Tonight when I got home I walked in with a copy of the new BNL CD, All In Good Time. (Yeah, I'll link that.) I did get a chance to read the liner notes and find the obligatory typo ([We] "use.... Yamaha Guitar's.")
What I didn't find were a lot of new songs with really dense lyrics, which made me a little sad. Old CD liners read like poetry. Still, I'm sure I'll cheer up when I hear it.
I didn't hear it tonight because I was doing my taxes, which were bad, but nowhere near as bad as I thought.
My head was full of numbers when it should have been full of music and lyrics, and I am pouty.
A few years ago, we got the S_____s a copy of The Cosby Show to add to their cache of 50s-80s family television. It's been a challenge keeping up with their desires (no witches, monsters, talking animals or PORN like Frasier).
Gary checked back with his Dad after a week and asked, "So, did you like The Cosby Show?"
"It was bad," his Dad said.
Then Gary said, "Oh! I'm sorry." Then he came home and squawked,"Who doesn't like The Cosby Show?" We had a serious discussion about the Only Type of People Who Don't Like The Cosby Show.
Gary was pretty sure his parents aren't racist. Luckily, we realized the Cosby kids sassed their parents a lot, and we know his parents don't like that back-sass. (That Darn Cat. Couldn't watch it. Too much back-sass.)
So, years passed and we mourned that his parents didn't like The Cosby Show because of the sassy kids, but we also subconsciously gave Sanford and Son, Good Times, and TheJeffersons a pass as well, just in case.
The Jeffersons was a spin-off of All In the Family, but that was tarred by association with Maude. ("Would my parents like Maude?" "Oh, yeah, Especially the ABORTION episode.") So all of the Norman Lear oeuvre was too controversial.
Gary was then surprised when his parents asked this weekend specifically to see The Jeffersons and Sanford and Son.
"But I thought you might not ... be able to relate to that. Because ... you know, you didn't like The Cosby Show."
[Flashback Music] ... [We return to the conversation years before] ...Gary asks, "So, did you like The Cosby Show?"
"It was bad," his Dad says.
[End Flashback Music]
[montage of present-day conversation with Gary waving his arms and his Dad shouting and everyone doubled over laughing]
The DVD was deficient in quality. BAD. Evidently it only played one of the episodes (which they loved, bwah, so funny).
I don't read AndriaStanley's blog because I read enough parent-oriented blogs to suit me. (And a big hello to Owen Mia Henry Leta/Marlo and Ezra. Kisses!) But I enjoy her tweets, so her lunch tweet surprised me. I said to the assemblage at TeddyJ:
"Jesus! This woman is having a baby on Twitter."
Two hours later I again said:
"Jesus! This woman is still having a baby on Twitter."
(I know it takes a while. I just didn't know I had signed up for the home birth process on Twitter. Which is great.)
Read, if you aren't following her already. (Click, if you can't see it all.)
Of course, the wonder of Twitter is the ease with which you can eavesdrop. She told a friend she plans to tweet right up to the END! But nothing since then.
We found a cookbook in which Mom stored almost all of her old driver's license or ID photos.
So, I bring you
Thirty-two years of Mom
Since obviously she was keeping them so I could step back and prepare myself.
Below: Thirty-two, just divorced. HAPPY smile.
A ten year jump to 42. I am not to blame for this photo. Mom experiments with not smiling.
Two years later the smile was back
In 1985 Drivers License Photo Technology takes a big leap forward. Mom is 49. I'm currently 47. Evidently in the next two years my chin will tighten up and my eyes will get bigger. Awesome!
At 52. Not smiling has become a requirement. I think this is the year Dad died and Mom retired.
According to the license Mom weighs 110 below. So 53 will be a big weight loss year.
Finally, at 56, Mom begins to resemble me at 47. Smiles are back! Chins are also back. Mom also discovers a way she can style her own hair, even though she can't raise her arms over her waist. Oh, and I can't wait until those glasses are back in style.
Here she is in 1995, at 59.
At 62, you will notice Mom has made a major fashion adjustment. After decades of dressing to hide her tracheotomy scar, she decides her wattle sort of drapes over it and she doesn't need to hide it with high collars. Right now I'm tempted to send this photo to work and combine it with my current face, so I can desensitize Gary for his future.
And here she is in 01, at 65, wearing my shirt.
Of course, she died at 71, but she didn't drive the last few years.
But here, just for you, an extra bonus cartoon she saved!
"Do they think we're MORONS?" That's Gary's response every time we see this Quattron Sharp commercial with George Takei.
Then we are required to point to the next yellow thing we see on screen, and gasp "Yellow! HOW DID THAT GET THERE?
The first time, I responded to Gary's "Do they think we're MORONS?" with "Tcha! Like we don't know the difference between the additive and subtractive color systems."
Subtractive: Paint. Primary colors: Red, Yellow, Blue. Yellow paint blocks all reflected light but yellow. Yellow and blue block all reflected light but a little yellow, a little blue, or green. Look at paint in a dark room. It's not a color anymore. No light to reflect.
Additive: Primary colors: Light. Red, Green, Blue. Beams of light hit our eyes.
Lookit! Green and red make yellow! The green pixel next to the red pixel beams out yellow. Yellow! You don't need a special yellow pixel, in fact, your yellow pixel is still going to be made from a mix of green and red light.
Okay, now that I typed that up, I'm going to Wikipedia to check that's right.
Okay, even though I originally switched the names, I got it right. But Wikipedia added the one part that's always puzzled me. It's all light, both beamed and reflected, why are the systems different?
"It should be noted that additive color is a result of the way the eye detects color, and is not a property of light. There is a vast difference between yellow light, with a wavelength of approximately 580 nm, and a mixture of red and green light. However, both stimulate our eyes in a similar manner, so we do not detect that difference."
Oh, now I'm off to look up subtractive color and find that OMGOMG this whole RYB primary color thing? SO eighteenth century!
"RYB (Red, Yellow, Blue) is the formerly standard set of subtractive primary colors used for mixing pigments. It is used in art and art education, particularly in painting. It predated modern scientific color theory."
"RGB is the formerly standard..." Whaaa? Are you telling me kids no longer learn Red, Green, Blue, they learn Magenta, Cyan, Yellow? Shut the fuck up!
Breaking News!-------------- Gary comes in with Starbucks and asks what I'm writing about.
Update -------------------Okay, it's half an hour later, and Gary has schooled me that there are actually four color systems, something to do with lasers and Wired magazine and mirrors.
Gary has something he wants to say:
"Ellen should do some research before she promotes herself as an expert in front of millions of people. There are a lot of things she doesn't know about emitted light, reflected light, the cones in our eyes, and so on. I have recommended a few articles she can read and make herself more knowledgeable about the subject before she expresses an opinion."
I ask, "But the Smart TV commercial is still stupid, right?"
"Oh, yes. It's completely oversimplified."
So, our perception of light is marred by the quality of light, just as your perception of Gary is marred by the filter you view him through.
"I think you are all aware that I am going to hell," Steve announced.
We all nodded our heads, because we know Steve. (You know Steve as He Who Still Has Not Manned up and eaten shredded wheat and olive oil in front of me.)
He went on, "I hear Terry has given up bacon for Lent." (Terry is Marcia's boss.) "I think that calls for an All-Bacon Food Day some time before Easter."
Consensus was that this was an excellent idea, plans were made, I KEPT A SECRET from all of you and now today was Food Day. (Really, I thought somehow the information could leak from New York, LA, and the Southern Hemisphere back to Marcia's boss Terry.)
We had lasagna (with bacon) and macaroni and cheese (with bacon) and pasta salad (with bacon), dip and cake (without bacon, she said with disGUST). I brought, of course, bacon.
Technically, it isnt just bacon, it's Pig Candy. I liked the concept of brown-sugar glazed bacon, but I cut back a bit on the cayenne. I tried a bite as soon as it was cool enough to eat. Interesting. At first bite it's crunchy and sugary but then you are eating sugar-coated candy with a chewy BACON GREASE center and then you grunt and moan and have some more.
"RIDICULOUS" is how it was described by one person at the office. She just stomped around and pointed at the bacon in her hand and hissed, "THIS IS RIDICULOUS. How did you make this?"
"Well, you cover bacon with two inches of brown sug ... " I remembered she's given up sweets for Lent.
She hissed and pointed at ME. I took it as a warning.
"It's just bacon."
"Good girl," she nodded.
Christ and His Mother protected Terry, who was out of the office for most of the day today, but he appreciated the attempt to corrupt him. I suppose I can make him some Pig Candy to try after Easter. You should find an excuse to make this, too. It's good. (grunts)
This are my new green glasses. The Hot Assistant took the photo; I was hoping there was a good reflection of her in the glasses but no such luck.
I Make aNEW Taste Friend
I can't count the times CatherineG has mentioned she's had quinoa for lunch. Or, "Kwee-no-na," as I read it, with a midwestern twang. I've seen it in the store. I was never motivated to buy it. I have better butter /salt delivery systems. Grits. Well, now the TeddyJ Cafe serves both grits and quinoa. (Luckily Anne was nearby knew it was pronounced "keen-wa", because I was pointing at it stammering, ""Kwee- Kween ... ")
They've served red quinoa, which is like sprouted or exploded brown rice, then a lemongrass-infused white quinoa. Tasty.
NEW BNL Album Out in Canada
The Barenaked Ladies community is buzzing about "All in Good Time," which released today in Canada, and I think next Tuesday in America. People have been compiling songlists and debunking links to leaks. They've already heard a huge part of the album, the band's been playing the songs on the road. Well, today, people were promised downloads which didn't materialize immediately and they were outraged. I swing the other way. I want to keep away from the songs until I can sit down and listen to them all in order, with the liner notes so I can read along. (And check for typos.) "LALALALALALALALA" I say. It needs to be a treat. In fact, there are several entire BNL songs I've never heard because they aren't on an album, and while I know just where to get them, I don't want to hear them. I want to save them for later, to raise me out of a coma or something, I don't know why.
Gary and I both had to be awake this moning for 8:30 appointments. Mine was to see my neurologist (not the one I saw Friday) about this swallowing / choking issue. (When I told Gary why I'd made the appointment, he said, "No way! I've been having trouble swallowing lately too!")
So the doctor made me chug a glass of water, asked me if my singing voice had changed, and determined I am fine. Then he asked if I've been getting enough sleep. "When did you get to bed last night?"
"When did you get to sleep?"
"When did you wake up?"
"When do you wake up on a normal day?"
"Gary always sets the alarm for five."
Then I explained that I should have gotten six hours of sleep, from 11 to 5, and that Gary needs either six or nine hours of sleep, but never eight, because it causes neurological problems for him.
What I didn't explain was that Gary spent 1:15-2 am watching "Hunt for Red October" on the new speakers full blast because, say it with me, it's his birthday month. And "Hunt For Red October" -- you just never see that movie on TV. To be fair, he did scream, "For God's sake let me just finish this scene" every time I complained, so he had good intentions.
The doctor told me what I needed to do was get eight hours of sleep and have my husband change his behavior. These were his recommendations, in order:
Tell Gary I need my sleep Tell Gary I need my sleep because this is unacceptable Tell Gary sweetly I need my sleep Just, sit him down and reason with him Sit Gary down and tell him this is my health and this is serious and to take pity on me
Instead I left Gary an email reading "I just got back from the doctor. We need to talk."
That backfired, because when Gary heard we needed to have a serious talk about sleeping habits he started to laugh.
So, I have to do my part, I have to get to bed ... five minutes ago.
Somewhere in MiddleSex there is a German word that describes the way the middle-aged avoid mirrors. I was confronted with unexpected mirrors all day today.
First, I was at Snooty West County Hair Salon getting a hair cut from [Hot] Steve. I focused my pupils on his face in the mirror, but there were a few times I had to look at myself.
Worse, I went right next door to get an eye exam (my second in four days), then to pick out glasses. Mirrors to the left of me, mirrors behind the glasses. Mirrors flat on the counter, up against my face, hidden in the paneling. I didn't know how to position myself.
Plus, I had to look directly at my face in a variety of glasses. Somehow I narrowed it down to three pair and had the assistant choose for me. They are metallic green. I know. (Not to be posted today, but I have a photo of the glasses on my face. Looking at the photo would be exactly like looking in a mirror, and I have had enough of that.)
(I wish I could have someone make a mask of what I'll look like at seventy. I could wear it for a week, then strip it off and feel really good about myself.)
I forgot a package at the glasses store and sent Gary to pick it up.
He brought the package home and said, "THOSE WOMEN AT THAT PLACE ARE SO HOT."
"I know. I had to look at one of them, then at me, then back at her. On and on."
"And the women at your hair salon next door are hot too!"
"I know! I feel like another species."
I need to hang out with some old ugly people. Walmart sells glasses.
So, a few weird things happened Friday (you know, back when we had the old, antiquated pre-reform health care) during the Day of the Doctors.
First off, I saw the retina doctor for my clinical trial eye-checkup.
"Have you had any eye disturbances?" he asked.
If he had asked me 24 hours before, I could have said no. But at lunch Thursday I sat facing the window and noticed there was an arc of prisms on the top right half of my right eye. A little like when you look through beveled glass, edges don't line up. So there was a jagged arc of color. For 20 minutes. Freaky. A friend said it might be cataracts.
I answered, "There was an arc of prisms in my ey -"
"Oh no, my head never hurt. It was -"
"You can have just an ocular migraine. They always usually look like that, a jagged arc."
Now, look here, I thought, we should just nip this in the bud, because we can't be having migraines, ocular or otherwise.(To be more exact, I articulated my denial in my inner monologue as: fuck you, fuck you, fuck any fucking migraine, fuck you and your migraine fucking father.) So I shuttled that right into the Denial Lobe.
Then, while I waited for doctor number three (neurologist) I thumbed through his book on headaches, where on a random page was Figure One: Migraine Images. Look! Jagged arcs on the upper right of the visual field. Fucking doctor leaving out a fucking book full of fucking lies. You won't see that now that healthcare has passed.
Then the neurologist checked my spasticity and asked, "Have you been feeling clumsiness in your right leg?"
Then he wrote down "RL: spastic!" Fucker! Pre-reformation fucker! Thank God they passed health care so I don't have to put up with any more of this.
He also made the mistake of handing me my checklist on which he had written even more lies, like "brainstem involvement" and "dysphagia" (inability to sit at your desk and swallow you own spit without having it trickle into your lungs and make your legs kick out from under you and alarm your cubemates for three days in a row).
So earlier tonight I was thinking about this migraine lie and this brainstem lie and this dysphagia lie, and Patient's Rights and my rights to not have doctors lie about me, and I decided if President Obama did actually sign the bill into law I could stand up to these doctors, and I could go to my non-clinical trial neurologist and say, "So, I have this vision disturbance that happened once and this little choking thing that happened three times, and maybe you and I can work on nipping these things in the bud."
And then because the bill will have been signed and my doctor is no longer a slave to these oppressive malpractice rules he can say, "Oh, let's not even worry about those things; I'm sure they will never happen again." He will not be a fucker because we have a new health-care paradigm.
Because healthcare that tosses out words like "dysphagia" and "migraine" and "Tourettes" without any consequence is not my idea of quality healthcare.
Step One: Assemble your ingredients and materials and Templates of Rounditude.
Step Two: Fashion the Cofferdams
Step Three: Make the base crust and paint it with egg white
Step Four: Clean Your Oven (Optional)
Step Five: Pre-bake the crust for a mere twenty minutes when it should have been much longer
Step Six: See With Dismay that AN ENTIRE COFFERDAM HAS COLLAPSED. Ah, the humanity. Carefully pull out the failed cofferdam and all the foil trusses.
Step Seven: Fill with black berry, peach, and strawberry filling. Make what you think are cunning decorative strips.
Step Eight: because the Pie Filling warns against opening the oven door, do not open the door until the buzzer goes off and you see the Eye of Sauron, or the Raspberry Beret, or the PiePie of Infection.
Summary: I don't like canned fruit-filled pies, but Gary claims to like them, even if they have pallid armpits of half-baked pie dough buried in the interior. His mother is baking him a full fresh blackberry pie from the Elvis cookbook for him to eat tomorrow. I will not fare well in the comparison.
Now, I'm wondering if I can get frozen graham cracker crusts aluminum pie pans in various sizes (or make my own), then fill the largest 1/3rd full with a frozen filling, freeze it, place a smaller crust on top of that, fill it with another partial layer, freeze that, and then continue on.
It seems like this week intends to teach me when and how to Cut My Losses.
Gary and I were having some trouble whipping up a proper birthday frenzy for him. Even he recognized every day is his birthday in his Birthday Month.
So, how to make Saturday special? Gary first suggested I make him some Elvis Food from Are You Hungry Tonight? then I offered a Cake, or a CakePie, or a PieCake.
"You know what I want," he said ominously.
"What's next. What. Comes. Next."
"I don't know.What?"
We tossed around this idea until it became a disintegrating ball of filth, but he's still interested. At one point he said, so, you take the smaller inner pie, then glaze it with brown sugar, cook that till it forms a crust, then put that into the larger pie.
I think an easier fix is I need to take a Hostess Fruit Pie, dip it in candy at the hard ball stage, let it cool, then plant it into another pie.
Or, I could go with two fairly dry crusty-pies. Perhaps a pecan pie for the outer pie and a fluffy chocolate mousse pie for the inner pie. Those would be open-top pies, unlike the hidden Blueberry Hostess Pie inside the, shall we say, peach pie?
Or a filled croissant dipped in caramel dropped into a half-set bowl of Jello. To show my Love. I could call it "Pieglycerides."
Electronics makers have known for decades about "single event upsets," computer errors from radiation created when cosmic rays strike the atmosphere.
With more than 3,000 complaints to U.S. regulators of random sudden acceleration problems in Toyota models, several researchers say single event upsets deserve a close look.
The phenomenon can trigger software crashes that come and go without a trace. Unlike interference from radio waves, there's no way to physically block particles; such errors typically have to be prevented by a combination of software and hardware design.
And an anonymous tipster told NHTSA last month that "the automotive industry has yet to truly anticipate SEUs."
Yes. Cosmic rays. Solution? Only take your car out on overcast days, the clouds will block the particles.
Now, if I find myself unable to prevent a sudden acceleration, I have a Three-Part Plan.
A. If possible, find an unused airport runway and drive in circles.
B. Find a muddy field, drive into mud until wheels spin and car is axle-deep in mud. Then just step casually out of car, which will eventually run out of gas.
It occurs to me this would have been easy enough to implement in Speed, come to think of it.
C. The nice thing about choice B is that the car is not damaged. Choice C is to roll down the windows and drive the car into a lake. Of course, the insurance company might balk at paying to replace a car I drove into a lake. I would plea self-defense and see how far it got me.
NOW, if the car in question is a Prius, I have another option: Throw the car into B.
Now, I could shift into N for neutral. But it seems to me B is there just for this situation. Any day now Toyota will say, "Why hasn't anyone been using the B gear? This never happens in the B gear!"
(Evidently it's the extra-regenerative braking gear for long hills.)
So, if you had taken a practice test and got a 96% - would you take it again so you could potentially get 100%, or would you cut your losses? I'm cutting my losses. I'm riding the high of the 96%, at least for tonight. Woo. I am a genius. Bow to me. Lie to me. Step right up, tonight's the night I'm accepting lies.
My brain is shut off as of 10pm Central Standard Time. The Daily Show is requiring a level of concentration beyond me.
Luckily I filled out my census form before my brain was fractioned and divvied and "shorted" to death. People in house? Two! Gary, 56, white, done! Ellen, 47, white, done! Two old white folks in the house! Making our voices heard in Washington.
And oh, the HELL. Daily Show interview is about the stock market. I have to concentrate again.
After all the back and forth about the triglycerides between the doctor's office and the neurologist's office, it seems my general physician has decided I don't need a test right now, I can wait until my regularly scheduled physical in June.
But, till then I should watch what I eat and drink so "we" can get those triglycerides down.
Please, Doctor. Puh-leezee. Do you think my cognitive abilities have declined so much? Do you think I will diet until June? Do you not know it is the Birthday Month?
I was telling Steve at work about my viscous fatty blood, and his problem is he doesn't have enough of the good cholesterol, which he says can be found in olive oil. He deals with his cholesterol problem by drizzling olive oil on everything, particularly:
Dry Kellog's Frosted Mini-Wheats.
"You LIE," I said, and tried to shake the idea out of my head.
"No, really. It's good,"
Then he went on to tell me peanut butter, olive oil, banana and American cheese sandwiches were good, too. What will become of me if I start watching my diet? Will I be driven to eat this twisted desperate crap?
Hi. If ever asked again, I hate winter. Winter and everything about it. (Except icicles. The new gutters fashion lovely icicles. LeafGuard. FYI if you are an icicle fan.)
Today, however, it was windy and 74 (seventy-four) degrees. Can I get an amen.
Tomorrow will be even better, because it will be in the seventies and overcast, and perhaps even rainy. Not only have we outlasted the cold but that damn annoying sun will be gone too. I hate the sun. It's so unrelenting. Give me a little fog, some clouds, some low-def. I'm the mom in Long Days Journey Into Night except without the morphine addiction. (A secret: sometimes I really do go without my glasses around the house, just like Mary.)
The cold tightens my muscles, the sun shrinks me, but a warm, overcast spring day makes me expand and get all soft and floppy. (This is no doubt what has given rise to my triglycerides.)
I got a call from the clinical trial nurse. My triglycerides are 250. I must contact my primary physician, she said. Why? I thought. Aren't I always 250? 250 sounds right. Quit snooping around in my blood for problems. Besides, that blood wasn't fasting blood, it was Bissinger's-McDonald's 60% milkfat blood. You could spread that blood on toast.
Today I got a call from the primary physician's office. Evidently, the neurologist called them to check up on this triglyceride level issue. My hackles raised as high as my triglycerides.
"THEY called you? To make sure I called you?" I demanded to know.
The nurse said, "Yes. I don't know why your neurologist is concerned about your cholesterol, but they wanted to make sure you came in and got it checked out."
"Oh, they want to make sure this new drug doesn't cause high cholesterol," I grumbled. "Aren't I usually 250 anyway?"
She checked. "Nope. 150." Sigh. Fine. I promised to call back tomorrow and make an appointment. And I will. Because I am Spartacus. But hear ye, I am Grumpy High-fat Spartacus.
At one point I went home and sang "If You Want My Love" to Mac the Dog. I got to "I won't throw, your love, a-wayyyy ... oooo!" He howled along on the "oooo." It's an excellent sing- screech-along CD.
So I sang myself out with Cheap Trick, admitted I cannot sing, decided to listen, and switched Cheap out with my new Art of Time Ensemble CD featuring the-former-lead-singer-of-BNL, Steven Page. (After his solo album comes out this summer I shall call him the-former-lead-singer-of-The-Art-of-Time-Ensemble.)
Evidently The Art of Time Ensemble will pick a favorite Canadian recording singer, ask him or her to choose songs to cover, and play new arrangements of the music while the singer sings. I say "evidently" because I cannot say "definitively" because The Art of Time Ensemble does not have a Wikipedia page. I swear they still exist. The CD is on Wikipedia, and in my car, I can prove it.
Every day I have picked a favorite song I set on Repeat. Last Friday it was The Divine Comedy's "Tonight We Fly," a perfect song to hear when I top my favorite hill. ("Tonight we fly / over the mountains, the beach and the sea ... and when we die/ Oh, will we be that disappointed or sad / If heaven doesn't exist / What will we have missed / This life is the best we've ever had.")
On the other hand, yesterday and today it was "I Want You" originally by Elvis Costello. Not easy listening. Pain listening. Intense emotional pain listening. Here, listen. Scroll to the bottom and listen to the I Want You sample. And why would I want to listen to a betrayed man snarling about his betrayal? Because I spent all day yesterday and today studying this:
PACs (planned amortization class) are CMOs insulated from prepayment risk by "swing" tranches called companions or support bonds, which are retired before PACs if prepayments are high, and after PACs if prepayments are low.
Can I hear a woo-hoo. I don't think I can be faulted for listening to emotional songs, or for assuming every Prius in my rear-view mirror is accelerating toward me, or for taking a break to alert my office that Lindsay Lohan is suing E*Trade because we are supposedly all accusing her of being a milkaholic. (I assume her lawyers are bored as well.)
I realized today that when people are bored with work, they seek out emotion and drama. So, from that analysis, what do we know? We know we need to get Gary into a more exciting job. I'll be just like Gary after a few more weeks of studying, and then I'll come home and gesticulate wildly about the "dismembered foot" (shoe) I saw on the side of the highway past my favorite hill.
I've learned to love on-line shared experiences. Loved the Olympic Hockey game on Twitter. Loved that the BNL drummer shared this with us on Twitter after (and use that little rotate button asap):
And I followed the GFY women's live blog of the Boob Parade, and we all got together to watch the TsunamiNon wash over Hilo.
So here's the global event of the day:
Everyone has twittered or blogged about getting the SAME FORM LETTER from the U.S. government in the mail. We all got the letter on the same day. Our Government Can Do Anything (except provide health care for its citizens like every other civilized country).
And then we ALL said, "Dumbasses, why are you wasting money on a letter telling me I'll be getting something in the mail?" We all practically said it in unison.
But, Citizens, is it not wonderful we all get to share this, even without Twitter or Facebook? I love this! I love the idea that some time in the next few weeks, everyone in the US will be filling out the very same form.
And I say it calls for series of parties, like when everyone in the US was watching the final episode of M*A*S*H and there were "MASH Bashes." We need a big Census party night, or Census t-shirts.
I don't recall being this enthused about the 1990 or 2000 census. Hm. (Oh - Gary explains that "we were so caught up in our luuuuv." So that explains it.)
Due to some strange prioritizations and poor time management today, I am currently deep into Tivo time. And, the longer Gary stays in the bathroom, the deeper I get.
In my time-space continuum, it is 11:30 Central time and Push* has just won best screen play and supporting actress. I have another hour or more to go, but I really should go to bed. It's been hard enough to avoid Twitter and Yahoo. I know the alarm will wake me up tomorrow and spoil the "surprise" of Push* winning Best Picture.
* Damn confusing name. I meant Precious. It's one a.m. now. That's what happens when you give a movie an unwieldy name.
Next morning: Oh, I was very wrong.
P.S. Miss the Oscars? You missed Charlize Theron's interpretation of what would happen if Jr. High boys with crayons got hold of a photo of her:
Though it is Gary's Birthday Month, I have a fever, and fever tops Birthday Month, unless it extends to a weekend, in which case only open wounds top Birthday Month. This explains why Gary brought home pre-cooked three-cheese pasta from the grocery.
He let me eat it in bed, but I couldn't eat all of it. I set it aside and rested my eyes for a few moments. When I opened them I saw him feeding the dog three-cheese pasta off the fork.
I thought, "He thinks I can't see what he's doing."
"Ellen, Look at this!" he cried, "Mac eats food right off the fork! THAT'S why sometimes he doesn't eat his dinner ever though I've topped it with pulled pork or kosher hot dogs - he wants to be fed off a fork!"
I chose my battle. "Could the dog have his own fork?"
"Why? I'm sure he wants a clean fork just like us, out of the dishwasher."
So not even an assigned dog fork, because you know, we might contaminate it with our human cooties.
Oh, this makes no sense to me, but I've been running a fever since last Friday. I take my temperature randomly and it always seems to be about 100, high above my usual 97.
There has been a symphony of sneezing and coughing in my cube farm at TeddyJ. Iv'e been avoiding everyone, even to the point of leaving the lunch table because I felt a light mist from the mucus spray.
The bad thing about this is: I need to do things that require a non-inflamed brain. I need to retain arcane bits of securities information. I need to pay the taxes. I need to plan vacations and get on some type of airline rewards/miles gravy plane program. Oh, and I need to plan my 25th wedding anniversary.
I've gone all over the map on what to do for this. Do I put my wedding dress on a mannequin as an artful display? Do I wear my dress unzipped in the back with a white tshirt underneath? Do I trash my dress and set it on fire? Will the party be catered? (Yes.) Will people be required to wear hats? (Yes.) Can people wear jeans? (Yes.)
Right now I have a fever, so in my mind it's at my house, with the wedding video playing in a loop in the background, with a catering company there passing about mincy tea cakes and making people feel uncomfortable, and I'm barefoot and wearing my unzipped wedding dress, which gets melted chocolate and hot tea down the front. But it isn't like the dog's going to use it, because he's a male and has a tux already.
Oh! So this is genius! As a party favor people get to snip off a piece of my wedding dress and take it home with them. And some cake. And a wee silver ingot for everyone!
This is after three Advil, by the way.
OH AND GARY. Gary needs to see if there's a Kill Bill XBox 360 game, so he could take his avatar and kick The Bride's ass. Maybe HE could wear the dress. OR THE VEIL if nothing ELSE. And somehow we have to throw china or crystal into the fireplace.
I need to check Miss Manners and see if it's tacky to throw yourself a 25th wedding anniversary party. Oops! Fever must have broken.
Where Are They Now: socks edition. The cashmere socks have been the first to pill. Pantherella is sturdy but artificial and rubbery, plus they collect dry skin AND do not even give it up when washed. Wigwam of course met an early demise, so it seems Smartwools are in the lead.
Where Are They Now: babka edition. I folded the last babka and doubled the chocolate. Bad, gummy, bitter babka. I'm going backwards on the babka.
Where Are They Now, bears edition. Bears are still hanging out in the newly organized great room. One's on the mantel, one's on the lamp.
Olympics - I loved watching the US-Canadian Men's Hockey Game on Twitter. Like being at a global party you could attend in your guest bed. I especially loved it since I have a higher than usual Canadian following from the BNL connection.
Ligit - Right now this is buried in the most popular Ligit searches on the right:
masturbate masturbated masturbating
I can't help but think, "will be masturbating, will have masturbated, will have been masturbating." Or "masturbassimo, masturbassimus."
I dialed up Gary this evening at work, because my work mates all have mushy conversations with their spouses, and they all know I eavesdrop. (If it's a private conversation, go somewhere private, otherwise I won't play that game where I pretend to be temporarily deaf.) So they deserve some payback.
"So, what do you want to do tonight? Cuddle on the couch? Have a nice dinner? Enjoy our wonderful stereo system?"