Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Gronk

I was awakened suddenly this morning by a huge "GRROOONK" sound.

"Damn - what was that?" I thought, lying on my side, my eyes shut.

Then I exhaled. It occurred to me what the noise might have been.

Then I opened my eyes and saw the look of horror on Gary's face.

"What the hell was THAT?" he exclaimed.

"I might have snored so loudly I woke myself up."

"Girl, you woke us both up."

Mmmmm Piggies

At an impressionable age I read this in one of the Little House books:

But even better than a balloon was the pig's tail.

Pa skinned it for them carefully, and into the large end he thrust a sharpened stick. Ma opened the front of the cookstove and raked hot coals out into the iron hearth. Then Laura and Mary took turns holding the pig's tail over the coals.

It sizzled and fried, and drops of fat dripped off it and blazed on the coals. Ma sprinkled it with salt. Their hands and their faces got very hot, and Laura burned her finger, but she was so excited she did not care. Roasting the pig's tail was such fun that it was hard to play fair, taking turns.

At last it was done. It was nicely browned all over, and how good it smelled! They carried it into the yard to cool it, and even before it was cool enough they began tasting it and burning their tongues.

They ate every little bit of meat off the bones, and then they gave the bones to Jack. And that was the end of the pig's tail. There would not be another one till next year.

Okay, tell me you don't want a pig tail right now. I do. I'm not a fan of cold pork products, or pickled pork products, but I'll eat any barbecued pig part.

I have failed in my attempts to find barbecued pig tails. You'd think the issue would be that there's only one tail per pig. However, I have had my share of pig snoots, and there's only one snout per piggie.

Mmmm. Yeah, I followed Gary into that BBQ place by UMSL twenty-plus years ago, and we asked, "Snoots? What are those?"
"Pig snouts."
"Cool!"

And if you haven't had one, shut up. Just shut yourself up because I can hear you, especially you Northerners.  They were crispy snoots, which you can read about here, and they were tasty. And kosher! No. No, not really. I've been trying to find a non-copyrighted image, but it will just match what's in your mind right now anyway. That is, if what's in your mind is a full-on frontal pig snout, that has been flattened out like a pig scalp with the nostrils right there for prime thumb access.

(And if you are grossed out, go back up and read that pig tail paragraph again. Little Half-Pint ate pig tails! She still grew up to be a lady. Don't talk trash about Half-Pint, people. )

At any rate, there's a chance I'm only a week away from pig snoots again. There's a music festival in Memphis I'm going to, and it has been suggested there will be BBQ. I'll be the woman wandering around wailing, "Snoooots? Snooooooooots?"

Manbitch

Our cube at work is lucky enough to be equipped with a Manbitch. One day, Robin and I were working over the weekend, and Robin said:

"I want lunch, but I don't want to go out and get it."
Manbitch said, "What do you want? I'll go get it for you."
Robin and I shared a glance. "Um...what if I want a salad from Subway?" (Obviously, this was Robin.) "You'd have to get in your car."
"Okay," he shrugged.
"Really? You would get in your car and go get lunch?"
"Sure."
"And I want you to pay for it," Robin escalated right up there.
"''Kay."

And he did! And he did it right AND he never complained or expected compensation.

"Huh," you say, "isn't Robin also known as Hot Young Co-worker? And couldn't that be why Manbitch is so agreeable?" I would be right there with you, sister, but one day I was at work early (that is, before 10 am) and I sighed, "You know what are good? Those Gooey Butter Danishes from the Bread Company." 

I didn't even see Manbitch leave, but minutes later I looked down and there was a Danish smiling up at me by my elbow.

Manbitch is going through a hard time lately, and I've been thinking about him. He showed up at work Friday with four boxes of garlic bread from pizza hut, the type you can't order on-line. He might have done it just to stuff something in Robin's mouth to keep her quiet because as you all know she programs like Maria Sharapova plays tennis. ("Unh! Uhnh! Huuh!")

At any rate, I need to start keeping a journal of what Manbitch likes to eat and just have it magically land on his desk every few days. Not every cube is lucky enough to have a Manbitch, and we want to keep ours.

Dealbreaker

Gary? Annoying? Difficult? Exasperating? No. Because I know he could be worse.

Long ago, I worked with a woman named Phyllis. Phyllis's boyfriend was, well, exacting. One day during lunch, she asked the crowd of assembled women:

"You all are married. Let me ask you. Do you rotate your husband's underwear?"

Come to find out, Phyllis had done her boyfriend's laundry, folded everything INCLUDING THE UNDERWEAR, and tucked it lovingly into his undies drawer. And (deep breath) he complained (close eyes, wave hands vaguely in air) because (shake head, hard) she had placed the "fresh" undies on top of the older unused laundered undies.

I believe we all said, in unison:
"First, you do his laundry?"

I think lunch extended to four hours that day as we tried to raise Phyllis's consciousness. It was well into the third hour before we even touched on the "rotating" issue. She held firm. "But I need to do his laundry, he doesn't have time! And if you don't fold the underwear they don't fit in the drawer as nicely! And I see his point about rotating the underwear, because then the stuff on top would wear out faster, and he'd eventually have worn out underwear on top on virtually-new underwear -"

"Phyllis! Back UP! Why are you doing his laundry?"

I think about Phyllis whenever Gary starts to annoy me. I mean, sure, he likes the dog food just so, but at least I don't have to rotate his freaking underwear.

Nouvelle Cuisine

Here is how Gary has said goodbye to me every day the past decade:

"Bye hon. Don't forget to feed the dog."

Sometimes it makes me want to not feed the dog. But I don't dare, because when he comes home he often says:

"Hi hon. The dog didn't eat all his food! You didn't make it right."

In the past the dogs ate dry food and it was easy, but now that the other, sickly dog is gone (Douglas, R.I.P.), McDonnell the healthy dog gets tasty canned food.

Originally, we just plunked down some of the Science Diet Doug was on at the end.

Now, Mac has conned Gary into making ever-increasingly ornate dog menus to tempt his palate. If Gary spots Mac hasn't had all his food, he coaches me on the recipe.

"You know he likes it chopped up into little chucks, not crumbs, but little bite sizes. And he likes it on the big plate ..."
(Yeah, we're just moving right past that.)
"...not on the lunch plate. And he likes it stacked in a little mound, with different layers, like a Tower of Treats. First he likes the Science Diet piled up, with the Mighty Dog drizzled over the top. Sometimes you mix them together, and he doesn't like that."

And what else? Maybe a little parsley on the side? Some Haricot Vert?

Mad in Bed

Without going into too many details, I am going to bed mad at Gary. I know all the books say not to, and I don't do it often, but I see no other option.

Here's my grievance: I foolishly opened up to my sister-in-law about why I take Celexa. (I know: it's surprising that you, my co-workers and my bosses know my history of depression, but my in-laws don't.) Karen spilled to my mother-in-law, and now Gary reports that my mother-in-law is concerned about me, because she has heard (after Virgina Tech) that anti-depressants cause suicidal thoughts.

Let's just let that lie for a moment. Let's just sidestep the problems with that logic. This isn't my complaint.

My problem is that Gary reproved me for telling my sorrows to Karen and indirectly worrying his Mom. "What were you thinking? Mom's all worried now,"he chastised.

Oddly, I didn't take that opportunity to tear into him with the same diatribe I typed moments ago into this post and just now deleted. I sat there, and thought, "What Would Gary Do?" (WWGD.) Gary insists there are times he gets mad at me and just lets it slide. Somehow, I can't imagine when these times are, unless it's when he is chewing or having sex, because the rest of the time I hear about it immediately. Loudly. And with not one, not two, but three implied exclamation points.

So I sat there and stewed, and pondered why I wasn't hitting the TiVo pause button and letting him have it. Finally I realized it was because there's no point. I can't make him stop worrying about his mom, or her opinion. I can't make him stop taking care of her instead of me. I can't undo a childhood of "don't tell [X] this, [he'll/she'll] just get upset."

(Later)

Evidently, I also can't stop stewing about this. I'm not used to this concept of not fighting. Poor President Bush! Is this how he feels? No wonder we aren't out of Iraq.

(Even Later)

Okay, I'm over it. Here's how it did it: I went into the bedroom where he just put himself to sleep and I defiantly popped one of my anti-depressants.

(After Midnight)

Okay. Now I'm starting to get why I'm angry, and why I didn't say anything. I'm angry that he's embarassed by me and my utter lack of shame, and while I'm angry, his position certainly is understandable. Probably why I didn't say anything.

The horrifying thing is that he'll read this in the bathroom sometime this weekend and think, "Huh? She had this whole imaginary fight with me?" Oh, Lord, he has imaginary conversations, I have imaginary fights.

The Breaking of the Perfect Storm

Since Friday, our dog has been vibrating in terror. He's a little heated vibrating pillow snuggled head down under the covers. Given that the weather has been spectacular, I spent the weekend waiting for the earthquake/tsunami/solar flare to hit.

Finally, today it rained, and the dog sighed long and hard and fell fast asleep.

Since Friday, Gary has been vibrating in terror. He's a big hot vibrating husband bouncing straight-legged like a pogo stick around the furniture. And, the screaming, the screaming, about THE SULFURIC ACID FUMES coming out of the new hardware in his data center. And finally, the perfect data center storm broke and Gary has sighed long and hard and is at this moment, asleep.

It appears that the new UPS in his data center has been overheating all the brand new backup batteries and boiling the battery acid causing it to release as a sulfuric acid fog. And, ask me if I am glad to know how to look up the dangers of sulfuric acid thanks to my work on the Cold-Sweat Chemistry Project of Horror.

Gary dreams of disasters like this all day and all night. He mentally prepares for this with every thought. If he were a Secret Service Agent, this would be an assassination attempt. If he were a flight attendant, the plane would be going down. And I've never seen him more composed.

Jeez. He's snoring now.

I See Color

Someone on a message board I frequent (actually, the only message board I've ever frequented, thankfully, because it is addictive) posted:

"I also like to make eye contact with anyone who isn't white and smile, to show them that I am not racist, all the while probably showing this and making them think otherwise. I feel that it is up to me to prove to minorities, that not all white ppl are bad."

Of course, that's when I fell in love with her. Because I do this. "Hi, fellow walking toward me! You are African-American! Let me make up for centuries of oppression with this smile." I notice it because I'll go all day only smiling at people of color and the disabled. Oh, and anyone in Muslim headgear. Fellow Caucasians don't get the smile. Screw them.

(Of course, this woman is in Canada, so I don't suppose she smiles at African-Americans, but at African-Canadians. Afradians?)

Anyway, I thought I'd ask my cubemate, Master Mason Gilbert, an African-American, if he ever notices white people randomly smiling at him, and if it reassures him that we aren't all bad. And of course, no. He does notice that there's a smile exchanged between those of color when they meet in a crowd of colorless people. He notices it happens more often in the South. Oh, and he does notice when he dresses down in his "Hood" clothing - those white smiles? They dry right up.

Of course, earlier that same day I said Ed is Oriental and he corrected me, nicely. (He's Asian. People are Aisian, things are Oriental. I know this.) Got to remember to give Ed that special smile I reserve for people of color.

Lip Balm of Gilead

Gary was on a tear today as we drove to his Mom's birthday celebration. He was behind on buying birthday gifts for his Mom because yesterday the batteries in his computer room were exuding some type of noxious gas. ("ACID gas!" Gary screams.)

The pressure was on today, this morning, and we sped to the mall to make decoy purchases so Wilma would not begin to suspect that DVD box sets cost more than $9. I was in a bad mood too, so I took to agreeing loudly with Gary every time he screamed.

For example, we passed a church  that had someone directing traffic so the attendees could exit the parking lot in a timely manner.

Gary screamed, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME? ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS?"
Instead of my usual placating reaction, I screamed, "JESUS FREAKS! YOU DON'T OWN THIS ROAD!"
"What is YOUR problem?" Gary asked.
"I'm just agreeing with you, hon. - YEAH, FAT ARMS, YOU NEED TO GET TO THE IHOP BEFORE ANYONE ELSE DOES! WHAT THE HELL! - What's wrong? Can't I express myself to my own husband?"

This anti-religious theme carried over into Wilma's actual celebration. Karen got her a bath and beauty gift bag with a Spiritual theme. For example, one of the gifts was this (and I so want you to see it I won't even make you click a link):

"What makes them religious," Gary wondered aloud, "Are they made with holy water?"
"Maybe they're blessed by a priest," Karen shrugged.
"They use votive candle wax in the Holy Chapstick," I offered.

Wilma also got this:

Who writes the copy for this?
"You have to move product AND mention Jesus! Plus, don't forget the price."
"How do I tie the moisturizer in to Jesus?"
"Uh, it contains water, just like the Dead Sea does ... did? I mean, you could say it's Holy water, but that would be a lie."
"I still don't think it's 'Jesus-y' enough. Can I change 'pampering' to 'flagellating?'"
"Oh, let's just hang a cross on it and that'll do it."

Pimp My Croissant

Here is a list of foods I have invented:

The Cinnamon Toast Croissant.
1) Have a tea and put your husband in charge of "Bread."
2) Wait one week.
3) Take one of the two-thousand partially stale croissants and slice and butter it.
4) Sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar.
5) Broil until it is cinnamon toast on a croissant.

The Fried Pizza.
1) Take day-old cold pizza.
2) Melt butter in a pan.
3) Fry the pizza. Yes, you heard me, belly up and fry that pizza in butter until it is crispy on the bottom and warm on top.
4) Eat it. Don't act like you don't want to. I give you permission.

On a related topic, I bought two hundred dollars worth of fat clothes this weekend. So, what foods have you invented?

In Which I Am Tacky

Oh, I know it's tacky to discuss money. Shut up.

But I MEAN, this "Estate" business just keeps getting stranger and stranger. Stranger, of course being the operative word. In case you are just joining our programming:

1) Gary's Uncle Stranger and Aunt Whoozits died recently and romantically and childlessly one right after another.
2) Uncle "Huh?Who?" died first, followed by Aunt "I think Dad has Another Sister, Maybe."
3) Me: "Huh? Your Aunt left your dad how much money?"
4) Gary's dad makes plans to avoid massive tax penalties by dumping some cash immediately on his kids.

It's all so, so Bronte. I mean, who dies with money in this day and age? Why weren't these people languishing in a fund-sucking Nursing Home? And, when Ken gets money will he still buy the hot dogs that turn the water pink when you boil them? Will money change him?

As it turns out, we may never know. It appears Uncle Referred-to-by-the-wrong-name-all last-Sunday  had a first marriage, and those kids are saying, "Ken who? Who is this guy? My dad's second wife had a brother? And what is he doing with Dad's money?" (I am sure they don't call it an Estate. I imagine they are to the manor born, while Gary and I are the type of people who "buy their silver." Whereas Ken and Wilma are the type of people who buy their gold-plate from K-Mart. )

At any rate, they are contesting the will. Understandable. They feel their father's will should be the one honored, since, you know, it mentions them, and it wasn't really their fault he died first. 

This is actually good, because it puts the whole Estate thing back into the realm of Eternal Youth and Free-Five Sex fantasies. Gary was getting himself all worked up about paying off his Visa card before this horrible, horrible money gets here, because otherwise he'll never be able to say "I paid off all my debts without any help from anyone." (I mean, other than me. I'm sure he meant to say that.)

Then I get this phone call from Gary.

"Hey, Uncle ... Uncle... you know, that guy who died? His will just came in the mail!" Gary chirped. And guess what?

Gary is mentioned specifically in Uncle Not-my-blood-relative-I don't even-know-his-name's Last Will and Testament. Not Gary's dad. Gary. Well, Gary and his sisters, but evidently Uncle WhatWasYourNameAgainPlease mentioned his wife as the inheritor of everything, and if his wife is dead, it's all divided up fairly evenly between his kids and his wife's nieces and nephews, including Gary.

It makes it a little hard to sleep knowing that Gary's cousins-in-law are out there fantasizing his death by carbon monoxide poisoning. Oh, and maybe his Dad too, I don't know. All I know is I am married to one lucky bastard.

In Which My Entire Family Is Classically Stupid

I sat in front of my blog.
I stood up.
I marched into the living room.
"I have nothing to say on my blog."
(Gary grunts.)
"Gary."
"What?"
"Do something stupid."
"Maybe later."
I walk back to the computer.
I return to the living room.
"Gary."
"What?"
"So, how are your parents?"

Still nothing. I am going to have to turn to self-mockery.

A Tale of My Own Stupidity

About 15 years ago, Mom, "Aunt" Nancy and I had tickets to see Michael Feldman and his radio show, Whad'ya Know. (Aunt Nancy, like Aunt Carleen, holds honorary Aunthood.) Carleen wasn't going, but she did mention casually, "Oh, did you know that Michael Feldmann is disabled? He's in a wheelchair."

And you know, in the weeks leading up to the live event, the show became a lot funnier once I knew he was in a wheelchair. He'd make remarks about how hard it was to get to the back of the theater and the audience would scream with laughter. And now I did too, now that I was in on the joke. Someone suggested Mr. Feldmann couldn't dance.  "Why would you think I can't dance?" he asked testily, and the audience roared. Hysterical! When I found that a co-worker was going to the show, I asked if he knew the Big Inside Joke. No? Oh, he was in for a treat then. I didn't want to spoil it.

So the big day came, and Nancy, Mom and I were lined up in the audience, and some stagehand walked out on stage and everyone applauded. Then he spoke, and we realized, sickeningly, it was the host of the show, Michael Feldmann.

"He's been healed! It's a miracle!" Nancy bellowed.
"I am going to kill Carleen," Mom breathed.
"Whad'ya know?" Michael Feldman asked.
"Not much, you?" we all responded, and I meant it. Especially when I found my co-worker during the musical interlude and explained there had been a miscommunication and to ignore everything I had ever said.

After the show, Mom didn't break stride between the garage and the telephone.

"Carleen. We just went to the radio show. Just precisely what gave you the idea that man was in a wheelchair?

Turns out there was an article on the show, and by an amazing coincidence, on that exact same page of the paper, there was a photo! Of A MAN! In a wheelchair! Proof! Definitive proof! What more do you need? Captions? Words? Why, when you can make gross assumptions?

Afterward, we wondered why we had been duped by Aunt Carleen. Mom said, "Well, it's the way she says everything. She announced that man was disabled as if she'd spoken with his doctor himself." And it is true, Carleen didn't speak as much as issue a series of decrees and proclamations.

I never listen to Whad'ya Know now. I hate that show.

Get Me There

How I give directions:
"Type in maps.yahoo.com."

How I used to give directions:
"Turn right on Elm street.
Drive 3 miles.
Turn left on Perry, then an immediate right on St. Antoine. It's the second house on the right."

How my in-laws STILL give directions:
"Pretend you're going to the library, the one by the A&W*.
Turn right, then, drive until you see a Hucks**. The street after the Hucks is the one you want, so you turn left there.
After you see a bush with yellow flowers*** there's a street on the right.
No. Left. Wilma! Is it a right or a left? Well, we think its a right. If you go left and you can't find it then you're going the wrong way.
It's the house on the right with a porcupine bootscraper on the porch."

*The A&W closed twenty years ago.

**Hucks is to rural Missoui what Starbucks is to Seattle. Honestly, you pass three Hucks after the library.

***This is a forsythia bush. This bush flowers two weeks out of the year.

In Which I Prove Myself a Saint

I love the Master Mason Gilbert the Non-Creepy New Guy. Let me start right there. Hear me? Love.

Sadly, Gilbert's one flaw is that he drinks.

He drinks water.

All day.

I know, because I can hear him.

"Sqwik. Sqwik. Sqwik." - Gilbert unscrews the top of his water bottle.
"Glug. Glug. Glug." - Gilbert drinks.
"Ahhhhhhhhh." Gilbert sighs with enjoyment.
"Sqwik. Sqwik. Sqwik." - Gilbert screws the top back on his water bottle.

(Four second pause.)

"Sqwik. Sqwik. Sqwik."
"Glug. Glug. Glug."
"Ahhhhhhhhh."
"Sqwik. Sqwik. Sqwik."

Repeat. Repeat all day long. Syncopate it a little: sometimes wait five seconds before screwing the top on and screwing the top off. Sometimes, if you really want to shake it up, say "mmmph" instead of "Ahhhhhh." You know, the "Mmmph" sound babies make when their bowels move. Then follow that with "Ahhhhhh."

Oh, and then "Sqwik. Sqwik. Sqwik."

But, I am a nice person, and I did not kill Gilbert. I didn't even think about killing Gilbert, even after EIGHT SOLID hours of this. This is not to say I am incapable of virtual homicide. Several of Gary's relatives have been done away with in my mind. Not because they are annoying, just they stand to inherit part of "The Estate," so they must die. No one we know, of course. Still, entire families of relatives have met their end. Originally, I slaughtered them in a series of house fires, but that seemed cruel. So now they all die peacefully from carbon monoxide poisoning.

Because that's just how nice and merciful I am.

News

About 26 years ago, I was picking something up at the college post office, and I overheard the woman behind the counter say, "No, someone else was shot." I thought about it all the way across the quad. It seemed to have importance. It wasn't until I walked into my boyfriend's dorm and saw a guy hopping up and down screaming "Bush in '81!" that I found she'd been talking about President Reagan. Hinckley had just tried to assassinate him.

About ten years ago, I was at the mall with Gary, and we passed a couple. The woman was saying pleasantly, "Yeah, but they said just her arm was broken." "Whose arm?" I thought, but I didn't ask, because I didn't know those people. And I almost forgot about it, went home, and went to sleep when Gary burst into the room screaming Princess Diana had died.

This morning I was scanning the Yahoo news and thought, "Huh. Someone got shot at a college in Virginia and the top story is still 'It's Raining In New England?'"

I Need to Party More With These People

Odd Tea Party. After years of teas that begin in the dark, this one was in the light.

Even more strange: after years of relaxed adults and uptight kids, this year there were uptight adults ...

and relaxed kids...

The kids were great partiers, even though Rebecca, above, was sitting on the cooler that contained the alcohol.
They were polite. They said "Thank you" every time they were prompted.

They encouraged their parents to dress appropriately.

They wore the hats.

They ate the food.

(That is the AFTER photo, by the way. Gary even said, "You know this year we came close to having too much food." I think next year I'm just buying a smaller table, so we can still get the abundance Gary is going for without having to eat Marzipan Rosebuds for a month after.)

They did not text anyone.

They posed for photos.

They played music, and this just may be the lesion talking, but I think they sounded great.

And they were so cute you just wanted to eat them up.

An Open Letter to My Husband

Dearest Gary,

You will never know how much your participation in these party preparations has meant to me. For example, when you came home with these cleaning supplies, it meant a lot.

See how shiny and new they are? And pretty and clean. Especially clean. Because you can't make a bathroom look like new with old tools. And this purchase gives me faith that you will indeed clean the bathroom. (One little concern: these tools are resting up and gaining strength in the master bathroom, while the guest bathroom is the one our guests will use.)

I also like the way when I said, "People will be here in four hours, were you thinking of cleaning the guest bathroom?" you responded by going downstairs and vacuuming the basement. I'm sure the basement needed this, because it is an unfinished basement and I don't believe it has ever been vacuumed. And if any of our guests suddenly fall down the basement steps and regain consciousness there they will be struck by how clean it is.

Tea-minus one day

My husband had his yearly pre-tea panic today, since the tea is tomorrow. Every year when it gets twenty-four hours from the tea he takes a sudden interest and revises the menu.

"We have no food!"
"Really, Gary, very few people are coming. Most people have plans. There will only be about fifteen at most."
"It doesn't matter how many people come. The table must be full. The must be an abundance of food!"

Every year, the same speech. Fine, so there will be an abundance. Before Gary got involved, the "Foods In Disguise" menu was:
Pigs in Blankets
Strawberries dipped in chocolate tuxedos
Mock Turtle soup
Meringues
Broccoli soup with a Special Secret Ingredient (just Asiago cheese)
Scones
Cornbread (cooked in the pan that makes them look like little precious ears of corn)
A variety of tarts, etc.
Eclairs and Cream puffs
Mixed drink Popsicles

(Nope, no Eat Me Cake on the menu, because kids will be there.)

So Gary feel this is NOT enough FOOD for fifteen people so today he picked up a ham, a turkey, and five kinds of rolls. FIVE. Fiiiiiivvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeee, she breathed, and now he is out agaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiin, buying more because he. feels. four. sandwiches. per. person. is . not enough.

And no, the bathrooms? Hah!

Gary Is So Helpful

Saturday: I have a big snotty sobfest over how I have to do all the housework and all he does is criticize the way I do it, blah blah, sob sob. After two hours of me crying loudly and pointedly, he finally comes in and apologizes. He also volunteers to dust every day and wipe down the bathroom once a week. This, of course, is not what I would have suggested as helpful, but I don't want to be critical. (Note to men: Everyday dusting is excessive. You may not know this. I felt I should step in and explain.)

Sunday: I am at Mom's, and Gary calls to apologize and tell me he didn't get a chance to dust and wipe today, and now he has to go to work. I find this very amusing, because I know what a promise means coming from Gary. It means, "I will say anything, just stop crying at me. Pointedly."

Monday: I come home at 9 pm. He hops out of his comfy chair and asks "Okay! Where do I start?" Because he must have an audience if he is to do housework. Therefore, because I am going right to bed, the dust is safe for another day.

Tuesday: Are you serious? House is on, and The Riches is on the TiVo. The dust settles in.

Wednesday: I bring up that Gary has not helped out with the housework, and it would be nice if he brought up some stuff from the basement, which he does. This wears him out, and he makes it clear that he is getting his front teeth capped tomorrow and we should be spending these last few moments enjoying his front teeth.

Thursday: Today, as I scurried around him dusting directly into his face, he said:
a) You don't want me to help, do you? My teeth hurt!
b) I brought that stuff up from the basement! Isn't that enough?
c) I told you I would do that.
d) I'll do that. In a minute.
e) No, after this commercial.
f) Well, you're all done dusting now. Bathroom? What's this about the bathroom?
g) I never said I'd clean the bathroom.
h) It's my extended birthday month. (Because March was a bad month, he feels he needs until the 15th as an extension.)

I sent him off to the store instead, because really, I wanted him to get him far away from me. He has since called four times in the last twenty minutes. Gah! It makes me want to install a giant HP-UX computer system in the basement so at least he could do something around the house.

In Which I Am Profane

Yes, this is the post that has the profanity. It is not my profanity. (That would be this post.)

Let Me FINISH!

Okay, so here's the thing: five HUNDRED people have come by for a visit from Erin (Out of Character)'s blog. Everybody, turn and wave! Hi!

I learned my lesson the last time this happened. One day, loads of people visited from the message board for the BNL cruise I went on in January. I chose that day to post a completely inappropriate story about waxing my nether regions. They ran back to the message board, where I pursued them with stories of ovulation and a labial cyst the size of a lemon. They haven't been back.

Because today's post was initially about what happens when the Queen Mother listens carefully to the lyrics of "Rockin' the Suburbs," I'm pushing that inappropriate profanity-laced post to another day. Instead, because I'm feeling the love and pain and sympathy in your comments, let me tell you the most annoying thing Gary's done recently.

He relates a news event or a memory, and I chime in with "Oh, yes, I remember that," or "Oh, yes, I read that article too, and -" and he bellows "Let Me FINISH!" For example:

Gary says, "Oh, my god. That politician is just ridiculous. Did you hear what he said? It's like that one thing I read once, when someone suggested poor women should eat their babies!" 
"Yes," I say, foolishly, "A Modest Propo--"
"No! Let me FINISH! It was this essay on slumlords in Ireland or England or something, and this guy--"
"Jonathan Swift!"
(Heavy sigh) "Nooooo, some other guy, and he said to solve the food shortage the starving women should eat their babies--"
"I KNOW. Jonathan SWIFT. A Modest PROPOSAL. It's FAMOUS. I READ it. You. Don't. Have. To. Explain. It."
"Stop interrupting me!" Then, I swear to you, he relates to me every line of A Modest Proposal. As if I hadn't read it in tenth grade. And don't feel dissed if you haven't read it, the point is that when someone says "Oh, I read that," you say, "Well, then you know what I'm saying," and move on.

Not feeling my pain? Yet another example:

Gary says, "Have you heard the latest about the pet food recall?"
I cuddle up against him, all oh-you-are-so-smart-you-listen-to-the-news, "No, what happened now?"
"Well now they're thinking it might be related to some underhanded business dealings by the manufacturer. They think that maybe they were trying to increase -"
"The nutrition! Oh, yeah yeah, I heard that. They added some filler to increase the nutrition levels."
Patient, long-suffering sigh. "No. NO. Let me FINISH. That's not what I was going to say at all."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Okay. What did they do?"
"They added some filler to increase the protein levels --"
"That is what I just said!"
"Would you let me finish?"
"But you don't need to finish. I heard the same report!"
"Fine! so how did it end, then?"
"I think the government's supposed to have hearings about it."
"No. No. See, that's just proof that you don't listen. It's going to be investigated by the Senate."

I should have seen it coming. I remember the very first time my family met his family. We all sat in a circle. Everyone in my family really tried to listen, but everyone in his family was just talking in the general direction of the center of the circle. Not with the intent to communicate, really, just so they could empty those pesky thoughts out of their brains.

In Which Gary Pushes My Buttons

From: Ellen
To: Gary
Subject: Squee.
June 15, 16 or 17, or 18
BNL
Chicago
A nice anniversary present

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Gary
To: Ellen
Subject RE: Squee
I don't mean to complain but email is a sophisticated communications protocol.  You can send me a whole paragraph.  I have no idea what your last email is saying.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Ellen
To: Gary
Subject: RE:Squee.
Seriously.
What word confused you?
Let's break it down line by line:
June 15, 16 or 17, or 18 <-- these are dates
BNL <-- this is a band
Chicago <-- this is a nearby city
A nice anniversary present <-- this is a suggestion.
Was it "Squee?" Did the subject line confuse you? It's what the kids say.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Gary
To: Ellen
Subject RE: Squee
OK, if I must accept email haikus from you.  I am guessing that BNL is playing four concerts in Chicago on those four days.  It seems like a lot of concert dates in one city.  Are you suggesting that we take Friday and Monday off.  I can't read your mind. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Ellen
To: Gary
Subject RE: Squee
A haiku:
The day is not set
But when it is could we
Go and see them please

--------------------------------------------------------------------
(moments later)

From: Ellen
To: Gary
Subject RE: Squee
If you alert me that the second line has one too few syllables I will pull the stick out of your ass and come and beat you with it.
Let's try again --
On Monday June 18th, it LOOKS strongly like BNL will be playing somewhere in Chicago, Illinois. In the evening, I imagine.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Gary
To: Ellen
Subject RE: Squee
OK, you are now getting extremely cryptic.  Your last email had a Friday-Monday range of dates in it and now you are only talking about Monday.  Are you hinting that it would be fun to vacation in ChiTown this year for 4 days that includes the Monday of the concert.  I don't know if I want to go back to Chicago for a multi-day vacation so soon after our last trip.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Ellen
To: Gary
Subject RE: Squee
You are insufferable. It's ONE DAY. I bet one of my FRIENDS would go to Chicago with me. Actually, Libby has already offered to be backup.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Gary
To: Ellen
Subject RE: Squee
I read that haiku was first started as a dialogue-style poem:  5-7-5 for the intial observation and 7-7 for the response.  The response to the 7-7 stanza would then have to be a 5-7-5 stanza and then the next would have to be a 7-7 stanza.  Later, it was shortened to just the 5-7-5 observation.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Ellen
To: Gary
Subject RE: Squee
I hate you. You do know this is making it onto the blog as an example of your insufferability?

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Gary
To: Ellen
Subject RE: Squee
I am down with it.
A response:
A wonderful band, they are
We'd drive there in our own car.

Sharp as a Tack!

Mom proved her brilliance and superior memory today. She remembered a game/parlor trick we used to play in my youth. It was called Black Magic, and evidently I was adept at it. I can not remember a thing about it. Mom remembered the rules and sloooowly explained them to me. I kept thinking, "This must have been your other daughter, the illegitimate one you had that summer you were a groupie with Eddie Fisher."** Then she got up and slapped "Black magic game" into Wikipedia and here it is. Amaze your friends. I still don't remember a bit of it.

**Sarcasm.

Gary the Hunter

I am cooking up a storm for the tea. Since it's a masquerade tea, all the foods are foods in disguise. One of the entrees is mock turtle soup. This calls for a variety of things my sister-in-law Karen will not eat, including hard-boiled eggs and sherry vinegar. I sent Gary out to the grocery to get the ingredients.

Gary phone call #1: "There are no hard-boiled eggs left!"
Me: "I can boil an egg. Just get about six eggs."

Gary phone call #2: "Are you sure you don't want hard-boiled eggs?"
Me: "Yes."
Gary: "Because there aren't any here at Schnuck's. But I can go to Dierbergs."
Me: "No. Just get normal eggs."

Gary phone call #3: "I'm at Dierbergs! I found some hard-boiled eggs. But they're already colored. Is that okay?"
Me: "They are going in SOUP. Why didn't you get a dozen plain eggs?"
Gary: "There are no eggs left except for big containers of thirty-two eggs. I had to fight an old lady for these." (I had completely forgotten it was almost Easter.)

Gary phone call #4: (Sounds of Gary whistling along with the very loud CD player. This is a stealth call from Gary's pants.)
Me: "GARY! GARY! YOUR PHONE! TURN OFF YOUR PHONE!"
Gary: (whistling)

Gary arrived with a dozen colorful hard-boiled eggs, and cooking sherry.

"Gary, this is cooking sherry."
"It was in the vinegar aisle! It must be vinegar!"
(I taste it.) "It's better than our sherry. It's okay. We've got rice vinegar and balsamic vinegar. I'll just use that."

Gary looks up sherry vinegar on the Internet. He returns with his coat on.

"It the most expensive vinegar there is! It's more expensive than balsamic vinegar! I'll be back!"

Gary the hunter. Out to find and catch the rare and elusive sherry vinegar.

Speed Fighting

Gary and I fought a lot in our formative years. We fight just as much now. We just fight faster.

For example, last night we had a fight. I went out to dinner with a friend, I came back, and I started doing some work from home because we have a big deadline. Plus, I was tired, and Gary can be a little draining, so that's another reason I decided to go straight to work. Even though I had alerted Gary: "I am working. Don't bug me!" he only made it ten minutes without coming in to tell me about something he read in Wired.

Within a total of one second:
1) I sighed heavily.
2) He shouted "Fine!" and stomped off.
3) I yelled "Working!"

That was it. We didn't have to say all the subtext (Wait-a-minute-Gary-you-worked-every-night-till-ten- the-first-five-years-of-our-marriage-until-we-had-to- see-a-marriage-counselor/
Yeah-because-you-were-insane/
Well-at-least-Im-being-paid-for-this/
What-are-you-saying-I-can't-support-you...etc.)

Now we just scream "Working!" at each other and it's kind of like shorthand for the fights that will never be resolved. Like in Parliament, when the Prime Minister says, "I refer the honourable gentleman to the answer I gave some moments ago."

Only shorter, i.e. "______________Insert fight here".

Here are some of our speed fights. You can probably guess at the extended versions.

Mine:
"Not joined at the HIP!"
"But not bad enough to take aspirin!"

Gary's:
"Shared experience!"
"I cannot EXPRESS myself to MY OWN WIFE?"

Just some simple little phrases that save hours of fighting.

DAR

During our conversation about Masons this weekend, Mom reminded me we were also in the Daughters of the American Revolution. At least, we were invited, a relative had done all the footwork and traced us all back to some civil servant who worked with George Washington when he was a surveyor.

I don't know if Mom filled out the paperwork. She threatened to fill it out on behalf of the closest thing we had to a next generation: my dog Fred. "Dogs of the American Revolution!"

I don't know what set Mom against the DAR, perhaps it was when Eleanor Roosevelt resigned, but I can't think of them without picturing the Grant Wood painting:

I'm the one holding the teacup, that's Mom on the right, and Aunt Rosemary had to put a shirt over her tube top to sit for the painting.

Ellen Gets a Haircut

So I followed Marcia's lead and got my hair cut at a West County Spa and Salon. Bear in mind, I've been seeing Sue for over a quarter of a century. No more Sue, though. Now for something completely different.

"Steve will be right with you. Would you like some wine?"
"No." (Word count: 1)

Steve arrived and sat me down on a pneumatic chair in front of a full length mirror. Evidently this is his station. He cuts the hair here in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Because, you have to cut the hair so it is in proportion with the whole person? I don't know. I decide to go on a diet because I don't recognize the woman I see in the mirror.

Then, Steve asked me to take off my clothes. Evidently, this is what they do. I imagine the Day-Glo green sweater I was wearing may have distracted Steve, and he must have a blank palette, to style the hairs into a work of art. I look trimmer in the smock than in the sweater, so this is good.

We moved to the shampoo area and Steve washed my hair in front of a wall-sized water sculpture. What does this take, five minutes? After fifteen minutes my head was a raisin. Then he started on the massage. He started rubbing in circles on top of my head.  I tried to signal to Steve, "I Do Not Like the Massage" by frowning, but then it become all about the ears. As if he was trying to gently wear two holes in my skull so my ears would conveniently drop right off. Then he would have a nice symmetrical ball over which to sculpt his hair sculpture. After twenty ear rotations I said:

"Steve. Dude. Seriously, you have to stop that." (Word count: 8 + 1 (see above) = 9)
"Oh! Okay, I can stop."

He started toweling off my head and because at this time I was really afraid I was in for a sensual scented towel hair follicle abrasion treatment, I grabbed the towel and rubbed it on my head. As if to say, "See? This is how we do it. This is how you dry a head."

I was seated again at the wall-sized Mirror.  I just closed my eyes. And I listened to Steve as he snipped every single hair individually. It usually takes fifteen minutes to wash and cut my hair. I could not look at the clock mounted to the top of the Mirror Wall O' Sadism because I would have to open my eyes, but I estimate he was cutting for half an hour.

We had a brief chat.
"How long have you known Marcia?"
"Oh. Eleven years?" (Word count: 9 +3 = 11) I would tell you his expression but my eyes were squeezed shut.

After the half-hour hair cut, Steve dried my hair. He straightened it, which was refreshing, because Sue always had fun piling it up in little curls that I knew would not fit in with my morning beauty regimen. My hair, being fine, dries in (don't hate me) five minutes.

So Steve got out a round brush and a blow dryer and dried my hair. And after that, Steve dried my hair. He followed that up with drying my hair. Then , because he had spun me away from the Mirror, I had opened my eyes and was staring at him blankly. With the face. The face that silenty says: "Dude, what the Hell?" He shut off the blow dryer and explained to me that he was just going to finish drying my hair and put on some hair product. Then before I could answer he turned on the blow dryer and, I swear to you, dried my hair. I shut my eyes and worried how awful my hair must look that he would keep stalling this way. Finally I thought, Steve, no matter how much you dry it it won't magically fall into place. I looked at him again.

"Steve. It's dry. It doesn't get any drier than this." (Word count: 11+10 (10! I was warming up to Steve) = 21)
"Almost done!" Steve said.

He'd been doing all kinds of ornate brush curling and organizing and then he finished up with a big scribbly blast all over my head. Because, he said, he didn't want it to look too "styled."

Then, he put some product on his fingertips and futzed over every single hair. I think he twisted wax on to the end of every strand individually. This took fifteen minutes.

"Okay!" he cried, and spun me around to face to the Mirror. Now, instead of seeing a fat middle-aged, fuzzy-haired woman I didn't recognize, I saw a fat, middle-aged, shiny-haired woman I really didn't recognize. My hair, I tell you, had changed colors. One strand was red, one strand was, brown, one was reddish-brown, one was almost black ... it was cool! It was sleek! It was freaking reflective.

"Whoa!" (Word count: 21+1=22)

So, sure it cost three times what Sue charged, and it took four times as long, but after it was over I made another appointment. For a cut and color. I'll probably have to pack a toothbrush.

Gary Gets a Haircut

Gary came in after his first non-Sue haircut in 26 years.

"Looks nice," I said, "Who'd you have cut it?"
"Linda. She cut my hair once before Sue started cutting it."
"Huh. And you were able to find her again?"
"Well, she followed Sue to that one place in Hazelwood. Oh, and she said she remembered my hair."
"She remembered it. From the one time she cut it twenty-six years ago."
"Yes!"
"No."
"Yes! She said she remembered my hair was reddish-brown."
"Gary....you know your hair was never reddish-brown, don't you?"
"Well, it was reddish-brown twenty-five years ago."
"No. No, it wasn't"
He looked confused. "I think it was."
"I can show you pictures. It's been light brown or gray since I've known you." (And because I could see he was gearing up to be obstinate and insist "My hair has always been red! Titian red!" I had to give him an out.) "Now, you said once the first beard you tried to grow was reddish-brown. Maybe she saw that?"
"No. Remember she's a hair stylist, she looks and sees detail in hair that normal people don't see."
"Did she see your pubic hair? Maybe that was that reddish-brown twenty-five years ago."
"Oh, that reminds me. Remember I told you once I couldn't have her cut my hair again because when she leaned in to cut my hair her breasts touched me? She still has her breasts."
"Well. Good for her."
"I thought when I looked at her they might have gone away, but they haven't."

(Pointed silence, followed by a moment of frosty quiet.)

"But they didn't touch me this time," he assured me.

I just want to know something. I just want to know if my boobs have ever made such an impression on some 27-year old that he remembers them after a quarter of a century. I want to know if my boobs have the power to make a man doubt his own hair color. I want to know if I can come back from visiting Marcia's hair stylist Hot Steve and say, "His penis! It reached out and tapped me on the shoulder. I will never forget it.  Oh, and he says my hair isn't brown, it's cinnamon. He's so cute."

I Have a Secret! Whoops, Now I Don't!

So, there's this new guy at work. Let's call him Non-creepy New Guy.

He was explaining his college career, and in the course of his college history said, "And then, when I became a Mason -"

"A Mason?" I squealed in delight.
"Yeah."
"Like a Secret-society-special-handshake-also-known-as-the-Illuminati MASON?"
"No. The Illuminati? Are you serious?"

And then he set me straight on the Masons. Actually, I already knew the Masons were good. But they really are shooting themselves in the foot with the pseudo-secret aspects of their organization. And of course, that's what I kept riding the New Guy about.

Eventually he tired of me.
"I've said too much," he grumbled. Then there was a long pause. "Masons are GOOD!" he muttered, but I heard him.

Well, the Master Architect must have been greatly amused, because as I related this conversation to Mom this weekend, Mom said:

"Well, I think your Grandpa Ray was a Mason. My sister was in Job's Daughters. And your Grandmother was in some Eastern Star thing ... The Sisterhood of the Easter Star? Something like that."
"It can't be Job's Daughters," I said to Mom, confident that I know everything, "That's like a Jehovah's Witness thing."

Well, Mom should have pinkie bet me, because of course we went to Wikipedia and found ... that I have Mason blood! Of course! Who has every copy of the Big Secrets books? Who loves a good secret handshake? Who was born to be a Worthy Matron in the Order of the Eastern Star? Me! Me!

Sadly, the Mason Way was not the path Mom's family took. Even though it appears Step-Grandpa Ray must have made it to Master Mason status, he was ill-equipped to be a Mason at heart, given he was one of the most selfish men ever to walk the face of the earth. ("Three meals a day and snacks at night!" - Granceil.)

Also, Granceil was evidently not suited to be a good Matron Mason, because as Mom described it, "Oh, the way she would roll those dark eyes, and they would flash, and she would say, 'Horseshit!' She thought the whole thing was stupid. And Delores didn't like anything."
"Why didn't you get to be in Job's Daughter's Mom, if Delores was?"
Mom made a face, which at first I didn't recognize, because I don't often see Mom affect the faux "Pity me! I'm a cripple!" face.
"Tooo fraiiiillll" she whined, and rolled her dark eyes.

Well, I wouldn't become a Freemason now if you went down on your lousy stinking purulent knees and begged me.  And, just in case this put you in the mood for the Monty Python Architect Sketch, click here.

Silent Music Lesions

I came home Friday to a voice mail message from my doctor. "Ellen, I wanted to give you the results of your MRI -"

He went on to say that in a side-by-side comparison with the last MRI I had three years ago, I only have one additional lesion. (A brain scab, to the rest of the world.)  I don't have any active flare-ups (brain sores), so even though I appear to be a klutz I have no excuse for my current lack of coordination.

I haven't had any documented flare-ups in the last three years. You can have lesions without flare-ups, these are called "silent" lesions. When I first heard the doctor use this term I had to smile, because all I could think of was Elmer Fudd saying, "be vewwy vewwy qwiet."

So did this new lesion come and go without any outward signs? Could be. Or, as I surmised a year ago, it flared-up in September 2005, as you can see here if you make it to the end of the post. The odd foot sensation may have gone, but I was still left with the lingering music fascination. So as I see it, I lost some white matter in my logical left hemisphere, and my creative right hemisphere picked up the slack. 

Or, maybe I've just been listening to some really good music:

(I know! Is that the perfect surprise for a beginning guitarist, to watch the fretwork as the two frontmen for her favorite band play in a bathroom? There are more at http://www.youtube.com/profile_videos?user=NettwerkMusic .)