Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Funeral

Last week a co-worker's mom died, and I went to the funeral with another co-worker. Let's call him Mr. J____.

There was a reception before and the service after. I had previously polled the office to see if it was appropriate to attend the actual funeral of someone you had never met, if you knew the bereaved, and they said yes, yes it was. It wasn't the burial, just the funeral. Lutheran funeral.

We debated a little bit about staying for the service. I was pro-service: Mr. J____ was cautiously "Whatever you want." So we sat down, and I was ready to sit through the funeral with all my defenses up. You know, the anti-emotion shields you have to use when they play hymns and talk about death. I was safe in my bubble when the priest began.

Priest said something and Mr. J____ crossed himself, and I thought, "Oh, this was a bad idea."

I'm not proud of that thought. I suppose I was thinking other people had bubbles, and we'd just sit there in our religion-proof bubbles and ignore the funeral, and not participate. And then when Mr. J____ crossed himself I realized that other people do not use their bubbles and here I was sitting next to someone who was going there, going into Religion Zone, and I was not prepared. Especially since I'd never noticed the religion side of Mr. J_____ at work.

We have not yet had a Bring Your God to Work Day. He's Catholic. Who knew?

So I thought, "Okay, I see your crossing move, and I raise you a hymn." I must have been the only one singing. I think the first note I sang full on, then geared down into sotto voce, because I could see the lips moving but I could not hear ANYONE singing.

Afterward I told him how odd it all seemed, and he said "Of course, it went against the Separation of Church and Work." And that was right on the nose.

March

Of course we were at the Saint Louis march.

I was really astonished that with the impressive turnout our numbers were only in the tens of thousands. It certainly felt like a hundred thousand women.

When we were at 8th street I looked back and saw a crowd back to Union Station at 18th, and we were shuffling at 8th because people were blocked at 4th.

Thankfully, crowds don't bother me. The crowd stayed controlled even when Claire McCaskill joined us. We just screamed "CLAIRE!"  I did wonder if she's wearing a wig of her iconic pageboy since I think I heard she's having breast cancer issues. I've been fantasizing about getting a wig myself recently, since my thinning hair became noticeable to the hair stylist. Would I get a wig that was a better version of my old hair, or stick-straight thick hair?

Anyway, the signs were dead clever.

WE SHALL OVERCOMB

DID NAZI THAT COMING

And then someone bought and released two P-shaped mylar balloons in gold. Golden PP. Hilarious.

Of course, the turnout in the cities was impressive because 80-90% of the city votes went for Trump. Pretty sure if there were enough population density in the rural areas to make a march they'd have an impressive display.

(I confess Gary and I were complaining that when we've had jobs that dried up we changed careers. Of course, we had access to education that would let us do that. Then we started expressing even more privilege. "Why don't they just pack up their cars and drive to where the jobs are?" (Like the Joads in Grapes of Wrath. Because that book had such a happy ending.) Of course, what cars, and what gas, and what housing when they get to the mystery jobs. Certainly there's something the government needs to have manufactured that they could make in the rural areas. Perhaps gold statuary. Or, better, an underground bullet train system. Freeze-dried foods for the third world. We must need workers for something.)

Anyway, the march. The march ended almost at the Arch.

 

Any other year we'd have swamped the Arch Grounds, but this year the Arch is being re-landscaped so we had to stop at the old courthouse.

 

Good march. I wonder how long Trump will last.

Potential Travel Fight Averted

As I said before, our travel fights are about security or getting lost, and I managed to avoid the getting lost fight.

Even before we started we were headed inexorably toward the Getting Lost fight. Asheville is at the southern terminus of the Blue Ridge Parkway. I've been on the BRP before, in '74, the only time my Dad participated in a family vacation. I imagine some part of it was because my brother and I complained bitterly about the scenery. ("Didn't you say these were mountains? I don't see any mountains. Aren't mountains supposed be purple? 'Purple mountain's majesty?' These are just green. Bo-ring.")

So when I saw that Gary and I would be so close to the BRP I sought redemption. I tried to plot a way from Nashville to Asheville on the side roads through the Great Smoky Mountains then on to the BRP. It's hard, since the BRP isn't clearly marked on Google Maps. I had to break down and call an actual human person.

The day we drove to Asheville it was too misty to appreciate any scenery, so we took the highway through the Smokies instead and skipped the BRP entirely.

And it was perfect. The fog is what gives the Smokies their name, and the rain and mist made fog everywhere. I'd show you the photos I took, but I could as well have taken a photo of a ghost. Rely on this photo from National Geographic.

Through the Smokies Gary stayed in the lane he feels was built just for him, the passing lane, the left lane, until I noticed that lane had words painted on it. We don't paint on the highways in Missouri. It was like this...

..only there were three words you drove over in sequence.

I read aloud, "TRUCKS ... LEFT ... LANE. Oh! Only trucks are supposed to use the left lane. Change lanes."

"Screw the trucks!" Gary grumbled, and didn't change lanes.

"Okay, stay in the truck lane if you want," I shrugged, and went back to admiring the scenery. I was surprised, Gary hates trucks, I'd think that a state that segregates the trucks into the left lane would be right up his alley, but whatever.

It must have been half an hour later, after I noticed all the trucks were in the other lane, that I noticed that the first word of the sign was "NO." NO TRUCKS LEFT LANE. I am ...

 
Anyway, the highway through the Smokies was enough grandeur and adventure for us that first day, so we rescheduled the BRP drive to the trip home.

People, we got on the BRP on the way home and only made it to the first stop, the Welcome Center, before we got lost. We lost each other for quite a while at the Welcome Center, not because GPS is unavailable there but because cell phones are as well. I used the bathroom and had no idea he'd go out to the car. I might never have found him again if I hadn't guessed.

"There you are! Let's go see some natural wonders." I studied the printed map I picked up at the Center. "We are here - but the star is on this side, and the label is on the other side of the road from the star, so ... turn left."

Nope. Should have turned right. I got us lost immediately. Five minutes later when I saw we were headed back to Asheville, I said, "No bathrooms, no GPS, no purple mountain's majesties ... I did my best, Mom and Dad, but the Blue Ridge Parkway and I are not meant to be."

We chose to avoid what would have been hours of being lost, arguing about being lost, and starving to death while lost on the BRP. Instead we avoided the inevitable, hopped back on Highway 40, and drove straight home.



The Great Nashville / Asheville / Nashville Trip

So on the second day we drove from Nashville to Asheville, and in the evening ate at what we thought was a neat little pizza place. Come to find out Mellow Mushroom is a chain that has a St. Louis location. It was good, but our efforts to eat local failed.

On Wednesday, the day we were to see Biltmore Estate, we stood in line for Biscuit Head. Gary asked, "Why aren't you getting the Biscuit Eggs Benedict? " What I should have said was, "Because egg white intolerance is the blight of my life," but I blocked from my mind Albuquerque, and  Louisville, and any other time raw egg whites snuck into the Hollandaise. Those who don't remember history are doomed to repeat it and leave a little souvenir of themselves on the Vanderbilt family's wooded estate near an inexplicably locked bathroom. (We were thinking we might see some bears because of the proximity to the Great Smoky Mountains. There were no bears shitting in the woods along with me. I've dropped that cliche completely.)

Even without that inauspicious start to what was supposed to be an elegant day, I still think I would have been let down by Biltmore. Well - there were some individual rooms that were nice, but the problem was there were sooooo many rooms and it was so crowded that the lovely rooms got lost.

And the only real Christmas tree was the one in the dining room: the other 58 were fake. 

Then, toward the end when I heard the house was not all stone but instead a limestone facade, I turned my nose up and it didn't come down.

(Are you making the obvious psychological assumption that being reduced to animal status in the woods led to insecure overcompensation that I could only resolve by looking down my nose at the Vanderbilts? Are you? Well, Gary felt the same way and digested his biscuits like a trouper.)

I had had heard the house rivals Versailles. Versailles has nothing to worry about. Here's an example or the Master Bedroom in both. Biltmore is on the left, Versailles is on the right.

Even though that gold wallpaper at Biltmore is made of solid gold, it looks dowdy next to Versailles. 

However, the nicest room at Biltmore is the library, and the library at Biltmore is better in my eyes than the library at Versailles:

Though the ceiling mural looks amateur in comparison to the Hall of Mirrors.

There was one room I did love: the baby-birthing room. Mrs. Vanderbilt would only have her babies in this one room, and I think it's because it has a window seat.

The black velvet brocade put me off, but see that ironwork in front of the window? Past that, the floor transitions into a window seat cushion. The floor of the seat area is level with the bottom of the french doors. You get to it by stepping down into that doorway nook where the two framed pictures are. That, I liked. Two thumbs up for that. I saw no window seats at Versailles.

So Saint Louisans, if you want to see a truly lovely house, I would suggest Versailles - or - better - just drive two hours and look at the Dana-Thomas House in Springfield Illinois.

Of course, that house was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, so would I like it? Of course. Does a bear ...

 

Obligatory Travel Fight

Given how predictable our travel fights are, you would think we could control them. We only ever fight about two topics: staying safe and getting lost.

This trip's safety argument happened on day one. We drove - well, Gary drove - to Nashville, and that night we decided to do something we've never done in Nashville: listen to local music. (What a concept.) We drove to the crowded touristy area downtown and tried to park the car.

Our first lot seemed fine to me. We were halfway to the sidewalk when Gary said something that suggested he was hesitant about the location (too many people, too few people, something) and I spun on my heel and headed back to the car because there's no point in trying to have fun with a worried Gary.

We then found another lot and when we were three seconds into figuring out the automated payment system an enormous man on the sidewalk began bellowing at us.

"THERE'S FREE PARKING UP HERE ON THE STREET."

Gary bellowed back, "NO THANK YOU, WE'RE FINE."

"THAT LOT COSTS TWENTY SEVEN DOLLARS."

I bellowed back, "NO, IT DOESN'T." It was ten bucks.

"SPOT RIGHT HERE ON THE STREET."

Gary was now ten seconds into figuring out the automated system and had had enough of it. "OKAY!" he bellowed.

"You are a sap." I said, quietly.

"It'll be fine."

"Any man that enthusiastic about getting us free parking is up to no good." Also, any man that friendly is up to no good. Any man that enormous is up to no good. Any man that insistent is up to no good. Any man that talks to strangers is up to no good. Any man luring people out of well-lit parking lots and on to loading docks is up to no good.

But before I knew it we were back in the car, parking in front of a loading dock, and I was handing the Terrifyingly Friendly Man a ten dollar bill as a tip.

I wish I could tell you that I'd done that because I'd figured out that this man was a local character who supplemented his income by finding parking for tourists. I never did figure that out, and I was angry at Gary because I'd picked up on his hesitancy and he'd ignored my directness. Instead I ruined our dinner discussing it.

After we eventually had some fun wandering up and down the strip, we headed back to the car and saw Terrifyingly Friendly Man approaching a car that was trying to find a spot.

"THERE'S A SPOT AROUND THE CORNER. TIP ME TEN BUCKS; I'LL GET IN YOUR CAR AND SHOW YOU WHERE."

That did not fly with those people. Now that he was alone, Terrifyingly Friendly Man saw us and waved us toward our car.

For the rest of the trip any time Gary wanted to make me laugh he'll get a big genial grin and start waving at me like Terrifyingly Friendly Self-Appointed Valet Service Man. And now, next time we're in Nashville or India or anywhere parking is scare and people are friendly we'll know the deal.



2016 In Review

Dear Me from One Year Ago:

Usually these letters to younger versions of yourself are addressed to the twelve or twenty-year old version. Enough has changed the last year to make me a different person than just twelve months ago, so this goes out to Ellen 2016.

So, since January 2016 the Menopausal Misery you suffered intensified and crystallized into a fairly straightforward problem. Not one to be solved with medication but by of all things, meditation. God, I know, Ellen From One Year Ago. I shudder too. I roll my eyes. So New-Agey. So crunchy. And to require a therapist to get better - shameful. Shame! Still, Last year's Version, you would be surprised at how effective the therapist is. I'm not fixed yet, of course. But, more than anything I wonder why you and I never developed these skills before. A) Sit. B) Notice what's bothering you. C) Put it aside a moment. D) Act on it or avoid it.

In addition to meditation and the Four Agreements (shudders, rolls eyes, questions ones very being), you learned more skills this year, more practical ones. Upholstery (or, re-upholstery - I don't know what it is when you take the beloved loveseat down to the studs). And of course, on July 4th you picked up jewelry-making, just like last Palm Sunday when you started reading music. But instead of keeping the jewelry-making to yourself, you put it out there for people who might want jigsaw or Cheeto-replica necklaces.

Speaking of jewelry, you have too many earrings. In early 2016 you will get your ears pierced at a tattoo parlor and then buy a pair every day for the next few three months then start making them. It's excessive. Also, speaking of appearance, you've gained back ten of the forty-five pounds you lost (though five of those were over Christmas and vacation). Nip that in the bud.

The front yard landscaping filled in - not surprising given that you planted weeds - and the backyard lawn has a path worn from Gary going to the feed box, and another from the food to the Sewer Raccoon Highway. Gary isn't giving up his new hobby, so you might as well embrace it.

You're going to go on some weekend adventures. You will visit:

• The dusty and peculiar Busch Conservation Area and the Weldon Springs Radioactive Site next door
• Big Joel's Animal Park and the Polar Bear Exhibit at the Zoo and the Eagles at Clarksville
• Saint Charles Downtown via a ghost tour, the Shrine of St. Rose Duschene, and various eateries
• A fancy grocery
• Creve Couer Lake for some kayaking
• Kansas City for the required BNL concert (Guess what. It'll be really fun. No surprises there.)
• Ikea (Surprise. You won't like it.) and a lavender farm (Surprise. No lavender.)
• The Grand Arts Center for ... everything. The Contemporary Arts Museum (twice), the symphony for the Michael Jackson tribute, the Sheldon for the Art of Time Ensemble concert, and nooks and crannies for the Fringe Festival
• Your friend Anne's for a monthly culinary adventure. Get ready for Beef Wellington in 2017.

So, next time, when you start a year in tears, don't wait six months before you get help. That's my lesson to you. Oh, and also, I've put this note in the luggage for whatever vacation we take in 2017 in case we forget AGAIN:

 

(Yes, Eggs Benedict Strikes Again. More about Nashville/ Asheville later.)

Anyway, Ellen 2016, you have a year of new things to learn and changes to make. Seriously. Meditation. What's next? Crystals in 2017? Drum Circles? Flat-out political rebellion since you seem to be a hippie now?

We shall see.