Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

I Did It

Yep, I posted every day for thirty days, like I did ten years ago.

There's a reason it was easier to post almost every day back then. I went back and read a stretch in which I went to Paris, a Guster concert, Chicago and Albuquerque, saw BNL twice and Steven Page once, visited Becs in New Jersey, then took my Series 66 exam and stayed at the Lumiere to celebrate except for when I went to a Chelsea Handler show that same night.

After I scanned those entries, I went out to rake some leaves for twenty minutes. Gary coaxed me back into the house (purportedly to make some soup with him) and then insisted I had worn myself out and demanded I sit down and watch the news LIKE I WAS AN EIGHTY-YEAR-OLD and I burst into tears. 

Our energy levels no longer match at all. Come to find out, Gary’s thyroid is bottoming out, possibly after years of his anti-seizure medication. He takes more tests in six weeks, poor thing. 

My thyroid is fine, though. I need to get out more.

No Longer Undefeated at Trivia

Anne assembled much of the first-place winning trivia team for a small local trivia match in Pacific, Missouri. I came in addled because the GPS had taken me on a forty-five minute long trek through every unlit windy back highway in the outer rural environs. It got to the point I laughed hysterically at every hairpin turn.

It was a small contest in a small Catholic school. We really expected to win.

We lost. We lost to Table Four by four points. They got an 84, we got 80, and third place (and everyone else) got under 50.

I was the only one positioned to look directly at Table Four. One woman at Table Four kept making the two-fingered "I am watching you" gesture at me, which tickled me.

I was responsible for one dead wrong answer. The question was "The Missouri Department of Conservation logo has three images including a leaf and a fish. What is the third image?" I was sure it was a river.

No.

I know. A raccoon. So cruel to miss on a raccoon.

Christmas Ornament

Our tradition of buying a Christmas ornament that encapsulates the year has run into a snag. I no longer remember what many of our existing ornaments represent. I look at the tree and think, “Hedgehogs? When did we have hedgehogs, or see hedgehogs? When was it hedgehog year?”

There are many possibilities for this year's ornament. I could get a skunk ornament and tart it up to look like GlamourSkunk. We went to Mardi Gras and Chichen Itza, no doubt those are contenders.

But really, if Toto toilets made a tiny Christmas ornament ...

UPDATED: they don’t, but I found a silver keychain that will do just fine.

Keens

I have had to throw away my beloved old Keen mules. The heels wore down to tatters, after ten years, as you would expect, and I found myself slanting backward when I wore them.

These were the only shoes I could walk in for an entire day free of all foot pain. The expensive REI tennis-shoes hurt my feet more than the beloved Keens.

These are the leather shoes Gary called my "rubber shoes" so often that after five years I became convinced they were rubber and I wore them into the Atlantic ocean and the dye turned my feet black.

I ordered a new pair of Keens from Zappos, as close to the originals as I could find, and discovered that a) they were not actually mules, they were those annoying constrictive semi-mules, and that b) I ordered the wrong size.

But that was a blessing, because I found a gray pair on Amazon that was the only one left in my size...

and then a similar used pair on eBay that didn't show much wear on the heels.

The Keen people better not have changed their formula, let me tell you. I don't know what I will do without shoes.

Sandwiches

I once heard my in-laws say, "Let's go to McDonald's and pick up some sandwiches."

My first thought was,"I don't think I have ever heard them even consider eating at McDonald's."

My second thought was, "Maybe that’s why they think McDonald's serves sandwiches."

The U.S. Courts and Stephen Colbert have argued what qualifies as a sandwich, and now Gary and I have found ourselves on opposite sides of the debate.

He thinks, first of all, that there is such a thing as a "Filet-O-Fish sandwich," which of course there isn't. ("Show me where it is on the menu," I argued. "Look for a McSandwich.") In his view, any construction of carb, food, carb is a sandwich. Yeah, no.

I say these are the qualities of a sandwich:

A  It is constructed of sliced bread, food, then sliced bread. 

B. You have to use the word 'sandwich' to know what it is. Turkey sandwich. Egg salad sandwich.

1. If you know what it is without calling it a sandwich - Po'Boy,  Hoagie, Hamburger, Lobster roll, French Dip - those are not sandwiches. They are Po'Boys and Hoagies and Hamburgers.
2. You can only remove the word “sandwich” only if it can be referred to by its initials. See PBJ and BLT.
3. You may think you've got me here, but an ice cream sandwich is a parody of a sandwich.

Gary tried to argue Point A, and went back to the Earl of Sandwich, and said that he had his meat brought to him on a roll. I pointed out that Gary was not there, that roll could have been sliced vertically instead of horizontally, and that he is only proving Point B, because his example is the earliest instance of something named Sandwich.

Luxotica Hatred

The Luxotica eyeglasses monopoly. I hate them. I hate them as much as I love Adam Ruins Everything.

I just paid three hundred dollars for them to put lenses into frames I already own. Pig Dogs. Pig. Dogs.

Warby Parker next year.Or better yet, and I don't know why I didn't think of this before, I can loosen two tiny screws, pop in two lenses, then screw two tiny screws in again.

 

Staycation Movies

Well, evidently this is going to be a Moviecation: a subset of a staycation in which you go out to see several movies in one week.

We haven't been to the movies for a few weeks, ever since we saw A Star Is Born and we both hated, hated, hated it. (I loved the Judy Garland version. The latest one takes that version's flaws - Born in a Trunk - and multiplies them, while it erases any early charm in the male lead. Even drunk James Mason dancing was charming.)

Well, in two days we have seen two movies: the new Fantastic Beasts movie and the new Girl-In-the-Fill-In-The-Blank movie. Obviously, Gary picked these, because he leans toward fantasy and I prefer reality. But, the last movie I picked was A Star Is Born, and now I am not to be trusted.

The Fantastic Beasts movie at least tried to stick to the rules of the alternative reality I agreed to when I bought the ticket. The Girl in the Blah Blah movie just didn't play fair at all. Bad guys waiting their turn to attack, technological devices that appear when it's convenient, advanced computer code that can be easily hacked by bad guys. I gave up on it when a particular Apple product conveniently materialized, and after that I just took a nap in the heated seats.

I need reality in a movie, not escapism.

So, that's why it's remarkable that I started crying the minute the Mary Poppins trailer came on. Why does Mary, fantasy flying nanny, get a pass?

Elderly Decor

When I imagine an elderly person's house, it is always cluttered. I see how that happens.

Your Forties: An end table is no longer functional because you have rearranged the furniture. Still, you keep it in the living room because it never hurts to have an extra table. Besides, it matches.

Your Fifties: You grow tired of going to the kitchen junk drawer to get the Chapstick. You take a nice wooden box and put a stick of Chapstick in it and put it on that table.

Your Sixties: You pull the table next to your chair so the Chapstick is always available. You stop putting the Chapstick in the box because the box is full of your nail clippers and magnifiers and you need the Chapstick every damn hour in the winter.

Your Seventies: Every surface in your house is covered with so much stuff that you get a Dave and Buster's level of sensory overload just sitting in your living room.

Your Eighties: You stop dusting because you can not see any part of the surface of the original end table.

I am in my fifties, and Gary is in his sixties. (There is Chapstick and Werther's candy in the box.)  

I am fighting the good fight against clutter. There are now four things on the mantel instead of seven. Just this week a bench was banished to the basement purgatory (basegatory? purgament?), and it is soon to be followed by the movie projection screen if Gary can't figure out a way to hook up the old technology to the new iPads.

I can't make myself go as far as friend Anne, who puts her heavy KitchenAid mixer away in a closet when she isn't using it. She is younger than I am, though.

Thankful

As always, I have a ridiculous number of things to be thankful for.

My job - One of the many benefits to working where I do is that when you achieve a certain age and tenure, you can go on Cobra insurance and stay on it until you are eligible for Medicare. So, an expensive option, but an option that means that in one year and one month, I could possibly retire without worrying about insurance. I won't do it, of course, because I can't fathom spending over half my life without a job, but it is wonderful to have the option if life takes a turn.

My health - Sometimes I have visitors from the Carnival of MS bloggers portal. I want to apologize to each of you for all the "No new lesions" posts. No new lesions, and any old silent lesions are vewy vewy quiet lately. No other symptoms than my gait and balance and bladder and bowels. I did totter a few times the last time I went out to a friend's house, but she was gracious and might have thought I was drunk. Of course, I credit the Gilenya.

My husband - The doctor says Gary is healthier than he was last year. He needs to write a self-help book titled Sleep Your Way to Health and Fitness. Of course, if he keeps listening to MSNBC, the President will send him to an early grave.

And additionally I am thankful for:

Those little razors you can use to shave calluses off your feet
Fage 2% Greek yogurt and Nutrasweet and all of the foods, really
Cats that make friends after three years
Raccoons that poop in trees and not on your patio
NPR and podcasts and blogs and free entertainment in general
Continued life

Massage

Years ago I got a back massage, and the masseuse was disappointed to find only one knot. I understand that knots are permanently flexed muscle.

The only other massage I had was when I had to go get my vagina massaged at physical therapy because it was just all jacked up. 

Well, it would seem I no longer carry my tension in my vagina. I complained to my doctor that my shoulder blade, at times, is in sickening pain, and after investigating he said I was all knotted up. (Diagnosis: Knots.) I was glad to hear it. 

I told him about the one knot from years before. He said he could feel four knots, and that I need to get a massage. Not by a chiropractor, just a regular massage. 

Stupid body. Just can't deal with stress. If it isn't brain lesions, it's shoulder knots.

Now, after that Gary did unearth the Thumper, and applied it to my shoulder blade, until it just hurt way too much. Still today, I made an appointment for a massage.

The masseuse reported finding ... “one tiny knot.” 

So that means either I can save a lot of money on massages by having Gary beat me up with the Thumper instead, or the shoulder pain is something else. I vote for the Thumper Cure.

Make This for Me: Pie Crust Edition

Well, it is almost Pie Season. It is so hard for me to make a decent pie crust. I thought it would be easier because Gary isn't involved any more ("NO THAT'S WRONG TOO MUCH / TOO LITTLE NO"). But, no, and I think the issue is simply how humans make pie crusts. You have to cut the butter in to the flour, coating each pea sized bit of butter in the flour, then add just the right amount of ice water to make it pliable. Then it has to rest in the fridge and that means it hardens in the fridge, and then it invariably toughens while you work it long enough to roll it into a circle.

So let's look at the timeline. You measure the flour, you cut in the butter, you add the water, you roll it out, you put in in the pan.

Now let's devolve it. Starting at the end of the timeline: they can give me finished crusts in the pan already, but they aren't tender. (Also, doesn't involve enough human suffering, which is what you need for a family gathering.) They will sell me a pre-rolled sheet, so I only do the last step of putting it in the pan, but those have very little flake.

I want them to back up to the butter-cutting stage. Here's what I want: Pea-sized frozen butter pellets.

They could be on rolls, like sugar candy, or stored like astronaut ice cream.

Like that, only butter.

You would scrape or scoop the amount you want, then toss them with the flour. Then you would let them sit until they aren't completely frozen, add the water, roll it out and there you go.

I think this could be a thing.

Elevator

The other day at work, five women got into the elevator, followed by one man. He had said “ladies first,” as is encouraged by the company. Seriously, gender-based elevator access was discussed in my orientation. They do it because the company wants to be polite, and genteel, and because ovaries are magic.

He then said it was a delight to be in an elevator with five ladies.

I said, dryly, “Perhaps we should have let you get on the elevator first, since you’re the one who’s different.”

As it was coming out of my mouth, I thought, “Don’t say it. Some women really like getting on the elevators first.”

Thankfully, all the women on the elevator burst into appreciative laughter, because evidently I am not the only one tired of the “point out the freak woman” game at the elevator. (The man chuckled like a good sport who doesn’t know why everyone else is laughing.)

And I know, it’s convenient to get on the elevator first, but then you’re stuck at the back of the elevator and have to wiggle past all the men in front when you want to get off, and that’s not convenient.

And when I make a deliberate effort to pay attention, I have noticed times when a man lets me in first, and then gets in the elevator without waiting for the black woman. Awkward. Just recently I was at an elevator, behind a black woman, a man told me “after you,” and since he didn’t say it to her, the black woman stayed put, and then I said to the black woman “after you,” and it was just all awkward.

Well, in January a woman takes over the company. I wonder if company policy will change. That would be awesome, if there was an edict: “Starting January 1, people will get on the elevator based on proximity to the elevator, not gender.” 

Oil painting progress

So I've gone from making copies and following walkthroughs to painting from "life" (if you call a stuffed monkey "life").

Chickens - This was a copy of a painting. The original was square, and my canvas was a rectangle, so I had to add a bonus baby chicken. I didn't have a baby chicken in the original, so he looks a little sketchier.

Vlad - After the chickens I had to up my game to humans. This was a walkthrough - believe me, I would never have seen the greens and purples in the shadows. Gary decided the model looked like Putin. The eyes are not even, and I don't know why the right eye works and the left one doesn't. Perhaps Vlad had a stroke. Also, his nose, mouth and eyes all seem to have drifted to the right as you move down the face.

Apples - This is closer to a forgery than a copy, since I used my own apples but obviously I'm trying to make it look like Cezanne's apples. It's my first try at cast shadows. Cast shadows are my nemesis.

Croquet Balls Try 1 - I was not content with the easiest things in the world to paint: spheres and cylinders, no, I had to add the hardest thing to paint: glass. Also, cast shadows, we meet again. I was pleased with the mallet. The glass jar - well, it was good for a first try. Also, I had to draw from life again, and I was rushing to paint so I didn't check the drawing. I have since flipped this upside down and have seen how wonky the jar is.

Croquet Balls 2 - The overhead fluorescent lights made the previous painting hard, so I set up a still life box. It's just a box lined with black fabric and a single external light source. I set up the croquet balls again, this time in the box, and it came out better. (Except again with the cast shadow. Ugh! Too dark.) I see why artists paint studies. It's so odd how you can subconsciously make sense of something each time you paint it.

 Sock Monkey - This time I really held myself accountable with the initial drawing. I drew it on the canvas, then took a photo of the monkey and compared my drawing to the photo. The pitcher was dead on, but the monkey, like Vlad above, decided to skew to the right. So I transferred the photo to to the canvas with a Sharpie. (I believe the technical art term is "cheating".) I should have checked Google first: the alcohol in a Sharpie will rise through multiple layers of oil paint. You can't cover it. Still, I like how the pitcher came out. Except, of course, for the shadow it casts on the monkey’s chest and arm.

So what am I painting next? I made a still life with teacups and a transparent red glass bowl. It has a cast shadow combined with reflections AND the light shines through the red bowl and falls on a white napkin - and I am crazy. I am taking that bowl out right now. Teacups on a white napkin, that’s what i’m painting next.

Tire Store

Sometimes Gary has anxiety, and the only way he knows how to ease his anxiety is to purchase something, and every winter that purchase is tires.

I thought he bought a whole new set of tires every year, but when we were at the tire store I found that it's only two tires a year.

This wasn't enough to calm his fears, so he told the tire man that he felt that he needed new shocks and struts.

Tire man said, "That's a good decision, because our shocks and struts are guaranteed for life."

I spoke up. "Check to see that we didn't already get shocks and struts here."

"DO NOT CHECK" Gary demanded. "I HAVE NEVER BOUGHT SHOCKS AND STRUTS ANYWHERE."

"That's so odd. I could swear we had bought them here. Check anyway," I asked the man.

'I NEVER GOT SHOCKS AND STRUTS HERE." Gary insisted.

Tire man said, "I see you did get shocks and struts on the Mini Cooper."

"Check the Fit." I said.

"THE FIT HAS NEVER HAD ITS SHOCKS AND STRUTS REPLACED."

Tire man said, "It looks like you got shocks and struts on the Fit... two years ago."

Gary was ... shocked. And you know I strutted the rest of the day.

Keeping up with the Neighbors

Remember how I was proud of our stone wall that was made from actual stone?

Seriously, look what the neighbors two doors over have done.

"We see your stones, and we raise you BOULDERS."

I am ... crushed.

 

Small Uprising of The People

Gary and I have been waiting to take to the streets. We are prepared: the instant Mueller is fired we will drop what we are doing and run downtown to protest.

Well, the day after Sessions was fired, Rachel Maddow told us the Time Is Now, or rather the Time Is the Next Day right in the middle of my doctor's appointment.

We figured the 5:00 protest would last an hour, at least. That's why we were surprised when we got downtown at 5:45 and saw this:

Maybe fifty people? They were just holding signs and eliciting honks. We decided instead to exercise our free right to go to the restaurant across the street and use the bathroom and eat dinner. We thought things might pick up, and if it did we would hear the noise, eat quickly, and join in.

When we got there, all the diners at Caleco's were a buzz about the extremely loud protest that had ruined their dinners. I heard a group complaining while Gary was in the bathroom, then while we were eating I overheard a woman at the next table saying:

"But what were they protesting? I asked one of them, but he wouldn't answer me. Really? If you're going to be that loud, be proud." Her group didn't have an answer.

Because I am an idiot, I caught the woman's eye and said, "I know why."

"Why?" she said, "Is it a Saint Louis thing?"

"Oh no," Gary interrupted (if you can interrupt an eavesdropping), "They're protesting that the President fired the Attorney General and hired someone else instead of allowing the deputy to take the Attorney General's place."

"So it's not a Saint Louis thing." said the woman. 

"But isn't that his right?" asked the woman's husband. "He's the President. It's his choice."

Gary went on to explain that it's not, the Justice department is separate and that appointment has to be approved by the Senate, and before he actually said the words "checks and balances" he controlled himself. Argument avoided.

Of course, after we headed home I discovered the argument was not over, it continued in absentia because Gary still had the urge to convince them, even though they were miles away.

No problem. Gary knew to shut it down at the time. Civility triumphed.

 

Grapes

Last year, after watching a cute video of a baby raccoon eating grapes, I took some loose grapes and strew them on top of the Big Pile O' Decaying Nuts and Dog Food where the raccoons eat.

No interest. None.

This year, Gary saw the same video and noticed the grapes were still on the stem.

Evidently, that was the trick.

Now we're going to have to figure out how to attach those apples to the tree.

 

Guster at Delmar Hall

The Guster concert at Delmar Hall was remarkable.

1. It was a general admission concert with a limited number of seats, and Gary and I scored seats: black metal barstools that became torture devices after a few hours. When the concert was done I required a bit of butt massage before I was able to walk.
2. The seats were against the wall. Everyone else stood and danced. Some woman stood right in front of me, so close that she was virtually sitting on my knee. Then, she said something to her boyfriend. I don't know what facial message I sent to her that she picked up on. Perhaps she said, "Why doesn't this woman plaster herself to the wall to give me space to dance?" I only heard his half of the conversation, which was, "Well, you're standing right in front of her, and you're invading her personal space." Yeah, good call there, boyfriend.  Then -- triumph -- they left between acts.
3. Gary ordered a whiskey instead of his standard Bailey's. He taught me how to drink whiskey - did you know you're not supposed to swallow at first? You leave it on your tongue and keep your mouth slightly open so the fumes can escape. Then after the toxic fumes dissipate, you drink it.
4. The sound quality at Delmar Hall is better than the Sheldon and the Pageant, so audiences like it. I don't know how much musicians like it. Both Steven Page and Ryan from Guster made remarks. When Steven Page commented that it seemed sterile to him, I thought he was referring to the black walls. He might have been commenting on the way things sounded up on the stage. I don't know how music usually sounds to a band on stage, but Ryan from Guster said that the sound was "pristine," and that we could probably hear them fart, and that the music was just going out into the audience and laying there.

 And of course, even though they did not play my favorite song, I still enjoyed it greatly.

Podcasts

Well, it would seem having the perfect music to exercise by wears thin after one week. Instead, I've been exercising on the indoor bike while listening to podcasts.

I haven't heard any podcasts other than Serial, which I loved. I binged Serial over a weekend.

I compiled a list of all the best podcasts. I thought they would all be like Serial, and I was wrong. It seems they generally consist of mildly amusing people being more amused by themselves than merited (which in a surprising moment of clarity I realize describes me).

Anyway, I looked for podcasts similar to Serial, which led me to S-Town, which struck me as being too revealing about the intimate details of one person's life. (There's a theme here, isn't there.)

My next try was to stick with NPR. When I was on Twitter I followed the woman from Pop Culture Happy Hour, and I wondered why my station didn't carry PCHH, and I suppose they didn't because it's a podcast. It's a podcast that sent me to the game "You Are Jeff Bezos," and I will always treasure that, but I think I want something short and narrative.

Sounds like it's old episodes on This American Life for me.

Stuff vs Vacations

I know that I tell myself that the memory of a vacation lasts longer than any material thing you would have spent that money on. I know my memories of Paris will endure longer than a remodeled kitchen will be in style.

However, I must say I don't think of Paris multiple times a day, yet that's how often I do flush our new Toto toilet. (And let me tell you, if you need a toilet, go Toto. Oh, my god. I just have to hop down off it, give it a stern glance over my shoulder, and it flushes violently enough to suck all the air from the room. That's an exaggeration. But damn, it's a good toilet.)

Of course, I keep seeing posts from friends who are off on vacation and I am consumed by envy. I don't know if I can make it till early 2020, when Disney World opens up its Star Wars area. I just went with friends to visit Missouri wine country a few months ago. I think Gary and I might need to spend the day down there.

Of course, that's halfway to Memphis.

i admit I did sign up for one of the Orient Express Omaze contests. God help anyone who has to share a bathroom with Gary and me.

Ah, the travel itch. It doesn't go away. I need to go flush my toilet a few times.

Chuck and Gary

A few months back, Gary discovered the TV show Chuck. A computer geek becomes an accidental spy with the help of a hot blonde female spy and a steel-jawed male spy. Romance and kickboxing ensue. Subway sandwiches kept it going for five seasons. Friend #3 recommended it when it first came out, but the pilot just didn't grab us. Reruns are on Amazon now.

I say Gary "discovered" it. No. He became obsessed with it. He raced through season one and got well into season two before I gave in to the relentless nagging and watched a bit of it. I liked it, but not obsessively. I watched a few episodes he said were "key," but I couldn't possibly keep up with Gary because I have a job.

After a few weeks, the binge neared its end. The series had to go into its last season and its final story arc. One day I came home and asked Gary how his day was, steeling myself for the recap of This Day In Chuck.

He sighed heavily. "It's awful. They've ruined Chuck. Ruined it. I have to stop watching."
"Seriously? What happened?"
"I can't tell you. I have to show you. Watch this episode with me."

So, spoilers, but the writers sabotage the relationship between the hot blonde female spy and Chuck to set up tension for the end of the series. I reminded Gary that it's a TV show and there would be a happy ending. And we kept watching the next few episodes and lo, there is muted happy ending. Gary teared up. A lot. I sniffled a little myself. Not as much as Gary.

Later that week, we were unpacking some fight we'd had, and Gary said, "It bothered me that you got so upset. I get upset and you don't, that's how we are. Our relationship is just like Chuck and Sarah's. That's why I like that show so much."

I just gaped at him (and not just because he somehow believes he gets to have all the emotions). He thinks we are the Chuck couple? Granted, he is a computer nerd, but I am not an ass-kicking hot blonde spy.

Then I started to think about it, and blonde spy Sarah is quieter than Chuck, unless she is saying one of these two things:

"Chuck, don't freak out" (calmly), or, "You got this, Chuck" (earnestly and encouragingly).

I stored that information away, and then of course I had to watch every episode of Chuck FOR MY MARRIAGE. Gary was already re-watching his favorite ones anyway.

So, now that I know how he views our relationship, things have become much easier.

When he clutches his head and moans because I'm complaining about something, I just say, "Chuck, don't freak out."

When he's cranky because, I don't know, the raccoons are opening the back gate then not shutting it, I grasp his shoulders, look him in the eye and say, earnestly, "Chuck, you've got this."

If there's ever a Chuck reunion, I insist that both characters gain eighty pounds and that Sarah is in therapy.

Work Gary vs Retired Gary

That's the thing about being married. Who you marry is not who you get years later. Retired Gary is not Work Gary who is not Early Married Gary (who frankly I don't even remember).

Work Gary would come home, rant about work for forty-five minutes, then talk in his sleep about Transact and COBOL.
Retired Gary waits for me to come home at five and falls asleep while I tell him about my day.

Work Gary would go to a party and read me the riot act after if I didn't pay full attention only to him.
Retired Gary just went to a Halloween party and talked with strangers while I played Cards Against Humanity.

Work Gary did absolutely no housework or yardwork.
Retired Gary deals with dinner, shares grocery shopping, and will empty the trash out of guilt if he sees me doing yardwork.

Work Gary quietly mourned when politics didn't go his way.
Retired Gary is busy Facebooking For Democracy.

Strangely, I fight more with Retired Gary, but I think that's because he's around more to fight with. I certainly feel less lonely. (Less emotional support placed on your backs, Internet friends!)

Happily, Retired Gary has expressed no urge to return to Work. Whew.

In Which I Catch Up with Science

The nice thing about science is that it always changes, so there’s always something new to learn.

Health Sciences

I found out that my MS drug will not be going generic next year. (This is actually excellent news for me, because when it goes generic I get no special treatment for having been in the trial.)

”They got an extension,” the neurologist’s assistant said, “to see if it helps in pediatric MS.”

Kids have MS? Since when? Well, I guess since they’ve run kids through MRIs. They’ve diagnosed MS in kids as young as two now.

Grim.

Food Sciences

I suppose having Big Momma Monsanto in town puts Missouri ahead of the curve in food sciences. You know how Cheese = Cheese, but Cheez = Not Technically Cheese? Well, in Missouri we might start eating Meet, because lab-grown burgers can’t be labeled as Meat. But how awesome is it that they can grow meat in a lab? Is it .... cloned meat? That’s is so cool. Will they deliberately clone only the happy cows? Can vegans eat test-tube meat? Will they just swab a happy cow's gums and grow a burger from that?

So, if they can grow cow flesh, why can’t they grow people flesh? Then you’re just steps away from transplanting an unwanted fetus to an artificial uterus. (That you can then put on a hamburger bun and eat.)

And most important, when and where can I get some?

Glamour Skunk and Drama Squirrel

All summer long, all we got from the backyard video camera was morbidly obese raccoons grazing on nuts and dog food. And truly, most of them are in cow-grazing-posture, which annoys me because I know THEY know they're being filmed. Be a cute raccoon and eat with your hands LIKE I KNOW YOU CAN!

Then suddenly in the last month the video camera has caught two remarkable things. First, after three years of identical skunks, suddenly we were graced with ...

GlamourSkunk!

Seriously, check out this skunk with her peacock tail and the sassy white bands on her legs. I thought she might be a different breed, but no, evidently God just graced her with smoking hot skunk looks.

Then, there was the high drama of the ...

Suicidal Squirrel

I'm not embedding this one, because it's a snuff film. Well, almost. Any possible death occurs off camera, and it's possible he escaped. I doubt it, because he truly seemed bent on ending his life, balled up at the foot of the tree in the pitch dark at 9:30 pm, and then opting for Fight when Flight appeared to be going well.  

Here's the link, and it's up to you if you go there and if you listen to it (I have watched and listened to it about 35 times).

Election Day

5:00 a.m. - Gary woke up happy. It has been two years since I’ve seen him this optimistic. I got caught up in his enthusiasm and went along with his scheme go to the poll as soon as possible, which for us was:

5:50 a.m. - We were about 100th in line. I had to reprove him for “campaigning” at the polling place (he was killing time in line by trashing Trump). I had to point out the sign that says “NO POLITICAL MESSAGING OR ATTIRE IN THE VOTING PLACE.” He agreed to zip his hoodie over his RESIST T-shirt. 

6:10 a.m. - Gary again engaged another person in line in a political conversation and discovered she was very anti-Trump. He coyly unzipped his hoodie and exposed his RESIST T-shirt, just to her.

6:40 a.m. - We were done voting. Gary unzipped his hoodie entirely and we had breakfast out.

5:00 p.m. - At some point during the day, Gary realized his left big toe was numb. He had missed a dose of his B-12. We both agreed it was, in a way, good to know that the B-12 is doing what it should. The focus to get his B-12 drew his attention away from the election. In fact, he missed the first half hour of coverage because he was at the Walgreens getting his drug. Based on the last 24 months I would have bet he’d sacrifice his left big toe for a chance to watch democracy in action, but it looks like his priorities are in order.

10:00 p.m. - The evening was punctuated with shrieks for each Democratic senator who lost. For a few minutes I thought it was 2016 again - Gary was in utter despair. But, he was encouraged as the House flipped in the blue wave the blue flash flood. 

10:54 p.m. - Sigh. Claire McCaskill just conceded to Josh Hawley. So, no Senatorial checks and balances from Missouri, then. And my congresswoman will stay the same: she was not even knocked off balance by the gentle lapping of the blue ripple.

I ate grapes, KFC chicken strips, and diet popcorn. It’s a mixed bag, given the mixed results.

Fun Updates and Kathy Griffin

October was a busy month for fun. Parties and concerts and comedy.

Granted, Patton Oswalt cruelly bailed on the concert he was going to do in December. It's been rescheduled for next spring. Six months! Six months I have to not lose tickets! Six months to remember that I have a concert coming up! (Remember the Pixies?)

However, Guster stepped in and booked Delmar Hall. That will be the third concert I've seen there in a month. Rename it Demographic Hall and give me a brass plaque on my seat. (It's odd that Guster booked the tiny Delmar Hall when only a few years back they sold out the much larger Pageant next door.)

Kathy Griffin did not disappoint. I still remember her show at the Fox. Her show had more substance now that she's caught so much flack for a) ridiculing the president or b) threatening the president. Pick your term: I could go either way. I know the photo was just a joke, but if she can use that excuse to avoid an investigation, then so can an assassin. Or a mail bomber.

It was interesting how she orchestrated it to bounce between the harrowing photo fallout and her standard fare of tales of living next to Kanye West and wife Kim. Kim got more ridicule than Kanye. Are the mentally ill off limits now? Perhaps she has softened.

Anyone who turned on her when she was down got an extra helping of ridicule, including Anderson Cooper and hometown native Andy Cohen. (I rather imagine there was more in store for Andy Cohen that was edited out on the fly.)

It was very confessional, very interesting, and very one-sided (as one would expect). I have to say I want her lawyer if a President is ever bent on my destruction.

 

Again With the Curse of Oak Island

My TV nemesis returns later this month with The Curse of Oak Island.

(Narrator voice) Will Ellen continue watching this pointless show? Will she watch it live and waste an hour each week? Will she tape it and then fast forward through it to save time like a sensible person? Will she realize she is being hoodwinked after last year's classification of a garnet ring as "treasure" and just give up?

There’s no buried treasure. They’re digging up an old sinkhole. Everything can be explained by sinkholes and lies. Well, except for the coconut fiber, but perhaps coconuts floated up there after an epic hurricane.

Yet still I can't stop watching this show. 

Playlist

Our company has participated in a walking challenge the past few years. Teams are encouraged to walk 10,000 steps a day per person. I’ve been to two meetings now where half of us were making laps around the meeting room.

If I’m not grocery shopping or pede-conferencing that day, I need to take two extra solo walks. Those go by easier with a musical accompaniment, so I’ve been crafting the perfect 30 minute walking playlist.

Sly - Cat Empire

Timber - Pitbull/Keisha 

Bang Bang - Jesse J/Ariana Grande/Nicki Minaj

Stronger - Kelly Clarkson

Come On Eileen - Dexy’s Midnight Runners

Crazy In Love - Beyoncé 

Celebrity Skin - Hole

What I Like About You - Romantics

That adds up to 27 minutes. I need one more song to round it out. (Also, the Hole song veers too far over to angry. It’s on the bubble.)

Suggestions?

November 6th Plans

Five more days until the next Election Day. I have these plans:

Vote at the crack of dawn. There's no early voting in our state, so you have to go to the polls on the day of. (There are absentee ballots you can mail in early, but I'd have to lie on the form, since I have no reason like age or infirmity, and I fear someone will find out and tear up my vote.) I planned to work from home, so we could go at a low-turnout hour like 10 am.

"NO" Gary shrieked, "WE HAVE TO GO REALLY EARLY AND BE THE FIRST IN LINE!"
"But, hon, I can go any time of day since I can work from -"
"WE HAVE TO BE FIRST IN LINE! WE'RE A SWING STATE!"
"But it doesn't matt - ":
"Vote! First! Then we can go out to breakfast."

Ignore the polls, including the exit polls. (Yeah, I'm looking at you, Nate Silver.) Granted, ignoring the polls will make everything much more stressful, especially since, as I say, we're a swing state for a tight Senate race and things aren't currently a cakewalk for my buddy Claire.

Stress eat all night. I have to shop for stress snacks this weekend. I plan to turn orange from eating 10 pounds of baby carrots. I will go with baby carrots unless the Senate seat turns red, in which case I will shove my head in the leftover Halloween candy and starting chewing, wrappers and all.

Deer

Gary, not content to carpet our backyard with nuts and dog food for the raccoons, bought a manger so he can feed apples to the deer. We assembled the manger without tears, so that was a breakthrough, and then positioned it so deer can just wander up, have a healthy snack, and be captured on the video camera.

 

Two days later Gary opened the front door and discovered two deer on the sidewalk, right at the edge of the porch, as if to say, “Trick or treat. We understand you have some apples in the backyard. Are those for us?”

Sadly, the deer ran off before Gary could answer, and so far apples have been patted by the raccoons and kicked about the backyard, but none have been eaten by deer.

I told Gary that he’s playing a dangerous game, feeding the deer the apples in the manger, because you are teaching them that suburban mangers are filled with edible things. Christmas is coming, and that won’t end well. I can see one of our deer spitting out a Baby Jesus head and complaining it tastes like plastic.

Every Day, by God

Isn’t November the month we’re supposed to blog every day? Remember the days when I blogged six days a week? I’m doing it again, especially since my certificate troubles are solved.

Things that wouldn’t even qualify for a Facebook post are going to be tossed at you. Steel yourself.

Annnnnd ... post.