Dotty Parker

nitey nite

Miss Dotty is sleepy tonight.

Generally I don't care much for sleep. If I didn't have to sleep, I likely wouldn't. I would spend time lounging around--reading, writing, watching my nails grow--in bed, and maybe I'd nap, but who wants to go to bed at night just to wake up the next day with the same amount of stuff to do and with not necessarily feeling rested?

It's when the lack of restfulness arrives, when the body reminds the brain, "I'm so tired! I'm tired!" That's when sleep sounds pri-tt-ey darn good.

And so as I make my way into sleepiness land, I think, "Oh please, let me go to sleep before I remember something I was supposed to do today and forgot about."

old news is entertaing news

I was in the grocery store tonight and while the surly cashier tallied my purchases, I saw The Weekly World News headline.

ALIEN BIBLE FOUND! THEY WORSHIP OPRAH!

It took a lot of strength not to buy that bit of paper. With the super-human strength that I've developed over the past three hours, however, I decided to tempt myself with the online version of trashy, nonsensical joy. The website doesn't have the most recent story, but it does have some winners. Headlines for you:

ALIENS DIED IN UFO WRECK--BECAUSE THEY WEREN'T WEARING SEAT BELTS!

HOW TO TELL IF YOUR PROSTITUTE IS AN EXTRATERRESTRIAL
A list of ten entries. I've chosen these for you.
2. Out-of-date lingo -- Alien prostitutes try to fit in by using streetwalker slang -- but often use outdated terms. A hooker who sees a police car and whispers, "Cheese it, the fuzz!" likely hails from deep space.
4. Odd, hard-to-place accent. "They have trouble pronouncing the letter 'R'. "
9. Over-perfumed -- Hookers from outer space often try to mask their peculiar ET body odor.

I often believe that the world is too big. (Actually, I believe that when I don't understand things. When things become clear and are at the same time distressing, then the world is too small.) In this beautiful case of a journalistic artistry, I am pleased that the world is too big and that someone is out there making sure it stays that way.

oh give me a fancy home where the buffalo roam...

Mr.Guy sent me a link to a New York Times story about escaped buffalo. I'm having a hard time getting pictures up on this site, so I encourage you very, very much to go have a look at these buffalo jumping over the tennis nets.

I think it's one of the most absurd and beautiful sights I've witnessed in quite some time. Even I, with my desire to see images justaposed, would likely not have thought of buffalo and tennis going together.

Here's the link sent by Mr.Guy himself.

NATIONAL | April 26, 2005
Herd of Buffalo Disrupts Traffic in Maryland
By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
PIKESVILLE, Md. (AP) -- A herd of buffalo somehow got loose and wandered around an upscale neighborhood Tuesday, disrupting traffic and alarming homeowners before officers managed to corral them in a tennis court.

meat

I had food from Viva Taqueria today. There are exclamation points on both ends, but so you don't have to close one eye and tip your head so that the first one looks upside down if you really try and then sit up straight again to see the second one the right way up, I'll just eliminate those pointy bits and let you know that they want you to be very excited.

I had enchiladas. They're yummy. But now I think I smell like my food. It was many hours ago now. I've washed my hands a thousand times with gardening soap--the kind that has pumice in it. No exfoliation can rid me of my scent!

I suspect I smell like the chorizo that I ate. Meat. Or onions and vinegar. A potato chip, I suppose. A chippy? Oh dear.

I think I will get in the bath and try to soak it off. So maybe if I use laundry detergent...that will be stronger, will help to dissolve my skin a bit. Protein gets out protein, right? This has the potential to be very gross. Dissolved skin. Yes, very gross, indeed.

But there must be hazards to smelling like an enchilada. Or thinking that I do. BrilliantEditor says that I don't. But I'm worried about the bear who craves Mexican food. What will I do then?

twizzling

The movie The Full Monty uses the word "twizzle" as a verb. One person describes another's antics as "twizzling about". I believe it referred unfavorably to dancing. I believe.

I like words that sound like things. Onomatopoeia, I suppose.

Twizzle sounds like something that had been sizzling, but has now become crispy. Sizzling pork chops or twizzling pork rinds. Or pork cracklings. Equally evocative.

My dad has at least two favorite words. They are "trudge" and "shrub". They both have a wet, sludgy kind of feeling to me. He likes trudge because it sounds like trudging. Shrub just feels good to say. Say it out loud and think only of the sound. It's a warm, humid day, motionless and hypnotic. Shhrruuuuubb.

Once it's been too hypnotic, try out cityscape. It's a pointy word. Like skyscrapers in your mouth.

I have a couple of words that I don't like. The big one is "packet". Why not package? I'm not too fond of booklet, either, but it's better than packet. Maybe if it were packette? With the accent on the second syllable?

In third grade we had a work book and an activity packet for our reading lessons.

Work book? Okay. We've all had those, possibly have those. But an activity packet? That's what you get on Survivor. But they don't call it that. Only losers say "activity packet". And we know "activity" isn't all that offensive. So it must be packet. Bleh. In my head it sounds like one of those lizard toys with the sticky tongue? You flick the lizard's tongue and you can pick up paper flies and things.

Paa kit!

uuuugh.

In college I was a resident adviser (how long did that last? Hmmmm, how well behaved is Dotty?) and our resident director hated the word "Yo". So, of course, we used it constantly. I still say it. It's ingrained from trying to annoy the hell out of her. Yo. She was a horror.

I know there's lots more stuff to be mined from my noggin, but I fear my brains will boil over.

And, yo, we don't want that.

oh yeah!

Sometimes things slip my mind. It's not surprising, really. It happens to everyone, doesn't it? And last night, writing here slipped my mind.

I thought about it off and on all evening, but I guess those thoughts were mostly off when it came time for me to turn off the computer and go to bed. So no Dotty for anyone but me!

I'll tell you that you missed a whole bunch of stuff though!

First, I wrangled three escaped elephants. I massaged their ears with moisturizer and now they aren't wrinkled anymore. Monkeys came to look after the elephants, but they ran away again once they saw that the elephants were under my excellent care. Using their trunks and my hands, we wove golden tapestries with a Garden of Eden theme. Upon completion, the elephants bedecked themselves with those tapestries and went off to join the circus.

Next, following directions in my Literature by Women: The Traditions in English Norton Anthology, I made plans for a perfect society based on the strength of motherhood, sisterhood, and neighborhood. I used Robin Hood as my example of a male individual living in the Hundred Acre Wood, which is what the society was named. Ignoring questions of if we could or should or if it would be good, I completed my plan and submitted it to the Nobel committee. Upon receipt of my submission they sent me a fax immediately that told me of their startled surprise that such genius would be submitted by someone from America, of all places. They thought that if I'd lived somewhere else, the Falkland Islands, maybe, or an impoverished part of the French Riviera, they could award me the prize. Since the U.S. is overly represented, though, they could only fax me a smiley face hastily sketched by Picasso, many years ago.

With this kind of rejection, although made gentle by art, I found my way into bed where I dreamed of where buried gold is and how to make cold fusion work really well. I wrote the things down, but when I woke up a bit later, I thought it was unfair to keep these secrets and decided to burn the pages I wrote my secrets upon.

It's sad, but it's true.

At that point, I drank some warm milk and went to bed.

Tonight I hope to get more done.

sunburn on my shoulder

Every year I expect that I'll know better or that it will be different. Unfortunately, I tend to think these things at the same time. This leads me to make an inappropriate conclusion: I should put on sunscreen because I know that I'll get sunburned. I will do it another time because it isn't sunny/hot/late/early enough for there to be any negative consequences.

So, my darlings, I do know better. That is true. I will do it another time. Also true. What isn't true is that was sunny/hot/late/early enough to get a little sunburned.

It's actually the kind of sunburn that isn't worth mentioning, which is why I'm mentioning it. But it points out my oh-so-delicate nature and my oh-so-silly behavior.

sillier behavior

I have a big question relating only tangentially to the sunburn issue.

Do extra-fancy people do anything other than deal with personal care issues?

The must have manicures, pedicures, hair stylings, hair cuts. They have to bathe, exfoliate, moisturize, tweeze, wax, polish, and shave. They have to have tooth whiteners and eye brighteners and nose hair clippers and dental flossers. They have to exercise, lift weights, eat right, obsess about eating right, and drink plenty of fluids. Then they have to shop for the right clothes and shoes and jewels and accessories. They have to read about themselves in the gossip journals and research fashion trends in Vogue and other magazines I'm not aware of.

And they have to wear sunscreen while still looking like they have a sunshiny glow.

I imagine myself an extra-fancy person and I think, "Eh, I don't need to do that this time. I can deal with this hangnail myself."

That attitude is the only thing between me and being extra-fancy.

If only I weren't so stubborn.

keepin' it unreal

BrilliantEditor gave a fantastic talk today about the history of Varna, our little hamlet.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, warm enough to go out and sit without needing a jacket...and people came to listen to him talk about Varna's history. Lots of people! I was most impressed with him and his knowledge. In fact, I'm thinking about marrying him.

There are many women there who are absolutely in love with BrilliantEditor. I get phone calls quite often from women saying, "Hello...is, um, BrilliantEditor there?" I know they're in love with him. They hardly let him leave the building today. Twenty minutes of telling him how fabulous and amazing and smart and dedicated his is. How they wished there were more people like him. How he really makes a difference. (The women fear me, however. I am too mercurial for their liking.)

I am proud of him. He is called Brilliant for a reason. (The reason being that he's brilliant.)

I want him to know that I'm proud of him. I want him to know that he's brilliant. I want him to know that he's not bad.

In fact, he doesn't really do bad things. There's mischief in him, but I fear that I keep him from sufficiently expressing his mischief. Other people's mischief is not as polite as his. It runs his mischief over.

So I want to make a little outline for BrilliantEditor and his mischief. Since he just did a huge amount of community service, maybe now's the time to instigate some kind of self-indulgent activity that would take advantage of those good, shiny feelings that a person gets from being generous with his time and energy.

Generosity of time and energy leaves room for other ideas to form when the generous person is least expecting it.

Mischief, my dears, has been incubated and must hatch.

Give a talk about history of a small town? Now you get to ride through town on a really loud motorcycle without wearing a helmet while whooping and hollering!

Spend time planting flowers for the neighborhood project? Now when you want to take a clipping of that rose bush on public property, go for it. Take two. Or plant one of the flowers in a place that will amuse you. Like in a tree, where the branches meet the trunk. How did it get there?!

Drive people to the hospital so they can get their health looked after? Buy cigarettes and look at them and feel smug that you're not addicted to them. Go to McDonald's and order salad. And french fries.

Go for a long walk or a healthy run or swim some laps? Sit back in a chair, put your feet up, have a beer, and think about how cool you are. Because you are very cool.

Oh yes, there must be balance in this world. The magical part is realizing that you, too, are part of the balance. It's more than likely that you're much too serious. I really mean it.

Now I must convince BrilliantEditor that despite the fact that he can be quite silly, he needs more. More more more!

I know I can find a motorcycle somewhere...now to convince him to hoot and holler while riding.

mulligan

Got a ride with TheLion to watch some tv at LeTigress's house. On the way there, we passed a sign that had these words:

Indeed, live bait available at that particular home. In the instance I observed, the sign was hand painted and hanging near the mailbox. What this indicates to me is that there is a person scooping up the bait. Yes, indeed. It's the old fashioned service that we all desire. Unless it's too damned far away or too early in the morning. Then it's time to bring in the convenience factor.

Why do I write about live bait? It's because I love the word sawbelly. It doesn't feel sharp and pointy when I say it. It feels smooth and flippy--like a fish. Then there's minnow. Another great word. It darts from front to back and then front again in my mouth when I say it. Try it out. Minnow

So I decided that there must be other words that I loved. Earmuff is one. I like the phrase roosting in rafters. Metamorphose and apotheosis are winners in my book. Along with plethora (which sound like feathers) and veritable (really and truly a great word).

And the title today, mulligan means this: a free shot sometimes given a golfer in informal play when the previous shot was poorly played. Someone on the Vernal Board of Directors indicated that we should call our poor decision a mulligan.

I'll call anything a mulligan, as long as I say it out loud.

But I must now hasten to bed. I entreat the heavens that I not somnambulate, lest I impale my fingerous appendages on a tack.

whaddaya call that?

Yesterday I was substitute teaching for middle school people. I must tell you my great big discovery!

Middle school students are just as annoying as you remember them being.

Ha! And people say pure research is dead!

At any rate, I didn't know one person's name. It was a girl. A young lady. A woman. A young woman. That student. I asked a kid named Roddy, "What's that woman's name over there. The one who's really quiet."

He looked around to find someone who was teacher-like. I think "woman" wasn't the correct word to use. But if I say "kids" it's insulting. I mean it sarcastically, but they don't know that. Still, it implies that they aren't grown up, and they don't like that. I wouldn't like that. So should I have said "girl"? Can I say "girl"? Can I even acknowledge gender differences? And what if someone appears androgynous to me? Do I say, "Who is that non-gendered individual wearing clothes?" Can I acknowledge differences at all?

I'm caught up in doing things the right way. Let me be very clear: it doesn't mean that I will do things correctly. It does mean that I want to know how to do things correctly. I'm at sea when it comes to figuring out what's the right things to do and what isn't. What are the rules? Am I going to get in trouble?

Getting in trouble...I laugh in your face, Trouble! I used to. With other jobs I'd say, "What kind of trouble can I get in? They'll just be annoyed." Now, though, perhaps because I'm back in school, I've transferred the idea of getting in trouble to my own behavior. It works well with middle school students. "If you guys aren't quiet, I'm going to get in trouble because you're not doing what you're supposed to be doing."

It's a silly way to do things, but it works sometimes. It doesn't work with high school students. At least with the boy (young man, man, young gentleman, fellow) students it doesn't work. They say, "Okay. I guess you'll be in trouble." The hubris of youth!

Oh! Hey! What about me? Where can I refill my container of hubris?

There is no certainty in this world. Death and taxes, they say. Birth and death, I say.

Ah well. I suppose in the end there is very little certain. I can always say, though, that since I was born, I've been a girl. Female. A woman? A girl who would be a woman? A lady...a young lady? Little lady? Chick. Bird? Filly. Lassie. Girlie? Gal, doll, lass, senorita, damsel, gal?

As I was saying. There is very little that is certain...

spf why?

I bought some lip balm yesterday. Blistex Lip Tone or some such nonsense. SPF 15. I thought, "Wow, that's great, isn't it? SPF is always good!"

Then I thought, "I don't remember getting sunburned on my lips. And I don't think I've heard of anyone getting skin cancer on their lips. What's the deal? And don't I just lick it off anyway? Wouldn't it be better if the lip balm were also face balm so we'd always have some sun screen with us? A dab on the nose and at the corners of the eyes. Wouldn't that be better?"

Yes, it would be better. I don't know why there isn't an all-in-one product. Probably because people like me would want it to be fragrance free and not animal tested and so that it wouldn't clog pores. I'd also like it to have skin brightening properties to hide small imperfections.

Then there's the pricing factor. Would I pay $25 for this magical product?

I don't know. I might. Likely I wouldn't. But I should. I really should. It sounds like something I'd want. And it would all fit in a tube of a similar size as normal ChapStick.

On a somewhat unrelated note, my father can be a very frugal man. He used to get angry with us kids for losing chapstick. Or when we ate bits of our Cherry ChapStick, he got angry about that, too. Isn't this a kind of small thing to be irritated about? Sure! But consider this: He had the same ChapStick for FIVE YEARS! Five long years when he was in school. I can't imagine that he used it very often. Maybe he did. But I must say, five years is a very long time to have one tube of ChapStick.

On another unrelated note, my eighth grade math teacher was an avid skier. He was a ski instructor and a ski patrol guy and he organized the ski club at school. He used some variety of ChapStick. He used to put it on during class. His method for doing so was very interesting. Instead of moving the balmy delight across his lips, he moved his lips across the balmy delight.

We used to do impressions of him. They're still pretty funny.

seasons in the sun

It's springtime! Spring, the dog, insists that it's her time of year. She always insists that it's about her, though, so maybe this is just more of her nonsense. But with a name like Spring...

TheLion helped me prioritize my back yard gardening plans. The fiery-burny thing to rid the yard of its detritus is primary. I was going to wait to have a big ol' burn party, but I probably have enough wood to last for several of those. Thus, I began burning the most annoying, scraggly bits today.

A private little smoky party for the delicate flower who can no longer bear the distraction of so much scrubby wood in the yard.

I tried to be clever about my fire and build a little pit so that I'd only disturb a small part of the lawn. Unfortunately, as BrilliantEditor pointed out, I built my fire ring on top of the drainage pipe, which is plastic; I had to move it. Now there is a much larger hole in the lawn. La dee da, but it's all okay.

I put on my grubby garden clothes. The jeans already have muddy knees. I built my fire and tended it and then went over to the house to read and write a bit while the fire was burning without needing immediate supervision.

I started sneezing and snorflng and my nose was running and ewwwww. I recalled, "Oh! I forgot! I'm allergic to wood smoke! And it's in my hair and my clothes! Ah ha! I must remedy this problem!" Such a delicate flower!

So I cleaned myself up and washed my hair and changed my clothes and went about my day.

Later on, I put my grungy clothes back on and started sneezing and snorfling and my nose was running and ewwwww. I recalled, "Oh! I recall that I recalled that I'm allergic to wood smoke and these clothes smell like wood smoke! I think I'm allergic to them!"

Now I smile at myself. So, in some ways, it would seem that I am the delicate flower that I claim to be. A little wood smoke and, "Oh! Goodness! My fragile little body must revolt!"

However, there were times when I couldn't blow my nose because I was hauling around branches and rocks and compost. What kind of flower is that? Certainly not a delicate one. Perhaps jimson weed. Also called Angel Trumpet and Datura. The seeds are poisonous and cause hallucinations and, I think, paralysis when consumed in very small quantity. In any other quantity they cause death. That's not delicate. But it is a flower. And some people smoke jimson weed. Which comes from a flower. The smoke of which I would most certainly be allergic to. The smoke of which would almost certainly cause this self-same flower to wilt.

Ah! Delicate flower!

a center for ants?!

In the movie Zoolander, Derek Zoolander is shown a model of the "Derek Zoolander Center for Kids Who Can't Read Good". It is a scale model, so it isn't as big as the real thing would be.

Derek isn't the smartest kid in school, so he gets really angry when he sees it. He smashes it on the floor and yells, "What is this?! A center for ants?!" He indicates that the real one would have to be at least three times as big.

Yes, Derek, it would have to be at least three times as big. And so would your brain.

Speaking of centers and bigger and brains, I can't decide if committees are more useful if the people on them are smart or dumb. Or old or young. Or loud or quiet. Or friends or enemies.

I went to the Vernal Community Association Board of Directors meeting today and there was a clanging, dichotomous cacophony ringing through the Vernal Community Center. We've got a little of everything on our Board of Directors: smart, dumb, old, young, loud, quiet, friends, enemies. We've got them all! Which is very interesting. At times it makes the organization work well. At times, well, it doesn't.

So today, as we discussed whether to make potato salad or just have salt potatoes, as we decided to make sheet cakes instead of cup cakes, as we were educated about the budget and its many cubbyholes of money that we can't use unless we use it for a flagpole or for buying dishes or curtains, yes, as we discussed these things that are, to me, not all that important, I thought, "What is this? A Vernal Community Center for ants?!"

It might be nice. Ants are neater. They clean up crumbs and things. Of course, they eat crumbs. They have more incentive to pick them up...they work so hard.

No wonder they deserve their own center for ants!

But it doesn't answer the question of what kind of members are ideal for a committee. I have the answer. Me, just me-oh-my-o, I have the answer.

There are no ideal members. There are no ideal committees. Stay home.

It's just that easy.

sweet as syrup

For the three hundredth day in a row, or maybe the third or fourth or fifth day in a row, I can't think of much silly to say. I did think about stray tooth fairies. When they get angry at people they give them strep throat. When they're caught they say, "Oh! I was just looking for loose teeth!" And the people who caught them would have bitten them in half but it was too late as they were already flying away with their annoying little flutterations.

Sunday is another pancake breakfast, boys and girls. Plan your drunken Saturday night now. There's cheap, protein filled food available on Sunday! Mmmmmmmm. Home fries! Scrambled eggs! Bacon! Ham! Coffee cake! Coffee! Oh my, oh my. I'm getting hungry right now. Bah. I have to wait until Sunday.

It isn't fair, is it? I'll have to survive on meager substitutes: Eggos and Pop-Tarts.

Oh, Sunday breakfast, you're so good to me.

oscar said it

I do love Oscar Wilde. He's clever and funny and wise and sad. Maybe not all at once, but certainly when you add him up.

Mr. Wilde has some marvelous advice that we should all observe. Here's some.

Nobody, even in the provinces, should ever be allowed to ask and intelligent question about pure mathematics across a dinner table.

I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often convincing.

And here are some things to say when your dinner conversation gets boring.

He hasn't a single redeeming vice.

Life is much too important a thing ever to talk seriously about.

And sometimes Oscar Wilde makes me think about things that are big and tall and overwhelming. Things that are amazing and incredible and maybe sad. Certainly reverberating thoughts.

To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.

One can live for years sometimes without living at all, and then all life comes crowding into one single hour.

Oscar Wilde. A wild man. Wild life. Wild things. Wild and wacky. Born to be wild. Girls gone wild. Wild card. Jokers wild. Wild about you. Wild dogs. Wild oats. Run wild. Wild cat. Wild goose chase. Wild rice. Wild woman. Wild strawberries. Running wild. Wild wind. Wild animal. Wild West. Wild eyed. Wildflowers. Wild nights. Wild horses. Wet 'n' Wild. Go wild. Wild Kingdom. Wild rose.

Wild, wild life, my darlings.

disco inferno

I often decide that I whine waaaay too much. Once I decide that, I begin to whine about how much I whine. And then I have to shut up.

Having given up on self-improvement, however, I shall whine about gardening. I do love it. It's beautiful and it makes me feel good. There's a lot of it to do. I don't really know where to start. And everything is a ridiculous mess.

Just when the whining was really getting going, TheLion suggested that maybe I could start one project and finish it before I started another one.

!

Does it seem absurd to you that I hadn't really figured that out?

It surely does to me.

Then TheLion suggested a v. good first step. Get rid of the crap-ola in the yard. The old sticks and logs and trees and leaves and more sticks and sticks and sticks and sticks.

We have a lot of sticks.

How to do this? He had several suggestions, some of which involved actual work. (Ew) But! He did have one that would allow other people to enjoy the destruction required by my yardwork.

Burn it, baby. That's right, kids. One day, perhaps in May, I shall have much, much fire and much, much food and much, much drink to go with my many, many sticks.

Stack 'em up! Burn 'em up! Fire! Fire! Fire!

I can see it already. I mean, I can actually see things that aren't sticks. I can visualize what the ground looks like under the sticks and I can see, in my mind's eye, burning sticks.

They're singing, "Burn, baby, burn! Disco inferno! Burn, baby, burn."

mrs. parker

I don't know much about being a millionaire, but I'll bet I'd be darling at it.

Ms. Dorothy Parker said or wrote that. I might have to agree with her. I might be pretty good at it, too.

Brevity is the soul of lingerie.

Ms. Dorothy Parker said that, too. And isn't she right?

Ducking for apples - change one letter and it's the story of my life.

Oh, that Dorothy.

I don't care what is written about me as long as it isn't true.

I suppose that's one way to deal with criticism.

Mrs. Parker was quite witty. She was also really depressed a lot of the time. Sometimes I think I'm too depressed a lot of the time. Then I read her poems and short stories and realize that I am a sparkling, happy, chirping bird singing in a tree and annoying the hell out of her.

I thought I'd pass on some of her poems. She's a writer I both admire and find worrisome. She's so clever, so smart, so funny, so unhappy. Can I pick and choose what I want to emulate?

Oh yes I can. Dotty's on the case. And in the meantime, here are some of her poems showing how clever, smart, funny, unhappy she is. Just watch me! I'll be the best of those things and leave the unpleasantness behind!

But Mrs. Parker is funny now. And here we go.

Anecdote
So silent I when Love was by
He yawned, and turned away;
But Sorrow clings to my apron-strings,
I have so much to say.

Symptom Recital
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.

but it doesn't match!

Lots of things need to match. There are matches made in heaven. Match games. Color matching. Blue tip matches. Strike anywhere matches. Shouting matches. There's the match point. Mix and match. Matching contributions.

Shoes, socks, mittens, gloves match. Clothes are supposed to match. Sometimes kids go to Disneyworld with their moms and dads and they all dress alike. They match each other. People are matched. Sweater sets. Pajama tops and bottoms. Pots and pans and tops and lids.

Sheet sets. They match. But not many people see them. Why do they need to match? And socks under boots. The socks, theoretically, should match, but why bother?

Well, let me tell you why to bother.

BrilliantEditor and I were making the bed this afternoon and I pulled the clean set of sheets out and discovered that I could find only one pillowcase. BE suggested using non-matching ones or ones that almost matched. I argued that I didn't want non-matching ones and that the ones that almost matched made the sheets look dirty because the colors were just slightly off.

We went with coordinating pillowcases, instead. I wanted the sheet and pillowcase harmony thing. Going to sleep in a bed of polka dot sheets and plaid pillowcases is simply not soothing.

As for the socks and the boots thing, sometimes I don't match my socks under my boots. Sometimes they almost match--two gray wooly socks that are just a bit different--but sometimes I'm trying too hard and it simply doesn't matter. Having the same pattern of stripey socks in different colors is still very obviously not matching. And I think I can feel it through my feet.

But why do I care about these things? BrilliantEditor doesn't care. He sees my non-matching socks and he's a-okay with that.

I say that there must be some feng shui thing going on at the skin-fabric membrane. We think that we need to match clothes so that they look pretty and attractive. I think, however, that there is a more basic need for matchiness. That's what I think.