Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

River Cruises

The Viking River Cruise brochure arrived in the mail, and this time, instead of snorting at the idea and throwing it away immediately, I opened it, just to see how much the prices had been discounted. Not that I would think of going, just to comfort myself that there might be a viral silver lining.

Evidently the prices are not discounted at all. I suppose that’s because they are restarting after being stalled since March, and they need to fill the coffers. Plus, anyone who thinks the pandemic has ended, and goes on a cruise, Given that the pandemic started on a cruise, that person is probably deluded enough to pay full Viking River Cruise prices.

The prices are still insane. This from the woman who paid $25 for a raw eight ounce steak.

 

 

 

Fifty-eight

Yesterday I turned 58 years old.

In a strange incident a few days ago at work, my imminent birthday was mentioned and the Young People at work said, “You mean your ‘27th’ birthday, right, Ellen?” 

I was perplexed. Are people still doing that nonsense where you don’t acknowledge that you left your twenties? Plus, the joke is the eternal 29th birthday, not 27th. 

Then, later, because they are Young People, they texted me “Happy 27th birthday” wishes. 

I texted back, “I look really bad for 27.”  Which is true. God forbid a person in their thirties look like her face has slipped its tethers and is floating on top of her bone structure, soon to be dragged inexorably down by the repetitive swing of her wattle.

Balancing the sprouts of grey and the frown line are skills I never dreamed of at 27.

Progress and the Lack of It: Novel Edition

So, other efforts have been progressing at a rate of three-steps-forward-one-back, while Jerry’s novel has been a baby gripping the coffee table.

I’m not too concerned with how slowly it’s going. (You too can play the guitar in only 13 years!) Still, I wonder why the shiny new hobby isn’t taking the place of the painting and guitar hobbies.

I think the painting hobby appeals because it fills my head entirely. If I’m deciding what color to put where over and over for hours then there’s no room for anything else, and I find it very meditative. After a stressful day I run to the basement to dwell on nothing but runs of color decisions. Essentially, it’s an adult coloring book.

The guitar has the opposite appeal: it doesn’t require decisions at all. It requires muscle memory and just enough attention to follow notes in a page. It’s best for me not when I’m stressed, but when I’m stupid or sad. I just go from one note to the other without thinking about it. And then the notes float away, unlike the paintings, which mock me from their stack in the basement.

The novel, though, doesn’t help with stress or stupidity. It’s ... it’s like work, like programming, not a hobby. A thousand pieces that need to fit together, and you better start with an schema and specs or else you are doomed. 

In addition, I feel obliged to work on the novel, not free. It’s not a hobby if you have to work on it. Then again, I wonder, if Jerry had left a guitar, would I have felt obliged to play the guitar? (Of course I would.) Still, having the art supplies from my Aunt Dolores was a similar inherited obligation, and I got over it.

Then again, the only thing that remains of his original novel are the names, the settings, and the descriptions, so all obligations are gone. It isn’t as if I’m finishing his unfinished novel. It’s all mine now.

Hobbies are supposed to be fun. Are they really, though?

Progress and the Lack of It: Guitar Edition

Well, I have made some gains on my guitar. (And it only took thirteen years or so.) I find now that I get a better tone if I press lightly on the strings and play softer. I can very slowly play any song in six keys up through E Major — not quite the five-sharp pinnacle of B Major, but close enough. 

Of course, because I am perverse, any success makes me take a step back, because how else would I find that frustration that I evidently live for? 

All these new keys have been in the open position, which is limiting. (Open position means there are six notes out of seventeen you can play without doing anything with your left hand.) I really should start playing the more difficult positions.

Then again, instead of leaving open position, instead I could focus on playing a mix of chords and notes and see if I can make the chords sound less clunky. That does mean I probably won’t be able to play “Alcohol” or “I’ll Be That Girl,” which is a shame, but the other Barenaked Ladies songs will sound better.

So, as always, three steps forward, one irresistible step back.

Progress and the Lack of It: Body Edition

Process and progress seem to be my focus lately. 

I’ve been watching what I eat, because the early pandemic carbo load took a sixteen pound toll on my body. I am five pounds down, but no more than that. I reassured myself that I felt less blobby, Gary affirmed that I am less blobby, so I felt the de-blobbification had progressed enough that I could try on the clothing I wore eleven pounds ago. Specifically I tried on 1) the jeans I bought the week before the global pandemic, 2) the pants I bought the night before the global pandemic, and 3) the pre-pandemic fat pants. 

(My Global Pandemic Day Zero is the day we got the simultaneous text message / cell call / landline call from TeddyJ saying the office was closed and we should work from home.)

1) Jeans - stretchy, so they zipped up. Snug around the knees. 
2) Pants - I filled out the pleats but they came over my rear with some wiggling.
3) Fat Pants - fat pants fit, thankfully.

I need to remember Progress for me is three steps forward, one step back. Looks like I evaluated my progress on a day I was stepping back.

 

Life in the Big House: the Miniseries

Gary has a journal.

(He chose this journal because he is a goth tween.)

We had a conversation after it arrived. 

He said, ”I think this has magical powers. I had a headache and then I smelled my grimoire and now my headache is gone.”

”Smelled what?”

”This. My grimoire.” 

”Not a real word.”

”Yes it is! Grimoire.”

I looked it up, fully expecting to see it was coined by J.K. Rowling, but it is a word, and has been a word since the early 1800s, no less. 

He plans to use the journal to document the plots of his very involved dreams, though he refuses to refer to it as a dream journal.

On page one he has written “PLOTS” in large letters. Page two is the first “plot” in which he is driving a car, and it falls into a lake, and when it hits bottom it crashes through to a void. He woke up while he was rallying the other void victims to escape. 

Because he’s a lucid dreamer, his plan is to dream in miniseries style. Before bed he’ll read the latest entry in his grimoire, which will be his “Previously seen on” recap, and then carry on with the dream to see what’s next.

As I always say, this ability he has to control his dreams really freaks me out.

Weekly Paint Progress: 8/6

This week the crypts went from this ...

... to this:

... and the flowers went from this: 

... to this:

Not much happened there. A little detail on the two pink and white bottom right flowers and I tried the handle again.

Amendments

My brother and I were discussing politics, and catastrophizing, and speculating on how long it takes to pass an amendment to the constitution, say an amendment to make Presidential terms be eight years instead of four, or one to abolish the electoral college.

A question came up — how long does it take to amend the Constitution.

Per Wikipedia, the shortest and longest spans from proposal to ratification are the last two amendments, in the 70s and the 90s.

Amendment 26 sets the voting age at 18. (If I recall, the argument was that if you are old enough to enlist in the army and die for your country you are old enough to  vote.) From proposal to ratification? 100 days. The Supreme Court ruled on what the Constitution said about voting age, Congress said, “Well, change the Constitution then,” they proposed the amendment, and the states voted on it in 100 days. Can you imagine? 

Amendment 27 ensures that no bounder can 1) be elected to Congress, 2) enact a law to give himself a million dollar salary, 3) rake in millions before possibly being voted out. It was initially to have been part of the Bill of Rights. I suppose the idea was laughable in 1789 when it was proposed, but quite reasonable in 1992 when it passed, 202 years later. (The story of how it was revived and passed should be a movie starring Timothee Chalamet as the student, Daniel Radcliffe as the TA, and  Swoosie Kurtz as the Professor.)

Quite a range -100 days or 200 years. And don’t forget, some people argue the Equal Rights Amendment is still in play.

My Birthday Month

It is my Birthday Month. During my Birthday Month I supposedly win all arguments. So far I have not won any of the arguments we have had. 

Our current argument stems, again, from Gary’s determination that he alone can work on the house. He is the Noble Repairman; outside repairman are not to be trusted. His biology degree authorizes him to  install toilets or fix patios as well as anyone with experience.

For example, the threshold to the back door is rotting, and I no longer think it is an exaggeration to say that we will soon have a threshold made of duct tape. 

And now, one of the two toilets is leaking. I am feeling quite dismayed because he feels that if there’s a leak, you patch it. I feel that if there’s a leak, you find out why there’s a leak and stop it. 

Right now he is patching a leak in the plumbing, and soon he will come to me looking for praise. Praise for patching after I had to beg him like a housewife to get the problem fixed. 

Infuriating.

Plant Update

The stacked container herb garden has become very lush, though it is a challenge fighting through the growth to find the tags that show what I’ve actually planted. I’ve had some caprese salads that were partially made with mint in addition to basil. 

The three tiers of plants at bunny-level have all been nibbled away. The spinach next to the rabbit hole remains untouched, of course, bastards. I added some of “their” spinach to a salad I made yesterday.

I intended to plant some bare-root strawberries in the tower as well, and foolishly ordered strawberries without researching them first. I was mislead by the wild strawberries that infested Mom’s shady backyard. It’s a weed, I thought. All I grow are weeds. Bugleweed, Creeping Jenny, Trumpet vine. I can grow strawberries.

Yeah, no. Even plant experts have trouble growing strawberries. First, you plant them in the spring or fall, you plant them in special soil with a special Ph, you mulch them with pine needles, you amend the soil with sand, oh my god. 

But, I can try. So I planted the bare root plants into the special strawberry bags and planters, sans pine needle and sand and nitrogen. The next steps are sun and water, and if everything goes miraculously there may be strawberry flowers next month that I shall pinch off if I dream of getting strawberries next year. Which, frankly, I don’t.

Seriously. This is strawberry hospice. Lots of tending with no hope. 

In Which We Stimulate the Economy

Last week we learned the US Gross Domestic Product declined dramatically.

Do not blame me. I spent five hundred dollars on groceries last week. I am stimulating the economy as much as I can. 

There were some purchases that would be alarming in any circumstance, like when you have to replace the bottle of olive oil. I think the small bottle of olive oil is usually $12 a bottle, which is why I use the corn oil to clean the paintbrushes, but this time it was $15. Has to be done, I thought, and that bottle will last a long time.

I ordered cherry tomatoes and they substituted a fancy medley of orange, yellow, and dusky red cherry tomatoes, which were delicious, but a dollar more. Screw it, I thought, there’s a pandemic. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

The weekly eight ounce strip steak cost 16 dollars, though I believe it is usually under ten. But why not get it anyway? Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we could quite literally die.

I have never paid six dollars for a box of butter before, but these are strange times.

Ten dollars for a package of bacon comes out to 84 cents per slice of bacon, which is not bad at all, right? 

Besides, Gary’s potato chips were more than than half off, and we stocked up. Four dollars of savings right there.

After all my rationalizations, the total with tax came to $440, and delivery was free, as one would think. When my heart resumed beating came the decision to tip the shopper the recommended amount, which was $63. Small price to pay, I thought, what else am I just going to spend my money on? Gas money? Vacation? 

Well, if it means that I can contain the Covid and stimulate the economy, I don’t mind being gouged. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Covid Cardinals

Oh, Lord, that was fast. When 18 of the Florida Marlins were found to have the Covid, I think we all said, “Florida. Of course.” Because we expect a little extra excitement from Florida. If there is drama to be had, that’s where it will be. Then the Phillies Coach and a staffer got it, but no players.

Sadly, the next team infected were the Saint Louis Baseball Cardinals. Now this is personal.

They haven’t said which two tested positive. I can say if it is Yadi or Waino (or horrors, Yadi AND Waino) there will be rioting in the streets. There will be flowers piled outside Busch Stadium and black versions of the Cardinals logo and the Weatherbird will send get well wishes. 

Supposedly they are only postponing one game and moving it to Sunday. It will be part of a doubleheader in which each game is only seven innings long. Another weird part of a weird season. I’m ready to cancel already.

The Vote

Less than one hundred days until we vote. Here are my voting options in the state of Missouri:

Hold my breath and stand in a big cloud of Covid. People in my area don’t mask up. I am certain if a mask was required in order to enter the polling place it would be stripped off once inside, and if required inside, our residents would complain that masking was a new Jim Crow law designed to stigmatize loyal supporters of the President. Masks or not, they could argue that social distancing will create lines long enough to discourage in-person voting, where most of the covid-denying president’s supporters will be. It’s the reasoning I would use if our loyalties were reversed.

Vote with an absentee ballot. Absentee ballots require a reason. I was surprised to see that Vulnerability to Covid (over 65, immunocompromised) is a valid excuse this year. But of course, how do I prove I’m immunocompromised? If they just take it on faith, it could later be called into question. And of course, it doesn’t feel good that absentee ballots will probably be counted only after the race is called. It would be as if I lived in California or Hawaii - sure, my vote counts, but not for the purposes of the media and the “calling” of the election.

Vote by mail. This intrigues me. The governor signed a law for this year that if you order a ballot and get it notarized, you can mail it in. I’m pretty certain that will be contested too. And - doesn’t that negate the whole idea of a secret ballot? If it’s like other things I’ve had notarized, they have to witness you filling it in. I have no voting secrets, but it’s another irregularity that could end up putting the result in the courts. 

I’m worried that if the vote is contested, that will delay the results, perhaps past the day they certify the electors, thus keeping Trump in office. So it’s possible that the Safe Harbor rule they argued in Bush v Gore 2000 would keep him in office if he tries to drag it out, right? And he loves dragging things through the courts.

I just heard former Republican chair Michael Steele say that absentee voting and voting by mail are the same thing. The difference is that in my state (one of 16), you can vote absentee in person early, and absentee requires an excuse and generally mail-in requires a notary, though for the August 4th election I read that if you have an excuse you don’t need a notary. I think we’re just going to bundle up and vote in person. God, this is going to be awful.

Weekly Paint Progress: 7/30

This week the crypts went from this ...

... to this ...

This week I need to compare values. Those bricks will be knocked back. I am not straightening a single line. Done to death with that.

The flowers went from this ...

... to this ...