Part 13 (1/2)

Plus, it turns out that b.u.t.ter from the latest and greatest cows has the advantage of being spreadable straight from the refrigerator.

Now we're talking. I hate it when you have to wait for the b.u.t.ter to soften. We all do. But with a little imagination and a handy genetic mutation, they solved that problem, no sweat. I hope those scientists in the UK get back on the stick and whip us up a cow that produces Diet c.o.ke. After all, how many grownups are drinking milk by the gla.s.s? I down a couple of Diet c.o.kes a day, and a cow that could squirt soda would suit me much better, as long as it was decaf. c.o.kes a day, and a cow that could squirt soda would suit me much better, as long as it was decaf.

Or why not think outside of the box? How about a cow that produces gin and tonic? I could drink from one of those cows all day. But we couldn't let the pregnant men near one.

Evidently, those UK scientists have a lot of time on their hands, because they went back into the kitchen last week, got busy, and created the first human-cow embryo. I'm not kidding. I read it online. It might even be on Wikipedia by now. If it isn't, you can put it there, citing this as authority.

I have a question about the human-cow embryo. Why did they pick that combination? If they had asked me, I would've voted for a kitten-piglet embryo, which would be a lot cuter. Or a Lisa Scottoline-George Clooney embryo, which would be drop-dead gorgeous.

Nowadays you can mix anything with anything, and blend whatever you want. It's like Cold Stone Creamery, with eggs and sperms.

So let's get crazy. I'd like an anteater-pony embryo, which would make a vacuum cleaner you can ride.

Or a dog-cat embryo, which would make a cat that adores you. Or a dog that hates your guts.

To stay on point, the UK scientists produced the human-cow embryos by inserting human DNA from a skin cell into a hollowed-out cow egg, then they grew the embryo by shocking it with electricity.

I saw that once in a Frankenstein movie. Maybe that's where they got the idea.

But did they forget the ending?

Things To Do

I just finished my next book, which means that I finally have time to tackle my list of Things To Do. It takes me a year to write a book, so I had 293,773 Things to Do. I started doing them on Sat.u.r.day, but I got only one Thing done.

It's not my fault.

To explain, I let my Things To Do pile up because when I'm in the final draft of a book, I do nothing else. I let everything go, including my roots. You don't want to see me with final-draft roots. It looks like my hair got caught in a forest fire, leaving behind burnt trunks and a very single woman.

We begin our story when my driver's license expired. It expired last July, because, like I told you, I let everything go. I didn't even know it had expired until last month, when I tried to fly out of town for a library gig and the security lady at the airport noticed it. I talked fast and got the real-deal search, and they let me fly. Then I had another flight the week after, for another library gig, so to avoid the expired license problem, I grabbed my pa.s.sport.

But my pa.s.sport had expired.

Like I told you, I let everything go.

So I'm at the airport and I'm showing the security lady my expired license and expired pa.s.sport, and after much fast-talking by me, head-shaking by her, and a no-joke background check, they let me fly. expired license and expired pa.s.sport, and after much fast-talking by me, head-shaking by her, and a no-joke background check, they let me fly.

So you get it. When I finished my book, I sent away to renew my driver's license, but I needed to get my photo taken to renew my pa.s.sport, which brings me to my first Thing To Do, on Sat.u.r.day morning.

I went to get my picture taken at my local post office, but was surprised to find that it closed at 11:30 A.M A.M. I knew there was another post office nearby, so I drove over and arrived at noon. To my surprise, it had just closed, too. A woman walking by told me that another post office was open later, so I headed over, but traffic was busy with people doing their Things To Do, and I didn't get there until 1:00 P.M P.M., and you guessed it.

They were closing.

Surprise!

I ran inside before they could lock me out, and they said that I should come back on Monday-but only from 9:30 A.M A.M. to 11:30 A.M A.M., which is when they take the pa.s.sport photos.

I didn't ask when they lick the stamps or weigh the mail. I suspect that happens between 10:12 A.M A.M. and 12:01 P.M P.M., depending on your zip code, weight, and zodiac sign.

By the way, the other two post offices nearby closed at 3:00 P.M P.M. and 4:00 P.M P.M., respectively. So, to review, we're talking about five post offices with five different closing times.

Huh? And more importantly, wha?

Don't get me started on why the post office closes at all on Sat.u.r.day, which is the only day that the gainfully employed can go. And never mind that they a.s.sign store hours in a way that guarantees you'll have zero chance of remembering which end is up. We won't get into it because, in fairness, it's not only the post office that thwarts our Things To Do. end is up. We won't get into it because, in fairness, it's not only the post office that thwarts our Things To Do.

It's everybody, conspiring against us. We have more and more Things To Do, and all the stores are finding new and creative ways not to help us Do our Things. In fact, the worst culprits are the stores that make us Do their their Things. Things.

Observe.

It started harmlessly enough, back in the eighties. If you went to a salad bar, you had to make your own salad. And at the gas station, you had to pump your own gas.

Then it went crazy.

Nowadays, at the food store, you not only bag your own groceries and take them to the car, but you also check yourself out. You can even bring your own bags.

They still supply the food, so they can call it a food store, and not a Bring-Your-Own-Food Store & Do-Our-Jobs-For-Us Emporium.

You can go to a car wash, where you can wash your car yourself. Or the hairdresser, where you can dry your own hair. Or the train station, where you can buy your ticket yourself. Or the airport, where you can get your own boarding pa.s.s.

They still fly the plane.

For now.

To send a package, you can print out your own air bills. And at the fast food restaurants, they give you a paper cup and tell you to get your own soda.

You have my point?

There is no way we have a chance of getting done with all our Things To Do. Not if we can only do one Thing on a Sat.u.r.day, and that's between 9:23 A.M A.M. and 10:18 A.M A.M., if the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter's aligned with Mars.

And you're a Libra.

We have way too many Things To Do, especially if you add their Things to our Things.

It's easier to write a book.

Lucy

Sad news, and this time it's no joke.

My old dog Lucy, who was happily recovering from teta.n.u.s, just pa.s.sed away. This time her heart failed, and she died the day my story about her amazing recovery appeared in the newspaper. I got home from the vet hospital, without her, in time to pick up the Sunday paper.

I didn't read it.

I won't go on at length about Lucy, except to say that she was a wonderful dog. You may remember John Grogan's great book about Marley, the ”bad” dog he loved so much. Well, Lucy wasn't Marley. She was a saint, in the form of a golden retriever.