"? he asks holding up the offending tube.

"It's Colgate Tartar Control with the fresh minty taste" I replied with a bright Colgate smile.

"Well, it ain't going on the plane" said the security guard, tossing my Colgate in the trash can.

"Congratualtions" I said "You have just struck a blow against terrorism and promoted tooth decay all in one simple movement."

This whole incident got me thinking about airport security in general. Here are a few bullet points that I feel should rate some serious consideration.

. All passengers must surrender the clothes they are wearing to airport security, upon checkin.

. Passengers will be issued a colorful jumpsuit (Each airline will have a designated color) to wear during the flight.

. Passengers will also receive "temporary" footwear to replace their shoes. Shoes will be distributed at the ticket counter "bowling alley" style, with sizes prominently displayed above the heal of the shoe.

. Passenger clothes and footwear will be scanned, searched, bagged and stored in the cargo hold of the airplane. Clothes will be returned at the passenger's final destination.

This uniform approach has always worked well at the parochial school level, why not here? If a passenger is lost in the terminal, they need only follow fellow customers with like clothing to find their way to gate area. No more of this tying and untying of shoes everytime you pass through the x-ray machine, your temp shoes with carry you from take-off to landing.

The simple genius of this plan is bound to be somehow marred by greed and opportunism. I envision a Taiwanese clothing manufacturer owned by Dick Cheney receiving a government bid for this "flightwear" spurring a rise in Republican campaign donations from the clothing production sector.

Dogzilla: Bassett of Terror!
Have you ever been paging through your local newspaper and come across a photo of a dog who is up for adoption? Cute aren't they? You might of even started thinking about what it would be like to have a dog. Those healthy trots around the neighborhood with your new leashed buddy, those cold nights snuggling with your own personal, furry heater, boy that sure sounds great.
Before you start browsing through those Petsmart flyers in your Sunday paper, consider this simple question.... "Why are these beautiful puppies so easily available"? Why are the previous owners jetisoning their best friend"?

A year ago I spotted "Jethro", a one year old Bassett Hound, in the neighborhood section of our newspaper. Jethro had been abandoned by his previous family, leaving this poor pup in a farm house to fend for himself. Neighbors heard Jethro's plaintiff howling night after night coming from the vacant house, and, realizing that his family had fled, brought Jethro to the local shelter.

Jethro spent one week in the shelter before his photo was posted in the newspaper. That's were me and my family come in.

Owners of a Coon Hound, a Beagle Mix and a female Bassett Hound, we were among the many admirers who visited the shelter to check out this beautiful, but abused doggy. The shelter staff asked us a battery of questions and my wife filled out a questionnaire designed to weed out any freaks who might have unholy designs on poor Jethro. Prior to leaving we were told that over thirty individuals had shown interest in Jethro and it would take them a week to sort things out and call us about our claim. We left the shelter thinking that we would probably be one of the many families who missed out on Jethro, remembering that we were dog heavy with three hounds already.

The next morning we are wakened by a call from the shelter informing us that we were, in fact, the winners of the Jethro sweepstakes and that they would be dropping him off in fifteen minutes. "Why us" we thought, surely there was someplace less crowded that Jethro could go.

The shelter director arrived with Jethro, snapped a picture of us with him, and bolted out of our home like someone had set her hair on fire.

Something just didn't seem right. She dumped that pooch off like an unclaimed al-Qaeda carry-on, and shot out of the door. But why?

Over the next few weeks it became it became very apparent to us why Jethro was so easily ours. We had been hoodwinked by the humane society!

Although Jethro was a beautiful hound, he was a trouble-maker of the highest order. This dog ate EVERYTHING! In the first week he consumed

. Three pairs of white socks
. A tube of lip balm.
. A bag of milk chocolates.
. A basket of potpouri (both the basket and its contents)
. A deck of cards (My son wagered that the pup might poop an ace high straight the next morning).
. A bag of Hall's "Mentolyptus" Cough Drops.

and for dessert, an entire box of Nyquil Gel Tabs (he slept until 2pm the next day).

His previous owners must have waited until he was aleep, pulled the moving truck up the the back door and moved out in the middle of the night!

Among his other charms, Jethro likes to climb on top of people who are sleeping and tramp back and forth on their bodies, earning him the name "Dogzilla."

Unlike the people at the shelter and his fleeing former family, we have chosen not to palm Jethro off on the next warm hearted Bassett-lover who comes along, but intend to keep this goat/dog hybrid for our own. He has been re-named "Roscoe", after a minor character in the movie classic "Gone with the Wind" (All of our dogs, Ashley, Rhett, Scarlett, Tara, and Belle have named connections to my wife's favorite film. We are starting to run out of names).

Roscoe can be found in our home either sleeping or creating havoc, twenty four hours a day. My wife, son and I always have a bag packed just in case Roscoe forces another evacuation. It might be just a matter of time.