Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

New Range Takes Over the Kitchen

Wants

All I want is my new range.

Oh ... and I realize I want a new range hood. And someone to install it.

And new stainless cabinet pulls. And probably hinges. Maybe the old hinges can stay. Maybe I can just replace the pulls on the oven side of the kitchen.

And almost all new pots and pans, since they have to be magnetic, though Gary's suggestion we just put the current pots inside the cast iron skillet when we want to cook was genius.

Needs

Of course, this is what I want, and all I "need" is the oven. But oh, I feel that I need it. It doesn't arrive until the 15th. I want to send out "Come by and meet the new range" announcements. I want to have a party and serve a roast which I cooked by sticking in the probe and setting the oven to "Cook till roast is done."

I need to leave the oven on until it shuts off. I need to boil water until the pan is empty and watch it turn off because it knows. (But yet, how do it? How do it know?) And I have to put newspaper or parchment between the burner and the pot; that still boggles my mind. I need to make water boil and then slide the touchpad up and down like I'm playing a Theremin.

And of course I need to spill something so I can wipe it up immediately, and then I need to cook a fruit pie in the oven so I can wipe that up. (There's no open bottom burner.)

I have never felt this way about an appliance before. Frankly, it's like the way my Dad reacted to having a microwave. "That potato would have take 45 minutes to cook in the oven! Make me another potato, Margie!"

I know, I know, I'm a material woman, but I've had this (in almond) for almost a quarter century:

Now, if this is your current stove, don't be insulted. Hang on to it because it works well for ten years after it's expected to die. 

Do Not Wants

A flipping granite counter top. Ugly! They look just like the industrial no-nap carpet my parents had in their kitchen in the 70s. An irregular pattern of random colors so it "wouldn't show dirt."

This gives me neural overload:

 

Then picture it in use:

That counter would be filled with mail and toasters and bread machines and pens. It could never look clean. Ugh.

Then again, my flat almond counter flowed nicely into my almond range. I hope this new one doesn't break things up too much. If it does I'll just go boil some water, take off the pot and and then put my hand down directly on the burner to distract myself.

2011: My Year in Review

The Year In Eating

Prime 1000  "My cut was leaner than his, so I kept spearing his discarded fat and gobbling it up. Eventually he held the plate over my head and gave it to the waiter."

Cracker Barrel  "We left, and about three blocks before Mom's house, Gary said, 'Ow. I need to find a bathroom.'"

Food Trucks "I was expecting lines! Hubub! Rats eating scraps! Cupcakes!"

Hiro "Speaking of The Bangles, if I had not loved Hiro I could have titled this 'Hiro Takes a Fall,' and you would be reading a more critical post. I almost wish I hadn't loved it so."

Farmhaus  "I LOVE GROUPER. Who knew? I only got one little scrap. I ate two spoonfuls of spoonbread and I grabbed some of the sauce with my finger before Gary could stop me."

The Year in Nature

Earthquake "We were snuggled there when the house shifted."



Ground hog  "Someone doesn't understand the 'ground' in 'groundhog.'"

The Year In Senators

Senator Claire McCaskill "'CLAAAAAIRE!' I roared from down the road. When I threw my arms apart expressively, she headed right for me."

The Year in Entertainment

BNL Cruise "What I need is a song about the summer We turned 48 and how the beast with two backs has lots of saggy fat. There. That's a lyric. Write a song about that."

Kentucky Derby  "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?'"

BNL in the Heat  "Lots of water, breeze, fans in the VIP tent, and a cooling cloth. And a friend who gets dramatically faint at opportune moments."

Historic ball game  "And was it actually the second time he'd come up at bat when it was down to the final strike and WAS THERE A MAGIC RALLY SQUIRREL INVOLVED and no, there was not. Because THAT would have been RIDICULOUS."

The Year in Health

Mystery relative Update: now cancer-free

Wilma Update: will not admit she feels better, reportedly feels exhausted after making a huge Thanksgiving dinner. 

Gary Update: was feeling much better, had a setback just today, is even considering following doctor's orders on medication.

Me Update: I am missing my weekly vaginal massage. Not choking or erupting since September.

Well Done, Good and Faithful But Kind of Tacky Servant

After 24 years, my builder's model White Westinghouse range is circling the drain. It takes 35 minutes to preheat to 400. It won't self-clean anymore.  The electric coils are very loose in their sockets.

About five years ago I lusted for a new stove. The rest of the kitchen works fine, except for the refrigerator light. I like the layout. I had plans to pull out the hood (a brand that applianceadvisor.com says "specializes in ugly cheap hoods") and make the range a Jenn-air downdraft, but then what would I do with that short cabinet?

So, since I have matured enough to appreciate the kitchen I have, all I want to do is replace the range with a new range, and replace the hood filter, which I haven't done ever. In 26 years. I've never washed the windows either. You shut up. I washed my mother's windows and I am done. God can wash my windows if he likes.

So, here are the options I want / don't want:

Coil burner cooktop: no. This rules out all budget ranges.

Stainless Steel: no. This rules out most high-end ranges.

Two ovens: a waste

Convection: sure, okay. Mom had it and liked it.

Mom also had some fancy cooktop with heavy metal modules you could swap. Evidently that is passe: everyone is a-gush over the induction cooktops now. It cooks with magnets! Don't people get their jewelry sucked into the soup?

Mom had controls on the front, and for a while I wanted those too, then I remembered I'd need to add tile behind the range, and my butt is always turning on the dishwasher, so it would try to cook too.

One thing I don't need, that I bet I end up with, is Sabbath mode. It would seem Orthodox Jews Jewish People aren't supposed to light their ovens on the Sabbath, but if the oven is already lit they can keep food warm. So this Sabbath mode keeps your oven going.

The opposite sounds like a feature I want, the automatic six hour shut off. And the Babka setting.

I've got a call in to a friend with a flat cooktop. I need to find out if it scratches and where the milk goes when it boils over.

I need your advice too. Have you bought a range in the last 24 years?

Christmas Materialism

For all of you who complain about the materialism of Christmas, I present to you Gary. Gary doesn't buy materials. He shows his love. A well-placed gift is love. As for Jesus, every day is Jesus Day.

That said, I shall now detail the gifts exchanged.

From Gary I got a Scooba, to replace the beloved Scooba that literally ate shit and died.

Gary got a Gatsby assortment of Daniel Cremeuix shirts, all of which miraculously fit.

He also got caffiene-infused root beer, which was despised, and a higher-tech mouse, which was met by puzzlement, and the Blu-ray version of The Music Man. (This years ornament? A trombone. Seventy-six would have swamped the tree.)

My brother Dave got an interactive Tribble and Significant Debt Forgiveness.

Wilma got a variety of items, and the best-received was the assortment of finishing salts. We licked our pinkies and sampled various salts like coke fiends.

Ken got a camera designed to take photos of birds fluttering around his feeders. "Oh, that is MINE," Karen insisted, and humorously appropriated it. So, that was one gift appreciated by multiple family members.

There were also cat cameras, to be hung on semi-wild cats and neurotic dogs. I hope Wilma does leave the house and come back to minute-by-minute photos of Tinkerbell sleeping on the couch. I hope Karen doesn't find that her stray cats like playing chicken with the cars on the interstate.

Karen got bonus presents, because the microwave slippers were UPSed along with someone else's package of rechargeable gloves and socks. I called the company and they just sent more gloves and socks to the intended recipient.

Mr. Wonderful got a re-giftable gift, a giant Dora Clownfish that would be good for his granddaughter. Karen did not get the companion flying shark, since each evidently takes three hours to assemble and I ran out of time.

We had thought Mr. Wonderful would like a turntable, but we called his wife and we were shot down. "No room! He doesn't want that." He got the turntable anyway. "Oh, that's just the one he wanted!" Kind of mystifying.

Gary got some chocolate-covered jellybeans and the soon-to-be-played Glee Kareoke. My gifts were all bathroom-related: a bathmat thoughtfully selected to match my back bath, and foot scrubbers which I really need, and then the gift of gifts, the gift I did not appreciate at the time but the full weight and import has hit me now, they gave me candles.

Is that not love? Is that not LOVE? Pyrophobic Karen trusts me enough to give me candles. Or it's anothor bathroom gift because she thinks my poop smells, which is entirely true as well.

Merry Christmas Eve Eve

Christmas Eve is the family Christmas, so, as I say Merry Christmas Eve Eve.

The neurologist's nurse reports that she read the write-up of Gary's MRI and it looks good to her, but she isn't  a doctor. So my new diagfauxsis is "WTF?" Since the night he almost had the seizure (Monday) he's been feeling better and better.

Merry Christmas Eve Eve!

By the way, if anyone else buys Christmas ornaments that commemorate the year past, be warned that someday you will not remember why you bought an ornament of a gas pump, or a french horn, or a moose.

My Day, In a Nutshell

One of Gary's Christmas gifts made it past "Enter your charge card" but not quite as far as "Confirm," so I called them from work and placed the order again.

A few minutes later, I got a message from my Gmail account forwarded to my work account with the subject, "Order number 467663." As I opened the attachment I thought, "I gave them my email, but my home email doesn't forward to work. Huh. This appears to be blank." AND THEN I DID IT AGAIN because when they say "Don't open attachments from people you don't know," hey, I AM someone I know.

I didn't realize there was a problem until I slowly puzzled out that my iPhone Gmail could tell me if I had sent that odd message to myself. That's went I looked at the iPhone and noticed my sent mail was counting up ... 12...13 .... 14 emails sent, and I wasn't doing it.

"DON'T OPEN ANYTHING FROM ME" I announced to the department. Two people weren't listening and opened the attachment anyway. "Don't open attachments from people you don't know." No one thought I could give them a virus.

Half an hour later, Steve and a few others came by to razz me for infecting the entire department.

"And, by the way," Steve said, "Is it jeans day?"

I realized to my horror (Steve really enjoyed the horror) that yesterday was one of TeddyJ's very rare jeans days, but today was not. Yet, I had got up and pulled on the same jeans I wore yesterday.

My boss was cool and said it would be fine as long as I didn't leave the department, so I got no hot lunch and had to eat leftover Festivus party ham in shame.

So. That was my day.

The Adventures of Somebody

On NPR, sometime in the last few days an interviewer was gushing over a actor taking on the challenge of playing an iconic character, someone every child remembers, the famous Tin Tin.

Who? Who the hell is Tin Tin? Why does he have his own Wikipedia page? If I've ever heard of Tin Tin before I must have assumed I had muddled Rin Tin Tin.

After the interview, I know he was written by someone named "Herve" and looks like Conan O' Brien.

Evidently Tin Tin was printed in Children's Digest from 1966 to 1979. That was my prime reading time. Ages four through seventeen. And I see I've been spelling it wrong. Tintin.

This is annoying. This is like America not embracing Fawlty Towers until Spielberg make a Fawlty Towers movie.

I also get the idea that All of Europe and Australia and New Zealand and Points South have been making Tintin references and I haven't been getting them.

Am I alone? Do the rest of you all know of Tintin? Why didn't you tell me? Is he lame? Is he not deserving of a movie?

Not Talking About the C Word

Gary and I went for his MRI / MRA today. The MRA is evidently to check his brain arteries. I needed to drive because he can't drive during the day anymore. The light seeps into his brain and saps his strength, poor guy.

You should hear our house in the morning. "I can see the sun coming up! It's almost dawn! I gotta get out of here before it's light." Like living with a vampire.

We showed up at the big building at St. Johns marked MRI, exactly where we had been told to go, behind the David C. Pratt Cancer Center. A few minutes in we were told we were at the wrong building.

"Oh. Should we be at the David C Pratt building then?" I asked.

"Yes," the nurse said, "The David C.Pratt CANCER Center."

So we drove to the building with the CANCER sign. I checked with that nurse that we were in the right place, because no one here has CANCER.

"Yes, the David C. Pratt CANCER Center; that's right."

While we waited, Fredbird showed up with a replica of the World Series trophy. Gary nudged me and said, "That must be for the kids with CANCER -"

"STOP TALKING ABOUT CANCER!" I almost screamed. I didn't. Because it might have upset the bald people getting chemo in the next room I could see out of the corner of my eye.

So, evidently they keep the high-tech special Migraine MRIs in the CANCER building, probably because St. John's doesn't have a special Migraine building.

Yeah, yeah, that's right. No one here has cancer. Because you don't have cancer until they recommend you see an oncologist.

Loose Ends

Coconut http://www.mocklog.com/queen_mediocretia/2011/11/coconut.html
Gary found two hairy coconuts. Much easier to open than I remember. Much much less tasty than I remember. I carefully extracted all the meat and put it in tupperware. Imagine all the texture of sweetened flaked coconut with one third the taste.

Scooba http://www.mocklog.com/queen_mediocretia/2011/12/dog-day-afternoon.html
A few days later Scooba died from ingesting dog shit and Gary ordered a new one. Christmas!

Giant Cell Arteritis http://www.mocklog.com/queen_mediocretia/2011/12/the-germans-need-a-word-for-this.html
I asked specifically and the eye doctor said Gary was too young for my pet diagfauxsis. Perhaps the MRI will reveal more Monday. Gary has taken to wearing a stylin' hat with his eyeglasses. The Topamax is just beginning to affect his appetite.

Secret Santa http://www.mocklog.com/queen_mediocretia/2011/12/secret-santa-.html
I was gobsmacked to find my Secret Santa was the team leader from Libby and Caroline's team. AND NOW I HAVE A TIFFANY BOX because he doesn't want it back. He claims to have gotten me the straw for the Mocha because that's how I was drinking it when he came by to spy on me.

Kim Jong Il
Dead! David just woke me to let me know.

I Which I Shake Things Up

I went to a fancy dinner party Saturday night, which was in many ways unusual for me. How fancy? How unusual?

1.  I wore my black velvet hat.

2.  I had never met the other seven people there, and I've met the hostess once. Met her many times on Twitter (@GatewayGroupie).

3. One woman had worked at the Crisis Nursery. Other members of my work team visited there during the United Way campaign.

4. One woman runs the food blog for the Riverfront Times. I have passed along her info on listeria and e-Coli to my friends and in-laws.

5. One man shares Gary's strong feeling that TV shows must have a hero. He only watches Big Bang Theory. I'll have to turn Gary on to that. Another man brought his own fancy chair.

6. The hostess and I are soul-siblings. In fact, I had to make myself stop collecting used crap from my house to give as a hostess / birthday present.

7. Four courses: Cookies, Papadum (?) and Gay Wedding Soup, 3.Cauliflower Curry, 4. Poached Pears.

8. Many beverages: Gin, Red wine, fizzy white wine. I actually have a mild hangover.

9. I just sat on my ass and watched Julie, the birthday girl, work like a longshoreman.

10. Sign of true class? First birthday party I've been to in which they didn't open the gifts.

It was lovely. I like being treated to homemade food. I need to respond with a fancy party for her.

I'm not giving this party enough credit, but I am hungover, and I have to get out of the house.,

Ann Romney

Ann Romney has MS, as we know. (We know all the MS celebs. Terri Garr, Montel Williams, Annette Funicello, we know them all.)

That's why I glanced at a news article about how Ann says Mitt is so faithful and an all-around great guy. Here's what I saw:

"She also discussed how he stood by her when she suffered from a debilitating multiple sclerosis diagnosis that she has now recovered from. "

Oh, damn, that is Spin. That is some highly paid professional spin. I can hear the conversation with the reporter.

Reporter: "So, Mrs. Romney, how has Mitt stood by you?"

AR: "Well, once a very long time ago I suffered from a debilitating multiple sclerosis diagnosis that I have now recovered from."

Reporter: "Oh! You have MS?"

AR: "Well, I have now recovered from my debilitating multiple sclerosis diagnosis."

Reporter: "Oh, so you don't have MS anymore."

AR: "I have recovered."

Reporter: "From MS?"

AR: "From a debilitating multiple sclerosis diagnosis."

Reporter: "So what was debilitating? So, you woke up one day and you couldn't see, or walk?"

AR: "I suffered from a debilitating multiple sclerosis diagnosis."

Reporter: "Oh! So you were fine, but then you got diagnosed, and that was upsetting, but you've recovered now."

AR: "That sounds good to me."

Hmph. I want details. Oh, and I want details about Mitt's tax returns. Supposedly he refuses to release them.

This can mean either he does tithe 10% of his income to the Mormon church, and he's worried people will think he's a fanatic for giving millions of dollars to his church every ear, or, he doesn't tithe and he's worried the Mormons will excommunicate him.

Deets, Mitt. TMI. That's what we want.

Secret Santa

I think this might be the first time I've ever participated in a Secret Santa exchange.My secret santa recipient is getting screwed. "Santa" was to buy a beverage the first day. a snack the second day, and a gift card for a favorite lunch spot on the third day.

I am a bad, bad Santa.

My person got diet soda (the brand she likes) and then "Santa" realized she didn't know anything about this woman except she's a vegetarian. The poor woman got trail mix, not because she likes it, but because it's what I think vegetarians snack on. And then on the third day I screwed her over completely, because she never leaves her desk to eat lunch anywhere. So I got her a Trader Joe's gift card because that's where I imagine vegetarians buy their food.

On the other hand, my Secret Santa is the best ever.

The first day I got a Mocha Doubleshot WITH A STRAW. Because SANTA KNOWS that I wet myself when something goes down the wrong way.

The next day I got Cheetoes, which is my favorite snack.

And on the last day I unwrapped a Tiffanys box (TIFFANYS) with a certificate for La Bonne Bouchee, home of les macarons.

 I was so excited by this it made me late for the department meeting, which I hijacked to announce I have the best Secret Santa ever. I thought the Good Santa would then announce herself/himself, but it seems I won't find out till Festivus on Friday.

Debbie M_______ was getting in the elevator on my floor and she taunted me, "I know your Secret Santa."

I leaned in to the elevator to intimidate her. "Who?"

"Not telling."

"WHO?"

"Not telling," and then the elevator crushed my head. Just for a second. Then it bounced to let me extract my head. It didn't completely retract, so the elevator took off. I was out by then. I just heard crazed laughter ascend with the elevator.

Debbie email when she got back up to her desk.

FROM: Debbie TO: Ellen   -  "Are you okay?"

FROM: Ellen TO: Debbie - "What are you talking about? Who are you? Do I know you?"  

FROM: Debbie TO: Ellen - "I am D e b b i e.  I left my Tiffanys box at your desk."

Ha! Nice try! The Tiffanys box is secreted away in a hiding spot. I know some nice people, but I know no one who would just let a Tiffanys box go missing.

Words with Husbands

A few days ago Gary called to me from the shower. "You have to hear this!"

I was applauding as the dog moved his bowels in the backyard, and I didn't want to divide my attentions, so I ignored Gary. But, what he wanted me to hear was a sentence he just thought out in the shower that was so graceful and acticulate he was astonished. It is lost forever now, but supposedly it was art.

I can attest that from the very beginning of this headache he's been more verbally equipped than usual. Every word he needs is right on the tip of his tongue. He pulled "occipital" out of his poor brain in the ER.

I somehow think that's a clue. Some wordy brain lobe is getting more stimulation because his eyes are getting less. It's like the sterotype that the blind develop extra power in their remaining senses, only Gary has increased verbal abilities.

We did go to the opthamologist today, and we are both relieved to hear his actual eyeballs and blood flow and eye nerves are okay. The doctor did have to climb up into Gary's face through the pupils wearing a bright scope. Somehow, that didn't make him as nauseated as the nurse shining the handheld eye scope at him.

After, we had quite the nice chat about Christmas and fingerling bananas and sabotage until he fell asleep at 7:30. He wasn't even up to on-line shopping. Let me tell you, some in-laws are getting crap presents this Christmas.

Another on-line shopping problem was with the wrap-around sunglasses. It seems if you wear them in front of Gary's giant pc monitor, the screen becomes invisible. I am not making this up. You must tilt your head at a very particular angle to see the colors on the screen. Bob your head even a little and the screen fades to grey.

Gary was relieved to find that I saw it too, since he was worried he had some rare form of PC monitor-blindness.

Drama Dog

A month ago, Mac got in a huff and stomped off to his crate. He flopped himself down with a touch of indignation, as if to say, "Christ! These people."

I chuckled.

Since then, every day he hurls himself into his crate with a little more drama. Tonight, he hip-checked the inside of the crate with such force that it almost fell on its side.

Next he'll probably do a stiff-legged fainting goat imitation.

Stylin'

Gary has discovered that light makes him fatigued, so he has a) been much more sympathetic to my claims that heat makes me fatigued and b) actually knows what fatigue feels like and c) apologized for always responding to my fatigue with, '"You are out of shape! You need more exercise!"

But my selfish vindication was only a tiny part of the weekend. The weekend has been all about Avoiding the Light. To that end we picked up these:

He was complaining this morning that these shades could only be worse if there were 3D images of Elvis on the sides.

Plus he keeps them on at all time, so he keeps starting this conversation:

"Look at this light bulb I just replaced. Does it seem dim to you?"

 ... or ...

"I can't get the brightness on my new Blackberrry to go up bright enough."

... or ...

"You know, it is just pitch black in this house at 5 am."

All said while he had on his sunglasses.

Well, today I call to see why he hasn't been scheduled for the MRI/MRA, and Gary calls to see the opthamologist. He is coping so well that he has resigned himself to this for life, which I think is premature.

Christmas Shopping

Gary's been asleep all morning, and he isn't able to walk long distances yet anyway, so I've been shopping online.

Shopping for others. I've been buying for me.

A pizza cutter to replace the one that was lost. Lids for the Pyrex Essentials glass bowls. (Some Googler out there thanks me.) A pillow for the couch in the great room now that the furniture has been restored to its rightful position after two years. Perhaps some shoes. Not the $150 grey Dansko shoes I want, though.

Epilog

He suggests "we" do all the shopping online this year.  Bah. And Humbug. He just bought me some shoes.

Quick Update on Gary

(Odd, I thought I posted this earlier but it seems I did not.)

This is Gary's version of events.

My neurologist read the notes from my family doctor and had me come in immediately instead of in 6 weeks just to make sure that I was OK. My appointment was today and Ellen went with me to make sure that I didn’t gloss over any of my “suffering”. As luck would have it, I felt absolutely horrible today. My head hurt, I was super tired and my eyes were so sensitive to light that I couldn’t even go into the guy’s office because it was like walking into the sun to me. He said that it was a classic migraine. The first migraine can be really bad and can leave you the way that I am for months but he assured me that his other patients that were like me got feeling better. He said that I will need to wear sun-glasses everywhere and get lots of sleep. He also gave me some migraine meds and pain meds. He ordered an MRI for me just to make sure that there isn’t anything seriously wrong with me since my migraine was at an unusual point in my life. He wasn’t interested in the CT, it didn’t have enough detail. Ellen went all of the way to Barnes and we filled out two sets of release forms for the CT Scans and my doctor just glanced at them. He also said that I need to make an appointment with my ophthalmologist to get my eyes checked out. I don’t know if I will be able to stand that. I seem to remember that they have some way of taking quick pictures without using white light. That would kill me. Any strong white light and I am sick for a couple of days. I drive at night where there are on-coming cars in the lane next to me by looking through a small hole next to my visor.

Fact Check

"My neurologist read the notes from my family doctor..."
Not that I know of. I can see why he made this assumption but there is no basis in fact.

"...first migraine can be really bad and can leave you the way that I am for months"
I was there. I did not hear the word "months." He thinks he can drag this out for months? No!

"He said that I will need to wear sun-glasses everywhere and get lots of sleep."
I don't remember hearing this at all. I'm sure the doctor wouldn't argue this point but I did not hear it come out of his mouth.

"I seem to remember that they have some way of taking quick pictures without using white light. That would kill me."
What the doctor said was that he needed to have "full dilation" of his eyes. I think they numb your eyes before that. I really hope it doesn't kill him.

Epilog

The doctor did not give a reason for why Gary had the migraine, but he is giving the drugs you would give someone who had Giant Cell Arteritis, so I am back to that diagfauxsis. (Enjoy that word, spell-check.)

The Germans Need a Word for This

Somewhere in MiddleSex is the German word for "Avoidance of mirrors by the middle-aged." And the Germans had weltanschauung and schadenfreude, too. The Germans must have had a word to describe my need to have a diagnosis I can hang my worries on, delusional or not, mixed with the fear I'll be found out.

(Say it with me, " Are YOU a doctor? TELL ME, ARE YOU A DOCTOR?")

After Gary's Thanksgiving ER episode, in my fear and to my shame I went right to the internet even before we saw the GP.

"Blinding headache jaw pain over 50?" I said to the Internet.

Wikipedia answered, "Let me step in. 'Headache in older people, particularly when associated with visual symptoms or jaw claudication, may indicate giant cell arteritis (GCA).'"

"Giant Cell Ateritis? What is that, Wikipedia?"

"It's an inflammation of the arteries."

I added, "caused by Gary's routine plasma donations, I bet. And oh look, one symptom is a high sedimentation rate. The Red Cross people were just raving about how much iron was in Gary's blood. But I bet it was Gary's Giant Red Blood cells that were making the blood sink to the bottom of the test tube. Ah! It all fits together!"

"If not treated promptly, blindness may result," Wikipedia coyly added.

"When is it too late for GCA" I typed. Internet had NO idea what I was talking about. Internet was done being helpful.

Still, I had a diagnosis tangible enough to worry about, because even wrong information is better to worry about than none at all.

The GP directed us to see the neurologist, and Gary eventually elected to see his regular epilepsy neurologist. That office said, "Get us the files and we'll see how things look, then we'll see when you need to come in, maybe six weeks."

Armed with my Placebo Diagnosis of GCA, I was brave enough to call the neuro today to start faxing them tests.

"Oh, could he come in tomorrow at 8:30?" the nurse said.

"YES HE WILL BE THERE." Incredible! Gary's file was on her desk at that moment! Suddenly we are on the fast track! Why? WHY WHY WHAT IS WRONG AND WHY IS EVERYONE BEING SO NICE TO US? I had three offices to call this afternoon and Gary had to sign forms and fax them and I tell you, the GPs office called me back after they sent the last fax to say,"Okay, we sent the fax to the neurologist and it went through."

WHO DOES THAT? 

So, I was up all night last night worrying about Gary, now I've spent all day worrying about Gary, and you would think I could find comfort in my Imaginary Diagnosis Friend, GCA.

I came home today and said, "Internet, tell me more about GCA," and the Internet said, "Like I told you, symptoms are jaw pain, a throbbing headache -"

"What! Throbbing headache? You said migraine before!"

"No," said the Internet, patiently, "I never said that. You said migraine, I just said headache."

Suddenly I found no more comfort in my simple straightforward GCA diagnosis, with the Giant Cells that would be visible from a distance and the diagnosis so simple even I could figure it out. And I am glad to have turned my back on GCA, because vision loss starts after 1-2 weeks, and we are at 2 weeks tomorrow.

Diagnosenkomfort. I'll need to find another for tonight if I'm going to get some sleep. Really really mild meningitis; that sounds treatable.

In Which I Wipe My Butt With My English Major

"Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget and tell me it's Elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's George Elexander when I catch you. And don't go about women in that old calico. You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don't hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it; that's the way a woman most always does, but a man always does t'other way. "

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
by Mark Twain

I think of that scene every time I thread a needle. Now I will think of it every time I successfully clean up on a low commode.

I was trying to move Part A toward the much larger Part B, but now I am keeping Part A immobile and moving big old Part B where it needs to be. Like a man, but that's how I thread needles too.

This is Why I Hate Squirrels

He was just scooping the birdseed out in his little paw and shoving it into his face.

To the right you can see Gary's squirrel deterrent. Up till now the squirrels have been spiralling around the nut feeder, but now woodpeckers have found the squirrel feeder and I guess this is revenge.

Dog Day Afternoon

My house seemed to be dirtier than ever this week, so while I was outside clipping up a dead shrub, the floor got Scoobaed.

I left the back door open so I could hear if the Scooba made any plaintive "I'm Stuck" sounds, and so the dog could come out.

He was out in the back with me for at least half an hour, until he barked madly at the open door. I couldn't figure why he'd demand we go inside, so I ignored him. Eventually he went in.

Some time in the next half hour I  heard the Scooba stop, so I followed Mac inside anyway. Oddly, the Scooba didn't show any message, so I just toted it to the sink for more water.

"Strange. Why is there this mud on the side of ... NO! It smells like - Gross! BAD DOG!"

I looked back where the Scooba had been and saw half of a perfectly formed tootsie roll of dog poo. The other half had been smeared across the room. And, I am afraid, was ingested by my Scooba, which does not have a special 'OH GOD I JUST ATE CRAP" musical tone or screen alert.

The really scary thing was that based on the forensic evidence of poop splatter, the following was NOT the sequence of events:

1. Dog comes inside the house with the malicious intent to poop.
2. Scooba is just doing its thing.
3. Dog poops.
4. At some point Scooba randomly hits the poop speed bump.

If that were true, the poop would have rolled, or broken. Instead, it was obvious the poop had not had time to solidify at all before Scooba impact.

My damn dog wanted to move his bowels, saw an opportunity for evil, went inside, positioned and  and re-positioned his but in front of the moving Scooba until he was able to lay out a line of poop directly in its immediate path.

So, the yard isn't clean, but the Scooba has had an enema and been put though a few extra passes to purge everything out.

Libby and the Dance

The lights in our conference rooms are on automated motion sensors. You walk into a dark room and suddenly it is illuminated, just because you are there.

It was cool the first hundred times. You walk in to the darkened break room. The lights turns on to say, "Good morning. Would you like some toast?" It's very sci-fi.

On the other hand, if you are alone at night, typing at your desk, it decides you have died and would like some peace and quiet and utter darkness. Then you must do the dance. Leap up, spin about, and wave your arms so the light acknowledges you.

So, when Libby and I walked in to a darkened conference room and the light ignored us, she began jumping and spinning and singing.

"La la la la - oh!" She had danced he way over to the corner where there was a man who had been napping, but had just woken up to see her do the Dance of the Light. "I was trying to turn on the lights."

Guy had evidently found our unoccupied room, manually turned off the lights, and snuggled into the corner. The began to have a nice chat about naps while I doubled over on the other side of the room.

Pinching Rabbits

I remember a scene from one of the Trixie Belden books I obsessively collected as a child. Trixie leaps out bed and says "Rabbit rabbit" on the first of the month. Twitter suggests that while the residents of Sleepyside-on-Hudson say "rabbit, rabbit," Britons say "a pinch and a punch." I assume they then punch each other. Violence is never the answer, Britons.

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Gary update: he has seen the GP and is off to see the neurololist. The pain has visited, in order, his jaw, ear, neck, throat, brain, and eye. Still, most of it is not ER-worthy pain.