Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

I didn't even ask for the flower this time.

I glanced down and there was a flower! Woman said you come in with a design they do it automatically. It's a cycle. She would have gone multi colored but I stopped her.

Hung. A Review.

We were on the couch, elbows touching (touching touching as they now always always must be), watching the pilot of Hung.

Kenny Bania from Seinfeld.When you watch the pilot, and you sit around for five minutes with the TiVo paused trying to remember who is playing the guy giving the entrepreneurship seminar: it's Bania. (Ovaltene. Soup <> Dinner.) You are welcome. Oh, and she's Fraiser's brother's second wife, but that was easy.

I Learn About Coaching. In an early scene, the lead, who plays a high school coach, uses profanity in front of his team. "Oh, he's going to be fired," I second-guessed, always a good test of a new show.

"Are you serious?" Gary looked appalled. "He's a coach."

Come to find out, it's coaches, not artists, who live by different rules. Even back in the day ('70-74) Gary's high school coaches cursed routinely at the team. I never played a sport (or even finished the rope climb) so I didn't know. Does the free cursing pass apply to girl teams as well?

The Ick Factor. There were a few scenes with the lead determinedly hammering on the female lead and she screams "You are sooo big!" To be honest, my Kegels clenched right up. Not just because of their delicate state (what with the WEEPING OF THE BLOOD) but also because they got a scare Saturday. A friend's 19 year old daughter has a new job selling knives, and she came by and practiced her demonstration. At one point she was talking about the warranty and what it covers. She said, "Sometime we can abuse knives, use them as a lover, for example."

My head snapped right up. I began to say, "What?" just as Gary screamed:

"A LOVER? SOME PEOPLE USE THEIR KNIVES AS LOVERS? THAT'S DANGEROUS!"

The 19 year old said, horrified, "Lover? No, I said LOVER. Lover!"

Gary was on the verge of cautioning her to not use the pointy end, when she clarified:

"You know! A lover! You put one end under something you want to pry up!"

Ahhhhh. A Leeeeeeeeeeeever. We taught her how to pronounce lever and then we bought an arsenal of knives from her.

So. Hung. Yeah, I'll see it again.

Artist Rules

Once, an actress friend and I were chatting about some criminal thing one of her acting friends had done, she let me know that "artists live by different rules."

Another time I was on the train from Stratford-on-Avon to London and the theater critic for "What's On" explained to me the reason actors so often cheat on their spouses is because they have a greater need for attention and love than the average person.

In that same vein, I am reminded recently if society says, "Uh, what are you doing having those sleepovers with little boys?" or "Sure there's no law against sleeping in a hypobaric chamber," or "I'm sure if you hide your children behind veils no one will ever notice they aren't bi-racial" - if you are an artist it's kind of expected.

Sometimes it bothers me and sometimes it doesn't.

On the one hand, I agree there are no rules for art. I was in a closet alone with a nude man for the sake of art in figure drawing class. If you are composing a song about love and one line ends with "muck" then what else are you going to do? No restraints on art, no censorship, I'm all for that.

But artists? Somewhere the artist has to draw within the lines. I'm generous, I didn't mind when MJ dangled his baby off the balcony. (Don't babies die if they fall from your arms anyway?) Now, sleeping with boys, maybe not a crime but against the rules, surely. Borrowing 7 million from your friend the Prince of Bahrain? The rules say you have to pay it back.

Dying at fifty from prescription drugs? I have to say I'm with Deepak Chopra on this. Don't ask Deepak Chopra for an Oxycontin script, Michael Jackson. That's right out. And I know somewhere in all this was a hanger-on cooing, "Oh, you're an artist, you don't live by the rules." Maybe the rules are there to protect dangled babies, trusting tweenboys, and Bahrainian princes who worked hard for that 7 million dollars.

And if those are society's rules, what happens in artist communities? Are there no rules? Taos and Sausalito are the only artist's communities I've heard of.  Is it all free love out there? Do people toss babies from rooftop to rooftop? What about money and parking and sleeping with children? I want to know Sausalito Dots, Taos Dots, people everywhere, do artists have to follow rules?

Tapas des Deux

I seem to be slowly piecing together my perfect weekend out of all the weekends this month. The Scooba cleaned the floors this morning, there will be a thunderstorm here in about ten minutes, and there was some Breaking News (even though someone did die). And and now I've had a ridiculously good dinner at an unusual place.

Anyway, Friday we were heading for Casa Gallardo at Westport when we saw a "Fusion Tapas / Vodka Bar" named IceKitchen (the K is backwards). We plunked our plump little selves down in a booth and begged the waitresses patience. I haven't had very much in the way of tapas, but I've had dim sum more than once.

More important, I haven't had fusion food ever, as far as I can tell, because even though the vodka ice bar was made for the rangy West County females, fusion tapas was made for me. ME the middle-aged woman who eats anything now as long as I haven't tasted it before.

A warning - damn - we have never spent that much money at a restaurant, ever. This might be because I had a Dreamsicle martini and Gary had so much Sangria I had to drive him home. (That would be 1.5 Sangrias.) In addition, we had a mad amount of tapas.

We started with three things from the light tapas menu.

 

First, a "flight" of soups. On the left: elephant garlic, on the right: corn chowder, in the middle: tortilla soup that Gary picked up and DOWNED LIKE A SHOT. To be fair, this was after I placed dibs on the corn chowder. The chowder had corn and leeks and sweet potatoes and was full of things I've never had with corn.

Then, since Gary had started the evening demanding asparagus, we had Asparagus Prosciutto salad:

 

Okay, these are the ingredients I'm sure of: asparagus and prosciutto and fried quail egg. Then there was some vegetation and other materials (yellow stuff, green stuff). I don't know, but it was great.

Then we added flatbread.

Okay, that's a very thin crusty / chewy flatbread, with broccoli and flank steak, carrots, and then - rice noodles on top! I am putting rice noodles on top of everything I make in the future. It'll be like the time Mom served chicken breast with Campbells Cream of Mushroom topped with Pepperidge Farm Herb Dressing paired with green beans topped with Pepperidge Farm Herb Dressing. I was ready for anything next.

I stopped taking photos and we just charged into all the rest of the food. (Speaking of charged - yes, I think we were only at 15 bucks apiece. Except for the drinks.)

The next plates we moved from the light tapas menu into the signature tapas menu. The portions were the size of entrees elsewhere. For example, next we had bison fillet with Guinness (?) and honey (?) and lobster and quinona. And maybe, I don't know, strawberries. Hell. Could have been.

Now, Gary ordered this one: Pig Belly with flash-fried cabbage and potato cakes annnnddddd ...... buttermilk tuna puree? Something weird. Gary nibbled a bit on the pig belly.

"Tastes kind of fatty."

He carved off a minuscule sliver of Edge du Pig Belly and claimed the edge was crispier. Then he ate the cabbage and I ate the potato cakes and we apologized to the waitress, because six perfectly good slices of pig fat went untouched.

We finished up with dessert, because Gary claimed he was drunk on pig belly. (There is an actual disorder called pig belly. I think it's a reaction starving people have to protein.) So we had the chocolate banana carmel strawberry crepes, and those were good but I'm sorry, I've tasted those flavors before. Now, a chocolate pig belly asparagus sorbet, that would have been tasty.

Finally, we had something Gary called "Bread pudding wrapped in Phyllo dough," and that's precisely what it was, and it was wonderful.

AND it's open for lunch. When I go back for lunch, I'm having the soup flight and the purple peruvian twice baked potatoes. The Signature Tapas menu is replaced by sandwiches for lunch, so I can't imagine if they are conventional sandwiches or leftover pig belly and peanut butter on challah bread.

I'm all over this fusion food movement now, which is appropriate because it hit the coasts ten years ago, and that's when coastal fashions get to the Midwest. (I understand you'll be sending us incest soon.)

Ridiculously good meal. It made up for us celebrating our 24th anniversary at Cracker Barrel. Then again, every plate was approx 15 dollars.

P.S. Incidentally, if you want another take on the same place look at .75's entry: http://michelleamarcus.blogspot.com/2009/05/icekitchen-at-westport.html

In Which I Break in a New Doctor

Today, I met a new doctor. A new doctor to do an old test: standard neuro exam for the clinical trial. Touch my nose, touch your nose, grab my fingers, walk in a straight line. Two things stood out:

1) To measure my level of spasticity, the doctor manipulated my wrists, ankles, and knees. "Not spastic at all," he remarked, "You sure you have MS?" So there. Not spastic, and I say this even though Friend #3 reports that "spastic" is an incredibly offensive term in Britain. And the MS was in question there a moment, but then I mentioned he'd find out otherwise if he ever blocked my way to the bathroom.

2) He asked the required question: "Have you had any trouble with cognition, such as trouble following what is going on?"

I answered, "I'm sorry, I don't understand the question."

And he BEGAN to ASK the QUESTION AGAIN. Then my face said, "Dude." And he said to my face, "Oh! I'll have to remember that." Then my face said, "I like you."

How [sic] is this guv?

Dear Maria from Buenos Aires, Argentina:

I am writing you this open letter to commiserate with you in your recent public humiliation. It must be degrading to be outed as the girlfriend of the DUMBASS who is evidently trusted to run one of our United States.

Sincerely,

Ellen.

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

Everyone else:

I am torn on how to feel about the Governor.

• On the one hand, a), primarily, to wit, say it with me:    ... dumbass.

• However, he has the frankness to own up to his failings in a press conference and take questions. 

• In his defense, it just may be possible Maria is the anonymous tipster who revealed the steamy emails to the paper. She wanted to force his hand. His only choice is to resign and be with her.

• Or perhaps he really is just stupid. He spells "lightning" "lightening" [sic]. 

• Yet let us not forget: if he got to Argentina he must have been bright enough to have remembered his passport.

Yet Another Reason I Love the Bass

Guess what the first note is on the bass staff ... liney .... thingee. Or roster. Clef? it doesn't matter.

The first note is A. A, baby, fucking A.

Not F. Not F-G-A-B-C-D-E.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G.

Yet another reason everyone should learn the bass guitar first.

Perfect Day

The Question of the Internet over the weekend was: "What Would You Consider a Perfect Day?"

6 am to 10 am: Little magical pixies flit through the house singing as they dust and wipe and scrub. You know, those little cleaning slave creatures. You people have them; I think you call them children.

10 am to 12 noon: Breakfast in the clean house. Eggs Benedict, assembled the night before and just needs to be heated. Annnnnd at about noon ...

CNN breaks in with BREAKING NEWS. Good breaking news, no death, but something with high drama. Oh, here you go: remember that month people kept try to assassinate President Ford? Highly dramatic, but no one was hurt, and worse there was no CNN. (Breaking news without CNN. Can you imagine?)

12 noon - 2 pm:  We watch President Obama make assassination witticisms until it seems the news rush slows down, then we switch to a TiVoed marathon of both seasons of Homefront (the US Version).

 

We do that until the lights go out at ...

4 pm: ... because there is a major thunderstorm. (Because this is a fantasy, the dog is unaffected.) We have much to do, so we finally take off our pajamas, shower in the dark bathroom and get ready to go out.

5 pm: We drive to downtown Saint Louis for dinner, and on the way we have to navigate past a herd of farm animals or wild turkeys or bison.

5:30 pm: We eat at some extremely unusual place downtown. Does anyone remember those restaurants that had phones so you could call the waitress and place your order that way? Something like that, but with good food. A cross between that place, and Casa Bonita, and Dante's, the fondue place in Atlanta.

7:00: We go to a rock concert WHICH IS INDOORS IN THE AIR CONDITIONING, with SEATS ONE CAN SIT ON, not that one will sit on them but they give the impression that one lives in civilization and has personal space. And we listen to a personable band that has more than one frontman.

11:00: We arrive back home, where I perfectly play all the bass parts from the concert from memory and Gary changes the toilet paper. Then we go to bed and I am polished to a shiny finish by my husband who evidently IS made of sandpaper.

I know. I could make this all snooty and talk about gardening, or jetting to Venice Italy, but really my idea of a perfect day does involve a lot vegging in my pajamas in front of a television. Judge me if you like, but my perfect day is closer to my average day than yours is. (Nyah, haters. Go make your kids clean something.)

Staying Up Late, Watching the Iranians

Neda's name means "Voice." Had I been in the same situation in my youth, my name meant "light bitter small fenced-in backyard."

Of course, we've all been in the same situation, the disputed election situation. It looks as if the Iranians are taking a page from the Florida election board: they are conceding that it deserves analysis but that the analysis won't really matter anyway.

I'm surprised to hear that they won't consider a recount. As we know, they could kill a lot of time with a recount. So, when is the Safe Haven date in the Iranian constitution? Can they stall until then? That worked on us.

I know there is a huge difference between a) hanging chads and b) claiming more votes for your candidate than the city population. We'd be out in the streets then, I am sure. But the government wouldn't shoot at us, they'd just lawyer up, and we wouldn't throw rocks at the police. No, we'd just be strung along through the legal system.

It's Like Those Photos of Women Who Have Been on Meth

Young marrieds, if this isn't nipped in the bud:

 

It progresses...

 

...and after 24 years you get this:

  

Actually, looks like it's time for an easier scot towel dispenser. One that doesn't involve screwing.

shocking health news

The doctor now says I do not have a bladder infection. They were wrong.

 =============================

Clarification: I don't have anything else taking its place, either. Oh, and I don't have Herpes, thanks for that test. Essentially I have a constant low fever and labia that swell, seep blood, and then settle down again. Of course, I've been in the metaphorical waiting room enough times to know that if it isn't A, it's B, and very rarely it's C.

All the Reasons I'm Kind of Liking Burn Notice Now

1. The lead character spends a lot of time looking like this:

  

No smiles. None of that smiling bullshit. Spying to do. Lines to throw away glibly. Suits to wear. Yes, that's the man, he's wearing a suit for no reason but to please the womens.  Get outta his nonsmiling suited way, motherfuckers.

But then contractually once a show, he smiles, and he looks like this:

 

...and that is very nice.

2. The female lead is the woman who tangoed in Scent of a Woman.

 

I love really thin women. Look at that skin tag she calls a boob.

I also appreciate that they no longer segue between scenes with shots of women's bikini bodies. Because those women looked good, and the editing didn't give me time to point out their pointy uncomfortable hipbones to Gary.

3.This show has also re-employed the guy from the Evil Dead movies and either Cagney or Lacey, I don't know which one. The blond one. She brings in the middle-aged women demographic, you know. Evil Dead and Cagney bring the funny.

4. However, the real comic relief is found in the subtitles. As every lesser character is introduced, the screen freezes and subtitles spell out who he is. The first season or so, It would be:

CURT (then)
EX-SPY

But recently they've been doing things such as:

Lead says to other lead:
"Who's that loser?"
(screen freezes)
CURT (then)
EX-SPY (pause, then)
LOSER.

It's like The Word on the Colbert Report. I don't know why that tickles me so much; the idea that there's a mute literary device commenting on the show.

Anyway, if you like humorless men in suits and wordplay, you should check it out. Nothing else is on now anyway.

1) This is How Stupid I Am PLUS 2) Health Update

Today's stupidity is brought to you by the letters "L" and "N". (That joke never works unless you say it out loud. I'm "LNSku-mid-it" on Twitter, and if you found me on Twitter I'm sorry, I suck. And I am stupid.)

I'm going to be specific and honest (no!) and, without going to Wikipedia, I'm going to type verbatim the conversation I had with Gary last night. Then and only then will I find out the facts. Then I will add footnotes and I will indicate if our statements are wrong and I won't delete any, I swear. Either Gary and I will look like morons (highly possible) or this will be quite a boring blog post.

Gary asked, "Do you think the experimental drug could be contributing to this weird swelling, you know, down there?"

"Well, I guess, maybe? They say it works by trapping leukocytes in your lymph nodes. Maybe I have lymph nodes down there." ¹

"No, you don't. The lymph nodes are on your neck and armpits." ²

"Maybe those are the only ones the doctor feels. Maybe it would be awkward for the doctor to feel the lymph nodes in my pants."

"No, all your lymph nodes are in the upper half of your body.³ Think about it. The lymph system works by gravity.⁴ It's not like there's a pump moving the contents through your body. There are valves that keep it from all puddling at the bottom" ⁵

"Yeah, what's in the lymphatic system? What's the real name of lymphatic fluid? It isn't 'lymph juice.'" ⁶

"Ahahahahahah. 'Lymph juice.' No, pus is what flows in the lymphatic system." ⁷

"So it's a bunch of tubes that run parallel to your bloodstream?" ⁸

"Yes. And the pus just kind of sloshes into your blood when you need it." ⁹

"My Dad had dye shot into his lymph system when he had Hodgkin's. I guess lymphoma is cancer of the lymph system.¹⁰ Now that I think about it ... aren't there seven systems? Is there even a lymph system?" ¹¹

"We don't know anything about the lymph system, hon."

Well, let's see:

^1,2 and ³  Lymph nodes are found mainly in the chest, neck, armpit, pelvis and groin. Gary is wrong, I am right. However, that balance of power soon changes.

⁴ Contractions of the skeletal muscles. Gravity makes more sense to me.

⁵ Dead on.

⁶ Nope. It's a substance. Called "Lymph."

⁷ Wrong. Pus comes from bone marrow.

⁸ Well...it looks more like a web of green channels that run between the red arteries and the blue veins.

⁹ I'll be damned. This is true. In the conversation I almost said "osmosis," I swear, I almost used the exact word.

¹⁰ It seems like the problem starts in the lymphatic system.

¹¹ Yep, it's a system, and it includes your thymus and adenoids and spleen too. 

Hmph. Ended up being surprisingly accurate and I'm afraid, boring. But the strong of heart can go on past the link and see the current state of my pelvis.

Health and Safety Tips

Safety

Look at this fine tshirt I saw here:

Health 1

Awwww man. I went to the three-month Day of the Doctors today and mentioned I had only two visits left before I go on the extension phase of the trial. "Yes!" the nurse said, "And then it all starts over again!" IT ALL STARTS OVER. Remember all the tests two years ago, and the visits every two weeks? And the cat scan and the pancreas cyst? ALL OVER AGAIN. I know, shut up, free MS drugs and a more effective treatment before everyone else gets it, yeah yeah. The ability to walk, blah blah blah.

For the final Health & Safety tip, you have to go past the jump. You know what that means...

Concert Alert

Breaking concert news for Saint Louis peeps! Let's see how many self-referential links I can pack into one post.

Guster is headlining the final night of Live On the Levee on July 31st. Guster is one of my favorite bands.

And, this is the kind of spooky thing: remember Kevin the Rock Dude at the old job? The one who listened to me complain about power c[h]ords? HIS BAND, Spontaneous Nugent, is opening for Guster.

I KNOW! It's like I've taken the computer programmer route into the backstage world of rock and roll.

24th Anniversary

I was asking Gary if he felt like he missed out since he got to sleep with only me the last 24 plus years. He guffawed and pointed out there have been three versions of me: the young pure chaste religious one, the feisty fighting one, and the bawdy old one. So really, he got three women. Gary of course is as constant as the northern star.

24 years is kind of an anticlimactic anniversary. I played Gary's bass, and I was astonished I could keep up with the slower songs on Guitar Pro. "Amsterdam" - ridiculous. A-A-A-A, A-A-A-A, for five bars. Ridiculous. Gary shows no interest in his bass, I am sad to say.

One thing we did a lot of today was promise to plan a great 25th anniversary vacation. If you had a week to spend celebrating your 25th anniversary, with no kids, where would you go? We like wild animals, scenery, air conditioning, and we do not like heat and/or humidity, or extreme cold, or crime, or people speaking at us in foreign languages. Not big fans of the beach, but we like history. Where would you go? Give me some ideas.

24th Anniversary Eve

It's been a long day, one of those days when you look in the backseat and say, "What's that strange bag of clothes? Oh, right, I forgot - I bought those clothes six hours ago." It calls for a list.

Noon. Woke up. Okay, well, then it wasn't a long day, but eventful.

2:00.The waitress at Bob Evans remembered Gary's face but not mine. Then Gary ordered the "Golden Harvest Omelet," which doesn't exist, and the waitress suddenly remembered me. "It's the Garden Harvest Omelet, sir. You did the same thing last time. Remember, ma'am, you and I made fun of him?"

3:00.Bought the clothes. White capris and an orange shirt. Uneventful, only I already mentioned the clothes and I had to explain them. I had a nice chat with a woman in line who had been on the Breast Cancer walk earlier that day. While I was sleeping.

4:00. The music store had an anniversary sale. And here it is, almost our anniversary. We picked up a bass and a bass amp for Gary. It isn't mine, but I've played it at least. Gary's using the Think method in which he is photographed with the bass, and holds it, and straps it on, but doesn't play it until he does some more research on the Internet. (You may wonder if the bass has a name. We decided to name it after the bass player in "That Thing You Do.")

4:00. We visited Gary's parents. The Mailbox has arrived! And Gary's mom only had to wait six months for it.

7:00. We went by Mom's house, where a squatter has taken up residence in the driveway. We've saw her car last time we were there, and she says she visits the lady next door. She also picks the flowers and gives them to the lady next door, which is fine with me. She ALSO asked when we were going to sell the house, which is no time soon. When we came out of Mom's house again five minutes later she was gone.

8:00. I was in favor of eating at Harvest, a place in the city where they use wind power and donate the used oil to the bio-diesel club. Gary was in favor of eating some place closer to home where we've eaten dozens of times before. Still, on the way to Gary's place we passed by a building we'd never seen before, the Saint Charles Boat House and Nature Center (and Public Bathroom). It was closed, but we peeked in and saw some Lewis and Clark replica boats.

Oh, and then I saw a Nature Center hawk fly through the air with the two back legs of ... a very relaxed rabbit trapezed in its talons. A Nature Center toad jumped into the middle of a crowded pathway, and we all banded together to steer him back into the grass. It was a nice group meets nature moment, like the time we were at the VP Fair under the arch, lying on the grass with a million other people looking up waiting for the air show. Three birds flew dead center through the arch legs in perfect formation. Again, nature pulled the crowd together. We all applauded.

10:00.When we got home, Gary went to the basement to play drums and I played his new bass. And people, why have you devious weasels not told me, "Oh, Ellen, the bass is 30 percent easier to play than the guitar!" Because it is. IT IS AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME. 1/3rd fewer strings. Big soft fat strings. It was ridiculous.

Gary came up from the basement and reported that the spiders down there have mutated again. Two years ago a little tiny white spider made a web by the light bulb and caught the crickets. The crickets in the basement had annoyed Gary, so he let the tiny white spider live. Now the floor beams above our heads in the basement are festooned with a looping canopy of spiderwebs solid from wall to wall. They are filled with spiders who are no longer white, but transparent from evolution. Now Gary says the spiders have developed extra long legs. He bent over to get a fallen drum stick and saw a herd of spiders galloping away from him. (The light must have hit them just right so he could see the transparent spiders.)

I know, this is not a busy Saturday for the rest of you, it is for me. I'm all prepared for the events of tomorrow, the 24th anniversay, when we do the ritual Anniversary Television Watching and the special Anniversary Internet Research.

Well Done, Albert Pujols

I like two types of French fries.

Type 1: Steak-n-Shake fries. I remember in high school, Stephanie Lassiter wrote an article comparing fries and said of these, "Bruce Springsteen eats these fries." I can say no more.

Type 2: Well-Done fries. Ever since I overheard a man in Memphis order his fries "well-done" I've tried to get a waitress in Saint Louis to bring me well-done fries. Not burnt; just a few more seconds, just a few more calories.

I always ask for well-done fries. Here is what happens: If I am with a group, and everyone else orders normal fries, I will be served normal fries, and I understand why. If I am with only one other person we will both get well-done fries, much to her chagrin, because that person is always Friend #3, Marcia.

Once I ordered a burger and fries at Pasta House, because you know Pasta House got its name from their fabulous burgers and fries. Of course, they were awful. Worse, they were skin-on country fries. Well-done, they were rawhide treats dipped in ketchup. I remember sitting through the entire meal with Marcia steadily glaring hatred at me as she gnawed on the withered leather fries.

Today I ditched Marcia for Marlo, and tried the fries at Pujols' Bar and Grill and Snooty Restaurant depending on when you go there, and check this out!

Ebony
and Ivory
Live together in per-fect
Har-mo-ny.

Her fries were normal, mine were well-done! It's a miracle straight from Albert Pujols' ass! (The whole "Poo-holes" thing just kills me. I'm sorry Albert. Don't come after me.)

Actually, the person to thank is Bridget, our waitress, and the chef who bothered to leave my fries in a little longer. And Albert. And Stevie Wonder. And Marlo. And Marcia, for being in a meeting at lunchtime.

UPDATED: ThunderDog

Here's what a tornado warning looks like here:

 

Yes. The Tongue of TERROR! The dog curls his tongue, pants, shakes, burrows, paces and roams in thunderstorms. Oh, and he climbs on our heads and we wear him like a hat.

We recently saw a claim that one may wrap ones dog in a large Ace bandage and it will somehow provide comfort.

 

Someone on the Internet swore by this and said a small t-shirt worked as well.

So, that's why when we saw the tongue of terror, we battened the hatches and dressed the dog in a sweater.

 

This is the dog version of the scene in the Producers when Gene Wilder gets hysterical. "I'm hysterical! I'm hysterical!" (Zero Mostel throws water in his face.) "I'm wet! I'm hysterical and I'm wet!" 

Mac says, "I'm hysterical and I'm in a sweater!" (Cameo by Spunky Labia (International Toe Porn Superstar.))

Then we started to notice Mac wasn't pacing or climbing or burrowing. He was shaking half as much as we'd expected with a tornado warning, and at one point he got under a table and napped a little. NAPPED. Not a complete cure-all, but a definite improvement.

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

UPDATE: This is all complete crap. It rained again last night and the dog was worse than ever before.

The Weekend: Saturday

Saturday we went to see Carbon Leaf at Blueberry Hill. Blueberry Hill is famous for two things: the bathrooms , and the Duck Room, the concert "venue." (Gary was telling his parents later about the Duck Room -  the basement of Blueberry Hill - and found his parents had been there back in the '70s. Sort of like when I explained to Mom why I'd named my stuffed rabbit "Tux Bunneke" and she crisply informed me she was quite familiar with Tex Beneke, thank you, and why wasn't my room clean?) 

While we were standing in line the bass player for the opening band squeezed past us. He's the one on the right.

 

He scooched past and I thought, "Ooooh, he's with the band."  I didn't know which band, but he was clearly with a band. He just had that glow. Maybe all the sweat opens the pores, I don't know.

Now, look at the young man next to the bass player. Straight nose, curvy lips, glasses?

I say we breed them. (That is, breed the Alternate Routes guy with Steven Page on the right. Because if I were to breed Alternate Routes guy with the Alternate Routes bass player, you know their babies would be sickly.)

The first thing I noticed was that Beatle Bob was there. He's been at one other concert I've been at - I think it was the Cheap Trick concert, perhaps. I felt a little sorry for the bands. Here they walk out on stage into Chuck Berry's basement and then there's a manic giant playing air drums right next to them. 

Here's high praise for both bands: I stood for five hours on an uneven basement floor to hear them. I did hear the music, though the crowd and the music was so loud I couldn't make out most of the lyrics to the first few verses of Coral Sand. I heard enough to know I like the song.

And speaking of lyrics, I hunted through Friend 0.75's Coldplay CD looking for the lyrics. I couldn't find an image of the lyrics, so here is an artist's representation:

 

Anyway, both bands were excellent, the air conditioning kept the basement at a comfortable 90 degrees, during a recent argument about the hardest substance on earth Gary nominated the Duck Room floor, and I didn't wake up until 4:30 the next afternoon.

Carbon Leaf album

Alternate Routes album

Words of Wisdom

Wilma was on the phone with Gary, discussing web privacy. I don't know how they got onto this topic, but Wilma was horrified to hear that anyone can read your web email, for example.

Gary," she said, "I know Ellen's on the 'web' all the time. You better tell her not to write anything personal out there."

Yep, Gary laughed too.

The Weekend: Friday

Friday was a Girl's Night Out, not with the usual crew, but a fresh batch.

Most of what went on I can't discuss, but I can say if you want a good Girl's Night Out be sure to schedule it for the day after a TV star dies of auto-erotic asphyxiation. Really. That is key.

I'd heard of the practice before in high school, when the coroner came and gave a slide-show. Sure. Your high school did this, right? Forensic crime scene and autopsy photos? Wasn't anyone else in Mr Steven's American Studies class at McCluer North? That slide of the baby autopsy woke me right up so I was alert for the photo of the dead teenage boy in women's lingerie hanging from a closet rod.

(Someone didn't screen the coroner's slide-show. Or perhaps this was common. My father insisted his Normandy High School gym teacher made all the boys swim naked. He was surprised to hear that was atypical.)

Anyway, I knew a little about the practice, but the details given by the media (no doubt all wrong) had the actor hanging by a cord around his neck that was also attached to his penis. "I get the oxygen deprivation," I said, "But why put a cord around your penis? The penis can't breathe. Can it?" One woman volunteered that when one starts suffocating one might lose one's erection, and that's what the second cord is for.

That was a good mechanical explanation, and I went with that.

Well! That was Friday! Now the Internet has enlightened me about this topic, thanks to this Completely NOT Work or Panera Bread Appropriate article. It's an excellent article, and not just because the author can differentiate between "hung" and "hanged."  I still don't quite know what function the genital cord plays, but i get the idea it's so one's penis doesn't get to swing about free if the rest is all constrained. Oh, and though his hands were tied behind his back, he could have done that alone. We were unfairly blaming an unknown Thai prostitute.

It's a long article, but let me summarize: It sounds fun, but you might well die. The article really is illuminating, if you've ever been curious. My high-school coroner slide-show killed any curiousity for me.

It is ninety degrees in the basement we call the duck room

Which ones the cute one?

Carbon Leaf demographic -grey hair?

Subtitle : this book is dedicated to Ellen S

In Which my Good Name is Besmirched

When Becs has told me that Panera Bread (St. Louis Bread Company to the locals) thinks my blog is porn and won't allow access, I've assumed she's just gotten a message like the one I get at work: "Access to this website is restricted."

When I got a twitter from Hot Mom and friend again mentioning, specifically, "porn," I went and did a little more research.

(I didn't go to to Panera to research it, because Panera comes to me. Gary often drops by on the way home. For example, last night he brought a delicious grilled turkey sandwich and a chocolate duet cookie, the best chocolate cookie I've ever had. Mmmm. Go buy one now. Panera is heaven!)

My research led me to Mediagirl.org, then on to the specific filter Panera uses. You can go there and see how Panera rates your blog.

Me first me first! And yes my blog is currently rated as: Category 4: Pornography

I thought it might be all Typepad blogs, but SoThatHappened is Category 15: Business and Economy and 31: Web Communications

"Oh, it's the toe porn," I thought, and checked out toe porn wanna-be Jammies. Nope, hers is the very neutral Category 31: Web Communications. 　

How about someone pure, and who better but Autumn? Her Xanga is Category 31: Web Communications, Category 13: Chat/IM, and - score! Category 6, Adult/Mature Content. Not flat-out porn, but still nothing to be ashamed of.

Everyone else is is pretty much unrated or Category 31: Web Communications.

Happily, there is a way to protest. I explained to the filter service that there is a difference between porn and satirical porn, and that the "Must be 18 to Enter" category discussed labial cysts and vaginal prolapse. I asked to be reclassified as Adult/Mature Content, because it is a family place and I wouldn't want to put a mom off her delicious Broccoli-Cheese Soup. (That's my favorite. Go get some now!) 

I delayed posting this until I got feedback, and here it is:

"You submitted the following rating request to SonicWALL CFS Support:
Rate mocklog.typepad.com as "6.Adult/Mature Content" at 2009-06-04 20:25:00.273

The request has been reviewed and rated as:
"31.Web Communications" at 2009-06-05 08:35:31.363

You should see this rating change reflected within 1 to 3 business days."

So, essentially they said, "You call that adult?"

Four Eye-kus

When I was a child
I cried as a child, but now
My sockets have dried

Now when I do cry
I've gotten out of practice
The salt hurts my eyes

Even the next day
My eyes have gone all rusty
I'm too old for this shit.

(I know that last word
And related syllable:
Unnecessary.)

(*bows*)

But Really I Love Zayrina!

You may have gotten here from this post on that mean woman Zayrina's blog:

Dec. 23rd, 2008 I announce that I am quitting old blog called "Eat well, stay fit, die anyway" and starting new one. I leave final post with email where I can be contacted to locate the new blog. Queen does not email but finds new blog anyway. Yay Queen. On June 2nd I receive an email from the queen asking to please please provide new blog information. I figure she is not paying attention. I mock her in an email then on not so new blog.

Poor dear.

Okay, here's what really happened.

I went to Google Reader and updated to see any new posts.

As per usual, GR showed as new every post from Mrs. Hall for the last two months, as it is wont to do. Google Reader has a big boy crush on Mrs. Hall.

Then I scrolled down below all the Mrs Hall posts to find if anything else was new, and in a brief post Zayrina said she was changing blogs, and gave her email. Then I thought,"Why would she change her link AGAIN? I guess Zayrina must have let someone at work find out her blog address and she wanted a place to rant about work."

Then I thought, you know, she rarely comments on my blog now, and, not that I've noticed, but my blog isn't on her blogroll - maybe she wants to get away from me. No, I thought, it's not all about me. As if not to waste a moment, I shot off a poorly typed email, reading simply ,"Please please" so I'd stop overthinking it.

Zayrina replies through email that she changed blogs months ago, and then Zayrina, a nurse, blames my "ocular neuritis." (It's optic neuritis! Everybody point and laugh!) Then she goes on to post the post above.

All I know is Google Reader (all black and white all arial all the time) said Eat Well Stay Fit was moving.

Old Blog Color Scheme : Black and White in Google Reader
New Blog Color Scheme : Black and White in Google Reader

Old Blog Link : Who the Hell knows, it's Google Reader.  It's Blog Speed Dial
New Blog Link : Who the Hell knows, it's Google Reader.  It's Blog Speed Dial

All I saw was the photo of Z was the same and I guessed I was in the right place.

Hmph. I bet I was on the old blog blogroll.

Door to Door

Today, during a business discussion of door-to-door canvassing, I admitted if I'm alone in the house, I follow my latch-key kid instincts and I open the door to no one.

Man with a hurt kitty? Bye, bye dead kitty. 

Ed McMahon with a big check? Call me, Ed, we can set up an appointment.

If Gary's home he invites the strangers in and by the time I get to the living room they're all sharing a Dr. Pepper in the foyer.

A man joined our discussion and asked if I had grown up in a dangerous city or a bad neighborhood. No, I'd just known of two cautionary tales about strangers and didn't want to be the third.

Wilma tells a story of when she was at home alone and a Bible salesman came to her front door. Somehow he finagled his way into her kitchen, pushed her up against the fridge and had the nosey neighbor not been spying on her, worse would have happened. When the neighbor let herself into Wilma's kitchen the "Bible salesman" fled.

But, you say, she let him into the house. That's where it all went wrong. No one opens the door and then lets the stranger in. As if the threshold of the front door was an invisible barrier like the kind that comes with teh Roomba.

I counter with the other cautionary tale: sometimes the strangers have business in the house. Another relative was in town purchasing a house for her and her husband and family. The realtor showing her the house raped her. She didn't report him any more than Wilma reported the "Bible salesman." You might say, "Well, I can see why Wilma didn't report the 'Bible salesman;' he knew where she lived." As it turns out, my relative bought the house the realtor had showed her. Weird? No, she didn't remember the incident. 

Not even after her belly started to grow. "Are you pregnant?" family would ask. "Why no," she said, "I haven't had relations with my husband for two years. Must be a tumor."  

So possibly:
1) She had traumatic amnesia
2) She was in deep denial
3) She thought you could only get pregnant by your husband

I'm quite literal myself, and if my mother had explained, "Babies come when a husband and wife love each other very much and have marital relations," I would probably assume you needed a husband AND love to grow a baby.

I can't imagine 4) She happily consented - because 9 months later the tumor had grown to such a degree that she had to take to the bathtub and have a baby in the middle of the night, and she was quite surprised. She had had three children already, and (according to reports) was outraged when the tumor began to push out of her.

The next day was a busy day in that household, with my Granceil and every relative showing up to welcome Baby Tumor and to get the details of exactly how this had happened. Baby Tumor was raised by that family and was remarkable in that he could drag the claw-foot table he was tethered to across a dining room and would have made it into the kitchen had the doorway been wider.

So hey. You can talk to me through the sidelight window, door to door solicitors.