Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Once More Unto the Breach, Dear Friends, Once More

Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, because I am doing battle here in the House of S_________.

As part of my strategy, I haven't officially declared war. Gary has no idea tensions have escalated to this point.

It's just that I went in to the bathroom, to urinate, to relieve my bladder, if you will, and was forced instead to whirl about and roar with fury when I saw the empty toilet paper roll.

I believe I said, "Damnit! Gary! Arrrrgh!" as I trotted to the other bathroom. I saw the empty toilet paper roll in that bathroom as well. "Arrrgrgrggrgrhhh! Gary!"

"You'll have to go down to the basement," Gary yelled. The basement is where we stored the stockpile of toilet paper and paper towels that came from Mom's house. (Like an inheritance, it was.)

He added, "There's no toilet paper in the linen closet, either," as I was desperately rummaging through the linen closet.

"Gary, if you knew there was no toilet paper, you should have replaced it! Arrrgggh!"

Then I spotted the box of Kleenex Mom kept stored here for visits (because we use hankies here, that is the S_______ way). My Secret Weapon, I decided. I did not go to the basement. I am NOT going to the basement. I marched into the bathroom, pissed, and wiped with Mom's Kleenex and then I HID it, like a WMD should be hidden.

Sure, he thinks he's all manly and strong, because I can't just waggle my urethra and shake any drips out. We shall just see. With the hidden weapon, I think my bladder will hold out longer than his colon.

Bright Spot of My Day

Judith sent this to my mailbox. Gary fell for it for a moment, then cautioned me that it might download a payload to my laptop. It's pretty remarkable, how they did this.

Can't embed it, but here's a screen grab:

Well, That Clears That Up

Today I met with the bereavement counselor. I agreed with him that the sobbing was to be expected, but explained I could not be spontaneously bursting into tears at work.

"What triggers your tears at work?" he asked.

"Nothing," I sniffled, "I'l be working and then I start to cry. And it's boring, I mean it's annuities for God's sake. There's nothing about annuities that would make me cry."

"Ah," he said, and sat back. "And what are annuities?" he asked in a tone that suggested he already knew what they were.

And this is edited for content because it's classified, and boring, but essentially I said:

 "BLahblah blah insurance blah estimated life span blah blah Death benefits BLAH actuarial tables blah BLAH! Blah blah Death Dead Deathness Dead Death."

And then I don't know what he said because I was dizzy from the big anvil falling on my head.

Radio Talk Show

Such an excess of nothing happened today that I have nothing to say. All I can do is betray my family by telling you tales of their foolishness.

KMOX Talk Radio, Circa 1985

One weekend while I was engaged to Gary I was driving to see my parents. Dad was at my parent's house. Across the Saint Louis metro area, Mom was driving home, and Gary was driving to his parents seven miles away. Mom, Gary and I simultaneously I heard a voice on the radio say,

"Got a wife."

I wasn't listening to the radio carefully, but I was aware that it was KMOX (The Voice of St. Louis). "Huh," I thought. "That guy sounds like Dad."

"Got a daughter."

I thought, "Wow! He sounds just like Dad when he's drunk. I wonder if that guy's drunk."

Then I realized it was Friday. Every Friday, Dad went to Rizzos in North County and got roaring drunk.

I was hypnotized by my Drunk Friday Dad going out over the airwaves at 50,000 watts. I missed my exit as Dad continued, "And my wife makes $17,000 a year working for the state. This kid makes that much as a first year teacher, and let me tell you, she could never make that much working in the public sector."

"Hey!" I yelled at the radio. First of all, I made $12,000.

The talk show host, a very polite man, asked "Sir, are you saying that you think teachers are overpaid?"

Dad said, with great significance, "What do YOU think?" Not, "Whaddaya think" but "I am very interested to know your thoughts on the subject."

The host said, "No, sir, what do YOU think?"

Dad replied primly, "No, what do YOOOOOOOU think?"

"I think it's time to go to a news break," said the host.

Unbeknowst to me, as I was yelling at the radio and missing my exit, Mom was pulling into the driveway and Gary was making a U-turn to go to my parents instead, because he knew there would for once be more chaos at my parents than his.

Mom walked in and said, "You really shouldn't call up the radio on Fridays."

Gary walked in five minutes later, thrilled, thrilled to have heard Dad on the radio. "Why were you asking the DJ what he thought about it?"

"I had a cogent thought," Dad said. "But he cut me off before I could say it. I can't remember it now."

Gary said, "Do you think Ellen heard it?"

For some reason, I didn't have a key to my parents door, so I had to knock. Dad opened the door. "OVERPAID?" I roared at him.

"So I guess you heard it," Dad chirped like this was the greatest thing ever. Ever! Really great! Great like almost having a cogent thought expressed on the radio while you are hammered great!

But you know what was really great? All my new teacher friends at the school heard it too. "Hey, did you hear that guy on KMOX last week?" "Yes, he's my dad, it was Friday, I don't make $17,000."

Other than that, there was no fallout except that "I had a cogent thought" entered our family lexicon.

Get Me There

I know Katie Cruise grew up in middle-class America. How did she get to the point of buying $10,000.00 purses? I can't even bring myself to spend $250 each for e-Bay BNL tickets.

Did Katie first buy a $300 purse, and then say "This is the only purse I will use for the next ten years, so it evens out." And then it was a $500 purse, then $1,000. Now, I can see her saying, "I'm a celebrity! I deserve a $1,000 purse!" But there is no way short of hypnotism you could get a middle-class girl to spend 10K on an accessory.

What's the most you would spend on a purse? (I did use my $300 Coach bag for 10 years. Even though it got a pen stain the first week.) I am talking about a daily use purse, not a purse to match your shoes. (The only woman I know who does the shoe / purse accessorizing is Catherine the Corrupter.)

Lost

Okay, Dots, big and small, raise your hands if you DID sit there smugly and say "she's repressing her feelings about her Mom's death."

That was when I said, "No, I'm crazy. I am not myself. I just said someone hurt my feelings. For two solid days. I'm not like that."

And then YOU said, "Hyper sensitivity and emotional lability are signs of repressed grief."

And then I said, "Fine, whatever. You Googled that."

And then Friend #3 said, "I told you so. I said, you need grief counseling. That's what I said at lunch."

And I was all, like, "Seriously, I know when I'm sad and when I'm depressed. I'm depressed. This makes no sense. Why am I always crying? This is crazy."

And then the Voice said "..."
The Voice said nothing, because for the last few weeks my thoughts are all under control; it's just my emotions that are on the edge.

And then all the little Dots said, "Who is this flaky cow, and what is she talking about? Scary."

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

So here's what happened. Friday I had the big meeting, and there were no tears. However, my boss asked me to sit in a conference room and have a chat. And talk about how I felt about things.

So, when I started crying (because that's evidently what I do now when I am at work) I launched into "I know I seem to be crying a lot lately, but I think it's all the stuff with my mother -- "

And then my bottom lip started bouncing and convulsing and I completely lost my shit.  Tears were springing out of my eyes like I was in a Disney cartoon. You could look for my shit in the Lost and Found but you wouldn't find it. I was gone. Attention, Target Shoppers. We have some shit here, dressed in a green jumper, that appears to be lost.

My boss was quite nice, and in that problem-solving way that non-sobbing professionals have, she started talking about the Employee Assistance Plan and grief counseling. When I told Gary about how I was going to increase the anti-depressants AND go to counseling, Gary said, "You know we had Indian food for lunch. Maybe that's what did it."

"Indian food."

"Yeah, all those strange spices. You don't know how that might have affected you."

So. more anti-depressants, grief counseling, no more Indian food. How do other people do this?

In Which I Lie

Remember when I said I didn't wanna up my meds? Well, since then I've cried at the dentist again, got my feelings hurt at work, and cried about that, and cried about that all day today including the forty minutes I spent in the bathroom while having lunch with Friend #3. My emotions are out of control. No further visits from the voice, but not a good way to live, regardless.

#3 (I call her #3 for short) gave me some fine Jewish wisdom along the lines of "Save yourself." So I went out to the car and made an appointment with the psyc- still can't say it - neuropsychiatrist. For the end of next month.

Regrettably, I was still crying at work. I anticipate this will continue the next six weeks. I did quite well through the four hours after lunch since I was on my own, but then the very nice young girl from the next cube over came by to ask me a favor.

Of course she saw my bleary eyes and asked what was wrong. "Oh," I LIED, USING THE HEINOUS LIE I HAD FASHIONED IN CASE ANYONE AT WORK NOTICED, "It's just all the Mom stuff catching up with me. You know my Mom died?"

And I know, you don't think that's a lie, but it is. And then the nice girl gave me a hug and I feel like a dog for lying. I hope I don't break down in my big meeting tomorrow morning with the person who hurt my feelings and have to play the Mom card. I don't lie often, because I am very bad at it.

(And if you are sitting there smugly saying, "she's repressing her feelings about her Mom's death," I say no, I'm crazy. I am not myself. I just said someone hurt my feelings. For two solid days. I'm not like that.)

I think this must be spreading across the Internet. Finslippy isn't herself either.

So, fun huh? Let's talk about rice some more.

How To Cook Rice

I missed a Pampered Chef Party last Friday, and I'll be missing another one in a few weeks.

This is my problem. I go to Pampered Chef parties. I listen to the presenter quietly for about half an hour. Then I watch my hand go up in the air as she is describing a special fruit corer / chopper / mincer. Then I say, "Um, in my house? We have this thing called a knife?"

And then every choppy thing that she presents, I can't help it, I have to recommend the virtues of this "knife" I have at my house. It can chop fruit and vegetables. And meat. And it's easy to clean. And you can buy a special knife accessory called a "sharpener" but actually, you'll never use it.

Then, after a while, I'll start shouting out alternative to anything she shows. I understand at this last party they sold this:

"FORK." I would have announced.

And, in response to

"NEW!  #1256 Avocado Peeler — $8.00
Holy guacamole! The smooth stainless blade glides through the flesh of the avocado, while the curved tip easily removes the pit. An ergonomic handle is contoured for your hand. Great for peaches, kiwi and cantaloupe, too! Dishwasher-safe."

I would have thrown my hands in the air and screamed to heaven, "SPOON!"

So, I was horrified to hear Friend #3 was considering a rice cooker. Perhaps not a $371.00 rice cooker, but any rice cooker that costs more than a POT with a LID is a waste of money. I've had friends who love their rice cookers, and I just don't get it. Who can't cook rice?

Step 1. Buy rice. Blue box of rice. Simmer water and get a cup of rice.

Steps 2-4.

• Measure carefully.
• Cover tightly, do not lift lid while cooking. Steam cooks rice.
• Time accurately.

Step 5. WALK AWAY FROM THE RICE. Come back when the timer goes off in 15 minutes. Uncover rice.

Why do you need a cooker for this?

Now, if you had a special rice fork that was covered in silver-plate, or a sterling silver rice steamer with a oil lamp and wick, or a unique silver chafing disk just for rice, that would be another story, I would be all over that. But when I take on my role as downstairs staff I cook my rice in a pot with a lid.

Bibles That Make You Go Hmm.

You know I love alternative religious texts. Well, read up on this one, a bible that's been hiding in Russia since the mid 1800's.  It's the "oldest surviving copy of the New Testament," dating back to the 4th century, when I understand the Gospels were written [down] - and it has no post-resurrection details at the end of the Gospel of Mark. Mark just ends with an angel telling about the resurrection "and then they all ran away" and that's it. So, no visits to North America to see the Mormon Indians.

And, I can't wait for "Epistle of Barnabas" and the "Shepherd of Hermas."

And I really want to hear more on this line from the article: "And in 1975, monks stumbled on 12 more pages and 40 fragments stashed in a hidden room at the monastery." It's just the way the sentence is structured - to suggest they were standing around saying, "Huh. What to do today?" "Well, brother, let us tidy up the hidden room." "Yea verily, I am sometimes curious about those fragments of Greek texts IN OUR HIDDEN ROOM." I would be curious about anything in a hidden room.

I'm an apocrypha geek.

Movie Review

I have my moments of darkness. I have little moments of perversion. I am mentally ill. But I am not as sick as the sick fuck who wrote The Dark Knight.

First, I was misled about this movie. I quizzed a guy at work, "Are there a lot of car chases? My mind wanders during car chases."

"Oh no," he said earnestly, "It's not like that." And he's right. There aren't car chases. Instead, there is 90 minutes of shit blowing up. Interspersed with that is a separate 90 minute movie written by Mr. Sick Fuck.

I say shit and fuck in the paragraph above because I am profanity-deprived, because there is no profanity in the Batman movie. No, sex, no cursing, just violence. I dropped Gary off at his car and I sincerely expected it to blow up when he got in.

We could have seen something wholesome like the Sex In The City movie, but no. Next time I pick the movie.

Nobody puts Mommy in a Corner etc.

• Today I cleaned, and purged, and that was significant since it was the first time I'd done it since I brought some of Mom's stuff home. Most of Mom's stuff is now in the top corner of my closet. I purged medicines, nose sprays, nose clippers, anything that had been up Mom's nose, etc. and it didn't bother me as much as I thought it might (no doubt thanks to all the previous crying). Plus, I held out all of Mom's letters for review. I haven't read through those yet.
• Oh, and don't even ask what Mom-in-my head thinks of the iPhone.
• Speaking of the iPhone, it hasn't come yet, but there was no line when we ordered it at the AT&T right below the Apple store at the mall. No line! Ordered! Why we couldn't just order it on line I don't know. Oh, and hello if you are getting to this blog because of the favorites/bookmark I left on the demo iPhone at the mall. Plus, is the photo of Steven in my green dress still the default page?
• And speaking of ... we are going to Niagra Falls at the end of September to see the next BNL show. Because the last one was so good, and not just given the circumstances. A BNL show is always a good show.
• And then we are staying over and going to Canada to see what we keep calling the insane Wild Animal park, where zebras stick their heads in your car. Actually this is the essentially the same vacation we went on ... a lot of years ago. When was the OJ trial? Because they were having that hideous sex trial in Toronto at the same time, and I almost couldn't raise my head for fear of seeing a newspaper about it.
• Annnnnd ... what else? Gary keeps quizzing me about places I might like to visit, and then shooting down my suggestions. "New Zeeeeeeland? Why would you want to go to New ZEEEEEEEland?" God, money is fun.

Uh oh - floodgates have opened

Bought Wii , bought iPhone, looking at flat screens ... Going out to shop AND SEE A MOVIE ... ...

Help

After, what, twenty-something years Gary and I are starting to work on one of our most fundamental problems: our expectations about help.

This after yet another morning in which Gary woke me by screaming "Wake UP! It's 6:45!" (pause) "6:50, sweetie!" (pause) "Sweetie! It's 6:55! WAKE UP!" This screaming is unsolicited, it is unappreciated, and it has made me hate the term "Sweetie." Shut the hell up, Sweetie.

On the days I wake up before Gary, he wakes up and bellows, "AUUGH! It's 6:50! I'm late! Why didn't you wake me up?" I scream in my head, "Because you are a grown man. Adults can wake themselves up without being nagged awake."

I asked him recently how he woke up when he lived those six years as a bachelor without me, and how perhaps he might want to hearken back to those days, because I intended to treat him as a grown man.

His answer? His mommy called every day to wake him up.

The big breakthrough came on the fifth of July. We were to be at the in-laws at 1:00 pm. At 11:15 Gary's sister Karen called. To remind him. To wake him up. To control him. To treat him like a child.

"To help me out!" Gary explained.

"Did you ask her to?"

"No. She was just being nice. She was helping."

"Nagging."

"No! SHE was being nice. SHHHHEEEE was being considerate by reminding me and making sure I was awake." Unlike YOU, hung in the thought balloon over his head.

"Aha!" I said, "Here I've been treating you with respect, like a grownup, and you want help."

(Take a moment to remember my mother, and her disabilities, and how she would flail her feeble useless arms at you if you even looked like you were going to try to help her. Thank you.)

So, I've been more in tune with Gary's expectations of help, and I try to live my life thinking WWWD (What would Wilma do?). This came in handy in Louisville this past weekend. As we left the hotel room, Gary said, "It's probably going to rain."

"Let's bring the umbrella," I said, reasonably.

"NO! I don't want the umbrella. We'll be fine."

Of course it rained, of course he complained, of course he blamed me for not bringing the umbrella. I realized, WWWD? She would have forced the umbrella on him while he yelled and physically fought her off. This is what is expected of me.

The next day we were in the gift shop, buying him a package of cough drops. "Let's buy two," I said, "It's a long drive back."

"No, I just want one."

I swung into Wilma Mode. "Ring these up, too," I said to the cashier.

"No! I said I don't want those!"

"Just ignore him," I said to the cashier, and she listened to me. Because I'm the Mom!

It's good to know the secret to Gary's expectations, but I don't want a baby, I want a man.

Perhaps it's time for a spanking.

Cave

On the way back from the BNL concert (where we saw a very professional performance, considering), we stopped at Marengo Cave in Indiana. Because the Voice in my head told me to. (Snort. I kill me.) Actually, we stopped because the roadside signs told us to.

And it was there I found the greatest testament to editing in North America.

In honor of the sign, I'll keep this brief.

First of all, the cave entrance and gift shop featured a time-line that began with "Earth Created." This was to offset the suggestion that the earth has been around for the millions of years it took for the cave to form. This didn't surprise me, given that it appears that Indiana has put "In God We Trust" on the state license plates, just in case the atheists get it off the money.

Having seen two caves now, I can extrapolate and make assumptions about all caves. All caves have a puddle that is only six inches deep, and it is called "Mirror Lake."

Finally, Crocs are the worst spelunking shoes ever.

Continued on back

Concert in Detail with Bonus Dental Exam!

We had a late start Saturday driving to Louisville for the concert. (We had to make a sudden visit to the vet for the dog's bordatella shot before we could pop Mac into his luxury cabana).

I enjoyed the five hour drive, but I found I noticed every dead patch of grass along the highway. "Well, that's odd," I thought, "Usually I'm not so struck by the dead scenery." And, I just felt off.

Because of the bordatella delay, we couldn't make it to the Lebowski Fest. Instead, we went right to the hotel where, sadly, they did NOT have a guest register, so I could NOT sign in as Spunky L. S_______.

As we waited for the concert, I was amazed to find Louisville hotter and more humid than Saint Louis. I was not sweaty 'til I came to Louisville. At one point the humidity knocked me back on my ass while I slowly grabbed for Gary's arm. I was off, and my balance was off.

The concert started, and I just felt more and more off. It was like the dead grass in the scenery -- I heard all the fun and the music and the banter, but my ears kept being drawn to the sadness in the lyrics. Then, of course, my life achieved its pinnacle and Gary and I agreed the trip was entirely worthwhile.

Later that night Gary coughed, and I thought, "Oh, that's why I'm off, Gary's got a cold and I'm catching it." Gary claimed to have bordatella, though.

Sunday was spent driving past dead grass in the median, visiting a cave to be featured later, and driving past more and more dead grass. Dead median grass and dead gray barns.

It all made sense, though, Monday morning when I went to the dentist. We talked about my new habit of clenching my teeth at night. I asked why, and she said, "Stress."

"No, I'm really not a very stressed person." Except when people are chipping at my teeth. She got out the nitrous, put on the mask and said, "Just relax and breathe."

"You don't deserve to breathe," said the Voice in my head.

I was surprised to hear the long-lost voice coming out of the blue like that. It's been ten years since it woke me up every night at three to tell me I didn't deserve to be asleep, then took over my every waking thought. Still I connected the dots, the Voice with the recent Crabgrass-o-Vision, and knew what I should do.

"But I don't want to," I thought, "I don't want to up my medication. I'll just medicate myself with some of this nice nitrous oxide while I review my options." I thought about drinking, since that's an option I didn't try ten years ago. Then I thought about drugs, and then I stopped, because then why not just take the legal drugs I have? Therapy? I can't imagine going to therapy and having therapy adjust the serotonin in my brain.

So, about the time I decided to try exercise and eating right and Scientology, the cleaning was over. I got the all clear to sit up. I was prepared for a comment from the hygienist like, "So, I couldn't help but notice you've been crying this whole time," then I realized I'd been wearing some protective dark glasses they gave me. I didn't give up those glasses till the last minute. Still my eyes prompted an "Oh my GOD" from the hygienist. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, the Voice in my head is talking to me again."

Yes. Yes. Yes I said that. It seemed to be the only explanation at the time.

So, I'm going to pay close attention for the next week to see if the grass greens up, and if exercise and a diet of vegetables and vitamins doesn't hush up the Voice, I suppose I'll have to do what I'[m supposed to do.

I just don't wanna.

Sisterhood of the Travelling Green Dress

or, Green Dress math.

From the photo above

Subtract Gary to the power of ten years ago.

Subtract me (Not the current value of me, but the previous me (or, the inflated value of me divided by 2))

Carry the green dress.

Take (last year's Steven Page * 75%), giving you the present day fractional Steven Page:

Add the green dress, resulting in:

(Concert photos courtesy of Laurel)

See, it's a magic dress that fits everyone who wears it.

So, you see why he had trouble keeping his pants on - I think he had to hitch up his jeans ten times.

And after this shot he did tear the bodice half off.  I wasn't making that up.

Incidentally, the new slimmer Steven has really rocked Gary's self esteem. It is as if Gary's a teenage girl and Steven is a supermodel giving Gary an unrealistic body image to live up to. I've tried telling him Steven is in danger of Davy Jones syndrome - he'll become the member of the band who is so pretty he loses his appeal - but Gary won't buy it. 

And, speaking of unrealistic body image, I will cop to the current value of me photo above, but that inflated photo has to be the worst photo of me ever.

quick recap

that iphone had betterr have bigger keys than this blackberry.

STeven...
Had trouble keeping his pants on
Had trouble getting into my clothing
Finally got under my skirt
Then ripped my top off.

I know you're all wise to what I'm saying but it's so satisfying to put it that way.

PHotos later - we're driving back.

Spunky Labia Packs for a Road Trip

See Spunky, World Traveller. See Spunky Pack.

Clockwise from left: Green Dress to throw at BNL concert, pretzels for snacking on drive, Crocs for comfort (kiss mah toes, all you Croc haters), and a purple bathrobe for the Big Lebowski Conference, also held in Louisville this weekend.

Mac is sad he can't go.

Hi, I'm a Dot Stalker

This is what happens when you get hooked on Google Analytics.

If you don't know, Google Analytics tracks users to your website and reports how they got there, how long they stayed, and the like. The best part is the map feature. This, for example, is New Zealand:

There is a city here, Wellington. There was one visitor from Wellington this month, and that suggests strongly that someone in Wellington googled "Can I take a vibrator on a cruise?" (Still holding strong at number one.)

In contrast to Wellington, there is another dot in the north. Now, that's a Big Dot. In fact (I hope this doesn't make you feel self-conscious, BD) but this is Big Dot in New Zealand. Everybody wave at Big Dot. No one has the slightest idea what city you are in, don't worry.

Because each hit looks like a person, it is futile to click any big city, because you can't anthromorphize the multiple dots. It is only satisfying if you look at a big expanse of state or country and there's someone out on the prairie.

But then, here's the danger, you can click the city name at the bottom and zoom in on that city and see daily details. For example, see these two cities in Oklahoma? Not Oklahoma City in the middle, the ones in the upper right. I checked out the dot on the left and saw we were cool until June 23.

I wondered what I'd said on June 23 to piss off Big Dot on the Left, and then on June 25th things went from zero to daily in the Rightmost Big Dot. "Aww" I thought, "Big Oklahoma Dot doesn't hate me. Big Oklahoma Dot just moved." Is that creepy? If so, I'm sorry,Big OK Dot. Notice I didn't give your city name away; I'm trying to protect your identity.

But I don't want to protect your identity that much, Big Dots everywhere. I do have a spreadsheet. I have about 50 Big Dots, but only 16 Big Dots tentatively identified.

I'll be watching you. This is creepy, isn't it? It isn't like I'm fantasizing that big Tucson dot meets big Tempe dot and they get married (but they won't, because I'm reasonably sure I know who they are). I've changed my mind, I don't want to know who any Big Dots are. I'm creeping myself out.

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

UPDATE: Yes, it is creepy. Okay! I apologize for stepping over the line! You are all just a vast mystery to me.

First Lines of Unfinished Posts: Part 2

Young lady, I did watch you as you applied my new and expensive Prescriptives foundation to my face, and I am not mentally impaired, so I am surprised that even over my protestations (continuing on to outright sneering) you stubbornly continued to write down your phone number on the receipt just in case I "have any trouble applying the makeup."

Deluge

I noticed today as I drove home that the sky became just ... wrong ... over the river. If I had painted that sky, I would have corrected it. There were white glossy patches on top of back-lit dark blotches.

"Creepy" I thought. "Maybe I can get home before it rains." And, typical of me, "I can get in and out of the store before it starts, I don't need an umbrella."

And I could have done it, too. As I raced through the cereal aisle a mom had to warn her child to get out of my way. The little girl did, and I slowed down to say "Thank you" to her. The mom said "Good Manners" in a very approving way. Of course, I assumed she was directing that at me. I suppose she could have been approving the way her child politely got out of my way.

And that, really, is irrelevant, because I had noticed a child and connected on a small degree. Yay, me. When I was almost out the door I recognized the same little girl at the service desk ahead repeating, "Ter-matoes. There will be ter-matoes."

I thought she meant tomatoes and she was Teeny Tiny Cassandra warning them about salmonella. Then I realized she was warning them about Tornadoes. I stopped next to her.

"I believe you," I said. "It looks really bad outside."

"No," she replied intently. "It will just rain, that's all."

Crack. And the downpour started.

I was drenched through to my granny panties by the time I got to my car.  And as I waded through the gulleywasher, I wondered, when did moms stop teaching their children to avoid strangers?

Space News

My brother David called Sunday night to say "Alert! TiVo Alert! Space Week! Science Channel!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I said. "How We Left Earth. Saw it." Saw it; TiVoed it; blogged it.

"NO! Moon Missions! New!"

And I'll be darned, it is new. It's a new slant on the Apollo missions. First of all, they tell the story from the engineer's point of view. Last night was about the Saturn V rocket, and they talked to every engineer BUT the engineer who painted USA on the side. (And, of course I realize now they didn't use fossil fuel in the Saturn V, or even rocket fuel, but hydrogen fuel cells. The hydrogen fuel cells that Pres. B. has been promising in every State of The Union for his tenure of eighty million years.) 

Tonight's episode was on engineering the command module and I swear to you, I saw new footage I had never seen before. They showed the "drop tests." Hysterical footage of the command module slamming into the ground before they decided on water landings.

The most touching part of tonight's episode was when the engineers described the Apollo 1 deaths from their point of view. And I never realized it before, but Gus Grissom was in the Mercury capsule that trapped him after splashdown with its outward-opening door, then the resultant inward-opening door trapped him in the Apollo 1 fire.  (You just want to go back in time and say, "Hey, look at this show Star Trek. No hinges on any of the doors. They just slide.")

So, as I say, the moon program continues to draw me in. However, Gary has had it with MoonTV. Gary was going into the bathroom when tonight's episode began. It started with John F. Kennedy saying, for the fifteenth time this week, "I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon..."

"Kennedy!" Gary screamed from the hall, "That's Kennedy! Am I right? Am I right?"

On the Epidemic of Heart Attacks in the Rabbit Population

We celebrated the fourth on the fifth at the in-laws, as it always is.

I was outside watching Tinkerbell do her tiny doggie business on the back lawn, and Wilma said, "Oh, good, that's her regular spot. Yesterday, I was on the phone and she was hunched over funny and I started screaming."

Wilma will do that, jump directly to the end of a story. Here's the whole story, as told later by Wilma:

"I was on the phone with my brother, Rick."

Gary interrupted, "You mean Uncle Dick?" Uncle Dick decreed ten years ago that he was now to be called Rick. Wilma is the only one who has complied.

'Well yes." (I am skipping the part in which Wilma discusses the Dick-to-Rick transition.) "Then when I was on the phone, with Rick, I saw Tinkerbell go over to that end of the yard, then when I looked again she was hunched over funny, looking at the ground. So I sent Ken out to see what she was looking at. He said it was a dead bunny rabbit. So I screamed -- And you know that rabbit died from a heart attack because those kids in that yard were firing off firecrackers."

"Excuse me," I said. "Really?"

"Oh yes. It was an old rabbit."

I covered my smile. "You don't think the dog may have - "

"No! Rabbits die from heart attacks all the time." She turned to Gary. "Remember when you kids had that bunny, the one that kept biting you? Ken took it to the vet and as soon as they put it on the exam table it had a heart attack and died."

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

I felt a little bad for laughing at Wilma, so I did some investigation on Google. I've found two bits of information:

One: Rabbits really can die of fright. I was wrong and Wilma was right.

Two, and I find this the essential bit of information: Miniature dachshunds like Tinkerbell were bred to kill bunnies.

An Excerpt from the Yiddish Policeman's Union

I think all they would have to do is put this excerpt on the back cover, and they would just hand Michael Chabon the Pulitzer for fiction. Again.

A man (Hertz) and his son (John Bear Berko) are talking after a long estrangement.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

'"Don't take that tone with me, John Bear," the old man snaps. "I don't care for it."

"Tone?" Berko says, his voiced stacked like a measure of musical score with a half-dozen musical tones, a chamber ensemble of insolence, resentment, sarcasm, provocation, innocence, and surprise. "Tone?"

- Michael Chabon

Old Posts: Where Are They Now Edition

Given what I did on July Fourth (stayed in the house, saw no fireworks, learned a schtckle of Yiddish), and given what my summer plans are (concert next week, then a great expanse of nothing), I am reduced to updating old reports.

Rock Band- I was momentarily interested in getting Rock Band, or at least Guitar Hero, then I realized that I already play a similar game called Guitar Pro. Have you heard of it? You sit on the side of the bed with your guitar, and rock song tabs scroll past you on the screen like the bouncing ball, and you try to keep up. I suck at it. I honestly contented myself yesterday by playing only the notes on the low E with my acoustic.

Metal Dog- Mac continues to seek and destroy all our zipper pulls. We are going to rent him out to the TSA so he can search out box cutters and knives.

Moneymoneymoney, Money- It's easy to want stuff when you can't afford it. Let's say you want a huge flat screen TV. The thought process is: "Want! Can't afford." and it ends there. I have found that when you can afford it, the process is: "Want! Won't fit in entertainment center. Still want! Buy new furniture! What to do with old furniture? Move old furniture! Will expose dog pee stains on hardwood floor! Refinish floor! Move all existing furniture! Pain in the ass! Don't want big screen tv!" I've talked myself out of everything I want.

Butterflies - You raise monarch butterflies on milkweed plants. This monarch company makes you grow a milkweed plant first. I can't. I am going to have to buy a milkweed plant. I CAN'T GROW A WEED.

July Fourth

Two Things I Love About My Country

The Constitution. 

I love the constitution like Barbara Jordan does, and if anyone hasn't heard how much she loves the Constitution, go here and listen up. 

I love it even with its flaws. I love the ACLU. I love the Nazis hiking through Skokie. Oh, I even love the Second Amendment, just on principle. I love the terrorists getting out of Guantanamo and walking about free because if I recall from Social Studies, due process and habeas corpus were good things. Things we had that Mexico didn't have, much to our seventh-grade horror. "What do you mean they can just put you in jail for no reason? Why would anyone ever go to Mexico then?"

I love the fact that the Bill of Rights goes so completely against common sense sometimes, but the Supreme Court is there to go against human nature and hold the line for the law. If it were a man it would be Victor Lazlo in Casablanca. Perfect and impossible, when you really want to wallow in base pleasures with Rick, like a hot evening of torturing war criminals.

Saturn V Liftoffs.

Yes, it's a big phallic symbol and a waste of fossil fuel. However, while I'm immune to the charms of the flag, and military bands don't give me any chills, I will watch any Saturn V liftoff replay just for the moment the high-definition camera in the tower shows the slow crawl of the giant U, followed by the giant S, followed then by the A.

"U- S-A!" I say as it goes past, then I clap a little. And then I hug in my heart whatever marketing person put that camera there and turned the rocket so you could see the big USA climbing past.

Oh, and even better? Other countries might have Constitutions, but they don't have Saturn V rockets with their country's initials painted on them.

Sleepshopping

I've been reading my copy of The Yiddish Policeman's Union. I've turned down the corners of pages that contain words I don't know. Words I don't know, you shkotzes you. And I apologize if "shkotz" means something bad, but I'm leaving all the Yiddish words until I get to a good stopping point. It's all Yiddish and words like "ratiocination." Hands up if you know that word. At any rate, I've been turning down corners. The book is starting to look like my Mom's copy of Candy Kane after I discovered the WWII book was made of some very tasty pulp, and you could turn down the corners and they became little bite-sized book hors d'oeuvres.

I've been making such progress that I started to think what my next book will be, and it struck me I had ordered a book off a blog link. Problem was, all I could remember about the book was that it had stripes. I remembered waking up in the middle of the night, coming to the computer, reading blogs, clicking a link, thinking "THAT book sounds really good" about the Stripe Book, and then going back to bed.

"Oh," I thought, "I bet it was a dream." Then it occured to me that I have mobile dreams sometimes, and I might have bought anything on the Internet, and I should be thankful it was a dream.

But, last night the Stripe Book arrived on my porch! It's Stuff White People Like. Strangely, I thought it was a more significant book. Well, and I thought it had three stripes. So there's a chance another book might show up.

And maybe a pony.

In the nude, all that is not beautiful is obscene*

* Robert Bresson, French film director.

Long ago I was a pretty good artist. I can't sculpt, I have no eye for color, but I draw a good nude. My favorite class was Figure Drawing, where my specialty was delicate line drawings of nude women.

Of course, I was far more comfortable with the female form. I had almost no experience with the male nude form. I blame myself, of course, and Michelangelo. All through high school I peered closely at many of Michelangelo's works to see what a penis might look like and was presented with bullshit like this.

"Scribble Penis" by the Artist Michelangelo

and

"Stylized Penis" by the Artist Michelangelo

(Really, what does that tell me? It's a potato growing out of a cauliflower cloud.)

At any rate, for the first three weeks of Figure Drawing we waited out the pervs who signed up for class just to drop it after they saw their nudes. Then, one day I was running late and thought, "Rats," (truly) "It's the first day with a nude and now I'm going to be late."

Well, I was late, and worse yet, all of the drawing horses (sit-down easels) were taken. The horses were circled around the male nude's table. The table he sprawled on. Sprawled on his back. Sprawled on his back with his legs bent at the knee dangling off the table. Like this guy.

 

Only naked. And young. And guess where the only available drawing horse was? Yes. Right between his knees. Scrotum Central.

I looked two or three times for another easel, then I said, "Oh, it's just a body part." Then I sat down, propped up my pad and drew a GREAT BIG CIRCLE because BALLS, meet Ellen. Ellen, may I introduce you to Balls?

I never got past the big circle because the instructor saw my focal point (balls), snorted, and said "Time for a new position."

This is the same instructor who, later that semester, wanted us to exercise our powers of observation, so he moved the naked nude male model into the storage closet. Then we had to individually go into the closet, study the model for up to a minute, then go back and draw him from memory. People were drawing individual arm hairs to avoid peering at the private parts of the man you were trapped with in a storage closet.

I should start drawing again. I don't suppose there are figure drawing classes at the Y.