Hi.
Yes, I’m still here. I could try to explain why there haven’t been many posts here at On the rocks and straight up in the last couple of months…but I’d rather share what Stephen King says in “On Writing,” his book about how he came to be a writer: “Then as now, I tend to go through periods of idleness followed by periods of workaholic frenzy.”
Yes, that.
Anyway.
This weekend’s paper featured an in-depth article on how to keep deer (and other pests) out of your garden. A solution for almost every pest involved spreading “predator urine” around the affected plants, or, for gophers and other tunneling beasties, soaking something in predator urine and dropping it into their dens.
I thought this was our paper’s way of avoiding an uncomfortable subject by substituting a preferred word. For instance, a large gathering downtown over Memorial Day resulted in what was unquestionably a riot. As in, 30,000 people gathered in one place. The mob commenced to loot, fight, and eventually shoot one guy in the head. The paper is resolute in its use of the word “melee” instead of “riot” to describe the incident.
Naturally I assumed that “use predator urine” was the paper’s polite way of saying “go pee in your garden.” The venison spaghetti sauce served at all our family Thanksgivings proves nothing if not that we are predators of deer, right?
Right.
And given local ordinances about public urination, the paper can’t come out saying, “Hey, guys, go take a whiz off the porch into your wife’s flowers so the deer won’t eat them.”
Right?
Apparently not.
I shared my theory with Mark, and he shot it down, telling me that no, the paper meant that you should use actual predator urine. Not husband pee.
“Yeah, right,” I said. “You are so messing with me. Like you could go out and buy predator urine.”
“Oh, you can get it at Home Depot.”
“You are so full of it.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Yeah, right. You just want me to go into Home Depot and ask ‘Hey, dude, where do you keep the predator urine?’ And then he’ll be all, ‘Uh, I got a crazy lady on Aisle 6 wanting to buy urine.’”
“I’m serious. They have fox urine.”
“Riiiight.”
“They do! And it stinks. Trust me, you do not want to smell like fox urine.”
“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re serious.”
He looks into my eyes. “I’m serious.”
“Ok, then look it up online and show me.”
He moves to my computer.
“Wait! Don’t you dare Google ‘fox urine’ on my computer. Use yours.”
“I’m not. I’m going to the Home Depot website. Though maybe they don’t sell it online.”
“Yeah. That would be convenient.”
He types. He clicks. Products appear. None of them are fox urine.
“Huh. I guess they don’t have it online.”
“Shocker! Might that be because you are so screwing with me?”
Mark continues clicking and typing. “I know that they have wolf, bobcat, and coyote urine…I’m sure there is other stuff, but I don’t know what.”
“Ok, say you’re right. How do they collect this urine? I’ve gotten urine samples from a 4 year old at the pediatrician and I would rather chew my own hand off then try and catch one from a coyote.”
“Captives. Zoos, breeders.”
“You’re telling me that our zoo is in a major monetary crisis when they could be selling all of their animal waste products to major home improvement stores?”
“Sure.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to add to this ridiculousness?” I ask, now typing furiously to record for posterity Mark’s pitiful attempt at wife ridicule.
“Yes. I’d like to add that you think it’ll be fun to do this sarcastic, scathing post, but you’re the one who’s gonna be embarrassed when it’s confirmed that they do sell all these products.”
“Ok, fine, you get on your brand new computer and Google ‘captive urine.’”
He gets on his computer, types for a minute, and then smugly hands it over.
You’re kidding me.
Right there on Amazon. Red fox urine. Also available? Urine from wolves, coyotes, and bobcats.
Of course it is. Because Mark knows everything.
I stare at the screen, searching for telltales that would mark this as a fake site. Trying to figure out how these are joke products.
“So why didn’t you want to Google it?” Mark asks. A smirk dances around the corners of his mouth.
“Because you can Google perfectly innocent things and get horrible links to Thai whorehouses and stuff, and I’m pretty sure ‘fox urine’ would lead to the kind of viruses that come screaming out of your laptop and splatter you with giant oozing sores.”
“Thai whorehouses?”
“Yes. Or massage parlors, whatever. Stop smirking.”
Later, in the bathroom, we’re both brushing our teeth, and I’m trying to salvage some of my dignity by reiterating my previous argument.
“You know, I still think they used the phrase ‘predator urine’ because they couldn’t say on the section front of a reputable newspaper that they wanted you to go pee in your own flowers. I mean, if your cousin Tom proves nothing else, it’s that men are deer predators.”
I continue to talk as Mark swishes with Listerine.
“And that part about using predator urine in gopher holes? I mean really. Peeing on your flowers is one thing. Peeing in a gopher hole? What if the gopher jumped out and just, you know, latched on?”
He chokes on his Listerine and spits into the sink.
“You know that gopher in Caddyshack would have done it. I bet they’re all like that. Isn’t that why people have gopher bombs?”
“Why don’t you Google it?”
“I am so not Googling ‘gopher attacks penis.’”
“Ok, well, try ‘cougar attacks penis.’ I’m sure you’ll have better luck.”
I’ll leave that one to you, dear readers.