Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: Fall Festival

Alcohol Is Writing For Me

three persons wearing unicorn costumes

Photo by THE COLLAB. on

And why not? It has for many before me. And I want to know what’s the problem with the unicorn in the background here.


Fiona & Archer are now 8. She gave Rom a “note from the Cersive {sp} Fairy–I can write cersive!” and signed her name. Rom said the fairy hadn’t spelled “cursive” correctly, and Fiona said, “Well, she’s only 5!” She then admitted that there is, in fact, no cursive fairy. I see a career in politics in her future. Archer somehow managed to restrain himself from questioning belief in said fairy. If he had done so, it would have been in a sentence beginning, “Actually…”


See, I’m versatile.

My brother-in-law told me a story that reminded me of the old days of talking to the reality-challenged on 911. A neighbor in his apartment building came to him and informed him that:

  1. The out-of-state license plates on the apartment building’s lot belonged to people who were here to spy on him,
  2. These people hacked into his mother’s phone in an attempt to get at him,
  3. What appear to be stars in the sky are actually drones spying on him.

He must be very important indeed.


Well, eventually. An account of Nick at the Fall Festival, although he’s now claiming he will attempt to avoid me. Probably because I’ve avoided posting about him at the festival a couple of previous years. And also because I had the barbs removed from his tail.


Vote for me! I know no one in foreign countries, so I can’t sell out the U.S. for political gain! Although, if I did, I would echo the guy I overheard at McDonald’s who said, “That whistleblower is the one they should go after!”

Also vote for me if you’re tired of politicians waving their arms around.


On Friday the 13th Eve this month (namely, Thursday the 12th), I had finished my lunch at McD’s and took my tray to the trash can. Having dumped it, I turned and somehow got my foot caught in the legs of a baby chair, which somehow pulled my foot out from under me, and I fell–luckily on a well-padded area (of me, not the floor, although maybe the floor should be padded).. Sure, the baby chairs were lined up neatly against the wall, but hey, they were gray and the wall was brown, so…I was amused to note the following day that they’d put a yellow CAUTION cone next to them. The following day, it had been removed. How soon we forget.

I clicked on frequently-used words to tag this post with. I wanted “politics,” but they kept giving me “apologies” instead. Hmm.

Fall Festival Follies

ancient animal antique architecture

Photo by Pixabay on

“None of these dragon stamps looks like me,” Nick observes testily, craning his snaky neck over my shoulder. “This one is breathing fire, which I can’t do, thanks to you–”

“–I thought you’d given up on that idea,” I observe. He twitches an ear, as if dislodging my comment from it.

“…And this one looks like a snake or a salamander, or something…”

“I think they call that kind a worm.”

“And this is that Chinese kind of dragon. I’m not sure those things even exist. Now, this one is–well, breathing water or something, in the ocean. I don’t know, I suppose that could be me, if I decided to go sink ships or something…”

“Why are you always talking about destroying things? Get your claws off my shoulder.”

He does so–slowly, no doubt pretending it was his own idea–and lies down in front of me, with his back to me. But his ears are canted back, listening for any word or movement. After several moments of silence…

“I’m ignoring you,” he says. Several more moments…”I’m still ignoring you.” The ears quiver. Then, since he requires constant attention–

“You’re ignoring me back! I knew it! No fair!”

“I don’t think you know what fairness means. Do you want me to tell you a story?”

“When do I ever not want that?”

“OK, then. Let’s pretend that you were a man…”

“I don’t know, that might be boring.”

“…at the Fall Festival.”

“Do I get to destroy anything? Can I eat all the cotton candy?”


I had been avoiding the Fall Festival, because 89 degrees did not seem like fall. (Oh, it might be climate-change fall, but that doesn’t exist, right?) Besides, I’m nervous in crowds, so I usually grab something from the booths right next to St Joe, on the edge nearest my house. But Nick texted me that he had ride tickets, and I had been wanting to ride the Scrambler again, which they don’t let anyone do alone. Which is rather odd, since it doesn’t even turn you upside down. If it did, I wouldn’t be on it.

I tracked down the aforementioned Nick, with his mate and his kids, Things One, Two and Three. (Thing Three is still a baby, and had no particular interest in the festival.) Nick and his kids had just been on some ride that simulates weightlessness. “So did you like it?” I asked him. “Of course not! It was horrible!” Rather odd to hear from an Army helicopter pilot. “I’m still nauseous,” he grumbled, but it availed him not, because he had two kids who wanted to go on rides, and most of the rides they wanted required an adult as well. So he kept muttering under his breath, “Hurry up, before Dad dies,” and such.

I want you to take note of the NOBILITY of this man, making their cart on the ride SPIN FASTER because it made Thing Two squeal with glee, even though, once it was over, Nick was biting his lip to keep from throwing up.

And he proved himself a GENTLEMAN as well, because, even in his weakened state, he accompanied me on the Scrambler, letting me step up onto his hands (I plan on having him spread his coat over puddles for me to walk on in the future), and carefully positioning himself on the outside, so he was the one who got bumped into as the ride turned. (I was trying not to bump into him, but I wasn’t trying very hard.) I also told him the story of a Scrambler ride in my past, where my strapless top popped off, and the guy I was with pretended not to notice. Nick said that, if that happened now, it would be a “desperate bid for attention,” which reminded me why I hate him. Nevertheless, he is now my official Scrambler Partner, and if he throws up, he’ll be on the outside and it won’t get on me.


I went to the festival with Nick, who insisted on flying up to the top of a building, and then swooped down onto a clown and ate all his cotton candy.


Art-Deco Garden at Dusk: Goutal Heure Exquise

close up of leaf

Photo by Pixabay on

When exploring dusky scents, how could one omit “Exquisite Hour”? Iris, rose, and sandalwood (the Goutal website used to call it a rose scent with iris, and now thinks it’s an iris scent with rose, I suspect to distinguish it from the many other rose perfumes they have) — I love these cool, powdery notes. This one is indeed super-powdery (but not baby-powdery) and super-sophisticated. The sandalwood adds an incensey quality, but no smokiness–it’s like an unburnt incense stick. If I had to sum this up in a few words, I’d say “floral incense powder.” Glorious. It does not smell like it was created in 1984, but I refuse to call any fragrance introduced during my lifetime “retro.” Just like a ’65 Mustang cannot be an “antique” car.


The franchise owner at McDonald’s was there yesterday to see how his order kiosks were doing. This turned into Customers Explaining Why They Don’t Use the Kiosk. “I just think it’s a better customer experience with human contact,” one woman said. Another said, “I suppose it could speed up order time and cut down on the length of the line, but…” as she stood in said line. Score one for the human race in their Rage Against the Machine! ROBOTS WILL NOT REPLACE US. OK, ROBOTS WILL ONLY REPLACE US IF WE LET THEM. Many people don’t know that, as Trump likes to say.


I was trying to get an insurance question answered (“Why did I have to pay $800 for something you told me beforehand was free?”), but I hadn’t been on the site in so long, I’d forgotten my password. Typed my information into the “Forgot Password?” fields, was told “Unable to retrieve password. Your information is not on file on this site.” OK, I thought, maybe I never set up an account here in the first place. But the “Register New Account” screen said, “Unable to create new account. Your information is already on file on this site.” Umm…


“This message is to confirm your upcoming appointment. In the interests of speaking to you personally, we will contact you again in several hours about this matter.” My phone rang several hours later, and I hastily answered it, since they wanted to speak to me personally. But it was the same machine as before! I should have known it was a trick–no actual person from a doctor’s office would be calling me on Sunday.


“But, but,” Nick is stammering, “I thought your next post was going to be about…you know…” The Fall Festival, right.


Walgreen’s still has their “RESTROOMS ARE CURRENTLY CLOSED. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.” signs up. But they can’t really  be sorry, since the Festival is over. I suspect they thought, “Hey, let’s leave it up, so we won’t have to keep unlocking the bathroom door for people.” I’m guessing the manager doesn’t come in until Monday. CVS, on the other hand, has removed the “NO PUBLIC RESTROOMS. PLEASE DON’T ASK.” sign.  (I find “Please Don’t Ask” almost endearing.) Of course, they don’t have to let people in to theirs.





I Hate a Parade

Therefore, the festival parade got rained on.

Rom said, “You should post more frequently so you don’t forget stuff.” Yeah, good intentions, what the road to hell is paved with, etc. I’m inclined to think the road to hell is not well-marked, either.

The bus today was standing-room-only, thanks to a woman whose attitude was, “I can’t be expected to move over. I have a tote bag.”


Speaking of which, in that blessedly cool and quiet setting, a woman marched up to the counter with 2 orders of fries and said, “These are cold and nasty. And I want 3 orders back.” OK, if you paid for 3 orders but only got 2, fine. If someone in your party already ate one order even though they were cold, or you expect to get an additional, free order of fries as compensation, too bad. And try not to be such a bitch. See, if my fries aren’t hot, I consider it to be in the nature of fast food, and better luck next time.

This is why they never made me the supervisor of anything.


My 3rd post (“World Without End”) was about how I got religion, if anyone has been wondering. Trust me, I was not Likeliest To Attend Church when I started at Dispatch. In the interest of brevity, that post featured only why I became religious in the first place, not why I embraced any particular religion. So here’s that explanation:

After my initial ecstatic experience in March of ’95, I feverishly read up on various religions, but came to no firm conclusion. Then I decided that, if God really was trying to get in touch with me, surely guidance would be provided, so I prayed for that. Around dawn on a day in  June (those who know me at all will know I was staying up late, not getting up early), I was idly paging through an old Bible I still possessed, and my eye fell on the verse in Matthew that says Ask, and you shall receive. This felt like a Sign to me, and I started attending St Paul’s Episcopal church downtown (that being the denomination I was raised in). And yes, I am aware of the objection that I probably chose it just because it was familiar to me. I’m pretty much aware of any objections to faith that can be found.

My conversion to Catholicism was more of an intellectual decision. I had been reading church history, and was troubled by all the divisions that had arisen, from the Orthodox split in 1054 to the Protestant Reformation. Jesus is on record saying that Christians should all be one, and we Episcopalians prayed for unity at every service, but we were part of the problem! So on Ash Wednesday 2002 at St Paul’s, I was gazing out the stained glass window that had been refurbished thanks to my contribution that year, and thinking, “Too bad that window has my name on a plaque, since I’ll be a Catholic now.” Since I hadn’t consciously made the decision yet, I was a bit unsettled by that thought. But I got my ashes and headed for the bus stop to go home, and prayed, “God, if I ought to  become a Catholic, let someone ask me if the ashes on my forehead mean that I’m Catholic.” In the past, comments on my ashes were either “You have some dirt on your face,” or, “Are you in a cult?” (Seriously.) When I got on the bus, a guy pointed to my face and said, “Are you a Roman Catholic?” So there you have it.


Nick Provides Free Entertainment, and the Annual Festival Report

…And isn’t it about time?

I was taking Nick to the Fall Festival, because the Department had decided it would be good PR to exhibit a police beast, allow children to climb on him, perhaps even take short flights. I came equipped with a switch. Before you call me inhumane, let me just say that, due to his armor-plating, it hardly hurts him at all. It’s more the idea of it that’s…motivational, because he is a prideful beast. More useful, I suspected, would be the muzzle. It’s not so much the biting I was worried about–although, of course, the possibility cannot be ruled out–but the likelihood of his making sarcastic remarks to the public.

“Making sarcastic remarks to you, you mean,” he said fretfully. “That’s really why you brought it. That’s probably why you accepted this assignment.”

“That and the overtime pay.”

“Overtime pay? What do get out of it?”

“You get to not be whacked with this switch.”

“I could get that at home. Most of the time, anyway.”

I glance at the booth we’re walking past. “Would you like a pronto pup?”

He considers. “I think I’d rather wait until it grows up into a corn dog.”

“They don’t use real puppies, you know.”

“Then why do they also have Puppy Chow?”

I sigh and refrain from answering, because I actually don’t know what “puppy chow” is in this context, and I want him to think I know everything. At any rate, you can see why I would want to muzzle him.


…well, nothing especially important, but it has to be said before I forget it again.


“Now, when I wake up in unfamiliar situations, I can see everything clearly!” Um, is that a frequent problem for you? I’d settle for just being able to tell if that black fuzzy object in the shower with me is a clot of hair or a spider.


If you get thrown out of the Fall Festival by the police because, by your own admission, you were “acting like a jackass,” don’t keep calling 911 to complain about it, because guess what happens? Hint: You’ll only be allowed one phone call, and I recommend it not be to 911.


When you say, “I like to go for the people-watching!” just remember, YOU ARE SOMEBODY ELSE’S FREAKSHOW. I’m sure I am, as in, “Look at that old lady with the snake tattoo and the crucifix!” Actually, at the moment I am riding a wave of fashionability, since my rose-print tops, longish skirts, and virgin eyebrows (be it here known that no hair on my body ever gets torn out by the roots) are currently considered edgy and cool. In another 6 months, the proper authorities will be saying, “We must have been mad! All that stuff is actually frumpy, dowdy, and sloppy!” Again. Meanwhile, I will still be wearing it. This is called “having a personal style.”

And speaking of the festival some more, a guy behind me in line said to his friend, “Last year, we were down here from 3 to 11pm!” And they say don’t have a life.

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