Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Gary Due Diligence

See, with Gary, the thing is that he has an odd interpretation of "due diligence." To him, if someone else is installing our new mailbox, Gary's due diligence is learning how to install a mailbox. Not to install it himself, mind, just to be sure that they're doing it right, that they aren't overcharging him, that he can help with ideas if needed.

He has done this with the basement, the retaining wall, the plumbing, and on and on. He needs to complete an apprenticeship in whatever task he needs done before he can get on the phone and schedule a visit.

I realized yesterday: that's what he's doing with this skin condition. He has to become a damn dermatologist before he can call the dermatologist. 

I said that to him and he called the dermatologist. He would tell you that what I said didn't motivate him, he was more concerned that the wounds began oozing blood overnight, but I still think my remark might have spurred him on too.

(Of course there's making the appointment and keeping the appointment. He had a colonoscopy slated for today that he isn't going to.)

Too Much

I have been having the worst arguments of my life with Gary on the topic of his health.

This is the timeline of events.

1954. Gary was born. Born unto a family that fed sick children ice cream because that’s the reward for being sick. 

Mid 1980s. Gary wed me. In my family, sick children were fed saltines and cold beef broth. My family will literally die before complaining. Gary's complaints are worse than his actual suffering. I often forget this.

10 months ago. Some construction introduced drywall dust into our house. Gary was allergic and broke out in a rash.

1 month ago. Things got worse.

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

This past month has been filled with new marital experiences.

I did not know that Gary could lie to my face.  He said, "The doctor told me that it's an allergy and I'm in the best shape of my life." Doctor's written report says, "This is not an allergy, this is psoriasis."

I did not know that I can get so upset with him that I hyperventilate. I catastrophized the psoriasis into disabling psoriatic arthritis, because Gary also has arthritis, and had several episodes of crying so hard I couldn't catch my breath. While peeing. As I do, but at least I was in the bathroom.

I did not know Gary will walk in on me in the bathroom if I am crying hard enough. This is more shocking than anything else in this last month. 

==========

Just last week, though, he ended a fight with, "Let's just call it 'The mysterious skin condition' so we can stop debating what it is." And then, hallelujah, two days later, he came in to my room at 1 am and said 'I have psoriasis!"

"So you'll go to the doctor and get treated?"

"No, it's not that bad." And yet he begins every day with half an hour of complaining.

All the advice on getting a sick husband to a doctor starts with step 1: Be patient. It is going to be a year of this nonsense in a few months, and four years of the sleep apnea which, I find, is co-morbid with psoriasis. 

Seriously, the person I love most is hurting the person I love most. The only solution I can take is to pull back because I love him too much.

Husbands, appointments, and doctors

I don't make medical appointments for my husband, because I wouldn't want him doing the same to me.  

I drive him to appointments, but I stay out of the exam room, because he's a tough guy around me, and I need him to be afraid sometimes. Currently, the tough guy who says, "I can take care of this medical problem by showering more and sleeping with the window open" has run out his welcome in my house.

The tough guy not only makes up magical non-prescription solutions, he likes to have an enemy. The current enemy is the company that repaired our bathroom ceilings back in October. According to him, they released gypsum dust into the air that circulated through the house and caused all his symptoms, nothing to be done about it, except for extra magic showers. I get it, tough guy would rather hate a villain than feel God has visited a plague upon him. 

I hate tough guy, though. 

Disparate Memories

The Paris Olympics are bringing up fond memories for me of our visit to Paris. (Sept-Oct 2010)

Gary loved Paris when he was there. Almost no complaints.

Somehow, now that fourteen years have passed, he has worked up a comedy routine on how awful Paris was. 

According to him, the room had bedbugs, he had to sleep in his suit, the food was awful, our hotel had no laundry service, rats were all through the streets, the lies go on.

This is the "hole" that was our hotel room.

A hole with antiques. Perhaps his complaint was that there was only one oil painting and one chandelier in our room.

It's so sad. I have seen that when he forgets something, he'll just gin something up to fill in the space, and it's usually dark. Disheartening when you go on vacation so that you have a lifetime of good memories. 

The Great Compliment Shift

Gary, bless him, is generally not a jealous man. I take credit for part of that: early on in our marriage, when he would show a hint of jealousy, I would ask, “What part of me bellowing like a rhinoceros don't you understand?" 

That did the trick, with a few exceptions. There was one time, I was headed out to see a movie with two male friends, that he gave me quite a cinematic kiss, stuck his finger in my face, and growled, "Don't forget that tonight." And of, course, he has recently taken to calling me "Whore," if I throw some words of affirmation at random men.

But in general, he’s pretty secure. That’s why if some man at work is foolish enough to pay me a compliment -- I don't take compliments well, fancy that --  I am confident enough to let Gary hear about it.

In the past, his reaction has been determined by how he has spontaneously judged the man giving the compliment.  

First off, he never thinks the man is paying me a genuine compliment, when in reality that is almost always the case.

• If he feels the man is a crotch-sniffing dog, he says, “Hah! Good luck with that, fella.”
• If he feels the man is not a crotch-sniffing dog, he says, “That’s great! You go, fella.”
• Then, regardless, he says that I should expect that because I am "so pretty and sweet." (Gag.)

This is where the shift has come in.

This last time, he said I should expect that because I am "so smart." (Smart?)

So that's where we are, now, evidently. That's my new appeal, my brain. Not my sexy feet or my good nature.

He's said it twice in the last year. I mean, at least he's being honest. But, still. Part of aging, I suppose.

 

Gary's Surprising Closet

I recently heard Gary bustling about in his closet.

I came in to find this astonishing reorganization.

Ninety percent black t-shirts. The man is retired. 

The two non-black shirts were just recently added back to the rotation because the others were deemed contaminated with construction particulate matter.

Early Yesterday

It was 3:45 in the morning, and Gary grumbled so loudly about the thermostat that it woke me up, and things degenerated after that.

I think the argument got to the stage of, "Well, why am I storing the thermostat manual downstairs if you refuse to look at it / Oh you just know everything don't you?" when I glanced at the iPad.

"Oh," I said. "It's June 14th. It's our 39th anniversary."

So we took a moment to kiss and sing the Happy Anniversary song, and then it was back to "Well at least I know enough to read a manual if I don't know something."

Waterbeds

Children, back in the day there were these things called waterbeds. All I can imagine was that people grew fond of how it felt to sit on a beanbag chair, and they wanted a beanbag bed, but there wasn’t enough styrofoam. 

So we truly slept on top of big grey plastic balloons full of water. 

We also had a waterbed for at least two years. I went from newly engaged, freshly deflowered, having sex on a bed, to having sex on top of a water balloon. 

I blame myself. Gary wanted to test out sex in a waterbed before we bought it. The was a seedy motel by the airport with “WE HAVE WATERBEDS” on the sign. We were actually in line to check in when I lost heart. Knowing how suggestible Gary is, all I had to do is say, “Ow. I think something bit me,” and five minutes later he was scratching himself and then we got out of line, and went home, saying, “I’m sure sex on a waterbed will be great. It must be.”

It was not great. It eventually worked because of Archimedes' principle of water displacement, but it meant that whoever was on the bottom was banging against the plywood support. It did make us more adventurous because we would rather have sex anywhere but in the bed. 

Do they even sell waterbeds anymore? I hope not, for your sake, children.

Magnifier

“Oh that’s a present for you!” Gary said, responding to my pantomime of, “What is this new nonsense from Amazon?”

This was my present.

“Stormtrooper biofeedback device?” I thought.

He said, “It’s a lighted magnifier. It’s great! It lets you do fine detail work. Like for your oil painting.”

For a moment I was charmed, then I said, “You bought this so you can read small print on Netflix and it’s not right and now you can’t return it.”

“No.” (Long pause.) “Well, yes.” 

So now I have this device. I haven’t tried it yet. Still, the packaging does not give me great hope for the quality. Inside the package is a “Lenses receiver box,” which seems to be a box in which one might store one's multiple magnification lenses. The package also assures me that the device will provide “Strong or gentle light for chooes.”

I have no idea. I mean, spell check should have caught that, right?

 

 

Gary's Instagram

Disclaimer: This post was reviewed and approved by Gary himself. Don't feel any second-hand embarrassment on his behalf.  

I visit Instagram every five years, evidently, because no one takes photos of their children going to remedial summer school or their family arguing on vacation. But, Gary wanted to show me this Meta AI feature, so I happened to see his Instagram Search page. 

Sportscar. Hoodie. Woman in sandals. Cheerleader. Red toe manicure. Electric car. Bare feet on beach. Woman pointing toes in order to put her foot into stockings.

Huh. 

"Hey." I said. "Gary. Half of these photos are of women's toes."

"No they aren't."

I began to count. Foreshortened toe shot. Emma Stone. Line-dancing monks. Toes. Scantily clad woman with bare feet? I didn't count that one. But, then, electric green painted toenails. There was a trend.

"Seriously, Gary, it's fine if you like feet. I'm just surprised."

(I heard Spunky Labia, International Toe Porn Superstar, whisper smugly, "I've always known." I ignored her.)

He tried to convince me the algorithm leaned toward toes because Mark Zuckerberg, owner of Meta, was German, and Germans love toes, until finally he landed on, "You know I'm a leg man. Feet are part of legs, and toes are part of feet." 

I thought, "I don't see any knee closeups."

Then he spent five minutes claiming the Irish (and Germans) are well-known leg and foot lovers because of their agrarian heritage, somehow. I wasn't listening. I realized that while he is a leg man tragically married to me, if he wants to see toes, I can compete with the best of them.

Then I remembered I'm competing with the male brain sex image jumble anyway. My toes might have gotten me in his bed, but I share it with every woman in his head. And why even compete? Just let them do the heavy lifting.

Epilogue in the interest of fairness. I have never done an Instagram search, ever, and this is my search page below: Puppies and children and girls at prom grinding on each other. 

 

Gary the Canary

I can always count on Gary to let me know when food has gone bad, generally right after he staggers out of the bathroom. 

“THE YOGURT HAS TURNED,” he will intone. “I AM THROWING IT AWAY.”

I don’t think this is the best way to find out the food is bad. I prefer to look at the dates printed on the package, but Gary doesn’t understand those dates. 

I will tell him, “Gary, don't drink the milk. The date says it’s bad.”

“NO THE MILK IS FINE IT HASN’T BEEN OPENED.”

I don’t get this rule that milk doesn't age as long as you don’t open it. Still, I like having a big guy who can eat the food in the fridge and then take the hit for me. He says he’s like a coal mine canary, putting himself in the way of the contaminants.

Campaigning

The door rang. I was closest to the door, that’s the rule, so I opened it. 

(That's Gary’s rule. Recently Gary complained about all the rules I set for him, and I snorted because Gary dictates so many rules that there is nothing left to codify.)

The man on the porch handed me a pamphlet and said, “I’m John X______, and I’m here campaigning on behalf of Republican State Representative Joe _______. “

I could sense Gary tense up. He was triggered. Oh John X ______, I thought, you are at the wrong house.

I slowly handed back the brochure as I asked, “Oh, Republican did you say?”

He laughed and said, “Thank you for your time.”

It was a very genial exchange. I closed the door and Gary relaxed. 

What would I have done if Gary hadn’t been there? I would have taken the brochure, read it for any signs of moderate leanings, and engaged the man in conversation on those topics just to watch him dance. Much more fun.

Cranky Old Man at 70

Today is Gary’s 70th birthday. I remember when I was first engaged to him, and Mom cautioned me that our eight-year age difference would come back to bite me at some point.

“Oh, no,” I scoffed. “It sounds like a big age difference now, but when he’s 70 and I am 62 it won't be a big deal.”

I was wrong. It IS a big deal.

I am now a concert-loving, museum-going, well-traveled cosmopolitan sixty-something saddled with Emma Woodhouse’s father from the Jane Austen novel. 

He wakes up daily with some complaint, say, a sore foot from an injury he got thirty years ago. “It’s my foot,” he says, “I can’t vacuum / leave the house / put on my own socks / hide from the tornado in the basement.” His day is spent trying to be comfortable. He changes chairs and sitting positions like Mr. Woodhouse avoided drafts. 

Combine that with his belief that part of the discomfort is best relieved by being an ass to the person taking care of him, and my next twenty years look bleak. So, the dynamic is about to change. I told him I'd be traveling alone on the next vacation, which I hope will be next year. I also told him I’d be doubling the budget for that vacation because I don't have to pay for him. 

I will gladly spend all the other weeks of the year putting on his socks. I know he won't like it, but that’s how it is. And I suspect that after a few vacations alone Gary’s foot might feel better. 

Review: Argylle

I hate action movies. James Bond? Mission Impossible? Put me in one of those new comfy cinema seats and I am asleep at the first chase scene. 

Are you the same? Does your spouse think you are odd for requiring dialog, or plot progression?

Well, enjoy your revenge when your spouse conks out an hour into this movie, and then later when he sounds much like you during a Bond film. “What was the POINT of the last ten minutes?” “Are we supposed to believe the cat/the building/the boat would survive that?” and “Wait, so that character is evil now?”

He was full-out writhing at the end, and in response I poked my finger in his face and said, "This is how I feel during every action movie you make me watch." It was quite gratifying.

I don’t know why neither of us recognized that this was a parody. Perhaps because it wasn’t one? Or it wasn't marketed that way?

I am pretty sure there won't be the sequel promised in the puzzling cut scene. The reviews are pretty vicious.

Speedo

Gary recently shared a story I must have suppressed. 

I believe we were in our first year of marriage, perhaps even not even three months married, when Gary's boss had a pool party.

"We are going to this pool party," Gary announced.

"I cannot swim," I said. 

"You don't have to swim." 

"I have no swimsuit," I countered.

"What about the bikini you wore on our honeymoon?"

"I am not wearing a bikini in front of people I have to talk to."

(I believe we all know this rule. One can be exposed in front of strangers, yet if one is exposed in front of co-workers, said co-workers need to avert their eyes and never reference it again. And yes, that is an obvious blog analogy, co-workers.)

"Why can't you wear a bikini? You look great in your bikini."

"That's exactly why I can't wear my bikini. It's like wearing underwear in front of people I'm having a conversation with." 

"That's silly. It's not that different than a one-piece."

"Fine. You go buy a Speedo swimsuit and wear it to your work party. You do that and I'll wear my bikini."

And people, the bastard did it. He got a Speedo and wore it, so I had to keep my end of the bargain. Obviously, we both got in the pool and never got out. My neck ached from all the conversations I had from sea level looking up at the sun. He never wore the Speedo again. I did wear my bikini again, but in a foreign country where I would never encounter anyone we knew.

I Have Sucessfully Raised a Husband

I know that you, as parents, are all so proud when your children graduate, or move out, or get married.

Soon I too will have successfully taken my charge past a milestone as well.

In less than a month, Gary will turn 70 years old. I raised him all the way to 70. Or, as parents say, I got him to 70 without killing him.

I feel as if I should get an award. I fear what I will get is the dark side of Grow Old Along With Me. 

One Silver Lining to Gary and the Dust and the Allergens

The dust has resulted in a positive. Gary claims that the allergens and dust rain down upon him from the ceiling as he sleeps, so he, delicate princess that he is, has taken to wearing his long-sleeved business shirts to bed.

You cannot imagine how sexy it is. Ladies, gentlemen, I strongly advise this  look if you need to spice things up. 

Gary and the Dust and the Allergens

I know, you're sick of it, but I don't know what to do. Gary will not shut up about the dust and the allergens. 

"Oh God, Gary, please just shut up about the dust. If it's not the dust, it's the allergens. Stop it."

"I CAN TALK ABOUT WHAT I WANT IN MY OWN HOUSE."

"No. I can't take it any more. It's like you're a robot programmed to talk about nothing but how you're allergic to the allergens."

"POKE MY NIPPLE," he demanded. 

After a slight delay, I poked it.

"ALLERGENS," he said.

Dust Updates

The construction work happened three and a half months ago, and Gary still suffers from his dust allergy.

This morning I was watching One Day on Netflix, and -- and I don’t think this is a spoiler -- a woman complains to her husband about “the construction and the noise and the dust.” [Emphasis: mine. Mineminemine.] I replayed it for Gary when he woke up.

Sadly, that set him off. After he talked about the dust and the particulate matter and the allergens for forty-five minutes, I banged my head against the back of my chair and pleaded,“Stop. Talking. About. The. Allergens.”

“I wasn’t talking about allergens,” he claimed. “I was talking about physics.”

“The Physics chapter of the Allergens encyclopedia in your head.” 

I feel that a lot of the allergen issues could be mitigated if I could clean, but of course, he feels that will just kick up the dust. I have resorted to coaxing the cat into the corners under the bed so he can pick up the white dust with his black fur. 

This is not going to end until it is warm enough for us to clean with the windows open, fans in each window. About a month from now. As Gary explained, “We can’t clean until winter’s over. That’s why it's called spring cleaning.” As if the only time one is allowed to clean is in the special season reserved for that.

New Era in Marriage

As you know, I’m always baffled when women say things like, “My husband didn't want to work out in the yard this weekend, but I made him.” How. How did you make him? Teach me. I will pay you money. Because I can't get Gary to do anything. In my marriage, arguing doesn't work. Withholding love doesn't work. Crying absolutely does not work.

However, I am amazed to report that I finally got a foothold. I didn't "make" him do anything, but I was able to influence Gary to change his behavior.

He randomly asked me how much I would pay for a soundbar. ”I don't know,” I said, because really, his question was, “Guess how much money I am about to drop on a soundbar.”

After I thought about it I answered, “A thousand dollars?” 

”Oh no,” he said happily, “They’re only $800.”

I thought, “Screw that. I don’t want a soundbar.” But, I could get something I have wanted for months.

I said, “You can't buy a soundbar because of the drywall dust. It would get in the holes and damage the speakers.”

I didn't breathe as his face twisted a little and then he said, “Well, I have noticed the dust seems to be settling. I haven’t been coughing as much.” (He has been coughing as much as ever.)

“I don't know,” I said. “You still talk about it a lot. And we still can’t vacuum because you say that just kicks up more dust.”

“I’ll start vacuuming next weekend,” he promised. 

“Well, then, if that works then maybe go ahead and get a soundbar.”

Sadly, he later weighed what he would love more: a new soundbar or complaining about the dust, and complaining won. He doesn't want a soundbar anymore. But still, just for a moment, I made him do something.

Ancient Secrets Revealed: Part the Third

This past weekend I discovered Gary has kept a secret from me for almost forty years.

When Gary was young, he went through a fallow period regarding women. No dates, no interests, but in his late twenties he got a better job, better self-image, and made up for lost time. He joined a singles group and landed in a pretty long-term physical relationship with the group president. 

According to him, he broke off that relationship with Madame President, because it was purely physical, and he wanted more.

He then dated such a variety of women that he couldn't keep track of their names and eventually focused on me.

So, I had been given to believe this was the timeline:

1. Gary bones Madame President for months 
2. Gary ditches Madame President because he is a man too noble to ever be satisfied with just a physical relationship
3. Gary dates lots of other women, all at the same time, but soon finds me

But no, Gary has now revealed that the real timeline was:

1. Gary bones Madame President for months AND Gary dates lots of other women, all at the same time 
2. Madame President finds out and ditches Gary
3. Gary dates other women, all at the same time, but soon finds me

So, in retrospect, I should have been able to figure out the real narrative -- especially given that I did the same thing with my first real boyfriend: cheated on that purely physical relationship with more than one other person.

I understand why he kept that a secret at first. I’m sure he thought I’d have said, “Once a cheater, always a cheater” and not dated him. I suppose the statute of limitations runs out after 40 years? 

Walnuts (Shakes fist in air)

Gary has been eating this non-stop since last fall.

He snacks on this all day. Except for the sunflower seeds. He stands against the sunflower seeds. He leaves those in the bag for me. And I did not avoid them, because I like sunflower seeds.

And then he stood against the almonds, and I said nothing, because I like almonds, and he left them in the bag for me.

And then he stood against the entire bag, and I said what the F is wrong with you dude?, and he said:

"WELL ITS JUST THIS STUFF IS TOO EXPENSIVE I CAN MAKE MY OWN."

Then he bought dried fruit and raw walnuts, the only two parts he seems to still like. He mixed it all up, sampled it. He began to itch, and his stomach hurt.

In the Google searches of "What do walnuts do to your body?" he found this:

"Also, to avoid problems with absorption, don't take your thyroid hormone medication with foods that contain walnuts, soybean flour or cottonseed meal. Don't take it at the same time as you take an iron supplement or a multivitamin that contains iron."

I keep forgetting he takes thyroid medication.

A little more research showed that they also interfere with his epilepsy medication. He was instantly off walnuts. I begged for the 128 ounces of raw walnuts, so I could roast them and put them on ice cream, or use them myself in my own food.  (We now have separate food as well as beds and bank accounts, because ... I don't know why. Maybe he feels we are getting too close after almost 40 years.)

He cried NO and he won't even feed them to the raccoons. Again, why. The raccoons aren't on medicine.

Ear Plugs: Best Thing Ever

Yesterday was a long day at work. The healthy staff were summoned back to the office, so I spent the day on Zoom, watching as old friends in the office had reunion dance parties in the background. (And all the time I knew that if I had sighed about it a working committee would be assembled to solve the issue of home-based worker inclusion. And sometimes sickness is just sad, and sick people have to deal. Healthy` people don't have to cater to me.)

Then, as a counterpoint to Zoom visual overload, I had to listen to seven hours of hurried high-level strategy. And then after work, Gary wanted to ... talk. And by talk, I mean he wanted to complain. 

I begged for a night off from human interaction, and eventually he realized I just needed to be alone. I put my head under the duvet for some quiet time. That was great. Until Gary started talking to the cat in the other room while watching television and moaning about drywall dust. 

Instead of cracking open the door to ask for more quiet, thus breaking the seal I'd just fought for, I hunted down the  earplugs I bought several years ago. Perfect. In fact, so perfect I fell asleep for eight hours. Unprecedented. The cat didn't wake me. Gary didn't wake me. 

Today is another day of Zoom calls. I'm going to try jamming just one earplug in one ear. I'm going to change my Zoom settings so I'm not distracted by old friends walking past in the background. And I'm going to set a timer so I get a break every two hours.

The plan is to solve my own problems without being a burden to others -- I mean, except for you people. 

 

Dust Mitigation Continues

Yesterday people came and cleaned out the air ducts. Vast moonscapes of dust were cleaned out. They recommended we run the air for a while, with nothing blocking the air vents, so any remaining dust could be trapped by the HVAC filter.

Gary could only take it about twenty minutes. Then, hacking, he blocked the air filters again.

Now he’s decided we’re going to jump over the above circulation step and onto the professional top-to-bottom house cleaning step. 

“Because that won’t kick up any dust?” I asked.  Because I am at my wit’s end.  Right now I would pay to have him abducted and kept in a hotel room while I wait for the dust to settle and then move it out the back door. 

Back to More I Love Yous

Gary was particularly difficult yesterday. He would not swerve from the topic of the particulate matter the recent construction left behind. He claimed that all mitigation attempts just kick up more of the dread gypsum dust. I begged him to change the subject. He changed to politics, the other topic he wont let go, then when he was heading toward how the Republicans are responsible for the dust, I left the room. 

Later, as I was falling asleep, I heard him outside my door, cooing, “I love you so much. You are so special to me. Do you know how much I love you?” And my heart melted a little until I realized he was talking to the cat. 

Boxes: a Cautionary Tale

See all the boxes? That's all the stuff Gary has bought in the last two weeks to try to resolve the drywall dust. He doesn't have asthma or any lung condition. I see now why people just buy new houses.

Doors

In the last few weeks Gary has interrupted me three times while I am actively on work calls, twice while I was the one TALKING.

I thought he was just being needy, because the last two times times he said things like, "You never want to talk to me, you're always in here working," and "It's after five, you should be done working now," again, the last one while I was the one TALKING.

I couldn't understand why he started doing this. We have a rule: if the door is closed, he can't come visit. And then I realized that the door is never closed: we have a cat.

I always thought cats would understand that some doors may be closed, but Goldie sits in front of the closed door with a perfect imitation of my Dad's pained expression. If the door in question isn't opened promptly, he meows, then lies on his side and puts his paws claw-up as far under the door as he can. And jiggles it.

So, looks like I'm going to have to put a sock on the door knob. 

Gary Is Profane

Gary was complaining about the drywall dust again, saying the overhead air vents suck up the dust and then “Just fart it back out over our heads.”

I was gobsmacked. "Did you just say ... the 'F' word?"

"Yes," he said, viciously. "Fart. Fartfartfart. That's how mad I am."

"You have demanded I say ‘poot’ for decades, like a CHILD, and now you embrace 'fart'?"

Sometimes with aphasia elderly people can only curse and sing. Perhaps he has had a mini-stroke? 

Gypsum

Some of the work done in the house involved removing drywall, and Gary is convinced that gypsum particles are still floating in the air weeks later. He can't sleep in the main bedroom because a ceiling was removed in the main bathroom and he can still feel the particles on his skin. 

He harrumphs and hacks all right long. I have begged him, pleaded with him to sleep in a hotel. No. He just mutters about how I’m trying to kill him. Evidently, this is the price I must pay on top of the bill I must pay.

I am an experienced spouse, so I know to say, “That sounds awful,” but after saying that I begin listing the obvious solutions, like, “If you truly are allergic to gypsum then why not take some Benadryl or Claritin?” (No.) “How about running the humidifier?” (No.) “Please, please go to a hotel.” (No.)

On the plus side, he has been washing his bedclothes. I might suggest to him that the piles of t-shirts on his closet floor are gypsum dust magnets and he might want to tidy them up. 

Compliment Compilation

I made a special note to compliment Gary this Sunday, and it only took a few hours for him to do something compliment-worthy. He opened a jar that had been locked down with fifteen year old paint. He struggled as much as I did, then he gently tapped it on the counter and it opened right up, and then, shall we say, I opened right up, because it was very exciting.

"Ooh," I said, "You are a big, strong jar-opening man."

The next day, when he adeptly scooped up the cat and put him in the carrier, it was "You are a big, strong jar-opening, cat-wrangling man."

By the end of the day Monday he was a big, strong, jar-opening, cat-wrangling, straight-parking man.

Really, I'm just writing this post because I sense that he's going to want this to continue and I won't remember the sequence.

Door, Ceilings, Handrail

If I had been alone in the house last week, I would have had a lovely time eavesdropping on the workmen who installed my new bathroom ceilings, stair handrail, and back door. They were characters: the phlegmatic foreman (picture 1960 Peter Graves from Mission Impossible sighing, "Well, that's the job."), the excitable second man (picture a man much like current day Gary, shouting, "NO I DIDN'T LOSE THAT HOW COULD I THIS HOUSE IS TOO SMALL DON'T BLAME ME"), the profane one (picture a genial grandpa type yelling "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FUCKING SHIT," upon which he was immediately slapped down by  Phlegmatic Foreman).

Instead, I was in the house with them plus Gary and Goldie, both trapped in Gary's computer / library room. Goldie at least had a litter box, but Gary declared both bathrooms off limits because, I suppose, he didn't want to slow the workmen down by even a minute. Or perhaps his bladder was too shy to pee with other people in the house.

So there was a lot of moaning and yowling at the end of each day when Gary and Goldie were released from their self-imposed prison. Otherwise it would have been a lovely week of amusing men in my house calling me "Ma'am."

I Shouldn't Have Said Anything

Remember three weeks ago, when I wrote a little post about how Gary is so generous with saying “I love you?”

At the time, I read it to him, and he interrupted to say, “So, you like it when I say that?” I suspected he didn't know how short the post was and wanted me to wind it up.

Since then? The daily “I love you” has dried UP. And WHY. Why?

Does he think:

“I sound really whipped. I gotta stop saying that.”

Or perhaps instead:

“Well, she sounds pretty whipped. I can stop saying that.”

I asked if he was holding the “I love yous” hostage as a power move. He claims I’ve been saying it to him, pre-emptively, expectantly, and it’s annoying. Like it’s a chore now, I suppose.

Well. I have quite a few "I love yous" banked, so I can coast without it for a while. 

Travel

Gary messaged me to say that he has a grand plan to get in shape for when the Covid is over, so that when that day comes, he'll be ready to travel. Evidently, if you keep a homebody stuck at home three and a half years, even the biggest homebody will get the urge to rove.

Where will we go? He mentioned Asia. I suppose that's because he thinks of China as the place where the pandemic started, and though he didn't call out Wuhan, I am certain he feels drawn there due to the danger.

I suppose he's trusting that the virus will just give up while he is still young enough to travel. Or, it may just have been an odd wild hair. No doubt I will one day book tickets to hear him say, "ASIA? DO YOU WANT TO KILL ME WOMAN?"

I think I'll pretend too, for a while. It's a lovely idea. 

Gary Wig

In the spirit of Casual Friday, I have taken to wearing my least professional wig once a week. On Fridays, I swap out Sexytown for this wig:

This wig is the closest to the hair of my youth, below.

Like my original pube-like cloud of head-hair, but twice as much of it.

So, Gary sleeps all day on Fridays, so when I emerged from my room wearing the Casual Friday  wig he laughed in my face, and said, "You look ridiculous." When asked why, he said: too much hair.

I just went and got a giant hair clip and clamped it back. Still too much hair, but only noticeable in profile, but Gary grumbled it was conventional enough to go to the pharmacy and get our vaccines. 

Saturday I was back to the workhorse daily wig, Sexytown, not the big pile of nylon that makes me look like a country-western singer, and Gary had the nerve to complain.

"Where's your new hair? I thought you'd be wearing your big new hair. I really liked that look." 

"You laughed at me. You laughed directly in my face. 'Ridiculous', you said."

"No! I loved it!"

"I quote, 'Ri-dic-u-lous.'"

So, too bad for him. He will have to wait till Friday if he wants to see me in all my pube-headed splendor.

By the Numbers

I did the math last night. I've been in love with Gary 41 years. He has said "I love you" almost  every one of those days, even on most of the days we've fought. Even if you take off the six months we were on the outs, that's still over fourteen thousand times (14,785). 

Mom didn't start saying "I love you," until I was in college. I don't remember Jerry saying it, and my stepdad certainly never did. 

But Gary's so swamped me in an avalanche of "I love yous" that if anyone else were to ever say it,  I couldn't hear it from underneath the avalanche. Much less feel it. Much less to begin a new life and a new count starting at one.

WWI

I wondered aloud if a relative might have been of the right age to fight in World War One.

I should have tried to do the math in my head first. Gary rolled his eyes and snapped:

"Ellen, don't talk about things when you know nothing. " I braced myself for the mathematical ridicule.

He continued, "The United States didn't fight in World War One."

And he did it with a tone, even. 

I laughed heartily and directly in his face.  He held fast to his contention that the US didn't fight in World War I. I can tell you after the fact, if you ask Alexa, "Was the United Staes in World War One?" that her first word is Yes.

One hour later Gary finally stopped reading the Wikipedia page List of Wars Involving the United States aloud to me. If I were in his situation, yes, I would go to Wikipedia to educate myself, yet what I would NOT do is educate my spouse for an hour on something she already knows.

And actually, I know he knows. He has to know. He watched 1917 - but then, were there Americans in that movie? All Quiet on the Western Front? Wait, we spent hours in the WWI museum in Kansas City. I know he knows this.

I actually checked to see if "forgetting historical facts you have known for years" is a sign of Alzheimers or dementia. Luckily, I only need to worry if he forgets recently-learned information. 

Dee

It feels like just months ago that Gary stopped talking about his new electric car and bought a new electric car. Because it was.

And now the next electric car is coming out and he wants one and he wont shut up about it. It's just a concept car now. The BMW Dee.

It has electrically charged paint so you can control the paint color.

There are no controls on the inside.

It has windows that display an avatar of you (that I assume can flip off other, lesser cars). 

So how many years until this comes out? Because that's how many years I'll be listening to Gary talk about this car. 

TWIL: Electric cars can still cause garage fires

I have charged my car in our garage for three years. The nose of the car is pointed toward the house and the heat from the charge is directed at the garage refrigerator.

And all was well for years. 

Gary charges his car the same way, but it is bigger, more batteries, and when you walk into the garage on a 90 degree day when Gary's car is charging, then yes, the garage is really hot.

Gary has now studied the specs on the ideal conditions for home charging and we are not up to Gary Code.

Therefore, charging the cars now involves a ballet of pulling out to the street, backing halfway into the garage, leaving the nose out over the driveway, then locking the car because the garage door is open, then locking the door from the garage to the house.

This makes me enraged. I was indulgent at first, yet now it is a true nuisance, especially because backing in is difficult. I know there's a rearview camera, but there are red lines and green lines and I don't get that at all. 

It caused quite a rift, and I was only placated after Gary showed me articles in how there are still garage fires under certain conditions. Specifically hot conditions. So, only about a month more of this nonsense until it will be cool enough to safely charge in the garage again.

So that is what I learned this week. I wish I had learned it back when he bought the car.

Oh Let's Hope Not

So supposedly the trial people were going to call end of this week. 

They did not call.

Just as I wondered, huh, why wouldn't they call, I read that theres a new variant of Covid.

I remembered the Omicron variant rendered the previous incarnation of the trial drug useless.

And even though this new drug is effective against Omicron, and even though the new variant is an offshoot of Omicron, I wondered if perhaps they were taking a pause to drop a bit of the new variant into a petri dish full of the new drug and see if it was useful to continue the trial.

Or, perhaps I'm wrong. Or perhaps the new drug in the imaginary petri dish will wipe out the new variant. Or maybe they're just busy. 

TWIL: Cipro Can Kill You

Gary's guilt over the bladder infection drove him to the Facebook and the internet, and he came back with news that a common antibiotic used for bladder infections, Cipro, can destroy your tendons and probably even kill you.

"They stopped giving me Cipro years ago," I said. "You know, probably because of the tendon thing."

Gary didn't care. He went on quoting the scholarly papers he read and detailing the many ways you can die from Cipro.

I tried to join in. "They give Cipro to people who've been in contact with Anthrax." (Specifically Tom Brokaw's assistant, if I recall.)

"Well, those people are going to die anyway." And then he carried on for another ten minutes on Antibiotics: the Secret Killers.

So, storing that away if anyone tries to kill me with Cipro, I guess.