UPDATED: The Directly Proportional Law of Housekeeping

June 19, 2013 in Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Not to toot my own horn, but I’m making important contributions to science. Discoveries as profound as Newton’s Law of Gravity, really. A couple of years ago, for example, my work focused on  the Transitive Property of Parenting. This year, I discovered the Directly Proportional Law of Housekeeping.

The Directly Proportional Law of Housekeeping
The clean areas of one’s house are directly proportional to the dirty areas, such that cleaning anywhere is futile because of the immediate, opposite effect somewhere nearby.

I’d like to point out that I take the scientific process very seriously and I do not use the word law lightly.

“A scientific law is a statement based on repeated experimental observations that describes some aspect of the world. A scientific law always applies under the same conditions, and implies that there is a causal relationship involving its elements.”  Wikipedia (Wikipedia said it. I believe it. That settles it.)

In fact, I consider my ongoing efforts in this specific area of science to be my life’s work. I conduct experiments daily. Or hourly. Sometimes every minute, so dedicated am I. And guess what? I can repeat exactly the same results every single time. Every. Single. Time.

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For example, last weekend I did all of the laundry. All of it. Except for the entire load of miscellaneous stuff we found around the house and scattered around the backyard in the 15 minutes after all the laundry was finished. To be clear, before all the laundry was finished, those stained shirts and muddy towels and mismatched socks and haphazardly discarded undies were not there, and then, when the laundry was finished, they materialized. Had I not finished the laundry, they would never have appeared, is what I’m saying. CAUSAL RELATIONSHIP, folks, and ongoing proof of the Directly Proportional Law of Housekeeping.

Because good scientific process is transparent scientific process, I’m happy to duplicate the results in your laboratory. Especially if your laboratory is in the Bahamas. Or the Cook Islands. Or the Galapagos. Or on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean.

I’m also seeking additional researchers to conduct like experiments worldwide before I publish these results to the broader scientific community. If you’ve performed a similar experiment – if you are performing a similar experiment right now, even – please share your results!

P.S. Although I’ve observed the Law of Directly Proportional Housekeeping in action many times, I’m at a loss to explain how it happens. Do you have any hypotheses? I’m thinking it must have some basis in the Laws of the Conservation of Mass and Energy.



It turns out Greg and I have been conducting parallel research. His studies resulted in the Law of the Conservation of Housework.

Law of the Conservation of Housework
Within a problem house, the amount of housework remains constant and is neither created nor destroyed.  Housework can be converted from one form to another (potential laundry can be converted to dirty laundry) but the total housework within the domicile remains fixed.

In conclusion, Greg and I are to the Laws of Housework as Newton and Liebniz were to Calculus.

Also, if you get that Newton/Liebniz connection, congratulations. You’re a true geek.

Also-also, if you get that Newton/Liebniz connection, you understand I’m doing some hot and heavy flirting with my mathematician of a husband. Sorry you had to see that.



After showing you that I’ve learned how to flirt with my Math and Science husband, I thought I’d also show you that he’s learned how to flirt with me.

Yesterday, after taking kids to and from organized activities all day (summer’s gonna kill me, y’all), I was sitting at swim lessons for 4. Swim lessons scheduled during dinner time, of course. So Greg texted to ask if he should boil some pasta for dinner. Total flirting in my book. And then I abdicated all parental responsibility. And then he flirted even harder.

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It is good to be known.


What’s in plants?

December 19, 2012 in Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

What’s in plants, Mom? 

It wasn’t an unusual question coming from the science-minded six-year-old. He wants to know how everything works right now. Ever-y-thing. And all the episodes of Myth Busters feed the fire, friends.

Just yesterday, for example, my kid couldn’t move on with life until he received an acceptable explanation for Pluto’s declassification as a planet. Since it was a snow day and Greg was working from home, I sent Boy Wonder to the parent who, well, cares.

Today, though? No such luck for Mama Me. Although I never manage to answer science questions to my kid’s satisfaction (we both know the string of but why‘s can only lead to the inevitable I don’t know; go ask your Dad), I was the only parent home, and he was stuck with me.

What’s in plants, Mom? he asked. And I thought, What’s in plants? What’s in plants? I know this one! Photosynthesis! But then I second-guessed myself because photosynthesis isn’t exactly in plants, you know? That’s more like something plants do. And, besides, it’s a little complicated to explain… light = energy, and… oh, I don’t know; go ask your Dad. So I thought some more. What’s in plants? What’s in plants? I know! Chloroform! But then I realized chloroform is the stuff you pour on your handkerchief when you want to kidnap someone in a dark parking garage or an abandoned warehouse. No, that’s not it. Not chloroform. Chlorophyll! That’s the plant thing! And it does… something planty. Oh, crap.

In a blinding flash of brilliance, though, I remembered high school biology class, and I yelled, Cells! That’s what’s in plants, man. Cells are in plants. They’re the building blocks of life!

And PHEW, right? Total Mama Win right there. It was a triumphant moment.

It was a triumphant moment that shouldn’t lose its luster just because my kid looked at me sadly, shook his head and said, No, Mom. That’s not what I’m talking about at all. What’s IN PLANTS, Mom? 

Do you ever have those moments with your kids when you’re sure you’re speaking different languages? When you’re positive if you both just talk SLOWER AND LOUDER, you’ll figure out what the other person is saying?

What’s. In. Plants. That’s what you want to know, right? About the inside of plants?

No, Mom, he said. And then he went on to explain.

First, he told me about Myth Busters.  (I knew they were somehow to blame.)

Then, he talked about uh-splosions. (You know. Uh-SPLOSIONS, Mom. Big, giant uh-SPLOSIONS! The trapped air goes up high and gets bigger and bigger and BIGGER inside the bag, and then KAPOW! It blows into bits!) Explosions. Bags. Air. Gotcha.

Next, he told me about the people who give us drinks on the airplane. (Flight attendants? I ventured. YES, MOM! he confirmed. If air gets trapped in plants in those girls…)

And finally, I pieced it all together.

What’s in plants? Oh. OH! You mean what are IMplants?

YES, MOM! What are implants? my six-year-old asked, exhausted and eager and all ears.

And then my brain uh-SPLODED, guys. KAPOW! Like that. Into bits.




UPDATE: What did I say? Oh, I wasn’t trying to be cryptic by not telling you. Truth is, I have no idea. I think I blacked out. I mean, words escaped my mouth. Words like boobs and bags and big but it was an incoherent blur, and I’m pretty sure I painted an unflattering picture of all women everywhere whether we have implants or not. My sincere apologies, All Women Everywhere. Also, I laughed the Uncomfortable Mom Laugh. I never laugh the Uncomfortable Mom Laugh. ARG! So now I have to revisit the conversation. I have to ask my son, you guys… Son? What’s in plants? Let’s discuss.


UPDATE #2: Also. I took a picture of my TV last night. The boys were watching Myth Busters again. And, um, I don’t know how to tell you this, but these are Not Tadpoles, ladies and gentlemen,

and Coca-Cola does not work to deter them, so don’t try that at home, OK? This myth = BUSTED.

Also-also, I’m beginning to suspect Myth Busters may not have been developed with the six-year-old audience in mind.


 Plant with Recycled Paper image credit KROMKRATHOG at freedigitalimages.net

It’s National Intention Deficit Disorder Awareness Week! (I meant to tell you sooner.)

June 20, 2012 in Beth, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Last week, I mentioned on Facebook that my husband believes he suffers from Intention Deficit Disorder.

Greg just told me he has Intention Deficit Disorder.

Now, if we discover that Intention Deficit Disorder runs in our family, that would explain a LOT of things, you guys. Like the filth. And most of the squalor.

(We intend to clean our house. I swear we do!)

Sometimes having the diagnosis is a relief, ya know? It’s like the confirmation that we’re not crazy. There IS a problem, and it has a NAME.

Although I’m not at all new to having intention deficits, I’m entirely new to it as a recognized disorder. I thought you might be, too, so I decided to become an advocate. An activist. A raiser of awareness! Woot!

I thought about what I might do. I pondered. I watched 4 episodes of Downton Abbey. And I decided all the way last Friday to make this week – June 18-22 – National Intention Deficit Disorder Awareness Week.

Every day this week, I meant to post on Intention Deficit Disorder, you guys. The highs. The lows. The stories of our fellow sufferers. The ways to reach out. The ways to find help.

But, then, well, life happened. And I didn’t get around to it. And I thought it was too late to start National Awareness Week mid-afternoon on a Wednesday in the summer. And that’s when I realized that I was wrong to continue to put this off. I can tell my own story, imperfectly and late, and highlight how very prevalent this disorder is. It seeps in, you know? It takes away time. Intention Deficit Disorder makes me feel unproductive because what I meant to do is not what I did. Even worse, it discounts the mountain of work I did do as worthless just because I didn’t intend to do it.

Well, pffttt on that!

Naysayers to the back of the line!

Onward and upward, I say!

That’s why I am thrilled to announce that this week is

National Intention Deficit Disorder Awareness Week
June 18-22 

And that’s not all!

I’m not just paying lip-service to this effort. Oh, no. I created a pamphlet.

I know! A whole pamphlet! Believe me, I understand your excitement, because we all know that the first step to getting help is reading a pamphlet.

And so, without further ado, I present to you The Intention Deficit Disorder brochure.



Contact me to order piles and piles of pamphlets so you can join me in blanketing the streets with them.

And, before you leave to do the things you intend to do today, take some time share your own stories and struggles with Intention Deficit Disorder below.




Happy New KidYear!

January 4, 2012 in Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Happy New KidYear!
A Lesson in Creative Mathematics
How to Make Myself Feel Better about My Truly Ridiculous Schedule 

My first five years as a parent, I parented one child. And having Just One Child was easy the same way that assembling and baking a pie while suspended upside-down from a 200-foot-tall bridge is easy.* By which I mean, I spent most of my time making a hot, delicious mess while muttering to myself, “What the… ?” and “How the… ?” and “Someone help me. I’m WAY too dizzy to be responsible for this.” And I spent the rest of the time shouting, “The view from here is AWESOME.”

Those first five years I learned, through personal observation and meticulous scientific study – which included approximately one hundred thousand sleepless nights during which I proudly NEVER shook the baby (victory!) – that one kid is a lot of kids.

Which leads me, through the process of mathematical extrapolation to this: If one kid is a lot of kids, and because any number higher than one is more than one (yes, I am a mathematical genius, and thank you for asking), then any number of kids is a lot of kids.

But you know what’s weird about raising more than one kid? The fact that they live their lives concurrently.

Concurrently. Simultaneously. AT THE SAME TIME.

That means that, somehow, while I’m wading through one kid’s life moment by moment, there are four others with moments passing just as swiftly that just as badly need their mama’s attention.

See, when I parented my first kid for five years, this is the amount of time that passed:

1 kid x 5 years = 5 KidYears

And I felt every one of those hot, delicious, messy, awesome years.

But now, as I look back on another year with my five kids, I realize that:

5 kids x 1 year… ALSO EQUALS 5 KidYears

It’s Parenting Condensed; the same amount of kid-living packed into a fifth of the time.

2012 is upon us, and I’ve done the math. I will complete one full KidYear every 73.2 days, which sure makes me feel a lot better about everything I pack into my harried and ridiculous schedule.

Yes. That’s about right; my mama life these days is like eating condensed pie filling straight from the can. Rushed and sticky. But also very, very sweet.

Wishing you and yours a very Happy New KidYear!


(*I write things like this to drive my mathematics- and engineering-minded husband to distraction. I promise you, he’s going through scenarios in his head right now that include ways to run power to a stove that’s suspended from a bridge. He probably started googling solutions, which means he stopped reading way back in the first paragraph, and, as a result, he’s not checking any of my math. Bwahahahaha!)

Sucking on a Stick of Gross with a Heaping Side of Disgusting (or, Mmm! Dinner!)

November 18, 2011 in BEGIN READING WITH THESE FAVORITES, Family, Food, Funny by Beth Woolsey

For years, I’ve had a strict, no-complaints-at-dinnertime rule. If my kids don’t like dinner, they may say, “Thank you, Mom, for making dinner,” and that is all they may say.

It’s a good, sturdy, sensible-shoes kind of rule, ’cause nothing’s quite so demoralizing as slaving over dinner only to hear a wee little, high-pitched voice say, eloquently, “Eeeeeeeewwwww!”

I didn’t always have the “Thank you, Mom, for making dinner” rule. I used to blow neon green steam out of my ears, bug my eyes out, and say through clenched teeth, “You will EAT it and you will LOVE it.” That was when I was going through my realistic phase of parenting, and I always said practical, reasonable things to my kids. Good times, y’all; good times.

The very best – and completely inevitable – outcome of “Thank you, Mom, for making dinner” is the fact that the phrase has morphed into thinly-disguised code for “Gee, Mom. This dinner tastes like sucking on a stick of Gross with a heaping side of Disgusting.”

So, when my kids say, “Thank you, Mom, for making dinner,” it’s usually accompanied by the kind of drawn sullenness most people would reserve for their first break-up, or that climbing rope in gym class, or that time you thought that cutting your hair while you were pregnant was a good idea. The kids go a little pale, their eyes droop, and their lips don’t actually move while they say in their very best Dead Robot monotone voice, “Thank you, ah, for aking dinner.”

If you recall, I started this post with these two words: for years. For years. For YEARS, “Thank you, Mom, for making dinner” has been in the family canon.  It is law. I walked up a mountain, God engraved it on a stone tablet, and I high-tailed it back home before I found anything creepy up there, like overly-talkative, burning shrubbery.

The first words my children spoke were “Thank you, Mom, for making dinner.” In fact, after I birthed two babies too early and they were in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, I attached myself to an industrial-sized milking machine that made my breasts into world-class contortionists, and, when we sent the breast bounty (12 drops of colostrum – woot!) straight to my babes’ bellies, they looked at me and said, with perfect diction, “Thank you, Mom, for making dinner.”

So you’ll understand my surprise when Ian, who’s 11 and knows better, took one bite of dinner last night and said, “This tastes like puke.”

If you’re bad at math, don’t worry, I’ll help you out:

“This tastes like puke”
“Thank you, Mom, for making dinner”

It’s a tough equation, so don’t feel bad if you don’t get it right away. Ian didn’t either.

Enter: The most challenging thing about parenting, which is, for me, not cracking the heck up when my kids pick up a rule and smash it, World Wrestling Federation style, over their heads. It’s rule throw-down time, my kid just waved the red flag, and I will tell you what… this mama bull ain’t nevah backed down from a challenge.

Me: “That is so interesting, Ian. WOW. That sounded almost exactly like ‘Thank you, Mom, for making dinner,’ so I can see how you’d be confused.”

I might’ve speared him with the Zoolander look that I like to call Please DO Tell Me What You Were Thinking When You Deliberately Stepped In That Giant Steaming Pile Of Dog Poo, Child.

Those wheels in his head were turning so fast, I could hear the gears grinding.

Ian, backpedaling: “Uuhhhh… right, Mom. Sorry about that. I meant to say, ‘This makes me want to puke. But I won’t puke, Mom. I’ll hold it in.'”

Me, sympathetically: “Hey, Ian. You know what? I understand. I get it. We all make mistakes. Like, just now when I said, ‘That is so interesting, Ian,’ what meant to say was, ‘You just earned yourself a Weekend o’ Extra Chores, dude.'”

Watching my kids try to verbally retreat is one of life’s great joys.

Ian: “WHAT? No, Mom! No! It was a accident. I didn’t say puke. I said… I said… ‘Mmm! Dinner!'”

Hehehe. That’s what I thought, baby boy. That’s what I thought.

P.S. My chore list just got really long, and there’s a whole weekend ahead with nothing but hours and hours to get stuff done. Puke is my new favorite dinner. Just saying.

The Transitive Property of Parenting

October 27, 2011 in BEGIN READING WITH THESE FAVORITES, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

This conversation between my cousin and his kid just happened at my dinner table:

My cousin:  Do you want ketchup?
The kid:  Yes.
My cousin:  Do you want ketchup?
The kid:  Yes.
My cousin:  Do you want ketchup?
The kid:  Yes.
My cousin:  Do you want ketchup?
The kid:  Yes.
My cousin:  Do you want ketchup?
The kid:  Yes, PLEASE.

My cousin to me:  The key to effective parenting is repetition.

You guys!  The key to effective parenting is repetition.

HOLY COW!  I’ve been on the lookout for years for the key to effective parenting.  And yet I somehow didn’t expect to find it while eating meatloaf.  The world is full of surprises, I tell you.

And I’ll also tell you, if parenting is all about repetition, I have this in the bag.  I repeat crap All. Day. Long.

And now we’ve come to the mathematics portion of the day.  Because I was right in the middle of my open-mouthed meatloaf revelation when my husband quoted Rita Mae Brown out loud:

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.

Get ready, folks.  There’s some serious math logic ahead.  This is JUST LIKE that time when that guy, Newton, had an apple drop on his head.  I mean, we all know the dude wasn’t the first to get beaned in the noggin with a piece of fruit.  But he was the first to call it gravity, and that changed the world.

Are you ready?  OK.

This is the Transitive Property of Equality:
a = b

b = c,
a = c.

And this is the Transitive Property of Parenting:
parenting = repetition expecting different results
repetition expecting different results = insanity,
parenting = insanity.

Parenting equals insanity, guys!

I know.  We all had this apple drop on our heads a LOOOOONNNGG time ago.

But now we have proof.

On the Importance of Taxidermy

June 22, 2011 in Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

“I plan on recruiting a commune,” my husband said reassuringly.

Oddly, I didn’t feel reassured.

Blogging has provided an unanticipated opportunity to get to know the inner workings of my husband’s mind.  Now, I’ll be honest; Greg’s mind terrifies me.  So much so that I don’t often go there.

I prefer to stay in the vicinity of Greg’s heart.  It’s warm and welcoming, and it doesn’t scare me.  I know exactly where his heart is; Greg’s priorities are solidly with me, our kids, our family, and our community.  He’s a man of faith and conviction.  He has unshakeable beliefs and morals (which are often irritating, since I wander around wondering, doubting, changing my convictions and generally blathering, but that’s neither here nor there.)  Greg’s heart is a safe place.

I also enjoy Greg’s hands.  Quite a bit.  They’re big and muscular, dry and rough in all the right places, and they do the most amazing…

Alright.  I’ll stop.  I’m just stalling anyway.  Because I’m headed into scary territory.  Greg’s mind.

Let’s dive into the terror together.

After you.

No, no; really.  You go first.  I’m right behind you.  I swear.

FINE.  I’ll go first.  But you should know that you’re a chicken.

First of all, Greg is so much smarter than I am, academically speaking, that if you compare the two of us to water, he is the ocean and I’m a tiny drop of water in the desert that quickly evaporates when exposed to heat.  I’m not maligning myself by telling you that this is so.  It is simply fact.  Then again, I’ve saved Greg’s life thousands of times while crossing the street because looking both ways with all of that academic prowess is apparently very, very hard.  So there’s a give and take here, folks.

Second of all, Greg’s manly hunter / protector sense has apparently meshed inextricably with all of his science fiction and apocalyptic urban fantasy reading.  I didn’t know about this until I blogged about Aunt Lillian’s dandelion pancakes.  There, I wrote:

I’m a mother, and, therefore, a protective freakazoid who thinks up apocalyptic scenarios in my spare time.  I often wonder what I’ll do when modern society collapses, and I’m forced to burn my dog’s dried poo for warmth (should’ve bought a bigger dog) and contemplate how much meat is on his bones (aaannnd again with the bigger dog… poor end-days planning on my part, I tell you.)

It’s not just me who’s a freakazoid, though.  Greg invents improbable scenarios, too.  For example, feel free to ask him all about exactly what he’ll do when terrorists take over his office building.  FYI, his office is in a two-story strip mall above a grocery store.  So it’s super, duper, extra likely that a terrorist will take over his office someday.  That’s why Greg has an executable plan that includes hiding in the ceiling and some form of jumping into a dumpster.

I mock now, but when the apocalypse happens, I’m going to have to apologize to Greg so he’ll share all the survival knowledge he gained from reading Robinson Crusoe and Mysterious Island.  That apology is going to suck for me.

Well, here’s the thing.  That little bit about the apocalypse and survival opened up a whole new part of Greg’s mind that I got to explore while alternately shivering in horror and giggling like a loon.

Greg has a half-hour commute to and from work every day.  He uses it to plan for the protection and survival of our family in case of a total and complete breakdown of society.

Greg let me know that he’s mentally writing his “alternative universe apocalyptic autobiography,” which is a relief.  Because, when this whole apocalypse thing is over, we’ll have a sure source of reliable funds in his best seller.

Now, you probably think that the apocalypse just involves general anarchy, disease, war, and a lack of every modern comfort, including, oh, food, clothes, shelter and water.  That’s where your apocalyptic planning falls short, my friend.  Because Greg’s got us covered for all of those scenarios, and he has back-up plans in case our physical universe is altered.

Did you ever think about what you’d do when physics no longer adhere to scientific laws?  Well, did you?  Yeah, I didn’t think so.  You have got to think, people.  Physics anarchy could happen to you. Among other heinous things I can’t remember about physics, engines won’t start.  Which means your big plans for driving all those abandoned cars across the country to find pockets of surviving humans are right out.  You’re gonna need horses.  Lots and lots of horses.  And you’re gonna have to feed those horses.  And you’re going to have to feed all the people you collect.  Because you’re gonna be collecting people.  That’s inevitable.  People collection… and the right kind of people collection… is essential.

Greg has thought of all of these things.  I haven’t gone as far or deep as I should to find out how we’re going to execute all of his plans, so I’m going to have a lot of catch-up to do after the apocalypse starts.  But at least I know what to do first.

While Greg is on his way home from work (FYI, the apocalypse will start while Greg is at work for sure — this is kind of the lynch-pin in all of his planning), he’ll have a lot of stops to make.  Among the stops: 1) the big, huge, giant knives manufacturer for dozens of machetes, and 2) kidnapping the taxidermist (I’ll explain later, but you’re going to be embarrassed you didn’t figure it out for yourself).  Of course, in the event of the Physics Collapse, he won’t be in his car, so he’ll have to hijack a horse or four along the way, and, well, those things could take time.

My assignment, obviously (really, it’s obvious; I know ’cause Greg said so), is to head to the all-purpose store in our area.  The one that sells everything from food to hunting knives.  I’ve been instructed to bring our Burley… the attachment that goes on the back of my bike for hauling children.  It looks like this:

Of course, first I’ll have to find our tire pump.  And then probably the tire repair kit.  Which I bet we don’t own.  But right after I make sure the tires work, I’ll be set.

I’ll head to the store to buy bows and arrows, hunting knives, and all the wheat products we can carry.  I don’t know what we’re going to do with my mother, who’s on a gluten-free diet, but I was specifically told “wheat products,” so that’s what I’m buying.  I’ll have only about an hour to do this before the general populace figures out that money is worthless, so it’s going to be a time-sensitive operation.  Maybe I should look for that tire pump now.

As a side note, I’ll tell you I was very excited to see that bows and arrows are on the list.  One time, about 18 years ago when I was a camp counselor, I learned how to shoot a bow and arrow so I could teach the campers.  I even regularly hit the 4-foot-diameter stationary target from about 20 feet away.  So I’m completely qualified to shoot rabbits and quail running through the brush.  It’s a transferable skill that will take almost no training.  That’s going to work out well.

My next stop with the Burley (after dropping everything off at home to free up burley space), will be the library.  I’m instructed to snap up all the books the Burley can carry on basic farming, how to make soap, tallow, etc.  “Pretty sure we need a pig for tallow,” I said.  “And we have NO IDEA what to do with pigs or how to milk them for tallow.”

Greg had already thought of that.  “I plan on recruiting a commune,” my husband said reassuringly.  Oddly, I didn’t feel reassured.

Nevertheless, such is my faith in my husband, that I figured I’d get a leg up on the apocalyptic commune recruitment.  Remember how important people-collection is?  Yes.  Me, too.

Commune openings include:

  • Pig farmers – I actually know some of these… Sarah and Bubba, you in?  It’s B.Y.O.Pigs, but we’ll all help raise ’em and husband ’em (is that weird?); but, well, if Bubba can still do the slaughtering, that would be awesome.
  • Fence builders – ’cause no commune is complete without a huge fence.  Priority will be given to people with large stores of barbed wire.
  • Chickens
  • Aunt Lillian
  • Taxidermist – No, not because we’re stuffing pigs.  Because of his hide-tanning skills.  That’s crucial.  Doy!  Fortunately, Greg’s got a handle on this one.  “There’s a shop on my way home from work that says ‘taxidermy and tanning.'”  Still up for debate is how to convince the taxidermist that a) there’s an apocalypse happening, and b) he should go with Greg on his horse.

We’ll be taking applications until the apocalypse begins.