Dotty Parker

ow.

My tetanus shot arm hurts. It's okay when I hold it still, but when I lift my arm, it hurts.

My father would say, "Don't lift your arm."

It's a very droll sense of humor that my father has.

And my arm still hurts.

laugh

Tonight I went to dinner at BoPeep and Candoo's house. They had some of their other friends over, too. We laughed so hard that my cheeks are a bit sore and I had laughing tears in my eyes. That's always marvelous.

It's late, and I want to sleep. But I'll save up some of my tales for you. You'll love them, I promise.

In the meantime, here's a box that they were recycling. It made us all laugh.

Did they have a focus group? Was this a joke that go by the fancy people at the nature valley headquarters? Am I and are my friends simply derelicts who enjoy juvenile humor? Oh my.

ah man.

I had a doctor's appointment today. Most people go to the doctor. They're supposed to go to the doctor. Supposed to go meaning that it is in their interest to get the annoyance over now and quickly rather than later and in a malingering manner. I subscribe to that anyway. Much better to deal with it now than with it and its consequences later on.

Having said that, I came out in pretty good shape. I lost a couple of pounds (and don't plan on looking for them), was praised for wearing my seatbelt and not smoking (and I haven't in a while. At least I don't think I have...), and am now up to date on my tetanus shot.

Oh my! Does the excitement never end?! No! It doesn't! Does it?! Exclamation point!

Nevertheless, the doctor gets me down. Nothing's perfect. Not even me.

BUT! I do have Oscar Wilde's writing in front of me. There's not a lot better than Oscar Wilde to shake off the blues! Here's a relevant one:

I only care to see doctors when I am in perfect health; then they comfort one, but when one is ill they are most depressing.

Oh oh! And one about my affection for tobacco and alcohol:

One regrets the loss even of one's worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most. They are such an essential part of one's personality.

And to go with that:

One must accept a personality as it is. One must never regret that a poet is drunk, but that drunkards are not always poets.

And one more to go, tangentially, with that one:

We are born in an age when only the dull are treated seriously.

And finally, my darlings, a diagnosis no one can overcome.

Thinking is the most unhealthy thing in the world, and people die of it just as they die of any other disease.

I'd better call the doctor back. I didn't tell her about that last bit...is there a vaccine?

pathetic fallacy

As BrilliantEditor and I drove home tonight, we passed through thick fog and the kind of sprinkly rain that makes it quite difficult to see out of the windows. BE was driving. I asked how he was feeling. He said, "Weird."

I never quite know which direction "weird" is going to go. Upon asking, it became clear that there were circumstances that were contributing, but much of the weirdness was the fog. I thought, "Huh. How do you like that? It's a pathetic fallacy, as I learned in high school. The weather reflects what's going on around people."

Fog suggests mystery and secrets and confusion and subterfuge. Apparently BrilliantEditor was the star of tonight's show. A few foggy thoughts, a lot of foggy weather.

we're gonna change the world!

Now and then I am delighted by the beautiful world I have created. I, Dotty Parker, have made my world rich with possibility.

Sometimes those possibilities morph into beautiful, magical email.

Many moons ago I wrote about Tom Churchill, the guy who reads the weather for the NPR station here. Here's the link to what I'd written.

And then BellyRub wrote a reply which indicated that one of the running jokes that he and I have (about Uncle Computer Brain and his family) was fully in force in my entry.

What did I receive today in my inbox? An email from Tom Churchill!

A computer? :: click :: :: whirrrr :: That's only partly true. LOL. Happened to run across this doing some web site work. Yes, this is 'the' Tom Churchill of whom you speak. I am real. The systems to which you are listening were an invention of mine from 1989. I have been on radio and television since the age of 13 in 1974. They were designed to allow me to serve many radio, tv, and cable systems automatically using my real voice. I retired in 2001 to the Caribbean.

Our home's website is at http://thomaschurchill.tripod.com.
A live webcam from our home, Xanadu, is available on http://www.drsol.info.
And the latest on 'T.C.' (Tom Churchill not The Computer) is at http://www.virtualvoice.info.
Happy Easter from the Islands! - Tom (aka XR)

-Thomas J. Churchill

Virtual Voice Technologies, L.L.C.
EPS-D4036
PO Box 02-5548
Miami, FL 33102

''Share and Enjoy'' is the company motto of the hugely successful Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Complaints division, which now covers the major land masses of three medium sized planets and is the only part of the Corporation to have shown a consistent profit in recent years. The motto stands - or rather stood - in three mile high illuminated letters near the Complaints Department spaceport on Eadrax. Unfortunately its weight was such that shortly after it was erected, the ground beneath the letters caved in and they dropped for nearly half their length through the offices of many talented young complaints executives - now deceased. The protruding upper halves of the letters now appear, in the local language, to read ''Go stick your head in a pig'', and are no longer illuminated, except at times of special celebration." -The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

I'm not really clear on why he's AKA XR, but it doesn't matter really, does it? I finally have the words to go with the voice!

in other news
BrilliantEditor and I went to Walton for Easter. One the way there we go through Whitney Point. (Incidentally, the decision to _not_ put in public sewer and to stick with septic tanks and wells is what keeps Whitney Point from growing any larger. It just can't support anymore of our shit.)

On a sign outside a diner, was written this:

EASTER BUNNY HERE TODAY!!
COOK WANTED

BE spotted that one. Good eye, I say.

surly senior

surly senior

I did some substitute teaching today at a high school. Generally I "taught" (handed out worksheets) to tenth graders. In one class we did work together. In that class one fellow wrote on the board, "I like to dip my balls in vinegar."

I said to him, "I don't think that's a good idea." He was erasing at the time. He didn't think I was talking to him. I asked how his work was going and he quickly wrote, "I love Steve." I said, "How's question two working out for you?"

He panicked and said, "I was just writing to Steve..."

Steve said, "She already saw it, man."

He said, "What?"

I said, "You like to dip your balls in vinegar."

He cackled like a very silly person. He said it was the funniest damned thing he'd ever heard. Then he wrote it again. I told him not to do it...it was likely to be a bit painful...proximity to mucosal membranes...

I didn't say anything about pickling. Although that's funny, too.

I think I liked that class best, although they were problematic...I just thought they were funny.

But the seniors...little bastards. Do people who are older than I am think I'm as much of a goofball as I think these people are? Do people who are ten years older than I am look at me and think, "Oh please let her not stay like this for the rest of her life because she's incredibly stupid!" Of course not! Well, maybe not as much...

I made one guy sit in the corner because he was bothering me. I asked another girl to please be quiet about eight hundred times and she was simply a pain in the ass the entire time. In my notes I wrote, "She was really unpleasant." I think that might make the teacher laugh. I bet he already knows about that little facet of her personality. Maybe he'll think I'm super observant.

And, despite the really unpleasant young woman, I really like this substitute teaching thing. I get lost in the schools each time. So I'm learning too! About maps and pickled testicles...

oh! what a tangled web we weave!

My mom said that when I was growing up. "Oh, what a tangled web we weave." I suppose it's true. Everything crosses back on itself and we just get caught in the middle of what we're building.

It's meant to be a web! But it's just a tangle of sticky threads! Oh!

I've often spoken with Mr.Guy about what variety of monkey he or I would be if we were to be a monkey. I've been pulling for Capuchin monkey. He's on the same wavelength as I am in that regard. This weekend, though, LeTigress suggested spider monkeys.

SPIDER MONKEYS!

Now how fab would that be? To be a spider monkey! Forget organ grinding with the scary organ grinder. Forget stealing shiny things because you were trained to do it (I saw that on a Bloodhound Gang episode--someone was stealing money and things from hotel rooms, but they didn't take things like wallets! But they did take shiny things like gum wrappers! At least I think it was the Bloodhound Gang.)

A new employment option comes just for spider monkeys! Or monkies, as I would request my gang of monkies be pluralized.

We can be web detanglers! Some folks go to therapists or they play sports or they write in journals to sort out those difficult thoughts that rattle around in their noggins. But with a spider monkey, it would all be different. The monkies would fix those problems!

Metaphysical questions turn into physical things with pullable strings to which are attached rings tied onto the wings of birds that sing for the fanciful king.

Yes! A spider monkey is the thing to be! Oh yes yes yes!

fluidity and coping skills

Today's Dotty Parker product? A method for coping with difficulties.

It's an oft-turned to solution, and one that's under-appreciated. Certainly it's not the most functional way to deal with things. Deep breathing, going for a walk, doing some yoga, talking to a friend, yeah, those are the more functional ways. But let us not forget the tried, true, and much easier to come by solution.

Booze.

Oh yes, my dears, as sensitive a subject as it may be to those of us who have family members who are moved too often to taste the temptation known as alcohol, we must regard ourselves as valuable creatures worth protecting.

At dinner with your parents? True, things are getting better between you and them. You're growing up, after all. But isn't there just a little bit of something there? A touch of the uncomfortable notion of obligation? An unscratchable itch that reminds you they aren't really your friends? They are your parents. Let us not forget that distinction.

I'm experiencing a bit of the curious desire to protect them from my real life. So my shoes squeak. I want new shoes. But I can't find the ones I want and I'm despairing that I shall never find them. Can I tell my parents? Will they take on this burden as their own? Will they spend their last dime on my footwear?

Likely not. But how to quell these difficult thoughts?

Oh, a bottle of wine will do nicely!

So soothing!

Yes, Mom, thanks! I will have some more.

And by the way, I really hate my shoes...

devil and the deep blue sea

A new Dotty product. Drinking water for specially stressful occasions.

Sure, there's Gatorade for those thirsty days of sports playing and Powerade for weightlifters and Pedialyte for dehydrated children, but now there's Dotty's Deluge. Your hydration needs are far greater than those other folks. Oh yes, for your special situations you will need a variety specific to you.

Stuck choosing between two miserable options? Don't drink at the bar, drink the "Devil and the Deep Blue Sea" variety of the Deluge. The red at the top and the blue at the bottom--does it mean anything at all?

What's so special? All of Dotty's drinks assume a world of binary options. You can have one thing or the other. That's how the world works. Dotty's drinks have two colors in one bottle. Drinking straight from the bottle results in tasting one flavor and then the next. Little or no mixing occurs.

How do Dotty's drinks differ from others? Well! When you shake Dotty's Deluge drinks, the colors merge, creating beautiful shades of green and purple and violet. It is at this point that the reality of multiple solutions becomes evident. The world is no longer full of binary choices! Rock and a hard place? Here or there? Near or far? Less or more? In or out?

Forget it! There's so much more to life!

It's even better than that, though.

If multiple solutions become too overwhelming, just wait and the colors will separate themselves again.

Mmm mm! Moral dilemmas in a bottle! So easy to solve! Just shake and drink!

stew

When I went to Florida with OuchyKim she said this phrase, "Put that in your stew!" She said it when she wanted someone to put something in their pipe and smoke it. I said, "Put that in your stew and stow it!" It seemed to need that extra finishing bit.

These days, however, I've been doing the stewing myself. Or I've been stewing myself. Something like that.

The past few weeks have held much rumination for Miss Dotty Parker. Self-reflection is one thing. It's often informative, useful, instructive. Rumination, however, is self-reflection gone awry. No rollicking inspirations or moments of hero-worthy epiphany came my way. My satori moment of ah-ha was limited to that song "Take On Me." Divine inspiration it was not.

No, my darlings, I was in possession of a vast quantity of negativity and cyclical thought patterns. And I can't have that. It's distressing, unpleasant, and worrying. I am waiting for it to pass. One day it will be vanquished and I can market the deep, deep thoughts I've brewed in my stew.

When I lived in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, home of R. J. Reynolds tobacco, there was a cigarette machine in a hippie coffee shop. The machine dispensed packages of poetry in cigarette boxes. Each bit of poetry was on paper rolled into the shape of a cigarette.

I'm thinking of soup. Or stew. Perhaps I could make cans of soup that would inspire people to think on specific themes. I could say, "Running out of ideas for that valedictorian speech? Try Supercilious Sipping Soup!" I could ask, "Tired of being accused of day dreaming? Have Chunky Wisdom Chowder today!"

It could be very good.

Now for what to put in it...

unfrozen

I talked with PTAMom today and she told me she was seeing daffodils or tulips coming up in her yard. I said, "Wow! Great!"

In my head I said, "There's still lots of snow on the ground! Like lots! There are no flowers growing anywhere in this world!"

But I went out today and I saw daffodils struggling to break free of their frozen homes. I saw snowdrops trickling over the stones in a garden. I saw all kinds of things that mean spring.

And oh boy, does it rock!

(A tiny part of me worries about what will be under the snow when it melts, but that's just a tiny part of me. And not in my yard. It's always someone else's yard.)

Still, I think spring is my favorite season.

chipper crickets

I'm betting that crickets are chipper. They chirp, after all. That would make me chipper.

The sun has been shining and the snow has been melting and things appear to be going very well, as regards the earth's orbit around the sun. Although there are yet no crickets.

My orbit around the computer has left me with some pretty pictures and some snide comments for you!

Here's a link to a Burger King commercial. It's weird.
They say that breasts grow on trees. And that cowgirls shave you. Weird.

The caption for this picture says, "Wood is so good to live with." Yet, I think these people don't really have much to worry about in that department. In fact, she looks a bit annoyed about it.

The caption for this one: "Made entirely of plastic!" But what the hell is it?

And this is an ad for Dutch Boy paint. The ad copy says, " Once Over with WONSOVER and old walls disappear | National Lead Co., 1949 >

Lead company, huh?

girl with the pearl buttons

When I was in elementary school, we had to do square dancing in gym class. On at least one occasion I was paired with the boy who never spoke, seemed kind of sad, had non-colored hair, was super skinny and super tall, and an always runny nose.

He also wore those Western shirts with the pearly-snap buttons.

At the time I thought it was horrible to have to square dance with that guy. Grayish hair, grayish skin...now I wonder what his home was like, if it was as unhappy a story as I've since created for him.

Yet those shirts that used to annoy me, the ones you could buy at the tractor supply place and weren't cool at school, well, I think they're damned cool now.

I have a lovely pink one on now. Although he's not particularly fond of wearing it, I bought it for BrilliantEditor when I was in college. We all went out to see the movie Boogie Nights and came in themed attire. I also bought him wacky blue polyester trousers. (He looked way better than the kid from grammar school.)

I think I want to wear more shirts that snap. It's easier to take them off at night. And I feel like a super-hero. Snap-snap-snap-snap! Pajama Girl to the rescue!

More shirts. That's what I need.

notes

Everyone writes themselves notes and since I am among the everyones in the world, I, too, write notes to myself.

I take a small amount of pleasure in finding to-do notes that are a year or more old. Invariably I'll have gotten all the items done or they won't matter anymore. The especially good ones are those that have items like, "Oil change, laundry, mail package, call about appointment," and the laundry is already crossed off.

By now I'll have mailed the package and the appointment is passed and the oil change is apparently not bothering me anymore. And the laundry is done! I get such a sense of purpose and accomplishment. The laundry is done and the rest doesn't matter.

Yes!

I enjoy emptying coat pockets, too. Enjoy? Maybe not quite, no, but I do like seeing what I've written down that I've thought was important enough to not forget. I've got book titles and songs and musical groups and questions and websites.

I've found The Duhks most recently. I think I like it. It feels like celtic music met reggae and country and folk music got together and made babies.

It's that damned NPR that does these things to me. Oh, National Public Radio, you're so good at "exposing me to new things". Should I be grateful? I don't know.

I also heard about the dog music cd. This led to a small note on the edge of a magazine article The "Squeakey-Deakey" and the scratch songs...wow. And being a good dog? "What a handsome puppy!"

I want to play those songs for myself. "You're a good Dotty! Yes, you are! I love your toes! It's a treat to watch you eat! Such a good Dotty!" Maybe not, actually. But I bet Sprocket would like it. I shall have her review the songs momentarily.

The music isn't terribly inspired, but it's good to know there's a use for those dopey background percussion tracks that come with when the home-version of the synthesizer.

Now! My dogs don't write notes to themselves, but they demand to be heard sometimes. Sprocket's been marching around asking me to write her thoughts down.

i like to sleep and i like to hear things and i like it when that girl says oh perfect doggie you are so good little brown doggie small brown like a loaf of bread so good and they dont say bread in those songs but they say good things and they go squeak and i think they should ask me to tell what i think because they would feed me and they would say oh you are a perfect loaf of bread with walking legs that are short oh you get a squeaky toy of food

Spring, of course, says something quite different.

Note that I say this.
I like things that are mine.
This is not mine.
I am a good dog.
You may scratch my back.
I do not listen to you.
I do not listen to anyone.
I will eat the music.
Feed me.

ah yeah. who's your daddy? uh, who's your dentist?

The monthly pancake breakfast took place this morning. It went well, we had lots of people and made a couple hundred dollars. Making money pacifies the old ladies who think that the $6.15 minimum wage is too much. They're also upset that food costs more than it did twenty years ago. The same goes for gas. And taxes. Property values are okay, though. They tend to own their own homes.

The breakfast always brings out the community's of odd characters. One woman comes every month and eats by herself and seems just fine. Perhaps a little detached from reality, but not so far gone, really. Still, she rates some stories.

At last month's breakfast I went to wash my hands. I opened the bathroom door, and she was standing in the doorway to the stall with her pants open preparing to zip them up. Before I could say, "Sorry, excuse me," she said, "Oh, sorry, I couldn't figure out how to work the door so I just closed the big one."

Darlings, this is a normal kind of bathroom door. You close it, you slide the lock to the side, and the door stays closed. I realized later that I didn't apologize at all. I said, "Oh, it's okay. Those doors can be tricky." Why was I reassuring her? I do not know the answer to that one.

Do note that she had red underwear. She might be a superhero.

I saw her later that month in the grocery store. She didn't recognize me. Must be her super-underwear-power wasn't working well.

Today she finished her meal and was pawing through her handbag. She found what she wanted, extracted it, and begin flossing. That's right, she was flossing at the table. She'd been looking for floss. She's a dental floss superhero!

I wonder if we should start handing out minty toothpicks. Should the flossing become a craze, I'll suggest that. It will keep people from flossing at the table so often. The little old ladies might not approve of the expenditure, but I'll consider donating those fancy mint sticks as long as we can draft a resolution stating that they must use them on their way out the door and not at the breakfast table.

But wow. Dental floss. That's special.

mushrooms don't sink!

Today we (my workmates and I) had an all-day sewing event. It was interesting to see our educator show us new techniques and la dee da.

But the best part of the event was afterward! We all had dinner together at The Little Thai House. The food's good. The service isn't.

The service, however, is not the interesting bit. I got to sit across from BoPeep and her husband, Candoo. I love laughing with people and these are among the best to laugh with.

When we ordered, I encouraged Candoo to have some tom kha gai--yummy chicken, coconut, lime, lemongrass soup. Mmmmmm.

It usually has mushrooms in it, too. Just a few mushrooms were floating in the soup when it arrived at our table. He said something like, "Oh. It has mushrooms." He offered them to BoPeep, but she declined.

He began eating the soup. BoPeep changed her mind and wanted a mushroom. She said, "You ate them all!"

He said, "No. I think there's one here on the bottom..."

BoPeep said, "Mushrooms Don't Sink!"

I thought that was highly quotable. I am, thus, quoting it.

Then Candoo remarked that the chicken was on the bottom of the soup bowl. He wondered if the duck he ordered for dinner would sink. Does duck sink? It shouldn't, right?

Oh! Before dinner, there was a woman at our even who had a sweatshirt with a large parrot embroidered on the shoulder. She referred to it as her "boob bird". It's always weird to hear people who are 60-something say the word boob.

At any rate, she had a parrot on her shoulder. On her other shoulder was her name tag.

Her name was Polly.

I so very much wanted to offer her a cracker.

I still want to know if she wore that sweatshirt on purpose.

ahttic

I was helping set up for a sewing event today. As much as I like to think that I like being around people and spending time being helpful, I think I only like to think it. Acting it out is much more difficult.

The woman presenting is from New Hampshire. There were two other women who were from Boston. I know they have their own special way of pronouncing things. I do know that. But I have my own special rules for how many times I have to listen to their special way of pronouncing things. They broke my rules.

An aunt of mine enjoys stupid, childish jokes as much as I do. One of them is this:

Look down your shirt and spell attic!
A-T-T-I-C
Ha! You just said "a titty I see!"

Well! That stupid, childish joke is lots less fun!

There's a quilt pattern called "Attic Window". 'Round these parts, you say "attic" so that it rhymes with "static". Our educator said, "Ahhttic". In this kind of clunky, cacophonous way. I bet that my pronunciation, "AAAaaaatic", is just as annoying, but I don't care. I'm not annoying at all. Then the Boston thing, leaving off Rs or sticking them on...I kind of enjoy it, in a Cliff Claven-enjoying kind of way. Yet, since these people had not had time to impress me with their durable charm, they simply appeared as bossy and spastic as I am.

I'm actually trying to tamp down the bossy spasms, at least when I'm in public, but these folks were not offering a good example. How am I going to learn to behave in public with bossy people who don't listen well and say things like ahttic and have left several of their Rs back in a suitcase in Boston.

Ah yeh, wickid ahsome.

stoic

stoicism

I often admire people who are stoic. At least in the abstract. Oh, to be so reserved and controlled. That would be an amazing thing to experience.

I often despise drama queens. At least in real life. Oh, how indescribably irritating is it to hear someone wailing about a scratch on the car. I would never want to be that.

But life rarely hands us dichotomous categories. Drama queen or stoic? Well, um, it's not that easy. Furthermore, I can see the pathways of interactions in my head! I shall draw them for you.

The stoic becomes more so (more controlled, more restrained) as the reaction moves to the right. The drama queen becomes more dramatic as the reaction moves to the right.

Why was I thinking about this? (I've been meaning to call ChillyLily and haven't gotten to it.) Does it matter? (Since it's ChillyLily, of course it matters) Do either of these questions make a difference? (I don't know the answer to this one.)

The drama queen insists that they do. The stoic shrugs and says that things either will or will not be the same tomorrow anyway, so it's not important, is it?

I imagine a stoic asking a stoic why he's so taciturn. The second stoic says, "I just don't have much to say."

A stoic asks a drama queen why he's so taciturn. The drama queen answers, "It's about damn time someone noticed how quiet I've been! Hmph!"

A drama queen asks a stoic why he's been so taciturn. He says, "I just don't have much to say." The drama queen tries to convince him that he does too have something to say.

A drama queen asks a drama queen why he's been so taciturn. The second drama queen says, "It's about damn time..." The first interrupts, "So why didn't you say something?! You should hear what I've been going through..."

I don't really want to be either.

Perhaps interpretive dance is the way to go.

lost!

I can't find my calendar.

Generally it doesn't matter if I can find my calendar or not, as I can't find anything to write with. I also don't know what day it is anyway, so what difference does a calendar make?

I'm not sure. I do know, however, that not being able to find a calendar makes a very big difference. It's the ability that's missing. I've looked in the places that I would expect it to be. Even in the places I'm not so sure that it might be. And it isn't in any of those places. So what now?

It is unsurprising to me that I lose things. I've always been that way. I'm actually quite a lot better. Or at least I think I am. Perhaps I just care a bit less about the things that I have. This way, when I lose them, I hardly notice.

My keys have a bell on them. That's handy. My wallet is small so it will always fit in my pocket. Also handy.

My dogs like me. They follow me around. That's handy, too.

BrilliantEditor is tall, so I can see him in a crowd. Also, also handy. I could always find my mother by her laugh. (I think I inherited that particular trait.)

But calendars. I don't know what they need. But they need something.

I think I'll put up a sign.

soprano one

BrilliantEditor and I have just finished watching the first season of The Sopranos on our fantabulous DVD Netflix thing. How ab fab to be able to watch everything at once. In this case, it's extra-good because the characters on the show are nuttier than fruitcakes. Possibly fruitier than nut cakes.

The main character, Tony, has a very crazy mother. Very crazy. Extra very.

I had lots to say about her, but I suspect I might be taking all the fun out of it for anyone who hasn't seen it yet.

Instead, I'll share some of the joy the LeTigress sent to me a day or two ago. See how speedy you truly are. I am a bobbing bobcat. Most of the time. Sometimes I'm a sluggish snail.

My dad used to call me a slug. That's when I slept more than he thought appropriate. He called me a filly once. Not the cheesesteak, the girl-horse kind. He didn't want me getting pregnant. He said, "I've got a lot invested in you, ya little filly." He also suggested that I not go out, "one and come back two."

He's a doctor, you see. They have these technical terms for procreation and reproduction and gettin' busy. (What was I saying about crazy parents?)

intense excitement!

Yoohoo! Look who had a bit of a job today!

Me! That's right, darlings, I went to work with people I don't know. And they didn't boot me from the building.

I was called this noon-time to go in to be a substitute for an English teacher who had to leave early for some reason. I got to babysit two, count 'em, two classes of grade 10 English students and one study hall. Did you know that people in tenth grade are very busy being themselves? It's a lot like dealing with adult students. They do whatever the hell they want! Huzzah! I've had such great training from teaching sewing!

Although it looks like a wee step, an ant-sized step, to a real-life, I'm so very happy about beginning to go to jobville. I want to tell everybody, "Hey! I had a job!" I did tell some people! Ooooo la la!

AND!

To add to the phenomenon of big phenomena today, I cooked dinner. Me. BrilliantEditor helped, too. It's fancy, too. We had broiled portobello mushrooms, simple risotto, and steamed asparagus. And bread, of course. Oh, I'm so proud of me. Look at me! All grown up and with a place (sort of) to go!

BUT!
If this keeps going on, I'm going to have to get married. Teacher and cooking. Oh dear, I say. Then what! Will I have to quit my job to care for my ever-growing family? Since I already go barefoot, will I be forced to wear ice skates and be pregnant in the kitchen? Or to tend wild ewoks?

My darlings, don't tell me if it's true or it isn't. I don't want to know either way. My dreams of crinolined skirts and puffed short-sleeved shirts are potentially liable to come true. My dreams of remaining the same eccentric, unplaceable woman are liable to come true. Or both! Oh me, oh my! What choices!

treats aplenty

I spoke with BellyRub this evening. He was, as always, a delight to speak with.

He and I had a little (finger flexion) "discussion" about whether I really did (finger flexion) "know" something about him or if I thought I was pretty damned sure. I was asking him if he'd researched a problem he'd had. He said no. I told him that I didn't believe him. He said he did. I said, "I know you didn't do it."

"How do you know?"

"Because this is what you do. You say yes and then I find out that you haven't done anything you've said yes to."

He said, "Well, yeah, but if I actually did do the research, you wouldn't believe me. You'd still say that you knew that I didn't do it."

He's right. I would still say that.

He then said, "But if I told you that I had wrapped tape all around my head and then pulled it off and lots of my beard hair came off with it, you'd believe me."

He's right. I would.

He said, "That's just sad."

Then he asked, "Are you still afraid of sock monkeys?"

"Yeah. A little."

He laughed at me. He said that someday he'll be a famous puppeteer and he'll make me a "sock monkey parade."

Little bastard. Wanted to get me back for being a punk about his research and his face tape. I KNEW he'd do something like that.

have ya seen me parrot?

Arrrrrg. The hook I've got fer me hand's a chafin' me, lad. Couldja find me a nice, big sock to put 'round me stump? I need full use a'me hook to play the pianer at the Swashbuckler's Ball. Arrrrg.

Again, in my conversation with BellyRub, we came upon an interesting topic of conversation. We talked about people we've seen at the mall who make us laugh. I haven't seen any recently, but he had.

Oh boy, had he!

He saw a woman dressed in black spandex pants. And boots. And a voluminous shirt with the flounces and the ties and the accoutrements that go along with the Errol Flynn pirate shirt stereotype.

She was wearing spandex pants! Out! In public! And she wasn't exercising! And she wasn't in front of the tv! And they were shiny! And she had on a puffy shirt! With strings! Actually, I'm not outraged by the pants. It's the combo that's bringing up memories of middle school and high school. Those were fashion nightmare years. (Since no one wears clothes anymore that problem is pretty well solved.)

I expect, if he sees her again, that she will be wearing socks with the big, puffy ankles. (The kind that Socks wore when it was actually cool to wear them.) I bet that's what she wears to work, too. "Yeah, uh, hello, this is some kind of company and yeah, what can I do for you...oh wait, my collar tie came undone and is caught in the drawer and I have a pull in my lycra pants. Just hold, okay?"

Oh yes. I'm going to have to go to the mall with BellyRub very soon.