Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

EVEN MORE UPDATED: Born Without An Asshole: a Discovery Channel Special

Awwww. Remember Cassata, the puppy born without an asshole? Well, even under the loving care of (Latter Day) Saint Stacey, she's hit a kink on the road to her recovery. While she is pooping, they are inadequate little pearls of poop, and it seems she's backed up because scar tissue is forming in her brand new asshole.

Stacey now has the task of putting her pinkie up into the asshole and stretching it out. Now, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, "Hey, don't they have anus/rectum stretchers on the XXX sites?" Why yes they do. And someone (NOT ME) already suggested it to Stacey. Stacey wrinkled her nose and said she would RATHER poke her PINKIE up into the dog.

We all agreed that Stacey's already this devoted to the dog's recovery, she may as well go all out and get personal. And really, look at this baby:

How could you deny her?

Full. Moon.

I again forced Gary to eat at a restaurant that doesn't belong to a chain. He loves to snuggle in the bosom of Friday's and Applebee's, but I dragged him off to Acero.

I've been to Acero with Catherine the Red, but not Gary. Again I had salami and cheese. Then the polenta was Rabbit Polenta, so had to eat that. Of course, I've had rabbit before (grandparents had a farm), but this was a good fall night for rabbit stew on corn polenta. I still don't know what rabbit actually tastes like, since the rabbit at the farm was in a casserole and this was a stew. Then we blew our budget on sea scallops and pork roast. They were complex, and good, but I think next time I'll go back to the eight dollar risotto instead of the twenty-four dollar entrees.

So we decided to walk off our rabbit and we wandered around Maplewood for a while and enjoy the full moon. The moon was not only full, but it was a clear night and you could see the man in the moon distinctly. I remarked how amazing it was that  it looked just like the man in the moon  you'd see  in old French advertising: puffy cheeks, three-quarter profile. (Oh, and don't think I didn't search for an image for you. Couldn't find one.) Then I waited for Gary to rag on me, because really, am I under the impression the lunar landscape changes? Like, there would be lunar dust storms that would eradicate the man in the moon? Or maybe, maybe, there'd be a moonquake? Or lunar warming would change the terrain?

But he said none of those things, because he was struck by a craving for ice cream. "Normal ice cream! At a normal place! No weird shark ice cream or anything." We peeked in every window, looking for someplace that might serve ice cream, when we found some at the Grateful Inn.

Specifically, Gary looked at the menu in the window and said "They have ice cream, but ... for some reason ... there's a pot leaf icon next to it on the menu. Oh! That means it contains hemp." Then he turned to me but my ass was inside the Grateful Inn ordering ice cream with extra hemp. Hemp brittle, on vanilla ice cream, on a banana, on a croissant. With honey, I think. We also had a brownie sundae. This supposedly did not contain hemp. What, too cliche?

Then we went back out under the full moon, went home, and went to sleep. I've been sleeping pretty consistently since 24 hours ago. Might be the hemp?

Still Not Spartacus

Well, I am probably not going to be in the clinical trial. I am bummed. (I coulda been a Spartacus, instead of bummed, which is what I am.) It seems I am too well. I haven't heard the official "No thank you," but it doesn't look good. Pout.

I realize I should be happy I haven't been ill enough this past year, and I am glad, but I decided to give myself one night of pouting. I took to my bed and called up the Discovery Health channel. There it was, Mystery Diagnosis.  I of course would have preferred Born Without a Face or Life With No Limbs or Who Needs Skin, but, hey, you work with what they give you.

There was this woman on Mystery Diagnosis who was just plodding from doctor to doctor. They all dismissed her, and I could have laid down cash that she had MS. But, even better! She had my old friend Myasthenia Gravis. Just like my brother!

(This is a family joke. My brother doesn't have Myasthenia Gravis. However, when we were young we watched something on public television about it. The next day, little 10 year old David told my mother she needed to get him to the hospital right now because he was sure he had Myasthenia Gravis.  My parents disagreed. I think it was the way he kicked the ground vigorously while screaming that he had a muscular disease. For quite a few years, every time my parents noticed Dave had a lump or a hangnail, they would intone "or....is it....Myasthenia Gravis?")

So, not only am I well, I do not have Myasthenia Gravis. So the Discovery Channel again fulfills its mission in shifting our perspective.

It's Like the Manchurian Candidate, but Funny

Gary found a movie the other night. He watched it, deleted it, and said, "You wouldn't have liked it.""

"Oh, so it was an action-adventure movie?"

"No. it was a comedy. I thought it was hysterical, but you wouldn't have liked it."

So, Gary, if you and your Blackberry are paying me a visit while you are in the bathroom, that's a sure-fire way to get me to see something. I insisted he find this movie for me and record it. I saw it and LOVED it. We kept stopping the movie and saying, "Why didn't we hear about this? This is like Airplane! Why don't they ever show the good movies in Saint Louis?"

It's called Idiocracy. The IMDB link says the movie had "disastrous" screenings, so they gave it  only a limited release.

Here's when it's on next (looks like times are Eastern):

CINEMAX     Fri, Sep 28, 8:30 PM
CINEMAX     Sat, Sep 29, 2:05 AM
MOMAXe         Fri, Oct 5, 7:30 PM
CINEMAX     Sat, Oct 6, 6:30 PM

P.S. - Really, it's from the same people who brought you Office Space.

Morning Man

I hate the morning version of Gary. Morning Man does one of two things.

He wakes up early and screams in a panic from his bedroom:
"Ellen! It's ten till seven!" (five minute pause)
"Ellen! It's five till seven!" (five minute pause)
"Ellen it's -"
"GARY! Shut UP!"

He wakes up late and screams in a panic from his bedroom:
"Ellen! Gah! Why didn't you wake me up! Now I'm late! Way to be selfish! Thanks a lot!"

(And on the rare chance someone is wondering, "why do these vital loving people keep separate bedrooms," I answer that I hate Morning Man.  Read the above.  Really, I would put a pillow over Morning Man's face. Plus, it seems my snore / jiggly foot / stored energy is to blame for his insomnia, so I was routinely tossed from the marriage bed until I moved into the guest room. Not to worry. I still get bladder infections regularly.)

I'd be okay with the morning panic, even, except the Rant comes next. He vents all his wrath here so he doesn't vent it over there, at his job. Fine. However, today he ran out of work rant material, and since he can't do the ant rant since all the bathroom ants are dead, he started in on me.

"Bye!" I said, turned on my heel and left the bathroom.

"Oh, yeah, that's just great. Real mature! Why don't you ever help me out and wake me up when --"

I let the sound of my firmly shut bedroom door answer, and I got right back into bed. 

I thought I could wait him out, but finally I had to start getting ready. Morning Man was in the hall, he had shaved, showered and dressed, and was pulling on his socks. He spied me sneaking into the bathroom.

"DON'T YOU DARE! Don't you go into the the bathroom! I'm not done yet!" He charged up to the bathroom door, effectively trapping me in the very bathroom he still demanded I leave.

Huh, I thought. Theres some white stuff between his eyes. What is that? It looks like shaving cream. But he put his glasses on over it. Huh. A lot of shaving cream under the bridge of his glasses. I bet he doesn't know.

Then as Gary continued to rant I realized he had decided to shave that tricky area between the brows. Can't wax, too metrosexual. Can't pluck, too painful. Nair smells bad. What you gonna do?

Friends, I really tried not to let him know. He trapped me in the bathroom, yelled I shouldn't be in the bathroom, HE should be in the bathroom, and if I was a CONSIDERATE PERSON I wouldn't even be standing in HIS bathroom in the FIRST PLACE AND WHY DID I HAVE THAT WEIRD LOOK ON MY FACE? STOP LAUGHING!

I really should never have pointed to the mirror, but Morning Man does have a tiny sense of humor. He reacted by using his buttocks to push me back out in the hall.

In Which We Smugly Lord It Over One of Our Dear Friends

I want to preface this by saying I pine to belong to a religion that has religious scholars. My nephew grew up having long debates with Muslim elders. I know Jesuits have a heritage of thinking about religion. It seems I keep landing in religions that manipulate your emotions and call your heartstrings your soul. God forbid you analyze any of the saints' words and evaluate which are valid and which aren't.

That said, I would like to take up a religious debate from Judaism: Which is better, to take a dead man's shoes and throw them away separately so no one walks in the shoes of the dead, or to give them to the poor? (Or, alternatively, to sell them to fashion-backward and shoe-stingy me.)

This question is covered in depth at this web site, titled "The Custom of Discarding the Shoes of the Deceased." It really is cool, because they think about the question. They also

PROVE MY FRIEND MARCIA WRONG (see here)

...but that's just a bonus. Really, can you picture your minister considering the ethics of this question, or would he just let the church congregation judge it out?  I recall there were debates in my former church about the ethics of Southern Baptists working for the Big Brewery In Town, or if one should tithe before or after taxes.  I can't picture my pastor analyzing the varying points of view; in fact, I can't imagine him going past the first point of view that hit his gut. Because hey, if it isn't white, it must be black.

I think the trick is choosing a religion that doesn't look at just one text as sacred and inspired by God. Catholics have the Apocrypha to open their minds. My nephew explains that Shia or Sunni disagree on what are considered the inspired teachings, and which teachings are wisdom.  I think if I ever pick a religion it would need to be one that would think and consider the pros and cons of a) giving away shoes b) cutting up shoes c) selling shoes and giving the money to the poor and d) jeez, lighten up about the shoes already.

That's what I want. A religion that prefers the process of uncovering the answer, not one that thinks it knows the answer.

The Red Clarks

I'm not a shoe diva. (Now, socks, that's another story.) I can't stand spending a lot for shoes. (Again, socks, another set of ethics applies.) For quite a long time I owned one pair of black shoes, one pair of blue, one pair or brown, and -- done! Shoes? Check! Catherine the Red eventually persuaded me to expand my shoe wardrobe, and I have three pair of black shoes right now. Crazy excess!

I just think there are reasonably-priced things to throw money at (iTunes and socks), and absurdly overpriced things to save money on (lamps and shoes). And, if I find a style of shoes I like, I buy them in every available color. 

This explains why I have twelve pair of Clarks slides in my closet. I briefly threw a pair of pointy-toed non-Clarks in the mix, but I only wear them if I'm around my style-conscious niece. I'm not a slave to fashion. In fact, fashion is my bitch and she can suck my toes. 

Now, if you are fashion's bitch, and you are screaming in horror when I say "Clarks," just pretend I'm talking about Manolo Blahniks. Okay? Now we can move on.

Even if I shop at Fashion Shoe Carnival Funhouse (I just lost the coasts; I can tell), Clarks still cost more than I think a shoe should cost. A lamp should cost $20. A shoe should cost $40. Needless to say, I had to find a way to economize on shoes.

This is where eBay comes in. If you search eBay by maker (Clarks), style (slides) and size (8) you will see a) a number of shoes on sale by shoe re-sellers, and b) shoes sold by individuals. The independent shoes are where you get your deals. Clarks? Five bucks, ten with shipping. Perfectly good shoes, except they make you dance relentlessly, because they are cursed Shoes Of The Dead.

I alway imagine my eBay shoes are  being sold by an elderly gentleman who has lost his wife, who was  young-at-heart but old-at-feet. He can't bear to see her shoes in the closet, so he sells them to anonymous me on eBay. I always try to leave some type of positive feedback to assure the seller the shoes have found a good home.

I thought of this today while in the elevator with the usual Gang O' Four Friends (#2-4). Another woman came in and her shoes were complimented. "I got them at a garage sale!" she whispered conspiratorially.

"SHOES OF THE DEAD!" I screamed right back at her. In retrospect, this may have seemed abrupt. At any rate, she gave me a high-five when I confessed my eBay habit.

I don't know why people think this is so odd. It isn't like I'm buying Bras of the Dead. (Those would make ones breasts heave relentlessly, I suppose, but only at men the former wearer would find attractive.) Marcia reports there's a superstition about wearing a dead man's shoes. Actually, she reported it as the Law of Moses, but I Googled her down to family superstition.

Five bucks, ten with shipping. Go see for yourself. These shoes are going for ten bucks right now.

In Which We Prove We Were Fortunate in Not Having Attended Woodstock

Number of treats I ate at Taste of Saint Louis:
Empanada from Monarch (1. Enh. And I like Monarch, but this empanada was dry.)
Vegetable Samosa 1 (enh)
Crabcakes (2! Very good crabcakes. From God knows where.)
Bread PUDDING (1 huuuuuge HHHHOOOOTTTT ow! hunk. Good, with raisins, from Harvest. AND I think they serve savory bread puddings too)
Strawberry fondues from the Melting Pot (0 - Gary ate it. yawn.)
"Sliders" from somewhere (1. Gah. Soupy overcooked ribs. Surprisingly bad despite the good press they got.)
Pork Maui sandwich from L'Ecole Culinaire (1 bite, and Gary got the rest. The best thing there.)

Number of visits to make a deposit at the plastic palace of poo Port-a-Potty: 3. I did wash my hands after each time.

Number of dollars we gave the silver-spray painted human statue so she would play her snare drum for us: 3

Number of CDs we bought: 1, from Rose Hill Drive. I think that was their name. They inspired Gary to consider playing the bass.

Number of giant cinnamon buns Bowling for Soup winged out into the audience: 12

Number of giant wads of phlegm Puddle of Mudd HOCKED UP ONTO THE STAGE before we left: 2. It's gross, and it's unsafe. Did you not hear our side of the stage go "ewwww" every time, you did it, Puddle? Eventually the lead singer entirely covered his face with his hair and Gary and I snuck out. I mean, seriously, if you aren't going to write lyrics worth listening to, just please don't coat the stage with mucus.

And, since I sound like your grandmother anyway:
Number of toddlers up on their parent's shoulders while their parents smoked pot: well, just one. But, still, come on. Please tell me this is generally considered unacceptable, giving your kid a contact high by putting them directly up into the pot cloud.  Well, I guess it does make them more docile. 

Wild and Crazy Deer Party at the Firehouse

Gary came in at 2am a few days ago after walking the dog. This time, he woke me up without demanding money.

"Oh, my God, Ellen,  I just saw the same seven deer we saw on New Year's!"

I did a little Gary math adjustment and realized he was talking about the five deer that crossed our path on January second. I muttered into the pillow, "How do you know they were the same deer?"

"Because they were in the firehouse across the street from where we saw them cross the street before!"

"In the firehouse?"

"In the parking lot! There were two on the grass, and then three on the back parking lot under the streetlight!" (Gary realized that doesn't add up to seven.) "And then there were some more on the side yard! And they were gamboling!"

"Gambling?"

"Yeah, prancing and gamboling! I swear, they were the same deer."

So, we have the Rat Pack of deer roaming the neighborhood. Five to seven deer, hanging out where the excitement is, gambling.

This came up last night when Gary convinced me to go on the nightly walk with the dog. He convinced me by walking the dog before 10pm. I said I wanted to go straight to the Wild Deer Party at the Firehouse. We didn't go straight there, because Gary felt that the Deer Party didn't really get going until midnight, so we needed to take a long roundabout walk.

He steered me down a side street filled with what he claimed were mansions by saying, "Hey, come down this street and see the Crazy House." I walked a quarter of a mile and saw a house lit by a truly unnecessary number of floodlights. I scoffed that I had seen crazier at my in-laws, thank you, and where were Dean-o Deer and Frank Deer and Angie Deerkenson? He replied that the deer wouldn't be there yet, besides he wanted to show me the Glass Garage. "It's a garage, with Porsches and Ferraris in it, and it's all made out glass, I swear to God."

I was skeptical, and I wondered for a moment if my Gary and Erin's husband had been separated at birth, but I trudged on staring at every garage, until I noticed one (non-glass) garage had a deer lounging in front of it.

"Gary! A deer! No, two deer!" I saw four deer ears, and I squatted down to get a better look. (Big Houses, BIG yards. Those deer were fifty yards away.) The deer stood up and prepared to bound away. I stood up. They lounged back down. I squatted down. They stood up. This squat-stand, stand-lounge routine went on three times until I realized they thought I was adjusting my shotgun sight every time I squatted.

Eventually, we moved away, but only after Gary had "No! It's three deer! Five! No, I count seven! Seven deer! The same seven deer!"

So, evidently the Deer Pack went looking for the mythical Glass Garage, too, instead of partying with the firemen. I didn't see any wild deer party at the firehouse, and I didn't see the glass garage.

I also didn't see any Pumas. "No, there are pumas out here! They eat all the deer scat, that's why you never see any."

No Flies on Gary

I was talking with Friend #3, and told her that the best way to kill flies was to snap a dishtowel at them. She was dubious.

"No," I said, "You don' t even have to hit them, just snap the towel in their vicinity. The sonic boom created by the snapping of the towel stuns them, and they drop right out of the air."

She continued in her dubiousness. She was consistent in her dubiosity. She developed a 'tude of dube.

"Really," I insisted, "I've seen Gary do it."

"I don't doubt he did it, I just doubt there was a sonic boom that stunned them."

Well, I found backup for the sonic boom theory, but then I found no one else appears to kill flies this way. It occurred to me Gary may have just lucked out one time by snapping a towel just as an elderly fly reached the end of his days (day?), and now I'm spreading this lie. "No, really Ellen, the flies have coronary attacks brought on by the surprise. I learned it in Biology class!"

Has anyone else heard this theory? 

Woohoo! Mandatory Sex Harassment Meeting Day

We have a new benefits provider, ADP, and one of the benefits they provide is a sexual harassment seminar, which we all took today.We've been looking forward to it since our experience with the Creepy New Guy.

I also discovered during the meeting that if you want something done discreetly, do it yourself; if you possibly want the person fired, tell someone else about it. I formerly thought I could go and have a discreet little chat with HR about troubling signals, let's say. Turns out they jump right on any potential problem and make  a federal case out of it. (I could cite many Supreme Court Cases.)

I was wondering how to ask, "So, let's say I have a fairly offensive hobby, something like blogging about my vibrator collection pole dancing. And, so lets say they are some people at work who know about my pole dancing, because one week the Riverfront Times elected me Pole Dancer of the Week. As long as I don't mention the pole-dancing at work, or say to much about work during my pole dances, am I safe in continuing my pole-dancing hobby?"

Luckily, I realized before I opened my mouth that blog-reading is voluntary. So, co-workers, if my blog offends thee, pluck it out of your browser.

I really planned to keep my mouth shut tight during the meeting, but one guy in the video presentation was being quite the oily Star-nosed mole. Finally, I blurted out, "Just slap him already!"

Trash Day

Gary like to play the trash game. You know this game. This is the game in which the husband, in lieu of taking out the the trash, manually compacts the trash into the kitchen wastebasket . Eventually, the wastebasket is so tight with trash you can no longer just pull out the trash bag; you have to pin the wastebasket between your knees and breech-birth the trash.

If the trash can is loaded up the way Gary likes it, there is a lot of suppressed potential energy in there, what with the candy wrappers and Scott towels filled with dog pee and syringes and empty tubs of vegetable dip and junk mail.

I know precisely what's in my trash because I have to touch the top few layers and stabilize it. This ensures the trash doesn't explode into the kitchen while I'm trying to dispose of it. I have to touch the trash. I hate to touch the trash.  It's trash. I want to forget it. I want to hide it in the cabinet under the counter. I don't want to fondle the trash with my lily whites. And I don''t want to pry it out of the wastebasket so I can pitch it into the big trash bin in the garage.

I realized the root of the problem when Gary left this morning. I had noticed the trash had reached critical mass the night before, and I was too tired to deal with it. So, I gently reached under the counter and tucked a lone scrap of cellophane on top of the trash souffle that had risen above the wastebasket rim.  That's why I was relieved this morning to hear Gary wrestling the trash out of the wastebasket. Then, before he left, he yelled, "Bye, honey! I took out your trash!"

My. Trash.

MY trash!

As in: we get divorced and I get the trash.

As in: separate bank accounts, separate vacations,  separate trash.

He left it out so I can see it. He says I'm lucky he didn't put a spotlight on it. I say he's lucky I let him live to take out the trash another day.

Wee Hours, High Finance

Two a.m. Dark. I am sleeping.  Gary has been paying his bills, because you know that's always a good way to relax yourself before bed.

"Ellen?"

No response. At first, because I am asleep, and then because sometimes if I lie there quietly he gives up.

"Ellen, are you asleep?"

"I'm trying to be asleep. Leave me alone."

"I have to talk to you."

"Now. Right now. Two a.m. You have to talk now."

"Yes! Yes! I have to talk to you right now!"

I sit up.  I bite out, "What?"

"I need you to transfer some money from your account to mine. I'm crazy overdrawn at the bank."

I trust-fall back into bed. "Okay. Goodnight."

"So, I need it now."

"I'll do it tomorrow. Shut up and let me sleep."

"No! Now! If I don't get some more money in my account --"

"Gaaahhh! I will pay you three hundred dollars if you shut up right now."

(An aside: If you want to make a really dramatic bed exit, get yourself a down comforter. They make a nice gesture flying through the air, but then they land with an emphatic "thwop!" Kind of the physical embodiment of a heavy sigh.)

So, Gary has three-hundred of my hard-earned dollars today because he knows how to hit me when I'm weak. And, incidentally, he didn't even shut up.

 

Gary Meets the Press

Ask me what I did tonight. Assssssssssk me. Ask me, she breathed, as her eyes narrowed and her hands shook.

I watched Meet The Press for two hours.

"Huh," you say, "I thought Meet The Press was only an hour show."

Yeah, but it takes two hours when Gary pauses the TiVo every five seconds to scream "McMaggot!" at John McCain. Gary, who long ago voted for George Bush the Elder. It would appear I have created a monster. Converts are the most fanatical followers. Of course, I do wonder what provoked John McCain to sell his soul, but I don't scream at his image on the tv.

Actually, I was hypnotized by his image on the set of Meet the Press:

I was imagining this conversation went on in the McCain house the morning of the taping:

"John! What are you doing in that green tie?"

"What's wrong with this tie, honey?"

"It doesn't match the Meet the Press set. You have to wear your gold tie or your rust tie. And your light blue shirt. And your gray suit, because they have these gray struts holding everything together in the background."

Can you believe Theresa Heinz Kerry let her husband leave the house like this?

He didn't coordinate with the set at all. I mean, he's still totally right, but it's so obvious that it didn't capture my interest.

Instead, I started to think seditious thoughts. For example, Let's say Iraq becomes a democracy and can stand on its own. Isn't the right to free assembly part of a democracy? So let's say al-Qaeda in Iraq decides to form its own political party. Or the Taliban. Can't they legitimately run for office?

Or, even better, let's say the Michigan Militia decides to attack Canada, just like al-Qaeda attacked America. Could Canada then drop bombs on us for harboring terrorists, like we bombed Afghanistan? Hmm. I mean, I'm sure there's some fundamental difference I'm forgetting, you know, like "We're good, they're evil," but I couldn't concentrate because Gary was screaming for two hours.

Missed Opportunities at the Emmys

I love Kathy Griffin, and I support her decision to tell Jesus to "suck it!" during her Creative Arts Emmy speech. That is why I'm holding my breath during this year's Emmys waiting for someone to refer to Jesus and/or sucking.

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

7:15 - Jeremy Piven COULD have said, "Dad, this is for you. I love you, and I miss you. Now, tell Jesus to suck it."

But no. Missed opportunity.

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

7:39 - Oh! So it's code! When they go to that far shot from the rafters and there's no sound, someone like Katherine Heigl is saying "Shit!" When did the Midwest Mormons start producing the Emmys? Or is it because the FCC is fining live broadcasts? If so, is "suck it" profane?

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

7:52 - Pregnant women should not stand on top of pianos, Christina. That is something we feel in the Midwest feel strongly about. DOWN! OFF THE PIANO!

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

8:07 - The recycled stage collapses under the self-importance of Robert "Thank you for coming here  tonight" Duvall and the cast of Roots. Really, he told the audience "Thanks for coming here tonight!" Like it's his own personal theater?

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

8:15 - Surely the creator of the Sopranos will tell someone to suck it. Come on! Tell Jesus to suck it. Waahh. Pussy.

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

8:30 - The chairman of the television academy is NAMED  "Dick Askin?" And still no "suck it" jokes? West Coast, you break my heart, you break my heart. Oh, and suckmahballz.

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

9:45 - Okay, I'm going to tell myself that Sally Field just told George Bush to suck it.

The Mythology: The Scissors

The Factual Basis for the Myth:
When we had been married a few years, we bought this house and I started decorating it.  I started decorating it. My wife Gary kept trying to help. After 22 years I have suppressed his feminine urges so now all the homemaking he does is to re-season any food I cook. I can live with that. It helps to know that he doesn't like to season food, just to "fix" it. And I say, "Oh, it's so much better now! You have the magic touch." And after swallowing all that pride the food does taste pretty good in comparison.

At any rate, I will tolerate improvements to my cooking, but then Gary started inching onto my decorating turf. He has a good eye for arranging furniture, better than mine. And then one day, I bought a rug, put it in the bathroom I had bought it for, turned my back, and he had moved it to the bottom of the basement stairs.

The Myth As Gary Tells It:
"I just moved this rug, because I thought it would look better at the bottom of the basement stairs! And then all of a sudden Ellen lost it! She grabbed the lace curtains she had sewn and tore them off the walls, then she went and got the scissors! She came back and started slashing the coverlet and throwing the stuffing around and screaming at me! I grabbed the dog and ran and hid in the bathroom. Every once in a while I'd peek out the door and there was just a blizzard of batting floating through the air! I would have run but I couldn't see! THEN she started throwing things! She grabbed this heavy electrical transformer and threw it and it made a hole in the bedroom door that was there for years! She just kept screaming that I didn't listen to her when she was rational and she was going to act like my family so I'd listen to her!"

More Factual Basis:
Actually, that's pretty much what happened.

The Secret of Happiness

Good stuff that happened just today:

• Pretty weather.
• Manbitch was in the area for a conference and dropped off a gooey butter danish before I came in.
• Free bagels.
• Free coffeecake.
• Then, after lunch, free ice cream bars.
• Jeans Day at work.
• Pay day.
• Guster is coming to town (but I can't see where to buy tickets - I've never bought tickets through anything but Ticketmaster. A new adventure!)
• Puddle of Mudd, Bowling for Soup are coming to the ...
• Taste of Saint Louis event.
• Best Week Ever is back.
• Best Week Ever says Britney WAS lip-synching. (I wasn't sure.)
• I can now sing and play the guitar at the same time, if it's a nice four-chord Liz Phair song.
• I somehow managed to have money in my account when I got this paycheck today.

In general: I have the tastes of a teenager and the income of a grownup.

The Mythology: The Turkey Leg Incident

Here's another myth. It is so satisfying to set the record straight. Again, I start with the facts, then tell you what the facts have twisted into after decades of re-tellings.

The Factual Basis for the Myth:
The first summer we were married, I made a menu or Gary's favorite foods. He always gets both turkey legs at his parent's Thanksgiving. Therefore, I cooked Gary a turkey leg. I cooked it a good three hours.

The Myth As Gary Tells It:
"Oh my God, when we were first married? Ellen served me a raw turkey leg! Raw! Blood was dripping out of it! Blood everywhere! Blood all over the walls! I tried to eat it, but I just couldn't. I stuck it in the microwave for ten minutes and it still wasn't done! Blood was dripping down my chin! I COULD HAVE DIED!"

More Factual Basis:
Okay, anyone who has roasted a fowl knows that sometimes the meat by the bone can be fully cooked yet retain a little pinkness. Plus, and this was the real issue, he encountered a vein. I have no proof, but I'm pretty sure Wilma goes through her turkeys and de-veins them. That way her delicate children can't tell they are eating an animal.

What the Future Holds:
I am sure in a few decades I will have pinned Gary to the ground and forced a live turkey's leg down his throat. Because I love.

Moral: Overcook everything the first few years of marriage. Or, be a vegetarian. Or, tie up your spouse and make him drink turkey blood so he can identify it.

In Which The Heartless Cows Redeem Themselves

After I had the bad Copaxone reaction, my doctor said he'd see if there were any other options. We'd tried the interferon therapy (I developed antibodies) and the Copaxone treatment (turned blue) and the Tysrabi therapy was for more serious MS cases.

So he called back a few days later and left a message saying I might be eligible to be in a clinical trial. It was a message, so he didn't hear me screaming "Yes! Yes!" Almost since birth I've wanted to be in a clinical trial. I wanted to be one of Jonas Salk's kids and test out the polio vaccine. Who wouldn't want to be in a clinical trial? You can make a contribution to science without having to take physics.

"But what if you get the placebo?" Hey, don't knock the placebo-eaters. They contribute just as much information as the people getting the real drug. So, as you can imagine, I was elated.

Gary was not elated. Gary wore himself out being the angel sitting on one shoulder imploring "Don't do it! You might get the drug and die from the side effects!" then fluttering to the other shoulder to be the devil shrieking, "Don't  do it! You might get the placebo and your MS will get worse!"

I pointed out to him that he was ignoring the one possible positive outcome. "I don't do positive! I am in charge of negative!" I told him we'd be tabling this conversation until he could accept some positive thoughts. I check back every few days. Still no progress.

However, the Heartless Cows I Work With have redeemed themselves. They have been supportive, even if they don't all totally agree with the idea.

Keep your fingers crossed! I still have to get through the screening. If anyone knows the "right" answers to get in a phase 3 double-blind clinical trial for FTY720 Fingolimod, let me know.

The Mythology: Noah's Ark

I introduce the first in a series of myths. These are events from our history that do have a basis in fact, but over almost twenty-five years of Gary's embellishments they've grown to mythological proportions.  I begin with the factual details from years ago, then I ask you to compare it with the current version.

Today's Myth: The Tale of Noah's Ark.

Background: Years ago, there was a restaurant outside Saint Louis named Noah's Ark. I always remember it as a fancy place only adults were allowed to eat. When we were kids, it was the place parents went on a date and came back with giraffe-shaped swizzle sticks :

It also convinced generations of children that every restaurant should look like an ark and be filled with examples of giant taxidermy.  I'm sure you have an ark restaurant in your town.

The Factual Basis for the Myth:

Gary and I grew up and thought it would be fun to eat at the Ark.  And here are the facts: I went up to the buffet, I picked up a small bowl full of whipped butter, and I dropped it. It landed butter-side down on the carpet. I walked back to our table. After I sat down I alerted the waiter there had been a butter accident. We were the only people in the place.

The Myth As Gary Tells It:

(Usually he tells this story at any gathering that involves butter and strangers. Or, he could see a large animal, segue to Noah's Ark, and work it in.)

"I remember once Ellen and I went to eat at Noah's Ark. She was getting this enormous bowl of butter off the buffet, kind of hefting it up onto her shoulders, and suddenly it flipped out of her hands and went sailing up into the air, then this big ball of butter came crashing down on her. She's lucky she wasn't crushed. She dodged the butter but it ... it ... exploded on the carpet. Butter everywhere! Butter on the walls! Then, what did she do? She ran, she ran like a dog back to our table. When the waiter came by he looked at the butter, and he looked at Ellen, and Ellen was all "Doo dee doo, la la la, what butter?"

What the Future Holds:

Noah's Ark was just recently razed to the ground, so I am sure that in the next re-telling the butter-stained carpet will be the reason given for the restaurant's decline. By the time I am seventy I imagine the crashing impact of the mountain of butter "...caused an earthquake! The Ark slid into the river! We barely escaped with our lives!"

Moral: Children, do not screw up during your early marriage, and if you do, always cop to it.

UPDATED: Born Without An Asshole: a Discovery Channel Special

Update at the bottom!

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

Well, I know you've been waiting for an update on the dog born without an asshole. Stacey, the dog rescuer, has been keeping us posted on the poor puppy with the bad plumbing.  I have more facts:

• Puppy's name is Cassata. The puppy is a girl. This, as you will find, is key.



• Technically, she does have an anus. It just isn't connected to anything. Kind of like your belly button.
• Her colon, instead of heading for her anus, dead ends in her body.
• Happily, her body has formed a passageway (fistula) between her colon and her vagina. So, she isn't backed up. However, I imagine if she weren't a puppy it might cramp her style.

So,  I asked Stacey the Dog Rescuer a few more questions (and you'll note I didn't really give her a chance to answer any of them): "Who cleans up the dog after she evacuates? Can she be fixed by surgery? Will someone adopt her then? Do they pay for the surgery? Do you have to pay for it? Is it pro-bono?" When I paused, Stacey answered:

• Stacey (who is a saint) tidies up the dog after.
• Surgery to fix the dog is today. It's supposed to be straightforward.
• The Cairn Terrier Rescue Society is having a fundraiser to offset the costs of the surgery.

So, if this story has filled you with pity, click here to view the puppies: http://www.cairnrescue.com/rescue/sponsor.php#gangel Scroll down to Cassata in MO to read Stacey's write-up. Then perhaps scroll down to the very bottom of http://www.cairnrescue.com/rescue/sponsor.php#gangel and use the "Guardian Angel" form to make a donation to help pay for Cassta's surgery. Come on. I know most of my work friends are heartless and unsympathetic, but you aren't like them. You know that there but for the grace of God go you, or your little dog too.

UPDATE:
We have poop! Puppy is alert and up and she is pooping like a natural woman. Sadly, we have no photo of her puppy facial expression the first time it came out from her tail area instead of her lady parts. Alarm? Horror? Relief?

Fresh Weirdness Updated

Wilma and Ken have received eight condolence cards. Am I missing something? Really, should I be sending out condolence cards?

Fresh Weirdness From the In-Laws

We got a lovely card from Gary's Aunt Pat and Uncle Dick today. It was addressed to the both of us. I opened it up and found it was a sympathy card. No note, no explanation, just signed "Love, Pat and Dick."

"Did your parents die and no one told us?" I asked, "Or has your uncle confused us with the Muslim side of the family?"

"No, he said, "If there's a death in the family everyone gets a condolence card."

"Okay, but you've had four aunts and uncles die , and we never got a card."

"It goes by generation," he explained, "If a young person dies all the young people get a card."

Is this typical? My family doesn't "do" cards, much less condolence cards. (I wrote the late bride's family a note. And, we called our nephew but he didn't return the call.) I suppose when each of Gary's uncles or aunts died his Mom got a card from her remaining brother and sister? Besides, we're one generation removed from the young people. Still, it's nice that he sent a card. Especially since no one even thought of inviting him to the wedding/funeral/festivities.

Of course, I haven't lost sight of the reality, which is that everyone in the state of Missouri: Muslim, Catholic, Wiccans alike should all get condolence cards based on the enormity of the tragedy.

So, condolence cards? Is it by generation in your family, or is Gary's the only family that does this? I'm thinking it's an in-law thing, like all the females getting gifts on Incest Valentines Day.

Loose Ends Tied Up

Time to tidy up some loose ends:

The ants are still coming and feasting on the Terro poison. This means either these ants really are some new breed of super-ants, or more probably, we are eradicating every single ant in the Greater Saint Louis Area. If you hear the ecosystem of Saint Louis has collapsed because the first link of the food chain was killed off you can blame me.

Number of days without an accident: one.

Number of days of continued morning and evening flossing: five.

My nephew gave me an English translation of the Qu'ran after the funeral, but now of course I can't read it. Because if I read it I'll just be doing what Osama wants us to do.

Breaking News: Tim Gunn trumps the Dillard's saleslady. As Melissa reports in her comment, Tim pronounces it Em-pyre, NOT Ahm-peer. I am sure Vaguely and Taster will bow to his utter suaviosity.

The dental hygienist corrected Gary and said cheese is one of the best things for your teeth because it has neutral pH.

We had corn last night just so we could use the Butter People. I must admit I used far more butter than I usually would. In don't know why a silver fork designed purely for spearing oysters delights me, while a plastic Weeble designed to spread butter seems like a waste.

Invisible Disability

When I was 11 or so, a friend asked, "What's wrong with your Mom's hand?"

"Nothing, " I said. Still, this crazy girl kept insisting something was wrong with Mom's hand. I guessed that maybe it was dirty? No. Eventually she said, frustrated, "It isn't the same as the other one."

"Oh, that!" I exclaimed, "Oh, that's just from when she had polio." And then we tried to cook instant pudding in my Easy-Bake Oven.

I suppose other people notice Mom's hand at some point. It is smaller than the other. The fingers are delicate, and her pinky is perpetually raised. I suppose it's like a plant that isn't getting enough nutrition from the roots, so it grows a little spindly and in unusual directions. I never really notice. I still don't notice; Mom frequently has to remind Gary and I that building shelves in the laundry room would be a lovely idea EXCEPT SHE CANNOT RAISE HER ARMS ABOVE HER WAIST IF YOU'VE FORGOTTEN, ELLEN. So, you know.

I think that's typical of kids with disabled parents.  A similar scene is documented in a fine book called Waist-High in the World (though I of course prefer the alternate title the author considered, Crotch-High in  the World). The author is in a wheelchair from progressive MS, and reports people generally don't look at her.  I can't give it a purely unbiased recommendation, because the copy I read had Mom's wry annotations.

I ate that book up. It isn't all about being in a wheelchair, though it mentions how those in wheelchairs are invisible. Oh, that reminds me, check out what happened today. We have a co-worker who uses a wheelchair: Mark. Today when she saw Mark in passing, Caroline gave him a cheery hello, which Mark didn't answer. "Mark," on closer inspection, was actually an office chair with a box perched on top of it.  Caroline foolishly told me about it. HAHAHHAHAHahahha. Heartless Cow.

In fact I brought Waist-High In the World out today to see her take on incontinence, since I received my MS baptism today. It seems a lifetime of Kegel exercises cannot hold their own against a bladder infection backed up up by a quart of water and a grande cappucino. Gary, of course thinks this is hysterical, and GROSS, and a good amount of I AM NOT CLEANING THAT UP! and much conspiratorial discussion with the dog about the INJUSTICE and how I should be put in the crate. Plus, when I turned my back to go to the bathroom for the fiftieth time tonight he brought up a "Hot Sexy Girl Pee" web site on my laptop.

And yeah, it's gross, but it isn't as funny as Caroline saying "Hi" to the box sitting in the office chair. I know that's what you're still laughing at.

Dinner With the Heartless Cows I Call My Friends

Tonight I went out for drinks and dinner with Friends #2, #3, #4, and # 8. 

I don't want to skip any key points that may help lend credence to my assertion that the above friends are heartless cows, so I need to tell you the whereabouts of Friend #7. Friend #7 is a dog rescuer, and she was at that moment taking a dog to a special surgeon in Columbia, MO, for an asshole reconstruction.

Friend #2 said, "Wait. Wait. The dog was born without an asshole?"

Friend #4 replied yes, the unfortunate puppy was born without an asshole.

Friend #2, "So, isn't it an asshole construction? There's no 're' about it."

This conversation went on quite some time. I believed I asked if there was a donor asshole.

Did I mention there were mudslides, daiquiris, espresso martinis and midori coladas consumed during the conversation above? It helped us picture the puppy's reaction when he used his new asshole for the first time. Would he have an instinct that he'd been missing an asshole and now he had one? Or would he be alarmed? Would he spin around to see what was happening? We just didn't know. At any rate, the alcohol enhanced the image of the prosthetic asshole puppy.  It got pretty entertaining, and I laughed heartily.

And then, at some point during the hearty laugh, I segued to a hearty cough. Not just the cough that makes friends pat you on the back and ask if you need some water. I didn't even start with that. I went straight to old man with emphysema hacking up juicy lung chunks. I wheezed, my lungs filled with water. I gasped for air.

Friend #2 looked bemused, then said, "Oh, look how red she is. Is she having a Copaxone reaction?"

I have often mocked Friend #3 for asking coughers if they need the Heimlich maneuver, because as I say, "if you can cough, you can breathe." This is why Friend #3 immediately sneered, "Oh, she's fine. If she can cough, she can breathe."

I lifted my head from between my knees, wiped the spit off my chin, and decided against flipping off Friend #3 in favor of gesturing desperately at Friend #4's water. Friend #4 is usually very nurturing. But Friend #4 didn't give me her water. Instead, she turned to the others and said, "Maybe she'll turn blue!"

I grabbed her water, threw the straw at her, chugged it down, and choked out, "Heartless whores."

See? And, you may ask, what about Friend #8? Was she helpful? No. She sat there and avoided getting my phlegm on her shoes.

"I'm So Brave, Too Bad I'm a Baby"

I am brave when it comes to basic medical procedures. I can give myself a shot with nonchalance.  I am insouciant as the nurse draws blood. I  fall asleep in the MRI machine. I want my doctor to give me an epi-pen so I can keep taking Copaxone. Doctor devices don't scare me.

Dental devices scare me. I cry at the dentist.

Well, to be fair, I haven't cried at the dentist for a few years. And I no longer require nitrous if I'm just getting a cleaning. I've found if I crank up the iPod and wring my hands I can get through it. I also rub my feet against each other like a giant praying mantis. Or, alternatively, like gay senators in an airport bathroom.

Today,  I decided I might need to slam back some Grand Marnier before my next dental appointment, because I need to relax. I can tell I need to relax because I appear to have developed such superhuman strength in my lower lip that it could toss my dental assistant across the room. I tried to relax my lip, she begged me to relax my lip, she gave up on relaxing me and just tried to pull my lip off my face. But my lip sneered "back off!" and won that wrestling contest.

She got back at me, though, because I got a tongue-lashing about how I'm going to develop periodontal disease. And  no only that, but Gary and I could be passing periodontal disease between us.

"Gross!" I cried, "Like...when we kiss?"

"Yes," she said solemnly,  "you could be infecting each other." Then she told me my old silver fillings might start picking up radio transmissions if I didn't replace them.

Anyway, I repelled by this idea of periodontis as a venereal disease. Time to overcome my fear of floss.

This is Why I Don't Get Any

This, from our bedroom, as we cuddled and made small talk:

Gary: "So I saw this thing on HBO or something, when this guy said he 'did the alphabet' during cunnilingus."

Me: "Yeah. I've heard about that too. I wonder what would it feel like to be cunnilingled that way. Give me your elbow."

(I mouth the alphabet on Gary's elbow until I get bored and give it a big cow lick.)

Gary: "And that's the other thing, does anyone ever make it through all 28 letters of the alphabet?"

My internal monologue:  Did he just say 28? Are you kidding me? 28? Rip on him for saying there are 28 letters of the alphabet! No! Wait! Give him a chance. See if he says '32' next time.

Ellen: (flatly) "Yeah. 28 letters. That's a lot of letters."

Internal monologue: Wait for it...wait for it...No! Move on! Keep talking about sex! You're losing him!

Gary: "Wait - how many letters are in the alphabet? Did I say 28? I meant 24."

So. No sex for me.

An Extension

Here was our conversation yesterday afternoon:

Ellen: "Let's go to the Greek Festival by Forest Park, and watch Greek dancing, and eat Greek food!"

Gary (in all seriousness):  "I've got a better idea! Let's go to the Max & Erma's at the mall and eat hamburgers and fries!"

Ellen (trying to reach a compromise): "Let's go to the Greek festival, and if you don't like it then we can go to the Max & Erma's downtown."

Gary: "No. It has to be the one at the mall." Because my God, what kind of crazy food would the downtown branch of the chain have? Rattlesnake? Panda?

It isn't like he never tries new restaurants, but he has to be in the right mood for adventure. For example, two nights ago I begged him to poke his head into the new Bella's Italian Cuisine by the Starbucks. It was one of those fast food/slow food hybrids, where you pay $25 but you order at a counter. It got up to $25 because we had to pass judgment on the Toasted Ravioli.

(Not from Saint Louis? Read up on Toasted Ravioli on Wikipedia.  When they are good, they are delectable, but when they are bad, they are a hardened square Jeno's-pizza-roll casing of dried fried pasta with a marble of meat rattling around inside. These were not the bad ones. These were plump fresh round ravioli (a departure that screamed I AM NOT FROZEN YOU PHILISTINES) breaded with something perfect and fried all crunchy. How good? We didn't have to even dip them in the marinara sauce. Gary ate the marinara sauce with his fork.)

But that was Friday, and it exhausted his need for foreign foods. We settled on the oh-so-exotic Applebee's that has risen out of the ashes of the ex-Applebee's (I asked: no one was familiar with the manager's Buddha), followed by dessert at the Greek festival. Gary compromised on the food because as he said, "It's still your birthday month."

"No, I said, "August is over."

"August sucked. You get two more weeks of birthday month. I grant you an extension."

So, woo-hoo! Two more weeks of shirking all the chores. I imagine I'll pay for this next  March.

On Anticide

We have ants. We have ants every year, and every year I take great pleasure in killing them. I use Terro-X, which is a tasty mixture of sugar water and Borax.  The ants circle around it, gobble it down, then take it back to their nests and vomit it up for their babies! Irony! Poetic Justice!  Soon the entire ant colony is dead. If you can't tolerate watching the ant feast, you can buy it in pre-filled trays, but I love to taunt the ants. "MMmmm! Tasty, tasty poison. Tell your friends!"

Well, I seem to have bred a colony of ants immune to Borax. I now have more ants coming every day to the poison trough.

"Hey!" Gary said, "Maybe we can give them what's left of your Copaxone!"

"Hey, yeah," I agreed , "First they'd get hot, then they turn into red ants when they get flushed. Then they wouldn't be able to  breathe through their exoskeletons. Then they'd puke - "

"Violently," Gary added.

"Yeah, and then they'd turn blue. Cool."

"Be kind of hard to give them the shots, though."