I’ve just surfaced after a long period underwater! It’s nice up here. I think I’ll stay.

More when I dry off.

[guitar riff] hey! hey! hey! hey! …fade out….

Just a little Sly and the Family Stone to accompany my entrance. I find that having a theme song energizes the audience, gets them “psyched up” for the “unpredictable antics” that are sure to follow.

So, what is new in the month since I last updated? SO MUCH! There is so much to say.

First of all, according to a recent vivid dream that I assume represents reality, it turns out that I am actually in charge of everything. I imagine that after a period of euphoria, I will begin to weary of such a heavy burden, but in the meantime, I get to make lots of awesome decisions about everyone’s lives! It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for, and first on my list of things to improve is….

1. Smug or Redundant Vanity Plates

They are totally banned, y’all. I’m sorry if you drive a BMW with the license plate MY BMW, but you are banned. You are double-banned if your plate says LUVN BMW or anything that indicates how much you love your car or how awesome you consider your life. Your life can be as awesome as you make it, but there is no need to inform me (the one in charge of everything) about your awesomeness when I’m trying to make my commute to work, ok?

Especially banned: Smug plates on hybrid vehicles, like [heart] 60MPG, which I actually saw yesterday. At the time, I didn’t realize I had the power to ban it, but when I see that car again, my wrath will be felt! (By them!)

Also banned: License plates that instruct the reader to do something. Like, I saw one last week that read B KYNDER. This led me to two conclusions: 1) B KINDER was already taken, and 2) I should kick out the side-view mirrors of the car. I didn’t actually do it, but I really should have. YOU B KYNDER!

That’s all I’ve come up with so far, and I’d like to just point out that I will know if any of you rag on me for using my awesome-a powers to fight such minor irritations. I’m starting small, and I don’t want to hear a lot of guff about it. I can’t just work up to World Peace, or whatever, on the first day. Not that I would try for that–look, it would never work, anyway. I can’t even walk from my boat to the gate without wanting to kick someone; how’s Palestine ever supposed to embrace Israel? Pfft, World Peace. Whatever, Miss Texas.

So, speaking of boats, which I was, this weekend the Keelhauler and I were invited to our boat neighbors’ for dinner. They are new on the dock and seem nice. (They’re from Bakersfield, which I associate solely with Buck Owens, which means I give them an ignorant thumbs-up.) Anyway, we got there with our neat clothes on, toting a bottle of wine, and said hello and all, and met their other guest: Eric. We’d never met him, but Eric is famous on the docks for the following facts:
1) As a kid, he once killed an SS officer with a brick; and
2) He once owned an apartment building from which he evicted Tex Watson.
Eric has stories to dine out on until the year one million.

Anyway, it was a pretty ok dinner and all. The Keelhauler and I mainly stayed quiet, unable to hold up our end of the conversation (“There’s just no talent out there anymore. You don’t get performers like Sammy Davis, Jr. and Imogene Coca…”). The kind of conversation that, even if you do agree with the opinion stated, you’re left with a kind of sinking feeling like you missed out on everything.

We just smiled politely and looked around for the wine. It turns out that the wine got shut off after 1.5 glasses apiece, which was really a shame, because I could have used a lot more for the next chapter of conversation, titled, “Why Do Mexicans Think They Can Come Here And Not Learn English,” subheading: “In Our Day We Had To Learn English, And Why Are Things Different Now?”

The irony of the situation is that these people are getting their boat ready for an extended cruise to where? Oh, right! Mexico! “Are you studying Spanish?” I asked. No, they are not. “Everyone speaks English there,” they said.

It seems to me that there is a solution to the problem they proposed: just swap out the populations. Boom: Spanish speakers, back in Mexico! English-speaking Mexicans–here in America! I propose that my boat neighbors use their boat to make the switch, and everything will turn out just great. Of course, there won’t be as much to complain about, but I guess the subject of how you just don’t get performers like Dean Martin anymore can carry the day.

So that happened.

Pot: French, meaning “pot.” pourri, French, meaning “rotten.” You might already know the literal meaning of the word, but regardless, it aptly describes the rotten little pot of stories I have today. Hold your noses and let’s go!

So, what have I been doing for the last… month or so, since I posted last? I don’t know. Driving around, feeding various dogs and cats, getting my hair cut. Also, I bought a new car and entered the county fair’s table setting competition. And… I’m sure there’s something more interesting. Maybe it’ll come to me.

While my brain percolates, I will just mention that my strict no-politics-on-Facebook policy was violated (by me) just now. (I should reword that in the active voice, but that sort of thing is not done by me.) I’m sick of people freaking out about their terror of Obama, and shrieking “Socialism!” at every juncture, so I responded to an idiotic post, freaking out about “un-American” healthcare reform, written by the hyper-religious wife of a casual friend. It’s so stupid. I’ve met her twice–why do I care what she thinks? Or if she thinks?

“Get ready for Socialism!” one of her friends commented. I don’t know what that would entail. Maybe a new hat.

Anyway, Matthew 19:21 says, and I quote, “Jesus said unto him, If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor…” Distribution of wealth? Sounds kind of, I don’t know… Socialist.

So, maybe my malaise today comes from the weird color of the sky, a function of the fire burning north of here, dropping ash on my car, my new car. I’ve never had a new car before. I’ve never even had a nearly-new car. Right now, I feel like I’m driving a rental car. Once the payments start, I’m sure I’ll revise my sentiments. It’s pretty neat, this car–it’s got a great engine, which runs on diesel fuel because I am all about fuel economy. The downside is that I have, in my history of driving older luxury cars, gotten spoiled by amenities like heated leather seats and six-cylinder internal combustion engines. Mostly the leather seats. My brand-new lovely car is brand-new and starts perfectly every time I turn the key, but is has nothing luxurious about it. I’m sure this next statement will qualify me for hanging, come the Revolution, but I miss the luxury. Hallelujah, I’m a bum. A bum with a brand-new car. Boo-hoo, I spilled latte on my PowerPoint presentation!

And, moving on from Inexplicable Self Pity Acres… I entered the county fair! The lovely, wonderful, bizarre county fair. My friend Becky encouraged me to enter the table setting competition, and so I did. The theme of my group’s competition was: Hot August Nights. The competition was today. Here is a picture of my entry:

Kick up your heels! It's the table setting competition!!

At 8:15 this morning, all of us competitors gathered at the door to the giant Quonset hut housing the baked goods, quilts and canned fruits. A few of us were alone, but some had brought ground crew to carry the armloads of daisies and rolled-up tablecloths (the rules are very clear that there are to be no wrinkles in the table covering). The group next to me consisted of a mom, a daughter, and a dad, who pulled a small jukebox in a little red wagon. The daughter, about 12, improvised a melodic song expressing her hopes that she would win some ribbon higher than Honorable Mention. The dad massaged the mom’s shoulders, saying, “You’ve got it! You’re gonna be great!” I could have sworn that he then said, “Your mom’s one of the judges!” but I was in no position to ask him to repeat his statement. Someone asked the theme of her table. “Coca-Cola,” the mom answered.

At the appointed hour, we all entered the building. Our ten tables were arranged in two rows inside a white picket fence. The tension in the air was making me sweat. Also: laugh. (To myself.) The Coca-Cola folks were to my right, and started by spreading out a cheery yellow tablecloth. All around me, people were unrolling their cloths and taking out measuring tapes to check that the overhang was exactly the same on all sides. I hadn’t rolled my tablecloth, nor had I brought a measuring tape, so I eyeballed it and moved on to the exciting world of placemats.

The girl to my left was placemat-less, so I instantly felt superior and shunned her. Her and her raffia-tied napkins. OK, she may have had me there–my napkins were raffia- and ring-less. I go au naturel, baby–that’s how I roll. But still, I felt it was important to recognize and/or impose some kind of table-setting-competition pecking order, to keep us all sharp.

After apologizing to Mrs. Coca-Cola for knocking over the heavy glass frame that held her menu (rules say the menu must be plainly displayed), I moved on to charger-ville. No measuring tape on hand, I eyeballed the distance, and put down the clear glass plates and then the salad plates, painted with a school of cheerful, yet not anthropomorphic, tropical fish. Across from me, a middle-aged lady set out an army of oversized black ants painted with smiles and merry eyes. Her tablecloth featured triangles of watermelon at the hem.

“Jeez! There’s eighteen people in there settin’ up ten tables!” complained a woman in a baggy purple sweatshirt marked with the logo and slogan of the fair (“Homegrown and Purebred!”). “It’s ridiculous!” she continued, “I could set a table in five minutes. Here ya go–let’s eat!” I suspected that she was a plant hired by one of my competitors, intended to shake the confidence of the novice table setters. Turning my back on her, I arranged the branches of coral I’d brought as decor, and set out the menu–framed in matte silver, to coordinate with the chargers.

“I can’t fit the dessert spoons on this table!” came a slightly manic cry from a big man in shorts and a wife-beater air-brushed with palm trees and his name (“Todd”). His partner calmly continued setting out the green-handled flatware that coordinated with their green Fiestaware salad plates and green-and-orange-striped Fiestaware glasses and the green-and-orange-and-yellow striped pinata set catty-corner on the table. “These tables are SO SMALL!” he complained, several times. He was starting to crack, which fueled my calm. And it’s true: the tables were rather small, but over on the other side of the enclosure, our neighbor was setting up a variety of shiny model cars atop a black tablecloth rampant with red and orange flames. Here: you can kind of see it in the following photograph.

Flames and bugs meet in mortal combat at the fair!

I rearranged the salt-and-pepper shakers, adjusted the handles of the forks, and set the glasses (three per setting) in a pleasing arc, and called it good. I could already see a few things I’d get marked down for–the white coral I’d used had a chipped place, and the glassware was a little crowded. Still, I called it done. It took me about half an hour to set up, all told.

On my way out, I passed the big guy with the air-brushed t-shirt and gave him a smile. He raised his chin and managed a slight sneer. Pecking order: imposed! This county fair table setting business was serious. His fiesta-themed pinata table was serious, and who am I to waltz in with my folded tablecloth and no napkin rings, making light of the intensity of a situation like running out of room for the dessert spoons? Pfft, I thought: he cannot shake my confidence–the confidence that comes from a pair of salad plates patterned with tropical fish and a couple of pieces of imitation coral displayed on stands. Go ahead and sneer! I am headed for the BIG TIME.

As it turns out, I am not ready for the big time, the county fair big time. There were ten entrants in this competition, and five were awarded ribbons. First place went to the watermelon-and-bugs table. It was a cheery display, indeed, complete with a jar of LED lightning bugs. It could have come straight from the cover of Women’s Day magazine. The Coca-Cola girls won second place, and I have to say that I hope a song was improvised in celebration. Third place? A Neil Diamond-themed table. (I had considered, and then rejected, that theme myself.) I believe that the pinata people won fourth place, and I can’t recall fifth, because I was overwhelmed with a sense of power and glory at the magnificent apple-green ribbon, topped with a rosette, marking my table. I can still see the words before my closed eyes: HONORABLE MENTION I got mentioned! Honorably!!

The four remaining tables also received this mention. So, it’s me, the model-cars-and-Mylar-ribbon, the monster trucks, and two others I can’t recall at this moment. I think I’ll start a club. We can meet monthly to discuss our award, wearing the ribbons, of course, and making plans to derail next year’s competition. We must defend our honor. We can do it.

So, ten minutes after I posted, Who should call back, but Ann Taft? My dear old friend Annie. When the phone rang, I had an inkling it was she, and so I answered in a different manner and identified myself, something I hadn’t done previously. This is what I’m doing with that theatre degree: I think you’ll agree it was worth the money.

I was calm and reassuring. I said reassuring horse-whispering phrases to our little filly. I told her I would find help for her and instructed her to take a deep breath. She did, and then said, “Youre the first person who’s even been nice to me!” at which point I revealed that we had spoken minutes before. She was flustered. “Oh… Well I’m sure you were nice, too…” I let the pause hang and said gently, “Well, ma’am, I do my best.” she laughed.

I passed her on to a kind associate, and hung up the phone. My heart raced for another half hour, which I found unnerving.

On my drive home, I hit heavy traffic. It’s a hot day, and driving through Montecito, I had my arm out the window, collecting sunshine.

A car pulled alongside me– a pinkish red Mercury wagon with the words “Old Sadie” painted on the side, pillows and bags stuffed in. From the back seat, a young girl leaned forward, extended a slender arm and called, “I love your hair!” I smiled and called, “Thank you!” As they pulled ahead, I saw the phrase, repeated over and over, in marker on the tailgate, “Honk if ur on a road trip!” I watched their Massachusetts plates disappear in an impressive no-turn-signals zig-zag, and waved goodbye.

I’m taking a moment to breathe and try and rid myself of the urge to punch someone. The person I want to punch is not nearby–as she put it to me, she’s in “fucking Chicago,” which is a little farther than my right hook can land.

I’ll call her Ann Taft, and she called my work number just now, irate and swearing over something that concerns my company, although not me directly. I tried to help her and despite the swearing, felt sympathetic until, that is, I gave her the name of the person she needed to speak with. It’s a Spanish name, and her response to the information was a highly sarcastic, “Arriba-arriba.”

I now feel justified in hating her.

“Excuse me?” I said, after a suitably icy pause.

She pretended to have said something else.

“Oh,” I said cooly, “That’s not what it sounded like.”

Predictably, my response set her off into tirade of I don’t know who you are-I’m going to file a fucking lawsuit-I’m going to go public with this and the claim that I had “insulted” her.

It’s best not to argue with the crazy, and so with my blood pressure rising, I kept my voice calm and put her on hold for a long time so I could warn the next person in line that she was headed his way.

All it takes is one psychotic on the phone to put a damper on an afternoon. I’ll shake it off, but it is upsetting.

On the bright side: before I transferred her, she gave me her phone number.

The bronchitis lingers on, uninteresting, but it has afforded me the time to sit on the sofa at the place I’m dog-sitting and watch a whole lot of true crime shows. Very restorative. After a while, all the tales blend together, so to keep myself alert, I have applied a variety of masks and lotions to my face in sequence, and drunk a number of bottles of bubble water. I also started an engaging paperback entitled People’s Temple–People’s Tomb, detailing the Jonestown Massacre, written by a former member of the …cult. I guess that’s all you can call it.

I had high hopes, but unfortunately, this particular book was published by Logos International, a religious outfit heavily represented in my parents’ library when I was growing up. They sat on the shelves along with linen-bound art books and my father’s collection of lurid paperbacks featuring embossed metallic titles in red and silver, usually about Satanic presidential candidates or demonic children. Logos published inspirational books by Merlin Carothers and self-proclaimed former Satanic priest Mike Warnke (later debunked, although not before my mother had a chance to drag me and my brother to one of his performances). Their catalog was heavy on cult literature, and my mother bought it all.

Or, nearly all. I don’t remember People’s Temple — People’s Tomb, which is a shame, because I’m sure I would have read it when I was a child and it could have warped me even further than The Cross and the Switchblade did.

Anyway, I don’t want to brag, but I am already on page 59 of this book, although I can’t say that I’ve gained any important knowledge. The first chapter has to do with the author learning, by watching the news in his home in Portland, Oregon, about impending trouble in Jamestown, and his ensuing attempts to communicate with the White House. (The author’s mother and sister are members of the cult, so he has a vested interest in getting law enforcement involved.) There are a lot of descriptions of phone calls to Washington, DC, (“Jim Jones is a preacher… AND A SOCIALIST!”) and the revelation that, in response to a frustrating conversation with a police officer, the author claims, “I laughed for sixty seconds.” I don’t know if he timed it himself or if his wife helped; she spends a lot of time giving him neck rubs and disapproving looks and bringing fresh iced tea. When the author finally reaches someone with the power to take action in the situation, he and his wife rejoice, and he “orders” eggs and toast. “I just may fry every egg in the refrigerator!” his wife “smiles.”

Such is the tenor of the narrative.

Let's fry every egg in the refrigerator!

I think I’ll take some more cough syrup and read the next chapter.

Here’s a great update: I have bronchitis.

I also have a stack of books (one on Jonestown! Spooky!) and a jacuzzi tub for the next couple of days. Also: cough syrup with codeine. I anticipate that these things, combined with the two amusing dogs in my care this week, will speed my healing. Or kill me. It is too early to tell.

Back to the codeine.

Fireworks, as described by Aimee Mann, contemplating another June gone by. I can relate: this month has wrung me out like the Sham-Wow I recently got from an enthusiastic friend. (“I registered for it for our wedding, but nobody got it for us. It was the only thing I wanted!”). I suppose the upside here is that, having been wrung out, I’m now ready to absorb.

So… What to absorb?

I think I’m about through with my role as caretaker of others’ pets and their houses I have cared for at the expense of my own home.

That’s my one big idea. I came up with it all on my own, sitting under the hairdryer while my color processes.

I have high hopes for more big ideas. I’m not quite up to a Mission Statement TM yet, but I’m open to change. As Marilyn Monroe sang, “Something’s Got to Give.” of course, she never finished filming that movie on account of deadness: maybe I should go for another project. “River of No Return,” maybe, or “Bus Stop.”

As part of my mandatory training for my job, I’m taking a class on Being More Effective. That is actually something I need, let’s add “desperately,” but so far the class consists of a lot of PowerPoint slides and videos of management parables told by a bald gentleman who strongly resembles Hannibal Lecter. There is also a fair amount of Sharing, sharing amongst the classmates. Here is something someone shared, when asked to give a reason for his enrollment: “I something something VISION.” I don’t know what he said. It was something about gathering his “vision” or collecting his “vision,” or something. I wrote it down but, in a display of ineffectual chaos have misplaced the paper.

Another woman Shared that she needs “to learn how to play.” Her statement had a certain desperate wistfulness I associate with my mother’s claims, expressed at family gatherings, that she longs to sit around and listen to her elderly uncles tell old stories–an activity she routinely misses out on in favor of, say, ironing a blouse or curling her hair. In short, her claim of wanting to hear the stories is proven false by her actions. It was the same with this lady. She may “need” to learn how to play, but look: if her first step in the endeavor is taking a class on effectiveness, she is already on the wrong path.

SO. So. My homework for tomorrow is to write a personal mission statement, one I’d be comfortable Sharing with the class.

I do not think I am capable if this. I don’t tend to think of myself as having a definable mission, certainly not one I could share with classmates busy gathering their visions and learning to play. I should mention that as a gift for taking the class, each of us received a Talking Stick, which name is so capitalized in every reference to it in the text. It’s molded of resin painted to look like wood, a tiny but satisfyingly weighty miniature totem pole. I made mine a turquoise-and-grass-green foil cape from gum wrappers. The instructions on it say that the speaker should hold the Talking Stick and not relinquish it until he or she “feels understood.”

I fear I will never be able to relinquish the Talking Stick (TM).

My current dog-sitting job just may prove to be my last. Or atleast, my last for any new clients. Seven years of pet-sitting–including runaways, illness, fleas, ticks and one regrettable death–have somehow failed to prepare me for the nightmare that is Thurston.

THURSTON.

Seventy-odd pounds of whining, pawing, leg-humping menace behind a deceptively soulful pair of brown eyes.

Thurston inspired me to tears last night, out of frustration and a dearth of new ideas of things to distract him from the high-pitched bark he emitted every two seconds for a period of three hours.

Perhaps it is true that, as the boyfriend says, I need to read up on dog psychology. Perhaps, on the other hand, it is time for me to stop being available to people who go on vacation, and go on vacation myself. I would leave right now, if I could, and fly to Italy. There, I would track down Thurston’s owners, explain that my dog-sitting contract does not include fending off amorous advances of a dog tall enough to rest his paws on my shoulders, and return their house key. It is sorely tempting, on this muggy day with nothing in particular to recommend it.