Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Guest Post of the Week: Mac the Dog

(Ellen says: The dog has been fidgety lately, so I decided to let him post.)

Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Mac the dog. Technically, I am McDonnell the dog (nee), but now that my cohort Douglas is gone the furless ones just call me Mac.

I need a forum to express my concern that some of you might be considering a Presidential candidate who would do this to a dog. I realize the article explains the dog liked being up on the car roof, but I doubt anyone from the Times interviewed the dog. As for the contention the dog liked being up on the roof because he "scrambled up there every time [they] went on trips," well -- not to sound breedist, but he's an Irish Setter. They aren't that bright.

Things here in the house have been interesting. The furless ones have been squabbling more than is usual. The smaller one, the one with the grotesquely swollen teats and the huge ankles, has been reading marriage counseling books for some work project she has. This has provoked absurd conversations between them about their "love languages." No one has asked me, but here is my take on these love languages.

Acts of Service (or as Dogs call them, Acts of Carrion)
I know some dogs (ahem - Irish Setters) chase and kill mice, deer, and such, but that doesn't appeal to me. So, I don't show love in that way. I also don't accept love when it is granted as an act of service.The larger furless one at times will try to wipe off my bottom, but I don't feel loved afterward. I feel slightly violated.

Gifts
The Furless ones and I have worked past this. For a while, they tried to show their love by giving me squeak toys. They would throw them and look at me expectantly. As if I were (and I'm sorry, but it's true) an Irish Setter. Of course, when I realized the importance they placed on gifts I tried to give them some gifts in my own way, but they just scream and throws my gifts in the trash dumpster. Hmph. So sorry I can't produce gold jewelry from my butt.

Talking
I'm a dog. They are not. We can't talk to each other. Someone, explain that to them.

Quality Time
The Furless ones seem to think they need to spend every minute together. Usually they are just watching the noisy box, and the noisy box bores me. Especially when that Chris Matthews guy is on.  As long as they check in before for dinner, we might spend all evening in separate rooms.

Touch
That's my love language. Oh, yeah, baby. I love the touch. Big Ankles has fingernails on her right hand, and sometimes she will scratch the base of my tail, or my teats. Mmmmm. Strangely, they don't like it when I do this to them. I'll make a special trip over their teats up to their heads and claw them violently, and they don't like it! They scream things like, "You are going to gouge my eye out!" and "I think he drew blood!" and "WHAT DO YOU WANT DOG IT'S FOUR A.M."

It's so hard, sometimes. Maybe I should try giving them some more of my special homemade butt gifts.

In Which We Discover We Are a Dirty Dirty Girl

Yesterday, a co-worker was preparing baked beans for the company picnic.

According to confirmed reports, her first step was to wash the can. Then she opened it, and everything else was pretty standard after that.

I heard about this from a co-worker, who said he questioned her at the time and she said "I don't know where this can of beans has been." ("Up her ass," stated my husband with confidence when he heard the story.)

So, I'm putting myself on the line here, I know, but I don't wash a can before I open it. But, I want to learn. (Really, I've been doing the dance with the paper towels and the sink faucet since you have shown me the light. You should see me. I look all uptight and righteous.)

So, tell me, show me the way: Should I be washing my cans?

Ewwwwwwwwwwwww

Which is most disturbing:

1. Someone looked up "iron lung bondage" on Google.

2. They found my site.

3. They clicked the link to get to the cached version of my site.

4. My site was the 98th down on the list. They scrolled through 97 other spots looking for iron lung bondage before they got to me.

5. They got bondage here, they got iron lungs here, but they did not get iron lung bondage here.

I almost feel sorry for them. (I don't really feel sorry for them. I felt worse about Paris Hilton.) Still, how jaded do you have to be to seek out iron lung bondage as opposed to the more generic bondage?

Almost-Weekend Update

Sex! Drugs! Rock and Roll!

Sex!
So, remember those shirts Gary bought for me at the mall, after he criticized a number of things that were indelicate about me, including my Mighty Mighty Boobage? His Mom looked at the photos from Chicago (yeah, the ones you didn't see) and CRITICIZED MY CLEAVAGE. Yeah! Take that, Gary, you cheap whore! It seems my breasts claw upward to the sun, like twin sunflowers, and then they clamber over the top button and wave about in the wind.

Drugs!
Finally I connected with the neurologist and this was the conversation we had about the levels of anti-drug antibodies the Mayo Clinic found in my blood:

Dr: "Normal is below 60. High is 60 to 100. You are at 640."
Ellen: "So ... let's see if the insurance pays for Copaxone, I guess." But inside I was thinking, "I RULE! TEN TIMES THE UPPER LIMIT! WHOOOO!" Really, I did. Seriously, how do I have room for blood with all these antibodies?

I did a search on Copaxone, and found this dandy little quote:

"...[Copaxone] was originally believed to act as a decoy by drawing the immune system's attack away from the myelin. Nowadays, researchers are no longer at all sure how Copaxone works. "

Oh. Well. The insurance pays for it, so I don't care.

Rock and Roll!
I just read such a great review of a Counting Crows concert with such appealing photos that it made we want to attend one. In addition, many people who like Barenaked Ladies speak highly of Counting Crows, and as it turns out they will be right across the river in August. So, I'm going. I'm going across the river, and it makes me a little on edge. Plus, this is a General Admission concert. We shall see.

Another Open Letter to My Husband

Dear Husband -

Okay, first of all, hi. You're in the bathroom, right? Because I know that's the only place you read my blog.

Anyway, remember earlier today when I called you from my job because I was filling out a very important form for my Lives Are At Stake super-secret project? Not the forklift project. No, not the Marriage Counseling project. Pay attention. The Very Important Project.

And remember how you got all pissy because I called to ask you your mother's birth date? You were all like, "Why are you bothering me with this!" (Big sigh) And then: "Fine, I'LL CALL MY MOM AND ASK HER WHEN SHE WAS BORN!"

And remember how I said, "I'm sorry for bothering you, I just thought you might know off the top of your head. Bye..." and remember how you said "Jesus!" just as you were hanging up?

Well, did you know I can get to Amazon right from my desk at work? And did you know the One-click shopping comes right off YOUR debit card? How about that. At any rate, thanks for the Guster CD.

"Receiving Gifts" -- my new Love Language.

Sincerely,

Your Wife.

P.S. Suck my balls.

Stupid Job is Jerking Me Around!

For the past six months I have been working on a training project that contains stimulating material such as this:

To make the forklift raise the pallet up, press the UP button.
To lower the pallet that is on the forklift, press the DOWN button.
TRUE or FALSE: The UP button raises the pallet. (TRUE! If you missed this question, you may want to go back and review the material.)

Yes, well, that was last week. This week I have to write objectives for a marriage counseling course for a church.

First of all, I get preliminary content that is essentially a series of four of five religious buzzwords strung together, i.e. "The Grace of the Covenant Amplifies the Faithful through Ascension." WTF? WTF, Jesus? What the HELL does that mean?

Since the content the church has given me has been so hard for me to grasp, I've taken to reading simple marriage counseling books like "The Five Love Languages." Happily, Religious BS is not one of the five Luuuuv languages. I do not speak Seminary Doublespeak.

Unfortunately, it appears I do speak Manipulative ChickenSoupforTheSoulSpeak fluently, because I just sat around all morning reading The Five Love Languages and crying. AT WORK.

Forklifts do not make me cry. On the other hand, it would appears my Cynical Muscle has become flabby from lack of exercise.

It's All About Who You Give The Spoon To

Many thanks to Melissa for the Hello Kitty Psychological Test.

Others took it before me and got low scores. I know I'm insensitive (my friends all tell me that), so I was not expecting this:

About 120 percent
Regardless of what happen, you will never forget to care about other. You must be really happy to hear comment such as "You are so understanding and caring!" Taking care of others is probably your most important task. But sometime, you really care too much. For example, if you joke around people who are upset, then you probably end up hurting them instead. So the best way to take care of people is to show you care naturally.

Believe me, the people I work with are really amused by this.

Even better, I took the What Font are You Quiz next. I'm "Comic Sans." Full name, as we know, is Comic Sans MS, for Micrsoft I suppose.

Semi-wrong Answer

I got a phone message from the neurologist last night.

"Mrs. S______, I'd like to discuss the result of your interferon neutralizing antibody test with you. I'll call back Saturday or Monday."

On the one hand, we all know this is not the right message. The right message is "I've reviewed your test and everything looks fine."

The wrong message comes from the office staff, and is "The doctor would like you to come in so he can discuss your test results with you."

Not sure where this falls. It's pretty late Saturday. I get the feeling the office staff will be setting up an appointment with me Monday. And really, all it would mean is a change in medication.

(Brief MS lesson: the current thinking is ones immune system is out of balance. Plenty of "find and kill the bacteria" cells, never enough "just chill out, dude, bugs are dead, stand down" cells. Hyperactive kill cells muscle their way out of the bloodstream into the brain and start fragging a specific brain cell called myelin. Pansy-ass chill cells weakly call out "Game over, dude, game over!" from the bloodstream, but are ignored.)

I have three remaining injection options, all with their good points:

One strategy doctors use to fight MS is to literally have their patients inject themselves with more of the chill cells, or inteferon. There is still one brand of inteferon I haven't tried, Rebif, which is actually a triple dose of the inteferon I took three years ago.

Copaxane, which is just freaky. I love the way the Copaxane works. If I understand it correctly, you inject decoy myelin cells directly into your bloodstream. That way, the kill cells can ambush the fake myelin without having to leave the bloodstream and cross over into your brain. "Fight them here so we don't have to fight them there!" the kill cells shout. They lazily pick off the decoys and don't invade the brain.

Tysabri, which Teflon-coats the walls of the bloodstream so the kill cells can't break through into the brain. They just slide around and bounce off the walls on the veins and arteries. Bwhwhwwhahahaha! Hilarious!

Yeah, before you ask, they all cost as much as the stuff I'm on now. I'm not going to look up which are covered by my insurance and which aren't, because there's a chance the doctor will call Monday and say "Hmmm...yeah, your tests look good. Have a nice day."

Colin

I need you to help me out here. I'm going to tell a tale that borders on the disgusting. I'm going to try to do it with some delicacy and grace.

Here's what I need you to do.

Imagine my lower gastrointestinal tract is an annoying little boy. Named Colin. Pronounced just like the "Colin" in "Colin Powell." Okay. Okay? Are you with me? Now I can tell this story.

--------------- The Adventures of Colin Bowel --------------

So, I only see my my little friend Colin once a week. He used to come around a lot more often (in fact to an annoying degree) but since I've been taking the antidepressants and Betaseron, not so much. Most of the time he's dead to the world. He doesn't bother me at all (I mean AT ALL) except for once a week.

Then, once a week, Colin will wake up and make his presence known. And when he's awake he is quite the hyper child. He can move. He does all the moving in one hour that most other little boys (named Colin) do in a week. In fact, once Colin slept for thirteen days. That was his personal best. Then he woke up, spent an hour taking care of business, exhausted himself, zonked out, and I didn't hear from him for another week. That's how he is. Either he's comatose or he's making up for lost time. He'll wind up by getting ahead of schedule too, even if things aren't quite ready, then he's out for the next seven days. 

Some people might not like this arrangement, but I find it quite convenient. In fact, the day for Colin's weekly visits has been Thursday for the past two months, and I was surprised I did not see him yesterday.

I tried to coax him awake this morning with a grande cappuccino and a baked egg souffle. "Colin," I whispered urgently, "I made this Gynecologist appointment for today because I expected you Thursday.  You need to pay me a visit before my appointment at 10:30, otherwise I will be very inconvenienced."

"ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzz," Colin snored.

"Well allrighty then," I sighed, "Just so you know I can't spend any time with you from 10:30 till 11 or so."

"ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzz."

At 10:20. I said my farewells at work.
"Where you off to?" Hot Mom asked.
"The doctor."
"The MS doctor?"
"Nope," (long pointed look at Manbitch) "The...other doctor." My face added: The one we do not speak of in front of the males because, I don't know, we don't want them to have the mental image of us in stirrups.
"Ahhhhh," Hot Mom said. "I seeeeeee."
"It won't take long," I added, "Just in and out." Bwah! Yuk yuk yuk.

I was in the waiting room at 10:30 when Colin tugged on my skirt. "Hey!" he said.
"Colin, I don't have time for you right now."
"Hey, come on, I'm awake. Let's do something."
"Well, I would if you were quick about it, but I know if we start anything you'll take a half hour."
"Pleeeease" he grunted.
"I don't have time. You'll have to wait."

There was a brief pause.

Colin tugged on my skirt.

"Hey," he said. "Pay attention to me!"

I hopped up and asked the receptionist if the doctor was running on time. "Yes, he'll be right with you." So, he was out of luck, and in a moment Colin and I were in an exam room. Colin tried to pester me while the nurse took my blood pressure, but I ignored him. And like a fool, I believed her when she repeated the doctor would be right in.

"Hear that, Colin? He'll be right in. Then I can spend some time with you."

Colin, however, did not calm down, and during the next HOUR AND TWENTY MINUTES I SPENT WAITING IN THE EXAM ROOM he was fidgeting, squirming, rolling, and asking if it was time to leave every five seconds. I tried sitting perfectly still with my hands gripped in fists. It took all my focus.

"Hey," he said, punching me in the gut. "I have a present for you."
"Stop bugging me! We are staying here. I can't pay attention to you right now."
"How 'bout if we go, just for a minute, and then come back?"
"I'm not falling for that. You get started, you get into it, and then you stop paying attention and frankly, your work gets very rushed and sloppy."
There was a moment's silence.
"Hey."
Sigh. "What?"
"See that can over there that says 'biohazardaous waste?'"
"DON'T even think it. Don't EVEN go there. You settle down. I'm not budging."

Finally the doctor showed up and gave me a pelvic exam. Colin wasn't happy when the doctor pressed on my belly, but he knew that meant it was almost our Special Time. (My doctor, if you are wondering, did not try to tickle Colin directly, since we are not old enough to deserve that special attention.)

Finally it was over. I dressed in a heartbeat and marched solidly down the hall to the restroom. Which was....occupied.

"Whhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" Colin screamed.
"Shush. There's another one across the parking lot. Hang in there another ... ten minutes, okay?" It was only a two minute hike across the lot, but sometimes you have to lie to Colin and fake him out, otherwise he gets all excited.

At any rate, once we made it there I spent a good thirty minutes of Quality Time with Colin and gave him my full attention. He romped and played. We were both pretty tired after. I'm a little jealous, I had to go back to work and Colin gets to sleep for another week.

Chicago: The Sights

Chicago. City of Big Shoulders. City That Only Takes a Nap every once in a while.

We fled to Chicago just in time: the air conditioning in our house had been out for two days. It was out Monday and Tuesday while we were enjoying the luxury air conditioning at the hotel, as well.

Yeah, that isn't the Hilton this time. But it was close to the Hilton.

The Travelodge had some classy accoutrement with which the Hilton was not appointed:

While some things are universal:

We had a brief scare while we unpacked; I set my socks down on the bed, opened a drawer, turned back to get my socks and got a bug as well.

Of course, Gary felt it had been on the bed the whole time, but when we discovered it was dead we realized it had not been lowered on top my sock by the angels, so it must have traveled from Saint Louis with me. I assumed a 17-year cicada had laid eggs in my socks 17 years ago, but closer inspection showed it was a normal Saint Louis June bug. And, this is scary, I don't know what I did with it.

We started off each day in search of adventure, and found ourselves revisiting old haunts, such as the Field Museum:

... and the waterfront:

..where they do not allow diving:

...or anorexic people so weak they have to be in wheelchairs.

(This sign really had me at a loss. They fined the disabled if they went down on the dock? Harsh.)

There was a downpour as we waited for the show and I realized that Gary sounds just like a flock of seagulls when he's in a panic. He'd shriek "Oh my God! It's a tsunami! The power's going to go out! How will there be a concert with no power!?" while the seagulls screamed right along with him.

Of course, the concert was not rained out. Man, we were early, but it gave us a chance to rest.

My feet were killing me. Those poor toes. Ow. What could I do to make my toes feel better?

(Does that sound right? Seriously, three-fourths of the traffic on this site is from toe searches. And yes, that is a French Pedicure on those toes, because I love my fans. I just want to give back.)

Strangely, the second day my feet hurt after only a few minutes outside. Come to find out Crocs, while comfy, can pick up nails and thorns.

There were two stealth thorns that had secreted themselves snugly into the heel and pointed halfway through the sole directly up at my foot. I only noticed them WHEN I STOOD ON MY FEET.

After a little pizza:

...and a visit to the aquarium we were on our way.

Really, next time I'm in Chicago I will get off Michigan Avenue and see some sites other than the museums. 

Tomorrow? We get all new air conditioning, humidifier, thermostat and furnace in the house, one year before we planned to do it, but ah well.

Chicago: The Concert

I love mistakes. I love awards shows, I love live TV, and I love outtakes. I also loved the BNL concert Monday night, though it was rife with mistakes. Rife. Delightfully rife.

God made the first mistake. It rained, but we did not care.

A few days earlier BNL had taped a special for PBS (set your TiVos for .... late 2007 or early 2008). I am hoping they expended all their perfection for that show, because this show was like a big sigh of relief, followed by maniacal laughter. It reminded me a little of high school theater, when we'd celebrate the last show of a run by trying to crack each other up.

It started off fine, but a few songs in (Too Little Too Late, I believe), Steve has a spot in which he vaults past the microphone and grabs it off the stand while airborne. Missed the mic. Found himself on terra firma, sans mic, and many more words to sing. He ran back to the microphone stand and owned up (to wit: "Oops..."), because you can't improv your way through that.

Evidently this song had some cursed choreography: Ed almost fell off the stage and Steve almost kicked Ed in the head. I know this because they owned up to it.

The next song we got to see Jim...

... do some Charlie's Angels choreography with Ed:

They played several of my favorite songs, such as Get In Line (aka The Neuropsychiatrist Song) and Grade Nine. Things went seamlessly, until Some Fantastic. In this song, there is a droll solo by the keyboard guy, Kevin:

...and this time, Steven heard it and was completely overwhelmed by giggles, so much so that he was unable to choke out anything but "I kill me!" and the last line of the verse.

He spent much of the next few songs trying to get Kevin to laugh. We'd see him direct his face into Kevin's line of vision, and Kevin would get a look of panic and look away in fear.  It was reported from the front rows that Steve had placed a guitar pick on his tongue and would intermittently stick his tongue out at Kevin.

As they were all gathered around one microphone they started to play For You:

Of course I would never have known if it was in the wrong key, but after one note they owned up to it. Steven sang: "That was wrong / That was bad / You should try again" and Ed responded with a similar musical improv along the lines of, "Yeah that sucked / It will be okay."

Look at that sweet smile below. That is love.

There were of course ad-libs (which can never be a mistake). Ed found a pick from another band on stage, and within minutes an imaginary band feud was born. Poor Bravery band. They left a pick on the ground, that's all they did. That made them fair game:

Ed: "Let's hear it for the opening act, the Hundreds and Thousands!"
Crowd: (Roars)
Ed: "Let's hear it for The Bravery!"
Crowd: (Roars)
Steven: "You SLUTS!"

We got a fairly good photo of Ed's description of piloting his small plane into Chicago:

... so detailed a photo you can almost hear the sound effect Ed's making.

So, technically, there were some flaws, but on the whole, in this world I'd pay just to see five guys who actually like each other.

In Which I Welcome the Swedes to the Midwest

At O'Hare last night, I was waiting for Gary outside the men's room. Am airline attendant wheeled up two Swedish people and let the man get up to go to the bathroom. I am assuming they were Swedish, the conversation between the two of them sounded vaguely Swedish.

"I go too," said the woman to the attendant, got out, and headed directly for the men's room where her husband had just gone.

"NO! NO no!" the attendant cried as he tried to reroute her. She was standing next to me at that point, so I explained, "It's the men's room."

She looked at me blankly. Then she inched toward the men's room again.

I continued, "You are a woman." She looked confused. So I clarified woman. "You are a woman," I explained as I cupped my breast.

"Huh?" she said.

"This is the men's room," I continued, making the International Hand Gesture for Man, which Gary explained later is actually the International Hand Gesture for Masturbation.

"Is this line?" she asked, which in retrospect might have been a pretty funny joke. Perhaps they have Hand Job stations in Swedish airports.

"No, my husband is in there. Here's your room," I said, leading her to the women's room.

Before the slipped into the room, she said, "I am so sorry. I was under the misconception you were in line to use the ladies washroom. I do apologize." Well, no, that's an exaggeration, but she did convey that idea with clear enough English that she certainly understood "man" and "woman" without the explanatory hand gestures.

Perhaps now she thinks it is appropriate to grab one's breast in Chicago every time one says "Woman." That would be nice.

Our Most Recent Fight

Conflict:
Between the hours of seven and nine Friday, Gary said several thousand critical things. He was cranky because the AC is out, so we went shopping at the nearest mall with AC.

We were in Hot Topic looking for a backpack for him. He wanted one that matched his frayed Army surplus one from 25 years ago. And, of course, where else would you look but Hot Topic? Did you answer "anywhere on the face of God's earth?" Why, you are correct. Still, to honor the hard metal venue, I made the rock horns:

"Don't do that!" he groused. I upped the ante and waggled my tongue thorough the horns at him.

"Ellen! Stop that" He pulled me aside and whispered "That's the sign for oral sex!"

"No," I said, puzzled, "I'm pretty sure this is the sign for oral sex," and waggled my tongue through a peace sign. Then I giggled. I'm pretty sure that's why an hour later he lectured me for five minutes on the way I licked lemon juice off my fingers at the restaurant. Evidently, that is "distasteful" and "Not very refined." That was the last straw.

Resolution:
He knew he'd said something wrong, and I told him if I was still mad the next day we'd work through it. After boring Catherine the Red (and her sister Cindy the Amber) with the details of how Gary wants me to act his age (53) not my age (45) , I figured I was still pissed off and we'd have to have a little rational conversation. The result of the rational conversation?

• If he becomes intolerably stuffy again I'm to call him "Reverend Gary."
• He bought me a number of blouses for penance. Still, none show boobage. (Oh, did I just say 'boobage?' How unrefined. Decolletage.)
• He bought me Capri cut jeans. I explained I have fat ankles and only girls with cute ankles like Capris.
• He looked up ankle liposuction on the Internet, because he's just so helpful that way.

So if you see a stocky middle-aged woman hoofing around in Capri-jeans and a high-collared shirt with short grade-school puffy sleeves making the International Sign for Heavy Metal Oral Sex, that's me.

Spoiling the Mood

It really kind of spoils the climax of The DaVinci Code when your husband yells at Tom Hanks, "She has viable eggs! Impregnate her!"

In Which the In-Laws Review Seventies TV

At one point Gary was able to force his eighty-year old parents to bend to his will and bought them a DVD player. Every holiday since then they have been given DVDs. For a time, Gary tried to get them movies. Then we would be forced to hear the S_____ movie reviews. For example, they thought A Christmas Story was (wait for it) boring! I don't know what else they said because Gary and I were running in circles screaming and clutching our heads. Perhaps they expected it to be the Story of Christmas, Tennessee Ernie Ford's "crowning achievement."

Our next movie attempt was That Darn Cat, ultimately rejected. They got as far as the scene in which some disrespectful child wipes his hands on the curtain, and Wilma was out.

Finally, we hit pay dirt with The Long Long Trailer, which led to the revelation that the S_______s have never seen I Love Lucy. (Or as my little Peruvian neuropsychiatrist likes to say, "Who is Loo-cy?") This would make more sense if you had ever seen Wilma enter a room in which the TV is on.  She snaps that TV off like a fresh green bean. TVs "make her nervous."

So we bought them some I Love Lucy DVDs because you know, they almost never air that show that on television. They loved them so much we got other "rare" "cult" titles like The Dick Van Dyke Show, Mayberry RFD, and Gomer Pyle. They loved them all. Then we branched into the color era: The Mary Tyler Moore Show, That Girl. I think Wilma especially liked this "unhappy career woman" genre. She was crushed to hear they haven't made a DVD of Rhoda.

Some series were deemed unacceptable. The Munsters? Too scary. Didn't see the humor in it, evidently. They didn't like Green Acres, either, because "pigs can't talk." This, I grant you, is true. Since they like cinema verite, I am happy we never bought Bewitched. Which, in addition to the terrifying premise, features one of Satan's minions.

This is why I hold out little hope for the Father's Day gift: Season One of The Addams Family.

In Which Gary is an Action Hero

Last night as I was trying to sleep Gary grimly announced from the bathroom, "Ellen. Come into the bathroom. Now."

I came in, ready to take my tongue lashing about how I put the toilet paper on the roll backwards. Instead, I was a silent audience to this:

"Look! It's a bug. Look at it. Look at it! Its a silverfish. Don't you think its a silverfish? It's big for a silverfish. Silverfish are very, very fast." Gary grabbed a wad of toilet paper and protectively held me back from the path of the bug. "Stand back! Stand back! I need to be very fast. I don't want him to see me coming." (Loudly) "Don't make any noise." (Lunges.) "Aaaack! Is it dead? Is it dead? Yes! See! First try!" He began to flush the alleged silverfish when: "Ack! Ackk! There's another one! This one's a spider! Oh, he's a fat one." (Lunges) "Die Die! It's dead - aaaacCCCKKKKK No it isn't! Drown it! Drown it! Drown already! It's just skating around on top of the water! Acck!" Gary flushed the toilet, with a few extra flushes to be sure. "Wow! How about that! I killed two bugs."

I just went back to bed at that point. All I can guess is that he's watched all those action movies when the hero has to talk at length to the villain before he kills him.  When I kill bugs, it's more like this:

Catholic Marriage Discussion Guide

Our Question Today: How Accurate is the Catholic Marriage Discussion Guide at predicting marital discord 22 years later?

If you married a Catholic, you may have been administered this test by the Church.  You were asked a series of questions. Then your answers were evaluated to see if you agreed with each other, and more importantly if you agreed with the Church. If the two of you matched, but disagreed with the Church, you got a 66% or an F. The test was graded by category, and a failing score meant you needed to have a sit-down with the priest and be re-educated.

We flunked with a 67% overall. Here are our scores and a few sample questions from each category.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We tanked on Religion and Philosophy: 43 %

Q. I worry that my relationship with God and my Church is not all it should be.
A. Gary=Agree / Me=Agree / God=Disagree
Are we supposed to be complacent? This was a trick question!

Q. We agree on the church whose teachings and moral values will guide us in raising our children.
A. Gary=Agree / Me=Undecided / God=Agree
Gary asked later, "Ellen, don't you know enough to lie on that question?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, that question tripped me up, but not as much as the section on Children: 53%

I was able to lie for about six questions. Then Satan failed me and every answer was "Unsure."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We gained back some points with Personal Adjustment: 79%

Q. My future husband/wife has certain mannerisms which annoy me.
A. Gary=Disagree / Me=Agree / God=Disagree
Seriously, the Church expects me not to be annoyed by the way he chews six sticks of gum at a time and sounds like a cow? Really? It's so gross, God.

Q. My future husband/wife frequently seems to be depressed.
A. Gary=Disagree / Me=Disagree / God=Disagree
HaHAHAHAhhahaha! Just wait a few years, people.

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Clearly the test failed us in not warning us about In-Laws: 71%

Q: There is no interference from family members about our choice of housing and/or furnishings.
A: Gary=Agree / Me=Agree / God=Agree
Oh, we are all so happy in our agreement. This is before the de riguer blue goose in the kitchen and the Mary Englebreit switchplates and the immortal unbreakable cement fire hydrant that is still out in our backyard.

Q: I am uncomfortable when I am around some of my future in-laws.
A: Gary=Disagree / Me=Agree / God=Disagree
Well, I can lie about children, but I don't think God would have let me leave the room alive if I'd said "Disagree."

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Sexuality: 82% - yeah, baby. Our best score. We only got one wrong:

Q: For me sex and love are definitely separate things.
A: Gary=Agree / Me=Disagree / God=Disagree
I think Gary's response in the discussion with the priest that ensued was "Uh...love is a feeling, and sex is an act..you do ... to show that feeling? Is that right?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At no point in the process did they ask questions like:

Q: I will be okay if my future husband/wife decides to work 18 hour days.

Q: We have agreed how to budget our time.

Q: We think dogs are just like people, really, and if they poop a baby wipe should be applied to their bottoms.

Enh. Big Freaking Deal.

Gary asks this morning, "So, do we have any plans for the big day?"
"Big Day? What big day?"
Gary waits expectantly. Then, "The big day tomorrow."
I look at him blankly. "Tomorrow is June ... mid-June ... Juneteenth? Flag D--" Big gasp. "Oh, no,  our anniversary! Hon, I completely forgot."
"Yeah, my mom called to remind me or else I would have forgotten too. It isn't our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary though, is it?"
I did some quick panicky math. "Neh, just twenty-two."

Still, this explains why there is a big gap between years 20 and 25 on the traditional anniversary presents chart.

Four Down

Some time ago (okay, half a year ago) I listed the Top Ten Movies I have Never Seen. In a mere six months, as of tonight, I have knocked off four movies.

Tonight I watched Chinatown. SPOILER! HUGE SPOILER BELOW!

Breaking Terrorist News!

Here's Ali al-Marri, suspected terrorist. The Bush administration cannot use new anti-terrorism laws to keep him locked up indefinitely without charging him.

Look at this man.

How long was he locked up? He has a mullet!

In Which I Take Another Unpopular Stand

I liked the ending to the Sopranos.

It has been mob weekend with mia famiglia. I rented the Godfather Parts One and Two. Part One had a satisfying ending, and of course Part Two ends with Michael's family relationships destroyed. After I saw Pt 1 and half of Pt 2, I was thinking what might end the mob.

SPOILER! READ NO MORE!

In Which I Take An Unpopular Stand

I feel sorry for Paris Hilton.

Not because she went to jail, because she did break the law. But because they put her in jail, then sprung her from jail. Then they said she could teleconference in, then they came and got her into a police car. Then they said she had to go back. Ha! Screwed you!

Seriously, if the courts jerked me around like that I'd be in tears too.

In Which Two Old Movies Touch Our Lives

Part The First: Wizard of Oz
So. I saw a Munchkin today.

I was at lunch in Westport with Friends #2, #3, #4, Mr. #4., and #3s baby niece. Suddenly Friend #3 (Marcia 'Wanzenknicker') leaned in and said “Isn’t that one of the Munchkins?” I looked at a short man at a nearby table. I said “No, he’s not a Munchkin, all the Munchkins are dead.” (Boom. Just like that. Death to Munchkins. Dead, all of them.)

“No, that’s him,” she said excitedly, “He lives in Saint Louis.”

I began to reprove, “First of all, nice people say ‘Little People’,” when I followed her gaze away from the short man and saw a Celebrity Munchkin. He was giving autographs on movie stills he pulled out of his little briefcase. His briefcase, which was labeled “Mickey Carroll! Munchkin!”

Marcia went and got his signature on a still photo and brought it back. I tried to figure out what was wrong with the photo. Finally, three hours later it struck me: it’s a black and white photo. Munchkins are Technicolor, never black and white.

In case you too thought the Munchkins had all passed and were not doing soft-shoe routines in Westport Plaza, a number of them are still quite alive. Our Munchkin was not only alive, evidently in the past he wrote speeches for FDR. If I had known that, I would have gone over and gotten his autograph too. Not to mention that his Godfather literally was Al Capone.

Which brings us to...

Part The Second:The Godfather
Thursday before last, The Godfather was on Bravo. The TiVo willfully ignored it, despite having been told to grab The Godfather 1 or 2 the next time they were on. I had a dim (and of course entirely incorrect) recollection that it starts with a wedding and ends when Marlon Brando dies. I checked and saw I had many, many hours of the Godfather to go. I pushed the record button and went to sleep.

I didn’t get to watch any of it during the next week, due to my hectic napping schedule, until I was flipping through channels and saw The Godfather was on again. Only this time it began at four and ran through the end of time. I’d only missed 45 minutes, so I jumped in. So I watched for a long time as Don Vito Corleone got his start as a Mafioso. He shot some guy in a white suit, he got some widow her apartment back, ice caps melted and froze again, there were commercials. Eventually, Marlon Brando showed up and mumbled his way into the wedding scene. I assumed they added the Italian flashback scenes to make up for having to cut every single curse word. (“I don’t wan’ my bruddah comin’ oudda da john wid his stick in his hand.”)

So, Don Vito dies, Michael takes over, animals evolve into new species. After four hours I gave up and played my guitar. Later that night, I turned the TV on and Michael Corleone was talking to the Senate ... in Godfather 2! A seminal movie I have not seen. Dang it!

It appears Bravo has decided to take Godfather 2, snip it up, and drop Godfather 1 into the middle of it. Perhaps dollops of Godfather 3 are mixed up into it somehow as well. I’m thoroughly confused. I’m going to have to rent the DVD and get it all straight in my head again.

In Which Gary's Heart is Again Broken

I hear Gary yelling from the other room, "I CAN'T LISTEN TO THIS IDIOT ANYMORE!"

He announces, "That IDIOT Chris Matthews is interviewing Ben Affleck. Ben Affleck! What does he know! He's just a pretty-boy actor!"

Gary is jealous.

In Which the Queen Mother Teaches Me About My Heritage

Previously: I refer in the last post to my German Grandmother, Granceil DeWolfe.

My Mom slaps me down in the comments:
"Your grandmother is French. Gary's people are German. Remember she sang the French national anthem to you? Would a Kraut know it? "

I respond:
"Dear Queen Mother -
Are you on crack? Are you a crack mom? Because was her name not DeWolfe? It was not LeWolfe."

Caroline decides to step between me and my Mom:
"De = of in French. So she is "of the Wolves."

Yeah. We are wolf people. Mom and I ignore Caroline, and when I picked Mom up for her eye doctor appointment today, it was ON.

Mom sighed in her pointed Mom Way and said, almost immediately, "French. French Huguenots. Landed Gentry. Learn your facts."

"No, Mom, seriously, I know they were German. That was the family story, how they got their name, some ancestor saved some nobleman from a wolf and --"

(Im sorry if I'm a little incoherent. I;'m tyiping as fast as I can because I bet right now Mom is putting her version of this onto her blog.)

"No," Mom bridled, "Le Loup. Le Loup. French."

"What's with this 'Loop' stuff? DeWolfe! German!"

"French! You question me? You dare to question me?" She rose up and I cringed under her five-foot-two frame.  "It's in the Harding book. We will discuss it when we get back from the ophthalmologist."

I further enraged her during the visit to the eye doctor by referring to my Granceil's fur coat as "Beaver fu-"
"Seal! Seal fur!" she cried, exasperated.

Well, we got back from the eye doctor with a cataract diagnosis and skipped that trivial news by getting right into the German/French debate. "Get the book!"

The book is Florence Harding, a nice thick biography of the "scandalous" former first lady, which is of special interest to our family because a good part of Flo's early years were devoted to her first marriage to impregnation by "Petey" DeWolfe (Granceil's half-uncle) and his snobbish father Simon, who I suppose is my great-great grandfather. I skimmed the index entries and found a spot that said Florence WAS from FRENCH HUGUENOT  descent.

"There you have it! It was Florence, not the De Wolfes, who was French -"

Mom's eyes blazed. Really, she's just like Godzilla with the tiny arms and the blazing death ray eyes.

"Do you WANT me to FIND it? Do you want YOUR Mother with her DILATED CATARACT-RIDDEN eyes to PORE over this book and find the passage that SAYS Simon was French? Because I WILL DO IT."

"Well maybe Simon was French Huguenot too. Maybe that's what he and Florence had in common," I snickered.

Well, in case you couldn't see it coming, page 23 states quite clearly that Simon  was from "a distinguished Huguenot family." so...

"Still, Mom, how could he be French with a German name? She wasn't Granceil Le Loup."

She directed me to the family genealogy, which I started quoting gleefully. "A great favorite of the Emperor of GERMANY!", extreme emphasis on "GERMANY!" to the point of bellowing it. I read backwards until I got to 1427. FOURTEEN TWENTY-SEVEN, when one of the Damn De La Loups followed Princess Matilda to the German court after her marriage and he Germanized his name. Bastard. Traitor bastard. Traitor bastard causing friction almost 600 years later. If he had kept his name I would have known we were French.

I need to stop being stubborn and rational and get more emotional, obviously, now that I am French. (And given that the above geneology came from "Israel De Wolfe," I need to investigate the possibility that we were actually the DeWolfe-Cohens at one point.) And, as a Huguenot, I need to re-think this marriage to the Catholic Persecutor.

In Which we Live the Life of Our Mom

When I was young, but still old enough to attend to myself in the hours after school but before my parents came home, Mom would come home and ask:

"What did you do this afternoon?"
"Nothing."
"You must have done something."
"I watched TV."
"Oh." (pause) "I mean, what productive thing did you do today?"

She got it from her German Mom, she says, and now that she's retired and not well, she has to spend a good deal of time not producing.

I thought of Mom Saturday when I slept till noon, got up, surfed the 'net, took a nap, watched TV, read my book, painted my toenails, and watched Some Like It Hot from beginning to end. (Which, funny movie, no? You think you've seen it? No. You haven't seen it beginning to end in one block. You've seen bits of it between shows and on the Academy Awards. It kills.)

I had a completely unproductive day.

I ignored my list of Stuff To Do.

I wasn't sure how to feel about it.

So today I took another day off. I took off because Gary, in an unprecedented move, got so sick he couldn't go in to work. Usually he is at least healthy enough to whine "I neeeeed asssspirin. Where's my sooooda? Ellen, I left my glasses in the other room, and now I'm in beeeeed..."  So I schlep and carry and get verbally abused because there is an unwritten S______ law that if you are sick you get to be as big an ass as you can. (Oh. OH. And I go to Walgreen's to get bendy straws. NOT the regular straws. BENDY straws. I'll never forget that episode.)

Anyway, oddly, he slept all day and all I did was to transfer his laundry from the washer to the dryer. And slept. I'd wake up, he was asleep. So I slept, and maybe surfed a little, and thought, I can wear my blue pants tomorrow, those are clean. Why iron? And I think I like this unproductive life.

Mom called toward the end of the Wasted Day of Unproductivity. I thought it was because her Mom Senses could tell I was wasting my time, but after I hung up and turned on the TV I realized the Republican National Debate WAS ON AND SHE WAS CALLING TO CHECK IF I WAS DRUNK. Hah! Well, played, Queen Mother, well played.

Guest Post of the Week #2: Muhammad's Cool Blog

Hi. I've been reading Jesus' blog religiously (ha!) and I thought it would be good if Muhammad got to have a blog too.

Hi! I'm Muhammad, nice to meet you. I'm thinking of starting a blog, like Jesus, but only with more sex. (I was married here on earth. LOTS.) Jesus is a great guy, and it was hard taking over the reins of being God's prophet here on earth from him. Big sandals to fill, that dude.

Anyway, I think I just need to get the word out that those terrorist guys need to get out of the sun. You know how when you say a word too many times it loses all meaning and just sounds funny? I think they've been chanting too much and forgot what the chanting means. Try it. Say "Allah akbar " about three hundred times. See?

So, anyway, I've been on vacation. Here are some vacation pics for you:

This is me in the desert:

Guess where we went!

It was packed!

Here's my new wife. She's the one on the left. Is she hot or what?

Okey-dokey, artichokey! Gotta pray. Later!

Love,

Muhammad

Guest Blogger Speaks Out (Marcia 'Cohen', friend of Moses)

Ellen says: several hours ago, I attended a viewing of the CNN Democratic Debate at Marcia's house. Some of you may remember Marcia as my Friend of The Jewish Persuasion. I asked her to contribute as a guest blogger. Enjoy her typos.

Democratic Debate: $74/month for cable

Vanilla Vodka: ??

Frangelica: ??

Sugar and Lemons: $5.32

Blodd Alchol content:  0.14

Arguing with debate drinking partner about blood acholllc content: Pricelss

We decided to drink for every mention of of Gorge Bush, but we were drinking constantly.  Then we decided to put the title of President George Bush, but that was too easy.  THen we decided to drink evey time they said, "I agree..." or implied agreement with fellow debated.  Gravel would not qulify for that.

For the record, Henry Ford is not running for president.  And in fact, is dead.

Ellen tells me, Guest Poster, I'm going to regret this.  But I don't live my life with regrets.  At least, I don't drunk.

The Democrats are still talking.  We agree with most of them.  Joe Biden is really pissed about Darfur, and so am I. 

Dennis Kucinish has a snwoball's chance in hell.  He doesn't want to bomb Osama.

Ellen spots Glen CLose in the audience. And it is not Glenn Close.

BTW, my Blood alcohol content is.... 0.18

I'm blogging because Ellne refused to blog drunk.  In fact, she's just pinged "HOT" on the breathabylzer.  That's never been done before, and sadly, she can't do a full breath without laughting.

What a sot.  I think an intervertion is called for, GARY.

Just for the record, I told her to eat something, but she said she's lost 5 pounds on this gulag diet of hers and I'm full of shit.

Wokayl.

Then she has the gall to spill amaretto on my table and snort as she laughs her way to the bathroom.

Pardon me, I have to drink now. They said Presidnet Bush.

Ellen is incapable of peeing when she's drunk.  Too bad.

Dennis Kucinsih as beig fuckin ears.

BAC: 0.19 for Ellen

BAC:  0.25 for Guest poster/drinker

Oh, it's over...

Apparently, Ellne wants to be done by Anderson Cooper.  But I think he's doing Carson from Queer Eye for the Straight Guiy.  But I could be wrong.

We're very sorry we din't invite Libby (Hot Mom) or Caroline (Fun Mom) or Stacey (Mormon Mom).  Although Diet Coke is as wild as Stacey gets.

See Ellne Drink

Drink, Elln, drink.

Oh, now it water and apirin time.  Well, every debate party need s a pooper.

When's the next debate?

Ellen hates the Chinese at China King cuz they won't deliver.  And is now htreatening my sofa with her urine.

Pizza (muther fuckers) Hut should deliver garlic bread that is not shaped like penises.  Believe it or not (I wouldn't), Ellen is stone cold sober.  Yeah, okayl.  She wants decent garlec berad from piiza uht.

God, look out for Elizabeth Edwards.

Ellen wants Jesus to know that she loves him, and is very pleased that he loves her.

We're going to look for chines foo dnow.

When commentling, please be sure to use improper adverbs like "writerly".

Ellen gave herself a pedicure and is stone ocold sober.  In her dreams. *snort*

UPDATE (Quoting the Queen, still drunk on Marcia Weinstein's sofa):

"Gary has called and his car has broken down, and I'm so happy I have a breathalyzer.  Too bad for Gary that I'm still at 0.11.  I have 3 more points to go to drive legally in Missouri. I suppose I should also mention, it is raining and the dog has diarrhea, and Gary can't eat because he has a physical in less than 12 hours and he has to wait for me to sober up, then I have to show up with the mini-cooper to unload his parents' printer.  And to top the evening off, the barrista told him Starbuck's no longer will be serving raspberry mochas, much less 2% raspberry mochas, light foam, no whip. So he is crushed, and somewhat fucked.  Sure picked a bad week to give up drinking raspberry mochas."

UPDATE #2:

"Zis is the second documented time, and possibly the 3rd time overall, I've been legally drunk.  And Gary picks this time to be in an undrivable car, with a diarrhetic dog and no food, in the rain.

I am SOOOOO sorry, Gary.

I will go home tonight and be issued a new set of rules.  I've consumed 900 calories today. Marcia Liebowitz is a bad influence."

Jesus Loves Me, This I - Oh, wait, no he doesn't - UPDATE: wait, yes he does

I left a comment on Our Lord's Cool Blog on Thursday.

And now it's gone. Jesus deleted my comment.

I think he might have followed me back to this blog and saw that I am an International Toe Porn Star.

So, Jesus doesn't listen to the prayers of International Toe Porn Stars. Sigh. Well, it is the path I have chosen to follow.

UPDATE:

Wednesday, Thursday - what's the difference?  I left my comments on Wednesday! Whoo! They're still there.

"That's why she's the queen." - Jesus H. Christ.

Health Update

As of today I have started with a new insurance company. This means my drugs will now be $150 a month instead of $400. Gary can go back to tipping five dollars for a seven dollar plate of food.

As my parting shot to the evil former insurance company, I went to the neurologist on Thursday. As usual, we had a nice chat (all about me). He dismissed my rationalization that my right hand wasn't less coordinated but that it just seemed that way because of my increased left hand coordination due to my mad guitar chord skills. On the other hand, he dismissed the chorus of co-workers who told me that very day that I had been limping. He saw no limp, just the typical awkward pelvic-thrusty rolling gait I've had since jr. high.

However, since I'd had the Elmer Fudd lesion, he decided to check to see if my medicine was still effective. Evidently the body will build up antibodies to any foreign substance you put in your bloodstream, including a natural one like interferon. With my old drug, Avonex, this didn't affect the effectiveness of the drug, but the Betaseron gets all snippy if your body starts attacking it.

So I trundled down to the lab, where I waited patiently for the registrar to find the code for the Interferon Neutralizing Antibody test. She had to get on the phone with support and I suddenly heard her say in a hushed tone:

"Oooooo... It's a red cap test then. I seeeee." Then she looked at me with awe.
I swelled with pride. I had no idea why.
She hung and and to reward me for my patience told me my blood would be drawn into a test tube with a red cap. The red cap test tubes were sent to Mayo, so it might be a little -
"Mayo!" I squealed, " Like as in THE Mayo clinic?"

Evidently so. It seems my little red-capped test tube will be analyzed at the same spot Bono's blood was analyzed. How cool is that?

I hope they charge that insurance company out the ass.