Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Easy Diagnosis

I don't know if they still have this article available free, but I found this deep dive into a writer's medical diagnosis fascinating. That poor man.

I, on the other hand, had the most straightforward MS diagnosis ever. The gastroenterologist got it in two questions. "What are your symptoms / Do you have MS?" (No, I chirped.) There was a brief delay of a year of ruling things out before I discovered that I had answered that second question wrong. 

I am an easy diagnosis in general, even for buried psychological issues.  When I had trouble at work after Mom died, the work counselor got the answer in two questions too. “What are you working on when you start to cry at your desk? / What is an annuity?” At least that time I answered the second question correctly. (The answer was an annuity is an investment that pays out at death, with a death benefit, when you die, death, deaddeaddead, oh.)

The marriage counselor got it in one question. He looked at Gary’s grey hair, turned to me, and asked, “How old were you when your father abandoned you?”

So I’m easy, but I know that writer’s diagnosis journey is typical for most people with MS, with its dead ends and switchbacks. I know how lucky I am and how awful it must be to get sicker and sicker, usually because each specialist can’t see the big picture. 

How awful would it be to have lived fifty years earlier, with no treatments and no MRI? How lucky are we? How lucky will people be fifty years from now, when the first and only question will be, “Can you spit into this tube and wait for the AI to find the bad chromosomes?” It makes me want to follow the writer above until medical science catches up with him. 

Dishwasher

So we have a new dishwasher. I calculated that a dishwasher can cost almost three times as much as long as it lasts three times longer. (Twenty years, it claims.) I'm also happy to pay extra if it shuts off when water-in does not equal water-out; that way my wood kitchen floor will not warp for three months when the dishwasher floods. 

It is German and fussy and demanding. It requires a constant supply of salt to keep the water soft. (It did make me wonder if that was all my old dishwashers needed.) I watched as the installer added salt before he left, and then after his empty test run the display demanded "ADD SALT.'"

(Salt Vampire from Star Trek, young folks)

I ignored the salt message, because I was waiting to watch the auto-open feature in action. That is what sold me on this model. When the cycle is done, the door pops open invitingly. (This washer is German, fussy, and not yet in menopause.) 

I pictured it would promptly give a little sigh, and a pop, and then the door would be ajar, oh, half an inch. But no. After I waited for what seemed like twenty minutes, a robot arm inexorably pushed the door open three inches, and then the display continued to flash "AUTOOPEN" for another stretch while it vented all the steam. Then the door wouldn't detach from the robot arm. Eventually I hit some buttons and the display read "PULL DOOR OPEN," when it should have read  "YANK DOOR OPEN REALLY PUT YOUR WEIGHT INTO IT."

Everything was fine after that, only I did stand for five minutes with my hands full of dirty silverware because I forgot it had a super secret skinny upper drawer with slots for the cutlery instead of a basket. 

I loaded it, but I haven't run it again, but really it kind of scares me now. I don't yet have the rinse fluid it demands, and I know it's already pissed off about the salt.

Cooking Soup

I  assembled all the ingredients for my French Onion Soup before I began to cook. Broth, onions, butter, cheese. No bread: skipping the bread/crouton calories. 

It took me four hours. I had a recipe; I followed the recipe. Only, I didn't just cook the onions, I caramelized the onions. I added a taste of beef base so it was stronger. I added some dry brisket scraps from last week. I used sherry for half of the red wine. Okay, I didn’t follow the recipe. But I tasted everything as I went, and it was terrific. 

Then I noticed the Provolone was a funny beige color around the edges, but I just cut that off, as you do with cheese, and soldiered on. The recipe said to add Parmesan on top of the Provolone, which I did, and I broiled it, and let it cool, and tasted it.

The first bite was horrible. But it was all Parmesan. No problem. I pulled off the Parmesan layer. Still had the Provolone layer. 

Next bite. Still horrible. The Provolone was pre-pandemic Provolone. I didn't think cheese could go bad in the freezer, but it must have. That layer was peeled off.

The next bite was great. The balance of sweet and salty with the onions and the broth was perfect, as it had been when I tasted it. Then I hit a bit of brisket, and realized I hadn't tasted the brisket, and remembered -- too late -- that in my attempts last week to re-hydrate the dry slow-cooker brisket, I had added just a touch of Liquid Smoke to the water.  So now my manly smoky brisket was bathing in ladylike onion soup. 

"Not to worry!" I thought, "I will just buy some Gruyere cheese to replace the Provolone and that will be strong enough to match with the brisket!" 

No. No I won't. BECAUSE THERE'S A SHORTAGE OF GRUYERE CHEESE. (If you can even get real Gruyere, because evidently now the U.S. courts say that we can take any garbage and call it Gruyere.)

Gary says all soups need a day for the flavors to meld, so I still hold out hope.

Ancient Secrets Revealed: Part the Second

These are secrets I have kept from myself.  Things I have wondered about that have obvious answers I've recently realized. There have been two lately, both minor, but so long delayed that they qualify as self-held secrets.

TV Snow. I was afraid of the snow on the TV screen until I was a teenager. In that link I wonder why I was afraid of the static that filled the TV screen in the pre-cable days.

Now that I'm older, the answer is obvious. The only time I saw the snow at the end of the broadcast day was when I was up late. The broadcast day didn't end until midnight or one in the morning. And there was only one way I'd be up watching TV that late: my parents and brother weren't home. So the TV would keep me company until the broadcast shut off, and that meant I was utterly alone in the house. I got over it at eventually because the solitude that is terrifying at eleven is awesome when you're twelve. 

Promotions. I hate work promotions. I actively avoid them. I have a list of reasons: the new workload is never worth the money, the heightened expectations set you up for failure, and you replace a job you are good at with one you can't handle. 

Recently a well-meaning co-worker tried to convince me to ask for a promotion. As I was listing the reasons above, I realized the real reason. At its core, asking for a promotion is asking a man (usually) for money. And given that the Deadbeat father directly said I wasn't worth the hundred dollars a month I cost him, I don't like asking for more than the minimum. 

In a movie this self-revelation would lead to a montage of me confidently scaling the corporate ladder, but in reality that is not going to happen. 

=======

So, two mysteries solved. Nothing significant, just little nagging questions put to bed.

Wedding Ring

I took off my wedding ring at the beginning of the lockdown, because I had enough to worry about without the subliminal worry I would lose my ring. 

Now I find that I am called in to work, or need to visit the Department of Motor Vehicles, and I neglect to hunt down my ring and put it on. Out in the world without my magic token. No man has approached me. Well, one thing happened: I was talking to a man and mentioned Gary and he said, "Who's Gary" in a way that suggested he didn't think I was married (as I was so obviously thrilled to be talking to a man).

It seems people should be able to look at me and realize I'm married. You know, I bet women do, because of our refined feminine intuition.

I have a work event coming up; I suppose I need to see if the ring fits. 

Russian

It's amazing how few words I remember of my Pandemic Russian. Nyet, of course, and the words for "excuse me" and "thanks" and "hello".  But the word I remember best is pronounced chelovek (человек), or "person". I find that when I hear Russian on the television (most recently, Tetris and For All Mankind) I always have one ear cocked for chelovek.

Other than that, I can pick out the polite phrases from context clues (that tone when a conversation winds up is universal), but the rest is just a blur. 

It's a shame that I didn't stick with it. I could have more of a conversation in my high school Latin than I could in Russian. But, I tell myself, I grew some new neurons I can use as backup if I need them.

 

Thespians

I don't remember my induction into my high school Thespian Society as much as my initiation. All the potential members were required to go to the local mall and proclaim the first half of the Thespian motto: “Act well thy part” to strangers. If one of them replied with the second half: “There all the honor lies,” then you were in. (I believe in my case someone called a former member who came to the mall  and said the special phrase to us all.)

At the time my pitiful need for attention was not as fully developed as it is now, in my dotage, so this was a little more like hazing than initiation. But it was the 1970’s and hazing was actually encouraged, and there was no Stranger Danger, and there were still malls.

I believe it was in the 90’s when I was in a mall and I heard a rowdy bunch of high-schoolers bellow "ACT WELL THY PART" from the upper level. I waved madly from the level below and yelled back, "THERE ALL THE HONOR LIES!"  My God, the joy and applause I got back: I still remember it.

So, it was a thing in the 70's, and still in the 90's, but does it happen today? Chat GPT cagily says to ask the director of the local Thespian Society. I can't contact the director of the local Thespian society because I don't know them, of course. Do any of you know?

The Freedom of Chaos

My favorite time is when things tip from bad to intolerable. So bad it makes you laugh.

That is the current state of my house: intolerable. It was only bad this morning.

I’ve mentioned before how the house is in chaos because of the gypsum drywall dust and the mitigation attempts: HEPA shopvacs and air purifiers. And a new vacuum that was used one time before it was deemed inadequate. I am unable to hang my new curtains because they would be contaminated by the invisible dust still swirling through the air ducts. 

Then this morning one bathroom bulb out of three went out. The replacement wasn't quite the same shade of white. Usually, this would be unacceptable, but seriously, I thought, why am I trying for perfection? In Chaos Manor? 

And then, I walked in the snow by the peony bed and saw that I never did the fall peony cleanup. In fact, the withered stalks were still twisted in their peony cages. 

Usually, this would make me research worst-case scenarios (mutated peonies!), but all it did was tip the house situation from bad to intolerable. So I just laughed and shrugged it off. 

Victorian Wig

This is the current state of the Country-western Wig of my Youth.

I took thinning shears to it, and like it better piled up in my head, but it is still too much hair.

And, obviously, the artful curl is too artful. You can't look like, "Oh, dear, that curl has escaped me," when it's the same tousled curl day after day.

I was assured that after a year of wearing wigs I would stop feeling like I had too much hair. I have not made that transition, and it has been a year and a quarter.

That is why this week's list of to-dos starts with an appointment to go to the professional and have her thin things out.

My Dad / Good Behavior Review

Gary and I were just wasting part of my vacation by binge-watching Good Behavior again. It’s a show about ... I'd say fifty percent crime, fifty percent fraught family relationships. 

As we started watching, my own dead family filed into my subconscious like they were entering a green room, ready to come on stage. When a parole officer was introduced as a recurring character, my [step]Dad raised his hand and said, "I'm up."

"Oh, wow," I said to Gary. "I just remembered something about Dad, just out of nowhere. He was a parole officer for about six months. How weird. I forgot all about that until just now.”

“I don’t remember that,” Gary said.

“Before I met you, I think. And he didn't talk about it.”

“He didn't talk.”

“True. But he did say at the time that it made him realize my brother could have been worse than he was.”

That was the first episode. Then Dad went back to the green room of my subconscious until the series was almost over. There was a scene when lines were drawn about who is called “Mom” and who is not, and how parents can withdraw from their kids.

“Hey,” Subconscious Dad said. “Remember your wedding, when I made you clarify which father you wanted to walk you down the aisle?”

I did. At the time, Mom approached me and asked who got the honor, Dad or the Technical Father Jerry, who had recently surprised us all by being found alive after 15 years of silence.

”Are you insane?” I laughed. “Why would I want a stranger to walk me down the aisle?” 

Mom said, “Well, your Dad thought I should ask, just in case.”

So I had to have the awkward conversation with Dad in which I established that he was the One True Dad, no other Dads before him, and so on.

So, if you are looking for something to binge-watch, and you have finished both seasons of The Bear (fifty percent food, fifty percent fraught family relationships), then check out Good Behavior.

TWIL: Recycling

The boxes were still piling up in the garage a few days ago. Friend Anne said, "Why not just recycle them?"

"Well, our trash vendor doesn't have recycling service."

"Take them to the recycling center."

And it was then that I learned there are indeed centers where you can put your recycling, and one is absurdly close to me. I just needed to break down the boxes.

I broke down the boxes and it sparked one of the worst arguments of my marriage. Gary made many inaccurate points in his argument, one of which was ""Recycling Center' is just a fancy name for junkyard."

He claimed ... well, I won't go in to it, but after a bit of it I was seriously reconsidering my life choices. Figuring how many nights in a hotel I could get for my AA Gold status. Wondering why my husband was afraid to set foot in a junkyard. Then I remembered Big bad Leroy Brown and that there are dogs in junkyards, and I had a little sympathy.

A few hours later, and we spent all those hours arguing, we decided to drive to where we could see the Recycling Center and the vicious dog. 

This is the Recycling Center.

I want to go sleep at the recycling center, it is so clean and organized. And when it opens again I will be there with all my boxes and plastic.

UPDATED: What’s up with this?

Well, this was a surprise. My humble (but beloved) blog views spiked a few days ago.

From page views under 40 (each, as I say, treasured) to over 10k on a day I was writing about lip reading.

Other metrics (Google Analytics, Feedblitz) don't back this up. I’ve alerted Typepad that something must be wrong with their bean counters.

Or ... I suppose it could be a spam attack. I did notice I had a surprising number of Typepad followers who all hailed from Russia, none of them with a legit homepage. I deleted them. Perhaps I have angered Russian trolls? I can’t imagine. 

If the Russians are angry, high praise be unto Typepad for protecting me.

UPDATE ================

Typepad says that a server was failing. I suppose that means the page hits just kept trying and  bouncing and trying and bouncing. Supposedly today it will be fine.

Rewriting the Novel: In a Corner

My Plot and Structure book recommends you detail your plot on index cards, then shuffle the cards. Supposedly it makes you weave more surprises into your plot. 

I have inadvertently done this by chopping up my first half. Since I sent the oilman husband off one month early, this has happened:

His mental illness is more ambiguous, which better serves the plot. Well, in the first half. I haven't made it to the second half. It could be utterly trashed. 

There’s a lot more tension. You know she’s screwed, but she’s oblivious. Plus, her march toward disaster is a bit more her fault. It’s more interesting. 

You don’t get to know him as well, so you are as unaware as the heroine is as to why he left. 

It's a longer gap between when he leaves and when [Spoilers!] he returns, maybe long enough you are surprised.

Hah. Maybe he never returns. Maybe that would be better. I could do anything. 

Overexfoliance

I have gone all in on the Exfolikate exfoliant, even unto buying the three-part system with the cleanser, exfoliant, and ... moisturizer, I think?

What I have found is that while I could easily use the exfoliant, when I apply it after using the cleanser, Lord, it burns, it burns. Then  I apply the moisturizer, thinking that's the point of the moisturizer, to correct the burning, but it does not soothe me. Then I have red skin for days, with contrasting white eye sockets. (" Do not use near eyes" Kate says.) Yet I am so, so soft. 

Deception Level

Even though I have the medical exemption and I won't have to come to the office, there will be some occasions when my attendance is required. One of those is in a little over a month.

Have I begun planning my outfit? Of course I have. Makeup? It's complicated.

The last time my coworkers saw me, I wore makeup. Foundation, eyeshadow, lipstick, but no mascara or blush, because mascara and blush combined with the rest exceeds my deception tolerance. On the rare occasions I wore mascara or blush I dialed back either eyeshadow or lipstick. 

Only now I have the ultimate lie perched on top of my head: a wig. This blows the deception algorithm out of the water.

For Zoom calls with the wig I’ve been wearing nothing but a touch of eyebrow pencil on my left eyebrow. Not the right, the right’s fine, and it’s partially covered by the wig anyway, but the left side of my left eyebrow needs some augmentation. 

But in a little over a month, I will be face-to-face with my team without the Zoom filter. They will all see my lashless lizard eyelids in person. 

Right now I think I am comfortable with this level of deception: wig, mascara, tinted moisturizer, lipstick until I eat something then that’s it for the lipstick, and the left eyebrow pencil. And that just goes on the outer half of the left eyebrow. For the full eyebrow I would have to deduct the tinted moisturizer.

How does this work for other people? Do women with breast augmentation stop conditioning their hair? Or is this just me?

New Paint in Virgin Bathroom

Well, I picked the paint for the Virgin Unpainted Bathroom, sea foam green, and then Gary nixed it.

So I picked some other colors (oddly, all in the Martha Stewart egg family), and I was going to wake Gary up to solicit his opinion, but one color was the clear winner: High Style Beige.

Bottom center is the sea foam, then to its right is the High Style Beige. 

I had laid down some white primer last week when I was cutting in, so I painted over the primer and sea foam.

Halfway through I realized that the painter coming this week probably hates to cut in as much as I, so his edge is the one that matters, as it will be second. Ah, well, at least I had my fantasy for a few days.

So here's a photo of the old virtually bare mottled drywall, which you can see behind the snow white primer, with some High Style Beige slapped in the center of it.

Confusing? Here's why: THE HIGH STYLE BEIGE IS THE EXACT COLOR as the mottled old drywall.

You know what would have been nice? Sea foam.

Once In A Lifetime Opportunity in the Medical Bathroom

One of my least favorite painting tasks is cutting in the edges under a popcorn ceiling. You can never get a clean line, you can’t use painter’s tape: really, it’s a headache.

So, I have some time between last week when the builders put up the ceilings in the bathroom and next week when the painter comes to apply the popcorn to the ceiling. During that enchanted week I can paint directly up to where the wall meets the untreated bare ceiling, and any blobby spots will be covered up by popcorn. Bwahahah.

Probably one of the best days I've had recently, painting, singing along with BNL Everything to Everyone and half of Stunt. I felt like I remembered who I am. 

Virgin Bathroom

We have one room that has never been painted: the master bath. It still has the pitiful coat the scab painters applied when we built the house during a local strike. 

Now that three decades have passed, and we are waiting for the ceiling guy to apply the popcorn to the ceiling (because it was that or de-popcorn the rest of the house), Gary said he wanted me to paint the virgin bathroom.

I thought somehow this paint color would be a good idea. For a bathroom..

I showed that photo to the lady who had mixed it at the hardware store. She thought a moment and said "... that's a crappy color."

(Also, the painter in me says I could just add a glaze of linseed oil and a transparent yellow, then maybe scumble it with white and it would match. And look less like poop.)

But instead I have done things the right way now, with paint cards and sample pints, and the bathroom is now to be ... wait for it ... sea foam. Just like every bathroom I pooped in growing up. It will be more appropriate than the brown as long as I don't get porphyria.

Change Machine

I fear the people at work have discovered that I am generous with compliments, and they know how to play me.

For the last few months I have noticed that I've been the recipient of compliments, and that when I get a  compliment I return the compliment threefold. Like a compliment change machine, they slide a compliment in to me, they get three compliments back.

I'm usually unprepared for this. I don't like being unprepared, so I now maintain a Word file titled Compliments.docx. Sadly, if I craft a compliment that is particularly good I can't just sit on it, so it gets fired off prematurely, like a present that can't wait for Christmas.

So n0w, unprovoked,  I tell a friend he reminds me of the type of character H. L. Mencken and Alexander Woolcott would write it they were collaborating on a detective story,  and now I'll be stuck recycling "You're so patient," or, worse, "You're so nice."

God help the guy I recently called "nice." There's a whole bad-boy/nice-guy monologue in Compliments.docx waiting for the next time he says anything remotely kind.

Flat

I had my credit card in hand, ready to hand it to the young girl at the Mcdonalds drive-through.

Instead of taking my card she pushed a device at me. 

I held my card, looking for a spot to swipe or shove the card. Shove still seems foreign to me. I had just received a chip/shove card when the pandemic hit. 

"Flat!" she said, cheerfully.

I pinched the edge of the card and held it out flat over the device.

"Flat!" she giggled.

I tapped the card on the device. 

"No, flat!" she laughed. "Flat!"

I held it perfectly flat in the air and she snuggled the device under the card and I heard a beep. 

"Oh, I see," I said, "Flat." Then I apologized for being old.

"No  you're fine," she said, proving that she did know words other than "Flat."

What's the Appeal of this Show?

The most recent icebreaker at work was, "What is your favorite reality show?"

I begged for and got an exemption to include the Great British Baking Show as a reality show, because I hate reality shows.

Every other meeting participant agreed that The Amazing Race was their favorite reality show. Unanimous. Meeting devolved into "What was your favorite season" and "Who is your favorite team?"

Why? I've seen one episode of that show. Stressed couples, bickering, tension. I can get that here at home. It would seem my co-workers watch it with their significant others and work out how they would succeed on the challenges. I'm doing well just to get through day-by-day with Gary. 

 

Rewriting the Novel: Changes in the works.

Well, I sorted and re-arranged, and now the first half is more compelling. It's going to require some careful editing, because the main male character now vanishes a full 25% earlier, putting the woman in a tight spot that she's probably going to ignore progressively for the next 25%, until the midpoint and she has no choice.

It's rough, though. After the rearrangement the main male character keeps popping up, is brutally edited out, his lines are given to someone else, but it still all disrupts the flow that was so carefully hung together. Or contrived.

It's just in an ugly place right now, like a house in deep cleaning. Things are strewn about. I just need to keep plugging away at it.

Dentist Part Deux

I had two people's hands in my mouth today, and I kind of liked it. I must really be craving that human connection. The assistant patted my shoulder during the bad parts, and I almost patted her in return.

Also, the new process at the dentist is to numb me up even if I'm just getting a crown replaced. I steeled myself for tugging and that nasty adhesive when I should have steeled myself for the big numbing needle.

I made the mistake of going to the pharmacy after, where I had to spell my last name, which is difficult to spell with a mouth full of novocaine. ("Esshhhh ... czeeeh ... ayeee ..."). I finally just gave the pharmacist my debit card.

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?