My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas. Or something.

 

In the annals of highly effective memory tools, the mnemonic stands alone as a genius technique rooted in the very best of ridiculousness. Looking at the recent images of Pluto taken by NASA’s New Horizons spacecraft, an unmanned mission that has travelled over nine years and three billion miles to reach Pluto, allowing us the first glimpses at what NASA calls the “icy dwarf planet” (yeah NASA), I couldn’t help but think back on my early solar system teachings and wonder why, decades and countless advances in planetary science later, is the go-to key to remembering something as essential as the order of our fair planets still “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas?”

The answer, I suspect, lies in the black hole of ridiculousness.

It can be said that I’ve never met a mnemonic I didn’t like. Helpful for recalling even the most tedious of facts and order of sequences, a mnemonic can be made up anytime, anywhere based on nothing but what works for you. If only more things in life were like that… politics anyone? Unlike the periodic chart, the multiplication tables burned into your brain and the insanely catchy song you were forced to memorize in order to learn the names of every state in alphabetical order—Oh, “Fifty Nifty United States,” I think of you often—a mnemonic does not fit into one box, it fits into every box your brain can think up. And we know how much your brain thinks about box.

The planetary mnemonic “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas” is but one form of mnemonic. Other common mnemonic devices include image mnemonics, spelling mnemonics (“i” before “e” except after “c”) and musical mnemonics like singing your ABCs. Perhaps the most widely used mnemonics are word mnemonics like “Never Eat Shredded Wheat” to remember the North, South, East, West directional order or mnemonics involving use of the first letter in a word, a la “ROY G BIV” for the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet, colors of the rainbow. You remember Roy; he was the nose picker who sat behind you in Language Arts. “But isn’t ‘ROY G BIV’ really an acronym?” you are yelling at your screen right now, incensed by the outright blasphemy you’ve just read. Yes, it is acronym, that beloved device society holds so dear, but an acronym is simply another form of mnemonic.

Is there no end to your greatness, mnemonic?

As widespread and seemingly adored as the mighty mnemonic is, the planet Pluto stands at the opposite end of the respect spectrum. Long maligned for being small in stature (Pluto is smaller than even Earth’s moon) and portrayed as a land of frigid darkness, the ultimate slap in the face to Pluto came in 2006 when it was unceremoniously demoted from its classification as a planet and relabeled with its current “dwarf planet” status. In its reasoning, the International Astronomical Union announced that Pluto did not meet all three criteria for planet status, “It must be in orbit around the Sun, have a spherical shape, and have ‘cleared the neighborhood’ around its orbital plane of other bodies.” A significant blow to the icy sphere we had all come to know and love, Pluto, it seemed, just couldn’t get no respect.

Wouldn’t you think Uranus would be the maligned one? I mean, Uranus.

Then, low and behold, in July of 2015, the images captured by New Horizons revealed a planet that National Geographic called, “stunningly alive.” Nitrogen glaciers, carbon monoxide and methane ice, and evidence of active seismic shifts have once again given way to the debate on Pluto’s planetary status. And thank god, because “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

“My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas” without “Pizzas” is like the tedium of “A, E, I, O, U and sometimes Y.” Why only sometimes “y?” Yes, “y” is also a consonant, but let it into the club. Don’t leave it dangling there like that, pulled between two worlds, like Bo Jackson, leggings (for the last time, they are not pants) or poor Pluto. Frankly, without Pluto, “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas” needs a major overhaul. But then, hasn’t it always?

For starters, if your mom was so educated, wouldn’t she be off doing something with more gravitas than serving pizzas? Like curing cancer or discovering a way to recycle all of the world’s water. And, going off her high education, wouldn’t she also have the sense to know that you don’t need nine pizzas? You need a salad and some lean protein. Anyway you look at it “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas” is a completely ridiculous mnemonic. Keeping Pluto in the group—above all, I am an equal opportunity planetary enthusiast—what might be some better mnemonics to help the world embrace planetary order?

“May Vic’s Enthusiasm Merit Jumping Sandwiches Under Nightly Patrol.” Late night sandwich patrol makes perfect sense. “Mayor Vows Euphoria Makes Jury Sentence Upper Ninth Precinct.” Perhaps a bit much for the school children of the world. “Melinda’s Vest Eats More Juice Slicing Up Nonsense Pasta.” Yes, I love nonsense pasta. Or how about, “Mary’s Violet Encrusted Maserati Justifies Solitary Use Not Publicity.”

Attention: Ladies and Gentleman, we have a winner.

“Mary’s Violet Encrusted Maserati Justifies Solitary Use Not Publicity” is perfect. It not only provides the tools for our brains to adequately remember the order of the planets, but also gives a small lesson in humility to the youngsters of the world. You may be rocking a sparkly purple Maserati someday, but do it in the privacy of your own driveway, Mary.

Perhaps that’s what the universe is all about. It’s not so much how we remember what we need to know, but that we remember it and learn the lesson it teaches us. We can spend time splitting hairs about which celestial being is or is not a planet, or what mnemonic does or does not make sense, but we only have so much time (I’m sorry, you’re never going to get this ten minutes back). And in that time we need to gain knowledge, move through life, try not to hurt anyone, be humble about our violet encrusted Maserati and die.

Whether or not “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas” happens to be an absurd phrase, if it works for you, then keep using it. I may have just given the world the new go-to mnemonic for planetary order, but light years from now when those violet Maseratis are floating space, the only thing that will matter is that people know what planet they’re on. It will be of no consequence that the person who came up with “Mary’s Violet Encrusted Maserati Justifies Solitary Use Not Publicity” frequently used “Never Eat Shredded Wheat” to figure out where they were going.

 

"Yeah, I love dogs."

Yo, what up, dogg?

Yo, what up, dogg?

I hate dogs. I hate dog people and dog parks. I hate dog poop and dog paraphernalia. I hate dog hair on my clothes. I hate dog breath in my face and I hate the unmistakable smell of wet dog. I hate seeing a dog pee on the sidewalk and watching it run down the concrete to the curb, bathing the available walking space in a delightful urine smell that is even more intoxicating on a lovely hot summer day. And I hate being forced to see a presumably otherwise intelligent human being bend over and pick up a steaming pile of poop while saying something like, “Good job, bud. Who knows how to potty?!”

Perhaps my most fervent hatred is that of the “urban dog lifestyle” itself. A universe so ridiculous that it fuels, among other things, a comical, luxury dog products industry while at the same time permeating the streets and minds of New York City, an otherwise idyllic utopia of awesomeness.

I hate dog germs. I have no idea why a sane person who values any level of hygiene would want to share a New York City apartment with something that walks around with its nose on the street and can’t use a flushing toilet. But is happy to drink from one in a heartwarming twist. I hate dog owners who seemingly don’t realize that you just almost tripped over their dog, a move that would have rendered you orthopedically challenged and their beloved pooch strangled—or worse, maimed. The only maiming I like is that of the Auntie Mame variety, which is to say none at all.

I hate watching people fawn over their dogs and slip into baby talk. “Who’s the sweetest? Who’s the best? You are, my love, you are.” It’s not a baby, it’s a dog. Repeat: it’s a d-o-g. Got it, dogg? I hate walking by a dog park, a valuable piece of scarce NYC open space done over in sand and gravel to accommodate hoards of local dogs, all barking and jerking and spreading their aforementioned dog germs (that’s not all that’s being spread… hey!). I hate businesses that leave out water bowls and dog treats—not that I begrudge a dog proper hydration (Dear ASPCA, please don’t send Sarah McLaughlin to my door)—so as to encourage dog owners to come in, bring their pooches and mix with the rest of us.

Reminds me of a sixth grade “mixer” where there were also plenty of dogs, those of the two legged variety, decked out in their finest wanna-be Marithe + Francois Girbaud jeans, undulating erratically to Tony Toni Toné, a whiff of Cool Water sailing above the crowd, my bangs shellacked with hairspray.

God, I love Tony Toni Toné.

Perhaps the only thing remotely related to dog ownership that I do like is dog walkers. Give it up for the dog walkers of NYC who have found gainful employment in the most essential of tasks. Way to make those ends in a cash-heavy, high-demand business that will literally never evaporate thanks to the busy schedules and general ridiculousness of your fellow New Yorkers.

With all this distaste for dogs and, more significantly, dog owners in my brain, I must have been on something when, last month, I too became a dog owner. Feel free to choke on your vegan sprouted wrap right about now.

Yes, you read that right. I, naysayer extraordinaire of all things NYC dog and all things NYC dog culture, have become the responsible party for a puppy. And in exactly one month, I have become a complete asshole. Actually, it only took about a week.

This dog is different, I told myself. He’s special. He’s a dog for a non-dog person. Hell, he’s practically a human. He’s sweet, intelligent, obscenely attractive; a boss, a champ, likeable to even the most negative Ned (i.e., me). He’ll be nothing like those irritating dogs I see, and I will be nothing like those yutzo humans I see. Nothing.

“Way to potty, buds. Way to potty,” I heard myself saying as if in a dream, my tone achingly enthusiastic. It was 11:30 p.m. I was a shell of my former self. I may have been wearing pajamas, I may have been naked; everything was blurry. The sights and sounds of NYC occurred around me, but nothing was clear anymore. I no longer knew which one of us was the dog and which one of us was the human. I had walked the block so many times that I now knew there were fifty-seven squares of sidewalk under foot. My singular focus was thus: potty.

And when that potty finally happened, I could feel myself tearing up. He had done it. He was a genius, a testament to the very fundamentals of potty training. I was elated as I scooped up that fresh pile of crap. It could only have been better if Barack Obama was with me. Just me, Barry, my new number one guy and a bag of warm poop. That’s bliss, America.

In the days and weeks since that first break through, I have become an authority on the fabrication of poop bags and poop bag holders—a necessity sold to me by my luxury dog product purveyor of choice. I now know the finer points of dog treats that clean teeth and provide essential nutrients to your growing pup. I am a bitter apple spray addict. I carry a water bottle for him to drink out of, which he does so well I’m hoping Fiji will sponsor him. I am well versed in the dogs of the neighborhood and which ones are and are not “appropriate” for mixing with my guy. “Butter,” the weiner dog down the block = appropriate. The Pomeranian up the street who tried to mount my dog = not appropriate. His owner who rides around with the dog on a motorized scooter and told me that, like my dog, she too was an Aquarius = not appropriate.

My plans are now made around his schedule. His pooping schedule that is. He also eats, plays and sleeps, but everything takes a back seat to “production,” as it were. And what a production it is. Congratulations to me. I am now closely monitoring the bowel movements of two living things. I’d like to thank the Academy.

Germs? I would stack his cleanliness up against that of most people. Dog breath? Please, he’s fresh as a daisy. Is that a dog bowl outside the coffee shop? Thank god, my guy needs some water. Dog parks? Well, he does need to socialize. Pick up his poop while lavishing enthusiastic praise? But of course. How else will he learn the keys to success? Watch his puddle of urine pollute the sidewalk? Oh how he loves his favorite spot.

So yeah, I’m now that yutzo.

But before I go off the deep end entirely, I will look down at the dog hair that is covering my pants and do my best to remember that he is my dog, not my child. And I am the human, not the dog. Although, I too know how to potty and goddamn it if I couldn’t use some praise once in a while.

Way to potty, Ridiculous. Way to potty.