Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Dress-up

My nephew's wedding is fast approaching. This is Arhan-fay's wedding: he's the son of Gary's Muslim-convert sister Sandy. Sandy has her own sect of Islam which prohibits anything Sandy doesn't like and allows Crab Rangoon and Special Fried Rice, her favorite non-Halal (read 'kosher') foods. This is to say Sandy plays fast and loose with the rules, unless it suits her to be the current incarnation of the Prophet himself. This liberal reading of the Qur'an is what allowed her to give me a shot glass for my birthday.

"Woohoo!" I said via long distance, "Shot Glass! Party on! I will toast you!"
"Oh, stop," she scoffed, "It isn't that kind of shot glass. It isn't for drinking."
"Yes. Yes I believe it is."
"No, it's a Kansas City souvenir shot glass. You put it on your shelf." You know. Like a souvenir condom. Allah winks at souvenirs. Thus is it rationalized, thus shall it be so.

Okay, so the wedding is in Kansas City and it will be a Kashmiri wedding, since the bride's family is from the Kashmir province. (You've heard of it: picture Wolf Blitzer saying "the disputed Kashmir province.") It's between India and Pakistan, so they wedding will be part Indian customs (Henna painting) and part Pakistani customs (harboring terrorists).

Karen, Gary's other sister, is in a state about what to wear. She is a conformist, and now we have to go to a wedding where we'll stand out like a handful of sore thumbs. She made a nice choice of a sparkly gray tunic and matching pants, but the problem is it isn't colorful enough. She knows these weddings are colorful.

I suggested a colorful headscarf.

"Oh, I'm not wearing one of those. Sandy said we didn't have to."

This sealed my determination to wear a headscarf, because a) Karen would hate it and b) all Sandy Sect Rules are automatically in question and  c) I don't want men lusting after my hair.  Well, and maybe I guess I want to fit in. Okay, it's because I look good in a scarf.

The groom is having his own clothing problems. It appears he is being asked to buy quite the pricey suit of Kashmiri clothing for the ceremony. Karen related this, and added:

"I told him flat out, here's what you do, you find a costume shop -"
"Karen. Karen. You didn't."
"Well! They have everything in those places! Men rent tuxedos, don't they? He should be able to rent his wedding costume."

All I know is we'll all be walking on thin ice at this wedding. My cleavage is going to be non-existent, my hair will be covered, and I'm not shaking any men's hands. Of course, as soon as Sandy wheels out the very non-Kashmiri five-tier wedding cake ("I don't care about halal! I want a cake!") they'll all start dancing and doing body shots from souvenir shot glasses.

Charming (Warning: High Girly Quotient)

Saturday, my sister-in-law asked, "What's Gary getting you for your birthday?"
"Guess," I said.
"Give me a hint."
"It's Gary."
"Oh! A computer."

And she was right. Ignore for the moment that we have six computers already, one for me and five (count 'em) five for him. I did not ask for a computer; I asked for a wireless network card. This was so I could take his laptop into the great room and surf and blog without leaving his presence. (It was the Stupid Love Languages book. His Love Language is Quality Wasted Time.) Somehow he jacked that up into a new laptop for admittedly, "us."

I lost the gift battle long ago. I've never liked expensive gifts.  Sadly, Gary lives to buy expensive gifts, and he initially gave me jewelry. I was non-plussed. "Oh. What a nice mass-produced gold necklace."

We reached a compromise, eventually. I said, "Buy me a charm bracelet, then you can add a charm every birthday to commemorate the past year." Genius Compromise! Give and Take! Hope for the Marriage!

He got me a charm bracelet and my first charm: a dolphin.

"Why a dolphin?" I asked. I assumed since we hadn't seen any dolphins that year there would be some dolphin connection, like "Surprise! We're going to Sea World!" or some clever pun, like "You have given my life porpoise!" (which I would have only barely accepted).

"I thought the dolphins were cute! Don't you like them?"

So, I re-iterated that the charm really should have some relevance to the past year, not some relevance to being the most expensive charm he found in the shortest amount of time. (And I know I sound so ungrateful, but don't forget this was the year the in-laws gave me deodorant trash bags for Christmas. "They were cute! And on sale!")

Gary went back to the jewelry store and returned with a more thoughtful charm. I believe it was the Art Palette, fourth from the left below.

So here's my charm bracelet: a chronology of birthdays, Christmases, and anniversaries over the last 22 years. I don't think I could list them in chronological order, so here they are left to right. Click the image for immensification.

1. Flag. Christmas 2001, obviously.
2. Candy. Must have been '94, when we went to England and ate lots of toffee.
3. Teeny Tiny Carnival Destiny. This was the cruise we took and climbed the waterfall. Yeah. That's probably not going to happen again (the waterfall climb, that is).
4. Artist's Palette. This was the year I took up watercolors.
5. Fender Guitar. I think Gary held off a year before getting this one. I don't think he thought the guitar hobby would stick.
6. Eensy Weensy Teapot. Honoring the Yearly Tea. The lid opens! So cunning!
7. London Phone Booth. I was admiring the other side of this at work and discovered the teeny-tiny door opens! And there is a minuscule telephone inside! Eeeeeee!
8. London Bobby Hat. The trip to London extended over several years worth of charms.
9. Locket. This is the locket Gary bought for my 21st birthday. I had actually asked for ANYTHING but a locket. Guess what my maiden name was. Guess how many lockets I already had.
10. Mutt. This was the year we got our first dog, Fred.
11. Drama Mask. A friend started a theater company here in St. Louis and we saw a lot of plays that year.
12. Conga Drum. Technically, this should be two congas, a bongo set, and a five-piece drum kit that sat in the middle of the great room for 18 months. Also knownas "The year of Gary's mid-life crisis."
13. A Mouse. This would be ... hmmm .... 1987, the year of the great mouse infestation. 31 Mice entered the house, two mice left alive. Then one ran right back in and was promptly killed.
14. Tooth. Got my Wisdom Teeth out that year.
15. Elephants. Crazy. This was a tribute to our visit to Toronto and that insane Animal Park. Seriously, animals climbed all over your car, a bear scratched its back on the station wagon in front of us, it was lunacy.
16. Musical Notes. In which we memorialize the "Let's Put on a Show!" silent brain lesion that perked up my interest in music.

I'm guessing this year if there are any charms there'll be a Naked Lady in the box.

Bathroom Dogs and Bedroom Dogs

This post is interactive. This post is also mildly pornographic. Mildly. At the end, I will call for comments, and due to the intimate nature of this topic, I encourage you to leave the name, email, and url fields blank. Don't want to embarrass anyone or discourage strangers. Here goes:

The one cute trick we have taught our dog is how to warble. It began when we were singing the Garyoke along with "Back in Black," and the dog chimed in with howls. Hysterical! We sang nothing but "Back in Black" for a week. Then Mac was all, "Yeah, that joke is old. I'm not your trained monkey," and he stopped.

Still that taught us he has a singing voice, and we started to train him to use it. We'd come home, and if he welcomed us with a little warbling sound we'd try to imitate him. Now we can get him to howl almost on command, as long as we make warbling sounds, then he warbles, then he howls, then we howl. Fun.

So. This has become an issue now that we're letting the dog stay in the bedroom when we have sex.

Yes.

(For the one or two of you who actually are 14-year old boys who got here looking for "toe porn," I'll spell it our for you: We make noise, the dog makes noise. Like, the same noise. Well, he tries. Neither of us "announce," if you will, so Mac can actually try to warble along with us, or whoever happens to be warbling or howling at the moment. The. Moment.)

And, yes, it is distracting, but it doesn't bother me. It isn't as distracting as having the dog claw at the door or the bed or destroy whatever obstacle separates us by blasting it with the sound waves from his penetrating glass-breaking bark.

So, even though it's a little inappropriate to have the dog mock your lovemaking while he shares your bed, Gary claims it is even worse to have the dog share your bathroom when you are eliminating. Usually the dog will give us our space, but if there's a thunderstorm, he's all in there, and I let him join me because I generally can't take the time to hustle the dog out.  Gary feels strongly the bathroom is the Holy of Holies and no dogs Shalt Enter There. Also, no wives (fine by me), no Moms or Dads (some have felt observation is the best way to potty-train), and definitely no Chuck Berry (see here for details if you are confused by that ).

So, what are your views? Dogs allowed in bath but not in bed? Bed but not bath? Bed, bath and beyond?

Birthday Gift

Today we celebrated my birthday at the S______s. (Remember, before you grant any birthday wishes, the in-laws assume that if you are celebrating in the same season as the date of birth you are in the ballpark. My birthday isn't till well into August.)

I got the BEST gift!

Matching boy and girl Butter people! Check it OUT!

They Butter Corn! "We Butter Corn!" it screams on the box. "But How?" you cry.

First, you decapitate them, then you remove the rectal plug, then you violate them with butter. Allow me to demonstrate on Butter Boy. It's a little blurry, he must have been moving.

Then, you push the plug upward. Yes, just like Butter Deodorant!

Then, you butter corn with it. For some reason, there are two, in case you have a gender preference, or need to butter corn with both hands.

Or, alternatively, you can violate the Butter Person of the Opposite Sex, like this:

Or, like this:

So, usually I am gracious when I get in-law gifts. I was speechless. I couldn't think of a thing to say, except, "Why do you think I need butter deodorant?"

Karen: "It butters corn!"

Me: "Uh. Huh."

Wilma: "Well, if you don't like it, I'll take it! We have corn all the time! You can re-gift it at Christmas!"

Well, okay, then, maybe I will. As they say on eBay, they were only "Lightly Used."

E-Coli?

Gary has insisted we eat everything out of the fridge before we get serious about the Gulag Diet Part the Second. Therefore I've been cooking food that's been in the freezer since ... December.

I know there are rules about how long you can keep something in the freezer, but in my mind it's all in cryogenic suspended animation and it will freeze forever.

It was an interesting meal of meatballs, pasta, no sauce but for some butter and cheese, and cocktail wieners in barbecue sauce. Afterward, I became ill. (No!) Not just, "oh, it's Friday, time for my colon's weekly visit" sick. More like "there are immune system cells with industrial strength power washers sitting by my appendix and turning my lower intestine into a water slide" sick. Judging from the mad flushing from the hall bathroom, Gary was in the same position.

(And, Friends #3 and Caroline, before you start for the comment button, it wasn't the ice cream WE had for lunch. It wasn't. Gary was equally sick.)

I was so sick and so convinced I had given us a mild case of e-coli that I staggered out of the master bathroom and apologized to my husband through the hall bathroom door.

"Oh, it's not the food, this is just a touch of the stomach flu. Mom had it this week already," Gary moaned.

THIS from the man who has a special way of pointing into the fridge and shrieking "Rot-ted!" in the manner of "Bani-shed!" from Romeo and Juliet? THIS from the son of the woman who wraps food in Saran Wrap before she puts it in the Tupperware? THIS from the brother of the woman who invades her relatives houses and throws out spices because they are past the expiration date? (Suddenly, we have no spices. Oh, did Karen visit by recently? Can't turn your back on her.)

And here he has a prime opportunity to wag his finger and berate me for my lax housekeeping and he blames His MOTHER.

He must luurrrve me.

I Am Lindsay Lohan's Self-Appointed Editor

While I've been enjoying the news stories about drunken astronauts and the Cat O' Death, the story of Lindsay Lohan's recent arrest has really grabbed me. I love this e-mail she sent to Access Hollywood:

Sic.

At first, I let the punctuation slide because she used "They're" correctly. Then my eyes sizzled inside my head, and I returned to this email to try to make sense of it.

Line One:
"I am innocent ... did not do drugs they're not mine."
Lets look at this content-packed message and focus on the first of the two punctuation marks, the ellipsis.  On one hand, you may have seen the ellipsis used in scripts to suggest where the actor's voice should trail off, and you may have wanted to give your protestation a plaintive tone. Alternatively, you may be using the ellipsis to indicate some text was omitted. Perhaps you originally wrote "I am innocent [of being anything but a drug mule. Sure, I'm a coke head, but that night I] did not do drugs they're not mine [Delicious Jack the dealer would tear off my nose if I took some off the top of my delivery package]."

Line Two
"I was almost hit by my assistant Tarin's mom."
First, I am going to have to force some more punctuation on you. Without a period after "Tarin's mom" you suggest this assault is the reason you need your privacy. As opposed to, say, the drug bust. I would recommend you go to rehab, but rehab is probably all booked up with anti-Semites, predatory politicians, and manic-depressive pop stars. (Why isn't Britney in a mental health facility? Bitch is crazy, y'all.) Good job with the apostrophe, though.

Line Three
" I appreciate everyone giving me my privacy"
Given the tense, I can only imagine you are indeed thanking the Access Hollywood people for the privacy they have already afforded you. I imagine they phoned you and said, "Hey, we think you need some space. Let's give you a little time to chill. Later! Kisses!"

Then, I read this message sent by your younger sister Ali:
"My sisters is just like a normal sister. her and I have so much in common. My mother and sister are huge insperations to me, they have made it through so much in there lives."

That made you look pretty good, Lindsay. Then I felt guilty and a little snobby. I mean, my emails can be pretty loose. Then I realized you are actually using the time-honored haiku form:

"I am innocent
Did not do drugs they're not mine
I was almost hit

By my assistant
Tar'n's mom - I appreciate
ev'ryone giving

Me my privacy
Holla Access Hollywood!
Yours, Lindsay Lohan"

Spice Boy

Gary has a new nightly ritual.

He watches the "Victoria Beckham: Coming to America" special every night. We have it on the TiVo.

I think he wants to convince himself it really is a series.

I was influenced by this snarky review, summarized here:

It tests the American market’s seemingly insatiable demand for rich, idiotic It girls, from Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan to Britney Spears and Nicole Richie. Mrs. Beckham comes to the genre armed with an entourage of stylists, huge sunglasses and her own version of Ms. Hilton’s trademark expression, “That’s hot.” Posh deems posh things “major.” But she totters, in the requisite leopard-print high heels — through well-trod territory.

If she can retain viewers past the first commercial break, then the results will be conclusive: Either there is a vast, media-controlling conspiracy afoot, or there is no such thing as celebrity ditz-fatigue.

Yet, Gary loves it. "She's so cute!" He gushes. "Come on Ellen, you'd love her!" Why yes, if I were to give up my lesbian virginity, I am sure Posh Spice would be my pick to do the deflowering.

"Lookit! All she does is pout! It's hysterical!" 

Right. Major.

At least he's having crushes on women now.

Counting (an Update)

Counting Crows

Now that this Daughtry American Idol person is opening for Counting Crows in East Mordor,  there has been great demand for my tickets, so I have sent some nice young teacher to her death in my place.

Counting Pigs

They say that if you marry a woman, first look at her mother.

Gary should have looked at his father when he married me, because guess what my father-in-law Ken's favorite food is.

Snoots. You know it. Pickled snoots in sauerkraut. Wilma won't make it for him any more. My God, it would just kill her if I made him some snoots. Ken would praise my snoots, Wilma would attack, snoots would be flying everywhere.

Counting  Sheep

Since I have been expelled from the marriage bed I have had long, wonderful uninterrupted dreamfests. (My dreams have become quite complex and specific, after which one walks about the office the rest of the day wondering "Did Hot Mom and Friend #3 say they were planning a trip to Six Flags after work, or did I dream that?") I wake up at 5, refreshed. Then, sadly, I go back to sleep for another two hours and wake up exhausted.

Counting Yeti

This, from Defective Yeti, slayed me! It mocks presidential candidates, sure, but it especially mocks those idiots who comment on YouTube.

Enjoy: YouTube debate.

Counting Pounds

Hah! I've lost three pounds since stopping the Betaseron! Hahahaahahaha! HAH! (Consult with your physician before stopping Betaseron. Not a recommended weight-loss program.)

Can't Count on Jesus, that Bastard

Damn. Jesus is retiring. My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

New Crunchy Food Diet!

Gary went to the dentist this morning and emailed me this report, which I will copy here verbatim:

"By the way, I am off all soft foods and rubber tooth brushes.  My gums got really bad over the last 6 months.  Really bad.  I am all 4s again and 6 months ago, I was 2s and 3s.  The gum doctor told me that soft foods are bad, not just because they stick to the gums but because chewing crunchy foods sets up an environment in the mouth that is conducive to the growth of air-loving bacteria that eat plaque.  Apparently, crunching foods causes you to chew more with your mouth open which brings more oxygen into your mouth which is necessary for the good bugs to grow.  I don't think that I chew with my mouth open but I definately chew lettuce more then I chew cheese and the oxygen could be coming from my nose.  So I will be looking for crunchy snack foods now that are not horribly unhealthy.  Nuts are apparently not crunchy enough.  Dog biscuits would probably be perfect. "

Breaking News: Arch Eats Tourists

We started watching Saturday Night Live last night, and during the monologue Channel Five broke in with Breaking News: 200 people were trapped in the Gateway Arch.

The people at the top of the Arch, peeking out the observation windows, were having a blast. They got to stay up the long enough to see the fireworks after the Live at the Levee concert. Now, that would be a great place to watch the fireworks.

On the other hand, the hearts of Saint Louis break for the individuals trapped in the tram cars going up to or coming down from the top. The tram car experience puts the amusement-park ride element into the arch experience.

Here is the door to your ball-shaped tram:

Here is your womb tram:

Here are your and four of your friends jammed into your tram with your knees touching:

So this 2001 Space Odyssey tram has to go up vertically, okay, no problem. Then as it hits the top of the arch it has to tip at a 30 degree angle, right itself, tip, right, until it scooches its way up to the observation windows.

So some poor church camp kids from Ohio were probably in mid-tilt and then BAM the lights go out and the power winds down. Oh, and the AC goes off. Oh, and my guess is no one told them what was going on.

I'm not claustrophobic at all, and I'm not excitable (at least, not compared to my sister-in-law Karen) but I cannot believe everyone getting off those trams are just "relieved and happy." I would say "pissed and violent" is more likely. Or perhaps they just now have a more personal relationship with Jesus.

Mmmm Snoooots...Oh. Ew.

This morning, I left my bed and climbed into bed with Gary, naked. I cuddled up next to him and stroked his arm. I tiptoed my fingers up his chest and cooed...

"Snoots?"

This is because Thursday I was sitting at work and got an urgent phone call from Caroline. "Get a pen and paper. You want this phone number." The number was for a place selling barbecue and crispy snoots! Advertising! On the radio! In Illinois, okay, but not East Saint Louis Illinois (or East Mordor, as we say), instead it was in Edwardsville Illinois. A little college town. No murders there that I know of. So we drove the mere forty miles over the river and found Bulley's Smokehouse in a little strip mall.

I got snoots, pulled pork, applesauce, and "fried mashed potato balls," which means someone thought "potato croquettes" might not go well with barbecue.

Here's what it looked like when it came out (clockwise: applesauce, 'fried mashed potato balls,' garlic bread, pulled pork, snoots):

Here's what it looked like when I was done (snoots minus one bite):

Let me explain. These snoots were not the Snoots of My Youth, in form or substance.

Form - The Snoots of My Youth had nostrils. (See diagram below.) 

I asked our waitress why there was no nostril, because that was in my memory the best part. (Mmmm, tender tender nostril.)  She reported the cooks chased the waitresses around with the nostrils and then threw them away. (Yes, wasting food, Wilma would be appalled). I exclaimed, "But - that's the best part!" Gary added facetiously, "The tenderloin of the snoot. The snoot fillet , if you will." If I recall, it was the only part I liked to eat.

Substance - The Snoots of My Youth were not deep-fried. I know the cartilage of the snoot is what gives it the crunchy texture. But these snoots tasted like very strong pork rinds that have marinated in bacon fat, then been fished out, re-fried, and covered with sauce. The Snoots of My Youth had a tender texture that grew more chewy the further you got from the snoot tip. They were very well done, but certainly not crispy. The snoots I had twenty-seven years ago had a texture like burnt ends, or the tip of a brisket.

I'm not entirely against deep fried protein, but the taste was too strong and the texture was too oily. I only took a bite; Gary ate almost an entire snoot before he got tired of it. I also don't like Fun-Yuns and Pork Rinds after that one bite. Now, I might like a deep-fried turkey. Well, except for the wings, because really the people who eat wings are eating armpits, and that is just gross.

At any rate, the adventure allowed me to clarify that what I am looking for is Snoot Avec Nostril, well-done. And I must confess the croquettes were fabulous, and the applesauce? Did you know? Applesauce is actually made from little diced apples! The applesauce was just divine. It made me want to make some applesauce in my kitchen. Then, Gary said he might be able to eat dessert, and ordered one serving of "Drunken Bread Pudding," hold the ice cream, and we got this:

That's a dinner plate. That single serving was the size of a throw pillow. The new Harry Potter book. My upper arm. But it was excellent.

We took the spare snoots home for Manbitch, since he likes odd food. I still have a lead on the Snoots of my Youth, I just need to call Red's BBQ by UMSL and check and see if they keep the nostril and use the slow-roast preparation.

Mom Meets Manbitch

I was driving Queen Mom about this afternoon, having taken a half-vacation day, and who pulls up beside us and honks but Manbitch?

We rolled down our respective windows and after some pleasantries, I gestured to Mom and introduced her.

Mom leaned forward and yelled across to Manbitch:

"She is so mean to me!" (Pause for laughter) "She mistreats me!" (Pause for more laughter) "Tell everyone you know!"

And then we drove away.

In Which I Am Thrown Out of Bed

A few mornings past I woke up and Gary glared at me.

"Wha?" I drooled. "Whazit? WHA?"

"You can't do that again."

"What?"

"I didn't get any sleep last night! I need sleep!"

"How is that my fault?"

"You. Snore."

"You snore!"('You're a towel!') "And you say I always snore."

"Yes, but this wasn't the cute relaxing snore. This was some intermittent thing. I'd start to fall asleep and all of a sudden you'd make this huge GRONNNK and wake me up." He glared at me sternly. It was a hard look. It was a long, hard, penetrating look. Usually those looks excite me, but this one just pissed me off.

I snipped, "Explain to me precisely how I could satisfy you, then. Evidently it bothers you when I lie awake at night and stare at the ceiling, and now, evidently, my sleeping displeases you."

"Well, that's it. You just can't sleep in here anymore."

So I've been tossed out of the marriage bed. This is fine with me, because a) the guest bed is far more comfy and, b) all I have to do is hint to my mother-in-law that we have separate beds now and she'll read him the riot act. She has strong feelings on spending every night together, and she's been married fifty-some years.

I see this lasting about a week. Until then, I'll get some good sleep without his blackberry waking me up.

Raw Food

In some recent tabloid Gary read that Billy Bob Thornton attributes his weight loss to his Raw food diet. It seems Gary celebrated his Ellen-free week by eating a steady diet of Starbucks and minibar treats, and he gained back a few pounds lost on the Gary Gulag diet. So he's on the lookout for a new overly strict diet. A Raw Food diet sounded like just the ticket.

Easy, he explained in the Starbucks, it's all food that is raw.

"Like, raw steak?" I asked.

"No, you just don't eat steak. I guess you could eat steak, but it's mainly vegetarian."

"Sushi?"

"Sure! Well, without the rice. Whatever that's called. Sashimi?"

"Why can't we eat the rice?"

"It's not raw. You can only eat food that have been heated under 98 degrees or something. That's why we can't have cheese and milk, because the homogenization process heats up the milk."

"So...no Starbucks. At least no cappuccino, because the milk is steamed, too."

"No." (Sadness.) "Oh, wait, we could have soy Starbucks!"

"But coffee is roasted."

"Damn." (Sadness.) "Oh, wait, we can use a French press."

"With green coffee beans." (Does your Starbucks have the Life of a Coffee Bean display? I had no idea.)

"Okay, so we'd drink tea. And I think we can have chocolate. We do have that tub of raw cookie dough in the fridge. And bananas! I could live on nothing but bananas! And I think you can have peanut butter!"

"How? Aren't peanuts roasted?"

"Damn!" (Sadness.) "Oh, wait! That's because they're leguuuuuuumes." (He said it just like that, like he was drunk.) "So, we could have macadamia nuts! And macadamia nut butter!"

"What would we eat it on? We can't have crackers."

"Why no crackers? Oh, yeah, raw foooooooood."

"Can we have butter with the vegetables? Like sweet corn and butter?"

"It's cold corn. Raw fooooooooood."

"So, tree nuts for protein. No raw eggs, because I'm allergic.  Because there's no meat, except for Sashimi." And then we began to talk about the quake in Japan, and the radiation leak into the ocean, so that was it for sashimi.

Gary hasn't given up on the Raw Food diet. Instead, he has just made some modifications. First, if a food was never in a raw state, we can eat it, like Diet Rite White Grape Soda. There's no raw alternative to that. We don't have to wear each others blood around our necks like Billy Bob and Angelina. Now he's saying we just eat food that requires no preparation and in that respect, it is raw to us. Like we can't have frozen pizza, but we can have delivery.

Updated: iPod Technical Post (warning: rated D for Dull)

Ahhhh ... my iPod has been resurrected.

For a few months there, I neglected my iPod.  Last week I charged it up and I updated iTunes...to...7.3 something. After I did that and did a Restart of my PC, the iPod just sat numbly in the port, and it did not even bother to show up in iTunes. It showed up in MyComputer, just not iTunes.

Still, I inherited from my Dad a little of the belief that if you leave it alone it will heal itself. So since the iPod appeared to be all charged now, I took it to work and found that it would spend about 2 seconds on each song before moving on the the next. Reset did no good.

I have one of my five allowable installations of iTunes on my work PC, and I hadn't updated that one. It recognized my iPod and I did the last R: Restore. I pulled over all my work tunes, but since the home iTunes was still shunning my iPod I couldn't get my home music on there.

Well, yesterday Apple came up with yet another version of  iTunes, and after doing a hard boot of everything and plugging the iPod into a different port, I started iTunes again and it was there.

I pulled over all my home music (this time I was very careful to wait for the last batch to be pulled over before I started the next batch) and did a sort by playing time. I had a few songs that were truncated (and thus played too fast), but I deleted them and brought them in again.

So. I'm happy. As always, I have no idea what the magic step was that fixed it.

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

Updated to add: Oh, and then after I fixed the iPod I urinated on myself while having sex with the vibrator and Gary at the same time.

Not really, but this is the type of thing you seem to want to hear.

Orange Alert

Hot Mom alerts us she is at Threat Level Orange.

I overheard her discussing this with Friend #3. "Ah," Friend #3 said understandingly as I trailed behind them to the little junk food store in our plaza, "It's an orange week." Hot Mom nodded sadly.

"What's an orange week?" I demanded.

"It's the PMS week before Hot Mom's period. She only eats orange food and drinks orange drinks."

"Like what?" I asked. They listed: "Cheetos," "Goldfish," "'Cheez' flavored anything," "any cheese popcorn but Oke-Doke," "Cheetos" (again), actual cheese (with an 's'), and orange Gatorade.

I don't know what she eats when it escalates to Threat Level Red.

So Cute It Will Make You Puke

Look at this sweet face:

(And don't ask me what the story is with the green eyes. It happens even with the red-eye reduction on or off, which is ironic.)

He doesn't look sick, does he? No. He looks a healthy puppy. Granted, he looks bald for a silky terrier; they usually look like this:

Yeah, like we're going to maintain that coat. I barely brush my own hair.

He and I bonded pretty closely while Gary was out of town, especially since he refused to go for walks and held his water waiting for four days for Gary to get back. He's taken to pinning me down while lying across my breasts or belly (whichever is larger at that moment) and staring at Gary to ensure he doesn't leave.

That was the arrangement when our dog-human hybrid pack was all snuggled in bed, listening to Gary tell a story his Mom had told him today. It was about Arhan-fay and the assumptions his fiancee is making about family life. It was particularly tragic since it had been through the Sandy Exaggeration Lens, then through the Wilma Poetic Justice Lens, then through the Gary Comic Relief lens (in short, the fiance is acting like Sandy did twenty years ago). Gary gesticulated at the ceiling. Mac and I listened patiently. Mac listened patiently while until at one point he could take no more and vomited in Gary's face.

Mac doesn't vomit like we vomit. It might have something to do with the Silky Terrier Hair, I guess he knows no sister Silky will be there to hold back his hair. but he takes great pains that the puke doesn't land on his paws or face. As he barfs, he does this full-body shudder that strafes the vomit over a wide area.

And, it is sudden! There's no horking or burping beforehand. He's just sitting there calmly on your chest, looks up, ARRRURRPPP, vomit convulsion! licks his lips, then settles back down while everyone else screams and clears the bed. And, in this case, gets the camera.

Caution! Disturbing Image Warning! But funny! Funny like a guy covered in dog barf funny! Click, you know you want to!

And, yeah, that's dog barf on the pillows in the background.

Torn Between Two Lovers

Oh, sure, pandas are cute. But at the Shedd Aquarium I flirted with a new love: sea otters.

Exhibit A: Sea Otters Being so freaking CUTE one cannot stand it. Extra cuteness if you can stand the squealing until 20 seconds before the end.

Exhibit B: Pandas, cute, but really, we've seen this. And, it seems, these are the moms of the group of girls in the sea otter video.

Old cute vs new fresh cute. I see Sea Otters enjoying a rise in popularity.

A Public Service for Those in Saint Louis

I've been getting our emissions inspections for the cars during this week. Or, alternately, I've been "building up resentment against my husband for not taking care of this" during this week. The '95 Honda failed the gas tank cap test. Evidently, noxious fumes were leaking out the gas tank cap and threatening the environment. I was okay with getting a new gas cap.

However, Gary was not. Only moments after I picked him up at the airport and we had a sweet cooing reunion, he was bellowing "Scam! There is nothing wrong with that gas cap! It's the politicians!" He insisted we get this resolved together and drove to the AutoZone on Page that the inspector recommended.

I waited through the transaction with bated breath, waiting for Gary to accuse the AutoZone people of having a scratch-back deal with the emissions station. Instead, the AutoZone cashier looked at our new gas cap purchase and chirped:

"Oh, did you just go to the emissions station? You probably think we have some kind of deal with them. Everyone's been having to get new gas caps. Some lady in a brand new Honda had to get one and she was hot, and then we didn't have her model. Everybody keeps failing that test, though."

It was effectively disarming. When we got outside we closely compared the two caps and found the new one had a washer the old one didn't. Gary went to throw away the old cap and found the trash can outside the AutoZone was full of old gas caps.

So, as my community service: if you plan to get your car emissions inspected at the Dielman Industrial Park emissions station, check your gas tank cap and see if there's a washer on the inside. If there isn't, just give up and go buy a new one.

In Which We See a Movie With Friend #3

So,  went to see Sicko with Friend #3, also known as Marcia, Marcia, Marcia Cohen-Leibowitz-Rothschild-Guilerstein, my friend who is incidentally of the Jewish Persuasion.

I feel I need to mention Marcia is an Individual of the Jewish Persuasion, because after this story you might think she's African-American and escaped another type of ghetto entirely. This is because Marcia seems to believe in the African-American tradition of Talking Back to The Movie Screen.

I think Talking Back to The Movie Screen started in the eighties, or else perhaps I just visited the dollar cinema in my home suburb of Florissant in the eighties. I was with a friend, and some girl on-screen decided to talk to some dirtbag of a man, and someone in the audience ROARED at the screen, "Nuh-unh, girl, don't you fall for that!" And others chimed in! "Whoo, he's a dog!" "Don't go there!" - It was quite surprising. I didn't care if I experienced that movie in my little self-absorbed shell, so it was pretty entertaining, but I think my equally white girlfriend was taken aback.  I visited the theater down by Union Station once, and found the same experience, but that's the only other time. Still, I generally don't go to the movies because of the noise, even the white-bread-topped-with-crushed-soul suburban level of noise. Even if one white whisper in the silence hits my ears it is deafening to me.

I think Marcia usually has had the same movie experiences, because a few people sitting behind us talked during the previews and she announced "Oh, give it a rest." Pointedly. I leaned forward and scoped out alternate seats. The cinema put up its "Please be quiet and respectful of others during the movie" and if I recall correctly, Marcia said "Amen!" loudly. Poin.Ted.Lyyyyyyyyy.

Now, before you make any assumptions, don't think the Talkers Behind Us were of any interesting ethnic variety. I didn't see them, but I doubt they were, because we were in croquet-mallet-up-your-ass-West County. If they were it was immaterial, because they stayed pretty quiet. Until  partway through the movie -- when Marcia saw Dick Cheney.

"HHHHIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!" Marcia hissed.

"Heh" said the people behind us, quietly.

Then Marcia saw G.W.Bush.

"ASSHOLE," Marcia barked, loudly, even louder than she had previously Hissed or given up her Amen.

"Rrraararararr" grumbled the others in the cinema. "RARARRARARARARRARRararararar!"

By the end of the movie, everyone was following Marcia's lead and talking back to the screen. I don't know if Marcia noticed, because she was having her own exclusive in-depth conversation with Michael Moore by that time.

Michael said, "They want us to fear -"

"Mm-hmm. Yup" Marcia agreed.

"And they want us to keep silent - " Michael tried to add.

"Mnmmm-hmmn. That's right!" Sistah Marcia muttered.

And she kept agreeing with Michael, not that I wasn't agreeing with Michael, but I knew Michael wasn't there and that he could not hear me. A detail. This escaped everyone else. By the time they got to Cuba everyone was talking amongst themselves and at the screen.

I whooped it up a little, but I couldn't keep up with the disgust the People Behind Us expressed when Michael Moore showed the excellent free health care the Guantanamo Bay prisoners are granted.

"RAArarararRRRAARRARArr!" the People Behind Us grumbled, "No!" "Give me a break!" "Disgusting!" "RARRARArr!"

"Geneva Convention?" I thought quietly, "Have you not heard of it? Are you too young? RARArr!"

At any rate, I really enjoyed the movie. And if you haven't seen it, be sure to stay for the credits. It inspired me to call up Cigna tomorrow and question their claim that my pharmacy was out-of-network, I can tell you that. And it made me very, very happy my MS flared up for the first time five days after I started with an insurance company. I don't think I'd even made my first payment and I hit them up for a hospital bill and my first of many years of injectables. Bwhahaha!

You Can See It Coming...

So, for MONTHS now Jesus Christ's Blog has had 13 subscribers, and I have had 12. Then I wake up today and he has 12! I thought I saw my opportunity. I cackled satanically. "If I drop Jesus, then he'll have 11 and I'll have 12. I will win!" And I would have Alt-Print Screen proof.

Of course, much like cutting off the limb of a tree in which you are standing, as soon as I unsubscribed my BlogLines wiped Jesus off my list, so I had to admit defeat and resubscribe. You can't trick Jesus, people. But wait! Evidently you can. Somehow he went from 12 subscribers to 2 when I re-subscribed.

Actually, this was all just so I could say this:

I am more popular than Jesus.

In Which I Get Gas

This is the second day Gary's been out of town, and the first day I celebrated my freedom. I came home, just like the night before, ready to wait out another night of Garylessness.

At about eight I thought, "I could eat dinner." (pause) "I could eat anything I WANT for dinner." Then I began to consider what I might want. There's the Saint Louis Bread Company (Panera to the rest of you), where they have salads.

Then, I thought, "What I really want is Kentucky Fried Chicken."

Then, "No, there's no reason to do that. I don't need dinner. I have food here. For example, I have a fourth of a container of Lite French Onion Dip. Of course, I have nothing to dip in it. I'll just stay in ... OR I COULD go get gas. That would be smart. And responsible. Then I wouldn't be as late to work. And I could get Long John Silver's with the hush puppies, because Gary the Food Nazi is not here to say no."

Then I thought, "No, that's silly." And I read the comments on my blog, including the one from Friend #3 on A Big Thank You to My Neighbors, in which she says my part of town is populated by 'Hoosiers'."

And why live in Hoosierville if you can't taste the delights of Hoosierville. I promptly went to the Wal-mart where I bought batteries (just in case), to the gas station where I got gas and chips (for the dip)

...  and then....

TO....

SONIC!

Where I got chili cheese fries, mozzarella sticks, onion rings, and a corn dog -- because otherwise I would just be getting side dishes ,and without an entree that seems very unhealthy.

Hence, the title of this post.

ZZZzzzz-wha? Huh?

In the past few days I have slept. I have slept so much that I have restored the energy I wasted ("wwaaaassssted..." she hissed for emphasis) on the Super-Secret-Oh-Yeah-You-Are-Dead-Sucker Project. I slept so much I was able to make a list of things to do. Before that, yes, I was too wiped out to even make a list. And this list has things on it like, "Get mail out of mailbox." Which, by the way, Cigna Insurance, you do SO owe me 60% of $1,200, and I will prove it. Out-of-network pharmacy my lumpy ass.

Anyway, I wouldn't have thought I needed any more sleep, but it seems that is how I have spent the late afternoon and evening. Perhaps I was plunged into a depression by the way my iPod is cycling through every song I own, spending 1 second on each before shuffling to the next one. Maybe I was crushed by the news the Betaseron for the last three months really will cost me $400 a month.  It could be the way the dog is staring out the window waiting for Gary to return from his training in Chicago and then staring at me as if to say, "You won't even wipe my butt when I poop, woman! I am going to report you to the authorities."

Conceivably, I could be sleeping so hard because I can. I can sleep without someone waking me up to say, "If you are going to snore like that / twitch your foot like that / cough like that / lie there and stare at the ceiling like that then maybe you should just sleep in the other room."

And as it turns out, I was sleeping so hard I almost missed his nightly call because I anwered the can of Diet-Rite White Grape Soda when it rang. I pressed the can to my face and yelled, "Hello? HelLO?" until I woke up and hit the speaker phone button.

Since he was on the speaker, I may have fallen back to sleep during the call. That is why I'm a little unsure if there is really a hotel in Chicago that lets dogs stay in the rooms as long as they use the back entrance. A hotel right next to a big theater and the Chicago Sun Times. One where they have cigars and harmonicas in the mini-bar. Oh, and Yoga and Blues CDs. In the mini-bar. Along with a wallet containing $45. Don't ask me. I'm going back to sleep.

Polls

Edited to add -- You'll need Flash to see this:

Opinion Polls & Market Research

Opinion Polls & Market Research

Opinion Polls & Market Research

Gary: Paranoid? You Decide.

1.) A few weeks ago, after Gary had his falling out with Hardball anchor Chris Matthews, Chris closed his show with an editorial comment along these lines:  "I thank all of my listeners for sticking with me. I know there are a lot of news shows out there, and sometimes it's hard for me to stay objective. But I try!"

Gary looked a little freaked out. "It was like he was talking directly to me."

2.) Now that the Starbucks has ditched Gary's favorite raspberry flavor for the reviled "Juicy" Raspberry ("Bleah!" Gary spits Raspberry mocha into the sink) Gary has switched to the Orange mocha. Today the Starbucks drive-through window had this written on it:

"Juicy Raspberry or Orange Mocha! Which will you choose?"

Freeaky.

The Guster CD arrives!

So, my new Guster CD arrived. This one was Goldfly. It's one of their older CDs. You can tell it's older because all the song titles are spelled out. (Just in this week's People, pgs 41-53 refer to "Since U Been Gone," "When I See U," and "Nothing Compares 2 U." What R U trying to say? I am too old to listen to your music?)

At any rate, I asked Gary how the CD was, since he had already grabbed it and downloaded it.

"Awful!" he bellowed.
"Really? Who sings lead? It was odd to listen to Parachute because evidently Ryan sang backup."
"I don't know who sings." (pause) "Alright, I didn't pay that much attention." (pause)  "Fine! I only listened to one song, but it didn't grab me."

I always suspected music reviewers only listen to the first four songs only one time before writing a review. Evidently Gary can form an opinion based on the CD cover and track 1.

A Big Thank You To My Neighbors

Thank you to all the neighbors in my community and all the communities along the horizon for the amazing pyrotechnical displays this evening.

Thank you for purchasing said fireworks at the entirely legal fireworks stands in our county OUTSIDE of Saint Louis.

Thanks to all of you for acquiring your pyrotechnical licenses this year, because while it is legal to buy fireworks here it is not legal to set them off unless you have a license. I'm sure you know that.

Thanks for waking me out of a deep sleep and then for ignoring the fact that I walked around for 90 minutes in my pajamas. Really, I told Gary I'd have to change, and he said:

"No, why would you want to change?"
And I answered, "Well, when I get nervous or shy, my voice gets really high." No, I didn't say that. What I said was:
"Uh, because I'm naked except for a Ships-n-Dip cruise t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants with holes in the butt cheeks."
"Don't worry about it," he said.
"Really? You don't think it's indelicate and unladylike?"
"Just don't make the rock horns with the tongue."

Yes. Unprecedented.

In Which I Cower in Fear

I've been trying to be a little more fearless now that I am in my dotage. I don't want to end up like Gary's sister Karen, who just today sent this email:

"Can you both make it earlier at mom and dad's tomorrow on the 4th.  Around 12noon.  We are trying to miss  the late afternoon Thundershowers."

She's always been that way about thundershowers (or, rather, Thundershowers). Once, Gary's parents were coming to the airport to pick us up from our honeymoon. Karen sobbed and demanded they wait until the storm was over. Luckily, it was ONLY ABOUT TWO HOURS.

I don't want to be that way. However, it appears my conscious effort to be fearless might have failed me. I bought Counting Crows tickets at the GCS Ballpark in Sauget, Illinois, right across the river.

Okay, many of you might know that what truly is right across the river is East St. Louis, Illinois. Murder Capital '07! Whoo! However, the concert is not in the heart of East Saint Louis. It is in Sauget. Observe the map:

The green arrow is Sauget, and the ballpark is even further South of East Saint Louis, at the southern tip of the airport you see at the bottom.

I took comfort in those empty fields.

I was even comforted enough to plot a map to the nearest snoot outlet. I was even confident enough to tell Mom of my plans.

"SAUGET? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?"
"No, Mom, I think it will be -"
"Stop" she barked (and if she could raise her hand she would have added the "Talk To The Hand" gesture). "I want to hear nothing else about this concert. Do not mention these Crows to me again."

So that was THAT. That made me a little more determined to go. I even thought, hmm, maybe Marcia would be more fun to go with than Gary.

"SAUGET? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" Marcia roared. Then, more calmly, "I deeply regret to inform you I will be unable to accept your kind invitation."
"Well, fine." I turned to Libby, my most fearless friend. "You would go to - "
"Not a chance. Really, are you out of your mind?"
"No, it's Sauget, not East Saint Louis. I've taught classes at the chemical plant in Sauget."
"Well, if Monsanto was holding a concert at the chemical plant, that would be different. But it's at the ballpark."
"But this ballpark looks really safe. I looked at the satellite photo. There are just empty fields around the ballpark."
"So, they didn't happen to be making heroin deals in the fields at the moment the satellite passed overhead."

I looked closely; no heroin deals:

But I asked one more person, and even my boss said she wouldn't feel comfortable in Sauget. I know all our husbands had their bachelor parties there, but perhaps they wanted to die.

So. Tickets are on Craigslist. I don't suppose you'd want them?

By the way, I did scan the East Saint Louis satellite map looking for heroin deals, and this sketchy assemblage of houses, cars, trailers, and burned-out foundations was all I found:

Stupid clients leaking over into other areas.

Stupid evil clients:

Do not observe holidays.
Do not observe weekends.
Do not care that my marriage is sucking at a greater and greater velocity.
Are inarticulate.

Yeah, I said it, my marriage is sucking. Just for me, not for Gary, evidently. It should not be this hard after 22 years. I feel like we've been married two years, and that's a bad, bad thing.

I blame the clients.

Stupid clients.

Why are we here at work Sunday? Because our clients cannot articulate what they want.

Check out this Change Request:

"Some of the words on this page is [sic] wrong."

To top it off, every word is exactly what they gave us.