A stroll down memory lane

I was driving home from work the other day in what was unusually warm weather for this time of year. While at a stop light, I looked over at the car next to me. The driver had his window down and I could clearly see the brightly colored rugby shirt he was wearing. I gazed at the shirt for a moment. It sparked memories of my childhood and the TV shows I loved to watch back then.

Whenever I see a rugby shirt, particularly red and blue, I am always reminded of one of my favorite childhood programs -- Zoom. Not the episodes produced in later years- those were lame- but the original show from the 70s.

Unlike other children's programs of its time, Zoom was almost completely unscripted. It relied heavily upon projects and ideas submitted by everyday kids as well as the personality and charisma of its cast to hold the attention of viewers. In addition, the kids seemed to have a confident air about them that, as a shy 7 year-old, I always admired. Here is a perfect example of what made Zoom so appealing.



That is classic Zoom material. It's so educational. You never know when the skill of whistling with a mouth full of crackers will come in handy.

And who can forget Bernadette and her weird arm thingy.

(For the record, I could do this with ease as a flat-chested kid but now, the boobs have become a mortal enemy to the twirly arm trick.)

Sesame Street makes everyone's list of all time favorites. Characters like Big Bird, Cookie Monster and Mr. Snufalufagus managed to capture the attention of even the fidgetiest 5 year-old. Throw in the occasional celebrity guest and you have one of the most memorable children's programs of the our generation.

In fact, the coolest moment -- EVER -- in children's television has to be when Stevie Wonder sang "Superstition" live on Sesame Street. If you missed this because you were too young (or too old), for the love of God, watch it now!! It doesn't get any better than this.

Rounding out my top three favorite programs as a child is The Electric Company. I consider this show MTV for kids. Hardly a thing was taught unless music and dancing was involved. The Electric Company also boasts my favorite version of Spiderman. Not only did The Electric Company Spidey look hot in tights, but he communicated only through word balloons. Take that Toby Maguire!

I tried to find some Spidey Super Stories clips for you but there weren't any on YouTube that were still available. So I've decided to leave you with this Electric Company public service announcement (aka Scared Straight for Toddlers) warning all you young tykes on the dangers of poison. "It'll kill ya'!"

Update: I forgot to add that the guy in the back dispelling the myth that all black people have rhythm is "Eddie" from Good Times.

Once again, work is kickin' my ass

Sorry about the lack of posting. Working late at the office this week has sucked all of the creativity out of me. I should be back to my old tricks by the weekend though. Right now, I'm going to go curl up in my bed and watch the Spurs-Suns game. Hopefully, I'll be asleep by halftime.

Butterflies

Earlier this week, I was exchanging light banter with one of our clients while standing in the parking lot located outside my office. Our conversation was interrupted when the client stopped mid sentence and announced "Oh, there's a butterfly!" He picked up the insect gently and raved about its vibrant yellow and blue coloring. I flinched as he shoved the butterfly enthusiastically in my direction. "Isn't it pretty?" he said. I feigned admiration. I must have been pretty convincing because he asked me if I wanted to take the butterfly inside. He seemed slightly insulted when I answered no. "Oh. Well. I guess I'll put it over here then." And he placed the butterfly on the ground by the side of the building, presumably out of harms way.

I didn't mean to offend my client's animal loving sensibilities but my office is not a wildlife sanctuary. It is a place of business. What the hell am I supposed to do with a butterfly indoors anyway- put it on a leash and pet it? Seriously. A butterfly is one of those creatures that God intended to roam free in nature. Even a meat-eating, mink coat-wearing, tree-chopping person like myself is sensitive enough to know that. Besides, I can't have butterflies, regardless of their beauty, flitting about the office willy-nilly. It's just not professional.

I don't think our client was thinking in terms of professionalism. After my heartless response, I believe he pegged me as an enemy to all things zoological and reasoned that he'd better place the butterfly as far away from the mean office manager as possible. Although I've never considered myself an animal hater, I must admit he made the right decision. Had he left the butterfly where he found it, I might have inadvertently squashed it as I walked out of the office. Once I realized my error, I would have mourned for approximately a nanosecond and then promptly scraped the butterfly off the bottom of my shoe and kept on stepping.

What kind of cold, cruel, butterfly-hating monster am I?

Keeping up appearances

I spent this past weekend visiting The Boyfriend. Even though we have been dating for a year, the distance between us has caused the relationship to progress at a much slower pace than one where both parties are geographically close to each other. Consequently, we are still in that stage where we are both trying to be the best representation of ourselves even if those representations are not entirely accurate or realistic. Or at least I thought we were both still in that stage.

After this weekend, it has become obvious that The Boyfriend has moved on to the Comfortable Phase of our relationship where superficial acts aimed at impressing the other are tossed aside in favor of something more real and ultimately more satisfying. Apparently, I didn't get the memo.

Since this would be the first visit where I stayed at his apartment and I didn't want to look my normal crappy self, I decided to do a little shopping. I bought new panties, a sexy black bra and a comfy, casual pajama set. While packing for the trip, I painstakingly picked out panties and bras that matched and even picked coordinating socks to wear with my pjs so that I would still look cute as we snuggled on the sofa and watched college basketball.

My attempts at keeping up appearances didn't stop at fashion. My first morning there, in anticipation of some early morning cuddle action, I got up before The Boyfriend and brushed my teeth, washed my face and combed my hair into an attractive ponytail. Yes, dear, my breath typically smells pleasantly minty when I wake up. And I always look this fresh-faced and well-coiffed first thing in the morning.

While I was busy trying to give the impression that I always look this good, The Boyfriend entertained no such nonsense. He confidently and comfortably kicked it in a pair of sweat pants and a holey t-shirt that looked as if it had seen better days. And he didn't let a little thing like morning breath stop him from putting his tongue down my throat. His intent was to relax and make the most of my brief stay. He wasn't worried about whether his socks matched his sweat pants; he was focused on enjoying my company.

I should take my boyfriend's lead on this issue. He really does have the right attitude. At this point in the relationship, we should be able to relax around one another, be ourselves and not be so concerned with appearances. I'm just afraid I'll scare him off once he sees me in pink hair curlers and a mud mask.

Mysophobia

The Polish sausage infused with jalapeno peppers and cheese and baked in bread dough was amenable going down that morning at breakfast but now it was starting to rebel. The only remedy for my discomfort would be a couple of Tums. And chocolate. I had neither in the house and decided to make a quick trip to Walgreens. Once there, I grabbed a large container of extra strength, fruit flavored Tums and a medium-sized bag of peanut butter M&Ms. I placed my exorbitantly priced items on the checkout counter and patiently waited my turn.

After ringing up the guy ahead of me, the cashier inhaled deeply. The superfluous mucus that threatened to escape her nose was quickly drawn back into her sinus cavity. She picked up a Kleenex, turned her head and discreetly wiped her nose. Instead of throwing the soiled article away, the cashier placed it back on the counter. The tissue looked as if it had been an unwilling participant in that routine all night.

I groaned in my head. I was not looking forward to having items that would soon be placed in my mouth fondled by a woman with the West Nile virus all over her fingers. It only increases the amount of work that I have to do once I get home. Before one tablet or M&M touches my lips, a complex set of procedures aimed at preventing contamination must be performed.

I walk through the door of my house and set the Walgreens bag down on the floor of my office. I take the items out of the bag and place them on my desk. Now I need some scissors to cut open the bag of M&Ms. I don't want to touch anything unnecessarily so I decide against rifling through my desk drawer to look for a pair of scissors and opt for the kitchen shears that are conveniently sticking out of my wooden knife block.

I use the shears to cut open the bag of candy and set it aside. I put a few squirts of antibacterial gel on my hands and rub them together. After grabbing a couple of Kleenexes out of a tissue box and placing them on my desk, I open the plastic container of Tums, turn it upside down and shake it gently until two tablets fall onto the tissues. I pick up the tissues and toss the antacids into my mouth. As I am chewing the disgustingly milky tablets, I pour some peanut butter M&Ms on the Kleenex and put more antibacterial gel on my hands. Once the gel has dried, I enjoy my chocolate treats confident that I have successfully avoided catching the bubonic plague.

Mysophobia, like all neuroses, is irrational and prone to inconsistency. Had I not been aware of the cashier's diseased state, I would have happily gone home, popped the Tums in my mouth and ate my M&Ms without giving a second thought to germs. But then a few days later, after coughing up a lung, I would have wondered how the hell I got so sick.

Alka-Seltzer: not just for acid indigestion

I read a post over at Funky Brown Chick's blog on the secret to great sex. She provided a link to a Redbook article entitled 20 Amazing Sex Secrets. It was the usual stuff -- read trashy novels, wear sexy underwear, strengthen your PC muscles, blah, blah, blah. Nothing too earth shattering. Until you get to the end of the article where "experts" offer some, shall we say, less conventional methods for adding a spark to your sex life.

Sit in front of your partner and give your genitals a voice. For instance, "I am happy to live with Margot," or "I'm unhappy she keeps me under the table." They may say, "I'm rusty and out of practice," or "It's about time you gave me some attention." Let your genitals speak for as long as needed. Then, switch roles.
—The Sexual Ecstasy Workbook by Margot Anand and Philip Duane Johncock

I can actually see myself doing this. Only I wouldn't name it Margot. I'd give my hooch a stripper name like Destiny, Fantasia or Delicious. Margot sounds like something I'd call my grandmother. By the way, anyone find it interesting that the last name of one of the authors is "Johncock"? You think that's his real name?

Underarm deodorant should be banned absolutely. A truly deodorized woman would be like a deodorized carnation.
—The Joy of Sex: Fully Revised & Completely Updated for the 21st Century by Alex Comfort

Okay. Ewwww. If you want to kill any chance of ever getting laid again, try going a few days without putting on the Right Guard. I don't think carnations were meant to smell that pungent.

You can achieve an eye-popping effect by wrapping the nipple with dental floss.
—Tricks to Please a Woman by Jay Wiseman

If by eye-popping effect, you mean doubled over in hysterical laughter, then I can see that.

Are you suddenly inspired by phallic objects around the house? Then get creative! Candles, rubber handles and cooking utensils will all get the job done very well. And when a friend uses that spatula to flip your pancakes, you'll get added pleasure from knowing where it's been!
—Toygasms! The Insider's Guide to Sex Toys and Techniques by Sadie Allison

If any of my beloved readers try this little tip, please let me know in the comment section. And then remind me to never, ever, ever accept a dinner invitation to your house. Or touch any knickknacks you may have that resemble a penis.

Insert a moistened Alka-Seltzer tablet in your love tunnel and beckon your man to enter. Makes an invigorating fizzy tingle for both of you.
—302 Advanced Techniques for Driving a Man Wild in Bed by Olivia St. Claire

I am one of those people who relies heavily on intuition. I wouldn't describe myself as clairvoyant but I've always been able to get a sense of the outcome of certain situations. And my intuition tells me that if you stick a moistened Alka-Seltzer in your vaginal cavity, there will be a trip to the emergency room in your future.

Thank goodness for small favors

I had mentioned some time ago that heads were gonna roll at my company. Since then, I have been waiting rather impatiently for the first cranium to come spiraling out of The Sheriff's office. Unfortunately, I am still waiting. But we did get a bit of good news though.

The Sheriff called today to inform us that the employees of our paper and one of our sister publications will no longer report to The Vice-President but directly to him instead. This was music to our ears. None of the employees at either paper like The Vice-President. His character is questionable to say the least and lately the rumor mill has been churning out talk of financial misdealings. Regardless of the motivation behind this maneuver, I'm just glad we will be shielded from him to some extent. That should make our work life more bearable.

Quirky is as quirky does

During a recent phone conversation, I was basking in the unbridled adoration of my boyfriend, who was extolling my numerous lovable qualities. As he spoke, I could hear the faint sound of harps being gently plucked in the background, angels hummed in melodic unison and there was a golden glow emanating from above. My shower of praise was abruptly halted when he mentioned that one of his favorite things about me is that I am "slightly quirky."

When the words left his mouth, I am sure they were meant to be a compliment but by the time they had traveled through the hundreds of miles of fiber optic cable and bounced off a couple of satellites, it had been transformed into, "I love you but you are a grocery cart away from being that homeless woman who talks to herself and takes up residence in bus shelters." (This interpretation may very well be Exhibit A in the case against me.)

Whenever my friend P. and I would catch the shuttle to go see my favorite NBA team play, she would always remark that everyone on that bus was a weirdo, including me. I had always assumed she was joking so I never paid much attention to her comments but now I'm beginning to wonder. What is it about my personality that earns me the quirky label?

Admittedly, I have a rather strange taste in movies. After watching films like Happiness and The Piano Teacher, most of my sane friends usually hurl in disgust or at the very least go, "Huh?" I, on the other hand, revel in the dysfunction that is prevalent in these movies. That's not to say that I don't enjoy a good blockbuster. On occasion, I'll allow myself to be herded along with the masses into a theatre to watch the latest chick flick or action film. But I would much rather spend the majority of my entertainment dollars going to see Indie movies. And the sicker and more twisted the story line is the better.

According to The Boyfriend, I also have a penchant for making oddball comments, usually after noticing something that most people would simply ignore. It seems this skill manifests itself most often while watching television. Personally, I can't think of one thing I've said that fits into this category. Every comment I make seems normal and appropriate. To me. Of course the inability to recognize one's own weirdness may be the very definition of quirky.

Dictionary.com defines quirky as "strikingly unconventional". I like the sound of that. And it's a good thing too because I don't think I could be normal if I tried. Hell, I thought I was already being normal. How can I rid myself of the quirky aspects of my behavior if I have no idea what they are? So I've decided that if I can't buck the label, I might as well wear it like a badge of honor.

Besides, I've always been very fond of bus shelters.

I really need to stay away from Wikipedia.com

I was blog hopping on my lunch break today and came across the term "smegma". I had no idea what it was and decided to look it up at wikipedia.com. I discovered that there is not only a definition of smegma at wikipedia but a picture of the foul substance as well.

What kind of pervert accumulates this stuff, takes a picture of it and posts it to an online encyclopedia?

I think my bologna sandwhich is on its way back up.

Weird thing #7

I just thought of another thing to add to my six weird things about me post: I check all of your blogs obsessive compulsively several times a day or more.

For those of you who have site meters that keep track of such things, I'm certain this makes me look like some crazy stalker or, at the very least, like someone in desperate need of a life. I can assure you that the medication my doctor has me on keeps my stalker tendencies to a minimum. Consequently, I have a very full life.

I'm not crazy. I promise. I'm a normal person like you who just so happens to enjoy reading your blogs so much that I like to check back for updates or for new and interesting comments your readers leave. The only thing that separates us is the fact that I feel the need to do this incessantly.

There's no need to worry however. I'm told that once I've had the lobotomy followed up by a couple of rounds of electric shock treatment, I should be good to go.

Mail-order bride

It was late in the work day and I was having a conversation with one of my more. . .offbeat customers. It had been awhile (over a year) since I'd seen him. He stopped by the office just to chat.

"I'm getting ready to be on my third wife," he announces.

"Really?" I say.

"Yes, I've been talking to a Filipino woman over the Internet. Several of my friends are married to Filipino women and I thought I'd give it a try."

He proceeded to explain the reasoning behind his decision. (Let me preface this portion of the blog post by saying that the opinions and ideas listed below are not shared by the author. Some of the beliefs are offensive. Very offensive. But they are not, I repeat, NOT my own.)

According to Mr. Wacky Customer, who apparently had been doing some "research", marrying a Filipino woman that he hardly knows is a good idea because:

The divorce rate among white males and Filipino women is unbelievably low. Something like 1.5%, is what I think he said. "There's no way I can fuck this up," he concluded.

In addition, Filipino women are supposedly demure, which, according to my client's logic, is a characteristic that is most likely to reduce the friction that is so prevalent among American men married to American women, white American women in particular. It is Mr. Wacky's opinion that white women are the worst in terms of giving attitude.

This one was a bit of a shocker. Normally, it's me and my African-American sisters that get saddled with that stereotype. But Mr. Wacky Customer said he would much rather be married to a black woman than a white woman.

"I would LOOOOVE to find a black woman," he says, "I mean a BITCH of a black woman. I would prefer that to being married to a white woman. Both know how to go to war but they go about it differently."

Mr. Wacky also feels that a Filipino woman would be so grateful to leave her impoverished country that she would be extremely loyal and committed to him. And since women from the Philippines are used to surviving on so little, a Filipino wife would be inexpensive to maintain. Mr. Wacky thought this was perfect because, in addition to being wacky, he is a cheapskate to boot.

There was only one thing standing in the way of my client's master plan: his wife. Or should I say, estranged wife.

It's no surprise that she left him but she can't seem to let go completely. She refuses to go to counseling with him and resists the idea of reconciliation but she won't sign the divorce papers because she says she's still in love with him.

Truth be told, Mr. Wacky is still very much in love with his wife as well and can't bring himself to be the first to sign the divorce papers either. But he's tired of waiting.

"I haven't had sex in 564 days," he reveals.

He asked me what to do.

I told him that he should wait it out since it was obvious that he and his spouse still had feelings for each other. Until he could sign those divorce papers and feel good doing so, I advised him to continue pursuing reconciliation. He seemed amenable to the idea.

A half an hour into our conversation, at the exact moment he had finally come to grips with the prospect of staying with his wife, I could have sworn I heard Filipino women everywhere breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Happy Blogiversary to me!

Today marks the one year anniversary of my blog. I never would have thought I could have hung in there this long. And although my postings have been spotty as of late, I have no intention of stopping now.

I originally started this blog as a form of self-expression and as a way to improve my writing. Well, I've certainly got the self-expression part down. And although my writing flows more easily today than it did a year ago, there is still much room for improvement.

When you hit a milestone, sometimes it's good to go back and look at where you've been so you can have a better grasp on where it is you're going so I'm taking a look at some of my favorite posts from "the early days".

Men are nasty.
Could you please pass the KY?
The Dream Channel
Vibrators: a trashy woman's device?
A mind is a terrible thing to waste
100 Things About Me
Gremlins in the attic
An independent woman's guide to replacing your car headlight

A Yuletide Meme

Thanks to Kilroy for coming up with a Christmas-related meme and for thinking my answers might be interesting enough that he included me in a tag.

• Favorite seasonal movie. I went to a friend's house last week to watch Christmas movies. That experience made me realize that, in general, I am not a big fan of seasonal movies. I'm just not that nostalgic. I know, what kind of heartless Scrooge am I? If someone put a gun to my head and forced me to pick a Christmas movie to watch before I die, I guess I would pick "It's a Wonderful Life." Or maybe I'd tell them to go ahead and pull the trigger. I'm just that ambivalent about the whole thing.
• Song you enjoy most this time of year. This is an area where I am not so ambivalent. My favorite Christmas song is "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree." On the other hand, "Jingle Bell Rock" is nice too. So is "I'll be Home for Christmas." Oh, I can't pick just one.
• Holiday Greeting. Since Christmas is a religious holiday, I try to be respectful of others and say "Happy Holidays" unless I am certain of the other person's religious beliefs.
• Do you make a list? If so, how many people are on it? Yes, I usually make a list. The length of the list varies depending on my financial situation at the time. In general, it's a relatively short list. When I win the lottery, I'll make longer lists.
• How up to the last minute do you shop? I have a serious aversion to stress and I usually organize my life so that I experience as little stress as possible. To me, waiting until December 24th to shop is about as stressful as it gets. I don't wait until the last minute to purchase Christmas gifts. I don't start shopping in June like some people but I'm not a last minute person either.
• When do you open your gifts? As early as the giftgiver will let me. Watching an unopened present sit there and mock me for not being able to open it until Christmas Day is just plain torture.
• Holiday food you most savor? It's a toss up between cornbread dressing and sweet potato casserole. It's a travesty in my book to have one without the other.
• Favorite holiday book? Does the Williams-Sonoma catalog count?
• New Year Resolutions? I usually try not to make New Years resolutions because I always break them but I made a short list this year. Oh, I'm not going to reveal them here. If I don't tell anyone, maybe I'll actually have a snowball's chance in hell of keeping them.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

I'm sorry

I apologize to the faithful readers who comment here but haven't switched to Blogger Beta yet as you probably won't be able to post a comment on my blog. I was forced to switch to Blogger Beta against my will because I got tired of trying to comment on beta blogs and having access denied when I attempted to sign in. At first I thought it was just technical difficulties. Now I suspect it's a ploy to force bloggers on the old platform to make the switch. Nazis! To get around it, you may be able to post a comment anonymously, although even that trick quit working for me after awhile. I'd like to encourage the lone stragglers to give up the fight and convert your blogs to Blogger Beta. I completely understand though if you decide to dig in your heels. I'll support you in spirit.

Six weird things

Props to Steve for tagging me to reveal 6 weird things about myself. As I am often hailed for being the embodiment of all that is considered normal and healthy (not), this proved to be a difficult task but I gave it the old college try. Here goes.

• I have a fear of amusement rides. I'’m fine as long as the ride is spinning furiously while still on the ground but once that thing becomes airborne, I start behaving like I need to be contained by a straight jacket. That'’s normal, right?
• I put my name on my office supplies, making it easier to determine where my wrath should be directed if they come up missing. I don'’t label everything, just the things that send me into a tizzy if I reach for them and they are not there, like my pens and my post it notes. Nine out of ten psychologists agree that turning into a fire-breathing dragon is a totally appropriate reaction to finding out that one of my co-workers has rummaged through my desk and taken my stuff as if my workspace were the office supply closet. GET YOUR OWN DAMN PEN!
• I can'’t watch those real life crime shows. After watching an episode of Forensic Files, I spend weeks contemplating how long it would take the cops to find the serial killer that chopped my body up into Ziploc baggie size pieces and stored it in the freezer.
• I prefer to NOT have the toilet paper hanging from the toilet paper dispenser. To me, it'’s more practical and convenient to leave it on the bathroom counter. When I'’m sitting on the toilet in a dark bathroom at 3 o'’clock in the morning, the last thing I want to do is spend a lot of time searching blindly for the start of the toilet paper roll. I'’d rather quickly do my business so that I can get back to the dream involving me and a Jacuzzi full of Chippendale'’s dancers.
• After observing the hygiene habits of my fellow office dwellers (men and women alike), I'’ve come to the realization that the urge to wash my hands after every bathroom visit makes me unusual, a freak of nature that should be displayed at carnivals.
• I rarely watch TV shows that have actors and a plot. For some reason, I don'’t have the patience for those types of shows anymore. If the people on TV aren'’t dribbling a basketball, making a souffle or redecorating a room, I'’m not watching it.

Work is kickin' my ass!

I would go into detail but it would only bore you. Suffice it to say, due to the incredible amount of work I have been saddled with and the unreasonable deadlines I have been given in which to accomplish said work, GrizzBabe's Den will be on hiatus until the end of the week.

Settle down people! No need to write your congressman or anything. I know I've just dealt a serious blow to the blogging community but please. . . find a way to hold it together would ya'?

Vibrators and The Modern Male

My friend, Anita, conducted an unscientific poll among her male co-workers. She asked if they had any objections to their girlfriend or wife using a vibrator. The responses ranged from the caveman ("No. Not even if I'm on a business trip") to mild disapproval ("Well, only if I were there to use it on her.") The conclusion she drew from this experiment was that men do not want their women experiencing sexual satisfaction unless they are involved in the process.

I found this to be an interesting hypothesis and encouraged her to test it on my boyfriend when he came to town. While we were all out to dinner, she posed the question again. My boyfriend is fairly open-minded so I was not surprised when he responded that he had no problems with me using a vibrator. A few weeks later, he sings a slightly different tune.

I get a call on my cell phone from the boyfriend as I am on my way to a Bath Junkie party. Because he's a guy, I knew he had no clue what a Bath Junkie party was and I really didn't take the time to explain it to him. When I talk to him again later in the week he mentions that he was worried that the party I went to was a sex toy party. I asked if he didn't want me going to sex toy parties. He admitted that he would rather I go with him the first time I purchase a vibrator. I stifle a chuckle at the idea of him proving my friend, Anita, right, at least in part.

This whole thing has been very fascinating and has inspired me to conduct my own little survey, so here goes. Men (ladies feel free to offer your opinions too): Would it bother you if your woman used a vibrator? If so, what is it about the idea that does not sit well with you?

This is why I stay away from attics

My friend, S., came home one day, looked above her garage and saw that there was a big, gaping hole in her attic window. With a bravery that I can only aspire to, she headed upstairs, plastic garbage bag and tape in hand, and ventured toward the broken window while balancing herself precariously on a support beam. As she inched closer to the window, S. noticed a flock of bats peacefully dangling from the attic rafters. It was all very Bela Lugosi.

Although frightened, S. managed to keep her composure long enough to exit the attic without startling the bats. Once she was within the safe confines of her own living space, she calmly called a company that specializes in removing such critters. And then she had her window fixed.

I admire S. for her coolness under pressure and for her unflinching resolve to keep her emotions in check so that she could handle her business.

I, on the other had, upon noticing the bats, would have let out a blood curdling scream, thrown the garbage bag and tape in the air and went running in the opposite direction, forgetting that I am on a support beam. If my scream didn't wake the bats, my fall certainly would.

And if by some miracle I managed to avoid a Tippi Hedren like scene that ends with me dying a gruesome, rabies-induced death, my call to the critter company would prove to be very unproductive as the shock would reduce my verbal skills to something reminiscent of Phil Hartman's Frankenstein character making a 911 call.

"Uuhhh, uuuhhhh, uuuuuuuuhhhhhhh!"

And then, I would pass out.

Not the most effective way to get rid of bats.

The power of suggestion

I was standing in the snack aisle of the grocery store laboring over what kind of cookie to get to pack in my lunch box. I just couldn't make up my mind. Lemon Jumbles, Ginger Snaps, Pecan Sandies. So many choices, so little room left in my waistband.

After several minutes of pondering, I start to notice the demonstration lady planted at the end of the aisle. She is offering to everyone who passes by a sample of either pita chips or Ritz chips and finding no takers. Not only were people not stopping, they were not even acknowledging her presence. I stand in the cookie aisle for a few more minutes, finally make a selection and, out of pity, decide to try one of the demonstration lady's samples.

I pull my basket up to her table and grab a cocktail napkin full of Southwestern Ranch flavored Ritz Chips. I place a chip in my mouth and proclaim "These are really good!" with a surprised tone in my voice. Within seconds someone else tries the Ritz Chips. And then someone else. Soon her table is surrounded by taste testers.

After finishing my chips, I grab my basket and steer it away from the crowd. I look back at the demonstration lady and congratulate myself on a job well done.

Celebrity citing

I entered the baggage claim area for Northwest airlines. I was there to pick up a friend and I was a little early. I sauntered past a very attractive woman leaning against a support beam. I look at her for two seconds and recognize her immediately. It was Cameron Diaz. Even disguised with long black hair, I could tell it was her.

When my friend arrived, I instructed him to walk past the woman who was now sitting on a big, black suitcase and tell me if she indeed looked like Cameron Diaz. He did as he was told and reported back that she looked exactly like her but concluded it could not be her as she was sitting out in the open like some commoner. That didn't seem strange to me at all. There's something to be said for the effectiveness of hiding in plain sight.

Like everyone else, Cameron was there to pick up her luggage. Her carry-on was a brown Louis Vuitton. Her black suitcase looked like something I would own. I did think it odd that a celebrity of her status and fortune did not have matching suitcases. But maybe that was a tool of disguise. One could reason that a regular shmoe from Topeka probably couldn't afford to have an entire collection of designer luggage. This little detail might throw potential admirers off her trail.

Such trickery may fool imperceptive observers but you've got to get up pretty early in the morning to outfox my Sherlockian deductive skills. Scotland Yard has got nothing on me.