sledding Hamsters in ugly sweaters text the NSA
“It seems that scheduling is more complicated than it used to be,” Nazy asserted.
“That’s because we are coordinating our parties and, at the same time, making sure that we are around to babysit during parties that Melika and Tom attend.”
“Melika and Tom are very social.”
“I know. I think we need a nanny,” I replied.
Last weekend, Melika and Tom had a party in Manhattan Beach...
“Not that Manhattan,” I exclaimed - interrupting my own letter.
Melika and Tom arranged a hotel for us and we enjoyed walking and shopping through the city. There was one rather strange shop - the Ugly Sweater Emporium.
We also walked along the beach and the pier. Kids and adults were in the holiday spirit:
“What are they doing?” Nazy asked. “They’e carrying sleds.”
“It is December, my dear.”
“This is Southern California, Dan. There is no snow at the beach.”
“As usual you are right, Nazy.” I dutifully replied. “But there is a giant sand berm between the ocean and the street. I think that people are sliding down the dunes.”
More accurately, people were attempting to slide down the dune. It quickly became clear that sand is not as slippery as snow.
“Not as slippery?” Nazy asks. “Fast drying super glue offers less friction.”
“That’s not true, Nazy.” I replied. “I saw a guy slide for a good 3 meters.”
“That’s how long it takes the super glue to dry.” In sum: No one thought of waxing the sled. Instead, they were trying to, eh, ‘sand’ the sled smooth on the ‘slopes’. Later, Nazy and I picked up the grand(est)son.
Note: Tom and Melika, who do not travel light, brought Monster the Cat as well as Tiger the baby. I asked how they got the hotel to agree to Monster’s stay.
“Monster, Dad,” Melika explained, “Is not just a cat. Monster is a certified service feline.”
“A service..?”
“Animal, Dad. Monster has papers. He can calm panic attacks.”
“But you don’t have panic attacks. Does Tom..”
“Of course not, Dad. But since Monster is certified, we’re covered for that eventuality. And, because of the papers, Monster will always be welcome in our hotel room.”
As the cat made itself at home in the hotel room, the human being members of the family were unaware of the challenges that were about to unfold.
Nazy, Tiger and I had a great dinner at a nearby Grεεk restaurant. (Tiger didn’t like the smushed peas, but he seemed to like the taste of his socks.)
When Melika and Tom got back from the party, we brought the baby back. They brought a..
“..hamster. Do you want it, Dad?” Melika asked - as she brandished a small cage.
“A hamster? What are you doing with a hamster?” (It was not, I hoped, my hamster.)
“We won at a Yankee Swap.”
“You mean you lost at a Yankee Swap.”
“We almost got a good bottle of wine.”
“A bad bottle of wine would be an improvement over a hamster.”
“Can you take care of it, Dad?”
“Me take care of it? You ‘won’ it. Why don’t you keep it?”
“Monster won’t understand. He wasn’t happy when we brought a baby into the house. He simply won’t countenance a hamster. Can you, eh..”
“Melika! I am not a hamster kind of guy. When it comes to pets, I slant toward the angelfish.”
“Ah, Dan. He is soooo cute Let’s name him Alexander Hamsterton.” Nazy interrupted - ruining my bargaining position. And, so, we snuck the hamster into our hotel room and then took him home. Naturally, we asked Mitra and Darius for advice. Mitra suggested that we sell it to a pet shop.
“Great idea, Mitra, but I don’t think the pet shop business model includes buying hamsters from Yankee Swap losers.” I said. “Sell it? I wonder how much I’ll have to pay to get them to take it? Hmm, I wonder if the elementary school down the street wants a hamster.” I thought.
Darius was more subtle: “I know you and Mom are excited about the hamster, Dad. But it would be a really sad thing if that hamster escaped from the cage.”
“Escaped, Dar?”
“It would be especially sad if that escape took place outdoors.”
“I’m sure that there is a California ordnance precluding release of domesticated hamsters into the wilderness. A hamster is an alien species in Santa Barbara. It would not be welcome.”
“One hamster, Dad, cannot reproduce,” Darius replied. “So no one will ever know. Besides, you could act so sad and heartbroken. Just think - a ‘Great Escape’.”
In the end, Melika found a home for the hamster.
Travails with my new phone continue. The camera is great - and I can actually make wireless telephone calls to anybody with a phone. Text messaging is a horse of a different feather. I can send text messages to anyone. But, if the ‘anyone’ happens to have an iPhone that thinks that I have an iPhone, their text replies go to my retired, SIMless, defunct, non-working iPhone. (They are delivered whenever the WiFi is on.) And, the messages also show up on my MacBook Pro.
“It’s,” I said, “a value-added service. I even get text messages that were sent to you, Nazy”
“You get my text messages?” Nazy was not amused.
“Yes. Apple doesn’t want to make it easy to switch phones.”
“It’s not a matter of switching, Dan. It’s a matter of privacy. Who else gets my messages?”
“The NSA. Here in America, we gave up our rights because we’re afraid of terrorists.”
“My text messages have nothing to do with terrorists.”
“I know. And your shampoo has nothing to do with shampoo bombers, but you still have to hand it in at the airport.”
“I’m more concerned that you don’t get text messages then the NSA listening to my shampoo.”
Last week’s letter available, click here.