There is absolutely no reason for this ostrich to be here. I just like her face.

For years I’ve been embarrassed over being incapable of telling a joke out loud without botching the punch line. Turns out I was simply ahead of my time. I was telling anti-jokes and didn’t know it. Seems I’m not defective after all. I’m a specialist.

I’d never even heard of anti-jokes until my teenage daughter recently began rattling off one after another, which she was reading on Twitter.

“What’s green and has wheels?”

“I dunno. What?”

“Grass. I lied about the wheels. What did the farmer say when he lost his tractor?”

“I have no idea. What?

“Where’s my tractor.”

It was, in a way, like being transported back through time to when, at age five, Celeste learned her first joke. (“Why is 6 afraid of 7? Because 7 8 9.”) So amused was she by this joke that she honed the telling of it to perfection by telling it a few hundred times in rapid succession. In a single day.

I would’ve sworn that joke could never be funny again. And then she told me the anti-version.

“Why is 6 afraid of 7?” Celeste asked.

Before I could reply, she said. “It isn’t. Numbers are not sentient and thus are incapable of feeling fear.”

Most anti-jokes are spin-offs of familiar old jokes, except the punch lines are altered in such an absurd way that the revised is often more funny (I think) than the original.

“A duck walks into a bar, the bartender says, ‘What’ll it be?’ But the duck doesn’t say anything because it’s a duck.”

Or

A man walks into a bar. Except it was a metal bar, like a pole, and it hurt.

Or (my favorite)

A dyslexic man walks into a bra.

I come by my appreciation of anti-jokes likely because of something that happened ages ago, on a road trip to the Ozarks for a family reunion. While on our way there, Dad told a long, drawn out joke about a polar bear that had no punch line whatsoever. We thought it was awful. Gave him a hard time about it. But once we were at the reunion, my brother and I were soon begging Dad to tell his polar bear joke. When he got to the end of it, Kurt and I were laughing hysterically.  Some relatives joined us, either pretending to get the joke or unable to resist laughing too, while the rest stared at us like we’d lost our minds.

All week long, as the crowd changed, Dad would be asked to retell his joke. More would be in on it every time, laughing so hard there were tears. And confusion.

Some of these anti-jokes strike that same cord in me—funny for no reason at all. Others are wrong in a way that makes me uncomfortable, and even though I don’t want to laugh, sometimes I just can’t help myself. For instance,

“Why did Suzie drop her ice cream?”

“Because she got hit by a bus.  It wasn’t that joke, but the one that immediately followed that got me.

“Knock-knock.

“Who’s there?

“Not Suzie.”

Bar jokes are rampant, especially ones involving animals.

“A horse walked into a bar. The bartender asked, ‘Why the long face?’ The horse said, ‘I just lost my job.’”

“A horse walked into a bar. Several people got up and left as they spotted the potential danger in the situation.”

Poetry is also occasionally rewritten into anti-joke form. For instance,

“Roses are red. Violets are blue. Some poems rhyme. This one doesn’t.”

Or

“Roses are gray. Violets are gray. I’m a dog.”

The beauty of anti-jokes are is that if you mess them up, no one knows the difference.

 So if you’re one of the many who has long avoided telling jokes for fear of ruining the punch line, your time has come.

Join us.

We plan to meet at the bra.

It seems ironic that the woman who founded Mother’s Day was never a mother herself, but perhaps it’s especially fitting. Her appreciation for mothers was such that, even though she hadn’t experienced motherhood herself, she valued it enough to make the day of honor her cause.

I wonder how difficult holidays like today are for childless women, like Anna Jarvis was. How it must be to have to face all the store displays and magazine articles and inboxes brimming with special offers for making the day special for Mom. It’s difficult to even grab a quick gallon of milk without facing overblown candy and flowers display at the grocery store.

Much as I love this day and the reason behind it, it seems like it must be such a painful day for those who are unable to conceive or who miscarried or who gave their child up for adoption, for those who either chose not to have children or didn’t have a choice, who simply aren’t mothers for one reason or another—this seems a day to single them out for how they aren’t included.

Even if a person absolutely, positively didn’t want to go to the party, not getting to go when so many others do has to hurt. Instead, every May, they must watch the party from across the street, knowing that many who are attending shouldn’t be there. Don’t even want to be there. Don’t deserve or appreciate what they have or how easily it came for them.

When I was married and of childbearing age, yet didn’t have kids, Mother’s Day didn’t bother me since becoming a mother remained a possibility. That door hadn’t closed. And even though I always expected I’d have a house filled with children, only one was in the cards. Yet that one defines me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. I can’t fathom life without her—or maybe, I can fathom it. And it’s because I can that I hurt for those who wished to be mothers, but aren’t.

Some of the best moms I know never had children of their own. They mother their nieces and nephews, their friend’s children, neighbors, coworkers, pets. They mother causes that those with children use their mom-excuse not to do.

I’ve learned how to be a better mom because of these women. Regardless of whether they wanted to be mothers or not, it hurts to know they’ve not had the chance. And it bothers me that Mother’s Day might be painful to them. That it’s a stinging reminder that their life isn’t what society considers the norm. That their nose is being rubbed into all the things they won’t really get to know.

Since they’re across the street from the party.

It’s nobody’s business why they don’t have children. They don’t owe anyone any excuses.

I wish Mother’s Day was something that didn’t sting. I wish it was a day for women to be kind to themselves. To own what they aren’t because of what they are.

A day to love the children in your life, regardless of their relation.

And know there are many whose hearts ache for you on days like today.

Excuse please if today’s column is a bit vague, but considering many read this during breakfast, some imprecision is a kindness.

Younger readers may want to skip this entirely as it applies only to those age 50 and above, or those who have a family medical history that, once shared with a doctor, soon has the patient asking, “You intend to do what with that hose?”

Although I’m still a few years from 50, my family history is such that this latest was my second. I recall almost nothing at all from my first. Not even the location of the facility where it was done. The one niggling memory that remained from that time was a mental note to myself to get some of those Pull-Ups for Grown-Ups the next time around.

Unfortunately, I didn’t read that particular mental note until after I’d taken the four tiny pills (which I’ve come to think of as Seed-Sized Nuclear Detonation Devices) and downed the first of so very many GatorAid enhanced, yet still chalky drinks. By then, the clock was ticking. It was like having swallowed a time bomb, then pouring more and more fuel on it every half hour, knowing that at some point, the fuse would be lit. And the lighting would burn.

That’s where a mathematical equation came into play. My side of the bed is exactly 16 feet from the bathroom. Living in our house with me are three dogs, two cats, one teenager, and one 51-year-old man. So–how many of these objects can locate themselves between X (X = my side of the bed) and Y (Y = the Necessary Destination)? I’m not good at math. So very, very not good at math. I’ve seen dog show agility courses with fewer obstacles than what I encountered.

But that only happened once. My way was clear from then on. Celeste went to bed. Geoff slept on the futon in my office. Two out of three dogs spent the night hiding in the closet. That third dog, however, lacks both survival instinct and intelligence.

Every time I stood, he read my movement as, “Yay! We’re going to get cheese!” and then, apparently convinced I wasn’t aware I was heading away from the refrigerator, whatever single brain cell that remains alive and well in his head prompted him to weave repeatedly in front of my feet in an attempt to change my direction.

By this point, I was at the stage that calls to mind this basketball thing. I’m not sure what the term for it is, but when a player shoots the ball and it swooshes through the net without ever touching the rim–that’s kind of what had started to happen a couple hours into the prep. The swoosh.

The swoosh part is why you start wishing for Pull Ups. I think they should come with the prescription. Four pills. The bottle of powdered stuff. The case of GatorAid. A half dozen Pull Ups.

It was something like 2 a.m. by this point. I couldn’t stand. Couldn’t sleep. Absolutely, positively couldn’t sneeze. I once heard someone say this part of the prep was a bit like a firehose that no one is holding. I didn’t understand then. I do now.

Eventually it finally stopped and I slept. At 8 in the morning, we were at Charleston Gastroenterology Associates. Although they were running a little behind (“I’ll be here all week, folks.”), it was still over before I knew it. That part was a breeze. I remember nothing. It’s the night before I need to erase.

The doctor stopped by to tell me that everything was fine. He apparently hadn’t found my head up there just like some suspected it was. Said he’d see me again in five years.

I refrained from making a joke about understanding how a puppet must feel. Figured he’d heard it before.

Mostly, though, I just wanted to go home and sleep. I was grateful it was over.

Wish I could say the same about the mammogram. My appointment’s next week.

Bammy with some ginger ale.

One of the most wonderful pets my family ever had was Bammy, a blue jay that my brother brought home after finding the baby bird in the street near our house. The mostly bald baby Bammy was covered with mites, which was likely why he’d been tossed from the nest.

At the time, my mom was also raising two warblers whose parents had been killed by a car right in front of our house. Those babies, more developed than the jay, had become so hungry they’d likely left the nest seeking food, even though they weren’t yet able to fly.

Raising one baby bird is a chore. Raising three is exhausting. The high metabolic rate of baby birds means they can’t go long without a meal. A bird so young its eyes are still closed and it doesn’t yet have feathers must be fed every 15 to 20 minutes from sunrise to sunset. After their eyes are open and feathers have begun to appear, they only need fed every 30 to 45 minutes.

The schedule makes one admire the parenting moxie of birds.

When the warblers were full grown, we set them free. The male left, but the female, Goldie, chose to stay. As, a few months later, did the jay.

There was something damaged about Goldie. She wouldn’t have survived in the wild and seemed to be missing whatever birds have that normally prompts such natural bird activities as grooming. And flying. Goldie preferred to walk.

A few years after Goldie and Bammy had declared their intentions to live at our house permanently, a baby cowbird fell from its nest onto my parent’s brick patio, breaking its leg. Squeaky’s leg didn’t heal correctly, and although he could eventually fly, he couldn’t land without toppling, so he, too, chose to walk. Or hop.

Bammy sunbathing.

Bammy, though, was a world-class flyer. He would fly full speed at this decorative room divider that had angled slats four inches apart—he’d pull his wings closed for a split-second on one side and emerge and reopen his wings on the other. I used to expect he’d meet his end at that divider, that we’d find his body on one side and his wings on the other, but it was a combination of old age and pneumonia that did him in when he was nearly 12.

All these years later, we’ll still occasionally find some little reminder of him, like a peanut or some small treasure Bammy had stolen and tucked deep between the pages of a book. Sometimes, when I’m visiting my folks, I’ll be at the bathroom mirror and I can almost feel Bammy’s presence, as he would accompany me there every morning to groom himself while I fixed my hair. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard that sassy bluejay yell without thinking of him. He was this amazing, intelligent creature who we could’ve so easily missed out on getting to know.

Every Spring I’m reminded of my old bird friends when I hear someone talking about having found a baby bird and not knowing what to do. Often, the bird isn’t really abandoned, but only appears to be, yet if it actually is, there’s much to consider. One thing is that according to West Virginia Code 20-2-51 regarding the legalities of possessing a native wild animal, “The director may issue a permit to a person to keep and maintain in captivity as a pet,” but only as long as the wild animal or wild bird “has been acquired from a commercial dealer or during the legal open season.”

The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service is even tougher: “You must release all releasable recuperated birds to the wild as soon as seasonal conditions allow. Birds may not be held for more than 180 days.”

Thankfully, we knew none of this when we raised those birds, and I kind of doubt it would’ve stopped us if we had.

For those who find themselves faced with having to decide between attempting to rescue a foundling or leaving it to face nature’s wrath, I’ve cobbled together some tips that could help the noble scofflaws.

=============================================

Although I’m no expert at raising baby birds–I’ve failed nearly as often as I’ve succeeded—I’ve assembled some basics from my own experience, my mother’s, and from some online resources to help those who find themselves thrust into avian adoption.

Let me preface this all by saying I expect I’ll be hearing from Those People. You know who I mean. They insist orphaned creatures should never be assisted in any fashion, that nature should be allowed to run its course. But if letting nature run its course is the way things should be, then why do we even have veterinarians? Or physicians, for that matter?

Anyway, when dealing with a baby bird, there are some basics to consider, like if the baby bird is not on the ground, leave it alone. If it’s in the branches, out of reach of cats and other carnivores, it’s fine. But if the baby is on the ground—perhaps as a result of high winds or a badly anchored nest—it isn’t likely to survive. Assistance is called for.

(Unless you’re one of Those People, in which case I recommend you stop reading now and find something more to your liking, like one of those TV shows that feature lions killing antelope.)

I’ve read that returning the baby to the nest seldom works, that it’s better to instead put the baby bird in a shoebox with edges too high for it to hop over. Put the box up off the ground, where the parents can hear it. Despite what you might have heard, it doesn’t matter if a person has touched the bird–the parents will still care for it. But it needs to be put near the same area it was found so they’ll know where to look. Watch the box from a distance to see if the parent returns. If they aren’t feeding the baby within an hour to an hour and a half—congratulations! You may now pass out cigars. (“It’s a warbler!”)

Unfortunately, if the baby bird was a gift from your cat or dog, its odds aren’t good, even if the bird appears unharmed. Most will die of bacterial infection (combined with stress) in under a day unless treated quickly by a veterinarian.

Bird rehabilitation centers are best for the bird, but logistically, that’s not always possible. (Check with veterinarians or the humane society to find a rehabilitation center, or look online.) Even if a rehabilitation center is nearby, the baby bird will need cared for until it can be transported.

Baby birds need to be kept in a place that’s well-ventilated, clean, and has consistent temperature. Depending on how developed the bird is, a box usually works well for a while. Grass might seem like a natural thing to use for the bird, but it retains moisture and is hard to keep clean. Shredded, dye-free paper towels work better.

A heating pad placed under the box can help if the house is cold, just don’t make it too hot or the bird will become dehydrated. Putting an upside-down laundry basket over the box can prevent the bird from getting loose in your house in the event it hops out of the box.

Stress is one of the biggest dangers to baby birds, so it’s important to avoid excessive handling, especially by small children. Since the ultimate goal is to return the bird to the wild, minimal handling helps keep the bird from becoming overly comfortable with people.

According to a variety of internet sources, it seems that most wild baby birds can be fed the same type of diet in order to grow and thrive, regardless of whether the adult version of the baby is a seed eater or prefers dining on bugs. There are exceptions (especially with doves, carrion-eaters, and some others), so to find out what’s best for your baby, I’d recommend checking with a veterinarian or doing some research. Generally, however, the babies of most standard wild birds can be fed a diet that consists of hard-boiled eggs, Purina kitten chow that’s been soaked in warm water until soft, and mealworms (diced, if the worms are large).

If you squirm at the idea of dicing worms, consider and appreciate how much easier you have it than the delivery method of your new baby’s biological parents.

The three ingredients are NOT blended together. Vary the bites fed to the baby—two bites of softened kitten chow, one bite of egg, one worm. Repeat until full. Tweezers or wooden chopsticks are good food delivery devices, and wiggle-flapping the fingers as the bite is approaching can entice baby into opening its beak. That’s the bird parent’s variant of “Here comes the choo-choo.”

If the bird is stubborn about opening its beak, rub the chopstick or tweezers against the sides of the beak or give the box a little jarring to stimulate it to gape.

Mealworms are preferable to earthworms because earthworms contain whatever pathogens are in the soil, and they also carry parasites that can be deadly to baby birds. Mealworms have more protein and are more digestible for youngsters, and they’re inexpensive and readily available at most pet shops and feed stores. In a pinch, canned cat or dog food or raw hamburger can suffice until the Purina-egg-worm diet can be assembled.  The consistency should be about the same as mashed potatoes or oatmeal.

Continue feeding until the bird starts behaving less enthusiastically. Don’t force one last bite. As the bird grows, it will eat more at each feeding, and the time between feedings will lessen. Once it’s strong enough to be hopping around, move the bird to a cage and begin putting a few food items in the cage. The bird will still need to be fed about every one to three hours, even after it begins pecking at food on its own.

Don’t give water until the bird is able to walk or perch on its own. If the bird seems dehydrated, seek veterinary care. The food can be moistened so that it isn’t at all dry, but squirting water into the bird’s mouth often goes its lungs.  After the bird is walking around its cage or sitting on a perch, put in a few shallow containers of water. Change it often.

As the bird becomes stronger and more independent, begin giving it the foods it would normally feed on in the wild. For birds that eat seeds, a cockatiel seed mix is the best choice since it contains a grit that birds need for digestion. Adolescent birds can be just as lazy as human adolescents, and with you providing its meals, it can be difficult to get it to eat on its own. Gradually cut back what you offer when feeding by hand, then leave other foods in their cage for them to eat on their own.

Flight is instinctive for most birds, though their clumsy early attempts can be entertaining. (Warning: Laughing at a blue jay can be dangerous. They have better memories than elephants and will seek vengeance upon those who mock them.) When the bird seems ready to attempt flight, a screened-in porch is ideal. Allowing it to fly loose in the house can be dangerous because of ceiling fans, windows and mirrors, although our jay had full run of the house his entire life (12 years).

Knowing when to release the bird is difficult. They need to be eating well on their own and be confident fliers, but even then, the transition will still be dangerous for them. Some birds become so imprinted on their humans or never recover from an injury thoroughly enough that releasing them into the wild won’t succeed, and that’s where things get tricky.

Remember, according to State and federal code, keeping baby birds is against the law so you should minimize your contact with them. Handle the bird as seldom as you can. Keep their cage away from busy areas of the house and away from pets and children. Try to do the right thing until the bird can be released.

And then pretend it never happened.

I couldn’t help it. I was envious. I have this close friend who lives on the same street as her parents, while mine live in Red House, about 40 minutes away. I want mine to be as close by as hers.

This same friend—her hair is thick, dark and lush, and she has this crazy flat stomach, in spite of having had twins. My hair is frizzy and breaks easily and keeps trying really hard to be gray; the only time my stomach is flat is when my corpulent cat lays on it and smashes it down.

My friend’s house is clean and organized and pretty, while most every room in my house appears involved in some type of ongoing scientific experiment, like indoor moss growth or the westward migration of hair tumbleweeds.

My friend does more in a day than anyone I know. I pretty much consider the day a success if I remember to take my vitamins.

So often, I wonder how she does it. Wonder what it must be like to be her—to get so much done and look so darn good while doing it. I can’t recall even once hearing her brag about anything, yet she makes me feel incompetent and lacking simply by being.

I’ve thought how much better life would be if I could trade places with her, and during a weak moment I said as much to her not long ago. Her response stunned me, considering she said she’d often thought the same about my life. Seems she wants to write, but can’t find the time. Longs to have pets, but her husband’s allergic. She even remarked on the “quirky cool charm” of my house while believing hers is “instantly forgettable.”

All this came crashing together the other day when I saw a featured quote from Theodore Roosevelt on the Pinterest website: “Comparison is the thief of joy.”

Such a simple concept, yet it had never occurred to me before. By comparing myself to my friend, I constantly felt insufficient. Comparison made everything about me seem lacking. It was like a magnifying glass was being held over each flaw, but only I could see mine. And only she could see hers.

Trading places with each other wouldn’t have fixed a thing. We’d only have inherited a new set of inadequacies that we’d each want to change.

It occurred to me then that contentment is a choice. It has nothing at all to do with luck and everything to do with recognition of what we have, and gratitude for those things.

Instead of wishing my parents lived closer, I should be grateful I still have parents. And instead of being irritated by my frizzy, dry hair, I should be grateful I still have hair. Instead of wishing for a flat stomach, I should be grateful for the cat who so regularly and thoroughly smashes it flat.

Finding a way to be grateful in the midst of some powerful struggles isn’t going to be easy, but it seems as though life would so much sweeter if we recognize and appreciate what we have. And not what we don’t.

I often admit things publicly about myself that I probably shouldn’t.

Like that my husband and I have had conversations about what our dogs’ voices would sound like if they were human.

I guess it’s not all that strange to have done that with our oldest dog, Murry, considering total strangers have remarked that he looks like a surfer. I suppose it’s because his moppy blond hair is almost always in his eyes, plus his facial expression and demeanor are what you’d expect of one whose been bonked on the head with a surfboard. He’s the canine version of Sean Penn’s Spicoli character from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.”

So, yeah. If Murry were human, instead of periods at the end of his sentences, his would finish with “Dude.”

What makes less sense is that Geoff and I were recently watching one of the old “Lethal Weapon” movies with our middle dog, Chewie, lying belly-up between us. When Joe Pesci (as Leo Getz) came on the screen, at nearly the exact same moment, Geoff and I said, “That’s Chewie!”

That anyone could look at Joe Pesci and be reminded of a middle-aged, chunky silky terrier might seem like a stretch, but to us, it totally fit.

But when it came to our closet dog, Roo, we didn’t agree. Geoff insists she would whisper, while I think she’d be shrill.

Our cats weren’t as easy. Aside from agreeing that their voices would drip with disdain, it was hard to assign a human voice to either. (Geoff suggested William F. Buckley for one and Mike Tyson for the other.)

Still, I became curious about whether other pet lovers imagined what their pet’s human voice would sound like. After asking around, I soon learned two things:

One, plenty of dog owners will admit to having done the same thing.

And two, not a single one of them will allow me to use their name in print.

This is so completely unfair. Give me something as golden as telling me your dog sounds like Angela Lansbury and then say, “But no …”

I did a quick look online and was surprised to find a few pet-related chat boards where the subject came up. The precision of some of the responses were hilarious.

Said one Lab owner, “Zach would sound like Peter Brady in the episode where his voice changes.”

Another said her dog would sound like “Roger Rabbit, but in a woman’s voice.”

A couple said their dogs would have a “big, dumb voice,” that was something like Eeyore from “Winnie the Pooh” or the “Which way did he go, George?” voice from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons.

So yeah, along with knowing what our dogs would sound like if they were human, we sometimes take it to the next level and speak for the dog.

“Don’t try blaming me for that one, buddy. I’m outta here.”

“Can I go? Huh? Huh? Can I? Can I? Can I, pleeease?”

“Gee, thanks for the crumb. Sure you could spare it? Might need to reconsider that unconditional clause in our contract.”

Wednesday morning, while on our early-morning walk, we came upon a group of deer grazing in a neighbor’s front yard. One doe took off running, then looked over its shoulder and realized the others hadn’t moved, so it stopped. She looked at them, then at us, and then back at the group.

“Hey! C’mon, guys. Aren’t we supposed to run? We’re supposed to run, aren’t we?” I said, in the best angst-filled doe voice I could manage.

“Really?” Geoff said, “You’re doing deer voices now?”

Chewie looked embarrassed.

And Murry said, “Dude.”

I took it as a compliment when asked to write a How-To article on pulling April Fool’s jokes. After all, most people who have been pranked end up a little resentful, and the editor who requested the article had once been on the receiving end of one of my all-time favorites.

The secret to a good April Fool’s prank is not to be cruel. Don’t cause damage or pain or expense to the victim. Anticipate retaliation. And accept with good humor whatever you get.

I’ve found that the more work that goes into the set-up, the more believable something totally outrageous can become. For instance, it’s fairly simple to create letterhead that looks official. Thanks to the internet, logos can often be copied via nothing more complicated than a right click of the mouse button. So if a person wanted to make letterhead that, say, looked as though it came from the Internal Revenue Service, it would be easy to do. Considering that it might also be illegal—even for something that’s clearly meant as a joke—it might be wise to include somewhat obvious clues, like an outrageous misspelling or a phone number that’s actually an adult bookstore in Jefferson.

Experience has taught that jokes involving something like an IRS audit are most satisfying if the selected victim works in an accounting-type position and should immediately know better.  The letter should use phrases like, “it has come to our attention that there has been evidence of unreported income” and that “a subsequent investigation has substantiated…”

Receiving a letter that uses words such as “unreported,” “subsequent” and “substantiated” in close proximity to “an extensive audit” that dates back so many years it seems too extreme to believe—even when typos and other tip-offs are included in the letter—can still inspire such fear that it can magically erase a victim’s normally abundant common sense.  This can then result in the victim’s loss of sleep, followed by rage, followed by notes scrawled on a legal pad prior to calling the number on the letterhead, followed by calling the number again, followed by confusion, and then rage, and then relief, and then rage again. And then retribution, or the promise thereof. (It’s been years, Rick and Kelley, but my guard is still up.)

What follows are some recipes for a few of my favorite April Fool pranks.

INGREDIENTS:

Camera
Internet access
Scissors and/or Photoshop
Color printer
Victim who is proud of their bargain

Let’s say, for example, that a person was to have a father-in-law with impeccable taste who had traveled to a foreign destination. While there, the father-in-law went to a flea market and purchased a piece of art for an astoundingly low price, which he immediately shipped to his home in the U.S.

For ease of reading, let’s pretend the victim’s name is Winston and the art is a yarn painting done by the Huichol people of Mexico. And let’s say that Winston chose to display his much-loved new possession on the mantle of his home office fireplace, where it could be easily photographed by his daughter-in-law. For the sake of argument, let’s call her, Sharin.

If Sharin was looking to pull an April Fool’s joke, she could go online and Google Mexican art museums until finding a gallery with photographs that could be copied (via a right click of the mouse) and pasted into her computer’s Paint program (or Photoshop, for pranksters with more advanced skills). There Sharin could manipulate the size of the image until it matches the size of the art in the photo taken of Winston’s precious yarn painting. With a few clicks of her mouse (or by printing and then manually cutting with scissors), she could make it appear as if Winston’s art had once hung on the wall of a well-respected Mexican museum.

The next step would involve creating letterhead that appears to belong to the government of Mexico. Back to the internet. It is shockingly simple to find actual images of such letterhead courtesy of Google, although most word processing software provides letterhead templates that look legitimate, too. The more authentic the counterfeit looks, the more likely the victim will believe even the most ridiculous claims.

Like that the art he purchased is considered a national treasure of the government of Mexico. That it was recently stolen. And maybe that an investigation revealed that, while in Winston’s possession, the art was smuggled across the border. And that a person convicted of committing such a crime would face a minimum five-year sentence in a Mexican prison.

When, after getting the mail on April Fool’s Day, Winston looks slightly gray or requests his heart pills, offer to get him a cup of coffee. That is, if such a thing were to happen.

INGREDIENTS:

Home pregnancy test kit
Pregnant friend
Spouse or significant other who would not be happy over news of impending birth
OR
Parent of teenage daughter

For best results, starting about two weeks prior to April Fool’s Day, complain (or have the teenage daughter complain) of the sudden snugness of pants. A few days later, you (or the teenage daughter) should casually mention a craving for a strange combination of foods. Wait another few days before feigning nausea in the morning. Be seen counting days on a calendar and looking concerned.

The next step is to coerce a pregnant friend or coworker into validating a home pregnancy test. Pregnant women are generally most compliant about doing this if the person making the request happens to be blocking the pregnant person’s access to the bathroom at the time.

Early in the morning on April Fool’s Day, leave the positive test stick on the victim’s bathroom sink.  And then wait for  the fireworks to begin.

INGREDIENTS:

Fake limb of some sort

It wasn’t until writing this that I realized just how strange my family is. For instance, if needing a fake hand, all one need do at our home is reach on top of a particular cabinet in the kitchen. And if one needed a leg, all they need do is go to the refrigerator. (No, we don’t keep the leg IN the refrigerator. How disgusting do you think we are? Our leg hangs from the side by a magnet.)

Our leg hasbeen with us for years, and I’ve found that the older and dirtier it becomes, the more realistic it looks. It’s been tucked under a mattress, just a few toes sticking out, mostly hidden behind long drapes, and mostly buried in the dry dogfood bin when we’ve had someone staying at our house to dogsit. Basically, our leg gets around.

The best use of the leg, however, came many years back, when I was married to my first husband and living out in the country. He had an affection for real crime shows on TV, so a few days prior to April first, I mentioned seeing a trash bag lying beside our long driveway. Early in the morning on April 1, I brought in the bag and put it in the garage. Inside the bag, I’d put a few articles of women’s clothing—bra, underwear, blouse. In the bottom of the bag I’d also put the foot, only back then it was brand new, toenails painted, and sticking out from inside a pair of sweat pants.

He was still mostly sleeping when I left, but before I did, I made sure to tell him I’d brought in the bag and it looked like it was filled with women’s clothes. I asked if he thought we should call the police. And then I left, knowing his crime-show loving wheels would start turning and he’d think the clothes in the bag came from some crime.

I hadn’t even arrived at the office before he’d been solidly had. Said when the foot hit the garage floor, he nearly passed out. It’s the set-up that makes it work so well. If I’d been lurking there, trying to get him to open the bag, he’d have known something was up.

Fake hands, especially skeletal ones that are sold around Halloween, are fun to take along when there are children young enough to mess with, but not so young the prank will leave them needing therapy. They are especially fun if you’re going camping and a creek is nearby. In my favorite instance, a plastic skeletal hand was shoved into the creek bed below a large flat rock that we knew the kids couldn’t resist flipping over when looking for crayfish. The rest of the weekend was spent finding the hand in a variety of locations.

But for those who aren’t big on advanced planning, there are still a number of old stand-bys they can do.

• Buy a package of Oreos. Disassemble the cookies. Scrape off the cream center. Refill center with a minty white toothpaste. Reassemble. Leave on kitchen counter or by the coffee maker at work.
• Make someone a cheese sandwich. Leave the wrapper on the cheese.
• Put a rubber band over the squeeze handle of a kitchen faucet’s spray nozzle, then aim it forward and wait for the unsuspecting to turn on the faucet.
• Put Saran Wrap tightly over the toilet bowl. Works best late at night.
• Cup water in your hand and pretend to sneeze on the back of someone’s head.
• Remove shower head. Place a chicken bouillon cube inside. Reassemble.

And then prepare for retribution.

My daughter fell in love with the stage when she was so very young. She was only 18 months old when I took her to see her first show, a local production of “Peter Pan.” Over the course of the two-hour show, which she watched standing up, she never once took her eyes from the stage.

So many shows followed that I quickly lost track of the number. Her reaction was always the same — riveted. At home, rather than the cartoons or animated shows most kids preferred, Celeste would watch videos of staged productions over and over again.

Even so, she wasn’t one of those children who had to be the center of attention. She spent so much time hiding behind me and avoiding any kind of notice that I worried she’d end up being as backward as I, overly quiet, with a crippling fear of speaking in public.

Hoping to derail what I feared was genetically inevitable, as soon as Celeste was old enough, I took her and a friend to audition for roles in a children’s theater production. Soon, one play was coming right on the heels of another, with summer theater camps in between. Skip ahead nine or 10 years and she’s been in more than a dozen shows, the latest of which is as a member of the chorus in the Contemporary Youth Arts Company production of “Jesus Christ Superstar.”

Last Sunday night, I tagged along with her for rehearsal at the West Virginia State University Capitol Center Theater on Summers Street. It was the first time the entire cast was rehearsing all together on the actual stage. Although the set was still in the early phases of construction, the basic structure was there (albeit wobbly).

The original “Jesus Christ Superstar” — a rock opera by Andrew Lloyd Webber, with lyrics by Tim Rice — first opened on Broadway when I was still in grade school. While I knew the words to some of the songs, I’d never actually seen either the stage version or the movie.

As a child, I remember hearing that the show was considered blasphemous, so I was a little concerned when Celeste told us she was part of the cast. I read up on the controversy and talked to a few friends whose wisdom I value. Said a most devout Catholic, “I suspect that to many Christians of some stripes, Michelangelo would be blasphemous.”

Said another, “I’m barely a Christian, but I left the show feeling closer to God.”

So I went to the rehearsal to see for myself.

And was completely blown away by what I saw and heard.

For those not familiar with the CYAC, the drama group was formed 15 years ago by playwright and director Dan Kehde and his wife, Penny, along with composer Mark Scarpelli. Many of the group’s productions are plays that Kehde has written. (Celeste is also currently a cast member in Kehde’s play “Four Young Women Tell the Truth about Eating Disorders,” which travels to schools or communities to raise awareness about anorexia and bulimia.)

Celeste met Kehde a few years ago through Charleston Stage Company’s Summer Arts Camp, where he was a counselor, teaching playwriting and other theater-related workshops. Kehde somehow managed to get my prose-phobic daughter excited about writing in a way no one else could manage to do. I say this to admit I’m already a little biased in his favor, but after attending this rehearsal, I’ve become a full-out fan.

The talent in the room overwhelmed me, most of all that of Donnie Smith, who plays Judas. Because the rehearsal was casual, the cast members milled about on the stage. Smith was standing on his wobbly platform, looking all cool in his backward hat and ear gauges, when the music started and his phenomenal voice filled the room. The emotion he displayed during the songs had me near tears a few times myself.

The part of Jesus is played by Ryan Hardiman, the 2008 winner of “Symphony Idol” and a frequent performer in local productions. Hardiman was as impressive in this show as he’s been in everything I’ve seen him in — and he’s never been anything but extraordinary.

I don’t know the names for the rest of the cast, and anyway, the purpose of attending wasn’t so to do a review. It was to see if it felt blasphemous, to find out what the fuss had been about way back when. Religion is such a personal thing, and I’m sure some will disagree, but for me, there was no blasphemy. What I saw and heard left me feeling closer to God.

And appreciative of the incredible talents with which He’s blessed the members of this cast.

Back in February of last year, South Charleston Middle School’s Tolerance Club put on an emotional assembly that focused on what can happen when bullying reaches the level where the victim commits suicide. It’s something that’s become so prevalent among teenagers a new term has been coined to more aptly describe it: bullycide.

Even though bullying is hardly new, technology has enabled the ugliness to reach new levels of cruelty. Embarrassing photographs and videos enter cyberspace at warp speed. Gossip no longer depends on whispers and phone calls to spread now that it has reply all.

The sad part is that bullying doesn’t end with the distribution of diplomas. Turns out there are just as many bullies in the workplace as there are in the schools. According to a 2010 survey conducted by the Workplace Bullying Institute, “35 percent of the U.S. workforce (an estimated 53.5 million Americans) report being bullied at work.” An additional 15 percent have witnessed abuse.

Tactics of the workplace bully include verbal, psychological, physical abuse and humiliation. Unlike school bullies, those in the workplace often operate within the established rules and policies of their organization, with the majority of reported cases being perpetrated by management.

“You’re put in such an awkward position when it happens right in front of you, especially when you know the abuse is thoroughly unwarranted,” said an emailer, who asked to remain anonymous. “When I tried to intervene in the past, all it served to do was to focus the attention my direction.”

Clinical psychologist Gary Namie, co-founder of the Workplace Bullying Institute, defines bullying as being “the domestic violence of the workplace.”

“Humiliation is frequently used by bullies as a means of controlling the targeted victim to keep them off-balance and insecure,” reports the Workplace Bullying Institute. Other tactics include discounting the victim’s opinions or making false accusations about mistakes while in front of others; using the silent treatment to freeze out the target; and making up rules on the fly that applied only to the person who is being singled out.

It has only been in the last few years that companies have begun to recognize the financial costs of bullying on the workplace. According to scholars at The Project for Wellness and Work-Life at Arizona State University, “workplace bullying is linked to a host of physical, psychological, organizational, and social costs.”

Leaving the place of employment is often the only option for the victim of bullying since there are few laws that protect against it, yet those who attempt to endure are often under so much stress that it that it has significant negative effects on both mental and physical health.

“The effects of bullying are often so severe that posttraumatic stress disorder and even suicide are not uncommon,” wrote Assessment and Rehabilitation Consultants Noreen Tehrani. The physical and mental damage left from bullying is similar to that of battered women and victims of child abuse.

Organizations need to recognize the costs involved with keeping a bully on staff. There’s a loss of productivity for the victim and other staff members who are also affected. There are medical and sick leave expenses from stress-related health issues. According to the American City Business Journal, a survey of 9,000 federal employees indicated that 42 percent of female and 15 percent of male employees reported being harassed within a two-year period, resulting in a cost of more than $180 million in lost time and productivity.

Nobody likes a bully, but what can be done? Suggestions for how to deal with them are all over the board—and often not realistic. With a job market like the one we have now, making a change isn’t something most bullying targets are able to do.

Making words like bullycide one we’ll likely grow more accustomed to hearing.

I don’t want it.

Doesn’t matter. Now you can’t have it.

Wait!

But you said you didn’t want it anyway, so why does it matter?

Because it needs to stay my choice forever.

***

So I have these arguments with myself. The semi-sane voice of reason takes on my internal unreasonable four-year-old self, who is occasionally egged on by the hormonal insomniac.

“There’s one last Otis Spunkmeyer banana nut muffin in the cabinet,” the hormonal insomniac will whisper (sometimes repeatedly) to the four-year-old me.

“Those have gluten!” screams Semi-Sane. “You’ll get sick!”

But the hormone queen will insist it’s a lie, will recall the joy of peeling away the muffin wrapper to eat the bottom half first. Save the top part for last. It might get ugly and there could be name calling and if the irresponsible side wins, there’s the inevitable (and thoroughly unsatisfying) “I told me so” at the end, when Reason proves she was right.

I don’t know how it works for everyone else, but that’s a simplified version of the innerworkings of this particular Fuller’s head. Lately, though, the conversation’s been even less sensible.

It began with a convergence of things. A friend’s pregnancy. Some upcoming weddings. Shower invitations.

Joining the committee to plan Nitro High’s 30-year class reunion.

Followed by blood test results indicating I’m at the earliest tip of menopause.

They call it “perimenopause,” tacking on that peri part to make it sound all happy and light when really, it should warn of the peril of perishing from a pierced peritoneum to those within a particular perimeter.

I’m not taking it well.

It’s those voices—mostly that bratty insomniac—that like to poke me with the word, like to make me feel old.

Like to remind me that the decision not to have any more babies isn’t mine to make any more. Doesn’t matter that I decided not to have any more children almost decade ago. That I had my tubes tied to make sure. Doesn’t matter that the idea of caring for another pet makes me swoon with fatigue, much less the idea of a newborn.

It’s having it no longer be MY decision.

Last night, my 14-year-old daughter came bopping into our bedroom while we were watching TV just to say hi and, like a million other times since we first met, I was stunned near to tears by her beauty. She’s so not your typical teenager. She’s in a good mood pretty much all the time. Not just pleasant, but buoyantly happy. She makes me feel successful in a way nothing else ever will.

When I was at the doctor’s office, there were these impossibly young-looking pregnant women in the waiting room, and I realized I’m so thoroughly no longer a part of that world. I’ve aged out of it. For me, there are no more car seats and play dates and comparing milestones. Now it’ll be car dates and play rehearsals and comparing colleges. Still, I’ve reached that part of parenting where I have time to myself again, even if much of that alone time is spent in the car driving home from the mall.

It’s said that a new baby reinvents your world. So, too, does the absence of that possibility.

The thing is, I like where I am. Mostly even like who I am now. So why am I sad?

I think it’s that I wasn’t ready to be done playing Santa. Wasn’t ready to stop having to undress the poor dogs or clean bubbles off the ceiling and toothpaste off my shoulder.

It’s going too fast.

And she’s my only one.

And always will be.