big bottoms and mieces to pieces

Dear Anthony P.,

You should know that you left for Nepal and India just as the cold spell hit. It is really cold out here in New York, today being the coldest day so far. I see a lot of bottoms out there. Big bottoms. Its as if something instinctual has taken over in the teeming streets of both Brooklyn and the island of Manhattan. I see a lot of women in tighter jeans and pants than I noticed a week ago.

Its either a perception on the individual level: maybe its always like this, but I'm just noticing now in my need to stay warm, and what is warmer than a large bottom? Or perhaps society as a whole reacts to the cold. Maybe the cold spell just effects people, and women for no other logical reason find themselves in tighter pants, and men-folk (or women-folk for that matter) are attracted like a moth to a flame–or like a cold person to an area of soft warmness.

Or maybe people are just cold and wearing layers to provide warmth. Anyway, Anthony P., its cold.

Its cold, but the apartment is toasty. So toasty that the other day, brushing my teeth, I noticed a friend from my past scurrying about the tiles. A mouse? The mouse? Do mice have nine lives to feed the nine cats?

He scurried, this mouse, then paused and spoke. He said, "I have a riddle for you, Gabriel. Put down your toothbrush."

I did. He continued, "Its not so much a riddle, but an unsolved mystery. Have you ever wondered about the sanctity of your pillow?" And with that he was out. Just ran right off with a "hee hee hee."

Needless to say, I slept on the couch that night, not before clenching my fist and mumbling under my breath something about hating mieces to pieces.

The next morning, again brushing my teeth, I heard a scraping on the floor. Turns out my little friend was stuck in the gluetrap, trying to get away. Now, I'm not a fan of gluetraps, usually, but this little stinker had it coming. I went to the kitchen, pulled out restaurant chopsticks and picked up the trap. The little squirmer was quiet, stoic. I said,

"So what was this about my pillow?" He refused to talk, so I got a little mean. I put him in front of the television, put in a VHS of his favorite movie (surprisingly, Cat on A Hot Tin Roof, with Paul Newman), but then messed with the tracking on the tape so it was all blurry. "Hee hee hee" I said in derision.

I left him there for the whole movie, providing him with a relatively delicious popcorn (lo-fat just to drive him nuts), and I reclined his tiny chair just a little too far so he had to cram his neck to watch the blurry version of his favorite movie.

Ha ha ha! and Hee hee hee!

And then the next morning, having forgotten about my nemesis the night before, I was surprised to again see him while brushing my teeth. I looked and the mirror–he was perched on my shoulder, a razor in his hand. He was shaving his whiskers, and asked if he could borrow my aftershave. I said, yes.

The lesson here? Find out what the hell is in my toothpaste, I suppose.

Over and out.

G.