Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

What if John Phillips Was Roman Polanski she asked sarcastically.

MacKenzie Phillips recently disclosed that thirty years ago her father, John Philips, drugged and raped her. She also shared that she made the best of the situation and interpreted the abuse as an expression of love. The sex started when she was legal (nineteen) and blacked out.  John Phillips had injected her with cocaine the first time at eleven.

Public reaction, at least my friends' reactions, is a resounding "Shut up! I don't want to wake up and hear this with my cereal!" (Friend #4).  

Another story in the public view is that of Roman Polanski and the thirteen year old HE drugged and raped. Again, sex with someone drugged, again, it happened long ago, again, the minor grew up and forgave the man she accused. Comparisons must be made, and they must be made as sarcastically as possible, because I'm still sick and I've been seeing CNN coverage of this crap all day.

It looks to me like John Phillips is getting a really lousy deal. Why isn't he getting the Roman Polanski treatment? I mean, it isn't like he's that guy who kidnapped the girl and kept her in the storage shed for eighteen years. He's an artist!

This is what we should be hearing on CNN:

Wolf Blitzer: Musicians around the world band together to sign a petition to exonerate John Phillips. Phillips has been accused of drugging and raping his daughter.

Lady Gaga (clip): John Phillips is a genius! Think of all the contributions He's made to the world of music. California Dreamin'! Monday Monday! Besides, let's remember the girl was eighteen. It was consensual. I mean, she took the drugs he gave her willingly.

R Kelley (clip): His work influenced musicians for generations. Besides, it happened thirty years ago, come on people, lighten up. The girl has even forgiven him. It's time to let the past stay in the past.

Wolf Blitzer: Prosecutors have consistently argued that it would be a miscarriage of justice to allow a man who "drugged and raped a [19]-year-old child" to go free.

Woody Allen (clip): People just don't understand - he's an artist. 

Wolf Blitzer: Critics ask, what the hell is Woody Allen thinking making any kind of public comment on having sex with your eighteen year old children?

Whitney Houston (clip): Helllllll, he was on drugs. Drugs, they mess you up! Besides, it happened thirty years ago, and that girl Mackenzie turned out  fine.

That is the one difference I can see: the girl in the Polanski case doesn't want attention. According to CNN she says "Every time this case is brought to the attention of the court, great focus is made of me, my family, my mother and others. That attention is not pleasant to experience and is not worth maintaining over some irrelevant legal nicety, the continuation of the case."

On the other hand, the Collected Friends speculated that since Valerie Bertinelli was recently on TV having lost all that weight, Mackenzie was feeling a little sibling rivalry.

This Is What I'm Saying

Today a strange woman walked up to the table where I was eating.

"Ellen?"

"Yes."

"Ellen S_______?"

"Yes," I smiled.

"It's Carol!"

"Yes?"

"Carol D_______."

Carol was MY MAID OF HONOR.

So, I'm sick. Plus, in my defense, Carol has lost 100 pounds and changed her body shape.

And the Award in Marketing Achievement Goes to ...

All right, it started out making sense. Gary and I loved to sing the Gar yoke, and the PC with the Garyoke crashed, and, for a while ... that was the day the music died.

I insisted we buy a karaoke program for the Wii, and we did, but Gary didn't like the music available on American Idol. We don't know Britney and Avril. And Gary didn't want to put in the effort to unlock Doris and Frank and Elvis.  He researched our alternatives.

This is why we are two of the millions who bought Beatles Rock Band. We never had the original Rock Band. We don't have (and never intend to have)any plastic guitars or drums. I've played Rock Band, badly, but I've also played American Idol for the Wii surprisingly well. (Here's the trick: don't sing the words, just sing La-ah-ahhhh-ah-ah. Get that? La-ah-ahhhh-ah-ah. Practice a little. And set Simon to "Pussy.")

So, we have no plastic guitar, no drums. No keyboard or bass, assuming they have those. We have a little plastic mic for the Wii. And of course, neither of us can sing because of the evil Adenovirus that has laid waste to our household. So somehow, the marketing geniuses out there convinced Gary to buy something that is utterly useless to us.

Adenoviruses

When the doctor said, "It's not the H1N1 virus, not the flu, but a virus of some kind," I assumed he meant I had a cold virus but that he knew I would cough in his face if he told me that.

I am greatly comforted to know that there are viruses similar to the cold virus that can KILL you.

I had to take off work Friday and skip the trivia night. I do not have time for this! I slept thirteen hours last night! I keep posting photos, you know I am sick.

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

At lunch Thursday with Steve from work at Gulf Shores, where I had catfish. Lovely meal; yet Friday night in bed I sat up and thought, "I ate that catfish with my fingers! What was I thinking?"

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

Friday morning I decided I wasn't going in. Later that morning Gary (who is on vacation), asked  if I'd called in. "They'll figure it out," I croaked, and then a few minutes later heard him telling my bosses' voice mail, "Ellen's too sick to come in, in fact she's too sick to come to the phone." Just a little extra added touch of drama.

Hey look - it's Rachel from the cruise

And her friend from CassChristy's clinical trial group!

Handsome gentleman who took Gary's seat

Free advertising

See here's the thing

I followed mom's advice and got separate bank accounts, so we would never argue about how to spend money. So, we argued over how to spend time. We got past that eventually. Now we argue over where to spend time. Rubbing elbows at home or rubbing elbows on the town? Is there a disorder called Familial Agoraphobia? Because the older the S_____ family gets the more hestitant they are to leave the house.

Ok Internet, you are my date tonight.

Enjoying your pizza? I will never eat anywhere else on the Loop again.

Oh,and I waved at the comedian I came to see

Mike Birbiglia was walking about parking lot. So that was nice. I parked very safely.

You snoozed! You loosed!

Did you know there are nice scalpers who will buy your unused tickets? And even volunter to find you a nice gentleman to use the seat.

I am here at Pi, president Obamas favorite eatery.

OUT OF DATE:Rachel from the cruise

Contact me tweet lnschmidt or comment here I am unpopular and ticket is going to waste Let me know if you have a friend who wantts it Nope nevrr mind but I'll be looking for you . I'll try to have my hair the right way so you can recognize me.

Plans, I have Plans Damnit!

Thursday Night: We* go see Mike Birbiglia. I caught the last half hour of Mike Birbiglia's special on Comedy Central a few months ago, googled him (to be honest, I binged him), and found he was coming to town and he sleepwalks!. Hey! I've sleepwalked too. FRIENDS for LIFE. Tickets bought within moments. Well marketed, Mr. Birbiglia.

If you are very curious about him, you can watch his special on Comedy Central which is coming on the air at 1:30 this a.m., less than two hours away.

OR you can watch this YouTube clip:

* This initally said "Gary and I," but as I was typing the next line Gary told me he felt I shouldn't be going since I'm still coughing, then when that didn't work he said he didn't think HE should go because he didn't feel well.

Then this weekend I have triva night, Catherine Appreciation Dinner, next weekend it's in-law birthday, next weekend: Vegas! Life is going to be normal if I'm sick or not.

Doom and Gloom? Pros and Cons?

What's your opinion on doom and gloom? I don't like them: not doom nor gloom.  Gary, however, is a big fan. It's part of his planning process. Last week:

"Hon, it looks like we may not be able to go to Las Vegas."

"No ... perhaps it looks like you may not be able to go to Las Vegas, but I'm pretty sure I'm going."

"No, if you're still sick in two weeks, then we can't go to Las Vegas."  I won't detail the whole discussion, but I eventually talked him down. Yes, I'm sick, I still pee (a lot) and puke (a little) every time I cough, but there are adaptations that can be made. And we again had this conversation: he likes to be emotionally prepared for disaster, and I don't like to have problems until I actually have problems.

This has become an issue today. Today we took Mac the dog to the vet. A week ago the dog had a big horking burbly cough beyond anything I've ever heard, and he had a fever, and when he had a rare appetite he barfed it all up. I was sick myself, I stayed in with him, he got better. Vet was out of town anyway. He's still binging, purging, and binging on the purge though.

However, then yesterday we noticed he had three huge round warts on the top of his foot. Gary immediately said, "Cancer!"

So we took him to the vet today, and Gary asked, "Cancer?"

"Certainly could be cancer, since it's growing so fast."

"Or warts," I said, "Just one of those lumpy growths dogs get."

"Might be. OR IT COULD BE CANCER. That's why we need to do a biopsy."

I don't want to be emotionally prepared for dog cancer. I prefer my denial to start immediately after diagnosis, not before. Anyway, the dog who just got over the dog flu is going under for a biopsy Wednesday. But what is it with vets and well, doctors, throwing the word "cancer" around? Aren't they supposed to call it a growth? The vet went right for "tumor," no "possibly benign."  Aren't they supposed to keep hope alive? How about a little "let's wait and see what the results show." I say, don't call it cancer until it's definitely cancer.

What are your views on being prepared for bad news? I know my opinion, and as always I'd like that reinforced, but I need to hear Gary's point of view expressed rationally.

(P.S. Any resemblance to possibly cancerous labia living or dead is purely coincidental.)

Photo of Mom

This is currently my favorite photo of Mom:

It was taken the Christmas after she got polio. I don't know what she was actually looking at, but it certainly seems she's looking at her future.

Some days I look at her and she seems resigned but heroic: some days she looks pissed. "Bring it, future," she says, "I'll kick your ass."

Many Moods of Gary

The Drama Tsunami

Two nights ago Gary conducted a symphony of drama. It began at 3 a.m. He woke me up with some quick-paced muttering about dog pee. "Dog! Pee!  Pee here! Augh! Pee there! Augh! Pee, pee, pee." Then, slower and louder shouting directed at the still-sleeping me, regarding how if I weren't sick he wouldn't have to sleep on the floor with the urine since the DOG will BARK up to 90 times in a slow steady pace until we get in the same room. Then he hustled about putting on his glasses (broken suddenly in the night!) wadding up toilet paper (plain Scot Towels are no GOOD, the colors make them MORE ABSORBENT NEVER BUY THESE AGAIN). Finally there was a crescendo in which the toilet overflowed. Think 1812 Overture with explosions of curse words instead of cannon fire.

I got out of bed to help with the cleanup, and after taking a direct hit from the bellows I turned on my heel and ducked into the Nest room. A moment later the dog was scratching at the door. Dog and I stayed there about an hour until in true S______ fashion we went outside to apologize. (Every "I'm sorry" in In-lawland is followed by a silent "... aaaaaaand ....?" And true to form, he apologized for "overdramatizing.")

Still, I took revenge by wearing his underwear the next two days. I've been coughing, and they're more absorbent, what with the multi-layers of cotton the men have down there. Somewhere between a Poise pad and a diaper. And I coughed a LOT, so much I couldn't even see Erin when she was in town. I think I'll be back to normal tomorrow; my phlegm has turned into that liquid Gouda cheese you get at the end of a respiratory infection.

The Sun Appears Again

This morning he had to work briefly at dawn, while I squeezed in extra REMs. (One glug of Nyquil supplies 3 hours of sleep to the minute.) He came back at 10:30 a.m. sunny and cheerful. I can see why the Elizabethans believed in humors. Gary purges some bile then he's in balance again.

I staggered into the kitchen. Gary held out a grape tomato and exclaimed. "You have to EAT one of these!"

I'd say once a week for the LAST 25 YEARS Gary has offered me tomatoes. If not tomatoes, mustard. I haven't liked either. For the last 25 years. 

"No."

"No? REALLY? They're so good! Don't you like tomatoes?" No. Not for the last 47 years, even.

Sadly, I haven't had much of a chance to enjoy the warmth of Gary's sun. He conked out at about three. I hope he's awake in time to join me watching the Emmy's tonight. Right now he's missing his favorite part, the Boob Parade.

Ah! I just shouted to him he was missing boobs. He's up. And here's my Emmy prediction. Ask Gary about Mad Men:

"I HATE that show!"

Mad Men will win everything in every category, even if it isn't nominated.

Plans and Schemes

A few times in the year before she died, Mom would alert me that she was "up to something." Often, she wasn't actually up to doing something, but she was up to making plans. Plans for capers. Plans to steal the neighbors' non-ironic pink flamingos. Once, she whispered, "plans to move the furniture."

"Whoa! That is big!"

"I'm back to my old self."

We never did move the furniture. But as Mom pointed out, she didn;t really need to move the furniture, she was just at the planning stage, but still that was a good sign, right?

Right before I got sick Wednesday I made a list of things to do. Organize pots and plans, organize closet (both work AND play clothes are hanging on both black AND white hangers!), clean basement (not going to happen), do filing, read Mom's letters, merge Mom's website with this one, re-hang prints in the nest.

Not going to do any of those things anytime soon, but I am making plans.

Not Eating

For the last few days, here is what I've had to eat:

• Half a frozen pizza
• Steak n shake cheeseburger and fries
• Ted Drewes chocolate frozen custard from your grocer's freezer
• Chocolate babka
• Watermelon

When I was a child and sick, this is what I would have had to eat:

• Chicken bouillon
• Beef bouillon
• Chicken bouillon
• Beef bouillon

The change is the family I married into, where you must tempt the sick person to eat.

"What do you want for dinner?"

"Nothing. Nothing sounds good." (Codeine stops production of gastric acid and peristalsis. It is useless for stopping my cough. I am keeping the rest of this bottle around if I ever want to suppress my appetite. Or if I want nasty pee. It makes your pee not dilute, no matter how much water you drink. It's 100% pure pee.)

"No, you have to eat something. What about Eggs Benedict?"

"Bleah." (hours later) "Honey, can you bring me Moo Shu Pork? That sounds good."

And really, Moo Shu doesn't sound that good, but if he's feeding the dog Swedish meatballs - not leftover Swedish meatballs, mind you - then I should get in on this action.

TV Gary Hates

In 1985, the year Gary and I were married, a television show named Moonlighting premiered. It starred Cybill Shepherd and Bruce Willis. Look - Bruce Willis with hair.

It never made it to syndication, so you might never have seen it. It was very quick-paced and quick-witted. They did entire shows in iambic pentameter. There was a film-noir episode in black-and-white. (Lost on us with our black-and-white tv.) Gary and I would snuggle on our couch made of  brown plaid upholstery and wadded-up-newspaper (this is true) and wait for the opening chords.

And then Gary would say, "I hate this show!"

"Well then why are we watching it? Let's do something else."

"NO NO No, YOU like this show."

Then he would watch enrapt for an hour, and then at the final fade-out he would say, "I hate that show."

This went on for four years. Later on in the series, Bruce Willis developed his annoying smirk. See below.

The Smirk would cause Gary to scream at the TV: "I hate him! I hate him!" But still, we never missed the show. Remember: this was BV - Before VCRs, epoch 1 of the Pre-tIVO era. We had to be there in front of the TV.

Years later Gary said, "Remember Moonlighting? That was the best show..."

"What? You hated that show!"

"Never!"

"Every week you would tell me how much you hated that show!"

"Lies! I loved that show!"

So, since then I've watched Gary closely and when it comes to TV shows he only loves shows he claims to hate. The Love-So-Intense-It-Must-Masquerade-As-Hate only applies to TV shows. If he says, "I hate [Name of Movie][Name of Actor][Name of Cuisine]" that is accurate. He truly does hate Jim Carrey, for example, and will turn off a promising movie if Jim Carrey is in it.

Other shows Gary has  claimed to hate:

House
Rescue Me
The Sopranos
Sex and the City
Northern Exposure
Hill Street Blues

This is all to say, watch Glee (Wednesdays, 8 Central). Gary claims to hate it after only two episodes. Obviously it is destined for an Emmy.

Babka? Codeine?

I choose codeine. That's how sick I am.

Intermittently Dead

Emailed "sick sick oh so sick too sick to punctuate" to work.

Also called in "what's the protocol for being sick?" to the clinical trial nurse, with whom I was to have a three-month test today.

This was my day:

Sleep three hours.
Wake up.
Decide I'm fine.
Lung-wrenching cough with simultaneous wetting.
Chug Nyquil.
Repeat.

I wound up terrifically well-rested. I feel great! Except for the tremendously productive cough.  The MS nurse heard it when she called and said, "Go to the doctor and get some antibiotics! Bronchitis!"  I guess we need to name it to know what to add to the side effects list.

Clearly I've been coming down with this for a while. Next time I post four photos in a row I need to just make a doctor's appointment. And wash all my pajamas because I will go through them in one day.

I'm Really Happy I'm Having a Cognitive Test Tomorrow

This morning I dropped off a babka at Friend #4's house. Friend 4 is named Caroline (but pronounced Carolyn, which messed me up for a while.)  

I rang the bell because there was a car in the driveway.  "Her husband's name is Brennan, not Brendan," I chanted. "Brennan. Brennan."

"Hi, Brennan!" I said when he answered. "Is Catherine here?"

"Catherine?"

"I mean Caroline," I said just as her dog got out. "Scout! Scout!"

Her dog's name is Scotch. Friend #2's dog's name was Boo, so that explains that neural shortcut.

And then I went home and slept all night, Temperature is 99.6 and I have a cough. This comforts me.

Edible babka

Steve: Hairstylist / Musician

Lions of Hazelwood were terrific. Gary said it was like being at Woodstock.

Here's a future famous musician. In the future I will dine on the fact he was once my hairstylist.

 

Photo by Friend 2.

Long island iced tea number three

Hi -out with Marcia and Gary watching the band of Steve the hairstylist. Or will be - they aren't on yet. At Ciceros. I always think it's Cyranos. Anyway. Ciceros has earplugs two for a dollar. We all have them because the venue is the size of my old bedroom and I'm about ready to have an orgasm from the bass.

They are the Lions of Hazelwood, a great Saint Louis name. They play last tonight.

Look what's at the grocery.

No chocolate. They say they have to order it from New York.

Buh-bye, babka

Last Saturday I fell asleep in the nest and woke up dreaming of chocolate babka. I assumed I must have fallen asleep during that episode of Seinfeld, but the tivO denied that it had switched to that station. I can only guess NPR or CNN brought up babkas.

"I could make a babka," I thought, "I can cook anything." I looked up babka recipes. Way too hard.

"I could buy a babka," I thought, "I can buy one on-line." Then, whoa. Thirty bucks for a babka! And twenty for shipping. More research found a ten buck babka. With forty dollars shipping.

"I could make a babka," I thought, "It would save fifty bucks."

"What is it with you and this babka obsession?" Marcia asked. "I've never even had a babka. I think it's a New York thing."

I should have shown her a photo.

Chocolate in bread. I read up on a few more recipes and noticed many of them talked about the "paddle" and how one should beat the dough until there are strings from the bowl to the "paddle." I assumed this strange "paddle" came with one of those fancy stand mixers like a KitchenAid.

The cheapest one cost six babkas with shipping.

"Marcia," I asked, "Do you have a stand mixer?"

"I used to have my grandmother's stand mixer until it finally burned up. It was a KitchenAid."

I specifically didn't want to buy a KitchenAid, because even though I have been on a good food run this past month (egg tartlets, beef stroganoff, chinese pork ribs), I'm not usually a good cook. I rely on luck. The food gods smile sometimes. And I don't want to be the yuppie  middle-aged suburban professional who heats up fishsticks in her Gaggenau oven.

But I am. So I found a recipe and a KitchenAid for only three babkas with shipping at the Best Buy. And today I used it. Look at me all fancy with the dough hook.

That thing made amazing fluffy egg whites, too.

I would show you the step-by-step but I got caught up in the continuing failure-by-failure. First off, I did roll out a giant square and spread chocolate filling and egg whites on it. Then I rolled it up like a jellyroll, only imagine rolling nacho cheese dip up in tissue paper. Then I was supposed to twist the big soggy mess in my hands five times? I twisted it once and dumped it in the pan. But I still had hope. And I had another chance; I was making two loaves. I confidently baked them.

Here are The Babka and its twin brother, lesser babka.

 

I was so excited! I let them rest and then carved one in half.

Sooooooo disappointing. I did everything right. I even bought a KitchenAid. It looks nothing like the photo at the top.

I think Babkas are one of those things you have to have a heritage to be able to cook, like Chinese fried rice.  Perhaps other people can't cook fishsticks.

Health Care Speech

Wednesday evening. Nancy Pelosi calls Hillary Clinton.

"What are you wearing?"

"My red suit."

"Oh ... I wanted to wear my red suit."

"Well, you know Janet Napolitano always wears her red suit when I wear my red suit."

"Why don't we all wear our red suits? You know, you and me and the cabinet?"

"OOoooo! Like the Jackson brothers?

 
Red Hat Society from left:
Secretary of Health and Human Services Kathleen Sebelius
Secretary of Labor Hilda L. Solis
Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton

And I kept looking for Sec of HHS Janet Napolitano. She wasn't with the rest of the cabinet. Maybe she was the one left behind in case of a terrorist attack.

But oooo - when Joe Biden passed Nancy that note identifying the "You lie" screamer - did you see the look on Nancy's face? She was going to spit. And then she was on guard. It was like she was going to leap up any second and take someone out.  Someone dropped something that rolled around a while and she stared that section down. She should have gone after House Minority Whip Eric Cantor when he was twittering.

Don' Wanna Hoard No More, Lord Lord.

I treated myself to a three-hour superiority feast this evening. A&Es Hoarders, followed by an hour of Hoarders. Topped off by a little treat. Hoarders.

I am not a hoarder. I just cleaned out the refrigerator at Mom's, for example. I know, she's been dead for a year and a half now. Shut up!  A hoarder would never have cleaned out that fridge. Because I saw one on A&E. Her name was Jill. Great sense of humor.

She fell into the Delusional Hoarder category. There were two types of Hoarders, Delusional Hoarders and Entitled Hoarders. How could you tell the difference? You wanted to slap the flies off of the Entitled Hoarders.

The Entitleds were the ones who had been diagnosed with depression, anxiety disorder, panic attacks. They had their pills, though, and they took them virtuously. Each Entitled suffered mightily through the agreed-to purges. As OTHER PEOPLE CLEANED THEIR ROTTING HOUSES they went on and on about their reactions. "My stress level is at a nine." "I'm feeling anxious. You need to stop before I hyperventilate." "Hold me, I'm having a panic attack." "I took my pills, but I'm still stressed out!"

And the awful thing is, I know I'm not a hoarder, but if I were I fear I would be an Entitled Hoarder, not an amusing Delusional Hoarder. 

So, where is the line drawn between being a responsible mildly medicated person and an Entitled Ass-clown?  Perhaps it's just shutting up. Perhaps I'll be safe if I shut up about "stress." If I never make people change their behavior because they're freaking me out.  Damn - now I remember the last time I was stressed at work I blamed someone else for it. "Stop freaking out, Karla!  Now I'm stressed." At least I didn't whine. I think I bellowed.

Okay, so that's a plan.  I never mention my "stress levels" and instead I say things like, "I feel if I throw away all of Gary's old feather pillows the sky will rain dead birds down on us."

P.S. - edited to add: I know, they are not to blame. They are mentally ill. It's just I hope that I might tolerate all my potential illnesses with grace. Not dignity, that's shot to hell.

The Three Measly Things That Happened Today

In chronological order: 

Dog or Gary Argues With the Internet

If you had been an insect in our house you would have heard this coming from Gary's computer room:

"LIES! Liars ... nine to eleven pounds my ASS. .. Feisty. Needs to know who's boss. Well, that's right. DAMN! Nine to eleven pounds again. These people are on crack." (A few minutes later.) "Ellen! Ellen!" (silence) "Mac! You are a fat dog! You know you are supposed to weigh nine to eleven pounds? The internet says!" Then I got on him for giving the dog a bad self-image.

Cricket or I'm Not Even Looking it Up

If you had been said insect inside our house you would have been the cricket I stomped on earlier. Gary insisted I kill the cricket because it was upstairs without any other crickets. Evidently, if you leave crickets alone without any food, i.e. in the basement, they eat their own until you have no crickets. I think you'd have one very fat cricket, but I've learned not to argue with Gary over biology.

Austen or a Very Amiable Evening

If given a choice between watching Nostradamus 2012 (featuring ... Nostradamus AND Mayans AND everyone's favorite...THE ILLUMINATI!) or Hoarders on A&E  (thank me later) or Sense and Sensibility, I chose Sense and Sensibility. When I first watched it I was biased: I had resentment in my heart. Emma Thompson treated my golden-tongued Kenneth Branagh so ill.

We were on an Austen roll, because hours earlier we'd bought this book:

I know one of you must have read this. It sounds killer. And most amiable.

Labor Day Prayers

I knew the kielbasa dinner would have Gary and his family monopolizing the in-laws' bathroom, so I planted myself in the lesser-used master bathroom.

"Hi, Jesus" I said to the shiny rosary hanging on the wall opposite me at eye level. He just stared back. I went about my business and avoided further eye contact with the Savior. I stared instead at the calendar behind Him.

My mother-in-law always annotates calendars, so it's fun to see what she's up to. This month includes a friend's birthday, the day the nephew returns from Emen-Yay, the day the dog goes to the vet.

This calendar didn't appear to be a Catholic calendar. No feast days were pointed out. Instead, there were days highlighted with crossed American flags. The first I noticed was right next to Jesus, Sept 18, National POW/MIA Recognition Day.  "Pray for our troops" it said. I realized POW/MIAs need their own day: Memorial Day is for the dead and Veterans Day is for the living.

Then I noticed Sept 7th had the same flags. "Labor Day. Pray for our troops."

Now, I've always thought of Labor Day as a reaction to the Haymarket riots, or the Triangle fire.  A slightly socialist day. I thought, "Shouldn't that be 'Pray for our unions? Pray for our coal miners? Pray for auto workers in the paint shop?" (One summer I taught at the auto plant someone died from the heat in the paint shop.)

I asked the mother-in-law about it, and she'd wondered too. I was thinking she'd say all holidays have a crossed flag and "Pray for our troops." Halloween. Earth Day. Juneteenth. I would have looked myself but I'd have to move the rosary and I figured that would burn.

Early September

There is a complete cluster at the intersection of Caulk's Hill and 94. Not only did they rebuild the intersection, but they rebuilt it so if you drive via muscle memory you merge directly into a lane of cars at 40-50 miles per hour, with no shoulder to speak of.

When Gary did this today, we had this exchange:

Me: "What was that? What were you thinking? Why didn't you stop? Why didn't you think about what you were doing? I always turn from the center lane now, just because that could happen. Why don't you think when you drive? How do you get yourself to work driving like that? Why -"

Him: "It's not your birthday month anymore, you realize that, don't you?"

Made Me Laugh

Two teams comprise my work department: The Loud Team and the Quiet Team. I'm in Team Quiet.

Both teams are moving into a new building, so there's a new seating chart. Someone noticed that the central corridor of cubicles houses ALL the members of Team Loud AND the two noisy rebels of Team Quiet.

Anne pointed it out to me, running her finger along their shared wall on the seating chart, whispering, "We're calling this the Wall of Sound."

Just When I Thought I Was Out... They Pull Me Back In

It began simply. Brownies for breakfast. Team Leader brought in some extra dark chewy ones. Really good, except for the one containing an enamel crown.

My crown, of course. The enamel / metal flavor clashed with the brownie, so I didn't swallow.

Of course, I had to have the dentist cement it back in. I've managed to avoid the dentist's office since I treated them to a post-Mom meltdown a year ago.

Dentist's Office on First call: Of course we'll put your crown in!

Callback: The dentist noticed you've missed your last three cleanings! Come in an hour later and we can clean your teeth!

Busted.

Then, at the office: You know what, we're not going to clean your teeth! After we cement your crown we're going to do some x-rays instead.

Of course, and then you'll find the cracked tooth I had eighteen months ago. Huh. Wasn't there something else I was supposed to do back then? Oh, yeah, I need my gums scraped. Geh.

Them: Hey, after we do the x-rays, we want you to try this new product we have, Oraqix. You can have it when you get your teeth cleaned. It numbs your mouth!

Me: So I'm getting my teeth cleaned?

Them: Yes! Your teeth and your gums! But only on one side of your mouth!

See? See what they did there? My right side "gum cleaning" was code for the GUM PLANING: $800.00 that showed up on my bill. And now in two weeks I go back to get the other side done. Of course, the insurance pays for all but $210 dollars of it. But now I'm scheduled for the rest of the gum planing, she wants to fix a barely chipped tooth, and I'll need probably three fillings. Plus a bridge. And a diamond grill.

Because I Slept All Weekend, Went to Work, Came Back, Slept

And that equals ... bullets!

• We're now going to stay at the Bellagio, the same week as the World Series of Poker.  I want to learn how to read people's faces to see if they're lying. Even better, I want to learn Hellströmism. (I want to read body language to detect where people have hidden things.) Not that anyone in Vegas is teaching that.

• My birthday month is over. I have to pour my own cereal now. Not looking forward to next March, when Gary gets his own back.

• I picked up a book over the weekend on "Creative Journal Writing." Here's some of the advice:

"Treasure your words. Take note of the date and time and add some details. Be aware of what's going on in your body."

It (oh, treasure) is (my precioussss) 12:10 am on Wednesday morning. I am watching an old episode of Friends. Usually I wouldn't care, but it IS the episode with the quiz. (Ah, Monica, so competitive. Just like me! Art.) My body? Worn out. Made the next gynie appointment today, since the cream seems to have amped up the bleeding. So there's that, and I bit my cuticle till it bled. Oh, I treasure these words. And now, as the book suggests, I let them rest.