Dotty Parker

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

Happy Halloween, to my darling dears.

My dear friend Noam sent my dear pups Halloween costumes! It is a sleepy day for me now. A theme, and a boring one, really, for me these past few days.

Tomorrow will be a busy day as I will complete costumes and breathe and blink my eyes and probably write here and more certainly write at least one email. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry with anticipatory weariness.

Nevertheless, I shall soldier forth and send my warmest and most scary holiday wishes to you.

Here's the scariest thing of all: George W. Bush is still the President.

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeam!

OOOOOOOooooooooooooooooo! Scary scary demon Spring!

Bashful Sprocket? Repentant witch? Wickedness masked by funny teeth?

Sprocket. Model of innocence. A smile so pearly. But, as a canine, doesn't she enjoy rotting flesh and raw meat?

Spring. A witch so powerful, the floor in the background turns to weird shapes and textures!

mrs. parker does it again

Today was the big sewing event. It went pretty well; the disasters from years past were the same size, but since the room was bigger, it wasn't so bad.

Sometimes I think I want to be in charge. I'm convinced that the event would work out much better that way. For example, I'd give people a job to do so that jobs actually got done. And I wouldn't lose the money (three damn years in a row they can't find the bank bag full of cash). This year I decided to empty the cash drawer as the head honchos were doing other things.

I separated the receipts and the money. I closed the bag with the cash in it. Zzzzzzzip. The bag with the receipts wouldn't close so I put rubber bands around it. Boiiing boiing boiing. Then I held it in my hot little hand.

The Model arrived and attempted to take the money. I said "Um, Pollytyranna is the manager. She should really hang onto this so she knows where it is. That way it won't get lost like it did last year."

I didn't say it quite like that. I think I was a snippy bitch, saying something like, "It's Pollytyranna's responsibility. It's her job to keep track of it. She needs to keep it. That way if the damn thing gets lost, we'll know good and well what moron lost it." I didn't say the last part. I think people heard it, though. The women around me groaned, remembering the panic and chaos of last year.

So when Polly shows up, the women around me said to Polly, "Yes, you're the manager. It's your job to take care of this," she rolls her eyes like "Why am I so put upon?!" She takes the money, though. She has now thrown it in a shopping bag that has a bunch of other stuff in it.

So we pack up a van, one SUV, and three cars full of merchandise and junk and fixtures and who the hell knows what. We unpack a van, one SUV, and three cars full of merchandise. Our tiny store has overflowed with baskets, boxes, bins, and, you guessed it, shopping bags.

Guess what Polly and the Model can't find!

The money.

I don't know if they found it because I went home feeling like a vindicated shrew.

But Mrs. Parker would know what to say to them if they came to her to ask if she'd seen the money.

She'd say, "You can take a flying shit on an old grey goose."

How do you like them apples?

And I still think I'd like to be in charge.

whatever floats your boat

We're setting up for an event at work. As always happens with any group I become involved with (I suspect it's different in the armed forces, but I don't want that much organization if it's going to come with such an unpleasant wardrobe.), it's hectic and silly and frustrating and it feels like the balance of labor is unequal and I have to remind myself, "This will be fun!"

Once we got the lifting and sorting and shelving and displaying of many tiny things on peg-hooks, we began stuffing folders (for the second time--we stuffed them with part one yesterday, then today, stuffed them with part two. I don't know why we couldn't have waited.). There were three of us. Me, a lady my mother's age (Shelly), and a lady in her late 60s (incidentally named Mrs. Parker, no relation), I think.

As the chaos swirled around us, and the people in charge changed their minds just one time too many, the lady to my right, Mrs. Parker, said, "Hey, whatever flips your titty."

?
!
?

I've never heard that before. Shelly heard me say it back to Mrs. Parker a few minutes later and shouted in alarm and distaste and amusement, "Dotty!" So I said, "Mrs. Parker taught it to me!" And Shelly said, "How the hell long is this going to go on?"

You know, Shelly, I don't know. These people might, though. I don't know who they are, but they're really cracking me up. I linked to their page, just so you can witness the joy. Friday and Sunday look like the best days.

at home with bellyrub

Since BellyRub moved away to Ohio, it's more difficult for me to get in contact with him right when an idea strikes. Today I had a remnant of a thread of a quote he liked to tell me. I never remembered saying it, but when that happens, it can be a good indicator that I did.

(For example, a friend, Mike, was talking and laughing with me and said, "Are you stupid? Or do you just look funny?" I laughed and laughed, saying, "That's funny! Who said that?" So Mike informed me, "You did, like a minute ago.")

I knew it had to do with old-fashioned games. I have here beside me Kate Greenaway's Book of Games. It is a lovely book with no copyright date that I can find but is certainly a reproduction of an old book. Miss Greenaway did a whole boatload of stuff.

Someone who didn't sign her name gave the book to us in 1983; she wrote inside the cover "To the Parker Children." Little did she know that this was going to be cause for much snickering.

So BellyRub called me back with the scoop on what I was forgetting: BellyRub and I were talking one day when we were wise and adorable children about how much more complicated games have gotten. He was remarking on the amazing power that coffee cans once had. You pop some rope through them and you've got a whole day of stomping around on stilts.

We both nodded sagely; it was now my turn to make a relevant comment on the state of games in our backyard. I said, "Let's play 1800s! I've got a hoop! Let's roll it!"

This has made BellyRub laugh for years. I don't know what happened next since I don't remember saying it, but I'm pretty sure that, in real life, I had no such hoop. Nevertheless, it becomes more and more funny as time marches onward, marching, perhaps, in a way that would suggest it is rolling a hoop.

kate greenaway

I thought I'd share the sweet, sweet joy of some of Kate Greenaway's work with you.

Here is a game entitled, "Hoops"
Hoops
Every child knows, or ought to know, the pleasure of bowling a hoop. What a nice ring there is about it, when on a fine frosty day the juvenile members of the family all turn out with hoops and race along the road.

And idyllic image is evoked until a person realizes that the damn hoops get so cold and the kids get so excited and sweaty that when they pick up their hoop, it sticks to their hands and they have to call the fire department to release them from the frozen hell!

The Angler and the Fish
The players each take the name of a fish; one is blindfolded and stands in the middle of the room singing: "Little fish that come out of the sea, eat the fly that here you see," and he throws out a long string attached to which is an imaginary bait. One of the players, all of whom have in the meantime been moving round the fisher, seizes the line. The fisher has then to guess which fish pulls; if he guesses wrongly, the fish drops the line and they move round as before; if rightly, he must describe his fish-nature, and is then blindfolded in his turn, while the late angler joins the moving players.
It's a weird game. I described it to BellyRub and explained that the most confusing part was the bit about the "fish-nature". I said, "Does it mean that it wants to know its habits and stuff or what it looks like? What's the deal?"

I hear in my ear, "I'm a lake trout. I'm shy, I like to eat shiny things, and I live in 100 feet of water."

It's the shiny things part the kills me. I think that's the new saying.

At Christmas this year, we will say, "I like to eat shiny things. Let's roll them!"

costume fever

BrilliantEditor and I are working on our costumes. I only just figured out what I want to be so I went to the fabric store to pick out a pattern.

Sitting at the pattern table is usually a tiny bit weird in that conversations are always happening around you. This time, though, was weirder than usual. There's usually only one of these categories at a time.

There are the fashionistas who look through pattern books, wear glasses with thick, dark frames, who tend to wear turtleneck sweaters, and speak dismissively of any synthetic fiber. (So why in the world would they shop in that store?)

There are the sewing moms who bring their children with them. During the week, during school hours, anyway, it's babies and toddlers who scream, but tend to stand still. The screaming bothers me, but is generally gone in ten minutes.

There are people who like to sew or are learning to sew. They may or may not have children or grandchildren. They may or may not have an event they're sewing for. It doesn't matter because they look through, get their patterns, put back the ones they don't want, and stack the books back up.

Finally there are the college students who come in for things that they don't know anything about. I don't expect them to know anything, really, but they can be discouragingly ignorant and annoyingly demanding.

On this day of days, the pattern table had two fashionistas chatting with each other quietly.

It had a sewing mom with FIVE little girls. Screaming, yelling, fighting, cranky little girls (and who can blame them? They'd been in the store for nearly an hour) who ran all over the place and a mom who screamed at them and hit them. Not hard, I don't think, but I heard a "smack" noise and then some kind of child noise then the mom said, "You want one, too?" and then another "smack".

They disturbed me.

I was there, and thus disturbed.

But the best was the pair of college students looking for costume patterns. One sewed, one didn't. The one who didn't sew was making all kinds of silly comments like, "Hey, do they sell safety pins here?" and "What is that costume about? Cher meets an alien?"

But my favorite was, "I always thought Raggedy Andy was a fire hydrant."

Your guess is as good as mine, but it's statements like that, boy oh boy, that make my world go round.

[Side note: when I visited Portland, Oregon the radio was generally crappy. The one station I could make myself listen to was this weird talk radio where they had a pretend guest who was aging and tended to say odd things.

My favorite was this: "There are no scissors in the ocean."]

my babies: tim, john, and maybe becky

Ah yes. Those who know of Dotty's antipathy toward children know that it extends almost exclusively to those children who are stupid, whiney, or smell funny.

Mr.Guy has sent me a link to the children I will never have. Someone has already taken these children from my womb. I will allow it, as I don't have much room in the house for children. I do request, to the great gods in the sky, that they send me a Christmas card. A card to entertain me, their intellectual mother.

This mom must admit that Tim is the favorite son with John a close second. I believe they are twins. Here's an excerpt from what they say about Donkey Kong. The entire conversation is much funnier. I encourage you to read it:

Tim: Mario dies way too easy. Oh, grab the umbrella. Those are cool. Unfashionable, gay, but cool. Oh, 300 points. That's it? All you get is points? That's lame. Can't you do something with the umbrella?

Tim: They just put totally random stuff here for points. Oh, you've got an umbrella. You've got a purse.

John: Watch out, Tim—fire. It's smarter than you think.

Tim: It's strange that fire moves in this and has eyes. Oh no, the fire's coming. It's going to eat you. Are these barrels alive, too? Everything's alive. And Donkey Kong's mouth is made of pluses. Look: Plus, plus, plus, minus. They're trying to teach you math by brainwashing you.

This one is about E.T. the video game. Notoriously bad, according to the article, and I must say I agree. Still, though, you can see all three of my children at work here:

John: He put himself inside your body. He bestowed his life force upon you.

Tim: [Points to lava lamp on TV stand] That thing's more interesting.

John: Yeah, let's watch the lamp. It's more fun and less predictable.

Tim: E.T. is unpredictable: You never know when you'll fall into a pit or when a kid is gonna enter your body…I mean use your skin as his own.

Nico: Didn't they bury this game in Mexico or something?

Gordon: Is that a woman?

Becky: It's Zeus. He's taking you away to the Acropolis.

My darling children. Aren't the dear? Nico is definitely welcome over to the house for grilled cheese sandwiches and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese Dinner.

The link that I received came from Mr.Guy, but Mr.Guy received it from a person whose name I don't remember! I mean, I remember his name, but not his Dotty name. Well, for now we'll call him NYAdMan. It's no longer appropriate, and it will certainly change, but we need a name so we can say, "Thank you NYAdMan! I now know where my babies are!"

nyadman
I started a chart for who everybody was here. Shockingly, I didn't keep it up to date. I also have a list of several hundred topics for entries, but as my entries tend to ramble from one topic to another, I didn't keep that up either. Perhaps that's a project for today. Figure out a way to finally get those damned Blogger entries back and then I'll be able to search them with this glorious Movable Type deal.

I bet my children could do it. I'm just a dried up old hag.

Hooray!

interactive games

I've been playing computer games lately. They sometimes have the label "interactive" on them.

Although I'm sure this has been said before, what on earth isn't interactive? Even tv is somewhat interactive--you've got to watch it, choose what you want to watch, choose a volume.

It suggests that games like Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit are also non-interactive, in the computer sort of way. Who picked the word, anyway?

It could, instead, have been called by a different name. It could be called the, "Your attention is constantly required unless you press pause game." Or "Your hand is permanently connected to the mouse button game." Or "This game requires purposeless clicking so that we can justify our really cool radio buttons and dynamic graphics."

Yeah, one of those names might be better. But it probably won't fit on the little pop up menu.

It's too bad, really. That could be a game in itself. You must find the spot on the pop up menu that will reveal the entire name of the game formerly known as interactive.

Developed for NASA

The shopping mall is catching up with tv infomercials at a frightening pace. It seems like one weekend I'm contemplating the purchase of a new teflon coated, folding, heat resistant pancake flapjacker (It folds in half so when one side is done, you can turn the whole pan over, rather than use a turner.) and two weeks later it's there in the "As Seen On TV" endcap in the drug store. I don't have to use the phone or go on line to own my own piece of television. It's right there, as seen on my tv.

Many of these products claim to have been developed for NASA astronauts
I'll buy into that particular misleading fact, but I would think that NASA would demand some kind of royalty payments on their fabulous ideas. So upon reconsidering, I won't buy into it.

I will accept that some of the ideas may have come from NASA. Like the way the movie E.T. came from NASA.

And there's another odd thing: the movie E.T. claims that E.T. is a hard to find little guy, lost in a world too big and too scary for him to survive. But he's in the store too, right next to the As Seen On TV stuff. All kinds of E.T.s.

Tex and Florette kindly invited us out to a party (we left at 8:30. Are we dorks or what?). I had a cold and was thus brain-impaired. We were chatting about the lack of cash flow into NASA, which I'm ambivilant about, I kinda sorta think. Nevertheless, in my foggy haze, I said that it was pretty amazing the number of lab techniques and machinery that was devised by NASA.

Another guy at the table mentioned that it wasn't all NASA inventions. It was the secret, frightening military experiments that gave us all the data for the most part.

Ah, yes. The truth comes out. As Seen On TV, developed by and for the Military Industrial Complex. And probably the Nazis, too.

row your own hoe

I've been reminiscing recently about odd things from years past. They seem to have no connection to each other, except for their oddness. Perhaps there doesn't need to be a connection. The memories just swim together like demented porpoises following a ship of fools.

Today I started saying in my head, "row your own hoe." I was thinking, "hoe your own row" but even in my head the words got a little screwy. I thought, "Why the hell am I talking (to myself) about that?" The answer came a few minutes later.

When we first moved here, I had a series of temp jobs, all of which were predictably bizarre. One of them was at a commercial lab that tested milk, food, grain, hay, feed for their components. I worked in the fiber division. The more interesting was the protein part while the coolest looking was the trace minerals. There was another part, but I didn't work with them, so I can't remember what they did. Maybe carbohydrates or nutrients and vitamins.

It was completely weird. My boss was this very small red haired woman with a wicked temper. In my foolishness, however, I didn't care about her temper and I just laughed thinking it was a joke and teasing her about it. I'm a genius, I tell you.

I sang a song to her on a Thursday like, "Oh, Margie hates Thur-urs-days! I'll tell you why--cause they send us those sample-ays--oh piled high!" It went on like that for a while until a co-worker gave me the eye to shut up. Which I did. Margie wasn't pleased by my song which was composed as I sang it and was very clever, but never said anything to me. Weird.

At lunch, there was a cafeteria room where everybody ate and the tables all had their hierarchy. One woman, we'll call her SciFi sat by herself and wanted to sit by herself and wrote in her spiral bound notebook the whole time.

This lady worked in the dishwashing room with another woman. They shared the job and there was always a kind of ripple of tension from the room because of SciFi's performance. SciFi was developmentally disabled, but did her job pretty well. Where her talents really shone was in complaining.

We used Ball Mason jars for most of the samples. The company was growing--Frito-Lay was using our services (I tested the fiber in Doritos)--and they weren't buying Ball Mason jars as quickly as they could have been. So the cushion of already clean jars was pretty thin. Sometimes we used them up faster than they were cleaned.

Of the many dishwashing scandals to take place at the Dairy Herd Milk Testing Center, I shall set forth a few.

One was the drying problem. The jars had to be perfectly dry or the mass of the sample would be incorrect. I never entered the dishwashing room (one of my wiser moves, I must say) so I don't know how it was set up. But! SciFi apparently knocked over a rack of dry jars. A rack of jars that was needed!

Oh God! Please send us some new Ball Mason jars! The farmers' cows may die if we don't know how many grams of fat and protein are in Doritos or cake mix!

There was some issue of blame and umbrage was taken by SciFi and there was muttering in the cafeteria room that day.

As for the spiral bound notebook: she wrote in it every day. She carried it around with her almost everywhere. One day during lunch a guy, we'll call him Dingo, picked up the notebook and started to read it. Horrified, Miss Dotty came to SciFi's rescue and said, "Don't read that! It's her diary; it's not yours to read!!"

Dingo laughed and said, "It's not her diary, Dot. She's got scripts in here. She writes scripts for Star Trek and sends them in." The rest of the group started filling in details, like what happened when the show changed from The Next Generation to Deep Space Nine and then on to Buck Rogers and then to Star Wars. She kept writing scripts, but we could never determine which set of shows she was writing for.

The whole rowing your own hoe came from SciFi. There was a day when the woman who usually worked in the dishwashing room with her was out for some reason. This meant that SciFi had to get the job done by herself. Admittedly, she had a lot of work to do, but you also have to admit that the woman who didn't show up probably didn't do it out of spite.

So as SciFi walked to the cafeteria room, she could be heard muttering, "I know you want your jars, but there are some people around here who don't hoe their own row."

"What the hell does that mean?" I probably asked Margie (I think we got along okay as long as I wasn't singing to her). She said, "Oh, she thinks that the other gal's not pulling her weight since she isn't here today."

Happily, I got the two explanations I needed. I'd never heard the expression "hoe your own row", and sure didn't know what SciFi was talking about.

Oh, and this--SciFi is the only person who can actually mutter. I've heard cartoon characters do it, but SciFi wins the prize for real live muttering.

So that's where row your own hoe came from. The answer to why it showed up today isn't really in the cards.

sprocket-proof

Since Sprocket learned to climb the stairs (and I must mention in my best "I-told-you-so" voice that I didn't want her to learn) she's become a charming member of the Sleeping Upstairs club. Every night she climbs the stairs and gets in bed with us or in hers on the floor. That's pretty cool. She likes sleeping and that makes it pretty easy to take care of her at night.

During the day, however, she's not so easy to deal with. Sprocket is not evil, but she is insidious. Generally well behaved, she has a penchant for knocking over trash cans and for pulling apart things that are meant to be left together.

Sprocket likes Kleenex. She tears them apart and leaves bits around. If I pick them up and put them back in the trash, she just pulls them back out again.

Is this a problem downstairs, too? Of course it is. The trash cans are higher there, though, and she doesn't have the option of knocking them over.

Then there's the burying problem, which I think I already mentioned. Burying stuff downstairs in a blanket isn't such a big deal. But hauling the same gross, spit-covered, possibly stinking bone up the stairs and trying to hide it under clothes or blankets or some other piece of who knows what lying around on the floor of my room is just unacceptable. Given my method of cleaning (what? there are methods?) I might not find this object until it had grown itself back into the animal it used to be.

Of course, there's the "floor = mine" problem. Anything on the floor is hers. I just leave way too much stuff on the floor. Waaaaay too much stuff. Perhaps Sprocket is here to tell me that. She might be telling me that by stepping on all of it.

If I put the laptop down on the floor or on the bed, she'll walk on it like it's no big deal. Even if I'm working on the laptop she'll step on the keyboard and look at me asking to play. In that case she managed to begin a novel. It would be a novel that started this way: "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaza".

Good start for a small dog.

I must beging to Sprocket-proof the upstairs. She can't get to the cleaning stuff as long as the bathroom closet door is closed (although there's Kleenex nirvana in there) and she doesn't stay in Pat's room for long. So I must learn where to put things that I don't want to get stepped on or ripped up or covered in dog gooey treat residue.

The simplest solution would be to put a gate at the foot of the stairs so she can't come up. The next would be to keep all doors at closed at all times. I'm sure there's another solution in between here, I'm sure, but the next option I see is to find a way to get stuff put away. Find a way to get stuff put away so that it stays away.

Ooooooooh dear. This could take a while. I should thank Sprocket for this kick in the pants, however.

wimpy cough

The cold I've been whining about is still here, outstaying its welcome by quite a few days. Still, it's had the courtesy to give me a present.

I have a little cough.

Some people who have a cold say Cough! Cough!

Other people say COUGH!!!! COUGH!!!

My mom has a cough like the second one. I tell her it sounds like she has tuberculosis and that she might want to get it looked at by a doctor. Someone other than my father, although Dr.Dad is a genius, he's also an eye specialist.

She said she's had chest x-rays and had a physical and everything, and they told her it's just allergies.

So why don't you take something for your allergies, PTAMom?! You sound like a bronchitis factory.

I don't know why. I had some prescribed, but I just really couldn't be bothered.

It irritates the hell out of me. She coughs like a person who is spitting up pieces of lung. Happily she doesn't show them around.

I have a cough like this: (cough cough) with an occasional "cough" thrown in just to mix it up

Now what the hell good is a tiny cough like that? It doesn't spread itself far and wide (the infection I mean). Does it only want to infect people in my home? Does it want to reach my dogs? Lord knows they're hard to convince to stick their noses in gross places or to eat disgusting things. Yes, that must surely be it. The cold wants to reach my dogs who will then pass it on to the flowers and bunnies and falling leaves.

How romantic. (cough cough)

Cold, part two

BrilliantEditor came home from California with a really mean cold. It's malingered. He got the cold on Friday, I believe, and still he's under the tyranny of the Kleenex box.

For our anniversary, he sent me flowers. That was Friday. That was sweet. He's so kind to me that he also brought me a present. He brought me his cold.

I now understand how miserable he must have been out there in California with this cold. It's the same as with every cold, feeling like your head will fall off, but when you're away from home, it's just that much worse.

I had a weird dream last night about being in a mall and needing to go to the hospital for some reason. The weird part of the dream was that I didn't know why I needed to go to the hospital or what to do when I got there. I'm trying to gather meaning from my dream. My best guess is that I need to go to the drug store and don't know what to buy. Alternately, it could mean that I know I've got cold medicine in the kitchen, but don't feel like going down to get it. Even more alternately, it could mean that I'd love to go shopping at a mall, but feel compelled to sit in a cold, sterile hospital room for hours. Still more alternately, it could mean that the penguin display at the mall that I've always wanted to get into so I could skate around on the mirror with them, well, that desire to skate with the penguins who wear hats and scarves would match up with my confusion at the hospital since I don't know how to ice skate well enough to actually manage to keep up with their fleet feet. And the whole idea of me having a cold would go with the penguins living where it's cold. These penguins, anyway. I know there are some tropical-ish penguins out there.

I am struggling to be coherently incoherent. I think I shall stop now and let the snorts of Sprocket lull me to sleep.

costumer to the stars!

I'm working on Halloween costumes. They look better this year than they have in the past, but they still seem to come out oddly. BrilliantEditor's costume has a head that looks more like a many sided polygon rather than the orb of a head a person would expect to be on the top of his body. Ah well. When I have appropriately placed the ears, he might begin to look more normal. For someone wearing a costume, that is.

I can't decide what I'm going to be. I though about going as the mother of the character BrilliantEditor will impersonate, but there's no real picture of her. Besides, I'm not sure I want to spread that kind of bizarre idea around--some kind of unusual role that I'd play in my husband's life? People might get the wrong idea about our relationship.

Which reminds me...in college, I went to a costume party on short notice because a guy's date went AWOL. I can't say that it was the best evening of my life, but I did go to a concert and have dessert OFF CAMPUS and that was pretty cool. I was a freshman, too, so you know they thought I was cute enough to take on a date.

At any rate, the costume that really caused a stir was the combined effect of two people. A guy and a girl (I only remember that his name was Sam) came dressed as S&M sex partners. She had a collar on and a leash, and he was walking her around kind of daring someone to say something.

No one said anything. They and their leash faded into the background when people started disco dancing.

Of course, this whole thing would have been normal at a regular college party. But this party had no alcohol. So no one had clouded judgment. So nothing could account for the suggestive outfit except suggestiveness.

correct on red

When a person planning on turning right arrives at the traffic light and its signal is red, the person must stop. If no traffic is coming, the person may turn right, despite the fact that the light was red.

Right on red.

Today I came up to the intersection where I turn to go home from work. The lights were out and there were two sheriff cars with lights on. The sheriff people were outside of the car directing traffic. My side was stopped.

I could see that there was no traffic coming. My side was stopped, effectively a red light. I was thinking about the situation. Should I go? Can I go? Will I get pulled over? Could they get to their cars fast enough to pull me over? Do they leave their cars running when they have them sitting by the road with lights flashing? If they don't, do police have extra batteries so they don't need to be jump-started by a taxpayer? Wouldn't that be strange? And possibly dangerous in so litigious a culture as mine.

In a shockingly level-headed decision, I decided not to go through the "red light". Still, the question intrigues me. What if I had gone? Would it have been legal? Would I be locked in jail with drug dealers and child abusers and all manner of badly behaved citizens? Would I start a reading program right then and there? "Rosie was here," I'd say. "Are-oh-ess-eye-eee." Oh and here's one we can all related to. 'Officer Troy is an evil bitch.' Notice how the C in Officer sounds like ess."

No. I suspect the sheriff's department would recognize me for the delicate princess I am. They'd keep me in another place, far from these hooligans. They'd probably send me to the Hilton.

hubris

This assumption is, of course, the hubris of the privileged. If I know that, is it still hubris? I bet it is.

In a book I read a few months ago (Sir Dougg purchased this particularly piquant volume for me), entitled The Dreamers, there was a group of people who were on an island that was being taken over by the Germans during World War Two. There were five or six (I am not near the book, but have annotated it [really, I have] for your future enjoyment) people who were all English speakers (if it was good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for us) who were the Resistance on that wee island.

Apparently speaking a language good enough for Jesus goes to their heads and they act thoughtlessly, endangering the careers and safety of people in their village. They assume rules don't apply to them, that they won't be treated like common islanders.

Hubris, my friends. Hubris and folly bring them to an unhappy conclusion that they overestimated the value of being a princess.

the moral of the story
Don't turn right on man. Only turn right on red.

the boy

The boy came home last night. That's BrilliantEditor, I mean. I picked him up at the airport. He has a cold. And it was nearly midnight when we got home. Poor darling.

Spring gave a performance unlike any I have seen before. She gave an interpretive dance accompanied by two full minutes of squealing, squeaking, and nearly supersonic cheers when BrilliantEditor came in the door. My favorite part of the dance was when she ran to him, but his hands were full, so she ran to me, but before I could bend to reach her, she ran to the other side of the room and back again twice. She was really happy.

Sprocket was pretty happy too. She almost wagged her tail off of her butt. His doggies like him a lot.

I was very happy to learn that the boy was coming home yesterday. And a bit nervous. I'd thought he was coming home Tuesday. If I'd had until Tuesday, I'd have had the house a bit cleaner and a Halloween costume project finished. Instead, he came home yesterday so the house can still be cleaner by Tuesday, but I already showed him the Halloween project. We'll see if it fits.

Otherwise, it's mine! Hahahahaha. Then I'll make him one, too, and we can match and be a disgustingly cute couple.

I shall keep you updated on the fitting process.

we'd make great pets

While I waited for my lunch to cook, I watched the secret of NIMH. Mrs.Brisby, the mouse, gets caught in a strainer of some kind and put into a birdcage that hangs from the ceiling.

Of course.

So Mrs.Brisby was this kid's pet.

What kind of pet does a mouse have? I don't think there's a mammal much smaller than a mouse. I don't think so, anyway. So they really couldn't have a mammal for a pet.

Going on to fish and other aquatic creatures. Baby guppies, I guess. But where would they keep them? Brine shrimp are ideal candidates. Although the tank that is sent with the sea monkeys is much too massive for a mouse, I puddle would do nicely.

Now, how about insects? I'm thinking that is going to be the real answer here. Keep in mind that brine shrimp are also arthropods. And isn't that what a bug is?

Perhaps having brine shrimp is like having fish. And having a bug would be like a dog or cat. Cockroaches might be the equivalent of a large, stupid mutt. A flea would be like a Jack Russell terrier.

Maybe it's not fair to compare speculative pets. The mice have no input at all, do they? What about them? What about what they want?

Then again, they might not want pets. They're not really home that much. I should know since they used to scramble through my walls and ceiling. It might not be nice to leave a pet alone all day. My pets don't like it; Spring squeaks when I get back if I've left her for what she deems to be too long.

Imaging the racket the brine shrimp makes when it's unhappy! Did you ever see the movie Splash? Remember when she says what her name is and all the televisions explode? Yeah, that's what the mice would have to deal with. I think it's best for mice not to have pets. At least not the kind that live in my head.

what?

I've just reread yesterday's post, and, although it's clear to me for the most part, I'm unconvinced that it's clear to anyone else. I do apologize.

Ahhhhh. I was tired, you see.

So today I shook it all off and bought myself a wheelbarrow. It's red. I was cutting back lots of plants for winter. Cut down/tore out hostas, peonies, and tomatoes. I cut back the roses, too. Most of them, anyway. And I trimmed back a little bit of the blueberry bushes, but decided that it would be easier with a huge blade, like the Grim Reaper or something. Anyway, the wheelbarrow was quite handy to tote the plant bits up to the compost pile.

At the garage sale we got rid of a lawn cart that we'd had. But then we tried my dad's wheelbarrow and it was oh-so-easy. So we decided to chuck the cart and roll out the barrow.

communities might stink

I had a committee meeting tonight. One or two people were very upset, indeed, about some fiscal policy. They didn't like the wording--thought it sounded insulting and offensive. I'm curious about the possibility of things being insulting and offensive. Seems like in some circles, like maybe some parts of the art world, being offensive is part of the territory and isn't guaranteed to be a universal opinion.

In my committee, being offensive is apparently the jurisdiction of one woman. Perhaps I'm the one offended now. Her opinion was taken for mine.

I'd vote no on that situation, but I don't really have a vote, now do I? (snarky snarky snarky)

I'm curious to know if I'm missing the boat here. Folks get really upset about things at these meetings. They turn colors or start to blink funny or do stuff with their hands or their pens that they didn't do when these hot topics weren't being tossed around. Maybe I wasn't trained well enough as a child. I doubt that's it. I know that I haven't been on the committee very long or as often as I should have been, so maybe my outrage and insultedness will come with time.

(Secretly, however, I don't want it to come at all.)

There are picketers outside the hospital where Mrs.MaryMom is staying. Today was some kind of rallying day. There were lots more picketers today than there had been the two days before. And now they were loud and the cars driving by were honking and people were yelling and whooping. Yes, whooping! That was a scene of outrage. Big, bad, furious outrage. I think outrage is related to being insulted and offended.

What's the historical record in regard to people who express outrage? Do they get things done? Or is it the cool guy who doesn't seem to be bothered by it all? Who has compiled this list? I would suggest that the outraged get more done when they're getting in the way and being a pain in the ass. I would also suggest, however, that the cool guy gets much more done in the end since he can often get it done before the outrage-able people get their outrage-o-meter really cranked up to the insulted mark.

making a list; checking it over and over and over

Making a list; checking it over and over and over

Dotty's in Corning tonight, home of her parents and the parents' of BrilliantEditor. It's always strange to come home, even when you come home on an average of once a month.

I was walking the dogs when two people who used to live in Corning drove by. They moved to Texas at some time when I was in college. Despite the physical distance, they never lost touch with this town.

Yeah, that sounds sweet and nice. It sounds quaint and homey. It is, actually. Keep in mind, though, that most things in this world cut in both directions. So while they didn't lose touch with the town, they also didn't lose touch with the rumor/gossip circle that has a lively business throughout the quaint little town. Furthermore, the business they ran in the rumor/gossip circle was as pervasive and powerful as a chain store in a small town. In an unusual economic turn, however, their chain store led to a richer business for those hometown establlishments that used to exist without such expertise.

So these folks were driving by, saw me walking the dogs, stopped the car next to me, and opened the window to say hello. We said our good afternoons and made the obligatory comments about the dogs, and then it happened.

The driver leaned over and asked, "So your mother-in-law is in the hospital, your husband is on his way to San Francisco, you're here with your father-in-law, and your parents aren't home?" And I said, "Um, yeah, well, BrilliantEditor might be flying into San Francisco, but he's not staying there. He's going to Sebastopol."

And then I explained that I'm a genius because, at times in the past, I suggested that BrilliantEditor have a big sleep over with his co-workers. I even suggested a location.

Of course, one of the activities at this shindig is an overnight at my suggested location!

The passenger in the car said that I should ask for consulting fees. I said that I expected the request would be returned with a large smiley face and a note that said, "You're just full of comical ideas! Keep them coming!"

But how strange is it that people who haven't lived here for at least seven years come back and know everyone's business just like they did before they left?

I believe it's very, very strange. I admire it in a way—the tenacity it takes to maintain all of the necessary connections. Wow.

Nevertheless, I believe I will always be surprised and possibly unnerved when a car pulls up and lists my planned activities for the day.

I only made the plans today.

hospitality

Mrs.MaryMom is in the hospital. I got the phone call this morning from Mr.Simon. It's exceedingly strange to learn of things like this. What can I really do? I can't make her better; I can't make myself less nervous.

So I did what every sane person does. I made the patiend a pillow out of Thai silk. It's very lovely. And I collected DVDs from around the house so that she could enertain herself if she was bored and there was nothing she really felt like doing. And BrilliantEditor picked up some crossword puzzle books. We forgot to bring her candy, though.

I'm exhausted now. I imagine that Mrs.MaryMom is exhausted, too. How strange for me to feel so tired when she's the one who has to be prodded and monitored and stuff like that. Bah. Dotty is weak!

But soon, with the help of my loyal dogs and handsome husband, I shall rise to the highest of heights! I'll fly through the air with the greatest of ease! It's Dotty the champ of the flying trapese!

pocket full of garage for sale

So the garage sale happened Saturday and today. Three people came today. I think we sold them $25 in stuff. Which is good.

We had the sale with our friends. The ThaiPrincess, Florette, and Tex had stuff in the garage sale. We mostly traded stuff. I got an awesome down coat from the ThaiPrincess. I took a vacuum from Florette. Tex bought a remote control car from BrilliantEditor and some kind of Martian gadget. I got a carrying case for chisels which I shall use for knitting needles. I took the most stuff. So I'm not terribly effective at getting rid of stuff.

I had a bunch of fabric and ribbons and books and things for sale. People bought some of it. I don't know what to do with it. Perhaps eBay will set me flying in the direction of wealth and magnificence.

I'll just settle for my own magnificence. I'll give eBay a try, but only for the wealth.

I'm tired now. BrilliantEditor was absolutely right when he said that garage sales have the lowest wages. Ah well. We are lighter by a lot and richer by a not-too-shabby amount and happy because we're still happy little chipmunk-squirrel people.

something like a phenomenon

The garage sale. An amazingly exhausting event. I watched over things that I wanted out of the house, but felt like they had too much value to just give them away. Through the drizzly, rainy, forty degree day, these items started to acquire either a lustre of attractiveness or a tarnish of dislike. Some things could maybe still be useful. Some thing should be simply given away.

But in the end, I'm sending things to the orphanage. I'm sending stuff away that I had once welcomed into my home. I'm sending away things that I had wooed with money and shopping bags. Oh dear me. Every now and then something makes its way up the stairs, back into the pile of things I want to keep.

Maybe next year I'll be able to put it in the garage sale. Maybe next year I'll be as hard-hearted as I have been trying to be. Maybe next year hell will freeze over.

advice on giving commentary

It is only occasionally that I get a comment from someone I don't know.

Recently, however, I got a notification that I'd received a comment.

It was in reference to the self-charging battery issue

I did not know the sender. Here's what it said:

Hi ,
I am not a genius but can provide a solution thro a protype which I am working on the theoritical program on a curcuit yet to be proven and looking for investor to put my work come true
with self charging battery for electrical atomotive .
Your spotlight mention , canyou provide a circiut of it nature and I may help to see if improvement be made to give continuous lighting to your need.
I willing to share with you
I am a singaporean and read on metallurgyas a subject in my secod degree and post research for PHD.

I've read a letter like this before. It was hanging in the lab where I worked as an undergrad. It wasn't just like this, but there it was, very similar. It was a request to work with someone. The phrasing of the request would make a person unlikely to choose the correspondant.

So I ask myself, "Is this a joke? Did someone put a search into google about perpetual motion or something? Should I spend time researching who this person is? Should I not giggle a little bit? Am I unappreciative of the Singaporean situation? What is the Singaporean situation? Who named them Singaporeans?"

I think that their new name should be Singaporingles. That's much snappier.

life lessons writ on poster board in smelly marker
I shall have to tell you of my garage sale. I shall have to tell you about how it goes. I shall have to tell you of my extraordinary life lessons from the garage sale. It has to do with stuff, having too much, and then getting rid of it and feeling guilty about having it in the first place.

So I may as well tell you what I've learned so far. I have waaaaaaay too much stuff. As I've gone through and sorted what I do and do not want, I can't believe how much I've apparently wanted in the past. Holy shnikies I have a lot of stuff.

But my big life lesson comes now: even if I feel guilty about having spent money on stuff in the past, there's no way to get the cash back now. So I need to just get over it. Cut my losses and move on. Can't fix the past, but I surely can be more free of it in the future: free of the guilt and of the stuff.

Oh, I'm so motivational, I might have a tear in my eye! How in the world can I be so brilliant! Maybe I could write for the Reader's Digest or, mmm, maybe Woman's Day. I could even sell one of those tiny books that are at the check out at the grocery store! Here'd be the lineup, right above the batteries, razor blades, and gum: How to Read Palms by Griselda Moonpie; Winning Back the Man of Your Dreams by DeJa Vu; Forget Him, Don't Regret Him by Dotty Parker; Eat Right for Your Shoe Size by Pia Bunion.

I'm going to be rich.

We're going to live like KINGS!

let me give you some advice

I have a terrifying habit of giving advice. If I meet Jesus, I bet I'll give him advice. Something like, "You totally kicked the shit out of those money changers. That's not very Christian, is it? Maybe you could have just doused them in old loaves and fishes? Or turned the other cheek?"

And Jesus might say, "You know, that's very interesting advice. Here's some of mine." And he will promptly kick the shit out of me.

I'm writing to Erotica with a bunch of advice about family junk. I'm trying to help her understand the dynamic that surrounds her and her situation out there in Cleave-Land, O-Hell-o. My email to her grows longer and longer. It seems to wander around through waters, once clearing, that I have re-muddied with my well-meaning boots.

I've re-read my email a number of times (entitled "yo!"), but since it's my advice, most of it seems like genius and the rest like necessary explication. Ironically, the advice I'm giving her goes something like this:

You're the one who's important here. No matter what they say or do, in the end, it's your opinion and it's your life. You never signed a contract with them.

Having stated that relatively succinctly, I should explain that I did not take that approach in the email I will shortly send to her.

When I was in grammar school, I wasn't very talkative. I was talkative before that and as far as I can remember, after that. I certainly am now.

I've tried not talking before. In classes in college I would write at the top of the page, "SHUT UP" or "QUIET" and eventually, "Q". The Q days were those when there were people sitting close to me.

When I was studying later on, I'd see those little notes to myself and then on later pages notes to other people. I think I just couldn't stay quiet that long.

So Erotica gets to read my nattering while I sit and ponder, "Perhaps advice is part of my charm."

Just like the nattering?