Goodbye, 2023, and Take Your Mice With You

It’s New Year’s Eve 2023 and I’m unraveling. It’s probably due to Covid. If you’ve had it, you know the symptoms. If you haven’t, I’m not going to gross you out on the last day of the year by describing them. I’ll wait until a more appropriate day. Just know that, as I type these words, I am burning up and freezing simultaneously. I also might be hallucinating.

Over the holiday break, when I was healthy, my son and I watched Candy Cane Lane, starring Eddie Murphy. It was a ridiculous, but fun-to-watch movie. I couldn’t begin to describe everything that happened, but I will tell you about the electronic, 12-layered metal tree based on the song, “The 12 Days of Christmas.” Each level had icons corresponding to the day: i.e., a partridge in a pear tree on the first level, two turtledoves on the second level, etc.

Now, here’s where it gets weird. Due to a disgruntled elf, the icons come alive and wreak havoc and can only be stopped if you yank away the gold rings they all possess. Once you grab a ring, the live icon becomes a 2-dimensional icon. They initially fall to the ground, but they eventually make their way back to the electronic tree.

After everything worked out in the end–as, of course, it did–my son and I agreed that it was a fun movie to watch while gorging on all of the Christmas cookies, crackers, cheeses, and candy that I had stockpiled for such an occasion.

My son went home this past Friday morning and, by Friday night, I experienced the first of my Covid symptoms. My well-being only deteriorated from then on. Last night, Saturday night, drugged up on TheraFlu, I began binge-watching The Gilded Age, with my loyal dog, Duke, on the floor next to me.

At about 4 in the morning, I noticed movement under the Christmas tree. As soon as I turned my head, a small black and white mouse ran out from under the tree and into the bedroom next to the living room. Duke didn’t even look up.

I pulled myself up from the couch and went into the bedroom. I looked around for the mouse but he wasn’t visible in the bedroom or in the attached bathroom. The bottom of the bedroom closet contained mounds of winter clothes from the room’s former resident, my brother, who now lives in Florida.

I figured that the mouse was probably somewhere in that mess, so I did what any of you would have done at almost 5 o’clock in the morning. I left the bedroom, closed the door, and stuffed a large gift bag under the door so that the mouse would be trapped. I figured I’d deal with it today (New Year’s Eve) since it’s a generally accepted custom to rid your home of vermin before the New Year rolls in.

The thing is, I only got a quick look at the mouse. I have never seen a black and white mouse before. I started wondering if it was actually a cat.

This afternoon, after waking up and gulping down some more TheraFlu, I decided to see if I had imagined the mouse, or cat. I cautiously went into the bedroom and pulled out all of the clothes and blankets from the bottom of the closet. No mouse, no cat. I looked in every corner of the room. No mouse, no cat. I checked the bathroom, with the same result. By this point, I had decided it was not a cat, because I surely would have detected a cat in the bedroom or bathroom, despite my drugged-up state.

I recently heard someone referring to the First Law of Thermodynamics. At the time, I thought I understood it as meaning mass can change forms but not disappear. It turns out the law is actually about energy, but I decided to go with my interpretation. If mass can’t disappear, then where was the mouse?

Of course, the mouse was probably still in the room, hiding somewhere clever. I, therefore, closed the door again and stuffed the crack at the bottom with the gift bag I had previously used for that purpose. That gift bag is now part of the decor.

Then, I went to the kitchen and poured myself another TheraFlu cocktail. I took it to the living room, to resume binge-watching The Gilded Age. In my opinion, the show was over-acted and a rip-off of Downton Abbey, but it served the purpose of getting me through a long, uncomfortable night.

As I settled myself on the couch, I glanced over at the Christmas tree, mostly to see if the mouse had re-settled himself under it. He wasn’t visible, but what blew my mind was what was visible. I had never gotten around to hanging ornaments on the tree this year–it had lights and pine cones, that was enough–so I know my eyes popped out of my head when I spotted a single pewter ornament hanging from the lowest branch of the tree. The ornament was a mouse.

Did I, at some point during the long night, grab a ring from the black and white mouse? Did it turn back into an ornament?

I had a decision to make. I could quit taking the TheraFlu and endure awful Covid symptoms, or I could keep taking it and resign myself to living in a fantasy world until I was completely cured.

That was an easy decision. Bottoms up and Happy 2024!

Beautiful, Brutal Nature

There’s a pond in front of the house I live in. Surrounding the pond are bushes, scrub, spindly trees, and grasses. When the bushes and trees bloom, there is privacy for geese to lay eggs and rabbits to lay bunnies. You can’t see the nests; they’re well-hidden.

My dog, Duke, knows they’re there, though. Several weeks ago, he pulled hard on his leash and dashed into the brush and ran down to the pond. I pulled him out, but it was too late. He immediately sat down on the grass. He then opened his mouth and slowly, slowly, a giant goose egg emerged. He dropped it on the grass and batted it around with his paws.

When Duke is eating or playing with something, it is unwise to try to take it from him. Instinctively, he will bite you. Hard. I know I should have had this trait trained out of him. I bought a shock collar to discourage his bad behavior. It’s still in the box. I can’t bring myself to inflict pain on him (I’m aware of the irony), so I just don’t take anything away from him. And I tell others not to, either.

But, back to the goose egg: Somehow, I was able to distract him and while he was looking away from the egg, I grabbed it and headed into the thicket. I located the nest, which appeared to have been constructed primarily out of dryer lint, quite easily since the two geese in the pond were nearby, screeching their heads off. I quickly placed the egg back into the nest and got out of there.

After that, the mother never left her nest. She sat there all day, every day, protecting her young. She must have left the nest at some point, but only when she was certain that Duke was not around. The eggs hatched last night or this morning, because I saw the eggs yesterday afternoon in the nest, and today I saw the mother and father geese swimming with their little goslings in the pond. I was happy they survived.

The same couldn’t be said for a nest of newly born baby bunnies, however.

Yesterday, on our walk around the pond, Duke pulled especially hard on his leash and dragged me back into the brush, a little further down from the goose nest. I pulled and pulled and finally got him out of the brush. As he emerged, I saw numerous tiny little newborn rabbits scramble away from him, racing in all directions across the lawn. He raced after them, pulling me with him. He scooped up two or three in his mouth and would not release them. I screamed and yelled and demanded that he drop them, to no avail. His jaw was clenched tightly. Little limbs hung from his mouth. Horrified doesn’t even come close to describing how I felt. There was nothing I could do as he swallowed them whole.

I was afraid of him for a while. This is the same dog I hug and snuggle with. He’s a 140-pound gentle giant … when he isn’t biting off your hand or eating live animals. It’s hard to reconcile his two natures.

My niece, who was visiting, asked how he could behave in such a vicious way. She noticed that he looked quite happy and normal right after eating the rabbits. I told her that it’s instinctive to him to capture prey.

“But, he’s a house dog!” she responded. Yes, he’s a house dog. But he’s also descended from wolves.

I’ll have to keep that in mind on our next walk around the pond.

Christmas Bath

I took my dog, Duke, to the self-serve dog wash, located in my neighborhood pet store, a week before Christmas. I wanted him to smell good, or at least better than he currently smelled, for the holidays.

Duke entered the store giddily. He loves pet stores because he can sniff every product, and attempt to free the caged animals.

However, as soon as I led him through the door to the dog-washing area, his attitude changed radically. He sprawled out on the floor in front of the tubs and refused to get up. After cajoling and begging him to stand up, he finally did. I walked him over to a walk-in tub and tried to get him to step up and into the tub. He pulled hard on his leash, resisting the tub with all of his strength. I then tried the other tub, which was higher up but had steps to get into it. He took one look at those narrow steps and dropped like a dead weight to the floor.

There was no way I could lift him. He’s 140 pounds and very long. He knew he had the advantage. He spread out on the floor and refused to budge. Finally, I opened the door that leads out of the dog-washing area and he jumped up and bolted out.

I had no option but to make an appointment with the groomer who was stationed to the right of the self-serve dog wash.

On the way out of the store, Duke grabbed a stuffed squeaky toy from a bin near the floor. He decided it was the best toy he had ever seen in his life, and he would not part with it. He sat on the floor by the register and proceeded to slobber all over the toy. Every time I reached down to take it from him — it was firmly lodged between his teeth — he uttered a gutteral growl. That growl is a warning that if I go near his possession, he will take my hand off.

For a sweet, gentle, loveable dog, he is fiercely protective of his food, tissues, napkins, and toys. If it’s in his mouth, or even in the vicinity of his mouth, anyone who knows him knows not to go near him. I think he learned this behavior in the shelter I adopted him from. Or, maybe he was in the shelter because of this behavior.

The cashier witnessed the growling when I tried to get the toy from Duke so it could be scanned. There was no way either of us was going to take it from him. The cashier wound up going to the toy section and finding the same stuffed animal so he could ring it up.

After I paid, Duke refused to get up off the floor. I had to drag him by the neck out of the store. As soon as we got to the exit, he stood up and ran outside … without his toy.

“Oh no you don’t,” I told him. “You are going to play with this toy now that you’ve humiliated me.” I put him and his toy into the backseat and returned to the store to buy a new leash, since his current leash was held together by knots.

Of course, Duke and I were the topic of conversation between the cashiers. “That dog needs to be trained,” my cashier said to a coworker. “She spoils him. That’s why he’s that way.” I interrupted their conversation, with an innocent smile, and asked where the leashes were.

“Oh, hello again!” my cashier said to me with a fake bright smile. He pointed to the aisle with the leashes.

I’m looking forward to our next adventure there next week, when I take him to the groomer. I’ll be stopping off in the muzzle aisle first, though. I need to get one for Duke … and one for the cashier.

Adding Fuel to the Fire

Everybody knows not to throw water on a grease fire. We either learned that from a grisly first-hand experience, or from a friendly fireman who visited our grade school and instructed us on what not to throw on fires, and told us to “tuck and roll,” or something like that, if we were suddenly surrounded by flames. We were also told by the fireman to feel doors before we opened them during a fire, and to go home and tell our parents to design an escape plan from our houses and have the whole family practice it. I don’t recall getting any cooperation at home on that front, however.

As children, we are given a lot of instruction on safety. It was probably our parents or teachers who taught us to yell “stranger” at the top of our lungs at all unknown passersby who happened to look our way. In the mid-1960s, we learned to sit along the walls in our school’s corridor, with our heads covered by our hands and arms, in order to survive an atom bomb attack. It was guaranteed to work.

When I was growing up in Northeast Philadelphia in the 1960s and early 1970s, there were men who drove trucks with amusement rides hitched to the back. The rides were surrounded by steel mesh. Inside the enclosure were colorfully painted cars that spun around on tracks, or sometimes the truck held a mini Ferris Wheel. For safety’s sake, the seats on the Ferris Wheel were inside large metal buckets that had a top, sides, steel mesh windows, and a door that locked. Kids lined up to pay their dimes and enter the ride area. My mother would never let us participate. She said that the driver could easily take off with a mesh container of kids. I never believed her, though. I thought she was being cheap. Now that I’m older, I think she was very wise, and maybe a little cheap.

But, back to fires. I know not to throw water on a grease fire. However, nobody ever mentioned that water shouldn’t be used on gas grill flames. I figured that out today, all on my own.

I had put burgers on the gas grill and while they cooked, it started to rain. The lid was closed, but I had to open it in order to flip the burgers. Just as I lifted the lid, the rain became torrential. The rain hit the grill and the flames shot up into the sky. I knew I should shut the lid immediately, but the burgers had to be flipped first or they would burn. I needn’t have worried. When the flames became a solid wall against the inside of the grill’s lid, the burgers cooked at an unusually fast rate and became rock-solid burnt hockey pucks in seconds. I finally closed the lid. As soon as the rain let up a little, I took the burgers off the grill and told my family that they were charbroiled.

They didn’t fall for it. Even the dog wouldn’t touch the burgers. We filled up on corn and other side dishes. I distributed ice cream cones after dinner to mitigate the taste of burnt meat.

You know, I can never die, because I’m still learning things that others consider common sense. Maybe I should have paid better attention to the friendly fireman.

I don’t know who to credit for this photo. I found it on Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.com/pin/140807925835434083/

Secret Ingredients

Cooking is dangerous. I burn my arms in the oven and my hands on the pots. I invariably grate my fingernails along with the cheese, and sometimes it’s hard to avoid dripping blood from a cut finger into my ingredients. I always cut my finger when I’m chopping vegetables.

Maybe I have so many accidents because I don’t like cooking. I have a friend who finds the prep work therapeutic and the cooking satisfying. I think she might have a mental problem.

I’ve been using meal kits recently. I usually order three meals per week and wing it the rest of the week. I really like having all of the ingredients and recipes on hand. The kits are expensive but you can’t put a price on not having to shop or plan meals. Well, you can, actually. It’s about $40 for a meal for four, which feeds three quite nicely. That’s approximately $13 per meal, which is reasonable enough, but I still have to feed my family the other four days, so what’s the point?

I’ve tried three different meal kit services. The third one was the best. It had top-notch ingredients and delicious recipes … and a hefty price tag. The first one was bargain basement. The meals were good, but inexpensive vegetables were commonly used, and one can only eat so much zucchini. The recipes were exotic, though, which was nice … occasionally. There were lots of noodle and rice bowls with fried eggs on top. I never understood the fried eggs. The second kit I tried was a disaster. The packers threw all of the ingredients into the box willy nilly, and the produce rarely survived the trip from the warehouse to my house without wilting or rotting. Worst of all, there were no recipe cards. I had to get the recipes online. Have you ever tried cooking a complicated meal while reading the recipe from your laptop or phone? My laptop would go into sleep mode constantly so I was always pressing the cursor pad with greasy fingers to bring the screen back. Grease-covered computer keys are not covered under my warranty.

I suppose I’ll go back to grocery shopping and meal planning. I’ll have to stop off at the pharmacy first, though, for Band-Aids … and a nail file.

Can you find the fingernail?

A Gangster of Geese

In July, I moved to a house with a big pond in the front yard. All along the same street, there are ponds in people’s yards. Up and down the road, you’ll spot ponds. Next to one of these ponds, you will see a flock of geese standing around, or most likely, relieving themselves on the grass or driveway next to the pond.

When they swim, they’re a gaggle of geese. However, if they’re flying, they’re a skein. Once they’re flying, there are lots of words to describe their formations, like chevron.

It’s interesting to read the descriptive terms for groups of birds. A murder of crows is the most well-known. A murder of geese would be more apt, though, if you’ve ever had to go outside and sweep the bird dung off your driveway. Or, if your dog decided that the droppings looked delicious.

There are all kinds of names for groups of birds: a charm of hummingbirds or goldfinches; a staring of owls; a covey of quail; a chattering of starlings; a party or band of jays; a wedge of swans; a raft of ducks; a host of sparrows; a flight of swallows; an exaltation of larks. A staring of owls is the most apt, I think.

What I want to know is who sat around and came up with all of these slightly mad names for groups of birds? Obviously a terror of retirees … or a palace of drunk/high people.

But, let’s get back to my original topic. I said earlier that there were many ponds in my neighborhood, but if you spotted the geese, they would be in front of one pond. That is because this very large flock of geese is treating the neighborhood like a pub crawl. One day they’ll be at my pond. Then they’ll all decide to walk, en masse, across the busy street — despite the fact that they flew hundreds or thousands of miles to get here — to another pond.

They love stopping traffic. When I hear them honking, I just know the leader has just announced that it’s time to find another person’s property to defecate on, and all of the follower geese are agreeing that that is a wonderful idea, but only if they get to walk to their next destination.

Besides being jerks, geese are mean, too. I got too close to one and it hissed at me. I’ve heard of geese attacking people who’ve annoyed them. They love to intimidate people. If they were human, they’d be gangsters or enforcers. I learned to keep my distance from them, but sometimes it’s hard, and not just because I’m perverse. It’s tempting to try to shoo them off the property. But, once geese have decided that your pond is where they are spending the day, as a flock or a gaggle, you might as well give in and locate your broom for the next day. They will leave piles everywhere. Relieving themselves is like a job for them, and they are very good at their job.

When I lived in Connecticut, we had a town beach that was overrun by geese. It was very tricky walking across the grass in the park to the sand on the beach because the geese had transformed the lawn into their toilet. This year, the town installed blue lights that were designed to keep the geese away. They worked wonderfully. The geese relocated across the park to the softball field.

I looked into geese deterrents for my property. Those blue lights are expensive, but I discovered a cheaper solution: grape Kool-Aid. There is something in grape Kool-Aid that they hate. I’m in a quandary, though. The house I live in belongs to my brother and his wife. If I put grape Kool-Aid around the perimeter of the pond, some of it will be bordering his white driveway. When it rains, the Kool-Aid will stain the driveway purple. I can’t decide whether I should risk my brother’s wrath at the mess in his driveway, though.

I have nowhere else to live … unlike the geese, who will eventually go home to Canada to annoy the nice Canadians.

Photo by Robert Franklin, South Bend Tribune, March 29, 2022

A Mouse in the House … Again

It’s been a while since I’ve had any rodents in my house, or at least any that brought themselves to my attention. If there’s a mouse in the house and you don’t see it, is it really there?

Well, it was really there tonight as I lay sprawled on my sofa watching the Downton Abbey movie. My dog, Duke, was lying next to me when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement on the rug. The movement turned out to be a tiny little mouse running across the room. Duke didn’t even stir. I, on the other hand, jumped up and chased the mouse until he escaped under the radiator.

I had some mousetraps in the house, so I lathered them with peanut butter and set them under the radiators. My dog and I settled back down to continue watching the movie, when movement again caught my eye. The mouse was a daredevil, for sure. It ran right past Duke, who didn’t even look up. I grabbed a Solo cup and chased the mouse into a corner. Then I scooped him up (after several tries and a lot of mouse squealing) and took him to the backyard.

My mother always said, “If there’s one mouse, there are always more.” It didn’t take long to prove her right. After I congratulated myself on my heroic capture of an animal the size of my thumb, my dog started sniffing around the stove. The last time one of my dogs did that, we wound up moving into a hotel. So, of course, I expected the worst. I was not disappointed.

I pulled out the bottom drawer of the stove to see if anything was underneath it, and at first, it was all clear. And then I saw what looked like a shadow dash by the baseboard. Years ago, there was a hole in the wall behind the stove from which a rat entered and set up housekeeping. We had long ago sealed that hole, but that was the direction the shadow ran towards.

Of course it was after midnight. It’s always the middle of the night when I discover unpleasant things. I think I’ll start going to bed earlier.

Since I didn’t feel like fighting rodents in the wee hours, I put a mouse trap under the stove and went upstairs. Tomorrow seems soon enough to deal with whatever is back there. All I hope is that the mouse, or mice, stays behind the stove and doesn’t venture upstairs to my bedroom. My mother also always said, “Mice are tricky. They can flatten themselves and slide through the tiniest cracks,” so I stuffed towels under the door.

I also barricaded the door with heavy furniture, which might have been taking things a bit far. My mother never said mice could move furniture, so as long as the cracks under the door are stuffed, I should be fine (knock wood).

Except for my dreams. I’m not looking forward to them. Maybe I’ll just stay up.

Addendum (added 4/29/2022)

My parents had a pantry in the basement when I lived in Ohio as a teen. The pantry consisted of long shelves that ran the length of one wall. One half of the shelving was for food and the other was for toys. One day, my mother noticed a Cheerio next to a dollhouse. She investigated further and discovered that every room in the dollhouse was filled to its ceiling with Cheerios. “We have mice in the basement,” my mother announced at dinner. She described what she had found. I commented that it must’ve taken the mice forever to carry the Cheerios, one by one, across the shelving to the dollhouse and then to fill the rooms. Her response was, “They had the time.”

I Don’t Have COVID

I have a sore throat and persistent cough. Back in the pre-pandemic days, I would’ve taken Theraflu and forgotten about my symptoms for four hours until they returned and it was time to re-medicate.

But this is the pandemic era, so I took a COVID-19 test. I mean, why not? The government sent me a bunch of free tests and they’re going to expire eventually, so why waste them? I was kind of hoping I had COVID. It sounds so much more impressive to say “I have COVID,” than to say, “I have a cold.”

So, I swabbed my nostrils and followed the directions on the package and 20 minutes later, I didn’t have COVID. I didn’t have it before the test confirmed my negative result, either, but at least there was hope.

Waiting for the results wasn’t as nerve-wracking as waiting for the results from a pregnancy test, though. I was watching Bridgerton while my nasal sample stewed in the solution and I totally forgot about the test until the timer went off. I was disappointed for a second when I saw the one line on the stick indicating I was COVID-free, but then I got over it and returned to the show.

Two years ago, I would have been relieved to get a negative result. But two years ago, nobody knew if COVID was going to kill them, so it was a different time. Now, it’s pretty common to have only cold-like symptoms if you get the virus, as long as you’ve been vaccinated and boostered like I have.

Everybody I know has had COVID except for me. I feel like I wasn’t invited to a not-exclusive party, which is even worse than being excluded from a party for a few select guests.

Oh well, there’s always another plague on the horizon. I’m not missing that one … once I’ve been vaccinated and boostered, of course. I don’t want a horrible illness. But, I do want bragging rights.

Walk 10,000 Steps Without Moving Your Feet

I like to think I’m a rule follower. I’m not, but I like to think that.

I generally do what I’m supposed to do … but usually at the very last minute or by cutting corners. I think it was Duke Ellington who said something like, “If it weren’t for deadlines, I’d get nothing done.” Deadlines guide my life, as well.

In college, all-nighters were my go-to when I had a project due the next day. I often stayed up all night and raced the clock. I usually beat it with minutes to spare, sometimes not even minutes. I remember going to class in my pajamas with a long coat thrown over them, project in hand. The class was ending when I got there, but I was able to put my report on my professor’s desk as everyone was filing out of the classroom.

Another time, I took two classes simultaneously. This was before computers (early 1980s) logged all classes being taken and by whom. At the time, we filled out paper requests for classes. I requested one that met on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Then, after the semester started, I manually added a class that met on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. I alternated which class I’d attend on Fridays. I was very fortunate that neither class ever had tests on Fridays.

At my last job, my bosses didn’t especially care when I did my day’s work, as long as it was finished by the time they got to the office the next day at 9 a.m. I worked from home so, needless to say, I started work around midnight and hit “send” on my last assignment around 8:55 a.m. Then I’d go to bed for the day. If I had a daytime telephone meeting, I’d set an alarm and take the meeting from under my covers. There was no reason for me to work in the middle of the night, except for the fact that I could.

The other day I learned of an effort-saving hack that, as the English say, gobsmacked me. I don’t usually use English sayings, to avoid sounding affected, but gobsmacked is the perfect word to describe my reaction.

I belong to an online crocheting group. I’m not a good crocheter by any means, but that doesn’t stop me. Just ask my siblings, who have been the recipients of many really big, oddly shaped afghans.

Anyway, someone in the group commented that she had been crocheting for hours while sitting on her couch. She glanced at her Fitbit and found that it had registered 2,000 steps. After her post, the comments came rolling in. One woman had purportedly walked 5,000 steps while crocheting. Another never moved off her sofa for 12 hours and had logged 10,000 steps. Talk about shortcuts. You can now sit still for hours, just moving your wrists, and walk miles. If you’re tracking your steps to improve your health, however, you will probably choose not to boost your step count with a crochet hook. However, if you have a company or a busybody that logs your steps, you just might think about taking up crocheting. Or even knitting. That probably works, too.

I sometimes wonder if I’m going to make it to Heaven with all of my conniving. Then I decide that I definitely will since I haven’t done anything especially evil. After all, Jesus said there are many mansions in Heaven. I suspect that mine is going to be in a bad neighborhood on the wrong side of the railroad tracks. But, at least it’ll be a mansion.

Hopefully, it won’t be condemned.

Adventures in Columbus

A few days ago, I flew from Columbus, Ohio to New York City. In Columbus, as I deposited my belongings into gray bins, I was reminded by a TSA agent to empty my pockets. I patted down my pockets and didn’t feel anything in them.

However, when I went through the X-ray machine, I was pulled aside and told I had to receive a hip and groin pat down. Right there, in front of hundreds of people, I had my waistband searched, and my upper, inner thighs patted down. Then I was scanned by an instrument that was inserted into a machine to determine if I was carrying explosives.

“You tested me for explosives?!” I asked the TSA woman.

“We have to treat everyone the same way, ma’am,” she said, rather rudely, in my opinion.

Guess what caused the panic? A hair tie with a tiny piece of metal in it.

Once I found the hair tie in my back pocket and showed it to the TSA woman, I figured she would send me back through the X-ray machine. But no. She decided to do a body search and scan me for bomb-making materials in front of everyone.

I’ve set off alarms before in New York, Dallas, and other large airports. I never knew why, but each time, an agent waved a wand over me and said I could go. That’s why I was shocked by the treatment I received at the small Columbus airport.

A woman behind me said, “The agents here are stricter than the ones at LaGuardia.” I agreed. I don’t know why, though.

Maybe they’re bored.