August 15, 2001
turtle kisses

I'm tempted to redesign my web pages again. I get this urge, once every six months or so. Don't worry; it won't be drastic, assuming I get around to doing it at all. I'll probably just get rid of the frames -- frames are evil -- and maybe eliminate the javascript altogether, since the real reason for having it was so I could figure out how. I need a page for peeps, at the very least, and easier navigation. Ho hum. The work of an idle good-for-nothing is never done.

On with the show.

I sent an email to myself earlier in the week. 1. Black Adder DVDs, it reads. 2. Meteor shower. 3. Turtle kisses. 4. Poking baby.

Right. So, I ordered the collector's set of Black Adder DVDs, and they've arrived. I've spent the last couple of nights poking through the special features, singing along with the Black Adder Singalong, watching my favorite character -- madd Queen Elizabeth -- do her insane thing, and occasionally playing Playstation in between. In the meantime, I've also come down with a bad case of domesticity, one of the dangers of spending too much time with Tara. To wit: I've cooked dinner for the last three nights, and tonight attempted a failed experiment with zucchini bread. This is what comes of having Betty Crocker for a friend.

I've ambitions for the morrow. It's Friday; I was thinking of working half-day from home, taking time during the morning to bake a new loaf of zucchini bread. (An edible one.) This is the one I'll bring in to work. They'll be terribly impressed, my co-workers. I made polenta and wild mushroom sauce and brought it to work today for them to participate in. One of the Indian Women carried it around to the different cubes, giving everybody a taste.

I could hear College Boy in the next cubicle over express what I thought to be overly articulated disbelief that the food came from me.

"Yuhri cooked this?" he asked. "Yuhri?" There was alarm in his voice. The Indian Woman -- bravo to her! -- raised her voice in my defense.

"It's really good," she said. "Taste it."

There was a small silence while, apparently, he overcame his qualms long enough to nibble on my culinary offspring.

"Wow. Yuhri made this? She cooked it? The sun must be rising in the west."

"I HEARD THAT!" I yelled over the wall. "YOU CAN JUST BITE ME."

I'm so unprofessional.

Right. Turtle kisses. I was lying face down on the floor one day while the tortoises were going for their daily constitutional. Tortoises aren't speed walkers; they're not even brisk walkers. They sort of meander around the living room inspecting things, nibbling on bits of carpet lint, and generally go about the business of breathing in and out. One of them started heading my way with that vaguely wondering, "however did I end up over here?" way they have. I opened my mouth really wide -- don't ask why -- and the tortoise, without any hesitation at all, started crawling in.

These are not small tortoises, mind you. It was not a sanitary situation. I hastily disengaged myself, and was confronted with a pair of accusing tortoise eyes.

Let me tell you about tortoises. The only animals more capable of inspiring guilt with a simple look are dogs and Japanese mothers. Meekly resigned, I dropped my head again and opened my mouth for his entertainment.

He stalked deliberately back to my mouth and stuck his head inside.

And then just stopped.

And fell asleep.

I tell you, some pretty strange thoughts start creeping through your mind when you're lying on your living room floor, all alone in an apartment, with half a sleeping tortoise in your mouth.

Back in, oh, November, one of the Indian Women had her very first baby, thereby changing her title from 'Indian Woman' to 'Indian Mom.' However, she refused to bring any evidence of her child's existence -- namely, the child -- to the office, no matter how much I asked her to.

"Puh-leeze?"

"Someday."

"Tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

"C'mon. Bring him in. I want to play with him."

Her refusals initially were based on his youth. Later on, they were based on me.

"I want to squish him. Puh-leeeeeeeeze?"

This was usually the point where Indian Mom would give me a definitive 'no.'

In desperation, (I hate being thwarted on my way to a toy), I started announcing that Indian Mom wasn't really a mom; she'd just pretended to be pregnant so she could have six weeks of maternity leave. "I mean, what evidence do we have?" I asked my laughing teammates. "She brings in pictures. They could be neighbor children."

The rest of the group caught on, and threw themselves joyously in the campaign to madden Indian Mom. "How is your fake baby today?" the manager would ask, sunnily.

"What diet did you go on?" another would wonder. "I want to lose weight, too."

At length, the camel broke, and last week, Indian Mom brought her baby in.

I like babies. I especially love squishy babies. I just want to bite them. Hers was especially squishy; he kept wanting to climb things. People, tables, walls -- it was like trying to hang on to an electric eel.

"I'm not bringing him back in for a long time," she informed us, sternly. "You have to play with him now."

So, like, this is why our stock is so low. We were busy playing with the baby.