Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

So Many Bullets, So Little to Say

TV Bullet 1: Hoarders Season Premiere. It's on the tiVO and I would have seen it tonight, only Gary took an hour out of my life pinning me down on the guest bed. While he was asleep. And snoring. And with my controller out of arm's reach.

TV Bullet 2: I have decoded the penultimate episode of Monk. I know, so has everyone else, but I just want you to know I'm as smart as all the rest of you.

Literature Bullet 1: Gary says he has nothing to read, so I suggested Mom's Mapp and Lucia books. He shunned them, so I sorted them for my own uses and come to find out, Mom is missing the first two. Amazon willing, they should be on my porch tomorrow.

Science Bullet 1: The socks that cost LXV dollars (I can't stand to type it out) came today. The package also included a complimentary tape measure (to size the other cashmere / woolen items we might order) and a small wooden ball. (No idea. Moth repellent?)

Gary Bullet 1: I told Gary that Mac was out fence-racing with the guest dog next door, who is a beagle. "Oh," Gary said seriously, "Does it look like Snoopy?" I did a little analysis and beagles bear no resemblance to Snoopy.

Literature Bullet 2: The Complete Text of It Was a Dark and Stormy Night, by Snoopy.

A Brief Shining Moment on Black Friday

On Black Friday, Gary called his sister and suggested we all give each other two presents and that will be it. (And the angel chorus sings.)

Unfortunately, during the same conversation the sister-in-law said, "I always buy lots of plastic and paper supplies for Mom and Dad, but ... I'll just put them in a big storage box and that will be one present."

"You can't call that one present!" I called out loudly enough to get through the receiver, "Now he'll just put everything in two refrigerator boxes."

And of course, that's his new plan. But for just a moment, Christmas was manageable. 

Even if we need a forklift to get Gary's Mom's "two presents" in the house, at least another decision was made: no "errand-running" presents. If you want a simple desk fan from Walgreen's, get it yourself. All presents will be a surprise. (Speaking of the owl fan, we're fairly certain that's one of the two presents we'll be getting from the Wonderfuls.)

This means there's a lot of pressure on the two presents. Gary's Mom needs a toaster, and I had to take this box out of his hands.

 
He did some quick Blackberry research. "People LOVE their Back-to-Basics Egg and Muffin toasters! They say it makes breakfast and doesn't make any dishes."

I think they had him at "Back to Basics," because REALLY what is more basic than eating only one item for breakfast, ever? How about a machine into which your pour milk, flour, and eggs, then at a programmed time in the early morning it deep fries a raw donut in some boiling oil? And then another machine that rolls out an omelet. I'm lazy enough to let a machine make my food, I just don't want to give up counter real estate for each dish.

The size turned him against the toaster above, plus she wants an easy-to-clean toaster. Unfortunately the Blackberry has told Gary that brushed stainless steel is the easiest to clean. Has anyone else heard this lie? I keep holding up display toasters and counting the fingerprints with him.

ScienceWoman also speculates what the relation is between Pricing and Performance of Bass Guitars

Well, I did try on the Smartwools and every step in those socks was like getting a footrub. Initially. As so often happens, they got bored and didn't put as much energy into pleasing me as they did at the beginning of the day. And then I saw this comment sent from an actual SockMeister, Robert Chesebro Jr.:

Dear Queen of Mediocreta of Surbubia,
I am writing to you about your sock dilemma given that I have 50 years of experience making socks since I am the President and CEO of Wigwam Mills, Inc.You questioned whether there is a relationship between between sock pricing and performance. As a general rule there is. However I should point out to you that although Smart Wool is a fairly widely known sock brand they don't make any of the socks they sell. They contract the manufacturing of them to both domestic companies and also some in the Far East. Wigwam makes the all socks they market and sell them under the Wigwam brand. And we do it all in the USA. Also there is a general propensity from my experience for manufacturers that make socks to make them too tight so that they are binding on your leg. That need not be the case. Wigwam has been in business for 104 years and I am the third generation President and owner of the company. Let me know what sort of socks you are looking for along with your size and I will send you a pair. And take a look at our web site ( www.wigwam.com ) to see the variety of socks we make. Use our sock finder to identify the type of socks you are seeking.
Sincerely,

Bob Chesebro

Of course, this presents ScienceWoman with an ethical conundrum. I can't possibly take free socks, that would completely skew my results. It is important that I pay full on-line price for the socks and follow the same protocol as I did for the others.

So, I did use the Sock Finder Search feature, focused on the material "silk" and found these socks:

  
 
And it was easy enough to Google them and find them at TravelCountry.com. They were $11.16, on sale from $13. Isn't that an interesting pattern? I'm almost sad it isn't going to leave an imprint on my legs.

I would feel completely objective now, only the other vendors didn't leave a comment that contained a well-turned phrase like "the type of socks you are seeking."

Thanks!

It seems wrong to give thanks if I had some credit in what I'm thankful for. Like, I'm thankful for my husband, but I picked him. I'm thankful for having financial stability. Well, who do I have to thank for that? That would be me. (Wha - did you just say "You could thank your Mom for dying and including you in her will" - you did not just say that! You are so bad.)

In the same vein, I can't give thanks for friends, because I had to overcome my natural shyness to make friends with them. (I AM shy. That's why I don't have kids: I don't want strangers sleeping in my house.)

So, now that I've disqualified anything I can take even partial credit for, I have a manageable list.

1) My Health. What is this, fifteen years with MS? I just had the yearly neuro check-up and he confirms that for the most part I am standing pat. Unless I am standing on one foot with my eyes closed, then I am not pat, I fall down after two seconds. When I first started getting neuro exams I could stand on one foot with my eyes closed for seven seconds, then it was five, and this last time it was two. I told Gary this and we found neither of us could stand more than two seconds with our eyes closed unless we held on to each other, and then it was easy.

2) My Remaining Family, all one of them. My brother Dave just hit nineteen years of sobriety. This is akin to me dieting successfully for nineteen years.

3) The Grocery Store. When I get to the cashier I often wonder, why is she asking me what this vegetable is? Am I the only person who eats jicama? Then I wonder how long you'd have to be a cashier to see everything at the local Schnuck's or Dierberg's. Then I get the urge to eat deep-fried corn husks or whatever else exotic thing I see on the shelves.

4) Friendly strangers (not the kind of strangers who show up in your house and terrorize you, i.e. children). The staff at our new cafeteria is very friendly. One woman made a point of telling me I "always have the most interesting necklaces." I now go visit her station whenever I'm wearing a necklace. It delights me. Because I am vain. And this is where you come in: readers, you are the friendliest strangers ever. In fact, one of you is in France and reading everything in chronological order. Hi! (Waves vigorously at France.) Hi France! Oh, no, now France is shy. Shh. Don't pay any attention to France.

5) Turkey. So humans developed a bird so dry that you are required to serve it with thickened fat (gravy) and bread soaked in fat (dressing) and vegetables mixed with deep-fat fried vegetable (green bean casserole).

I could go on but Gary is insisting I stop typing and start making green bean casserole. Bye! Thanks again!

Sock-off

ScienceWoman returns. This time I am doing a control study on socks: Does Sock Expense Parallel Sock Quality?

Four brand-new socks were purchased for this purpose.

Group A: Socks from the grocery store.
Price: $5.00
 

Group B: Pantherella Socks
Price: $13.00
 

Group C: Smartwool "Best Friend" socks.
Price: $17.00

Group D:  Marcoliani My house is paid off Socks
Price: $65.00
 

About that last pair - I know! Stop yelling at me! 

• It's a silk-cashmere blend. Tiny little sweaters for my feet.
• Socks are my hobby.  
• Maybe they last 12 times as long as the grocery store socks.
• Maybe I can get a science grant.
• Gary actually paid for them with One-Click Amazon, so they're an early Christmas gift.
• Maybe they'll make my ankles look thin.
• You can tell they're European because they point to the other side of the road.

So, Smartwool and grocery store socks have been purchased and are in a safe controlled environment. (Any hand-knit socks are not in the competition because of course, they are automatically superior.) When all the subjects are assembled, socks will be evaluated for:

Slouchiness
Elasticity
Scratchiness
Shin Exfoliation properties
Unsolicited Compliments
Warmth
Washability (hope none are dry-clean only)
Pilling
Toe and Heel Wear
Elevation of Self-Esteem
Risky-Business Skiddability
Smell Resistance

So, soon the sock-off will begin. Wagering allowed in Nevada and New Jersey.

Alarming News

Way too many alarming stories in the news today.

1) Lou Dobbs is "mulling" a White House bid.  I cannot imagine Lou Dobbs mulling anything, but supposedly he's only at DefCon Mull.  If indeed he did mull, the mull would quickly intensify and we'd at DefCon Consider and nuking Miami.  

2) Behold, the Son of Man[son].  This story made me worry about the numbered Friends: one is searching for blood relations and one just discovered blood relations. Happily, none of them found they were Charles Manson once removed.

3) Where is this guy's blog? I bet he's full of pent-up comments, being misdiagnosed as vegetative when he was sentient for 23 years. I know he's writing a book with his foot, but how long will that take?

Speaking of unresponsive people with blogs: Terry Shiavo had a blog. (Don't click this link unless you are sure there is no Hell for you.)

A Story From Gary

I do wish Gary was awake so I could just transcribe the story he told me when I came home from work. I'll do my best from memory.

Gary took the dog on a walk this evening. This was what Gary would describe as a "doggie walk," as opposed to the alternative, a "daddy walk." A daddy walk is when Mac leads the way while Gary just holds the leash. (Having to think about it? It took a while for me to figure out Gary is "Daddy." I just don't see him that way.)

Tonight, though, it was a doggie walk. At some point in the walk the two encountered a huge dog. 

(I assumed at first it was the friendly neighborhood mastiff who breaks into houses through any medium or large dog door. We have no dog door, so I haven't come home to a strange horse-sized dog. But Gary said, "No, this dog was huge. It just had to come off its front paws a little and it was nose to nose with me." I started to argue that was the mastiff but I let it go.)

So as Gary related, the Big Dog was staring at Mac the way Mac stares at flank steak. Gary swept Mac up and held him over his head as Big Dog started to lean in and sniff. Gary turned his back on Big Dog to further protect Mac. Big Dog came around front. Gary turned his back on the Big Dog. Gary kept pivoting in a circle until a neighbor drove up.

"Are those your dogs?" the neighbor asked.

"Just this one," Gary laughed, holding Mac up further. Mac was being vewy vewy qwiet.

"Here Dog!" cried the neighbor in the car. "Come here!"

Big Dog kept circling with Gary.

"Here Doggie!" (Kissy noises from the neighbor.)

This distracted Big Dog and Gary was able to make his escape. Gary and Mac came in and Mac promptly barfed; dizzy, no doubt.

Best and Worst Time of Year!

So everyone's bitching about how early Christmas decorations went up this year - before Thanksgiving, even. But don't you know that just means Retrospective Time comes even sooner?

Ask me how many hours I just spent on Time's Best and Worst site. Granted, some lists apply to 2008, but this list had a particular appeal to me: The Five Worst Inventions of 2009. I bought Pride and Prejudice for Zombies (and was that a slog of a read) and I almost bought the Wonderful's a Snuggie for Dogs. But seriously, how would you wash a gas-mask bra?

And if anyone needs a sensor that can read my facial expressions at work, I do.

Tasteless

For a while, Mom's annual birthday gift was the latest copy of the Truly Tasteless Joke books. She also was a particular fan of the no arms and no legs jokes. (There is a notable omission on that link. "Who's The Guy With No Arms and No Legs and no Tongue Hanging on the Wall?" "Tasteless Art." I don't know how they missed that.)

I was thinking about taste when I heard the NPR interview of The Onion the other day, and they were talking about The Onion's response to 9/11. In another article they mentioned the headline axed from the 9/11 issue, "America Stronger Than Ever, Say Quadragon Officials." I was waiting for them to tell the NPR reporter, but the interview didn't go there. So I wondered, was it still too callous?

I remember renting party supplies for Christmas 2001, and everyone in line agreed they didn't feel like Christmas this year because of the attacks. And every year I wonder if it's time for someone to take a flour shower on Halloween and go as a WTC almost-victim. I mean, there is this, but that's someone dressed up as the buildings.

And here is where I meant to ask, "How long after the Kennedy assassination before people started dressing up as Jackie in blood-stained Chanel?" but evidently they didn't, or they were not photographed. Look, they won't even do it in Chicago.

Speaking of tasteless costumes, was I the only one who saw a child at her door on Halloween in blackface? And an afro wig? I didn't do more than look in horror because the child was also wearing a football jersey, and I thought perhaps this white child might really admire Doug Williams.

Perhaps there's a fifty-year grace period, like there was with Nazis. So, let's start looking for the bloody Chanel in 2013.

Wooooo! Woooooo!

Gary and I went to the Bruce Hornsby concert tonight. I see why Becs is so mad about him! He was very personable, and on top of that he and every musician in his band dazzled.

And Gary was damn lucky to be there, since I had initially planned to go with Anne from work, but Anne got a concussion a few nights ago and then promptly went to sleep. She lived, but wasn't up for a concert yet. The old concussion excuse. I hadn't even considered inviting Gary, but he was happy enough to step in. And then come to find out he loved it.

Sure, I was a little put off when he sat down at the piano for the first song and SANG ALMOST NO WORDS. When it was done, I leaned over to pout to Gary that "There are no words," but he was clapping high over his head and screaming "Woooo!" After a song or two I didn't even notice the lyrics because even I realized the music was amazing.  I am going to claim that what I meant was,"There are no words to express how good this is." Unless "Woooo!" counts as a word.

I recognized three songs that I had always credited to Bruce Springsteen. The drummer spun his sticks with every beat. The piano seemed to have little conversations with the other instruments. Gary kept his arm around me almost the whole time. We had three conversations: with the pigtailed girl next to me (we clucked in disgust at the people behind us who were talking), with the woman in front of us who spilled her beer (Gary offered to take the rap), and the best one, the conversation with the woman next to Gary.

"I smell smoke," I complained. "They told us when we came in this was a non-smoking show."

Gary said, with authority, "No, it's smoke from the balcony. There's smoking upstairs and it's just drifting down here."

I really thought he was just pulling that out of his ass. "Gary, I think you're wrong."

"No! That's always been the policy here at the Pageant. Every time we've been here."

This was going nowhere. "Whatever."

The woman next to Gary leaned over and said to me, "You know, I thought I heard them say when we came in this was a non-smoking show."

"Thank you!" I said.

Gary disagreed. "They've always had a smoking area in the balcony." Gary doesn't  smoke, but he was pretty devoted to this policy he'd made up.

Lady would stand for none of Gary's bullshit. "I know they said it was non-smoking."

"Thank you!" I said again to my new best friend forever.

Gary backed down. "Well, I don't know, I didn't hear anything."

Bruce said he'd come back to the Pageant. I'll have to see him again. His followers are good people.

This Could Go On Forever, or Until I Grow Up. Or, Forever.

Now that we have the chopped capon, or "cock," Gary delights in feeding the dog a fusion dish he likes to call "Cock and Goo." Gary was describing how he "plates" this dish.

"First, I suspend the dog food can over the dish, and wait until the food comes out in a perfect circle. Then I put a ring of cock around that."

I waited for it.

He continued, "A cock ring, if you will."

White Sale: Socks and Pajamas

Socks - It is time to sort through my socks. TeddyJ prefers the black, brown and gray socks, so I need to search my vast collection for those colors ... or else buy new socks. Did you know it is possible to spend $65.00 on a pair of socks? Craziness. I know I need to post about socks because it is the top topic in the Ligit search area.

People want to see socks more than Spunky Labia International Toe Porn Superstar? Socks shouldn't be so ambitious. Notice what Spunky did to Steven Page, he isn't even on the list anymore. Shh.

Jammies - Since I freely expressed how my bladder succumbed to the Wild Boar Flu, I want to let you know my urinary tract is back - better and stronger than ever! A solid week of pads wasted, there's your proof. So you know what that means ... Stinky pajamas are back. It was hell having to wash those pajamas every single night. We are on consecutive day four of the same pair. They remain sadly fragrance-free, but I know they'll get their stink on soon. And I know some of you go days without washing you pajamas, I know you do.

In Which I Mock My Commenters

Last night, Gary offered the dog some of the cooked capon white meat. I hadn't thought of any of the alternate terms for rooster until he sweetly said to the dog, "Does uums want some cock? Just a teeny little bite of cock?"

At the time, I thought a moment, then gasped, leapt up, waved my fists like a baby and rushed off to send myself an email. Then I waited. I waited for you, dear readers. I waited in vain for you to tell me what the correct term is for chicken stock made from roast rooster bones.

But of course, "cock stock."

The Domestic Urge Returns

... and I have a bladder infection. Draw your own conclusions.

I've been cooking for two days. Today, instead of going directly in to the kitchen to express my love with food, I'm whipping up an amateur foodie post.

Babka. Google tells me my site is the place to be for babka. I don't know who began the babka rush, I blame that Splendid Table woman, but everyone has been Googling "babka."

Salt. Gary sent me this link. The New York Times recommends you fry your eggs on hot slabs of pink salt.

Here's what I think: if this were true, people would have learned to buy deer salt licks and fry eggs on those. But, a fine gift idea for the foodie who has everything. Except a slab of burnt salt.

Capon. Gary's work has requested Cream of Carpet soup, which requires chicken stock, and I felt like making my own. I was looking for a stewing hen, and found a frozen capon. I assumed this was just a nice way to say, "Damn, hen, you're fat big-boned!" and since I wanted the bones for stock, that was fine. Later, the talented cook at work let me know a capon is a castrated rooster. I assume it "tastes like chicken," so I was still good.

Last night, I mentioned to Gary I had cooked the capon and it was resting and waiting to be cooled then flayed and dissected. "A capon!" Gary exclaimed, "I hate capons!" (Further proof Gary is a rooster.) "You KNOW that's all dark meat, right?"

"No. It's not a duck or goose, you know. It's the same species as a chicken, it's just a male."

"That's what makes the meat dark," he patiently explained. "The testosterone."

A little debate ensued. The word "Google" was flung about, in defiance and challenge.

Gary did come back and say that capon is sometimes used in place of duck or goose, but he stopped short of crowing that the rooster breast was dark meat. And as I thought about it, I convinced myself he might be right. Then I remembered chickens aren't mammals and hen breasts and rooster beasts would be identical.

So, and here's the big reveal: right now I don't know, and the capon is all cooled in the fridge this moment. So I'm going right now into the kitchen to find out. I'll put money that it tastes like a female. Otherwise, I'll come back and tell you if I can taste the testosterone.

======================== Moments pass ======================

Psycho man. Breast is white meat.

Except, of course, it is indescribably dry and tasteless. I was apprehensive I might be assaulted with a strong hit of testosterone, but no.

Off to make my bones, then.

Look who brought home a pastry

The name of the pastry? Parisian Tongue.

A Post For The Boys

Today was Thursday. Let's go back in time to Monday.

Monday night I was in the guest nest, too confused by the WALLPAPER (haters!) to find my way out. Gary was in the other room watching television. I heard gunfire, a baby crying, then a woman bellowing, then more gunfire. Of course I ignored it. 

The next night, Tuesday, I heard the same scene and was convinced it involved sex in a war zone, or a woman was playing tennis intercut with a terrorist attack. I poked my head into the living room out of curiosity.

Gary: "OH MY GOD YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS SCENE IT IS UNBELIEVABLE."

And he showed me a scene with a man and woman having sex, then a baby cries, then the woman climaxes, yet during the four minutes while she is climaxing, a gunfight breaks out. So her man must toss her about and dispatch the villains with his firearm while she is still climaxing. Then when she is done and all the villains are dead and the man has also reached orgasm (quietly of course), he murmurs casually, "Talk about shooting your load."

Gary: (Giggles uncontrollably.) "Wasn't that great?"

I thought, he has found the perfect dick flick. Then, since I have no dick, I silently left the room. Followed by cries of, "You have to see the rest of this movie! I'll save it for you!"

So on Wednesday when I heard the now familiar "bang! bang!" "Waaaah!" "Oooohhhh! "bang!" I hid in the other room.

So here it is Thursday, and we watched a little of The Office, and then I went into the other room for four seconds to fetch the luxurious scarf someone sent me. In those four seconds he had returned to a different scene in the same movie, evidently called Shoot 'Em Up.

"Wait - is that Paul Giamatti?" I asked, amazed.

"Yes! I told you it's a great movie! There are some weird parts, but hang on, you have to see this scene."

I won't give you a play-by-play of this shootout, but this scene contained the immortal line, "Fuck you, ya fucking fuckers." (And I know that's the exact line because I looked it up on IMDB.) I wasn't watching the screen at the time; I was sitting on the couch next to Gary staring an incredulous hole into the side of his head.

He giggled, "I know ... but .. wasn't that great?"

So, on my husband's recommendation, men, you may want to rent Shoot 'Em Up. Gary doesn't recommend every scene, but he certainly liked the two I saw. Women, I stand on my previous recommendation of that Berlin Wall documentary.

Wisdom

So, if you are my sister-in-law, here is how you request a birthday present:

"I would like a desk fan. Please, just a normal desk fan like you'd find at Walgreens. Nothing fancy."

If you are my husband that translates to mean this:

Yes, that is a desk fan. (Get yours here!) Nothing fancy, nothing unusual.

The Puppy-Eaters

"Garbage!" he said, and pointed toward the trunk,
"What is this Get Smart lunchbox doing here?"
And tossed it aside still claiming it was junk
Ignoring his wife's welling tears.
Sniffed she, "You jerk, it's only been two years."
The lunchbox was from Mom's house where she'd grown.
Yet what he wants to hear is what he hears,
And soon between them angry words have flown,
And then he claims that she has used the Tone.

Choric Song I
in Free Verse

"I did NOT use the Tone, you big baby."
"Yes. The same tone you would use if I stood before you eating a puppy."

So, if you ever hear me using the Tone, just say, "Oh, is that the tone you use for Puppy-eaters?" and I will laugh and stop being an irrational bitch.

Berlin Wall

When I saw students were standing on top of the Wall, I was horrified. These were students just asking to be martyred, or perhaps they were drunk, I thought, because there was quite the party atmosphere.

The party went on for a few days - long enough for Tom B. to get there in his trenchcoat -- and still no shooting. And eventually they knocked a crack in it and went through. And the wall fell and then two sprang up, not in its place but on our border and in Gaza. Looks like walls stay up for two generations.

But, anyway, what I really meant to say was you have to find this documentary: The Tunnel. I think that's the one I want - it's the one with the NBC footage and interviews with the survivors. It's just unreal. A group of people actually tunneled under the wall. I won't go into the details, because that would spoil it for you. Just let your imagination run wild ... start with Bergman and throw in the Great Escape and Hogan's Heroes. Just an unreal story. 2.5 thumbs up!

What's the Opposite of a Bucket List?

I have no "bucket list," a list of things to do before I die. Except "have children." Wait! Hahahahahaaha.

I don't plan for things to happen, I just float around until things happen. Last night at the concert, I was so delighted to see Leonard Cohen, and I thought, "Cool. I get to see Leonard Cohen before I die."*

And that's how it is with me. There's one exception, I always wanted to go to England and I did as soon as I could make it happen. Once that was in the "bucket," I just waited for other things to land there.

So, here's my bucket, minus any deliberate list.

Went to England
Saw Leonard Cohen
Saw Elton John and Billy Joel
Went to Hawaii during an airline pilot's strike (so, essentially, no other tourists: Japan's economy was shot)
Got naked with hundreds of other people
Ate a bite of brains
Ate a bite of snoot
Been in a riot (IU NCAA Championship)
Ooo! I kissed a girl!
Oh, well, come to think of it I got tied up in lingerie with a girl, but that was a long time ago
Sang professionally at Busch stadium (but I'm cheating now - I delivered a singing telegram there)
Saw King Tut's death mask
Got kidnapped by a parent
Been questioned by the police
Been yelled at by the police (both sound more exciting than they were)

In fact, now that I make a list I notice all the things that aren't there. Like, where are "Got arrested in a protest" and "Almost died" - they aren't on my list. However, I think everything else is on this blog somewhere. Aren't they? Let me know of anything I haven't mentioned here.

*A lie.Technically I thought, "Cool. I get to see Leonard Cohen before he dies."

Leonard Cohen Concert: Both Sublime and Ridiculous

First, loose ends: Gary never actually told anyone in his family he thought we were well enough to celebrate sister-in-law's birthday, so the event was in actuality much less "planned" than we thought. We are going today, Sunday, instead.

So, all of Saturday was spent planning for and resting up for and preparing for the Leonard Cohen concert.

"8 SHARP" demanded the tickets in a very demanding font. So, we were there at 7:15, and while I tried in vain to buy Eddie Izzard tickets (too early), Gary chatted with some Leonard devotees.

"Oh, yes, we love Lenny," they sighed. "He is a poet."
"Well," Gary chuckled, "Too bad I can't understand them because his voice is so bad and all the songs sound the same." 
An elderly woman turned to Gary and stared him down, pointing a narrow finger at her ear. "Lissssteeeen," she advised knowingly.

A testament to how great the concert was, during the intermission, Gary asked me, "He sounds fine. What is wrong with our car stereo system? Something's wrong with our car!" (Seriously, this means the car will be in the shop soon to find out why the sound's so distorted, and they will find he has over-cranked the bass or something.)

So, that's it in a nutshell. Leonard was great. The fans were colorful.

First, Sir Leonard Cohen (I don't call him "Lenny" as some impudents do) and the Other Musicians

Up! Down! Up! Down! There must have been ten standing ovations, some at the start, some for specific songs, some at the end. It was like Mass. Only, people don't scream out "WE LOVE YOU JESUS!" at Mass.

Handsprings. Most of the time the backup singers just shifted their weight from one foot to the other, but then at one key point (I won't tell you what it was) they vaulted into a backward handspring. They may or may not have removed their fedoras first.

Standing Still. For about three songs (If It Be your Will is the one I remember) he just stood and recited the song. That was lovely. Plus, it made it easier for Gary to "Lissssteeeen."

And of course, he was witty. The song choices were even witty. I was sad not to hear Closing Time, but of course they saved that for one of the later encores. I think the very last song was  I Tried to Leave You.  When the house lights came up, I was so satisfied, Gary asked if I wanted to finally get dinner and I felt I didn't want to even eat ever again.

Second, The Fans

Even though the concert was sold out, Gary and I had empty seats on either side of us. This was an excellent buffer because we were surrounded by insane people.

In Front of Us. Look, the older guy in the beret and the woman in the shawl didn't bother me. But, at the intermission Gary turned and said, "Berets! Shawls! Who wears a beret?" I merely report this because of Gary's aghast tone; I didn't know it was so scandalous.

Behind Us. The guy right behind me made a point of continuing to clap well after everyone else stopped. We all paused to hear the next song but he just kept going all "I am Clappier Than Thou." So for one song I deliberately out-clapped him. (My clapping was not flawless; I regret to say I broke the silence after Who By Fire by being the first to clap.)

To The Right of Us. They came in late, the young couple in their twenties, and then they talked through two songs like they were at a nightclub. The man in front of them turned and hissed "Quiet!" They did not shut up. They did not behave respectably in the House of the Leonard. Then, during an early ovation I leaned to Gary and yelled, "See, now is the time for the girl to talk to the boy! Talk it up! There's no singing!" And they didn't talk after that.

Instead, they snapped, or rather, the boy snapped, his fingers. And not a beatnik "Groovy poetry, man" applause snap, but an extra track of loud jazzy here-I-am-jamming-with-you-lenny as if he was auditioning for the band.

It did give Gary the opportunity to snap his fingers and make me laugh.

And you know, even with the snapping and clapping and talking and testifying from the balcony I still loved it. Wonderful concert.

Saturday: from the Ridiculous to the Sublime

Saturday there will be fodder for this fodder-starved blog.  I go to the in-laws in the afternoon, then in the evening I go see Leonard COHEN IN CONCERT.

Leonard just has to make it to Saturday, people. I know he collapsed in Europe: as long as Nashville doesn't do him in then I'll see him. And hear him. And I am tired of those remarks. No one is complaining about what age has done to Bob Dylan's voice. Mmph. They both still sing better than I do.

At the in-laws we will celebrate sister-in-law Karen's birthday, which was over a month ago. We are actually celebrating a S______ birthday on a date deemed too distant from the actual birthday! Hard to fathom. We've changed seasons and clocks. So Gary is going into guilt-fueled overdrive with the presents. This is on top of the normal Gary overdrive. This is a GTO / BTO TurboBirthday! I would count the presents but I want to get to bed sometime tonight.

So, Saturday, excitement!

Smiles

A designated hitter (read: abomination to baseball, also, cheating) won Most Valuable Player for the 2009 World Series. Allow me to spit here right on the floor. Designated hitters are the whores of baseball. I apologize to any designated hitters reading this. But you are whores.

Therefore the best thing about the Series this year - except for the Cliff Lee Blasé Catch - was the series of American Express commercials with the found smiles and frowns.

And then, a few days ago, Steve at work shaved his head a little hastily, and left two clumps of hair on the back of his head - for eyes - and there was a curve where the base of his skull met his neck - for a smile. And I would have taken a photo, but he found a hat at the ready. Next time I won't tell him why I'm laughing first.

So this is the best I could do.

 
 
 

Cookies, Scandal, and White Powder

Gary called to ask the name of the Archway Christmas cookies he likes*. How would I know? "Blah Blah blah!" he cried. "Blah! Powdered sugar! Blah blah!"

"Wedding cookies," I answered authoritatively.

"I'm not sure! There are three kinds here and they all have powdered sugar!"

"Wedding. Cookies."

"Are you sure? They all look alike."

Sigh. "Buy them all."

Ding. We have an answer.

So he brought home:

Cashew Nougat
 

 Pfeffernusse

and Wedding Cookies

The first he tried was the Pfeffernusse. Pfeffernusse was popped into mouth. Pfeffernusse spat back out like a powdery ping-pong ball. Powdered sugar was all over his face. "Aaaagccchkkk!"

"Seriously? That bad?"

He instantly popped put another Pfeffernusse in his mouth. "Oh!" he explained, "I just wasn't expecting it to taste like licorice. It's delicious!"

So. We have lots of powdered sugar here in this house.

*Follow that link if you thought Archway was out of business or if you want to know why they haven't tasted as good since '83.

Follow this link if you want to see the television character who behaves the most like Gary.

Question for today: What is the Ultimate Casserole?

I ask, because my nominee is in the oven right now.

In our house it was called "Chicken with Crumbs." Mom's peers called it "Londoff Chicken," which could be an homage to Johnny Londoff's Saint Louis car dealerships. I know it wasn't local; it must have been printed on Pepperidge Farm stuffing bags.

Layer chicken breasts, swiss cheese, cream of chicken soup, Pepperidge Farm herb stuffing, and melted butter. Bake at 350, and I didn't even have to look that up because every casserole bakes at 350, it is the RULE.

The key to the recipe is the butter delivery system: the stuffing, or "dressing," or crumbs. Once we had a special dinner of "Chicken with Crumbs" served with "Green Beans with Crumbs" with a side of "Crumbs."

Now, others may say the tuna-noodle casserole with the "croute" of potato chips is the ultimate casserole, yet think of how many people don't like fish. (And I think we can all agree, we are talking the classic tuna-noodle casserole: egg noodles, can of tuna, can of cream of mushroom soup, topped with potato chips. This is the standard.)

Chicken with Crumbs has this Queen's Royal Warrant as the ultimate casserole. It says "suburbs!" What do you think? What would you nominate?

P.S. I define "casserole" as something mixed with something, maybe some other somethings, plus Campbell's Cream of Something soup, that you then bake at 350. Mac and Cheese with hot dogs cut up in it? Not a casserole.

I Am So Glamorous

How glamorous? SO glamorous that we missed the first scene of Desperate Housewives because I was screaming "I HAVE THAT SWEATER! THAT'S MY SWEATER!" Granted, the character wearing my red ribbed sweater was the stocky principal. But still!

Oh, and here is Rosie O'Donnell wearing the same sweater in black.

I may be fat, but I am glam fat, baby. Maybe some day I'll read about someone wearing Eileen Fisher clothing on Go Fug Yourself. That would be ... that would be like stardom!

P.S. My boobs are bigger than Rosie's and the stocky principal's. FYI.