Playing the Dividend Game

Mac Mail just pinged me. Digging through the pile of open application windows on my PowerBook's crowded 14-inch screen, I click my In-box and find a newly arrived electronic missive from my pals at REI, proclaiming "Your Dividend is Here!"

Nifty.

This year, it seems, I've earned $344.97 in Monopoly money that I can... (wait, what does the email say?) "...turn into sweet gear at REI.com, REI-OUTLET or any REI store!" (Yes, it actually says "sweet gear." Excuse me a moment while I stick my finger in my mouth to simulate gagging.) As in years past, REI encourages me to apply my accumulated wampum toward the purchase of any of the enticing goodies in their plentiful stock of truly-essential, pseudo-essential and utterly-non-essential outdoor gear. Furthermore, they offer the usual 20% discount on any single, full-priced item I buy with my dividend, between now and March 30th, excepting a longish list of things for which one would actually appreciate receiving a 20% discount -- namely: bicycles, boats, GPS units, two-way radios, phones, snowboards, skis, ski boots, ski bindings and (get this) sale items with prices ending in the digits "3" or "9." I've never really understood that last condition, but I have this vision of the guys at REI headquarters sitting around their conference table, snickering and making jerk-off motions with their hands as they dreamed up these exemptions.

Seven years ago, shortly after I drank Power-Ade and danced naked under the full mood to sanctify my apostleship within the REI cult, I was very excited to receive my first dividend notice. Because of my novitiate status and general ignorance surrounding the whole REI credit card gimmick, that initial dividend was a modest $80 or so. I used it to purchase a pair of fisherman's sandals that I now cannot wear because they are jinxed with evil-ex-boyfriend hoodoo. (Long story. Not worth repeating, but just suffice it to say that bad things happen to me when I wear them and it's all the Auzzie Wanker's fault. I would give the sandals away to Good Will, but I don't want to be responsible for some horrible Monkey's Paw kind of scenario befalling the innocent stranger who would unsuspectingly purchase the footwear without noticing the faintly perceptible overhanging dark cloud.)

During my second year of REI membership, the Great VISA Wizard granted me a magical plastic card, emblazoned with the REI Coat of Arms, which gave me special powers that dramatically increased my annual dividends. Since then, I've managed to net an average of 350 clams per year -- free, in my pocket, courtesy of REI. (Suckers!) This magic card is a wonderful thing. Not only does it entitle me to a 5% rebate on all the REI crap I buy, it also makes those purchases count toward my annual dividend, and (here's the beauty part) when I use it to buy non-REI stuff, the Great Wizard contributes 1% of the purchase price toward my dividend.

Now, you may be scoffing, "Pfft! One-percent? That's piddle." But muffle your cynicism for a moment and consider this: if you forsake all other forms of currency and use the magic card to charge your day-to-day purchases -- groceries, gasoline, Bosch power planers, lacy black and pink bra and pantie sets and the occasional dinner with Cute Gym Guy (just to name a few random examples) -- I'm telling you, that those little dribs and drabs of piddle add up and before you know it, you've got yourself a big ol' bucket of piddle. And who among us couldn't use a big ol' bucket of piddle?

Of course, there is a catch. The Great VISA Wizard's henchmen at US Bank charge usurious interest on any balance you carry -- I think the going rate these days is something like a million percent. So if you're stupid enough to fall for the old minimum-payment-due scam, you loose big time and the US Bank guys get to make humping motions over your bill before they drop it into their outgoing mail box. But not my bill. I am what they in the credit card industry call a dead-beat. I foil their money-grubbing skulduggery by paying my balance, on time and in full, every month. This means that not only does US Bank make nothing off me, but they actually loose money on my account by contributing quite a bit of 1%-piddle to my REI dividend -- with gritted teeth I'm sure. Because I am well-mannered and ladylike, I refrain from making humping motions over my payment envelope before I drop it into my outgoing mail box. Instead, I smirk. No doubt, mine is the photo with horns, blackened teeth and a mustache that hangs in the US Bank lunch room and is used for spit wad target practice.

This year, for the first time, I find myself regarding my dividend with what could best be described as measured enthusiasm. I think the problem is that I've pretty much bought everything I need from REI, as well as much of what I merely want from them. (As an aside, please note that need and want are really just different points along the same continuum. Want can easily become need when properly rationalized. You've simply got to know how to frame your argument, as in: "I want to buy another North Face jacket because when the one I already have wears out, I will need to replace it.")

My past years' rebates have gone toward Thermarests, hiking boots, a backpacking tent, climbing gear, bear canisters, down jackets, a down sleeping bag, backpacker's stoves, titanium cook-wear, hiking poles, sunglasses, binoculars and various dorkifying head lamps. Having already purchased all the truly-essential and quite a bit of the pseudo-essential gear required for my chosen outdoor pursuits, I have thus arrived at the point where I'm actually half-considering buying that French-press attachment for making coffee in my wide-mouth Nalgene water bottle, as well as the soccer ball that doubles as an ice-cream maker, and the collapsible titanium chop-sticks (invented by those clever folks at SnowPeak, presumably, because the regular bamboo chop-sticks you get for free with any Asian-food take-out order -- the same ones that accumulate, nay procreate, inside your kitchen's junk drawer, along with packets of soy sauce and wasabi -- are so inordinately cumbersome that light-weight backpacking enthusiasts require the higher-tech version, at a modest $24.95 per pair).

As it stands, I am so well kitted-out for climbing and backpacking that I might just need to embark upon some new sport that requires an entirely novel gear inventory, toward which I can apply my dividend. But since REI doesn't sell scuba equipment, or hang-gliders, and since kayaking and ice-climbing terrify me, and I'm too agoraphobic to tolerate down-hill ski crowds, too polite to take up snowboarding, too spastic for mountain-biking and too fond of my knees to subject them to trail-running, I find myself at a loss for inspiration. So, I guess I'm stuck with the default alternative, which is to wait until July and request my dividend in the form of a check. I just need to execute enough self-control to resist the call of the North Face jackets until then. Not easy. They're awfully nice jackets. Especially that cute Chinese Red Convertible Vedder Jacket, which also comes in black and Groto Blue, and has thumb loops! Oh my God, it has thumb loops! (I'm such a sucker for thumb loops.) It's only $99.00. Factoring in my 20% discount and tax, I could get all three colors and still have... (Ouch! Math headache!)... $43.51 left. Wow! It's almost like REI would be giving me three jackets for free!

And that, boys and girls, is how you play the dividend game. (Or, rather, how it plays you.)

It's Also a Spider Thing

When I die, hopefully many... many, many, many... (one more for good luck?) many years from now, and go where ever it is that semi-obedient Catholic girls go after they've hung up their plaid uniform skirts for the last time, I fear that I shall find waiting for me the souls of all 479,938-plus spiders that I have killed over my life time. (Yes, I keep count. ) I envision them mobbed together on some hereafter street corner, like a gang of West-Side-Story thugs, heavily clad in denim and leather, with battered black Converse high-top sneakers, greased-back hair, pocket combs and bad-ass attitudes. Cigarettes hang from their sneering lips as they watch me through malicious, squinting eyes and subtly brandish their arsenal of pipes, chains and nail-studded two-by-fours, all the while taunting me with menacing catcalls:

"Hey chicky, chicky, chicky..."

"Who's afraid of spiders, chicky, baby?"

"Not so tough without your wad of toilet paper, are you, sweetness?"

"Wanna come play with us... girly-girl?"

"C'mon, we don't bite... (hee, hee, hee). Boo!"

For the record: I am not afraid of spiders. (Did you hear that, you creepy little bastards? I'm not afraid of you! I just hate you.) HATE, with a capital "H" followed by an "A" and a "T" and an "E," and that spells "hate," which is what I feel concerning spiders. Have I made myself clear?

I hate their weirdly segmented bodies. I hate their wiggly, bitey mouth parts. I hate their bulbous abdomens and their spindly legs. I hate the way they discard disgusting little bug mummies all over my window sills. I hate that they string webs across my front door at night, so that I get a face full of invisible silly-string every morning as I dash out of the house to catch the 7:58 train. I hate how the sick little degenerates think it's cool to inject their prey with digestive venom, then wait for the innards to liquefy and suck them out like some macabre insect smoothie. (Really, that's just gross.) And most especially, I hate the way they scurry. I'd likely have no problem with them if they didn't scurry; if they ambled, say, or sauntered or moseyed. But they've always got to scurry: out from under a pile of books; along the corner of the ceiling; into the stack of pillows on my bed; over the folds of my lap blanket as I sit (minding my own freakin' business, thank you) on my sofa, watching a movie. I mean, Geezus! Can you blame me?

Yeah, I know they eat up all the disease-carrying, crop-blighting pests, and they're God's creatures, and they have a rightful place in the circle of life blah, blah, blah... But when last I checked, my house was largely free of dengue-fever mosquitoes and locust swarms. So I am, hereby, issuing the following edict to all the eight-legged life forms that currently squat, unwelcome and unbidden, within the four walls for which I pay the monthly mortgage bill:

My house. Not yours. Get out!

You may be interested to know that Spider No. 479,938 met his untimely demise last night, when I returned home to find him out for a stroll across my kitchen wall. He wasn't hard to spot -- yellow wall, brown spider -- one of those pilose, stocky, unattractive European house spiders that have a noteworthy penchant for unwarranted scurrying. When I stepped into the room and flicked on the light, he scurried three feet up the wall, then froze. I could almost hear him whisper to himself, "Shit! She's home. Wa'do I do?"

"Nice," I said aloud. "I suppose because you've stopped moving, you think I can no longer see you."

"It's what they taught us to do in spider school."

"Yeah, well that might work on things like tree trunks and leaf piles, but your big hairy butt is planted in the middle of a blank, yellow wall. Not exactly stealth."

"I know. Unfortunately, our curriculum didn't cover yellow walls."

"Mmm. Sucks to be you. Well, tell you what, I'm going to the bathroom to get a wad of toilet paper. I'll be back in about a minute. Either come up with a plan, right quick, or start your Hail Marys. If you choose the latter, I'd suggest putting extra emphasis on the '...now and at the hour of our death' part."

"Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!"

"No, it starts, 'Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.' Carry on. Back in a sec."

"I thought you said a minute."

"Figure of speech. Sue me."

When I returned with the toilet paper, Spider No. 479,938 was precisely where I had left him. From what I could decipher in his mutterings, he had finished with "Hail Mary" and moved on to "O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee..." which was when I squashed him -- cut off, even in the full blossom of his sin (as one fabled Danish Ghost so eloquently put it). That reminds me: the other thing I hate about spiders is the way their bulbous abdomens make that popping sound when you flatten them inside a wad of toilet paper.

The toilet paper methodology is not my only means of adiós-ing spiders, but it has generally proved most trenchant across the spectrum of time and circumstance. (Incidentally: paper towels, paper napkins, Kleenex -- just as good.) When disposing of very large spiders, however, the abdomen popping thing borders on unnerving, so for such heavy-duty exterminations, I employ the scoop-and-flush technique. This requires more resources than the toilet paper method -- namely a clear drinking glass, a rigid, flat object such as a book, and a toilet -- but, as Dad always says, you've got to use the proper tools for the proper job. One additional complication of this strategy is that the spider must, itself, be situated on a reasonably flat surface and not cowering in a corner or lurking in a crack (as the craven little buggers are won to do).

The procedure is executed thusly: with the glass in one hand and the book in the other, you trap the spider under the over-turned glass. Next, you agitate the spider such that it crawls upward, into the the glass -- I find it most effective to simply nudge the spider with the side of the glass, though hurling verbal insults can sometimes help. Once it has climbed a comfortable distance into the glass, you lift the glass and swiftly slide the book underneath, then lower the glass onto the book. Et voilà! You are now ready to introduce your trapped spider to the aquatic realm. Holding the book and glass firmly together, walk to the nearest toilet, pitch the spider into the bowl and flush. Done.

Grandma-E (my Mom's mother) used to perform a humane variant on scoop-and-flush. Having a great respect for all living things and, overall, being a much more Karmicly-balanced person that me, she would release her trapped spiders outdoors, often floating them down to the ground from her second-floor kitchen window, on little scraps of newspaper, to prevent their delicate exoskeletons from being injured in the fall. Aww, how sweet. I'm guessing there weren't mobs of pissed-off spider souls waiting to ambush her when she departed us to join Grandpa-E at their farmhouse in the sky.

In the days before I forsook television for brainier pursuits, I was once suckered into buying what, at first blush, appeared to be an ingenious spider catching device but what, in practice, turned out to be a total piece of crap. It was being flogged on one of those late-night infomercials featuring products with names that end in suffixes like "-O-Matic," "-N-Go" and "-Genie," about which the host is always exclaiming, "But wait, there's more!" Essentially, it was a broom handle with a large puff of tulle netting on one end. The handle was fitted with cup-shaped sleeve that could be slid down over the puff of tulle, compacting it inside the cup. The idea was that you could trap a spider (or any other offending bug) under the puff of tulle then, from the comfortable distance afforded you by the length of broom handle, slide the cup-sleeve down over the tulle, entangling the spider inside. I was very excited when my ACME Bug-O-Matic arrived in the mail and couldn't wait for my first opportunity to try it out. Unfortunately, that occasion was met with disappointment as I discovered that the ACME R&D engineers had failed to take into account the scurry factor. Spiders, it seems, are most adept at scurrying out from under puffs of tulle, no matter how split-second the Bug-O-Matic user's reaction time may be.

I have heard from other women, that entering into an "Eew-You-Kill-It" Memorandum of Understanding with one's live-in boyfriend or husband is, without doubt, the best means of addressing one's spider disposal needs. Never having had either such type of male co-habitant, however, I am unable to verify their claims via personal experience. It seems like a good idea, though. I would consider approaching Cute Gym Guy about establishing such an agreement with me, but seeing as how he lives several miles from my house and may be reticent to agree to such terms as a 24-hour/day, 7-day/week, one-minute max. response time, I'm guessing the arrangement would entail logistical complications sufficient to render it ineffectual. Plus, he'd probably think I was a sissy-girl for asking, which would defeat my whole competent-self-sufficient-non-clingy-woman seduction strategy.

All this having been said, I'd like to reiterate that a substantial amount of unpleasantness could be avoided if the spiders of the world would simply respect my boundary issues. It's about space, really. And also about scurrying. But mostly about space. I have my space. You have your space. Ideally, in the Venn diagram of our relative spaces, we'd see two, distinct, non-overlapping circles. That's the working relationship I'd like to shoot for.

And to all the spider souls waiting for me on other side of the River Styx: I'm still not afraid of you, and my advanced directive stipulates that I am to be buried with a 24-pack of Scott, 2-ply, 1,000-sheet/roll bathroom tissue. So be on your way or start your Hail Marys. You have many... many, many, many... (one more for good luck) many years to think over your options. Choose wisely. I have toilet paper, and I know how to use it.

A Valentine's Day Poem

A sappy poem, for the two adorable little men who left a Valentine of red tulips on my doorstep today. With love, from your Auntie Boo. (And props to your Mom for raising you so well.)

If I could stand atop a mountain
And order all the world just so,
I'd conjure up complete perfection
To pale fairest Eden's glow.

All the earth would be at evening
In the robin's lullaby;
I'd beg the moon shine forth her beaming
And scatter stars across the sky.

I'd warm the air and scent a breeze
With hints of violet and rose,
Then lie beneath the dancing trees
Contented in my sweet repose.

And twilight's dawn would bring her peace
To smooth the furrows on my brow;
Quiescent hours of release
That noon's harsh daylight can't allow.

Still, I'd do without perfection
And all the splendor there to see
If, when I stood atop that mountain,
You were standing there with me.

It's a Worm Thing

If you're a Californian, most especially a Californian who lived through those brick-in-the-toilet-tank drought years of the late 1980s and early 1990s, you're not supposed to bitch about rain. Ever. You are expected to dance a little jig whenever the meteorologists suggest donning Gortex outerwear for the day. And you're required to qualify all statements regarding sodden weather patterns with caveats like "...we certainly need it!" or "...great for the snow-pack!" or "...better than living in a desert!" As you trudge drearily along the puddled streets, with muddy water sluicing into your shoes and cars spattering gutter grunge onto your pant legs, while your tattered umbrella drains a rivulet of cold water down your neck and the laptop inside your saturated shoulder bag emits weird "zzzzt-ing" sounds, you are supposed to smile cheerfully in the knowledge that you'll be free to over-water your lawn and take 30-minute showers all summer.

So let's be clear about something up front: I'm not going to bitch about the rain.

The past few weeks have been inordinately wet for the San Francisco Bay Area (we certainly need it). Storms have been rumbling through almost continuously for the better part of fourteen days now (great for the snow-pack). I'm starting to forget what the sun looks like and Genesis 6:11-9:19 suddenly seems like prudent reading (better than living in a... oh, just bite me). Homes are flooding; cars hydroplaning; roofs leaking; hillsides slumping; cats peeing on carpets because they can't go outside; children Omening into hellish little goblins, for the same reason. And -- the thing that disturbs me the most -- earthworms have been dying by the hundreds on sidewalks all over suburbia.

I don't know why I find dead worms on the sidewalk so gruesome. Mangled opossums in the roadway I can handle. Butterflies splattered on my car grill -- no problem. Gushed snails on the garden path -- eh, the little bastard deserved it. Featherless baby birds fallen dead to the ground -- such is life. But show me a desiccated member of the phylum annelida on my front walkway and it's all I can do to hold down my cookies. I would simply train my eyes upward and not look at them, except that recently, upon arriving home, I got all the way up into my bedroom before I discovered, as I shed my work-day attire, that a shriveled worm carcass had stuck its revolting little self to the underside of my right clog. And in removing that clog from my foot I had touched the disgusting cadaver with my hand! eeEEWWwwwww! (Doppler effect as I run screaming from the room.) Since then, I have been compulsively vigilant about tippy-toeing around the potter's field of worm mummies outside my front door. This requires that I actually look at them. Pointedly. Yech! (Excuse me a moment while I cringe at the mere thought of it.)

As much as this phenomenon repels me, it also fascinates me. Why in hell would a perfectly happy worm -- presumably with a cozy home, lovely wife, 2.5 kids, a dog, a regular tee-time at the golf course and a secure job in the ultra-trendy composting industry (okay, maybe not the dog, but you get the idea) -- forsake all and venture recklessly into the barren, exposed, decidedly inhospitable concrete wasteland that is my sidewalk? I cannot begin to conceive of what ends would justify such wanton disregard for one's personal well being and the comfort of one's family. It escapes me entirely. Absolutely no idea. I'm utterly stymied. Sounds like a job for Google.

Well, it turns out, if you run a key-word search for "earthworm" and "sidewalk," Google offers you umpteen websites touting four or five different theories on rainy-day worm necrosis. The good people at Cornell University's, Department of Crop and Soil Sciences say that worms are compelled to venture skyward when the soil becomes over saturated with water. When they happen to stray onto my sidewalk, which I must admit is conspicuously lacking in "Exit to Dirt" directional signs, the worms cannot find their way home again. If no kind soul arrives in time to flick their wriggling little bodies back into the baby-tears moss, they dehydrate and lie in wait to spoil my dinner appetite.

The folks at Something-You-Should-Know and eNature concur with Cornell, adding that earthworms, lacking lungs, breathe through special skin cells that are very sensitive to moisture. Thus, if the earth becomes too damp the worms flee toward the soil surface, where they run the risk of becoming robin chow or worm jerky. Something-You-Should-Know also offers that the reason worms have such trouble finding their way back to their safe loamy habitat, is because they are blind, which makes me feel much less guilty about not putting up little "Danger: Worm Death Zone" signs along the border of my garden. (Still, I'm guessing it's only a matter of time before some process server knocks on my door and throws a court summons in my face with long paragraphs of legal mumbo-jumbo about negligence vis-à-vis posting advisory signs in English, Brail, Annelideeze and with a little pictograph of worms sizzling in a frying pan.)

Bug-Info and Wikipedia acknowledge that there exist a number of disparate theories on this issue. While giving a nod to the drowning-in-muck hypothesis they also present counter-arguments that asphyxiation is not a chief concern among earthworms. In fact, Journey North says that earthworms can survive for several weeks under water, provided it is adequately oxygenated. All three sources state that some experts believe the worms' reason for surfacing during wet periods is migratory -- namely, that aqueous top-side conditions allow the worms to travel more quickly than they could underground. Seemingly, those worms with a carpe diem outlook on life are the ones impelled to pack their bags, kiss their Mom's goodbye and scooch off to colonize new, uncharted lands. Some make it, finding their way from my herb garden (for instance) into my neighbor's weed-patch. Others are not so lucky. They become the Ludwig Leichhardts of wormdom, lost forever in an unknown and unforgiving, concrete wilderness.

According to Wikipedia, still other experts postulate that worms are driven away from the soil's lower strata by a build up of carbonic acid, which occurs during rainy periods when the carbon dioxide produced by other soil-dwelling organisms dissolves in the rainwater. Surface soil, it seems, being more PH-neutral, is gentler on worms' slimy epidermis. Yet another rationale, is that the worms move to the soil's surface to graze on fresh deposits of organic matter washed there by rainwater. Then again, Wikipedia, as well as The Straight Dope also quote experts who purport that some worm species (notably Lumbricus terrestris -- more widely known as the Common Earthworm or Nightcrawlers) come to the surface simply to mate. I supposed we are to presume that the less discreet worms, getting caught up in the romance of the moment, forget their surroundings until it's too late. (Yeah, well, I could see that happening. Given the opportunity to frolic on a beach with Cute Gym Guy, I might just forget myself long enough to manage a nasty sun-burn. Lucky for me, I've got those handy sebaceous glands to keep my skin moist.)

Summing up, as far as I can tell, the consensus is that there is no consensus. And until some intrepid oligochaetologist decides that this would make a good doctoral thesis, I guess we'll never know for sure. Personally, I'm inclined to believe that, not unlike me, worms get a bit glum while having to endure day after day of drenching, gray forecasts. They start checking online airfare deals to Kaua'i. They gaze longingly at the amassed vacation hours on their pay stub. They start fantasizing about asking Cute Gym Guy if he's up for a Hawaiian-quickie and wondering which of their bikini/sarong ensembles are most likely to rouse him into a lather of unquenchable desire.

Alas, then they realize that, although Orbitz does list a most enticing $2,264 Airfare+Hotel+Car package for 7-nights at the Grand Hyatt Kaua'i, leaving the day after tomorrow, there's no way they could wrangle their way out of next week's work schedule. Nor is it likely they could muster the courage to ask Cute Gym Guy for that Hawaiian-quickie, without at least a few more months of brazen flirting and, possibly, the consumption of half a bottle of wine (for both parties involved).

So, instead, the worms get up from their desks and close the cantankerous spreadsheet that has been issuing "circular formula" error messages for the past two hours. They step outside for a bit of fresh air and before they know what has happened, they're stuck to the bottom of a size nine Dansko clog, with some deranged scoleciphobe running around, retching and screaming "get it off me, get it off me, get it off me!"

Sheesh! Women!

How to Sound Like an Idiot

Today is the first of February, 2008, and I find myself in an irascible mood. What's chaffing my bony little backside? Well, to begin with, it's a Friday at the end of one of those weeks that seems to have lasted twelve days... the BART train was eight minutes late arriving at Pleasant Hill, which made me four minutes late for catching my connection to Berkeley... Tully's was out of chai, so I had to settle for a mocha (which is kind of like a crack addict settling for a can of Red Bull)... there's a fly bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzting around, somewhere deep inside the ceiling light fixture where I can't get at him with my rolled-up bundle of fiscal reports... and on top of those perturbations, the radio news anchor that I'm listening to keeps referring to this month as "Feb-you-ary." Worse still, I've just had to endure a sound bite of Idiot George the Lesser announcing Pakistan's test firing last week, of a "nuk-you-lar" capable missile, which he says presents "a whole nother" threat to our national security (over and above having a moron for president, that is.)

Feb-you-ary? Nuk-you-lar? Nother? Are you kidding me? Where are we, kindergarten?

Now, I'm not a grammar Nazi by any stretch of the imagination. I have, on more than one occasion, typed "it's" when I should have typed "its" -- not because I don't know the difference, mind you, but because my fingers type faster than my brain... um... ah... thinks, and because I suck at proof-reading. I suffer, horribly, from comma-abuse syndrome, but that's not my fault, because I was taught by nuns, and you know what they're like, or maybe you don't, but in either case, trust me on this one, they are wholly to blame. And, admittedly, it wasn't until I had reached a shamefully advanced age that I learned the phrase was actually "beck and call" not "beckon call."

Still, I find myself forlorn, and not a little bit irritated, over today's burgeoning epidemic of mispronunciation and malapropism among English speakers of the American persuasion. I'm not so concerned about the little street thuglettes who intentionally massacre their syntax for the sake of intimidation -- they grow out of it eventually (if they don't get their heads shot off first). Nor do I seek to disparage recent immigrants to our country who, having put forth the effort to learn a confoundingly irregular system of communication, should be granted some wiggle-room in the usage department. No, the people I want to smack in the Broca's Area with my Webster's Abridged are those fully grown, U.S. born and bred, supposedly college educated professionals, with jobs involving microphones and mass media distribution networks, who really ought to know that the word is "Feb-ru-ary" (with two "R"s -- look at the freakin' spelling, will you).

And if I may be so bold as to address His W-ness bluntly (without being accused of misunderestimating him): Dude, if you can sink billions into that stupid sham of a war, don't you think there's some way you could maybe afford a $20 dictionary -- what with you being The Decider and all? I promise you, those noble little tomes hold a wealth of valuable information, including that: 1) the proper pronunciation is "nuk-lee-ar," and 2) there is no such word as "nother," or "misunderestimate," for that matter.

Please indulge me as I pick a few more nits along this vein:

How often do we find ourselves in a painfully intimate conversation involving the discussion of some poor old geezer's enlarged prostrate? (If your answer is, "Not often," just wait. There are about four million baby-boomers fast approaching the age when it becomes permissible -- even encouraged -- for them to speak openly about their yucky physical maladies and I can guarantee you, "prostrate trouble" will feature prominently.) So let's act preemptively to mitigate any confusion on this point: the organ men have, which with advancing years often becomes enlarged and causes them significant physical discomfort, is called a prostate (with only one "R"). It is a part of the male reproductive system that performs some PG-rated functions, which I won't go into just now, in case you're underage or eating or both. Prostrate is a posture of supplication and humility, usually performed lying face down on the ground, which (ironically enough) a man will assume if you kick him in the general vicinity of his prostate.

Moving on to a less tender topic: it seems lately that every shop-girl in the country has been trained to ambush arriving customers with the greeting, "Hi, I'm Heather! Can I help you?" I find that this is usually delivered in a high-pitched, nauseatingly obsequious tone, and always within the first two seconds of my stepping inside the store, while my eyes are still adjusting to the light change, my brain is fighting off sudden intoxication by the overwhelming eau de boutique, and I'm trying to steel myself against spending more than $150 for the lacy, pink and black push-up bra with matching panties that I saw in the window (no matter how cute they look on me). When posed the question, "Can I help you?" I am so very tempted to raise one eyebrow, look Heather skeptically up and down and reply, "I doubt it." But since I have a soft spot in my heart for brainless little sycophants, and because lingerie shops really aren't the proper venue for administering grammar lessons, I usually resist and simply smile and say, "Just looking, thanks." Nonetheless, I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that the word "can" addresses ability and the question as to whether or not Heather is able to help me is probably something she can better answer herself. (Or possibly not, if my assessment of her cranial vacuity is at all accurate.) In any case, the proper wording of her question would be, "May I help you?" You see, the word "may" addresses permission, and what Heather is really intending to ask me is whether or not I will permit her to assist me in squandering $149.99 on the bra and pantie set. (Clever bastards, those intimate apparel makers. They know exactly how to price things so that the cost falls just below your pain threshold.)

As a frequenter of snooty cafes, here's another verbal foible I often hear: "Can I have an expresso?" Or worse yet, "Can we have two expressos?" Notwithstanding the whole can-versus-may thing (which I think we've covered quite adequately), and leaving off the fact that it's rude to order food or beverages without incorporating the word "please" somewhere into your request, there is no bloody "X" in the word "espresso." An espresso (or more properly, a caffè espresso) is a coffee beverage, developed in Milan Italy, in the early 20th century; it is brewed by forcing very hot water under high pressure through finely ground coffee beans. The phrase "caffè espresso" is Italian and literally translates to "expressed coffee," so I suppose some degree of confusion is understandable. But if want to be savvy about ordering it and, more importantly, not sound like an American pig-dog, you should pronounce the word with an "S" not an "X." Additionally, if you're ordering more than one espresso, I have it on good authority from my friend Guiseppe (we call him Joe), an opinionated physics post-doc from Corsico, that the correct wording is "two espressi," or better still "due expressi, per favore." ("Due" means "two" in Italian. The "per favore" part is just to be polite. And if you can roll your "R"s a little when you say it, you get bonus points for being a pretentious snob.)

By the way, vis-à-vis the whole "S" not "X" issue, the same goes for "excape" and "expecially." As for "excetera," the proper pronunciation is "et-cetera." It's Latin for "and" (et) "the rest" (cetera), two words that should be written separately but aren't because English excels at mutilating vocabulary it borrows from other languages. If you can't handle "et-cetera," then just say, "and so forth."

I know, by now you're probably rolling your eyes heavenward and thinking, "I could care less about all this." And to that I say, "Dandy!" Why? Because, though I suspect what you meant to express was consummate indifference on this topic, what you've actually said is that you do, in fact, care (at least to some degree). I sense a look of puzzlement on your face so join me over at the virtual chalkboard while I do a little math to illustrate where you've gone wrong. Let us allow that X equals the amount that you care right now. And let us further allow that (X - 1) equals the amount that you would care, if you could care less than you care right now. Since X is greater than (X - 1), we must conclude that the amount you care right now is greater than the amount you would care if you could care less; ergo, you care. Still confused? Well, then just take my word for it when I tell you that what you really want to say is that you "couldn't care less" (i.e. that your current state of not caring is such that no additional amount of not caring can be permitted into the equation). Still don't get it? Okay, then say, "I don't care," and leave it at that.

So, thanks for letting me get that off my chest. I'm feeling much better now. Since I see that the fly has emerged from the light fixture and is now head-butting the window with great abandon, I must take my leave to fiscal-report him into a state of two-dimensional existence, after which I think I shall switch the radio station over to classical, so I can listen to the D.J. mispronounce "Chopin" and "Dvorak."