Archive | January 2014



But my dear, even Frank the Pug knows the answer to that.

I have been crunching data for a couple months now. I’d like to say things are going well, but. . . the result of my analyses so far is two people being fired and one being imprisoned for forgery.

This is why I don’t like doing data analysis — of any stripe. I always see the anomalies and the anomalies always lead to unpleasant results.

There are good aspects to working for Pic though. Almost everyone there is a handsome young Virgo.  It’s a slice of heaven being with so many men who like quiet and order quite as much as I do.

The vast majority of these attentive Virgos are extremely nerdy. They like drawing graphic novels, carrying Star Wars lunch boxes, going to movies like Her or Thor, listening to Moth Radio Hour, or engaging in Street Fighter parties on weekends.

The other day I walked in and was asked by one of them to tell everyone the 8 major languages of the world. That’s a fairly typical “good morning” there.

I recited the list in under a minute, with no help. This was quite unlike the brightest nerd in the room who, according to his friends, couldn’t do it even with consulting his smartphone.

I discovered, unfortunately, that French is no longer as de rigeur as Bengali. But 7 of 8 is not bad.

Yes, they were quite in awe — of my unremarkable grasp of what goes on in the real world. And I was quite amused for the rest of the day.

One really hasn’t lived till one’s been idolized for one’s intelligence by a room full of male Virgo nerds with post-grad degrees.

(The eight are English, Russian, Arabic, Chinese, Portuguese, Spanish, Hindi, and Bengali)

The General


While waiting at the vet’s this morning with my huge tuxedo cat — whose projectile vomiting from atop a 5’6″ tree onto a nearby guest in a chair beside his tree on Friday night had landed said cat at said vet — a loverly young male short-haired German pointer burst in, attached to a young mother and accompanied by two little girls.

The pointer is the ultimate male dog. It’s a hunting dog. It’s the essence of the active outdoorsman’s soul made flesh. They are amazing animals. But they aren’t good family pets if your life is typically suburban, so I was a bit surprised to see it — with a dainty woman and two little girly girls.

“What is his name?” asked the receptionist.

“General,” said dainty woman.

Ah, The General, thought I. Wow. Uber maleness. I could just imagine the husband. A very fine fellow. A lover of the wilderness. His beautiful wife and daughters were truly the light of his life, but . . . he needed another male in the house, and someone to share his manly outdoor pursuits.

And so, he’d convinced the good madame and mademoiselles they need a dog. But not just any dog. They had to have the purebred German short-haired pointer, a male. And his name? The General.

The General became a little high strung, so he was taken outside by his family (or rather, really, more vice versa).

A few minutes later, the tech came out and motioned the group back inside clinic via the large glass windows.

The eldest daughter, perhaps 8, twirled in like a ballerina. Her younger sister, a quite, curious girl, walked in pondering the contents of the cat carrier beside me. Then came The General, pulling at the lead.

The tech walked over to the scale, in a small nook of the office, and suggested weighing the dog.  But The General wanted none of it.  Dainty madame tugged at The General’s leash.

And that’s when it happened. The moment I realized Monsieur’s brilliant plan to up the manliness of the house and bolster his vision of himself as a man  had gone terribly wrong.

“Come on, Jenny,” coaxed dainty madame.

“Over here, Jen-Jen!” cried the bedazzeled mademoiselles.

I just tried not to laugh.