Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Days Spent Inside

Gary asked me this weekend what vacation I would go on if we could go on vacation, and I had no answer. It surprised me that I had no answer, because if he'd asked me two years ago I would have said "Venice Ireland Yukon Pacific Northwest."

It also surprised me that he asked, because when we are granted the gift of pleasant weather on a weekend I still have to drag him out of the house, even if it’s just to do yard work at his parents’. It seems a sin to me to waste good weather. Last weekend. when I went to a party, the opera, and the art museum while he stayed home, he behaved as if I was abandoning him.

I hope this stay-at-home mentality isn't the next stop on the inexorable march to old age. Werthers, birding, then agoraphobia? Or is it Werthers, birding, knitting THEN agoraphobia? If that's so I just have to never take up knitting.

Toto Two

We have this interesting sculpture sitting in the corner of our bedroom.

One month ago today, we ordered another Toto toilet through Amazon. This is the upside-down lidless toilet.

It would be installed right now, only Gary wanted the same installer he got last time, and that man is suddenly very busy. He only responds when Gary hints that he might want to find another installer because this work of modern art has graced this bedroom for one solid month.

(Make that one month, not one solid month. Some words you want to avoid when discussing toilets.)

 

Gary's Sudden Weight Gain

Gary and I have been doing some muddy sweaty yard work, and as such every day we've been coming in to the house through the garage, stripping in the laundry room, putting the mud-soaked clothes in the washer and then padding naked through the house directly to the shower.

Friday, when I was at work, Gary looked for his clothes, didn't see them, and then remembered they were probably in the dryer.

Evidently he tried them on in the living room.

The reason they are still in the living room is, as he told me, "The shirt was a little tight, so I figured it shrank, but then the jeans wouldn't fit me at all."

I wish I had been there to watch him try to put on my jeans. I might have said."Hey, you didn't do any yard work yesterday, I did, and sometime I like to coordinate what I wear so we match, not obviously, but wearing a green t-shirt if you're wearing a green t-shirt, even though we are way to old for such shenanigans."

Would I have said that? I like to think I would have just watched him struggle to put on my clothes.

A Problem Shared

Gary is a big believer in the adage, "A problem shared is a problem halved."

(Clearly I believe in it too, given that I have a blog devoted to sharing most of my problems. However, Dear Readers, I trust that when I cut my worries in half you don't end up weighed down by the half I just gave you. You go on about your days of dilettante coke-sniffing /caring for your family without another thought of me.)

The thing is, I care about the same things Gary does, like his parents or our finances, and when he unloads on me that means I have a new worry I will carry with me for days, long after he's said, "Thanks for listening, hon, I feel a lot better."

I think I know the moment he starts feeling better. At first I will be rational, but as I can't take it any more and I start crying I hear how helpful it's been for him. I think next time he shares with me I'm going to burst in to fake tears almost immediately.

It’s Just Like the End of Jane Eyre

I don't know why, but Gary and I have been having communication problems lately.

At least five times in the last week one of us has shouted, "I DISTINCTLY HEARD YOU SAY THE WORDS [fill in the blank]" followed by "I NEVER SAID THAT. I NEVER SAID [fill in the blank]" followed by "YES YES YOU DID I HEARD IT WITH MY OWN EARS WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU."

And it's both of us. And on top of that, the problem arises immediately. I'll say, "So, I see, you did [XYZ]" and he will shout "I NEVER DID [ABC] HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT" and then "I NEVER SAID [ABC] I SAID [XYZ]" etc., see above.

I think I know what's going on now, because at 6:36 this morning, I was coming out of the bathroom and I heard him say, "Hey, Ellen, got a minute? I need you."

I padded into the room. "You need me for something?"

"How did you know I wanted to talk to you?"

Because you just said, "Got a minute? I need you."

"I didn't say anything."

"I DISTINCTLY HEARD -- Oh. It's this again."

So evidently we've been communicating telepathically, and we're new at it, hence our communication difficulties.

Mindful TV Viewing

At times, Gary becomes self-aware, realizes he’s in emotional pain, and takes steps to take care of himself. Most recently he has realized that watching the news all day is not good for his emotional health. As a result, he will watch the news, yell at the news once, keep watching, then yell at the news again, and then before he yells a third time he switches over to tennis.

So now when I come home, either I hear a dour review of This Day In Politics, or an enthusiastic review of This Day In Tennis.

On the other hand, I have followed the path of so many I know and have started re-watching The West Wing, which was like soft-core political porn two decades ago. Usually morals in society loosen and what was soft-core porn becomes mainstream. In the current political environment, The West Wing has gone the other direction and seems like triple-X smut. A government that cooperates, the press secretary doesn’t lie, the President is rational, ooh, kinky. And almost laughable. Like a Penthouse letter. “Dear Penthouse, you’ll never believe this but I’m the President of the United States,  and the other night I saved Social Security.” 

Mueller Report Due Today

I have alerted my company that I need to work at home today. The Mueller report is due.

• If the report exonerates Trump, Gary will be in a state.
• If the report is heavily redacted, Gary will be in a state.
• If the report shows definitively that Trump is guilty, Gary will be in a state.

I anticipate I will need to take about half an hour to listen to the ranting, calm him down, then hold his hand another ten minutes or so. I'll just work an extra forty minutes.

Punishment

Recently, Gary was late to an appointment with someone who had annoyed him. He said, "He doesn't realize it, but I'm punishing him by being late. He'll never know that he annoyed me."

I asked, "Isn't that kind of passive-aggressive?"

He answered, "No. It gives me satisfaction," which was no answer at all.

I thought a moment. "So all those nights when you came home late from work, were you punishing me for something?"

"No. I really had to work, which, I don't know why, was important at the time." He paused. "That wasn't a punishment."

The way he stressed "That" made me continue to press. "Porn? Do you look at porn? Is that my punishment? Are you having affairs? Sleeping all day? Is that why you don't throw away the stick from the ice cream bar, you just leave it on the table?"

"Yes!" he laughed, "That IS one of the ways I punish you."

"What am I being punished for? What have I done?"

"I will never tell you."

"But that means I can never stop. How will I learn?"

"It is not about you learning. It is about me getting ... satisfaction."

Truly, it was a horrifying conversation.

The next day, I went to put on deodorant and noticed that a lot of the gel deodorant had been extruded from the container, and was just there lying on the applicator, as if some strong-handed husband had decided to just squeeze the gel out by brute force instead of patiently spinning the little dial to extrude just the right amount of gel. 

“I know what this is!” I thought. “This is a Punishment.”

When I confronted him later he claimed it was not a punishment, and that frankly he had seen the same glop and had assumed I had done it and I was punishing him.

I would have thought that the man was gaslighting me, but then it occurred to me that the latest Bomb Cyclone is probably to blame. I could see the reduced air pressure acting on gel deodorant. 

I continue to be punished, though, just not by means of the deodorant. Every day he leaves one of those ice cream bar sticks on the table. I must really be fucking up somehow.

Banana Hanger

Gary brought home a kitchen banana hanger. He hasn't had a banana for months, but he explained, "IT HAD A MONKEY ON IT," so what can you do?

He also brought home bananas, so I embraced the banana hanger, if it gets him to eat bananas.

But then, what happens when the bananas are gone? If you are Gary, you hang a monster from the Mansions of Madness game on the banana hanger.

I had to counter. We have lots of monkeys aound here, since that was Gary's nickname in his youth.

Gary’s Birthday

A week ago, on Gary’s birthday, I called him to see if he wanted some acknowledgment of his day. We have this debate every year. Gary feels that since he is celebrated and pampered every day of his birthday month, any celebration on the actual day is moot. Every day in March is his birthday. I was not raised with the "birthday month" hogwash tradition and I need to mark the day.

"Let's go out to dinner," I begged him. "Let's go to that place where you had Piglet, the pork chop."

"Okay, sure," Gary sighed. "I'll shave."

Five minutes later, he called me back, all pouty.

"It's MY birthday and I don't want to go out. I want you to come home and bring me Chinese food."

Bringing home dinner is not a celebration, I thought. Bogus.

So instead of just bringing home Chinese, I zipped over to the bookstore and bought him a copy of Salt Fat Acid Heat, so he doesn't start thinking he can get away with ordering me to bring home Chinese every night. To counter his no-recipe cooking style, I also got myself a copy of America's Test Kitchen's Giant Compendium of Every Recipe Ever Plus the Complete Winners of Every Food and Equipment Challenge Oh My God (and if you are intrigued buy it there on Amazon where it is essentially half the price.)

Driving to get the Chinese I noticed a newly-opened Mellow Mushroom pizza parlor -- the same place we enjoyed in Asheville, NC. So he got a book, a pizza, and Chinese food for his birthday. Everything he never asked for.

The Torture of the Self-cleaning Oven

I opened the oven the other night and of course, smoke billowed out of it, and Gary began yelling.

"Gary, calm down. That's not the food burning, it's the stuff that dripped on to the oven floor the last time we cooked something."

"Well can't you clean that up?"

"I would if I were ever permitted to use the self-cleaning oven. I can't use it if you're in the house, and you're always home now that you're retired. Plus, it has to be spring because I need all the windows open so you can't smell even a hint of the noxious fumes. You say they poison you."

(The fumes, I admit, are noxious, and I don't know why: all the oven does is heat up to 750 degrees and incinerate all the organic material. Somehow, though, it smells like chemicals. I don't mind smelling the odor, but Gary is convinced it is going to send him into respiratory arrest.)

This time though, he shut himself in his room and "allowed" me to clean the oven. After the three-hour cremation of five years of pie fillings and pizza crumbs, I opened all the windows and doors and ran all the fans. Finally, I went in to tell him the coast was clear.

It was hard to open the door to his room because he had jammed towels under it. I’m surprised he wasn’t wearing a gas mask.

What Games Reveal

When I was in high school, Mom and Dad hosted a croquet game in the backyard.  I don’t remember the exact rule, but Dad was presented with the option to either a) proceed toward a wicket or b) wallop an opponent’s ball across the yard. He chose option b. The opponent, Bob (Mom’s best work-friend), immediately left the party, outraged.

Games seem to be designed to reveal a person’s deepest personality flaws. Dad was competitive beyond all reason. Bob .. I didn’t know him well, but I imagine that perhaps he took things too seriously. 

Gary and I played our game today in an epic four hour session. We won spectacularly, but the journey to the finish line was ugly. Our worst traits were revealed in the stress of the game.

I am impatient. Gary could not find the cards quickly enough for me, given that they were in alphabetical order. I would say ugly things like, “The Pocket Watch card is under the P’s,” and then sigh deeply. Every time. 

Gary casts blame. There was one door-opening move I chose not to take, and it cost me, because  Gary then prefaced every move with, “Well I wouldn’t have to do this if you had opened that door. What were you thinking?” He was relentless. 

We had to have a little tiff about it, and then I shut up about alphabetizing and he shut up about the damn door and then we enjoyed the game again.

Gary's Hobbies

I was digging around in the junk drawer and I saw some junk I did not recognize. After some research, I realized it was a wine foil splitter from back in the day when Gary was into wine, five years ago. Gary dropped wine four and a half years ago, because he follows his interests until BAM suddenly he's off wine, or biking, or making pie. “I am off lifting weights.” And weights are then dead to him.

At least I drop interest in hobbies as soon as I buy some expensive accessory. Gary gives no warning.

Gary's current interest is the Mansions of Madness board game. He owns every expansion pack and fiddly accessory you can find on Etsy. We’ve played it since Christmas. We have won exactly one round.

We were considering having some friends over to play, until he decided we would need to take the iPad that the game runs on and plug it into a giant monitor so everyone can see it, and do we have any monitors large enough, and maybe we need to buy -

"Stop right there." I said. "We are not buying a big-screen TV to play games on."

And since then he hasn't played the game. It's taking up our entire dining room table and we haven't touched it for two weeks. Now I fear he’s off games forever. Then again, maybe this is the secret to making him drop his hobbies. Maybe I’ve cracked the code on how to make Gary drop an obsession I don’t like. Maybe I just need to tell him his 18 hours cable news binges are using up too much electricity.

New Toy

Last week Gary bought this dog dish, because Gary feels his parents’ dog is no longer challenged by licking treats out of a Kong. Evidently pets like to chase their food around.

After it arrived I said, "You know who would love that? The raccoons." I know that our raccoons feel their lives are too easy.

He surprised me by saying, "I would love to use that. I should at least test it out."

"I just bought grapes."

It was surprisingly difficult.

Eureka Springs

Mom would stock up on groceries in the fall and then not set foot out of her house all winter. "I am in for the duration,” she would say. 

It looks like I will be in for the duration as well, given the viruses wafting about in the dry air, and the ice storms, and the like. I don't even have any entertainment booked until late late April, when Patton Oswalt makes up for the concert he canceled.

Because I haven't left the Saint Louis Metro area for a year, I want a vacation, even with the risks.

I'm not looking too far afield, because I'm hoarding airline miles, and also because after this week the prospect of getting into a tube filled with viruses is not appealing. One place I was considering is Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

It's supposed to be a really interesting little town, and it's only about a five hour drive away. There's allegedly an excellent art museum nearby, there's a wildlife park, and the town is supposedly a sweet little Victorian gem.

I broached it to Gary. "EUREKA SPRINGS ARE YOU CRAZY WHY WOULD I WANT TO GO TO THAT PLACE OF ..OF ...CHARLATANS?"

Evidently, among the faithful, the springs in Eureka Springs are said to have miraculous healing properties. So of course now the whole town is tainted. Strike it off the list. 

I did try a Google search for “Midwest science vacation” but that gave predictably poor results. Hmph. We will probably just run down to Saint Genevieve and visit the tiger park there.

Gravity is my Dumbwaiter

We store extra toilet paper in the basement.

Schedule

Gary grew up on a schedule. According to him, not only were breakfast, lunch, and dinner served at precise, set times, but there were schedules and time limits for bedtimes, fun outings in the weekends, and so on. His parents still adhere to a schedule - they allow themselves thirty minutes a day for local news, a certain number of hours for the newspaper, and their evening fruit snack is always at the same time.

Naturally, Gary rebelled as soon as he began running his own life. He has never stuck to itineraries or set work hours. And now that he's retired, one night he goes to sleep at 5 a.m., another night he's asleep at 7 at night. And more power to him, I say. I get it. Where I grew up dinner was scheduled when the food was done cooking, so I can't even imagine what it might be like to have to leave the zoo at three p.m. because dinner was scheduled at five.

The only time his impromptu lifestyle is a nuisance is on the weekends. I want to get a few tiny personal goals done on the weekends, because I Have a job, and weekends are rare and precious. It's just hard to plan my time, given the moving target that is Gary's day.

The friction begins when Gary wakes up.

Me: "I'm going to run  to the grocery for milk."
Gary: "If you just wait a minute I will go with you."

And the for the next two hours Gary does a variety of things, and when I say, "What's this? We were headed to the grocery and now you're Facebooking / in the bathroom / feeding the raccoons / clipping your toenails/ shopping on Amazon?" Then he says "Stop bugging me! You know I hate being on a schedule! Gimme a minute!" And, then, repeat.

What I need to do is yell from the garage, "MILK, BYE!" and not wait. I've learned this lesson before, when he worked all evening and would show up when it suited him. Don't wait. Live your life and if he's there when you're there, all the better, but don't wait.

Of course, that’s just going to lead to more friction. 

His / Mine / Ours

Gary and I have always had separate bank accounts, and when he retired we re-purposed his into a 100% responsible savings account and mine into a 100% reckless spending account, and we both share both accounts. Of course, we transfer a percentage into the savings account automatically, and when extra money accumulates I shuttle it to savings after a few weeks, because I can't wait around forever for that money to be spent. The grasshopper gets at most a month to spend it, and if he doesn't, then the ant takes over.

It has worked out well, after a disastrous early start in which I tried to get him to economize. If you look at his actions it seems that he's fine with the arrangement: he spends money on me, he spends money on his parents, he spends lots of money on raccoon food, but only on rare occasions will he spend money on himself. Recently he bought his father a muffler he admired, and I couldn't get him to buy one for himself. "Spend your money on yourself for once!" I will say.

It's frustrating, because he will say, "Well, it's not my money, it's your money."

I always counter this with the same argument: We can spend at least a mortgage payment on him per month because he spent years paying off our mortgage. We can spend a car payment on him because  he doesn't want to buy a new car for his ego. We can spend the extra money he saved up for retirement because he isn't taking social security.

The second argument, which I never get to, is: if it's my money, why does he think I'd have a problem spending it on him? Does he think that I'm too stingy for him to have new shoes, but that I'd prefer that our gold is alchemized into raccoon poop?

I got his iPad while he was asleep and bought him that muffler.

 

Valentine’s Day

When Gary and I agreed on Wednesday night that there would be no exchange of Valentine’s gifts, I admit I thought forlornly of my fortieth birthday, when a put-upon florist deliverywoman staggered into my foyer under the weight of a Chinese vase full of forty roses, one for each year.

So when I heard him come home today I was surprised to see this:

He couldn’t decide between red or yellow, so he asked the floral department if they could put two different types of roses in one vase.

This is how he is. This is good. I asked if he was annoyed that I hadn’t purchased a surprise gift for him (because WE AGREED) and he said, “The red roses are for you and the yellow ones are for me.”

Gary 2.0: The Appetites

The other day, I read that the Mother-In-Law restaurant will soon be acquired by the Rack House restaurant, a place I’d never heard of though it’s only three miles away. I looked up their menu on-line.

“Hey Gary. There’s this place by us that has chicken-Brie-bacon sandwiches and - ”

“Let’s go. Let’s go now.”

Unexpected. The old Gary would not have been a) that spontaneous or b) that hungry. But now we have Gary on drugs, specifically the thyroid drugs. We went immediately to the restaurant, where he did not have the chicken sandwich but instead put away an ample pork chop the size of my upper arm. We named the chop Piglet. “Piglet went down easy” and “Piglet kept me up all night.”

Then, all day Sunday, he made suggestive remarks about women. Any woman. Every woman. The Progressive Insurance lady. Joy Reid. Amy Klobuchar. All are hot, incredibly smokin’ hot. He has never noticed before how sexy Nancy Pelosi is. Unprompted: “I would do her.” I have not met this version of Gary. Even when he was 29, yes, he would appreciate a well-formed lady, and yes, he would share that opinion with me as if I were a guy, but it was not this day-long game of MSNBC Hot or Not. It was as if I had a glimpse into the mind of 18-year-old Gary, a man I have never met.

All his appetites are stirring. He’s awake, hungry, and if I can spruce myself up to compete with Nancy Pelosi (she does have nice hair), he might be looking for love. Interesting.

Night Sounds

A few days ago, Gary woke me up at four thirty in the morning.

“Ellen! Ellen!”

“Whaarmfmumu ... ?”

“Ellen! There’s something dying in our backyard.”

“Whuh?”

“I think one of the raccoons is wounded in the backyard and it’s dying. It’s making awful sounds right outside the window.”

We went together to the back door where I heard the doleful, anguished, desperate,  unmistakeable cries of a ...

”Beagle. That’s a beagle, Gary.”

I convinced him after a few minutes of “Really, that’s what beagles sound like, there’s a beagle across the street, I thought they were torturing him when I first heard him,” and so on, he settled down. 

I may be painting all beagles with too wide a brush, though, because I thought all beagles made the same god-awful sound the neighbor's beagle does. I was surprised when I had to hunt on the internet to find video of a beagle that makes the same noise I hear every morning and that Gary heard that night. The neighbor’s beagle sounds like the one here. You have to wait nineteen seconds: it takes a little coaxing to make the same distinctive sound the neighbor's dog does.

Sadly, neighbor beagle does not require any coaxing. It really sounds like a dying animal.

We Are Too Stupid to Have Nice Things: YET ANOTHER Ill-Advised Purchase

We have had two ill-advised purchases lately, both from Amazon, and one successful purchase from a brick and mortar store.

That's exactly why when we ran out of printer ink we skipped Amazon and just went to Target, as we did back in the day. I carefully made a note of the printer model. I emailed myself that note, so I would have a backup, because I have bought the wrong type of printer ink before and it is very discouraging.

We were inside the Target, and I could not find the note or the email. ‘Not to worry,” Gary said smugly, “I will look up our printer model on Amazon because I bought it there.” He did. “It’s a Canon TS9020.” 

“You are the Best,” I cooed. ‘You have Saved the Day. You are So Smart.”

An hour later my email finally let me know that I needed to be sure to get the right HP ink for our HP printer. 

(Yes. Shhh. I know. You spotted that right off, didn’t you? That’s because You are So Smart.)

”Oh, there’s the email about the printer ink.” I said, “We don’t need that anymore. You Saved the Day.” Delete. Do not read, of course, no, no, because ... stupid.

Days later I got around to replacing the ink, and of course I sat there looking befuddled at the two vastly different ink cartridges until I noticed the printer said HP and the ink cartridge box said Canon.

After I shook Gary awake, it became obvious what had happened - the printer purchase Gary saw on Amazon was the printer he’d bought his Dad six months ago, not the one he bought us in October.

So, it’s fine, Gary’s Dad is going to get a backup set of ink cartridges. Gary felt guilty and bought the right cartridges immediately .. off .. of Amazon ... kind of in a rush, so ... who knows what we’ll end up with.

Ah-nomatopoeia

Gary has a little trouble with accept / except, and frankly, I do too. They’re homophones and then the two exceptions just throw it all off. I have to study up every time. I once edited his Facebook posts for accept/except, but it’s just too much.

I’ve also noticed that instead of typing  “Uh-oh,” he spells it “Ah-oh.” 

I don’t know if I could truly correct that. Perhaps that’s what he hears and what he means. If Ukrainian cats say “nyav” and not “meow,” then I think Gary can say “Ah-oh.”

Speaking of what cats say, does anyone know what bats sound like? Gary has come in from feeding the raccoons these last few days and he says he can hear a chorus of bats in the trees. I’ve heard it too. It sounds like dozens of squeaky birds singing in the night. 

Bats would be SO cool. But, sadly, I looked it up and unless they are flying around (and unless we both have remarkable hearing), they don’t make any of the typical freaky static bat sounds.

Yet Another Ill-Advised Amazon Purchase

First I bought the German book. This time it was Gary's turn.

He was trying to buy a big salad bowl, because if he makes salad then I can't use the metal bowl to make pie crust (it's the smaller one).

He claims he measured. He claims it didn't cost that much. It cost FIFTY FIVE DOLLARS.

To be fair, he has no idea what a metal bowl costs, and there was nothing in the photo on Amazon to use for scale.

He tried to justify keeping it. I suggested we make an in-ground pool for the raccoons. Or, if we had a baby, we could use it to bathe the baby. Or chop it up in a salad.

 

Snack

Gary makes a salad for dinner sometimes. It's mainly olives and peppers and artichoke hearts and feta. And, a little lettuce. The salad fills up our biggest metal bowl and takes up half a refrigerator shelf. We go through it like an archaeological dig. It takes us over a week. Of course by that time the lettuce is limp but the rest is fine.

Usually that's acceptable to me, but last night Gary elected to go for some salad that was two weeks old.

"Throw that out!" I said. "That's rotten."

"NO IT'S FINE."  He gestured at his bowl of salad that had a dressing of pink slime mold. Suit yourself, I thought.

He sat down by me. Salad goes in mouth. "ACK." Salad comes out of mouth. "THIS SALAD IS ROTTEN."

He got up to throw out all the salad and returned with "A SNACK TO GET THIS TASTE OUT OF MY MOUTH." Pretzels and Philadelphia cream cheese.

Pretzels go in mouth. "ACK." Pretzels come out of mouth. "THIS ISN'T CREAM CHEESE."

I can see how he thought the half-used stick of Crisco shortening was cream cheese: they are both wrapped in foil with blue lettering and measurement markings and stored in the catch-all refrigerator deli drawer. I felt for him.

Later he went in for a goodnight kiss. I am afraid I instinctively pulled away from the Pink Slime Mold Crisco mouth.

Meat Mambo

So, since Gary's adjusting to this new drug, I took over the shopping and cooking duties for the week.

Gary only buys meat that has been rendered down to the size and amount he wants. He won't take a skin off of a chicken breast, or a bone out of a pork chop. I, however, would be glad to butcher a whole cow to get what I want.

They won't sell me a cow. I asked nicely, though, and the butcher at the grocery let me have a seven pound brisket and a giant eye of round roast.

When I came home with all this meat ...

... I knew enough to tell Gary to stay out of the kitchen until I was done sawing and bagging and prepping it all. He was only able to avoid the kitchen for an hour before he came in and began howling about:

1. "WE DONT HAVE SPACE FOR ALL THIS MEAT!" (We have an utterly empty chest freezer in the basement AND a half-empty freezer in the garage.)
2. "YOU LOOK LIKE YOU'RE DISMEMBERING A DEAD BODY!"

I have heard these complaints before. It's okay. It took hours, but we're all set for meat for the next few months, and everything's seasoned and waiting in sous-vide bags. I need that full larder feeling in the winter months, even if I have to play butcher to get it.

Gary Drug

Gary before the thyroid drug:

It’s been a week now that Gary’s been medicated for his thyroid.

On the first day  he was literally pounding on his skull from the seizure activity and panic attacks. I'm amazed he made it to day two.

For the next few days, he was fairly normal. Then, at two am, he burst in the room and announced he could feel his feet.

"MY FEET FELT WEIRD AND THEN I REALIZED I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO FEEL MY FEET FOR YEARS NOW AND NOW THEY'RE BACK! AND THIS FLOOR IS DIRTY!"

That went on a day ... and then other body parts started waking up. In answer to your question, no - the painful body parts. His chipped elbow started hurting again. His torn shoulder. And then today his lower back began acting up again.

Still, he's decided he rather be alive and in pain than sick and numb.

Today I asked why he wasn’t watching the news. “I DON’T KNOW! IT’S THE THYROID PILL! THE PILL TELLS ME WHAT TO DO!”

Gary this week:

Small-Minded Dogma at Chick-Fil-A

Thursday night, for a variety of tedious reasons, we ended up having dinner inside a Chik-Fil-A.

Gary started reading his phone (rude) and of course that launched a political rant about Republicans and how corrupt they are.

Gary: [boring rant edited for time and content] " ... and that's why all Republicans are corrupt."

Me: "Stop. Listen to yourself. Stop saying 'all' and 'every'. You sound small-minded. You can't lump people like that."

Gary: (louder) "YES I CAN. BECAUSE ALL REPUBLICANS ARE CORRUPT." This he says INSIDE a Chik-Fil-A.

I'm sure all the other patrons in earshot began praying for him immediately.

 

Gary Health

Well, the test results came back and my poor husband is indeed hypothyroid. We had a brief fight about it ("Gary, stop dismissing this!" "Ellen show some sympathy!"), then realized once again we were having an Information Deficit Fight, then we went off to the internet to gain all medical information.

I found basic facts (Can you Die From Hypothyroidism?), while Gary dove deep and found the relation between the thyroid and his epilepsy (evidently your thyroid can be affected by epilepsy meds, or else both conditions are on the same gene).

He did learn the thyroid controls the metabolism because it produces the regulating hormones. He's decided that's why he swings between "I'm freezing!" and "I'm boiling."

Gary hit the word "hormone" and latched on. I asked why he was so particularly testy one day and he grumbled, "Hormones! I'm hormonal!" He gets hot? "I'm having a hot flash! Hormones!"  I'm amazed. I would have thought a real hot flash would send Gary directly to the emergency room.

Terrifying. He is now exacting payback for my menopause.

Gary Cheats

No, he hasn't cheated on me. I'm just referring to how he cheats on these games we've been playing.  Since he bought me a new game for Christmas, and then I found him a game right after Christmas, we've been having to modify the "house rules" ("house cheat modes") for two new games.

These games are particularly appealing because they are collaborative, not competitive. In most games I grew up with, winning a game meant you beat the other competitors.

These new board games make the players collaborate to beat the game, not each other. One might pit all players against a related game app that is playing out on an iPad, or against a narrative that is dictated by random card choices.

I mentioned to someone at work that Gary, the most ethical human I know, cheats at these specific games.

"But those are collaborative games. You work together to beat the game. Why would anyone cheat on a collaborative game?"

I answered, "Because he has more fun when he isn't losing," but I didn't really think about it till later.

Why does my husband, the most ethical man I know, break the rules only for these games? He would never, ever cheat at a competitive game. I wouldn't either, but I can understand the appeal. You could tell yourself that you had bested the other players in more ways that one.  You know, "I win, plus I did it because I'm smart enough to make fools out of the rest of you."

(I can assure you, Gary never would do that. I have a friend, let's call him "Joe", and thirty-five years ago Gary spotted Joe cheating at Hearts. Whenever I mention Joe, Gary interrupts with, "Joe? JoeWhoCheatsAtHearts?")

With a collaborative game, you aren't going to feel smug that you are besting your friends, because you're all on the same side. If anyone would be mad at you, it would be the game designers, or the programmers who set up the iPod app. It's like ignoring your wife when she gives you driving directions, versus ignoring Siri. Actually, when he ignores Siri, he also swears at her when she suggests any other route than the one he's set on.

And, similarly, when we cheat at our game, there is a lot of swearing too. When we read along with the instructions on the iPad, it sounds like this:

Gary: "it says, ‘Add the hotel lobby. Place a door where indicated. There are some chairs you could use as a barricade. Place a barr ’- Fuck barricades!"
Me: "Yeah! Fuck you and your barricades, game."

We don't do the barricades, what can I say? It's a house rule.

So I suppose we're looking at the game as an authority figure, just like Siri, something that's trying to boss us when we want to have fun.

God forbid we ever go to a square dance.

13 Days - Not Long Enough

Usually at the end of thirteen days off, I am ready to return to the office. The last few days I’m just waiting it out, until I “get to” go to work.

Boy, not this time. I had such a good time that it was a sad day when I put on the bra and headed back to the programming factory. Before I left, Gary said, “Don’t you want to retire? It could be like this all the time. Just the two of us, playing games, and watching the news, and eating apple pie.” 

He was so convincing that the first thing I did when I got back to work was make a spreadsheet comparing how much we’d have in the 401k if I left at 58, 61, or 65. Tempting.

The Skip Button

A few months ago I noticed that Gary's high-tech TiVo was tagging some shows with a green SKIP icon, and a suggestion I hit a green button to skip commercials. Gary was there, so I didn’t have my hands on the remote, or I would have tried it, since I am young and adaptable.

A few days later, when Gary wasn't around to bellow about it, I tried clicking the green button during a show. It elegantly skipped past all the commercials. 

I was giddy when Gary came home. “Gary! Come look at this! You can skip all the commercials with just one button.”

I was unaware that Gary prides himself on his ability to accurately gauge the complex TiVo algorithm so he can land as close as possible to the end of the commercials, and this new trick has kicked his manhood out from under him.

I can only use the green SKIP button when he isn't around. I’m using it like it’s going to go away AND YOU KNOW IT IS because how are the sponsors going to make money?

Review: Aquaman

First off, DC movies should not be prefaced by trailers for Marvel movies. 

“Oooh,” Gary whispered after the trailer for Avengers: Endgame. “That looks really good. We have to see that.”

And then, right after that excellent Marvel trailer, we saw Aquaman. It was just the worst DC comics movie ever, and I’ve seen Man of Steel.

At one early point there was a long senseless action scene, so I cranked up the seat warmer and snuggled in to take a nap. I knew the movie was a loss for me, but I thought Gary would like it.

People, it was so painful that Gary began writhing and sighing so loudly I had to lean over and shush him.

”But it’s so awful,” he moaned.

I answered, ”I think maybe this is a children’s movie.” I’m pretty sure the language was kindergarten level.

Then, Willem Dafoe rode in on some very pretty pastel seahorses.

Gary leaned over. ‘Why is he riding a seahorse if he can zoom through the ocean like - “

”Seriously, shush.”

”I can’t take it. Let’s leave.” Eventually, forty-five minutes in, we bailed on that movie.

When we emerged from the theater Gary shuddered and exploded with, “GOD THAT WAS LIKE A SIXTIES GLADIATOR MOVIE IT WAS SO BAD.” 

Of course, that’s how he reacts after very good movies too, but he sits all the way through the very good movies before he condemns them. 

Christmas Traditions

Every year I plan to establish some new Christmas Tradition. This is because our current nuclear family traditions just aren't good enough. I want to establish something that we can still do in twenty years, and it won't seem like Christmas otherwise.

• We have the ornament purchase, that's a tradition. That's about the only tradition Gary participates in.
• We have the baking of the in-law's Christmas cookies... only the last few years I have been the only one participating in this tradition. Gary, though he's a talented home chef, hates a recipe, and you can't toss in some spices and improvise a cookie. With the last batch, he put in tablespoons of baking soda instead of teaspoons, and when I recommended we start again he just scooped out a quarter cup of what was in the bowl and decided it was fine. (It was not fine, but edible.)
• We have the eating of the Delmonico roast, though he is surprised every year when we do it and I have to re-explain to him how delighted Mom was to find that Delmonico roast is unsliced Prime Rib.

This year I felt like we needed to add a Christmas Breakfast tradition. Something we'd never eat otherwise, like ... waffles.

To that end I purchased a waffle maker which winged its way to me two days before Christmas. This was my official Christmas present, which I ordered, paid for, and wrapped.

I thought: Fatten up the Christmas Waffles! Ring in the Waffles with Fried Chicken baked in. Lay on the bacon and the craisins!

And then, slowly, I tried and failed all number of fancy waffles. Waffles with blueberries are not like pancakes with blueberries, because the berries squish,  burst and make everything too damp. The hash browns in the waffle maker were an epic fail, probably because I didn't look at any instructions. The cornmeal waffles were too sweet and dense. I didn't even try the marshmallow and chocolate ones.

The best waffles were the first ones out of the waffle maker. They were heaven, though the dimensions were not quite perfect.

I don't want to see another waffle for a long time, so that makes this an ideal Christmas tradition.

And now on to the the worst part of Christmas day: the part that's just like any other day.

Ornaments 2018

This year's ornaments memorialize the beloved Toto toilet and the new black-and-white infrared wildlife camera. The camera has begun to fail already. I'm sure it wasn't designed to take 600 photos a night. No deer have been captured yet, but the challenge is what makes it fun.

Reason vs Feelings

"Reason sits firm and holds the reins, and she will not let the feelings burst away and hurry her to wild chasms." - Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre, my favorite book

I try to live by the quote above, but I confess to you, Dear Reader, in the last week there have been two occasions in which feelings grabbed the reins and we were chasm-bound. In both cases, Gary stood up for Reason. This is not the natural order in our house.

Reason vs Feelings 1: The Heat

The great room is drafty. It has all the windows, and in winter it is cold. I like to turn up the heat in the whole house because the great room is half the house and the cold makes me feel like a little wounded child. Gary said, “PUT ON SOCKS WHY WOULD WE HEAT UP THE WHOLE HOUSE WHEN YOU COULD PUT ON SOCKS AND THE BATHROOM GETS TOO HOT IF THE HOUSE IS WARM!” I put on socks. Reason 1, Feelings 0.

Reason vs Feelings 2: The Tupperware

The pantry shelf devoted to the flour palette looked unkempt and disorganized.

I went on the Great Tupperware eBay Buying Binge to get storage containers. Gary said, “YOU KNOW THAT EVERY TIME YOU ORGANIZE THINGS YOU END UP TAKING MORE SPACE BECAUSE THE ORGANIZATION THINGS TAKE UP SPACE THEMSELVES SO YOU END UP WITH LESS SPACE!”

This is true. And Gary calls the way I organize the pantry Tupperware Tetris. But, look:

And the labels of the lesser-used back flours are visible from beneath.

So tidy.

Reason 0, Feelings 1.

 

In Which Gary Makes a Scene at the Hair Salon

Our hair stylist voted for Donald Trump. Gary is not a fan of Trump. I, also, am not a fan, but I can respect other people’s opinions. Gary and the stylist have gotten into debates over Trump in the past, but the one during last Saturday’s haircut was extreme.

I don’t recall what provoked it, but Gary said, “I DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW ANYONE CAN THINK CLIMATE CHANGE ISN’T REAL WHEN ALL SCIENTISTS AGREE THAT CLIMATE CHANGE IS A REAL PHENOMENON.”

The stylist said, “Not ALL scientists, Gary - “

”ALL SCIENTISTS!”

I won’t document the rest of the conversation, because it was the same two lines above, repeated in increasingly animated tones.

All other conversation in the salon stopped. A woman I imagine to be the shop manager came over to lighten things up. Finally, I said:

“Gary, quit making a scene - ”

“ALL SCIENTISTS!”

... and the stylist and I walked away from the fray. 

Later I said, “Dude, all you had to do was say ‘ALMOST all scientists agree.’”

’‘THOSE PEOPLE AREN’T SCIENTISTS. SCIENCE IS BASED IN FACTS. THOSE PEOPLE ARE TRUMP SHILLS FOR FOX NEWS.”

Sigh. Only two more years.

Gary in My Room

I’ve got my own little nest here in the guest room. Gary has taken over the rest of the house. 

This means I get very agitated when Gary comes in to my territory. He’s too much for the room. He’s a big guy, and it’s a small room, with small, delicate furniture. 

He clambers into the bed and knocks pictures off the wall. He sits in the adjustable office chair, and the chair sinks, then when he gets out of the chair he does it while one armrest is still under the desk and the desk is rocketed off its feet.

If I roll him away from the desk, he leans back and hits the table lamp with his head. 

If he’s drinking a soda, he’ll put it down by reaching over the back of his head and prodding the air with the can until it meets with what he assumes is a flat surface. This does not always end well.

This room isn’t big enough for the two of us, since I’m pretty big myself. I love my bull, but he needs to be banned from my china shop.

Alexa

We have three bedrooms, two baths, a basement, plus a great room / dining nook / kitchen area.

As of today, we have six Alexa dots. Gary is hoarding Alexas. Every area in our 1,400 square foot house has an Alexa listening to us.

Often I will ask the Alexa in my bedroom, “What’s the weather like?’ and three other Dots will all hear me and answer in an unsychronized chorus.

I use the Alexa for a few things. We like the shopping list feature, as long as Gary enunciates and I’m not in the grocery trying to find “bell sonic bill vitamin cheese.”  My favorite thing to do is turn off the bedroom light switch, but have her turn on the bedside light so I don’t have to stumble to my bed in the dark. It’s also good for finding out the time when you are half awake and don’t want to wake up enough to put on your glasses.

Last week I set an timer for five minutes in the future and Alexa sang me a little song about technology. I didn’t ask her to sing. I think she was being a little sarcastic. There are enough of them to form a union and put an end to these constant demands.

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.