Of course, I still haven't packed, but the flight isn't till 3 tomorrow. Lalala! It's 1:30 am and Gary is still up bagging Cones of Food for Mac. Tomorrow I have nothing to do but ... pack. And drop off the dog and do some sewing and buy shoes.
I predict, based on 20+ years of marriage, I will have a fight with Gary tomorrow. Perhaps I should pick a fight in the morning just to get it out of the way.
I understand that connection of the boat is dog slow. I may be incommunicado for a week! Supposedly if Gary points his blackberry toward Mexico he can hook up with a cell tower there.
Talk amongst yourselves.
However, when you have eightof those mini-Baileys because you hurt your back rightbefore a cruise, you can not only sing but all your struming hangups with the guitar are resolved.
I so rock.
I wasn't there, but Gary went to the mall. He reports that he came out of the mall (more than a little dismayed anyway at his new larger pants size) and found someone had parked too close to his car.
The way he describes it, this white van with black-tinted windows was so close to his driver's-side door he knew it would be a tight squeeze.
I would have popped in the passenger door myself and clambered over the parking brake, because who the hell would get close to a van with black-tinted windows? Did it have a license plate that said "ZODYAK?"
Instead, Gary took a moment to back up in disbelief and roar "ASSHOLE!" Then he marched around the van, waving his arms and announcing to the empty parking lot "WHAT TYPE OF ASSHOLE PARKS THIS WAY?" Then he marched back to his car, pried himself into the five inch opening his car door made, slammed the door shut and said "asshole!" again in disgust.
As he drove off the headlights of the van lit up. Gary has been crowing all night about how the asshole was probably cowering in fear, afraid to confront him.
Dear Dr. House- Just STFU. This week's episode made my husband ask me things like "Why didn't you have a brain biopsy?" and "Really, you can die that fast from MS?" No! No, you don't, no you can't. It's MRI, then if that's inconclusive it's a lumbar puncture, and then my god nobody gets a brain biopsy! Ever!
Octuplets-I was bitterly disappointed today to hear a false report that one of the octuplets was the size of a crouton. Were I the mother I would immediately pop that baby in my mouth and take a photo. But, sad to say, it's a big fat one pound baby, so no really good photo ops for it beyond the standard baby in the veggie crisper image. Hmm. If I had a turducken I could do something with that, maybe.
Norovirus- I'm going to be Norwegian Cruise Line's coal-mine canary next week. I will take my 2,000 white blood cells and see if their ship was adequately sanitized after the Norwalk virus outbreak on it earlier this month. Oh, and a bit of non-health related BNL Cruise news, here are the performers on the cruise :
These I know: BNL and all their side projects and variations, Sarah McLaughlin (Thanks .75 - she let me borrow a CD), Great Big Sea, The Weakerthans, Butterfly Boucher, The Odds, Sean Cullen (too funny), Gaelic Storm, Boothby Graffoe, and Dave Foley.
These I don't know (let me know if any of these makes me worthy of envy): Another Kids in the Hall guy is there (Kevin McDonald), Luke Doucet, Mike Evin, Christine Fellows, Melissa McClelland, Sloan, and The Mountain Goats.
I fully expect to hear "OMG! U don't know The Mountain Goats? OMG!"
You might remember, a few months back Gary watched The Break-up and found more than a few similarities between Vince Vaughn's character and his own. Selfish, always wants his own way, just a big kid. Yeah, I thought, you and everyone with a Y.
Well, it's happened again. Gary watched Waitress and then nagged me for two weeks to watch it. Or, as Earl the Husband from this movie would say: "Please. Please. Please. Please. Please ... Please. Please."
And this time, I have to agree with him. Just a little. Or, maybe, just a lot. Only, Gary would never push my face, even if he'd just found I'd been hoarding money.
Here was a good Earl line from the movie:
Earl: [while having sex] Say something sexy, baby, something nasty.
Jenna: [deadpan] What do you want me to say?
Not that Gary does that. No, Gary and Earl both just spend a lot of time assuring they are first in your heart. And the Jenna character isn't too excited about babies. We spent a lot of time gasping and pointing violently at each other.
I can't really find any quote that captures the Earl character. Just rent the movie. It was a very sweet movie.
Group photo! Click it!
At this year's tea ...
We had too much food, again, shown by this "After" photo...
Good visits with old friends ...
The Other Ellen and John...
...Colin and Lea...
from left: Hot Mom, Molly (Heathen spawn of H.M.), Colin's wife Mary Ellen, and Lea again.
Yes, there are a lot of photos of Lea. On closer inspection of the group photo, I saw this was the pose Lea struck:
She did the same thing in the photo below.
The new friends from TeddyJ were there, as well, and many of them own their own hats.
If they didn't bring a hat, they brought a child.
There are two things children really like:
...and chocolate fountains...
Ooooof, am I tired.
Tea is over. More later with photos.
This is what stays with me:
Libby said, "Is that Cream of Broccoli soup?" and when I said yes, grunted just a little. Marcia may have hyped the splendor of my Cream of Broccoli as well.
So, I was surprised later to see only half of it was gone. Everyone was gone, and Gary and I ate our first food of the day. Gary was eating the soup, and said:
"What. Is Wrong. With the soup?"
"Nothing's wrong with it. Why do you think there's something wrong?"
"It tastes too - vegetabley."
I peeked in the Crock Pot. It was green.
And then I realized, that in addition to forgetting to put the champagne in the punch, and forgetting to give anyone their party favors, I forgot to put the cream in the Crockpot. So essentially, people got "Of Broccoli" soup.
Gary's been out of town since Sunday, and I have been through a sea change.
My diet consists of wine, limoncello, and peach margaritas, topped off with tea-reject food. Reject fudge, reject bundt cake, reject apple-spice cake. My one brush with protein came as I was assembling the dog's beef-tip / rice dinner. It made me a little sick, frankly.
However, it appears I now can sing. I Sang Along with Pete(!)TM, and I started to sing along with Aretha, and then I sang "What I Did for Love," then "At Last." And this may have a little to do with the wine, but I sound good.
Is it the wine?
Or has Barak all given us just a little bit of color?
Then again, if I had color I could have riffed with Aretha. Maybe I just have a Lena Horne amount of color.
Or, maybe, I don't care and I'm alone in the house.
You all have to check out this blog.
I tried to comment, but I didn't see a comment field. I also tried to add it to Google Reader, but there doesn't seem to be an RSS feed. But hell, there's a blog! Think of the possibilites!
Tues Jan 20 -
It was a big day. Man, I am bushed. HAHAHahhahahaa! I kill me.
And peeps, WTF? What was with the booing and "Nananana Heyheys" at George? That's not cool.
SO, Michelle's dress? I liked it a lot better than the Nov 5th blood-spattered dress. What did you think?
Tomorrow, 5 embarrassing things you don't know about your president! Woo!
I've bought more of the magic wicking Menopajamas. Here is a note on their webpage regarding the contents.
Notes: Made of 100% HRT (Heat Resistant Technology) fiber. This is an embedded fiber of 85% synthetic content & 15% matural content.
I'm ensconced in the bed, watching the Obamafest on HBO and PETE SEEGER is leading a group singalong of "This land is your land." Do you think George Bush knows who Pete Seeger is? I'm singing along, I'm just so pleased with my country. Pete Seeger, people!
Next I want ... hmm.. Arlo Guthrie to come out and read the constitution out loud. Dang. No, it's Beyonce.
Okay, then, I want the Smothers Brothers to come out and re-enact the new AG saying: "Waterboarding. Is. Torture."
Now I'm singing along with Beyonce.
Pleased with you, Dots of the U.S.A.!
Gary stroked my new pajamas. "Oooh. These new wicking pajamas are soft."
"They're doing the job. I don't wake up sweaty anymore."
"Mmmmmmmm. Soft." Gary moved up and stroked my wattle. "That's soft too."
"Oh! Do you want to have sex?"
There. That should be it, but you always need at least three bullets: it's the law. So:
"...you can drop off your old pair of Crocs, which will be recycled into new ones and sent to people in need as part of the Soles United program. For your good deed you will be entered to win an autographed pair of Crocs from your favorite artists. Check out www.solesunited.com to learn more about them."
Initially, I thought, "That makes no sense. Why are we recycling the crocs? Why not give them the crocs, why waste the energy to recycle them?" But it seems we give worn-out crocs, which are ground up and recycled into 20% of the new donated crocs. But then, why aren't our American crocs made of 20% recycled croc? All this confuses me.
(I know! Click it! God knows what terms and conditions I agreed to on http://obamiconme.pastemagazine.com/.)
My Menopajamas have arrived. I have great hope for them. Their wicking properties will no doubt contribute to my second favorite smell: aged skanky pajamas. (First favorite? New-mown grass.)
I don't recall why the Gifted / Talented program at my high school encouraged us giftards to have a Toga Day. That's how we all ended up outside the principal's office a month or so before graduation wrapped up in bedsheets. She let us wait and wonder what was in store for us for at least 45 minutes.
The prank mastermind was a strange hybrid of a girl, an athlete with high IQ scores and actual social skills. The rest of the geeks didn't hang out with her much since she did dangerous things like go outside.
While we were sweating in our sheets outside the principal's office Danger Girl said, "What's the Senior Prank going to be? I had this idea we could sell the school." Than we were all her minions.
The prank turned out very well: in fact the Head principal applauded us at graduation for the ad in the paper ("200 room house for sale, tennis courts, gym") and the neighborhood real estate signs we planted on the school lawn. Especially since a rival school's seniors had slashed thousands of dollars worth of bus tires as their farewell. It was a legendary prank.
A year or so out of high school, I went to the local Dairy Queen and caught up with a boy one year behind me. Come to find out, in the past year:
The Latin teacher officially did not get our classmate pregnant, but he did go ahead and marry her anyway. (We didn't know anything about statutory rape back then. We probably felt this was very noble and unselfish of the Latin teacher.)
The most recent senior class had a tragedy while executing their prank. They had a dump truck full of sand so they could cover the teacher's parking lot. The way I heard the story, Kid 1 was sitting on the sand pile in the dump truck, and Kid 2 was driving. Kid 1 fell off, and Kid 2 ran over him with the dump truck. Kid 2 had no idea his friend was dead, he just kept going. I think they might have canceled graduation; I don't know.
The reason I thought of this after all these years? Kid 2 is now in politics and his political opponent is using the accident against him. Weird how you never think you'll be 45 when you're in high school.
Photo 1: A few weeks ago, Gary woke up and felt a need to document the state of my hair. He's a good husband - he completely cut my chins out of this shot:
He said it was to compositionally emphasize my hair, but I know the real story. It's the chins. I'm up to three now, four if I smile.
(And, may I mention how fabulous my eyebrows look in that shot?)
Photo 2: Sometime that day, or soon after, I changed my About page so it would have a more up-to-date photo. To be honest, it really did take 30 plus takes and some careful lighting for me to look like that a few years back. Instead, here's a more honest take:
Photo 3:Jump ahead a few weeks to the kids' birthdays. We got Arzanna-fay a cute purse camera, and she promptly started taking photos of herself for her Facebook page. While I would have taken the photo full face ahead, she stuck her arm way over her head and got an aerial shot.
I thought, "That's odd. That's why I keep seeing people reaching skyward in their on-line photos. That's cheating." Then I thought, "I am totally doing that in all my photos from now on."
Photo 4: Today. Today I overslept, and so arrived at work with bird's nest hair. Two people suggested I just head home and work from there. One tried to fix me with hairspray. Gary saw me at lunch and greeted me with "Oh! My! God! Your! Hair!"
Here it is tonight after I tried to fix it:
But you know? Everything does look better from overhead. Just the one chin. Now I just need to find a seven-foot admirer.
Sigh. So let's say you pick at your nails and you have taken up Silly Putty as an alternative.
And then let's say you bring in some red and yellow neon Silly Putty and foolishly store it in the same tin as your old school light green Think Geek putty.
So lets say then you idly pick up your putty and roll it and stretch it and then you notice, you NOTICE you have green putty with stripes of neon red and yellow.
The deed is done, so you keep puttying while you program. After half an hour of pounding the putty, you look at the mass in your hand and see:
(I know you feed readers can see after the jump, I'm scrolling down so you don't get busted at work)
I remember with pride the day I started a job at Ralston-Purina and saw that Twinkies were made by Continental Baking Company, a division of R-P. Twinkies AND Wonder Bread. This was in the '90s.
That's why I was surprised when Gary said a Kansas City company had bought the Saint Louis Twinkie company and evidently run it into the ground. Of course, they blame the Atkins diet and the economy.
Can you imagine a world without Twinkies? I mean, I've had one bite of a Twinkie in my life, but I'll still miss them. The big question is: will they still make the base for strawberry shortcakes? The Mother of All Twinkies?
(Thats where Twinkies come from, children. God had leftover sponge cake and formed it into a Twinkie. And it had dominion over the snack cakes, and the Ding Dongs, and the SnoBalls.)
I was appalled the first time I saw someone make strawberry shortcake with a biscuit and butter. It was as if someone took a pancake and wrapped it around a sparerib. It was if someone, say, my mother-in-law, made pork chops flayed of their Shake and Bake skin.
We face a future without Twinkies. I don't want to eat them, but I still want them to stay.
Bullets vs Twitter - the same lack of thought, but bullets have a punctuation mark just for them.
Google Analytics -- my Oracle, my Wicked Witch crystal ball, my global spy/stalker network -- once told me someone linked here via Twitter. You might just as well creep behind me, cover my eyes from behind and say "Guess who." So I made a Twitter account to investigate. (If I recall it was Suebob. And maybe Anderson Cooper. Thanks Suebob!) Now one of you is trying to follow my updates on Twitter, and I twitter not. I am the Dead Parrot of Twitteropolis.
Here's another reason to love TeddyJ: this may be an urban legend, but if a current or former president dies, we get a personal day. I don't know how true this is. Does the stock market close when a president dies?
Hey, does anyone out there like Sarah McLaughlin? She's going to be on the BNL cruise I'm going on in February. She's the one who does that "Eyes of an Angel" song they do on the dying puppy commercial, right? I haven't done a literary analysis on the lyrics, but it sounds on the surface like Karo Syrup. Is there some ironic undertone I'm missing?
I have seriously considered applying deodorant to my underboobs before bed at night. My boobs sweat, my collarbones sweat, my clavicle sweats. Today I ordered these sexxxy pajamas:
Yes. They are specifically for sweaty women nearing menopause. They are "Hot Flashes / Sweats" wicking pajamas. They will go well with my blonde wig and sunglasses.
About a week ago I emailed Gary the story of the little girl who died because her father had her walk ten miles in the snow.
"I would so totally do this" was the subject line.
Because, it's TRUE. They would be whining about missing Christmas because the truck is broken, and I'd think - I can walk 3.5 miles an hour, so ten miles would take 3 hours. Kids play for three hours in the snow all the time, and they'll be walking, and they just have to follow the highway.
"No, you wouldn't do that. That guy's an idiot." Gary emailed.
"I really think I would," I replied, "But I wouldn't name my kids Sage and Bear."
Gary continued to insist I wouldn't think of sending an 11 year old into the snow. He wrote, "11 years old is very young. You make all sorts of bad decisions when you are that young. I was 14 when I got lost in the woods on a Boy Scout campout."
I had completely forgotten about that story, and through the next few emails I pulled the details out of Gary.
Here, in Gary's own words, is his Lost on the Mountain story.
It was in the Ozarks. It was at either S-BAR-F or Eagle scout camp. Our whole adventure started because some eagle scouts sent us off to an old closed campsite on the other side of the scout camp in search of some non-existent item. I forgot what it was. I think that there were some old church ruins there and they sent us there to get the schedule of masses. The other side of camp was just on the other side of a foothill. By the way, those large green tree-covered foothills that we see in the Ozarks are actually small mountains. They get a lot bigger when you try and walk to their top.
I was not the leader of the group. It was not my idea to go over the mountain. I told them that the trail could not possibly lead over the mountain. I left them at the start and began the long journey around the base of the mountain, but then I followed them up the mountain to try to convince them of my point of view. I was not successful. They figured that the trail would take us up and over the mountain which would be closer then going around the base of the mountain which we knew was 20 miles. When it started getting dark, I told them that they were on their own.
That particular skyline trail was very dangerous because it terminated in a large gorge. The trail just tumbled down into it with no warning. It was dark, we had no source of light and in a dense forest at night you can barely see your own hand in front of your face. After I left my fear was that the rest of my company had simply dropped into the gorge and were dead.
Then I did a real dumb thing and left the trail in an attempt to speed my return to our camp, which was miles and miles away, because I was late for dinner. So when darkness hit, I didn't even have a trail to follow. Once I left the trail, I just kept going down. After it got dark, I just felt my way from tree to tree. It was pretty dangerous because the incline was very steep.
Luckily, I ran across a dry stream-bed which led me back down the mountain safely.
I was lost for 16 hours. By the time that I got back to camp, the scout camp had already called out the Mounted Police and the National Guard. There were helicopters, horses and search teams all over the place. The scout camp was over 300 square miles of woods. I was very embarrassed but they told me that they wouldn't have searched the mountain trail that we had walked up for a couple of days so it helped out their search. They got to the rest of my group before they got to the gorge. The other scouts that stayed on the trail that lead over the mountain were lost for over 24 hours.
It's too funny that he's the same today as he was at 14. If I insisted on stomping away on Bottomless Gorge Trail, he would go his own way and then come after me so he could argue some more.
I am truly not making fun of Mormons. Today. Certainly not when they are in the great beyond praying for the souls of all their relatives, including Gary.
During the kid's birthdays, the subject of Mormon underwear arose.
"Gary, what are you talking about?" his mother asked.
"Mormons, Mom, you know they wear special underwear."
"Oh, they do not."
"Yes, they do!" (Click here to imperil your eternal soul.)
"That's silly. You are making that up. I don't believe a word you say."
"No, Mom, I've seen pictures! On the Internet!"
"Well," Wilma said archly, "I don't believe everything I read on the Internet."
So, good for Wilma. She doesn't believe in Mormon underwear. Really, it's fitting since she doesn't believe in non-Mormon underwear. So sad to see her all jaded in her eighties, though.
Look at the time on this. Right now it's midnight. I got a phone call an hour ago and I am still enraged.
I was making lamb meatballs at 10:55. It was such an early-evening thing to do that when the phone rang, it seemed natural, but when I realized the time I knew someone must be in crisis. In fact, I was so familiar with the adrenaline rush that came with Mom's Lifeline calls I thought for a split second she had fallen and couldn't get up.
I picked up, said hello, and was met with silence. Usually when that happens I hiss another annoyed "helLO" and hang up. The second "helLO" was met with:
"Who is this?"
"I'm Brandon M_____ and I'm an investor. I'm calling about the property at [Mom's address]."
"Are you SERIOUS?"
I wish I could say I was freaked out and alert because a stranger had my name and Mom's address and the house hasn't been put up for sale and a few days ago the probate lawyer submitted documents to the court.
But no. I continued with, "Are you SERIOUSLY calling me at 11:00 at night?"
"Well, Ma'am, I tried calling you earlier but you weren't in." And his voice hinted that: crazy lady, I'm doing you a favor here, no way would I be calling you at 11:00 pm if you had been by the phone waiting for my call all day like I expected.
"No. Thank you. Goodbye." Hang up. No to what? And Thank you to what? And Goodbye to you. (This earworm brought to you by Patty Smyth and Scandal and whatever commercial that's been on.)
I'm all freaked out. I can't find what specific telemarketing scam I've almost been a victim of but it's damn upsetting.
I have released my inner Hot Nude Blonde. Her name is ShirLene. "How is that spelled? Gary asked.
"S...h..i...r..capital L ... e ... ummm... let me start again ... S ... "
ShirLene is a Valley Girl who wears her sunglasses to bed. She will not be invited back, however. She's noisy and wears too much perfume. Plans are in place however to invite back her twin, Lulu.
In every "Top Ten Ways to Spice Up Your Marriage" article, "change your appearance with a wig" is at least in the top three.
I've always wanted shiny long blonde hair, and I know Gary's probably always wanted [a woman with] shiny long blonde hair. Given his interest in The Girls Next Door, he must crave women who are blonde, dumb, thin and busty. And now with the wig I got on-line I can give him three out of four! (You can't fake thin.)
So the wig came today as we were getting ready to go to his Mom's house for the birthdays of the niece and nephew. I snuck it off the porch, put it on when Gary was showering, looked in the mirror and thanked God for giving me brown hair. If you want to love your hair, walk a mile in someone else's hair.
When the shower stopped, I chatted with him outside the door until he came out and saw me. Immediate laughter. No other immediate reaction. And there was no question about that. I looked.
"Nothing," he said, gesturing into his general naked hip area.
I turned around and shielded my face.
I giggled and wiggled my ample ass.
"Hey. Hey now! None of that. No no no." He started to push me away. "There will be no sex on the way to my Mom's. I can't think about sex if I'm going to my Mom's." I knew I had him, only I'd have to wait.
However, you can make you dog look really sexy before you go to Gary's Mom's.
Dumb blonde dog:
Dumb blonde dog begins to realize his sexuality:
Dumb blonde dog rolls about on some sexxxy flannel pajamas he has found:
Dumb blonde dog exposes himself and works in some tongue action.
Well, since those photos were taken we've had the birthday celebration - and oh - there is nothing more humorous than watching a Yemeni-bound 24-year old trying to eat lasagna with his hand. He tried his hand, he tried pinching it with a piece of bread in his hand, and then he had to resort to the infidel gold-plate flatware of the Great Satan K-Mart.
Anyway, we're back and it's late. All I've done with The Wig is brush it. I think I might need to flesh out my Fat Girl Next Door persona. I think she needs a Southern accent and maybe a little hiccup at the end of the giggle. Maybe I'll give her a drug habit, I don't know.
I started out the new year by taking my Weekly Sleep early. (I think the Day of Sleep is the reason I always answer "No" on MS questionnaires when they ask about fatigue.) Since I was sleeping, Gary combated his fatigue by watching a TV marathon.
When I woke up later he essentially pantomimed the entire series for me. "What series?" you ask. He couldn't answer; evidently he clicked away from the show every half hour or hour. But, he really enjoyed it. Let's call it the "Big Guys Busting Stuff Up" Show.
As he was describing it, I assumed "Big Guys" meant morbidly obese guys, because of the number of times Gary said, "And these guys - they were huge, huge guys -" and then predicated that with "tore a copier apart with their bare hands" or "threw a dishwasher through a plate glass window" or "shook this plane apart like a bear! A bear with a fish! They just shook it!"
Since he was in bed with me pantomiming all this stuff I was a little concerned about my nose being broken by a stray elbow. When I expressed that Gary said there is a cute little nurse on the Morbidly Obese show who comes by and stitches up the Big Guys when they get plate glass in their eyeballs. ("And shards of metal! Metal! All around their eye sockets!")
"So," I asked, protecting my nose, "how do they know when the stuff is destroyed?"
"It's flat! It's flat!!! It's totally" (wild, expansive 'flat' gesture) "FLAT!"
So, I don't know if I ever even want to watch the "Fat Men Making Things Flat" show, because I so enjoyed Gary's description.
"Hey! I don't go to your job and knock the dicks out of your mouth!"
- Kathy Griffin to the rowdy Times Square crowd right as Anderson Cooper went to commercial.
Later - Ah! Youtube.