Meating People

I’m not sure if it’s that my refrigerator has gotten smaller or my gut has gotten bigger, but it seems that I must venture out among the living a lot more often these days than I prefer.  I never had to sneak out of my cage when I was a young primate, primarily because my parents kept my kibble dish topped off, and our CB radio tuned to the titillating teachings of truck drivers at the local Motel 6.  Now my wife cruelly leaves me alone without nary a paw-massage or flea picking for almost 8 hours every day; so what choice does a rabid werewolf have other than to eat strange meat and meet strange people, but usually NOT at the same time. 

I instinctively know that it is hypocritical for me to be irritated that others are out getting in the way of MY world when I try to go to a food market in the afternoon or during ‘off-hours’. Can I help it if I wonder why  these people aren’t at home doing something productive like watching TV, thinking about ironing, or better yet DYING OFF? At Wally Mart, can’t a simple Scrooge try to anonymously purchase a lot of guns and a little butter  after midnight without 20 carts commandeered by the slow, wrinkled, and soon to be so, multiplying and converging around his space like ‘chips’ from a Buffalo?

Hey I get it, times are tough and a few more folks are out of work. Anyway people are living longer now so they need to STRETCH, but can’t they find anyplace better than where I’m at – like let’s say, a GYM! I am not really a sourpuss by nature and would tolerate meeting new people more if they would simply get on with their business efficiently, shuffle out of my way without leaving any discernible trail, and could only raise their voice while completely contained within a vacuum. 

Of course there is another alternative which might provide just the right incentive and social conditioning I need to become more tolerant of my fellow man. What if society simply agrees to individually wrap and license everyone when away from home,  so they look and smell exactly like bacon? Finally,  just the positive motivator I need to MEAT n’ greet my greasy brethren between the Beano and Halloween candy clearance aisles, without having to explain away my damp n’ deathless drooling.

To Sew me is to love me

I do not know much about sewing. Actually it is not my fault since my own mother never bothered even teaching me to sew on a button or hem a pair of pants. The truth be told, even after my Dad got her a sewing machine in the 1970’s, she never took much to becoming a seamstress herself much less teach anyone. Fortunately my wife can stick a seam together these days if I can ever corner her long enough to thread the machine

I will have to admit, for somebody who NEVER liked sewing my Mother gave it her best though. I remember her buying a then ‘oh so fashionable’, simple long skirt, as well as a wide tie pattern. She would make those same two articles of clothing over and over again in hopes of sparking a love of thread. My Dad had all kinds of weird ties with monkeys and other odd Disco patterns and colors but nary a shirt with all its buttons with which to wear them.

I was in the marching band at school and with our new uniforms it was required that we had to tailor our slacks. By then, even I understood that this was an untenable requirement for my family. I certainly did not know my thumb from a thimble, and my Mother had all but put the sewing machine on mothballs. Happily however, I was amazed the next morning to find my pants perfectly hemmed to the proper length. Turns out she had used iron-on hem tape and it had worked just fine. What my family lacks in traditional homemaking skills, we make up for with technology.

Now since those early days, we’ve blessed my Mother with a hand sewing machine, a button puncher, a glue gun - anything you can think of to try and help her stick cloth together. It is of no use, I am sure all of those sewing artifacts will be part of my considerable inheritance someday. Yes those fancy gizmos all remain boxed and unused year after year - or at least I am pretty sure they are not being used? Why else would my Dad still have so few buttons on his shirts – the 70’s Disco era has long since passed!