Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Excellent Start to Halloween

I woke up early while Gary was brushing his teeth.

I crept into his room, got in to bed, and covered myself entirely with the coverlet.

He called out, “Morning, Ellen.”

I waited a beat and whipped off the coverlet. 

I finally got revenge for all this nonsense.

 

Clue

We are well into Poirot.

Season six, episode two is Hickory Dickory Dock (co-starring a young Damien Lewis, eee).

There’s a point where Poirot trips up a young “Keats expert” by quoting some Keats at her. 

He then says to Hastings, ”She professes to be the expert on John Keats, yet the lines that I quoted to her - “

“ — were from Shelley.” Gary interrupted.

‘... they were from Shelley,” Poirot continued.

I was impressed. I said, ”I guessed it wasn’t Keats, but I was a English Literature major and I didn’t know that was Shelley. How did you know that?”

”I read ahead on the closed captioning.”

Weekly Paint Progress: 10/29

This week the sunflowers went from this:

... to this:

This is getting close. Some of the thistles need to be darker overall, and some need darker centers, but aside from that I think I am done. The basement is damp right now, so things are taking a very long time to dry.

The daisy went from this:

to this:

There’s one more glaze on the daisy. I don’t like it. Only two colors! Blah. I’m happy when I paint the sunflowers, then the daisy brings me down.

Election Prep

Remember when CNN convinced me there would be rioting after Obama’s election in 2016? And then there was no rioting at all? People taunted George W. Bush on the way out, that’s about all the rioting there was.

Have I learned my lesson, though? No, I have not. I am now worried that there will be gun-toting mouth-breathing un-masked poll-watchers standing one foot away. The odds are low, but the risks are high. And what will most likely happen is there will be no riot, but it is possible it will be crowded and slow.

To that end, I have purchased a cunning seat that folds up flat. It takes a little work to position ones butt exactly at the center nexus, otherwise one tumbles over.

 

I have already picked out the masks and gaiter I will be wearing.

In addition to looking back at 2008, I am looking back at 2000 and the stalling that got us past the Safe Harbor, if you are wondering why we’re voting in person.  Starting to get excited.

Consumer Warnings

Key information is lurking in the websites and fine print for some over-the-counter medicines. Beware. Not only is Geritol 25% alcohol, MiraLAX has key data on the website that is not on the bottle.

My neurologist heard I was still on a weekly elimination schedule and suggested the MiraLAX. I followed the directions and the dose. Every day. For eight days. Nothing happened. Day nine, though, quite a day. A little too eventful, frankly. 

“Well,” I thought, “I will dial the tablespoon dose back a notch every day.” Which I did, over the next five days — five unfortunately equally eventful days, culminating in a day during which the half-teaspoon from the morning took a nap until four that afternoon and then greatly inconvenienced me. 

I was so inconvenienced that I went to the website to see if there was some chance I was allergic to it, or if it was made from powdered raw eggs or some other heinous ingredient. (Often, when I begin to near my Personal Best of 14 days, I start to think I could just eat a raw egg and resolve the issue, but then I worry I might explode or hemorrhage or something.)

On the website I read this Frequently Asked Question:

How many days can I use MiraLAX?
No more than 7 days. If you need to use a laxative longer than 1 week, stop use and consult your doctor.

So that’s a Catch-22. It doesn’t work at all for the first week, but on the day that puts me over the edge, that’s the day I’m supposed to stop it, and consult my doctor, and say, I suppose, “Are you trying to make me explode or hemorrhage or something?” So, in effect, in a weekly schedule again.

So, I find myself back where I was. Where I was is fine with me. 

Invisible Guests

Gary conceded that the blue chair doesn’t fit in the Stickley room. Points for him. 

He has been using the reclining feature of the replacement chair instead of elevating his feet on an enormous black exercise ball. Bonus points for him. 

But then I wake up every day and on my way to the kitchen I see this.

Poof. Gary loses all the points.

He asks, “What‘s wrong with that?” 

“If you need it right next to the loveseat, it needs to scoot back so the front of the chair lines up with the edge of the loveseat.”

He does not agree.

(And, don’t talk to me about moving the loveseat. It is not obvious from the photo but the loveseat is the same size as the fireplace hearth. I can’t argue with magical furniture serendipity.) 

“Gary, if people come over they can’t hurl themselves on the loveseat. It’s not inviting.”

”No one is coming over because of the pandemic. You can move the chair if someone comes over.”

“Then I’m troubled by the ghosts. There’s a ghost trapped on the right side of the loveseat. She can’t stand up because your chair is there and she can’t scoot down because you stacked all the pillows on the right.”

That seemed to get through to him. 

I just woke up to the photo above. I put the pillows on the right, and you know what, it’s not as bad.

 

 

Mysteries

Poirot

We are still slowly binge-watching Poirot, and it is still delightful. The only sad thing is that some episodes dramatize actual Agatha Christie stories, so we start the episode aware of who the murderer is. 

I do love the idea of a fussy person dealing with murder. Poirot tends more to the Monk end of the Monk - Columbo  detective scale. 

But, the best part of the show is not the plot, or the mustache, or the charm, it is the accent. Or, rather, zee accent, mes amis. Poirot will say something and Gary and I will parrot it, trying to mimic the accent. Most recently, pom-poms from a Pierrot costume were a plot point. 

Poirot: “Eet was zee pumpum.”

Gary and I: “Pompom! Pompum? Pumpum. Zee pumpum! Eet was zee pumpum!”

Ellery Queen

I have given up trying to get Gary interested in this show. There isn’t much to binge, it only ran one season in 1975. I remember it because it was the only hour my family spent without arguing. We only saw a few episodes before our family counseling appointment was moved to Thursday nights, and there was no way to record it.

I loved the format (before the last commercial Jim Hutton as Ellery whirls toward the camera and says, “So, did you figure it out?” I loved that. I was thirteen, so I also loved Jim Hutton. If you are young, insert mental picture of Timothy Hutton here.

The oddest thing is that I finally got to see it again, and I remembered far more of it than seems possible. I remember the plot, the intro music, the jokes, the minor characters, the quirks, my Mom’s reaction to a near-accident, and 90% of the denouement. 

Truly, I don’t see how this is possible. There were no re-runs, no videotape. And I know we saw at least three episodes, and this pilot contains almost everything I remember. I also remember Ellery misplacing his teacup on top of his hat, and either that was in a later episode or my Ellery Queen neuron overlaps my Henry Higgins neuron.

I suppose I stored the memory of my family getting along the same way I would remember a breaking news story, so outside the norm that I would replay it in my head to make it real.

It is a shame Gary refuses to watch it, but I am going to dole it out as a treat for myself once a week. 

The Heat

Every fall I hear the same thing. ”I try not to turn the heat on until November, but last night I broke down.” Then in the spring I hear, “I go as long as I can before I turn on the air conditioning, but even with all the fans on last night it was too hot.”

Why? Why, people? Does this give you some feeling of power over your environment, like you are tougher than the climate? Or do you feel guilty that you live in a house that has luxuries like central heat and air conditioning and you must punish yourself? 

I don’t hear you saying, “I try to avoid using chapstick in the winter but last night I broke down” or “When summer comes, we don’t like to wear deodorant until the last possible minute.”

I say, there’s a pandemic, why suffer more? Treat yourself to the heat already.

Apple Watch Drama

This past weekend I went out to do the fall leaves in the front yard. I didn’t want to work on it  after four because I had someplace else to be. Usually I would bring my phone out to tell me the time, but now I have this new thing, a “watch,” specifically they call it an Apple Watch, if you “watch” it you can see what time it is.

When the sun got dangerously low I was elbow deep in leaves, so I leaned down and poked Mickey Mouse’s belly with my nose. “It’s three twenty-two,” he squeaked. Then he gave a giggle, but this time it sounded like a slightly more desperate giggle than usual.

About fifteen minutes later I looked at the watch and the face was blank.

I poked it. I spun the windy thing. Nothing.

“Oh man,” I thought, “I broke the watch. I used the blower and there was dust and I killed it.”

Dead. Last words: “It’s three twenty-two.” (Giggle.)

But with some throb of motherly instinct I brought it back inside and attached it to the charger, even though I knew it was fully charged. I went out to finish the leaves and put the tools away, and then when I went back in, hallelujah, it was born again. It showed the nighttime clock for some reason, but after I cradled it a moment, Mickey was back. Miracle!

I was then late, so I blew out of there without changing my dirty clothes or getting my purse. My joy over the resurrection of Mickey was short-lived, because while I was driving the screen went black again. Then the Apple logo. It was re-booting. 

“Oh no, it has a short, because of all the dirt. I don’t deserve to have nice things.”

A few miles down the road Mickey returned, without any weather data. Finally I realized what was wrong. I had driven to Florissant, but the weather was pointing to my home half an hour away. Then I saw the red slashed rectangle icon and realized the watch was pining for the iPhone. I took it away from Mother iPhone to do the leaves, sat it on a charger where it could see the iPhone, then I left the iPhone behind and drive the watch further and further away from its home base.

Really, Apple, just a little sheet of paper with some instructions. That would be helpful.

Weekly Paint Progress: 10/22

This week the sunflowers went from this:

... to this:

When I like things this late in the game they usually go south. I still like this. Six more thistles and some detail. Cross your fingers.

The glazed daisy went from this:

... to this:

Halloween

Ten days to Halloween! I have no idea how Halloween will play out at this house.

Gary claims that we will shut the doors, turn off the lights, pretend we aren’t here, sit in the dark, avoid the windows. This pretense will not hold. He loves Halloween. Think of how he loves feeding the raccoons. On Halloween, children are like raccoons who will talk to him while he lays out piles of food.

I have no idea how he’ll deal with it. My guess is he’ll hold out until we hear the first child in the street giggle and then he’ll hand out baggies of straight sugar. 

I need to have a pivot plan for the 31st. Perhaps he can wear his raccoon gaiter over his mask, or there may be time to Sharpie a jack-lantern grin over an existing mask. Personally, I think this is the ideal time to wear our paper hazmat suits.

 

November

Only a week and a half to November! So many exciting things will happen in November.  Vaccines! Cures! The virus will disappear, like a miracle!

No? Well. There’s some good T.V., and hopefully a revolution. 

On Nov 1, we will have a much-needed Daylight Saving Time adjustment. I get up with the dawn, and dawn is coming too late these days. Also, Hugh Laurie is going to be on Masterpiece in something called Roadkill. 

On Nov 3 we will have an election. I have been daydreaming about standing in line. If I had my perfect fantasy all the other Democrats will have early voted, my purple county will go blue, everyone at the polls will stay six feet apart, it will rain so the viruses in the parking lot air are washed away, and even the Day Of results are so damning Trump will concede at 8 p.m. Eastern time.

That will be the peak of November, but we still have:

Nov 15: The Crown arrives in Netflix, and it’s the Princess Diana season! 

Nov 26: A nuclear family Thanksgiving, just Gary and I. I am going to go all out with all the usual foods. I might make him the yams with marshmallows he usually gets.

Plus, the whole month is bookended by two long-weekend vacations. November is going to be great.

Tivo

Gary and I are again establishing ourselves as Werther’s-Certified Old Folks. I am so old I remember my mother’s satin foam Nefertiti coiffure wrap she wore to bed to maintain her salon hairstyle. (I would show you a photo but it is so vintage they may not have had cameras.)

Here is how we recently re-certified in Old. Gary’s ten year old TiVo died. We had a chance to burn the TV technology to the ground and we didn’t take it. Instead of getting rid of cable, switching to a fire stick and streaming, or whatever it is kids do today, we decided to get a new TiVo to replace the old one.

Why? Because we are Too Old to Change (TOtC).

Are the new ways better? Probably. The Young People At Work (YPaW) kindly resisted the urge to say, Grandma, no one has a TiVo anymore, until I pressed them. 

It’s probably a mistake, because Gary says this model is the last one TiVo is producing. Ten years from now we won’t have the TiVo box as an option. And then we will really be too old to pick the best technology. I hope the on-line Best Buy salespeople are kind to us.

New Watch

My brother somehow lost the ability to do basic financial math and made an impulse purchase recently: the new Apple Watch 6.

I offset that bad decision by purchasing his previous impulse purchase, the “old” Apple Watch 3. He got the Apple Watch 3 because the Christmas Microsoft Watch failed on its promises, somehow. I bid him a round number, which I see now is 25% shy of what is being asked on eBay for used Apple 3s. 

I wouldn’t be interested in an Apple Watch, usually. I rely on my Fitbit to track my sleep and occasionally my “exercise.” (You know, I like to get credit when I am gardening or raking anyway.) But the recent Blogography review of the Apple Watch 6 intrigued me, and then the chance to buy my brother’s used Apple 3 Watch arose.

I have had it a week or so, and I must say that after a rough adjustment period I have now bent it to my will. (It was telling me to stand every hour. You don’t interrupt a programmer mid-code, first of all, especially for something like standing, and then you don’t do it with the same alarm that indicates incoming text messages or calendar alerts. Me: “Oh my God! Did I forget a meeting?” Watch: “Don’t forget to stand!”)

I haven’t used it to answer phone calls, though I researched how to do that this morning. Frankly, these are the functions I have used:

Tapping the Mickey Mouse watch face to have Mickey talk to me. I generally know the time, but I am just enchanted by watching Mickey’s shoes tap out the seconds. And then once in the morning, Mickey will say, “Good morning, pal!” after the time. I respond, because I know someday Mickey’s will be the only voice I hear, so I want to keep on his good side. He also says “Good evening!” once a day, but the real draw is when he giggles. It seems random, so it’s a big score when I get a giggle. I kind of want the Roomba and Alexa programmers to add a random giggle, too.

Tracking my sleep. The FitBit just told me how long I slept; this Autosleep app on the watch breaks it down by light sleep, deep sleep, and how close I evidently come to death once a night because my heart rate plummets to 51 beats per minute. Evidently I sleep so hard it offsets the two times a night I get up to pee.

Tracking my heart. Remember when I got the EKG on my front porch so I could switch medications? Evidently, something on the result caused a minor difference of opinion between the drug company doctor in Germany and a US cardiologist. Minor. It didn’t sound like anything I should be concerned about. No doubt when I hear more about it at my physical it will explain those rare moments when my heart skips a beat. 

Compass. I love knowing what direction I am facing. Before, when “the meteor shower will be visible in the Northeast sky” I had to do lots of IPad machinations to find Northeast so I could once again not see the meteor shower. Now it will take very little time to not see the meteor shower.

I like it so far, and I haven’t even tried to play music on it yet or make phone calls through wireless. Sometimes I like my brother’s hand-me downs.

Guitar Performance Anxiety

I find it reassuring, somehow, to demonstrate the progress I am making with the painting. All the flaws are out there, and hopefully there are fewer and fewer errors as time goes on. 

I am not as confident with the guitar, though. My husband just told a family member that I can play the guitar “like a professional!” No, I said, I can play the guitar like a five year old, searching for notes, not at tempo at all . For my latest flaw, my right hand gradually scoots away from the guitar ... hole (I don’t know the name), and everything sounds leaden and plunky.

So, I had to give a command performance and MY GOD I WAS BAD. I just froze up. I went from being a halting five year old to a halting two year old, fumbling with a too-large guitar, playing at half-speed, doesn’t know the name of the guitar hole. (I just looked it up. It’s the sound hole. I was close.)

I then went home and played better than I ever have in my life, alone.

Recall

For what feels like the first time in my life:

• A recall was announced.
• I checked the lot numbers to see if I am affected.
• I am affected!

Technically, I guess Gary is affected, because he’s the only one who uses the Cottonelle flushable wipes. 



When I first told him how I had saved him from a pluralibacter gergoviae infection that would access his body through his rectum and then crawl through his intestines toward his stomach and there infect his heart and lungs and possibly kill him, or at least make his butt itch, he stubbornly said, “Well, I’m still using those wipes. Those wipes are hard to find.”

I then hid the wipes. Clearly the infection has reached his brain.

There was a full box of recalled packages in the basement, plus another one of a different color under the sink. I was sure I caught them all, until I saw this in the bathroom trash:

An empty package! Terrifying! Happily, I ran its lot number and it was clean. Whew.

 

 

 

Weekly Paint Progress: 10/15

This week the sunflowers went from this ...

… to this …

This one is actually fun to do - so much better than the crypts, which I now hate the sight of.

The pears are done, so the next glazing project will be this:

I am on step one - it’s already way too regular. God bless titanium white, which will be applied soon.

Those bottom petals are all kinds of wrong.

 

Food Frenzy

Sunday a food frenzy overtook me, and I wore myself out. I didn’t go out and slay a deer and make venison stew, but I DID make someone deliver groceries to me. 

Then, for convenience, I sliced up all the vegetables and cooked and shredded the pork and chicken. Then I cooked the broccoli, then put it through the potato ricer to squish the water out of it, because it was for the fancy casserole that requires I make cream of mushroom soup from scratch.

I could go on, but suffice to say both refrigerators are stuffed with cooked food, pre-made food, and a casserole that has been measured out (mene mene tekel upharsin ) and is in tiny baggies and Tupperware waiting for assembly.

I had to make a list and prioritize what must be eaten first because we have waaaaay too much food.

Of course, that’s when I thought, “You know, I never got fajitas.” And you were right, GrubHub hooked me up with the nearest Mexican restaurant.

Belly says “AAAAAHHH GET IN ME.”

 

 

Proofreading

My oldest friend and I have been texting. She just had to go through another round of radiation because of a recurrence of the breast cancer she had six years ago. 

This is how I responded to the news that she was almost done with the new round of radiation.

Because she is my friend, she was not offended by “Glad to hear you are almost DIE.”

(And yes, the cancer has stepped back.) 

Clothes

I have worn the same pair of pajamas and the same two shirts almost every day since the pandemic began. 

I know there are celebrities who do this as a way to thwart the paparazzi, Mark Zuckerburg does this so he has fewer decisions to make, but I am doing this as a way to combat change. 

The Coronavirus has brought on too many changes, and waking up every day and switching between my blue pajamas and either my light blue or dark blue shirt brings me a tiny element of consistency. 

Does anyone else do this? What do you all do to combat the Great Upheaval?

Or or you feeling there is too much sameness in your lives now and now you are shopping for clothes online and dying your hair with that color conditioner?

What is your strategy? 

Teeth

Wednesday, I was envying the teeth on Kamala Harris. What a smile. Joe has a good smile too. 

As usual, I dreamed of the day all my teeth would fall out and I can get the implants where they build a metal scaffold in your jaws and attach permanent fake teeth. No breast implants for me: dental implants will be my version of the boob job. 

But, this time, a problem occurred to me. It wouldn’t usually have thought of it, but because I had a neurologist visit the next day, I thought, “I wonder if you can get an MRI of the brain if you have all that metal in your jaw?” I have to take off earrings, glasses, hair clips, because the metal will affect the image. 

I asked the neurologist the next day, and he said, “Braces, those don’t work out so well, but implants might work.” 

This made me think of an adolescent with braces slamming up to the top of the MRI when the magnet turns on. Would that happen to me? To Joe Biden? You know he has that aneurysm.

Later, I read that implants aren’t made of ferromagnetic material, so they won’t come flying out of your head and injure you.

But, even if the MRI won’t hurt you, will you still get a good image with the titanium in there?

No. No you can’t.

So, there you are. Ah well. I need to double-down on the floss, then.

Rewriting The Novel: The Muse Pays An Untimely Visit

I went to bed Thursday night at 9:30. I confess I have a TV in my room. I find that if I start winding down with the news I will eventually be sleepy enough to fall asleep during the Colbert monologue. That’s about 10:30 my time.

I also find if I don’t fall asleep during that window I am doomed to be up for another three hours. That’s why I was up at midnight, doing a crossword puzzle, trying to bore myself to sleep. 

“This is a waste of time,” I thought, “I should work on The Novel. I am so close to having it all planned out.”

I did a little plotting, and just as I was putting the iPad away, it occurred to me that the turn I wanted at the midpoint would be much better at the end. I opened up the plot document again and made that adjustment.

“There,” I thought, “I can go to sleep now.”

”You just try that,” said my invisible Muse, settling in at the foot of my bed, “I’m going to keep you up until 2:00.”

For the next two hours, I would start to fall asleep, and then instead of having my usual dozing images of chickens walking on 2 by 4s, I would see scenes from the book.  I’d almost fall asleep, and think, “Yes, the chicken at the picnic should remind Joe of the snap peas at the farm.” Grope for the iPad in the dark, get to the Joe document, write “joe grbeans farm months to grow s eajlin seconds chicken girl doghouse,” save file, try go to sleep.

This went on and on. I’d almost be asleep, then it would occur to me that the lost boy who appears in the house should be echoed by a boy in the house when she gets evicted. Grope, type, save. “Maggie not dye cut hair should have two dresses.” Grope, type, save. 

Then it occurred to me I could change the point of view of the whole thing and any problems with who-knows-what-when in the Scheme would be resolved if it’s in first person, and that led to all new scenes of explanation, and I think the last thing that occurred to me as I fell asleep was something about how no one has a watch in this crazy town in Oklahoma, and it really bothers Maggie, and she tries to make friends with the one teller at the bank where there is a clock and Zzzzzz. 

That was yesterday in the wee hours, and I’ve gone back to the iPad and it all makes sense, thanks to autocorrect. Interesting. I hope that happens again. 

Toes

I heard a sigh. I looked down at my feet. Spunky Labia, International Toe Porn Superstar, looked discontent.

”Appendage!” she pouted, “I feel neglected.”

So I dug out the gummy nail polish I have not used for seven years and gave her a little makeover.

She’s happy now. I haven’t worn makeup since early March but she’s more vain than I am.

Weekly Paint Progress: 10/8

This week the sunflowers went from this ...

... to this:

I went forward, and then I took some parts backwards, back down to white, so I can start again.

... and the pears went from this ...

... to this:

... and I was aiming for this:

Fair. Green Pear is overworked, Red pear Is all wrong on the top edge. 

Binge Selection

Now that Gary and I are back to our old habits, we are having our old disagreements. 

One disagreement is over what to watch on the television. He was quite miffed that I refused to  watch The Nutcracker with him. (“Dancing mice,” I said. “Sugar plum fairies. Hard pass.”) I may still use The Nutcracker as a bartering chip to get him to watch the 1970’s Jim Hutton Ellery Queen series.

Instead, what we settled on was Poirot. It’s a mystery series, with some much needed English charm, and absolutely no dancing mice.

Once we got three shows in, I checked how many seasons there are. It’s no fun when your binge-watch prematurely ends. 

My heart stopped when I saw that it ran for 24 years. 1989-2013. Luckily, there were “only” 13 seasons and 70 episodes.

Trump On Steroids

While I was on high-dose steroids in 2005, I installed Karaoke software at work, and then I sang Karaoke in my cube during the work day, even while my boss stood next to me. She would not sing with me, nor would Friends 2 or 3. 

Now President Trump is on steroids — specifically Dexamethasone, the same steroid I was on in 2005. I cannot wait until his next campaign event. He is going to show even worse judgment that he usually does.

Will there be Karaoke? 

Nutty Squirrel

About a month ago, I was looking out at the patio from our back door, and noticed a peculiar metallic noise. It didn’t take long to track it to the one metal thing on the patio: the Weber barbecue kettle. 

A squirrel had identified the ash-catching pan as a recent Amazon purchase, and decided the aluminum would be a great thing to sharpen his teeth on. He walked around the circumference of the ash pan, stretched up and and grabbed on to it with his front paws, and gnawed all around the edge of the pan.

I opened the door and said, “Why?” The squirrel ran off. Two minutes later he was back, gnawing.

I wondered why a squirrel would turn his back on two types of peanuts, topped with birdseed, and choose a metal pan instead. (“LIKE THE FAJITAS!” Belly said. “IT’S BECAUSE HE CAN’T.”)  

Then, last weekend, I heard a very upset squirrel making the alarmed squirrel bark noise. And he didn’t let up: it was fifteen minutes of this nonsense. Finally, I went out, tracked him down, looked under the tree for any squirrel babies, talked to him a while, and eventually he shut up.

Later that same day I was in the great room with Gary when we heard a stowaway French man rewiring the attic. (I seem to think all those men who are discovered living in attics are French.) I listened more closely and realized the noise was coming from the eaves.

I went out and confronted the squirrel, who immediately ran off. 

I didn’t know at the time that aluminum is a squirrel’s favorite treat. I feel like I should get a block of aluminum and nail it to the trunk of the tree for a more convenient squirrel dental hygiene experience. 

Fajitas

Our dining experiences have been very dull these last few months. It has been months since Gary and I ordered a pizza. For some reason I got a yen to have a date night and order something other than fast food.

As soon as I opened that mental door, my belly growled, “ME WANT FAJITAS.”

”Hm,” I mused, “Fajita‘s might be good. Where would —“

”FAJIIIITAAAAS!’ the belly demanded.

I set Gary on an on-line hunt for fajitas. “I think Applebee’s has them.”

While I know that I have had steak, chicken, and shrimp fajitas at Applebee’s, Gary couldn’t find them on the delivery or pick-up menus.

”Try Friday’s,” I said, while the belly sang a little sing about “F-A-J-I-T-A-S, FAJITAS ARE THE BEST.”

Gary looked and said, “Friday’s doesn’t have them either.”

”LIAR” said Belly.

”That’s so odd,” I said.

He said, “I think maybe it’s the presentation? You know how they always bring them out on that really hot pan? Maybe for the true fajita experience they have to warn you that the pan is hot.”

I talked the belly into Mu Shu Pork, instead, but still, how obstinate is my belly for picking the one food I can’t order?

 

The Novel: Characters Rebel

I have read authors say that sometimes, you think a character’s going to do one thing, and then as you type along the character does something else. 

”Horseshit,” I think, because I am a lady. “How could that happen? The characters are imaginary. They don’t think any thoughts without the writer putting those thoughts there.”

Of course, I’m not actually writing anything at this point. I’m making an absurdly detailed outline. I was working on exactly how I will get to my Big Midpoint Scene, in which the male friend earns the hatred of the heroine by revealing his participation in the big sting and I realized, “What am I thinking? He would never do that. It goes against all his principles.”

I think I can get around it by having him participate in the scheme on a limited basis. That gives me a chance to keep the outline as it is, and then it gives him a chance to spell out what his principles are, in case his principles aren’t clear by then.

Right now he’s stomping the dust off his boots and giving me a look that says, “What were you thinking? Do you even KNOW me?”

Stop Me If I’ve Said This Before: coping mechanisms

Abandoned Draft Version:

c – symphonies neesum dorma bnl Food – can control it 'drugs Smoking – 40 yo smoker Exercises – ed and mcdonalds  

Present Day:

Any guesses? Anyone? I think I was mulling over all the things people do to control their bodies and moods with outside stimuli.

• Symphonies can perk your mood or destroy you, which is an odd thing to pay money for.
• The aria Neesum Dorma can give you goosebumps and make you cry.
• Barenaked Ladies can reset your brain instantly (to a happier time when carefree people left the house and enjoyed themselves).
• Pie can give your heart peace, just like (one would assume) heroin. This is my drug of choice. I tell myself I can control it. (This was drafted 15 pounds ago, before I chose to deal with the pandemic with Pie Therapy. (I’m back on the wagon after my Banana Bread slip-up.)) 
• Smoking — I had just heard from a friend that his mother took up smoking at the age of 40. I said, “Oh, you mean she told you about her life-long smoking habit at 40.” Nope, he insists she decided to become a smoker at 40. I wonder if she replaced pie with tobacco, because I can’t imagine that scenario any other way.
• Finally, there was a very stressful day when a friend, Ed, saw me walk in to work with a six-course McDonalds meal in a bag, took a long drag on his cigarette, and commented how unhealthy my choices were.

I suppose I meant to expound on how we all jack with our guts, our moods, our serotonin in our own ways. (Still, the supposed (mythical!) high from exercise is the least effective, least immediate, and of course is the one most universally approved.) 

I should listen to more music and eat less pie.

A Remarkable Political Season

I was astonished to realize it’s only about 31 shopping days until the election. It feels wrong.

Is it the weather? It’s not that cold: it can’t be election weather. It’s certainly not see your breath at 6am November weather.

Is it because we haven’t had daylight savings time yet? Is that the problem?

Nope.

It’s because I have not received a single political robo-call this year. 

I can only assume the lack of calls is because this year I signed up for Nomo-Robo. That’s the cable service that listens to see if a call is being blasted to multiple landline phones, identifies that as a robo-call, and hangs up after one ring.

(Yes, I’m keeping my landline. Call me after the apocalypse and I will invite you to a raccoon steak dinner.)

I do get get multiple one-ring calls a day. Much more tolerable than multiple political robo-calls a day. If I turn down the ringer and skip the calls that appear to come from my exchange (that’s the first three digits, children) — it almost seems like it isn’t election season.

Weekly Paint Progress: 10/1

This week the sunflowers went from this ...

... to this:

(Nothing much happened on the top half. The bottom half has some more shading and detail, and there is detail on the bottom leaf.)

The pears went from this ...

... to this:

Someday, I want to do this exercise all over again but not overwork it this time.