Dotty Parker

visions of school

I'm very good at getting myself all wrapped up and twisted around and nervous and worried. I'm doing my best to not do it right now. After all, it doesn't really matter, does it?

I've been making the Christmas and Kwanzaa decorations for Alternatives Federal Credit Union. I like them, but I'm not sure anyone else will. I guess that wet, cold, bare branches just don't do it for everyone. But they're surely my favorites. I did embellish them with tiny rodent bones and bat skulls. What could be more festive?

I've also got a class tomorrow morning. So I feel like I have school tomorrow and then I have all these crazy commitments afterward. I feel like I have a chemistry test, an English essay, a doctor appointment in the afternoon, and then play practice at night. Whoa! So very much to do.

And now, before I sleep, before I dream dreams of week long sporting events consisting of much commentary and a vaguely distracting group of silly people acting in a sporty way, I must go and clean my teeth. My mother says that you should never forget your gums, by the way. So don't forget to floss. Yes.

Goodnight, my darlings. Be good at school.

a girl thing, maybe

I went to a hockey game tonight with BellyRub, Erotica, BrilliantEditor, Dr.Dad, and PTAMom. I always have a hard time paying attention to sporting events of any kind. It's no help when they're live. I still don't really feel like working so hard at figuring out where the desired projectile lives. I don't care much about the history of the statistics or whose number was retired or any of that junk. Sometimes I care about personalities of individuals, but I suspect I'm much more interesting to myself than any sweaty, testosterone filled, safety padded stink bomb could possibly be. I'm simply fascinating and am very rarely a stink bomb who is sweaty and testosterone filled and safety padded. So I'm head and shoulders above any athlete as far as conversation goes. I'm a veritable gold mine of conversation. I could be my own sports team.

But I stray from the topic at hand.

I've bought into the conventional wisdom that girls don't like sports so much. I've extended it to include this rule: if a girl is interested in sports, her brothers must also be interested in sports. It stands to reason, does it not?

Well, my darlings, I've found the exception that proves the rule. This evening Cornell was nearly scored upon by Mercyhurst. We're cheering for Cornell: BellyRub went to Mercyhurst for a semester of hellacious evil. He then transferred to Cornell via a series of calculated steps. Thus, we have collectively earned the right to cheer for Cornell.

Having an earned right doesn't mean that the ability was also transferred. Thus, there are times when cheer or groan worthy events go flying past me and I'm left entertaining myself watching other people's reactions.

Being a holiday weekend, there are many fewer students. We all had standing room tickets, but since the students weren't around, we took their seats and stood in them (students never sit down during the game, except in between periods). In front of me was a female student wearing a t-shirt with some indicator that she'd stood in line for a few years to acquire season tickets. This night, she had brought her younger brother.

I instantly recognized in his bespectacled, bemused, befuddled face the glaze of this thought: "So, are we going to talk or what?"

Ah, young man, I should have taken you aside. Perhaps I should have told you at the beginning of the game, that she will not be paying adequate attention to you. When you're looking at her, she will be watching the game. In the middle of your attempt to tell her how much it meant to you that she came home for Thanksgiving and then took you back to college to see the bigger world, she will turn away from you and look horrified that the fancy goal keeping man almost gave a point away to the opposing team.

You will never want to watch sports again.

Now, there are at least two interpretations to this witnessed event.

1. Life is unfair and painful to those among us who are not sensitive to the sport-game-thing.

2. Dotty has interpreted a single event seen from two rows away with no background of the people too completely and possibly incorrectly.

It's all up to you, really. But we can all agree, I think, that lots of people can be disillusioned by the false intimacy of a sporting event: if you're not a fan, you're all alone.

Boo hoo.

giving thanks; discovering conspiracy

Ah, the holidays. They are oft greeted with clenched teeth while, at the same time, eyes grow misty with sweet memories of days gone by and those yet to come.

Miss Dotty had a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Mrs.MaryMom had us over for dinner. All of the BrilliantEditor family was there and we brought the ThaiPrincess, too. My friend OuchyKim came over for dessert. We had pumpkin pie and apple cake. Dinner was so good. Dessert was so good.

The dogs liked it too.

Our most enduring conversation topic was that of alcoholism. While avoiding the true and honest difficulties that can be associated with "alcoholism" we also discussed the slippery slope of defining such a thing.

In high school we had to take a quiz (puritanical me (how fitting on Thanksgiving day) hadn't had a drink yet) to determine if we were alcoholics. One criterion was if you'd ever had a drink alone. Yes, one. Ever. In your life.

Sign me up for alcoholism.

Another series of questions was explained to me by the GirlWithTheHair. She's mathematically inclined and also quite clever. She told me about a study/survey type thing where there was a list of ten questions to determine the likelihood/prevalence of alcoholism. The data was less than ideal, however, since the doctors who were meant to ask the ten questions truncated the list to about three.

Depending on the questions, sign me up for alcoholism.

Then there are all the books on addictions, dependencies, and a whole bunch of other words related to such things. Nobody can really put a label on a behavior that is socially acceptable in one place, taboo in another, and tolerated in yet one more location.

Thus, we, being a highly scientific panel, decided that alcoholism is determined by answers to these questions:

1. Do you often drink liquor out of a paper bag?
2. Do you stand on street corners begging for money so you can buy a drink?
3. Did you choose your living/working location based on proximity to a liquor store?
4. If you buy a large quantity of alcohol and then drive home, how many miles per bottle would you say you average?
5. When you grow older and need a walker, will you use going to the liquor store as your method of exercise?
6. Do you drink alone often enough to have a special pet name for each bottle/can/wine opener?

So there's still room for interpretation here, but I think if you talk to the GirlWithTheHair you'll find that our questions are pretty much the same.

discovering conspiracy
I got a job decorating a bank for winter holidays. I much prefer to just do Christmas (because I know what it's supposed to look like) or winter time, but we're trying to try a little bit of each. (Yuck) So I'm making Christmas-type baskets and a fruit garland thing for Kwanzaa.

Then there's Hanukah. There are seventy-five ways to spell the word, not all of which are correct, but all of which have been used. The word is that blue and white are the colors, yet silver and gold seem to work their way in, too. I can find only three symbols (dreidel, menorah, and star of David), but can't find any attractive representations of such.

For Kwanzaa, I don't exactly expect to find a lot of decorations. It's a recent-ish holiday and I live in a very white part of the country. I would, however, expect to find Hanukah decorations. But, at our three craft stores, the only things I could find were three bolts of material and some Christmas tree ornaments with dreidels and menorahs on them (why?). At one grocery store, I found some ugly dreidels made of clear plastic with white paint. I did find attractive candles, but to go with what?

Thus, the conspiracy. BrilliantEditor has threatened going from store to store and spray painting, "This store hates Jewish holidays!" I think I'll interfere with his plan, but I do wonder, where have all the dreidels gone? And where do Hanukah supplies come from? It's so mysterious...

comforting hut

Sometimes I type while I'm in bed. Sometimes it's late and the heat's been turned down. Then it's kind of cold. So I squish back toward the foot of the bed and live in my comforting hut of fluff.

I've got a downy comforter. So there's so much toastiness just waiting for me. I like to take advantage of the toasty potentiality and work like a Jawa with the comforter over my head like a hood.

I don't like to think of it as a hood. Or as a habit for a nun (it's already a habit for me since it's warm and convenient). I prefer to think of it as a temperate tent where I find warmth and feathers. I like to imagine that it's my own little house. The roof rests on my big head and there's not much else to it except that there is some long shape perceivable beneath it. It's a long house, I suppose.

a beautiful day

Tomorrow is BrilliantEditor's birthday. He'll be 52. I bought him overalls so he wouldn't have to hitch up his trousers and throw out some bone and have to have surgery.

I'm a wonderful girl.

another beautiful day

Today was an interesting day, too. I'm very tired because of the beauty of today. The brief list goes like this: witnessed mentally ill woman confess incredibly painful events in her life and then witnessed her flip out a little and run away. That's a good story. Went to U-Haul to rent truck and moved stuff from one storage place to another. Then unpacked other things from storage and put them back in the house in the rain. Drove back to U-Haul believing that the truck would be overturned by the wind. Rearranged things and moved the furniture into fancy places so our parents would be proud.

It doesn't look like much written down this way, but since I'm too tired to write it down another way, it feels like a whole bunch.

But do look forward to the overwrought woman story. It's a winner.

little bo cheap

I have been missing my wallet for nearly a month now.

While it's great for my budget, it's not great for my nerves. I know that at the grocery store discount cards are in it. There are old doctor's appointment cards (they'll know I go to the dentist). And then there are the credit cards and bank cards. And my AAA card's there. What if I need towing? Or what if my car needs towing?!

BrilliantEditor has to pay for everything. In the store if he wanders away while I'm buying (he's buying) something, I kind of say loudly, "Hey, big spender." And he ponies up the cash. Still it makes me feel as if I'm hoarding pennies. And thus, having lost something, wanting to gather it up, and watching money like a hawk, Little Bo Cheap is born.

But darlings, her life is short. I only made up her name today and like magic I found the wallet!

Where was it? I tell you it was in a Christmas-like place. If only it had been near a fireplace. It was so like a stocking full of gifts.

I found it in BrilliantEditor's boot.

His boot lives under the place where my purse usually lives. And so it makes some kind of sense. But I don't care about sense. It's cents that I want! And have.

Oh, it feels so nice and secure. Ahhhhh.

cher and the ball crushers

BrilliantEditor and I were at the mall tonight buying replacement lightbulbs for the wee light that lives next to my bed and thinking about Christmas shopping.

After we'd had some pizza, I decided it was time to get some gum so I'd smell like mint and pizza instead of just pizza. The man behind the register of the gum store was wearing a t-shirt with Cher on it. The new, golden tressed Cher.

BrilliantEditor was most impressed with the t-shirt. He said, "And did you see his t-shirt? Wow."

I highly recommend visiting her website. www.cher.com Be sure that you have your sound turned on.

This is a photo of the t-shirt:

And here is a screenshot of her highly recommended website:

and now for Cher's backup band...the Ball Crushers!

BrilliantEditor and I were having one of those blissful days when everyone else in the world is stupid; we are superior beings from planet Ithaca. Conversations around us are dull at best; people walking do not see where they are going; the folks who try to give samples of hand creams are called "stink wizards".

Ah yes.

I was pushing things just a little bit further (shocking!) and naming some careers I'd like to try out, businesses I'd like to start. I thought I might start a business of tightly tailored pajamas. Everyone goes for comfort or sexiness. Why not fill the fashion niche and get some pj's and stiletto slippers to bring it all together?

When I told BE about my plan he thought it was great until I explained, "No, no, not personally tailored. Just fitted with creases and things."

BE said, "Oh. You mean ballcrushers."

We agreed that would be a grand name for a company.

We also agreed that "Cher and the Ball Crushers" would be a great name for a band.

dog speak

As you may have guessed, my dogs are important to me. You may also have guessed that my dogs have worlds of their own and their observations are frequently communicated to me and to BrilliantEditor.

I should make it clear that this isn't a Son of Sam kind of talking dog issuing commands that we must follow. Oh no no no. It's just the kind of talking dog who has very expressive eyes, an extraordinary ability to use body language, and some kind of ego-maniacal personality disorder.

For example.
Spring likes to eat. She is given a pig ear at 9:00 or so each night. Each night she arrives at my feet around 8:30 and stares at me. She lets me pet her, but if I stop, she walks around jingling her collar tags and comes back to look up at me and remind me that it's time to eat the specialest treat in the whole world. So this is how Spring's evening talk goes (words within square brackets are said more softly and in a slighter deeper voice):

(Walks down stairs)La la nice to see you.
You look nice. [clock]
I'm so happy that you're here. [feed]
I like your petting. [pork]
Ahhh, you pet nice. [treat]
Have you seen Sprocket? [no treat for her]
She must be far away. [more for me]
I wish you'd pet me.
And have you noticed what a good job I'm doing lying gently at your feet? [now]

And Sprocket is equally persuasive:
Claws come ticking across the floorHello! I'm here because I like you! I have a very pink tongue and I like to prove that I have a very pink tongue so I have my mouth open a lot and when I don't have my mouth open, my teeth almost always stick out in the front and sometimes when I sleep the tip of my tongue sticks out and I also use my tongue to taste pig ears which are very good for me.
They keep me plump like a piggy and I made cool snorty noises and I like to burrow to keep warm and sometimes people are in the things I like to burrow in and they think I'm great and is it time to have a pig ear now? No? Oh. Okay. Um, how about now? No? Maybe now? No? Wow. Hey, Spring says to ask if now is good. So now?

I think I'm particularly concerned about others understanding that my dogs don't talk to us directly because they might do it someday soon. They appear to be taking voice lessons. And they seem to be able to read. Not well or anything, but you start with One Fish, Two Fish and you know the world's going to hell in Toto's basket.

no! don't sleep yet!

Last night I couldn't get to sleep. It was close to 2:30 when I finally sang "nighty night" and drifted off to dreamland.

I've been having really good luck getting to sleep lately and I don't know what was so different about last night. Somehow my brains kept saying, "No! Not yet! There's something missing! Something you're not doing! You're going to want to be awake later on!"

What those things are, I really couldn't say. But the rest of me could certainly say it.

I will try going to sleep early tonight. Perhaps if I start early, the hours it takes to fall asleep will have transpired already.

Oh, and I'm taking a class and we always end using meditation. The new girl in the class already rubs me the wrong way. And she fell asleep during meditation. And snored. Snored! We were meditating, I wanted to be peaceful, but she was lying on the floor at my feet and I can't even begin to describe the kind of self-restraint it took for me to not kick her pillow really hard or to yank it out from under her head.

I do usually think those things, but the thought usually go away pretty fast. I think part of the problem is that I didn't sleep well. And then there's her, lying on the floor asleep. Punk. I'd like to pull that damned pillow out from under her head.

who knows what lurks under the skirts of women

When I was a little lass, I walked downstairs to my parents' Christmas party. I had a cute little green Christmas dress (that I hated) with red tights that had a cable knit pattern, I believe.

I was at an age where I was growing faster than the rate of tights purchases. And I was a tall little kid. Which meant that tights that were already small were extra small because I had long little legs.

So, if you've worn tights or stockings or footie pajamas, you know that no matter how hard you try to pull them up, they will not stay up. You just can't get them to a place where they'll stay. The footie pajamas just won't reach your shoulders. The tights won't stay up on your hips or waist without sliding down again. In fact, they may even beging to roll into a rolly-tube thing and then roll on down you.

I mentioned that my red tights were too small to the first party guest I met (the mom of my later-on first "boyfriend" you know, the kid version where you're pals and hang out lots and lots). I felt really self conscious about my tights, even though people couldn't see that they were falling down.

She said to me, "Who knows what lurks beneath a woman's skirt?"

I started wondering what was under her skirt and I had the idea that they were somehow twisted up and that's why women walked like they were swinging their hips--to keep their tights up.

At any rate, let's talk about me. Although I've been told repeatedly lately, and in public two days ago (see comments from a bad, bad person), that I'm a bad, bad person, I think bad people are oh-so-interesting. So get out your notebooks, kids. Here comes some interestingness.

I was teaching a class today. The only clean stockings of the appropriate color were a bit too short. I wore them anyway, figuring that I was only going to be there for four hours.

But! The half-life of too-small stockings is apparently less than four hours. By the second break I'd given my class, my stockings were at the dangerous point of the widest part of my hips. A person might think that this is an okay place.

A person would be wrong. If I were made of cubes or rectangular solids (that's what they called them in school) it'd be great. They'd just stay hooked over the edge and there's be no difficulty.

However, I'm not quite that boxy. And as I was cleaning up and chatting with my students and answering questions, hey, whoa, my hips weren't good enough anymore.

Zzzzzoooop! My tights are rolling down so I'm walking kind of like I'm trying to keep my tights up. Sashaying around in a panic afraid that I'd be walking like a penguin in 4.7 seconds and have everyone know why I was sashaying around and have this stretchy fabric ring just above my shoes.

And it's not like you can run away. You'd be running with your feet swinging out in half circles and you know you'd have your dress shoes on so you'd be clacking around like a penguin in tap shoes.

I made it out of there in time to rescue myself from the descending tights, but man. What if it happens again and I can only make it as far as the yarn aisle?

What happens then?

Who knows what lurks under the skirts of women?

I do.

feets don' fail me now

We're getting the new floor put in today. And tomorrow. So far it looks really good.

I'm laughing at myself today because I'm already determining the shoe-wearing routines. Guests will not have to take off their shoes, but everyone else might. Or maybe that's a little bit psycho. But hey, play to your strengths, that's what I always say.

The guys installing the floor recommended not walking on it in stiletto heels. I don't think I have any. Maybe a pair of highly irrational boots...but I find myself redefining stiletto.

"Hey, those shoes have shoelaces on them. A shoelace might come loose and get stuck in a tread of your shoe and then you could land on it with all your weight it would be like you were wearing a stiletto heel and there'd be a dent in my floor and the world would end."

But it wouldn't. Not really. But guess what all my friends are getting for Christmas!

MOONBOOTS!!!

jealousy

Went to brunch today at Tex and Florette's. Florette made some ab(solutely)fab(ulous) French toast. There was a bit of orange juice in the batter. So it was a tasty masterpiece of my favorite breakfast (mmmmmm French toast). Then Miss Florette showed me the totally groovy cookbook she got it from. It was put together by the wives of professors and deans at the University of Florida.

The best part of it was that there were suggested menus. All planned out and ready to go! Florette pointed it out to me. I was delighted.

The second best part of it was that lunch was called luncheon. How cool is that?!

Now why in the world would I have titled this entry "jealousy"? You must see the splendor of the home of Tex and Florette. A lovely, well-appointed kitchen, a living room with two (or three) story ceilings, and a wood stove to keep it all cozy. And they're organized and stuff so that it's like visiting the house of a grown up.

So I'm jealous.

But! Today, it's a week or so after a wicked wind storm, there are odd water marks appearing in small patches on the ceiling and walls. They aren't gushing or anything; it's not like the Amityville horror, either. There are just little patches of water-remnants.

And why am I telling you this? Well, I do like to tell people lots of things, but Tex and Florette rent this lovely abode and they don't have to repair it. But the people who do own the lovely abode are responsible for repairing it.

And so I have mixed emotions of victory and jealousy. Jealousy--I have to fix my house. Their house is neat and clean. Victory--The house I have to fix is mine and so it can be as messy as I want.

where did all this winter come from?

It's really cold today. The wind is gusting to 60 mph tonight (that's about 100kpm for metric devotees). It's snowing. The plow trucks are going by. I've heard tree branches cracking. And yesterday I walked around happily without a jacket. What's that all about?

Even BrilliantEditor was freezing his behind off when he came back from getting the mail. This is a man who, I am convinced, would walk down to the mailbox in his bathrobe and slippers in January and come back to say that it was "brisk".

Of course I have an active imagination for these kinds of things.

What does that mean, anyway? These kinds of things. The kind of things that involve walking to the mailbox in a bathrobe? Should I embellish it with the detail that this particular time he had a coffee mug?

I'm a goofball.

But where the hell did all this winter come from?

I don't swim

I decided today that one of the things I'm going to do when I'm feeling overwhelmed or anxious is to think of the bizarre stuff that my brother BellyRub and I have done together or laugh about together for no particular reason.

I have looked in vain for a picture of a particular skit from Saturday Night Live. There are two men who want to go to the Olympics to be synchronized swimmers. One of the doesn't know how to swim so he wears an orange lifejacket.

That's Martin Short, so you can imagine that he's dwarfed by the life jacket. What's really great (for me, anyway) is that during the fake interview, Martin Short says, in a small, kind of stupid, but succinct way, "I don't swim."

That's it. There is nothing else to say, really. Except when it comes to BellyRub and me. There are times that feel appropriate to us, unexplainable times, but still, when we say to each other, "I don't swim."

Then we cackle like magpies and when we can stop snorting long enough to breathe, one of us says, "I don't swim."

The phenomenon usually occurs after someone has said something very serious to them, but completely meaningless to us. Here are some examples:

I could never have a sock monkey. Sock monkeys frighten me.
--I don't swim.

Hey, if your friends all jumped off a bridge you wouldn't, would you? You know it's dangerous. You could get hurt.
--I don't swim.

No, deep water bothers me. I don't like swimming in the ocean.
--I don't swim.

It is one more piece of insanity that I am sharing with you. And you're lucky to get it.

But this all came up for me when I was filling out this online survey. (Why was I doing the survey? Because even though I'm in a desireable age category, most of the survey goes away because I don't fit the mold. Shocking! In some respects, I don't swim.)

stacks and stacks

When I walk through the house, there are stacks and stacks and stacks of stuff everywhere. There are clothes, fabric, books, papers. I suppose I feel a little ashamed of myself, but mostly I feel like I don't know where to put anything.

This is a constant struggle. In my stacks of books I have one on keeping house.

Maybe I'll find it and read it. Right after I find my wallet.

the meadery

I found this today when I rearranged the refrigerator:

How weird is it that the folks who print the cardboard carrier are the same ones who made Trapper Keepers? I suppose the Trapper and the cardboard bit are related in a plasticky, packaging way, but you've got to admit that there isn't a very long list of things that beer and a fourth grader's homework have in common.

One similarity between the Trapper and the beer box is the coolness factor. The whole process of picking out a Trapper Keeper usually took me about an hour of pawing through the boxes trying to find one that I would like enough and that the other kids would think was cool. Then came the agony/excitement of choosing coordinating folders.

I'd like to think that I left that tendancy behind, but here's where the beer comes in. I sometimes wonder what to bring to a party. Will my choice in beer be acceptable? If I bring Pabst Blue Ribbon will people understand that it's a joke? If I bring some kind of snooty Belgian beer with odd little dwarves on the label will they think I'm a snob? If I don't bring beer at all will they think I'm a conservative, non-drinking, judgmental Mormon? Would they have liked my Trapper Keeper?

being good feels so bad

I don't usually get up early in the morning. Seven o'clock is very early for me. Eight o'clock is early, but then again, so is nine.

BrilliantEditor and I got up and went to volunteer at quarter to eight this morning. I'm totally tired out now. BrilliantEditor has added a new skill to his list of impressive, genius-like abilities.

He can now wait tables! We were volunteers at the pancake breakfast this morning. He and I were servers. We were awesome. We were sooo awesome that someone but up some information about our volunteering activities.

winter music

There are times when music gives me little shivers. It seems like it creeps up my arms until my head somehow registers that it's paying more attention than I thought. It means that, even if I don't like the music, there's something about it that's compelling to me, makes me want to listen more, makes it seem like there's something more important than I'd thought.

I start thinking, "Was it the song? The lyrics? That particular place where those particular instruments came together and sounded like something more than they are? The singer? The musician?"

In the winter, one more question can be added: "Was it because I'm really cold?"

I want to say that I'm not really cold. I really want to say it. The fact is, however, that I am cold. I got back into bed because I am cold. The end of my nose is cold. My fingers are cold. My toes are cold (although I think they'll heat up since they're in bed with the rest of me).

Even the though house is insulated now, I find it to be not quite enough. With the weather being as it is outside:

I shouldn't be surprised that I'm cold. But I am! Both surprised and cold.

At any rate, I shall take steps to increase the heatedness of the house. I'll close all offending doors, put the heavy curtains back up over the doors, and hang many many sweaters at the doorway where we enter the house. And socks and slippers, too.

So with all this whining, I will tell you the most interesting phenomenon so far today. I was listening to bits of music that I've noted that I want to hear more of. During a song I was kind of liking I got the chill thing. I thought, oooooooo! Then I thought, brrrrrrrrr! So I might have to build a campfire and listen again.

Would I be able to hear above the crackle of the flames, though? (I piled up the logs from a downed tree yesterday. I really could build a campfire. I feel like a lumberjack. or jill.)

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

William Shakespeare, "The Merchant of Venice", Act 1 scene 3

I've been thinking about inspirational quotes. These are the quotes that greet you on the cover page of seminars you're forced to go to. They're in those goddamned posters with eagles and divers and mountains that talk about success. Successories is the brand, I believe.

I feel a spate of inspirarional quotes coming on. Christmas is coming, I guess. Well, I know, but I guess the reason I'm detecting a bunch of quotes is that Christmas is coming.

I really like quotations. They remind me of things I strive to do or be. They remind me that the world is absurd. They remind me that other people are out there thinking or not thinking or doing who knows what with their time. They remind me that most people who bother to write the quotes I bother to read are judgmental, irritable, witty geniuses; thus, I know I'm not alone.

He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat.
William Shakespeare, "Much Ado about Nothing", Act 1 scene 1
What a deformed thief this fashion is.
William Shakespeare, "Much Ado About Nothing", Act III scene iii

Why are quotes so el stinko? Firstly, they can be contradictory or nonsensical, even if from the same author. They're taken out of context. Someone might quote to you, in a learned manner, "To thine own self be true." He or she might know that it's Shakespeare. He or she might know that it's from Hamlet. He or she might even know that Polonius said it. But does he or she remember that Polonius was a fool? He was the king of inspirational quotation and he ended up lurking behind a curtain, then on the floor with a knife wound in his side, and finally singing with a choir of angels who most certainly would be the lucky recipient of some quote. Perhaps he'd say, "Look, Daddy! Teacher says, 'Any time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.'"

I'm not saying that it's bad advice. I'm simply suggesting that the quotation be examined before it's chucked into a space that is supposed to be inspirational. I betcha the angels would smack the hell out of him until he understood the quotefulness rules that aren't laid out anywhere for anyone but those of us who are geniuses.

People like you and me, my darlings.

the wallet

I lose things quite often. I'm sure I've mentioned that before.

This week's (or maybe it's been two weeks. I've lost track of that, too) lost item is my wallet. It hasn't made such a huge deal--it keeps me from spending loads of money, anyway, but I'm starting to be inconvenienced by it.

I watch the checking account to see that no one is using it to buy all the things that have the As Seen On TV logo. No one has. But I always have to ask BrilliantEditor for money.

"Honey, do you have ten dollars so I can park the car and get some lunch?" Honey is often on the phone when this exchange happens, so I'm betting that he wouldn't mind if I found my wallet.

I'm getting close to calling the bank and telling them that I can't find my cards. But that's the bank and the credit card and the driver's license and my library card, too. And then there's my fabric discount card and the phone numbers of people I'm supposed to call.

The bank does a really crappy job of keeping track of that stuff.

So I'm looking for my wallet.

Any ideas?

whine whine whine win

There are days when I feel like whining a lot. I felt like whining for most of today. Even though I feel the urge to whine, I still am convinced, or nearly convinced, that I don't actually want to whine.

I worked more than I expected to this morning and thus was quite hungry when I got home. BrilliantEditor asked if I'd had a bad morning and no, I hadn't, I just needed to eat.

And so I ate.

Then I voted.

Then the voting inspector ladies said, "ah ah ah ah ah! Don't touch that!" And then when I asked them questions, (I'd been looking in a box [which happened to be theirs] for a binder) they didn't know anything. Now, that's only mildly whine worthy.

So off I went to work again about an hour later. I was teaching a class I love. The people in it make me laugh. One woman's last name is Anguish (really). She's so happy and silly. She makes me happy. She's the only person I know who will ask me if I'm drunk (not an uncommon question) and I can ask her back the same question. And it's equally plausible for both of us that it might be true. How's that for weird?

a wee little accident

I got in a little car accident today. I was driving out of a parking lot when I guy came around the corner a little too quickly and on the wrong side of the road. I hit him. Or he hit me. His car has the damage. We exchanged phone numbers and went on our way.

Weird.

I also tripped today. While carrying a glass of water my shoes were suddenly too big. But lucky me, not a drop was spilled.

movie

I watched The Pianist last night. I'd just finished the book (because I am a literary genius) and wondered if people could follow it without reading the book. But then I wonder if they need to follow it. I guess the important part is the alienation and loneliness.

I think that message comes across loud and clear. I mean, even the music was sad.

what the hell?

I'm all discombobulated today. I have no clear story to tell. I apologize. Perhaps I'll throw in a silly picture. Silly pictures are good.

And you can make you own story!

I believe this is the first picture of the ThaiPrincess. She's the one on the left.

Spring is trying to eat the snowman's eyes. They are carrots.

dorky parker

BrilliantEditor and I went to a Halloween party last night. I would have written about it, but things weren't looking very steady to me, so I decided that typing would be bad for my computer. If it's not steady, how could I be?

BE went as Max from Where the Wild Things Are. I accompanied that wolf as Little Red Riding Hood.

With the best of intentions, I made both of our costumes. Whether I planned poorly or just underestimated the time necessary for what I had considered simple tasks, I was still sewing at 8:15.

The party started at 7. But we're fashionably late! Who could ask for more than that?

When we walked in the door, people were so impressed with the Faux Max that they came over to pet him. One woman was so intrigued by his tail that she fondled it until her husband dragged her away.

Florette announced his costume to be quite possibly the best at the party. She was a chef. She even had the name of her cafe on her chef's hat.

There was, of course, much carousing. Being in a fur costume and me just liking being seen with a wolf, we made our way out to the deck together where it was cooler. Lots of talking and then an excursion to get a bit more wine.

BE came back sans wolf suit (!) but was still behaving in the mischievous style of Max.

There are photos of him somewhere, but I didn't take them. I shall have to beg and plead for some to show you. He was AbFab, though. I am proud.

In the meantime, here's my happy trick-or-treat costume. (I didn't make the basket.)