Two Musketeers And An Annoying Sister

Posted on March 4, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

You know, it wasn’t always easy growing up as the youngest, and only girl in the family. My brother CJ is 8 years older than me, and my brother Barry is 5 years older.  They called me Brat for so long I thought that was my actual name.   To this day CJ still refers to me as Major Moron; he likes the alliteration.  Sadly, I’m so used to it I actually respond to that name.  I like to think of it now as a term of endearment.

I can’t really tell you if all the merciless teasing and pranking affected my personality, except to say that I am just a tad neurotic.  But I don’t want my brothers to feel guilty for making me crazy or ruining my life or anything, so enough said.

As is typical with the youngest in the family, while there are hundreds of baby pictures of CJ, and dozens of Barry, there are only about three baby pictures of me.  There I was as an infant, and then about a year old, and the next thing you know it’s my first day of kindergarten.   According to the baby picture I do have, I was definitely chubby and bald.  That is how I earned my other family nickname, Uncle Fester, from the Addams Family.

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Apparently my parents desperately wanted to put a light bulb in my mouth for a photo op, but thankfully that was nixed as possibly dangerous.  Sweet, right?

Most of the stories I heard while growing up were about amazing things that happened before I was born. My dad was stationed at an Air Force base in Illinois, and everyone talked about all the snow and the forts and the friends they had there.  From what I heard, everything was much, much better in Illinois.  But my family moved back to the DC area after my dad left the Air Force, and I came along after all the fun.

Sometimes my brothers would let me play with them, but all they ever wanted to do was boy stuff.  They used to build forts out of sleeping bags and blankets, but I thought the appropriate thing to do in a fort was play Barbies…so I usually got kicked out pretty quickly.  Once I learned to ride a bike they would let me ride behind them, but I wasn’t allowed to talk or anything.   I jumped at the chance to ride on the handlebars of Barry’s bike, but it kind of got ugly when we came flying downhill.  So happy he was amused as my life flashed before my eyes.

I guess I wasn’t without blame either.  The only power I had was information, and I was quite the tattle tale.  When I stumbled upon Barry and his friends playing poker, I couldn’t wait to tell my mom that Barry was gambling!  With money!  She went to check out the situation and I couldn’t wait for her to break up the high stakes card game.  Yet all I heard was laughing.  My mom came back and informed me that while penny ante poker is technically gambling for money, Barry wasn’t doing anything wrong.  The next thing you know, I’m in trouble for tattling!  It was a cruel, cruel world.

Bygones, right?  Well, some habits die hard.  A few years ago I was in a toy store with CJ and he was playing with some puppets. I was minding my own business when, thwack! The puppet slapped me right on the cheek. When I turned around I couldn’t tell how the puppet was operated, so like an idiot I said “how did you do that?” Thwack! Thwack! I had to laugh at myself, although CJ didn’t have to laugh at me quite so much. It was a pretty classic brother/sister scene…if we had been 10.

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The Great Cookie Catastrophe of 2013

Posted on March 1, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

What a wonderful time of the year. I’m still gnawing on stale Day-After- Valentine’s candy, Cadbury Crème Eggs have already hit the shelves, and Girl Scout cookie season is in full force. On my personal food pyramid, Thin Mints are part of the baseline. Plus, I feel like buying Girl Scout cookies is a wholesome thing to do. Or some such crap.

Have you already guessed that I was never a Girl Scout? I became a Brownie long enough for my mom to buy me every outfit and the little beanie, went to a few meetings, and quit when I found out we couldn’t just sit around talking all the time; we were supposed to do activities or whatever.

I wish I had known that one could earn a Cookie Activity Pin by “participating in cookie activities.”

I started wondering what valuable lessons the girls learn in pursuit of the Cookie Activity Pin, and what I found is fascinating. It turns out that there are two large camps; the Thin Mint loyalists, and the Samoa believers. There is a small third camp that thinks both cookies are poisoned and only care to drink tea. They are 100% true blue Americans who like to look at Russia from their houses.

In order to make the whole cookie sale thing work, the Thin Mints and the Samoas had to sit in a room and figure things out. And before long, they reached consensus. To paraphrase real quotes from actual Girl Scouts:

  1.  We all have to agree on how the money from cookie sales will be spent, which means talking it out  and being OK with not always getting my way.
  2. I have to keep my word no matter what. I can’t say “yeah, sure” and then not do anything.
  3. It’s important to speak up and look people in the eye.  I have to be able to explain why I’m doing what I’m doing.
  4. It feels so good to work really hard to reach a goal.
  5.  I have to figure out how to solve problems; my decisions matter. I can’t just look to mom or dad for help.
  6. We figured out real goals, like how we want people to feel when they buy a box of our cookies, and what good we can do with the money. It has definitely changed the way I look at the world.
  7. I see how money works, and why money matters not just to me but to everyone.
  8. I see how money can do good for the world if it’s used right.
  9. If I don’t do what I’m supposed to, it’s not just hurting me, it’s hurting the other girls too.
  10. I learned how to budget and finance my future.

If only members of Congress could learn from Girl Scouts.  No dice. Here’s their take on things:

  1. Samoas rule, Thin Mints drool
  2. Thin Mints is a nice American name. I don’t know where these “Samoas” come from, or if they’re here legally
  3. Samoas are filled with deadly chemicals, whereas Thin Mints are made from wholesome ingredients
  4. Samoas are now legal in California only for those with low blood sugar
  5. I will keep my word to lower the cost of Samoas by using artificial flavoring, which will produce more jobs
  6. Thin Mints are living in the dark ages. They’re just not in touch with reality
  7. I wholeheartedly support same-cookie marriage
  8. Samoas have yet to produce a long form list of bakers. How do we know they were truly baked in America?
  9. It is undeniable that 99% of the butter is being creamed with just 1% of the sugar
  10. Samoas mandated that all cookies buy shipping insurance. I just don’t think that’s fair. Some cookies don’t care if they’re lost en route

Unfortunately, this gets us nowhere. Congress made a pinky swear that if they can’t agree on manufacturing costs and pricing by midnight tonight, they will arbitrarily cut ingredients across the entire cookie line. But without enough mint, Thin Mints will just be Thin Faintest Hint O’Mints, and without enough coconut, Samoas will just be Sam’s Dry ‘N Flavorless. The tea people of course love the sound of a dry cookie. But they will still complain bitterly.

The Girl Scouts, who worked really hard to make the cookies at the outset, will be screwed.

I know, as a metaphor it’s a stretch, but don’t blame me.  I’m in a Thin Mint induced haze.

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Cousin Dan: Stupid People Tricks

Posted on February 27, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

As I documented in my January 3 posting, Uncle Cousin and Aunt Neurotic, Dan has a split personality. Not just getting in touch with his inner child, but acting like his inner child; he has delighted kids and terrified adults for decades. Oh, the many adventures of Cousin Dan.  Here’s the first installment of what is sure to become a series…

During one of our babysitting gigs many years ago, Dan took the boys to lunch; they were probably about 6 and 8 years old at that point. Aubrey and I stayed behind to do mani-pedis or some such thing.  When the boys returned Sean came running into the house and breathlessly told me he had the best lunch of his whole life! Wow, they must have had some really amazing chicken fingers…

Sensing this was going to be good, I grabbed the video camera and asked Sean why lunch was so great. Sean could not have been any happier when he announced that “Cousin Dan let us shoot spitballs through our straws!!” As I weighed that statement Sean said “AND Cousin Dan taught us how to poke our eyes out with a fork!!” Sean was so excited about this he was literally jumping up and down.  Oh boy.  I had a feeling that our babysitting privileges were going to quickly be revoked.

Upon further questioning, Dan repeated his trick of hiding a little cup of creamer in his hand and pretending that his eye itched so badly he couldn’t stand it and finally took a fork to it…cream comes spurting out while he screams and spazzes out. Then Dan, Craig and Sean dissolved into fits of laughter. Even Aubrey abandoned our manicure session and sided with the icky boys. If I’m being really honest…I couldn’t help but laugh too.

I’m really glad I’ve got the whole thing on video so that when Sean is famous and they ask us for funny little clips of his childhood I will be fully prepared.

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The Grammar About Which I Warned You

Posted on February 24, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I have always held that grammar is black and white, right and wrong, and ultimately that which separates woman from beast. I don’t know what separates man from beast, but that’s best left for a separate post.  Grammar, which I once thought of as timeless, is morphing in to New Grammar, and I’ve had no choice but to look at current style guides. Imagine my surprise when I found out that it is now just fine and dandy to end a sentence in a preposition. Like me, you may be asking yourself, how did this come about? Apparently it has been brewing for quite some time. According to http://yourdictionary.com:

“Winston Churchill once reportedly exclaimed, ‘That is the sort of thing up with which I will not put!’ to mock someone who criticized him for ending a sentence with a preposition.”

I understand old Winny’s point, but did he really think it through? I mean, when he was kicking around as Prime Minister wasn’t there kind of a lot going on? I’ll give him this, he did win a Nobel Prize in Literature.

Nonetheless, I was grateful that http://yourdictionary.com went on to say:

“it may still be worth revising your sentences to avoid ending them a preposition whenever possible if you wish to reduce the risk of controversy. Since there are still a number of people who believe ending a sentence with a preposition is incorrect, considering your audience’s thoughts on the issue is a wise idea…”

I’m not claiming I am a grammar expert or anything; far from it. For example, I still get confused between which and that, further and farther, punctuation inside or outside quotes and parentheses, and when, I’m using, too many commas. But I do know when an apostrophe comes before or after an s.  At least I thought I did, but that’s changed too.

If one was referring to Mama Cass, for example, one might write “that is Mama Cass’ caftan” to indicate the possessive. Nowadays, it appears that the correct use is “that was Mama Cass’s caftan” I know, one pronounces them the same way, but in writing, right is right. At least, before right was wrong. At the end of the day, all I really know is that Mama Cass wore a lot of caftans.

But the thing I learned recently that has troubled me the most is not grammar, but punctuation. If you believe there should be two spaces between sentences, raise your right hand and repeat after me “I solemnly swear I will do everything humanly possible to leave only one space after a sentence.”

I know, it’s a lot to deal with. I think it has something to do with old fashioned manual typesetting going digital. But does it really matter why? I’m trying to get in the swing of things, because this is the way it’s done in my strange new world.

I don’t want to overreact; that is not a nervous laugh you hear. It is simply the sound of the very fabric of our society ripping apart.

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Say What?

Posted on February 22, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I had a great opportunity last night to attend a panel discussion hosted by Washington Book Publishers.  Other than my friend who was on the panel, I didn’t know anyone else in the room, and they definitely all knew each other.  It reminded me of my early days in the Association of Legal Administrators, which started out the same way and then gained momentum.  If I did it before I can do it again, so I did my best to mix, mingle, smile and not embarrass myself.  Of course, I failed on that last one.

The people were all very friendly; the challenge was that they were speaking a different language.  It was publishing-writing-editing talk, and I of course am a complete novice.  When the panel asked for questions, I was fascinated.  Someone would say “I’m in acquisitions, and when I’m dealing with production…” and everyone but me would groan knowingly.  Huh.  Note to self:  figure out what the hell people are talking about.

While the group and industry was new to me, the topic was not; it was a discussion on how to deal with difficult people.  Karla Miller (the @Work Advice columnist) was one of the speakers; honestly, she has my dream job.  I guess technically it’s not her fault that she has her job and I don’t, but you know, it still hurts.

After the discussion, I sort of lingered near Karla, not in a weird stalking way of course, but in a “hey look at us, a couple of writers” as if I’m legit and we both write a column for the Washington Post Magazine.  But let’s not get all hung up in details of who has more writing experience.  I mean, it’s not a competition, right?  When I finally had a chance to chat with her she was very nice and funny and don’t think that wasn’t annoying.

While I was chatting with Karla, a woman came over to follow up on a question she had asked regarding one of those difficult people in her workplace.  Karla was encouraging her to try this and that, and go figure, it was great advice.  And then I heard these words coming out of my mouth, unsolicited, “I’m certainly not Karla, but I’ll tell you what I’d do in that situation…”

Take a moment here people, to realize that I was giving work advice to someone while Karla Miller stood right next to me.  They both said it was good advice, but if I’m truly honest with myself it’s probably just because they were being nice to the odd person who had infiltrated the group.

Sometimes I can’t believe the stuff I say.  Words just tumble out of my mouth without ever stopping to check out the terrain.  It’s scary.  Let’s say I am at a cocktail party and other columnists just happen to be there.  Will I wander over to Gene Weingarten and Dave Barry and try to be witty?  Will I tell Will Shortz how to put together a solid crossword puzzle?

We all know it’s just a matter of time before I really step in it.  It’s comforting to know that you’ll all be on the sidelines, laughing and pointing.

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The Sound Of Silence

Posted on February 20, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Today was my first working visit to the Writers’ Room.  The whole idea is of course to focus on writing, so there are strict rules about maintaining silence; for example, no thumbing through pages or folding a newspaper.  It’s just that quiet.  And of course, since I’m me, the more I try to remain silent, the more noise I end up making.

So first thing, I have to adjust my chair in order to get my knees under the desk.  I tried ever so quietly to pull the lever and push the chair and of course that ends up making a ton of noise.  I decide not to apologize, because that can be more annoying than the noise itself, right?

Next I have to pull my phone out because I forgot to put it on vibrate; so I unzip my purse and rifle through it for my phone, take the phone out of the case, put it back in the case and back in my purse where of course it hits my key ring and makes more noise.

I’m finally done with my purse but now I have to unpack my laptop.  More zippers, dropping cords on to my purse which makes my keys jingle again.  And right as I turn it on I remember the whole Windows start-up sound that I never turned off.

OK, rough start, but now I can really get down to business.  Almost.  I do want to connect to the internet so I can keep an eye on my email, but for the life of me I can’t remember the password for the free wireless.  So I have to pull out my phone (all the same noise as before), search for the email that has the password and discover that the email is long gone.  I remember that I forwarded the email to Dan to print, so I send him an email and ask him to forward me the other email.

But now, I am really really ready to write.  My hands are hovering over the keyboard trying to at least come up with something witty to post on the blog today.  I should be deep in thought by now, but I am drawing a blank.  I look around and everyone else is typing furiously.  I daydream about the important work they must be doing while I sit here twiddling my thumbs.  I get a teensy bit depressed.

Just then I get the instruction email from Dan and it’s telling me to check the back of the door for the wireless information.  Of course the chair squeaks loudly when I push it back to get up, and then I manage to get the toe of my shoe caught in the carpet and make a little yelping sound as I grab on to something so I don’t fall.  No idea how I pulled it off, but I did not go down.

Good grief, I hope I am not kicked out of the room.  But OK, I’m all set now and I start to slog through emails.  The next time I look up, it’s time for me to go because I have another appointment downtown.  It dawns on me that now I have to pack up my laptop again and get my coat and purse.  More noise.

I finally get myself and my belongings out of the room without further ado; but of course there has been plenty ado already.  And the only “writing” I did was responding to emails.

It could be my imagination, but was that a cheer I heard after I left the room?  I’ll be back there on Friday, and I am praying they don’t change the lock to keep me out.

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Fancy Meeting You Here

Posted on February 18, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

OK, first of all, I am absolutely fine (Mom-read my lips, I’m f-i-n-e) but I got into a bit of a car accident today.  A pedestrian darted right into the street from in front of a bus and to avoid her I kind of swerved into the Metro bus.  Technically, the bus was not moving at the time.  My car is pretty bad, but the pedestrian is just fine—she went right along her merry way.  So, it’s not exactly the way I wanted to spend my afternoon, or my money, but in the grand scheme of things it’s not the worst problem in the world.

I really (really) am an excellent driver, and in fact as far as I can remember have never hit anything that was moving.  I mean, I’ve backed into a fire hydrant; side swiped parked cars and the like.  And notoriously, as a teenager, I hit poles on either side of my car pulling out of a parking spot and ended up with identical dents on both sides of my car.  Symmetry is good, right?  Keep in mind, I was driving a 1976 Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser station wagon the size of a bus, and I had backed into the space very carefully without incident, it was pulling out that apparently was trickier for me.

So the accident today wasn’t exactly a new experience for me.  Did I mention that the bus was specially equipped to handle wheelchairs, and there were at least three wheelchair bound passengers trying to get on the bus when I hit it?   And that it was really cold out and they had to wait for another bus?  Yeah, so you know, there was that.

I apologized to everyone milling about, and people were surprisingly pleasant.  And then I met the bus driver.  He was perfectly good-natured when he asked what happened, and hung out with me while we waited for the police and the Metro accident people.  Actually, he invited me to sit on the bus and stay warm.  It was really lovely.

We started chatting and I learned about his incorrigible teenagers, how he liked working for Metro, where he was from; he asked me if my husband was going to be mad and offered to talk to him but I assured him it was fine.  We bonded for sure, and when the accident information guy from Metro came along the driver introduced us and told him I was really nice and then that guy started calling me sweetie and told me not to worry about anything.

By the time the police officer got there we were practically having tea and scones on the bus and planning matching friendship tattoos, so it was a good vibe.  The officer fit right in—I explained everything but the bus driver kept telling him I was just avoiding a pedestrian and hadn’t done anything wrong.  Well no, he didn’t actually witness it, per se, but none of it was Jill’s fault (we were all on a first name basis at that point).

I guess the only depressing moment (other than when I saw the damage to the car) was when the officer asked me if my car was a 1997 or 1998.  I told him it was a 2005, and he said it looked older.  But I had just bashed the side in, so in all fairness I don’t think it was a good time to judge.

We hung out on the bus a while longer while the officer did all the paperwork.  When he came on the bus he apologized for having to give me a citation and I said it was OK, he’s just doing his job after all.  So he wrote up the most minor thing he could and fined me $25.

The officer told us we were all set, but I hung out with my Metro buddies for another minute on the bus.  I went to shake the bus driver’s hand and he said no way, and pulled me in for a hug.  It was one of those very nice big teddy bear hugs, and I told him it was so great to meet him and he said it was great to meet me and for a minute we kind of forgot what brought us together.

I offered to take the bus driver out to lunch next week and he said he’d love that, so there you have it.  Not so bad for an interaction that started with me hitting a bus.

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Kids: Don’t Try This At Home

Posted on February 17, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Before we got to eat bagel and lox on Sundays, we had to go to Sunday school.  Given my choice between medieval torture and Sunday school…I’m really not certain what I would choose.  The whole thing was just a nightmare.  For a kid who was car sick all the time, climbing into the station wagon first thing Sunday morning was torture.  I wonder if the synagogue tried to save money by not turning on the heat on Sundays, because I remember I was always cold.

There were two good things about Sunday school.  One was that during break we could buy Israeli bubble gum, a treat of the highest order.  As far as I can remember it was regular Bazooka bubble gum but kosher, and the packaging and the comic inside were in Hebrew.   We also bought halvah, which tasted like chalk but we all scarfed it down anyway.  Sometimes, especially near Hanukkah, we could buy little bags of gold coins made from the worst chocolate you’ve ever tasted.

The second good thing about Sunday school was recess.  The playground at the synagogue was completely different from the playground at regular school, and it kind of felt like it was in the woods.  It was also a whole different set of kids who played new games and stuff.  For a kid, these were the finer things in life.

Bubble gum or not, I still hated it.  So one Sunday I decided I would play hooky.  I enlisted my friend too, because who wants to play hooky alone?  We waved good-bye as the parents drove off and then instead of going inside we went around back into the semi-woods.  We were pretty proud of ourselves.  We walked around and hung out until we heard a bunch of people outside.

There were a lot of adults running around and they seemed to be looking for something…or someone(s).  Wow, finally something exciting happens in Sunday school and we’re not even there to see it.  We watched for a while as all the parents came back to get their kids and join in the search.

Finally our curiosity got the best of us and we kind of sidled up to see what was going on.  The next thing I knew I was getting hugged and yelled at all at the same time, which was definitely a new one.  I asked what was going on and was pointedly told they were searching for us the whole time.  Oh.  Did we not hear them calling our names?  Well, not really.

When we finally got home we all had bagel and lox but my mom was not a happy camper.  My brothers kept asking me why I was so stupid and I kept telling them if I knew why I was stupid I probably wouldn’t be stupid.  Duh.  Then my mom would take a break from yelling at me so she could yell at my brothers for calling me stupid before getting back to asking me if I was an idiot, which I guess is a nicer word than stupid.  It was an interesting dynamic.

You must be thinking I learned my lesson, and it’s true, I never skipped Sunday school again.  However, we did have Hebrew school on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, and one day I had this idea of how I could get out of it…

Did I not just tell you I was a dumb ass as a kid?  I’m still grounded for that one.

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A Fish By Any Other Name

Posted on February 16, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Everyone who knows me knows that I am an extremely picky eater.  I hate onions.  I don’t eat stuff that has bits of things because who knows what’s in there.  I don’t like any kind of Asian food whatsoever.  All that ginger and lemongrass is disgusting, and miso soup literally makes me nauseous.  When I was a kid, it irritated my mom to no end that I didn’t like Chinese food.  That is probably why I disliked it.  But we’d go to a Chinese restaurant and they would have a kids menu with “burger” and that was supposed to be OK.  Have you ever tasted a “burger” from a Chinese restaurant?  Most of us didn’t live to tell.

Forget savory food, I’m even picky about dessert; under no circumstance should fruit or fruit sauce or anything like that ever touch chocolate.  It’s unbelievable to me that someone would take a perfectly scrumptious chocolate volcano cake and ruin it completely by putting it on top of a raspberry coulis, whatever the hell that is.  That is what I call a felony.

The thing is I don’t get bored eating the same old thing all the time, so I get (way) too much to eat anyway.  But going out to eat with me is a nightmare; I have a million questions and ask them to hold this and add that and hey, can I just order off the children’s menu?  Bring me a grilled cheese, fries and chocolate milk and I am perfectly content.

I’ve been a picky eater all my life, but as a kid there were foods I just automatically ate and loved and had no idea what I was eating.  Sunday mornings, for example, were reserved for bagels and lox.  I had no idea in the world that lox was fish; I don’t know what I thought it was, all I knew was that a bagel should have cream cheese, lox, tomato and swiss cheese.  Hold the nasty onions.

But Sunday brunch didn’t end there.  We ate a lot of something called sable, which as it turns out is some type of fish.  I ate whitefish too, and even with FISH right in the name, it never really crossed my mind.  Don’t seriously tell me that when you were a kid you thought of tuna fish as a FISH?  I don’t believe you—it came out of a can for pete’s sake!

I used to eat creamed herring right out of the jar, as a snack.  Do you think my dumb ass knew what a herring was?  But the worst of all was gefilte fish; basically gelatinous fish meatballs all glommed together, and in my grandmother’s house, served on a piece of lettuce with horseradish as an appetizer.  How yummy does that sound??  All of my grandmother’s holiday meals started with gefilte fish, followed by matzo ball soup.  I can only be grateful that “matzo ball” was not another code word for fish.

In addition to gefilte fish, my grandmother sometimes served an appetizer called kishka.  I loved it—one of my favorite things.  The good news is, it’s not fish.  The bad news is that it’s the intestine of some kind of animal, stuffed with something or another.  Even knowing that, if my grandmother was alive today and put a plate of kishka in front of me, I would eat the whole thing.  It was much more delicious than a stuffed intestine really should be.

Even something as simple as butter could be deceptive.  My grandmother always had a jar of schmaltz in the fridge.  We used to spread it on matzo, fry eggs in it, you name it.  Good news, it’s not fish or intestines.  It’s simply rendered chicken fat.  Feel better?  The American Heart Association took schmaltz off of its Fun and Healthy Ethnic Foods! list the minute they found out what it was.

So now I know the real reason the Jews wandered the desert for 40 years.  They were looking for lox, whitefish, sable and herring.

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Planet Of The Dogs

Posted on February 14, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Don’t ask me why, but I found myself lured in to the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show last night. The whole thing is obscene, but I won’t turn this post into a rant about breeding. Don’t worry, I will definitely get around to that, just not tonight. Suffice it to say that if you’re looking for a pet anywhere other than a shelter or rescue organization, you need to be euthanized.  By Betty White.

Oh my, was that a little harsh?  I meant it in the gentlest of ways of course.  I would hate for my blog to ever offend anyone.

Anyway, despite my best intentions, I found the dog show hilarious.  I don’t think it’s meant to be funny, but it’s all so formal and serious and these folks believe there is a correct way for a dog to walk, run and stand.  I think the correct way for dogs to walk is with their nose in the air and their tails wagging excitedly and hey, maybe they’re all over the place and trying to get to a squirrel or chase a snowflake, but they are dogs for crying out loud.

The play-by-play announcers were really something.  “Well Biff, here we have the noblest of all dogs…according to some…the Royal English-German Short-Eared Big-Tailed Working Dog.  These dogs are happiest either herding sheep or sniffing for bombs.”

“Thanks Forrest, that is all true.  These dogs were bred by a shepherd who was thinking about going to work for the TSA.  It’s fascinating stuff, really.”

And that was just the beginning.  Some dogs were described as “aloof” while others were described as “home and hearth” dogs.  There were breeds who loved children, breeds who hated children; breeds who liked to live in a ranch house in the suburbs, city breeds who prefer to be in a high-end condo…you name it.

As I watched the handlers run a lap with the dogs, I decided to kill the sound and think about it as a Special Bred Human show.  “Well Biff, here we have an American Handler who enjoys Danielle Steel books, chardonnay and long walks on the beach.”

“So true Forrest.  The American Handler also gets along well with dogs, but perhaps a little too well with children.  It is frequently paired with a neurotic mother and a touch of a drinking problem.”

“Right you are Biff.  And the Dog who is showing this Human today is a world renowned breeder of urban professional humans.”

We’ve all seen Planet of the Apes, and we’ve all gasped when Charlton Heston and the little lady ride off into the sunset and find (spoiler alert!) the Statue of Liberty.  I’ve seen the movie 34 times and still gasp at the end.  I have a point though…

Oh yeah!  My point is, maybe we all wake up one day with collars and leashes, lapping up crusty food from the floor while our Dogs dine in a more civilized fashion.  I just want to be prepared to make a case for myself.

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