Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

The Little Hat

I was helping Mom with a house purge when I was in my thirties, and I found what looked like a little light-blue doll-sized rubber beret with a tiny rolled rim. I figure it was hardware; Mom held on to every piece of useless hardware just in case she might need it later.

So I asked, "What is this?"

Mom seemed annoyed. "What does it look like?"

"A doll's hat?"

I don't remember her answer, in fact, I forgot all about it till last night when I was in the hardware store searching for that very same bit of hardware junk.

As I explained to the middle-aged woman who greeted me, I was there to buy something that "looked like" a diaphragm to cap off my uterus piñata.

The greeter suggested the plumbing aisle.

I searched and searched, but I never found the hardware my Mom had. "Man," I thought, "I wonder what happened to that. It looked just like a diaphragm."

That's when it occurred to me that Mom's hardware was probably just what it looked like. I don't know why I never thought Mom might use a diaphragm. She had sex. I suppose because she had only the one good hand. Anyway, at that realization I stopped searching in the hardware store for something that looked "just like a diaphragm" and bought a dark blue toilet flappy thing I could paint pink and repurpose.

Almost Wordless Friday

Start with two loofahs, party lights, a flexible hose ...

and then ...

...oh, and pink spray paint for the hose.

Updated: Whoops - I got the ovaries and the fimbriae transposed. Good thing I haven't made it yet.

Tater Rain

We were a post-dinner still life: I was planted on the couch and Gary was in the chair. At some point after dinner I tidied up. I resumed my position and didn't move again until Gary went for the chips.

"Don't eat all the chips," I scolded, because he does that: if he starts on
something he eats it till it's gone, and I never see it again.

He stopped munching long enough to throw a chip at me and say, "There. I didn't eat that one."

I laughed; that was my mistake. I hadn't pulled the first chip out of my hair before he added, "Or that one," and another chip hit my head. And it was on.

It was the way he kept up the patter alternating with the volley of chips. (Chip flies at me.) "There's another chip I didn't eat." (Chip.) "And there's another." (Chip.) "I didn't eat this one either." (Chip.) "Or any of these." (Chips.) "Oh! Here's a whole bunch of chips I didn't eat." (Rain of chips.)

I couldn't breathe from laughing, but at some point I gathered up all the ammunition and threw them all back, so he had to escalate to shaking the bag on me.

I choked out, "I am not cleaning that up."

And I didn't. He must have, because there are no chips on the floor any more.

The Con Artists are Out to Get Me: OR Suburban Paranoia

Possible Con Artist One

A man called Monday, asking to speak to Bobby. It took a while to convince the Befuddled Old Man there was no Bobby. A minute later he called back. "Still no Bobby here. Really, you have the wrong number." A minute after that he called back again and left a message, because I had already assigned his number to my "nuisance" ringtone. The next two days he left messages that he still wanted to talk to Bobby FullName about "the shells and casings for the auction."

I asked Gary if I should try to find Bobby FullName's auction company and he cried, "No! Drop it! They just want to get you to talk to them! They get paid every time you talk to them!"

This doesn't seem like a good business model to me. However, the next day I checked my messages and there was another wrong number message. A panicked young man insisted I call back, otherwise he would lose his job. I felt worried ... until I noticed it was the same number as the Befuddled Old Man.

I still don't get who pays these fine actors, and for what.

Possible Con Artist Two

You recall I requested a Birth Control Mold and got a Labia Mold. I contacted the vendor, even though I could implement many gross menopause scenarios with the labia mold, the best being obscuring the labia with a pink jawbreaker. Prolapsed uterus candy.

The eBay vendor who sent the Mistaken Labia has asked I send him a photo of the Labia Mold and then they will send me the Birth Control Mold.

That sounds fishy to me. Is sending a photo of transparent plastic labia not a violation of eBay's terms and conditions? I'd go ahead and send a censored version, but I don't even see how I could send an image if I stick to eBay's montored messages.

Ooo. I could give them the number for the Befuddled Old and Panicked Young Men and have them call me there. "No, there's no Ellen here." If they don't pick up they'd get a message about sending labia pictures.

In Which I Am Shocked

In prepation for the MenoParty (subtitled "Dead. Aunt Flo. Dead.") I ordered these tasteful, discreet chocolate molds shaped like birth control packs.

Imagine my surprise when I opened the padded envelope and pulled out a mold that did not look at all like birth control. It took a moment to figure out what it was, since the mold was concave and my brain had to interpret the convex form. I thought:

"This isn't what I ordered! What is it? It isn't round, it's ... kind of a pointy oval. It's sliced down the middle like a loaf of bread. Oval bread? With lips in the midd - Ack! Labia!"

Little labia lollipop molds, to be specific. One reason they were so hard to recognize is they were NOT to SCALE. They were life-sized for a ten year old. Perhaps that's what I found so shocking. It was daytime, I wasn't prepared for them, I was expecting birth control, and I got baby labia.

I felt a little outrage at first, but that dissipated, and my comment to the seller on eBay was a simple "I ordered birth control. You sent me labia."

We shall see what happens next.

I Am a Changed Woman

Gary said, "does this mean you're going to start acting MORE like a man?"

Friday the 13th

Friday the 13th was a mix of good and bad luck.

Bad Luck

As bad luck would have it, I was working hard when the gynecologist called with my blood test results. This means I'll have to wait till Monday to find out what the assistant's chipper tone on the message meant.

Bad Luck Hubris

I wanted to bring Friend #2's prosciutto-wrapped asparagus to trivia night, because asparagus is a nice healthy thing you can eat with your fingers. However, because she'd be there, and I am competitive, I wanted mine to be better. To this end I researched recipes and bought pencil-thin asparagus. Halfway through trying to wrap the floppy, oiled pencil asparagus in Alouette cheese and prosciutto I thought, "This is absurd. I'm going to finish this, but just so I can bring it and Friend #2 can laugh at me." Which did indeed happen.

Good Luck

They announced a trivia category as "Dead or Canadian." I was hailed as the expert. I didn't hear the "Dead" at first, only "Canadian," so I thought my table felt I was the expert on Canadians. But of course, I am the expert on the dead. After a celebrity death my brother Dave always calls with the Dead Sandwich, i.e.: "Dead. Karen Black. Dead." I've carried on the tradition on Facebook.

I did pretty well: 9 out of 10 (because Morely Safer is not dead, the bastard, I confused him with Ed Bradley). Afterward, Friend #4 commented, "This category has convinced me that Canadians are immortal."

Good Luck

Another category, "Lays Potato Chip Flavors," asked us to sample chips and name the flavor. By a strange coincidence I had brought Chicken and Waffle Chips to offset the asparagus disaster. (This is not a recommendation. I was offloading them.) Therefore, we were able to definitively identify the Chicken and Waffle chips. Most chips were bad, but not as bad as the spicy chips that violently ejected themselves from my mouth. I had to nurse my tongue with a napkin after that.

Bad Luck

There's always an adventure driving Friend #4 home from trivia, and today's adventure was finding the dark chocolate salted caramels at: first, the West County Schnucks, and then the home turf Schnucks. There we were told they'd been discontinued and many people were pissed about it.

So, I bought a few things and this happened:

So, we came in tenth in trivia (out of about 100), but there were no chocolate caramels. Overall I think the needle on the Luck-o-meter ticked over to good luck.

 

Aint No Party Like a Menopause Party

I had my blood drawn today and if all goes well I shall be deemed Paused, Barren, Beyond the Great Witherment. I have never been SO excited about a potential test result EVER. Because why? Because of the party.

Gotta have a MenoParty. Little girls get Menarche Parties (in some circles), so my circle is getting a party. I've been waiting for this time since it all went downhill when I was eleven.

I know it's coming (if not soon then someday soon), so I've ordered these delicious chocolate molds:

Why yes, those are chocolate molds shaped like birth control. Not like my birth control, but that's easily expressed as a sheet cake:

 

Other food? Anything related to menstruation or reproduction is fair game. Hard boiled eggs. Caviar. Blood pudding. Dried meats. Blood oranges.

But my favorite idea came from this inspiration, a viking carved from a watermelon.

I thought, what could I carve a watermelon into? So that you see the inspiration in pure form, here is exactly what I typed yesterday:

"watermelon_carved into uterus or my god tampons"

Picture a watermelon tampon including both the white and red parts of the melon and some cotton twine. Then I thought, why not angel food cake carved into "pads," with strawberry jam, and I thought no, that's gross, THAT'S over the line. So of course, that lasted all of a second and now it's on the table too.

Gotta use the uterus though. I could pay someone $140 for a uterus pinata, but I'd be happy to make my own like these ladies. I have loads of pink spray paint left over from the Derby Hat, too.

I haven't even begun to think of the set list, or the drinks, or the ice cubes or first period stories.

God I hope it's the Change.

Wednesday Is the First Day of the Rest of My Life

So exciting! I scheduled a hormone blood test for Wednesday that will tell me if I am past my "prime," if by prime you mean Grade A USDA Approved fleshy meat reproductive parts. I shall find if those parts are dry aged beef or if they are still drippy.

I must have a blood test because the typical monthly tell-tale sign doesn't work on me, because the birth control pills made my periods dry up years ago, all thanks be to the Mother Goddess and Father Pfizer.

Instead, normal women have this timeline:

1) Menstruate.

2) Hit the wall with the last period.

3. Be mystified for a year. Be told you're perimenopausal.

4. Look back at the end of the year and find out you're post-menopausal now, and that last period was the Pause Period, and now you're in the Poise Pad Period, and life can continue.

That seems like a miserable stretch of tenterhooks and dark pants.

Instead, Wednesday the blood will out, but happily it will come out of my arm and nowhere inconvenient.

BAAAABIES BAAABABAAAABIES Hurry up and have BAAAABIES before Wednesday! Just checking ... nope. Still no Baby cravings. Had to check, it might be my last chance.

Dream Report

Gary's Mom

You know how Gary has the Big House Dreams? He mentioned it to his Mom and she has them too. Big House, usually run-down, often invaded by strangers. I never thought dreams could be genetic, but if neurosis can run in families (trucks!) I suppose dreams could too.

Me

I've never had a pregnancy dream till yesterday. I was wearing a loose dress at a Boeing work event (I'd applied at Boeing) and a pregnant woman asked me when I was due.

"Oh, I'm not pregnant. I just ate too much."

I told my Mom in the dream, who said, "Look at yourself. OF COURSE you're pregnant."

That scared me so much I woke up and went in and told Gary. "I haven't had a period in ... ever. I might be pregnant? WHAT IF I'M PREGNANT?"

Gary reminded me how women get pregnant and I was reassured. I think my subconscious just reminded me I haven't taken my birth control for three weeks in preparation for the Menopause Exam Monday.

It's entirely possible I'm nowhere near menopause. That'd be horrifying. I might be hot just because it's summer.

Art Museum

I made many demands during Birthday Month. Finish assembling the Christmas shelves, go out to see movies, and visit the art museum.

The Saint Louis art Museum has been around since the 1904 World's Fair. I've seen three permutations: the museum of my school days, the museum plus the new Wing with the long-stored decorative rooms, and now the newer wing that that opened over the summer.

(Gary echoed my thoughts when he said, "Why can't they build the new wings so they match the old building?" The thing isn't made out of marble, I think it's granite, but the new wings are glassy and modern. It's not as jarring as the front of the Louvre, but c'mon. There must be some resin / faux granite they can use.)

So the first version of the museum was very European, then they added the modern art and a little touch of Asian art, and in this new permutation there's a strong showing of Islamic Art, African art, Asian Art, native art. There's a particularly remarkable bust of an ebony man with a white marble toga that's been in storage for years.

(The effort to be more diverse was noticeable, but not as forced as the Diversity Push at the Hermitage. Printed muslin window hangings displayed the stories and faces of the Hermitage slaves. It all looked very temporary and token.)

They did a nice job rehabbing the old areas to fit in more art. They had a nice feature in the drawings and etchings exhibit: magnifying glasses. There was an enormous central room wholly devoted to Max Beckman. Evidently he taught in Saint Louis and made a huge donation of art.

The modern art has been pushed into the new wing. That wing's been divided into different schools with a nice explanatory blurb in each area. You can go into the area with the wormy blob of resin and see that the reason it has value is because the artist was in the Process school of thought, in which the process of making the art was key, and the result, not so much.

I was able to find almost all of my favorites. (Caroline, the Bathroom Mirror is back, now with two toothbrushes.) The only one I couldn't find was the scribbly pink Jean Dubuffet, only to find his twin on Hattie's blog.

It really is like an entirely new museum. I need to visit more often than every six years.

Life With Gary

I watched Life WIth Father a few weeks ago.

(If you haven't seen it, here's the entire thing on YouTube, distracingtly subtitled in Spanish or Portuguese or something.)

When we were young and in love, Gary was George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life. Sweet, shy, generous, deaf.

Now that we're old, Gary is Clarence Day, Sr. in Life With Father. Well, only that Clarence Day is cheap and overly concerned about money. Gary is Clarence Day if you deduct the frugality and four redheaded children (*crosses self*), and focus only on the:

Bellowing (0:6:16)
Stubborness and bossiness (0:24:50)
Violent hatred of inanimate objects (rubber plants) (0:8:20)
Talking to himself (0:18:50)
Dislike of guests to such a degree that you have to keep guests a secret (1:45:00) (But, then loves the guests once they're there, and for several days after they leave.)
Love of dogs (0:12:09)
Prayerful aspect (1:26:00)
General ongoing indignation (entire film)

Of course, both of them are lovable characters.

I wish they'd remake this movie. That way they could end it with the real last line: "I'm going to be bapTIZED, damnit!"