Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Dan Rather

I feel a kinship with Dan Rather. He might even be kin: we were both born in Texas. He was the national network news voice when there was one half hour of news a day. I felt some pity for Walter Cronkite because he turned the reins over to Dan what, a month before Hinckley shot Reagan?

At first, Dan was almost like comic relief compared to the dial tone of stability that was Walter Cronkite. I read his biography, and he seemed really rational. Then he gradually became a drama magnet. If Dan Rather had been a movie star instead, there would be a crawl under Dr. Drew right now: "DAN RATHER? IS HE BI-POLAR?"

He mouthed off to Nixon, he walked off the air because they pre-empted the news for a tennis match, he got in a pissing match on the air with President Bush the First, and for a month or so he ended the news with "Courage!"

Picture this happening to Charlie Sheen / Mel Gibson / Lindsey Lohan: He got beat up by some guy yelling "Kenneth, what is the frequency?"

Something made me think about that the other day. (Saint Louisians of a certain age: I drove past the airfield and saw a small plane. Small plane, Bob Richards, Dan Rather.)

Did you know they caught the "Kenneth What is the Frequency" culprit? Per Wikipedia:

In 1997, a TV critic writing in the New York Daily News solved the mystery, and published a photo of the alleged assailant, William Tager. Rather confirmed the story: "There's no doubt in my mind that this is the person." "William Tager's identity as the man who attacked Mr. Rather was established in the course of an investigation by my office", said New York District Attorney Robert M. Morgenthau. Tager also admitted assaulting Rather. Tager is currently serving a 25-year prison sentence for killing NBC stagehand Campbell Montgomery outside The Today Show studio in 1994.

One benefit of age: all the mysteries are solved if you pay attention. Deep Throat, What's the Frequency Kenneth, Amelia Earhart. Very satisfying.

Foul Mood

Last night I was in bed at seven then awake till two for no reason. That's why I didn't wake up today until eight when the dog sat on my chest and clawed at my head. He HAD food, he HAD toys, he had Whole House Access. So, then, I was going to get ready for work when I thought, "Oh, I'll just lie down for a moment and rest my eyes."

That's why I arrived at work today at 10:20 with messy hair and a foul, foul mood. The items listed below did not improve my mood.

• I have cultivated a diverse music festival of moles and skin tags on my neck. Big moles, little baby moles, skin tags, baby skin tags. Nine total on the left, four on the right.
• I still have the poison ivy reaction.
• We got very bad family health news today (not Wilma, for those playing along at home).
• I need a shock collar that zaps me when I eat ice cream in the afternoon. Another pleasure lost to age.
• I was all geared up to renew my auto tags when I realized I hadn't had either car inspected.
• I forgot to put out the trash.
• I am shamefully off my Words With Friends game.
• I ate lunch alone.
• My beloved work husband Tim has taken a job with another firm. While he won't leave until September, I worry I might lose him.

It was just a day I focused on the picky negative details of my fully-charmed life. I could have just as well focused on the positive (TeddyJ feeds me ice cream in the afternoon) but I was in a pissy mood. And I wanted to be.

What's do you call a guy with no arms and no legs and no tongue hanging on the wall?

I am stupidly happy about the return of Louie on FX. And it is wrong, because it is so wrong to laugh at his show. Especially this one bit ...

This bit about child molesters ...

Well, I can't find it anywhere. It was a bit he did on how pedophiles always end up killing their victims, and if we could just make it so there was less of a stigma about pedophilia, it would still be awful, but at least they wouldn't have to kill the children. They could just call, and say, well, I've got Timmy, but I'll have him home by nine.

Pedophilia is awful, but I could put that aside for the five minutes I laughed. That joke was funny. It WAS. It was surprising and inventive and a clever twist on a shocking topic.It wasn't like Tracy Morgan's pointless anti-gay rant. It was in horrendously bad taste, no argument here, but I did laugh.

What I DID find on the Internet was a LOT of comments on how that wasn't funny.   And I can only imagine all those commenters had been molested as children. Or known someone who was. And that is awful ... but ...

I do know that Jewish Friend #3 enjoys the Challah joke, though she often tries to tell it wrong. "How much did that challah cost?" "No. What's a challah cost?"

When do people cross the line between having a dark, sick sense of humor and hurting others? 

"The Die is Cast" -- Urine edition

We went out to breakfast, and in the parking lot Gary called his Mom to alert her that after we picked up a few items for her at the grocery, then we'd be over.

While driving to get the bananas and skim milk, I asked, "I have a shopping list right here of about ten things I need, so I'll get those at the store too."

"No. We're shopping for my Mom," he said, in his "Die is Cast" voice.

Okay. I rolled with that one. I can shop any time of day. No big deal.

At that moment, something "went down the wrong way" and I couldn't breathe for just a moment. Then I was able to suck in a big shaky breath and cough. Oh, and pee all over myself. You know, just one of those cough-pees, because your body is no longer particular about where the fluid comes out after forty-five. Then Gary started pounding on my back, and I sucked-coughed-peed again, and I thought "Oh no."

Because, I can contain the initial burst inside my conveniently-placed woman-pouch. The fluid just diverts into the fat little folds and if I walk carefully I can keep my undies fairly dry. However, all the levees burst on the second cough.

"Gary" I said, "I will need to clean up at the store while you are shopping. In fact, I might need to go home and change my pants. I might have really peed myself. It seems pretty damp."

"I told Mom we're on our way. We don't have time for that. It'll evaporate."

I just sat there with my mouth agape for a moment, and then I thought, what the hell. What. The. hell. If my husband doesn't care that I just peed myself, why should I care? Why.

I got out of the car in the store and noticed I felt the dampness went halfway down my thighs. "Hey," I said, "does it look like I've wet myself?"

"Nah," he said, "You look fine."

Again I thought, "Huh. I always thought it was bad form to walk about swamped in urine, but what do I know? I'm not even going to clean myself up. Screw that."

There was a momentary negotiation that I could buy my food, then we might go home and put our food away and I could change pants. However, that was a ruse. As soon as I got back in the car with the food and the shallow vase of flowers for his mom, that plan was scrapped.

On the way to the in-laws I cunningly doused my lap with the water in the vase. I figured that would at least dilute the urine. It also gave me an excuse to sit on a towel over at the in-laws. On the way back of course I made numerous references to how he made me sit in my own urine all day. Now I'm off to take a Silkwood shower and scrub up before work tomorrow.

UPDATED: Unsatisfying Dreams

Thursday Night

I had a sex dream. In this sex dream I masturbated. With a woman. It was not a good dream. For ME. I'm sure if anyone else had been watching HE would have enjoyed it, but a sex dream in which you don't have any SEX is unsatisfying. I woke Gary up and told him about it, and he'd just had a nightmare about bugs in our basement. Then he got up and brushed his teeth. He had to go donate platelets for cancer research. I wasn't going to demand anything while he was on a mission from God.

Friday Night

I had a sex dream. In this sex dream I performed fellatio on a stranger. Afterward, he was a jerk to me. He then left. It was, again, not a good dream for ME.

All I can guess is my subconscious is telling me "YOU ARE NOT SEXY."  And I'm sure this is true. Hormones are probably drying up. My exterior is pretty off-putting. My uterus is probably going to drop out any day.

Tonight

Well, what shall I do in "my" dream tonight? I'm thinking my subconscious will give a handjob to a hobo through a slot in a wall.

==========UPDATE=============

Here's Saturday night's dream. It would appear my subconscious grew impatient with subtlety.

I had no sex, satisfying or otherwise. Instead, I taught freshman high school English, and I was teaching the Romantic poets like Shelley and Byron.

"ROMANTIC!" my subconscious bellows. "GET IT?

The particular poem I wanted to teach was typical descriptive romantic poetry, five verses on how the sun falls across landscape, but tucked in the first two lines was the phrase "cock out." As in "As the light blessed the balustrades, cock out, the early song of the peasants etc."

"COCK OUT Get it? COCK OUT!"

It didn't really have any place in the poem, but I knew the ninth graders would giggle, so I had to deal with it. I considered a lesson on the usage of "cock" in the 18th century. Or, perhaps it meant something like "balls against the wall," only the opposite. I sought advice from other teachers. I considered editing to to "c__k out."

During all this I was giving romantic guidance to a high school couple who were too shy to express their love. One was a pale dark boy with tooth problems. I was a go-between.

Then it occured to me, the way to solve my "cock out" was to delete it entirely from the poem. As in "As the light blessed the ballustrades, the early song of the peasants etc."

"CUTTING THE COCK OUT ENTIRELY!"

Yes, subconscious, I get it.

"AND LEAVE THE LOVE TO THE YOUNG PEOPLE!"

I hate my subconscious.

Baked creamy rice pudding Recipe

From http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/bakedcreamyricepuddi_67511

(This recipe is for four -five people eating rice puddings out of ramekins. I'd cut this in half, at least, for two people and eat it out of cereal bowls.)

metric / the right way

110g / 1/2 cup short-grain pudding rice (Arborio rice)

450ml / ¾ pint single cream

450ml / ¾ pint full-fat milk

55g / 1/4 cup sugar (this is "superfine" sugar - I just used regular sugar and it was good)

freshly grated nutmeg

1 vanilla pod (optional) (I used a tablespoon of vanilla)

25g / 1oz unsalted butter (or salted, I used that)

Preparation method
Preheat the oven to 150C/ 300F /Gas 2 (is Gas 2 the martian equivalent?) and grease a 1.5 litre / 2½ pint ovenproof dish with a little butter.

Rinse the rice under cold water and place in the ovenproof dish. Place the cream, milk, caster sugar and a generous grating of nutmeg in a medium saucepan. Scrape in the seeds of the vanilla pod, if using. (Or just dump in the vanilla) Heat gently until almost simmering, then remove from the heat and pour over the rice, stirring well.

Dot the butter over the top and place in the oven for 1½ hours, stirring after the first 30 minutes (at this stage, you can add an extra grating of nutmeg, if liked). If the pudding still seems very runny, return to the oven, checking every 10 minutes, until it is loosely creamy but not runny. The cooking time will vary, depending on the type and depth of dish you use.

When the pudding is golden brown on top and has a soft, creamy texture, remove from the oven and allow to rest for 10 minutes before serving.

Why is someone this TALL employed as concert security?

Rice Pudding

At 5:00 pm: I reminded myself I had to buy a few items on the way home. "Gas, pills, rice." Got the gas, and I was at the pharmacy waiting for the pills when I decided I wasn't going to get the rice. No rice pudding tonight.

At 5:25 pm: I was still at the pharmacy, waiting, and checking my blog comments, and Big Dot had reached out from the other side of the globe.

 

See that last one? I know. Cheeky, I think they call it. (And ... using five stops in an ellipses, is that a Southern hemisphere thing?)

And, so, I thought, the New Zealander is tucked up all toasty warm by her fire in the NZ winter, and she feels like some vicarious rice pudding.

At 6:00 pm: I am at the grocery shooting an elephant buying rice, and I called Gary. "Is there anything you want from the store? I'm just getting the rice to make rice pudding - "

"I LOVE RICE PUDDING!"

Gobsmacked. Over 25 years with this man. I was at that moment selecting the best adjectives to describe his horror on taking his first bite of rice pudding. And here he loves it.

At 7:32 pm: I am loving the hybrid metric recipe, because it gives me a chance to use the gram lines on my measuring cup. It's easy, and I stir it all up, put it in the oven for ... an HOUR and a HALF?

At 9:00 pm: It certainly smells good.

 

At 9:30 pm: It had cooled. Gary said it tasted good. It did have a good taste, just like the extra milk in the bottom of a bowl of Apple Jacks cereal. Not overly sweet, not like Captain Crunch milk. The texture was the best part. You could take whole cream, make cottage "cheese" of it, but make it taste like cereal milk.

It was good, if mild. I wisely had a tiny cup of it, because it was rich.

This is a dish built for mass consumption. Not intense, not overpowering, just good tender curds of sweetened milk. I predict it will be gone by the weekend.

In Which I Abuse My Friendship With Beleaguered Friend #3

I had an earwig today. I couldn't place it. It was an overdriven guitar intro. I told Gary I needed to go home and play it on my bass to get it out of my head. I was under the impression it was "Kashmir."

Got home, listened to Kashmir. Kashmir goes: "Babdadum, badadum; badadum, badadum: badadum, badadum." (Pay careful attention to the punctuation there. There's a subtle nuance between the colon and semi-colon up there.)

Not Kashmir. But, I looked up "famous classic rock intro" and got a good lead. The overdriven sound was totally Black Sabbath. And it went: "Ba, ba DA-DA-DA DAAA ... DA." in kind of a descending fashion.

"Gary! What the hell is this song? Ba, ba DA-DA-DA DAAA ... DA."

"I know that one. Only it's lower. (ba, ba da-da-da daaa ... da.) And then they go: 'Aghahgsgaga!'" He waved his arms in the air to punctuate the 'Aghahgsgaga!' "And then the drums come in!"

He said it was totally Black Sabbath, and he had it on his iTunes right now, and if I searched on our iTunes we would find it. But we didn't. Then he said it was possibly Def Leppard, and we looked into that, but no.

"Marcia will know," I announced, and then moved toward my phone to call Marcia.

Usually this would be when Gary would bellow "NO IT'S NINE FORTY FIVE AT NIGHT YOU CANNOT CALL MARCIA" but no, Gary said, "Good idea, call her."

Backstory: The Beleaguerment.
About a week ago Marcia was bitten in her beautifully appointed condo by a brown recluse spider. ISYN. (I Shit You Not, for you elderly ladies.) The bite oozed and seeped and spread and was indeed from one of four (FOUR) brown recluses she found in her condo. For some reason she continued to stay there. As of today she'd caught another spider, had the exterminator out, had the plumber out to make the condo less appealing to the brown recluses, and been to the doctor to get steroids. So of course now that she can actually close her eyes and sleep instead waiting up for the spiders to get her, now is when I call.

"HeLOOO?" she asked.

"Did I wake you?"

"Yes."

I thought for a second about explaining that usually I would have texted her but this required me to sing these seven notes, but I just wanted off the phone.

"Earwig. Quick. What's this song? Ba, ba DA-DA-DA DAAA ... DA. It's classic rock, so I know you'll know it."

"How's it go?"

"Ba, ba DA-DA-DA DAAA ... DA."

"Okay, I got it, I'll think on it."

"K bye."

Now, I hoped she'd mutter "Fuck off," throw the phone off the bed, roll over and go back to sleep.

I went to my guitar, tuned it, and plucked out the first four notes. E, E G-E ...

Marcia called at 10:15.

She started with, "You complete bitch." (Justified.) "It isn't classic rock, it's the White Stripes."

I said, "It can't be the White Stripes -"

"AUGGHGSAAAHAHHA!" Gary said. "That's it! The White Stripes!"

Then she tried to play Seven Nation Army over her phone, and I said I believed her. And I think I thanked her. But I didn't really believe her because the song in my head is FAMOUS. And the White Stripes are not.

Gary of course called it up on his iTunes and OF COURSE MARCIA WAS RIGHT.

I wondered, why would some obscure White Stripes song be in my head? Weird.

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

Sigh. While I was typing this post to salve my conscience, I was also halfway watching the Colbert Report. I looked up and there was a clip of motherfucking Jack White from the White Stripes.

"NO!" My cry was interrupted by, "Ba, ba DA-DA-DA DAAA ... DA." Of course, they must have played that song all week. (I immediately paused it. Now I'm un-pausing. Damn it. Now they're singing it. Bastards. Mocking me.)

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

If you want to get this earworm, you can listen to the whole sample here: http://www.amazon.com/Seven-Nation-Army/dp/B001B9DDKS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1308717150&sr=8-1

Bread and Circuses

I saw an ad the other day for a new show called "Mob Wives."

I sniffed, "Why. Why would anyone watch that show?" Then I flipped on the Casey Anthony trial.

So now ... I have to rationalize my contempt of reality shows with my fixation on the Casey Anthony Trial.

See Casey Anthony (watch how I do this: it's amazing) is clearly an unbalanced young woman. She is the gladiator pitted against the lion of justice. Rowrz! She has no chance in hell. Well, she might ... no. No chance in hell.

On the other hand, the Mob Wives, The Housewives of [Insert your city here], all take mildly mentally unbalanced women and pit them against each other. And there you have the condemned slaves in the arena forced to hack each other to death.

Far more honorable to watch one slave against the lion then to cheer when slaves tear each other apart.

Who makes women look worse? Casey Anthony or The Assorted Housewives? Free to disagree.

Sweetness spin: Gary really wanted to be sure the ice cream cake was just perfect for Father's Day.

Since Wilma hasn't been making his meals for him, Ken has been free to follow his appetites. It would seem he has been denied the AMOUNT of JAM a grown man requires. When Gary and his sister both heard how much peach jam Ken has been putting on his toast, they individually decided to get him peach jam.

Ken now has ten jars of peach jam. Well, one is peach/apricot. (Apricot! A fuzzy fruit.)

Mr. W and Karen brought Bandana's barbecue and my Gary brought ice cream cake. Ice cream cake is a high-maintenance food. He bought it the night before, so it had to be stored in our freezer, invalidating the instruction to bring it out twenty minutes before serving.

So Gary was concerned the cake! Might not melt! Ever! Damnit!

So we drove to his parents in the ninety degree heat with the HEATER ON. You know, for the CAKE.

Eventually I panted, "I have MS, you know."
"Tossing out the MS card, are you?"

Seriously.  This was followed an hour later by his parents explaining how they like to be taken care of and babied when they are sick. I wanted to warn Wilma I was installing strobe lighting in every room for her precious epileptic baby.

No quarter! No prisoners!

Grocery Bullets

I slept for 14 hours last night AND I took a 90 minute nap today, Still just wiped out. I think: "WALK walk WALK walk" and my body goes: "walk        ....  walk       ....  walk       ....  walk." But I still have a pressing collection of thoughts that require feedback.

• Dryer sheets and fabric softener. Why? These would be at the very bottom of my grocery list. I know others buy these things as if they were a staple. You may be one of these people. I picture the people who buy these must be the ones who buy all the little things that pander to the senses. I picture their houses as a constant neural bombardment of Enya music, air freshener plug-ins, wind chimes and aromatherapy. I must be wrong. Am I wrong? Do you really enjoy the smell and texture? Is it worth it? Am I missing out?
•  Mangoes. (The fruit, not the weird way Easterners refer to bell peppers.) Mangoes contain the same substance that causes the allergic reaction in poison ivy.
  "Mango peel and sap contains urushiol, the chemical in poison ivy and poison sumac that can cause urushiol-induced contact dermatitis in susceptible people. Cross-reactions between mango contact allergens and urushiol have been observed. Those with a history of poison ivy or poison oak contact dermatitis may be most at risk for such an allergic reaction. Urushiol is also present in mango leaves and stems. During mango's primary ripening season, it is the most common source of plant dermatitis in Hawaii."
• Teeny little brillo pads. I so dearly wish the Brillo people had made this years ago. My under-sink was always full of rusty half-used brillo pads. Look, I have persmission to use it and throw it away.
   
• Peaches. Do people eat the peach without peeling it? Really? Do you? Do you eat other fuzzy foods? Are you the same people who use fabric softener? 

Food Truckin'

Today was the day Steve From Work and I set out for the urban street food truck experience!

Out of the door and on the street all alone

 

There are your food trucks in the circle. While we were there this street was not any less deserted. I was expecting lines! Hubub! Rats eating scraps! Cupcakes! I found none of these things. (The cupcake truck had technical difficulties and stayed home.)

Instead of the cupcake truck we found the Pi pizza truck. You couldn't find two more disparate interpretations of the food truck experience.

Together, more or less in line

Here is the high-tech Pi pizza van:

 

...with its high tech PiPad:

 

 Right behind it we had the low-tech falafel wagon:

 

 ...with the falafelwich wagon crew. It wasn't their fault they looked a little suspicious.

 

I preferred the ambience of the falafel wagon, myself. And, while I enjoyed the falafel, oh, mygod, they had naan chips.

Truckin. Got my naan chips cashed in.

  

Naan chips are hot salty things, somewhat like Pita chips but with an edible texture and flavor.

My falafel photo did not do it justice. Steve went with a chicken / falafel mix, while I opted for the classic. Of course, since mine was all vegetarian I expected to be a little like a hush puppy sandwich, but it wasn't. Perhaps there's a lot of protein in chickpeas? It had a marvelous sauce.

 

Of course, Pi pizza is all cornbread cornMEAL (sorry) and tomatoes and cheese. On the down side, hi-tech Pi van? Seriously, you don't carry water?  The falafelmen had a cooler full of water.

Best thing about the food truck lunch? Later in the day, I told Steve to ask me how I was feeling.

"Okay. How are you feeling?"

"Falafel."

Fun Plans

Okay! As long as Steve from Work doesn't bail on me, I'm going to the Falafelwich food truck tomorrow. There are a lot of things I can do on my own, but eating at a food truck downtown isn't one of them.

It sounds like the falafel truck AND the cupcake truck will both be on the same street corner downtown tomorrow. How could I miss that? Screw Steve. He can come with if he wants to.

That reminds me, I have dropped one thing off my bucket list.

Evidently sunspots will be going dormant, so the Northern Lights will be less reliable, and I can't see going on a vacation in minus 40 degree weather solely to see lights that might well be obscured by clouds. I've decided just to watch a documentary in HD. I mean, I live in the Midwest and the only tornadoes I've ever seen have been on video.

Paris, Waffle House, Whatever.

Gary took me to Waffle House for our 26th anniversary.

 

They have new hash brown options. Back in our day the menu stopped at "Chunked." Now they have "capped" and something else - "peppered," I think.

And CHEESE EGGS. You can't get them anywhere else; you can't make them at home.

We did talk about where we might want to go next. Even better, we talked about things we never want to do.

Skydiving
Skiing (but, we could go to a ski lodge and just hang out)
Formula 1 Racing

After that, we went home, I took a Benedryl, and I just woke up. There was some kissing in there.

Gary Was In Fine Form Tonight

GOP VERSUS GOP

I think a local cable station needs to broadcast political debates with a split screen live feed of Gary watching political debates.

Or, even better, it could be like VH1's Pop-Up Videos (which I hear is coming back). Just little bubbles popping up during the debate, so you could still hear the audio. I was listening to Gary bellow so I missed many things during the GOP debate. (Michelle B. had 27 foster kids?  Gays want to steal babies?  What was that?)

This was Gary:
WHAT THE HELL? DO THEY THINK WE'RE STUPID?
NASA? NASA? NOT INNOVATIVE?
BUT IS IT EVEN GOOD PIZZA?
RIGHT TO WORK? YOU MEAN RIGHT TO NOT BE PAID?
NAZIS? MUSLIMS ARE NAZIS NOW?

I did hear Cain say, "No, I was talking about the BAD Muslims, the ones who want to kill us." That just floored me. "No, I was talking about the BAD Asians, the ones who can't drive." Really?  And then Gingrich, with "Well, you know, the bad Muslims lie." (And I know, I know there are Bad Muslims. Just like there are Asians who can't drive.)

DOG VERSUS DOG

In direct contrast to the debate, Gary has a plan for what will happen if Tinkerbell the DogSlut comes to live with us and Mac.

"I think muzzles would be a good idea. We put muzzles on both dogs, then when they fought, they'd be confused. They'd just bump heads with each other." And then chew you to death in your sleep, Gary.

How I Suffer

Gary says I don't really have poison ivy, if I did have poison ivy, I would have huge oozing welts like he does when HE has poison ivy.

My skin doesn't itch: it burns. This is why I have spent the day with ice packs on my face.

My eye swelling has gone down. In fact, my undereyes are sunken and hollow again. I do still have the swollen upper under-lids. Usually my upper top-lids swamp my under-lids. I was surprised to see them still peeking out like a sick cat's.

Upon some research I found that in a drug trial, calamine was no better than placebo. I had benedryl anti-itch gel, but it made me itch. I found two excellent treatments:

1) Pile cold packs all over my arms and face. The ice bricks didn't even hurt. Felt good. As an MS patient, I have a freezer full of cold packs and gel packs and wraps and vests.

2) Do yardwork. Keep your mind off it. It's so odd, I find that when I return to an area of my yard, I remember the words I had in my head the last time I worked there, even if I haven't worked there for years. The front sidewalk bed,where I was today, was "nematode ... nematode ... nematode" and the two sisters who were fighting over the lottery ticket. (There are no actual nematodes in the bed, it's just the words that are in my front sidewalk gardening bed neurons.) 

Benedryl would be good right now, but I think I can sleep without it. And you know, I don't really have poison ivy, not the kind with HIDEOUS WELTS, so I'll be fine. I do have flaky skin from where my skin expanded into individual puffy cells. (See below!) Back to work tomorrow. I might send out an email explaining why I look so extra hideous.

UPDATED: A Nice Day And How to Spoil It

It was 75 today, with a light wind, as it was in Eden. Of course, thunderstorms are predicted for tomorrow. I remember when weathermen predicted fair weather for the days too far off to forecast. Now it seems any day within 48 hours will be stormy. Dire thunderstorms: the default weather prediction for the day after tomorrow.

I got out the gardening tools, bought a variety of groundcovers and began working in the dirt.

My Mom's attitude about plants was "sink or swim." I am the same. Not a plant nurturer. "I'm putting you in the ground, you have roots, go be a plant." If it thrives, it was meant to be. If it must be babied, it is not for me.

This time I took it a step farther and set my plants against each other in a fight for survival. I have a dirt patch with two transplants of flowering thyme. My plan was to add four other types of groundcover and wait to see who kills whom. I thought it was four other types when actually I bought three brands and sizes of flowering myrtle and one of those hardware store Peerless plants no ones ever heard of like "onesto." That's the red shirt plant. He'll die before the commercial.

I have great affection for plants that thrive. However, my chameleon plant saw that I weeded the bed with my parents' ashes and leapt over a walkway to take over. I need to spank him back tomorrow. Before the "thunderstorm." Hahaha.

There is another plant I pulled up from every bed this afternoon. Some form of invasive ivy. With three leaves. You know that hormone that makes you forget the pain of labor? In my body, that hormone makes me forget what poison ivy looks like every year. In fact, I have a vague memory of having said that last year.

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

UPDATE:

 

Dark Things in Dark Corners

Sometime last year, the light went out in our refrigerator. We haven't had it fixed. For a while we kept a flashlight beside it, then a light in it, then a motion activated light that would only detect motions IT made. Then we stopped caring entirely.

A few nights ago, Gary open the fridge door, and suddenly backed away.

"AHHHHHH! WHAT IS THAT?"

I hopped up. I was convinced it was a cicada.

'NOOOO! WHAT IS IT IN THE BAG IS IT A SPIDER!"

I knew it wasn't a spider, but on the other hand, what was in the bag?

 

I got closer.

 

It did look a little like the legs of a giant spider under an electron microscope. So much so that I didn't pick up the bag. Instead I shoved my face into the bag and identified it as...

 

...asparagus!

I bought big thick asparagus instead of the skinny stuff. It scared him a little. 

1993

In '93, I woke up, checked the news, and heard the Monarch levee had broken.

"Poor farmers," I thought. "That's so sad."

I did not know my levees. The Monarch levee protects the fine people and boutiques and gourmet food shops of Chesterfield Valley. It's a ten minute drive from my house, and while I am sure some farmers were affected, I was far more concerned that The Smokehouse might lose its pig mailbox.

In just a few hours, the airport (one exit past The Smokehouse and Annie Gunn's restaurant) was under water. I remember seeing a plane's tail in the water like a shark fin.

Then next exit east? The Doubletree Hotel, and, across the road, the mall. Not our default mall, one step more upscale than ours. Still, the one with the Williams-Sonoma and the Brookstone. The flood stopped at the Doubletree.

Strangely, even though the levee had broken, the Missouri river level didn't go down. I suppose the crest was still on its way.

That same river is going to crest in two weeks, on the 28th. A nice lady on the radio assured us the Monarch levee was rebuilt higher, stronger, we have the technology. She was confident it wouldn't break. (As confident as the men who built the mega-strip-mall between the river and The Smokehouse. As confident as the schoolkids who painted a mural on the levee last weekend.)

She didn't mention the recent earthquake. Levees are just a big pile of dirt. Don't trust them.

Early This Morning

At about 2:30 this morning, my dog went into a state. He paced, he barked, he had the tornado tongue. Only, there was no storm.

Still during storms he finds solace in the little bed in the guest room. We were snuggled there when the house shifted.

The very moment it happened, Gary had rolled over in bed, and I thought for a moment he had broken the house somehow. Then I looked outside to see if a very well-padded semi had hip-checked my house. Then I thought, "Earthquake! Check Twitter!"

No one else tweeted it, so I wasn't going to call it, but I did report it.

 

The dog went in the kitchen, peed on the floor, and calmed down. Back to bed. And come to find out it was a earthquake. (If you read that story, you can see our Saint Louis priorities. "Yeah, had an earthquake. But WHAT ABOUT THE FUCKING CICADAS HUH?"

None of the elevators at work had active Seismic alerts.

Free the Weiner!

I know I can't be the only one who feels this way. You may not feel this way, but I know I do.

People need to lighten up on Anthony Weiner. Let the Wiener GOOOOO.

Think. You are a boy named Weiner. The worst thing you can do is take yourself seriously. Your sense of humor helps you survive. Your wiener defines you.

And now he's supposed to treat his wiener like a somber private part we do not speak of? Really? No!

He's supposed to be shocked by off-color humor when every stranger he's introduced to makes the same off-color joke? Really? No!

If I had to choose between a Congressman Weiner who made bad jokes and a Congressman Weiner who took himself seriously, give me the one who sits on a couch with his "two pussies." He's got a high tolerance for off-color humor.

And, frankly, I can see that an erect naked penis is threatening and obscene, but one in underpants? That worst I can say about that photo is that it was confusing. That is NOT an explicit photo. (Why is it sideways? Do they grow sideways when they grow in underwear? Where is the center point? Is he sitting down or standing up? Shouldn't there be testicles somewhere?)

(In addition, we just saw Piers Morgan ask some Vanity Fair reporter if she would feel inappropriate behavior such as Weiners: flirting without sex, was as bad as sexual infidelity. "Oh, that's a tough one," she answered.

"NO IT ISN'T" Gary and I yelled at the screen. She concluded it's as bad because the man's been unfaithful in his heart. Jesus, who coined that phrase, was speaking with Pharisees, known for virtuous actions and evil hearts. I reminded Gary I was fully in support of interheart infidelity. Live it up in your heart. )

I say if your name is Weiner the underwear shot should be your Twitter icon, and you can make all the dirty jokes to strangers you want to get back for your junior high years.

Free Willy! Free Weiner!

Bullets on A Sunday Evening

Well, Wilma is ensconced in Ken's motorized recliner, the hibiscus was never purchased, and Wilma pointed out no one would be watering it anyway. So, I interred the dead one in the yard waste bin and moved on.

Speaking of interred, I got hooked Friday on the Casey Anthony trial. You know, she might be innocent but still be a pathological liar. She reminds me of a 9th grade girl I student-taught. She claimed to have done her report but left it in her locker.Since the real teacher was there as well, the girl and I went down to her locker to get the alleged report. She pulled every single thing out of her locker before she said, "I guess I don't have it."

"So you were lying."  I was nineteen.

"Yeah, I guess so." Big eye roll. Then she went to her guidance counselor and complained about me.

It just amazed me. Had no one ever called her on a lie in her entire life?

So I suppose if I were on the jury, I'd have to start by discounting everything Casey A said, so I wouldn't be tempted to try her for lying. So the evidence is: duct tape from the home, smell in the trunk, and one decomposing hair. It could have been anyone ... well, if you ignore the mother's guilty behavior. Still, bad moms can have their kids abducted too. I feel it is my place to defend crappy Moms. There but for my Zovia go I.

Speaking of ignoring behavior, we were shopping for Gary's parents, I didn't turn a corner to follow Gary quickly enough. He bellowed, "Ellen! Come HERE!" Then he snapped his fingers at me! (Everyone:Oh, no he di'n't! Yes, he did.)  I immediately stopped so I could discuss it with the strangers at the end of the frozen foods. "Did you see that? He just called me like a dog!"

Speaking of Gary and how his coping behaviors, this afternoon Gary had a dream in which he, I, and our niece were wandering around in the twilight, and evidently we all kept cloning into younger versions of ourselves. TWILIGHT. YOUNGER. WHAT COULD THIS MEAN. (Shhh. I know what it means.)

Still speaking of coping, I made him pork steaks and cookies tonight. (If you are from Boston, that's a blade steak; from elsewhere, that's a shoulder roast cut thin; and if you are from Saint Louis I didn't barbecue it because as you know it is too damn hot.)

And speaking of death and crime and coping, I watched The Killing  again tonight. Almost nothing happened crime-wise this week, I am still transfixed, and I still don't know why. Police procedural? Not my cup of tea. Such a good show though. Gary doesn't like it, that's how good it is. Mad Men quality.

Another week begins. A little less real drama, a little more fake drama, a little more real-life someone else's problem on CNN.

Caesar Garicus

There was a conflict this afternoon. Wilma is coming home this weekend, and I wanted to replace her frost-damaged Hibiscus (botanical name: Ciruclus Ringus Stickus Mortus) with a new happy yellow one. We were in Florissant. It would have taken me forty-five minutes to go, get one, and stick it in the existing pot.

Gary wanted to pick up his medicine at the Walgreens in Saint Charles, which I think is open till ten. Here was his plan of attack.

1) Convince me it would never take forty-five minutes, because we would also have to get a TARP to lay over the GRASS by the PATIO so no DIRT would get on his Dad's LAWN.

This failed. He then went with his new plan, which was to repeat:

2) "The die is cast."

and just keep doing what he wanted.

It was very effective. We'd drive past a place that sold hibiscus. "Look, we can just pull in  -"

"The DIE is CAST."

Really, I have no defense against this.

Stress Eating

A few times this week, Gary's complained that he's achy, he's nauseated, he's had a bad sleep, his stomach is upset, or he feels on edge, and then I say, "Well, of course, you're under stress."

"I'm not stressed. What stress do I have?"

I realize our families differ, but in MY family having your MOM sliced open is stressful.  That's just me.

He's been slowly suckling quietly at the Bailey's teat, and other than that he's been eating anything he damn well pleases, and that's how he's dealing with the gnawing worries. This is loads of fun for me, because I can buy all kinds of unusual treats and see if any do the trick.

(It occurs to me: stress-smokers stick with one brand, alcoholics usually have a preferred liquor, but stress-eaters like variety. What about cocaine / pot / etc. addicts? "I'm a black-tar heroin man." )

So, I experimented quite a bit today with untested grocery items. Here are my reviews.

Magnum Chocolate bars.

 

Made by Unillever, the soap concern. The British have been hoarding these. I've never seen them before. I agree with Gary, the chocolate on chocolate with the fudge buffer layer was a bit much chocolate. One the other hand ...

Haagen Dazs "Sundae Cones":

 

BRUTAL Disappointment. No flavor! The chocolate and carmel were only there for decoration.

(Yes. This is akin to a crack whore coping with her pimp's overdose by complaining "I'm dealing with his death with this crack, and this crack had no flavor.") However, Gary loves them because they are "snack size." And speaking of snack size, what of wee little bagels?

Rold Gold Everything Bagel ... Pretzels ? Nuggets? Hard little carbs?:

 

The Momma bear, after eating the too-intensely flavored Magnum bar, and the too-subtly flavored "Sundae cones," said, "Oh ... these are ... just a salty flour and water paste, really." Bitter bitter disapp - no, not bitter, that would be a flavor.

So! No stress-relief so far!

Snacks failed. I tried to make Gary a stress-relief meal. I bought fresh shrimp and made fettucini alfredo, the real stuff, with cream and parmesean and eggs that are "cooked" by throwing hot pasta on top. This time my bowels didn't have to remind me, "Hey, moron, raw egg allergy." I realized the eggs were barely cooked and only ate a little. So, I got no joy.

I was about to set to an old reliable favorite, Synders Butter Snap pretzels and Philadelphia whipped cream cheese, when I realized there was one untried food in the house:

Kozy Shack Chocolate Pudding

 

"Bleah!" Gary cried when he saw the package. "No fat! No gluten? You HAVE to have GLUTEN."

"No you don't! I tried some - It's really good. " He got a spoon. "Don't eat the whole thing."

He spat it out. "Bleah! Blah!" He wiped off his tongue. "It needs gluten."

I bought it on Becs' recommend, and even though she says it doesn't have the same magic now, I haven't built up a tolerance yet. It was good. And Gary seemed to like the fettucini, so we're all good here.

Seismic

I didn't have to wait for the elevator on the way home Tuesday. It was there waiting for me.

I hit the button to go to the ground floor.

I waited.

Peeked outside. No one else was waiting.

I looked at the panel to see if "Lobby" was illuminated. No. "Seismic" was illuminated.

 

"I have trod so heavily I have jarred the elevator off the track!" Then I realized the doors had been open because the elevator was waiting there for service. Halfway up the TeddyJ building.

"Earthquake!" it whispered in terror, "Didn't you feel that? New Madrid fault! We're all going to die."

"Oh! I'm not that fat. Good." I got on another elevator, went home, researched and found that yes, our new elevators are able to sense an earthquake. They supposedly let everyone out on the ground floor in an earthquake.Ours goes halfway down the building and stops.

Of course, none of the other elevators sensed the supposed earthquake.

Today, there was a sign.

 

A good sign.

 

News From the Past: Cairo Gets A Pyramidoscopy

A very special news story:They've sent a camera robot into the Great Pyramid at Giza to investigate some smaller chambers and shafts. The camera looked left and right and saw some red hieroglyphics on what were "previously considered airshafts":

 

They've sent a robot through those shafts before and made a documentary of it, which I dimly recall ended with a robot banging up against a heavy wooden door. Thunk. Whirr. To be continued.

Perhaps I need to re-watch that documentary. Why can't those be airshafts again? Because of the doors? Let's say we are building a pyramid, and you're working on the King's Chamber. The pryamid is only this high, and here's where the airshafts stop. 

I'm the boss, and I say we're done with the King's Chamber and all we need to do is top this baby off and go home. (Then I say "Screw this pyramid, I'm going home," but actually with a good Cartman imitation.)

But we notice the rain keeps running down the airshafts, so we put doors over the shafts. Then someone starts building the pyramid higher and we realize, we have to keep building the shaft upward, otherwise all our calculations will be wrong, because we didn't use metric like the rest of the world.

Then I get impatient and say, "Just use the hot glue gun," and then I suffer horribly from a glue gun injury because there are no antibiotics.

I think they'll translate the hieroglyphics and they'll say,"Who the fuck decided we have to keep building this airshaft? Bad management! Union! Murder the boss with the big ankles and pour her blood down the airshaft!"