Dotty Parker

oooh, yeah, wait a minute mr. postman

Remember the appraisal guy who shows up at my house a few weeks ago? Remember how much I disliked him?

I don't think he disliked us. I had been afraid, as I told Mr. Guy, that the house would be worth twelve pennies and a bucket of cherry pits.

My expectations have been exceeded! The house is worth thirty pennies and a whole bunch of cherries!

We haven't gotten the offical quote in the mail yet, but I heard through email from the bank and she'd heard it from the appraiser's office where she'd just called.

I'm just sooo pleased with the whole thing!

angry hippie girl

I was just listening to Democracy Now on the radio. I still am, actually. It's the kind of program that makes me feel outraged and helpless all at once. Not a very good feeling, really.

One benefit of feeling helpless and outraged is that it makes some things seem very funny.

One man was on earlier. His opinions made my blood boil and his behavior was rude and unpleasant. He asked the other panelist a question and then didn't allow her to answer.

Ms. Amy Goodman was very gently assertive and said, "Sir, you asked her a question and aren't allowing her to answer."

He was quiet for a few moments.

I do have a favorite thing, though. It was the way he made his points. They were talking about whether Saddam Hussein should be assassinated rather than arrested. Of course the fellow said arrested. Then he backtracked to indicate that it would only be appropriate for Hussein to be arrested if there was no risk to American troops. If a sniper had a clean shot, he said, he (or she?) should shoot him. Now here comes my favorite part: to describe the idea of arresting rather than using overwhelming force, his rhetorical device (which stinks, so I recommend not using it) was to say things like, "It's like asking a group of police who have a serial killer locked in a building to send in only one officer armed only with a knife the same size as the killer!"

?

What?

Who said anything like that? Oh, and is it really like that at all? How about this one, which I have engineered: "It's like sending an entire loaf of bread to make two pieces of toast. It's like sending an entire cutlery set to butter one side of a frozen toaster pastry."

This analogy would describe, of course, some kind of overkill situation. (I might suggest the Jessica Lynch rescue, but that's been talked about too much, don't you think?)

Now, I shall make an analogy for what the silly man on the radio said. "It's like I'm a totally irrational fool who doesn't listen to anything but my own melodic voice. It's like I'm so completely interesting that logical thought is unnecessary. It's like I'm saying things that are so extreme and unrelated that no one can possibly argue with me. My communication skills are so entrancing that I'm like a tomato and a dandelion playing near the road while egg beaters go skittering down the highway all while tiny ladybugs sing a song about drunken sailors."

That is so totally more what it's like.

the strangest dream

The strangest dream

I had a very cartoonish dream just before I woke up. In my dream, I was teaching a class to a person who wasn't interested at all. Her aunt was with her telling her to pay attention, and I told her aunt to leave us along and that if she wanted a lesson, she could come back by herself. Apparently, neither one of them liked that answer much so they left after forty minutes of the lesson.

Then the girl I was teaching, the one who'd just left, came back and was ten years older and we were in college. We walked over to an auditorium and stood backstage and listened to an argument that kept going in circles made by the teacher's union that went on and on. My friend shouted from backstage, "Why don't we just leave it?" Then we heard lots of applause for her suggestion and we left.

On our way out, I passed a bunch of people I had gone to middle school with. They were all grown up now and they were lawyers. After I made some snide comment to my new friends about how they didn't recognize me or something, I tripped on the stairs out of there.

Then we walked over to a place with restaurants inside. We went to a Mexican place called ¡Molé! There was a swanky party going on. Ed Begley Jr. was there behaving like William Safire or George Will. He was very charming, but not very entertaining. I went wandering around searching for my boyfriend so I could break up with him. He was an overly possessive cartoon character with an angry sidekick.

I was walking up the stairs when I heard this pop and I was covered in rainbow colored paint. And it was sticky paint. I started shouting, but the party was loud. So my boyfriend tackled me and sat on my back so I couldn't go anywhere. He put rings of lemon peel around his fingers and tried to stick them around my eyes so I'd look like an owl.

Just them, a superhero of unknown origin arrives, sent by Ed Begley, Jr. and bids my now ex-boyfriend to be gone. Suddenly his sidekick (the boyfriend's) appears in a spaceship and the ex-boyfriend gets in the plane-thing. The plane splits in half as soon as the powers in charge realize the trouble they got into. So one half goes flying forward with a fiery tail of flame behind it. The other half veers off to the left, also with fiery tail.

I look up at the rescuing superhero. I am miraculously free of paint and miraculously free of curiosity about my alien ex-boyfriend. To the superhero I say, "Will they be back?"

The superhero says, this is a direct quote from the dream, "They will, my friend." The he goes on to explain how it will take time before they are ready to launch another attack.

I don't even want to know what this dream means.

clean laundry town

Today I spent much of my day doing laundry and folding laundry and looking at laundry and sorting laundry. I have not ironed my laundry.

It ended up that most of the clothes in the clothes baskets were clean clothes I'd never bothered to put away. That may be why I felt like I didn't have any clothes. They were always somewhere else.

The house is still set to undergo some construction soon. In the next two weeks, it ought to start, I hear. It's good to hear. Why is it good to hear?

The oft-mentioned menagerie that continues to appear in my house has grown to include one more bat. A small bat, yes, but one that may contain some rabies or might be a vampire or it might have its little bat eyes on the pears I bought at the store.

You never can tell with bats.

If the construction had happened as it was supposed to happen, the ceiling would be filled in with good things like sheetrock and the house would have insulation. Both of these things would make it harder for the bats to get in.

Even though they are cute.

what to say?

I often have a long series of days when I just can't write enough. Then I have other days when I don't know what to say. I like to blame it on things like tiredness or being hungry or feeling blue or feeling too happy.

Today I think I'd like to blame it on you.

I believe that I know or have met you. I, therefore, have an urge to talk about you. Because you read this, however, I feel a certain reticence about it all. I don't want to be mean. I actually don't. I'd like to be kind and sweet, but I think that underneath it all, I'm Little Miss Gossip.

So! In order to prove this hypothesis false, the gloves are off, boys and girls. I'm talking trash about everyone. Oh yeah. Look out. It's coming your way.

Except now my stomach hurts and I can't think of anything really bad to say. I will try to soldier through this blockage.

BellyRub wears smelly socks.
When BrotherLove calls and I answer, he always says, "Come in, ya bastards."
My grandmother is shrinking.
PTAMom got stung by bees. One eye looks weird.

Dude! It isn't working. I am no more inspired to write something inspired than I was inspired to do before.

So does that mean I can't pass the burden on to you? Does it mean that the problem lies solely with me?

It can't be solely with me.

I shall consult the heavens and notify you when an adequate and acceptable answer is noted.

oh!
Do you know what I noticed while writing this? I noticed that the word "bitch" actually looks like a bitchy word. It's all pointy at the top with that little dab of spite above the i. Then there's the bottom part. The merciless stomp of the b, the stabbing i, the double stabbing h, and then the subtle hooks of the c and t. That word will kill you and then rip you to pieces.

That thar's a scary word, y'all.

I suspect that one day in the future I will tell you about other words that look like what they are. Or not.

hapless helena

I'm watching The Incredible Hulk on tv. The Hulk just threw a grizzly bear fifty feet after their championship deathmatch.

The Hulk is trying to save the life of a girl who believes she cannot walk. The girl is also being poisoned by her step-mother. If the girl dies, the step-mother gets all the money from "a multi-million dollar corporation."

So the girl can't walk, but Dr. David the Hulk believes she can if she really wants to. But no! She pouts that she cannot! So Dr. David has to carry her.

He has to carry her for SEVEN miles. I say leave her whining butt on the ground and get out of there.

Oh dear! They're in quicksand now. And she got out, but David's still stuck in it. And he's turned into the Hulk! And she can't stand up to help him. But guess what! She's trying to stand! And her whining is going to kill the Hulk. I should probably mention that she's a lovely looking young woman whose clothes are clinging to her now since she's just come out of the mud.

Dammit, why the hell do these frail creatures get stuck in the mud or on an iceberg or on a hijacked plane? It doesn't even matter that they're frail or slim or whatever. They just have to be female. The plot relies on their femininity.

If they're female, you see, they can play the "I'm just a girl! I need help!" This is a most irritating thing to watch, but incredibly useful when necessary.

The first time I understood the power was when I worked at Burger King for the summer between high school and college. It's a gross, greasy, dirty, salty job no matter which part of it is yours, but the two grossest parts are taking out the trash and cleaning the bathrooms.

Being a girl, there was no way I was going to get out of cleaning the bathrooms. But taking out the trash, especially the overflowing trash where you have to push the trash back into the can before you can take out the bag (ewwwwwww), now there's a great place to use the "I'm just a girl" play. The trash really is heavy. That's not a joke. And going to the dumpster in the dark is scary. Especially when you're just a helpless little girl destined to star in an episode of The Incredible Hulk. An episode where you learn to walk.

So the boy, some boy, doesn't matter which boy, has to take out the trash. Just like the Hulk and his friend Michael, the old drunken man who has a heart of gold and kicks the drinking habit for the benefit of the lass who has surprising medical knowledge and can remove the venom from the leg of the old man, just like they have to care for her until the job's done and they can all go home, where ever home may be.

the phlood photo

That's the flood. Impressive enough to me since some of it ended up in the basement.

But do you see those weird creatures? They were invisible until we got out the picture and really really looked. It's scary.

impossible.

I went to my friend Trouble's house a month or so ago. We were looking at stuff and I'd brought my computer.

Trouble had recently moved in to her house. There were boxes everywhere. Trouble has been to my house and knows that it looks like a constant explosion. Yet, when I turned on my computer and handed it over to her, I was horrified by how many icons were all over the desktop. I wanted to grab it back and stick them where they were supposed to be.

How silly is that? Like she cares about the way my house looks. Why would she care about the silly desktop? I just don't know.

these people, they understand me.

I taught a class tonight. I taught one yesterday, too. For the second night in a row it went really well. So well, in fact, that people asked me if I taught other things. Ooooooh! I'm hot stuff! I started feeling superior and almighty. Perhaps I would ascend into teacher heaven! Or perhaps I would be compensated more richly.

technical no-how

With this head full of impressive egotism, BellyRub called and asked me a question: How can I scan a picture and make it look good?

Being full of impressive egotism, I started saying things like "dots per inch" and "resolution" and "is the computer on?" I was dreading the point at which I would have to call, "Hey, honey? How do you make it so the background is a picture of Pamela Anderson instead of those trashy twins?" Fortunately, BellyRub didn't ask me that one. I believe that at one point he had Britney Spears performing at some awards ceremony with her breasts emerging from her costume.

Classy. Always classy.

This time, however, he was with his bosses (which doesn't exclude the possible occurrence of breast bearer re-selection) and they wanted to scan a wallet sized photograph. I told him how I'd do it. He said that they'd done that and then tried to expand it to an 8x10.

To a what? That? Oh, you can't do that. It'll look bad.

"Can't you clean it up somehow?" That's what BellyRub wanted to know.

"No, you can't clean that up. It's like taking a business card and blowing it up into a poster and expecting it to be an essay. The information just isn't there."

He laughed. And then I realized that I am, indeed, a technical genius. And furthermore, these are my people. I can speak to them.

I'm going to start a seminar series called "Technical? No how! No way!"

Is there much more to say than that?

flood

We had a wee flood tonight. Four inches of water came pouring down the steps in the back yard. It eroded a flower bed, threatened to wash into the garage, kindly weeded a few areas for me and attempted to uproot some roses. Happily the roses were saved by two huge branches that fell in a sort of arch about them with lots of sticks and twigs around them. I believe that box elder gave away two of its arms to save my roses. Chelsea Morning and English Breakfast or Garden. It doesn't matter. I saved their names. Unless they got washed away!

The flood wasn't too bad for us, although we did get more water in the basement. The flood warnings they were issuing were so frightening, however, that Erotica decided to come over to our house, since we live on the hill.

When she turned onto our road, before she could get to the driveway she had to cross Baker Hill Road. Water was pouring down the entire road (20 ft wide). There was enough water for her to describe it as a river. I saw the picture BrilliantEditor took of our steps (at some point you've got to just shrug your shoulders and get on with taking pictures of the potential disaster). It was very impressive.

The water was flood-muddy brown and rushing down the stairs. It was four or five inches deep, too. It wasn't the kind of thing you'd ignore and walk up anyway. Your shins would be wet trying to get up them.

I am impressed, I must say.

The dogs did not take up swimming, I'm sorry to say. They decided to stay inside and sleep.

Sprocket got a new bed, I may have told you, which is an oval and then has a pillow that fits in over the already soft bed. Sprocket gets under the pillow and sleeps with her nose sticking out. That's what she did tonight, too.

Spring likes to try out all the beds. Then she lies on the floor and looks mournful. When we go upstairs to bed, she follows us up. She has her own favorite bed up here. She sleeps under our bed, though, instead. With her tail and one ankle exposed. I don't know why.

Dogs are cool.

the human voice

On the way home tonight, I heard the PDQ Bach man say, "electronically modified, can still discern that the main instruments are, in the first, the trumpet and, in the second piece, the human voice."

I thought about what other kind of voice there would be. Sure there are the aliens of the world and yetis and things, but these would not be discernable as alien or yeti. Thus I wondered, what kind of voice would be discernable?

An elephant's voice is the first one that came to mind. It's a trumpet and a voice, too! But is it really a voice? What defines a voice? I looked it up.

Here's Webster 1913

1. Sound uttered by the mouth, especially that uttered by
human beings in speech or song; sound thus uttered
considered as possessing some special quality or
character; as, the human voice; a pleasant voice; a low
voice.

So I guess I've got nothing to complain about except my own opinions. But it sure feels like something to complain about. I can't imagine discerning the voice of an anteater.

old hag bag hits a snag

Well, I forgot to tell you this. This old bag got an official year older on Sunday. Happy birthday to me!

I went to Mrs.MaryMom's house. She made me a magnificent dinner. I got to pick what I wanted. I think that it may be the last year I get to choose my own menu.

I hadn't realized it, but I chose a really labor-intensive menu. I thought I was being rather constrained, sticking with "simple" things, but they all had to be chopped or stuffed or marinated or whipped. Yeah. Simple's the way to go.

Here's the menu: Zuni's chicken (I forgot why it's so good--herbs and garlic stuffed under the skin so that when it bakes in a rather hot oven, the tastes permeate the chicken.) And then there's bread underneath it and celery and arugula that catch the liquid that cooks off and that's really good.

Tuscan bread salad: Stale bread, tomatoes, cucumbers, basil, salt, pepper, and a vinegar based dressing. The bread soaks up extra liquid from the tomatoes and basil and it is soooo good. It sits for up to 24 hours before it's served so the bread can get saturated.

Strawberry shortcake. That's what I asked for.

She kindly made roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes. Wow it was yummy.

worrying

I also realized that I should be finding some grey hairs soon. I'm not looking very hard and I don't care very much, but there's always this vanity thing that comes up and smacks me in the head before I realize what's happened. Ooops! I spent my entire paycheck on haircare and lipgloss again!

And I just tried dyeing my hair. I wanted to do something. Perhaps vanity was walking up to knock at my door. So I was extra bold and went a half-shade darker. So now it's still brown. Oh yeah. I'm a whirlwind of exotic dyeing activity.

It occurs to me now, will I dye my hair when I get older? Did I dye my hair now in a proactive manner? Will I try to gracefully glide into my true adulthood? Will I shave my head? Will I wear a beehive hair-do? Will I get my hair done once a week and have a blue rinse?

I just don't know. But it brought on puns that amused me.

portland's good for somethings

When I went to Portland, I was shocked by how few people there were on the streets. When we got to restaurants and the gardens, there were plenty of people. On the way to those places, however, the streets were nearly empty.

Lots of the people were on the highway, actually. And so was I. I must say that their radio selection was lackluster. The majority of the DJ people were ranting and raving without giving much thought to anything. Although I generally prefer to get on my high horse when it comes to mercilessly making fun of people (the horse isn't really that high. It's high in comparison to the swill I also enjoy wallowing in when it feels really good to make fun of people.), in this case, I went back to the wallowing.

They were making fun of Sean Connery. The suggestion was that he might be losing a little bit of his edge. When describing why he chose a role in The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, he said that he didn't really understand the script for the Lord of the Ring movies so didn't take the part; didn't understand the script for the Matrix, didn't take the part.

So in a false interview with someone who sounded moderately like Sean Connery, the FauxSean was constantly repeating, "I don't understand it! It doesn't make any sense to me."

After maybe fifteen minutes of this nonsense, he started sticking in non sequiturs like nobody's business. Oh yes, and these were good ones.

The oysters in my pockets are singing.
A support group attracted refugees intraveniously.
The hobos busted out for the love of Ralph.

And, of course, my favorite:

There are no scissors in the ocean.

your mother

Okay, here's the scoop. We all have a mother. At least in the abstract, biological sense, we all have a mother.

My friend Mr.Guy's mom is a mom of mythology. The merciless sense of humor of a goddess. Wry, witty, clever, only a hint of a joke. And she scares me a little bit. I'm afraid she will hate me. With the wrath of a goddess.

She is a compelling character, indeed.

Mr.Guy wrote and attached a "pithy" email from his mom. I must show it to you.

your father must like to be in the doghouse,
he does not seem to learn and continues to annoy me.

your mother

I kind of like that his dad will be haunted and reminded of being haunted. I also kind of like that Mr.Guy will call his dad on the phone and say, "So how's the ghost of mom?"

Of course, I do wonder...Why doesn't she move out to the doghouse and set up shop on her own? She could build a small addition for a kitchenette and bathroom. She could probably fit a pedal car in there, too. Then she wouldn't have to experience his poor driving first hand. In fact, she could be towed behind the car like a water skiier! Wouldn't that be swell? And so much more dry!

prodigious weird

I'm getting weirder by the minute, it seems, and having problems with my computer. I think it detects that I'm getting weird. It detects it and wants to be a part of it all. So it acts like it's being a part of it all. Perhaps I should be less weird.

Perhaps I should but I know I won't.

I've been writing to Mr. Guy this morning. He's often amused by what I send him. This morning I think that I've done an excellent job of amusing. I do hope he'll forgive me if I post some of my message to him here. He might forgive me. He'd certainly miss the increasingly infrequent emails I send.

Is Mr. Apostrophe still married? Still getting a divorce some day maybe we don't know when but have faith? Is he stunningly attractive? Is that why he's being passed around like a joint, getting summarily covered with saliva, and then being passed again? I suppose it must be nice to be found so attractive and to be covered in saliva (maybe not the second part) but to be so attractive and then passed around an incestuous circle of friends all the while just being a general weird-o and playing all kinds of "head games" (never ever ever put that in a personal ad. Unless you really hate the friend you're writing it for. Then definitely say it. Along with "someone who's honest and open. Alcohol free, Christian values." Smart people should run screaming.). Honestly, I don't think it would be nice. It'd be like having the candle burning at one end while having someone else give it more fuel somehow. I hope no one's smoking him when he's all through. They'll get burned lips and probably end up married to him. I wonder if that's what happened...

I'm very impressed with myself.

Oh! And I've been forgetting to show you this!

Spank!

There are two stuffed animals who live on our bed. There's Bear the Dog who has slept on my bed since I started going to my schmancy university. Then there's Sheep. Sheep has recently joined us because we were afraid that Bear would be lonely. So up the stairs with Sheep.

Bear and Sheep tend to get jumbled together since they sleep between or behind our pillows. When we came back from Englad this is what I found.

I think Sheep is going to spank Bear. I swear this is what I found. I was so astonished that I called BrilliantEditor up to see it.

I think we got home before they expected.

assessment

The assessor was here today. He looked at our house. I think it's taken me an hour and a half to get my heart rate back to semi-normal. I was cleaning and then sweeping and then just shoving stuff around and into closets, trying to make it look like we aren't the ones who live here. It might be people who are a little busy, but still like to walk through the middle of their rooms.

After he left, I asked BrilliantEditor what he said. He'd said nothing. I guess he has to go back to the office and check lots of boxes and have it spit out the number. I'm a little disappointed. I wanted an answer today. Now that I think about it, though, that would be a bit difficult.

anti-nuke hairspray fund

As I'm falling asleep, I'm singing in my head a song from Man of LaMancha. I believe its title is something about a barber or a golden helmet of monbrino.

Whatever the title, the lyrics to one bit go like this, sung by the barber: Though you may clean and shaven, you will need me soon I know. For the Lord protects his barbers and he makes the stubble grow.

This leads to the very obvious idea that a group of barbers and hairdressers would make a perfect lobbying group to convince the U.S. government to undergo a serious re-examination of its nuclear weapon capabilities and to largely or completely disarm or destroy all weapons of mass destruction (hereon referred to as WMD because it's easier to type and infinitely more absurd.).

I shall explain my reasoning. One of the first symptoms of radiation exposure is hair loss. Chunks of hair will disappear into the teeth of the exposed person's comb. If this should happen due to a nuclear explosion, what would the hairdressers and barbers do? No hair equals no haircuts. Thus, I believe it would be in the best interest of all hair care professionals to enlist in an open protest on Washington.

Perhaps it would be called Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow? or something similarly bizarre that would end up being stuck in some high ranking official's mind. I bet they could even get Ronald Reagan (he had a lot of hair) to endorse it. Amusing, I think, since he was responsible for much of the build up and then some of the disarming.

A letter campaign would work as well. Each letter could have a lock of hair with a black ribbon tied around it. The letter could say, "I'm an American! You hold in your hand a lock of hair, the only thing keeping me from starvation and a cold nuclear winter.
No nukes! How dare you destroy my social safety net and consume my social security benefits with your WMD! You're lucky this isn't anthrax!"

It may be strident, but oh dear me, I don't care at all. The letter might need work as the mention of anthrax might bring in the black helicopters and the secret scary police who don't really exist.

Mama said there'd be days like this

It wasn't a bad day. It was good, really, but it was so full of things. I didn't really expect it to be full of things, but it was anyway. I got a phone call when I was out doing an errand I didn't expect to be doing. The phone call was BrilliantEditor who said that he'd gotten a phone call that I was supposed to be teaching a class.

"Oh. I'll go now, then."

And off I went. The class was good, although it started a half hour late, courtesy of yours truly. I had fun; they had fun; we all had fun. Until the grousing started to get a little out of control. So I stopped the class to address the grousing. It actually went over fairly well—they acknowledged that they'd gotten a good deal on their sewing machines and that the things they wanted were never advertised to come with the machine, although I agreed it would have been very nice if they had. Then we got on with it.

One of the women who was grousing, the one I wanted to stop as soon as possible, had worked there with me for about a month. She did the same thing then. She just whined about the cost of patterns or material or doctors' appointments or how no one would show her anything. She wouldn't pay attention when I did show her things. She did that in class, too. She's a dope.

in other news
Since management of the workplace has changed hands, nothing seems to be different. I asked what might be new and funky, but got nowhere. My coworker had been on vacation for nine days. It's all good, though. I don't need to gossip, anyway. Talking about other people isn't nice.

boring
I'm boring myself though. I can't be very interesting. One thing, though, about not needing to gossip: Benjamin Franklin tried to be very very good for a while. He set a list of rules and then, noting when he had failed, took care to keep a detailed chart. He didn't manage a single day of perfect goodness. He did say, though, that it was much more interesting being not so good.

How to solve this problem? Poor behavior may be the key. I can compensate for behaving badly by brushing and flossing more conscientiously. That should even out the karma.

the nutmeg state

I went to visit the GirlWithTheHair. We saw each other for the first time in about three years. She still has TheHair. It's lovely.

I was babbling about something (shocking!) and out comes, "Which one is the nutmeg state?" She looks at me wit something close to an awed horror. I know she was thinking, "I wish just this thing had changed. The goddamned obsession with odd bits of information. Ah well, here we go." She didn't really have that look. It just seems as though it would be more dramatic that way.

So we both had no idea which was the nutmeg state. Thus, we went for a walk and bought sunglasses to forget our nutmeg troubles. But first, I bought a pack of cigarettes to thank the gods of the Pacific Northwest for letting me get there in one piece and for old times when we thought we were naughty, fiery women. Now that we know that we're naughty, fiery women, it's mostly for old time's sake and to thank the gods. Those roads from Portland to Seattle are very bendy.

At home, here in the place that is neither Pacific nor Northwest, I looked up the nutmeg state. It's Connecticut. It's the unofficial name. Officially it's the Constitution State. This is a different constitution than the one I know, but hey, it sounds good right? And why stop there when you can have a sperm whale for your state animal, too?

I just looked up New York State symbols and junk. Our beverage, yes beverage, is milk. Our muffin, did I say muffin? I did. Our muffin is apple. It goes nicely with our state fruit of apple. We could top it all off with some maple syrup which comes from the state tree--the sugar maple!

The GirlWithTheHair and I had a lovely time. We walked to the street called Broadway in Seattle. I saw a man in his sixties who had taken off his shirt and had a nipple ring. It was gross. I saw a young man on the street in a pale blue vinyl coat who said he was getting quite warm in the mid-day sun. People would pass by and we would look at each other with our patent-pending raised eyebrow.

We were happy. It was sunny. All was well.

And it still is well. Although I'm sleepy and twisted my neck funny on the plane (I sat next to a nun.I shall have to tell you about that one day.)

I'm glad I went to the great west. I've never seen so much water just flowing all over the place--drinking fountains, regular fountains, water features, faux streams--as in Portland.

In fact, there were a number of beaver sculptures in those fountains. And do you know what? The beaver is Oregon's state animal!

But here's the stranger part. The beaver is New York's, too!

R is for redux

I realize now that the title "R is for romantic" is a bit confusing. I was going to write about how BrilliantEditor and I were on the R level. R is meant to be restaurant. But I think it could mean any R word. Really. Republic. Rose.

BE and I were on the R level and checking our email. I think that it's funny to check email together. We sit next to each other and occasionally talk, but mostly we just read our own email.

Thus, R was for Romantic. We sit together on a loveseat and suddenly R means romantic. I was gratified by my creativity, but feel a bit confounded by my inability to follow through. Ah well.

R is for romantic

I just wrote to BossHedgeHogg and he has not written back. It's been three minutes!

silent in the morning

Generally, I'm not awake in the morning. Morning seems to be meant for quiet contemplation or what I like to call sleeping.

Here in Oregon, I'm not getting up early, but it feels early by the numbers. When I roll out of bed at 8:30 at home, it's an astonishing feat of incredible fortitude. When I do it here, I'm a lazy bones. It's 11:30 at home, you know.

BrilliantEditor has long asserted that I'm on west coast time. I think he might be right. I fell asleep at midnight and woke around 7:30 or 8. Have I at last found a home?

hiking the oregon trail

I went to the grocery store today. For a state known for its back to nature ideal, they sure have a lot of salted peanuts and sugary snacks. Hedonists! I thought Oregonians ate tree bark and liked it! I thought they had bath tubs that poured out only air-temperature water! I thought they drank only Fair Trade coffee! I thought their world would be free of cigarette smoke!

I thought wrong.

Which brings me to the word "wrong-headed". I think it's funny. I've never looked at anyone and thought, "Well, there's a right-headed thinker." Never thought, "correct-headed" or "good-choice-headed". I've thought of beheaded. And two-headed, I've definitely thought of two-headed. Red-headed step-child. Tow-headed baby. But wrong-headed is just plain silly. In fact, it might even be wrong-headed.

And another wrong headed thing is what happened in the grocery store. I was looking at the crackers and a fellow said, "Excuse me, I have a lot of money left on my Oregon Trail card. I can only use it for food and housing. Would you let me buy your groceries and you could pay me fifty cents on the dollar? For example, you could buy $50 in groceries, I'd pay for it with my card, and you'd give me $25 dollars."

Why would someone want to save me money? Where's this money coming from, anyway? What's the scoop here?

I told him no and he said that I'd save a lot of money if I'd just let him buy the groceries. I told him someone else would be happy to save money, then.

I asked the cashier what an Oregon Trail card is. He said it's state sponsored food money. And when he found out I'd been offered the benefit of the Oregon Trail card, he asked what he looked like and said he would turn him in.

Yo! I felt guilty for a second, but decided I hadn't done anything wrong. I'd have felt more guilty if I had taken advantage of the state of Oregon. They already have free bus and street car stuff for me. Geez. Free food might be just a bit too much.

And why couldn't he have come up to me in a good market? The one I was in was lackluster, I must say. Not a bit of tree bark. It wouldn't be worth breaking the law for Twinkies, now would it?

random acts of oddness

Going through security is nearly unpleasant at its very best and unpleasant in the extreme at its worst. I haven't experienced the worst yet. I fear that one day I will. Because I'm a bit of a spazoid, I chit chat with the security people. In my wild nightmare, my chatter marks me as a potential threat and as I act surprised, threatened, frightened, the super-secret security people behave as if they know the truth about me: my politics lean to the left.

Nevertheless, this morning, our security scanner at the first checkpoint was barely paying attention to the people. He just waited for the mystery machine of explosive detection to do its thing and then to send us along. He guarded our bags as we waited for a ticketing agent.

What did Dotty do next? She chatted with the security guy.

Dotty: How is your morning?
Security Guy: What? Oh, well. I've been standing here since 4:30 this morning.
D: Oooooh, that's no fun. You seem to be really efficient. And no one's been visibly angry with you. That's unusual. You must do a really good job.
SG: Oh, you guys are the ones who have to stand in line!
D: And you have to listen to us complain.
SG: It's not a problem. There's a clear pathway between my ears [holds index fingers up to each ear] so nothing sticks!
D: That's a good trick! I'd like to learn it, too!
SG: I raised two teenagers, so, you know.
D: How'd they turn out?
SG: Great. One's a teacher and one's a manager in a couple of stores in the area.
D: Sounds like you did a good job, but you know what I really want to meet?
SG: [gives a look like this: ?}
D: Someone who raised a zookeeper or a clown or a lion tamer.
SG: There's a guy here who's a clown. HEY! [he yells to another security guy] WHERE'S RICK?
OtherSG: I don't know; I haven't seen him.
SG: Well, he's a clown. You could meet him.
D: No, no. I want to meet the parents of a clown. That's what I want.
SG: There's Jon, he's pretty goofy. We could get him for you.
D: No, it's their parents.
OSG: Hey, you got a ticket agent there?
SG: No, I don't know where she went.
OSG: Can these guys come down there?
SG: You move over to the next counter.
D: Us?
SG: You.
[Ticketing junk goes on while SG guards bags against tampering]
D: Thanks so much for this. I wish I had something to give you to say thanks. Oh! I have apples. Would you like an apple?
SG: No, that's okay. [chuckle] A cup of decaf would be good…
D: Okay, I'll get you decaf.
[Dotty goes and gets him decaf, gets a stirrer, a creamer, a sugar, and a sugar substitute and brings it back to SG. All while BrilliantEditor stares at Dotty, wondering why the hell she's doing this]
D: Here you go, honey.
SG: Hey, thank you! You're all right!
D: [smiles and walks away]
BE: [looks at Dotty with eyebrows raised]
D: He said thanks and that I was all right.
BE: [smile] I'm glad it isn't a federal offense
D: I needed some absurdity in my morning.
BE: Airports aren't a good place or absurdity these days.
D: I know, sweetie. Thanks for letting me have fun, though.
BE: You are fun.

Then we had some breakfast.

my friend

A friend of mine, MoonDog, from college is getting married. He's just graduated from medical school.

We went to school in North Carolina in a school with a predominantly white student body and faculty, and a predominantly black staff. There was a bit of tension about it. Yeah, just a little.

Thus, it became necessary to deal with this tension in a truly inappropriate way. He just sent me this link and I can imaging us laughing really hard and then feeling really guilty about it.

Nevertheless, we laughed and laughed anyway. I like the link because it makes me feel just as uncomfortable, but I'm in my house. And nobody knows. Except you.

This is the other link that he sent. He absolutely picks the best links. My instructions are these: click on the link, choose "jive", and then put in my address (dottyparker.com, if you've forgotten). You will be astonished by the ease with which I transition from lame, white girl to super cool awesome woman who transcends all colors.

the menagerie

I know that I've written about the animals that inhabit my house. I write about the dogs all the time. I've mentioned snakes, squirrels, mice, bats, and bugs. We had another visit last week! I heard him in the ceiling and wondered how we were getting mice again, when it had been so long since we'd had them.

Well, we weren't getting mice again. It was a bat! In daytime. I think it was getting near to time for him to make his rounds and eat things. This time, instead of Spring alerting me, the ThaiPrincess started shouting, "Dotty! Dotty! Can you come here please? I don't know what to do!"

It wasn't a panic type shout. It was more the kind like, "Hey, can you come here right now because I'm holding shards of very pointy glass and I can't open the door to the cabinet where the trash can is and I think I'm going to cut myself any second, but I little cut wouldn't be too bad, but I really do need you here fairly quicky." You know that kind, right?

She was there laughing a little and freaking out a little with a pillow over her head and arms, and her legs drawn up under her as much as possible. Like a lifeguard in the kiddie pool, I pulled her to the safety of the stairs and closed the curtains that we have there to keep the hot in the winter and the cool in the summer from mixing with the opposite kind of air. (Incidentally, I would quite like to discover a way to bottle the stuff we keep separate. If we could take the freezing cold upstairs winter and let it loose a bit in the downstairs summer, we'd be a lot better off.)

Inside the safety of the curtains, we developed our battle plan. We would open all possible doors (2), get a large box or bag (she got the box, I got the bag), and try to either guide him out of the door by holding up the box or bag in front of him so that his sonar stuff would get all ticked off, or by catching him in the box or bag and letting him loose outside.

We managed, we think, to get him to fly outside. But we didn't see him go. We're still moderately afraid that he's going to come back just to see how scared and surprised we'd be. They're happy bats, the kind that don't bite, but it's so weird to have a flying mouse in the house that I don't really want anymore of them here.

the zoo goes home?

I'm very excited. We're having the house insulated so the bat/mouse/animal problems may decrease significantly! Yeehaw!