Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Wrap-up

The Cheese-Barley (nee Mushroom) soup is wonderful, once you dilute it with a splash of milk. Gary refuses to eat it.

Celebrity Hat did a tour at work and is back home now. I suppose she's retired.

Wilma is going to start physical therapy tomorrow. At every visit she flashes something at Gary, or lowers the gown below her collarbone, or uses the toilet in front of him. Gary runs away shrieking while Wilma says, "Stop that! I'm your mother!"

Bossypants made me  laugh twice and cry once. There is a heart-wrenching scene in which Tina Fey picks up the wrong bottle of floor cleaner. (She just loved her dad so much! She only wanted to please him!)

I am all over cake balls. Not enough of a challenge. Not like the ever-elusive babka.

240 Minute Meals

I've always been puzzled by cookbooks promising "Thirty-Minute Meals!"

Aren't most meals thirty minutes? Thirty minutes at 350. Any casserole is thirty minutes. Chicken anything is thirty minutes. A whole turkey or a roast is more, but the prep time for both is two minutes to rinse and drop in the oven. (In my mind, if it's cooking for hours I'm not bothering to pre-heat the oven. It can just pre-heat with a turkey in it.)

Beef Wellington and the like are the exception. I don't think Beef Wellington even took me FOUR FREAKING HOURS like the Damn Soup I made tonight.

The Aramark restaraunt at work has a roasted portobello barley soup I love so much that I got the recipe from the cafe manager. Here is the timeline.

Saturday: Acquire ...

1 stick butter
1  cup diced white onion
2 cups Portobello mushrooms (gilled and diced) (and not roasted at all, strangely)
1/2 cup flour
3/4 cup pearled barley
1 quart of skim milk
1 quart of 2% milk
1 cup heavy cream
2 & ¼ tsp Italian seasoning
1/2 Bay leaf
2 & 1/2 cups  vegetable base

Sunday. Seven o' clock. I rinsed the barley, drained it, and followed the instructions to ...

"...Place barley on a sheet pan and cook in 350 degree oven for 15-20 minutes. Remove from oven and set aside. Place butter, onions, and portobellos in a stock pot and sauté until onions are translucent. Add flour and stir to make a roux. Continue to cook on a low heat for about 10-15 minutes."

At seven thirty I added the cream, and it thickened nicely of course. I slowly added the 2% milk and skim milk (why not just a half gallon of 1%, I wondered) and waited for it to simmer. It didn't simmer. It didn't thicken. I stirred it constantly, of course, since milk often scalds in that stockpot.

At eight I blew off a call from my brother since I was stirring and staring. I stirred a long time. Glaciers melted, I aged gracelessly, Zsa Zsa Gabor neared death. At eight thirty it appeared to simmer. I let it simmer and I stirred until nine-fifteen, when it appeared to thicken a bit.

Next step was "Add seasoning and bay leaves. Add vegetable base and barley. Bring to a medium low heat while still stirring frequently. Cook until barley is soft." I checked the barley box. BARLEY TAKES FORTY-FIVE FUCKING MINUTES to cook.

I decided I would relax with a book in another room and stir it every fifteen minutes.

Ten minutes later, Gary screamed "ARE YOU TENDING TO THIS SOUP? SOMETHING IS BURNING!"

"Nothing is burning." I came out and sighed. "I was just going to stir it."

" I CAN SMELL IT BURNING."

"It .Isn't. Burning. You know, you can stir too." 

"You should appreciate my help," he said. Then he pouted and went back to watching "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: The Movie."

It actually had scalded just a bit, so I stood there and stirred it until ten o'clock. 

You know how people get highway hypnosis from watching the dashed lines? I had stirring hypnosis. I stopped stirring, so I could admire my soup, and I saw it was completely separated. Broken. Nasty. I tasted it, and I had to search hard for a mushroom, and it tasted good, but I was really dismayed.

Then again, I had an entire pound of gouda cheese, right there, that I had shredded to sprinkle on top. Boom! In the pot! Did no good. Now it's ten thirty.

Off to the internet for the broken sauce fix I dimly remembered, Ah, whisk in lemon juice. I have fresh squeezed lemon juice! What's the ratio of juice to soup! Don't care! Whisk whisk whisk! Fixes it! Amazing. Add a leftover cooked chicken breast, what could it hurt? I let it cool and packaged it up.

Taste the soup at eleven o'clock at night. It doesn't really taste that much like mushroom soup. It's a nice tart cheese soup, with barley. I tried to get Gary to like it, but I think he had his mouth set for mushrooms, and I think the mushrooms had worn down to mud from the relentless stirring.

 Soups are always better the next day. I could add bacon. Bacon fixes everything.

Late to the Game

So this past week:

I bought Bossypants. Bloggers read this months ago.

I began playing Words with Friends. Bloggers did this a year ago. I'm not ready to play it with anyone but myself and a small circle of Friend. (Marcia, #3).

I made cake balls. Bloggers made these a year ago. I wanted to make cupcakes with macaroons inside, but cake balls sounded easier once I got a recipe.

1. Make a cake.
2. Shred it.
3. Mix it with a can of frosting and shape into balls.
4. Dip balls in dipping chocolate.

Some recipes have you make the icing and cake from scratch, put on gloves when you make the balls, or use a melon baller, but I was keeping it easy. Of course, now I've done that I need to make it hard. My next cake ball mix will be dark chocolate cake, cream cheese frosting, and milk chocolate dip. With a pretzel stick stuck in the middle like a lollipop.  And crushed up Oreos and nuts, why not?

So, what else do I need to do? I seem to have marched to the delayed backbeat of my own drummer for a year: what other trends have I missed?

UPDATED:Words You Play on Words With Friends When You Are Really Tired

Words that were accepted:

Mels.

Ungot. I intended to play ingot, but ungot was a higher score.Why not try? Ungot. Ridiculous.

Then, realizing words with friends has low standards, I just began typing things that looked as if they might be words.

Nu.

Drolled. (I droll, I will droll, I once drolled.)

Alow.

Agon.

Wifi and Mojo, which I would question but Mojo got me 72 points.

Soli. Either I don't know many words, or I am playing the international version of words with friends. Wörter Avec Amigos. I just played amigos earlier and it accepted it.

Words that were not accepted:

Eruction (I was thinking of eructation.)

Gianter. It accepted "drolled" and not gianter? More giant? Really?

Jew. I know it doesn't take racial slurs, but is this a slur? Really? Now I feel like the old lady who claims "colored" is an acceptable term. I feel bad for even trying to play the word Jew.

Well, at least Typepad spell check has standards. All these words have the red squiggle of shame. (Except for "Jew." Racist Typepad.)

================= A visit to the dictionary revealsL

Mel - a subjective unit of tone

Ungot - not obtained or gained.

Nu - the 13th letter of the Greek alphabet

Drolled - having been droll. Just because it makes no sense doesn't mean it isn't a word

Alow- below deck



Agon - (in ancient Greece) a contest in which prizes were awarded in any of a number of events

Soli - plural of solo

I got a little Zen contemplating the last one, but if you have a stack of sheet music, and they are all solos, what else could you call it?

I Am Resisting the Urge to Photoshop This

I crawled out of the basement this evening, annoyed at myself for succumbing to the hype. All day we heard about the massive storm system headed our way. Usually I wait to hear a storm is a mile away and headed right at me, but today I went to the mattresses in the basement after the first funnel cloud.

Of course, it appears not a single cloud touched down. I am that awful person who needs to see BLOOD ON THE HIGHWAY DAMNIT if a traffic accident has caused an inconvenient jam. That's why I was searching the 'net to find some picture of some storm damage. But then I found this lead to a news report:

"Chesterfield, MO (KPLR)— Sirens whaling, clouds swirling and rain blowing sideways."

 

It totally makes sense, since they live on the ocean anyway. Gotta make a living.

Duck Sighting

Today we were driving South on 270 toward Page, and we saw flashing lights ahead.

Traffic was still moving at 65mph  past the two police cars parked in the passing lane. I mention that because it's part of a word problem.

"If Gary is traveling at 65 mph past two police cars parked end to end, how much time does he have to grasp what is happening between the police cars?"

Here is a transcript of Gary's description of what he saw. I have no dialog, because this is what happens when you stay quiet around Gary.

"Ducks! Hahaha! Did you see that? A baby duck!"
(Silence)
"There was a baby duck out there, about a foot high, and those two policemen were out there with it."
...
"I didn't know the police did that! Shepherding the animals to safety. I always thought they just let the animals get squished."
...
"It looked so funny! Those two police officers had opened the car doors to made a corral around the duck and were trying to wave it into a car. They were waving at it, waving, and then eventually they got close enough to grab it."
...?  (Silence with a nuance of scepticism)
"That's pretty amazing those officers would be out there risking their lives for a duck."

That last line reads as if he was acknowledging how crazed his scenario was, but no. He really admires those duck-loving policemen.

Love Cicadas

I. What Provoked It:

a. Gary was taken with the waffle fries at the new Chick-fil-A. (Which Gary calls "Chick-Fill-Uh." just to annoy me.) When I called from work and mentioned we had several healthy alternatives at home, he drove through Arby's for another waffle fry experience.

b. When asked in the drive through what he preferred, Arby's sauce or Horsey sauce, he blurted:

"Arb - NO! Horsey! Horsey!" Oh, wait, let me write it in Gary's dialect. "Arb - NO! Harsey! Harsey!"

c. When he relayed this to me at home, I speculated everyone gets both kinds of sauce no matter you request. He disagreed out of hand.

d.He didn't get his waffle fries because he didn't order them, he was so excited by the near-miss with the Harsey Sauce. That set him off for about ten minutes, pacing and ranting. I had already eaten all of mine while he told me about the Harsey Sauce Incident. I took the brunt of the ranting.

II. What I did:

a. I let the dog out and noticed a brown crusty thing on the patio. It was a cicada shell.  What a waste, I thought, that cicada stayed underground 13 years in that shell, and now it's just dumped it. So I brought it in and put it on Gary's arm-rest while he was pacing and ranting elsewhere.

III. The Fallout:

a.Screeeaming. "AaaaaAAAaaaa What is this! It's hideous! Is it dead? IS IT DEAD? AAAaaaa!"

b. I am not ashamed to say I laughed a lot, peed a little, and pounded on the counter speechlessly.

IV. The Future:

a. Remember the bears?

 

There are a lot of cicada shells out there.

Genetics

Wilma's still fine. I know I've been spending my time away from my blog this weekend, and I'd think that was reasonable if I'd spent any of it with the S______s. But instead I just stayed tucked in with MY S______.

Gary and I went to visit Wilma in the ICU on Saturday at noon, but Gary felt pretty sick and didn't want to infect anyone, and Karen said I was too germy to help Wilma eat, and then Wilma essentially told everyone to get out, she wanted to rest. Everyone left, except Karen. I don't know what happened, but there are now "doctor's orders" that no one visit Wilma for the next two days. I'm guessing a nurse heard Wilma beg us to leave her alone and listened to her.

We visited Gary's father, Ken, and made sure he had enough food, and then left.  I think Gary would like to take his dad to eat at Steak-n-Shake every night. I know he was planning on a little Waffle House therapy for himself.

And that's the thing, now that there's a history of heart attacks in Gary's family (Wilma and two siblings), how do we provide ourselves comfort?  Cholesterol IS comfort. Saturday morning, we got as far as choosing Egg McMuffins over McBagels, and I made my sweet baby a cholesterol-free pie. A Gary Pie, which is two frozen pie crusts and three cans of pie filling (strawberry, cherry, and raspberry).

Of course, tornadoes are headed our way, so that's a more immediate problem.

Communication Styles of the People of the Christian Northeast Hospital

Cardiac Surgeons - They speak frankly. This how three surgeons explained to Wilma what would happen if she didn't have the bypass.

"You'll die."
"One day, boom, you'll drop over dead from a heart attack."
"There's a 100% chance you'll die."

Knowing that Wilma has her own reserved Trump-sized mansion in the afterlife, I threw in, "You might stay alive but with constant pain -"

"NO," the surgeon interrupted. "You'll DIE."

And dance the hula with Jesus, I thought. Do you think this woman fears death?

And now that she isn't dead, she is re-evaluating her decision. But, ha-HAH! We got you.

People in the ICU Waiting Room- I took the elevator with a quiet, elegant lady with an updo. We had a nice little chat about how to find the ICU waiting room. She sat with her sister and quietly listed to her rant about the near-dead drunk they were holding vigil for. I was entirely on the side of the sisters.

Then, my elegant elevator lady began to complain about an absent sister and got herself all worked up."She's so negative." Then, with hatred, "I can't stand to even look at her sometimes."

Damn, elegant lady, I thought, those are harsh words. Then she went on. And on and on. With ever increasing hatred.

She hissed, "She's just an awful, ugly, hateful person. I can't stand be be in the same room with her. She's just mean, mean, mean. " Her sister did not argue.

And then, loudly: "I am a nice person."  (No. No, you're not. I'm Not Nice, I know. Nice people don't spit venom so easily.) "I am ALWAYS loving and pleasant to everyone." (People on elevators, maybe.) "But I'm just so goddamned sick of her fucking shit." (Whoa! Not expecting that.)

THEN the rest of the family showed up. And of course they divvied up the suspected valuables of Near-dead Drunk, and then Elevator Lady had a chance to encore her hate rant with a progressively deeper Meth County accent, and then they all went out to eat.

Later that evening, when we were driving home, I remarked, "So, did you notice that other family in the ICU -"

"OH MY GOD THEY WERE AWFUL."

My Sisters In Law - Gary and I were having dinner when the doctor came in and led them to the ICU, where they could view Wilma through the glass. Gary got the recap later. Evidently, Wilma kicked off the covers and "showed everyone her twat." I was not there for the event or the recap, sadly.

You may judge us, but at least we don't hate each other.

UPDATE: Sister Karen Saves WIlma's Life

Because Mom had such limited arm function, she established early on that if she said to do something we kids had to do it. We didn't do everything she said, but if it was a physical order like "clean that" or "pick that up" then we didn't question. Mom always knew what Mom wanted. This is why I am so gobsmacked when my father and mother in law say they want things a certain way, and the S______ children don't do exactly what the parents say. They question their parents! Their parents! Who DOES that?

Karen in particular, questions her parents' decisions, and it usually appalls me. For example, this past weekend Wilma began having chest and arm pain that she attributed to indigestion. Karen called Wilma's doctor and scheduled her for some heart exams. If I took such high-handed behavior with my mother, my God. She would sprain an eyebrow arching it at me.

And of course, Karen's behavior saved Wilma's life. 90% blockage in one artery, 60ish in another, having double bypass tomorrow. As you see, I am very optimistic that it will go well. The doctors were very clear about what her other option was.

I told Karen she could poke her nose into my business any time she wanted.

(I'm also very happy I've never had indigestion to the degree it afflicts other people. So far I've heard of mild heart attacks feeling like indigestion, and of course many full-term friends went to the hospital with indigestion and came out with a baby.)

So tomorrow morning, Thursday, she has open-heart surgery. (She needs to be in shape for Saturday's Rapture, of course.)

Wilma is just a lovely lady. Think your best thoughts for her.

UPDATE: Surgery only took three hours, and she's in recovery now.

The Hunt for Rarities

In high school, I was fascinated by the Beatles Rarities Album. I understood that Sie Liebt Dich was somehow ... different ... than the English language version. None of the other songs seemed that unusual to my untrained ear. (A "rarity":  extra beats before "Yellow matter custard" in I Am the Walrus.) Still, I heard You Know My Name, Look Up The Number while none of my other friends had even heard of it. (So I WIN high school.)

A conversation with Alan from work about Jerry Lewis led to a movie rarity: evidently there is an early 70's Jerry Lewis movie called The Day the Clown Cried that remains unreleased and locked in Jerry Lewis' vault. It seems either the production ran out of money, or into litigation, or perhaps Jerry Lewis playing A CLOWN THAT LEADS CHILDREN TO THEIR DEATH IN THE GAS CHAMBERS AT AUSCHWITZ was a bad idea. (Read the Wikipedia entry to hear Harry Shearer's reaction to an early screening.)

Another movie that I've always thought was supressed was The Manchurian Candidate. Gary and I rented the video cassette (quaint!) in the eighties and were baffled why we'd never heard of it before, and immediately heard the legend that Sinatra bought up all the copies after Kennedy was assassinated. But, sadly, no, seems there was another money dispute.

My research showed me I'll never see the real ending to The Magnificent Ambersons. I discovered Gary has no interest in the alternate ending to Army of Darkness. I'm not surprised; we recently had a debate over if there were alternate endings to Brazil. He has seeeeeen all the endings. We haaaaave the director's cut.

Most amazingly, he resents that I just spent $2.99 to rent a version of Fatal Attraction that has the sophisicated ending the test audiences rejected. ("KIll her! She boiled the bunny!")

Don't care. Rented it anyway. I'll report back if it was worth threeeeeeee dooooolllllars.

Jerry Lewis Leaves the Labor Day Telethon

 There are three types of people in this world:

Those who avoid the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Association Labor Day Telethon.

Those who watch the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Association Labor Day Telethon.

Those who donate to the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Association Labor Day Telethon.

Well, and Jerry Lewis, who will host the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Association Labor Day Telethon for the last time this fall.

Put me into the "avoid" category. They lost me at the singing of "You'll Never Walk Alone" about THE CHILDREN WHO COULD NOT WALK. "Lewis said at the end of the 2007 telethon that the song was suggested to him in 1964 by a disabled child." A very ironic, smartass disabled child. High five to that smartass child.

Put my brother into the "watch" category. I think my brother found the telethon appealing because it appealled to his ADHD. Like Sesame Street, only with MD kids on wheels. Nothing lasted more than five minutes. I don't think he ever slept through a moment of it, either.

I don't think I know anyone in the "donate" category, except possibly my mother-in-law.

Oh, come to think of it, there's another category: the people with MS who get to hear that "their telethon" earned X million dollars over Labor Day weekend.

Which category are you in?

Less Than One Week Until the Rapture

How much weight can I lose in 5 days? I don't want Jesus to see me all fat.

As you probably know, a very media-savvy group is testifying that the bible states the Rapture will take place on May 21, 2011. The Rapture concept is based on half a bible verse suggesting believers will be removed from earth before God's judgement. Strangely, those who believe in the Rapture will condemn Purgatory as made up from whole cloth by the catholic church. Whatever. Five more days!

They actually have a pretty interesting response for the argument that I paraphrase "verily etc, no man knows the time coming of the lord, he cometh as a thief in the night." Yea. Verily.

I have to say, their response is very handy. The quote in context goes on to say something like, "But we Christians, we know He's coming back so we should expect him."

So on May 22, I expect to hear "Well, okay, maybe we were off a few days. But still! He's coming! Any day. Righteous up O Ye People."

The goal anyway is to make people think about eternity, and a deadline and a media-blitz is a pretty good way to accomplish that.

What the HELL is this?

Gary said, "AAAAAaaa! AAAAAAaaa! What is this? I am scared."

 
 

I'd say termite, but it's too hard and shiny for a termite.

Everything You Know About Churchill Downs Is Wrong

More precisely, everything I knew about Churchill Downs is wrong. I have watched that Kentucky Derby every year since '73 and I have got it ALL wrong. (Including watching the Derby since '73: I didn't see Secretariat win the derby; I saw him win the Belmont Stakes.)

Thanks to Google Earth, this is the actual layout of Churchill Downs. (I encourage you to click to enlarge.)

 

a. Our seats! People ask if I want to go back to the Derby and, no, no thank you, because how could I have better seats? Impossible. Unless I can sit in the very lap of ... say ... Bono, it would be a crushing disappointment.

b. This in the starting gate. In my mind that gate was in the lower left corner after the turn, and the horses would run counter-clockwise from there to the finish line at g. (Horses run counter-clockwise in the northern hemisphere.)  Of course they couldn't run the whole circuit because then the gate would be at the finish line. But! Unbeknowst to me, the starting gate is on wheels. Horses burst out of the gate at b, run past us at a, cross the finish line the first time at g, and while everyone is watching the race the staff rolls the gate the hell out of the way very fast. Then they run the bottom stretch past what could be stables in the lower right, around the last turn in the upper right, where if a horse didn't make the turn it would end up on Central Avenue. They run past the tracks the starting gate's wheels made in the dirt, then stop at the finish line g.

c. This yellow line leads from the stands, under the dirt track, under the grass track, and climbs out of the earth in the Infield. Here there be drunk people. You'd think they have a great view, but on Derby day the infield is ringed by beer tents. They do have a big screen they can use to see the race.It's on the other side of the winner's circle (f).

f. And while we're at f, let me skip d and e and say, the winner's circle is a) not a circle, it's obviously a semi-circle, and it is almost the only place at Churchill Downs that has grass. The grass track has grass, of course, and the winner's "circle" is between the track and the infield.

e. I'm out of order anyway, so next is e. Look all the way up at the top left. There a parking lot. Below that is a black roof, and then a tiny scrap of grass that seems to have an O with a line cut through it. That is (prepare to be freaked out) the PADDOCK.

 

The area in the background with the roof? With the big screen over it? If you look closely you can see the stables inside where the horses are saddled up.

YES. NBC has lied to us. Who else thought the horses had a long leisurely walk from a lovely grassy area  to the track? No!

d. The take this pathway from the Cement Paddock to the track. It takes them about a minute.

Have I just blown your mind? I know.

I Need a Caper

I was regaling boring Caroline today with the story of how I beat a fly to death.

Fattest fly ever. Fat and loud AND on cocaine and blind, hurtling itself headlong into the walls.  It followed me around like a lovesick ... fly, even to the point of crawling under the bathroom door when it realized I was in there. I saw myself in the fat loud blind fly and I beat it to death with the bathmat and flushed it.

How sad is my life that I considered making that yesterday's blog post? Maggie Mason needs a sequel titled "No One Cares That You Killed A Huge Fly In Your Bathroom This Morning." 

I have no blog post now the hat is done. (Oh, two co-workers weighed in on the hat. Anne, "It looks like Neapolitan ice cream," and Carter, "If you stand facing south you could pick up Dish Network.") Without the hat, I have no blog post, because I have no project. Mom is boxed up, Babka defeated me, Pie Pie Pie Pie Cupcake Pie is a losing battle, Mom's house is in the hands of the property managers, and the guitars and bass don't interest me at the moment.

In retirement, Mom would measure her mental health by how many capers she was up to. Was she spray-painting every tool in the garage gold? Was she making padded cloth covers for the photo albums? Was she pasting on fake tattoos? See? I need a caper. I have been caperless one whole day.

How many days until I paint the basement in the manner of Basquiat? That's the real question.

Dental Queries

When I was young, the dentists came to school to teach us proper oral hygiene, in case our parents hadn't, I suppose.

(But then why wouldn't we also have had a class on bottom-wiping? Interesting. I anticipate the toddlers of tomorrow will see a presentation on how to open toilet stall doors with their feet , given how moms of today are so adamant about germs.)

The memorable part of the dental hygiene presentation was when we would brush our teeth, spit, and then chew on the disclosing tablets to reveal our remaining plaque in vivid purple shame.

 

And what did this teach us? To scrub our teeth.

Did anyone hear a word about floss? I didn't. Are kids today told about floss in Toddler dental hygiene class? Are they shown how to floss? Is flossing a new trend? I didn't hear about flossing till the seventies.

When did you hear about flossing? That's my first question.

Here is why I ask: I'm not usually a flosser.  Last time a hygenist tried to floss me I wished her good luck, because my teeth are small and tight. She said she'd be okay, because she'd just used the titanium nut-picker of death to scrape the tartar from between my teeth, so there'd be more room. I remember asking, "So, how can I keep that tartar from building up between my teeth?" and she said,"Floss."

"If I floss all the tartar away will you have to scrape it off my teeth next time?" AND SHE SAID NO, or that at least it would be much easier. And that flossing also causes weight loss and shiny hair. Well, she could have, I didn't question her.

Until today at lunch, when the Numbered Friends expressed doubt.

I've been flossing daily, and my gums are still accessible. Usually I can't get the floss in, and then I can't get it out. I'm thinking I have less plaque and roomier teeth, but perhaps not.

How much of your six-month tooth cleaning is devoted to the Pointy Pick tooth scraping torture device, and, do you floss?

So, two questions: when did you learn about flossing, and does flossing make for an easier cleaning? Leave your responses in the comments, and as always, if the question is too personal you may be anonymous.

Celebrity Hat

All the jaws will drop
And all the girls will scream
And there will be commotion when I show up on the scene

- Barenaked Ladies, "Celebrity"

The Celebrity Hat got its start in a suburb of Saint Louis, Missouri, but didn't achieve true success until the debut at the 2011 Kentucky Derby. 

The Debut ====================

Moments after Celebrity Hat appeared on the scene, admiring comments began to float across the parking lot.

"Now that is a hat!"

"I love your hat."

CH was flattered by the instant approval. The attention was nice too, especially since CH knew her Harshest Critic heard all the positive reviews.

The Hat rounded a corner toward the shuttle bus that would take them to the Derby. A crowd of college boys applauded. A crowd of college girls squealed, "OOooo! Can we take your picture?"

But, of course. And your hats are lovely too.

"Can we get in the picture too? We're doing a blog about derby hats. It'll be something like tumblr - derbyhats -dot - com. Did you make this? And look, you matched your outfit, too. We really appreciate your effort."

Suck on that, Critic, Celebrity Hat thought.

Coping with Fame ===================

Once CH was at Churchill Downs, there was such a crush of people avoiding the drizzle that it was hard to move, but in her slow peregrination across the main hall she was stopped at least thirty times. Often by a simple "LOVE your hat," which she soon learned should be greeted with a gracious, "Thank you, and your hat is lovely too." Unless of course the fan was an English gentleman who reminded her of a recent Dr. Who incarnation, who said, "That is simply a lovely hat. Well done!" CH could only muster a giggle and a "Thank you."

There were several types of fans:

• Those who simply wanted to express admiration
• Those who surreptitiously snapped a photo OF the hat
• Those who crept up like a squirrel holding a camera and asked "May we take a photo of your hat?"
• Those who asked if they could be in the photo WITH the hat and made The Critic snap the photo
• Those who would stare in admiration and then glance away, embarrassed, when the Hat turned in their direction. [I have been that fan. Never again. - Ed.]

Professional photographers, interestingly, never tried to engage the hat, but would just take photos with enormous lenses and then turn away silently. CH felt a little used.

The Dark Side of Fame: Fans Who Want to be Too Close ==

When CH finally got to her seat ON the RAIL, as befitting a famous Hat, the attention escalated. Her fellow grandstanders, who were a little tipsy, got in close, asked where the Hat was purchased, who made the Hat, how it was made, asked for photos of the Hat, asked for photos of them standing next to the Hat, and then ... asked to wear the Hat.

The answer was, "Sure!"  Celebrity Hat was passed among the grandstanders and was tried on by two people, was photographed, and then returned home, a little shaken, but none the worse for wear. After all, drunk people are the most admiring, her brief trip to the infield had taught her that.

With all the fame, the attention, the worship, Celebrity Hat never realized that the bottom was about to drop out.

Celebrity Hat: Behind the Music =========

You may think you know where this story leads. "Ah, CH is caught getting blown .... off a head." No, this fate held true for the hat next to Celebrity Hat, but not CH, as she was strapped on, to cover a double chin, as was compulsively explained to everyone who commented on the wisdom of the ribbon on a windy day.

"So," you say, "CH must have been in the way of the people behind, since she was on the front row." Close, but not quite. CH was not the center of the drama.

 

The couple behind CH were the drama. The man in the red Nautica hoodie is married to the woman with the brown jacket, who is one of CH's biggest fans. They also might be a little tipsy.

Right before the horse race (there is also a horse race at this Big Hat Event), everyone stood for the singing of "My Old Kentucky Home." A thirtyish woman, and her daughter a twentyish woman, snuck down to the front and stood on the bleacher seat between the man in the hat next to CH and Tipsy Couple.

Mr. Tipsy would have none of that. "Get back to your seats!" he roared.

"These are our seats. See," the Mom replied, showing her wristband.

"Get back to THE SEATS YOU PAID FOR!" he clarified.

"Why can't we sit right here? No one is on this seat."

Throughout all this Mrs Tipsy is protesting reasonably that the girls should go back because if they let everyone sit wherever they wanted there would be chaos and other arguments in favor of the social contract.

Mr Tipsy shouted, "You aren't SITTING you are STANDING and YOU ARE OBSTRUCTING MY VIEW WITH YOUR BIG HATS."

CH was momentarily self-conscious, but then remembered she was a celebrity.

"What are you going to do? Cut me?" the Mom sneered.

"I will get the usher."

"He won't do anything."

"Then I WILL PUNCH YOU IN YOUR FUCKING FACE."

"IF YOU TOUCH ME I WILL GET THE POLICE SO FUCKING FAST."

Then all I can imagine is Mr. Tipsy reached out and poked Mom Hat with his index finger because she screamed, "He touched me!" Then she hopped off the seat and started to cry. Her daughter stayed put. The race began.

The horses ran past, there was a two minute period of nothing, then the horses ran past again in another order. Then Animal Kingdom won.

The mother-daughter team were gone by the time the race was over. As one of our seatmates filed out, he asked Mr.Tipsy if it was okay if he walked in front of him. "I wouldn't want to obstruct your view." We all laughed. The Tipsies apologized to everyone.

CH noticed that Louisville seemed to have a tendency for man-on-woman and woman-on-man violence, between the race and the concert the night before.

Celebrity Hat: After the Spotlight Fades =====

The next day, CH spent several hours trying to find one of the dozens of photos people took with her. There are none. She is now a D-list hat. A second banana. A supporting actor. CH had a brief moment in the sun and then it was gone.

Celebrity Hat: a star that shone bright then burned out too soon.

Just Some photos

Somehow, when I picked a few photos for the Kentucky derby flickr account, I ended up with thirty photos: with none of Gary and none of the actual race. I think Gary had a video of that. I'm sure it looks a lot like NBC's coverage.

Here's the flickr account:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/egschmidt/sets/72157626679555806

There's a tease in there about drama. Tomorrow. Now I sleep.

The hat is resting on its laurels.

More later. Gotta take the hat home. It had a very exciting time.

My view

Just now got to our seats.

I round a corner and people applaud the hat

Gary and I have agreed he was wrong and we will never mention it again.

Excitement at the BNL show

A. I once again ran into Rachel from the Cruise. We are pulled together by destiny. She didn't know about the show in St. Louis so I was able to spread that joy.

B. It was crowded and druuuunk. In fact, some woman squeezed herself between me and a fire hydrant and she had the grace to say "excuse me" and "sorry." Then she aimed for a man two backs away and punched him in the back. He turned around and she pummeled him in the face. Then she cussed him out while he pinned her arms down. She tossed him off, yelled "fuck you!" and stormed away. He cuddled with his date for a while, then he and his date made separate serious phone calls. Drama!

Room at the Jameson Inn is remarkably roomy ...

But there is a funky smell.

Le Hat est fait!

So I got all dressed up and Gary took a slew of photos without telling me I was wearing the hat too far back, comme ca:

 

Granted, my hair is tidy, and I am wearing a bra and underwear and pants. When I was no longer wearing any of these things, I looked at the photos and realized my mistake. So I put the hat back on, and I put my slippers on and demanded Gary take the photos again.

Lucky for you, he insisted I wear my pink shirt and bone jacket.

So here it is, re-positioned. My hair looks like am unkempt ostrich feather. Ignore that. The angle is peculiar because Gary refused to get off the couch this time. Still, the slanty hat is back!

 

From the back it looks a little demented, but again I blame my coiffure:

 

The side view is my favorite. I went with a ribbon, not my chiffon wimple, but that will be a backup scarf. Just in case the ribbon disintegrated as it did during the first photoshoot. (Staples. They seemed to hold better than glue to the ribbon. I was determined not to sew a stich on this.)

 

And I couldn't decide what this photo reminded me of at first.

 

But then I remembered that Friend #4 had alerted me this afternoon that BNL is giving a free concert in Saint Louis on July 23rd. And then I realized where I'd seen that pose before:

 

So. This is a good sign.

See you at the races!

My New Least Favorite Holiday

Up until today, Halloween was my least favorite holiday. Awkward conversations with frightened or greedy children. I have a new least favorite holiday: Cinco de Mayo.

This is my first Cinco de Mayo. Let's deconstruct May 5th.

Beer - People drink beer, specifically Mexican beer. I don't like beer from any country.

Dessert - the only edible Mexican dessert is sopaipilla, which is just too damn hard to make or eat. Of course, in Mexican food, chocolate is a seasoning for chicken. That's just wrong.

Food - What is in Mexican food? Hot peppers and cilantro. I don't like spicy food, and it isn't enhanced by the soap flavor of cilantro.

Still, I said I'd make something for the TeddyJ Cinco De Mayo food day. Cookies, I thought, maybe lemon cookies, that might go well with Mexican food.

But no! There was a sign-up list, but approved Mexican foods were listed! The only empty spots were next to "pulled chicken" and "Spanish rice."

Spanish rice comes in a box. It must be cheaper than a pound of pulled chicken. So my name went there.

Of course, three hours later ... I've printed the recipe for Guy Somebody's Spicy Spanish Rice and I'm having a conversation with the produce guy at the Dierberg's by Mid Rivers and 94. (The most helpful produce man who has ever lived. He got out a knife and showed me an easy way to dice a tomato. (Slice off top, cut a grid, cut off grid. repeat.) He sacrificed a tomato. He knew a jalapeno could substitute for a serrano, and found me the polbanos.)

Speaking of peppers, I'd like to thanks everyone who has ever blogged the dangers on touching your eyes after chopping jalepenos. I was very careful. I'd like to add that one should avoid daintily picking ones nose. (Hours later. Not while I was cooking. That would be disgusting.)

At one point I had to taste the rice to see if it was tender yet. I carefully tongued a grain off the spoon and it was a) tender and b) made of fire.

So now, 23 dollars later, I have some very spicy rice that I am sure other people will enjoy. I hope to God they eat it all.

There's happy hour after, too. I did just think of one Mexican thing I like: Patron Peach Margaritas. That makes me feel better.

Gary's New Diet

I've had this conversation with Gary six times in the last month.

I say, "Hon, I'm going to the grocery. Anything you want me to buy?"

"No, I'm going to the grocery on my own later. You know I'm on a diet. I can't eat anything but tomatoes and peppers and gum. I'll be in charge of getting my own stuff, and you just shop for yourself."

"Okay then, I'll see you -"

"Wait. Are you getting yourself pretzel sticks and whipped cream cheese?"

"Maybe. Do you want me to get you some?"

"No. I can't eat that."

"Okay then -"

"But are you getting yourself some?"

"... Do you want me to get 'myself' some pretzels and cream cheese?"

"Well, it is tasty. It is your favorite snack."

Right now he's eating my pretzel sticks and whipped cream cheese. All of it. In one sitting.

This has only been surpassed by the evening he came home with a box of dark-chocolate covered Entenmann's donuts, which he tossed on the desk next to me. "Here! I got you these!"

"Why?"

"Look! These are your favorite donuts!"

"No. I like crullers. The are YOUR favorite donuts."

"No! No they aren't!" (This is a lie.) "I don't think I've even HAD one of these donuts ever. Here. Let me try them." (Eats a donut.) "Oooo! These are good. Here, eat one."

"No, thank you."

"But I GOT them for YOUUUU."

I did eat a bite of one. I didn't like it. He was forced to eat the other seven.

Profane

A few weeks ago, I used the word "motherfucker" in a post. Gary did not think much of that.

Gary had previously expressed dismay that in the Cracker Barrel post, I spelled out the words "fuck" and "shit." He proposed "f*ck" and "sh*t."

"No," I said, "I don't think so. It's a little too self-protective for me. If I'm cursing, I should do it, not do everything but the vowels."

"But some of your readers are older ladies, you know. They might be offended. You can convey the same idea, it just isn't as harsh."

So, older ladies: sorry, but I'm not dropping the vowels for any of you who may be offended. If I have to see how vulgar and crass I am, you have to see it too. I might struggle in the future to be better, and think with less profanity, but until I genuinely improve I shouldn't put on a show.

I haven't mentioned Gary's views on my profanity, because, fuck him, and because I didn't want people to feel slighted if they would instead say, "f*ck him." Do what you will.

However, the weekend's events presented me with a similar decision: do I say what I feel and think, or do I say what I should feel and think?

So many people are on Twitter and in blogs pointing out that it is not good to revel in the death of another human being, even Osama Bin Laden. This is true. If I were a good person, I would feel that and I would say that. As it is, I want to agree. I see the appeal. It is in accordance with my philosophy that you must be civilized and value all life. It's what I would like to think.

But, I don't think that; it's too far white on the black and white spectrum. I don't feel that; I am tickled pink that he's dead and if there were death photos I'd look right at them and giggle. I'd make LOL catspeak. "Ceiling Osama iz watching you with his one eye." "I iz in your oceans, covered with shellfish."

(In case you worry I am being too hard on myself, I will still take twenty photos of myself and pick the one in which I seem thinnest.)

You Know the Bad Thing About Yahoo?

They don't have a 144 point size font for Big Breaking News.