Gregory

Our house lizard, Gregory, made another appearance the other morning. Gregory is our colorful little lizard that has lived on the wall outside our front door, munching on the various bugs that ill advisedly land in our portico. But I noticed that he had left his garden condo and moved into our home. More specifically, I noticed that Grey, our cat, was playing with a new toy, happily chasing, pawing, and clawing what turned out to be Gregory. Closer inspection led us to discover that Grey had extracted, and now was playing with, Gregory’s tail, which was still twitching. Gregory was shaken that he was shorter but grateful to be still living.  We last saw Gregory being chased by Grey to the bottom edge of the stove and disappear between the cracks. We reminded Grey about her duties as a house cat. Grey took her duties seriously and stoically kept him under surveillance for a few days, not leaving the site other than to attend to her dietary needs.

However, morning arrived. We heard Grey mewing loudly in the living room, while parked at the edge of one of the chairs. As we watched, Gregory startled us with a cameo appearance, as our appearance did him; yes, we knew it was Gregory because the tail was missing, due to the previously acknowledged encounter with Grey after illegally entering the house. Unfortunately, the moment Grey made a move, Gregory high tailed it (pardon the pun) back under the chair. Grey remained vigilant. I wondered if there was something we could do to entice Gregory out from under the chair, or wherever else he may be inclined to move to, so that we could catch and release him back to his portico-garden home.

An email asked friends for recommendations on luring Gregory to the field. A flurry of responses ranged from preparing a bug salad to buying a skink. This last option alarmed me, considering all its ramifications. We could use the skink to rid ourselves of the lizard, but then how do we get rid of the skink. 30 day notice to vacate? The next step, we were told, was to find a mongoose.  And how should we find a mongoose to rid us of the skink? And what about Grey? Of course we knew where this was going. The mongoose falls in love with the cat and then it's the Capulets and the Montagues all over again. We decided that the best approach was the do nothing wait and see approach, with the caveat that all bets were off if Gregory advanced while we were in our beds. Scott kept the taser bracket nearby should such an event occur.

And it came to pass that last night, as I was preparing for bed, I saw that Gregory had found himself lollygagging around in Scott’s dressing room. I eeked and Scott came running with a metal bowl, which he then handed to me. Wait, what? I wasn’t going near poor Gregory. I was torn between alarm and pity for the tailless little thing. Scott manned up and plopped the bowl on top of Gregory. There we stood, flummoxed. What to do next. A number of post-grad degrees between us and yet there we stood, mystified, staring at a metal bowl in the midst of a dressing room. Scott suggested placing a couple of thick books on top of the bowl and letting the cairn sit for a few weeks. Inevitably, we had to nix the idea because the ensuing remains would leave a mark on the carpet; the cleaning ladies would revolt, not to mention Scott’s fastidious nature. The residual stain would be  a constant reminder of his walk on the dark side. Instead I placed a flat manila folder under the bowl, carried it to the great outdoors while Scott held the doors open and unceremoniously tossed Gregory on the lawn, leaving him bewildered but once again able to enjoy his life in the great outdoors, albeit without a tail.

Visions of a Driver's License

The post brought a note from the MVA-DMV letting me know that it was time to renew my license. I called the 800 number and, after pressing 15 numbers for various reasons, confirmed an appointment.  On the agreed upon day I ambled on up to the local DMV (or MVA as it is known in the storied state of Maryland) officer, filled out my form and waited and waited and waited nonetheless.  When my turn finally arrived, the very solemn clerk reviewed my form, then asked if I wanted to donate my organs. Seriously? I’ll be 70 in two months; the parts are all well used and no amount of lubricant will make them work any better or faster. I declined his kind offer, even after he attempted to induce me with a cheery heart icon on my new license. I sat patiently while he  took my new photo (yes, it’s ghastly but a re-do would only produce an even worse likeness), then we proceeded with the vision test. I was so confident that I would ace the test since I had just had cataract surgery in my left eye a few months prior and could now read the serial number on an eagle’s ankle bracelet as it flew overhead. As expected, I breezed through the first three rows, but came to a grinding halt on the bottom row — that teeny tiny last box in the most little row that requires a magnifying glass. I stated that I could not read the last box, but asked why it would be a problem. After all, why would I need to see anything that small when I was driving; it’s not as if I’m going to swerve if a bug flies in front of the car; that’s what windshields are for — however, he allowed as to how I needed to read that bottom line or no license. Since I was not in possession of reading glasses of any kind, I stood up, turned around and, in a moderately loud voice presented my dilemma to the audience. I asked if anyone had reading glasses that I could borrow momentarily. Most folk had been sitting there a long time, to whit their vacant soulless expressions would testify, although a number of them smiled, a few shrugged their shoulders, then turned back to their cell phones. However, my day was saved by a very elderly gentleman (and I mean a 104 year old guy) who stood up fully on his second attempt, slowly shuffled over to me and, with a hopeful smile, offered his bifocals. Gratefully, I took them, thanked him, stood while reading the bottom row out loud to chuckles and applause all around. I then returned the glasses, and a few minutes later left with my new temporary drivers license. The genuine article will arrive in the mail within 10 business days.

As I drove away, pondering the events of the morning, a number of questions arose. First, what was the point of letting me read with someone else’s glasses. That’s like taking a test at school, asking the kid next to me for the answer to a question and then getting an A for turning in a perfect paper. Second, there was the old old old guy himself who was there getting his license renewed. His glasses had the density of green glass coke bottles and he shuffled; could barely stand up, so why would the DMV give him a new license. Third, what was the point of making an appointment if I still had to sit there for forty minutes while my aged brain atrophied further.

But wait, there’s more. I learned that my local friendly ophthalmologist could have filled out the vision portion of the form — for a fee. I found this very disturbing. A fee? Since I had already paid for the eye check up why did I need to pay her to confirm what she already knew.  Equally annoying, since the MVA is a government run organization why is it suggested that I pay a private enterprise to do the MVA’s work. Isn’t this why I’m paying $48 for my license.