Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

A Quandry

When we bought my wedding ring set, the so-called salesman said, "her fingers are so small that anything over a 15 point diamond will look vulgar."  I did not want to appear vulgar, so we went with the 1/7th of a carat diamond.

It is not so small that I didn't notice when it went missing. 

"Oh Gary" I said, "What if this is an omen?"
"What? An omen you're getting a bigger diamond?"

Happily, a short search found my diamond sitting on the bed waiting for me. (It was not adhered to my ASS, where some find missing items.) However, now that my ring can be repaired, there are two issues:

1) Truly, this diamond did not dwarf my tiny 22 year old fingers in a vulgar fashion. Well, now I am old, I am vulgar, and my fingers are no longer small. The 70 pounds I have gained since my wedding all went to my fingers. That, plus the bulging guitar muscles in my left hand required the jeweler to cut the ring off, and I have to take a few weeks for my muscles to return to a non-corseted shape.

2) In that time, I have to decide what to do. I've always been firmly against women I know who upgrade their diamonds on a regular basis. Horrifying, I said. Vulgar! (And they are getting those vulgar diamonds over 1/7th of a carat. Distasteful.)

Okay, so here's my ring:

Objects in the photo are smaller than they appear. The diamond on the right of course is the center diamond, which looks respectable lying on its side, and you see the molecular chip of a diamond that floats above and to the right of the center setting to its left. I have no sentimental attachment to the chip. I'm thinking I should ditch the chip, put the 15 point diamond there, and get a different diamond for the center.

But that is WRONG. Not as wrong as what jewelry store guy suggested, which was to buy a whole new ring because "It would probably be cheaper." (Pause to look at my aghast face.) "Well, except for the sentimental attachment, of course."

But still, something says you should always keep your original ring to remind you of who you were. I am torn. Sentiment says, "Do a historically accurate restoration." Reason says, "Now is the time! Upgrade!"

I should also mention for our 10 anniversary Gary got me an anniversary band of nothing but five 15 point diamonds all lined up. It is delightfully vulgar. It is now also cut off but can be re-connected and re-sized for a mere thirty bucks.  [Mawkish sentimentality alert] At the time, I said that since it was our tenth anniversary, there should be ten diamonds. Gary replied that the five diamonds meant he loved me five times as much. Then he realized that he was committing there, he backed off with  "No, it doesn't mean that ... Uh, there wouldn't be enough diamonds in the world to show how much more I love you!" saving himself from any later diamond=love requirements.

So, wake up, readers. What should I do? Upgrade? Or a historical restoration? I am torn. Give me your views.

Let's Hear It For the Boy King

In 1977, when I was in Jr. High, King Tut toured the states and visited Chicago. All of us in the Florissant Junior High Gifted and Talented program got to go on a field trip to Chicago and see the exhibit.

The Florissant Gifted and Talented students shared a bus to Chicago with the students from the Hazelwood Petty and Conventional program. After travelling in a bus with the Hazelwood jocks and cheerleaders  for six hours, and standing in line at 6 am with the gifted yet Hyper and Affected Florissant students, I was sick of every one of them. When the doors opened at the 7 am (just for students), everyone ran into the exhibit and headed for the right. I was trying to avoid everybody. (Seriously, who runs in a museum?) Since everyone ran right, I went left, and thus went through the exhibit backwards. They saved the best room for last so that's how I came face to face with the Death Mask in an otherwise completely empty room :

No, that's not actually me, but believe me, that's the glass box, that's the 70's, and that's the mask. Nothing in the room but me, the glass box, and Tut. I didn't think, "Wow, I'm really here looking at the King Tut mask," like "Wow, I'm really here at Stonehenge." I also didn't think, "Hey, isn't there supposed to be a guard here? Why am I all alone? I could take off with this."  I thought, or felt, like I was having a private audience with King Tut. There is something fundamental about being in a room alone with art. I understand the man who stole the Mona Lisa and kept it under his bed because he could never sell it. You feel like it's yours, all yours, just you, and you don't have to share it. You and history.

That mask was on the cover of one of our books at home and I couldn't get over how ageless and graceful and truly artistic it was in person.  No photo can do it justice. I  stayed there fifteen minutes, staring, almost breathless, studying ever detail like the crack in the lapis lazuli on the left, before I heard the thudding feet of junior high students. I waved a tiny "Bye, Tut" wave and skedaddled.

I went back later and of course there were people all around my Boy King, and it wasn't the same. It won't ever be the same, because as this link with a much better photo of the mask states, the mask was damaged during that 70's tour and now can never leave Egypt. (I didn't do it. It was damaged when I saw it, I swear.)

Still, if I recall correctly, there were plenty of other gorgeous things in that exhibit and plenty of lesser masks. I don't mind the Egyptians keeping my mask safe; I'll go to Egypt one day and see him again.

Tall, Grande, InterVente

So, tonight I placed my order at the drive through, which answered: "Okay, we'll make your decaf-tall-four-equal-two percent-cappucino, but we're cutting Gary off."

Evidently Gary had been through just an hour before.

The Baristas of Sarcasm made his raspberry mocha but left the above editorial on his cup.

Nearing the End of The Chemistry Project

This is what happen when mini M&Ms react with the deadline for the Chemistry Project and are catalyzed by Catherine's post for today:

Meme Du Month

I am so behind on memes! You have all been doing this for years. Here is an old meme:

TEN Random Things You May Not Know About Me:
I was born with an extra thumb that was cruelly taken from me at 2 months. I'm allergic to egg whites, penicillin, and sulfa. My first act as a fertilized egg was to divide incorrectly, leading to a simple sacral dimple. I took fencing in high school and disarmed my opponent while he was laughing at how awkward I looked. I Delivered singing telegrams in a superhero costume and balloon boobs. I suffer from cankles. I can't swim. I was supposed to have been named Amy Faye until my Aunt Carleen dismissed the idea. I don't like my vibrator. Oh wait, you already know that. I went to a grade school without interior walls. I taught high school English for one (count it! one! how many is ooonnnneeeee...) semester.

NINE Places I've Visited:
London, Maui, Toronto, Cancun, Detroit, Chicago, Orlando, San Francisco, Washington D.C

EIGHT Ways to Win My Heart:
Dance in the living room with your mother. Clean up my messes. Be embarrassingly honest. Tell me I remind you of Jane Eyre. Laugh at me. Volunteer information. Buy me pastry. Be hard on me.

SEVEN Things I Want to Do Before I Die:
Visit Mission Control in Houston (or else let it go already). Have a legitimate reason to wear 18 button gloves. See King Tut's death mask again. Go back to England with an appropriate wardrobe. Visit the coast of Maine. Build built-in bookshelves and a window seat. Learn to dance.

SIX Things I'm Afraid Of:
Snake tongues. (I'm cool with snakes until they flick their tongues). TV snow. Getting water over my head. Mirrors. (I didn't look directly into mirrors until I was 12. I always sneaked a hand in first, then the arm, then I could look at myself). Dark alleys. Random natural disasters.

FIVE Things I Don't Like:
Getting my teeth cleaned. Exercise. Nagging. Officiousness. Country music.

FOUR Ways to Turn Me Off:
Whine. Rant. Grab. Vegetate.

THREE Things I Do Every Day:
Sleep. Eat. Pick at my cuticles.

TWO Things that Make Me Happy:
Independence. Toast Racks. (A silver rack just for your toast!)

ONE Thing On My Mind Right Now:
There's just one more day before the Chemistry project is done!

This is a Discovery series waiting to happen

Sciencewoman here with a Science Update:

Eucerin Anti-Reddening Cream? A total SHAM. The right side of my face looks just like the control (also know as 'the left side of my face.') A follow-up experiment featuring Alpha-Hydroxy made the right side of my face break out, so it was suspended. To give them credit, acne probably does make me look more youthful.

In other biology news, I did a little research on cilantro (hack). (Oh yes, I hate it too, Diner Girl, Catherine, http://ihatecilantro.com/stats.php, et al.) In my cilantro (cough) studies I chanced on Silkendrum's post on cilantro and her casual assertion that some people can't smell asparagus pee. Has anyone heard of this before? Is it like the coroner's ability to smell arsenic, only it's an inability to smell an odor? Are there truly some people who have no idea what asparagus does to them? Or, possibly, is Silkendrum just messing with me?

Back to cilantro (spit). Dislike of the c-word is so passionate that many point to a specific gene to justify it, because such hatred is contrary to their good natures. If so, does this cilantro-hating gene run in families? (Yes, I'm asking you, Queen Mother.)

It all reminds me of the day I made cinnamon bread in the bread machine. Gary said "yum," whereas I spat it into the sink. I took it to work to find out definitively who was right: Gary ("yum") or Ellen ("Must spray sink nozzle directly on tongue"). Luckily, my friend Lea was my cubemate and a microbiologist, and without tasting the bread she explained that she's had the same experience, and that we share an uncommon enzyme in our saliva. This enzyme combines only with cinnamon that has reacted with yeast and fills our mouth with the taste of rusty dirt. Cinnamon swirl bread is safe because it keeps the cinnamon and yeast from touching.

The sad thing is that I can't find a word of specific data to back up the cinnamon-enzyme hypothesis. Same with the cilantro-gene theory.

Remember, people, every dash of coriander is a cilantro plant that never lives.

What Their Body Language Says About Them!

Like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, this couple's body language says a lot about their relationship, as shown in this file photo from spring 2006.

She: You are my possession.
He: I like Dr. Pepper. I like my mom. Hi Mom.
She: Look at me! LOOK AT ME! I want you!
He: She is so my bitch. I am never shaving this beard.

Skeleton in the Closet Redux

So, back to Gary's closet Mormon relatives. Ended up he has another Aunt (Audrey) and it was her husband (a Mormon, a Mason, and a PhD) who died.

So, Gary was somehow elected to be in charge of sending flowers on behalf of his parents, sisters and himself. He's off work this week, so he took care of it and proudly told me about it when we went out to dinner.

"Well," he crowed, as pleased with himself as if he had just - I don't know - cleaned the HOUSE on his day off, "I got Aunt Audrey a fruit basket from Harry and David instead of flowers."

"That's nice," I chewed.

"And I put this great quote on the card. It's by William Penn. 'For death is no more than a turning of us over from time to eternity,'" he quoted verbatim.

"Lovely," I crunched.

"And then I put on the card, 'Have something to eat, you'll feel better,' and I signed it 'Love, the Ken S______ family.'"

"That sounds - What?" I choked.

"What?"

"Have something to EAT you'll FEEL BETTER?"

"Yeah. I thought a joke might, you know, cheer her up."

My mouth was open and my mouth was full and I did not care. I mean, why care about niceties like table manners when your husband has tarnished the reputations of his parents, his sisters, you, himself, all non-Mormons, all Missouri residents, and may I say all mankind? So, I am not dealing with it. If I see any of my in-laws and they say anything I'm going to say, "Aunt Audrey? No, Gary doesn't have an Aunt Audrey. I don't know what you're talking about."

Breasts vs Toes

When the Queen Mother took Dad as her consort, I was six. We moved into his bachelor pad. When he asked I wanted to be when I grew up, I said "I want to be a Playboy Bunny," because he obviously revered these women. They were all over the glassware.  (Dad promptly learned to hide the porn. Even after he died we kept finding these pockets of porn squirreled away in the AC vents, the crawl space, etc.)

Even growing up in a porn-friendly house, I don't get the male fixation on breasts. Why do they feel they have to stare at the one body part that doesn't move independently? Do men think my breasts will clap, wave, or leap out of my bra like dolphins? This isn't a whale watch. They aren't going anywhere.

Of course, I guess if you stared at my bosom long enough you could see it grow. It has been growing in a very hateful way the last few years. (The changing body issues I am having only bolster my contention that middle age is just like junior high.) I keep having to buy tops with higher and higher necklines because my cleavage is creeping toward my neck like a kudzu vine out to strangle me. And my mother-in-law pins my v-neck sweaters when I come to visit. I am not kidding. I am turning into Margaret Dumont.

This is why I am a fan of all these men in Finland, Russia, France and Italy who are out there Image Googling "Toes" and finding these babies. At least Toe Men are up for a challenge. At least toes move. That is why I am strongly considering becoming, if not a Playboy Bunny, an International Toe Porn Star.  There's no work on my part. Plus, my toes aren't aging. Have at it, gentlemen.

I'm considering the requisite pictorial spread. I see a toe bondage shot. A lesbian toe shot. Maybe the hard-core between the toes crotch shot, I don't know. Here's my first attempt: the standard "Oops! You caught me here all naked and unprepared! (giggle)" pose.

Sure, I COULD have painted my toenails, but that would detract from the cinema verite vibe I was going for.

Skeleton in the Closet

It amazes me how little Gary knows about his Dad's family. He can report his paternal grandmother was diabetic, both grandparents were 100% German, and all Lutheran.

And sadly, Gary's Uncle Gene has died. Uncle Gene was married to Gary's aunt Bernice, Ken's sister. This is definite. Gary HAS an Aunt Bernice. He HAD an Uncle Gene by marriage. And Ken IS his Dad. From there, things get fuzzy.

So Gary came in and said, "Well, that's sad. Karen says our Uncle Gene died."
I asked, "Is there a funeral?"
"No," Gary said, "He's Mormon and they don't believe in funerals."

I paused a moment, of course, and moved my mouth to see which of the many comments and questions would pop out first. Of course, what popped out was:

"Funeral Potatoes. There's a recipe. Mormons serve it at funerals."
"Hey, you're right!" Gary said.
"And, excuse me, did you say ... Mormon?"
"Yeah! Karen said she was shocked. She had no idea."
Again, so many comments, so little room in my mouth. I ended up saying:
"MOR-mon. You don't maybe mean ... Methodist?"
"Nope."
"Mennonite?"
"No, they even sent his ashes back to ... that big Mormon place."
"Utah?"
"That place in Utah."
"First, Salt Lake City? And second, MORMON?"
"Hey, I'm as shocked as you are. Mormon! Well, I knew Uncle Gene was a really nice man."
"Was your Aunt Bernice Mormon too?"
"No! Dad's family were all Lutherans."
"So, Uncle Gene was a Jack Mormon, one of those so-called 'bad' Mormons."
"Oh, no. He was a minister." (Pause of slow and horrifying revelation.) "...I guess he was a Mormon minister."
Sigh. "Okay. First. She converted because you don't have Mormon ministers with Lutheran wives. Second. He was a MORMON MINISTER and you just now LEARNED about this?"
"Well, maybe I have another aunt with a minister husband. I don't know!"
"Maybe? Seriously, maybe? How can you not know how many sisters you dad has?"
"My dad just doesn't talk about his family, not like my Mom. Wait. Bernice is the one who has a kid. She's my cousin. She's a missionary."
"No! A MORMON missionary? There's a shocker."

So, having pretty well determined that the dearly departed Uncle Gene ("Are you sure his name was really Gene?") is an LDS minister, we started to think what that might mean.

1) We have had Mormons praying for us, since we are blood relations of Mormons.
2) We have abandoned many potential Mormon baby souls in heaven.
3) This explains why I was successful making the Funeral Potatoes on my first try.
4) This explains why Uncle Gene's pants always kind of seemed extra lumpy.

Bathroom Humor

So, earlier this week the last of the three bulbs in the hall bathroom burned out. Gary said, "Hey, all the bulbs are out." Which meant, hey, change the bulbs.

Well, I didn't, because I have a secret way to illuminate the bathroom. My hall bathroom is equipped with an X-ray illuminator:

 

My brain is currently the featured exhibit on the illuminator, but past exhibits have included bones, wrists, spines and MRIs of various friends.

If you look closely at this photo, you can see the top of the jar Caroline's mom's gallstones are in, plus Libby's uterus and twins, plus colonoscopy photos from sundry friends and relatives:

Yet the cornerstone of my collection is the China Vagina:

I got that vagina for one dollar on eBay.

See, I told you my colonoscopy made me a little nutty.

Gary Bring News From His Family

Gary visited his family while I visited my mom today, and while things were exciting at the Queen Mother's as she gathered her servants, Gary reported the S_____ family was abuzz with chaos and other such goings-on. In particular, he had two crises to report.

Crisis Story #1: Karen, Mr. Wonderful, and their dogs George and Gracie were at the O'F______ dog show. Suddenly a giant pit bull knocked Karen (recent back surgery patient) to the parking lot and put Gracie's head entirely in its mouth! Mr. Wonderful pied the pit bull's mouth open and extracted Gracie's entire head. Karen and Gracie had to be taken to the hospital.

News Update: Later, it was discovered that Karen was not knocked down and did not visit the hospital. Mr. Wonderful did pry open the pit bull's mouth, and that is the important part. However, all the pit bull's teeth were worn down to nubbins, so little Gracie was only gummed by the pit bull. However, I admit that is still bad.

Crisis Story #2: Gary's eighty-two year old dad Ken was up on his roof cleaning out the gutters yesterday. Sure, he is EIGHTY-TWO, but he keeps it safe. He no longer walks across the roof, he scoots around on his rear. I am in favor of this. I can hear myself when Gary is eighty-two. "Get up there! Your father was cleaning the gutters at your age!"

However, yesterday as Ken was scooting around the rooftop it became a matter of shingles versus sweatpants, and shingles won. Ken scooted a big hole in his sweatpants. Faithful readers will know this is a problem, because Ken eschews frivolities like underwear. ("They're hot!")

So there was Ken, up on his roof sporting bare buttocks that were also bruised and  bloody. (And probably blackened.) I'm sure he considered just staying up there till cover of night, then sneaking down the ladder with his rear spurting fountains of blood. However, Wilma came out and coaxed him down.

Developing Story: This story is completely accurate. Ken's tushie is in bad shape and he may not be allowed up on the roof again.

Thank You, Mister Know-It-All!

Sometimes Gary astonishes me with his knowledge. For example, years ago we were waiting for the beginning of the elephant show at the London Zoo. I commented there were no stools on which the elephants could stand on on one leg, and he said, "They won't make the elephants do that here. This is the London Zoo. They are famous for their animal behaviour studies." (We were in England, hence the spelling.) I demanded to know where he got this information. Did he just read it in the brochure? No, he said, everyone knows that about the London Zoo.

It makes me so hot when he knows things I don't know. I'm not being vain. It's just when you go about joined at the hip for 25 years you have the same input, so you know the same things. So when he pipes up with something I don't know, it's like he's a whole new person. It's like we're on a date. Ooh, you are so smart.

Today we were watching a recording of The Daily Show which made a reference to Benny Hill. "Pause it!" he demanded, as he does when he has important information to tell me. "A lot of people think the Benny Hill theme song is English, but it's American. It's 'Yakety Sax,' by Boots Randolph." he declared.

He only tops this when he tells me details of his life he has never mentioned before. Such as:
Gary:  "Oh, that's just like the time I burned down my room in Jr. High."
Me: "Huh? Wha?"
Gary: "Oh, I told you about that." Then he relates this horrifying story that he should have told me on the first date.

Really, if you think married people have nothing to talk about, think again. I get the sense that someday he'll say, "Oh, everyone knows the Saharan Death Lizard can be used as barter. Remember, that's how I got my job at the CIA."

Balloon No-Glow

Well, I've been tongue-slapping Gary for not being spontaneous, so when I said Friday night "It's a beautiful night! Let's go see the Forest Park Balloon Glow!" I DID NOT REALIZE EVERYONE ELSE IN SAINT LOUIS said the same thing.

We started off at 6:30. Balloon Glow goes from 7 to 8:30. The traffic started here:

I think it was 7:45 when we got to the Park (big green rectangle on right. Bigger even than Central Park. Just wanted to throw that out.) We tried three different exits and could not even crawl in to the park. Finally at 8:15 we were at that desperate hysterical laughing phase and we whirled around and headed West  toward home.

Three times on the trip home we encountered highway construction that shut various highways down to one lane. (I'll SAY IT, paid for by my tax dollars.) We did not get to our neighborhood until nine, where we treated ourselves to some Starbuck's decaf coffee-flavored water.

So, in past years the balloon glow looked like this:

But the only glow we saw was this:

In Which We Almost Die

I was so tired today I came home from work and went immediately to bed on Caroline's orders. (And BY THE WAY, it is spelled "Caroline" but her mother pronounces it "Carolyn." How messed up is that? I briefly made her call me Eileen. This is also why we're pronouncing New Guy Matt's baby boy Kyler's name "Killer." But I digress.)

So Gary got me out of bed at 7 in the evening and asked if I'd enjoyed my nap. What nap? I lay in bed all shaky and tremulous just like I was when I woke up at six this morning.

"I was trembly too!" Gary exclaimed, shocked, as if he didn't always echo every twitch and  tic I have, and then raise me one spasm. Me: I feel bloated! Gary: (gasp) Me too! I had to let my belt out a notch. Me: I feel nauseated! Gary: (gasp) Me too! I feel like I'm going to vomit! (And BY THE WAY, Gary has never vomited due to his extra-long uvula resting since birth on his gag reflex. But. I digress. Might have to delete that. (pause) Neh.)

Gary clearly had to find some way we both could simultaneously (gasp!) have exactly the same symptoms. It only took a second before he intoned, a la A Christmas Story:

"We have - " (dramatic pause, and then he choked out -) "Caffeine Poisoning."
I laughed, "Hahahahaha." (Pause to realize he means it.) "HAH! HAHAHAHAAHA" (snort!) "HAHAHA!"
Gary insisted, "No, really! I'm serious. Check on the Internet and see how much caffeine it takes to get caffeine poisoning."

Well, five to ten cups a day, as it turns out. I keep telling him it drains out of your body when you urinate ("Gasp! I've been urinating a lot lately!") but he seems to think it causes permanent damage, so only decaf Starbuck's from now on.

Seriously. He is crazy. This is a cry for help.

My Two Cent Sales Tax at Work

I think I might be only person alive who loves paying taxes. I think this partly because I've always wanted a personal shopper. The way I see it, I give the Gubment a percentage of my money and they build a firehouse two blocks from my subdivision. I see this as my own personal firehouse. They saw I needed a firehouse right by me and they built me one.

(I say this even though I don't want to make the firehouse by Laumier Sculpture Park jealous - you will always be the only firehouse into which I have relieved myself. (I was headed for the woods and hello, firehouse! Knock Knock. May I use your bathroom? Why sure. Just go RIGHT THROUGH THE BUNK ROOM. Little single beds. So cute. So hot.))

I've given the Government money; they've built me not only firehouses but roads and bridges that get me to work 10 minutes earlier. They give cheese to pregnant women and do caring things I would never do, and they do evil nefarious things that make entertaining Michael Moore documentaries. They really only waste a small percentage, overall, on welfare fraud and the President's salary.

I try not to think about how a percentage of my taxes fund the war. When I think about the war I try to pay special attention to my nearby firehouse  (two blocks away), police station (4.4 miles), and library (even though it's dead to me).  I remember the Gov paid for freaky science sex experiments on Dwarf Chinese Hamsters that proved their ovaries were good places to grow my MS medicine. I go to the Arch and admire the steps they built to the levee, too late to keep me from rolling down the fifty-foot hill to the river when I was seven.

I've heard it proposed that Tax Day be moved from April 15 to September 11. Well, that's not true, I've never heard it proposed, but I'm sure someone else thought of it. Whoever you are, I think that's a great idea.

Forgive Me, O Library, for I Have Sinned

Gary and I bought another big stack of books at the Publishing Industrial Complex this past Saturday. In addition, I brought home some books I purged from the Queen Mom's Reading Room. This has unbalanced the book/shelf-space ratio, so now there are books lying on their sides on top of other books. Hideous! Like a mass grave!

I was a page at the county library, and when there weren't books to return to the stacks, the library books had to be neatened. You pull all the books on the shelf forward, take a straight edge (handily, like the ones found on the edges of books) and spine-whack all the books down the line until they are lined up neatly.

And now, the books in my home are all out of order, and I am fantasizing about lining them up (Dewey Decimal? Size? Color?), pulling them to the edge of the shelf and punching them back in line.

You think "Why doesn't she just check books out of the library?"

1) The same reason we don't use NetFlix. The PRESSURE! The pressure to have fun! You must entertain yourself or you are just wasting this book/DVD's time and keeping it from some more deserving person.

2) I don't have a library card. I kept a book out overdue for a year and when I returned the book I gave my card to the librarians.

"You don't have to do this," they said, "Lots of people have overdue books."

"No," I said bravely, "I don't deserve to have a library card." And as I walked away, one said:

"You can always come get another one if you change your mind." (She also thought - quite loudly - that girl's a whackjob.)

What she didn't know is that WAS my second chance library card. I had kept a book out two years when I was in high school. It was so overdue it had to be returned at the Main Branch. I vowed I would never check out another book. But we moved, and I registered to vote, and since I was at the library I figured, hey, I'm better, I can handle returning the books now. But no. Evidently I am weak.

This is why I have to purge / straighten/ spine-slap me some books this weekend. This will cause some conflict with Gary, who thinks the shelves look "delightfully" messy and disorganized.

Finally, speaking of books, I am greatly enjoying The Thing About Jane Spring, in which a lawyer changes her life to be a Doris Day movie. A keeper if you like Doris Day movies - such as my very favorite comedy, Pillow Talk, or if you routinely urge your husband to channel Doris when he sings his big Garyoke showstopper, "Everybody Loves a Lover."

Divorcee Soiree Playlist

Okay - here's the final Divorcee Soiree Playlist. I had to cull out songs that were too specific and thus not relevant (i.e. "I caught you cheating, you dog"), songs that were not available on iTunes (with the exception of "Go ahead and Split Mr. Amoeba Man") and songs that did not rock me. And songs that would not fit on the CD.

Bye Bye Bye - *NSYNC - *NSYNC: Greatest Hits Pop
Divorce Song - Liz Phair - Exile in Guyville
*Go Ahead And Split, Mr. Amoeba Man - Betty! - Hello Betty
Go Your Own Way - Fleetwood Mac - Greatest Hits
Goodbye to You - Scandal - We Are the '80s
Happier - Guster -  Lost And Gone Forever
Harden My Heart - Quarterflash - Quarterflash
Hit Me with Your Best Shot - Pat Benatar - Crimes of Passion
Hit the Road Jack - Buster Poindexter, Ivy Ray, Randi Michaels & Soozie Tyrell - The Bachelor (Soundtrack from the Motion Picture)
I Hate Everything About You - Three Days Grace - Three Days Grace
I Hate Myself for Loving You - Joan Jett & The Blackhearts - Up Your Alley
I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor  - Gloria Gaynor - I Will Survive: The Anthology
Lonely - Britney Spears - Britney
Motorcycle Drive By - Third Eye Blind - Third Eye Blind: A Collection
She Hates Me - Puddle of Mudd - Come Clean
So Long - Guster - Lost And Gone Forever
Survivor - Destiny's Child - Survivor
Through with You - Maroon 5 - Songs About Jane
**Top - Live - Throwing Copper
***Wind It Up - Barenaked Ladies - Barenaked Ladies Are Me
You Oughta Know - Alanis Morissette -  Jagged Little Pill  

* Medulla, I love Go Ahead And Split, Mr. Amoeba Man and the rest of that CD. It's like Manhattan Transfer meets Spike Jones and his City Slickers. (That was a shout-out for the Queen Mom, who is saying "I watch MTV...why haven't I heard of any of these bands?")

**Loving Live as well. There was a whole ten years I spent listening to NPR when I missed all kinds of music.

*** And you ask, how does she have Wind It Up from the Barenaked Ladies Are Me CD when it hasn't been released in the U.S. yet? HA! I say, because I humbled myself and joined the fan club and got the CD plus a bonus CD all for $14 and it came in the mail a day early. Do they have fan clubs for shoes?

Where I Was

Five years ago I had overslept and I was lying in bed, listening to Gary do his usual morning rant. Well, not listening. What I truly was listening to was NPR. I had heard the tone change, and the morning broadcaster seemed to be breaking form. Some woman on the phone was describing smoke billowing out of a building.

"Gary, are you listening to this?"

At the time it was only one plane, I believe, but we vaulted out of bed looking for images. I took the TV by the treadmill, and Gary manned the big TV in the living room. "I've got CNN," I said, and Gary moments later called back and said "FOX says it's two planes."

"FOX lies," I called out. (This was collaborated repeatedly that morning every time Edie Somebody said, "We don't want to report rumors BUT.")

"No, there's a picture. It was two planes."
"It's that crazy Osama guy who has the vendetta against that building," I called back. I knew about him because when Eric Rudolph was on the run I thought I should know what he looked like, and I was surprised to see this Osama guy was Number One Most Wanted for the earlier WTC bombing, not Eric.

We called updates to each other until CNN scooped FOX with the "Smoke at the Pentagon" crawl. That was terrifying, so I joined Gary in the other room and he converted my fear to anger with his rant, which was now focused on the way the attack was described as "sophisticated." Add to that our anger that they had now attacked the government, instead of a skyscraper that seemed to personally piss them off. We pulled chairs directly in front of big TV, switched it to CNN, and worshiped at the altar of Breaking News.

I didn't feel like it was in a movie at all. It seemed very real. It doesn't seem real now; that's why I keep watching these replays. One unreal moment was when the first tower went down. I think I was calling work at the time, promising to come in when they stopped blowing stuff up. I turned back to the TV and they said a tower had come down. "No, it hasn't," I thought. "There's just a bunch of smoke there. They just can't see the tower behind all that smoke. This is CNN? Now CNN is reporting rumors."

When the second tower came down, I fell a little in love with Aaron Brown for saying there "are no words." I soothed my nausea over seeing what I thought was 5,000 people die with a home-cooked brunch of, well, cholesterol. Bacon, eggs fried in bacon grease, and fried hash browns. With cheese. Because life is short.

Mine was one of the patriotic houses that flew the flag that night. Only, the flag wasn't there out of patriotism. I planted the flag in the front yard that night to say, "Shit. That scared me."

Cheez-Whiz

The Chemistry project is nearing its final stages. Oddly, cheese seems to have been adopted as the Official Food of the Chemistry Project.

I think it began when the clients were discussing hazards that require first responders to shut down the highway system. Seems that a truck overturned in their area and hazmat crews were called out. It turned out to be a truck full of cheese. The whimsy of Hazardous Cheese so enchanted Robin that she got a block of Velveeta and pasted a chemical hazard label on it. It sat on the Project Manager's desk for some time. This is the Honorary Block O' Cheese. It has provoked many a Who Moved My Cheese remark.

At the next meeting, the clients were discussing a lesson, and they identified it as "The Cheese Sandwich lesson," because in it cheese sandwiches are used as an analogy for explaining limiting reactants. Our Practice Leader was so pleased by the positive client meeting that she bought the office grilled cheese sandwiches from Trainwreck. Two cheese references determine a motif. So, it became all about the cheese.

Third client meeting passed without any mention of cheese, except for Robin's forced "That sounds so cheesy" to get in the obligatory cheese reference.

The  Honorary Block O' Cheese, which has been slowing bending to the will of gravity and heat, was awarded this past week to Ed. He protested that Robin had put an equal amount of effort into the project's success that week and then suggested we "split" the cheese.

I said, "Seriously, Ed? Split the cheese?"
"Yeah, we get a knife and ... and ... divide it in half, right down the middle, so we both get half."
"'Split it, 'you say. 'Divide it in half.'"
"Yeah."
"You just don't want to to say 'cut the cheese,' do you?
"Well, yeah."

It was so cute. Just what I would have done. I'm not a great fan of flatulence humor, but Robin spent the rest of the afternoon giggling that Ed had cut the cheese:

And when we PARTY, we PARTY-HARDY*

(*It's sad so few people know the 80's funk band L.T.D.)

Here's a glimpse at the level of discourse by three drunk women at Marcia's condo for an impromptu Girl's Night Out last night.

Marcia: Ash a Jew, I can tell yew that Jews have been blamed for cenchurries for the death of Christ.
Ellen: Lissen, I know in my Southern Baptist church, populated by the most narrow-minded of bigots, noone even told me Jews [Individuals of the Jewish Persuasion] killed Christ. Nevvuh.
Marcia: No, it's all through the Pauline epissles about it. You know, the letters the Apossle Paul wrote.
Ellen: Paul wazzn't a apostle!
Libby: (Snorts) Yuh-huh!
Ellen: He was NOT an apostle. He never even met Jezzuz.
Libby: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Simon Peter, Peter, James...
Marcia: Go Libby!
Libby: James... Thaddeus
Ellen: Doubting Thomas
Marcia: And PAUL!
Ellen: Jew! [Individual of the Jewish Persuasion!] A Jew [An Individual of the Jewish Persuasion] is trying to tell me who the apossles are!
Marcia: Libby was a Catholic.
Ellen: Wuzzzz. Now she's an agnostic. Jew! [Individual of the Jewish Persuasion!] Agnostic! Whores!

(Marcia staggers to get a book out of her lovely new Broyhill bookcase that everyone has commented on. She hands Why THEY Think the Jews Killed Jesus to Libby, who looks up Paul in the index.)

Ellen: Nonononooooo. Paul came after the Apossles, and he was named Saul, and he persecuted the Christians, and he was struck by a vision on the road to Damascus and a sheet came down holding pigs and now we can all eat pork. (pause) But maybe there was an apossle ALSO named Paul -
Marcia: (shouting) Bullshit!
Libby: (reading) 'The " (significant pause) "APOSTLE " (significant pause) "Paul was discounted by many Jews - "
Ellen: He wuzznt one of the original twelve.
Marcia: (shouting) Bullshit!
Ellen: He duzznt even show UP until Verse one, chapter one of Acts, whores!
Libby: (giggling and snorting) Acts (pause) OF THE APOSTLES!
Ellen: (staggering around gorgeous well-appointed condo) Wikipedia! Where's your goddamn computer, Jew? [individual of the Jewish Persuasion?]
Libby: (on the phone to Caroline's husband Brennan) Is Caroline coming to Girl's Night? Can you ask her to bring her Bible?
Ellen: (on cell to Gary) Gary! Was Paul an Aposslle? Wasn't he named Saul and then he was on the road to Damashcush?
Gary the Traitor Husband: Are you insane? Of course he was an apostle.
Marcia: (on computer) Wikipedia says Simon Peter, Andrew, James, John -
Libby: (nodding sagely) They were brothers.
Marcia:  Philip, Batholomew, Thomas
Libby: That's seven.
Marcia: James the Less, Matthew, Simon, Judas Iscariot.
Ellen: You are screwed! No Paul! (begins dance of victory).
Libby: She's not done. That's only eleven.
Marcia: (Knowing she is screwed) Shit. There sheems to be some debate here on number twelve. But it does call Paul the thirteenth apozzul.

Thus ensued a debate on the original terms of the conflict, if it was "Paul is an apostle,"  "original 12 apostles," or if it was "Paul never met Jesus." Terms are clarified to be Paul never met Jesus. Ellen pushes that Jesus has to be wearing a "HI! I'm Jesus" name tag. The winner gets Starbucks and a scone. Pinkies are shaken. Caroline arrives. Drunk women fall on her and tear the family Bible out of her hands.

Ellen: Acts Nine, Verse One: But Saul, still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord, went to the high priest  and asked him for letters to the synagogues at Damascus ... blah blah blah ... suddenly a light from heaven flashed about him. And he fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, "Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?" And he said, "Who are you, Lord?" And he said, "I am Jesus -"
Marcia: HI! I'm Jesus!
Ellen: Shut UP! I won the bet. 
Marcia and Libby: (shouting) Nuh-uh! He met Jezzus!
Ellen: Dead Jezzus!
Marcia the JEW: [INDIVIDUAL OF THE JEWISH PERSUASION:] Resurrected Jesus!
Libby: The Living God!

So, anyway. Damn loopholes. I still think I won.

Garyoke!

Because the music store is going out of business and had a 40% off sale, I picked up two mic stands. Gary and I have not sung the Garyoke in a few months, so we set up the microphones and sang.

I had forgotten what Gary is like when he sings. He is Vegas Gary! Mister Showbiz! Thank you, you've been a wonderful audience.

I was reminded of this we he suddenly whipped the mic out of the stand, spun around and made a finger gun at me.

People Who Bug Me

I began work today in a foul, foul mood, and it did not lift. I think I would have been well advised to start the day by deafening myself with the iPod, because every human voice I heard annoyed me.

Today's annoying people fell into three categories: heavy sighers, spastic laughers, and baby talkers.

Heavy Sighers
Okay, I admit to a heavy sigh now and then. But the sigh that defines someone as a heavy sigher is a sigh louder than normal speaking volume. A sigh that says, "Ask me why I am SIGHING, damn you!" Now, I myself have been know to grace my co-workers with a little heavy-handed drama. Not with a sigh, but usually with my patented full body eye-roll that comes centimeters away from tipping me over on my backside. But the sigh that says "I am annoyed AND to be pitied and I WANT someone to ASK ME WHY" makes me want to hurt that person until they can no longer breathe, much less sigh.

Spastic Laughers
These people predicate everything they say with laughter. They say, "I picked up this coffee on the way in to work. Ha, ha.  Gotta have my coffee ha ha ha ha ha. I don't like the coffee here at work. Ha ha ha ha." Shut UP! Laugh when you say something funny! "I. Got. Coffee."  Not funny.  ("They should just call me Coffee Anan." Moderately funny.) Still, the other people in the conversation are supposed to laugh. You speak, they laugh.  I'm going to slap the next person I hear doing this, I swear to God.

Baby Talkers
I'm not complaining here about people talking about their babies, which I love; or people talking baby talk  to actual visiting babies, which is perfectly acceptable; or even baby-talking just to annoy me because they know I hate it, Marcia. I'm mean full grown women well past the age when they would have babies announcing they need to go to the bathroom and "go poopy." Grown women! Grown! Qu'est-ce que freaking c'est, people?

If this continues tomorrow someone is getting hurt.

Gary Has Me Worried

More than a little worried about Gary over here. He threw his back out. For that reason he is hobbling around wearing every back brace we have in the house. He has them all cinched up so tight he looks like a woman. And it is totally creeping me out.

I commented that he looks like a man's head on a woman's body and he claimed he looked just like the evil nemesis of Aeon Flux:

Okay, the one time I watched Aeon Flux it BURNED itself directly into my brain's Perval Lobe. There were men, they were chained to something, and there was serious nipple suckage. And she could kill a man with her hair. It all gets dark in my mind after that. I feel dirty just typing it.

So, now not only do I feel pervy that I am married to a man with a 24-inch waist, and I'm having flashbacks to this:

...but I now know that Gary was watching Aeon Flux on the sly closely enough to know the characters. And that is creeping me out, in, under, and sideways.

Oh, and he's walking around trussed up like Scarlett O'Hara while using a cane. I swear, right now he could come out of that bathroom wearing lipstick and a beauty mark and I could not be more creeped out.

Hmm. A Little Barista Sarcasm

Saturday.

The first visit to Starbucks: "Hi, may I take -  Oh, hi, Gary and Ellen."

Second visit, the drive-through says, not hello, but, "You guys are here AGAIN?"

Third visit, they start putting multiple exclamation points on your coffee.

You know how multiple exclamation points BUG me. Why? What is next? Extra-capitalization? Super-boldface?

However, this may be a code. One exclamation point for every visit. If you see someone with three exclamation points, check and see if they are on their third visit to Starbucks.

I'd say it reflects Gary's exciting personality, but they gave me three exclamation points too.

Compulsion

Compulsion. A strong, usually irresistible impulse to perform an act, esp. one that is irrational or contrary to one's will.

I recently watched a fascinating MSNBC Investigative Reports called "The Obsessed" about people who have the compulsion to hoard. Evidently, hoarding is a medication-resistant form of OCD. These are the folks who die alone and the neighbors find the body buried under fifty years worth of TV Guides and ValPak coupons. Instead of the OCD compulsions to lick the lightplate or turn the faucet on and off 20 times, they have a compulsion to accumulate. There was a poignant scene with a fifteen year old girl explaining why she had to keep a sticker she didn't even like. "Someone might come in with a gun and say, 'Give me that sticker.' What if that happens? I can't throw it away."

Of course, I love this, as I love all shows about illness: because it makes me feel so normal. As I was congratulating myself for fearlessly purging my house every year of stickers and other detrious, I recalled that when I was that girl's age I had my own compulsion. I had to turn off the television before the signal went off at the end of the broadcast day. And based on my irrational fears of what might happen if I didn't turn off the TV before the signal stopped, I think the entire world owes me a hearty "Thank you!" and "Here's a Starbucks!" for saving you from what might have happened.

Just to put it in context, when I was that girl's age, there was no cable TV (and in case you're curious, Poltergeist had not yet come out). So every day, children, the television signal stopped at 10:30, or midnight maybe. There would be a voice explaining they had come to the end of their broadcast day over an image of a test signal with an Indian, or later, a color test signal. They'd then brainwash televise the waving American Flag and play the Star Spangled Banner. (Oh, and then we would cower because that's when the mammoths would come out and wander the ice floes looking for human flesh.) Then I understand that then the signal would go off, and the screen would just be snow. Mind you, I don't know from experience what happened, because I would vault over furniture to get the damn TV off so I wouldn't see what came after the signal. Because GOD KNOWS WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF I DID. Something BAD. Yeah, really bad. (Again: you're welcome.)

I didn't bow to this compulsion very often, because how often was I up watching TV at midnight? Rarely. I recall doing this in Junior High...and High School..and I admit, in college. But when I was in college they invented cable, and lo, the cable was on all the time. Then the networks caught up and there was the eternal signal. What a relief.

Poltergeist came out in 1982, two years into college, and I thought yes! Who is Steven Spielberg? He's afraid of the TV snow too.

Which Are You?

As I understand our culture, a woman likes to cuddle during, ah, the afterglow. However, I do not. I like to clean. I feel cuddly for about 15 seconds, and then the same thought always strikes me:

"I should clean the bathroom."

Sometimes the bathroom is already clean. I lie there cuddling. Then my feet begin to twitch. Then the urge to clean becomes overwhelming. It must be some primal nesting instinct. I think:

"I bet this would be a good time to organize the pots and pans."

Gary used to coo, "What are you thinking about?" Now he pins me to the bed and says, "Don't even think about it."
"But it's so dirty!"
"You are not going anywhere."
(pause)
I ask, "Do fresh cookies sound good?"
"You just want to make cookies so you can clean the kitchen after."

I'm not a naturally neat person. For example, if it weren't for the post-coital cleaning urge my master bathroom would never be cleaned. The rest of the house gets tidied up when people come over. This for example, is the current state of my kitchen:

I find six things wrong with this photo. Can you? I have: 1) Stuff on counter 2) Stuff on table 3) Magnets on refrigerator 4) Exposed power strip no longer hidden by coffee maker 5) Under-cabinet knife holder swing out instead of parallel with cabinet and 6)TWO burned-out light bulbs.

Yeah, so I confessed this kinky cleaning urge with a girlfriend tonight. Turns out she has the same little kink. So, I wonder: which are you? Any other cleaners out there? Shh. You can be anonymous.

Divorce

A friend got divorced this week. Her need for sympathy is far surpassed by her need for irony, so she is going to have a divorce party.

I'm thinking I need to make a mix CD for this occasion.

Are there any other good songs to divorce by? NO weepy "Breaking Up Is Hard To Do" songs. I'd prefer a nice "You suck!" motif for the CD. If I could write music I'd write a good driving rock song with lyrics like "You fool. You suck. I rule. Get ..." etc.

So far I have:
I Will Survive ...

...and there it stops.

Any suggestions?