Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

(Birth) Control Freak

As I understand it, the first version of the consent form for this clinical trial said "I will not have babies." (Sign here.) The next version was more specific.

The version after that says, "If you are a woman who can have children...you should use 2 forms of effective contraception simultaneously." Ugh, I thought. I'm on the Pill. Pill and condoms? Have they improved condoms since my fifth anniversary? That's the first and last time I used one, when I was on antibiotics (thus reducing the Pill's effectiveness). I understand they have heated ones now. So, even though you are screwing Latex Man, at least it isn't Cold Dead Latex man.

So I made an appointment to see the OB-GYN regarding getting my tubes tied, especially since Gary's offer of a vasectomy was withdrawn after 12 hours.

Before the appointment, though, the next version of the form came out. "What," I joked before I read it, "I have to use three forms of birth control now?" The nurse and doctor laughed a shade too heartily and exchanged a look. Here's what the latest form says:

"You should use 2 forms of effective contraception simultaneously, at least one of which should be a primary form (see below):

Primary: Hormonal contraception, Tubal sterilization, Partner's vasectomy, IUD
Secondary: Male latex condom with spermicide, Diaphragm with spermicide, Cervical cap with spermicide, Vaginal sponge containing spermicide.

...Total abstinence is acceptable where the age, career, lifestyle, or sexual orientation of the patient ensures the prevention of pregnancy. "

So, here are some choices:
Become a Lesbian
Become a career Nun
Become aged
Use a sponge (they make those again?) plus the Pill
Have a doctor install an IUD while I'm getting my tubes tied
Get my tubes tied and Gary's tubes tied
Get my tubes tied and use the Pill

Or, what I really want, which is to just go ahead and have whatever type of freak MONSTER babies that might come out. I would so totally keep it in the bathroom.

Mr. President

Yesterday while I was at work I worked myself in way over my head.   I was thrashing around in an ADL SCORM software package and none of it made sense. Years of experience with trashing has taught me what to do. Bypass the manual. Go visit the online support.  I IM'ed the company.

Dave: Dave here. What is your question?

Ellen: Hi, Dave [I always try to be nice to the support guys.] I'm trying to test my zip file with the ADL Test Suite [blah blah, snip snip, this IM has been edited for time and content. Suffice to say, after 20 minutes, Dave ended up saying this:]

Dave:   I am not familiar enough with this particular software. Please wait as I transfer you to someone who may be able to help you.

[Long wait. Unwisely, I check blogs and become giggly and perhaps a little juvenile.]

Steve: Hello, Ellen, this is Steve.

Ellen: Steve! Hi Steve!

Steve: Hello, how may I help you?

[This company is run by someone named Steve H_______. I know, because I read the technical forums and he sometimes answers questions, and signs his entries Steve H_______, President.]

Ellen: Is this The Steve? Like, PRESIDENT Steve?

[Long Pause. Long enough for me to evaluate what I had just typed and make me truly wish I hadn't hit Enter. Thankfully, he came back after three long minutes with:]

Steve: Yes   ; - )

Ellen: [Recovering quickly] Squee!

[See? See what you have done to me? You darn kids.]

Steve: How may I help you?

[Edit. Snip. Suffice it to say, Steve (El Presidente)  helped. I finished up with:]

Ellen: Thnak you, Steve, you were very heplful.

Ellen: Sorry. *heplful.*

Ellen: I can;t type because I'm so excited to be IMing with the President.

Steve: lol

Spirited Debates

Back in 1988, I was in the kitchen, making dinner or some such nonsense (it was a long time ago) while I waited for Gary to come home. He was coming home to watch the debate with me. Dan Quayle had just compared himself to JFK. Of course, his opponent Lloyd Bentsen had just coolly laid him out with "Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy. I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy."

The garage door went up seconds later. Gary opened the door before my jaw came up off the floor.

"Oh my GOD!" I roared.

"OH MY GOD!" he shrieked.

"You would not believe what he just SAID!"

"I KNOW! They're playing the debate on NPR!"

"OH MY GOD!"

"OH MY GOD! I KNOW!"

"OH MY GOD!"

I know! We should have our own news analysis show! Oh my God!

Anyway, since that debate we've waded through a multitude of debates waiting for some good bitchiness. Hillary did not disappoint with her response to queries about Bill C's beliefs. ("Well, he's not up here, is he?") I heard there were some fireworks during the  first ten minutes of last week's debate, but none that I saw.

Ah, but tonight's debate? Gary came in half an hour late. And I greeted him with:

"OH MY GOD!"

"Good debate?"

I spun about and waved my arms randomly. "OH MY GOD!"

Seriously, I want a Wikipedia page devoted to Anderson Cooper's "What's up with that?" remark. And the "did not" "did so" exchange at the beginning with Mitt and Rudy. And every crazy Ron Paul rant, and Anything Huckabee Said. It was exciting! Better than broadcast TV. Catch it any of the ten thousand times they repeat it on CNN.

(A complete aside: As I type this I just saw the back of Keith Olbermann's head again.)

Fun With Hebrew

(Sings lustily from rooftop) Traaaaaaaaaaadition! TRADITION! (tradition!)

The one Holiday tradition I have followed for fifteen years is to throw the Tea Party. Then, last year, the Croup descended on the land and the Tea was delayed. And now I'm just not feeling the Annual Tea this year. Usually the weather changes and I start planning how I can invent Pud-Pie-Flan (a flan stuffed in a pie stuffed in a pudding). 

This leaves me with one other Holiday Tradition (tradition!), and that is the yearly Vain Attempt at Memorizing the Hanukkah Prayer for my Friend of the Jewish Persuasion, or Friend#3 for short. Latin was easy. Hebrew is freaking hard.

I'll probably start with my yearly study of BNL's Hanukkah Blessings which contains the prayer sung in Hebrew. You would think that would make it easier to memorize, but I think my brain gets hung up on the right-left brain switch. Much like trying to say the alphabet without lapsing into the Alphabet Song.

Hebrew is really really hard. HARD! I've failed at this the last three years. I can do the first line, but after that Friend #3 corrects my pronunciation every other word so that I never get through it. By "b'mitzvosav" I start to stutter. I think she's putting me through her own little shiksa Bat Mitzvah.

Ellemon

Well, the Pussy Pancreas decided to be all shy during the second CAT Scan, and disguise the cyst in some way so that results were inconclusive. (Hai! I R Toiying wid U like a mouse!) However, the trial continues apace, and I have the ophthalmologist and the MRI yet to do tomorrow.

I have a great hate on for this pancreatic cyst, yet it still doesn't even come close being the worst cyst of my life. You know how my family looks to the Discovery Health Channel for consolation when things seem bad? ("Are you feeling sorry for yourself? Yes, okay, but are you a Little Person? No? You could be a Little Person with a cyst, you whiner.") However, I am away from the TV tonight so I cannot console myself with TV shows about Little People Who Have It Worse Than I, or Some Woman Who Evidently Has Twins AND Sextuplets. Instead I will take this moment to remember cysts I have known, including the Worst Cyst of My Life.

Men? Run. If you value the happy little Land of Labia in your mind Bob Guccione has built for you in which all the nethers are pink and perfect, then exit. Women, if you are strong, join the Cysterhood and belly up for ...

The Tale of the Labial Cyst I Had THE Size of A LEMON I Sweartogawd

(Oh, yes. Yes I will go there. At the end of this tale you'll be all, "Oh, yeah, cysts on your pancreas are nothing.")

So one Friday I was taking a class along with my co-workers, and I noticed after noon it was a little uncomfortable to sit. I shifted around for an hour until I took to sitting on my foot and thus elevating my pudenda off the chair. At three o'clock I went to my boss and told him I was taking off for an emergency doctors visit. I did not explain why, even when he asked if I was okay.

Technically, since all the doctors were off that lovely Friday afternoon, I saw the nursing staff. One might have been a nurse practitioner. All I know is they had me assume the position and peered at my mysteries.

"Oh, that's a cyst. Lower Left Quadrant." I don't know if they said "left," but that is where it was, and it had such substance by this time that if they'd said it had hair and teeth and a face I would not have been surprised. They also said something about "Bartholin's Gland."

Now, if you want a very clear image of what was going on down there, you COULD Google "Bartholin's Gland Cyst," then click Images, then never have sex again. I would have given you a link, but I thought Gary might click it on his Blackberry and become impotent immediately. So, in lieu of an image, I'll just say if you somehow had access to my labia, and if you could somehow slide a lemon right under the skin as you do with turkey stuffing, and position the lemon under my labia right by my delicate winking pink anus, then you would get an idea of how it looked.

Hm, you say, how does she know how it looked? Didn't they get rid of it at the doctors office? No, they said, you'll have to wait until Monday when all the doctors are back.

I believe my face said, "Oh hell no I won't. Get this monster off of me. "

She drawled, "If you thought you could, I suppose you could express it yourself." Well. Slap me in the face with the glove. I did indeed believe I could express it myself, thankyou. She recommended a long sit on the couch on top of a heating pad wrapped in a towel. And, sometime Sunday, I was very glad for the towel, because we had a white couch at the time. The "self-expression" lasted only a moment, yet that cyst had been so significant I didn't sit normally for a week due to phantom pain.

Why did I bring this up? I remember on the Barenaked Cruise Message Board I brought this up because men were posting inappropriately to the "Girl Talk" thread and I imagined this might make them go away. Instead, one wag commented, "Why did they say the doctor could express it if it wouldn't be until Monday?" (I remember this in particular because I didn't get that joke for a month.  Then when I was standing in line somewhere I thought, "Oh! Express! Ahahahaha")

I remember, that's why I brought it up, I was reviewing evil cysts I have known. Since then, the fruit bowl of my loins has not presented any more lemons, or even any other cysts larger than a mandarin orange segment. I've had one bit of breast gristle, one ovarian cyst the size of a pea, and now this minuscule inconsequential grape of a pancreas cyst. Ha. It's nothing.

See? See how that works?

Gina asks: "How is Tinkerbell?"

When Gary ferried Mac and I to the in-laws for Thanksgiving dessert, I asked, "So, how is Tinkerbell behaving?"

"She's a biter," Gary said, "So far she bit Mac and Moses. She hasn't bit Willow yet."

"What's Willow's secret? Does she run? Show her belly?"

"Mom says Tinkerbell doesn't like boy dogs because she was, as Mom says .... " (he whispered) "Are-Ay-Pee-e-Deed."

It took me a second. "Oh. Well, you can't make assumptions. Maybe it was consensual."

Meet Sarah

Hi. I'm Sarah.

I've been watching your husband naked in the shower.

I inspected the bottle of Lush Rehab shampoo you bought when some blogger (probably Jammies) convinced you to spend an absurd amount of money on hair care, then I put this sticker on it.

I have been fixing your husband with  my playful gaze for some time. He has fallen under my spell. The other day when you bought the Philosophy skin care line because Sugared Harpy and Amalah recommended it (you sheep)  Gary said "I think I'll get some shampoo too." He got some Sephora Margarita shampoo/body wash/gel stuff for $17. You didn't care because you use the Be Curly shampoo because Dana from Mamalogues® recommended it. Baaaaaa.

When Gary brought that into my shower and put it next to my empty bottle, I almost spoke to him. Instead, I just looked at him with a slightly more accusing "I know what you did, you naughty boy" gaze.

That is why he told you that things weren't working out with the $17 shampoo, and he wanted more of ME. Me me me! And then you went out and bought a Forty Dollar Bottle of Shampoo (Lush Rehab! Try it! It's Great!) because your husband is under my command.

Next I'm telling him to kill you. Just so you know.

I've Been Tagged!

I''ve been tagged by the delightful Kathy, for Seven Random things. The challenge will be to find seven Random NEW things, unlike these things, or these.

 

1. I once puked because my brother was blowing the raw whites out of eggs in preparation for Easter. I'm thinking of this because of that commercial that shows you how to quickly shell a hard-boiled egg.

2. My Junior High School art teacher once fondled my friend L______  inappropriately, and I was jealous, because really I was much more talented than she was.

3. I almost immediately lost the first dollar I ever earned. My uncle had some porn sent to my Dad's address, and my brother extricated it from  the mailbox before Dad got to it. He was intrigued by the stamp from Sweden. (Years ago, children, porn had to come all the way from Sweden, instead of being piped directly onto your pc.) I knew about Dave's actions and he paid me a dollar to keep quiet. I did keep quiet until Mom came home.

4. I have a serious cuticle-picking problem. I need help.

5. I had a crush on "Fargo North, Decoder," from Zoom.

6. Okay, right now Gary is listening to "King of Pain" just to bug me, but it's the one from the Alanis Unplugged album.

7. I can't watch the Winter Olympic without fantasizing that I suddenly lose 90 pounds and develop the ability to skate/ski/toboggan well enough to medal in the Olympics. I mean, I'm only 45. It could happen!

I am tagging people who rarely post on their blogs: Libby, Marcia, Robin, Mom,  and those who post regularly, like Becs, ~~Silk, and ... um ... you, whomever you are.

Black Friday Fun

Usually we don't make it out of the house until four on Black Friday, but this year we got out early enough to have trouble getting a parking space. We spent a truly delightful hour as Gary refused to be an asshole over and over again. "No, even though we've got a straight shot, she's been waiting longer, so she deserves that parking space." What a sweetie.

Instead, we parked on the other side of Manchester and hiked to the mall. However, if you want to have fun on Black Friday, here's what you do: wander around the parking lot with keys out, bags in your hands. Then when several cars are stalking you, you run up the hill out of the lot and disappear across Manchester Road. Ahahahahha!

Culture Shock

Because I anticipate being out late today, I'm posting this bite of information:

Canadians celebrated Thanksgiving a month ago.

Americans among you, did you KNOW this? I just found this out. Well, last month.

Plus, very few of them eat my Special Green Beans on Thanksgiving. (And I tasted - cheddar french fried onions are a winner.)

So, Canadian Thanksgiving - did anyone know?

Bizzaro Turkey Day

A few weeks ago I told Gary that I was concerned that this was going to be a particularly bad Thanksgiving for the S__________s, because it's the first family gathering since the wedding/funeral in August. The holidays are stressful; then pair that with the in-laws preferred stress-buster: whirl on the person next to you and scream at them. (I am more subtle, I just distance myself from my friends/family. I don't actually yell at them.)

Gary agreed and astonished me by suggesting I hole up in the house with the dog and "watch his paw." I see why the dog had to be watched the first few days his paw was bandaged, but I think he's safe now. However, caring for a sick dog is probably the only excuse for missing Thanksgiving at the in-laws. "Oh, sorry, can't make Thanksgiving, I've been invited to the Vatican's Thanksgiving." Unacceptable. "But the dog might chew on his paw! And he just lost a toenail!" "Oh my God. Why are you here? Go, be with the dog. Do you want me to make you a plate?"

(You may wonder, why isn't Mac the dog invited to Thanksgiving? Because the in-laws new dog Tinkerbell is a biter. She's bitten Mac three times now, the whore.)

Of course, this means I can take the dog to Mom's and have Thanksgiving there. This is unprecedented. Wilma does so much for Thanksgiving I'm surprised there isn't a Thanksgiving Black Hole at her house that sucks strangers through her patio door. Whereas Mom (even when she was well) celebrated Thanksgiving  by cooking a Turkey and putting it on the counter. During the day family members would come by and pick off their favorite parts. I usually nabbed the skin; by the time others floated through the kitchen there'd be a flayed turkey.

So, Bizarro Thanksgiving:
Locale: At Mom's, not the in-laws
Attendees: two quiet people, not nine loud people
Food: Mom says she's been craving an egg. I bought a pork dinner thinking it was a turkey dinner. I'm still making "Ellen's Special Green Bean Casserole," but have you seen? The recipe on the can now calls for Cheddar French Fried Onions. I'm doing it. I'll let you know. (See Me? See me taking the risks for you? I'm such a guinea pig.)

I think the two of us should go around the table and say what we aren't Thankful for.

I-can-has-iodine?

LOLPancreas

Hai!
I R in Ur Abdomens
Making U all worriedz.

Oh Noes
Pancrees tests is hard
Don't knows till Caturday.

(Ahahahahahah. CAT scan. I kill me.)

(It occurs to me Mom now thinks she's having a stroke. Mom, go here.)

Body Worlds

A week ago I was eating lunch at Pasta House with Miscellaneous Numbered Friends. (Nee the Heartless Cows.) Caroline picked up the advertisement for Body Worlds 3, an exhibition of anatomy at the Science Center.

Caroline expressed her appreciation for the good taste the designers showed for "not showing the FLAYED BODY on the advertisement as they usually do." (Flayed body! Click here!) Still, the words "Body Worlds 3" almost put her off her feed just from the association the have with flayed bodies.

I am allllll about the flayed bodies. I went to the Body Worlds exhibit, and I dragged Gary. And I pinned his chest to the ground with my knee to keep him from running screaming into the distance.

Body Worlds 3, if you don't know, is an exhibition of plastinated bodies. Human bodies. Specifically, men's bodies  and women's bodies (see critiques below). These bodies are posed in their plastinated forms in various graceful positions. And then often sliced up. For your viewing pleasure. There were also some farmyard animal bodies, and that would be why you don't want to bring the kids. That chicken and that lamb did not sign a consent form.

(The exhibit makes a great point of showing that the bodies were all donated to the plastination people. I noted this since the neurologist joked he might take the kids to show them what happens to you when you die in a Chinese prison.)

I loved the exhibit, of course, and wanted to make off with many plastinated people for my own bathroom anatomy exhibit. However, I found one thing troubling, and that was how hideous male sex organs look when they've been flayed and plastinated in a permanently flaccid state. I wondered for a moment why all these men were circumcised; then I realized they had no foreskin because they had, as Hot Mom says, no "aftskin."

In addition, I never realized how much women rely on blood to make breasts and nipples look attractive. All the breasts were doughy lumps topped with extra dollops of lard.

Here's what Gary found most disturbing: eyebrows. The plastinators, after skinning the models, re-applied the eyebrows. Thankfully. Otherwise I might have been creeped out.

Dog Drama

What do you do with a dog who is happily standing with his full weight in a pool of his own blood? No pain. "Yeah, I'm bleeding. You don't have carpet. What's the big deal?

If you are Gary, you scream at your wife. Then at some point, you realize the dog needs medical attention.

Gah. Mac now has one less toenail, for some unknown reason. The upside is that Mac is defiant about the protective head cone.  Doug would just try to walk while dragging his entire head on the floor. Mac tries to leap up out of the cone. It's sad yet funny.

No Dove Chocolate? Seriously? At West County Mall?

So, today I went to West County Mall to follow Sugared Harpy's suggestion all attend the Chocolate Challenge. We got there at 3:30. We got our color-coded cups of five milk and five dark chocolates so we could vote on the best Saint Louis chocolate.

I looked closely at the cup with the pink dot. The pieces of chocolate were clearly stamped "Lindt." In another cup were some pieces stamped "Godiva." I realized I had been too engulfed in double-blind trials recently, and worried I could still judge impartially. Lindt got our votes for milk; I think I voted Godiva for dark.

The results were to be announced shortly after four. I think it was four-forty-five before all the votes were tallied and announced. The vendors had packed up all their chocolate. The crowd (but for us) had dispersed. Gary had read all the email on his Blackberry, that's how long it took.

Evidently recounts were required. If you were there, I was the person who cheered when Lindt won by two votes. TWO! That would be me and Gary. If we hadn't been there, the Supreme Court would have had to get involved and where would we be now?

Test-a-Thon

At first I thought, "Enh, they don't want the details of my day at the hospital being tested to see if I am now well enough to be in the clinical trial." But then who do I see visiting via a link Andrea posted to Amanda's blog? Many people. And I feel no hesitancy in telling you this: they stayed put in the "In Which We Mock Our Illness" category. I follow my stats closely, and not a single one nipped over for a peek in the "Great Hall of TMI: Must be Over 18 to Visit" category. Not like the day the Riverfront Times people visited. You could read the RFT minds as you read the stats. "Hmm, well, this is -hey! Is she naked? Let's check out THAT page!" and away they'd link. Not so Amanda and her friends from Ballastexistenz.*

*360, Monday night, Finding Amanda on CNN. I'm curious to see it, especially having read  her comments about it on her blog.

(Update: Oh, cute. Suddenly The Great Hall of TMI is swamped. I can SEE you!)

So, today I visited the doctor(s) at the Center for Advanced Medicine in the belly of Big Momma Barnes downtown. I had test after test after test: five doctors, four therapists.

Dermatology: my first test of the day to see if I could successfully get naked and be peered at. I passed. I felt quite special in that I got to see the doctor ahead of all the others in the waiting room. Nyah! I felt like a piece of meat, but a well-marbled piece of steak meat.

Pulmonary: a test to see if I could pull air into my lungs consistently while a therapist yelled at me "SUCK SUCK SUCK KEEP SUCKING NOW SUUUUUCCCCKKKK"  - I failed. We had to do it again. Mom told me I'd laugh, and she was right.

CT scan: I was feeling more like London broil than steak by this time, but that might have been because I was aware the machine was photographing thin diagonal slices of my abdomen.

Disability test with my former neurologist, Dr. B________: Quite painless. He said he didn't remember who I was. I suggested perhaps this was because I had gained fifty pounds since the last time I saw him. He was quite agreeable but asked me no questions. This means I was not able to respond  shortly, "That question is not germane to the conversation we are having," which was the last thing I think Dr. B_________ said to me. I felt like a Grade A hunk of meat, though. He was impressed with my ability to walk, not so pleased by my poor hopping skills.

EKG with the MS study nurse: I laughed when she said, "Now I'm going to take your right arm and reposition it." She had just shoved my left breast up and over into my collarbone to get to my ribcage to plant an electrode there. Did she ask? No. Did she say, "Oh, let me rotate your boob around like a stick-shift?" No. Oh, but my right arm gets all kinds of respect. Piece of Meat Status: Brisket.

Cognitive Test: I can put pegs in holes! Nine of them! And take them out! Faster even with my left hand. I can NOT listen to a series of two numbers, add the most recent and the second  most recent, say the answer, hear another number, add that to the most recent, say the answer ... am I making it sound hard? It was. I failed. I am the stupidest cut of meat on the cow. I am the cow hindquarters.

Holter monitor: I'm still hooked up to this thing.  Piece of Meat Status: Ground Chuck.

And finally, It appears that I am a spotted cow. A 2cm lesion on my stupid pancreas, for which I need to get another test. Meat Status: I am a discolored sweetbread.

On the up side, I'm not so worried about the MS anymore.

Placebo Effect

I've always rolled my eyes at the placebo effect. "Ha," I sneered in That Tone I Have, "These suggestible people who believe vitamins and aromatherapy will benefit them.  Please." 

Well. Rub my nose in my stupidity. I've been without any beneficial MS medication for six months now and I would love me some placebo. Placebos are awesome.

Let me tell you, MS symptoms can be greatly relieved by sticking a needle in your thigh every night. No nightly needle? You start to notice what's really wrong with you.

I've felt pretty sickly and symptomatic this past few weeks. So bad, in fact, I metaphorically snapped my fingers in the faces of the Friends and demanded "Pity me!" Then when they made their attempts, I cried, "You aren't making me feel any better! You suck!" Yes. I'm not proud of it. I've given up the right to call them Heartless Cows. (Yet I retain the right to put that link right there.)

I decided today to make myself a placebo. I figured since MS is all about inflammation, and Naproxin is an anti-inflammatory, I would take two Aleve a day. And damned if I didn't feel better. Instead of tracking every twinge and tickle, it made me attend to every moment I felt even a little more normal. I see you rolling your eyes! Shut up! Eatmahcurlies.

Maybe I'll be on this psychedelic mushroom placebo in the clinical trial. Groovy.

Angie asks: "What are Gary's most redeeming qualities, and what's the nicest thing he's ever done for you?"

Well, Gary's redeeming qualities are the same as his annoying qualities.

He's emotional: I never go a day without hearing Gary say "I love you."
He's open: I never have to ask "Penny for your thoughts."
He's unconcerned with money: We don't fight about money, and I don't think we would even if we had the same account.
He makes decisions slowly: He does take his time with decisions, and never makes a decision without talking it through with me.
He apologizes: Almost every fight lasts 20 minutes, because Gary comes in an apologizes, even if it wasn't entirely his fault.

I think if I had to pick one thing that was the nicest thing ever: well, though the forty flowers on my fortieth birthday was nice (boys, start saving up), I think the episode in the bookstore was nicest. It was the first weekend I was out of the hospital after being diagnosed with MS. Gary had followed me into Borders berating, "Why would you want to buy books on MS? They'll just tell you things you don't want to know and fill your head with scary things that are never going to happen to you! This is morbid! This is a really bad idea! Seriously, stop this!" Eventually I whirled around and snapped that reading is how I deal with things, and if he didn't want to help then I would just deal with this alone. He stomped off, but when I found the MS books he was there. He didn't see me, but he was asking an employee, "Do you have any other books on this topic?"

I suppose I liked it because he chose what I wanted over the voices of doom in his head. Sweet!

Regina Spektor: the Concert

Monday I went to my second concert at The Pageant in four days. Soon, "The Pageant and Detrol bring you Natasha Bedingfield!" Woo!

I had heard the acoustics at the Pageant are great. This is true. You can hear every syllable slurred by the drunks behind you. Who comes to a concert to talk? Evidently, twenty-one year olds with parents happy to drop them off at the mall concert just for a respite from the "OH mah gawd's." 

First it was a pair of amateur musician boys who bellowed over the opening act their plans to shop for an amp at Drum Headquarters. I thanked God too soon when they moved off to smoke; they were replaced with four girls who wanted to talk about who had which boyfriend. They found this more interesting than oh, say, Regina Spektor. I would have thought they'd never heard of her, except the blond one kept screaming "Saaaaaammmmsooon! Play Sasssssmmmmmmsssoooon!"

It didn't stop, even while Regina burped and yipped her distinctive way through the few songs they knew. They'd interrupt their chat-bellowing to sing out phrases. "So, I know Jerry is in the same class as Brian (SO SWEET AND JUICY!) still he's so like not mature."

I kept asking Gary if he wanted to move. He'd say no, it's okay, just ignore them, then suddenly during "Apres Moi" Gary whirled around and snapped at them. He literally snapped his fingers in each of their faces while roaring, "Hey! Hey! Hey! Quiet Down! For Pete's sake!"

I thought Jesus, he's never snapped his fingers in my face. I was stunned. So were the drunk girls. For at least a verse. Then it began again. "Shit, if she doesn't sing Samson I'm gonna be so fucking pissed. Saaaaaaammmmmmssssooooonn! "

Eventually, of course, we moved, but not so far away we couldn't observe when:

1) The amateur musician boys stood behind the drunk girls and talked so much the drunk girls tried to shush them. Sweet, sweet comeuppance. The girls didn't do the awesome face-snap like Gary, though, so Music Boys never stopped talking at all.

2) "Samson" started while the blond girl was in the bathroom. Then she came out to catch the chorus and texted during the song. Texted. As in, "OMG IM HERE AND SHES SNGING SAMSON OMG," I assume. So, unless she's a touch typing texter she didn't see the finale.

Regina did actually hold our attention more than Drunk Girls and Music Boys. There was a great acoustic rendition of "The Hotel Song," unless you consider a microphone an instrument. I feel like I saw Dylan in concert. Or Joan Baez, drunk, that was Gary's comparison.

Cowboy Mouth: the Concert

Here's how the Cowboy Mouth concert began: the drummer/lead singer/front man/Reverend / Fred came out and demanded some rhythm. "GIVE ME SOME RHYTHM" he insisted, so we all clapped. "GET UP OFF YOUR LAZY ASSES AND COME DOWN HERE ON THE DANCE FLOOR" he commanded.

Friend #2/Hot Mom, as I said, is familiar with the band, so she was able to advise us: if Fred the drummer / frontman / etc. says to move to the dance floor, you move to the dance floor. At this point Friend #3 was sober, so we all assembled on the floor.

Fred moved through the audience and encouraged any still-sitting audience members to "GET OFF YOUR ASS."  It was a high-energy show. I was quite happy to give Fred some rhythm. I was happy to "JUMP UP AND DOWN AND GO CRAZY" and to "ACT LIKE YOU ENJOY YOUR LIFE."

I was happy to dance. I did not dance like the full-haired slim-hipped young women in front of us. They danced provocatively and tried to attract band attention. I danced to their new song, "I Love Your Belly" and I flashed my belly a number of times, even though Fred didn't scream at me to do it. I didn't dance like Friend #2, because she danced like someone who had had practice dancing. I did not dance like Friend #3, who danced like a 48 year old woman who had never been to a rock concert.

Until she got drunk, then she was just a body topped off with a twirling vortex of hair. Truly, Friend #3 danced like a mad woman, and made the rock horns, and made me feel much better about being a middle-aged woman at a rock concert. She represented well. She hung off the stage and beat the time between the footlights and dusted the floorboards with her thick hair like a Roomba.

When Fred screamed "JUMP UP AND DOWN! JUMP AS HIGH AS YOU CAN" she yelled "BITE ME FRED! I'M A 48 YEAR OLD WOMAN WEARING GEL INSERTS WITH PLANTAR FASCIITIS! YOU JUMP!"

When Fred screamed, "TURN TO THE PERSON NEXT TO YOU AND GIVE THEM A HUG" she hugged me and also told me she loved me. I was touched. I would have been more touched, but she had already hugged me and said she loved me after her first Long Island Iced Tea.

Cowboy Mouth needs to return to Saint Louis just so I can show them to Gary, my drummer. Then he'll want a microphone so he can sing and shout commands. "WHERE ARE MY GLASSES BRING ME MY GLASSES! HIGHER! JUMP HIGHER!"

Cowboy Mouth: The Preface

I went Friday night with Friends #2 and #3 to the Cowboy Mouth concert.

Friend #2 gets special credit for introducing me to CM's music. She was a bartender in New Orleans and worked at a bar the band played in. And evidently "in" is the operative word: the drummer/frontman crawled through the rafters at the venue, dropped down behind the bar, and said something so profane to the owner Sam that I can't even quote it here. Perhaps Friend #2/Hot Mom will leave it in the comments.

Friend #3 gets special credit for understanding when I was delayed at the car dealer, and driving 20 minutes from her house right by me to Friend #2's place out west so I could pick them both up there. Then she gets Extra Special Bonus credit for understanding when Gary called because when I left him at the dealer I didn't check to see he had a way to get in. So, he was locked out. He said this loudly enough on the cell that #3 heard it while we waited in the car for #2 to orient the sitter.

"Haahahahaa!" #3 laughed cruelly, "He's locked out?"
"It isn't funny," I advised.
She called #2 who was getting the sitter settled in the apartment. "Gary locked himself out!"
"Haahahahaa!" #2 laughed cruelly.

What was really funny was after #3 left to rescue Gary, he called to say he was "brilliant" because he had put the clicker in his pocket, unbeknownst to himself, and WHAT DO YOU MEAN MARCIA'S COMING WITH THE CLICKER I JUST CALLED YOU ABOUT THAT FIVE MINUTES AGO!

More thanks to #2 for instantly calling #3 before the yelling was even over to say, "Go home and wait for us." She didn't add what I was thinking, which was "Perhaps the Heartless Cows will show some sympathy to me now that they've been jerked around by the Gary Panic Machine." 

But no. Friend #2 advised, "Next time say, 'Oh, you're locked out? So, what are you going to do about that?'"

Friend #3 recommended similar heartless behavior. I suppose he could have driven to the Pageant to get the clicker. Never occurred to me.

Next: Cowboy Mouth Concert review. Later: What I Like About Gary. That'll take some time.

What Kind? A Blind Alley? A Dark Scary Alley? Kirstie Alley?

Here's my fortune from this week's Chinese lunch:

Caroline asks: "Why did you decide not to have kids?"

I don't remember sitting down and deciding not to have kids. It's just that we never sat down and decided to have kids. (And, really, given what a responsibility it is, you mommies should have to fill out some paperwork answering at least that question: "Why did you decide to have kids?")

Now, if your question is, "Why didn't you follow the natural course of things and be filled with a desire to have kids like normal women?" I'd have to answer that I don't have the slightest idea. I don't remember ever wanting to have kids. I don't think Gary ever did, at least he claims not to.

Just as well, since I'd be a pretty bad parent. I just don't "get" kids.

Example A

I sat down next to Hot Mom one day at work. "What's that black and white photo?" I asked.

"Oh, that's my ultrasound."

"Is that a head?" I asked, thrilled not so much that a baby was on the way but that I had been able to decipher a baby ultrasound.

"Yep."

"Then whats that?" I asked, pointing to a similar white mass.

"That's a head," she stated matter-of-factly.

I looked at her in horror for a moment. She was pretty calm for a woman having a two-headed baby.

Exhibit B

I visited my friends Carol and Dave at their apartment about a month after they had their very colicky baby. Oh, my word. She screamed the way a human screams when it doesn't know you can hurt yourself screaming that way. Eventually she stopped screaming, and we had a nice afternoon. Carol suggested we go out for dinner. "Sure," I said.

Dave and Carol started packing up baby stuff.

"Oh," I asked politely, "The baby's coming too?"

Conclusion

Yeah. Babies. I don't get them. Do I have to?

Zayrina asks: "Who Drives Whom the Craziest?"

Whew, I get to skip Sue's question about what I look like. I was going to answer honestly and everything! With photos that aren't 25 years old.  But then Sara said everything perfectly here.  So, I'll answer Zayrina right now, and discuss who drives whom the craziest.

I asked Gary. "Gary, do I drive you crazy? In any way?"

He pondered, then, "Nope. You're okay. You don't ask me to do anything.  Even if I'm on vacation."

Then a few minutes later he paused the TiVo to blurt "You work on your PC while we're watching A MOVIE and MAKE me roll it back LIKE MILLION TIMES to see things you missed but then YOU MISS IT AGAIN when I'm ROLLING IT BACK FOR YOU!" 

So, that's his complaint. In my defense, I present to you the latest in the car saga, a little tale I like to call The Psycho  Motor Fit. As posted recently, Saturday we decided on the Orange Fit. (Or, as Friend #3 calls it: the Grand Mal-nier.)

Tuesday at 11 pm Gary cried suddenly, "I can't believe you are forcing me to buy an orange car! I hate orange!"

I finally choked out, "What. Did. You. Just. Say?"

"We were test-driving the car and we were going to get the red one, then you saw those orange cars on the other parking lot and got all excited about the orange one!"

When I caught my breath I explained that in Reality, I was calmly driving along, HE saw the orange cars, I said, "I can't see what color it is from inside the car, so I don't care." That was in Reality. In Gary's mind there was a more exciting conversation and much louder imaginary conversation, so he listened to that.

By midnight, after a long dog walk and some time apart he decided he'd call Honda to tell them let us look at the orange car before they started to customize it for us. I was very clear. I summarized the conversation. I threatened to email him so there would be a paper trail. It was clear. We had an agreement. He'd call Honda so we could approve the orange. 

He called. To tell them forget the orange, "we" wanted them to find us a red one. When he told me this at lunch I began taking notes of everything I said. I considered getting one of those court stenographer machines.

"Let's be clear," I said, "The dealer now has one of those elusive red ones. We can see it next to the orange one tonight."

"Yes. Well. Well, he may not have the red one."

"You just said he has the red one. You said it. Didn't the sales guy tell you that very thing?"

"Yes"

"So where do you get this idea that he might not have the red one?"

"I made it up."

Thud, his chest said with I punched it with my fist.

He's now claiming that my subconscious told him I don't like orange. I allegedly said in my sleep, "I Hate RRrnnngggg" Of course, I make him rewind the TiVo more than once. Obviously I need to try harder to infuriate him.

Christy asks: "How Did You Meet?"

Gina will have to wait until I see Tinkerbell again at Thanksgiving. Plus, I get to see Dr. B_______ again AND Dr S_________ - two neurologists at once! However, I can answer Christy right now. So, here's how we met.

Gary did not do well during his first few forays into college. After a few years as a janitor, and a few years as a hospital orderly, and a few years as a tape librarian, he turned 28 and desired to become a high school biology teacher.

This desire lasted until Mr B_________' s History of Education class. Mr. B__________'s class was dull. I didn't find this out until two weeks into the semester. I never attended the first two weeks of any college course. Case in point: Figure Drawing. No one gets naked until Week 3. QED.

Two weeks in I showed up in Mr. B___________'s class and scoped out the room. 'Stoner ... nun ... creepy ... out of my league .... married mom ... "

"Out of my league" was Gary. Check him out!

A body wave and a three piece suit! Smoooooth!

I worked up the nerve to talk to him on week 5. "Running away?" I asked cutely when I saw him heading toward the vending machine.

"Yeah, it's ... it's a little dry," he said, in the first of a lifetime of negative comments.

We talked the next week after class for an hour. The next week when the same thing happened, I brought out my high school English teacher's smooth line -- the one she used to ask her out her husband:

"Well, this is silly, just standing around talking. Let's continue this over dinner."
"Okay!" he said, "How about Casa Gallardo?"
"Well ... I don't know, I don't think I brought enough money to treat you to Casa."
"That's okay. You can pay on our next date."

Oh, yeah, baby. Of course he had enough cash to take me to Casa because he'd planned to ask me out but did not, as he had insufficient sack. He was lacking in sack, as it were. 

(P.S. I AM LOVING this new "sack" term! Many thanks to  ExportedMolson.)

Rat-A-Tat asks: "Who Makes More Money, You or Gary?"

Oh, easy. Gary. He's makes 30% more than I do.

Such was not always the case. When we divided our money into separate accounts we were making almost the exact same amount. I'd get a raise and gloat that I made more, then he'd get a raise and rub my nose in it. But soon he switched companies a few times and got the big job-hopping bumps. Since then he's embraced responsibility, while I've dumped pitchers of ice water in responsibility's lap. Of course, after the incomes shifted  the division of the bills went to  66/33. 

Now, for a while at the beginning of our marriage you'd never have known we made the same amount. I am ashamed to say there was a time I would say things like, "We'll buy a new mattress when we scrape up enough money." I remember that exact quote because a friend snorted, "What do you mean, 'scrape up enough money?' Give me a break!"

I quoted the exchange to Mom, who nodded wisely and said, "'Poor mouth'. Your father Jerry did the same thing. He and his parents could have all the money in the world and still talk about how broke they were."

Since then I've tried to adopt Mom's attitude, which is "If you have money for minimal food, shelter and clothing, the rest is wealth. If the rest goes to paying for the bills for stuff you have, then you're still wealthy, you're just wealthy in things instead of cash."

Gary has no problems with Rich Mouth or Poor Mouth. He has Dumb Mouth. No idea how much is in his account at any time. I just asked him. He checked the balance online. He was off by 200%.  Yep, he just  asked me to float him some cash. Thanks, Rat-a-Tat.

TMI on Demand

I have a few posts backlogged, and I'm thinking, "Would anyone want to read this dreck?"

So I mused, "You know what? They aren't getting this dreck unless they ask for it." And then, "The Typepad spell check doesn't know 'dreck'? Really?"

So, I promise to answer any questions you all submit in the comments. Any question! Ask me! If you have sufficient sack to ask, I will answer.

The Estate: An Update

Previously seen on The Estate:
Gary's closeted Mormon uncle passes away with way too much money. The money goes to his wife, Gary's aunt.
Soon after, Gary's aunt also dies. The money goes to Gary's other aunt and Gary's dad.

But, you say, that was months ago! Months and months!

Well, a few months ago, Gary reported that the uncle had a child from a previous marriage (actually, two marriages before) who is now sixty-five.

And this sixty-five year old child, who was pointedly excluded in the uncle's will, is demanding years of back child support. 

Now, I say "You go gir - uh - old broad! You get what's yours!" Gary is saying, "What! Give her a DNA test! How do we even know she's his child!"

So, I figure the next thing will be that ... umm ... let's see ... oh, it's drug money and the Feds get it all. Or, there's a poisoning. OR, Ken leaves Wilma for a Vegas showgirl.

The Penultimate Car Post

Gary came by work to take me to lunch Friday. He was chatting with Friend #3. It went something along the lines of "Oooo...Prius blah blah!" "YES! Prius blah! Yes!" "And I heard Prius blah GREAT blah blah!" "Blah! Exactly!Fabulous blah Prius!"

So today we went and bought a Fit. Because that's how he is. I went along with him, because anyone with epilepsy should own a Honda Fit, and as soon as they make a Toyota Lesion I'll buy one for myself.

It's so frustrating to be involved with the Divergent Decision Making Process. Finally after I screamed in the car the third time "WHY DO YOU ASK MY OPINION JUST TO SHOOT IT DOWN?" he explained he was looking for things to shoot down. Why not say all the things I didn't like about the Fit, also known as the Latest Wild Hair up his ass? So, after my feeble protestations ("IT'S UGLY! IT'S CHEAP! THEY CALL IT A FIT!") he decided he could live with all those things. ("So what if it's cheap?," he said, "The Mini's a BMW car. I've had a BMW, now I'll have a Fit.") 

Fine, I said, but we have to get a red one. That's a deal-breaker.

So, of course, we're getting an orange Fit. A Fit L'Orange. The Grand Mal. The Squashmobile. With a license plate that reads:

The car won't be ready till Friday, then the car quandary is over. Luckily most of our major decisions have now been made, so I don't need to work with Gary's ass-backwards decision-making any more.

I say most of our major decisions have been made. On a related note, I was reading through the Consent Form for the clinical trial, and it says I need to use two forms of birth control. I was considering my other options, and I thought, "Woman, you're forty-five. Just tie your tubes already." I told Gary.

"Or," he offered, "I could get a vasectomy."

So of course this means we'll be adopting a baby from China.

KO OK?

I'm worried about Keith Olbermann. Have you been watching the the tease during the 40 minute commercial break for Countdown?

He breaks in to the regular commercials at about 40 minutes. This serves to mess up anyone who needs to TiVo triple-speed through commercials and slam on the play button at the first subliminal hint of the real program.

But Keith O. is just there momentarily to tease us with what's coming up.  He finishes by barking "That's next; this is Countdown." It's the body language that goes with it that gets me. He says "Thats next" into the camera, but turns away from the camera by the time he's done saying "...this is Countdown."

Every time I see it I think, "Dude, what's so interesting over there?  Why are you looking to your right? Is there another desk there? Does it have CNN.com on a laptop? Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Up till recently it's just been a little partial back-to-business turn, as if to say "I don't have time for this promo crap, this is live tv. It's busy here in the Newsroom." 

But now he's doing a full body turn. The other day I saw the back of his head, I swear.  I am concerned.

The Truth, it Stings

I felt so counter-culture going off on The Police, and now come to find out Sting has been voted the worst Lyricist Everrrrr!

http://www.blender.com/guide/articles.aspx?ID=2886

Of course, it's  not  like I can judge. For all I know, that fifteenth "King of Pay-ayn" might push someone into a new level of consciousness. I just know I don't like The Police as much as the rest of the world. And now I find I am not alone.

So, that gives me confidence to reveal my new favorite song.

• I was going through the Paste Magazine CD in the car
• I got to song #4
• I swear I have no idea what's on the CD after that

...because I hit Eternal Repeat even before the chorus. It's a goofy fun retro-Beatles pop song. It's got an infectious beat and I can bounce my upper body in the car to it.  Click the play arrow if you have Flash, otherwise, click the link to go to the website.

Pelle Carlberg – I Love You, You Imbecile

I think Gary and I have a new song.