Child's talk

Every now and then I come across some phrase or sentence in my work that amuses me. It is usually something no one else would be amused by, including the authors who wrote it.

For instance, right now I’m editing a college textbook on how to teach reading. The authors talk about evaluating a child’s use of language by using something called the MLU, or "Mighty Louisiana Underwear." No, really, MLU stands for "Mean Length of Utterance." The idea behind this is that the higher the child’s MLU, the more words he is using in a sentence, hence the more complex his sentences and the higher his chances of getting into an Ivy League school and becoming a politician someday, where his excess verbiage would be especially useful. (Unless, of course, the child’s MLU is artificially inflated by the constant use of the word “like,” as in “Like, so, do you, like, wanna, like, play, like?” This may result in a negative MLU, something no would-be politician wants in his past. The press would have a field day.)

But back to the book I am editing. The authors give examples of two children’s sentences:

Child A: I wanna play. I’m not hungry. See you ‘morrow, bye. (MLU = 4.0)

Child B: I wanted to play because I am not hungry. I will see you tomorrow. (MLU = 7.5)

Child A, obviously, is the weaker of the two verbally, although the sentence is at least free of “likes.”

Child B, just as obviously, does not live on any planet known to man.

Sometimes I wonder, as I am editing books written by professors and such, just how long it has been since they have seen an actual child. Other than while glancing out the window as they are writing, of course. What child talks like that?

Maybe a child whose parents are bent on getting him or her into Harvard or Yale. "Now, Humphrey, dear, do remember not to use contractions. Your MLU will be so much higher without them. Besides, it makes you sound so...common."

"Of course, Mother, I always endeavor to please you and Father, particularly after all the sacrifices you have made for me, and I would never do anything to bring shame upon your good name." (MLU = 35)

So if you have aspirations of getting your child into the best colleges, forget the SAT and ACT. What matters is the MLU. Making the acquaintance of a professor-author probably wouldn't hurt, either. Maybe he could feature your child in his next book.

This is a test

Today we are going to have a little test. I know, you didn't have time to study and you hate pop quizzes, but this test is on something you've no doubt been doing all your life, so you should ace it. Heh heh, right.

Oops, sorry there.

Here's the test: If you were to say the words Mary, merry, and marry all in one sentence -- and of course you would never have occasion to do such a thing, but remember this is a test, and tests never have any basis in real life -- such as

"Mary was merry at the thought that she would soon marry John"

would you pronounce Mary, Merry, and marry all the same?

If you answered yes, you are obviously a hick, for the dictionary proclaims that the a or e in the first syllable of these three words is pronounced differently.

For the first time in my life, I can say that I am a hick. Yes, I say all those three words the same. My sentence would sound like this:

"Mary was Mary at the thought that she would soon Mary John."

I was much astonished to know that I was saying at least two of these three wrong, for everyone I know, even Baxter the Best Dog in the World who lives down the street, pronounces them the same. Perhaps native New Yorkers tend to make the a in marry a little nasally, as they tend to say everything nasally, but that's about it.

And merry -- get this -- is supposed to have the same sound as get. If you try to do that, it comes out sounding like a little kid who says "w" for "r."

It makes you wonder what else you have been saying wrong all your life. At least it made me wonder. Perhaps such things don't keep you up at night. I, however, have taken to carrying the American Heritage College Dictionary everywhere with me (and not the pocket edition), just to be sure I am saying correctly words that I have been saying all my life, such as my own name.

Fortunately, it's in the dictionary, just the way I've always said it.

Slightly Humorous reaches 100!

Attention readers, faithful and otherwise:

Today marks the 100th entry in this blog! (Please be sure to read today's story below, which is actually the 100th). I know what some of you are probably thinking: "She didn't have anything to say after the 25th posting, now what is she going to do?"

But for those of you who are not thinking that, please help me celebrate! A trip to Tahiti comes to mind, but according to the latest personal accounting statistics, that is not in the budget.

So we will celebrate in a low-budget fashion. Do you have a favorite blog entry? Tell us! Let us know what kinds of things you have found funny and why. It helps me to know what makes an impact on others.

On this special occasion I want to thank my faithful readers and commenters -- Loves to Laugh, Cissy, Nosy Neighbor, and of course Lowlyworm, without whom this blog would not exist, or if it did would certainly be less interesting (the dialogue, in particular...you don't really want to hear what I say to myself). You guys keep me going! I also wish to thank my family, my community, my pet beetles...ha! Got a little carried away there.

I also want to encourage you other, silent readers to speak up! I know you're there. And if you have commented on this blog and have never revealed your identity to me, this would be a good time to extend that courtesy. I promise no harm will come to you (heh, heh).

So, weigh in with your opinions, and remember, the best is yet to come! (We can only hope, anyway.)

Good cat, bad cat

I read an article yesterday about Oscar, a cat who resides in a nursing home (the shelters around here are getting very creative with their placements) as a pet for the residents. Seems Oscar has a rather unusual talent: He predicts when the residents are going to die.

Oscar will go into a room, curl up beside a resident, and voila -- within four hours the nursing staff finds that the person has passed away. This has happened 25 times in the two years Oscar has been in residence. And Oscar has never been wrong. About the person dying, I mean. I'm sure he is wrong about plenty of other things.

The staff is not sure how Oscar knows people are not long for this world. They speculate that he senses some odor on them, or possibly he is picking up signals from the staff ("Red alert! Red alert!" might be one). But for sure, they believe that Oscar somehow recognizes that people are going to die and goes in to comfort them in their last moments.

Which is all well and good, if that's what's happening. But I have to wonder. Wouldn't you, as a director of this facility, be just a little bit worried when a stray cat lies down with 25 patients and within just a few hours they are gone?

The staff is very much in awe of Oscar's sensitivities and has even taken to calling residents' families when they notice Oscar in a resident's bed. Can you imagine that call? "Um, Mrs. Rosenblatt, you might want to come down here within the next 3.3 hours, as our cat is in bed with your mother...well, no, your mother seems just fine, but no one lives very long after the cat sleeps with them."

If I were Mrs. Rosenblatt, I'd come, all right. I'd come and get my mother OUT of that place.

Because maybe Oscar is not as benign as everyone seems to think.

Maybe he is passing along some disease to these poor elderly people.

Maybe they are allergic to cats.

Maybe these people had something Oscar badly wanted, like catnip.

Or maybe Oscar is secretly working for someone who preys on older people for their money, and that someone attaches some deadly instrument of death to Oscar that transfers itself to the intended victim a few hours after he makes his visit. Oscar probably receives a kickback for his services, like more catnip, or extra petting.

Or maybe I am just watching too much Monk.

"If I ever go into a nursing home," I told Joe firmly, "make sure it is cat-free."

Big things in little spaces, or vice versa

I am not well known for having a great spatial sense. I always did terrible on those tests you take in school where you have to imagine what a flat shape would look like all folded up, or vice versa. By the way, whoever made up those problems must have been interesting to live with. I imagine them going around their house, looking for boxes they could tear apart, draw for the test questions, and put back together again at the insistence of their spouse, who like me probably always did poorly on those tests.

Thankfully these annoying shapes and boxes have no practical application in my everyday life, although I do have trouble judging volume -- for instance, fitting clothes into a suitcase of suitable proportions, as my husband would no doubt heartily agree with. And our refrigerator tends to be overfull at any given time, due not to large amounts of food but to enormous leftover containers, each of which contains roughly a teaspoon of food because I cannot properly judge container size.

But I defy anyone who DOES have a good sense of space to follow the directions I encountered in a recipe the other day. It said to julienne a red pepper, which I know as well as anyone means to cut into thin strips with an impossibly sharp knife, preferably without also chopping off one's finger. And so I did. I even managed to get reasonably even strips, which is not always the case when I'm distracted by the thought of my finger getting the chop in an unguarded moment.

I looked at the recipe to see how much of the pepper I was supposed to use. Instead of saying "one red pepper" or "half a red pepper" or something equally sensible, it said "1/2 cup." I looked again. No, actually it said "1/4 cup."

1/4 cup of 5-inch-long, thin strips? How on earth does one fit 5-inch-long, thin strips of pepper into a round cup approximately 2 inches across? This must be what they mean by imaginary math.

Was I supposed to stand them on end and see how many I could fit in the cup? Or maybe squish them all into the cup, in the act breaking them so they were no longer julienned?

This conundrum so paralyzed me that I was unable to continue with the recipe for quite a while (not unlike my reaction to math and science in school). In the end, I opted for a completely scientific, mathematical solution: I called my husband. No, just kidding. I grabbed a handful of pepper strips and threw them in the pan.

The remaining peppers, I judged, would fit very nicely in my mouth for a snack later on.

The hidden role of insurance

I have discovered how babies come about, and it has nothing to do with the birds and the bees. It has everything to do with the insurance companies' coverage of birth control.

I called my doctor's office the other day for a refill, and the kind woman on the other end of the line noted that I was due for my annual exam in a month. She said my insurance wouldn't approve a refill until I had seen my doctor.

"But I can't make a visit until after it's been one year, right?" I said. "I mean, insurance won't cover an annual unless it's been exactly or more than a year since the last annual." Kind of like how you can't go to the dentist a single day earlier than six months after your last cleaning visit.

She acknowledged that that was correct.

"So what you're saying," I went on, trying to wrap my head around this thing, "is that the insurance company won't cover my pills until I see the doctor, but they won't cover my doctor visit until after Aug. 19th. At which point I will have been out of pills for -- let's see -- 21 days."

"Actually, it will be a little big longer than that," the woman said apologetically. "The doctor doesn't have any available openings until Sept. 7th."

The insurance companies must be in some kind of conspiracy to raise the national birth rate, I thought. Or in cahoots with OB/GYNs to raise their patient loads.

Fortunately, the woman was very sympathetic. She had probably seen her share of insurance-induced pregnancies. "I'll call your insurance company and beg them to authorize enough to get you through to your visit," she said generously, then more sternly, "But you HAVE to come in, or..."

"I know, I know," I said. "I have to come in, or the insurance company will hold my pills hostage."

"See you on the 7th," she said.

Are you awake yet?

Joe awakens, on purpose, at an hour when only thieves and garbage men are about. Before he is even out of bed, he is speaking in full, coherent sentences. Every morning he cheerfully inquires about my night: "How'd you sleep, hon?"

And every morning I answer, with some resentment, "Mffmfm," which roughly translates into "How do you know I'm done?"

Having to get up when you're still sleepy is bad enough, but dealing with a Perky Morning Person is enough to put one over the edge. If Joe were the eighth dwarf, he would be Cheerful. And I would be Cranky, at least for the first few hours of the day and whenever I am hungry.

One morning while he was working on his computer, he declared, "Isn't it amazing how clear your thinking is first thing in the morning?"

I looked around our study. "Are you talking to me?" I asked.

"You mean yours isn't?" he said with some surprise.

"Not unless by 'first thing in the morning' you mean 11 a.m."

He shook his head in obvious sympathy that my mental faculties were so slow to be pressed into service.

A certain member of my family is also a Perky Morning Person, and she always took great delight in tormenting me in the mornings when we both lived at home years ago. She told jokes. She sang cheery songs that she had learned at girls' camp, guaranteed to make one hop of out her bunk in the morning ("Good morning to you, you look kind of drowsy, in fact you look lousy"). A natural morning-hater, I came to really dread mornings.

One day I decided something needed to be done about this situation. And so I turned to the repository of wisdom through the ages, the dictionary. No, not the dictionary! The Bible. It has the solution to our every need, and boy was I in need of solutions.

Hmmm, I thought as I flipped through it. "Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn"? No... "A bekah for every man, that is, half a shekel , after the shekel of the sanctuary...." Not much help there. "The lips of a strange woman are as an honeycomb..." Not quite. "Sorrow is better than mirth"? Hmm, we were getting closer.

AH! There it was, in Proverbs 27:14. "He [or she, I translated] that blesseth his friend [or sister] with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, it shall be counted a curse to him [or her]."

I tried it out on her one morning when my cup had runneth over with her cheeriness. She stared at me.

"What?...No, you made that up," she said, but she sounded unsure. With more glee than I had ever demonstrated before noon, I showed her the verse in the Bible.

"Solomon was the wisest person who ever lived," I reminder her, "and that's what he thought about Perky Morning Persons."

She was stunned. I kept the Bible open to the verse and displayed it, prominently, where she could see it every morning as a divine reminder. I never heard another cheerful morning song or joke from her.

Fortunately, at the time neither of us knew that this verse probably refers to someone taking advantage of someone, perhaps in a financial way. But even in that case, I am sure that the punishment involved would be far more lenient for someone who took such advantage at, say, 4 in the afternoon.

And just as fortunately for me, my sister did not happen to notice a little verse a few pages over that said, "How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard?"

A form of exercise

My body members staged a mutiny the other day. I informed them that we were going to go work in the garden, and immediate protests arose from every direction.

"You pulled a muscle in me the last time we were out there!" said one of my legs.

"Don't exaggerate," I told it. "You just got stretched a bit. It's good for you to get stretched a bit."

"We always get dirty in the garden," said my prissy feet. If they had noses, they would have wrinkled them in distaste.

My face complained that it did not get enough sun when I worked in the garden. "Summer's half over, and look how pale I am!" it whined.

"It's a little difficult to have your hands doing one thing while your face is turned up toward the sun," I said. "But I'll see what I can do," I added dryly.

My arms and back started arguing about which of them did the most work in the garden. "We have to carry that heavy watering can all the way from inside the house," my arms said. "And hold it up the whole time she's watering."

"Please," my back said. "Who do you think holds you up? Huh? And spends all that time bent over so you can be closer to the plants when you water them? Me, that's who! And all I get for it are aches and pains."

"Enough!" I said. "Obviously, you all are not getting enough exercise. So tomorrow we start a vigorous regimen of walking."

You can imagine the protests this brought on. Only my arms were happy, as walking meant that they did not have to carry anything. I thought it prudent not to tell them, just yet, that eventually I would strap some weights to them to firm them up.

But walking for exercise has not exactly been easy. The neighborhood has conspired against me. One of my former paths is blocked indefinitely by a trailer supposedly housing workers on the road that has collapsed, though so far I have seen nothing more industrious than a couple of men looking at the road and shaking their heads. In the opposite direction there is a whole army of workers at the mill-turned-luxury apartments, with trucks producing incessant beeping and clouds of noxious fumes, and workers sometimes leering.

One day, though, I rediscovered a delightful short road. No sooner had I started down it than something large popped out in front of me. In the shadows of the trees, it looked like an enormous rat. When it stepped into the light I could see it was actually a very scrawny fox, who is a fixture in the neighborhood. I almost turned back. A fox did not seem an appropriate walking companion. But then I thought, I have been turned back from my healthful purpose by people and vehicles; I will NOT be turned back by a fox! I had as much right as he did to be there -- more, in fact, since I, a human, was on the road and he, a wild creature, should be in the woods.

I resolutely kept walking. The fox stared at me a while, then turned and continued down the road in front of me. After a while it stopped and looked at me again to see if I was still following. It kept walking again. This happened several times. I thought we must look like something out of a child's storybook, a fox walking along the road with a human trailing behind it. Finally it turned and went into the woods, like a sensible wild animal. Score one for human trying to get some exercise!

But on my way back up this narrow road, I heard a loud clattering that I took to be the garbage truck. I looked around frantically. There was not enough room for both of us on the road, so I would have to detour quickly to a branch of the road just ahead. But then the noisemaker came into view, and I could see that it was not the garbage truck. A car -- a very expensive car -- was coming down the lane, the driver with one hand out the window holding resolutely onto his garbage can, dragging it home with him. As he got closer, he could see me trying not to laugh. "Beats walking to get it," he said somewhat defensively.

Looks like I am not the only one who needs some exercise around here.

I told Joe about the fox and how reluctant it seemed to go into the woods. "It's probably easier for it to walk on the paved road than in the woods," he said.

Yes, I guess even a fox faces mutiny of his body members at times: "Ooo! Ow! These brambles are killing us! Why can't we walk on something decent?? You always have to go the hard way...."

A love story

A certain member of our household -- and it is not me -- has wondered aloud more than once why it is that names have to be mentioned in this blog. Specifically, his name. "Can't you write about me anonymously? You know, 'a man' did this, or 'some guy' did that? Why does everyone always have to know it's me?"

He has a point. So, in an effort to make him more anonymous, I will not mention him by name in the following story. Although since he is the hero, he might want me to.

Once upon a time there was a Prissy Princess. She was helpless in the face of large, winged insects, many of which were so enormous, in her eyes, as to resemble large lizards. Her sole method of self-defense against these creatures was shrieking, and she employed it often. This was a very effective method, as it inevitably summoned the Gallant Hero, who had Courage and Cunning to dispatch whatever it was that so alarmed the Princess (and there were many things that alarmed the Princess).

One day the Prissy Princess discovered a large, winged creature in her bathing chamber. Although she was not bathing at the time, she nevertheless was greatly disturbed at this intrusion of her personal space. The Princess, of course, shrieked a shriek that could be heard throughout the land, but no Hero came. She shrieked again, loud enough to be heard in the land beyond her land, but still no Hero arrived to rescue her. When the Princess stopped shrieking long enough to think, she remembered that the Hero was at work, doing whatever Heroes do when they are not fighting large, winged creatures.

The Princess realized that until the Hero could return and rescue her, she must act quickly -- and bravely -- to contain the creature. It must remain in that room at all costs! And so she did the bravest thing she could think of. With great resourcefulness, the Princess speedily closed the door to the chamber and proceeded to feverishly stuff her fluffy, luxurious towels -- oh, how she hated to ill-use those marvelous towels so! -- in the opening under the door. Imprisonment was likely to enrage the creature and cause it to lash out the minute the door was opened by the Hero, but this was a chance the Princess (and the Hero) had to take. Fighting evil, as the Princess well knew, often involved great risk, something she herself preferred to take as little of as possible.

All during the long afternoon (which was really only an hour or so, had the Princess paid close attention to her timepiece), the Princess waited for the Hero to return. She strode up and down the passage below the bathing chamber, wringing her hands and willing the Hero to come soon. "Oh, he must not fail me now in my hour of need!" she cried.

At last she heard his footsteps upon the stair and flew upon him. "Oh, my Hero! You must save me from the dreaded beast!"

He soothed her tears with murmurings and said gently, "Now, what is it has you vexed, my dove?"

And with great lamentings and shriekings, the Princess described what she had earlier come upon in the bathing chamber, and how she had trapped the creature until her Hero -- her brave Hero, who never failed! -- should return to send it to its doom.

The Gallant Hero sighed quietly. It was a tiresome thing, after working so hard all day, to come home to the Prissy Princess in such a state and be expected to take up arms against the enemy. Of late there had seemed to be many of them invading while he was away from the castle. Frankly, he did not see the danger in much of what the Princess shrieked at, and it hurt his ears. But he could not leave her in such distress, and he had to admit that a large, winged insect in one's bath was disturbing and, yes, possibly even dangerous. To think of his love in danger was more than he could bear.

The Gallant Hero resolutely drew his flyswatter (which he was never without since he had met and married the Princess) and ascended the stairs to do battle. "Stay here, my love," he said in a sobering tone. "There is likely to be a mighty duel, and I would keep you out of harm's way."

The Prissy Princess was all too glad to keep her distance, though she chafed a bit at being told to do so. She was helpless, she knew that, but it hurt her princessly pride to be reminded so. After all, she had been quick witted enough to contain the creature so her beloved might not have to search the castle for it -- and, of course, so that it would not come after her.

All was quiet for a while from above as the Hero stalked his prey. There was no sound for such a long time that the Princess began to fear that he had been overtaken, or perhaps had even lost his nerve and fled. "Be strong, my love!" she called up to him. "Do not let its mighty size o'erwhelm you!" She might have given him some token of hers, she thought, to encourage him in his quest. But the time for giving of tokens was past. His Courage would carry him through. That, and the fear of what the Princess would say -- and how loud her shrieks might be -- if the creature should elude him.

Suddenly the battle began. From below, the sounds were fearsome. Again and again she heard his flyswatter sing as he slashed the air with it. Once she heard him cry out, and nearly fainted with the thought that he was done in by the beast.

But then, oh raptures, she heard her Hero's voice. "I have won!" he cried. "Come up, my sweet, there is nothing to fear now."

She did as he bid, and shrieked at what she saw. Not the dead creature at her beloved's feet. She barely gave it a glance. But the room! It bore the unmistakable signs of a great struggle. Nothing was in place. In fact, it looked remarkably similar to the way it looked every morning after the Hero had completed his bathing routine.

But he was very brave, and she must not let his untidiness diminish that. "Oh, how can I demonstrate my gratitude!" the Princess said, gazing at him with devotion.

"Well," the Gallant Hero replied, gathering her into his arms, "perhaps, next time, you might shriek not quite so loudly in my ear."

Just in thyme

WARNING: IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH ABOUT BUGS IN YOUR FOOD, YOU SHOULD NOT READ THIS BLOG. IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH ABOUT BUGS IN OTHER PEOPLE'S FOOD, YOU REALLY SHOULD NOT READ THIS BLOG.

Well, now that we have the wussies out of the way, the rest of us can make jokes about them behind their backs. Ha! Just kidding.

You no doubt noticed the title of today's entry, Just in Thyme. Unfortunately, they weren't just in the thyme. They were in the cilantro, too. I am talking about bugs. Bugs in our herbs. Bugs in our spices. These bugs are not very nices! (My apologies to Dr. Seuss. At least I didn't title this story A Thyme for Rhyme.)

We've had them before, these little cigarette beetles that look like miniature wind-up cars with wings. We had made a thorough purge of our pantry last year, and hadn't seen any of the bugs since. Though I admit I have never quite felt safe in my own kitchen.

And, it turns out, for good reason. I opened the jar of thyme yesterday and noticed -- I have very keen eyes for this sort of thing -- that the thyme seemed to be moving. Now, for those of you new to cooking, moving herbs are not a good thing. Any food moving is not a good thing. Either it is not dead yet, or someone has come uninvited to the party. With great presence of mind, I shrieked and clapped the lid back on before anything could escape, then threw the jar in the garbage can and piled every heavy object I could find on top of the garbage can. (Fortunately the thyme jar did not break when I threw it, or this story would be a lot more graphic.) My quick thinking no doubt saved the rest of the world from a Cigarette Beetle Invasion.

But now I had a dilemma. Never mind that the new dish I was trying out wouldn't have any thyme in it. I wasn't hungry, anyway, and Joe wouldn't be either when I told him. If the bugs were in thyme, where else might they be?

Donning gear designed for nuclear waste removal, I went through all the other herbs and spices and anything else the bugs might be interested in, which according to my prior research is pretty much everything in our house, including non-edible things, although they don't seem to show much interest in items made of cast iron.

Have you ever looked closely at the contents of your herb jars? I don't really recommend it. It's kind of like inspecting an egg roll. There are an awful lot of unidentifiable parts in there. And if you have a suspicious mind, as I certainly did at this point, EVERYTHING in the jar looks as though it is moving.

In the end, I threw out the cilantro, as it too had been invaded by adult bugs, though they didn't seem to be moving. Cilantro must have some sort of sedative effect. Or maybe the beetles overate and were taking a siesta. I quarantined the basil, poppy seeds, and Italian seasoning in Ziploc bags, because they looked suspicious, and threw out five more herb jars that did not look suspicious. They merely looked capable, at some future point, of becoming Beetle Bed & Breakfasts.

I looked at the spice cabinet we had just bought a few days before at an antique shop. "How could you?" I said to it reproachfully. "I rescued you from obscurity in that dusty store, gave you a thorough cleaning, and put you in a place of prominence on the kitchen wall. I lovingly placed each jar inside you and entrusted them to your care. I gazed at you with devotion each morning when I got up and each night before going to bed. And now, after all this pampering, it turns out that you've been harboring criminals. I've had to kick out half your tenants."

But I couldn't really blame the spice cabinet. Without going into too much detail, I know the life cycle of these bugs, and they didn't just appear in my jars a few days ago. But I will never be able to look at the cabinet again in quite the same way.

Almost the worst part of it (what can be worse than bugs in your food, you wonder) is that these beetles are kind of cute. Really. Under different circumstances, I'm sure we could be friends. Maybe even keep some for pets.

As for the recipe I was making? It will be a long, long thyme before I can ever bring myself to make it again.

A solution for world peace

As you have probably noticed, unless your are an ostrich with better things to do than ponder world relations, not everyone in the world likes Americans. In fact, it may be safe to say that we are the only ones who like ourselves. And sometimes even we don't like ourselves.

I have a theory about why this is. (Yes, I know, so does everyone else, but they're wrong.) It is well known that many non-Americans get their viewpoint of us from TV. And as even an ostrich is aware, the lives of ordinary Americans no more resemble the lives of TV characters than, well, ostriches. That is the whole point of TV. Why would we want to sit around watching people who act just like the people we live with, work with, and yell at on the freeway every day? No, TV was created to take us away from those people, at least in 30-minute intervals.

But my point is not about what's on TV. It's about what's not on TV. Specifically, cowboys are not on TV much anymore. At least not in this country. You can flip through all 573 channels of cable and see nary a cowboy. Yet, to judge from the way the rest of the world talks about us, American cowboys must parade across the screen day and night in their countries. Naturally, this is what they think we must be like, tobacco-chewing and all.

I don't know which cable version all the rest of the world is watching, but I think for the sake of America's image and, ultimately, to bring world peace, they really need to upgrade. Imagine how much more people would like us if they could watch "Lost" instead of John Wayne! It's much more realistic.

And it would only cost $69.95 a month. You won't find a better deal for world peace anywhere.

Airport insecurity

Take heart, America -- the friendly skies are safer than ever.

There have been reports that two passengers at our local airport, identified only by their initials (JB and HB), recently were able to penetrate the wrong concourse at Northwest and, without any interference whatsoever from officials, get in line at a Chinese restaurant and order before anyone realized what had happened. The astounding thing is that they got past TWO people in security, neither of whom noticed that the passengers' boarding passes CLEARLY read Concourse C, whereas they were in line for Concourse D.

This news is very disturbing. I mean, what might have happened if these two had actually gained access to the Chinese restaurant's kitchen? The whole operation might have been shut down when they discovered what really goes into the Pu Pu Platter (which I am not making up). Airport officials are desperately trying to keep that a secret.

And if people can slip into a concourse where they are not supposed to be, what other dangers could slip through? Five ounces of shampoo? Roll-on deodorant? Lip balm??? We should shudder at the possibilities.

A third airport employee should be disciplined for his failure to apprehend the suspects when they subsequently went through security at the correct concourse. According to eyewitnesses (JB and HB), the employee merely lifted an eyebrow when he noticed that the boarding passes had already been marked by another employee at the first concourse (or by a squirrel; the squiggles of the two are barely distinguishable). And get this -- he accepted their lame explanation that they had merely NOT BEEN PAYING ATTENTION AND WENT THE WRONG WAY. This is an old, well-known terrorist ploy, and yet the passengers were allowed through without comment. I suggest that the discipline for such an offense involve some sort of high-pressured water gun. Or eating the Pu Pu Platter.

Fortunately, the two passengers/suspects seem to truly have been vacationing, as they claimed, and innocent of any malicious intent. Other than wishing to fling an order of Pu Pu at the person who cut in front of them in the boarding line.

Post-vacation letdown

Coming home from vacation is the pits. You have too much laundry and not enough groceries. Everything you went on vacation to get away from is back with a vengeance -- mail, newspapers, phone messages, piles of stuff at work, dust bunnies. Your computer informs you that you have 963 e-mail messages. And that is just your personal e-mail. You refuse to even look at your work e-mail, afraid that every message you open will automatically trigger eleven other messages to be deposited in your inbox.

You open your suitcase to unpack, and discover that you have fallen victim to a little-researched phenomenon known as the Cleveland Triangle, which causes all clothing in a suitcase on planes flying over Cleveland to multiply, so that instead of having 17 loads of laundry you now have 156. This phenomenon is also responsible for any clean clothing, such as your one remaining pair of underwear, becoming unfit for wearing without first being washed. Such Triangles have also been reported in other locations, so that even if you are not flying over Cleveland, you are not entirely safe from the threat of exploding laundry. If you discover that this has happened to you, you should immediately contact the Department of Homeland Security to report this insidious threat. They will no doubt raise the national threat level to magenta, cutting off all supplies of clean underwear being imported from China.

At some point, probably when your stomach rumbles so loudly that it sounds like a small nuclear explosion, you will realize that you, and you alone, are responsible for cooking something and putting it on the table for you and your spouse to eat. There is no friendly waiter anymore to bring you world-class food from a high-priced chef. There is no free hotel buffet with steaming eggs and waffles to help you welcome a new day. After looking in every one of your cupboards, because you forgot where you keep the pans, you finally retrieve a battered pan and then look blankly at the pan and the stove and say aloud, "What am I supposed to do with these?"

And then you spot the telephone, and happily remember that you have the number of a Chinese restaurant somewhere, and after much searching you find it and eagerly order Moo Goo Gai Pan and Dan Dan noodles. Somewhere at the back of your brain, you realize that you can't keep doing this forever, avoiding your stove and your oven and your refrigerator, but you resolutely push those thoughts from your mind and answer the doorbell when the delivery person comes. You remember too late that you have used up your last few dollars tipping the shuttle guy at the airport, and the delivery guy has to settle for some odd change you find under the couch cushion. If you had planned to order out again tomorrow, you realize it had better be from a different restaurant.

But at first, these things don't bother you too much. You have Vacation Euphoria. You are still basking in the glow of the Tuscan sun, or the glare of Disneyworld. While your body is busy typing, or cooking, or shoving clothes into the dryer, your mind escapes to that land so recently visited, reliving the vastness of the Grand Canyon or the blueness of the Aegean Sea. Until the harsh buzzer of the dryer pulls you rudely back into the present, and you lose a little of the glow.

By about the sixth or seventh day back, Vacation Amnesia sets in. When someone asks you what you did on your trip, you cannot even remember where you went. "Uh, I think Texas. Or Ohio, maybe. Although it could have been Mexico. We've been to Mexico, I think. Just can't remember if it was this trip."

By the time you download your pictures, you can't remember what any of them are. You are sure they are yours because they came from your camera, and because you think you can recognize your spouse in a corner of one of the photos. Although it could also be a tree.

By the following week you are so stressed out again with work, home, etc., that you completely forget that you even went on vacation and begin planning another trip. You say to your spouse, "It's been a long time since we took a vacation. Let's go somewhere! " You are both excited until you check your remaining personal days at work and realize that there are none left, and it is only June. You complain to the Human Resources person at work that someone has been stealing your personal days. "Look for someone who's been on vacation recently," you urge. "I'll bet they took more than they should have." The HR person reminds you that you have been on vacation recently. "Oh, no," you protest. "You must be mistaken. I haven't been anywhere since 1997."

Vacation Amnesia is actually a blessing in disguise, because if you had to relive every day those fantastic memories of your vacation and then be pulled rudely back into reality, no one would ever go on vacation again. The mental anguish would be too great. Not to mention the worry about what is happening to your laundry back in cargo.

What else?

If you've been reading my blog this week, you might get the impression that our Michigan trip consisted solely of airplane rides. This is, of course, not the case; we did plenty of fun things in between all the plane rides. I just can't remember what they were. I think some of them might have included other members of our family, such as four little people who always look at Joe and I as if they have never seen us before. By the end of the trip, after countless parental proddings, they are finally able to point to us correctly when someone says "Where's Uncle Joe?" and "Where's Aunt Holly?" They must wonder whether we are in danger of becoming lost, as everyone is constantly inquiring as to our whereabouts. But actually this is a time-honored tradition that Adam and Eve were not able to engage in with their own children, because, of course, aunts and uncles had not yet been invented when Cain and Abel came along ("Lucky them!" our nieces and nephews are saying to themselves).

But for the little people in our own family, pointing to us from a safe distance is pretty much the extent of contact they consent to have with us. They are probably afraid that if they get too friendly with us, we will whisk them off in a plane somewhere, and they will have to sit next to Aunt Holly.

I also remember, on our trip, being in charge of dinner one night for 19 people. Since we had already done KFC one night and Chinese takeout another, it looked like our fast-food options had expired. It was time for a Home-Cooked Meal.

As I was frantically throwing together 100 pounds of ground turkey and 3,879 tablespoons of ketchup (or was that teaspoons?) for sloppy joes, family members started arriving. One family member, whom for purposes of privacy I will call 'Mom,' came into the kitchen and sat down. "Brian said I didn't have to do any work for dinner," 'Mom' said.

"Well, Brian's not in charge tonight," I told 'Mom.' "I am. Now go stir those sloppy joes, please."

Now, I know better than this. Not the part about ordering one's family member around. I mean I know better than to put 'Mom' in charge of stirring something because there is a high degree of likelihood that 'Mom' will taste it. And taste it. And taste it. With the same spoon (only with family members, of course). This is a major reason 'Mom' and I do not generally share the same kitchen together. But it had been a while, and I had forgotten this little tendency of 'Mom's.

I gave little thought to the sloppy joes after that, thinking 'Mom' had them under control, but Joe happened to notice 'Mom' bending over the pot, gleefully scooping up spoon after spoon of the sloppy joes. Thinking quickly, Joe said, "Hey, let me stir that, 'Mom.' Brian's right -- you shouldn't be doing any work." He took the spoon and deftly stepped between 'Mom' and the pot.

"What a helpful husband you have!" 'Mom' exclaimed, with a significant glance at her own husband, who shall be referred to only as 'Dad.' "How do you get him to help like that?"

Helpful in more ways than 'Mom' knows.

A high-flying adventure

I don't know whose brilliant idea it first was, or why I agreed to it. But it sounded fun at the time, and indeed the only way to do Mackinac Island in one day. Basically, the plan was this: Since it takes about 4-5 hours to drive there from lower Michigan, four of us would pile into a plane so small it could be transported on horseback, of our own free will and being (presumably) of sound mind, and allow it to carry us, through bumpy skies and possible rain, 275 miles north and dump us in Lake Huron. Actually, they said the plane would land on the island, but I had my doubts.

I can only think it must have been peer pressure that made me agree to this. Funny how a situation like that takes you back to middle school. "C'mon, everyone else is doing it!" Not, I wish to add hastily, that I ever yielded to such pressure back then. Of course not. It is only as I got older that my will began to weaken.

I had a lot of questions about this excursion, the foremost being how to file a will in the quickest way possible before we left. I also asked how far away from me the person next to me in the plane would be, in case I had to grab their arm during the flight. Not in case, but when, I amended. I am notorious for causing black-and-blue marks on fellow air passengers' persons. Joe and I almost opted for a bicycle trip for our honeymoon for this very reason. (Although then it would have been my person, or at least the back end of my person, getting black and blue.)

I had had some vague notion that the plane would be like those small ones you see on TV. On TV, small planes are always very luxurious, because they are carrying the president or someone pretending to be the president while the real president is tied up in the back somewhere, being asked whether he wants peanuts or a Rice Krispie bar. These planes have seats made by La-Z-Boy, with plenty of room between the seats to get up and walk around, or to fight with someone when they try to untie the real president in the back.

When I first saw our plane I said to the pilot, "Will both my legs fit in there, or do I need to keep one back?"

"Ha ha!" he laughed, then turned accusingly to my brother. "I thought you said they'd all flown before."

"They have," he answered. "Just not in this small of a plane."

The pilot rolled his eyes and dug out what looked to be several pills of ibuprofen from his pocket, although they might have been something stronger. I thought he was going to offer them to me, but he downed them quickly before getting in the plane.

The plane was what my father would call a puddle-jumper. I had never really understood that term before, but I did now: I seriously doubted whether this contraption could jump over a puddle, let alone stay airborne with 800 pounds of human cargo for over an hour.

The whole thing reminded me of the time my sister and I were in Hawaii (you don't even want to hear about that plane ride) and she got the bright idea to go snuba diving. This is a recreational sport designed to terrify little sisters, who don't dare say no because they have said no to every other "fun" adventure proposed during the trip, which big sisters can only tolerate for so long. Snuba diving is a cross between snorkeling, which looks safe enough even for me, and scuba diving, which no sane person would ever agree to do. I actually thought it sounded fun, and the brochures showed all these smiling, bronzed people -- supposedly tourists -- happily cavorting among friendly, colorful fish and coral. No mention, of course, was made of sharks in the brochure. And so off we went to snuba dive, and when we got to the water's edge I thought, who was I kidding? I don't even like to put my face in the water. There is no way I am putting that mask and tank on and submerging my entire body in the water, down there with who knows what kind of life forms.

But that story is another blog. Anyway, I felt just like that when I saw this toy plane I was supposed to trust to carry me the length of the entire state and land on a little dot of land surrounded by large, deep bodies of water. Who was I kidding.

The pilot wanted Joe to ride up front with him, and I suspect that Joe slipped him a little incentive for this so he wouldn't have to sit next to me and subject his arm to my death grip. My brother and sister flipped a coin to see who would have to take his place. Come to think of it, they flipped several coins. Meanwhile, I climbed into the plane and strapped myself down with every conceivable strap I could find, just in case. My sister climbed in next to me with a defeated look on her face. My victim. My brother sat across from me, carefully keeping his limbs out of harm's way.

I started to get out my earplugs, which I always wear when flying, but my brother told me to put them away. "We have to wear headphones because of the noise," he said. Great. Not only would I be terrified, but my ears would ache the whole way, too.

One upside of the headphones was that the three of us in the back could talk to each other easily (Me: "What was that noise?" Siblings: "What noise?" Me: "The one that sounded like the engine quit!"). The pilot and Joe would tune in to us occasionally, too, for instance, to tell us we had taken a wrong turn and would have to land in Greenland to refuel, but for the most part they turned us off their frequency so they didn't have to listen to my constant questions about whether we were going to crash. Besides, they had to pay close attention to air traffic control for instructions: "You are heading straight into a tornado. You must immediately go into a nosedive to have any chance of saving yourselves!"

In spite of all this, I was remarkably calm through most of the flight, largely due to the pilot's wise decision to wait until we landed to tell us that we had had to detour around a large storm system that would have swallowed our plane whole. The scenery, when I got brave enough to open one eye, was beautiful, although on the whole I prefer to view the landscape at eye level. I did experience some nervousness when the pilot flew in close to the Mackinac Bridge, which joins the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan (what other state has non-touching parts, other than Hawaii, and that's an island) for Joe to get a picture, and we had to keep flying around and around so he could get different angles. I got to know that bridge pretty well. I can even tell you how many bolts and screws are in that bridge (enough to bolt the upper peninsula directly to the lower peninsula, thereby eliminating the need for a bridge in the first place).

Plane landings are always tricky. When the plane in which I am a passenger is landing, I try not to think about the fact that landings are one of the most dangerous parts of flying. I prefer to think the most dangerous part is unbuckling your seat belt before the pilot has turned off the "fasten seat belts" sign. Flight attendants always warn against this, so stringently that you get the feeling it is the scariest thing you could do on a plane. But I cannot control landings, other than to turn my body in the direction the plane is turning, as if to help it achieve optimal position, and pray furiously for the plane to make contact with the ground rather than with the trees, nearby buildings, stray deer, etc.

I do not know how close we came, or did not come, to being hung up in any trees along the runway. My eyes were squeezed shut.

I had all day to forget that I had to do this all over again at the end of the day, and I decided the best way to forget was to consume large amounts of ice cream and fudge. It must have worked, because I feel asleep on the way home, contentedly oblivious to whatever may have been happening in the 5,000 feet between me and solid ground.

This is your captain speaking

There are a lot of things in life we don't pay attention to, for the simple reason that we've become so used to them that we don't notice them anymore. Take the family dog, for instance. (Just kidding.) But seriously, does anyone take the time to memorize the location of the stairwell in a hotel, in the unlikely event there will be a fire while you are a guest there, or the more likely event that your floor's ice machine and the elevator will be broken at the same time? No. Does anyone pay attention to flight attendants while they demonstrate potentially lifesaving procedures? Yawn.

Nor does anyone listen to the pilot when he comes on periodically to tell you your current air speed, altitude, blood pressure reading, etc. This, of course, is largely due to the fact that you can't understand a word of what the pilot says. All pilots are trained to put the entire microphone in their mouth so that whatever they say comes out like this:

Pilot: Xkyzxkggst zkjdddtyjx.
You: What did he say?
Passenger: I think he said a container of turtles has broken open in the cargo area and the turtles are preparing to take over the plane.
You: Oh.
Passenger: No, wait, I think he said not to buy stock in Goodyear.

And everyone shrugs and goes back to reading the Sky Mall magazine, not that anything in there is very understandable, either. But at least it is in English.

But on our trip home from Michigan, I was startled while reading my book (Joe had taken possession of the Sky Mall) to hear an authoritative male voice say, "Folks, we apologize for putting you on this hot, stuffy plane; we'll be getting the air flow up and running very shortly here. Estimated takeoff is in 10 minutes."

I peered suspiciously around the plane, overhead at the vents, then under my seat. "Who was that?" I whispered to Joe.

"The pilot," he said, somewhat annoyed at being distracted from reading about a portable clothes dryer.

"You mean some of them speak English?" I said.

He just shrugged and continued reading.

"I don't think that was the pilot," I said, beginning to get concerned. "I could understand everything he said."

He ignored me.

I thought some more. "I think a terrorist has taken over. Maybe you should go check."

Nothing. That was one heck of a clothes dryer.

"Xkyzxkggst zkjdddtyjx," I said.

"What?" He looked at me.

I smiled. Maybe those pilots are on to something.

Bats and bicycle seats

In Michigan there is a quaint island called Mackinac Island (an old Indian name meaning "yes, we know it has a c in it, but no, we don't want to pronounce the c"), which we visited on our recent trip. Mackinac is unique in that its fudge shops outnumber permanent residents. There is a direct correlation between this phenomenon and the fact that there are no cars on the island, although there is a misconception that the lack of cars is due to a wish to keep the island quaint and pristine. The actual reason island officials have outlawed motorized vehicles is to prevent the abundance of fudge from sticking to people's bodies and turning the island into a fat farm. So you can consume as much fudge as you want, but you must walk it off, or rent -- for an exorbitant price -- a bicycle to get around. There are plenty of horses available, too, but depending on the amount of fudge you indulge in, the horse might just decide to dump you in the middle of the island and hoof it back home without you. Don't think it wouldn't. These horses have been hauling overfudged tourists for more than a century, and any day now they could decide they've had enough.

As our excursions were going to take us all over the island, we procured bikes. After grueling pedaling over flat asphalt for 500 feet, I was ready for a break. I persuaded the rest of my fellow bikers to hike a nature trail through the woods. There was some resistance to this plan, as the "trail" looked shorter than walking to get your mail, but I held firm. My bottom needed a rest. But more on that later.

The nature walk included, absolutely free, a variety of signs telling us what was there that we couldn't see ("and here resides the red-tufted moppish, a very rare species seen only for one hour on November 31 of a leap year"). One sign extolled the virtues of bats, which I was more than happy not to actually see, and declared that bats are "historically one of the most misunderstood and persecuted of all creatures" (along with women, I thought the sign might have added).

Now, I cannot argue with the assertion that bats are misunderstood. I myself don't understand them at all, including why the Lord would take the time to create such an ugly creature. However, I take great exception to the claim that bats are "persecuted." I, personally -- even though I shudder at the very thought of bats -- have never persecuted, molested, or even annoyed a bat. No one I claim an acquaintance with has ever persecuted a bat. I informally surveyed other hikers -- including three squirrels -- on our short hike, and not one admitted to ever persecuting a member of the bat family. (It's true that most of those surveyed, the squirrels included, said that should they ever happen to encounter a bat and a broom at the same time, they would not hesitate to use one against the other. So maybe this lends a little validity to the persecution claim.)

I'll tell you who is getting persecuted, though. It's people who, having been denied the comforts of their air-conditioned automobile on the island, are forced to balance their body on a bicycle seat the size of a pea. These seats are not shaped or sized like any posterior known to man, or woman for that matter. Only about 1/8 of your bottom fits onto the seat at any given time, so that you spend the entire ride shifting this way and that in an attempt to give all parts equal support. When it becomes unbearable to remain on the seat, and your fellow bikers refuse to stop at any more nature trails and read about bats, in desperation you lift off the seat entirely and ride vertical, weaving the bike in and out of people, small children, bats, etc., because you cannot control it as well as when you are sitting. And thus you continue on your torturous ride around the island, approximately 2,179.4 miles, until you collapse and have to be taken by horse-drawn ambulance to the medical center, where they take skin grafts from various parts of your body and sew them to your raw behind.

At this point, you wouldn't even care if a whole flock of bats descended on you and started biting you on the face. Just as long as they left your bottom alone.

May you help me?

There seems to be a disturbing trend for people engaged in performing work at one's house to base their quality of work on how nice you are to them. Apparently, politeness on the part of homeowners is not enough anymore; you must also praise the workers' abilities, complement their uniform, and offer homemade apple pie and iced tea (hot tea in winter).

And those little forms they are forever filling out but won't let you see? Those are part of the Homeowner Friendliness Rating Scale, which they use to help them quantify how nice you are to them and, consequently, what level of service they will render you. There are 72 Homeowner Characteristics, which the worker checks off as he pretends to study the problem you are having with your refrigerator, electrical system, or moles in the backyard. The more approachable you are, the higher you rate, and the better service you will get. The scoring works like this:

72, High: This homeowner is extremely personable and worthy of your highest efforts. Spare no effort to meet this homeowner's needs, even staying the night if necessary to get the work done. If there are parts that must be ordered, offer to travel yourself, at your own expense, to Taiwan to obtain needed parts.

30-71, Medium: The average homeowner will score here. This person is happy to see you but only because you can make his or her miserable life happy again. This person has no real interest in your dog's recent demise or your daughter's 3.472829301 grade point average. Fix the problem, but don't go the extra mile. Optional: If homeowner scores in the low end of this range, you may choose to skip informing him or her of the free extended warranty.

15-29, Low: Some homeowners can be nudged into the Medium category with subtle hints, for instance, "How much extra are you willing to pay to have your outlets working again?" If they do not respond favorably, perform the maintenance in such a way as to ensure that another service rep will have to come out again within seven months.

0-14, Insulting: Get out as fast as possible. Say the work is impossible to accomplish and advise homeowner to sell and move into a tent. Enter homeowner's name and address on the National Service Worker's Blacklist, and destroy all evidence of original work request. If homeowner scores 0, you are perfectly within your rights to sabotage the system you are supposed to be working on, without informing homeowner.

I was first alerted to this trend when we moved into our home last year. My sister was with us, and I noticed that she got the movers to do things that they had told me they didn't have time to do. Things like take apart a bookcase and move it, with ample groans and sweat, up the narrow stairway, to the second floor. Or put the door back on its hinges after they had taken it off to carry stuff through it. I watched, mystified.

My sister saw my consternation (or maybe it was my "How did you get them to do that??") and whispered, "You have to be really, really sweet to them. They'll do more for you."

Well. I didn't know, exactly, that I was doing anything wrong. I wouldn't have said I was being sour, but I do tend to be somewhat businesslike with people who are working in a business capacity, as opposed to someone I love dearly and have known my whole life.

The next day the electrician came out.

My sister was there again, and this time I watched her technique. She asked questions with what seemed to me exaggerated interest, nodded enthusiastically at the electrician's answers, made generous use of elaborate facial expressions, and went into raptures over the tiniest thing accomplished. In short, she killed the man with flattery.

But then she had to leave, and I was left to play this rather daunting role. I cleared my throat and said in a voice three times higher than my natural voice (which is already pretty squeaky), "So, uh, how's your dog? I mean, um, do you have a dog?"

He looked at me as if I were the dog and went back to his work. Great. I could see that I was going to be scraping the bottom of the Homeowner Friendliness Rating Scale. I could only hope that my sister had racked up enough points to at least get us into the Medium range.

It took him three hours after that to finish up. I did feel sorry for him, having to squeeze through our tiny attic opening and hack at the cobwebs up there with a machete (#53: "Provides appropriate tools worker does not have, such as machete"). I even offered him some lemonade, which he seemed grateful for (#67: "Offers refreshment other than water").

He wiped his hands on his already filthy pants. I knew this was calculated to get at a characteristic on the rating scale: #69, "Grimaces at sight of dirt on worker's person," so I carefully kept my face neutral. He said, "Well, missy, it's a good thing I kinda like ya'll" -- by which I knew he meant "your sister" -- "otherwise, I mighta just said I couldn't fix it at'all!"

I breathed a sigh of relief and with all my acting skills -- which aren't many -- I profusely thanked him for his hard labors and offered him the machete as a gift. He seemed appreciative and made a little mark on his clipboard.

The outlets have worked fine ever since.

Sincerely not yours

Dear Brookside,

Please stop sending me brochures about your "55 and better" residence community. The first mailing, I am willing to believe, was simply a mistake. The second was humorous, the third exasperated me, and subsequent letters have all been burned.

From the photos Brookstone seems a lovely place, or perhaps you have a very creative photographer. However, I do not and will not fit your entrance criteria for some time yet. It is true that I have recently vacated the 25-39 demographic, and yet I am still at the very early stages of the 40-60 age group. You are either seriously misinformed about my age or desperate for occupants. In either case, you are not endearing me to your community.

I do not yet need a bedroom located on the main level, although I can certainly see the advantage of being close to the refrigerator at night. Nor do I require "generous space for grandchildren." I believe one is required to have children before acquiring grandchildren. And the promise of a half-acre of land would only encourage my husband to acquire more outdoor things.

I sincerely doubt that wherever I lived, I would "never want to leave home." Do you have antique stores and flea markets on site? A Target? A Dairy Queen? These are the amenities that make my life "exciting and fulfilling."

I presently enjoy the "rich and diverse life" promised by your brochure and am afraid that by the time I am ready to retire, which by current projections will be age 103 1/2, I will be worn out. I look forward to living somewhere where I can just rest. "Fine dining! Fantastic recreational facilities! Fabulous shopping!" I am tired just thinking about it all. You might, in fact, consider adding napping facilities.

So you see, I must decline your generous offer. If you are still around in 63 1/2 years, send me a letter. I'll be at Target.

Sincerely,
Not There Yet