Category: Funny Business

Someday the coronavirus pandemic will end, and for the most part people will conduct themselves the way they did before they ever heard of COVID-19. I say “for the most part” because social distancing has shown us that at least one of our previous germ-swapping activities is really unnecessary.

I refer, of course, to handshakes. If they have now become a thing of the past, I truly won’t miss them at all.

I’ve never been really comfortable shaking hands, anyway. I’m not repulsed by it or anything like that, but there is no uniform way of getting it done and it’s always awkward and forced. I prefer the quick grip and release, but others maintain their hold on my hand for an inordinate amount of time while also shaking it like a Chihuahua with a chew toy.

The thing is, when you shake a hand, you don’t know where that hand has been. There have been people who have shaken my hand in the past that wouldn’t have shaken my hand at all had they known what my hand had been shaking just 15 minutes earlier.

And yes, I was a chronic hand-washer even before the pandemic, but if you’re out and about and away from a sink, your hands will wander and become unclean.

For example, I tend to itch, and when I itch, I scratch. I think many of us do this unthinkingly. If you and I have ever shaken hands before, there’s at least a 50-50 chance that I was scratching my left armpit only moments earlier.

Yes, there is a clothing barrier between my hand and pit as well as a liberal application of Gillette Clear Gel antiperspirant, but still.

I guarantee at some point on any given day you’ll mindlessly scratch your head, knee and/or stomach, and if you’re like me and you happen to hear exciting or surprising news you’ll slap your butt cheek while yelling, “Whoa, mister!”

Or maybe you’re at the store and pick up a bag of dog food. Once this has been done, your hand will smell like dog food until you wash it again. So if you shake with an old friend who’s entering the store as you’re leaving, as soon as you get out of earshot he’ll sniff his hand and say, “Damn, Scott’s been snacking on dog food again.”

The point I’m trying to make is that your hand is going to get into all kinds of mischief throughout the day, and in most cases it’s best that you don’t touch other folks with it.

During the virus some people have replaced the handshake with elbow-bumping, but that’s ridiculous, too. It’s safer, but then again so is staying away from other humans entirely.

Why can’t we all just segue to non-contact greetings?

I’ve heard some people are using the Vulcan salute, which is cool if you’re a Star Trek fan like me. But what if you encounter someone who prefers Star Wars?

They might insult you in Shyriiwook, you’ll respond with a zinger spoken in Klingon, and the next thing you know the nerd fight has gotten physical.

How about just saying a simple, “Hello,” and they can reply with, “Hello,” “Hi,” “Howdy” or “Greetings.” Or if it’s someone you know well you might say, “How’s it hangin’” and they might say, “It’s hangin’ low,” “It’s swingin’ wildly” or “It’s broke.”

But if you insist on non-verbal greetings you might try just nodding and smiling, nodding and mouthing “Hello,” or waving.

During quarantine I learned to do the floss dance, and I’ve experimented with it as a greeting but it takes a bit too long and tends to be unnerving to the older customers at the supermarket.

Whatever the case, if handshakes are no longer fashionable, I’m absolutely fine with it. As many things as our hands touch throughout the day, we should probably only use them to touch ourselves.

OK, that didn’t come out right …

One of my favorite guilty pleasure TV shows is Survivorman, a reality series in which survival expert Les Stroud – armed only with his wits, harmonica, and whatever he finds between the seat cushions of his couch – puts himself in dire situations. Trapped in the most uninviting reaches of the wilderness he demonstrates how to make shelter, live off the land, and reach deep within himself to find the will to carry on against tremendous odds.

I watch because such things interest me, and because I thought there might come a time when what I learned would come in handy.

That time was 10:30 p.m. EDT on Tuesday when our power was knocked out. With no lights and no air conditioning, I was tasked with providing for my family as we faced desperate circumstances. I’m pleased to report I didn’t hesitate in springing into action.

The first thing I needed to do was find a source of illumination so I could search for supplies. Fortunately my fully-charged iPhone was just a few feet away and it has a flashlight feature, so that was one big problem I solved quickly.

I also figured I needed to seek intel about whether or not this was a worldwide outage due to a zombie attack or alien invasion, so I immediately looked at Twitter. While scrolling I saw a video of a cat apparently playing a piano, which was really funny since cats don’t normally play piano.

I then followed a thread where people were arguing about who would win a fight between Wonder Woman and She-Hulk, which was ridiculous because one is a DC property and the other belongs to Marvel. Plus, Wonder Woman is the daughter of Zeus and Hippolyta and possesses the power of the gods while She-Hulk – aka Jennifer Susan Walters – merely has gamma-irradiated blood. Let’s be realistic, people.

Anyway, the flashlight led me to the kitchen and I needed to do inventory on our food supply. I had no idea how long we would be without power, so I had to plan for the most extreme actuality.
I tend to hoard fig bars and I had 27 of those. That meant I was assured of at least 200 calories per day for the next 27 days. (These would not be shared with Mary or any of our critters because as self-appointed team leader I would need to eat one each afternoon so I could stay strong for the others).

A quick glance at the cabinet also revealed three large jars of peanut butter, six cans of black beans, two jars of Portobello mushroom spaghetti sauce, one can of olives, one box of saltine crackers, one can of artichoke hearts, two boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios and a three-pack of Wilson yellow tennis balls (featuring improved durability and performance with exclusive dura-weave felt. I’m not entirely sure how they got there).

Such items probably wouldn’t be as readily available in the wild, so there’s no doubt I got lucky on the food front. And a wave of relief washed over me because even without looking in the refrigerator I knew we had enough food to avoid the unthinkable – the unthinkable, of course, being the prospect of eating our animals.

As I sat in the darkened kitchen looking at videos on my phone and noshing on peanut butter and crackers, I dreaded the thought of having to sacrifice a pet in order to survive.

Which one would it be?

Charlie is too old, so his meat would likely be tough and stringy. He would be better repurposed for parts, i.e. carving his bones into weapons or making custom jewelry.

We’d keep the cats, Bane and Thor, in case we needed to make coats and hats from their fur. Also, they might learn to play the piano.

That meant Steve drew the short straw in the supper sweepstakes.

Young Chihuahuas are high in protein and – when placed on their backs – resemble Cornish game hens. As a vegetarian I shun meats and meat byproducts, but Survivorman makes it clear hard choices must sometimes be made and Steve was that choice.

My next and most immediate worry, however, was the lack of air-conditioning. Environmental temperatures over 130 degrees can result in heatstroke, while the temperature of my bedroom reaching 75 can result in me bitching about how hot I am.

When the power went out the temp in our house was 71, and I knew it was just a matter of time before it became unbearable and I’d be forced to climb on the roof naked.

But just as I opened the freezer and began dumping contents of the ice tray into my shorts, I heard the AC compressor kick on, the ceiling fan began to rotate, and the light I keep on in the bathroom in case I have a bad dream and wake up scared burned brightly.

The crisis was over, and I was able to exhale and admit it was possibly the most intense 55 minutes of my life.

Obviously we all have different ways of dealing with survival situations, but I’m glad the tips I learned from a TV show allowed me to make it through my own private hell.

It gives me a whole new perspective and I vow never to take my creature comforts for granted again.

The only negative is that every time I look at Steve now I can’t help but think about dinner. And truth be told, he does look tasty.

The other day I was having a nice conversation with our youngest cat, Bane, while we sat on the steps leading up to the upstairs bedroom. For some reason, this has become “our” spot – a quiet place reserved for us and us alone.

“Who is my pretty boy?” I asked as Bane purred loudly while rubbing his head against my hand. “You’re my pretty boy! You’re my big, beautiful boy and daddy loves you very much!”

Now for those of you who aren’t “animal people” such an exchange sounds insane, but it’s really pretty common for critter folk. It’s basically just a version of baby talk applied to animals.

Certainly, I don’t expect Bane to talk back.

And I realize I’m not his biological daddy. That would be disturbing and likely invite comparisons to The Island of Dr. Moreau films – both the bad one from 1977 with Burt Lancaster and the worse one with Marlon Brando that was released in 1996.

Anyway, the point is that Bane is part of my family, and this is how we communicate. But ours is a multiple animal household – two dogs and two cats. And just as humans engage with other humans in different ways, my dealings with our animals varies from one to another.

Charlie is our senior dog, and quite possibly the sweetest creature to ever sniff the earth. I’ve never heard him say a bad word about anyone. Come to think of it I’ve never heard him speak at all but if I did, he would speak well of others.

He likes to relax between 23 and a 23 and a half hours per day and enjoys sitting next to me with his chin resting on my knee. I’ll scratch him behind the ears and pat him on the butt occasionally, and our conversations are simple and brief.

“You’re a good boy, Charlie,” I’ll say. “Daddy loves you.”

And he’ll look and me and say nothing because – you know – he’s a dog. Yet, he is convinced I’m sincere and his gaze tells me he feels the same way.

Our oldest cat, Thor, is six, and we had him three years before we brought Bane home from the local shelter. He’s a sweet little guy and likes to crawl up on my lap and lay his head and left paw on my chest every morning while I’m still in bed. His is a head that demands to be kissed, so I kiss it while saying, “I love my little T-Bone.”

(T-Bone is his nickname … I don’t love actual T-bones because I’m a vegetarian).

Unfortunately, Thor is a nervous wreck and always has been. I can sneeze or burp and he’ll frantically leap from my lap and haul ass to the porch. Hours will go by before you see him again, and when you do he is more often than not cowering in a corner, biting his nails and occasionally smoking a cigarette.

The poor fellow shakes like Luther Heggs in The Ghost and Mr. Chicken when he’s nervous.

Then there’s Steve, the Chihuahua.

Most people think Chihuahuas are cute, what with their wiggly butts and bulbous eyes.

But you know who else was cute?

Damien from “The Omen.”

He was just a precious little child right up until his nanny hung herself at the behest of a hellhound – and it was discovered the tyke had the number of the beast on his head.

He wasn’t so cute then, was he?

Such is the case with Steve. Without warning he’ll show signs of demonic possession, complete with levitation, cursing and projectile vomiting. I don’t have it on video, but I’ve seen his head spin completely around on several occasions.

He launches unprovoked attacks on the other animals, lunges at my hand and bites my fingers every chance he gets, and our conversations mainly consist of me yelling, “Dammit, Steve!” “Stop it, Steve!” and “Dammit, Steve, stop it!”

But you know what?

I dearly love him, just as I dearly love Bane, Charlie and Thor. I’m still gonna rub his belly and kiss him on the noggin because I’m his daddy (though not in the biological sense, which I established earlier).

Oh sure, I’ll burn sage in the house from time to time and I’ve found an exorcist on Craigslist, but Steve’s an important part of the family.

Bottom line is I love all the furry ones the same even if I have to treat them all differently. That might seem odd to people who don’t live with animals, but I’m confident those of you who do understand this perfectly.

In parting, my only bit of advice is that if you ever decide to rescue a Chihuahua, you don’t need to bring a nanny into the picture.

It might end very, very badly.