Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Putting the TMI in absentminded

  • Floater

    It’s been a month since this dust bunny cobweb floater showed up in my right eye. After my first visit to the ophthalmologist (a month ago) I was told to take it easy (for a month) and come back (in a month).

    In four days the flashing was gone, so I thought in another week the floater would be gone. And now it’s been a month and the floater remains.

    Still, I’ve found a way to cope with it. I focus on something, anything, and it fades. It springs back when I move my eye, unfortunately. But for a moment it’s gone.

    It’s just like my tinnitus: when that starts up I listen very hard, focus, and it starts to fade. It goes away for a few days. The floaters only go away for seconds … but then they are back, skating along, especially when I’m trying to read a physical document like an old letter.

    The ophthalmologist said something interesting: the floater is a actual physical clump of cells from the back of my eye, not just some crossed signal in my optic nerve. That is comforting.

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  • Rewriting the Novel: Self-sabotage

    I have not touched the novel since November 2024. If you had asked me in the past few months why I wasn’t working on it I would have said that there was an entire chapter that was only five words long and I didn’t have the heart to gin up an entire chapter.

    Spoiler: If you clicked that link above you’d notice that I had finished that missing chapter before November 2024. Missing chapter all done. Somehow I forgot I’d done it.

    I didn’t know that last weekend. I steeled my heart to create Missing Chapter 6. Then it occurred to me I could get AI to make some suggestions that might inspire me.

    I looked to see what Chapters 5 and 7 looked like, and I had AI make some suggestions for how I could create rising tension in my five-word-long Chapter 6. Then I looked at Chapter 6. Words were there. Thousands of words. I wrote it: it was just forgettable.

    Those thousands of words were almost exactly what AI suggested, which was disheartening. However, I am following the Save The Cat format, and that’s what happens in Chapter 6: tensions rise. I picked the same threats as the AI, and per the AI it’s all even “better” if the narrator is in denial (which she was in my chapter too).

    Still, I do have one thing I didn’t have a year and a half ago, and that’s a little file of random concerns that hit me out of nowhere. Like, why doesn’t the heroine ask her Native American friend how to make the tortillas that are destined to be winged off the church roof in what is the only scene that AI probably couldn’t anticipate? Perhaps I told myself I was making assumptions and following stereotypes. Or probably not.

    I mean, our heroine even goes digging under her friend’s house for beeswax right after the tortilla conversation. The friend’s not home, sadly, but even if she had been I might not have given her credit for any tortilla skills.

    It’s as if I had a huge tortilla-sized blind spot.

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  • Review: Taskmaster

    Friend Anne recommended a British show: Taskmaster. Anne is my symphony and opera-going friend, so I was surprised when the first episode involved vomiting. I was not interested after that point.

    The premise is that a very tall snarky man invents tasks that the season’s panel of comedians must perform. Afterward they are judged, often unfairly. There is a shorter male assistant who is regularly insulted, who in reality is the brains behind the operation.

    One of the tasks in the vomit episode (Season 1, episode 1) was to eat as much watermelon as possible (hence, vomiting). Anne assured me they worked out the kinks by season 14, which features the bawdy beloved Sarah Millican. Even the credits are better. Opening credits in early seasons have the taskmaster grimly typing the tasks, while in later seasons he types more maniacally. Plus, later seasons rely more on contestants’ divergent-thinking abilities. I enjoy that.

    I went rogue and watched on my own what was said to be the “best” season, season 7. It seemed to me that one broke a bit out of the mold. Contestants rebelled against the Taskmaster. People seemed legitimately angry. One had to be whisked off stage and mildly scolded by a concerned Taskmaster.

    So, IMDB says that’s one thing to watch out for: the quality of the show depends on that season’s contestants. Of the two I watched, I preferred Season 17 over 7.

    Also, as a result, I refer to all tall men as “Taskmaster” now.

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  • TWIL: Sitophobia

    It sounds like the fear of sitting, doesn’t it? But no, sitophobia or cibophobia is the fear of the pains that eating might cause. Pains like nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, and one might imagine, fear of an oozing red rash.

    I don’t know if Gary has sitophobia. He discovered the term when he found himself cooking his sweet potato/chicken/squash/ apple juice concoction but then refusing to eat it until it had been refrigerated overnight. I thought, “Sure, the flavors have to meld, like a chili or stew.” But no, he was having irrational thoughts that a freshly made mixture might kill him if it didn’t get a chance to … settle.

    Right now he has three tubs of it in the fridge, settling. He eats a tub every other day, and I think that’s a while to keep chicken in the fridge, but it is possible he will cook the chicken and add it separately.

    He did pass Structural Organic Chemistry, so maybe his subconscious knows about some dangerous time-delayed chemical reaction.

    It is concerning, though.

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  • Opera at the symphony: The Magic Flute

    Magic Flute at the symphony was delightful.

    First, I wasn’t expecting the conductor to have a role. Just so surprising to have him peek over his shoulder, then turn around and address the audience about the nonsense happening on stage.

    Second, the Queen of the Night aria was remarkable (which it is meant to be, it’s this one) and the woman who performed it just nailed it. The couple next to us even applauded and the man yelled “Brava!”

    They had been silent till then. I think they had been debating whether one should follow Symphony Clapping Rules (no clapping until the end) or Opera Clapping Rules (clapping after the arias) or Harsh Opera Clapping Rules (clapping only for stellar performances). (I follow Groundling Opera Rules (hissing at villains, clapping for everything, whooping and clapping for children, no Bravos or Bravas ever).)

    Third, the best part was early on as the Three Ladies were chastising the bird-catcher for his lies, and they sang something like, “May God shut the mouth of the liar.” There was a micro murmur of political exhaustion, and then we all burst into applause in the middle of the song.

    So add First Amendment Clapping Rules to the list. No doubt the Liar will send ICE to visit St. Louis next.

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  • Are work phones still a thing?

    The boss asked what I thought was an odd question: “How do I contact someone when all I know is their telephone extension?” I answered that she should dial 1, area code, first three digits of the main number, followed by the extension.

    ”No,“ a co-worker said, “That won’t work.” This co-worker is my age.

    ”No,” I said, “I just did that to call a friend last week to commemorate his ten-year work anniversary.”

    ”Did he pick up?”

    ”I left a message.”

    “You do know they got rid of the phones a few years ago.”

    I looked at the corner of my desk. True, there was no phone there. “Well,” I said, “I lost my phone when we moved floors. That just means my calls come through the computer now and the software forwards it to my cell.”

    ”What software?” The software, evidently, that my old computer had and his did not. My software said no one had left me a message since 2024.

    I asked a young person how he made calls to co-workers.

    ”Calls?” he said, “Like on a phone? I don’t do anything with phones at work.” Then he looked at me as if I thought Marge and the girls were manning the switchboard in the basement.

    I truly cannot imagine how a company can run this way. What happens when I get a new computer and the software is gone and calls no longer forward to my cell? What happens to all those doctors’ forms that ask me for my work extension?

    Most of all, why does everybody’s email signature include their work phone number? It’s not like we can text an extension. Or can we? I don’t know anything anymore.

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  • Weekly Paint Progress: 2/19/2026

    So this is the previous…

    This is the progress …

    And this is the goal.

    Well, the white blotch on the front center looks more and more like bird poop. Also I might have to just go to square one on the bottom left corner.

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  • Mom Revelations: Teeth

    Mom and I both were cursed with pointy protruding canines.

    Mom chose to have hers pulled and capped. When she aged, and her teeth dimmed, the caps did not, which was a little unfortunate but not a big deal.

    I always, always assumed she changed her teeth after the divorce to improve her appearance, in the way of most divorced women. But the letters tell another tale, a tale in which my biological father is further proved to be an asshole.

    First, Jerry brings home his stunning blonde perfect “friend” Suzanne.

    Mom complains that she is jealous, not because Jerry is acting untoward but because said new friend is beautiful and Mom is a normal human.

    Evidently, then Jerry says, “Well, let’s have the dentist cap your weird teeth,” and Mom agrees.

    Then when that’s all done, Jerry announces he is in love with his Technical Friend Suzanne, therefore Mom, a non-Catholic, must file for divorce to free him so he is not forced to commit adultery.

    Awful. I mean there’s a whole narrative of “Maybe I could tolerate you if you fixed your smile … oh, no, that didn’t work …”

    Thankfully, Mom takes her new dazzling smile to Saint Louis and snags my Dad, Dan.

    Go back a paragraph or two. I am still shaking my head at Jerry’s Henry VIII level of nonsense. Mom’s lucky she got her teeth removed and not her head. What about the sin of, I don’t know, committing “divorce” in his heart? I still can’t get over that familiar hair-splitting bullshit, and I know it’s because I recognize that urge in myself.

    (The other reason I can’t get over it is that every time I put in my aligners I look for the pointy plastic teeth to see if I’m holding the top or bottom set.)

    Still, what an awful man.

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  • Wattle Watch 2026

    Longtime reader(s) (joke courtesy of Big Dot) — you will remember that I have tracked my wattle as far back as 2008.

    Last week I glanced at my reflection in the Phone and thought, “Well, that isn’t too — Oh, Jesus!”

    That bit at the end was when I caught sight of the Wattle.

    The Wattle has changed. It isn’t as plump and fatty, so that’s good, only now it is a withered pelican pouch, no longer full of fish. Withered wattle.

    Wattle through the years:

    Wattle in real life with judicious cropping and chin elevated:

    All I have to do is lift my chin up an inch every damn minute of every day.

    Also, look at how wrinkled my fore-ear is. I had no idea THAT was going to happen.

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  • Neuro visit Feb 2026

    Here I am, clocking my six-month visit with the neurologist Gary and I share.

    I’ve been communicating with the doctor’s office on my husband’s behalf to straighten out some dosing confusion brought on by Gary’s exponential math.

    I also spent a little time discussing Gary’s rash and joked that I might just switch him to a new dermatologist without telling him, and if Gary said anything I could blame his sketchy memory. I added, “But I would never do that.” The doctor remarked that no worries, the AI wasn’t recording. Pretty funny.

    (Perhaps unrelated: I was astonished to discover the next day that Gary has never made me a HIPAA-approved contact. I can see why: it’s really important to him that he has medical autonomy. He doesn’t want someone checking him into the hospital against his will or checking him out of the hospital because they didn’t like a diagnosis. Or putting him in hospice, maybe? I respect that.)

    Anyway, the doctor and I did talk about me and my MS.

    I think my only complaint was some pervasive fatigue and lack of concentration. That earned me:

    • A reminder that I am not in a wheelchair.
    • A prescription for Provigil, which is a stimulant. (Yet not an amphetamine or caffeine. “Like Qat?” I wondered.)

    Another excellent doctor visit. Just one more trip to the ophthalmologist and February doctor visits are over.

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