I feel pretty badly for Christopher Ratte and his seven-year-old son, Leo, of Ann Arbor, Michigan. They were having a great father-son outing the other day at Comerica Park, home of the Detroit Tigers. Rushed as they arrived at the ballpark and in a hurry to find their seats, dad and junior made a quick stop at a concession stand where Christopher bought Leo a refreshing bottled lemonade.

I think the authorities at the ballpark in Detroit were right to step in when they saw a seven-year-old drinking alcohol throughout the game.

For proof of that just ask his daughter, Elisabeth ... she being the one he has kept locked in the dungeon for the last 24 years, during which time she bore seven of his children.

Where exactly did Rosemarie think the children were coming from? Did they arrive by mail?

(Austria, did you say?  He must be paddling around in the same sadistic gene pool as Adolf Hitler.)

His name is Josef Fritzl, and for him as (grossly inadequate) punishment for his crimes may I suggest castration, followed by boiling in oil, toenails being removed with white-hot pliers, and that drawn-and-quartered thing ... in public.  To be posted on YouTube for his profound and repeated humiliation.

The news accounts of this sordid story are some of the most nauseating I have ever heard or read.  If the accounts are to be believed, Mr. Fritzl's wife, Rosemarie, thought her daughter had left home long ago "to join a cult" and was therefore unable to take care of her children.  Am I the only one with this burning question: Where exactly did Rosemarie think the children were coming from?  Did they arrive by mail?  They were being fathered by her own husband and born practically under her nose ... or quite literally under her feet.  One of the children, mercifully born dead, was thrown into an incinerator by dear old dad ... make that granddad ... er, dad ... hmmm.  I give up.  Let's just call him a prince of a guy.

Stockholm syndrome never kicked in on this one, either.  When the eldest of Elisabeth Fritzl's children, a 19-year-old daughter, was hospitalized this week and the sins of the father consequently at long last revealed, Elisabeth did not try to protect him.  She got free and is now in psychiatric care.  One can only hope she'll be able to remember and accuse papa of each and every atrocity in open court.

After he suffers all the other painful indignities I've lined up for him, how about let's make Fritzl into schnitzel ... and feed him to the neighborhood dogs.

Hope those dogs have very strong stomachs.

What on earth are foot models not allowed to do? Do they walk all over town on their hands?

It seems there are models for many body parts; I guess if you don't have the wherewithal to succeed as a cover girl for Elle or a Victoria's Secret angel, you can offer up your feet, hands, knees or elbows for intense photographic scrutiny.  If you won any kind of a genetic lottery, some part of you may be deemed worthy for use in the never-ending quest to sell more stuff to the rest of us. 

Such is the case with the fortunate Ellen, who describes herself as "the 'it' of digits."

Any relation to Cousin Itt?  No, wait ... he was all about hair!  Ellen is more like "Thing" ... the Addams Family character who was nothing more or less than a disembodied hand in a box with a hinged lid.

If the way she poised her perfect neutral-colored hands as she was interviewed is any indication, Ms. Sirot appears to have taken lessons from Thing.  She constantly held the hands aloft, fingers separated delicately, posed as if just waiting for a product to be placed in her gentle grasp.  A very dignified ... if a little spooky ... mode of hawking wares.

When the interviewer, seemingly fascinated, shyly requested permission to touch the hands of the smiling Ms. Sirot, she was told that she could experience this tactile wonder if she used only her fingertips to very gingerly feel one hand, near the wrist.

"Aren't those the softest hands?"  Ms. Sirot wanted to know afterwards.  The interviewer conceded in an appropriately awed voice that the hands were indeed soft. 

I hardly expected her to say they felt like sandpaper.

Ellen the hand supermodel was shown walking down a busy street in Manhattan, her hands gloved to the elbows and held away from her body, fingers pointed heavenward, like a surgeon who has scrubbed for twenty minutes and is ready to be gowned.  The purpose of this unusual posture is to facilitate "draining" (as in blood), something Ms. Sirot does as often as possible.  It's enough to break a vampire of thumbsucking. 

Ellen says that her hands have not seen the light of day for fifteen years, and that she owns over 500 pairs of gloves to cover them with.  I have nearly that many shoes and I'm not even a foot model!  I couldn't model a toenail.

Ms. Sirot says that the list of things she's not allowed to do with her hands is endless.  She can't cook, clean, take out garbage, open a can, open a window, or open a door.  She can't work in a garden, play sports, or buckle her own shoes (her daughter does this for her).  Indeed, Ellen does not use her hands even for something as innocuous as pressing a button to call an elevator (she either uses an elbow or asks someone standing nearby to do it for her).  Mr. Sirot gladly does all of the housework and says he doesn't mind because she's beautiful and he loves her.  And because she sometimes makes thousands of dollars per hour for hand modeling.

But in my mind this begs the question: what on earth are foot models not allowed to do?  Do they walk all over town on their hands? 

Speaking of the lower extremities ... like actress Betty Grable, whose flawless legs were reportedly insured by Lloyd's of London for one million dollars, Ms. Sirot has hand insurance.  Unfortunately, however, it does not cover "the mundane, like a paper cut."  Wha ... ???  Sorry but it seems to me that if you have hands nice enough to require insurance for them, you could probably afford the kind that covers "the mundane."  And what about airbrushing?  As pluperfect as Ms. Sirot's hands surely are, I don't believe for a second that the photos taken of them never have to be enhanced.

At least one photographer who has had the pleasure of working with Ms. Sirot's hands says that she has figured out how to "make a hand a little prettier, a little happier, a little more aggressive." 

Shoot girl ... I just looked at my hands and realized that they are never happier or more aggressive than when I'm writing.  But alas, not nearly pretty enough to be photographed for advertising purposes.  I gladly leave that to the carpally superior Ellen Sirot, the self-proclaimed "it" of digits.

Melanie practically inhales the breakfast I make for her each morning: old-fashioned oatmeal made with milk and a pinch of salt, to which I add a generous helping of cinnamon applesauce.  The bowl is full but she eats every bite with alacrity, and drinks some juice too.  That's no problem.  Likely that's her hungriest time of day.  Mine too.  I imbibe strong, fresh, hot coffee the whole time ... Folgers Coffeehouse Series Black Silk, with CoffeeMate (The Original, in liquid form ... no powder, no funny flavors).

I figured out right away that my darling's main problem was, she was overtired.

Lunch is dicier.  Yesterday for Princess Melanie I prepared a grilled cheese sandwich on Sara Lee Raisin Cinnamon Swirl bread (the only bread I had in the house) ... boy did it smell good.  I could have eaten a couple of those myself but I opted for an apple, a chunk of extra-sharp cheddar, and a few grapes.  Oh to be three again.  I cut the sandwich into four triangles and placed it in front of Her Highness.  She demonstrated a distinct preference for the points of each triangle, but the closer she got to the crust, the more she seemed determined to stage a sit-in.

What is it with kids and bread crusts?  I'd (happily ... nay ecstatically) live on any part of bread, up to and including the crust.  Bread and water (traditionally meager fare according to books and movies) has always sounded good to me ... although bread and coffee sounds better.  Throw in some Nutella and I quickly attain nutritional nirvana.  Just keep Jenny Craig on speed dial.

My own children always ate their crusts; I never once surgically removed a bread crust from a sandwich.  We just didn't throw food away (unless you count the furry leftovers that sometimes congregated in the back of the fridge). 

But La Mel can't seem to abide the texture of the toasted crust (just typing that makes my mouth water) after the texture of the softer triangle point oozing with warm American cheese.  At least I figure that's the issue.  She ate most of the sandwich, though, and I rewarded her with a snack pudding.  Amazingly she never balks at those!  I did not eat her leftover crusts; Javier did.  He's begging for another serving.  Pretty tasty when the mainstay of your diet is kibble, I imagine.

Supper is not too bad as a rule, but then again you never know what's going to happen.  Last night I made chicken, potatoes (with butter and sour cream), sliced carrots, creamed corn, and salad.  After preparing the food I had to run an errand so TG gladly agreed to oversee Melanie's gustatory activities as he savored his own meal.  I was gone for about an hour.  When I got home I immediately became aware of two things: Melanie had eaten only about a third of her plate, and she was crying.  Both she and TG had retired to the family room, where he was holding her as he attempted to watch The Golf Channel.  The Melster was visibly and audibly distraught.

TG reported that she had eaten some of her food (albeit reluctantly) but then became upset and refused to consume another bite.  He gave up and tried to comfort her by holding her and talking to her, but she clearly wanted me (poor surrogate for her own mother than I am ... I'm not much but at present I'm all she's got).  I figured out right away that my darling's main problem was, she was overtired.  She had a shakeup of a week last week, all discombobulated with the arrival of her baby sister and her mother being in the hospital for a few days.  Then there was traveling to my house and getting used to new surroundings.  By eight o'clock last night she was sound asleep (I persuaded her to eat a cherry vanilla yogurt first) and she slept for thirteen hours!

Conclusion: Melanie and I are having fun hanging out together.  Today she is positively wreathed in smiles; we've read several books, walked around outside, and discussed a number of subjects.  This afternoon following a spot of lunch, she'll have a nap and then a bath.  I'm sure she'll eat her supper with no difficulty.  We'll get dolled up and TG will gallantly chauffeur us to prayer meeting at church.  When we get back home tonight, it will be a snack, a snuggle, then bed.  

Since it is an election year, tomorrow I plan to introduce Melanie to state government.  A tour of the South Carolina State House is in order, I think ... and possibly McDonald's.  Pictures and a full report will be provided!  Watch this space.

See, what happened was, the mail was courtesy of the City of Knoxville's "Photo Enforcement Program" and involved a certain incident in which, a few weeks ago, our college-senior kid was photographed running a red light.  The pictures are excellent!  I could make out her license plate number without reaching for my glasses!

This is only going to cost us $50. Chump change!

"I've already called and fussed at her," I told TG, whose handsome face wore an expression more of amusement than vexation (maybe it was all those kisses).  "She said the light comes up on you really fast and you don't want to slam on your brakes or anything."  Oh no ... not even to avoid entering a busy intersection when two round red unblinking eyes have been staring down at your lane of travel for 2.10 seconds!

See, I know exactly how long the light had been red when Erica went through it, because I was invited to visit www.photonotice.com and enjoy a video of her committing the crime (I had to provide my own popcorn).  I also know that she was doing 29 mph in a 35 mph zone at the moment she ran the light, so at least we can be relieved that she was not disregarding speed laws as well as automated traffic signals.  No doubt there would have been a separate citation for that!  In this life you learn to be grateful for small favors.

Speaking of which, this is only going to cost us $50.  Chump change!

I have no problem with paying the $50 as long as Erica learns something from the no doubt awe-inspiring experience of having flashbulbs go off in her face as she runs a red light.  Being a conservative, God-fearing, law-abiding (if a tad ditsy) citizen, I'm totally on the side of law enforcement.

However.

I wish there had  been more law enforcement on the job yesterday when I wended my way from North Carolina to South Carolina with the precious cargo of my granddaughter, Melanie, age three, snoozing in the backseat.  Because while I always set my cruise control four miles over the posted speed limit (so as to avoid being obliterated by those casually exceeding the limit by 15 mph), and am careful to occupy the passing lane only when overtaking slower vehicles (which doesn't happen very often), at least a dozen aggressive drivers (several operating semi-tractor-trailers) approached my bumper much too hurriedly before abruptly changing lanes to go around me as if my tires were full of concrete instead of air. 

It's scary.

If something happened to Melanie on my lookout, even if it were not technically my fault, I'm not sure I would survive it. 

By the way, she's standing four feet from me right now, working a puzzle about various modes of transportation, and she's making vociferous car sounds.  Kid's smart.

Amazingly, I saw not a single squad car of any stripe or persuasion as I drove for those three hours yesterday, save one that sat at a light about a mile from my home.  I'm not ready to live in a police state, but if they're going to put cameras at intersections so that a policeman who is somewhere else at the precise moment my child runs a light (I didn't say he was at Dunkin' Donuts ... why are you thinking that?), I wish law enforcement would be more of a presence on the interstates when you feel you're being hounded ... nay, terrorized ... by drivers who choose to egregiously (and with apparent impunity) ignore the posted speed limit.

They're not just guidelines, after all.  Everybody slow down, 'k?  And remember: red means stop.

This little funnyface is about to get a new baby sister ... which means TG and I (together with David and Debbie on the paternal side) are about to meet our new granddaughter!  Not to mention, Audrey, Erica, and Andrew will need to dust off their New Aunt and New Uncle badges ... along with paternal New Aunts and Uncles (and their spouses) Jonathan, James, Nate, Sheila, Tanya, and Sonya!  Our two families are nothing if not prolific and highly excitable!

She and I will share the distinction of being the second-born in each of our families.

Baby Allissa Joy is set to make her much-anticipated debut no later than tomorrow, according to the medicos.  Stephanie is excited if a little nervous ... you know, with Melanie (the darling pictured above, all smiling and in pink) there were a few complications.  Although we are very thankful to God that her condition was no worse, it was nevertheless a difficult and heartbreaking situation.  If you care to read all about that, I direct you to Melanie Noel.

So if you drop by in the next week and wonder why I don't seem to be around, it's because I've gone up to North Carolina to help out with Melanie and get acquainted with my new granddaughter.  She and I will share the distinction of being the second-born in each of our families, which I am certain will lead to some noteworthy experiences in the days to come!

Pictures will be forthcoming ... you know how grandparents are.