Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Keeping up with the Neighbors

Remember how I was proud of our stone wall that was made from actual stone?

Seriously, look what the neighbors two doors over have done.

"We see your stones, and we raise you BOULDERS."

I am ... crushed.

 

Grapes

Last year, after watching a cute video of a baby raccoon eating grapes, I took some loose grapes and strew them on top of the Big Pile O' Decaying Nuts and Dog Food where the raccoons eat.

No interest. None.

This year, Gary saw the same video and noticed the grapes were still on the stem.

Evidently, that was the trick.

Now we're going to have to figure out how to attach those apples to the tree.

 

Podcasts

Well, it would seem having the perfect music to exercise by wears thin after one week. Instead, I've been exercising on the indoor bike while listening to podcasts.

I haven't heard any podcasts other than Serial, which I loved. I binged Serial over a weekend.

I compiled a list of all the best podcasts. I thought they would all be like Serial, and I was wrong. It seems they generally consist of mildly amusing people being more amused by themselves than merited (which in a surprising moment of clarity I realize that describes me).

Anyway, I looked for podcasts similar to Serial, which led me to S-Town, which struck me as being too revealing about the intimate details of one person's life. (There's a theme here, isn't there.)

My next try was to stick with NPR. When I was on Twitter I followed the woman from Pop Culture Happy Hour, and I wondered why my station didn't carry PCHH, and I suppose they didn't because it's a podcast. It's a podcast that sent me to the game "You Are Jeff Bezos," and I will always treasure that, but I think I want something short and narrative.

Sounds like it's old episodes on This American Life for me.

Stuff vs Vacations

I know that I tell myself that the memory of a vacation lasts longer than any material thing you would have spent that money on. I know my memories of Paris will endure longer than a remodeled kitchen will be in style.

However, I must say I don't think of Paris multiple times a day, yet that's how often I do flush our new Toto toilet. (And let me tell you, if you need a toilet, go Toto. Oh, my god. I just have to hop down off it, give it a stern glance over my shoulder, and it flushes violently enough to suck all the air from the room. That's an exaggeration. But damn, it's a good toilet.)

Of course, I keep seeing posts from friends who are off on vacation and I am consumed by envy. I don't know if I can make it till early 2020, when Disney World opens up its Star Wars area. I just went with friends to visit Missouri wine country a few months ago. I think Gary and I might need to spend the day down there.

Of course, that's halfway to Memphis.

i admit I did sign up for one of the Orient Express Omaze contests. God help anyone who has to share a bathroom with Gary and me.

Ah, the travel itch. It doesn't go away. I need to go flush my toilet a few times.

In Which I Catch Up with Science

The nice thing about science is that it always changes, so there’s always something new to learn.

Health Sciences

I found out that my MS drug will not be going generic next year. (This is actually excellent news for me, because when it goes generic I get no special treatment for having been in the trial.)

”They got an extension,” the neurologist’s assistant said, “to see if it helps in pediatric MS.”

Kids have MS? Since when? Well, I guess since they’ve run kids through MRIs. They’ve diagnosed MS in kids as young as two now.

Grim.

Food Sciences

I suppose having Big Momma Monsanto in town puts Missouri ahead of the curve in food sciences. You know how Cheese = Cheese, but Cheez = Not Technically Cheese? Well, in Missouri we might start eating Meet, because lab-grown burgers can’t be labeled as Meat. But how awesome is it that they can grow meat in a lab? Is it .... cloned meat? That’s is so cool. Will they deliberately clone only the happy cows? Can vegans eat test-tube meat? Will they just swab a happy cow's gums and grow a burger from that?

So, if they can grow cow flesh, why can’t they grow people flesh? Then you’re just steps away from transplanting an unwanted fetus to an artificial uterus. (That you can then put on a hamburger bun and eat.)

And most important, when and where can I get some?

Again With the Curse of Oak Island

My TV nemesis returns later this month with The Curse of Oak Island.

(Narrator voice) Will Ellen continue watching this pointless show? Will she watch it live and waste an hour each week? Will she tape it and then fast forward through it to save time like a sensible person? Will she realize she is being hoodwinked after last year's classification of a garnet ring as "treasure" and just give up?

There’s no buried treasure. They’re digging up an old sinkhole. Everything can be explained by sinkholes and lies. Well, except for the coconut fiber, but perhaps coconuts floated up there after an epic hurricane.

Yet still I can't stop watching this show. 

How Would You Even Do That

I sat in a group of four people. One was twisting and writhing and complaining he couldn't "crack" his back.

"I've never done that," I said. "Never cracked my back. Never cracked my knuckles."

I was expecting - I don't know. Acclaim? Envy? What I got was a horrified pause, and then "What ... what did you say?"

"I've never cracked my back or my knuckles."

"OH! I thought you said NIPPLES." 

Now, this guy is in his 20s, and I could have just written it off as juvenile behavior, especially when his equally young friend agreed, "Yeah, that's what I heard too." 

Then a woman my age said, "Oh. I did think that was unusual."

And then Friend #3 piled on and said, "I definitely heard you say you'd never cracked your nipples. Four of us heard it."

"Well, you are all wrong. Why would I say something like that ... well, okay, obviously, you know me, clearly I'd say something like that, but I DIDN'T."

Then I spent the rest of the day eNUNciating and Ar-TIC-u-lating.

 

 

Perhaps After This I Will Find I Like Golf

i am feeling a bit of guilt. My job allows us to win tickets, and as you know I’ve been pretty lucky. I’ve won tickets to several concerts, a magic act, a musical, some baseball games, and so on. 

Honestly, I only signed up for the drawing for the PGA Tournament because it would afford me access again to the Bellerive Country Club. I’ve only been there once and, even though I remember being a little put off  (there were five foot chandeliers every six feet, excessive), I do like rubbing shoulders with wealthy people and seeing how long before they find me out.

That’s why the day I found out I had won tickets to Monday’s practice round, I began shopping. Well, I began researching, then I began shopping. I am sure if I had ever seen a golf tournament even on television I would be better prepared for what is expected of my attire.

Thursday, while I was shopping for a coordinating top (I was wearing the pants I’d found the night before), I encountered a older lady who had been to a golf tournament, back in the day, and she said the pants I was wearing would pass, but my shoes would probably not be acceptable. I went home and polished my filthy shoes. 

This is what I plan to wear. (Because that’s what it is all about for me. I only know two golfer’s names, Rory and Tiger, and I am afraid Tiger is the only one I could identify by sight.) 

I can’t decide between the black tee and the patterned blouse. I feel the tee looks more sophisticated, but there have been conflicting messages about what is business casual from the country club and the company. I do have a tiny black bag and I could pack one as a backup. 

It is all pointless, of course, because it will be 97 degrees and I will be a sweaty pig parading in rumpled J. Jill linen pants. I doubt I will get past the door. 
 

Presidential Lies Through History

I was eleven. I was watching a documentary about the Cuban Missle Crisis with my father. That sounds impressive for a tween, but it was 1973 and there was only one television. Since I was almost as quiet as Dad, I was allowed to stay in the room. 

The program was relating how Kennedy cut a press trip short with the excuse that he had a bad cold. 

Dad turned to me and said  - and I clearly remember, it was a Friday, because Dad didn’t speak to me unless it was Friday and he had been drinking, which he only did on Fridays - Dad turned to me and said solemnly, “And that lie was the FIRST time a president EVER lied to the American people.”

i was amazed. Amazed. First, amazed that Dad knew so much about American history, and specifically about Presidential lying. Also, I was amazed that presidents didn’t lie, but he had specified that it was a Lie to the People, so maybe there were other lies, but maybe presidents had vowed to be straight up with the People?

I remembered that for years. Enough years, thankfully, that I grew up and:

1. Understood sarcasm and
2. Could put his comment in historical context, given that it was mid-Watergate era.

I wonder what on earth he would think of the current president, who - who just - I can’t even use the term “lies all the time” because, honestly, for something to be a lie you have to have some idea of what the truth is. 

Spunky Demands a Portrait

I was down in the basement, wondering what I should paint next. If you are oil painting and you want to paint every day, you have to have three things to work on, because every day's work takes three days to dry.

"Hey you!" said Spunky Labia, International Toe Porn Superstar.

I had been painting a croquet ball and I was very pleased with it. It had looked quite fresh, and then I started painting the cookie tin it was sitting in, and it all went sideways. Spheres I can do, but cylinders are beyond me. Plus I'd picked the wrong color and --

"Hey!" barked Spunky.

I kept painting. "What do you need, Spunky?"

She cried out, "I am a Great Beauty. How is it you are not painting my portrait in oils?"

I shifted my attention away from the cookie tin. "Fine," I said, "as long as you don't expect an exact representation."

So Spunky sat for a portrait, and I also worked from a reference photo. She didn't talk and was very patient. After a week and a half, I was ready to show her what I'd done.

"Oh my god! Is that how you see me? My big toe. It's so ... Fat."

She was right. I narrowed her big toe.

"Now my little toes look so ...one dimensional. Make them curvier."

I added some yellow and white highlights.Then I gave her kind of a halo. 

"That's good," she said, "Post that on Facebook."

Foolishly, I did, and I found there is nothing better than posting on Facebook to make you aware of what is deeply wrong with your painting. Mainly, the slope of the toes was utterly unnatural.

So then I had to rehab her two left toes, which left me with this, which will have to do:

 

Then she said she looked jaundiced. So I gave her a more flattering background ala Madame X.

Spunky is satisfied with that.

Gary recommends I put a water droplet on her big toe.

I have to turn it toward the wall or I’ll start adding a reflected blue to her feet.

 

Where I've Been Part the Third: In the Basement with the Paint

So, one of the first things I did was look for a walkthrough. The king of walkthroughs is of course Bob Ross, and while I dutifully made some Happy Little Trees, I didn’t like the result.

However, this walkthrough was more my style. You don’t have to wait for the paint to dry and can knock it out in an hour, and the result is an excited teacup.

Here’s how that ended up:

There's something wonky with the bottom of the teacup, but I don't care. It was one of the first three things I did and it was encouraging. I highly recommend that walkthrough.

Of course, that was followed by the Pier Horror. I had a very realistic photo of a pier and I tried to copy it. The pier was okay, the water was impressive, the hills were acceptable. I invested a lot of time in it, but when I tried to work on the sky ... a few hours later it was in the trash. There were also some daisies I finished and then trashed. I'm averaging 60% acceptable and 40% trash.

The pier should have taught me that a lovely photo will make a frustrating painting, but I still held on to that dream. I had a nice photo of a peony. It came out okay, though only after a lot of overpainting and extra work. But, it did give me a chance to practice water droplets, which you too can learn to paint if you follow this handy step-by-step process.

I like bits of that one. I really like the bottom left petal with the droplet right where the highlight is.

The problem is finding things to paint. I have some croquet balls I like to use in arrangements, because they're colorful, and easy to draw (duh, circle).

Of course, just like with the guitar, it's always about trying something harder, so now it's time to move on to the human form. 

Where I've Been Part the Second: With the Guitar

The thing I like about playing the guitar is how muscle memory will kick in and your hands can play a tune without any help from your brain. There are now about 10 tunes my hands can play on their own.

Well, this year I decided to challenge myself. I wanted to play the tune plus the accompanying chords. But, when I added in the chords on top of the notes, my hands got all confused. Nothing felt natural. I felt like I lost years of progress. And I'm talking about easy stuff. This Land Is Your Land. Blowin in the Wind. A version of Danny Boy that is so slow you forget you are playing Danny Boy.

However, two weeks ago my hands had a breakthrough and played a C chord entirely on their own, and of course I felt that same sense of surprise. Surprise, mixed with a little horror, because you just felt your hands operate independent of your brain.

Like they suddenly became sentient. It makes me shudder when they do it.

Lke they're going to start doing crazy stuff entirely on their own. No, really, it feels like that.

I figure if I keep them happy playing the guitar an hour every other day then they won't try to choke me in my sleep.

 

Where I've Been Part the First: In the Bathroom

Okay, there's just no time for the blog when the creativity has been spewing forth from every other outlet: specifically the painting outlet, the guitar outlet, and the bathroom ... outlet.

Ah, the spewing that's been going on in the bathroom. It all started with the anatomical prints we got in NOLA.  They had to be hung, and I am short on wall space. Gary first suggested we rearrange everything, and then that we have two medical bathrooms, and eventually I suggested that if he ever takes a bath I will personally take down the prints I finally had to put above the tub.

Seriously, it is jam-packed.

Above: new french L'Anatomie print, blue-green Anatomy print, Hal the skeleton, the head (another find from New Orleans), Friend 2's ultrasound, mirrors, various colonoscopies. And of course, below, the 3D anatomy chart, the China Vagina, and my MRI.

So a few things had to be removed and rearranged, and eventually the transparent pages from the old medical book had to turn in to this:

That's actually two of those floating magnetic picture frames that I drilled some extra magnets into. I didn't explain it too well to Gary. Tonight he emerged from the bathroom, horrifed, holding one of the transparent pages. He was confused because he didn't realize it came apart. He said, "I thought this was encased IN the acrylic."

Yes. Because I can pour acrylic in the basement. DO you pour acrylic? Do you extrude it?

(pause)

Now I want an acrylic shop in the basement where I can encase things in acrylic.

 

 

Round Roast Cage Match

I was so pleased with how the bottom round roast turned out in the sous vide that I thought I'd do a round roast taste test.  Top round, bottom round, and eye of round.

Three roasts enter! One roast leaves!

I carved them up into one pound chunks, bagged them, and then my 1990's Foodsaver vacuum sealer decided that it was too old to keep up with all these sous vide hijinks, thought longingly of the days it was only used to close potato chip bags, and announced it would henceforth only seal and not vacuum. Given that we've referred to it as "The Suck and Seal" for decades (sorry, Foodsaver brand), now that it didn't suck I had to heartlessly dump it into the trash and buy a new one.

Eventually, all three roasts were sealed up and went in at 132 degrees for 36 hours.

That left me plenty of time to wonder why there are top round roasts, bottom round roasts, but no middle round roasts.

Come to find out the top round is the inner thigh (sexy!), bottom round is the outer thigh, and the eye is the very outer part of the outer thigh.  (If you can stomach the sight of a dead cow being turned into supermarket meat, this video is very thorough and interesting.)

After a day and a half I fished out all the roasts, and sliced them thinly, and did the taste test. I have decided I still like the bottom round the best. Eye of round was pallid and dry (evidently that cow didn't have cellulite on her outer thighs) and the top round ranked in between the two.

Gary loved them all. Loved them. Even the eye of round. He refused to pick a favorite. My fear now is that he will snack on it from the fridge and will get food poisoning.

Canelé Cage Match

Last Saturday I was full of the morning energy you get when you've been laid up all week and then you put on a bra and leave the house and go shopping. Then you trip over your feet at the grocery and land on your knees and then your chin and then your nose. Then when you recover you think, I'm going to go buy palmiers at La Bonne Bouchée and also an extra treat for me, la LAH, because I am a survivor.

The lovely counter person served up my palmier, and listened as I mourned that they have no canelé.

Ah canelé. I fell in love with them in Paris, then had a bad one in Quebec City. (So bad I left it on a railing for the local birds.) It's essentially a caramel-coated condensed popover, but better. 

The counter person said,"Oh, I go to Nathaniel Reid Bakery for canelé. And they have them at Sucrose, and La Patisserie Chouquette might have them. I like the ones at Nathaniel Reid best. I go there a lot." Three places with canelé driving distance from my house! One not five miles away!

Half an hour later, the counter person at Nathaniel Reid confirmed that the counter person at La Bonne Bouchée came there regularly. I promptly went back to La Bonne Bouchée, and thanked the counter person for hooking me up by giving her one of my spare canelé.

Sucrose though, the one by me, has the best canelé. I was just a touch sweeter than Nathaniel Reid. When I had Anne join me in a canelé taste test that evening, Nathaniel Reid looked more imposing and professional, but had developed a gummy interior, whereas Sucrose stayed tender.

It was so good I might not even visit La Patisserie Chouquette this weekend to see if they also have canelé.

Oil Painting

As you know, my usual hobby cycle is:

1. Spend startup money.
2. Fail.
3. Fail.
4. Fail.
5. Succeed a little.
6. Spend lots of money on professional materials.
7. Drop it immediately after.

The oil painting hobby seems to be a little different. I won the oil painting starter kit at trivia, so I skipped a good part of step 1 (though I did buy a lot of cheap brushes).

Perhaps that's why the encouraging small success surprised me by arriving early, on my second attempt instead of my third.

That's my second attempt propped up against the basement wall. It's not on a full canvas, because as I say I was not expecting anything, so I just painted it on a canvas pad. And while there are many things I don't like: the plate got a little too distorted, and I painted highlights over the stem's shadow on the right apple, and there are two spots that are clearly overworked... and I could go on, but I was pleasantly surprised. It looks like a pair of green apples on a plate, and the dark background really makes it pop. That must be why so many still lifes have a black background.

I don't quite know what to do. I truly want to either a) quit right now or b) paint a portrait of Gary as Madame X next.

I was so pleased with myself that I butchered Danny Boy on my guitar to knock me back down, so I wouldn't get a big head.

(Half an hour later) I just looked at a lot of John Singer Sargent portraits and now I am fully humbled.

In Which I Experiment

There was a time in my life when I had thin, fine, long, curly hair. It is now thinner by at least 50%, finer, curlier, and shorter - because it falls out before it can grow. The hairs that stay taper into invisibility. In the photo below my bangs are actually below my nose, you just can't see the bottom three inches because it's so fine.

You know, my hair. I've mentioned it before.

(A particularly bad photo. My face is as lopsided as Sarah Huckabee Sanders. And she has great hair to counter it.)

There was a brief shining moment in which I had really healthy hair - and it was because I was between MS drugs, so it wasn't worth the payoff.

A friend at work knows all the hair replacement ins and outs, and she brought in one of her now-discarded wigs for me to try on.

I always thought that if I was going to go Wig, I'd go Big. Massive piles of big luscious hair.

Nope.

 
 

And I will tell you why. Because I look odd. I've been trying to analyze why I look so odd. I think that usually, my pitiful hair halo must distract the viewer from everything else that is wrong with all my other hairs. Eyebrow hairs? Way too much eyebrow filler. Eyelash hairs? Utterly gone - so much so that there isn't much for the mascara to hang on to. And the 55 year old lady fuzzy face hair? All there.

However, I was pleasantly surprised by my good-natured face, and the fact that even given the Worst Photo Angle Ever With The Photographer Positioned Below You The Horror, I don't look too fat. Growing gracefully into my baggy grandma eyes and crepe neck. Just hairless in the wrong spots and too artificially hairy in the right spots.

Gary did not react well to the photo. ("You look like you have a raccoon on your head. This is as bad as the Brazilian ten years ago.") Friends in the office unanimously said it was too much hair for me to handle. Friend #3 tried to convince me I could pull it off if I pulled it back, so it would seem like less hair. (Friend #3. She has gorgeous thick straight hair.)

Hm, I thought, maybe I've been wrong. Maybe I should try a wig with less hair. Then I remembered, Mom... she had fine hair too, and I still have the wig she had in the late sixties. Maybe she got a wispy wig that would be appropriate for a baby-haired lady.

Nope.

 

My Mom, Angie Dickinson.

So, the struggle continues. Evidently there are many other options out there. Perhaps the Bumble and Bumble Textured hairspray that arrives on Monday will be the answer.

Trivia Roller Coaster

Up: Last night's trivia was at the Foundry Art Center, a very short drive from my home. I love the locale, especially since the upper floors are filled with artists in loft spaces.

Down: Even though I've been there many times, last night I missed an exit and got mired in a local movie/entertainment area for ten minutes.

Up: I bought raffle tickets to enter the art raffle. There was a lot of exciting art, much of it not raffled off, but I was interested in a number of the raffle items as well.

Down: Turns out I mistakenly bought tickets to the basket raffle instead of the art raffle.

Up: I won the oil painting starter kit basket raffle. Goodbye guitar hobby, hello oil painting hobby. At least this hobby only cost me $10 in raffle tickets for the supplies.

Up: We were tied for first after the first round.

Down: We were tied with six other teams.

Up: We were alone in first after the fourth round.

Down: Some other team edged up on us and took first place from us for a round.

Up: We got it back and won by one point. Of course we returned the money, as you do, but I came out ahead anyway because I won the $150 oil painting kit.

Down: Oil paints are very messy. I see why people rent studios in the Art Foundry instead of painting at home.

Spice Revolution

The other day I got some onion powder out of my spice rack and it rattled. That's when I realized my spices are old.

(They aren't as old as those 1970's tins would suggest - I buy new spices and funnel them in.)

America's Test Kitchen has done some taste tests in which Penzeys spices have held up well.  I pocketed Gary's newer supermarket onion powder along with my petrified onion powder and headed to Penzeys. (Yes, we have separate spices. Separate accounts/beds/spices, kids, that's the secret to marital bliss.) I would say I headed out to see how Penzeys compared, but I suspect the plural possessive of Penzeys, which is itself a plural possessive they just gave up on, might be Penzeyses.)

That plan failed once I got there because I snorted too much of his into my sinuses and I was overloaded. I couldn't tell the difference between Penzeys and his preferred spice brand, Spice Islands. So, just assume all my plural possessives will be wrong for this post, because if I tried you'd see things like "Spice Islandses sample compared well with Penzeyes sample."

My nose recovered enough to be able to tell the difference between Ceylon cinnamon and Chinese cinnamon, though. I know in the rest of the world Chinese cinnamon is just called cinnamon. Of course I got both (one for sprinkling and one for cooking) and then I smelled the granulated toasted onion and had to have that.

Of course I ended up restocking a third of my spices, plus extra things like the fancy cinnamon and the toasted onion. Happily I was able to resist the vanilla because I have a giant vodka bottle of home-brewed vanilla in my cupboard. (Lah LAH. Fancy. No, you just steep vanilla beans in cheap vodka for half a year.)

And it occurred to me that if I like vanilla-flavored vodka and Coke, I might really like vodka-flavored vanilla and Coke. Hm. And I could have Chinese cinnamon toast too. Hm. Interesting.

Of course, since I came home excited about spices, Gary had to be the voice of reason and point out everything wrong with my plans. (I didn't tell him about the vanilla Coke.)  I've been making him Butter Chicken while he's had the flu THE LAST SIX WEEKS, so if he doesn't let up on the scorn I'm going to put the wrong cinnamon in my next batch of Butter Chicken. Then we'll see who the spice snob is.

And Yet Again Another Special Guest Post

Previous guitar introductions:

Ding was my first. I heartlessly traded him in for the Fender named Blondie.
Uncle Alvarez was my first acoustic. He was beloved, then cast aside after I got the Blue Washburn guitar.
Blondie is a very heavy Fender. Blondie is used primarily for ironic electric covers of "Your Cheatin' Heart" and the like.
The Bass With No Name arrived and was played for about a week, and then joined the other unused guitars in what has essentially become the Guitar Larder, the place I go when I needed a backup guitar when my main guitar does not suit. 
And the main guitar always suits.

At least, it suited until I started trying to play the finger-picking accompaniment with my thumb, and now I just can't stretch my fingers on to the frets I need to.

So, meet Baby, a 3/4 size yellow orange guitar.

Baby says:

Hello? Can you hear me? I'm Baby. I'm a distant relative of the blue Washburn guitar looming behind me. It's a real Washburn, whereas I'm of the "Oscar Schmidt for Washburn" branch of the family. Obviously my cousin is much bigger, and has an electric output, and has a wider neck, which seems to be why I've been called up from the farm team. I've always had a skinny neck and a short body and it seems some people prefer that sometimes. This lady I'm with now keeps stroking my neck and cackling.

Of course, to make way for me, some lesser-used guitars had to be put to better purpose. The bass guitar and some guitar named Uncle Alvarez have taken my place at the used guitar store. I hope I'll be helpful here. I wouldn't want to be sent back.

Big Vacation: The Food Part 1: Food on the Boat

Boats are interesting, with the constant motion of the ocean. In my body the motion of the ocean is countered by the stillness ... of ... well, of the lower intestinal tract. I am usually quite comfortable when things shut down in Bowelville, even if it's a week. But usually when nothing is moving down there, I'm not on a boat with unlimited food.

Every meal I allowed myself one tablespoon of everything at the buffet, which filled up my plate, then I went back for seconds of what I liked. For days and days I ate like this, one "tasting" course and then an entire meal on top of that.

Three days in I stopped being comfortable. I added a breakfast of apples and oatmeal instead of grits and bacon.

The next day I kicked it up to muesli and prunes. Ten prunes.

The next day I considered the nuclear option: Eggs Benedict.

I didn't do it, though. I have finally learned my lesson. In fact, in New Orleans a man was at the hotel restaurant complimenting the server on "the best eggs Benedict" he'd ever had. I was tempted to order them for a moment, then thought better of it.

Eventually, the prospect of dry land and a day with three cappuccinos straightened things out.

Patient Zero

At work Friday, I was chatting with my co-worker, M___ .  M___ said she had gotten over whatever sickness she'd had on Wednesday, but that her husband was at home with the flu that very minute.

I stood up and walked away. Then I went and got some Lysol wipes, wiped my hands, lurked a few cubes over until Typhoid M___ moved on, and then wiped down everything she had touched, because I am getting on a plane and a boat and I will not be sick.

I have been washing my hands every other hour. If anyone in my department coughs or sneezes I give myself a pump of hand sanitizer, even if they're three rows away. And then this woman comes in directly from her husband's sickbed? No. No thank you. I make the sign of the cross at you, madam. Begone.

Later on I went to a reception in the building, and immediately scanned the crowd to see where M___ was. My friend D___ saw me looking and laughed, because she (D___) was one of the people who gave me refuge in her cube while M___ was blowing the flu about in her wake.

"Where is M___?" I asked my friend. "I can't see her."

"Oh, she's serving the cake," D___ answered.

I gasped in horror.

Of course, D___ was riding me. Patient Zero M___ was not serving any cake. She was just cozied up next to the department head who will no doubt be shivering and aching by Monday.

Just typing about the experience made me get up and wash my hands.

Lunchroom

TeddyJ, the company I work for, has field representatives who are particularly personable. This means that when they come to town for training, the building is filled with people who have never met a stranger. Usually I plod through the lunch line and get, say, salmon. On a training day, the line is filled with people who then say:

"Salmon? Salmon in Saint Louis? Is the salmon good here? Hi, I'm Joe."

Then the guy on the other side of me will say "It's probably okay, but I'm an expert in salmon, I live in Alaska. Hi, I'm Jim."

Then I have to shake both their hands.

I don't mind it. A few days ago I was pulled into a conversation about where to hike (I steered them away from Mark Twain Lake and toward Elephant Rocks), and then when I sat alone finishing my meal a man came up and asked if he could sit with me.

"Sure, but I'm leaving after this next bite."

"That's okay!"

I took my last bite, then took a chance and sighed, "It's like we never talk anymore."

Luckily, he played along and the conversation ended with a commitment to see a counselor. People are easy to talk to when you know you'll never see them again (or when you know you'll never see them period, hello blog readers).

Recently, one of these trainees was in the food line with me and asked how I was today. When I turned to answer he took a big step back, waved his hands about and cried out, "I know you! ! I know you!"

For an instant I worried he was going to say, "You're Spunky Labia, International Toe Porn Superstar." But he did not. He said, "You're the lady in the video I just watched this week."

Turns out he was in the Intro class, and that class watches as homework the video I was in last March, the one with the bonus makeover. Given how I looked after the makeover compared to how I've looked recently, I'm amazed he recognized me.

Hair

My hair is just a great big barometer. Any change in weather affects it.

It looks particularly hideous when it's hot and humid, like when I'm on a cruise.

It also looks awful when it's extremely cold and dry.

Today it was cold.

That's how it looked all day.

Sous-Vide Update

I've been using the sous-vide as regularly as I can. The friend who introduced me to the sous-vide, Anne, called The Splendid Table last week to ask what she could do with fresh bay leaves, so now I'm two degrees of separation from Garrison Keillor.

I've tried some new recipes. Of the many sous-vide resources, the best so far has been Will It Sous-Vide, written by Claire Lower, who refers to her boyfriend as "ofClaire" ala The Handmaid's Tale, and it's been nice seeing you here, bye for now while you visit over there. She sous-vides Hot Pockets and turkey legs. It's delightful.

Grits.

Not what I would have expected to be my favorite, but after three hours my Old Fashioned grits tasted like they took a slow bus up from Nashville and ate butter sandwiches the whole way.

Scrambled eggs. They came out a little soupy, even after 30-45 minutes. And I know, scrambled eggs should take less than five minutes, and I even did a final sear as you would for a steak because I didn't trust the egg whites. Was it worth it? Best eggs ever. Beat the Starbucks eggs by far.

Frozen chicken.  It did indeed thaw when I extended the cooking time by 50%. But it had some slight - very slight - strangeness of texture. Gary didn't notice it. It encouraged me to try a frozen butterfly pork chop which was insanely good, like, $17 restaurant pork chop good. I can't tell you what Gary thought because I made it and ate it while he slept because I knew I'd have to sear it after, and that produces smoke, and that produces an interrogation.

My heart failed me on two of my attempts, pudding and brisket.

Pudding. I cooked it for hours, I refrigerated it, I popped the vacuum seal, I jiggled it. I took a bite. I jiggled it again. The jiggle was suspect. I took another tiny bite. Some deep innate caveman voice said "Don't eat that." I can't really explain what turned me against the pudding, or if the pudding had turned itself, but down the drain it went. 

Brisket. This was the one that called for FIVE DAYS OF BRINING and then TWO DAYS OF COOKING. I ended up doing seven days of brining, and then ... I just couldn't. I worried about the temperature stability of the garage fridge where I done the brining. I pictured all the little microbes climbing up on the brisket and diving off. So instead I pulled out my old slow cooker recipe and stupidly doubled the cook time. It was awful. I mean, it was fine after we smothered it in barbecue sauce once and gravy another time, but it was so overcooked the $25 brisket shriveled down to six servings.

I need to skip the brine and toss a chuck roast in there. That only takes a day.

Bottom Round, Revisited. Editing this post to add that I cooked bottom round at 135 degrees for 24 hours instead of 180 for 8 hours and it is completely different. Well, duh, know, but this wasn't a rare round steak, it really tastes like a less fatty prime rib. It's amazing. I gave Gary a bite, and when he wandered out twenty mintues later it was all gone. As we know, you gotta eat that sous vide stuff immediately.You snooze, you lose, no sous.

In Which I Climb the Summit of Elegance That Is Sous-Vide Cooking

Sous-vide cooking is all the rage now that they've invented a device that will let you safely cook food in tepid water in your stock pot. Well, that's an exaggeration. It isn't tepid water, because it has to be at least 135 degrees to kill the pathogens. But you put your meat or eggs or carrots in a vacuum-sealed bag and you let it cook - well, simmer - well, heat up - at a temperature low enough to kill pathogens but still does some amazing slow cooking that doesn't dry anything out.

Like this boil-in-bag dinner I grew up on, but much nicer.

Friend Anne has a sous-vide, and broke it out to make some beef tenderloin last time I was at Anne's Day Spa and Kitchen Laboratory. It was fabulous. That could be because it was beef tenderloin. I was surprised that it only had to sit in the bag in the water for four hours. I'd heard things have to stay in the water for days.

So, for Christmas I got myself my own sous-vide cooker and I have since learned that there is a delicate dance one must do. You have to balance the time spent cooking (half an hour to 78 hours) with the temperature (136 degrees to 180) and the amount of pathogens killed (if you cook it too long - like days - and the food's too delicate - like fish - the strongest pathogens revive and can trouble you). 

Here are the things I have eaten so far.

Eggs with gruyere. I quizzed facebook on what to make, and everyone who has had Starbuck's velevety sous-vide eggs said, "Make that." I had to buy jars, and I evidently got the wrong kind, and the knock-off recipe I found might have been off, and and they were a bit tough. Still, edible. Tasted like ... eggs. The next day I plopped an egg in boiling water and kept it there for seven minutes and it was perfect. Wouldn't make the 45 minute eggs again.

Shop and Save steak. I followed the recipe on the website for this one. "Only half an hour?" I thought. "Well ... okay." And it was wonderful. Made a cheap steak much better.

Leftover eggs with gruyere (see above). The eggs recipe made four servings, and I WAS ASSURED you could refrigerate them, even though I've heard that you really should eat sous-vide things immediately so the pathogens cannot ressurect themselves. I laugh dourly at that now. I took one out of the fridge the next day, ate it for breakfast, and four hours later I was at work and the egg was leaving my system violently. And I would say, "Sure, some part of the egg was undercooked, and I have an egg white intolerance, AS I NOW REMEMEBER," however I don't vomit with the egg white intolerance, and the bowel distress starts after 45 minutes, not four hours. "No more eggs!" I thought, as I puked. And, had I not had the steak, I would have thought "No more sous-vide."

Carrots. I've heard a lot about how awesome carrots are when cooked sous-vide. I think I may have heard this from people who never eat raw carrots. After 45 minutes they still had a crunchy center (with a nicely tender outside) and they did indeed retain their carrot taste. But ... why not just eat raw carrots?

Bottom Round Roast. I have tried to make roasts, and they are always disappointing, because they are always some horrible cut of meat that I think will taste like seasoned lunchmeat right out of the oven. Still, I sliced up a bottom round into four-ounce portions and cooked it at 180 (a little high) for eight hours (really, that's what the recipe said). It was tender. Sadly, it still tasted like a very tender, very dry, very tasteless bottom round roast. For the next portion I try will requre a lower temperature, more time, and more gravy.

That's it so far. Next I'm going to try:

Frozen chicken. I often come home to find that nothing is prepared or even thawed. Supposedly I'll be able to increase the cook time by 50% if the food is frozen. Let's see what happens when I plop a frozen breast in the pot. Supposedly after ninety minutes I'll have a succulent chicken breast.

Filet mignon. They were on sale for four bucks each, so why not. And supposedly I can toss the frozen cuts right into the pot still in their vacuum packaging right from the store.

Brisket. I love brisket. I have a fun brisket recipe that calls for Mogen David wine. However, the sous-vide brisket recipe calls for FIVE DAYS OF BRINING and then TWO DAYS OF COOKING. Hope it works out. I'll see Thursday. They say you put ping-pong balls in the pot so the water doesn't evaporate after day one.

Chuck Roast. I love chuck roast, particularly the collagen. I haven't had a proper pot roast for years because Gary hates the collagen. Hoping the sous-vide will do some amazing thing that will make it palatable to Gary. 

Pudding. When I tried to make home-made pudding before, it was very tough with a nasty skin. I'm going to try making some today with the sous-vide, but this time I've got the right jars, I'm literally rinsing off the egg yolks, and I'm dividing the recipe so I don't try to eat any leftovers.

Still Not Knitting

The hobby situation here is in flux.

Knitting: I came close.I looked at a book, I researched the internet for "easy sock patterns." That was as far as I got before other hobbies swam to the surface to pull me away from the maelstrom that is knitting.

Jewelry: After puzzling all summer over how to make a necklace out of a wooden jigsaw, a new thought occured to me and I promptly ordered two very nice wooden puzzles to test it out. I haven't drilled into them yet because my NEW hobby pulled me downstream toward...

Cleaning. My new hobby. I know. I gutted and perfected and tweaked the medical bathroom and it felt so good that I pulled everything out of my nest/guest room and gave it the same treatment. I also bought the room a new wastebasket. Did you know there are wastebaskets to be bought for over 500 U.S. dollars at Houzz? I felt virtuous that my new wastebasket was a steal at $45.

Halloween Costume

Here we are in costume for Halloween:

Yes, we are trolls, but out name tags say:

 
So, we are Russian trolls.

When I got the idea, I thought, that's obscure, because no one is going to remember troll pencil toppers. I remember them every day I brush my hair toward the ceiling. With an application of hairspray, I think, I would look just like a troll pencil topper.

It was surprisingly easy to find troll wigs on Amazon, but you can find anything on Amazon. It was harder to find a good font for the Russian Hello My Name is tag.   

As it turns out, I didn't have to explain troll pencils to anyone at the party we attended. When we walked in, the hostesses daughter accosted us before we even made it out of the foyer.

"O yewa poppy! POPPY moo vee inex roo NOW."

I do not spesk fluent Child, so I just nodded and smiled.

Then she pointed at my blue shirt and plainly said. "Smurf," so I was to engage her in a conversation about Smurfs until she went back to babbling.

Turns out, and people with children you already know this, there is a popular children's movie called Trolls, based I assume on troll pencil toppers, and that's why the wigs were so easy to find on Amazon. The people explaining this kept pointing at the big screen tv in the next room, and it turns out that AT THAT MOMENT the movie was on and the children were enrapt. And then we walked in as the main character. If only I spoke Child, I could have convinced the daughter that Gary and I were Poppy's relatives, there to punish her for her sins or whatever trolls do.

Amazingly enough, there was a native speaker of Russian there too. Win on all counts.

Orlando Vacation: Harry Potter Employees Commit to the Bit

I fell hard for the Harry Potter section of Universal, for the incredible attention to detail, and because the park has a technology that will let you perform "spells." You stand by a brass plaque, use your wand to perform the gesture engraved on the plaque (such as a figure 8 or a letter W), say the engraved incantation, and magically something will animate: a fountain will shoot water, or a stuffed owl will flap its wings.

I assumed Gary would want magic wand technology as much as he wants new muggle technology (that is: immediately and for the highest price) and I was right. I could tell because he began telling the saleswizard how much I would want it.

So, $53 dollars later, I had a wand that I could hold while I stood in line and watched children use their wands to perform the same spells I would fail at minutes later. Eventually, though, when you get it, it's quite an irrational sense of power. There's a reason witches are known for cackling.

The next day, i found a spell spot that wasn't surrounded by children. There had been a few that were not operational, explained away by the staff as "this area is hexed" or "our house elf is on vacation." When I couldn't get it to work, I immediately went into Debug Mode.

I summoned a roving IT Wizard. They help with spells, saying where to point the wand or how large the gesture should be. (Evidently the corresponding incantation is just as effective "if you say it in your head.")

The IT Wizard asked me to try the spell again, assessed my form, and judged it to be good. He asked to look at my wand.

He played with the tip of the wand, then raised it to his ear and listened to it. Intently. For at least thirty seconds. He then announced, "you wand is in need of repair."

"Bullshit," I wanted to say, but he was giving me directions to the wand sales and repair shop.

So I went and stood in line while another saleswizard explained to a ten year old how the wood in his selected wand was more decorative so it would enhance the bond his wand felt for him.

At that point I was feeling my age, finally, but instead of having some adult dignity I just sighed, closed my eyes, and said my wand was evidently broken.

"Oh, I'll give this to our wand technician in the back and he can fix it right away."

When he came back -- after unboxing a brand new matching wand -- I'm not STUPID -- I thought, I can play too. So I soberly asked, "So, why did my wand fail? Is it because of my dark heart?"

He almost smiled. "Oh, no, ma'am. You should be all set now."

 

Two Once-in-a-Lifetime Experiences in Two Days

We totally saw the total eclipse. When I booked the hotel in Cuba MO (where my Grandpa had a farm), the Path of Totality wasn't over my house. Then, last month, NASA played with the estimates and I was one mile inside totality.

Too bad. I still needed to go to Cuba for the eclipse. I needed that extra few seconds of totality, plus I had another reason to go to Cuba. I had to fulfill my destiny. I had to conquer my white whale. I had to go to ... Onondaga Cave.

If you remember, I have missed many chances to go to Onondaga Cave. Every visit to Grandpa's farm, we would beg to go, and every time the parents would say no. Then I tried to go with Gary but we foolishly went on the Lord's day. Finally, we intended to go when we went Branson, but we were waylaid by the Cathedral Cave in the same park.

But now, I can check Onondaga off the list of 6,400 caves in Missouri that I need to see. I was no more awed by Onondaga than I have been by any other cave, until we were given the option to clamber up to see the Lily Pad room. Until I saw that room I was thinking, "This is my last cave. It's slippery, it's dangerous, and if I never hear about soda straws again, and never see pitch darkness again, I will be happy." Then the Lily Pad room restored my wonder.

How weird is that? Something happened in that room so that when the stalactites dripped on the stalagmites, they didn't create a point, instead they hit the water and spread into a lily pad shape.

So, from the bowels of the earth to the glory of the spheres: two days later we were looking at the total eclipse. Amazing. If you haven't seen a total eclipse, here's what happens:

• You spend over an hour peering through these glasses that blot out everything but the diminishing sun. And frankly, if you missed that, you didn't miss anything, because you've seen it when you look at a moon's phases. Looks just the same.
• Eventually, the last tiny ember of the sun blinks away, and you see nothing. It is safe to take off the glasses.
• You take off the glasses and it is the wildest thing you have ever seen. THE MOON HAS EATEN THE SUN. If I hadn't been expecting it I would lose my mind and slaughter all my livestock and sacrifice my children to keep it from happening again.

And, amazingly, what we saw was even more freakish than anything seen in any other solar eclipse, because we got the buildup. Past generations haven't had the glasses, we had to use the pinhole camera. This time we watched the sun be nibbled away into just a sliver, then total darkness, THEN you take off the glasses and it's like switching from a blurry 12-inch black and white TV to a 56-inch high-def full color television. The riot of color was amazing. None of the representations I saw showed the colors. The sky wasn't black, it was blue-violet. The sun wasn't white, it was a yellow ring around the moon with a burst of what looked like feathery white cirrus clouds (that roiled just enough to freak you out) and then of course, yeah, the moon was black. Blacker than anything I have ever seen. And then when the sun began to peek out again, the "Diamond ring" effect, the diamond was red!

Then of course, you have to put the glasses back on, and you're back to blurry black and yellow. Like being blind after seeing color for 1 minute and 50 seconds.

Just incredible. Loved it. And to think, it happens again in seven years in my vicinity.

Another Year Older, Another Year Closer to Retirement

Aging was the theme for the week, beginning Thursday, when I turned 55. I've done everything new there is to do. Time to turn old.

We've been playing with all the aging cliches lately. Every weekend Gary fills his pockets with Werther's candy and we go to the matinee, so, two cliches down right there. We tried another elderly treat: eating at a cafeteria. I was expecting frail old grannies debating between the soups and treating themselves to a half slice of two kinds of cake, like my grandma did. Not today's cafeterias. The people at the Golden Corral would have eaten my grandma if she fit on the plate. No one was frail and old. The were huge and voracious. They were so huge and voracious Gary had a nightmare that night in which he was pursued by fat people.

Gary himself seems to be experimenting with how his old age will look. We had a delightful time last night, driving on new roads, going to a new grocery store, seeing a new act.  Retirement looked good when we were having fun yesterday, but today he pooped out and slept for hours. I tried to nap but I was unable to and we wasted a perfectly beautiful August day. And how often do those come up? Just this morning someone asked me when I was going to retire. It might be conceivable in just three short years. I need to craft a retirement that doesn't bore me silly. One that's full of "newness." 

Another aging cliche popped up at work. We have some Millennials on our team. (They are self-aware millenials, so they joke about their need for participation trophies.) I was complaining that any audio we put in our training would cause problems when we had to edit it, one of he Millennials told me that software has advanced enough to take existing audio and invent new words the person never said. I would have felt shame for my ignorance, only ten minutes later I was able to solve a problem with a 32 year old DOS command. I was pleased. ("DOS! Suck it, Millennial!" I crowed.)

I need to remember how Mom dealt with her retirement. She was fifty. She had some rules:

• No more than three hours of televsion a day.
• Get dressed every day.
• Always have a project to work on. (I still have to learn to knit. That's a project in my back pocket.)
• Have something to look forward to every day.

I should have thought of that advice earlier today. I got dressed: that was the only thing I did right.

In Which I Almost Participate in an Iconic Bit of Americana

Last night when I turned in to the subdivision I notiiced a group of little girls running a lemonade stand. They waved wildly at me and yelled, "LEMONADE."

I didn't stop. I've never even seen a real lemonade stand before. I didn't quite know what to do.

When I got home I hauled Gary out of his chair and got some shoes on him. I got some cash and we headed back to the lemonade stand on foot.

I addressed the entire group of five girls. "How much?"

"FIFTY DOLLARS" one screamed.

I was momentarily taken aback. "No, really, how much?"

Another girl looked at me with pity and chirped, "It's free if you DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY."

"I have money. Do you have some lemonade that is priced somewhere between zero dollars and fifty dollars?"

The girl who tried to shake me down for fifty dollars demanded, "How much money do you have?"

"Three dollars in bills and four dollars in quarters."

Some other girl said, excitedly, "You have to wait until Jessica comes out!" She ran off to get Jessica.

Shakedown Girl yelled, "YOU HAVE TO WAIT." I wasn't going anywhere. It gave me a chance to actually read the sign, which did indeed say LEMONADE, and below that it said "JDRF," for Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. Ah, I thought, someone must have handed them a fifty and now that's what the market will bear.

Jessica came out of the house, and she was much older than I anticipated, because she was clearly the Mom.

Jessica pointed out her daughter, a meek girl who had not said much. Jessica said her daughter had Type 1 diabetes and of course I suddenly remembered the twenty dollar bill I had in my purse. I truly had not considered it before, because I didn't think of it as lemonade money. A twenty? That's Starbucks money.

When the twenty was in my hand I tried to hand it to the closest little girl. She was horrified and said YOU HAVE TO GIVE IT TO THE LADY (also known as Jessica, also known as Mom.) Given that the lady took the money and also poured out the lemonade, I felt the little girls were not getting a good education in finance or fund-raising.

That was yesterday. Today at the bank I heard some girls in line behind me talking about the eighty dollars they'd raised for JDRF. "We got a fifty, and a twenty, and two fives." I whirled around. They looked a bit older, and were not screaming or doing cartwheels, but I still asked for details. Turns out they were not my girls, but they had a lemonade stand one subdivision away. I went to the website and while it wasn't JDRF Lemonade day yesterday, that is one way they suggest for raising funds.

So, I still haven't been to a classic lemonade stand. What is the going rate? It's five bucks, right? 

Ghoulish Bagel

In the early 90s, there was a serial murderer, the I-70 killer, who killed six young woman in strip malls and shopping centers along Highway 70. One was murdered near our house. Well, 8 miles from our house. It felt nearer, since it was only a mile and a half from our old apartment. (Narrow lane-way full of serial killers.)

She was killed in the Bogey Hills plaza, at the Boot Village at 2079 Zumbehl Road. I never had that chill of "My God, I was just there," because I'd never set foot in Boot Village. (Boots. Can't get them on. Can't wear the Large Calf boots either. When they start producing Large Ankle boots I might be tempted.) I frequented the Michael's craft store quite a bit, though, and Gary still buys his birdseed in that plaza.

I'd long forgotten about the murder, when some article brought it to mind, and it occurred to me I'd been to Bogey Hills frequently (birds gotta eat), but I hadn't seen Boot Village in a while. A little research and I found that the St. Louis Bread Company restaurant moved in to that address. And there's that "My God, I was just there" chill. I eat there at least twice a year.

So, when we were considering where to eat after the weekly seed pickup at the Bogey Hills bird store, I suggested the "Serial Murder Bread Company." To which Gary said, "CEREAL? For dinner? They sell cereal now at the Bread Company?"

No, but they sell bagels.

I tried to see if I couldn't tap in to some lingering psychic energy, but that faded when the real food came and I remembered I don't believe in ghosts or psychic energy. I did look closely for any men who might have looked like this twenty-five years ago:

I stopped when I realized Gary looked a little like the second photo twenty-five years ago.

Busy Week: Doobie Brothers / Chicago Concert 2017

That last Doobie Brothers / Chicago concert I went to was back in 2010 - seven years ago! I went back to read up on how I felt about the last one, and it appears that it was so hot that I took to my bed the next day.

And, strangely, in 2010 I seem to have formed an affection for this member of Chicago:

I said I was going to Wikipedia him. I can't really tell if that's a bass, but if it is, it must have been Jeff Coffey. I must have been captivated by his voice, because we know I love a tenor. This year, he sounded a bit like he'd sucked on some helium before the show.

I was so young seven years ago that I completely ignored the hot trombone player to his upper left in that picture. I was such a child then that my eye was drawn away from the 69 years old founding member of the band, James Pankow.

This man has it all.

Enormous sexual self-confidence. In fact, such self-confidence that Gary rolled his eyes when Mr. Pankow began wiggling his hips in his v-neck shirt, and suggestively thrusting his trombone.

"Puh-leezze" Gary said.
"Shut your mouth. I love him. He is selling sex and I am buying it."
"Seriously?"
"He is FINE."

He is FINE and 69. Sixty-nine years old. This gives him the gray hair I love.

Is in the Rock and Roll Songwriting Hall of Fame. For songwriting, and of course in the regular hall for being in Chicago.

Born in Saint Louis. I don't know exactly where in Saint Louis, though. I'm guessing Baden. NOT born in Chicago. Strangely, though, he is not on the Delmar Walk of Fame of People Who Were Born In or Even Briefly Lived in Saint Louis.

Is of German and Irish descent. This is a heritage I have learned to deal with. (Gary's 25% Irish and 25% German.)

Has a famous sibling. His brother plays the vile Merc Lapidus, the network head/game show host on Episodes.

Has staying power. Been in Chicago since 1967.

And did I mention the suggestive tromboning?

Busy Week: Pride Parade

Every year for the past decade when the Pride Parade rolls around, I want to go, but then I think, "Since I'm not personally proud to BE gay, I'd only be going just to gawk at the fabulous gays, and that's not kind."

Then I saw that TeddyJ as a company was marching in the parade, Gary read that more straight people march in the Pride Parade than gays now, and when I found out Planed Parenthood had a contingent (being a gay parent probably does take a lot of planning), I decided that the Pride Parade had been commercialized by straights and that I should go before it became completely appropriated. When we got there we realized that ship had sailed. 

Then it became a quest to find anyone gay and fabulous. We were there an hour early, so we wandered past the Gay Purina Pet Food float and the Gay Local Electric Company float and finally got off the main drag, to a side street where (possbily) Gay Fredbird was waiting to march, and then finally we rounded a corner to the staging area for the Balloon Brigade.

There are people inside those balloon wads! Non-corporate dancing gay people! It takes them a solid day to blow up all those balloons. We had a nice conversation with one man who confirmed our fears that we'd missed the real Pride Parade. He told us about the time and money they personally invest and then pointed out FedEx's devotion to the cause was taping a tatty sparkled banner to the bottom of a van minutes earlier. I felt bad, because all I did was wear a colorful shirt. Lame.

I also felt bad because the parade reminded me that on April 1st I made an April Fools' joke and I had still not gotten my payoff.

On April 1st we were discussing on Facebook that the creator of the Rainbow Pride flag had died. I commented, "I thought Mr. Roy G. Biv created the rainbow flag," and I bet some of you just remembered that ROY G BIV is the acronym you use to remember the order of he colors in the spectrum, and perhaps you laughed.

Friend #2 (Hot Mom) did not remember, and did not laugh, and suggested that maybe Roy ripped off the rainbow flag creator instead.

I countered by suggesting that anyone unfamilar with.Roy G. Biv's work should go visit Wikipedia right now, because I didn't want to end what was turning out to be an April Fools' joke with "HAHAHAHA STUPID." That's no fun.

But Hot Mom didn't go to Wikipedia. April Fool's came and went. However, Friend #3 got the joke, and added the next Monday that she was familar with both Roy and the work of his cousin, rapper Bell Biv DeVoe.

Unbeknownst to me, that Monday Hot Mom heard our snickering and finally went to Wikipedia, remembered that she was familar with Roy G. Biv, but said nothing. Instead she made me wait until I asked about it two months later after the Pride Parade. She'd better watch out next April Fools'.

Busy Week: Opera

It was a busy week, what with the Doobie Brothers/Chicago concert Wednesday and the opera Friday and the Pride Parade Sunday.

Let's start with Friday. Anne planned the Opera evening, becuase she's been to the opera several times before. I've only been once, with Mom, some time in the early seventies. It was in the days of the St. Louis Municipal Opera, before the current Opera Theater of Saint Louis. Mom and I saw Die Fledermaus. I remember it was funny, and that I was perplexed that an obviously English opera had a funny German-sounding name. (They translate the opera for us here in Saint Louis, and even then they still project the subtitles on the wall. I suppose they do that everywhere in America.)

Anne planned for simply lovely weather, and we took advantage of all the opera trappings: the valet parking, the pre-opera picnic lunch in the garden, the pre-opera liquor, the desserts, and the flunkys who flank every door and open it when they see you headed their way.

Anne also scored us primo seats, Dead Center, mezzanine. Seats so good that the General Director of the Opera came by to schmooze with the people in the seats right next to us.

Lovely weather, lovely company, lovely venue, lovely seats. The opera itself?  Was it Kafka-esque? Why yes, it was, since it was an opera based on Kafka's The Trial. Was it atonal? Why yes, since it was Phillip Glass' adaptation of Kafka's The Trial. Was it elevating? No, but it was interesting. And the music which underlay the meandering libretto was very lovely, and ominous. Anne commented."We can't expect the libretto to have a resolution, since the story probably won't."

And, it had quite a few funny moments, because underwear is funny in any genre. And there was some great work with sraging and shadows.  And there were and menacing minor characters that just stood on stage and judged. The costuming went full chiaroscuro: there were seven shades of grey and exactly one gold coverlet.

The work itself was a nice counterpoint to the lovely evening. I will admit, it was hard to buy in to Kafka's rage against the system while the system was working so well for us, what with the lovely cocktails on a lovely summer night at the opera.

Truth March

Latest march? Truth March on June 3rd.

(For some reason, I woke up with the urge to make a sign. Before you jump on me, that's the way Thomas Jefferson spelled it in the Declaration of Independence. Evidently unalienable is not the same as inalienable, and Jefferson went with unalienable.)

Speaking of urges, I didn't get to hang out with other marchers before because I needed to find a bathroom. I'd gone before we left the house, but signals were crossed and I was not really done. I was out of luck until Union Station finally opened at 10.

Union Station, in the past, was a hopping tourist place to be. Now it's deserted. It's a year away from being one of those malls on the internet with weeds growing through the floor in the food court. So, when I saw a couple inside I deduced, "You've been to the bathroom."

They explained the bathroom was to the left, past the sandwich shop, but you had to buy something to use it. People, I wanted to say, I have never blown in anywhere to use the bathroom without buying something after. It's the RULE.

Got to the sandwich shop. No one there. Because, as I said, it's a wasteland.

A security guard was in the vicinity, told me exactly where the bathroom was, and reiterated the rule about buying something.

After I was done with the bathroom (which was ten empty storefronts yards further down the mall, I don't know why this place thought they had dibs on it), I came back and still no one was manning the sandwich shop. I found the guard again, gave him five dollars and said to buy himself a cookie on me.

It was almost - almost - like bribing someone, and you know that's on my bucket list.

As I passed a glass storefront on my way out I realized why people kept explaining the Pay to Pee rule. I looked homeless. My hair was crazy, my jeans were frayed, and I and I had a Cheeto strung around my neck. Plus I was staggering more than usual because I was very hot.

The heat was a topic of discussion on the march. "It's too hot!" "It's June!" "He was supposed to be GONE BY JUNE."

 

Angel Food Cake

A month or so ago I bought some cake flour and made this excellent black and white angel food cake.

I thought, sure, it looks good, but let's just see how it tastes. I cut into it ... ah, people, it cut clean. It was not rubbery. I put the slice on my tongue. It was delicate and sweet. It was like eating a cloud. That's when I took the photo, to commemorate a successful angel food cake.

I had made angel food cakes from scratch before. All hideous. I've made it from the box mix. Fine, but not heavenly.

Of course, back then I didn't know about bleached flour. Did you know they didn't even make angel food cake until they invented the process to bleach flour? Evidently gassing flour with chlorine bleach does something to to the protein content so it's almost gone, so ... so ... some magic happens. I don't know. All I know is that bleached flour that's been milled superfine is close enough to air that it will make an angel food cake.

The idea that some flours make better foods compelled me to expand my flour palette.

That's whole wheat pastry flour (for Wheat Thins knock off crackers), bleached white flour (for pie crusts and cookies what won't spread), oatmeal flour (oat cakes), a bag of almond flour (leftover from a cookie recipe) on top of the tub of all-purpose flour, bread flour, and the magic milled cake flour for the angel food cake.

I wish there was a happy ending for this post, but since the cake above I have made four additional angel food cakes. None of them have been as good. They've been presentable, but nowhere near what the first one was. Rubbery, fallen, distorted, no better than store-bought.

That make two things I've made perfectly only once: one perfect angel food cake, and one perfect batch of meringue cookies in the late '70s with my Mom. Believe me, every day that the humidity in St. Louis drops below 50% I consider trying those meringue cookies again. Strangely, the humidity on the day I made this cake was 90%.

I'm going to give it one more try. I didn't use baker's sugar with cakes 2-5. I could just run regular sugar through the food processor, but why, when I could have five types of sugar in my pantry?

 

Barenaked Ladies Concert 5/15/2017 (Mike Evin Post)

The opener for BNL was supposed to have been The Persuasions: the acappella group BNL just collaborated with on a CD.

That's why I was surprised to see Mike Evin post this on Facebook a few days before the concert:

I heard Mike Evin before on one of the BNL cruises. I  remembered how he said a long talk with his grandmother had led to a song. I liked that songs enough to document it in the post above. I didn't like it enough to remember all the details carefully, and I confabulated it with another song I heard on the cruise, Dancing Partner. That led me to leave this comment on his Facebook post:

So, a little humiliation on my end, but you know me, gotta take that humiliation and parlay it into complete disgrace. (Wait for it. It's just a few paragraphs from now.)

Fast forward to the concert. The second song he played was Wait for the Tea to Steep (video here). I listened closely to all the lyrics. There is nothing, nothing in the lyrics about any grandmother. Not a word. Had I not chronicled his grandmother reference in that link above I would have thought I was demented.

So of course, I had to find him and confront him in the merchandise booth during the intermission.

"Hi. Okay, so now that I know Dancing Partner isn't about YOUR grandmother - "

"Oh! That was you."

" - didn't you say on a cruise that Wait for the Tea to Steep was inspired by a conversation you had with your grandmother? Or am I crazy?"

"Ah. That was a ... made up story." He left it vague so it wasn't clear if he'd made it up, or if Crazy Facebook Lady made it up all in her head.

I took care of that ("Oh, so it was a LIE!") and extracted a promise that he would write a song about his grandmother. By the time I got back to my seat I vowed never to try to speak to a musician again. It just never turns out well when I do it.

And I suppose embroidering ones grandmother into the intro for a song is fair play when you have to entertain strangers and keep their interest. He really did a great job of showmanship at the concert. Just a few songs in we were all captivated, clapping, singing along. And now I have another story to think of EVERY DAY while my tea steeps.

Climate March / TrumpCare Protest

It's been a busy week for the resistance, comrades!

We braved the weather, and the thunderstorms let up for the Climate March. This is the type of thing that made the ancient believe in Gods. "We are marching for you, Earth Mother, have pity on us for the two-hour window of our March." And lo, there was no rain for the duration of the March, and afterward we sacrificed a chocolate glazed donut at the Tim Horton's downtown.

Then of course, Thursday the House voted to massively personally screw me over. In the past, the ACA was a nice thing I supported for other people, and it did increase my insurance premiums at work for $100 a month, that was okay. This time, though, the AHCA didn't hit me in the pocketbook for $100, they gouged me for my health plus potentially tens of thousands of dollars a year.

The first place I went for information was redstate.com, because I figured I should go to a Republican source if I didn't want any liberal bias. What I heard was "There aren't that many people with pre-existing conditions." Given that everyone in my family had a pre-exisitng condition by 15, except for the people who got cancer by 40, that gives me no comfort.

Here's a quote from the second place I went for information: "[Older Americans not yet eligible for Medicare] will face higher premiums than they currently do, and the younger people will face [lower] premiums." So, like life Insurance, and car insurance. Fair. 

But then I started to hear about how this will ripple directly into my work insurance. It could take away my home ("States get to decide if they'll cover you") and my security (My medicine will be covered until the work insurance decides I've hit a cap ... which would happen every March, I imagine, as soon as the clinical trial stops covering it in 2018).

And I know, I should look at this as "Old sick people make sacrifices so young people can have health care," only wouldn't those young people start being changed higher levels when they get sick? So, even they don't get anything out of it.

So, I was enraged. That's why Gary and I took a long lunch on Friday and gathered at Senator Blunt's office, where I accepted the first sign I was offered and was randomly interviewed by someone from KMOX.

Come to think of it, maybe the sign is what drew him to me. Before he even asked me my opinion, he asked me to read my sign into the microphone. I suppose he thought if I was too shy to say "VAGINA" I wouldn't have an opinion.

(Also, my hips look freakishly narrow in that photo. I wish I could pivot to that angle whenever I meet someone in the hallway at work.)

I was actually able to string two words together, and when I was stumped I punted the question over to Gary, who answered well but was NOT quoted, because that article has exactly one point and evidently I summed it up with:

"I know how much my medication costs for my MS and they would just blow through that $8 billion pretty fast.”

.... and that was all they used of my many pithy statements.

Afterward, I did the math, and actually if you multiply the 360,000 Americans with my type of MS and my meds, that's $25B a year right there. Then I realized, nah, the givernment's not giving out the premium drugs, they'll dispense the "cheap" $1,300 a month medicine. That only adds up to $5B. Fellow MSers, let's make sure we get dibs on that extra $8 billion before those slackers with diabetes try to get some.

Gary keeps saying it'll be killed in the Senate, but that sounds too much like, "Trump will never be elected."