Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

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.

Proposal

Being sick sometimes makes me think of the first time Gary proposed to me. I was at his apartment, in bed, apologizing for having suddenly having fallen ill with the flu. He was getting me a washcloth, and said he was happy to take care of me, and that he wanted to take care of me for the rest of my life, and he wanted to marry me. 

It really is too bad that the Ghost of Gary Future did not materialize and show me what "taking care of me" would look like after 38 years. Future Gary dons his mask, shrinks from me, shrieks about germs and how he is elderly and cannot get sick himself. 

I said no to his proposal, of course. Red flags all over that proposal. You like it when I feel sick? You want me to depend on you?

Sixteen proposals later he hit on one that worked. You would think having a girlfriend who turned you down sixteen times would be discouraging, but he is stubborn. I can't remember the argument that won me over, only that again I was in bed: the traditional place where DeWolfe women accept marriage proposals.

In general it has worked out well. I'm glad he stuck with it.

Sneaking in Some Illicit Housework

The closest I come to cheating on Gary is when I do chores behind his back. I remember when I repaired the toilet I hid the replacement flapper under the mattress. 

This month I've been sneaking about repairing a water spot in the ceiling. He's gone, I get out the ladder, I use the Killz, I time it so he's gone long long enough that he can't smell the Killz, it's a  whole assignation. Not some trashy one-night stand like the toilet repair. 

Then I wait a week until he's out of the house again, then I paint over the Killz, and try to get the paint color on the 35 year old ceiling to match, and that is frustrating, and I wonder if it's worth it. 

That's done now, so this weekend is the last tryst with the water spot repair. Some acoustic texture cracked in the process and I have to get that patched up, and the that's the last time I sneak around doing chores, I swear. 

Lume Deodorant

Gary screams whenever MSNBC plays this commercial.

And they play it hourly, if not more.

Yesterday morning he came out of the bathroom holding our shared speed stick deodorant. He had a demented look in his eye. 

"What did I do?" I sighed, because I quite often do things wrong with our shared sanitary items.

He held the deodorant in my face, as I expected, and shouted "ARMPITS BUTT CRACK UNDERBOOBS THIGH FOLDS KNEE PITS EAR CREVICES."

I did not expect that. Poor thing has that chant in his head every time he uses the deodorant now. 

Gary and the Grand Passion

Gary and I were watching Sleepless in Seattle, and Meg Ryan was talking about the "magic" that happens when you meet "the one."

"Did we have the magic?" I asked Gary. "I don't remember."

He said, "We had the magic at first. But then, you know, the magic always fades."

And then he rubbed my big toe. 

I'd rather have reality over magic.

Gary And Stress

Street work is going on outside our house. Evidently the lifespan of a suburban street built by the contractor's son-in-law is about 30 years. We got the note in the mailbox that in four days our stretch of the nepo-street is to be re-poured, and we cant use our driveway. So we must park on the street, thus our in-home electric vehicle charging station will also be inaccessible. 

This one tick of stress kicked Gary up over his stress horizon and he was out of control, stomping around the house, escalating. 

"THEY WANT US TO PARK ON THE STREET SO THEY CAN DROP GRAVEL ALL OVER MY NEW CAR AND IF WE DON'T MOVE OUR CARS OUT OF THE GARAGE IMMEDIATELY ALL THE SPOTS WILL BE GONE."

I told him I didn't have time for this, shut the door, and ignored him until he came back in completely calm. 

"I PARKED MY CAR IN THE Street ... And ... I feel better."

I pointed out he had places to go in the next four days, and he said he knew that, he knew it was irrational, but he felt total peace now. 

So I suppose that's the trick. I always try to reason with him, but really I just need to wait until he invents whatever personal stress placebo he needs.

Civilization Continues to Decay

Civilization has gone to hell. First we had the Clydesdales falling over themselves, then the champagne carpet.

Now, twice in the past week, I have been conversing with my husband when has gone into the bathroom, and from the clarity of his tone it has been evident he has not closed the bathroom door.

And his tone is not the only thing I can hear clearly.

We can't have this. It's easily fixed. As soon as he sees my face in the bathroom mirror while he's got the door open  --  problem solved.

I have no idea why after 37 years he has decided to lower his standards, though. It’s a strange shift in intimacy.

I can't complain, though. I can retaliate. But can I? Can I actually leave the door open and converse with him?  I think not.

This Year's Birthday Month

Conveniently, all my major marriage celebrations take place on minor holidays,. The calendar reminds me it's Flag Day, so that's my anniversary, or it's the first day of Spring, which is on or about Gary's birthday.

He is not particular about his exact birthday, because as you know, we celebrate the Birthday Month. (During the month of ones birth one wins all arguments de facto.)

This morning the news alerted me that Spring was on the way, and thus almost Gary's birthday, and I immediately woke Gary up to tell him it had been his Birthday Month for three weeks and he had not yet exercised his Birthday Month Privileges.

He had not forgotten, He was aware. I would think we had not argued but of course we had. 

Less than an hour later he came to me and said, "I think we need to buy a bidet and install it in my bathroom."

He was evidently holding that Birthday Month card close to his vest so he could play it for something ridiculous. I sent him off to research installation. We'll just see if he follows through.

Potato

Me: "Gary, have you seen a raw potato around here? I put on the counter half an hour ago."

Gary (half-asleep in reclining chair): "Huh? Potato?"

Me: "I lost a potato somehow. I looked in the garage and the pantry. Let me try the laundry room." (Moments later) "Well, I got a new potato out of the potato bin in the laundry room. but I'm still down a potato."

Gary: "Potato?"

Me (Marches over to Gary, shoves laundry room potato under his nose.) "Yes. I lost a potato. It looks like this ... You know, maybe I didn't look in the back of the garage refrigerator." Puts  potato back in laundry room, goes to garage, searches garage refrigerator, comes back in.)

Me: "This is making me nuts. Where is that potato?"

Gary: "Did you look in all the drawers?"

Me: "You mean the vegetable crisper drawers? Yes. In the kitchen fridge and the garage fridge!"

Gary: "Did you search the junk drawer?"

Me: (Opens junk drawer. Sees potato.): (Wheezes with laughter.)

I wish I could say he had the original potato in there all the time, but it impresses me more that he heard me close the door to the garage, jumped out of the recliner, got a potato out of the laundry room, hid it in the junk drawer,  and appeared to go back to sleep.

(And no, I never found where the original potato was.)

(Now hiding a potato in his bed.)

Gary Aches

I imagine Gary has made this joke before, given that he initially blames all ills on "the change in the weather," and now that he is old enough for aches and pains.

Even so, I did laugh heartily last night when he called himself The Garometer. 

Not a Review: The Banshees of Inisherin

Sure, and this would ha' been a review of The Banshees of Inisherin so, but we couldn't get past the first feckin' twenty minutes.  

Twenty minutes in the characters have mainly all been established as charming, and your sympathies are with Colin Farrell, and then the conflict is established (man is too dull for other man) and it hit me too close to home. I was watching remotely with a friend, then she checked some spoilers and we decided this movie was too dark even for us.

So, we stopped. I scrubbed through it after and just from the images flashing on the screen I'm very glad we stopped. Then I watched the last scene and I was sorrowful they had to be so heavy-handed before. It seemed like it was a worthwhile movie at the end, I just couldn't get there.

However, I watched it long enough for it to have an effect on my day-to-day life. The dialog is  full of the Irish cadence.

This is the Irish cadence:

I said X
He/she said:X???
Yes, X, I said.

Here's an example. (I making it up because I don't want to go back to the movie to get a quote.)

"So I told her, 'Don't be getting your nose into my business no more.' So she says, 'What, then, you don't want me getting my nose into your business then?' and I said, 'That's right, I'll thank you if you don't be getting your nose into my business, right then?'" 

I had an irrational urge to shake these characters, and then I wondered why it annoyed me so much. It's because it sounds like Gary every time he relates a conversation. I also want to shake Gary. 

So I see now that it's an Irish thing. Gary's a quarter Irish. I might accept the repetitive cadence if he had the charming Irish accent. That might make it more tolerable. 

The Car Hunt: the Deed is Done

Gary was very sad that only one bot contacted him, and it told him he needed to call the two dealers he had selected online.

He complained to me that the dealers knew he was old, and that's why they weren't calling him and looking for his electric car business. It was pitiful. I puffed him up enought that he called the dealers, and then he looked at the website for the other Chevy dealer, the one he'd tried before that had a lot of Bolts but they were pre-destined to live their lives as pizza delivery cars.

Evidently that pizza deal fell through, so those cars were still on the lot. Plus, somehow the dealer was still obligated to sell the cars at the "fleet" rate, so Gary left me behind to keep slogging away at work and rushed off to the dealer.

As soon as he gave me an update I left this message in my work chat:

And he did. He didn't get the  bells and whistles model, instead he got the pizza delivery model, not the red one but a grey one, and not the Ford Mustang price but (counting the tax rebate in 14 months)  an electric car that costs less than our first car thirty something years ago.

He went back later with me so that I could drive it home, which is understandable. It was an adjustment even from the Mini: it doesn't have that "Six Flags Moon car" feel in which letting up on the accelerator is the same as stomping the brakes, but Gary says that's adjustable. Also, even though it isn't the SUV model but it's a behemoth compared to any other car we have ever bought in our married lives. It's quite odd being a foot away from the rest of the cars instead of inches away.

I wondered what he might talk about now that he isn't obsessed with the pros and cons of every model of electric car but, oddly, he is still comparing this one to all the others. 

The Car Hunt Continues: Click

Gary has gone back to his first love, the Chevy Bolt. (New for this final year with fewer car fires.) And now that he has embraced ordering a car on-line, he called me over so that we could place the order "together."

All that meant was that he asked if the seat color was acceptable. After about 30 minutes of dithering, we ordered a second-tier Bolt, red, with all the bells and whistles.

So we clicked, and nothing happened. No bots even. Gary decided the bots weren't awake yet. Even though I made sure sufficient funds were in the account, no money changed hands.

So, now, I guess, we wait. Progress anyway.

The Car Hunt Continues, Same as it Ever Was

So, finally: progress! Gary acknowledged that it would be better to order a car and have it built rather than rely on the scant electric vehicles dealers keep in their lots. He keeps finding great cars that are gone the next day, and he suspects it's all a come-on.

So his new plan was to buy a Chevy Volt (his original choice) after he ate lunch. It was to be click click click, small deposit, progress!

Right before the clicking, he realized, "But if I buy on-line, I could get any car I want. A Mustang! An I-3! Any color!"

So, say it with me, back to square one, again.

Car Hunt Continues

What did I tell you? Gary is back to square one in the car hunt.

He found a seven page list of nothing but electric vehicles. So here we go again. I've given up mentioning the government tax debate; they made that way too complicated, and all the rules change in March anyway. And now Toyota says they are going to just take old cars and pack batteries in them and that’ll work. And then yesterday Tesla reduced all their prices. The target needs to stop moving.

I remember buying the latest Mini when the old Mini broke. 

Me: “Car is broken.”

Gary: “So, electric Mini next?”

Me: “I’ll get my shoes.”

Usually he works best with a limit. We set a price limit, and a lower range limit, and he’s ignoring both. Maybe if I demand the new car must be red he can focus.

Mustang Gary

Oh my gaaawwwd the car search. This has been worse than the search for the Fit. We test drove Hummers and Zs and every car made before his research led us to the Fit.

We can't test drive these electric cars, because You Kids Today like to order your cars from Amazon or something, plus the Covid. That makes his decision harder, and batteries explode and there are different types and all, and there are just way too many variables.

He's just physically exhausted by it. 

He had pegged the Electric Ford Mustang as the car to get, talked about nothing else for three days, I moved money around, then he was too tired from to mental toil to buy it and then the next day he woke up, changed his mind, and now he's back to square one. 

Don;t recommend a pros/cons list, he did that last night. Perhaps I need to help by making suggestions so he can shoot them down. It's sad that I can't help.

Migraine Cure

Recently Gary went to the NP at the neurologist's office to see if he can get some relief with his migraine. He came back and reported:

• The NP is sick with covid
• The neurologist is not available for three months
• There were remarkably few cars in the lot because, as Gary surmised, Covid

There has a been a 50% increase in daily cases the last week.  I think he intends to have a telemedicine visit with the NP in a few weeks, but in the meantime he needs to get relief through non-scientific Gary methods.

I have never had a migraine, but Gary tells me that these things make his migraine lessen:

• Cold lemon yogurt
• Aggression

According to him, being angry and yelling really helps his migraine. I left the room four times one night. I don't know if this is a common migraine cure. I suppose it might redirect the serotonin. All I know is that I don’t need to be around when he is taking the aggression cure.