Corgis: The Socially Acceptable Possum; or, Does Anything Good Come Out of Wales?

There’s an old saying that pets resemble their owners. Or maybe it’s vice versa. This isn’t always true. However it is true that your pet may have your personality. So what kind of dog you choose to own can say a lot about you. 

Some dogs are obviously great. Like collies. Anyone who owns a collie is usually a very good person, because Lassie. People who own golden retrievers also fall into the category of great people. Fussy people have fussy little Shih Tzus, and quirky people who often have very sage advice get Scotty dogs. 

And then there are corgis.

I first realized that corgis are a symbol of all that is wrong with this world when I saw one for the first time. I was watching the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, an annual event in our house that caused all matter of excitement for my sister and I. My mom would record it, and then we would watch it at intervals over the course of about a week, taking great care to stay away from all the news channels. This was before the days of the Internet, where people complain about going on CNN’s homepage and finding spoilers for sports events. Back then, we used common sense about avoiding spoilers. But back to the subject of demon dogs.

The camera was focusing on the head, slowly panning to reveal a body which most decidedly did not fit with the head. I asked my mom why Westminster was letting mutant dogs in its dog show. Corgis aren’t mutant, she replied. They’re a thing. Just a very ugly thing, and don’t say anything because your father’s family likes them and we don’t want him to cause another scene.

Corgis are the dog version of Frankenstein’s monster, and whoever designed them had about as much originality as Dr. Frankenstein, for they clearly stole their legs from basset hounds, their faces from beagles, and the bodies from a dog which most likely had much longer legs. In short, corgis are the stuff that nightmares are made of. 

More inbred than cocker spaniels, corgis are, incidentally, the queen’s favorite dog. This should be no shock to anyone, since the Windsor family may be more inbred than cocker spaniels. Perhaps like beings attract, or perhaps it’s all part of an evil plan on the part of a corgi breeder who is lining Queen Elizabeth’s coffers in exchange for good advertising. Eventually they may line her coffin, because  Prince Charles is never photographed with his mother’s beloved pests. One can only imagine his mother’s obsession with mutant dwarf canines have soured him on the species for life. We also know that Lupo is most decidedly not a corgi. 

Whatever your stance may be on corgis, I think we can all agree that they are pitied, and used as a kind of object lesson. Corgis should be the face of why incest is never a good idea.


Life Lessons From Tom Kitten

Though people love to argue these days, one thing almost everyone can agree upon is that the years of your childhood form the basis of who you are. 

I was reminded of my childhood when someone recently tweeted out a copy of part of the Beatrix Potter tale called, well, I can’t remember the name. I only know some very large, mean mice, (or were they rats) decided to capture poor Tom Kitten (don’t ask me how since he was easily large enough to sit on them, but then again, they were quite tall), roll him up in butter and dough, and then stick him in the oven.

As an adult I look at this in horror. How perfectly monstrous to even propose that evil mutant mice would decide to bake a kitten alive. A bad kitten, but still very much a kitten. A furry, fluffy kitten wearing a fancy blue romper. A romper I don’t think they were even planning on taking off, which leads me to wonder how much of this was hunger and how much was simply revenge.

With this in mind, the mutant mice seem like sadistic kidnappers from a Coen brothers movie. What sort of monster would roll a child in dough, bake him, and then leave him for his mother to find? Evil mutant mice, that’s who. 

But we never think of this as children. We don’t think about the deeper meanings inherent in baking poor Tom Kitten (and rolling him in dough. Ew.) We just know that that very tall mouse and her evil chubby cohort mouse was evil, and because of this we unconsciously distrust anyone who vaguely resembles these two mice. You just know these mice were most likely shifty eyed, even when dealing with those of their own species and not just rambunctious kittens.

These are important life lessons. The lesson of why you shouldn’t venture into spaces where evil mutant mice could possibly truss you up with string and cover you with butter quite easily transitions into why you should away from mean spirited people in general. And ultimately into why you should never trust anyone who cannot make eye contact, because it almost certainly will never come to an ending of buttercups and daisies, but will turn your life into a tragedy. 

People are always concerned with what to teach our children nowadays, but I believe that perhaps we would have more luck with future generations if we gave them more of the horrifying Beatrix Potter so that hopefully some sense could crop up in their heads years later, when confronted with people who may be just like the mutant mice, though they look like human beings. 

Because sadly, a lot of human beings are out there who have the souls of evil mutant mice. 

The Perils of Missionary Life

Growing up children are scared of strange things. Whether they’ll be expected to eat goulash at Grandma’s house, whether “we’ll see” will turn into a “no” or a “yes”, whether the monster they suspect is hiding under the bed will, one day, actually materialize and eat them as they’re asleep. Or even worse, when they’re awake. I worried about these things as a kid. But the one defining thing I was consistently terrified of was even stranger. I was worried I’d be called to be a missionary. 
Like any good Baptist kid I was in Sunday School as soon as the door was open. I knew all the books of the Bible by heart and could recite them, and could also recite the order of Hebrew kings from the very confusing books First and Second Kings and First and Second Chronicles. Even more importantly, I could distinguish between First and Second Chronicles and First and Second Corinthians. But when it came to the annual “Missions Month”, a month which consumed every November, effectively blocking my favorite season of all which was Christmastime when we would get to sing carols with fake candles and eat cookies during Sunday School, I would gain all the emotiveness of Siri and shut down, becoming a little automaton reciting her memory verses. 
Much was made of Missions Week. They were clever with their marketing, too, showing exotic pictures of far away lands which were so hot it seemed to render modesty useless since there is no practical reason for wearing all the clothes you wear as an American little girl in a land where they have no concept of snow. The teachers would bring in letters from any friend of theirs who had graduated in their college classes and then self-exiled themselves to places like Papua New Guinea, Chile, and the Dominican Republic. And they would always end with reminding us how missionaries were extremely important and that God loved them and that we must all remember how blessed missionaries are. 
I had no interest in this. No interest whatsoever. I failed to see how the life of a missionary could be blessed, and though I knew by heart the verse about storing up treasure in heaven, I didn’t see why I couldn’t store up treasure in heaven by telling, (in my very best Hermione Granger style), little Billy the class reprobate that Revelation was ALWAYS the last book to be found in the Bible. 
To tell you the truth, I had no interest in being dirty, going without, or living in some far away country that I would never see my friends or family again unless on that magical time period known as furlough which only came every arbitrary four or seven years. I would save my dimes to buy little Charity’s family enough grape kool-aid to last those four years, but since I myself hated grape kool-aid I counted my blessings that it would not have to be me drinking it and was quite thankful that a visit would not be expected, since Africa was quite out of the question for a seven year old girl. 
Then, when I was 13, I met Jane Eyre, a woman who felt no compunction to go be a missionary despite St. John’s sanctimonious attempts to manipulate her into a missionary marriage. She said no. She wasn’t called to be a missionary, and knew it would kill her. Suddenly truth flashed before my eyes. It was possible to not be a missionary. There was no such thing as a calling for everyone, and though people said this was the most noble of all callings, just because everyone says something doesn’t mean it is true. As Jane Eyre measured truth against her own sense f right and wrong, so too I was allowed to do the same. The flood of relief that filled my soul was indescribable. Not everyone has to be a missionary. And even more importantly, not everyone is called to be a missionary. I leave the missionary things to those who enjoy things like that, and enjoy drinking non-grape-kool-aid drinks to my heart’s content. 

Why Nanowrimo is Ridiculous

Nanowrimo is a word which you never hear until the last week in October, when all your friends suddenly begin throwing it around with startling alacrity. You google it, and find that it means National Novel Writing Month. You are confused. You are even more confused that this epic wordathon take place during November, a month that responsible people generally begin planning their holidays and celebrating Thanksgiving and getting their work done so that they can celebrate said holidays. 

In other words, I’m far too busy to write a novel. It might be better if it took place during another month, say August, when the news is at its slowest. In August, everyone’s bored out of their minds. They need an activity which keeps them indoors and out of the oppressive heat. But the geniuses behind Nanowrimo didn’t really think it through, and picked November because November starts with NO and goes in Nanowrimo.

Nevertheless, none of these things surprise you as much as the idea that people you never knew had any desire to write a book are suddenly all convinced that they could be the next EL James. 

I say EL James, because very few of the books which have ever emerged from this marathon writing month have ever actually been deemed much good. Or, let’s say they’re good, but they’re not exactly the kind that the New Yorker takes seriously unless it’s featured in the Borowitz Report. Like Water for Elephants, a story so compelling, that when they made it into a film, they decided to cast Edward Cullen as its star. If this doesn’t say something about your story, I don’t know what does. 

None of these would be authors ever seemed to have a bent for writing fiction before, so at first you merely read their twitter updates and Facebook updates with something akin to quiet amusement. The amusement is tinged with annoyance as November grows closer each and every day, and you see much wailing, angst, and general gnashing of teeth as the reality of the thousands of words dawn on them. 

You see promoted tweets in your timeline, giving such gems of advice to vanquish writer’s block. Some of these are practical suggestions, like killing off a character every time you get stuck in your narrative. Some of these are psychopathic suggestions, like switching from first to third person narratives without warning, in order to either disturb your reader or give them a headache, I hardly know which.  

November progresses. You begin receiving strange and random Facebook messages which make no sense from people at times when normal human beings are generally asleep. Your twitter timeline is awash with people wailing about how editing should count as much as writing. Their wailing segues into resignation, and then quiet condemnation of any month long celebration in which people are supposed to turn word counts into something halfway readable. They all decide to skip Thanksgiving celebrations with their families in favor of catching up to the word count that they lost way back on the third of November, and you take great delight in Instagramming your Thanksgiving dinner and happy face and posting it to every social media outlet you use, knowing that it will rankle their little word hungry souls. 

They are right to wail, because they are suffering, but they are gravely mistaken about what all this suffering is for. It’s not suffering for art. Suffering for your art means that you are starving in an attic and will be immortalized by Puccini as soon as you die. 

Nanowrimo is suffering for money. Everyone’s heard the stories of the authors whose November scribblings turned into legitimate books, like the aforementioned Water for Elephants or the Night Circus. Neither of these books were very good, but they at least made considerable amounts of money, especially considering that no one gets rich off of writing anymore. They made this money because thousands of the other people who fancy that they’ll write books in the month of November buy them to try and find out how to do it.  

Off With Her Head: Why I Hate Bloody Marys

There are many mysteries in life, and I have learned to be content with most of them. I understand that the ocean is deep, and so we may never have answers about things like giant squid or the missing Malaysian airplane. I understand that I’ll never understand the male brain, and will have to live with many mysteries which stem from male brains interfering in my decidedly female life. And I even understand the need of some people to insert themselves into my consciousness and be so annoying that they drive me up the wall. I have a cure for that. It’s called blocking on every form of social media known to 21st century girlkind. But there’s one mystery which I shall never understand. The mystery which is called the Bloody Mary. 
I’m not sure who woke up one morning and thought how great it would be to mix tomato juice and vodka together. I’m not sure who thought it would be great to stick a celery stalk in it. It could have been a depressed health nut from California. It could have been a nasty leftover from the mid century, when all of America’s housewives were competing for the Campbell Soup Wife of the Year Award by creating horrendous side dishes primarily from aspic and canned pineapple. But whoever it was had a sense of humor, for the named it after one of England’s greatest witches ever, Bloody Queen Mary. So we do know that the mysterious person was not a Catholic. 
I’m not sure what first set me against tomato juice. My mom loved it, and did her best to inculcate a similar love in me. But four year olds aren’t always rational, and almost certainly never think of things in terms of health. After the first sip I stubbornly set my mind against this devious red juice that looked like fruit juice but decidedly did not taste like fruit juice. If you want the taste of tomato, eat a tomato. This is my life motto.
Now that I’m grown, I can see the romance in the idea of drinking a glass of tomato juice every morning. I’m sure it’s very healthy, and I only wish I were one of those people who are probably very tall and skinny and indulge in a glass of tomato juice. This is the same sort of person who always looks effortlessly comfortable in high heels. I am sure this person may go under the name of Kate Middleton, who is practically perfect in every way.  What’s more these tall, perfect people refer to tomato juice as an indulgence. Like those people who claim Greek yogurt is like dessert. I don’t believe that for one minute, and neither should you. 

Romance is fleeting, and there’s a lot more required in a good relationship than the romance of Ryan Gosling GIFs. I’ve accepted that tomato juice and I will never be a couple. But that’s okay. In life we all must make peace with who we are, and learn to stop comparing ourselves to other people. I will never be that girl who manages to make a morning commute look easy in five inch heels, and that’s okay. I have learned to be content with the look of Audrey Hepburn in flats circa 1954, and I have also learned that it’s okay to be content with mimosas. Because champagne and orange juice is always a good idea, and the misguided souls ordering Bloody Marys can be happy because there’s more for them in the end. 

How Feminism Has Let Us Down

Feminism is one of those things that almost everyone claims to believe in, yet all interpret differently. Even the women people recognize as pillars of the feminist community were often at odds. I daresay they still would be at odds if they had the good fortune to still be alive. 

Feminism is great. I’m so glad we no longer live in the world of Jane Austen where we had to hope for a Mr. Darcy rather than a Mr. Collins. I adore Virginia Woolf, and totally believe that the ability to make our own money out of our own independence getting our own jobs and affording our rooms of our own is just great. I much prefer it to the idea of hopefully marrying into money and also getting a husband who you can hopefully stand five months out of the year. 

But I’m too practical to ever be a card carrying member in the vein of Gloria Steinem. Ardent feminists speak fondly of the bra burning days. I am afraid I have too much of my sensible grandmother’s Scotch heritage to ever be a good feminist, because good bras cost a lot of money and aren’t something to be burnt. Bras are a vast improvement upon the olden days when women were basically harnessed into corsets made of unforgiving materials like whale bone. Bras do their best to help me defy gravity and so I shall ever be grateful to them. Besides, no one wants to be remembered as the girl with the low slung breasts because she was too lazy to wear a bra that day.

With this in mind, perhaps we should worry more about what feminism can accomplish on the practical side of life. And there’s one front which feminism hasn’t done nearly enough to break the glass ceiling.Or maybe in this case, a glass door. Because we still have the abomination of single stall bathrooms which are marketed as male/female. 

It only stands to reason that if there’s one toilet, one sink, and one door with a lock on it, it’s obviously a single sex bathroom. Yet every weekend at brunch I see men and women holding up the line by meekly lining up behind their respective stick figure sign. 

For a long time I thought it was due to the issue of cleanliness. But that is not the case, because the first time I was desperate enough to dash into the bathroom door marked “men” I was shocked at how clean it was. Women claim that men make horrible messes in bathrooms, and while that may be true at home, it’s not true in public. The woman who is freaked out about touching any surface in a public bathroom will always leave things dirtier than the man who is only concerned with relieving himself. 

So with that in mind, I’d just like everyone to be aware that single sex bathrooms are an awful lie, one that is keeping you from living your best life. No one has time to stand in lines for one bathroom when there are two available. Brunch is about mimosas, not bathrooms, and you should be spending your time during brunch maximizing that bottomless mimosa deal you just spent twelve dollars on. 

Why America is the Best Place of All

For many people Memorial Day is a day to grill, watch John Wayne war movies on Turner Classic Movies, and the chance to wear white.

This is a shame, because people should do all these things more often than once a year. Especially with the wearing white rule, because winter white is a thing now and we shouldn’t confine ourselves to outdated rules made up by elderly ladies with pinched faces.

The John Wayne part is a shame too, because his signature drawl makes it a joy to watch his varied costars try to play off a drawl that really very little to play off of. And grilling meat is always fun, provided that I do not have to touch the raw meat.

But the best part of Memorial Day is remember the past that gave us the present and hope for a future. And there’s no better way to do it than to go to the National Memorial Day Concert.

I’m not sure whose job it is to coordinate the annual National Memorial Day concert from the front lawn of the Capitol, but it’s probably not the same person who gets to plan the concert everyone knows about, which is the Fourth of July concert.

The Fourth of July concert is one of those things that gets the spotlight because of two reasons. The first reason is, well, the Declaration of Independence. The second reason is because it is the height of the summer, and every year the same US tourists fall into the same trap of thinking that visiting their nation’s capitol during the summer is just the greatest idea since the wireless mouse.

Unfortunately few of them ever paid attention during the history class which dealt with the issue of why DC is the Capitol. They missed the lesson on how the great District of Columbia was constructed in a swamp, meaning that while it was generally gross, humid, and filled with mosquitos in the eighteen century, global warming and biowarfare has insured that now it’s filled with hotter temperatures which accentuate the humidity, and West Nile Virus.

The Memorial Day concert is an overlooked gem that not many people know about. And that is completely fine with me. I detest big crowds, so when presented with the opportunity to go to the dress rehearsal with all the music, the stars, and roughly a third of the usual crowd, I said yes.

The general rule of thumb for this seems to be to invite two stars from Law and Order (or one of their many, many spin offs), a country singer, and whoever has happened to win American Idol recently. For the dress rehearsal this is especially fun, because they sprinkle montages of war and stories of veterans in amongst the renditions of Simon and Garfunkel and West Side Story.

During the show they will practice zooming in with dramatic emphasis on where the people in the stories will be sitting, which leads to general confusion since it might be a man sitting in the seat where the mother of the story will l probably be sitting tomorrow, and for a brief moment in time everyone is wondering why the woman looks so masculine, until everyone remember it is a dress rehearsal and the woman from the story is probably eating her dinner somewhere, not thinking about her dress rehearsal stand in.

Because of all these things, the concert is a chance to celebrate what truly makes America great. You have a moment to remember all the lives given up so that we have the freedom to be, well, Americans. And say what you like about Americans, but we are a pretty kind people on the whole. Besides, we invented Apple, the Beach Boys, Grumpy Cat, and John Wayne, so that should count for something in the grand scheme of things.