Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Pillow Fight

My asthmatic family uses fiber-fill. Gary's Irish / German family uses feathers. Pillows are a big issue here.

I lost the pillow fight before I ever started: when we married I was  younger than Gary's pillow.  He didn't sleep on it though, he just kept it around like all his retired pillows. Maybe someday technology will restore life from the DNA of decayed chicken feathers. His pillows never go to pasture, he just stacks up more pillows, all worn thin as padded manila envelopes, all filled with chicken dust.

I'd quietly sleep on the feather pillows, and then once when one wore out, I bought a new one. "Nooooo! Noooo! Too puffy! Too puffy!"

Now I've grown into my own and I've feathered the guest nest with my type of pillows. And every time Gary tries to get into the little twin bed he screams about how he's being smothered by pillows, and why can't you beat these pillows down till they're smaller, and the pillows are trying to kill him.

My pillows: on right. Gary's nasty pillow that you could wad up into one C cup, on the left. If you punched that pillow powdered down would come out.

International House of Suspect Social Networking

Look at this Ligit Search.  

MS, number ONE? ("We're Number One!" the lesions sing. "MS rules! Neurons drool!")

Steven Page number two, which, okay, he's been working hard, but, but, higher ranking than Spunky?

How can Spunky's followers turn on her? 

I can only imagine it's Spunky's association with the extended Labia family. Sure, Spunky L. is an international Toe Porn Superstar, but is still embarrassed by the Holey of Holies, by the Weeping Labia.

So, let's look in Ligit at the recent readers. Someone in Sydney, New South Wales, AU
searched for "iron lung bondage video." That's not right. Iron lungs were long gone by the time we had videos. That's an anachronism.

Finally, Twitter. One joseflorsf began following me on twitter, which was only odd because I don't speak Portuguese, and Jose does. With the help of Babelfish I found that Jose doesn't say too much other than, "Goodnight" and "Happy Sunday." My mystery Twitter followers usually say "sup fellas, im single again. hit me up."

Then I looked at who Jose was following and it was all women. Look, I'm fifth from the right. Then I saw AThousandDreams in the next row. Evidently Jose is a portuguese BNL fan.

Troopid

An "Out of Area"  telemarketer convinced me to pick up just by his persistence.

"Hello, I'm with the Missouri State troopers.Ma'am, perhaps you've heard of our "Slow Down, Move Over" campaign."

"No." I haven't, I thought, Are there billboards? I skip commercials. "What's involved in the campaign? Commercials? Billboards?"

"Uh!" Nervous laugh. "I'm getting to that, just ... hold on. The campaign," he read aloud, "is designed to support the troopers who are killed every year by drivers who don't slow down and move over when they see an emergency vehicle. We've got a campaign to support the troopers."

"So, what's involved in the campaign?" I asked, still trying to picture a ghoulish driving billboard.

"We want to get more troopers on the road, and have a death benefit to the families of those who have died."

"But none of those things are preventative." (You know, not like a police car wreck commercial.)

"Uh - but doesn't it make sense to have more troopers on the road?"

Well, no, not if they're  dying.  I almost said that, but then he slapped me with:

"Everyone wants more troopers! That's just common sense."

Evidently I was veering from the script. I gave him an out. I volunteered, "Maybe if there are more troopers each will have to drive a shorter distance and be in less danger."

He was so excited. "Yes! That's just it! Will you make a pledge?"

"What is the very lowest amount I can pledge?"

He extracted from me a promise I would pay the invoice they were going to send in a prompt manner, and I made him promise they would never call again, because if they operate like the Democratic Party I'd get a weekly extortion call.

"We won't call again till this time next year."

So. People, if you don't slow the HELL down and MOVE OVER when you see a trooper on the highway I will come out to your house and get my twenty-five dollars back.

Diogenes' Overhead Lighting

You have all been so nice to give me your opinions on Vegas. The guilt is overwhelming. I cannot take it anymore.

A few months ago, a few weeks before the Blogher conference, I got an email from someone at a lighting store. "I’ve been through your site, and I am interested in donating a product for review or to use in a giveaway on mocklog.typepad.com."

"AHAHAHAHAHAHA" I said. Then I lay down sick from laughing and tried to think of what I might have said to want someone to associate this site with lamps. Then I tried to picture what type of lamp would embody this blog. A neon "TMI" lamp?  A fragile "Major Award?" One of those doctor / miner headband lights for investigating Great Cooter Cave?

I checked it out. Lots of ceiling lighting. Nice enough. But just about as random as could be. I was baffled. And of course, if I accepted the lamp I could never be seen as a blogger with Integrity. Every post you would be wondering, "Is she just saying that because she's whoring herself out to the lighting industry?"

So I wrote the nice man back and said I couldn't accept his offer, because I didn't think it would fit in with the "dirty little secret tone" of my blog. (I really did say that. I figured it would rope in another reader, anyway. If so, hi Jonathon!) It isn't as if I have hundreds of readers. Maybe one hundred. (Waves at all one hundred readers individually, just to be fair.)

I immediately felt guilty for depriving y'all of a free lamp. Still I was proud I didn't sully my typing fingers with the filth of commerce.

Now of course there is a post-Blogher move toward full disclosure when you are offered a chance to review something. I want my readers to rest assured the CSN lighting company (www.csnlighting.com) is not influencing me in any way. And CSN, I don't want you to think your offer gets you off the hook. I have INTEGRITY. I reserve the right to mock you, your parent company, or any of your subsidiaries.

Flagstaff, Barstow, San Bernadino

I am not hip. Never been to Vegas. Never been to Italy. Never been to Glasgow. Never been to so many places Barenaked Ladies have played. But this October BNL will be 40 miles outside of Vegas. So, since Gary has decided we can safely take weekend trips, we're taking a three day weekend to see the new streamlined BNL. Essentially, we're using the band as an excuse to go to Vegas.

Like I said, never been to LasV. Get no thrill from gambling. Get neural overload from casinos. But I like me a nice hotel. Bellagio is booked up - at least that's what the travel agent said. (It seems to have rooms now. Huh.) But we are tucked cozily at the Venetian. Bellagio versus Venetian? Opinions? The travel agent seemed to have some opinions. Blue Man Group? Wrinkled her nose. Barry Manilow? Eyes lit up.

SO, I need practical advice, like, "Don't take the monorail if you want to be anywhere on time," and "Gary does not need to wear a suit to dinner, even at a nice place," and "Make sure you buy tickets for Blue Man Group a month in advance."  Will we really die if the rental car breaks down in the desert? Can you drive to the Grand Canyon in a day? Is Madame Tussauds Vegas comparable to Madame Tussauds London?

Around Vegas: So far we are renting a car for one day. Gary wants to drive to Hoover Dam. I booked a helicopter ride so we can see the Strip, Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon from the air. I think he still wants to drive.

Shows: We are set up to go see Love. A friend mentioned "Zumanity" was a pleasant experience. What else is out there? Are the classics still out there, like Wayne Newton and the magic act with the White Tigers? Are they worthwhile or there for nostalgia?

I see this as a test trip to Vegas. Scoping it out like we've done to Chicago. First visit to Chicago: Hilton and taxis. Second visit: Travel Lodge and El. Next time it'll be the Mini and the Super 8 motel as we start to feel more at home.

"What happens in Vegas gets posted on the blog."

Tonight in TV

I was watching Ghostbusters tonight with Gary, and I was bored, because I've seen Ghostbusters.

Gary, on the other hand, can watch a movie one day and watch it again the next. He says he's so forgetful, every viewing it's like a new movie. That wasn't his excuse for watching True Blood Sunday evening, then watching it again right before I went to bed.

I said, "You just saw this two hours ago!"

"High-def. It's like a whole new show."

I can't see that much distinction between normal and high-definition, but I was content to watch Ghostbusters just to see my two favorite lines:

=================
Dr Ray Stantz: Everything was fine with our system until the power grid was shut off by dickless here.
Walter Peck: They caused an explosion!
Mayor: Is this true?
Dr. Peter Venkman: Yes it's true. This man has no dick.
==============
Dana Barrett: I want you inside me.
Dr. Peter Venkman: It sounds like you've got at least two or three people in there already.
==============

BOTH lines were so edited to be unrecognizable. So what else could I do but withdraw my elbows and leave for my stripey blue nest, where the pillows take up a third of the bed? Unfortunately, I decided to watch two of my tiVoed documentaries.

Hitler's Hidden Holocaust   I am so thankful Gary's family left Germany during WWI. The "Hidden" part happened pre-concentration camp, when the Nazis shot all the Jews in the Ukraine. There was an especially hideous recounting from a child's perspective.

So, with "Never forget" ringing in my ears, I started up:

White Light, Black Rain  In which we are reminded Americans are as capable as Nazis of killing large numbers of people. WLBR is about Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Unlike HHH, it is decidedly not in black and white. White Light Black Rain is illustrated with crayon drawings children did of the bombings. It was awful, but the thing that mad my jaw drop was the "This Is Your Life" episode honoring the young Japanese women disfigured by the fire and radiation. The co-pilot of the Enola Gay came on and apologized to them. Of course, after 1.5 hours I was ready to personally write everyone in Japan and apologize, so his apology seemed pretty lame.

It was a dark night of tv viewing. On the upside, while researching the two Ghostbusters lines above, I read this on IMDB: "Factual errors:The Hittites, an actual civilization, had quite a sophisticated religious mythology and have been unfairly dragged into association with the Evil Gozer."

OH and NOW Teddy Kennedy's dead. Fuck it. Going to bed.

My New Scheme

I have a new scheme, a money-making scheme.

I think everyone is aware of how Fung Shui "works" - it focuses the user what he or she wants. Every time you see the fish in your Financial Success Bagua, you think "Why is there a fish tank my kitchen - oh, it's for good luck with money." And so you focus on money. At least, when you are in the kitchen. And probably when you're hungry.

I just watched the Bullshit aromatherapy episode and imagined people saying, "What is that smell - oh, that's right, citrus, that's supposed to make me more alert. Gotta wake up!" or be relaxed, or make money I assume.

So, fung shui and aromatherapy take care of sight and smell as money-making avenues to remind people what they want to focus on. So ... taste, touch and hearing. Taste is so transient, I don't know if it would be effective as a bogus life influence. I'm skipping taste. Feel free to make your own taste scheme to con the masses.

Touch - well, I suppose a masseuse could produce a variety of deep massages, and advertise, "come get my specialized Family Bonding massage." That massage would be no different from the Financial Independence  or Revitalized Sex Drive massage; when you feel the aching muscles you'd be reminded that you hurt because of your devotion to family or money or sex, and you'd pay special attention to your family or money or sex.

Hearing would be easy. Have you seen Denny's Rockstar "menu?" Denny's has renamed menu items after Rascal Flatts, Gym Class Heroes, Good Charlotte and Sum 41. (Some bands I know lend their name to ice cream.) So it wouldn't be too hard to convince a band to put out a collection of CDs, one for each focus. "Songs to Make Money By." You pop it in your car CD player, listen to it on the way to work, and then later you think, "Why is The Girl From Ipanema stuck in my head? Huh," (then, subconsciously) "Fifty dollars for a PILLOW! Never!" Rascal Flatts Brings You Songs to Center Your Chi By.

Beds eye view

After

During

Before

Étouffée, Brutus?

Steve from work mentioned a great restaurant. He said there was a nice atmosphere, good food, live music. I tried to remember the name of it today when Gary and I headed out for lunch.

"Harvest?" I was waiting for Gary. "No, something with a G. It's on Olive. It's two words. Greek Harvest? Good Harvest? Golden Harvest! That's it. That sounds right." I got out my iPhone. "Oh, and there's a Golden Harvest. Hey! It's a food bank." And such is the nature of Steve that I promptly suspected a prank and had a good laugh at his joke at my expense.

Except then I used Urban Spoon and realized it was Gulf Shores, not Golden Harvest. And we went. And it was really good, especially on New Orleans seafood Thursday. Live music with men harmonizing while you eat lobster and chocolate pecan pie for lunch good.

Just one flaw. One tiny little complaint. Since it was a seafood place, they showed some lovely video of undersea beauty. Beautiful seals swimming. Lovely clownfish swimming. CORAL GIVING BIRTH.

I can't show you the video. The video is too graphic. Imagine if you will:

Green private parts. Every few seconds they would flex and you'd see they were a collection of graspy vaginas. Then they'd flex and each would poop out a little wad of coral.

 See the one on the lower right? It is CROWNING.

Other than the unappetizing video, it was a very appetizing find.
 

2:30-3:30 This Afternoon

My neuropsychiatrist appointment was at 2:00 today. Usually I listen to Get in Line on the way there; this time I forgot. This is what we call foreshadowing.

Saint Johns MERCY! Medical Center is undergoing renovations, so I had to come in the back way. And so, it was a hunt to find my usual parking garage, the Ballas garage (with a star, below):

And I thought, wow, there's a lot of renovation going on. I've never taken an overhead walkway to get to the doctor. They must have just built this. Of course, and I will say this upfront because you have already figured it out; there isn't a lot of architectural variety in parking garages and of course I was in the wrong one. I was in the one with the overhead walkway. See it below? Sure. It seems obvious now. You, all smug with your bird's eye view.

After the appointment, the Ballas (wrong) garage was easy to find. It was 2:30. And I only wandered in the 90 DEGREE HEAT in my SUIT in the WRONG GARAGE for half an hour, looking outside the garage for a walkway and inside the garage for my car:

I intended to post this on Twitter with the blurb: "Do you see my car? Nope. Neither DO I." But I was distracted because my brain was cooking. I connected my last two functioning neurons and went back to try to retrace my way to the mythical overheard walkway. "I swear I went in and I was on the second floor," I thought desparately. "Surely I can tell someone at the Information booth and they can tell me how to find it."

So I went back to the doctors building and with my 100 degree brain, went to the information booth, which was unmanned, and then I decided to retrace my steps from my doctor's office door because the Phantom Walkway was right below it, I swear.

So of course I got lost in Saint John's trying to find my way to the doctor's office where I had been half an hour before.

By the time I wandered from three floors below my doctors office (yards away from the hidden walkway) to where I thought my doctors office was, I had lost another half hour staggering throgh the hospital.

Because Saint John's uses this as a navigation aid:

They have areas: green, blue, purple, copper, yellow, and rose (I suppose to avoid red and its blood implications). There is about one of these signs every area and nothing in the green area is green. Nothing in the blue area is blue.

Still, I did not go straight ahead to find the rose area (where, obviously, nothing is rose except the swoop on the sign), instead I found the main entrance and Main Information.

"You look a wreck!" the information lady volunteered immediately.

"I am lost. My car is lost." I speak in one syllable words. I try to explain the overhead walkway. "It's new. You built it. I was there. My car is there."

Finally, the nice man in the security van was summoned.

"Walkway?" he said, "There might be a walkway somewhere." He is now familar with the walkway because I pointed and screamed "WALKWAY!" when I saw it on our journey to the Ballas (wrong) garage.

Even though I was only lost outside for half an hour, the heat took a toll on my brain. I went back and tried to work, and Marcia can tell you I was not functioning at peak capacity. (I confused the Articulate xml file with the player.html file! There! Six of you know how cooked I was.)

My limited brain capacity slowed down the Marciellen team, so we were still working at ten. I was brain damaged and hot and punchy and hungry then. Finally Marcia and I stopped working and went to Denny's. I remember talking baby talk to the menu and our food (and, earlier, the Articulate player file). I had a burger with an egg and hash browns and cheese ON the burger. Like, breakfast literally ON TOP OF dinner. Anyway I hope the protein helps rebuild my brain.

Anheuser-Busch*

MS can tweak your senses. Some people have visual hallucinations, some people have hyperacusis, and if you asked me today I'd say I have hypomanic smelling.

I smelled stuff all DAY. There was a wheaty smell all through the office, for example. I plunked down in Marcia's cube and thought "Ah, Marcia had tuna fish again for lunch. But wait - she had leftovers from the Chinese we got yesterday."

Then on the drive home I went round the corner on Hwy 94 and smelled my grandfather's garage. Old rubber tires. Not burning rubber, old dusty decayed rubber tires filled with stale water. Then, within ten minutes I walked into my house and, in my kitchen, smelled Granceil's basement - musty and damp.

Then I took off my pants and realized this vag cream doesn't smell like cereal. Unless your cereal is named "Old Rubber Toasty Tires (Now with more Mildewed Tuna Fish Crunch)"

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* At the first BNL concert I saw (in Saint Louis), they tried to tell a joke that went along the lines of:

Q: Anheuser-Busch?
A: Fine. And how's your penis?

Or, alternatively,

Q: Anheuser-Busch?
A: Better, but this cream doesn't smell like cereal.

Male Secret REVEALED

Last night, when Gary was talking, he let slip one of the great Male Secrets.

REVEALED: Why don't some men ever finish projects?

Gary said, "I don't really want to finish putting together the TV system. Right now it's all strung across the living room and your room and I can imagine how great it's going to sound. But if I finish it, then I'll have to deal with how it really sounds, and it won't be as good as my imagination."

How do I get him past this? Gushing, "OOoooo, I can't wait to hear how great your new system will sound!" won't do it. That would be great to get him started on the project, but no good for finishing up.

Maybe, "I bet your new system sounds like crap!" Then he'd have to finish the project to defend it. Of course, that's negative reinforcement.

I am at a loss. Perhaps something in between the two extremes. "Out of curiosity, I'm starting to wonder what the new system sounds like. Is it really going to be better than what we have now?"

Okay, I just tried that. Failure. Does anyone have an answer for this?

Coping Mechanisms

1. Diagnose yourself. I've decided now I have something called something vaguely like "Hydrogenating supprativa," only I look a lot better than the photos on Google Images. DON'T LOOK AT THE PHOTOS. I read the word "Inflammation" and that it gets worse around ones period, and there's even a stage 2.

2. Remember. Even if you do have vulvar cancer, it grows slowly.

3. Cook. Today I made chicken curry in coconut milk. It was awful. Yesterday for my birthday the in-laws gave me a Taste of Home Cookbook, since they couldn't find a fusion cookbook. I decided I'm Taste of Home at home and fusion when I'm out. Sadly, the in-laws did not give me even one mockable gift. All gifts were useful and in good taste.

4. Sleep. I wanted to devote the day to catching up with my tIVo, but I kept drowsing off in the middle of Hitler and the Occult.

5. Dream. I once again had a dream about Mom being alive. These Mom dreams are so confusing when I wake up, because she explains her death away in the dream. She starts off with something like, "When I was so sick last spring ..." suggesting that was a rough patch, but she recovered fully. Or this time, she made it through by going to Arkansas, but she still lost her voice.

The Monthly Visitation from Aunt Flo Who Stays Out On the Porch and No Longer Goes Inside

I took my crotch to the crotch doctor for the monthly swelling and bleeding of the alternating labia. When I apologized for bothering him with a matter obviously not life-or-death, he mentioned Cancer. (CANCER SHOUTOUT NUMBER ONE.) He peered at me and saw the problem. 

He drew a picture of my vulva and said, "You have a hole here, at the base of your left labia, and another here, on the other side." I got the impression I am not supposed to have these holes. I nodded. "So," he continued, "We have one option, which is to cut out the base of your labia - "

"And do a biopsy? Do it. Cut everything out."

"Well, we'd only do that if you had vaginal cancer." (CANCER SHOUTOUT THE SECOND.) "OOOoooooorrrr, you use this cream and see if it helps. It's an anti-fungal and anti-inflammatory."  Then I was directed to get dressed and wait for my prescription.

Early on I learned that many of my doctors use this time to mutter their notes into some recording device in the hallway, so I always get dressed and stand in the open doorway now. I heard him mumble:

"Swelling inflammation, [mumble] bleeding alternating labia minora," (Eeee! He's talking about me!) "Grade 2 tumor," (Oh, no, must be someone else) "Prescribed anti-inflammatory anti-fungal [mumble]." (Hey, wait, that's me again.) 

So, I got the Mycolog II cream, which reportedly smells like "cereal." ("I like Trix," Gary remarked.) Then I went home, found Gary, and what am I to do when the doctor tells me there are holes in my labia. What else does one do but get the digital camera and take a hi-res crotch shot and zoom in on the naughty bits?

Anything. Anything ELSE. DO ANYTHING ELSE.

Because the geography from afar may look healthy, but the close-up is terrifying. I think I saw 20% smooth pink, but the rest was a collection of bumpy twisted purple, dark purple, indigo, white and bruise-yellow. With, amazingly, the tiny wormholes the doctor had mentioned. I only saw one, but it looked precisely like someone had stuck me with the graphite end of a wooden pencil. Just until the lead was buried in the flesh.

"There are microbes living in there," Gary said. "You have a fungus eating those holes in your labia? No. I'm keeping away from it."

Gary the Ogre

Someone at work offered to let me borrow one of the "Sookie Stackhouse" novels for Gary, who has become a big True Blood fan.

I said, "Oh, no, he wouldn't want to borrow a book. He'd want his own."

"Well, I don't really mean 'borrow;' he could have it."

"Oh, no that would be even worse." Then I started to try to explain - he be stressed by the pressure of having someone else's book, and a used book would bother him because he'd be indebted to the book's real owner. And then I heard a) how obnoxious I sounded and b) how really obnoxious Gary sounded.

It's just I've know him since '82, and I know what bugs him, and I try to avoid bugging him. But now I am done explaining. I will no longer say these things:

"Thanks, but Gary likes to drive his own car in case he gets called back in to work."

"Sure, just let me check if Gary thinks that's okay."

"I'd like to come to your pool party, but Gary never feels comfortable around women he doesn't know in bikinis. He feels like he's invading their privacy somehow."

From now on, I'm just going to say "I don't let Gary out of the house."

The Sentient Labia

(Damn. That's what I should have called this blog.)

I've always known my hair can hear when I make a haircut appointment. My hairs unite and bid for a last minute reprieve. "We were just getting it together, man. Look at us, how full and shiny. You can't cut us now." I'll cut you, man.

I want someone to know my pubic hairs can hear me too. This morning they whispered to my inner labia, "She just called the gynecologist."

Inner labia: "She's on to us!"

Pubic hairs: "Yeah, she just told the nurse she was expecting her inner labia to swell and bleed this week, and that she her left inner labia is starting to swell, and that an appointment next Monday would be too late, it would all be over."

Inner labia: "Uh-oh. And I was all worked up and just starting to bleed on that side."

Pubic hairs: "Well, you better cheese it, man." (They talk this way. They're in the Muffia.)

Inner labia: "You are so gross."

Pubic hairs: "She thinks something's fishy." (Muffled sound of pubic hairs giggling.)

Inner labia: "Well, then it's time for a speed attack. We go straight to the bleeding."

Pubic hairs: "Get started, man, she's got an appointment for Friday."

Inner labia: "Shit!"

Anus: "What?"

This same thing happened last week with my intense shoulder pain. It was gone by the time I visited the doctor. Time to shave my armpits.

Memory.zip

... the 1974 Leonids were described as "startling" by Norman W. McLeod of Punta Gorda, Florida. He had Leonid rates of up to 40 per hour and about half of the 179 Leonids that he witnessed left trains, in some cases up to 3 minutes. Another report, from Virginia Beach cited the train left by a blue fireball that lasted for up to eight minutes!

-Someone on the internet

One of the most amazing things I have ever seen was a meteor shower the summer after sixth grade. The fact it was summer rules out the '74 Leonids, but perhaps it was the August Perseid shower. I was at a sleepover at Mary Tylka's house, and Mary's parents said we should all go outside and watch the meteors. I wasn't expecting  to see anything, and then for an hour there was a meteor ... every few seconds, if I remember it correctly, but my memory may have time-lapsed it to conserve space. The .zip file of my mind.

At any rate, what I remember was an astonishing number of meteors, not constant, but enough to make us realize at some point we'd seen enough to last a lifetime. Or perhaps we were bored. We were in sixth grade. Jaded about the stars. (But ohmygod, have you heard the Cheech and Chong album? No! My mom won't let me. Mary has it? Ohmygod!)

So, every year I look at the scheduled meteor showers and see nothing. I never try to get away from the city, because we were in Florissant at Mary's house under a street lamp when we saw the Big Show.

I had to remind Gary there was a meteor shower tonight, since I didn't want him to be alarmed if he was on his walk, worried that he'd detached his retina again.  Gotta be preemptive with these concerns.

Just like my annual belief every Kentucky Derby that I'll see a horse run like Secretariat again, I keep thinking I'll see another meteor shower. I will be outside at least half an hour again this year, trying to see meteors. I'll let you know tomorrow if I see any.

This sounds like a regrettable incident waiting to happen

Gary and Freddie refused to make out

Mr and Mrs Lucky Broadway Girl

Lookit! ErinG is in Saint Louis.

Gary's Pants Betray Him Once Again

Previously on Gary's Traitorous Pants:

This.

Synopsis. Gary's pants have been known to tighten up around the Blackberry in his pocket and redial his last number dialed. In the past, this has frightened his parents and busted him as he lies about me to his coworkers.

Gary has carefully locked his Blackberry as of late, and I haven't had any buttdials. Still, Friday I got a call from Gary.

"WHOOSH. whoosh. WHOOSH. whoosh. WHOOSH."

(Gary's pants have dialed me, I thought. He's walking somewhere.)

"GARY!" I screamed. "GARY YOUR PANTS HAVE CALLED ME!"

"whoosh. WHOOSH. whoosh."

"GAAAAAAARY! GAAAAAAARY! BLAAAAAAACKBERRY!"

I heard Gary laugh.

Someone else mumbled. I heard the beep of something being scanned. He's at the grocery.

"GAAAAARRRRRRY!"

Mumble.

Gary said, "Yeah, my wife made a pie."

"SON OF A BITCH! I CAN HEAR YOU! YOU'RE BUYING MORE BLACKBERRIES!"

Mumble.

"Yeah, she thought you had to buy ten."

"I. CAN. HEAR. YOOOOUUUUUUU!"

Mumble.

"Yeah, my grandmother would can fruit. It's back-breaking work."

I decided to wait until he was no longer distracted by the cashier.

Mumble.

"You too." WHOOSH. whoosh. WHOOSH. whoosh.

I stuck the phone inside my mouth. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

I heard the car door unlock.

"GARY PHONE GARY PHONE GARY PHONE GARY PHONE GARY PHONE GARY PHONE!"

Finally though my screaming I heard him laugh. Finally he got on the phone.

"Hey! It's you! I got in my car and heard this little tiny 'memmeeeme" sound. I checked the radio. It wasn't the radio, it wasn't my iPod. Then I realized it was a little voice of Ellen inside my pants!"

"I HAVE BEEN - I have been screaming for ten minutes. You told the cashier about the pie!"

He laughed, unashamed. "I was talking about the blackberries. And my Blackberry turned me in. You must have some type of agreement with my phone."

I think there is a reasonable scientific explanation. When Gary talks about me behind my back, his butt clenches invountarily, which tightens his pants, which dials his phone. Butt-busted by Blackberry! Blackberry blabs Blackberry Pie Betrayal!

And he had NO SHAME, that's what really gets me.

"The I Hate to Cook Book" Nostalgia

When I was in going through my recent ill-guided fusion cooking phase, I was at the grocery looking for shallots. "Wait," I thought, "Can't I just use green onions? That was in Mom's I Hate to Cook Book. Shallots are just a fancy name for green onions."

Well, no, scallions  are just a fancy name for green onions, and that helps explain why I had so little success with the fusion cooking, but it reminded me of how much I retained from Peg Bracken's I Hate to Cook Book.

I'm bringing it up in particular tonight because Meryl Streep just commented on Colbert that her Mom did not have Mastering the Art of French Cooking, but she did have The I Hate to Cook Book. My Mom had both cookbooks. I was always involved in Mom's French Cooking experiments because the books were too heavy for her to take out of the bookcase.

In fact, last weekend I used Volume 1 to investigate why my Beef Wellington sucked so much. (Beef Wellington is made with brioche, not frozen puff pastry. I'd made the Julia Child version once and it was indeed fabulous., I'd also used the same book to make French puff pastry from scratch the same weekend - I think I merged the two memories.)

After a little research I found these illustrations. This took me back.

 

I might have Mom's Mastering the Art of French Cooking, but I don't know where her I Hate to Cook Book went. (She purged a lot. "Less for the dumpster you'll park out front WHEN I DIE.") Thanks to Amazon one-click, I know have some one else's Mom's I Hate to Cook Book.

What My TiVo Says About Me

Apologetic Prologue: First off, I know yesterday's acquisition of a Hi-Def TV and TiVo sound like bragging. Right after I got my hours cut in half in the last recession a co-worker told me how wonderful his TiVo was and I wanted him to use it in the tub.

But I remind myself that during the Great Depression escapist screwball comedies about the carefree rich were popular. Once again, I have become Margaret Dumont.

So! Gary is celebrating my birthday month by raining down electronics on our house. He got the Hi-Def for the living room earlier this year, but it was attached to a low-def tiVo, plus I don't wear my eyeglasses at home sometimes. (Try it! It's like a druggie holiday for your eyes.) At any rate, for "my" birthday I bent to the inevitable and asked for a hi-def TiVo. So, this left a low-def TiVo, which Gary said could not be attached to the teeny tv in the guest / music / girly room. And by "could not be" he meant "I refuse to sully a TIvo with that clunky box."

This how I ended up with a giant tv plugged on the top shelf of the closet. Typical double-door closet, but no doors, housing a folded treadmill and now a giant TV. If you stand up you can only see the bottom half of the TV, but there's a perfect view if you lie down on the bed. I know because I spent the evening there. Because it's my birthday month.

So that's whats been going on in the house tonight: we've been in our separate rooms with our separate TVs setting up our separate tiVOs. For an hour all you could hear in our house was a circle round of be-BOOP! BE-boop. Be-BOOP!  BE-boop.

So, gone are Denise Richards(:It's Complicated) and The Sarah Connor Chronicles from "my" TIVo, previously the family tiVo. Gary bebooped all the elbow-friendly shows on to our new family tiVo, then he just kept booping. I don't know what's out there.

First I booped on every "Hollywood's 10 Most" ...  15 Most" ...  101 Most" show. Gary just shudders if those are cluttering the tivO. Then I hit the previously prohibited stand-up comedians, and then the documentaries. (And if you ever speak to Gary and he talks about my love of "Reality TV," that's what he calls documentaries. Reality TV. Seriously.)

So when I am not influenced by my husband, this is what I am a docu-sucker for.

Nazis Looking Stupid (Nazi UFOs, Hitler and the Occult)

Americans Looking Stupid, and Other Frauds (The 9/11 Impostor, Masterminds)

Ancient Mysteries Solved (Stonehenge Deciphered, Mysterious Hanging Coffins of China)

Feral Children (only one feral children show coming up! Come on!)

Disasters (Ultimate Earthquake, Mega Disasters, When Weather Makes History, Seconds from Disaster, Engineering Disasters)

... and oddly, cancer. That category is limited to tales of people surviving cancer, including my favorite: God Said, Ha. A MUST-SEE for anyone with cancer or anticipating cancer sometime in her life because life just sucks like that. ("I LOVE my shunt!" If you know what that means, you've seen it. Hilarious.)

Oh, and speaking of Mom (Mom didn't have cancer, but she would have loved her shunt too), I picked up one episode of "Little People, Big World," because when she was in the hospital toward the end of her stay she would say, "Four o'clock. Midgets." and I had to explain the hospital did not get the ... Little People ... channel. When she came back home I tried to say, "Mom! It's four! Midgets!" But she was no longer interested.

What I need is a documentary on a feral child who was a favorite of Hitler and died on the Hindenburg. Of cancer. With a shunt.

Macaroni Grill Free Association

Clockwise from soda:

Me with saggy boobs and giant hands draped over my swollen belly

A big saggy eyeball

A tag (I cheated and traced the salt shaker bottom, then I had to make something out of it.)

"I <3 my new TV " (We had just bought a new TV for "my" room.   I have drawn it in blue above, and labelled it "HDTV." It is drawn to scale, relative to my belly.)

Cake (barely discernable). Been listening to Cake's Comfort Eagle in the car.

Upside down: A unishark. I drew it upside down. That's actually the dorsal fin on its head. Gary felt it was a horn; that was his interpretation. I drew it in honor of Shark Week, which everyone else is gushing about. Why isn't there Puppy Week?

My Youth is Definitively Gone

Here is how I know my youth is gone.

[WARNING: Those of you who are young are going to be screaming in your head at me and Gary. YOUR youth isn't gone.]

[I'm looking into how to make this one of those Facebook quizzes. "ARE YOU OLD? CLICK HERE TO FIND OUT!"]

My car's been starting a little shaky this last week, and this evening when I left work it only clicked loudly. Happily, I had been working with Friend #3 at her condo, and I was in her parking lot.

"I don't have to bother Marcia," I thought, "I can take care of this by myself." And I got my little self-contained jump starter, and cracked the hood. At about this time two very nice neighbors of Marcia came out, and I convinced them I had it all under control ("You know how to work that? You know where the clips connect?"), and that if the jump starter didn't work I had my husband and Marcia to fall back on, but I'd find them if I needed anything after that.

Tried the jumper. No juice. Just clicking. Possibly because the jumper wasn't charged.

So, Plan B: I called the 1-880 number in the back of my mini. Not under warranty, but they'd be glad to call a tow company for me for $100.00

On to Plan C: I called Gary. He was glad to come out and bring his jump-starter (after all, it IS my birthday month), but he said it would take a while to get his pants on.

[I can hear you screaming the youthful plan in your head. Shhhhh.]

Plan D: While waiting for Gary I called Friend #3, Marcia, yards away in her condo. She came out and offered to drive me somewhere. I guess she could have jumped it? She has a Prius, and I didn't want my Mini to assimilate with her hybrid SpaceBorgwagon.

Gary eventually came over, the tow man was called, we went back into Marcia's condo, tow man came.

[Here we go. If you thought of this, you are young.]

TOW MAN POPPED THE CLUTCH.

[I KNOW! HOW OLD ARE WE?]

Gary and I saw him do it, and we both simultaneously groaned and slapped our heads.

(It sounded like this: "rollllllll...Vroommm! GroannnnSLAP!")

Never crossed my mind. In my youth, I could pop a clutch like a demon. I popped clutches all the time. Never in reverse, like this guy did, but I didn't even consider pushing it with my foot into a downward slant.

Tow man was nice. He only charged us for the service call, since he technically didn't even try to jump our car, then he suggested to Gary that we just drive the car to Sears and install a new battery on our own. HAHAHAHAhhahaa. We were so ashamed we just waved him off. "No no no. We are so senile we've forgotten about clutch-popping." Clutch-pooping, that's more like our lives now.

Anyway, I really want someone at work with a manual transmission to kill their battery so I can pop their clutch, in reverse, all-cool and young-like. I might start disabling cars in the parking lot, opening doors and leaving their lights on.

Guster Concert in Greater Detail

Well, really, Live on the Levee in greater detail.

We got to the levee and parked in the parking garage, then we went off exploring. Of course, the first thing we noticed was that we could have parked on the levee as we had in our youth. Why does no one park on the levee anymore?

We discovered barges on the Misssippi carry nuclear waste from one barge parking lot to another. You know (Gary knows) it's nuclear waste because it's covered.

 

That just screams radioactive.

Then as we wandered we spotted a house that had washed ashore. If anyone is looking for a house there's one washed up under the Poplar Street bridge. There's some activity going on down there. I'm thinking it's home for a lot of homeless.

Wandered back to hear a little of the opening band (we'd already missed friend Kevin's band, because they went 5:30-6:30), got some truly horrible food at a kiosk with a strong smell of horse (we looked around for the horse, and it only just occurred to me they might have been serving it out of a horse trailer).

Gary had steered us into the area in front of the stage, not the comfy area where could sit on the arch steps. It makes no sense that Gary is a bigger fan of Guster than Leonard Cohen while I, eight years younger, just got orchestra seats to LC at the Fox (thanks to either .75 or Carter, I don't know which code I used). I played LC while we drove downtown and Gary complained bitterly ("So what if the words are great? I can't even make out what he's saying, he's so raspy."). Then he argued that Frank Sinatra was in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame too and we never went to see him.Then I pushed him out the door and he's dead on the highway. Wait - no, you already know we were standing in the Mosh Pit.

The kids in the Pit were joking about moshing. They were huge Brian fans (the drummer who pees BLOOD because he drums with such commitment) and they had a sign that read "Let Brian Sing." (The RFT called out their sign in this article.)

I am ashamed to say this, and I should have been far more mature, and I will try never to behave so disrespectfully in public again, but I had to mimic the kid in front of us who was not only singing along but emoting along with the band. He was singing, he was selling it, and he was making eye contact and selling it to his friends. Clutching his heart and crooning to the girls he came with. On reflection I'm sure it was self-mockery, or AI-mockery. But at the time I had to turn to Gary and point to myself and to him with every  "I" and "You" in "Amsterdam."

And finally, someone told the band to go to the City Museum on their day off and Ryan evidently loved it. When I was there it wasn't finished, evidently, it had the plane (warning: that would be the plane visitors are found having sex in) and the slide but not the Ferris Wheel or anything on the roof. At any rate, he was delighted enough with it that he made up a little song that then turned into the rap at the beginning of this video.

Gary was just blissful during all of it. Very worthwhile.