Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Data Breakdown

Okay, so I decided to copy my Typepad stats into Excel and and do some data analysis on what types of hits I'm getting. These are my results:

In the last few days, the top three ways people have come here have been:

In search of toe porn, looking for xxx hot sexy toes!
Me! Looking at my own blog because I am pathetic.
Other people who have followed links here! You are awesome! You have made the top three!

Also, I apologize to the German Toe Boys for evidently embarrassing them.

A Haiku for My Dog, In Case of Thunderstorms

Thunder came before
Your ancestors went soft. Do
Dingo dogs do this?

Tae Kwon Bo

So, since the neurologist slapped me into an MRI for my "balance issues," I have been paying careful attention to my balance. Generally, I pay the most careful attention when I lose my balance and fall over. This has only happened twice in the last two weeks: once as I was demonstrating to Mom the way Gary chews using only the right side of his mouth, and once as I was putting on my underpants.

I thought from the bedroom floor, I need to work on my balance. I should take yoga again.

Years ago, I took a yoga class offered by the MS society. And if you too always felt unfit and uncoordinated in gym class, I strongly recommend the MS Society yoga classes. I have never felt so athletic. I was the most coordinated person in class! I could do all the positions! There was nothing I couldn't do! Hell, I could walk, which was better than one-third of the class. MS Yoga also costs only $35 for six one-hour classes.

(Oh, wait, YOU can't take the class, YOU don't have a letter from your neurologist! Suckmyballs!)

At any rate, just today the MS Society sent me an email advertising a new class. I'm not looking up the precise name, but I believe it is Tae Bo. I think this is the exercise program used by the elderly people (the ones who go boating, and garden in the little plots in the in the senior center brochure photos). One moves slowly, and I believe there is a lot of standing on one foot, which is my particular concern.

So I told Gary I was thinking of signing up for Tae Bo.

"Oh, I know all about Tae Bo," he said. "My sister Sandy took Tae Bo. She had a belt and everything."
"A belt? No, you're thinking of Tae Kwon Do."
"Don't tell me what my sister took! You weren't there! It got out a lot of her aggressions since it's a martial art."
"No, really that's Tae Kwon Do. I'm almost certain. This is for balance. Old people do it."
"I've never heard of this Tae Kwon Do. Yeah, the thing old people use for balance, Tae Bo. Sandy took it for self-defense."

(Okay, I was pretty sure at this point he was confusing the two.)

"You are confusing the two," I said, even though I knew this would set him off.
"No, I am telling you, it's an ancient martial art self defense thing! But it's good for old people's balance, too, but they have to do it slowly."
"So, someone attacks you, and you very slllooooowwwlllyy karate-chop them."

He sighed, rolled his eyes, and made a pinkie bet. He postulates that Tae Bo is a martial art that young people use for self defense, but when you are old, you go out in the morning and do the same moves in slow motion.

And you know, I am so sure he is wrong now that I'm just going to post this without even looking it up in Wikipedia.

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Update: Okay, raise your hand if you knew the whole time it was a Tai Chi class the MS Society offered. Sigh. Fine. At least I want credit for not going back and editing this post so I don't look like a moron. I'm a moron, but at least I have integrity. Please, let the "unbalanced" jokes begin.

Oooz a Widda Bidda Baby?

Two things have I found.

1) You can never pay Gary enough compliments.
2) You can never give Gary enough sympathy.

Poor baby had his first root canal today. I thoughtfully have never had a root canal. If I were to have had a root canal it would spoil everything, because Gary would have had to tell me HIS root canal was horrific, and MY root canal must have been some defective con-artist SHAM root canal because I could NEVER HAVE TOLERATED such agonizing pain.

At some point during the preliminary exam, the dentist took a diminutive silver hammer and pinged at his sore tooth. He screamed. She did it again (just to make sure) and he screamed again so hideously it made the dentist laugh. I sympathize with the dentist, because Gary in pain is one of the funniest things I've ever seen. It's (giggling) just so over the top (laughing)! You just think he must be exaggerating it, and then after you realize he isn't ... well, it's still funny.

Because I know I am such an sympathetic, heartless cow I make a special effort to baby him when he's had a traumatic experience like having his...

"...mouth VIOLATED! They just went in there and pulled out the living part of the tooth! It was like A TOOTH ABORTION!"

Yes, honey ... It's awful ... Poor thing ... I hope I never have to go through that.

This Post Brought to You by the Letter B

Time for an Update Post, all about the letter B. B stands for...

Bladder Infection - This last Monday, two weeks after I woke up with my bladder infection, I got a call from my general physician's office.

"Mrs. S________, your neurologist's office sent some test results showing you have a bladder infection!"
"Yup."
"And, does this mean you haven't been treated for this bladder infection yet? This report was from a week and a half ago!"
"Yup."
"And haven't gotten any treatment?"
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo," I said sweetly, with a little upturn at the end to tell her if she wanted to lob some antibiotics my way THAT WOULD BE FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC THANK YOU.

So, I am consuming Cipro and I am killing off bladder bugs by the minute.

Bunnies - Gary (and I) ate all the Easter Candy he bought for his family. It wasn't that much, three bunnies, a little box of sheep, a little box of eggs. So he went back to the store to replace it.

I don't know what flood of serotonin caused him to buy eighty dollars worth of chocolate for four people. Wait - three people. Mr. Wonderful doesn't eat chocolate.

Is this enough chocolate for three people?

And how about that waving arm effect? I took that with our new camera, that Gary bought himself as a...

Birthday present. It's an Olympus SP-550UZ. Here's another slightly artsy bunny:

Boys Who Like Toes - This made me sad. Some ToeBoy searched on a family-friendly search engine for toe porn and mine was the only porn he got:

And finally, I greatly appreciate Bloggers who declare Days in my honor. I will have you know that the links generated so far greatly surpass the two you expected.

The Return of the Mormons

Some of you may recall that Gary's Virtually Unknown and Surprisingly Mormon Uncle died this past year. Gary didn't know him that well. He sent his Aunt (Ken's sister) a fruit basket with a thoughtful note: "Have something to eat, you'll feel better." (I swear this is true.)

The  healthy fruit did not make her feel better and she died, ironically, of colon cancer four months later.

I know I sound heartless but Gary didn't have a close relationship with these people (as evidenced by the fact he wasn't clear on the man's name.) Here is the astonishing part: Mormon Uncle and Newly deceased Mormon Aunt? Had no children. Gary thought they did, but he was wrong.

So. Aunt and Uncle have died childless. This happened a few months ago, and Gary came home one day from his parents saying that they saying his Dad and surviving sister were going to split the "Estate."

"Estate!" I snorted, "What did he do?"
"He was a college professor."
"Oh, so that would be ... hmmmm... two grand split two ways?"
"No, he had a PhD. He wrote books!"
"So half a grand split two ways?" I mocked, because that's how I am. Gary's family is Lower Middle Class, and I am Upper Middle Class. This is just a statement of fact. That's how our family dynamic is.

Of course, the last few months I have had many opportunities to roll my eyes about the S______ Estate. Ken decided to take his half and split it into quarters, with one part for him and one part each for his three kids. "Hmm, so $500 split four ways..."

In fact, it was so inconsequential I didn't even blog it. I figured I would wait until the will came and then I'd have a great ending for a post. "Stupid in-laws! Getting all excited about an estate of ..."

Uh... what does that will say? Can I see that again?

Imagine a VERY Big Number. Big. So big it would be tasteless to enter it into a blog post.  Now double it. Two of them. Ken gets one.

The first thing Gary said was (after the Profanities of Delight, very non-LDS of him) "I could invest in Gold." People, I swear to you just this weekend Mom said to me: "Don't listen to people who tell you to invest in gold." I told this to Gary. "Oh, come on," Gary scoffed. "Gold is a great investment." "Mom?" I said to the ceiling, "Mom, I can just hear you!" I pointed at my head. "I can hear her in my head, telling me not to listen to you." I tried to tell him, Mom. Oh, and Mom? That suggestion we keep separate bank accounts? Not such a good idea now.

SO, I unjustly ridiculed my in-laws for counting the golden geese before they were hatched. I am an asssssssss. Feel free to ridicule me. 

Gary has already begun to mock me.

Money changes everyone.

Imaginary Conversations

I have concluded the reason my in-laws communicate so poorly is that after every real conversation, they have an extra extended imaginary conversation. Within minutes, the line between delusion and reality becomes blurred and they believe the imaginary conversation has taken place.

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For example: Real Conversation #1 -
Gary: Can I bring anything for dinner Saturday, Mom? Do you want me to bring GarySalad? (Gary's own special concoction of Greek Salad.)
Wilma: No hon, it's your birthday. Besides, that salad is so good no one will want to eat my food!

(Yeah, that was the real one. Wilma talks to Gary like that all the time. That's why I have to be so mean to him, to teach him humility.)

Imaginary Extended Conversation #1 -
Gary: Are you sure?
Wilma: Well, you know I just said no, but in my heart yes, I really want you to bring your salad because it is soooo goood and I loooove you sooooo much. And because your wife can't cook.

Real-life Result #1 -
Gary tore around the store because he had promised his Mom he would bring salad, then he made the salad, brought it over, and Wilma said (of course) "Why did you bring that? I told you not to!" "No, you expressly told me to bring it!"

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Real Conversation #2 -
Gary: Hey Mom, is Sandy bringing Arzaana-fay AND her boyfriend when we celebrate my birthday Saturday?
Wilma: Yes, it's so sweet. They just got "promised."
Gary: Well, you know they can't both sleep under the same roof. That means one of them has to sleep someplace else, or they have to drive back the same day.

(I believe at this point both of them became distracted and they both had an imaginary conversation.)

Wilma's Imaginary Extended Conversation #2 -
Gary: Arzaana-fay could spend the night with us, and her boyfriend would sleep here, then tomorrow they'll all drive back to Kansas City.
Wilma: Oh, Gary, you were always so good, we never had to worry about things like that with you.

Gary's Imaginary Extended Conversation #2 -
Wilma: Well, they can't both sleep as an unmarried seventeen-year old couple under the same roof, 'promised' or not. So I suppose they'll just have to get back in their car and drive the four hours back to Kansas City!
Gary: It's unthinkable they would consider doing anything else. I will tell my wife this plan right now, and she will believe me as if God and Allah both came to her in a vision, wrote a little song about this, and brought along a sign language interpreter for the hearing impaired.

Real-life Result #2 -
Yeah, I did believe him. Mainly, I believe him because his family is just goofy enough to drive eight hours in one day for Corned Beef and Cabbage in celebration of the Feast of Saint Patrick which was, like Gary's birthday, during the month of March.

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The above led to this conversation between me and the conservative sister Karen:

Real Conversation #3 -
Karen: Hey Ellen, I just talked with Arzaana-fay and she says she'd be fine spending the night right here since she and her boyfriend and her mom have to get up early tomorrow and drive back to Kansas City.
Me: No. Way. There is no way. Did you check with Wilma about this?
Karen: Yeah, she said she didn't mind.
Me: She said those words. Out loud. Are you sure?
Karen: Yeah, she said Arhan-fay and the boyfriend could sleep in my old room, and Sandy could sleep in your old room, and Arzaana-fay could sleep on the couch in the living room.
Me: She can't possibly think they'll stay that way.
Karen: (shrugs)
Me: Seriously, you've heard something wrong. You are remembering an imaginary conversation. Go check with your Mom again.

Karen shrugged again. And then I bet you anything, she went back in and reported the conversation she was having with the voices in her head. That would be the imaginary conversation in which I said "I think they should be going at it on the couch! Woo-hoo! I think sex between teenagers should be encouraged! And applauded! And grades should be given!"

Overkill

Last night I found Gary standing behind the kitchen counter eating a chocolate bunny. Gary was listing decidedly to the right. He was at least thirty degrees off-center. In addition, his left leg was extended like a ballerina to prop his left foot up on the counter. Naturally, his head was tilted at almost a ninety-degree angle. To the right.

He explained the left side of his mouth was hurting and he was trying to chew on the right.

Birth of the Blues

When Mom was recovering from some lung / back surgery that further impaired her iron-lung-weakened pulmonary system, she bought a harmonica. She thought it would help her exercise her lungs, especially since it came with a neck rack that let her use it hands-free. Because you know, her arms do not have great range since the polio. (See: T-Rex, Mom's resemblance to.)

At any rate, Mom and the harmonica did not take to each other, and now that I have gained a little musical confidence with the guitar I appropriated Mom's harmonica (which she still had after twenty years, and she knew where it was, and the neck rack, and the booklet AND the instructional tape, because she rocks).

Soon I was lying on my back in bed and sucking and blowing away ,and making a variety of noise the pamphlet swore was "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." 

At one point I felt I was getting the hang of it, when the harmonica stopped making noise.  Then it started just making intermittent burbly noises. I stopped and peered at it when  A DROP OF WATER FELL OUT OF IT AND INTO MY EYE.

"Hey, how did that water get --- ewwwww."

So, off to the Internet to find out how to keep the spit out of my harmonica.

No sex, no drugs, no rock, no roll

Gary and I were talking tonight about how we both somehow missed out on the drug scene when we were teenagers. Neither of us smoked pot; in fact, I don't think either of us were ever even offered pot. I think we're saving that experience for our senior years. (Gary's only recently discovered alcohol. He's up to one daily swig of Baileys.)

We were wondering why no one was hospitable enough to invite us to partake in any drugs, and then we realized: people thought we were on drugs anyway. One of my high school/church friends told me his mom had warned him to stay away from me. "She's spacey. I think she's on drugs." I imagine that Mrs. Allen probably thought I was a druggie simply because my family wasn't Baptist. Well, and I was spacey. 

Gary, on the other hand, had a reputation of being not only an addict but possibly even a dealer. His band teacher, Mr Friede, had a classmate follow Gary around to see if he was dealing drugs.  Gary got promoted to drug pusher because he was such a blatant drug user.  He popped pills five times a day, and no one knew what they were for. When asked, instead of saying "I have epilepsy," he looked mysterious and menacing. You know, pusher behavior.

I can see us now in the senior center, finally getting the chance to live up to our reputations.

My MRI

I actually got my MRI tonight (at seven POST meridian, thank you) and I am sure it will now sit on the doctor's desk while he takes a month-long vacation. Seriously, his vacation starts Friday.

As I slid into the machine, I thought two things:

"MY GOD how fat am I? I don't remember my arms scraping against the sides of the MRI before!"

and

"What does that little sign by the red light say? That's tiny print.  Do...not...look..directly...at...(ow!)...laser."

When I slid back out forty-five restful minutes later, I mentioned to the technician that they might want to reconsider where they put the don't stare at the laser sign, and she said that in the past she would tell people to close their eyes until they were all the way in. That just made them look for whatever dangerous thing it was they weren't supposed to see. And, she said I was one of the last people to use this MRI, because it was ancient and they are retiring it next week.

"It's small!" I cried.

"Yes," she said, "It's our smallest one."

So, I'm NOT fat, the MRI just shrunk.

Birthday Day

Gary was born today, on March 20th, 1954. (I KNOW! Codger.)

This caused confusion for quite some time in the S________ family, since Wilma established in her mind her baby was born on the first day of Spring. So, instead of memorizing the birthday of her then only child, she instead remembered that "Gary was born" -- sorry, strike that -- "God blessed our family with this perfect, adorable, blameless child on the first day of Spring." Which varies every year from March 20 and March 21. It appears she never noticed the child had a different birth date every year, because that family celebrates, as you know, when it is convenient.

This meant that some years Gary was a Taurus and other years Gary was a Pisces. They bought him schlock for both astrological signs, you would think this would have made them notice.

Finally, when he went to get his driver's license someone pointed out the discrepancy, since the first day of spring that year didn't fall on the same date as his birth certificate showed.

At any rate, he is fifty-three today. I got him two faster thinner cymbals for his drum set. The in-laws are celebrating this weekend. And we are going out for dinner. And a new year starts again.

Speed Dressing

My dental appointment to get a temporary crown was today at seven AM. Ante Meridian! Sevvvvvvveeeeeeeeen! My plan was to be half asleep and snorting the nitrous. This required that I get up and out in a very short amount of time. As it happened,  was there at 6:45, a quarter-hour even less ante the meridian than I expected, because I used my speed-dressing technique.

Night before: shower
Minute one: wash face, brush teeth.
Minute two: Brush again out of respect for the dentist.
Minute three: Wipe makeup on face, except for chin, because the dentist will just mess that up.
Minute four: comb hair. Dentist will destroy this too.
Minute five: Put on gel antiperspirant and (and this is the genius part) use the blow dryer to dry it.

Rest of day explain that you just came from the dentist and that is why you look like hell.

(And for those who say, why not just put on the antiperspirant first, there is no way it would dry in under five minutes.)

Welcome, Wilkommen, BienVenue, Come In...

Yesterday at the Starbuck's drive through:

Gary: You're new, aren't you?
Barista: Yup.
Gary: Wait, aren't you [female Barista]'s boyfriend?
Barista: Yeah, I am.
Gary: Well, welcome!

Like it's his own personal Starbucks.

Sick of Doctors

Monday - I get lucky this weekend wake up with a bladder infection. After wasting forty-five minutes at the Primary doctors office, I find they have changed the rules and now instead of just looking at my urine they want to look at me. This means I have to make an appointment. I leave the doctors office without being seen and go buy cranberry juice.

Tuesday - I go to my Gyn appointment. It's been too soon since my last one, so the rules say I have to reschedule.

Wednesday -

a)  I go to my Neurologist appointment. The doctor times how long I am able to stand on one foot with my eyes closed, and I've dropped from seven seconds to five. This would concern me if I ever stood on one foot with my eyes closed. He orders an MRI because "You might not be as well as you think you are."

b) He also sends me to get a urine sample and after that to another test to see how much is left in my bladder afterward. I have only 16milliliters left. The nurse is dismayed.  "That's good, isn't it? I'm supposed to be empty. That's the point of the test." "Oh, yes, your doctor will be very pleased," she says, clearly unhappy that I am as well as I think I am.

Thursday - I sleep 16 hours.

Friday - I am called to come in a hour early for my MRI, because they have to test my blood because it appears people have been reacting poorly to the fluid they shoot you with beforehand. They've been having kidney failure. I come in when told, an hour early, to be told they can take my blood but not analyze it so I have to come back next week for the actual MRI.

I am pissed. Pissed beyond all measure. It all seems to be designed to ferret out things that don't bother me and make me think I am sick, to protect me from eventualities that well may never happen. And to ignore my bladder infection. I'm peeing all over that MRI machine if I ever get into it.

The Story of New Guy, Part the Fifth

(Previously on The Story of New Guy:
New Guy: Montage of New Guy saying "Giggle Nipple! Nice Shoes! Fine Tight Ass! Playboy!")

Day 8
I'm working from home when I get this terse IM from Co-worker My Age:
"Where the F%$# are you?"
I know this was the day HR was to have gotten New Guy straightened out. As it turns out, New Guy has been walked out and the locks have been changed. HR isn't talking. I talk to HR about my concerns that the next company will have no idea how creepy New Guy is, and I get the HR answer: he didn't do anything illegal; there's nothing we can do.  I give up and content myself with referring to him as "Creepy Fired Guy."

Day 14 (one week later)
One by one, we are each called into HR. Not surprisingly, it appears Creepy Fired Guy has written a letter claiming we sexually harassed him. The very sympathetic President of the Company is in on these meetings, otherwise, it might have been uncomfortable. (I'm serious. I mean it. She is one of the coolest people alive.) At any rate, I get the same treatment as everyone else: I have to go through my remembrance of the awkward first meeting, Hot Young Coworker suggesting I was staring at her boobs, my response, etc.

Then I am asked by HR:
"Do you feel that [Hot Young Co-worker] sexually harassed you?"
I laugh. Or at least, I think I'm laughing, until HR says:

"[Creepy Fired Guy] is very concerned that you were sexually harassed at this meeting as well, when [Hot Young Coworker] commented you were staring at her breasts, and this may have made you feel uncomfortable."

Okay. THEN I laughed. I laughed ... and  stamped my feet from laughter, and laughed some more. I thought I was done laughing and I choked out, "No, I did not feel harassed."

HR continued, "He also says [Co-worker my age] harassed you."
"What?" I squawked, switching from laughter to outrage in a very bi-polar way.

She (HR) quoted from the letter. "Mrs. S_______ was working from home and she IM'ed [Co-worker my age] that she would have to come in. [Co-worker] IM'ed back, 'Well, shower up, Musty.'"

At this point I snorted so hard snot flew out of my nose, and I was forced to catch it in my hand mid-air in front of the very elegant and refined President of Our Company. Then, I really began to laugh.

She continued, "Mrs. S_____ came in and seemed to be very embarrassed."

(This is true. I played the mock outrage to the hilt, at the time. I shoved my upper body right into the seated co-worker's body and made her smell me until she had to lean back and almost fall over she was laughing so hard.)

HR continued, over my shrieks of laughter: "She said she had showered and sprayed on Febreeze and perfume."

"Okay, that is a lie," I gasped out. "I didn't shower, but I said that I had." Then the clarify that this was all in fun, I dramatized the sniffing scene with The Elegant and Refined and Old Money President of Our Company playing Co-worker's role. She understood then that I had not been harassed.

I then went back to my desk and laughed so hard it brought in [Hot Mom Co-Worker] and [Co-worker my age]. We had a moment. We just laughed and laughed. It was special.

The meeting did give me a chance to express my concerns about the secrecy aspect of our harassment policy. Since we had been told for a week not to discuss this with anyone, I felt I had done something so wrong just by encountering Creepy Fired Guy.

So, after everyone was interviewed we were given leave to talk to each other (and, again I extrapolate, to post it on my blog). And H.Y.C. who intially was told to take an on-line harassment course, was joined by the rest of the team demanding, "Hey! We need to take that course too. Why is she so special?" Now the whole company might need to take it, since you never know if my every-other-day shower schedule might be construed as sexual harassment. (I still need to pick up one of those diswasher Clean/Dirty magnets for my cube.)

Finally, Creepy Fired Guy (nee New Guy) has left such a pornographic collection of sexual solicitation emails on his hard drive that those who saw them just close their eyes and shudder when asked.  This is such a major violation of our email policy it seems worth it to hire him back so we could fire him again.

Discussion Questions: What the HELL is wrong with this guy?  I keep thinking he doesn't understand normal human interaction. And just imagine if he'd stayed. You know, he was out there all concerned that I was being harassed, bonding with me, sharing secrets ... Geh.

Creepy.

The Story of New Guy, Part the Fourth

(Previously on The Story of New Guy:
New Guy: "Nipple!'"
New Guy: "Thighs!'"
New Guy: "Fine tight ass!")

Day 7
Provoked by the mass descent of three women on her office and rumors of inappropriate IM conversations, the Boss decides to take preemptive action the next morning and tell HR. HR will be having a little talk with New Guy, and apologies may be forthcoming. HR tells us we can't discuss this with anyone else in the office, or with each other. (I extrapolate I also cannot post it on my blog. Phooey. Hence, inappropriate bloggage about my lack of hygiene.) I don't know why HR thinks secrecy is going to help anyone but New Guy. She spends the morning getting our stories.

New Guy is unaware that he's in trouble. At the bosses birthday lunch, New Guy asks me why my IM name is 'Crown Jewels.' I think, "Yeah, why is it Crown Jewels? If I really had any balls I'd kick you in the nuts." Instead, I pretend not to hear him.  What can I say? "You have made me uncomfortable by referencing the mildly off-color nuances of my IM screen name?"

He sits next to me and starts jiggling my elbow.
I bark, "Stop that now."
More jiggling.
I take my butter knife and poke it  in his face. "Stop. That. Now."
He stops. I consider suggesting everyone arm herself with a butter knife.

He walks back with Giant Behemoth Male Co-worker (G.B.M.Co-W.) He asks G.B.M.Co-W. if he reads Playboy. (Because, you know, that's casual conversation among guys. "Hi, I'm Brad." "Hi Brad, I'm Jim. Hey, Brad, you read Playboy?") He also regales G.B.M.Co-W. with a sex joke. G.B.M.Co-W. tells us he feels creeped out now, too. (Gary suggests it's the guy's age that is really creeping us out. Gary's sensitive: he's the same age as Creepy New Guy.)

I wonder how far this will go. I anticipate he and HR will have a little sit-down, then he will deliver deeply creepy and uncomfortable apologies. Or, instead, will HR bring the hammer down? And then, what about the next company that hires him? HR and I have already had an animated conversation about our legal inability to warn New Guy's next victims company that there is something disturbing about this guy. I feel more than a little responsibility, because I was in charge of interviewing New Guy over the phone to find out his technical skills and to see: "If he's weird or anything." My Boss assures me he got past seven other interviewers, not just me.

Discussion Questions: I know the Supreme Court says it all comes down to if we feel uncomfortable. New Guy could say "I like your blouse" at this point and I think we all would feel uncomfortable, including G.B.M.Co-W. But still, I think as humans we do have to consider intent. And for a while I thought this guy just wanted to fit in, had no social skills, or no common sense. I cut him plenty of slack. But it really seems he's been hell-bent on getting fired.  Why else would he be doing this?

The Story of New Guy, Part the Third

(Previously on The Story of New Guy:
Hot Young Coworker: "Everybody! Quit staring at my freaking BBBOOOOOOOOOOBBBBS!"
New Guy stands about looking Reticent and Helpless.)

Day 6

On the first day of his second week, New Guy decides he'd better get going if he intends to get fired before his benefits kick in. Strangely, he spends a morning transferring his prescriptions to Saint Louis, as if he thinks he'll be keeping this job.

On this fine day, he had a number of inappropriate exchanges.

Exchange with Co-Worker My Age
He makes a weak and deeply awkward joke about Co-W.M.A's name, involving the word "Nipple.'" Her nickname is "Giggles." He says, "Why don't they call you Giggle Nipple?" Yes. It was that lame. Co-worker My Age gave him the ultimate snake eye, the python of all snake eyes. She visited the bosses office and related this exchange. The Middle-Management Boss Lady suggested she announce, "You have offended me" next time she is offended, because the Snake Eye cannot be quoted in a hearing.

Exchange With Hot Mom
It seems at the end of the previous Friday, New Guy had asked Hot Mom what route she takes to go home, and when she plans to leave. He doesn't live near her. After New Guy makes his Nipple quip to Co-W.M.A., Hot Mom pays an impromptu visit to the bosses office as well. Boss reinforces that "You have offended me" should be the word of the day.

Exchange with Hot Young Co-Worker
He IMs Hot Young Co-worker to tell her how nice her thighs are, and how tight her ass is. She IMs back: "Get to work." She doesn't visit the Boss, because she doesn't feel threatened. In fact, no one is threatened, just creeped out. We warned H.Y.C. that New Guy is causing a run on the bosses office, and that "You have offended me" is preferable to "Hey, everybody, check out what Professor Perv just said to me!" (Professor Perv nickname courtesy of Co-W.M.A.)

Exchange with Me

(this space intentionally left blank.)

He didn't say anything to me. I showed up at work late. I had planned to work from home but technology intervened. I would have bent the technology to my will but Co-Worker My Age sent me an IM saying: "Shower up, Musty." (When I got in I forced her to smell me.)

Then, because I am a follower, I paid an impromptu visit to the boss. I'd heard the Nipple story and decided Boss needs the dirt I have on New Guy's sexual-harassment history at his last job. I revealed to the Boss the whole story: a) I had been ogling Hot Young Co-worker at the meeting, b) she reacted, c) I apologized the Creepy New Guy, d) he confessed his sexual-harassment history.

Now, Boss is not above inappropriate humor. She has been known to join in with, and one-up on, the indelicate talk. Again, "You are making me uncomfortable." is her advice. I already know this advice has flaws. For example, I was twenty-something and a guy at work was actually making me uncomfortable. I said, "That type of talk bothers me." He replied, "So, does it bother you that my dick is hard right now?" And that's when Karl got the full force of my mighty silent treatment. I didn't go to HR - we didn't have an HR department, and, my children, it was before Anita Hill. Anita Hill, children, was ... oh, never mind. It was the Dark Ages.

Discussion Questions: Initially, everything New Guy has said has just been borderline creepy. For example, before I met him he sent an email asking if I was his mentor or maybe...his Taskmistress. I emailed back "I prefer Taskassistant" and let it go at that. But you can't go to the Boss with "He called me a Taskmistress!" (Actually, I just tromped in there because I'm a gossip.) You can go to the Boss with "He said I had a nice tight ass," but what if you prefer to deal with it on your own? What if you aren't really threatened, because like H.Y.C., you are a brass-balled half-man hermaphrodite? Should you alert the Boss to protect shyer, more delicate flowers?

The Story of New Guy, Part the Second

(Previously on The Story of New Guy:
New Guy: "Nice Shoes. Do you know what that means?"
New Guy: "Oh, I got walked out of my last job for sexual harassment.")

Day 3
New guy again starts the day with "Nice shoes." In addition, he tells our co-worker, Hot Mom, that the buttons on the back of her pants are really cute. I hear these stories and think, "Am I just being influenced because he shared with me that he'd been fired for harassment? And, what the hell was he thinking, sharing that with me?"

Day 4
New guy begins relying a little too heavily on baby talk. He also whines that some of the work is too hard. New Guy is working my last nerve. New guy has figured out I am not his best friend. This may have been when I barked at him, "Look at me! I am talking to you. Make eye contact!" and pointed to my eyes.

However, my ballsiness pales in comparison to that of Hot Young Co-worker. H.Y.C. has not been harassed yet by New Guy. Ironically, she instead embarrasses another male co-worker for staring at her boobs. He is so embarrassed that New Guy feels for him. Staring Man had previously held the unspoken office title of "Creepy Guy." New Guy has usurped him.

Day 5
I wasn't there. No idea what he was up to.

Discussion Questions:  Are we obligated to confront creepy guys? Does this ever work? The Artist Formerly Known as Staring Man was quite shaken and surprised by his reputation, once it was revealed to him. Also: Could New Guy just be trying to fit in with the frank talk?  Have we given him permission?

The Story of New Guy, Part the First

Ahhhh... you know how I hate keeping a secret, at least, I hate keeping my own secrets?  And remember the day I was moved to tell you about my skanky pjs because HR made me keep my mouth shut? And you know how New Guy suddenly fell off the Big Map Of Mockery?

Well, here's the first in a five-part series: The Story of New Guy. Day 1 equates to about Feb 19th.

Day 1
So, here's this new guy. First day of work. Our boss' boss makes a point of telling us, "Try to rein yourselves in. This guy's kind of conservative."

So, New Guy sits in his first meeting with us.  Hot Young Coworker suddenly interrupts the meeting.

"Ellen! Are you staring at my boobs?"
"No. I was not. I was resting my eyes," I said, because Gary has used the "resting my eyes" excuse before and has found it effective. "Can we continue?"
Hot Y. C. covers her breasts with her hands. "What, are they drawing you into their powerful energy field?"
For full comic effect, I close my eyes and pause dramatically. I sighed to New Guy, "I am sorry. Please forgive [H.Y.C.]. This must be embarrassing to you."
New Guy makes non-committal New Guy noises.

Day 2
New guy starts the day by complimenting another co-worker's shoes (they were darling shoes). This co-worker is also hot, and thirty-five ish. Let's call her Hot Mom.
"Nice shoes,"  he said.
"Thanks," she answered.
"Do you know what that means?" he asked, and proceeds to tell her there's an exchange in French Connection in which a man tells a woman "Nice shoes," and in the next scene, boom, they're in bed.
Hot Mom responded with the snake eye.

Unaware, and remembering Executive Cautions that New Guy is older (fifties) and thus must be conservative, I again apologize to New Guy at the end of the day for Hot Young Co-worker's behavior during the meeting.
"Oh, it doesn't bother me," he shrugged, "I was walked out of my last job for sexual harassment."
I was amazed. "What did you do," I asked.
"Oh, it was an awful job," he answered, or rather, didn't answer.
"Was it a misunderstanding?" I said sympathetically, because I am a crappy judge of character.
"No, I did it on purpose. I hated that job."
Must ask more questions! "Why didn't you just quit, then? Was it unemployment; you wanted to get fired do you could get the unemployment?"
"Nah."
(OH! So you're a JACKASS. I see now.) "So ... hmmm ... so you were frustrated with your job, and you decided to take out your hostilities on some unsuspecting woman."
"So. Anyway. I had a question about this software."
"No, really, I'm just trying to understand."
"So, does this software integrate with the database?"

At the end of that day I share this story with Hot Mom and find she has already been harassed. On. Day. Two.

Discussion Questions: Does loose talk around the office (witty though it may be) render void your right to be offended by loose talk? Or, should a sensible person simply wait a few weeks before responding in kind? Or would New Guy still be creepy if we'd known him for months? Discuss.

Don't Cry for Me

An odd exchange happened (or in some ways, didn't happen) between Gary and me this evening.

First, I had spent part of the day at Mom's. When I get home from Mom's I am usually confronted by Bachelor Gary. Bachelor Gary has spent the day in his underwear sweatpants, eating all the food in the fridge that does not require microwavery, and watching crap TV. Usually I arrive and find he has been so brainwashed from having had the day entirely to himself that he is outraged that I would expect him, the King, to get off the couch and unload the groceries. On top of that, he demands I pay full attention to him. Plus, he will not give up the remote. This is why I found myself watching The Girls Next Door this evening.

I am not a big fan of this show. I applaud the older savvy one for roping Hef into marriage, but I want to smack the blond off the other two bimbos. Especially the one with the pink diamond grille. After she "found" her grille in her purse, I got up and went into the music/computer/guest room, aka my room, to read more of Middlesex. (Incidentally: This book was written for me. I keep encountering little asides that seem like tiny little shout-outs to me alone. High Props to Carrie!)

I hadn't been in my room twenty seconds, in fact I hadn't dug through the duvet to find the book yet when Gary shrieked, "What? Are you just going to abandon me? I thought we were going to spend the evening together!"

Watching giggly squealing blonds? Nooo thank you. "Is it okay if I bring my book?" I yelled back. "Sure!" he answered. So I tromped in and ignored the Girls Next Door who were squealing "Oh, My F&^#$ing GAWD" over the bowling suite at the Sands, and instead I kept up with my girl Callie Stephanides. In fact, when Gary was interrupting me to explain some detail of the background history of one of the Playboy Bunnies, I actually shushed him.

At some point, his office called. He had been threatening to go to work to nurse his computer system through the Big DST Transition, but instead he fell under the Bunny Influence. After he hung up, he gave me the benefit of a lengthy lecture on .... on .... I have no idea. The shushing had been so easy I found it easy to tune him out. Every once in a while I would say yes, but frankly, it was obvious I was reading.  And obvious I was not at all listening to him.

After twenty minutes of reading through the diatribe, it occurred to me that this must have been why Juan Peron preserved Eva Peron after she died. He didn't want communication, marital congress, or even eye contact. He just wanted her in the room.

Everybody Leaves

I am dismayed. Dismayed, I tell you! Sue, the woman who has styled my hair for twenty-five years, is leaving the biz.

I like the way Sue does my hair. She guarantees my loyalty by telling me at least once a year that I have one of the top three most difficult heads of hair she has to deal with. My hair breaks, is fine, has curl, has cowlicks, and never lays right. "Ellen, your hair is crap!" That's why I've stayed loyal to her.

To be honest, I was unfaithful to Sue once in that twenty-five year period. When I was making enough money to believe that you can throw money at a problem and fix it, I had a brief fling with Jon Phillips (at that time the trendy Saint Louis hair stylist). The stylist there was known for cutting fine, frizzy hair. Then she went off to Jefferson City and I slunk back to Sue.

In twenty years a person learns all the secrets of your head. Recently I got a slamming do from Sue. It involved "stacking" the back of my hair. Since that time, I can look at the back of my head and think "Hey, that looks like normal hair."

So next month I have to break in another new crotch doctor (the estimable Dr. Tse has gone) and start training another stylist. Anyone know of a good one in the Saint Louis metro area?

Alarming

When I met Gary twenty five years ago, at some point I discovered his stash of broken digital alarm clocks. "What's up with all these clocks?" "Oh they're all broken. Cheap stupid clocks." Soon after, another clock "broke," which is to say Gary slept through the alarm.  He immediately declared that the alarm had broken, and came home with a new clock.

I thought of this last night when in bed he announced to the silence, "It's a shame we'll have to get rid of all our clocks. Stupid Republicans."

I thought really hard about faking sleep, since I knew where this was going. Instead, I rolled over and sighed:
"WHY do we have to get rid of all our clocks," as if I hadn't guessed.

"Well," he spluttered, "They were made before the Republicans decided to change when Daylight Saving Time is. Every clock is an atomic or a satellite clock. They all have outdated algorithms for when to switch to DST." You could tell he was really really angry with the Republicans. If a Republican at that point had decided to literally invade our bedroom, Gary would have punched him.

"Dude, they just have a switch on the side. There's no algorithm."

"Don't argue with me! I'm really mad we have to throw out all our clocks."

"No, we DON'T. What about the people in central Indiana? Does that mean they couldn't buy our clock? What about overseas? I'm telling you, there's a switch."

No. he wouldn't have it. I'm thinking about throwing that switch a day early and pointing out that the atomic clock must have sent a message through the satellite to override the algorithm.

Three

Hi. Hi there. How ya doin'? Hi. It's three. Three a.m., three to the a to the m.

You know what rocks? Realizing you're never going to sleep with this sinus headache, and taking a dose of Sudaphed, but thinking that it's the same as aspirin so 2 pills = 1 dose. SO now you have taken enough pseudoephinedrine to make a big ball of crystal meth and you can't get to sleep.

Hi.

Oh, you crazy Germans!

You wacky German boys have been so appreciative of my toes, you have elevated me (Little Ol' Me) to the first, the very first hit on Google when you search for "Toe porn." I'm number one, even before www.toeporn.com (oh, and don't go there - you get all kinds of spyware).

This is not to in any way show favoritism to any other nationality. I guess it's the cold weather; you all are starved for some toes out there. It's okay. Toes are a natural and beautiful part of the female anatomy.

But,  just to show appreciation for my German "enthusiasten,"  I puzzled over what special treat I might give to my Germans. I understand that various nationalities have their own special kinky preferences: the interest the English have in spanking has been well-documented, for example. I think the Germans like bondage, that's why I drummed up the old camera, popped in the batteries, and snapped this pic just as a little give-back to my German fans. And I love how it's also an homage to the Statue of Liberty. Have at it!

BBQueen

The first time I had dinner with the in-laws, Wilma and I were chatting as she cleaned up. She returned the uneaten pickles to the pickle jar and said to me, sternly:

"We don't waste food."

I quickly thought, "Does she think I waste food? Did I waste any food tonight? Who wastes food?"

Years later, I was at a restaurant with Wilma's daughter, Sandy. She asked for a leftover box and announced to the table, "We don't waste food."

I turned to my niece Arzaana-fay and demanded she waste some food, right then, thinking maybe it would keep her from turning into her relatives. I have nothing against wasting food, I just don't like the tone of holier-than ... I dunno ... than that strange sect out there who evidently believe in wasting food.

Actually, the next time Arzaana-fay visited there was a turkey that I defrosted too long, and I made her pick up the 10 pound turkey and slam-dunk it into the trash bin, yelling "I WASTE FOOD!" (This still makes me laugh wickedly.) But, that was an aberration. Usually I use all parts of the Buffalo.

This was on my mind at the grocery today. I overbought barbecue sauce for my last barbecue project. So, this week we will be having:

Ham in barbecue sauce
Pork tenderloin in barbecue sauce
Chicken in barbecue sauce
Petite smoked sausages in barbecue sauce (because "Lil' Smokies" is such an asinine name)
AND
Pizza

I realize I could just throw out the extra barbecue sauce , or shove it in the back of the fridge, but it feels like a waste, and in this house we don't waste barbecue sauce.

Home Working

I'm working from home this week. Since I have no kids and the dog sleeps all day, the only thing to tempt me away from work is daytime TV, because really, there are some episodes of Friends I've only seen twenty times. So, no temptations.

For some reason, today, I'd work two hours then think: "I wonder what's in the refrigerator." Strangely, each time I opened the refrigerator door the same stuff was in there: replacement non-Jiffy peanut butter, chicken fajita soup, barbecue sauce, and cheese. I'd stare blankly, then pivot and open the pantry door. Flour? Granola? What am I supposed to do with this? I'd then turn and pad back to the computer, or make myself some tea.

The tea ceremony here is this: Microwave a measuring cup full of water five minutes, while you chill the big mug in the freezer. Brew the tea in the measuring cup of boiling water. Take the frozen mug and pour the hot tea into it so you can drink the tea immediately without burning your lip on a hot mug. Then go back to your desk where your co-workers are sending you IMs like "Bitch, where have you been the last five minutes?"

At 1:00 I padded out to the kitchen, did the fridge-pantry pivot, and thought, "I need to actually eat something this time." I planned to make my current favorite recipe: Pasta with Mizthra Cheese. I love this recipe because it's just this: Make pasta. Add butter. Add cheese. Get fat. But it sounds like I've been swanning about in the kitchen whipping up a complex batch of Pasta with Mizthra.

So I planned to Nigella up some Pasta with Mizthra, but then a package of Kraft Easy Mac and Cheese hurled itself at me and said: "Just add water!"

"Well, okay then," I said. I knew if I didn't eat the Easy Mac and Cheese (much less the Classic Difficult Mac and Cheese, and far far from Pasta Avec Mizthra), then no one would eat it because Gary truly feels that anything that involves the microwave is too complicated.

So, clearly if I'm going to work from home I need to make a shopping list of whatever it is I am looking for in my kitchen. I just wish I knew what I was looking for. Homemade granola sounds good. Nah. Pretzels? Yeah! No. I just don't know.

In Which I Reduce Our South American Debt by Eighty Dollars!

First, hi to the people who just visited for the first time from the Ships and Dip Message Board. Prepare to be horrified, because this is probably the MOST OFFENSIVE POST I've ever submitted. I can't help it, you came on a very offensive day.

Really, if you choose to ignore any post this year, ignore this one. It is incredibly, phenomenally  offensive.  It goes way past the bounds of good taste and probably violates the Typepad Terms and Conditions. Luckily, I have no digital camera available to me, so take comfort that it could be worse.

Life as A Bachelor

I have found myself left alone at home with a night to myself.

I planned to look at my refrigerator list of things to do and slap out as many of them as I could.

Instead, I was overwhelmed with deja vu - I felt just like a kid the first time Mom and Dad go out without the babysitter.

I added a few things to the list, ordered a pizza, drank 7-Up right from the liter bottle, and fell asleep on the couch.

(A warning: Domino's Cheesy Garlic Bread Pizza tastes as much like Cheese Garlic Bread as Cherry Cough Syrup tastes like real cherries.)

Italian Food

For quite some time Catherine the Red has taken me to various restaraunts on her rotating list of five favorite restaurants in the St. Louis area. Often I eat, and I think, "I don't get it. Why does she like this place?" Finally I got it; I don't like Italian food.

This is heresy, because in Saint Louis we have what I am told is spectacular Italian food on "the Hill." (Look! Here it is on wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hill_%28Saint_Louis%29) I've eaten a number of times on the Hill, and I just still don't get it. It's flabby pasta covered by mushy tomatoes covered by cheese. Same texture, covered with red sauce. Oh, and then cheese. Or, same texture covered with white sauce. Bores my mouth. It doesn't crunch.

(Of course, there is one exception that I think only Saint Louisians eat. Italy did not produce the only Italian food I like: toasted ravioli. Mmmm - nothing crunches like breaded ravioli that has been deep fried. But that isn't legitimate Italian food.)

So, when I looked up the web site for the restaurant Catherine the Red and I planned to visit tonight, I groaned. "Acero Italian Ristorante?"  However, it seems I've never had Italian food before tonight.

It was opening night, so we got a lot of special attention from our waiter, he of the warm eyes and crinkly smile. The owner came over and wished us a good dinner. I chirped, "I'll try, but I don't like Italian food." I said this because that's what an owner wants to hear on opening night, and because I am a moron. (I would give you supporting links and references but it seems unnecessary.)

I am now a big fan of Italian food. We had these delicious Italian dishes:

First we had a sampler appetizer plate with three types of cheese (buffalo, a hard cheese that stared with an F ... and some other Brie-like cheese), three types of salami (fennel, something that looked like prosciutto but wasn't, and Mortadella), and three vegetable dishes (Snow Peas and Something Heavenly, Brussels Sprouts and More Heavenly Things, and Carrots with Mint). And crunchy, crunchy bread.

We followed that with polenta the waiter spread on a marble slab at the table and then combined with mushrooms and more hard cheese. Mmmmm, polenta. The best part of grits and cornbread. And finally I had risotto, which I have eternally ordered in a heretofore vain attempt at finding the legendary risotto they talk about on The Splendid Table and that one episode of Seinfeld. And my friends, that risotto is the seafood risotto at this place.

Oh, and there was cake. When chocolate cake is the least exciting part of a meal, that meal is sublime. So, I don't know what that gummy acidic Italian goo is that they serve on the Hill, but I like what I found at Acero.

Happy March

I woke Gary up this morning.

"Good morning," I cooed.

Okay, that is a lie.

"Your stupid blackberry is making that stupid noise again," I snarled.
"Good morning!" he chirped. "It's my birthday month!"

And so it begins again.