Katy McDermott

“Watership Down” is one of my favorite books of all time – and I believe there’s a lot of wisdom in it too, assuming you can get past the whole “but they’re rabbits” thing. I even think it’s relevant to the current business setting. Here are some thoughts I had about the main character…

Has there ever been a more unlikely hero than Hazel? Not very big, not unusually intelligent, not even particularly charismatic, he nonetheless leads his friends through “a sea of troubles,” as Shakespeare would say, and sees them safely home. How on earth does he manage it, this unassuming Everyrabbit?

The first thing we see Hazel do is trust. His brother Fiver, a prophet of sorts, is terrified by a vision of nameless horror that threatens to destroy their home. Hazel believes him, and determines to escape with his brother – and anyone else who wants to go. And several do: Bigwig, Blackberry, Dandelion, Silver, Buckthorn, Pipkin, Hawkbit, Speedwell, and Acorn.

 Hazel is decisive. Even in the face of uncertainty, he takes a position and sticks to it. He is generous – how much easier it would have been for him to sneak away with just his brother, saving his own skin with no one else to worry about! But he chooses his course, swallows his fear, and sets off into an unknown night.

Their first night’s wandering is surely the worst. Venturing into strange country, no one knows who is in charge. Why should Hazel be the leader, simply because it was he who decided to go? Bigwig and Silver are stronger; Blackberry is smarter. Nothing has been proved to them, no authority has yet been earned.

Early on, the rabbits are forced to cross an unfamiliar stretch of land where any manner of dangers might lurk. Hazel goes first, to make sure it’s safe, and with his quiet courage sows the first seeds of his leadership. The rabbits make it through that first night, but in the morning, a fresh challenge is laid before them – a river that must be crossed.

Hazel’s tenuous leadership is put to the test. His friends are weary in body and spirit, Pipkin appears to be hurt – and Bigwig simply doesn’t like to swim. Challenged by Hazel to test the waters, Bigwig reluctantly crosses the river, only to return moments later with news that means they must all swim immediately or risk being killed. But Hazel will not leave the injured Pipkin.

Enter Blackberry, with the clever idea of floating Pipkin across the river on a loose board. Hazel doesn’t entirely understand Blackberry’s idea, but he agrees on faith and orders them all into the water. The crossing made, he searches for a safer place while the others finally sleep.

What a manager Hazel would make! Who hasn’t worked, at one time or another, for someone who is threatened by the talents of a subordinate, who looks to increase his or her own importance by diminishing a colleague? Not Hazel. He seeks the greater good – a better life for those who have chosen to follow him – and is grateful to have so intelligent a comrade as Blackberry. When morale is low, he does not try to inspire his friends with grand speeches, but turns to Dandelion – who has a way with a story – to hearten them with tales of the great rabbit hero El-ahrairah.

Hazel recognizes, and appreciates, the strengths of his compatriots. He knows that he belongs to them, as they belong to him, and he values that belonging.

Hazel isn’t perfect, though. His greatest faults, shared by many a suddenly-elevated leader, are pride and overconfidence. When misplaced certainty almost costs Bigwig his life, Hazel loses no time in rallying the rabbits to save their wounded friend. He admits his mistake, learns from it, and guides the group to the high hills where Fiver assures him they’ll be safe.

Hazel may be effective in a crisis, but he displays his leadership most strongly in his ability to see the big picture. It is Hazel who realizes that the new warren will die out unless they can find female rabbits to join them; Hazel who suggests that they befriend an injured but threatening bird and use him as a scout; Hazel who organizes the expedition to free the imprisoned females of a faraway warren and secure the future of the rabbits of Watership Down. He marshals the unique talents of each of his followers to achieve the result they all need.

He asks for help.

He leads by example.

Above all else, Hazel never gives up; his love for his friends won’t let him. Diplomat, strategist, CEO, general – he manages to be all of these things simply because he cares so much. Witness our greatest leaders:  Abraham Lincoln fighting to hold a nation together; Harriet Tubman guiding slaves to freedom in the face of overwhelming danger; Winston Churchill battling the ultimate evil of Hitler.

Their dedication transformed these once-ordinary people into history’s heroes.

When you think about it, they’re a lot like Hazel.

Democrats mock Republicans. Conservatives despise liberals. Jesse Jackson and Rush Limbaugh vie for the hate-fueled rhetoric crown. Welcome to the United States Of You’re An Idiot.

There doesn’t seem to be any gray area anymore. In America today, you’re either a patriot or a communist – no in-between. We’ve become more polarized (and polarizing) than we’ve been for over a century. It scares me.

Where did it start, this extreme “Us vs Them” mentality? That part, at least, is easy: blame it on cable. Plenty has been written already about how the insatiable demands of our always-on televisions have led to the proliferation of Keith Olbermanns and Glenn Becks. It’s a sad fact, our “new now,” and we can only hope that people put down their verbal BB guns before they really do take someone’s eye out.

But before I go any further, a confession seems warranted: I’ve been a willing participant in this country’s increasing broadcast contrarianism. As a liberal Democrat, I read Slate.com, listen to NPR, howl at Jon Stewart, and think Stephen Colbert’s a genius. How is that any different from those who get their political information from Fox News or nod in heartfelt agreement with Sean Hannity?

Perhaps I need to reevaluate my own media choices, lest I continue to be a hypocrite…

It’s one thing to turn a spotlight on the divisiveness that characterizes so many of our country’s arguments – that’s become a virtual truism. The real question is: where will it lead?

For eight years, we liberals bashed Bush for not being able to pronounce the word “nuclear” and for leading our fighting men and women into a war founded on a lie. Now that Obama’s in the White House, conservatives gleefully enumerate his every broken campaign promise and point out the exorbitant cost of his healthcare plan.

Yes, the Democrats will probably lose their majority in Congress in the mid-term elections. And Sarah Palin may even become President in 2012 (in which case, I’m moving to Sweden, but that’s another story…) But then what? It’s not difficult to envision a future where every four years, the power changes hands from arugula-chomping “elitists” to beer-swilling “real Americans,” with the time between elections filled with sneering media commentary and total political gridlock.

And then we’ll have a revolution.

A Second Civil War.

What will it be like? Will there be uniforms? (“In this corner, wearing real American jeans, flannel shirts, and rugged work boots, are the Rip-Roarin’ Republicans; in the other corner, sporting three-piece suits, wingtip shoes, and wire-rimmed glasses, are the Debatin’ Democrats!”)

How about songs? “Over There, Where The Ideas Are So Wrong.” “When Johnny Comes Marching Home To A Two-Mommy Family Again.” “The Battle Hymn Of The Republicans – Emphasis On Hymn.” “How You Gonna Keep ’Em Down On The Farm After They’ve Seen L.A.?”

I dunno – the titles seem a little long.

One thing’s for sure. Families would be torn apart. Even now, pre-revolution, there are dear friends with whom I don’t dare talk politics, since our discussions lead nowhere but to incendiary remarks and pejorative comments. We don’t listen to each other, and we don’t hear each other either.

If the Second Civil War comes, we’ll have to draw a line, establish a place for “us” and a place for “them” – which will, inevitably, leave many of us displaced.

How about other countries – in Europe, the Middle East, Asia? They’d have to choose sides – an odd position for them. Usually, it’s us meddling in their affairs, not vice versa.

Ultimately, who would “win” this (mercifully hypothetical) war? A colleague of mine brilliantly commented that it would be the conservatives, of course: “We libs would have to hide behind the tress we hug, because we don’t know how to shoot.”

So the idea that Lincoln (a Republican, I know) had – a more perfect union – would turn out to be a fantasy after all.

Is that really possible, though? Is the conviction that “I’m right and you’re so wrong that you should move to another country before you embarrass us any further” worth killing for? Worth dying for?

Maybe we won’t have to fight a war after all.

Maybe we can focus on the United States part.

And stop calling each other idiots.

I don’t live by the gulf coast or anywhere near it. The only time I ever went to Louisiana was years ago, for a corporate meeting, and like pretty much every other tourist I drank too much and ate a beignet. But I don’t think you need to have a lifelong shrimper’s clout to be enraged by the idea of a way of life dying thanks to cost-cutting by Big Oil.

The closest I’ve come to understanding this way of life is listening to heavily-accented fishermen with French-sounding names lament their losses on CNN. How can they ever be compensated for the fact that the ocean on which they depended for their livings is now glutted and streaked with oil – so much oil that there are reportedly “dead zones” where nothing will ever grow, or swim, again?

This is the power of the media at work. I see long stories – mini-documentaries, really – about the lives of gulf coast fishermen, and I feel as if I’m there. It is – well, was – beautiful. Mile after mile of mostly calm ocean, sea birds swooping after the shrimpers’ boats, one generation sharing the secrets of net-making, boat-building, and gumbo-stewing with the next.

You see, it’s not just the fishermen, shrimpers, and oystermen affected. It’s everyone who supports those industries too. And of course, it’s everyone who serves tourists like me by running restaurants, motels, sightseeing tours, and the like.

All of them – every single one of them – need a gulf coast that is unspoiled.

Unoiled.

They say it could be decades before the region comes back to the way it was. At least a generation.

Imagine you’re a netmaker’s daughter or a shrimper’s son – your parents and their parents and their parents before them all earned a living from the coast. You knew your future was secure – after all, you’d been out on the water or in the portside shop since shortly after you could walk. Now, though, you have to find a different kind of life, because this awful thing has happened and ruined in a few short weeks what has been there for centuries. You can’t even shake your fist and rage at God or fate – this curse is manmade. Oh, it’s okay for you – you’re young, you can find another way to live. But what about your parents, and their parents? Your heart twists with pity at the thought of them spending their close-to-retirement years clad in BP-issued vests cleaning tarballs off the beaches and laying thousands of feet of useless boom in the rust-colored ocean…

But there are no telethons for this. No generous fellow Americans donating money to help rebuild your way of life, compensating your parents and their parents for everything they’ve lost.

When a friend of mine pointed this out, it got me thinking. Why aren’t there telethons? There were telethons to benefit the tsunami victims, the Haitian earthquake victims, the victims (many of those same people who are now suffering because of the oil spill) of Hurricane Katrina.

I think there are a lot of reasons – and the reasons are complex.

First, no one died – well, no one after the initial eleven rig workers who perished in the Deepwater Horizon explosion that started all this. You don’t hold telethons for eleven people, plus, none of the eleven were children. Nothing gets people to open their checkbooks like footage of shattered parents sobbing over the broken bodies of their dead children. We hold our own children tighter – and quickly call an 800 number to make a donation.

Second, for many of the workers on the gulf coast, theirs were cash businesses. And “it was a cash business” often translates to “we didn’t pay taxes on our income.” Americans may pay one of the lowest tax rates of countries in the developed world, but there isn’t one of us who doesn’t feel unfairly burdened when we fill out our tax returns and send in our checks to the government on April 15. Why should we give money to people when we assume a lot of them didn’t even pay their taxes? So they’re being punished. Serves ‘em right, right?

Third, I don’t think we want to look too closely at what this spill represents. It’s terrible, to be sure. But BP wouldn’t have been drilling if we weren’t so dependent on oil in the first place. That’s the real conundrum – what should we do? Return to the Middle Ages? Stop traveling, stop driving? Stop doing the things that are so entwined in the American way of life? If we’re to continue as we are – this dependent on oil – then this sort of thing is going to happen. As I said, I don’t think we want to look too closely at it.

It’s a whole lot less complicated to seethe on behalf of the wildlife.

The issue that seems to upset people most is the fate of the pelicans. Who can forget that iconic picture of a drowning-in-oil bird, wings flailing, mouth wide open as if screaming “why have you done this?”

Perhaps we could organize a telethon for them.

My closet smells like feet. There is only one conclusion I can draw from this: I don’t have enough shoes to rotate them appropriately during these sweltering summer months. I must – must, do you hear? – go shoe shopping.

Most women would consider this a no-lose situation: shoe shopping as necessity. But I’ll admit, I was born without the shoe-shopping gene. It’s not that I don’t like to spend money – as my husband will woefully attest, I do. Just not on shoes.

Shoes are definitely a barometer of economic condition, though. Here in the Philadelphia suburbs, we associate going barefoot with two things: 1) summer vacation at the beach and 2) Revolutionary War soldiers shivering through a brutal, shoeless winter in what is now Valley Forge National Park.

I don’t know about you, but I didn’t give much thought to shoes until I needed to pay for them myself. Funny how things like rent, heat, the phone bill, and food take precedence over footwear when money’s tight. Back in the 1980s, I held on to one pair of light blue sneakers for well over 10 years. In addition to one pair of sandals, one pair of loafers, and one pair of pumps for special occasions, they comprised my entire shoe wardrobe. Things have changed. I have three pairs of pumps now, and my lone pair of sneakers is only about 7 years old.

I’ll probably need to replace those sneakers soon – but I don’t know if I’m technologically advanced enough to do so. Sneakers used to be just sneakers. Today, there are “athletic shoes” for almost every sport you can imagine: running shoes, walking shoes (totally different, of course), tennis shoes, basketball shoes, biking shoes, hiking shoes, workout shoes, and so on.  “Water shoes” to wear in the pool, ocean, or running on the beach. And something called “skate shoes” – I have no idea what these are, but I can only assume they’re for ’tweens, based on the predominant decorative elements of rhinestones, charms, and glitter.

Have you seen the features on “athletic shoes” lately, by the way? They have light-up soles and criss-cross gel inserts to enhance arch support and improve posture. Some of them even have a system of mysterious internal alchemy that actually tones your butt for you.

Guess I won’t need those “workout shoes” after all…

Truly, though, with their racing stripes, complex engineering, and streamlined design, modern sneakers look kind of like speedboats to me. And seem equally intimidating.

Perhaps I’ll wait on the sneakers (and on working out too, come to think of it) and start with sandals. It’s summer, after all.

Of course, sandals require a fair amount of foot maintenance to pull off. When it’s 20 degrees out and there are only 9 hours of light per day, you just hide your feet in thick socks, pull on boots, and hope you don’t get frostbite while you de-ice your car.

Sandals call for pedicures. Sloughing, buffing, polishing… Jeez, it’s like feet are classic cars!

But it’s June, so a pedicure it is…

To buy the shoes, I met my 22-year-old niece after work a few days ago at a nearby DSW. It’s a good thing I had her with me. Left to my own devices, I’d have gone straight for the sturdy, serviceable, crepe-soled, low-heeled, black loafers in the “Nun Shoes” section.

I hadn’t been shoe shopping in quite a while, needless to say, and I felt like the epitome of a Country Mouse as I walked, goggle-eyed, up and down aisle after aisle.

Here’s a snippet of my internal monologue:

“Could never wear those… wow, those are some high heels… are those made of Lucite???… how would I walk in those ones?… 6-inch stilettos? Don’t think so… how am I ever going to find shoes here? I can’t see a single pair I’d actually wear to work… Holy Mother of God – look at THOSE!”

Like I said, I’m missing a gene.

However, in the face of my niece’s rolling eyes and disapproving stares, I’m now in possession of 2 pairs of brand new shoes she deemed “hip.” (God help me.) One is a pair of pewter wedge sandals with 3½-inch heels on which I’ve already gotten comments. The other simply defies description. All I can say is that she told me I wasn’t allowed to leave the store without buying them, so I bought them. I haven’t tried to wear them yet…

I did, however, get a pair of serviceable, black, crepe-soled loafers as well. Gotta be me, after all…

’Tis the season for greeting cards – Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, graduations, communions. ’Tis also the season for intensive therapy.

I never realized how inadequate card stores can make a person feel. According to greeting card writers, all mothers are “the best Mom ever,” all graduates face a future of unlimited brilliance, and any child who makes First Holy Communion is second in piety only to the pope.

What about the lapsed Catholic, the unemployed MBA, and the Jerry Springer Show guest whose mom stole her boyfriend?

Card stores celebrate stereotypes, which I suppose is only natural when you have two lines to sum up a type of person or major event. And much like McDonald’s TV commercials, they have separate sections for African-Americans. (Apparently a Kente-patterned border and a Maya Angelou quote are sufficient to represent an entire ethnicity.)

Perhaps I sound a little like Eeyore, but I find it interesting to note how card stores grapple with genuinely serious issues. Long-term care for the elderly: an accent pillow featuring the stitched message “Be kind to your children – someday they’ll choose your nursing home!” Divorce: carefully worded “starting over” cards. Disease: “support” wristbands and ribbon-shaped “awareness” car magnets. And speaking of thorny issues, those car magnets are also available in both pro-Democrat and pro-Republican varieties, so you can bash whichever party you choose…

But I guess I need to ’fess up: I love Hallmark.

Why? That’s easy: I want the kind of life they’re marketing. I know exactly what they’re doing, but it works. Also, some of the merchandise makes me laugh out loud. Right there in the store. It’s kind of embarrassing, actually.

As an advertising copywriter myself, I’d like to shake the hands of the people who come up with some of their wittier messages (“You don’t look a day older than whatever age you’re claiming to be.”) A humorous or (much harder to do) heartfelt turn of phrase can inspire a shopper to make the all-important leap from chuckling or nodding at a coffee mug on the shelf to marching up to the cash register and paying $9.95 for it.

Slogans may not be high art, but they can be funny. Or even moving.

I’ve also loved seeing the evolution of the card sections in recent years. Where once there were only “You’re expecting!” and “Congratulations on the Birth of Your Baby!” cards, now there are cards celebrating single parenthood and both heterosexual and same-sex adoption. Need a social change barometer? Forget Twitter – just visit your local Hallmark.

Unfortunately, card stores often remind me of the life I don’t enjoy. There are entire sections devoted to plaques, flags, and doormats for one’s summer home. Additionally, there are racks of “Hallmark Hall of Fame” DVDs featuring women who are much better-looking and pluckier than I will ever be, and CDs of inspiring music I feel as if I should like but rarely do.

Some card stores have chocolates, though. I like those!

To be fair, card stores also make me think of the things I do have – and am very grateful for. They may translate a 30-year friendship into a moderately amusing cocktail napkin, and a profound love into a light-up Valentine’s Day lapel pin, but even so, card stores serve their purpose.

One of those purposes is gift wrap. As long as you don’t think about what you’re paying for paper that’s destined to be ripped, scrunched in a ball with other presents’ wrappings, and thrown out with last night’s potato peelings, Hallmark gift wrap is a great deal. And for the truly lazy, you can go the “gift bag” route – no tape or scissors needed, perfect for “wrapping” a present in the car on your way to a party. They even offer coordinating tissue paper, ribbons, and embellishments. It’ll look like Martha Stewart wrapped your birthday present. Kind of lost on an 8-year-old, but still…

I visit my local Hallmark every other week. Birthdays, anniversaries, engagements, retirements, even funerals…

Sometimes I fall prey to the lure of the “impulse buy” book – those small square tomes extolling the beauty of friendship or exposing the funny side (there is one, apparently) of middle age. If I’m feeling particularly sorry for myself (and I can almost always find a reason to), I get a couple of chocolate-covered pretzels as well…

In fact, I was in there just the other week. I got several birthday cards, two graduation cards, a communion card, and a Father’s Day card.

And, I admit, a coffee mug.

Featuring Eeyore.

In case you’ve been wondering where I’ve been lately (I know – it’s been keeping you up nights, hasn’t it?), I’ve been getting my second book ready to send to the publisher. I LOVE the cover illustration, but the trouble is, I can’t decide what color my title text should be – blue or purple. What do you guys think? (Actual cover visuals follow!)

Here are the choices:

Unless you’re a drug kingpin or a Real Housewife of Wherever, chances are you live in a normal-sized house and don’t need roller skates to navigate your faux-Italian-granite floors. In other words, you’ve settled.

I’ve gotten pretty interested in residential real estate lately. I’ve spent a number of weekends helping to get my mother’s house ready for sale, and I’ve also been looking at new homes for my own family. The operative word here is “new.” There’s nothing like sorting through 30 years worth of belongings in an old house – books, clothes, photos, letters, dust, and (it must be said) rodent droppings – to make you appreciate a just-being-built development.

I used to have a bias against new construction. It was so – well – new. All that Tyvek I would see as I drove past. All that flimsy-looking plywood framing. Yuck.

Now I feel differently. I’m not interested in character or history in my house anymore. I’ve embraced the Tyvek, made my peace with the plywood framing. I want cathedral ceilings, 42” cherry-finish cabinets, and a full finished basement, thank you very much. The latest energy-efficient appliances, please. And, of course, a “Great Room” – I’m not sure exactly what its function is, but I feel certain I’d be inspired to heroic feats just by being in it.

Part of my problem with new developments used to be that I felt like such a sucker when I visited. I’d stroll, goggle-eyed, though the model home, ready to mortgage my very soul to own it, only to discover that the model boasted around $100,000 worth of “upgrades.” If you bought the base house at the base amount (pretty pricey to begin with, in this area), all you were guaranteed was a certain number of square feet, several walls, and possibly a roof. Those lovely chocolate-colored marble countertops you fell in love with in the model? An upgrade.

One thing you learn pretty quickly when touring model homes is that, if any item is part of a “package,” it automatically costs triple. My husband and I investigated a recently-built home last weekend, and were impressed to see that every windowsill boasted a recessed candle-shaped light that could be raised in December. Turns out, these lights (and only these lights) comprised the neutrally-named Holiday Package – and were, of course, an upgrade.

But my complaints don’t really matter. You see, I’ve got a raging case of REF, or Real Estate Fever.

Perhaps you’re familiar with this disorder? Perhaps you’ve even suffered from it yourself at some point? Symptoms: pupils that dilate when you’re presented with a model home floor plan. Palms that sweat from pure longing when you’re confronted with a list of house options. (Did you ever think that crown molding and chair rails could inspire such passion? Me neither.)

REF has some interesting side effects. For one thing, even the most progressive, independent, non-dinner-cooking female becomes inordinately interested in kitchen storage. Lack of pantry? Devastating. Built-in spice rack? Mania-inducing.

Women can also develop a previously unknown fascination with window treatments. Blinds versus shutters, shades, swags, and valances – all the topics that used to be viable only at Linens & Things staff meetings – suddenly become objects of intense speculation. Sconces and chandeliers are a whole other conversation – don’t get me started!

Men, of course, just compare the size of their decks and call it a day…

REF can cause another intriguing symptom. Call it Price Obsession. Call it Money Hyper-Awareness. Regardless, it simply means that part of the “courtesy lobe” in your brain is temporarily removed. Think about it. Would you ever ask someone how much their recent vacation cost? Their new car? The snazzy new wardrobe they just bought?

Didn’t think so.

And yet, when we’re in the grip of REF, we think nothing of starting a sentence with the utterly meaningless “Do you mind if I ask you…?” and pry into interest rates, down payments, and mortgage terms. (And what an awkward position that places the hapless homeowner in! It’s tantamount to inquiring about someone’s salary.)

There are some housing developments that you should know better than to even visit unless you make half a million dollars a year (in which case, can I have your job?) Anything named “The Estates at…,” for example. Trust me on this. “The Villages at…” probably means townhomes, which are affordable to middle-class folks (if not particularly spacious). “The Estates at…”? Go win the lottery, and then we’ll talk.

A few weeks ago, I decided to torture myself by looking at an “Estates at…” property. Mistake. Now, the perfectly nice townhome my husband and I can actually afford pales in comparison to the sprawling compound I saw with its 3-car garage, sub-zero freezer (what does that mean, exactly? Isn’t “frozen” frozen?), and master bathroom the size of a small cottage.

But we’ve crunched the numbers, reviewed our options, and it looks like we’re going to wind up officially buying a new construction home sometime in the near future. In spite of the inherent hassles, we’re kind of looking forward to it.

It will be uncharted territory for us both, to be sure. The builder is sort of like a car mechanic. He can say, “You need enclosed wiring in the HVAC room to comply with state code regulations,” and how am I supposed to respond? “I have no idea what you’re talking about?” He knows that already.

So we may not get that 3-car garage.

But at least there won’t be any rodent droppings.

Not for nothing do they call smell the most evocative sense. I got a whiff of Jungle Gardenia perfume recently, and in an instant I was a guilt-ridden 5-year-old again, tempted to look over my shoulder to see if my mother had caught me pilfering between-meal cookies.

This intense cologne reaction can go several ways. I was once tempted to deck a complete stranger in an elevator because he wore the same after-shave as my ex. The scent of Jontue (don’t lie, fellow 40-something women – you bought it too) takes me right back to my senior prom, complete with French-braided hair, a Styx power ballad, and a fake-flower arch where my date bent his arm unnaturally to highlight my corsage as we got our picture taken.

I’ve left my Jontue days long in the past, but Old Spice will forever smell like argument to me.

I suppose I’m thinking of smells so much because my husband recently commented that he can’t escape the scent of mulch. And he’s right – it’s everywhere. A sharp, tangy smell that selfishly obliterates every other aroma in a 2-mile radius. But after the winter we’ve had, mulch = Spring. It has a perfume all its own.

So, oddly enough, does cow manure. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to smell it without thinking of a local farm at which I’ve spent many happy hours enjoying the chance (along with hundreds of other suburbanites) to “get my rural on.” The milk from those cows has been magically transformed into far too many mint-chocolate-chip ice cream cones. And when I visit the calves in their tiny individual pens, it’s easy to convince myself that one specific calf – I can even identify her by the number tag she sports like a low-rent earring – has eyes only for me.

What is it about baby animals? Puppy-belly smell renders me completely helpless and delighted. I imagine God made puppy-bellies smell so good so we wouldn’t be too angry when they ate entire sneakers (puppies must have impressive digestive tracts!)

A close cousin to this phenomenon is that of kitten-breath. I have a cat who’s broken a lamp through her feline skittishness, shredded several box springs with her claws, and frequently tumbles head-first into her food bowl, scattering Science Diet pellets throughout the kitchen. But she has only to lick my nose and all is forgiven. Kitten breath. They never outgrow it, and it’s irresistible.

Would you believe that I even have a soft spot for the odor of horse dung? It’s true. Combined with the smell of deep-fried, powdered-sugar-laden funnel cake and meticulously oiled leather saddles, it never fails to put me in mind of a favorite local horse-show-cum-country-fair.

I guess scents mean different things to different people. You’d think that fresh-cut grass would be a universally positive aroma, but to a landscaper, the association with endless sweltering days of pruning unruly hedges and gallon jugs of lukewarm ice tea teetering on yet-to-be-mown lawns would conjure up anything but a relaxing image. The smell of newly-fallen rain is the stuff of misty-eyed, romantic dating commercials for some – but to me, it just signals a dreary sky and a slick commute. For good memories, I’ll stick with horse dung, thank you very much.

However, horse dung isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (ew – horse dung tea!), and an entire industry has grown up around making our environment smell good. Way back, there were “sachets,” which resided in your grandmother’s nightgown drawer and were the forerunners of potpourri. Potpourri is an interesting racket: gather whatever twigs, dead flowers, and shriveled fruit you can find in a local park, pour some scented oil on it, package the whole lot in a clear cellophane bag tied with a raffia ribbon, call it “Apple Harvest” or something – and charge $11.00.

But with potpourri, the aroma-industrial complex was just getting started. The real money lay in candles. Impressively molded into the shape of everything from jars to lamps to miniature rabbits; striped, swirled, and blended in every shade on the color wheel; and even more creatively named than paint chips, scented products have probably neared the top of their “market penetration” arrow on this year’s Yankee Candle annual meeting PowerPoint.

(I’d like to have a word with the folks at Yankee Candle headquarters, though. How exactly does a hunk of scented wax conjure up a “Midsummer Night?”)

The newest thing is “reed diffusers” – basically, you plunk a bunch of balsa-wood sticks in a bottle of scented oil, and it perfumes the whole room without the danger of an open flame. Full disclosure: I love reed diffusers. I have two in my office at home (I’m still trying to mask the smell of smoke after being quit for months) and one in my office at work. This hippest of aroma-trends, though, is also the most confusing. The names of these scents aren’t even remotely literal (it makes me long for “Midsummer Night!”) Someone walked in to my office the other day, asked me what smelled so good, and I said “Serendipity.” My colleague found a reason to leave pretty quick.

I’ve got real estate on the brain these days, and it’s amazing how big a role aroma plays in “staging” a home for sale. Holding an open house? Make some chocolate-chip cookies or (better yet) an apple pie that morning. It really does make prospects more likely to make an offer. I don’t know if they think you’ll stay on as their personal pastry chef or what…

But forget artifice. My clearest scent-memories are the simplest ones. Truck exhaust fumes smell like my commute. Thin-crust barbecue chicken pizza calls weekends to mind. Salty air smells like Cape Cod – and the excitement I always feel at visiting my family there. Alfred Sung eau de parfum and Armani cologne smell like Date Night, Garnier shampoo like my frequently wet-haired niece. Cigar smoke used to belong to my grandfather, but now it smells like my husband, as does Guinness (and the far more wholesome Irish Spring soap.)

I could probably replace sight (guide dog, Braille) and hearing (Cochlear implant, lip-reading). But I couldn’t do without my sense of smell.

The water that caused her “eureka” moment? To Helen Keller, it must have smelled like nectar.

If Canada ever decides to attack us, or an earthquake destroys our townhome development in suburbia, I’m all set for supplies. I just got back from Costco. I have two dozen of everything.

I go to the warehouse store every few months or so, and the variety and volume of their merchandise always amazes me. Floor wax, ketchup, batteries, frozen chicken wings, vitamins, grapes – as long as you want vast quantities of it, you can probably find it. There are some drawbacks, of course. Every brand of shampoo comes in 72-ounce bottles only – far too big for my delicate hands (which unfortunately don’t match my waist circumference…)

Because I don’t have a pre-Vatican-II-Catholic-sized family (in fact, it’s just me, my husband, and our niece), I only buy non-perishable items. The only fresh foodstuff we could consume before it spoiled would be the chocolate chip cookies – and since we’d each have to eat 6 a day for a week, I just don’t bring them into the house.

Bar soap, however, is a different matter. Some time ago, I came home with a huge pack of Irish Spring bars. Every time I head to Costco now, I ask my husband if he needs replacements. Every time, he replies, “Nope. I’m good.” His hygiene is excellent – but he’s been saying this for three years.

Speaking of hygiene, do you happen to have an especially – productive – infant? If so, Costco’s the place for you. You can buy a package of 900 baby wipes there. 900. Not a typo. I don’t have kids, so I can’t say for sure, but I think your child could be well into grade school before you could go through them.

But before babies enter the picture, you first have to pair off with someone. Did you realize that your local warehouse store can be a tremendous relationship ally? For the courtship phase, you can procure some extremely tasty Belgian chocolates (yes, I tried them – it was research!) and lovely violet-and-rose bouquets. The fresh flowers may seem incongruous, displayed as they are between gallon jugs of disinfectant and 350-count bottles of Pepcid, but they’re there.

When the relationship turns serious, you can browse the fine jewelry section for an engagement ring. So what if there’s about as much romance in this as in a locker room full of post-game basketball players? The prices can’t be beat.

As for a bridal registry, who needs Tiffany’s? Ask your guests to procure their wedding presents at the warehouse store, and you’ll not only get the pots, pans, cutlery, and salad spinner you so desperately need, you’ll also be set for life in terms of condiments. And since no bridal registry is complete without a slow cooker, you can add that to your list as well. On my most recent trip to Costco, I saw a Crock pot that came with a mini Crock pot included – so it can take up even more space and be even more useless!

When you’re planning your honeymoon, don’t forget about those racks of brochures at the front of the warehouse – Costco can arrange everything from a luxury cruise through the Aegean isles to a romantic getaway to Bora Bora. And of course, once you buy your first home, look to Costco to provide your garage door, heating system, custom countertops, carpets, and “window fashions” (I can’t help visualizing a bay window asking a transom “do these curtains make my panes look fat?”).

You can find mattresses, patio furniture, leather recliners, home office furniture, and even several types of ferns in addition to your standard bulk-quantity items. In fact, it might be a good idea to purchase an extra-large storage shed to house the extra-large stuff you buy.

Of all the enormous items I’ve seen at the warehouse store, though, none was as laugh-out-loud-in-disbelief astonishing as the 12-pound chocolate cake in the bakery. You heard me. Twelve pounds. It looked like an unusually appetizing tree stump. (In a forest I’d love to get lost in, by the way.)

But as much as the concept of an elephantine chocolate cake appeals to me, I can’t help but wonder if it’s quintessentially American to want more and bigger stuff. Are there Costcos in the UK? Sam’s Clubs in Bulgaria? Warehouse stores in – sacre bleu! – France? (I must admit, it’s tough to imagine a 12-pound baguette.) A quick Google search tells me there are. Forget McDonald’s, Microsoft, and Disney. I think Costco wants to take over the world.

And apparently, those of us who shop there have never heard of the environmental movement. It makes me wonder if Costco’s ever inspired sign-wielding protesters to block its doors. The hard plastic, cardboard, and cellophane that shroud pretty much everything in the store seem designed to last well into the next millennium. (You’re welcome, Future!)

But perhaps I’m getting overly political here. Perhaps it’s just a question of others shopping at Costco for the same reason I do – to save money. The siren song of the 24-pack of paper towels can be pretty tough to resist. I’ve seen actual rich people shopping there. Back when I was a pharmaceutical salesperson, I called on cardiologists. I saw one of my former clients at Costco last week, and I assume he makes a pretty good living. Probably drives a Porsche and lives in a 5,000-square-foot mansion in a gated community designed to keep riffraff like former pharmaceutical salespeople out.

Still… 460-count dryer sheets…

I enrolled in karate classes a few months ago. Schedule conflicts forced me to stop attending, but I plan to return. I’m nowhere near being able to shatter a cinderblock with my bare foot yet.

I started karate because I needed to get in shape, and given the level of dust that’s accumulated on the treadmill in my basement, I figured it would be good to have an outside place to go several nights a week. A traditional fitness club was out. I’d gone that route before, only to leave after one aerobics class, intimidated by the legions of hard-bodied members in skintight, bulgeless workout gear who clearly didn’t need to be there.

My local shopping center has a karate place, and one day I checked it out. I observed a class full of children, obviously at the advanced level already. Well-behaved moppets in neat white “gis” (a “gi” is the traditional martial arts outfit) kicking, chopping, shouting “yah!” as they executed particularly strenuous moves. At the end of the class, they bowed and thanked their “sensei,” or instructor.

How very civilized!

“I could do this,” I thought. After all, if 4^th graders were performing roundhouse kicks, twirling nunchucks like extras in a Bruce Lee movie, and flipping much larger opponents, how hard could it be?

Besides, I liked the gis. Very forgiving.

In order to prevent the “taking one class and never coming back” syndrome, I paid for a month up front, was given my gi, and told the date of the next Adult Beginner class.

“Adult Beginner” class. Sounds just right, doesn’t it?

Well let me tell you, the studio owner used both the words “adult” and “beginner” pretty loosely. There were ‘tweens in those sessions who could kick my ass.

The first challenge, however, was simply putting on my gi. The pants (mercifully loose) were no problem, although since we worked out in bare feet, I could see that I’d need to schedule regular pedicures. The jacket, while hiding the evidence of any number of chocolate truffles and triple decker club sandwiches with extra bacon, bristled with an alarming array of fabric strips which had to be threaded through specific holes and tied to other fabric strips.

The sash was the real puzzle, though. For one thing, it was about nine feet long. For another, it required such a complicated sequence of looping and folding that I knew I’d wind up looking like someone’s “My First Origami” project if I tried to do it myself. I adopted an air of casual lightheartedness as I sought help from a middle schooler. He called me “ma’am.” I longed to karate chop him then and there.

The lessons were remarkably effective, however. They started with a merciless workout (I’m convinced the sensei was an off-duty Green Beret). Do fifty jumping jacks to get the blood flowing. Balance on one foot like a sleeping flamingo. Fall over. Lunge in every direction. Hold until your thigh is quivering, your muscles are burning, and you’re beginning to question your sanity in signing up for this @#$%^& class in the first place.

Switch legs.

After the warm-up, we performed stretches with a partner. Karate classes tend to be filled with men, so I was paired off with the only other female. As this deceptively sweet-faced and petite brunette forced my leg to go to places it hadn’t seen since high school, I became convinced that she too was an off-duty Green Beret.

Once we were sufficiently warmed up and stretched out, it was time to begin the meat of the class. Surprisingly, this involved neither boards, bricks, nor cinderblocks, but rather self-defense. Within twenty minutes, I’d learned how to break the hold of someone choking me, trip an assailant by simply stepping in front of his knee, and escape from a thug who’d pinned my arms from behind. All I’d need to do would be remember these techniques during an actual mugging, as opposed to employing my more instinctive “scream and sob” reaction…

(To give credit where it’s due, most people take martial arts classes for longer than a few weeks, and the techniques themselves become instinctive. I certainly saw a few 12-year-old black belts I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.)

The self-defense portions of the lessons were a lot of fun. I was working out and learning to protect myself at the same time. We were paired off for many of these exercises, and since they didn’t involve the somewhat immodest “stretched-out inner thigh” posture, these pairings were gender-neutral, and we rotated partners throughout the hour.

I have to admit, I gulped a bit when I lifted my eyes to squint up at one of my “opponents.” Remember the enormous villain who bites through the wire holding up a cable car in one of the James Bond movies? That size. Thankfully, he appeared to view me as his rest break, and “attacked” me with only the lightest of touches, patronizingly saying “good job” while he pretended to fall down as a result of one of my feeble jabs.

My female stretch partner wasn’t so kind, however. A nicer woman you couldn’t hope to find – outside of class. During class, she almost broke my arm and karate chopped my carotid artery while practicing a particular move. I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d done to offend her. Clearly, she didn’t know her own strength – or my own weakness.

But Bond-movie-sized “bad guys” and a bruised shoulder weren’t the end of it. Oh no. Just when we thought we’d finished, and were ready to bow and thank our sensei, he had us gather in the back of the studio and perform “line kicks.” Kick one leg, then the other, in front of you as you travel up the entire length of the gym, then back down, then up again, then down, and twice more for good measure. By the end of class, I was bright red and sweating (man, those gis are hot – it’s like wearing a sauna), and I tottered to my car on shaking legs. 

It’s too bad I had to stop taking classes. I can’t remember how to break a choke-hold, and I’m convinced I’ll get mugged shortly. Plus, I’m getting flabby again… One of these days, my schedule will calm down and I’ll start over.

In the meantime, I just hope I don’t come across a pack of martial-arts-trained ‘tweens in a deserted parking lot.