Dotty Parker

just like that, except different

Holy shnikies. That's what Tommy Callahan says in Tommy Boy, and it always makes me laugh.

It is just after 7am. I've been awake for at least an hour.

What's going on here? I don't wake up until 10am, at least! I think I'm happy about it. I think. But will I turn into a pumpkin soon? I know I look a little tired right now, but will I look like this all day? A little tired? Into a lot tired? Oh my goodness! And I'm working all day! From 7:45 until 8:30!

What the hell?

Every now and then I realize I'm just like everybody else. I work and wake and sleep and eat and obsess about silly things and then forget to do things. I feel sad at those times. I say, sigh, "I'm just like everybody else."

Then I kind of smile and think, "Just not as much."

poor little flower

There's a woman out there, a human flower. Her name's Julie. She's very smart and very clever and very a lot of wonderful things I don't know nearly enough of. You can read about her and her clever brains here.

I thought of her today as I was doing my copy edit work for my schmancy scientific journal.

I came across this plant. Lomatium triternatum (Pursh) Coult. & Rose.

It's a nineleaf biscuitroot. That's a funny root.

But Julie the human flower, she lives in Austin, Texas. Do they eat biscuits in Austin? For some reason I always picture her in Atlanta, although I've never pictured her eating a biscuit.

At any rate, she lives in the south. They have biscuits there. It's a plant. She likes plants. It's kind of a wacky name. She's kind of a wacky girl. And it grows in Texas, in some parts. Although not in Austin, I don't think. But it's a biscuitroot. And there's a peppered biscuitroot. Which would be for her being spicy and sassy.

So, biscuitroot, you're now a symbol of happy.

This picture belongs to the very copyright aware people at montana.plant-life.org/species/lomat_cou.htm who should know that this is an exercise in academic frivolity, which has, in fact, solidified my understanding of academics and their absolute frivolity.

poor bellyrub

He was training some punk at work. BellyRub wrote down something and the guy said, “Hm, that’s interesting. You know, your handwriting says a lot about your personality.�

BellyRub was offended. His handwriting is not beautiful. He never bothers to write a heart over his lowercase i. His exclamation point doesn’t have two eyes and a grin at the bottom. He never learned to make an uppercase Q that was recognizable as an uppercase Q? Well, actually, no one knows how to do that and make it look like a Q? (If you know how to make a cursive uppercase Q that looks like a Q, please send it to every grammar school textbook publisher in the world and to my fourth grade teacher who said my handwriting needed improvement. And gave my best friend good grades!)

The offended BellyRub explained that the link between handwriting and personality had been disproved many times. I think the trainee could use some more training on how to be polite. I’m ready to volunteer, too. (They’d never hire me for pay. You should see my handwriting!)

I imagine myself in BellyRub’s position. I’m trying to teach this goofball trainee and when I write down some notes for him to learn he says, “Hm, that’s interesting. You know, that says a lot about your personality.�

I’d look carefully at the paper and then look at him with a somewhat glazed and googly look and say, “Yeah, it’s kind of scattered and pointy, isn’t it?� I’d make some kind of creepy, jerky motion, and smile. I’d say, “It’s weird how people pick up on those personality quirks, isn’t it? You’re pretty perceptive.� Then I’d start looking around frantically for a pencil and stick it behind my ear. I’d say, “Oh, that’s better. Always be prepared. Thought I’d lost my stick.� Cuckoo grin.

When I was talking to BellyRub I let my mind wander in a different direction. I’d still say, “Yeah, it’s kind of scattered and pointy, isn’t it?� Then I’d say, “It warns people that I have knives in my pants.�

At that point BellyRub laughed and said, “Whaaat?� And I laughed because I realized that my sentence sounded like a foreign language translation of what I meant.

He said, in a scattered, pointy voice, “Oh! Pockets! Knives in your pockets!� So I started laughing thinking about the poor French boys and girls learning my twisted version of English and thinking that I’m talking about pants made out of knife fabric. “Oh! Pierre! Do you like my cargo-pants? They are made from real cargoes! From Brazil!�

And, of course, I must laugh at myself for writing pants. Here is the good ol’ US of A, where many misunderstandings are born and bred, we’ve got a dire pants situation. The US version of pants is trousers. Or jeans, I imagine. I’m making that up, taking liberties, yassir. But in jolly old England (not good ol’), pants are underpants. You know, underwear, skivvies, bloomers, shorts, panties, tightie whities, boxers, loincloths, codpieces, drawers, thongs, snowsuits, those kinds of things.

So having knives in one’s undies, well, that might make you have scattered, pointy handwriting if you didn’t in the beginning, mightn’t it?

you should try this

I like games. A lot.

This is a strange game I haven't solved yet, but it's pretty cool.

It's called Grow Cube. Play it a bunch of times and then a bunch of times more. There aren't directions, but it's not hard to figure out.

Spend your time making your brain feel massaged.

Aaaaah. Grow Cube.

wrinklies

I was doing yoga tonight and go to the lovely relaxation part.

Mmm.

And the woman narrating was meandering through relaxing and letting our minds stay present and noting where our bodies store stress and learning to find that stress. She suggested that we find whatever body part our stress is associated with (your back or your jaw, for two examples) let it drop. She meant that we could coax the body part into relaxedness so that it isn't held taught above the calmness, so that it has the ability to feel calmness and to soften. Her imagery was leading to a place where the body is relaxed enough that it feels like it's sinking slightly into warm sand so that there's support that conforms to your body.

One thing she said, though, that was a bit odd, however, was when she was describing relaxing the face. She said something like, "Let your face melt into your back brain."

What's that? I'm supposed to visualize that? I tried to think of an alternative way to say what I think she's trying to say. My version went like this: "Let all the tightness and the wrinkles and the lines melt into smoothness; feel the skin on your face relaxed and free from cares, your hair and your ears and your chin coaxing your face to surrender to their pull." It's longer, yes. But there's no face melting with the slop ending up in the back of my head. Eww.

Earlier in the DVD she wanted me to relax my lower back, not press down my lower back ribs, but to "let them hang, like garlands."

Garlands, huh? I'm never going to her house for Christmas.

My thanks to Texas 4-H Meat Judging Retail Identification for their photos. And to Mark Ryden for the meat angel.

locking doors

I'm a forgetful person. Lately, I have been working extra hard on keeping track of what I need, where I need to be, what I should be doing, who I should be calling.

And then there are mishaps. I forgot to go to Ali's for dinner, for example. That's not cool. I forgot about teaching a class. I thought I was done forgetting about those kinds of things.

Alas, there are some things I do remember, like how to forget what I'm supposed to remember.

PTAMom was up today helping me move my stuff. We got to my apartment and I didn't have the keys. But I never lock the door! So I went back and got the keys. When we got to storage to put the rest of the stuff away, I had the wrong key. And the time before this one, I didn't have a key at all.

So much forgetfulness is kind of funny after a while. It's the annoyed kind of funny that happens when that good friend of yours does that thing he always does that drives you crazy, but you know you can't change so you kind of shake your head and love him anyway.

I'm my own best friend!

g. i. dog

G. I. Dog doesn't mean "government issue".

We're talking about gastrointestinal. G. I. Sprocket.

What in the world has BrilliantEditor been feeding that animal? He says that it's probably because of whatever "treats" the deer are leaving for Sprocket. If the deer are, indeed, causing Sprocket such redolent distress, I believe a new bioterrorism has been founded in the abominable abdominal grumblings of a small, hog-shaped canine.

Spring has been trying to dominate her for days. Perhaps this is Sprocket's defense--to cause Spring to sink to her knees making hairball noises?

Sprocket is lying near to me and her in breaths sound like small questions. Hm? Ehm? Hrm? Hhhem? Little sounds with an occassional answer. I can hear her, I think, saying all these different phrases: "like deer poops?" "poo?" "poops?" "yeah" "do I?" "I do?" "yeah?" "i smell good"

I suspect Sprocket does this just to prove she scared the shit out of some deer. I'm not sure what she hopes to gain by having proven that, though.

She's already overwhelmingly impressive.

oooo, baby, baby, it's a wild world

As I continue my boringness, I've been entertaining myself by looking at silly pictures. I found these at humorix.nu. I've not spent a lot of time navigating around the site as I was trying to be extra boring and do my work.

Here's some stuff that's funny to me. And I've put those little titles that come up when you put your mouse on the picture so you can truly feel my joy.

You know, if a computer gets warm enough, you can iron with it.

Little bastard. Who does he think he is? Telling his mommy to have a cigarette. Even if he is right.

Poor baby. But it's so funny.

I think both creatures are really happy now.

Yodeling, singing, interpretive keening. I wish I looked that good.

What do frogs learn in school, anyway?

new words

Anther-smut infection. I found that series of words in a paper today.

Smut. A smut infection. Anther-smut as an entity all its own. What type of infection is that? Oh, that’s the anther-smut variety. For whatever reason, these words have captured my imagination. Sometimes I imagine that it’s antler-smut infection. Which would be different from an antler smut infection. The second one has a smut infection of the antler. Which makes me think of juvenile male deer with pornographic doe pictures hanging from the points on their antlers. Then the deer PTA would have a meeting about antler smut infecting the youth of the forest.

And that makes me think that my mind seems to need a rest from antlers, anthers, smut, and the PTA.

Goodnight.

we thank thee heavenly father...grace!

I was over at Ali's house for dinner tonight. When she cooks and we sit down to eat I feel like I'm supposed to say grace. And so I do. Which is weird.

When I was growing up, we said my dad's version of grace. It goes, "We thank thee Heavenly Father for this food, and bless it to our use. Help us through this day and night, help us to do right, and save us for Christ's sake, amen."

I looked it up on Google to find out what words are really used (you know how kids hear different words? Like the Jimi Hendrix song where he sings "Kiss the sky" but another person heard "Kiss this guy".), but I couldn't find the prayer out there at all. I even tried different chunks of it the words and couldn't find one that resembled it at all.

We were apparently quite rebellious in our religion. Woo!

My mom's family, on the other hand, was happy to use the grace that the Roman Catholics provided.

"Bless us, O Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about receive from thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord, amen."

It's okay. I like my dad's better, though. It feels earthier. The Catholic one you could say when you were filling the car with gas or going to wear perfume. And, to a kid, the Catholic one is just a bunch of words: thy? receive? bounty? through? What's coming through the bounty?

When I look on beliefnet.com, it looks like the Catholics and Protestants have other "prayers before meals" but that's the one that's listed as traditional. It's listed as traditional on the Protestant page, too.

I have now reached the end of my knowledge.

My opinion, of course, doesn't end there. Perhaps it's a good thing to always have a grace to say.

If Ali cooks for me again, I'll treat her to a different one. And, although I have an aversion to rhymey, sing-songy verse, I might have to consider the Johnny Appleseed prayer. "The Lord is good to me, and so I praise the Lord! For giving me the things I need, the sun and the rain and the appleseed! The Lord is good to me!"

Or I might not.

I looked at Buddhist prayers thinking there might be something deep and powerful. Silly Dotty! These people aren't into eating! They're all about living in the moment, nourishing "our bodies so we may work for the benefit of all sentient beings".

I don't know that I'd be interested in eating, at that point. It doesn't feel tasty. I'd probably be feeling like, "Mm, nah, you go ahead and chew on the bamboo stalks. Yes, yes, be sentient, by all means. Oh, help yourself to that pile there! All those rocks are yours for tasting! Don't let me get in your way. I'm going to go suck on my toes or something. You know, fuller flavor."

I'm not really impressed with the prayers that I've found. I think it's good that I'm not the girl assigned by God to listen to grace as it's said all over the world. I'd come to him with a pad of paper written on in every possible spot. I'd say, "You have to do something about that stupid food/good rhyme. I can't tell you how many times I've heard people say, 'God it great! God it good! Now let's thank Him for this Fud.'"

So I might not have the job long.

So grace it is, when Ali's cooking up a storm. And Ali's stuck with prayers already presented or my final, highly educated offerings.

Good bread, good meat, good God, let's eat.

1, 2, 3 Yea God!

think pink, but no ink

Today I was a substitute teacher. I had fun, too!

I learned about fingernails. That half-moon arch is called the lunula. Did you know that? I certainly didn’t. And here are some ab fab things you should know about your dainty paws. I’ll give you a fun fact, just to make you want it more!

Dietary changes that supposedly strengthen nails don't work. Unless you're deficient in protein — rare among people in the United States — adding protein to your diet won't strengthen your nails. Similarly, soaking your nails in gelatin won't help either.

Those bastards telling us to drink gelatin! A bowl full of jelly, indeed.

We read a book called Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen, I think, which I didn’t quite finish and am anxious to try to accomplish. I’m going back to the same school tomorrow, so I may have to scoop up a copy. It’s about a boy in a plane crash! And he has to survive on his own! And the tool he has to help him…can you guess what it might be? Could it be a hatchet? It might be…

There were lots of good things, but the silliest was my rediscovery of a Pink Pet. The eraser of old. I remember the eraser having “Pink Pet� scrolled across it in a fashion that inspired confidence in penmanship and the utility of the eraser.

I may have been mistaken, however.

The pink pet doesn’t have the scrolling ease of handwriting, although it does have the accuracy of a person who may like a pink pet, but just wants the fun, frisky pet part, not the rubby smudgy oops part.

And so there was my eraser joy.

And my big, very happy joy for the day came from a girl who talked to me and answered my questions. She’s a selective mute and doesn’t talk to people. She didn’t talk to the last substitute they had and she wouldn’t talk to the principal of the school. She doesn’t talk to her schoolmates. I feel so happy and friendly and kind. I’m my very own pink pet today. *squeaky squeaky*

gallons of random crap

I am coming to the end of things to say. I'm finding myself to be less and less interesting. It's a shame, really, since I spend so much time with myself.

Lately I've been making myself laugh while I'm reading literature citations. Woo! What a hoot!

It is a bit silly, though. Here are the ones I have right in front of me:

A. Peacock
Hall and Smol
Flannery, Snodgrass, and Whitmore (it's like a storybook law firm)
James, Smith, and Jones (three nonidentifiable last names)
Wratten and Cox (forgive my crude humor)
Husband, Fitter, and Young (just seems odd)
Feldmann, Aguirre-Urreta, Chirino-Halvez, and Casadio (which of these things is not like the other?)

I should go to bed now. It's late. And with all the fun of literature citations, I'm surely tuckered out!