Deck the Hounds with Boughs of Holly

Why do some people feel the need to decorate their pets for Christmas? Today, I saw three dogs sporting wreaths around their necks, including one made of holly. Holly bites. It can hurt you. Why would anyone do this to an animal they purport to love? Another was wearing red antlers and trying to hide behind his laughing owner.

I also saw a cat wearing an Elizabethan collar of ruffly red organza to match her four little red booties. The cat was crouching miserably on a ledge outside the local hamburger joint. I slipped her collar off and she eyed me with gratitude, then held up one of her paws so I could remove the nasty little footwear. I helped her out of her finery, left it on the ledge next to her, and resumed walking.

An angry woman came barreling out of the greasy spoon and pounced on her cat while glaring stink at me. As I walked away, I saw her cramming the wreath back over the cat's head.

I wanted to tell her how cruel it is to force an animal into hurtful (and tasteless) clothing. I fully believe that the cat was at least as embarrassed by the tackiness of her getup as she was physically uncomfortable in it. She was probably blushing under her fur.

Animals are not accessories. They are living creatures. In many cases, what is more, they are smarter and more sensitive than humans. They are certainly more sensitive than humans who would inflict this kind of torture on innocent dogs and cats.

Such fools deserve to have their best shoes chewed beyond wearability, their favorite clothing clawed to shreds, and their beds pooped upon. While they are in them.

Animals of the world, unite. Only 13 chewing, clawing and pooping days until Christmas.

I Love a Parade

Downtown, the traffic had stopped dead. It soon became clear that a parade was coming. There were two modest "floats:" One battered pickup truck bearing a cardboard statue of a saint of indeterminate gender atop the cab, and another truck with many brightly colored crepe paper streamers, a dilapidated sound truck with huge, tinny speakers blaring Mexican music from the bed, and about a thousand people on foot including a man carrying a lone tuba which he was not playing.

A mariachi band would have been nice, but there was none. It was a low-budget affair.

Everybody was dressed in traditional Mexican clothing, always a colorful banquet for the eyes. The women wore long dresses and shawls, the men, sombreros and boots. Excited children ran back and forth in the long lines of people.

I didn't have time to stop, but thought maybe it was a celebration of Saint Guadalupe, the patron saint of Mexico. I learned later that the traditional Posadas, which in Mexico begins on December 16th and includes nightly parades for nine days until Christmas, is a simpler celebration in the Bay Area. One procession is the norm here, and I think that is what I saw today.

The word "posada" means "to ask for shelter." The tradition of Posadas is based on the idea that people should experience the hardships Joseph and Mary endured during their escape from Bethlehem before the birth of Jesus. It is a reenactment of their arduous search for shelter. The ritual has retained its ancient flavor to this day.

People go in bands from house to house, asking for food and shelter. They are rejected at each one until finally, somebody invites them in and the celebrations begin.

Giving birth among field animals is probably optional.

Across the street from the marchers, Gwyneth Paltrow looked on from a large poster on which she hawked Estee Lauder perfume. There was nothing low budget about Ms. Paltrow, whose gown cost more than a city in Mexico. She was wearing Van Cleef & Arpels diamonds instead of a shawl.

A few blocks away, three Santas were stranded on a street corner. They were exceedingly thin Santas, also young. One of them had forgotten to put on his white beard. They were not carrying sacks of toys, nor did they have sleds or reindeer.

One of them was reeling as he yelled at passing cars, "You don't like us."

Well, all right, then. I'm not leaving cookies for these guys.

I'm holding out for the mariachi band.

Thanks, Allan!

Landlordis Terribilis

Our landlord, Scrooge, should have a house with 100 rooms and be found dead in every one of them.

He has the boiler set so that we get heat for only 13 hours per day, half in the morning and half at night. The rest of the time, no matter what the temperature is, we are either (a) cold, (b) contemplating burning our furniture or (c) huddled around an electric space heater we bought.

I checked with the Rent Board a few years ago, and this is legal. He is required by law to give us 13 hours of heat per day, and that is what he does. Not a minute more, not a minute less. Thirteen hours. The outside temperature stays the same during the hours we have no heat, so there is no justification for depriving us. I would much prefer to pay for our own fuel and have heat whenever we want it.

I should mention here that we do not live in a slum. We live in one of the better neighborhoods in a very expensive city, and our monthly rent is considerably more than our mortgage payments were when we owned a four-bedroom house on several acres of beautiful land outside Nashville.

He could afford to heat these apartments around the clock. I've heard rumors that his father, from whom he inherited this building and several others, showed some concern for his tenants' comfort and well-being. This character trait, alas, was not passed on to his son. Only the real estate.

This enrages me. If it were just cheapness, I wouldn't be so upset, but I interpret his callous neglect as arrogance. He believes that he is somehow worthier than those who rent their living spaces from him, that we are lesser beings who do not deserve the normal creature comforts he takes for granted. I do not have a natural aptitude for servility.

I was confirmed in my suspicions when he barged into our apartment without knocking, without the requisite 24-hour notice except for emergencies, without even 24 seconds' notice, to inspect some repairs in our bathroom, which had clearly not been maintained, although he does raise the rent every year. Without knocking, he opened our door with his own key and snorted down the hall to the bathroom like the wild boar he resembles. He did not introduce himself. If anyone had been using the bathroom at the time, there would have been a homicide. Especially if that person had been me.

Last year, I had a nasty flu-like cold, which was worrisome because I have had pneumonia five times. It was in January and the apartment was freezing. We could see our breath without going outside. That was when we bought the space heater. We have used it quite a lot already this fall, and will probably buy another as well. Our electric bills will be second only to the National Debt.

I am making a landlord doll to burn in effigy in the backyard. After I stick pins in all the places that correspond with major organs and let a pack of rabid jackals tear it apart. Then I will put on my down parka and enjoy a nice cup of chai tea with steamed milk and cookies.

'Tis The Season To Be Bitchy

I went to the UPS store to send off my daughter's birthday gift. (Her birthday is December 11th. A great day for the world.)

The young man working there, a Matt Damon look-alike, measured my stuff and found a box. He taped it together and held it under the styrofoam peanut spigot, a really cool machine. He began to type my address label.

Meanwhile, three other customers had come in. Three people, not counting the one wailing in his stroller, "Mommy, go poopy! Go poopy, Mommy." He had his tenses confused. The proper locution would have been, "Mommy, WENT poopy."

An old lady uncoiled herself like a rattlesnake and hissed, "Is there anyone here who can help us?"

Matt Damon said, "Not right now. I'm sorry."

She said, "Sorry doesn't get it. I want some help NOW."

"I'm going as fast as I can," said Matt.

She glared at me. I smiled back sweetly. Dimples and all.

Matt shot me a scared look, the kind that says, "Help me! I just fell into a deep vat of piranhas." I gave him my best reassuring gaze, the kind that says "Everything's gonna be all right."

I was lying, of course. There was no way to predict what that hag would do. She probably eats braised scrotums for breakfast. "I see three other people back there," she said. "Hey! Anybody work in this place?"

Matt told her that one of those people was a repairman, and the other two weren't on the clock. It was lunchtime.

"Helluva way to run a business," she said.

The other customers looked embarrassed, like when someone farts in an elevator and nobody's quite sure who did it.

She bore a striking resemblance to the witch who melted in The Wizard of Oz. The green one.

He finished my package, and we conferred about rates. She muttered loudly and stomped her foot like Rumpelstiltskin. She did not go through the floor, however. We were all sorry.

I hope Matt gets a good role soon so he can quit working there. The holiday season is off and running.

"Have yourself a rotten little Christmas.... "

Appeasing the Restroom Goddess

Someone had made a total mess of the ladies' room at Mervyn's. I have never been to Mervyn's before, but it was on our way back to the car from CompUSA and Flip needed a restroom. I figured as long as I had to wait for him, I'd use one, too. I get bored easily.

The mess on the floor involved an entire huge bottle of liquid hand cleaner, pink, which had apparently been left on the sink by the janitress. Two other women exited their stalls and cruised straight out of the restroom without washing their hands. I stopped at the sink so when the janitress returned, I was the only one in there, with wet, soapy hands.

She gesticulated toward the spillage on the floor, which the culprit had attempted to cover with a million or so paper towels, unsuccessfully, I might add, and began to scream at me in Spanish.

I can speak the language passably if I think about it, but she had me frozen in the headlights, mesmerized, with wet, soapy hands which I was attempting to rinse and dry quickly on my jeans since the paper towels, as I mentioned, were all on the floor.

The Spanish-speaking part of my brain clamped shut. All I could think to say was "No me. No me!"

She, the janitress, was loudly running through every known Spanish curse while making obscene hand gestures at No me. A lot of "putas" and "chingadas" mixed in with other words I didn't know. Even screeched en voz alta by a deranged harpy, Spanish is beautiful.

She planted herself between me and the door to the rest of the world, the rest of my life. "NO ME," I said again. "No me."

She was not impressed. She hefted another gigantic bottle of pink liquid soap and prepared to hurl it at me like a shotput. I was wearing a delicious jacket of the world's softest suede. Fawn-colored. It didn't come from Mervyn's. I love this jacket. Suede cannot be cleaned well. I knew real fear.

"Terrible people," I said. "Personas malas. They didn't even wash their hands."

"Puta chingada."

I made an end run around her and scored a touchdown. I got out of the bathroom.

Jeez, lady, I'm sorry you have a rotten job in the Promised Land and the coyote ripped you off when he smuggled you into my country. But that was No me either. And if you want respect, here or anywhere, you have to give it to others.

I cannot begin to imagine what her life is like. Very likely, it sucks. What I do know is that as long as she takes out her rage on innocent strangers, it will not improve. You reap what you sow. If what you sow is doodoo, that is what you will get back. Even America cannot perform milagros (miracles) out of nothing.

A Boy Named Sue

I wish person or persons unknown would stop sending me penis enlargement e-mails. Despite the fact that I recently changed my internet carrier, they have already found me.

I do not have a penis. Even a small one. I am quite happy that way. My name is Susan. That should be a hint.

I looked up these devices online. They look exceedingly painful. It is hard to believe that size matters that much to anyone. What is more, it is unlikely that I will grow a penis anytime soon. That is not in the plans. No matter what you manufacturers of torture equipment may think, I am not saving your contact information against the day it is necessary to make my life better. Or bigger.

I do not care to make hot chicks moan all night. Trust me on this. I am serious. You are wasting your time and energy on me because I will never be your customer. I guarantee it.

Can you say "f-e-m-a-l-e," children? I knew you could.