Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Hospice is almost an anagram of Hopesick

Since the doctors haven't found anything else to blame for Mom's decline, they've attributed it to the post-polio syndrome (which they should), and Mom's decided to have home hospice.

So, no more trips to the ER, no more of Mom's never-ending struggle to adapt. Dad was in home hospice as well, and I recall many trips to the grocery to buy him whatever he wanted to eat. My last run was for Jalapeño Bologna; Mom was getting him Tapioca Pudding when he died.

Sad. I don't know how long it will be. I do know Mom even cried today, and Mom never cries. I was physically dragged down the hall by a nurses assistant to sit in the lounge and talk to her boyfriend for a while because she felt I was spending too much time in Mom's room, crying.

ANYway. See? And you made all those encouraging comments. Don't feel bad.

Nothing Funny to See Here

In the morning, I spoke with the doctor and progressed from  silent tears to open sobbing, in front of Mom. I told her to forget everything she saw. Even more sad? I did it when the chaplain was walking past, so Chaplain Stephanie had to stop and offer to pray for me. Mom was still sitting right there, so I couldn't say to her "Fuck OFF already," which is what I wanted to say. I mean, I have my mother-in-law praying. At the altar in her home. Top that. In the midst of this breakdown, Gary called, ignored my teary "Hello?" and screamed at me because we have ants again. Really, really bad move Gary.

In the afternoon, Mom said we should start looking at nursing homes, since wasn't going to get any better. They've started tossing steroids at her just to see if that makes a difference, ala Dr. House. Gary apologized about the Ant Issue.

In the evening, she gave her "goodbyes" to everyone. She told me to thank the nursing staff. She said I was a good daughter and she was very proud of me. She said I should tell Gary he was a good son-in-law. He came by and helped her eat. The Ant Issue is in the past.

Nonetheless, the staff said her stats were fine, so I came home.

The Hospital: Day 3

The Meth Family Whiners have been replaced by a nice, quiet Catholic Lady.

I heard her on the phone. "Oh, my roommate is a young girl. She was hurt in some kind of accident. It's  terrible, really. I feel quite sorry for her."

Okay, I thought, why is New Roommate  lying  to her friends? Like, is this some  Munchhausen's Roommate  by Proxy illness?

Later, I poked my head behind the her curtain and asked to borrow a chair. She said yes, and asked me how old my daughter was. "Ummm...you mean my Mom? She's seventy-one." And then I thought, well, yeah, she can't hear Mom, because she's too short of breath. All she hears is me making fun of Mom.

"What's that? Shoes? Shoes coal? Coal in your shoes? Christmas? Shoes cold? Your shoes are cold. Oh! Your shoulder's cold! Water, Helen, w-a-t-e-r!"

So, yeah. that would suck if I were Mom's mom.

Progress

1. Instead of the usual diagnosis of "We don't know what's wrong with your Mom but it's nothing serious," today the doctor said, "We don't know what's wrong with your Mom and it's serious."

2. Walking about the halls and bravely soldiering on through your tears really impresses the nursing staff. The next time they ask, "Is there anything I can get you?" I'm going to say, "Can I fly in the  helicopter?"

3. Missouri Baptist is being overrun by Catholics. I heard a nurse say to the MethTeeth family, "Oh, you use Lourdes water? I bathe in that." Then one gave testimony to how Saint Andrew has personally watched over her mother.

4. The biggest progress is the MethTeeth family has moved on. Here are some things I wanted to say to Mrs. MethTeeth (who incidentally is a huge 70 year old Jefferson County white woman):

• The reason your daughter isn't visiting you in the hospital is because you say things like, "Just stay at work, don't worry about MY feelings. You'll feel bad when you hear what they are doing to me."
• Going to rehab is a good thing, especially when it's physical rehab, where you are going, instead of Amy Winehouse rehab, where you should go. (She actually said, "They say I gotta go to rehab." But she left off the "No No No.")
• Perhaps the arthritis wouldn't hurt your ankles as much if you weighed 100 pounds less. And maybe you could take a step then without saying "Ooohhh, my ankles."
• And maybe you might stop whining about how much it hurts to walk when you are in a room with someone who can't walk.
• Stop whining about everything.
• When the nurse says, "Have you been feeling constipated?" don't say "No, Why?" as if to suggest, "No, but I will be completely impacted now that you suggest it would be another way to get pity."
• It isn't your husband's fault you are addicted to painkillers, even though he bought in to your bullshit and convinced the nursing staff that he had been administering your pain medicine "incorrectly."
• Seriously, meth, painkillers and methadone? And they send you home with a morphine pill?
• Your son, the one who bought you the carrot cake balls from Provisions that I served at tea? He's gay.
  

Fresh Hell

Mom has a roommate at the hospital. I respect her privacy, so I won't tell you about any addictions she might have. But, the roomie, who I will call MethTeeth, is around sixty.

She and her husband.

Talk baby talk to each other.

All. Day. Long.

Secret of the ER

This is how to get results in an ER: Cry. Just cry solidly through the first hour. Quietly, so as not to upset your mother, but consistently, so they actually ADMIT your MOTHER to the hospital, instead of another one of these episodes.

So, Mom is sharing a room with a meth addict. Other than that, the people at Missouri Baptist kick ER ass. Or, kick bottom, because they are Baptist.

Easter '08

E is for The Estate.
The Estate remains unsettled. Wilma has noticed that every few days the phone rings and the caller won't wait through the answering machine message. She's convinced it is the rightful heirs harassing them. I told her John McCain was harassing them and it would stop in early November.

A is for Arguing.
I walked in to a room and heard Gary proclaim, as fact, two errors about Mom. To wit, he said Mom is having cataract surgery on her smaller cataract. False. She got a second opinion and is now going to try a new glasses prescription. And he said she could miraculously use the hand that hasn't worked for almost sixty years. All I can think of is he heard me say "Mom" and "hand" and he added the word "miraculous" just to please his mother, because she prays for my Mom a lot. So I was forced to correct him, and thus argued with him in front of his parents. So because it was Easter, I told him mom could play the piano again.

S is for the S_____'s house.
Wilma let it slip that they'll be willing their house to the Church. I wanted to suggest they give it to the disinherited children, but I could not be heard over the screaming and complaining.

T is for Tinkerbell.
Tinkerbell the dachslut sticks her tongue into your mouth in an attempt to find food you may not have yet swallowed. Wilma had to put all the food in the refrigerator after she cooked it because she was sure Tinkerbell would sneak it off the stovetop. She had no other choice. The S_______s don't shut dogs away in rooms by themselves, especially when they have been through the Rottweiler Trauma.

E is for Eating.
It is no wonder that I don't cook for Gary any more. Every bite of food he put in his mouth was evaluated and critiqued. Ham ("Inedible!  Awful! The top few slices were good, but the rest is just gristle!), Potato Salad ("Cold! Why did you serve it cold? It's better at room temperature!"), Asparagus ("We prefer it stir-fried; it's crunchier!"), and then Cherry Pie (Grunt. "More pie.")

R is for Resurrection.
In a vain attempt to spark an Easter Miracle, Wilma responded to all complaints with, "It's Easter! Jesus is risen! We should be happy, we shouldn't complain!" Her children complained louder.

Bumper Sticker

Hey guy, driving in front of me on Hwy 40 today -

Your bumper sticker:

Made me smile. Then I noticed this:

and I decided we were meant to be together, but tragically, we met too late.

In Which I Digress

There was something I didn't tell you about.

Digression! Actually, this time it doesn't involve porn dreams with Mom, which, since you ask, I continue to have, based on the XXX-rated movie I saw in my dream last night. It was charged to Mom's hotel room when we were visiting some crack slum in Chicago. Instead ...

It involves the visit to West County Mall on Good Friday.

Digression! Oh, and if your in-laws  are Charismatic Catholic, the answer to "What did you have for dinner Friday?" is not "Sausage Pizza." That answer would be Wrong. Especially if Friday was the Good one. That response might have even been followed by your Mother-in-law saying, "What do you mean Baptists eat meat on Fridays? I thought all Christians couldn't eat meat on Friday." At any rate ...

West County Mall is not Gary's mall of choice. Gary prefers Mid-Rivers Mall. If you are not a St. Louisan, West County Mall is where the lower-privileged-class shops. (*Sings: "West County Mall ... where the lower-privileged-class shops ... laaaa ..." *breathy* "Under the Doooove ..." ) Mid-Rivers Mall is where my class shops. That would be the middle class. Well, upper-middle.

The difference is that I can go to West County Mall and not be intimidated. West County Mall scares Gary. Just a little. The standard for Mall Fear is Gary's reaction to Plaza Frontenac (*Sings: "Plaza Frontenac ... where the Upper-privileged-class shops .... laaaa.") A few minutes in Plaza F. and Gary's self-esteem starts scratching its imaginary lice. He gets a little less twitchy in West County Mall. As I said, Gary feels most at home in Mid-Rivers Mall.

Digression! Oh, and if you yourself have to go to an intimidating mall like Plaza F. because it's the only place with a Sur La Table, here's what you do: wear a hat. It works the best in winter. You stalk in wearing a cloth coat and a winter hat and fix a saleslady in your sights and she'll sail right over. Anyway ...

West County Mall won because it has a Lush store secreted away in the Macy's, as well as the Lindt store, and the clincher, the California Pizza Kitchen.

Digression! Does your California Pizza Kitchen have name tags for the staff that says where they are from? Ours used to (or at least the one in the Galleria did. (*Sings: "The Galleria ... where the upper-middle-class shops and then are sometimes assaulted by the roving hordes of teenagers ...  laaaa ...")) Last night it seemed the California Pizza Kitchen name tags were gone, or perhaps I just didn't notice them. Or perhaps, the CPK staff has picked up on the paranoia St. Louisans have about Out-Of-Towners (aka, Those Who Did Not Attend High-School Here).)

Digression! Digression! I had the chopped salad, probably the third chopped salad I've had this month. I don't know what's so comforting about having all my vegetables and protein chopped exactly the size of the corn, the smallest part of the chopped salad. Since it's all the same size, it's all a surprise.

So, anyway, that's the whole truth. I credit the Lush/Macy's store with seducing Gary into West County Mall. I suppose they have subliminal muzak in that mall, things that say "Spending is better than mending" and "Soap is cheap! Buy all you want!" and "No one still follows that rule about meat on Good Friday..."

March Memeness

Here is a meme from Candy, for which I am grateful because I'm spending the night at Mom's and I Am Freezing. I think her typing problems have been because her hands are shaking from the cold.

1. List three books you’ve always meant to read, but haven’t got around to them

The Kite Runner - stuck  on page 35, I think. I don't know why.
The Time Traveler's Wife - didn't get past the prologue.
The Qur'an - I should read it. I just noticed it up on my religion shelf. Didn't get past page 2231.

2. Share the two books that changed your life.

Two? Two? See, this is why I had to think about this one. I've been thinking, and I can't think of any books that changed my life. I have no recall of dropping a book and saying "Yes! That is so true. I will think that way now."

Plenty of books made me think "Yes! This person thinks the way I do." Mainly, I've had books that echo my life. Like Jane Eyre, which I could open today and find a passage relevant to middle-age. Or at least one relevant to being married to a brooding temperamental older man.

If you count short stories, I've had whatever anthology "To Room 19" was in. That made me question my devotion to reason.

The only other one I can think of is War and Peace. War and Peace did change the way I thought about politics. I don't give any politicians credit for anything anymore. Carter/Reagan/Clinton/Bush is just the conductor of the train. Destiny gets all the "credit." Or, the neo-cons.

3. Recommend the one book you’ve been talking about since the very first day you’ve read it.

Oh, well, the Amazing Adventures of Kavilier and Clay. That's easy.

4. Link to this post so we can read all about them when you’re done. (BBBBRBRRRRrrrr, okay.) Off to bed. (By the way, Mom's fine, Gary's fine, I'm just spending the night so Mom has a chance to see me on a Sunday before noon (or as some call it, 3:00 pm), when her strength lags.)

Bunnies

Gary: So, what did we buy at the mall tonight?
Me: Well, all that Lush stuff (TWO TRIPS TO LUSH IN ONE NIGHT) and the bunnies.
Gary: Bunnies?
Me: Uh, the chocolate Easter bunnies?
Gary: Oh! Yeah! The Lent bunnies.
Me: Easter bunnies.
Gary: Yeah. That's what I said.
Me: You said Lent bunnies.
Gary: Yeah. For Easter.
Me: I thought Easter was the end of Lent. That's why you indulge in chocolate.
Gary: Yes. What is wrong with you?
Me: Well, now you're calling them Lent bunnies.
Gary: Yes. The bunnies we just bought? For Easter? The Lent ones?
Me: Is this a Catholic thing? You're only allowed to call them Easter bunnies after Easter? But till then they're Lent bunnies?

(Now, I think this makes total sense, especially since it's the Catholics that who take Jesus off the cross in the sanctuary after Easter, but then pop him back up there just in time for your wedding in June, and he does not look like he's having fun in the wedding photos. Plus, Catholics let the baby Jesus join the others in the manger at Christmas, just as the in-laws dress up the decorative geese in seasonal costumes.)

But, actually, I imagine this conversation takes place often after people leave West Country mall. Where the Lindt chocolate store is.

Hempy Birthday, Dear Gary

Years ago, I tried to soothe my tattered cuticles with the heavy-duty hand lotion at left.

(SO many years ago that the packaging was just the word HEMP in big bold letters. No affected French, no ironic leaf.)

I tried it on in the bathroom at the mall. My fingertips plumped right up. It was like rubbing lard on my hands. I went back and bought six tubes that same day.

Then, I brought it home.  Gary caught a whiff of it, and screamed like a seagull being frappéd in a blender.

"Aaaaaeeeieii! I can't breathe! What is that?  It's making my eyes water! My throat is closing up! Oh my GOD! I'm going into anaphylactic shock!"

Now, Gary's been to concerts. I know he doesn't react that way to a dried, processed hemp smell. Still, after the incident when I tried to sneak some of it on while I was at Mom's, and he stormed out of the house, I just took it to work.

All this to say: it is Gary's birthday. Be warned, readers (particularly Lush readers), if you receive a gift, do not turn the bottle around and read the ingredients out loud.

"Ooooo!" Gary cooed, "You got me Sonic Death Monkey Body Wash! Mmmm ... it smells good. It's got coffee ... and lime ... and -" (HEMP SCREAM) "Hemp Oil!"

I can't wait till shower time tomorrow morning, when the steam interacts with the hemp oil and suffocates him.

Scattered ... Shiroobie ... Scattered, Scattered

This Week In Anderson Cooper

Oh, my poor baby Anderson. Here I am trapped with a man who has been wiped out by a cold, while heroic Anderson Cooper is all blase about having his face sliced open because he is a skin cancer survivor. Check him out!

"On a personal note, I’ve been off for the last couple of days. I had minor surgery on Monday. A small spot of skin cancer was removed from under my left eye. I hadn’t planned on mentioning this, but I still have stitches and you’ll no doubt notice them tonight. Don’t want you to think I got into a fist fight with Charlie Rose."

"I hadn't planned on mentioning it." Self-restraint. Discretion. How hot is that?

Evidently I am not the only woman not dissuaded  that AC goes AC and DC. (And probably 360.) Jammies brought this excellent post to my attention, from a blogger on the train with the man himself.

Treatment

It is just remarkable, the ability to focus on the positive. Solomon has a whole blog devoted to positive thoughts. I myself have taken advantage of the placebo effect. Mom used the Gypsy Curse on me to great effect when I was young.  If you don't know, the curse is performed with this incantation:

"The curse is cast. The curse is subtle. Pay close attention to your enemy. Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually you will notice a pattern of bad luck. She will drop her tray in the lunchroom. She will forget her homework. Soon you will notice nothing else."

And now there's this: if you are an amputee and have phantom pain, you can trick yourself into thinking someone is massaging your phantom leg. And it feels good.

Just Exactly How Scattered, You Ask?

Yesterday, I saw the right turn only sign on Manchester, and thought, "But the mall's on the left. Oh, screw that sign. That's not for ME." I thought it was remarkable how deserted the street was as I made a wide left turn into the far right lane. I drove about half a block when two police cars swung in from the left and screeched to a halt in front of me. "Damn!" I thought as they vaulted out of their cars and ran toward me, "they caught me making that illegal left turn." I was starting to reach for my license and registration when I heard them roar, "Ma'am! You are Going the Wrong WAY!"

And so I was. Look, that's a very wide road. I could well have been in the correct lane, and I would have, if I'd seen anyone else around me. And if I'd jumped the concrete barrier.

Anyway, instead of ticketing me, they stopped traffic, let me loop around the right way, and followed me until I'd straightened myself out. I'm going back there tomorrow morning. Wish me luck.

On the Other Hand

I took me two days and digging out vestigial memories of "CHKDSK /V/F," but I got Vista out of its interminable Repair Loop. ("This Repair May Restart Several Times." No shit.)

So, at times my brain has laser focus.

Bad News, Good News

Bad news:
Arthur C. Clarke is dead

Good news:
...dead, at NINETY ...
...after suffering from POST-POLIO SYNDROME (like Mom) ...
...which he has suffered with since the SIXTIES!

By my calculations, this means Mom has another twenty, thirty years in her.

(This news was so great I kept it to myself for a day, somehow forgetting to push the "Publish" button.)

The Cask of TeddyJ

My lover TeddyJ fed me Boston Cream pie, Krispy Kreme donuts and cookies for Saint Pat's day. While I'm enjoying the food, the ambiance ... well, let's just say my new office looks like the set of Brazil, what with the conduits hanging down from the ceiling.

("Brazil" was Gary's take. My first reaction was it was like the Awakening scene in Matrix, below.)

(Again with the tubes. Even the new buildings have the tubes. I don't get it.)

So there's a little creepiness factor, but it's offset by the warmth of the people. I was walking out the front double doors and two men opened the door for me. One on each door. Trumpets did not sound, sadly enough.

But to add to the creepiness, I was talking with a co-worker, Robert, when I was interrupted by a faint "Yeeeeoooiiiiaaaaa...ahhhhhh."

My head snapped toward the wall with the muffled howl.

"Yeah," Robert yawned. "We don't know what that is. The building makes that noise sometimes."

Next I'll hear heartbeats under the floor.

Sick bunny

Zayrina sent this in a comment but it is well deserving of its own post. (Gary JUST insisted I go to the store to buy him soda. Then he admitted he felt fine.)

MPGNO

Gone are the days of the Girl's Sabbath Out and the Mormon Inquisition Night, now are the days of Multi-Purpose Girl's Night Out: MPGNO. These GNO's are more spontaneous and there is less menu-planning. As it turned out, "out" was the operative word.

First off, we started ...

out. Usually, we've been celebrating in the safety of Marcia's beautifully appointed condominium, but instead we met at Madison's Cafe, where they make mixed drinks that made me wonder why I brought my Breathalyzer. We discussed our lives after Elliot, primarily, and caught up with old friends, until the hideous song stylings of the live music drove us ...

out. It was just a one-man show with a guitar. Then at some point I heard a secondary guitar, and I thought, "Hey, he's playing the chords and the melody. I wonder if he's using the Carter Family Fingering method. I just bought a DVD to learn how to do that." I stared hard at him until I noticed he had a whole backup band tucked away in a boom box. Then I noticed he did stuff like wiping his nose during the guitar solos, and yet the solo continued. It was awful, and it was loud, and it drove us ...

out of our minds. And then, someone suggested we carry on at Marcia's. That someone was not Marcia. This did not matter. We drove to Marcia's anyway. In honor of Cowboy Mouth deciding to come to Ribfest on Memorial Day, I blasted "The Love of My Life" very loud with the speakers down on the way there. The Conversation at Marcia's centered on the story of the woman would wouldn't come ...

out of the bathroom for two years. That story distresses me so much. In short, a woman went in the bathroom and wouldn't come for for two years. (I read elsewhere there were two bathrooms.) Every day her boyfriend asked her to come out, every day she said "Maybe tomorrow." She didn't stay seated all the time, except for the last month when something went wrong with her legs, and she ended up with an infection, and couldn't get off the toilet seat, so it somehow integrated with her skin and had to be pried up and go with her to the hospital. Now they're flapping about prosecuting the boyfriend. I have to wonder, if she'd spent two years lying in bed with depression, then got bedsores, would anyone be up in arms? So, we talked about that, but more interesting were Friend #0.5's tales of being ...

out on the lesbian scene in Saint Louis. I feel for her. All those girls want to do is cuddle! And have a relationship! And taaaaaaaaalk. It made me quite happy I wasn't made a lesbian. I would have no patience. Of course, I have no patience for typical guys, either.  She needs a lesbian version of Gary, I think.

Peace out.

Big Car Dream

Today when I came home, Gary was already there since he'd spent the day at home with the flu.

"One good thing about the flu," he said, "It gives you the coolest dreams. I had my recurring car dream again."

"What? There's  a recurring car dream? I thought the only recurring dream you have is the Big House dream." (See Life in the Big House.)

"Oh, really?" He shrugged. "I can't believe I've never told you about that. I have the Cool Car dream all the time."

So, I pressed for details.

In the Cool Car Dream:

• Gary buys a cool car, usually a Corvette,  but for some reason today it was a Ferrari. I do have a new job, so I suppose he upgraded.

• One the same day he buys said car -
  

  - He loses control of the car because of the handling, or
  - The car is stolen, or
  - The car is dismantled in garage of our house (not the big house of his dreams, but our current house) and left entirely in pieces, with significant pieces missing.

• Gary's response to the loss of the car is to shrug it off and go back to the same dealer and buy a cheaper car from the same manufacturer.

I'm just as baffled about this dream as I am about the Big House Dreams. I don't know what he's responding to. He did just get his yearly review. Maybe the car symbolizes his status in life? Maybe he's worried about losing the raise he got? And more important, why don't I have recurring dreams?

Speaking of my dreams:

You know, we've had a big influx of people here from the Lush site, and the MS people from the MS carnival and the Great Blog Link Experiment, so you old-timers know what this means.  This means I am compelled by forces beyond my control to confess something inappropriate.

But, what to do? Nothing even interesting happened to me yesterday, much less inappropriate, and I know that was a great disappointment to those of you who remember the Brazilian adventure after the Ships and Dippers crowd visited.

Well, my subconscious rectified the situation last night by giving me the most horribly, horribly inappropriate dream ever. So horrible I woke up and said, "Oh ... oh no one will ever hear about that one." And that just made it worse, because first: "Hi! New People! Gotta Humiliate Self!" followed by: "Keeping a Secret! Gotta Humiliate Self!"

So, I just want to say if anyone else has had a dream involving a three-way among themselves, a young Bruce Willis, and their seventy-one year old mother I want you to feel comfortable sharing.

Don't leave! Hear me out! Sure, a sex dream involving my Mom (Jesus what is wrong with me) is perverted on so many many levels. Still, I want to assure everyone (especially you, Mom, and Good Morning) that I did not have contact with Mom during the sex. Bruce Willis and I were having sex, and Mom decided to strip down and participate. She was focusing on Bruce, not me (because THAT, THAT would be sick), and I had just the most satisfying time.

Then I woke up and gouged my eyes out. The End. God, how I wish I were making this up.

Přitulit se!*

My poor dog is exhausted. Gary has the flu, and the dog is really earning his keep by snuggling with Gary's sick self. Mac the Dog  just trundled into this room and flung himself on the floor.

"Jesus. What a baby," his eyes said. "He's really bringing me down. Do you still have those pretzels?"

What would make the dog think he has to stay with the sick member of the litter? He could be hanging out with me and wallowing in the down comforter. But I guess it's his job.

In related news, I picked up a book of "Lateral Thinking Puzzles" and this was one:

Puzzle: Part of the Police Manual gives instructions in a language few of the policemen speak. Why?
Hint: Very few, if any, criminals speak this language. It is chosen for its rarity. A handful of words are included, but they are important.
Answer: The instructions given to police dogs are normally in a language not often spoken in the US, such as Hungarian or Czech. This is to make it unlikely that any person other than the trained police officers will be able to control the dog.

*Czech for "Cuddle!"

A Day of Musical Milestones

I can tell the music fervor that ambushed me November 2006 (and resulted in my taking up the guitar the next December) truly is a result of brain damage. Because it hasn't stopped. Every other hobby stops, but this music thing keeps going. (And incidentally, even though the neurologist dismissed it, the guitar-playing is in my file. Just in case the symptoms someday are "heat sensitivity," "parasthesias," "helpless attempts to play guitar.")

So, today was a big day in my musical life.

Today In Music

In Which I Begin to Learn to Read
I got my copy of The Folksong Fake Book and looked immediately for Kevin Barry, one of my favorite Pete Seeger folksongs. I have fond memories of being ten, planting my feet apart and challenging the Crown to shoot me like an Irish Soldier. (Do not hang me like a dog.) But ironically it seems The Folksong Fake Book assumes I know how to read music! It does not tell me where to put my fingers! Like I know this! Come on! Get real.

So, the Big Milestone was that I mapped out what every note of Kevin Barry was on the scale, and then found where they were on the guitar. It only took three attempts but I worked out the first two lines of Kevin Barry. Perhaps tomorrow I'll have the other two lines. And perhaps someday I can look at the notes and just play it. I'm just paying my rent every day in the Tower of Song.

In Which I Am Tragically Disappointed
Yeah, Leonard Cohen was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame yesterday, then today by some remarkable coincidence he announced he's going on tour! ON TOUR! Maybe with Leonard Cohen '08 Tour T-Shirts! Squee! I immediately linked to the tour list:

Toronto CA - Okay, well, he's Canadian, that makes sense.
Dublin IR - Whoa. Ireland. Well, he can visit there, as long as he swings by Saint Louis on the way back to Canada.
Manchester UK - Well, since he's there.
Montreal QC followed by Glastonbury Scotland - This does not look good. I'm thinking Leonard won't be visiting Saint Louis.

Then Norway, Sweden,  Denmark, Switzerland, France, and Bennicam ESP, and I don't even KNOW where ESP is, much less Bennicam.

Then he winds up in Athens...Greece. Damn. For a moment I thought it might be Athens Georgia. Pah. So, no chance to see Leonard Cohen Live. Well, with credit cards all things are possible, but the man at least could drop by.

In Which I Indulge in Another of My Musical Hobbies
Is it a matter of pride among artists to misspell their own lyrics?

Carbon Leaf
Desperation Song
"I'm turing it from shade to light"

T-u-r-i-n-g. I think I might have to stop reading lyrics. Is there some underground code of bands that they don't have true band cred unless they have a typo? Or, more believably, this is probably like the riders that bands have that  require the venue to remove all the brown M&Ms from the backstage M&M bowl. They want to see if we're paying attention.

Things That Make You Say "@*&%#!"

Just today, these things made me exclaim, "Damn!"

• Mom's nurse visits might really be paid for by the Long Term Coverage at my new job. That was a happy "Day-umn!"
• This was a worried "Damn."
• The governor of New York hooked up with a hooker. That was a wryly superior "Damn."
• The hooker cost thousands of dollars. That was a hushed-tone respectful "Damn."
• This was a happy, horrified "Jammies! Damn!" -
  ______________________________________________________

  

  ______________________________________________________________

Look at that skewed bar graph, Jammies. You sent 650 Lushies over. Damn, girl! You rock.

Saturday

Saturday, Gary and I went shopping for his sister Sandy's birthday gift. Gifts. Forty gifts. I am not exaggerating. It took the entire day. He buys MY birthday present the night before in about two hours. No ... I'm not jealous.

His sister asked for:
"Soup bowls
Photoshop
Homeopathic stuff"

Well, our first (and worst) stop was Bed Bath and Beyond, where we had what Gary now calls The Battle of the Bowls.

Gary goes into some infinite time loop in BB&B. It was last weekend all over again. I blame BB&B. It isn't attached to a mall, so when Gary can't find what he wants, he just keeps circling that department. He thinks, "Those bowls aren't in a box. There are some flowery bowls, but she likes ethnic patterns. Those bowls are too plain. No more bowls. I guess that's it. Let me look at those bowls. Yeah. No box. She won't like the flowery bowls. Those won't do. But the plain bowls are too plain. Let me look at the first bowls again ..." until I begin to say things like, "Are you waiting for them to restock the shelves? To order more bowls? Do you think new bowls will rise up from the shelves? There are three types of bowls. If they don't suit you, there are OTHER bowls at the MALL."

So that didn't end well. It ended with finger shaking and no bowls. I had realized the issue was that we weren't in a mall, so when we went to the similarly detached Best Buy I just stayed away from him. Suddenly he presented me with four new CDs and a laptop bag. Then all was well between us, because I am a CD whore. (And if you can get your hands on the song "Business Time" from the Flight of the Conchords CD, you should.)

Finally to the mall, to the Lush store, because Gary decided Aromatherapy = "Homeopathic stuff." The two saleswomen watched Gary shovel Lush products into the basket and looked at me with envy. When they found the products weren't for me, their eyes lit up.

"Don't you like to take baths?" they asked.
"No. I take showers. And before you ask, I don't use shower gels or anything like that."
"What scents do you like?"
"I guess citrus, but I don't really believe in arom - WANT!"

Because she had showed a hunk of Sexy Peel soap in my face, and my nose screamed "WANT! EAT IT! NO! PUT IT UP NOSE! NO! COAT SKIN WITH IT!"

My reaction so impressed Gary that he got his sister some Sexy Peel soap too, which I stole this morning. He caught me, but I can steal it again. He doesn't remember what size that bar of soap was.

Eventually we got bowls at J.C. Pennys, and I used my soap tonight. Eat me! Shove me up your nose.

If I Had Typed This It Would Be As Full of Errors As a Phishing E-Mail

I have MS and you don't nyah! nyah! nyah! The benefits? Well, free FTY720, and all the male doctor attention, and best of all free publicity! I have been getting all kinds of visitors from these MS blogs that have participated in the MS Link Love Campaign. And to them I say, "Hi! I talk about my vibrator collection more often than I talk about MS."

But, here's the original post, which I have dutifully copied. The list of links is below the jump, with only a few editorial comments from me.

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

Original post by (I think) Lisa Emrich:

Remember how I mentioned a group project was in the works? Well here it is. As the founder of the Carnival of MS Bloggers, I'd like your help in spreading the word, and in doing so we will strengthen the bonds of our own little Multiple Sclerosis Blogging Web (and share some linkie love with each other). If you are not an MS Blogger, but are a regular reader here, please feel free to help spread the word too.

Here's what you do:

1. Copy the entirety of this post
2. Create a new post and paste this content
3. Visit 3 of the blogs listed below which you were unfamiliar
4. Leave a comment on their blog encouraging them to participate
5. Please add Brass and Ivory to your sidebar, if it's not already

New editions of the Carnival of MS Bloggers will be presented bi-weekly at Brass and Ivory. Previous editions will be are archived here and the button below has been revised to include the new link. Please update your sidebar.

Like I said, the list of links is below the jump, with only a few editorial comments from me.

Bad Start to the Day

I got out of the shower this morning and noticed the phone message light blinking.

Message: "Hi, this is Tammy at Blahblah Technologies. I'm calling to see if we can resolve this invoice for sixteen thousand -- (embarrassed laugh) -- oh, I'm sorry, sixteen hundred dollars. Call me back at ###-####, extension ###."

I called her back and left her a message.

My message: "I am freaked out. Please call me back and tell me you have the wrong number. Please."

We had a good laugh when she called me back. "Hi, I'm the woman who called demanding money..."

She never said she had mis-dialed, though, what she said was, "Well I wonder where we came up with this number! Huh."

I think I know. DoppleGary is back.

Bob Kuban Comeback

Does anyone except Saint Louisans remember the song "The Cheater" by Bob Kuban? "Look out for the Cheater, something something something..."

I ask because I noticed that a place by my house seems to have a marquee that says "Bob Kuban." Gary thinks it's a ticket outlet (because Highway 94, yeah, that's a great place for a ticket outlet) and I say it's a bar. But, we must find out, because: Bob Kuban!

I have an early memory of being on the river on the SS Admiral (back when it was mobile) and seeing Bob Kuban and the In-Men. I was perplexed that Bob Kuban wasn't the lead singer. Walter Scott, the lead singer for the band, "entertained" us in the eighties by being murdered by his wife. As Wikipedia says,

"Scott disappeared shortly after Christmas, 1983. In April, 1987 Scott's body, having been hog-tied and shot in the back, was found floating face-down in a cistern. Scott's second wife, JoAnn (Calceterra), pled guilty to hindering prosecution in his murder. She received a five year sentence. Her boyfriend (whom she married in 1986), James H. Williams Sr., was found guilty of two counts of capital murder in the deaths of his previous wife, Sharon Williams, and Walter Scott."

I don't recall this accurately, but I think the best part of the story was that James H. Williams Junior turned his father in by alerting the police that if they were to look in the cistern at Walter Scott's house they might find the body. I might be wrong, of course.

Of course, we have to go see Bob Kuban, because he's a Saint Louis fixture. I don't know who the lead singer is now, of course, but the drums will be good.

In Which I Share my Winter Storm Story

I say to People in Saint Louis: Pretty bad snow, Tuesday, huh? Remember when it was 70 degrees last weekend? Crazy.

I say to People Everywhere Else: All of Saint Louis Almost DIED Tuesday! It was a 100-year blizzard! For some reason, CNN cared more about covering the Primaries than covering the near-death experiences of Everyone in Saint Louis!

Tuesday
4:30 am. Dog alerts me that it's sleeting outside. "Crunchy sleet," I think, "Good for traction."

9:30 am. Mom and I drive to her physical therapist for a half-four session. On the way there it begins to snow, meaning I turn the corner at Ladue and Lindbergh and drive into a whiteout. "Blizzard conditions," Mom intones ominously. I remember Mom's cataracts probably mean it looks worse to her than it is.

10:00 am. We wade through the ankle-high snow that accumulated in the last half hour. Mom says, "Take Lindbergh, it will be safer." (I pause as Saint Louisans laugh hollowly.)

10:01 am-12:15 pm. We drive twenty minutes north on Lindbergh for the next two hours.

First, I applied the brakes at the first stoplight. The car did not stop, instead the brakes just had their little ABS seizures while sliding across the 2 car lengths I kept in front of me. I noticed the Dynamic Stability Control light had not gone off.

"Mom, feel that vibration? That's that Dynamic Stability Control we got," I fibbed cheerfully. I pointed at where the light was supposed to be. "You just missed seeing the light," I lied to my cataract-blind mother.

"Stop looking at that light. Watch the road."

For a while there we crawled through the snow, to slow to even skid on the ice when we stopped. Then at Lindbergh and Saint Charles Rock Road we watched two cars try in vain to get up an icy hill.  People tried to push; people almost died. The Pageant of Human Life unfolded before our eyes. Well, my eyes, Mom kept her eyes closed. We stayed in the car. I decided I would eat Mom if I had to. Eventually a Dept of Transportation truck showed up, and the driver pushed the two cars up the icy hill. Then he looked at me. "Just don't stop," he recommended. I put the Mini in first and gunned it.

I did feel a little self-conscious when it had been four minutes of me gunning it up a twelve-foot incline, but I didn't stop, and I made it over the hill.

And given that every snowplow in Saint Louis was probably stuck behind me, and the two stuck cars in front had long gone, I found myself as the lone car on Lindbergh. Lindbergh was white, the air was white, the horizon was white. It was a whiteout and I could not see. I had to turn on the GPS and drive the car like I was in a video game. I stared at the tiny screen and kept the little blue arrow positioned over the yellow alleged Lindbergh line.

Mom (again, blind) convinced me to stay on Lindbergh (allegedly) because then we'd hit the 100 foot snow-free tunnel under the airport.

Eventually (12:15 pm) we get back to Mom's. I called Gary to warn him to stay at work.

12:16 pm. Gary leaves work.

Every fifteen minutes Gary calls to complain about the lack of plows and the BASTARDS who are blocking the ramps and the injustice that makes people go East on Page and then backtrack West on Page and THINK they can get in front of him unfairly and No they WILL NOT be allowed in Front Of Him. Or, to summarize: Bastards.

Oh, and as a coda: The Cataract Surgery Center called to say they can't do Mom's surgery the next day, because her breathing needs the close monitoring you'd get at a hospital. Bah.

Postscript: Gary got home at 5:30 pm. I stayed at Mom's and then got home at 9:30 pm.

So that was my Winter Storm Story.

Wattle Watch '08

This week's wattle:

Smaller? A bit.

In Which I Am So Screwed

I'm not a people person. At one of my reviews at Ye Olde Company I was reproved for not going about the office and saying "Hi" to others. Well, and not saying "Bye." Oh, and not saying, "How was your weekend?"

Well. One of the hazards of working for a small company, right? TeddyJ wouldn't be like that. I could be a cold cog in the wheels of corporate America, put my head down, do my job, y'all just assume my weekend was fine, okay?

As it turns out, why, no, it seems I have to care. This past week I had to attend Customer/Co-worker Service class,  which was devoted to making me a warm and caring person. One classmate even said that working at TeddyJ was so great because people said hello and goodbye to each other. Hello and Goodbye! My old nemesis!

So, I gutted out the class. I did shine during the role-playing exercise where one young lady played the office manager and I played the customer with a complaint. I didn't let up on her until she covered her face and ran away. That was fun.

After each chapter we were encouraged to write down some reflections in our workbooks. Here are mine:

Chapter One: I need to work on being warm.

Chapter Two:I AM a snob.

Chapter Three: MAKE chit-chat!

Chapter Four: Don’t use the tone.

Chapter Five: Let people comfort you.

Chapter Six: I am screwed.

In Which Gary Channels President Garfield

Yesterday I asked Gary what he wanted for his birthday. He wanted an AsSeenonTV Cordless Swivel Sweeper. Ah, I thought, because you spend so much time cleaning the floor. But it's his Birthday Month, and after a few comments regarding how it would be cool if they made a cordless sweeper that was round and robotic and was sitting in our laundry room this very minute, I figured it was only $35 and not worth the argument.

"We" spent an two and a half hours looking at the cordless sweepers at Bed Bath and Beyond. The five cordless sweepers. FIVE. That's 30 minutes per sweeper. I started suggesting that perhaps we need to go home and do some more research. Maybe see what Consumer Reports had to say. Or, buy them all and do our own CR-style road test. Or, just buy one for chrissake!

This displeased Gary.

"Gary, come on. I'm patient, but it's been two and a half hours that I've been standing watching you read boxes."
"Well, if you're so bored, go look at something else," he pouted.
Hallelujah! "Oh, thank you," I sighed, and moved in for a kiss.
He moved away. (Really? Oh, no, you did not just dodge my kiss like a sixth-grader.) I moved in again.
He moved away.
So, of course, I chased him around the vacuum area at Bed Bath and Beyond. He  ran from me in fear, but since he didn't have the motivation I did I soon caught up with him and pushed him against the mops.

"Help! Masher!"  he cried.

He really said, "Masher," as if he were Shirley Jones in The Music Man. He's such a girl.

Hey! Memes Are Supposed to be Easy!

Where have I been? Recovering from the Waterslide Flu. (I'm not suggesting I caught it at a waterslide. If you had this flu, I think you know what I mean.) Well, and trying to do this meme I got from Katie, the Hardest Meme Ever.

I'm supposed to list 5 material wishes and 5 spiritual wishes.  I tried, and all I could come up with were these:

5 Material Wishes

THIS was HARD! Hard when you've trained yourself to think that one secret to happiness is, "Don't Want What You Can't Have." This widespread belief is what caused the Nordstrom's in Saint Louis to shut down. We don't want to see $1,000 skirts while window-shopping; all it does is make us avoid your store.

1. Ok, after this afternoon I want a shaved ice machine. Gary got coffee at Hot Lava Java, and I got what I thought was a Sno-Cone. Back in MY day we had Sno-Cones, which was flavored hail that didn't melt in your mouth like shaved ice. You couldn't eat Sno-Cone ice, you could only suck out the juice until you pulled the ice pale. But I could eat this ice sans juice, all day.
2. Instead of feeling like a fourteen-year old and looking like a forty-five year old, I'd like the opposite for a while. I've noticed that concentrating draws my lips into a ridiculous frown. Is that material? I say it is.
3. I want them to make the Arrested Development movie. This really doesn't count as a wish, I suppose, because they are supposedly doing it. So, I want them to release the Arrested Development movie to me, in my house, privately.
4. Hm. You know I hadn't thought about it before, but I'd like to visit a foreign country this year. See? This is what happens when you start wishing.
5. I wish Chinese food was less disruptive to my digestion. There.

5 Spiritual Wishes

THIS was also HARD! Then I stopped thinking of them as wishes. Making wishes: HARD. Fantasies, that's a different story.

1. I wish the jackass I saw at the First Watch at lunch dies. Well, no, because then his long-suffering wife might be hit with debts. This man was having a two-year-old temper fit. He didn't raise his voice, but he slammed his fist on the table, he violently OPENED his menu, he slapped it shut, he angrily hurled himself in his seat, he grabbed the Equal, he tore it open so hard it went everywhere, it went on. He was so awful I warned the waitress.
2. Oh, and since I am raining down retribution, I wish the jackass I saw an hour later at the store dies. He cussed out his kid on the phone, then yelled at his wife when she reproved him. So, death to him.
3. World Peace, already. And Billions spent on health instead. Well, except for the assholes above.
   
4. I wish Gary all the happiness in the world. Mainly because he's easier on me when he's happy.
5. To continue with the theme that seems to be developing here, I wish everybody would just chill. Universal chillage. Especially the guy at First Watch, he was a total ass.