Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Dentist

I was dreading the dentist, given that the previous buccal filling was so miserable, because it answered the question, "What happens if the pain-killers wear off?"

However, this time wasn't bad at all. This visit answered these questions: 

What happens if I have to pee while I am at the dentist?

The dentist had me in a position where my head was down and my bladder was up, so I didn't notice I had to pee until they took a break two hours in. When they sat me up, I noticed the double-dose of my new anti-pee pill wasn't as effective as I had hoped. They went off to do other dental checks, and I finally decided I was not going to be able to wait, so I clambered out of the still-flattened dentist's chair and headed for the bathroom. I walked past a random assistant. who alerted my assistant. She just said, flatly, into her headphone, "Kayla." The staff wears these headphones to ask each other for materials and equipment. And to say "Kayla," but to mean "Kayla, your patient's gone rogue." (I froze and told her I wasn't a runner, I just needed to use the restroom.)

What happens if I have a coughing fit while the dentist is actively drilling my teeth?

At the first hack the dentist stops drilling, the assistant starts vacuuming out the spit, all while the chair is elevating, and if  you are still coughing while sitting up they peel off the dental dam and let you cough up the tiny drop of water that somehow hit the back of your throat.   

What happens if the mold they use to make your temporary cap malfunctions?

They hand-sculpt a new cap with great care, and it looks like a Jolly Rancher. 

 

Review: Anything Sarah Millican Has Ever Done

Facebook's demographic programmers decided I might like the naughty comedienne Sarah Millican, and they are right. I love her, love her accent, love the pantomimes, love love love. Good pick, Facebook.

On the other hand, they were wrong about this. 

Alexa Mystery

A few days ago, I was awakened at seven thirty when Alexa said, in her calm yet indulgent tone:

(Ding.) "Ellen. Here's your reminder. Nail colors to match."
(Ding.) "Ellen. Here's your reminder. Nail colors to match."

I had her repeat it again, just to be sure. I knew it wasn't a reminder to paint my nails. I tried to think of anything I had that needed to be nailed. Or colored. Or matched. Nothing.

Finally, I dug deep into the app to find the spot where you can go back and listen to exactly what you said to Alexa.

(On the iPad it's More, Activity History, Voice, filter the history to the date range, click the down arrow by the entry, click the tiny play button to hear yourself slur out what you meant to say.)

Instead of hearing me mutter something about nails, or colors, or matches, I heard Eddie Izzard say, "... nail colors to match."

Evidently Alexa heard me say "set a reminder," but for the reminder itself she focused on what Eddie was saying in the background on the TV. 

It's here in the religion section, two minutes 54 seconds in.

Like Alexa, I would listen to Eddie in Dress to Kill over me any day, given the chance.

Rewriting the Novel: Progress?

Yep. We're back here again.

Actually, it wont be that bad.  Just a few things need to be re-plotted.

Unless I kill off a twin. No one likes the Twin Trope. Well, the evil twin trope. I have a grumpy twin trope.

Twins might still have to merge.

At least it interests me again.

Helllooo, Belgium

Usually, I use Google Analytics to discover that three people a day use my blog to see if 1,000 thread count sheets are worthwhile or if Rudyard Kipling wrote that poem about Jesus' dog.

Then, oddly, yesterday, this happened.

More people arrived at my blog from Belgium than from the States.

And, they all use Linux.

What could this mean?

• This is a bot and I am about to be hacked. Evidently Belgium is very hacker-friendly.
• A certain International Toe Porn Superstar is taking over Belgium just as she once charmed the rest of Europe.
• Someone I know is hiding his or her identity, especially likely given that while the country location is Belgium, the city location is not given. 

Still, I love a mystery. (Waves eastward at Belgium.)

Sins of Omission

I have a co-worker who rivals me in his need to tell all. He had to live a lie for years, and now he's making up for it by actively verbally living his truth, even if his truth isn't particularly germane to the conversation. 

I can watch him on Zoom while he thinks, "If I keep quiet during this discussion then I'm lying by omission." Oh, my brother, I feel you. That feeling that silence equals lies. It doesn't seem to bother most people.

But, oddly, I recently took the chance to act like a normal human being. I had a dentist appointment, and I scheduled half a day of sick time to accommodate it. Then I had to re-schedule the dentist due to the cough, and then used that pre-approved sick time to go to a clinical trial visit. The next day, the team got me caught up on what I missed while I was at my "dental appointment." "I wasn't AT a dental appointment," I thought, the first two times they said it. The third time I broke, and corrected them, and explained the entire situation, even though they clearly did not care one bit and in fact, thought I was weird to mention it. 

I wonder if watching my co-worker's behavior made me try to be more ... normal. It didn't work, of course. I wish I could find a way to be myself, just less awkwardly.

Birthday Month

Another birthday month has come and gone, and I believe this is the first time I did not use my birthday month privileges. 

Invoking the birthday month allows the birthee to win any fight or demand satisfaction of any desire (within reason).

For my birthday gift, he gave me the gift of a clean kitchen corner. The raccoon peanuts have been stacked in the corner by the garden door for years now, and he cleared them out and is storing them in a bin in the garage now. 

No cake, no gifts, no birthday month demands. No automatic wins invoked. I truly am easy to live with.

I still have another day, though.

I Should Be Reading this Book

Almost twenty years ago, when this blog was young, I took a quiz to discover what book exemplifies me. 

I got A Prayer for Owen Meany, a book currently sitting on my nightstand. I read the first chapter. I have not started the second chapter. I don't know why. This book has been recommended by everyone from the frontman for Barenaked Ladies to members of my work team. 

I can only guess that the first chapter made me connect to the characters so much I don't want to continue to see what hell they go through next. 

Damn Covid

Remember when I was on the team that won the Huge United Way trivia competition? 

They did it again. Yesterday. Without me. I just couldn't justify going into that hugely crowded gymnasium, especially with XBB / BA.2.86 popping up in area hospitals.

I think to date this is the worst thing Covid has taken from me.

1960s Sexytown

Remember the innocence of the early summer, when the new wig was dubbed Sexytown and replaced Beachy Hitler and I had not yet been possessed by the pelvic demons or been cursed by a bladder infection for my sins?

That wig was on sale recently, and I decided to buy a backup, for when Sexytown the Elder would not be up to task and retire. 

I forgot the warnings that wavy wigs will not reliably look the same, because your wig seamstress just grabs a hunk of hair that may not curl the expected way.

Whoever let this incarnation pass QA must have been a fan of 1960s TV and Angie Dickinson.

 

Temptation

When they weighed me for the clinical trial, it was in kilograms, not pounds. 

I am bad at math, but I knew the rule that you double the metric system, so I heard 130 kilograms and calculated that I was  260 pounds, which is a personal worst.

I am also bad at hearing. She said 113 kilograms, or 249 pounds, or one pound less than my heaviest weight ever.

Still, bad enough to scare me into considering what I eat. My latest grocery order contained no breads, potatoes, gelato, or sugar. I bought a series of salads to start the process.

Gary saw me eating salads and decided we needed to institute a weekend ritual of comparing all the bakeries in the general vicinity. I did not participate, nor did I eat the ice cream he offered, or the french fries. He stuck a bag of chips in my face and I found the one visible folded chip and ate that. 

I don't anticipate a sudden and dramatic weight loss, but in six months if I have more than two pair of pants that fit I will be happy. 

TWIL: Pronouncing names

I had no idea that some foreign languages don't stress one certain sylablle in each word as English does. 

I heard this from a woman telling me how to pronounce her name. Say it was Rashida. I was all caught up in if it was:

Ra-SHI-da

or

RA-shi-da

and she said her language (which is suspect is Hindi) didn't stress syllables as English does. Every syllable is the same with very mild emphasis, if any. Ra-shi-da.

This led to Wikipedia and then down many rabbit holes. For example, if you are speaking Tamil and want to ask a question, you don't raise your pitch at the end of the sentence, you just tack on the syllable "Ah" at the end.

I did notice there were far more articles on how to pronounce English syllables and not as many informing English speakers how to pronounce other languages.

Not proud. I am as bad as any other American when it comes to communicating with other nationalities. 

Re-arranging the Novel

Well, I've finally listened to the voice that said, twice now, "Move the Midpoint twist so it's 12% in." Things are much more interesting. All the exposition is compelling instead of mildly interesting. Building tension comes at you fully built. 

Of course, that means the front half is bloated, but a lot of it can be cut (or if I have to, shifted). 

And it's more of a challenge. I find myself working on it in doctor's offices and when I wake up. 

And, even better, it happened just when I had forgotten all the words, and the new words are much better. And lord, faster. I'm straightening out a chapter a day. 

I thought I would lose half the book when I shoved the middle to the start, but it doesn;t seem to be that way.

Sunday Night

I had a lovely evening last Sunday night with four numbered friends: Friend #2, #3, #4, and #.75.

It is incredibly difficult to get these friends together in the same space, so when #.75 called the meet-up, and then all the others smoothly said, "Yes, I'll be there," I was suspicious. "Horseshit," I thought, delicately, "This is a surprise belated birthday party for me."  

And guess what? It was not a surprise birthday party for me, at all, in any way. I accepted this fact an hour after we had ordered our first round of tapas and drinks and we were still the only ones on the patio. 

Even without that, it was a lovely, hilarious, heartwarming, sad, vicious, and uplifting evening with almost all of my favorite people. 

Of note: One hour before I attended I took the medication that was designed to still my bladder, and it worked perfectly. I was promised it would work for three hours after the one hour delay, and it did. And then at three hours and one minute it stopped working. One of my friends made me bellow with laughter (again). I would have been in trouble but I had dressed appropriately, with flood protection, so I was safe.

Interactions with Men

I have recently been reminded what a big old whore of a flirt I am. 

And then, thankfully, something happened that made me change my mind.

I was starting a Zoom call, and our last attendee (call her "Jane") signed in on camera.

"Wow, Jane, you're gorgeous," I said. "Okay, so we're here today to discuss ..."

After a moment looking at her quiet smile I realized she had darkened her hair. 

But it made me realize, when I drop compliments on unsuspecting men, I'm not flirting, I'm blurting. Just blurting out any stupid thing I have in my head. Usually I do it one-on-one, and when it's with a man, and no one else is around, it does seem like flirting. 

But it's not. It's just me having no impulse control plus a flattering thought in my head. 

(Still let's see what HR makes of flirting vs blurting when I have my inevitable harassment accusation.)

Re-rewriting the Novel

I finished almost all my line edits and then set aside the novel for a few months, so I can look at it with fresh eyes at the end of the summer.

I didn't even make it to the end of summer. On the last day of July I woke up at 3 a.m. and thought, "That novel would be a lot better if the midpoint is the inciting incident," or, put another way, if I just ditch the first half. 

So, I've talked myself into outlining a new version just as a thought exercise. The only thing is it's so carefully plotted, damn it, and if I pull a thread that affects everything else.

So hard to do. Maybe it will convince me the whole thing has no value and I can move on.

I am mortified how the book is such needy transparent therapy, but here on he blog where I write like nobody's watching, I have no shame. I need to abandon my shame with this novel.

We will see how the thought experiment works first.

Taking Nominees for New Favorite Comedy

My favorite movies for five genres:

Romance: Brief Encounter

Sci-Fi: Brazil

Drama: Henry V

Action: The Great Escape

Comedy: I don't know anymore.  Pillow Talk aged out because of scenes like this:

Oh, and this:

It's just cringey enough now that I can't even enjoy Tony Randall, and he's the best part of the movie.

So, that leaves me with a hole in my line up. Here are the runners-up, ready to fulfill the duties of Best Comedy.

The Producers. Yes, it gets points for being anti-Nazi, but has the same anti-gay bent as Pillow Talk. 

Zombieland. I ran across it again the other day and was struck as always by its sheer perfection in the way it's constructed. The violence doesn't even bother me. (Because they're zombies. Dead anyway.)

Young Frankenstein. Like Pillow Talk in that even when I'm not surprised by a line it still makes me laugh. Also, it was one of the two things I remember my Dad laughing at in the 20 years I knew him. 

All the other movies get points for gritty realism. I'd say Zombieland's the grittiest. But then, Dad was having nicotine withdrawal and chemo yet Young Frankenstein made him laugh. But, "I'm wet! I'm hysterical and I'm wet!"

What do you think? Which is best?

Oh Thank God, Not Descended from a Slave Trader

Whew. Looks like I panicked. On further research I am not born of the slave-trading branch of my Huguenot family. 

I don't know what the patriarch Balthazar did, but only one of his great-grandchildren took the slave-trading path. In the image above I put a red mark by the Wikipedia-tagged evil Bristol branch, while the cousin from whence came my non-notable branch has a green mark. 

I am so very relieved. I have enough shame without inheriting it from my family. 

 

Bonjour-Hello, Fridge

We have had this refrigerator for eight years. I open that door dozens of times a day.

Today, I noticed something new.

It's French. "Composer le' evidently means "dial."  

Eight years. Today I notice we have an international fridge.

Huh. Why do I have a Quebecois fridge? I remembered I deliberately ordered one without an ice-maker and it took a while coming from Sears/Kenmore. Maybe they shipped it in from Canada? I suppose ice-makers are less popular in Canada? 

Research does not bear this out. A mystery.

 

Sweet on the Y

I've spent a lot of time in bed with ... well, the croup, and with my thoughts, and I have realized two things: first, how my fantasy men behave, and second, how I behave around men.

How my fantasy men behave. Elated. Happy. Delighted to be speaking to me, having sex with me, spinning me about like I'm on ice skates. I think of smiles more than organs (and more than other words starting with "orga".) Very rarely do I think about me, or if I might be enjoying myself in my own fantasy. 

How I behave around men. Not all men, just new men. Strange men. When I'm in front of a strange man I flirt like a hungry hooker. I know this because for a few years at work I was the official "Welcome to our department" person, the one who said "this is where the break room is," but if I were greeting a new employee with a Y chromosome, by the time I got to the break room it was:

"My, you are really handsome. Here's the break room."

"Well, of course you're married, who wouldn't snap up someone like you? Here's the break room."

"You do look like you're from Colorado, you have that nice open face. And the muscular arms. And I guess that big chest is from breathing at that high elevation? Here's the break room."

(Well, I might not have said the last one, but I distinctly remember the first two, and other even more embarrassing comments. All, truly, right outside the break room.)

I suppose strange men scare me a little, because who knows what they're like, and random compliments rock them off their pins and get them on my side. And as of today, zero harassment lawsuits have come my way, phew. 

===========

I see a future for aged me as the most welcoming tour guide outside the break room at the senior living community, where I will do my best to make all the Y chromosomes smile and be happy. I suspect I should really detach my happiness from anyone else's before then.

Family History

I don't know what led me on a genelogical expedition this week, but I found the family ancestral motto on the Wikipedia page.

"Vincit Qui Patitur"

It translates to “He who suffers, wins,” and could I have have a more perfect motto? No.

If only I had stopped reading there.

Sadly, just a few lines down I discovered that not only were we slave owners, we were slave traders. More Google searches showed we were the biggest slave trading family, and had I gone back a few more generation in my previous research I would have found the dreaded Balthazar who ran the whole North America - Cuba - Africa triangle operation. 

It was so troubling for some distant cousins that one wrote a book on it and another made a PBS documentary. 

So now he who suffers, wins, has a much more sickening meaning. 

More Dave Closure

I saw the Albuquerque area code and immediately answered the phone. It could be about Dave's house, it could be the lawyer with an update on the probate ... it was neither. It was the CVS Pharmacy on Southern calling to remind me Dave was due for his shingles shot. This is the hated CVS pharmacy that couldn't fill prescriptions for Dave for four days.

"He's dead," I said, "And he died suffering because your pharmacy couldn’t get him the meds he needed in a timely fashion."

"Oh I'm so sorry to hear that."

Then I said goodbye, civilly, and I know it's not her fault, and she didn't deserve that, but maybe calls as recorded for quality purposes and someone who makes decisions for CVS will take action.

 

Plans with Friends

July is opening up into a social whirlwind. I will wear my mask, and avoid Gary for four days after each, but I have a date for a small outdoor social gathering and two dates to see two movies in a small local theater.

Movies are going to be the new Wes Anderson movie and Oppenheimer. Social gathering will be on a patio with three or four friends.  

I'm spacing things out so I have the least chance of passing anything on to Gary. Gary is going to make me pay for this by avoiding me, but the numbers in my area are low. 

It feels very odd to have plans. I feel guilty.

Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Man: 33% Calmer

I've been tracking the effect this new drug (Oxybutynin) is having on the spasms. It has a short half-life, and it's been good at targeting the urinary problems, which is what it's designed for. If I take it and wait an hour then I can go four, even five hours without needing the bathroom. It doesn't last long enough to give me an uninterrupted night's sleep, but it's been ten years since I've had that.

As for the bowel problems?  Wow. Chef's kiss. It's been so long since I've been normal that I don't recognize the perfect little packages that are coming out of me on the regular. And I mean regular, like every other day, always two hours after breakfast. 

And finally, the uterine/vaginal problems. The current pace seems to be one calm day followed by two quivering days, even if I haven't taken the tablet for days. So I suppose that's a 33% effectiveness rate. 

I'll take it for life just for this bowel perfection that I haven't enjoyed for years. No need for botox.

A Review: Queen Charlotte [SPOILER]

I wasn't in the tank for Queen Charlotte at first. 

My biggest complaint was that it departed from season one of Bridgerton in that we didn't get the refreshing sex scenes with a beautifully clothed woman and an utterly naked man. So refreshing. 

In fact, I wasn't in the tank for Queen Charlotte until the very very last scene, which made me sob. 

When they switched back and forth between the older and younger versions of the characters, I could only make myself stop crying by reminding myself the demographic for this series is older women who still see their husbands with the eyes of love.

Here's my mad King George.  

Pre-Opera Peacock

I was sad it was the last opera of the season. I donned Shirley, my biggest, curliest wig, for Cosi Fan Tutti. Then I added two large peacock feather hair clips and a peacock scarf to match my blue blouse.

On two separate occasions ladies came up to us in the opera lobby and said they had spotted us during dinner because of our "colorful" attire. It was nice. 

(Speaking of spotting, I turned on my pelvic beacon and scanned the crowd but could not spot SalmonPants anywhere. End of an era.)

Why, Yes, I Noticed That Too

The Apple Watch had something to report this morning.

This does not surprise me, given that, as I say, I've been panting with desire every waking moment. What did surprise me was that it's been going on for five weeks. I've only noticed it for about three or four. 

I dove deep into the data. Turns out that the watch doesn't judge how I pant every waking moment; it only cares about how I breathe in my sleep. Normal is 20 breaths a minute, today I was 19-26 breaths per minute. And Saturday I got up to 35. For one hour. And that hour was between 8 and 9 pm. Half an hour into Act 1 of the Susannah opera. I don't why it tracked that: I wasn't asleep. Perhaps it was the excitement of the opera and the crowd. 

I think it's a new application and there are bugs. Still, even if I throw out the outliers (the opera night and the night I breathed only 7 times in an minute), I still have a rate where the "normal" 20 breaths per minute is my bare minimum. and I cap out at 3o. 

I suppose I could be having sex dreams when my rate goes up. I don't know. Probably a hypochondriac red herring.

Pre Opera Passion

I swear, the appeal of the men at the opera never fades. I am Miranda in the Tempest: I have spent years on the island of Covid, with only one companion, then suddenly I see Ferdinand, and he is a noble thing divine. Only there are 500 Ferdinands, not one, and all are noble and divine. And some wear hats.

A sad update: no Salmon Pants this week. I didn't spot him anywhere. He very well might attended on a different day for this opera. Oddly, salmon must be a big color this year: I saw two pair of salmon pants on two older men and a salmon jacket on another. Salmon Dads. 

Still, it was particularly unfortunate that the One True Salmon Pants was not there, because I had worked out a secret code for friend Anne if I spotted him: I was to suck in my cheeks and make the fish face. 

And, as always, in reality even had I seen him I wouldn't have done a thing. You can't make the fish face if you're smiling. And, truly, I have no idea what he looks like without the pants. 

 

Lonely, Which is New for Me

In the last three plus years of the pandemic, I've only been a bit lonely. And suddenly, in the last two weeks I've been lonelier than I have ever been in my life.

It started when I saw Friend Anne for the opera and realized how much I missed seeing her in person. And then, the next week I was in a number of big work meetings when I'd go down the Zoom lineup and think, "I'll never see her again ... lost him as a friend before the pandemic ... never shook her hand ... he lives in another state ... " and on and on.

And then I realized that in about three or four years I'll be retired, and then I'll be cut off from all but a very few friendships, and when I sabotage those, all I will have are my in-laws. So! Bleak!

And no way to resolve the situation but to venture into the world, and I pay for that with isolation too: Gary won't be in the same room with me for a week if I've been to the opera or the doctor. 

But, perhaps this is just a low point. Everything is attitude. 

Dialog with Neighbor Girl

On the afternoon of the opera, I was adjusting the Wanna wig. I was working with the wig on the wig form and created a carefully artless Elvis-Presley-Michael-Jackson spit-curl by my right eyebrow. I carried it to the bathroom, plunked it on my head, and was evaluating if it was too precious when I had to go get the mail.

This lead me into the path of a four-year old neighborhood girl.

Girl: Is your hair a new color?

Me: No, my hair is still dark brown, but this wig I'm wearing is lighter.

Girl: What's under your wig?

Me: (pulls off wig) See? 

Girl: YOU look like a GRANDMA!

Me: Well, I'm old enough to be a grandma. I'm sixty.

Girl: I'm four.

And then she held up four fingers, and I realized I would need to recruit five neighbors to have enough fingers to calculate my age.

At least she wasn't traumatized when my hair came off.

Pre-Opera Pining

I don't think I've ever seen the Gay Divorcee before today, and I know I've never heard Fred Astaire hiss out this exchange:

Egbert Fitzgerald: Guy, you're not pining for that girl!

Guy Holden: Pining? Men don't pine. Girls pine. Men just... suffer.

I feel you Fred, especially the way you say "suffer" with such feeling, and I am here to tell you girls can suffer too. I am suffering. I AM SUFFERING.

The effects of seeing the crowd at the opera last week haven't abated. I'm still heady from all the men in their finery. Don your vests and ties, gentlemen. Put on your plumage, peacocks. At one point last week I said to Friend Anne, "I would give myself right now to any man in a hat." 

This week we went again to the pre-show picnic and again I experienced the Temptation Parade. 

Amazingly, I saw Salmon Pants again in the lobby. He was wearing the pants but no matching bowtie. "Look, Salmon Pants!" I said to Anne. She replied, "Don't even think about it." But then later, after intermission, she nudged me and said, "Pst Pst Pst Salmon Pants," as he walked by to his seat.

(If anyone in the Saint Louis area knows Salmon Pants, have no fear. He just holds a special place in my heart as the first living man I have encountered for three plus years who isn't selling me a car. He's in no danger. And really, he is one of many, He's just the only one wearing distinctive pants.)

Perhaps all this suffering will wane after I get used to being out. 

 

Rewriting the Novel: Too Much

My plan was to work on the novel again over Memorial Day weekend ... and did I? No. And why? Because after several years of working on this blatant therapy, it occurred to me that what I have as the middle needs to be pushed up to the first quarter. That would be better, I said, even though it was 2 in the morning, which is not the best time to make decisions.

I suppose I could do that. I mean, I am not doing that. But I could. But I won't. What I need to do is finish this draft. 

You know, when I program there's always the ugly kludgy answer and the elegant answer, and the elegant answer never occurs to me until I put the finishing touches on the kludgy answer. Perhaps that's a problem I can avoid here.

But will I? No I won't.

Garden Disaster or Garden Opportunity

I scattered Preen weed killer / fertilizer all throughout the garden, forgetting to avoid the six year-old bugleweed and creeping Jenny I cultivated so it spills artfully over the wall and softens the transition from the rocks to the lirope.

So now all that is dead. I could replant it, or I could see if any if it resurrects. Or I could left the lirope grow up to the edge. Or I could dig everything up, or start from scratch.

I do need to thin out the flowering thyme. I could start with that and then see where to go. 

Sad, though. 

Laundry Detritus

This is a gross tale. I can only hope that my experience can help someone else in a similar situation. 

For two days this week I have noticed this weird rubbery substance in various spots in the laundry room. It was like long thin strips of some shredded material. White, a little frilly, had lots of holes. 

There were just scraps of it at first, then I found a lot of it in the rubber gasket in the washing machine. Like, the motherlode of damp frilly shreds. Of course, I thought the washer was disintegrating. 

Nope. Days later I found a dry scrap, and finally deduced that I had scraped my heel calluses into a towel that I neglected to shake out before tossing it in the washer. The shaved strips of  dead skin were softened and rubberized by the detergent. 

So watch out for that, and shake out your towels before they go in the washer.

Pre-Opera Promenade

I was giddy all day with the prospect of going to the opera, and then I was giggly all day when I realized what I was excited about.

The opportunity to talk with a man in the flesh. Emphasis on flesh. Perhaps even flirting with a man for the first time in three years. That's what I was anticipating. (And don't tell me I have a husband. I have over-complimented him and now it doesn't even register.)

Once I knew what I wanted, and I picked up friend Anne, and sat down to the pre-opera al fresco meal, I ran commentary on the people streaming past us to the picnic tent. I said, "Ooh look at those pants" and "Check it out, man in a hat" and "man with hands in pockets at three o'clock" until Anne said, "Oh you poor thing."

Which was why, when we were waiting for the doors to open, Anne nudged me.

"Salmon Pants," she said, nodding toward a man I had noticed in the Man Parade wearing salmon-pink pants and a matching bow-tie. He had eaten dinner in view of our table.

I strode over and touched him politely on the arm.

"I have to tell you, you have just excellent fashion sense. I've been admiring you all through the picnic." Then I gestured at his ensemble.

"Oh, you're making me blush," he said, "Thank you," and then he nodded at his date. "I'm with her," he said, randomly.

"Oh she looks gorgeous too. But look at you!" I waved at his ensemble. Then I left. Because, you know, it could have become awkward. Drop the compliment bomb and vanish.

Then after the opera it got even worse because as we were filing out a man in a tuxedo was walking in and I did a complete 360 while walking so I could watch him walk away. And I did not fall down. When I was facing forward again Anne said, "Tuxedo?" and I breathed "Man lingerie" and a woman next to us laughed.

I occurred to me that if Salmon Pants has season tickets I will see him again, but he won't spot me because I will be wearing a different wig for every performance, and if that is not a pervy thing to say I don't know what is.

Backwards Wigs: Winners

These wigs I could see wearing backwards. Not bad.

In order: Chimera, Wanna, Sexytown 

Backwards Wigs: Losers

Well, I took Jessica Fantatica's suggestion and checked out what some wigs would look like if I wore them backward, because as she says, Zoom has its advantages. (When was the last time I ironed the back of a shirt?)

The following wigs did not reverse well.

Top to bottom: Shirley, Senior, and of course, I Would Like to Speak with Your Manager.

Return to Sexytown

When you are fifty, you no longer live in Sexytown, but you have only driven ten miles away and you could walk back if you wanted to. When you are sixty, though, you are twenty miles outside of Sexytown. There's no getting back. 

But then you put on a sexy wig and there you are, instantly back in Sexytown, and it's jarring.

This new long wig has transported me back, and the effect of seeing sexy hair combined with my zoom filter has affected my personality. I look at my "young" lush wavy hair and "young" filtered face and I act too young.

Just a little too flirty. Just touching my hair a bit much. (I twirled a curl the other day.)

I've found myself complimenting my male coworkers, but just one daily compliment per male coworker. Nothing really inappropriate, nothing I could be ashamed of even if I were ten years younger.

But I'm not ten years younger.

I might have to put this wig up in a matronly bun otherwise I'll do something indiscreet and I will be caught trespassing in Sexytown. I wish there was some locale where I could live happily between Sexytown and the ice floes. 

(Also, the new wig that's doing this to me is now officially re-named Sexytown.)

Rewriting the Novel: Maps and Moons and Directions

I thought that when I made my map I might catch two or three errors in distance or geography. 

Hah! NINE. Nine mistakes when people head east from Oklahoma and wind up in Texas, or veer from north to south without explanation. 

I also printed calendars for every month from September 1930 to April 1931, to check if all the "three days later it was Saturday" references were correct. There were two months I had to back up, re-chart, and revise because I was a day (or a week) off.

About the only thing I got right were the phases of the moon. The moon was a sliver on the prescribed sliver day, dark on new moon days, full when it was supposed to be. I have no idea how I managed that when I had the "three days later" narrative so wrong.

That's all tidy now. Only 12 revisions left!

Coach Envy

Because Big Dot shared her connections to the Coronation, I had to add my own.

See that narrow-hipped, small-thighed slip of a 32-year-old standing, looking at the gold state coach? There I am, center frame.

P.S. This is the only photo Gary took of the Gold State Coach. When we took our spontaneous trip to the Mews, I was far more interested in the Australian State coach with its Waterford Crystal lamps.