For real. An Arnold Palmer consists of the following three items:

1) ice
2) lemonade
3) iced tea

The busgirl at lunch brought me a refill, only she just brought iced tea, not with lemonade. That’s fine, I’m cool with that, too. I handed it to my daughter (we always share, unlike my son, who doesn’t want any girl germs, no returns). She started to squeeze the lemon in, then looked at me suspiciously. I’m all, what?

The waiter panics, tells the busgirl it was an Arnold Palmer, oh my God she brought me the wrong drink! and swaps it out. (I didn’t even say anything, okay? Damn. Good service.) Wacky Girl gives me a sideways look, again.

What?

“Is there vodka in this?”

“Honey, it’s an Arnold Palmer, no.”

My mom, “What’s an ‘Arnold Palmer,’ anyway?” She’s all, Sister from Another Planet, my mom. What is this iced tea/lemonade of which you speak? What are capers? What is marinara, exactly? You’re leaving for the beach right now? When did you plan this, anyway? Just now? What?

Etc.

“Iced tea and lemonade.”

My daughter: “And vodka.”

“There is no vodka in there!” (I shove the drink at my mom.) “Here, try it!”

“Uh-uh, not if there’s vodka in it.” She and my daughter look at each other, knowingly.

“Baby. Would I give you vodka?”

My baby: “No. Yes. Maybe?”

It’s enough to make you mix a drink.

On this beautiful Monday morning, remember the words of my late friend Beef: “Life gets better after you give up all hope.”

ps go look at the most perfectest strawberries I grew! Yeah, they grew themselves, I had nothing to do with it. And this is the gorgeous blue heron who parked his feathery butt on the neighbor’s roof.

A young girl was allegedly raped at Beach K-8 school on May 15 and no one reported it. Except, thank God, the parents of a witness, and it sounds like that’s the only reason anyone in my neighborhood and city is hearing about the alleged attack.

You can read about it on the Fox 12 site, on the KXL Radio site and on Victoria Taft’s blog. Steve also put up a post, so people might be leaving comments.

I could throw up about this. A girl, crying and hurt; a nine-year-old being called a liar, when he’s trying to rescue someone and stop an alleged crime; a boy who is allegedly a perpetrator and most likely not getting the help he needs. Alternately, this may mean there is an alleged witness who may need assistance.

I would like to give the principal, the school staff, everyone involved, the benefit of the doubt. But they have a history of doing some messed-up stuff at that school, and not handling things appropriately.

I wasn’t there.

I don’t know.

But I do know that something ain’t right.

Edited 6/18/09 to say the following: I’ve gotten some e-mails and calls on this one, and have also sent some e-mails and made some calls. I’m not an investigative reporter here. Have heard: that the administration at the school “mishandled” the situation; that they have been “dealt with”; that things have been “handled”; and, who cares, anyway? cuz the principal at the school is leaving the school (district, city, state) and won’t be “a problem” anymore; and “Somewhere a police detective is holding his head in his hands and quietly weeping.”

That’s all.

Sending out a wish for peace and safety for our kids and community.

my cousin just called a little bit ago, Nancy this is the call.

my Grandma is gone.

“So difficult it is to show the various meanings and imperfections of words when we have nothing else but words to do it with.”

— John Locke, philosopher (1632-1704)

And now, a note from my old roommate, who doesn’t have time for tools. I had e-ed her, hoping to catch up. (more…)

You know, it would help if the Oregon Live site, you know. Worked. If it was easier to navigate, if the keywords for searches actually took you to the articles you were seeking. If the links didn’t go dead after two weeks. Anyway.

Now comes Anna Griffin, with an article titled “The Inner State of Interstate.” Do tell, Ms. Griffin — how would you describe my neighborhood after spending two hours here?

“Undeniably ugly,” she says (that’s her lead.)

“From the driver’s seat, Interstate Avenue looks like just another long stretch of urban landscape — busy, cluttered and, at times, undeniably ugly.”

That’s sweet, honey. Glad you could stop by.

Next? She compares it to a petri dish. Awesome! The phrase she was looking for was “melting pot.” (Editor: “But we need something more… more… original than melting pot…” Reporter, eager to please: “Petri dish?” Editor: “Good!”)

“On foot, however, Interstate is much more — a vast social petri dish where Caucasians, African Americans, first-generation immigrants from Fiji and third-generation Polish Americans do business side by side; where senior citizens, young families and newly arrived hipsters mingle over coffee and antique furniture.”

No Mexicans, though. (Yes, there are Hispanic-owned businesses in my neighborhood — she even interviews the owners of Jesusito grocery, where “neighborhood folks” shop, according to Griffin. See? We all get along.)

“With all this uncertainty, it’s no wonder the people of North Interstate Avenue are feeling a lot of things these days — and happy is not among them.”

Kent Brockman: “‘Twas the night before Christmas, and in this house a creature *was* stirring. But the only thing he was stirring was: up trouble.” — The Simpsons, “Homer the Vigilante”

The street history? It’s called Interstate Avenue because the street leads to the Interstate Bridge, connecting Oregon to Washington. Although this has been corrected in the online version of the article, there was nothing in the print edition about the street’s original name, North Patton Avenue (after landowner Matthew Patton). (Old-timers still call it Pacific Highway, or 99W.)

Commercial I just watched for Oust:

Chick: “I have three issues: My dog. My boyfriend. And the garbage.”

Sweet, no?

Overheard in my backyard, just now — someone talking to a kid from one of the neighbor’s yards:

“Damn. Stop, OK. OK? Shit. You share with your damn sister. Bitch.”

(Please let him have been talking to a dog, not a kid. A female dog.)

(No, it’s not “enough” to call child welfare.)