Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

My Birthday Month

It is my Birthday Month. During my Birthday Month I supposedly win all arguments. So far I have not won any of the arguments we have had. 

Our current argument stems, again, from Gary’s determination that he alone can work on the house. He is the Noble Repairman; outside repairman are not to be trusted. His biology degree authorizes him to  install toilets or fix patios as well as anyone with experience.

For example, the threshold to the back door is rotting, and I no longer think it is an exaggeration to say that we will soon have a threshold made of duct tape. 

And now, one of the two toilets is leaking. I am feeling quite dismayed because he feels that if there’s a leak, you patch it. I feel that if there’s a leak, you find out why there’s a leak and stop it. 

Right now he is patching a leak in the plumbing, and soon he will come to me looking for praise. Praise for patching after I had to beg him like a housewife to get the problem fixed. 

Infuriating.

Color Adjustment

While I might someday be the old lady who cannot use the remote, I do like new technology. I think that must be because I remember old technology. Gather round, young’ns, and let me tell you about ye olde television color settings.

When I first married Gary, he had a black and white television. My family had purchased a color television ten years earlier, so this was an adjustment. My Mom made a few remarks, and may have fronted some cash, and the soon we had a color television. 

One day Gary said, “I think these colors could be brighter. You had a color TV. How do you make it brighter?”

”There’s a color dial Dad said we were not allowed to touch.” That would be the same Dad who fixed the TV after Gary adjusted the image to colors accurate only on Mars.

I don’t blame Gary. I screw up and adjust colors every time I paint. There are infinite ways to screw up color.

I thought of this last night when Gary was watching TV and said, “I think these colors could be brighter.” 

Then he got the remote, navigated to the menu, and picked one of five color settings off the menu. Definitely better.

Skunk Encounters Of the Third Kind

Late last night I was playing my guitar. I was just sitting there in my room: playing, relaxing, breathing; and then suddenly: playing, gagging, crying.

I had taken a deep breath of skunk. A recently discharged skunk must have just walked under my front window.

”GARY OH MY GOD GARY COME IN HERE AND SMELL THIS. GARY! ... GARY?”

I heard the back door slam and Gary came in.

“Gary! We’ve been skunked again!”

”I know,” he called out happily, “It was so cute!” 

Our conversation after that was a call and answer of me wailing “Can’t you smell that?” and Gary saying either A) “That nutty aroma? I’m sure it will waft away” or B) “It was so cute! You should have seen it!”

Eventually the smell dissipated enough for me to have a conversation. Here’s what happened.

1) Gary was taking some bags of peanuts to the backyard. He had on his nerdy headlamp so he wouldn’t disturb the animals with the porch light. He stepped on to the porch.

2) There was a skunk on the porch. It immediately went in to skunk DEFCON 5: Stomping, in which the skunk stomps its front feet as a warning.

3) Gary, seduced by the cuteness of the skunk, whispered, “Oh, you’re so beautiful! Look at you!” He whispered so as not to “alarm the skunk.”

4) The skunk, alarmed, went to DEFCON 4: Scooting Backward while stomping. In retrospect, Gary thinks that he should have turned his headlamp off, because the skunk might have been blinded by the light and not have recognized him. Gary was still hypnotized by the cuteness and was cooing baby talk.

5) The skunk went to DEFCON 3: Raised Tail, and then, according to Gary, skipped DEFCON 2 entirely (which is Whipping Around to Show the Glands). So, instead of aiming his rear at Gary, the skunk had his butt pointed away from Gary when he went to DEFCON 1. 

6) Gary claims the skunk did not emit a full spray. “He was just young and he got too excited. It was just a little premature skunk poot.” 

After Gary finished describing it from his point of view, I was more sympathetic. The baby skunks are pretty cute, and when they stomp and scoot, it’s hard to look away from the skunk siren song.

How cute are they? Here’s a video of a stomp and a scoot when a baby and a mom take on a raccoon that is no smarter than Gary.

A Recent Conversation With Gary

When Gary gets enthusiastic about a movie he has seen, he tends to relate the plot with such detail that you could watch the damn move in less time it takes to get the Gary re-enactment. 

About twenty minutes in to his version of every damn detail of Warrior Nun, when I pointedly pointed at the bored expression on my face, he said, “Wait, be patient, I’m almost at the best part.” Then he talked for ten minutes more, until I said:

”And THEN Glencora goes to Europe with Plantagenet Palliser, even though he’s just been asked to be the Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

He went on. ” ... So then the one nun says, even though she’s been healed with the magic halo ... wait .. what?”

I continued, ”So she decides it’s better to be a Duchess than to be poor and in love with Burgo, but then she gets pregnant and it’s really cute how Trollope lets you know because it was serialized in the London papers and of course they couldn’t say someone was ‘pregnant’ and —“

And that’s how I got Gary to stop telling me about Warrior Nun.

Separate Lives

So, it’s the oddest thing. Since he retired, Gary and I have spent all our evenings together, but during his recent illness, we kept apart. He’s feeling better now, but yet somehow we’re still keeping our distance.

I’d say we only spend every other evening together. it’s very odd. In the past if I went into the bathroom and didn’t return within a minute he’d want to know where I was and what I was doing and if I was coming back. Nowadays, I pick up, go downstairs, and he can occupy himself. Surprisingly, he doesn’t care if I’m coming back.

There’s no active resentment. I guess we figured out that we get along better in smaller doses. Or, more likely, he has a mental quota of how much time we should spend together, and now that I don’t leave the house ever, he fills his quota in the morning and doesn’t need me in the evening. 

Strange days, strange days. 

Mask Order

I know, I know, Gary already has too many masks, but how could I not add this raccoon mask to the pile?

Driving Mask

I was driving in the car with Gary, with my mask hanging around my neck (because Gary’s finally over his illness), but I suddenly found myself with the mask over my nose again when:

• a Dodge Charger passed us on the right and revved his engine aggressively
• Gary glanced in his blind spot and didn’t notice that the car in front of us was braking hard
• Gary, the car to his left, and the car behind him all ran a red light

It seems if I am frightened I instinctively put the mask on, as if the mask will keep me safe from ALL things, not just the virus.  How will I cope with fear after the vaccine is invented? What will comfort me when I drive with Gary? I might have to keep the mask around as a security blanket.

Garbage Disposer Rules

I heated up a sausage that had lived in the freezer entirely too many months, stabbed it with a fork, and I took a bite, and then I pulled it off the fork, and introduced it to its final resting place in the garbage disposal.

Gary saw this, and said, and I quote, “AAAAAAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHH!”

”What?”

”YOU JUST PUT THAT DOWN THE DISPOSER!”

”It’s bad!”

”IT’S FOOD!”

”I’m not eating bad food!”

”YOU DON’T PUT FOOD DOWN THE DISPOSER!”

I just stared at him, and then slowly extracted the sausage from the garbage disposer. While staring at him.

”THROW THAT AWAY IN THE GARBAGE.”

I did, and then he calmed down enough to explain to me the rules for what goes in the garbage disposal. 

Things that do not go in the garbage disposer:

1. Garbage. Even if you want to dispose of it. It would be nice if there were a machine you could use to dispose of your garbage, a garbage disposer, if you will, but no.

Things that go in the garbage disposer:

1. Fluids
2. Particulate Matter

I don’t know when the rules changed, be we are no longer to use the choppy/grindy blades of the garbage disposer to mince up food into particulate matter, because the water processing plant has had enough of sluicing stuff out of the sewage system. 

He was able to find many citations on the Internet about how you shouldn’t put foods, rinds, shells, or anything down your disposer. I suppose kids today are all about the composting. I told him I would be happy to hurl our bad sausages out to the raccoons, and he didn’t like that idea. (“NO THEY’LL GET SICK.’) So I am now to put all food trash in the trash, and so that it doesn’t draw flies, you’ll love this, I need to put it in a ziplock bag. 

And the awful thing is that I can’t sneakily do what I like on Saturday mornings when he’s asleep, which is to run a garbage disposer on the down-low. Too loud.

Is this crazy? This is crazy, right? Is this because I’m old? Do young folks only use their garbage disposers for sour milk and sugar that fell into the sink?

Gary Takes a Brief Turn for the Worse

Gary woke me up at two in the morning to come in my room and complain about a sudden hip and ribcage pain that was keeping him awake.

I grabbed the iPad. I knew enough about ribcage pain to look for shingles. I typed “hip pain in shingles.”

I told him, “Hip pain is an early harbinger of shingles.”

He said, “I don’t have shingles. I’ve had shingles. I’m immune.”

”It’s contagious.”

”You are wrong. You can’t catch the shingles.”

Back to the iPad. I let him know “a person can catch chickenpox from another person who has the shingles.”

”I didn’t catch chickenpox. I’ve had chickenpox.” He sighed. “That’s how you get the shingles —“

”I could catch chickenpox from your shingles. Me. I haven’t had either. I’m only done with half the vaccination. Get your hand off my doorknob.”

”I don’t have shingles!”

”Go away. I need to find someplace else to live.”

I don’t really think he has shingles, but, wake me up at two am, will you? I can play that game. I knew that just a little dose of escalation would make him back down, because often it seems he has no opinion but for those in opposition to me.

Twenty minutes later he came back in to tell me that he had done his own research and he was dehydrated, that was all, that was causing the hip and ribcage muscle pain. So don’t worry. 

God, wouldn’t it be awful if he does have shingles? I really would have to move out. Well, the chances of that are slim.

Gary and Masks

Gary is doing some magical thinking. He’s collecting face masks as amulets to protect him from the virus. The more face masks he has, the safer we are, though we can only wear one at a time, generally (see below for the exception).

I tried to make a face mask, but as we know the spirits of evil murdered my sewing machine after one seam.

Gary’s much happier stimulating the economy, so here is his face mask collection.

Our first masks were N-95s, because of course Gary did the research.

This mask caused friction in our marriage. Right after it came, doctors began begging for N-95s, and he wouldn’t make the sacrifice.

Turns out the N95 was a construction grade one, not a medical grade one, so he turned on it and picked up two KN95s.

I was quite happy with mine. It’s washable and it covers my wattle. I may permanently integrate it in my wardrobe for that reason. When I’m in my sunglasses and this wattle-cupping mask I look only forty-five years old.

Gary decided this mask by itself was insufficient and needed to be topped by another layer of mask, the sporty, fashionable overmask.

I might have gone with the layered look, but more masks arrived before I had a chance to leave the house: a very snug canvas Chinese mask that Gary couldn’t even fit over his German nose, and a cute one with clouds.

I liked the cloud mask so much so that I believe I said, “Please stop buying masks,” but it was another mask too snug for Gary, so he bought two types of mask extenders.

Mind you, Gary hasn’t left the house for weeks at this point. Then a box of 50 paper masks arrived that he bought a month before.

He started wearing those disposable masks whenever he passed me in the hall or heard my voice. When he left the house for his nose test, he wore the white mask (without the coordinating black overmask, mind you.)

I don’t know when he ordered the next mask that arrived, but this was the ideal, the ultimate, the one mask to rule them all: the blue Take Care mask. I liked this one so much I said, “Cut it out with the fucking masks, already.”

Gary said, “I will. This is the best mask. It has a pocket for a filter and it fits so I won’t have to use those extenders I bought for the cloud mask.”

“So no more masks, right?”

“Well, I won’t buy any more.” He paused. “There might be some still in the pipeline.”

There were: these individually-wrapped wrapped K-95s:

“But look,” he said when I complained. “These are individually wrapped. And they’re from China,” because I guess he wants a mask from every continent for his international mask collection.

When he went out to get his blood draw last week, he came in and gushed, “I found a mask in the car! They had it for me when I got the nose test, but I already had a mask on, so I stowed it in the glove compartment. It’s the best mask! It’s disposable, and it’s yellow.” Face it, from a practical point of view all these masks have been disposable.

Since then no new masks have arrived, but that’s not to say he’s stopped buying them. I wonder how long Gary will keep trying to keep us healthy by laying money on the mask altar.

Game Play Suspended Animation

Gary began feeling much better the other day - so much so that he surprised me with a kiss. There has been no kissing for these three months while he has potentially fought off the virus.

In the afterglow of The Kiss we sat in the same room and watched the same television, another thing we haven’t done in months. During his confinement he seems to have gotten out of the habit of interrupting the television every 20 seconds to share his opinion. God willing he won’t pick that up again. 

Months ago we were in the midst of a session of Mansions of Madness when the whole of America heard what was up in the rest of the world (and then left the house to buy all the toilet paper). Of course we couldn’t get back to it until last night.

I rolled the dice one time, made one move, and Gary decided Rachel Maddow was more appealing than Cluthulu and his minions. It would seem that I have preserved this game, in situ, on the dining table for three months, for absolutely no reason. 

When Gary Wants to Talk

Gary must have separation anxiety, because he can’t abide a closed door. 

We’ve worked out our issues with the closed door during work hours, with a few exceptions. The big issue now is the closed bathroom door.

Growing up, my family never talked through the closed bathroom door. After I was married I gradually adjusted to having chats with Gary if I was in the bathroom, waiting. You know, waiting, as opposed to doing. Not talking if I’m doing.

However, Gary’s now started to talk to me through the door while I am busy in the bathroom. He seems to want to talk when I am in the bathroom and I can’t hear, which happens when:

1. I am brushing my teeth
2. I am urinating

Gary uses the electric toothbrush too, so it will be easy to break him of habit 1. I just have to wait for him to starts brushing his teeth and start up a conversation. He’s very good at seeing another point of view when you force him into it.

However, habit 2 will be harder. He is a man, so his ears are over a yard from the deafening noise of the pee hitting the water, whereas I am right on top of it. The new Toto toilet is bigger, so there’s more of an echo chamber, and really it’s deafening. 

All I could do is have him sit and pee while I talk to him outside the closed door. That is not happening. I suppose I can just start ignoring him if I can’t hear him. 

Spite Mammals

I woke up this morning to this chaos on the sidewalk to the front porch. Lirope leaves and mulch were strewn across the sidewalk and pulled into a right-hand corner where nothing grows.

At first I blamed the deer. “Damn deer,” I said, “Last season they ate all the Ajuga and licked the shrubs to death. Now they’re after the Lirope.”

Then I wondered why some of the Lirope debris was on the right side of the sidewalk. I remembered that I had blocked off the rabbit warren there.

Here's how it looked last week when I blocked it off.

All sealed up, no Lirope leaves.

Here’s how it looked this morning:

So, evidently the chunky rabbit did not like having his front door blocked, and decided to knock the block down and repay vandalism with vandalism.

Overnight, he grumbled, “These humans have infested my home. Pests. A nuisance.” He then checked Rabbit Wikipedia for “how to rid your home of humans.”

“I see. I need to destroy their nest. Well let’s wipe out the landscaping they built.”

Then he chewed off half a Lirope ...

... and dragged it across the sidewalk to cover the offending rock. (Obvious homage to The Godfather and the horse head.)

I complained to Gary, who OF COURSE TOOK THE RABBIT’S SIDE. He even said, “We are living in their field, you know. They have a right to be here.”

Two against one. I had no choice but to remove the rock and stuff some extra Lirope in the hole as an acknowledgement of who is in charge. 

Blood Drive (thru)

Our doctor’s office has done a wonderful job of keeping up with Gary. Since he’s been feverish for nine weeks, they wanted to check if possibly his thyroid was off (or, I suppose, if he’s suffering side effects of the medication). 

So, for that they needed a blood draw, and while I was special enough to get the nurse to do the porch visit, Gary needed to use the drive-up lab at the hospital.

This is how it’s supposed to go:

1. Drive to the special lot at the edge of the Hospital complex.
2. Park and call the special number posted in front of every parking space.
3. An operator will answer and get your insurance info.
4. The operator tells you to drive to the parking garage and get in line.
5. Hang your arm out of the window and get your blood taken.

Five minutes after we called Gary got impatient and said, “Let’s leave,” and then he said that every ten minutes. After Gary’s “Let’s leave” at the one hour mark I snapped “Fine,” and started to drive off.

I had just backed out when the operator came on line, so while she got our info I was circling to get back to the lot. There is a camera on the lot and she must have seen us leaving. I can only imagine that’s why she skipped step 4 - the step to tell us to drive to the parking garage. She must have seen us on the lot camera and thought that was where we were heading.

So we drove back to where we had been for the last hour and sat on hold again while we fought another forty-five minutes, and then gave up and went home.

Of course, the next day Gary went on his own and everything went seamlessly — he called, they picked up in five minutes, they told him to go to the parking garage, and he did all the waiting there. 

The best part was finding that his thyroid numbers are in the right zone. I suppose the increased meds that helped with that are what’s causing the fever and misery. 

Gary Update

At long last, after these many weeks, Gary has turned the corner. He’s not totally healed, but he can go through the night without a fever, though not through a whole day.

He was even feisty enough to try to pick an argument with me, but I did not engage. It was a sign of good health.

What has he had? I don’t care. The doctor’s office checked up on him, which was nice. I don’t know what he told them. I don’t care. All I know is I’d rather have a feisty troublemaker than a big lump of feverish flesh in the bed.

 

 

Baby Time

I was surprised to look through the wildlife cam photos and find baby raccoons.
Usually the babies don’t show until the first week of June. Based on the date these were two weeks ahead of schedule. They look pretty chunky for babies, too. I think someone’s been holding out.

But it is baby season. Gary complained that he put out half a bag of peanuts and they were all gone the next day. Usually this means that Gary will put out an entire bag the next night, but he said, and I quote, “screw those piggy little babies.”

There had been some drama deep in the night when another mama had to defend a baby that had just done something indefensible.

In contrast to the chubby baby raccoons, at dusk I have been seeing the tiniest baby squirrels ever. I read that you rarely see small squirrels, because they don’t leave the nest until they have fur. I take that to mean they have to hit puberty. Well, this year we have four tiny peach-fuzz squirrels out here. Size of baby kittens, if you don’t count the tail.

Raccoon babies too big, squirrel babies too small. That should go in the Farmer’s Almanac as signs of a global pandemic.

Butt Stuff

Gary and I are pretty grabby with each other, which is strange because I’m not physical with anyone else. I’m not a big hugger. 

I didn’t realize how much time we spent nose-booping or hair-ruffling until the covid kept us away from each other. 

We have now established a new tradition to take the place of our nightly goodnight kiss: the nightly goodnight baboon butt rub. We stand on opposite sides of the hallway in the doorways of our respective rooms. Then we face away from each other, back into the hallway until our butts meet, then spend some time rubbing our butts against each other. 

Every night the butt rub takes a different tone. Some nights it’s a big rumbly rub fest, some nights it’s a perfunctory bump. Last night there was a repetitive thrusting quality that reminded me of early sex, when you both have your own rhythm going, and one person’s on the out-step when the other’s expecting the in-step.

I think I might miss the butt-bumping when life goes back to normal.

Gary’s Visit

Well, the day began with Gary stomping around, demanding that he could drive himself to urgent care center where he was supposed to get the chest X-ray to rule out Covid pneumonia. The stomping wore him out so much that he said I’d have to drive him: he was too weak. We expected to get the chest x-ray at the urgent care, and then be sent to the hospital if needed for a swab test.

The access to the Urgent Care was complex. We had to drive to the back service door, park, call a phone number, a nurse came out, asked some questions, and then led Gary into the building.

Half an hour later I got a text from Gary I did not expect.

Surprise! In addition to administering the chest x-ray we expected, the nurse offered a nasal swab. Gary said she actually discouraged it — she said if he’d been sick for three weeks there probably wouldn’t be any virus left in his nose. He said “No, my wife has a compromised immune system and I need to know everything.”

When he came out, I asked if the nasal swab was as bad as they say. According to Gary, yes, it’s bad. His right eye was still watering. I was going to kid him about having a long thing violate him in a sensitive, internal place and how he might get a bladder infection. I didn’t, though, since it seems swabs are his new love language.

He actually got three tests: the chest x-ray, the nasal swab, and the antibody test. So far the chest x-ray did not show any covid pneumonia: the doctor called with those results a few hours later. Gary’s pulse oxygen was at 93%, which was a little lower than expected. (The home pulse oximeter has said 95-97%.) I don’t know when the swab and antibody tests are expected. Probably sometime Tuesday or Wednesday.

Ugh - Answers Delayed

Gary got the call from the urgent care yesterday morning — and they put him off until Monday. He says he’s fine, but of course on top of his angry protestations that he’s fine, he lists his symptoms.

I’M FINE I’M JUST CONFUSED

I’M FINE I’M JUST DIZZY

I’M FINE I’M JUST FEVERISH 

NO DON’T TAKE MY TEMPERATURE

I AM FINE

And then on Monday ... all he gets is a chest X-Ray. After that then we get to have the debate about getting swabbed. I’m compiling my arguments already. I plan to tell him he has an obligation to be another statistic that makes the President look bad. 

Gary Gets Officially Sick

Thursday Gary felt great. He’s been saying for weeks that he had the covid but was showing no fever. It’s been this running commentary.

Him: “My toes hurt ...my eye hurts ... I am so tired ... I am sweating like a pig ...”

Me: “Get a test. Tell the doctor. Don’t tell me. I can’t treat you.”

Him: “I feel so fatigued ...” Repeat. But then Thursday he was fine.

On Friday morning, after I heard that often there is no fever with the Covid, I said what I think were the magic words: “I BELIEVE you have the virus. You don’t have to convince me.” I think this turned him to a new purpose: Proving Me Wrong. After weeks of “I am sick,” he switched to “I am fine. I will show you.”

He felt good in the morning, then he lay down on his back, and after he found he couldn’t breathe in that position, he actually sent an email to the doctor.

He almost immediately got a call from someone at Washington University Medical Center, and evidently he’s been doing all the right steps and is slated for a test (supposedly) sometime today. 

So, hopefully today he’ll get all sorted out. 

The Best Show Since the Beginning of the Pandemic

Of all the things a I’ve been binge-watching — Ozark, WestWorld, Buzzfeed Unsolved — I think the most enjoyable recently was the Backyard Show, in which we spend time watching what’s going on in the backyard.

The Dim-witted Momma raccoon continues to crawl over the neighbors’ fence and disappear into their backyard. I think maybe the reason she seems to vanish is that she climbs the fence so slowly, then pivots and goes down the fence so slowly ... and then I think she runs like hell. That’s why she seems to disappear. 

Soon it will be June, and we will have the baby skunks. We have at least four GlamourSkunks now. Last week two of them appeared in the videos, flanking a raccoon, like bookends.

The most enthralling thing was when the Cooper’s Hawk arrived and ate a raven. We didn’t know it was a raven at the time, we just knew that a Cooper’s Hawk that looked to be wearing leg warmers kicked and shredded a big pair of black legs sticking up out of a big pile of black feathers. We put it together with the video later. This was the order of video images: 1) giant eye-catching raven, 2) no raven, 3) nothing on camera but a close up of the tail of a Cooper’s Hawk. I guess he finished and was surveying his killing field.

The spectacle was gross but very entertaining. It was like a True Crime series.

Male Illness

My brother: the biopsy of his lymph node shows no cancer, and his bile duct cells are abnormal but not cancerous. So ... technically he’s fine. He hasn’t been told what might have caused the weight loss, or the constricted bile duct, but since his blood work is fine again I think everyone’s going to drop it until the Covid is gone. 

My husband: Gary also has an undiagnosed something now. He sneezes a lot, is fatigued, coughs half as much as he sneezes, and his lungs do feel stiff. For two non-consecutive days had a fever of 99.1. He definitely has something. His toes feel stiff but are not blue like “Covid toes.” His eyes feel bleary but are not pink (pink eye is the new Covid toe). 

In both cases, anything I say other than wailing “please don’t die” will be seen as heartless and dismissive.  I want to go on record saying I don’t want anyone to die. I really don’t.

I do want one place to quietly whisper, “You might have bile stones, and you, Gary, you might have a really bad cold.” It could be. But I can’t say that, just in case.

Covid Chinese Toilet Paper

Early on in the pandemic, Gary purchased some toilet paper on Amazon. 

It took a long time to get here from China.

People have very small bottoms in China.

On the left: Wee Chinese Toilet Paper.

On the right: Mega rolls of Cottonelle. (Not Charmin, though, which was the ultimate. Ah! The days of luxury. I remember sitting at the barbecue at Tara, wiping our lips with lace and our bottoms with Charmin.)

Spunky Labia International Toe Porn Superstar at the bottom, shown for scale.

 

Slumber Party

Last night, Gary and I ordered a pizza for the first time in two years. It was a no-contact delivery pizza. You pay and tip on-line and they just put it on the doorstep. Much better than listening to Gary making small talk with the delivery person.

The excitement of the carbs, combined with the usual global pandemic worries, meant I couldn’t sleep at all. At about 2:30 I found Gary in his room. He was still awake, too.

“I can’t sleep,” I complained. “Do you want to play our game?”

”Sure,” he said. 

And that’s how we found ourselves eating Doritos and playing Mansions of Madness from 2:30 - 4:30 last night. 

I’m sure there’s a deleted scene from Mrs. Miniver when the family does the same thing.

A Little Nervous

Yesterday, Gary said, “We need to leave the house and buy peanuts for the raccoons.”

”We?” I thought, loudly. And I am certain my left eyebrow echoed that.

I thought of the video we’ve all seen of women walking around downtown Kosovo as bullets fly. I’ve often wondered what on earth drew those women out of their houses. Now I know. The raccoons needed peanuts.

This may turn into a fight. Or, it may turn into a negotiation. I may trade leaving the house for getting Gary to stay in. I have wanted to try curbside pickup at the grocery, instead of Gary having walk in. Gary tends to walk in, buy his staples (potato chips and ice cream) and walk out. The shopping list is on his phone. He claims there is no bacon on the shelves. I have seen bacon and I ordered it on Instacart.

If that runs out I seriously will butcher and eat a raccoon.

Birthday Month

How is this month different from all other months? It is Gary’s Birthday Month. He woke me up at midnight March 1 to remind me. This means we must follow Birthday Month Rules: he does no chores and wins all fights.

That’s why I was so surprised to hear him vacuuming his La-z-boy and mattress this week. He’s still suffering from the dust that got in his body and spurred this Type B flu episode that of course he now suspects might be the 1% of Corona virus cases that don’t present with a fever. 

One might think that because he did a chore he might be picking fewer fights, but he’s been particularly feisty this month. 

As you know, the Pence Coronavirus updates have been required TV viewing in our house, and he spends so much time yelling over the VP that I can’t follow what is going on. I complained, and now he pauses the TV while he yells, so now the half hour update takes an hour.

Then I asked him to stop pausing and turn on the closed captioning so then at least I can read the information when I can’t hear it over “LIES! THEY’RE JUST FUCKING LYING! WHAT, DOES HE THINK WE’RE STUPID” (and on, and on, and on).

He said, “NO, I WILL NOT TURN ON THE CLOSED CAPTIONING, IT IS MY BIRTHDAY MONTH. AND I’M SICK.” So, sick rules and birthday rules combine in a perfect storm. This is not going to be a good month. 

Gary Adds to His Device Collection

This week Gary added two items to his vast collection of objects he will never use. I assume that I am meant to use them. This is perplexing because these objects have no purpose in our home.

Item One: The Fancy Dyson Ball Vacuum

If you look at our basement stairs you will see every inch of carpet in our house. So of course, he has bought a vacuum. What happened was, he noticed there was a spot behind a nightstand that the Roomba didn’t get to, so he got out the Dustbuster, and it blew some dust back into his face that provoked a sneeze that escalated into a cold that is now Type B flu, the kind you can have without a fever, Ellen, you heartless cow.

So now we have a vacuum (with attachments) that he ... we ... that I can use to get behind that nightstand.

Item Two: The Boiled Egg Peeler

Gary’s been fascinated by this concept since the commercial appeared on MSNBC. You put hard boiled eggs in this device, shake it, and the shells come right off. We got the single serving one, because he ... we ... because I only eat one egg at a time.

You may be familiar with the “Have It Oeuf” version from Bridget Jones Diary:

... but ours looks like this:

I looked at it and told him, “This is useless. I don’t eat hard-boiled eggs. I like soft-boiled eggs. Besides, I bet I can shell an egg faster than that thing.”

So the race was on and the stopwatch was set. It took me fifteen seconds to shell an egg. But the device? Shake, shake, done. It makes a web of cracked egg bits connected by the egg membrane, which you still have to slide off. One extra shake, though, and you just have a damp mess of shell and egg.

And of course it doesn’t work on soft-boiled eggs (I tried: damp mess of shell and yolk) so there’s nothing I can use it for. Much like the fancy vacuum. It will just sit in the collection, useless.

Gary and the Dow

The MSNBC crawl said, “Dow has biggest one-day point drop in history.”

I said to Gary, “That’s misleading. I would prefer to know the percentage of the drop, not the raw number of points.”

“NO NO DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND THIS IS AWFUL.”

”It’s awful, but it’s not the most awful -“

”IT’S THE BIGGEST POINT DROP IN HISTORY. DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? PEOPLE BUY INTO THE MARKET AND WHEN THE POINTS GO UP - “

“Seriously, you’re mansplaining the market to me?”

”WELL CLEARLY YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” And then he doggedly explained the concept of buy low, sell high, ignoring the fact I am federally licensed to buy low and sell high.

But I didn’t give up. “Even if it drops 10,000 in a day, that’s still not a big enough percentage to halt trading. It’d have to be ... like .... 2,000 points — “

”YOU ARE WRONG.”

I tried what I thought was a genius move. “If Trump says more women are employed today than ever in history, you know that’s only true because the population’s bigger, right? The percentage of women working could have plummeted —“

Surprisingly, that didn’t work: it just provoked more of the same. Buy low, sell high, hopefully you don’t say things like that at work or they’ll think you’re dumb, just looking out for you so you don’t embarrass yourself. (Don’t get mad on my behalf. I was openly laughing at him at this point.)

(I’m going to say this next paragraph to you all because Gary wouldn’t listen when I tried to say it to him. I know you know this. I’m womansplaining as a mainsplaining reaction. Actually, I should use the term Garysplaining, because all men aren’t like that.

Anyway, during the crash around 90 years ago, stocks took four days to go from 350 index points to 200, or 42%. Over the entire year it slid to 41 points, almost 90%. Over the last four days we went 28,105 to 25,430. 2,675 points. Almost 10%. Bad, sure, but not the worst in history. Only the “worst in history” because the amount of stock has grown.)

Of course, then they put one of these graphs on the screen and further freaked him out. 


I didn’t even try to point out the x and y axis intersection was at 25,000. Why should I? He wants to be afraid.

Night Visitor

The other night we backed out of the garage and saw a deer on our corner. It froze (yes, like a deer in the headlights).

”Deer!” Gary gasped. He then adopted the special tone we reserve for the deer. “Hello, sweetie! Are you here to visit us?”

The deer, as if it could hear, bounded into our backyard. 

People. The joy. The JOY. I’ve never seen Gary so delighted. All Gary could talk about for miles was how our yard was beloved by the deer above all other yards in the neighborhood. That deer could tell we were heading off for the evening, and he knew he could chill in our yard, drink water in the heated bird bath, look in the windows, and just relax.

And really, Gary is so adorable I see why the deer visit him. I’m surprised deer, squirrels and raccoons don’t prance at his feet every time he walks outside, like he’s Cinderella. 

How One Get Ones Husband to Play His Drum Set

Gary’s hasn’t been playing his drums. I thought it was because his hands hurt from arthritis, or else he doesn’t want to get sweaty, or it eats into his Facebooking time.

As it turns out, he just hasn’t felt the subliminal nudge that gets him downstairs to play the drums. It appears there is a very specific nudge: I have to practice playing Vincent (Starry, Starry Night) on my guitar. 

The last two times I’ve played that, I have listened through two closed doors as Gary has gotten out of his recliner, gone downstairs, and interrupted my practice session to bang on his drums. 

I don’t know what neuron that song triggers in his brain. It was released in March 1972, when Gary was 18. Perhaps it evokes memories of parental expectations? 

More likely it’s a floaty song that I’m playing with no rhythm, and he needs to subconsciously rock out hard to restore order to the universe.

Gary Almost Surprises Me

I could hear Gary watching television in the next room. It was s some period drama, with duchesses and arranged marriages and plummy English accents.

I was trying to work out what it was. The heroine’s name was Georgiana. ”Is it one of the Trollope novels?” I wondered. ”There’s no Georgiana in Austen, is there? Also ... why isn’t he inviting me in there? Why is he watching it alone .... oh! I know what it is.”

It was The Duchess. We saw it in the theatre when it came out in 2008, and I’m certain he’s forgotten all of it ... except for the lesbian love scene. 

I came out to tease him. He denied watching it for the lesbian scene. “No! I just like this movie. But there are lesbians in it too?”

I rolled my eyes. After I walked away, I heard him say “Awesome!”

Golden Eagle

The time Gary spotted a bald eagle he called me from the road immediately.

This time he was home for two hours before he mentioned it. This most recent eagle was a Golden Eagle instead of a bald eagle, and it was in a busy intersection, not on the winding back road.

I’m sure the next eagle he sees he won’t even mention it. And also, why don’t I see any eagles? I’m on the roads more than he is.

It is nice to see the eagles without paying $400, like you usually do to see the Eagles.

Hand

Yesterday we went to the moves and saw The Turning. (Ah, yesterday, when I didn’t know how completely they could destroy Henry James.)

During the opening credits Gary snuggled a little closer to me. I felt something touch my shoulder, and I glanced over, and saw this:

He had smuggled our fake dead hand into the theater and was using it to caress my shoulder. 

I had to stifle my laughter. I wish I could say I jumped. It probably would have been more effective if he had waited until a scary part, but well enough: there were no scary parts.

Gary’s Capacity for Argument

There are a number of reasons why I get along better with Gary now that he’s retired, and one is because he has found Facebook. Facebook is Gary’s argument outlet now instead of me.

And MY GOD how he can argue. While the rest of us stay in our bubble of generally like-minded friends, Gary seeks out people who will debate him on Facebook. 

One of Gary’s Facebook friends debate partners is one guy, D______, who is as red as Gary is blue. Gary will state his opinion on Facebook, D_______ will counter with the opposite, and the debate will go on for pages. 

Gary says climate change / ridiculous border wall / Saint Hilary, then D______ says hoax / stealing our jobs / criminal mastermind, and my friends say who is this D______ guy and how does your husband know him?

It’s quite nice someone else gets to be Con to Gary’s overwrought Pros.

Saint Louis Post-Dispatch Subscription

Reasons why Gary signed up for six months delivery of the local paper at a ridiculous fee:

• Gary loves Rachel Maddow. She frequently tells him we should support our local paper, and he wants Rachel to love him back.
• Gary loves me, and the salesman used that. When the salesman asked where we got our news, I said ”I just need to answer a few questions in the on-line version of the Post-Dispatch and I can read anything I want.” He said, “Well, that’s one way, but if you subscribe to the delivery you can get the on-line version for free.” He then immediately looked at Gary as if to say, “Are you a monster? Why are you making your wife click on questions?”
• Gary loves animals. When I argued that the paper makes a lot of trash, the salesman said, “Oh, you can donate used papers to animal shelters. They always need a lot of newspapers to line the cages.”

So I’ve only once come inside and winged the uncollected paper at him, and I’ve said only one dry thing about the accumulating trash. (“If you’re worried about snow falling on top of the raccoon’s food you should cover it in a layer of newspaper.”) 

Yet, I am beginning to warm up to it. Yesterday I sat next to him while he was reading it, and he asked, “Do you want some of the paper?”

I don’t know why, but that got me. Sharing the paper is the type of thing an old couple in love does.

The Amazing Ellen: Update

Well, Hellstromism practice with Gary went better than expected. His hand did give away where the object was that he was thinking of. He didn’t yank me off my feet, but he truly swung his hand like a compass needle toward the object.

Sadly, we were doing it in our great room, and it’s just not big enough or grid-like enough to do a real test. I’ll just have to have him place the object somewhere in the house instead of somewhere in the great room. 

Toward the end, he began to argue with me. He asked why I wasn’t talking to him to reveal where the object was.

I said, ”Why would I talk to you to find the hidden object? You’re supposed to think of the object and I’m supposed to read your mind.”

”No. You keep up a patter and ask me questions that make me reveal where the object is.” Blatant “mansplaining.” Well, mansplaining would be if he explained something we both know. I know how it’s done, and he doesn’t.

I sighed, ”No patter. That’s not how it’s done.”

”Yes it is.” He actually said that. “It’s all done with the patter. You can’t actually read my mind, and talking to me is the only way to tell what’s in my mind.”

”Nope.” Mind you, I’m saying this while I have his wrist daintily pinched between my thumb and index finger. 

“Listen to me. You need to work on your patter.”

”Sure. Whatever. Is it the lamp?”

Of course, it was the lamp. And he was not adequately amazed. That pissed me off as much as the mansplaining, frankly.

Bald Eagle

It is so hard to shake what you learn as a child. For example, bald eagles: I know they aren’t endangered anymore, but when a young girl goes to Washington D.C. in 1976 and sees a bald eagle at the zoo and hears that there only a few of our nation’s symbols left, and she interprets that to mean there’s only this Eagle at the zoo and his immediate family somewhere in the back, that’s hard to shake.

We’ve gone Eagle watching in our area, but it was an hour drive, and of course there were no Bald Eagles. While they aren’t endangered, they’re rare, right? They’re a Special Occasion Eagle, like when you need to start the baseball season, or raise money for your nature habitat.  

Gary called me Tuesday just after he left the house.

”A bald eagle just flew in front of my car.”

”Impossible,” I said. ”Maybe it was some other kind of eagle.”

”It was a bald eagle. I almost saluted. It took off from the road ahead of me and flew up into a tree.”

I immediately did some research and not only was it a bald eagle, it is the season when bald eagles like to come to the nearby river, and they like to pick roadkill off the roads, and one of my friends just saw one a few streets over a few days back.

It was lucky that Gary didn’t run over it when it was in the road, because there’s be a hefty fine for that. Wait - no - that was back in the seventies. Or maybe not - someone was just in big trouble for shooting one. The laws regarding bald eagles seem very inconsistent.

Art Is Open To Interpretation, I Guess

So, this was the end result of the teacups. 

It has its flaws, but I still I went ahead and framed it and told Gary we were giving it to his parents.

This is how he hung it up over at their house.

I’m sure if I had opted for a standard still life, with erect teacups and a bowl that sits on its base, there would have been no problem. Instead, he decided that since there are no visual clues he would just make the objects in the still life defy gravity.

I made him call his parents so they could correct it. He called while I was at work, and because he didn’t listen to my explicit directions, the bowl is now on the bottom. Still wrong.

And it’s even signed, faintly, in the bottom right. I thought the teacups were pretty realistic. Evidently not.

Gary's Contribution to the Christmas Tree

Gary commemorated the purchase of the second Toto toilet with his contribution to the Christmas tree.

Marriage is compromise.

Gary’s Comment

Gary complains sometimes that I don’t respond often enough when he’s speaking to me. There’s a certain amount of “oh” and “um-hmm” he requires. (No actual words, that’s interrupting, can’t have that.)

The last time he demanded to know that I was listening, I responded sarcastically with an overly loud and animated ”UM-HMM,” which prompted him to call me ...

An “insolent bitch.“

The “bitch” part rolled right off, because it’s true, particularly after that “UM-HMM,” buuuuut ... ”insolent?”

I thought about it a moment before I began laughing uncontrollably. Insolent? Insolent! Have I completely misread the household dynamic? Here I thought we were equals; evidently, I am an underling. An insolent underling.

We made up soon after, but you know next time he acts up I’m playing the insolence card. “Be quiet, you insolent puppy!” “Shut your insolent mouth.” “I shall not abide such insolence!”