Dotty Parker

dogs dogs dogs

Everyone knows that I'm in love with my dogs. They are fabulous. Always fabulous. Even when they're doing totally annoying things, they're fabulous.

Spring, with her long, sassy legs, can go up and down the stairs with relative ease. (The stairs themselves make "ease" a relative term.) Sprocket taught herself how to go up the stairs. Ease isn't quite the word. Determined. She has a determined style.

But she doesn't go down the stairs. I'm teaching her how. She's on the second from the top step now and goes down to the bottom. She's very proud of herself. I'm proud of her, too.

So I bought her a present.

It's a wooly, purple elephant whose head, arms, and legs detach from the body. They're held on with velcro. Sprocket still isn't sure what to do with it all. She still acts surprised when I rip its head off.

Strange, really. I do stuff like that all the time.

like lambs to the slaughter

Neil Conan was talking about Mel Gibson's new movie The Passion of the Christ today on Talk of the Nation. There were lots of concerns raised and they weren't really about the same topics. The concerns, you see, were about theology and spirituality and textual interpretation and dramatic choices and a whole bunch of other stuff.

One of the things that was quite contentious was the amount of blood that shows up in the movie. One of the people on to comment was really appalled. Another thought it rich in symbolism. Yet another was a fan of the verisimilitude and historical accuracy.

I've been kind of interested in seeing this movie. Film. Talking picture. Knowing the amount of, well, torture that's being pictured within it gives me pause. My conception of the Christ goes something like this:

So I went to the website for this film and I found Mel's statement about the website. I'm surprised and amused by his cavalier behavior. It seems to me that he's auditioning to be in another Lethal Weapon movie. Be careful how long you stay in that site! You might not come out! That's what the man says.

At any rate, far from making a choice about going to see the movie because of theological or spiritual or academic reasons, I've decided that I'm not going because I don't want to see that much cruelty and gore. I can't decide what that makes me, other than a person who's gone to see one fewer movie. So I just won't worry about it.

I wonder how long the rhubarb (means the same thing as brouhaha and ruckus) will stay stirred up around this film. Will it be like The Last Temptation of Christ? Lots of angry angry people so lots of theaters around here didn't show it. (One of the ones that did show it had the kookiest thing happen: Someone was so pissed off that they drove a school bus into the building. The bus was more hurt than the building, unsurprisingly.)

And there it is. No review of the movie. I can't possibly review it. I'm just not going.

grumble grumble

I spent this afternoon in a strange place. At this strange place, I listened to a woman talk and talk and talk and talk about how she had no friends and how sad she was about it and how she knew she'd never make friends because of this thing and that thing and la la la la so why try, she'd just be disappointed.

I thought to myself, "Of course no one wants to be your friend. You whine and complain and refuse to do anything about it because you're afraid you won't have any friends and you already say you don't so who cares?." Then I thought, "Dotty, you're not being very compassionate."

Then I thought, "Okay, here's some compassion: I do understand that you're feeling a lot of pain. It's also very clear that you're not helping yourself out very much. If this is something you want, you will actively need to do something. Work toward a goal, perhaps increasing your self-esteem."

Thoughts grew rapidly less compassionate: "Maybe goal number two can be to stop pissing me off with your pansy-assed tales of imagined woe. Get on the stupid phone and call someone. If they say they hate you, then you can whine."

Then I thought, "Good start with the compassion. Not so great a finish."

Then I came home and opened The Baffler #14: The God That Sucked and right there on the inside cover was a beautifully appropriate quote. It goes a little something like this:

These people are ready to grumble at every boon conferred on them, and yet to enjoy every boon. They know, too, their privileges and, after a fashion, understand their position. It is picturesque, and it pleases them. To have always been in the right, and yet always on the losing side; always being ruined, always under persecution from a wild spirit of republic-demagogism--and yet never to lose anything, not even position or public esteem, is pleasant enough. A huge, living, daily increasing grievance that does no palpable harm, is the happiest possession that a man can have.

So said Anthony Trollope in 1878

what's that ya say?

BellyRub and I collect the sayings of people who can't hear. The immortal, "How healthy is cat hair?" quote always makes me smile. You see, that's what I heard. When I answered, "Not very," everyone looked at me funny. While it would certainly be true that cat hair is not very healthy, it doesn't answer the question, "How did these cookies get here."

There have been other stories that I feel certain I've written about before. I can't find them, however. Another one that is a classic is my uncle asking incredulously, "You brought rubber shoes?" when told that we brought Trivial Pursuit.

BellyRub emailed me one today that I tried to read to BrilliantEditor because I thought it was so funny. I was laughing and giggling so much that he could barely understand me (how appropriate).

Here's his email:
Anyway, you know the "how healthy is cat hair" stories we tell.

BTW I quit smoking...again.

I'm still laughing about Frodo. Frodo smokes, you know.

bailey brothers building and loan

There are some days when I feel like I need to watch It's A Wonderful Life. Today's a day like that. It's a day when I wonder if the Buffalo gals will come out tonight, come out tonight, and dance by the light of the moon. It's a day when two clever friends who are getting rained on say to each other, "Hurry up! This is their honeymoon!" "What are they? Ducks?"

Donna Reed and Jimmy Stewart are ab fab. How I love them. Truly, dear.

And Clarence the angel. He's so good. I suppose he should be. He's an angel.

And Mr. Gower and his drug store...remember him? The actor was H. B. Warner and he played the part of Jesus Christ in a movie (The King of Kings). In the documentary it says that H.B. couldn't get a job after the Jesus role because he was type cast. But I looked him up and he's got all kinds of good movies under his very slim belt.

I suppose it just proves how fantastic the Bailey Brothers Building and Loan is. They can retroactively get a guy a purty good career. And he gets to work with Jimmy Stewart a couple of times. Ooooo la la.

alternate husbands
I have a list of alternate husbands. They're people that I'd get in contact with if BrilliantEditor ever boots me onto the street. One of them is Jimmy Stewart. I don't think he'd take me in, though. I think he's dead. He is, nevertheless, on the list. With Cary Grant and Gene Kelly. Also dead, I believe.

on the road again

I was driving home from visiting the Queen today. The drive is a few hours and I was alone and the radio wasn't playing anything particularly singable, so my mind started wandering.

For example. Why don't they make black kleenex? If it got in the dryer, it wouldn't leave white linty clumps and if a person stuffed his or her bra with kleenex they could better approximate the color required. Who wants to wear that little black dress when the white kleenex might give away the whole trick?

I drove by the Beechnut factory. I don't know if they make the baby food or the gum. Why would they make both? It's not like the market is the same. Gum chewers tend not to eat baby food and babies tend not to chew gum. A quandary.

On my way to the Queen's house and on the way back from it, I saw hitch-hikers. I don't stop. I stopped once for a female student from Cornell; I figured I'd be able to shove her out the door more easily than it would be to push out a guy. Perhaps that's the exception that proves the rule. Still, are there more hitch-hikers on the crappy days? The really cold or wet or windy or sweltering days? Do they come out then for reasons known only to themselves? Do I notice them more when I'm very glad to be in my climate controlled car? And why do they look all skanked out? Gaunt, greyed faces; dry, crusty lips; big eyes staring out of hollowed out sockets; their hair hanging down in gushes of oil; clothing inadequate for the cold weather, but large and oddly shaped enough to hide a knife or gun; tank tops and jeans in the summer and a backpack full of enriched uranium. Maybe not full. I believe I vote a big NO on the whole hitch-hiker issue. Hitch-hiking: to be avoided.

takin' time out

As you may have noticed, I've not been doing too well with writing often.

I'm working on applications for grad school. I am a bit dubious about my chances of getting in--I'm a bit late in applying and I started a lot late in beginning to apply. I feel a bit unprepared.

Nevertheless! I travel onward! And getting all my stuff together is more time consuming and thought consuming than I'd anticipated it being.

I have to write a personal statement declaring gently, but firmly, that I'm so incredibly super cool that they absolutely will want to work with me for two years. I also have to promise that my super coolness is not distracting. It will, in fact, bring people together, draw them to me. I will be a humble facilitator.

My method of writing this statement had been to try to find the exactly right words and then write them down.

It's not working very well. I'm getting too self-critical.

I have a new plan. Now I'm going to write whatever I want to write. I'll edit later. But if I get any especially good lines, I'll share them with you. If you're very, very good.

slacker

I've not been writing consistently. I've been doing other things consistently: eating, sleeping, talking, playing. I've even been doing a bit of writing. But not here. If you're ever so sad or disappointed, I apologize.

Last night I went to see Calendar Girls last night. I wanted to love all of it, but I only loved the first half or so. At any rate, it was based on the story of making this calendar.

I was a bit sad that they didn't show the real people, but then again, maybe they've had enough exposure. Hahahahahaha.

They've made about 600,000 pounds for leukemia charities. And 1,000 for a couch.

I think we might be able to change our collective tune about taking off clothes for cash, hmmmm?

lost in translation

We watched that movie tonight. Two of my friends who haven't yet acquired names, BrilliantEditor, Sprocket, and me.

I'd like to give a detailed and academic analysis, but I'm kind of tired. I think, in the short version, it's human, at times disconcertingly so. Nevertheless, it asserts that fortuitously close companionship eases the tension of isolation and complicates the tender and delicately spun nature of a long-term, unfulfilling relationship.

Oh, and Bill Murray is very funny when he does water aerobics.

they're watching me

I've been driving around a lot lately, it seems. And with this wintry weather, it gets dark much earlier than it might in July or August.

Thus, drivers have their headlights on.

I do appreciate that they have their headlights on. I am mildly irritated when their brights flash in my eyes, but still, overall, I think they're a good idea.

Weirdly, though, it seems like the headlights have major personalities. I've always thought the round ones, like on the old VW bugs, were cute and kind of fun looking. Like they're looking at me and saying, "I'm having a good time!"

But I just saw some headlights that looked like narrowed eyes. That's not pretty. Some on the SUVs seem like they're looking down their nose at me. I guess it's better than having them looking up my nose, but what's the real issue here?

There are two. First, headlights really do seem like the eyes of a car. Second, what if they start watching me?

where seldom is heard a discouraging word

Pronunciation. This is a sticky topic for me because I can't figure out where I stand.

Today I am firmly of the opinion that the way you pronounce something is entirely irrelevant as long as the meaning gets across. In the past I've been judgmental and snooty about it if it was someone I didn't like. If it was someone I did like, I might tell them or I might not.

But now, the snooty angle isn't working out so well. Furthermore, I'm growing more and more charmed by the phenomenon of "the child who reads".

When a person grows up reading books, a person tends to advance through the levels of vocabulary faster than they hear the words. This often leads to mispronunciation. It's a beautiful thing to hear, really. It reminds me that clever children, children who were like me, grow up into truly charming adults, also like me.

On the radio today I heard a word that BrilliantEditor and I laugh about. He was one of those precocious readers, so he has this charming habit. One of my favorites is this one: chortle.

BE pronounces the "ch" as a "k" sound. Now, the word has a bit of onomatopoeia to it. With the "ch" sound it sounds like a gurgling laugh to me. With the "k" sound, it sounds like a death rattle.

Then today on the radio, a band was being interviewed. And I heard the word "chortle" the way BE pronounces it. BUT! They were actually saying chordal. With a "k" sound at the beginning.

I thought it was pretty funny, in the way things are funny when you're alone in the car and and suddenly you hear yourself make a small laugh sound and you become aware that you're making laugh sounds with no one to hear you and that's just weird, but it was still pretty funny.

It was that kind of funny.

woo woo woo fiiiiiiii-ya!

The nearly monthly pancake breakfast was this morning. As the self-designated volunteer co-ordinator for this event, I've become used to having too many volunteers, too much food, and too few customers.

This morning, it seemed as if we had many more people. It also seemed as if we had too few volunteers and too little food.

It's a strange thing, scheduling volunteers. While the expectation is that the same people will help month after month, they, of course, do not have to do so. I can't manage to browbeat them. I can't even encourage them to change their plans if they happen to conflict with the schedule. It doesn't fit with my idea of the job I made for myself.

This morning, I began to rethink my policy. I forgot that the people who are used to being the cooks couldn't be there. K-Fine, a wacky, but competent chef, had many big doings to attend to. BrilliantEditor, who was being trained, was away in a temptingly sunny climate doing un-tempting work-related tasks.

(He says that he hates hot weather and hates San Diego, but I bet that there will be a tiny part of him that says, "ahhhhh," when the sun is warm on his neck and he can feel the top of his hair get hot because of the sun. Still, it'd be nicer for him if the task were more tempting.)

Thus, the "second shift" of being a cook was left to no one. And so it was left to me.

My first act was to grab the turner and make some pancakes. Simultaneously, the bacon was cooking on the same grill. The bacon had been started in another pan and had been transferred. That left a pan filled with grease on the burner, you see. So I was doing two things at once.

And the pan caught on fire.

I didn't notice. JaySkay did notice. He was teaching me how to do the cooking part. Apparently fire isn't part of it. The whole pan hadn't really caught on fire. It was the outside edge that was burning from all the grease that had dripped on the side when the bacon had been transferred. So no harm done there except to my pride.

I burned the pancakes, too, during this fiery foray into the big world of short order cooking. I didn't turn them into bricks, but they were darker than most people would have liked.

Nevertheless, I made it through my morning of cooking pancakes and french toast and bacon and ham. I thanked my volunteers, too.

relax
Then I ate some breakfast at the same table as an acquaintance who brought with him a very annoying woman. She cut up all of her pancakes before she ate a bite. So there are all these pieces tumbling all over her plate and there's syrup and it's just ewwwwww. Gross. And when there was no bacon and then the bacon magically appeared, two dozen pieces, maybe, she had six. Six! She stacked it on a plate. Other people wanted bacon, too.

(I know they wanted bacon because when I left, they were standing outside in the cold with thin faces and blued lips with small plates that they were licking. When I passed they said, "Please. Bacon. We will surely die.")

Also, after the kitchen closed, she ordered more food.

And I hated her outfit.

One more thing: The district attorney came to breakfast this morning. He's a very intelligent and charming man. (I can say this since I was on the grand jury and spent some time with him along with about twenty other people and know him oh-so-well.)

This charming and intelligent man has recently made a decision that I consider foolish. He's decided to get rid of the drug court. It's a program that will keep minor drug offenders out of jail and in rehab while encouraging them to become members of a community and receive help and support.

Some of the people I have volunteering are in a program that is similar to the drug court program. Community service is part of it. Because the DA is a fan of the Rockefeller drug laws (draconian, monstrous laws that defy my objective description) and sometimes has his intelligent and charming head somewhere other than on the top of his neck, he doesn't like that the program I have working for me exists at all.

The head of the program was there today and pointed out the DA. I offered to go out and make a grand production of thanking him for his amazing work and the efficient, honest, and hard work his compatriots were doing.

He smiled and said it wasn't necessary.

The links here are to BrilliantEditor's site about living in our town. They're informative. That's where I've learned everything.

newest retro?

In my unending quest to make my dogs' lives better, I bought them a new feeding and watering dish. It's cool since in their old set one is cracked and the other is a huge hand me down that, while it does match, it just doesn't feel right.

So here's what I bought them (in silver):

The bowls are in the dish washer and the bowl holder is on the floor looking like a flight accessory on Canine-Airline. It's beautiful. Do note the lovely winged pattern on the front. Can you make out the embossed dog prints on the top? This is a fine, quality product.

The copy on the box is also fine, in an "all manner of crunchy bits" kind of fine (one day I shall tell that story). I have scanned it in for your viewing pleasure.

Look for these creative phrases:
Style conscious pets
Newest retro colors (that's my favorite)
Undisturbed feeding

This is clearly a well thought out product and I, for one, am glad to have it.

Dare we say v. fine? I do.

hey, want a smoke?

A woman I worked with in sewing town died. She had a heart attack at work and died. It freaks everybody out because she was right there in the store and only fifty years old. I'll call her Teresa.

I was talking with Pollytyranna about it. I told Polly that if she needed help that I'd be there, to just call. Then I prepared to walk out the door.

She said, "Dotty, do you still smoke?" I said, "No. Only once in a while." She said, "Aaahhhhhhhh, you're too good. Are you sure you don't want to smoke with me? Teresa used to smoke with me..." and we looked at each other until she said, "and look what happened to her!"

It's always weird to come across one of those symptomatic things.

Heart attack: cigarettes or McDonalds.
Skin cancer: SPF 2 in suntan lotion.
Paper cuts: magazines.

I don't really have lots to say on this issue, but I will encourage you to take care of yourself. The primary one there is to be happy. And if you can't be happy, eat carrots and drink lots of water.

the doctor says, "lose weight!"

It's only three pounds. It's not that much weight to lose. But when I tell you how impossible it's been, how it's been making me want to tear my hair out, how I feel so guilty, well, maybe you identify with me.

Sprocket is three pounds over weight. She weighs sixteen pounds. Normally a, uh, compact little dog, lately her compact cup runneth over.

I've created a low-cal treat for Miss Sprocket. I took unflavored gelatin and boiled it up in chicken and beef stock. I poured the gelatin into ice cube trays and let them gel. Sprocket likes them lots. Spring licks them, but doesn't like the texture. I put boiled potatoes left over from lunch in some of the treats and she prefers those. More to chew on.

The vet also mentioned Sprocket's long toe nails. It's a perennial problem. I don't like clipping them and she doesn't like it when I do it. I'm taking her to the groomer so she doesn't accuse me of cutting her arm off the way she did last time. Little punk. One little arm and now she's got a problem with me.

How hard can it be to forgive one little arm? She'd weigh less, wouldn't she?

ch-ch-ch-chaaange (chee!)

Yes, I do know that the David Bowie song is "Changes", but my song is about change.

This is a particular kind of change. It is never, ever plural. And it makes one hell of a racket in the dryer.

I have been very, very good about taking change out of my pockets before washing my clothes. We had to call a dryer repair man to come get the massive amount of change (about 75 cents, actually) out of the dryer so it didn't make that scary noise anymore.

The 75 cents cost about 75 dollars to fix. I was, and am, motivated to avoid that expense again. Nevertheless, I can hear what sounds like a quarter within the dryer drum. Not in a place I can get to. The invisible side of the dryer drum.

BrilliantEditor watched the dryer man. He watched him fix it. And now we're going to try to be monkeys and copy what the man did. Chee chee chee for the ch ch ch change.

random access memory

So, in the big, huge world of computer-land, I have a vague idea of what all this RAM crap is. In the end, however, I like it and it makes my world work more swimmingly than it would without it.

Yet, in the slightly less big, and moderately less huge world of DottyWood, random access memory is more like a popcorn popper. Suddenly, without warning as to which kernel of truth or wisdom (get it? kernel?) will jump to receive attention, there it is. Too hot to touch and put away and too mobile to deal with all at once.

So goes this morning. I've thought about quotations. Lewis Carroll's been on my mind. But Emily Dickinson and Sojuourner Truth have popped up, too.

Valentine's day walked through my brain, along with feathers, glue, paper, scissors, and what a pain in the ass it is to clean up all that stuff when I'm done making those pesky Valentines.

For whatever reason, crappy songs came flapping into my head on horrifying, rubbery bat wings. I believe Rod Stewart was the culprit. He was holding the hand of Huey Lewis, however, who was dragging along his buddies "The News".

Now I'm thinking about BrilliantEditor and I agreeing to take an afternoon off. I've declared that we can't talk about work, sewing, woodworking, or fixing up the house. He agreed, so I am, therefore, not a despotic shrew. Just a cute little shrew with a wiggly nose and fuzzy pink ears. The conversation, however, becomes a problem: as BE put it, "What are we going to talk about?"

That's kind of my point. We spend so much time talking about those things, that we don't have anything else to talk about. And I want other things to talk about, dammit. I'd like to talk about things that are fluffy and meaningless. Or maybe discover what's actually meaningful and important that we've been skipping. Or maybe just stay silent for an afternoon as we realize how boring we are.

I doubt the last one very much. I've purchased water activated fireworks for just such an occasion. We can toss them out the back door and watch as the birdfeeders get blown up and the sunflower seeds pelt the windows of the house.

I do hope the windows don't get broken. We won't be able to talk about it until the next day.

calendar? we don't even know her!

In my ever continuing effort to improve myself (though really, how on earth is that possible?), I have purchased calendars. I think I told you about this.

In my ever continuing effort to improve myself (ditto marks), I have purchased one of them at a fabulous discount.

In my ever continuing effort to improve myself (and now I must remark that I may, in fact, need to improve a bit here and there), I have noted that choosing to purchase fabulously discounted items may, in fact, not be the best choice.

I bought a fairly groovy wallet-y calendar. It's semi-attractive. Yet, it doesn't have the dates written in. It's meant to be convenient for multi-year use; it is, in fact, inconvenient for any individual year use.

I decided to use the pages starting with Sunday and ending with Saturday. All the rest of my calendars started with Monday and ended with Sunday. Am I so wedded to this arrangement?

I'm not sure yet. And it isn't even weighing on my mind so much. Still, with my very charming habit of forgetting appointments and such, the need to figure out how to shedule things is becoming a more pressing need.

All of this comes into perspective, however, when I contemplate the great pleasure Spring and Sprocket get from Spring's favorite game. She likes to have a blanket or towel on her head. Then she kind of jerks her way forward until she hits my hand at which point she chews on it while I wiggle it around.

This simple pleasure, this simple, incomprehensible pleasure makes me think, "Hey, if I had a towel over my head, I couldn't see my calendar."

And talk about perspective, boy oh boy.