Have You Ever Heard a Bunny Scream?

The scream of a bunny is a horrible noise. Unfortunately, living where I do, near farmland and the WhiteTanks Mountain Range, I get the opportunity to hear that sound often.

Imagine what it is like to be a bunny near my home. You’re a very happy bunny doing your bunny thing. You have a great den under the creosote bushes where the coyotes can’t get to you. You know the exact time the coyotes come down from the mountains to search for food, so you know when to hide in your den. Those people that moved in during the winter have planted some succulent grass, tasty flowers, and they’re keeping things watered in order to keep everything green. You’re in bunny munching heaven. At night you and your friends sneak in through the fence, lie on the cool grass, nibble on the new shoots, eat the tasty flowers, and sometimes you practice your bob and weave moves that you need to use just in case those little, yapping shits come running out the door and try to make a pathetic move to catch you. There are even times when you and your friends sit just outside the fence and point and laugh at that those yappers. There you are giggling your fluffy-tailed ass off when out of the corner of your eye you see movement. You think in your itty, bitty bunny brain that it can’t be a coyote because it isn’t Coyote Time. Then you suddenly realize the yappers aren’t yapping at you they’re yapping at something behind you and quickly you turn, and there it is, a pack of coyotes bearing down on you and your friends. The pack is between you and your den and you start your bob and weave move, but you are out of practice. Then you hear an ear-splitting scream and wonder where that is coming from, and you realize it is coming from you!

Sometimes I feel like that bunny. I’m a very happy person doing my thing. Every once in a while I practice my bob and weave. There I am hopping along at my happy bunny pace, giggling and having a great time, and then someone comes along and bites me in the ass and I scream like a bunny being caught by a coyote!

Paco’s Perspective

Don’t worry I won’t let those coyotes get you. 

They don’t call me Sir Barks A lot Who Thinks He Is Lion-Hearted for nothing.

The Flip Side

I kinda like chasing the bunnies more than the lizards. They are bigger and I don’t lose ‘em in little tiny places.

When I Grow Up

There are many people that I have grown to admire throughout my life. There is the obvious: my parents for not allowing my disability to be a reason for failure, my mom for raising four wonderful children with two of them being disabled, the Little Sis for being my go-to caretaker, the Big Sis for making her faith andfamily a priority, the Payne family for asking me to be a part of their family so I would no longer have caretaking issues, and Janet for everything she does for me and for her ability to teach ELL children.  “When I grow up”, I pray I will have just a small thread of what I have learned from each one of these people woven through my soul.

But “when I grow up” I really want to be like my “sistah” Rhonda. Rhonda is one of the ooooooooriginal “sistahs”. Caren and I have always called her our "sistah from anothah mothah". I met Rhonda eons ago. She was an office aide at Peralta Elementary where I taught for twenty years. I also had the opportunity to teach her daughter, Erica in the fifth grade. From that moment on we became fast friends. Rhonda moved to Iowa many years ago, and usually a huge mileage separation ends a friendship, but not with Rhonda.

I admire Rhonda for so many reasons.

First, the “sistah” worked her way up from elementary school office aide to John Deere Corp. muckity-muck. She works in the golf division and travels all over the country checking on equipment used by golf courses. P. S., she is not that great of a golfer, but that is because she doesn’t have the time to practice for the sport. Rhonda has the job that Caren would kill for. It is a good thing Rhonda is a “sistah”, or we might find her shoved in a John Deere golf bag floating in a water hazard somewhere.

Rhonda is always happy. I know that is a big, fat lie, and I know she spends many hours being sad, but she doesn’t let anyone know. She is always facing adversity, but she does it with a smile on her face. Many times it is a smile with gritted teeth, but it is a smile.

Rhonda is a mother bear. She will fight for her cubs. Rhonda has a younger daughter (not Erica) that has given her an exorbitant amount burden, but the mother bear is still fighting for her cub. She and her daughter, Erica (I taught her everything she knows. :), are now caring and fighting for the younger daughter’s cubs. I can’t imagine what could have happened to Rhonda’s grandchildren, if Rhonda and Erica hadn’t taken on caring for those cubs.

Rhonda has road rage. Now, the reader might think that road rage is not an admirable quality, but I believe her road rage is catharsis for all her burdens. Her participation in road rage releases all her anger. When Road Rage Rhonda is chauffeuring me I spend most of my time giggling. I wouldn’t give Rhonda the keys to any heavy equipment, but I would give her the keys to a tank. She would take care of the problems in the Middle East.

Rhonda is always up for an adventure. Rhonda used to drag race. Not like drag race on Central, but on a real track in an actual dragster. (That is probably when the road rage started because she is used to driving at high speeds.) Rhonda is up for anything. Rhonda is the one that is always saying, “Come on, Cathy, let’s go for it!” That is why she and Caren became such great friends. I have always thought Rhonda and Caren should participate in The Amazing Race. Rhonda would make sure that Caren bungee jumped without whining.

Rhonda is a caretaker. When I met her she was caring for her brother-in-law that had been injured in a diving accident. I believe that is why she honed in on me. Deep down in her caretaking heart there was a drive to make sure that I was okay. She still travels to Phoenix a couple times a year to “care” for me. She disguises her visits as trips for work, or to bring the grandchildren to visit, but I know she just wants to “see with her own eyes” that I am okay.

Rhonda is a warrior. Years ago she began her battle against cervical cancer. Rhonda spent years going through many different kinds of treatments. She spent endless nights lying on the cool bathroom floor next to the toilet and then dragging herself off to work everyday with a smile on her face. Rhonda has lived on a diet of Popsicles because it was the only thing she could keep down. Rhonda has kept her faith. She has never once wavered in her love for God. And during her long, hard-fought battle Rhonda has always gone to work and done her job well, cared for her family and friends, and continued to fight. Only once did Rhonda call me and say, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” And I selfishly replied, “You can’t give up because you are my hero and heroes don’t give up.”

Warrior Rhonda won her battle against cervical cancer, but she has yet to win the war. Due to the many side effects of her many cancer treatments, Rhonda is now facing a complication. She has a problem with circulation to her extremities. A few weeks ago some of Rhonda’s fingers started turning black and she had to spend a week in the hospital, and she has puzzled the doctors. Rhonda is in tremendous pain. By the way, don’t ask her a basic on a pain scale of one to ten question; she prefers the wine pain scale of one glass to an entire bottle. Of course, she will lie and say she is at two glasses when she is really at two bottles. I know things are bad because Rhonda canceled her trip to meet Little Sis and Big Sis in Dallas for a Women of Faith Conference. When Rhonda turns down a “Stop, or I’ll Pee” giggle festival with the “sistahs” one knows thing aren’t good.

I am sure Rhonda is at home right now figuring out how she can mask her pain, hide her fingers, and get to work. And to all the drivers in the Des Moines area, if you happen to look in your rear view mirror and see a wild-eyed, skinny blonde shaking her fist at you, don’t worry it is just Road Rage Rhonda working through her pain.

Rhonda is my hero. When I grow up I want to be like Rhonda. Rhonda’s thread that weaves through my soul is golden. Please keep “sistah” Rhonda in your prayers because she needs more warriors in her platoon.

Paco’s Perspective

“Sistah” Rhonda doesn’t like d-o-g-s, but she always pretends that she does. Hmmmm, a woman that fakes it! What’s new?

The Flip Side

“Sistah” Rhonda is an adventurer? I wonder if she is up for a lizard hunt?

Let's Get Ready to Rumble!

I hate Captain Underpants books! Dav Pilkey has written and illustrated some of my favorite picture books, so I know he is a wonderful author. Captain Underpants has no substance, unless, toilets, poopypants, and boogers are substance. I know, I know, I know kids love them because they are funny. But I don’t believe one can become a better reader by reading Captain Underpants. One doesn’t need to do any thinking when reading Captain Underpants. Readers of Captain Underpants can become bad spellers because many of the words are spelled incorrectly.

I am sure Dav Pilkey is laughing all the way to bank because Captain Underpants has made him a megamillionaire. He has even started a new series of books with even more misspelled words and poor plots, Ook and Gluk.

I don’t want anyone to have the only memory of books read in school to be Captain Underpants. I want the students at Tomahawk to experience some real books: Al Capone Does My Shirts, Mockingbird, Swear to Howdy, Hatchet, Moon Over Manifest, My Louisiana Sky, A Year Down Yonder, The Graduation of Jake Moon, and The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane.  (I would also like to give props to Dav Pilkey’s beautiful picture book, Paperboy.) I could list so many more great children’s books that could take Captain Underpants in a literary rumble any day! Captain Underpants will never make the reader sigh, cry, or wonder!

Here is an imagined wrestling match between Captain Underpants and Edward Tulane:

Announcer: Ladies and Gentlemennnnn, get ready for the epic literary battle of the century! In this corner, weighing in at less than five pounds soaking wet. We know he spent endless months at the bottom of the ocean. Reaching three feet tall is that literary great, Edward Tulane, recently back from his miraculous journey!

Audience: (wild applause) Edward! Edward! Edward!

Announcer: And in this corner, weighing in at twenty pounds and wearing only his Fruit of the Looms and a ridiculous cape is Captain Underpants, recently back from the Underwear Festival in Piqua, Ohio!

Audience: (applause) Poopy pants! Poopy Pants! Poopy pants!

Announcer: Captain Underpants needs to take caution because it looks like Edward Tulane has already become filled with ennui.

Captain Underpants: N-U-E? Nue? He doesn’t look nue to me! He looks like an old doll!

Announcer: Oh, that’s right, Captain Underpants wouldn’t know what ennui means. The books that he appears in have no vocabulary. The toughest word is toilet and most of the words are spelled wrong!

Captain Underpants: Let’s just get this thing over with. The nue kid is made of glass! I’ll break him in no time.

Announcer: Poor, Captain Underpants, again he has shown his stupidity! Edward isn’t made of glass. That is porcelain, my friend. I know porcelain has three syllables, which is too much for a guy in underwear. Gentlemen, please proceed to the center of the ring to parle with the ref.

Captain Underpants: Pro Seed? I am not wrestling a plant! Parsley? What does parsley have to do with wrestling?

Announcer: ( whispering) Hey, Buddy, just  go over to the guy in the striped shirt. (shouting) Ladies and gentlemennnnnnnn, let’s get ready toooooo rummmmmmmble!

Referee: Gentleman, good readers make connections, visualize, infer, question, synthesize, and use their schema. How can your books help readers become better readers?

Captain Underpants: Kids like toilets and poop.

(Edward pushes Captain Underpants to the ground.)

Audience: Ouch!

Announcer: Edward has thrown Captain Underpants to the ground. Edward’s readers not only connect with Abilene losing Edward but they can connect to the way Edward feels throughout his miraculous journey.

Captain Underpants: (panting) My readers don’t have to visualize everything is drawn for them. My books are like comic books drawn by ten year olds.

(Edward employs a chokeslam on Captain Underpants.)

Audience: Ooooooooooo.

Announcer: Edward has performed the crushing chokeslam on Captain Underpants. Visualizing is one of the most important comprehension skills that a reader needs. Readers can “see” Edward being kicked off the train as Lucy howls her discontent. Readers must use their visualizing skills throughout the Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane.

Captain Underpants: I, I, I don’t know what infer, synthesize, or schema means.

Announcer: Of course, Captain Underpants doesn’t know what these comprehension terms means. Unfortunately, neither does the reader of Captain Underpants books. Captain Underpants will never go down in literary history as having a plot that involves the reader actually having to think!

Audience: Good readers are thinkers! Good readers are thinkers! Good readers are thinkers! Good readers are thinkers! Good readers are thinkers!

(Edward lifts Captain Underpants above his head for an airplane spin, and pile drives him into the mat with a back body slam. He then pins Captain Underpants for the count.)

Announcer: And the crowd goes wild!

Audience: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Referee: (while pounding the ground) One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. (The referee grabs Edward’s hand and raises it in the air. Captain Underpants crawls back to his corner where Ook and Gluk are playing with his water bucket and picking their noses.)

Audience: Edward! Edward! Edward!

Announcer: Ladies and Gentlemennnnnnn, The new, (looking at Captain Underpants) that would be new, n-e-w, Champion of Literature, EEEEEEEED-WARRRRRRD TUUUUUUUUU-LAAAAAAAAAAANE! And he did it without wrinkling his jaunty outfit or dropping his watch. (Edward takes the championship belt, shaped like a book, to his corner and gives it to Abilene because he knows he would never have won without her love.)

Captain Underpants: I can't believe I was smacked-down by a bunny made of glass wearing a suit! He didn't even say a word.!

Abilene: Edward Tulane has learned to be a good listener. He does need to speak to show his merit.


Announcer: It's time to face the music, Captain Underpants, you are a LOOOOOOOSERRRRR!

Paco's Perspective

Flip has a Captain Underpants book hidden under his bed. He is so uncouth!

Has anyone seen my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird?

The Flip Side

Poop? I like poop! Dav Pilkey writes books about a big, giant lizard. I love lizards!

I think I am in love with Dav Pilkey!

Roller Coaster

Roller Coaster is a picture book written and illustrated by Marla Frazee. It's about riding a roller coaster. When I first read this book I hated it. I thought it was lame, and then my students led me to an epiphany.

When I first read this book to my class it was obvious that I wasn't impressed with it, as one of my students observed,"Miss C, I am thinking you might not like this book."

"You're right. I'm sorry, I should not have read this to you, but I feel like there is a great read aloud experience somewhere in this book."

"Have you ever ridden a roller coaster?"

"No, I have not."

"Well, duh, Miss C. You don't like this book because you can't make a connection to it. Think about what you taught us." 

A few days later, I read the book again. I had the students sit in a line in pairs, and we rode the roller coaster together. We locked ourselves in and when the roller coaster jerked forward to begin its ascent, we jerked forward and leaned back as we climbed to the highest peak before the drop. "Clickity-clackity, clickity-clackity, up, up, up, and then . . . . " At this point my teaching partner, Colleen, would scream at the top of her lungs, "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" Roller Coaster is  now one of my favorite picture books. I use it to teach text-to-self connections. 

The reader may be thinking what kind of a lousy lead in is this? I want to ride a roller coaster. I want my heart to pound with excitement when I begin the ascent. I want the centrifugal force to push my dumbo ears to the back of my head. (Maybe if I rode more roller coasters, my ears wouldn't stick out.) I want to throw my hands in the air and scream with semi-delight and semi-fear. And when the ride is over, I want to look at my friend and shout, "Let's do that again," as we run on our wobbly legs to the end of the line. And again, my heart pounds with excitement . . . . . . .

But, I do ride a roller coaster everyday. Here comes the tacky cliche, I ride the roller coaster of life. I teach. Everyday my heart pounds with excitement when I step on campus to begin our students' ascent to excellence. As I zoom from one classroom to another, the wind whips through my spiky, short hair and causes my ears to flap. When I finish teaching a lesson that I know was spot-on I scream with delight. When I teach a lesson that bombed, I throw my hands in the air, scream and then I start thinking about how I will make it better. When the day is done and my dear friend, Janet, and I are making  our way home at dusk, (I know the reader think teachers only work 8 to 3, but that is wrong. Most teachers work 12 hour shifts and carry a bucket-load of work home every night.) we look at each other and shout, "Let's do that again!" And the next day, my heart pounds with excitement . . . . . . . 

Paco's Perspective

I ride the roller coaster of life. I share air with Flip. 

The Flip Side

I ride the roller coaster of life. I . . . I . . . I don't understand tacky metaphors.

Flipped

Wendelin Van Draanen is one of my favorite authors of children's books.  She writes the popular Shredderman and Sammy Keyes series. She understands teenage angst and writes in a way that helps her readers understand it also. When reading some of her books, the reader will laugh until he cries and then just cry. She has written some of my all time favorite books for children: Swear to Howdy, Runaway and Flipped.

Flipped has two main characters: Juli Baker and Bryce Loski. Juli Baker is an odd girl and she is madly in love with Bryce, and has been since she moved across the street from him in the second grade. Actually, Juli has stalked Bryce since the second grade and Bryce wants nothing to do with her. Bryce thinks Juli is weird. This book is great for teaching point of view because the book's chapters alternate between Juli and Bryce telling their individual sides of events in their lives. Near the end of the book, Flipped flips, the relationship between Juli and Bryce flips, their personalities flip, also.

The book Flipped reminds me of my dog, Flip. Flip has flipped not like in gone crazy, but his personality has flipped. Janet's husband, Dave, rescued Flip. On his way to work almost two years ago Dave spotted a matted ball of fluff dodging traffic on Lower Buckeye Road. After watching the fluff ball almost get hit three times, he stopped his truck, got out and shouted, "Get over here!" Flip ran directly toward him and jumped into his arms. Dave brought him home, put him in my bedroom with Paco and they have been rival companions ever since.

I named him Flipflop because he had one ear that flipped up and the other flopped down. Now both his ears have flopped. It was obvious that Flip had not been cared for, and it seemed that he might have been on the road for some time. Everyone fell in love with Flip, even Paco, but he won't ever admit it. We made a slight valiant effort to find his owner with the emphasis on slight. He was taken to the vet to be scanned for a chip. Dave and Alyssa put up signs to try and find his previous owners. (Okay, there were only two signs and they were put up only on our block.) We all secretly prayed that no one would call for Flip.

I became Flip's "owner" because I offered to pay for all the vet and grooming bills. Also, Flip and Paco were meant to be best buddies, I mean rivals. I never really wanted one dog let alone two, but now I am so glad I have both. Janet was right, again, I needed a buddy to love, and every animal and human needs and deserves a companion. Flip has never been afraid of my chair and jumped in my lap the first time he saw me. He would lay in my arms for hours when we first found him. Actually, Flip is not "owned" by anyone. Flip is his own man, I mean dog.

Flip makes me laugh. He is obsessed with chasing things, especially, lizards. He talks to everyone. He talks to his reflection in the mirror. He still hasn't realized that his reflection is him. Flip is a bit of a knucklehead. But everybody loves Flip and that really makes Paco pissed. 

Flip has flipped! He no longer talks; he sasses back. He is no longer a knucklehead; Flip is a noodlehead. (A noodlehead is someone that pretends they are dumb, but happens to be very smart.) Flip knows everyone loves him; he has become conceited. Flip no longer wants to hang out with me for hours; he rather be outside just in case something runs by. Flip's sweet, kind demeanor is no longer. As a matter of fact, the other day I swear to howdy that Flip flipped me off.

After moving into this house, the realization was made that something need to be done to keep Flip contained. There is way too much land to explore and Flip will travel far and wide in search of bunnies, prairie dogs, and lizards. Janet, Dave, Breann and Ben spent many weekends putting up a chain link fence and planting a lush yard to keep Flip in and happy. Caren even helped dig ditches for the sprinkler system. After spending over two thousands dollars on fencing, sprinkler parts, grass and plants just to keep Flip contained, Flip found many ways to get out of the fenced area. So Janet dug down around the entire length of the fencing and placed bricks underground, so he couldn't dig out. Yahoo, flip was contained. WRONG! He climbs under the gate right by my door. There is no digging to place bricks because the gate is over cement. Whenever I see Flip out chasing lizards, I go out and call him and he comes back and crawls back under the gate with his head lowered in shame. But not anymore, when I call him he comes to the gate and lays on the sidewalk just outside the gate and glares at me. No more head hung in shame, just that "Ha! What are you going to do about it?" look. (That look that teenagers give their parents.) Recently, I caught him scooting through his escape hatch and shouted, "Whoa, Buddy, get back here, NOW!" Flip backed out of his escape hatch, turned and gave me that "look", walked directly to the escape hatch, lifted his leg and peed and peed and peed all over the gate. The ultimate flip-off.

Flip has Flipped! But I still love him, and he is a perfect fit in my amazing eclectic family.

Paco's Perspective

I hate to be an I Told You So, but I told you so!

The Flip Side

So . . . . . .I Was Just Thinking

WARNING-This communication may be offensive to some, many or all.-WARNING

While traveling the Interstate-10 in Phoenix I spied an electronic billboard. An ad for Abel's Funeral Services appeared and it was advertising a complete cremation for $586.25. So . . . .I was just thinking how much does a partial cremation cost and what part?

As I was sharing my thoughts with the "family" about the difference between a complete cremation and a partial cremation, I also explained  my dilemma about my funeral plans. I want my "sistahs" to scatter my ashes,  and I want an extremely long funeral procession. I want to mess up traffic. I want to mess up traffic so much that  my number one rule for my funeral is: There Shall Be NO Carpooling! I concluded that when the casket is open only the top half is open. So . . . . I was just thinking I could kill two birds with one stone. ( I know this is a bad cliche for this blog, but I figured I have already offended so many readers what the . h . . .oops, there goes another one.)

Then Ben, Janet's son, suggested that since I am such a fan of The Wizard of Oz, maybe I should switch things up, if you know what I mean. I wonder if one has a choice with a partial cremation. I wouldn't have to worry about an outfit for the funeral. So . . . . I was just thinking, striped socks and sparkly red shoes. 

I know that many readers think I am disgusting and morbid, but I tried to warn everyone. First, Abel's Funeral Service should not have advertised a complete cremation. Second, I am fifty-five and my parents were told that I wouldn't live past the age of sixteen, so . . . . . . it is time I start thinking.

I want to put the f-u-n into funeral, so . . . . I was just thinking!

Paco's Perspective

Doesn't Dorothy have a little dog that she takes "home" with her?

What if I am not ready to go "home"?

So . . . . I was just thinking, Flip?

The Flip Side

So . . . . I was just thinking. . . . .

No I wasn't!

Just kidding!

The Way of a Hermit

I have always teased my friend, Colleen, about being a recluse. When she lived in Arizona we taught together, and I would always ask her to go places and do things with me and her answer was always, no. We got to the place that I wouldn't even ask. It was easier that way. Colleen was and still is a hermit. Now, she is a hermit in Arkansas.

The other day, I came to the realization that I have become a hermit. You know you're a hermit when you come out of your bedroom just to chat and everyone looks at you with raised eyebrows and says, "What do you want?" You know you're a hermit when you can't remember the last movie you saw except those played on Lifetime. You know you're a hermit when you shout out the answers while watching the Game Show Network in hopes that the contestants will hear you. You know you're a hermit when you have a complete conversation with the dog.

As Colleen has always said, "The way of a hermit is not a bad thing." A hermit doesn't get a broken heart. A hermit doesn't have to dress to impress. A hermit doesn't have to primp. A hermit doesn't have to deal with the shtupid. A hermit doesn't have to worry about saying the right thing. A hermit doesn't have to worry about others. A hermit doesn't have to worry.

As I have mentioned, I am a worrier. The other day, Janet and I were driving to work and there was a dog walking in the road. When we saw the poor dog we both sighed and said, "Ahhhh, poor thing," at the exact same time. When we stopped at the stop sign the dog came trotting toward us like he knew us. Knowing that we do not need one more rescued animal at our house, we continued on and left him behind  and all day long I worried about that dog. A few days later when Janet and I were running errands, I mentioned how much I worried about that dog. She looked at me and said, "Me, too! We should have picked him up and brought him to work. The least we could have done was call the pound."

As we continued to talk about the poor dog, we both happened to spy an old man barely able to walk. He was ambling on the side of the oad in the worst looking tennis shoes we had ever seen. He was carrying an empty water bottle. And I said, "And now I am going to spend days worrying about that man. If he is going to spend his life walking the streets, he needs some good walking shoes, but I don't have any on me."

Janet replied, "We could go back and give him some money."

"Yea, but would he spend it on shoes? And when I want to help someone I always have in mind that memorable random act of kindness. Besides, we don't have any money. We've spent every dime we have fixing up the house," I said.

"You're definitely right about that. But wouldn't it be nice, if we could save the world?"she said.

"This is why I have decided to become a hermit. A hermit doesn't want to save the world. A hermit doesn't want to see the world. A hermit just wants to be a hermit. Home, James, take me back to my hermitage, please," I requested.

"Hermitage?" she queried.

"A place where hermits live," I answered.

"But if there were a bunch of hermitsssss, then they wouldn't be hermits. They would be just a bunch of old, smelly, dusty guys living in the same place," she explained.

"Okay! Home, James, please. Home to the seclusion of my bedroom where I only come out when I want something. Home, where I don't have to see people or animals on the side of the road that I worry about," I ordered. "Hey, speaking of old, dusty guys on the side of the road, do you ever wonder where the Whirlygig Man is?" I asked.

"Shhhhhh, now I am going to wonder about him all day," she whined.

I haven't been out of my room since then. My fellow hermit, Colleen, is coming to visit next week. And when I asked her if there was anything she wanted to do or any place she wanted to go, guess what her answer was? Yep, it was no. I wonder, if she will even come out of her room while she is here. I hope she doesn't expect me to come out of mine.

Paco's Perspective

Is a female hermit called a hermitess?

The Flip Side

A female hermit is called a hermitch. Get it? A female dog is a bitch, so a female hermit is a hermitch!

Get it? Get it? Ha, I crack myself up!