It's possessed. I've decided that it must be possessed. There is no other explanation.

Brenda complained about it yesterday...I ignored her by and large. "The garage door only malfunctions around YOU!" I proclaimed with utmost superiority. She claimed the door rose and fell of its own accord, which is just plain silly, you realize. In fact, I'll say that it is the silliest thing I have ever heard...and I've heard some pretty silly things. Garage doors lack the wherewithal to make the "open or close?" decision on their own. They require a higher power. If a carbon-based life form isn't at command, a divinity of sorts would be...and forgive me if I think that maybe God has better things to do than weird someone out with a garage door.

However, ten minutes after my aunts had departed this morning, I heard it open. I looked from the bay window to see who was returning. The driveway was empty. I opened the kitchen door leading to the garage, and before I opened it 30° the door was shutting. "Curious," I muttered. I cut a slice of pumpernickel from the loaf I made last week—the stuff makes for splendid toast—and as I returned the cutting board to its place with a thunk, I heard the dang door opening again. I pulled my lower lip out and huffed, walking stonily to the bay window. Empty driveway, irritated Laura. I grasped the doorknob jerkily and immediately heard the door begin to close. I released it gently, and tip-toed back from the door. After a moment, I jumped up and down dramatically, and the garage door opened. I gripped the knob and flung the door open to see the garage door begin to descend.

I opened and closed the kitchen door several times to the same end. I grappled with uncertainty, and the awareness of a ghastly evil: my aunt's complaints were actually warranted. This tomfoolery has fiendish roots.

My grandmother is rather opinionated and bossy.

The holiday season is always an eye-rolling event around her, and I truly believe that the woman owns every garish Christmas trinket that anyone ever had the poor taste to distribute. Her house is a wellspring of fiber optic gaud...and she loves it...absolutely, totally loves it. Her eyes dance as the tacky lights blink and shimmy, and her laughter comes like bubbles bouncing to the surface of a quiet brook.

At dinner on Thursday, she recruited troops to decorate her condo. The woman's decoration collection weighs enough to engage in teeter totter play with the Eiffel Tower. My long suffering brother was one of the unfortunates called. He returned home from the activity today looking down and dispirited. His eyes were tired and his shoulders slumped while he shuffled dazedly from room to room. "Which family members were there?" asked Mom timidly, for lack of anything better to say.

"Oh, the stupid ones," Charlie replied on a sigh. We looked upon him with eyes rounded in shock and he continued, "Well they'd have to be the stupid ones if they actually agreed to help."

Last Wednesday, Brenda ran a cable to my TV. It made me happy.

Wait, a minute...I didn't give that bit of news the treatment that I should have. Give me a moment...

:::clears throat:::

Last Wednesday, amidst black clouds and rain and a frown that nobody thought could be turned upside down, my spectacularly beautiful aunt juggled, bounced and giggled. She tumbled and sang, sweat and grunted to no avail. Finally, her eyebrows crawling toward one another and her tongue lolling from the side of her mouth, she crept from our sight. We shrugged and thought, "Just as well," before leaving my subterranean loft. Moments later, she found us perched on kitchen chairs, sniffing exaggeratedly at the wafting scent of baking pies. Momentarily crestfallen—for what could complete with the scent of baking pies?—she scuffed her feet and looked to the ground, her hands sinking glumly into her pockets. We watched as she visually collected herself, rolled her shoulders back and announced, "I ran a cable to your TV."

I ran to it right that very moment, as though the devil himself were behind me (or a fleet of feathers after my bare feet). Revered silence filled the space as I regarded the masterpiece of a connected cable. Gingerly, I ran my fingers over the buttons on the remote, stroking it in adoration. I turned it on, the TV, and strayed from the DVD input setting...and to my wonder: TV SHOWS. With color and moving people and even sound! I closed my eyes, spun around, and clicked my heels together three times crying, "There's no place like home!"

I buy it in the big bottles because I burn through one of the smaller ones in just over a week's time. I follow the instructions on the label implicitly, using it both morning and night, and I have seen discernible progress. And hey, being that it is the first Listerine that fails to burn and harass every cell that has the misfortune of residing in your mouth, run—don't walk—and get yours today.

The whitening toothpaste is a given, naturally. Even if you lacked the common sense to put that together in your own head, I mentioned it just the other day. (Either you're dimwitted or inattentive...being that neither are overly complimentary, it's best just to pretend that you saw it coming, don't you think?) I have a rather steamy affair going on with this enamel-loving cleansing agent, I admit. But...it advertises containing liquid calcium! Calcium—LIQUID! Can you imagine!? Could you resist!? In any event, my teeth were sparklier after just one use, I deceive thee not.



This last week, I began a round with Crest Whitestrips. Somewhat pricey for the streetwalkers on whitening boulevard, sure...but thirty-five bucks for eighteen months of blinding-white teeth isn't so very offensive. The Whitestrips are by far the easiest home whitening agent to use, and the most effective of those with which I've dallied.

"Why? Why do you care how white your teeth are?" you might ask. Well, I live with Brenda, for one...who has teeth that could cause traffic accidents because they are so dazzlingly white. Fortunately for the public, Brenda takes attitude to new definition and manages to keep the smiles at bay. You might want to offer a word of thanks in her name during your bedtime prayers tonight. And, let's not forget she-whose-teeth-burn-retinas: my mother. See, I have the propensity for the white teeth in my genes, and they say it's partly genetic! But, as the story always seems to go, I was gypped at the gene pool.

So, yes, I've paid great mind and dollar toward my tooth-whitening defense, and nothing—I say nothing—elevates my chompers to the ethereal standing held by my aunt and mother. Obviously it is something that disturbs me, being that I brush my teeth more often during the day than any self-respecting human being should admit to. However much this may be the case, the thought of giving up coffee is abhorrent, repugnant, and abominable. Simply put: it ain't happenin'.

I've never, not once, pretended to make sense. This is, perhaps, the greatest perplexity of my life. I have my theories on the meaning of life, on the order of living, and on the plane of eternal reward...but holding coffee in one hand and white teeth in the other? I'm stumped.