Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Tiebreaker

I am taking a poll at work. The poll is tied. You all get to be Florida. Or the Rules Committee, whoever.

Here's what happened: Friends #2 (Hot Mom / Libby) and #3 (Marcia) and I went to lunch at Pei Wei (cheap P.F. Changs). My chopped Chinese salad came out a bit late, so I was still eating when the Friends finished up.

#2 was talking about her genius twins, and #3 reached into her purse and pulled out a little bobbin of something. "Huh," I thought, as she began unspooling some thread off the bobbin. Then she snapped the thread ... and began WINDING the ends of the thread around the index fingers OF BOTH HANDS in the manner of someone who was about to floss her teeth.

"Is she about to daintily garrote Friend #2?" I thought with alarm. And then Friend #3 opened her maw. And flossed.
At.
The.
Table.

My jaw dropped, and thankfully I didn't have any food in my mouth, because it would have spilled out, and I suppose that would have been disgusting.

Friend #3 didn't notice my look of horror at first, then abruptly interrupted her flossing to mouth "Bite Me." Friend #2 knows what it is to be polite and didn't want to make #3 uncomfortable, so she didn't make a fuss.

I made a fuss. On my white-board at work I have posted the question:

"Is it acceptable for MARCIA to floss her teeth at the table at Pei Wei? _____Yes      No_____"

Marcia appended, "*If there is broccoli and MARCIA is among friends and she doesn't want to interrupt Libby's story so that MARCIA can floss in the bathroom?"

Still, the score stands at five (ONLY five!) tally marks to five (GOD! Five!) tally marks.

The anti-floss faction feels very strongly. I keep having to urge them to only vote once. (Marcia, so you know, your mentor feels this is a reflection on his mentoring.)

On the other hand, the pro-flossing faction tends to respond, "Well, you know sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, and depending on the company ... Whatever."

Debate.

My First

I glibly suggested to Magpie Musing that it might be time to publish the facts about my very first vibrator. It seems I'm having quite the run of sex-related posts. I promise I will soon go back to making fun of Gary.

Minus Section

So, I was talking with Friend #3 about how we had learned the facts of life, and I told her I had bugged Mom about it as much as she could stand ("Ellen! I have told you this how many times?") so I decided to get my details from the "Minus Section" at the public library.

Our library very definitely had a Minus Section, but after some Googling I'm thinking it might have been a modification of the Dewey Decimal System our librarians invented.

Our library was of course on the Dewey Decimal system, with the categories:
    * 000 – Computer science, information, and general works
    * 100 – Philosophy and psychology
    * 200 – Religion
    * 300 – Social sciences
    * 400 – Languages
    * 500 – Science
    * 600 – Technology applied science
    * 700 – Arts and recreation
    * 800 – Literature
    * 900 – History and geography and biography

I remember deciding the reason computers were in the 000s was they hadn't been invented when the DD System was created. I wondered if Dewey started with the 100s, and the occult stuff was in the 000s too, because Dewey thought it was heretical. I don't know. I spent a lot of time at the library.

At any rate, my library was equipped with one section that had books with minus signs in front of the Dewey Decimal numbers for "certain" books.

601.12: medical encyclopedia, lets say.
-601.12: The Medical Encyclopedia of Sex.

Negative numbers in a parallel Dewey Universe.
-100s? The Psychology of Sex.
-700s? Sexy Art.
-400? Nothing, because there's no language about sex.

These books were kept out, but in the Minus Section, right by the check-out counter. The Minus Section only took up one shelf. The librarians watched closely to see who was browsing the Minus Section. Except for one librarian, Mr. K____, who ritually came in every day to work , picked up a random book out of the Minus Section, read a few pages, then got to work.

I know this because I later worked at the library, when I was 18. But that one summer when I was 13 I came in every day and picked up Hite or Kinsey from the Minus Section, and no one said boo to me.

When I was talking to Friend #3 today, it was as if she was unaware of the Minus Section. ("What, like antibooks? The antimatter of the library?") I peeked into Wikipedia, Google, and the Straight Dope, and it looks like perhaps there isn't a Minus Section in every library. I haven't been in a library for years since I gave back my library card, so I don't know. Then again, maybe if the Internet meets the Minus Section, the universe explodes. Could be. So, anybody else fall into the Minus Section?

An Open Letter

Dear staff of Seattle Grace Hospital,

It has come to my attention that your mortality rate is higher than the normal television-based hospital drama.  I would like to posit that perhaps you might not kill so many people in the operating room if you turned the music down. Because it seems that every time things become critical in the OR, the music swells to the same decibel level the doctors use to converse.

You can go on drowning out Meredith, though, because I'm sick of her.

Still, I'm sure in the future television critics will look back at your show as the seminal hour-long music-video-drama.


Sincerely,


Ellen S_____ and Gary "What did they say? Is it just me? I can't hear what's going on!" S_______

Me At Fifty

In the Dillard's shoe department, I handed the fifty-year old saleswoman back her little tiny nylon footies that had become completely shredded by my untended toenails and crusty heels. She said,

"I hope they make condoms better than that."

All I can imagine is she calls them "foot condoms" in her mind.

In Which We are Bossed About

 In-Law Bossing
The day began with Gary and I in bed planning our day. We wove together the requirements (Gary haircut, Cowboy Mouth concert) with the options (breakfast at First Watch, buying new jeans that fit, summer suits).

Then the in-laws called: the Estate is settled! Gift checks are written! Must come over and get money. Gary actually said we had plans. NO MUST COME OVER NOW.

In-laws were giddy. Giddy, I tell you. We were cleaning up after lunch and asked Wilma where the kitchen wastebasket was. She whirled around with a new wastebasket. "Here! It's new! We have money now!"  Not to suggest they were below the New Wastebasket Poverty Line, it's just that Ken has the purse strings and Wilma has to ask beg negotiate justify every purchase. I'd hate that. Which is why Gary and I have separate bank accounts. Which is why that check went in to Gary's account. Wait. What was I thinking?

Cowboy Mouth Bossing
Gary and I met up with Friends #2 and #3 at Ribfest, where I was ridiculed for not knowing the differences  between all grassy areas off Market Street downtown. I call them all Keiner Plaza. It would seem I am wrong.

Cowboy Mouth performed as they did at the first concert I saw: they bossed the crowd. However, when the lead singer/drummer Fred screamed at the audience to GET ON THE GROUND AND THEN JUMP UP LIKE A FIVE YEAR OLD NOW CROUCH CROUCH DOWN GET DOWN LOW LOWER Friend #2 / Libby /Hot Mom stood proud in her pointy-toe boots with a crossed-arm "fuck you" stance. I stared up in awe at her. I was surprised Fred didn't call her out; she was the only one downtown not crouching.

KC and the Sunshine Band Bossing
First of all I saw four separate women smoking Virginia Slims before the concert even started. Not my crowd. Gary's crowd, though. Somehow, I  was convinced the big KC and the Sunshine Band song was Afternoon Delight. I was wrong. Gary was convinced KC was a short black man. He was wrong.

I was wondering why Gary was so insistent that we stay and see KC and the Sunshine Band, and then I saw the horn section come out. THEN the hot Solid Gold Dangers came out and booty popped. I am working on my lower body dance moves and now I am committed to perfecting the booty pop. Then KC came out and insisted I do a little dance, make a little love, and get down tonight. After that he politely asked that I turn him on, since he is my boogie man (he's my boogie man, he's my boogie man) and that afterward I may do what I want. Afterward, KC implored me to keep it coming (love), don't stop it now, don't stop it, no, don't stop it now, don't stop.

At this point I became a little annoyed. To be honest, I like my songs to have plots and foreshadowing. That is evidently not the way KC and the Sunshine Band like it, uh-huh, uh-huh. They would like me to shake shake shake, shake shake shake, shake my booty. (Shake my booty.) Which I did after studiously watching the dancers.

I Would Do That

If I were a male celebrity I would be Richard Quest, CNN reporter, Not because he affects the "lively" air when he's reporting on the royal family and the serious air when he's anchoring on CNN International. I would be Richard Quest, because he was arrested in Central Park and found to have a sex toy tucked in his boot and an apparently unrelated rope tying his neck to his genitals.

I would so do that. I would do that if I were a man.

I would also do what Dick Cavett wrote about in his autobiography. He put his penis in the hose attachment and turned the vacuum on. (And promptly peed all over the rug.) I'd do that in a heartbeat. Household appliances are fair game. Who among us has not had an intimate relationship with the washer and the spin cycle, or its cousin, the dryer, if there was sufficient time?

You know what else I would do? This isn't sexual, but if I were a woman running for president, I would say something like "My husband did not wrap up the nomination in 1992 until he won the California primary somewhere in the middle of June, right? We all remember Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in June in California. You know I just, I don't understand it." I would so totally say that. And then Keith Olbermann would break his pencil and yell at me for even daring to refer to an assassination during this of all primary seasons. I would make the mistake of not punching the word "June." 

Plus, I would so totally have sex in the Oval Office with an intern if I got in.

Review of The Breakup

A few months ago, I was out with my friends. or working late, or something, and Gary watched this movie, The Breakup, with Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn. I asked, "How was it?" fully expecting to give the standard Gary movie re-enactment, which takes 30 minutes longer than the movie itself, what with the analysis and the hopping.

"Oh, it was awful. The guy was just like me, AND his name was Gary."

Now, I know Jennifer Aniston was naked in this movie; that's why Gary wanted to see it. If this self-recognition overshadowed "Rachel's" naked ass, it must be right on. That's why I rescued the movie from the Tivo Suggestions the next time it came up.

Let me tell you, it was like marriage counseling. Jennifer Aniston would scream "You don't appreciate me!" and Gary would coo, "Ellen, I want you to know I appreciate you." Really odd. Don't know what to make of it. Only, I kept rooting for Vince Vaughn instead of Jennifer Aniston. "I want you to WANT to wash the dishes!" I don;t even want to wash the dishes. You threw the party, girl, you clean it up.

P.S. - Just because it merits mentioning, I had a new category of dream last night: The Squirrel Dream. Squirrels were in every room of my house, watching me dress, watching me shower, watching me all the time. I hate squirrels.

Secrets: Still holding at 1.

Today was the day we signed up for the next BNL cruise. Specifically, I was scheduled to sign up at 2:00 Central time. I couldn't sign up at work because TeddyJ has us locked in to the Amish Internet. (For example, you can't get to this very blog. Prudes! My boss explained they look for certain words and lock out that content. I assumed they looked for "finance" or "trade" or "stock," and then realized my chances of signing up for the "Barenaked" Ladies cruise from work were low.)

So, I asked to work from home this afternoon, but instead of following my usual practice I didn't give a reason. I just said there was something I had to do at home.

What do we call that? A Secret.

I knew I probably could tell the new people at work about the cruise, but THEN I'd have to keep a secret about the naked photo. And given that Friend #3 and I were having lunch with our Big Boss, who was raised in India, it was even more key that I keep quiet about the cruise I was signing up for. From home. In secret. How do we react to secrets? We spill a different secret to maintain the Secret Brain Balance.

I did pretty well until the drive back from lunch when we were discussing cars. I suddenly said, "Oh. You know what my car has? A seat warmer. The first time I was in a car with seat warmers I didn't know what they were and the drive turned on the seat warmer and I didn't know and I thought I'd wet my pants."

So. At least they don't know I left work to get on a taboo web site and sign up to be naked.

Weird Stuff in My Head

• I want to thank whoever did a Google Search on "Leonard Cohen" + "Kevin Barry." I had no idea Leonard Cohen covered one of my favorite songs. Wow ... that would be like hearing that Steven Page was going to cover songs by Leonard Cohen or The Weakerthans. Oh, wait.

• I know that the media keeps telling me that the Obama and Clinton campaigns hate each other and this is one of the most divisive primary seasons ever. I'm not seeing that. I'm watching Obama's speech in Iowa and he and Hillary should just make out already. I don't call this division. Did the media just not see the Bush vs McCain fight a few seasons ago? With the flat-out lying and the bogus phone calls ostensibly from the opponent? And no one was fired the next day. MSNBC keeps saying Mom and Dad hate each other! It scares my inner child.

• I think now that Mom's final resting place will be the Carribean somewhere. Sorry, it's just hard to ship her through the mail.

• Oh, speaking of Mom, do you remember that Gary was all nervous that I would burst into tears during the hospital-based My Name Is Earl episodes? Well, fans of House, he listened to me become almost dehydrated from the tears and mucus pouring out of my face during the season finale and just sat there and ate pretzels.

• I would like to state that the Norwegian Cruise Line has a cunning marketing scheme to get travelers on the Norwegian Jewel to upgrade by putting this bedspread ...

... in every cabin except penthouse and luxury suites.

Freaky Stuff in My House

Wee roses in bloom! "Prune us!" they scream in teeny fairy voices. "EEEee! Prune us!"

"A few must die so weeee allll cann liiiiiive!"

As the butterfly larvae watch from the ledge.

"HAI. WE ARE IN YER HOUSE, GROSSIN OUT YER HUSBAND. NOM. NOM! NOM! ... EW, I JUST ATE ONE OF MY OWN TURDS. NOMNOM."

While Judiblu's art watches worried from the hall. Especially the violet blue guy. He's all freaked out.

Dinosaurs, Revealed

Thank God for CNN never letting a story die.

Dinosaur Sighting #1:

Yesterday, CNN had a choice. It was Breaking News: Hydrochloric acid is seeping into Louisiana versus Breaking News: Teddy Kennedy had a stroke. They went with the stroke. Not true, of course, just a seizure.

Dinosaur Sighting #2:

Dave called a few hours later. I answered and said, "Yeah, yeah, Teddy Kennedy had a seizure, not a stroke," because Dave habitually calls me when dead celebrities are in the news and screams, "HEATH LEDGER! DEAD!" or "BRAD RENFRO! DEAD!" so I was expecting "KENNEDY! ALMOST DEAD!" yet Dave hadn't known anything about a stroke or seizure.

Instead, Dave was calling to tell me the "modern" version of The Andromeda Strain would be on TV Memorial Day. For a long time that had been one of our favorite movies. Then I got involved with Gary and discovered that Michael Crichton, the writer of the book, has some sick hatred of people with epilepsy, including, I suppose, Gary.

The first book I know of that cast people with epilepsy was The Andromeda Strain. (I like the term people with epilepsy, or you may say "epileptics," if your prefer the antiquated term, or "people with a seizure disorder," if you prefer the modern term.) If you recall [SPOILER ALERT] the lab almost self-destructs at the climax of the book and movie because one of those damn epileptics hid his condition instead of being drowned in a bag at birth, I suppose, and has a photo-sensitive seizure from the flashing alarm lights.

Then, he went off and wrote a hateful book called The Terminal Man (also a movie starring the still adorable George Segal). This novel focuses on a man with complex-partial seizures. This type of seizure doesn't result in decreased consciousness, like the convulsive seizure everyone thinks of, instead the person does erratic actions. Gary, for example, hops on one foot, says repetitive phrases, and tries to shave with his blow dryer (luckily, not vice-versa). The "terminal" man murders people, and that bastard M.C. backed it up with a footnote. A completely false footnote, or if nothing else, a questionable footnote in which someone with epilepsy threw a baby down a well and used epilepsy as his defense.

When I worked at the local Epilepsy Federation the director told me the national chapter had just won a suit against him for a one million dollar donation, plus M.C. had to write a grudging, childish, petty, pouty addendum to the paperback copy, which is so boring you can hardly believe he wrote it.

As a further proof that the Epilepsy Federation won, there are no dinosaurs with epilepsy in Jurassic Park. It seems our only epileptic dinosaur is Teddy Kennedy.

Dinosaurs

Okay. Last night I had a post in my head. It was about dinosaurs.

You won't be reading that post. Because I went to bed. Without writing it. And now I don't remember a word of it. It wasn't about dinosaurs as much as it just had several references to dinosaurs to pull it together.

I remember thinking last night about mummies, and wondering if there's an internment ceremony when museums display mummies, but that wasn't dinosaur-related. And last night I watched the Indiana Jones movie with James Bond. There were no dinosaurs in that, though. I did a search on "dinosaur" to see if I had posted it before. Evidently not. I must have left a comment on someone else's blog about the freaking dinosaurs.

I know I've mentioned (somewhere) that when I would drive with my grandmother in South Saint Louis County where the highway is channeled through the foothills and shows the strata in the rocks, she would say "That's how you can tell the dinosaurs were here." And of course I assumed they built the highway into the channel that the dinosaur tails had left behind.

But that wasn't it, either.

It's like Kublai Khan, only backwards.

Secret Christian Elbow Signal

I went out for drinks with the Formerly Heartless Cows, whom I have MISSED since half of them have been in another kennel, and had a delightful time, but it unearthed a mystery.

Okay. Friend #4 says she was introduced to someone who not only considers herself a Christian, but she cups her elbows in her palms every time she says the word "Christian."  As if she were crossing her arms and protecting her elbows for good measure. And evidently she says the word Christian frequently in casual conversation.

Another person who uses the word Christian? Hot Mom (Friend #2). Hot Dad (Sting Lover) is named "Christian." So now Friends #2 and #4 have an inside joke and shield their elbows compulsively when they talk about Hot Dad. "So, what did Christian" (elbow palm) "have to say about Happy Hour?"

But, why does this Christian Acquaintance cup her elbows when she says "Christian?"

Perhaps she wanted something like the Catholics have with the Sign of the Cross.
Perhaps she thought her elbows were a temptation to men.
Perhaps all the praying has made her elbows sore.
Perhaps she's hinting to the Lord that she want soft, smooth elbows.
Perhaps it's a Masonic thing, like a code.

At any rate, we began to speculate, if Catholic is the Sign of the Cross, and Fundamentalist Christian is evidently the Elbow Squeeze, what would be the Secret Code Signal for other religions?

Caroline volunteered the Protective Vagina Palms as an alternate Catholic sign.
Marcia put the back of her hand to her brow in an Oy Vey Jewish gesture.
Libby made the Jazz Hands of Agnosticism. (Not the Spirit Fingers of Agnosticism. That was right out.)

I went with the Armpit Fart for the Baptists, just to be vulgar and crass, but I suppose the Baptists would Nose Pinch as if they were doing the swim.

In Which I Am Told I Need to Think or Shut Up

A few weeks ago, I was at work but I needed to make some phone calls between nine and four.  Because a number of government agencies needed to know Mom was dead. After a few days of playing with words ("dead," "passed on," "passed away," "not with us, if you know what I mean," back to "dead,") I became more and more conscious of the thought bubbles of condemnation floating over the tops of the cube walls. Did I sound too sad? Too matter-of-fact? It's a lot of calls, even if you don't actually say "dead." At any rate, knowing the liberal policy TeddyJ has about working from home, I wanted to ask my Team Leader (TeddyJ has no bosses, we're groovy like that) if I could work from home. so that I didn't disrupt my co-workers with the "Uh, I need to report a death /passing / deceasement" routine.

What did I do? I walked up to my Team Leader and said "I want to go home so I can make some personal phone calls. During work hours."

After a little re-phrasing she was cool with it.

Yet even still, today, when I printed out three hundred pages of Powerpoint presentations and white papers, I began to read and got distracted by every little thing. So of course out of the blue I asked the same Team Leader, "Would it be okay if I just go home and read?"

She said I really need to work on how I phrase these things.

It's Wee Idda Bidda Bebe Woses Time of Year

I have the sweetest rose bush out in the back. Made sweeter the year it died all the way back, and I discovered you don't grow plants, you grow roots. It came entirely back in that one year.

I always mean to prune it, and I never the heart. It needs it, but I can never remember if roses grow on old wood or new wood.

And I love it, because it has the teensiest tiniest roses ever:

Tiny. The size of my thumbnail. Which needs a manicure.

(I was holding it gently, but still it seems like I'm a giant trying to tear the head off a long-stemmed rose.)

Oh, and since you asked: Graves you say? Resting place of Mom and Dad? Here they are under the Rock Mom gave me that says Laugh.

What I am Posting Instead of Oh, Say, Cooking Brownies

• It's Gary's fault; if he hadn't bought new stamps I would have been at the grocery and picked up necessary brownie stuff.

• I also haven't used the glue gun to do minor shipping repairs on Judith's whimsical sculpture, either. (It's mine now! I scored! You can get your own! At http://judibleu.etsy.com.) I love it - the photo doesn't do it justice.

• I appear to be loosening up at my new job. I had this conversation today, with Oy-jay and Ott-scay, who sit across the cube wall from me:
  
  Oy-jay: (coughs violently, as she has been doing for two months)
  Me: Hey, when you went to the hospital with pneumonia, was it bacterial pneumonia?
  Oy-jay: (perkily) Yes! It was!
  Ott-scay: Yeah and then she came to work and coughed all over us.
  
  Then I paused, and blandly said ...
  Me: You probably killed my Mom.
  
  Heh. It was great. Poor woman.
  

Seven! (7) How Many Is Seven? (sehhhvehhhn...)

Congrats to everyone who answered Seven!

It was almost eight. As I left she said, "I hope you feel better soon."

"No, really I'm fine."

"That cold can last a while."

So, I couldn't count that as Mom-generated sympathy.

So, brownies baked in the Famous Edge Brownie Pan for:

Becs
LaisyDaisy
Autumn

Because seven is the magic number. (All BNL children, in chorus: "Seven Eight Nine!")

AND, a new Blog From Beyond is up at Queen Mum.

Steak

Gary and I were at the grocery Saturday night, when I said, "I want to cook you something, like a roast or a steak." He just screamed like a girl at the idea of the roast. (I can only imagine all fights between his parents stemmed from food: too much for the freezer, how hard it is too make, because when I warn him I'll be making some he protests. When I make it he's happy.)

So, that's why I bought two porterhouse steaks and made them when he was walking the dog today. I had to do it then, since he invariably bursts into the kitchen screaming "Something is BURNING!" when I heat up the oven or stove. I didn't want to grill the steaks because it was perfect catch-a-cold weather, and I am still sleeping off a cold. I opened up "How to Cook Everything," my big yellow cookbook friend, compiled by a vegetarian, which still explains how to cook up cow muscles indoors.

I wanted a second opinion, went to the internet, and found a fine explanation on Everything.com.

An excerpt:
"A properly cut, aged, and prepared porterhouse, IMNSHO, is the best steak. PERIOD. People whine and whimper, 'Oh, what about the filet mingon? Or the top sirloin?' These people are freaking idiots and should NOT, under ANY circumstances, be allowed near any proper steakhouse, BBQ, charcoal pit, or any other symbol (real or imagined) of elevated carnivorous behavior. A steak isn't a little sliver of beef wrapped in bacon and presented on a white plate with a sprig of some sort of pretentious green matter, as if you just happened to bring your pet rabbit along to eat a large, hoofed mammal with you. A steak, and your experiences enjoying it, should invoke memories of roasting animals over an open fire with your fellow hunters. IF THIS MEANS YOU AND YOU'VE TAKEN OFFENSE, STOP READING THIS RIGHT FUCKING NOW!! You do not have the qualifications to view the following, and your eyes will melt out of your skull if you proceed, leaving you with useless sockets of dessicated carbon."

I still went ahead and pan-broiled the steak like a wuss,  but I enjoyed the Everything.com explanation best. And it tasted fine, even without the open fire.

Place Your Bets

Saturday is the big Dual Mother's Day / Birthday Party for my mother-in-law. It should last six hours.

Let's place some bets.

How many times will my mother-in-law mention my mother and how sad it is that I don't have my mother on this Mother's Day and how terribly I must be missing my mother since it is Mother's Day and even though I don't have a mother my mother will live on always in my heart.

How many times?

I'm serious. I'm going to keep track. If your guess is closest I might even bake you something and mail it.

Place your bets in the comments. Betting will end Monday night.

Please, no doping.

This is Great News

An excerpt from this news story:

"Researchers have known for some time that fat that collects in the abdomen -- known as visceral fat -- can raise a person's risk of diabetes and heart disease, while people with pear-shaped bodies, with fat deposits in the buttocks and hips, are less prone to these disorders."

Also, we can booty-pop, unlike some African-American women of our acquaintance. This is really pissing off Friend #7.

"White girls can booty-pop. Why can't I booty-pop?"

The Fog

The weather was beautiful last weekend. I suffer greatly from my own strain of Spring Fever: when it's an absolutely gorgeous day I am filled with guilt and inadequacy. "Look at this," I think, "The grass is that luminous spring green. The sky is perfect. The world is all beauty, why aren't you doing your part? Why aren't you creating more beauty in the world?" It's the same feeling I get in the art museum. "You're just a beauty-user."

Understandably, I feel less pressured by bad weather. Love the rain, even the drizzle. Of all, my favorite is fog.

About 22 years ago there was an epic fog in the Saint Louis area. And, even better, it was a night fog. Gary and I were out buying crystal for a friend's wedding, and we'd driven out to an outlet mall 40 miles west of Saint Louis. (See, children, back before there was the Internet, we had to drive places to buy things.) We drove home disappointed.

On the way home, the fog hit. Driving stopped. You could see only the taillights of the car parked on the shoulder directly in front of you. It was a situation that equalized all cars. SUVs and trucks had no advantage over our eensy Honda CRX.

After an hour of the incapacitating fog, Gary and I got a little impatient, because there was a wedding to attend the next day and the crystal was still not in hand. We had already noticed the only thing visible for miles: the big glowing sign for "Mid-Rivers Mall." So we pulled back out to where we thought the highway might still be, then crept along the exit and across the parking lot to the big glowing "Famous-Barr" sign.

None of the crystal we needed at Famous, either, so we headed out to the mall -- except we couldn't find the exit to the mall.  We  followed the wall on the first floor, then we thought to ask someone.

"How do we get out to the mall?" we asked, embarrassed.

"The mall?" said the perfume lady.

"Yes."

"I don't understand."

(Brief moment to evaluate the language skills of the perfume lady.) "The mall. We've walked all around and can't see how to get out to the mall."

"What mall?"

(Brief moment to evaluate the drug addictions of the perfume lady.)  "This mall. Mid-Rivers mall."

"This is the mall." (pause) " There is no mall."

It reminded me of that Lost in Space episode when Dr. Smith takes the elevator up to the second floor of their spaceship in the parallel universe or something, and he comes back down all ashen-faced and intones, "There is no second floor."

Come to find out, ha ha, we had crept through the minimal parking lot past the massive construction equipment to the fully-finished Famous which was not attached to anything, yet. Sure, there was a sign.  Two points determine a line, and it appears one store determines a mall. About a year later, they finished the mall and had a grand opening.

So, fog. My favorite.

Look! You Got Monkeys Yesterday. Today You Get Snot.

Updated: I woke up today and thought, "Look! You Got Ejaculate Yesterday, Today You Got Snot." Sorry for the delay, but I'm snot-stupid.

My head is full of snot. So full that I have taken to putting a towel on the bed and laying the most snot-filled nostril on it and just letting my nose drain directly on to the towel. This as I breathe through my gaping mouth and moan as I exhale. *inhale* "ooOOOooooaaaannnnnhh." *inhale* "uuuuUUUUnnnnnhhhhhhh." *inhale*

Am I the only one who does this: I find great comfort in making the inside of my bottom lip as dry as possible when I've been mouth-breathing for a while.

My only real comfort is work. I have been doing all the brainless work-projects on my plate today.  And, I've been watching the election intently. Barack congratulated Hillary on winning Indiana, Hillary was gracious about winning Indiana, and the MSNBC people are still insisting it's too close to call. I think this might make sense if it could get past all the snot.

In Which I Observe Some Monkeys Being Spanked

I just did something fun that I think every woman should do. It's not something the faint of heart would want to read. That's why it's below the link.

Stress Kills

One question neurologists ask when you come in to report an exacerbation is, "Have you had any stressful events recently?"  I used to think, "Who wants to know? Not your business."  Twenty years ago I would have been the first to roll my eyes at the thought that stress could influence your immune system. But then they took rats and stressed them out and it really happens; stress affects your immune system.

Brief immune system lesson: we all have two parts of our immune system: a)kill the bacteria cells vs b)chill out, stop the killing cells. These are supposed to be in balance. Stress gets them out of balance.

When MSers have an episode they have more kill cells than chill out cells.  Therefore, the kill cells run rampant and attack perfectly good body parts. Thats why we inject the chill cells, so even if our bodies crank out more kill cells, we're covered, the new chill cells will convince them to stop attacking. Oh, and the chill cells? They're what make you feel sick and feverish. Picture paying $1K a month for this. Of course, I'm off those drugs now, and I'm taking the experimental FTY 720 drug that stifles the extra kill cells.

(When many normal people get stressed they have more chill out cells than kill cells. The chill cells make you feel sick. Stressed out "normals" may have only one bacteria in their entire body, but they feel sick and feverish.) 

When I changed jobs a month or two ago, I of course considered how this stressful event would affect my MS. I figured it would hit after a month or so. A month or so later, Mom was in the hospital, then Mom was in hospice, and it wasn't so much on my mind. But the last few days, yes, I have been waking up and routinely checking all my limbs.

Then, I guess it was Thursday night, I lay down in bed and could barely move. "Wow," I thought, "This is MS fatigue. I feel totally wiped out."

Then the next morning, as I awakened and did my full-body assessment, I felt a weird sensation in my throat. Tingly, like a paresthesia (an odd MS sensation). I tried to swallow. Ouch.

I lay there for a moment until it struck me that I had a sore throat.

And the fatigue? I believe you normals call it "coming down with a cold."

So, here I am with a cold. A raging cold resulting from my recent stress. Nothing wrong with me except a cough and sore throat. Try and convince me I'm on the placebo now.

The Deed Is Done

Our backyard has two gardens by the back patio. They were originally vegetable gardens, eight feet by 2.5 feet. After we slaved over them, and bound them in with wood ties, and mounded up the dirt, we stood back to survey our work, and said, "Damn! We just built graves!" Often we refer to them as the S______ graves.

Since the were first dug, they have gone from vegetable garden, to tomato garden, to miniature rock garden, to cutting garden, to whatever grows garden.

This evening as I was digging a hole for the transplanted Sedum fortified by Dad's cremains, and tilling Mom into the hole, it struck me I was essentially burying Mom and Dad. In a Hole. In the Dirt. In a Grave.

Why this basic flaw in the plan didn't strike me before is beyond me. Now I want to take the remaining third of her and shoot her into space or seed a cloud with her.

Lush and the Loss Leaders

Gary was at the Big Lush Store at the Galleria tonight, buying some more Mother's Day / Birthday presents for his Mom. Her birthday was in mid-April, and has been postponed for so many reasons that it's now merging with Mother's Day.

(On the topic of Mother's Day, I was just on the phone with Dave tonight, and he agreed with me there are many mothers out there who suck and do not deserve to be alive. Mother's Day is pissing us both off.)

At any rate, Gary is having a no-holds-barred volcanic gift eruption, including  now three visits  to Lush. Gary selected the few Lush products that have been beneath his radar. He sniffed for an hour or so while I chatted with the sales crew. I have it on their authority that there are some people in Saint Louis who eat the Lush products. One grown woman and one five-year-old boy. The boy likes the sandstone soap. I don't know what soap or scrub the grown woman eats.

At any rate, we then went to dinner at the mall and I had the chopped salad, again -  I think I can imagine a Mom chopping up the vegetables so they are all tiny and diced. It's really so comforting.

At dinner he started totaling up all the stuff he bought his Mom, and suddenly looked up from the Lush receipt and asked, "What's Gorgeous?"

(If you use Lush, you can stop reading. I think you know where this is going.)

"I don't know," I chewed, "You did all the shopping."

"Well, there must be a mistake. I didn't buy anything for $87.50."

Hack! "One thing? For 87.50? No, one of those giant gift boxes must have been on the counter and they assumed it was ours."

We walked back to the Lush store. I went up to the friendly sales guy (the one who told me about the Sandstone-eating Pica Boy) and demanded pleasantly, "What is Gorgeous, and why does it cost ninety bucks?"

He reached into our bag and pulled out the teeny tiny tub of Gorgeous. Here it is on the web site, tucked in between all the $25 things. It was tucked in next to the $25 things at the store too, and for all of you who are screaming at a $25 tublet of moisturizer, much less $80 plus, know that Gary doesn't look at prices when it comes to gifts.

I unscrewed the lid because I wanted to discover what $87.50 smelled like. Smells like cold cream. I checked the ingredients, I didn't see "squid placenta" or anything exotic in there.

So, Gary has actually hit a limit on what he will buy for his Mom. He won't spend $87.50 for 1.5 ounces of moisturizer.  He returned it.  When I got home I read some reviews on the Lush site. The one with the 32 year old who credited it for keeping her unwrinkled was pretty funny. I started picturing Lush TV Ads with ten year olds cooing, "This moisturizer keeps me wrinkle-free!"

 

Hitler is On the History Channel! No Way!

Here it is, Blogging Against Disability Day, and ... and ... I got nothing to say. Aren't healthy people a minority? There are in my world. Mom, Dad, Gary, Me, Dave, all disabled.

Well, two disability-related things happened to me today:

1. I was all tickled that TeddyJ offered me Long-Term Care insurance without asking me pesky questions ... and then they asked me pesky questions.  Feh. So I stuck my neck out and emailed HR, "Is there something I don't understand?" Sneaky bastids. Now they suspect.

2. I suppose lip-reading is disability-related. I just watched the tail-end of a remarkable documentary on the History Channel. They took old silent newsreels and silent films of Hitler, just hanging out in the mountains with Eva, and then used "Lip-reading software" to work out what he's saying. (Get this: Hitler is a dick!   I KNOW!) But I have to ask, why couldn't they have done this decades ago with a living walking talking lip-reader? And what about all the other newsreels?

FDR at Yalta?

See? FDR. Another disabled person. We're everywhere. And the History Channel says Hitler had Parkinson's. I just blew your mind on Blogging Against Disability Day.