My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I'm dog tired, whatever the hell that means. All night birth and directly to our annual picnic, still in my blue scrubs. I've taken to wearing scrubs to births because I was always messing up my normal clothes. And I feel vaguely important. Like when I used to carry a pager before all the drug dealers had pagers. I though I looked important then too. However.

I'm not important, just tired.

The picnic was lovely, lots of wee babes and bigger babes and their parents and a marimba band and balloons and a crap cake from Costco and potluck food and parents who are grateful for us, for being there when their babies came out.

We admire the babes and dance to marimba music by the lake and enjoy the fruits of our/their labors.

In the meanwhile, I'll eat a bite of dinner and lie on the couch in the attitude of Camille with a hand to my face as I delicately cough into my lace hanky.

I once saw Charles Ludlam's Ridiculous Theatre Company do Camille, all male. Men with hairy chests in tulle and falsettos. It was there that I realized that my high school art teacher was GAY. I was so uninformed in high school. I just thought Mr Muck was artistic, which of course he was. And he saved my ass by allowing us misfits to hang in his classroom, away from the jocks and cheerleaders and popular kids. And we made art while he played Grace Slick on the turntable. I had a terrible crush on Allen Bush who was probably also gay. He was pretty and aloof and I adored him.

I'm hoping a nap revives me. As long as the dawg doesn't bark and give me a heart attack. At least the weather goddess has come to her senses and given us proper NW weather, not that lidless 96 degrees. Nothing hurts my heart as much as the polar bears going extinct. If polar bears are in trouble, we're truly fucked.