The Death of Einstein and Other Off-Kilter Subjects

First, let me say that I know it is a rather confusing -- especially to my mother, methinks, but also to others -- that I maintain two blogs.  And, it further muddies the waters that I post the entries for BOTH blogs on my Facebook page, and that Facebook page is labeled 'The Reluctant Suburbanite.'  I realize that 'The Reluctant Suburbanite' is the name of my first blog.  And it is the blog I use for more serious topics without the use of pictures as props.  The 'Push-Ups' blog is the one for lighter topics and often a fantastic array of photos . . . sometimes the photos are more interesting than the writing (not that I fancy myself a stellar photographer).  Or maybe that's just me.  Anyhoo, if you wish to post a comment on the actual blog page itself -- as opposed to a comment on the Facebook-posted link -- you must become a follower of THAT particular blog.  If you are a follower of the ' . . . Suburbanite' blog but NOT a follower of the 'Push-Ups' blog, you will only be allowed to leave a comment on the blog to which you have promised to be a faithful and adoring acolyte: in this case, the '. . .Suburbanite' blog.  Am I coherent in this at all?  Is this making sense?  Do you even care?  Could I possibly use the word b-l-o-g in the above sentence with any more frequency than I did?!


But enough of that.


Tonight is a hodge-podge.  I'm a bit off kilter.  I mean, I must be, because my eldest daughter AND my husband both asked me if anything was wrong with me at totally separate times this evening and they were not in the same room -- the kitchen in this case --when the concerned question was posed.  My reply to both was a bland, "No."  But that did not satisfy in either case, thus a follow-up reply was necessary, "I'm just caught up in listening to the end of my audio book and am a bit distracted -- it's really intense.  My rib hurts.  I was up 'til 2am coughing and unable to doze off like a good little girl.  I'm ticked because I consumed foods I know my belly doesn't like, though my mouth did, and I'm full . . . and a bit worried about how much I will weigh at my physical on Thursday morning!  But, really, nothing's wrong.  It's been an okay day.  Not bad; not great," an oral break as I rip another hole in my chest with a sharp cough, "Though I think we could use at least a fifteen-minute glimpse of the sun any time now.  I'm fine.  Really.  Remember, I do have my quiet periods of thought and brooding.  Just part and parcel of the package that is moi."  There.  Everything is all cleared up now.  Phew!  For goodness sakes, can't a girl just BE sometimes without BEING ON all the time?


I am sad, though, after coming across a Facebook post by my cousin, Annette, about her bulldog: Einstein.  It seems that he suffered a very sudden and final stroke while receiving what would be his last bath at the hands of his kind master and his master's son.  (Also known as Annette's husband and son.)  He was a very handsome specimen.  A solid and sturdy guy.  Smooth camel-brown coat with a white face and jowly wrinkled mug.  Friendly without being obnoxious.  Everything one expects to find in a good bulldog.  Age and illness were not factors in his death.  And that is rather troubling, too, because realizing that unexpected, and often inexplicable, death occurs in all species, and not just the human race, is a big fat downer.  A bummer.  "It's not fair!" as my kids so often say.  But the great thing about Facebook is that therein lies the possibility for shared mourning.  People flock to post their apologies, indignant reactions and comforting thoughts to pet owners when they lose their beloved canine or feline . . . or even, say, a hamster left to languish in a dark closet by a teen terrified that it would escape into her bedroom.  Again.  At least Einstein departed in a happy moment under the loving hands of owners who provided him with a swell home and and a wonderful family pack.  He passes his good-pet torch on to two other well-loved household dogs to comfort the humans he left behind. Goodbye, stalwart and stoic Einstein.  I'm glad you lived a good life and imparted joy to your family during your days and nights.

(I borrowed this gorgeous shot of Einstein from his owner's Facebook post.)

He had a CUTE backside!

See what I mean about his MUG?!

In a huge jump to the other side of the pond, er, subject, er . . . Great Lakes?  There's this sweet little article I clipped and pinned to the corkboard for future discussion in my blog.  It seems that after dinner one evening, an elderly couple, one Allen and Violet Large, 75 and 78 respectively, of Truro, Nova Scotia, Canada, discovered they had won $11.2 million on a lottery ticket.  Since 1983, Allen has purchased two tickets a week; they won the booty in June of 2010.  That's not the incredible thing.  People, people I don't know and whom I've never EVER met -- young, old, married, single, sick, healthy, you name it -- win lotteries.  But most people don't decide to give it all away within a four-month period: dividing the winnings between 14 family members and 63 Canadian-based organizations, including the local fire stations and a hospital which successfully treated Violet (I love that name!) for ovarian cancer recently.  "We wanted to share it with people who treat us well," they said.  They plan to get by on their retirement and their savings, living in their 148-year-old house and driving their 1987 Dodge Diplomat sedan.  "We have everything we need."  Now, I've often thought about what I'd do if ever we happened upon a substantial sum of money.  Pay off the house; get all of the kids through college; take care of both mothers, mine and Jimmy's; fatten-up our very meager retirement savings; carve off a nice chunk for our church; help friends and loved ones (though that can become a bit of a sticky wicket!).  But past that, I wasn't sure.  But I'm not in my 70's yet, either.  There's still time to become totally and completely magnanimous and satisfied.


But until then, I rather enjoy coming into a bit of money for myself.  Being an adult, birthdays filled with cash-stuffed cards aren't in the offing.  Shoot!  They weren't in the offing when I was a kid, either.  Still, when I receive the occasional card with a check made out in MY name with a small sum specifically targeted at MY wants, it feels good.  I'd be lying if I said otherwise.  Usually, it's one's parents, or some rich aunt or uncle who's taken a shine to you, who seals the deal.  However, my mom isn't in a position to fork over a large check each year to honor the birth of her 5th child; I love her cards and gifts just as they are.  Further, my father is not in my life, so the chances of receiving a card from him, with or withOUT money, is zero, zilch, nil, no, nada, nunca!  My Grandma Opal, an alert and active 92 year-old, still sends me a $10 check every year.  That's special just because . . . the reasons there are precious and obvious.  And it's not like my husband has ever denied me anything I wanted over the years within reason.  (I'm quite talented in the 'reasoning' department.)  But that's still OUR money.  Not much surprise there, you know?


Having said all that, for the past two years I've felt a keen disappointment at opening a specific card and finding no check in it.  Not because I'm particularly selfish or self-centered or feel entitled to money in my birthday cards, but before two years ago, THERE WAS ALWAYS A $50 CHECK IN THE CARD.  It was something reliable.  Something to which I looked forward to accepting with gratitude and pleasure.  Something I could apply toward a special purchase for my very own without subtracting from our checkbook.  I've not been able to decipher why the money dried up.  It's probably rude to ask.  And rude to to say that I'd rather receive the check -- the same check that 4 out of 5 Valdez' in my nuclear family continue to find in their birthday cards -- than the small gifts which don't really match my likes or wants . . . or that $50 check.  One starts to imagine possible slights or snubbing or insults not realized.  Those aren't nice imaginings.  So, I've decided to quit imagining in that vein altogether and simply accept the about-face and move on.  Yes.  A very good idea.  Very good . . .


I'm moving on to lottery tickets.  Two a week.  Maybe an extra one on my birthday!  

Zoa, Zoa, Zoa

I'm a bit behind (not to be confused with having an itty bitty behind -- which I don't) in my blog posts if I'm trying to average one a week -- which I am.  But to be fair, the days and nights have been full of doings and goings-on, family and company, cooking and baking and cleaning, my birthday and Thanksgiving . . .  and Hank the Wonder Pup, toddler extraordinaire of the canine world. 

And then there's that lingering nagging cough, the force and frequency of which have managed to impart some type of either soft tissue or bone injury to my right upper rib area, resulting in a lovely sharp pain that hindered me for a good 20 minutes from rising from my bed for a 3AM potty break the other morning.  The couch is now my new best friend for the foreseeable future.  If the construction of my words appears a touch more 'unique' than normal, blame it on the magic cough medicine with hydrocodone that makes its way down my gullet every 12 hours, along with 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and a half-dose of Mucinex-D.  Don't worry: I'm NOT driving though I do continue to operate my iPhone and laptop.

Though I'm been claiming it for the past few months, as of Monday the 21st yours truly is officially 42 years old.  I like it better than 40, in part due to the nature of the number itself being divisible by 3.  Have I mentioned my affection for any and all numbers that are products of 3?  Or that you can discern if a larger number is divisible by three by adding its digits together: if that sum equals a number divisible by 3, then you are in business!  But enough about my personal interest in triplicate.

So, my Uncle Zan -- a.k.a. Zopie, Zoa, Peter-Pot -- sacrificed 4 days of round-trip driving in the mercurial family mini-van with his two growing boys to grace us with his presence for five enjoyable days.  Because I enjoy celebrating the special days in life, right along with the 'every days,' having the man who named me for 'Glory to God' when he was just 17, who introduced me to the ocean, horses, fishing, Captain Crunch and the .357 Magnum, who is my father figure in a childhood where my biological dad was pretty much MIA, who can regale an intimate crowd with colorful stories about all manner of eventful memories and learnings, having him here in my home, with my family, on both my birthday AND Thanksgiving was in and of itself a most special occasion, a significant gratitude, and a generous birthday present.  Given his particular personality, I highly doubt that he fully realizes the magnitude of positive impact that his trip to Middle Tennessee had on me.  Perhaps his wife -- who remained behind to work and hold down the fort, effectively handing her men over to us for a short time -- will read these words to him.  After drilling a hole into the part of his brain which is meant to accept sincerely-aimed arrows of appreciation about HIMSELF from those who admire his character and overall person!

Zan loves music.  If such a thing could exist, he would be considered a Siamese-twin to music: it's that intertwined in his DNA.  He's self-taught on the piano and guitar; sings in a deep pleasing voice which inspires calm ; and, he composes his own creations, with and without lyrics, and also enjoys reworking old favorites for personal enjoyment.  When I was a kid, he used to crack up me and my siblings with humorous renditions of tunes from the disco era, including the Bee-Gees, and famous singers from almost every genre and decade within the past century.  As a family, especially during those long hours on the road, moving from state to state, we would all (Zan, mom, our Uncle Dan and us kids) sing from a repertoire of Jesus songs, John Denver and whatever else the grown-ups deemed worthy: "God is Love" and "Country Roads" were, and still are, my favorites.  Such times made long road trips less tedious.  Such times blunted the stress of push-starting that old red Toyota Corolla because the real starter in the engine didn't work: a particular memory of an icy road in Manitou Springs at night, snow falling, a slight incline seeming ever so larger when push literally came to shove!

Though I loved Zan's voice, I didn't realize just how special his ability to jump into soprano falsettos was when his normal range falls within a smoothly timbred cantante, or bass-baritone mix.  But the little girl who was affectionately called Doc by her uncle always knew that this tall thin man full of good humor and a talent for succeeding in everything he tried (gardening, photography, golf, woodworking) was wholly special.  He managed to be larger-than-life AND totally approachable simultaneously.  Once you met him, you would not soon forget him.  Never will I.

In fact, the best memories of my early childhood begin with the memorable month-long stay I had with him up in Fairbanks, Alaska.  He lived in an apartment over the RCA electronics store where he worked.  Just down the street was the hotel/bar/restaurant, it went by the name of 'The Roaring 20's,' where he played piano for tips in the evening.  I remember that the rooms were situated around the hotel pool and raised up several floors, which seemed to go up and up forever to my young eyes.  His friendship with the owners of this establishment allowed me entrance, and grand eating privileges, in the kitchen, where I feasted upon juicy steaks, Texas-sized slabs of French toast, and whatever else I might think to request at their friendly behest.  One afternoon I recall walking over to inquire about lunch, only to lay eyes on a gorgeous round of fresh Roquefort cheese all the way from France, blue-veined, richly scented, creamy and awe-inspiring.  This exposure may have upped my love affair with exotic cheeses and creative food in general.

Whether serving in the National Guard, boots shiny and shoulders erect, or wielding a machete on banana plantations in Israel, forehead shiny and shoulders set against the discovery of tarantulas, Zan performed all tasks to their utmost, unwilling to accept less or do the minimum.  Putting up miles of fence in the vast expanse of Colorado plains; blasting in Wyoming; day jobs; night jobs.  And Doc was watching.  Absorbing.  Taking it in for future use.  He and my Uncle Dan, once his best friend and partner in adventures, did their share of hitchhiking and motorcycling across the United States, when such things were safer and not actions which immediately set off alarm bells of suspicion to female passers-by.  They may have even carried an ax for practical reasons.  The tales he could tell! 

Once -- should anything of this nature ever be performed MORE than once in a lifetime? -- Zan had to kill my sister's pet turkey, Frank, when we lived on a farm outside of Salem, Oregon.  Food and money had run out.  Mouths needed filling.  And the crap job fell to Zan, who had not a violent bone in his body, who believed in a family pet as much as the next animal-loving guy, to knock the oversized thought-he-was-a-goat bird in the head with a hammer, heft the huge carcass into the bathtub, and cut poor Frank into three sizable chunks so as to fit him into the oven.  All over the hearty objections of my heartbroken sister, who would not succumb to her nourishment-deprived belly grumblings, feeling that the act of ingesting Frank would be more cannibalistic than anything else.  After all, Frank's mate, Henrietta, had already been taken out by my dog of then, a pretty Shepherd pup named Cassie.  Poor  Frank had stepped in to fill the shoes of TWO turkeys.  I'm certain that the 3 surviving goats who dined regularly WITH Frank all around the acreage would have been appalled had they an awareness that their feathered pal was dined UPON!

But that was then.  Sharing coffee from the same pot while discussing the merits of Regis Philbin on morning TV is now.  Playing Pictionary and Apples-to-Apples with the Zan and his boys in our kitchen, laughing and making fun of one another, basking in the warm fullness of my mom's hearty stew and whole grain biscuits in our bellies -- that is now.  Watching our two teenaged sons interact, realizing the significance of an uncle and a niece both in the thick of raising similarly-aged boys in this charged society, knowing Zan once changed my diapers and brushed my hair, knowing I would wait by the window as a toddler, calling "Zoa! Zoa! Zoa!" as my way of wondering when he would return home from work and, thus, close the gap left in the family circle by his absence, it is all a big deal for me.

And that certain healed hole in the ceiling above the stairwell, put there by a certain 15 year-old who tripped in the attic while a certain 16 year-old cousin was giving him a tour not listed anywhere on the itinerary, and repaired by a certain handyman uncle, who was vacationing away from the duties of his apartment complex managing/maintenance job, but didn't want my husband to set his eyes upon the drywall injury for a second day? That hole will be a story and a memory for many Thanksgivings to come.  And go.  One of those classic holiday missteps (literally) that grow into legend with every retelling.  Never to be forgotten.

Just like Uncle Zan.

 
 

Phlegmbocious!

There's been a lot of talk about phlegm and mucous in our household this past week.  My oldest child even sent me a picture via iPhone of a yellow-brown blob on a background of white Kleenex with the question, "Is that bad I coughed that up?"  If I had known the content of that text message, my finger wouldn't have been able to hit DELETE fast enough.  She's been trying to show me the contents of her tissues for several days.  But I couldn't do it as I'm lately feeling a decidedly strong repugnance toward both ear wax (which my son is constantly trying to shove into my line of sight, waving the yellow-coated Q-tips in my face as I trip over myself backing up) and chunks of phlegm and mucous which originate in any body which is not mine.  (Don't those two words just GO together like an old married couple?  "Ladies and gentlemen, on the eve of their Golden anniversary, help me welcome Mr. and Mrs. Mucous-Phlegm!" )  Oh, my response to the content of the picture was that as long as it wasn't from her lungs and she didn't continue to experience such tissue content throughout the day, it was most likely morning activity dislodging stagnant sinus gunk.  She's fine and ready for her surgery tomorrow, though she will have an enormous cold sore keeping her company during the exploratory procedure.  The thing should apply for its own zip code!

There are three out of five of us recovering, not all of us successfully, from a funky upper respiratory virus that started in Ashley's head before she so graciously shared it with her mom and dad.  When it arrived at my sinus cavities, the virus apparently liked what it saw and decided to move on down into my lungs.  Hoping to have a repeat of the Mucinex-D commercials where the mucous family gets swept up, out and away by the very powerful medicine, I've been popping the stuff in a timely fashion since Friday.  My lungs, evidently, have not SEEN those particular advertisements.  Or -- here's a shocker -- there is not total truth in advertising. 

Anyhoo, I say all of this not because it's unique for a family to spread the viral joy this time of year.  Nope.  In fact, for the first four years of my Tennessee stint, bacterial bronchitis could be counted upon sometime after Thanksgiving but before Christmas.  The increase in amount of severity of my hacking, coupled with the bitter tasting,textural, gross, yellow and green (yellow IS the color of infection, it seems!) chunks accompanying the productive morning coughing tell me that waiting it out ain't gonna work.  Thus, I must once again exercise our new insurance policy.  And THAT is the issue at hand here.

My family has been fortunate to have excellent insurance coverage for quite some time.  City jobs and employment with large corporations allow for more generous policies with co-pays and 80% to 90% surgical coverage with low deductibles and no HSA or HRA or cafeteria programs.  If one of us was afflicted with say, a possible appendicitis attack like the one my son experienced Wednesday last, I'd not spend as much time worried over the ER bill at 2:30AM as I spent feeling concern for my boy.  The outbreak of warts on both of my thumbs --  outside of plantar warts as a teen and young adult, nary a wart has invaded by skin -- would have been addressed over the summer.  But instead, I've joined the ranks of the insured who are glad to pay for monthly coverage and receive discounted services, but must put forth a significantly larger portion of their monthly pie toward doctor visits and the myriad other medical needs which tend to pop up in unexpected ways.

Now, I wholeheartedly advocate treating colds and flu and the like at home in lieu of kneejerk calls for appointments with busy doctors who often send folks home with orders to rest, drink fluids and administer OTC drugs as needed because what they have is a miserable but common virus which must run its course.  What I don't support is putting off necessary treatment because the stress of paying the bill outweighs the physical discomfort that is signalling bronchitis or asthma or more serious problems.  What I REALLY don't like is the knowledge that as expensive as our small-company insurance is to our bottom line, there exists a disproportionate number of businesses who can't offer comprehensive policies of any kind.  There are individuals and families who don't get seen and thus miss diagnosing diabetes or endometriosis or some such.  And on the other side, not all but a decent percentage of people with government-funded coverage, ring up the ambulance and drag out the specialists at the drop of a cough.  Not to mention folks who jack up insurance costs by receiving treatment and meds for an underlying condition but refuse to make the life changes to improve the condition and thus reduce those insurance costs.  Because WHO bears the trickle-down charges created to absorb the abuse?  People like my neighbor who works full-time outside the home before picking up her three young boys for a comparable workload outside of her paid employment.  People diagnosed with cancer who can't afford the cutting edge treatments and thus must accept older, less effective protocols which, while working, don't offer the hope of additional months and years for the cancer-ridden host.  Mothers who are forced to hope their wheezing young one will improve with acetaminophen and heat compresses when it's clear that waiting it out isn't working.  Elderly men and women unable to afford a basic standard of care for their age-related ailments.  In this country, these examples are very real . . . and it just isn't right!

If you wouldn't mind, I'd love to hear from you.  I know that my readers have their own stories bearing witness to this national crisis of ours.  Let your voice be heard. 

I'm waiting.

   

Once Upon A Hair

This is a story about minutia.  As my good friend and once-upon-a-time-9th-grade-English-teacher pointed out, my stories tend to be more of an inspection or expansion of smaller moments and things.  Turning the magnifying glass on them and bringing out the beauty or interest that might otherwise be missed.  He's right.  It bothers me that we spend so much time distracted or busy or puffed up with self-importance that we can often steamroll right over the small things.  Over picture-perfect moments lived quickly and then POOF! gone.  Over voiceless or penniless or marginalized people.  To me, this is tragedy and a serious waste of time on this planet.  What I write, it wells up and out naturally from a spring deep within me that seems to give without end, and because it does, I can only surmise that this is what I am intended to write. At this point in time, I don't seem to be too hung up on plot development, thematic elements, and all the other bally-hoo which attends the best short stories or personal essays.  Perhaps one day.  But for now, I'm having way too much fun, and feeling far too purposeful, with this.  If you are reading my blog on a regular basis, you either feel indebted to do so out of loyalty or some such attendant sense of responsibility . . . or . . . OR . . . you happen to like the style in which my particular words flow.  I'm thankful either way.

Now.  On to the story.  Prepare yourself.  This entry may fall more under the heading of 'fun' than 'purposeful.'  But YOU be the judge! 

  Yes, this is the face of Gloria.  As with any face, even those more beautiful and symmetrical than mine, the longer one looks at a face, the stranger it seems.  The features appear to be mismatched.  Out of place.  In a jumble.  My face as seen here is squeaky clean after the 3-step Proactiv regimen to which I adhere most mornings and nights.  As my husband has so adoringly pointed out in the past, my eyes without glasses in front of them appear to be slightly crossed -- maybe to match my front teeth?  My left nostril is slightly higher than the right; and my nose itself is a bit wide.  My husband, by the way, thinks it's perfect.  There are crows-feet which have nothing at all to do with my birdwatching but everything to do with ageing.  Dark under eye circles from allergies and poor sleeping habits.  Because of slightly imbalanced plucking, one eyebrow raises a tad higher than the other.  There is a rather large pore on my forehead: a leftover scar from a particularly aggressive bout of face-picking at least a decade ago.  And due to a convergence of female hormones and sunlight in an unflattering mix, my skin is unevenly discolored from a condition knows as 'melasma.'  I'm vain enough to abhor it.  But obviously not too vain to post this picture for your scrutiny.

The other thing about this face is that a very white and habitual hair continually springs from a single spot on my forehead.  No matter how many times I inadvertently catch it in various stages of length and remove it by the root, it stubbornly refuses to remain gone.

Can you see it from this angle?  I can't.  But there is a pretty nice view of that pore I was telling you about.  Did you know that compulsive picking of the skin is referred to as 'dermatillomania?'  I learned this from one of my readers.  She also happens to be a great friend AND my aunt.  Though she could read my blog out of loyalty, I'm pretty sure she actually enjoys the writing and subject matter.  After this entry, however, she may choose to withdraw her support!  "Gloria WHO?  Nope, never heard of her.  Can't say that we're related in any way, shape or form.  I've not seen hide nor HAIR of her!"

How about now?  Still no?  Good.  Because it's still an 'I can't see it, either!' for me, too.

Oooh!  Oooh!  I think I've stumbled upon it!  You see it now?  I do.  I do!
The wee little hair that could . . . and DID.

Do you wonder why this very strong and tenacious hair is so very long?
Did my vision diminish and thereby render my glasses and contacts useless?
Am I cultivating a crop of random body hairs, eschewing tomatoes and basil?
Are you grossed out yet?

(Does a color shot bring home the reality of this anomaly a bit more effectively?)

Well, the truth is: this was an experiment.  Just how far into the world would this facial intruder extend without my interference?  Why not make this otherwise useless little white hair serve a purpose?  Would anyone else notice it if I allowed it to intentionally lengthen?  At the time of my decision, it made perfect sense.  To ME, I must stress.  My husband goes along with my strange ideas as long as they don't cause harm to myself, others or his guitars.  Or interfere with the Broncos football schedule.

But then the time for me and my slightly crossed eyes to get serious rolled around.  After all, these shots were snapped off in the bathroom of our Florida resort condo during our family trip through my husband's employer.  The employee awards banquet was scheduled for later in this day.  It simply wouldn't do to sport an 1 1/2-inch forehead hair to the gala.  The CEO's were NOT the people I wanted to amuse with my loosely based science project.  And, as aforementioned earlier in this show, I'm vain enough.  JUST enough.  Not more.  Not less.  I wanted to look spiffing for my hubby!

 
So-o, out came the Revlon tweezers.  And OUT came the hair.  Impressive, right?  Now, I'm not certain if I broke any records this time around, but there's always this winter.  It would be easy enough to allow it to mingle with my bangs or just fade into the paleness of my off-season face.  I'm thinking that's more like 2 inches!  Anybody got a ruler?  Better yet, anyone know the phone number to Guinness Book of World Records?  We may have a winner! 



The Banana Effect

I took a banana on my walk today.  No.  Really.  I walked an overgrown hyped-up banana this morning for about an hour.  The banana was eager to leave the the bunch and parade about the town.

Snapping random shots of this banana sniffing voluminous piles of fall leaves, stopping for sudden squirrel-like noises.

Shots of this banana shaking its hiney every now and again.  Shots of this banana sitting at the curb and watching the cars with their staring smiling drivers go by.

There was never a worry that this banana might pee on itself and thus end up with a sodden stinky peel because this banana never voids it bladder, nor its bowels, during its exercise with leash and master.

Earlier this morning, this banana got ahold of my kitchen shears (my daughter was unfamiliar with the word 'shears' and asked for clarification), causing my heart rate to climb as I attempted to extricate the scissors from the strong banana jaws before something worse than the loss of the handle ensued.  I'm tired of taking the banana to the vet.

Now, why, you might query, would I take a banana for a walk on a lovely post-Halloween morning, the first day of November, my birthday month, in fact?  Well, I needed a laugh.  I needed several laughs.  And this banana makes me laugh.  I also wondered if perhaps other folks out there might need a good laugh, or at least a smile, in the same way.  After the reaction from various and sundry trick-or-treaters last night, I felt certain that my goofy banana would most likely elicit some form of positive emotion from any drivers-by or joggers or fellow walkers.

And I was correct.  Being correct made me smile.  That was bonus happiness above and beyond my initial purpose for walking the banana with the swagger in its step and cavernous mouth of household horrors.

Speaking of enormous toothed openings, did I mention that this banana swiped my Girlfriend -- my 3GS iPhone which can now be purchased for 98 cents through ATT with a 2-year service contract renewal -- from the counter over the weekend and crunched the lens of the phone's camera THROUGH the protective Otter Box housing?  This on top of the eyeglasses, stick of organic butter, deli-sliced Boar's Head muenster cheese, tennis shoe laces, and myriad other items which it felt the need to orally explore!  Most un-Chiquita-like, I can assure you.

In light of these surreptitious, but not nearly as sneaky as the banana thinks its being, home heists of Valdez Family belongings, I find that I have little or no compunctions about the fact that I've joined the ranks of pet owners who have been accused of humiliating their pets by dressing them in costume.  Rather, turnabout seems totally fair play.  And I daresay that once my furry banana friend accustomed itself to the headgear, being a banana became an enjoyable experience.  

I can also report that after my morning constitution with said yellow fruit, I believe the $14 + tax I spent at Target the other night was well worth it.