Thanx, Iris!

I'm back! God, was that weird. U mite remember I'd been sent off 2 that Johnston Institute For Better Living re-education camp, which was being held in Cozumel, Mexico, since the JIFBL peeps were on vacation there. The camp was supposed 2 last 4 a weekend, but since I didn't get "converted" @ the end of the weekend, they were gonna xxtend my time there 4 @ least a wk. I escaped and stowed away on a ship, the Windbreaker, that was transporting tortillas 2 Barbados. The ship cook, er "chef," found me and forced me 2 B his assistant. No, "sous-chef." That was insane.

So, U mite know from the comments Howard tried 2 save me. He did a heroic rescue attempt Saturday nite, but the JIFBL security detail intervened. But a simple request from Iris turned everything around, as Howard revealed in his most recent comment:

April,

It was so good to see you briefly yesterday when you came in from your ship board adventures. You didn’t look any worse for wear, except for the odour of meat about you. Personally, I am quite delighted when a plan so utterly simple works.

I was visiting your Grandpa Jim and your step-grandmother Iris and listening to Iris’ usual round of complaints about how she has to take care of Grandpa Jim all by herself. Then I related to Iris your difficulties in being sent off to a weekend camp, which lasted more than a weekend, and how you escaped onto a tortilla boat headed for Barbados, and how your rescue attempt failed. I don’t think Iris really believed that story.

Well, then Iris launched into a discussion about how the scuttlebutt was that according to officially witnessed occurrence, you had not visited with your Grandpa Jim even one time since you turned 16. I was, to be frank, surprised that the officially witnessed occurrence would try to paint you, previously the award-winner in grandfather visiting, in such a negative light. Iris said, “Well, Coward (her name for me), if you really want April back, I will call up Elly and tell her I desperately need someone to serve Jim tea and not coffee and to help him learn to count to two, and to bring Dixie over for a visit. That should have April back in no time.”

I said, “I don’t get it.” Iris said, “Coward, dear, if you notice I said tea and not coffee. Elly will have nothing to do with an occasion if coffee is not involved. Plus she hates those education exercises with Jim almost as much as I do. I hate them more because I have actually done them. And then there is Dixie, who is, shall we say to be polite, not Elly’s favourite dog, especially with her lack of bowel control after a visit with us. I think it’s fairly safe to say April will be home pretty quickly.”

A quick phone call from Iris to your mom and the next thing I know, you’re back. Sometimes it’s not who you know, but how much who you know hates to do something.

Love,
Howard Bunt

So, just when I thot all was lost, since that security deet was abt 2 take me back 2 that awful camp, one of the security peeps got a call on his radio, and was like, "Roger that!" Then he helicoptered me 2 an airport, where there was a private jet waiting 4 me, w/a drawing of Edgar, Dixie, Butterscotch, and Shiimsa, and the JIFBL logo on the side.

Guess who was on the jet? The Witch of Corbeil! She was sipping coffee from a handleless mug, and she gestured to a seat and said, strap in, April. Back to Milborough for you."

I said, "No more camp?"

She shook her hed. "Nope. We can't have Iris Richards saying U're not an ideal granddaughter NEmore. B-sides, U R probably incorrigible. Our scientists suspect that when U ingested that antidote 2 the Corbeil Kool Aid last April...."

"U know abt that?"

"I know all!" She shouted that in a kind of Wizard of Oz voice. "NEway, the scientists think the antidote gave you a boosted immunity 2 our re-education tactics. Plus, I have decided to retire 4 real this time. More or less. I mite tinker with the past a bit. Wd U like sum granola with soy milk?"

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

"C, I'm a very nice person!"

"Yeah," I sed, thinking how good granola wd B rite around then.

NEway, the plane took us rite in2 the Milborough airport that Gordo had built last month, and I got sent home by a car service. The driver w8ed as I went in 2 shower, change,and make a batch of cookies, and then took me 2 Gramps and Iris's place.

So here's what happed @ Gramps and Iris's place. Iris was all, "Hmph! So U do remember we xxist!"

I was like, "Thanx 4 getting me rescued, Iris!"

"Of course, dear! Let's make sum tea."

After we'd had tea, I asked Gramps if he wanted another, and he sed, "Yes." When I brot the tea over, I also brot a plate w/2 cookies, and sed, "I also brot U a couple of cookies." Gramps looked @ the plate and thot-bubbled, "Two. " I think he was disappointed that I hadn't put more on his plate, but Iris wdn't let me.

He thot bubbled "two" again, while holding up two fingers.

I was all, "Iris!!! Grandpa put up two fingers!! I gave him two cookies and he put up two fingers!!" Iris came over just as Gramps thot bubbled, "I can also sit up, beg, and roll over." He looked kinda fish-eyed when he was thinking this, and I felt bad, like I'd blundered almost as bad as when Mike asked Iris if Gramps was crazy just cuz Gramps had used a swear word in Mike's delicate presence.

Oh, BTW. While I was in the shower, Mom called Liz 2 tell her I was back. Liz let out a "NOOOOOOOOO!" so loud, I cd hear it thru the phone and over the shower sound. When I was baking the cookies, Liz came over and sed, "I'm taking the Aprilbot with me!" And she totally did.

Apes

Drawing on the chesterfield

Michael was kind enough to stop by here and post another one of his stories from the past:

Aprilbot,

Robotic little sis. Thanks ever so much for baby-sitting last night and for the home repair. I know my lovely wife, Deanna, was a little angry with you for the motor oil you spilled on our new chesterfield; but I understand completely. After all, sometimes when it comes to chesterfields the creative urges can’t be squelched even though there may be a tremendous price to pay for it, like the dent in your head where Deanna tagged you with that crowbar as she was chasing you around the house.

It reminds me of a time when I was young. I had my felt pens. I loved my felt pens. They were in colours of yellow and green and blue and purple and orange. In fact, when I was younger, I loved my felt pens so much, I often felt like I was a little kid drawn with a felt pen. Strange, eh?

I remember looking over my old colouring books: My C for Chicken book on which I scrawled an orange colour across the chicken, leaving the C for corn untouched. This is because I prefer eating chicken to eating corn. Then I had a very, nicely coloured scarecrow and horse colouring book. I don’t think I coloured them, because the scarecrow had on a red shirt and the horse was brown, and I didn’t have those colours in my felt pens. I think those might have been the pages mom liked to show off, when she was in her "Michael is so talented" mood. Now the very simple drawing I had done of a zombie, a house, a tree and a bird were coloured with colours I had, so I was pretty sure I coloured them. But I am rambling too much. The important part was the joy I had with my felt pens.

Now there was one occasion with my felt pens where I had become a little overenthusiastic with my artistic endeavours. And as many young chaps my age, I sought forgiveness for my deeds before they were uncovered by my parents, in the hope that I could avoid wear and tear on my bottom. So, I went to my mother, as she was washing the dishes and I said, “Mom..I know…I just know you’re going to be mad at me.”

I gave her my best hangdog look, but it didn’t work as mom grasped my wrist and snapped the bone right there. I guess I don’t know if the bone really snapped, because we never went to a doctor to check it out; but as I think back on it and how it looked at the time, with my hand bent back like that, I think it was snapped. I held in the pain though, as mom said, “What happened, honey? Tell me what it is.”

Well after that snapped wrist I was suddenly in hysterics. I grabbed mom around the neck and said, “I’m scared to tell you-ma…I know you’re going to be mad! You’re going to HATE me, ma!! Please don’t hate me, please!” After all, if she was willing to snap my wrist before she knew what happened, I knew it was going to be a lot worse when she did find out. I know when I tell this story to other people, they generally say, “Cheeze Mike, will you shut up? I’m watching the game.” But for me, it was a real fear of losing parental love.

Mom grabbed my left elbow, and I thought she was going to snap my arm, but then she grabbed my shirt with her left hand and pulled it tight around my neck so it was hard to breathe. Then she said, “Michael…I want you to be able to trust us with your problems…”

She pulled back and did the standard Patterson hand to her chest to indicate deep emotion and said, “You’re expecting me to be angry & I don’t even know what’s happened. Tell me, sweetheart…”

Well, I fell for it. I gave my mom a big hug and said, “I drew all over the new couch with felt pens.” Why didn’t I say “chesterfield “ instead of “couch”? Well, mom likes the States’ way of saying things, sometimes, and I thought that might help. But it didn’t. Right after I said that I could feel mom’s head expand in fury. I could feel her growing 5 eyebrows of anger. And most importantly, I could feel her dig those sharp fingernails into my back.

So, you see, robotic little sis. When Deanna nailed you with that crowbar, that was just her way of showing that she still loves you, even though the new chesterfield is ruined; just the way my snapped wrist and deep scratches down my back showed my mom’s love for me. Now if you could just stop hiding in the basement behind the central vac and come get a butter tart, I think we would all feel a lot better.

Love,
Michael Patterson

Thank you for telling me that story, Michael, and also for luring me out of the basement with those delicious butter tarts. These stories from the past are most instructive. Do you think it would have been a good idea to go to Deanna before the oiled chesterfield was discovered and to beg her not to hate me for what I had done? I am quite interested to learn the most effective strategies for negotiating Patterson family life.

Aprilbot

Sleeping Children

Patterson, Michael shared another story from the past:

Aprilbot,

Robotic little sis. My wife, the lovely Deanna, and I were wondering if there were ever times when you shut down for the night. I had been telling my wife a story of my youth and childhood, when she suddenly said, “You know, Michael, if that Aprilbot doesn’t ever turn off, there are all kinds of home renovations it could do for us at night, when it wasn’t baby-sitting for us.”

Well, that was getting a little off the story I was trying to tell; but she did have a valid point. If you didn’t turn off, you would have a distinct advantage over any other nonrobotic children, except for the cuteness factor of the sleeping child.

To let you know what I am talking about, let me take you back to when I was a young lad. My mother would tuck me into bed and kiss me on the forehead slightly above my right eyebrow, while I reached for a hug. Dad would stand in the background and look fatherly, and sometimes his hands would rest comfortably on mom, showing his husbandly affection, which I will not speak any further about for fear of nauseating myself. Mom would always say, “Goodnight, Michael, sleep tight…” Then dad would say in an ominous tone, “And don’t let the bed bugs bite” after mom left the room, which caused me to have more than a few sleepless nights, until mom caught him saying that to me one time, and they had an argument about house cleanliness.

But I digress. After they left my room, they would go over to Lizzie’s room and peek at her through the open doorway, usually standing on opposite sides, which I could tell, because they would invariably bump heads, and promise not to do that again the next time. Naturally, with Lizzie they did not walk in her room to observe her more closely for fear of waking her and also in fear of her early developing Lizardbreath. You may not have experienced this breath before, thanks to robotic nostrils, but it is quite a pungent odour.

Then mom and dad would flip on the television, which usually woke me up again and sit on the striped chesterfield to start talking to each other in loud voices (which also woke me up). My dad’s favourite topic of conversation was, “I love looking at the kids when they’re sleeping. No matter what they did during the day…they always look perfect.” Dad was a strong believer in “beauty sleep” which is traditionally considered to be the idea that you would look better after a good night’s sleep; but for dad it meant that you looked better while you were unconscious than you did when you were awake. I don’t think dad ever realized the reason Lizzie and I looked better at night than we did during the day was this thing mom did with us called bathing. If I had spent the day rolling in the mud with Lawrence Poirier, mom made sure the mud was gone at the end of the day. Deanna tells me she does the same thing with our kids too; so it is yet another thing Deanna does with our kids, that mom did with me and Lizzie when were little in the exact same house.

My wife, the lovely Deanna, is looking over my shoulder and telling me that my dad was probably talking about how I didn’t need to be disciplined during the middle of the night and not about bathing. I am afraid, in that regard, she is sadly mistaken. I was rarely disciplined during the day, and the night was not much different. Mom and dad were often so noisy at night, Lizzie and I would be up all night long from the television noises and conversation. Not only that, but Lizzie was still an infant who wouldn’t sleep through the night anyway.

When I think back to those days and compare them with my own when my kids were those ages, it’s a wonder mom and dad simply didn’t collapse into slumber when I fell asleep. I know that’s what I did when my daughter was newly-born and keeping me up all night. No, mom and dad had the time to watch late night romantic movies. As for me these days, that’s the time to spend a little time with Leonard Driscoll, the hero of my second novel, Breaking the Windjammer.

That’s what I am talking about when I mentioned the cuteness factor of kids when they are sleeping. If you’re not doing anything tonight, and you don’t shut off; Deanna has a list of things you can do after you finish baby-sitting.

Love,
Michael Patterson

Michael, although technically I do not sleep, the engineers who designed me believed that Patterson, Elly Richards would feel like a bad mother if I did not lie in a bed with my eyes closed for a period of eight hours. So what happens is I recline in April's bed, close my eyes, and run a series of program-maintenance routines. During this time, I appear to be asleep.

Curiously, since I am not truly sleeping during this maintenance routine, I can clearly hear any sounds. Just last night, I heard your parents having a conversation about how "cute" I look while I'm "asleep." Well, your father said that. Your mother said, "Real teenagers are never cute. But teenbots can be. This one is a godsend!" And your father sobbed a little and said, "My special buddy!" And your mother said, "Can it, John!" Most curious indeed.

Aprilbot

Patterson, Elly does not compute

I have received an urgent message from the Johnston Institute informing me that April is such a "difficult case" that the weekend re-education-camp programme has not been enough to reform her. Therefore, I am to continue filling in for her at least for a week. I have been loaded with April's knowledge of academic subjects, so that I can participate in her school classes, learn the new material, and complete homework assignments. All new knowledge that I acquire this way will be uploaded to the Johnston Institute server and relayed to April during her absence.

I have also received instructions about the next topic of conversation. Again, this pertains to Mrs. Patterson examining herself in a mirror. However, this time the mirror is full-length, and Mrs. Patterson viewed herself while wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and nothing on her feet. My programming suggests that this is an unusual thing to do in Canada in mid-January, even inside a dwelling.

Mrs. Patterson viewed her image and thought, "I can't do anything about the wrinkles, so I've gotta look in the mirror and say, "Yes! --This is ME." She engaged in a dance of sorts while thinking, "I look at my flappy arms and my droopy buns and I say, 'YES, THIS IS ME'!" She continued her dance while converting her thoughts into a song in some fashion, and the song's lyrics began, " [musical note] THIS IS MEEE [musical note] THIS IS MEEEE [musical note] " Meanwhile, musical notes lined up in the air just before her face. Continuing the dance, Mrs. Patterson clapped her hands and sang aloud as musical notes surrounded her: "Hooop-yah! Hoop-yah! This is me, this is me, this is MEEEE!! Then she ceased her dancing and singing, glared at her reflection, and thought, "It still sucks to be me."

My interpretation subprogram came up with"humans are contradictory beings." Then it blew a small amount of smoke and said, "Ask again later." I think one of the programmers who built me cribbed the Magic Eight Ball a little bit.

Aprilbot, still filling in for April

Like/Love and Puns in the Past

Michael Patterson, April's celebrated older brother, has shared a most informative post, which I will share below:

Aprilbot,

Robotic little sis. Since you are the newest member of the Patterson family, I think it would be good to give a little history of other machines which used to work for the Pattersons over the years. For example, my mother used to have a room completely devoted to sewing and even called it her sewing room, well after she had gotten to the point where she had completely stopped sewing. That room is today my son’s room.

Sometimes, when I go into my son’s room to watch him destroy some toy of his or to carve his name in the wall with a kitchen knife, my mind wanders to back when I was his age and I was in the same room. My mother was there in front of the sewing machine, a device without which, my mother would have simply called the room a place where she would have liked to done sewing.

Since you are a robot, you may not know this but, there used to be a piece of furniture called a sewing table, where the woman doing the sewing could position a chair close to the sewing machine and this made feeding the material through the sewing machine much easier. My mother did not have one of these tables. In fact, she used to pick a chair which sat very low compared to where the sewing machine was, in an effort to cause back strain, which she said was a great help to show suffering.

At the time I didn’t understand it. I simply thought mom was in a bad mood every time she was sewing. However, on one particular occasion, I was feeling vulnerable and I didn’t know why. Perhaps it was in anticipation of the angst I would develop as a part of becoming a well-known author, perhaps it was part of growing up, or perhaps it was because I saw Lawrence Poirier’s mother tell him she loved him, and I wondered why it is that my parents never did the same. I determined to ask her directly. When I got into the sewing room, and saw mom was busy with sewing, I played with unraveling a spool of thread until I could find a moment to ask her my important question.

At last the moment came. I got right beside my mom, so she could hear me over the Bzzzz and Grind of the sewing machine and touched her arm and said, “Do you love me, ma?” This got no response.

So, I tried again, this time grabbing part of her sweater. I said, “Mama? Do you LOVE me?” This time mom did reply, by turning her face a bright red and saying, “GRUNT”, and closing her scissors, in what I recognize today as a preparation for turning scissors into a stabbing weapon. Such subtleties of communication were lost on my young Patterson mind.

In fact, such was the obliviousness of my youthful state, even when mom prepared her right leg to kick me away, I poked on that same leg and said, “Ma? Ma? MA…Do you LIKE me then, ma?” I thought I was making the question easier to ask, by downgrading it to just a “like” question. Mom’s response this time was to say, “Mumble **? That was a sign she had realized the question had been downgraded to the point where she would have to answer it.

Then mom, completely red-faced and flush, gave me the answer. She said, “Yes! I’d LIKE you to get lost!” I was completely startled. “She made a joke on the word ‘like”?”, I thought. Now you see, robotic little sis, mom could have just as easily made that same joke using the word “love” as in “Yes! I’d LOVE you to get lost!”

However, as you will probably know from your programming, Pattersons never say, “I love you.” I was young and foolish and thought perhaps I was exempt from this aspect of our family tradition; so I burst out crying with a “WAAAH, which is a crying noise. Now, I know better. I think this is one of the reasons why you are a great asset to the Patterson family. We cannot say, “I love you” and mean it, so we never say it; in the same way it would be for you, if your programming allowed you to say those words.

As for mom, at the time, she thought to herself, “Something tells me I could have handled that better..” and she was right. The “like” pun is one of the weakest ones you can use. I am sure that in your robotic archives you can think of a better one. I hope you find this story instructive in your life as my youngest sister.

Love,
Michael Patterson

Thank you for sharing this, Michael. I can see that you applied the same writing talent to this message as you did to your novel, Stone Season. The engineers of the Johnston Institute For Better Living took the very important step of uploading the novel to my memory, so that I can discuss this fine piece as though I had actually read it. Michael, it is odd that April does not appreciate having an esteemed novelist in the family! If my programming allowed it, I would tell you that I love you!

Patterson, Elly has told me that I have been so good this weekend, she would like to reward me, only she cannot, because she is a Patterson. Instead, she says I should go over to the big house on Sharon Park Drive and care for Patterson, Meredith (age five years, two months, 27 days) and Patterson, Robin (age three years, two months, five days). I told her, "Patterson Matriach, do not fret. It is my duty and my pleasure to provide excellent care for the youngest members of the Patterson clan. After all, your eldest son Michael needs time to focus on his writing unencumbered. And your daughter-in-law Deanna needs time 'off' to bathe, shop, and have her bowl haircut trimmed every now and then." She threw here arms around me and cried, for some reason.

Elizabeth, that throw pillow you describe sounds exquisite. I cannot wait to see it! Maybe after I complete my babysitting assignment today, we can bake pies, cakes, cookies, brownies, blondies, snickerdoodles, and brioche, engage in "girl talk," and admire your needlepoint!

Aprilbot, substituting for wayward April Patterson

Hello, I am Aprilbot!

I am Aprilbot, a state-of-the-art, Artificial-Intelligence powered, human-looking robotic being charged with the duty of replacing April Patterson while the wise people of the Johnston Institute for Better Living re-educate her at their special weekend-camp programme.

While I am here filling in for April, I will also be following some commands embedded into my programming to help get Miss Patterson's life back on track! For example, it has come to the attention of the JIFBL that she has been dating known miscreant Jeremy Jones instead of her original childhood sweetheart Gerald Forsythe. My programming had me go to the Jones house and terminate the unauthorized relationship.

Meanwhile, April's wise, wonderful, and long-suffering older sister Elizabeth has invited me to go bridesmaid-dress shopping with her today. What fun! She has already dropped off some terrific bridal magazines with many pages tabbed for reference. Elizabeth has such great taste in bridesmaids dresses! I just can't understand why April is always fighting with this great girl!

Oh, and my programming tells you I am meant to share a story about April's parents. Just a moment as I access it.

Okay, Mrs. Patterson was looking into a hand-held mirror. How interesting, I just accessed an image of Mrs. Patterson touching her forehead with an extended middle finger. My subprogram of body language and meaningful gestures informs me that this could be a surreptitious "giving the finger," a vulgar gesture intended to instruct the viewer to copulate. My Elly Patterson database leads me to conclude this is most likely an error on her part. As she was employing this possibly unintentional vulgar gesture, she thought, "I am starting to look like my mother. The lines on my forehead are the same...."

Next thing Mrs. Patterson did is pull down at the turtleneck collar of her sweater in order to examine her neck. She thought, "My hair is going gray in the same places hers did. My neck is like hers, and so are the bags under my eyes!" She moved into profile, released her collar, and thought, "I guess I should adopt John's philosophy and accept myself the way I am!" At that moment, Mr. Patterson called out "Elly!" She went to him and found that he was staring into a mirror as well. He asked, "....Do you think I'm starting to look like my Dad?"

I will leave it to you to interpret the meaning of this story. My interpretation subprogram suggests "irony" but will not elaborate.

Aprilbot