Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

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.

Gary and the Illness

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

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

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

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

Game

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

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

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

Other House Rules:

Take as many steps as you want on your turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gary Stalks the Deer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Did It

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

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

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

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

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

Tire Store

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Check the Fit." I said.

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

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

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

Small Uprising of The People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chuck and Gary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Work Gary vs Retired Gary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Election Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

November 6th Plans

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

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

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

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

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

Deer

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

 

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

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

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

PGA Tournament by the Numbers

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

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

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

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

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

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

Number of degrees Fahrenheit one hour later: 97.

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, on the plus side ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anniversary Number 33

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stranger 2: iPhone Salesman

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

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

Love Is In the Air

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

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

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

Gary Remains a Mystery to Me

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

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

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

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

Shopping with Alexa

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

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

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

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

This has led to mischief.

Gary's Retun to Cooking

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

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

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

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

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

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

"IT'S FINE IT'S DELICIOUS."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Because you're what, suddenly illiterate?"

"The words are tiny!"

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

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

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