So it has come to this: me poking logic holes in my children’s bedtime stories. Specifically, my problem lies with Margaret Wise Brown and her Friendly Tales. In Mister Dog, we are introduced to the lovably independent Crispin’s Crispian, the dog who belongs to himself.

Midway through the story, Crispian meets a friend. While familiarizing this new friend with his home, Crispian points out the place for his bed, pillow and leash. Now why in the hell would a dog belonging to himself own a leash, Margaret? He’s already made it clear that he doesn’t like the idea of animals being the property of others, so it can’t be for him to walk another dog. Just what is going on here?

And while we’re at it, where the hell did Scuppers get those bricks for his chimney, and why didn’t he build the entire house out of bricks instead of that dried-out, brittle driftwood? Just what are you trying to pull?

One last thing before I go, Margaret: That “quiet old lady whispering hush” is no lady. It’s a rabbit in a dress—anyone can see that. You’ve got a lot of nerve.

Dear Tina from work,

Everyone at work is scared of you. You ought to know that. The other day, when you didn’t know I was in the next room, I was certain you were about to call me an idiot.

I’m scared of you too, and if you had called me an idiot, not knowing that I was in the next room, I would have gotten underneath the table and hidden until you were gone for the day. That’s how afraid of you I am, Tina.

Ami

Two weeks ago I decided to quit the body-building gym I’d been attending. I had no way of anticipating the problems that would come with this decision. First, I had unknowingly signed up for a year contract. I have a bad habit of simply signing things and worrying about it later. When I got the letter in the mail informing me that I would still be required to pay the $30 per month, I was aghast. That’s a lot of money to go nowhere and do nothing. It’s even more to continue going to a gym where the instructors apply grease before coming to work and the members openly grunt. I had to think of a plan. 

So I called in to explain that I have a sick family member I’m taking care of and I just can’t find the time to continue with the gym. I pulled out all the stops: low sad voice, heavy sighs, far-off attitude—I even threw in a compliment sandwich: “I love your gym, it’s just a bit expensive for me right now. I hope I can come back.”

It worked.

I got out of my contract, but now whenever I walk by this gym—which is often because I live around the corner—I have to pretend to be sad because I’m paranoid the owners will see me and know I lied. Looking sad consists of a slow shuffle while I look at the ground. I was explaining this to my friend Sarah today when she asked what the hell I meant by “my sad walk around the corner.” She encouraged me to write about it, then laughed at me when I explained that I couldn’t because they might read my blog.