Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Googleoem

From Sans God, who defines Google-oetry as "a poem, written with only the keywords people have used to find [your] site" and the adds wryly, "I thought I'd get mine in early, before this becomes a meme."

I say it's a meme riiiiighhtt ...about... now!

And so, I give to you, unedited:

Unauthorized Celebrity Nudification

Name of the warble in a singing voice?
po po lo  po po po po po lo po po
Pudenda photos /
Spread their toes
Dolphins cheerleaders oops crotch shot

Mother daughter naked shower
How often should I move my towels?
Fingering rectum/
Bondage Iron Lung
"How to excite my husband"

(Crowd ecstatically snaps finger in air. I take the barest bow and step back from the microphone.)

NaBloPoYEAR, people!

Yes, November is National Blog Posting Month. I see your month and I raise you a year!

'07 is National Blog Posting Year, that's what I say. As long as you don't mind reading about crap like "I made soup for dinner!" and "I got my hair cut!" and what I ate for lunch (though no one cares, at least, Maggie Mason doesn't).

So, here's what I'm think of laying on you, just to make November special:

• Why I go by "Ellemon" on the Ships and Dip Message Board. This is a women's health awareness PSA post. ShipsandDippers, you may take a vacation that day.
• What's going on with The Estate, you ask? Dynasty-style Drama.
• In Which I Review  Cowboy Mouth, Regina Spektor, and hopefully the Body Worlds Exhibit.
• Will the S_______s celebrate Thanksgiving? And, you inquire politely, how is Tinkerbell the Slut Puppy?
• You may have noticed we are down to one car in the sidebar.
• And just so you can hate me, I mean really really hate me ... I need to find a Mortgage Countdown calendar icon to add to the sidebar.  It's going to be t-minus 12 months in November.
• I get my hair cut again in November! I am sure I will again manage to find something stupid to say to Hot Steve the Hairstylist.

Spontaneous Combustion

A few weeks ago, I was awakened from a dead sleep at 3 am by a sudden, constant noise. I got out of bed and followed the noise into the hallway, where I found it was coming from the bathroom.

It was the blow dryer. The blow dryer had suddenly switched on as I slept. I picked it up, stared at it, and switched it off.

I stumbled into Gary's room where I droned loudly, "Blow dryer turned on. I turned it off. Going back to bed now."

"What?"

"The blow dryer turned itself on and I shut it off."

"Go to sleep. You're raving."

I thought about the blow dryer the next morning, and I wondered if it had been a dream. Because, you know sometimes  I get up in the middle of the night to let my dog out and then he magically becomes two dogs, or a dog relieves himself ten times and I wake up the next morning to wads of toilet paper through the house. They do say it's the brain stem that keeps you immobile when you sleep. Call Oliver Sacks!

At any rate, I checked the blow dryer and thought, "Well, it must have turned it off. Here it is in the off position. Wait ... that proves nothing."

So. Does anyone know of anything that could turn a blow dryer on in the dead of night? 

Dear People of Denver

I know. It sucks to lose the World Series.
It sucks to lose the World Series in a sweep.
It sucks to lose to the Boston Red Sox.
But at least you lost to a team that had won in the past five years.

Soup Weather

I was outside, doing what ended up as only a tiny percentage of my fall yard cleanup, when I thought, "I need soup." Since we had not recently had dinner out involving soup, there was no soup in the refrigerator:

I went mad, went to the grocery, and started a crazed soupfest. Soupfest in Progress:

The easiest to make was Mushroom and Wild Rice:

Next done was the infamous Cream of Carpet soup.

Really, it's Cream of Broccoli. However, Gary once drove it to a work function, and the crock pot tipped over just as he was pulling in to the parking spot. He scooped it off the car floor, plopped it back in the crock pot, and left the crock pot on his desk while he drove home to shop-vac the car. However, his warnings about the soup didn't reach the ears of the party organizers, and it was half gone: floor dirt, carpet fibers and all by the time he got back. Of course, I had an identical crock pot biscuits and gravy experience, except I didn't even think of warning my co-workers. I would have gotten away with it if they hadn't found that penny.

Potato soup, which would have been Roasted Garlic and Potato soup had I remembered the garlic:

Acorn Squash, which was new for me:

And finally, Chicken soup:

No soup is complete until Gary has tasted it:

I wonder if Gary has made the connection between his behavior yesterday and my sudden domesticity? Soup = Love.

A Cheer

Gimme a W!

Gary is home sick with the flu. He sent me an e-mail at work today that said, without any irony, that he was optimistic about this clinical trial. He also said something else involving the word "proud" that I can't bring myself to transcribe. Forgive me.

Gimme a T!

I purchased a pre-packaged cup of Ted Drewe's chocolate frozen custard for myself. Gary is sick, so I had no idea he would find this tempting. He swallowed it whole last night, but then re-stocked the freezer with a pint of Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk.

Gimme an F!

I had just this day railed at Gary on Katie's blog about men's inability to do more than balance the new roll on top of the empty roll. I walked into the bathroom this evening and saw a completely untouched roll of toilet paper on the spindle.

I know tomorrow he'll be back to normal, but for tonight I can't think of a bad thing to say about him.

We're at the Part When The Roman Guards ask the Slaves to Identify Spartacus

So I was a little disgusted to hear I have been  too  well to be in the clinical trial for FTY720. In fact, I had a neuro appointment last week and I strongly considered faking a limp, just to spite them. I thought this in particular last week when I had this IM conversation with Caroline:

Me: su does hwe want us to tesat the product befoire or after>
Caroline: Before, I would imagine.
Me: welkl hbouw does he expct us to test it without a sigbed contratc?
Caroline: Get. An. MRI.

Then, Dr. S_________, the doctor actually running the trial, wanted to see me this week. As if I was still a candidate. Dr. S_________ had seen my mother earlier for her spells. That's why I walked in today and said, "Mom said to tell you 'Dalmatian, soccer ball, menu.'" (These were the three words he'd used six months ago to test her memory.) He laughed.

He later tried to test my memory.He said, "I want you to remember three words. I'll ask you later what they are. Dalmatian --"
"Soccer ball, menu!" I finished. Evidently he always uses the same three words. (So, Mom, if you see him again tell him I say "Tiger, boat, violin.")

He also corrected me when I described my brain as looking like Swiss Cheese. "No, it's more like a dalmatian. With the spots."
"Yeah," I said, "When I got my drug list from my GP's file I noticed the medical correspondence kept describing my lesions as 'tiny.'"
"Oh, no. I just saw your MRI. Your lesions are BIG."
Wow, I thought, finally a doctor who is generous with information. Dr. W______ was better than Dr. B________, but this guy doesn't hold back at all!
"Well," he continued, "You do have one tiny pinprick lesion. In your brain stem."
Okay - brain stem? Really? Hold up a moment --
He went on, "But your brain is just right for what we need. CLASSIC MS brain. Textbook! And you're lucky, you don't have any black holes, some people have black holes. You just have two. In spots that are pretty much unused, really..."
So... my dancing skills quadrant? The Portuguese-speaking lobe? Do I still want to hear more? He'd tell me everything if I asked. Let's just not ask right now.

So, at any rate, it would seem the loss of arm function I felt after my arms turned blue was most likely a flare-up: therefore I am sick enough. Now we have to spend a month determining if I am healthy enough. I need to get physicals and work ups from cardiologists to ophthalmologists. Then, if I don't have anything but the MS wrong with me, I get to take either a full dose pill, a low dose pill, or a placebo.

Oh! And I found out the secret to getting into a trial: refuse other drugs if offered. It's a trick question!  I gave the right answer. ("But - whine - then I couldn't be in a trial... pout")

So I'm all happy. I'm just waiting doin' the Spartacus dance. (It's easy, you just stand up. Okay, that would be funny if any of you had actually seen Spartacus.)

Paranoia? You Decide. (A Continuing Series)

So, sometimes I get these Google searches that seem to be aimed directly at me. I don't mean those searching for "Mediocretia." And I don't mean those searching for "women who spread their toes," even though, wow, dudes, who knew? Next time I'm in sandals I'll be spreading them for your amusement.

I mean these searches:
Spunky Labia (it's my porn name, and I checked: no one else has it)
AHM-peer waist (spelled just that way. Spooky)
Gatorade charm bracelet (unless another one of Friend #2's friends wants to get this for her)
"iron lung" bondage toes (now, come on. COME ON! Mom, there's someone for everyone)
And then there's this one:

Okay...I'm not that amazed someone searched for "Copaxone smelly flatulence," I just want to know which of you smelly flatulators is linking to me?

The Prophecies of Doom

Assorted quatrains from the prophet Garydamus:

And lo, the wife shall build
A great and mighty shelving unit
And it shall not stand
Or  stand it shall until the heavy bottles be placed upon it
And she shall  not be placated after the collapse.

**************************

Beware of the water sprinkler
Such as it is, buried into the earth
If the wife does not call and have the minions of the sprinkler cease the flow
There shall be freezing of the water
And bursting of the sprinkler system
And the contamination of the earth under the ground
And the ruination of the grass until the end of days
And the elevation of the water bill
And the Great Flood of the basement
And the destruction of all the stuff
Even unto the wedding dress
And the wife she will not be placated after such destruction
And hot tears shall fall.

************************************

At the end of the days
In the Year Of Our Lord 2020
When the Great One shall cease his labors
There shall be poverty
And the eating of cat food
And the wife will not be consoled.

************************************

I am writing down the words of the Prophet, because I am tired of hearing, "No, I never said [assorted disasters] will happen. Ever! All I ever said were completely positive and encouraging words of support!" Yeah. I bet Mrs. Nostradamus felt the same.

When I Am Old, I Shall Wear Purple and Have Seen A Lot of Movies

Here's the movie meme, but with a twist. Here is the list of AFIs top 100 movies, but instead of bolding the ones I've seen, I'm just going to list the ones I HAVEN'T seen. Stolen heartlessly from ... everyone, but specifically from Carrie.

4. Raging Bull (1980) - Still haven't seen it. I know. I know I said I'd watch this a year ago.
12. The Searchers (1956) - Never heard of it.
18. The General (1927) - Buster Keaton, right? Really? #18? Okay...
27. High Noon (1952) - I've seen the climactic scene. Well, at least the walking down the street part. After that, good guys win, right?
36. The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957) - I can hum the tune. I always confuse this with the Bridge at Remagen, which I watched because it starred George (yummmm) Segal.
43. Midnight Cowboy (1969) - Ends in a bus. Don't need to see it.
45. Shane (1953) - "Shane come back." Don't need to see it.
53. Deer Hunter, The (1978) - Russian Roulette
58. The Gold Rush (1925) - Eats his shoes
59. Nashville (1975) - I always confuse this with Network.
75. In the Heat of the Night (1967) - Sweaty. That's all I know.
79. The Wild Bunch (1969) - I haven't ever HEARD of this movie. Unles it's the one with motorcycles.
91. Sophie’s Choice (1982) - This has to be the only love story in the bunch.
92. Goodfellas (1990) - This has Joe Pesci in it? Right?
95. The Last Picture Show (1971) - BLAME MY MOM. I was watching this and Mom reminded my dad that this was the part when someone takes off her shirt and then suddenly I was in the kitchen and we weren't watching anymore.

So, I still need to see these 15 movies. And to anyone who gasps, "Whaaa! You haven't seen Raging Bull?" I say to you, "Whaa! You haven't seen #82. Sunrise  (1927)?"

Dog Scandal

I met the newest addition to the in-law family this evening. She's a little dachshund named Tinkerbell. Given that my in-laws are 82 and 78, I made a special effort to bond with what will be my dog someday.

Tink, like all S_______ dogs, is a refugee from a dog shelter. Good for them, I say, but it means that the owners have to imagine the dog's history. That's why all the in-law's dogs are said to have been  abused, neglected, and abandoned.

However, they got a little extra information about Tink. She was found in an abandoned apartment with three other dogs, including one Rottweiler. The shelter said a retired couple would be perfect owners for Tinkerbell, because she needed extra attention. She was a sad puppy since she was being separated from this Rottweiler with whom she had formed a special bond.  "As if Tinkerbell thought this dog was her substitute mother," they cooed. The S_______ decided this was a sign from God, they were destined to have this poor abandoned puppy, and they sent her off to be spayed.

The operation revealed these shocking details:

• Tinkerbell? Pregnant! At only 14 in dog years.
• The babies? Half dachshund, half ... Rottweiler!
• The Rottweiler? Evidently not a mother/daughter bond! Freaky!

"So ... " I wondered when Gary told  me that his parents new dog was into Kinky Incestuous Inter-breed Underage S & M / Punishment Sex with Older Bigger Transvestite Rottweilers, "What happened to the Rott-shund puppies?"

"Oh, well they gave Tinkerbell a Cesarean Section, and ... you know ... got rid of the puppies. They would have hurt her if they'd grown to full size."

So, my Catholic in-laws are now proud parents of a  puppy who got an abortion, possibly a partial-birth abortion to save the life of the mother because she likes her men big. I think she IS a gift from God.

This Makes it All Worthwhile

Words of Wisdom That Pay Off:

If you keep the leftover paint from every room you paint, in nineteen years you will need to repaint the laundry room and you wont have to do any cutting in. I just rolled that old paint on top of the paint job  from  nineteen years ago. Aside from wiping off the baseboard from where I bumped it, I didn't have to touch any trim.

It's a dream come true.

The Police police po po po lice po! lice! STFU.

For a boring series of reasons, the only CD in our car at the moment is the second disc of  The Police Live! I don't know what Oliver Sacks would say about it, but I hate this CD. It would appear that they made a 2 CD set by singing every song in front of a live audience and then making guttural sounds for an extra two minutes.

For example:

For the last 40 sec of Synchronicity I, all you hear is  "Syn-chron-i-cit-y " repeated, plus "Cha!"
The final 1:21 of Walking In Your Footsteps is "Walkin in your footsteps " over and over again.
Message in a Bottle - "Sen-din out an SOS" For the last minute. Shut up already.

(It was at this point I found myself pining for a BNL CD. You know. One in which the words actually contribute to the progression of the song. If the words are over, well, let's stop playing the song now. Alternatively, if we are playing an interlude, let's just shut up with the syllables.)

O My God: the last 1:15 is "Fill it up-uh-up, (flip) it up."
De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da: during the last 1:23 min it would seem all I want to say to you is, "yeee-ohhh-ohhh-ohh."

After all this, during the last 1:40 of King of Pain I begin a sarcastic interrogation of Sting. "I'm sorry, who are you again?" (King of pay-ayn) "I didn't catch that." (King of pay-ayn) "Would you mind repeating that?" (King of pay-ayn)

Then it gets really excessive.

Roxanne ends with FOUR MINUTES of "Roxanne -oh -ohhh -0ohheeeeeeoooo."

Cant Stand Losing You -
With 5:16 left we have "You , losing you, ahh uhh"
4:36 till 4:21 : "Cha! Cha!" etc., until ...
3:55, when there is a reprise of "ahh uhh Eee ohhh e yyeahh yeah-ohh" winding up with "yuh yuh yuh yuh"
There is then a musical interlude! No grunting and warbling.
However from 2:41 to 1:21 he makes the  crowd sing along with  "Yeeee-oohhhhh-oohhhhh"
With 1:21 left to go suddenly it's a song again. With lyrics, sort of a "Previously seen on Can't Stand Losing You."

And finally, So Lonely:
From 5:30 to 4:10 I have a little chat with Sting.
"You appear to be experiencing some feelings of lonlieness, hon." (So lonely! So lonely! So lonely!) "Would you like to talk about it?"
From 4:10 to 2:26 he leads the audience in singing "Lo lo lo lo lonely."
At 2:10 he uses entire syllables to introduce the band. On the Drums! Aaron Copeland! No way! I didnt know he played drums.
1:25 "Lonely lonely lonely I feel so I feeel so lo I feel so lo I feel so lonely" until thank God it ends and you have to re-learn English again.

Mine, All Mine

Often, I will be eating chips with my friend Caroline (she's #4) when she will silently hand me a chip. It puzzles me a moment, until I inspect the chip and see it is curly. Caroline knows that I am the owner of all curly chips.

I think this might date from high school, when my friend Dave K______ explained to me the difference between circumcised and uncircumcised penii. He claimed the uncircumcised looked just like the circumcised, except it had the foreskin, which looked kind of like a folded potato chip curled back on itself. This, as I recall, just confused me more, since I had no clue what a circumcised penis looked like, much less one with a curly potato chip of flesh hanging off the end somehow. If it weren't for that guy in figure drawing class I would never have known.

Anyway, I found these chips at the grocery last weekend:

Yes, that is a window so you can see which box has the most curlies. Since Gary knows better than to eat my curlies I ended up getting an equitable chip distribution with this box.

This reminds me. Gary, for some reason, has taken as strong dislike to "suckmahballz." I think we have a new phrase right there. Eatmahcurleez, Gary.

This is Distressing

Finally, finally my beloved Scooba is resurrected. It is Risen! And the angels sing.

(An aside: Scooba The First died when I was still waxing the nethers, so it was a while ago. Scooba the Second died the same way. (Wait - that suggested I was Scooba-ing the nethers. Its just last year was divided ito the pre-Brazillian epoch and the Modern Era.) That's when I Googled and found that the older Scoobas need a firmware update so they don't make their batteries self-destruct. This aside is for those who got here by Googling "My Scooba won't run."  Call iRobot and get the OSMO update device.)

But Scooba is back, Right now the Risen Scooba is licking dog urine off the floor. I've done all I can with the wet mop. but Gary just can't shake the feeling that no matter how much you mop the floor, you just dilute the dog urine. Granted, it may be one part pee to five thousand parts water, but it's still there unless Scooba sucks it up.

During the weeks I waited for the OSMO device Gary tried to put on a brave face. "I like the way the floor looks with the pee film on it."

"Stop it. I'm trying to get this thingee from the Scooba people."

"No, it's like the floor has a golden glow. Like it's been distressed."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Hey! We could have the dog eat oranges, then his pee would be orange-scented! Like Orange Glo, but with ammonia!"

So. Puppy Glo. Look for it in stores near you.

(And if you are grossed out that we've been walking on pee-filmy floors for two weeks, know that I could buy these Kinoki Foot Pads and they will leech out the toxins in my body through the soles of my feet.)

The Great Car Hunt

So, the car quest continues. This weekend we test drove a Toyota Yaris and a Toyota Prius. The Prius was like a spaceship, and it was eco-friendly and it was  disturbingly roomy for Mini owners. So, here's the breakdown:

Prius                    Yaris

Seats 5                10K less than the Prius
49mpg                10K less than the Prius
ecological         10K less than the Prius

The Yaris also has the name going for it. Gary can't remember the name.

"Ellen, do you think the Ya...Ya...Ya-Ya car - what's the name again?"

(I scheme momentarily.) "Yu-rus."

"No! It was Ya something!"

"Ya-rin."

"No!"

"Oh! Yu-rin."

"Yeah!"

So what turned Gary off the Toyota Urine today was the discovery that it doesn't have a tachometer. Well, it does if you get the S model, which has the same engine etc, except for an extra 1500 you get a tachometer. This injustice has him so outraged that Toyota is almost dead to him now and he's talking about the soul-less Honda Seizure again.

UPDATED: Well, the Riverfront Times Can Just Suckmahballz Now.

It's a little alarming when you are scanning your inbound links in Typepad and see "www.CBSnews.com/stories". Then you follow the link back to find an article relating to a CBS Sunday Morning story on Oliver Sacks. (http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/10/14/sunday/main3365434.shtml?source=search_story) After you finish the article you are relieved you didn't see a quote like "Oliver Sacks has been criticized by many, including this cow here with her B.A. in English." But then, if you click the Sphere button after the article, this is what you would have seen yesterday:

Did you just lose ALL respect for CBS news when you saw my blog under "Related Blog Posts" directly across from Katie Couric's blog? What are they thinking?

I figure soon I'll be getting comments from Katie, and she'll be all "So did you get many hits from the CBSnews link?" and I'll be all, "No, only five, and two were me and one was my Mom." And Katie will be all, "Yeah, CBS news sucks. How do you increase traffic on your blog?" and I'll be like "Well, Katie, do you have a vibrator? Or, toes are great for bringing in the hits." And Katie will write "Maybe I can post the link to my colonoscopy video" and I'll reply, "Hey Katie, did your colonoscopy affect the way you decorated your bathroom?"

=====================

UPDATED:
Number of hits from CBS news - still five.
Number of hits from the Riverfront Time's link: seven, respectable, and thanks for taking the bait even though you declined my offer.
Number of hits from I SWEAR TO GOD THE WALL STREET JOURNAL: six! So far! These Sphere people are nuts.

Grilled Chocolate Sandwich, as Promised

Today is the last day of the phantom period, in which I have all the signs of my monthly time except the issue of tissue.

Because I keep my promises, here is the recipe for the Grilled Chocolate Sandwich.

One: Menstruate.

Two: Melt butter, split croissants and fry.

Three: Flip croissants and add chocolate, in this case Russell Stover. And be sure to take a bite to test the quality.

Four: Let chocolate melt.

Five: Salt lightly and serve.

Don't skip step one, because otherwise this is just gross.

Music Update

Okay, so it would seem that Oliver Sacks agrees with me that an obsession with music is related to  neurological problems; he has a new book: Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain. I would feel vindicated except I really can't stand Oliver Sacks.   He reminds me of Jim Garrison making a case for a JFK conspiracy theory. "Lee Harvey Oswald and Clay Shaw both used the same post office in New Orleans!" He's not saying it means anything, he's just putting it out there. Because it's a completely meaningless but sexy bit of trivia. That's dishonorable enough if you're an ex-doctor like Michael Crichton,  but Oliver Sacks has some credibility. That's why it ticks me off so much when he interrupts some interesting tale in The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat or Migraine to speculate that his unfortunate brain-damaged patient has no soul.

Of course, my late in life music obsession may be dwindling. I say this because Gary bought a Rob Zombie CD today and I found no value in it. Of course, I only heard the first few songs. Perhaps Track 7 is a lyrical and articulate precis of the situation in Rwanda.

On the other hand, I particularly liked the snippet of Alanis Morrisette's new song Not As We on House last Tuesday. (You can click that link to hear the snippet, but only if you don't mind seeing a distracting Alanis Montage at the same time.) It's not as warbly as her first two CDs and not as sugary as Everything. It's a nice balance.

Not that I know anything about music, because I really only started listening a few years ago when I lost my soul.

In Which I Make a New Sound

I made a new sound tonight, one I've never made before. It kind of scared me. I don't blame the drink, I blame the company.

First of all, when the bartender began mixing the Purple Haze that Friend #3 suggested I try, he brought out the Chambord.

"Yay!" I crowed, "it's the Holy Hand Grenade! How does that go?"

Friend #2 gestured grandly at Friend #3, who launched into:"'O Lord, bless this Thy hand grenade that, with it, Thou mayest blow Thine enemies to tiny bits in Thy mercy.' And the Lord did grin, and the people did feast upon the lambs and sloths and carp and anchovies and orangutans and breakfast cereals and fruit bats and large chu-- (Skip a bit, Brother.) And the Lord spake, saying, 'First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then, shalt thou count to three. No more. No less. Three shalt be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, nor either count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then, lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in My sight, shall snuff it."

So that was pretty entertaining.

Then after two Purple Hazes, pretty much everything became entertaining. Eventually Friend #3 drove me home. Before we even got out of the parking lot, though, we happened to spy the Pizza Street Mascot walking to work. He was not on the clock, however, so he wasn't waving. He was striding in to work, and if you can imagine a businessman walking to work with his briefcase, except take away the briefcase and add a Foam Rubber Pepperoni Pizza costume, that's what we saw.

"Ellen," Friend #3 murmured calmly, " I don't want you to be afraid, but, that is a man dressed as a slice of pizza. It isn't a real slice of pizza walking in to that store."

At that point my typical aspirated HHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhha! turned into a new laugh, one that Friend #3 identified as the laugh of Muttley the Dog. Kind of scary.

Return to Room 19

Dear Doris Lessing,

First, woohoo! Congratulations on the Nobel prize! You may not know this, but you wrote my favorite short story, To Room 19. For years, when asked what my favorite story is I've given To Room 19 as the answer. This morning it struck me: I can not recall what To Room 19 is about.

This is sad, because your story made a huge impact on me in college. Life-and-personality changing impact. No recall whatsoever, Doris. It's like saying, oh, my favorite song is The Beatles "Yesterday," and then someone asks you to sing it and you can't remember the tune or lyrics, or, anything, except it's your favorite.

I tried in vain to find it in my books. I went through every Norton's Anthology I own (well, I only own three). I tried to find it on the Internet, and I could not.Still, what I found was sufficient to remind me of the theme.

The woman in your short story is in an "intelligent" marriage and lets reason dictate all her life choices. It does not end well for her (suicide, I think, in a hotel room). It was a revelation to me that reason divorced from emotion could fail, especially in marriage.

Soon after I read your story I began dating Gary. I just want to thank you for making my life hell. Because of your words I find myself trapped on this emotional .... emotional ... no, I will not say emotional roller coaster to someone who won the Nobel Prize ... emotional goose winter, this emotional funfair that is marriage to Gary.

I could have married a cold, rational, logical sort. He would talk me into threesomes like the husband in your story (it came back to me eventually). I'd be getting laid every night and calmly discussing world politics the next morning. But no. I had to start making decisions based on emotions, like love. I blame you and your irresponsible art.

So, yeah, thanks Doris. Suck my balls.

Measure Twice, Cut Once

I am in the process of organizing my laundry room. To this end  I went online and bought a  freestanding wire shelving unit. It is designed to fit over the washer and dryer. (Gary saw it and said "OR we could put it in the garage!" because he wants to see me take the scissors to the bedspread again.)

These shelves were made for this washer/dryer. The perfect size. I carefully, carefully measured the washer and dryer, the width from floor to ceiling, the depth, the height, and every dimension of the laundry room.  I studied. I ordered. It came.

The second step of the directions: Take a hacksaw and cut the shelves down to the size you want.

THE SHELVES ARE TOO LONG. Because I am expected to cut them down. Because I bought them from Home Depot and of course we all love to hacksaw through wire shelves. Bastards.

So far I've made one cut. I was too timid and I will need to cut more. I want to stalk into the Home Depot with these shelves, fling them onto the table saw, grab the intercom and  demand some  lackey give me what they sold me.

How About "I HATE YOU ALL" Week?

Friend #2 intermittently has "Orange Week." And by intermittently I mean every 28 days. Or, to be clear, every time her uterus sheds its lining. I don't want to be coy.

Friend #3 goes "Bowling." Bowling requires some explanation. We had the Educational Archives Lunch Box Set at a girl's night out. You should check it out, because it's a compilation of all those bad, bad educational filmstrips and movies you saw in high school. And that includes the Kotex Production of It's Wonderful Being a Girl, in which our heroine learns that you can still have fun AND have your period as long you "take it easy."  "No, sweetie, you can't go swimming with the giant rat mattress between your thighs, but bowling is fun!" (Cut to our heroine bowling with a decidedly resigned air, as if to say, "Shit, I hate my period, but it's a beautiful and wonderful part of being a woman. And it's so easy to bowl wearing Kotex!")

Given that there is so little lining left in my uterus, you would think this would be a non-issue for me. However, today when I had a fistful of Doritos in one hand and a tiny Mr. Goodbar in the other it occurred to me: this is the week I would have a period if I had any uterine lining left! It's white pill week! That's why I hate you all with the searing force of  a laid-off alcoholic neo-Nazi who was sexually abused as a child!  I'm not really a bad person! I'm just a moron!

I think I need my own version of those medical diagnosis flowcharts: Are you a bitch? If yes, do chocolate covered potato chips sound good? If yes, do you want all your co-workers to die? If yes, has this happened in the last 28 days?

Better yet, I need a cool euphemism just for  myself  like Friends 2 through 3 have. For those Special Days when I need that chocolate-salt combo. Pretzel Flipz. Chocolate sundae with buttered salted pecans at Oberweis Dairy. A croissant split in half, fried in butter, and a Hershey's bar sandwiched between (I'm doing it, I swear.  A Grilled Chocolate sandwich.)

Oh, that gives me an idea! I think I've found my euphemism. "Chef Week," in honor of Chef's Chocolate Salty Balls:

Gary and His Decision-Making Process

Here is Gary pondering breakfast out:
"What should I get...hmm...eggs? No, I feel like waffles. No! Oatmeal! Oatmeal sounds great."
Then the waitress arrives.
"The Light Egg white omelet with sausage and a side of bacon. And a bowl of cheese. And a side of salt pork."

It's divergent decision-making in action. I mention this because Gary is shopping for a new car. He has narrowed it down to:

A Prius
A Nissan Z
A Hummer
A Honda Si

(And he's still considering the Honda Grand Mal, but they are hard to find.)

So we trolled the car lots tonight. There were no Hummers to test drive. I think he was just saying that to test the level of dickishness I will tolerate. I said nothing, so he sat in a red Mazda Miata. He crawled in and took the Boulevard of Broken Ribs off to East Cliche, on a direct route to his Midlife Crisis.  Thankfully, he got out and realized Miatas are red because then the blood doesn't show.

But then, we realized that since we tend to keep cars until they invent new car audio systems, we need to get a sports car this time around if we want to drive it to work instead of the nursing home.  That's when the Z came in. It felt good. It was two years old with 20,000 miles. It was in our price range.

But, we didn't buy it. Given the number of two-year old Zs on that lot, we can take our time. We still have to test a Prius ("Huge behemoth car!") and drive an Si. And then he will buy a Suburban or some other off-the-wall thing.

If they put Suburbans by the cash registers at Bob Evans I bet we'd have one.

Mmmm Lung

Gary arrived home after visiting the Petco pet store. I could tell he was home by the distinctive way he screamed, "Honey! I'm home!" Actually, he screamed, "COME SEE THIS THIS IS AMAZING YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS THING I FOUND AT THE PET STORE!"

I went to the kitchen and found out that the amazing thing was a new snack, Lamb Lung Chips. I swear to you, it's dehydrated lung alveoli. From iddie bidda bayyyyby lambkins.

I asked Gary, "That sounds tasty and unusual. Why don't they make lamb chunks for people snacks?"

"They do! They're called ... something."

"Sweetbreads?"

"No," he said, "Those are the testicles, not the lungs."

I paused a moment, then said as I headed for the PC room, "Excuse for me a moment. I need to go write something down."

"No! No! I was wrong. Sweetbreads are the ... thymus?"

"Okay. So we'll be feeding our dog chopped up sheep lungs."

"Not sheep. Lamb. Because they are younger and their lungs are tender."

"Right, because it's when they hit adolescence and start smoking, then you can't use the lungs."

"It seems a little inhumane to eat the lungs. Think of all those baby lambs trapped in little iron-lung machines after they've had their lungs removed."

Travel Plans

Projects have been shuffled at work, and it turns out that I get to go to Atlanta in a month or so.

First thought: Anderson Cooooooooooooooooper!
Second thought: Hey,  I could eat at that place Gary told me about. They have fondue and alligators. They don't serve alligator, they have live ones in the decor.
Third thought: Coca -cola tour ... neh. Yawn.
Fourth thought: CNN tour! Exciting!
Fifth thought: Anderson Cooooooooooooooooper..........mmm.

Gang of Thieves

This is a true story. The numbers have been changed to protect the innocent.

You wouldn't think that lunch with friends #2.1, 3.3333, 4.5, and 7.007 would cause much drama, given that our average age is 42. We went to the quiet Italian place by work to eat, vent, celebrate projects that are finished,  flirt with the waiter, and so on. At one point we noticed there was a brass plaque by our table that read:

Reserved
Robert Taylor

I'm reserved, I said, no one ever gave me a plaque. We speculated Robert Taylor might be the drummer for Duran Duran. Friend #2.1, or Hot Mom, proved her cool by knowing that's Roger Taylor.  We asked the waiter to find out and get back to us, but instead he let it slip that the restaurant was going out of business. (Or he may have been encouraging us to leave when he said "This place is closing Tuesday.")

We said "awww."

In one motion Hot Mom whipped out her Swiss Army Knife and opened it to the screwdriver. "Quick, get that plaque," she demanded to Sainted Mormon Friend #7.007. We all laughed, the waiter left, and Hot Mom (whom I witness had only iced tea with lemon) swapped places with the Mormon and started coolly unscrewing the plaque from the wall.  I can't give you a more accurate description because we were all pointedly staring away from her so as not to attract attention.

She got one screw entirely out and dropped it casually on the table. She was working on the remaining screw when the only other restaurant patron got up, turned to leave, and stared at her with disbelief. Then he came over.

"What are you doing to that plaque?"

We all laughed, because we were busted, but he'd come over instead of alerting the management.

"Ha! Who wants to know?"

"That's my plaque. I'm Robert Taylor."

"Oh you LIE!" we chorused, because obviously if he had been Robert Taylor, he would have been at his table instead of us. But it would seem flirty waiter is unclear on what the word "Reserved" means, because let me tell you, that Robert Taylor is a really cool guy. He's not reserved at all, either, he talked to us for about half an hour.

Hot Mom screwed the plaque back in, but Robert Taylor let it be known that he has another plaque at Yellowstone Cafe. We might have to go looking for him again. 

Rocking in the Boy's Room

Gary's Check Engine light is toying with his emotions, so I picked him up today. First, though, I knew I would have to visit the bathroom, so he came down to let me in the lobby before we left. He said "I'll wait right out here, in the hall."

While I sat in the bathroom I was surprised to hear Gary in the men's room on the other side of the wall. First, I heard him knocking a rhythm on the wall. I almost knocked back, but I thought, "Well, Gary might still be in the hall and I don't want to send any secret codes in the bathroom, because I might find myself in a homosexual tryst."

Then I heard more Gary-specific noise. I thought, "That drum roll sound is just like the sound that the toilet paper roll makes when Gary grabs the strip and then flings his arm out so 100 feet of paper reels off which he then wraps around his hand 1000 times. I would imagine. If I'd ever seen it. Which I haven't."

Then I heard that drum roll sound change to a drum roll / paradiddle / fast rock beat. I grabbed my phone and called Gary. (Yes. Before I stood up. I'm lowering my standards. I peed in the shower last week too. There's a first time for everything. Shut up. Do you want to hear the rest of this story or not? )

"Gary," I whispered, because I have a little shame, "Are you in the bathroom?"
"Yes. Are you in the hall?"
"No. I'm in the bathroom ...  I can hear you."
"No way." (Pause) "I'm just urinating. You can't hear that."
I let that go. "No, you're drumming!"
"Ha! Yes, there's a shelf here over the urinal and I was drumming on it."

I was thinking later that night as we shuttled the Check Engine car to the dealer that it was great that I could recognize my husband's distinctive bathroom sounds and drum riffs. Then I was struck by the question that has already crossed your minds.

"Gary. How did you drum with both hands and urinate at the same time?"
"Well, I don't have to hang on to it all the time."
I WAS STAGGERED. What a man! What control! It can even shake itself!
He saw the awe on my face and clarified that really, while he's waiting to start he doesn't need to hang on (not going anywhere), but if he's started he stops drumming and latches on.

Still, it was pretty impressive for a moment.

The Greatest News Story Ever Told

Excerpted from the best news story EVER:

Lawmaker Shows Nude Photo to Students
NORWALK, Ohio — A state legislator surprised a high school class when the computer he was using projected a photo of a nude woman during a lecture on how a bill becomes a law. 

[Hah! This has to be fake, right? Hey! I checked Snopes! IT'S TRUE! I'm just a bill, and I'm sitting here on Capitol Hill, and HELLO I HAVE BOOBS.]

State Rep. Matthew Barrett was giving a civics lesson Tuesday when he inserted a data memory stick into the school computer and the projected image of a topless woman appeared instead of the graphics presentation he had downloaded. Barrett said he immediately pulled the memory stick out of the computer. 

[Haah! Go back and read that paragraph again! It can't be true!  But it is! Wasn't "pulled the memory stick out" just as funny the second time?]

"I have no idea where these came from," the Democrat said. 

[I am so happy to be a woman. Because if I were not, I'd be a man, and I wouldn't find this as funny as I do.]

Break Your Tooth

(This is the post you were supposed to get yesterday, but then the dog started  defecating representations of the male reproductive organs. Today he's back to representations of the lymphatic system, so I can post what I want.)

Yesterday, I went to the dentist for a crown.  As  usual, I  begged for drugs.  Novocaine, nitrous, and keep it coming sister. Don't you cut it with air, either.  This hygienist had a heavy hand with the goods, so I didn't have to slap a bitch.

Well, at least that's how it started.  The hygienist got me going on air at first, then I got the Novocaine, and then the dentist came in and  shut off  the nitrous. Then I punched her in the gut. Well, then I made the buggy eyes at the hygienist and she cranked me back up when the dentist left for a moment.

I snaked the iPod earbuds  through the nitrous mask, the cushy pillow, and the big black safety sunglasses.  The first song that popped up was "Break Your Heart" and I found great comfort in it. Because it had the singing, and the screaming, and it was live and amazing. So when I got to the end I tapped Repeat.

Then some odd nitrous-fueled paranoia made me tap Repeat again. And again and again for the next hour and a half. And I started to get that sense that the music was being drilled and glued and sculpted into my new crown, just like  my brother's fight with his girlfriend still lives in my sofa table.

As they whittled my tooth down, they had my jaw open so wide my nose pushed up like a pig. This meant the precious nitrous was seeping under the mask, and the only people feeling the groove were the ones destroying my tooth. I almost clutched the mask like Dennis Hopper in  Blue Velvet  (mommy!) but they recognized the DTs in my eyes and took little breaks so I could shut my mouth and inhale.

After the dentist left, the hygienist and I discussed nitrous mask designs (they make them with tubes that go right up your nostrils - I'm buying one for my next visit) and the 80's soft rock she's forced to listen to. I poked my iPod in her ear and she confessed she likes Break Your Heart. Still, she insisted on humming along with John Denver muzak while I was humming my song, so we had a little hum turf war.

I got home, detoxed, and tried to see if I could play the riffs for that song, because I believe just a little in Prof. Hill's Think System. It sounded fair; in fact I think having the song embedded in my temporary crown helped me strum 3/4 time.

A Post Under Protest

Gary: "Auuughghgh! Come look at this!"

Ellen: "Auuughghgh!"

Gary: "Auuughghgh! That is GREAT!"

Ellen: "Auuughghgh!"

Gary: "That HAS to go on your blog!"

Ellen: "The hell it does!"

Gary: "Are you kidding? This is GREAT! This is amazing."

Ellen: "No. This is gross."

Gary: "This is like ... like ... like a monolith!"

Ellen: "What are you doing - no! Not the camera! You are sick. This is sick!"

Gary: "I need to get the lighting just right."

Ellen: "Seriously, I'm not putting a picture of that on my blog. That is sick. And people will think I'm perverted. And that I have no control, in my own house, and that we should never be permitted to have children."

Gary: "YOU HAVE TO!"

Ellen: "Really, I already talk too much about that on my blog. People will think I'm obsessed."

Gary: YOU HAVE TO YOU HAVE TO!"

So, fine, I have to. If you are not at work, and you have a strong stomach, and if you will not report me to the authorities, and if you think Gary has even remotely good taste and want to be completely disabused of that notion, then DON'T CLICK THE OLD LINK BECAUSE IT IS UNEXPECTEDLY PERVERTED, BUT INSTEAD CLICK THIS LINK.*

But don't blame me. Because I told you not to. In fact, I beg you, don't click that link. Unless you are a fourteen year old boy.  Seriously, don't click it. And don't get a dog. Really.

* UPDATE! Gary came home today and took one look at that image on the giant 24" monitor and called me screaming, "AUUUUGGHGHGGHH! I HAD NO IDEA IT LOOKED LIKE THAT! THAT"S PERVERTED!" He says it was the high-resolution on the big screen that made him aware of the phallic properties of the poo sculpture. So, we have swapped it out for a photo of vertical (!) dog poo that is more in shadow and less anatomically correct. Sigh. Hidey-ho.