We’re Just Like You, Only Prettier

by Celia Rivenbark

  Unhappily for me, Southern squirrels don’t have this problem. The researchers found that Southern gray squirrels, boys and girls, are pretty much “on go” all the time. As if I needed verification of that. The limbs of my two huge pecan trees are constantly swaying with the, ahem, activity of these insatiable varmints. When my daughter, then four, asked me what the squirrels were doing, I just stammered that they were “probably playing leapfrog.” She said that’s not how they did it in preschool, and I said, “Thank God.”

  Happily, there is a solution to the lack of libido among girl squirrels in the Northwest. Biologists, concerned that the boy squirrels are “running themselves ragged trying to find a willing partner,” plan to relocate the boys to remote stands of undisturbed oak and pine trees where there are said to be plenty of girl squirrels who have “lovely personalities.” It’s a sure bet that none of them has had a date since the Reagan years.

  The whole plan has a sort of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers feel to it, importing menfolk to perpetuate the species. But, as a woman of the female persuasion, let me just say that these girl squirrels may need more than a new tree to get in the mood.

  While I’m sure the boy squirrels will swagger into the new habitat as if they’re God’s gift, they should know that girls, all of us, like to be courted a bit. Perhaps an offer to help with the chores, instead of putting your squirrel feet all over the new dining table, er, nest.

  Boy squirrels, try to see her as a soul mate, not just another beady-eyed conquest in a fur coat. Ask her how her day was, what her hopes and dreams are, where she hides the nuts, you get the idea.

  And if things still don’t go well, call your buddies on the East Coast and ask them to come out and help you. Please.

  4

  AND NOW A WORD

  from the Cockpit …

  “Harrummpha Lumpha Wheeee!”

  According to the colorful flier that just fluttered out of my Dividend Miles statement from the airline, now you may use frequent-flier miles to go to outer space.

  This seems pretty ambitious for an industry that still hasn’t figured out how to serve coffee that doesn’t taste like an old ashtray, but who am I to question progress?

  USAirways has hit on a clever way to entice travelers who are weary of redeeming those miles for free trips to eligible cities and dates such as Poughkeepsie in midwinter (Saturday night stay required; subject to capacity controls and blackouts, dealer taxes and tags extra, 8:00 P.M., 7:00 Central).

  By partnering with SpaceAdventures, the company that has made a fortune shuttling bored Thurston Howell III types to the International Space Station, the airline is offering regular jugheads like you and me the chance to, among other choices, “accelerate faster than the speed of sound in a MiG-25 fighter jet and see the curvature of the earth below.” Of course, in my case the view would be obstructed by my breakfast all over the windshield, but no matter.

  Another trip offered by the airline will allow you to “float weightlessly just like the astronauts in a plane departing from the Yuri Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center in Russia,” which, I believe, is conveniently located between the Yuri Gagarin Stop ’n’ Rob and the Yuri Gagarin Eyeglasses-in-an-Hour Stand.

  Traveling into outer space with the airlines in charge could still be a bit dicey.

  The only thing worse than being seated beside some Jabba on a cross-country flight would be going into space beside him so he has even more time to nag you for the rest of your string cheese.

  Especially in light of the terrorism attacks, it’s unbelievable to me that there are still some people who are obnoxious on airplanes.

  I adore the thought of federal marshals being onboard, though I’m puzzled why they must sit in first class, bogarting the hot fudge sundaes and heated towels. I mean, it is supposed to be a job, isn’t it? We paying passengers are sitting back here in the crates-of-live-poultry class, eating brick-hard pastries that taste like they were baked in somebody’s Queasy Bake oven.

  Still, we need extra protection when there are idiots like the West Coast passenger I read about recently who sparked a brawl and injured four passengers. Nobody said why he got so mad, but I suspect it was because he discovered that he paid $2,350.69 for his round-trip ticket, and the guy beside him paid about $17.50 plus tax. While that is a maddening little airline habit, this is no time for picking a fight on an airplane.

  Where does this guy get off? If I was the captain, the answer to that question would be “somewhere around Phoenix,” via a handy-dandy, anti-terrorism, anti-asshole Rowdy Passengers Trapdoor System (the RP-TS, in airline lingo).

  All you’d have to do is lure the loser to the secret trapdoor spot, pull a lever, and, quick as the other passengers could circle around and chant “See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!” that little problem in 12-C would have frosty eyelashes and a buttload of regrets.

  There are other problems with outer-space travel via commercial airlines. For starters, your fellow space passengers will probably try to cram even more luggage into the overhead compartment because who knows what the weather’s like up there and you know there’s always that one loser who has to pack skis and a crate of lobsters.

  While we’re on that subject, let me just say how much I admire flight attendants. I have seen them take a six-foot duffle bag, stomp it down to the size of a stick of Dentyne, and then look around like “What’s your problem, fool?” We are not worthy.

  And people, please. Let’s all check a few bags, shall we? I mean, not me, of course, but the rest of you. I do my part, after all. When I used to fly with my toddler, she was kept where all crying, unruly children should be kept, safely stowed in the overhead compartment. With all the lobsters up there, it wasn’t like she was gonna starve, now, was it?

  Frankly, it seems to me that we ought to get a few things straight in our own atmosphere before we start flying into outer space.

  On a recent flight I was treated to the usual spellbinding demonstration of how to buckle a seat belt and the usual “if the oxygen mask drops and you’re with a small child, put yours on first” spiel. Sure, it makes sense in the big picture but don’t you think you’d feel just a smidgen guilty if that mask, which looks like a sinister yellow puppet screaming we’re all gonna die, dropped down and you put it on first while your kid sat there watching Stuart Little 2 and trying to breathe? Sure you would.

  The thing that throws me every time I fly is how airlines expect us to feel relaxed about flying even though the pilot’s microphone doesn’t even work. It’s hard to feel confident when your kid’s Junior Karaoke machine from K-Tel has better sound quality, am I right?

  So you’re flying at 35,000 feet or so and the pilot— you think—is saying something about “reaching cruising altitude” but you’re not sure because every other word doesn’t come out. You hear, “Good morning, folks, from deck … skies… wind…miles …hour… cruising. .. Grand Canyon…she looked like she was eighteen… Hey! Is that smoke?”

  At least, through it all, the airlines have a sense of humor. How else do you explain the warning on the back of every seat: “Please fasten seat belt while seated”? Try doing it standing. I can tell you it’s damn near impossible.

  And they love to switch your gate at the last minute, just for kicks. (“Cincinnati? Oh yes, that flight will depart from gate C-four.”) You turn, walk away, and imagine a snicker, then a chorus of guffaws as you get farther away. At C-4, sure enough, you’ve been bounced to B-14. Gotcha!

  And don’t fall for that business about the flight being delayed because of “problems with inbound equipment.” This is airlinespeak for “broken airplane.”

  Overall, however, I think outer-space travel with frequent-flier points has definite appeal.

  For instance, let’s say you’ve got one of those “The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave” relatives staying at your house. Just boot ’em into orbit. (“You’ll love Jupiter, Aunt Tootie. Hmmm? Oxygen? No, I don’t believe they need that sort of thing up there. Buh
-bye, now.”)

  The brochure promises that the new program allows the airline to “take you where no other airline has gone before.” It’s a nice thought but how about we settle for getting off the Tarmac in under an hour?

  It’s not like I’m asking for the moon, you know.

  5

  THIS JUST IN

  from the Workplace

  Everything Still Sucks

  Every now and then, I like to share some solid, sensible advice with young people who are thinking about getting a summer job. This is important because— and I’m sure we all agree—today’s young people are tomorrow’s old people and our nation’s children are our greatest natural resource. Well. Along with that cool new striped ketchup.

  Having had a few summer jobs in my own teenhood, allow me to explain, my young friends, How to Dress for a Summer Job Interview.

  For starters, you will want to avoid wearing any T-shirt that appears to be stained, torn, faded, or reads Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beer Holder.

  While this is admittedly hilarious, it is doubtful that your prospective employer will get the joke. Most prospective employers pride themselves on being Serious Types, who will remind you that they are not paying you to be funny. Unless, of course, you’re me. Ha!

  Young people, aside from dressing sensibly, you should also take great pains to check your vocabulary, avoiding the popular job applicant pitfall of lapsing into teenage slang. This slang will only confuse/scare your potential employer. Here is an example:

  CORRECT: “I want to become a valued member of the Widgetville team!”

  INCORRECT: “That weird machinery sound coming from over there is harshing my mellow, playa.”

  Now seems a good time to mention that you should always remember that, no matter what summer job you end up with, The Customer Is Always Right.

  No, really, I’m serious. The customer can basically treat you any way he or she wants and you must remain courteous and helpful. As in: “May I please show you the way to the exit door, you rotting corn pad of a human being?”

  Once you are secure in your new job, my young friends, you must avoid the temptation to engage in what is commonly known as “white collar crime.” This dastardly practice occurs when workers take home office supplies, etc., rationalizing that no one will miss packs of pens or notepads or the random laptop or three that can be sold on eBay.

  I understand the temptation. Let’s just say that during a brief period in the mid-1970s, customers at a certain seafood restaurant never really got the forty-shrimp “barge” as ordered because five to ten of those suckers would mysteriously topple off the barge and into my mouth. Then again, what kind of a lard-ass orders anything called a barge? Talk about a cry for help.

  Finally, don’t ever talk back to your boss if you expect to keep your summer job.

  CORRECT: “I’m sorry I was late, sir. In the future, I will check the schedule for possible last-minute changes!”

  INCORRECT: “Yeah, right. Next time, I’ll be sure to look in the sky for the frikkin’ bat signal to tell me you buttholes have changed my shift again.”

  I don’t want to limit my helpful advice to teenagers, of course. Let’s see what we can do to help those unemployed dot-com’ers out there circling the want ads at their mommy’s kitchen table and wondering why they ever bought that silly Mercedes Benz SUV (Billy Bob meets the snooty Grey Poupon dude; what is that?).

  I don’t wish unemployment on anyone, except perhaps Eminem, so now seems a good time for some résumé-polishing advice.

  A lot of downsized techno types like to post their résumés on the Internet where they can be assured that it will not be ignored by dozens of human resources managers but rather will be ignored by many thousands of human resources managers across this great land of ours.

  The truth is, nobody gets a Real Job unless they know somebody. It has never happened in the history of jobgettingdom. Just ask Melissa Rivers. It’s just like the experts say, location, location, location. No, wrong, experts. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know. Like if you know someone who has photos of the boss doing the nasty with the chick who changes the toner in the copying machine once a month, your job future is rosy indeed.

  If blackmail is repulsive to you, take the high road and get a job the old-fashioned way: Stalking. Try to make friends with somebody who works high up in the company where you’re looking. Hang out at the gym where they work out, manage to dine one table over at their favorite restaurant, shop in the same stores.

  After a few weeks of this, you will either (1) have made small talk and a new friend who is dazzled by your knowledge and experience or (2) have Mr. Restraining Order filed against you.

  Here’s some more advice. You dot-com types just love Web sites and we know you’re just dying to “link” your résumé to your Web site. This isn’t a bad idea if your Web site is a lively, well-written look into your professional soul.

  However, most of you people who have your own Web sites tend to think the whole world will find it pee-on-yourself funny to see photos of you in your college days, face painted and the words UNC Sucks scrawled across your bare belly at the Big Game. Take care that your Web site is free of such drivel as photos of you romping with your new chocolate lab (no one cares) or your fiancée and you looking happily drenched during a rousing afternoon of whitewater rafting (bring back the dog pictures).

  A final note of caution: On the off chance that somebody actually does slip up and call you to come in for an interview, your telephone answering machine message should always be crisp and professional.

  WRONG: “I’m just a love machine, oooooh baby, I’m just a love machine, and I won’t work for nobody but you, oooh, baby….”

  ALSO WRONG: “Hi, you’ve reached Ted and Susan’s answering machine. We are currently screening our calls because you people make us sick!”

  WRONGEST OF ALL: (Sound of heavily congested toddler mouthbreathing into the phone for several seconds, then): “Mommy and Daddy not home. Please moo-fully moofala.” (sound of phone crashing to floor and loud wailing) Beeeep.

  Remember, dot-com’ers, a man who builds his future on shifting sands or nonexistent companies making nonexistent products is doomed to repeat himself.

  Okay, so let’s pretend you now have a job—a real one. You’ll need to brush up on your business-speak. Practice saying things like: “Let’s take a meeting, do lunch, my girl calls your girl. Let’s download on one another (unless one of us is a pigeon, of course). Let’s interface, reconnect, get up to speed, on the same page, touch base.

  “You’re in my tickle file so I’m going to pick your brain. (Hold still. Wouldn’t want to lose your sense of smell!) Now we’re playing phone tag, our eyes on the prize, our ears to the ground, our backs to the wall, our butts on our shoulders, whatever.”

  Now, I agree that business-speak can be as annoying as a Mr. T comeback, but if you’re going to run with the wolves, go with the flow, grow the company, you better know the lingo.

  You’ll also need to get reacquainted with the Weekly Staff Meeting. Personally, I’d rather spend a couple of hundred hours bikini waxing Robin Williams than go to one, but this is about you, not me.

  I’ve been to tons of newspaper staff meetings over the years and no one has ever figured out how to make them interesting, although I did have fun one time making out with my almost-husband during a slide show on blood-borne pathogens in the workplace.

  The fact is, you can’t run a big, successful, or even a little, piddling company without meetings. You simply can’t run a successful organization unless you, once a week, systematically herd your employees into a small room that smells vaguely like ass where all the employees can do is look at the bad hotel art on the walls and imagine what the boss looks like nekkid.

  You stop having staff meetings and, next thing you know, we’ll see the collapse of the entire U.S. economy. Oops. Too late.

  Staff meetings are always long because, in every organization,
there is one flunkie-lackey-minion-toadie who loves the sound of his own voice.

  He’s the one who leans forward at the end of the meeting, pen raised in the air, and says, “Just one more thing, Chief…”

  I’m not sure what motivates these freaks but I do know that, by the time you finally get out of the meeting, your clothes are out of style.

  You can avoid so much of this silliness if you follow my example and work at home.

  For years, I’ve worked at home in (fall/winter) dorm pants and sweatshirt or (spring/summer) sports bra and Joe Boxer shorts.

  But all that’s going to change because I just read an article that says that “not dressing for work just because no one’s going to see you sends the wrong message.”

  The article got me so worked up I fired a nasty memo to myself and demanded that I shape up immediately.

  The article said that wearing PJs or loungewear while “working” could “influence the quality of your work and your relationship with your clients.”

  I’m going to dress more professionally at home, even though the whole thing smacks of the jealous rantings of someone pinned more tightly than a prom-night orchid to a windowless office in some nameless bank-building minicity.

  And for those of you who don’t work at home but do have a Casual Friday, where you get to dress down a bit, always remember (men), No Velcro, and (women), if Pamela Anderson would wear it, y’all just don’t.

  6

  TV OR

  Not TV

  Oh, It’s Never a Question in My House

  I have a close friend who refuses to buy a television. Her two children are slowly going blind watching DVD movies on their tiny laptop computers, which for some reason is okay, but she and her husband are standing firm. No TV. It only creates a rotting cabbage pile of brain cells that, otherwise, would’ve developed into fabulous, fluffy cells ready to take on cures for cancer, Renaissance-quality art, the Great American Novel, or, just dreaming here, a plastic wrap that won’t stick to itself and leave you throwing it against the wall and crying on the floor surrounded by naked sandwiches.