February birthdays: February sometimes has 29 days and sometimes 28 days. It also is pronounced with or without the first “r.” Since this month is so lax, celebrate your birthday whenever the hell you want!
ARIES (3/21-4/19): Ever see the movie “Groundhog Day,” in which Bill Murray re-lives the same day over and over? Well, you may as well re-read your Fool-o-Scope from the January issue until we come up with something better next time.
TAURUS (4/20-5/20): Guard against your jealous tendencies this month, especially on Valentine’s Day, when your loved one may have other plans. If your partner claims to have to pull an all-nighter writing Valentine’s Day cards for Hallmark, it must be true.
GEMINI (5/21-6/21): In matters of love, you can be fickle. Although the Greeting Card Association estimates that approximately one billion valentines will be sent this year worldwide, they didn’t count on them all being sent by you.
CANCER (6/22-7/22): Imaginative and prone to fantasy, you sometimes try to make your life fit a romantic ideal. But no matter how much you love them, you cannot send a Valentine’s Day card to “The Meaty Breakfast Burrito c/o Jack in the Box.”
LEO (7/23-8/22): The first association of Valentine’s Day with romantic love was documented by Geoffrey Chaucer in 1382, which is about the last time you remember having a romantic evening.
VIRGO (8/23-9/22): Your sign is the virgin, and it’s Valentine’s Day. Boy, it sucks to be you this month.
LIBRA (9/23-10/22): If Presidents’ Day celebrates the birthdays of Washington and Lincoln, does that mean that all of the other presidents were never really born? Honestly, Libra, you must cease this ridiculous crusade to create a “Presidents’ Day Plus” national holiday just because you want to be “fair” to all of our nation’s leaders.
SCORPIO (10/23-11/21): According to the official website, Punxsutawney Phil maintains longevity by drinking a secret “elixir of life.” I don’t care what Punxsutawney Phil told you in Groundhogese: Sierra Nevada is NOT the elixir of life.
SAGITTARIUS (11/22-12/21): While it’s usually good to remain optimistic in the face of disappointment, you might not want to be so obviously joyful by mimicking a touchdown dance in front of your distraught partner when the power fails during the Stupid Bowl.
CAPRICORN (12/22-1/19): This Valentine’s Day, fight your miserly tendencies by giving your sweetie two boxes of candy hearts instead of one. And no, they don’t make dollar-off coupons for a 59-cent box of candy.
AQUARIUS (1/20-2/18): This month, you will experience a disturbing spiritual awakening when Punxsutawney Phil shares with you the ultimate meaning of life, which will cause you to seek psychological care for an unspecified duration of time.
PISCES (2/19-3/20): If the groundhog comes out and sees his shadow, he goes back into his burrow and takes a six-week-long nap. If he doesn’t see a shadow, he dances to the “Caddyshack” theme song. So BE the groundhog, Pisces, and relish long naps and solitude—if, that is, you can get the “Caddyshack” theme song out of your head.

I sat on the couch. The flashing glow of a sitcom about a stupid husband and his hot wife bounced off my face in a room darkened by the late, late hour of 8 p.m. My hot wife was already in bed.
Hey, to the parents of two kids under five years old, 8 p.m. is like pulling an all-nighter. By 9 p.m. my wife and I start hallucinating.
Then something happened. Something so dark, so foul, I know communists, Corporate America, the Clinton Administration, or quite possibly pixies were behind it.
While sliding into an advertising-induced trance, I twirled something mindlessly with my fingers, realizing that, yes, I could make my whites whiter, I’d be much more fun, stylish, and clever if I owned a Macintosh instead of a PC, and black angus must taste better than any other cow. Then, like my 32-inch waist, my dreams of being an astronaut, my hair, and my youth, the thing in my hand was just gone.
I’d lost my wedding ring.
Let me pause while the ladies gather rocks. Look by train tracks. Railroad companies use hand-sized chunks of granite to bed the ties. Granite makes a nice thump when it hits the cranium.
Do you know how panic twists your intestines into a really uncomfortable ball that won’t bounce? No? Well, then I guess you’ve never 1) been attacked by a bear, 2) seen an FBI badge, or 3) lost the everlasting symbol of your love.
“Good lord,” ran through my head. Although I recognized this exact formula from every 1970s TV comedy and knew how Mr. Kotter solved the problem, I was sure in my case hilarity would not ensue.
I dropped to the floor and, yes, it hurt.
The ring wasn’t on the carpet. I checked by sight, hand swipes, and X-Men power I don’t have, and the Snoopy dance in my bare feet. Under the couch cushions were something sticky, 24 cents, and a two-inch plastic crossbow that fit a toy we’d never owned. And nothing but concrete Cheerios and a scattering of very bare foot-unfriendly toys were on the hardwood floor.
Yes, I would have heard my ring dinging across wood, but after years of listening to Iron Maiden at decibel levels equal to that of having my head strapped to a tractor engine, I needed to check. It could be anywhere.
It wasn’t. The ring was gone.
This, I thought, was worse than telling my kids the truth about Santa Claus*, it was really me who ate the last cupcake and not a thief who also stole the kids’ Raffi collection, or admitting to my wife I was actually a mob informant in the witness relocation program and the paperboy doesn’t come anymore because I “iced” him. Throw a paper in my bushes? I don’t think so.
This is the unpardonable sin. The only thing that ever makes losing a wedding ring acceptable is if your finger goes with it in a thresher accident.
“Honey,” I said, waking my wife because problems are a lot easier to deal with if you bring them up immediately, and your wife’s really, really sleepy. “I lost my wedding ring.”
“That’s OK,” she mumbled, patting my hand. “It’ll turn up.”
She was like that the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
“You don’t need a ring to show your love,” she said in the tone Hollywood uses in movies where women hack men to death in their sleep. That was OK, I was too nervous to eat. “You’re stuck, and there’s no way out.”
I eventually found the ring. It was buried so far in the couch I also pulled out three Smurfs, two Borrowers, and a pixie.
Pixies. I knew it had to be pixies.
*NOTE TO PARENTS: This mention of a highly loved character in Western culture has nothing to do with questioning his existence. It’s all about meth.

***
Jason Offutt is an award-winning humorist who also writes stuff scary enough you’ll wet your pants. You can get Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at www.amazon.com.

The Monterey Peninsula is well known as “the golf capital of the world.” Yet even in these parts there are players who ignore many basic rules of golf etiquette. I present the following reminders for your next trip to Pebble Beach:
If someone is playing alone, etiquette requires you to invite them to join your group. Etiquette also requires you to let them hit first, to carry their bag for them, and to make their next mortgage payment.
If the players in front of you are dawdling, it is considered rude to tell them to hurry up. However, you can discreetly encourage faster play by lying down on the fairway and pretending to sleep. Another tactic I have had success with is watching television in a recliner.
It is polite to help another player find their ball. It is impolite to make jokes about how they have no balls or can’t find their own balls.
When someone yells “Fore!” be sure to walk over and thank them for the warning. Don’t get carried away—a nice Hallmark card or fruit basket will suffice.
Your preshot routine may or may not include parallel bars and a marching band, but it is boorish to carry on for longer than 15 minutes.
Always try to fix ball marks by using your ball mark repair tool. If grass blades are broken, use your grass blade repair tool as well. If you don’t have one, good manners requires you to hold the broken blades together until they are once again fused by Nature.
If hitting from a deeply furrowed trap, etiquette dictates that you furrow your eyebrows in kind. If another player is not furrowing, remind them politely, or, after they have taken their shot, produce the Polaroid that clearly shows them not furrowing. Do not be surprised if they furrow their eyebrows the remainder of the day.
If your ball is lost, you may assemble a search party composed of the town’s finest citizens, but it is considered a breach of etiquette to send them home without dinner.
Never drive your golf cart across the green. The green should be treated with reverence. You may kneel and pray, but your knees must be protected with knee pads (you can get them in the pro shop). Repair knee marks with your knee mark repair tool.
If someone is taking practice swings in your peripheral vision while you are preparing to tee off, you may fire a gentle warning shot near the left ear (though not the right, which is considered coarse). If they continue to distract you, wound them good-naturedly in the left shoulder (though not the right, which is considered coarse).
It is rude to walk across someone’s putting line on the green. If someone steps across your line, you may give the line a gentle tug to affably trip them. Remember to repair the chin mark afterward with your chin mark repair tool.
After you finish a shot from a bunker, use the rake to groom the sand back to its preshot condition. Some planters and a tasteful wall hanging will also be appreciated.
Be sure to watch the shot of every golfer in your group. It is considered courteous. To be extra courteous, follow them home and stare at them through the window.
If you lip the cup while putting, be sure to wipe up after yourself so that the next player will not catch your germs.
Proper etiquette dictates that you repair your divot and twenty others. The grounds crew will thank you for keeping them from having to work too hard.
If you lose your temper after a bad shot, you must calm yourself down, for tantrums are considered ungentlemanly. Count to ten. Go for a drive. Get out your woodworking project.
Using swear words on the golf course is uncouth in the extreme. If you will notice, players such as Tiger Woods, just to be safe, never use any words beginning with the letters “d,” “s,” or “f.”
It is crass to belch, spit, or break wind on the golf course. If you absolutely must, dash back to your car and roll the windows up. Do all three simultaneously in the interests of speedy play.
If you make a new friend on the golf course, present them with your clubs as a parting gift. I have lost many sets this way, and it is an honor and a privilege to be fitted for new ones every week.
In general, conduct yourself on the golf course as you would at your boss’s house. Keep mostly quiet, put things back where you got them, and don’t snoop in the medicine cabinet.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I’m sure that there are a lot of folks who might attest to this.
But I am sitting here in my Los Gatos studio listening to my thirty-year-old (or older) refrigerator compressor rattling on and off every five minutes (blowing its ancient dust all over my floor), yet my apartment manager doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it. He is one of those people who think it’s me, but I have told him that he needs to think about sleeping ten feet away from this thing every night.
He says I’m “noise-sensitive” and, without my knowledge, he put sticky rubber strips under all of the items on top of my refrigerator because he said that was what was making it rattle, but it still does. He and his wife announced that they just bought a new refrigerator. I’ll take their old one. I bet it’s quieter than my Hotpoint from Hell.
My neighbor is idling his motorcycle right under my unit (which makes me want to idle his unit) and as I write this, another neighbor, not even in my complex, is playing his surround-sound so loud that his place is shaking and there is a metallic plate rocking against his outside wall which is making my place vibrate like a 450-square-foot pocket rocket (not that I own one, but maybe I should). My life is surround-sound and I am beginning to sound like an old person. Hell, I am an old person and I think I’ve earned some peace and quiet.
I wonder why I haven’t strangled my neighbors, put sticky rubber over my apartment manager’s mouth, and stuck him in the refrigerator? It’s also a wonder why I haven’t already gone mad, or perhaps I have. Maybe it’s time to move to the country. I would rather listen to the wind and hear cows moo and roosters crow.
Maybe this is one of those not-so-subtle problems with modern society. We are assaulted by a constant audio attack on our nervous systems with alarm clocks (instead of roosters), garbage trucks, sirens, car alarms, motorcycles, barking dogs (they had better not live on the ranch I’m moving to), and loud music in coffee shops, restaurants, and malls (does this make us digest or spend more?) not to mention cell phones ringing everywhere and the people talking loudly on them in the restaurants and malls over the deafening din and ear-splitting acoustics.
I quit the gym because of the blasting racket of rock music and racket balls blasting against the walls (say that one real fast), and the testosterone grunts and heavy breathing accompanying the heavy metal. A guy I dated would wear headphones when he was on the treadmill at the gym. He played what he called “angry white music” so that he could get a better workout. Huh? He was from New York. That might explain it.
So is it my age? Hearing is supposed to get worse as we get older, isn’t it? Eh? My ears ring now, but I like it. It’s a gentle hum inside my own head as opposed to the onslaught of artificial cacophony (except for the barking dog up the street, which, as you know, I still think is an android, and the humans with their cellular appendages and staccato chatter, not breathing between their endless words).
When I had my place in Monterey, I dated a guy who told me that it was too quiet there and that he couldn’t sleep. Come to think of it, he was from New York too. So after a while, I agreed that he couldn’t sleep…there, with me, and I don’t date New Yorkers anymore.
Well, I’m crotchety and I’m ready for bed. I have my Ambien and my earplugs and where is that elevator music when I need it?
Third floor, lingerie. Is this where they sell the pocket rockets?

***

Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

I’ve been getting ready to go for months—years, actually. I’ve been buying odds and ends as I think of them, little three-ounce bottles, new underwear (as you don’t want customs officials to see your old underwear), a sunhat, travel clock, and all the other weird gear listed in the travel agency’s “must have” list.
I’m going to Egypt to see the pyramids, the trip of a lifetime. I thought I was all set. I put all my junk into plastic zip-lock bags and dragged my suitcase out of the attic so I did not have to look for it when it was time to pack. I was prepared—prepared, I tell you, ready to go.
So, last weekend was the last weekend before the big trip. I was adding a few last-minutes items to my collection when I realized that my suitcase looked rather large. I went to the Delta website to check allowable sizes—22 x 14 x 9 for a carry-on, it said.
I had already been through the “carry-on vs. checked luggage” debate. I favored checking. Honey favored carry-on. I finally relented. It did seem faster and more practical since we had to travel light anyhow.
I measured my red suitcase—25 inches! How could that be? I took it on the plane to California. Did it grow? Then I remembered that we had checked luggage on that trip and ended up scurrying all over the Los Angeles airport trying to find baggage claim.
I had a smaller size, 17 inches. No way could all my plastic bags fit in that. I thought of the old standby suitcase. The outside pocket is torn and it looks like the baggage handlers played volleyball with it. I began to think “new suitcase.” Honey has a shiny black Samsonite spinner. I hated to think of carrying my old torn clunker.
The gift certificate for Macy’s that I got for Christmas would come close to buying a new one if I could find one that didn’t require robbing a bank to pay for it. The last thing I wanted was to spend my mad money on a suitcase instead of miniature pyramid statues and camel rides.
I might as well tell you that I don’t like shopping malls. Malls used to be a fine thing when I was younger and could walk from one place to another. But now, malls are aggravating. They are too big. Bigger is better when it comes to some things, but not malls. Macy’s, of course, is in the mall.
I made the ultimate sacrifice and went to the mall. It was my lucky day; luggage was on sale dirt cheap. But even dirt can cost an arm and leg. I looked at everything and found a cheap black one, but it was naturally available in only king and queen size. We even bribed the salesperson to check the stockroom for something smaller.
This is what happens when you wait until the last minute to buy a suitcase. If I had been a wise owl, I would have looked for luggage months ago, not at the last minute. I had to settle for what was available. Finally, I narrowed it down to two choices that were the right size, the right price, and, most importantly, in stock. I didn’t have time to go chasing around all over the city looking for a suitcase.
The trouble was that the choices available were purple and magenta. I eventually decided to buy the purple one since the magenta one was even more ugly. What does it matter what color it is? At least I could tell my suitcase from all the other suitcases at the airport. Purple should practically glow in the dark.
And that’s the story of how I came to have a purple suitcase.
I’m actually beginning to like it. Purple grows on you after a while. I never thought I’d see the day when I would not only travel with a purple suitcase, but travel with a purple suitcase and like it.

Copyright 2010 Sheila Moss

www.humorcolumnist.com

I rotated my shoulders. I twitched my head. I stretched my neck. I yanked my collar.
What inspired these strange contortions? A New Wave exercise class? A dance contest for the upper torso? Nothing so exotic, sorry to say.
These gyrations, performed during a rush-hour freeway frolic, were provoked by a neck-gouging blouse label. Observing this jerk-and-flail marathon, fellow drivers undoubtedly assumed I was transporting a swarm of angry bees.
After forty minutes of woeful writhing, my nuisance saturation point had been reached. Wrenching my hands from the steering wheel at 70 m.p.h. (Not a Closed Course. Do Not Attempt), I yanked the offending scrap of cloth out, leaving four telltale, you-yanked-your-label-out holes. Immediately my day, no, my life, took a turn for the better.
Speaking of scrap, wouldn’t you just love to scrap all feminine frippery that causes pinching, constricting, choking, itching, and the pièce de résistance, pain?
Admit it, Ladies. We’ve been enduring these afflictions since we donned our first bra. Who decreed that decorating the female of the species must involve suffering? And how did we become subjects of this Reign of Pain?
Men wouldn’t put up with such folderol, and they look good, so why do we allow it be foisted upon us?
Irritating embellishments include pinching earrings, choking chokers, binding waistbands, cramping shoes, itchy wool, constricting wigs, scratchy stitchery, and hiking underwear. Wishful thinking aside, it’s naïve to assume that attire will become “broken in.” We’ll be broken long before it will.
This is not a pitch for any form of feminist rebellion, refusal to groom, or license to corner the market on baggy sweats and flip-flops.
Sweats generate sweat (thence the name). Flip-flops are uncomfortable under the best of circumstances, with the toe-thongy thingy rubbing a blister, as thongs do wherever they happen to be placed.
It’s a call to choose ensembles both becoming and soothing, embracing the conviction that clothing ourselves need not be grievous, harrowing, or dangerous.
I’ve compiled a list of Top Ten Adornment Sooper-Dooper Bloopers for your reading pleasure.
1. Push-Over Bras: A little uplift is, well, uplifting, but those up-and-over-the-top derrick devices masquerading as lingerie strain credulity (and the bodice).
2. Corsets: A cut above the Push-Over Bra, a corset not only hoists the bosom up, leaving spillage in its wake, but clamps everything from ribcage to hip in a vise-like grip. Perhaps Katie Scarlett O’Hara’s rancor in “Gone with the Wind” emanated not solely from unrequited love, but also her circulation-strangling corset. “You leave me breathless” should not apply to our skivvies.
3. The Tights That Bind: Leg lingerie is making a long-overdue comeback. Those out of the hosiery habit, however, may recollect the luxury of hose, while forgetting its ofttimes waist-to-toe chokehold. Binding legware runs a close second to a cramping corset for triggering “having a miserable day” potential.
4. Thongs (a.k.a. Derrière Floss): Anyone who’s worn one for more than 2.5 seconds needs no convincing.
5. B&B Wax: Not Bed & Breakfast floor polish, but bikini and Brazilian waxes. Warm (read, HOT) wax is applied (Yee-ouch!) onto terrain that, if we haven’t taken full leave of our senses, is better left demurely concealed. Will the next money-grubbing craze feature hot tar and feathers? And will we, like salmon swimming against the tide, have the strength to resist?
6. Chokers: The very name inspires visions of villainy.
7. Wigs: At first glance, a wig may appear to be a Good Hair Idea on a Bad Hair Day.
However, along with inducing heat stroke (unless, of course, worn during the Midwest’s six-month winters), and scalp itch (witness the telltale pencil-under-the-wig maneuver), what the uninitiated fail to consider is that the superfluous tresses must remain in place all day. Any attempt to remove the thatch before day end results in a fate worse than Hat Hair: Mane Mash.
8. Multitudinous Extraneous Anatomy Apertures: So few can boast that all the holes in their heads (or other regions of their topography) are blessedly God-given. Lip rings, nose bones, and other quirky piercings abound. Each pelt puncture, like surgery, leaves an imprint on the body ranging from uncomfortable to agonizing. And like diamonds, minus the beauty, scars are forever. Choose wisely.
9. Strappy Sandals: At the risk of inciting a loud cry of outrage, let me explain. If given a thumbs-up from one’s hips, back, and equilibrium, stilettos and platforms elongate the leg, requiring as they do a ladylike (now there’s a quaint word) gait. The rub arises when footwear boasts a mere one or two angel-hair straps. Foot slippage and veerage ensues, pitching the unfortunate victim into klutzy footwork that’s anything but ladylike.
10. A tie at #10 are skirts that ride up, tops that creep down, wrap dresses that unwrap, and any item of clothing passing itself off as “One Size Fits All” (all what?).
If an item of clothing doesn’t make you look forward to getting dressed in the morning, or cannot be stretched, loosened, hitched, or fixed, scrap it.

***

Deborah J. Rebolloso writes monthly humor columns for http://healyourselftalk.com/magazine (Humour) and http://alongstoryshort.homestead.com (Humor Me!). Her website is www.DebRebollosohumorme.com.

Turning chucklers to guffawers month by month.

The Pirate
A seaman meets a pirate in a bar. The pirate has a peg-leg, a hook, and an eye patch. “How’d you end up with a peg-leg?” asks the sailor.
“I was swept overboard in a storm,” says the pirate. “A shark bit off me whole leg.”
“Wow!” said the seaman. “What about the hook?”
“We were boarding an enemy ship, battling the other sailors with swords. One of them cut me.”
“Incredible!” remarked the seaman. “And the eye patch?”
“A seagull dropping fell in me eye,” replied the pirate.
“You lost your eye to a seagull dropping?” the sailor asked incredulously.
Said the pirate, “It was the first day with the hook.”

Duck Hunting in Texas
A big-city California lawyer went duck hunting in rural Texas. He shot and dropped a duck, but it fell into a farmer’s field on the other side of a fence from where the lawyer was.
As the lawyer started to climb over the fence, an elderly farmer drove up on his tractor and asked him just what the heck he thought he was doing.
The lawyer responded, “I shot a duck and it fell into this field, and now I’m going to retrieve it.”
The old farmer replied, “You just hold on a dadburn minute. This is my property, and thar’s no way yur comin’ over that thar fence.”
The indignant lawyer said, “I am one of the best trial attorneys in the U.S., and if you don’t let me get that duck, I’ll sue you and take everything you own!
The old farmer smiled and said, “Apparently, you don’t know how we do things down here in Texas. We settle small disagreements like this with the ‘Texas Three-Kick’ rule.”
The lawyer asked, “What’s the ‘Texas Three-Kick Rule’?”
The farmer replied, “Well, first I kick you three times, and then you kick me three times, and so on, back and forth, ‘till someone gives.”
The attorney thought about the proposed contest and decided that he could easily take the old codger. He agreed to abide by the local custom.
The old farmer slowly climbed down from the tractor, climbed the fence, and ambled up to the city feller. His first kick planted the toe of his heavy work boot into the lawyer’s shins, causing him to hop on one foot. His second kick knocked the man right off his feet. With the lawyer flat on his back, the farmer’s third kick caused him to see stars.
The lawyer summoned every bit of his will, managed to get to his feet, and said, “Okay, you old coot! Now it’s my turn!”
The old farmer smiled and said, “No way, mister, I give up. You can have the duck!”
English Lesson
“An abstract noun,” the teacher said, “is something you can think of, but can’t touch. Can you give me an example of one?”
“Sure,” a teenage boy replied. “My father’s new car.”
The Physical
The man looked a little worried when the doctor came in to administer his annual physical, so the first thing the doctor did was to ask whether anything was troubling him.
“Well, to tell the truth, Doc, yes,” answered the patient. “You see, I seem to be getting forgetful. I can never remember where I park my car, where I’m going, or what it is I’m going to do once I get there—if I do get there. So I really need your help. What can I do?”
The doctor mused for a moment, then answered, “Pay me in advance.”

Did you hear the one about—aw, never mind. I can’t remember a joke. Two minutes after someone tells me a joke, it’s gone. Every time I venture out thinking I’ve got this one nailed, I screw it up. My friend Bill in NY once told me a joke that was so funny I almost peed myself laughing. Several of us were swapping jokes at lunch the other day and I ventured out, started telling this gut-buster from Bill, and sure enough I lost it. Being a resourceful kinda guy, I called Bill and had him repeat it then and there. Everyone thought my calling Bill was funnier than the joke.

Keep ’em laughing, it makes it hard to shoot straight.

Happy New Year!

Don’t forget the advertisers!

Thanks to all who came out for our first-ever Foolish Times humor reading on December 11. A great time was had by All. A lot of other people, too, judging from the feedback we’ve received. Clint Eastwood, Doris Day, and John Cleese were among the many celebrities who did not attend. Keep an eye out for our next one, to be scheduled for sometime in early 2010. We’ll let you know once we find out if Café 316 will let us come back due to the police incident involving the fire juggler, etc. (long story). Meanwhile, have fun reading the first issue of the new year, and enjoy your dried prunes, or plums, or whatever they are. We wouldn’t touch one, personally.

Across the top of my refrigerator, tiny ski tracks zigzagged down slopes of dust. Whoa, Nellie! As a renowned wildlife expert, I quickly deduced this was not the usual hippo infestation we endure each winter in the Midwest. While migrating around the Great Lakes, these Velveeta-loving giants wiggle through crevices and into our homes. This is quite rough on vinyl siding. Worse, when dinner is repeatedly ruined by hippos cavorting in the attic, many of us fall off the wagon and resume bowling.

To my trained eye, the tracks came from a non-hippoic species, namely, rodents. The kind who dug winter sports. Espousing nonviolence, I rigged up toy mice in the following scenarios to scare the real beasties from the house.

Predator—next to “Reptile Crossing” sign, a Mickey doll hung skewered on the fangs of a stuffed rattlesnake.

Drowning—chipmunks Simon, Theodore, and Alvin lay at the bottom of the fish tank, wearing cement boots and scanty Speedos.

Electrocution—Minnie, dressed in sequined orange jumpsuit from my Prison Barbie collection, strapped in miniature chair. Hershey’s Kiss “helmet” wired to car battery.

Suicide—generic toy mouse hung from the candy jar, leaving a maudlin note written on a Reese’s Cup wrapper.

But my efforts came to naught. The rodential rascals ignored the death scenes and kept skiing. They also built a lodge, two chairlifts, and yodeled through the night. So I caved in and set traps baited with cheap peanut butter. The next morning, I found the traps sprung but empty. My keen eye searched for a trail and…hey, where’d all the chocolate jimmies come from?!?

The trail led straight to my gingerbread house. I know, Christmas is over. But the house was a multi-holiday centerpiece, and added elegance to the mantel of my cardboard fireplace. The house’s front view was decorated for Christmas, with candy cane archways and gumdrop snowmen; on the Easter side, marshmallow chicks lounged on a jelly bean deck. The Halloween view had candy corn coffins filled with gummy worms. And the fourth? Valentine’s Day. Yes, built of cinnamon hearts and condoms.

Well, the mice had trashed the house, and I mourned over beheaded chicks, missing condoms, and snowmen doing unspeakable things with candy corn. Such wanton debauchery shocked me speechless. At last, I found my voice and whimpered, “They partied WITHOUT me?!?”

The war was on. I switched to glue pads, baited with pastel mini-marshmallows. Well, the beasties again took the bait and somehow escaped the glue! But, my dear Watson, on each trap they left behind a strip of belly fur and a pile of…are those…PASTEL jimmies!?!?

As humanoids, we have a duty to cull the weak and stupid from any species that annoys us. However, the clever trap evasions indicated intelligent beings—sore bellies and pastel poop notwithstanding. Well, tough bananas, muchachos! The little Einsteins still had to go.

Then, eureka! I discovered the old-fashioned boot trick. How it works: Cats stare at hall closet. Shoo cats away. Pull on boots. Stomp foot for better fit. Remove foot, smooth out sock wrinkles. Jam foot into boot. Repeat. Curse ill-fitting boot. Stomp harder. Pause. Think. Withdraw foot, tip boot, and shake. Scream at soaring, bug-eyed mouse. Run for weapons! Renew oath to nonviolence. Put down chainsaw. Grab plastic yogurt container—almost empty. Chase away dimwitted cats. Slam container over mouse. Miss and curse. Repeat. Again. Once more. When caught, slide hand—No!! Are you crazy?? Slide LID underneath. Fling mouse into driveway. Bargain with God to keep it (a) outside; and (b) celibate. Mop up yogurt throughout house.

Clearly, the issue needs further study, and I’ve received a federal grant to monitor rodent patterns. Experimenting with various tracking methods, I’ve discovered useful data: (1) Leg-banding herds of mice will cause carpal tunnel syndrome; (2) The tiny branding irons get (owie owie) HOT!! and (3) When macraméing the radio collars, use unwaxed dental floss. Mint.

Copyright©2010 by Mary Tompsett

* * *

Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

Adam and Eve said, “Lord, when we were in the garden, you walked with us every day. Now we do not see you any more. We are lonesome here, and it is difficult for us to remember how much you love us.”

And God said, “I will create a companion for you that will be with you and who will be a reflection of my love for you, so that you will love me even when you cannot see me. Regardless of how selfish or childish or unlovable you may be, this new companion will accept you as you are and will love you as I do, in spite of yourselves.”

And God created a new animal to be a companion for Adam and Eve. And it was a good animal, and God was pleased.

And the new animal was pleased to be with Adam and Eve and he wagged his tail.

And Adam said, “Lord, I have already named all the animals in the Kingdom and I cannot think of a name for this new animal.”

And God said, “I have created this new animal to be a reflection of my love for you. His name will be a reflection of my own name, and you will call him DOG.”

And Dog lived with Adam and Eve and was a companion to them and loved them.

And they were comforted.

And God was pleased.

And Dog was content and wagged his tail.

After a while, it came to pass that an angel came to the Lord and said, “Lord, Adam and Eve have become filled with pride. They strut and preen like peacocks and they believe they are worthy of adoration. Dog has indeed taught them that they are loved, but perhaps too well.”

And God said, “I will create for them a companion who will be with them and who will see them as they are. The companion will remind them of their limitations, so they will know that they are not always worthy of adoration.”

And God created CAT to be a companion to Adam and Eve.

And Cat would not obey them. And when Adam and Eve gazed into Cat’s eyes, they were reminded that they were not the supreme beings.

And Adam and Eve learned humility.

And they were greatly improved.

And God was pleased . . .

And Dog was happy. . .

And Cat didn’t give a damn one way or the other. . .

I was visiting a co-worker at her home, and I was leery of her five-year-old boy, a blonde little boy, because I knew he had a reputation for being difficult. I’d even heard him scream in the past, though from a distance.

I was talking with my host. The kid came up and demanded that his step-dad stop talking to me and do something for him, find one of his toys. The step-dad evidently didn’t move quick enough.

The blonde cherub made an evil scowl like Damien in one of those devil movies. He sucked in air. His fat little face exploded in a scream, an unearthly, piercing, horrendous yell.

It loses a lot on the printed page, but the scream sounded something like, “Urrrrrrghemorppfhhhhhhllllact!” Then, for effect, the little blonde boy wound up like a steam engine, huffed, puffed, and shrieked a series of banshee wails.

His mother came running from the kitchen, begging the child not to misbehave. “That’s not nice, Joey,” she said nervously. “Look at what a spectacle you’re making of yourself. Didn’t you promise you’d be nice to company? Do you want to see your mother sad?”

The kid hollered louder. The windows rattled.

I knew the child was fond of model airplanes, because the toys were scattered in nooks about the living room. I rose from the sofa, reached for one of the diminutive aircraft, and knelt down next to the youngster, intending to quiet him with my charm.

I leaned close to the boy.

“I had a great uncle who flew one of these in the First World War,” I said, smiling. “Let me tell you about the time I ……….”

The kid clenched a fist, reached back, and hit me right in the mouth.

“That isn’t nice, Joey.” The step-dad smiled, chuckled, as though half-teasing, like it was all just good-natured fun. “For that, no bedtime Nintendo.”

“Spirited boy,” I said, rising, rubbing my lip.

In that moment, I envisioned going for a field goal with the little bastard. I pictured his chubby little blonde body, curled up, turning end over end, as it soared between the uprights, 60 yards away.

It’s not nice to think such thoughts. I felt bad thinking them. Nevertheless, I also felt my lip throb.

Before I left, I decided to accidentally step on one of the kid’s models.

I don’t want to be anywhere in the same state when that punk turns into a teenager.

Copyright 2010 Sammonsays.com

The Blonde

A blonde walks into a bank in New York City and asks for the loan officer. She says she’s going to Europe on business for two weeks and needs to borrow $5,000. The bank officer says the bank will need some kind of security for the loan, so the blonde hands over the keys to a new Rolls Royce.

The car is parked on the street in front of the bank; she has the title, and everything checks out. The bank agrees to accept the car as collateral for the loan.

The bank’s president and its officers all enjoy a good laugh at the blonde for using a $250,000 Rolls as collateral against a $5,000 loan. An employee of the bank then drives the Rolls into the bank’s underground garage and parks it there.

Two weeks later, the blonde returns and repays the $5,000 and the interest, which comes to $15.41. The loan officer says, “Miss, we are very happy to have had your business, and this transaction has worked out very nicely; but we are a little puzzled. We checked you out and found that you are a multimillionaire. What puzzles us is—why would you bother to borrow $5,000?”

The blonde replies: “Where else in New York City can I park my car for two weeks for only $15.41 and expect it to be there when I return?”

All About Frank

A man walks out to the street and catches a taxi just going by. He gets into the taxi, and the cabbie says, “Perfect timing. You’re just like Frank.”

Passenger: “Who?”

Cabbie: “Frank Feldman. He’s a guy who did everything right all the time. Like my coming along when you needed a cab, things happened like that to Frank Feldman every single time.”

Passenger: “There are always a few clouds over everybody.”

Cabbie: “Not Frank Feldman. He was a terrific athlete. He could have won the Grand Slam at tennis. He could golf with the pros. He sang like an opera baritone and danced like a Broadway star and you should have heard him play the piano. He was an amazing guy.”

Passenger: “Sounds like he was something really special.”

Cabbie: “There’s more… He had a memory like a computer. He remembered everybody’s birthday. He knew all about wine, which foods to order and which fork to eat them with. He could fix anything. Not like me. I change a fuse, and the whole street blacks out. But Frank Feldman, he could do everything right.”

Passenger: “Wow, some guy, then.”

Cabbie: “He always knew the quickest way to go in traffic and avoid traffic jams. Not like me, I always seem to get stuck in them. But Frank, he never made a mistake, and he really knew how to treat a woman and make her feel good. He would never answer her back even if she was in the wrong; and his clothing was always immaculate, shoes highly polished too. He was the perfect man! He never made a mistake. No one could ever measure up to Frank Feldman.”

Passenger: “An amazing fellow. How did you meet him?”

Cabbie: “Well, I never actually met Frank, he died. I married his widow.”

The Painter

There was a painter by the name of Jacques, who was very interested in making a penny where he could, so he often would thin his paint to make it go further.

As it happened, he got away with this for some time, but eventually the Church decided to do a big restoration job that involved the painting of one of its biggest churches. Jacques put in a bid, and because his price was so low, he got the job.

He went about erecting the trestles and setting up the planks, and buying the paint and, yes, thinning it down with the turpentine. Jacques was up on the scaffolding, painting away with the job nearly completed, when suddenly there was a horrendous clap of thunder, and the sky opened.

The torrential rain washed the thinned paint off the church and knocked Jacques off the scaffold and onto the lawn, among the gravestones, surrounded by tell-tale puddles of the thinned and useless paint.

Jacques was no fool. He knew this was a judgment from the Almighty, so he got on his knees and cried: “Oh, God! Forgive me! What should I do?”

And from the thunder, a mighty voice spoke:

“Repaint! Repaint! And thin no more!”

It’s January. Once again, time to prepare for that blessed event known as the Super Bowl. I can remember when we watched the Super Bowl in January, not prepped for it. I guess now the powers that be need those extra two weeks to line up the inexpensive commercials and understated halftime shows.

Actually, I can remember the first Super Bowl, along with the Ice Bowl on the Frozen Tundra of Lambeau Field that led up to it. I can still see Bart Starr’s quarterback sneak, and I can remember Dandy Don Meredith uttering that he was going to “eat that dat-gumbed ball.” (Spell check, please.)

Heck, I can remember when there was no Super Bowl, and the AFL was a new institution and a league all its own. I remember the men for whom the Lamar Hunt, George Halas, and Vince Lombardi trophies are named. In my experience, I don’t know that winning is the only thing, but losing is a lousy substitute; Lombardi knew what he was talking about. Gotta love those Fordham Blocks of Granite.

I remember rumor had it that Bud Grant refused to let his Vikings wear long underwear in Minnesota…before the days of the dreaded dome…ah, when men were men. Fran Tarkenton and tighty-whities notwithstanding, they still lost the Super Bowl four times.

And I remember that the Packers didn’t.

OK; it’s established: I’m an old fan of the pigskin and gridiron. True to my womanhood, I shun “old” in favor of “seasoned.”

As a child of the sixties in Wisconsin, it was mandatory to learn your football basics regardless of gender. I have two brothers, but I recall it was my sister who explained the concept of a first down to me when I was six. She’s nine years my senior, and thereby had a head start on the indoctrination.

Perhaps more frightening than her being my dialect coach, I recall Football-ese making perfect sense to me. I mean, I could have asked why one didn’t get four “ups” versus “downs,” but the question just never entered my mind. Clearly I was born to embrace this game.

Aside from learning the rules, one had to learn proper telecast etiquette. My father was a fairly civilized fan; his major outburst usually came after a fumble or an interception, and consisted of, “Aw, Packers; you fell on your head.” I repeat this at least once per game to honor his memory and strengthen my football core.

My mother was the antithesis of civilized; must have been the Irish and French boiling over when confronted with a sea of green or something. She didn’t break furniture, and always ranted with a Betty Boop-esque flair, but she was hardly demure. Time has failed miserably on the mellowing front; her dismay is as demonstrative as ever. She must be my inspiration: I, too, have yet to break a chair over a failed 3rd-and-long, but it’s probably just a matter of time.

My fancy for football was fed by regular Sunday exposure to the Packers, Bears, Vikings, Lions, and Chiefs. Who could forget Hank Stram at Arrowhead, the GQ Cover Boy of the sidelines, sporting jacket, vest, and tie? It sometimes made me wonder if this was a football field or the Four Seasons, but I must admit Coach Belichick might consider taking a page from Hank’s haute couture playbook.

In addition to the conference games, we were always graced with a double header, and I soon learned the major players on the West Coast: John Hadl, Daryl Lamonica, John Brode, and my hurler of all hurlers, Roman Gabriel. Yes, I did own—and even read—that immortal work, “Great Quarterbacks of the NFL.”

That book listed several, but there was no man for me but Gabriel: tall and lean, No. 18. The smile, that hair…forgive me, Dick Enberg, but “OH MY,” what a crush I had on Roman. John Wayne made a lot of movies with a lot of co-stars, but only “The Undefeated” did I watch ad infinitum.

In fifth grade, I brainwashed some girlfriends into co-conspiracy, and we formed our own little Rams club—each with a fave player: Jack Snow, Lance Rentzel, and…the gray cells abandon me on the last one. Maybe it was Rosie Grier or some other member of the Fearsome Foursome. Probably one that didn’t needlepoint. I know it’s sexist, but we were ten—only four years into our training. Needlepoint probably did for face-masking what ballet did for foot speed and cutting; we just hadn’t learned that yet.

Back to the double-header afternoons.

Without any concern for what it would do to my hair, I even begged for a Rams helmet for my 11th Christmas, and thanks to my mother (who always did the shopping), I actually got one. There I sat the whole next season for each double-header: helmet in place, trying to watch the game and see through the face mask to do my math homework. Forget that he graduated Berkeley; it was at this point that I decided Joe Kapp’s true genius was in donning that single bar.

Let the record show that mine was a bona fide blue-and-white Rams helmet—none of this blue-and-gold business of the New NFL. And these Rams were in Los Angeles, not St. Louis—which will always be the home of the Cardinals to any real fan. (OK, OK…the real fans know the Cardinals actually began in Racine, with sandlot roots as the “Normals” on Chicago’s south side, but let’s not quibble. Bottom line: St. Louis would never have adopted the Rams if some loose cannon hadn’t flown the Cards to Arizona in the middle of the night and upset everything.)

Watch yourselves, you reformist zealots; we purists have you in our sights. I don’t care if the actual city of Atlanta is nowhere near the West coast; the Falcons started in the NFC West, and they should have stayed there. Logic is overrated. I need a geographically correct football conference like my pre-teen daughter needs an anatomically correct Ken Doll.

My love of the game went beyond my grammar school years, and came with me to every high-school contest I attended. Thursday nights, under the lights…it was a beautiful sight. I recall commenting that one kickoff had taken a Wilson High bounce, and overhearing a guy behind me saying, “Holy cow…she really knows her…stuff.” Such incredulity offends me; he probably couldn’t even define the strong side.

In college I chose the season football tickets over the hockey ones every year. Funny that I later worked for a hockey franchise after graduation; maybe if I’d have taken the hockey tickets, I’d have ended up in the NFL’s league office and would still be in New York.

I digress.

The Badgers were somewhat in the cellar my undergraduate years, but the opponents always played decent ball. Besides, it was the overall spectacle that mattered when it came to Big 10 college football. There was a purpose to every aspect of the Badger home game experience:

*The Surefire Hangover Remedy: the Bucky Wagon screeching past your dorm room Saturday morning blaring “On Wisconsin”

*The Surefire Cure for Fear of Heights: getting body-passed among the less-than-lucid crowd, hoping they dropped you to the bleachers before you went over the top of the stadium; injury was preferable to death

*The Ultimate Passing Drill: cup fights between sections O and P (full cups, of course…soda, ice, and anything distilled)

*The Ultimate Footwork Drill: staying ON the bleachers while dancing the polka to “Bud” in the 5th quarter, led by the most entertaining college band ever to grace the hash marks

The Rose Bowl was but a distant dream of Badger fans in those years, but later on, our loyalty was rewarded—times 3! Same can be said for tried-and-true of the Gold and Green. What a joy it was to watch The Pack be back and win another Super Bowl. Again, I threw hair caution to the wind and sported my cheese hat for both contests—a plate of curds beside me for good luck.

I won’t elaborate on the next Super Bowl the Pack lost, except to say that one should NEVER abandon one’s running game; all pass and no run makes your QB a blitz magnet. Even John Elway earned the Super Bowl Loss Hat Trick sans a Terrell Davis behind him. The quick draw, the option, the Sacred Packer Sweep…all of these are the stuff of which history is made.

Just ask my friend Claire. This is a woman with whom a Monday morning phone conversation would naturally turn to a critique of Sunday’s games. I recall her going over a Jets/Giants game… “I could have cared less that Brett the Jet didn’t win; Eli (that’s Manning to you neophytes) was working the field so well, I couldn’t help but cheer for him.”

What woman says this but me?? Andrea Kremer? Pam Oliver? My big sister? I had found another kindred football spirit among the females.

It must be in the roots. Though we met in New Jersey, I instantly knew Claire was midwestern when she kept mentioning football and used the word “supper.” Non-midwesterners might recognize “supper” to be a noun, but it doesn’t mean an evening meal; it means “one who sups.” And to the non-football fanatic, “working the field” is something akin to bringing in the sheaves.

This will be my umpteenth Super Bowl, and as I write, I don’t even know who’ll be in it. No matter; I’ll soak it up with all its splendor as I have every year since I was six. Between the football and the ads, it’s a win-win for me: I was a marketing major.

My daughter is likely to be watching it with me, though she’s still learning her basics and honing her love of the game. She is already, though, exhibiting Feminine Football Fanaticism in its purest form: like Claire and her mom who loved the ‘60’s Rams because of their helmets, my daughter is partial to the Jets because their jerseys are just the right shade of green.

That’s my girl.

* * *

Denise Aisling is an independent bond trader who enjoyed ice skating and golf until stricken with Forty-itis. Now she’s working on sainthood as a church choir member and grammar-school volunteer, but her application is still pending. You can contact her at denise.aisling@gmail.com.

Finally, my addiction to the “National Enquirer” has paid off! Because of my avid readership, I won a trivia contest during a seminar on Social Media by answering the following question: “What movie studio did Barry Diller head up in the 80’s?” “Paramount,” I said, my hand held high. “Correct,” hollered the seminar leader and handed me a small paper box, inside of which was something that looked like a weird little toy, or perhaps a large eraser. Turns out, it was a Poken.

What is a Poken, you ask? A “Poken” is a funny-looking 2GB memory gadget with a built-in radio frequency identity device (RFID). When two Pokens are pressed together they light up, indicating that an exchange of information has taken place. The “information” that is transferred has already been set up by the Poken owner on the

Poken website. The Poken is equipped with a USB connector so that when you return home from a party, you can just download all your Poken friends to your computer.

Poken was invented by a Swiss business school grad who was tired of having to keep track of all the business cards he would acquire at various meetings, so he developed a device “where we could customize our identity, choose our networks, and decide what and how much we wanted to share…” At that point in the text, my silly old-fashioned, un-cool self kicked in. Can’t you just share your information in person? Why do you need these funny-looking intermediaries? Leave it to a young male engineer to take the “personal” out of personal interactions.

From the Poken website, I read, “…we want you to spark conversations, and keep them going, in all kinds of ways and in your own personal style. we want you to express yourselves and who you are. we all accessorize our clothes, cars, phones, and even our pets; why not our information?” (please note: most of the text on the website is written in this hip lowercase kind of way.)

Accessorize my information? Customize my identity? Am I the only one who thinks this is funny and/or slightly mad? And, what if you lose your Poken, especially after you’ve acquired customized information from numbers of people? I don’t know about you, but I don’t need one more little physical object to keep track of. And what if Poken is stolen? In a culture where information is king, you just know that roving bands of Poken thieves will soon emerge to lie in wait and pinch your Poken. Then, you’ve compromised not only your precious information, but that of others as well.

Don’t you just want to grab these young engineers by the lapels and shout, “Consequences, my son, these things have consequences!” Anyone with an RFID scanner within twenty feet of you has access to ALL of the info on your Poken. We’re getting into Big Brother thriller territory here, I’m afraid.

To me, the sad part about all of this new “social media” technology is that we have at once too much information at our fingertips and not enough in our hearts. Oh, sure, you might learn the bits and bytes of a potential friend or mate from his Poken, but you’ll never access the heart and soul of him unless the two of you spend considerable in-the-flesh time. How else will you know how his skin feels next to yours, or what kind of aftershave he uses, or how his crooked smile charms you to your core? What used to be the rich fun of walking, talking, and laughing in person has been transmogrified into the faux-intimacy of tweeting, poking, facebooking.

I have to tell you that if I meet you at a party and you ask me if I want to Poken, don’t be surprised if I give you a hug instead.

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

[Editor’s note: Kiri Kiri the Limerick Deary absolutely swears that these are her last baseball limericks until at least April (or maybe March...)]

Baseball season has reached its sad end,

and I’d vowed no more limericks to send—

But the Blue blew their chance

for a World Series dance,

and were doomed from the start, I contend.

Village Sky must be terribly flustered

that her Dodgers could not cut the mustard.

Her team dashed her hope

I don’t know how she’ll cope

When the 2010 Giants dust her.

SF Giants have blown chances, too,

when they lost that last game in ’02.

But they’re well on the mend

and I gladly commend

all the Giants fans dogging the Blue.

Let’s go, Giants! We will OWN 2010!

Thanks for tolerating my baseball zeal through the season—and thanks to Gene Gene, Village Sky, and Birdman. (OK, well, maybe not quite as much thanks to Village Sky—but despite her poor choice of team, she IS, I must say, a TRUE FAN.)

There are three things that I’ve long wanted to do in my life, but which seemed unlikely I’d ever achieve: To be a stand-up comedian, to be a radio baseball commentator, and to be able to dance well enough that I could do it in public without embarrassing myself.

I’ve attended many concerts and weddings and various other celebrations where lots of people danced—but I wasn’t among those people.

In high school, I was the consummate wallflower. I’d sit in the bleachers and watch other, cooler students do their adept dance-floor moves. I envied them, these teenagers who had rhythm and self-confidence, who could lose themselves in the music while maintaining an artful and poised comportment. I was “artful” off the dance floor, but I was never poised anywhere, except firmly in the bleachers.

However, I do have a history of dancing during “not-ready-for-prime-time” hours. My mother says she’s observed me dancing in the bathtub in the middle of the night—a behavior she attributed to my propensity for sleepwalking. I’ve always had an active dream life, so I suppose that sleep-dancing in the tub was a subconscious attempt to manifest my dance dreams.

As a wannabe-dancer-but-much-too-inhibited adult, I developed a habit of dancing and singing in the privacy of my bedroom. I do the singing part very loudly and out of tune, and I do the dancing part with wild abandon and arms flailing. This practice has sometimes frightened the chance spectator who happens into my room.

When I’m surprised by an unsuspecting observer, I feel instantly embarrassed. I immediately cease my song-and-dance routine for the sake of its victim—but in my heart I feel a sadness and regret for the loss of a ritual that is self-integrating and oddly spiritual.

I’ve often watched wistfully from the sidelines as people happily join hands to do the Hora or the Hokey Pokey. Put my left arm in, then my left arm out? That’s a terrifying thought! Knowing me, if I even managed to get my left arm “in,” it would fly so far out in its opposing motion that I’d never again reunite it with the rest of my body parts—much less be able to “shake it all about.”

As far as the “turn yourself around” part, I could probably manage that. But I’d likely turn too many times, get dizzy, and wind up falling flat on my rear end.

So as I sat on the sidelines watching my Tongan relatives dance in public with wild abandon during my Tongan cousin’s wedding reception, it seemed judicious that I seek an inconspicuous corner where I could flail my limbs around from a horizontal position, since I’m clearly more coordinated when I’m lying down.

Just as I was contemplating potential inconspicuous corner opportunities, I glanced across the table at my father, who also doesn’t dance in public. I doubt he has ever danced privately in his bedroom. But he seemed a bit wistful as he watched his Tongan kin celebrate. “He’s old,” I thought. “He may never make it to another wedding. Get brave and go for it,” I told myself. “It really could be now or never for him.”

So I grabbed Dad by the hand and tried to pull him onto the dance floor. He wouldn’t budge. “Better late than never, Dad,” I said, like he had said to me many times in my youth.

“Better never than late,” he replied. I let go of his hand in defeat, his bottom still planted firmly on his chair.

As I looked back at our table, I noticed my mother’s eyes welling with tears. I suspected that Ma’s tears were in empathy for the dance proposition my father had just rejected. I knew that during their forty-eight years of marriage, my mother had also had plenty of dance propositions rejected by my father. I suspect that my mom is a middle-of-the-night bathtub dancer like me. She craves a dance fix, but she’s given up hope that her need for a partner will ever be satisfied by Dad. I realized that was why she was getting moist around the eyes. It was clear that we’d both have to get our dance fixes elsewhere.

“Please, Ma, could I have this next dance?” I asked, extending my hand to her.

“Enchantee,” she said as she stood and curtsied.

We joined our much less inhibited, joyful Tongan in-laws, who welcomed us literally with wide-open and non-flailing arms that embraced us as we embraced the dance floor.

We did dances we’d never heard of, Ma and me. We danced the hiki-tiki, the maka-laka, the mumbo-jumbo, the hula and the Little Black Sambo. We did line dances and the Macarena and yes, the Hokey Pokey. I got my left arm in without incident, though it hit my mom in the face on its way out—but I didn’t worry over it, as the large Tongan man to my right had the same mishap, and gave me a bloody nose. He just laughed, handed me a Kleenex, and told me to hold it to my nose for five minutes. He never stopped dancing. I followed his example, and there was something exhilarating to me about dancing with a tissue tucked up my nostrils.

Ma and I wrapped up the wedding celebration by leading the crowd in the Hora, which, being newly liberated Jews, made us feel very giddy and proud. Dad stood up and clapped to the music with some semblance of rhythm, and applauded wildly with the Tongan in-laws afterward, as Ma and I took a bow.

For Dad, that’s as much of a dance as he’s ever likely to do. As for Ma and me, we’re not going to be wallflowers anymore. I won’t be seeking inconspicuous corners for horizontal solos. We won’t be passing up another opportunity to move our bodies akimbo with the rest of the happily dancing, more coordinated people.

But if you should happen to encounter Ma and me at an event involving dancing, it might be prudent to keep an eye out for flailing arms.

And guard your nose.

And bring Kleenex.