“It’s not fair,” my middle-schooler complained as she wiped at her shirt with some tape. “Going goth isn’t an option for me.”

“Why not?” I asked. “You look good in black.”

“Black angora?” said Celeste, displaying her T-shirt. It appeared to have been first misted with honey and then rolled in hair. “What self-disrespecting goth would go out like this? It’s hard to pull off hard-shell when it’s clear you’ve been cuddling a bunny.”

Dust bunnies aren’t the only creatures that reside in her room. There are live bunnies, too. Plus regular visits from other menagerie members.

“You’re hardly the goth type anyway,” I said. “You’re too — what’s the word for it? Happy?”

She shrugged.

“Someone who owns more than one chicken hat isn’t cut out to be goth,” I said.

(Note to Town Center Mall patrons: If you wondered about the tired-looking woman out shopping with her chicken recently, all I can say is I shouldn’t have dared her.)

“Besides,” I continued. “That goth look is so dated. Teenagers have been trying to shock folks with piercings and black clothes and black lipstick since the Dark Ages. Your generation didn’t invent it. Come to think of it, I think I have a picture around somewhere of Grammy and PopPop with matching nose rings.”

“I thought those were your folks,” husband Geoff said from the kitchen, where he’d apparently been eavesdropping.

“You’re probably thinking of that picture of Dad in a trench coat with his hair in a Mohawk, and Mom rocking her stiletto boots.”

“I remember that picture,” Celeste said. “Isn’t that the one where you have a dinosaur bone through your nose?”

“People say piercings are no big deal. They can heal,” I said. “But I didn’t think that one was ever going to close. For months, when I ran, the hole made this chirpy, whistling sound. I’d get chased by songbirds, looking to mate.”

“You and your friends should try to come up with something original,” said Geoff. “Something other teenagers haven’t already done.”

“How about this,” Celeste said, after pondering quietly for a while. “What if we dress all in white, head to toe. White lipstick. White hair. We’ll call ourselves Mock Goths, or Moths.”

“Cool,” said Geoff. “You can leave powdery stuff behind you.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “And you can bang into lights over and over again.”

Celeste nodded, clearly liking the idea.

“And we can lurk outside doors and rush in the second it opens,” she said. “Drop into food. Annoy cats.”

“You do that already,” said Geoff.

“Or you could do like I do,” I said. “Wear black anyway and pretend not to notice the hair.”

Celeste was momentarily quiet again.

“You wear so much black because of its magical slimming properties, right?” she asked.

“But you wouldn’t have to try and trick the eye at all if you added a single item to your wardrobe. Something that would distract from both the fat and the fur.”

And that is how I came to have a chicken hat of my own.

Even though I was no spring chicken when I hatched my first egg, I didn’t worry too much about what kind of mother I’d be. I assumed the many dogs I’d cared for over the years had prepared me for becoming a parent. Now, with nearly 13 years of motherhood under my much longer belt, I recognize the folly of such thinking. Along with the wisdom.

While the manner of acquiring one versus the other differs greatly, in some ways, dogs and babies are practically interchangeable.

As youngsters, both chew on strange things, putting most everything they can reach in their mouth. Both tend to suffer from selective deafness, especially when told “No!” or instructed to “Come!”

Both like getting dirty and routinely smell funky. Both like to sleep in your bed and eat from your plate. Both continuously challenge the Alpha. And both will use poo to punish.

The pitch of the voices of either species can, at times, cause pain to one’s ears, and both are prone to endless whining if they don’t get their way.

Both can be right there with you one second, and then snoring the next, often falling asleep in oddly contorted positions.

Both can have questionable manners (I’d likely be less shocked to hear the dog excuse himself after a belch than my girl), and both are capable of producing horrendous quantities of noxious gases, especially following the consumption of Doritos.

And, though the definition is different, if you don’t watch them real close, both will eat crap.

Finding ways dogs and children differ required some thought. For instance, obedience school is clearly far cheaper than college, and there are no 20-pound backpacks to contend with or school lunches to pack.

Run the vacuum with dogs asleep on the floor and they’ll wake and run from the room. Run the vacuum with a sleeping preteen on the floor and they go all speed-bump on you, and then get bitter about their hair getting sucked up in the hose.

Dogs seldom mind eating from dirty dishes, but the last time I suggested to my kid that a little swipe with her sleeve should suffice, you’d have thought I asked her to sniff her own butt.

When dogs fall asleep on the bed and I shove them down to the bottom with my feet, they don’t make threats about the kind of nursing home they’re going to put me in some day.

My dogs aren’t embarrassed to go out in public with me, regardless of what I’m wearing or how my hair looks.

When we were having trouble with the plumbing and couldn’t use the bathroom for a few days, the dogs didn’t insist on staying with a friend rather than utilizing the newspapers we’d spread on the floor.

I can still buy clothes for the dog and know those clothes will get worn.

And, most of all, dogs can’t roll their eyes.

On the upside, children are tax-deductible. Dogs are not.

Children are usually too clever to be fooled by the fake ball throw more than once.

And while I’ve caught my daughter drinking straight out of the carton several times, I’ve never caught her trying to drink straight from the toilet.

Thankfully, children generally have a better developed sense of humor than dogs and are capable of recognizing when someone is teasing.

I believe dogs are excellent teachers for those who will someday be parents. And the best lesson they teach is how to unconditionally love.

Every morning for weeks, a mockingbird has parked itself just outside our bathroom window, where it serenades my daughter and me as we share a sink, she getting ready for another day in seventh grade, me for another day at my new job with the state.

Usually, when we hear the bird start its routine, we slide the window open a few inches to better hear its song. It seems something so complicated and enthusiastically delivered deserves an audience, even if the singer doesn’t know one exists.

This particular bird is extremely longwinded and goes on for ages, seemingly without repetition, though I can’t say for certain since he’s usually still going strong even longer than it takes two mid-maintenance females to prepare for their day.

I like that he continues to sing regardless of whether anyone is listening. Others might feel their gift wasted if admirers weren’t present to notice and appreciate and lavish praise, but those are never the right reasons to sing.

The father of one of my closest friends regularly tends a small old graveyard near his home. It isn’t his responsibility. He has no family or loved ones buried there, and he isn’t paid for his work. He does it because someone once loved those people, once cried when they died. Out of respect for those strangers, he cares for their graves.

He doesn’t waste time complaining that the city or this agency or that group should come do the work. He simply recognizes that something needs done and he does it.

I’ve watched people out for a walk stop to pick up litter. It would be easier for them to look the other way and pretend it’s not there. Their walk would probably be more enjoyable without carrying the empty bottle or wrapper, but they choose to do the right thing even though they’re unaware that someone is watching.

This past winter, there were several times I went out after yet another fresh dumping of snow to find my walk had already been cleaned by an anonymous neighbor who sneaked out early to clear the way for several of us lucky enough to live near him.

In life coach Barbie Dallmann’s latest e-newsletter, she writes about a time in 1993 when someone had shot the windows out of her car while it was parked in front of her house. She was so furious about the damage that she flew into a rage, but instead of seeking revenge on the person who caused it, she found a use for her anger instead.

Magic Island, near their home, had been left covered with garbage after flood waters receded. Dallmann got a box of trash bags and headed over to the island with her son and one of his friends. They spent the day (and spent Dallmann’s anger) filling 20 bags with the trash they collected.

When they were done, Dallmann said she was tired, but so happy.

“I’d turned my rage into something useful and helpful and hopeful,” wrote Dallmann.

Although she tried to do the good deed anonymously, the mayor enlisted the media’s assistance to learn the name of the do-gooder. One of Dallmann’s friends saw the story and turned her in. A follow-up article mentioned Dallmann’s reason for cleaning the island — that she wanted to turn something negative into a positive. Several pastors used the story in their sermons, which inspired others to get together and clean up trash all over the city.

We’re fortunate to live in a state populated with many who still know how to be neighbors, who check in on each other, who share plants from their yard and vegetables from their gardens. Who watch out for the single mom and the elderly widow and the annoying escape-artist dog that a little girl loves.

People here still do things for the right reason — because it needs to be done and because they’re capable of helping. For them, no audience is required, no praise is necessary for them to experience the reward that comes from having done the right thing.

I’m proud of those who sing simply because they can. Who act selflessly and give anonymously and wish they could do more.

If we can, then we should. It shouldn’t matter if anyone knows. The beauty is in the giving. Just as it is in the singing.

Not because you get noticed. Not because someone is watching. Not because you long for admiration or praise.

But because you’re lucky enough that you can.

Why can’t I have one of those cute nervous tics like other people have? The twitching eye. The lovable stammer. Maybe that endearing back and forth shifting from left foot to right.

Why must my nervous tic be a stomach so vocal its fat-muffled cries of distress are easily audible to all within earshot? Why must mine be so gifted that to merely growl loudly isn’t enough? Why must mine enunciate, too?

I admit I was anxious about starting my new job, though outwardly, I worked hard to maintain an air of calm confidence.

But my belly betrayed me.

“I’m sorry,” said a new coworker. “I didn’t quite hear what you said.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “It was nothing.”

My gut disagreed. It spoke up again. This time in such a long, drawn out manner that each of its many syllables could not ignored. Nor could they be understood.

It sounded as if it were saying, “Cheerios are evil. God save the queen.”

Had it happened at home, my family would’ve marveled over my temperamental organ having managed the difficult Q-sound, but my new coworker looked more alarmed than impressed.

If I’d been faster on my feet, I might’ve made up something about studying ventriloquism, though I suppose I’d have needed a different explanation for the sounds that came next, which suggested the long, painful death of a miniature violinist.

Aside from my stomach, the transition to my new position has been fairly calm. Most of my new coworkers are still adorably innocent enough to not yet be prefacing personal stories with that pesky bit about this or that not being meant for publication.

There are times my head swims with all I’m needing to learn, with the rules that come with this strange new world, but I’m surrounded by helpful and good-humored coworkers who seemed genuinely determined to help me fit in and succeed.

I was given a key to the supply closet and told to get whatever I needed. I stood for ages in front of the open doors, staring at the loaded shelves like a hungry teenager before a fully stocked refrigerator. Afraid it was some kind of a test, I selected some Post-Its (there were five different sizes!) and a small box of clamps.

Perhaps best of all is that new job smell. It might even be better than new car scent, though it’s been so long since my car smelled of anything but dog that it’s hard to recall.

Not so wonderful, however, are the acronyms and initialisms I find myself having to learn. Is it really so hard to occasionally say a whole word? Does it save that much time to use just the initials? Government-speak can be confusing to newcomers. 

Though not quite as perplexing as the language now being spoken by my intestinal tract.

David Miller of Canaan Valley sent me an article titled, “The alot [sic] is better than you at everything” from the blog <I>Hyyperbole and a Half<P>. The blog, created by Allie Brosch, has some of the funniest drawings and text I’ve encountered in ages, and it quickly became one of my favorite sites ever.

The particular post Miller sent was about a subject near and dear to my heart—grammatical peeves.

“As a grammatically conscientious person who frequents internet forums and YouTube,” wrote Brosch, “I have found it necessary to develop a few coping mechanisms.”

For instance, when someone uses u instead of you, Brosch imagines the person having only one finger on each hand, since that makes leaving out unnecessary letters seem reasonable. And when she encounters someone using “alot,” where they’ve combined the two words into one, she visualizes a creature she invented to help deal with her “compulsive need to correct other people’s grammar.”

By her own description, her Alot looks like a cross between a bear, a yak and a pug. A visit to Broche’s blog at http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/ is needed to fully appreciate the brilliance behind her creation, but I’ll try to describe what she has done.

Under the caption, “I care about this alot,” is a drawing of the oddly-cute Alot creature getting hugged. Under the caption, “I like this alot more,” is a drawing of a smiling Alot being petting by a person while another Alot looks dejected.

Nearly as amusing as her drawings were some of the comments the post generated, most written by others who are equally aggravated by frequently misspelled words and other grammatical missteps.

It seems impossible to avoid occasionally pinching the nerve of one of the many squad members of the grammar police. My first encounter happened after my first column was published. In it, I’d made the mistake of complaining about stop lights. A reader quickly alerted me to my mistake, saying the devices shouldn’t be called stop lights, since they don’t only stop traffic, but also tell it to go. They’re traffic lights. A mistake I’ve not made again.

Generally, if I’m in a hurry and uncertain about a grammatical rule and suspect what I’ve written might not be right, I’ll simply recast the sentence. But more often than not, it seems the recasting will include a completely different grammatical rule to watch out for. (I mean, for which to watch out.

Curious about the language gaffes that might cause aggravation among those we know, my husband questioned his Facebook friends about their language pet peeves. And quickly learned we run with a like-minded crowd.

Wrote one, “When people say ‘literally’ for emphasis without literally meaning ‘literally.’ (I knew a woman who used “literally” and air quotes so much that I couldn’t hear what she was saying because I was busy keeping a mental tally of how many times she used each.)

Those who use text-shortcuts in non-texting situations are an aggravation to many. Along with the widely-hated “u” for “you” and “thru” and “nite,” the failure to punctuate or capitalize seems to cause a widespread fingernails-down-a-chalkboard reaction.

The sins of the misplaced apostrophe could fill this whole space, as could quotes placed around random words without explanation. (For example, a restaurant’s sign that says You’ll love our “fresh” fish!” seems to not realize they’re suggesting you’ll love their fish even though it’s not really fresh.)

Those polled requested I emphasize that the word irregardless is always wrong. Always. And there are some in this valley who consider the word’s use to be adequate grounds for inflicting bodily harm.

Some who responded listed grammatical crimes I’ve committed myself. For instance, I occasionally add “able” to words like “do” or “wear.” (For example. Sniff. Yeah, honey. That’s still wear-able.) And I’ve had occasion to verbify nouns and create my own words.

Said one of the respondents, Karan Ireland, “The only thing more obnoxious than someone butchering the English language is the behavior of the person pointing it out to him.” An opinion with which I’m quick to agree. Especially on those occasions when I’ve been guilty myself.

I hope it wasn’t Alot.