When Houseguests Smell

What's the saying? It's so old and famous I can't remember it verbatim. You know, the one about fish and houseguests starting to smell after about 3 days.

My home seems to have become a haven of sorts for the cartoon character looking for a place to perch. Sherman and Peabody came first, moving their home to the humble Pod from the big city. Seems Peabody wanted Sherman to enjoy some small-town life after keeping him for years in a cramped apartment in Manhattan. And this has been fine. They're both a joy to live with, even if P is a little, well, you know, P-ish. They're no trouble, they're immaculately clean (what little boy messes Sherman makes are always cleaned promptly), and they've enriched my life beyond belief. They're the family I always wanted. Well, actually, I guess they're the family I never really wanted but was glad I got.

But apparently word got out.

Next who should show up at my door but Gossamer. This was a conspiracy upon my person. Seems Sherman liked him a lot from the old days, and with just a word or two in Mr M's ear, it was all arranged that Gossamer would come for a stay. Gossamer isn't much trouble, really, other than the fact that he knocks things over when he and Sherman play hide-and-seek in the house. And his table manners are attrocious. And he tends to smell, especially if he gets wet. And then there was that time on my birthday when he ate my good luck baby Lily, but fortunately we got him to cough her up in time and she survived, albeit with a hole in her midsection. And he occasionally burps, but really, he's no trouble.

Before I knew it, I had a third border. Huckleberry Hound. Now, Huckie and I are old friends, so this was a bit of a welcoming sight for me. Huckie lived with me once before, came to visit me when I was in the hospital about 10 years ago and never left, till he went to live with my nephew for awhile during The Greatest Scare of My Life, aka Taytie's Hospitalization When He Was Seven. So Taytie and Huckie got on like a house afire, as ol' Huck is a winner with the kids.

However, when I entered the hospital for surgery last year, who should come back into my life but My Little Blue Friend With The Doody Hat. I guess at heart, Huckleberry Hound's just a caring fellow. Wherever there's sickness and a need for comfort, he's right there on the spot. He's been living with me since, and he's a great friend to little Sherman, even though Peabody gets anxious when the two spend too much time together. Seems that, although impressed with the hound's manners, Peabody's a little squeamish Sherman might pick up the accent.

And then there's the story of Mr Peanut.

First of all I'd just like to say that I was excited, nay, wowed, at the thought of probably my all-time favorite advertising character coming to spend some time with me and the boys. I can remember when I was but a podlet living in Charleston. One of my biggest treats was going to the peanut store and getting to pick out my own little bag (it was always English walnuts, btw). And there, in bright neon outside the building, welcoming me in, was Mr Peanut.

Such a debonair and dashing nut as well. With the spats and top hat and cane. And the monacle. He's the very epitome of the erudite man about town.

Mr M did a stint of consulting work in Richmond a while back, and wouldn't you just know the very company he was working for was the big conglomeration who just happens to be the parent company for Mr Peanut. There were rumblings every now and again that Mr Peanut would be in the building, but he seemed to be quite elusive and was rarely spotted. But Mr M sought him out, knowing what a fan I was, and lo and behold, one weekend when he came back home to B'burg he had The Peanut Himself in tow. Mr Peanut expressed a desire to come and visit and hang with some of his contemporaries, and to be truthful, I was honored.

Mr Peanut followed me home.

And Mr Peanut is a charming fellow. Always ready with a funny story, or a light for your smoke, can mix a martini for you and help coordinate your wardrobe as well. He's talented in the social graces.

But as happens when houseguests start staying long enough for you to really get to know them, well, Mr Peanut's not all sweetness and light.

First of all, he's quite - clingy. He likes to travel. With me. No matter where I'm going, at what time of the day or night, I start up the car, look in the rear-view mirror, and there sitting in the back seat is Mr Peanut, donning his top hat, legs crossed, waiting for a ride somewhere. He's just always there. But has he ever offered to chip on gas? Never.

That's the second thing. He's basically a sponge. Here is a peanut that's been in the public eye since around 1920 - you can't tell me that, barring The Great Depression or some devestating investments in the 80s, this goober is broke. But the rides are on me, the drinks are on me, the room and board are on me. Sure, he's polite and expresses gratefulness, but that's not keeping me afloat here on the financial front.

Lately, though. It's just not pretty. See, we haven't quite figured out if he was always this way, or if there's some sort of depression we're not diagnosing right, or if he's just a lonely nut or what, but Mr Peanut's drinking seems to have gotten out of control.

At first it was fun. Always a martini, a shot of Goldschlager, a Cosmopolitan. It lent an air of sophistication and fun to my new friend, even if I was the one footing the bill for the libations.

Now it's not so fun anymore. I'm worried about Mr Peanut. Most weekends one can find him, top hat askew, slumped down face foward on the back seat of my car; I don't know what he gets up to in the wee hours of the morning, but by the time anyone can get out to the podmobile there he is, sick as a dog, nursing hangovers of monumental proportions, moaning, weeping, invoking names of saints, etc. The other day, as Mr M was at the wheel driving down G Road, I picked my confused friend up to sit him on my lap and have a little word or two with him. He promptly rolled down my window and retched out of it. (Oddly enough, his top hat didn't blow away.)

Peabody thinks it's disgusting, Sherman thinks it's funny. Well, he thinks it's funny when Mr Peanut's high; he doesn't understand the sudden change in demeanor the next day. Huckie judges no moral character, as he enjoys a tipple from time to time as well. Gossamer has no comprehension of the situation, or any other, I'm afraid. Baby Lily is wishing all her good luck Mr Peanut's way, which is difficult for her now, what with the hole in her midsection and all.

I'm just hoping peanuts don't have livers.

Last Monday I had a most unpleasant occurrence here at The Pod. I'd gone to bed, as usual, and also, as usual, woke up about 2 hours into my sleep. It was around 2:30am, and when I reached over for a drink of water I realized I hadn't filled my mug and it was dry. So I got up to get myself a drink.

As I was fumbling around in the kitchen, I heard a very familiar tapping sound. I realized it was coming from the dennette. It was the sound of keyboard typing. I peeked in, and imagine my surprise.

Seems my "friend" Mr Peanut has been using my computer to chat up women on the internet.

So maybe he is lonely. Maybe he needs some female companionship. I know B'field is not exactly a major metropolis teeming with opportunities for love. (Believe me; I know that.) But I don't want him all liquored up in the dead of night flirting with God-knows-who, especially on my computer, online through my provider, all while drinking my liquor.

I've tried to get Mr M to treat him, but he says he can't because they have a prior friendship. I've toyed with the idea of an intervention. But somehow the thought of Me, Peabody, Sherman, Huckleberry Hound, Gossamer, and Lily confronting Mr Peanut gives me a creepy feeling.

And it's probably giving you one, too. So maybe I'd better sign off.

Betland's Olympic Update:

*Sorry for the lack of weekly features. I've been away, in body and in spirit. They shall return.

* It is with the heaviest of heavy hearts that I mention the news today of the death of Howard Morris, funnyman extraordinaire. Ernest T. Bass. What a character. Tonight in his honor I shall sing his love song to Charlene Darling.