Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

A Tenous Memorial Day Connection

I tell you, I have done nothing this weekend but study, and worry that I'm not studying. That's how I've honored our late soldiers. But - three more chapters and I'm done learning, then I'll have three solid weeks to memorize and run trial tests.

Until then, I have to find my little nuggets of wonder when I can.

The other morning I woke up to a Local NPR station as it was asking a question I've often wondered about: how did they get that great video footage of the ships in Pearl Harbor being bombed? Was it like Kennedy, when someone with a camera was there at the "right" time?

Evidently not, and soon an audio link to that episode of "St Louis on the Air" will show up here. Evidently the footage we see every Dec. 7th was made by a Hollywood director a few weeks later. He planned to weave it into a movie with a morality tale involving Uncle Sam and his conscience, which, sadly, was cut, because can you imagine? I'm picturing a triple feature with Plan 9 and Reefer Madness.

Again, I was half asleep so that whole Uncle Sam thing could have been the REMs talking.

Update: Oh, no, it wasn't.I must find this movie.

Return of the Big House Dream

(If you don't know, Gary has a recurring dream in which he lives in a big house. I keep track in the category "Life in the Big House." Sometimes, they're obvious, sometimes not. Last night's was obvious.)

Gary said when he woke up, "Oh, I had a Big House dream last night!"

"Oh, good. It's been a long time since you've had the Big House dream."

"This time, we owned this big house and you sold it out from under me because there was this little bungalow you wanted. You didn't ask, you just sold it."

I thought, "Yeah probably because I had to clean the big house." I said, "Well, I like bungalows."

He went on, "You were all excited because this new house was a French Bungalow and there was a hammock in one of the rooms."

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

I KNOW. Why didn't he just say I sold the Big House to the Travelocity Gnome?

A Look Back at Stupid Things I Said This Month

Or, for followers of The Daily Show, "Roll 220!" This may need to become a monthly feature. I just went back and checked a post from May 2, in which I schemed and planned, and was Lady Bountiful.

==================================
Original Scheme:
Plans for mid-May: Go to the BNL concert in Louisville. Stay in a hotel where the first floor bathrooms mirrors are inlaid with videos of eyes.

How It Was:
Those eyes in the mirrors? They are eyes of blind darts players at a blind darts player's dart club. It just adds a whole creepy factor, like "Feel comfortable about these men in the bathroom, it's okay, these MEN are BLIND." Generally though, an excellent vacation.

==================================
Original Scheme:
Plans for early June: go to Tulsa for a BNL concert and stay at the historic Mayo hotel, where they will give us chocolate-covered strawberries

How It Was:
It was an excellent scheme. Here's where it all "gang aft agley" - BNL canceled the concert, which was to be June 1. But HAH, cruel gods, turns out I get to spend June 1 in the TeddyJ (air-conditioned) Luxury Box at Busch Stadium planting my large buttocks in leather-bound seats and supplying said large buttocks with nachos. Because Teddy loves my department this month.

==================================
Original Scheme:
Plans for the rest of the year: Gary suggests he might want to go to Paris, liar.

How It Was:
Gary has finished jacking me around. It looks like it's Paris. Not so much that I'd buy an air ticket, but enough that I'm going to schedule vacation time.

=============================
Original Lady Bountiful statement:
[Regarding universal healthcare] "'I got mine, I worked hard for mine, you shouldn't get yours' makes no sense to me."

I was talking about universal healthcare, but I was thinking about V.I.P. concert seating, too. You pay four times what the guy standing 5 inches from you paid. Or, if you really want to get sick about it, you pay over one thousand dollars and the Wad next to you thanks you for paying for his seat. 

Follow that link, it's great. But here's a synopsis:

Nice Guy: " ...after being unemployed for 8 months I scored a new job ... I decided to treat myself to something special, a VIP ticket to an upcoming Bon Jovi show ... The price tag, $1100."

Mr Wad sits next to Nice Guy and says he "was given free tickets by the management team and that people like me pay for his tickets. ... He said that by me essentially buying 10-12 tickets it allows them to give freebies out. "

Concert-goers and plane travelers all steel ourselves for this situation, to a lesser degree. "This guy next to me who won a free vacation was lucky." Or, "This guy who scored just-issued tickets on Ticketmaster today was lucky." That's fine, because I'm lucky. I've just been lolling through life, and luck just falls in my lap, like long-lost dead Masonic uncles-in-law, and other things I won't list because you hate me for it already anyway, I know you do. So, luck got you a free ticket directly, luck got me $240 which I used for my ticket, we're even.

But how would that play for our poor Nice Guy above? Could he say to The Wad, "Ah, how nice that you know someone on the management team! Lucky you!" And then think smugly, "And I was lucky enough to find a new job which will support me well after your friends on the management team realize you, sir, are A Wad."

And it occurs to me that Mr. Wad should have just not crowed about his good luck, and if I did that, I wouldn't have a blog. Hm. I will have to start paying attention to any bad luck so I can report on it.

We'll Always Have Paris. Maybe. No We Won't. Or Maybe Not. (?)

When Gary first mentioned Paris, I tempered my reaction. I was prepared for his mind to change. After I quizzed him a few times, he seemed stable, so I mentioned it to you all.

Then, I brought home a French phrasebook to gauge his reaction. He responded favorably, in fact he suggested we speak nothing but French at home for a weekend in the future.

That made me confident enough to look at plane fares. (Amazingly cheap.)

Gary even told his family, and they were surprised and puzzled but accepting.

I looked at hotel prices.

Last weekend, Gary went to visit his parents, and when he came back said, "I think we should re-think this Paris thing."

Again, I tempered my reaction. "Well, that's interesting.What made you change your mind?"

"Terrorists, you know, and the volcano, and the oil spill."

I was prepared to say reasonably, "Well, whatever you want, hon, it's your anniversary too," but - "OIL SPILL?"

"I dont know, it just seems like an omen."

"What did your Mom say to you?"

"Nothing, it just doesn't seem like the year to visit Paris. We can go later. How about Alaska? Or the Grand Canyon?" (The Grand Canyon, or as Steve at work described it, "A hole. Versus Paris." -- Weighs imaginary choices in hands-- "Hole. Paris.")

So, I priced Alaskan cruises, and found a nice hotel on Vancouver Island, and the next day Gary came home and said,

"So, how do you feel about Alaska? Would you rather go to Alaska or Pa-"

"Paris."

So that's where it stands. Sure, it sounds great having the chance to go to Alaska or Paris. Well, not so much when your husband likes to make his decisions by talking himself out of them.

I am married to Petruchio.

Deceitful Dots!

I noticed a while ago I had picked up some International Dots. (Not to freak out any newcomers, but each of you shows up as a tiny dot in Google Analytics and (on a short-term basis) in the Ligit Visitors Map to the right. It allows me to think of you fondly, as in "Well, Hello Big Dot in B________! How YOU doin' today?")

She's shy, so no one stare at Big Dot in New Zealand.

 

And dont get excited, that's two months worth of visits and it includes people looking for "Spunky Labia" and the flavor of the month, "Hole In Labia." (It is an epidemic, I tell you. Keep an eye out for it.)

I know some dots are random searches, but you can sort by Bounce Rate and visit length and I began to notice that some people were out there in Europe, actually spending whole minutes here.

Someone from Abovyan, Armenia.

"No way," I said , "Armenia?"

And some other person from Agdam, Azerbaijan. And then Aguilares, Argentina!

I noticed a trend. No flies on me! (Just a little American idiom for you folks in the Antilles.)

It made me doubt the validity of the Anchorage, Alaska dot.

There were some dots where the region didn't start with A, but the city did. More A's than one would expect. Like a conspiracy of As.

So, I can only guess that there's some service where you can pick a fake IP from a list? And this person is too lazy to scroll past the A's?

Girlfriend, I'll respect your privacy, but switch to the Zs. It'll make me laugh.

DoppleCosby

About two and a half years ago I mentioned in this blog I had done something so stupid at work that I could not blog it. Now I have to blog it because it serves as preface to my most recent stupid work idiocy.

One of my duties at work is to select photo images for our training. I go through our purchased stock of photos and select images of Clients Doing A, and Employees Doing B, and Clients Doing C, etc.. (Yes! I am purposefully vague.)

In one of my first attempts I selected a photo of an African-American employee doing B, and then I needed to find a photo of the same woman in different attire doing D, on a different day. Anddddd... you already know what I did. I tell you I studied those photos; they both looked like the same African-American woman to me. Buuuut ... then my team saw them and asked, who is that woman, that second African-American woman, why didn't you use another photo of the same woman from in the first photo? And I showed them how the hairlines matched, and the eyes, and the ears, and they said, you are on crack, and then I was teased mercilessly.

Thankfully I had also selected a photo of Caucasian Woman Doing A and Caucasian Woman Doing C, and when I discovered that those were again not one but two seperate but similar pretty women, both with white shirts and hair in a ponytail, I sent out a group email proclaiming that I was not a bigot, only a moron, thank you.

So, on to last Friday. I have pretty much been taken off the photo-selection part of my job, so Steve sent me this photo to use.

I sent Steve back a courteous message asking why he was sending me an image of Bill Cosby.

"That is not Bill Cosby. Stop it." Steve replied.

I replied with, "Yes, it is," and attached this image.

"Look at the eyes and eyebrows and lips. That's a young Bill Cosby. Ask our team leader." I slapped that Send button. Steve is difficult sometimes.

Steve sent back: "No. Linda agrees. It. Is. Not. Bill. Cosby. Stop it."  
  
I dragged Gary into it. Gary emailed back that you can tell by the ear, and then I posited this was really an image shot from his other side, and then flipped, so it was a different ear.

Of course, the next Monday, I looked at the photo and it was obviously not Bill Cosby. (Steve had posted the dual photo on his wall so I couldn't help but notice it.)

So today at lunch, I said to Friend 2, "Steve sent me this image, and I think I need to take it to the neurologist, because I was convinced it was Bill Cosby."

Libby swallowed her bite and said, "Oh yeah, we've used that image in our department. People in the testing labs ask us if that's Bill Cosby."

Sweet sweet relief. I tell you. That Friday I'd had my MRI up in the illuminator, studying it to see if I'd had a past lesion that took out my fusiform face area.

Steve is still insisting we use Bill Cosby's doppleganger in our training, but I don't care.  I've warrned them.

In Which We Return to the Days of Old

You have Friends 2 and 4 to thank for alerting me that I had done something to Typepad that shunned them if they were too lazy to didn't feel like entering an email address, hidden to the world though it was . Essentially, they didn't want ME to have their email addresses.

Eventually I found that I had done something to the comment settings that set us all on the road to Typepad World Domination. And it is gone now! Comment away in anonymity if you have been hesitant.

This Is My Rock and Roll Lifestyle

First off, I woke up today at 10:00 in the morning.

(I was planning to go to bed last night at 9, but then Gary cooed,

"Tudors?"

... so I got my laptop and we watched The Tudors, the only show we watch with Wikipedia.

The first time we watched it the Queen was Catherine Howard, and I remembered teaching my 9th graders she was ditzy and had slumber parties at the palace. Evidently that gave me credibilty and Gary now thinks I know who all these people are.  Wikipedia helps, as does my beloved The History of England in Words of One Syllable.)

So, when I saw it was 10:00, I hurled myself through the shower and closet in one fluid motion to the car, where I discovered I was low on gas.

 

The end of the road was at least three miles away at this point, and the Mini tells me I can make it one mile.

Happily, I live on a hill, so I turned off the air conditioner and coasted.

Still, this was how it read at the pump:

 

I felt very rock-and-roll. I felt Fountains of Wayne should write a song about my morning. Something with my Mini having two doors, and Tudors, and hitting the wood floors, and floor boards.

(P.S. Does it bother anyone else when there is a fire crackling in the hearth on The Tudors? With the new Valentine's Day Speaker System it sounds like my kitchen's on fire.)

Sunday, Bullety Sunday

• So, I have had 6000 + more minutes of life in my life more than the people who watched Lost. Sadly, I've spent it studying for my exam, due at the end of June.
• A few weeks ago, we were talking about people working as models in their teens. Gary wrapped up the discussion, saying,
  "Well, I never saw a dime from my modeling experience."    
  "  ... Wait, what?" I said after a moment.
  Turns out he and some girl from marching band posed with their trumpets and a spit valve cover. (I've already tried hunting it down on Google, no luck.) Twenty-five years and he's still full of surprises.
• Gary came back from the in-laws with news that our sister-in-law plans to make her Feral Cats "legal." ("She's going to adopt them? Put them in her will?") No, they need shots and collars and microchips to be "legal." But, they're still too feral to go to the vet. So the mountain is coming to Mewhammad: she's found a vet who will come out to her house and make honest cats of them. I don't know what to think about this. It seems fraught with potential poetic justice.

Fellow Traveler

Hoover identified five types of Communists.

1. The card-carrying Communist
2. The underground Communist
3. The Communist sympathizer
4. The fellow traveler, someone not a potential Communist but nevertheless who may hold views shared by Communists
5. The dupes

I have to say, were I a Communist, I would be a fellow traveler, because I like travel just that much.

It seems that travel makes your spouse more loyal. I read this interesting article regarding commitment. The part that struck me was that scientists "theorize that couples who explore new places and try new things will tap into feelings of self-expansion, lifting their level of commitment." I never feel closer to Gary than when we've mastered the public transit in a new town. I don't know how Gary feels, but for me it's better than sex, because there's no bladder infection.

I know I've felt that same commitment to people with whom I've cruised. I've become brand loyal to a number of bands just because they were on the BNL Ships & Dip cruise. I bought the Gaelic Storm without having heard the band or any song by the band because they were "on the cruise." I never heard a note from them on the cruise (other things to listen to), but I wanted to buy their CD and the Carbon Leaf CD. Because I slept with them on a boat.

Of course, my strongest loyalty is to those who have been to other planets. What will I do if someday a clinically depressed person runs for public office? And what if he's just a real ass, like Rand Paul? And would Rand been named Ayn if he was a girl? You know he would.

Art: A is for Art

The art at the Musée Des Beaux Urinoir was remarkable.  There was an exhibit of portraiture, and I found out I love Chuck Close.  I'd think, "Ooo, I love that," then look for the name, and it would be Chuck Close.

All the art was whimsical or interactive or fun, just as you'd want in a hotel.

 What Are These? Moles? Voles?

This elevator wall was popular: By the elevators you would see a digital reflection of yourself, and if you stayed still long enough a poem rained down on you. But then your elevator would come.

"... each part of my body turns to verb ..." Verb?

Yeah, so that's a bunny.

The poofs of smoke from these looked like jellyfish

  

 That's Barack in the Lobby.

But this was the best part. I found this the floor below the elevators. It's a room papered in black-light flocked wallpaper.

That door I'm opening isn't supposed to open. It was locked the next time I tried it. But the surprise wasn't behind the door, it was around the corner.

The wallpapered room was created by Virgil Marti ...

... my Senior Prom Date.

 

Virgil and I, at Prom. Really, that's me, when I was a third my age and half my size.

I gasped four times in a row when I saw his name. Some Very Serious Art Lover had to leave the room when I started squeeing. Suck it, Serious Art Guy. Quit trying to commune with my prom date!
 
 I've mentioned him before; here's the silkscreen he made of me in high school.

The funny thing was, I kept thinking even before I got there, that this was the type of place Virgil should display his work. It's ironic and edgy and a comment on middle-class kitsch. My guess is that I subliminally saw this room on the web page for the hotel, subconsciously associated it with the work I'd read about that he'd done with wallpaper, and was driven to book this hotel.

It's like my mind created a little surprise for me! Oh, senility will be fun.

Amenities: A is for Amenities

There look on Gary's face when I ensconce him in a nice hotel room is priceless. Well, technically it's usually about $300.00 a night, but it is worth it. The relief, the relaxation, the knowledge we will not discover the door lock doesn't work when we are visited at 4 am by a drunk (Motel 6, 1987).

The thesis of the hotel is that it's a museum and hotel. At first I thought, "Oh, it's From The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler," but no, there are actual rooms, with the usual hotel amenities.

Gary traditionally tries to put on a disappointed face about the flat screen, but he can't.

 

You know it's an arty hotel when they suspend the TV from the ceiling so there are no exposed wires.

The best thing about the TV? Look at this reflection of me taking a photo:

 

Look! It's one of those magic high-tech flat-screen TVs that make your reflection look like you almost have a shape again. I hear those cost, like, an extra five grand.

Gary: "It's not 1024/820 p per pixel high-tech-def 1020 res blah! gibberish like ours is at home."

Me: "Well. Fuck it then. Let's leave."

It was then we discovered one of the many enjoyable things you can do in a nice hotel room is to curse about it.

"Oh, look Gary, they have a duck in the bath! Cute!"

 

I squeezed it. It didn't squeak.

"PIECE of SHIT."

Here's another thing from the bathroom:

 

It's some fancy shampoo and - yes - Cilantro Conditioner. Ci. Lan. Tro. Cilantro tastes like soap anyway, so it makes it a natural bath product.

As we were stomping around the room and cursing in disgust at the fucking duck that didn't squeak, the baby in the next room began crying. Loudly. When we returned from the concert though, total silence.

"Oh, they killed that baby," Gary stated.

So, when I saw a couple checking out the next morning with a tiny baby, of course, I said something, because I think that everyone knows my sense of humor. Hey, stranger in the lobby, haven't you read my blog? You live in America.

So I said, "Were you on the third floor? I think we might have heard your baby."

"That was us. Sorry."

"No, it's fine. She was mad, though. That's why we thought you'd killed her."

...

See, when I write things, I never get to hear that long shocked silence. It's long! After a full three seconds, a woman who was with the couple laughed, hard, and then they all laughed. Then she patted my arm because she pitied me for the look of relief on my face.

Mute rubber ducks and cilantro hair aside, I cannot say enough about this hotel. Well, I will tomorrow. That's when I will tell you about the best part.

Adrift: A is for Adrift

One more thing about the BNL show, then I go back to raving about The Hotel That Won The Golden Urinal Yam.

The band played with the lighting a lot during the Louisville Show.

 

(I am in the second freaking row and STILL I get someone's scalp in my shot.)

So, you see those bright lights on the floor in the back? Those are LED lights, made with an array of red, green and blue LEDs.

When all the red green and blue LEDs light up, they emit white light.

And when only the red LEDs light up, they emit red light. See the floor lights while Ed sings "Adrift?"

But see above: the red lights form a pattern.

Can you see it?

Is that a Star of David?

Is the former BNL lead singer Jewish?

"It's the Bat Signal!" I screamed at Gary, and clutched his arm. Of course, Steven ignored the Bat Signal and stayed North. Still, a fine show.

UPDATED: Alley: A is for Alley

It looks like all the Louisville posts have been brought to you by the letter A, I don't know why.

So, we really sprang for the top of the line in this Louisville trip.  First of all, country ham notwithstanding, the hotel was tremendous.  More on this later.  But it was a really great hotel, in fact the best hotel in America, as evidenced by this piece of driftwood:

 

And, in addition to the best hotel, we sprang for the extra-special backstage pass that got us really great seats.

Spunky likes the seats.

(Spunky is trying to reach out and touch the opening act, Ingrid Michaelson, currently know mainly for the cool song playing in the Old Navy commercial. This song. Loved her.)

The VIP package came with a chance to meet the band. Security came all got all 17 dweebs with the VIP passes, and the TOOK US OUT TO THE ALLEY.

 

Not shown: Tour bus or band. They were there, though.

And now, I give you a four-part series.

Part 1: in which we say The Wrong Thing to the bass player, Jim

Gary first confronted Jim, the bass player.

"Jim! You look tired!"

"Rock and Roll lifestyle," Jim sighed. A tired sigh, the sigh of a man who now knows he looks tired.

Part II: in which we say The Wrong Thing to the keyboardist, Kevin

I spotted Kevin, who not only plays the keyboard for BNL, but also plays for Lou Reed. I had heard that morning that Lou Reed will be playing a special concert in Australia that only dogs can hear. (Don't believe me? Follow the link.) And, oddly, there is a suspicious gap in the tour in June.

"So Kevin," I asked, "Are you going to play with Lou Reed for the dogs in Australia next month?"

Kevin eyed me warily."No," he said slowly, "I'm touring." A pause. "With B ... N ... L," he spelled out, as a cloud drifted out of his ear and suspended in the sky surrounding the text "DUMBASS."

"I have a dog," he added, helpfully.

Part III: in which we say The Wrong Thing to the drummer, Tyler

Tyler always looks a little round to me. But in the alley he looked tight. He was wearing some type of tailored black shirt instead of the comfy clothing he wears on stage.

"Tyler! You look trim. Have you lost weight?" I blurted.

I know. It's like I've never heard that myself and translated it to mean, "Because usually you're a house."

He replied, "No. I grew a beard."

I said to Gary, "I should grow a beard" and missed my chance to say to Tyler, "The drums must add ten pounds."

Then I asked Tyler if anyone was putting on any green dresses now that Steven is gone, and he answered that Kevin said "Ew" at the one green dress that's been thrown. Gary got as far as "So how is it without Steven -" before I dragged him away.

Part IV: in which we say Nothing Of Note to the lead, Ed

I said Nothing, Gary asked if he'd gotten another plane since he'd crashed his.

"Oh yeah," Ed said.

"Gotta get back on the horse," Gary said approvingly.

"Yep," said Ed, and moved on.

"Seriously, Gary, you didn't know that?"

"Oh, of course, I knew the answer, it just seemed like a safe topic."

Now, that was how NOT to have a BNL band encounter.

Channing, the friend who tattooed the first few notes of "When I Fall" on her back, posted this account of talking with the band last week in Nashville, followed by this account of subsequently getting full frontal Ed access in Louisville. THIS is how to do it right. Really, it's not them, it's me.

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UPDATE: Oh, here, even better - an account of the concert and AN EXTENDED ARTICULATE CHAT WITH THE BAND AFTER from Jessica. She works in hospice, so she deserves it and I am not jealous.

The (Almost) Photo-Free Post

I ate breakfast in Louisville at the hotel. I always judge a hotel in part by its Eggs Benedict. This hotel restaraunt (named "Proof") advertised a variation:

"Proof Benedict - Grit cakes, poached egg, country ham"

Country ham? Now, if they'd said "Virginia Ham," I would've known what to expect, but I suppose a state all possesive about "Kentucky" bourbon can't throw stones. Or hams. Here was my mistake: after I waved dismissively at my arugla salad ("Why is this vegetation in my breakfast?") and picked it off my egg ("Why is this weed in my egg?"), I ate a bite and found it had a vinegar-and-vinegar dressing, or else it was pickled arugula. So to wash that taste out of my mouth I had a big bite of Eggs Benedict, which was about 80% "country ham." Or "Salt" as we call it in Saint Louis. Eggs NaCl.

It took me so long to get past chewing it that Gary took a photo:

(Seemingly, it took so long I also matured into my maiden Aunt Carleen.)

I washed it all down with a big swig of orange juice ...

... and an hour later ....

... there was a dangerous chemical reaction between the orange juice (acid) and ham (NaCl) and Pickled Weeds (vinegar, aka more acid) that I had to find a bathroom.

I ran to the downstairs bathroom. If you recall, the upstairs bathroom at 21c has eyeball images embedded in the mirror, so many people peek in. I did not want to poo in a tourist trap. I needed some privacy. 

In the downstairs bathroom, many people peek in, turn around and say, "No eyeballs."  People popped in three times. They said, "No eyeballs," "Neh," and "Nothing," when what they would have said at any other venue was "MY GOD WHAT AN AWFUL SMELL IN THIS BATHROOM JESUS WHAT IS THAT" because my usual lemon-shortbread cookie poop smell was overwhelmed by the smell of the country ("Smoking is not legally mandated for making country ham, and they are not fully cooked") ham.

So, no poo has ever required a courtesy flush more than this one. But they were high-tech hands-free toilets. The kind that go off when you stand up and walk away. Not an option, at this time, thank you. I tried bending way forward (useless) and pushing my back into the wall (useless) and groping backward blind for the magic button we have in the hands-free toilets at work. None worked. Eventually I cleaned up, stood up, turned around and kicked that hidden button before it had a chance to detect my motion.

They need odor-detector toilets, not motion-detector toilets.

Stupid Typepad

Yes.

Those were the thoughts SPELLED FOR NO ONE BUT ME that I typed in the bathroom at the hotel. Whoops.

And they all require photos but one, so just forget them for now until photos are downloaded.

So, you in the feedreader, ignore that.

Dumplingman

Here's what Gary's been singing all day (to the time of Ironman).

I am dumplingman
Jiggling and wiggling is what I am.

I'm the Charmin Bear
No shreds are on my butt are there

In Which Gary Gets to Run Things For a Little While

I was sitting about trying to remember what I have planned for the rest of the year, and I couldn't, so I'm making a list. A list that will make you hate me. The Friends and I have been having these conversations:

Me: "I'm going to" [insert extravagance here] "."

Friend #n: "That's expensive."

Me: "My house is paid off."

Friend #n: "Bitch."

Me: "Here." I hand Friend a twenty. "Please don't hate me."

So, I've felt a little bad about wasting money on myself. So to make up for it I'm going to start wasting money on Gary. Specifically, I'm buying tickets to keep Gary entertained. I feel like a pimp, though, because I'm buying Gary tickets so he can watch women. Which women?

Zooey Deschanel.This summer we're going to Loufest to see  Zooey Deschanel play with She and Him. Zooey was on some show / in some movie / has long dark hair, so Gary likes her music.

LillithFair.He wasn't on the BNL cruise with Butterfly Boucher and Sarah McLachlan. He doesn't even KNOW who is singing, he just knows they're all women.

Chelsea Handler. Okay, her show can be pretty funny, and I think at this point I would pay good money to hear her say "shit" and "vagina" instead of the baby-phrases she is forced to say on cable.

Courtney Love.  I don't particularly want to see Hole, but he does. (This would be another of those things Good Wives do. We give money to skanky cokeheads so they can swing mike stands at our heads. For love.) Perhaps she'll urinate on him.

My Two Dads

Evidently today is the day that Father Ghosts rise up and say, "Stop obsessing about your Mom! We're dead too. Pay attention to us!" 

Evidently, attention must be paid to these men.  Neither is a dead salesman, though, Jerry was a newspaper editor and Dan was a Purchasing Agent.

A recap: here, or in short: 
Mom met Dan.
Mom met Jerry, dumped Dan. 
Mom married Jerry and had me and Dave.
Jerry dumped Mom.
Mom found Dan again.
Mom married Dan, her true love.

Jerry's Bid For Attention Today

The topic of conversation at lunch today was whether or not one is filled with inexpressible love for ones baby the moment it is born. ("That's all bullshit," said my expert.) (That may not be your experience, but don't argue with my expert.) At dinner, I was told Gary we need extra birth control because I can't fall back on the "bullshit" hormonal safety net if case we have an Accident. And then talk turned to men who just never seem to bond with their kids, and then to Jerry, the Technical Father.

"What did Jerry do for a living?" Gary asked.

"When Dave found him he was the City Editor for the McAllister Oklahoma paper. He was also drinking, and living with his Mom."

"I had no idea he sunk so low! You never told me that!" Gary was shocked.

"What? That he was a drunk?"

"No, that he was living with his Mom."

So. Gary Ethics say: puking up Antabuse, fine, living with your Mom, not cool.

Dan's Bid for Attention Today

Here's a sad tale of two sisters who gambled on the lottery for years, had a falling out, then one of them won half a million, and then the other wanted to share. It reminded me of how Dan would bet on the lottery, first he would size up ... (You aren't paying any attention, are you. The sister who bought the ticket got to keep all the money. Okay?)

First, he would size up the blood alcohol level of his bar-mates. If any were drunk enough, Dad would chat him up. "Hey, I was feeling lucky, and I thought I would buy a lottery ticket, but I'm about 20 cents shy. Loan me twenty cents, and I'll give you twenty percent of the winnings." And of course they would "invest," and OF COURSE Dan would have the same conversation with about ten or fifteen people at the bar, always needing just about 20 cents, and by the time Dan had worked the room into a Big Lotto Syndicate, none of whom had ever seen "The Producers," the Lottery drawing would be on and they would all lose. Awwwwww.

That kind of makes Dan sound like a drunken grifter. He wasn't. It's not like he was living with his Mom, at least.

Good Wife

Last night, Gary and I were talking about hopes and dreams, as you do, and I said "I think all I ever wanted to be was a good wife."

If you live in the Saint Louis Metro area, you may have wondered what the booming sound was at about 9:00. That was Gary's guffaw.

And I quote."BWHA!"

"What? I'm a good wife! Aren't  I?"

"Oh, yeah," he sneered, "Every day when I come home, the kids are playing and the house is clean and dinner is in the oven."

"You don't have to have kids to be a good wife," I protested.

"Okay, wife, get me a soda."

"I didn't say good 'slave.'" Also, I didn't get him a soda.

I mean, I know I do things a good wife should. I've been faithful. I listen to him rant when he needs to. I put the toilet paper on the roll his way: the "wrong" way. I do anything he asks, sexually, including "Get away from me."

I had lunch today with Friends 2-4, inclusive, and they tried to help me hammer it out.

Friend #4 had an inspiration. "Have you tried preparing his food in a cone shape and then rotating the plate so it's always in front of him?"

So what do you do? I know a wife isn't supposed to be confused with a mother figure, but what do you do when that's what he seems to want?

Salty Chocolate: A Partial Review, by Gary

Here's the salted chocolate I bought last week from an excellent online establishment based in Portland.

I looked at the spread. "That is some sophisticated chocolate," I said. "But how will I know which flavor is which?"

My flavors were:

Vosges Barcelona Exotic Candy Bar ($7.45)
Pack of 6 Dark Salted Chocolates ($19.95)
Domori D-Fusion Milk Chocolate Bar with Salt ($9.95)
Komforte Chocolate Tortilla, Lime and Salt Milk Chocolate Bar ($2.95)

I decided it wouldn't be hard to tell the difference between Lime Chocolate and the rest, plus only one package looked like a stack of six little mini-bars.

I unwrapped that one and damnit, the chic white wrap was just a cover. They were all clearly labeled.

 

These were the six dark chocolates. Pangasinan Sea Salt, Turkish Black Pyramid Salt, Halen Mon Gold Oak Smoked Salt, Cherrywood Roasted Salt, Grigio di Cervia Salt, and Moshio Seaweed Salt.

I don't do dark chocolate, but I thought Gary might like to participate. I had him sample the "Grigio di Cervia."

Here, in his words, is his review.

"PAH! PAH! ACK! Engh engh engh. MAN!" (Gagging sounds.) "It's like they dropped a bar of chocolate in the ocean, tried to fish it out, fought an octopus then got it after pulling pieces of seaweed off it, then you ate a mouthful of seawater with bittersweet chocolate."

I checked the label. I had not given him the "Moshio Seaweed Salt." His description seemed very accurate. Perhaps they were mis-labeled.

He refused to try any more of the dark chocolate after that. And I didn't try it, because as I say, I don't like dark chocolate.

We went for the Milk Chocolate Tortilla Lime and Salt bar next.

 

Gary: "Bleah! Bleah! Fuck! Bleah!"

Those were his final words on the topic: he refused to help after that.

I took a bite. It was an amusing little chocolate that made me laugh: simple and unassuming. Essentially Margaritaville Lime Tortilla Chips dipped in milk chocolate.

I went for the basics after that. I knew that what I need when it is two weeks after I ovulate is just the basics. Chocolate. Salt. Like a grilled chocolate sandwich, only less complex.

It tasted like a chocolate pudding made with an additional quarter cup of Morton's salt poured in. The salt seemed strangely out of place, sad to say. Granted, it was not the week to try this, but it was too one-note.

My last-ditch effort hit pay dirt, though.

Okay, picture it is your time of the month, and you go out for a fudge sundae with buttered salted pecans on top. This bar is the layer of salted pecans. I know it has almonds inside, not pecans, I also know that in my non-hormonal state it tasted a little too intensely salted.

I made Gary try it. He only gave it one "Bleah."

Mother's Day

Odd things happened on Mother's Day.

1. I was not allowed to drive with Gary. There was not enough room for me in the Honda Fit after he put in all the petunias and presents. I had to take my own car. No one saw this as strange.

2. Since I had my own car I realized I had a chance to make a break for it when Mother's Day was done and not go through The Long Goodbye, the orgy of "Where's MY hug?" "Did you hug me goodbye? I forgot. Let's hug again." "Don't hug him, he's sick." "Oh well I'll just wave" AND LEAVE THE HOUSE ALREADY but no, then we have to have the goodbye at the car, and wave goodbye at the dog, who will be lifted up and have her paw waved at us, and since she has a special relationship with Gary she will have to lick his nose AND I WILL RUN YOU DOWN IF YOU DON'T GET OUT OF MY WAY.

After we reunited at our house I told Gary I had wanted to demonstrate to him how you can leave a house in less than twenty minutes. He said his parents had noticed I didn't wave the extra final goodbye after I had pulled out of the driveway and turned to go home. They decided I must be sick.

3. Gary actually convinced me that Paris might have to wait for next year when volcanoes stop shutting down Europe. He can't just take off an extra week of work. So my plan is to make plans for a Northern Lights vacation in Canada/ Alaska or a Paris vacation if the volcanoes settle down. And as I told him, you can still get home going eastward. Eventually. Travel insurance bought after the first eruption won't pay for volcano delays, though.

So, we shall see. There's a handy site that will show you where the Northern Lights are today, and, well, they are nowhere near a nice hotel. I'm picturing us in the middle of pine trees and mountains in Quebec far from anyone who speaks English. They are scream at us, "CHIEN! CHEIN PAR VOUER ET MARSIELLES! LA CHAUD POUR LE SAL DE BAN! NON!"  We have no idea what they are talking about, then they throw us to the bears.

Thrill of Victory

Friday night, Family #4 (of the "Mouse" races) was kind enough to include me on their trivia team. Our team didn't just win, we won as if we were whispered answers by the Trivia Gods. The last round was particularly satisfying: all the questions were hard, we answered with guesses, and almost all the guesses were right. Right or not, we screamed after each answer as if we'd gotten it, even so that Friend #4 suggested some humility. (I felt I'd been humble; I didn't scream "SUCK IT LOSERS" from the top of the table.)

Later that night, I woke up from the noise of my belly percolating. The next hour, I violently puked, peed and pooped out Trivia Food Soup.

The next morning, I told Gary, "I was sick last night."
"I heard you."
"I might have the stomach flu."
"No, I think you were just excited from winning at trivia." Because I am eight, it would seem.
Then he patted my hip and said, "That reminds me, the volcano is acting up again. I think this is the year we should go to Alaska, not Paris."

Yes. For a month he's been all,"Paris Paris Paris" and I'm "Okay, Paris" and now he's all "Alaska!" No. Man thinks I'm in a weakened state or that I've pooped out my brains? No. Men, you don't use the "P" word and then take it back.

My New Drug

Meet my new love.

 
I am up to two of these caffiene rockets a day. And I became addicted before I ever noticed that the mocha is just a gateway drug, a delivery system for the guarana. I don't know what guarana does, or what this other thing, "taurine" does, but it makes me happy.

I was at the gas station the other day, picking up one of these and a side of cheese popcorn because it was that time, the time of the month all my hormones put their energies into force-feeding me alternating handfuls of chocolate and salt. (It could be worse: those same hormones used to make me bleed from the nether regions. All the time. Well, like once a month. But it felt like every month. Glad that stopped.)

So this woman walked past me, pointed at my Doubleshot and said "I am addicted to those."

"They make me happy!" I replied breathlessly.

She gave me an odd look and said something about how I was easy to please.

Of course, it might be the ginseng and the B-vitamins getting me off, but it isn't, we know it isn't.

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A self-referential aside: As I typed this up, I interrupted myself twice.

First, I was worried, "Oh no, this sounds too much like that peanut butter addiction thing I read thirty-five years ago in Mom's college humor book." Half an hour of Googling proved "Peanut butter" + "Max Shulman" does not get you a hit on a copy of "Max Schulman's Guided Tour of Campus Humor" anthology, much less "Confessions of a Peanut Butter Addict" by Jack Lynch. However, eventuaaaalllllyyy remembering Mom's stuff is now your stuff and finding that same book on the bookshelf in the next room works well too.

And second, when I typed up "handfuls of chocolate and salt" I thought, "they should make Salted Chocolate," and then remembered they did and I have a credit card.

So, going to bed now. Hahahahahahaha. Should fall asleep around dawn.

I am a Card-Carrying Member of the Delayed Adolescence Society

Shut your face. I love the band Barenaked Ladies to such a degree that I joined the Ladies Room fan club five years ago.

I joined after it became free, and here is why:
Originally: "Call 1-800-999-9999 to join The Ladies Room for only $35!"

And later: "The Ladies Room is FREE! Just log in to join!"

They could have charged me double as long as I didn't have to talk to anyone ON THE PHONE. At 43.

At any rate, the fan club has since come under new management, and just as the old club misjudged the demo when they expected us to be social enough to TALK on the PHONE (jesus), I fear the new one either misjudged us again or is just messing with us and I'm just too hip to get it.

They sent us Identification Cards.

Like So.

 
  
...and .... so:  

The back reads :

PRINT YOUR NAME ABOVE

This membership card is only valid when your full name is printed above and presented with a valid photo ID.

THIS CARD IS NON-TRANSFERABLE

So:

1. Sorry. You can't borrow my BNL NON-TRANSFERABLE fan club card.

2. Do I have to carry this card with me? Will at some point I ever be asked to present my card? What if I slip and I SIGN my name above as one does with credit cards, and not PRINT as directed?

3. I took a photo of the card instead of running it through the scanner, because I sweartogawd I thought I might de-magnetize it.

3.1.  About the de-magnetizing, I didn't see a magnetic strip but I thought, better safe than sorry because WHO KNOWS, this little plastic CARD might have a special magnetic strip UNDER the orange PRINT YOUR NAME HERE area. And one day they'll all begin pointing North and we will band together in a great (perhaps slightly smaller since the unfortunate events of the past year, but yea still great) a great multitude, and then we will all get naked and hold our cards up to the sun like Ultraman and sing the opening lick of If I Had a Million Dollars like the Geek Chorus in the Intel ads.

4. AND DON't EVEN TRY TO GET INTO THAT WEBSITE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE CARD, MOTHERFUCKERS. Only club MEMBERS can get in! I haven't been in because I forgot my password, and I have been to lazy to look it up where I saved it in email.

5. Shut your face.

Scandal in Saint Louis

Saint Louis sex blogger A Beautiful Kind has been fired. She was outed by her boss, her a non-profit director who strangely remains anonymous.

I would link to A Beautiful Kind, but I understand her site is down. I've been to her site before. Sex and Saint Louis? Of course I was there.

However, when I came by it was anal plug week, or some such thing, and I thought, well, this is advanced sex, and I haven't taken the prerequisites. She has, and I applaud her for it.

Sadly, her boss found her anonymous blog, and was too shocked to continue BK's employment. If you want the details, she posted them here.

This tale follows on the heels of an email from the TeddyJ compliance director, in which he outlines the rules for social media. (Essentially, don't use TeddyJ's name in vain.)  This has forced me to picture what would happen if I was called on the carpet by some future boss for the intimate details I post here. (For example, all of these purient photos of myself and Gary.) Or, more believably, if I were called on the carpet by an in-law. Actually, that wouldn't be so bad either, the in-laws have done nothing mock-worthy for months now. Sigh. Maybe I could try some anal plugs.

So now, unhappily, Beautiful Kind is torn about what to do. I can't imagine she's really torn. There are dozens of jobs filing for non-profit agencies, she's got Saint Louis' only sex blog.

Pissy Pouty Pirate Post

Lunch talk turned today to the Pirates exhibit at the Science Center and what a co-worker thought of it.

He said, "I had to remind my nephew that: pirates? Not really good people."

But we love pirates, don't we? We love them because they are rule-breakers, rogues, they do what we wish we could.That's what I've always understood.

But lately, I've started to realize just how many people I know are rogues and rule-breakers.

A person who defiantly sneaks past security, because she's too important to be bothered with it.

An employee who parks in visitor's parking, because he's special.

Someone who doctors her son's report card to get the good student insurance discount, because she's never gotten a break.

It's not like I'm keeping a tally of who does wrong, it's more like I watch someone with a swagger, someone with a little confidence boost, someone with a spring in their step, I say, "So what's up?" and they always wind up telling me how they pulled one over on the Man. Because, as they say, "I am too good for this shit" or "They'll make an exception for me."

Because they are special. And I've been thinking, exactly what makes you special? Because you think you are? Like ... everyone? Everyone who says, "It's better to ask forgiveness than permission" and "Rules are made to be broken?"

One of the Numbered once said that I had "been a rule-follower" when she met me, but that I'd grown out of that. I don't think I have. At least, I hope any rules I break are out of laziness, cowardice, even stupidity, just as long as I'm not breaking rules out of arrogance.

Perhaps this is a fork in my personal path. Maybe if I make a different choice I'll be one of those housewives who take up shoplifting because they like the feeling of superiority it gives them. Or, maybe I'm just frustrated by the latest rule I have to follow: the one that says I must pass the Huge Financial Test of Futilitude for my job.

Wanton Bragging

My latest bonnet-bee is healthcare, and the arguments against which are essentially, "I got mine, I worked hard for mine, you shouldn't get yours for free." This would be like me saying, "I had to pay a 22% interest rate the first five years of my mortgage, then 13% the rest, now that my house is paid off you all shouldn't get these low interest rates." 

"I got mine, I worked hard for mine, you shouldn't get yours" makes no sense to me.

I say this because I'm going to write a post in which I sound like I really, really got mine, and I didn't even work hard for mine (well, I did work two jobs once), but I want you all to know I think you should get yours, you really should.

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

Since I have done nothing today but sleep and repeat, "I haven't broken my foot, I haven't broken my foot, I haven't broken my foot," I have nothing to say and am forced to confess to you my plans.

Plans for mid-May: go to Louisville for a BNL concert and stay at some unusual hotel called 21c. It seems to be half hotel / half contemporary art museum. And the ad for their bathroom made me want to go buy a Devo album.

Plans for early June: go to Tulsa for a BNL concert and stay at the historic Mayo hotel, where they will give us chocolate-covered strawberries and a suite if we pay them the going rate for a hotel in any other city.

Plans for the rest of the year:We've been debating where to go for our 25th anniversary. We've even considered some places BNL isn't playing. As Mom would say, "(!)."

Gary has decided it is our anniversary year, akin to the Birthday Month, and the dates are not relevant, so we can go anywhere, anytime this year, even overseas.

This is how the conversation has gone.

"Gary, it looks like the Greek economy is going in the toilet, maybe there'll be really good deals in Greece."
"Greece? You want to go to Greece? I would think you would have wanted to go someplace like Paris."
"Nah, I've never wanted to go to Paris."

(Days later)

"Gary, I've been thinking, I've been selfish, we should go somewhere you want to go. I was thinking Ireland."
"Why Ireland?"
"Well, because your family is Irish."
"My Dad's family is German. Should I want to go to Germany?" (pause) "Your family is French, isn't it?"

(Days later)

"Maybe it would be fun to go to Iceland."
"Or ... Paris!"

(Shield your eyes from the glare of the light bulb going off.)

So, it looks like the day of our anniversary we won't be having a party, or going out to dinner, but instead we might be staying inside and planning a trip to Paris. For sometime this year, or... Gary is voting for next year, because he's bought in to the Paris in Spring advertising. I vote for Paris in the summer, because I hear they are more understanding to tourists then. Actually, I vote for Paris in the next few weeks when I could get a $500 per person fare, because seriously, it's cheaper to go to Paris than Toronto? How does that work?

I'm not even really getting my hopes up, because it seems unreal.

Drama

Here was my day.

Morning, noon, afternoon: Study for my big test in June.

4 to 7: Kentucky Derby, pizza.

7 to 9: Wait for the damn correspondents dinner to begin on CNN, because I believed Don Lemon every time he said they would be back any minute with the President's remarks.

9 to 9:30: President's remarks.

9:30 to 10: Make Gary a pie. Pie is love.

10 to 10:15: Wonder what I'm going to blog about, because this is one of the most boring days of my life.

10:15: Stand up and begin to walk into the kitchen from the guest room.

So, you know how you're walking, and your weight goes forward and THEN your leg swings forward so you don't ultimately fall? But then sometimes? Your right leg gets caught in the sweatpants on your left leg, and the essential swinging forward is impeded, and time slows down and you crack your head on the wood floor? 

Yes, just like that.

And I wish I had the stones to immediately say, "Hey! There's something to blog about." I think my first thought was "Damnit! I just bought those glasses!" as they skidded across the floor. I wasn't articulate enough to answer Gary when he yelled:

"Ellen! Did you fall?"

(Moan)

"You fell!"

Gary was still in the other room getting the dog off his lap when I inclined a little and got my head propped up on my arm.

(Drip)

Now, I know my husband, so my first statement was to yell, "Bring towels! I'm bleeding! Head wounds bleed easily!" That last part was to make sure he didn't walk in and freak out -

"MY GOD YOU'RE BLEEDING!" (And I was, it was running down my arm. He handed me a wad of toilet paper.) "GET DRESSED YOU'RE GOING TO THE ER."

"I'm not getting dressed to go to the ER." And by that I meant, I've had this argument before about the ER dress code. The dog ran in and jumped on my hip to claim first dibs to my juicy dripping bloody body if I were to die.

Eventually I sat up, Gary checked my pupils, then he checked my dented head gouge which had already swollen shut. (Evidently a piece on the inside of the earpiece of my glasses sliced into my temple.) We agreed it looked more dramatic than it was.

Now my only fear is that I will go to sleep tonight with a concussion.  But wait - what is this? Breaking news? Car bomb in Times Square? Someone up there is looking out for me.