42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

I think I’ve finally reached the age where people saying, “You’re old” is no longer funny.

I’m a woman who can do the shrill pepper-pot voice in the Spam sketch, very badly. (Spam spam spam spam spam spam spam) People usually ask me to stop.

I could recite entire Monty Python sketches, unless you pay me not to.

So I was happy to learn that Monty Python has started a YouTube channel. They’ve posted a ton of popular clips, and I guess the theory is to beat the people who upload crap-quality videos at their own game, and find a way to make money.

They already have more than enough of mine, I’m afraid. I have all their TV shows on tape. I have all of their movies on DVD. I played both of their computer games. I have all of their comedy albums. I even have a couple on vinyl. At an earlier point in my life, I was so obsessive that I needed to own every movie any of the Pythons had been involved in.

Suffice it to say, I could watch any of these things without the benefit of YouTube. Taking a quick look, I don’t see all of my favorites, but maybe that’s coming in time. I guess the one thing that YouTube does have is accessibility. I don’t have to dig around for my tapes, which are currently in storage.

And now, for something completely different. And a laugh. I need one right now. And no, I don’t want to argue about it.

Considering my recent disagreement with my computer and backup data, I think this is parody of The Matrix running on Windows XP is hilarious. (For the record, I’m running Vista.)

I had a disaster happen with my computer yesterday. Things are not completely fixed. I’m not sure I have the energy to fix them today.

So for a while, my life is in chaos. Things I need desperately, that are no longer stored on any other place except an external hard drive where the data is currently compressed and encrypted, are unavailable to me.

It’s times like these that I wish I had everything in a physical file and had a hammer I could apply to the computer.

My life is chaos. Do not expect intelligible responses from me until this is fixed.

That is all.

I sometimes embarrass easily. Sometimes I don’t. It depends on the situation.

Let’s chalk up a recent morning to embarrassment, though.

I wake up pretty early these days, for a night person. 8 a.m. is good, but this particular morning, I slept in later, cocooned in a warmth of kitties that was hard to break out of.

I also usually don’t get around to getting dressed until much later, just before I go to work. It’s a bad habit, but I have lots of others.

Anyway, this morning was no different. I was still wearing the most unattractive of nightclothes. Tatty plaid bottoms and a threadbare nightshirt that belonged to my long-deceased mother, as well as a pair of crocheted slippers my mother made for my great-grandmother, also deceased. My hair was a big rat’s nest, the result of tossing and turning only by my head all night because I was plastered with cats who would not let me move.

I was trying to purchase plane tickets for my trip home for Christmas (which is another ordeal in itself) and was already frustrated.

And then I heard a knock on the door. My first instinct was to go down with an afghan wrapped around me, but I realized I was fully dressed, after a fashion.

I opened the blinds, saw two young men on the other side of the door. Had no idea what they wanted, but they didn’t look like they were peddling door-to-door religion, so I opened it.

“Hi,” one of them said. “We live across the street.”

“Hi,” I said, my head poking out, but keeping the door otherwise shut, or so I thought. I recalled my irritation with them over a certain political sign, and for their habit of having parties in which their friends park on the street, in violation of the rules.

“We were just checking up on you,” one says. “We noticed you left your garage door up last night, and we wanted to make sure nothing was wrong.”

I realize that it’s entirely possible, nay, even likely, that I would’ve done this. I’ve always been afraid of it, especially now since I leave the inside door unlocked because I’m afraid of locking myself in the garage while I live alone.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “I’m all right. I just must have flaked out last night. Thanks for checking up on me.”

I’m still embarrassed, but at least they’ve only sorta seen my wild hair.

And then my cat, Merlin, bolts out the small opening in the door.

I shriek at him and then request that they help me catch “my stupid cat.”

They have a dog across the street, but they gamely chased the wily creature around. Who was hiding in the bush.

Then I just gave up and stepped out, shutting the door behind me so the other cat likely to make a dash wouldn’t be tempted.

But luckily, one of the guys caught him and handed him to me.

I thanked them again for checking on me, and for catching my stupid cat, then yelled bad cat at him. They laughed and went back across the street. I shut the door and then meekly shut the garage door. No harm was done; nothing had been stolen.

So who is still in pajamas at 11 a.m.? Me. Often until 1:30, which is the last drop-dead time for me to take a shower before my earlier shift at work.

I often wish that I would get going earlier than that. There’s no harm in being fully dressed and clean earlier in the day; I just never get around to it. I imagine what I looked like to a couple of college kids: a crazy, dirty, chubby woman approaching middle age. Perhaps a crazy cat lady and flaky enough to forget to put the garage door down.

But at least I take in my garbage cans after trash day, which they don’t do promptly. Someone at work suggested that i show up at 3 a.m. to ask them if they were OK because they forgot to bring in their trash cans. But that would be petty, and they were actually doing me a kindness. I could have died. I could’ve been burgaled. Who knows?

I feel bad sometimes that I judge people wrongly. Even if I don’t approve of their politics, or of being young whippersnappers, I was heartened to know that they were decent folk and I should probably give them, and everyone else, the benefit of the doubt.

I did my civic duty. I voted for what and who I believed in. I don’t like to be a loser. Let’s hope I’m not.

Just today, I’ve seen two different ads somehow related to the election. One gives me $10 off clothing if I bring in proof I voted (perhaps my receipt or an I-voted sticker). Another one offers a free cup of coffee if I can prove I vote. Too bad I don’t drink coffee.

Is this a new thing, or is it just me?

Is this the new furniture store ad for holidays only school children care about? (Columbus Day, I’m looking at you)

I guess there’s nothing more patriotic than voting and then going out afterward to stimulate the economy through a little healthy spending.