You know, I always knew my life would turn into a glamorous TV show. I just never thought it'd be some shit from the Home and Garden network.

See, the wife and I are having some work done on the old plumbing.

(No, that's not an uncomfortably personal euphemism. We're really having work done. On our plumbing. In our house. Our old house. See? Old plumbing. It ain't kinky. Keep yer pants on, dammit.)

Anyway, just like one of those real-life home improvement shows, we signed up to have some work done on the bathroom. New toilet, new sink... we're even having some pipe laid downstairs.

(Look, I told you -- it's not a euphemism. It's actual pipe. Really being laid.

Not, uh, in the euphemistic way, though.

Oh, don't give me that look. Perv.)

So. We find a contractor, and he's got himself a plumber, and some carpenters, and some electrical dude or other, and a plasterer, and... oh, it's like the frigging SuperFriends. One of 'em talks to the animals, and another one can shoot fire from the six inches of asscrack hanging out of his pants. But my very favorite is the one who apparently has the power to turn invisible when I want to know when the whole stinking lot of 'em is gonna be the hell back out of my house. Our 'two-week' job is now entering week six, and there's a whole laundry list of shit left to do -- staining, painting, fixtures to be installed... I think I might even have a drippy faucet.

(Look, for the last time, it's really the faucet. Not the 'faucet'.

At least, I hope that's what I mean -- my wife said she's gonna have one of the contractors take a wrench to the thing. Eep.)

Plus, just like in every damned one of those home design shows on TV, we're over budget. All we're missing is a smarmy host, with fake hair and bleached teeth, to wander through our bathroom with a camera crew, pointing at joists and chuckling over the sconces. Assuming we have sconces. I don't even know what the hell 'sconces' are. I tried to ask one of the contractor guys, but he said it'd cost me fifty bucks. Bastards.

As far as I can tell, though, things are starting to wind down. It looks like the heavy lifting has been done -- that would be whoever picked up the cash hoisting it into his wallet, of course. But I think they've put the saws and tools away, and are down to the 'soft' stuff. The easy stuff. Yea -- dare I say it? -- the quick stuff. We might just have the house back to ourselves by autumn, after all. Call it our 'fall sweeps'. *sigh*

Here's a quick tidbit that I figured I would have shared long ago. Possibly, I forgot, or never got around to it. Probably, there's a good reason why I never shared it, and it'll come back to bite me in the ass. I really should write these things down to remind myself.

Anyway, here's the thing -- I went to a high school (long, long ago) that had one of the worst mascots possible. It made little sense, didn't lend itself easily to a convenient costume, and generally helped none of us whatsoever.

But here's the other thing -- of the group of schools in our area that played sports against one another, there were at least two schools with mascots goofier than ours. At least, that's my contention. But I'll let you decide for yourselves:

Behind door number one we have my alma mater, whose mascot was the Pony Express. That may not seem so ridiculous on the face of it, but give it a moment. Let the implications sink in a bit. Meanwhile, a bit of background information might come in handy.

I grew up in one of those awkward areas of the country that doesn't know quite what to call itself. It wasn't quite far enough south to be in 'the South', though some people might disagree. By some standards, it might be called the 'Mid-Atlantic'; by others, the 'Midwest'. Most would probably agree on 'Podunk', and leave it at that. Regional ethnogeographers can be so cruel.

At any rate, our high school was located somewhat on the eastern side of the middle of the country. So it's possible that the Pony Express -- the real Pony Express, from back before any of us were born and Al Gore invented MySpace -- traveled into, through, or at least near my town. Fair enough, I suppose.

But that was over a hundred years ago. Had nothing more notable happened in the general vicinity in all that time? Was there nothing else in the area worth naming our teams after? Or couldn't we just be the 'Wildcats' or the 'Cougars', like every other damned school in the country seemed to be?

The answers were, apparently, no, no, and no. And so we were the 'Pony Express'. And we endured a ridiculous mascot at our games involving a student in a full-body horse suit. Which was only marginally better than opting for a costume of a nineteenth-century glorified mailman with mutton chops and saddle sores. What I wouldn't have given to be called the 'Bulldogs' or 'Cardinals'. There were only so many chants the cheerleading squad could come up with involving horseback riding and package delivery and avoiding 'Injun attacks'. And we heard them all.

Our second contender for crazy mixed-up mascot comes from our crosstown rivals, the Highlanders. I like to think it's not just the competitive spirit talking, but I always believed they had things just a bit worse.

Consider this -- if our school was named after a rider or two that might or might not have ever set hoof in our fair city, the other guys' mascot must have come from a story someone read in a book in years past. We weren't in Scotland, there was no Scottish presence to speak of in the area, and the movie that could have been an inspiration -- or the crappy sequel that couldn't possibly have been -- hadn't come out yet. And their school was in a valley -- it wasn't even on 'high land'.

So far, I'd call our mascot messes roughly even. But you have to remember -- Highlanders wear kilts. And as much respect and tradition there is for that sort of attire back in the homeland, those plaid legless numbers looked like skirts to us, several thousand miles removed. And we said so -- loudly -- at every game we played them. And there were no real Scots to come to their aid, so they just had to finger their bagpipes and take it. So I think they have the edge in the 'Melee of Moronic Mascots'.

Still, there was a school nearby that had us both beat, hands down. That school was in a sleepy little backwater hamlet known as Poca. Poca. Stop me if you see this one coming.

You on board yet? I'll wait, if you're still thinking it over.

Okay, time's up. Put down your pencils, please.

The name of this school's sports teams was the Dots. The Poca Dots. I am absolutely not making this up.

This school was content -- even eager, it seemed -- to send its kids out onto the fields or into the gyms to be known as 'Dots'. Our school played them occasionally in one sport or another, and as fans in the stands, we were merciless. As well we should have been. What sort of a name is 'Dots', anyway? And who got blitzed one night and made us the 'Pony Express'? We were frankly just happy to see someone on a lower rung of the totem pole.

And their mascot... well, just see for yourself. It's little exaggeration to suggest that it resembles a walking meatball. Or a backup grape for the California Raisins.

Or, most obviously, a testicle with sunglasses. You can imagine the fun we had with that. And the generations of 'Dots' possibly scarred for life. They might as well have named the team the 'Poca Hantas' and run a nine-year-old girl in a headdress out there every night. We might have laid off at least a little bit -- and hell, hanta viruses are actually intimidating. But who the hell's scared of a dot? Unless you're a paranoid Morse code translator, or making a dermatologist visit to screen for sun cancer, 'Dots' don't exactly get your panties in a tremble. That's all I'm saying.

So, those are the three most bewildering high school mascots I know of from personal -- often far too personal -- experience. If you think you can top it, feel free to leave a comment. But if it's worse than the 'Poca Dots', then I shudder to think about it. Hopefully, they've got a support group for those kids by now. Sheesh.

A few weeks ago, I began my sad, sorry quest for a pretty, shiny fast laptop. A new toy. A friend. One CPU to rule them all.

That was mid-May. It's now July. I still don't have a laptop.

I have, however, escaped from the crushing grip of 'paralysis by analysis' -- where our motto is, 'But they all look the same, and none of them are perfect!', also endorsed by used car buyers and picky Jewish mother-in-laws-to-be the world over.

From there, I've moved on to the next circle of computer-buying hell, which involves seeing the machines in person. I've seen all the specs, I've compared and contrasted, and I've pored over spec sheets until my eyes are red and weepy. And in the end, they do all look the same, and not one of them is ideal for me. The next logical step is to spend some quality time running my fingers over their cases and dabbling in their configurations a bit.

(This is why the majority of arranged marriages and mail-order brides don't work out so well. How can you possibly choose a compatible life partner without mucking with their drivers or fiddling with their trackball first? Personally, I wouldn't even consider dating a girl, if she wouldn't let me get elbow-deep in her .ini files. I guess I'm just old-fashioned that way.)

Of course, seeing the machines is not the problem. The rub here is that the computers are, for the most part, displayed in computer stores. Which means that they're chaperoned, rather aggressively, by that most unpleasant of creatures, the computer salesperson. Now, I'm sure that genuinely friendly, well-groomed, polite, and knowledgeable computer salespeople exist, somewhere in the world. Somewhere out there, leprechauns and unicorns and happy little elves are getting wonderful service from these salespeople. They answer the most obscure and technical questions with ease, they never pressure customers into expensive warranty plans, and they all smell faintly of cinnamon and lilac and grandma's famous peach crumble.

Yeah, right. And I get Bluetooth reception with my ass.

Meanwhile, here in the real world, the goal is to get rid of these sweat-stained mongoloid trolls as quickly as possible, in order to get a look at the machines on display. It's their job, of course, to glom onto customers like leisure-suited leeches, sucking and slurping their way over to the most overwrought, ill-conceived, and uber-expensive models available.

'What's that, granny? You need a laptop to send emails? Well, you'll be wanting our TechMaster 9000, then! It's seven times faster than anything on the market, with nine video cards, a thirty-three inch LCD screen, an internal phone/fax/printer/espresso machine, and dongles for technology we don't wven know about yet! Yep, that's the only machine in the whole store that'll handle this 'e-mail' you speak of.'

Chumps. In the past, I'd simply growl at the staff who'd come bouncing over to 'help' me in the computer aisles. That would scare most of them off, but there were unfortunate side effects to the strategy. A few of them would stick around, and snark back. If I growled too menacingly, I might be escorted from the store before I'd seen what I needed to see. One older salesman was apparently turned on by the growling. And I'd often frighten small children in the adjoining video games section. So that's three 'bad' side effects, and one 'good' one. Not a great trade-off.

More recently, I've decided to have a bit of fun. They're there to answer questions, right? And they're slinking over, presumably to offer assistance and technical know-how. So why not put them to the test? Nowadays, I cheerfully greet the lonely, empty souls coming over to sell me hardware I don't need, and immediately lay into them with technical questions and jargon. I've been reading up on this stuff for just a few weeks; you'd presume they'd know more about their own merchandise than me, right? Wrong. More than your average adult orangutan? No. More than a breadbox? Sorry. More than an amoeba? *bzzzzzzt!!*

Of course, asking tough questions will get rid of the first salesmonkey. But soon enough, he'll be back, chittering away and flinging poo with another, more senior store simian. Stump that one, and they'll pass you right up the chain, until finally, if the manager can't comprehend the laptop lingo you're laying down, they'll leave you in peace to evaluate your options. They'll hide behind hard drive boxes and stare at you while you browse, cowering and scampering away if you move in their direction. One intelligent question about 64-bit architecture or FireWire compatibility, and you become their god.

(That's not a particularly useful group to be deified by, but they can sometimes be trained. The brighter ones can fetch you coffee, or act as a handy doorstop. You can dump the rest in a sack with some packing peanuts, next time you need a beanbag chair.)

I used my strategy on a recent trip to a local computer 'superstore', with predictable results:

Sales Weenie #1: Hi there! You look like you're shopping for a notebook!
Me: Well... sure. Why not?
Sales Weenie #1: Great! You need our TechMaster 9000! It's got all the latest technology, with lots of-
Me: Say, I've got a question.
Sales Weenie #1: Great! How can I help you choose our TechMaster 9000?
Me: Does it come configured with a Core Duo T2500?
Sales Weenie #1: Well, sure it does!
Me: It does, what?
Sales Weenie #1: Come... um, configured.
Me: With a what?
Sales Weenie #1: An, ah, the thing you said. That one.
Me: And what was it I said?
Sales Weenie #1: < blank stare >
Me: Hmmmm?
Sales Weenie #1: < blink blink >
Me: I can wait all night, you know.
Sales Weenie #1: I'd better get my supervisor. Wait right here.

Sales Weenie #2: Hello, sir. I apologize for Lance; he's training with us. Just started last week. Now how may I help you today?
Me: I was asking whether your TechMaster comes with a T2500.
Sales Weenie #2: I see. A tee...?
Me: Tee. Twenty-five hundred.
Sales Weenie #2: Tee. Twen...? Is that, like, a mousepad?
Me: Um, no. It's a CPU model.
Sales Weenie #2: Cee...?
Me: Cee. Pee. You. The processor?
Sales Weenie #2: < empty gape >
Me: In the computer. The central processor?
Sales Weenie #2: < brow furrowing >
Me: The little metal thing that makes magic electric box go vroom?
Sales Weenie #2: Uh-huh. Maybe you should talk to the manager. I'll be right back.

Sales Weenie #3: Hi, I'm the manager on duty. What can I do for you, sir?
Me: Well, I just wanted to know whether this machine comes with a T2500.
Sales Weenie #3: Well, yes sir. I do believe I read once that it does. Now I'm sure Marty here can answer all of your other--
Me: What's the L2 cache like on that processor?
Sales Weenie #3: Uh-wha?
Me: The L2 cache. I heard it might be larger on the 2500 model. What's the size, again?
Sales Weenie #3: Well... um, it couldn't be any bigger than, I don't know, a thumbnail, I guess. The machine's not that big, really.
Me: Riiiiiiight. Except that the cache is usually measured in megabytes.
Sales Weenie #3: Mega-who, now?
Me: Mega. Bytes.
Sales Weenie #3: Um...
Me: The size in megabytes. Of the L2 cache, please.
Sales Weenie #3: Errrk...
Me: For the T2500 Core Duo processor.
Sales Weenie #3: Nggghhhh...
Me: With the 667MHz bus speed and 2.0 GHz core speed, and-
Sales Weenie #3: GAAAAAHHH!!! He's a witch! A witch!! Run away! Everybody run awayyyy!!

That's all it takes. I spent the next twenty minutes fiddling in peace with the other computers, until I had the info I wanted. And for the record, the TechMaster 9000 does not come with a T2500. Or any other processor, as far as I can tell. It's just a cardboard box with a keyboard painted on the bottom and aluminum foil for a screen. Don't get sucked in by those bastards. They're out to take your grandma's money, and she'll never get that email sent. But at least her 'laptop' will run nice and cool. And quiet, too. Just don't forget that twelve-year extended warranty. Can't do without that, eh?

So, here's the thing I don't understand.

(Okay, so it's not the only thing I don't understand. There are lots of things I don't understand -- advanced calculus, chaos theory, people who watch 'Everybody Loves Raymond'... but I'm just saying -- this is one thing I don't understand. Just one more for the pile.)

Anyway, here's the thing: there are three large mammals living in our house -- me, my wife, and the dog. There are other, smaller mammals -- i.e., mice -- that seem to also live here, or at least visit from time to time, but they don't count, because we're trying hard to kill the little fuckers. So, forget them. It's just three mammals that we generally don't want to die anytime soon, unless maybe one of them pees on the couch. So that's one part.

Then, there are my pants. My pants are the other part. Large mammals living in my house, and my pants. Those are the two parts. Try and keep up, now -- this is where it all comes together.

So, three mammals living in the house. And my pants, which may either be on my body or off. Those are the variables. And there are thus the following possible situations with regard to drool, in decreasing order of goodness:

1) My wife's drool on my pants while I'm wearing them
Comments: This is exceptionally good. At worst, it means that she's resting on my lap or my legs, sleeping -- and drooling -- peacefully. Which is very cute, of course. And at best... well, look, folks, let's face it -- there are only so many ways somebody else's drool can get on your pants. Oh, mama!

2) My wife's drool on my pants while I'm not wearing them
Comments: Okay, not nearly as good, except possibly from a kinky, weird 'jeans-licking' sort of fetish perspective. And I don't think I have that particular fetish. At least, it's never come up before. The hot fudge fetish, sure. The one with the busty twins and the fluffy pillows in a Jiffy Lube -- yeah, that one, too. But I'm not sure about the 'slobbering all over the pants' one. On the other hand, anytime there's a woman drooling and I'm not wearing my pants... that has to be pretty good, right?

3) My drool on my pants while I'm wearing them
Comments: Frankly, it's pretty clear that this is rarely 'good', per se. If I'm drooling on my own damned pants, I'm likely in no condition to do anything useful with whatever it is I'm drooling about, whether it's food, or booze, or a large mammal of some kind. Nuff said.

4) My drool on my pants while I'm not wearing them
Comments: Pretty much see #3 above, except add to it that I've apparently decided at some point to take my pants off during the process. Nuffer said, I think. Nuffer said, indeed.

5) My dog's drool on my pants while I'm wearing them
Comments: There's no possible way this can be good. The dog's either trying to eat my food, working on taking a bite out of me, or -- most often -- just drooling indiscriminately all over everything, with my pants just happening to be in the line of slobber. The only good thing about this situation is that if I'm wearing the pants, then I'm usually in a position to nip the drooly dipshit in the bud before they're soaked completely.

6) My dog's drool on my pants while I'm not wearing them
Comments: Again, see above. I typically see that this has happened in the aftermath, when my pants are slobber-soaked and dripping with drool. Some people might tell me to stop leaving my pants on the floor. Personally, I think I should just have the dog's saliva glands removed. Either way -- I don't care. So long as the pants are finally safe.

So. Now that you understand the possibilities -- and my strong opinions about which ones are preferable -- my question is this:

Why -- why, oh why -- do these things occur with exactly the opposite frequency from what I want?

Why is it that I find dog-slobbered pants lying around my room three or four times a week, and find myself wearing wife-slobbered pants once in a blue moon? And how is it that I drool on my own pants with haunting regularity? And for that matter, how the hell does the dog even have so much slobber to begin with? She's the tiniest of the three of us, but that bitch could out-drool my wife and I together in a contest. Put a steak in front of the dog, and you could fricking surf the wave from the kitchen to the living room. Freaky.

Anyway, I'm just saying. I don't mind being drooled on -- it just needs to be the right kind of drool, at the right kind of time. And it almost never is. Who knew slobber could be so persnickety?

When you live a life like mine, people are constantly saying things to you. Things like, 'Not again!' and 'Get that thing away from me!' and 'You were dropped on your head a lot as a child, weren't you?'

You get used to it. 'Slings and arrows', and all of that. They're just jealous, clearly.

What really hurts, though, are the things that aren't said. You hear certain cliches and phrases all the time -- on television, in movies, and in that fancy loud music the kids are listening to these days -- but no one's ever saying them to me.

Just once, I'd like to be hanging from a cliff, or sliding off a high-rise or down a waterfall, clinging desperately to someone's arm, and hear them say:

'If you go, I go.'

But do they? No. Not even once. Instead, they say:

'Hey, this is watch is expensive. Would you mind not clawing at it, jackass?'

Hardly quoteworthy. But certainly typical. Here are a few other common encouraging phrases no one's ever said to me:

'You've got a good head on your shoulders.'

(Never heard this. People only say mean and nasty things about the head on my shoulders. But hey -- at least they're not badmouthing my shoulders. That's something.)

'I expected you, of all people, would understand.'

(Nobody expects me to understand. Or even listen. Most people are happy if they can use me as a coat rack.)

'You are the wind beneath my wings.'

(When I'm mentioned in the same breath with 'wind', the connotation is never nearly this pleasant.)

'Where have you been all my life?'

(Instead, people usually say, 'Where are you going to be for the rest of my life? So I'll know where to avoid.' Bitches.)

'I didn't know where else to turn.'

(There's always somewhere else to turn. I've seen people seek advice from asylum patients before turning to me. Comatose asylum patients.)

'I could never say 'no' to you.'

(It's apparently very easy to say 'no' to me. I get strangers walking up to me all the time, shaking their heads sadly and telling me 'no'. No, what? I have no idea. Just a blanket refusal for good measure, I guess.)

'You've given me the greatest gift of all.'

(Just once, it'd be nice to hear this. On the other hand, musical greeting cards and homemade ceramic ashtrays probably aren't the 'greatest gifts of all', so maybe people have a point.)

'I always knew you'd come back for me.'

(At the time someone would want to say this, I'm probably off somewhere watching Sanford and Sons reruns, completely forgetting about coming back for whoever's in trouble. This is why nobody ever says any of the other things to me, isn't it?)

Meh. Well, at least there's always 'Boy, what in the hell is the matter with you?' and 'What is your major malfunction?!?' to keep me company. *sigh*