Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Niagara: Everything Old is New Again

Since we visited Niagara Falls once before, we fished out our old Niagara Falls photos and we've been comparing. Comparing old and new Niagara, old and new Animal Park, old and new vacation criterion, and even old and new BNL concerts.  The Compare and Contrast will probably go on all week.

===================================

The Falls: Then and Now

Below - Gary waiting in a Blue Poncho, Present Day:

 I have no idea why he adopted this cruxifixion stance.

Below - Me waiting in a yellow poncho, Present Day.

 

Below: Me waiting in a yellow poncho about 20 years ago:

  

I wonder if I took my glasses off when I weighed myself back then. 

But back then, we had no video camera:

(That's Gary giving the commentary. Always expecting cows to fly out of nowhere. It's so exciting. And yes, that's me adding the cow falling sound effect.)

And since we stayed on the Canada side back then, here is the final word on which side is better.

Below: American Side, Present Day -

Below: Canadian Side, Circa 1988 -

 

Look, my hair isn't even wet. You just don't get the interactive experience from the Canadian side. For example, in the US you can get right in the river.

 

Then you can stand in the river and drink some water to save it from plummeting over the falls.

 

Plus, I didn't see any rainbows from Canada.

 

And the Canadians can't even see this rock.    

Ringing in 5769

Even though I forgot her birthday entirely, I did remember to wish Friend #3 a happy Rosh Hashanah today. It's the first day of the Hebrew year 5769 (or so sayeth Google). I've been trying to keep up with the Jewish holidays. Still, Wikipedia doesn't discern, so I don't know that Tishah B'Av isn't worth an "I'm sorry" card.  Just so other Gentiles know, we are now counting down to Yom Kippur and Sukkot. (I don't want to focus just on the religious diversity, but it's a long stretch until Auckland Anniversary Day.)

Last Rosh Hashanah I was in the break room with #3 at our ex-job, Elliot. I said to #3, "Happy New Year!" just as our HR director walked in the room.

"Merry Christmas!" the HR director snorted. No clue about the Jewish holidays. Prime HR director material.

#3 and I both found this wildly funny and we laughed all day behind the HR director's back. It's probably my favorite Rosh Hashanah memory.

The glasses and the gray hair do it for me

A "bad" view of the falls

Poutine was fine but it seems there is one thing I don't like about Canada - Timmies sucks

Poutine ala KFC

bullets bullets bullets

Caroline claims the Canadian side is better. Perhaps because then you can't see niagara falls Canada. And if that sounds familiar, I planned to say it before BNL said it at the concert last night.

I can't say anything original...I tried to talk to Erin and Kristie and realized they had heard everyything I had to say on the blog.

I was also going to blog about our empty threatening minibar, but Steven beat me to that last night too.

We lugged our raincoats everywhere yesterday and ended up getting soaked by the falls - which was great. Another reason the falls are better on the American side.

What I got from the debate last night was that the FreeCrediReport guy is going backward musically.

The BNL concert was seemingly better than ever. Steven's voice was ideal. Really lovely. They said it might be recorded if the quality was good enough.

Edward (okay Ive typed E followed by D three times now and the iPhone keeps changing it) should just stop seeing M. Night Shamalan movies. He doesn't like them.

If you don't remove the default "Sent from my iPhone" message at the bottom of your emails your friends will ride your ass mercilessly.

ahhhh ... Here we are

The waiter in the restaraunt at the seneca niagara hotel and casino had a crumbsweeper. I am shocked, shocked gambling is going on in this establishment.

Wild Buffalo Hairs!

I don't know why, but Gary and I both get wild hairs right before we leave on a trip. After these hairs turn wild they head straight up our asses, and they make us both insistent that random tasks be done before we leave.

That's why I got Gary out on the lawn and we power-washed the house until after dark Tuesday night. That was my wild hair. It made sense at the time. If we are fleeing the nest, the nest must be in order.

And tonight? Searching for raincoats. I checked the weather report for Buffalo and it said there might be rain. I don't know how Gary can survive St. Louis rain without a rain slicker, but Buffalo rain requires special clothing.  Three hours later: no rain gear, no time to pack, no energy left.

Old Posts: Where Are They Now?

First of all: today was Friend #3's birthday, and I spaced. So, in an effort to redeem myself, maybe you could leave her some birthday felicitations, either here or on her blog at pitchererror.blogspot.com.

Still, today's first story features Friend #3, maybe that will make up for my lack of attention.

Robert Taylor Returns

I went to lunch with Friend #3, and two others, not as a birthday acknowledgment (because I forgot) but just out to the local Pasta House. As we were waiting to pay at the cashier, #3 leaned over and muttered, "There's a guy over there. He's that guy we saw at Marciano's. The guy with his own plaque. Robert Taylor."

Robert Taylor was the man with his own plaque at Marciano's, which Hot Mom tried her best to steal, only to be interrupted by the Man himself. It's all chronicled here.

I said, quietly at first, "Huh, I wonder if that man is" (yelling) "ROBERT TAYLOR."

He looked up. I walked over and demanded to know if he was Robert Taylor. He confessed he was. And I said, "Hi. You may not remember, but we tried to steal your plaque." I gestured at #3 when I said "We," but she had dropped out of sight. Truly, it was as if she vaporized. 

He remembered the whole story. He in particular remembered Hot Mom (aka #2), and he even remembered we worked for a training company. He related a very accurate version of the story to his friends, then gave an update: Marciano's changed ownership, kept his plaque, and never put it back up. So he's frequenting Pasta House now.

The Return of Cassata, the Puppy Without an Asshole

I had some e-mail correspondence with #4 today, who, while neglecting to mention it was #3's birthday, did give an update on Cassata, the Puppy Born Without an Asshole. Number 4 reports:

 "Some woman saw the dog on the web page early on and felt an immediate connection to it (perhaps she, too, was born without?).  She followed the story via the web page and contacted the rescue group as soon as the dog became available for adoption.  They were a good match and the dog is doing well."

"Born without." My friends kill me. You'd think I'd remember their birthdays.

Shopping

Damn Damn Damn Damn. I have dieted myself into that limbo between XL and 1X. Anything XL fits in the waist but doesn't anticipate my dowager bosom, while everything 1X is designed so they could remake it for a size 3XXX, therefore, no waist. And since my waist is currently the five inches hidden below my dowager bosom, a belt won't do.

Somehow I was able to find a suit (God Bless the people at Jones New York) and a number of blouses.

As I was scanning the blouses, I came across a lovely handpainted silk number. I can't find it on-line, but it was from this company, and looked generally like this:

 

Essentially, it was a bathrobe. A very pretty hand-painted bathrobe. I started considering what would keep me from swanning about in a bathrobe at work. Then I considered swanning on the weekends.

Then I saw something that made the point moot. And I took a photo. And then I walked away, because I just couldn't give this company money.

If you need a hint, here's a Big Hint: it wasn't the price. (I had gift cards.)

You can click to embiggen. Or if you are still stumped, you can click here.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

Things I planned to do this weekend:

Buy clothes and a PedEgg, get eyebrows waxed, make a chopped salad, wash the siding, finish the yardwork. Oh, and write poignant and life-changing blog entries.

Things I did this weekend:

Slept. Bought a PedEgg. Slept, followed by some sleeping.

So, I get to do those other things Monday, since I'm taking the day off for one of the three-month FTY720 trial check-ups.

Shoes

For years my friends and I frequented an eatery by work. It's a well known chain where you can buy sandwiches and the Like.

One day I went in and the man behind the counter said, "Nice shoes."

"Thanks," I said, and my day was a little brighter.

Soon after, I frequented the establishment again.

"Nice shoes," the same counterman said. "Huh," I thought, "These are different shoes."

One day I went with Hot Mom and Friend #3. Hot Mom got the nice counterman; I did not. While we were waiting for our food, #3 asked Hot Mom, "So?"

"Of course," Hot Mom said casually, "I'm wearing my boots."

In response to my puzzled face #3 explained, "There's this guy here who has a thing about shoes."

I was proud to announce that I was in the shoe club as well.

As it turns out, everyone  is in the shoe club. If you are a woman, and you are wearing shoes, you get "Nice shoes." One woman at the old office was sufficiently skeeved to complain to his management.

That was years ago, though. I went back to the old haunt for lunch today.

"Nice earrings," he told me. Evidently he's been closeted or he's experimenting with new interests.

It Would Appear There Are Two Things I Did Not Know

I am of the age that I am surprised by new information. I meet anything I do not know with broad skepticism. Several times this past week I have been surprised.

Kaspar Hauser

First, I was in a meeting and someone said, "You people need to get out more! You're like Kaspar Hauser, here!"

"Kaspar Hauser?" we all said stupidly, which is ironic, since those are the first words Kaspar Hauser said.

"YOU don't KNOW who KASPAR HAUSER is?" he squawked in disbelief. "The guy who grew up in a box and thought all horses were made of wood?"

"You lie," I thought. Then I went here and learned of Kaspar Hauser. I intend to invoke his name all fall. I'm so pale, I'm Kaspar Hauser. I've never heard of that Chicago-based rock/pop/folk band led by filmmaker/songwriter Thomas Comerford. I'm kind of 'Kaspar Hauser' that way.

My Brother, the POW

Every once in a while, my brother gets maybe a little divorced from reality. Just the standard mildly paranoid stuff, the phone company, usually. So the other day he called just so he could tell me that Rachel Maddow had reminded him of something.

"Guess what the name of the first prisoner of war in Iraq was!" Then he said his own name.

I thought "Red Flag! Paranoia alert!" I again turned to Google and of course, he was right.

I imagine this is yet another proof that I am a teenager now that I'm middle-aged. Like a teenager, I think I know everything.

People! What Part of My Withering Sarcasm Do You Not Understand?

I need to make a clarification.

In case anyone is confused.

I think I Wish Someone Had Given Jesus a Dog is a bad poem.

I like dogs.

I like Jesus, he's okay with me.

Rudyard Kipling, I'm not a fan, but some are.

But read I Wish Someone Had Given Jesus a Dog out loud. It is a bad, bad poem. Try to say these words in any type of meter:

"Well, the Lord has a dog now, I just sent Him mine
the old pal so dear to me
And I smile through my tears on this first day alone
Knowing they're in eternity."

But here's the worst part:

"To sleep by His manger and gaze in His eyes
And adore Him for being divine."
and then..."And knelt in the garden to pray."

Seriously. That makes Jesus' dog thirty-three years old.

Dear Dr. House

Dr. House.

Please stop diagnosing people with MS. Just tonight, on the season premiere, one of your lackeys, I haven't bothered to learn their names because they aren't in the opening credits, said, "MS! If a lesion took out the sympathetic enervation of her heart that would explain the bradycardia and the blinking."

Dr. Foreman immediately said, "Start her on interferon for MS." Then Dr. Cuddy said, "Does she have insurance? Because CRAP have you seen what this shit costs? JESUS!"

No, she didn't. But she should have, because Foreman shouldn't have prescribed interferon for an exacerbation of MS. Interferon is only the maintenance medication for MS. IV steroids are what you give for an exacerbation that makes you blink and messes up your heart.

Dr. House, you all gave people IV steroids in the first season. Then, for some reason, you started throwing interferon around. Tonight it was pretty obvious: if you'd given steroids you would have found out what her ultimate condition was before the mid-point commercial.

I'll be using this as a deductive tool this season. If anyone says "It's MS!" and they get "Interferon! Stat!" I will know they have an infection, because if they got steroids they'd be dead before the end of the show.

(P.S. I still love you for the line in the first season describing my type of MS as "the fun MS with the balloons and the bike rides for cripples in wheelchairs.")

It's The Most Wonderfullest Time of the Year

Time for the Changing of the Closet. Cast the linens into the outer darkness of the basement. Bring up the sweaters to greet the first chilly weekend.

However, this weekend I suddenly got sick. Epic Sick, spewing sick, pouring sick, shall I sit or shall I kneel sick, throw away ALL the leftovers sick. I have no idea what I ate or did to bring this on.

I hoisted myself to the bathroom counter and washed out my mouth. Then, panting and shaking, I thought, "Now would be a great time to get on the scale."

HaHA! 204.9! Down from 222.8 two months ago. (South Beach, but the fatty cove of South Beach where ladies snack on way more than 15 pecans.)

Only 2.5 pounds of that weight lass was due to the sick. That's not exact: it's not as if I weighed myself before I got sick and then after. Of course, I've done that before.  I didn't think of it this time. (And be assured, I'm not making myself sick. I'm just focusing on the positive.)

So then I went down to the basement and brought up the winter clothes. Clothes were all too big! I went back down and extracted 2006 winter clothes. Fit just right. Then I went and got 2005 jeans.

"No! Don't do it!" Gary roared.

So, the 2005 jeans are in the closet, waiting for a day I feel really really nauseated.

On Dogs. By Rudyard Kipling.

I hate it when dogs die, especially excellent dogs like Marcia / Friend #3's Ricky. He isn't gone yet, but let me tell you this dog was a pooper. He telegraphed his intentions, he did his business, and he picked up a pine cone to let you know he was ready to go back in. He indeed produces spectacular poop.

In addition, he does all the love and loyalty stuff so many admire in dogs.

After he's gone, we will try to comfort Marcia as best we can, and then when a discreet mourning period has passed we will send Marcia this poem and hope it makes her laugh as much as it did the first day we found it on the Internet:

I Wish Someone Had Given Jesus a Dog
I wish someone had given Jesus a dog
As loyal and loving as mine
To sleep by His manger and gaze in His eyes
And adore Him for being divine.
As our Lord grew to manhood His faithful dog
Would have followed Him all through the day
While He preached to the crowds and made the sick well
And knelt in the garden to pray.
It is sad to remember that Christ went away
To face death alone and apart
With no tender dog following close behind
To comfort its Master's Heart.
And when Jesus rose on that Easter morn
How happy He would have been
As His dog kissed His hands and barked its delight
For The One who died for all men.
Well, the Lord has a dog now, I just sent Him mine
the old pal so dear to me
And I smile through my tears on this first day alone
Knowing they're in eternity.
Day after day, the whole day through
Wherever my road inclined
Four feet said, "I am coming with you!"
And trotted along behind.

by
Rudyard Kipling

Well, no, as it turns out. Rudyard Kipling did not pen I Wish Someone Had Given Jesus a Dog, even on his off day. He did write a number of sappy dog poems, but none have the genius that is I Wish Someone Had Given Jesus a Dog.

However, one does contain a middle stanza with the "Four-feet said, 'I am coming with you!' " part, but but it is mercifully shorter.

And it isn't about Jesus' dog.  

Jesus' immortal dog, Rex of Rex. He was the Alpha and Omega dog.  He ate Lamb of God with Rice. On a tasty bed of Almighty Dog. You could go on and on.

Sticker

We have these stickers at work to stick on boxes or broken chairs and the like so they get hauled away by the janitorial staff :

It's such a pretty green, and so direct, and every time I see that roll of stickers I want to stick one on my lapel to get a laugh. 

Thursday I took one.

No one was here who would have laughed at it, so I stuck it for safekeeping on the sticky gray section of my whiteboard:

That's not my actual whiteboard above.

I came in Friday and my whiteboard was gone.

(And, if it took you a moment to figure out why,  let me know -- because it took me ten minutes.)

Sunday Adventure

Last Sunday, I went on a Segway tour of Forest Park.

I am a natural Segwayer. I found the secret, early on, which is to steer with your pelvis. Segway forward? Pelvic thrust forward! Segway reverse? Pelvic counter-thrust.  Warp-speed  forward? Stand casually on the device in the backwards-S posture I naturally adopt. I kept trying to twitch my hips left and right to steer but they devised it so you use a handlebar.

It felt so right. I was one with the Segway.

Gary was not one with the Segway.

He looked like a concerned chipmunk with his rear clenched and his head staring down at his little pair of hands white-knuckling the handlebar. The staff of Glide Saint Louis was very helpful, even when Gary couldn't make it up three out of four hills.

(The next morning at work I jumped into the middle of an unspoken conversation and greeted Friend #3 with a sigh and said, "Really. Who can't ride a Segway?"

"Who's having trouble writing a segue?" she asked.

"Gary! We rode Segways Sunday."

And, unfortunately, she caught on then, because that could have made a really funny conversation. ("His butt got all clenched, that's why he couldn't write a segue."))

Appropriately, I have no segue. Here we are on the right:'

I'm hiding behind the rhino horn. If you would care to see even more unflattering photos of me with poor posture check out this page.

And let me applaud the people at Glide Saint Louis, they provide a great tour. There truly were parts of Forest Park I saw that I didn't know existed. There's a darling wooden bridge by Steinberg Rink, for example. And not only were the Glide tour guides knowledgeable, they were concerned that we inadvertently over-tipped them and called to alert us afterward. (The twenty tucked into a pile of ones made them suspicious.) This gave Gary a chance to be Lord Bountiful, which he loves, so everything worked out well for him.

UPDATED: Certain Death

From someone at the local branch of the National Weather Service in Galveston, about Hurricane Ike:

"ALL NEIGHBORHOODS...AND POSSIBLY ENTIRE COASTAL COMMUNITIES... WILL BE INUNDATED DURING THE PERIOD OF PEAK STORM TIDE. PERSONS NOT HEEDING EVACUATION ORDERS IN SINGLE FAMILY ONE OR TWO STORY HOMES WILL FACE CERTAIN DEATH. MANY RESIDENCES OF AVERAGE CONSTRUCTION DIRECTLY ON THE COAST WILL BE DESTROYED. WIDESPREAD AND DEVASTATING PERSONAL PROPERTY DAMAGE IS LIKELY ELSEWHERE."

No!

Including ...

 

UPDATE 1: Levee failed in NO. Katie needs to check in.

UPDATE 2: Fox News had a graphic in the corner of a whirling ball with "FOX" on one side and "CERTAIN DEATH" on the other, I swear to you. Damn. It's gone now.

Never Forget What?

I got up this morning and heard on the television there was to be a 9/11 special report, with reporters at Ground Zero, the Pentagon, and Shanksville, Pensylvania.

"Huh," I thought, "Why are they in Pensylvania?"

Just for a second.

AdventureGary

Gary came in tonight from work and said, "I passed a big house tonight on the way home."

(Gary, if you don't know, routinely dreams at night about having a Big House. I never ever dream about Big Houses. I dream about being a fat snaggle-toothed old cougar. Hm. What could that mean?)

He continued, "And I thought, 'I'll never have a house like that. My House-Buying Days are over.'"

"You know, Gary, if you really want - "

"No, wait! Then I thought, 'But my Adventure Days are just beginning!' It just popped into my head!"

"A positive thought just popped into your head?"

"Yeah!"

I imagine this stemmed from the Segway tour we took this weekend (I'm just waiting for the tour photos) or from the way the Wii Fit convinced me I would be GREAT at skiing, or the helicopter ride I'm planning over Niagara Falls, perhaps on the same day as we do this.

Poor guy thought he was going to spend his retirement playing the drums in the basement...

It Will Be Only a Matter of Days Until Friend #3 is Slaughtered in Her Bed

After a day of flapping and shunning the mandarin orange slices the Painted Ladies loved so much, I brought the Killer Monarchs to Friend #3's lovely butterfly / hummingbird garden.

They seem happy.

 

They immediately stuck their proboscii into the butterfly bush.

 

Nom.

   

They are building up their strength until they can strike.

Heartless Killers! Do Not Be Deceived by Their Lovely Exteriors!

I brought the chrysalises to work today, since they became transparent overnight. The instructions said butterflies were likely to emerge between 6:30 and 11:30.

With a minute of each other at 11:00 they crawled out. Then they went through every stage one minute apart: pumping up the wings, splatting out the extra color, drying out the wings, first flap, first crawl, hanging upside down, first dive off the top of the cage.

Then, at about 6:00 pm they got out of sync and became two individuals again, just as they were when they were caterpillars.

At about 10:00 pm they were crawling next to each other  and flexing their wings in each other's faces. They were battering each other with their wings. I had to walk away. I can't let them go free tonight because they can't fly yet.

I fully expect only one to be alive tomorrow morning.

Twenty-First Century Dog

Mac the Dog is using his effluvia to run our lives.

He has had what Gary calls soft-serve poo. The vet says Mac has an infection, so now he's on a course of anti-biotics and anti-spasmodics. That, plus Metamucil sprinkled on the food, resulted in perfect poo. For a while.

We came home Friday to Blasts of Crap all over the wood floor. Watery poop puddles surround by a perfect spray pattern. Very nasty. Dog wouldn't eat. Great concern. Back to the vet.

The vet explained that Mac still had an infection, so more anti-everythings, and that perhaps it wasn't a good idea to feed a dog ready-made Tyson beef chunks.

So we put Mac on Chicken and Rice.  Ready-made chicken and ready-made rice (even though I told Gary I can cook rice, for God's sake). Plus a little bit of chicken or cheese to take the pills.

Mac is refusing the pills, which come from me, and lapping up the chicken and rice which comes from Gary.

Gary just asked, "How do I keep this rice from getting dry?"

"Well, if I'D MADE THE RICE I would put it in the microwave with a little water. I don't know about this Minute rice bag stuff." Sniff.

So, this was the conversation in my computer room the last two minutes.

I said, "The dog's poo was more normal this morning. B ut he still has to get all better before we take him to the kennel at the end of the month."

"No problem. He likes his chicken and rice, especially when it's all hot from the microwave."

(Silence and a look from me.)

He said, "No, I won't tell the kennel to microwave his food." (And toss the chicken with the rice, then shape it into a cone, and break and sprinkle a Metamucil capsule on top.)

"Which pill did he throw up this morning?" I asked, "I'll look it up - Damn. No, I won't. The Internet's down."

"Uh-oh, I can hear him vomiting again." Gary rushed into the other room. "Oh!  Mac  just puked into the router."

Obviously, since you're reading this, Gary got the hairdryer and fixed the router. But I think it was very spiteful of the dog.

Tom Tom Plots Our Death

"I love our GPS," I said as we plugged in the Tom Tom and set off for the Go Gos concert at the Lumiere Place Casino.

Those of you in Saint Louis know why I did not want to get lost downtown.  Those of you in Australia (Hi! I can see you!) or the Philippines (Magandang tanghali po!) may wonder why I needed the Tom Tom GPS to drive to downtown Saint Louis.

For you, here's a picture:

 

That's East Saint Louis. And, someone has been shot to death behind that building.

Happily, the Tom Tom lead us right downtown in her cultured English accent. "Take the exit right, then go straight on to the motorway." Mind the gap, please.

We easily spotted the newly constructed casino on the Riverfront. (Italics mine, for reasons that will become obvious if they aren't already.)

 

I turned on to MLK as Tom Tom instructed.

"Don't go over the bridge," Gary warned, as he always does, because that is where East Saint Louis is.

"Turn left." Tom Tom said. "Left" was where the casino was, albeit on the other side of a concrete embankment. "Turn left!" Tom Tom said, more emphatically.

"TURN LEFT! WE'RE GOING OVER THE BRIDGE! DO WHAT SHE SAYS!"

"I can't turn left. There's a concrete wall there." We sailed over the bridge toward East Saint Louis.

"Turn around when possible," Tom Tom sighed.

"Fuck, yeah," we agreed. We were all set to turn on Highway Three, then double over back across the highway, then head very fast back west. We had accidentally crossed the bridge once and survived by using this route.

"Take the exit right," Tom Tom said. Gary agreed. Or, more accurately, 'Gary screamed his agreement.' It was very tense in our car, Gary screaming, me slapping the turn signals hard and yanking the wheel. Tom Tom was placid.

"Turn left," Tom Tom insisted after we took the exit to Highway Three, which was suddenly just a two-lane road.

"NNNNOOOOOOOOOOO!" Gary screamed.

"But she says to!"

"NNNOOOOOOOOOOOO!" and he almost yanked the wheel out of my hand.

I followed the Tom Tom and she led us down a progressively dirtier dirt road.

"TTTTUUUUUUUUURRRRRRNNNNNN AAARRRRROOUNNNNND!" So I turned around and went back to the two lane road. I hissed at Gary, "Where should I go now? Where? You tell me. You know everything."

This was not well received.

"Turn right ahead," Tom Tom said pleasantly. Gary agreed so I turned right.

After a block, Tom Tom said "Turn right."

"WHAT IS SHE DOING?" Gary screamed.

Then after another block, Tom Tom giggled, "Turn right." We were now in a weedy cobblestone plaza, or if you prefer, a vacant lot filled with cobblestones. Or, a twelve foot stretch of a six-lane cobblestone highway that had been abandoned by East Saint Louis after they ran out of legitimate funds. Or, The East Saint Louis Drug Mall.

"You have reached your final destination," Tom Tom cackled ominously.

Well, no. But I did stop listening to her after she stranded us in the cobblestone plaza. I began to listen to Gary instead, and he got us back to the highway. We were both pretty stressed by that time. I thought I had been expressing my anxiety fairly well, yet somehow Gary was surprised when we had to cross six lanes of highway to get to the correct exit and he screamed "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!" and I screamed back, "SHUT THE FUCK UUUUUPPPPP!"

Really. He wasn't expecting that.

At any rate, we got back and dumped the Tom Tom in the trash. Well, no, we didn't , but our relationship with Tom Tom is fundamentally damaged.

We calmed down after we saw the Go Gos (Gary's in love now)...

...and ate Kobe beef burgers (thanks, Friend 0.75).

We realized that we saw no other cars or even actual living people in East Saint Louis. Maybe everyone is dead.

The Food Meme

From Jhianna (Thanks, fellow Queen!)

Copy this list into your blog, including these instructions.
Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
Optional extra: Post a comment at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

(Or, at least go read the article. It's very good.)

(Or, go here and do the American version.)

Show Your Ignorance: Wikipedia link to anything you had to look up.

1. Venison -stew, made by grandpa, down on the farm. It was wonderful, but that may have been because I was starving.
2. Nettle tea 
3. Huevos rancheros -Dave made these.
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile  - Where can I get some?
6.  Black pudding - It's what's for breakfast! In London, anyway.
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush - Has anyone else been on Topomax? You just don't care what you eat. I ate this because I liked the name.
 11. Calamari
12. Pho -I thought I hadn't had this, but I did. Vietnamese noodle meat dish.
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi  - Ugh. Tumeric kills me.
15. Hot dog from a street cart - A street cart right next to the Tower of London. It was revolting.
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle - yeah, they got me, I ordered something just for the teensy speck of truffle.
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes - Cherry Wine. Also from Grandpa.
19. Steamed pork buns - from a Dim Sum place.
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries - huh - more Grandpa cuisine
23. Foie gras -Got it at the grocery store.
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese  - No. Dad ate this. He ate some of the worst crap. He ate Grandma's Mac and Cheese, he ate enchildas from a jar, he ate jalepegno bologna.
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava - I hate Baklava. Then, every five years, I forget I hate it. We just went to last year's Greek Festival so I still hate it.
30. Bagna cauda 
31. Wasabi peas -Why would I eat something that hurts?
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi - oh, this bhang lassi sounds interesting. 
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float - I just said no to a root beer float at Fitzes last weekend. Oh, and we left just as firetrucks came. Does anyone know, did Fitzes burn down?
36. Cognac with a fat cigar - well, I had cognac.
37. Clotted cream tea - Dudes. I make homemade clotted cream.
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail - stew counts
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects - chocolate covered ants
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more -they make this stuff? Oh, wait, that's malt liquor I'm thinking of.
46. Fugu - Only if I prepared it myself. 
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine - must have when in Toronto
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads  - This is another thing Dad ate. If it was at a nice restaraunt , maybe.
63. Kaolin  - Kaopectate? Yeah, I've had that.
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs - I was seven, we were on vacation in Chicago.
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette - Well, I've had THAT. That's like chitterlings? 
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini - Both, just not at the same time.
73. Louche absinthe - no, but I'd like to. But only the poisonous wordwood type.
74. Gjetost, or brunost. - not yet, but sign me up for caramel cheese. Like those big tins of popcorn.
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail - Escargot? Mais certainment.
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum - Gah! It has cilantro in it! 
82. Eggs Benedict 
83. Pocky 
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant - What? Why stop at three stars? Unless I go to New York or France I haven't much chance of eating any star-food.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare - Rabbit Polenta, in fact
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate - WANT
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa 
94. Catfish
95. Mole Poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor - Made it for Tea two Christmases ago.
98. Polenta - Rabbit Polenta, in fact
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee 
100. Snake  - How did I miss snake?

I've had: 55 of the 100 (Where were brains on the list? What about snoots? Elk? Pheasant? Quail? Cactus? Dandelion wine? Raw conch? Wild boar sausage? All of which I have tried. This test is biased!)

Will never try:  Head Cheese or Roadkill. Will never try because I don't like pain: Raw Scotch Bonnet Peppers, Wasabi peas, or Phaal.

Still on the list to try someday:  Crillo chocolate and crocodile and poutine. Not all at the same time.

In Which I Am Worried About The Beaver.

This topic horrifies and disgusts even me. And I eat brains.

It is so awful I am putting this all into a jump, so you'll have to click to get the whole story. And if you have a feed reader and you see everything, then I apologize.

June Cleaver says, "Run while you still can."

[WARNING: DISTURBING MENTAL IMAGES AFTER THE JUMP.]

I Am Mean and Partisan

Old / New Old / Old not New / New

Old Movie

I watched To Have and Have Not for the first time this morning, and I kept thinking, "Haven't I already seen this movie? Wasn't it called Casablanca?" If anyone asks me this political season who I support, I need to say I am pro-Vichy (just to throw them off.)

New Old Movie 

Why would anyone re-write The Women? Why? It was perfect the first time. And it was perfect because of the screenplay, and I have no doubt they re-wrote every line of the screenplay to "update" it.

Old not New News

Seriously, people are acting like there hasn't been a female vice-presidential candidate for a major party before.

New Stupid Term

I am not commenting here on the new Republican Vice-Presidential choice, or on the pregnancy of her seventeen year old. I am commenting on the Republican talking head who referred to it as: "An early pregnancy."  Because all women get pregnant, this girl just started early. I may be getting hysterical, I think it may have been "just because she chose to have an early pregnancy." Next time someone asks why I don't have kids I'll just say "I'm choosing to have a late pregnancy."

You Are Not What You Eat

In my forties I have found that I have a taste for new foods. So far this has extended to elks and snoots, but today I ate me up some pig brains.

Originally, Saint Louis was the place for cow brains, since it was essentially a big slaughterhouse, and you can't ship brains, so you scramble them with eggs. My Grandfather and Gary's both ate brains with their eggs. Brains? 25 cents. That would have been in the forties.

Well now brains cost $5.95.  And they aren't served with eggs, they are deep fried and served on bread. They are common enough to merit their own Wikipedia entry. But yet uncommon enough for me to want to try them.

"Are you insane?" Mom said when she heard. "Over my dead body."

See? I waited. Not that it mattered, Mom's concern was Mad Cow, and this was a pig brain sandwich. So today we went to Schottzie's:

And here it is:

No, that photo doesn't do it justice. The photos I had seen of the cow brains looked like slices of brain. (When I said that originally, Mr. Biology Major sneered, "Since when do you know what a brain slice looks like?" I pointed at the bathroom.)

Here's a cross-section:

I thought at first that was like a brain version of chicken salad, but no that's all white matter there. Yummy yummy myelin! Just like my MS eats. It came with onions and pickles and hot mustard, but as I said to the waitress, "But then you can't taste the brains." I don't like wasabi or soy sauce or ginger with my sushi either.

Speaking of sushi, on our honeymoon Gary ordered a big plate of sashimi. He put one bite in his mouth, and I remarked, "Tastes like raw fish, doesn't it." Then he spat it out, and shrieked, "This tastes like raw fish!"

This didn't taste bad at all. It really didn't taste, period. It felt. Picture a sandwich made of deep fried scrambled eggs.You just can't deep fry something that soft and non-descript, it makes you focus too much on the texture.

So, my first bite was, chew chew chew, not bad at all, really can't taste much brains (Gag).

My second bite was, chew chew, I can see scrambling this with eggs, that would be good, it's really soft (Gag).

Do you ever eat bananas? If it's not a very tasty banana you'll chew and then be overwhelmed with the banana texture in your mouth and gag? That's what it was like.

So, Gary said "Well, Ellen, you have to put the onions and mustard and pickles on it! It's the German way!"

So, he ate half, just like a good German. However, the Rye bread and Deep-Fried Chewed up Banana texture did inspire me to have a Reuben Sandwich and Banana Split for dinner.

I feel a little bad that we only ended up eating half, because a brain is a terrible thing to waste.