No? Yes?
Sometimes I think I have not yet met my wife.
Scientists say that every cell in the human body regenerates every seven years. (This is a fact that I am making up, or think I heard once. It might have been on Star Trek. Just stay with me, here. Accept the "fact.")
Of course, all the cells don't regenerate all at once. That would be catastrophic.
But, if no cell in the body lasts more than seven years, then my body right now is — physically — a completely different body than the one I enjoyed using before 2002.
And — back to Mrs. Isaac — since she and I have been married for 21 blissful years, you could say that, really, I've been married to three Mrs. Isaacs. Physically. And I'm on my fourth. (You'll pardon the expression.)
Meet The New Wife (Much Like The Old Wife)
Well, last Wednesday, Mrs. Isaac said something that made me think: "Huh. New wife! I think all the cells regenerated overnight."
Mrs. Isaac said: "I'd like to learn how to hunt rabbit."
As you know, I'm a recovering vegetarian with a philosophical revulsion to hunting. I just don't have it in me. I'm not a man's man. Whatever. My people are gatherers and nurturers — teachers, doctors, and lawyers. In my tradition, the hunters have always been the other people.
So a hasty cross-examination was in order.
How?
Where?
Why?
"Oh, really?" [Note: I did not laugh. I raised my eyebrows and leaned forward about one inch. That was it. I did not laugh.]
"You may laugh," Alisa says, as she does whenever we discuss issues like mortality, global warming, disease, economic ruin, natural calamity, man-on-man violence, addiction and dustballs. And now: the picture on the other side of my eyeballs of my wife stalking small mammals between here and the garage.
"You may laugh," she said, "But, during the Depression, my father fed his mother and himself."
(I think she was referring to the Depression of Long Ago, not the Depression of Noon Yesterday.)
Speaking of macro economics, I think that everyone I know (including the guy in the mirror) regenerated last Wednesday. That was the day that each of us realized that "Hey, I can't afford that." Or: "Dang, I could have bought that six months ago, but I just can't now."
I've heard Rich People finding ways to economize.
What happened all of the sudden?
The Philosophy of Macro Economics became the Visceral Reality of Micro Economics. In my home, and in your home. Dang, indeed.
Back to bunny tales…
Who's Laughing Now?
I keep imagining myself wearing rabbit fur bow ties.
And eating, a la Forrest Gump: rabbit stew, rabbit on rye, rabbit in eggs, rabbit stir fry, rabbit ratatouille…
I mentioned this to my friend, Bill Oesterle, in an email, and his only reply was, "I can teach her." Great. Thanks, Bill.
Mrs. Isaac heard this and said, "If Bill can teach me, tell him to come right over."
Oh, Yes: The Contest
When The Huntress returns from the fields — the "Back (Point) 40" since we live on a half acre — with her first bag o' bunnies, I will somehow distract her and grab one of the little wascles.
And I will send it to one of the subscribers of Net Cotton Content. Just like that.
That's the contest.
But what's a contest without rules? (If we have a contest without rules, the terrorists have won.)
Rules:
- No entry form required. Just by subscribing to Net Cotton Content, you are entered.
- Unsubscribing from Net Cotton Content won't help. I know who you are and if I want to send you a dead rabbit, I'm going to do just that. You might as well be grateful.
- No rabbits are eligible. You can't recover Flopsy's or Mopsy's body.
- I reserve the right to send you a Partial Rabbit, or even just a Rabbit Part. If Mrs. Isaac has immediate use for some of the parts out in the field, I may only get to grab a handful of — I don't know — noses or something. (As we all know, only the feet give good luck, so we should be OK.)
Not void where prohibited by law. You don't have to be 18+ years old to win. Civil law is of no concern to me. They'll never take me alive. (Not with Mrs. Isaac firing pellets all over my property.)
Confidentiality Is In Force
By the way, Mrs. Isaac doesn't read Net Cotton Content. Her feeble excuse has something to do with, "I live with it." (I'm the it with which she lives.)
So let's keep this all between us, shall we?