Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

My Million Dollar Idea

Okay. I got my temporary crown replaced with a permanent one. And it spawned a brilliant idea that will make me rich.

9:00 am -- I walk into the dentist, starving.
9:01 am -- I request drugs.
9:02 am -- They give me a shot of Novocaine, damnit, not my drug of choice (because you know how I loves me the nitrous oxide).
9:10 am -- My stomach stops growling.

And that's when it hit me. I think Novocaine numbs not just your mouth, but some of it dribbles down to your stomach and numbs your stomach. My appetite was gone for the rest of the day! So just swallow some numbing agent and then you don't need your stomach stapled.

I think this would have to be over-the-counter, because otherwise the kids would be trying to make the designer copycat drug. I believe Caroline suggested Anbesol®, but that would numb up your lips too much. Maybe a very very diluted Novocaine that you could mix with Coke.

NovaCoke!

Or rather, NovaCoke©.

(Seriously, kids, don't try this at home. Because it would never work. Because if it did, I'd know about it. Listen to your Auntie Ellen.)

Revenge of the Clones!

I've always been so jealous during national elections. One of the coasts will have the big issue, or someone else votes on gay marriage, and all the Sunday morning talk shows ignore Missouri because we don't have the hot topic. But now, the stem cell initiative has made us the flavor of the month. Michael J. Fox and Rush Limbaugh are arguing in ads shown in Missouri. Cool! We actually count.

I'm even excited about the billboard I saw yesterday that said nothing but "STOP HUMAN CLONING! Vote No on Prop 2."

Well, the issue came even closer to home today. Gary paid a visit to his Charismatic Catholic parents. Any guesses on their views on stem cells? Anyone? Class?

I wasn't there, but judging from all the shrieking and hopping about that Gary was doing while he told the story, I'd say they aren't big fans of the proposition because, as they explained (sort of rationally, it seemed) to Gary:

1) Human Clones? They have no souls! An army of clones! Ewww! Creepy!
2) Women will sell their eggs!
3) Women will sell their embryos!

"MS!" Gary screamed, "They could cure MS! Ellen HAS MS!" (Evidently this bothers Gary much more than it bothers me.)
"Oh, they'll never cure MS," his parents scoffed.
"THEY CAN'T CURE MS BUT THEY CAN MAKE AN ARMY OF CLONES?" Gary screamed like a woman.

I think this is the first time I've ever heard of Gary taking my side over his parents'. This is so great! I feel liberated. I could, oh, sell my eggs, since I'm not using them, and then make my own personal army of clones, I'm so happy.

"THEM! MY PARENTS!" Gary shrieked at me, "THEY ARE THE ARMY OF CLONES!" Then he began goose-stepping around the great room as I rolled off the couch giggling.

I think it's awful the in-laws are denying life to those poor unborn clones. And what's so bad about an army of clones? Really, let's think this out.  Who says they're going to join the army? Picture this: baby clones, just identical twins really, so damn cute. Then they grow up; go to school at some government institution. Then they turn fifteen. Who do they rebel against? "Mom and Dad?" Who are they? They rebel against the government. No clone's going into the government, or the army. You know what they're going to do. They'll take over the jobs from the illegal immigrants.

In Which We Become MySpace

One consequence of having been an English major is you tend to over-classify and search for themes. I was mentally reviewing my list of current friends and noticed they have one common trait: they are all unclassifiable.

Friend 1: Studies the bible weekly. Tries to live a purpose-driven, God-based life. Drinks everyone under the table. "Hell yeah I drink," she will say, "What's your problem?" Then she wrestles your ass to the ground like a bulldog.

Friend 2: Young mother of twins. Monitors a parenting board. Children's photos, children's books, all about the children. Ask her how her babies are. "Evil heathens," she will answer.

Friend 3: You would think it would be so easy to stereotype a single Jewish liberal. But just put her in front of the UPS man or her baby niece  (recently adopted from Columbia) and you get these responses:
"OOooooo! Brown baby, brown baby. Do something for me, brown baby." (Just to clarify, that's the UPS man.)
"OOOOOoooo! Oooz swo cwute! Ooz a widda bidda beebee?! You awe! Yes you awe!"
Like the rest, she always find a way to surprise me. She has strong opinions about the Catholic church controversies in Saint Louis, for example. She also has a fish named after David Duke.

Friend 4: Has only recently taken up cursing. So young and pure. So sweet. So full of belief in humanity. So unaware she is next in line for a Girl's Night Out mocking her codger-like heartlessly conservative political beliefs. Bwahahaha!

Friend 5: She is in-tense, up-tight, over-worked. She gets up every day at four am to list her tasks for the day on post-it notes. I think she folds her socks. And she stares at you deadpan when you express surprise that she is a groupie for String Cheese Incident. She flies off to see the band in Costa Rica WHERE THEY DO NOT HAVE CLEAN BATHROOMS. Or post-it notes.

Friend 6: She is African-American and her family has more money than mine. She speaks better than I do. And yet she can switch from "Oreo" to "Sistah" at the drop of a hat, while I still can't do the head-roll as much as I am feeling the 'tude in my heart.

Friend 7: I know Mormons can't tell off-color jokes, but if you told this one an off-color joke, I think she'd laugh. She's also divorced. Oh, and I have heard she drinks caffeinated soda like a regular person.

Friend 8: This one breaks the mold, because we are psychic soulmates and I usually can anticipate what she'll do because it was what I'd do. Well, except this one time, when she complained about a co-worker's really poor deliverables. "It's like she just squats and poops it out and e-mails it to me." About half an hour later she turned and with a remorseful look sighed, "Remember what I said about her before?" Followed by this snarl: "I really meant that."

I suppose what this says about me is I believe in stereotypes, and people who don't follow the stereotype delight me. No, that can't be right, because then everyone on earth would be my friend. Perhaps MySpace and LiveSpaces are right.

How Often Do You Move Your Towels?

First: Woooooooo! World Series Champions.  The Cardinals won the The Tigers lost the World Series. Still, wooooo! If anyone says "well, they didn't deserve to win," I say to you, "1985."  Oh, and how cute is seeing a ball team of guys hopping up and down in unison? Also, Pujols. Aww, and half an hour later they're all dancing on the field with the fans who stayed behind.

Okay. So on to the big questions that keep me up late:

How often do you wash your towels? I feel the only thing that touches a towel is a freshly cleaned body. Therefore, towels are eternally clean. Eventually, all the hanging about in the steamy bathroom makes them smell. That's when I wash them. ON the other hand, the mother-in-law washes her towels after every single use. Wipe your hands on a towel and she acts like it's contaminated.

How bad should I feel? I'm sure the norm is somewhere in the middle.

I'm not a total pig. I picked up a few tricks when I worked for Superior Cleaning Service ("The Cadillac of Cleaners"). Wilma doesn't dust her light bulbs, and when she puts the paper on the roll she doesn't put the end in front and fold it into a little point. Pig.

The Return of the Bling

I made a decision on my ring. Technically, the Shane Company diamond store and the Chicago Hilton conferred and made the decision for me.  I could either stay at the Chicago Hilton or have a new stone, and the Hilton offered the much fairer deal. So I opted to re-unite ring and stone in an historically accurate restoration.

When I dropped off the ring, the salesperson amused me by treating my stone with the same respect they would give the Star of India. He looked at it under the jeweler's loupe. He diagrammed all the flaws. This great care was particularly funny to me, since I knew the original purchase price of the entire wedding set was $900.  Of course, a diamond of the same size and quality currently goes for 900 zillion dollars at the Shane Diamond Extortion Emporium.

He got a pair of tweezers and delicately paraded my diamond to the repair counter. He started carefully signing it in, stamping ledgers, marking, initialing, stamping receipts --

"Ooops," he said, and dropped to the floor on his hands and knees.

I was about to ask if he'd lost his contact lens when I noticed I could see the tweezers on the counter, but not my diamond. Then he got eyeball level with the carpet, wriggled toward a file cabinet, and snagged the diamond.

He hopped up and said, "Sorry about that," too humble to meet my amused glance.

"Oh sure," I said, "the old switcheroo. How do I know you don't just have loose diamonds scattered about the carpet? Hmm. That's not my diamond. It looks too large."

Yeah, he didn't think it was all that funny either.

It took them a week to repair it, and after three days of erotically stroking my slim and "single" nude ring finger, and three days of forlornly petting my lonely empty naked ring finger, I picked it up today.

I don't think it's my diamond.

I know, I know. It's clean, that's why it looks different. Its in a wider setting. It's in a higher setting so foreshortening make it seem bigger.  I'm crazy. It does make me feel like one of the patients in an Oliver Sacks book, because I don't recognize my diamond. But I won't feel right until I get a loupe and look into its flawed heart.

"Nay, then you lie: it is the blessed sun"

I realized the other day that Shakespeare gave me one of the techniques I have for coping with Gary. From now on, I shall call it the "Petruchio Technique."

It is modeled after "The Taming of the Shrew," and specifically the scene toward the end of Act IV when Kate breaks to Pertruchio's mad will. She's still got a spark of shrewery left, but Petruchio starts in ranting about how bright the moon is. Except of course it's daylight. The final straw is when he just keeps jerking her around until she gives up.

Gary can get shrewish. Something sets him off on these wild ranting tears. He'll start bellowing and waving his arms, but unless something snaps him out of it it can escalate from there until his foul mood turns on me. And that will not stand. When he starts to get out of control I want him to either:
1) Shut up, or
2) Shut up and go away

It is then when I apply the Petruchio technique.

For example: the stem cell initiative TV ads during the World Series have been setting him off. He screams at the TV like a crazy man whose wife has MS. Then there'll be a bad call at the plate. More raving. Then I don't invite the dog up on the couch. The foul mood is directed at me. I deflect it, so:

"What is up with those skinny beards the ball players are wearing?" I ask.
"I HATE THOSE BEARDS. I WANT TO SLAP THAT SOUL PATCH OFF SPEZIO'S FACE." (Spezio had just grounded out.)
"I don't think thats a soul patch. A soul patch is just under the lip."
"WHATEVER IT IS, I HATE IT. IT'S STUPID."
"Oh! I remember. That type of beard is called a Brazilian."
"NO, IT ISN'T."
"Yeah, a Brazilian Runway. That's what it's called. I've heard of it."
(Blessed horrified silence.)

Gary then either has to explain to me why I'm wrong, or be quiet. He elected to be quiet.

I really can't wait for the next time Gary even TRIES to yell at me in public:

"ELLEN! WE'RE LEAVING! PUT ON YOUR COAT!"
"Take off my clothes?"
"NO! PUT ON YOUR COAT!"
"Dude, it's cold." (Unzipping jeans.)
"AUUUGHHH!" (Gary runs away screaming.)

How Many Potential Band Names Can You Count in This Post?

St. Louis bloggers - I need you!

Thanks to Catherine the Pimper of Pandas, I have taken to watching the Pandacams. So, was anyone else watching the National Zoo Pandacam yesterday? I watched as the Baby Panda rolled on his back (aww!), lifted his legs in the air (so cute!), grabbed his back ankles with his front paws (adorable!), and rolled into a sitting position  (ooz an idda biddie baby panda?) so he could lick his rectum.

Anyway, that's just a segue into this commentary about Pujols. (Albert Pujols, power hitter for the Cardinals.) It has never struck me before that his name is pronounced "poo-hole" or "poo-holes," depending on the announcer. I have now found I have to eat at his restaurant in Westport next week. Shudder.

And in somewhat the same vein, I was distracted as the Clydesdales began to parade around the new Busch Stadium. And this is where I need some help from the Saint Louis Bloggers. Am I the only one who remembers back in the 80's or early 90's when there was a mad Clydesdale killer? I can't find a thing about it on the Internet. Every few days you'd wake up and find out the Clydesdale killer had shot another Clydesdale.

Let me know!

Doctors are MESSING with my head

Doctors are mean. They are tag-teaming me and playing mind games.

I have to start with an update. I've gained back half of what I lost on the (almost) year-long Jenny The Bitch Whore Craig diet. The good news is that I didn't lose that much, so I've only gained back about seven pounds.

So, last Thursday I was in the neuropsychiatrist's  office, and the subject of my weight came up. I told him I was fat but happy. I said, the way I see it I'm like a dromedary, using my fat as a Celexa-storage system until the day I become crazy again and my fat spontaneously dissolves in order to release all the built-up antidepressant.

I refrained from clutching my breasts as I said the word "dromedary," so he took me seriously.

"Ooooh," he said, "We have something that can help with that." And then he wrote me a prescription for Xenical, one of those mythical fantasy drugs that absorbs fat. (Yes, they make those now.)  My first thought was "My GOD -- how fat AM I?"

I hesitantly took the prescription. and we discussed how the stuff works. Evidently only half of its power is its ability to absorb fat, the other half is in the deterrent factor. Evidently if too much fat leaves ones body unabsorbed it results in Irritable Bowel Syndrome, which always sounds to me like Sarcastic Tongue Syndrome that spread to the bowels.

"Oh," I said, "it's like Anabuse for food."
"Well, sort of. Take the prescription, think about it, and consult with your GP first."

It scared me enough that I did consult via e-mail with my doctor, who e-mailed back, "It is likely to wreak havoc with your system."  ... So...that's a no, I guess. (Of course, he feels coffee, tea, soda, alcohol, and any other "strong drink" wreaks havoc. Mormons. They're everywhere.)

Mean doctors. It's like my doctors are playing "Keep Away" with the drugs.

Don't Rain On My Tirade

So I was puttering about Queen Mom's Northern estate today, talking about Gary, and I of course used the word "tirade." In a sentence. As in:

"Gary started off on a tirade about - "
"TI-rade," Mom said.
"I said that."
"No, you said tiRADE. As if it rhymed with parade."

I remembered when Michael D_____ and I were dating, and he said something was "banal." He pronounced it "BAYnull." "Bah-NAHL, darling," we corrected him. Nope, turns out both are correct.

That is why the first thing I did when I got home was look up tirade, and luckily for me both pronunciations are acceptable.

However, I would never gloat about mispronunciations, especially to the Queen Mother, because she witnessed the Unfortunate Incident Occurring on My Twentieth Birthday.

For my twentieth birthday, I went to see some friends of my Mom, because I was just THAT popular, and on the way home she asked what I thought of Carolyn's house.

"I liked the inside," I mused, "but I didn't like the fuk-aid."
"The what?" Mom asked.
"The fuk-aid, Muthuuurrrr," I sighed, and if you took my picture at that moment you could put it right next to bershon in the Urban Dictionary.
"I have never heard that word. Spell it," Mom demanded.
I sighed. My god, she went to college, how is it she doesn't know anything? "F-a-c-a-d-e," I spelled.

And  that is why I bow to my Mom in all things pronunciational.

One of These Things is Not Like the Others

The Mexican restaurant by the house has a Wall O' Tequila.

Grand Marnier. I had no idea it was tequila.

Get In Line

Often, I put one song on repeat so it etches itself into my brain. I can then sing lustily and loudly in the car and be assured I won't mangle the words, at any rate. Thursday's song for the day? Get in Line. And can you think of a better  song to belt in the car on the way to the psychiatrist?

Whatever could they want from me?
Is it just a part of a giant government conspiracy?
I gotta go see my doctor about this itchy pentagram-shaped rash

Sigh, yes, Thursday I went to the (clench teeth) psychiatrist. (unclench teeth.)

I'll blithely tell you I went to the urologist, turdologist, boobiatrist, and any other specialist embarrassing to discuss. But the  (grit teeth) psychiatrist? (spit, unclench.) The doctor that proves I'm crazy? Not comical wacky crazy. Disturbed crazy? No, I don't like admitting that.

I think a large part of it stems from for many years not knowing the difference between psychologists and psychiatrists. Some people think they are the same, or that the only difference is that only one can prescribe medicine. But no no no. Psychologists are the ones who blame your mother. Psychiatrists don't care about your mother.  If they ask about your mom, it's only because they spend half an hour observing you for twitches and sweating and crazy eye-rolling, and that can get awkward without chit-chat.

But here's my dodge. From now on I'm calling him my neuropsychiatrist.  I can call him that, and I should, because that is his title. Also, somehow I feel the "neuro" prefix shifts the blame from me to my neurons, being nibbled away by my immune system. Oh! I could call him my neuropsychiatric multiple sclerosis psychospecialist.

Dictate a memo to myself
Try to find if I'm the only one in complete health
Consult contemporaries if there are some to see
There really isn't anyone who's in my league
My leeeeeeeaaaaague...

In Which the Mets Experience the Willful Cruelty of the Baseball Gods

"We barely beat them at the end. Which was exciting." - Some dude who handed out the trophy.

Video editing at onetruemedia.com

Dear Whitey

Dear Whitey Herzog,

I would like you to come back and coach the Saint Louis Cardinals again, please. Because when you coached and we lost at least it was still enjoyable. Whiteyball! Like, that time we were losing 11 to 0 and you decided to do some completely demented thing like have every single player try pitching. And remember when you had Jose Oquendo pitch? And catch? And play shortstop and all the bases? That was great. I think Jose is still on the team, coaching. You could go have some beers and catch up.

You know who else is still in the game? Jack Buck still calls the games. Kind of. Well, his son calls the games. And there I was tonight, all ready to hear him say "Go crazy, folks, go crazy," but instead I PRACTICALLY FELL ASLEEP. I don't mind losing, but at least with you in there we lost with some drama. You know, like an umpire makes such a hideous call it breaks everyone's spirits. Or the base-stealer gets run over by the tarp machine.  The TARP! Genius! Instead, the only emotion I felt tonight was a little tension because in one of those little short movies they put between innings there were some little SlimJim creatures that were being hunted. What are those little short movies called? Anyway.

The last time I was in Chicago, fifteen years ago, I woke up to the hotel radio saying you were leaving. It would be so cool if you would come back this November when I go back to Chicago again.

Thanks,
Ellen

P.S. You know, if you come back, please tell the FOX camera people that sometimes people just sit with their hands clasped. They aren't praying. They just sit that way.

In Which My Life Is Measured Out In Coffeespoons

It's the middle of October. The cold snap and soup weather usually inspire me to begin the obsession which occupies me through mid-December: planning the yearly tea party.

My mad tea skillz began early:
      

The invitation is from my fifth grade party:

   

My tea urge lay dormant until 1990, when I had my first annual tea, and when we partied, we partied hardly. Men were not allowed, and the only alcohol that was served was sherry. The next spring's tea was only remarkable in that I scheduled the breakthrough marriage counselor appointment two hours before the tea. Yeah. Bad idea.

Things were better the next year, in fact Gary was even invited.

If you look on the far right you can see Maiden Aunt Carleen seated - shhh, Melati - looking at the camera. Gary and I are on - Melati, shut up - on the left, and - Melati! Hush! Yes I KNOW it's a child's croquet set. Be quiet.

On the fifth year, I passed on the spring tea, then realized in November if I was going to have a yearly tea I'd better take care of it at the holidays. (When we partied, we partied tardy.) And I saw that you can still have tea at the established tea hour of 4:30, but in December it's dark at 4:30 and people actually drink the sherry. And then, they play charades! That broke everything wide open. Let the liquor be served! Bring out the Pimms and the Mead and the Port and the Grog. Eventually, people gave up on me and started bringing normal liquor, like Jello Shots. (When they party, they drink Bacardi.)

I was still sticking with a conventional tea invite, though. I sent out the standard wording on the Crane paper. And then, in the first of many slips in standards, the dogs hosted the party, and from then on the invites got stranger and stranger.

Since I write Computer-based training, one invite was a CBT on the party. The year Gary and I started singing the Garyoke the invite was set to music. One year we had the invite printed on cookies and sent those out.

One year it was fans: 

One year it was a tea towel:

(Well, I'll be, what's that obscuring my last name? Oh, it's the candle that sayeth "Yea." That was a reply from when people cared. No one cares about replies now. Kids today. That's why I just gave in and sent snakes that jumped out and said "Surprise Me! Don't even think about RSVPing.")

That's my problem this year. I can't think of a thing to make this year's party unique. I should be sending out invites and finding strange meats for people to eat, but nothing strikes me. (When we party, it's uninspiredly.) I got nothing. No wild boar sausages, no mimes visiting people's workplaces and pantomiming the invite, no costumes.

Hmm.

I Just Need To Vente.

Gary just orders a Raspberry Mocha with extra whipped cream and he practically gets hearts and "Mrs. Gary Barista" written on his cup. LOOK AT THIS:

You know what mine said? "Fat Bitch wants a cappuccino." (No. But it was in the body language. And I got no smiley face. )

How Deep Is Your Love

Me: "You yelled that you lost your glasses, then I found your glasses, and then you still yelled at me."
Gary: "Honey, I yell at the Rams; that doesn't mean I don't love them."

Drunk yet Distant

The theme for this week has been "distance." Not spatial distance, but the type of distance maiden Aunt Carleen advocated if one is a career woman. Some call it isolation. (Some suggest it's not a great thing. I think I've listened to "Everything Had Changed" (finger-snapping genius) about 200 times this week.) Still, I prefer distance. I think words help me achieve distance. Not only words like "No hugs" and "Stop TOUCHING me," but the words I get to choose to share what is always TOO much information.

This is why I feel safe standing behind a wall of words and telling you what went down at Catherine the Red's adorable bungalow last night. There were five us there: me, Catherine, A person who shall remain nameless, Another person who shall remain nameless, and Someone who requested she remain nameless. So Catherine, me, A, Another, and Someone.

Of course I brought the Breathalyzer, and it occurred to me I'd never got the Breathalyzer over .05. The legal limit for driving in MO is .08. "Sheesh," I thought, "legally, I've never even been drunk." And I vowed that would change.

At 0.05: When the conversation turned to Another's soon to be ex, Another said the refrain running through her head had been "Die, Die F*cker, Die." So from then on every time she complained about her ex we all screamed in unison, "Die, Die, F*cker, Die," except for when she complained, "It's like he just doesn't listen," and I said, "I'm sorry, did you say something?" and then I pounded on the table because you know, that joke just never gets old to me. And I am not ashamed.

At 0.08: Someone was sharing all of her secrets. Someone has a remarkable number of secrets. The least juicy of her secrets is the [sexual secret redacted on second thought]. "Feh," I said, "That is nothing. What about [big secret whisper]?" Someone replied, "Go ahead, you can tell them about that," and I refused. I refused to spill a secret even though I was legally drunk. Of course, Someone did, and that's cool, but I was the drunk pit of secrets. And I am not ashamed.

At 0.10: Someone told me that you can suck Nitrous oxide, it's called doing "whippets" and it involves one of those rubber punching balls and a nipple coupler. I remember everything she told me. I kissed her on the lips. And I am not ashamed.

At 0.11: We made plans to all go have a spa day on Catherine's birthday, and to punctuate the conversation about hair coloring I stood up, unzipped my pants to prove my carpet and drapes coordinate. A criticized my carpet for being too flat, not fluffy, and I said hey, jeans hair. So even though A tried to shame me, I am not ashamed.

I then scooted on my butt down the basement steps where we admired Catherine's basement decor and I kissed Catherine, A, and Another, and I believe I also Schwarzeneggered Another's breast. I am just a little ashamed about that. She was cool about it, though.

At 0.10:  I discovered everyone else has sex toys I don't have. I called Gary to complain about this, but lost track and instead said, "Hey baby," because that's what A calls her husband and it sounds profoundly cool. He suggested I take my time coming home. I reminded him I had the handy Breathalyzer and while I had been very drunk I was on the way back down --

Gary: "AAAAAAAHH! Aaaaaa! Woooooo! ahhhhhAAAAHHHHHHAHAHAHAAAHHHHH! Yes!"
Ellen: "Baby. You okay?"
Gary: (Garbled screaming.)
Ellen: "I cannot understand what you are saying."
Gary: "Cards! Cards won!"

Ironically, I had been watching the ball game and didn't even notice how they were doing. So I'm ashamed of that.

Then an awful thing happened: A checked the Breathalyzer and found she was at 2.2.  Yet still, she was not blacking out, vomiting, comatose, or doing anything unusual except trying to convince Catherine's new dog to come live with her. I recalled the Breathalyzer book said something about calibrating it. EVERY SIX MONTHS IT SEEMS. So, the Breathalyzer was reading way too high, so now it turns out I may not have been drunk at all.

Reports of His Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

This refers to 49 Up. I don't think this merits a spoiler alert. Someone I thought was dead is NOT dead.

Some point last spring, I believe, I was reading either Entertainment Weekly or People (or InStyle or Us Weekly. Or Star. ("Or Weekly World News?" you ask sarcastically.)) It was one of those mags with a "Milestones" section that lists births, marriages, death. And I Swear To You on my ovaries, I read that Neil had died. Neil. You know, Neil from the Up Series. "Delicate" Neil. "Vulnerable Neil." Homeless Neil. Neil died.

"Died: Neil Hughes of the Michael Apted Up series..." etc. I READ this. I tore the page out for Mom and saved it for her. It was in my bill basket, and then I lost track of it. It said he died from either an accident on a rural road, or a suicide. I couldn't find the article. I still went ahead and told Mom that Neil had died.

And now I hear he is not dead. But I read it! In a publication! I can see the words. On the left side of the page, near the bottom. I've searched all over the internet for "'Neil Hughes"' + Dead." No such mention. Also, "'Neil Hughes"' + Dead + Errata." Also a blank.

However, I was reading in bed. All I can guess is that the sleepwalking is back.

iPod of Prophecy: Behind the Music

Did you like Freakanomics? Here's an article by a random someone with a suspiciously similar name and subject matter!

http://arts.guardian.co.uk/netmusic/story/0,,1889487,00.html

(Link courtesy of BNL Blog, which I thought had Permalinks, but now evidently does not.)

Kiddie Food

Some foods just take me straight back to childhood.And tonight, I ate Bugles. Off my fingertips, for that is the way Miss Manners says one should eat Bugles. The Bugles are currently hidden in the microwave, because Gary demanded he never be tempted with Bugles again.

Bugles take me right back to five years old. (I think I was five when they came out.) Capn' Crunch almost takes me back, but not as far as Quisp. I thought Quisp went the way of Super Elastic Bubble Plastic, but now I see it is available in Chicago! That is so going to be part of the Chicgo itinerary. I give you all the gift of Quisp. Go get your inner child some Quisp at:

Wisconsin - Woodman's
Milwaukee, WI - Kohl's
Chicago, IL - Cub
Boston, MA - Star Market
Denver, CO - Albertson's
Buffalo, NY - Tops

And mix it with cold WHOLE milk. Eat it fast so it doesn't get soggy.

For some odd reason, couscous takes me back too. I asked the Queen Mom, she claims to have never fed me couscous.

Fridge

Well, Mighty Girl is working through No One Cares What You Had For Lunch, or its alternative title, What Ellen Posts When She Hasn't Seen Her In-Laws. 

Here's my fridge door:

Clockwise from Top Right Corner:

Appointment cards for doctors/dentist/sprinkler appointments.
Clipping for the times of the Chiluly exhibit at the Missouri Botanical Garden, reminding me that for yet another Thursday night Gary and I have not attended the evening showing of the exhibit.
Word magnets, that I should have the heart to tear apart and re-assemble in cunning slightly pornographic ways.
Nurse hotline magnet.
It's a clip! It's a magnet!
I love Robots, especially my Roomba and Scooba.
My Mom's calendar which I coveted so passionately she gave it to me.

Let's Hear It For The Right Breast!

So I went in for the follow-up mammogram this morning. First thing that greeted me was an illuminated image of my right boob (that would be Daphne, as opposed to the willful left breast, Diana). In the middle of my pancaked breast was a whitish tangle of lines with a circle drawn around it. About 2 inches above and to the right was a larger whiter tangle with no lines drawn around it. There was also a technician in the room, and for all the handling she did of my breasts you would think I would remember her name, but I am evidently a whore.

This time around we did the Extra Strength Turbo Compression mammogram. And as Tech X explained later, the extra compression spread the new tangle out so the doctor could get a clearer picture of what was up, and everything was fine.

Lessons learned:
1. Mammograms can get even more painful and awkward than the basic yearly mammogram!
2. White blotches = good. Black blotches = bad.
3. I am a fickle MammoWhore.

I sat in the parking lot and debated if I should call Mom first or Gary first. Mom won. She had made funny remarks previously that all my breasts needed were a little air, for God's sake. Stop covering them up!

Then, because if your breasts have tangles they might need a massage, I called Gary.

"Hi, hon," I said, "Everything's fine."

"What's up?"

(pause) "Everything's fine."

"Do you want to have lunch together? Is that why you're calling?"

(Pause for me to drop my voice to wintry arid tundra pitch.) "Nooo, I'm calling to give you the results of my follow-up mammogram." (Hear the wind whistle across the tundra! Brr!)

"OH! OH! Yes! The mammogram! Is everything okay?"

(hissing) "Yes. As I said, it is fine. You, however, are worthless."

"Wait! No! I've been worried sick!" (Riotous laughter in the background from the Pussy Posse.) "No, really, I've been thinking about it all morning!" (More giggles.) "Well, okay, I totally forgot. But I'm glad you're okay."

See, this is the down side of being brave and rational. Screw this. Next time I'm freaking out; just watch me.

All About Me. Or: Karen's Birthday.

"Gary," I whispered, "do not under any circumstances mention The Lump to your family. It's Karen's birthday, and it's her day."
"Ok."
"Besides, it's just a lump."
"Ok."
"And I don't want them praying and then giving the credit to Jesus when it turns out to be nothing."
"Ok."

Because they would. They believe firmly in allying with Jesus for pre-emptive attacks against Disaster. For example, after her surgery Karen canceled an appointment for an electrician to come and install a ceiling fan because he might "fall through the ceiling, and then there would be dust while [her] lungs were still recovering." But let's say Karen did have the electrician come. While he was there the S_____s would pray fervently that he did not fall through the ceiling, and when he miraculously DID NOT FALL THROUGH THE CEILING, Hallelujah, all glory to God.

The Queen Mom does the same thing, minus the praying. I think she calls it being prepared, but I did not inherit the preparedness gene. Nurture overcame Nature and I adopted the "What Me Worry" gene from Dad. I feel firmly you don't have a problem until you actually have a problem. Might have cancer? Neh. Have cancer? 'Kay, maybe, but not really, until you have cancer a second time. That's when things get rocky. Then you can worry.

At any rate, the S____ family takes their alliance with Jesus very seriously, as evidenced by the fact that Ken over-seeded the lawn because Wilma says it was an embarrassment to the Jesus Sign:

Evidently this is their mezuzah. Plus, it will help Jesus find their house. You know, like the firemen need the house numbers painted on the curb. But really, look at that lawn. You just know Jesus hates that.

In Which we are made AWARE

I had a mammogram about a week and a half ago. At one point the chatty technician looked at the screen and said "Hmm."

I thought, "Hmm what? Hmmm, you say? I'm sorry, did I hear you say, 'Hmm'?" But I said none of those things, because I knew she wasn't allowed to discuss.

At least she didn't follow up the "Hmm" with a complete mood reversal. The tech who did my very first MRI was all pleasant and chatty on the way in. On the way out, he had the sad eyes. I was left wondering if the other techs who swarmed into that room had been making fun of him instead of looking at my spine like they were supposed to.

However, on the long walk back to my car it occurred to me she probably "Hmm"ed at my lipoma. Lipoma: A tumor of fat. I had one in my left breast.  (I have many in my left and right thighs, but I don't get thighmograms.)

So then I was a little surprised to get a letter back from the MammoCenter suggesting I need to be re-mammed. On that same day I got phone calls from the crotch office and the GP urging I don't ignore this. But of course I had already made an appointment. And I already know it could be another lipoma, or the  Boob Gristle Mom had, or as Mom suggested, "those cysts overweight people get. You know, the ones aggravated by CAFFEINE."

However, as Robin's also-lumpy friend said, "October. Not the best month to get a lump."  Yes, it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. SO, okay, now I am AWARE.

Maybe they've gotten so freakishly large because they contain huge watery cysts. Hmm.

Retro Cock

I am sitting here in a cowl-neck sweater (see: High School) and flared jeans (see: Junior High). What is next? Perhaps those pendants that look like Oreos with a bite taken out or apple cores?

I was thinking "I am so tuff sitting here in my cowl-neck sweater." This made me think of the adjective we used in grade school for those who were particularly cool. That would be "cock."

Don't believe me? Here are actual pages from my sixth-grade autograph book:

Sadly, I did not Remember Pam or Debra or Kelly Always.

A Cunning Plan to Scam My Husband Goes Off As Planned

Gary's sister Karen's birthday is this weekend, and we shopped tonight, one of the seven S______ birthday shopping sprees per year. The frustrating thing is that this conversation happens every time.

Me: "Oh, cute top."
Gary: "NO! You are supposed to be thinking about [Karen/Mom/Dad/Mr. Wonderful/Sandy/the kids] tonight. We are not shopping for you."

This is frustrating because we never shop for me. And of course if I do make a special trip to shop for me, the shopping muse deserts me and nothing looks good.

And finally, after 21 plus years, it finally dawned on me how I can sneak in some shopping. I suggested to Gary that Karen and I are about the same size and shape, and would he like me to try on some of the clothes we picked out for Karen? You know, so he could see how they looked? Sure! Great idea.

And of course he picked out things for Karen, I picked out what I wanted, tried everything on, and then convinced Gary that this was a little flashy / low cut / young for Karen, but did it look good on me? That way, I got Gary's valuable opinion, plus I got to shop, plus Karen got a lot of stuff that looked painfully conservative on me. I'd feel guilty but Mr. Wonderful shops with Karen every other weekend, entirely without coercion.

In Which I am Crowned

I didn't go to the dentist much as a child, at least not after the day the dentist slapped me because I was wriggling. (I stopped wriggling and glared at him with such venom and singlemindedness he apologized, to which I responded, "I'm telling my mother.") So, Gary's first order of business as a new husband was to get me to the dentist. The dentist I landed with was Dr. J____, who told me she had slapped her dentist as a child, thus restoring universal karma.

Dr. J_____ wrote "TLC" on my chart, which meant, "Cried during first visit. Requires nitrous oxide for cleanings. Do not slap." I no longer require the nitrous oxide for cleanings, but I did suck up 45 minutes of the happy gas when I had all four wisdom teeth cracked out of my head five years ago. Actually, the oral surgeon initially recommended I be knocked out, but relented when I burst into tears after he said the name of the drug they would use: Versed. (Just think of what the bathroom would look like today if I'd had more of the colonoscopy drug.)

At any rate, the nitrous oxide is a lovely drug. It makes me feel drunk, yet not opinionated. Relaxed, with a hint of sans-souci. And it was the first thing I requested when I flopped in the dentist chair this morning for my two new crowns: "Drug me!"

The assistant promptly hooked me up. I am an experienced user.  I know to inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth to achieve the highest concentration. I know to keep the laughs out of the laughing gas experience so the supply is not reduced. And today I reached a new level: I scammed the dentist for more gas.

About half an hour in, as I was inhaling hard enough to collapse the nose mask, I remembered that during my wisdom tooth extraction my right arm raised up and blocked my mouth. I explained to the surgeon that I was fine, but my right arm? It was upset. I didn't know what its problem was, but it was afraid, whereas I was fine, thank you. He upped the gas.

So I figured I would see if that worked again. (Hey, I'm not proud of this. Its a disease. Remember this when I molest government pages.) However, I couldn't raise my right arm since that was our agreed "safe word." Instead I rubbed my feet together like I was starting a fire. I rubbed my hands against my sides and belly. (Actually, only my right hand got in on the act. My left hand must have ethics or something.) I looked pitiful. I performed like Meryl Streep, but my dose was not increased.

Since the scam didn't work, I searched my brain for the chemical formula for nitrous oxide. It's nitrogen minus one electron, which has transferred to the oxygen atom. But how do you get the electron to transfer? Can I do it at home? This occupied me while they finished up.

Sadly, at the end there was that moment you realize they have turned off the gas, because you are snorffling your nose like an anteater try to suck the last molecule of nitrous that may be hiding in some crevice, and there is none. I left and capped off the nitrous with a little Starbuck's to put the edge back on.

Hey! I just remembered! Gary gave me a whipped cream dispenser, which has little capsules of nitrous that pressurize the cream.  Heh heh heh.

Guilt-Edged Books

These books are by my bed waiting to be read. No. Demanding to be read in that passive-aggressive way books have. "Oh, People Magazine tonight, I see." "Oh, Marley and Me. Well. Sniff. At least it's hard-bound." So, perhaps if I make a list they'll stop throwing THOSE ACCUSING GLANCES AT ME! Stop it!

So, here are the books I have placed on military detainee status:

Night - Elie Weisel. SEE? SEE? Shut UP Elie! I sent Marcia a L'Shona Tova card. Doesn't that count for anything?
Letters of John Cheever, Letters of Sylvia Plath, Diary of Alice James. All dead. No rush.
The Time-Traveler's Wife, which Gary cursed with a good review. He loves chick lit. (I've mentioned my girlfriend Gary, right?)
The Lovely Bones. I KNOW. Leave me alone. Turn away from me with those reproachful stares.
The Joy Luck Club. Hey, I was busy reading lit-rah-chuh when this book first came out.
Assassination Vacation, which is close enough to homework as I care to get.
Passages, which I DID read when I was in high school. If you really want to mess with a high school girl, have her read Passages. Or just say to her, "Hey, you think you have free will? Hah! Everything you do now is just a phase, to be followed by many more phases we have dictated for you in this book."
The second half of the Gnostic Bible, which is a little too Tolkien for me. "And there be Bialsamaeth, the maker of the Lesser Earth." Bless us, oh Lord (of the Rings).

And guess what I'm reading tonight? The Best and Worst of Saint Louis edition of the Riverfront Times . Just to relieve the pressure.

Bad News

I've been reading these posts on people's reactions to bad news, both here and here.  People I know keep getting bad news. For example, a friend of a friend just had a doctor encourage her with the words "if we can't stop this swelling, you will die in four to six months."

Now today I found out another friend just got some bad news about a relapse of cancer.

I never, ever know what to say. I only know what encourages me when I get frightening news. Unfortunately, what works for me is a sharp talking-to, and you can't throw that at someone who just revealed their own bad news.

My own bad news always frightens me. I'm either afraid because a) I don't know what's going to happen or b) I'm afraid because I know the worst is going to happen.

So, depending on my mood I put one of two dialogs in my head:

1) You are pathetic. Whining to yourself that you don't know what's going to happen! You and the rest of the world. No one knows what's going to happen. Whiner. (Disgusted snort.)

This makes me try defend myself. I think, "Well, I know what might happen, and that's pretty bad." This launches track #2:

2) Oh, so you think you know what's going to happen? Idiot! You don't know what's going to happen. Did you see this bit of bad news coming? Huh? No, you didn't. Don't walk around acting like you know what's going to happen. Since when are you psychic?

This usually sends me back to #1 (Me: "The future is scary!"  Voice In My Head: "Whiner! We should all be scared, then.") It only takes a few iterations of the loop to bore me and I think, "where's some coffee?"  And yeah, I just typed "iterations of the loop."

This is why I never know what to say.

Driving

Today on the highway I was going to change lanes, away from the very slow car in front of me and thus free up all the cars behind me to follow me into the open left lane. I put on my flickers (or directional signals, or whatever you call them). The car behind me saw this as a signal that it needed to pass me on the left, exactly where I had indicated I was headed by my flickers, bastard. Huh, I thought, bastard did not learn to drive in Saint Louis.

As a public service, I present to you what you need to know if you drive in these cities:

Saint Louis
Hey, we're all friends here. We like to communicate with facial expressions. If you need to get in front of us, just turn around in your seat and look concerned. We'll wave you in. Pass us on the right. It's allowed. It's in the Driver's Guide (See Passing on the Right.) You don't need to signal at a four-way stop. We just exchange glances here in the Gateway City and make silent negotiations and let the group decide who goes next. It works well. Other cities do not use this method, i.e.:

Toronto
People in Toronto have "énormes testicules" as the French Catamites might say. I grew my pair when I was forced to drive in Toronto. I was downtown and I needed to change lanes. My desperate attempts to pantomime "I need to change lanes" were futile; no one made eye contact. So I learned, in Toronto you take the corner edge of your bumper and you snuggle it between the bumpers of the nearest two cars in the lane you want. Then you challenge the car behind the outermost corner of your bumper to drive into you as you stubbornly shoulder him out of the way. One I realized this was the Toronto Way, I had great fun making Gary scream after I picked him up later that day.

Dallas
A friend from Saint Louis moved to Dallas and made the mistake of slowing down to let someone merge onto her lane on the highway. She had learned to drive in Saint Louis, and we slow down for the mergers, especially if they are old or teenagers or just look worried. Sometimes this makes the mergers slow down and then there are crashes, but not often. Evidently slowing down for a Dallas driver made my friend's husband STOMP ON HER FOOT to keep her from getting into an accident. "Julie? This is Dallas! You can't care about other people."

Washington, D.C.
The only thing I remember about driving in Washington D.C. is that if you go the wrong way on a one-way street helpful people scream AT YOU and honk. Very verbal, those D.C. people. I was forced to mime "I'm sorry ...  I'm from Saint Louis." (Form Arch in air with hands.) I think they were expecting me to hang my head out the window and scream, "I'm SORRY! JEEsus!" and then honk loudly.

Mexico /Hawaii
These people use special codes to communicate with the other drivers. Imagine you are in Mexico. You are driving on a highway behind someone and they put on their left directional signal. Would this mean they are going to change into the left lane. It would in Saint Louis. In Mexico it means, "You are invading my personal space. I suggest your pass me on the left. Go ahead .... pass ... it's fine with me ... any time you want ..." They are even more laid back in Hawaii. They pass out at 180 mph on a blind curve on a two-lane road on a CLIFF and just stick their arms out of the window and make the "Hang loose" gesture. (If I recall, it's the rock horns with a little royal wrist flex wave thrown in.)

Revisionist History

Favorite Quote: "The man who makes no mistakes never makes anything."

Favorite Moment in History: Neil Armstrong Goes to the Moon and Flubs his First Line. It's supposed to be "One small step for A man, one giant leap for mankind," which is all parallel and poetic don't you know, and he hops on the moon and says "One small step for man" etc. Ah! So what I would do.

And now some killjoy with Sound Forge has decided that "a" is in there. Next thing they'll have Neil dub his line in again for the tv clip. Boo.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061001/ap_on_re_us/moon_quote