---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Barry R Hodge 
To: Hodge[at]fas.harvard.edu
Cc: CJHodge[at]post.harvard.edu
Subject: Happenings in the smalls.

Early yesterday morning, 3:30ish or so (or perhaps 4:30ish; a detail, incidental only) I was in the family room, whiling away a mort of time watching television. Tom came in with his usual thump, and paraded in front of me, heading towards the front hall. I noticed a subtle distortion of his usually noble profile, and caught up with him by the hope chest. He was in possession of Morris, a mouse. I discussed the situation with Tom, who, without argument, dropped Morris. In sprightly fashion Morris ran down the hall and turned left. I followed rather quickly, with Tom under restraint, and saw nary jot nor tittle unusual. I rousted out your mother, gave her custody of Tom and assigned her to cat patrol, and looked there and here. Morris was not to be found.

Last night, after supper, I was heading upstairs and saw a smallish mouse colored object streak across the front hall, from outside door towards the love seat. Immediately realizing that Morris had abandoned his reclusive ways, I returned your mother to cat patrol, watched the area while everyone assumed position, and then closely examined the area under the radiator behind the love seat, in the certain belief that Morris was there. I could not find him.

Perhaps an hour later your mother informed me that Morris had turned the corner from the front hall, heading towards the family room, had seen her, and had boogied back the way he had come. She supplied me with a flashlight, rearranged the cats, and we once more engaged in the search.

I found Morris under the radiator against the front wall next to the living room. He was hiding behind the riser at the south end; was content with his situation; did not evidence a desire to come out. Your mother provided a clear plastic container, for the purpose of capture a la spider procedure, but there was something lacking. It occurred to me that there would be benefit to developing a mechanism to encourage more social behavior on Morris' part, and I asked your mother for spaghetti (uncooked). To poke him with. She supplied it.

I poked Morris. I poked him again. I poked him a third time. He ate the spaghetti.

I suspect that it started as a defensive maneuver-- nobody likes to get poked. Morris tolerated one or two without complaint, but then, I think, got annoyed. He was probably surprised by the flavor upon his first bite; I can't imagine that his food ordinarily pokes him in the tummy at supper time, but he adjusted immediately. Quite quickly we adopted a procedure. I would poke him; he would attack the spaghetti and bite the end; I would withdraw the spaghetti; he would follow, either volitionally or while still attached. It turned into a race. Would the spaghetti grow progressively shorter, until I could no longer reach Morris? Or would he, in the heat of combat and hunger, abandon his fortress and provide room for a capture arabesque? The encouraging factor was that Morris is a dainty eater. He accounted for no more than a 64th of an inch of the spaghetti at any one bite.

Adjustment was necessary. Your mother provided crackers (two, of a buttery flavor). I ate one and crumpled the other, leaving what I considered a tempting pile far enough from the radiator to provide scope for the capture procedure.

After considerable encouragement, Morris came out, grabbed a large fragment of cracker, and scooted back before I could react. I learned that quickness is all.

Another concern developed. Morris is, in fact, quite small. Where would we be if he ate enough for two days and then decided to sleep it off? (There is, you must realize, something incongruous in the prospect of a middle aged attorney of a certain girth, prone on the floor, hand feeding a mouse over the course of a week or so.)

This eventuality, however, did not occur. Morris' appetite rose to the occasion. After some further encouragement, he came out far enough to tackle the cracker fragments in bulk, and apparently lost all composure in the face of the bounty available. I lowered the pot, and voila. He was a bit distressed, at first, but within fifteen seconds he settled down and got to work. He was munching happily as he travelled from the front hall through the family room to the woods behind the house.

Jeffrey, there is a moral to this story, which I recount principally for your benefit. It is expressed in one word: focus.

Morris found himself in a situation where amazing things were happening. He did not blench, however. With the exception of that single instant when he lost sight of the advantages of reticence under the stimulus of a pile of cracker crumbs, he conducted himself appropriately, and with discretion. I reserve my highest admiration for his behavior as he was being wafted out of the house. Even though he didn't know his ultimate fate, and could have had no experience upon which to base a reasoned prediction, he did the sensible thing. He continued with his supper.

So it is in your case, my son. Even though you have no clue as to the fate that awaits you, and even though you may feel like the toad beneath the harrow, you must get on with the business at hand. You must study through the weekend.

And Christina, you are in similar, though less immediately compelling, position. Do that which must be done.

From: Augusta 
To: Stewart
Subject: Re: going insane (fwd)

this is something that happened to a friend of mine from high school. :)

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I don't know if I have any particularly good stories. I can hear Ed on the toilet next door. . .

Oh, yes! That reminds me of the perfect story. It's a little bit old, but true. On my way to visit Rachel over Christmas, I was having some sort of problem where I had to pee ALL THE TIME. I think I must have just been drinking a ton, plus lots of coffee; but anyway, it was just not even tolerable. I was really late, and had gotten stuck in traffic to boot, and so I just had no time to be stopping anywhere. That was a problem, since of course I had to pee incredibly badly, especially after the traffic jam -- but I decided that I would not stop at any cost.

Now I had this venti sized coffee cup from Starbuck's, which was empty, because I had emptied it, and it just got to looking better and better as I was headed down 316, or whatever that highway is. I decided, in a moment of total indiscretion, that I would simply drop trou at the next stop light and empty my bladder into the venti cup, and then neatly replace the sip lid, staying in the driver's seat all the while. This I begun to do as I pulled up to the next light, and had succeeded in stripping my lower half naked, when suddenly the light turned green.

This seemed like no problem to me, as I figured I could just wait until the next light, and really no one next to me could see that I had no pants on anyway, so I just started driving along with my pants around my ankles.

I neglected to consider tractor trailers.

And along came this eighteen wheeler, in the lane next to me. I decided to pretend that he wouldn't look to the side. Then I decided to face the fact that he would, and so I sped up a little bit. So did he, and he began honking wildly. I was mortified at the prospect of some truck driver hollering to his cohorts on CB, "I SWEAR TO GOD! I SEEN HER SNATCH!!" and so I began eyeing the car frantically for something to conceal my nakedness. (Traffic was getting heavy and I couldn't afford to try to pull up my pants without putting my life in jeopardy.) There was really nothing to be found, save a box of Kleenex in the passenger seat, from which I desperately began plucking tissues which I then hoisted onto my lap in piles.

Problem: the AC was on high, and so each tissue I flung manically across my pudenda was wafted gently away from my thighs, until I found the Kleenex box empty and my womanliness as exposed as ever. Navigating the car erratically with one hand, I dealt with the AC controls as quickly as possible and then began trying to retrieve tissues from the backseat without damaging my back or smashing into other traffic, the uncouth teamster at my side blaring away all the while.

Add to my trauma the fact that I now had to piss with an intensity heretofore unexperienced in my lifetime and had absolutely no hope of stopping by the side of the road. Traffic had picked up, there were no nearby pit stops, and I was horrified by the prospect that my aroused friend might decide he had to see my upper half as well and synchronize his piss break with mine. It should be said that under the circumstances my composure was unbounded, as I slammed on the gas and swerved left just in time to avoid the bumper in front of me and situate myself squarely in front of the tractor trailer. Several more ill-advised lane changes separated me from the unmannerly bastard, who had finally ceased to blare his horn, and it seemed as though the heavy traffic would prevent us from meeting again.

I moved on to more important issues: my bladder was threatening to rupture. In utter desperation, I seized the venti cup and began to piss in it, struggling manfully to keep the accelerator pressure and the wheel steady while perching on my free leg atop a tall paper cup in a very short little car that was hurdling east on 316 at 60 miles and hour in heavy traffic.

My relief at this point was almost orgasmic, and I was elated to find that I was aiming directly into the cup. I could not have guessed that my bladder could contain more fluid that a venti-sized Starbuck's cup.

It could. Imagine my shock when I felt my hand run over in warm water and a slosh of fluid against my thighs. I cursed. I contracted my sphincter for all it was worth and succeeded in halting the the flow of urine from my body. My car weaving dangerously from side to side, I raised the teetering vessel of urine toward the windshield, professing all sorts of ill will toward the divinity as piss sloshed briskly from both sides of the cup. I flopped down onto the driver's seat and cried out as the car gunned forward and I slammed my cup into the drink holder, breaking hard and fumbling frantically for the sip lid to stop the uncontrollable movement of liquid presently dousing the consul and gear shift at my side.

Having successfully replaced the sip lid and avoided imminent collision, I sighed deeply and considered the problem of driving naked on a urine soaked seat. I began to imagine the smell that would permeate my car, and how long it would take to fumigate it. After a mechanic with B.O. had worked on my mother's car, from then on, when the temperature exceeded 80 it never stopped smelling of sweat. With this in mind, I began gathering the dispersed tissues from the floor of the car and shoving them under my wet bottom in hopes of absorbing excess fluid. And at the next possible opportunity, I pulled over. At a Waffle House.

I managed to replace my pants without getting any urine on them, thank you Jesus, and quickly made my way into the restaurant. I ignored the gaze of the waitresses, who I was certain could tell that I was a woman who had just pissed all over her car, and went directly into the bathroom. After relieving myself again (amazing, that) I set about addressing the urine soaked seat problem. There were no paper towels. There was only toilet paper. What could I do? I gathered great drenched handfuls of it and walked proudly out of the restaurant, sopped mounds of tissue trickling away in front of the juke box. I did not look back.

I spent a good a five minutes soaking the seat, and thankfully remembered a beach towel that was in my trunk. I spread it neatly over the seat, and looked around for a garbage can to throw away the great mounds of piss filled tissue in my hands. There was no garbage can. I certainly couldn't go back inside.

I. . .littered. I took the venti-sized Starbuck's cup from the consul, dumped the contents into the grass, packed the thing with piss-drenched tissue, and left it on the curb. I drove away, to Athens, where I met Rachel and pretended that nothing had happened.

That is the end of my story.

Feel better??