Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Shenanigans!

I was in a photo shoot for work last week. I was playing a plump little dumpling of a middle-aged woman. I've worked to perfect this role for years, putting on weight, keeping it on just in case I am asked to play the part of a middle-aged female TeddyJ client. And then, I was! Forty-second Street!

So a few hours before the shoot, I was at a department meeting, and looked down the row of faces to see how many other faces I had beaten out for the role of middle-aged dumpling. The first thing I noticed was that of the nine other people at the conference table, eight of them had a weak chin, no chin, a sloping chin, or a double or even a triple chin like mine:

 

(I could play ET as well.)

Only one person had a well-defined chin at that table: the twenty-five year old. Over thirty-five, we all had chin issues. As it was a dull meeting, I brought that up. Immediately, all the men began stroking their chins and saying "I don't have a double chin! I have what is called a full face," and "Speak for yourself. I have a good jawline."

Later I surreptitiously checked those men in profile and I was right, plenty of extra chinnage. "Why have I never recieved solace from this before?" I thought, and then I realized, they all have goatees. When you look at these men straight on, you see the goatee, not the chin.

So I call SHENANIGANS on this Goatee BS! Really, check out the profile of the next Goatee - ee you see. It is an unfair advantage men have. How many strong-jawed men have you seen with a goatee?

Clearly I need to adopt a goatee.

 

I think it suits me.  AND it hides my chinny chin chins. AND, no more worrying about those stray chin hairs I've been finding.

Of course, if I'm going to be maintaining a goatee, I might as well break my ban on false eyelashes. Okay. I'm being serious here. I really did buy these last weekend.

 

Shut up. Compare me with a goatee to me with a goatee and flirty Professional eyelashes!

 

It's subtle! Really, flip back and forth between the two and you'll see what I'm saying. Well, you'll see anyway when I test it out this weekend.

So, since the photo shoot I had my hair done and played a little with brushing it all to the front a la Liza Minelli. A la Eva Gabor wigs. A la this kicky do:

 

See? You don't even notice the triple chin now!

UPDATE: I just added" goattle" to www.urbandictionary.com. Let's see if it gets approved.

I'm Chiquita Banana and I'm Here to Say I Have a Pituitary Disorder

I went grocery shopping. This was what Gary said when he came in later:

[GRUMP grump] "...Stock market" [Grump GRUMP]"...McCain" [grump] "- Eeee! Itty-bitty bananas!"

 

Then he did a little dance.

He hasn't actually eaten one yet.

 

So, if the election and other world events are weighing heavily on you or someone you know, go get some Wee Mini Bananas at Schnucks.

Feel Free to Disagree

Every once in a while I think, "I should post that," and then I censor myself, because these are opinions that I know are not widely held. Like this opinion about Paris Hilton. Then I think, maybe these opinions aren't scandalous, maybe they can just inspire debate. I don't mean impassioned debate, more like a rice-cooking debate.

So, let the debate commence.

Resolved: That Barack Obama is just as folksy as Sarah Palin.

Close your eyes and picture Sarah Palin saying this part of Barack's stump speech: "I like pie. Some people like cake. I like pie. I like sweet potato pie. I like pecan pie, too ..." Barack's folksy, and it's probably fake-folksy, just like Sarah. Replace the wink with a grin and I'm afraid they could be faux-folksy twins.

Resolved: That We Appear to Have Lost an Entire Class of People

You know why I'm a Democrat? Because I don't think church people or state governments would voluntarily step up and feed the homeless and the heroin addicts. At one time Democrats' campaigns were about the poor and disadvantaged, now all I hear about is easing the "suffering" of the middle class. If you have a refrigerator with food in it that isn't rotted, hand some down to the people eating rats and pigeons. I want to hear some love for the poor. I want a Kennedy. I want someone with a little noblesse oblige.

Resolved: That "I Voted" stickers are Acceptable to Me in a Way JESUS^TM signs are not

Every two / four years we have a national election and I vote. Afterward, I always have a crisis about the "I Voted" sticker, because truly, I don't want to be a Pharisee. You know what Jesus Sherri  says, "Thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly." (Whenever I quote Jesus I always picture Marcia / #3 saying, "You know, he wasn't the only Jew saying that at the time! He didn't make all that shit up all by himself.")

But then I stick on the sticker because then strangers will ask me how long it took to vote, and I like having strangers approach me, so that then I immediately can take it to an uncomfortable level. ("45 minutes. I voted yes on gay marriage. How do you stand on that?")

AlphaMeme

Stolen from Ajooja, who at least had a good excuse for wussing out with a meme. Of course, I could stab myself in the eye too.

• Accent: Grave. Ha! No, I have no accent, and what American accent I have disappears after a minute of speaking to a Canadian or watching Flight of the Conchords. (You can click that link and learn to speak like a Kiwi.)
• Breakfast or no breakfast:  Breakfast at noon, otherwise, no breakfast. And if it is noon, it's Eggs Benedict.
• Chore I don’t care for:  Taking out the trash, because in this house that means prying the Gary-packed trash from the kitchen bin until it explodes all over my clothing.
• Dog or Cat:  I've never had any good cats. Pansy and Tom were street cats, not loving cats, and they were selfish lovers too - You could rub their bellies and they never purred or rubbed against you. And Sweet Pea was part Abyssinian / part squirrel and sounded like a door hinge.
• Essential Electronics:  The iPhone is up there with the TiVo as a life-alerting gadget.
• Favorite Cologne:  Mom's Chanel #5.
• Gold or Silver:  Jewelry? Gold. Flatware? Silver. This seems too obvious to state.
• Handbag I carry most often: I have just the one - It's made by Fossil and it's the purse equivalent of a Trapper-Keeper. There's a zippered pocket in the back that unfolds to show a Ziegfeld display of credit and insurance cards. It could only be better if it had a Murphy bed.
• Insomnia: Not even if I have Starbucks at 10 pm.
• Job Title: Instructional Designer.
• Kids: Nope.
• Living Arrangements:  Holed up with Gary in our starter house. Our paid-for starter house. The interest rate when we started paying was 11%. We had to write belated letters of apology / explanation for every time we were late with our rent. Ah, regulation. 
• Most Admirable Trait: Loyalty
• Naughtiest Childhood Behavior:  When I was ten I asked Dad why Mom had taken the box of napkins into the bathroom. The box said they were sanitary napkins and I knew eating in the bathroom was not sanitary. He threatened to spank me if I kept asking questions.
• Overnight hospital stays:  Two, both stays at the MS steroid spa.
• Phobias: Television static.
• Quote: Mom's favorite: "You never know from where you sit how far the pickle juice will squirt."
• Reason to smile: Gary just rolled over and began typing randomly on the keyboard.
• Siblings:  One, Dave
• Time I wake up: I wake up between twelve and two on the weekends.
• Unusual Talent or Skill: Can hang spoons off nose.
• Vegetable I Refuse to Eat:  Brussels Sprouts.
• Worst Habit: Oh, my god, you know what it is. But for discretion's sake I'll say it's biting my nails.
• X-rays: Never broke anything. Well, I thought I broke a rib when I had the croup, that got me an x-ray.
• Yummy Stuff: This is actually a complaint - long ago caramel apples were made with red delicious apples. Why are the gourmet apples of today made of those awful tart Granny Smith apples? It is wrong!
• Zoo Animal I Like Most: Until today the kangaroo was way up there. It's so organized! Just like my purse. But then I viewed some unflattering photos of myself that convinced me that I could carry my young in my wattle if need be.

I Love, I Hate, I Want

• I love watching Rachel Maddow for two reasons: 1) I love her hair and 2) I love watching Pat Buchanan. Pat and my Dad were drinking buddies when Dad worked on 12th/Tucker and Pat worked at the Globe Democrat. Dad died the year before Pat B ran for president and Wayne Gretszy came to play for the Blues hockey team.

• I hate what they've done to the crawl on CNN. It's no longer a news summary, now it's a string of viewer comments. I keep waiting for "H8tr: CNN U R retarded.  CNN: NO U R." to crawl across the screen.

  Wilma and Ken have a Jesus sign in their yard.

   

• I want to do this so much:

   

Forgetiquette

A few weeks ago I heard some co-workers talking about the surprise wedding shower they were throwing for another co-worker. I thought, "That's okay, I don't really know [co-worker, who is the groom-to-be], but still they shouldn't be talking in front of me about a party I wasn't invited to." I wrote it off to their youth and lack of experience with exclusive invitation-only parties. Silly children.

A week ago I was presented with a poster to sign. In case my exclusion had been an oversight, I asked, "Why, what's this for?" in case they would answer, "Why, the surprise party!" and I would say, "What surprise party?" and then they'd say, "The surprise party for [groom-to-be]. Didn't you get an invitation?"

But they didn't say that. "Oh," they said, "It's for [groom-to-be] and [bride-to-be]." No explanation. I signed a neutral "Best Wishes, Ellen."

Last Wednesday I found a card on my desk. I signed that too. I didn't want to say anything or embarrass anyone. Plus, you usually talk about surprise parties as little as possible, except for my department, which talks about surprise parties extensively and exclusively right outside my cubicle.

Thursday night I  told the hostess I'd be at home Friday.

She said, "No problem. Will we see you tomorrow night?"

"What's tomorrow night?" I asked, which finally led to the "What do you mean you weren't invited?" conversation, continuing on to the perusal of the email invitation, and concluding with the gathering of all the party-planners, who all chimed together with, "No, really we meant to invite you!"

"Please," I said dismissively, "Don't even try. I've done this before myself -  someone you didn't mean to invite hears about the party and then it's all, 'Oh! The invitation must have been LOST in the MAIL ! Of COURSE you're invited!' Here, I'll do the wide eyes, just like you."

So naturally they had concocted an excuse by the time I got there the next evening, claiming  "Helen S_____"  from a different department had been put on the invitation in my place by mistake. It didn't matter. I had a great time riding everyone's ass.

Groom-to-be: "Wow! I'm totally surprised! I had no idea. Noone of you made a peep about this."
Me: "Are you kidding? I knew all about it and I wasn't even invited."

Picture a variation on that every five minutes. I had fun. I like riding the ass more than anything.

I'm Only Happy When There's Waffles

What does a cold drizzly day say to you?

To me it says, "Welcome to the International House of Pancakes! Would you like to try our new 'Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity' breakfast?" 

Yes, I was an IHOP waitress long ago. The first thing you learn about IHOP is that when it rains, people crave pancakes. It's three in the afternoon, you're refilling the syrups because no one is there, one raindrop falls -- and the place gets swamped with crazed pancake-craving families. I don't know what subliminal post-hypnotic suggestion makes them want pancakes: it's a mystery.

It was a cold drizzly day today, and I thought, "Pancakes - no! Waaaffffflllles," because I know too much about Le Maison Internationale des Pancakes, yet I never worked at Waffle House.

I went with Marcia (#3), who ordered an omelet. When I told Gary this, he guffawed and said, "Why didn't she just order an egg white omelet?"

This was her first visit to Waffle House.

She insisted her cheese omelet was the same as cheese eggs (!) and then reminded me I had insisted incorrectly the plain Quarter Pounder was superior to the plain Big 'n' Tasty.  I deferred to her and reminded her I'd eaten gefilte fish, so she ate a spoonful of grits. (Then she quoted the entire "Grits" scene from My Cousin Vinny.)

I, on the other hand, conformed to what is expected of me as a Waffle House patron and had:

• Coffee with real sugar - because they don't put any sweeteners out, because you are at Waffle House already. Be honest with yourself.

• Scattered, smothered, covered and chunked hash browns.

• Raisin toast.

• Cheese eggs.

• Grits with butter.

• A Waffle.

And I am not kidding, my cold / sinus problem went away and has not been back since. Starve a fever, feed a cold a waffle.

Sick

I'm sick. Stupid head cold / sinus infection.

I just want to stay home and read through this whole site:

http://www.toastedrav.com/

(I did eat at Woofies yesterday. A good start.)

Barackastalker

I'm a little freaked out. There's his guy with a weird name and he has my email address. At first, he only sent me emails every few weeks, and he signed them "Thanks, Barack."

Weird, I thought. That's kind of creepy. How did this guy get my email address? At first I assumed he was a Nigerian prince, some Prince "Obama" who "needs my help," but then someone told me he was running for president.

Now he's taken to signing his emails with, "Thank you for all you do, Barack." Well, all I've done is put his bumper sticker on my car, and if he knows I've done that he knows what kind of car I drive and probably knows where I live.

Then I really freaked out. Because then his wife started sending me emails, and the last one she sent was signed, I swear to you, "Thank you for your commitment, passion, and hard work, Michelle. " (Italics, boldface, and underline mine.) So now this weirdo is emailing me like, daily, AND his wife is getting jealous now too. So, a double threat. This is not even counting the pressure laid on me by his buddy, "Joe." Joe, I am sick of hearing how great your friend Barack is.

Oh, and he even made sure I knew he would be in my town this past weekend. I can assure you I did not "meet him in Saint Louis." Weirdo.

Basement Dream

Whenever a friend suffers a death in the family, I tell them, "You think it's bad now, you should feel it six months from now. It's really hard then." I say that because I am so thoughtful. And since I am the expert since Dad died twenty years ago. And I'm sure my friends find it so helpful, because that's just what you want to hear when you're mourning, you want to know it will be even worse in six months.

In case you haven't know any dead people, six months is when you realize you've gone a whole day without thinking of the deceased.  It's been over six months since Mom died. I haven't had my Bad Day yet, but maybe that's because she watches over us from her plastic box on the top of the bookcase. (Waves at Mom's box. Hi Mom! Try to keep the ruckus down.)

However, I had a Mom dream last night. Mom and Dad were both alive and then Mom died. Dave and I were in our teens and watching a video of Mom from her teens. "Who is that guy Mom's dancing with?" we asked Dad.

"Oh, that's Jerry. They used that footage in a documentary about Howard Hughes. There's a copy of it still in the basement."

"We have a basement?" (It's a slab house. No basement.)

And then we all got to root around in the basement, Mom's Special Secret Basement we didn't know existed. Books and trunks and closets, all filled with uncharted Mom stuff. Oh, and then Marcia and her Dead Mom came by. Party in the crowded Basement of Death. What could that mean?

I think part of it is because I've spent six months intending to read through her letters, and I guess I'm hoping to find out something I didn't know. But there are only so many letters, and even if  I discover something new, there won't be anything else to hear from Mom when I've read them all. Then she'll be gone.

A Little Embarrassing for Everybody

So, Schnozzfest has signed off, and her swan song included this sentiment:

"I mean, you know that no blogger with half a brain in his or her head is telling you the whole story, right? They can’t. And I don’t blame them. It would be the equivalent to an outburst about your impending divorce while standing in line at the company picnic. It’s unprofessional, painfully public, irresponsible, and a little embarrassing for everybody."

She goes on to say, "I guess all of this is just my typically very long-winded way of saying that if you want to be a polite and socially considerate person online, you really just can’t say much of anything anymore. For some, this realization would be freeing. They’d recognize the futility of the situation and shrug it off, then say whatever they felt like saying, knowing that they can’t please everyone all of the time, and good for them. "

And I know a local Blogger who feels constricted about what she can and can't say on her blog. (Yes, you. I am talking about you. Often I read your blog and I wonder if you are talking about me. But no, you aren't. Ha! I turn the tables on you. )

So, given that I'm just as ACA as anyone, I wondered why those thoughts haven't occurred to me. I like to please. Right now I now that I have a blog award at Chez Bonbon that I have not accepted yet, not because I'm rejecting it but because mockworthy things have happened in life, and I would like to apologize for that, because I don't want to hurt feelings. I don't want to hurt Gary, certainly, that's why I run topics past him. (Don't worry, he's only rejected one recently, and I'm pretty sure he'll lift the gag order on that one pretty soon.)

But other than that, I think my blog is "a little embarrassing for everybody."  And is that a bad thing?  When Hester Prynne wore the scarlet A, did she secretly feel she was giving silent comfort to other young women who may feel shame for their adulteries? (I'm asking, did she? Because I'm not reading that book again. Pretend she did.) I loved reading this on Suburban Bliss  more than I can tell you, because she went past the embarrassment to help a hundred fellow survivors. 

I think my inhibitions have been lowered by the brain damage from the MS. And of course, the age. I am that old woman who, at ten a.m. when the Jehovah's Witnesses coo, "And how arrrreeee you," snarls, "I'm tired and I want to go back to bed." And because the in-laws have taught me that communication is not so that there can be a give-and-take of ideas, but so that each individual can be heard, preferably loudly and simultaneously and with mouths full of food. 

So. I belch my blog at you. Excuse me. Don't be too embarrassed.

Updated: Picasso Napkin

Stories are told about h0w Picasso would pay for his restaurant meal by doodling on a napkin. He put no effort into his doodle; it only had value because he drew it.

This is all to say: I went to the Ben Folds concert Thursday.

Ben, it would seem, has a new creative outlook, which is that if he or his band creates it, then it has value. Like Picasso's napkin, it doesn't have to be good.

We like Ben Folds for the building elevating chords and the well-thought-out lyrics. Evidently, that's "the old shit." That's what they play after the encore, Ben said, and after hearing "the new shit" I clapped long and obediently to hear it again.

The New Shit: The Music

I don't know that much about music. Still, every once in a while I'd think, "Ew, he missed that key." Then Gary said, "I think his piano's out of tune." Or maybe it's the piano version of drop-D tuning.

But maybe not, maybe he's experimenting with dissonance, I thought, because many of the songs disintegrated into ... what's the musical term ... randomly banging on the keyboard.

The New Shit: The Lyrics

Cologne, an entire song, is essentially along these lines:

I'm letting you go
I will let go
If you will let go

And just when I was yawning and looking at the bottles behind the bar, went:

(Four, three, two)

Says here an astronaut
Put on a pair of diapers
Drove eighteen hours
To kill her boyfriend
And in my hotel room, I'm wondering
If you read that story too

Cool, I thought. Then it went back to:

Four, three, two, one,
I'm letting you go
I will let go
If you will let go ... (Four, three, two) ... (Ohhhhh-aah)

I don't know. It was unexpected, so in that way it was humorous. He does use the word "weightless" in the next stanza, but other than that there was a lot of  "(Four, three, two) ... (Ohhhhh-aah)."  It's just that other bands I could think of could have done more with that song.

You know, I applaud creativity. (I liked Moulin Rouge, Big Dot.) I should have loved this concert. Plus, I like anyone who shows me the process, and Ben puts boxes of Altoids in his piano sometimes. (Gary said, "Maybe that's why it's out of tune. He's putting stuff in it." )

I don't know, then. I won't know how I feel about this new album until I see what happens next. Next, either Ben Folds fully commits to his lyrics or else he puts a Kotex on his head. Those are his options.

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

UPDATE: Under the Fairness in Broadcasting Act, I have to point you toward Fluid Pudding's take on the same concert.

Crime scene outside the irony factory

Sorry that's so blurry. Observant people should notice the glass on the roof of the Mini, Gary standing behind a windowless and open door, and especially notice the leather jacket Gary isn't wearing because he left it on the seat of the car.

The Duchess

Tonight I saw a movie, a costume drama, The Duchess. I went with Friend 0.75. Two things you should know about 0.75: she's short and she's a lesbian. She's a Shlesbian! And Jewish, so that means she's a Schlesbian.

Since it was the same night as the debate, 0.75 wasn't successful rustling up too many takers from her various sets of friends. (Whereas I said, "Are we not men? We have TiVo.") Another of 0.75's straight friends, Melody, was there as well. We sat on either side of 0.75 and the movie started.

[SPOILER ALERT]

There is a hot lesbian sex scene about 1/3rd of the way into this movie.

First, Keira Knightly and some actress who actually HAS boobs crawl in bed for a little girl talk.

Melody nudged .75. "Three-way,"  she said, anticipating the arrival of the Duke.

"Hush," .75 said. "No talking in the movie."

Then Boobs started pulling off Keira's clothing and kissing her back. Suddenly I became self-conscious.  Then Boobs reached around, and, judging from Kiera's response, stimulated Kiera's clitoris.

Another nudge from Melody. "Two-way. My bad."

The scene continued building while I worried about .75. She can be embarrassed very easily, to the point that she covers her ears and blushes. I thought, oh, I hope she doesn't feel awkward, while on the screen Boobs got Keira pretty excited, then stopped abruptly.

Melody and I both nudged 0.75 simultaneously and berated Boobs for being a tease. 0.75 shushed us, but Melody continued to give a heads-up whenever a three or four way might be imminent.

Now, there were other sex scenes in the movie, but none as exciting as the lesbian scene. I wondered if my earlier lesbian experience influenced that opinion. (Click that link if you are curious.)

So, ladies, now that it's just us, the theme of this movie was "Men are dicks."

I summarized the movie that way as we sat through the credits. Then I asked 0.75 the question I'd been wondering about for an hour and a half.

"So, did you know there was a lesbian sex scene?"

"Well," (a moment's consideration) "Yeahhhhhhhh... "

It was hysterical. I was worried about her embarrassment! So, here I am hoping to make sure she gets a little embarrassment to serve her right.

Two Bullets in Defense of Reason

• The Choice 

Every four years I fall in love with a candidate. However, I try to love my candidate with equanimity. I know no man  is perfect. That's why every four years I look forward to viewing the Frontline episode The Choice. It presents bios of the main candidates for president, warts and all, and by the end of the episode you hate both of them.

For example, Al Gore? Looooved Al Gore. He was smart, especially compared to G. W. B., C student that he was. Then Frontline told me that Al spent an entire year in college stoned silly with a bag on his chest. "Pothead" was the word his friends used to describe him.

So I looked forward to watching the comparison of Barack "Butter" Obama and John "Guns" McCain. I thought I might hear about Obama's cocaine use, or a little more about McCain's philandering. And temper. Oh, and drinking.  But instead of dealing the dirt even-handedly, the premise this year was essentially "Who can fake it best?" Because they're both fakes. And I say, Obama can fake it best. That's my cold heartless choice. "Emotions pull the carriage, but reason holds the reins."

• The Dead Cat Bounce - my new favorite term

A dead cat bounce is a term used by traders in the finance industry to describe a pattern wherein a spectacular decline in the price of a stock is immediately followed by a moderate and temporary rise before resuming its downward movement ... derived from the notion that "even a dead cat will bounce if it falls from a great height."

This stock market is tiring. I am exhausted from talking Gary down from the ledge. I called to see what he wanted from Starbucks and he said, "alcohol. " He has run around in circles flapping his arms insisting we stock up on cat food.

This went into overdrive this weekend when the S______s all congregated in a circular flight. I was told I was entirely too reasonable about the stock market. As opposed to pulling out every penny, which was the family line.

Oh, wait. Sorry. The family line was "Financial advisers, they don't know nothin'." I believe this was in response to my saying, "My financial adviser has this little saying: 'Buy low, sell high.'"

Why the panic? None of the S______s are retiring any time soon, and of course the one retiree has everything out of the stock market already. However, Monday I did put money market where my mouth was and put half my old 401k back in the End of Year 30% Off Sale we call the current stock market. Then I patted my heavy furry balls for a while. Or perhaps just my one ball, given that I only invested half.

I think that each time I have heard a Republican president or de-facto leader say, "The American economy is strong" it is followed by a great tankage in the market. Maybe it's code.

We'll see if this reason thing does me some good for once.

Perez Gary

Lauren Conrad was presenting an Emmy.

"Who the hell is she?" I asked rhetorically.

Gary said, "Oh, that's Lauren Conrad. She's on that 'Hills' show. The other stars are named Heidi and Spencer and they don't like her."

On further questioning, I found that Gary had never seen "The Hills." He knew of Lauren and Spencer and Heidi through their exposure in Us Magazine. Gary loves Us. He has a subscription. He will come out of the bathroom, waving the Us and raving about the quality of the paper. He also reads Life & Style and complains about the vote tally on each respective "Who Wore It Best?" ("Look at this! Her shoes don't even match!") Wired Magazine comes in second to Us, but only because the print is too small.

Did the grocery store get this week's Us before in came in our mail? Five minutes of outrage.  "Subscribers should get to know about Jessica's Pity Date before grocery shoppers! What the hell?"

The thing that gets me is that I just know Gary tells everyone that I'm the one who reads this trash. In conversation, he's taken to quoting the New York Times. In fact, he's replaced "I heard this thing on National Public Radio" with "I read this thing in the New York Times."

Next time he quotes the New York Times I'm going to ask him who Jen is dating.

GarySpeak

Today Gary was talking and said, "So the thing about the stock market eye am aycho, is that --"

I interrupted, "Eye am aycho?"

Then I got it.

If I had been more on the ball I could have said, "IMHO? LOL."

My Gambling Addiction

I like to bet.

Not money. I get enough financial "speculation" excitement at my job at TeddyJ.

When you are married to an impossibly stubborn opinionated person, as I am, it can be enjoyable to bet them that they are wrong.  Sometimes, granted, I am wrong, but that's what makes it exciting. 

The "pot" that is bet used to make it exciting. After the "Care to make it interesting?" and official sealant pinkie shake, the next step was to ante up. "If I win, you have to load the dishwasher, if you win, you get to watch Moonlighting," or whatever. It varied.

Over the years, after Gary lost bet after bet, he was humbled, never enough to stop betting, but enough to lower his antes to pedestrian things like, "I'll drive when we go out tonight," when he always drove anyway. Then we pretty much agreed on a standard bet.

That brings us to the present afternoon. We were at Macy's linen counter and Gary remarked that the fitted sheet that covers our mattress doesn't match the fitted sheet that covers our box springs. ("Oh," you say, "Why not use a dust ruffle?" Because it's a bed like this, and a dust ruffle doesn't work with that bed, beside I want to be able to find my dog sometimes, and that bed configuration in the photo requires that the bed always be made, and get off my back about not making my bed every day. And bite me.)

I said, "Of course they match. What, am I an animal? That would bother me every day of my life. I'll bet you."

Gary accepted, and the saleslady asked, "What are you betting? A banana split?"

While I was shocked into silence thinking how morbidly obese we must look, Gary filled the silence with "No, a spanking. That's what we always bet now."

With the eyes she made you would have thought Gary had said one of us had to pleasure a donkey, so I said, "Believe me, you'd spank him too if you were married."

And, see, I was totally wrong. Wrong! One sheet is burgundy and one is yellow! I only had one leg in my pajamas when I had to pay up.  That's the thing, every once in a while I am convinced I am right when I am dead wrong.

That happened recently when I bet Marcia a latte that Biden "plagiarized" Tony Blair's speech. Marcia bet on Neil Kinnock; she was right. Not as right as I was Friday when she swore BNL had covered "I'm a Believer," even while it was playing on the Muzak and it was obviously not BNL, and yet she bet me. Ahhahahaha! Seriously. My in-laws tell me they think "BAREnakedLADIES sounds just like The Partridge Family! We like them now!" but even they would not have bet me this.

And it was Smash Mouth, sheesh. Marcia claims I welshed on Neil Kinnock, so she says we're even.

In Which Gary Has an Emergency In His Pants

This is a second-hand account. Only Gary was there, but as you can imagine, he describes things so thoroughly and enthusiastically I feel as if I were.

Gary was walking briskly through the hall at work when his blackberry rang.

"Hello, this is Gary S______."

"What is your emergency?" the voice on the blackberry asked.

"Huh?"

"What is your emergency, sir?" said the urgent and somewhat pissed voice.

"I don't know what -"

"You called 911, sir."

"No, I didn't, you called me."

"We couldn't make contact with you, so we returned your call."

Now, Gary's pants have made numerous calls to me using the Blackberry in his pocket.  When Gary checked his Blackberry, he found that indeed he had activated some crisis password-bypass 911 dialer on his main screen.

(I was sympathetic when I heard this, because the first year 911 was implemented I accidentally called them. I was in high school at my friend Vanessa's slumber party. We were calling what was essentially an answering machine called "Egg Basket."  People could call in with cryptic questions or just listen to the recorded questions. We were calling in with "What does a navel look like from the inside?" on a broken rotary phone. That's why 921-EGGS turned into 911-EGGS and a nice group of police officers showed up at our slumber party. I'm sure they still think we were pranking them.)

Gary explained to the 911 lady about his lonely blackberry making crank calls. She told him not to do it again.

When I heard this story, I thought,"Yeah, good luck, lady. 'Don't do it again.' You're on the pants' speed dial now."

Right now I am fighting the urge to call his Blackberry and say, "Is it safe? Is it SAFE, sir?"

Gary: Everything Old is New Again

Gary, Young and Hot:
 
Caption: Hey. I Like Your Forearms There

Gary: Younger and Less Hot:
  
Caption: Duuuude! Duuuuuuuude!

Yeah, he should be glad I didn't meet him when he was wearing Haute Brewery fashion and a beard. I would never have gone out with that guy. Plus he would have gone to prison for asking out a nine year old.

When Gary was of legal Budweiser-wearing shirt age, he got a job as an orderly. Every once in a while he'll come up with hospital stories only an orderly could tell.

Like, there was this OB-GYN who, after a birth, would take a fresh placenta and hurl it up to the ceiling where it would stick. 

"Why? Why would he do that, Gary?"

"Because he was a jackass! Then we couldn't use that OR for the rest of the day! Then I'd have to clean it up!" 

I know. It seems suspicious, doesn't it?

Okay, here's another one. According to Gary, if you see an orderly wheeling a bed draped with linens through the halls of a hospital, or any big cart with sheets hanging off it, it's because the sheets are disguising a second platform where the dead corpse is. Because that's how they sneak the dead corpses through the hospital.

I don't know. I don't know if I would trust a guy in a Budweiser shirt.

'Batin!

We watched the debate tonight. I intended to watch it calmly and reasonably, However, we got on TiVo-time early on because Gary kept pausing the TiVo to yell at Senator McCain.

Gary started out the evening in a foul mood anyway. Thankfully he was able to redirect hs excessive anger at the pund-idiots and the Republican candidate. When Gary's bellowing out single-minded fury the only way to calm him down it is to one-up him. He'll sense the parody and it turns into a joke.

I paused the TiVo at the first mention by McCain of his much vaunted mavericky-ness. "Bullshit!" I roared. "Yeah, maybe you were a maverick once, but you've been a poodle the past eight years."

"Fuck yeah!" Gary yelled.

"Fucking poodle." I grumbled.

"Fucking shit-eating poodle," Gary corrected me. (And I apologize to any of you who may have beloved shit-eating poodles.) I laughed, he laughed, then we stopped even trying to be reasonable.  Later on, McCain mentioned General Petraeus.  [Pause TiVo]  "General Petraeus is a cocksucker!" And, really, I'm sure he isn't, it's just Gary was getting worked up again.

Gary can do a pretty good McCain imitation, in which he shuffles, bobs his head, and barks, "My friends."

Then we saw the point at which McCain stood up and wandered about during Obama's healthcare response, like Al Gore did in 2000. Then the fun began. Gary manipulated the TiVo back and forward to make it appear McCain was doing a little dance, peeking into the frame and stepping back out. Then I noticed McCain made a little upward hand gesture, which when reversed and forwarded repeatedly made him look like he was masturbating. Then I just rolled off the couch laughing. 

Now, I originally wanted to watch the debate to hear views and seem reasonable and play devil's advocate, but it just didn't turn out that way. Pretty soon I was wishing someone would just wink at me like our Sarah Flanders of the Yukon, the VP nominee. I intended to be a good open-minded responsible citizen, but the only opening that crossed my mind was then neckline on Michelle Obama's dress. Mrs. McCain kicked Mrs. Obama's ass in the appropriate wardrobe department.

What was Michelle Obama wearing anyway? A red low-cut Christmas party dress with glittery holly appliques on it? Bad call.

Not that that's going to influence my vote.

In Praise of the Single Button Magic Jacket

Before! Without the Single Button Magic Jacket!

Moooooo! MOOOO Cow! Look at that haunch on the left. Mooo! I am a box with legs. A wide paisley box.

After! Behold Ye The Single Button Magic Jacket!

Woo. Hot stuff. Or at least slightly more  tepid stuff. Vertical lines! I LOVE this jacket.

I brought the Single Button Magic Jacket up from the basement after I lost a little weight. Part of the Magic is that the bottom half doesn't ever have to touch, so you can still wear it though technically it's a size too small (and it is).

(And we all know we can make any jacket a "Single" Button Magic Jacket by just "forgetting" to button the bottom button. I believe I heard it became fashionable to leave the bottom button of one's waistcoat unbuttoned during the reign of Edward 7, because he, being fat, always "forgot.")

I pass this information along to you, children, because someday you too will be fat (yes, yes you will, unless you work out 5 hours a day like Cher).  Find your Magic Jacket and treasure it, even though it is out of style.

Buffalo Chicken Wrap-up

So about those helicopter and freefall adventures I planned ...

The Freefall website failed to mention it was literally attached ...

 

... to a Hooters.

 

And was made of tin.

 

"No," I said, "No, I don't think so." Because indoor freefalling attractions are only as good as their air pressure. I just didn't think the Hooters could sufficiently blow me.

After I saw the shoddy freefall attraction, I turned a skeptical eye to the Canadian helicopters. None of them lived up to the Black Hawk I had imagined. I crossed the '80s helicopters off my list.

One more scary experience:

Gary was taking photos, and of course took a photo of the border crossing. Know what? This is discouraged by the border guard, who immediately began yelling at us.

 

Then, the next day, I was able to authoritatively say, "No, Gary, you don't need you passport to get to Canada." This is true. You need it to get back in to America. So that border crossing was as exciting as a Hooters Freefall. Gary got all panicky at the "Where are you from sir" question. Is he from Saint Louis? Or East Saint Louis? Would they shoot him if he got it wrong?

After a few questions, and some typing, they let us back in, especially after we planned out loud how I would go back to the hotel and get his passport. The guard let us back in to America after a stern warning. Quite exciting.

Wild Animals: Everything Old Is New Again

I was wrong, I was in Toronto / Niagara Falls in '95, 13 years ago, not 20. Still, 13 years can make a difference, especially in the animal kingdom.

Then

One highlight of the trip in '95 was our visit to the Wild Animal Park near Toronto. We drove in and saw the sign below.

 

Like good Americans, we heeded the sign. And we drove through the park. And we noticed two things:

• First, no one else heeded the sign. Everyone was passing popcorn to the animals. Giraffes were sticking their heads into peoples' cars. Buffaloes were scratching their backs on station wagons. Baboons were violating women in the back seat. Animals were being fed. Animals came up to our rental car, we reached out to them, they said, "Fuck you, where's the popcorn?" and they snubbed us. And it hurt.

• Second, no one enforced the rule. I saw a bear masturbate against a car in a frenzy of popcorn-fueled lust right next a park van:

...and the park guide did nothing.

Of course, we drove through, circled back, and got some popcorn at the snack bar, which came, I swear to you, in a box depicting a cartoon giraffe eating directly out of a box of popcorn.

So, then we were popular. We were pushing the Free Giraffe Crack, then.

 

And the zebras loved us too.

 

And this bear ...

...would have done anything for me and my popcorn. So friendly!

 

But of course the friendliest were the baboons.

 

(That baboon makes me feel good about my breasts. We had a nice chat while she perched on the side mirror. She said, "A cyst like a lemon? On your what? Oh, that's disgusting.")

It was a good day.

Now

We had a great drive down there last weekend, since it is autumn in Ontario. I suppose it was all the slutty scarlet sugar maple trees hanging out on the roadside, but there were gorgeous fall colors right past the border.

However, we knew we were in trouble when we bought the popcorn and it was in a bag, not in the box essentially labeled "Giraffe Food." And there were many more of the zebra vans, and they would drive up to you and scream things like "CLOSE your WINDOWS!"

The strange thing was that we kept trying to feed the animals. I think it was because I knew I was breaking Canadian laws, not American laws. I wouldn't have been such a scofflaw in my own country. (Well, we did ignore some "Do not leave your car" warnings in our Saint Louis drive-through animal park, Lone Elk Park. There was an elk, just sitting there, a few feet away. We got out of the car and petted its fuzzy crew-cut antlers. It mercifully didn't ream our asses.)

So it got to be a game - Avoid the Park Police - because really, we don't have to listen to them because we're not Canadian. And because we are stupid. It added a little safari element. (Have the audio on for this video. The last line is "They have crap on their car!" )

Crap can briefly be seen at minute 1:07.

The crap came from the baboons. The baboons are popcorn whores.

 

Some of them are popcorn pimps. NSFW!

   

Evidently they even circumcise the baboons in Canada.

This was a baboon from the genus Giant Lumbering Baboon:

The baboon above was the giant baboon I was so intimidated by in the video below.

So, even though the animals are almost all Just Saying No to popcorn (the baboons still have a monkey on their backs) it was a good experience. It makes me want to take some Orville Redenbachers to Lone Elk Park and see what action we get.

Vacation: Everything Old is New Again

When I heard at the Casino that Erin and Keri were in acceptable accommodations that came out to $12 a night, I was momentarily jealous until I remembered Cancun.

Then

One of our first trips was to Cancun, because there was a poster by our house: "Cancun! 5 nights from $200!" Including airfare. I jumped on that deal and off we were to Cancun. In August. We didn't care about the heat, because how could it be worse than Saint Louis in August?

We took our first breaths of Cancun air and realized why you don't go to Cancun in August. Cancun at that time had darling little parks and ponds on every highway median, ponds filled with strangely muddy water. It was a cleverly disguised open-air sewage system. And in August, the sun cooks the sewage, and there is no breeze to blow it away.

We stayed in the Hotel Cancun, where there were lizards.

 

(That lizard is fake, but there were real ones, I swear. Gary's ribcage is real.)

You can't find the Hotel Cancun anymore, at least not the one we stayed in, because they were tearing it down. With a wrecking ball.

 

Now

So, nowadays whenever I think, "I can save some money if I stay here - " I remember Cancun. And then I stay someplace overpriced, even if I can't afford it.

   

Extra Bonus-------------------------------------------------------

Early Toe Porn Uncovered!

I don't know why I wanted to take a photo of this plastic bag, but you are looking at possibly the first known photo of Spunky Labia, International Toe Porn Superstar.

  Modern Day Spunky takes a dip in the river a few yards from Niagara Falls ...

 

... and ponders how much and how little things have changed.

BNL: Everything Old Is New Again

Oct 1 2008 marks the 20 year anniversary of Barenaked Ladies.

Then! (Well, as close as I can get to Oct 1, 1988 on YouTube):

Now!

What people look better after twenty years? Oh. Twenty year old boys.

I'd say Ed has improved the most.

On the other hand, some people don't change over time.  This is Jim at last weekend's concert.

This is Jim at the Chicago concert last year:

 

No, I'm sure he changed his shirt at some time in 2007.

Tyler has obviously stayed clean and not sold his sold to the devil ...

 ...because if he had, this album cover would have a bald guy on the bottom right and Tyler wouldn't have aged at all.

 

(That's Tyler throwing an early Terrorist Fist Bump. Part black ... part white ... like Obama. Black from the waist down, baby.)

That guy in the bottom left is Andy, replaced later by Kevin the Pure, Kevin Galahad:

  

...for a while, Kevin the Cancerous, and now Kevin the Scruffy...

And Tiny the drum tech is peeking out of the corner. (Gary took a number of Tiny photos. I think he was trying to document what a drum tech does.)

Other photos from this past weekend: Jim and Ed violating each other's personal space, Steven forgetting the words, and Tyler in a very interesting subliminal shot.

I suppose we can hope that since the band is twenty now, it's gone through its terrible twos, its enthusiastic tweens, the sulky dark years, and now its college-age experimentation. Of course, there are those people (and possibly bands) who stop growing when they start experimenting, and they die at forty with all the problems of a twenty-year old.

That would be sad. But I'd be 66 then and probably hard of hearing anyway.