lizzielou.com

This evening I will be heading over to our neighborhood meeting about the arsons. It was going to be in a walk-up banquet room across the street (and down the street, and behind) from a scorched place, in a room that was too small to fit the number of people who were expected, and only had one way up and the same one way back out. Sounds like a fire trap to me! I am very relieved that it has been moved because otherwise I feared the arson would be planning A Big Finish.

Speaking of the fuckwad, it is generally assumed – on the gossipy blatherboards – that the arsonist is going to be attending the meeting. I hope that we get a mystery novel moment where the fire marshall says, “Thank you all for coming. Please don’t panic, but the arsonist is here with us and his name is [LIGHTS GO OUT!]…” Then there is a scuffle, and when the lights come back on the perp is caught! Although it is more likely we will all be sitting on each other pointing fingers and crying.

Anyway, I’ll post an update if anything exciting happens. Because I know you just can’t stand the suspense.

I’d feel stupid writing a blog today about anything else besides my neighborhood being burned down building by building. There is an arsonist on the loose, and not just the kind of firebug who likes to burn trash cans and abandoned soggy sofas. This fuckwad is really doing serious, harmful damage. There have now been seven fires (2 just last night, following the 3-alarmer that took out four businesses over a week ago) since the summer.

The neighborhood is on edge. Someone had the idea to pile up a bunch of old shit out on a play field to see who comes to light it up. Maybe we can use the abandoned McDonalds building as bait.

Online community posters are suggesting civilian foot patrols. How is that going to work? It takes 30 seconds to start a fire; there would have to be mulitple sentries on every block. I can’t even get Dandelion Lady who lives across the street to acknowledge my existence when I see her almost daily at the bus stop. The Croutons and the McScreamersons only come over when they a) need our permission to do construction, or b) to tell us they drove into our garage. (Yes, I know, I don’t go visit them either and I’m sure they have some nice names for me too especially after I do things like broadcast a stream of invective and profanity out of the vent for the clothes dryer when I couldn’t reassemble that bloody piece of crap.) I’m just saying we don’t seem like a very band-together kinda group. Also, I recommend that the mob does not carry torches.

So, there are plans to get a meeting happening with the townfolk and the police and the fire department. I hope all the sweaty voters come out and shout and stomp and sob so someone will help us. I’ll be there too with flames… flames on the sides of my face.

[photo stolen off our local phinneywood blog]

It’s was caucus time again on Saturday. Another day spent with my “neighbors and friends.” There was a crowd of about 1500 plus gathered in a local high school.

I was slapped with a sticker when I walked in the door. Thus clearly tagged for Hillary, I signed in as the alternate HRClinton delegate for my precinct. I received my “credentials” — which consisted of a blue postcard with my name and info on it and a white piece of yarn to thread through the holes punched in the top. This I looped around my neck like a kindergartner on a field trip. I squeezed through the crowd and found a seat in the “Hillary” area, balloons and signs marking out the 2 of the 8 sections. These big wooden bleachers were rolled out in the gym and there were some plastic cafeteria chairs arranged in the middle of the floor for anyone who couldn’t scale the steps of the bleachers. (Those steps were high; my knees were unhappy and I thought I would be tumbling down the risers before the day was out.)

Call to order and the flag salute.

During the initial count there were speeches by the party people (in da house), state representatives, guys running for office, and our congressman. I chatted with some of the people around me, scored some more stickers (whoo), and had the opportunity to do some quality people-watching. I didn’t see anyone I knew yet, except a lady from the bus who is an avid reader. I perused my “program” and the party platform and felt kinda glad that I had come. I had to, of course, because I had promised (PROMISED) the delegate lady from down the street that I would. I still hadn’t seen her and I started suspecting that I wouldn’t. Anyway, leading up to this I had been starting to feel the first waves of ambivalence about this primary and the candidates since it all began so many months ago. Being at the caucus gave me a little spark again, remembering that something’s going to change soon.

Then I was summoned to be seated as a Delegate and went back down the bleachers, through the crowds, to get my new “credentials” — the yellow postcard of the lady who didn’t show, with my name written on the back in black Sharpie(TM). And a new piece of yarn. Then I got to wait on line for the bathroom for a while. Then I climbed back into the bleachers. It was a bit less crowded now. And time for the second count.

The platform committee head was at the podium going through the platform line by line. People went to the microphone on the floor to state that they wanted to “flag” an item for discussion later. If the people at the microphone flagged an item that had already been flagged, or started explaining why they wanted to flag the item, they would get shouted out by the crowd and politely, but sternly, redirected by the man at the podium to come back later. Nearly the whole platform was flagged, every section from Agriculture to Transportation. Flagging meant that they wanted to debate something about the item – the wording, or it’s inclusion at all. The crowd shouting at the speakers was a little harsh at first — some of these people were clearly new to the process — but after the people before you got shouted at, you’d think the lesson would have been learned. Much of the shouting was incomprehensible as well, just a lot of “HEeynoOTSt-opwahablAHHMmaa-ambACkcantDDid” background noise. The intent was clear, but the directions not so much. Some speakers got frustrated and shouted back “what??? why? WHAT?!” into the microphone.

Next, the Mayor came and spoke. (After someone hissed at the announcement of his impending arrival we are all admonished to play nice on this special happy party day.) The tally of the second count of delegates was announced. As expected, it was still Obama over HRClinton at about 4 to 1. Each side then had a representative speak for three minutes (only!) about why their candidate is the greatest ever. After which there were 15 minutes allotted for the people who wanted to change their votes over to the other candidate to do so. (In case you are wondering, the Edwards delegate and the Kucinich delegates did not reach the minimum to be “seated.” I don’t know which candidate they went to.)

After this the debate about the platform resumed. Each item that was flagged was announced and the motions were made from the microphone on the floor. If someone wanted to amend or delete an item, there could be two speakers for and two against. It was very Robert’s Rules of Order. If someone messed up, inadvertently moved to a new motion, or went out of turn, the crowd again started its shouting and mumbling en masse. “Out of order! Out of order!!” Democracy in action. It reminded me of Parliamentary proceedings in the in the UK — a lot of “huzzah huzzah” and “bah humbug.” Fun!

In order to vote pro or con on the motions we had to hold our “credentials” in the air to be counted. Generally one group of yellow postcards held aloft out numbered the other group of yellow postcards held aloft, but when they didn’t a count was called. The word ‘archaic’ came to mind. I couldn’t help but think that here in the year Two Thousand Eight, things would be more streamlined, more precise, less wonky. And at this point I would like to comment that some of my “neighbors and friends” are… crazy. Not incoherent, but a bit illogical? maybe out of touch? I’ve tried to find the words to describe them, but you’ve just gotta experience them. I think many of them may be the oddball library patrons that plague my favorite librarian.

So, we only got as far as Education before the final delegate counts came in. Then it was time to adjourn to our congressional districts, by candidate, for the selection of the next set of delegates. Our group trundled off to the school auditorium. We were all given printed ballots with the names of the people who wanted to continue on as delegates to the county-state-and-eventually national conventions. Except, a page was missing. So our group leader had to read out 30 names for us to write down on our printed ballots. It went a little like this…

“Number 112, Melissa Haffersnatch.”

“IS THAT WITH TWO ESSES?”

“Yes. Melissa.”

“PLEASE SPELL THAT LAST NAME!”

“H-a-f-f-e-r snatch. Number 113, Joan Tremble.”

“WAIT! YOU’RE GOING TOO FAST!”

“No, I think I am going just fine. Keep up people or we’ll be here forever. Number 114, John Johnson.”

“THERE’S A LADY UP HERE WHO CAN’T KEEP UP! YOU ARE DISENFRANCHISING HER!”

It was a bit testy. All the preamble and materials and everyone said we would be going no later than 4pm. But it was already about 3:30 pm and we had yet to listen to all 115 people’s 30-second speeches about why they should be elected as the delegates. Finally we got to the speeches, and it turned out that a bunch of people were gone already. I guess they would have been sucky, uncommitted delegates! We needed to choose seven women and seven men. Some of the speeches were dopey, some good, some very good. At one point I got little verklempt when a woman made her statement …. about how you see in the history books the lists of presidents we’ve had so far, all 43 of them, and how you might feel imagining looking at those rows of faces, those rows of oily portraits, and then seeing HRClinton at number 44.

Well, hell yeah. My heart might grow three sizes that day.

Finally the speechettes were done, the ballots collected and we were free to move on. There were still about six or seven more pages of platform to go through – line by line, everyone’s nit-picky, and/or perfectly reasonable motions. But I was out of water, and out of Luna bars, and out of other things, and it was well past 4pm, so I called it a day and shuffled on back to the parking lot. I suspect that the motions on the platform might still be going on today, with the die-hards, fatigued and bleary-eyed and holding their credentials aloft.

`What IS a Caucus-race?’ said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that SOMEBODY ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything.

`Why,’ said the Dodo, `the best way to explain it is to do it.’ (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.)

First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (`the exact shape doesn’t matter,’ it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no `One, two, three, and away,’ but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out `The race is over!’ and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, `But who has won?’

This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, `EVERYBODY has won, and all must have prizes.’

———

On Saturday, afflicted with a cough that sounds like tuberculosis, I toddled forth with Lolly to our neighborhood caucus site. Just within the last week or so did I make up my mind to go stand for HRClinton. It was pretty obvious that Seattle would go for Obama; although I’m not opposed to that, I couldn’t not support My First Lady Candidate. Our precinct went 4 to 1 for Obama; there wasn’t any HRClinton campaign representation so the few us on the HRC side of the room were left to muddle through. We held onto our few peeps and got one delegate to go to the next caucus in April. (I’m her alternate and she had me promise that I would go too.)

It was my first time doing something for a political process besides casting a vote (and displaying a sign) and it was kinda fun and interesting — kinda annoying at times and hot and stuffy as well, but worth enduring and getting into the spirit of the thing. Had I not been diseased and prone to violent coughing fits, I may have even talked a little more. As a bonus, it was entertaining to meet a few more neighbors, some of which I recognized from riding the bus. People introduced themselves by describing their homes: “We’re the brick tudor on the corner.” and “We’re the pink house with the weird bushes in the front.” and “We have that narrow walled driveway and the dogs.” Everyone made efforts to be very polite. So, all-in-all caucusing wasn’t that bad which is good because it seems I’ve got to go do it again.

I hope Hillary sends me a bumper sticker or something.

There has been not insignificant activity outside the house over the last day or so.

First off, the IOD. It now has functioning lights, cross-walks and all. There are still a few problems. The one that has been remedied had Lolly reporting yesterday afternoon that the lights were indicating Green-Go-Cars and White-Walk-Pedestrians at the same time. Certainly that was just going to make things worse. The other problem is that people will pause at the light, then drive through anyway eventhough they are no longer allowed to do so. Because I am so loving and optimistic I wanted to believe that they simply didn’t see the new signs and flashing lights and big orange traffic cones, but actually, they are simply douches. Anyway, we’ll see if the new properly functioning lights can pierce through the IOD’s cloud of evil.

Second off, the neighbor’s house. Yesterday morning as I was getting ready for work I noticed a car, a jeep with New Jersey plates. As I furrowed my brow and pressed my nose up to the window I thought, I hope it isn’t someone I went to high school with! Later in the day a moving truck came and things were unloaded and a lady was giving directions. I kept Lolly busy giving me reports on what was happening on that side of the house as well but she never got a peek at the new peeps. This morning, in the daylight, there is a bright plastic kiddy climbing thing out in the backyard. So I guess those rumors about some people with toddlers moving in are probably true. I hope those kids haven’t learned to swear yet so they don’t understand the words that frequently float out of our house. Poor children. You’d never guess that such a charming pink gingerbread house was home to such curmudgeons.

For today’s lunch, Lolly handed me a plate of scrambled eggs to carry to the table. She also gave me a fork. Then she carried the other items to the table and we commenced eating. After a little while, she looked for the egg plate and noticed it empty. “You ate all the eggs…?” “Yup! They were great!” “…those were for both of us.” We laughed and laughed. I mean look, if you give me a plate of food, if you give me a fork, I’m gonna figure the fork is for eating what’s on the plate. Even if it is supposed to be a communal serving plate. I realize that if we go somewhere for Thanksgiving this could be a problem. Note: serving plate must be accompanied by serving spoon, else it’s mine all mine.

During what was left of our meal – or MY meal, as they all are – we discussed the now empty house next door. There have been a lot of moving activities by the nice neighbors, but all of sudden it seems they are gone. I peered out the window yesterday and their back yard is empty of lawn furniture, sporting equipment and welcome mats. (What was still there, up against the foundation where it must have stopped rolling, was a lonely white bone. It made me cry. So tonight I ran over there and got it in case Tucker ever comes to visit.)

But what was funny at lunch, beside the fact that I am a piggy, was that I realized that we still have the key for the house next door even though the new neighbors are expected any day now. My first prank idea was juvenile and rather gross so I won’t tell you what it was. It did make me realize that there’s potentially an opening for on-going pranks if they don’t change the locks. I had the idea that it would be hilarious to haunt them. Examples of haunting could include: spraying perfume lightly in one corner of the house whenever they go out somewhere, moving all the furniture around in small increments, opening all the cabinet doors, rehanging pictures upside down. I think the key to a successful haunting would to even do things that are unnoticeable, just to create a general feeling of uneasiness. Always the pragmatist, Lolly pointed out that if they are really a couple with small children (as rumors would have them) then they will have one of those nanny-cams and we would get busted.

Which would also be hilarious, but only until getting processed and fingerprinted down at the station.

Now writing this I realize that someone might wonder what I’ve got against the new people that I’ve yet to meet to make me want to scare them and make them unhappy in their new house. Well, I didn’t even think of that. It was just all about the funny. It often is. Lolly and I find joy in coming up with inappropriate behaviors and pranks whenever we are housesitting or pet-sitting for people, but we’ve yet to follow-through with anything good. (I don’t think drinking all the vodka really counts as a prank.) One that we’d love to do, have had the opportunity to do, but never did is to replace the photos of the homeowners with pictures of us in similar poses. During one stint several years ago we also had the brilliant idea of getting “naked,” getting in the couple’s bed, and leaving Polaroids behind for them to find. Surprise!

Our neighbors, the friendly and nice ones, came over the other day to let us be the first to know that they are putting their house on the market and moving. Que Horrible!

We will miss them of course, their kindness and helpfulness (the borrowing of hedge trimmers, the being skinny enough to paint behind the fence, etc.) but we’ll also really miss Tucker, for whom (on whom?) we dog-sit pretty regularly. He’s big and jumpy and slobbery and he loves to eat things even more than me. If you scratch his back, he does a weird little dance and I don’t know if it’s funny or perverted, or maybe both.

The other issue, obviously, is who is going to move in. I hope whoever it is understands that our house is pink, our yard is a dandelion patch, our household is loud and it’s all going to stay that way. We are also nervous that, because the house is little and property values are high, someone might tear it down and put up a “bigfoot” as this has been happening in our neighborhood already. These places are enormous, three stories high and built right up to the property line, not mcMansions, but megahomes.

But I’m not gonna worry… not gonna worry. Not gonna worry.

There is an open house on Sunday; it will be interesting to see who comes around. Should we fly a big Queer Flag? or will the sounds of us watching the WNBA final be enough? I proposed to Lolly that we simply put a sign in the side window that says, “WE’RE GAY.” It’s still under consideration.