Dotty Parker

eyelashes

BrilliantEditor and I spent yesterday looking after a woman with Alzheimers. She was really easy to care for. Mostly I made her food and helped her to the bathroom. Pretty easy. She just sits and watches tv.

At first I thought maybe she was bored, but later that day, when I handed her a napking and she said, "Now, what do I do with this?" and I said, "Wipe your face and hands," I figured maybe sitting there was what she wanted to do.

This lady, we'll call her Momma, knew what food she liked, but not when to use the bathroom. She didn't know the names of the people she lived with. She called them The Man, The Lady, and The Pretty Girl. But she knew the names of the dogs. She knew how many kids she has, but couldn't identify them. She seemed always semi-surprised to see me. When I went to the other room to get some work done, I'd come back in and she would look at me as if, "I expected to see someone come in here sometime, but I don't think I expected it to be you."

I was going to write about this yesterday, but on the way home, I discovered that I could feel my eyelashes touching. Each time I blinked, and I recognized each time blinking occurred, I could feel my top eyelashes touching my bottom eyelashes. I felt so tired. Generally when I feel that tired, I shuffle off to bed. This time, though, it wasn't possible. I had no bed to shuffle off to.

BrilliantEditor was a real trouper. He came to the house and stayed with her alone while I went to teach a class. I knew he was getting a little wigged out when he called to ask if I was on my way yet. I was just started to get on my way so he had to wait an hour. He made her lunch, though. He's a sweetie.

Spending time with people who are getting pretty old makes me think about dying--like if I really want to. Maybe I'll start working in the lab again and try to make some kind of miracle potion that I'll share only with people I've liked for a year or more (fewer mistakes that way. Who wants an ass around for eternity?). The miracle potion, much like the magic of the philosopher's stone, would give eternal life for as long as the person took it.

But then I'd have to face whether or not I was qualified to make that decision any more. If I started taking the potion in my sixties, would my brain stay sharp and alert? If I started taking the potion in my eighties, when some of my reasoning had started to slip and my body had started to revolt against me, would I stay in slippage like that forever? And if I was staying like that forever, would there come a time when I would no longer want to be that way? Would I just stop taking my magic potion?

Or what if I got Alzheimers disease. If I forgot to take my potion for a day, would my disease progress further? If I forgot semi-regularly, would I just keep aging slowly? And with Alzheimers I wouldn't know, would I? No, I would not.

So it brings me, and with this kind of brilliant, insightful, and rigorous reasoning I'm sure it brings you too, to the question of, "What if I do get Alzheimers? What would I want to do?"

Yes, indeed, what if I do get Alzheimers?

a clever plan

I'm voting "no" on the whole Alzheimers thing. I'm not sure what I would want to have done with me if I did get it. Would I want my family to take care of me in their home? Should I go to a place where nurses watch me and take care of me? I could go with PTAMom's answer: "Give me a poison pill, if I don't have my faculties and can't take care of myself."

My brothers are appalled by her wish. Perhaps they should be. But my father and I, we joke about the fiendish plan. But the plan is elusive. How to do we it without getting caught? Is there any possible way? That, my friends, is a mystery.

But to have a plan is, in itself, a good plan. We need something quite clever. Dr.Dad should be in the CIA or FBI or mafia or something. Then we'd know what to do.

So I can pretty much reveale that I don't really want to live my life not knowing when to pee or what to do with a napkin, I've decided that it doesn't actually matter. It won't be my decision anymore. When I get to be that age, I'll have decided and made some kind of arrangement, perhaps, or perhaps I won't have. But it will be out of my hands, anyway.

I'm going to hope that whenever senility becomes manifest, I'll be very strange, indeed, whatever state I'm in. When demensia kicks in, maybe I'll always think I'm in Disneyworld. That would be weird and kind of funny. I'd shout, "Goddammit, Pluto. Get your ass over here! I'm sick of waiting for you. It's time for the Haunted Mansion, for Chrissake." Then I'd lean over to my caretaker and say, "He's only a dog, what the hell does he know. But I've been teaching him to garden. And look at the place! It's beautiful here."

Oh yeah. That could be good. I might even try to adopt those "It's a Small World" people.

pharmaceutical grade results

Okay, so maybe I didn't get to the ass-kicking that I promised. I do have some ass-kicking to do. I acknowledge that.

But please share in my victory. By force of will and telekinesis, this is what happened to arrive in my mailbox today:

Dear PrecisionRx Web User:

After receiving feedback from our web users, we have been working to make PrecisionRx.com easier for you to use. One of the most common requests received was to allow members to create their own user name and password. We are pleased to announce that this option is now available to you.

Talk about superpower! I'm amazing. So now I have less ammunition in my arsenal. That's a good thing. It's better to be focused, I believe, in a skirmish such as this. Get what you need, and get out. That's right.

In much the same way as the famous Operation Iraqi Liberation.

Pharmaceutical grade bullshit

I have to go to the drugstore now and then to pick up a prescription or a refill. Today, my doctor called in a revised prescription—the dosage went from two pills a day to three. So, if you're a math person and do the massive calculations, your mathematical wizardry will show you that it makes me run out of my prescription faster.

That's why I had the doctor call the pharmacy. They would then understand that I needed more drugs and they would pay for them.

But no. Despite the fact that I explained to the pharmacist, who is only doing her job but has pissed me off so many times before, about the mathematical intricacies, she could not fill my prescription using my health insurance.

So I paid my fifty dollars and some cents to get a month's worth of drugs. There are other drugs that would have run into one or two hundred dollars. I'm glad this is a cheaper one. Bastards. Health care blows.

The way things proceed from here is that I call my insurance company, explain what happened, send or fax (they don't usually accept faxes) my receipt for my drugs along with the form I need to fill out, and wait until it's convenient for them to pay me back.

Although I'm irritated about this, I'm going to take advantage of the fact that I'll have a human being on the phone. I plan to tell them about the multiple mistakes with prescription drugs. I'll tell them that the pharmacy they recommend using, the one I mail my prescriptions to, have given me a user name and password that has little to do with my name and no opportunity to change the super-secret code non-word that they sent (which, for your enjoyment and delight, is this: g689q22335). The very same pharmacy has a ridiculous automated phone system. I'll also mention that there were some doctor visits that they neglected to pay for and that their notification system is really confusing at times.

You know what? I'm much more angry than I thought I was. I'm really really angry, in fact. I ought to calm down before I go to bed. But I'll store it up in case I need it on the phone tomorrow.

Yes, oh yes indeedy.

And I have good insurance.

thinkin' 'bout hitler

I was talking to Mr. Guy a few weeks ago and out of my mouth came some weird sort of analogy involving Hitler.

Of course, any analogy involving Hitler is going to be overwrought and inappropriate and ineffectual. So I apologized to Mr. Guy. It's not fair to bring it into the conversation and it's just plain dumb since there are few things in this world that equal the moral and psychological alarm bells like comparing a situation to one in which Hitler had a part.

And so I decided that maybe it was time to change all of that. No, I will not attempt to change the man's character. What I will do, however, is bring to light a long forgotten individual. Hitler's Bear Friday.

Bear Friday can be seen in this picture standing near Mr. Hitler. We could hold Bear Friday accountable for all the dastardly deeds that took place due to the commands of Mr. Hitler. We could curse Bear Friday for not interceding and taking care of giving peace a chance and all that.

But Bear Friday is in the unique position of being a current version of posterity. What the hell am I talking about? Bear Friday watched what was happening, was detached enough to make his own judgments, and yet could do nothing. He couldn't speak since his mouth was sewn in such a way that it could never open. He had poseable arms, but they were not his to pose. (He had been visited by the Wizard of Oz, however, and had been given a brain, a heart, and courage.)

Thus, I bring to you, Hitler's Bear Friday. Hitler's bosom buddy, his pal, his friend indeed. And now, when you feel the pull to compare something you're discussing to events surrounding or involving Hitler, you might be able to soften your analogy so that the scale is more suitable to your life.

You might be able to say, "Yes, but as Hitler's Bear Friday might have pointed out to you, eliminating only certain kinds of weeds can lead to a revolt in many unexpected and seemingly undisturbed locations. Always be careful of monoculture."

See how easy it is now? The name of Hitler just glides off the tongue without all the weight and drama that genocide brings with it. What a glorious relief!

(By the way, I heard Pol Pot had a giraffe toy. I might have to search for a photo of that, too.)

recently discovered art

a pic-a-nic basket

Went to a picnic with BrilliantEditor, Tex, and Florette. It was a sort-of reunion for the business course that Tex and I took. The picnic was a success. Everyone brought food to eat (except BE and me) and there was much mixing and chatting among the different classes that had happened in different locations and at different times.

I met many fascinating people. There was a woman who was recently impregnated, in the last three or four months, who is raising chickens for eggs. They are free range, organic chickens with well-balanced chakras whose eggs maintain all of the same qualities. The local grocery co-op (there's a pun in there--chicken co-op or chicken coop, oh! I'm just too funny!) has agreed to buy all of her eggs and sell them in the store. She was going to try duck egg farming, but her husband is allergic to duck eggs. Ix-nay on the Ucks-day.

There was a friend of a student there. She lives in Boston these days with the Air Force band. She plays the bassoon. How cool is that? No one plays the bassoon. Except her. She asked what name I would give her and my quick answer was "BassoonBabe". Now, however, I am thinking better of it. I think La Bassoonista would be much better.

Of course, I do have something to complain about. Who would I be if I didn't complain? That is, of course, a question for another day. BUT!

Although I am certain that I am one of them, people who talk too loudly bother me. I think my ears are still ringing with "authoritative" commentary and long-winded story telling. It is very much not good. I vote no on the loud talking. Especially when there are other people around.

Oh, yeah, another complaint. I was teaching a class this morning and I kept getting interrupted by a co-worker. Her behavior was so strange that I started wondering if she'd taken drugs. One of my other co-workers actually asked her. (She said she doesn't do drugs.) She was hyper and telling odd stories and not doing her work and not listening.

She was telling my students, in the middle of one of my sentences, about the quilt project she was going to make for her sister. Then there was the speech about embroidering (this wasn't an embroidery class) Brad Pitt's or Mel Gibson's chest onto something.

What the hell was that all about?

So at the end of class I asked that she save the things she wanted to say for our breaks since when she talked in the middle of my class it was distracting for me.

My heart was beating kind of fast and I was really nervous. I guess I was afraid she'd start crying or that I'd be scolded for being too mean. But she just said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt you. Thanks for telling me. Did I tell you about doing my boyfriend's laundry? I left his socks and underwear wadded up in a ball. They weren't even dry! Hahahahahaha."

The only reason my heart was racing at that point was that I was completely mystified. I had an urge to draw a moustache on her face with the magic marker she must have been sniffing. Weird!

got to try to wash my hair

Have you heard of the tired out excuse and possibly never used excuse, "No, I can't go. I've got to wash my hair." We think it's nonsense. What in the world could cause the hair washing process to take so long?

Well, hang on to your shower caps, and listen to this.

I was washing my hair last night. It was kind of tangled because I'd been swimming in the lake and that tends to happen to me and my hair. It's an easy problem to solve, though. I need only wash and condition my tresses to return to the glorious swish of unmanageability that is my hair style.

There I am, washing my hair, but it doesn't feel any cleaner. In fact, it kind of feels like I've made it dirtier, as if there's more oil in it or something.

Obeying the laws printed on the side of bottles, and going from memory about this particular law, I rinsed and repeated. Once again, it wasn't feeling cleaner, but it did feel softer and the tangles started loosening. So I figured one more time would loosen the rest of them and it would have to be getting cleaner. I'd just go on to the conditioner and perhaps that would make it all work out.

So I picked up the bottle of conditioner and, guess what! It wasn't conditioner at all. It was shampoo. Suddenly it all made sense.

I was kind of laughing at myself while I was actually succeeding in washing my hair because I believe there is a family tendency to misinterpret the whole shampoo versus conditioner issue.

Here's the scoop:

BellyRub worked at the Poo Factory for a while. The Poo Factory bottled shampoo and conditioner and moisturizer (you get the idea) for hotels and companies. When the packaging wasn't just right, the product was discarded and the employees could take it home. (I've got a lifetime supply of Jet-Dry for my dishwasher and enough bars of tiny soap to have 100 gnomes for an overnight and a shower and still be able to have some soap of my own, too.)

BellyRub brought the soap and moisturizer and goodies out to family functions. The most prized goodies were the full-sized products. To get a whole bottle of liquid soap was cool. A whole bunch of whole bottles was even cooler.

BellyRub brought home these full-sized Head and Shoulders tubes. My mom collected them up and one was in the shower. Dr.Dad got in the shower to wash his hair. He used the full-sized Head and Shoulders stuff.

He'd been using the stuff for about a week when he mentioned to PTAMom, "You know, that Head and Shoulders shampoo that BellyRub brought home just doesn't foam." Here's where you should look for the family resemblance.

It wasn't shampoo. It was conditioner.

The real mystery is why it was in the shower anyway. My father doesn't use conditioner.

Nevertheless, it always makes BellyRub and me laugh when we say to each other for whatever reason, "You know, it just doesn't foam."

asbestos and dog abatement

Spring and Sprocket are upstairs with me right now. The door is closed so Spring can't get out and the stairs remain in place so Sprocket still can't go down them.

The asbestos abatement crew is here. The dogs had been shouting at them for only five minutes, but it was irritating the hell out of me. I've brought them upstairs (well, bribed them upstairs) with a pig ear and the promise of my glorious companionship. The bark less when they can't see the bark-inducement.

We shall see how strong a lure my companionship is once the pig ears have been consumed.

In the paperwork we signed to agree to pay this many dollars and cents, it never said "removal". It always said "abatement". Does that mean that there will always be some asbestos there? Or is it the promise that they're getting rid of it but not all of it can be gotten rid of?

Thus, with the dogs barking like mad little things that bark, I brought them upstairs and locked them in the bedroom with me. I emailed BrilliantEditor to ask for two dog chews and some breakfast. Perhaps I'm on to something here. Dog barking abatement, asbestos abatement, canine boredom abatement, and Dotty's hunger abatement.

evil Santa

Work on the house begins tomorrow. It makes me feel nervous. I feel like I'm hosting a dinner party or something. I must have the house clean (I must have the space cleared of everything). The food should be well thought out in advance (Scheduling needs to be done carefully). I need to be prepared for contingencies (I need to be able to leave the house for 24 hours at a day's notice). I've been preparing for weeks (I've been preparing for weeks).

It's a very strange feeling being excited about having the house fixed up and anxious that something's going to go wrong. It's like waiting for Christmas and hoping that this Santa will leave presents instead of taking them.

Just for future reference, if the house falls down, we got the bad Santa.

the light nazi

Have I told you that BrilliantEditor affectionately calls me the Light Nazi? I'm kind of cuckoo about making sure that lights are off when I leave the room. I also turn off the lights if someone else has left them on. I turn them off if the sun comes out and the lights are redundant. I turn them out in half the room if only one half is being used.

I also turn them off when BrilliantEditor is in the basement being quiet (oops). They go back on when I hear him say, "Hey! What about me?"

On the other hand, I know it isn't that dark without the big light on. There's a little light that's on all the time (which is allowed since it keeps the dehumidifier from freezing) and the little light is enough to load the washer, right?

I have radar feet, of course.

Still, I can see how some of these behaviors might be interpreted as slightly neurotic. Charmingly neurotic, of course.

But I have earned a new name. I am now called the Freeze Nazi. I turn the air conditioners off compulsively. Because it's been so incredibly hot, we've got the air conditioners on in whatever room we happen to be in. Of course, I demand that the air conditioner will be turned off upon exiting the room.

BrilliantEditor is less tolerant of this form of fascism. He actually likes it cold. The really cold cold, he likes that stuff. Weeks and weeks of snow are cool with him. He likes the kind of weather that brings Jack Frost to the window to do his frosty sketching. He likes it when the sketching stays in place.

But me, I like it warm. Not hot, no, hot is sticky and stifling. But warm is nice.

So you can imagine what the Freeze Nazi has to say about the thermostat setting. It's something like, "70 is too low. 75 is fine." The he hears *beep beep beep beep beep* as I turn it up. I'll come back in the room to find it at 73. Fine. I need to share nicely.

(Incidentally, I had been calling 75 a compromise since I would have it at 77, if I had my way.)

But! I think I have pushed him too far. Now he's confusing me.

Check out these mind control tactics.

He had the air conditioning on in our bedroom.

He wasn't going to bed yet!

But it was set at 75.

What's going on with that?

It reminds me of the movie A Year Without a Santa Claus. There were two brothers in it whose pictures are herein contained.

H=P+D

Humor equals pain plus distance. Thus, watching slapstick comedy is funny because the pain isn't yours and maybe you don't believe it's real. But you won't know because it's far away from you.

SuperMarkAdMan told me about that. He said that's the old definition. The new definition is "off beat and quirky". It's really quite a lot to be both. Someone who is quirky seems to march to his own drummer, thus being entirely on beat. Someone who's off beat just somehow is different and weird. They aren't mutually exclusive, but if you're talking about a brief advertisement, you can't get those subtleties across. I say pick a word, and stick with it.

I've been thinking about how I don't write some of the stories in my head because they just aren't entertaining. They're the kinds of things that people really don't want to hear about. Not really. At least I don’t like to hear about those things. I don't watch many reality shows (although I'll admit to watching "Last Comic Standing"). We sit and watch people get humiliated and it's entertainment.

Not in Dotty's world, buddy.

I advocate strong family values, high moral fiber (it's good for your colon and your soul). And maybe a corporate sponsorship.

But to get back to H=P+D, the stories that I omit (and despite rumors to the contrary, I do leave some things out) are kind of getting funny over time. The problem is that they still sound a little bit tragic, a little bit too uncomfortable to be "quirky" or "off beat". So I want to know how long it takes for things that might be a little bit painful to get funny.

Example: In kindergarten we did a Christmas play. There were a few kids in the official play, and the rest of us sat on the steps that led up to the stage. The kid who played Santa (also in kindergarten) looked older than he was. So he got the part of the dad who was pretending to be Santa. He did his excellent job as Dad and so when he turned into Santa walked on stage saying, "Merry Christmas!" it should have been magical! But his beard had come off most of the way and the entire audience started laughing. He made a big, "huuuuuuuh!" sound and had a goofy shocked look on his fact. The teacher pulled him offstage and rearranged his face (ha ha ha). He was a trouper and came back out and did his show.

Did it bother him? I don't know. But if it did, I would bet that by now he's gotten over it and he could tell the story and think it was pretty funny. That's twenty-something years of distance.

Example: When I was a little girl, I was trying out new words. So when I was really angry with BellyRub I shouted into the other room something like, "Bring me the toy since it's fuck mine anyway?!"

It wasn't funny when my father yelled in a quavering voice, "Dooooooooottttty, what did you say?" But now it's very funny. Very funny indeed. Bad language and poor grammar. Ief they culd see me know.

There are, of course, a thousand more. The ones I can think of today are mostly the ones that aren't funny yet. Some are on the cusp of funny. I've got two that are damn funny, but I'm not sure about their appropriateness. Some of the people in my wedding party heard about it and through their giggles and snorts said, "Why didn't you tell us?! That's great!" I was embarrassed, but quietly pleased that the story would one day be funny.

Or maybe we were drunk.

So maybe the equation needs a substance impairment coefficient.

H=P+D

Now that I look at the equation carefully, I'm convinced that it would have to be significantly more complex as there would be diminishing returns and possibly a constant in there to account for generational rediscovery etcera.

So I can't place the coefficient. But I know it's in there. Maybe just tacking it on to the beginning so it's X*H=P+D would work. The drunker the funnier. Maybe. Am I babbling?

You bet your boots.

What will the christians think of next?

BrilliantEditor and I were watching a movie tonight. At the end of the movie an ad came on television. It was a movie about a dog named Quigley. Quigley is a fluffy, white pomeranian. Gary Busey is in this movie. If you don't know Gary Busey, he's a kook. He acts crazy and quite possibly is crazy.

So when the ad came on and it was all silly and saying things like "moral values" and "Gary Busey is a white, fluffy Pomeranian who has died and now must go back and make things right" I thought it was a joke.

On the commercial they're offering a DVD for sale, then they sweeten the deal with a Quigley stuffed toy. The family indicates that it's their new favorite. At the bottom of the screen it says something about non-toxic materials. You also get a full-size color poster advertising the movie. And an activity pack which has a coloring book and a bunch of crayons called Quigley Colors.

Then they said, "2 easy payments of 14.95!" I thought it had to be a joke. But there was a website. http://www.quigleythemovie.com.

If you go to the website, you can watch a version of this commercial under TV special. Also sneak a peak at the movie trailer. This is totally freaky! I think I might need to watch this movie. I'm going to look on NetFlix and HollywoodVideo sites to see if they carry it. I don't want to get put on the FBI's list of weird-o people who purchase Christian videos and belong to left wing organizations, so I won't buy it. Plus it's thirty dollars. For a one-time viewing? It needs to come with popcorn and treats.

Old man, look at my life. You're a lot like I am.

I met a man tonight who is 77 years old. He had been married for more than fifty years. His wife had Parkinson's for 20 years. She needed nearly constant medical care for five years. He was the care. For the last eight months of her life, she couldn't speak. And he was there all the time.

He has since married again. His wife was there at the class I was teaching. He'd come along to make sure he knew about the machine as well. I told him that if he got bossy, he would have to work on his own at the other end of the table.

At the end of class, the other woman in the class started asking them questions. His new wife is his old sister-in-law. They've been friends for as long as he had previously been married. His new wife was the matron of honor at his wedding fifty some years ago. And the old wife's brother was the new wife's ex-husband. She divorced the old husband.

Then the other woman in class asked, "Do you work out?" And he stood up a little straighter and pulled in his belly and said that he never stops moving all day long. Always busy, that's him.

And yet somehow, it seemed like he was talking about virility. It was that way he stood up and pulled in his belly. The way he said, "biologically, I'm closer to thirty." If he looked thirty, I could understand what he meant. But he looked older than thirty. So what biological function would he be talking about with me? Colon health? Possibly heart function. Joint mobility? No way. He was talking about virility. And especially after the other woman in class asked if he worked out, well now really.

So, being who I am, I said what was on my mind. "Honey, looks like you married a stud!"

And she said, "You're telling me?" Then she smiled and winked.

I laughed and turned bright red, I'm sure. I love being me. Even if it's embarrassing, it's pretty fun.

Skyhooks and stinky cabbage

As most of you know, I talk about our house as if it is a burden with infrequent but overwhelming delights. Recently, BrilliantEditor found a skyhook in the basement. Shocking, I know. No one ever finds them. Not even for sale at full price.

But there it was. We've used it to lift up a fully-grown tree and plant it somewhere else. We've hung from it ourselves and swung around, feeling more free than we ever have before. I also managed to get a view of my front yard from thirty feet up. A ladder could never do that. It wouldn't be stable. But a skyhook, a hook that hangs on a cloud or a breeze, now that's a useful article.

Why was he in the basement searching around for things? Because I detect the phantom smell of damp cabbage. It's actually the smell of mold which lives on cabbage. (It really does, I swear. It's natural and normal and it smells like cabbage. Gross.) The mold must be growing in our basement. When we had the great flood down the stairs, some of the water leaked under the garage door. Since it's been so humid and rainy it just hasn't had the opportunity to dry out. Let's add in the difficulty of having a little stream flowing through the basement, and it looks to me like the basement's not going to dry out any time soon.

So. Now I have all kind of phantom smells in my nose. These are not phantom vanilla fragrance or Coco Chanel perfume or some kind of enticing boy-smell. Nope. I've got stinky cabbage, wet dog, smelly garbage smells that I detect all over the place now. In the grocery store, at work, in my car, on my clothes. Even clothes that are certainly clean. But then again, the washing machine and dryer are in the basement…

So what's the big plan? Ask the rain to stop for a while. Please, rain, stop for a little while.

Canada. It's a whole other country.

There are ads on tv about Texas being "a whole other country." It seems to me that it should say, "a whole 'nother country." That's just what it seems like people in Texas would say. I betcha it seems that way to Tex as well, perhaps Florette, as well. In fact, I seem to remember him saying it that way. Then he said, "I'll tell you what" and later that night, "Do what?"

I would expect Texas to be like living in an entirely different country. I'm sure I've written about this all before, but my expectations of Texas need to be entered into the record once again so that I may make clear my expectation that Canada is not another country. In fact, Canada has become, in my irritatingly American mind, a bit of an extention of the United States. It's not all that hard to get into, you don't really need a passport. You do need an ID and some people are barred from entry. I guess Canada is like a huge bar with the same kind of arbitrary rules for entry that other bars and pubs and restaurants might have. It's just a truly enormous bar. And large parts of it are empty.

Having been in Montreal for the past five days, I feel a little like I've been smacked in the head. "Hello!" says Montreal. "You're not in Kansas anymore. In fact, you're not even in the same country!"

What? I'm not? I'm not, indeed. Although all around me I hear people speaking French, American English, British English, and I've heard bits of Japanese and Korean, I feel incredibly self-conscious of my American accent and my utter lack of French except that I can say that I don't speak French while speaking French. (My pronounciation of croissant has improved substantially as well.)

So, perhaps I could assume that the only reason this part of Canada doesn't feel like the US is that it speaks French.

But no! I would be incorrect! I was in Toronto last year and Ottawa not too long ago. Even then I knew I wasn't at home. Sure they have prettier money, but the coins look roughly the same as ours. It's something I can't put my finger on. Not even my little finger. Maybe they're polite in a different way. More like saying, "sorry about that, must be my fault" rather than, "oh man, does that suck or what?" Or maybe it's that they really are another country.

I just don't know. I felt obviously out of place in England. They drove on the wrong side of the street and everything. And some people spoke in so strange an accent that I had to remember what I'd learned in the My Fair Lady movie to understand even a little bit.

In France they had tiny cars and lots of things were really old, older than I'd ever see in the U.S. Oh yeah, and there was this Eiffel Tower you could see from everywhere. And public displays of affection were everywhere as well. Here in Montreal, too. And the little dogs followed people around even when they weren't on leashes.

But I'm rambling. More than usual, even. I think I have lots to say since I haven't said anything in a week or so.

So here I am in a whole other country, puzzling over what seems so different, and thinking about my puppies, so far away, and oh, so sad.

the nature of things, stuff, and other very impressive sounding phenomena

BellyRub moved to Cleveland, Ohio yesterday.

Our baby's all grown up!

It was a stressful day, yesterday was. Erotica lost her wallet. She and I went out to look for it at KMart where she assumed she'd left it. It wasn't there. We looked everywhere and couldn't find it. They left without it.

She and my Mom had switched cars a few weeks before all of this. Erotica had been driving PTAMom's car when she went to KMart. They switched back before they left for Cleveland. As PTAMom and Dr.Dad drove home, Dad driving behing Mom, it looked to Dr.Dad as if PTAMom had hit something and it had gone to the side of the road. Dr.Dad stopped the car and walked over to what "looked like a wallet".

There was Erotica's wallet. We presume it had been on top of the car the whole time. We even drove that car back to KMart to look for the wallet. None of us saw it. Six of us! None of us saw it. Good thing Dr.Dad was on the watch, though.

Erotica had tucked a diamond into the change purse of her wallet. Well, don't you have a diamond in your wallet? No? She'd been having trouble with her wedding rings and after months of arguing with the jeweler, they gave her satisfactory rings and a new diamond in the ring and, I guess, the old diamond back.

She remembered that the diamond was in her wallet as we were eating pizza for lunch on the floor. She all of a sudden said, "Oh! The diamond was in there, too!" BellyRub said, "In the future, when you remember those things, don't tell me. Okay? Just don't tell me."

those people aren't real

Her brother wasn't there yesterday as we loaded boxes into the truck, but I had seen him the night before. Erotica's going away party with people from her work was last night. She'd asked BrilliantEditor and me to come by, kind of to make sure someone would be there.

She didn't have to worry as most of her workplace showed up. Everybody was having a good time, including her brother. BrilliantEditor and I left about two hours after we'd gotten there. We were tired and stuff, so we said thank you and waved goodbye and shuffled on home.

I guess things were fine for a while. But then Erotica's brother began behaving badly. He got in an argument with one of her coworkers. His behavior got much worse. Erotica had to leave her party early because his behavior was embarassing to her and she didn't want him there anymore.

So normally, believe it or not, I wouldn't mention this. I think it's rude of me to mention it now, but I've got some questions. Lots of questions. Questions that make it hard to sleep.

Her brother has been badly behaved, and that's a euphemism, for quite some time. She continues to bring him places, however, and like a scientist doing behavioral studies, he is a pleasant companion just often enough to make a person think that maybe everything is different now.

Everything isn't different, though. It never is for very long, anyway. There are brief bits of politeness and gentlenss, the kind that draw me in to believing him, that somehow he is changed, a new man, he's beaten this thing that's been creating so much havoc all around him. He's mastered that whatever it is that makes bad things happen.

And then, in a way that feels like hitting my head against a wall, I learn that he hasn't changed at all.

What the hell am I babbling about here? I really feel like for the first time I know what it's like to completely not believe someone. No matter what he says, I'm looking for the translation. I'm looking to see what he's hiding or avoiding or if there even is a grain of truth. I don't believe anything about him.

And I wonder how many other people are out there who I shouldn't believe. I wonder if it matters, really. What percentage of the population that I deal with behave in this way?

If I were a prison guard I'd expect most people to be shifting any story in their direction, if not just lying. But I'm more like some suburban woman in a grocery store, minus the kids. I look like I could be one; people ask me quite often if I have children; they want me to have children; they think it would be fun if I had a minivan; they can see me with one of those cute, kid-friendly shopping carts with the plastic car for the kid to drive while I shop for organic applesauce and stoneground graham crackers sweetened with honey and fairly traded spices.

How many people do I deal with each day should I not trust? It's completely freaking me out that there really are people like that out there. I don't know what the hell I thought before, I guess that they had some shred of decency left in them that would give them a pang of forethought before they did their nasty things. Maybe they'd only behave badly when there was no one to see, when they couldn't be held accountable. They'd do bad things only when it was conveniently hidden from the world.

It's completely absurd, of course. That would be my version of breaking the law. I'd do bad things only when no one was looking and no one I knew was around. I'd make sure that no children were nearby to be emotionally scarred. I'd be a literacy volunteer to make up for my sins. I'd drive at the speed limit to make up for my transgressions.

I can't particularly think of any transgressions that appeal to me right now, but I'm sure I could think of something compelling. Perhaps I could stand behind a screen and hold onto some illegal substance and put it in my pocket and walk around in possession. Then I'd go back home and put it away to save for another day when I wanted to be bad.

The problem with that is that I'd be making a silent statement about the inherent non-threatening nature of a drug. I'd be saying that it's the fear, the enforcement, the concealment that leads to violence and huge amount of money and danger. Yeah, there'd still be crack addicts stealing stupid stuff, but maybe, whatever. It'd be a statement. In my book that makes it some kind of civil disobedience rather than just mischief for mischief's sake.

I'm not going to understand this. Maybe I shouldn't try. Maybe maybe maybe a whole bunch of things, but I think I'll stick to what I've been doing. I say with some twisted pride that I didn't trust her brother when I met him. It helped that he threatened to hit me, that did tip me off, but I wouldn't have trusted him anyway. Hooray for me! Able to spot the naughty people at only three yards.

you can get anything you want

at Alice's Internet Restaurant.

I've been looking for a new dog bed for Spring. The vet says she might have hip dysplasia and that, aside from surgery, a new bed would be great for her.

So what kind of bed? An orthopedic bed, of course. Egg crate is good, he said, as it creates no pressure points. A water bed is good, too.

A water bed for the dogs! Ooooh, would they love it? I don't know. But I ordered one. Sort of.

I looked quite a lot to find what the doc was talking about. Finally I found this one. It's a canine cooler bed!

Spring gets really hot under her fur coat (and she won't take it off) and I've determined that if she weren't so hot, she might sit still and if she sat still on a bed that's good for her joints, too, well, then, hey. It might be a good thing.

I'm a little concerned about the fact that it isn't either a water bed or an egg crate foam thing. But I have much faith in this bed. I don't know why, but I do. Perhaps it's the weeping customer testimonial.

Nevertheless, I'm irritated that the internet promises that I can buy anything I want. Yet I couldn't find my doggie a waterbed. I looked at the other eggcrate foam beds, but figured Dr.Dad could get some eggcrate foam if he tried. I guess they throw it away at the hospital. He doesn't do surgery there anymore, but he's got friends. Oh yeah, he's got friends in all kinds of places. It might be time to cash in a favor.

Thus, in my irritation, I started thinking, "I could get anything I wanted at Alice's Restaurant. So why doesn't she open an internet cafe?"

Then I decided to look and see if she had. Well, I found it. But how disappointing!

It's a family friendly site.

Bah.

She says, "Note: Net links can disappear faster than kids at bath-time!"

Bah.

Then there's this notice, "Note: While a sincere effort has been made to ensure that every resource listed here is safe and family-friendly, there's no substitute for any child's Number One Friend - the grown-up in his/her life! Besides, Surfing the Web is never more fun than when you Surf together!"

Surf together? How does a person surf with another person? All kinds of random clicking takes place when people surf. At least when this people surfs. Which She doesn't do. Not really. Directed surfing. Surfing with a destination. It's not like I swim out and then randomly surf home. No. That's not how I do it.

Actually, I don't even care to know how a person surfs with another person. I'd rather remain an ignoramus.

cardinal sin
There is a cardinal who must be addicted to some wacky substance. It seems like every day he crashes into our windows while peeping or twee-ing constantly. He looks healthy, good color and all, but what the hell? Why's he doing this thing?

I've even stuck papers on the windows and hung our decorative hanging things, like ornaments and stained glass stuff. And he's still banging away into the windows. Repeatedly.

Oh! So happy. I think he went off to get drunk somewhere else. Poor addicted darling.

Oh! Another thing to be so happy about. Since I've said "addicted" and "drunk"
and "hell" I am officially not family-friendly. Yahoo!

And I just saw a hummingbird go by the window where the cardinal crashes. Hummingbirds must be smarter than cardinals. They must be drug-free.