à la carte

Alice’s sister, Not Alice, had taken a vow of silence. At least until her sore throat and laryngitis pack their bags and move away from her.

Since she couldn’t spend some time gossiping with her sister, Alice decided to take an hour and study her French language tapes. She had reached a really good point in the lessons. It seems that a man had knocked on a woman’s hotel room door and after she told him to entrez, he did. He looked around, smiled, and asked her that very important question.

FRENCH MAN: Where is your husband?

Of course this was in French, but Alice knew enough to know what was up!

FRENCH WOMAN: I don’t know. Where is your wife? By the way, who are you?

FRENCH MAN: I don’t know. About my wife, I mean. I am Mr. Jones.

Now Alice was a bit bored by the exchange. Would she really ever need to know how to ask a stranger in France where his. . . well, maybe.

FRENCH WOMAN: Do you want to go to a restaurant with me?

FRENCH MAN: Nah. I want to stay here and...you.

No, that’s not he said.

At the restaurant, the waiter came over and asked for their drink order.

WAITER: Would you like to drink some beer, or some wine?

FRENCH MAN: Well, my dear, would you like to drink some wine? White or red?

FRENCH WOMAN: I will have tea.

Alice thought that was an odd thing to want to drink in a posh restaurant, especially at 11:00 p.m. But she realized that the tapes were teaching her how to ask for things, and not meant to be a torrid story about illicit trysts.

Though she was sure that she would go for the wine. That is, if she ever found herself in a restaurant in France with a man who had misplaced his wife. And if she had no idea where…nevermind.

FRENCH MAN: Tea? Mais non. You must have some wine!

FRENCH WOMAN: No! I do not want wine! I want tea!

WAITER: Tea for madame, oui. And you, monsieur?

FRENCH MAN: I will have, attendez! Is that not your husband? Coming into the restaurant?

FRENCH WOMAN: Why yes, and he is with a woman?

FRENCH MAN: That is my wife!

Ooh la la, Alice thought. Things are getting good! These tapes were worth the money. There’ll be bitch slapping!

TEACHER’S VOICE: This is the end of lesson 18.

ALICE: Nooooo!

She immediately checked ahead to lesson 19 to find out if the police had to get involved but, no, it was all about travel, shopping, and finding out train schedules.

Oh well. If Alice ever found herself in France, and she had studied really diligently, she could look at a handsome stranger and ask him in her most sultry voice, quelle est la bonne route à Paris?

Merde.

Tra La La

Alice and the Mad Hatter spent several days visiting a family friend who can only be called Madder Hatter. She is 81 years old and very slim, very feisty . . . alright, difficult would be more correct . . . and when her light green gaze is aimed at another – as Alice learned quickly – one must accept that, yes, Madder Hatter is the boss of you.

One very warm and golden afternoon, Mad Hatter told Alice that they were all going into town to eat lunch in a diner. A diner? How could that be? Madder Hatter was accustomed to having maids cook and clean; she would go into her kitchen for three reasons only: to get ice, to insist that dinner not be served until after sunset, and to warn that any red meat served should be as rare as one can get away with before being labeled a cannibal. Why, she had never been to town, it being the place where her driver would go to buy her newspapers. So Mad Hatter was proposing that the very first time she was taken to town, it would be to a diner?

More relevant: Madder Hatter never ate lunch.

However, the three of them rode to this new little place that the gardener had recommended because Mad and Madder Hatters wanted a hot dog.

WAITER: Something to drink?
MADDER HATTER: Bring me a tall glass of ice.
WAITER: Yes, but what’s the drink?
MADDER HATTER: That’s all I need. Now just go away . . . I mean . . . carry on and do what you do.

She flapped her right hand at him and Alice wasn't sure but it did seem to her that the waiter did not love being shooed away by a customer. Perhaps it was the way he pointed a finger at Madder Hatter when she looked away that gave Alice this insight. It wasn't the ring, pinky, or index finger. Nor was it the thumb.

When the waiter returned with a large tray in his hands, and irritation in his eyes, Madder Hatter rummaged in her large bag and brought out a cup. Once, it had belonged to her oldest son.




She filled the cup with ice and then put her hand back into her bag and brought out a small bottle of vodka. After pouring out the proper, well her proper amount, she took the lemon from Alice’s water glass and twisted the peel, took a drink, sighed contentedly, and proceeded to eat.

Alice had a bad feeling. After all, it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. A quick look to her right confirmed her worriment that the staff had been watching. They were whispering and pointing to the table, probably saying something like, “What! That crazy old bitch is getting sloshed at our little diner! And not even paying for it!”

Madder Hatter drank about four cups of her vodka throughout the lunch. Well, to be fair, it was a little cup. Though to be unfair, it had been full strength, even with the ice. No tonic or dry vermouth for her! To be fair again, she did share with Mad Hatter.

While they waited for the bill, Madder Hatter began to talk to Mad Hatter about her newest little grandson who loved to sing.

MAD HATTER: Ah, what does the little angel like to sing?
MADDER HATTER: He loves the old songs.
ALICE: What old songs?
MADDER HATTER: You know, like Irving Berlin songs.
MAD HATTER: Splendid!
ALICE: Irving Berlin? How old is your grandson?
MADDER HATTER: He is four and his most favorite song is This is the Army, Mr. Jones.
ALICE: Uh. What?
MADDER HATTER *leaning toward Mad Hatter*: We all have been selected from city and from farm.
MAD HATTER: They asked us lots of questions, they jabbed us in the arm.

Alice became very alarmed because their singing had stopped conversation in the diner, and the irritated waiter was bringing the check.

IRRITATED WAITER: Will there be anything else?
MADDER HATTER: We stood there at attention, our faces turning red.
IRRITATED WAITER: O.K. nothing else. Pay in front. Thank you for leaving. Now and quickly.
MAD HATTER: The sergeant looked us over and this is what he said:
ALICE: Alrighty. Shall I take this over and pay the bill and we can just go back to the house and you both can take a nice little nap and . . . .
MAD AND MADDER HATTERS: This is the Army, Mister Jones. No private rooms or telephones. You had your breakfast in bed before, BUT YOU WON'T HAVE IT THERE ANY MORE!

So there it is. Lunch in town. Lyrics courtesy of Irving Berlin (1943). Singing courtesy of vodka and a baby silver cup.

Now if you're ready, Oysters, dear

Alice’s sister, who is named Not Alice, came to visit for a few days and wanted to spend everyday walking and seeing the tourist sights in the rabbit hole. Alice doesn’t really like to say no to Not Alice. Maybe because Not Alice considers Alice’s no to mean oh yes, absolutely, please let’s!

NOT ALICE: Oh, look! Paddleboats! Let’s rent a paddleboat!

ALICE: Oh, look! Paddleboats! Let’s not rent a paddleboat!

NOT ALICE: Come on! It’ll be fun. We can just drift around and see everything and get exercise and it will be a new thing to do.

ALICE: Well, I don’t really swim so it wouldn't be fun for me. I’d be worried that something would happen. Like drowning.

NOT ALICE: You can’t swim?

ALICE: No. Not really.

NOT ALICE: Let’s rent a paddleboat!

O.K. So it's not too hard to guess where Alice found herself in a few moments.






At first, Alice was apprehensive, especially when once they were well away from the dock, Not Alice wondered how one “steers” the boat. Alice begged Not Alice to make sure not to crash against anything including bridges, seawalls, other paddleboats, fish, birds, the Loch Ness monster, etc.

NOT ALICE: Well, you certainly take the fun out of everything.

It did turn out to be a peaceful experience and lovely views. Later on in the evening, Alice was telling the others about how brave she had been to sail the high seas.

MAD HATTER: High seas? The water there is at most two feet deep!

NOT ALICE: Two feet? You could have walked around if you had fallen out of the boat.

ALICE: Laugh if you must, but I’ve heard that people can drown in a wading pool or a bathtub.

NOT ALICE: You were wearing a life vest.

MAD HATTER: A life vest? And only two feet of water? I really think you have to stop putting yourself in such danger when you go out.

NOT ALICE: Do you want to go climbing on that really steep trail that only a billy goat would love? We could do it tomorrow.

ALICE: It’s supposed to be stormy and windy and rainy and very cold tomorrow.

NOT ALICE: Yeah? So do you want to go?

Alice doesn’t really like to say no to Not Alice.

Time's fun when you're having flies. (Kermit the Frog)

Once upon a time, Alice was very punctual and her days began at the same time every morning, and she was pleased. For many years she was. Then one day, after moving into the rabbit hole, she misplaced the sense of time. Mad Hatter would lose his keys or his glasses as hatters are wont to do, and he would include Alice in looking for them but he never helped her when she needed a search party for her lost time.

MAD HATTER: Have you seen my new glasses? I’ve been looking for hours!
ALICE: Yes.
MAD HATTER: Well? Why didn’t you tell me hours ago. Where are they?
ALICE: On your face.

And so they were.

MAD HATTER: Have you seen the keys to the car? I’ve been looking for hours!
ALICE: Yes.
MAD HATTER: Well? Well?
ALICE: In the ignition.
MAD HATTER: What! But the car is locked!
ALICE: Yes.
MAD HATTER: Now what?
ALICE: What time is it?

It never was the time it was supposed to be. Mad Hatter would tell Alice one night that they were going to drive somewhere the next morning and they would be leaving at 10:30 a.m. But at 8 a.m., Mad Hatter would come into the room and announce that they were heading out in half an hour.

ALICE: But that would make it only 8:30 and you had said 10:30. I’m not ready.
MAD HATTER: Well, I thought about it and I changed my mind. Now don't think that it's just because I can get a Nathan's hot dog sooner. Oh, no. 8:30 is just infinitely superior to 10:30.
ALICE: I see.
MAD HATTER: Just pretend that it’s 10:00 and we’re leaving in half an hour.

As Alice packed, she pretended that it was many years later (alright, not that many actually) and that Mad Hatter was no longer among the living.

Last week, Alice returned from a trip abroad and learned that it wasn’t the time she thought it was because the country had sprung forward. She had forgotten about that so all her clocks were off by one hour. And she couldn’t consult the White Rabbit because all he ever told her was that it was late.

So imagine Alice’s relief when she found a clock, a perfect clock.



At last Alice has found her sense of time and it is perfectly suited for her life in the rabbit hole. And she is pleased.

A Xmas Tale

Several days ago, Alice was browsing in a Gap store in the Eastern Shore. Holiday music was playing, shoppers were waiting in line to pay for discounted items, and several store employees were standing near the door looking out at something and ignoring the customers. Alice joined the group at the door and looked and saw nothing particularly interesting. She was standing near a male Gapster who was rather – how to explain – oh, yes, rather flamboyant, and asked him what was up.

FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: Oh, sweetie, wait for it. It’s hilarious! Wait! Here he comes!

A short rotund man, with a look of George Costanza on Seinfield but attired as Santa Claus, opened the door and began screaming HO HO HOs. He was accompanied by two young females who were wearing outfits that called to mind army nurse corps olive drab uniform, circa 1943.

How cute. Christmas and Halloween on a date.

The women stood next to Santa George, stoic and unsmiling. Santa, however, was screaming and laughing. He walked over to a woman who was probably in her 80s.

SANTA: WELL! WERE YOU A GOOD LITTLE GIRL THIS YEAR?

“No,” she said. “I was really very bad. And I don’t care!”

SANTA: EXCELLENT!

FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: He cracks me up! He was here this morning and he just doesn’t listen to what anybody says. He just screams and doesn’t even hand out a stupid candy cane or nothing. Then he goes to the other stores. He’ll come back before closing time and I think that I'll tackle him to the ground! That’ll be funny, right?

ALICE: Uh, no, not really.

FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: Unless he gives me a present. Then I won’t hurt him.

Alice thought of what kind of present Santa George would hand over.





FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: I just know what you’re thinking! But if that happens, I’ll just ask my dad to get me everything on my list and I’ll use the coal to do something really cool.




FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: So, whadda think, huh?

ALICE: That's great, actually. You know. When life hands you lemons...yada, yada.

FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: Lemons? Nah, you don't get it, dude, do you? Santa's not gonna give me lemons, he. . .

ALICE: Never mind.

In a Wisconsin city, the rain-swollen Rock River has risen fast and strong and has flooded downtown Main Street. In addition to bringing -- well, you know -- lots of water, the river has upchucked fish. Yes, lots of fish who have been spotted swimming in the streets.




The locals, apparently, are calling these visitors "Rock River salmon” because the larger ones are trying to swim upstream in the parking lot of the United Way.

In the wild, salmon jumping upstream more than likely end up here






The lazy clever bears are probably chortling something along the lines of, “It’s waaay too easy, yo. Like taking candy from a baby!”

In the United Way parking lot? No clue.

They’re not salmon, though, they’re carp.

Ah, po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes.

Unless, these “salcarp” are just trying to cross the road.

Which does finally put to rest that pesky age-long question about the chicken.

Red Alert!

Red is a power color. Most politicians, business people, VIPs walking the red carpet, and the Red Queen know this.

Red is a color of danger. Emergency lights, stop signs, do-not-walk lights, and Satan know this.

And now, researchers at the University of Rochester have concluded a study that finds that men go GAGA over a lady in red. And not only when she is dressed in the color, a picture of a lovely lady framed in a red border apparently also gets the male heart pittering and pattering and opening his wallet to spend lots and lots of money on a date.

Why is this? Well, the researchers surmise that it’s probably related to more primitive biological roots.

Huh?

You know, humans are related to higher primates, and those primates are really hot for the girls displaying red.

Primates? Red?




Oh. Yeah.


Evolution-wise, humans have given up their monkey ways, but this study points out that -- maybe not so much.

What about gay men? What about color blind men? They weren’t included in the study, so who knows about the primitive urges there.

So, a baboon's bright red butt screams sex. A woman wearing red screams sex.

Alice’s favorite color is blue. She wonders about the screaming there.

Morning has Broken

Usually Alice’s sense of smell is the first to awaken in the a.m. Roasted coffee smell. Ummm. Very good. That first cup of coffee? Well It’s just okay, and she is always surprised that the taste is not on par with the smell. But then she does love the smell of freshly mowed grass, and is quite sure that eating a clump of it will not lead her to look for recipes.

Also, they say (you know those vague They people out there who are always saying something) that just smelling coffee is good enough for changing the activity of several genes. Well, okay, this result came from testing rats, but you know.

An interesting odd factoid is that chemical compounds, known as thiols, are found in many things, including coffee. Thiols are also the lovely ingredient in skunk spray. Hmm. Cofee. Skunk spray. Yum.

But Alice’s awakening yesterday morning was not brought about by brewed thiols. It wasn’t her sense of smell that was alert. It was her sense of touch. But there was no cup of java placed into her hands. There were towels. Lots of towels.

An overnight visitor had done something to the bathroom in the middle of the night and an overflowing toilet had drenched the wall-to-wall carpet in the living room. And the owner of the house (TOOTH) had thought it a great idea to take all the towels and throw them on the rug and stomp on them, then take the soaked towels and throw them into the dryer. Step two: repeat the above. Step three: ibidem.

ALICE: But the dryer will take hours to get the towels dry enough and. . .
VISITOR: Don’t worry! This is a good plan.
ALICE: Plan? You call that a plan? We need a professional. Someone who knows how to fix this mess.
TOOTH: You are being very dramatic and it’s really too early for this. What we need is coffee. We’ll take turns stomping on the towels and drying them. It’ll be a useful thing to do. But, actually, I have to go to work so I’ll leave you two to do it.
VISITOR: Well, actually, I have a train to catch this morning so I must beg off.
ALICE: WORK? BEG OFF? Nuh, uh! I’m NOT staying here alone to stomp on towels. Why, it’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever. . .

Alice looked over to the rug and noticed that her footprints were clearly marked in the wet depressions. She noted that she was not flat-footed or high-arched. Which was good.

Thus, by tracking our foot-prints in the sand, we track our own nature in its wayward course, and steal a glance upon it, when it never dreams of being so observed. Such glances always make us wiser.

That’s what Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote in a story found in Twice-Told Tales.

“How will I be able to take a shower if ALL the towels are on the floor?”

That’s from wiser Alice .

Star Struck

No, not the kind that populate the night skies.


And not the kind that congregates in a land far, far, away.



The star that struck the man of the house with the power of incapability is not as jazzy or as razzy as the above.

It can usually be found on the lower left-hand side of an implement that millions use with little or no instruction. Otherwise know as this.

Man of the house (Moth) lives in an apartment building in Washington, DC, which doesn't have a doorman or concierge or even a neighbor who will open the door to visitors. If one decides to stop over for dinner with Moth, one calls on the phone in the foyer, and then Moth has to press "*" and then "9" on his phone in the apartment. A buzzer sounds and the visitor opens the door and is on the way to food, drink, and conviviality.

Except Moth doesn't get it, yet. Though he's lived here for over a year. He can't coordinate the two steps. Sometimes he presses "9" first, then the star symbol. Other times he presses the "pound" key. Just for good measure there are times when he presses "*" then "9" and the "pound" key. It usually ends up that I have to go downstairs and unlock the door. The reason I have to go is because Moth says that since I am only the Visitor of the house (Voth), that chore falls to me.

Moth is not a dull-witted person. Really. He is quite knowledgeable about many things; he gives lectures, he writes, he edits. He. Just. Can't. Or. Won't. Press."*". First.

So his oldest son came to visit. Brilliant man. Thinks, writes, lectures at university. Moth went out to walk the dogs and forgot to take his keys. Again. When he returns, he calls on the phone in the foyer. Oldest son is the only one awake and he answers. Wakes me up because he doesn't know what to do.

"Just press * and then 9."

I doze off.

"It's not working. It's not working! Why the hell is it not working!"

I go downstairs in my pajamas to open the door for Moth and the dogs.

Here's what I think:

Any Road

For a moment, nothing happened.Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen.

--Douglas Adams

So I read -- again -- that Stephenie Meyer, author of the vampire-centric Twilight series, had had a dream about two people in a meadow murmuring to each other, and then had awakened to type fast, faster, fastest, since she didn't want to forget what she was hearing in her head. Days of hearing the dialogue in her head. Nights of not being able to sleep more than a few hours because like a snooze button on her alarm, words and sentences were beeping every nine minutes or so, and she had to type, type, type.

I had a brilliant idea! I would go to bed early, and fall asleep right away. I would sleep and I would dream. Yes. A plan. That's what I would do. That's what I did. Except it was not early. I did not fall asleep right away. I did not dream. Or maybe I did. *shrugs*

I think the b*tch used hallucina. . . um . . . hallucinati . . . I think she used drugs.

I had a brilliant idea! I would go to the master. You know, Mohammed. Mountain. Etc.

My sister! I would ask her what to take so that I could hear voices in my head speaking in complete sentences with character, plot, rising climax, denouement and all that stuff just waiting for me to process and sit and type, type, type to the nth power.

There was a problem, though. I imagined it would be like this:

ALICE: SISTER! I NEED DRUGS!

SIS: Don't we all.

ALICE: NO. I NEED DRUGS. JUST ME. LET IT BE ABOUT ME!

SIS: Why are you shouting?

ALICE: I NEED . . . drugs. So I can hear the characters in the book I'm going to write murmuring somewhere. Then I can stay up all night typing and in four days I will have a finished and complete book that YOU can read.

SIS: I see. You don't need drugs. You need discipline. You need organization. You need to STOP BOTHERING ME AT WORK. I'm busy. Put down the magazine, get off the email, and WRITE. Do I have to remind you -- again . . .

ALICE: Not about that stupid dog, is it?

SIS: . . . about Marley and Me?

ALICE: Maybe I'll write about a vile and wicked sister who is not sympathetic to her sibling's plight!

SIS: That's the spirit! Throw out those ideas! Don't you think that it's nice that you have me in your life as a sounding board?

ALICE: I think fish is nice, but then I think that rain is wet, so who am I to judge?

SIS: Stop quoting Douglas Adams.

ALICE: No drugs?

SIS: Not yet.

So, to avoid all that, I'll just not call her. After all, it is a mistake to think you can solve any major problems just with potatoes.

SIS: Stop quoting Douglas Adams.