Dotty Parker

tiki romance

Have I mentioned that I started reading romance novels? I’m hoping that they will give me insight into the minds of the people who read them a lot. I think there must be a lot of those people since there are so many of those books.

This first one I read was Circle of Love by Alma Blair. The book was going along in the way these books usually go along until this:

”Did my father really believe this? Was he really a Christian?”

“Oh, yes,” Ellen said softly. “Christ’s love just seemed to flow through him. Pop said from the moment he got saved, his one goal was to live his life for the glory of God.”

He only gets the girl after he is saved and decides to be a Christian. On the back of the book, on the bottom, something I didn’t see, were words that read, “Inspirational Romance”.

You may not be able to tell the quality of the book by its cover, but I could have begun to understand the content.

My next ab fab book was Kentucky Heat by Fern Michaels. In this book, a fifty-two year old woman throws her kids out of the house, gets them back, falls in love with her dead husband’s business partner, wins the Triple Crown for the second time in her life, and becomes severely scarred so that she endures much self-loathing.

Out of that stuff, the most absurd thing is the Triple Crown thing. Good Lord.

But! Magic things are about to happen! Lots of people will be introduced to make things wild and wacky! I will give you the list of names from the first chapter: Mitch Cunningham, Nealy Coleman Diamond Clay, Seth Coleman, Moss and Amelia Coleman, Cary Asante, Billie Coleman, Maggie, Susan, and Riley Coleman, Sallie Coleman Thornton, Cotton Easter, Ash and Simon Thornton, Fanny Thornton, Birch, Sage, Billie, and Sunny Thornton, Metaxas Parish, Ruby Thornton, Dillon Roland, Rhy and Pyne, Maud and Jess Wooley, Hunter Clay, and Nick Clay.

How many of these kids are in the book? Fourteen, near as I can tell. Out of the twenty-eight listed. Then there are the horse names, which I think I will leave to your imagination.

In my head I’m making a character who reads far too many of these books. I’m afraid I’m going to get more stupider than usually.

I think one of the most charming things is the lack of self-consciousness by the writer. For example, on page one, as they take care of a newborn colt, this line appears, “Ruby said in a hoarse voice…”

Ha! It’s magnificent! It wouldn’t be funny if she’d tried, but since she didn’t, ha!

The current romance novel is Embers.

For my next trick, I will divine the mathematical formula for the price of getting someone into bed with the possibility of matrimony versus the price without that possibility. I will also include a "community property" constant.

Please fund further study with tiki huts in your backyard. (I thrive on the voodoo powers of tiki.)

pompous, annoying, irritating, and, damn, probably right

I listened to a woman yesterday who could have used a lesson in brevity. It's amazing how people spend thirty thousand years on introduction when their message is approximately a paragraph long. I hated her tone. I disliked her glasses. I believed she talked much too long. I resented her body language.

And I think she was right.

I hate it. Why on earth does someone I agree with have to talk in such an alarmingly irritating way?

To satisfy all of you curious darlings and to keep this topic from bubbling too long in my head while I try to think of something innocuous to write, she was talking about war. BrilliantEditor and I went to Quaker meeting. (It's obviating me of Catholic guilt about not going to church while I self-indulgently become a part of a pacifist a group.)

In Quaker meeting, people tend to speak when they're spoken to by God. If you've got something to say that you think you might have thought of on your own, you can say it after the silent part is officially over. That's when MissPompiss got on her allergy inducing high horse.

She said, and I am seriously squashing this down, that demanding troops just leave Iraq would be less than clever since the acquiescence to similar demands in Vietnam led to 1.5 million deaths.

Yep. That's the short version. An excellent observation, I must say. (Check me out! How much intro necessary for one big sentence?! I'm so amazingly consistent.)

Another reason for me to be annoyed: so, my dear, do you have a plan?

She spoke for five to ten minutes, which is quite a long time for an impromptu address to people with children yanking on them. And she didn't have a plan. Why why why don't we ever have plans when we've got good-ish ideas?

I suppose it isn't up to her to develop foreign policy. I also suppose, however, that it would be helpful to offer to meet afterward and make some suggestions. She said she's been in the anti-war movement for twenty-five years and is embarrassed that she wanted troops out. Period.

I'm curious, though, to know if there's something more than a fantasy of happy people in her head. I'm sure there is. I'm also sure I didn't have to listen to it.

I was getting fidgety and my shoes were too loud to walk out.

nonsense
Since seriousness is not an attractive thing for me to wear, I will share with you a non sequitur of extraordinary proportions.

I made my lunch today. A very complicated and much envied recipe.

So when I went to cut the PB&J sandwich in half, which I don't usually do, I didn't know if I should cut it long ways or diagonally. And then I wondered why people don't cut it horizontal ways.

If you cut it horizontal ways and you only like the top of the bread, you can have a whole side of a sandwich that will make you happy while you can surgically remove the bottom of the bread with your knife.

I ended up cutting it long ways because my mother always cut it diagonally. And when you go for the diagonal ways, there are always those corners with none of the middle of the sandwich in them.

That just isn't right.

not so much to say

more on mothering

I realized this afternoon another reason why I was feeling all mother hen-like: I went with BoPeep this afternoon to the doctor. She wanted moral support.

That seems like a mom thing to do.

BoPeep, however, has found out that she will be a mom. BoPeep has found her sheep!

She's so happy to be having a baby. We went to Target and I bought her a wee baby hat for her to send to Candoo, her husband, in Iraq.

She's so excited. She kept yelling, "Bubba!" That's their word for baby. I'm so very happy for her.

And I went to the doctor with her. What a good mom I am!

the mothering non-mother hen

BellyRub’s been stressed out these past two days. I called to see how he’s doing and to make sure he’s taking care of himself.

Being me, which means being convinced that I’m right most of the time, I began asking him lots of questions. “Are you eating? Did you sleep? How are the dogs? Have you been using your support system? Are you eating vegetables and fruit? Are you taking your vitamins? Are you smoking a lot? Would you take Flintstones vitamins even if you won’t take anything else? Did you know that stress robs your body of nutrients? Are you getting your B vitamins? Do you know that french fries are not a vegetable? And neither is ketchup. Or pickles. Are you going to sleep at a reasonable hour? I hope you’re being careful about your caffeine intake.”

What’s this all about? I didn’t ask them all in a row like that. Only almost all in a row. He’s having a Wendy’s triple something or other for lunch. I voted yes on that one. Protein, kids. Meat is a complete food. Vegetarians, you can make all the statements you want about nutrition and I’m sure you’re right, but I’m more right. Meat can be very good for you.

(I actually don’t like meat that much, but there’s no way you’re telling me that a grilled mushroom, no matter how tasty, fills the nutritional bounty of venison in a cream and red wine sauce. Mmmmmmm. Or salmon with white wine and capers. Or just meat.)

So. I’m on my high horse today. I’m not sure I like it up here. There’s a long way to fall. Loooong way. I was going to have a lunch with no meat. I am, however, feeling as though I should probably eat some kind of dead animal product.

But wouldn’t I be anyway? I put blood meal and bone meal in my garden. It’s just one more nod to the wholesome goodness of animal products. And those products give rise to vegetable products. I say! I will eat what I want! I shall hop down from my high horse, gather the cows and chickens and lambs and fish and piggies, collect the leaves and berries and roots and flowers, and snuggle them all to my bosom and whisper, “You’re tasty little treats!”

And I hope BellyRub’s taking good care of himself.

blaming tony randall

"I've got a love-uh-lee bunch of coconuts...big ones, small ones, some as big as your head..."

It's all Tony Randall's fault. I just watched him on The Muppet Show and one of the skits was of a county fair and a booth that lets you pick up a coconut and toss it at a bunch of milk bottles. Of course, the coconut song came up.

I was so pleased. It always makes me think of BellyRub. In our youth (two years ago) we were watching Cops. (Altered state of consciousness, what can I say?) There was a bear in a palm tree. The cops had to get it down. BellyRub looked at me and sang, in Yogi Bear's voice, "I've got a love-uh-lee bunch of coke-co-nuts!"

We both died laughing. We still have many things to laugh about including, "I don't swim." Inside jokes are still funny after they get out.

...

After I wrote that I went to walk around so that I could think about what other stuff BellyRub and I laugh about. I came up with, "The Venerable Bede," and then the phone rang.

First it was BellyRub where we laughed about something I don't remember.

Then it was Dr.Dad. He called to ask me about the movie American Beauty and how it ended and who died and la dee da.

He asked me why the neighbor shot Kevin Spacey's character.

I said the words job and blow to my father. Not necessarily in that order.

What the hell is wrong with Dotty Parker? She tells her father about the relationship between oral sex and tongue piercing on the weekend, and then on a weekday she just says, 'blow job." To her father. Just like that.

This is going to be funny in a week or two. Right now I'm simply shocked by my own dottiness, and that is meant to be a lowercase d.

My poor father. I am currently searching for something that would have been different to say without resorting to medical terminology.

This day has been, for many reasons, all too weird.

I'm going to take a bath.

cats, again

In the show, the cats tell us that every cat has three names.

Therefore! I have taken the liberty of naming everyone who's been in the blog for the past two months!

You may call me Pippip if you must.

Stickwaddle Brinting Chopsum / AngerTrain

AhChoo Salubrium Squinglehed / BE

Yoinkoopsy Horker Vacksoob / BellyRub

Sablecurl Cookfeather Mungle / BoPeep

Updown Travpacker Candoo / BoPeep's husband

Xennyful Tink Flosocia / ChillyLily

Trickety Spang Paternymph / CoolCat 

Pippip Grinzleberry Starcrunchitymac / DottyParker

Optio Mangledypez Bop / Dr.Dad

Whoatelling Inorex Icatriz / Dr.Nurse

Swingy Aycertum Quildoom / Erotica

Leafytail Fizzyla Hepsme / Florette

Propogand Cubiclean Rooftop / J. Bigeolow Clark

Sillyloin Tempttempt Tobogganride / Jackie Collins

Sandpaper Hihi Cologne / John Paul Jones

Dietnon Grahamaphat Nobley / Julia Child

Romea Exo-tick Yowlysigh / LadyO

Sundown Etendolock Natahlie / LeTigress

Toptip Minkotork Stump / Mr.Guy

Rainychoc Bitbit Bierbelgia / Mr.Sprinkles

Chistobel Lornflap Mulderoon / PTAMom

Tapdancer Splittydig Firepants / Richard Nixon

Tallpaper Mazoomy Minxspy / SirDougg

Tippytoe Wetfeet Growlsnick / Spring

Pumpernick Pepperpot Boe / Sprocket

Uppaway Hedduslick Tuppies / Tex

Singsong Baybilift Brewski / TheLion

Smickletongue Taptap Incendio / Vulcan

Curlygrin Wrigglemorph Grippe / Will Ferrell

If I left you out, you must tell me so I can correct so grievous an error.

And my NYAdMan who is really no longer an ad man, but still lives in New York. A name for you, too.

Steamystreet Velo Cipedyspeed / NYAdMan

meow meow meow meow

I want chicken. I want liver. Meow Mix, Meow Mix, please de-liv-er!

Saw Cats last night with BoPeep, Florette, and WhirlyBird.

I so very much wanted to hate it so I could maintain my annoying and superior attitude to such frivolity.

But I liked it.

I can complain about a few things, but my three companions already had to listen to me, so I think, given their gracious, but oh-so-patient reactions, maybe I'll keep it to myself this time. They are sweet to me.

I wanted to dislike it because of the "Memory" song. Ther version I always hear is the one that's belted into a microphone somewhere. Everything is full sounding and complete. It's practiced and perfected. It's grown up and unassailable. It's uncompromising and hardened.

The context changes all that. I've always hated the whole, "Touch me! It's so easy to leave me!" Yeah yeah. At least someone stayed in the first place.

That's how I thought it would be. That's how it sounded. Like a freshman girl realizing, "Oh God. He was totally drunk. He doesn't even know my name. But I love him! Oh please! Touch me! It's so easy to leave me!"

But our sweet kitty who sings is actually much more tender and vulnerable and afraid. Her desire to be touched is to have someone acknowledge that she isn't repellant and appalling. She's pleading as if it's her last chance to change her life.

Wow I hate that paragraph. Maudling sentimentality worthy of a freshman girl. I'd change it, but I really do have things to accomplish today.

I want a fur tutu.

I want a fur tutu so very much. I looked at how it was made, and I could make it. I don't really have a desire to wear some bespeckled leotard, but it might come down to that. (How funny is it that people in Cats wear LEOtards. Hahahaha!

The woman who wore the fur tutu sings so beautifully. And she's kind to the old, theatrical kitty. I do love that. So I'm in love with the kitty tutu. I want to be the woman in the kitty tutu. If I take voice lessons, learn how to dance, get really fit, and decide that acting's for me...there's no stopping me, baby!

And I'm in love with the old, theatrical kitty. He sings. Bee-yoo-tifully. In Italian.

sigh

And he's funny, too. And very sweet. And he sang a v. amusing duet with the fur tutu lady.

Toward the end of the play he stood in front of me to sing and he looked right at me for a while.

So I winked.

Tee hee.

He gave me a smile that made his kitty face crinkle around his kitty eyes. So I blew him a kiss. La la la.

And he smiled again. A bigger smile this time. Oooo la la.

So then I waved to him, much to the chagrin of my compatriots, and he made kitty-pawing-the-air-while-high-on-catnip motions. Then I kissed his kitty hand.

And he went away.

Touch me! It's so easy to leave me!

yeah yeah.

I'm thoroughly amused. BoPeep asked, after I kissed his kitty hand, "Did he invite you to the cast party?"

"No. Do you want to go?"

Ahhhhhhh, his bio holds the key, my darlings. He is already very much in love.

With Bob.

I say this: if you're going to get near enough to me so that I can touch your kitty nose, you're daring me to do it, right?

I generally don't go in for dares. Especially if they're spoken out loud. Unless I want to do it anyway, of course.

But he was a cutie, in that not-cute kind of way. And I was in the second row. And he smiled at me. And he loves Bob.

I'm not a tease. I'm interactive.

lock the damn door

The insomnia monster continues to pursue me. I didn't fall asleep until 5:30 last night. Last morning. And I'm not even all that tired during the day. I think, however, that I must watch to see how good my judgment is. I forgot to eat tonight and got cranky.

I went to help set up for the yard sale for the Varna Community Association. Whoopee!! I pulled stuff out of boxes and was generally amazed that other people have things that they want to get rid of as badly as I do. Hooray for us!

It was hot. People who helped to set up were loud. Folks who set up their own little booths wanted things, but wouldn't ask for them directly. One woman said, "Do you want the door shut? There's nobody in there."

Since the person she was asking had a blank, cow-eyed look, I, translated for her out loud . It translated to, "She's worried that someone might take her things." The woman said that, yes, she didn't want people to steal her stuff. Then she said, "If they took my stuff I'd be violent. If you'd been through what I've been through in the last two years..." I cut her off.

"I'd lock the door, too. Yes. You go have a good night! See you tomorrow."

(She really did mean that she'd wreck stuff if she didn't get her way. She was threatening in advance.)

What the hell was I thinking applying to school for social work?

I hate people.

as sophomoric as I wanna be

BrilliantEditor and I are talking about how to get a job doing editing work. It's a big world out there and not everyone is familiar with the delightful, yet staggeringly intellectual, creature that I am.

He tells me that I will need writing samples. But I don't write! Nothing serious anyway. I'm even fooling around with writing something longer than I'm used to writing and it isn't serious either.

So I went back to college. The stuff I'd written in college, anyway. I was pleased to know that I saved a paper that I wrote for an ornithology class. On the front I got this note:

Dotty--This is an effective paper, well-written, and professional. Aside from not including a cover page (!), I don't have any substantive comments for improvement. You took available opprtunities to put your own spin on the topic--that's great. 148/150

Yo. It is not good. My antecedents don't correspond to my cedents. There are omitted words, awkwardly constructed sentences, and a mark that looks like it came from a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (That could have come later, but still!) It's written in a droning and miserable tone that I apparently took for academic. If you saw the commercial from a bajillion years ago when the teacher is at the front of the class saying, "Supply. Demand. Economics." (then a new person comes in and opens the blinds) you'll know what this sounds like.

There are some behaviors that could be interpreted as anti-infanticide behaviors. Nest guarding, while traditionally viewed as a defense against predators, may also help defend against conspecific killers that could be considered predators. Nests that are guarded have a lower incidence of infanticide.

No kidding? When you guard stuff fewer bad things happen? Shocking!

It did have an awesome title though. Infanticide: It's All For The Best

So I go to BE and look at him wondering if he knew what a fool he'd married. "Hey. I just reread some stuff from school. The stuff I where I got good grades. It sucks. Really."

He asked how many thousand more words I'd read. I thought to myself, "Well, I stopped reading about the bird stuff for the most part. I could start again, I suppose, but that wouldn't really help..."

"I'm sorry?" That's what I really said.

"You've read a lot more since you were a sophomore. You've written a lot more since you were a sophomore. Of course it's going to seem sophomoric."

Then Sprocket walked in, wagged her tail, flopped onto the floor, and groaned a happy groan.

"Look at her. You can be as sophomoric as you want. She won't care."

Sophomoric then, by default. Sophomoric now, by de choice.

ambrosia, dahlings

The goddess Flora!

Sweet, perfect Florette has written to enlighten this mortal of the location of the nectar!

Dear Dotty,
I'm afraid to tell you that you will have to gather many flowers to drink nectar as though it were tea. You see, your portion size expectation is a bit bigger than most flowers can accommodate. You were looking in the right place for the nectar, but alas there was probably only a tiny droplet or two of nectar to be found. Why? do you ask, well according to one of my oh-so scientific books…..
“for their assistance in plant reproduction, pollinating animals are rewarded with food – nutriments upon which flower visitors become dependent….[s]pecial glands (nectarines) at the base of the petals, pistil, and stamens exude droplets of a nutritious liquid, called nectar….[for some flowers] the nectar is clearly visible as a shiny drop in the bottom of the opened flowers….other species typically conceal the nectar at the bottom of deep, cup-shaped or trumpet-like flowers Or the food may be even more difficult to reach in the bottom of tubular, floral projections.” I could go on here in much more detail about the craziness of plants and the cunning way they conceal nectar and make the pollinators do a lot of work to get those tiny droplets of nectar – although for them the droplets may seem massive, maybe not which may be why they go from plant to plant to plant, which I guess is what you’ll have to do to quench your nectar thirst. You may get tired, but at least you’ll be helping plants reproduce!
Yours in nectar,
Florette

Don't you just love her?!

I tried to find a good picture of her, but could only find paintings of women said to be the goddess Flora.

I will share them with you, but they do not capture the true connection and power that Florette shares with us in her letter.

Oh! To gaze upon her and her straw hat! To see the large garbage can filled with potting soil! To be favored with plants from her abundant gardens!

Oh!

And here, my darlings, do look for the woman pictured here. She walks among us. As I say, they do not truly define her. As a wee lassie worshiping at the tootsies of a resplendent goddess...here's my best. (They started to freak me out, so I stopped tweaking them. There's just no way to make an image as perfect as she is. Sigh.)

Oh, you sassy girl. And goddess. Among the lemon trees and coconut palms and birds of paradise. Ooo la la. You never told me how brazen you are! Look out, Tex. She may have a large number of suitors at the door. You know how they love coconuts.

need sleepy

Ah! The crickets, the peepers, the other noisy night animals who live outside my window as I try, unsucessfully, to go to sleep.

I went to the movies today with CoolCat. I demanded that we go to a movie that would not give me nightmares. Well. How do you like that? I can't sleep. No nightmares. Good job, sir. You've done well.

The question is this: should I stay awake and do something useful? Should I keep attempting to sleep?

At some point, maybe 4:30, it ceases to matter. Once 4:30 rolls around, it just seems silly to sleep. I'll be tired all day if I sleep. If I don't sleep at all, I'll wander around in a somewhat pleasant haze geneally unable to focus.

So it's normal.

BrilliantEditor will say, "Did you get any sleep at all?" and I'll smile graciously, like a martyr, and reply, "No, honey. I didn't. I tried to tell you I was going downstairs so that I wouldn't bother you with my reading. But you didn't wake up. So I crept out of bed. Did you sleep well, sweetie?" Kiss on the cheek.

Heh.

If I do say it he'll read this and know that I'm being a pain in the ass on purpose. And I'm not quite that cruel. And it's likely my own fault that I can't sleep. So why should I be a stink head?

The world is full of distractions. My world is full of them, anyway. Eyes closed, lights out and there are thoughts dancing around in there. During the day it's show tunes. I'm really pissed that they haven't gone away yet.

During the night, however, it's much more complicated. There's the list of things to do and the question of if I really have to do them. Should I be reading now? Should I get up and get the dog? Her snoring makes me sleepy. Is the other dog in pain? I took her for a nice walk today. Maybe it was too long. Maybe she needs doggy aspirin. It tastes like roast beef. That's what they say. But who the hell tried it out and said, "Yep. Roast beef"?

Does NyQuil really work? Will I sleep? The active ingredient is alcohol. SirDougg gave us a lovely bottle of scotch. That would work, too, I'll bet. It doesn't treat the stuffy nose, but it tastes better.

Then come the inappropriate thoughts. If I push BrilliantEditor really hard, I push him right out and can have the whole bed to myself. I wonder why the love interest in The Manchurian Candidate lived with her father. And it's a movie with a sassy rating. Why was she wearing night clothes? They could have gone with naked shoulders.

Naked shoulders are always suggestive and tempting. Do schools have dress codes prohibiting suggestive and tempting shoulders? I have a bruise on one of my shoulders. Does that cut out all possibility of having suggestive and tempting shoulders? Should anyone have them if I can't? (That's a late night martyr question. la la)

I think it's the exposed neck, which might look vulnerable. And then those naked shoulders which seem to negate the vulnerability. For both the tempted and the bearer of temptation, should they give into temptation, the rewards equal the risk.

Now I'm at the place where I can't stop thinking about what those rewards are. So then I think about the ones that I'm tempted by. And then I have to remind myself to if I want to go to sleep, this probably isn't the best course to take.

At this very moment, I have determined that writing it down isn't helping. I thought, "Hey! Won't this be great? The whole world will say, 'Did you get any sleep last night' and I can say, 'No, honies. I didn't.' and it will all be a big joke and I'll go right to sleep."

Instead of sleep it's necks and lips and breathing and heat and hands and shoulders and whispers...oh.

Damn you, Dotty Parker!

Thinkaboutsomethingelse. Thinkaboutsomethingelse.

I can hear the crickets and the peepers. Isn't it a lovely sound!

I can't sleep.

yo. florette

Florette, my dear,

I watched a hummingbird eat some nectar, I presume, from my roses, hostas, and toad lilies. I thought, "Hey! Where is that nectar stuff, anyway?"

So I pulled apart a toad lily and saw that there were three (I think) petals or sepals or peoples or steeples that had little buckets at the bottom. They weren't full of liquid, though.

Darling, I need to know. The world needs to know. The world didn't know it until now, but they haven't been able to find the nectar, either.

Remember the scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory? (I know the book was Charlie and the Chocolate Factory but they changed it for the film. It's not nearly as pretty sounding or as comfy to say in my mouth. I vote no. But it's too late.)

Remember the scene in the movie? He's singing about pure imagination and indicates that what you'll see will defy explanation. He drinks out of a daffodil. Sipping gently from the delicate flower (like me) and then drinking the last drop. It's good to the last drop.

He's drinking nectar as if it's tea! Then he eats the cup and saucer. At that point my parallel breaks down. Nevertheless, I want to know where the nectar is and why I can't drink it. I have a straw. I could get an Eppendorf pipette if I tried. And I would try.

Darling, where is it? I'm thoroughly distressed. I'm dying of nectar thirst. Oh please. Please.

Most desperately,
Dotty P.

an uncomfortable way to measure the inseam

I just went berry picking at Tex and Florette's. Getting over the barbed wire fence made me feel so happy that I was tall. I can confidently tell you that the fence is more than 31 inches high. I'm learning to pole vault, so it's getting easier to get over. Still, having shorter legs could be problematic. I think being a guy would make it a little tense, too. Tall shoes, however, could be the answer to it all. I will inform you of further information

I saw BellyRub and Erotica over the weekend. They did a lot of chatting. Their friends LadyO and Vulcan came by, too. We talked about HVAC.

HVAC? You bet yer boots, HVAC. BellyRub moved to Cleveland and into the world of air conditioning and heating and blowers. He really likes it. It scares me.

You see, I know something about broken a/c compressors. When BrilliantEditor and I were in North Carolina living in sin, one of the compressors for the apartment building was brokenish. BellyRub said, "How'd you know it was broken if it wasn't yours?"

I said, "It made a noise. It was like a jillion bees in a tin can."

Awwwww yeah. Rockin'!

The fire was a good place to be. Dr.Dad was there for a while asking Vulcan about his tongue piercing. "My tongue was swollen for two or three weeks. I was on a liquid diet for two days."

The next day, Dr.Dad said, "Where do you get that done? The tattoo place? If a patient had painful swelling for two weeks, we'd be sued." He's not fond of the idea of oral piercings at all. When I told him it was supposed to increase the stimulating power of oral sex, he still wasn't impressed.

I wonder what it's like to have your daughter explain that to you. He must have practiced his response since he didn't even blink. Of course, he's an eye doctor. Maybe he has a secret of some kind.

The Secret of Blinklessness by Dr.Dad

don't suckle the mushroom

I was looking at a bottle of pills this morning and saw the most astonishing thing:

That woman! She's breastfeeding a mushroom.

Is it supposed to be a disembodied baby's head? I don't know. It might be a big joke. One of those jokes where they say, "Here's the text. And here's a picture that has ZERO to do with it."

I bet it's one of those jokes.

must share this

I got this comment spam today. The title was this:

Sensible Holiday Gifts

then the text:

bigger-penis-exercise (dot com)

They say it's scientifically proven to work.

I'll let you know.

racing?

Can my thoughts be called racing thoughts if they're only racing between show tunes and commercials and Sesame Street?

My Fair Lady, Guys and Dolls, The King and I: they're jumping around in my noggin. Then there’s the Pepsi commercial, since I’ve got the right one, baby. Uh huh. I've got the Real Cheese commercial, in which the man sings, “Pizza, gnocchi, and cannoli…so gooooooood! With reeeal cheese!” Loving care wants me to "wash that gray right outta my hair!"

It needs to stop. It needs to stop RIGHT NOW. (cause we're workin' on some hot stuff, baby, this evening...) Now. Stop now. (rainy days and mondays...) Stop. (viva las vegas!) Stop! Dammit.

Thus, I shall share more of my fabu book.

These two are fun-fun bits from the time before the Germans have shown up.
”An Englishman in the ocean is always dangerous,” said the chief [of police].

”Why is it that after looking at a German you can feel a sense of relief akin to elation by looking at a rock or a vegetable?”

The theme of depraved Nazi sexuality.

He was thinking about what he would do when he arrived with the victorious German army in America. He would go to all the gold-plated brothels and the movie studios that America was made of and enjoy them and the loose, champagne women that swarm about the country. He would have a long, powerful automobile and one of the loose American female mongrels and a bottle of champagne and step on the gas.

He thought of that wonderful night in Warsaw when he and seven of his companions had found a fifteen-year-old girl in a prosperous section of the city and attacked her in her parents’ library. It was one of the most exhilarating experiences of his life. Warsaw was a wonderful place.

He thought of the exciting pleasure, incomparable with any other sensation that he had ever had, the first time he had beaten a Jew with his rifle, first the old man’s ribs and then his head until it looked like a sponge.

And now we’ll take a look at the semi-shocking, completely pervasive theme of homosexual Nazi love.
This involves Captain Muller and the Baron von Orsted

Here’s hint one.
He got the impression that Captain Muller had expected a woman to dine with him. He didn’t know why he thought this; perhaps it was merely the two places set at the table that gave him the conventional picture of a man and a woman eating together.

hint two
”You do not trust me?”
“It does not matter, Baron. I like you. That is enough, isn’t it?”
He patted the baron’s knee as though it were the head of a puppy.
“At least we have made favorable impressions on each other,” the baron forced himself to say.
“I am glad you said that. I want us to like each other. A soldier’s life in wartime is quite an official thing, and it will be pleasant for me to know a German civilian while I am here. I like my men, but still they are the everlasting soldier. To me you are relaxation.”

Hint three
”Did you know you that you have the most interesting hands?”

“…Oh, Baron, give me one strong man and I will give you the world.”
…There was something half-developed about him, like some secret monstrosity kept in alcohol out of the sight of laymen only for examination by doctors; he was only half a human being.

Apparently gay people are okay to dislike. Good thing there are Nazis to take care of them, right?

No, not so much.

even richard nixon has got soul

I was talking with CoolCat about Anthony Hopkins passing as a black man. One of those acting things. The Human Stain I believe. Gross. He hypothesized that Mr. Hopkins's character might be more in touch with the jivey side of life.

Could it be true? Are stereotypes okay to use sometimes? Are they okay to use in movies, for example? Or how about when berry picking? Is there a genetic component to jive? Or soul? Is it connected to blackness?

Although I feel as if I'm treading on sacred ground, I can confidently state that today I have seen hard evidence that black equals jive.

I went with Florette to pick blackberries. We hauled ourselves over the barbed wire fence while the dogs were rolling in some kind of manure or dead animal. There were so so so many blackberry bushes with beautiful, tasty blackberries. We picked enough for a pie, I reckon. And I ate a bunch, too.

Here's the thing. I asked Florette if she thought that blackberries had more jive than blueberries. She suggested that they did since they have more segmenty bits. Raspberries do, of course, because they rhyme with jazz. We all know that a jazzberry would be very jivey, indeed.

How fab is it to have evidence that black=jive?! And how fab is it to know that blue=less jive?! And how much more fab is that rasp=jazz?!

It's sure fab if you're a berry.

The things you learn in the blackberry patch. With the sun on your head. While your brainses act all funny.

a novel idea

I have, thank heaven, been brought to my senses that pulp fiction about sex is what it's all about. Thus, it's time for more of that fabulous book, The Dreamers.

Here is a description of the charming foolishness of the quaint, uncivilized behavior that characterizes the sweet, slightly dumb chief of police. Do note that he is Italian.

The professor wanted to laugh again, but he did not because the chief was playing policeman and if you didn't take him seriously he might get angry.

"I was the bushes," he said.

So we know the Italians are laughable. But how about the Germans?

He was a very handsome man, six feet, two inches tall and had an enormous chest and wide shoulders...His physical health and strength were like a mountaineer's. You could not look at his giant symmetry without thinking that here was a man whose physical endurance must be stupendous. He was the kind of man you visualized as a polar explorer or a deep-sea diver...During the first World War, being in England, he was imprisoned there. Yeears later he contributed to the Nazi party, regretted it, and moved to Italy.

How about the Americans?

...the Americans do not want the peace that is just around the corner...and they have arrogantly and brutishly decided to prolong the war. In fact, this war is all but over, and the Americans, true to type, have started a fresh war.

The English

"How did you know I was an Englishman?"

"You looked uncomfortable."

Oh, and one more thing. When the Germans are angry they shout, "Desiccated swine!" in English.

I suppose the only sexy thing is the description of the young, beautiful Italians sitting at the table with the professor who had been watched by the shrub.

[The girl and the man] were telling each other the most intimate things with their eyes, and the professor was mortified by their emotional eloquence to such an extent that he drank another glassful and refilled it. Now the thing was becoming unendurable.

Hang onto your hats, you British darlings.

As an Englishman he didn't know whether they were being supremely natural or devastatingly abnormal, and this quandary called for another drink. Then there was the question of whether they were sublime or disgusting, and this, too, was a cause for another drink.

You poor British. You must hold hands in the dark and wonder when the stork will come. Poor professor. You'd think even historians would know that love comes in varieties. It's not just book-learning, my dears, that can inspire love.

There are magazines, too.

What's that? Where's the gratuitous sex?

"When I am caressing her I am for always singing all over me from the head thoroughly to the feets."

Yes, indeed. Such fantastic writing. And the range of vocabulary for these two perfect creatures. Why does it improve as they speak more? "Darkness time and light daytime" feel so charming and English as a second language-y. And then he says, "orchestra" and "thoroughly" and "breath of passion".

I made a claim that this was boring. I suppose it isn't. It's inane and foolish. It's poorly written by an author high upon a horse.

It is, however, entertaining. If I were not on my high horse, it might even be chortle worthy.

There are so many levels of being annoyed and superior. There's having a stiff back (otherwise known as having some object in one's ass). There's looking down one's nose. There's looking askance. There's being on a soapbox. I'm sure that there's an intermediate that I don't know which would then cause us to graduate to the high horse.

I am feeling touch of sunbeam yellow in my up soul now time. A day of the pretty day in this not Spring time. Time for plant and animals for growing and being the ready for people day to choose picking of harvest.

Touch of sun on grass so green calls my Dotty to going away to new location thinking of insect homes and roses.

Oh man.

(I really do love the British. Most of them. If you're reading this, you know I love you most.)

(Furthermore, SirDougg told me that you drink cream tea with tea. I love that so very much. Some places offer coffee instead.)

picture postcard propaganda

I was going to add an entry including more from The Dreamers, but once I'd looked at the book and picked out my topic, I was far too irritated to write about it.

That's not true, really. I did write about it. But it's boring. I must be less boring, I say. I'd go on about why it's a good thing to not be a bore, but I'd only be proving two points at once: I'm not even going to tell you. Hey! Let's sing and dance and light firecrackers! Hey! Excitement!

Here's something Tex told me about. Tex, unlike me, is informed about things like issues and current events and truck tires. He told me to go to this lovely place and watch Will Ferrell pretend to be someone else.

If you are afraid of horses, by the way, this should make you feel less alone.

To those of you who are not bothered by horses, I still recommend that you view it.

cold?

Why do things in the fridge start to smell bad much more quickly in the summer than they do in the winter? A person might presume that the inside of the refrigerator stays as cold in summer as it does in winter. All signs point to that being a poor presumption.

How presumptious.

My fridge is now very clean. BrilliantEditor came home and made the fridge sparkling clean. He's a brave man.

I thought there might have been angry elves in there.

whoa. sexy.

What makes a sexy book? Jackie Collins thinks she knows. Perhaps she does; I've not read any. I did read some pulp fiction one summer.

As I recall it was about a woman from the south who is headstrong and beautiful. She loved the handsome bachelor who rode horses. One day on her ride through the country her horse was spooked and she was thrown from the horse. The handsome bachelor came along and there was some bodice ripping and passionate sex that bordered on the non-consentual variety, but it was supposed to be hot stuff, especially with the horses watching.

As things go in the world of pulp fiction, she got pregnant with the handsome bachelor's baby. She didn't tell him, though. The beautiful headstong darling woos the handsome bachelor and ends up waking up with him in her bed on several mornings. To hide her morning sickness, she kept crackers in her bedside table. She'd eat some of those and be just fine! He never noticed that she was pregnant until she was just about to have a baby. And they lived happily ever after.

Crap! It's all crap! While I could go on for hours about how incredibly unlikely it is for people to get pregnant at all given all the bajillion chemical and cellular nonsense going on, I should really just can it and say what I wanted to say:

SirDougg bought me a book of retro pulpiness. What we didn't know at the time of purchase was that it was poorly written and full of questionable propaganda. It's v. cool. Take a gander at the sexy, possibly fetishy dream fulfilling book cover.

And then with the description on the back?

Ahhhh, SirDougg, you know not what amusement and horror you've granted me. I am prepared to distill this joy for many people to enjoy right along with me.

Are you ready?

The first two paragraphs, sweeties:

Heaven and Earth are unequally allotted to the visible world where the rock called the island of Campagna towers up from the Mediterranean. The sky in the ample sphere arches all around and high above, and this is heaven. Then there is the round expanse of the enclosing sea, and this is on the earth; but the earth in fact is the rock. One thousand feet high, one mile across, and two miles long, it is alone in the midst of the sea and the sky, rearing up out of the water to represent the earth in an overwhelming preponderance of blue.

This isolated ambassador of the earth to the kingdom of the sea is Italian. It is one hundred miles from the mainland. In olden times there was a small population of fishermen who lived under the sheer cliffs along the shore, some of them dwelling inside the rock in the echoing grottoes where the sea comes in and slaps thunderously in the wet air, and the rest living along the pebbled beaches close to the waves that make the rock look from a distance like a thing jutting up from within a white wreath.

Oh yeah, baby. Can we agree that the cover was a lie?!

Here are some more samples.

Dare I say,"Good God!"

Can you count the prepositions? I believe it's beyond my abilities.

I'm considering sharing bits and pieces of this book. I think it's truly educational. And boy, is it fun.

drosophila bacchasaturnalian

Don Ho sang about tiny bubbles in his wine. BrilliantEditor sings about tiny bubbles in his spine which is a corruption of the way the guy on the radio used to sing, "Tiny bubbles in my spa." He was selling whirlpool items.

I cannot sing any of those songs. No. I cannot. What I can sing, what I am inspired to sing, in fact, is, "Tiny drunk bugs, in my wine."

Little punks. I've done my best to shoo them from the kitchen. Apparently they like that. I guess that's why they call them fruit flies.

Fruit flies are lovely specimens when it comes to genetic study. They are simple creatures who like mashed up bananas and are willing to live in tubes. They have sex in public. They don't seem to mind when they're separated from their eggs. They don't even mind when they get a heavy dose of Fly-Nap (tm) and kick the tiny fruit fly bucket.

But why are they living in my wine? Are they telling me to drink faster? Are they telling me that they're willing to die so that I may consume more non-digestible protein? What are they saying?

I don't know what they're saying.

But I'm saying I need another glass of wine.

me me me

My friend Mr.Sprinkles says, "Moo, moo, moo. Moo-moo-moo, moo-moo-moo, moo." Mr.Sprinkles is not a cow; he is an irascible punk. He says his moo monologue when people are particularly irritating. It seems to be said to people who walk slowly, people who don't get it, people who drive minivans badly, and when certain people in his life annoy him. (He doesn't say that to me when I annoy him. He says, "Blah blah blah bitch." And when he annoys me I say, "La la la, fuck you." There's a little tune with mine.)

Mr.Sprinkles would have had account to alter his "moo" song to a "me" song. I went out for coffee with CoolCat today. While I did allow him some time to talk about himself, I jabbered quite endlessly about, guess what, me! I suppose I'd have liked to have learned more about him, like the name of his daughter, but when a person is as amazing as I am, well, who really cares? It's always about me. Maybe I'll give it another try.

CoolCat is a fancy writer. I read stuff about him in true stalker style and discovered that people think he's just fabu! He's also researched cats for psychology purposes (v. difficult to not make puns) and he once had a beard! He wrote a historical fiction novel featuring the fabulous John Paul Jones.

Now here's an interesting fact: American Ambassador Horace Porter began a systematic search for it in 1899. The burial place and Jones' body was discovered in April 1905. President Theodore Roosevelt sent four cruisers to bring it back to the U.S., and these ships were escorted up the Chesapeake Bay by seven battleships. (from the navy's website)

I must say that Mr. Jones must have had a very large body if it took four cruisers to bring him back.

Oooooo maybe he's Gulliver! That would mean that CoolCat has written Gulliver's Travels!

He _is_ a fancy writer.

If only I'd listened instead of talking. If only.

we can do it

When I was in college, we had a name for very skinny people who walked around campus. We called them "Kate Moss wafer bitches".

I've been glad to be away from the constant obsessing about hips and thighs and food and fat grams and protein junk.

Yesterday, however, I went to lunch with Dr.Nurse. Dr.Nurse has always been really fit and she's always been interested in other people being the same way. I know she's medically savvy, but really, to talk about how much food you should and shoud not eat when you're at the table, that's not savvy.

We were in a place where the food was meant to be extra tasty. Except for the desserts. None of those looked good. PTAMom got some kind of mushroom ravioli, Dr.Nurse got some kind of reuben sandwichy thing, and I got (yum) sliced turkey and brie wrapped in puff pastry with a currant sauce.

Oh yeah.

I suspect it was divine retribution that Dr.Nurse liked the way my sandwich looked better than hers. She only ate half. The poor little thing couldn't fit any more in her tummy!

But she did have dessert.

I suppose what I want to make very clear to the big world (and to Dr.Nurse but I'm not really feeling like making an issue of it with her) is that advice on how to eat so that we're fit and healthy is no more appreciated than unsolicited advice about relationships or friendships or what kind of gas to put in the car.

Furthermore, I sure don't want to hear about that stuff in a restaurant. Julia Child mentioned that she did not go to restaurants to diet.

We can do it, kids. We can ignore that stuff at the table.

kidnapper questions

I went on a walk today with PTAMom and one of her friends, Dr.Nurse. When we walked by a house a few doors down, there were kids playing in the yard. It reminded me of a walk we’d taken last year.

I was walking the dogs and PTAMom was going to catch up with me. A little girl was standing by the road while her family packed their cars. She walked up to the dogs and asked to pet them.

She was a cutie.

We were chitchatting, talking about dogs, if she had a dog, if she wanted a dog, those kinds of things. I asked her about the lake, if she liked being at the lake, if she liked to swim, if she liked being in a boat, if she liked sailing.

I introduced myself and shook her hand and started to walk the dogs. I think kids like it when you shake their hands. It’s better than hugging them when you don’t know them. I’d be a little confused if someone just hugged me after I petted the dog.

PTAMom showed up just about then. PTAMom loves little kids and likes talking to them. The thing is that she asks the kind of questions a kid isn’t supposed to answer.

What’s your name?
Where do you live?
How old are you?
Are your parents here?
Where do you go to school?
What grade are you in?

When the little lady was a bit reticent, PTAMom would ask the questions again. The little girl looked up at me and I said, “Mom, those aren’t the kind of questions to ask. Those are kidnapper questions. You always told me not to mention answer those questions.”

She looked at me the way my dogs look at me when they don’t quite understand—head turned a bit, eyebrows up. Toss in a bit of condescension and that’s the look.

I’m pretty sure that she didn’t recognize the irony of her behavior.

When I was a wee lassie, PTAMom got a video for BellyRub and me to watch. It was called Strong Kids, Safe Kids. Henry Winkler was the narrator guy, if I recall properly.

In this video, Henry told us not to talk to strangers. He told us to run away as fast as we could if we thought someone was going to take us away or molest us somehow. He told us to go to a house of a person we knew. He reinforced the message of the commercial that told us not to accept sexual abuse: “Say no! Then go! And tell someone you trust! Say no, go, and tell!”

I had nightmares about people trying to kidnap me. How seriously had I taken this information? Here’s my crazy dream.

I’m walking down the street, I even know which street corner it is. An orange truck, an older one with a rounded hood and round headlights that stare at you, comes by and the guy driving asks me questions like the ones PTAMom was asking that little girl.

I get nervous.

I look around and there’s nobody there. I start to back away when a motorcycle comes driving up and sees the look of terror on my face. He offers to help and gets off his bike. He comes over to me to help, but he picks me up and puts me on the motorcycle. The guy in the truck gets out and gets on the motorcycle, too, and we all drive away.

I’m kidnapped!

I understand dreaming about being kidnapped. I was a kid. Kids dream about those things. What’s interesting is that I was trying to get help and that turned out not to be help at all! I was betrayed in my dream! I doublecrossed myself!

I avoided that corner for years.

The point is that PTAMom had us watch that video and she talked to us about being safe and about not getting taken away or treated inappropriately. (I was afraid of one of my uncles for years.)

After explaining to us what we should be careful of and explaining what kinds of questions we should and should not answer, PTAMom asked those very same questions to the little cutie girl. It’s totally weird. The whole thing makes me raise my eyebrows and shake my head.

What the hell?

I just looked up the video to see if I remembered correctly. Apparently I was a bit more nervous than this guy: Oh man, this video is a classic. I saw this in my Cub Scout troup and none of us could keep a straight face. There is a song about penis and vagina, Henry Winkler as the Fonz talking about private parts, different names you can call your penis or vagina, and John Ritter. This tape was suppose to teach kids about not talking to strangers and such but it taught us really to laugh. This tape is hilarious! FOR PRIVATE PAAAAAAAAARTS!!!!

minnie's bloomers

This song from my single trip to Girl Scout camp keeps going through my head. It pops up periodically for reasons I don’t know.

I’ve always thought that it was “Minnie”, but the Canadian Boy Scouts (what the hell do they know?) say it’s “Middies”. Given the rest of the song, which I didn’t know, I suppose middies makes more sense. Nevertheless, I shall share with you the fabulous song that won’t leave me alone.

Middies, bloomers, middies, bloomers all day long.
She wears them in the morning; she wears them at noon,
She only takes them off by the light of the moon, Woooo!
Middies, bloomers, middies, bloomers all day long.

Straw hats, knee socks, straw hats knee socks all day long . . .
Girdle, sneakers, girdle, sneakers all day long . . .

Why does this song stick in my head? BellyRub knows that all kinds of songs get stuck in my head. He knows this because he gets them stuck in his head, too. I don't think we know why. Genetic mutation is my bet.

I don’t know if he remembers the Monchhichi song, but I sure do.

Monchhichi, Monchhichi! Oh so soft and cud-a-ly!
With his thumb in his mouth he’s really sweet!
It’s fun to play with their little feet!
La la la! La la la!
Happy, happy Monchhichi!
(Then the little girl says) I love you Monchhichi!

Of course growing up can make things a little bit different, although the Monchhichis still make me happy. The last time I saw a real Monchhichi was when I was driving home from Moravia in a snit. I decided to stop at the sketchy looking store full of junk. They had a wee Monchhichi key chain hanging on the Venetian blind pull. Had he hanged himself? His moment of glory over, my life turned into a vague adulthood, all the Monchhichi joy gone from our lives? All grown up and no little feet to play with.

I found a web site that has Monchhichi merchandise, but it’s slow. Way too slow. EssEllOhDoubleYou Slow. I get cranky waiting for it. So I write more. And here you are reading it because you’re very sweet and are avoiding your other work. How much do I love you for that?

Very much. Here’s the link if you’re curious. I do not recommend it.

Looking at junk that isn't mine is relaxing for me. I feel better knowing that someone took the time to collect wooden salt and pepper shakers from National Parks and all the figural perfume bottle from Avon.

I like seeing old drinking glasses that have E.T. depicted on them. In fact, I may go back and see if I can find a fancy present for Mr. Guy who recently saw a v. fine set of retro glasses. (He lives in the big city, though, and you have to pay top dollar for such things.)

I enjoy seeing VFW uniforms that most certainly came from someone’s dead father. How much did they get for that uniform, do you think? Then there are all the bit of hardware that I couldn’t even begin to identify.

As I said, though, growing up makes lots of things different. I looked up Minnie’s bloomers to find that it was middies, bloomers. I looked up Monchichi to find out that the thing I was thinking about had two Hs in the middle. I also found that monchichi must mean monkey in Japanese. And if you spell check it, Word wants to make it say “monkfish”.

Those wacky Japanese. They make me happy too. Look what I found! Very safe monkeys. And it’s in character, too, I suppose. You know how monkeys are in the zoo, sexually frustrated creatures trying to horrify parents into not explaining what the sweet, asexual, little monkeys are doing.

Wow.

If that isn't the sexiest thing that relates to sexually transmitted diseases and water balloons, I don't know what is.