Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Hey! Did You Get Here From the Riverfront Times Web Site?

Well, hello. It appears the Riverfront Times scanned this last month's worth of posts, and had to go all the way back to late April to find something that was sufficiently family friendly to put in their paper. Well, the family-friendly first few pages of their paper, as opposed to the back of their paper.

Usually, I honor an influx of new readers by blurting out shocking personal information. It's like a subconscious Turrette's tic. My subconscious blurted details of the nudification of my nether regions when it saw 300 visitors from the Ships n Dip message board. It screamed, "Shit! Hi, 200 people following a nice link from Out of Character's blog! Je-je-jesus! Here's a post with lots of profanity! Bite me!" So, of course now that the RFT tapped me as Blog O' the Week, I figured today would be filled with wildly inappropriate blog material that I could not resist posting.

Nah. I got nothing. Especially if you are looking for posts that would live up to the expectations of RFT readers - I mean, what would shock them? There's a section of the RFT devoted to voodoo and phone sex ads.

By the way, Everyone Who Visited from the RFT Web Site, I saw You ALL go immediately to the Great Hall of TMI category. I heard "Diets? Yawn. Wait  - 'Must be 18 to enter?' Is she naked or something?" Instead, all they got was this, and if you don't click the links that's pretty boring too.

I guess this type of thing might interest a limited number of RFT readers. I don't know.

Gary Gulag Diet

You may be curious about the Gary Gulag Diet. This is the diet, created by Gary, that he used to lose 130 pounds. He gained 20 back, and since I am a behemoth and don't even notice my massive thighs because my upper body fat now balances out my lower body, I have joined him.

The rules are very very complex. Do not attempt this unless you under the care of a Gary.

Phase 1

Breakfast: Skip breakfast

Lunch: A small amount of food, for example, 1 container of mac and cheese (220 cals, 4.4 grams of fat).

Dinner:

Dinner at home: Chips and dip. As much as you want. Macadamias and cashews. As much as you want.

Dinner out: Either split a plate or only eat a small percentage of the food they give you.

Snacks: Fruit? None! It is BAD FOR YOU! (Carbs.) Chips are fine. And, any food at work that is lying around free is good for you.

Those are the rules for Phase 1. You don't lose any weight on Phase 1. You do shrink your stomach. You are supposed to get a natural high out of the constant feeling of hunger. I suppose because your brain cells are dying.

We just started Phase 2 today.

Phase 2:
Breakfast: Not even coffee.
Lunch: A tomato. Possibly sushi. Maybe a smoothie. Probably not Mac & Cheese, but I haven't asked.
Dinner: a Turkey sandwich every FREAKING night for the rest of your FREAKING life. No condiments. Pepperidge Farm Thin Bread, as much turkey as you want, and some swiss cheese.
Snacks: Ha! Unless it's free food at work.

Phase 3:
Same as the above, but no Swiss Cheese on the sandwich.

Phase 4:
Same as the above, but only eat half a sandwich.

"Oh no!" you say, "those aren't enough calories. Your body will go into starvation mode."
Doctor Gary says, "For a while, but eventually it gives up and actually starves. How did the Ethiopians look after they were in starvation mode for a while? Pretty skinny."

(As always, consult with your Gary before starting this or any other diet program.)

A True Love Cannot Be Denied

Quotes from Gary.

Saturday: "What is going on? Where is the news? Why is there no news on?"

Sunday: "I need news! I need an hour-long in-depth analysis of the news stories of the day!"

Monday: "I hate Tucker Carlson. I hate that Olbermann guy. I hate Cavuto."

Today: "I can't stand it. I'm putting Chris Matthews back on the TiVo list. I need someone to yell at. It's a love/hate relationship."

So. I wash my hands of him.

(In fact, per Zayrina, I grab a paper towel, use the towel to turn the faucet, wash my hands of him, and open the door with my foot. Zayrina, I did consider not touching the faucet, but it was too late to get a towel. Some of the nurses turn on the faucets with their sleeved elbows. Won't the e-Coli attach to cloth?)

It is a Bathroom

I've told you about the nursing staff who share our office building floor, and our bathroom. Well, this past Thursday Caroline and I walked into the bathroom. Then we parted ways, closeted ourselves in our stalls, and all communication ceased, because I do not talk to people in the bathroom.

A pair of nurses walked in and one said loudly, "Oh my GOD it SMELLS in here!"

But for the grace of God, it was not me, but it could have been. (Oh, and on second reading, it was not Caroline, either. Just want to clarify.)

This is what I did not say, because I don't talk in the bathroom:

"It's a BATHROOM! What do you expect it to smell like? What does your stool smell like? Freshly baked cookies? Lavender and vanilla? Pinesol? How did you survive as a nurse? Did you tote bedpans and shove them under other nurse's noses and shriek, "Smell this! OH It smells BAD! MY GOD SMELL THIS!"

Really, if I hear any of them saying that ever again I'm jumping out of my stall and giving her a swirly.

Genius

Two genius ideas I had just today:

1) I could bring my power washer into the bathroom and use it to clean the shower. I would just need one of those faucet to hose hookups. According to the first page of Google search, this is a revolutionary new concept. I thought of it first.

2) Here's a thought:
a) Take pulled pork
b) pull it into long shreds
c) dip it in tempura batter
d) deep fry it
e) serve it like an appetizer or deep fried onions. You could dip it in BBQ sauce or in ranch.

I thought of this at RibFest today. I had deep fried Oreos at Ribfest. Not as crispy as I would have liked.

In Which a Great Love Is Destroyed

Well, the long-term love affair between my husband and his celebrity girly crush Chris Matthews is over. I was pretty enraged too, but I didn't have to write a break-up letter to MSNBC.

It all fell apart when Chris devoted an hour of Hardball to the new books on Hillary Clinton that are coming out next week. Now, I haven't heard enough of Hillary Clinton's positions to make any type of decision on if I want her a president, but Chris M. thinks her campaign might be damned by the facts in these new books.

The facts: Her husband cheated on her and she "tolerated it." She sat in front of witnesses who were going to testify against her husband and intimidated them. Oh, and she stayed with her husband for political reasons because she wanted to have a future in politics.

Aren't we past this belief that having a philandering husband has something to do with the woman? Would he have straightened up if she hadn't "tolerated" it? In what way did she tolerate it? By not Bobbitting his penis? Is that tolerance? Why is it her fault her husband has no sense?

Oh, and if my husband cheated and it was going to make it into the papers, yeah, I'd try to keep it out of the papers. Jesus! They expect her not to? I give her props for going nose-to-nose with those women. I hope she made them cry. I hope she made Bill cry too.

And why on earth would anyone assume she stayed with her husband out of ambition, when there was a much better reason to stay with him? She had a kid! She had a family. Why do I think that if she'd dumped him she'd be blamed for having no family values?

I had no idea it was such a crime to have a husband who had affairs. What if Gary had affairs? You know what? If I'd been married five years I'd toss him out, but if it had been fifteen years and he'd been in other respects a good husband I'd yell, throw lamps, call his girlfriends and scare the hell out of them, but you bet I'd stay. I wouldn't waste an investment of good years because of my husband's failings. I'd make deals, too. I'd say, yeah, you'll be pushing me around in a wheelchair when the time comes. No electric wheelchair for us.

Now add to that a thirteen year old kid. I can't see why people have to go the extra step of saying "She just stayed with him out of ambition." Chris Matthews was behaving as if she'd gone out procuring women for him.  And the women on the program, did any of them scream "She had a KID you ASS?" Nope.

Yeah, so I hope Chris sniffles when he reads this email Gary sent MSNBC:

"Hardball is now off of my Tivo forever.

I have had a Tivo season pass to Hardball and the Chris Mathews show for years.  However, I will no longer watch either of his shows again.  I have always admired Chris Mathews for his journalistic integrity.  I have enjoyed his show because he seemed objective, was unafraid to ask difficult questions and always kept the discussion at a high level.  I have even ignored his obvious dislike for Hillary Clinton.  However, Chris's May 25th show was the last straw.  I couldn't believe my eyes as Chris used his platform to advertise the two new unflattering books on Hillary Clinton as if they were news.  And the glee with which he did this was disgusting and unprofessional.  Time and time again he cut off any of his guests that began to speak positively about the Clintons or that attempted to bring some intelligence into the conversation.  I really thought that I was watching Bill O'Reilly on the Fox broadcasting network.  Shame on you, Chris Mathews, for letting your own feelings about having Hillary as a president color your reporting.  I will never watch your show again.  "

In Which We Are Amused

Gary came home half an hour ago and he has already made me belly-laugh.

"Well, Ellen, I should warn you, my Mom asked me what precautions I was taking with you...you know."
"No, I have no idea what you mean."
"She's still worried about your depression. She wants to make sure I'm taking precautions so you don't get suicidal."
"Oh. She's still worried about that."
"Yeah. Next time she sees you she'll probably take your shoelaces away."

And the Award for Acceptable Sperm Term Goes to...

Baby Batter (for all hetero and solo applications)

Man Batter (for all prison applications)

What Does "Preliminary Zygotes" Say to You?

Rated MA for Mature Language. The language in this one literally made my husband scream.

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

About a month ago we noticed our next-door neighbor's grass was a little long. I loved it simply because it made our yard look so tidy. In fact, their whole house makes ours look sharp. I'd been a little concerned because they'd painted it one day while I was at work, but I stepped back and determined I did not have to paint my house to keep up.

The next week, the grass was longer.

After a month, after the grass thinned out and went to seed, we got some of their mail. I knocked, no answer. I went to leave the letter in their mailbox and noticed their cunning little decorative mailbox was gone.

"Gary, I think our neighbors are gone."
Gary speculated there might be dead bodies in the house.
"No, unless they were killed for their mailbox. That's gone too."
Gary speculated they may have been evicted.
"But, we would have seen all their belongings on the front yard." (I think I was thirty before I learned the significance of furniture on the front lawn. Until then I just assumed a cheating boyfriend had been thrown out.)

Today Gary tracked down the across-the-street neighbors and quizzed them. Not an eviction, not a foreclosure, but a reaction to the inevitable. They'd been warned by the bank, and they decided to "just let the bank have the house."  Oddly, they painted it first.

Gary had to be warned that the neighbors had made a pact not to mow that lawn, ever. It's cool with me.

Stupid Things I Have Said Today

Mom: "So, can you copy that Take This Waltz song you liked to my iTunes so I can hear it?"
Me: "Sure. Hey, did you read that Wikipedia article about Leonard Cohen? He uses so much Christian imagery in his music; I was sort of surprised to read he was Jewish."
Mom: (strange look)
Me: "What?"
Mom: "Leonard. COHEN."

Strangely, after having said this stupid thing, I had to weigh in on some name etiquette for my in-laws. Sandy is throwing the last day of the wedding festivities and she wants to sign the invitations as "Mrs. Sara Za-VeryMuslim-sounding Name," which was her married name. Ken and Wilma insisted that wasn't right, because she divorced Dr. Za-VeryMuslim-sounding Name, and her name is Sandy, not Sara, at least that's what THEY named her. I suppose this has been causing conflict for the last ten years, since they divorced. I know twenty years ago I caused conflict when I said I didn't want to trade my lovely romantic maiden name for the guttural horking up of phlegm which is my married name.

I didn't even get into the subtext, which is that they don't want Sandy to be Muslim.  I just said "Of course, that's her legal name."

I think I need to start paying more attention to what people call themselves. It seems to have significance.

Sincerely,

Spunky Labia.

Math

Gary isn't math-impaired, exactly. He just doesn't appreciate the accuracy element of math. For example, he rounds numbers up exponentially for dramatic effect. The first time he quotes a number, say $145.99, he rounds up to $150. However, this is an odd number. Can't have that. So the next time it comes up, it's $160. Gary knows the next time he mentions the number, the shock effect of $160 will be gone. That's why financial discussions with Gary sound like this:

"They said it would be $145.99 to replace!"
"Wow."
"I KNOW! Who would charge $150 just for that?"
"I know."
"So when I told Dad it would be $160, he freaked."
"Sure."
"I mean, one-HUNDRED and EIGHTY dollars? Are you kidding me?"
"I thought you said $145."
"No! It's like $200! And I'm not paying $220 for that."

This is only an issue when we are forced to discuss money, for example, when we plan a trip to Chicago for our anniversary. We have a range of options: flying and staying at the Hilton again (his choice) to driving and staying at the Day's Inn by the airport (my choice). We'll end up somewhere in the middle, but until then, we have to discuss money.

Gary's logarithmic financial scale complicates these conversations. Since I keep nailing him on accuracy ("No, hon, the Hilton plan is five times as much as the Day's Inn plan, not twice as much") he's decided to discuss our plans in iPods, not dollars. As in: "Oh, the Hilton is just a few iPods more!" And "A Segue tour? Why, that's half an iPod each!"

I began to coax him to consider the Day's Inn plan by bribing him with additional anniversary gifts. I started to say, "Well, you've run out of iPod space, I could get you a bigger iPod." But that would have required us to retire the term "meta" since then I would have said, "And we could spend the iPod we saved on an new iPod for you."

I'm Number One! I'm Number One!

Hi! I'm Spunky!

In college, a visiting professor taught one of my English courses. His name was Angus Wilson. He is Sir Angus Wilson to those of you who are under the oppression of the British throne. (Hah! I missed my chance to meet your queen, but if I'd seen her I would not have curtsied like a subject. I'd have looked her right in the eye and smartly declared, "American knees don't bend to foreign sovereigns, Your Majesty." (In later conversation I would have simply called her Ma'am as Miss Manners instructs.))

What I recall about Professor (Sir) Wilson's class was his remarkable taste in ties, and the fact that every time a plane interrupted his lecture he bemoaned the powers that built a university right next to an airport. Interestingly, his ties were mentioned in the Wikipedia article about him. (Also mentioned was his inclusion in Bletchley Park, which just makes me dizzy with awe. Yet, it isn't even mentioned in the Author's notes in my autographed copy of The Middle Age of Mrs. Eliot.)

So, one day I had to deliver a speech in Sir Angus' class, and my car broke down seven miles from UMSL. I had no other option but walk, and surprisingly I had enough time to get there if I skipped my morning class.

I arrived all sweaty. Sir Angus (yeah, I don't have to use the "Sir" but I will, because of Bletchley Park) introduced me and I addressed the class.

"My car broke down and I just walked two hours to get here, so you'd better listen."

I was surprised by a belly laugh from the class (it must have been the first time anyone found my pain funny). Sir Angus stopped laughing and said, "Well, if I could give out grades for spunk, I would give you an A plus." He did give me an A plus on a paper later, and an A in class. He presented me my grade over some lovely tea and cookies. He was very attentive. Since Wikipedia didn't exist I had no idea he was "a famous homosexual," and I probably thought he was hitting on me.

Some days when I am not feeling spunky, I draw on my inner spunkiness, secure that an English Knight deemed me spunky.

That's why I was so delighted that someone got to my site by Googling "spunky labia." I thought, "That is so perfect. What a great porn star name!  Starring ... Spunky Labia! And introducing ... Spunky Labia!" Of course, I would have to give up my classic first-pet/first-street porn star name: Pansy Hillcroft. I've always felt like a Pansy Hillcroft, especially if you pronounce it like Joan Greenwood would, chewing the consonants and swallowing the vowels with what I think they call a "plummy" accent. "Huhlllo, Ah em Penseh Hillcroff."

But, still, Spunky Labia! Is that me or what!

I clicked the link (the google.uk link, mind you, where they know spunk) and found that I am not on the first page of hits for Spunky Labia. I thought this was strange. It did make me think there might not currently be a porn star named Spunky Labia, and to confirm it a google image search of "Spunky Labia" didn't match any documents. So that's cool. I think I'll make Spunky Labia my porn star name, but use Pansy Hillcroft as my nom de porn when I do my toe spreads.

On Religion

First, if you don't want to catch up with my in-laws, go read something funny at Jesus Christ's Cool Blog! Oh, Sherri, thank you. This is funny. This is as funny as Don Novello/Father Guido Sarducci/Lazlo Toth (American). In fact, it kind of sounds like him. It's so good I'm saving it for a treat.

On the darker side of religion, my in-laws are using their mighty mighty powers of exaggeration to make a happy occasion into something painful and unpleasant.

Let's play a game. Use your imagination. Take this scenario, and then see how you can twist the facts.

The Facts
Arhan-fay is the son of Gary's Muslim sister Sandy and her admittedly mail-order Pakistani husband. Ex-husband. And they got ten years out of it, longer than many marriages I know of. And marriage to Sandy might measured in dog years. She could pack seven year's worth of drama into one human year.

Arhan-fay is twenty-three, and has been dating ...ummm ...  Aha-tay for six months. He's known her since childhood, since they went to the same Islamic school in KC. But, a month ago, they broke up. And there was great sadness. Arhan-fay was distraught.

But, lo! They are to be wed! Sandy is beside herself with delight and tells us that there are two weddings thrown in their culture, one thrown by the bride's family and one by the groom's family. I was not aware of this custom since obviously, the bride's family wasn't too happy about welcoming the freshly-postmarked groom at Sandy's wedding.

The wedding is next month.

These are the facts, or as close as you can get after passing them through the Gary filter. Believe me, he didn't come home and grunt, "Arhan-fay. Wedding. Next month."

Take just a moment to imagine what the S_____ family have decided is the background drama. Use your creativity. (Or, you could visit Jesus Christ's Cool Blog! Jesus is waiting. He's waiting today. Come with thy sins; at His feet lowly bow. Come, and no longer delay.)

The Same Story with Twisted S______ Embellishments
(Class, who went with sudden unexpected pregnancy? Ha! Wrong. Too humdrum and everyday for that family. Yawn. Same-old, same-old.)

Assorted S______s all talking loudly at the same time:
"After the breakup, Aha-tay's family decided she must be wed! And they arranged a marriage for her! And Arhan-fay was one of the selections! But there were three other boys in the running! But she picked him! Even though they were on the outs! It's craziness! Can you imagine!"

...Oh, and he doesn't have a job and he's too young and where would they live. You know, the same grief everybody gets when they decide to be happy in the face of the in-laws.

I know I should make some calls to the more rational twigs on the family tree (and a moody teenage girl is the source of reason, what does that say). But really, I am tired of assuring Gary that everything is okay after he's pumped up the drama.

Well, and after all the Estate drama actually turned out to be founded in reality, I'm a little gun-shy.

Mistaken Identity

Saturday, Catherine, Marcia and I were having dinner at a restaurant down the street. Oh, and falling madly in love with Brandon, our waiter.

Marcia: Do you have a to-go cup for my Margarita?
Brandon: I should tell you. My name is Steve, not Brandon, and this is actually an intervention.

So, when a gray-haired man came up behind me and touched my shoulder, I was a little dismayed it was not Brandon, but instead some hail-fellow-pseudo-manager man. And to be accurate, he didn't touch my shoulder, he laid hands on it. He applied firm pressure. He tested the limits of my patience. I was in the middle of the "Oh, is that your hand?" one-eyebrow-arched hand stare-down, and tensing up for the pointed brush-off, if not the always direct "Don't TOUCH me."

"So, who's the mom?" he bellowed.
We were stymied.
Catherine asked, "I don't know, who is the mom?"
"My Mom's dead." Marcia said bluntly.
"Uhhh...I'm the Mom?" thinking perhaps he was asking about who was the oldest of the group, and wondering why Marcia wasn't stepping up.
"So, you should be here tomorrow!" He roared, him, always with the roaring. The roaring and my god, the bellowing. Oh, sorry, a little Mom talk and I got all Dooce on you.
I asked, "I'm sorry, but ... what are you talking about?"
"Mother's Day is tomorrow! How many kids do you have?"
"OH! You were asking if any of us were mothers! No, no moms here."

He tried to keep it going, even as we started to chide him for assuming not all women of a certain age are mothers. Eventually, he pressed my shoulder AGAIN and meandered off to make gross generalizations at another table.

He stopped by one more time.
"Hey," I chirped, "Ask me again who's the Mom!"
"WHO'S THE MOM!"
I mock-sobbed into my hands, "Oh god, I never had children. How can you bring up such a painful memory?"

Ass.
Assbadger.

An Open Letter to Mr. Leonard Cohen

Dear Mr. Cohen,

As I was listening to some music on my iPod today at work, I came across your song 'Take This Waltz.' “Ah,” I thought, “I like that song.” I listened, and at the end of the song, hit Repeat. The second time through I sighed dreamily and hit Repeat. The third time through I sighed louder, stopped working, and almost hit Repeat again. “I cannot be distracted by listening to multiple songs, or by hitting Repeat for songs I particularly like,” I thought harshly, “I will just put ‘Take This Waltz’ on Shuffle One, so it plays that song over and over.”

Three hours later I was dissolved into a non-productive puddle. Mooning about the office. Sighing. Languishing. Pining. Longing. Longing hard, Mr. Cohen.

It was at that point I shook myself out of my damp slough of desire and decided to analyze why this song had me all limp. This is my way when I find myself pining. I can usually figure out what’s set me off into a longing mood. For example, I only needed an hour or so of CNN hurricane coverage before I realized it was not Anderson Cooper influencing me in that direction, but the repetition of the words “hammering “ and “pounding” “driving” and “relentless.”

I listened to ‘Take this Waltz’ a few more times and focused on the lyrics. Usually I can understand the basic lyrics to a song on the first try, and the nuances after a few playings. But this song is ‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’ in three-quarter time. Except for “La la la” and of course, “my mouth on the dew of your thighs,” it’s all cryptic. For example, “And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow / All your sheep and your lilies of snow.” What the hell, Mr. Cohen. What the hell?

I’m at a loss for why this song makes me weak. There are serious ramifications if I can’t get to the bottom of this.
1) There are lives at stake. I cannot tell you due to the numerous high security confidentiality agreements I signed when I began this project. But people could die if I am not on my game at work.
2) My pride has been compromised. I called my husband this afternoon and thanked him for giving me yet another bladder infection. I believe I giggled, “You are such a MAN.” And, people were in the next cubicle.

Just so you know, you don’t carry the entire burden of blame.
Uncharged Fellow Co-Conspirators:
Robin and her uniquely guttural programming style, which is why I put the iPod on in the first place.
Tori Amos, Steven Page, Steve the salesman at work, the powers that be in Canada, and all the others who recommended your music, including the ultimate authority: the guy at the record store.
Steve Jobs and the minions who programmed the Shuffle One iPod setting.

Anyway, Mr. Cohen, you are now banned from my iPod during work hours. I’m sorry. You cannot imagine how much I will miss you. Sigh.

Mom

Here's a photo of my Mom:

She's standing behind a bank of pink surprise lilies in her garden. We love the surprise lilies because they arrive early summer, they bloom, you heartlessly mow them down, and they bloom again on the week of our birthdays.

Mom taught me how to garden. Even, better, she taught me how to cope. I've been in the vicinity of a number of Moms lately, with teenagers, and they don't teach their teenagers how to cope. So the teenagers drink, or smoke, or cut, or starve. My Mom, on the other hand, has had a lifetime of coping with adversity, and she does it better than anyone.

So, she taught me how to garden, and how to cope, and if you know those two things you can rule the world. I'm very lucky to have this mother. Thanks, Mom! I love you.

Memphis: The Asshole Who Sat Behind Us At Graceland

I have a bad habit of eavesdropping (only I use the old-fashioned term, "hearing"). Gary and I will be at dinner, he'll see my eyes drift away, and then I'll say, "This guy is hitting on this woman and they are taking a break from her husband's visitation."
"Ellen, stop that, it's rude."
"Rude?  Her husband just died. A few days ago!"
"I hate that you do this."
"Oh, yeah, he'll be your shoulder to cry on. Weasel."

So this is what I overheard at Graceland:

"Women are stupid. I mean, they may be a good as us when it comes to book learning, but they just have no common sense. They're only good for one thing, and that's screwing."

It went on in this vein for forty-five minutes until I got up and switched seats with Gary. The man's story was that his wife of twenty years made an error in judgment letting their youngest go out on Saint Patrick's Day, and he had to pin her down on the floor and not hit her, and he told the counselor that, and it was wrong to pin her down on the floor, but the stupid bitch wants a divorce now.

The thing is, it took forty-five minutes of woman-bashing to get to the satisfying conclusion that 'Sherry' has gained some sense and is leaving this tool. During that forty-five minutes, I had to hold my tongue. I don't suppose I had to, but I didn't want a confrontation with such an angry man, and I do have common sense in addition to book-learning.

It did, however, ruin my lunch of god-awful tourist food. I thought, you know, this must be a molecular version of what being African-American in America is like, asshats sitting by you and commenting on your demographic.

In conclusion:

1) I say "asshats" because it seems to be what the kids say. Why, I don't know. Why not ass-shoes? Assbags, there you go.

2) I know being on only the second rung of American society is not really comparable to being an African American anywhere in the U.S. And, on a related note, I was surprised to discover that Gary thinks Bongo is African! He is so NOT African. He is from the Indies and works on Missy's father's tea plantation. SO I'm still politically incorrect, just only for the British readers.

Memphis: The Exhaustion

Every once in a while, Gary and I find ourselves in a situation that just does not work for us, and we have to find a way to make it work. I give you: Landscaping. Building Shelves. Moving Heavy Objects Such As Full-Grown Pear Trees from the Front Yard to the Back. It always starts out well:

Me: "In [X] weeks I need your big strong arms to help me do [X]."
Gary: "Just tell me when and I'll do it."

What Gary means is "Just tell me when and I will at the last moment pick apart your well-drawn-out plan until it is a tattered flag symbolizing the fallacy of your supremacy over me." This is why you will sometimes find me in our front yard yelling: "Bongo! Do as Missy SAYS!" Sometimes, Gary and Ellen cannot work together because they have incompatible problem-solving behaviors, so Bongo and Missy have to step in. Bongo is a good boy. All he ever says is, "Bongo scared of Missy."

Well, it seems I need another pair of personas. At the Beale Street Music festival we were forced to realize our exhaustion behaviors are incompatible as well.

This was me, exhausted, trying to find a place to sit at the Wolfmother concert:
Whump (sound of me flopping down in exhaustion on a random spot of wet grass)
Gary: "NO! You can't sit there! It's wet! People are too close to you! It's dark! People will step on you!"
Me: "Shhhh! Be still." And because I am tired, I close my eyes and sit in the lotus position. I go to my happy place. Where it is quiet and isolated and there happens to have a loud band roaring off in the distance.

This was Gary, exhausted, trying to find a place to sit at the Wolfmother concert:
"Let's go here - past those kids - no - too close to the bathroom - there's a spot up there - too dark - there - no, that's a trash can - its getting darker - keep UP, come ON - by the fence - " He kept spiraling into the crowd looking for the ideal clean, dry, well-lit patch of pastoral grass with a huge personal space boundary. Eventually he had cornered himself by the fence.

Me: "Please. Stop. Stop moving. Stop talking."
Gary: "We have to get out of here!"And he kept moving, and talking, and that was the first fifteen minutes of the Wolfmother concert.

This conflict comes up when we are both beat. I, like a normal human, move slower and am quieter when tired. Gary moves faster and talks more. He calls it being "overly tired," a zone in which his body is sapping his brain of all its remaining energy and he has no judgment.

The obvious answer is if we are both exhausted Gary should just pick me up and carry me about, and thank you for thinking of that. YOU are so clever. But he would still keep talking. I hate to be picky, but that's as bad as the moving.

So I need another pair of personas we can adopt to get us past the rough patches when we are worn out. I'm thinking Meth Addict for him and Unconscious Overdose Victim  for me.

Memphis: the Food

I know. You want to know if I got my snoot on in Memphis. No. (Hurls self on floor and kicks feet.) No snoots, even though I had an "in" at Gilbert/Carl Jr.'s family's soul food place. I couldn't find it. I drove to the address he wrote down, which matched the address from the Internet, which matched the address on the Tom-Tom, which was not Blocker's Soul Food Express but was instead Gladys' Donuts. (I assume the donuts part, there was a rough painting of a big circle next to Gladys with the possessive punctuation.)

So. Fine. Fine fine fine. Since clearly Master Mason Gilbert's relatives run a soul food speakeasy that is not open to me, I went instead to Graceland like we white folks are supposed to (crosses arms and sighs at ceiling). Where we had this:

Chili Cheese Fries (enh) Cheeseburger (meh) and a Grilled Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich. The grilled sandwich was actually acceptable when you stopped thinking of it as a sandwich and thought of it as a dessert.

Speaking of desserts, we had no dessert food at the festival. I looked for the Deep-Friend Twinkies they have in LA, but I saw none. (The coasts always get things before we do.) Instead, we had a BBQ sandwich (even with the coleslaw it tasted a little too Arby's to me). Oh, and these:

All the chips were connected in some double-helix spiral-cut fashion. With the cheese sauce on top, Gary said it was like eating chips and playing Jenga at the same time.

Finally, we had a meal at Blues Street Cafe on Beale Street. The ribs, of course, were not Saint Louisian, but oh yes, the fries. Well done!. Very well done. Well done fries. I usually ask for my fries well done when I think the waitress won't give me the cow stare, but this time I got perfect fries and I didn't have to ask. Forget Memphis ribs, give me Memphis fries. Oblong crunchy hollow morsels of grease that still retain some of their original french-fry shape and taste faintly of potato.

Now of course, we are back on the Gary Gulag Diet. (Hurls self on can of mixed nuts and looks about savagely.)

Wildlife in Memphis

Tigers
As we were driving to Memphis, Gary screamed, "Tigers! Stop! Tigers!" He had seen this billboard:

And because once Gary told me he regretted his Dad never stopped to see tourist attractions on cross-country trips, I was a sport and pulled off to see the tigers. But of course, the tigers were closed. Instead, in the tiger's driveway what we found was an:

Armadillo
A dead one. I thought I was driving over just your average soft mound of roadkill. Instead it bumped all over my undercarriage (dirty!), flipped over, and lay in the road all stiff from rigor mortis and general armadilliosity. I assumed it had escaped from the tiger enclosure, because we're a bit North for them. However, driving back from Memphis Gary awakened me with, "AUUUGHH! AN ARMADILLO JUST RAN ACROSS THE ROAD!" I didn't see it myself. On the other hand, I did see every scrap of tire rubber that Gary tagged as an armadillo after that.

Crocs
Yeah. Crocs. Supposed to be the most comfy shoes ever. I call Marketing BS on the Crocs. After twelve hours in wet muddy Crocs I have matching infected Croc blisters on the tops of my feet. Or I might have stigmata because I am a SAINT for taking Gary out of the way to see the tigers.

Memphis: The Concert

Gary and I tooled off to Memphis this weekend for one reason: to go to the BNL set at the Beale Street Music Festival. Sure, there was the siren song of the snoots, and we did visit the shiny shrine to Elvis that is Graceland, but what lured us there was the Barenaked Ladies hour-long set.

We were packed in to the eighth row back, along with some very very nice frat boys who were kind enough to offer me some of their Everclear. Why, thank you. I would love some alcohol poisoning. No, I'm not coughing because of the smoke from your Camels, it's just my lung cancer acting up. Oh, and thanks for standing right in front of me.

The band burst out and within a few songs gravitated to the left side of the stage.  Steve and Jim both were transfixed by something in the crowd. I'm guessing it was a young lady paying a little homage to the band's name. Steve stared into the crowd with a widening half-lecherous, half-goofy grin, while Jim kept invading the Steve Space to teeter on the left edge of the stage, smile, and nod very approvingly at the audience in that particular corner.

Ed spotted parties on the balconies of the houses 100 yards away, which he dubbed "Austere House" and "Party House." He convinced one of the Party House attendees to take down his shorts. So, if you are the guy in red shorts in Memphis who pulled down his shorts for a crowd 100 yards away, I thank you. Of course, if you had pulled down your underwear too I would have respected you as well.

Speaking of underwear: I have seen London, I've not seen France, but I did see quite a bit of of Steven's underpants during a series of high kicks. He did a proud number of high kicks, leaps, and balancing on one foot as a cruel mockery of those of us with neurological issues.

The delightful thing about this band is they have no shame. They are quite happy to come out and gambol about like puppies - five puppies leaping up and barking: love me! love me! love me! OH, you love me now? Cute, you say? Now let my blow you away with the sheer power of my talent.

And because I am by nature reserved, and since Gary teased that when I stopped clapping I stood there with my hands clasped and face shining with adoration, I tried to distance myself. I looked at the clouds. I analyzed the lyrics. I looked at Gary. I watched the Frat Boys.

It helped a good deal that the Frat Boys were having a conversation about how they smuggled in the Everclear during the beginning of Break Your Heart. But of course, one verse in, their heads swiveled to the stage in amazement and I heard them say "Whoa, dude, he's really good." Poor things probably haven't heard a rock artist who can sing, much less summon wild applause for individual notes.

I so distracted myself that at one point I looked on stage and somehow Kevin was standing on his piano bench. I maintained decorum until one point when Steven apologized to the inhabitants of the Austere House for slighting their party. He said, "I know sometimes I've been seen as cold and aloof -- "

Then I lost it. "WHOOOOOOOO!" I screamed, arms in the air, totally giving it up for cold and aloof, and all those who are cold and aloof amongst us. "WHOOOOOOOOO!"

From then on the floodgates were broken and I didn't quite care what Gary thought of me. By that time the audience was completely won over, as were the Frat Boys, even though I suspect they credited the Everclear for making everything sound great. The band finished up, went offstage, blowing kisses, and did not come out again even though the Frat Boys and the crowd screamed for an encore.

It was a lovefest. Was it sincere? Or were these fake kisses they were blowing, and now they'll never come back down South? Who cares? I am so pathetically in love now, and so is Gary. He talked like a tween driving back to Cape: "Who's your favorite member of the band? What questions would you ask them if you could interview them?" It's cute, really. We will try to build up our resistance before we go see them next month in Chicago. Hush up, you rocksnob thirty-somethings, don't judge us unless you've resisted their charms in person.

Back from Memphis

Too much to say. I must collect my thoughts. There are posts on wildlife, concerts, The Concert, demographics, spontaneity, exhaustion and the coping with it, misanthropy, and food.

But as for now ... work. And me with only a few hours of insufficient sleep.

memphis

Hot. No snoots. Here early Blackberries suck.

What To Do When You Are Bored At Work

Our team at work has been enduring a project that is soul-shatteringly boring. We squabble over who gets the challenging morsels of the project, like the ones in which you get to cut (woo) and paste (weee) instead of type. So, my aggregation (there's no 'I' in team, and 'aggregation' was the best the thesaurus could do) has found little ways to keep themselves entertained.

If you are Friend #2 and Friend #3, hop up and down by my desk and say "Are you annoyed yet? Are you annoyed yet?"

If you are Robin, respond to the client's fourth ALL-CAPITALIZED REQUEST FOR A CROSS-HAIR GODDAMMIT A CROSS-HAIR ON THE GRAPHIC by editing the graphic to have this in place of a cross-hair:

If you are Friend 3
Do all your correspondence
In haiku format.
(Yes, even IMs. I was counting on my fingers all day to keep up.)

If you are the Master Mason Gilbert, say things like, "Miss Ellen? You drive a Mini? Really? You are so fly!" "Miss Ellen? You listen to Maroon Five? Damn girl, how fly are you!"It appears he has been duped by the clever middle-aged matronly exterior that hides my inner Beyonce.

A final aside: Master Mason Gilbert has given me the location of his cousin's Soul Food place in Memphis, and I am to visit there and say that "Little Carl" sent me there for some snoots and tails. "Little Carl" is Gilbert's family name, so it appears that we are all a little more fly than we first appear.

In Which We Play our First Drinking Game! Ever!

You know what's fun? Watching the Republican National Debate and doing a shot every time they say "Ronald Reagan."

It was Gary's idea, but he refuses to participate now. We didn't start watching until 7:45, and it's 8:00, and I've had three shots so far. Gary has just taken aWAY the Bailey's. Or, as he calls it, "his" Bailey's. Don't care. I have Frangelica on deck over here.

It's 8:06 now. This is real-time blogging. Oh! Stem cells! Come on! Come ON! "Mrs. Reagan" doesn't count for half a shot? Come on.

8:15. Really, how soon they forget about Ronald Reagan. No RR references for at least ten minutes. It is the interactive portion; I could call in and ask, "Who do you think is the greatest president of the late twentieth century? Full name answers, only, please."

Three freaking people don't believe in evolution? Three candidates for the American presidency don't believe in evolution? Gary is screaming right now. Chris! Chris Matthews! Tackle those people and stick the mic down their throats! (I hope no one is at this moment drawing a parallel with "Ronald Reagan," because I can't hear over Gary's tirade.)

Mitt Romney? Mmmm Baby.
Mayor Giuliani? You. sir, are a dick. And you obviously didn't practice for the Muslim question.
Who is Dr. Squirrelly who won't regulate the Internet? I love you! Let's hear it for Dr. Squirrelly.

Suddenly: Rudy G is my man! Ru-DY! Ru-DY! Ronald Reagan was an optimist, just like you. MMmm. Gary should try this Frangelica stuff.

Oh, there's Chris Matthews. HI, Chris! My husband is all hot for you. Ask the candidates who was married to Nancy Reagan.

I'm noticing they (well, Rudy, formerly my man but now once again worthy only of my contempt) keep pedaling back to the previous question. Answer the question ASKED of you. The Democrats stayed on point. Republicans had an extra week to rehearse, I guess.

Hey! Good for you, nameless middle-aged candidate guy, going back to Shaivo when they asked about Bill Clinton, because ... well... you said Ronald Reagan for some reason. NO idea why. Really, no idea how you got that in there.

"How will you be different from George W. Bush?"  Wait for it...wait for it... waiting .... Oh, come ON. Really? No one? Buehller? Damn. Now it's over.

The last sentence: "Thanks to Mrs. Ronald Reagan ... blah blah ...from the Ronald Reagan Memorial Library!" Yeah! Go Chris! A twofer.

Eight shots of Frangelica and / or Bailey's. They might be half shots, I still don't really understand this freaky double-jigger shot glass I have. Time for some water and some aspirin.

In Which I Reveal My Fantasy About My Husband

This is pitiful, but sometimes when I hear Gary pretending to be the dog and calling us 'Mom' and 'Dad,' I have this fantasy:

I go to the mall with Gary and we accidentally bump into one of his old girlfriends. This puts him on the spot and he breaks down and confesses that he's been married to her for years, and they have five kids. (Uh-huh, yeahhhh, that's where he's been all those weekends he's been working!)  The kids arrive and gather around him. They all look like him.

Yet still, he decides to live with me. I give him extra time on the weekends to play with his kids. Why? Because it is my fantasy and some extra time on the weekends to myself is not such a bad idea. It all works out very nicely. I get him, plus he gets the little babies, PLUS he doesn't ever have to discipline them because he only sees them on the weekends. Kind of like an emotional three-way.

(We did once go to the mall AND we bumped into his old girlfriend AND she had a child. The kid didn't look like him though. Maybe she's having babies with more than one married man.)

Ooooz A Good Boy?

An exchange this morning:

Gary: "Here you go, Mac. Here's your breakfast."
Gary in 'Mac' Falsetto: "Thanks Dad!"
Gary: "See, I made it just the way you like it."
Gary Falsetto: "That looks great Dad!"
Gary: "See? Mom just stacks it up, but I made it into a cone shape. I know you like that the best."
Gary Falsetto: "I do, Dad, that's the best! Mom doesn't do that."
Gary: "No, she doesn't."
Mac, the actual dog, because I can read his thoughts: "You are retarded.  Or, perhaps you are a paranoid schizophrenic. It's a tough call."
Gary: "Oooo, look at you eat! You are such a good dog! Good boy!"
Gary Falsetto: "Yes, I'm a good boy! I love the Cone of Food."
Mac: "Yeah, you know what I like? Honey-Baked Ham Tea Party Leftovers. Break out some of that."
Gary: "You like the way I make your food, on the big plate, in a cone shape!"
Gary Falsetto: "I love you, Dad!"
Mac: "Yeah, whatever. Why isn't that fat pasty woman making my breakfast anymore? And, hey, stop talking that way. I don't sound like that. I don't sound like a girl."
Gary: "Yes, that was yummy, wasn't it?"
Gary Falsetto: "Yum, Dad!"
Mac: "Jesus!"