Us against It

WARNING: Today's blog post many not be appropriate for readers who: (a) love all animals, insects, protozoa, molds, etc., regardless of cuteness level, and believe they deserve all the rights afforded humans, including the right to peaceful assembly and unlimited tattoos, (b) would defend such liberties for these organisms with their life, or (c) have anything better to do than read about our efforts to dislodge a rather large beetle from our property. Also (d) are squeamish.

I say it was a beetle, but it could also have been a gila monster. It was lying on the basement windowsill outside the front of our house. If this had been a movie, and the heroine had come upon such a thing, you would have screamed at her to run -- run to the nearest animal control place, Orkin, the Marines, anyone who would lock down the neighborhood and deal with this menace with the appropriate amount of firepower.

The only thing that kept me from doing this was that the creature was lying on its back, all its legs waving around in the air, trying uselessly to get back on its feet. If it did, I had no doubt it would attack me immediately. In fact, its leg-waving was probably sending some sort of supersonic message to its clan members ("WHEEP! WHEEP! Enemy sighted! Sense hostility toward large, ugly arthropods! Send reinforcements!") They were probably headed my way already.

I did have the presence of mind to take initial precautions: I called Joe outside. (Note: When a spouse says, "I want you to see something," it is never something YOU want to see.)

We stared at the beetle. "It's...it's like a small battleship," he said.

We looked around to see where it might have come from. There was no grass or trees in front of our house. Our eyes strayed toward the large storm drain in the street, in a direct line from where the beetle was. We looked at each other. So that was where his fellow beetles would probably attack from.

We are midwesterners. These things should not shock us. We deal with things like 17-year cicada invasions, in which the navigation system of insects bigger than this beetle fail, causing them to crash haphazardly into buildings, trees, people's hair, etc., and fall apart into their various arthropodic segments, plus some additional pieces. My father would have said that we were bigger than the beetle, and that it was probably more afraid of us than we were of it. Ha! Dad never heard of insect supersonic message-sending capability.

I looked back at the beetle, which was still engaged in sending his SOS. "Do you think we should just leave it there 'til it dies?" I said hopefully. "It doesn't look like it's long for this world." Moving it after it was already dead would involve far less risk of it coming into personal contact with us.

But Joe was of the opinion that if we sent it back to the drain, alive and intact, it might appease the others. We set about pondering the best weapon for transporting it there.

"The shovel," he said. "Get me the shovel." I started inside. "No, the broom," he said.

"Do you want the dustpan, too?" I asked, thinking we could keep an eye on the thing better if it were contained in something.

He looked at me in disbelief. "Do you think I want to get within 6 feet of that thing, let alone 6 inches?"

"But what if it gets caught in the broom bristles?" I like to be prepared for every possible contingency.

He didn't think this was likely. I got the broom, gave it to him, and turned away. Then I thought, someone should keep an eye on this thing to make sure it doesn't end up someplace it's not supposed to, like on me. I turned back just in time to see the beetle land, not in the storm drain, but on the edge of it, clinging to the bars with its mighty Claws of Death, now in a perfect position to exact its revenge on us.

This is also when we should have run. But Joe gave the thing another whack with the broom, and it went tumbling down into the drain. We cautiously peered over the edge. It had landed on its back again.

We have not seen any attack beetles since, although we do not go out after nightfall now. But sometimes we fancy we hear, a little too close for comfort, the sound of a million beetles the size of battleships, getting ready to attack.

America's first bachelor community

If you get tired of touring all the historic buildings in Colonial Williamsburg, you can go on over to neighboring Jamestown, which, even though it was actually the first permanent English settlement here, is not as famous as Plymouth, mainly because the settlers at Jamestown did not have the foresight to think up Thanksgiving.

But at Jamestown you can, in an astonishingly short amount of time, tire of looking at museum artifacts and reading signs that explain, based on exhaustive expert research, what they are ("This appears to be a man's belt, although it could also be the jawbone of a giant whale"). When we were there, there was an exhibit on the drawings of John White, whose detailed pictures showed the abundant animals and food in the new land, including crabs, box turtles, and McDonald's Filet-o-Fish. These drawings caused a stir back in England, where people wanted to know why they only had Hardee's.

The museum does attempt to enhance your visit by posing questions. For example, why is it that when you watch the orientation movie in these places and the theater is half empty, the tallest person in the room is always sitting right in front of you? Unfortunately the museum had no answer for that question. Another sign urged visitors to look for the exhibit showing leftover food items from 400 years ago and identify them. "No problem," Joe said. "I used to be a bachelor. I'll know what they are."

In fact, Jamestown was at first made up completely of bachelors. This explains why the original site has only recently been uncovered. You know that if women had been around, they would have left a detailed map to where everything was, along with a note to remember to take out the garbage.

We saw a lot of other evidence that Jamestown was a bachelor hangout. Above the fireplace in one building, the jugs and crocks were stacked only one deep on the shelf. If women had been in charge, they would have stacked things at least ten deep, rendering the men useless at finding any of them.

In the re-created Jamestown settlement was an outdoor clay oven. We asked a lot of questions about that, mainly, would a group made up entirely of men and boys know what to do with it? The male costumed interpreter -- who sat on a comfortable rock out of heat range, talking to visitors while the female interpreter did all the work related to the oven -- seemed miffed at this question. "Of course," he said. "These were English gentlemen here. It was quite fashionable in England at the time for gentlemen to collect and exchange recipes. It was something of a hobby for them."

I turned to Joe. "That would be a good hobby for you to take up, honey," I said.

But Joe was more impressed with the cooking facilities in the Indian Village. We were told that they would scoop out a hole in the ground, put a pot of food in it, and surround it with hot coals. "The first Crock Pot," the guide said. "It would stay hot all day, and the Indians would just help themselves when they were hungry. A teenage boy's dream."

It was also Joe's dream. "Wouldn't that be great to have a Crock Pot going all day and you could just eat whenever you wanted?" he said excitedly. "You wouldn't have to stop and make something!" My thought about the Crock Pot set-up was, how do they know that's what it was used for? For all we know, it could have been the world's first heated toilet. Now that would have been something useful.

Of course women eventually came to Jamestown. Someone had to do the laundry and make sure the men were wearing clean underwear, although the men didn't see what the big deal was, since the Indians didn't wear any underwear, and you didn't see their wives making a fuss about it.

After hearing about droves of women braving the ocean in a teeny tiny little ship for months, Joe immediately wanted to know how many bathrooms were on the ship. But he thought maybe the women had a sailing advantage, because they could have used their hair dryers to power the sails.

Jamestown went on to prosper and even became the capital of Virginia, until in 1699 leaders decided they needed a capital that was more hip and in step with the times -- Jamestown was SO early 17th century -- and founded Las Vegas. Jamestown went into a slow decline, although it enjoyed a brief resurgence in popularity when Martha Stewart visited in order to study early Crock Pot design. Today thousands of tourists visit this important site to ponder our earliest history and walk where our forefathers walked. Hopefully, they are all wearing clean underwear.

May I have this dance?

If it rains while you are at Williamsburg -- and statistically, the chances of this happening are roughly the same as those of dying -- I would recommend getting stuck in the bakery, where they have gingerbread cakes and other early colonial treats for sale. While it rains, you and your spouse can amuse yourselves and other patrons by conducting a pleasant argument on whether or not you should share one of these gingerbread cakes, or whether you should each get your own. This will progress, as spousal disagreements tend to do, into a heated discussion of how he always eats your portion of the food before you can get to it, or how she always takes two bites of something and then throws it away without offering you any. This will continue until the rainstorm is over, or the costumed shopkeeper hits you both in the head with a gingerbread cake.

But this is much more enjoyable than getting stuck during a blinding rainstorm at the museum hospital for the insane, which is what we did. After 29 viewings of the exhibits on colonial methods and tools for restraining those who have lost touch with reality, and listening to innumerable reenactments of former patients screaming and babbling, you look out the window and it is still pouring, and you find yourself thinking that if someone were to put you in one of those restraining chairs and strap you in, you actually might feel quite comfortable.

Fortunately, the fun at Williamsburg doesn't end with rain, nor does it end at 5:00, although most buildings close and the costumed interpreters stop being George Washington or Thomas Jefferson and become Bob Green or Joshua Pappansquat again. But for tourists, the entertainment options continue in the evenings. There are all those taverns we mentioned last week, for instance. And stumbling over cobblestones is much more fun in the dark than during the day.

There are also dancing exhibitions one can attend to learn how colonists entertained themselves. Dancing -- which was invented several thousand years ago, on a Monday or perhaps a Tuesday, historians are not really sure which -- fulfilled several purposes in colonial times, including the ever-present need for entertainment, and also for indicating that you needed to use whatever primitive facilities may have been available (performed with the legs closely entwined about each other). It was also, according to the woman who led the dances we watched, a way to show off who you were to other people. This could be a little tricky. With the room lit only by candles, people could easily mistake you for a large, upright sheep in heat, which is probably not the impression you wished to make.

According to our interpreter, the first dance of an evening was often the minuet, danced by one couple at a time in order to increase the humiliation of those who did not know what they were doing. From what I could tell, the minuet got its inspiration from a mating dance between giant ostriches, performed in slow motion. There is a great deal of fluttering, waving of the arms up and down, and strutting back and forth, and the dancers spend most of their time apart, probably because in the dark it is hard to see where the other person is. They might be dancing with a potted plant and not realize it until the 376th flutter.

Or possibly this is because they are not really sure they want to get together. Watching them come together and then instantly move apart again makes you think: they like each other -- now they don't -- now they do -- now they don't -- and that is how the dance progresses. No one knows how the dance ends, because by then everyone else has either fallen asleep or indulged too freely in the host's beverages and has no idea of whether the ostriches decided that they like each other or not.

All of us at this dance exhibition were invited to participate in the other dances following the minuet, and even if we declined, we had to learn how to bow or curtsy. You might think this is outmoded, but it is actually a very useful skill. It will definitely add some elegance and grace to our next discussion of gingerbread cake.

Good Morning, Vacationer!

Mornings on vacation are not like mornings at home. Unless you are one of those people who leap out of bed each morning -- that is, unless you are the product of some weird science experiment gone wrong -- getting up for your normal activities is not unlike having all your eyelashes systematically yanked off by some giant, malevolent creature. But when you wake up on vacation, you are wide-eyed, cheerful, eager to start the day's adventures. You are even first in line when they open the pancake house.

At least that is how it is the first morning. After that, it is all downhill.

Morning #2: Wake up a little later, realizing that the day's activities will still be there even if you aren't by sunrise. The pancake house still sounds like a good idea.

Morning #3: When your traveling companion attempts to waken you, respond by putting your pillow over your head. If he persists, put your pillow over his head. Hard. If he tries to entice you with descriptions of the pancakes awaiting at the pancake house, gag.

Morning #4: Awaken to find the maid, having tired of waiting for you to vacate the room, vacuuming around you. When she sees that you are awake, she turns off the vacuum and proceeds to tell you what she thinks of your behavior, all in a language that you don't speak, although her meaning is clear enough. In response, tell her what you think of pancake houses.

Last Morning: Panic. Get up even earlier than the first day, realizing that this is your last day to have fun, maybe for the rest of your life.

And vow to never eat another pancake again.

A short history lesson involving pancakes

Those of you who think Colonial Williamsburg is just a shameless collection of high-priced shops, restaurants with inflated prices, and souvenirs of questionable historical accuracy are dead wrong. It's really much worse than that. Nevertheless, there are some good things about it. For instance, Ben & Jerry's is not too far away.

But of course you do not go to Colonial Williamsburg to enjoy ice cream. You go to enjoy pancakes. At least, that is what we assume the Chamber of Commerce expects visitors to spend the majority of their time doing, judging from the number of pancake houses in the greater Williamsburg area. You can choose from the National Pancake House, Capitol Pancake House, Mama Steve's Better Pancake House, George Washington's Pancake House, Benedict Arnold's Traitorous Pancake House (which serves only waffles), etc. Pancake houses are so important to the economy of the area that the Board of Directors of Williamsburg considered requiring a receipt from one of them to tour the historic buildings, but the people at Ben & Jerry's complained about discrimination. So now you just pay money to get in, for which you will need access to a trust fund.

Williamsburg, of course, reflects the colonial period in the country's history. You might recall that there was a war going on during this time, which pitted the colonists against tyrannical pancake house owners, who were placing all kinds of outrageous demands on the colonists like charging them extra for syrup.

The colonists -- already showing that spirit of independence that would mark future generations of Americans -- responded by composing and singing an astonishing number of drinking songs, which infuriated the British, who considered their drinking songs to be superior. The colonists, banned from pancake houses, established a bunch of taverns where, during this time of war, growing economic distress, and uncertainty, they would gather to discuss strategy against the British and then compose another drinking song.

And thus began the Great Revolutionary Pancake War, better known to the colonists as the Froggy Went a Warrin' War.

Tomorrow: The programming for tomorrow's blog post is a little fuzzy yet, but rest assured it will have something to do with Willamsburg, however slight and however historically inaccurate.

To plan or not to plan

There are basically two ways to vacation. No doubt many of you grew up taking the Military Vacation, where your parents planned every waking moment (and would have planned the nonwaking moments, too, if they could have figured out how), and every day started at 06:00 hours, with a brutal schedule planned of sightseeing, educational experiences, 1 1/2-minute bathroom breaks, etc.

With this type of vacation, your plan for a typical day looks something like this:

1. Tour 152 historical buildings in 4 hours.
2. Learn how each of these buildings was constructed, and why.
3. Try your hand at constructing one of these types of buildings.
4. At the end of the day, write a 6000-word essay on what you have learned that day.

With this method, you end up:
1. Touring 152 buildings in 4 hours.
2. Learning how each of these buildings was constructed, and why.
3. Constructing one of these types of buildings.
4. Writing a 6000-word essay on what you have learned that day.

As you can see, this is a very efficient way of vacationing, although you may be dead by the end of it. The other way to vacation is to make no plans at all, other than to decide to go to a somewhat vague location on a certain day, give or take a few days. This is known as the Spontaneous Vacation, or the Sloth Vacation after the Australian sloths, who are known for doing basically nothing even when not on vacation. With this method, your daily plan looks like this:

1. Wake up naturally, to the sounds of the remains of other guests' room service being collected out in the hallway. Room service for dinner, that is.
2. Ask each other what you want to do today.
3.
4.

Theoretically, this method allows you to take advantage of those serendipitous moments to do something you might miss on the Military Vacation. Practically, the result of the Sloth Vacation is:

1. You spend most of your time at the local Ben & Jerry's.

However, this second method is not all bad. It can even be quite educational, such as learning the difference between Coffee Ice Cream and Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz, or just how much Phish Food Ice Cream can be consumed before one explodes.

This is the type of vacation Joe and I decided upon for Colonial Williamsburg, mainly because we are lazy. We're glad we did, because otherwise we might never have eaten all our meals at fast-food restaurants. We would have made a reservation every night at a different historical tavern, where mouth-watering dishes are served in genteel, inspiring surroundings, patrons learn more about the history of our great nation, and you can sit where George Washington may have sat. Instead we sat where Ronald McDonald sat (or may not have sat). Who could ask for more?

Tomorrow: We begin our Sloth Vacation, which did not take place in Australia, although we hope to someday, serendipitously, visit there too.

A brave new world

As I have mentioned before, after visiting almost every historic site existing in this country since the Pilgrims arrived, we vowed that this year we would have a different type of vacation. As you saw with our trip to Mount Vernon, we are well on our way to exploring new places. So when we talked about taking a longer trip, Joe was eager to put all that historic stuff behind us and forge new trails.

"Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia looks pretty cool," he said.

"We were going to try something nonhistoric this year," I reminded him.

"Like what?"

"Well, like visit a national park..."

"And do what?" he demanded. "Hike? Bike? Camp out in the middle of nowhere with mosquitoes and horseflies and bears and no Dairy Queen?"

We looked at each other.

"Hand me the Williamsburg brochure," I said.

The first order of business, after choosing a destination so wildly different from anything we'd ever done before, was to find a place to stay. Now, requirements for a hotel differ widely between men and women, as you will see by the following.

Her requirements for a hotel:
1. Clean
2. Sheets starched so that they are standing at attention
3. Attractive, inviting, cozy room resembling those of the great mansions of the past
4. Bathroom the size of the Taj Mahal
5. Clean and spotless
6. Absolutely no record of any bugs, spiders, fleas, rats, viral outbreaks, politicians, etc.
7. Enough towels for a 3-week stay, even if just staying overnight
8. Clean and spotless to the point of sterileness
9. Self-operating ironing board
10. Room service with offerings from best restaurants all over the world
11. Did I say clean?
12. Staff willing to submit to background, fingerprint, and fingernail checks

His requirements for a hotel:
1. Some sort of covering overhead (bugs optional)

So you can imagine that I had some misgivings when Joe took charge of securing lodging for our trip. Each place he found online was meticulously scrutinized for adherence to my requirements.

"Look at this lodge," he said excitedly.

Of all 12 of my requirements, I could imagine none that could possibly be met by something calling itself a "lodge."

"Move on," I said.

"But it looks really neat," he said, then his voice changed to disbelief. "It's $256 a night!"

"Really?" I said, looking closer at it. Maybe I had been a bit rash with regard to lodges.

I should have mentioned that most men actually have a second requirement for hotels. It is spelled C-H-E-A-P.

And so he moved on.

We finally settled on a place that has recently undergone a $4-million restoration, which I thought was a good sign. And most important, there is a Dairy Queen next door.

This blog will not appear Friday and Monday, as we will be eagerly embarking on our new adventure.

They're off!

Today's blog may contain some irregularities, as the Prissy Princess has been forced, due to a malfunctioning monitor, to abandon her beloved computer and use the Gallant Hero's. The Gallant Hero has a perverted keyboard, the kind with a split personality, which makes it almost impossible to type properly. Therefore expect many missssspelings, and be thankfl you canot hear her grubmlings. Although the space bar on this keyboard is quite large, only about 1/10 of it actually works when you press it, so you may also see someverylongwords.

The Gallant Hero must enjoy squinting a lot, as the screen has teeny tiny type and icons, which are annoying at any time of the day for the Prissy Princess but especially first thing in the morning.

His computer is also situated right over the air conditioning vent, which at the moment is issuing freezing cold air. He has often complained about this himself, but until now the Prissy Princess has not shown the proper amount of sympathy. She understands his predicament and will endeavor to do something about the vent situation as soon as possible or as soon as he fixes her monitor, whichever comes first.

And now, back to our regular programming.

No doubt you have been following developments in China, where a great many young people from all over the world have been seized with the desire to exert themselves in public wearing very little clothing. I myself endeavor to avoid exertion of any kind, regardless of the level of clothing, although using this keyboard certainly demands efforts of Herculean proportions.

Nevertheless, the Olympics have invaded our home, and there was even a competition held in our kitchen over the weekend. Joe entered the Swiffer Operator event, in which one participant at a time performs manuevers on linoleum with a stick and a dry cloth on the end of it. The object, of course, is to corner all the dirt and crumbs on the floor and toss them into the wastebasket. This event is not held very often, nor is there much practice for it at our house, so given the condition of the floor, this particular course was very challenging. Points are awarded in two categories: technical, which includes the amount of crumbs collected, and style.

Joe was not only a participant in this event, he was also the announcer. Although I was unable to tune in to the event in person, due to my own competition upstairs in the Toilet Bowl Swipe, I did hear the highlights during the game, which I will now relate to you.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Swiffer competition, where the first athlete is getting ready to begin. This event takes enormous concentration, ladies and gentlemen. Joe here is known for his flair while competing; I'm sure we'll see some evidence of that here today. And he's off!

Ladies and gentlemen, look at the size of that crumb! Will he be able to pick it up using just the regulation Swiffer? Many athletes have gone to the Super Swiffer XLMK, but Joe prefers to use an older model....and he does it! Did you ever see such skill?"

I would like to see it more often, I thought.

There was a small crash from the direction of the kitchen. "Ohhhh, he'll lose some points there. He almost took out the overhead lights," the announcer said.

In the end, despite losing some style points for that incident, Joe was declared champion, having set a new record for the amount of debris collected. The judges debated crowning him with a dustpan, but they finally settled on awarding him a peck on the cheek from his grateful wife.

After the strenuous efforts in these two competitions, the athletes in our house are exhausted. They must rest up for the next sport, which lasts for another week and a half: the Finger Maneuvers on the Remote Control.

Got dog?

We've noticed an increase in the number of residents in our area lately, especially the four-footed kind. So many people have a dog, or two or three, that we're kind of surprised we're allowed to live here without one. Any day now, we expect a letter from the Homeowners' Association.

Dear Homeowners,

It has come to our attention that you are in egregious violation of the standards of the Homeowners' Association (hereafter referred to as the "HOA," although we prefer "Your Royal Highnesses") regarding canine ownership. Rule 793205xiv$&*% clearly states that all domiciles will retain at least one animal of canine persuasion, which shall be of sufficient stature to wreak havoc within the domicile. That is, said canine must be at least 5 feet tall (with standing height of 7 feet, 2 inches), and weigh a minimum of 127 pounds, although a little-known rule also states that the size of the dog must be inversely related to the size of the dwelling. In other words, the smaller your home, the bigger the dog should be.

You have been sighted numerous times walking about the neighborhood alone, unaccompanied by a dog. This is in violation of Rule BVK@@@J. We begin to suspect that you do not own a cat either, although this cannot be proven, as cats are not easy to be found if they do not want to be.

Our community has standards to uphold, and regrettably, you have not shown a willingness to support them. Your neighbors are all clearly doing their part. Many have two or even three dogs larger than themselves, and others own cats, rabbits, ferrets, frogs, stuffed foxes, etc., along with their dogs. Your failure to comply with this mandate borders on anti-canine sentiment, which will NOT be tolerated in this community. Our neighborhood was founded on principles of equality among people and canines, and we are charged with ensuring that this legacy continues. You set a poor example for new homeowners, many of whom do not read their 47-inch-thick homeowner's manual, and therefore look to their neighbors for guidance in keeping the canine standards of our lovely community.

We regret that, according to Rule """""", we must impose sanctions for Failure to Retain a Canine, which shall include a fine of not less than $7,483,542. If violations continue, the offending homeowners shall be placed in the community dog run and, in full view of the public, slobbered upon by the approximately 1,926 dogs currently living in the immediate area.

We trust, however, that now that this matter has been brought to your attention (and the dire consequences of your violations duly noted), you will realize your error and institute immediate action to rectify the situation. Within three days, this HOA must have proof that you have fallen in love with, and brought into your home, a dog meeting the size requirements set forth earlier in this document. We expect you and this canine to appear at the next scheduled HOA meeting, at which the dog will be closely questioned to determine whether he or she is, indeed, a member of your household.

If you have any further questions for us, such as why our Rules do not follow any established numbering system, please do not hesitate to contact us. We can be reached during the hours of 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., except when we are out walking our dogs.

Sincerely yours,
HOA Canine Task Force

Today etc.

We regret that today's blog is canceled due to -- whoops, we already used that line this week. Unfortunately, it applies to today as well. Due to lack of sleep and increased pressures at work -- broken ice machines, etc. -- the Prissy Princess somewhat resembles Grumpy the Dwarf. But never fear! No doubt on Monday she will return rested and ready to entertain, because over the weekend the Gallant Hero will have taken pity on her and offered to make all the laundry go away, magically clean the entire house, make a gourmet dinner for their expected company, whip up a scrumptious chocolate chip shake for her, relieve her from ever having to do the grocery shopping again, and build her a lovely glass castle where nothing has to be dusted, ever. Or at least that's what would happen if this were a fairy tale.

Today

We regret that today's blog has been canceled due to yet another house crisis. It appears that we have signed up for the Electrical/Gas/Plumbing/All Other Categories Problem-of-the-Month-Club, wherein the money we had set aside for a much-coveted leather sofa goes instead to Mike the Technician. Or Rob. Or Gary. They are all very pleasant, but they probably have much nicer furniture than we do.

Yay for us

Most of us find out, eventually, that life as an adult is not all it's cracked up to be. Sure, when you're a kid adults tell you that you can spit in your shoes all you want when you're an adult, but then you grow up and get married and find out that your spouse somewhat frowns on this practice as well.

Of course, this is not to say that you have to give up all the perks of being a kid. My niece was telling me about the kindergarten class her son will enter in the fall. "Some of the days are full days, and some are half," she explained. "But they don't do academics after lunch."

"That's a good policy," I said. "I try not to do any academics after lunch, either."

"Hmmm," she mused. "Maybe that's why Tom's having trouble with some of his employees."

Her son has always been his own best cheerleader. Any accomplishment -- taking another bite of hot dog, pretending to take another bite of hot dog, promising to take another bite of hot dog -- is accompanied by shouts of "Yay!" and clapping for himself. Joe and I have picked up this trait, although not necessarily in connection with hot dogs. We clap for things like remembering to take the garbage out. Also when we refrain from putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher befor taking the clean ones out.

Unfortunately this tendency to self-congratulate has now become so ingrained that I do not think about it anymore. Which means I have started to clap for myself in other, more public settings, such as at work. One day I met with a co-worker to ask her some questions I had on a project, and when we were finally done I wrapped things up with a very mature "Yay!" and clap. My hands were still clapping when I realized what I was doing. I was horrified.

I needn't have worried. She pumped her fist in the air and declared, "Yay for us!"

I wish I could say that milk and cookies followed, but we do have to grow up in some ways.