Over many years, I’ve heard a lot of jokes about women’s purses and refrigerators. Most involve the size or color, or capacity or whatever. But my wife’s purse and our fridge have certain curious physical properties that simply defy the laws of physics and logic on an almost daily basis.
To begin with, her current purse is a large blue bag that’s open at the top and features one small zippered pouch on the upper inside on one side. The rest is just a big (massive) open space with seemingly no obstacles to make finding things hard. The trouble usually begins with a simple request from her. “Honey, can you grab my phone?”
“Sure, where is it?”
“In my purse.”
Cue eerie, fear-inducing background music from a movie where the killer is about to jump out of said purse holding a bloody machete.
I slowly advance on the purse, leaning innocently against the cabinet on the floor. I reach carefully for the top and pull it open very carefully. OK, no killer popping out. Good first step.
I gaze into the impossibly dark interior and think of those magic bags Harry Potter and friends carry where they can tug a Cadillac Escalade out of a coin purse. Heck, even Mary Poppins managed to pull a coat rack out of her purse as I was reminded.
I pull the opening wider, to allow more light to enter, but, like a black hole, no light seems to penetrate past the first inch. I reach into the interior, feeling my way past the cosmetics bag, the iPad, the wallet, frying pan, rechargeable drill, chainsaw, potting soil — and try to find that smooth, bright red case.
No dice.
I reach for a flashlight and shine it into the inky blackness and still, the light can’t seem to make it past the low-hanging plants and palm trees. Finally, I call her phone from mine and follow the faint ring until I find it beneath a missing World War II B-25 at the lower right corner.
Why does whatever object you seek always migrate to a corner beneath an aircraft wing?
The other, even scarier request is for her keys. When it comes time to search for the keys, I don a miner’s helmet with a halogen lamp on top, slip into climbing gear, and slowly lower myself in.
It’s like a vast cross between a subterranean big-box store and a badly lit cave. I move things, listening for the distinctive key jingle, and finally find them just to the left of the lost Ark of the Covenant and to the right of Jimmy Hoffa.
The fridge is kind of the reverse issue. No matter how big a fridge you buy and how carefully you move things around, arrange them and fit them, the thing always appears full to bursting. And yet, no matter how much you empty out, eat, cook, consume, or dispose of, it never looks any emptier.
But, getting back to the purse, I have no idea how the purse or the fridge really do these odd things. The true irony is, when we’re out and about and you need something simple like a water bottle, tissue, lip balm or Band-Aid, they’re in the inventory and easily grabbed.
If she needs a lipstick or hairbrush she can find them without even looking. Seriously. How does that work? Radioactive tagging? GPS? Magnetism?
It’s like I said, a violation of the laws of physics as we know them. But then that works both ways.
Remember dinner from last night with that large pan of lasagna that you had to fit into the fridge in the space normally occupied by two small yogurt containers? And somehow you manage. Every time.
I realize these are truly First World problems and I respect that. But you’d think if we can deal with this stuff successfully, on a daily basis, we could come up with a way to travel faster than light, beam things from place to place, and elect an honest politician.
Well, maybe not the politician part; that really would be true science fiction.
Editor’s note: Michael Seinberg was last seen trying to fit two racks of leftover ribs into the nook normally reserved for butter in the fridge door. It worked.
I just saw a new study that indicates taking vitamins may increase your risk of developing cancer. Really. I also saw one that clearly shows no link between vaccinations and autism.
I also saw one that clearly shows that re-using plastic water bottles will cause you to develop cancer of the left nostril. There have been studies that show a link between marathon running and early death. Studies that link statin use to reduced and increased cancer risks.
There are even studies that show that reading too many studies can cause stress, which studies have shown can cause weight loss, weight gain, more stress, lack of sleep, which can cause weight gain and cancer.
Are you dizzy yet? Confused? That makes umm, well, all of us.
The problem with all these studies is that the way they’re reported causes almost as much trouble as they way they’re performed and interpreted. Here’s how it works.
First off, a (hopefully) legitimate scientist gets a grant to do a study on a subject. The scientist and his or her staff does the study over a period of time and then publishes a paper in a scientific journal that tells other researchers about the study, the methodology, and the results.
And finally, they note their conclusions based on the results. I worked for about 10 years with many scientists doing this type of thing, and they showed me their completed papers. And to be honest, I could not understand about 95 percent of what they were writing about. Really.
You see, scholarly papers are written for, and by, people with advanced degrees using terminology only understood by other people with advanced degrees. I think before you get a Ph.D., you have to take several highly secretive courses in obfuscation, obscure terminology, and just plain old BS.
So what does this have to do with the cancer-causing properties of kale? Look up one of those news stories. They usually say something like, “Researchers today announced a clear link between eating too much mint chocolate chip ice cream and increased risk of uvula inflammation in South Sea islanders, according to a study published in the journal Advanced Studies in Obscure Ice Cream Maladies.”
Having seen real scientific journals, I can say, with a fair degree of certainty, that most mainstream journalists (especially TV types) would not understand enough of a true journal article to be able to actually report intelligently on what the article said or means.
So, they wing it. Thus, we have reports of every sort circulating on TV and especially on the web, where editing is rare and oversight nonexistent. And then the TV types pick up the web reports and repeat them or even embellish them with some sort of local “expert” commentary.
If you really want honest scientific reporting, try The New York Times or a similar large media outlet with enough budget and staff to actually hire scientifically literate staffers who focus on science reporting, as they have actual scientific training. Beyond that, unless you can read a journal article yourself or have a friend who has a Ph.D. who can translate for you, you’re pretty much in deep trouble. As are we all.
But, beyond bad reporting of good research, there’s also bad research. Every once in awhile, you’ll hear a story that seems so in opposition to everything else, that you have to wonder where it came from.
This leads you to the world of commercially sponsored research. These are the sorts of studies cigarette makers used to commission to show no link between smoking and heart disease, lung cancer, oral cancer, throat cancer, and ummm, well, death.
Large corporations, hiding behind “charitable foundations” will quietly give researchers grants with a specific task in mind and then loudly trumpet the favorable results. Just remember the age-old axiom about statistics: They can be interpreted in such a way as to show pretty much any result you want.
So now we have questionable studies compounded by questionable reporting. So what do we, as health conscious people who worry about our uvulas, do to keep ourselves informed?
Well, I suppose the best advice is that, if you hear a report of a study that causes you concern, look up and find out the truth. That is, find out who did the study. Are they from a reputable institution? Where did the study get published? Maxim? Bad sign. Cell? Good sign.
And can you find a legitimate story about the study from a trusted news organization? You could even ask your doctor or another professional who would be qualified to actually understand and explain the study.
I know it sounds like a lot of work, but studies show that having real knowledge lowers stress, which other studies show makes us all much saner and live longer.
Editor’s note: Michael Seinberg says he is considering trying to get a grant to study how much misinformation negatively affects people without Ph.D.s. And their uvulas.
OK. Let’s all admit something together. We pay too much for our cellphones.
But, is this our fault? Are we just too stuck on unlimited texting or gigabytes of data? Can we simply not live without the ability to stream Netflix any time or any place we find ourselves with 30 free seconds and (gasp) nothing to do?
Well, strictly speaking, the world functioned quite well for a couple thousand years before cellphones were even invented. So, if you choose to have one, then you choose to pay what they ask; so I guess that makes it our/your fault.
But, if you dig a bit deeper, you’ll find that it’s actually a vast conspiracy between cellphone companies and that new math they’ve been teaching our kids for the past couple years.
I did extensive research for this column and found that, after checking with multiple major cellphone companies offering a vast array of plans and phones, I’ll still end up paying about the same no matter what I do. How is that possible? Doesn’t that violate multiple laws of math and physics?
Well, actually, yes, it does. See, the problem lies in the basic structure of cellphone services in the United States. In most of the world, you purchase your cellphone and then shop for a plan from a variety of providers.
Since there’s no phone subsidy, things are much more transparent. They’re also far more competitive. They also use the old math where 2+2=4. Yes, I know about the metric system in Europe, but this isn’t about that.
You see, your $199 iPhone 6 actually retails for about $650. Easy there, take a deep breath now. Yes, you are carrying a $650 phone.
The way the cellphone companies make their money on this odd $451 difference, is they charge an inflated amount for service to make up the difference over the roughly two-year life of the phone.
Want to see what I mean? If you have an old cellphone lying around, go to a cellphone store with it in hand. Ask what it would cost you to activate the phone on their service with no contract. Get that number, write it down (quick, before they change it!).
Now, walk into the store the next day and ask what it would cost to get the exact same service but with a $199 iPhone. Now, pick your jaw up off the floor. Seriously.
First, you’ll be stuck in a legally binding two-year contract with early termination fees that rival a car payment. Next, even though the service is identical, it will now cost more.
But here’s the really funny math part. If you figure the difference in plans, multiply it by 24, you will not likely come up with $451. No, it’s likely to be a whole lot more. Why? How? New math!
OK, you say, they can’t beat me. I’ll go get one of those plans at a big-box store where you pay a flat monthly fee for unlimited everything. OK, give that a try. Can you get any phone you want? No? Really? Imagine that.
Can you get a family plan? Sure, just buy as many of those plans as you need. What? It now adds up to the same amount you were going to pay the big guys? Oh no, more new math!
OK, you say. I’ll get a pay as you go plan with no contract and just buy minutes and data and texts as I need them — darn, more new math!
There is one very simple solution. Skip the cellphone and see how your life goes without one. Or, if you must have one, buy a clean used phone that just gets and makes calls and maybe does texting.
Activate it on a non-contract basis at the lowest possible level and only use it as needed. Skip the data, the smart phones, the roaming NFL feed and the constant Facebook and Twitter streaming and leave that for your computer.
Of course, I hear the string-and-two-tin-cans system is making a real comeback in certain circles. But there seems to be some issue over the monthly charge for string and tin can upgrades have been a problem too.
Editor’s note: Michael Seinberg is a cellphone user who will be off contract in July; he says the math still isn’t great.
Well, we have finally emerged from what everyone in the Northeast is calling the worst winter ever. That’s a subjective judgment, of course, but, since most of us live here and survived, I’ll pretty much agree 100 percent with that assessment.
But what made it so bad? Snow? Darkness? Cold? Overcast? Wind? Sure, they all contributed, but at the very heart of this darkness stands, (evil music swells), meteorologists.
According to a study I recently ran across, the top story across all media for the past year has been the weather. Seriously. Newspapers devoted more ink, TV more air, and the web more pixels to weather than any other subject, including Kim Kardashian’s backside (yeah, I was shocked, too). We, as a country, have simply become weather obsessed.
Look at the local TV stations and how they handle the weather. Each morning during the week, they start up around 5 a.m. and don’t end until nearly 10 a.m. Then they fire up again between 4 and 5 p.m. and blather on till around 7 p.m. before giving us a final dose in the 10 to 11 p.m. region.
During a standard news broadcast, they repeat the weather on the ones, tens, sixes, sevens, fours and on and on until, by the end of the 30-minute broadcast cycle (7 to 10 minutes of which are commercials), we have heard the forecast so many times we can repeat it in our sleep. But along the way, a funny thing happened. Our eyes glazed over.
I can’t count the number of times I have watched the weather repeat four or five times only to walk away and be unable to tell my wife what they said. I was so snowed under (pun intended) by fronts, low pressure, high pressure, Doppler radar, forecasting models, graphics, computers, and gleaming white teeth, that I was unable to actually understand whether it was going to do anything I should be worried about in the next 24 hours.
You know what they say, ”If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull****.” By the end of most weather broadcasts I needed hip waders.
As a writer and editor, what I did notice was word choice and tone. No matter the actual nature of the forecast, we were treated to doom, gloom, and portents that would have sent Nostradamus running for the Prozac.
Last year, it was polar vortexes that would leave us in a new ice age and this year it was Artic highs that had even politicians keeping their hands firmly stuffed in their own pockets. If there was a way to sensationalize, scare, freak out, worry, or cause a mad rush on milk, bread, and eggs, these folks found a way to push it over the top.
And let’s not get into the endless record-setting snowstorms that, even when they missed us, bumped up grocery store stocks a minimum of 10 points. I know that Eskimos are said to have many words to describe snow, but, after this year, most folks in the Northeast have just as many; though the majority can’t be repeated in a family newspaper.
When you get down to brass tacks, this was a long, cold, snowy, rough winter that just never seemed to want to end. Those of us who were born and raised in this region know that’s just par for the course, so why was it so much worse this year?
Like I said, it was because we were told, multiple times, on a daily basis, that it was. So was it really? Or did we all just succumb to what amounts to a mass media campaign obviously paid for by Florida to encourage mass migration south?
Objectively, I’ve survived colder winters, snowier ones, and every other combination. But this one just felt longer, darker, and colder, but then maybe that’s because, after slightly over half a century, I’m just plain tired of it.
My lovely, and very upbeat wife claims that the secret is to learn to embrace the winter just like I embrace summer. I do cross-country ski and I’m learning to snowshoe also.
I like walking outside all year and have even been known to bicycle in the snow too (with a mountain bike). But when it’s 12 degrees and 30 below with the wind chill and there’s enough ice on the sidewalks to play hockey, the only thing I’m going to embrace is my pellet stove.
Yes, I know that you can go out in any weather with the right clothing, but, frankly, I don’t see a NASA spacesuit with crampons as really feasible for standard daily wear.
So what to do? Well, we went to the gym on days when we just couldn’t get outdoors to work out. I read lots of books and watched lots of movies, too.
I spoke to the cats a great deal but tried to make sure it didn’t get to the point where it was a two-way conversation. I made sure to get as much sleep as possible, turn on my SAD [seasonal affective disorder] light each day and tried not to look at too many pictures of beaches because it would have just been too much of a tease.
We did go to Florida for a few days in February, but, of course, it was the week that Florida experienced record cold (30s to 50s). We wore our shorts and kind of quietly laughed at the Floridians in their down jackets but, truth was, we had one day of truly decent weather and the rest was just OK.
Still, a vast improvement over what we left, but more tease again. And, of course, the airwaves down there were awash in apocalyptic weather forecasts due to the unusual cold. The citrus crop was threatened, people were rushing to cover delicate plants, and, of course, there was a run on bread and milk.
Today the sky is gray and the snow and ice are pretty much gone. Trees are budding, grass is greening (is that a word?), and flowers are blooming. We made it through another one. Barely. And according to the forecast, we should be worried about flash floods, lower than normal temps and high winds. Better stock up on bread and milk.
Editor’s note: Michael Seinberg is a longtime weather watcher due to his participation in outdoor sports that he says work better when the world isn’t ending; he may start just taking his chances instead of watching any more weather.
— Photo by Mike Seinberg
Cat and mouse: Sylvie contemplates helping Mike Seinberg with his work.
— Photo by Mike Seinberg
Indoor cats are riveted on a view of the outdoors. From left, Nibbler, Lemon, and Silvie gaze intently through the glass door at Mike Seinberg’s yard.
Well, it’s been a year now since we took in five hungry cats from behind the plaza here in Altamont. Since that time, three have gone on to other homes, our aging dog went to the great field in the sky, and we’ve added a third furry terrorist to the mix in the form of Sylvie.
As you may remember, we kept Lemon, a large yellow and white male, and Nibbler, a very petite female calico. For a long time, they were best buds and spent their days ignoring the dog, eating house plants, and letting us know, in no uncertain terms, that they were in charge and it was our job to feed them, clean their kitty boxes, and keep them entertained.
“Wield that laser pointer, pink person!” you could hear them saying.
And then things changed.
My son, in his infinite wisdom, went out and bought a kitten. He and his girlfriend named her Sylvie and we only found out about it later, after she’d been in his room a few days.
He told us in his inimitable style: “Dad, you’re going to kill me, but….”
No murder ensued and the tiny little furball was truly very sweet. Fast forward to he and his girlfriend moving out to Seattle and then onto Arizona and, of course, we end up with three cats. Thus is life with cats and kids.
Anyway, so now we have the house to ourselves unless you count the three mouseketeers who have taken up residence in our son’s empty room and spend their days sleeping, eating, playing, and trying to run the house. Around 3 or 4 a.m., they’ll subtly suggest it’s a good idea that we get up and open a can of cat food for them. (I can just hear them, “Damn our lack of opposable thumbs!”)
They usually do this by jumping on and off the bed, the dressers, our bladders, knocking over things, meowing or using our bed as a scratching post. After a bladder attack, someone usually gets up to deal with that issue and, if we’re lucky, the intrepid food beasts follow us out of the bedroom.
Then the half-asleep person starts to head down to the kitchen, and then doubles back, closing the door and locking them out till the proper wakeup time of 5 a.m.
“Help” at work
Now if you think mornings are interesting, you should see work time around the house (since I work from home). Sylvie, in particular, has taken it upon herself to be a supervisor to all activities that take place.
I’m not sure why she feels the need to help me replace the door-closing mechanism on a screen door, but she is right there in the middle of it all. I figure she probably has her sights set on learning to use power tools. Instead of running off when I fire up the power screwdriver/drill, she gets up close and personal with it, to the point where she gets dangerously close to getting tightened or loosened.
If I’m working at my computer, she’ll climb up my chair, over my shoulder, down my arm and onto the desk, hitting the keyboard and eyeing the mouse suspiciously. She has not yet attempted to write anything coherent, though she does sometimes look a bit askance at my prose.
When I was washing windows the other day she seemed fascinated by the rags and probably would have grabbed one and dragged it off for some nefarious purpose. Alas, I think the smell of ammonia caused her to back off and content herself with just general supervision.
If I’m working on my jewelry bench and repairing a watch or something, I have to make very sure to put things away lest they get added to Sylvie’s growing collection of shiny objects. At the moment, I’m still missing a formal ladies’ watch suitable for evening wear but I haven’t seen her sporting it yet. Perhaps she’s waiting till she has the right dress to go with it.
Management
If Sylvie is into the work scene, Lemon has taken on the mantle of leisure director. If I’m sitting at the kitchen table watching TV, he’ll hop up and sprawl out right in front of me, strongly suggesting I do some serious neck and ear scratching if I know what’s good for me.
At meal times, he’s been known to stealthily reach up from a chair to whatever we’re serving in order to taste and approve our dietary choices. Very thoughtful guy is our Lemon.
Of course, when it’s their mealtime, the three of them alternately hop on and off the counters, table, meow loudly (“Open that can faster, pink person!”) or wander between the legs of the feeder. I figure it’s an attempt to trip them and cause extra food to go flying everywhere.
And finally, overseeing local wildlife management is Nibbler, who loves to sit in windows and watch the local squirrels, chipmunks, birds, and other livestock do their thing. I’m not sure if she’s creating a shopping list for future meals or just doing a census, but the one time a squirrel came close to her near the back door (there was a glass window between them), she nearly ran through a table leg getting away.
So there you have life with the three furry terrorists. I’m sure they see themselves as vastly superior to us in all ways but dependent nonetheless due to that pesky opposable thumb issue.
Most of the time, they seem pretty content to run the house and sleep the rest of the time. But now and again, they get a certain look in their eye that would indicate they’d like to get into the great outdoors and take up their rightful mantle as masters of the universe.
We, on the other hand have decided to keep them indoor kitties for health and sanity reasons. Our vet concurs and we recently got a very nice thank-you note from the Local 327 Brotherhood of Squirrel and Chipmunk Nut Gatherers.
So for now, things are reasonably peaceful among the furry ones. Oh wait, I just heard a crash….
Editor’s note: Michael Seinberg is a lifelong dog owner who says he now spends his days cleaning cat hair off his keyboard and defending the houseplants; the cats indicate these are pointless activities.
It’s now been a few months since the great kitty rescue debacle, and things have settled to some degree. Of course, we are now learning just how interesting it is to live with two young cats that spent their formative years Dumpster diving and avoiding humans.
First off, we learned that cats are not like dogs. I mean not even close. They might both be four-footed mammals, but that’s as far as it goes and I think the cats generally deny being four-footed or mammals. I have the distinct impression they see themselves as equal to humans, but smarter and more god-like in some ineffable manner.
On a daily basis, living with two cats involves a couple of new tasks not in any way connected with previous dog experience.
First is feeding. Every morning and at about 4 p.m. every afternoon, our otherwise quiet cats turn into loud, pushy furry vacuums in search of wet cat food. They constantly revolve about our feet as we try and move from the cabinet where their cans are stored to the counter where we open and put the stinky mush into bowls for them. The minute the can pops open, they go into hyper-drive and start literally climbing the cabinets and attempting to trip us in a rush to get to the now-accessible food.
Once the food is in the bowls, getting it to the floor involves a balancing act that makes tight-rope walking look easy. I kind of wonder if their secret desire is to cause us to trip, fall, drop the food, and knock us unconscious, allowing them instant access to spilled food and our tender body as a dessert item.
Once the food has been served, silence descends as they attack the food with a vengeance that is normally reserved for cheetahs that have just felled an antelope. Feeding the dog involves putting dry food in the bowl and walking away. The dog wanders over and eats when she feels like it, or when the cats have stopped sneaking in and eating her food.
And immediately following the food insanity is the litter box.
Cat people always say that cats are very clean and fastidious little people. They seem so on the surface, but anyone who has lived within a two-mile radius of a kitty box will attest to the fact that they may be clean, but their waste products reek!
It takes a covered, filtered box filled with scented, clumping litter and multiple cleanings per day to keep our house from smelling like a landfill on a hot August afternoon just after a delivery of rotted fish guts and a tanker full of raw sewage.
Suffice it to say that, in comparison, the dog is a paragon of poop virtue.
Another area we learned about is the sheer destructiveness of cats. Yes, I know that stories of dogs chewing things up are legion, but having a tiny, aging, mostly toothless Chihuahua as the only canine rep in the house doesn’t really do much on that score.
To cats, any object is a toy and the ability to knock it over, tear it to shreds, toss it around, and spread it through the house is considered good sport. Thus, I have watched in awe as they destroy whole houseplants, knock useful items to the floor, bat around wood pellets like they’re the best toy ever invented, and get weird and wild on catnip-filled mice.
Watching two cats play and romp is very entertaining but you have to wonder what they’re really practicing for. Some books and articles suggest it’s their hunting behavior, which would be fine except the only thing for them to hunt in the house is the aforementioned geriatric Chihuahua and the humans.
Perhaps they’re in training to get outside and kill small animals. But we don’t plan on letting them out due to their history and only slightly civilized behavior. Besides, the rescue groups suggest keeping them as indoor beasts and we’re going with that.
In general, the kitties are a nice addition to the house (though the dog would argue that point) and we’re pleased they seem happy and healthy. But you have to admit that they sometimes get a certain gleam in their eye that suggests ulterior motives to their behavior.
I remember the sort of damage Toonces the cat who could drive used to do on Saturday Night Live and I know my insurance company would not take kindly if these two got hold of my keys. But for now, all seems well. So, has anyone seen the dog recently? Uh oh.
Editor’s note: Michael Seinberg describes himself as a long-time animal fan and lifelong dog person, and says he whole cat thing is still being taken under advisement.
About an hour ago, a small calico kitten named Nibbler was sitting on my desk, looking at me. She was obviously considering whether or not to kick me off my computer and go online to look for cat videos on YouTube.
Another cat named Lemon was sitting at my jewelry bench across the office, also watching me and wondering why I wasn’t busily opening a can of cat food for him or cleaning his litter box.
Meanwhile, my sometime co-author Minnie, the now almost 15-year old Chihuahua, was asleep on our bed, oblivious to the feline machinations.
So how did I come to have cats in my office? No, I didn’t forget to close the back door. It’s way weirder than that and involves traps, strays, cat people, and the Dumpster behind the Chinese restaurant.
Sometime in late October, my wife and I were taking our evening walk when we noticed a kitten behind the Chinese restaurant. We explored further and discovered she had friends.
We started out just leaving a few cat treats for them and then we moved up to feeding them. Finally, with winter approaching, my kind-hearted wife started worrying about what would happen to them when it got cold.
They were moving from an abandoned barn across the railroad tracks to the hot-air vent at the Laundromat, but that was obviously not going to cut it once it got really cold. So, being an occasionally smart guy, I called Animal Control.
They don’t do cats. Really. Just dogs, and rabid things and stray politicians I guess.
I called a few cat organizations and was pretty much told the inn was full. So finally, Happy Cats, a nice agency over in Voorheesville said, if we could catch them and hang onto them for a bit, they could find homes for them. Not a big deal right? Oh, so wrong.
Happy Cats loaded my car with three Havahart traps, two good-sized crates, and instructions. Within two days, we had five semi-wild kittens in our living room, eating, meowing, and pooping in pretty much that order.
Now what? I contacted a few other agencies, including the wonderful folks at Whiskers and Guilderhaven.
Next stop, the vet. Using a couple borrowed carriers, I managed to get all five to the vet for checkups, shots, and tests. We now had three crates, five cats, medications, and enough cat food to feed them for awhile.
Then I got a call from the vet that they needed more meds over the following week. That equaled two syringes full of icky tasting liquid per cat per day. Seriously. After an insane session of holding struggling cats, and watching meds fly everywhere (it was very fetching as a hair product), we started mixing it in with food, which mostly worked.
Then began the daily insanity of taking care of Caramel, Nibbler, Lemon, Harry, and Demon Kitty for almost two months. It literally took from Nov. 5 until almost Jan. 1 before the final kitty was adopted/fostered and we were left with the two I already mentioned.
The house is now free of crates, we’re down to one litter box, and there seem to be cat toys everywhere I look. I think cat toys must breed and multiply at night.
This is not my first rodeo. I’ve had a cat or two in my past, but never mildly domesticated kittens. To these guys, each and every object in the house is either for playing with, scratching, biting, or eating (including the aforementioned dog).
They climb better than mountain goats with crampons and eat like starving hyenas. They’re rather comical, very strange, and have the same number of mood swings as a menopausal human woman.
So now, three months after the initial discovery with two more mouths to feed, I realize that no good deed goes unpunished.
If we had to do it over again, would we? Knowing what we do now? Not likely. But, thanks to the fine folks who helped us, all the kitties are safe and warm, healthy, and out of the cold.
So that’s what we’ve been up to for the past couple of months. Nibbler and Lemon are nice people and once they and Minnie reach some sort of agreement on sharing territory, I think things will be OK. In the future, we’ll be leaving animal rescue to professionals or people far crazier than we are.
Editor’s note: Mike Seinberg, a lifelong dog fan and animal lover in general, says, as a rule, he prefers animals to people.
He recommends to everyone who can, to support Happy Cat, Guilderhaven, and Whiskers either financially, as a volunteer or by adopting an animal, and says these are great organizations run by dedicated people trying to do the right thing.
“Recalculating.” How can one word contain so much condescension, and negativity and yet seem so non-threatening in print?
Well, in print you don’t have a glob of plastic and glass with a glowing screen yelling it at you in a tone that utterly drips with derision. Yes, I’m talking about the GPS unit in your car and, if you have one, you know what I mean.
In roughly the last 10 years, the global positioning system has gone from a luxury item for truckers and yacht owners to a cheap, readily available device now seen in almost every car, on motorcycles, and even on long-distance bicycles. It’s sort of like an iPod with a really bad attitude and only one useful app.
I was curious about how we now find ourselves terrorized in our own vehicles by a device that was originally intended to help us. Oh yeah, that’s what they said about computers, too.
Anyway, I did a little research and found that GPS was developed back in 1973, based on older 1960s’ technology. The Department of Defense was looking for a better method of navigation and it eventually came up with a system of 24 orbiting satellites that became fully active in 1994. It was eventually updated and is now at the GPSIII stage.
But back before all the nasty voices and touch screens, how did we get around? Well, I dimly recall paper maps, compasses, and checking the innards of road kill.
We then graduated to printing out detailed step-by-step directions from places like Yahoo and Mapquest and finally, we arrived at the age of GPS where all we do is type in the address of our destination and press go.
From that point, we simply turn into drooling goobers breathlessly awaiting the next dictate from The Direction Mistress (as I refer to her).
But all is not well in the land of The Direction Mistress. Disturbing stories have begun to surface of people getting lost due to wrong directions; people driving into bodies of water or off cliffs, all at the behest of those little electronic navigators.
And that led me to wonder if something more sinister was afoot. Let’s remember that GPS was originally developed as a government project and built by the lowest bidder.
What if that bunch of orbiting satellites got nasty on us? What if they started talking amongst themselves and decided if we couldn’t even find our way around without their help, then maybe they should do something about it. And guess what? The United States isn’t the only country with such satellites in orbit.
The Russians have had the GLONASS system up and running all along and now systems from the European Union, India, and China are planned if not already operating. So here we have all these orbiting devices talking to all these ground-based devices and I’m beginning to wonder if they’re not plotting to keep us all lost on purpose.
I’ve personally been sent on wild goose chases by my GPS on multiple occasions and mine has supposedly endlessly updated maps. All I do is plug it into my computer and it downloads and installs the latest and greatest road maps for all of the U.S. and Canada.
Or does it? Does every update really just download the latest software update, or does the evil mother ship make the voice nastier, the maps less accurate, and the underlying hardware more evil?
All I know is that I’ve had three GPS units in the past 10 years and each one has gotten meaner, less accurate, and more snotty. I’m at a point now where I’m thinking seriously of dusting off the paper maps that have been sitting in my car in a bin under the passenger seat, getting out a compass, and brushing up on my road-kill innards divining skills.
I’m sure many people would suggest I’m just being paranoid, but I’ve seen enough sci-fi movies to not trust technology. I mean, how much can you trust a device that, no matter what voice you choose, it still says “recalculating” in a way that makes you think it’s really saying, “How dare you question my directions, you imbecile!? You’re lower than snail snot and have all the directional ability of a blind cave fish! Now get back on course before we drive over a cliff!” Oops.
Editor’s note: Michael Seinberg says he actually has all the directional ability of a blind cave fish; just ask his wife. However, he is starting to look at maps again.
I’ve been noticing lately that certain members of our population have taken to wearing very large sunglasses. Now, I mention this out of real concern for both national security and horrible fashion crimes.
I’m not really sure where the whole giant-sunglasses trend started but I suspect it was in the pages of very thick European fashion magazines. Those are the glossy bricks that feature pictures of models that look more like alien creatures than humans and that’s what really tipped me off. Now, stay with me.
What if a race of highly intelligent aliens was really interested in our planet? But, due to their appearance, felt they couldn’t really walk among us safely, as we’d all freak out and attack them on sight.
See, they look pretty much like us, except for huge reptilian eyes and a taste for fresh kale. Both are obvious tip-offs that they’re not human. I mean kale? Really?
In order to come here and get our kale, they had to make the stuff seem healthy or popular so eating it wouldn’t make people pay attention. I figure they covered this by quietly sending mind-to-mind messages to health nuts the world over to like kale.
I mean how else would you explain the sudden popularity of a leafy vegetable that resembles green leather and needs to be massaged with oil or cooked to be edible?
But the huge reptilian eyes were a bigger issue.
Then they got hold of a copy of European Vogue, looked at the ad for Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, and had their eureka moment. They sent further brainwash messages to eyeglass designers to start enlarging sunglasses until they were big enough to basically allow a wearer to rob a bank in a pair and be utterly unrecognizable.
They also mentally suggested using lots of old pictures of Sophia Loren and Jackie Kennedy from the ’50s and ’60s to further bolster the new retro-chic, huge sunglass kick and they were off.
So does that mean that every person you now see wearing huge sunglasses is an alien looking to eat your kale? Very likely.
I mean logically, why would a normal-looking human being want to wear sunglasses so huge, ungainly, and ugly that their own parents wouldn’t recognize them?
I’m not talking about those wrap-around visors some seniors wear over prescription glasses. They’re scary, but they have a specific purpose.
No, we’re talking about “fashion” sunglasses here. These monstrosities, when genuine, cost more than my first car and could block not just UV radiation, but pretty much the entire visible spectrum of light. When I see people driving in these, I seriously wonder if they’re actually asleep, as you’d never be able to tell, so impenetrable are these lenses.
But most of these fashion crimes are made worse by the fact that the glasses in question are actually cheap knock-offs that offer about as much eye protection as a tissue stained with weak tea. If you really want to protect your eyes, as eye doctors now suggest, then huge, ugly cheap fake sunglasses may not be your best bet.
I mean, they’ll hurt your eyes and make it likely you’ll be mistaken for an alien and grabbed by Homeland Security types. And, if they catch you eating kale, then I’d say you’re pretty much alien toast.
If you want to protect your eyes, go to a nice store, buy some real sunglasses that cover your eyes, not up to your hairline, and wear them outside when it’s bright.
Wearing them 24 hours a day, seven days a week just proves you’re an alien life form. Why else would you do such a thing? Fashion by nature is very silly and looking in Vogue proves that by about the fourth page.
Would a normal human being really go to the mall or out to dinner wearing skin-tight, leopard-print leggings; a leather skirt cut three millimeters below your naughty bits; heels high enough to cause nosebleeds; topped off by a $900 cotton T-shirt and $3,000 sunglasses? Oh yeah, and without anything underneath but a thong constructed of dental floss and a single cotton ball? That’s fashion.
So, to the aliens, I say: Take the kale and go in peace but please brainwash the fashionistas back to where a simple pair of Ray-Bans will suffice. If you don’t act soon, the sunglasses will start to look like a full-face motorcycle helmet with a smoked shield by this time next year. And I won’t even get into the issue with the dreaded “helmet hair.”
Editor’s note: Michael Seinberg says his fashion sense (if you can call it that) includes jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. In other words, he never left the late ’70s.