Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Every Time I Get Him Out They Pull Him Back In

Here was the conversation at the S______'s, late Mother's Day.

Ken said, "Oh, Gary, I hear they're hiring in the IT department at Boeing"

"Dad, I'm retired."

 "Well, if you get --"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," I shrieked.

I had to howl because it was the third time someone suggested Gary re-join the work force. I only just now got him into the house! I don't want him to leave. I'd like him to see all the other things he has other things to offer to humanity. No, that's a lie. I don't want him to offer anything to anyone but himself, and sometimes me.

He loaded the dishwasher this week after I unloaded it and left it gaping open. Baby steps.

He decided tonight he'd had enough Starbucks through the years and it was time to step back from The Teat. I think there must be a happy medium between "FOUR STARBUCKS A DAY!" and "NO MORE STARBUCKS EVER IT IS DEAD TO ME."

I think I've found out which Workaholic type he is. The All or Nothing.

Tonight's Google Search: What Happens When Workaholics Retire?

What Happens When Workaholics Retire?

Executive Summary: It's bad.

The Long Version, written specifically for us with the help of recording devices planted in our house disguised as common household ants and spiders, says the retired workaholic:

• Depends on excessive consumption of alcohol or prescription medication. (Neh.)

• Has no close friends. (Well, yeah.)

• Watches television constantly and yells at pundits on the screen. (And is named ... Gary! And has a gallbladder scar, we know, we've seen him naked.)

• Interactions with family members are by force, not choice. (This one doesn't sound like Gary at all.)

• Can be verbally abusive.

• Impatient with others.

• Suffers from depression and anxiety. (Hope not. Too soon to tell.)

• Nothing pleases him and there is no joy or happiness in his life. (Right now the TV show Alias brings him great Joy.)

Some articles suggest transitioning with a two-three month period of nothing, followed by a hobby. (I said one month, but okay, three months works too.)

They suggest:

• Woodworking
• Writing his memoirs
• Designing building plans for a future home (BIG HOUSE DREAM come to life!)
• Discovering new genres of porn
• Running, swimming, body building (I can see this)
• Taking classes in painting
• Teaching himself to repair electronics
• Painting the house
• Building and maintaining a vegetable garden (I can see this too)
• Restoring an old or classic vehicle (nope)

The article suggests you determine what type of workaholic you are dealing with and steer him (very gender biased) toward the right set of hobbies, but I can't tell what type Gary is. He seems to be the savoring type that doesn't like projects to end.

All I know is the article wraps up the workaholic section with "please consider professional counseling because retirement can easily expand into decades of misery for all involved."

Précis: DECADES of MISERY.

And This is Why I'm Starting Early

I asked Gary if we could discuss the vacation in Quebec, because we need to make some decisions and reservations, and I have found that if something goes South the blame is softened if the blame is shared.

On the downside, I have to force Gary into decision making mode.

It was as if we were buying the Honda Fit all over again.

In the last two hours, he has gone in these directions.

No whales! Why would we want to see whales?

Must see whales.

We have to go on the tour bus to see whales, we can't drive ourselves, because we don't speak French and all the signs will be in French.

Screw the whales, we must see the fjords east of the whales. It's only a four hour trip! We could probably make it in three.

Well, we could do whales if they're on the way to fjords, but only if we tack on the penguins at the end. (I think he's planning a day trip to Nova Scotia.)

Whales above all other creatures. Whales whales whales.

Screw whales. Elk.

And the final verdict: we must not tie ourselves down with plans. Let's just see what happens when we get there.

 

Gary helped cook for the week!

Clockwise from top left: spaghetti, corn casserole, zucchini, asparagus, chicken soup, spinach quiche, white chicken chili, roast vegetables, and zucchini pizza casserole in the center. NOT PICTURED: pie. I ran out of eggs. Damn. So, obviously I am easing Gary into cooking. He chopped all vegetables and made the pasta.

Adjustment Update By the Numbers

Gary's been retired for: 9 days

Things Gary has helped with: 3

(I had to change that right after I typed it. He got me stamps from the other room. Now I feel bad.)

Things I've done: 9

Things Gary has done: 1

(This is fine, though. As I said to him, he has a month to catch up on sleep and do nothing.)

How long it feels like Gary has been retired: 1 month

When Gary wakes up: 3 pm

Number of days I brought my lunch to work: 1

Movies watched: 6

Number of unused vaction days Gary must have been paid for based on his last paycheck: 20 (he didn't take much vacation last year)

Percent of our monthly food budget we've gone through in one week: 60%

How much I spent on Amazon Prime for 2 sets of bookends: $14

Number of weeds I pulled out of the basement: 2

(Yeah, so I popped down to finish the one thing I still had to do in the basement, which was scrub the mold off the door, and I noticed a long sprig of Virginia Creeper extending over the workbench. There was another trying to make its way in. I suppose this is what happens when you clean the basement.)

Number of times Gary has left the house: 1

Number of showers: 2

Number of arguments: 3 (This is average.)

 

Friday Night Movie Night

Neither Gary nor I have ever seen Cleopatra, and we chose it for Friday night movie might.

I say of any movie, this movie cries out for the big screen. Gary says it was shot in low res and would look unspeakably awful on our big screen. One wonders how people could stand watching it in Cinevision or Spectroscope or whatever back in the sixties? Wouldn't a movie have to be the highest res of all reses? Not that hi-def resolutions matters to me. As women can see dirt and men cannot, it is the opposite with hi-resolution. At least, I can't see it. It must be tied to testosterone.

About an hour in we realized the movie was FOUR HOURS LONG (And thirty inches wide. Seriously, how hard is it to unfold a big screen that is in the corner of the room?)

Elizabeth Taylor's bosom is astonishing. Worth her million dollar salary. Poor sickly thing. Little genetic mutant.

Bosom or no, Gary turned on the movie after [SPOILER!] Julius Ceasar dies. In fact, he was bitter Cleo takes on that whiny Antony after having been with Julius. Bitter! Shut this thing off! I can't stand watching this any more! It's just AWFUL now.

So, I fear I will never know what happened to Cleopatra, only that she died of a self-inflicted asp bite and she had an awesome rack.

Extreme Garying

Last Friday, Full Day of Retirement #1.

Gary: "Well, we should get the best family plan to include my new iPhone, and it only makes sense to spend the extra ten bucks to add cell service to our iPads, because then we can use them anywhere."

Yesterday, Day #6 of Retirement.

Gary: "I put the coupons that came in the mail in that basket. DON'T TOUCH THEM! I'm going through them later!"

I have been pleading with him to look at the budget, so he can realize he doesn't need to swing between extremes. There's a comfy enough place in between, called Reality, and Reality is fine. He refuses.

On the other hand, I suspect I can coax Penny Pincher Gary into calling the Trash company and getting our yard waste /  trash service down from the scandalous $65 a month they charge now. I see why Waste Management companies are rumored to be run by the Mafia. Yeah, I said it.

Gobsmacked

Gary walked off his job today, never to return. And since he's 59, and because he can, he's retired.

I should be surprised, but I have had to listen to thirty years of, "I'm going to be fired I'm going to be laid off they are giving my job to someone else I need to start calling headhunters they want to get rid of me I work for idiots."

Last year he was so convinced he'd be fired I went to our Financial Analyst and said, "Give me a document that proves he can BE fired and we won't be eating cat food when we retire." Since then, every time he says he hates his job and people are making him work every weekend, I remind him we can live just fine off my salary and I can retire at sixty, even. In fact, if we didn't mind cat food, I could retire now, I guess.

The last time I said that he yelled at me and said I was an idiot. 

Today he sent me an email that said, essentially, screw these guys, I'm packing up my desk and books and going home. I listened to him, which is something I rarely do, and I took off from work immediately so I could greet him at home. 

Of course, he wasn't there when I got home, or even after I'd worked at home three hours, or even after I called him.

He didn't answer my call BECAUSE HE LEFT HIS COMPANY BLACKBERRY ON THE BOSS' DESK WHEN HE LEFT.

He took that time to compose a letter of resignation, pack up ten boxes worth of books, put those books in his car, and have a chat with his V.P., who is frankly jealous Gary is living the dream, I think.

I. KNOW.

So by the time he finally got home at eight, as usual, I assumed he'd had a change of heart and I was gobsmacked to hear he had finally had enough. (What drove him over the edge is a long story, but I can simplify it: demands demands unreasonable demands and then demand fulfillment met with scorn and more demands. This set of bosses really are idiots.)

So when I looked in the car and saw ten boxes of books, I knew it finally happened: I have a real husband now. I can look back at the vacations he ruined by working, and the holidays he'd have to leave so he could work, and the marriage counseling we went to because he worked so much and I took it personally, and I could go on.

And the really nice thing is that beyond having to pay my own iPhone bill, I won't feel a change, because we had separate banking accounts. I mean, I'm sure he'll feel the pinch of not buying an iPad for his parents' dog.

"I won't feel a change." Ha! What will it feel like, not coming home every night to an empty garage? Having a weekend with Gary in which he doesn't work, or sleep till four, or rant for hours about work? He even turned off the alarm since he doesn't have to get up. He'll probably be jackknifed in terror all night long anyway.

I swear, life changes in an instant.

Gary's Birthday Gift

Gary said his gift was the clean basement, but on the actual day of his birth I impulsively got him a device you can attach to your iPad that projects and magnifies the screen contents equivalent to a 60" TV screen.

It only took him a second to hook it up and then Chinese women were having sex on the ceiling above me. (The ceiling was the only white surface, and the women were the first Netflix movie he found. But, of course, consider the possibilities if one had a sex drive anymore. Boggling.)

At any rate, we both agreed we needed a surface on which to project, and while I campaigned for the tablecloth hung on the entertainment center, Gary opted for this:

Thankfully, it folds up, and even more thankfully, Gary folded it up.

... and even MORE thankfully, it disassembles easily and can be put in the closet.

I have yet to watch any Netflix movies off his iPad on the giant screen, but we're all geared up if need be.

Learning the Rules

Years ago, I bought a bath rug. I didn't buy a bath mat, which are the rugs with rubberized backs, because I grew up maintaining those. Instead, I bought a 2x3 bath rug, in a loose shag the same color as the taupe tile. Within hours Gary relocated it to the basement, and the aftermath is chronicled here. 

That was probably twenty five years ago. I threw out that rug during the Great Basement Purge, and only yesterday did I discover what he didn't like about the rug. He always said he relocated the rug because the rug must hang on the shower door handle when not in use and cannot stay on the floor because the dog will pee on it, and that rug was wider than the shower door handle.

Gary Rule 1: The bath rug must hang on the shower door when not in use and cannot stay on the floor because the dog will pee on it.

Come to find out, this rule was a ruse to mask the real rule. We don't have a dog now, so when I suggested that we don't have to pick the rug up every day now, I discovered the real rule.

Gary Rule 2: If the bath rug remains on the floor it will become dirty, therefore it must hang on the shower door when not in use and cannot stay on the floor.

Gary pointed out that we don't have any rugs in our house, because they are filth traps. I pointed out the foyer rug and he said that was fine because it wasn't damp in the foyer, but in the bathroom scary things grow between the rug and the floor every second the rug remains on the floor.

Gary Rule 3: The bath mat must be of a certain size

The bath rug I bought years ago was too big to hang on the shower door, that was its crime.

Gary Rule 4: The bath mat must be of a certain thickness

The shag nature made it too thick, a haven for bugs. Again, remember I came from a house with small bath mats stacked on a wall to wall shag bath mat covering a tile floor. Filthy. I did not know.

Gary Rule 5: The bath mat must be of a certain color, in fact everything in the bathroom must be a certain color

He ranted, "Unless it's solid white, you can't tell when it's dirty." Yes, I thought, that's the whole point of colorful towels and bath rugs, they don't show the dirt. Then again, I see his point, there's a reason sterile lab environments don't have multicolored granite countertops. You need to see the dirt.

On the down side of seeing the dirt, you SEE the DIRT. The bath rug we currently has two grey patches for our two feet, and no all-night bleach soak can get them out. We need a new one, but now I know the rules. I suggested I buy a new bath rug just like the dirty one, same size, same thickness.

"NO. They aren't called bath rugs. They are called bath towels."

I said, "No, actually, 'bath towels' are called bath towels."

"No, I mean 'floor towels.' It's a special towel for the floor."

"Whatever. It's just a small towel, like the size of a hand towel? It's like a foot towel."

"Yes. I think they call them foot towels."

No, they do not call them foot towels, you nut job, they call them bath rugs.

[Searching]

Oh, son of a bitch. They call them foot towels.

That conversation made me really want to buy these at Pottery Barn:

But of course I can't buy the item below, because a) it's too big and b) it doesn't say "FOOT."

 

Tired of Vacation Already!

Gary and I narrowed down vacation choices tonight.  

Quebec City. Pros: inexpensive. Cons: not enough there to keep us for a week, I think.

Hawaii - the Big Island. Pros: lava! Hattie! Cons: been there (Maui).

A Mediterranean cruise. Gary pulled this out of nowhere. Pros: we could spend a few days in Venice before. Cons: expensive.

The cities below were met with Gary's scorn and were deleted from the list.

Tokyo. "No! It's dirty and crowded and too expensive."  I began to explain that the Japanese are supposedly a nation of germophobes and I can't picture them tolerating dirt, but the goal was to strike choices off the list.

Ireland. We're city folk, not country folk, and the focus in Ireland does seem to be on the landscape.

Buenos Aires. I believe they are truly toting Argentine pesos about in wheelbarrows, but it's a false economy to go to a cheap city you were never interested in visiting. It's the tuna fish coupon of travel.

Tofino Canada. The week we plan to go is in June, and Gary got the idea that June is spring break in Tofino. It sounded to me like the Relais & Chateaux concierge would chase any spring breakers off our beach, but again, the goal was to delete.

Now, according to a budget travel article I read on stalking natural disasters, where we should be going right now is Sicily, in the hopes that Etna scares tourists off. Ghoulish but appealing.

Mr. Tooth

After 36 consecutive waking hours spent watching episodes of Warehouse 13, I asked Gary if he ever felt bad wasting his weekends. Perhaps he might feel better if he made lunch, like I did, or did the taxes, like I did, or even loaded the dishwasher, or ....

Of course he reminded me it was his birthday month (frankly, undistinguishable from all other months now). Then, he said, "Watch this!" and snapped in his Invisiline braces.

"I'm doing that!" he said. "Every minute I have my braces in I'm working on my teeth."

His teeth are straightening out quite nicely, but it is making him tooth-proud. A few months ago we were eating out and he gasped.

"What is wrong with your tooth?"

"What tooth?" I ran my tongue over my teeth. They were all there.

"Your front tooth is chipped!"

"Well, yes, it's been chipped for years. Ever since I wore that TMJ tooth thing for a year. Part of my tooth broke off in it."

"And you never got it fixed?"

"Well, it's just a little chip."

"A little chip! You look like Honey Boo-boo's mom."

This was harsh, and he immediately took it back. He also took it back in front of everyone else we saw that day because I made sure everyone knew the extent of his evil.

Later he claimed that he was just particularly sensitive to teeth since he is suffering so much to have his teeth straight. (Not for vanity, he's doing it so his teeth stop shifting and cracking.)

I mentioned this past week I have a dental appointment Monday morning.

"OH!" he said, "To have your tooth fixed?"

Well, no, doofus, to have a cleaning, but since I am so snaggle-toothed I guess I'll check in to it.

A Rose For Mac, by William Faulkner

Tonight, Gary was unloading some groceries.
"Vegetarian lasagna?" I asked.
"It's Mac's favorite," he said.

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

Gary wants to leave the house as it was when Mac was here. He wants to believe Mac's just around the corner, napping. I haven't been allowed to pick up Mac's dessicated food. His water is pretty close to evaporated.

There's a sad little can of dog food in the fridge. It isn't going anywhere. I'm not going to be the one to throw it out.

Gary's not the only crazy one. I haven't wanted to Scooba the floor. I like seeing the little scabby spots by the chair legs.

It's been lonely here all week without a dog to converse with.

I suppose we'll get some closure when they call to say the ashes are ready.

Pre-C Word

Remember when Gary had that colonoscopy? He had two polyps, both of the angelic variety? They cut them out, did biopsies, and they were pre-cancerous. BUM bum BUUUUUUUUM.

My take on it was, "Awesome, you've had pre-emptive cancer surgery."

His take was more complicated. Somehow he held these opposing viewpoints in his mind simultaneously:

"Gah! Now I have to have colonoscopies every five years!"

and

"What if the pre-cancer comes back in three years instead of five?"

So, I suppose we could schedule him for a colonoscopy ... in what, four years, if five is too soon and three is too short?

Actually, I'm very pleased with him.

Slither Gets Two Thumbs Up From Gary

After I spent four hours sorting and cleaning and consorting with mouse crap, I arose from the basement to find Gary watching Slither.

He roared over the sounds of non-stop screaming, "Sit down and watch this movie with me! It's a great movie!"  It was then I decided to donate his weight set to Goodwill.

Right now as I type this the movie finished and he is yelling about how great it was.

Oh, now he's in my room. Live blogging.

"They were nuts only giving it three stars! It wasn't stupid at all! It was ... elegant! It was an elegant movie. You HAVE to watch it with me. It bears watching two or three times." 

I'm watching that movie as soon as he helps me clean up the basement.

Them's Some Fancy Sprouts

One thing I ordered from the gourmet store was guanciale, a fancy italian bacon cured pork jowl. I have read of its unique taste and how you can only get it at the best shops. Yum! The Emporer's New Pork Jowl! That jowl has my name all over it.

Guanciale is best known as the carbonera in Pasta Ala Carbonera, but I didn't want to first try my hand at something so fancy. Instead I tried Martha Stewart's Brussels Sprouts recipe.

Yeah, I did what Martha said, even the ice bath so it would stop cooking at just the perfect moment. Well, I didn't have any ice.

So here's the guincale.

Weird stuff. After a few minutes of cooking the white fat turns see-through. Of course, I was afraid to taste it.

I think I might have overcooked it a bit.

Mac came by and said, "Is that guanciale?"

When it was all done I pulled out a bit and tried it.

It really was different. Kind of like unsalted bacon crossed with barbeque burnt ends. Gary said he thought it tasted like burned pork chop fat. (But Martha said crisp, damnit!)

I don't care even if it was burnt, because I've got eleven more ounces of this. I can fake it till I make it. On the subject of faking: my spice rack is even more awesome than before.

 I hate that all the spice companies went round after I set up my spices. Now I've got a spot for the round.spices too. And yes, I'm inclined to just remove mustard entirely.

I Say Yes, Yes We Are

Friday night:  I cleared out everything in one third of the basement, and Gary put together one half of one set of shelves. Though I tried to help, I couldn't wrestle the metal beams together the way he did.

Saturday: We both hurt a good deal. We agreed we should take three months cleaning up the basement. So, that new timeline gives us until the end of March. Wait - March is his Birthday Month. Well, end of April then.

Sunday morning: Gary got out of bed, stood up, and his back went out.

So, then we had this conversation.

Gary: I should NEVER have put together those shelves without wearing my back brace. I am an idiot. What was I thinking?

Me: I was at the end of my strength yesterday toting all that stuff upstairs, and I barely made a dent in the pile. I think it's clear we need to hire this out.

Gary: NO.

Me: Angie's list seems to always have deals on man hours of labor. We could just -

Gary: NO.

Me: Why on earth not?

Gary: BECAUSE WE ARE NOT PATHETIC.

Gary doesn't realize it, but he said that while gripping his cane, all bound up in two back braces like the Michelin Man.

Later on I began comparing him to Mom. In addition to denying his infirmities, he was pulling a very Mom move: using his cane to drag a heavy piece of furniture across the floor while insisting he didn't want any help. SO Mom. QUELLE Mom.

I suppose I could subcontract out my part of the work on the downlow. I am happy to admit I am pathetic.

We Are Very Continental

This morning I:

Ate English muffins and drank English tea.

Watched Downton Abbey.

Went online and ordered Swedish cheese and French butter (and Belgian butter and Spanish saffron, German bread, and Italian Guanciale).

Of course, Gary is enjoying the continent as well. He has left Maxim behind in favor of a "Swedish magazine."

Click here for the cover.

"All the text is in Swedish!" he said, excitedly. That way I suppose he won't feel guilty for not reading the articles.

I think he believes that FHM is a Swedish magazine, and the Americanisms (like the title being "For Him Magazine") are a poorly-translated affectation to make it seem exotic to the Swedes.

But, who am I to stand in the way of his beliefs? My tea and muffins were made in the US, I am sure.

A Christmas Miracle

I brought Gary to the Home Depot where I showed him the shelves I have lusted after for over a year. He also fell in lust and a three-way with the shelves is planned for this weekend. Or, a seven-way, because we got five sets of shelves.

Boring, you say? No. Imagine them on wheels, baby, because that's the plan, giant shelves on five-inch wheels so if the basement walls spring a leak we can just run everything to the other side of the basement.

So, 2013 is the year of the Basement Purge, the Basement Gutting, and the Basement Roll-o-rama Redecoration.

Shelves on wheels, bitches.

Of course, part of the Christmas gift is also helping me with the gutting and purging. But with five shelves, we can just shelve everything.

(Gary made so many references to putting dead bodies on the shelves that the Home Depot delivery scheduler threatened to make a note of it in the memo field.)

Christmas Gift From Gary

Well, the day has passed without an actual gift. He suggested a gift of Technology, but I refused to let him buy an Apple TV. I fail to see the purpose for an Apple TV if I have a TiVo. Movies? I can download any movie from Amazon right to the TiVo. I understand I can see my computer monitor on the TV, but frankly my monitor is right here and the TV is across the room.

So, I'm in trouble. I am pleading for shelves for the basement, delivery of the shelves, assistance in putting the shelves together and in cleaning up the basement. Gary wants rolling shelves like his computer cabinets at work. Techno cabinets. Of course.

So, gift negotiations continue. I'll keep you updated.

 

Gary's Taste In Magazines

Since he got his own iPad, Gary's magazine selections have morphed from Life & Style and Us Weekly to Maxim.

Sadly, he was only a Maxim man for a few short weeks, during which he told me dirty jokes he had read in Maxim and showed me several erotic photos of cheeseburgers and martinis.

This past week he subscribed to Elle and Vogue. I think this is to throw me off the Maxim scent.

Is this typical of male menopause? A sudden interest in haute couture?

Alanis Jilts Gary

Sometime this summer I asked Gary, "Hey, do you want to go see Alanis Morissette in December? She's playing a show with Train and other people."

He responded, "YES YES WE LOVE ALANIS!"

"Even since she sold out and stopped howling her songs?"

"Yes!" And then he downloaded one of her concerts and played it obsessively, like he played the Music Man last year.

Well now she's canceled!

And oh, talk about howling. Gary caterwauled when he heard. "What? How can she do that?"

I don't kinow, Gary. She just played a boycotted show in Tel Aviv. Maybe we were too dull after that?

I still want to go, even sans Alanis, but Gary may be too hurt. They still have Train, Gavin DeGraw, Grace Potter, and Tristan Prettyman.

Colonoscopy Update!

Two things.

One. I knew that polyp looked to angelic to be cancerous. It is offically non-cancerous, just as it looked. I think my colon was just bored.

Two. I mentioned to Gary this morning that after five days, the Colon Factory has resumed normal operations and is again producing poo, so, "My colon isn't pink and perfect anymore. It's all mucked up again."

A realization crossed Gary's face. "Oh, no," Gary said, drolly. "I missed my chance to put my penis up there."

Yeah, you did fella. And that window won't be open for ten more years.

Cootie Pits

Today I was able to fit in my 2 minute shower after Gary's 45 minute shower. I showered while he was toweling off. In fact, he'd just finished toweling off while I applied some deodorant.

Then, instead of capping the deodorant, I handed it to him because he needed it next.

"AARRRGGHHH! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!" That's exactly what he said, and he cringed to get as far away from the deodorant as possible.

What I SHOULD have done was turn the little dial on the bottom, ratchet up some deodorant goo, and swipe it all over his face. Instead I backed up and put the offensive deodorant down.

"What is your problem?" I asked.

"What do you think you're doing, handing me that thing right after you used it? Put the cap back on and I'll get it later. It needs to ... cool off," he finished lamely.

So. This is why they make women's deodorant. Because of the hot armpit cooties.

Deer Dong! Deer Dong!

Here we are assembling the illuminated robot reindeer.

He wanted me to retake the photo because in the FIRST one he had a pervy look on his face.

Ornament

Gary and I buy each other an ornament to signify the past year.

So, what symbolizes this year?

or maybe

oh wait ...

...I found it

A frozen cheetah! We were once always on the go, now we are immobile, hanging in space.

 

Enough with Food

About half of my plans for staycation involved restaurants I've always wanted to visit but never have (Niche, Half and Half, Broadway Oyster Bar, Favazas, Triumph Grill) or returns to favorites (Farmhaus, LiLuma, Blue Owl).

Two things have kiboshed these plans.

1) Gary has made it clear that even a vacation thirty miles afield is too much stress. We've learned that we work best if a) we eat in familiar locations, b) I drive, and c) he buys stuff to relax. He bought himself a new PC and an iPad. "But you have iPad," you ask. Yes. Yes, I do. Multiple iPads for one household. Given that the only other thing that relaxes him and cheers him up is Baileys, I don't mind.

2) There was a charity event on Sunday where one could taste unlimited wines, beers and food from area restaurants. We ate everything. I'd estimate we ate 35 tiny servings of vegetable lasgana, beef wellington, scallops, polenta, pork belly, risotto, gnocchi, pate, braised short ribs, just every precious foodstuff you could imagine. There were at least three pork sliders alone. My favorite was the ice cream sandwich made of espresso bean cookie and bacon fat ice cream.

So now I never want to eat restaurant food again. Just yesterday we were blocks from Niche and I had no desire to visit.

Gary Advises His Mom

I woke up today and Gary was turned around in bed so his head was at my feet.

Later, he explained my snoring was getting to him, and allegedly I also had gas that alternated with the snoring.

"No. I did not." I said indignantly.

"You did. It was like SNNOOOORRREE pooooott SNOOOORRRRE pooooooot."

"That's impossible. Besides, if anyone was doing that it would be you."

"It's okay, hon. It wasn't as loud as the snoring. That was really loud. I just got in the sixty-nine position and then I couldn't really hear you."

"Well, it's better than sending me to the guest room."

"I told my mom about the sixty-nine position and that's the only way she sleeps now because Dad's snore is so bad."

"Well anything you say is genius to your mom. Wait. What?"

"I told her about how she can sleep in the sixty-"

"You WHAT?"

"Oh, I didn't put it that way to my MOTHER. She wouldn't have any idea what that is, anyway."

"Are you sure? It came out pretty easy just then."

"No! I said flip around and sleep head to toe."

(I'll bet you anything he did say sixty-nine.)

The man is insane.

These are the LEFTOVERS.

My Emmys

Best Opening Credits: I Was Impaled

AhHAHAHahhaAHAHAaaaa ...

I've only seen one episode, but while I love the logo I'm afraid that of the three impalement stories only one was what I would consider an impalement. Lady with a spruce tree in your neck, yes, you were impaled. Guy who swallowed a fishing lure, okay, you were a dumbass and swallowed the lure. Spruce tree lady didn't swallow the spruce. And guy with a bullet behind his eye, no. You do not belong. I roared at the screen "YOU WERE NOT IMPALED." You can't be "impaled" by a bullet that ended up rattling behind your eye. Wait for the Discovery Series "I Have Something Rattling Behind My Eye."

The Winner in the New Category of Gossipmentary: Dark Matters

So, is science just too analytical for you? Do you think, ooo, if it nuclear physics were just more salacious?

Would you like this guy to make everything sound DIRTY? Louis Pasteur! Dirty AND a murderer of little children! Edison! Dirty and a thief! The CIA? DIRTY PERVERTS.

Wonderful show. Great show. Gary screams when it's on. He does the same to Mad Men and Boardwalk Empire, so what does that say?

Lifetime Achievement Award: Iron Chef Japan

Allez Cuisine!

I have no patience for Iron Chef America and the ersatz heir of Chairman Kaga. Give me the original, above. Gary and I have rediscovered this show and its ability to make Gary scream. Scream this out loud and make your voice go up one note for each accentuated word: "LARD made out of the FAT from UNDER the MANE of a HORSE?"  Only now we have the iPad and I am required to research this. (They almost immediately threw in crab brains so I didn't have to report on horse mane fat.)

I have no interest in any of the new shows on the other networks this season. Some Glee spinoff? Some Modern Family spinoff? Yawn.

Dental Horror

A few weeks after Gary had his wisdom teeth pulled, he complained they were growing back. I was skeptical until he pulled his jaw back to show me the sweet little row of eeedie-biddie tooth nubs along his gum line.

"It does look like your teeth are growing back."

"Stupid teeth! The dentist NEVER told me that could happen!"

I was already on Google. I didn't even finish typing "grow" before I found that "wisdom teeth growing back" is a popular search.

An aside: I do love that finish-your-sentence feature Google has now.

Evidently, the teeth only look and feel like they're growing back. Instead, the fragments of tooth and jawbone left over from a rough extraction creep up through the gums and sprout like tiny barbed tongue-snagging hooks.

In the future I will know to Google "bone spicule" instead.

Gary is growing a shark mouth, poor baby.

He went back to the dentist today and had her pull them out. Horrendous pain. And a new one is already fighting its way toward his tongue.

Can you imagine? That did not happen to me when I had my wisdom teeth taken out.

 

Goose/Geese

A Cooper's hawk has been treating the in-laws to a slasher film set on their own front porch. Little birds pop their heads out of the hedge, Cooper's Hawk eats them, Ken swings his cane at them. This has happened before, and we got them a fake goose to scare the hawk, and then the goose was raptured along with the Jesus sign.

The replacement for that goose is gone too now. Of course, Gary ordered a new goose on-line. It arrived in a comically enormous box.

Gary dragged the box in the house. "This is so heavy."

I said, "Maybe it's an animatronic goose."

He opened the box and cried, "Look, it's two geese!"

He pulled out a goose, exposing a third goose hidden below. And it was a box of chocolates, with two layers of geese, and an additional bottom layer of heads and legs, and it turns out there were four geese in all.

Gary said, "Oh, that's why it cost so much! I thought $130 dollars was a lot for one goose."

Gary assembled the geese at his parents.

He screwed a lot of geese that day. But now the in-laws are set for geese. They have a flock.

All flocked up, as it were.

StubHub, or Burying the Lead

I love StubHub. Gary says it's unethical.

StubHub is a legal scalping site. (It would seem that, technically, scalping is only illegal when it happens right outside a theater). Gary is terrified that I'm becoming a Republican since I work for TeddyJ, now this Stubhub controversy makes me defend the free market and supply and demand.

Of course, legal isn't good enough for Gary, we must all play fair. And that's why I love him. Here's his issue: say for example Major League Baseball sells out all the good tickets to Busch stadium for the season. They hold some back, and sell them on StubHub as an authorized ticket reseller. That way, people who didn't think ahead can buy tickets for a premium. They do that on their authorized MLB site too, only they call it variable pricing.

Of course, Gary feels a price is a price, and I understand that. We don't negotiate. He tried briefly to negotiate for the mattress but that failed almost instantly. We're always on the demand side of supply, and the supply point of view sounds like "I've got this thing, and it's fucking golden. I'm just not giving it up for fucking nothing." 

So when I heard Paul McCartney is coming to Saint Louis, my fingers flew straight from Twitter to the alleged venue - a Jazz club called The Loft. Waitwhat? That was a strange link. I can find no evidence of that on Twitter, but I could swear that's what the RFT told me.

A little more research and I found Sir Paul would actually be at a larger venue: the hockey stadium, but even so tickets would go fast. (They went in 30 minutes when they officially went on sale Friday.)

Strangely, on Tuesday StubHub had tickets, even before the tickets went on sale. Even before the presale. And it would seem that's all legit. I didn't question why; I just bought the tickets as fast as I could. I'm on the side of the stage, but third row back. Here's hoping Paul moves about.

Yes, there was a premium. A 40% premium. Stubhub got 10% for themselves too. Be quiet, I'm spending the vacation money I'd saved up. And if some Ticketmaster employee just made a killing, that's fine with me. Besides, I've heard what McCartney tickets cost in other cities, and I'm right on the money.

Now, a day later when I realized Louis C.K. was in town and his $65 tickets had sold out, I didn't buy tickets on StubHub because they were at a 500% markup, and that is just wrong, especially given that Louis C.K. is against charging more than five bucks for his comedy. Go here and get some comedy.

But what do you think? Feel free to agree wholly with Gary, I don't care, I'm going to see Paul McCartney.

Why I'm In The Guest Room

Gary says I have developed a new type of snore. Not the restful "sawing wood" snore he can fall asleep to, but a syncopated snorffling noise that keeps him awake. He needs his sleep. To that end, he has sealed my mouth shut with a Band-Aid.

His mouth is taped shut too, but that's because the air hits his teeth and it hurts him. The pain keeps him awake, and then there's my snorffling noise on top of that, and he's a wreck.

So we were both in bed with our mouths taped up (kinky) and the dog started to noisily lick his paws. I wanted to say, "Mac, stop that or Dad will put a Band-Aid over your mouth," but I was taped up. You know the laugh that comes out when you have to suppress a funny thing in your head? The one that hits you at funerals and business meetings? I shook with laughter for five minutes. If I could have said it aloud I wouldn't have even smirked.

Eventually the dog stopped licking his paw, Gary fell asleep, and the dog fell asleep. And snored. And then snorffled. Gary woke up and poked me in the back. This was too much. I pulled off the Band-Aid.

"It's not me, it's the dog. He's the one making the noise."

Gary said, "MMMFFmmf mmf mmmmmf."

"Listen. It's the dog."

"MMMMFFMMF MMMMMFF MFF."

So now I've been exiled to sleep in the guest room.

 

Birthday Month Fail

The plan for last Saturday was to go to the International Festival in Tower Grove Park. This was an attempt to do something new, see new things, eat new foods (smoked meatloaf at the Shaved Duck right by Tower Grove).

Bored! Bored! New! New! New!

No, no, no.

I didn't think it through. We started too late, we parked too far away, and then at the end it rained on us, so Gary (who does not believe in evaporation, it would seem) insisted we could not eat at the Shaved Duck and must go home and get out of the wet clothes.

So instead, I consoled myself with NEW food at Taco Bell (warning: the cantina bowl is laced with cilantro) and the memory of my one NEW experience:

I did get to pet a two-week-old water buffalo.

Gary's Traitorous Pants, 2012

Gary called me from the Chinese Food place, but immediately began talking to the cashier. Thus, the conversation went like this:

Me: Hi hon.

Gary: (to cashier) I had the garlic chicken, special fried rice, and moo shu pork.

Me; Chinese! For my birthday! Thank you, hon.

Me: Hon?

Me: HEY.

Gary: What? I wasn't listening.

Me: Chinese!

Gary: How did you know?

Me: I heard you on the phone.

(This is why I assumed his phone had gone rogue and butt-dialed me. He didn't seem aware I was on the phone, but he insists he deliberately called.)

Gary. Okay, well, see you soon.

Then he evidently put the phone in his pocket without hanging up.

Then we had about three minutes of deja vu, just like all the other butt-dials from Gary: Woosh woosh as Gary walks to the car, Ding Ding as he gets in, me screaming GARRYYYY GAAAARY.

This time, though, I knew he was close to home, so I decided to listen to whatever he had on the radio. He never turned on the radio. Instead, he began having one half of an fairly animated conversation.

Gary insisted, "I can guarantee them backup stability with one hundred percent confidence if they'll just do that."

Then a long pause.

"Oh, your father worked for the government? How did they deal with that?"

Another long pause.

"Well, a three-hundred MILLION dollar system, you would think that would be important. Three! Hundred! Million! Dollars!"

I started to wonder if he was having a work conversation on the Blackberry and somehow the wires were crossed. But, I'd never heard the start of a conversation. I wondered if a mime was in the car.

He kept talking about work systems and backups until I heard him signal a turn, then the garage door went up and I realized he was alone and not on his phone.

And I laughed and laughed. I admit, sometimes I will be in the car alone, fantasizing about whoever has enchanted me lately, and I will think of something particularly witty and I say it aloud. I'm always surprised when the words made it out of fantasy and into reality. Then, I thank my stars no one else was in the car. Or, you know, on the phone.

I could see all the rest being just Gary working things out loud about his job, but where on earth did "Oh, your father works for the government?" come in? Where was he in his head? Wearing a tuxedo at a diplomatic ball? He claims to not remember saying that.

I'm going to let that lie. Because frankly, if you're in an imaginary tuxedo flirting with Angelina Jolie and all you've got is "I can guarantee them backup stability," then yes, I think I'm okay with that.

I Know It Seems Harsh, But Who Would Miss A Mike Birbiglia Show Because His Teeth Hurt?

Mike Birbiglia said "That's nice..." when I asked him to sign the book for Gary.

Hoarding

I only wish they were magazines I could be proud of.

Vacation? NoWaycation.

I have pinned Gary down about vacation plans. No vacation until the dog dies. No vacation for both of us, that is. I can go some place on my own, if I "must." I'm afraid I must. Actually, Gary should go on vacation for his health, but the dog's health is paramount.

First off, in some ways that makes everything much more economical. No dog boarding fee. No Gary airline fee. B&Bs are an option. Cold weather is an option. Renting an apartment for a few days is an option. Taking taxis. Gentleman Hosts.

I think any trip alone would need to be shorter. I wouldn't want to be gone a week. But Maine in August sounds very fine.

Gary Buys a Birdbath: The Director's Cut

Gary came home today and complained about my previous post. I left out part of the story. It was edited for time and content. Gary wants me to include the edited content.

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

When Gary decided we would be getting the granite bird bath and the sandstone bird bath, he went out to get the car, and the people manning the store (a man and a woman) began to shift the chosen bird baths toward the door. The man picked up the sand stone dish and put it down on a waist-high pile of birdseed bags.

Then he hefted the obviously heavy sandstone pedestal on his shoulder, staggered a bit under its weight, and bent over till it fell off his shoulder on the seed bags.

"Wait wait wait," I said, "That looks heavy. Gary can't carry that. His back is bad. He's got a back brace on right now."

"Oh this one isn't heavy," the man said, "That one is heavy." He pointed at the granite bird bath. "That one weighs 80 pounds."

"Wait wait wait," I said, again, "We have to see if Gary can move that."

"We can get it in to your car. No problem," they said, and I thought, yeah, no problem for you, that just means Gary's back won't go out in your store.

By then Gary have driven up and was reconfiguring the Fit into pickup truck mode. I waved him into the store.

"Gary, prove to me you can pick up this bird bath." I pointed at the sandstone pedestal.

He hefted it with ease.

"Now this one," and I pointed to the granite bird bath.

"Wait, let me buy them first," and he headed up to the counter because he wanted to get that cumbersome money out of his pocket.

"No! No! Don't buy it if you can't move it!"

So, Gary went over and shifted the piece of granite on the ground and said, "Oh, no problem." Then he settled up, and of course he had no idea what the prices were, and still didn't bat an eye when he heard the total of ###.## dollars. "Separate bank accounts," I said to the woman, as I always do when Gary buys recklessly.

Then the man and the woman both put on rubber gloves (the better to gain purchase) and in unison hefted the 80 pounds of granite out to our car. They assured Gary he could just slide the hunk of granite out of the car; he wouldn't have to lift anything.

So, as soon as the staff of the bird store went inside, Gary began to laugh and said, "Are you insane? I'll never get that thing out of the car. It must weigh 100 pounds. We'll have a ###.## dollar dead weight in the back of our car."

"What? What? You just - I just made you - why didn't you "

"No, it's okay, we'll just park the car on the front lawn and lift the hatch, then we'll just fill up the bird bath and then the birds will get their water."

Of course, when we got home I offered to help him lift, but Gary determined that would be too dangerous because I would get in the way. Instead, he felt I would be more useful opening doors and listening to shouting.

He was able to maneuver the sandstone dish and pedestal to the back yard without help, but the granite bird bath required more effort. I hid. That's what I did. I knew there'd be exponentially more yelling.

Then, Gary went in to the garage, got two 2X4s, and positioned them to make a ramp from the hatchback down to the lawn.

The neighbor across the street was on the way to the grocery and asked, "Hey man, can I help you out?" (I wasn't there, I'm reconstructing this from Gary's reports.)

Gary said, "No,man, the wife bought this god-awful heavy bird bath, and now I have to get it out of my car somehow."

Guy across the street said, "Here, let me help you," and hopped out of his truck.

Gary said, "Careful, man, this thing weighs 200 pounds."

Somehow, they were able to lift the bird bath on to the ramp of 2X4s and then slide it down the ramp "like butter." Gary said it was "surprisingly easy."

From there, they two of them were able to heft the bird bath onto a planter's wagon.

At that point, I came out of hiding and found to my delight the deed was done entirely without my attention. "Look at you," I told Gary admiringly, "You big strong man."

The guy across the street laughed a bit loudly at that.