A Clever Sheep, Jr.

The Easter grass is always greener when it's edible

You walked away for just a minute—maybe to brush the gooey jellybean innards from your teeth, or to get an aspirin to try to ward off that nasty sugar-crash headache you know is coming—and when you walk back into the kitchen or living room, there's Fifi or Fido happily munching on the scattered contents of an overturned Easter basket full of candy...

Those of you who have dogs and who buy Easter baskets of candy for kids (or spouses who want to re-live their childhoods by pretending they're kids on Easter morning) know the horrible feeling this scene engenders.

Once you've ascertained that the foolish mutt didn't just sentence himself to a fatal chocolate rush, your next worry is that silly green plastic Easter grass which lines the bottom of the basket. If she's lucky, the plastic strings will just pass through the intestines and make for some colorful poop the next day. If she's not lucky, the strands can get tangled up in her digestive tract, snagging on any of the many surface features the same way it grabs onto sweaters and carpets. In particularly bad cases, it can cause a blockage like hair in a drainpipe or it can actually strangle and twist the intestines, restricting blood flow to the tissues. Nasty!

But what's an Easter basket without the artificial grass? you ask. Truly, there is nothing that quite commemorates this Spring holiday like neon green simulated grass, but we're willing to forgo that pleasure for the sake and health of our animal companions. Some web sites advocate using real sprouted wheatberry grass as an alternative, but, I'm not so sure I'd like digging in the soil to find the last, reluctant jellybean. So what to do?

I have found the solution: Edible Easter grass! Cheap, soil free, non-toxic, non-polluting and non-hazardous to pets, this rice and/or potato-starch based material is the perfect solution to a problem you probably never thought about before, and which you will likely never remember in time for next Easter. (This article was supposed to come out before Easter, but, as usual, my timing is impeccably poor.) You might still be able to find some in post-holiday sales at Target stores, which is where I found it (although I didn't see it in their online store.) Or else you can order it through Candy Warehouse  Oriental Trading Company online or in their always-fascinating catalogs of jumbo bags of cheaply-made too-cute Asian junk.

Now I'm waiting to see if they can come up with edible tinsel in time for Christmas.

Technorati Tags: candy, dogs, easter, grass, pets, veterinary

Garbage

Every Tuesday morning at 6am I’m reminded what a lousy homeowner I am. I hear the garbage truck rumbling down the street and I rush to throw on some clothes to gather up the garbage and put it on the curb. We’re the first stop on the garbage route – not our house, but the house two doors down, just past the intersection. So, when I hear the truck I’ve actually got some time to make my run.

The garbage-men get out of the cab where the three of them have been sitting in the nice warm environment and the two outside men slowly jump down to the ground, put on their reflective orange vests, chat about whatever they were chatting about in the cab, then start grabbing garbage bags from the curb and throwing them in the empty truck. I wonder if the driver feels lonely, since the two guys grabbing bags are constantly in conversation.

The regular guys are two young black guys, one of them with dreads and the other pretty close-hewn hair. No matter what time of year, it seems they always have steam coming out of their mouths. The bags dropping in the truck’s maw make a crashing sound or a wet thud or a crinkling noise, which is usually followed by the clattering of hard plastic on the concrete sidewalk. They're pretty good about making sure the cans don’t wind up in the street.

Meanwhile, I’m running around the house, frantically emptying waste-bins, checking the bathrooms, picking up bowls of peanut shells, tossing out empty wine-bottles, checking the vegetable bin of the refrigerator to find out what rotted over the past week, or what was unlikely to be eaten and rot by next week. Then it’s down to the garage to gather up the other garbage bags I’ve tossed  in there over the week – or two or three weeks – since I last caught the garbage-man. Bags in the can, open the garage door, trundle it down to the street on its creaky plastic wheels, then back to the garage for whatever miscellaneous stuff I’m trashing.

By this time, the truck has made it around the block and is now coming back to my side. I don’t want to be seen, so I quickly duck inside, slam the garage door closed and breathe. I am sure my neighbors are all sleeping or getting their kids ready for daycare or for school, or enjoying their newspaper and coffee before getting on the road. Their garbage bags were all on the curb last night.

I wonder if the garbage-man notices when I miss a pickup for 2 or 3 weeks in a row. There’s cars in the driveway, so I’m sure he knows we didn’t move. Is his garbage always out on time? Or does he take it to work with him? And do my neighbors notice when they drive down the street on Monday night, back from the supermarket or some errand and notice that mine is the only house without the evidence of the consumer culture on display? No new TV boxes, no new computer boxes, no kids’ toys.

One house down the street put a TV out on the curb – a 32 inch Phillips, just like the one we have – but the garbage-men wouldn’t pick it up. It’s been sitting there on the curb for a few weeks now, like some test of wills between the homeowner and the garbage-man. Who will break down first and take the thing away.

At my parents’ house when I was growing up, if there was some junk we didn’t want or didn’t want to throw away because we thought it might have some value for someone, we’d just leave it on the curb on a Friday night when we knew the weather would be clear of precipitation. On Saturday mornings, the yard sale crawlers would come cruising around, and there was always someone matched with everything we put out there. A pee-stained mattress? No problem! A stack of cracked parsons tables? Certainly! A chess-table in faux Spanish style with 2 chairs never truly meant to hold a human body? Gone in a flash. I wonder if yard sale crawlers still roam around like that? Has eBay made all that obsolete? Or is there still the serendipity of finding that you connect with some unloved lamp or ancient appliance?

Anyway, the garbage-men are gone from my street. I can hear them around the corner, their backup beepers bleating, crashes of glass breaking. The dog is pawing at the inside garage door and I’ve gotta go in and take him out. Into the back yard, where I’m confronted with further evidence of my lousy homeowner status: the scattered piles of dog shit he leaves and which I really need to pick up.

Doc Martens pain

I guess its been a long time since I last broke in a pair of Dr. Martens. My new pair just arrived from Zappo's over the weekend, and I'm beginning to wonder if my memory is really going, or if this pair is really that much more painful than my others.

See, Docs are the only shoes I own. I got my first pair for my birthday in 1993 and, after breaking them in, I quickly realized that they were the most comfortable shoes I'd ever worn. They lasted me 5 years, and when I took a fall on some wet pavement, Jenn looked at the smooth bottoms of my shoes, marched me over to Nordstrom's and plunked down $100 bucks for a new pair.

Cut to 5 years later, and I've worn down another pair. Still my only shoes, that 2nd pair's been worn with tuxedos, to job interviews, and still bears some stains from being sunk ankle-deep in mud while digging a grave for my second dead cat. They've served me well, but it was time for them to be put out to pasture. My first 2 pairs were the 6-eyelet style, but I couldn't seem to find that style anywhere. Zappo's had the 8-eyelet style -- the original 1460's -- for a reasonable US$113, so i typed in the credit card number and they were waiting at my door when I got home 2 days later.

And now, 2 days after that, I've got nasty blisters on my heels which are making walking really difficult. These shoes are not giving in to my feet at all! I don't remember it being this bad last time, but... damn! If it was this bad, then I must have a short memory for pain. Zappo's has a 365-day money-back guarantee, and I'm starting to consider it...

Why "a clever sheep"?

I've been asked quite a few times of the origins of my nom de blog, most recently by Paul of Light and Dark. It's from a Monty Python routine -- one of my all-time favorites -- which isn't one of the most commonly shown episodes. This skit is from Episode 2: Sex and Violence, and features Terry Jones as the City Gent and Graham Chapman as the Rustic.

A small set of a gate in the country overlooking a field. A real rustic in smock and floppy hat is leaning on the gate. A city gent on holiday appears behind him. Off-screen baa-ing noises throughout.

City Gent: Good afternoon.

Rustic: Afternoon.

City Gent: A lovely day isn't it.

Rustic: Eh, 'tis that.

City Gent: You here on holiday or...?

Rustic: Nope, I live 'ere.

City Gent: Oh, jolly good too. (surveys field; he looks puzzled) I say, those are sheep aren't they?

Rustic: Ar.

City Gent: Yes, yes of course, I thought so...only...er why are they up in the trees?

Rustic: A fair question and one that in recent weeks has been much on my mind. It's my considered opinion that they're nesting.

City Gent: Nesting?

Rustic: Ar.

City Gent: Like birds?

Rustic: Ar. Exactly. Birds is the key to the whole problem. It's my belief that these sheep are laborin' under the misapprehension that they're birds. Observe their behavior. Take for a start the sheeps' tendency to 'op about the field on their back legs. (off-screen baa-ing) Now witness their attempts to fly from tree to tree. Notice that they do not so much fly as...plummet. (sound of sheep plummeting) Observe for example that ewe in that oak tree. She is clearly trying to teach her lamb to fly. (baaaaaa...thump) Talk about the blind leading the blind.

City Gent: But why do they think they're birds?

Rustic: Another fair question. One thing is for sure; a sheep is not a creature of the air. They have enormous difficulty in the comparatively simple act of perchin'. (crash) As you see. As for flight, its body is totally unadapted to the problems of aviation. Trouble is, sheep are very dim. Once they get an idea in their heads, there's no shifting it.

City Gent: But where did they get the idea from?

Rustic: From Harold. He's that sheep there over under the elm. He's that most dangerous of animals, a clever sheep. He's the ring-leader. He has realized that a sheep's life consists of standing around for a few months and then being eaten. And that's a depressing prospect for an ambitious sheep. He's patently hit on the idea of escape.

City Gent: Well why don't you just get rid of Harold?

Rustic: Because of the enormous commercial possibilities should he succeed.

Arf! Arf! He's got it just right!

My dog, Sander, tells me that Greg, over at My Life as a Fischer has got it exactly right in his list of "Top 10 Dog Complaints". Sander's favorite is this one:

6. The slight of hand - fake fetch throw. You fooled a dog! What a proud moment for the top of the food chain, you nitwit!

I swear, I can see the little mutt roll his eyes in disgust every time I pull that tired trick.

(Check out the rest of Greg's entries. There's plenty of other funny stuff over there, too.)

Slow day at work...

Today is my Department Director's last day on the job. He's heading off to greener pastures, leaving all us sheep to wander around helplessly, bleating like lost lambs. (Enough with the farmyard stuff, evan!) He's been a good boss -- probably one of the most natural leaders I've ever come across. Straightforward, open, confident of his authority, and able to acknowledge that his ability to make decisions is dependent on the people he works with. It's going to suck around here even more.

What makes it even more frustrating is that I'm between projects right now. So, today, this is what I've done:

• Cleaned out my Outlook mailbox


• Cleaned out my Outlook Express mailbox


• Built a Bionicle


• Finished the New York Times Crossword puzzle in 5:04 minutes


• Scored 39,322 in Bejeweled


• Installed the latest version of SharpReader


• Read about 400 entries in my favorite weblogs


• Spoke to my mother for a half-hour


• Spoke to my wife for a half-hour


• Made 3 trips to the coffee maker and 2 trips to the bathroom


• Followed links through Amazon's music department


• Edited some photos we took at our goodbye meeting for our boss

And now, it's 1:45 pm and I've got 3-1/2 more hours to fill...

Feeling divided

I've been running my main blog, a clever sheep for over a year now, hosting it on a friend's MT installation. It's been a lot of fun, sometimes lowering my blood pressure, sometimes raising it.

I've concentrated mainly on political issues over there, with limited revelations about myself -- not even a picture or an about page (shame! shame!). Over here, I've been concentrating on those "neglected" issues. (I can hear all my fans crying, "More, more!" Oh, wait... that's not fans; it's actually bill collectors.)

In addition to these two weblogs, I'm also a co-author of an e-learning blog, participo.com, which focuses more on the theory and application of what I do for a living. And then there's my own domain, at (DONT GO THERE) genevity.com -- a site which hasn't been updated in about 5 years.

Diluting myself like this has left me with limited time to maintain all my sites, so I'm thinking I need to concentrate myself a little bit. I'm not exactly sure WHERE to concentrate and how to go about it. Anyone else have this dilemma? What have you done about it?

Doing the speed limit

My driver's license is in a questionable status right now: there was a lapse in my insurance the cause of which neither I nor my insurance company can decipher. The state doesn't care about the cause, and therefore, claims I owe them US$150 for each of the 30 days I was uninsured! That's not gonna happen without the cooperation of the Lottery.

So, I follow the maxim, "An outlaw must live within the law." I drive carefully, following posted speed limits, wearing my seatbelt, signaling when changing lanes, coming to a full stop at stop signs and yellow traffic lights. I'm especially careful driving on the University campus where my office is located; since it is summer, the campus cops -- a division of the State Police -- are bored, and therefore, always hiding behind bushes and giving traffic tickets for exceeding the 25 mph speed limit.

This morning, I was moseying along, about 1000 yards from my turnoff into the office parking lot, when some moron comes zooming up behind me in a rusty 1980's Chevy. He came up so close that I couldn't see his hood at all in my rearview mirror. I hate that. What does he think he's gonna do me, push me faster or scare me so I pull over? Not bloody likely, Ringo.

Instead, I did what I always do to jerks like that: I stepped hard on my brakes. He braked hard, things flying off his rear shelf, and then zoomed up again, gesticulating wildly at me, screaming and yelling. By this time I was upon the left turn lane, so I signaled and pulled up to the stop sign. He pulled up next to me, yelling with his window closed. I can't help it: I'm an instigator. I reached over and rolled down the passenger side window, smiled and said, "What's the matter moron? Have to yell with your windows closed?"

He obviously read my lips, because he swung his door open, yelling, "All right! All right! I'll come over there!" He was quicker than me, so I was still fumbling with my seatbelt and had just opened the door when he came around to my side of the car. He stuck his arm through the window and -- for some reason -- I laughed, then grabbed his wrist and elbow, leveraging them against one another. "You almost fucking killed me," he yelled. I couldn't help it: I don't know why I felt so calm, but I laughed again then pushed him away from the car, saying something like, "God! What an idiot. You really need to get a grip on yourself, asshole." "Oh, yeah? Oh yeah? Well... fuck you then! Fuck you!"

I'm not sure exactly what signaled to him that the incident was over -- perhaps the line-up of cars behind him -- but he suddenly stormed back to his car, muttering. I watched him the whole way, and when he got in his car, he glowered at me, and I couldn't help laughing some more.

Later on, I felt pretty stupid about the whole immature situation, but, right at that moment, I walked into work feeling pretty good. I wonder how his day went.

Shrink appointment...

I know there should be no stigma attached anymore -- at least that's what Tipper Gore says -- but I still feel weird mentioning to anyone that the doctor appointment I have this afternoon is with a shrink. It seemed like, when I was growing up in the 70s, going to a shrink was all part of "self-actualization", and it became practically a necessity to be in analysis. Hell, if you weren't, you probably couldn't have understood even half of any Woody Allen movie.

With the advent of the Prozac Nation, you would think there would be more openness, especially with millions of antidepressant prescriptions written each year. Maybe there is, but I still feel this pressure to keep my mouth shut...