Dotty Parker

insulation station

The fellows from Performance Integration Something or Other have been here for over a week. They don't entirely hate us. Just mostly.

We've been very nice to them, but the house has been extra naughty. When the sub-contractor came to blow in high density insulation, he huffed and he puffed and blew two holes in the walls. The regular contractor fixed them.

So after two wall perforations, the sub-contractor decided to call it a day. That's what the guys today, the contractors, were here doing: they were blowing in the insulation with a machine that did not make holes in the wall. They filled in the places which were missed by the pokey-jabby machine big bad wolf.

To find the place where the last guys left off has been a royal pain. Yesterday, from 10:30 to 3:30 there were pounding hammers, drills, wrenching, wood-breaking sounds. At 2:30 I was close to freaking out. Whoa. It was too much noise.

Today was much quieter. The sound was more like a big vacuum that is far away.

These poor darlings. They started working in August when it was hot as hell--working exclusively inside. In the attic. Now that it's the end of September, it's getting chilly. Why, the frost is nigh on the pumpkin! And they're working exclusively outside!

These poor darlings.

But truly, and sadly, I grow weary of cellulose on my nasturtiums. These are very sweet people. So sweet that the dogs really like them. Both dogs really like them. They're cool, their job is ecologically sound, and they work really hard. But can't they go away? Or work when I'm not here? Or provide some kind of earmuffs and tranquilizer gift pack?

No. I suppose not.

My dog kicks ass

Spring kicks ass. She's incredibly ferocious and fierce about defending her territory. With all this fierceness, I should be glad that we don't live in a litigious society! Oh, golly, what a relief.

If we were living in a place that was very happy to have people sue on another, we might have to put up a "Beware of Dog" sign. Thank heaven that people around here are so courteous when rabid dogs snatch a meaty chunk from their calf. (They are named calves, you know.)

So back to my ass-kicking dog. And back to reality. We do, in fact, have a "Beware of Dog" sign. It's goofy and it has this silly font that looks like it should be for bubble gum or marshmallows. Or those soap foam things for kids where they have the cartoon characters on the top. There's a picture soon.

We kind of let the sign tip over. It's little, we don't always need it, we're slackers. So it's upside down. And a delivery man came who's never been here before. He obviously didn't see the sign since the important message was underneath (I'm assuming he doesn't have x-ray vision).

BrilliantEditor hops out the door to catch the delivery guy before he makes it to the back stairs. He does, indeed, make it just in time. He explains to the guy that we have a sign, but it's fallen down. We shall be more dutiful in the future.

I'm sure the fellow thinks we're full of nonsense and other things.

So BrilliantEditor has the sign in his hand, as he was just showing delivery man. He turned around and there was Spring. Since BrilliantEditor was unwilling to relinquish the delivery, he was holding it up by his chest. His other hand, the one containing the sign, was lower.

So Spring sprung into action.

Our homeowner's insurance covers dog bites. Just in case you were concerned.

passionate fruits

I went to the grocery store today. I wanted to buy some grapes. I was looking at the really dark grapes, the "black globe grapes" to see if they were seedless.

Indeed, they were seedless. So I checked the price, being penny-wise and pound-foolish. Alas, these lovely grapes were $1.99 per pound while the others ranged from $.99-$1.49.

Nevertheless, let it not be said that a penny-wise girl can't learn something worth far, far more the pennies she'd saved.

This grocery store has descriptions of their produce items under the prices. Under red delicious apples, for instance, it might say, "Crisp, sweet, unsuitable for cooking." Under roma tomatoes it could say, "Also called plum tomatoes. Sweeter than most tomatoes."

But guess what the grapes' announcement said. "These particular grapes are seedless, so they are guaranteed to be delicious."

Well! I would have been excited and skipping around the store except that I didn't understand how the state of being seedless automatically led to the state of being delicious. I still don't understand.

I think I need to spend either more or less time at the grocery store.

And the grocery store had changed it's hours to 24 hours a day. They had these little, red, sticky-out-y things that had the number 24 in white. Now that I think about it, I don't know if they have a web site where you can order stuff or if the store really has changed their hours.

Note to people responsible for little red signs: I only saw the 24.

colder

I didn't write yesterday because my cold was worse. It was officially a cold yesterday because my voice sounded funny. It is officially a cold today because my mom asked, over the phone, if I had a cold.

But I'm getting better. Of course I am. I may not have accomplished any large project, but I got lots of small ones done. Check me out.

I made lunch for BrilliantEditor and took it to him when he was outside putting tarry junk on the driveway. I cleaned Spring's ears. I decided where to put my garden path and where to move the roses that grow but are eaten in their current locale. I did one and a half loads of laundry. Half: The dogs' toys are sopping wet in the washing machine. I'm glad there's a window. Then they can play games like, "I spy with my little eye". They can also plot ways to escape. But they're wet and much heavier than they're used to being. I'm betting they're going to get caught.

Every time I get an ailment, I'm always a little kooky about it. I say out loud that everything's fine, that it's just a cold. But inside I wonder if it's malaria or carpal tunnel syndrome or hemophilia. Then I drink some Echinacea tea and I'm all better.

I may have to go find some more things to quietly worry about. They're the interesting bit of having a cold.

cold

Dotty has a cold. My ears feel weird and I'm all tippy. I guess it's like being drunk, except that I'm not drinking alcohol, can't taste much, could legally drive a car, truck, or boat, and am not drunk. It's the last one that's getting in the way, you see.

Even though I'm sick, and I usually watch movies, I didn't watch this movie today (should I say "film" perhaps I should. Or "talkie". That'd be a retro-reference from the early twentieth century. 23 skiddoo!). I watched it Sunday, I think.

It's The Little Foxes. Aside from having Dorothy Parker as a contributing writer, it's crazy-intense. There were three scenes that were overwhelming. Still it was the same old story--good versus evil. At least I think it's an old story.

I suppose it sets up an argument about what it takes to win or maybe what it means to win or if winning has any merit at all.

Do not fret, my darlings, for Dotty, of course, has all the answers.

This was one of my favorite games to play in English class in college. The professor would be making a point about how a person's death emphasizes virtue. If she'd been less virtuous, she might have lived, but it would have been a dismal existance.

OK, yeah, whatever. Virtue does no good when you're dead. In class I suggested that we read it from a modern point of view so that we might see that, although our values are different, we all want to win.

He didn't really like that. He said we weren't reading it from a modern point of view. Instead, we would read it as it was meant to be read. That's what makes great literature: the enduring quality of logical fallacies and our complete inability to see ourselves reflected within it.

Why am I babbling? I'm not sure, but it probably has to do with me having a cold. But see the movie. Bette Davis is amazing. I betcha you'll recognize people from someplace in your life. (If you don't recognize anybody I'd love it if you lend me the map to Oz or where ever you came from. I must visit.)

This is the cover on the photoplay you've got to see:

tape-recorded junk

I bought a voice recorder and it uses normal tapes. Of course this makes it much heavier than the tiny voice recorders, but hey, it's cheap, it's easy to find more blank things to record upon. And I learned something fabulous and new (new to me).

There's a new way to open cassette tapes.

Oh yes indeedy, a whole new way. In the past, there had been a lie, a printed lie! A lie printed on plastic wrap, no less! That's like a sacred document. You see the US constitution under glass, filled with nitrogen or something (maybe they need to clean off the windows so folks can read it. Somehow I feel betrayed by my own government.) to keep it safe so it won't degrade. But hey, who are we kidding. This plastic isn't going to degrade. Neither is the writing which is, no doubt, printed with petroleum-based ink.

The old lie said, "Open Here." Okay, but how? There wasn't really a flap. It looked like a tab that's on a pack of gum, but it didn't work like that. It either snapped before you could pull it, or it was sealed under the plastic that said, "Open Here."

But! My darlings hang on to your socks or hats or whatever may be knocked or blown off by this astonishing phenomenon.

There's a new way to open cassette tapes.

I can't help repeating myself; I'm so excited! The tab that exists now is actually accessible! And it works! You tug on it, like a post-it, and magic happens! It opens! Oh, God and baby Jesus, a miracle has occurred and we thank both of your holy names! Who's the patron saint of cassettes? I know Cecelia, or is it Celia, I guess I don't know, is the patron saint of music, but this is a blank tape we're talking about here. No music! Meant for voice, and not necessarily singing (although none can deny the musical magical sound of my voice. I charm the birds right out of the trees. I had one peck at my head anyway.)

So happy am I to have found the glory of the equivalent of easy-open aspirin. Oh yes, no more opening with teeth or knives (never at the same time).

Oh happy day!

happy, inspiring pictures

congratulations? ah. sigh.

I saw my friend Deb today at work. She came in and was talking about her daughter—18, pregnant, moved out of the house, has her parents paying the bills, and doesn't know who the father is (there's no way she came from this mom). I've heard the story before, but it continues to get better. How could it not?

I turned to wave to her, as I was teaching a class, and her eyes lit up and she had this big smile on her face. She mouthed the words, "Congratulations!"

I was intrigued. Had I won the lottery and not found out about it? I took a step toward her and she mouthed, "You're pregnant?" She made the little rounded belly sign. I just said, "Oh, no no no, I'm not." I tempered my surprise by reminding myself that just wondered the same thing about her. She said, "Sorry, you turned and I saw the shirt." I laughed and said, "Oh, I understand. It's funny!"

And it is funny. It's funny for a thousand reasons, but maybe it's getting less funny. I have put the shirt into the give-away pile, where it should have been a long time ago. It's ironic that the mistake should happen with this shirt. This is a shirt where I whine and complain to myself, "This outfit makes me look fat! I mean, I don't look fat, I look pregnant!"

Well, now I have proof that I'm not always wrong. For that, I'll take congratulations.

I shall add a picture of a few shirts that are similar. There's gathering just below the bust line and, on my shirt, another slight gather about five inches below that. So maybe I looked like a pregnant Michelin tire man. But here you go.

da girl from da school

I knew it would happen one day. I did know it. I knew that it would happen when I least expected it, in a way that I would not have anticipated. I didn't know it would happen now.

I got the stupid alumni magazine from my university (go Wake Forest! Woo Hoo!). Generally speaking, this goes right into the recycling, but this time, because I was eating my lunch or procrastinating or something at the table where my mail arrives, I was reading the back of the magazine where they list accomplishments of people who have sent their accomplishments to the Alumni Office.

Usually it's marriages and babies and big, fancy jobs. Sometimes it's a job that doesn't sound so fancy, but I guess the person must be really proud of it. Most of the time, I don't know a single person in there.

This time, though, I knew somebody. Not only did I know somebody, but I had a class with her. Not only did I have a class with her, but she wrote a book about that class. Not only did she write a book, but she's completely and totally annoying. In my opinion, of course. I'm sure she's perfectly nice, but not necessarily to me.

DaGirl FromDaSchool is her name. She wrote a book called My Teacher, My Secret Paranoid Fear
That
She Will Find Me and Beat Me Up. It sort of has a web site www.mtma.net

I shall reprint the copy describing the book right here:

Erudition is a process. What is learned in the present often has more meaning during your life experiences, which have yet to come. Candid and concise, My Teacher, My Secret Paranoid Fear
That
She Will Find Me and Beat Me Up illustrates this point.
The book begins with a description of the author’s initial encounter with college teaching. Abridged excerpts from the author’s learning journal, while under the tutelage of Professor Angelou, then follow. At the end, a personal Learning Journal is included for the reader. Explicit suggestions are given to initiate the reflection and writing process.
Adapted from the educational diary of a former student, this book is evocative and refined, a poignant narrative of few words and high impact. Celebrate and share the pleasure that evolves through learning and self discovery.
Yeah. I will bet you a bajillion dollars that she wrote this herself. Now, let's read the preview of the text, shall we?

Free Preview:
Indeed, it was that first day of my initial encounter with college teaching when her words finally resonated within my psyche. I recall how she spoke them with fervor and quiet fortitude: I am a human being, nothing human is alien to me. Attributing the phrase to Plubius Terentius Afer, a former slave in the ancient Roman Empire, she explained that beyond our differences, there are human conditions that affect us all.

Contentment

Love

Greed

Envy

Anger

Fear

Atonement

Desire for Liberation.

Oh, I think she might have forgotten a few. Hmm, perhaps I should drop in a snide listing of my own. But I'm already so close to reaching the end of the road to hell, that I might need to take the old musical tacit approach. Perhaps I should be inspired that she tried to list the many facets of the human condition(s). Perhaps I should be. But I'm not.

This girl was legendary. Everybody knew who she was. She made speeches in every dormitory on campus. She alienated the listeners in every dormitory on campus. In a residence hall thing I attended to please my resident advisor, she began by saying, "Good evening, everyone!" When we murmured back "Good evening." She said, "Now! We can do better than that! Good evening, everyone!" (Have you read the latest Harry Potter book? Sound a little like Dolores Umbridge?) Later that same hubris filled evening she said she had visited "the Côte d'Ivoire, or Ivory Coast to you." Ah ha! That's what that meant all those times I thought they were using a secret language!

How silly is it of me to still be irritated with this woman for something she didn't really do? Pretty damn silly. She was just being herself. I was the one who took it as a personal offense. As I said, it's pretty damn silly of me. But then she's pretty damn silly, too.

She shared a politics class with a friend of mine. They had some kind of presentation to do about something, I don't know what. The important thing is that it was a normal presentation. Just words, maybe a diagram or a slide. But DaGirl had bigger plans.

She did an interpretive dance.

No words, though I suspect it had a title probably including the word diaspora, just dancing. My friend's imitation of her interpretation was incredibly funny to spiteful old me. It was a kind of choreographed upright epilepsy, the imitation was. I'm still staggered thinking about someone doing an interpretive dance in a class like that. Imagine me getting up in front of my cellular biology class and saying, "My presentation concerns the Krebs Cycle. Please view my interpretive dance with an open mind." Then I'd have to go wheeling around the room taking people's hats and giving to someone else from whom I would steal a pen and so on.

But I think maybe I'm just amazed that this person continues to be so amazingly bizarre.

Because I'm perfectly normal.

a lumber-jill

BrilliantEditor taught me how to use the chainsaw today. It's not as much fun as it is scary. Nevertheless, I strode forward into the great big School of Lumberjack girded in ear protection, safety goggles, and chaps. (Chaps! Can you believe it? If I had my druthers, they'd be tanned leather with the side buckles riveted onto the legs and a belt buckle that has some kind of bucking bronco on it. In this case, they're black nylon with plastic snappy-clips, but I'm on my way to greatness boys and girls.)

Since I live in the sticks, it may not be surprising that we have a chainsaw and that I'm learning to use it. Indeed, it probably should not be. But I shocked myself today with my behavior. A lumberjack I will never be, lacking certain equipment that is not issued via the usual channels, but a lumberjill, well, given my behavior today, the prospects look dim.

You see, I have this thing about wet invertebrates. Worms, slugs, grubs, larvae--anything squishy and wriggly gives me a major case of the heebie jeebies. I'm sure there are a few other things, but I'll leave it at that since I have to go to sleep soon.

I was out in the yard doing some pruning and trying to get ready to do the fall's mulching that I didn't get to in the spring or summer. I had my little pruning shears and my little red garden clogs that, at $7.99, were irresistible to me at my local Agway. So la la la, I'm out pruning and pulling and I'm standing by the roses and I'm pulling up the touch-me-nots and something very cold and slimy lands in my clog. My clog! Heavens to Betsy!

I look down, trying to reassure myself that it's a bit of root or a dirt clod in my clog. But no!

It was a big, juicy, overgrown, rain fattened, clog-loving earthworm! Gross!

So, being the strong, brave, forceful person that I am I said, "oooooh! Eee! No! oh gross! Ahh! Nmnnmm! Blehh! Eww eww eww! Ughhhhhhhh!"

That is a rough transliteration of my series of half-screams. In the process of this aria, I managed to de-clog my tootsie and run, with one shoe on, into the house where I could panic quietly without having to see grasses that looked like snakes, twigs that looked like worms, or slugs that looked like, well, slugs.

Maybe ten minutes after my pansy-banshee call, BrilliantEditor came out of his office to ask if I'd like to learn to use the chainsaw. Of course I would! But I'd only be nice about it if he would go get my shoe.

I watched from the kitchen window as my hero valiantly fought his way through the labyrinth of pulled weeds and snipped branches. He encountered my shoe, and with bravery heretofore unknown to mortal man, picked up the shoe, looked inside, shook out a mammoth worm, and brought the shoe back to me.

True love bears such things.

And still he taught me how to run the chainsaw. Oh yeah. Lumberjill, meet Dotty.

a cliché by any other name

I've already mentioned how much I don't like being a tourist when people all around me, people who are truly annoying, are tourists. I suppose it is also true that I don't like being reminded how human I am and prone to ill judgment when I've been critcizing people around me for being the same way.

And now I find, unsurprisingly, but disappointlingly, that after my vacation, I need a vacation to recover. Of course the entire world knows that it happens, needing a day to relax and nap and stretch arms out wide in a space that's familiar and calming. And now I find, unsurprisingly as well, that I've been telling myself that I do not, in fact, need a vacation from my vacation when, you guessed it, I do.

I really am trying to be a sport and do my best to do my non-strenuous work. Nevertheless, my true identity as a delicate flower, prone to shrinking/wilting/powdery milder, is coming out to remind me to play more gently in the future. Yes, that's what it's saying. As best as I can tell.

a rose by any other name

BrilliantEditor and I are on vacation in Bar Harbor, Maine. The licence plates here have "Vacationland" written right on them. And who can argue with a licence plate?

We've been doing very Maine-like things. We've walked around the very cute town, visited the national park a few times. We've been to a museum of crafts of the Native Americans of Maine where we saw beautiful baskets of every imaginable variet, and some unimagined. There was a dog bed, for example.

That would be a lucky dog, indeed.

Of course, since we are vacationing with BrilliantEditor's family, we've had a series of fine meals and adventures. In four days we’ve been whale watching, seen the top of the highest peak on the eastern seaboard, gone on a carriage ride on property that used to belong to John D. Rockefeller, Jr., visited two bookstores, and eaten at four (soon to be five) restaurants. And I've tasted two blueberry pies and consumed a large quantity of Maine blueberries (the little tiny kind).

Maine's really beautiful. I like it here very much. It's beginning to feel very much like autumn, however. More than at home. And that makes me a little blue. I always feel a little blue when I realize that I couldn't really enjoy living someplace.

But I must confess that the blues are offset by the irritated reds. How can there be so many barely mobile old people in one place? A tiny town with about seven blocks of stuff to see plus a few water-front activities is overrun by hundreds of old people and young people and tourists of every shape and size (though noteably of one color—white, if you couldn't guess).

Yes, and the irony of my irritableness is that I am, of course, a tourist.

I put myself on a higher shelf than these goons, these t-shirt purchasing, moose-worshiping, fudge-eating gawkers. I am no goon! I purchase books, not t-shirts! I only adore moose! I eat real food!

And yet, I am a tourist.

preservatives

So I live in hippie-town USA. It's certainly one of the hippie-towns. You can still see rainbow painted VW buses. Barefoot people are commonly spotted. A little whiff of marijuana can be detected every now and then. People live in communes. Yes! More than one commune is here.

One of the women from my class yesterday is in one. She's really nice. Her group stands for creating economic justice throughout the world. I wonder if some of them will be going to Cancun for the WTO meeting. I'd give odds that they are.

What this all means, as far as relevance to me, is that there's plenty of hippie-food to go around. All kinds of vegetarian nonsense. There's the really dedicated to vegetarianism kind of food like textured vegetable protein and seitan and many millions of kinds of kelp, seaweed, and marine bits. Then there's the semi-dedicated stuff like tofu and chocolate-flavored soy milk and non-animal tested bath products. The final vegetarian category is the kind of "just getting my toes wet" variety. Pizza without pepperoni, a turkey sandwich instead of a huge hamburger, veggie Chik'n Chunx, tofurkey.

The next category of hippie-food makes me smile. I suspect I fall in here somewhere. It's not about vegetarianism. It's about health. That's what we say. My older brother, BrotherLove, says it's food of the Bourgeoisie, but since knowing that word would make him a part of it, he says, "Bouj" (pronouncing just the first syllable of the word.).

So, with Bouj food, I and my compatriots eat meat that has been raised on mostly organic food. Our hamburgers were fed grass, not grain. Our chickens were free-range. Our bacon has no nitrates. We eat fresh eggs, preferably eggs that are local and really preferably the ones with brown shells, since anyone can get the white kind. Our milk should be hormone free (ours isn't). We should only use paper bags (we use plastic, too). Our clothes should be made of natural fibers (who has time to iron?). And preservatives are bad bad bad.

So you can see where some of these ideas begin to fall apart after a while. The effort of going to the hippie grocery store, not to mention the cost, has us running secretly to the big, well lighted, super-fresh smelling food store that sells things like candy bars, real chocolate, non-carob candy bars.

Now what the hell is my point? Here it is:

Natural food is messy.

We buy bread that has no preservatives. And then it grows mold before we can eat it. Now how earth-friendly is it of me to waste all that bread?

I bought doggie treats, Mr.Pugsly treats, at the hippie grocery store downtown. Normally I don't buy hippie dog treats because the dogs don't care and, no matter what anyone says, dogs neither feel better about themselves when they are nor care to be a vegetarian.

So I bought these things on the way to visit my parents at the lake. Sprocket was looking like she was going to barf, and giving her treats helps to settle her stomach. (She didn't like these kind, though. What a silly dog with good taste.)

So Spring won't eat them. Sprocket had grown to like them. You can imagine that we didn't go through them very quickly. Just today I got out some of the treats to fill up a Kong so Sprocket would stop googling her eyes at me and just chew on something. As I was shoving the treats into the Kong, though, the damnable treats began crumbling in my hands! And! There were little squirmy bug things in there! Ewwwwwwww.

So gross gross gross. This has never happened with any other box of dog treats. We've had dog treats for longer than this, and it's never happened.

I attribute it to the preservatives. No preservative dog treats=unpredictable organisms in my dog's food. No preservative bread=before I can eat my bread, I've got a mold farm.

I am advocating preservatives. Yes, that's right. I'm not going so far as to say that Twinkies or any other kind of preservative filled snacks are the way of the future, but do consider that preservatives may have been invented for a reason.

So champion the use of sodium benzoate!
Cheer for potassium sorbate!
Sing a little song for preservatives that make the big, wide world go round.
(Hey, think about irradiating your fruits at low doses, too. It could be a good thing. Not so many fruit flies.)

don't cry for me meg and tina

I was talking with Mr.Guy on the phone today. He has just returned from a safari trip to little-kid land. These little ladies were funny, frisky, and fancy.

They were also a pain in the neck.

We'll call the little girls Meg and Tina. Meg is younger. Tina is older. Neither one is in kindergarten yet, so they're pretty young. Meg and Tina can do some cute things. They can avoid logic on purpose--

T: "I want some candy!"
MG: "Didn't you already have some candy today?"
T: "No."
MG: "Didn't you have a lollipop? Aren't lollipops candy?"
T: "No. They're lollipops."
MG: "Aren't they just candy on a stick?"
T: "No. They're made of sticky, yummy, lollipop stuff."
MG: "And that's candy."
T: "Um, can we have a popsicle for breakfast?"

Now, I'll admit that I've stuck two conversations together. Nevertheless, I believe it conveys the craftiness of youth these days.

Meg and Tina also did a special trick for Mr.Guy. They'd spit at him. Yep. That's the thing. To express distrust, distaste, distain, and a lack of distance, a wee spot of spit came flying in his direction.

I must tell you, Mr.Guy was unamused. I believe he has attributed much of this behavior to the consumption of sugar packets, but I'm of the opinion that they are spitting cobras waiting for their chance to break free. (The kids have a membership to the zoo, for crying out loud. What more proof do you need?)

When Mr.Guy got on the plane to leave town, I suspect there was a small sigh of relief at knowing that soon his clothing would be spit-free and that the illogical behavior of others will be so toweringly absurd, that lollipops would seem hardly worth arguing over.

Upon Mr.Guy's return, his sweetheart called to tell him that Meg and Tina had been crying all the way home, wishing that Mr.Guy was still with them.

A touching a moving sentiment, I suppose, but I think I'd sing them this song from Evita:

Don't cry for me, Meg and Tina!
In my heart, I'm glad I left you.
All through those wild days,
Your spitty hijinx,
I'm going home now!
You keep your distance.

That's just the famous part. There's more, but really, when you get down to it, there's not much more to say.

self-charging battery phenomenon

There is a phenomenon whose reach encompasses far more than its name would indicate.

The self-charging battery phenomenon also appears as the turn it off and wait a second phenomenon, the I think it's sun spotsphenomenon, the it just worked, try it again phenomenon, and lastly, the let's try again in the morning phenomenon.

Certainly there are events in our lives where these phenomena are present. My computer often behaves better after I've restarted it. It might be my imagination, but it seems even happier if it's been off for at least a couple of minutes. I imagine that it's gathering together the powerful forces of nature I'd released previously.

There was a time when sun spots were interfering with electrical who knows what, but somehow it seemed that sun spots were an oft-used explanation when the more likely one would have been the You don't know what you're doing and have really bad luck phenomenon.

I have a magic little light that I use to read books after BrilliantEditor has toddled off to dream land. Most of the time it's plugged into the wall. But there are sometimes, when we're on vacation, for example, when it runs on batteries.

When those batteries begin to lose their power, there's maybe a five-minute window in which the light gets progressively dimmer. I like this. It's better than the lights that get dimmer very slowly so before you know what's going on, you're squinting and trying to find out why the bed's so uncomfortable and then the next morning you realize that there was shoe under your pillow and you'd been wrapped up in the sheets like a mummy.

Nevertheless, because I'm clever, I read feverishly until the light goes out. I might have finished the chapter in time, but hey, luck's running so well, why stop now? Go right on to the next one.

So I turn off the little light. I wait. Then I turn it back on. And it works! Only for a few seconds, but it does work. It works enough to put my book down and find my water glass. I can find my vitamins, even. Or allergy medication.

Still, it does work. The battery has self-charged. It doesn't work for long, but it does work. And why?

I have no idea. I just know it's a very nice thing for batteries to do for us. And, as Labor Day has just come and gone, I say that we should all say thank you to our batteries and ask if they'll share their self-charging secrets.