Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

The Messiah

Anne and Marcia asked if I wanted to go see Handel’s Messiah with them. In preparation, I studied up in Wikipedia. After reading that “Messiah is an English-language oratorio composed in 1741 by George Frideric Handel,” I thought, “well that can’t be right, America wasn’t even founded until 1776,” which is so wrong in at least two ways, if not more.

When I advised Gary that I’d made plans to go see Handel’s Messiah, out of courtesy I asked him if that was something he had planned to do with me.

”I HATE the Messiah!” Gary exclaimed, risking plagues of frogs and boils. 

“Oh come on. Who hates the Messiah?”

”You didn’t play the trumpet in high school. I did, and every Christmas every church needed a trumpet player when they did the Messiah. I hate that thing.”

So, here is the stage setup at the Messiah Saturday night.

That looks pretty heavy on the strings, right? Do you see a brass section? No? Looks suspicious.

About a third of the way in, just when I was thinking, “Hmph! All this business about playing the trumpet in the Messiah is utter bull,” two trumpeters snuck in from a door on the right, played for about two minutes, and then disappeared. I almost laughed out loud. I imagined Gary patiently waiting half an hour to play one song and appreciated how it must have felt for him in his teens.

Of course, the main trumpeter re-emerged in the second act because there’s an entire piece written for and about trumpets.

I had a good time imagining high school Gary putting a Herb Alpert spin on that.

Gary and the Illness

Well, now that they suspect Gary might be hypothyroid, I feel terrible that I sniped at him for sleeping all the time.

For the first few years of his retirement, I felt fine about the constant sleeping. I would say, "You body needs to catch up for all that sleep you missed when you worked." Then it got annoying, then it got annoying enough for me to make remarks, and of course now I regret all those remarks now.

Oddly, Gary isn't milking it the way I would have expected. I imagined that if I asked him to empty the dishwasher he would clutch his throat and gasp, "My thyroid ..." Instead, he's decided to prove the doctor wrong. He has kept normal sleeping hours for a week, for the first time in years. He's started a diet and exercise program to prove he can lose weight. I don't know what he's doing to deny the "Decreased libido" symptom. (Well, I can guess what he's doing.)

It will be interesting to see where he is in a year. If he does start using synthetic thyroid hormones, what if next year he's an energetic, awake, slim guy with all his hair and a raging sex drive? They should just start giving me antibiotics right now to fight off the chronic bladder infection I will have.

Game

We have been playing one of the new-style board games The Kids Play Today. If you don't know: Dungeons and Dragons, which was popular when I was in high school, has heavily influenced today's games, and even the simplest modern game is extraordinarily complex.

We bought one called Mansions of Madness. which is odd in that when I first played it I disliked it. I ended up with the Insane Card, and lets just say I'd had enough insanity in my family on that particular day anyway.

So when we play, we can't go Insane. House Rules. Also known as Cheating. Or, also known as Enjoying the Game. Believe me, it is still plenty hard without the Insanity plaguing you.

Other House Rules:

Take as many steps as you want on your turn.

Take as many turns as you want before the penalty turn.

Give up one of your special tokens, and as a result one symbol on the multi-symbol dice is as good as another.

Fly through walls on the "board" - which is customized for every iteration of the game. (Building the board is my favorite part.)

Use anything you like as your game token. If you look closely at left bottom corner of the board above, Gary is the green plastic monster and I am the silver toilet above him.

The most important rule is that you must read the instructions that guide you through every round out loud, and that each character's voice be read in a unique accent. It SLAYS me hearing Gary try to sound like a Croatian woman. I  tried to coach him.

Me: "It's like Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle. Mooz end skwrill."
Gary: "Moose and squirrel."
Me: "No. Mooz end skwrill."
Gary: "Moss and skworl. "
Me: "Leesin. Leeeesin. Mooooooz end skwril. Mooz -"
Gary: "Mooz n skwi - no, I can't. You just do it."

Strangely, even though we cheat, we have yet to win. All we've been able to do is escape with our lives.

Gary Stalks the Deer

I truly believed that Gary would tire of the wildlife camera after a year. He’s never held on to a hobby for more than a few months. I think it has been three months now, and he has burned through three cameras and countless SIM cards, batteries, battery chargers, and bags of dog food in the last three years.

We have gone from the adorable, charming, nameable raccoons of year one (Snow White, Runty et al.) to the cow-like boring raccoons of this year. We have seen foxes, possums, and skunks. However, sad to say, the deer have figured it out. Initially the deer would sneak up to the food and grab a bite before the lights would turn on and scare them off. Now they don’t even go near the lights and the food.

So, of course, this is a challenge, and his new goal is to get photos of the deer. We know they’re all over our neighborhood. There were deer tracks in the snow in our front yard. Neighbors have seen them jumping the fence to get to our backyard. He’s put a manger of apples in the back for them. They just hate the lights.

Now in an effort to seduce the deer into getting on camera, Gary has deactivated all the motion-activated lights hanging off the tree. This thrills me, because I doubt our neighbors like the all-night light display. The lights flash on, they are no longer synchronized, and it’s like the raccoons are dancing in strobe lights in a disco.

“No lights?’ you ask, “How will the camera work in the dark?” It won’t. His Christmas present is an infrared camera that takes black and white videos at night and color videos in the day. Oddly, it cost a third of what the other lighted cameras cost. 

I really don’t mind the loss of night color, because you can see more interactions as they run in and out of frame (or waddle in and out of frame).

Now if I could only convince him that what is putting the deer off is the pile of rotting dog food. If he cleaned that up and I could really enjoy his hobby too.

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.

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.

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.

 

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.

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.

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.

PGA Tournament by the Numbers

Number of people I asked if they wanted to go to the first practice day of the PGA Tournament, before I asked Gary: 2.

Number of times I asked Gary, “Are you SURE you want to go? Because I have lots of other people I can ask”: at least ten.

Number of people I should have asked instead of Gary: infinity.

Number of fights we had before we even left for the tournament: 1.

Number of degrees Fahrenheit at the start of the tournament: 80.

Number of people wearing “business casual” pants, as per the PGA: 0

Number of degrees Fahrenheit one hour later: 97.

Number of times Gary complained about the heat: 1,000,000.

Number of times Gary complained about wearing pants and not shorts: 1,000,000.

Number of times Gary expressed dissatisfaction about something other than the heat and the shorts: 5,000,000.

Number of times Gary said something positive: 1.  (It wasn’t to me, but to some random woman who was worried about something.)

Number of hours we were there before we had to leave because of the heat and the shorts (and, I suspect, the country club environment): 4.

Number of words we said to each other the rest of the day: 0.

However, on the plus side ...

Number of recognizable golf figures: 2. No Tiger, he was taking an ice bath that day, but Rory McIlroy was there (with his signature golf clubs dressed up as dogs), and also a famous guy known as “Fluff” (Tiger’s former caddy).

Number of Clydesdales I saw: 12. First, three Clydesdales were hanging out by the merchandise tent on our way out. I was on the forced death march to the car so I wasn’t allowed to stop. Karma was watching, though, and we were nose to nose with a full-on Clydesdale Budweiser firewagon parade a few minutes later.

Number of times I got on the golf green: 1. There’s an odd spot where the walking path intersects with the green. It looks for a bit like you’re on a miniature golf course. I made a point of walking on the green. I felt there were people there dreaming of being on the green at a tournament, and now I can tick that off my bucket list.

Number of people stranded on the parking lot the next day: 1,000. Really. There was a rain delay so everyone on the south lot had to cool their heels until the rain stopped up north. So, dodged that bullet.

Number of PGA-related Goodyear blimps I saw on the way home today: 1. I’m a sucker for blimps, Clydesdales, and giant gas station signs. Any huge advertisement, really. Weinermobiles. Water towers shaped like catsup bottles. They make me happy. 

And finally, number of sex dreams I had that night: 1. In a rather pointed narrative my subconscious whipped up, I was a teenage girl on a date with a teenage boy. He held my hand for the first time and I was very excited. Then he put his arm around me and it was ... well it was thrilling. You remember how it was. When you were first dating. When everything was fresh, and new, and YES I GET IT SUBCONSCIOUS. Starting over again instead of being married 33 years. Sigh. I woke up before I did anything untoward, but I still felt like I’d cheated on Gary. 

Anniversary Number 33

Good God, I have had such a head cold. It lay me low all this week. Every time I tried to work I did something so stupid I had to take yet another sick day. And it all began last Thursday, my thirty-third wedding anniversary, when I foolishly shook hands with two strangers.

Stranger 1: Tour guide at the Frank Lloyd Wright house in Kirkwood

I knew there was a FLW-designed house in Kirkwood, because I looked into it years ago when it was a private home. SInce then, the owners have sold the house to Saint Louis County, who fixed up some rough spots and have opened it for tours. Every weekend it fills up, but since was a Thursday, and I'd taken off work for the anniversary, we went.

The first thing I did upon getting out of the car was to use the port-a-potty, and Gary believed me when I came out and told him it was designed with all right angles and strong horizontal lines.

That was inadvertently ironic, since this house is known for having exactly two right angles in the whole house. It's a parallelogram on top of another parallelogram, all wood, and delightfully wee.

There are many cunning things, like the bed, and the drawer, but I won't spoil those things for you if you intend to go. It is floor-to-ceiling red cedar, plus the ceiling is red cedar too, which means that it has a little claustrophobic effect. (Or, as Gary put it,  "COFFIN I FEEL LIKE I'M IN A COFFIN AND I'M DEAD IN A COFFIN.") I found it lovely. Plus, the owner made his own stained glass and got permission from Frank Lloyd himself to add his glasswork to FLW's design. Can you imagine? What a thrill!

The guide really made the owners come alive, plus their cat, who left non-parrallel scratch marks on their desk. I personally would considered evicting the cat.

Stranger 2: iPhone Salesman

After a run of particularly bad eating (Shake Shake, frozen custard, ice cream, barbeque) we went to relieve Gary's iPhone guilt. Every since I indulged Gary with his iPhone X at Christmas, it seems he has felt crippling guilt every time he sees me, the breadwinner, with my little iPhone 4. So, as a favor to Gary, so he wouldn't feel bad, I agreed to an iPhone upgrade. It was a sacrifice. If anyone asks me what Gary got me for my anniversary, I can say that he got me a cessation from constant iPhone nagging.

I actually lost something on the deal, because the iPhone X (I know, I know, talk to Gary about it) will not sync up with my work email, so no more late night work emails. Actually, I don't know if I can count that as a loss.

Love Is In the Air

First, we were on the parking lot at the Home Deport hardware store and suddenly romantic music swelled in the distance. I thought the Chick-Fil-A might have to decided to start piping secular music outside its store, but then Gary pointed out the accordian busker in the middle of the parking lot.

The middle of the lot. A parking lot. We had to make a special trip to tip him. It was a nice surprise.

Second, Gary found this on the raccoon videos. These raccoons have been watching us. The one on the left is Gary in his recliner, and I'm the one on the right.

Gary Remains a Mystery to Me

Last month, Gary must have heard Baby Got Back for the first time. I don't know how he missed it six years ago. There was even a piece on NPR.

Do you remember how we used to watch at least part of The Music Man every single damned day? Now every day ends with Gary saying, "Alexa, play Baby Got Back."

Sadly, I don't got back, at least not as Sir-Mix-a-Lot describes it. He likes 'em round, and big. Mine is flat and big. And droopy. And drapey. It would take up his Mercedes.

Anyway, Gary plays this song every day now before bed, and we must dance, and I must try to twerk. I do sort of a stationary Curly shuffle and it looks a little like a twerk. Things shake, anyway.

Shopping with Alexa

Evidently Amazon Alexa is the new iPad, in that Gary feels he must buy all models. He got one for him, then one for me, then another two for him, then one for his parents, then a better one for him, which then went to his parents so that meant another even better one for him. Also, since he swaps them throughout the house he doesn't want to identify them as "Ellen Bedroom" or "Basement" so I'm always sending messages to the wrong one.

He tried playing Baby Got Back on the great room one but it went to my bedroom, so I entered the great room twerking. (Side Note: Twerking is a skill that comes on you with great age. I couldn't twerk ten years ago, and now it's easy. You really just hop backwards and land on your feet unevenly.)

We use it to ask questions like "When is Mother's Day," and "Will it rain tonight," and now that the alarm clock was moved to make room for the Alexa, "What time is it?"

The feature that won me over was the shopping list. In the past I felt technologically advanced when I'd write the list on the fridge and take an iPhone photo of it to the store. Now I just notice we need something, and shriek "Alexa, add bananas to the " -- wait, that's a lie - "Alexa, add chips to the shopping list." Then at the store you check the Alexa app on the phone, and it shows you your list.

This has led to mischief.

Gary's Retun to Cooking

Now that he's over the flu Gary has returned to his cooking duties. He hasn't wanted to task himself too much, so he started with Rice-a-Roni. We've never had Rice-a-Roni before. (I don't even really know how the box got in our house; I think he might have bought it for his parents but the flavor didn't suit them.)

He announced he was making the Rice-a-Roni at 6:00 pm.

At 6:07 he said "Dinner's ready."

I knew something was wrong."How is that possbile? How did you make it?"

He boasted, "I added my own flavors, and some chopped tomatoes. It's really good."

"No, how did you make it that fast? Is it instant rice?"

"IT'S FINE IT'S DELICIOUS."

It was not delicous.The fluid did permeate the outer layer of the rice,but only barely, so each grain was a hard pellet encased in a gummy shroud that stuck to my teeth. It was bad enough that I couldn't eat it, and I try to eat everything he makes. Gary wolfed his down insisting that "IT'S JUST AL DENTE."

It was a new dish for him, so I gave him a pass, and, I don't know, maybe some people like gummy rice pellets and that's why it's considered the San Francisco Treat.

The next day he didn't feel up to tackling his usual steak or chicken, so he tried another new dish, a frozen meal-in-a-bag.

Five minutes after he started I heard a small explosion from the kitchen, plus a high-pitched shriek, plus some cursing. I didn't even go in. I can't go running every time he shrieks, especially now that the ants have invaded our kitchen again.

When we sat down to eat I asked if the screaming was ant-related. "No," he said. "Stupid directions."

I was impressed, because he had learned from his Rice-a-Roni mistake and was at least reading the directions.

He continued, "The first direction was to heat the oil, which I did, then the next direction showed a picture of a measuring cup of water, and I thought, well, that's not right, I can't add water to hot oil but I followed the directions, and of course it exploded."

I thought, there is no way a company told him to fry water. Something is missing from this story.

I asked, "They didn't say to add anything to the pan, like garlic or onions ..."

"Well, yeah, I looked at it again after it blew up and it did say to add meat. But there wasn't a picture. I was following the pictures."

"Because you're what, suddenly illiterate?"

"The words are tiny!"

All this time I thought he was just too stubborn to think that someone else could tell him how to make food. ("THESE RICE-A-RONI PEOPLE ARE TELLING ME TO OVERCOOK THIS RICE. FOOLS.") In reality, he just can't see the small print. I sympathize. I had to print out the Toll House cookie directions a few years ago because the print on the bag is too small.

I said, "Oh, stop right there. If it's in a box or bag I'm making it from now on. You are not making anything else with directions." Small print doesn't stop me. I've been known to take a high-def photo of small print and enlarge it on the phone to be able to read it.

Happily, last night he made some direction-free pasta and it was perfect. 

Further Torture from Gary

Because he threw me out of bed seven years ago, Gary can stay up till dawn while I sleep comfortably in our guest room. Usually I am very happy with this arrangement, because he can stay up all night and I can sleep all night.

Lately, though, this has been happening:

1. I wake up to use the bathroom at 2 am.
2. I come back to my bed, half awake, and pull off the covers.
3. Gary is there hiding under the covers and it scares the hell out of me.
4. Gary finds this very funny.

Thankfully, I've just peed, so I don't wet myself, but I fall for it every time - which has been seven times.  I think the last three times he added a moan or a hiss when I throw off the cover to further add to the terror.

Last night he decided to switch it up and he hid behind the door. My mind said, "That little shit!" as the same moment my body screamed. It was as if I recognized him and THOUGHT HE WAS A MURDERER simultaneously.

 

 

Adventure

Today's adventure began with poop.

Gary had a colonoscopy scheduled for 11:30 today.

He had instructions on what to eat and when, and of course since he's all-or-nothing he decided to kick the doctor's orders up a notch. "Don't eat at all the day before" - well, how about don't eat TWO days before! That's how Gary rolls.

So of course, when he took the prep there was nothing in there but bile, because he has no gallbladder. Just a bilious slurry of broth, Propel, and clear energy drinks. I know he thought he would go clear and then at some point he would dry out, poor baby. Nope. He could not get out of the bathroom.

That's why we left for the colonoscopy an hour ahead of time: I figured we'd be stopping over and over. As it turned out, we only stopped the car twice - the last time at a grocery about half a mile away from our destination.

We stopped ... for good. Gary returned from the bathroom, reported success, I turned the key ...

Car: Click
Me: Noooo.
Gary: I am not drinking that stuff again. We are GOING to that COLONOSCOPY.

We just hoofed it and got to the colonoscopy appointment with one minute to spare. He was being pretty bossy, and he ordered me home to get the other car, though I'm sure my tow truck idea would have been more efficient.

While Gary got scoped, I took a $40 taxi back home to get the other car, since he would be too drugged to drive home. Of course, I was halfway there before I realized I had no way to get in. No garage door opener, and the key I haven't used in five years is no longer in my purse. "It's fine," I thought, "I'll just use the Special Secret Key that is hidden outside."

I got there. Special Secret Key is gone. Raccoons must have taken it. "Noooo" I said for the second time that day. 

I scrabbled, I searched, I planned to break a window - then I remembered Gary shoved some stuff into my pockets as I was leaving. Happily, he'd unloaded his wallet, glasses, phone, and thankfully - keys.

So Gary came through it all minus three tiny polyps and is snoring away at this moment. The car is still at the grocery, and I don't care. I don't think I'll care until this weekend, even.

My New Love Language: Bedding

Gary just called in from the other room.

"Ellen, what the name of this thing on the bed?"

"What thing?"

"The THING! On the bed. I have to buy a new thing!"

"Oh. The coverlet?"

"Thank you." I could hear him typing.

I kept quiet. I haven't slept in that room for years now. I suppose Gary saw me feathering my nest and felt an urge to decorate what we've taken to calling "his" room.

I immediately thought of all the garish coverlets he could be looking at, all of which would require repainting the walls and rehanging the collection of Mucha prints I've started in college. Still, I thought, I've lost control of the kitchen and it didn't kill me. He's a grown man. He can pick out his own coverlet. Long gone are the days I would tear a room apart if he overrode one of my decorating decisions.

He started to make noises. "What is this again? A duvet cover?"

"A coverlet!"

Then a few minutes later, "You said it was a featherbed?"

"IT'S A COVERL - ugh. I'm coming." Obviously he was making stuff up so I'd come in there. This is how we "do" now.

I think he's going to narrow it down to a few, read reviews, and talk himself out of it.

Marriage is a lot easier when you know what's coming.

UPDATE:

Interesting. He was headed straight to a nautical themed blue one, and at the very last veered instead for the butter yellow floral.

He nixed the "Relax" pillow. ("NO PILLOWS WITH WRITING THAT IS STUPID," he bellowed in the Macys.) He also went with a grey striped sham, not the matching sham, plus the solid yellow knit pillow and the grey tassel throw. This photo doesn't show the three sets of coordinating sheets that are available - all matching dots and stripes - all of which he bought. Huge Black Friday savings.

 

Non-Concert / Concert

Remember we were going to the Pixies concert? Remember we bought tickets back in March? Remember? Well, we didn't. Neither of us put it in our phones, and then when I won tickets to the Katy Perry concert my concert neurons fired and I thought - oh no - wasn't there a Pixies concert we were supposed to see? And we missed it by three days. Damnit. Damn. It.

Still, we did get to see the Katy Perry concert from the TeddyJ suite, and that was nice. Left Shark was on stage a lot. I wonder if he's been a feature of all her concerts since he went viral, or if this is a resurgence. I don't think I've ever seen a show with so much stage work: sets, platforms dropping from the rafters, singers flying over the audience, dancing televisions, aliens and UFOs, and such like. It was about as far from a Pixies concert as you could get.

Gary even enjoyed it, and I had really pissed him off when we walking in. We'd walked three blocks in the pouring rain when we encountered a ticket scalper. I didn't break stride, only to say, "Stay dry," because he was in the pouring rain in a ball cap. Scalper guy said, "I can't. I don't have an umbrella."

Thirty five years ago, Gary and I were driving when he saw an elderly lady crossing the street in the rain. He pulled up next to her, shoved an umbrella at her, and drove off. That is why I only made a few more steps before I spun around and gave the scalper my umbrella. 

Or, "MY umbrella!" as Gary would say for the next half hour. "IT WAS MY FAVORITE DUCK HEAD UMBRELLA IT HAD A BUTTON THAT OPENED IT WHAT WERE YOU THINKING" and so on, even while I was on Amazon buying an identical replacement. 

What can I say, I am dumb. I forget expensive concert tickets, I get free concert tickets, and umbrellas are the concert tickets of the world. They float to people that need them.

T-Rex

When I spotted this T-Rex skeleton at the Home Depot, I had to think for a moment before I summoned Gary. Because I knew he would want it.

This was his response:

"Oh my god! What IS that? It's a dinosaur. For Halloween? IT'S A HALLOWEEN DINOSAUR. We could buy that! It's only" [sic] "two hundred and ninety-nine dollars. We would be 'the people in the house with the T-Rex.' We could put it in the yard. We could put an iron stake in the ground and use those heavy chains in the basement and padlock him to the stake so no one would take him. Oh wait, he lights up. AND HE'S ANIMATED! His mouth moves! Does he roar? He roars and his eyes light up! We would have to plug him in. No one would take him off the porch. That would be so great if we could put him out for Halloween. Or any party, really. Any time we have a party we would just sit the T-Rex out on the porch. You would have to start having the tea party again. AHAHAHAHA He would be a Tea-Rex! For the tea party! And you could put the party favors on a silver tray and wire it to his tiny hands!"

He slowed down when he realized they're mass produced and we might not be the only people with a skeletal T-Rex in our yard. I just know I'd better not come home Monday night to find this thing on the porch.

Vacation and Stress

Everyone else takes stress-free vacations. Right now my stomach is twisted, hands are shaking, and I'm stress-coughing, if that's a thing, because I'm leaving on vacation.

If ever I needed a vacation, it would be now.

I'm going to Universal in Orlando, because Orlando, Florida in hurricane season is a tremendous value. All I have to do is get in the car, then get in a taxi, then get on a plane, then another plane, then a taxi, then chill out. Easy, right? You would think, but I am in a state.

These are the things that led up to this vacation:

Hurricane Irma decided to head for one of the airports we'll go through, then take a turn toward Orlando. This began a week of Gary announcing there would be:

    1) no gas there, so no taxis 
    2) no electricity
    3) looters in The Wizarding World of Harry Potter (I am not making this up)
    4) displaced evacuees ("We can't take a room that could be used by an evacuee! What are you thinking?")

Then, of course, he got sick, then I got sick. Naturally, he had A HORRIBLE COLD while I had a mere cold. I would ask him if he'd taken any medicine and he would scoff, "That's only symptomatic relief."

I CAN'T CURE YOUR COLD. RELIEVE THE SYMPTOMS ALREADY. 

I ended up writing out a schedule and handing him the pills with something to drink. Give me a paper cup and I would be the hospital nurse. He was amazed at how much better he felt. I still feel sick.

Truly, I have headed overseas for once-in-a-lifetime trips in a calmer state than I am right now, heading three states away to a family vacation.

Another Animal Adventure

Gary and I again made our yearly visit to Big Joel's Animal Adventure Park. Big Joel has expanded a lot of his exhibits, and there were some piglets born four days ago that were draining the mother DRY, but the most remarkable things were not what we saw but what we heard.

For example, we saw tortoises being made. Even more remarkable was the sound of tortoises being made. Listen closely to our video and you can hear it.

(Also remarkable was the tone I use with my husband. A drawl of contempt.)

Just as I didn't expect to hear tortoises quacking their way through sex, I didn't expect to hear a zeedonk scream "J'ACUSSE!" at Gary.

The zeedonks ("Zeedonks may bite!") were directly across from where the tortoises were making love and I'm afraid Gary didn't give them any food. We followed a footpath that circled from the zeedonks and tortoises to the porcupines and water buffalo and then back again. When we returned, the female tortoise had crawled under a bush and at least three families were feeding the zeedonk, who either:

1. Brayed "YOU IGNORED ME!" directly at Gary, or ...
2. Tried to quack like a duck tortoise having sex directly at Gary.

I can tell you, whatever it was it was pointed directly at Gary. The thing spotted Gary, made eye contact, started simultaneously hyperventilating and braying, and followed Gary along the fence as Gary cried, "Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Here, here's some food! Sorry!"

It would be scary if zeedonks remember people from year to year. It would be really scary if there's some baby tortoise next year who follows Gary around like he's its godfather.

Adventure Week

"Too much adventure!" Gary complained. "You scheduled too much for one week."

 Hey, I thought, it's not like that week we saw BNL in Albuquerque and then flew back and drove to Chicago to see Steven Page.

Granted, we did pack a lot into this past week. So much that early in the week that I hit 10,000 steps in one day on my new fitness tracker. It buzzed and lit up. It didn't light up enough to compel me to hit 10,000 any other day, of course. Nice try, Fitbit.

The concert we went to mid-week was almost a washout. There was a torrential rainstorm that hit with straight-line winds and horizontal rain just as I was crossing the bridge. It let up and we went to see:

• A Led Zeppelin tribute band
• Cheap Trick (now with FIVE-necked guitars and a new album)
•  Foreigner

Holy God, why haven't I seen Foreigner live before? We were seated right by the sound boards, and at one point the lead singer ran to the sound pit, strapped himself on top a tiny platform, which then rose into the sky on top of some ... some ... some expand-y phallic thing. And there was fire and blasty jets and all the hits, ALL THE HITS, of the last forty years.

The next night we went to an escape room. We did not escape. We came, really really close - honestly, if we'd just turned over two more documents we'd have been out. Six out of our group of ten bailed, so we had that going against us. The next time I try an escape room, I'll know that if I am to be handcuffed, I won't be handcuffed next to my husband. He berated me so hard while we were trying to get out that the other other two players began giggling nervously.

And it doesn't end! We're off to see some caves this weekend, so we'll be well out of Saint Louis when everyone arrives for the eclipse. In fact, we'll be in the sleepiest town I've ever been in: Cuba, MO.

I promised Gary one day this weekend would be an entire day of sitting and watching TV, just like a normal weekend. He's right! TOO MUCH ADVENTURE!

Barenaked Ladies Concert 5/15/2017 (Pixies Post)

We went to the Peabody Opera House to see Barenaked Ladies, but while we were there we had other musical experiences. The first of those involves Pixies.

We were waiting by the Peabody box office because Gary now likes to arrive at movies and concerts hours early, as if he's going to have to go through a TSA interrogation. He noticed that Pixies tickets are on sale.

"Oh, I love the Pixies," Gary said, "Let's buy tickets."

"Name a Pixies song," I challenged.

"Everyone knows the Pixies," he answered, and pulled out his credit card and bought tickets. I was fine with that, because while I couldn't name a Pixies song, I had heard their name before. This puts them in a league with The Black Crows and Goo Goo Dolls and MegaDeath: they are Bands That I Know Exist but that's all I know.

The first hint I had that they were a good band was that the best seats we could get were past the orchestra. The concert isn't till October.

I had to go to the bathroom next, and of course I pulled up Pixies on Wikipedia. I scrolled through the photos till I saw the red-headed female bass player, that's all that Gary has to know. That's why he likes them. Then I read on and saw that "their jarring pop sound influenced bands such as Nirvana, Radiohead, the Strokes, Bush, Blur and Weezer." Cool, I thought, sounds like we'll enjoy them, because three of those are Bands That I Know Exist. (And I can even name a Nirvana song.)

I found Gary standing outside the men's room on the other side of the lobby.

He said, "I think you'll like the Pixies. They influenced lots of bands, like Nirvana and Radiohead." (See above. SEE ABOVE.)

"You bastard! just read the same Wikipedia page I did!  Well. Did you see they have a red-headed bass player?"

He confessed, and we committed to the joke of being Pixies experts for the rest of the night. For example, after BNL particularly killed a song, I leaned over and said, "Still, they're no Pixies."

Of course, he has a lot of free time and there's probably a Pixies documentary. By October he really will be a Pixies expert.

 

A New Alanis Game

Gary and I were in the car yesterday, and we popped Jagged Little Pill in to the CD player.

When I sing along with Alanis Morissette I always find myself caterwauling to excess. ("And you say, how-we-ow-we-ow apprrrrroooooprrrrrrrrrr-eeee-iate.") So, I was doing that.

Earlier, Gary had been doing some drive-yelling and swiched to Henrietta Pussycat mode, so he was meowing.

The two morphed into a new game. You sing along with Alanis, but you replace all the words with a meow. (A one syllable "meow." More like "Myow.") So, "I want you to know" Becomes "Myow. Myow. Myow myow myow." Then in the more emotional parts you do actual caterwauling. "And I'm here, to remind you" becomes "Mroooow mreee mROOW, mew MrOOOW MAAAAAAA=aaaa-ooooooOW."

We call it Alanis Meowrissette.

We Are Both Too Dumb to Be Married: Part One - Gary

Gary was binge-watching Marco Polo on Netflix. I was in the room, doing a puzzle on the iPad, because Being In the Room is about all that's left of our Love Languages.

Something Genghis Kahn said ("I welcome Christians and Muslims") launched a debate in our room: Were Christ and Mohammed contemporaries? Gary said yes. My position was that Christ lived about 2017 years ago (ish), and Mohammed was 600 years ago. (A minor point: I am dead wrong on this. His timeline was the year 600, not 600 years ago. Still. Not the point.)

I went to the Internet to back up my claim that Islam started in the year 1400 (again, Not The Point) and that Christianity started in the year 0 (again, ish). I was surfing for facts, Gary kept arguing that both religions started at the same time.

"Ah!" I said, "I was wrong. Mohammed lived in the year 600, so the seventh century."

"So they WERE contemporaries!" Gary crowed.

I looked at him. My face said, "I believe you are very generous with your definition of 'contemporary,' sir."

Gary replied directly to my face. "Yes. If Mohammed was the seventh century, they were contemporaries."

My face got louder. My eyebrows and cheeks and jaw all said, "Whaaaat?"

Gary snorted in derision. "When do you think Jesus lived?"

"When do YOU think Jesus lived? I thought it was 1 A.D." (ish.)

"Hah!" he scoffed.

"No ... dude. A. D. Anno Domini. Year of our Lord. Wait. Are you counting in dog years?"

Finally, I am serious, I made him look up "When Was Jesus Born" on the internet before he would admit that he might have been wrong.

Naughti Gras 2017: Gary Gets Naughti.

A few years back I went to Naughti Gras alone. This year I finally coaxed Gary to join me. I know, I have the only husband alive whi has to be dragged to an erotic art fair.

As it was in the past, my favorite part was the close-up magician, the same one who tricked me the last time. I cannot emphasize this enough: we were surrounded by erotic art and we could not take our eyes off this magician.

There were cards that changed while I was holding them. I know he must have palmed my card and that it was a trick deck and all that, but people, I watched. He told me that he didn't see the reflection of the card in my glasses last time, and that made me determined to trip him up. I watched him hard. As he worked his magic, I stooped down and peered at him from below. And then somehow, coins changed in my hands, Gary's card appeared in his wallet, two separate cards Gary and I signed merged into one double-sided card with both our signatures. He fooled me again and again and again. It was delightful.

This is one playing card:

 And this is his business card:

Zi Teng Wang, epistaticmagic@gmail.com. Go to him with all your magic and molecular biology needs.

The magic was also a nice distraction from the semi-nudity. Gary was not comfortable. I was fine with the semi-nudity. There was a male pole dancer who was fairly bare-assed: I fully supported that. I thought Gary would have felt the same, but of course, no. He got so self-conscious you would have thought he was the naked one. For example, there was a woman, topless but with taped nipples, who was having her body painted. We watch the Skin Wars body painting competition TV show regularly. I wanted to watch the body painting. Nope. I was hustled away. We went in a small room where there was a woman covered in sushi. Gary loves sushi. Nope. Again, we must leave, no, no sushi, no body art, no no no.

It would seem he doesn't like to stare at women when he's clothed and they aren't. Very conscious of being the creepy old guy. I had some hint of this in the past, for example on cruise ships when we couldn't walk across the pool deck for fear sun bathers would think he was ogling them.

However, there were stilt-walkers and magicians and non-breathing, tiny felt vagina pins to buy:

... and non-judgmental photos of naked women we could enjoy without discomfort. Gary did enjoy himself enough to go back next year and stay long enough to see more of the pageantry.

"Like the burlesque?" I asked, remembering the bare assed male pole dancer who didn't seem to be affronted that I was staring at him while I was clothed and he was not (so so rude).

"Well, maybe if it's dark and there's a bigger crowd I can look at the naked ladies without feeling pervy."

So, that's a plan: next year in Naughti Gras. We're also planning a trip to South Missouri for the Solar eclipse later this year. (Sing with me: we'll take the Honda down to Cape Girardeau to see the total eclipse of the sun.)

 

Thanksgiving

Things I Am Thankful For:

Because of conflicting family obligations, the in-laws celebrated Thanksgiving on Friday instead of Thursday. That meant that for the first time in over thirty years, Gary and I celebrated our First Thanksgiving.

Here are some gloomy, dark photos of Our First Thanksgiving.

Elegant Table Settings at Our First Thanksgiving:

 

Gary Ready to Eat Three Plates of Food:

I Am Thankful for Friends.

I've been going to a friend's house on a monthly basis for baking lessons (and refuge from MSNBC and Gary), and she taught me how to make a pie crust without tears. You use unbleached flour and Crisco along with the butter: that seems to be the trick.

I Am Not Thankful For Family.

Well, that's if you even consider in-laws family. Gary's nephew was off his medication, and without it he equals my brother on his worst unmedicated day. So far he's had screaming altercations with his sister, his aunt, and his grandparents, and since he's dead to all of them I offered our home as a place to stay after dinner. That was a mistake. He and Gary almost came to blows and he was gone before two hours had passed.

I Am Thankful For Distractions.

I've got demented jewelry projects going on. Necklaces made from jigsaw puzzles don't just make themselves, and yet they still insist on being made. (I did make one necklace out of beads like a normal human being. It took me three tries.) 

I'm going to mediatate (seriously, would you ever imagine I'd start a sentence with that), then I think we'll spend the day drinking wine, eating pie, and binge-ing on new episodes of Gilmore Girls.

Annoyances

Earlier this week I came home from work, and Gary went into his daily Rant About Trump.

I said, "He won't win. The news networks need ratings, so they tell you he has a chance so you'll watch. Stop watching the news."

He continued watching the news and shouting at the TV. I argued that he'd had all day to watch the news, and I had limited time to distract myself. After wasting an hour I realized there are two TVs in this house.

Just as I got up to change rooms, my brother called. He spent thirty minutes on the phone trying to send me something he saw in Facebook. The entire time I insisted that I was not at all interested in what he was sending me. Eventually after he Facetimed me I got to see this "wonderful" thing. A photo. A friend's wife was in the background with a humorous expression. I flipped him off through the power of Facetime and hung up.

In both instances I was annoyed that I have limited time, yet these men with infinite free time wasted my time. But of course, I was the one who wasted my time. I should have ended both conversations quickly.

Walk away. Turn your back. As always, the answer I give myself and everyone else is "Distance." Care less. But the price to be paid for that is less intimacy. Less support, less love, all the complaints I have today.

Then again, though I was ignored at the time, both Dave and Gary have become a little more appreciative of my time. Yesterday Dave only called three times for five minutes instead of once for thirty minutes. Gary asked if I wanted to leave the house (cabin fever contributed to my irritability earlier this year) and more important, turned off the news last night.

However, yesterday he did say, "Ugh, look at that balding woman on TV."

I said, "Hey, I'M balding."

He said, "Yes, but she's not old."

So he's still annoying.

They Say Pets Resemble Their Owners

A few nights ago, Gary was posting political screeds on his iPad at 2:30 in the morning, as is his wont, when he heard raccoons shrieking and chattering right outside the bedroom window. He checked and yes, the poor babies has eaten all the food he'd given them. Like a good raccoon slave he was out there three minutes later, piling up more chow into the Cone of Food he thinks all animals prefer.

I argued how unfair it is that he is raccoon-whipped yet I can't get him to do anything. He tried to convince me that when he feeds the wildlife the animals grow devoted to both of us. "Soon the birds will be dressing you and doing your hair," he claimed.

"So it's like we're Mr and Mrs. Assisi."

"You know it," he said. 

I'd say he's anthropomorphizing the animals, but then I see videos from our backyard like this one. That raccoon has been watching Gary watch TV. They have all the same mannerisms. You could put a remote in that raccoon's hand and a La-Z-Boy under his butt and you'd have my husband.

UPDATED: Yard Signs

A few weeks ago, I said to Gary, "You know what's weird about this election? I haven't seen a single Trump or Hillary yard sign." 

But what Gary heard was, "We have to to put a Hillary 2016 sign in our front yard!"

I don't want that yard sign. I'm not a yard sign kind of gal. I was, for one term, an Obama bumper sticker kind of gal, but yard signs are a different animal. First, they're far more unsightly than a bumper sticker. I don't like things sticking up out of the yard. I don't like the advertisements the yard maintenance people stick I the yard, and those are diminutive compared to a yard sign.

So, first, Ugly, and then second, Futile. No one ever drove past a yard sign and changed their vote for president. 

And third, of course, is that on my working class street I could just as well put up a sign that says Egg My House. They'd appreciate it as much as I'd like seeing a Trump sign in their yards, and if I put this Hillary sign out a Trump sign would sprout up for checks and balances.

Gary is so deeply in the tank for Hillary I know he's disappointed. He sees it as some type of mezuzah, I'm sure.  I don't care. Good fences make good neighbors, and yard signs do not. 

I personally want to take it and sneak it into the yard of either the friend who hates Hillary so much she's voting for a Trump, or the friend who hates Trump so much she's voting for Johnson.

UPDATE: while I was very firm in my objection, Gary decided to compromise and put out "only one" of the two signs he bought. If we disappear blame the neighbors. 

We Age Twenty Years Over Labor Day Weekend

Friday

Friday, Gary and I went kayaking at Creve Couer Lake. Since then I have woven kayaking into every sentence I can. "What do you want for dinner, Ellen?" "That kayaking really made me hungry. Let's have pizza." Or, "Ellen, do you remember the last time I bought nuts?" "Friday, either before or after we went kayaking."

The actual plan was to paddleboard, but even the experienced paddleboarders said it was too windy. I saw their two-person kayaks were not the turtleneck-of-death kayak that flips over and traps you suspended under the water, but instead an open-top plastic "ocean" kayak that wouldn't flip over, and even if it did you could escape. 

We kayaked for an hour. At one point an egret landed four feet from us. It was all lovely. It would have been perfect, but I fell up to my neck in the water getting out of the kayak. So close.

I felt about thirty on Friday.

Sunday

I woke up well before Gary on Sunday, and I decided to do a little research on my insurance situation. My MS drug, Gilenya, goes generic in 2019, and that's when the kind Gilenya folks stop paying for it. Or rather, the kind drug "loyalty program" stops paying my deductible. I suppose since my deductible is $3k, i shouldn't care that the drug has gone from $4k a month to over $6k. All the same to me. Still, a generic version of a $6k a month drug isn't going to be $150 a month. 

Still, that made me start thinking about what I'm going to do after I retire. it looks like the insurance will be $500 a month and the deductible with be $6k. 

My head was full of Medicare and prescription bills when I went out to tidy up the house, and I found a pile of Werthers candy scattered across the cluttered table by Gary's recliner, and is there a better thumbnail image for an old couple? Oh, of course there is. I put the Werthers in a crystal candy dish. There, that just pins it. 

Sigh. I feel sixty. And we were kayaking just days earlier. 

Ant Graveyard

Gary was excited to find an ant graveyard in the garage.

I, personally, had no idea ants even had grayeyards. When I came home on the day that Gary made this discovery, I got an education on ant funerals.

1. Ant dies.
2. Ant releases oleic acid.
3. Other ants smell it.
4. Mob of ants pick up the ant and transport it to the ant graveyard. Our house has two, both in the garage.

The other ant graveyard is under the car. Friend #3 asked if they were segregated by religion.

Here is a close up of the same graveyard.

You can get a nice overview here. That link also answers the question, "What happens if you spray a live ant with oleic acid," and the answer is that the ant mob inisists he is dead and drag him off over the smelly ant's protests.

Now that I look at that photo, it occurs to me that looks a lot like potting soil. Time to get the jeweler's loupe and take it out to the garage.

===============================

Moments later. Well, damnit. It IS potting soil.

Friend #3 did ask what would happen if I sprayed oleic acid on Gary.

 

Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Patio

Yesterday, after Gary left for his parents, a woman with a baby rang our front doorbell. I was in my bathrobe, because noon.

She said: "I'm your neighbor next door. I know you feed the animals ... "

Oh no, here it comes, I thought. The neighbors are putting a stop to the 20 raccoons at our Wildlife Buffet.

"... and there's a dead skunk on our patio."
"Oh, no. Does it smell?"
She wrinkled her nose. "A little. I called my Mom, and she said your husband feeds the animals - "

I didn't let her finish. Clearly this was our fault. Of course, perhaps that wasn't where she was headed. Perhaps she was coming to us as the Community Skunk Doctors. Perhaps we could revive it. Perhaps we might break the news to the skunk's family.

"I'll take care of it," I said.
"My mom said 'Call conservation, because it might be RABID.'"
"I'll take care of that too. And I'll mix up some of the stuff Mythbusters says will get rid of the smell. I'll be right there."

As I was pulling on my clothes, I heard Gary in the backyard. I thought he'd left. When he came in I whirled on him and emphatically pointed at the neighbor's house five times while telling him the story.

"Which neighbors?" he asked.
I almost threw my arm out pointing. "THOSE NEIGHBORS. Go!"

Gary "didn't see them in the backyard" when he left moments later and ran like a non-dead skunk to his parents' house.

I didn't realize that, so I thought Gary would be there when I arrived next door with a bag to put the skunk in. Let's call it Bag Number One.

I met the husband, and we discussed a possible Conservation Department Skunk Autopsy because it might be RABID, and I went to their back yard to collect the skunk.

There was an unmistakable smell, but not so much it would made my eyes water. No blood. Some drool.

I checked for signs of life with a stick. I started to kick it into the bag. That was too awkward, so I grabbed the very end of its tail and dropped it into Bag Number One.

I took it home, where I put it in the garage where Gary would see it when he slinked home, the coward.

I mixed up the Mythbuster's hydrogen peroxide / baking soda / dish soap concoction. In the minutes it took to do that, the skunk stank up the garage (No!) so I put it in Bag Number Two and placed it in our back yard by the skunk den as a Warning to all skunks who might think Heavenly Paradise is better then Earthly Paradise.

I returned to spray their patio, which did make the smell go away, remarkably. After I came home I took a shower to prevent the rabies (RABIES!), then read up on how to dispose of a dead skunk (landfill) and the increasing population of RABID skunks.

I went out and popped Bags One and Two into Bag Number Three.

I called the local conservation department.

"The neighbors have a dead skunk on their patio and we're all worried it might be rab -"
"It's not rabid," she interrupted.
I paused. "Really?"
"Rabies in skunks is very rare."
"Oh. Okay. So you don't want the body or anything? I just take it to a landfill?"
"Oh, no. Just double bag it and put it out with your trash, or of you live by woods, just pitch it into the woods."

Awesome. So, after I checked the wildlife cam videos for evidence of someone smothering the skunk, I made a final report to the neighbor. Done, right? I handled the situation entirely without Gary. I wrapped it up like a double-bagged dead skunk.

I'd decided not to speak of it when he came home. The therapist advises flight, not fight. I've been trying it.

That lasted until he said, "Why did you put the skunk right next to the house? What are you thinking?"

"Put your dead skunk where you like. It's your skunk now."

When he paraded the bagged skunk through the house I noticed a definite odor. (It smelled like a dead skunk that had been decaying in three Oven Roasting Bags in the 100 degree heat.)

I said. "We can't put that thing in the trash bin two days." So where to put it? He put it in the middle of the front yard, because he didn't want to upset the backyard animals and he didn't want it by the house.

I made it until ten at night before I said, "You cannot decorate the front yard with a bag of dead skunk."

He conceded that the flower bed by the side of the garage might be a better place. Also, he added four more bags.(Hereafter known as Bags Four Through Seven.) I hatched a series of plans to dispose of the body if we couldn't make it the three days till trash day.

1. Bury the skunk in its seven bag shroud in the backyard. Gary's response: "Are you insane? The other animals will dig it up."
2. Put the body into a yard waste bag, fold it up, and attach that to the outside of the car by closing the car window on it,  then drive past the woods at a high rate of speed and open the window, essentially dropping the skunk by the woods without being alone in the woods. Gary's response: 'You can't get the skunk anywhere near the car. Are you insane?"
3. Ask the basement waterproofing people who will put a dumpster in our driveway tomorrow to take the skunk with them in their dumpster. Gary's response was silence, and then he brought this up as his own solution a few hours later. (I really wanted to say "Are you insane?")

I vaguely remember a midnight conversation about calling a skunk removal place, because from my description of the body Gary identified the victim as Mother Skunk, and that would leave Baby Flag and Baby Bernie (very messy white hair) without a Mom. Gary believes the skunk removal company would place the baby skunks for adoption in the woods, whereas I believe they would be sent to the other side where Mother Skunk would be waiting for them.

We didn't have a fight, though. Therapy for the win!

Gary's Father's Day Gift From His Babies

Gary announced his intent to make turkey soup, and I announced my intent to document his turkey-soup-making process, which involves sauteeing all the vegetables separately before putting them in the soup, and then he elected to make his soup after I went to bed.

That's why he was up making soup after midnight. It was officially Father's Day when he woke me up at three a.m. I had to be up at three anyway to run a test for work, but still I could see there was something extra he wanted to tell me.

"What's up?" I asked.

"The baby raccoons attacked me," he said, and chortled.

He said:

I was waiting while the onions cooked down in the butter, and I sat back down to read my iPad at the table by the french door. The house was filled with a delicious smell of onions, and maybe some of it wafted outside. I glanced outside and saw two little heads pop up in unison by the food dish. They made eye contact with me, and then suddenly they set off running full tilt at the house!

I thought they'd stop when they got to the patio, but they flew over the patio, leapt up on the stoop, and launched into the french doors at full speed. Then they tried to break through the door! They pounded their little paws on the glass and scrabbled as hard as they could, all the while making this crazed growling sound.

I was aghast. I was worried the glass wouldn't hold. They had these big eyes that said, "I WANT TO TEAR YOUR HOUSE DOWN."

I did not scream like a woman. Instead, I started to get up, just to see how close I could get to the door before they ran away --

I stopped him in this obvious lie. "You mean, you went to open the door, and then make them a plate of sauteed onions piled into a cone shape, and then pet them and dress them up until they infected you with rabies?"

No,he said, he didn't get a chance to even consider it, because Momma Raccoon twitched her tail and the kits "froze, then vanished like Zorro into the night."

Car Wash Adventure

Saturday I began gardening at seven am. I thought I'd only be a few hours, but at eleven Gary woke up, came out, saw my face, and abducted me.

This is how the abduction went down:

"Gary, help me finish this gardening."

"No, we have to go now to get your car. They called to say they're done with the air conditioning."

"We don't have to go right now. Help me with - "

"We have to go RIGHT. NOW." I wasn't even given time to pull the gardening tools out of the landscaping.

Then he sat me in front of the ac in his car until my vision unblurred.

My neurons were so restored by the air conditioning that I asked if we could tool about the August A. Busch Memorial Conservation Area, which is right next to the Nuclear Waste Cell we visited last weekend.

You might think the establishment of the Conservation Area came after the discovery of the radioactive waste, but no. The full sequence is:

• Three towns were eminent-domained out of existence for a WW2 TNT plant (there are TNT bunkers all over the area).
• After the war, August Busch's wife bought the land (including the TNT bunkers) for conservation.
• Then, Mallinkrodt built a nuclear plant next door.
• It became a superfund site.
• We moved nearby.

So, I can imagine the Busch family are none too pleased.

As soon as Gary heard about the TNT bunkers, he was all excited to go, and as soon as we discovered the roads in the conservation area are gravel, he became less excited, and all he wanted to do was get out of there.

Here is a snippet of conversation from our adventure:

"OH MY GOD THIS CAR IS SLIPPING ALL OVER THE ROAD I CANT SEE OUT OF THE BACK WINDOW IF I TURN ON THE WIPER IT'LL JUST ALL BECOME MUD OH LOOK THE DOOR TO THAT TNT BUNKER IS OPEN I BET THERE ARE BODIES IN THERE WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE."

Of course, we got lost. Interestingly, if you are lost between a conservation area and a nuclear waste dump, and you ask Siri to get you to the highway, Siri will say, "I don't know where you are, You Stupid Cow." (Or whatever you have Siri call you).

The dust on the car was so extreme we had to go through a car wash, which is something we never do (evidenced by the water buffalo sweat that is still ornamenting our Fit from the animal park last Labor Day).

Gary, of course, wanted only the high-end choices on the automated car wash, one of which was Color Wax. I assumed that meant Color-enhancing Wax, so I was astonished when the car wash spit out wax that smelled like bubblegum and looked like confetti birthday icing. I suppose it's a treat for the kids.

My big treat was coming home to discover that I'd gardened my way through the sprinkler system, and it was seeping. Still, a satisfying adventure.

Raccoon Life

I squawked at the amount spent this month on peanuts for the nighttime animals. Essentially, we converted several hundred dollars into raccoon poop.

Gary did some research and discovered raccoons like dog food, and as long as it's high protein dog food it can be as good for them as peanuts.

So tonight the raccoons, opossums, and skunks will dine on Purina One Lamb and Rice dog food. I think they'll react to it the way I reacted to the chicken and waffle flavored potato chips. "Oh wow, these pellets taste just like baby sheep. How do they do that?"