Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Half Off. HALF.

Une tableau:

That's me self-bagging Aldi's store-brand knock-off Raisin Bran Krunch in my Williams Sonama bag.

I'd title this post "How the Mighty Have Fallen" or "Ozymandias" or "Nouveau Poore," but a title like "Gary and I Wise Up" is more accurate.

Here's what happened today. The cable bill is our biggest expense, and Gary and I have been talking about dropping cable TV, switching to cheaper cable, switching to DSL, reading books - well, no, not that. Today Gary called the cable company, got as far as "DSL," and they immediately CUT our BILL in HALF. Same cable service. Same internet, same phone. Same. Not a cheap knockoff. Half-off forever, they say. "Oh, did you want your bill to be half-off? Oh, you should have said."

He's delighted. I am furious. I knew the trash company overcharges everyone who doesn't complain, but I didn't know the cable company did the same. It makes me wonder, if I had complained about the mortgage would they have suggested we just pay half? "We were just waiting for you to ask.We thought you might have some reason to pay twice as much."

Anyway, now Gary and I are doing competitive economizing. In an effort to keep up with his cable coup, I shopped for groceries at Aldi's. There is no store lower on the Great Chain of Groceries than Aldi's. But, must be the same stuff at half price. Pisses me off.

Wedding Anniversary Gifts

From Hallmark:

29th Wedding Anniversary.

Theme: Tools.

Give them new 'tools' for their favorite pastimes and hobbies. This might be a manicure set, drill bits or cooking utensils."

My gift to Gary

After he watched an episode of Martha Stewart Bakes, Gary was intrigued by the science of pies, and coveted Martha's extra long 18 inch rolling pin. He got that, plus the rubber spacers that keep the pie crust regular.

Friday night we made a pie crust by hand, and I wish it had been made with love, but instead it was made with acrimony and screaming. Still, Gary used his laser surface thermometer to ensure the dough temperature never dropped below 60 degrees (pie crust melting point) and it tasted tremendous.

We filled it with a Bob Evans strawberry pie knock-off recipe, bought a Bob Evans pie as a benchmark, and had a pie face-off.

Our pie (on the right) won on crust and beauty, the Bob Evans pie won on filling.

Gary's gift to me

First, I shyly need to disclose what he got me for Valentine's Day. Evidently, he feels I have been using amateur vibrators, and need to graduate to the vibrator previously know as the Hitachi Magic Wand. (Wikipedia entry here.)

I wasn't impressed. Bulky. Inconvenient. Not discreet. And, a bit high-powered for me. I tucked it behind my mattress and neglected it for months. It wasn't even blog-worthy.

But then, for our anniversary, Gary got me the attachments. Evidently the attachments are the selling point.

A funny friend explained that the Magic Wand is “The KitchenAid of vibrators.”  (Do not look up that quote, you will find instead the internet plans for turning your Kitchenaid into a vibrator. Talk about overpowered.)

After using the attachments, I can fully endorse this machine. After the recent three year hiatus from sex, during which Gary valiantly tried to increase his stamina on his own, we both ended up in the same bed enjoying each other. And then the next night, and the next, and the next, (and then he gave me a night off because I was getting a vaginal ultrasound the next day), and then the next night – and then I came down with a bladder infection. (I blamed the ultrasound.)

(You may notice the photo includes one attachment I bought him. He was not a fan and remains a Luddite.)

So, we both enjoyed our gifts. It was much like our second Christmas when we unexpectedly bought each other matching leather jackets. This anniversary we unexpectedly bought each other extra-long tools with rubbery attachments.

The Farm

My grandparents owned a farm outside of Cuba, Missouri. It was a farm in that it had vegetables, a barn, and barn cats. It was not a farm in that it did not have a farmhouse. There was no house. There was a plywood and tar paper shack. No running water or electricity. I spent many summer days and nights at the shack. With no electricity to read by a winter night would be interminable. Eventually they built a house and bought goats and chickens, but only after I was in high school.

I'm old enough to know now that vacationing on a farm is a childhood idyll. I should have warm memories of fun on the farm. I really don't. We picked grapes for wine and peaches for canning. We dawdled around in the woods and fields. I have no idea how many acres it was. I once tried to go to the end of it, and I remember I was young enough to know the words "WILL BE SHOT" but not old enough to know the word "TRESSPASSERS." I came right back, concerned that I was going to be shot, and Grandpa explained that was his sign and he probably wouldn't shoot me.

Other than that, I can't reconcile the hours I spent there and the very few memories I have of it. Nothing happened there. The things I remember are the pump and the outhouse. They both fascinated me.

In my child mind, water came from the faucet, and before that it came straight from the Mississippi, which came from the ocean. There were nets in the Mississippi by the Arch that filtered out the fish. I spent a lot of time pondering those nets, at least ten minutes every time we drove downtown. What happened when the nets got filled up with fish? Was there an automated machine that transported the fish back to the ocean? Perhaps on the railroad that ran by the river? I was a very stupid child.

However, I knew there was no faucet in the shack. I was often sent out to get freezing cold water from the pump. After Florissant-chlorinated water, that farm water was delicious and mysteriously cold.

I asked where it came from, since we were nowhere near the Mississippi, Source of All Water. There is water under the dirt, I was told. I assumed it was a lake, because it was clear, unlike the river. I was amazed it was so cold, given there was no electricity for an underground refrigerator.

The other thing on the farm was the outhouse. You'd think I'd have given the outhouse a wide berth, but it fascinated me as much as the pump. How did it work? You can poop and pee without having the water flush it away? Whaaat? It just stays there? How does that work?

Back in the day I took great pride in my ability to hold my urine all day long, so the first time I had to use the outhouse it was at night. I'd been shown where it was, shown the Sears catalog for wipes, made a mental note that the walls were lined with newspapers - something to read out here! Of course, since it was night I couldn't see well enough to read, or to investigate more about the mysterious outhouse mechanisms.

Of course the next day I woke up and investigated. What I saw was what I'd expect to see, but with a lot of flies. I was relieved the flies would eat the poo and I'd never have to fear the outhouse filling up and becoming unusable.

Of course I know the secret of outhouses now: you move the house when the hole fills up. I confess I only know this because I just now looked it up on Wikipedia. All this time I figured it was the flies.

So, I Guess This Is the New Normal

Last winter, I was at the dentist, and they advised I needed to have a crown refitted. (It would seem I have a wobbly crown.)

I let the male dentist believe I was going to make a timely appointment, then after he left I gestured toward my abdomen and murmured to the assistant, "I course I'd like to get all this cleared up first."

She answered my delicate hint with a conspiratorial, "Lady troubles?" and we did that thing where you escalate in seconds from ladylike hinting to loudly exchanging  "HERE ARE THE CONCERNS I HAVE ABOUT MAH LABIA." "THAT IS AMAZING MAH UTERUS EXPLODED ONCE." 

That bought me a five month extension for my old crown. Now, those five months have passed and the crown appointment is coming up in a few weeks, but I am still not done with the lady troubles: plus, I have the eternal Grand Canyon cough that spawned a bonus inflamed rib.

And it occurred to me, will I ever be fully well again in my life? I might not. I could swing between menstruation and hot flashes till I'm sixty. I might shuffle from winter flu to spring allergies to summer colds to fall bacterial potluck. (In the course of an hour this afternoon two nearby co-workers and two Canadian friends were all felled by some sudden illness. Two continents expressing the same symptoms. That makes it a pandemic.)  

While I was dwelling on my health, Mom-in-my-head commanded, "Soldier on." Mom's been there in my head since yesterday. I was in my car listening to another record my brother sent: The Essential Pete Seeger, one of the ten albums we had in our family.  Halfway through Michael Row the Boat Ashore I hit "Jordan's River is deep and wide, hallelujah / Meet my mother on the other side, hallelujah."

Lost it. After a few minutes of dead mom tears, I thought, well, that's enough, and changed to another song that wasn't about death. I was fine until I got to We Shall Overcome, began crying again, and realized the reason I was crying is because I could hear Mom singing along in my head.

So, lesson learned. Pete Seeger Trigger Warnings for me.

Mom knew how to be sick, that's certain. It's the new normal Abnormal, as she would say. Heaven knows I can't delay dental appointments till I feel well enough. I've got this wobbly crown here.

War of the Worlds: The Musical!

Even though my birthday is in August, my brother Dave called last month to say, "I HAVE FOUND YOUR BIRTHDAY PRESENT! WAR OF THE WORLDS THE MUSICAL!"

"Well," I said, "I suppose it could have been made into a musical."

"Starring Richard Burton!"

He said he had all the songs and was sending it to me on a CD.

I was therefore expecting a little-known Original Broadway Cast Recording. I was looking forward to hearing Richard Burton sing.

The first song was a ode to disbelief that martians were coming. Catchy, but not catchy in a good pop song way, catchy in a "This song only has two lines you can remember" way. Richard Burton literally read out loud from the book accompanied by some truly trippy 70s music. After they appropriated Moody Blues' "Forever Autumn," I thought, "Perhaps Dave is wrong. This is not a musical," and I turned to Wikipedia.

As everyone else already knows, I was listening to War of the Worlds, the Best-Selling Concept Album. Not a Broadway show, but still, a time capsule of the music I was supposed to be listening to in the 70's. Go here, scroll down and listen to some samples.

Of course, it's even been updated. I've ordered the re-release starring Liam Neeson.

I hear it's also in book form.

Dead. All the Rabbits. Dead.

Gary had a backyard adventure. A hawk swooped down on a bird, looked Gary dead in the eye, then flew off with the bird body.

After the emotional trauma abated, we had a conversation on why the hawk wouldn't be preying on somethin meatier, like ... a rabbit, and we realized we haven't seen a rabbit in our yard all year, if not longer.

Come to find out it's all over St. Louis. The Great St. Louis Rabbit Die-Off. The Rabbit Rapture.

The big die-off was in South Saint Louis a few years ago, but I can imagine the fever might have made its way to our backyard. Seriously, I haven't seen a rabbit all spring.

Then again, perhaps it's the hawk. Maybe the hawk's been dining on bunny.