Here’s the previous:
Here’s the progress:
Here is where I started this round:
When it was originally this:
This does not bring me any joy. This toy bank makes no sense to me.
Putting the TMI in absentminded
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Thursday Paint Progress: 8/27/2026
No comments on Thursday Paint Progress: 8/27/2026
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This never happened to Gregor Mendel
Back on July 5th I anticipated the results of the cage match between first generation and second-generation hyacinth beans. The previous year they had just begun to bloom on August 8th.
For the past few weeks since August 8th, I have intermittently shouted at the arbor, ‘WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHY WON’T YOU BLOOM?”
I wanted to see the pink or white Old Flowers contrasted with the purple New Flowers. But no. Nothing is blooming.
I thought that perhaps I’d catch the groundhog tasting just the flowers like he did with the morning glories, but nothing is even getting close to the flower stage.
I’ve ordered some nitrogen to encourage blooms because the verbal abuse is just not working.
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Eye Ick
I knew I was in trouble when the ophthalmologist began reeling off a string of code numbers for the technician to transcribe. 5-D-8-inner. 8-D-2-mid.
Then she turned to me and said, “Well, we’ve discussed your dry eyes before.”
“Yes,” I said. I remember I was surprised, because I don’t feel like I have dry eyes, but I have been assured it is an issue.
‘Well,” she continued, “your age and your dry eyes and your immune system all combine to make your eyes an ideal habitat for mites.”
“Everyone has mites,” I volunteered, thinking, honey, my husband is the expert on gross things that live on your face. This is not news to me. I was very cool about it.
“That is true. You have a lot of them, though, in your lashes.”
“Oh, the ones that cause blepharitis?” I said, casually. (See me using “blepharitis” and not just saying “eye styes.” So cool, so casual.) “I had two styes already this summer, but just a damp washcloth gets rid of them in a day.”
“And they will keep coming back,” she said, “unless you get rid of the mites that are causing them, and that requires a medication called XDEMVY. It is quite expensive, but if you need financial assistance you can apply for a grant.”
“Okay,” I said, thinking, coolly, I will not need a grant, madam, I can pay to kill my own mites.
And I continued to be cool UNTIL TODAY WHEN I READ FURTHER MITE DETAILS — specifically, how I went from a normal number of mites to Mite Overpopulation.
I go to sleep, and when the lights are off, this happens:
Mr. Mite crawls out of my eyelash pore or face pore (either will do).
Mr. Mite takes his penis (YES) which is inconveniently positioned on his BACK (YES) and through artful maneuvering inserts his BACK-PENIS into Mrs. Mite’s vulva (which is by her legs, as it should be). I first imagined Mrs. Mite might do a handstand inside my pore so her private parts protrude and then Mr. Mite might roll on her, but in reality they both climb up on an eyelash or face hair.
And then he ejaculates. THIS IS NOT COOL. I draw the line here. NOT. COOL.
If the positioning doesn’t work out then Mr. Mite’s baby mite batter just dribbles down the hair into my pore (AGAIN, SO. NOT. COOL.) and impregnates his wife in an indirect and disappointing way.
Then the babies are birthed into my pore, and New Mommy and Daddy Mite crawl onto my skin, and there they die. I am cool with that.
Even worse, when it occurred to me that the mites are not legally wed, that it’s just a mite Fuckfest On My FACE every night when the lights go out, just a back-penis / pore pregnancy FaceFuckfest, that was when I made plans.
Plans:
- Do not turn out the lights at night.
- Call to see if the eye doctor has submitted the prescription yet.
- Get this image out of my head. It is a skinny mite penis. (See it below centered in the white dashed circle by the arrow I added because mite penises are very small). (Original non-annotated Image can be found on the IFLS web site.
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Mystery beep
Last night Gary and I began hearing a beep from the basement, like a smoke alarm beep, but quieter. Gary immediately said it was a bird cheeping or a cricket and to ignore it.
At 3:30 a.m. I could no longer ignore it. I went all over that basement and I was only able to identify that it was in the window side of the basement where we have the sump pump, freezer, HVAC, and my paint supplies. If I stood by the sump pump it came from there, from the furnace if I was by the furnace, and so on.
I finally came upstairs and did enough research to convince myself it was the chemical battery backup warning chirp from the sump pump.
The next morning I talked to Gary’s Ego about it.
Me: “Gary, I tried, but I just couldn’t identify where the chirp comes from. I have a theory, but I don’t want to tell you what it is, because it sounds goofy. I want you to go downstairs and tell me what you think and then you can tell me if I was wrong.”
Gary’s Ego: “It’s a bird.”
Me: “Well that might be right. Or it might be something else. I won’t know unless you look.”
Gary’s Ego: “All right, but I’m telling you right now it’s a bird.”
As I listened to Gary shuffle everything in the basement, I realized we now had two chirps: the original chirp and a softer, less regular chirp. So it was shuffle, CHIRP, chirp, grunt, CHIRP, grumbling, chirp, on repeat until suddenly a scrape of plastic, a “GAAAHH”, then stomp stomp stomp as Gary came up the stairs.
Gary appeared in my doorway and yelled, “IT TOOK ME HALF AN HOUR TO FIND THIS DAMN THING,” followed by a deafening “CHIRP,” followed by, “YOU CAN’T JUST THROW A SMOKE DETECTOR IN THE TRASH.” And then he pulled a smoke detector from behind his back and held it over his head and shook it at me. CHIRP, it added.
“But, it was expired,” I said. (To be completely honest I have no recall of throwing away the smoke detector, whenever that was, but you know how it is, the only thing in that trash can was a series of empty paint tubes from the past two years. No paint thinner, of course, because I am very careful about fire.)
“WHERE IS THE NEW ONE? YOU CAN’T GET RID OF A SMOKE DETECTOR WITHOUT BUYING A NEW ONE.”
“Evidently I did.” This is when I began to laugh every time I heard either the Smoke Detector CHIRP or the Other Now Even More Concerning tiny chirp of Unknown Origin.
“WELL I GUESS I’LL JUST HAVE TO STICK IT IN THE CAR AND DRIVE IT TO THE RECYCLING PLACE AND THERE IT WILL JUST BEEP ETERNALLY LIKE THE –” He gestured upward.
“Yes! Like the lunar rover,” I said, because it was clear what he meant, even though I don’t even think they left batteries in the Rover or if it even had a warning beep. “Well,” I added, “I was really worried it was the backup battery in the sump pump –“
“DO NOT TOUCH THE SUMP PUMP I DON’T WANT YOU TAKING ANYTHING OUT OF IT AND THROWING IT AWAY.”
And just then the quiet chirp went off again. We looked at each other in horror, then Gary calmed down.
“Oh, that’s the mockingbird! It’s outside trying to imitate the smoke detector, that’s why it’s so much quieter.”
I don’t know if that was true, but it is true that I haven’t heard chirps of any kind since Gary recycled the smoke detector.
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TWIL: What Degenerate Art is
At the Mucha exhibit I thought I spotted an Art Nouveau poster in which Alphonse depicts a man instead of his usual idealized flowy-haired woman but it turned out it the poster was of Sarah Bernhardt dressed as a man.
The docent said that Sarah B and A. Mucha had a purely professional relationship, and I believe I said “Sure …” I might have thought, “Sure, Bernhardt slept with every other talented man in Europe except for the artist for whom she posed for hours on end. Sure.”
The docent shared some more of Mucha’s history, including what the Nazis thought of him, and that was “his art was …” And then she stopped.
I said, “I know what you are going to say; it starts with a ‘D’.”
“That’s exactly it,” she answered, “We are thinking of the same word. It’s Deeeeeeee — “
“Deeeeeeee …” I chimed in, clutching my head. “Deeeeeee … ”
“Degenerate,” added a strange man standing four feet away. I will never forget this man, this kind man, so generous with information it surpassed his reticence, who regrettably will forever be known to my heart as Degenerate Man, because he vanished in to the crowd immediately after.
I realized later I might know the term “Degenerate,” but not why the Nazis classified some art as degenerate.
All I know of Degenerate art is that my favorite piece previously housed at the Saint Louis Art Museum was “Geste et parole ” by Dubuffet, and it was also labelled Degenerate by the Nazis.
So both the above and below are Degenerate.
On further reading (of Wikipedia, let’s not kid ourselves) I found the answer: degenerate art is simply modern art. Both of the above examples are stylized, non-representational, modern art. Art “Nouveau”, not Art “Same Old Same Old”.
Some forward-thinkers might like the new style of art but the populace can’t understand it. So the powers that be say it’s degenerate.
Has the US gotten there yet? It looks like President Trump is busy enough editing actual history to bother with the techniques used to represent history.
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Sheet hack
When we bought the new bed at the Mattress Firm, we also bought a sheet set. (Sleepy’s deluxe cool stretch. I tell you this because you are going to want to know in a moment.)
When I went to make the bed I was trying to puzzle out where the top and sides were on the fitted sheet, as you do, because it’s impossible, and I found a sewn-in tag that said, “Side” and another that said “Top or Bottom”.
Praise be to whatever recent generation pulled themselves out of fitted sheet despair, I thought. All the sheets today must have this. But no, evidently, only the Sleepy’s sheets at Mattress Firm have this.
I now think the Mattress Firm needs to have daily showings in which they jackknife one of their adjustable beds, and then easily position the fitted sheet on the first try, and then easily flatten the bed so it all goes taut.
However …
Amazon sells little snaps you can add to your existing sheets.
I think I might need to buy some for the new twin duvet and duvet cover. That was a half hour struggle to get that set up.
And technically, don’t I just need one corner? This is a pack of 12 – for the person who has 12 king beds in one house?
I will report back.
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Gary health update
Gary got a good report from the dermatologist and is feeling better.
I was not allowed to go with him to the doctor, but — if Gary is to be believed — the doctor says he looks great and he should keep doing what he’s doing.
What he’s doing is living off protein shakes. But his good nature seems to have returned.
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Thursday Paint Progress: 8/20/2026
Here’s the previous:
Here’s the progress:
When it was originally this:
One more sweep to get the values right and then this will be buried deeep in the stack.
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The remaining photos
This is where my room was:
This coffee was the only familiar food I ate. The rest was paella and ramen and Palestinian food and of course that huge meal the first day.
I also went to see the Mucha exhibit, saw comedians John Mulaney and Mike Birbiglia, touched a sea urchin at the aquarium, and toured the Arabia sunken steamboat museum.
You have to respect the candor and Quality Assurance.
Then I came back home to Gary, my charmer.
Screenshot
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Tech struggles: Phone struggles
I tried to up my phone game as well as my transportation game. Two mitigated successes.
Early failure, then success: I did have to try two times, but eventually I got my Apple Pay to work. I didn’t realize I needed to open the Wallet app first to use Apple Pay, it seems like I’d just be able to … just use it. I got there, though.
Early success, then failure: I set up my phone to act as my room key. (The imstructions were somewhere on the Hyatt page.) It worked the first time I was in the elevator alone. And then, miraculously, it worked when I was the the elevator with Young People and they said, “How did you do that with your phone?” Were they pandering to the old lady? Maybe. Sadly, it did not work as well the next day.